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LIterary and Arts Journal published annually by CBU's Rose Deal School of Arts

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Page 1: Castings 2014

2014

Page 2: Castings 2014

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Page 3: Castings 2014

judges

editors

layout & design

advisors

Brendan Prawdzik Divya ChoudharyJana Travis Jeff GrossNick Pena Sandra DavisScott GeisVincent O’NeillWendy Sumner-Winter

Hannah EvonMadeline Faber

Sheridan Cross

Karen B. GolightlyNick Pena

printingCB Publishing and Solutionscover artAlexis Blum / Reflection: January 2013 Herbs Par-

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24 3:28 A.M. 26 Harvest27 The Carbon Cycle28 My Mother Raised Me in the Kitchen29 Lamentations Below30 This Senseless Murder of Crows33 Fell33 Lover’s Day34 Just a Toy35 Licorice36 Summer Rain37 A Fine Romance

6 A Gift of Nature8 Another Day in New York10 Fulfilled Home12 Half Empty13 Street View14 Onward15 Past the Bridge16 We Never Forget17 Day Surfer18 Water in Light19 Untitled20 The Cross Will Stand21 Water in Darkness

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40 Mike at Moe’s41 Picasso42 Wonder Woman43 Untitled44 Untitled45 Audrey46 Untitled47 Untitled48 Justin49 Untitled

52 8 Weeks to Sea59 Lifetime Policy64 Remember My Pain69 Burying Lee75 Soul Talk

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Alvin

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digital arts first place

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digital arts second place

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digital arts third place

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street view / Taylor Goode 1313

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onward / Alexis Blum

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Page 17: Castings 2014

past the bridge / Alexis Blum

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day surfer / Alvin Siow 17

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water in light / Kristian Faith DeRidder18

untitled / Lauren Browning

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untitled / Lauren Browning

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the cross will stand / Kristian Faith DeRidder20

Page 23: Castings 2014

water in darkness / Kristian Faith DeRidder

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Page 26: Castings 2014

by author’s name

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W ,

es.

y e

I’m just a toy.

A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

Everything I say is ignored.

My feelings and compassions are ignored.

I am used.

Used for play

.

24

3:28

a.m

.

It’s 3:28 a.m.,two strokes on the metal star til ignition. My toes crunch sleet beneath rubber heels,fingers conquering purchase on the manila filter.It’s cold; each breath comes out like sawdust,useless and dead.

Frank Fowler’s on the corner with ruined cuticles.He chews them like jerky strips, a habit he picked upfrom midnights burning up the freeway.I think he’s crazy, but my frame of reference is hazy.

It’s 3:48 a.m.We walk a couple miles together because he’s harmless.He tells me the story of the time he shot his wife.It was midnight, and he rode the elevator to the bottom floor,stepped out and remarked, “It’s cold.”

He tells me he took the filthy sidewalk to the end of his block today and hailed a cabbut the street was silent; so he walked two miles through Arcadia, took off his shoes and left them in a gap where a church wall met an archway.

Claire Rutland

poetry first place by author’s name

.

W ,

es.

y e

I’m just a toy.

A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

Everything I say is ignored.

My feelings and compassions are ignored.

I am used.

Used for play

.

25

He met Greta, a woman caped in newspaper furs who asked him if he’d seen her son.A fan of war movies, he strapped on a practiced smile. He told her he’d write and left his wallet at her feet.

Sometimes, he swallows snowflakes he finds in his pocket.He tells me today he walked backwards through a McDonald’s drive thru.He asked the woman in the speaker for two McDoubles and a cherry Coke,and when she said he needed a car to go through the drive thru,he walked to the window and smiled with his teeth until she stopped staring at him.“Like my wife used to,” he muses, and we walk off toward the river bed.He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it on a trash can lid.

It’s 4:23 a.m.His feet and mine leave prints on the concrete. He touches the ground, and his hands pull away sticky, uncomfortable and dark.

He tells me that yesterday, he spoke in neon colors, and every breath sounded like Grand Central Station.A police car stopped him from going into a 7/11 for Zebra Cakes and smokes.The officer, a balding wraith in sweating polyester, told him, “You’re making gestures in a parking lot, buddy.”The 7/11 flickered like 1950s television static.

“I’m an adult,” he tells me, running his hands over his knuckles until they feel like rosary beads.He walks off a few feet, and fishes in his pocket for snowflakes. He presses a lint wad beneath his tongue and doesn’t notice the difference.

It’s 4:38 a.m.

Page 27: Castings 2014

by author’s name

.

W ,

es.

y e

I’m just a toy.

A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

Everything I say is ignored.

My feelings and compassions are ignored.

I am used.

Used for play

.

25

He met Greta, a woman caped in newspaper furs who asked him if he’d seen her son.A fan of war movies, he strapped on a practiced smile. He told her he’d write and left his wallet at her feet.

Sometimes, he swallows snowflakes he finds in his pocket.He tells me today he walked backwards through a McDonald’s drive thru.He asked the woman in the speaker for two McDoubles and a cherry Coke,and when she said he needed a car to go through the drive thru,he walked to the window and smiled with his teeth until she stopped staring at him.“Like my wife used to,” he muses, and we walk off toward the river bed.He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it on a trash can lid.

It’s 4:23 a.m.His feet and mine leave prints on the concrete. He touches the ground, and his hands pull away sticky, uncomfortable and dark.

He tells me that yesterday, he spoke in neon colors, and every breath sounded like Grand Central Station.A police car stopped him from going into a 7/11 for Zebra Cakes and smokes.The officer, a balding wraith in sweating polyester, told him, “You’re making gestures in a parking lot, buddy.”The 7/11 flickered like 1950s television static.

“I’m an adult,” he tells me, running his hands over his knuckles until they feel like rosary beads.He walks off a few feet, and fishes in his pocket for snowflakes. He presses a lint wad beneath his tongue and doesn’t notice the difference.

It’s 4:38 a.m.

Page 28: Castings 2014

harvestNathaniel Celeski

26

The salty sweat beads on my skin, Swaying with the motion of the humid air. Briefed on my mission, I waited, standing guardto defend what was ours.Dad’s soldier, armed and ready for battle.

Moments after settling into my camouflaged hideout, I spotted the predator of our treasure. It had been teasing Dad’s hard work all summer. Its wings flapping and flailing, like a free-falling plane, it dove toward the earth, landing on its post. It perched. Its eyes gazed all around, in search of roundest, reddest, and biggest.

Staying hidden from the bulging eyes of my target, I steadied my breath.Three shots, three sounds, and three rounds. I’ll never forget. Its wing clipped, its heart pierced, its last breath.The thief, sentenced to death by my hand.The soldier I had become, now transformed into the executioner of the garden pests.

Screaming, I ran to Dad.“I killed it, I killed it!”His proud smirk vanished when he saw my sorrow;my first kill, my last.

poetry second place

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the carbon

cycleJessica Love poetry

third placeAs we bottle water, we bottle life,capturing our nature within plastic.With renewable promises of a green globe, we convince ourselves to tame nature.Dasani and Ozark replace the memories of maples and oaks as clear canteens stream off shelves.Freedom has withered while purified lifeis preserved in a bottle.Yet life contained in a bottlewill drown in a footprint.

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W ,

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I’m just a toy.

A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

Everything I say is ignored.

My feelings and compassions are ignored.

I am used.

Used for play

.

my mother raised me in the kitchen

Jessica Love

28

My mother swaddled me in Saran wrap.She taught me to laugh in Tupperware and loved me in a Ziploc.

She hugged me with aluminum foil armsand kissed me with waxed paper lips.

Her hands struck me in the iceboxand wiped my tears at room temperature.

Her voice whispered to me in the shake of the saltand screamed at me in the blades of the blender.

She tucked me away with the spoonsand found me in the dripping water of the sink.

She listened to me with measuring cups and ignored me with a meat tenderizer.

My mother raised me in the kitchen.She said good-bye with the sugar bowland left me to rot in the trash can.

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.

W ,

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y e

I’m just a toy.

A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

Everything I say is ignored.

My feelings and compassions are ignored.

I am used.

Used for play

.

lamentations belowLarshay Watson

29

The thrust cuffed my sensesinto a ball of pride.I cried for release.Muscles tightening my urgefor these pangs to cease.Crawling cramps crumbledmy will,and my mind mingledbetween thoughts of dignityor letting it all go.Maybe they won’t know.Surely it will lurk and never leave,and a wind breakeris no title I wish to achieve.Perhaps, I can hold the howls of my bowelsand seek the virtue of patience.Even so, I prayThat no onePullsMy finger.

