torches n' pitchforks: the misfortune county issue

hunting for voices that rise above the angry mob

torches n’ pitchforks

winter 2016 vol. 8 no. 1

Contents

NONFICTION

Fake Diamonds by Sadee MossBlue Wire by Laurence HeigesSomebody’s Daughter by Rebecca GatesCourt Number 17 by Enrico BarchettiThe Dream by Torri AugustineRoot of All Evil by Andre McNarySecrets by Anonymous

FEATURED WRITER: BLAKE LOPEZ

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FLASH FICTION

A Dark Void to Fill... by Brogan HowardEvery Friday by Hannah BennetChaos by Eric HeiglerTransformation by Amber HuffmanRules, Crazy Eyes and Project Pigeon by Marco Flores

FEATURED WRITER: MARIA SPORES

STORIES

The Beating Thing in Your Chest by McKayla YoungerSecond Chances by Amber Blanchard16 Remembered, 17 Lost by Maddie Woodward A Deceptive Friendship, by Megan Allen

INTERVIEWBODY IN THE WINDOW SEAT and “Misfortune County”

POETRY

Tyranny Is Not Welcomed When Regarding Love by Bree HeatonFrozen Beauty by Jon GraceBurning Bridges by Ashley Toomey Old Animal Warriors by Shasta Fisher Passing Seasons by Caleb Bailor Small Town by Ryland HollandThe Hunt by Trey Shores

Acknowledgements

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Fake DiamondsSadee Moss

The word Diamond comes from the Greek word Adamas and means unconquerable and indestructible. However when John-nie walks up to the yellow door with the large oval glass window she looks utterly defeated. Ready to collapse at any moment. When she sees that it is me waiting at the door she tries to make it appear as if nothing is wrong. I know that whatever is happening she will tell me about when she is ready. After she lets me in we walk to her room and jump on her bed. Immediately she breaks down in a pool of long overdue tears and I know that what she has to tell me will change our friendship forever. “I’m moving to Utah!” she sobs. In-stantly I start crying too, my best friend since birth is leaving!

Two weeks later, on a bright Sunday afternoon, Johnnie drives over to my house to officially say good-bye. I wanted to be brave and not cry, to let her know that I would be fine and she would be too. As hard as I try I snap and can’t keep it in, letting the hot an-gry tears stream down my face. Johnnie and I hold on each other as we contemplate how our lives will change. Desperately, Johnnie manages to stammer between sobs, “You’ll always be my best friend Sadee! No matter what we can count on each other.” Then she turned around and walked away from me. She didn’t look back.

It is said that if a friendship has lasted for seven years then it will last for a lifetime. But can any amount of time show what is a true friendship? Throughout the next year I questioned if John- 8 //torches n’ pitchforks

nie was really my best friend. She hardly called. She hardly wrote. She hardly took the time to remember we once were inseparable. Our phone calls, as few as we had, were forced and all small talk. I felt betrayed how could she do this to me? I was left alone and she didn’t want to talk to me anymore.

By the time Christmas came around, I was mad at the world. I had no one to watch movies or bake cookies with. I was alone. I had sent Johnnie a gift, more out of habit than anything. Even though I would never have admitted it to myself I hoped that she would send me something. To my surprise on Christmas morning I found a gift from Johnnie under the tree. It was a little bracelet with an infin-ity adornment on it. Picking it up I thought I had seen it sparkle. I realized that it had fake diamonds on it. Foolishly, I thought to myself that’s right that’s all I am to her a fake. I went to my room to be alone only to find that Johnnie was calling to wish me a merry Christmas. Tentatively I answered the phone. Johnnie was so ex-cited to talk to me, she was babbling. She told me how sorry she was for being an awful friend the past year. Any anger I had for her van-ished. Johnnie and I spent the rest of the day rebuilding our inde-structible friendship.

At first I had thought I had real diamonds in my friendship with Johnnie then I realized that they were fake. After a closer look at them I understood that these fake diamonds were in fact the most precious stone I could ever have. Despite being utterly worth-less she gave them to me with love. That Christmas I learned that the price of a gift is not important. It is the attitude in which it is given. My fake diamonds may not be of value to a king or queen but to me they are priceless. They were given to me to show that it is not about how others value them but what was sacrificed for them. Johnnie and I continue to be best friends despite the distance that keeps us apart. Our friendship is priceless and unconquerable just like our fake diamonds.

torches n’ pitchforks // 9

Blue WireLaurence Heiges

Ten minutes of our day, on average, is spent looking for something. Sometimes, that something is a person. One time, that something was me.

The memory has no specific date, just “When I was small.” It was late one afternoon, on the edge of evening, my dad and I were far from home, searching for something that we knew was there but eluded our sight. Myself, I didn’t know exactly what it was, as my dad only trusted me with the description. I was young yet. As our search went on and the light from above began to dim, I found myself separated from my dad. Once I made the realization, I frantically began searching for him, any sign of him. I looked until the light settled at a dull grey, at which point I gave up, alone, tired, and convinced that I was going to stay right there forever. Suddenly, my father lifted me up in his arms, and all my fears were silenced. He held a blue coil of wire in his left hand, and myself in his right. Together again and goal achieved, we headed home.

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We’ve visited similar places, but we’ve never stayed so late as to see the light dim again. Our goals have changed each time, and so have the places we search. As I’ve grown older, that dread at being left alone has faded, but never has it left entirely.

That blue coil of wire was taken home and left on a shelf, as are so many other things we’ve brought home from the places we’ve been. It’s still there, as far as I know. Maybe we didn’t need it, maybe it was the wrong type, or, most likely, we simply forgot it for a time, to be used when we remember.

Like that wire, we can feel left alone, unused. Like a small child in a store at closing time, we can feel lost, abandoned. Even as we wait to picked up again, however, we should remember the times when we were lost, when we were a goal, when we were someone’s ten minutes.


Somebody’s DaughterRebecca Gates

Glenn Pemberton once wrote in his book Hurting with God, that “We live in a world that is beyond our control, and life is in a constant flux of change. So we have a decision to make: keep trying to control a storm that is not going to go away or start learning how to live within the rain.” Every day I encounter these storms in life. Every day I try to shut out the screams and whimpers of the suffering. The sobs of their families as their worlds are shattering around them. As an ER nurse of the Tillamook Re-gional hospital, I watch people as they go through their darkest hour, and it is my job to help them. I am trained to fix what I can and put people back together again, and tell their loved ones when I can’t.

The screeching wail announces the arrival of the first ambulance as it pulls up under the covered dome of the emergency entrance where my team and I are waiting. It’s cases like this that I hate the most: A motor vehicle accident involving children. As per procedure, the most critical were transported first. I steel myself against the

While the EMTs unload both of their patients, I automatically run the assessment of our charge through my mind. The child was suspected to have head injuries and spinal trauma as well as a fractured pelvis. The First Responder team had done their job well. Oxygen was being admin-istered via a rebreather mask and a second IV of lactated ringers had been

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inserted to help control the shock. A PSG had been placed around the pel-vis and inflated to help with immobilization during transport. As we wheel the girl into the pre prepped surgery, panic becomes more evident in her eyes. “Hey, your mom’s gonna be just down the hall okay? They are going to take good care of her” my colleague soothes. The child nods her under-standing.

We direct the stretcher over to the sterile metal table located in the center of the room. On three: one, two, three” I count off as we lift her on to the table, careful not to jar any injuries. The girl grimaces and I see her unease rising once again and it is easy to understand why. For someone so young to have to go through such an ordeal breaks my heart. She seems so helpless and vulnerable, and yet she is handling it like a trooper. Quickly I try to think of something to distract her. “What do you think of my ban-dana” I ask, pointing to the bright red fabric covering my head. It works. She relaxes a bit and manages a weak smile. Although it is brief, I catch a glimpse of the hole where a tooth had been, not even an hour ago. Large purple and blue bruises have started to form on her small, round face. Her nose is crooked, obviously broken, and there is an open wound on her chin that will require stitches. Once strawberry blonde hair is now matted with the same blood that has stained her clothes.

As I walk behind the table to the sink located on the far wall, I glance over the Patient Care Report and SOAP forms that the EMS team deliv-ered. Rebecca Gates is seven years old, about 52 pounds and a mere 4 feet tall. She had been on her way home from a Memorial Day weekend with her family during the time of the accident. Due to the pouring rain, their car, a Chevy Nova, had hydroplaned into the oncoming lane. Hitting a Dodge Ram truck head- on, the car had spun three times before landing in the ditch on the side of the road. The extreme weather conditions had made it impossible for Life Flight to make the trip to the scene and the victims had been forced to wait for the ambulance before receiving care.

After I finish reading the report I quickly scrub my hands before I walk back over to where Rebecca is lying. Her eyelids are beginning to


close and it is becoming obvious that she is having trouble focusing, which is the result of the sedative that has been placed into her IV line. “Are you tired?” I ask softly as not to startle her. I already know the truth, but her small nod confirms that the drugs are working. “Go ahead and sleep” I assure her. “You will feel much better when you wake up.” I watch as she gives up the struggle for consciousness and sleep finally overtakes her. The operation takes several hours of making sure there is no permanent neck or spinal damage, examining her fractured pelvis, and stitching up the wounds on her face as well as in her mouth. When we are finally done, she is transported to her room in the ICU.

A few weeks later, I am making my rounds and checking in with all my patients. The sound of laughter comes from the room of my next visit. I give a quick knock on the open door before entering. Rebecca is sit-ting up in her hospital bed, a giggle escaping her lips as she and her dad attempt a new game involving a pen and a pad of paper. I can’t help but smile at the scene. She looks much better than the last time I saw her. Her bruises are gone and I can tell that the stitches are starting to dis-solve. Clean, flowing hair cascades about her shoulders. There is no longer any trace of fear or pain, only an innocent, bubbly girl. “I’m glad to see you again “I say, sorry to interrupt the scene. “Do you remember me?” I ask. Rebecca nods, suddenly shy. A man that must be her father gets up from his chair beside the bed to shake my hand. We talk briefly about the progress Rebecca has made in the past weeks and her continuing road to health. Before I leave, I say my goodbyes and sign her release papers. Tak-ing one last look at the happy child and her grateful father, I realize once again that this is what I live for. Not every father is as lucky as this one.

I think of my own two little girls at home and smile. That day I not only saved a life, I saved somebody’s daughter. I watch as this father walks his daughter down the corridor. When the siren goes off once again, I race to meet them. Yet another little girl is wheeled into my care and I go about my business because this is somebody´s daughter.


Court Number 17Enrico Barchetti

It is a really cold Wednesday night in April. I’ve just finished work. Today I worked for ten hours, and I am really tired. I am going home, and I can-not wait to have dinner with all my family.

I park the car, and I am ready to have a relaxing evening in front of the TV. I enter the house, and immediately I see the tennis bag of my young-est son, Enrico. I wonder why that big bag is misplaced. I call Enrico, and I ask him for an explanation. Enrico is surprised by my question, and in a very friendly manner he tells me that he is going to have a tennis match tonight, in Bologna.

I did not remember he was going to have a match. I am really annoyed be-cause I have to drive for another hour to go to Bologna. It is really frustrat-ing. Rather annoyed, I tell him to hurry because I want to be home early tonight.


After one hour of driving, we are finally in the tennis club. There are many people, perhaps 300 or maybe 400. I ask Enrico why this tournament is so important, and he says that this is a prequalification tournament for an In-ternational tournament, and people are coming from all over Italy to play here.

I am surprised. I did not know this match was so important, and I asked Enrico how many consecutive matches he would have to win if he were to qualify. He laughingly says that in theory he has to win seventeen con-secutive matches to be qualified, and he says that if he were to win this match, the tennis club would present him two tickets for the international tournament.

We go to the office to register Enrico, and to find out where and with whom he is going to play. An old man that seems to be very busy, says that Enrico is going to play at 9 p.m. on court number 17.

It is 8 p.m. now, so we decide to go to the cafeteria. We talk a bit, and af-ter one hour Enrico’s opponent has not yet arrived. We call the “old man”, and in a tone rather disconsolate he says that Enrico will play the winner of a match that has just started because there are some delays. So we have to wait for other two hours. It is horrible.

I am really angry, and I ask Enrico if it is necessary to play this match, because I would like to go home. Enrico says he would like very much to play this match because this is his first really important match, and if he were to win he would be extremely happy. After some thought I say, “Okay, but you have to win. I would not like it if all this were unneces-sary.”

