the flagler review spring 2011
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The Flagler Review Spring 2011
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Cover Art: By: Paige Broadbent
Review Staff:
Senior Editor: Megan Parker
Fiction Editor: Stephanie Johnson
Poetry Editor: Saira Khan
Non-Fiction Editor: Ashley Harris
Screenplay/Play Editors: Christina Fritts & Benjamin Seanor
Graphics and Layout Editor: Steffi Shook
Staff: Toni Alfiero, Haley Bach, Candace Cabral,
Meg Cannistra, Janette Duval, Lucas Garner, Holly Hofer,
Catherine Kaloger, Tiffany Knowles, Robert Neff
Faculty Advisor: Jim Wilson
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Table of Contents
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Editor‘s Note
Brianna Angelakis
Sirens
Jurassic Trees
Ashley Harris
Thorns in a Rose for Emily
Mary Pritchard
Barbie Dolls
Stephanie Johnson
Pantoum to Michael
Fragments from Sisters
Holly Hofer
Adolescent Hem
Song for a dragonfly and the complexities of sight
Phil Grech
A Vegetarian Conversation Held Over a Steak Dinner
Jillian Burns
Shadowland
Steffi Shook
Floor 5, Hall D, Room 524
Born from Bone
Oven Bird
Bethany Bruno
Nutritious Comfort
Emily Hoover
Sobriety in the Suburbs
Jillian Burns
Happiness
Jeanette Vigliotti
Ghazal for the Despondent
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Mollie Saunders
Breaking Even
I Heard Laughter Through My Window
daddy‘s little princess
Matthew Sperber
Stumble Upon
Evan Tisdale
A Blueprint of Grandma‘s Trailer Home
Veronica Spake
Attic Window
The Jumpers
Girl on 35 Eureka Line —m4w— 28
Rachael Cosgrove
Acrostic: several arrows later
Chloe Rose
Untitled
Stephanie Boilard
The Eagle and the Wolf
Autopsy of a Suicide
Jillian Burns
Carl
Maya De Ceano-Vivas
Hands/Butterfly
Desire
Stephanie Johnson
Sleeping With the Fishes
Keirstin Yantis
Robot
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Editor‘s Note
I plan on keeping this editor‘s note short and sweet, as
the writing really worth reading is just a page turn away. To
say the least, I felt thrilled when I learned of my appointment
as Senior Editor of the 2010-2011 Flagler Review, a position I
had desired upon transferring to Flagler College over three
years ago. As a tremendous creative writing nerd, I could not
wait to begin working with our staff and student writers.
While many of our staff members were new to the
journal and initially quiet, we broke through the dreaded shy
barrier and worked together to compose this wonderful issue
of the Flagler Review. Our staff toiled through hundreds of
submissions, and our editors worked assiduously to edit,
organize, and select superlative work to represent Flagler
College writers.
Although we were required to edit for language, the
work presented in this journal nonetheless represents the
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exquisite, insightful, humorous, and lovely work of our
students. I feel honored and exceedingly proud to have been a
part of this dedicated staff of editors and writers. On that note,
please enjoy the 2010-2011 Flagler Review.
- Megan Parker
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Sirens
We hear them on a daily basis. It is an onomatopoeic
sound for death; yet, whenever we hear that alarm
piercing through our ears, we feel nothing. Someone's
house is burning down. Someone is being robbed at
gun point. Someone is dying. Those thoughts might
come to mind as the Doppler Effect draws closer
and then farther away, like the water ribbons around
a raindrop in a puddle. But once the piercing melody
rounds past you, you forget. Someone's
hard earnings just turned to ash. A once frightened
store clerk has a bullet through his skull. And death.
The sound of a siren. Fear. Worry. Confusion. Attention.
All for a moment. Until the sound is broken and your
life continues. The store clerk died. You feel nothing.
You had no attachment to that man. You didn't know
him. You didn't know his wife and their new born child.
You didn't know his mother or father. His sister or
brother. He means nothing to you as his name and
face appears on the news for a mere thirty seconds.
Another death. Another life. Then back to celebrity
gossip and the weather. He was worth the appearance
of thirty seconds, and only because the killer still
walks the streets.
Brianna Angelakis
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Jurassic Trees
Brianna Angelakis
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When my mistress Emily died, I knew it was time to leave. Soon
enough, everyone in town would know what I‘ve known for years. Poor
Miss Emily, I heard them murmur and whisper whenever I ventured from
the house to the market for food. Poor Miss Emily, no father, no
husband, no lover. Poor Miss Emily, all alone and proud in the old
Grierson house.
Poor Miss Emily. So upright, so proud. The icon of the way
things were, the way things should still be. The last of the Old South, the
living tradition of the way things no longer were. When the slaves were
freed, I stayed. I was just a boy then, but I knew the Griersons needed
me almost as much as I needed them. So I stayed and grew up, then
grew old along with Miss Emily. We were close in age, so I knew Miss
Emily the best, even better than her old, stodgy, overprotective father.
Even to his last days, I was never allowed in the room alone with Miss
Emily. Even if it was in the reading room, where Miss Emily could often
be found, her nose in this or that book.
Ah. I remember that day as if it were yesterday; the day that old
man Grierson forbade us from ever being in the same room again. We
were young, just shy of turning sixteen, and almost friends, I suppose.
We had, by then, endured a lifetime of harsh treatment from old man
Grierson. Me for being a Negro servant; I needed to learn my place, he
said. She for not being the son he wanted and needed to carry on the
family name.
So one day, when I had just given Miss Emily her warm tea, I
accidentally knocked over old man Grierson‘s tobacco pipe stand with
my elbow. I quickly put it back to rights, but his prize Meerschaum pipe
had broken. Just then, old man Grierson came in and saw the broken
pipe. He was furious, more furious than I had ever seen, and he picked
up his heavy cane and raised it to strike me – but Miss Emily stepped in,
and begged for him to spare me. After securing a promise to withhold
my pay until a new pipe was paid in full, the old man Grierson let me go;
but ever since then, I think, he feared that there was something between
me and his daughter. And so he forbade us to ever be alone, regardless
of the circumstances.
The old man Grierson. He loved his daughter, I am sure; though
he was harsh with her, it was with the best of intentions. No man was
Ashley Harris
Thorns in A Rose for Emily
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good enough for her, and he turned away every suitor that came calling
for Miss Emily. Soon enough, the suitors stopped coming around. Miss
Emily was thirty then, and still unmarried. Still a proper and subservient
daughter, caring for her aging father. There were some oleanders growing
in the garden, and Miss Emily bade me cut a few for her, taking care to
leave the roots and to hang them up to dry. So I did, and late one night
while her old father slept, Miss Emily came down the stairs and crushed
all of the parts of the dried flowers; and mixed about half of the resulting
powder into her father‘s canister of coffee. She put the rest away in
another canister, and placed it in the furthest, darkest corner of the pantry.
She told me to be quiet and say nothing; and so I obeyed. When he rose
early the next morning, I made his usual cup of coffee. He said nothing of
the taste, but began to feel ill almost immediately. After a week of violent
bodily evacuations from almost every opening that God gave him, he
died.
Poor Miss Emily. I don‘t expect she realized how much suffering
her father would have; she was near him throughout his entire ordeal,
even bedding down next to him while still wearing her proper clothes, and
he in his bedclothes, covered with the heavy blankets, which she lay on
top of. When I left them each night, she would lay watching him toss and
moan, and when I went in each morning to coax him to eat or drink
something, she would look – comforted, even as he suffered unspeakable
agony from the powdered oleander in his drink.
She called for the town‘s doctor to look after him, and he only
shook his head and ordered total bedrest and limited fluids. He left, never
knowing, never guessing the cause of the old man Grierson‘s sudden
illness. And then he died, and she was with him. She lay in bed, her arm
crossed over his chest, her head on his shoulder, just as she had as a little
girl. I left them that way; she never seemed to notice me in the room.
And then, of course, the town found out he had died; poor Miss
Emily. She wanted to keep her father with her; his body had begun to
bloat and to discolor. After three days, he had begun to smell and to stain
the sheets and his bedclothes with an oily black discharge. Still, Miss
Emily found comfort in being with him, even taking care to carefully
stroke his full beard. Since he was all that she had known, I did not blame
her. She finally broke down when the town‘s doctors and ministers
pressed her; and she was angry, upset, furious that her old father was
gone.
She tried taking the same crushed oleander, but only became ill for
a long time. I pulled up the rest of the flowers and threw them out in the
Ashley Harris
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trash. It was a moment of rebellion, to be sure, but still – a selfish one. I
did not want to be unemployed, or have the town question me. Me, a
Negro. No, no. That won‘t do at all. And so I threw them out, and when
Miss Emily asked, I claimed that some neighborhood boys had stolen
them. I think she believed me; she never asked me about the oleanders
again. And in a moment of childish rebellion, she took a large pair of
scissors, and slashed her hair short.
And then she met him. That Yankee, Homer Barron. He was the
first man who showed an interest in Miss Emily, and he resembled
somewhat her dead father. The same large build, the same swagger. He
came around calling, and Miss Emily wanted him. At first, she was
uncertain – then she realized that without her father there, she was free to
make a choice of her own. And she wanted Homer Barron. She smiled
and batted her eyelashes at him, and he returned her affections with
promises of money and marriage.
―Homer, darling, how should I know you have money enough to
care for me?‖ Miss Emily asked as I served them their Mint Juleps in a
secluded corner of the back porch.
―Oh, Miss Emily! Always so cautious. Come, I will give you full
access to my account. Use the money to plan the wedding, and you will
see – I have money enough for you, and perhaps some young Barrons,
hm?‖ He leaned over and planted a very wet, noisy kiss on her lips.
―Homer!‖She laughed, and blushed at the roguish twinkle in his
eye. I mentally scolded myself for wanting to empty the contents of my
stomach at this display between them.
Not long after, a few days perhaps, she held a piece of paper from
the bank, and on it was verification of Homer‘s account, as well as the
amount that was in it. Miss Emily sat down and thought. Homer had
gone away for work, but promised with much restrained passion that he
would return. Miss Emily was upset, and when he left, raged of his
audacity to leave her! How dare he, she fumed. How dare he leave her,
knowing how much she needed and wanted him?
The next morning she visited the druggist and returned home with
the rat poison. She put it in the same canister that had once held the pow-
dered Oleander, and I said nothing. I knew she would keep him forever;
that this time, he would stay, and never leave Miss Emily‘s side. She had
wanted her father to stay, too, but the town found out and took him away,
leaving Miss Emily truly alone. I was nearly invisible, only there when
she thought to take notice.
Ashley Harris
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So the day after her trip to the druggist, she came into the kitchen
where I was cooking her evening meal, and she stood in the doorway,
watching.
―Would you like some tea, Miss Emily?‖I asked, stirring the
sauce.
―No, Tobe.‖
―Then, perhaps some biscuits or scones to tide you over till
supper, Miss Emily?‖
―No. I‘m not hungry or thirsty. I want to talk to you about the rat
poison.‖ She waited, but I said nothing. I focused on the all-important
sauce. It is what makes or breaks an entire meal.
―When my Homer comes back, mix a teaspoonful in every meal
for him, even his morning coffee.‖
―Yes, Miss Emily.‖
―You won‘t warn him or anyone else, will you?‖
―No, Miss Emily.‖
―You swear it?‖
―Upon my life, Miss Emily.‖
Miss Emily was satisfied with my promise, and she left. I heard
her steps receding, the squeaky door to the reading room open and close.
The sauce was perfect, and I took it off the stove, and checked the pot
roast. Almost ready.
Miss Emily had brought home various marriage items for Homer;
a fine suit, some fine silver things with his initials ―H.B.‖ engraved in
them. She chose the room upstairs, the one that had been her father‘s and
had a beautiful view of the garden in the backyard as the marriage-room.
Homer, when he returned, would sleep in that room. She spent some time
fussing over the perfect arrangement for the items she had bought, and
finally satisfied, left the room and shut the door.
Homer Barron was back some days later. That evening, I
admitted him through the kitchen door, and as per my promise, I added a
teaspoon of the poison to his roast stew, making sure to mix it in with the
spices that he liked. He never noticed the odd taste. He had three bowls
and I added the rat‘s poison to each bowl. That night, he was violently
ill. Miss Emily cared for him, just as she had for her father. She never
sent for the doctor, and never asked me to. It would not do, and Miss
Emily is my responsibility, first and foremost. And so I fed him thin
soups and tepid tea, all with a teaspoonful of sugar mixed with the
Ashley Harris
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poison. He drank and his health grew rapidly worse.
―I love you, Homer. I never want you to leave me, never, never
ever again. That‘s why I must do this, my love,‖ Miss Emily murmured
to Homer. He was almost dead, then, but not so far gone that a wildness,
a fear entered his eyes as he realized what she was saying.
―You… You poisoned me,‖ Homer gasped.
