Author: Julie Barbour

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meeting

Lyndsey Johnson

i will meet you in the woods
you will find me at sundown

we can sit on felled trees
and breathe crisp air that smells of fresh grass and autumn leaves

we will sit, and we will take each other in
your elegance, your grace, my power
my ideas, my story, your existence

words exchanging like so many spores and seeds and feathers in the air

you will show me who you are and the depth with which you care
no longer me, alone, hoping to stumble upon a discovery, sign, any little clue

but you, rejoicing in being discovered 
reveling in the joy of being seen

just me as me
and you as you

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Fixated on a Flower

Whitney Drenth

Globally, people consider the tradition of growing tulips just as deeply ingrained into Dutch culture as wooden shoes and windmills. While these brightly-colored, spring-blooming perennials are now commonplace in most gardens, these flowers were once only found in a narrow band in Central Asia.  Tulips were first introduced to Western Europe when Conrad Gesner, a Swiss physician, delivered them from Constantinople in 1559 (Mackay 89). Due to their exotic nature, tulips became much sought after by the wealthy for their private admiration (Hirschey 12).

In the 1600s, Holland was experiencing a “golden age”.  Several Dutch firms combined to create the Dutch East India Company, founded in 1621.  The Dutch East India Company opened trade with the New World and western Africa.   This company made the Netherlands into a major sea power; its dealings accounted for over half of Europe’s total shipping trade (Hirschey 11).  The Dutch West India Company colonized New Netherland (present-day New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Delaware) and bought Manhattan Island from the Native Americans.  Here they established New Amsterdam, later renamed New York City. The expansion of trade and widespread international influence made the Netherlands into a major commercial hub.  The Dutch people had the highest standard of living in the world (Hirschey 12).

By 1634, the desire to own tulips spread to the middle and lower classes.  Rather than owning the flowers for their beauty, these people were much more interested in accumulating the bulbs for resale and trading.  With extra cash in their pockets, it is no wonder that Dutch citizens were so open to gamble on profit speculation when tulip prices began to rise.  This triggered a speculative frenzy now known as “tulipmania”, where tulip bulb prices increased so drastically that they were treated as a form of currency.  The historian Charles Mackay cites that tulip bulbs cost anywhere between 1,260 and 5,500 florins (94).  Mark Hirschey, whose article appeared in the Financial Analysts Journal, expands on the price index put forward in Mackay’s work by converting it to the U.S. dollar equivalent in 1998.  This shows that a single tulip bulb would cost between $17,430 and $76,085 (Hirschey 12).

The events of this tale have become legendary.  Similar accounts are told time and time again within the media.  In his book Famous First Bubbles: The Fundamentals of Early Manias, Peter Garber quotes the Sept. 26, 1976 Wall Street Journal article, which argues that “the ongoing frenzy in the gold market may be only an illusion of crowds, a modern repetition of the tulip-bulb craze” (qtd. in Garber).  Garber also quotes the Financial Times, which claims that during the global financial crisis of October 1998 people acted just “like the seventeenth century tulip speculators” (qtd. in Garber).  In a more recent article from Business Insider, the CEO of JPMorgan, Jamie Dimon, declares that the modern cryptocurrency, bitcoin, is “worse than tulip bulbs” (Oyedele par. 1).  It is almost guaranteed that the story of “tulipmania” will be invoked whenever financial speculation is in question.  Nonetheless, modern economic writers’ reliance on “tulipmania” as a rhetorical device to validate their argument about abnormal crowd behavior is misplaced.  “Tulipmania” has become so synonymous with financial instability within literature that authors rarely conduct adequate academic research on the event itself.

The passage of time has made some of the common sources of “tulipmania” unreliable.  The modern tale of “tulipmania” as it is told within the media has been largely taken from Charles Mackay’s book Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, which was originally published in 1841.  Mackay’s account of “tulipmania” is brief; it is only nine pages long.  Mackay asserts that tulip trading obsessed the Dutch so much that every other industry in the country was neglected.  He describes how those unaware of the tulip bubble sometimes found themselves in awkward dilemmas caused by their lack of knowledge (Mackay 90-92).  Despite how widely accepted Mackay’s account is within popular literature, modern researchers have now concluded that his description of the tulip bubble’s far-reaching and devastating effects may have been greatly exaggerated (Goldgar 5).

It is unfair to judge an old text with modern standards of recording academic information, as those standards did not exist when the text was written.  Regardless, readers should take into account the text’s age when using Mackay’s book as a source.  Mackay did not use citations of any kind within his book.  In her book Tulipmania: Money, Honor, and Knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age, Anne Goldgar evaluated the possible sources Mackay may have used for researching and writing.  She concluded that Mackay’s main source was Johann Beckmann.  Beckmann was a financial speculation author with suspicious sources of his own.  He relied on the works of Abraham Munting, a botanical writer whose father supposedly lost money in the tulip trade.  However,  Munting himself was no eyewitness.  By the time Munting wrote his work in the 1670s, the Dutch were cognizant of how the expansion of trade, both with the trading of the Dutch East India Company and tulip trading, changed their culture, priorities, and society.  In those days, “tulipmania” was viewed as a social and cultural crisis that demonstrated the Dutch citizens’ new propensity for greed rather than a financial crisis. In response, propagandists published pamphlet literature in order to paint “tulipmania” as a ridiculous oversight.  These works reveal the Dutch citizen’s deep anxieties about the changes their society underwent due to the “golden age” and their desire to stop a similar event from happening in the future.  Unfortunately, it is from these works that we get the modern picture of “tulipmania.”  Munting cited Adriaen Roman’s Dialogue Between True-Mouth and Greedy-Goods, as if it were fact (Goldgar 5-6), which perhaps set off the downward spiral of inaccurate tulip bubble research.

These sources lead to the comedic anecdotal evidence Mackay provides in his book.  Mackay uses stories of people unaware of the tulip trading, who in result found themselves in awkward dilemmas as a result of their ignorance, to show the “madness of crowds.”  One such tale was a sailor who mistakenly ate a tulip bulb because he thought it was an onion.  The entire town responded by hunting him down to punish him with imprisonment.  These stories show the Dutch’s effort to make “tulipmaina” seem as ridiculous as possible (Mackay 92).  They play into an exaggerated narrative that makes it seem like collective crowd madness is the only explanation as to why anyone would willingly pay a large sum of money for a single tulip bulb.  During the years after the tulip bubble crash, there was a conscious effort made to erase the signs of market fundamentals that would have pointed to a reasonable explanation of “tulipmania” in an attempt to preserve the Dutch citizen’s perceived cultural values (Goldgar 5-6).  Arguments built on anecdotes should be rejected as they cannot be used to establish cause and effect relationships for the events they describe.  Anecdotes are usually stories of only a few people; they do not give proper representation of the entire population.  Understanding the potential for fallacy when reading about this time, and understanding how these falsehoods were created intentionally, will help modern investors recognize that  “tulipmania” is not as far removed from modern economics as they may think.

Even within more modern research done on “tulipmania,” there have been several instances of research articles based on incorrect theories.  Much of the research done on “tulipmania” during the 1900s was backed by the Efficient Market Theory.  This theory was a popularly accepted explanation of financial markets and reached its peak in the 1970s.  Unfortunately, this theory does nothing to negate the idea of crowd madness.  The Efficient Market Theory states that “the price of a holding accurately reflects all public knowledge”.  In this hypothesis, economic bubbles are conveniently lumped under the term “anomalies” despite the prevalence of market volatility throughout history (Mohacsy and Lefer 456-457).

An example of the Efficient Market Theory in popular media can be seen in the Financial Times, which claimed that, like the tulip speculators, people rely on “continuous orderly markets” (qtd. in Garber 11).  However, a look at markets throughout history proves that markets are hardly orderly. In addition to “tulipmania”, the Mississippi Bubble (a large-scale money printing operation in 1719-1720) and the South Sea Bubble (a debt-for equity swap in 1720) are some of the earliest examples of financial manipulations and economic instability found in history (Garber 13).  More recently, the dot-com bubble in the 1990s, the American housing bubble in the early 2000s, and the current cryptocurrency bubble continue to prove how prevalent these kinds of crises are in economics.   These examples point more towards continuously unorderly markets, rather than what the Efficient Market Theory suggests.  In their article, Mohacsy and Lefer claim “market efficiency cannot quantify instinct and emotion, nor the sentiments that inspire behavior among crowds, that is, large groups of investors” (455-457).  In other words, the volatility seen within markets proves that the Efficient Market Theory is false.

When describing “tulipmania”, as well as similar events where asset prices were at odds with economic expectations, it is common to hear the word “bubble”.  A bubble in economics describes the phenomena of asset price movements that do not follow fundamentals.   Garber claims that the term bubble displays researchers’ inability to explain why the asset’s price deviates from its intrinsic value.   The term bubble lacks a strong operational definition.  Palgrave’s Dictionary of Political Economy says that a bubble is any unsound market speculation (Garber 7).  By these definitions, society has no knowledge that a bubble is occurring until it has “burst”.  The word is an empty explanation that does not truly expend an effort into understanding the event it describes.  Garber argues that more measurable economic explanations based on fundamentals should be exhausted before settling for such vague terms (8).

In response, modern academic finance has evolved to include behavioral finance when evaluating causes for financial instability.  Behavioral finance differs from the Efficient Market Theory because it uses social sciences like psychology and sociology to examine the reasons for people’s choices with money.  “Money and Sentiment: A Psychodynamic Approach to Behavioral Finance” makes the point that while “most investors regard themselves as investing rationally, few do” (Mohacsy and Lefer 455).  People fall victim to the “Greater Fool Theory”, where they think there will be a “greater fool” that will pay more for their stock or possession than they did.  This leads markets to reflect both people’s optimism and pessimism.  Investors are described as reacting collectively, making the market a conglomeration of human sentiment (Mahascy and Lefer 456-458).  Collective crowd optimism raises the prices people are willing to pay and collective crowd pessimism lowers them.  Behavioral finance relies on the usage of feedback models based on the reactions of crowds within markets.  One such model, the price-to-price feedback theory, is thought to be one of the oldest theories about behavioral finance.  However, rather than appearing in scholarly journals, this theory is more often expressed in newspapers and magazines.  The price-to-price feedback theory is also defined in Mackay’s account of “tulipmania”.  Investors were described as following the crowd, herding like cattle to follow a leader without scouting the grass themselves.  When they saw others leaving the market, they let their fears consume them and they left it as well (Shiller 91).  Mackay credits the cause of the rise and drop in tulip prices to this phenomenon; “it was seen that somebody must lose fearfully in the end. As this conviction spread, prices fell, and never rose again” (Mackay 95).

While the shift from the Efficient Market Theory to behavior finance is effective when explaining modern events, the use of behavioral finance should be limited to such applications.  Years after an event, psychological state of mind cannot be considered a measurable concept (Garber 4).  With historical distance it is clear the tulip prices in 1630s Holland were severely inflated.  It is easy to read into situations and make assumptions as to how and why an event happened the way it did.  Mackay himself did not witness the tulip bubble, and while he may have made assumptions from what his limited sources reported, he really had no data to support his claim.  This is not to say that behavioral finance should not be used in modern research as long as there is available and reliable evidence.  The early bubbles, however, should be explained by the available data and supported by market fundamentals.

It is evident that writers’ reliance on Mackay’s propaganda-based work and articles based on the Efficient Market Theory results in an inaccurate picture of the tulip craze.  That is not to say that gaining a clear understanding of the 17th century tulip speculation is a lost cause.  There are researchers who, straying away from the well-worn path of repeated propaganda, plagiarism, and inaccurate research, have presented new models for understanding the causes and effects of the tulip trade bubble.  These models are more suited to explain “tulipmania” because they consider market volatility and are more measurable given the distance of time.

According to McClure and Thomas’ article, “Explaining the Timing of Tulipmania’s Boom and Bust: Historical Context, Sequestered Capital and Market Signals”, the answer to “tulipmania” comes from an understanding of tulips themselves.  It was the flower’s extraordinary colors and variations that caused demand for them in the beginning.  However, even when the wealthy first started purchasing tulips to grow their exotic collection, the trading was done in bulbs.  The Dutch traded neither the flowers nor the seeds, even though they are obviously related to tulip bulbs.  While during the fall and winter of 1636, a single tulip bulb could be traded for an Amsterdam townhouse, only for the prices to subsequently plunged in February 1637, the prices for tulip flowers and tulip seeds remained unchanged throughout the entire tulip bubble.  McClure and Thomas believe that this point is crucial. The reason tulip bulbs were traded, rather than flowers and seeds, is that bulbs are an economically viable investment good.  The continuously rising tulip bulb prices were not the only reason buyers assumed they would make a profit.  Tulip speculators knew that buying tulip bulbs would generate future income because every bulb, if planted in the fall, would “produce two to three offset bulbs” that were accessible and sellable when they were “harvested the following summer” (McClure and Thomas 124).  These offset bulbs would then grow their own underground offshoots when they were planted the following year.   One could hardly expect a bouquet of tulips to reproduce into sellable and profitable goods, and while tulip seeds can be used to produce bulbs, they are much more delicate and take much longer to get returns on the investment.  They are hardly good substitutes when considered both economically and horticulturally.  (McClure and Thomas 125).

McClure and Thomas claim that it was this very act of the bulbs reproducing that led to the tulip market down fall.  While people may wish for money to grow on trees, it is not rational for it to do so.  This is especially true when it grows underground where no one can see it.  McClure and Thomas apply the idea of sequestered capital “-capital whose quantities, usages and future yields are hidden from market participants-” to “tulipmania”.   This hypothesis is well supported by weather and planting records from this time period.  These records show that there is a correlation between the planting of the bulbs and tulip prices soaring the winter of 1636 and 1637.  Planting the bulbs sequestered them from the traders as they were unable to see how many offsets were being produced.  In result, throughout the fall and winter the tulip prices soared.  Traders had no way of knowing how many tulip bulbs there would be in the spring, so pricing reflected this lack of knowledge.  To aid in the tulip trading, being that all the tulips were under ground, market participants began buying and selling promissory contracts (promises of future delivery).  These promissory contracts are thought to have shifted hands several times throughout the winter months.  When the tulip sprouts finally emerged in February of 1637, revealing them to the traders again, it was seen that there were more sprouts than the traders had expected.  McClure and Thomas assert that the tulip bulb burst because it was seen that the supply for tulips surpassed the demand, and the prices subsequently plummeted (McClure and Thomas 130-132).

