The Swift: Volume Three

Welcome to volume 3 of The Swift. What you hold in your hands represents months of effort by dozens of talented creatives. Writers from all over campus and the local community have contributed to this endeavor. As editors, we curated this collection of works with the hope of providing you with a sense of self and community. The individual stories and poems each contain their own unique voice that lend their strength to this collection.

During times when it may feel difficult to find common ground, literature can provide a path to unity, sparking conversations and fostering empathy. The following pieces serve as a reminder of our shared humanity through the power of art. In this volume, our contributors offer up work from various perspectives with a myriad of emotions for you to explore. These poems and stories can spark inspiration, provoke thought, and cultivate understanding. You will find tales that challenge life’s obstacles or delve deep into raw human emotion and poems that reflect on the simplicities of life while leaving one deep in thought. Above all, this volume is a curated playlist of literature by talented writers from the local Clark community.

Now sit back, take a beat, and prepare to escape into the written world. Celebrate the beauty of creativity as a treasure trove of written artwork awaits! We are excited to introduce you to volume 3 of The Swift.

Lizeth Hernandez, Samantha Phan, Sean Gentry

Editors for The Swift

CRITTERS IN THE GRIME

Alexi Byrnes

I may not be a hero
of normal occasions,
but today with downcast eyes
in the parking garage
behind the wheel of a red Chevelle,
I spotted
the tiniest of frogs covered in
lint and lost.

You see sir, I could blame or be blamed—
traffic on being late or excuse
the rain for falling west of the cascades
when the season of death befalls the earth
for another,
but the truth is usually far more
absurd.

To the untrained eye,
a grown woman scrambling through the grime
of many blackened soles and treads
on hands and knees
squealing with joy.

HOW DOES ONE CHOOSE TO KEEP LIVING OPEN-HEARTED IN THIS WORLD?

Alexi Byrnes

VIII
Killing a lion with kindness, like the strong bay horse that had to be put
down.
Eternity above the crown, three bins of abandoned stuffed animals.
Tail tucked, tongue out
draped in flowers and white robe.
Airing as a goddess, a song that resides as strength,
the kind lesser known.
A timid thorn in the paw of forever—how to live this jaded life
without stone walls, Jericho, I was given strength
and mountains in the distance to roam.

IV
Sword adorned, shiny armor of pride
seen just beneath the royal velvet red—
thought no one would see.
Tall in paper crown, face of irony will, knuckles white on the wheel,
of cosplay reckoning.
Black Tacoma named after an arsonist
my throne, my throne, my castle of inches
living fast, living everywhere,
living nowhere at all.

II
A woman asked about yesterday, tear rimmed,
asked if she was being silly with her trust
silly in the ways of letting you want love.
Who could ever say honestly yes?

X
A buried sigil of ursa minor with a pinch of tobacco and hair
my secret to tell. All the vowels taken out.
Wheel of fortune spins around
blue with angels and kings.
I see a woodstove on a piece of heaven far out of the way,
winters given over to watchtower nights alone. Brave.
I see ancient runes in the sky, glow alive in the dark
constellation maps, constant reminders,
and I know all their names.

The answer is unknown, but I’m trying.

KINTSUGI

Emma Tsui

I walked into my kindergarten class with a fresh-cut bob barely hanging over my chin and bangs curling over my eyes. Underneath were red patches consuming my body like leopard prints. I liked the bangs. They were a shield that protected me from the ridicule I would face for having red, puffy eyes and cuts from the dryness of my skin.

It was better not to be seen.

Eczema followed me throughout my early years. The severity of my eczema crept its way to my neck, forming slashes that resembled zebra print. The slashes were raw and painful. Imagine you give yourself a paper cut and accidentally rub hand sanitizer over it. That was the same feeling. The sting was like shards of glass, dragging their minuscule blades over my body in repetition, sending endless, painful reminders of how flawed my body was.
It was inevitable that kids would notice and stare in fear. On a day like any other, I had retreated to my usual carpet time spot behind my classmates while my teacher was reading a book. At one point, a child with bright blond hair whipped his head around and raised his hand to be called on by the teacher, saying, “Did somebody cut your throat?”

All I could see was a classroom full of children turned at me. Suddenly, the bangs couldn’t shield me from the eyes examining my face, neck, and arms. That question would echo in my head, haunting me for years. They didn’t know any better. Their comments were unfiltered, and even though I didn’t like to hear them, they were honest. I couldn’t even avoid adults noticing. One day, my teacher asked me in front of the entire class if I was getting hurt at home.

“No, it’s just me. I have egg-zeem-a,” I said.

Laughter started to fill up the room. “EGG-ZEE-MA” was the topic of carpet time.

My body became like porcelain slowly being cracked; my neck, my inner elbows, under my eyes, and my wrists were breaking. I’d come home and run into my grandfather’s arms, burying my face deep into the fabric of his sweater. His warm embrace was followed by a stroke of my hair as he whispered, “Con la cục vàng cua ong ngoai.” When translated from Vietnamese it means “you are my piece of gold.” Though quiet and reserved, my grandfather made me feel whole. He was a short but slender man. His frail and thin appearance made him seem taller than he actually was. Even when walking with his hands behind his back and his upper body arched, I could’ve sworn he was six feet tall.

He was always fascinated by the art of Kintsugi. In Japanese culture, when an object or a piece of pottery is broken, they aggrandize the broken pieces by filling their cracks with gold. They believe that after something has suffered damage, it represents history and becomes more beautiful. My grandfather would spend his days in the garden mending cracked pots with this technique. He used to say, “Brokenness adds to the beauty, and everything gets a second chance to be beautiful.” Eczema is much like broken pieces of Kintsugi; the scratches and red patches mimic the sharp, grim, and imperfect nature of a broken piece of pottery. My grandfather was the gold filling in the empty spaces, filling in my insecurities and my worries. He was my Kintsugi artist, carefully piecing me back together.

I was ten when I ran down the stairs to an eruption of screams in terror. I sat on the stairs, afraid to peek around the corner and find out what was happening. I finally looked past the stairs to find my dad holding back my grandfather from throwing things across the living room. My dad turned his head away as he aggressively held my grandfather back. My dad was in agony, too. His face looked as if he was killing a spider. It was grueling for him to have to fight back, knowing my grandfather was a victim of whatever was controlling his actions. My eyes followed the remote my grandpa had chucked across the kitchen counter. I could feel my vision becoming cloudy, barely making out the scene through my blurred vision. I licked the salty tears trickling down my cheeks and wiped my face in time to see my uncle jump in to restrain my grandfather from hurting himself or the rest of our family. For so long, my parents had shielded me from the realities of my grandfather’s condition: Alzheimer’s. It wasn’t until the later stages that I began to see him chip away. Like pieces of pottery slowly cracking. It’s how I imagined my grandfather’s brain. His disease chipped away at his fragile mind, deteriorating the foundation of his very being. The disease only left behind mere fragments of the beautiful pottery he once was. His ceramic personality was now replaced with glass fragments. Fragments of Alzheimer’s that made his personality transparent of his emotions.