―Yes, my love, but I had to, don‘t you see? I love you so much,‖
she said as she stroked his too-pale skin lovingly.―I cannot bear it when
you leave. So you will stay with me, forever.‖
All he could do was vomit violently; she murmured love-words
and dabbed his brow with a clean handkerchief while I wiped his mouth
and cleaned the mess. I said nothing, only helped Miss Emily. I had been
with the Griersons all of my life, who am I to go against them? I
understood her. She told the truth; she couldn‘t bear it when Homer left.
Did I agree? I‘m not sure. I had never found any man or woman to my
liking, and love is a strange thing to me, alien. Like the town, Miss Emily
is my care, my responsibility.
Finally, mercifully, he died. I helped Miss Emily to undress and
clean him, then to dress him in his new suit. Then I took the dirty sheets
off the bed, put fresh ones on, and changed the blankets on the bed. Miss
Emily had already set aside the ones she wanted; those I put on, fresh,
crisp, new. When I was done, I put him back in the bed for her, on his
side of the bed, and left. Miss Emily spent the night there, as she would
do every night until her death.
When she died, I put her in her own bed, and admitted the
townspeople in for the first time in ten years, and I left, never to return.
Ashley Harris
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Barbie Dolls
Little girls are never so innocent.
Their mothers dream of gowns and wedding bells
and plastic toys lead to that development.
Daddies think their play is beneficent,
but giggling girls are also found in hell.
Little girls are never so innocent.
Joe and Jane, their plastic bodies both bent.
Baby dolls play with army personnel
and plastic toys lead to that development.
Barbie dressed in white to her detriment
and Ken in a tux waiting for church bells.
Little girls are never so innocent.
Becoming their mothers is imminent,
so what better teacher to show and tell?
And plastic toys lead to that development.
Little girls want to be insolent,
eventually found with boys in motels
Little girls are never so innocent
and plastic toys lead to that development.
Mary Pritchard
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Pantoum to Michael
You were a lost coat on the train,
left behind and scattered across the rails;
Though we resembled strangers longing to make connection,
I had no more use for you than conversation.
Left behind and scattered across the rails
they found your teenage body beautiful.
I had no more use for you than conversation
and crime in the moonlight felt romantic.
They found your teenage body beautiful.
I knew from a past of snapshot business
crime, in the moonlight, feels so romantic
but by day is a damn shame.
I knew from a past of snapshot business
the theatre is not a kind trade.
By day it‘s a damn shame
and you get tired of the glittering night life.
―The theatre is not a kind trade,‖
I told you as we rumbled along.
―You get tired of the glittering night life.‖
You smiled and pretended you knew exactly what I meant.
I told you as we rumbled along.
Though we resembled strangers longing to make connection,
you smiled and pretended you knew exactly what I meant.
You were a lost coat on the train.
Stephanie Johnson
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Fragments from Sisters
Sweetbitter unmanageable essence that steals in over hills and outside
window sills:
unfragranced, if not, frozen canopies on cold branches.
Ever-wise, birds are not surprised by substance whiter than the tails of
goats.
―Snow!‖ the three girls cry,
child sweet joy echoing off woven tatami dreams
and windows decorated with steam.
We looked like golden anklebone cups, as the sun struck our faces
crunching our way through the burning dawn, walking.
Towards the schoolyard: smiles like paper cranes seven arm lengths long.
To the world, we are no more than a bird with a piercing voice
but with each other, all is to be dared, a choice
to collect violet memories in our laps.
Stephanie Johnson
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Adolescent Hem
A coldness crept through the circle of girls, as scissors in the hand
slide to mend a too-tight hem, or as if someone had whispered, gesturing,
―this is not the end.‖ A few had the idea, that there would be a split, but it
was by no means common knowledge. It was a secret love note
addressed to another, each girl‘s silent fear.
They stood huddled as in winter, too close for early spring, eating
hastily-prepared lunches, near the concrete blocks of the school‘s mall.
Her eyes were looking too near, too near. She laughed in time with the
others. They were all animated, now, to keep off the chill; now, to
portray an illusion.
Not for the lack but for the abundance, she had begun to be
skeptical of sensations which were barely felt or heard rather than those
which were directly seen, touched. They continued to stand tight in a ring
for weeks after the general premonition. The feelings, the whispers began
to catch like ragged toenails on threadbare socks.
She tried to resist the shock, the truth behind the pull, content in
her position, knowing more the coolness, the prodding, the growing
distance between the others, herself. But she and the others became made
-up. Boys and more established girls frequently broke up the ring.
The fights were not innocent but bloodless; eyes, tongues began
to roll with indignation. Girls went missing, only to be found beside other
concrete blocks, in other circles: there she stood, coolly performing on
the far side of the square concrete lunch area.
And then the bell shrilled for the last lunch of the last day of the
last year of school. The girls were scattered. She was among new friends,
new enemies, when the metallic coldness cut through the clamor to the
other side of all that had held them there. Her ripped bag slung carefully
over her shoulder, she made her way alone through the many faces of the
hallway and thought, maybe. . . maybe things were on the mend.
Holly Hofer
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Song for a dragonfly and the
complexities of sight
This dragonfly‘s stuck in a stairwell. The stairwell‘s a passage
tucked between the light and the dark. One could merely turn a
corner to enter and, later, turn a corner to leave. There are no
closed doors. Some creatures long ago, thinking it better to see,
poked holes in the light side and filled them with glass. The direct
light reveals dust and debris on the stairs, and this fly, flapping
furiously—it is tricked, not trapped. An old woman, sweeping,
hears the bustle and finds the raging being. She doesn‘t know
what to do. Every time she cups her careful hands to guide the
dragonfly out of the trick, it makes a zzssszzssz, and flails all
about the window in a tantrum—liable to get its wings ripped off.
She‘s saddened. It lives and it dies at once.
The woman, curious and tired, sets aside her broom, sits at the
window, and begins to hum. In a kinder story, her fertile song
would be like firm, gentle hands, those she longs for, those long
absent. The dragonfly, cupped by this low lullaby, would fly to a
better place, light or dark, this way or that. But this dragonfly
stares, seeming stunned, through speckled glass and flaps its
wings against obscurity. With its bulbous eyes, it sees the light,
the many piercing shades. This dragonfly is not content; it does
not know what it is—a beating of wings, a looking, a din—who it
is—a rising, a falling, a floating.
Holly Hofer
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A Vegetarian Conversation Held Over a
Steak Dinner In classrooms, many students are too lazy to raise their hand to
answer a question. In a group of people, some are too scared or shy to
volunteer their assistance. While this may appear to be seemingly
inconsequential, it is reflective of our nature to do just nothing when the
time comes to do something.
Edmund Burke said, ―All that's necessary for the forces of evil to
win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.‖ When most
people hear that quote, they may think of the old lady across the street
being mugged while a group of onlookers does just that - looks on. And
while that prevailing sense of passivity and abhorrent decision making
angers me, I believe that the quote also applies to ethical living that
involves our treatment of animals.
It is our obligation to rise up and help out the old woman across
the street being mugged, not because of her place in the social hierarchy
or income bracket, but because she feels pain and hurts like we all do. It
is our obligation to be aware of the consequences of our decisions and
take appropriate actions. Willfully keeping ourselves in the dark instead
of accepting responsibility for our actions because it‘s nicer in the dark
rates us as sub-par, incompetent humans. As capable men and women, it
is our duty and obligation to be on guard and to be on call for situations
that arise where we can help – because we should help, whether we‘re
helping the old woman across the street or acknowledging the effects of
meat-based diets and animal-based clothing and no longer participating.
You know why I like being a vegetarian with vegan qualities?
Because it gives me reason to be a pompous, arrogant, in-your-face guy
who throws his beliefs in your face while you shove chicken nuggets
down your throat.
Well, that‘s not entirely true. In fact, it‘s not true at all. A person
is defined by both the decisions they make and the decisions they choose
not to make. Five years ago, I chose to stop eating meat and to stop
wearing animal by-products. After a decade of unnecessarily long
deliberation, I had made the decision on the morning of my birthday
while driving to work listening to Fugazi. Five years later, I can say I‘ve
never felt healthier in my life, I rarely get sick and I feel strong for
having never abandoned my convictions.
One question remains however: Although my refusal to eat meat
Phil Grech
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and wear animal by-products obviously saves the lives of innocent
animals, shouldn‘t it be my obligation to inform others about the effects
of factory farming on the environment, the horrendous immorality
involved in slaughtering animals we don‘t need to eat and the health
effects of a meatless and fruitful diet? Well, yes and no.
It‘s important for people to be informed, but it‘s how they
become informed that matters more. Vegetarianism is similar to religion
in the way that it should be a personal choice, it should be born from
your own decisions and perhaps most importantly, it shouldn‘t be thrown
in people‘s faces. I understand that the last point is controversial as many
people believe that the above mentioned points can be brought to light so
the masses are aware of the decisions they make in eating food and
purchasing animal-sourced clothing. But that light will only bring
shadows if it is shoved down people‘s throats.
Throwing ideas in a person‘s face is arrogant and rude, not
admirable and effective. Like religion, shoving your beliefs down
someone‘s throat will only push them away, prevent them from seeing
the purpose of your actions and make people more resistant to accepting
your lifestyle.
When I sit down to dinner with my carnivorous friends, I don‘t
voice my opinion when they slice their steak knives into their bloody
steaks. In fact, if they choose to eat meat, that‘s their choice, but
sometimes they ask me, ―Hey, Phil, I didn‘t know you were a vegetarian;
why did you choose to make that decision?‖
In response, I tell them, ―I couldn‘t help but realize that, as a
child, the cow I thought was cute whose ‗moo‘ I was asked to imitate in
the picture book was the same cow I was eating later that night for
dinner. It‘s not wrong for me to harm another human being because
they‘re smart or dress well, but because they feel pain, the same pain
animals feel when they are physically hurt, and because they feel the
same grief we do when their children are taken from them, and therefore,
I don‘t want to take part in that system. I know that my sole decision to
stop eating meat and not wear animal products will not end the system,
but I feel better for not partaking in a process I disagree with.‖
Usually, people respect that; sometimes they don‘t, but every
time, I have taken the time to listen to what people have to say (Ok, not
every time - some people just reply with stupid remarks – if you‘ve been
vegetarian longer than a week, you know this). But one thing is for sure,
Phil Grech
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I have influenced other people in going vegetarian - not because I shoved
it in their face, but because I openly and without judgment answered their
questions regarding a lifestyle they were new to and curious about – and
that is much more that I would have done than if I had yelled at them for
eating a steak in front of me.
Phil Grech
23
Jillian Burns
Shadowland
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Steffi Shook
Floor 5, Hall D, Room 524 They call it a slip
into a coma.
Are we really that close
to being what keeps the wind
from capturing a sheet?
When a child is nudged
into a hospital room, her grandmother
holding a warm, motionless hand;
She doesn‘t see hope or pain or memories
woven above her head in the gray
plaster -- swirled by purpose lacking care.
She sees a carrot in her grandfather‘s pajamas.
With six billion people how
is it possible, that every one
of us knows what it‘s like to feel
aloneness like a clot in a vein;
waiting to lock the doors to your muscles
trapping your aura in a paperweight body.
A man who keeps porcelain
pitchers piled to the ceiling in the grayest
of houses because he has no idea
what love feels like.
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Steffi Shook
Born from Bone
I drop the phone like flies. Drop.
How we‘ll all drop
one way, before we‘re fifty.
I look at my mother‘s hips when she shifts her weight in the kitchen.
Knowing evil could be living there already,
ready to swallow my happiness
like it swallowed her sister three years ago.
I pick the phone up and my grandmother rests on the other end,
her soft, crackled voice tells me it‘s ok
that my cousin has a tumor on her ovary the size
of a baby‘s brain.
I touch my stomach. Low.
Knowing the place where life is created can bring death
as hard as a hailstorm.
The kind of lightning volcanoes make when they can no longer stand
staring at the sky.
I touch my sister‘s hand, the rim of water in our eyes match.
Hers grayer, more blue than mine.
I pray it‘s not in her so hard I think my eyes will never again open
to praise the autumn clouds.
I pray
until I‘m terrified that I‘m doing more harm than good.
A prick and we will fall.
How could He look at a child and plan to eat away
her flesh in her forty-eighth year?
How can I still love Him
like the feel of moss and soil,
brown eyes, my cousin‘s laugh?
I hang up, stop the line running
from my ear to my grandmother‘s
knotted throat.
Head in hands, why is
being born from bone
a greater sin
than dust?
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Oven Bird
There‘s a bird in the oven.
Mama looks out the window ignoring its death dance,
petals fall off her dogwood tree onto daddy‘s shinin‘ head.
Be still cricket soul she crows to her middle, touching the spot
a baby head rests dead on her liver. Just a few more weeks
and we can wrap him in a blanket and make an afterlife behind the shed.
Pop said we shouldn‘t name him, when we found his heart
the size of a fingernail in a barrel chest. Mom and I call him
Angelo, since he decided he liked lying in angel‘s arms
better than our own. How still she sleeps to not stir his
hollow body. Her belly now a tomb I set a daisy
on yesterday afternoon. Oh Allah she cries on cloud-
covered nights, when she thinks we‘re all in bed.