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this senseless murder of crows Jordan Smith

30

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violetall soar in the skyin bars of equal length.No one ever asks whyor how they stay aboveso equal and beautiful in the sky.They look down on us in shame,being the furthest thing from Godby giving someone else the blame.

Equal. Free. Hollow words abandoned at sea.Don’t spread these lies to me.My future is more than just a flurry of dreams.I am the caged bird that sings.How come two men can’t love one another,but a man and woman can cheat and suffer?How come I can’t call a black man my brother?Is it the white pigment of my skin?Is it the “sin” I live in?Or is it just the way the world is and has always been?No.

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31

So all my ignorant brethren may know,I reject, rebuke, repel, refuse the status quo.Where Asians are assumed to know.And blacks are dumb and hungand are always carrying drugs and a gun.

Where the gays are assumed to die from AIDSwhile Mexicans are lazy in spades,despite working in the hot sun for daysfor little or no changeWhere the disabled are less than humanAnd where to be special you must win several MTV Moon Menor sing a song, which all can sing along, even if the same song sung promotes misogyny, rape, and all that is wrong.Where the girl wearing the burqa is a threatbecause someone 7,000 miles away she never metboarded that jumbo jeton that one fateful September day.

Retard. Nigger. Fag. Spic. Chink.Is this what people really think? If they think, don’t they say?

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32

If they say, don’t they mean?If this is what truly lies at the heart of the scene, I don’t want to be an American. I’d rather be rotting in a ditch,pecked to death by a murder of crows,til you can’t recognize my facedue to the lack of my nose.

Or even end it all, like my kinwho weren’t able to bear the torture and ridicule of the world we live in.

So now by a rope, they hang amongst their clothes,not leaving a note,so nobody knows.

Perhaps I want to be six feet underground,where summertime sadness is not abound,where I’m never lost but always found,where your damning comments are not loudbecause I won’t be able to hear one goddamn sound.

So that one day my soul may float up high,and be truly free when I finally die,like a beautiful, vibrant rainbow in the sky.

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33

FellMadeline Faber

Sheets had fallen offShoulder blades like little wingsNo, this time I’ll stay

Lover’s DayNatalie Zaldivar

barefoot eyesnaked and unyielding

skin against skin and my ribcage expands

butterflies flooding my gut and wriggling, antennas prodding the back of my throat.drowning; choking on a wall of fluttering, unfaltering bashfulness

i quiver when i think of you.waves of unfamiliar solace-lungs filled to the brim with fluid pleaseand I fallafraid and eyes-closedinto a love that swallows me whole.

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just a toySara Swisher

I’m just a toy.A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.Everything I say is ignored.My feelings and compassions are ignored.I am used.Used for playWhen the boys are done.They put me away.I’m not a real person.I’m just a toy you see.So it’s okay when boys use me.

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licoriceRosemary Barnes

35

My mother’s name is Mary. Mara, in Hebrew, meaning “bitter,” like licorice. Not that sweet, red Swizzler-kind,But the old-fashioned, black, twisted rope.

Dark and puzzling,Hard to eat, Turned my tongue black,And stuck in my teeth.

That licorice.

The root--hard, fibrous and snarled;We suffered early.

The ancient, medicinal herb;We became later.

The unexpected sweetness in candy;We are now.

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W ,

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I’m just a toy.

A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

Everything I say is ignored.

My feelings and compassions are ignored.

I am used.

Used for play

.

36

summer rainLaDarrious Dortch

The rains of summer seldom come foreseen.The clouds eclipse the sun, reflecting raysacross the sky, and in this light, both trueand false, condensed cool comes charging down.

The droplets break upon my head, their weightcollecting on my shoulders, running deepinside the creases of my mind untilthe channels overflow behind my eyes.

The rain subsides, the heat revives, and beamsrebound off puddles freshly lain, and Iam slick with pain, regret, and anger bornof burning sky and clouds now flown away.

Without myself, the world continues on.Within my flooding body, rain still falls.

Page 39: Castings 2014

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W ,

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I’m just a toy.

A stringy haired, twinkled eyed, and wooden toy.

Everything I say is ignored.

My feelings and compassions are ignored.

I am used.

Used for play

.

37

a fine romance Claire Rutland

I think about Celia, but not that often.Only when I watch them slice mangoes in the market for samples.White people don’t know the taste of mangoes.They see their color and think it makes them specialto have a few filling their fruit bowl. Cheap, exotic ornaments; economical conversation pieces.Celia liked her mango with honey, diced in a clay bowl.She didn’t like kiwi or papaya or banana,only mangoes, because Celia was an artist, a woman of aesthetics.She appreciated textures.Most people don’t; they like to touch thingsbut it’s the symbol, not the substance. Breasts, dollar bills, mangoes.Celia liked to touch beauty.She liked the way my fingers pressed piano keys in time with an Ella Fitzgerald song on the radio. She liked my quiet symphony of potential.She hated my face, the Roman nose, the smile drawn in crooked formlike a child’s finger painting.She couldn’t stand it, so she left.I think about Celia when they chop mangoes in the market,when people crowd around and grapple for slices.They swallow too fast to appreciate the texture,the beauty of the taste and of Ella Fitzgeraldcrooning from the loudspeakers.

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mike at moes / Johnnie Sue Huddleston

fine arts first place

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picasso / Johnnie Sue Huddleston

fine arts second place

41

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wonder woman / Johnnie Sue Huddleston

fine arts third place

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untitled / Alexis Blum43

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untitled / Alexis Blum

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audrey / Sheridan Cross

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un

tit

le

d

/

Alex

is Bl

um

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untitled / Alexis Blum47

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Justin / Lorin Raines

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untitled / Alexis Blum49

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weeks to

sea8Jessica Love

prose first place

52

Page 55: Castings 2014

“She was in the bathtub for over an hour last night, just sitting in the water. And you think that is normal?” Jill watched Scott as the question left his mouth, and she saw the unmistakable challenge behind his chosen words: You don’t even know your own daughter. He is in the same boat as me, Jill thought, stuck in this small office with this mouse-faced therapist, Dr. Sally Alexander. Lydia, their thirteen year old daughter, for the past three weeks, had been saying that she is a mermaid. She believed that she is a siren from the deep sea, lost from her real home with her fish-tailed family and must find a way to be reunited with her loved ones. From the minds of children, Jill thought. I refuse to say that the mermaid business is anything more than a phase, a childish phase. But in this office, at the third meeting with the expensive Dr. Sally, Scott contin-ued to insist that it is not normal. Jill folded her arms and as she was about to retort to Scott’s challenge, Dr. Sally cleared her throat. “Scott, we are trying to come to a common understand-ing to help Lydia. Not hurt your wife,” Dr. Sally said and made a note on her legal pad. No doubt a note about our inept ability to communicate like adults, Jill thought. Scott leaned back into the couch, not saying a word, accepting the rebuke. “Jill only remarked that Lydia started to take longer baths. Scott, do you think that ties into her mermaid belief ?” “I don’t think it is normal for a thirteen year old to spend over an hour in the bath every night.” He fidgeted with his hands. His fingers were calloused from his years working in carpentry. He owned his own business, making custom tables and chairs. The dead skin on his thumb was starting to fall off, revealing new undamaged skin underneath.