It was early spring of that same year when I walked home from school one day. The sun was showering me in the warmth of the spring day and the cherry blossoms were blooming. Petals swarmed down from the trees as a wind gush ushered them downwards in a dance-like motion onto my hair and the ground around me. I remember because I collected the petals in my palm, hoping to decorate my grandfather’s pots. I had walked inside, set down my backpack, and emptied my lunch bag when I noticed all the lights were off. I ran around the house calling for my grandparents. I stopped calling after a while and darted into my grandparents’ room, where I heard a faint cry in their closet.

I opened the door slowly and peeked inside. I could barely make out someone in the corner. After coming closer, I saw my grandma on the floor, hidden in a nook behind her neatly hung clothes. My heart dropped. I could feel a chill come over my body. I knew deep down my grandpa wasn’t coming home. I didn’t ask my grandma where my grandpa went. I sat outside her nook by the door as her four-foot six-inch body took up most of the corner. Her head was leaning against the wall, her eyes glued on the picture of her and my grandpa’s last trip to Vietnam. One hand was wiping the tears as they streamed rapidly down her face. Her other hand was holding her glasses, which were dripping in tears. As I sat with her, I realized over the months my grandpa’s condition got worse she had built herself a little corner to hide from my grandpa when Alzheimer’s got the best of him. My parents told me later on that my grandpa had been missing for hours, and when they found him, they knew a vital part of him had died that day. That night, they decided he had to “go away to a new home,” a nursing home.

Years had gone by. I had almost forgotten the person he was before he got sick. The halls of the nursing home are now familiar. The smell is the same as it had been for the last couple of years—old, dusty, wet socks. The final day I was there, a crowd gathered around his door. On the outskirts were the nurses trying to wiggle their way in and out of the layer of family barricading the door, silently watching, praying, and crying. Inside, two nuns and a priest stood over my grandfather’s bed. My grandma lay beside him; her eyes closed as if she didn’t want to face the reality of it all. I couldn’t stand to look at her in pain. I wandered through his room. Realizing how a wall of birthday cards, red envelopes, and pictures of us traveling was slowly consuming the entirety of his bedside table. At his bedside were a few of his Kintsugi pieces used as towel holders.

It was hours of sitting and waiting, and I had nothing to do but think about our lives without my grandpa. Our weekends would not be the same. We used to drive to Portland every Sunday to see my grandfather at his nursing home. I hated myself for finally realizing on his deathbed how important of a pillar he was in my life. My eyes started to swell. My hands got sweaty as I tried not to let anyone see. My great aunt had started chanting prayers; the rhythm was eerily scary, and the family outside joined in. I couldn’t stand the sound, as if they were purposely trying to egg on death. I pushed past the crowd of family, nurses, and nuns. I felt like my airways were closing as I finally reached the hallway. I walked past the rooms of people visiting their grandpas, uncles, and dads. A feeling of jealousy swarmed over me as I realized they’d have more time to spend at this stinky, rotting place.

I stumbled outside and threw up in the soil beside the road. There wasn’t much that I had in my stomach. My knees gave out on the pavement as I kept on gagging, trying to push out whatever it was I could feel in the pit of my stomach. As I bent over the soil, I kept thinking about what I had eaten that day when I remembered I hadn’t eaten anything but a Twix bar that I snatched from the receptionist’s desk at the nursing home. I realized then it was the suffocating presence of death that was pushing its way into my body.

My father found me outside, silently sitting on the parking lot pavement.

“Come in now,” he said solemnly.

As I followed behind him, I slipped into a bathroom, ensuring my face didn’t look as hollow as I felt. I let down my hair from the ponytail I had tied that morning, rearranging my long curtain bangs as shields to hide any possible tears. I pinched my cheeks so they’d turn flushed red, giving some life back into my face. I finally followed the hallway to my grandpa’s room, which once looked like it stretched for miles away and was now only a few steps away. I didn’t want to go in, not that I didn’t want to see my grandpa, but I didn’t want to face the fact that he might actually be dead, lifeless. I shuffle past the crowd of family, trying to steal glances at my grandpa to see if he had passed. Afraid, I finally looked straight at him.

Clarity struck: he had been gone for a while. His spirit was whisked away by Alzheimer’s. His eyes were empty, and his face was emotionless, a sign that the disease was in complete control. He was still breathing slowly, barely catching his next breath.

I crept in slowly, trying to hide away so my grandma wouldn’t think I had left. Of course, she sees everything. Her eyes dark, her bob messy; she looked as if life was sucked out of her. Still, her eyes found me, and she tirelessly grinned, waving me over to his bedside. She motioned for me to lie with them. I slipped in between my grandma and grandpa. I hug my grandfather gently, careful with his frail body.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of a night I spent sleeping over at my grandparents’ house. It seemed as though it was a lifetime ago. I was six. My parents were in the hospital and had left me for the night at their house. The guest room was in the attic of their house, and I hated it. I hated the dark. My aunt, who lived with them, always forced me to sleep there because she believed in ‘independence.’ One night, I crept downstairs and knocked on my grandparents’ door. I sat on the cold wooden floor, cuddled up against their door. A warm light clicked on, and my grandpa opened the door. I looked up at him and his toothy smile in relief as he picked me up and carried me inside. The warm citrus-amber scent of their room invited me in. My grandma sat up and patted the pillow, smiling, telling me to lie with her. My grandfather placed me in the center of their bed, and I nestled between them. Their bed was warm and smelled like spiced candles. The tan sheets were heated, and I brushed their blanket across my cheek. I was afraid of my aunt coming to find me, so I dipped under my grandpa’s arms and held the blanket below my eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry, Emma, we won’t let you go,” my grandfather whispered, his arms tightly wrapped around me.

This memory found its way into tears as they came streaming down my face. I clutched onto my grandpa, hugging him like he used to hug me. I didn’t want to let him go either. All three of us lay cramped together, my grandma and I in tears. I think she was also reminiscing about that memory. The fluorescent light shining above was cold and lifeless—another reminder that we weren’t in their room anymore.