She walks into the pasture, the wet dew forming a barrier
on her bare, calloused feet. The earth‘s protection offered
to a woman who‘s failed at her purpose, who‘s as dead
as the rock in her middle. She kneels near the tractor and picks
the cool grass, its sweat shinin‘ in the moonlight. Rubbing it
on Angelo‘s plastic face, she pleads with him to wake up and prove
she‘s still a woman. Not a limp sheet, pinned to the line-
holding on to too much starch, rough on any skin
willing to get close. I look back to the oven.
The bird has calmed and drawn its wing as a pillow
for his baking head. He decides turning into scorched meat
might be a noble way to go.
Steffi Shook
27
Bethany Bruno
Nutritious Comfort
I remember the smell of it, Nana‘s kitchen during the cool fall nights
Smell of clean, crisp, crunchy fibrous fruit whose skin snapped like
sticks when bitten.
Blood red candle flickering in the darkness. Flame dancing upon the
wick.
My stomach, screaming at me. I could not answer back.
Sweet smell of apple engulfed my nostrils. I felt…. home.
Feeling of hunger always tempting to consume me.
I didn‘t, couldn‘t, lose control again!
This simple homely fruit was my only escape from chaos. With it, I had
sanity.
It overcame cravings for food and gave me power to keep strong during
times of frailty.
Weakness from lack of nutrients, my body desperately needed.
But no, I refused its offer of health. Mirrors judged my every inch and
they declared me ugly.
Skin, yellow. Nails, brittle. Hair, thinning. Breath, horrendous. Eyes,
sunken. Weight 109 lbs.
Only five more, I‘ll be perfect. Right size, right shape, right girl to
admire for beauty.
Who would have guessed that a small, seed-filled, tasty, and red skinned
fruit could be so satisfying? I knew. I knew all too well.
28
Sobriety in the Suburbs He stared into her hazel eyes. He saw no love in them, at that
moment, just contempt.
―Those cigarettes are horrible, Nick. Stop smoking them,‖ she
said calmly, as if her energy was lost and there was no point in telling
him, for he already knew.
Nick smiled. He loved Miranda, didn't he? He thought he loved
everything about her, save for her constant whining and complaining
over his cigarettes. It felt like a Truth commercial. He thought that she
loved him as well and she was trying to cease his bad habits. However, it
seemed to Nick that all those kindergarteners had finally awakened some
maternal side in her. Yet, he wasn't a child. He didn't need to be told not
to eat paste. He was thirty-five years old.
―I don't know how I kiss you,‖ she continued. ―I get a nicotine fix
each time. I don't need it and neither do you. That's it; I'm getting you the
patch.‖
―Christ, Miranda, lay off.‖ He crushed out his cigarette. ―You
sound just like my mother. I left Washington for a reason.‖
―You started smoking for a reason, too. You knew she'd hate it.‖
―I was thirteen. Listen, you don't have to like everything about
me. I don't like everything about you, but I accept you for who you are.‖
―Oh really?‖
―Really,‖ he said, smirking. He could guess her next question.
―And what, may I ask, can't you stand about me?‖
He had guessed correctly. For one, you're too predictable, he
thought. But, he did love almost everything about Miranda, at least the
physical parts: her smile, the smell of her hair after a shower, her soft
skin, and her perfect, shapely body. ―Well,‖ he began, ―I'm not exactly
fond of your Whitesnake albums.‖ He lit another cigarette.
―You just don't know good music.‖
―Maybe so. Although I, too, was a child of the 80s, I tried to
remove myself from the hair metal MTV generation. Perhaps it was my
mistake.‖
She laughed and rose from her chair, heading for the sliding glass
door. Nick grabbed her left hand, gently, and pulled her towards him.
―Not into your safe American home until you give me a kiss,‖ he said.
He fiddled with her engagement ring.
―Brush your teeth after that death stick and I just might.‖ She
Emily Hoover
29
pulled her hand away from his and walked into the house.
Nick placed his boot heels onto the glass patio table and inhaled.
His body quivered as the smoke traveled down his throat and into his
lungs. He took a couple more deep drags and stubbed the cigarette out on
his boots, carelessly. A few ignited embers blew about in the October
breeze before falling to the ground, diminishing into ashes. He gazed
around their back yard. Miranda had started a winter garden, which
would birth cucumbers, carrots, beets, and other disgusting vegetables
that Nick wouldn't eat. He felt nostalgic for Washington as he noticed the
dying grass. A desert without an oasis. The white privacy fence was all
that separated Nick from his neighbors. The houses all looked the same;
rectangular, fabricated boxes which, to most, contained the ingredients
for the American dream.
He brushed his fingers through his hair and made a mental note to
grab a haircut tomorrow after work. Despite Miranda's insistence that he
resembled a skinhead, he would not let his hair grow because it was thin-
ning. Only Hunter Thompson looked good with a cul de sac, he decided.
He opened the sliding glass door and walked inside, paralyzed by
the cool, artificial breeze from the air conditioner.
―Go brush your teeth,‖ Miranda called from the bedroom.
―You've got ears like a dog, woman,‖ he said, turned down the
A/C, and followed her voice into the bedroom.
She was changing into pajamas. He watched her from the
doorway. She looked up at him while rummaging through his shirt
drawer. Nick watched her pull out his bleach-stained Dead Kennedys
t-shirt and some freshly washed cotton boxers. She seemed to look at him
coyly and began to undress. He positioned himself against the bedroom
door, still watching. She wriggled out of her tight, black pencil skirt,
exposing her golden, shapely legs. He tried to turn on a light to see her
better, but discovered that the bulb was out. He'd fix it later. He could
still see her in the dissipating Florida sunlight. He began to walk towards
her as she took off her panties.
―Go brush your teeth, Nick, and then I'll kiss you.‖
He leaned in for a kiss, but she turned her head. ―All right, point
taken,‖ he said and walked into the bathroom. He pulled his toothbrush
out of its cup and spread toothpaste onto the bristles. After turning on the
faucet to moisten the bristles, he stuck the brush into his mouth and
turned to face Miranda. She was in the process of tying back her long,
brown hair.
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30
―Now, that's a good boy,‖ she said and stretched her arms back to
unbuckle her bra. It dropped to the floor, her breasts exposed. They were
round and supple. Her nipples were as little pennies, erect and small.
Nick spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth. Tapping the
toothbrush on the edge of the sink, he asked once more for a kiss. She
kissed him briefly. He smiled and guzzled another glass of water.
After dinner, Nick offered to do the dishes. Miranda was tired and
their dinner had been later than usual. She and her students had had a
field trip to the Jacksonville Zoo and the bus ride back to Palm Coast had
been difficult. Nick grabbed his fourth beer, a subtle reward for loading
the dishwasher. He opened it and took a long sip. He felt warm. He
needed a cigarette.
Opening the door to the patio, he fished in his pants for a lighter,
located it, and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. He inhaled the
tobacco and exhaled.
The wedding was planned for the summer. Miranda had been
coordinating and accessorizing since he had proposed the previous
October. He still remembered the changing leaves spiraling to the
ground, descending harshly, as if to signal the end of something. They
had been in the park. He had given her a blue diamond. Five years ago,
Nick would have sworn an oath to never marry. However, he didn't know
Miranda then. It seemed that after he had met her, everything had
changed. Miranda was a nag, but she meant well. She may have tamed
his inner punk rocker and facilitated his change from a free-lance writer
to a broadcast reporter at First Coast News in Jacksonville, but it was for
a good cause. Adulthood was what she called it. Nick took another sip
off his beer and a pull off his cigarette. Something about the fall proposal
memory stunned him. An uneasy feeling crept into the pit of his stomach,
but he shrugged it off.
The bedroom light turned on. Miranda joined him on the porch,
clutching herself in the fall night. ―What are you doing? You have to
work in the morning.‖ She looked exhausted.
―I know. I'm having a good night cigarette.‖
She yawned. ―Are you drunk?‖
―Borderline.‖
―Nick, you've got to grow up.‖
―Miranda, won't you go to sleep?‖ He took another sip. ―Why are
you even out here?‖
She rolled her eyes. ―Because I woke up and you weren't in bed.
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31
It's almost midnight, Nick.‖
―Maybe if we hadn't eaten so late, it wouldn't have taken me so
long to wash the dishes.‖ He finished his cigarette and his beer. ―I'm
going to sleep, now. Okay?‖ She stretched out her hand and led him into
the house. ~()~
The room was damp and dark. The sounds of yelling, laughing,
and buzzing guitars ricocheted across the four walls and out into the
street. Nick had to take off his boots for security purposes before moving
into the venue. He lit a cigarette as the doorman stamped his hand,
permitting the reckless consumption of alcohol.
Those inside were nameless, faceless black blobs. He walked to
the bar and ordered a beer. The shadows of people danced and hit each
other as the drums acted as machine guns, bringing order to the physical
manifestation of chaos. He knew no one. He cared to know no one. He
just knew that he felt safe, like he belonged in that natural, primitive
energy.
He jumped into the pit, taking the blows of people much larger
and younger than he. It felt good to move in the circle, the parabola. His
body, soggy from sweat, did not feel tired. His arms and chest, red from
punches, embraced the bruises that would surely come. The singer of the
band, covered in tattoos, swirled his dreadlocks as his eyes bulged,
screaming into the microphone.
Suddenly, he saw her. Miranda. She was wearing white and
carrying a bouquet of wilting roses. She had tears in her eyes.
A fist from somewhere hit Nick in the jaw, catching him off
guard. He fell into the mob as young kids, clad in boots and studded
jackets, continued to kick and stomp, trampling him, confining him to
chaos. He could hear their voices. He could taste the blood. ~()~
―Get up,‖ Miranda said. ―If you didn't drink all of those beers last
night this might be a wee bit easier.‖
Nick opened his eyes. It had been a dream. Miranda opened the
blinds and the sun plunged into the room, lighting nearly everything,
save for Nick's disposition. Miranda stood over him with black slacks, a
white shirt, and tie in her left hand. She placed her unoccupied hand on
his forehead to test his temperature. She wiped his sweat onto the
comforter, placed his clothes on the nightstand, and mounted him.
―You might be getting sick, you're pretty clammy,‖ she said and
kissed him. ―But right now, you've got to get up. You're late. Plus, the
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32
refrigerator died sometime last night and I have to clean it out, buy a new
one, and figure out when they're going to deliver it.‖
―What about the beer?‖
―Warm. My chili is gone too. I made a week's worth, which sucks
now.‖ She kissed him again. They kissed longer, more intimately. He
began to pull off her boxers when she rolled off him, abruptly.
―What are you doing,‖ he asked, pulling her towards him. ―Don't
go anywhere.‖
―Let's go take a shower.‖ She strolled slowly towards the
bathroom. Nick smirked and raised his tired body out of bed, rejecting
the gravitational pull of synthetic satin. He decided not to tell her about
the dream. Dreams meant nothing. He followed Miranda's pile of clothes
into the bathroom and closed the door. ~()~
―What the---‖ he mumbled, searching for a lighter in his pockets.
―How did I lose my freakin‘ lighter?‖ Rummaging, fondling, and
simultaneously unlocking his car door, he cursed to himself about a
painful migraine he had been experiencing since noon. ―Eureka.‖ He
fingered the orange Bic in his shirt pocket. He brought the cigarette from
behind his ear into his mouth. The smoke billowed. Sighing from the
burst of nicotine, he yanked off the press badge and tossed it into the
passenger seat. The pressure had been alleviated from his head; it was as
Novocain.
He had covered a house fire in Riverside and downtown
Jacksonville traffic was hell. Trying to get to I-95 was like trying to
silence a crying infant. Once he was able to accelerate onto the interstate,
he began to calm down. The skyline menaced him in his rear view
mirror. He missed Jacksonville, even the crack heads downtown. He
missed the music and art festivals that united the city, segregated by
racial and religious tension.
95 was packed once he made it out of Duval County. Everyone
was commuting from Jacksonville to the lily-white suburbs where
property was cheaper and crime was non-existent. He got off at US-1 and
his stomach churned as he reached the sign at the end of the off-ramp.
―St. Augustine: 17 miles. Palm Coast: 5 miles.‖
As much as he would have loved, at that moment, to merge north,
back to his job with St. Augustine culture magazine The Drift, he turned
right, heading south, towards the suburbs. He hadn't been to the St.
George Street Tavern since he bar tended there, two years ago. He had
Emily Hoover
33
left St. Augustine when he and Miranda had bought the house in Palm
Coast and she had transferred to Wadsworth Elementary School. He
missed the architecture, the street musicians, and the first Friday art
walks. Everything in Palm Coast died at sunset. Beauty meant mini-vans
and elitist subdivisions in Palm Coast. Fun equaled a trip to the movie
theater for the newlywed and nearly dead.
As he turned into his neighborhood, he noticed that each house
had a basketball hoop. Each road led to nowhere. Each driveway was big
enough for two sedans. If he didn't live there, he thought, he wouldn't
even know how to navigate through the puzzling labyrinth of
handicapped placards, manicured lawns, and sidewalk chalk.