“And, yeah, I think she could be using the bath as a mer-maid thing.” “Have you spoken to Lydia about the baths? At our last meeting you two said that you were going to have a family talk about Lydia’s belief. Did you?” Dr. Sally asked. Scott looked to Jill and waited. “We tried,” Jill said. Dr. Sally nodded. “We sat her down one night after dinner and asked her about the strange things she’s been doing. Like the extra salt on everything she eats.” “And the really long baths,” Scott interrupted. Jill bit the inside of her lip. “All the things, like that, we noticed she’s started to do recently. And when we asked her why she was acting strange, she gave us this story about how she was separated from her fish parents and they had turned her human to protect her.” Jill folded her hands in her lap. “That’s all she would say. She had this whole story planned. Like she knew we would be asking detailed ques-tions. What kid does that? It’s got to be some game, right?” Scott leaned forward in the couch and rested his head in his hands, breathing through the tight spaces between his fingers. Jill glanced over at him and noticed the sawdust on his shirt sleeve. He came straight here from his workshop, Jill thought. At least I cleaned up before being examined. Jill crossed her legs, her knees kicking the maroon skirt she was wearing. “Well, she’s our kid,” Scott said lifting his head, “and she has a great imagination.” “Jill, do you believe that Lydia would have some rea-son to pretend to be a mermaid? She’s created this story about abandonment. Do you think that there is any truth in that?” Dr. Sally raised her eyebrows. “What kind of question is that? Are you trying to say

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that I have abandoned my daughter? That’s ridiculous. I’ve given her everything she’s needed. Food, shelter, care.” Jill clenched her teeth and leaned back against the couch. “Care? You’ve done a great job caring for her, Jill. All the clothes and things you buy her. When was the last time you actually talked to her?” Scott straightened in his seat and looked at Jill. Jill tasted blood; she had peeled the skin off her inner lip while Scott spoke. He’s angry, Jill thought. It’s the most I’ve seen him show emotion in all our fourteen years of marriage. His eyes stared at Jill, but they weren’t focused on her. Scott licked his lips and then fell back into his seat. Dr. Sally watched them both as the ring of Scott’s words faded from the air. “It’s important to say that you both agreed to come here three weeks ago for the first session because you were wor-ried about your daughter. Yes?” Dr. Sally nodded and ges-tured with her hands to Scott and Jill. “This is our second session together, my third with your family, including the one I had with Lydia last week. There are some things that you two need to work out as a couple in your marriage. But for these meetings the focus is on Lydia. For the next session, I want you both to talk to Lydia separately and go along with her belief.” Jill leaned down and grabbed her purse from the floor while Scott stood. “Thank you for sharing what you shared today,” Dr. Sal-ly said, “and I will see you both on April 30th.” *****

“Your parents tell me that you have been pretending you are a mermaid,” the therapist said to Lydia after intro

ducing herself as Dr. Sally and offering her a seat on the brown leather couch. The cushions were indented leaving perfect impressions of imperfect people. Lydia sat down in the far right seat of the couch, adjacent to Dr. Sally’s straight-back chair. Her wavy brown hair fell over her shoulders as she looked around the room. Behind Dr. Sal-ly’s chair on the wall there were documents preserved in glass that proclaimed her educated and official. Lydia’s parents were outside the door and sent her into this room. Her dad gave her a hug and whispered to just be herself. While her mom gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and seemed it was more for herself than Lydia. Still, it was the most attention she had received from either of them in weeks. The therapist watched Lydia, waiting for the answer she knew Lydia was going to give. “No,” Lydia said. “Really?” Dr. Sally leaned in her chair as if hoping that the sessions would end, that she had by all her professional education had cured another family’s problems by a shake of her hand. “I haven’t been pretending. I am a mermaid.” Dr. Sally nodded and wrote a note in her legal pad. Lydia watched her, taking in her clothes. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, slicked down to where there was not a stray hair out of place. She was wearing a loose, blue blouse and gray pants, and everything matched, all the way down to the black pointed-toe heels peeking out from the hem of her pants. Dr. Sally doesn’t wear the same clothes that my mom does, Lydia thought. My mom al-ways wears a dress. Lydia’s mom was a teacher at a middle school; she spent her days with fifth graders and she knew them better than she knew her own daughter. “Well, Lydia, how are you on land if you are a mermaid? I thought mermaids lived in water and had a fin, right?”

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“I was separated from my family when I was a baby. A ship caught me. To protect me, my parents made me forget about who I really was and changed my fin to legs. I just now remembered. They must have known that one day I would want to be with them again.” Lydia chewed on the inside of her lip. She had told this same story to her parents, and they had hadn’t believed her. Her mom laughed, and her dad smiled a sympathetic smile but didn’t say a word. Lydia watched the therapist sitting across from her, and waited to see what she would say. “Lydia, that’s amazing. You must feel loved to have a family who would protect you like that,” Dr. Sally said and Lydia straightened in her seat. She believes me, Lydia thought. “But what about your parents here, Jill and Scott? Will you not miss them when you return to the sea? They have raised you.” “They are like my foster parents. They won’t miss me.” Lydia crossed her ankles. “But how can you be sure?” Dr. Sally asked. Lydia’s feet were sweating in her shoes. She hated wear-ing shoes. Her mom made her wear socks in the house. She says it is because the hardwood floors are cold, Lyd-ia thought. But Lydia knows it’s because with socked feet her mom doesn’t hear her walk and can pretend she’s not there. Dr. Sally glanced to her right at the table beside her chair, and then folded her hands in her lap. She waited for Lydia to respond and when Lydia didn’t, she began to speak. “Lydia, you have an amazing imagination,” Dr. Sally be-gan. There’s the disbelief, Lydia thought. “I have a question about your childhood. Is that okay?”Lydia nodded. “When you were little, did you ever play games with your

parents?” “With my dad.” “What about your mom?” Lydia shook her head. “Why not?” “She was always busy with her school work.” Lydia folded her arms. “Okay.” Dr. Sally scratched her pen across the legal pad. “What games did you play with your dad?” “We would draw pictures and have contests to see whose was better.” “Who would win?” Dr. Sally smiled. “I would.” Lydia chewed on her lip. Her dad taught her to swim at the community pool the summer she turned seven. It was just the two of them on an early Saturday morning. She remembered the cold water and the sour taste of the chlorine, and leaving early after her dad got a call from her mom, she thought. “Lydia, do you think that your mom and dad love you?” Dr. Sally asked. “My dad.” “What about your mom? Do you think that she loves you?” After they got home from the pool, her mom and dad started fighting. Her mom yelled at her dad, because she didn’t want her dad to take Lydia to the pool, because she needed him home. Lydia saw her dad sitting in a chair with his head in his hands as her mom paced in front of him shouting. Then she ran to the bathroom and turned all the faucets on high to drown out her mom’s voice, so she couldn’t hear her mom say her name. “I don’t know,” Lydia said. “Lydia, why a mermaid?” Dr. Sally asked and Lydia looked at her eyes.

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“Because mermaids make people fall in love with them. They sing to sailors on the sea and make them love them.” Maybe my parents will love me, Lydia thought.Dr. Sally scratched a note on her pad and then glanced to her right. “That’s all the time we have for today, Lydia. Thank you for talking to me. I have some homework for you; it’s not like school homework.” She smiled. “Before the next time we meet I want you to try to play a game with your mom. Maybe draw a picture with her. Do you think you could do that?” Lydia nodded. If her mom would try too, she thought. Lydia stood up from her seat. “I’ll see you soon. Okay? Your parents are just outside the door,” Dr. Sally said smiling. *****

“Scott, where’s Jill?” Dr. Sally asked, bringing Scott’s at-tention away from his hands. “She’s not coming today. But I wanted to come anyway. Is that okay?” Scott licked his lips, the spit burning the chapped skin. “That’s fine. So, what has happened since our last meet-ing?” ***** Jill stood in the kitchen gripping a blank piece of paper in her hand, while Scott paced across the floor. “Why won’t you just sit down with her for five minutes and just play the game?” Scott said. Jill took a deep breath and folded her arms. “Scott, I don’t have time for her silly games. I cooked dinner, and now I need to go work on things for school.”

