784437cd-4e6f-4020-bff7-08e80d205b06 Tangled in Transformation by Camille Faustino A Tribute to Mitski’s “Class of 2013” by Hollis Ackiss my mother makes separate noodles for me in a big pot of chicken noodle soup because she’s been on a diet ever since she got out of jail, and she still loves me yet she doesn’t know my name and when i wake up at eleven pm to feel the bowl is still warm, sitting in the fridge, labeled with a name i remember she called me by, i realize why my brother and i stayed up so late that one night ambling in the kitchen to see her make spaghetti at one am in her denim and name tag when she only got home from work an hour before, and she never saw any new dishes in the sink. now i stand on my tiptoes to reach the opaque glasses on the top shelf as i pour a drink, every light off in the house except for the fridge, filled with soda again even though now it’s all diet. i know i should sleep soon when i have work tomorrow, and my back hurts but i can only let her hold me as many times as i can allow myself a moment of reprieve; the first night we moved into this house we watched a movie in silence and with my head hovering over her shoulder she says she waited for this moment. Return to Table of Contents

56740b90-b449-4ffc-b3a7-c83e5768dc2e Soho by Ivory Funari Mountaintop by Itay Frenkel A plane flew by outside, filling my room with a dull whistling noise, like wind blowing at the peak of a mountain. I turned over in bed and pulled the blanket right up to my chin. Cold slithered around me like a snake, prodding at my feet, stroking my hair, running down my back. I curled into a ball under the covers and closed my eyes, but it did no good. The snake was inside me now, and I was shivering. Dammnit, if I wanted to sleep in a cave I would go and do it, why does he insist on keeping it so cold in here? I have slept in a cave once, on a class trip, but it wasn’t cold at all. It was so hot the boy next to me had sweat seeping through his sleeping bag. It formed big black stains. I can’t remember anything from that trip except the stains on the boy’s sleeping bag and the suffocating heat. I turned over in bed, wanting to wrap myself around my husband, maybe then I’d be warm. If not, maybe some of my cold would slither into him. It would serve him right for turning the thermostat so low. I turned over to the side and stretched out my arms, ready to squeeze his slim figure and burrow myself into his back. My arms slid through the air. I poked my head out of the blanket, but I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. I felt around his side of the bed. It was as cold as the rest of the room. I tried not to assume the worst. He probably got out of bed because he was having trouble sleeping. He could be on the couch reading a book. Maybe he headed out to buy some snacks. I reached over for my phone on the nightstand but stopped myself. I should check the apartment before I call. If anything, he was still in here somewhere. I forced myself to take a long breath before climbing out of bed. The warm carpet felt good under my bare feet. I stretched from side to side, exhaled a loud yawn, then shuffled through the small corridor that led to the living room. A green couch, a small white coffee table, and a thin tv that sat on the floor. The tv was turned off. Around ten books lay on the coffee table, some piled on top of each other, most with a bookmark stuck between them. His habit of reading so many books at once had always surprised me, I preferred to take it one imaginary world at a time, any more and I’d start mixing up the different books. Hell, if I tried reading as many as him at once, I’d start mixing up fiction and reality. I walked over to the kitchen, where a large, greasy pan still sat on the stovetop. It contained the remnants of pasta, which I made while he sliced and pickled cabbage, claiming it would add a tangy flavor. I didn’t see much reason to spice up our normal dinner, I hated cooking, and I was happy with my bland noodles. The cabbage was too sour, I tried my best to hide my distaste but he saw right through me and offered to eat my portion. He shouldn’t be hungry, then again, he wasn’t the type to feel full for long. I opened the fridge, as I did every time I was in the kitchen, instinctively. He wasn't in there. I surveyed the kitchen for a note and turned up empty-handed. He was gone, and his trail, like everything else around me tonight, was cold. We didn’t own a car. The first three weeks of our married life were spent making decisions; he would sleep on the left side of the bed and me on the right; the beer would go in the fridge, not the pantry, he liked it chilled; my kindle slept next to me on my nightstand, his books called our coffee table home, unless important guests came over, in which case we’d tuck them into a shelf we got from before we were married. With all these decisions springing upon us, like invisible raindrops pouring from the sky, neither of us had even thought of buying a car. I liked walking, anyway, and he had a bike. Decisions at the beginning of marriage should be natural. I knew I belonged on the right side of the bed like a pilot knows exactly how to land their plane. He knew he wanted his books scattered on the coffee table. It all made sense, we were building up our life piece by piece, together. A car just wasn’t natural, it didn’t fit just yet. I called him, and my phone rang for a long time. The sound bounced around the room like a bullet before being swallowed up by the walls, which seemed to shiver for a moment. I called again, no answer. Where could he be? I turned off my phone and stared at my reflection on the dark screen; bed-hair, dark bags under my eyes. Was that oil on my face or just light reflecting off the screen? I felt tired, so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep until I knew where he was. I left him a text: Hey, please call me back as soon as you can. Then, after a few deep breaths that failed to calm me down, I left him another