Pulling into his driveway, he noticed immediately that Miranda
was home. She had said she would be chaperoning the Halloween sock
hop at school that Saturday. Or was it next Saturday? His migraine
throbbed.
The garage door was down, so he entered through the front door,
infiltrated by some strange smell. Miranda was on the phone with a
friend, cooking couscous and steaming fresh broccoli. He liked neither.
Massaging his temples, he trudged into the bedroom and removed his tie.
Miranda had already started laundry, he thought, eyes cascading across
the carpeted floor for the jeans he had worn the night before.
―Wait a minute,‖ he said aloud, noticing Miranda's landscape
painting above his dresser. ―Where the hell is my Stooges poster,
Miranda?‖ He threw on some gym shorts and a tight Misfits t-shirt.
―Miranda!‖
She had hung up the phone. ―Hey, baby,‖ she said. It seemed to
Nick that she was speaking more to the stove than to him. ―I know
you're not fond of couscous, but it's all I have. The refrigerator isn't
coming until Monday and Jodie from next door gave me some broccoli.‖
―I'm not hungry. I have a headache. Speaking of which, where did
you put my Stooges poster?‖
―The A/C unit is leaking in the garage. Will you pretty please go
take a look?‖
He stared at her for a moment, taking it personally that she had
ignored his imperative question. His mother used to do that. That's why
he pissed on a cop car that night he got accepted to University of Central
Florida. His mother had submitted the application. She knew, at that
moment, he didn't want to go to college. Not like he wanted probation
either.
Emily Hoover
34
Nick walked into the garage. He pressed the button, which
opened the garage door, releasing natural light into the stifling, darkened
garage. Before he noticed the puddle of water, which stretched from the
unit to the garage door itself, he noticed his Stooges poster, hanging
comfortably next to his Washington State license plate, as if conforming
to another moment in time.
―What the hell? The nerve.‖ His eyes found the puddle; it had
completely ruined his cardboard box of baseball cards and his vinyl
records. Fighting his anger at Miranda's lack of consideration, he picked
up the Louisville Slugger, draped against cleaning supplies, and
commenced to beating the unit, screaming in frustration.
―What are you doing?‖ Miranda yelled, running into the garage.
―Nick, stop it! I'm calling a repairman tomorrow! We need something to
repair, remember?‖
―You moved Iggy Pop,‖ Nick said, almost whispering. He
dropped the bat, breathing heavily.
―Who?‖
―Iggy Pop. Iggy and the freakin‘ Stooges, Miranda!‖ He moved to
face her, parallel to the garage door.
―So? It didn't look good in the bedroom.‖
―How are you going to marry me if you don't respect Iggy, huh?
The raw power of The Stooges, Miranda! You didn't even consult me.‖
―I didn't know I had to.‖
―Sorry my taste sucks. Excuse me while I wipe my butt with your
Thomas Kinkade painting.‖ He moved past her, almost through her, and
into the house. ~()~
After driving to the gas station for more beer, Nick decided to
have it his way at Burger King before heading home. He thought that
couscous tasted like overcooked grits, and couldn't resist the temptation
of saturated fat, but he sat with Miranda while she ate, still stewing over
the poster.
By the time she had disposed of what Nick refused to eat, he had
a pretty good buzz going. He saw that Miranda didn't look happy.
―I wish you hadn't bought beer, we could have stored the food in
the cooler with the ice you bought. There's no room now, so I have to
throw all of this away.‖
―Pity,‖ Nick said, guzzling his Guinness.
―Is your headache gone?‖
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35
―Nope, getting worse.‖
―Why don't you turn in early?‖
He didn't reply.
―You look like hell,‖ she said. ―Finish that beer and go lay
down.‖
―Christ, Miranda, you're just like my mother. Stop messing with
me. I'm not some snot-nosed kid who's eating crayons or shitting my
pants during naptime. You're not the boss, I'm not in school, and I know
how to tie my shoes!‖
―I'm only trying to help.‖
―Forget your help. I don't need any help. I've traveled all over this
country armed with a backpack and a bachelor's degree in journalism.
Here I am, writing crappy newscasts, devoid of thought and cause,
watching Barbie and Ken regurgitate my information to bobble-heads
just like them. That was because you helped me. That was because you
know a producer at First Coast. Forget your help.‖
―You are so inconsiderate!‖
―Yeah,‖ he said and paused. ―And you're a nagging snob. Aren't
we a match?‖
―What are you trying to say? Are you trying to say that you don't
want to marry me?‖
He grunted. ―I didn't say that, Miranda.‖
―Yes you did! So, you've been giving me the wrong impression
all these years, haven't you?‖
He guzzled the remainder of his beer and looked at her. Her eyes
flooded with tears. He looked away.
―If you don't want to marry me--‖
Nick cut her off. ―I didn't say that, for Christ sakes. Why are you
so sensitive?‖
He saw the disdain in her eyes. ―I never said I didn't want to
marry you. I implied it.‖
―You implied it,‖ she said, her mascara bleeding.
Nick rolled his eyes. ―Miranda, I'm sorry. I'm sorry; please don't
cry.‖ She stormed out of the room and slammed the bedroom door. ―I'm
going to go outside and have a cigarette and then we're going to talk
about this.‖ Miranda didn't respond. Nick sighed and went out onto the
porch, taking his seventh beer with him.
After five minutes of silence, he finished his beer and his
cigarette. However, he did not dare to venture inside; he had a feeling
Emily Hoover
36
Miranda was sobbing and throwing things. While outside, he thought
about the dream. He had been wearing a tuxedo at the show. He
remembered he had been dressed for the wedding. Suddenly, that same
uneasy feeling that had plagued him the night before surfaced again
inside him. He walked into the house.
Opening the door to his bedroom, he tried to flick on the light to
see Miranda. He realized he had forgotten to fix it. ―Miranda,‖ he said,
walking to the bed. He faintly saw her lying there, with her back to him.‖
Miranda,‖ he said again, louder. No response. He walked out of the
room. He figured that Miranda had wanted him to think she was asleep
and thus, could avoid talking. That was fine. He grabbed another beer. ~()~
By the time darkness had swallowed suburbia entirely, leaving no
light save for the moon and stars, Nick was drunk. He was very drunk.
He had finished his twelve pack and had moved on to the bottle of Jack
Daniels. He was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette. He had
rebelled against Miranda's rules, like he had with his mother in Seattle.
He looked at the pictures on the coffee table. One was of him and
Miranda, early in their relationship. They had looked so happy, Nick
thought, so happy being different from one another. Miranda had said
that he was her bad boy and he had once called her his angel, summoned
to save him from a pathetic, putrid barfly existence.
Next to the photograph was another of Nick and his mother on the
night of his college graduation. Everything about his mother looked
perfect. Her clothing was pressed and expensive, her nails manicured and
her hair dyed a youthful blond. The only thing off about the picture, Nick
thought, as he looked at himself in the photo—he was clad in a torn
flannel shirt and still had a hot pink mohawk—was his mother's face. She
never smiled. He was never good enough for her, even after graduating
from college with honors. He hadn't seen her since. It had been almost
thirteen years.
Now, he felt tough as he governed his bottle like it was the center
of the universe. Sipping slowly and smoking slowly, he guessed that
Miranda was sleeping; it was after two. She was sleeping while Nick was
breaking all the rules and poisoning their house with cigarettes. He had
not bothered to throw away the beer bottles. She would complain about
that in the morning. She would complain about the smell as well.
He belched. It tasted of sin. He felt sinful but he didn't mind. He
stubbed out his cigarette on the coffee table and chuckled. He lit another,
Emily Hoover
37
in spite of her, in spite of everyone who told him what to do. It tasted
good. Belching again, the room spun. He didn't feel so tough. He took
one last drag, flicked it aside, and fell asleep. ~()~
The smoke detector sounded. Nick opened his eyes and smelled
smoke. It was clouding everything, including his ability to act
assertively. He coughed, hypnotized by the holocaust before him. He
could still see the photographs of his mother and Miranda as they began
to curl inside their frames, but picked up the cigarette pack and stuffed it
into his pocket. Coughing up mucus, vomiting both out of fear and
inebriation, he crawled to the front door. The flames chased him. He
could feel the fire; he could feel everything burn around him. The fire
had completely incinerated the western side of the house and was
slithering across the carpet, engulfing the couch, brightening the room
with blue, orange, and red flames. When it caressed the bottle of Jack
Daniels, it exploded, flames augmenting as high as the ceiling,
annihilating the life he and Miranda had built for themselves.
Suddenly, he remembered. ―Miranda!‖ He coughed, struggling to
breathe. ―Miranda, we've got to get out of here!‖ He heard the fire
crackle and felt the heat as it moved closer to the door, closing in on him.
He jumped to his feet and ran out the door.
Near the mailbox, Nick saw Miranda's silhouette in the
moonlight. She was pacing back and forth on the asphalt, sniffling,
sobbing and screaming on the phone to the 911 dispatcher that her
fiancée was still inside. She collapsed to the ground, overcome with fear
and frustration. He felt his stomach drop and ran to her. He pulled her to
her feet and embraced her tightly.
―I was so scared,‖ she said, her speech muffled in his chest. ―I
yelled for you but you didn't answer.‖
―I was asleep; I think I took too much Advil.‖
She looked up at him and placed her hand on his cheek. ―Are you
all right?‖
―Yeah, I'm okay. A little tired.‖ His lies stung him. He heard the
fire department in the distance. ~()~
The sun peaked over the horizon, painting pastel orange and pink
into the sky. Nick's eyes were bloodshot as he sat in the ambulance
drinking water, trying to sober up. Miranda sat adjacent to him, hugging
a towel. Nick turned to look at her. She was looking at the ruins of their
house. She looked away. Nick looked into her hazel eyes. He winked.
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38
She smiled; Nick could tell it was forced.
―You know I love you, Miranda,‖ he said, placing an arm around
her.
―I love you too.‖
―I'm sorry about our house.‖
―It's not your fault. I think I left the stove on after cooking that
couscous.‖
Nick finished his water and tried to visualize the way the house
used to look. The entire house was black. He tried to count everything
they had lost, but couldn't. Everything was gone.
He stood and leaned against the side of the ambulance. The
firefighters were packing their equipment and barking orders at each
other. Miranda stood next to him and buried herself in his chest, turning
her back to the nothingness that stood before them. Nick knew he could
have lost her. He felt closer to her than ever before. For once, he did not
feel inadequate.
―Excuse me, kids,‖ said a voice from behind them. They turned to
face the concerned firefighter. ―I'm Captain Buchanan and I'd like to ask
you a few questions. Would that be all right?‖
Miranda nodded. ―Was it an electrical fire?‖
―No ma'am. I was wondering...do we have a smoker here?‖
Nick let go of Miranda's waist and put his hands in his pockets.
―Yeah, and thankfully, he lost his cigarettes in the fire.‖
Buchanan's eyes narrowed. ―So, you're the smoker? Well, son, it
seems that this fire was caused by a cigarette. Did you forget to put it
out?‖
Nick was stunned. He looked at Miranda, who looked like she
would spontaneously combust. ―You've got to be kidding me!‖ She gave
Nick a filthy look. ―That figures, doesn't it?‖
Nick stared. Buchanan began to walk away. ―Hey,‖ Nick said.
Buchanan turned. ―Are you sure?‖ Buchanan nodded and began to walk
back to the house. Nick closed his eyes.
―You're a living, breathing omen, Nick! An omen! I can't believe
you destroyed our house...with a cigarette! For three years I've been
telling you to quit. Three years, Nick! The night we get into a huge
argument, over your vices, mind you, you destroy our house! What about
my clothes, Nick? And my cedar dining room set? And what about those
suede couches? Those couches cost me a thousand bucks!‖
Nick massaged his temples.
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39
―What's wrong, Nick? Do you have a headache? Well, guess
what? I don't have a house!‖
―Christ, Miranda, stop yelling.‖ He opened his eyes, studying the
ruins of his house—the broken foundation, the haze, and the black,
gaping pile of destruction.
―Man,‖ he said, amazed. Miranda huffed, puffed, and started
down the street, sobbing. Nick didn't even try to stop her. ―Man,‖ he said
again and inhaled a breath of fresh, sweet oxygen. ―I need a cigarette.‖
As the smoke billowed around him, he could barely see her. Even
though the rays of the rising sun had illuminated the entire neighborhood,
the milky smoke created a hazy film over Nick's eyes. It clouded his view
of Miranda. He couldn't see her anymore.
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40
Happiness
Jillian Burns
41
Ghazal for the Despondent
When the failing half-light falls on the pavement,
the cold tears of the night stain darkly on the pavement.
We let our sorrow pool and collect in Misery‘s bed,
afraid to banish the past that lingers on the pavement .
The clanging of keys filter through my window and
I long for the echo of soft footsteps on the pavement.
I smell gingered cologne, his signature night, and I
drop my fork and run to meet him on the pavement.
I asked to be a phoenix once, so that I could begin
Anew. But I was denied, left numb on the pavement.
In still hours, I run down the street‘s end, soaking in my thoughts.