Earl Thompson researched another explanation of “tulipmania”.  In his article, he takes an in-depth look into the conversion of promissory contracts into option contracts at the end of “tulipmania.” An option contract gave the buyer the ability to back out of their agreement to pay the sum of money promised by paying a fee.  For this reason, Thompson is adamant that “tulipmania” should not be considered a bubble at all, as the actual prices paid by tulip customers between November 30, 1636 and February 24, 1637 were around 3.5% of the amount agreed upon in their winter promissory contracts (Thompson 101).  He assumes that the market participants would have been involved in the Dutch legislature’s decision and would have known while making their promissory contracts in the fall and winter that they would have the option to back out in the spring if the prices of tulips did not in fact rise enough for them to make a profit (Thompson 104).   McClure and Thomas point out that Thompson bases his entire evidentiary case only on three transactions.  In all three of these transactions, the promissory contracts were originally made with the knowledge that they could be discounted into options contracts (McClure and Thomas 135), therefore Thompson assumes that “all promissory contracts should be converted into options contracts” (Thompson 102).  McClure and Thomas emphasize that there were too few transactions studied to give sufficient support of Thompson’s claim.  They also point out the existence of several deals that directly contradict Thompson’s assumption.  These deals show that the majority of contracts were made just as promissory contracts and were then converted into options contracts only after the February court decision.  Buyers had no way of knowing that this would occur (McClure and Thomas 135).

Modern writers rely far too much on “tulipmania” as a rhetorical device for their financial arguments.  “Tulipmania” may always be shrouded in the kind of mystery that only the distance of time can provide.  So much has been written about this event, and so much of what has been written is wrong, that the actual progression of this event may have been so sullied by inaccurate interpretations that it is unlikely researchers will ever discover the truth.  However, stories of “tulipmania” will continue to circulate.  While the Dutch are no longer willing to pay a fortune for a single bulb, their love for tulips is still very present.  The Keukenhof Gardens in Lisse, South Holland, Netherlands, is home to the largest tulip garden in the world, demonstrating how deeply ingrained the tradition of growing tulips is to Dutch culture (“Tulpomania.” par. 1).  Tulips still garner much attention from Dutch descendants even outside of the Netherlands.  Holland, Michigan’s Tulip Time sees more than 500,000 visitors per year and has a $43 million economic impact on the area (Bondie par. 1).  The importance of tulips to the Dutch, both in the past and present,  does not condone the distorted version of “tulipmania” that still circulates in modern media.  Bubbles like “tulipmania” should not be portrayed as if they were spawned by abnormal crowd behavior. Rather, writers should use more economic-based, modern approaches based on available and trustworthy data to analyze and explain “tulipmania.”  With historical distance it is easy to look back on tulip prices in 1630s Holland and realize they were severely inflated. However, it is less easy for people, investors or otherwise, to realize the same about their own investing and spending.  This new understanding of “tulipmania” will serve as a warning to not be tempted by immediate rewards.

 

Works Cited

Bondie, Cassandra.  “Report: Tulip Time Pulls in $48M Annually for Area.” Holland Sentinel, 19 Oct. 2018, https://www.hollandsentinel.com/news/20181019/report-tulip-time-pulls-in-48m-annually-for-area.

Garber, Peter. Famous First Bubbles: The Fundamentals of Early Manias. The MIT Press, 2000.

Goldgar, Anne.  Tulipmania: Money, Honor, and Knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age.  The University of Chicago Press, 2007.

Hirschey, Mark. “How Much is a Tulip Worth?” Financial Analysts Journal, vol. 54, no. 4, Jul./Aug. 1998, pp. 11-17. ProQuest, https://proxy.lssu.edu/login?url=https://search.proquest.com/docview/219175910?accountid=27857.

Mackay, Charles. “The Tulipomania.” Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.  L.C. Page & Company, 2nd ed., 1967, pp. 89-97.

McClure, James, and David Thomas.  “Explaining the Timing of Tulipmania’s Boom and Bust: Historical Context, Sequestered Capital, and Market Signals.”  Financial History Review, vol. 24, no. 2, Aug. 2017, pp. 121-141.  ProQuest, doi: 10.1017/S0968565017000154.

Mohacsy, Ildiko, and Heidi Lefer. “Money and Sentiment: A Psychodynamic Approach to Behavioral Finance.” Journal of The American Academy of Psychoanalysis and Dynamic Psychiatry, vol. 35, no. 3, Aug. 2007, pp. 455-475. ProQuest, https://proxy.lssu.edu/login?url=https://search.proquest.com/docview/198179437?accountid=27857.

Oyedele, Akin.  “Jamie Dimon: Bitcoin is a Fraud That’s Worse Than Tulip Bulbs.’”  Business Insider, 12 Sept. 2017, https://www.businessinsider.com/bitcoin-price-worse-than-tulip-bulbs-2017-9?utm_source=yahoo&utm_medium=referral.

Shiller, Robert. “From Efficient Markets Theory to Behavioral Finance.”  The Journal of Economic Perspectives, vol. 17, no. 1, Winter 2003, pp. 83-104. ProQuest, https://proxy.lssu.edu/login?url=https://search-proquest-com.proxy.lssu.edu/docview/212069631?accountid=27857.

“Tulpomania.” Keukenhof Holland, https://keukenhof.nl/en/discover-the-park/tulpomania, 5 Nov. 2018.

Thompson, Earl. “The Tulipmania: Fact or Artifact?” Public Choice, vol. 130, no. 1-2, Jan 2007, pp. 99-114. ProQuest, doi:10.1007/s11127-006-9074-4.

 

 

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Chance

Natalie Nowak

Pilsen. In case you haven’t heard of it, it’s a neighborhood near the Lower West Side in Chicago, right near Chinatown. It’s a relatively large neighborhood with dozens of restaurants, shops, apartment complexes, and an important museum: the National Museum of Mexican Art. This museum is one of the only places left that houses the incredibly rich history and culture of Latino immigrants in Chicago. Not only is it a sacred place for its historical art, but it also serves as the residents’ sounding board in response to the increasing gentrification in Pilsen. While the neighborhood has retained the majority of its Hispanic makeup, it has also seen an incredible rise in the percentage of white households. When I visited Pilsen for the first time, I felt like I was trespassing on someone’s property. I was an outsider. I knew at that moment that I had stepped into something frightening: an entire culture washing away in front of my eyes.

I didn’t intentionally visit Pilsen. I hadn’t even really heard of it before. All I knew about it was that it had a strong Hispanic influence. Most neighborhoods in Chicago have some connection to ethnicity, and this is thought to be the “main” Mexican neighborhood. The day when I first encountered Pilsen, I had the intention of going to some shops in Lincoln Park, an upscale neighborhood on the North Side. Unfortunately, that same day, the Pride Parade was scheduled right where I would be headed, and I was not about to throw myself into the crowd of millions of people there. By the time I found out the parade was scheduled there, I was already headed into the city from the suburbs, so I had to make a backup plan. I quickly came up with a new plan to visit the Heart of Italy, a neighborhood just west of Pilsen. It was a warm day, and I only wanted to take public transportation halfway there so I could walk the rest. I got off the L right before Pilsen and headed towards the Heart of Italy.

I knew I had undoubtedly entered a new neighborhood. The smell of taquerias and elote flooded my senses. I saw the bright and vivid murals embraced in Spanish poetry. Kids ran through the streets with not a care of the loud clanking train overhead. It felt incredibly homey and carefree at first. As I made my way down 18th Street, I saw Giordano’s (a famous Chicago pizza chain), over-the-top coffeehouses, and an expensive smoothie bar. I didn’t pay much attention to this at first; I was used to seeing these types of businesses in other neighborhoods.

However, I started to see signs of protest the deeper I got into the neighborhood. Yard signs protesting the rising property costs, chalk depictions of kids’ families immigrating from Mexico, and banners hung on families’ porches with sayings like, “LEAVE US ALONE.” I wanted to ask some of the residents what was going on, but at the same time, I felt like there was a message being conveyed to me: look for yourself. From there, I started my search.

I did a quick Wikipedia search about the neighborhood and pulled some facts together about demographics and history. When I looked up Pilsen on Google, my search results flooded with articles about Hispanic families leaving because of rising costs, the gentrification debate, and stories about the loss of culture. Both DNAinfo and WTTW cite rapid decline of Pilsen’s Hispanic families. One of these statistics mentions a staggering 26 percent drop in 10 years. This net emigration is a direct result of rising rent and housing costs, as well as a response to wealthy and young white residents moving in (Lulay). One of the most striking examples of gentrification in Pilsen is the increasing number of modern and upscale restaurants throughout the neighborhood–three opened up in 2017. Perhaps even more striking is the fact that some of the original Latino-owned restaurants are modifying their menus to attract visitors and new residents (Bloom). For lack of better words, they are “Americanizing” their menus. While Pilsen’s Hispanic families couldn’t completely stop these restaurants from opening or stop young white residents from moving in, they have remained opposed to new development plans and rising costs (WTTW).  Even though I knew I could get a full scope of the situation through the news, I headed to the Mexican museum. I felt like I would get a better sense of what was going on through the art.

The collection at the museum was compelling. It ranged from ancient to modern to street art. The museum even housed a stage for children’s plays. Instead of starting the traditional way and working my way forward through history, I thought it would make more sense to start at the present and go back in time. I was eager to know how intertwined Latino history and culture were with Pilsen’s residents. The first exhibit was intense and tear-jerking: poetry about families being torn apart, torn-up Chicago Tribune newspapers, ironic and modern depictions of “Don’t Tread on Me,” and a film with a first-person view of homelessness. The list goes on. The exhibit was an uncensored response to the gentrification in Pilsen and its effects on the families there–especially the Hispanic families. I felt the pain and loss even though I had never experienced it myself; after all, I grew up in a comfortable, safe, and predominantly white suburb. Yet, when I was in that exhibit, it brought me face-first to the struggles some of the families endured. The next exhibit was similar, but it hit closer to home. A local school had gathered the art of some of its students to put on display at this museum. These students, however, weren’t just random and talented artists. They were young men and women that had fallen into the pit of gangs, street life, drugs, and violence. Many of them experienced depression and developed other mental illnesses. The school had courageously asked these students to make art instead of war, and the results were terrifyingly beautiful. There were no limits to the art forms or the themes. I read about how, for some, they felt like the streets were their destiny, and I saw what depression looks like when it’s mixed with street life. And, perhaps most importantly, I understood why these students felt like their home was being snatched before their eyes. These students were my age and could have easily been given the relatively comfortable life I had. Instead, they had to fight what they were given. As I left the exhibit almost crying, I traversed through the modern and ancient art exhibits and kept noticing one important aspect of Mexican culture: home.

For many residents, Pilsen was–and is–home. Whether it’s the young teenagers that got mixed into trouble or the immigrant parents seeking a better future for their families, Pilsen is where they share their culture and grow together. The prospect of losing your home, whether culturally or physically, is horrifying. It’s something that people try to avoid and ignore, and yet the families here face it with incredible bravery. I never had to know what it felt like to lose my home or my culture, but the words I read, the paintings I saw, and the music I listened to transcended any veil of ignorance. I recognized an entire culture that had been ignored for so long. The power of fear was strong in Pilsen, but the power of bravery was even stronger. To me, it is incredibly courageous for someone to face the prospect of losing everything important in their life with such a fervent and daring attitude. It is inspirational for someone to fight when they know the risks are high and the odds are against them. I learned how important it is to stay brave in the most troubling times and to fight for your culture–even when the chances of “winning” are low.

I will never meet the artists behind all the work at the museum in Pilsen but I don’t have to to know their story. They opened my blind eyes to a world of pain, fear, and, most importantly, persistence. I didn’t have any specific reason to be in Pilsen but, in retrospect, I now know it wasn’t just by chance. It’s important for me to pass on the story of Pilsen and the incredible lessons its residents taught me through their art. Although I can’t account for any personal experiences with losing my culture, I understand the fear associated with that, but also the courage one must adopt to fight that fear.

Works Cited

Bloom, Mina. “How Restaurants Feed the Gentrification Debate in Pilsen and Logan Square.” Eater Chicago, Vox Media, 6 Feb. 2018.

Lulay, Stephanie. “Pilsen Gets Whiter As 10,000 Hispanics, Families Move Out, Study Finds.” DNAinfo, DNAinfo, 13 Apr. 2016.

Pupovac, Jessica. “Pilsen Develops New Tools To Fight Gentrification.” WTTW, WWCI.

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Maternity Leave in the USA

Emilee Kennedy

After a new baby is born, the parents will often be feeling many very intense emotions. Love, excitement and happiness- all positive in response to the arrival of their child. However, in the United States, certain laws and policies can also have parents feeling the opposite way. These parents are scared that they won’t be able to afford this new life, worried about all the time the new mother will need to heal, and stressed about the new costs and responsibilities this new life will consume. The United States has been severely lacking in implementing fair maternity leave policies nationwide. If we were to improve or replace our current laws, not only would new mothers and families reap the benefits, but also the employers and even economy- in the long run. Our country has been unfair in prioritizing businesses over people, and should endeavor to provide more comfort and financial safety for new parents as a national priority.

The United States is one of only eight countries in the entire world that offers no paid maternity leave to new mothers. Of those eight countries, it is the only high income country to not offer paid time off. For a small family or a single mother, that unpaid time off is difficult to recover from, especially with the sudden increase in household costs due to the new baby. According to a report by The American Department of Agriculture, it costs more that $233,000 dollars to raise a child (Lino). This study done in 2015 accounts for costs from birth to the age of 18, and excludes the expense of a college education. Adding another person to a household drastically increases overall costs, and the physical reality for women is that they need some time off of work to recover from childbirth. Fathers also generally are allowed the same amount of time of unpaid leave, but seldom take it due to the necessity of women taking the time off for physical recovery. This means less bonding time between the father and child (Wallace and Christenson). A study in 2012 even found that fathers who took ten days of leave to care for the child found that they would be more likely to be involved in their child’s life as well as child care activities. But with new mothers (and in some cases-fathers) not going to work, overall incomes drop drastically. Although the laws in place cause obvious financial stress on the families, they also cause proven emotional stress on the mothers and children.

Studies show that these limited breaks given to new mothers can cause increased chances of postpartum depression (Ingraham). Approximately one out of seven new mothers experience postpartum depression, which can reveal itself as increased anxiety, sadness, mood swings, and in some cases even an adverse reaction to their own baby (Lieber). Arnold Lieber, a medical doctor, asserts that these symptoms can last for several weeks. Postpartum depression is typically caused by unbalanced hormones, changes in relationships, or emotional stressors including financial stress. It’s no wonder that there is an increased chance of this illness in the United States, where mothers are guaranteed no paid leave. Despite knowing they are causing stress on themselves, mothers are hesitant to leave work towards the end of their pregnancy, and rush to return due to financial strain. The limited time that they have to enjoy their baby is overshadowed by the stress of a reduced income, causing unnecessary stress that could result in postpartum depression. However, mothers are not the only ones who are negatively affected by unfair family leave policies. Limited contact time with the parents also has negative effects on the child. Breastfeeding is so crucial to the health of a child that many pediatricians agree that it is the best thing a mother can do to help a newborn thrive. A study in California in 2011 found that women with access to paid maternity leave breastfed for nearly twice as long as mothers who didn’t (Heymann). Breastfeeding has been found to reduce the chances of asthma, obesity, and infant sudden death syndrome in babies, while simultaneously benefiting the mother with reduced risks of breast and ovarian cancer, diabetes, and heart disease (Wallace and Christensen). However, after going back to work some mothers find the hassle of breastfeeding or pumping to not be worth the benefits. Very few employers offer convenient places for breastfeeding/pumping breast milk, and up until recently most mother were forced to do so hidden away in their office or locked in a bathroom. Being forced to pump in these conditions everyday are enough to make most mothers quit, assuming that the hassle and embarrassment isn’t worth it. There is significant research proving all the negative effects of short maternity leave as listed above, but there have also been studies that show how intense the positive effects are after countries provide better benefits to new families.