That evening, my grandfather passed away.

I prepared myself for the last time I would ever see my grandpa. I could see his casket from afar as we drove up to his final resting place. Snow had been falling for the past four hours. A thick blanket of snow now hovered over the funeral home grounds. I watched in silence as my grandpa’s brothers, sisters, and cousins gathered around his casket. My grandmother was a mess. She couldn’t stand on her own, the grief taking into a physical form in her body, disabling any willpower she had to stand. Grief was torturing her from the inside.

I usually loved snow. The flawlessness of each snowflake as they pack together like a layer of frosting on the earth. But this snow was different. I felt as though the snow encapsulated everything wrong about my life at that very moment. The gloomy skies and the cold, howling winds were a physical depiction of the grief I felt. There was no more sunshine dancing through the trees as my grandpa joyfully walked about the garden, admiring the amber-orange leaves. My grandpa was like the rays of the sun in my life, healing and welcoming. This cold snow was the reality that the warmth my grandfather had brought into my life had died with him.

Our last memory of my grandpa being healthy was him sitting at the dining room table, his back turned to face the window overlooking his garden, the garden where grandma grew her vegetables, where grandpa had fixed what seemed like hundreds of pots. I could still picture him squatted on a stool, carefully dusting gold powder off the massive pot that held his most prized possession, a maple tree. His eyes were fixed on what was in front of him, not the sounds of the garbage truck outside the fence or the scorching evening sun beaming right in his eyes.

He was the sunshine. My sunshine.

SAUDADE

Jasmin Adams

Popcorn ceiling and
Powdered doughnuts
Dipped in coffee with
Great Grandma’s crossword
I look below at the grass
Shag green carpet
And outside where there’s
A cornstalk garden
I sit on the floor
Fearing that big metal desk
As she writes in shorthand
The grandfather clock
Speaks every hour
And I protest a nap
Playing with knick-knacks
Eating perfectly scrambled eggs
I am rhyming in the kitchen
Tapping the table
Like a true pianist does
I never think about
How this life could end

AN ODE TO FILIGREE

Angel Shetley

Suns will rise.
Creatures will be Born,
And they will Consume
what Sprouts from the Earth.

Sprouts will still Grow
in glassy pots
that have faces
molded with Reverence.

Summer’s Air
will burn My Hands,
My Arms,
and I will be Grateful for it.

because after I’m done
I can sip on a chilly glass.
Survey all the Work I’ve done,

that the Red
Birds and the Yellow
Bees will take Refuge

Suns will Fall.
Moons breathe in Blue,
with twinkling Stars
that are there just for You.

Still. I will sit and Listen.
for a chittering
and soft hum

a Flutter
a Rustle
as my Nighttime guests
Parade through Emerald Filigree

there is no Death.
not in this World
or the next.

when I step out into the
Mourning Sun
I will be reminded
That Winter ends

and these black vines
Will be green in Spring again.

INHABITANTS OF A WANING EARTH

Julia Crawford

The sun turned crimson yesterday. I had always thought it would come as a surprise. That I would be paralyzed by it. To tell the truth, I’ve known it was coming for the past three hundred years. There was a feeling in the air. A sick wheezing feeling that was strongest when I flew. The wind against my face now felt like a dying breath, warm and sweet with decay. My home was going to ferment.

I had the urge to visit Elise when the sun turned crimson. To look into her sable eyes, to feel the inside of her neck, to taste her breath on mine once more. Passion engulfed me. Passion to make love, to be in the emotional trenches, and to be a judge and executioner. I knew that would not be possible with my Elise. She is immune to my beauty now and I resent her for that.

Tears have been welling in my eyes since I realized there would be no final hurrah. I would have to dance at the end of this world on my own. No puppet for me. Perhaps I should have kept some humans around. Even if their blood is useless now, and they were so utterly dull. I find myself so lonesome.

I sat with my tears for a long time, and then I decided I would try to remember it all. The good and the bad. The pain I caused. The lives I have snatched up. I would reflect on the few pleasant moments. There had been times where I renounced my awful habits. But, as I sit here reflecting and no longer in fear, I know none of it mattered. All the heartaches, all the failures. Every breath made by every animal. Even the time before I was changed. When I farmed millet. Even now it didn’t matter. Any trace of me and what I have done will be gone.

After a day of sulking in the sand, I flew to her. I flew to her because I had nothing else to do. Nothing else to feel on my own. I flew to her because the sun would not set and it aggravated me. It brought sweat to my palms. I knew I couldn’t use her how I wanted. I couldn’t take her blood or her life, and yet, I wanted to see, to speak, to know of another’s mind.

She was still where she had been for the last thousand years. In a cramped cabin built on the now-warm shores of Antarctica. She did not answer her door, so I watched her through the window. She was knitting a scarf. After a week, she opened the door and walked past me.

I said hello. I asked her how she was doing with our imminent destruction. I told her she was a fool for knitting a scarf. I called her some nasty names, and then I apologized. She ignored me as she continued to garden.

It was a horrendous garden. Full of infantile flowers that could only serve a child’s desire of beauty. Ugly squashes covered in bumps and totally benign pumpkins. I said to her, “This garden doesn’t compare to the ones I had in Berlin. I had rose bushes taller than buildings, and an apple orchard the size of four football fields. And each appl—won’t you look at me when I talk to you, Elise? Each apple tasted like having your first apple. The first succulent bite could be experienced again. Don’t you feel shame, Elise? Look at me!”

She did not look at me when she said, “Joan, darling, those gardens were never yours. They were built and designed by slaves.”

An awful comment.

I felt rage seep into me. I felt the need to assault. To give up on this asinine lust for interaction and bring her, or both of us, to death. So, I jumped at her, claws out towards her neck. I dug them in and felt her clavicle.

With a straight face and eyes that pierced she said, “Why have you come here? Why must you insist on reviving this? We have been through this loop before. This path does not lead anywhere.”

“You’ve grown ugly.”

She shook her head with that familiar look of disappointment. She grasped the fingers that were buried in the topsoil of her flesh and pulled them out like the weeds she felt they were. If I could feel shame, I would have then. I just felt a cool anger. She entered her home and locked her door leaving behind a trail of the black bile that slipped from her neck.

I watched her again through the window. She pulled out a book from a large pile. It was made of weathered leather; its engraving was intricate. With an old-world pen, she wrote. I watched her write for hours, dipping her pen in the bile seeping from her wound every few minutes. She did not just write, though that was the task at hand. Sometimes she would just sit and stare at the wall or out the far window. Never at me.