Sometimes, I stumble; feel the grit of pain on the pavement.
When morning light blankets the porch in cool colors, I leave
the house in faded jeans and walk with resolve on the pavement.
Jeanette Vigliotti
42
Breaking Even
We walked down the street in a straight line, Alex‘s basketball
bouncing up and down with the rhythm of our feet. I swing the wicker
picnic basket from one hand to the other as we veered from the brick
lined path onto the grass, a vague path formed by a stampede of feet. My
mother opened the gate to the Morrow‘s backyard, which was a wild
circus with parents and kids running within the limits of the high wooden
fence.
I veer off from my parents and brother, making my way to the
endless table of food. Placing the basket on the edge of the table, I began
to place the assortment of homemade desserts in symmetrical patterns,
amusing myself with the brownie building blocks, making small castles.
High-pitched squeals echoed around me, beckoning me from the long
wooden table towards a group of girls, crammed around a circular table
covered by a cloth red and white checkered tablecloth. The latest charity
hosted by a sorority was the current topic of conversation. Wasn‘t it so
important to participate to host a charity nowadays? There was immense
excitement over the pictures the following day. Getting all done up just
to take a picture in front of the river. Taking my place on an empty chair,
I let me eyes wander over to the backyard basketball hoop, where our
escorts and brothers had some sort of basketball game going on. I noticed
my little brother, Alex, was the only one not dressed in either plaid or
khaki shorts with a polo; he was wearing baggy basketball shorts and an
oversized t-shirt. The black sheep of the neighborhood, determined not to
fit into the distinctly southern section of town.
10 am the next morning, I open the locker room door at
Timiquana Country Club to a din of noise. Girls are flying around the
room, determined to be the first in line for hair or first in line for
make-up, I watched as Anna, in a first grade, had to be first all the time
move, shoved her way to the front of the hair line, plopping down in
Tiffany‘s makeshift hair salon chair. Setting my bag down, I placed
Mollie Saunders
43
myself in the make-up line, quietly ignoring the rest of the girls the best I
could. The room seemed to shake as girls flew from one end to the next,
trying to get into their identical dresses with their nearly identical
hairstyles and make-up. Conformity was the theme to a debutante ball.
Everyone was in the same dress in different colors. Any differences were
subtle in order to fit each girl into the dresses. The emphasis on
individuality was unimportant to the families at Timiquana; every girl
had to look the same, total equality.
As everyone began to slip into their dresses, the catfights over the
mirrors began. Everyone seemed to want the same mirror, as if the one
were any different from the rest. But there seemed to be something
special about this mirror, it held a certain magical fascination for each
girl, except for me. I could care less. I was just ready for the day to be
over, and then the nightmare of the debutante ball would end. The picture
this afternoon, the ball in the evening.
―GIRLS‖ Ms. Carly‘s principal voice silenced the classroom of
debutants, ―It‘s picture time.‖ Another round of excited squeals erupted
in the suffocating room, leading to a stampede of feet out the door to the
back exit of the country club.
We lined up in front of the river, the American flag waving
behind us, showing our American pride. The five foot nothing
photographer tried to gain our attention as the girls fluttered about,
fussing over their escorts, who were more interested in discussing
whatever baseball game they‘d been listening to in the men‘s locker
room earlier. Finally, taking a stand on the chair next to him, he yelled at
us to shut up and stand still. In drill sergeant form, he moved each couple
to the place he wanted, so we would be ―visually appealing‖.
From my place, I could see the cars coming and going from the
club parking lot. Wouldn‘t it just be nice to hop in one of those cars and
disappear? To just run away before the ball began? Before the dances and
the smiling and the announcement as to how much was made for the
breast cancer organization we were funding?
Mollie Saunders
44
―Smile‖ I turned my head from the parking lot, towards the
camera and plastered on the best smile I could, trying to ignore Ms. Carly
who was dancing around behind the photographer trying to make us
smile bigger. What was the point of leaving anyhow? It was just one
night, one afternoon. And it meant so much to my parents. Almost too
much. What does it matter if I‘m not doing this for me, if I‘m doing this
for them. That‘s what daughters are supposed to do. We‘re supposed to
do what our parents want us to do. So I take the picture with a smile.
Besides, I‘ll get out soon enough.
Mollie Saunders
45
I Heard Laughter Through My Window
Wind flares, curling hair
of a young couple huddled
together against the cold
waves swirl at young
children threatening to
pull them into the
dangerous rocks, sharp
toddlers ready to follow
reckless footsteps as
young mothers reel them
into the safety of the grass
long bridge, old as stone,
connects flowers picked
by pretend princesses
to the old weeds left
forgotten by the younger
generation as the sun drops
in the late sky,
nearing the end of a day.
Mollie Saunders
46
daddy‘s little princess
quiet, even breathing drawn short
gentle rocking of the crib, empty of life
sunlight trying to flit through thick curtains
steady whirring of the fan overhead
creaking wooden floorboards signaled your arrival
is this what you expected to find?
your baby girl, barely 8 months old
forever gone from you
26 years later, a wife, later, a life later
i came
if she were here
would she wear that crown?
Mollie Saunders
47
Stumble Upon
It was Tom Loguidice who introduced The Duluoz Legend to us.
He had a small collection made up of such titles as: On the Road, the
Dharma Bums, and Desolation Angels. After class, whether that be late
morning or afternoon, we met up and, consciously or not, acted out the
fantasies we read into—that free, don‘t-give-two attitude, the Memento
Mori mindset, all alluding to a single elusive word, IT. We met at our
friend‘s house on Pomar, the three of us: Tom, Kyle, and I—the new
generation of naysayers and optimists. We sat around smoking cigarettes,
calling to bums and passersby on the street. But however far we emulated
our characters, no one matched Tom‘s level in devotion. He took it too
far without even trying. And when he stood on a coffee table, jumping up
and down with his unit out, screaming, ―Yes, Yes, Yes,‖ he looked like a
barbarous Indian angel. So when it was rumored Thomas Loguidice
joined the army, we were all skeptical. Never the less, it was true.
A certain madness shrouded itself around us. Beneath its veil, all
predilections of ethnicity and style were forgotten. We formed a clique,
some joined emphatically, others reluctantly, and some because they saw
no other option: and out of this group, the hesitant beatniks who didn‘t
want to completely go along with ‗IT‘, I was one. The saintly fourteen
book saga told tales wild from my nature, but they did give me
interesting thoughts of freedom and adventuring this land. Honestly, I
preferred some Joyce, whose stories shed light on the drag of day to day
life in a small city. And while these books certainly qualified as
literature, they didn‘t exactly fit the curriculum of an early Brit Lit class,
and for that they were circulated secretly during lectures. One day, Dr.
Walsh was preaching Shakespeare and Kyle was discovered with a copy
of Big Sur.
--Which page? 1115? Now, Kyle, up!
--My love is a fever….Continue! My love is a fever…Did you not read?
My love is a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell?
She stood there in mortal disbelief. Then she dramatically
lowered her head, keeping her eyes on keel with Kyle‘s. When finished,
she was grilling him like no other. You know, like giving him the
universal death stare, that ice cold glare which still burns, burns, burns
right through you all the same. The look meant to inspire instant
Matthew Sperber
48
involuntary defecation out of intimidation. In words this expression
roughly translates to: Are you kidding me? You best wipe that little
smirk off your face, before I walk over there and slap the living crap out
of you until your eyes are bleeding. And if you‘d really like, I can
provide you with a chance to meet Shakespeare himself! She marched
directly over to Kyle‘s corner.
--What‘s this on your desk? She said. Big Sur? You‘d rather read this, a
grammatical travesty written by an alcoholic who slept in box cars,
drifting from town to town and striking kin with junkies and vagabonds!
Is this really what you people read, books about admittedly pointless road
trips from coast to coast, avoiding any responsibility. Well, let me tell
you, Shakespeare faced the dragon. He faced the critics and reconciled
his fame. Kerouac never faced his dragon. In fact, he never stopped
running from it. You sir, have just spit in the face of Shakespeare. In fact,
not only that, you‘ve crucified Shakespeare today, actually, by what you
said, today sir…you haven‘t just crucified Shakespeare, what you‘ve
done, is manage to rape and crucify all of English Literature!
--Good, he said, I‘m an American
--Get out!
This reality check in the sane hours of our lives detracted much
from the allure of beat literature for me, and Kyle‘s growing infatuation
for anything uprooted matched with an utter disrespect against anything
establishment didn‘t help. But when the formal echo of school ceased
tolling through my head, I began thirsting again for mystical visions and
cosmic vibrations, for the freedom those books outlined. The balls-to-
walls lifestyle we pursued at night became equally draining as school
itself. It was getting to a point where I was giving all, both mentally and
physically, and was left almost nothing. But still, as Huxley said, ―I
didn‘t want comfort, I wanted God, I wanted poetry, I wanted real
danger, I wanted freedom, I wanted goodness, I wanted sin. [sic]‖ And I
couldn‘t have said It better myself.
The semester was winding down when I decided to live
completely on the edge, for one night at least. With Kyle Matthews and
another guy named Evan, we planned a night of fully fledged
debauchery. Each of us would save twelve dollars for jugs of port. We
would meet at five p.m. on the corner of Granada and Bridge. Evan
would skip his night class and Kyle would call out of work. We decided
we would go to ABC, where Kyle would buy the wine using his fake ID,
then go to the corner of King and Riberia and see if any hobos were
Matthew Sperber
49
there. If not, we‘d walk down Riberia near the abandoned boat yard
where they often slept in forgotten sewage pipes, left there by the city
God knows when. Evan was afraid some of these people might be crazy,
but Kyle asked very wisely, isn‘t that the point. Then it was settled: Kyle
collected all our money. As we walked away trying last minute ideas, we
were all excited. We diverged laughing, Kyle chuckling, ‗Yes, oh yes,
yes.‘
All through class the next day, I couldn‘t pay attention. At five I
was first to the corner, seeing as it directly faced my apartment. It was
turning into a cool November evening. I paced back and forth chiefing
down innumerable L&M‘s, watching Food Not Bombs provide their
nightly meal in Pot Belly‘s parking lot. The Spanish moss danced quietly
with a soft wind to and fro. Traces of my breath floated through the air in
the form of condensation and smoke. I was burning with great
expectations.
After about ten minutes I saw Kyle‘s scrawny figure approaching.
He walked up, tossed his cigarette on the ground and squished it out
using his loafer. While we waited he pulled out his new one hitter and
explained why it was the most effective smoking utensil ever conceived.
One of those ceramic cigarettes, it was certainly inconspicuous, say for
the inevitable smell. I asked why he brought it, he said so we could blaze
out some bum. We stood around and chatted until six o‘clock when it
became obvious Evan had decided not to skip class.
--Aight, let‘s go, I knew he‘d wuss out, probably too scared of that
damned attendance policy.
--What about the money he gave you?
--Ours now, said Kyle. And good too, Now we‘ll each get two liters of
port instead of one and a half.
We walked down Bridge Street till we came to MLK, upon which
we hooked a right towards King. At King we turned left and made the ten
minute walk to ABC liquor out by US-1. Kyle went in and returned with
three large jugs of Carlo Rossi. As soon as we were off King Street and
back in the shadows, Kyle tore into his jug with a vengeance. We
sauntered slowly down Riberia, stopping every few steps for large slugs
of port. The street was very quiet and vacant, except for a bearded man
making his way with some difficulty towards us on a bike. We pleased
ourselves with the bizarre ambiance of Lincolnville: the run down houses
and vacant buildings all rumored to be haunted. From a clearing we
distinguished a few silhouettes swaying out in the bay. Probably
Matthew Sperber
50
schooners, I said, stragglers left behind from the Southern Sailor
Migration.
Each boat greeted the harbor identically: with a slow, rocking
and melodic wave. In doldrums, their dark and somber faces dodged one
another for the most part. On occasion their portholes met—blind golden
eyes exchanging glances. But these moments wouldn‘t last, they
couldn‘t. Time and again, the undying mutability of nature reared its ugly
head, killing and shattering them over the fractaling swells from which
they rose. And these schooners, like slaves chained to the Deep, as the
locusts are to the heavens, continued their perpetual journey. But lo, even
the seeds of knowledge once bowed before the wind.
Again thoughts of freedom flooded my imagination. Where had
these boats been, where were they going? The possibilities seemed
endless. I played with this notion in my mind as a figure passed behind
us, a tranny. I tried to see if his eyes were green because I had heard
somewhere…It was too dark to tell.
We continued along Riberia, working on our jugs, bs-ing at one
another with some increasing difficulty. Further down, we came to the
abandoned boat yard. Kyle produced his one hitter and stuffed it with
some dank cheebah. We passed it back and forth, coughing heavily each
time on the rebound. There seemed to be nobody in the area but us. Then
Kyle spotted a figure hunched over in a big pipe and his face lit up with
glee. We approached slowly with some caution as we didn‘t know if this
person was sleeping, drunk or armed—possibly all three. From ten feet I
made out the figure of a man. He was shabbily dressed in several
sweatshirts and jeans, looking stiff from dried mud. A long, untamed
grey beard matched his nappy hair. If I had to say, I would‘ve placed him
somewhere around sixty. As we stood there he turned quickly to us, then
back around. He was defiantly coherent. We called to him and waited a
few seconds before an echo; we drew nearer. He smelt as if he‘d been
rolling around in horse all night, and then afterwards taken a shower in
malt liquor. Informal introductions gave us his name, the Green Dragon.