In countries where at least one parent stays home after a birth, we see significant increases in their quality of care over the first few years. Children whose parents were offered paid leave are 25% more likely to get vaccines, simply because they have the extra time to focus on their children (Wallace and Christensen). The reality of paid parental leave is that we will be more likely in the future to have increased well being of both mother and child. Mauricio Avendano Pabon, a professor at Harvard School of Public Health claims “This is really what economists call a human capital investment. You invest in this, you will end up picking up the benefits of this policy even years later.” So why is the US Government so hesitant to invest in the future of their own citizens, and create laws to enforce the necessity of paid parental leave? The truth is that America values businesses over people. With all of this proof of benefits for both the mother and child, there is no feasible reason paid family leave is still so inaccessible in the US, especially when other countries have implemented fair maternity leave policies with great success.

Finland is one of the frontrunners for best family benefits in the world. They have proved several times that their overall compassion and concern for the wellbeing of new families should be prioritized in a country. They are currently much further along on the path of fair maternity leave. This makes sense considering their first legal maternity guidelines were enacted in 1938, 55 years before America passed its first laws pertaining to family leave. Something unique that Finland provides to new mothers is a Maternity Care Package. These became available for all mothers in 1949, and provide childcare essentials such as clothing, bedding, diapers, and even educational material. The care package itself even doubles as a sleeping cot, perfect for a low income family. Finland has excelled in the field of providing adequate family leave. They also offer Maternity Grants, or lump sums of money to qualifying parents. This is unheard of in the United States, and this is only one example of why Finland is the most progressive country in terms of fair family medical leave. New parents in Finland are offered up to 104 days (3 months) of leave after the birth of their child. After this period of full pay, there are various services available to parents that can provide them with their partial, or occasionally even their full salary until the child turns 3. After the child has passed the age that this is offered, there are programs that can provide either partial childcare allowances or daycare allowances for working parents. The United States bleak family leave laws are nothing compared to the compassionate guidelines set by the Finnish government. Considering all the benefits that other first world countries are able to offer new parents, the details of America’s laws seem downright cruel.

The United States should be ashamed of its lack of family leave. Other high income countries are willing and glad to offer up to three years of paid leave. The US has always lagged behind its other high-income counterparts, passing the first law pertaining to family leave in 1993. FMLA, or the Family Medical Leave Act passed to guarantee 12 weeks unpaid leave to new mothers and fathers after a birth or adoption (Sholar). However, even this is difficult to be eligible for. By passing this vague law, the US decided that although workers who had to leave for family reasons are entitled to job security, whether they receive paid leave should be up to individual employers. While it is an option for employers, according to the National Women’s Law Center only 12% of workers are offered paid family leave. Although the reality of current laws in the US seem hopeless, there is a new legislation being pushed into Congress that could mean better rights for new parents. The Family and Medical Insurance Leave Act (or the FAMILY Act) was proposed by Representative Rosa DeLauro and Senator Kirsten Gillibrand, and was introduced in 2017 (S. 337). The Act was proposed as a form of mandatory taxpayer-funded insurance, and would offer 12 weeks of paid leave to new mothers and father at a 34% pay cut (FAMILY Act FAQ). It is based on states with paid leave programs that are in place and showing incredible success such as in California, Rhode Island, and New Jersey. No further action has been taken on this proposal yet, but it’s existence is already a good sign for the future of family leave in America.

The few months after childbirth are some of the most emotional and challenging times for a new family. Increased financial stress can cause issues for all members of the family, which can result in serious mental issues later on. Paid maternity and paternity leave for these families could solve some of these issues, creating a healthier environment for the parents as well as the child. More time away from work could drastically increase the wellbeing of a child and the mother, with proof of better physical and mental health even years after birth. The future of improved family leave in the US looks bright, and hopefully the Family and Medical Insurance Leave Act will be addressed by Congress in the near future. Raising a new baby is a challenge itself, and adding financial struggles and other stress to the family can be disastrous. The laws on required family leave should be less based on the inconvenience to the employers and more concerned with the wellbeing of the parents and child.

Works Cited

Chait, Jennifer. “Finland’s Family Benefits Prove Why It’s Ranked the Number One Place in the  World to be a Parent.” inhabitat.com, Inhabitots, 2013,   https://inhabitat.com/inhabitots/finlands-family-benefits-prove-why-its-ranked-the-number-one-place-in-the-world-to-be-a-parent/. Accessed 23 October. 2018.

Deahl, Jessica. “Countries Around The World Beat The U.S. On Paid Parental Leave.” NPR, NPR, 6 Oct. 2016, https://www.npr.org/2016/10/06/495839588/countries-around-the-world-beat-the-u-s-on-paid-parental-leave. Accessed 4 Oct. 2018.

Heymann, Jody, et al. “Policy and Global Health: The Case of Maternal Leave.”   Www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov, US National Library of Medicine, 2011,                       www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3150137/#. Accessed 19 October. 2018.

Ingraham, Christopher. “Analysis | The World’s Richest Countries Guarantee Mothers More than       a Year of Paid Maternity Leave. The U.S. Guarantees Them Nothing.” The Washington                     Post, WP Company, 5 Feb. 2018, https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2018                    /02/05/the-worlds-richest-countries-guarantee-mothers-more-than-a-year-of-paid-maternity-leave-the-u-s-guarantees-them-nothing/. Accessed 4 Oct. 2018.

Liebelson, Dana. “How America Ended up with the Worst Maternity Leave Laws on Earth.” The Week – All You Need to Know about Everything That Matters, The Week, 27 June 2014,  theweek.com/articles/445827/how-america-ended-worst-maternity-leave-laws-earth.  Accessed 17 October. 2018.

Lieber, Arnold. “Postpartum Depression: A Guide to Symptoms & Treatment After Childbirth.”  PsyCom.net – Mental Health Treatment Resource Since 1986,  www.psycom.net/depression.central.post-partum.html. Accessed 16 October. 2018.

Lino, Mark, et al. “Expenditures on Children By Families, 2015.” Cpp.usda.gov, United States Department of Agriculture, Jan. 2017,                                www.cnpp.usda.gov/sites/default/files/crc2015.pdf. Accessed 19 October. 2018.

Sholar, Megan. “The History of Family Leave Policies in the United States.” The American  Historian, The Organization of American Historians, tah.oah.org/november-2016/the-history -of-family -leave-policies- in-the-united-states/. Accessed 17 October. 2018.

“The Family And Medical Insurance Leave (FAMILY) Act: Frequently Asked Questions.”   National Partnership For Women and Families, Sept. 2018. Accessed 17 October. 2018.

United States, Congress, Family and Medical Insurance Leave Act. 2017. Accessed 17 October.  2018.

Wallace, Kelly, and Jen Christensen. “Paid Leave Benefits Children and Families, Studies Say.”  CNN, Cable News Network, 29 Oct. 2015,  https://www.cnn.com/2015/10/29/health/paid-leave-benefits-to-children-research/index.html. Accessed 4 Oct. 2018.

 

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October Interlude

Kendall Moser

 

and then the trees came to life
and oh!
how they danced
how the wind sang in our ears
and we were so little and alone and
it didn’t matter
your hair was sunlight spilling over your shoulders
your eyes were melodies so sweet only the birds could ever read the sheet music right
and you laughed with the waltzing trees
and made my heart flutter like the wings of the bees
and for once I was not afraid of being stung

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Asexual Awakening

Elizabeth Garavaglia

Winner of the 2019 LSSU Short Story Award

There’s nothing that makes you feel more trapped than being told you can’t leave. That’s how people get stuck in jobs, schools, marriages. In my case, it was Hope Memorial Psychiatric just outside Cincinnati, OH. A mental hospital. Stuck in the routines that doctors set out for me, eating things they’d tried to call food, and trying to sleep through the night terrors of people worse off than me. I think I’d rather be stuck in a loveless marriage at this point. But at least I wasn’t all doped on medication, babbling about myself in these group sessions. Maybe the meds would be better, who knows? It figures this is what I get for not wanting to do “the do.”

I never had the infamous first sex dream. All that talk of men’s hard-lined bodies, tense jawlines, and enrapturing arms pressed into the softness of my womanly body. It left me feeling alarmed. I remember the girls in my school talking about their favorite male celebrities, hunched together and giggling and I’d join in, thinking we were talking about who did the best in their roles. But then there’d be one girl who would straighten her back, a knowing look on her face, smirk, and coo I know what fun I’d have with him. It would take me back, because what fun could teenage girls have with adults?

Those men had nothing in common with us.

It didn’t take me long to find out I preferred the soft touches of another woman, fresh into adulthood I met her. Isabella. Those laughing eyes drew me in, the hugs that never quite left, and the warmth of her side against mine brought silence to my mind. I felt special, the way her tongue rolled out my name, as if my one syllable deserved more, as if I deserved more. Brrree. She’d finished it with a giggle every time, and I couldn’t help but smile back. She was the star that finished my constellation. Isabella was an engineering major, business minor–that’s how we met–but she taught me more about myself than a degree ever could.

But I still never got those urges. The ones that made her hand wander from my hip to circling my inner thigh. I wanted my heart to race from excitement, but instead it pounded with dread and confusion. I loved Isabella, but I didn’t want to do anything about it. I just wanted to hold her and admire her. But instead I pushed her away. Starting a fight bought me time to try and understand what was happening and why there was a part of me with no interest in taking that last, expected step.

The longer I waited, the more hurt and insecure Isabella became. She took out her insecurity in various ways. Sometimes it was passive aggressive and she’d stop doing anything around the house or even for herself, over the course of weeks or even months. So I would just silently pretend I didn’t notice, doing everything. Even feeding her at times. An ache in my chest would scatter itself and burn down walls, while claws tore out a space in my stomach for anxiety to settle in deeper. When Isabella acted out aggressively, banners of broken pride cascaded down her sunset cheeks and I stood stiffly while she screamed What is wrong with you? or Why don’t you think I’m beautiful? and her favorite was Is there someone else?. In all honesty, I didn’t know what was wrong, the thought of having sex with anyone, even the girl I thought was the most beautiful, most loving person in the world made my skin feel inside out and hard-etched with gravel. But I didn’t know how to tell her that without hurting her and our relationship even further.

Then one day she came into our apartment, and cornered me. I could feel the dread swelling up beside my stomach once again, reaching out for my lungs and swinging between them. Her normally playful eyes were dark now as she stared me down. I can barely remember the exact words now, just their meaning. Maybe the radio had been playing too loud. It was some classical station she loved, but it wasn’t coming through. I couldn’t focus on that and her arm wrapped around my waist in a desperate attempt for me to understand this desire I was denying her, her eyes pleading. Begging. As if I were torturing her with this physical denial. Her words demanded I have sex with her or our relationship, all previous love attached to it, was over.

So I did it.

I forced myself to do what I thought would save our love, and maybe my tears are still stains on her thighs, but I try not to ask myself that. I don’t want to think of her as a nasty thing. It makes it harder to think of the love I felt for her as real and it was, but something about having sex made it something stranger. Something distorted. Sometimes I remember her moans and to many I’m sure it would be sexy and pleasurable, but I also remember hearing her apologizing in my ear, knowing she had done something I didn’t want. All of it is kind of fuzzy, like a radio station that half comes in, about to fade out. It’s there though. Barely.

Isabella left me about a month later. She said my body wasn’t responsive enough whenever she was “loving me.” Her fingers are branded inside, over, and throughout me. I don’t blame her for leaving. We loved each other, but we didn’t love each other right, you know? I won’t force my half love on anyone again. Not like I’ve already tried. With her and with myself.

Of course I didn’t tell the group any of this.

“Bree, did you hear me?” My eyes shifted over to the doc, her eyes wide in that doe-eyed concerned way. They were pretty, conventionally. But I preferred my rounded almond shaped ones personally. Slowly, I nodded, adjusting my sweats and clearing my throat.

“I don’t think of myself as a victim Doc, that’s not really why I’m here.” She smiled her ominous smile, and I noticed her burgundy lipstick had faded over into her off-kilter midnight skin. It was a small detail, but I focused on it instead of the people all around me, their faces eluding me. Intentionally.

“Why are you here Bree?” My mouth twisted around her name, then around the newfound word I’d come to associate with myself. Dread suddenly began to inflate itself inside me, using my stomach as bongos and my heart as timbales; discordant and reverberating throughout my body. Staring straight through her, I replied flatly.

“Because I don’t want to have sex with anyone.” Her eyebrow furrowed slightly and a couple people in the circle shifted, eager to show their distaste at my comment.

“Do you think that’s something that needs to be fixed?” Rolling my head, I smiled half-heartedly.

“I just think it’s a fact Doc. Everyone else thinks it’s something that needs to be fixed.” Nodding, the doc turned her attention to someone else in the circle. I could only half hear his words as I stared out the window behind us, the sun spying through and warming my cheek. This hospital never felt warm, even on sunny days like today and it made me wonder if keeping us cold was supposed to make us more cooperative. It didn’t affect me much, I had known coldness much worse.

 

The coldness that I had felt sitting in the bathtub of my apartment, resting my forehead against the wall. The hot water had run out a long time ago, but if you asked me how long, I couldn’t say. If I had blinked in that time it would’ve been slow and few between because my eyes were wide open and seemed to be trained on my bar of peach soap, but really something beyond it. The pervasive invasion of the water running down and over all parts of my body, leaving no territory unclaimed or unmarked reminded me of Isabella, of what she had described as passion, but I only remembered as desecration. My rusted shower head screeched to do its job and it reminded me of the piercing sound that rang throughout my ears the entire time I let her explore my body, focusing on the water stain of our ceiling. How odd the things you notice when you’re waiting for something to end. Second by second.

At some point, I had moved into the kitchen, the shower head still screaming in the other room, water all over my floors and I stood over my kitchen sink with a chef knife to my wrists. Thinking about how to keep as much blood as I could in the sink. The firm steel felt as if it were vibrating against my skin, sitting on the surface yet somehow inside my veins. Some other part of me set the chef knife down, shut off the shower, got myself dressed, and I walked down, almost by instinct, to the psychiatric hospital. The one an old college friend used to intern at. Then I told the nurse what happened with no tone, watching her eyes panic. Her face remained calm and asked if I was checking myself in. The same part of me that set down the knife said yes. Since then, that part has stopped running the show.