one: If you don’t answer in an hour I’ll start pulling bookmarks out of your books. It wasn’t a very serious threat, and it wasn’t a very funny joke, but it was the best my tired brain could think to write. I walked back into the living room and looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything, it was dark as a pupil. I should have gone back to sleep, it was late. But still, the darkness felt warm and inviting, like an old friend. It reminded me of the nights I spent in the library, poring over books I should have read earlier but didn’t because I was busy going to the beach with friends. Or nights before I married my husband when we would drive out to get food and catch a movie. I didn’t sleep much back then. My head always hurt, my stomach growled, but it didn’t matter because I belonged to both night and day. I was living two lives, and I treasured each. I pressed my nose against the dark window, it felt like ice. I exhaled a warm breath and watched a circle of fog appear on the window. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left it alone and kept making circles. I made a mental note to wash the window tomorrow after work. How was I forming these circles indoors? Could it be that cold? I decided to do one more survey of the apartment before going back to sleep. I made sure the front door and all the windows were locked, then I dragged myself back into bed and curled under the covers. My eyes snapped shut. I lay on my side and waited for sleep to take me away. My lips trembled, but why? I tried to think of something, anything, just to help ease my mind into sleep. Nothing came. My head was as empty as the darkness around me. All I could feel was a faint throbbing headache, more of a sound than a feeling. It was as if my heart had traveled up my throat and slid into my head, where it was beating, pressing against my skull like a baby chick trying to hatch. My ears felt clogged, my nose was stuffy, my lips were too cold to part. It was like my body was closing itself off, trying to keep something out. Trying to keep the darkness out. It didn’t want to sleep, not alone. It hated being alone more than anything. But the darkness was too much, and soon it found a little hole in my otherwise impeccable defense, a tiny opening in my left ear, and it struck, pouring into me and shrouding my brain. I fell into a heavy sleep. I dreamed that I was standing on the beach, surrounded by people I used to know, and others I couldn’t recognize but somehow felt like I would get to know soon. There was an air mattress on the water, a green one, swaying to and fro over the gentle waves. A little boy was sitting on it. He was the only one in the water. The sky was grey and low; it looked heavy, like it might fall and crush everyone on the beach. A dense fog settled over everything so that I couldn’t see the waves grow big and deadly, but I could hear them. Nobody moved. The kid on the air mattress screamed for help. I looked around, but still, nobody moved. I was on the swim team, back in high school. Not that it would help me swim through a ten-foot wave built like a brick wall, but I felt I had to try. I ran towards the water. Suddenly the sand swallowed my left foot. I tripped and heard a loud snap. Lying face down in the sand, which was now pulling me into its grainy shifting skin by the left leg like I was a noodle it was trying to slurp down, I wondered if I would be crushed by a wave or swallowed by the ground. My ears were ringing. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The ringing grew louder and louder. I waited for death to come, feeling a mixture of dread and relief. At least now I wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow, it was my first day. I still wasn’t even sure that I wanted the job. Besides, dying in your sleep was a good way to go, even if it was in a nightmare. The ringing grew louder, and soon it drowned out the sound of the waves. I opened my eyes and stared at my dark ceiling. My phone was ringing. I felt vomit in my throat. My lips were covered in drool. I rolled over in bed and picked up my phone with a cold, sweaty palm. “Sorry I didn’t answer before,” my husband said. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah.” His calm voice, raspy and airy like a quiet trumpet, made me angry. I wasn’t sure why. “I was so worried, why’d you make me worried like that? I really will take the bookmarks out of all your damn books.” “Sorry.” There was a long silence on the phone. I could hear his heavy breathing on the line, it was uneven. I considered yelling at him more, but I was too tired, and I wanted to see him again. I wasn’t used to sleeping without him. We’d often go on long walks together after dinner, come back, and fall into bed. I missed it when he could stay up all night with me whenever I asked. I tried waking him up sometimes, but he insisted that he needed to sleep to function at work, so I would go and read on the couch alone until I was ready to call it a night. I didn’t like being alone at night. “Buy me dinner,” I said, “as much as I want and we’ll call it even.” “Aren’t you starting at that place tomorrow morning?” “Yeah, we’ve still got a couple of hours.” He considered it for a moment before answering. “Alright, I’ll come home and pick you up, I’m ten minutes away.” “Hurry.” I hung up the phone and rolled out of bed for the second time that night. I took off the plain white tee and grey sweatpants I slept in, changing into a pair of jeans and a white knitted sweater, then I went to the couch to wait. I didn’t feel tired, just empty, as if I was nothing but a balloon, ready to float away. A chilly breeze had burrowed itself into the house to remind us that summer was over. It ran along the walls and whispered in our ears that it was time to get a job, a car, maybe even a kid. I spread out on the couch and closed my eyes. I had just enough time to exhale a long calming breath before hearing the sounds of keys jingling, shaking like they had stage fright. Then