If it‘s one thing I‘ve learned, the homeless have some of the most
creative aliases out there.
We talked about the weather. He said it would be a cold winter,
colder than last; and adding how global warming made for a hell of a
summer, implored we share our wine. We were surprised to learn he‘d
attended college, Princeton he said. These, he added, were some of the
best days of his life, before Vietnam came knocking, that is. Apparently,
Matthew Sperber
51
this last point called upon some tragic memories. I saw, he growled, I
saw the best friends I had die over there, hysterically screaming and
naked, covered in napalm, dragging themselves across the battle field at
dawn, looking for a medic. He paused for a moment of silence, and then
inquired if either of us had read any Whitman or Joyce. Through my
drunkenness I acted as if I‘d read every story and poem he rattled off.
--Ah, I can tell you‘re one for the world of academia. But him, he looked
at Kyle swaying back and forth still pounding wine like a champ, he gets
IT.
He said he used to own all of Joyce‘s and Whitman‘s publications
and used to read them all at least once per year. Dubliners, he said, was
his favorite of all time. He smiled. He had eyes like piss holes in the
snow, and only a few pitted rotting teeth hiding behind his beard. His
hands were covered in tattoos—the lines of which weren‘t even black,
more of a pond scum green. Some of the lines didn‘t connect all the way.
Although I didn‘t want to ask, I knew these were all markings of prison
tattoos; done under the most rudimentary of conditions.
Then he wanted to know which of us got the most girls. Kyle told
him he had a girlfriend of two years back home. He turned to me and
leaned in slightly, peering upwards in my direction. Reluctantly, I
admitted no girls had taken to my fancy. This, he said, surely must be a
modest lie, but I shamefully assured him it was not.
--How bout‘ you man, said Kyle rather obnoxiously, how many babes
has the Green Dragon lured in?
I would say Dragon smiled, but his lack of teeth made any
attempt at sincerity virtually impossible. Even the most genuine of smiles
still came across as some disturbing sneer. He said when he was our age
it was the time of free love, so he really couldn‘t say how many cats he‘d
reeled in. He seemed pretty intelligent and well read for a man sleeping
in a swamp. But something was off about him. Every so often, like after
a sentence, he‘d crane his neck downward into his arm pit and mumble.
He started talking about college girls: how there was nothing more nubile
than one, how a girl of that age had the softest skin and prettiest eyes, and
how all beauty is like morning dew. The way he said all of this was
extraordinarily unnerving. He was practically licking his hideously
chapped lips throughout the entire speech, I could smell his terrible
breath more and more—I swear it was discolored when it lingered and
vanished before us. And still, every so often, he would bury his head in
his armpit and mumble incoherent interjections to himself. As he spoke, I
Matthew Sperber
52
found myself looking less and less at him. A wicked combination of
alcohol and growing disgust for this man was making my head spin. How
Kyle could stand exchanging a bottle with him was beyond me.
After a while, Dragon stopped talking. I looked up and found him
just staring at me, his head lowered slightly; eyes kept level with mine.
Then he picked himself up slowly, remarked he‘d be right back, and
without adjusting my line of sight passed before us stumbling further
back in the yard. We seized this opportunity to kill the wine. Five
minutes passed when I heard Kyle utter,
--Holy crap, look what he‘s doing.
I didn‘t say a word and just kept my eyes directly aimed on the
ground before me. Kyle cried again.
--Dude!... This guy‘s a perve.
--If he wants our names, I said, I‘m Goldberg and your Ryder.
We went back to being quite. I was thinking whether to take a
scenic route back home, so Dragon wouldn‘t know where I lived. He
came back and sat down. Kyle stood and dug around in his pocket. He
came out with his one hitter and walked away. Dragon and I watched the
flick-flick-flare of his lighter across the field. He began to speak once
more, though this time differently. Whereas before, the majority of his
speech was directed at us, now his armpit bore the brunt of his attention.
Any notion of this man‘s sanity poured out with the garbled tongues
leaving his mouth. All I could make out was something about wearing a
dress. I turned my head at him momentarily and realized his eyes were
green.
I waited a passing minute until he paused, oblivious to wipe his
nose, nodding all the while. Then I stood up fast, hung around a few
seconds, pretended to re-adjust my belt and then, saying a quick goodbye
walked as fast as I could towards the boat yard‘s entrance, trying not to
make it too obvious I was fleeing the scene. When I got to the entrance I
turned and yelled:
--Ryder!
My voice shook slightly. I yelled it once more before I saw Kyle
jogging towards me. The way he came said he knew exactly what I was
thinking. And I was regretful, because through my fear, a hit of loathing
still resonated in his honor.
Matthew Sperber
53
Evan Tisdale
A Blueprint of Grandma‘s Trailer Home
I. The Front Yard
Pink plastic feathers, sprinkled throughout the khaki-olive blades.
Rusted out Lincoln; immobile; the key ornament on a barren lawn.
The drive; a minefield of imperfections; cobbled to the ashen road.
Neighbors flock; migrate south; BBQ chicken on a nest of ember coals.
II. The Living Room
Front porch, a carpeted couch coughs a smoky cloud when sat upon.
An August Xmas tree hangs estranged from the cob-webbed corner.
Old Milwaukee an aluminum trophy case, bled of each gold drop.
Hangovers become friendly, fuzzy recollections of midnight revelry.
III. The Kitchen
Antlered-eyes stare frozen from hollow fridge to grease-stained stove.
A flea market stuffed into a shoebox; cartons, eloquently cramp and clutter.
Shriveled and inky, the scarlet man spits tar from cracked, crowded lips.
Shooting, slicing, drying, spicing, chewing; each sweet bite of gamey flesh.
IV. The Bedroom
Behind a paper barricade the leathered skin embrace ends in salty pleasure.
Sweet sleep sweeps in like a haze; upright each night a battle for brittle bones.
Jaundiced crooks clamp a kindling cigarette between each cloudy puff-puff.
Veiled with vodka from the world, the grey angel smiles and prays, ―watch
over us all.‖
54
Veronica Spake
Attic Window
Tiny, isolated porthole,
it housed the world like a sea,
a space just big enough for me
to squeeze inside the frame where
I could see and not be seen.
One day, I heard the bikes before I saw them, two kids
circling the sidewalk.
Sitting on my knees, my breath fogging up the glass,
I heard their muffled laughter, and I was longing
to slip through the glass and ride away too.
55
Veronica Spake
The Jumpers
I played hooky
at an amusement park
when the towers fell
On a rollercoaster
inching up the incline
when the first plane hit
Speeding down the drop
weightless, floating
free, until I saw
the bottom
56
Veronica Spake
Girl on 35 Eureka Line – m4w – 28
Tuesday, on the bus, you sat three seats down,
your hair was pinned up and you wore black jeans.
I stared so long I missed my stop downtown—
you‘re the most gorgeous girl I‘ve ever seen.
The way your eyes gleamed as the sun shone in
inspired me to write a poem. This
is not it. I dream of touching your skin,
smelling your hair, having our first real kiss.
I longed to say hi, but nerves bested me.
I already love you (you‘ll love me too),
So I‘m posting this now, hoping you‘ll see.
(Describe your tattoos, so I know it‘s you).
I like to think we can create our fate,
that we are not passing lines, caught too late.
57
Acrostic: several arrows later
while undone by disdain, accented by
absences: your earthtoned Eames chair,
ill slighted stomach, and
the stack of books you have not read
in entirety. You performed as my admirable elder
though unadmirable chef, scrapping
out all flesh from our diet for
us who still feel (in theory)
too well.
Rachael Cosgrove
58
Chloe Rose
Untitled
59
The Eagle and the Wolf
last night, I dreamed
Go as far as you can, Dad said
Don't worry about the cost, just climb
So up I went, the wind in my hair
the sweetest breath I'd ever taken,
my feet trod the greenest grass
and the house at the top of the hill
shone red, brown, warm in the sun
an eagle coasted around the roof
The wind blew stronger at my back
and lifted me up
an eagle in the sky suddenly didn't seem so far away
the top of the hill became reality
when a wolf cried out
at the bottom of the hill
I looked down
and saw my family's eyes in the hungry gaze
I returned to the pack
this morning, I remembered
Stephanie Boilard
60
Stephanie Boilard
Autopsy of a Suicide
Half of the brain is missing,
along with a portion of the ear.
The skin, burned by a great fire,
has already been cut.
Peel away the threadbare clothes
and trace the veins, lines on a map,
to a bullet buried in the enlarged heart.
Liver deteriorated, stomach empty.
Indications of digestive problems.
The surrounding ribs, easily seen
through skin, broken under pressure.
Underneath we find blackened lungs
sickened by the very air they breathed.
Near lungs is a foreign object. May be
of use; will remove later.
Face is lined, weathered, pained.
The eyes, nearsighted, have seen too much;
close them. Open the mouth and find
words unheard lodged in the throat.
The hands are stained with paint
or blood and bound, extended but empty.
At last, go down to the feet.
Callouses and dirt suggest a long
distance travelled without company.
61
Jillian Burns
Carl
62
Maya De Ceano-Vivas
Hands/Butterfly
63
Maya De Ceano-Vivas
Desire
64
Sleeping With the Fishes
INT. TENNYSON‘S FISH BOWL - DAY
Swirling colors. TENNYSON, a pretty black and red fish,
swims into a small stone castle. Alarm vibrates the calm
world.
INT. ALLIE‘S BEDROOM - DAY
Alarm continues. ALLIE reaches out to hit it- misses sev-
eral times. Finally finds the off button. Allie has pick-
up-sticks hair and dolphin pajamas.
Allie makes the bed. Fish shaped pillows. Brushes teeth.
Dances into jeans. Applies bright pink eye shadow.
Pictures of AGGIE and SAMSON (a couple in their late twen-
ties) and BABY MONROE sit on her dresser. An older
―sixties‖ photo of her MOTHER and FATHER, in lab coats,
holding a shark.
Allie waves at a fish bowl and grabs a messenger bag.
ALLIE
Bye-Bye, Tennyson.
EXT. ALLIE‘S APARTMENT
Allie hops on a bright blue MOTOR SCOOTER—it has some rust
and a cracked mirror. Straps on a camouflage helmet. The
scooter doesn‘t start. She shakes it.
ALLIE
Come on baby. Come on,
Mama needs you to start.
The scooter jolts to life, dings into the old taxi paral-
lel parked in front of her. Small dent, in a series of
small dents and blue scratches on the bumper.
MR. HENDRICKSON in a rocking chair on the porch of the
brownstone apartment, drinking coffee.
MR HENDRICKSON
I‘ll add it to your tab, Allie.
Stephanie Johnson
65
Stephanie Johnson
ALLIE
Sorry, Mister Hendrickson.
MR HENDRICKSON
Yeah, yeah. Just do me a favor and
bring me back some chew, okay?
ALLIE
No can do, Mr. H. You‘re quitting,
remember?
MR. HENDRICKSON
Spoil sport.
EXT. BOSTON
Allie flies through streets- spring flowers burst open. She
passes cafes along the sidewalk. A park.
Allie stops at a red light. A COLLEGE GUY wolf whistles at
her. Allie rolls her eyes. The light turns green.
EXT. ST MARY‘S
Allie pulls into a small parking space. Scooter shudders
off. Helmet on the seat. ALLIE walks towards a COLLEGE CAM-
PUS.
There‘s a large sign that reads ―Saint Mary‘s Science Col-
lege for Girls.‖ It has a cross on it.
OVERHEAD SPEAKER
Would Allie McAllister please
come to Dean Harper‘s office?
Allie sighs.
INT. COLLEGE OFFICES
Allie walks through a graying building towards an office at
the end of the hall. There‘s a large sign that reads ―Dean
Harper: Dean of Academic Affairs.‖ She enters.
INT. HARPER‘S OFFICE
Allie pushes chopsticks into her hair. She stares at DEAN
66
Stephanie Johnson HARPER, a rail thin woman with more salt than pepper hair.
Photo of Allie swimming with dolphins on the desk.
ALLIE
Really, Auntie? Over the intercom?
Harper‘s strict demeanor melts.
HARPER
Wull, how the heck else am I gonna
get your attention, day dreamer?
They hug.
ALLIE
Uh, a phone call is what normal
people—
HARPER
Normal people aren‘t Deans.
Happy twenty-first!
ALLIE
Ugh. I was kinda hopin‘ you‘d
forgot.
HARPER
Allie... just because...
ALLIE
―Just‖. You‘re right. My birthday is
just a reminder my parents died
six years ago.
HARPER
Allie, stop. Not today.
ALLIE
Okay. Sorry.
HARPER
Now, what shenanigans are we gettin‘
into tonight?