That guy was glaring at me, even more annoyed that I wasn’t really paying attention to the fact that I was insulting his prudish sensibilities. Which I regularly did.

“I just don’t understand why she always has to be so–”

“Now, let’s not attack each other for how we’re coping or adjusting okay?” The man released a loud scoff and I just smirked. He’s been here longer than I have. His pasty skin practically faded into these pristine, antiseptic walls. His OCD would never let him actually touch the walls of course, just the doors. Exactly 14 times, so it was over 13. The unlucky number. I didn’t particularly mind though, it’s not like I had anywhere to be. I never caught his name. Probably on purpose. There was also the Polynesian girl I shared a room with, Liliana, here for an eating disorder, but didn’t fit the regular profile because she was almost 200 pounds. College put a bit too much stress on her is my personal opinion, but what do I know? Definitely bulimic though, I can hear her trying to throw up sometimes, even hours after meals. The schizophrenic ex-professor, Noel maybe? She went off her meds to try and finish her grant research and often tries to refuse even now. She’s almost done with that research apparently through her coworkers and phone time. And lastly, Dwayne who is our mystery guest. Right now, I’m guessing anxiety disorder, but honestly he’s the wild card around here. All I know is, he always had a little book with him, not sure what it was though, it’s always tucked tightly against his chest as he stares off into the galaxies, relaying some messages. Perhaps the daily weather report. Then there’s me. The lesbian who doesn’t want to have sex, ever. Iconic. I crossed my arms over my chest. I knew that wasn’t the real reason I was here, but it certainly felt like it. There was suddenly a bump against my arm and my head jerked around to see Liliana staring down at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Lesgo, come on sista.” She was probably the closest thing I had to a friend here. Moving to my feet, I watched her shake her head with her hands on her hips.

“You acting so lolo, keep doing like you do in here and one of these days, the doc is going to be absolutely done with you, pau!”  I had remembered the feeling of being given up on, I had survived it before, from someone who meant much more to me. I could survive it again. I wrapped my arms around my ribs and pressed through the meat of my body to count each one repeatedly as we walked down the meandering hall, reminding myself where my body was. I replied with a surprising coolness for the dryness of my throat.

“They won’t write about me as a tragedy Liliana, just another horror story about sex.” A baffled look scattered across her face as she lightly hit my shoulder.

“You got as many moods as kai sista, the ocean. Besides how they gonna use you? You don’t even have sex. It’s kine your thing.” I was about to explain when the doc popped up next to us, that professional smile slapped into place. We smiled back as she began in her slow, measured way.

“Bree, would you come with me to my office?” It was formed as a question, but I knew it wasn’t. Glancing back at Liliana, I waved and then nodded. My small act of defiance was refusing to walk beside her and I zeroed in on her clicking heels, not too tall for the workplace, but not too short to be unappealing, in a conventional way. They were a lovely shade of matte black. Again, sensible and conventionally appealing. But they didn’t contrast against the black and white floors. Click, click, click, click. Something about me wanted them to clack. Just once. To go against that pattern. That pattern that seemed to make everyone else feel so safe, and yet made me feel so out of place. My head whipped up as we approached her office, but I didn’t make eye contact as I squeezed past her through the door. The dim lighting was supposed to be relaxing, but it always seemed to remind me of rich man’s bar. Maybe it was all the diplomas on the wall, the deep leather of the furniture, or the neverending messiness of her desk that made it look like all she did was sit at that desk. But hey, women gotta represent. Like always, I sat in the emerald green studded, leather chair that stood stiffly, but directly underneath the brightest lamp in the room. Doc chuckled and half-heartedly attempted to tidy her desk.

“I hope you’ll excuse the mess.” Resting my cheek in my palm, I nodded out of habit and crossed my knees snuggly.

“So what to talk about today Doc? How do you feel about my progress?” She chuckled sardonically, the first unprofessional thing she’d done the whole time I’d been here and it caught my attention enough for my eyes to actually move to where she was. I paid full attention to her now. Her hands were interlaced and she was watching me curiously as she leaned onto the desk. More doctor than fellow human right now. It allowed me to actually take her seriously.

“You’ve been here for 20 days now. We both know you get released tomorrow since you haven’t proven to be a danger to yourself or others in this time. Your depersonalization and derealization don’t seem to be interfering with your daily functioning anymore. However, I think we both know you disrespected the process and I’m not entirely sure why you even came in the first place if you didn’t actually want a doctor’s help. So I’m giving you one last chance for a one-on-one session before group therapy tomorrow afternoon. Open up, it truly helps Bree. Not half-heartedly like you have been doing, I mean get everything out in the open. We can sit here a little while for you to think about it.” I stared back at her unrelenting eyes, practiced smile, repeating her words with that soft, unwavering voice. And it infuriated me inside. All she cared about was results, getting her answers, the bottom line. My fingers dug into the leather on the chair and I wished I could tear it open. I wanted it to be destroyed, like my trust, like my faith in systems, in traditions, in relationships, in connection. Instead I stared back, hoping she’d hear the screaming pounding at my skull, trying to crush it from the inside out and it would melt away her professional facade. As long as I was alive, she would never hear about my struggles, about who I was. I clenched my teeth, furious as a tear ran down my cheek, causing the doc to tilt her head, fake empathy filling her face.

“Would you like to talk about what’s overwhelming you perhaps?” Breaking eye contact, I stared at the door, ready to break through not just that doorway, but the main entrance.

“No.” Her smile weakened and she nodded.

“Very well, if you don’t wish to speak, you can go back to your room.”

 

I zoned out until the end of group. Ready to get back to my room where my bags were already packed. They had been packed since midnight because I hadn’t slept a wink. Too busy making plans. Liliana walked with me back to my room and I hugged her goodbye. She’d be the only person I would actually miss. Who knows, maybe we would meet again someday. I hoped so.  Right now though I was about to be free, and my talk with the doc yesterday made me realize people were going to continue trying to make me what they thought was right, not who I should be. As I approached the doc, I couldn’t help that my body language got closed off and I stared her down. Her hands were folded at her waist, proper as ever, and I smiled tightly.

“See ya Doc.” There was almost an inkling of sadness in her eyes as she tilted her head and shook my hand as professionalism would indicate.

“We’ll miss your quick wit around here Bree.” The guy with OCD scoffed, twisting the doorknob in quick motions like he always did.

“Speak for yourself.”  Noel was on the phone so she just smiled and waved me off and I had expected Dwayne to just ignore me, but he actually walked up to me, albeit with his head down. Then he grabbed my arm, book tucked against his chest, and whispered in my ear.

“The secrets of this earth are not for all men to see, but only for those who will seek them.” Furrowing my brow, I looked over at him in confusion and he nodded his head, still not looking directly at me.

“Ayn Rand’s Anthem. Page fifty-two.” Then he walked away, still nodding. Blinking a few times, I brushed it off and then grabbed my bags, hugging Liliana once more, assuring her she was a beautiful crier, and then walked out those front doors into the sunshine. And I didn’t know where to go. I had only been in there for twenty days, but it hadn’t fixed my sense of unbelonging. Why was I surprised?

Slowly, I made my way back to my apartment and was greeted by the soft music of my Spotify playlist I had assembled to keep quiet company for my chameleon, Alfredo. Thankfully, I had a neighbor who loved helping out with him, and Alfredo loved to be left to his own devices. I walked by his vivarium and one of his eyes slowly moved to study me. I offered an excited smile, but Alfredo simply blinked and then began walking with his sloth-like movements to hide amongst his leaves. Sighing, I threw in some crickets for him, and then cocooned into my blankets, watching the light show of shadows on my bedroom wall. Something about what Dwayne had said kept coming to mind. Maybe he meant I was “this earth?” In the shadows on the ceiling, I could see my body transforming, becoming a safeguard for what and who I was. Nothing the doc ever did worked because she didn’t deserve to know any deep part of me. Not yet, not until I got my closure. I would be stronger before I told my story and there was only one way to do that. Dwayne had known, he had seen me. My heart began to flicker as tears gushed from my eyes without my control. Who would’ve known that the person I thought was paying the least amount of attention understood me the most? The moonlight settled into my windowsill, its light staying steady on my face, illuminating me. All I remembered was the way the moonlight hit the ceiling that night, the way it made the shadows play over the walls and dance over our blankets, as if these shadows were my own personal demons who instead of being chased away by my blankets felt welcomed into my bed and vibrated with the pleasure of rolling around in the agony I felt when my skin hit the sheets from then on. Dwayne knew I needed to face my pain, teeth bared and vocal cords raw. The nonconsensual wave of emotion continued for only Alfredo knows how long. But when it rolled back, I stared at the moonlight’s parting graces on my ceiling, determined on what I had to do now.

 

The bus moved my body in time with both my neighbors, our torsos swaying four counts for each street lamp that flashed by. My heart was beating a million beats between them. Even in the dreamlike, slow movements I was watching the world around me in, nothing was clear. People’s faces were simply pools of sinking color, lights were zig zagging strands tying me tighter against my seat. Yet I still managed to keep an accurate count of the number of stops we made. Maybe it was accurate. Two more before I got off. That’s what my mind kept repeating. Three more before I got off. A blast of the night air hit me like the sound of freshly made ice cubes against new glass, and I closed my eyes to focus on that stabilizing sensation. The dizziness I was feeling began to fade as a disk of coolness spread over my scalp from where it was pressed into the glass. My thoughts were jumbled before, but something about the sudden briskness around me coaxed out older memories. Isabella and I on the porch, in the bleeding dusk and laughing, when her hands had been gentle. The nights of homemade dinners, or when we had really drunk takeout. A part of me ached for those long, slow kisses on the carpet, her hair a mess and shuttering her eyes, but the part of me that operated at the forefront now only remembered the laughter leaving her eyes. Watching her mouth tear into screams and moans that sounded like the ones repeated in ghost stories when I recalled it in my memory.

At some point, I realized I was walking now. To where I was still unsure. Then I saw it. The house was exactly the same, except it didn’t belong to “us” now, it belonged to “them.” I didn’t think the same things would be special for them, but I guess a last betrayal would be no surprise. Through the blanket of night I could still clearly imagine Isabella and Replacement Girlfriend sitting out on the porch swing, the heat of her palm against her cheek. Maybe they drank wine and made stupid jokes in moonlight of sliding back door. I could feel their lips coming together as if it were my own touching hers, except it felt wrong, but it would feel wrong if Isabella were kissing me too and I ground my teeth together in frustration. Rubbing my forehead, I looked both ways before crossing the street, moving past the open gate into the small backyard they shared with their neighbors. The billowy leaves of a large maple broke up the moonlight over my face, the scattering of light questioning me on my motives. But still I focused, remembering Isabella never locked the sliding back door unless reminded. I hoped she hadn’t been reminded. When the gasp of the seal pulling apart sounded out, I took it as a sign in some dimension this was the right thing to do. However, a more rational part of me knew if someone else saw me they’d call the cops on me, so I only opened it enough to slid in and then quietly closed it again. My feet fell solidly onto new, tortilla-colored wooden floors and on instinct I slipped off my shoes, remembering how crazy it drove Isabella when I left them on. I didn’t spend much time poking around the house, I knew what I was here to do. My footsteps were light, but felt heavy as the silence created a pounding against my ears. Thwa-dump, tha-dump, twa-dump. A different sound each time, in tune with every connection of foot to floor, my eyes moving aimlessly until they trained on the door at the end of the hall. The bedroom. Where everything in our relationship had begun to go awry. When my palm wrapped around that doorknob, I half expected to be electrocuted, but it simply gave way, allowing me entry. Isabella and Replacement Girlfriend were sleeping like the dead, their hands encasing each other’s bodies, mouths inhaling and exhaling mere inches from each other. The only sign they were alive was the steady rise and fall of their chests. This was all I ever wanted with her. A connection, affection, but I found out her love came with conditions. At some point, I found myself tapping her shoulder, watching her eyes and hoping to see them sparkle when they twisted onto me. I hoped, but it was a stretch. Isabella’s eyes blinked open and her brow furrowed as she adjusted to the miniscule light before she lifted herself up and finally turned to me. Her expression fell.

“Bree?” I offered a half-hearted smile before it faded and I shuffled on my feet.

“Yeah.” Her tone suddenly grew concerned, but not for me. It was almost as if she were afraid.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in? I thought you were in a crazy hospital? Did you escape?” I tuned out her hurtful words as she continued, my eyes glazing over. I stared over at Replacement Girlfriend. She didn’t look so different from me. What made her so much more worth Isabella’s time and affection? It wasn’t my fault I was made the way I was. Everything was suddenly swelling up inside of me and I could feel my stomach twisting inside of me, not with dread, but with pent up rage and the need to scream. Isabella was still talking, but all I heard was radio silence. As I leaned against her bedroom wall, I spoke up softly at first.

“I didn’t want to.” Confused, Isabella sat up and looked at me and laughed sardonically. Speaking softly so as not to wake Replacement Girlfriend.

“What are you talking about?

“Sex. I didn’t want to have sex with you. I don’t want to have sex with anyone ever.” Isabella rolled her eyes and grabbed her robe, standing up and encasing herself within it, as if it were a shield.

“You’re still on that, everyone has sex Bree. Come on, let’s get you back to the hospital.” She moved to grab my arm and I jerked it away, glaring back at her, my eyes defiant and my voice rising to match.

“I don’t. I never want to. Sex is more than just a step in relationships Isabella. For some people it’s hell. As a lesbian, imagine having to have sex with a man the rest of your life Isabella, that’s how I feel about sex period. But you pushed me, you made me feel guilty, as if I was depriving you of some basic human right, and then you left me because I wasn’t torturing myself for you good enough.” Isabella kept glancing back at Replacement Girlfriend, an uncomfortable look on her face.

“Look, I didn’t know it was like that, please can you keep your voice down?” I scoffed, walking towards Isabella so she sat down on the bedside and screamed at her, ignoring the fact that Replacement Girlfriend was now wide awake.

“I have kept my voice down for years! People have told me I should’ve just sucked it up, that sex isn’t that bad, especially with another girl, and at least it wasn’t really rape. Real fucking rape. I am a homoromantic asexual dammit! But if asexuals really want a relationship, we’ve gotta be willing to put out, at the sake of our fucking minds. Because that’s the price of love, your pussy on a platter, am I right?” Replacement Girlfriend put her hand on Isabella’s shoulder and opened her mouth to speak, but I laughed humorlessly and pointed at her, “Don’t you say a fucking word, this isn’t about you, okay?” She gave Isabella a meaningful look and she nodded, but I didn’t care. We used to do that. We used to share something more than pain. I scarcely noticed Replacement Girlfriend leave the room after that, not that I actually cared about her. It was Isabella who needed to hear what I had to say and she was listening with wide-eyes for the first time.