the lock turned, and my husband stepped in. A tall, thin man with large round glasses, perpetual bed hair, and dull brown eyes. He shuffled into the living room, looked at his books on the coffee table, and smiled when he saw all the bookmarks were still in place. He lay down on the edge of the couch, holding onto me to stay on. I bit him on the nose, he recoiled and almost fell off the couch. Now we were even. “What was that for?” He asked. “It woke you up, didn’t it?” I said. “I guess, why are you still up?” “Can’t sleep.” “Yeah, me neither.” “At least we’re on the same page.” “I’d rather be asleep than on the same page right now.” I laughed. He leaned in, not that he had to, and kissed me on the cheek. His lips were warm, alive. I could feel his heartbeat through them, like a reassuring pat on the back. He moved his head away slowly so as not to roll off the couch. His breath carried the faint smell of pasta. “Do you still wanna eat?” He asked. “Yeah.” “Where are we going?” “Breakfast place, something like Denny’s.” “In the mood for pancakes?” I nodded. We lay on the couch in silence. I looked at my reflection in his eyes, shooting myself a reassuring smile. He smiled back; a tired, strained smile that made his nose look small and his eyes extra big. I wanted to have kids, and a car, and, if I had to, a job. It was the logical next step, and I felt good taking it with him by my side. He nodded as if he were reading my thoughts. “There’s a place ten minutes away with good pancakes, shall we?” He asked. “Lead the way,” I said. He yawned, and before he had stopped I rested a hand on his shoulder and pushed him off the couch. He landed gently on our brown carpeted floor, looking up at me with a bewildered smile and a slight tilt of the head, like a parent whose child just did something unexpected but impressive. “You’re on a bit of a mean streak tonight,” he said. I got off the couch and extended my hand to him. He grabbed it, then let go like it was on fire. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I know.” “But like seriously, I don’t even want to touch you, and that’s never the case.” “Aww, thanks.” He got to his feet and took hold of my hands. His slender, bony fingers intertwined through mine. “Thanks,” I whispered. "The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. " He nodded. After a moment of gripping my hands, he smiled, appearing satisfied, and let go. We walked to the door, got our shoes on, and headed out. It was warm outside, with a gentle wind that did its best not to upset anyone it bumped into. The cold breeze that whispered rude reminders and unsolicited advice was pushed away. The sky was dark and filled with silver stars, like polished marble embroidered with silver gemstones. I buried my hands into the thin pockets of my jeans. “You’d be better off holding one of my hands, they’re pretty warm, I’ve been sitting by a fire all night.” I gave him my right hand, and we continued walking down the cracked pavement. We turned into a street with low buildings on either side, it was too dark to see the end. Return to Table of Contents

fb5c9d25-b632-4864-9652-d26f258376fb Ave Maria by Vera Baffour Midnight Skin by Alexander Sayette I was fourteen & there was no light I had not managed to burst in the attic. So Sunday was black & silent & early in spring. & I was fourteen when I found my parent’s love story, all bundled up in boxes, tucked in 90’s sweaters. Beautiful & laced with broken glass. All flashlight & smiling eyes, I played archeologist, teased a skeleton from their folded skins. So I was fourteen & heartsick, leafing through a romance written in denim & black wool. My mother’s shorts. My father’s red windbreaker. My mother’s turtleneck. I bet he loved that turtleneck. I bet she loved him, too, felt the pavement in falling for him. All peach flushed & frightful. & so at fourteen, I took a gift from each, two bodies falling into each other. When no one is looking, I open their skins & dance. Return to Table of Contents

313346b5-cc4f-49af-90e0-66e76deecc8f Who's Point of View by Solara Cotton Return to Table of Contents

84634af5-fc84-434b-b781-7ab398ad378f Marine Karma by Grace Kim The summer you learned to bike by Eva Chen the summer you learned to bike was the same summer i learned how fragile a body can be - you, who grew mountains for shoulders, had skin bruised like mangos from wrestling with hot gritty sand & it was that same summer where i learned to spin bandages from tattered dirty wools, & you wore wet cloth hanging from the branches of your knees all throughout june. still yet you insisted to soar with your bike & i watched you - wide eyed, hands gripped to the rubber of the bars, you sprung into the midsummer air & when your body collided with the dust, you exploded with laughter so heavy, the whole forest shook & all i could do was grip my first-aid box a little tighter waiting on you to fall. by the end of july, i became a girl with hands so fast i could catch anything, and you, a boy, with the ability to fly. Return to Table of Contents

c305f168-85fc-490c-8026-c491ffe73b71 Dancer by Reagan Hoogesteger Doll by Zarria Belizaire Every little girl needs a doll, something to project their deepest desires upon. My mother made me mine after I had seen a little white girl holding a beautiful doll. She wore a matching outfit with it, her smile shined, and all the other girls clamored up to her, demanding to know where she had gotten a doll like that one. It wasn’t long before everyone had one that matched them, they brought their dolls everywhere and I wanted, I wanted so badly to have one. When we went to the store for one the shelves were lined with dolls, some blond, some brunette, some with blue eyes, others with brown eyes, all of them were white. I had thrown a fit, upset that one hadn’t looked like me, that I didn’t have one to wear matching dresses with, where was my best friend? Mama had looked sad, almost haunted at the image of the white shelves. Still, she grabbed my hand