ALLIE
Um. I was gonna work at the aquarium to-
night.
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Stephanie Johnson
HARPER
And then pass out watchin‘ taped
episodes of Shark Week on DVR?
Allie looks at her shoes: Guilty.
HARPER
It‘s your birthday! Go out
with friends!
ALLIE
What friends?
HARPER
Honey, why is it you can only
be nice to fish?
ALLIE
Probably because they don‘t mind
that I find anything with gills
more fascinating than Britney Spears
and Lindsey Lohan‘s rehab visits.
HARPER
Oh God. The Lohan rehab case was
months ago. You need to get out more.
ALLIE
I called Aggie and Samson. Maybe
they‘ll drive up from Cambridge—
HARPER
Your sister and her hippie
husband do not count.
ALLIE
They do to me. You can come too.
HARPER
Okay. If we go somewhere where it‘s
mostly dark and they serve alcohol,
I will allow you to spend your birthday
with people who are all at least seven
years older than you.
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ALLIE
If we must. Though I won‘t be
drinking.
HARPER
Yes you will. You will get so drunk-
Harper‘s intercom buzzes.
DENISE
Dean Harper, Bishop Matthew needs
you at ten thirty mass.
HARPER
Okay, Denise, thank you.
Allie gets up to go, slings her bag over her shoulder.
HARPER
So I‘ll swing by at eight. And for
godssakes, Allie, don‘t wear something
you crocheted yourself. Flash some skin!
Allie smiles, they hug again, and Harper leaves, crossing
herself in front of a crucifix at the door.
INT. CLUB – NIGHT
Allie, in jeans and a t-shirt, sits awkwardly at bar with
Harper, in a dress-but-more-of-a-shirt-without-pants.
Music is booming. Allie half-heartedly peruses a drink
menu. Harper bobs her head, itching to dance.
HARPER
(shouting over music)
See anything that looks good?
ALLIE
Um, I dunno. A Shirley Temple?
HARPER
Allie, we had a deal! You have to
get something alcoholic.
ALLIE
Fine. A Shirley Temple black,
hold the black.
Harper rolls her eyes. The song changes.
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69
HARPER
Ohmigaw! I love this song!
Harper rushes towards the dance floor. Allie sighs.
TEDDY, a brawny guy with a crew cut, sits next to Allie.
TEDDY
So, you managed to break away
from the fish tonight, Allie?
ALLIE
Teddy? What are you doing here?
TEDDY
I, unlike you, have a life.
I am not tied to the aquarium.
ALLIE
Yeah, well, you‘re also not Dr.
Shapasian‘s pet intern.
TEDDY
(shrugging)
I‘m just there because it‘s
easy community service hours.
ALLIE
(suspiciously)
What do you need community
service hours for?
Teddy makes a gesture to the drink in his own hand, and to
Allie, towards the BARTENDER, who nods.
TEDDY
Enough about me. Why are you
here tonight?
ALLIE
Oh. Um. It‘s my birthday.
TEDDY
You‘re serious? Happy Birthday,
little fishmonger! How old are you?
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ALLIE
Twenty-one.
TEDDY
Ah, the ripe age of alcoholics.
Well, let‘s get you drunk, shall we?
ALLIE
Uh, no. Thanks though.
TEDDY
Come on. One. For me.
ALLIE
No.
TEDDY
For the whales? Somebody‘s got
to save ‗em, McAllister.
ALLIE
Fine. Shirley Temple Black.
It appears as she says it. Teddy winks.
ALLIE
How did you...?
TEDDY
I have my ways.
Allie raises an eyebrow. Teddy grins.
TEDDY
That, and I heard you
talking to...
He gestures towards Harper, who is pop-and-locking with a
MOHAWKED-MAN.
ALLIE
My aunt. Uh. Five times removed.
TEDDY
I see. On your birthday, you go out
with your aunt.
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ALLIE
Well, I would have invited my sister
and her husband, but they couldn‘t
get anyone to watch Monroe.
TEDDY
Their dog?
ALLIE
Their kid.
TEDDY
You‘re a family man, aren‘t ya?
Allie nods, but makes a face. Teddy laughs as Allie stuffs
the drink umbrella in her hair.
TEDDY
Must be nice. Don‘t have much
family to speak of.
ALLIE
Neither do I. My parents died in
a car crash on my fifteenth birthday.
TEDDY
Christ. I‘m sorry.
ALLIE
Thanks.
TEDDY
Well, drink up, McAllister.
The whales aren‘t gonna save
themselves.
Allie takes a large gulp, makes a face. Teddy laughs.
TEDDY
You look like the guppies
we keep in tank twelve. ‗Cept a
lot cuter. (licks his lips) Hey,
Allie, you got a number?
Allie chokes. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
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She looks towards Harper, who‘s taking a body shot. The
red exit sign glows like a Hallelujah chorus. Teddy waits,
finger tracing the rim of the glass.
ALLIE
Uh, yeah. I have a cellular
device, yes.
TEDDY
Well, may I have the number
at which to activate said
cellular device and make it
a-ring-a-ding-ding?
ALLIE
I‘m not so sure that‘d be such
a great idea.
TEDDY
Come on. It‘s seven digits.
ALLIE
No thanks, Teddy.
Allie rises, grabbing her bag. She stands, stiffly, and
hands him a twenty.
ALLIE
For the drink. Keep the change.
TEDDY
(smirking)
Good night, McAllister.
Happy Birthday.
EXT. CLUB – NIGHT
Allie stands outside the club and hails a taxi. She climbs
inside, stumbling. Mr. Hendrickson is the driver. He
sighs.
MR. HENDRICKSON
Am I takin‘ ya home, Allie?
ALLIE
Nah, ta ma sistas. She lives
at 53rd and Church... number 5...
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She leans against the window. Mr. Hendrickson sighs again.
INT. AGGIE‘S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
Aggie and Allie are drinking coffee on the couch. Allie‘s
hair is even more bedraggled than usual. She‘s slumped.
AGGIE
And you said no... why?
ALLIE
(slurring)
Coz, Aggie! He‘s all bad boy and
tattooed and he‘s mah co workah.
AGGIE
Wow. Your Boston accent really
comes out when you‘re drunk.
Are you sure you only had one drink?
ALLIE
‗m NOT drunk. ‗m TIPSY. At best.
AGGIE
Shh, Allie, you‘ll wake the baby.
ALLIE
Oh. Sorry.
AGGIE
It‘s okay, kid. Get some sleep.
Aggie head butts Allie softly. Both grin, despite Allie‘s
wavered attempt at a full smile.
ALLIE
Ove-lay oo-yay.
AGGIE
Orever-fay.
Allie passes out, head falling back into the couch pillows.
Aggie pulls a blanket over her sister, sighing.
AGGIE
Happy Birthday, Allie.
Aggie kisses Allie‘s forehead and turns out the light.
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INT. ALLIE‘s APARTMENT - MORNING
Allie‘s alarm goes off. Empty apartment. A key jingles in
the door. Allie enters, red eyed. Stumbles into bedroom,
turning off the alarm. Allie stares at Tennyson swimming
in his bowl.
ALLIE
Twenty-one, Tennyson. Big party.
She falls into bed, instantly snoring.
INT. BOSTON AQUARIUM - DAY
Allie, in lab coat and gloves, stands over a tank of small
sharks, flinging tentacle food in.
ALLIE
C‘mon, guys. Chow time.
DR. SHAPASIAN, a black woman in her 60s with coke bottle
glasses, walks over to Allie.
DR. SHAPASIAN
They look hungry today. Did you
feed ‗em yesterday?
ALLIE
I wasn‘t in yesterday. Might be-
DR. SHAPASIAN
Teddy. I swear to God, I don‘t know
what to do with that boy.
There‘s a pause. Allie squeaks her sneakers.
DR. SHAPASIAN
You‘re a good girl, Allie. So
precise, very dependable. What
are you doin‘ when school lets
out in a couple weeks?
ALLIE
Wull, I‘m going back to Cambridge
to live with my sister and her family.
They both teach, and in the summer,
they take on other jobs.
There‘s an awkward pause. Allie looks at the tank.
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ALLIE
I‘m the free baby sitter.
DR. SHAPASIAN
I see. Wull. If that changes,
let me know.
The Doctor starts to walk away. Allie scoops some squid
bits.
ALLIE
Sure. (bites lip) Um, why?
DR. SHAPASIAN
Well, the Association of Marine
Biology has their annual
conference in Chicago this June,
and I‘m allowed by the Board to
take one intern with me.
ALLIE
Really? You wanna take me?
DR. SHAPASIAN
(laughing)
Girl, it‘s better than takin‘ Teddy!
ALLIE
I would love to! I‘ve always wanted
to be a marine biologist.
DR. SHAPASIAN
You have a specialty picked out?
ALLIE
(nodding)
Sea horses. I‘ve loved them ever
since my mother told me they mate
for life.
DR. SHAPASIAN
They are such a beautiful species.
(pause) So you‘ll come?
ALLIE
Well... Aggie and Samson are
pretty hard up for cash and…
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DR. SHAPASIAN
I understand completely.
But her eyebrows are raised, and her mouth is a straight
line.
EXT. BOSTON AQUARIUM
ALLIE
(on the phone)
Hey, Aggie, it‘s me. I‘m heading
over.
EXT. AGGIE AND SAMSON‘S – EVENING
Aggie and Allie pull into the driveway at the same time-
Allie on her scooter, Aggie in an old bug.
Allie waits on the front porch swing as Aggie detangles
herself from the car. Allie laughs.
ALLIE
You know, driving that car
made sense for Mom, because
she was five two.
AGGIE
(grinning)
Yeah, and?
ALLIE
And you take after dad...
You‘re five eleven.
AGGIE
Therefore?
ALLIE
Therefore, art-smay ass-hay,
it doesn‘t make sense for you
to drive the car.
Aggie, finally out of the car, drags a book bag filled
with papers over to the porch where Allie sits. They head
butt.
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77
AGGIE
(smiling)
Emotional attachment. You study fish,
I drive her car. It works.
They open the door.
INT. AGGIE AND SAMSON‘S
Aggie sets the table, setting down a pan of stir-fry. Next
to Allie sits Samson, Aggie‘s older hippie husband,
scratching his hairy arms with a fork.
Baby MONROE sits in a high chair, following his father by
taking his own fork, full of peas, and dumping it onto his
arm. Aggie sighs.
ALLIE
... and so he‘s asking me to
go with him!
SAMSON
Seriously? Allie! That‘s great!
Aggie shoots Allie a glare. A sink in the background drips.
They say silent grace, cross themselves simultaneously.
They pass the stir-fry around. Allie takes a giant helping.
ALLIE
And it‘s only for two weeks at the
end of this month, so I‘ll be able
to come back for the rest of—
AGGIE
Why bother?
SAMSON
Agatha Lee! Jeez!
AGGIE
No, I‘m sorry. I get that this
fish thing is a big deal for you,
Allie. Really. But you already
promised us you‘d watch Monroe.
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Stephanie Johnson
ALLIE
And I will! I just want to go do
this one thing! It‘s the most
prestigious conference in the
field.
AGGIE
It‘s not like Samson or
I can just take off two weeks.
ALLIE
It‘s not my fault you guys chose
to be broke high school teachers.
AGGIE
Excuse me?
ALLIE
You heard me.
AGGIE
Yeah, well, at least I didn‘t just
become what Mom and Dad were because
there wasn‘t anything else to do.
ALLIE
That‘s not true! I want to be a
marine biologist because I want to
study seahorses. I feel at home at
the aquarium.
AGGIE
And you‘ll spend your life obsessing
over creatures who can‘t talk back!
ALLIE
I‘m doing what makes me happy!
Which is more than I can say for
someone who wanted to write fiction,
but ended up teaching snot nosed-
SAMSON
Allie! Aggie! You guys are getting
out of hand.
ALLIE
Sorry.
AGGIE
Fine.
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Stephanie Johnson
Pause. Monroe tosses his spoon to the ground. It clatters.
ALLIE
I should go. I‘ll see if I can‘t
find someone else to baby-sit
Monroe for those two weeks.
AGGIE
Allie, we can‘t afford-
ALLIE
I’ll pay for it. Jeez.
AGGIE
You mean, you‘ll make aunt
Harper pay for it, like
everything else in your life?
SAMSON
Aggie! Seriously?
Allie rises from the table. Walking over to the sink, she
picks up Tupperware from the drying rack.
ALLIE
Thanks for the one-minute dinner.
Allie dumps the food in the Tupperware, snaps the lid.
SAMSON
I‘ll walk you out.
Samson gets up, his chair scraping on the floor. Aggie
rinses Allie‘s plate. A snow pea slides down the drain.
EXT. AGGIE AND SAMSON‘S
Allie mounts the scooter, wiping her eyes. Crickets chirp.
Samson leans against the bug as she revs up.
SAMSON
You okay to drive?
ALLIE
Yup. Peachy.
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Stephanie Johnson
SAMSON
Hey Al? Just give her time.
ALLIE
I‘m not sure I want to right now.
Samson reaches over, knocks on her helmet.