“I just wanted you to love me for me, to want to kiss me and not to think that meant I wanted more. I just wanted to love you the way I love, but it wasn’t enough for you. It never was. It’s stupid to think that it would be.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re only saying that because you can’t ignore me now. You can’t put aside what you did, but it’s okay I’m not going to do anything about it legally because I let you think it was okay. It wasn’t okay by any means, but this is just a part of my therapy.” Isabella blinked in bafflement, and I smirked, leaning back against the wall just as police sirens began to whoop outside the house, the blue and red masking Isabella’s face. Her chest was heaving and her breath was short. Shaking my head, I replied levelly.

“Your new girlfriend is a total narc bitch.”

 

I figured this is how it would happen. I sat in the back of the police cruiser with the handcuffs on loosely. More of a formality and a comfort for Isabella and Replacement Girl I’m sure. The buildings and street lamps were passing by slower and smoother now. My head was light as if I had gotten several inches of my hair chopped off. Disorienting, but not in a bad way. The police officer who cuffed me told me they were informed I was recently released from a psychiatric hospital on the 9-1-1 call, so that’s where they were going to take me instead of processing me into jail. Isabella told them not to press charges, I could see it in the way she wouldn’t look at me after the police entered. They had surrounded me and pressed me into the wall even though I didn’t put up a fight, but Isabella turned her face away and stared at the carpet as if it would explain how we got here, her arms glued to her knees like she did when she was uncomfortable. Replacement Girlfriend yelled something and moved to Isabella’s side, but I wasn’t listening. I was ready to go and let the officers lead me out. No matter what any of us wanted, I would always know her better. I would remember everything. In the cruiser, I asked the officer if he would call my neighbor and ask him to take care of Alfredo while I was gone. However long that may be. They would probably keep me longer than 21 days this time. I’m sure Alfredo wouldn’t miss me anyways. It wasn’t a long drive to the hospital. It looked very much the same in the night, clean cut and unwelcoming, but there were lit up windows that suggested maybe there was life dwelling within. The officer un-handcuffed me and guided me up the steps and towards the check-in desk, speaking to the receptionist politely. As if they had smelled me upon arrival, Liliana and Dwayne popped out of a room, not yet noticing me. Liliana was talking quickly as she did and Dwayne was staring off towards the ceiling, but I’m sure he was listening as he nodded faithfully and tapped his fingers against the spine of his book.

“Guys!” They turned, Liliana looking directly as me with a welcoming smile and a wave before running at me, and Dwayne, nodded with a crooked smile before turning around. Liliana threw her arms around me and I giggled uncontrollably along with her.

“Sista, what you be doing back here? You too lolo for the outside?” I nodded and was about to explain when the doc began walking towards me, confusion over her face. The sound of her heels echoed through the halls. Click, click, click, clack! The last step was noticeably off as she stepped back and chuckled, picking up a shiny quarter.

“Oh, stepped on a quarter.” Liliana snatched the quarter from the doc’s fingers and made her way to the activity room, the two of us in tow. Doc reassured the officer that I was good to go with Liliana, and then she followed behind us, that soft professional voice of hers breaking the air.

“Bree, you do realize you’re going to be admitted again tonight?” I nodded, the pressure of Liliana’s arm hooked around mine causing warmth to radiate through my skin, we stopped at the rundown jukebox, its colors vibrant for another time. The doc stood with her hands folded as Liliana flipped through the song selections and I stared back, the defiance in my blood tucked in until some other day. But that didn’t stop me from noticing that conventionally pretty smile of hers. Somewhere I’m sure there was a better version of it.

“Yes, Doc. You gonna send for my clothes?” The doc smirked and zeroed her eyes in on me tighter.

“Why did you go to Isabella’s tonight?” I laughed and sat back, kicking my feet up.

“So I could come back and see you Doc.” She smiled knowingly, her eyes drifting to Liliana just as she slipped the quarter into the jukebox.

“This sista and I gots to talk story. She missed choke gossip.” Then the music started, the notes ringing clearly through my ears and I smiled as Liliana pulled me up to dance, her smile the starlight of the night.

Posted on

Narrative

Amy Lehigh

Winner of the 2019 LSSU Short Story Award

The day outside is beautiful; sun shining like the beautiful ball of burning life that it is, birds twittering in the sky, the air just the right temperature and humidity that it feels like nothing at all on the skin.

Yet Irena sits in her living room with a silent headset over her ears, reading a book.

She’s a dull one, really, that Irena. Always reading a book, or dozing off for a cat nap. It has never particularly been in her schedule to make time for “fun” like going out with friends, or any of that. She has always been alone, and that seems to be the way she likes it.

The book in her hands at this particular moment is also equally uninteresting—some drivel on the physiology of the human body. Or perhaps an anatomical reference? There are a great many diagrams, though it’s difficult to determine at a glance what they are meant to be for, being so inundated with dry text. Better than whatever gibberish on plants she had this last week, at the least.

Anyhow, Irena is dull not only in her habits, but also in her appearance. A thin, rather pallid face—from her lack of sunshine, clearly; the poor girl is like a flower left in a dark corner—with angular eyebrows, a sharp chin, and dull, gray eyes that either seem as though they peer into everything or are simply glazed over with boredom. It’s difficult to tell.

Despite these things, she really is like a neglected flower; she has a Roman nose that protrudes from her face, and though it only accentuates her thin cheeks at the moment, taken alone, it is quite the regal nose, not overly pointed nor bulbous and unattractive. Her hair is a chestnut brown that shimmers of summer, though she always has it tied back into a painfully rigid braid or ponytail (sporting the latter at the moment). Even her cheekbones, so visible that they are nearly oppressive to the eyes, are quite fine and delicate; if only her cheeks were filled a bit more, so that these cheekbones of hers did not cast quite such severe shadows into her face.

If only she would go outside and get a bit of sun.

To be frank, the most interesting thing about Irena is how uninteresting she is. But even the most uninteresting people can become interesting when something comes along to shake up their dull little world of habit.

For example, the little letter that is currently sliding through the mail slot of Irena’s front door.

The click of the metal slot closing once again seems to stir her, and she looks up from her book to the door. One slender hand reaches up to nudge the headset off of her ears, pushing it down to rest around her neck as her eyes lock onto the envelope, which is now sitting deceptively demure on the linoleum of the entryway. The muscles around her mouth twitch slightly, a frown caught in conception before ever spreading over her face.

Patience now; she has to think about the thing. Is it time for the mail yet today? What could a single letter be for? Her bills were paid (precisely on time, as always), and no one ever sent her anything in the mail, much the same way no one ever sent her anything by text. These very thoughts can be seen flicking through her eyes as she stares at the thing.

Finally, she rises and moves to pick it up. It’s a normal, pale envelope, though when she turns it over to the front there is no address, no stamp; no sign whatsoever of the sender—of course. After all, it isn’t even time for the mail to come yet…considering that it’s a Sunday.

This unusual fact seems not to perturb Irena, as she creates an incision in the envelope with a precise stroke of her finger and pulls out the note inside, which reads:

Irena: I’m afraid that you don’t know me, though I know you quite well. You intrigue me. That’s why I’d like for us to play a little game.

She snorts at this. “A ‘game’?” Her voice is surly, astonishingly so, and brusque, likely from her lack of social interaction. “You must not know me that well.”

While blunt, she has a point. She typically isn’t one for games. However, this one is a bit more tempting…

See, I know all about your boring little life. I think it could use a little bit of spice—

Wait. She lowers the letter, shaking her head slightly. She hasn’t even finished reading it! She puts the thing back into the envelope, saunters over to the kitchen, and drops it into the trashcan as she goes to her cupboards to grab something to eat.

How rude! Some effort went into that letter, handwritten as it was. Well.

Anyhow, the rest of the letter would have read something along the lines of, “so I came prepared to provide. Just start by searching your yard for three clues.”

Now she’ll never even know that. More extreme measures must be taken. A simple scavenger hunt would never get Irena’s attention, of course. …Of course.

Irena continues to go about her business as though the letter never existed. She pulls out a few dishes from her cupboards and things from the fridge—the house soon smells of chicken and vegetables—and makes herself some lunch. How apathetic can one get?

Well, testing that apathy once again as the sun sinks below the horizon, a watchful, omniscient eye closing, the doorbell sounds within the house, the cheerful, chirpy lilt echoing within the walls. Irena closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, setting the book down on her lap. “Again?” she mutters. Still, she rises, and she goes to the door, peering first out the peephole before swinging it open. Her eyes fall to a package on the porch, once more with a letter: both unaddressed, of course. She blinks—thinks.

She brings them in.

Setting the package on her kitchen table, Irena first opens the letter, with rather less care than before. One of her fine brows quirks up at the writing.

Dear Irena: Really? You didn’t even finish my letter before putting it in the trash? Fine, I see how it is. It wasn’t enough to stir you into action. Well, here is something that will. (Oh, but don’t worry, it isn’t inherently dangerous.)

Setting the letter aside, Irena reaches one hand out to the box. It’s cool, like the inside of a house despite the warm fall day. It hasn’t been outside for long. She fingers the lips of the cardboard flaps—they’re merely folded together, no tape. “Okay,” she says. She nods slightly, and her voice hardens. “Okay.”

With both hands, she tears the box open. Her breath catches. Inside is a blond plush dog, with a light blue note beside it: “Find my owner.” At first glance, the thing is rather mundane. But Irena’s first glance peers into it. She reaches in delicately, handles the thing as though it is made of blown sugar and will crumble with the slightest force.

Of course, she’s noticed the stain.

Her finger traces it, dark and dry but unmistakable. Blood. On the toy’s shoulder. Irena peers once more into the box, and now she scans it. The dry tree needles, the flecks of dark dirt and mud on the bottom and all over the toy, a leaf from an oak tree that had begun the process of turning orange.

She takes in a slow, sharp breath, the air hissing through her nose. There is the slightest twitch in the muscles of her jaw. She nods, almost imperceptible. “Okay,” she says.

And the game is on.

 

The next morning is overcast, light without sun, and Irena is on a mission. She wakes up, gets dressed, and is still pulling her shirt down over her belly as she walks out of her room. She turns to a storage closet in the hall, sliding open the door and reaching in to grab an old backpack, a sorry-looking thing that has clearly been sitting despondently in that dark closet for some time.

Irena swings the backpack over one shoulder and closes the closet once more. She brings her hair up and yanks it into a ponytail as she glances around her home. Soon, she’s grabbed the dog, the note, and some other basic things that one would need for a hike that may take a long time (thankfully her work schedule gives her Mondays off, lest all Hell breaks loose at the library without her), and settled them into her bag. She grabs the leaves from the box and tucks them into a pocket of her jeans, along with a cell phone. Moving to the window, she stares up at the sky for a moment. The overcast day threatens rain, but more in the bluffing way that nature does when it wants humans to be concerned with the picnic they planned or the state of their hair. Irena is concerned about neither, nor about the threat of rain.

Irena treks out of her house and out of town, venturing over the sidewalk alongside the road. Few cars pass by on the street; no one seems inclined to come out of their houses, either already at work or unwilling to embrace the dreary day. No different from Irena’s typical self in that respect, really. But today, Irena is not her typical, drab self.

Today, she is interesting.

The sweet scents of decaying leaves, of sap and bitter hints of musk permeate the air as Irena stops at a trail outside the town. She has left houses and home behind, standing amongst trees older than her grandmother’s grandfather. Her eyes peer around the trees, taking in the state, shape, appearances, soil preferences, favorite color of each. But goodness, the fresh air feels nice. Smells nice, too, in comparison to the stale air of that wretched house.

Irena sniffs—once, haughty. She removes her backpack from her shoulders for a moment, swinging it in front of her and rummaging through it without setting it on the ground. She pulls out the stuffed dog and glances around. She raises the thing near to her face as she scans, though not close enough to touch. She sniffs once again.

Replacing it, she swings the bag once more onto her back as she raises her eyes to the canopy, green-golden leaves shimmering above her in the breeze. Goodness, she is taking her time, isn’t she? The trail spans only one of two ways at the moment, north to south; pick one, dear.

Taking one last glance to the north, she begins to head south. Her feet march along the trail, kicking up small puffs of dirt. Perhaps the day could use some rain after all—the ground is quite dry. Irena’s sneakers are getting coated in dust. It has been quite some time since the last rain, thinking on it. She pays the state of her shoes no mind, however, and continues marching through the afternoon, the sky above brightening slowly like something ethereal, lighting up without the sight of the sun.

The air slowly thickens with the threat of rain and the scent of pine as Irena makes her way along the trail. She continues to scan the forest around her, occasionally pausing to remove the water from her backpack and keep hydrated (a very important thing, you know, for a person on a hike, even if that person is on a hike because of a mysterious set of notes and equally enigmatic package).

The trees slowly become more dense, oak and maple twining with different pines, some of which are dropping clumps of needles, leaves overhead turning from a sea of gold to reds and oranges. Birds are chirping up ahead, but their voices seem to ricochet into a void. It’s as though the leaves absorb all of the sound to give nothing but their own whispers in return. The light in the sky is beginning to fade, but more than that, the trees are growing darker, more solemn and menacing around the trail. They seem to have a secret they are unwilling to part with.

Yet Irena, fearless Irena, stares the trees down into a state of shadowed normality. Can she even tell when something is wrong? Because something certainly isn’t right. The air is becoming more and more unsettling…does she really not notice?

Irena pauses in the path. Perhaps…? No, she’s merely pulling the needles from her pocket. She glances up to the trees and nods. “Yep,” she says.

“Yep?” What is “yep?” Oh, now she’s discarding the needles. And the oak leaf. Lovely. Great. She’s just throwing everything away then, is she? This is ridiculous. This was a terrible idea. She’s never going to find the owner of that ratty old toy. How can she? She has no clues. She had leaves and mud and a toy and what could all that tell anyone?

Now there’s a branch in the path. She can go east or—oh. All right. She’s going west. No hesitation there. Her twiggy legs are just picking over the trail, paying no heed to the lackluster state of the road; sticks and debris scattered about, the undergrowth overriding the path. Rather, Irena is plowing through the tall grass and ferns that pop up in her way.

It’s getting rather sloppy around these parts now. Irena is marching right into a swampy area, mud sticking to the bottom of her shoes and her tracks leaving sliding trails on the uneven ground. It’s hard to find footing that doesn’t slosh and squish underfoot, and water is seeping into her sneakers, bubbling around her footsteps. Each step sounds like she is stepping on some unfortunate slop-creature, burbling and squelching indignantly.

At this point, it would be more effective to go off-path, where there is foliage to ground the soil, but Irena and her determined obstinance continue, heedless of the ease of travel all around. Soon the path rises a bit of out of the marsh, becoming hard, packed mud that is plenty dry, as if the stretch of slop was no more than a bluff. The path is easy to walk again. Now the problem comes from looking up at the sky, turning an unsettling shade of yellow-gray that makes everything feel sick and otherworldly. Dare I say, quite morbid.

A sound pokes up from behind. Irena doesn’t look, but behind her, something is following. It’s hard to determine at first; the shadows are pressing in, so it could just be a curious deer or perhaps a stray dog.