and walked out of the store, reprimanding me on the tantrum I had thrown. It was a month later when mama came up to smiling, wide and bright. She held her hand behind her back and her body squirmed with untapped energy. Sensing her excitement, my attention zeroed on her, disregarding the toys I had been playing with. None of them were dolls but the bows and bracelets were fun to put on myself. "Her hair was made from yarn, ready to be braided or brushed into a wild puff. She looked like me. She was mine." She sat me down, a giddy smile on her face. She brought her arm forward, holding a doll. It wasn’t white like the others or sewed with mechanic precision. Instead, it was a little uneven with dark skin and button eyes. It wore a purple dress as uneven as it’s body and no shoes. Her hair was made from yarn, ready to be braided or brushed into a wild puff. She looked like me. She was mine. Every little girl needs a doll, something to project their deepest desires upon. My daughter wanted one, seeing the girls at her daycare playing with the ones their mothers bought. She asked me for one when we got home, asking for a doll that looked like her, one she could dress up to be like her. I took her hand and walked into the store, hoping that there were dolls for her. There weren’t. Instead, there were shelves of pretty dolls with blonde, brunette, hair and blue, brown eyes, and white skin. I couldn’t help but feel as if everything had come crashing down, still, even now, there wasn’t a place for my daughter in perfection. There wasn’t a place for me. She had thrown a fit, upset to be leaving without a precious doll. We got stares from the families around us, some with pity, most with annoyance. At home I spent time searching for my doll, inhaling dirt and old memories. It took a month to finally pick her out of the pile of old treasures, a day to clean her. I found my daughter playing amongst her bows and fake make-up, dolling herself up in the way she couldn’t a doll. There was excitement in my chest as I presented the worn out, uneven, brown doll. She grabbed the doll with wonder swimming through her eyes. This was hers, just as it had once been mine. In the noise of my daughter playing with the doll, the lines between me and her blurred and for a moment we were one. A little girl, playing with a doll that looked just like her. Return to Table of Contents

2a2ede67-55e5-44fe-a97c-c29a61b8b011 Blackout by Micayla Latson Deep in Georgia by Autumn Hill 1. Deep in Georgia’s heart, off to the left In the season of the bare dogwood Feeble and blessed, I, aged six or seven had stood Heavy enough to hear The creaks in the floorboards That guffed their scalded scent. On Sundays the church bell rang Leaden and hefty, drawing the crowd Into the haven, across from the cotton field. My grandmother held open the books of hymns. I sat into her, underlining the thread of gospels Between the bands of the piano’s written word. Her eyes closed, voice croaky but softened--  harmony like a crowd of Alaga. They sang so deep like the musk of tobacco, its haze seizing my breath, mumbling underneath their roars. They praised till the walls peeled like a blade to bark. Stomping till they wore the bleeding carpet Open. Dancing till they weren’t here no more  2. In the cloak of night they come for the church.  The wood collapses into heaps of hot ash white capes like picket fences ignited their rugged crosses, high in the sky, a message sent  crackling and churning with sin.  The Lord’s passages roar through the fire, flames take seat in the pews, clutching hymns, melting praise into its bodies. Afar, brown eyes glow, with no tears to extinguish anything.  Again, a building rises, again, our songs sung, squalls curling against the walls, shaking the deal doors. Sun rays casting aglow the pulpit through empty windows. Sisters and brother rise, slamming calloused hands against the pew.  Shaking and convulsing, chorus of wails purer than the light cleansing like fire.  High as the days where the sun swelters our skin sweat the sweet scent of ash. 3.  The piano dwindles in its wailing lament.  The now somber steps of keys dousing these familiar folk, whose wrinkles I revere, more so, as they exhale a blackened breath. Grandma, whose arms I am tucked under once again slightly tremble with ache, creaking bones, scorched under flesh still. Like a pillow of Sunday best, my head onto rests, till the cooling moon waxes, summoning benediction. Return to Table of Contents

bdaef953-30b4-4207-acd3-a2a92ccdebf0 Pisgah by Audrey Lendvay The Willful by Nayra McMahan The garden in my backyard is dead. I planted it in a spring long past, dug my small hands into the rainy earth and poked holes small enough for my seeds— Roma tomatoes, pickling cukes, pumpkins— to find comfortable. I spent hours planting, kneeling before the boundary I’d created between grass and fresh earth until it felt something like home. Summer never brought me the growth I was seeking, though. An unforgiving sun fried the tomatoes before they were green; the pumpkins and cucumbers never even sprouted. Weeds, teeming with barbed seeds, took root in the earth that I had worked in. No gloves could keep my hands safe. I let my hands bleed, dripping life into the soil. Now, relentless yellow Florida grass clumps where the tall weeds aren’t. It settles its roots into the home I made, inserts itself where it was not welcome, and grows. Grows, despite it all. Despite the weeds above it taking the sun, even when they’re dead and dry and browning, selfish corpses. Florida grass doesn’t worry about its yellow. It doesn’t care that it’s splotchy and rough on bare feet. It fights for sunlight. I want dirt under my nails again. I want grit and bitter yellow in my blood, the strength to have roots that live through frost, through fire. Roots that find comfort in my beating, beautiful Florida sun and grow new green leaves as soon as they burst up, stubborn and singing, through the dirt. Return to Table of Contents