After two endless hours Enrico is ready to play. He is really focused, and he is listening to music. We are on the court, and the surface is made of red clay. The opponent who has just won the previous match has arrived. He is a young man of 30 years old. After a short warm up the players finally start playing. It is 11:30 p.m.


Enrico serves first, and after a few minutes his adversary is winning. En-rico seems to be sad, so when the players switch side, I try to encourage him. Suddenly, Enrico starts playing very well, and now he is really deter-mined.

It is 1 a.m., and my brave little son is serving for the match. He strikes an ace, and finally the chair umpire says, “Game, Set and, Match, Mr. Bar-chetti.”

Enrico cannot believe it. He drops his racket, and with all his joy he gives me a big hug. He is proud of himself because he managed to believe in his abilities. Very excited, he tells me, “Thank you, Dad. Today is one of the happiest days of my life.”

We come back home. It is 2 a.m. We go to bed, but before I start sleep-ing, I reflect on this experience. I think back to the words that Enrico said to me, and I can understand what happiness means. I think that a person can be happy when he achieves his goals, and Enrico this night has given a meaning to the odyssey that was this day.


The Dream Tori Augustine

The world I live in is in black and white, desolate in color. There in no one around, only I in this abandoned town. The air is dry and the heat is beating on the ground. There is no change in tempera-ture or in color. I live near the factories and oil fields, they have been my home since being abandoned. This deserted and barren place is what I call home. I also do not have a name. Although that may be true some call me the outcast or even death. I am neither of those people, I am just a lonely man living in his own world. Most of the time I am lost in my own thoughts daydreaming about hope-less possibilities. No one will come join me in this forgotten land. If someone were to join me, all hope would be no longer lost. I live in a world full of wander and have seen none appear.

Every day I walk the town searching for life, seeing the same wasteland every day and every night. On the outskirts of town is where the oil fields are, they are also where I saw her on this day. As I was walking today a girl, a very small girl appeared in the distance. She was walking the same way I do through the fields. How did she


get here, where did she come from. The feeling of someone else in my town was uneasy, but shockingly intriguing. As she continued to walk through the fields I followed her with extreme caution. I thought to introduce myself but she might have went away. Where was she going. I’ve been following the girl for what feels like miles, walking on this dry hot ground. What was she thinking coming to this land, why has she not looked around. After at least two hours of walking her headed finally turned and our eyes meet in the dead of silence.

She’s seen me I thought to myself, my cover has been blown. After twenty seconds of direct eye contact, she started to run away. Why was she running, should I go after here. Without hesitation I started to chase after her. Her head turned back several times to see if I was there. She was trying to escape. The girls speed kept increas-ing, so did mine. By this time she has made it through half of the town. How could she continue to run this fast for so long. My legs are beginning to give out, the girl is gaining distance. The girl be-gan to make a turn in town, I followed behind her and in a split sec-ond she was gone. She disappeared right before my very eyes. I won-der if she would ever come back or where she has gone too. Maybe she’s gone to another world or is this all just a dream.


The Root of All Evil Andre McNary

The reality of today’s world, money isn’t the root of all evil. Money is the root of all people. Understanding this is essential to capture my past and my present. The parents of my mother have raised me with admoni-tions that not only fit into reality, but fit into my reality. Frequently in my adolescent state, I acquired sayings much like money is the root of all evil, but I have shaped these out to be more than just sayings.

Years ago at my home in western Washington I knew little about money, given I only lived there until I was seven years of age. Though wandering around in the magnificent city of Seattle, affluence became di-verse to my senses. Large yachts on the dock, lustrous automobiles, and classy clothing worn by the investors of large corporations. People are obsessed with acquiring, spending, and revealing their money in worldly ways to become superior to society. Wealth was what I became interested in. What I aspired for. The idyllic scene of me driving those lustrous auto-mobiles and wearing those high-class, extortionate suits became my mate-rialistic ambition.

In 1 Tim. 6:10, it states “The love of money is the root of all evil”, which paints the idealistic photograph of myself nearly twelve years ago. Wearing a just purchased Mariner’s hat from the baseball game I had just attended, I stood directly below the spectacular Space Needle, which lie breathtakingly luminescent to the high-rise skyline. If the love of money is so evil, then why is it that money is what makes this world so magnifi-cently awe-striking? Possibly a personal inclination, but many countries wouldn’t be nearly so picturesque without the currency of money.


Secretsby Anonymous

According to Frank Warren, “ There are two kinds of secrets: Those we keep from others and those we keep from ourselves.” At the age of ten, it felt like I was in an altered reality, like the life I had been living was not my own. Every secret there ever was, finally came out and it hit me like a deer in headlights. I never knew one secret could hurt so badly and for so long and there I was feeling every bit of it. the hurt soon became unbear-able and changed every which way I looked at the world.

When the secrets came out, there was one in particular I could re-member clearer than the rest. I found out that my dad was not biologi-cally mine. When I found this out, all I could do was cry and cry and cry and soon enough I changed into a person I never thought i’d be and here I was. I never looked at my father any differently because no matter what he is my father. He saved my mother’s and I’s life and if wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here. My biological sperm donor is a horrible man. He’s done unspeakable things, some I wish I could unhear and unimagine I was nev-er on the receiving end, but I almost always saw the end result. It changed her, my mother. She’ll never be the same and now I know why. Every memory, every nightmare is something she can not avoid. Once something eats away at you for so long, you don’t stay the same. You change and feel like there is no hope of ever going back to who you originally were be-cause what’s done is done.

That’s what I thought until now. I am now 17 years old and 7 years has past since I first found out. I’ve realized that “Yes, I have changed but it’s for the better and yes there is no going back but who says I can’t push


through this hurt and anger and make me something new and whole.” I know this secret was for the better because I started going back to church and then looked to God to be my savior to show me how I could take in these challenges I was facing and make it into something good. He was my second knight and shining armor but to me, my father will always be number one. Despite the fact that we are not blood related, he will always be my father. He was 18 years old with a future in football and so much more ahead of him but he quit in order to take me and my mom in. That to me is what a father is.

Some may say blood is thicker than water, but to me water is and always will be thicker than blood when it comes to my father. He will al-ways be my daddy no matter what because I am forever a Daddy’s girl. He’s been the one I’ve went to about everything. My personal problems, family fights, friends, advice, relationships and so much more. He is my best friend. There are two kinds of secrets in this world: Those who keep things from others and those who hide them from themselves. I was on the fortunate side because God gave me a family I could never replace and a father that will love me unconditionally.

Featured WriterBlake Lopez

ContradictionBlake Lopez

Insert Student A, a genius with a perfect ACT and acceptance letters to top schools. He has been at the top of his class since grade school, he is studious, and has full support from his parents who wish they could pay for is schooling. While Student B has made over $100,000 in the past three months as he finished high school from a business he started by himself in his parent’s basement. He is manipula-tive, harsh, and has multiple employees who are willing to die for him. They are both resourceful, have support, and are extremely good at what they do. Both of them have profound experience with chemistry. Student A won a chemistry contest at the international level and went on to meet with the leaders of the chemistry field. While Student B developed a system of extracting valuable materials from common day items which led to the founding of his business. Both of these students will be the leaders of their field in just a matter of years.


Student A is contemplating which school he will go to. He can decide to stay local or go far away and restart his whole life. Both of the schools can provide him the experience necessary to succeed after college. The school far away does offer him an escape from his current life. He has always been considered the “nice guy.” People have always thought of him as being a guy who always follows the rules and is just a nerd who will continue his life studying, watching movies, and doing what he is told. He has always wanted to be seen as an ambitious per-son who makes spontaneous decisions to do “bad” things and is a “bad boy” with a lot of power. Student A is like many people who get stuck in the daily routines of life. While going to the local school will allow him to graduate without debt and even with enough money to help him start a chemistry based company after he finishes school. This is making him consider staying local for school despite the fact that a lot of people he knows are going to the same school.

Student B is deciding whether or not to expand his business to a nearby college which will increase his profits and power. This also comes with some ramifications because it forces him to make another decision that will set the tone for the rest of his life. The thing about his business though is that increasing the power of his business puts him in harm’s way; well even more than he is now. However, his busi-ness is not technically legal so he has also been debating quitting. Since his business is illegal, he only trusts a select amount of people who have proven their loyalty and expanding his business means having to trust more people with his life. This scares Student B because he has always kept an extremely tight group of people who he can trust.

Student A asked his parents what they think about which school he should attend but they only offered him that he should do what he thinks will be best for him. After this disappointing answer, he asked one of the few people he trusts, his best friend. His best friend has al-ways been straight to the point with him. He told him that if can the resources to make a legitimate chemistry company after graduation


then he should probably go to that school. However, his best friend as a vested interest in him going to the local college because he will benefit from him going to the school. Student A and his best friend have been working on a project that will make sure their college educations will be paid for.

Student B also sought help in deciding whether he should expand his business or quit it and move on to a fresh new start. Like Student A, Student B talked to his best friend. His best friend thought that expand-ing their illegal business would increase the risk but the payoff would be worth a lot more than the risk they would be taking. The payoff would mean the security of their future even if they were to quit in about four years. However, Student B likes the idea of having a fresh start far away where nobody knows him. This opportunity will allow him to get back to who is original nerdy self. His illegal company has turned him into a person who is ruthless and, in general, “bad.” On the other hand, expanding his company would lead to new opportunities that would help him become a legal business owner.

Both Student A and Student B have very large decisions to make as they finish their high school careers. Student A needs to decide if he should stay local and build a company in a few years or go far away and have a chance to change himself. Student B is facing a similar situation because he needs to decide between expanding his business or escap-ing to a new reality in order change the person who he is. Both of them also have a best friend who is relying upon them to help change their lives as well. This places the two of them in an uncomfortable position because they seem obligated to stay local in order to help their best friend. For Student B, however, it seems better for him to go away and reinvent himself. And for Student A, it seems better to stay local and build a company after he finishes college in about four years. The deci-sions for the separate students may be obvious because of their circum-stances. However, if Student A and Student B were the same person, then it would change everything. Well, they are. Now the decision is


much more difficult.

The student as a chance to reinvent themselves and begin a new life without an illegal business that could hurt his good name. He has built his good name through years of hard work in school and dedica-tion to improving his community. His business, however, is illegal in nature and negatively affects his community. The business also gives him the opportunity to found a completely legal business that could positively impact society as a whole. But is that enough discredit him-self? Well, that is up to him to decide. Or he could go to school far away and keep his moral integrity; well what is left of it anyways. So, what should he do?


Walk it OffBlake Lopez

While growing up, I often repeated phrases I heard from my par-ents and my siblings. Most were common such as “Life’s not fair” or “Rub some dirt on it.” However, there was one particular saying that has resonated with me since my early childhood days. This phrase was one that was a favorite of my mother and older brother. These were people that I looked up to more than any other person in my life. Naturally, this expression was more easily impactful on me. Since my childhood, it has helped me in several key aspects of my life.

My brother is teaching me how to ride a bike my mother gave to me for my birthday. My lack of expertise consistently brought myself colliding with the road as I struggled to find my balance. I was already a clumsy person and learning how to ride a bike was particularly dif-ficult for me. My brother gives me a helpful piece of advice and I take off. I build up speed; the wind raced against my skin. This overwhelm-


ing sense of victory was quickly replaced by anxiety as I began to lose my balance. Desperately, I tried to save myself, but I failed. A loud thud was heard in the air. My brother ran up and finds me sitting there hold-ing my knee as my eyes filled with tears. My pain is quickly replaced with anger, I wanted to quit. In a understanding, yet firm tone he com-manded me to “Walk it off.” He paused and then told me that if I was going to ride a bike then I was going to need to be strong. He could sense how much I wanted to quit, but knew he could encourage me to continue on.

This phrase may seem minute or insignificant at first glance, but I find it has been vital to my success. The mistakes I have made through-out my life have served as a guide with which I can base my future de-cisions on. These mistakes would have been simple failures without this advice; because I walked it off, I learned from the experience. Ultimate-ly, I did learn how to ride a bike with my brother’s guidance. This and many other of my personal successes can be accredited to his instruc-tion.



AloneBlake Lopez

It is the first day of my second term in college. I performed very well in my classes the last term and I was even recognized by the head of my program. The honors program has kept me with same people throughout the whole first term and so far this second term as well. Al-ready I know most of their names but I have never really talked to any of them besides the occasional question for my phone number for when they need help.