Irena continues to wander down the path, and the sound continues to follow. The sound of muffled steps, steps trying to keep quiet, steps of a thing on the hunt. Is she not paying attention? She hasn’t so much as glanced back. Well, it’s bound to become interesting soo—

It’s a man.

A man is stalking Irena.

He is cloaked in muted colors, blacks and grays and drab greens. But his face was unmistakable from the foliage, just for a moment. Chiseled features around a square nose and pinprick eyes like a weasel. He isn’t very big, but neither is Irena.

Neither is Irena.

She is still walking, not looking back, not giving any indication in the slightest that she knows she’s being followed. In fact, she stops for a moment to pull out her phone to check it, pale light erasing the contours of her face. The man doesn’t stop, and now I feel sick. Irena puts away her phone and continues to walk.

This was not what I’d had planned for something interesting. This isn’t even remotely close! I never wanted Irena in actual danger, being stalked like a fawn out in an open field by a thing worse than wolves, a human with evil on his mind, a human beginning to lengthen his steps as he comes closer, a human beginning to venture out onto the path, a human with an ice in his glassy gaze that makes me think of sickness and desperation and insatiable appetite. This was my fault, and he’s coming closer, and Irena doesn’t notice one whit, and why doesn’t he make some real noise, this snake, slithering up behind her?

Oh, Irena, run, turn around, do something!

But she isn’t turning around, and the man has quieted his steps, and his grin is splitting his face with a wild verve, drool spilling from his lips, and Irena is scarcely more than an arm’s breadth out of reach—

Irena whips around and smashes an open palm into the man’s face, and I can hear bones crack. The man stumbles back with a yell, holding his face. Irena slams a kick into his side, sending the man sprawling into the dirt. Leaping on top of him, Irena flips him onto his belly and yanks his arms behind his back, holding them there by kneeling on him. She holds the blade of her multitool to the back of his throat.

“Don’t move,” she says.

I…just…Irena.

She…she must have taken Tae Kwon Do? Or a self-defense class? Read a book? Goodness gracious, I know I’ve only followed her for the last half-year, but how much have I missed?

The man is babbling incoherently; I can’t tell if they’re threats or pleads for mercy. Really, I’d be thinking about the latter. Irena’s expression hasn’t changed from her usual stoicism—did she know he was following her?

Sliding her backpack off, Irena grabs the stuffed dog from it and shoves it in front of the man’s face. “Do you recognize this?” she demands, her brusque voice level as if talking to a clerk at a lemonade stand.

“No! Why the hell would I?” the man spits back.

“Just wondering. Why the hell would you stalk me, either?” she returns, with no more vivacity than before.

The man doesn’t seem to have a comeback for that, grunting and turning his face away, blood pouring from his nose. I feel a bit smug on Irena’s behalf.

“I’m calling the police,” she informs him casually. Pulling out her phone, she asks, “How many charges do you think you’ll have?”

The man doesn’t deign to answer that. But it makes me nervous, how Irena only has a knee on the man’s hands. One of her hands has the blade to his throat, and the other is on the phone. It’s a very precarious position for her. And I know it’s a fierce taboo act to interact with humans directly, know it quite well—I’ve been careful to keep myself a “neutral” presence with Irena, merely bending the rules without breaking them—but I can’t seem to help myself…

I sit on one of the man’s arms. It should feel like it’s gone to sleep; he won’t be able to move a muscle until I let him. I feel a spread of satisfaction as he whimpers uncomfortably. Yes, this is what you get, you nasty thing. How dare you try to hurt good Irena?

Well. I mean “good” relatively, I suppose. She has still yet to change her expression, and she’s speaking on the phone with the proper authorities it seems. Soon she sets the phone on the ground, the sound now on speaker.

“How many people have you come after like this?” Irena asks nonchalantly, apparently not expecting an answer.

“Why would I tell you?” he snaps, voice wet with blood.

Irena shrugs, a motion likely lost to him. “Just a question to kill some time. Are you sure you’ve never seen that toy before? Seems like this is your haunt, after all, and it’s from around here. Any ideas?”

“What the hell is it with you and that stupid dog?” he growls. “I told you, I don’t know where it’s from.” (My virgin ears courteously omit the cursing between his words.)

“I know you told me, but I don’t believe you. And it’s a long time until the police arrive. I don’t care if it’s anything to do with you, and I don’t care if you don’t know any names, but if you know something about where it’s from, I want to hear it. Maybe if you say something useful, I’ll even let you sit up.”

The woman on the speaker-phone babbles incredulously at this, echoing my own thoughts of what a terrible idea that is, but the man seems to seriously consider this for a moment. “A little ways from here…” he finally says. “A little ways further on the trail, there’s a spot I found. Like a grave. It was all fresh dug when I found it. I didn’t make it and I didn’t look in it, but I did make a cross for whoever’s it is.”

“How will I know where it is?”

“They’re birch branches. I wanted it to stand out.”

“Kind of you, for being a murderer yourself.”

“I’m not a murderer!” he cries, surprisingly desperate. “I [for a moment, I plug my sweet ears] some girls, but I didn’t kill anyone! I’m a good person, I swear!”

What a dirty mouth on this one.

“So that’s what you planned to do to me,” Irena says. “Then I won’t feel bad later for having broken your nose.”

As Irena proceeds to delay the man’s hope for a chance of escape—I’m surprised that he continues to fall for it—I think of how she could possibly have known that the grave was so close. She isn’t wrong, of course; this is the right place, and the grave the man spoke of it the right one, the one I found the dog near, but I wonder how she got this far.

I feel a pang, and I realize I feel slightly guilty about the situation I put her in. Of course, I didn’t know that there was someone out here that would stalk her, but nonetheless, I can’t shake the feeling that this whole ordeal is my fault. What’s worse, of course, is the fact that I can’t argue that it isn’t.

All I wanted was something more interesting to entertain me while I was bored; now I’m sitting on a man’s arm, committing a taboo act in so doing, as he’s pinned underneath the woman I never saw doing anything but reading books, or snoozing on her couch, or, at best, cleaning her toilet.

Soon, a couple pairs of headlights come down the trail. It’s dusk now, so the lights seem to appear out of a black void, creating a harsh contrast in light. Tires crunch over dirt and the vehicles come to a stop nearby as the authorities step out.

For good measure, I pat the man’s cheeks before I rise, and he’s left babbling unintelligibly like a man just out of the dentist’s office, much to my satisfaction. As a pair of officers escorts the disgrace away, reciting a rote series of rights to him, a pair comes over to Irena, a man and a woman.

“Irena?” the man gasps.

“You know her?” his partner asks.

Irena knows someone?

“This is my sister…” he says to her, then looks back at Irena. “Irena?” His tone bears a load of questions.

“Jonathan,” she replies simply. Sisterly love, isn’t that?

“What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I called 9-1-1.”

“I know but, you could’ve—”

“You’re here now, aren’t you?”

Jonathan sighed, clearly exasperated. “Jeez! You never change. Are you all right, anyways?”

“I’m fine, but before you go, I could use some help.”

“Help? With what?”

You probably don’t want to know.

“I’m looking for something. It might be important,” Irena says.

“Looking for…? Irena, we don’t have time for this. We have to bring this guy back and—”

“Jonathan.” Her voice stopped him. “It could be important.”

He hesitated, looking at her. Then he said, “I guess they can take him without us. Lead the way.”

“You handle this, John,” his partner says. “I’ll cover you.” Jonathan gives her a nod, and as she leaves, Jonathan spreads a begrudging hand to Irena, and she begins the trek.

It is in this time, as Irena leads a course to an end which she can only possibly speculate, her confused brother accompanying her, flashlights flicking over the ground in near-utter darkness, that I wonder what she expects to find. She certainly expects nothing good, of course—that much was answered with the word grave. Still, her every step echoes with her confidence. She has no fear, this woman, this Irena, who very well could have fallen off the face of the Earth less than an hour ago at the hands of a predator without anyone knowing or giving her so much as a second thought.

Before I’m fully aware of it, they’ve stopped, flashlights shining on a set of birch branches lying on the ground, light bouncing off of the pale skin to make a luminous sphere around us, a ghostly, quivering blue-white reflecting off the faces of the trees, the leaves above, the faces of the people. It’s nearly blinding to look at. I avert my gaze to favor Irena.

Irena sets her backpack on the ground and pulls out her pair of gloves. Jonathan kneels to help as she begins to dig with her hands in the soft, muddy soil, but she says without looking up from her work, “Unless you have gloves, that’s a bad idea. It might get gross in a minute.”

Hesitantly, he stops, fingers slowly closing into his palms. In an attempt to be useful, he uses his flashlight to let Irena see what she’s doing, and his face is a mixture of befuddlement and concern. This only grows, of course, as he begins to see the corpse. He covers his mouth to keep himself from retching.

Irena unearths enough to get the picture. “A boy,” she says, as though it answers a question. “Can’t have been much older than eight. Probably not even.” She looks back at Jonathan, gesturing vaguely to the skull, mangled though it is. “His head was smashed in.”

Um…perhaps she had been one of those people that autopsies dead bodies? Yes, that seems likely, her personality considered…

As Jonathan regains his senses—along with myself—Irena pulls out the toy and inspects it again, picking up her own flashlight to do so. Finally, she shakes her head. “No. I can’t give you a name.” Standing, she hands the toy to the her brother, as well as my note. “That much is up to you. I figured out as much as I could. But I think if you test the blood stain on that toy and compare it to the body, it’ll be the same DNA.”

“How…how did you know this was here?” Jonathan asks, rising slowly from his place on the ground, looking at the corpse like a normal person—with astonishment and a slight sickly look.

My curiosity bites at me as well. How did she?

Irena answers by describing my box and its contents. She said she started with the leaves, stating that the needles were from Tamarack trees (what on Earth those are, I couldn’t tell you, though apparently they have needles) and that she guessed that everything had to come from the same area. Therefore, the needles had to come from an area with gold-going-on-orange oak leaves.  She goes on to say that she knew that there had to be a marsh of some sort because of the mud still being fresh and the fact that there had been no rain in a long time. (I notice that she seems to deliberately leave out her strange sniffing habits. Fair enough, Irena, all people have their quirks.) The best lead of where it all converged was that it to be close to the town because of the short downtime between the apparent collection and the delivery. Beyond that—she was guessing. Guessing!

She explains her guess-timations further to Jonathan and agrees to hand over everything that rightfully titles itself as “evidence.” As they talk, I stare down at the small corpse in the ground, light resting beside it but on it no longer as the focus has shifted elsewhere, getting only the reflection of light off living skin, off wet ground to fill its shape and depth. It isn’t fair. When I was first here, I saw only the overturned dirt, the skull, the maggots. Now I see a boy, a young boy who lost his beloved toy, his name, his everything. I kneel and touch one of the little bones of the finger, poking out pure white against the rest of the ground. It seems almost warm to me.

 

After we get home, and Irena has given the police everything, she sits on her couch with a mug of cocoa in her hands. The sweet smell wafts into the house, overriding the scents of pine and rotten mud, and Irena sits there staring into nothingness for a while, hands wrapped tight around her mug as if to ward off some internal chill. Rain patters on the roof, reverberating around the house in a constant, quiet thrum. It falls in gray sheets outside the window, creates a static between this house, us two, and the rest of reality.

For all that boredom she caused me in these few months, it seems that I was neglecting my subject. I know that now. I also know that I’ll be reassigned if—or, more likely, when—it’s discovered that I interfered with the goon; I’m only a Narrator, after all. But for now, I don’t care. For all I’m concerned, it was worth it.

Irena closes her eyes. I stand before her, on the other side of the coffee table. I wonder what she’s going to do now. She opens her eyes, peers straight into me, takes a deep breath.

She sips her cocoa.

 

She never ceases to amaze.

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Letters from a Lost Girl

Kendall Moser

 

This city reminds me of you.
the bustling cars are your determined eyes, eager to go somewhere entirely else
the lights twinkling at night sing your laughter around every corner
the skyscrapers are that day we went to the old playground
you beelined for that creaky swingset
and screamed into the empty air,
hair flying behind you
feet touching the clouds,
                  “We’re gonna rule the world!”

                                                 and the gum sticking to my shoes is that night
                                                 when you sobbed and held my hands in yours
                                                              and begged me not to leave you.
This city reminds me of you.

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Default: Quiet

Kali Henke

Can’t you speak?

My roommate smashes little buttons on a controller, the sound seeming to echo throughout the small dorm. Outside our door, our suitemates laugh loudly at some poor joke one of them made. Underneath the crescendo of voices, I can hear the small hum of the radiator heating our shared space. Outside rain gently taps our windows, and cars drive past, their engines the music of the street. Even in the quiet library, you can hear little taps of keyboards, and stifled laughter from the whispering students. No matter where you look or where you turn, there is no place where you can find absolute silence.

What? Did you say something? Talk.

Bodies move against one another as I stand close to the wall. Music thrums loudly, my heart replicating the thunderous beat. Cheeks flushed and slight heavy breathing, I stand with a water bottle tightly clutched in my hands. The boy who tried to talk to me earlier standing a few feet away from me sending me strange glances. I avoided his eyes the best I could, trying to rid the sour taste from my mouth that the conversation left. The loud music caused a throbbing pain in the back of my head, but I ignored it. I swallowed my pain and moved to the rhythm of the music side to side. My tongue filled with heavy lead. The room around me screaming, but I was silent.

Don’t you have a voice?

A group of girls stared at me wide-eyed, their heads tilted slightly in question. Anxiously, I tug my sweatshirt sleeves down over my hands and keep my eyes on the ground as they start to fire off questions. Boom, boom, boom, one after the other, the bullet-like questions lodged themselves into my head but my lips remained shut. My tired tongue remained still as the air was heavy with anticipation, as I subconsciously gnawed on my lip.  The girls shared a glance. The silence was the only thing we shared as I waited for them to leave— they did.

Do you not have vocal cords?

I have never seen a bird not sing or an artist not doodle on a sheet. I have never watched an actor not cry on command or a slow-fingered pianist. Each thing in this world has a place, on a stage, in a notebook, or inside someone’s memory. But where does silence belong? Tongue heavy and anxiety-ridden habits force my lips shut, silence seeping from me. An anomaly, a voiceless stranger who wants nothing more than to scream but her heartbeat quickens threatening a heart attack. The sound of my heart like a drum, be-be-beating ever so quickly, my lips hanging slightly opening, but nothing coming out. Silence. Where do I belong? Too quiet for a stage, too plain for a notebook, and too forgettable for a memory. I’m an apology with no meaning, a fading tart taste on a tongue that stings but quickly fades. I fade too quickly to be remembered, not there long enough to even be forgotten, just ignored.

Louder. Use your voice.