Elise completed the notebook in a few days, never stopping to sleep. She exited her cabin after and tended to her garden. I never said a thing. I just watched, perched on a volcanic rock. When she had finished tending, she harvested the seeds and placed them in old-world glasses.

She exited her house that evening and walked south. I felt it was a gimmick. Why not just fly? But I didn’t voice my criticism this time. It didn’t matter. I followed her, flying above. I watched her small body move across the landscape for three months. She entered caves and would exit miles away. She scaled mountains, bathed in rivers, and climbed trees. She sang old songs from her homeland. Songs that were so displaced by time that they were alien to my ears. Their lyrics were in languages I could no longer remember.

Then, one day, she just went home.

What pleasure was there in these useless tasks when the sun was expanding? When everything in our world, all pasts, all presents, were closing like the jars in which she kept her seeds, like the final knit on a scarf, like the docking of a ship, like the final page in a book. Why?

And so, I approached her at a distance. I was done fighting. I was done with my desire to control, to maintain power. It did not matter. I asked her, “Why do you continue these petty tasks? It’s useless. Can you not see that our star is fizzling? We may have escaped the pan, my love, but we are headed into the fire.”

She smirked and her sable eyes dazzled, “And yet, we are still here.”

I found her answer amusing. “For what? To write useless books with no one to read them. Here to explore lands that are like any other?”

She entered her cabin and reappeared with the book in her shriveled hands. “You say this is useless? But this is me. This?” She pulled the scarf from a hand hidden behind her, “And this? They are autobiographical.”

“But who are they for? No one will ever read your books. No one will wear your scarf. So why, Elise?”

Elise’s smile changed from sardonic to blissful. “You don’t get it. It’s for me, Joan. It is of me and it is for me. It’s for me to give to, and to take from, equally. That’s something you’ve never understood: the joy of exchange. When I write, I give myself to these pages, and yet I gain everything back. When I explore the wilds of this abandoned world, I give myself to it. I become it just as I become this scarf.” She stepped forward and placed her hand upon my shoulder. I resisted pushing her away. “Joan, I would have loved once to give to you. But that requires you to give as well, and, Joan, my beautiful enemy and only remaining friend, all you’ve ever known is taking. You can’t give, it’s not in you, and maybe that is because you have nothing to give. Maybe you truly are so depthless. It’s why, when you see that crimson sun your heart aches out, ‘Ooh only five hundred more years, what a terrible pity,’ and why mine says, ’Half of a millennium to enjoy this world and an eternity in whatever existence awaits me. I have taken so much from the sun and I am ready to give myself back to it.’”

A LIFE SENTENCE IN PARADISE

Steven Carpenter

Jerome is alone on an island. Big enough for only him and the shadow of a coconut tree. Jerome sat alone on a little island. Small fishing boats and colossal shipping vessels passed by him on a daily basis. He would wave to them and they would wave back.

The island was barely big enough for him to fully stretch his sleeping body. He was foolish enough to relax the first night as he lay in the sand. The next morning, he was missing the big toe of his left foot. He didn’t feel any pain from the red stub, but did wonder how a shark had swam close enough to bite off his toe or what crab had enough strength to snip it off.

Jerome had a limitless supply of food though. Every three days the coconut tree would produce three coconuts. They didn’t slowly grow over time either. On the third day they would just appear, typically falling out of the tree and waking Jerome.

Jerome couldn’t live off of coconuts alone. The island might have been small, but it still supported a vast nearby ecosystem of small fish, jellyfish, seagulls, and crabs. Jerome loves the taste of crabs. Even if he wasn’t hungry, whenever he saw a crab skittering across the sand, he would plunge his fingers straight into the hard shell of the crustacean and tear into it. He would rip the crab limb by limb, scraping and gnawing at any little edible piece of crab meat before tossing out any pieces of hard carapace he didn’t like. Since his arrival, the island has formed a thin, foamy line of red, purple, and blue pieces of shell.

Jerome was gnawing on the eye of a crab one day as a ship passed by. Holding the crab in a death grip with one hand, he waves with the other. He never shouts or pleads for a boat to come rescue him. Why would they? He arrived on this island by boat and he surely wasn’t getting off of it so long as his jailers could help it. Besides, there was a little chance this boat would have the key to unlock the chain that bound him to the center of the island.

Jerome found humor in that. It was like he himself was a boat and the island was his anchor. He had become the very thing that brought him here.

The ship, made of black steel with a hull mistakable for a mountain as it floated on the waves, responded to Jerome’s little gesture. The captain of the ship, wearing a merchant navy uniform that matched the color of the ship’s hull, waved back to Jerome from the edge of the bow. The captain held a face of disgust. It was his job though to keep an eye on Jerome and check the island every so often. This one was a special case. Not even called a prisoner to separate him as far as possible from being similar in any way to a human. The island was not only punishment for Jerome, but also a method to kill him as slowly and as painfully as possible. What could be more terrifying than living on an island no larger than a dining table surrounded by shark-infested waters with no food or water for miles? Nothing shocked the captain more than seeing Jerome thrive off his old ways of maiming flesh to stay alive.

It has been three years since Jerome was shackled to the island. The captain has finally snapped and has decided to make a stop in the middle of the ocean without orders from command. He holds his holster close, grabs the key to Jerome’s chains, and prepares to land on the tiny island.

A horn blasts. The anchor drops. The great wall of steel hides the sun and casts a shadow that covers the island and any ocean behind it. Jerome is briefly blinded as his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, but he is not unsettled in the slightest.

Separated by several meters of ocean, a narrow bridge unfolds itself from the ship and crashes onto the edge of the island. If the ship were any closer, Jerome would have been washed away along with the small island of sand.

The captain walks across the straight platform towards Jerome. The calm waves lick at the rusted bottom of the bridge. The captain scowls, his eyes leveled with Jerome’s. He plans on releasing Jerome from his shackles. If Jerome attacks, the captain would have the satisfaction of being allowed to shoot him down. If Jerome doesn’t attack, then the captain would get to watch as Jerome loses his anchor that keeps him tethered to the island. It probably wouldn’t even be a day before he’d wash out to sea.

Jerome greets the captain by his name.

He says nothing back.

Jerome tells of how lovely the day is today. How often are you burned by the sun?

Still, the captain says nothing back. Instead fiddles with the lock with one hand and keeps the other close to his side.

Jerome then tells of how he had a hard time sleeping last night. Have you ever woken up from bed by the scrape of a shark’s tough skin?

The captain focuses on the lock and clicks it open.

Jerome doesn’t say anything this time. He smiles as the captain stands up and walks back to his ship.