Right now, I sit alone in my dorm because my unknown room-mate is probably out with his friends again. I start working on my homework and watch TV because there is nothing else to do. When I am about halfway through my homework, I get a text. As I reach for my phone, I hope it is somebody inviting me to hang out or even just to study. I see that is just another person who has a quick question for me about the math homework. I feel abandoned as I explain to them how to solve the problem. They say thanks and I continue to work on my homework in isolation. I feel desperate and my pessimistic side kicks in saying that it will always be this way.


When I finish my homework, I receive another text. I consider not opening it because it is probably just another person who needs help with their homework. It is an unknown number so it must be someone who hasn’t needed help thus far. The text explains that is a girl from my last math class. She wants know if I am doing anything tonight. I ask if she has the right number and she says yes. She invites me to a study a group for our new math class. I agree to go tonight.

I walk into the library where she said to come. I see the girl and she thanks me for coming. There are only a couple other people there who I recognize. They all take out their homework and start working on it. I feel a sense of awkwardness as I say I already did mine. They laugh a bit and say that it comes with no surprise. I choose to stay be-cause I don’t have anything else to do. They have some questions and I help them with their homework. They all seem so nice and it feels natural talking to all of them.

Now, I am about to graduate. The same study group that the girl invited me to is sitting in my dorm as we wait to go to the ceremony. They thank me for helping them throughout college and I thank them for providing me with something I had failed to have before them, friendship. They all smile and say that they enjoyed our time together. Since meeting them I have felt completely different. No longer do I feel abandoned or isolated. I now feel cherished in this group and I have gained confidence since first meeting them. I am now optimistic for the next thing to come.

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A Dark Void To Fill Brogan Howard

He says: The house has been quiet lately. She says: It’s just not the same anymore. He says: What do you want to do today? She says: The same thing we do every day. He says: Do you think we should try to change the old room, or put it off for another day? She says: I don’t think we could bare the pain of going in there. He says: Do you remember waking up ev-ery morning to make us breakfast? She says: I use to complain about being awake so early, but now I would give anything to go back to just one of those days. He says: We should try to not dwell on what is in the past. She says: Let’s just watch some T.V., get our minds off of things. He says: The last time I did that I passed by the cartoons, It reminded me too much. She says: We have to stop living in fear. I can’t take this anymore. He says: This is barely even a marriage now. She says: I’m tired of always fight-ing with you. We need to do something about this. He says: I’m sorry, it’s just that the accident was exactly a year ago today. She says: It doesn’t feel like we are living for ourselves lately. What purpose does life have? He says: A parent’s only job in life is to protect their child… I feel like such a failure. She says: This has been eating away at me for so long. Our great-est fear has become reality. He says: I just wish all the pain of the world would just go away. She says: Not a thing is going to change if we just lay here all day doing nothing. Let’s change the way we feel. He says: What do you want to do today? She says: Let’s go for a drive. He says: I can’t bear to look at the empty car seat when we’re in here. She says: Start the car, and go to sleep for the last time.

He says: ……



Every FridayHannah BennettIt’s Friday, always Friday. The wind is blowing, the rain is pour-

ing, the air is crisp and yet it seems like nothing. Everyday it’s the same story. “I’m sorry I can’t make it. I’m sorry I will always love you.” It’s always the same story. I will always understand what it’s like to be for-gotten. The feeling of being wanted is more than a desire, and yet it always gets trampled on by you.

I can remember the exact time it all began, November 10, 2009. You said you loved me and that you’d always be there for me. Yet day after day you flaked on my reality. To this day I’m cast out like trash. I used to ask myself, “Why would you do this to me? Why am I not good enough?” When I should have been asking what would make a father abandon his daughter. Being left behind is natural to me when it shouldn’t be for the fact that I’m just a teenage girl. Since day one I’ve had to mature into the person I’ve become.

Every day is a new beginning and for you it was a new family, while I wait behind. Three girls, three daughters you call your own and I exist in the oblivion. Invite after invite only to have you not show. Every conversation we have consists of your condescending tone. It’s always a collection of people when we are together, so we don’t have to speak face to face. All I do is sit here and wait to be noticed. You continue your conversation as if nothing has changed when everyone knows it has. I might as well live in a cave alone from the world day to day.

There will come a day when it doesn’t hurt to be forgotten, and the reality that you won’t make a sudden appearance will be known. I just hope that when that day comes you’re a positive memory instead of a hurtful grudge. Fridays will no longer be painful with the shot down hope of contact.


ChaosErik Haigler

“Whattheheck!”Oghrenshoutedrightaftertheleftenginecaughtfire.

“Pilot set us down now!” shouted the Guardsmen sergeant in the back of histroopcarrier.Oghrenwassetsteelyonlandingattheirpointof access,thepointhewasorderedtolandat.

“Bah,cowardlyinfantrymen”Oghrensaidunderhisbreath.Thistimehe spoke louder “We’re going to make it!”

“Idamnhopeyou’rerightpilot”thesergeantsaid.Theaircraftshookagain,andOghrenpaledasherealized,

“Flak!”Theywereunderfirefromenemyflak!Therewasnointelonenemyforcesinthisarea.“Alrightguardsmen,you’regoingtogetwhatyouwant! Hold on!”

ThatwaswhenOghren’swholeworldturnedupsidedown,literally,his entire left wing got sheared off and he was spiraling down toward the swampymoistground.Hit,andeverythingwentblack.Atonepointheawokeandthoughtheheardthesoundsof screamingandgunshots,butfellbackasleep.

“Pilot! Pilot wake up! You need to wake up!”

“Isthatthesoundof aheavenlyangel?”Oghrenmumbled.


“Ohgod,Iseehowyouare.”Soitwasafemalesvoicehehadheard.Oghrenopenedhiseyesandsawafemalefigurestandinginthedoorwayof hiscockpit.Itmighthavebeenthathewasstilldisorientedbuthefeltastrongpulltowardsthisperson.“Canyoustand?”Sheasked.Oghrenat-temptedtostandbutfeltasharppaininhisleftside.

“Awsh-”hestartedtosay.

“Yougotarodstuckinyourside!”Thegirlexclaimed.

“YeaInoticed.”Oghrengasped.

“Thanksfortheinfo,asif Ihadn’tnoticed!”

“noneedtogetsnappy”thegirlsaidtoOghren.

“What’syourname?”Oghrenasked.

“I’mSesuka.”shesaidOghrenthenaskedif therewereanyothersur-vivorsandfoundthattherewerenobodiesoranythinginfactaroundotherthanhisShriken.Oghrenandsesukathenwentintotheaircraft’sbaywheretheypulledthemetalrodoutof Oghrenandpatchedhimup.astheyheadedoutsidetheyheardadaemonicscreamandstartedwalkingintheotherdirec-tion.theycontinuedwalkingforaroundthreehourswhereOghrendiscov-eredanothercrash.

“Sameregiment.”Oghrensaid.Again,nobodieswereinsight.

“Veryodd”Oghrenmumbled.theyfoundamapinthewreckandplot-tedacoursefortheforwardoperatingbase.

“Weshouldresthere”OghrensaidtoSesuka.Thetwodidn’tgetverymuchsleepthatnight.Theywerebothwokenaroundmidnighttothesoundsof moredaemonicscreaming.

“Ok,whatinmytimeisthat!”Oghrenshouted.

“Itsthem...”Sesukasaid.

“Isawthemgettakenawaybythescreams.Theygotoverwhelmedby


them.TheImperialsstoodnochanceagainstthisnewenemy.”AfterSesukasaidthisOghrenfeltverydisturbed,Whatnewenemycouldthisbe?InthemorningOghrensawitassoonasheawokefromhisbrief sleep,ablackslimycreature.ThiswasChaosinitstrueform.Pureevil.TherehavebeenmanystoriesaboutChaos.ItisaneverexpandingAlienrace.Xeno’salsoknownas.Theytakemanyforms,astheUndeadorjustanalienrace.ThesearemuchworsethanOrksoreventheEldar.anElfishraceof aliens.Thethingspedtowardshimwithspeedthatshouldnotbeforacreaturelikethat.Itseyeslockedonhim.Hegropedforhispistolbutdidnotfeelit.HemusthaveleftitontheShriken!Afamiliarsoundpoppedrightbehindhimthenthemonstersheadexplodedintoamassof redandblackgoo.

“Myboltpistol!”OghrensaidasheturnedandlookedatSesuka.“Yougrabbedit!”Sesukaapologisedandgaveitbackstatingthatsheheardasoundandgotscared.Oghrensaiditwasalrightandgavetheideatostartmovingagain.

“Bythetimewe’remakingweshouldbetherebynoon.”Oghrensaidandhowrighthewas.Theyhadmadeit!Safeatlast.Or,that’swhatOghrenthought.ThatnightthefirstgoodsleephegotintwodaysOghrenawoketothesoundsof Explosionsandscreams.

“Ohgod,notmore.”Heranoutof hisbunkhousegrabbingalasrifle.Hesawfireandpeoplerunning.Fromwhat?Suddenlygettinggrippedbyasuddenurgetorunintothefrayhesawashrikenabovedropsoldiersinsu-perheavyarmour.

“Spa-Spacemarines?”Oghrenstuttered.Whatwasgoingon!Theseguysonlyfightsuperdangerousenemies.TheyhavehunteddownvariousChaosprinces.couldthatbewhat’shere?Thiswasjustsupposetobearou-tineoppagainstrebels.HastheEmperorletChaosgetthisfarin?TheEm-perorof allof mankind?Howisthatpossible!ManythoughtsflewthroughOghren’smindbutonethingwasforcertain.Thisisaverydangerousarea.

“Where’sSesuka?”Oghrenshoutedatarandommanrunningpastwhogavenoreply.


“Bah,Guardsmen!Allarecowards!”Hestartedrunningtowardsthesoundof combat.WherehesawSesukabehindmoreBlackslimymonstersandsomeskeletons.

“Sesuka!”Heshouted.Thenitallhithim.Thedaemonicscreamsallthetime,theslimymonsterattack.SesukawasChaos.Shehadusedhimtogetintothebase.ThenfrombehindtheSpacemarineschargedforwardchain-swordsinhand,chargingheadlongintoabattleagainstthesealiens.“GetbackPilot!”oneof themshoutedpushingOghrenback.OghrennoticedaShrikencarrierpreparingtotakeoff andjumpedheadlongintothecarrierjustasittookoff.thelastglimpsehesawwasof SesukagettingcutdownbyaSpaceMarine.


TransformationAmberHuffman

Entio’seyesbulgedandhisheartpoundedashestaredathermangledbody.Hestoodtherefrozen,staring,forwhatseemedlikeaneternitybe-forehejoltedoutof hisdazeandbolted.Herandownthedarkalleywayanddidn’tstoprunninguntilhereachedhishouse.Whenhestoppedhethrewup.

“Thisisn’thappening.”Entiosaidtohimself,Imagesof Terra’sblood-iedfaceandbodyflashedthroughhismindandhethrewupagain.Hewipedawaythetearshedidn’trealizehewassheddingandstoodupstraight.Hetookadeepbreath.

“Itcan’tbehappening.Itcan’tbe.”Tearsstartedtofallonceagain.But it is happening.


Thelightscameoninthelivingroomandheheardmovement.Hebolt-edaroundtothebackyard,notwaitingtofindoutwhowasup.Entiohadjustjumpedoff thefenceandhitthegroundwhenthefrontdooropened.Hefroze,afraidtoevenbreath.Adogstartedbarkingandhecursedhimself underhisbreath.Heforgotabouttheirdog.“Ginger!Shh!It’sme,Entio.”Atthesoundof hisvoice,shestoppedbarkingandranuptohim,happysmileandall.“Heygirl.”Hewhispered,smilingasshelickedhisface.

Hewaitedinthebackyarduntilthelightswentoff andwaitedforacou-pleminutesaftertomakesurewhoeverwasupwasbackinbed.Entioliedawakeinhisbed,staringattheceilingwhenhisphonebuzzedindicatinghereceivedatextmessage.Hepickeduptolookatit.

Terra:Hey,youawake?

Hesatupstraightandstaredwideeyedatthetext.Heshookhishead.“No.No,don’tansweritEntio,it’satrap.Don’tanswerit.”Hetookadeepbreathandsetthephonefacedownonhisnightstandandlaidbackdown.Withthetextmessagestillembeddedinhismind,hefellasleep.