25 Davis's Voice by Esmé DeVries “I’m waiting for Davis.” He says this, in his quiet, perceptive voice, so slowly and with such deliberation. Davis told me it’s because he’s from up north, where they have all the good colleges. “Why?” I ask irritably, studying the cracks in the railing and picking at the flaking paint. The sun burns the back of my neck. “He’s my friend.” On these words, Danny’s voice tilts up a little bit, almost like a question or an uneasy defense. “He’s mean,” I grumble, still poking at the wood. Davis always made me feel worthless, the way his eyes always glanced over me like I wasn’t there, leaving a cold trace of not belonging behind. “He’s your brother,” Danny points out. He waits a moment before saying quietly, “He loves you.” The words float from his lips, not accusatory in the way they could be, but still poking at a flaw, a chink in my armor. They try to tell me I don’t know what I’m saying. “No, he doesn’t.” “Yes, he does. Ask him yourself.” I look back out over the marsh. The tide is very nearly at its highest. I can’t see the oyster beds freckling the bottom of the mushy sand through the murky water. The water looks cool, better than having the hot sun pounding down on my neck. I look over at Danny, who is still looking up at the morbid little house, his brow furrowed against the sun. "Let’s go swimming,” I declare decisively, successfully dragging his attention away from Davis. “What?” He turns to look at me quickly, suddenly seeming very alarmed. “Sure.” I shimmy a little bit off the railing, preparing to lunge into the water. “We can’t go swimming,” Danny protests, as if I’m the ridiculous one here. “Why not?” “You’re in your clothes and I’m waiting for Davis! Get back over here!” Danny grabs the back of my shirt like he’s worried I’m gonna shoot off into space. “Do you even know how to swim?” His low, soft voice has become higher and more afraid, though I don’t know why. “Yes!” I insist, irritated that he’s being so unreasonable. I thrash in his grip, trying to shake free of his grasp. Wriggling violently, I let go of the railing and plunge unexpectedly into the marsh. The water is as nice as I thought it would be: refreshing, cool, and welcoming. I can taste the salt as I sink deeper and deeper. I kick at the water, pushing for the surface. But I can’t find it. The water, once seeming so gentle and encouraging, is taking me hostage. I stay still, feeling the suddenly aggressive tide pull me farther out into open waters, then push me back under the dock. And a quiet little voice in my mind, a whisper, a peaceful murmur, not unlike the soft rushing of Danny’s voice, informs me that I may die. I’ve seen Davis swim plenty of times. I’ve watched the Summer Olympics. I didn’t expect swimming to be this hard. I can’t see and I don’t know which way is up, but I feel oddly at peace. Danny is on shore. He’ll save me. My feet brush the oyster bed. I hear a disturbance in the water, a muffled splash, then something grabs hold of my shirt, not unlike Danny did back on the dock. I’m being pulled, slowly, through the water. Surely, this is where it ends. Something, some monstrous fish of some sort has grabbed me and is dragging me to a watery grave. I go limp and let it happen, not having the skills to fight and not knowing which way to run. And then the sun is on my face again. My eyes are squeezed tight, but I can feel I’m in the air. Weird. A bird must’ve taken me. But then I feel the heat of the dark wood of the dock and open my eyes. I’m laying down, gazing into the clear blue sky. Danny is standing over me, looking down with a strange look in his eyes. Part of it concern, the other part something I can’t quite identify. Fear or nausea maybe, though that doesn’t make sense. Then there’s a sloshing sound and a grunting noise and for some reason I can’t be bothered to turn my head and find the source of these noises. The cause is soon revealed however when Danny’s face is obscured by Davis’s. His hair hangs wet over his eyes, which are wild. “Ross, what were you thinking?” Davis asks immediately, panting as though he’s just had a long run. “What?” I say, baffled. The sun and the swim have both made me very tired, so following Davis’s logic is very difficult. “Swimming! You can’t swim!” “Everybody can swim!” I counter. “Why are you so wet?” Davis sighs and sits back on his heels. He runs a hand through his soaked hair, then starts laughing. It’s an evil laugh, the one you hear in cartoons. I look to Danny, who has reappeared behind Davis. Danny looks about as frightened as I feel. “I had to jump in to save you!” Davis yells at last. I don’t understand. I thought Danny would save me at the very least. Never Davis. I sit up and curl my arms around my knees. Suddenly, even with the sun shining and drying me off, I feel very cold. Something from the deadness of the water has soaked my bones and is sticking in there. One look at Danny tells me he feels the same way. But Davis has a warm light in his eyes and is gazing at me intentionally, really seeing me. His stare thaws my chill and I feel an unexpected fondness. Davis stands up with a grunt worthy of an old man. “Alright, c’mon kid.” He lifts me up like I’m nothing and I fit snuggly into his chest. He smells like salt and sulfur, proof of his rescue mission. I shut my eyes, happy to sleep. “I’ll have to see you tomorrow, Danny,” Davis calls over his shoulder. “Sure,” Danny says from the dock as Davis and I approach the house. Danny’s voice doesn’t sound to me like it did before. It sounds younger, a little more like mine, not as wise as I once thought it to be. Davis, when we enter the house, says, “Let’s get you into some dry clothes.” These words ride on his voice like a cowboy rides a horse, wild and free, yet loving and deliberate. It occurs to me to ask Davis if he loves me like Danny said he did. I don’t ask. I don’t need to. About the Writer... Esmé DeVries is a sophomore in Creative Writing at Douglas Anderson School of the Arts. She has been previously published in Élan.