One more question captain, he says. How is your daughter?

The captain stops and turns around. Grip tightening on his pistol, he looks at Jerome with eyes that could kill with a glance.

I miss having those eyes, Jerome says. And how about my son? How does it feel to be his grandpa?

With his arms to his sides, Jerome was able to catch a bullet between his eyes. His body is swiftly lost to the waves.

The captain could turn around right now, man the ship, and return home without punishment. Even if he recounted what he did, no one would see his actions as wrong. Nothing could compare to what Jerome had done to the people of his country. He might even be praised for ending such a vile monster. Still, the captain felt as if he needed to be punished.

The captain lays down his hat, shackles himself, and tosses the key into the sea. He keeps his pistol close by. He may have been a killer, but only a madman could survive three years here without taking his own life.

FORGIVE THE MESS

Shylee Greene

Laying on the bathroom floor in a puddle of blood
dripping down my cheek
Mirrors all around on the ground, shattered at my feet
staring back at me
Locked and loaded, ready to blow this
Control never came for free
Messy is my clean, you should know this
Maybe you don’t really know me

HURT YOU TO STAY…

Shylee Greene

Hurt you to stay, kill me to go

I’m scared I’m going to lose you and
I’m scared of what that’s like
but I’m also scared of holding on too tight,
looking at the ruins of our lives and
knowing despite the broken pieces that I tried

I tried to keep you when you
were never mine to keep and now
shattered memories claw at me—
drag me into a hell I created all by myself,
Losing you is like losing
the air I need to breathe and I
cling to the floor at your feet and I
beg and worship on my knees

Please don’t leave me…
Dear god don’t let me drag you down,
don’t leave me yearning here while you’re off
living a better life in a better town

I found home in you,
found a place to land
And if you’re gone then take me with you,
wear my heart on your sleeve and
bring me back with you

And at the very least,
don’t let go of my shaking hands

444 (YOU’RE STILL BLUE)

Tram-Khanh Nguyen

Kie makes a point to call her A-ma with her brother Kalo whenever she gets the chance to—but with how hectic classes have been they’ve all agreed to keep it to one call every two weeks. It’s taken a bit of working around, but with Kalo’s eye for a meticulous schedule, they’ve managed to fit exactly one call every two weeks into all three of their schedules. The time varies, but it somehow always lands when they’re all available to talk.

And maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the wave of heartbreak so overwhelming she’s clutching at her chest, but Kie might have forgotten that 2:37 in the morning on a Tuesday is not one of those times.

Still, her A-ma picks up.

“Kie?”

And oh, the static of her voice is so sweet and familiar and unknowing that hearing it only serves to bring fresh tears to Kie’s eyes.

“A-ma—” Kie starts, voice hitching from how violently her hiccups jerk her body, “I—I—…A-ma—”

“Baby,” her A-ma murmurs, and there’s a rustling on the other end of the line; fabric, most likely a blanket being pushed aside. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Kie likes to think she is a good child. She puts every modicum of effort she can summon into making sure her A-ma doesn’t have to worry about her—from patching up her own knee scrapes and memorizing which steps creaked along the pathway from her room to the medicine cabinet, to filling out all of her college applications alone and booking her own flight all the way across the country so Ama wouldn’t have to worry about taking care of it for her; she does all she can to make sure her A-ma does not have to waste more concern on her than she already does.

A-ma was always a bit more worried about Kalo anyway. Why would Kie want to give her A-ma someone else to constantly worry about the way she does with Kalo, even now that he’s grown up and a little more independent? How could she ever hope to be so presumptuous as to think her A-ma would take on that kind of responsibility without some kind of consequence?

How could she even dare to put that much more on her shoulders?

How could anyone?

…

But then again, these are outstanding circumstances. Unavoidable circumstances. The kind that would make someone call their mom at two in the morning just to cry about it.

And Kie, for all of her cautiousness and self-reliance, knows that A-ma understands those kinds of circumstances better than anyone.

Kie likes to think she is a good child.

Maybe this whole time she’s been thinking wrong.

Because the way she lets a sob, unrestrained, gurgle from her throat and directly into the speaker of her phone as her body heaves over like the weight of the world is pressing down on her back—that is not something a good child would do.

“No, A-ma,” she wails, fingers digging creases into a sticky note covered in scribbled scars—a memento, a tribute to what she’d lost not moments before, “it’s—I’m not okay.”

A-ma is a good mom though.

And maybe, for once, Kie can let herself be selfish enough to be grateful for that.

(It’s not like she has much of a choice right now anyway.)

“Kie, honey,” A-ma says, kind but firm in a way that brings her a couple inches back to reality—not quite, but it’s there nonetheless and she knows it. “Talk to me, okay? What happened? Are you hurt, or—?”

“I—” A loud hiccup pierces through her sentence. Still, she claws away at the lump in her throat until it’s cleared enough for her to weep, “M—my boyfriend broke up with me. Five minutes ago.”

“Oh, Kie,” A-ma mumbles, her voice laden with the kind of sympathy only a mother could muster. “I’m so sorry, baby—what happened? Did he just leave, or—?”

“He called.” Another hiccup, quieter this time. “I told him whatever he wanted to say, he could just say it over the phone.”

There’s a long pause—too long. “I shouldn’t have—but it…it would have hurt more if I had to look at him while he said it.”

Of course, it would have hurt more. How could she have looked Elio—sweet, loving, caring Elio—in the face and listened to him say those words and pretended it was okay?

It would have been impossible.

“I can’t stay, Kie.”

“I know.”

“…I’ll call you. I promise.”

“I know.”

She had not known. Still, foolishly, selfishly—she had chosen to believe.

(Again, it wasn’t like she’d had much of a choice.)

A-ma is quiet. She knows Kie has more to say—how she knows, she’ll never understand. But she takes the opportunity to speak while it’s there; even if she’s barely getting the words out.

Her voice comes out meek—embarrassingly so. “A-ma, will…will it be okay?”

She knows the answer.

She knows what A-ma tells her won’t be true.

She listens anyway.

“Of course, baby.”

And maybe that should have been enough.

Maybe she should have believed A-ma, then—believed that by some force of pure luck, by the sheer willpower that had carried her this far, it would somehow be okay. She would somehow be okay. It hurts now, hurts in a way she cannot hope to explain—but in her mind she knows that this hurt won’t last forever.

(Maybe she’d thought wrong about that too.)