Whenthelightcameonhecursed.“Turnthelightoff!”

“No.Youneedtogetupandcomedowntothekitchen,now.”Hisdadsaidurgentlyinaworriedvoice.

Entiolookedathisfatherpuzzled,butgotupnonetheless.Ashecamearoundthecornertoenterthekitchenhefroze.ThereweretwoFBIagentssittingatthetable.Entioknewwithoutadoubthewasgoingtojail,eventhoughhedidn’tdoanythingwrong,didhe?

“Son,you’recomin’withus.”

Beforehecouldstophimself heblurted,“ButIdidn’tdoit!Iswear!Ilovedher!Iwouldneverkillher!Never.”Hehunghisheadandstartedcry-ing.“Atleastnotintentionally.”Hewhispered.

TheFBIagentslookedateachotherandgrabbedEntiobytheshoul-dersandtookhimtothestation.Hisparentswatched,knowingwhattheir

sonhaddoneandwishingwithalltheirheartstheywerewrong.Yettheybothknewtheyweren’t.

Entiosatintheinterrogationroomshaking.Hehadfinallystoppedcry-ingandcalmeddownenoughfortheagenttotalktohim.

“Hello.MynameisAgentBarbo.I’mheretoaskyouafewquestionsaboutamurderweareinvestigating.”Hepulledoutafolderandtookoutsomepapersfromthatfolder.Outof thestackof papers,AgentBarbotookouttwopictures.“Doyouknowthisgirl?”HeaskedEntioshowinghimapictureof Terra,beforeshewasmurdered.Entionoddedhishead,unabletospeak.“Alright,hereisapictureof herwhenwefoundheratthepark.”En-tiosnappedhisheadup.

“Thepark?”Thatwasn’tright.Shewasinadarkalleyway.

“Yes.Issomethingwrong?”

“No.Itjust,whywouldanyonewanttomurdersomeoneandleavetheminaparkwherechildrenplay?Whywouldanyonewanttomurderany-oneperiod?”

“Idon’tknow.Wouldyoupleasetakealookatthispicture?Youstillhaven’t.”Entiosighed,helookeddownatthepictureandthrewup.Hestart-edcryingagain.“Wherewereyoulastnightbetweennineandmidnight?”

“Iwashome,sleeping.”Entiolied.

“Cananyonecountforyouwhereabouts?”

Heletoutashakybreath.“No.”

“WefoundyourDNAatthecrimescene.”EntiolookedupatAgentBarbothroughtearfilledeyes.

“Ididn’tkillher.Iwouldneverdothat.”

HeignoredEntio’scommentandkepttalking.”Butwealsofoundawolf ’sDNA.”


Entio’seyeswentwide.“No!No,no,no,no,no.”Hehadhisheadbe-tweenhishandandwasrockingbackandforth.“No,no.I’msosorryTerra.I’msosorry.”Hewhispered.

“Entio?What’swrong?”

Entiocontinuedtorockbackandforth.“Ididn’tmeanto.Ididn’tmeanto.Itwasn’treallyme.Itwasn’t.”Bynowhewasbawling.

AgentBarbostoodupandwalkedaroundtohisside.“Entioyouaregoingtohavetocalmdown.”HeplacedhishandonEntio’sshoulderandhesnapped.

EntiojumpedupandsockedAgentBarbointheface.“No!Ididn’tmeanto!Ican’thelpit!Itwasn’tmyfault!”FivemoreFBIagentscameintotheroomandtriedtocontainEntio,butEntiowasfuriousandhewaslos-ingcontrol.TheFBIagentsstaredinshockandhorrorasEntiotransformedintoawolf andboundedoff intothenight,notgivingthefearstrickenagentsasecondglance.


Short Shorts by Marco Flores

1. RulesHe said, “So why do it?” She said, “Because I can, why does it mat-

ter to you?” He said, “If you just go about doing whatever you feel like doing, then other people will think they can do the same thing as you, and I won’t tolerate that.” She said, “Maybe you should, then more people will be happy; people don’t like being put into a box and told what to do… well most people don’t. Why is it such a big deal for you, that people follow the guidelines anyways?” He said, “It’s important to me, because if we don’t have the guidelines, then there will be chaos. For the most part, with a few people going about doing their own thing is fine, but when everyone starts doing that, then who is there to stop them from doing unthinkable things? That’s why some people need to be put into a box and be told what to do.” She said, “So what? Let them, it’s their life. Let them do whatever they want to do with it.” He said, “What if they start hurting other people, then what? Are you going to jump in and stop people from hurting each other? Huh?” She said, “Well.. no, I guess not. I can’t stop everyone from hurting each other… That is why we have rules, I suppose, but those rules are necessary though.” He said, “So now it’s a question of morals. I bet you will start pointing out the ones that you can live with and not think about other people just yourself… rules are there so everyone is safe and in line.” She said, “What if I break all the rules? Then what?” He said, “Then do it and see what happens, but don’t come running to me when you have to face the consequences.”


2. Crazy eyesHe said, “Stop staring at me like that.” She said, “The whole point

of a staring contest is to stare at one and another brah.” He said, “No the point is not to blink and the way to find the winner is to look each other in the eyes, not look straight into my soul.” She said, “How about you stop being such a little bitch.” He said, “Well at least I’m not the one with the crazy eyes.” She said, “Say what you want I’m going to win.” He said, “Fine you win I don’t like you staring at me with the eyes of a murderer it’s creepy as hell.” She said, “Am I really being that weird that you can’t even look me straight in the eye?” He said, “No I’m just kidding I’m just getting back at you for beating me.” She said, “Al-right good because if you said yes then I was about to get even weird-er.” He said, “ I doubt that’s even possible.” She said, “You wanna bet punk?”

3. Project PigeonHe pigeon said, “Alright this is how is going to go down, listen up

everyone we have to do this right or else they will catch on got it?” She pigeon said, “Are you sure you want to do this? Last time we did this he cried for half an hour, and we just sat there watching, like we were biding our time like we were waiting for the old man with the bread.” He pigeon said, “Yes he has wronged us once and he will pay for crimes against pigeon kind go it?” She pigeon said, “Fine so what’s the plan?” He pigeon said, “From the information I have gathered they are about to… the man with the bread is back go forth my kind and feed… rr-rooo rrrooooo rrroooo….. Alright are we all loaded?” She pigeon said, “Yes I’m full… he’s going for the car the time to act is now.” He pigeon said, “I got this…. bombs away…. I got him on the shoulder before he got in mission accomplished everyone let’s back to the park I heard there’s going to be a picnic today.”


Featured Writer:Maria Spores


A Delicate ProcessMaria Spores

Ah. You see… I wasn’t quite… expecting you. Well, I was, but I appear somewhat startled, don’t I? In reality, I have been expecting this visit since we made the appointment. Though I’ve sat in this rocking chair, waiting for hours, your knocking seems to have... Oh dear, I see you are confused. Allow me to… would you like some tea? Oh really, I insist. I have a splendid Turkish tea set that my mother sent to me be-fore the, ah, accident. Did you know that there is a very specific process to brewing a cup of Turkish tea? You didn’t? It is not quite as simple as boiling a few liters of water in a tea kettle, then dipping a cloth bag filled with dried shrubbery into it, no. I’ll go fetch the kettle to show you.

You have never seen a Turkish tea kettle, have you? When pol-ished, the copper shines and shimmers with various shades of bronze and orange, truly magnificent and nearly blinding. Why are there two teapots stacked one atop the other? That is very observant of you. The


bottom of the smaller kettle settles right into the mouth of the larger kettle, like so. We will fill the larger kettle with two liters of water, then bring it to a boil. Now, have a look at these tea leaves. What do you see? Ah, they do indeed appear to be black, but take a closer look. Yes, the vague reddish hue is often overlooked. We will wash these, to rid any tea dust from the leaves. Then I place this sieve into the smaller teapot, stacking the smaller one on top of the larger. You may tell me about yourself as we wait for the water to boil…

So you do have children, that was my first impression. You seem… fatherly, no? But instead of being home with them, you decide to work to provide for them. That is… admirable. And do you work for the bank, or for a company of another sort? Interesting… No, no truly. Where did you go to school? Have you always lived in the area? Ah-hhh, Maryland born and raised, then. Myself? It’s a lengthy and mo-notonous tale, really. I’d rather not bore you to death, at least not... oh! Listen! That must be the water boiling.

Now, the water that has just boiled, half of that will be poured into the smaller tea kettle. Of course, we must remove the upper kettle first. I always use a glass measuring cup to measure out exactly half; one can never be too careful with such a… delicate process. In a moment, I will reduce the heat to medium, reposition the smaller kettle atop the larg-er, and set them back on the stove for 15 minutes. Oh my goodness! I must not forget to set the timer! Time has a way of… scampering away from me. I lose track of it quite often. It’s been so ever since… ahem. Where were we?

You insist that I tell you more of my own adventure? Normally, I would refuse but as we have a bit of time on our hands, I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm. Like you, Maryland was my first home. I at-tended a prestigious academy nearby, but in light of recent events I have chosen to keep its name to myself. I’m sure you understand, with all the conspiracy about the experiments taking place. It truly is tragic. So much evil in this world… My mother was always a grand support to

me. She did her utmost to raise me as a respectful and successful citi-zen. Bless her soul. My father was rather… absent from my childhood. Business frequently called him overseas, and he remained secretive even with Mother and I. He was very proud of my achievements, how-ever. I started playing the violin when I was seven years old. He came to each of my recitals. Practice seemed like a chore to me, but it was a worthy endeavor, my father was proud.

Other hobbies? Writing and reading have always piqued my inter-est. The tragedy of writers and poets always… struck a chord within me. I must have been about 17 years old when I read The Waves by Virginia Woolf. Her story is rather beautiful, macabre. She struggled for many years with manic-depressive disorder, more commonly known as bipolar disorder today.When she was 59 years old, she filled her pockets to the brim with stones as she wandered into a river near her home, drowning herself. The suicide letter to her husband was es-pecially touching… It began: “Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time.” Then, as it drew to a close, “If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.” Tremendously haunting, no? You can almost hear the undu-lating current of the river as you read the words, the soft mud at the bottom of the river enveloping her body as it sank, concealing her tor-mented soul for eternity…

When I was 18, I moved to Germany to study the violin. That would have been 1974. I attended the Universität der Künste in Ber-lin. My father paid for everything. Truly? I was miserable. I came back to the states after he died. Mother and I inherited his estate, the home that you find yourself in right now. With him finally gone, we were able to make the house beautiful. Father never had much appreciation for fine arts. We ordered furniture from all over the world, and deco-



rated the walls with breathtaking paintings. With the money he left, I decided to open a bookstore and mother spent the rest of her years traveling the world. We were finally happy. Doing what we wanted to. Until the… incident when she passed away. I would explain, but it’s simply far too grim to describe.

I really hope you are comfortable as you are right now. I’ve had the tendency to make guests feel… less than welcome at times. With all the criminals and intruders roaming about these days however, one can never be too careful, no?

Goodness, you are being awful quiet. Are you sure you’re alright? Of course, the gag makes it more difficult to communicate, but I usually hear a bit more noise than you are making presently. You know what they say, “One should always remember to keep their victim silent, it’s a delicate process.” They don’t say that? Hmmm… well they really should. I apologize. I know you didn’t mean to upset me. However, this IS the line of work you chose. This property is the only home I have ever known. I kindly invite you into my home and the least you can do is spout threats of foreclosure? That is simply rude behavior, and I am quite honestly offended.

It comes down to this decision. Do I end your pathetic chronicle of poor decorum? Or do I use you a messenger to send a threat to the oth-ers? I could gouge your eyes out. I could asphyxiate you. Maybe I could hang your from the balcony, make an example. I suppose I could ask for your opinion, right? If I just loosen the gag a bit… ahhhhh, how silly of me. Of course I can’t do that.

Oh, just as I said, time seems to have escaped me yet again. The timer has gone off and the tea is ready. Remember the Turkish tea set I told you about? Well it included a spoon with an… eye-catchingly en-graved handle. Ah, how I make myself chuckle. See what I did there? “Eye-catchingly”. Excuse me for a moment, and please be patient. It truly is a delicate process.