Scott ran his hands through his hair. She’s not even try-ing, he thought. “Jill, please, just.” “What Scott? What more can I do? I cooked food and I keep this house clean for the both of you,” Jill interrupted. Scott stopped pacing and turned to Jill. “You come home every day, go to your little office and fix goodie bags for your students. You don’t even know your daughter. She’s been an ‘A’ student since kindergarten. Did you know that? How about how she asks for a dog every year for Christmas on her wish list? That’s right, she has a wish list! Which you never see because you just buy her the right clothes that she needs and don’t give a damn about what she wants.” Scott walked to the counter and began pulling open drawers. He found the drawer he was looking for and grabbed a pen. “Just take two minutes and at least try to spend time with your daughter.” He held the pen out to Jill. Jill stared at Scott. “You’ve got some blood on your hand.” He looked down at his hand that was holding the pen and saw a small cut across his knuckles. A small pool of blood was starting to run between the cracks of his fingers. I must have nicked it looking for the pen, he thought. He looked up at Jill, her arms hung by her side with the blank paper still clenched in her fist. “I have tried, Scott.” Jill swallowed. “And I’m done trying.”Scott watched her leave the kitchen throwing the wrinkled paper in the trash can on her way out. Glancing down at his hand, Scott went to the sink and turned on the faucet. The cut stung as the cold water washed over his hand. *****

“I think Jill wants a divorce,” Scott said leaning back into

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the soft cushion of the couch. “Do you?” “I want to do what’s best for Lydia. God knows we’ve already ruined her childhood to the point where she thinks the only way to get our attention is to pretend to be a mer-maid.” Scott rubbed his eyes. The nights were hard; he was losing sleep because of all the stress. Lydia has stopped outright admitting that she’s a mermaid, but still will not really talk to them. Then there were the increasing fights with Jill. “Do you really think that you’ve ruined her life?” “I don’t know.” Scott began to pull at the flap of dead skin on his finger. “I mean she’s thirteen. Even though she’s young, at thirteen you’ve already decided some things. What if she’s decided that she hates us and we’ve ruined her childhood?” Dr. Sally set her legal pad on the table beside her chair as if she were disarming her shield. “Scott, do you know what your daughter told me?” She asked and watched Scott for a moment. “She hardly told me anything. I know most of what I know from the sessions with you and Jill. It’s what she didn’t say that is important. She feels neglected. And unloved. But she’s a child, and she doesn’t understand little shows of affection. Yes, she is thirteen and she has her own opinions, but there is still time to work your way into her life.” “What do I do?” Scott said rubbing his face, the cal-loused skin scratching his cheek. “I can’t tell you what to do, Scott. You need to decide what is important to you. It may be time to have a serious relationship conversation with your wife. You both have to be on the same page, and if not, it’s better for Lydia if at least one of her parents pays attention to her.”Scott’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the screen, and saw that it was Jill calling. Probably worried

about being home alone with Lydia, Scott thought. His wife was afraid of her own daughter. “Think about it, Scott, and we can talk things over at the next meeting.” ***** This was the sixth week that her family had been seeing Dr. Sally, and it was Lydia’s third session with her. During the sessions while the therapist nodded and encouraged Lydia to tell stories about her past, what she got for her fifth birthday and did she know how to ride a bike, Lydia had been analyzing Dr. Sally herself. Despite her tailored pants and perfectly hair-sprayed hair, she noticed that while her body may have been turned toward Lydia, her eyes occa-sionally flickered to the table beside her chair, where at the beginning of each session she placed her phone, hiding it behind a tissue box. And while she nodded to Lydia’s cries, her right hand absentmindedly searched for the left and felt an empty ring finger. Dr. Sally watched Lydia, waiting to see if the hours spent in this room have yielded a success. Lydia crossed her legs; the jeans her mom made her wear stretched in the thigh as she moved. I’m not that skinny, despite what my mom thinks, Lydia thought. “Have you found a way to return to the sea, yet?” Dr. Sal-ly asked. Lydia knew that her parents had come to more sessions than she, and she knew that they were talking about getting a divorce. Lydia could hear them fighting at night. Her dad talked to her in whispers one night, saying he loved her and would never leave her. She had dropped the mermaid thing in light of all that had happened. “I think my parents are getting a divorce because of me. I ruined their life.” Lydia said. “Do you think you’ve done something wrong, Lydia?” “I should have just left them alone. And not started pre-

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tending I was a mermaid. Maybe then things would have stayed the same as they were.” Lydia rubbed her eyes. “I hear them saying my name when they fight.” “Lydia, your parents love you. Yes, your parents are get-ting a divorce, but it’s not because of you. They’re adults who have their own problems. So don’t think for one sec-ond that you’ve ruined their life, okay?” Dr. Sally smiled.Lydia nodded pulling at the hair tie on her wrist. She al-ways wore one, even though she never put her hair in a ponytail. Mom says I look prettier with my hair down, she thought. “I just wish my mom would talk to me. I feel like she doesn’t even want me around. She’s so mean to my dad, and I don’t want her to hurt him anymore. But I still want her to love me.” Lydia chewed the inside of her lip, acci-dently biting the skin and drawing a tiny bit of blood. “You’re young, Lydia,” Dr. Sally began, “but you’re smart and mature for your age. Talk to your mom. Tell her Tell her how you feel. And talk to your dad, too.” Lydia nodded and grabbed a tissue from the boxnext to her. She dabbed it at her lip and then rubbed her eyes. The tears and blood mingled together, weakening the cheap tissue. ***** Scott watched his daughter wade into the water from the beach. The white sand mixed with the saw dust on his worn shoes. Jill couldn’t handle the stress and after fourteen years of marriage; she filed for divorce last week. She packed her things and moved out. Scott begged her to think about it and go to counseling with him, but she re-fused, saying the counseling wasn’t helping with Lydia. Jill blames me for everything, and doesn’t take responsibility for anything, Scott thought. Rather than keeping Lydia at home with everything going on, he decided to take her

to the beach. They had met with Dr. Sally the day before and Scott got a silent nod from the doctor. It’s been eight weeks since they’ve been seeing Dr. Sally. Lydia is doing great, despite the stress of her mom leaving, Scott thought. He watched her walking farther out, and for a moment he held his breath, but then she stopped knee-deep in the water. Lydia felt the lukewarm water wash up around her knees. Her toes were buried in the wet sand, and her hands dangled at her side with the tips of her fingers, hovering just above the water. As a small wave rolled towards her, she bent down and scooped a handful of water. When the water drained out of her hand, she smiled. Scott saw Lydia walking back to the beach. When she reached the sand, she slipped on her sandals. As she got closer he could see her turquoise toenails peeking through the weaving. She was grinning as she gave him a hug. “Thanks, Dad. For everything.” Scott hugged her back. He was happy, despite the mess of the divorce. I just wished Lydia could’ve had a better mom, he thought. The night Jill left, Scott found Lydia collecting all her socks in a bag, and when he asked what she was doing she just said she hated socks. The next day Scott bought her the sandals.

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lifetimep o l i c y

Janara Harris

prose second place

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“One day you’re going to wake up and wish he was here, just so you could rub his feet one more time.” An old lecture from Mama flickered through my head like an old movie, crackling and blurry. I wiped tears and snot from my face with the sleeve of my sweater. Dammit, I thought, that’s all I do lately is cry. It was probably because I was leaving my husband at the hospital for yet another night. That brain tumor was a little more persistent than the doc-tors had hoped. A blinking light on my dashboard indi-cated that my gas was low. There was a station up ahead where I could top off. I pulled onto the parking lot, careful to avoid nails and puddles of broken glass. Before I could turn it off, there was another light from the car telling me that the oil needed changing. Before my husband got sick, I didn’t have to do any of this mess. Who the hell told him he could get sick and leave all the work to me? I walked into the gas station and waited to be acknowledged by the clerk. “Can I help you, ma’am?” The young man looked up from his cell phone. “Yes I want to get $35 on 2.” I eyed the variety of boxes behind him. “And give me a pack of cigarettes.” He stared at me with a puzzled expression, trying to follow my eyes to the right box. “Um, are you going to tell me which ones?” My face burned with embarrassment. I didn’t smoke, never had, but right about now I needed a damn cigarette. “You have any suggestions,” I asked. “Well Newports are for crack heads, so maybe Virginia Slims? Chicks like them.” I put my hand up to stop him from going any further. “No. I need something strong, not cute.” He turned around and picked up a box of Marlboros.

“How about these?” I glanced down at the green and white box then back up to him.“Okay, well those then. Are they going to taste nasty? ” The clerk chuckled under his breath.“You can get them with menthol to make it a little smoother, but since you’re just starting, try the Menthol Lights first.” “Okay then. Give me the Menthol Lights.” I paid for the gas and cigarettes and retreated back to my car. The cold, misty air stung my face and hands as I pumped. Once fin-ished, I hurried back into the safety of my car and cranked it up. I fumbled around looking for the box of cigarettes. Clumsily, I managed to pull one out and put it to my mouth with jittery hands. What am I doing, I thought, I don’t even own a fucking lighter. A loud sob tore through my gut all the way up to my throat and escaped my mouth with long hot breaths. After a few minutes, I could not see where I was anymore, my despair hidden behind foggy glass. This was the first time I had to do everything all by myself. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could support three children and pay all the bills. I just wanted my hus-band to be healthy again, and I wanted our old life back. I needed a miracle. After all, He’d stepped in before. Some-how He was able to decipher between the gunk of sadness and tears and answer me. I must have been praying harder that summer than I thought. ******

I was 10 when Daddy had his accident. I remember be-cause Mama came to my school and had to pull me from my elementary graduation. The ceremony hadn’t even started before they called my name over the intercom. She was waiting in the office for me.