“I don’t want to—” Kie starts, voice thick with unshed tears. By some miracle, with nails threatening to tear through soft sleeves and tear tracks bleeding into the corners of her mouth, she finds it in herself to continue. “I don’t want to miss him, A-ma. I—I loved him. I loved him so much and it wasn’t enough.”

A-ma hasn’t stopped whispering her comforts, voice a crackle through the tinny speakers of the phone. It soothes her, the way her A-ma’s presence always has—when she allowed it to—but the ache in her chest is making it so, so hard to breathe.

“I want to hate him,” Kie chokes out, a sob clogging up her throat again—louder, more insistent, demanding to be heard. “I want to hate him so fucking much. I—I wish I never met him!”

A-ma’s voice is tender, like a hug. “You don’t mean that, baby.”

Kie’s, in return, is tender like a bruise. “I wish I did.”

And maybe some part of her wishes she could hate Elio. Maybe some part of her wishes she could look at that stupid smile and those stupid eyes and the stupid curve of the knuckles lining his stupid fucking hands, and feel none of the staggering longing that crushes against her ribs like it’s trying to break them.

But Kie knows better than to rely on wishes.

“I thought—” she starts, mortified when her voice somehow splinters into several pieces, cramped within two little syllables. “I thought he loved me, A-ma, but—but he didn’t love me. He…he didn’t even like me.”

“He didn’t?”

“He called it off,” Kie continues, and all of a sudden, the words feel like they won’t stop no matter how much she hiccups or sobs or tries to stop talking. “He’s the one who said it wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, that love wasn’t supposed to happen—that whatever I felt for him wasn’t supposed to happen—I told him I loved him and he told me—he told me to my face that someday I’d fucking move on—”

Doing her best to halt her words there, she heaves in a breath and tries to will away the piercing ache blooming near her temples. A-ma is quiet on the other end, but she’s listening. She’s always listened.

“I—I still love him, A-ma.”

The response, this time, is immediate.

“I know you do, baby.”

“But I don’t want to feel like this.”

“I know. It hurts, doesn’t it? I can’t imagine how heartbroken you must feel right now, Kie, and I am so sorry he did this to you.”

“He told me he didn’t care what happened last year. He said he’d stay—he’d stay with me, no matter what. He— he told me he loved me.”

“I know.”

“And I—I believed him.”

“That’s not your fault, baby.”

“Then why does it hurt so badly?”

“Because you still love him, Kie. Even if he doesn’t love you the way you love him.”

Another moment of silence. It doesn’t feel nearly as reverent as moments of silence usually do.

“…will I be okay, A-ma?”

“Someday, baby. Someday.”

Maybe, she thinks, that will be enough.

(Maybe, like all the other times, she’s thinking wrong.)

“I love you, A-ma.”

“I love you too, Kie. Get some rest, okay?”

“I will. Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, baby.”

The line goes quiet. Kie kneels there next to her bed, surrounded by scattered sticky notes scrawled with at least a hundred little memories packed into the few study breaks she’d taken with him, and she does not cry because maybe if she can will away the tears, it’ll feel okay for as long as she can hold on.

(Maybe.)

TRAPPED

Anwyn Foreman

Have you ever been so restless
Where you feel your blood
boiling inside your veins,
Your clothes too tight
against your skin,
A pent-up anger
inside your muscles,
Your stomach queasy and nauseous,
Your mind a whirlwind of
emotions and thoughts,
Yet at the same time,
being too tired to care;
To cool your blood,
Or change your clothes
and stop the suffocation of your skin,
To move your muscles
and release the anger,
Or throw up
to relieve the nausea
and calm the storm inside your mind.
Being too tired
To think of something else,
something calm.
So you just sit there,
Motionless
&
Miserable?

MUNDANE HAPPINESS

Lucy Cunningham

She grew up with the belief she’d never be normal
She couldn’t become ordinary
As she’s grown older
She’s started to believe the contrary

The idea of settling down has grown on me
She’d call me lame
And she’d be right to a degree

But what she didn’t understand
Is that not everything you indulge in must put you at risk
Simple things can also bring a feeling of bliss

Her life isn’t over because now she finds joy in mundane activities
She knows now, I know now
There’ll come a day
She’ll understand the joy she’d gain from simplicity

THE DREAMING & LOVING POETS DEPARTMENT

Sophavie Rang

The dreaming & loving poets department.
The department of poets
who chase the shooting stars.
The department of poets who spread
love through words.
The department of poets who
crave fairytales & magic on Earth
through people-watching. The department
of poets who watch the world,
hoping they’ll find their true love
giving up heaven if they had to. The department
of poets who only want to
be drunk-dazed off of love
& would give anything to be.
The department of poets who would gladly
get lost in a love maze
& dance the night away.
The department of lovesick poets who want
to be admired like how people
watch the cherry blossoms fall. The tired department
of poets who want
a love so criminal
they’d break all the rules.
The department of dreaming poets who love, love.

IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

Little Breeze

COVID-19 had a catastrophic impact on the world—not a single person on the planet was spared. Due to the pandemic, I hadn’t visited my hometown, Hong Kong, for more than four years. The quarantine policy implemented by the Hong Kong government would end in March 2023, which meant I could finally plan to make a trip to my hometown. The moment the plane took off, I was expectant but felt inexplicably worried that the plane would take me to an unknown destination. Thanks to technology, although I could not touch my family and friends, I could at least see and talk to them virtually. But would they look differently in person?

It was around 3 pm when I got through customs. There were far fewer people waiting at the arrival hall than when I arrived in Hong Kong in the past. Every time I push my luggage out, I always feel that I don’t know where to look as if lots of eyes are like spotlights shining towards me. In addition to looking at the road ahead, I would also occasionally glance at the people waiting outside and I would keep my gaze blank and try not to make eye contact with strangers. This time, I scanned the crowd as usual, but I knew I was expecting no one.

My brother used to pick me up on every trip to Hong Kong, but this time was an exception. His supervisor didn’t approve his time-off request, although my brother thought that picking up his only sibling at the airport was one of the most legitimate reasons. No problem. Hong Kong is my hometown. I could navigate myself.

As soon as I connected my eSIM, an unanswered voice call popped up on my phone. It was from my brother Frankie. I knew it. I instantly texted him to see if it was convenient to speak with him and I saw it show “typing.” I couldn’t wait and called him back right away.

“Hi bro, I just arrived!” I said with excitement and cheerfulness.

“Welcome back, sis!” his voice also sounded joyful.

We chatted briefly and agreed to have dinner later that night.