UndecidedMaria Spores

Somethinginyoursoulisengravedintomybone

Underneaththefloorboards,inaheartyoucalledahome

Asideeffectof lust,spiderscrawlinginmyskull

Untilthebassinthetrunkshakesmybodytoawhole

UntiltheTripleSix,thetreblehits,todrownmymindinRiverStyx

Pretendingwecouldfindacure,asimplefixinwhiskeysips

Likeitcouldmakeadifference,likeanythingwesaidmadesense

Likelovecouldmakeachangeintherailroadsonyourwrist

Idon’thaveaproblemwiththefactthatyou’realive

Youcouldgougemewithafinger,makethewholeworldblind

I’mstartingtoforgetaboutgrayskieswithinyoureyes

ButyouknowIcan’tforgeteverysingletimeIlied

Soleavemeheretodielikeit’sFullMetalJacket

Trytofindabalance,guesstheycallthatisostatic

YoulockedmeinTheBellJaruntilIwentinsane

AndthoughIwasn’tkind,Ineverclaimedtobeasaint


Iputupwiththeabuseandmisuse,likeitwasClockwork

Orange,rememberStaff SergeantThorburn?

I’veneverbeenonetomakeapoemoutof spite

AllIknownow,Irobbedayearfromyourlife

Idon’thaveaproblemwiththefactthatyouexist

YoutookaTool,someNineInchNails,thenyouleftmeonacrucifix

AllyoueverwantedwasalittleLambof God

Butyoucouldneverchangeme,guessit’syouthatIforgot

Babydon’tgo

TheloveIdidn’tshow

Guess I found window and so now we’re both alone

Savemefromthisnightmare,nobodyknows

Winterwindsbringloss,deathcloakedinsnow.



My Father’s ToolboxMaria Spores

Her hair wasn’t mousey and brown. Never a hint of frizz, never a single strand out of place. Even the mightiest of glaciers couldn’t help but melt when Angela smiled. My hair didn’t cascade in luscious red ringlets like hers. My smile couldn’t melt an ice cube. Though my cheekbones weren’t prominent, though my teeth were stained, I had beautiful eyes. Not earthy-brown with melanin like Angela’s, but a deep forest-green, rays of gold radiating from my pupils. I wasn’t ugly, but Angela was nothing less than stunning. My charm, my sense of humor, never failed to make those around me chortle in agreement. Angela didn’t laugh, though. She smiled and nodded, but she never laughed.

Father didn’t come home that day. He wasn’t there for my sixth birthday like he promised. All he left was a toolbox and a memory. Love never returned to take me away. Mother didn’t stay clean for long. “It’s all your fault Charles is gone! Don’t look at me with those eyes!” she would scream, never sober. My father’s eyes. Not brown like Mother’s and Lisa’s. She didn’t yell at Lisa like she yelled at me, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care when Mother died in the accident, she wasn’t noisy anymore. Lisa was old enough to care for me afterwards. She didn’t do anything but sit on her bed in a trance of depression, staring into the wall. Then I didn’t see Lisa much. She didn’t remember to pick me up at school anymore, and love never returned to take me away.

It wasn’t easy to fit in with the other kids. Why did girls cry all of the


time? Why did they always have to ask how I was doing? It never made sense, but I observed and adapted. I never missed a detail. When high school came around, I was a class clown. They didn’t have time to ask an-noying questions, because I made them all laugh. Everyone except nosy Angela. She always wanted to know how I was feeling.

He wasn’t a smart boy, but he clung like a parasite when I ignored him. He was my favorite plaything. I was never going to let anyone else have him. Angela wasn’t innocent like they thought she was; I saw her smile at him one too many times. Maybe Angela wasn’t very smart either. I wouldn’t let her win this time. I found the answer in my father’s toolbox.

She never smiled with her teeth, but seeing them now, they glisten like morning dew. She didn’t need braces for the immaculate spacing be-tween the calcium phosphate, unmolested by drills. I hardly notice myself tracing the outline of each tooth longingly with Father’s pliers before set-ting them aside. Not yet. With no less luster than before, her vibrant locks cloak the surgical table like a scarlet puddle of fresh blood. Her porcelain skin is unmarred, besides the horizontal incision over her throat. Over her larynx, carotid artery and jugular. The razor isn’t as heavy as it was before. As I shave her head, the curls don’t fall to the contaminated cement floor, they float. Each strand more gracefully than the last. I can’t hear the crack-le and pop of teeth being pulled over some familiar melody playing over and over in my head. Nor can I hear the rattling saw, blunt and aged with rust, turn on in my hands. Then a single piece that didn’t stay in place. Pain. Blood drips familiarly onto the tops of my forearms, but it isn’t hers. The light in the room is beginning to fade. The music doesn’t stop as my hand reaches up to a bloodied eyeball in my skull. Now I’m standing in front of a mirror. My father’s eye. Stained the same color as her hair. I can’t stand what I see. Disgusting. The image doesn’t fade, no matter how tightly I clench shut my remaining eye. There’s nothing left to do. The pli-ers don’t shake as I draw them into my field of vision. Ever closer now. I welcome the encompassing blackness.


STORIES


The Beating Thing in Your ChestMcKayla Younger

You’re sitting in your class knowing you’re behind. You want to give up, your fight is losing momentum. Do you have the endurance? For god sakes you’re struggling sitting here in high school in your careers class. You have so many different things in order for you to attempt to pass this class. You have to work tonight, well there goes homework. You will be exhausted when you get home, you will eat then crash. Breathe, breathe it’s all you can do at the moment. Everything is saying, “run”; your mind, the universe, everyone surrounding you as well. The only thing catching you... is that beating thing there, there in your chest behind your ribcage. Why does it always have to stop you running? It’s what keeps you fight-ing, you think, maybe. “You’re not good enough”, “You’ll end up just like your cousin.” “Where are you going to come up with the money to pay for that much college?” “I’m not helping you with that. I never got any help like that.” Those are just some of the things people have said to you that are racing through your mind, they always do. It scares you, you’re just a barista. Only a little barista, not counting the little baby sitting you do on the side that’s all. How am I going to pay to for college with that? You might get some scholarships, but how? There are so many obstacles in your way of achieving your dream. Your dream of being a cardiovascular surgeon. One day, one day you will be holding a scapula cutting into someone’s skin that protects them. You break, their rib cage and pry it open to get to their heart. That fragile thing you have inside your chest. You reach into their chest cavity, their heart is leaking blood everywhere. You have to repair their aorta. If you don’t you will walk out of the OR and you will have to face that person’s family. You’ll say that you couldn’t repair their aorta quick enough and the person bled out on your operating table. You might as well crack each and every one of that lady’s family’s rib cage open, rip their heart out, and crush it. Each and every little fragile


heart, even the little girl squeezing her teddy bear tight. She’s scared to death of you and what’s happening. She doesn’t have a grandma like you did when you were younger anymore. The grandma that helped be able to stand over that little girl’s grandma trying to help her live. Your Grandma’s mother, who is hands down the strongest woman you’ve ever known. She’s cold hearted, but soft just like you. Except you learned that from her, she learned it from her struggles of life. Your poor little stubborn grand-mother, when she was a little girl not much older than the little girl stand-ing there, watched her mother and her sister in a fire. She couldn’t do any-thing, but watch. She is and Alaskan Native a true one, not like you. She didn’t have running water, she helped pack water so they had potable wa-ter in their somewhat of a house. She did not get everything that you have now days. Your grandmother got shipped away to a boarding school, be-cause her father couldn’t afford to feed her. She also got shipped to live with her auntie when she wasn’t in the boarding school. But when she was attending boarding school it was awful; she was bullied non-stop because of her skin color and the way she was raised. She has mentioned to you before “Don’t call yourself Eskimo, you never say that! You’re Indian!” It was because of the pain of the bullying made her cold and the way she is. All the other things you know about that you don’t dare speak of in front of her as well. There is so many unmentionable things that you mention and you will get yelled at. That has been that way ever since you were a little girl. Her heart is hard and cold with a slightly soft, warm spot that is hidden over ninety-five percent of the time. You’ve seen the pain in your short little grandmother’s heart, when she mentions these things. You see the pain in her eyes as well it runs all over your body every time it is men-tioned or when she slightly mentions something associated with her pain. That feisty, little four’ eleven, woman is where you get all of it from. That is why when you are sitting in your class struggling you keep going. You keep going for that little girl and her grandmother you will be operating on one day. You know what it’s like to be that tiny young girl with her whole life ahead of you and you look at the surgeon that didn’t know enough and they didn’t know enough, because they didn’t study hard enough. You


were squeezing your teddy bear when the surgeon came out to tell your family that your Grandma Geneva didn’t make it. Your family went into shock and you stood there in shock as well. You scared to death, you were literally staring death in the face when the surgeon told your family that with you there. You wanted to take it out on the surgeon, all the little bit you were. You won’t ever let a child be there when some type of major surgery like that is happening, it’s cold and dark when you stare death in the face. You start loving up on your little cousin after school one day. He gives you kisses back, on the cheek. He tells you he loves you “La”. When it’s time for you to go and you were walking out the door of your grand-ma’s house he chases you. You tell him to go back inside. He doesn’t lis-ten, but it warms your heart because of he is telling you as your leaving. He starts screaming, “I love you, La!” You think to yourself, will you ever be able to have that? Because that was one of the best feelings right there. It makes you not so cold hearted when something like that happens to you. Then you think you can’t save someone when you have a child of your own. You know that little girl you had to tell she can’t go home, because her mom wasn’t there. You always want to be there for a child of your own. When you’re performing surgeries on people and their heart, you never know when their heart will stop working. You could get called in to work at any moment in a day. You can’t ever leave a child like that just hanging. That is when a child will start to think you are not their actual parent and there would be nothing in the world more painful than that feel-ing, even the birth you went through to have that child. Then think about the world around you; it’s scary right? World War III is about to happen. Do you really want to bring a child into a World War III? No so a degree it is. What were you even thinking about a life like that snap out of it. You pick up a scapula and you make an incision. Crack the chest, rip out the heart, that person doesn’t need it anymore. Oh, by the way it’s your own heart. It’s warm now why did you let that happen? You should have guard-ed it better. You want it cold just like your grandma taught you. You need to make it cold again. Throw it on the ground it lay there. The temperature is currently twenty below out, in the middle of one of the worst blizzards


you have seen since you were born, besides the day you were born. You were born in the middle of a blizzard with three holes in your heart. Your heart lying in the cold isn’t enough. Pick it up, crush it in your hands as hard as you can; throw it, kick it, and stomp it. Now, pick it up, throw it back in in your chest cavity stitch it back up. Or do you even need a heart? In this world it seems you don’t anymore. It is a thought that repeatedly goes through your mind. It stops you from so many things in life, you fight it all the time. So who needs one anymore, right? All you are is scared to death of it, because it goes after the wrong things that are completely out of reach and aren’t logical. Then again, you might need it for when you are down the road. You know, when you are looking at the little girl before you give her family the news. Except after you do give her family the news, she’s going to run up to you and give you the biggest hug. Because she doesn’t realize it yet, but her grandmother she needs. Her grandmother will teach her so many things. But then again sometimes to get where you want you have to be ruthless. So, do you really need the beating thing in your chest?

Second ChancesAmber Blanchard

I took the test a few weeks ago. I’ve been checking the mail each day since as soon as the mail lady comes by. I’ve wanted to become a lawyer since my sophomore year in high school. I had a feeling today would be the big reveal. I will finally know. I tore the letter out of the mailbox and sprinted back to my door, covering it with my jacket to shield it from the rain. Inside, I sit down quickly, dry my hands on my jeans, and fumble with the envelope until I finally get it ripped open. I could feel myself start to blush. I am so embarrassed. I’ve put four years of time and effort and so much studying into this. I am so disappointed. I just want to curl into a ball and cry my eyes out. What am I going to tell everyone? Who even is there left to tell? I haven’t talked to many people from home lately. I’ve only made a few friends in college but we’re not all that close. I don’t re-ally want to tell my mom because whenever something bad happens to me she just contacts the entire family then they call me telling me how bad they feel for me. All I’ve really got is my dad.