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“Is Daddy dead?” I stared up at Mama, scared to hear her answer. Her large brown eyes searched my face as if she didn’t know where the voice came from. “No! He had a really bad accident. Why would you say that?” I put my head down. It wasn’t my fault that I expected the worst. Daddy was always letting his sugar get out of control and having “episodes” where he would completely lose his mind. I was afraid that one day those episodes would go too far, and I wouldn’t have a Daddy anymore. When we got to the hospital they told Mama that his blood sugar was so low that he blacked out while driving. No one could tell her what he crashed into, but whatever it was broke his hip and two of his ribs. We were allowed to see him after they “cleaned up the mess,” but there wasn’t anything clean about him to me. My father laid on a hard plastic board with his clothes cut down the middle. His chestnut skin was covered with bruises and goose bumps. He had a neck brace on and his forehead was caked with dried blood. People in green suits ran around like wild chickens speaking some language unknown to Mama and me. The freezing room combined with the rusty smell of blood made me want to leave immediately. I sat in the lob-by and waited until all the chaos was over. When Daddy came home from the hospital, everything changed. Our home no longer held the scent of slow-cooked pot roast with potatoes and carrots. Laughter and horseplay didn’t trickle down the halls or make the windows vibrate anymore. The air had become thick and stuffy with Mama’s cigarette smoke and the only time I could find Mama in her garden was when she needed to escape for a smoke break. I dreaded the look of embar-rassment on Daddy’s face when he had to be helped

to the bathroom. Looking back now, I realize bones weren’t the only thing broken about him. He couldn’t be the breadwinner from his side of the bed and that probably hurt. So I prayed every night, because I hated going to sleep without having seen just one smile from his face. When his kidneys began to fail two months later because of his diabetes, I figured it was time for me to give up on that.

****** Our next door neighbor stood in the doorway, her eye-brows furrowed with concern. Her name was Lucinda. She and Mama were good friends, but lately my mother hadn’t had time to see anybody. There was something dif-ferent about her; I just couldn’t tell what it was yet. I stood on the tip of my toes, peering over Mama’s shoulder, try-ing to figure it out. “Hey, Lucy. How are you?” Mama forced a smile, block-ing the entrance to our house with her hands on her wide hips. Lucinda’s eyes surveyed our yard and front porch like there was a vermin crawling around only she could see. “Uh, well, I was going to ask you the same thing.” She tried to lean in and take a peek but was met with Mama’s face in hers. “Is everything okay, Rene?” Lucinda waited for Mama to reply. My mother knew the house looked deserted, and I did too. Without Daddy up and about, the grass hadn’t been cut in forever and the bushes had grown tired of their beds and started inching up the dusty columns. “No, as a matter of fact, everything is not okay. David is very sick and it’s time for him to eat, so—“ Lucinda’s eyes widened with concern. “Sick? Let me help!”

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Mama shook her head. “No, I doubt there’s anything you can do. The doctor said it probably won’t be much longer if he doesn’t get a transplant.” I snapped my neck at her and glared as she blinked away tears. That was my first time hearing the news. “Don’t cry.” Lucinda consoled my mother. “Let me help him. Someone helped me when I needed it the most, and now I feel obligated to share this gift.” Then I remembered. She had been suffering of stomach cancer just months before. Mama and I brought her a small care basket to the hospital where she was ad-mitted. Her already slim frame was 30 pounds lighter and her beautiful thick hair was thinned to the scalp. Standing at my doorstep was a whole other person. I had never seen her black hair so shiny or her body so voluptuous. What kind of medicine was she taking? Whatever magic potion or Voodoo she was into, I wanted it for Daddy. “Are you going to let me in, Rene?” Lucinda squeezed my mother’s hand. Mama unblocked the doorway and led our neighbor down the pungent hallway to my parents’ room. My fa-ther was sound asleep with the covers pulled to his chin. I flicked the light switch on, and he instantly woke up. “The hell? Turn it off !” I ignored his angry command. “Ms. Lucy’s here to see you, Daddy. She said she can help you get better.” I pulled the covers down from his chin exposing his bare chest. He growled and swung his feet over the side of the bed, prob-ably getting ready to hit me for waking him.When he tried to lift himself, his knees buckled and he tumbled down right in front of my feet. I watched in disbelief, frozen where I stood. Mama launched forward to help Daddy up, but before she could reach him, Lucinda was already lifting him back into his spot. My parents and I marveled

at her strength. “David, please let me help you.” She pleaded with her eyes. “How’re you going to help me? I’m dying!” “I’ll just whisper a few words in your ear and you’ll see the rest.” Lucinda stood across from my father with hershoulders pushed all the way back. He squinted his eyes at her, welcoming doubt into the room. “Okay. Fine,” he agreed more out of kindness than be-lief, just like he did whenever the pastor called to pray over the phone. There was an uncomfortable silence before Lu-cinda asked Mama and me to step out. I marched into the kitchen behind my mother, regretful that Mama had even let the lady in. A few minutes later, our quiet dinner mak-ing was shoved aside by deep moans and sniffling. I left Mama in the kitchen peering after me and headed back to the hallway for an explanation. I could hear snot being sucked up between shallow breaths; Daddy was crying. I couldn’t hear what Lucinda was saying, only her whispers feathering against the bedroom door. I looked down to see a warm light pouring from under the door. The heat saturated my toes like hot concrete in the sun. Whatever was going on in that room was powerful and unnatural. I looked back at Mama only to find that she had returned to mashing potatoes. I stepped back from the door and retreated upstairs to the sanctuary of my own bedroom, not wanting to be around whenever Ms. Lucy came out. I woke up the next morning staring at the underside of my comforter. The light on the other side was bright enough that I could make out the stuffing inside. I headed downstairs to see if Daddy was ready for me to massage his feet, but the bed was empty. I expected Mama’s side to be but not his. I surveyed the area surrounding his side

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and assumed he was outdoors, because his only pair of sneakers was missing. “Mama! Daddy! You out here?” I stood on the back porch with my hands shading me from the blazing sun. “I’m in the front, baby.” Daddy’s voice sounded like my favorite song coming from around the side of the house. I sprinted towards the front to convince myself I wasn’t dreaming. I discovered him weeding the flowerbeds. From the look of the manicured lawn and swept porch, he’d been busy for a while. His biceps flexed as he labored in the bushes and when he stood to beckon me to him, his shoulders were no longer slumped. I could have been mistaken, but his skin was glowing from the inside out. I hugged my father as tight as I could, and for the first time in a long time didn’t worry about hurting him. “It’s about time you woke up,” his eyes crinkled in the corners as he spoke. “I know. Where’s Mama?” I looked around the rest of the yard for her. “She’s next door on the porch with Lucy,” Daddy re-plied. “Oh,” I let go of him and sat down to watch him work. I looked over towards Ms. Lucy’s house and waved to Mama and her friend. The little bungalow looked almost like a perfectly kept dollhouse. “What did Ms. Lucy do last night, Daddy?” I asked, still staring next door. “She gave us a once in a lifetime gift that we’ll probably never get again.” “What kind of gift?” He glanced up from his yard work before answering me, “Time.” I didn’t really know what he meant, but I had my father-back, and it was because of whatever Ms. Lucy had whis-

pered to him. I got up from the porch and began helping him pull up weeds from the flowerbed. “Daddy, do you feel good enough to cook dinner?” I asked.“What do you want me to cook?” He wiped hissweat with his forearm. I cheesed my best Daddy’s Girl smile. “Can wehave pot roast?” ******

An ear-piercing tap on my window startled meawake. It was the clerk from earlier. “You okay in there, ma’am? You’ve been outhere over an hour.” His voice was muffled behind the glass. I let my window down and forced a smile. “Yes. I’m fine.” “You sure you don’t need my help for anything?” His eyes were full of concern as he leaned down a little closer to my face. A thought crossed my mind and it was a long shot, but I dared to anyway. “Can you help my husband? He’s sick.” The baffled ex-pression on his face made me instantly regret my question. “Excuse me?” The familiar heat of embarrassment warmed my cheeks. I was searching for the next set of words to say when something shiny caught my attention. There was a lighter poking out of his shirt pocket. “Oh, never mind. Can I use that for a second?” I ges-tured toward the lighter. “Yeah, sure. You know it’d be a miracle if you could ever quit those things.” The clerk nodded at the cigarette as I pulled on it for dear life. I placed the lighter in his palm before responding. “A miracle is the last thing I’m expecting.”