One of the most important things to do at the airport was re-activating my Octopus transportation card. From a distance, I estimated about a dozen people were queuing up and only two service counters were open. It might take some time, I guessed. Since it looked like these were the only service counters, I decided to wait in line. After a while, a “Not in Service” sign was put up on one of the counters. A clerk walked out from behind the counter and left without looking back, turning a blind eye to the ever-lengthening line. Although moving forward slowly, I was comforted by people showing great patience and being rule-abiding. I’ve always liked to keep a distance from others. If someone behind me gets too close to me, I’d see if I can move forward a bit. Behind me, there were two women and one man. Judging by their voices, they were in their twenties. In Mandarin, they were talking about having visited Shenzhen and how to spend their next few days in Hong Kong.

The man said, “The food in Shenzhen is cheaper than that in Hong Kong.”

One of the women agreed and began to complain, “The service level in Hong Kong is not very good. You see, there’s still only one counter serving.”

It was my turn at this time and their voices faded out. I had a glimpse of them when I was done and passed them.

The hotel I often stayed at is near Frankie’s home. I wasn’t sure if it was because of summer vacation, but the hotel was fully booked. Summer vacation is the peak travel season, so air tickets are more expensive. I’d naturally want to save some money when considering booking a hotel. The one I finally booked was not a regular hotel, but I’d call it a B&B. The photos and reviews were pretty good. Their price was not bad in Tsim Sha Tsui for a tourist area.

Hong Kong’s transportation network extends in all directions. I got on a bus from the terminal to my destination. It started to drizzle. My body swayed with the movements of the bus. I kept a close eye on the display showing the station for fear that if I didn’t pay attention I would miss my stop. It took me just a couple of minutes to walk from the bus stop to the B&B. Looking at the tiny entrance, I hesitated for a bit and asked myself doubtfully, “Here?” Finally, I pushed my luggage in.

A man wearing glasses, with medium height and slightly podgy, said hello to me. From the clothes he was wearing, it was not difficult to guess that he was the security guard. I smiled and greeted him back, and then walked straight into the short and rather narrow passage leading to a lift. There were three lifts; the middle one had a “Maintenance” sign in front of it. The one on the left stopped at odd-numbered floors and the one on the right stopped at even-numbered floors. I walked towards the left side.

While I waited quietly for the lift, unexpectedly, the security guard spoke to me again. “Which floor are you going to?” he asked.

“First floor,” I replied with a smile.

He continued and asked a question that I found incomprehensible. He said, “Which province are you from on the mainland?”

I paused for a few seconds, trying to figure out what his intention was, and asked, “Why?”

The security guard explained to me that many people were coming from the mainland these days so he was curious where I was from.

Comprehending, I kept smiling and raised my voice a bit, “I was born in Hong Kong. I live in America and am back to visit my family and friends.” I was glad the lift came at the right time and saved me.

I looked at my phone and calculated that there were still two hours before I would meet Frankie. I decided to go to a nearby supermarket, which was within a five-minute walking distance. When I got downstairs, the security guard was away and I breathed a sigh of relief. The supermarket was quite small, but it had all the essentials. Tsim Sha Tsui was really a tourist area. The already-packed aisles of the supermarket had become blocked. My desire to shop was greatly reduced. I hurriedly picked up some necessities and went to pay. Keeping a distance from people seemed impracticable. With almost no gap in between, I stayed motionless like a statue until the person in front of me moved. The people in line in front and behind me all spoke Mandarin. When a Cantonese-speaking shopkeeper spoke to me in Mandarin, I responded in my authentic Cantonese without delay. Cantonese is Hong Kong people’s native language. As I left, I frowned and muttered to myself, “Is Cantonese dying out in Hong Kong?”

It was almost time to meet Frankie. From the B&B to the restaurant, many streets and alleys crisscrossed. Commercial buildings, malls, shops, restaurants, food stalls, and bars were clumped together. Everywhere was jam-packed with people standing, walking, or rushing. The noise of crowds and cars made the already simmering environment bubble. I weaved through the crowd and tried not to make physical contact with others.

Google Maps showed that it was about a seven-minute walk to the restaurant, but I walked around and couldn’t find it. Frankie called me and asked about where I was and I kept looking at the buildings along the way and told him. Sigh, I don’t think my disorientation will be cured in my lifetime. Eventually, I was there with my body drenched and my forehead covered with beads of sweat. Frankie was sitting outside the restaurant and looking down at his phone. I came close to him with my shadow darkening his face. When he raised his head and saw me, he immediately stood up with a big smile. He then walked directly to the front desk and notified a receptionist. After a while, a server took us to our seats. The restaurant seemed to be doing well, with no empty seats at around 7 pm. Not long after we ordered, the table was full of dishes. Although Frankie and I often texted, we still had a lot to talk about when we met in person.

Frankie took a sip of beer and said, “Recently, many of my friends have moved overseas. I can’t remember how many farewell parties I went to.”

I was lost for words and lost in thought.

In 2019, a large-scale social movement took place in Hong Kong, dividing many people into pro-democracy and pro-establishment. If you are pro-democracy, you are called a “yellow ribbon.” If you support the other side, you are known as a “blue ribbon.” An unfriending craze raged on, with supporters of both sides criticizing each other on social media. Since I am a social media abstainer, I only found out who was quarreling with whom from my friends. After the National Security Law was passed on June 30, 2020, Hong Kong began a new wave of emigration. Since Hong Kong was a British colony before it was returned to China in 1997, many Hong Kong people chose to move to the United Kingdom on their British National (Overseas) passport.

I have close-knit church friends that I would meet every time I visited Hong Kong. I responded resignedly, “My church mentor and her husband won’t be able to join us this time as her whole family relocated to the UK two years ago. I don’t know when we can meet again.”

After dinner, Frankie escorted me back to the B&B. We continued to talk while walking. I suddenly felt worried about meeting him soon.

Frankie said, “So, do you still want to meet him?”

I said, “Of course, I must see him.”

Soon we arrived at the entrance to the B&B. Frankie sized up the dilapidated building and asked in disbelief, “Is it safe?”

I assured him and said, “I think it should be safe.”

To not damage friendships in my circle of friends, we would avoid talking about taking sides. Kimberly and I were classmates in middle and high school. It was me who brought her to my church. We were so close that people always regarded us as twins. Kimberly and I didn’t talk about the politics of Hong Kong as if the string could be severed if not handled properly.

At a restaurant, Kimberly, together with Christine and Ben, two other classmates of ours, and Mrs. Chan, who taught us Chinese literature in high school, had a gathering with me. Strangely enough, these four, all living in Hong Kong, would not meet unless I was back.

Ben asked Kimberly, “Do you still work in the law firm?”