bd76dd65-71d8-4916-95a6-50504787bd1b Aschnakä by Niveah Glover If you ever wanted to paint something a deep black, you had to start with black lilies, roses, and charcoal. That’s how Anne was taught. One cup of water, a black lily, a rose, and two pieces of coal. Anne watched intently as her mother, Rosalee, grinded all the ingredients together in a worn mortar and pestle. She added a touch of red liquid—it was thick enough that when it was softly shaken it slushed like a mud puddle. “A touch of lamb’s blood is what you need for this recipe.” Rosalee held a large smile as she mixed the abundance of materials; they mended together to create the thick black paint that would soon cover large papier mache rectangles. These rectangles will transform themselves into a singular card—fifty-two to be exact. “Mama? Why do we have to make only black paint? Why can’t our project have pretty colors?” There was silence, then a long laugh. Rosalee shook her head and went to an old junk drawer in their kitchen. “The color black—issa’ a symbol—it represents spiritual energy and ritual. And baby, this isn’t no project. We makin’ something special.” Her long deep brown arm reached far into the back and pulled out a pitch-black box: no letters, symbols, or carvings, just a smooth black wooden box. “You remember what I told you about Mama Sofia?” Rosalee sat next to her daughter on a small stool and handed her the box. There was weight on it, but a different kind. It wasn’t heavy, but it did feel important. “Yes Mama. You said Mama Sofia liked to help people. So sometimes she made things for them to get better.” “Well Anne, this is it—this is what I was going on about. Open it.” Slowly, seven-year-old Anne put her right hand on top of the box, placing her thumb right at the center of the opening. With a small subtle tug, she lifted its top and was blinded by gold. The shining color seeped deep into the large cards, creating the perfect background for the black figures, lettering, and small symbols marking them. “Now you listen to me Anne. This is your grandmother’s life work. So, we gonna’ honor her by recreating her cards. We was put on this earth by Oshun to guide the people who may be astray. So this what we gonna’ do. Hear me now. These cards are special and they ain’t nobody’s toy. Ya’ hear me?” Rosalee grabbed Anne’s attention and watched as she nodded her head to her mother’s words. Her mother’s long hair was wrapped in a white scarf, the simple color brought shine to her dramatic features like her big doll like eyes. “I understand Mama.” “Good.” Rosalee began, “All that you learn today can never be shared under no circumstances you understand?” “Yes Mama.” “Alright. First, Imma’ teach you how to make the cards and then Imma’ going to teach you how to play.” “How to play what?” Anne inquired as she closed the box and began to pick up a paintbrush. “Aschnakä, the game of lineage, purpose and faith. Oshun always guides those who know how to guide themselves.” Surrounded by the blossoming spring color of soft-shell pink, Anne looked up to her bedroom ceiling. Her record player was playing some new Otis Redding single her mother just bought, but her mind couldn’t stay in the song. One ear was listening, but the other was being tortured with her cousin Mae’s constant nagging. “How will I ever find me a beau Anne? This Mississippi wardrobe I trotted with is so last summa’. And look at you wallow. Just because Frankie is leaving for Fisk Institute doesn’t mean the world is coming to an end. Ya’ hear me? Sugar ya’ making yourself look desperate.” Mae laughed, her thick honey-like voice held strong to her southern accent. Anne rolled her eyes, “I am not, Mae. I’m just a little sad is all. What if I never see him again or he forgets about me?” “Well, that would take lots of forgetting.” Mae exclaimed as she started to rummage through Anne’s closet, “If I was you, I would get up and fix myself, so the last meeting is the most memorable. Go make ya’ self some type of presentable. You look like you been tackling racoons all night.” Anne just turned her head to the side in laughter, before slugging herself off the bed to go get ready for Frankie’s going away party. Mae continued to dig deeper into the closet until she found a wooden box and held it up. “Hey, how come you been holdin’ out on me? You have a jewelry box, and yours truly didn’t even know about it.” She sneakered, shaking the box. “Jewelry box? I don’t have a—No Mae, don’t open that!” “Oh, you really don’t want me in here. What is it then? Love letters from Frankie!? Ooh you little devil, you have another fella’ on the side.” Mae kept shaking the box until Anne came back into the room with a queasy expression, almost afraid. Mae opened the box and looked completely stunned. “You made them?” She screamed. Anne couldn’t tell whether the expression was a good thing or not. “Just let me explain, Mae.” Anne started, “The last set hasn’t been made for almost ten years. I thought it was time we had some more. I wasn’t going to use them, I just wanted to have my own set. I made them just like I was taught, I even said the incantation in an enclosed space. No one has to know there is another set. Mae—say something.” Mae looked up at her cousin before showing the biggest smile she could. “Are ya’ kidding? We have to bring these to the party. You’ll be the talk of school for the rest of ya’ natural life. What if someone wins a million dollars or something? It will be because of you.” “Mae, no! You know the cards don’t work like that. And what if someone doesn’t follow the rules? I’ll be the crazy girl who created a natural disaster with her cards. Mama doesn’t even know I made them. She’ll be upset with me.” Anne looked at the ground. “Anne, it doesn’t even matter—just bring them. What’s the harm in it?” “Oshun is the harm in it. I don’t feel good about it.” Mae took the box and tucked it in her bag. She pulled Anne by the hand and out of the door. Two blocks away, the grey house on the right was Frankie’s. Cars littered the sidewalk, glowing under the