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Larshay Watson

prose third place

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rememberm

ypain

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“Roy! Roy! Where are you?” my mother called. “I’m here,” I replied. “Where’ve you been? I missed you.” I sat next to my mother as she lay in the hospitalbed. Goosebumps emerged from my skin from the lack of heat in the room. I can still remember the buzzing of the florescent lights above us and the “old people” smell that filled the entire floor. When I turned to the open door, elderly patients were being rushed to other rooms with ox-ygen masks over their faces. I closed my eyes and shook my head slowly when I saw them flash by. I turned to her. Her fragile pale hands couldn’t hold on to mine like they could before. The majority of her gray hair thinned out and she wouldn’t eat normally. Her hollow eyes occasion-al- ly opened and circled the room but not with much life in them. The green in her irises turned a dark gray over the course of her illness. Perhaps it was spreading fast. Roy isn’t even my name, but I was used to her getting it wrong now. “I missed you too.” I held her hand tighter. “Who’re you?” My body shook whenever she asked me that. Thatquestion would make my heart race and a pain would en-ter my chest. I hoped she would just remember my name. I was the only one that took care of her. How could she forget me? I thought. I pushed my chair closer to the bed. “It’s me, Tristen. I’m your son,” I said. “Oh?!” she nodded her head slowly. Her gazed turned from me to the TV diagonally in front of the bed close to the ceiling. “How old are you now?” “I’m 39.” “Ha!” she chuckled softly, “I guess that makes me pretty old then.”

“You are fine, Mom,” I said trying my best to smile. I turned the television station to TV Land so she could watch her favorite shows. I Love Lucy was on. I watched her stare at the screen. Her crow’s feet tightened and she lifted her head up to get closer to the television. After a moment, she laid back and stared off into the distant. She couldn’t even remember her favorite show. “Where’s Roy?” she asked. “He left us. He left a long time ago, Mom. Remember?” I replied. “No,” she paused as her eyes widened, “No, no, no, no, no.” She rocked side to side in the hospital sheets, trying to escape them. There was no expression on her face, but her eyes began to turn red. “Roy! Roy!” she yelled. Her face blushed as she struggled to get out the bed, and I could no longer hold on to her hand. The nurses rushed in when they heard her screaming for my father’s name and asked for me to exit the room. “Are you all right, sir?” A female nurse asked me as I stood outside the door. “Come on. Have a seat.” We walked to the lobby area on the third floor of the hospital and sat on the hard-cushioned chairs. I knelt over in my seat with my arms folded in my lap and rocked back and forth a little as I thought of my mother. I began to bite on the skin around my fingernails. “Sir, are you okay?” she asked. “Yeah,” I replied. “Are you sure?” she leaned in and placed herbrown hand on my shoulder. Why you are touching me? I thought. “Yeah,” I replied as I pulled my shoulder away from her hand. I scooted away from her in my chair and stared at the vacant wall. She finally walked away with her big lips

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jutted out at me. The nurse met with one of her co-work-ers and began to whisper to her as she glanced at me in between neck rolls. She’s talking about me. They always gossip, I thought. “Tristen McGinnis!” I looked up and saw my mother’s doctor standing at the help desk next to the lobby. I walked up to him eager for what he had to say. “Well?” I asked. “I’ve told you. It’s not going to get better,” Dr. Mill re-plied. “Alzheimer’s disease cannot be cured, Mr. McGin-nis.” “I’m sure there is some kind of new technology. Come on. Something!” I said as my hands reached out to him as if I were holding the miracle cure. “Mr. McGinnis, there is simply nothing we can do. It’s too late to slow it down. We will simply have to let it run its course. I’m sorry.” I stared at the ground after he spoke those words. Mem-ories of my mother began to overflow and I closed my eyes to fix the dam of my mind. It seemed that I had no choice but to care for her now. My books weren’t selling as they used to, and it seemed money would be tighter if she couldn’t get back on her feet. Who else would take care of her? “Mr. McGinnis?” Dr. Mill spoke, breaking my trance. “Yes, I’m sorry,” I replied. “You can see her now, but try not to ask her questions. We don’t want her having an episode again. She can’t han-dle much stress.” “Okay,” I nodded and walked back to the door of her room. I watched her sleep through the door window hop-ing she wouldn’t wake up and notice me.

*****

I remember when she caught me in the middle of the night when I was younger sneaking into the cabinet fora midnight snack. I was chunky even when I was a boy, but I did my best to have quiet feet. It didn’t help having wood-en floor all over the house. I remember pretending to be a ninja and skipping over the creaking panels. However, one night, my so-called ninja training didn’t save me like in films. “Tristen!” My mother yelled from her room. “I know you’re in there. Come here, now!” I walked into the hall-way and saw her at the end of it with a belt in her hand. “We don’t have money for you to eat up everything in the house!” “I’m sorry, Momma,” I replied. I still had the bag of Funyuns in my hand. “Drop it,” she demanded. I did. “Now come here.” I clumsily stepped on all the weak pieces of wood as I ap-proached her. The creaks of the floor became long moans, as if weeping. Even the walls seemed to tense as I heard the house settle around me. Only the white light from the light pole outside her bedroom window allowed me to see her. Even then, I saw nothing but darkness. “Hurry up!” she yelled. When I finally approached her, she rubbed her fingers through my hair and smiled. “You have thick red hair just like your father,” she told me in a gentle voice. Her mood completely changed. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” “Yeah,” I replied in a frightened whisper. She smiled. My mother grabbed my small hands with her wet fin-

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gers and took me to her room and closed the door. Why are her hands so sweaty? I thought.

***** “Mr. McGinnis?” I immediately returned back to the present as the nurse from before interrupted my train ofthought. “Are you okay, sir? You can go in now if you like.” “I know that,” I snapped at her as I turned the knob of the door and entered into the room. The beeping of the hospital machines seemed to be going at a steady pace. All was well. When I closed the door, she opened her eyes and turned her head to see me. I could have sworn I closed it quietly. She smiled at me and motioned for me to come closer to the bed. I walked over with apathy and sat down next to her to hold her hand. I looked away to keep from replaying my memories. “Is that you, Roy?” she said to me with a weak crackling voice. “No, Mom, I’m Tristen, ” I replied, not looking at her as I spoke. I had enough of her calling me that. “Tristen?” she started slowly. “Did you finish your home-work? I want you to make A’s this time.” “No, mom, I’m an adult now. I’m not a child.” “What?” she stuttered with a straining expression on her face. “Ma,” I built up courage. “Do you remember what you did to me?” “Yes, I do,” she replied. I waited for her to say it. I turned my eyes to her and didn’t blink. She began to lick her lips at me and held my hand tighter to bring me in. A sudden tremor enveloped my chest and caused me to move away. In that split second, I saw my childhood self in my mind’s

eye. A memory I prayed would escape the hollows of my psyche. ***** “I don’t want to play this game, Momma!” I whim-pered. “Shut the fuck up and keep going!” she yelled at me. ***** I bent over and pulled at my hair and began to tremble as the scene repeated in my head.“I remember.” I looked up with my hands still in my hair. “Roy, I always knew how to get you in the mood.” She can’t even recognize me, I thought. My heart began to race faster as she smiled at me. I crossed my legs and slowly put my arms between them, blocking my groan. I shook my head and brought myself to remember that she is sick. “No, Mom, it’s me, Tristen!” I explained. “When I was 10, do you remember what you did to me?” Her face strained even more as she shook her head to respond. “No,” she could barely speak. This is pointless, I thought. I rocked back and forth as tears came down and through my beard. What the hell was I thinking? I tried to get an old crone of a woman to apologize. I must’ve been mad. I became hot and my hands wanted to choke the confession out of her. Perhaps then I would’ve found relief. “You know,” I began as dried my face with my hands, “a friend of mine made me go to mass today, my first time, too.” She turned her head from me. “And when I went, I was told to pray.” I wiped my face