We met in the hometown grill the next day for lunch. As I wait, I tap my foot anxiously... I am always way too early and sometimes it’s not that good of a thing to do to myself. I see the top of his tall head and I could feel my heart sink. I don’t even know what I’m going to say to him. He’s going to be so disappointed in me. I just order a hot tea and a salad be-cause I’m not sure how much my stomach can hold. He ordered the typical lemonade and burger. He

mentioned the test first. He asked how it went and if I had gotten the scores back. I stumbled on my words because I wasn’t sure how to re-spond yet. I told him that I had gotten them back and they weren’t as I expected. I couldn’t look him in the eye because I was worried that I wouldn’t like the look I received back from him. The way he responded didn’t go as I anticipated. My gaze shot up. “Keep trying, try until you succeed, don’t ever give up.” That’s all he told me. He didn’t show any sign of disappointment at all.

With my luck, my older sister was invited to dinner. She has never had a good thing to say all my life. I now dreaded seeing her. I was sitting in my room and heard someone walk into the front door. I lingered into the living room where I knew my dad was last. To my relief, it was only his girlfriend. The first thing she said to me she was sorry to hear the news. This doesn’t anger me, although it doesn’t make me feel better either. I’m just glad I didn’t have to tell her myself. “It’s alright, I’ll get over it,” I re-sponded. She gave me a quick hug. Changing the subject, I asked if there was anything I could do to help with dinner. I wiped off the table and set out plates and silverware. Impatiently, I sat and waited in a chair furthest from the door. It felt like hours. I stared out the window watching the rain poor from the gutters and contemplated what to do next. An internship? Go to school another year? Just become a paralegal?

My thoughts were interrupted when the dog started barking at the door. She’s here. I took a deep breath and answered the door. We had spa-ghetti for dinner. My dad must have decided on


this because he knows it is my favorite and he knows I’m upset. I kept praying that no one would bring it up so I could avoid the conversation overall. She asked me why I was being so

quiet. I stared at my plate and told her I’d rather not talk about it. “You failed, didn’t you? I knew you would! You’re not as good as you ever say you are.” I left my plate on the table, got

up, and walked into my room. I honestly don’t need this right now. I could hear mumbled conversation coming from the other room. I tried to hold back the tears of frustration but the pressure was too strong. I fell onto my bed and shoved my face into my pillow so no one could hear. My dog was whining outside my door, wanting to come in. I let him in, because I know he’ll be of some comfort to me. All he wants to do is play, so I push him away so that he’ll understand now is not the time.

About half an hour later, I am still in my room. I can hear music from the tv in the living room and still some mumbled talking. I’ve just been scrolling through Facebook and Instagram on my phone, trying to waste time. My dog is now laying by my feet on my bed, calmly. A few moments later, I hear the front door open, wind blowing into the house, and a quick goodbye from my sister. I feel more comforted now knowing she’s gone. That comfort soon disappears when I feel that my phone began to vibrate. I look down and see that it is my mom. Of course! I should have expected this of my sister. I answer the phone, trying to not sound irritated. Without even a hello, she asks me about the test. “Why haven’t you told me? Were you even going to? Why did I have to hear about this from your sister?” Frustrated, I hang up. I turn off my phone, and get my laptop out to watch Netflix.

I hear a knock on my bedroom door. “Yeah?” I ask. My dad comes in and asks me if I’d like to watch movies in the living room. I go out there, leaving my phone off in my room. My dog follows. We watch the new Vacation. It was good to have a laugh, it got my mind off of it. After, I put my pajamas on and wash my face. I tell my dad and his girlfriend good-


night and go to bed.

The next morning, I wake up around ten thirty. I take a shower, eat some toast, and drink some coffee. I go into my room, and take my time doing my hair and makeup. I finally turned my phone back on and get two texts from my mom, one asking why I hung up and the other telling me to call her. I don’t really want to call her, but I guess I’ll have to face her sometime anyways. I call her back and lie. I told her that I was going to call her the next day and tell her about it. I could tell she was holding something back. She told me she was sorry to hear about me failing and that she wishes I would have told her as soon as I found out. I say a simple “sorry” and she says she’s busy and will talk to me later.

I decided I needed a little time for myself to relax and possibly heal. I went for a hike at the butte and took my dog with me. It had stopped rain-ing by now, although I wore my tennis shoes that I didn’t care much about in case there was mud. The hike was nice, the sun started to come out and warm my back, and there was no one else out there. Simply me and the silence around me. I sat down at the very top, overlooking the town. Here, I got a granola bar out of my bag that I had brought and began to eat it.

As I ate, I thought to myself, why in the world would I give up? Test-ing is super hard for me and always has been. I can simply order a text-book to study from and do some summer

courses at the community college here in my home town. It’s a better choice to work a little harder and cram than to give up or settle. With a satisfied piece of mind, I hiked back down the hill and went straight home. As soon as I got home, I told my dad about my plan.

“You don’t have to do that,” he responded. “Yes I do dad! How else am I going to become a lawyer?” He handed me an envelope that had al-ready been opened. It was addressed to me. “Sorry, I didn’t read who it was for before I opened it,” my dad told me. I opened the envelope, slowly got out the letter, and read, “Dear Ms. Amber Blanchard, we are so sorry about the inconvenience, but we did a regrade on all of the tests... There


was a portion that we left out while grading. We caught this while put-ting the grades into our system, because nobody seemed to pass and this was awfully peculiar. We looked through each test and realized we left the most important part out, reading! We would like to congratulate you on your score, you passed! Again, we are so sorry for the inconvenience and we’d like to send you with best wishes!”

I began to jump up and down like a child and repeat “I passed!” My dad gave me a big hug and said, “I never doubted you sweety!” Anger swept over me as I thought of what my sister had said to me at dinner. I took a picture of the letter I had just received and sent it to my mom. I fig-ured I wouldn’t even bother showing it to my sister because it’s not even worth trying to show her she was wrong. Joy filled my heart as I began law school searches on my laptop that night. I realized how truly blessed I am to be living this life in this country. Where women can be lawyers and there’s always second chances.


16 Remembered, 17 LostMaddie Woodward

Everyone liked Holden. I’ve always been told that I was so lucky to be in Holden’s life, and I had always taken that for granted. He was my first friend when I moved here in fourth grade and we haven’t grown apart since then. Teachers loved him, I swear, even my mom liked him more than she liked me. He was on the baseball team, he was on honor roll, and he was going to attend University of Arizona next fall with his best friend and my boyfriend, Graham. But now, he’s not.

Things haven’t been the same since last March when it happened. People don’t even walk down that hall anymore. They take the long way and walk all the way around the school to go from class to class in order to avoid walking down the hallway where it happened. I’ve gone to this school for four years, I’ve seen a million different things happen down that hall. Couples making out, girl fights, people laughing, people talking and people crying. But now, all I can see, all anybody can see, is...


I was downstairs, but I heard them. They kept coming, one after the other. Panicking, I called Holden again and again; no answer. How was I supposed to know what was going on? Out of everyone why would it be him? Advisors always teach us that in these situations you’re supposed to go into the nearest classroom to stay safe, but they obviously have never been in the situation. I couldn’t feel safe and stay calm until I knew where Holden was. Naturally, he and Graham were my only concerns but Gra-ham was on family vacation in Cabo. The hallways were swarming with terrified classmates and I was one of them. When I finally found Holden, I felt relieved, I was waving him to come to me, so he did. Had I known he had a gun behind his back, or that there were 16 dead bodies just beyond the corner, I would have never called him over. Most importantly though, had I known what was going to happen next, I would have never looked for him in the first place. I opened my mouth to speak and that was when Holden pulled out the gun and pointed it dead at me.

He wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking through me. I knew what would happen if I tried to run, so I didn’t. The school became a silent asylum. The only things I could hear were the faint sound of the police si-rens that were on their way, Holden’s heavy breathing and my even heavi-er heartbeat. Holden had the kind of voice that actors had. It was deep and intimidating and attractive. Holden’s voice was my favorite sound and usually, we don’t imagine what the last words we’re going to hear from someone are. One year later, I still remember the last thing I heard from Holden. We stared at each other for a long time, and as a tear rolled down Holden’s face, he whispered something to the world, to me. “I’m sorry, Tatum.” And that was it… that was all he left me with. All he left anyone with. Because what he did next is all I picture when I look down that hall-way. I picture Holden raising the gun to his head, and pulling the trigger.

I wish I had a reason to tell people why he did what he did, and I wish he left me with more than what he did. All I know is Riverside hon-ored 16 lost lives that day. There is a trophy case filled with pictures and letters in memorial of the 16 students we lost that day. 16 souls honored in


that trophy case, even though 17 are no longer with us. Everyone has good things to say about those who were killed, even if those talking about them didn’t even know them. Once someone dies, everybody says they loved them. Those same people who talk so graciously about the 16 students, had nothing but nasty comments about Holden. Holden died that day. I saw it. I had to sit there and watch my best friend die right in front of me. Right in the middle of the school. And Holden wasn’t honored. Because whether you knew Holden or not, all you know now is that we was a psy-chotic killer. I was the only one who remembered Holden for who he re-ally was, I guess. Maybe because Holden is now just a shout into the void. Forgotten. Avoided. Hated. I still can’t fathom how at the memorial assem-bly at Riverside last spring, how there were 16 candles lit for the 17 we lost that day.

There’s a lot of things I will never understand from that day. In hu-man phychology we went over suicide and homicides. Statistics proved that people who do these things leave letters, leave reasons, leave some-thing, anything. It says the people who do this are mentally ill. That wasn’t Holden. He was healthy and smart and never had the intentions of doing what he did. He had a great home life, the best, even. He had friends and a great life ahead of him. So if gunman’s in school shootings are usually bullied or unwanted, why had Holden fallen into that category?

So, I sit here, on the one year anniversary of the incident, and I have nothing new to say to anyone or myself. I decided it was time I pay Mrs. Walker a visit. I know, it definitely should not have taken me a year to go see her, but what was I supposed to say? That I watched her only child kill himself? I was the last to see Holden alive and that didn’t sit well with me. I pulled up to their cozy home on the backstreets of town, and walked up their steps to their red door for the first time in over a year. Mrs. Walker was surprised to see me, and I knew I was doing better than she was on this day. After a little small talk and a few tears, she asked if I would go into Holden’s room and take what I wanted. The last thing I wanted was to snoop around a dead kids’ room, especially Holden’s. Jokingly, I thought


to myself that I might find a clue to what happened on this day a year ago. I had no idea that I’d actually find out why Holden did it. But, I did. I found Holden’s reasoning, his silent heartache. His motive for the River-side shooting.

Holden’s room was the same. Baseball trophies and posters, framed pictures of him, Graham and I, video games in the corner, and his home-coming king crown on his dresser. The room still smelled like Holden, even. I had to get out of there. To make Mrs. Walker happy, I took Hold-en’s favorite baseball t-shirt and a photo of him and I at the homecoming game our freshman year, the night he introduced me to Graham. On my way out, Mrs. Walker stopped me and I realized she knew something I didn’t know.

I entered Holden Walker’s house on March 13th, 2014 only knowing it had been a year since my best friend had left the biggest impact any-one ever had in this town. I left that day, with so much more. I left with a heavy heart and the truth. In my short talk with Holden’s mother, I was in-formed that Holden had left a note to his mother that she discovered weeks after the incident. The note indicated even though he had a lot going for him, the only thing he cared about didn’t want him back. On that day I found out Holden loved me. Nobody knew, including Graham or myself. Holden was tired of seeing his best friend with the most important person in his life, and it broke him every day knowing I was in love with Graham and not him. I left that house that day with the guilt of knowing that I, Ta-tum Parks, killed Holden Walker.


A Deceptive FriendshipMegan Allen

October started out with nothing but rumors that sent me home cry-ing, hating myself. Rumors that I was pregnant, had STD’s, and had slept with my friend’s boyfriend were circling the hallways of Hillbrook High School. I had not talked to Addie and Liz in three weeks, they avoided me the best that they could. Paige told them I thought that they were shal-low, and self- centered, but none of that was true. It felt like nothing was going my way at all, I was losing my friends and school was harder than I thought because I was the subject of most of the conversations. Weeks later, after putting the pieces together over and over, I came to the conclu-sion that Paige was the source of all of the awful rumors going around. We have all had the relationship where we would say straight out if one of us


was doing something that offended or bothered us. I was scared to lose the friendship, but I knew I needed to put a stop to all of the drama. Paige kept lying and denying she was in the wrong until our parents got involved, telling us we needed to “talk” it out. What needed to be talked out? I de-served an apology, I did not need to explain myself, especially because the way I recall there was nothing I had done that deserved any of this. I broke down and decided that I would agree to it all being a miscommunication. After all, it is better to stay in a flawed friendship instead of starting over with someone else right? At least that is what I thought then.