I am. I swear, I am. My silence louder than the public’s chorused voices. My silence says everything I can’t, only to those who choose to listen. My eyes, my body language, all tell a story I can’t relate with noise. A safe haven for all things silent. Thoughts, memories, and art. Silence has become a forgotten art form, there. Existing— Belonging. Silence belongs here, surrounding me and my unmoving lips, as my roommate smashes little buttons and laughter fills the room outside my door. Quiet, a choice I made from the moment I could. Silence—my default.

I can’t ever hear you.

From the day we are born, we enter this world screaming. Our throats aching with a type of rawness that seems to never fully heal. As children, we grow into wanting attention that increases into unsatiable cravings. The idea of sitting quietly and alone becoming our worst fear. A voice — their voice becomes a constant reassurance that they exist. Those who choose to be loud, turn to others who replicate their fears, desires, and loudness. They match their laughter and pity those who whisper. For, if you are not heard are you really alive? No one has fully heard my anxious worries or doubts, but I exist, contrary to what others believe. My own throat swallowing the burn, choking back my voice, letting it sit in my stomach—burning into a fire. My fire erupts and flourishes on pages, it becomes burned into the memories of those who take the time to read and understand it. My voice may not fill the world to the brim and I may not contribute to laughs or the whispers but I’m heard. I’m loud in a different way because everyone has a default, everyone has their own way of having their voice heard and that’s okay.

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Numb

Brianna Allen

They speak of all kinds of numb here in the North. The been outside for five hours and the snow has soaked through my layers numb; the wood stove went out again numb; ice fishing all day long in 30 mph winds numb. There are many types of numb we all know, love to hate, and discuss here in the North. No one talks about the emotional numb that we may come across in our lifetime, however. The sitting in silence, not feeling the earth beneath you, staring at the floor numbness. The hole in your chest, static in your brain numb. The numbness of losing a loved one, your best friend, or even yourself. Everyone talks lightly about the harsh winter numbness we all experience, but no one prepares you for the detrimental numbness of your soul that comes with tragedy.

When I was just eight years old, I first experienced this soul withering numbness. My step father was introduced to me when I was three, was diagnosed with cancer when I was six, and was harshly taken from me and my family when I was eight. May 9th, 2006 started as a normal school day for me and my four siblings, until we were all called out of school, told that today was the day we were to go say goodbye to our father and step-father. I will spare the gory details of the two prior years, how we watched this man, who had help raise us, wither away, death knocking on the door he sat in front of, waiting to take him away. When we got to the hospital my mother was sitting on his left side, holding his limp hand, telling us that even though he couldn’t respond, he could hear us, and we should tell him anything that is on our minds and in our hearts. To look at one of your family members as they lay in a bed with tubes coming out of every orifice, is terrifying; but to eight-year old me, this was just the moment my brain stopped working. I gave the half-assed goodbye, telling my comatose step-father that I love him and will miss him. Each one of us went in the room by ourselves, while the others sat in the linked family room through a solid wooden door. I sat in that room for what seemed like days, as each of my siblings said goodbye. That room still comes to me in my dreams sometimes – the pale blue walls with dark wood trim and dark blue stiff, plastic couches. The huge television wardrobe that held a 32” television, wood matching the trim. I sat in that room for hours in silence, eyes fixated on the dark blue carpet with red texture. I sat in that room for hours with ears that did not work, everything sounding like it came from a mile away. I sat in that room in silence for hours, thinking I was going deaf, until the loud screeches of my mother hit my ear, like she was screaming right in my ear.

A numbness hit my chest in this moment, as if my heart had left with my step father’s soul. Minutes, hours, days may have passed. At one point the preacher came in and said a prayer, but, to this day, I’m not sure a single person in that room could have told you what he said. At some point we must have gone home, and some point the day must have turned into the next, which turned into the next, which eventually turned into the day of the funeral. The day of the funeral was dreary. The skies cried cold, early May rain, mimicking my step father’s loved ones as they stood around his six-foot-deep home in the ground. They said their goodbyes in silence, sending their hearts to the sky, as I stood there, paralyzed, unable to feel what the people around me felt.

No one warns you about the numbness that overcomes you when tragedy strikes – how your heart may leave your body for days, months, or even years. Everyone is ready to tell you of the good that will come of it one day – how you will be stronger, wiser, happier even. Everyone hands out advice to look to the future, while only some have the capacity to hold your cold hand through the hurt. It’s hard to see the lighter side of numbness, to laugh at your own temporary inability to feel. I turned a blind eye to the light, letting numbness make a home inside my carcass. Until one day I felt, like the tingling of a foot waking up feels, I felt. I felt all of the pain that had built up for years, and I cried. I cried for six years, until I had let it all out. And then I rose up, tall and strong, like a sunflower fully grown to stand in the light. I grew from my tragedy; I grew strong, happy, and proud of who I am and what raised me. Nobody warns you of the numbness that life can bring to you. We don’t talk about it like the weather. But, just like the winters of the North come and go, so do the seasons of our hearts and grief. June comes around and brings flowers and sunshine, just as life will bring light after a cold, dark winter.

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Father’s Day

Dylan Wyatt

 

Bombarded by bittersweet reminders of the still painful loss, I wake up
to all the white-toothed smiles and neck-tugging hugs of young women
wearing colorful summer dresses and middle-aged men in striped Polos.

Their jubilation on a once joyous day for me, as they surround flaming grills
cooking burgers and watching the afternoon baseball game like we once did,
only makes me feel more disappointed we will never celebrate together again.

We will never sit around telling stories late at night while Momma cooks
in the kitchen. Never watch another Western starring leather-skinned,
muscular gunslingers and outlaws. Never sing along with the car radio.
We will never share a drink as good friends or fight like only a family can.

Time took you away before I could show you the man I would become:
A lover of only the most beautiful women, a fighter of the worst men,
A drinker of the strongest whiskey, and a teller of the craziest stories.
I shudder every time something reminds me, proves to me, that it’s true.

Dad, I grew up to be just like you.

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Blackbird

Dylan Wyatt

 

Every family has one. A Blackbird.
One who doesn’t quite fit in,
flies a little differently.

Instead of joining the other birds,
he soars against the wind,
flapping to survive.

He doesn’t try to hide his feathers,
yet no one ever sees him
in his own unique glory.

Meanwhile, on the inside, he secretly
wishes to be a plain gull,
white feathers and all.

On the days with a blue sky overhead,
he ventures out far and wide
in search of something.

What he finds is always a welcome surprise.
Like an untouched cherry tree
in a field of white roses.

There, he meets a lovely dove all alone,
perched on a fragile branch.
Sadness shows in her eyes.

At first, he is too afraid to approach her,
worried she will only fly away,
leaving him alone again.

But then she flutters over next to him,
and her eyes don’t look as sad.
For once, neither do his.

She drapes her soft, white wings over him.
Together they sing into the night
until it’s the next morning.

He realizes, accepts, with her beside him,
being a blackbird doesn’t mean
he can’t be happy too.

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Five Paces

Jennifer Gauvreau

Step back five paces. That was the rule. I was told as a young girl to stand at least five paces away from paintings, in order to really take them in and enjoy them. My parents were both active members of the arts community, and a result, my exposure to the arts was deeper than that of my peers. It was always my inclination to move very close to a painting. As a youth I really wished to experience art (and all of the things in my world) with all five senses. Of course, this notion is absolutely ludicrous, as it would not be fitting for a little girl to be wandering the halls of the Art Gallery of Algoma licking paintings and running sticky fingers along the ridges of wild oil paint. So, very early in life, five paces away became the rule.

Growing up, I found it to be needlessly inhibiting and contradictory, the five paces rule. The hippies who ran the kids’ art programs in the teaching room were all about freedom and joy, reckless abandon, oddity for inspiration. When we created art, it was of absolute importance that we felt free to do what we wanted, how we wanted. Yet, a few feet away in the gallery, we were to be silent, reverent, and distant.

When you move in real close to a painting, you see more than a content image. Go ahead, look closer. Don’t be afraid to look— on the tongues of Medusa’s snakes lie a thousand fables and lessons. Look closer and you’ll find the passion of a painter: brushes blitzing, complexions colliding, oils oozing, tint tenting to form piles of pigment and scraped down valleys. You’ll find the clockwork of colour, and the tempo of tempera. Does this view enhance or diminish the humanity of the painter, the craftsman, bent over his work, trying with every brush stroke to reach across the void?

Now, step back. Make it five paces. Take it all in, allowing your eyes to dance across the canvas. Maybe this is a more comfortable view. Do you understand more, or is it less from here? The painter is now traveling through time and space to touch your very soul. They are creating poetry in paint- humanity on display, essence expressed. Upon meeting your eyes, the craftsman’s reach across the void becomes an artist’s embrace, encircling you with all that it is to be a part of the human condition.

For a long time, I was stuck in the binary viewpoint. I thought I had to choose between openness and inhibition, experience and appreciation, immersion and altitude. The longer I consider point of view, the more sure I become that both ways of experiencing art, and life, are vital to the human experience. Moderation in moderation. Wildness in waves. Five paces be damned.

 

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The Light and the Smoke

Ella Knopp

All she could think about was the light and the smoke. The girl had first spotted it about a day ago after cresting a hill, and she’d nearly howled in elation. Her world was boulders and streams, pine and fir, hunger and heat. Soon, it would be over, she told herself as she hiked a leg over another rock ledge, ripping another hole in her once-blue cotton skirt. Her lungs were begging her to stop, and her parched throat demanded water, but she new she had to push on. Each hike, each climb was a step towards safety, towards comfort, and eventually home. The mountain sun beat down on her, and she watched as the sweat dripped down her nose and landed with a splat on the rock beneath her. The girl’s lips curled into a smile. Her brother always teased her for having a big nose. She wondered if she’d ever see him again.

Her gaze drifted upward into the forest, and she was surrounded by a cage of ponderosa trunks turned blood-red by the setting sun. A great, black bird of prey soared over head, screeching it’s lonely cry into the darkening world. Deer bounded soundlessly through the brush on the forest floor, eyes alive with fear as they searched for a safe place to spend the night. She too needed to find somewhere to sleep before the creatures of the night awakened, but that was only an echo, survival instinct pushed under by the shining beacon of hope that was the light and the smoke. The smoke was beginning to fade with the daylight, but the light began to show, an amber glow pulsing against the indigo night. The girl didn’t know what city it was, but she knew it had to be large. Salt Lake City? Denver? Wait, no that was in Colorado. She couldn’t have gotten that far. Could she?

She continued up the hill, each haggard breath tearing at the silence. She gasped when her foot plunged into night sky. The moon and the stars gently rippled with the motion. A pond. Her reflection stared back, a shadowed figure with aspen twigs for limbs, a hollow stomach, and cheekbones that sloped steep as a mountain. Absolutely beautiful, she thought. She was one of the prettiest girls who ever lived. Her mother constantly told her that she needed to be thinner if she was to find a husband, but now the girl was skinnier than her mother would ever be in her entire life. Ha! She giggled, spinning around in the water with delight until her foot slipped over a stone. She yelped, her ankle twisting and popping as she plunged into the icy water. She thrashed and kicked, struggling to stay afloat when she realized the water was less than 6 inches deep.

The girl sighed and lay back, rubbing her thumb against her palm as she stared at the light. Her family would be so happy to see her when she arrived at the city, which ever one it was. And impressed by how mature and gorgeous she had become. Her mother would celebrate her return by baking gooey cinnamon rolls that melted in the mouth and her father would announce her betrothal to a handsome, wealthy man. They wouldn’t live in a cabin anymore, but an enormous mansion filled with the finest of furnishings.

A sharp pain cut through the daydream, and she glanced down at her leg to find that her ankle was a red, swollen mass. She attempted to stand up, but her ankle wouldn’t allow it. She collapsed into the water once more. The stars and the forest around her blurred together as tears streamed down her cheek. She could barely move without some part of her body screaming. But the girl was no stranger to pain. No, she was not going to let a little scrape on her ankle stop her from seeing her family, from rising up to take the life that was coming to her. Her teeth ground together as she hauled herself onto her hands and knees, water dribbling from the shreds of  her skirt. She crawled out of the pond, ignoring the unpleasant tingle of pebbles and pine needles digging into her knees. Her eyes were glued to the soft orange glow in the sky, closer now than ever before. She inhaled deeply and her lungs filled with smoke. The scent had never been so welcome as it had in that moment.

Her muscles burned and her ankle throbbed as she dragged her self up the hill. She would see the city at the top, a beautiful vista of civilization. Just a little bit further. The glow became brighter, providing a clear path through the forest. She reached a large boulder, and her limbs nearly gave out at the sight of it. They would have to send up a rescue team to fetch her. If only she could get on the boulder where someone could see her. A scream tore from her throat as she gripped the boulder, shoving her chest on top of it. Her eyes drifted open, she hadn’t even realized they’d been shut. She found herself on the sharp edge of a steeply dropping outcrop. Up close, the radiance was more crimson than amber, and heat blasted against her face with a crackling fury. Great curtains of color fluttered against the black skeletons of trees while a heavy wind buffeted against the rock face. Tiny points of light drifted to the ground like snow, tearing even more holes in her clothes. She sighed in relief as she pulled the rest of her body on to the boulder. At the bottom of the cliff, her parents were waving and her brother grinned up at her. The girl spread out her arms like an eagle’s wings, heart solaced and free, and flew into the glimmering abyss.

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What You Can’t Put on Your Christmas List

Rachel Tallon

 

All I’ve ever wanted is to be kissed
while I’m dusted with crystalline  flakes of snow,
but you can’t put that on a Christmas list.

You’d think I would have a man at my wrist,
but with guys I’ve always been slow.
Who knew it was so hard to be kissed.

My brother’s belief in fairytale romance persists.
I think it’s time he’s told the truth, you know?
But you can’t put that on a Christmas list.

When my first boyfriend missed my lips, I hissed,
“I thought you said you were a pro!”
All I’ve ever wanted is to be kissed.

Do decent guys even exist?
College boys – they have trouble with “no.”
It’s a shame you can’t put that on a Christmas list.

This year, I might all but insist
for a man, not a boy, to be my beau,
because all I want is to be kissed,
but there’s no way I could write that on my Christmas list.

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Island Girl

Daraka Hudecek

 

Family, love, security, peace, and water…these are the earliest memories she has of a once-normal life. She’s a girl who lives on an island with her mama, daddy, big sister, and dog. The All-American type of family. The type that lives in a house with a white picket fence. Little does she know that life as she knows it will unravel.

The younger of two little girls, she is always the one that gets into mischief. She isn’t disobedient, just full of energy. She’s not satisfied to sit still. She explores, pretends, and searches for things to do. She is a carefree child, energetic, and loves people. She is loved.

Her days of early childhood are spent playing in the cool water, digging in the dark sand, and enjoying life. Her mama is always there, being a stay at home mom, while her daddy works to provide a fairytale life for his family: a beautiful home on the water with décor straight out of Home & Garden magazine. The girl loves her older sister and the fun things they do: playing in the wooden tree house that daddy built, puddling in the rippling river, searching for bright green clovers in the yard, and spending time in their cozy playroom.