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again as I looked up to the ceiling. “I waited for six years and all you do is get worse.” I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and looked at her. “The message today talked about for-giveness. And the priest said that sometimes you won’t get an apology from your enemies and you have to pray for them.” I chuckled. I rose up from the seat and kissed her on her forehead. “I won’t be coming back.” I turned and started for the door. “Tristen,” she said with a faint whisper. I stopped in place, yet I did not turn around to see her face. “Tristen. I...” My eyes widened and I looked over to my right side, waiting for what she had to say. I couldn’t turn around. I was frozen. “Have a good day at school, sweetie.” I walked out and closed the door. I simply stood there. Heated tears leaked from my eyes, and my jaws couldn’t escape from its locked position. I shook in my breathing as I clenched my hands into fists. I bet she made herself for-get, I thought. I couldn’t sneak away even in adulthood, as if the path my feet took creaked and broke from beneath me, hurling my pursuit of happiness down into flames. “She will be all right Mr. McGinnis.” I heard a voice on my left side. I turned and saw that it was the same nurse. Again. I didn’t respond to her fake optimism. I hate people like that. Especially the ones that-don’t know what to say at a funeral and pat you on the back and say, “It’s going to be okay.” I glared at her. Her facial expression seemed to suggest that I should respond, but I had no words to politely tell her to fuck off. She con-tinued on. “I’ve been praying for your mother since I’ve been work

ing in this hospital. Prayer always works.” “Well ma’am, I don’t pray or go to church. So your in-formation is of no value to me.” I did my best to not lash out on her. “Mr. McGinnis, God is the only one who can give you what you ask for.” “Yeah, okay,” I turned to walk away. I looked at the ground as I walked and stepped into the square blocks without cracks in them. Those blocks didn’t make as much sound when I walked on them. “She always talks about you,” she projected. I stopped. “She always says that she should’ve treated you better and prays for you to forgive her.” Her voice faded out in my mind. The doors of my con-science could not let in hope. Hope is what got me here. Love is what made my pain worse. I turned halfway to-ward her and spoke. “As far as she and I remember, she has no son.” I walked off further from her and got on the elevator to land on the lobby floor. I saw that it was still daylight out-side as I looked through the glass door entrance ahead of me. I paced myself as I walked. The bottom of my dress shoes made a hard clacking sound against the limestone flooring. I landed my feet softer to reduce its echo. I looked back as I continued to stroll and saw that no one was be-hind me. I looked all around me and saw that it was empty. No one heard me leaving. No one heard my footsteps.

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burying lee

Claire Rutland

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Ellie came home from the market and found Cliff ’s wed-ding ring discarded on the kitchen table. With trembling hands, she gripped the screen door handle that opened toward the back gate and found him kneeling there in the mulch, the sleeves of his shirt bunched in clumsy style about his elbows. Her voice trembled when she called to him, the vowels chopped in half. “Honey?” They hadn’t been married long enough for the term not to feel foreign in his ears. His lips twitched when he turned to her. Her shirt was bright pink, overlapping the band of her denim shorts. Her pale slip-ons caught the dirt in angry splotches. He glanced down at his dirty slacks, and back to the white of her shorts, the shine of her hair. He wiped his grimy palms across his shirt, smudging the soft blue fabric.Ellie’s was a garden of lavish proportions, a sun-flecked arcadia of clivia and rosebuds, whorling stamens reaching finger-like to the sun. She took great pride in the small arboretum. He watched her toiling on hands and knees in the loose soil in the mornings, pulling at weeds and snatch-es of clover, invasive sprigs of crabgrass. It wasn’t there that Cliff took his plot, but further away from the house, where the lawn sloped in sharp relief against their picket fence. He didn’t feel comfortable touching her flowers. They were too intimate, too beloved by her for him to touch. “I’m sorry I’m home so late.” Her voice caught in her throat as she spoke. “Jenna and I were settling details for her baby shower – it’s next week, you know. Only four months together and already a baby... I’m envious.” She laughed, a frenetic sound that made Cliff ’s skin crawl “You have a nice outfit to wear to the baby shower,

right? I really hope you’ll come. Robin’s husband Danny, you know Danny, don’t you, hon? Anyway, he’s coming, and I think Ron is too. I know you know Ron. He was one of your groomsmen, and he’ll be there so you’ll have some company. I know you don’t want to listen to us girls go on and on about baby things. Anyway, since Jenna’s expecting a boy, the theme is blue, and I think I remember you wear- ing a nice blue button-down on one of our first dates, and you haven’t gained a pound since high school so I’m sure it’ll fit you just fine. I hope you brought it with you from your mother’s when you moved out. You know how I hate troubling your mother for things. If not, we can always buy you another one from Penny’s. I think I remember Jenna mentioning something about seeing a few on sale right now.” The garden looked whitewashed by sunlight. The bricks framing the enclosure were bleached and faded, crumbled in places with age and use. Cliff reached out a hand to her, his palms blistered and scraped. She stopped talking when he did, hesitating a beat too long before she curled her fingers around his and tugged him to his feet. Her fingers pulled away the color of rust. “So, what are you doing out here?” she asked finally, the question meek and unassuming, too forced to sound con-versational, the way she meant it. Her manner of speech will take some getting used to, he thought. She talks like a child stumbling over her words, rambling on like that. He wiped his hands against his shirt again--he hated being so filthy. For a moment, he felt ridiculous. “I thought I’d grow stuff of my own,” he drawled, the words heavy in his mouth. “You’ve already got Eden on Earth, so I didn’t want to wreck it with the mess I’m making.”

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His attempt at humor fell flat. Ellie still stared at him expectantly. “The ladies at the Home Depot say this kind of soil’s good for the flowers I picked.” He gestured to the packets at his feet. Ellie knelt careful-ly, squinting at the labels. “Zinnias?” She laughed, shaking her head as she peered up at him. She cupped a hand around her forehead to shade her eyes from the sun. Her smile was kinder than her laugh. “They aren’t in season this time of year, hon. A better choice would’ve been pe-onies or dahlias. I’m surprised the women didn’t stop you from buying so many seeds out of season.” Cliff ’s fist clenched against his thigh. He cast a sideways glance at her flowers. “I just picked ones I didn’t think you already had growing.” He glanced back to her. She leaned forward, fingers outstretched for the packets, and her blouse dipped away from her chest. His gaze trailed from the delicate shape of her collarbone to the swell at the line of her camisole before he realized what he was doing. He averted his eyes quickly. “It says they symbolize love and remembrance. How ro-mantic,” Ellie said. She smiled at him, shyly, eyes nervous. He tried to ignore the way the seeds rattled together, the packets shaking in her grasp. “Think of them as a wedding present,” he said finally.Ellie reached for his arm, and he flinched away, unapolo-getic. She pretended not to notice.

*****

A week later, the first buds burst from the soil in solemn sprouts, stalwart against the blistering decay of the garden

around them. Summer had proven to be a cruel mistress. Ellie’s prized flowers shriveled, their petals carpeting the backyard, floating in the bird bath.The rotting blooms crunched underfoot, leaving a bruised fragrance in Cliff ’s wake when he made his way to the brick enclosure. Their scent hung cloying and sweet, thick as an omnipresent stench. The grass burned golden brown in spite of the sprinklers set to cruise-control above it. In quiet defiance, the zinnia buds flourished. Cliff sank to his knees before them in the dust. He surveyed their progress with an expression held carefully blank, hands carding through the soil in search of weeds. He could hear Ellie in the kitchen behind him humming a song he remembered from high school. It sounded like something Lee would’ve played in the parking lot before school. His stomach roiled on his next inhale. The stench of Ellie’s flowers had a way of getting to him, their reek over-bearing in the summer heat. His thighs ached when he adjusted his weight from one foot to the other. He raised his collar up and over his nose. Sweat dripped and pooled in the hollows of his knuckles, slipped icy cold down his back. He heard the screen door’s clang behind him. A rhyth-mic thump rang against the wood of the back porch, fol-lowed by the hiss of soft footsteps through the grass. “I made tea if you want it,” Ellie trilled.He hoped it wasn’t sweet, but he knew it would be. Ellie never remembered his aversion to sweet things. He turned toward her and cocked his head back to gaze at her. “There’s ice in the cup,” she stammered, “and honey