SAMSON
Be safe, kid.
Allie sputters off.
INT. ALLIE‘S APARTMENT – EVENING
Harper and Allie sit on the couch, drinking coffee. Next to
Harper‘s mug, there‘s an empty Bailey‘s bottle.
ALLIE
And now, she won‘t talk to me.
HARPER
Allie, Aggie likes things a certain
way. She and her husband are trying
so hard with that baby. And they won‘t
accept help from anyone- not even me.
ALLIE
What do you mean?
HARPER
Why do you think Samson still
bikes to work when I‘ve offered more
than once to buy him a proper car?
ALLIE
Because he doesn‘t believe in
useless fuel-
HARPER
Yeah right, Allie. Your sister is
stubborn. She wants to prove she can
do everything on her own.
ALLIE
Yet, she expects help from me. She
whines like a little kid when she
doesn‘t get it.
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Stephanie Johnson
Allie grabs her mug and walks to the kitchen.
INT. ALLIE‘S KITCHEN
Allie is rinsing her cup and wipes away angry tears.
HARPER (OS)
Wull, darlin, you gotta know it‘s
not because of you. She‘s just got
her pannies in a twist because her
little sister is going so far in life-
ALLIE
I don‘t think that‘s it. She chose to
be a teacher.
HARPER
If she chose to be a teacher, why
is she havin‘ so much trouble lettin‘
you go live your dreams?
ALLIE
Because it‘s not according to her plan,
I think. I dunno. Whatever. It mostly
just bothers me that she won‘t even
return my phone calls.
HARPER
Not even a text?
Allie shakes her head.
HARPER
How long has it been now?
ALLIE
Three weeks. I leave Tuesday,
and I‘m not even sure if I‘ll have
a place to stay when I come back.
HARPER
Of course you have a place to stay,
crazy. You can stay with me.
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Stephanie Johnson
ALLIE
Aww, thanks Auntie.
Allie looks toward the TV. Shark Week tapes. A particularly
violent part with blood oozing from a dolphin. Allie puts
her hands over Tennyson‘s bowl on the living room table.
ALLIE
Don‘t look, Tennyson. You‘re
not allowed to watch the bloody
scenes, you know.
HARPER
You‘re going to have to stop
talking to your fish if you
want to live with me, though.
Allie nods, a small smile fighting its way across her face.
As her aunt stumbles into the kitchen, Allie opens her cell
phone. In the saved texts, an unsent draft flashes across
her phone: ―TO: TEDDY. Do you baby-sit?‖
INT. ALLIE‘S APARTMENT – MORNING
Allie‘s apartment is a mess of suitcases and boxes. Tenny-
son sits, in bowl, atop a cardboard box. Mr. Hendrickson
stands, still in his robe, in Allie‘s microscopic living
room.
ALLIE
Thanks so much for watching Tennyson
while I‘m at the conference, Mr. H.
MR. HENDRICKSON
It‘s a fish. It‘s not that hard.
ALLIE
Well, actually...
Allie prattles on. Mr. Hendrickson‘s eyes get blurred.
ALLIE
And at night, it helps him sleep
if you play Mozart.
Mr. Hendrickson shakes himself awake, raising his eyebrows.
MR. HENDRICKSON
Allie! He‘s a fish, not a toddler.
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Stephanie Johnson
ALLIE
(ignoring him)
But nevertheless, if you have any
questions, please feel free to-
Allie‘s phone buzzes.
ALLIE
-call me. Um. Excuse me, Mr.
Hendrickson.
MR. HENDRICKSON
(mumbling)
Yeah, whatever, hippie.
ALLIE
Hello? ... hey Samson. What‘s-
What? Are you- Yeah. Um. Yeah.
I‘ll be right there.
Allie grabs Tennyson‘s bowl. She runs into the kitchen, re
emerging with Tennyson newly transferred into a Tupperware,
lid attached and duct taped.
MR. HENDRICKSON
What the-?
ALLIE
I‘m sorry, Mr. Hendrickson. My
sister‘s husband just called and-
Tennyson and I have to-
She tears up. Mister Hendrickson sighs, unties his robe.
MR. HENDRICKSON
Here, take this. Wrap it around him
to add extra padding.
She looks at him tearfully. He‘s wearing a Jimmy Buffet t-
shirt and Kermit boxers.
ALLIE
Thank... you...
MR. HENDRICKSON
Don‘t mention it. Seriously.
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Stephanie Johnson
EXT. BOSTON STREETS
Allie straps Tennyson onto a small trunk compartment on the
back of the scooter. Together, Allie (and a very sloshed
about Tennyson) weave through the streets of Boston.
INT. BOSTON HOSPITAL FRONT DESK
Allie, Tupperware in hand, pants at the front desk.
ALLIE
I need the room of Agatha McAllister,
please? She was admitted about an
hour ago—
NURSE
326. Go to the end of the—
Allie is already racing down the hallway, sneakers squeak-
ing.
INT. AGGIE‘S HOSPITAL ROOM
Aggie lays on the bed, nose and arms bloody. Her leg is
suspended in a cast, eyes closed. Samson paces across the
room, Monroe asleep in his carrier. Allie flings the door
open, comes tumbling in.
SAMSON
Allie, thank God. Harper just
left to go get-
ALLIE
How is she?
SAMSON
She‘s pretty banged up. Broken
leg, scraped arms, cracked ribs.
The doctor says she‘ll be okay,
once she wakes up.
ALLIE
(screeching)
Wakes up? You mean she‘s unconscious?
SAMSON
Yeah. We‘re lucky she‘s alive.
The car hit her going forty.
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Stephanie Johnson
ALLIE
The car?
SAMSON
Yeah... she was walking home from
school and got hit by a car.
ALLIE
The luck my family has with cars,
no wonder I drive a moped.
SAMSON
Allie, it‘s not some weird pre
destined thing. Stuff just happens.
ALLIE
Right. Call me when she wakes up,
okay? I can‘t... I just...
Allie leaves, Tennyson still under her arm. Samson looks
after her, smoothes Aggie‘s hand. Machines beep in the
background.
SAMSON
I swear, Aggie, craziness must
run in the family.
INT. BOSTON AQUARIUM - DAY
Allie sits with her back against a tank of sea horses. The
blue of the water reflects across her face as she stares
at Tennyson, swimming happily in his bowl at her feet.
Teddy walks up behind her, in lab coat, gloves, and his
goggles on his head. He smiles, watching her watch the
fish.
TEDDY
Weren‘t you supposed to be at
that nerd convention?
Allie, rather than being shocked at Teddy‘s presence, rolls
her head in his direction, shooting him with a blank stare.
ALLIE
Hey Teddy.
86
TEDDY
What‘s wrong?
ALLIE
Oh, the usual. Finding consolation
in things that can‘t talk back to me.
TEDDY
Consolation... over...?
ALLIE
My older sister got hit by a
car today. She‘s okay. It just
seems like my entire family is
going to die by automated vehicle.
TEDDY
Do you realize how pathetic you
sound right now?
Allie glares at him, ready to fight. She starts to stand,
reaches out towards Tennyson‘s bowl.
TEDDY
No, you don‘t get to flounce off
this time, McAllister. Listen.
You have a great life. A little
sheltered, sure, but you have so
many opportunities before you.
Instead of being mopey that your
parents died, stop and realize how
proud of you they probably are.
ALLIE
You have no right to-
TEDDY
Oh, I‘m not done. As for your
sister, if you love her so much,
what are you doing here?
Allie looks at her feet.
TEDDY
The fish can‘t save her, Allie. And
they sure as hell can‘t save you.
So go back there, say you‘re sorry,
and be there for your family.
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87
Allie stares at him, mouth open. She moves towards him.
ALLIE
Why do you need community service,
Teddy?
Teddy grabs Allie and kisses her, her hand still raised.
She fights it for a second, then gives in, slowly lowering
her hand. They part, but only by a few centimeters. The
tank shines blue behind them.
TEDDY
(whispering)
To get into Harvard‘s Marine Biology
Graduate program on scholarship.
Allie‘s eyes double in size. She kisses him again, hard.
TEDDY
My turn to ask a question.
He slides to the floor, kneeling next to Tennyson.
TEDDY
Who is this?
ALLIE
(laughing)
Oh. That‘s Tennyson, my-
TEDDY
Red finned pilot fish. I know.
They‘re rare.
Allie smiles as Teddy carefully picks up Tennyson‘s bowl,
so he and the fish are face to face.
TEDDY
Nice to meet you, Lord Alfred
Tennyson. Now, shall we accompany
said fair maiden to yonder hospital
to wish other, battered fair maiden
well?
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88
INT. BOSTON HOSPITAL HALLWAY - EVENING
Allie and Teddy walk down the hall, holding hands. They
stop just outside Aggie‘s hospital room when they hear ar-
guing inside. Allie leans against the wall.
HARPER (OS)
Well, I guess you‘ve got yourself
a babysitter, Agatha.
AGGIE (OS)
Don‘t be so cruel.
HARPER (OS)
(sarcastically)
Right, because that would be
undeserved.
AGGIE (OS)
Look. I know I hurt you by turning
down your money, but Samson and I want
to make it in the world, on our own.
HARPER (OS)
I don‘t get why.
INT. AGGIE‘S HOSPITAL ROOM
Aggie‘s propped up against a sea of pillows. Harper stands
by her bedside, fists clenched at her sides.
AGGIE
Because I don‘t want to be a charity
case to you. I don‘t want you to
only be nice to me because you‘re my
dead father‘s sister.
HARPER
Aggie, you know that‘s not true.
AGGIE
I already have to pay you back for Ag-
gie‘s
apartment. I don‘t want to owe you
more.
Harper sighs heavily, sinking into a seat by Aggie‘s bed.
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89
HARPER
You don‘t owe me. Your sister‘s future-
AGGIE
Oh, my little sister, the child prodigy.
INT. BOSTON HOSPITAL HALLWAY
Allie slides to the floor. Teddy kneels next to her.
HARPER (OS)
It‘s not like that! Aggie, don‘t be too
proud to accept help. You‘re making
her reject the dreams you never got
to have.
AGGIE (OS)
You‘re right I never got to have
them. Because I was too busy raising
a teenage kid!
ALLIE
I can‘t listen to this.
TEDDY
Allie, I am so...
ALLIE
It‘s okay. You should go. I‘ll be here
for awhile.
TEDDY
If you‘re sure.
Allie nods. Teddy wraps his arms around Allie. Samson walks
up, Monroe in his arms. Samson clears his throat.
SAMSON
Hey Al, who‘s this stunning fellow?
ALLIE
Oh. Um. Oh, yeah. This is
Teddy. He‘s my-
TEDDY
I work at the aquarium with
Allie.
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90
Teddy and Allie stare at each other, blushing.
ALLIE
I mean, he‘s-
TEDDY
We just made out at the aquarium
and haven‘t yet defined what we‘re
going to do with that.
SAMSON
Well. I appreciate your frankness.
I‘m Samson, Allie‘s brother in law.
And this is Monroe, Allie‘s nephew.
TEDDY
Hi, brother in law. Towering brother
in law.
Teddy stares awkwardly at his shoes. Samson grins.
Harper emerges from the hospital room, slightly tear
stained.
HARPER
She‘s all right. Kinda doped up on
whatever good stuff they gave her, but
she‘ll be fine.
Harper looks over at Allie- poignant glances exchanged.
HAPRER
She wants to talk to you, Allie.
ALLIE
But I...
HARPER
So help me child, I will channel your
father and stick you both in a corner.
ALLIE
Alright, alright.
INT. AGGIE‘S HOSPITAL ROOM
ALLIE
Hey.
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91
Stephanie Johnson AGGIE
Hey. Thanks for-
She notices the look on Allie‘s face: her mouth is drawn,
eyes lowered.
AGGIE
Allie. Ut-way‘s up-hay?
Allie bursts into tears.
ALLIE
Did you mean everything you
told Aunt Harper? Is that why-?
AGGIE
Oh, Allie. Shush. It‘s not
like being your second mom ruined
my life. It just meant I had to worry
about someone other than myself for
once. (pause) Clearly a lesson I
didn‘t learn well enough the first
time around.
ALLIE
But if being there for me meant you
having to give up writing-
AGGIE
I would do it again in a heartbeat.
Seriously.
ALLIE
Really?
AGGIE
Yeah. (pause) Allie, I‘m sorry I
gave you so much crap about baby
sitting Monroe.
ALLIE
Well, like Auntie said,
I guess you have a sitter now.
Aggie laughs an unattractive, half cry, half snort laugh
that ends in a snot bubble. Allie, laughing, reaches out
for a hug.
92
Stephanie Johnson AGGIE
I‘m not so sure I can hug right now.
They dissolve into laughter and head butt.
AGGIE
Ove-lay oo-yay.
ALLIE
Orever-fay.
A pause.
AGGIE
Hey. Al? Whose robe is that?
Allie blushes.
ALLIE
Oh. Um. My next door neighbor‘s.
Tennyson swims happily in his Tupperware, surrounded by
blue terry cloth.
93
Keirstin Yantis
Robot
94
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