streetlights. Side by side, Anne and Mae walked next to each other up to his front door. They knocked, once, twice, right before the third knock, the door opened wide. Frankie’s face lit up at the sight of Anne. “I’ve been waiting for you, Anne.” Anne grabbed his hand as they made their way into his home. It was jammed with kids she knew from everywhere. Some from class, the neighborhood, and others that just hung around. Even with all the teens packed together, it didn’t feel like quite a party until Mae and Anne entered. The energy shifted quickly, almost in a daunting way. "Just when everyone was dancing and talking amongst themselves the music stopped." Falling into the arms of Frankie, Anne sat on the couch and enjoyed his laughter and company. All while Mae was becoming the center of attention, she always liked to keep it that way. Just when everyone was dancing and talking amongst themselves the music stopped. The record was scratching, all the teenagers erupted into groans until Mae stood on top of the coffee table. “Hey y’all the party ain’t over. Me and Anne got a game we can play. Anne is the best teacher, come over here Anne.” Mae smiled brightly, waving Anne to the middle of the room in all her embarrassment and dread. Standing up she pulled Mae close to her. “Why would you do that? I told you that I couldn’t share it.” Mae smiled. “Y’all ready to play? Teach us how Anne.” The group erupted into chants to have Anne teach them the game and against her better judgement, she caved. Anne set the game up. Only four people could play, Mae, Frankie, her, and Frankie’s best friend James. At a small rectangular table, they sat facing each other. “We are given gifts by the deities of our people in the form of divine destiny. These cards and this game will allow one of us to receive one of the many blessings in store for us right now. Because we respect the deities, we honor them by giving our full devotion to the game and leaving out our greediness. No one can cheat—ever. I ordain this round with the power of Oshun. Aschnakä.” The four of them played and played, until the game was almost over. The first person to have no cards was Mae. “Aschnakä!” She screamed with a smile, causing everyone to cheer. Mae grabbed Anne’s arm, whispering, “I slipped a card under the seat. I didn’t know that would work.” Anne’s eyes widened. “Mae! How could you? You know what mama said.” “I’ll be fine. You worry too much!” Mae swayed away from Anne and back into the group, leaving her stunned and heartbroken. In the kitchen Anne chopped vegetables at the speed of her irritation. Her mother was picking another fight about the game, after countless discussions and many agree to disagree moments. “You have ta’ teach her Anne. Teach her to be better than you were. This is our family lineage. What did I tell you when I first taught you?” “We do to it to remember Mama Sofia. I know, I know. But Oya doesn’t need that weight on her Mama. It’s a responsibility she don’t need added to her plate.” Anne washed more vegetables and continued to cut. Putting on a pot of rice, she tried to ignore the silence forming in the kitchen. “And don’t try to make me feel worse for not teaching her. Of course, I want her to learn. But do you remember what happened to Mae? I do.” Looking across the room, out the living room window she examined the big palm tree by the front steps of their home. The biggest and oldest tree in their yard. Twenty-seven years old. “What happened to Mae was not your fault Anne. She shouldn’t have cheated. She knew the rules.” “That doesn't make it hurt any less Mama.” Anne shuffled in the kitchen, searching for the piece of roast she sat aside for tonight’s dinner. “Well--you made up your mind.” Her mother said solemnly. Amid a cloud of silence that was starting to take over the air, small footsteps broke through. “Mommy!” Oya, the three-year-old product of Anne and Frank’s marriage of five years. “My baby, my baby. Go sit on the couch, while I finish dinner. Daddy will be home soon.” Anne smiled largely, but flakily. “This gonna’ be a secret you can’t keep forever.” Anne’s mother whispered. “As long as I’m alive, she will never have to see the pain those cards bring.” The door locked behind Oya with a slight click. With one book bag strap over her shoulder, she happily carried her math textbook in the crook of her right arm and a notebook in her left. The house was settled into a solemn quiet atmosphere. The most Oya could hear was faint whispers from her mother and father. “They cut her.” Her mother said in distress. “I told them not to, I did, I promise. They said they wouldn’t.” Her father answered. Oya put her right ear to the center of their door. She listened intently to the strained silence, until the door opened. She was caught in the headlights of her parents' stare. “Follow me, Oya.” Anne looked her in the eye, tear streaks dried down her cheek. One step after the other, thirteen-year-old Oya followed her mother outside of the house to the front yard and kneeled in front of a stump that used to be a full-grown tree. Human blood was slowly and steadily coming from the stumps many rings. It was pulsing and bleeding. “Mama, w-what's wrong with the tree?” Anne closed her eyes and mumbled, “Oshun, we thank you for the blessings and the curses. Asumanala.” Oya watched her mother as she put her right hand on the stomp’s center. Her hand covered in red. “It’s time I taught you Oya.” Anne started, “We were put on this earth by Oshun to guide the people who may be astray. Your great grandma created a game—.” “What game Mama?” “Aschnakä. The game of faith.” Return to Table of Contents