Life is great in the eyes of the girl. She has no idea that it will all fall apart soon. One day she is living a comfortable, secure life, and the next day she is riding in the family station wagon watching mama cry as they give away the family dog. This is the day everything changes. But why? At five years old it’s hard to make sense of it all.

Memories are few and far between for the girl in the coming days and months. She does remember moving to the mainland, into a trailer park, with her mama and sister and going to kindergarten in a new place.  No dog, no river to puddle in, no tree house to hide out, no big green yard for clover hunting, and no daddy.

Divorce. This is what the girl is told it is called. People assure her it is normal. It sure doesn’t feel normal to the girl. Is she doing something wrong? Is daddy mad at her? Her family, love, security, peace, and home is gone. It is replaced with a trailer to live in, a single mama who has to go to work, and a mostly absent father, except for some weekends and holidays.

Life moves on and her new normal begins to take shape for the girl in her early elementary school days. The girl and her sister are alone a lot. There are a couple of men who come in and out of mama’s life. Her poor mama is insecure and afraid to be alone. There is one man in-particular who begins to stay more and more. Her mama marries this man. Dysfunction is the new normal with drinking and fighting happening nightly.

The nights are scary for the girl and her sister. Mostly left alone they fear the dark, strange noises outside, the uncertainty of when mama and step-father will be home. The biggest fear is wondering how drunk they will be and if there will be fighting, yelling, and furniture thrown. The girl wants to fall asleep fast so she can escape whatever will transpire when they get home. She can’t.

The instability makes life unbearable for the girl. At the tender age of six she feels like she has no control over her life. She doesn’t. She goes to school, gets good grades, does what’s expected so she doesn’t make waves. During the day the girl is normal and happy but secretly wonders what life is like for her friends. Do they have a scary home life? Probably not. Their parents are still married.

The girl and her sister aren’t living but merely surviving. After ten years of the same abuse, neglect, and uncertainty, the girl, who has a mature face from the hard life she lives, leaves home. No more family, no more love, no more home; these things were long gone years prior. Not yet ready for the world, but not ready to succumb to more years of hell at home, she is gone. Scared, insecure, and now hardened the girl looks for her place in the world; something she will do for the rest of her life. The world is a big, cold, unfriendly place. With no job, no money, no love, and no family she will have to do what she can to survive. But, does she want to just survive or does she want to live? She isn’t sure anymore.

Her sister has long moved on, marrying at the age of seventeen to the first man who looks her way, just to escape her home life. The girl hasn’t heard from her since she left over two years ago now. The girl is broken inside that her trusted sibling can just walk away from her. She understands though. Given the chance to get out she will take it too.

 

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Red Guardian

Emma Fowler

 

Boy, you were built
to burn and to fly.
To run in the streets
and swing through the sky.

You’re a demon in red,
black framing the blood
you wipe from your hands
as you slip on the hood.

You run and you fight,
you snarl and you scream.
You build and you read,
you sing and you dream.

Those scars and those sneers
hide the secrets you hold.
You’re complex, a protector
to the core of your soul.

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Our Split Paths

Harley Kahl

 

You and I
Tend to walk hand in hand
Until we meet a crossroads
Where the road splits in two
I choose the left
You choose the right
Tears flow down our faces
As the roads we travel
We may not turn around

No matter how long the roads may be
Thankfully
Both roads meet again in time
Where we rekindle our campfire
Laugh
Live
Love
Until we make the same choice that brought us here
Where we take opposite roads

I just pray
Someday
You’ll see what I see
In my eyes
You’re perfect
You always have been
You always will be
I wouldn’t dream
Of walking down these roads
With anyone else

Maybe at the next crossroads
You’ll be ready to traverse the same path
With me once again
For what I pray to be the last time

We have done this too many times
It’s beyond painful now
Leaving me with excruciating pain
And deep emotional scars
That refuse to heal without your help

I truly believe
What’s best for you
And what’s best for me
Is that we journey through life
Together
Always traveling the same road

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Two Poems

Wayne Thompson

 

The C

Silent malignance,
With stealth, moving in veins, vessels, organs.
Showing false signs of passiveness.
Building raw nests in fresh cells,
Quietly taking charge.
Establishing dominance.
Creating muddled messengers, fooling the educated,
Relaxing the host.
Boring into the very heart of life,
Tunneling without a soul
Through flesh, through bone.
Leaving a net of destruction,
That we can not close,
Except through that last gasp of life.
Our confused lungs suck in,
To expel the last breath
Of a drug inducted death,
As The “C” moves on to another.

 

Pain

Dark, violent skies, dull my wandering mind
With thoughts of love come and lost.
Bright scenes of vibrant joy, reverberating back
Only to be shattered by deep dark words
That find ears only too willing to listen.
To a heart that had healed once
And tried again.
Only to find that same empty tomb
Where new Love was once the only bloom.

Pools of emotional pain
Run cold and silent, their depths still unknown.
Their currents too stark and fresh to feel.
No thoughts of savior,
No thoughts of grace.
Nowhere to move my mind, to
Where it can rest and heal and grow.
Fresh slashes through the cords of self-worth
That snuff the will to find new birth.

Undaunted, I journey to life’s vague, new pastures.
Stirring past feelings of dark doubt.
To trust that this pain is for growth,
To see the darkness through to the end.
To forgive; still looking within,
For new answers, instead of out.
To see the good lying within the bad.
Amused by lessons learned; of fading ghosts, now dust.
Greeting imminent love with a of heart of trust.

 

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40 Minutes

Mikael Ranta

 

The clock was ticking.  Seconds melting away. Wind restless against the overcast evening.  Raindrops pitter-pattering every so often. Thin trickles of condensation falling from the famed Valley Camp freighter’s sides.  A figure loomed in the distance. A youth approached through the mist, striding past the dark sleek hulls. Pressing forward along the boardwalk, he made his way towards the banter of the rain-soaked fishermen along the river’s edge.  Armed but of rod and reel, he was determined to make the most of his time. His time, his moment. He had to leave. Soon. His secret known only to himself, he began to fish the jaded waters of the St. Mary’s.

Through his polarized lenses he could barely make out the water beneath him.  The drop alone was seven feet from his perch. But alas, the night was coming.  The rainy mist soared about as the youth danced his pink and white lure back to him.  There! The youth, taken aback by surprise, awoke from nature’s trance. As soon as it had come, the tug on his lure had gone.

 

A rushing sound.  Coming in. Closer and closer.  The last of the boat tours to be taken in for the night.  The youth, in his wisdom, eagerly knew what awaited. Cause and effect were not only for those of science, but were also for those skilled of heart.  He started to jig.

The man on his right now connected.  

The next man as well.

He felt as if a train was coming, and he wasn’t about to miss it.  All who boarded would be delighted with the pursuits of its reward.

His line tightened and with a powerful set, he was on.  The rod groaned at the unprecedented strength of what desperately sought to release from its barbs.  With a mastered flip the battle was won and the first fish of many was done. Alas, he had an appointment.  A destiny. With open arms his fishing brethren received the mighty male.

A few jovial casts later and the youth realized it was his time to leave.  Not yet of course, but in twelve minutes to be. The youth focused now. He had felt the slightest of touches, the faintest of taps.  His countenance unaffected by the sprays descending upon him, he strained to see the fish that was his answer. Quickly jigging now, he dropped his enticement in the fish’s face and angered it just enough to give battle.  A flip of the wrist was all that was needed as the great male vaulted from the river, sailing in view of the Tower of History, and meeting the reality of the downtrodden surface above. The youth had won, as the hooks took loose, as the male was mid-flight to his landing.  A lucky landing indeed. The fishermen cheered as he had cleared the fish of his great objective. But alas his time was but gone. Near darkness now, the clouds began to bury the waning, flitting light.

One more fish.  One more fish, Lord, the youth prayed.  His time was near and all he wanted was to catch another beautiful creature from the river.

He started to play his lure wildly.  Pushing water beneath the waves and giving off the last reflections of the day.  Night had all but enveloped, and darkness was here to stay.

Just as time was to expire, the youth felt what he had aspired.  A hit. A hit at last. With joy he swung with high hopes, a gem of the lake erupted.  With skilled precision, the fish of his desire was his to retire. The biggest and strongest one he had caught all year.  With beauty and grace, he gave his catch away, and said goodbye to the river for yet another day. His time was up, but his memories were not, for the smile was with him to stay.

 

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Robbers

Taylor Worsham

 

And he collapsed there, so corrupted as a
metal object was just thrust into
his chest. His lungs disgorge chunks of
red plasma as he gasps for air. His body convulses on
the frigid February ground, trembling with agony.

Broiling crimson laminates my hands as I try to cover
the gaping, pulsating wound. He’s heaving, just
struggling to stay alive. Pleading screams echo down dark, empty
alleyways, the cold winter air numbing my throat, but it’s not
loud enough.

My love gushes from the inside out, choking, breathing his own
red iron. He’s dispiritedly drowning in it while my fresh, warm
tears fall onto his paling cheeks. My body becomes his, and I
feel a lightning, pulsing pain in my chest. I feel my life,
fleeting.

His frail heart beats once more and his muscles completely
soften, his fern eyes stare indefinitely and know now that
he is swept into the wind. Intertwining our
cold fingers together, I gently plant pink roses on
the apples of his cheeks with my lips–

His blood dries in the snow–
I finger the wool fabric covering
his ash skin– My stomach is at my knees–
And my fingertips tremble
in this brutal wake–

We lie down together on that street, for hours and I bury
myself into his chest. I watch the snow fall onto his
lips– His body warmth slowly fades with each passing
moment– I gently coax butterfly kisses into his ear, and in return–
I receive silence.

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The Rose That Drowned

Max Lathrop

 

Close your eyes and witness how I feel
Away in my tomb where everything’s a catastrophic deal
Now expose your eyes: break the seal
Watch my movie as it spins off the reel

In this bleakness, faces blur
But then sparks from my distemper spur
The flame aglow, attaching to souls like burs
It seems I attack everyone, you concur

I set myself on a shelf
Save me from myself!
“I can’t do this alone,” I scream as into my past I delve
Strike on a box of matches; the sparks like ripples made by stones
thrown into the ocean into which I delve

Soaking in the moonlight
A white rose in a plot of daisies holds its petals tight
The ocean waves crash down, and the rose loses its petals in the night
These are the stressful nights behind locked doors, when I’m out of sight

Who will fix me now?
I’m exposed; I’ll tell you how
My dreams float on clouds of smoke and then pow!
I’m disrupted from my internal tragedy and I take a vow

Step inside my ring
Where I can’t hear a thing
Water to my eyes it brings
“Everything’s not alright,” the silence sings

Dark colors trap me with their grasp as the moon, again, begins to glow
There’s a cataclysm in the silence of the snow
Look what I found, the stem of the white rose! What do you know?
Growing with the moonlight, ready to provoke the ocean: its foe

After the rose’s drastic decay,
The rose thought to itself, “You’ll be okay.
The battle will go on another day.
The ocean will eventually lose the fight to his dismay.

Don’t you see? This rose will never surrender
The ocean’s just an outrageous bully, the ultimate pretender
Take the waves and return to sender
The sea won’t be my story ender.”

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Refuge

Rachel Tallon

 

Doaa Al Zamel and her fiancé, Bassem, were Syrian refugees living in Egypt who sailed across the Mediterranean Sea in a smuggler’s boat to pursue a better life in Europe.  Tragedy struck when pirates damaged the vessel and the boat sank, claiming nearly 500 lives, including Bassem’s.  After four days, Doaa became one of the eleven survivors, but only because she was determined to save two little girls who had been given to her when their families drowned.

 

Thousands of kilometers, over borders and
starving for salvation, life calls us to escape,
Save your brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, and lovers.
Save your humanity, your soul, yourself.

Men and women scared of our reality become deaf
when we wail of injustice.  Mothers mourn for
yesterdays, fathers fight for tomorrows,
and their children persist in the present.

We are the side effects of war.
Waves leave salty licks between
the cracks in parched skin and
slaps the blistering plastic saving
one, two, three lives from a temperamental tomb.

Faces of men, women, and children
fall under the watery curtain,
then bob up with wide eyes because
death deceives the weary with false peace.

Eleven of us know the harrowing tale
that transformed survivors of turmoil
into victims of tragedy, rescued from war
only to be butchered by liberation.

My girls, strangers until trial and tribulation
pushed little bundles of saviors into my arms,
were my debt to life to forgive my fiancé
and me for marrying inside our peoples’ grave.

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Three Poems by Michael Oakes

Being Misled

When he was young he wanted to be like The Flash.
Quick. Agile. Unseen.
He could just run away from whatever was bothering him.
Just like his Dad did.

As he grew older he wanted to be like The Hulk.
Strong. Fierce. Larger than life.
Anything that bothered him he could destroy or abuse.
Just like his Mom.

As a teen he wanted to be Superman.
Incredible. Superhuman. Looked up to.
He wanted to be bulletproof.
Unlike his sister.

Now he just wants to be normal.
Quiet. Hard-working. Blending in.
No abandonment. No abuse.
He needed a Hero.

 

 

This Poem is Not an Apology

Be a storm chaser.
Fear not the consequences of your crazy conquest,
Target the terrifying tornado and thunder,
Wrestle with the wild whirlwind you’ve wrought.

Be like a hurricane hunter.
Stand inside the storm surge,
Let the water wail away on your skin,
Be free of the frightening fear.

Be an avalanche adventurer
Scratch the surface of the snowy lake,
Decide to dive into the depths
Dig deep and dare to deal with the cold,
Find peace in this perpetually polar place.

Act like…
No. Fuck that –
Be the storm.
Be the best blizzard.
Move much like a mudslide
Spring like a surging tsunami.
Hit harder than hail.
Flow free like a flood.
Be you.
Be alive.

 


College

Round 1
His overconfidence may cost,
but he doesn’t think ahead.
He hears his name.
“The Kid.”
Ecstatic cheers proceed to feed his ego.
Bell rings.
He’s dancing, he’s dodging,
he’s got this, hands down.
Couple jabs, couple hooks.
He can taste the win.

Round 2
His overconfidence is evident,
but he won’t think ahead.
He hears the count,
“Three, four.”
His opponent getting up damages his ego.
Keep going.
He’s punching, he’s punishing.
Opponent won’t back down, hands up.
A few strikes, a few connect.
He can taste his sweat.

Round 3
His overconfidence is waning,
but he’s trying to think ahead.
He hears his coach.
“Get up!”
The mat cracks his ego.
Skull pounding.
He’s dragging, he’s sluggish.
He can’t keep his hands up.
A bunch of regret, a bunch of uppercuts.
He can taste his own blood.

Round 4
His confidence is gone,
and he can’t think at all.
He hears his opponent.
“Stay down!”
His ego is eviscerated.
Knocked out.
He’s done, he’s down.
His hands are the least of his worries.
He feels the disappointment, he feels every jeer.
“The Kid” is broken.