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and sweetener are on the top shelf of the pantry if you want them, and we don’t have lemons, but I could run to Kroger if you want me to, or maybe the farmer’s mar-ket is open on Sundays?” She laughed, high-pitched peals that caught on one another. The tea pitcher in her hand sloshed dangerously. He almost asked if her therapist had changed her anxiety medication yet, but swiped the pitch-er from her hands instead. He touched the small of her back when he straightened, his muscles screeching in pro-test. He didn’t miss how she stiffened, her smile etched in cold marble. He bent to press his lips to her cheek. The shape was round and soft beneath him, warmed by the sunlight. His fingers twitched against her spine. Her hair was dark, golden blonde, and the sunlight cast a neon glow against it. The strands smelled strong and sweet like her flowers, so Cliff turned his face to press against her neck instead, his lips a warm shiver along her jaw. Sweat beaded her neck, downy in the afternoon humidity. Her shoulders shuddered beneath his touch, and for a split second, her weight shifted away from him onto her heels. His arms reached around to bring her back, pressing her chest against him as tea sloshed against his pants leg. Her pulse fluttered against his teeth, shoulders trembling like a caged bird. She felt uncomfortable and malformed in his arms, her curves the wrong shape, somehow. His hands brushed her waist and she pulled away. “I’ll leave your cup on the table then.” She smiled. The shape sweetly curved though her eyes was shadowed. Her hands cradled her elbows, fingers tapping a beat against them. Goosebumps ran the length of her forearms. She slid the pitcher from his grip, oblivious to the tea sticking

his trouser legs to his shins. “You’re filthy by the way. Wash up before dinner.” He nodded in quiet agreement and turned to his enclo-sure with building nausea. The smell was overbearing. He hoped the petals would rot faster. “The zinnia petals... they’re blue, right?”He turned to Ellie. Her gaze raised toward him, pupils di-lated in the shade, twin maws swallowing shuddering blue rings. He nodded, confused by her question, and her head bowed, eyes trained on the budding flowers. “Blue was Lee’s favorite color, right?” The question caught him off guard. For some reason, he always forgot that other people knew things like that about Lee. It was uncomfortable to think about. Ellie smiled, cradling the pitcher in her arms. “Zinnias mean remembrance, right? I think it’s a nice gesture.” “They’re a wedding present.” The words came out harsher than he intended. He yanked the pitcher out of Ellie’s hands. His fingers lost purchase and slid across the condensation. The jug slipped, careening in slow motion.Glass shattered across the gravel, splattering tea across El-lie’s clean white shoes. She shook when she laughed it off as an accident, and offered to make more tea as a form of retreat. She didn’t bring the subject up again at dinner. ***** In two weeks, Cliff ’s flowers stood as small, bright green stalks growing taller and healthier in defiance of the re-cord high summer temperatures and Ellie’s insistence they were “out of season.” She left that morning to head to the baby shower alone. Cliff claimed his stomach hurt, and she let him stay home without much fuss.

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It was quiet without her to fill the void with anxious chat-ter or her bell-chime laugh. He was happy for the loss, at least for a few hours. He thought he loved Ellie, but he thought he might love to strangle her too, sometimes. The thought was ugly, more unsettling than the smell of her rotten flowers in the noonday sun. He turned to his garden with a fervor, yanking clover and vines of roping weeds apart. He pulled weeds until his arms ached, until he felt lightheaded from the heat and the weight of his exertion. He used to do yard work with Lee, when the neighbor-hood paid them to mow lawns and weed flowerbeds. His first kiss happened that way. The night before Lee left to fight the good fight, they mowed three lawns and earned almost sixty bucks all together. Lee sat on the roof next to him, talking about pretty girls and the food he would miss in training camp, running hands through his hair when he laughed. His hair caught fire in the sun, a warm orange, a burnished red. It hurt Cliff ’s stomach to think about it. He didn’t know if it was the fear of losing his best friend, or what it was exactly, but when Lee turned to say something about one of the neighborhood girls, Cliff swallowed and leaned forward. It lasted a split second before they pulled apart. Lee looked at him with something like pity in black-brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” Cliff whispered, face red and palms shaking. “I thought—” “No,” Lee said, raising a hand to stop him from going farther. “I don’t want to hear anymore.” It stung. It stung even as he pulled weeds three years lat-er, hands bleeding and knees rubbed raw from the gravel beneath him. God, it stung. That was the last thing Lee ever said to him before— “Honey? Are you okay?”

Ellie stood behind him, holding in her hands the gift she had spent hours picking out and meticulously wrapping. Her eyes opened wider, lips drawn into a frown. “Jen-na caught the flu this morning... I was too excited for the shower to think to check my phone, so I’m home early, and I...Cliff, what’s the matter?” He stood up and drew her to him, flinching when she stiffened beneath him. It shouldn’t have been something so taboo in his head. He married her, didn’t he? He married her. “I’m glad you’re home,” he managed, swallowing hard, burying his nose against her crown. His stomach com-plained, somersaulting with nausea, but he gripped tight-er, burying his face further into the crook of her neck. He didn’t realize she’d responded until her hands clasp his shoulders hard enough to bruise. “You need to let go... Honey, you’re hurting me!” He knew. *****

A month after Jenna’s failed baby shower, Ellie came home from the marketplace to an unaddressed letter on the kitchen table. The envelope was pristine and white, halfway sealed and laying flap side up. A man’s wedding ring lay beside it. Ellie’s breath caught painfully in her throat. “Cliff ?” She tore open the back door and down the steps. It took her a moment to notice him by the bricks of his flower enclosure – kneeling low over what was left of the zinnia blossoms. When she’d left that morning, the flowers were opened, spread wide in full bloom, brilliant zaffre petals flecked with magenta and white.

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A holocaust of stems and petals and leaves and dirt made up what was left of Cliff ’s precious blossoms, de-capitated flower heads strewn at his knees as he dug. She watched in mute shock as he went, ripping his beloved flowers out stalk by small stalk, merciless in the assault. He yanked them up as harshly as he’d yanked clover snatches and weeds all those long weeks. “What are you doing?” she asked, voice small and ten-tative. Cliff ’s shoulders flinched at the sound of her voice. He glanced back at her, eyes rimmed in red; exhausted. He ran a filthy hand through his hair, laughing. “You were right, I think. The flowers turned out bad. They weren’t in season, I guess. I’m burying these so I can try again, maybe grow you a halfway decent batch or two, now that I know what I’m doing.” He laughed, nervous and shaky. His hands shook when he rubbed at his eyes, smearing dirt across his damp cheeks. She looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but didn’t press him for questions. She watched him for a few more moments, as if assuring herself of his intentions. He buried them piece by piece, bruised petals and leaves, their severed limbs baked brown by the sun. Ellie forgot about the letter almost entirely until she real-ized she still clutched it still in her hands. She read it once when she walked back inside, scanning the ink-blotched pages, the words strung together clumsily, desperately. It read like a declaration of love, of emotion and adoration, and like an apology – rather, a collection of apologies, for things she didn’t understand; things she could only appre-ciate. She didn’t think to question why her name wasn’t written at the top.

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soul talk

Rosemary Barnes

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I heard a doctor on that talk show say, “Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.” I am para-phrasing this nugget of wisdom as I look in the mirror and wonder how to cover this black eye. The infomercial said this concealer is 100% guaranteed to cover up unsightly marks. Well, surely this qualifies. I wonder does it work for the soul as well. Oh, I tried that before, and it did not work. Fifteen minutes to nine. I cannot be late again or else. That “or else” was my supervisor’s veiled warning to me last week. I need my job, but this make-up is not work-ing. This black eye looks remarkably like a black eye. Well, maybe it worked on my soul. A salve to soothe one’s soul in the midst of grappling with the unmistakable reality of a

black eye. Oh, I tried that before, and it did not work. I am racing down I-94 towards downtown. Well, I think it is downtown; my eyelid is in process of closing shut and these dark glasses do not help much. Both are working in unison to obscure my exit on this very gloomy day. No, it is a cloudy day, cloudy and gloomy day. Maybe the gloominess and cloudiness will cover this bruised eye in my soul. Oh, I think I tried that before, and it did not work.I guess I will have to take the glasses off so I can see where to sign this corrective action notice. Corrective Action. Wow, I wonder if this is transferable to other areas of my life. Yes, that might be a good thing. What do you think, soul? “You have not tried that before; maybe it will work.” Oh.

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