Less than six months later another rumor started, but this time it was not about me. For some unknown reason, my mother was brought into the petty high school drama. The rumor was that my mom worshiped the devil. As soon as I heard it, I laughed. How insecure does someone have to be to make up such a pathetic, and ridiculous rumor? Once again, the source came from my so called best friend, Paige. It felt like deja vu, af-ter that rumor was started, several followed. I knew, I needed to cut it off for good this time. Friends are supposed to be trustworthy, you should not have to walk around on eggshells because you’re scared the relationship will explode any minute. Emotional blackmail came next. One evening, I received a long text message from her listing things from my past saying that she knows I would not want my parents, coach, and teachers know-ing these, but that she would tell if I did not go back to where things used to be. For thirty seconds, I thought about giving in, but what would that be saying about myself, that I can controlled by my past? All I replied to Paige was, “Do whatever you want, this is the last time you will ever hear from me.”

I have never been a violent person, but that night it crossed my mind. I wanted to hurt her as bad as she hurt me. I was shocked that she would ever try to use my past against me, and that she wanted to hurt me so bad and make it where I was completely alone. It became quite clear after that things were going to be different. Luckily, Addie and Liz believed me after I explained what all had happened and were on my side. Months passed,


and I did not let her get to me. Of course, the pain was still there, but I no longer care what she did, it was like I never knew her.

It has been a little over a year since the last time I have spoken to Paige. I have observed that she loves the attention drama brings her. Late-ly, there has not been anything at all, she’s like a volcano and right now she’s dormant, but anything can cause her to erupt, one shift and people are hurt. Addie, Liz, and I all got called down to the principal’s office, we knew we were about to get blamed for something completely made up. One by one, we shuffled into the office, inside sat the Principal, Assistant Principal, Paige, and Student Officer, my stomach tightened. Paige was crying. What came next made me realize how insane people can get when they don’t get their way. They asked if we knew anything about her car getting vandalized, we answered no, but they had already made up their minds. She trashed her car, and left all the clues to point to us. I would have even believed her, the way she cried, it was so manipulating, she had the administrators wrapped around her finger. They called our parents tell-ing them we were being expelled and that we would have to go to a court hearing to determine probation.

The three of us were crushed, we were all once so close and she was intentionally ruining our lives. We had two more months until we were done with high school and on with our lives, we all had such big plans and now they seemed impossible to reach. It’s true when they say that sometimes it’s the people closest to you that hurt you the most. My heart was broken, we needed proof that we were innocent so we can finally just move on. So many horrible thoughts rushed through my head- how could she do this? I started wishing that I had vandalized her car, so at least my future could be thrown away for a reason. We had worked too hard for this to go down. I started thinking as hard as I could, I just couldn’t think of a way to link Paige to the crime that she committed, not us. My lawyer told me to plead guilty in court, because the evidence was strong. That’s what confused me. How could it be strong evidence when I never touched any-thing of hers? The Police had found my jacket underneath her car where


it was damaged, and my car was parked on the next block the same night, that was supposedly enough proof for them. Addie lived a block away from Paige’s work, which is where her car was vandalized and that night the three of us were at Addie’s, along with a party full of people. At the court hearing, we had several witnesses backing up our alibi and the case was thrown out. Paige got in trouble for false accusations and the school told her that her acceptance into University of California was redacted. The lies came out, and she was seen for who she had become.

I did not think I would be this happy that now her plans were ruined, but karma was karma. Maybe I trusted her too much, I feel like I should have known better, but I was oblivious to the fact that someone who pre-tended to be there for me through everything would be setting me up for failure. A lot of times, I believe we take our genuine friends for granted. High school taught me to appreciate reality. I learned from the whole situ-ation that deceptive friendships aren’t worth fighting for and it is better to risk the new, then to pretend that everything is okay.


INTERVIEWBODY IN THE WINDOW SEAT and “Misfortune County”

“A Fluid Process” Interview: Body In The Window SeatJim Churchill-Dicks

One of the greatest rewards a teacher can receive is be-ing able to witness the series of moments when their stu-dents become masters of their craft. Enter Darien Campo, Burke De Boer and Nathaniel Dunaway, otherwise known as Body In the Window Seat Productions. This trio of gifted writ-ers, directors and actors collaborate regularly together, often assembling a common repertory group in their performances. To date, Body In the Window Seat has completed three fea-ture length films; their most recent installment being Misfor-tune County.

According to Misfortune County’s description on their website, “The year is 1900. An assassin known as Lady Ven-geance (Paige Scofield) wanders the frontier, exacting revenge on killers who’ve escaped justice. On the hunt for a scoundrel on the lam, she crosses paths with a dead rancher’s bastard son, an idealistic Philadelphia dandy, and an outlaw who steals books, their lives all converging towards a brutal and bloody showdown in the mountains of Eastern Oregon.”

Premieres for the previous two films- Only Liars Prosper and Dalibor the Yugo Cowboy were projected on a borrowed screen at the Crook County Library over the past two years. This time, however, Misfortune County premieres in Prinev-ille’s very own Pine Theater at 6 p.m. on December 31st. Since their work has frequently interested (and sometimes astonished) me, I sat down and asked them some questions that had been percolating in my mind for some time. Here are their generous answers:


Q. One of the many things I love about you guys is your enthusiasm for a wide variety of stories, which is refreshing because so many young writers are prolific in their own work but then are indifferent to the work of others. With that in mind, what are some of the films that you come back to view again and again?

Campo

I can easily say that we each are just as obsessed with watching other people’s movies as we are with making our own. Each of our unique tastes in film help us bring a good variety of ideas to BWS.

The works of Paul Thomas Anderson and Wes Anderson always keep me coming back. Paul Thomas Anderson’s char-acters exhibit a level of depth and struggle with the human condition that’s mesmerizing to watch. And Wes Anderson’s flair for style and spectacle are just too much fun to miss.

My favorite film by far is Tommy Wiseau’s The Room. While widely considered to be one of the worst films ever made, I think The Room is a great example of how much you can accomplish as long as you never stop believing in your work -- and even if your final product is utter trash, some-times it’s your passion for the project that can be more im-portant than the work itself.

De Boer

I’ve actually been revisiting some films that I watched in high school. And in high school I appreciated the movies, I knew they were “good” movies, but watching them now that I’m older I just keep thinking “No, you idiot, these are amaz-ing.” The Deer Hunter especially, I watched first when I was a sophomore and didn’t revisit until within the last year. Other


movies that captured my fascination like this are The Good The Bad and The Ugly, Hud, Citizen Kane, and the works of Buster Keaton.

DunawayI’m a child of Spielberg. I’ll always go back to Jaws, Raid-ers, Jurassic Park, even Saving Private Ryan, which I saw for the first time when I was way too young for it. Maybe it’s the insufferable optimist in me, but I love movies that are hopeful. Spielberg movies deliver hope in spades. I know he’s essentially the biggest name in the business, but you know this isn’t a cop out. I admire the hell out of the guy. He’s the reason I started making movies. Other than that, I treat every Alfred Hitchcock movie as my film school. His are the films that I study.

Q. How about writers and books that stick with you?

De Boer

My “Big Three” are Sometimes a Great Notion by Ken Kesey, Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner, and Moby-Dick by Herman Melville. I’m actually rereading Sometimes a Great Notion for the third time right now, and I’m still picking up on plot points that I missed the first go-rounds. I hope to one day create something so subtly dense that every revisit is fresh.

DunawayStephen King is my favorite writer, but A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole is my favorite book. And like nearly everyone in Misfortune County, I’m also a Mark Twain geek.


Campo

I’ve always loved the writings of Roald Dahl. Even as an adult, I find that age only gives me a new appreciation for his humor. His fantastic worlds and unrealistic characters help remind me just how far the art of storytelling can be stretched without breaking.

Q. Each of your works are so different, and yet at the same time they are saturated with a sense of place. How does being from Central Oregon affect what you write and how?

DunawayThat’s hard to say, but that sense of place you men-tioned is really important to me. I love it especially if that place is 1) Oregon, and 2) just a little warped. Only Liars Prosper takes place in a world where teenagers can be-come crime lords. Dalibor is an alternate history, but the skewed world takes a back seat to a very contained sto-ry. Misfortune County, to me, is the strangest, because it both challenges the typical, exaggerated vision of the old west, and totally reaffirms it. But all three of them are westerns at their core. They’re like our High Desert tril-ogy. There’s probably some explanation as to my fascina-tion for westerns being a product of my surroundings, but the simplest answer from a moviemaking standpoint is that I love where I come from and I want to show it to people.

Campo

The three of us have a great pride in being from Oregon; we believe that the Pacific Northwest is one of the best places to grow as an artist. There’s such a wide variety of culture in this state. The people, the environments, the ideas -- noth-


ing here is homogenous. Growing up in all this diversity has definitely had an effect on how we write and develop our characters, we’ve been exposed to such a broad range of ideas. Just the Central Oregon landscape alone is inspiring. One look at the wide-open fields, the miles of forest, or the distant mountains and plateaus is enough to get the creative juices flowing. Dalibor, the Yugo Cowboy was a love-letter of sorts to the gorgeous environment we grew up in.

De Boer

Yeah, it’s no surprise that there’s a long scene of dialogue in Dalibor that’s focused on the rodeo circuit and logging trucks, or how often our characters seem to get lost in the woods. Central Oregon is such a unique place. I think partly it comes from the country upbringing, which is totally a sto-rytelling culture. But also growing up here you get a lot of three things: nature, history, and crime. You’re told about the Blue Bucket Mine and the Prineville Vigilantes; at the same time when I was growing up Hans’ Pharmacy kept get-ting broken into, there were shootings in Warm Springs and Madras, meth was really taking off, and that presence is something that we’re still grappling with. You can spend the day hiking the Ochocos or the John Day fossil beds, or cav-ing the Bend lava tubes, these sprawling scenes of nature. Or, if you know who to talk to, you can spend the day jacked up on crank. It’s a weird juxtaposition.

Q. What does your own writing routine look like? Do you have one? Or do you just wake up and fart rainbows onto your screen like a flippin’ leprechaun? Or is that a uni-corn? 86//torches n’ pitchforks

De Boer

Not a leprechaun or a unicorn, surprisingly. I actually like to think of myself as a mechanic. I spend a lot of time set-ting up the themes and images and characters in my head. I know what I want out of a script, or a specific scene. I’ve got my idea, my blueprint that I’m running off of. But to get it out of my head and onto the page is like tearing it down and doing a complete rebuild. It’s not abstract anymore, now you’re working with very specific parts. It takes putting the right words in the right place to make it fire.

Campo

There are surprisingly (and disappointingly) little lepre-chauns and unicorns involved here.

Writing, for me, always comes in quick, controlled, cre-ative bursts. Sometimes I’ll write a scene and then I won’t touch it again for weeks, or even months later. My computer is littered with fragments and scraps of half-fulfilled ideas that were written in this fashion. I love having these around because later I’ll find myself working on a new script and be stuck for ideas, but then I remember “Oh wait, those two pages I wrote back in February would fit right in here!” My writing process is a lot of scrapping, scavenging, and remix-ing old ideas into new ones.

DunawayWriting is the very last step for me. I construct every-thing in my head, to an absurd degree. Sometimes I make notes, jot down ideas and things like that, but for the most part I play mindless games on my phone, I go


on walks, I stare at the wall, etc, all while imagining the whole movie, picking up the story in the morning where I left off the night before. Then when it’s ready I put it down. It’s probably the worst way to write, because it to-tally goes against the “just sit down and do the work” at-titude I always read about, but it produced two drafts of Misfortune County in four months so it can’t be all bad.

Q. Do you workshop each other’s work? What does your revision process look like?

DunawayBurke and Darien have written together and they have they’re own methods. Writing in my head is obvi-ously very solitary, but I’ll periodically type things up and show them to the guys, or to Shannen. And when it comes to revision I try to do at least two drafts. And that’s not just going back and editing the first one, that’s starting over and writing the whole thing again. Doing that will sift out all the dirt and leave you with the gold. Or the rocks.

De Boer

There’s some workshopping, but we each know our own voice and what we’re trying to say. So the revision process differs, depending on where the writer is with it when they send it to the rest of us. When Dalibor and Misfortune Coun-ty were finished, they were pretty complete scripts. Between sending them to the rest of the guys and shooting, only some minor changes were made. But filming and editing, that’s where the real revision process takes place – cleaning up scenes to work visually that might have only worked on pa-per.