e7b13376-eb7e-40c0-acc7-16b17b18b548 Afternoon Painting by Zoe Turner to she who fights the snow by Sarah Sun it is winter, and i watch you leave each night from my vantage in the attic, furtive fear in the pinch of your mouth, my candles doused and your gait of footsteps burned into tenebrous eyelids; stark against moonlit snow. yet i do not care where you go because when you come back through these timber-framed hatches silhouetted against a watermelon sunrise whispering by this honeycomb, i can hear the soft exhale of your breath, velvet smile of lips murmuring liquid words of stories that still my quivering shoulders. i can smell mellow winters and brimming pantries, meadows of pruned petals; faith-welded nirvana. and when i see the twinkle in your motherly gaze, your placid fingers reaching out to rasp against my fists— tomorrow will be better than this chasm that was today— i imagine you leaving each night with bitter resolve, shaking your fiery fist when the frost bites, and stealing stars from merciless skies to braid through my hair and string across this rotten wood-beamed ceiling. i can almost ignore your scarred palms, plastered tattoos of war, battle etched into your veins, the evening crescents beneath baggy, vermilion windows. i can almost ignore the desperate holes dug among forests of rime, quavering refrains of clattering snow-soaked branches that wreath our paltry bale of firewood. it recoils further each time a tear lands intangible; blue lips and scraps of cloth. still i look and think, strong , like the evergreens. still i listen and think, dulcet , like the daylight. still i do not turn away when you reach with chapped hands and fraught breath to struggle and coax and beg a candlelight of comfort from this cold hearth, these fruitless trees. still i hope and i love and i wait. Return to Table of Contents

26d8ae08-f853-4650-862a-cc16b123ab93 Late by Jadalyn Gubat Firstborn by Satori McCormick I tried to tell my husband about my first son but every noble intent of the act failed. As we lay in bed months into our honeymoon, I attempted to sketch out the exact shade of his newborn skin (terracotta? rose? like the color of a brilliant desert sunset when it hits the sandstones just before nightfall?) and the deep black pools of his eyes when he opened them (he cried all the time and it was like he wailed, stopped, and opened his eyes just to fill them with sorrow all over again). But with each new sentence I paused, frowning, my hand outstretched in the middle of the air, and I could not remember if this was my baby I was talking about or the fantasy one I’d dreamed up in years since. My patient husband leaned over to kiss my forehead. He rolled over and turned off the light, leaving me in the dark wondering what color my son had been. But the tragedies topple over each other into peripheries. I was overjoyed to discover that someone wanted to marry me even after I was left destitute and childless and absolute societal wreckage. My husband was so sweet and shy I could hardly believe he was mine. He left every morning at seven to go to work in an office building and came home every night at five. He made his own coffee and poured a measured teaspoon of cream into it. He grew a beard and it tickled my mouth when he kissed me. He never asked me about my past. It was ancient history, a dark age, an aftertaste fading in my mouth. Our daughter was born on Christmas Day so we decided to name her Mary. She was pale and quiet like an angel. She never cried. In her crib, under a delicate canary yellow mobile of butterflies, she gazed up at me adoringly with caramel brown eyes. I took her everywhere with me. When she wanted to nap I cradled her in the crook of my elbow and watched TV, and when she was awake I took her on walks in the neighborhood in a pink stroller. My husband and I photographed her every minute development, whether it be an extra tuft of hair or a new dress or that the seasons had changed, but suddenly somehow autumn looked different than it always had once it enveloped our child. "Her fatherless child started crying on the other side of the room and I went to clean up his mess of spilled milk. I felt a sharp hatred towards him." At her third birthday party I invited one of my oldest friends and she approached me as I cut the cake for a group of eager toddlers. She started talking about how much I had changed, god, what a fucking miracle. I darted her a scornful frown and she laughed. She asked me how much my husband made at his job. Enough for us, I said. And this house? She glanced around at the white walls and contemporary furniture. She scoffed. You got yourself a real perfect life, she spat. Her fatherless child started crying on the other side of the room and I went to clean up his mess of spilled milk. I felt a sharp hatred towards him. What an ugly child. He looked at me with big black bug eyes encrusted with diamond lagoons and I had to look away. My husband was working late so I brought Mary to the mall. I bought her a light blue backpack to put all her things in. She stuffed in the most audaciously unnecessary things: a pack of crayons, her favorite stuffed animal, a bag of crackers, and a flower barrette, just in case the one I’d clipped in her hair that morning wasn’t adequate by the end of the day. I bought her ice cream in the food court. She savored it as we went in search of a toy store. I noticed a boy who must’ve been not older than eleven or so. He had shaggy black hair and deep golden skin and as he passed me he looked at me strangely. He joined a white couple that must’ve been his parents and they walked together through the wide glossy mall hallway. I tugged my daughter along faster and she whined in protest, her ice cream dripping onto the floor. In the hoards of people going the opposite way I lost track of the boy. Mary stumbled to keep up. I caught a glimpse of the family going up the escalator. I climbed in, pushing past strangers who shouted after me and at the top I saw them heading to the exit. I dropped Mary’s hand and followed swiftly. Just before I could reach the boy the mother whirled around and hissed, “What do you think you’re doing, following us?” Behind her I stared at the boy. He didn’t look like me. He wasn’t my son. I glanced at the woman, her face frightened and reddened, breathing heavily. Without saying anything, I turned back and made my way to Mary, who was beginning to cry in the midst of a thousand strangers. Return to Table of Contents