Campo

Writing a BWS film is a very fluid process. The three of us are constantly coming with new ideas and sharing them with each other; it’s a really great flow of creativity. Each of us is always writing in our own time, and usually it all comes down to whoever finishes a script first. Then the three of us decide “Yup, this is what we’ll all focus on now,” and we’ll all attack the story together and start developing it into a film. There is a certain amount of workshopping each oth-er’s work, but we respect each other’s writing quite a bit and trust the artistic decisions the other two are making.

We’re very open about our ideas, so we each get to feed off of the other two’s creativity.

Q. Your body of work also reflects characters who are deeply flawed and yet hold a certain dignity. Could you talk a little about that? Or maybe, who are the favorite characters you’ve created and why?

De Boer

That’s one of the obsessions of mine, it’s an extension of my entire philosophy. Everyone I’ve met has their flaws, and ev-eryone I’ve met has their dignity. People just try to figure out life as they go along. It’s not a very good system, but it’s the only system we’ve got. So we make mistakes. We own up to them, and live and learn. We all have flaws, and we all carry on in spite of them. There’s something very dignified about that.


Campo

A perfect character is almost never fun to watch, so we try to allow BWS characters to celebrate what makes them flawed. This could mean the character recognizing and acknowledg-ing their faults, or sometimes it can mean outright ignoring or fighting them – either way is entertaining for the audience. I think the most important part of writing a character, no matter how flawed they may be, is to make sure the charac-ter loves themselves. Hero or villain, if you love your char-acter, they will love themselves, and the audience will follow suit

DunawayP.W. Foster Jr. is my favorite of all my characters. His was the clearest voice in my head. Foster is sort of the antithesis to Lady Vengeance, but his contribution to Misfortune County is by far the greatest.

Q. In Misfortune County, what main thematic questions are you exploring?

De Boer

The theme that always stood out to me was loss. The main cast of four have all experienced significant loss, and react to it differently.

DunawayWell it wasn’t “what would a mashup of True Grit and The Wizard of Oz look like?” but I think that’s the one I


ended up answering. I don’t put much thought into the-matic questions, but since you asked, I guess it’s a mat-ter of wondering if we need a Holy Grail at the end of our quest in order to keep on going, or if the quest itself is enough. Does that make sense? It’s like that Edward Albee quote: “what could be worse than getting to the end of your life and realizing you never lived it?” I try not to have Holy Grails in my own life. I have goals, sure, but my main focus at any given time is writing the new thing, making the new thing, finishing what I start and hanging it on the wall. Hopefully I’ll get somewhere doing things that way. We’ll see I guess.

Q. What are your overall obsessions and how do they manifest in your work?

De Boer

Perception is a big one of mine. Darien pointed out to me that some of the staples of my writing are factions and irony, and I think misperceptions and miscommunication help fuel these. You see it in Dalibor, when the Americans constantly refer to the Europeans as “Russian” despite the fact that there isn’t a single Russian character, or the perception that the community builds of Dalibor being some sort of Rambo when he’s just a teenager lost in the woods.

DunawayMy life is a series of all-encompassing, ever-shifting ob-sessions that share common traits but are also in mad-dening opposition sometimes. The impulse to be creative has always been with me, but it hasn’t always been re-warding. I spent a lot of time being frustrated when I


was younger, and I honestly think I would’ve burnt my-self out and joined the national guard or something if I hadn’t met Burke (who has just as obsessive a personal-ity as I do) in middle school. We were too similar not to be friends. If our lives were a movie, we would’ve been enemies at first, because we were literally doing all the same things. Drawing comics, writing stories, obsess-ing over history, and devouring movies of all kinds. But I don’t remember any sense of competition. We fed off one another from day one, we gave each other confidence. We used to talk about all the awards we’d win for all the masterpieces we’d direct. When it came to a future of making movies, it wasn’t even a question. We were sure. We still are. But those other obsessions I mentioned still come up all the time. Writing novels, writing plays, even teaching, have all weaved in and out of my radar for years, and when they do, they completely take over. It’s exhausting. Maybe I’ll get to do them all, like James Franco. On a much smaller scale, I’d say I’m obsessed with getting character names just right. I kind of agonize over them.

Q. What has been the best part of the process in creating Misfortune County?

De Boer

This production felt much more professional than our previ-ous attempts which was very exciting. Especially as an actor. We had the best audio and visual equipment we’ve worked with, we had a slate, and everyone was on the top of their game. It was a lot of good energy that made acting so much easier.


Campo

Burke, Nathaniel and I work really well together.

We push each other creatively, and we each pull our share of weight in keeping BWS moving forward. This is the third time we’ve worked together to create a feature-length film, and it’s exciting to see how much better we’ve gotten at it. Every time we do this we learn to do things more effi-ciently, more quickly, and we pay attention to the mistakes we’ve made (of which there are plenty) so they don’t show up in the next movie. It’s always great to come to a process that had been a speed bump for us on our last film, but now we breeze right through it. The three of us are starting to get really comfortable in our roles, and I love seeing how we’ve learned to work with each other.

DunawayI got my dream cast. All I had to do was point the cam-era at them and hit record. They did the rest.


Director Nathaniel Dunaway and Editor Raynee Roberts

Poet

ry

Tyranny Is Not Welcomed When Regarding LoveBree Heaton

See me, see me understanding

you with all I have. Your superstitions

of love at first sight couldn’t be more wrong. Love must grow gracefully.

It must dance like a butterfly through the wind with elegance

and poise. It can not be contained or controlled.

Let love breath, and soon enough, your love will be persuaded.

You see my darling, persuasion

can be a beautiful thing if used in the right way. It will lend an understanding

ear to listen to heartache. Take control

of the moment, because love only listens for a while. The time to end your silly superstitions

is now. Understand that elegant

love isn’t seen often. Every beautiful move in the end should be graceful.

Please be graceful

with love. Do not rush into persuasion,

but do not hesitate to be elegant.

With the understanding

of this, you will see that superstitions

are controlling.



To be controlling

is to ruin love. Your grace

will prevail in the end. Superstitions

could be an end to our once beautiful love. Persuade

me in the right direction. It is my understanding

that you have not been listening. Your words mean nothing if not said with grace and elegance.

Do you remember our elegant

strolls along the beach. The way we felt in control

of our emotions. I understood

that we could only walk so far before we hit barriers of rocks, but we did and you said gracefully,

“Let’s just sit and watch the waves crash along the shore.”. You persuaded

me and I reluctantly agreed. There were no superstitions

In that moment. My superstitions

had faded away like every wave we watched. The rest of the night consisted of elegant

conversations that I wanted to last for an eternity, but at last you persuaded

me once more. Do you remember that? Do you remember how you took control

of the situation. You were so graceful

in that moment. Well that’s what I understood.

Never again let your superstitions control our love in the disgraceful way they once did..

Always be graceful my love, and always remember, elegance is key.

Let your understanding persuade you in my direction, and I will welcome you into my heart and soul.

Made possible by the generous support of Facebook and the National Writing Project

102 //torches n’ pitch-

Frozen BeautyJon Grace

Frosted like the tips of the longest icicles, each heart takes its damage and becomes cold like any other. The ethereal texture brings a sense of tranquility and warmth from the crystalized stasis of a dagger to break the ice. Will it simply pierce or will it shatter; the answer is un-known until the occurrence. From the core, the shell is a double-sided spear, blocking the outside world and keeping it cold, yet providing shelter from the harsh cold outside as well. A storm will always come and it will always be cold, but the right ice pick with a friendly snow-man will come along to help guide through the cold. Simply waiting only does so much to thaw the ice; the beauty won’t warm until the ice is shattered, and there can only be one to do so. While others will pierce and leave holes all the way through, harming the beauty in-side, only one can shatter with little impact and keep that beauty intact.

Kahini hosts workshops, readings, and gatherings; connects writers together across borders of all kinds; and presents the work from these new conversations in public fora: including readings, open-mikes, panels, craft talks, conversations, and presentations of the spoken and written word.

All Kahini experiences are designed to build cross-border relationships, mutual empathy, and understanding, which spark new writing, new conversations, and new ways of being in the world.


Burning BridgesAshleyToomey

Electriceyesandtremblingfingers,

graspatwhat’sleftof myhumanity.

everyregretjustsitsandlingers,

tearingapartmysanity.

Ifeelmycontroldrowningwithinme,

mywordschippingaway.

Theretheygo,butwho’scounting?

Ijustcan’tgetthemtostay.

Angryeyesandicecoldfingers,

graspatthedustthatremains.


OldAnimalWarriorsSHASTAFISHER

Thekinghadwentfarandwide

tofindthewarriorswhowouldn’thide

He wanted them big and tall

andalltheirnameshealwayscalled

He wanted them fast and strong

foralltheirtaleswerefurryandlong

Nooneknewwhotheywere

alltheyknewwastheywerecoveredinfur

Allwhothekingwantedwasmad

andtheywereallgivenwhattheyneverhad

Most were born poor and weak

But most to all would stand on the mountain peak


Fullbodyarmor

standing strong holding the king’s honor

Guarding the great wall

with the king knowing none shall fall

For all were red and white

which helped them hide through the night

Nooneknowswheretheygo

butinthemorntheynevershow

Alltheyknewwasthattheyweresafeandsound

Thegreatwarriorscoveredalltheground

Theyguardedandkeptsafe

theykeptasteadypace

Oh but there is more

theystillarehere

Bold and strong

guardingusfromdoomtocome.


PassingSeasonsCaleb Bailor

A Summer’s Day

Summerraysblazing

hotsunshiningverybright

warmbreezeblowinghard

Fall Leaves Falling

Brownleavesinthebreeze

verycoldbreezeblowingfast

leavesfloatingaround

Scary Halloween

Ghosts sad and moaning

scarytreeswavinginbreeze

black cats meowing


SmallTownRylandHolland

I am from the place of warm summer sweat

fromtheteamof brothers.

I am from the cold nights

fromthesoundof tri-valleychampions.

I am from the running football

fromplayingwithyourbestfriends.

Iamfromtheplaceof coldanddrywinters

fromtheplacethatgetsraininDecember.

Iamfromtheplaceof bumpyroadsandtalltrees

fromtheplaceof woodstoveseverywhere.

I am from the place of the best hunting around

fromthebugleof abullelk.

Iamfromtheplacewhereeveryoneisknown

fromahardworkingtowncalledPrineville.

https://col126.mail.live.com/ol/




The Hunt Trey Shores

Geese are a blast to hunt

Bassarethefunnesttofish

Dieselinthepickuptruck

Heading up to elk camp

loading our guns

Drivingourtrucksthrewthemud

TheOchocosalwayshavemud

We still go up there to hunt

Thekickisunrealinthegun

Whenhuntingisoverwegofishing

Underthestarswecamp

In the back of our trucks


Wedriveoldtrucks

We still take them in the mud

In order to get to our camp

That’stheonlywaywegettohunt

Wealsogodowntothewatertofish

No matter what we bring our guns

Loading our guns

Alsoloadingourstuff inthetruck

Weheadouttogocatchfish

Catchingfishindeepmud

Lookforcoyotestohunt

With our small guns

Out in the boonies camping

Makesureyouhaveagun

You might be hunted

Makesureyouknowwhere’sthetruck

Don’tgetstuckinthemud

Oryouwon’tbegoingfishing


Attheendof mypolethere’safish

Wecookthefishbackatcamp

Onthewaybacktocamptherewassomemud

We also shot some birds with our guns

We loaded them up in the truck

Afterwegotbacktocampwewentonaquickhunt

Wedon’tfishwithourfishingpolesbutwithourshotguns

Thendriveourtrucksbacktoelkcamp

Theroadwasreallymuddy,butwewilldoanythingtohunt

torches n’ pitchforks //115

EST. 2008, Founded and Edited by Jim Churchill-DicksCONTACT: [email protected]

‘hunting for voices that rise above the angry mob.’

torches n’ pitchforks online literary journal is dedicated to exploring the evolving relationship between form and content in creative writing, while also unleashing prom-ising teen and educator voices to the public.

Funded in part by a generous grant from Facebook, with additional support provided by the Oregon Writing Project.

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torches n' pitchforks: the misfortune county issue

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