Kimberly responded, “No, I didn’t work there for quite some time.” She continued with some emotions, “Those lawyers are all ‘yellow ribbons!’” She then turned to me and said, “One of Sam Hui’s songs says, ‘Move to a foreign country and live as a second-class citizen!’” Sam Hui is a famous singer in Hong Kong.

I was the only one who didn’t live in Hong Kong, so I usually didn’t want to express my opinion about the city’s politics. But since Kimberly had opened fire on me, not to be outdone I retorted to her, “It’s just a song, and where is Sam Hui now? Didn’t he and his family move to Canada in the ’90s?” The lyrics have long been propaganda and they more or less work on some people.

Christine joined in a plain tone, “How do you know Mandarin speakers won’t treat Cantonese speakers as second-class citizens in the future?”

Food was served at this time and ended that topic.

Hong Kong’s summer stretches from June to September; the average highest temperature is almost always 85°F or above. Outdoor air is humid. The glaring sunlight shines directly onto the ground and there are never fewer people holding umbrellas than on rainy days. The whole place is like a food steamer, with steam rising from everyone’s head and sweat droplets rolling down their faces. The intense sunlight provides endless energy that one doesn’t need to worry about running out. It seems like if a person stands in the street for just a minute, they’d melt.

I met my church friend, Katie, at the MTR station in Tsim Sha Tsui and we walked together to our destination for karaoke. Tsim Sha Tsui East is a commercial district. It’s always full of office workers during weekdays, but at 1:30 pm on a weekend it’s rare to see a person walking out and about. The map showed that it was about a ten-minute walk. To reduce the production of sweat, both of us walked very slowly.

We finally arrived at the building. Our swollen bodies, caused by the sunlight, shrank back to their original appearance through the rinse of air conditioning. The elevator reached the third floor. As soon as the door opened, dim light filled the entire place and your wrinkles were gone. After walking a few steps, we reached a long counter with a wine cabinet on the wall. The wine bottles reflected different colors of light. We approached one of the receptionists and waited for a while. Another church friend, Ian, also arrived. A server led the way.

When the three of us were about to enter the room, we were interrupted by a man’s voice in the opposite room. This man didn’t seem to be here to sing but to outpour the pressure he had saved up for years. His voice was so terrible that all three of us couldn’t help laughing.

The server concluded with a smile, “He must be very stressed.”

Whenever our door was opened, we could hear him singing at the top of his lungs without any indication of stopping. I thought about all the political and economic changes Hong Kong people have endured in recent years and I believed I understood why this man needed an outlet to vent his pressure like this. Around thirty minutes later, Kimberly came in.

Three hours passed so quickly. It was about 5 pm when we left the building. Although it was still hot, the sun was on its way to get off work, so we didn’t feel as uncomfortable as earlier.

Every time I go to karaoke in Hong Kong, I go with Kimberly. In a room with only her and me, we sing, chat, and have a short but wonderful time together. This time, Katie asked to join us with Ian so the established routine of only two of us was changed. There wouldn’t be another chance to be alone with Kimberly for the rest of my stay. While Ian and Kimberly walked side by side in the front, Katie and I were constantly interrupted by the passing crowd and lagged far behind. Many passers-by conversed in Mandarin. I couldn’t tell if they were tourists or residents. When Katie and I arrived at the MTR, Ian and Kimberly were almost about to go through the gate. I quickened my pace, drew near to Kimberly, and hugged her goodbye.

The day I was most worried about during this trip finally came. I had ants in my pants when I’d be meeting him tonight. I tried to resolve it by wandering in a shopping mall nearby in the afternoon at the expense of other more meaningful activities. Since he and I had a big argument during a trip to Taiwan in 2018, we haven’t been in touch. Although there was time that we could get along, the two of us were always like volatile chemicals which would explode instantly if there was a small spark. Anyway, I still had to face it myself. When I was about to leave for dinner, Frankie texted me saying that he could go with me so we met at the MTR. Carriages were stuffed with people who just got off from work. Frankie and I were packed like sardines. My uneasiness accelerated as the train moved forward, partly because of my immobility, but mostly because of my uncertainty.

I told Frankie I didn’t know what would happen next.

He laughed and said, “You can give him a hug.”

I immediately protested with my voice raised, “No way, I won’t do that!”

A table was booked at a restaurant near Frankie’s home. Once we got there, my feet felt bound by weights, making it difficult for me to take a step forward. I followed Frankie and tried to hide behind him. When he was within sight, Frankie called, “Dad!”

He looked up.

When I showed up in front of him, he appeared puzzled. I was dumbfounded by what I saw. It had just been several years; how could he have lost so much weight and become so frail? His scrawny appearance made my eyes red. I couldn’t help but rush to his side, call him, and put my arms around him with my tears flooding like a river bursting its banks.

Frankie’s eyes turned red too when he witnessed this.

Dad stretched out his hand on my arm, but said with a sarcastic tone, “Stop pretending.”

I replied disappointedly, “Why do you have to say I am pretending when I am not?”

Dad was not informed of this arrangement. If he had been, I was afraid that we might not be able to meet. Frankie and I had agreed if he refused to take pictures, we wouldn’t force him. While twitching, I walked over, sat with other relatives, and didn’t speak to Dad again. Halfway through, Dad said he wanted to go home. He held on and sat down on the wheelchair next to him, letting the domestic helper push him home. Their backs were getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared in the hallway.

Dad is a good and responsible person who takes care of the family. I think maybe he was not lucky enough to have a more obedient daughter, but I wonder if obeying or not would make any difference. What can one get to be born into a traditional Chinese family that favors a son? This is often the root of our conflict. He doesn’t admit it, though. Don’t get me wrong. Dad provided for my needs, but is it enough? Am I greedy? I can’t stand his unfair treatment. Mom once told me that Dad complimented my beautiful Chinese handwriting. I was thrilled yet unbelieving as Dad never praised me. My life would be miserable if Frankie bullied me. Luckily, fate didn’t play tricks on me. Frankie and I have only a one-year age gap and we both have a lot of common interests. He has been trying to make peace between us, but the ingrained mindset is like a boulder that is difficult to move.

On one occasion, Frankie told me about meeting with a counselor for personal growth in one of the sessions at a Christian camp. When Frankie recalled the past, he asked the counselor if it would have made my life easier without him being born. I told Frankie that there was no “if” in life and it was not his fault. When I gained more life experiences, I could understand Dad more but it didn’t mean I would accept it. Regrets are inevitable in life, but I was thankful that I didn’t add another.

It was about 5:30 am. I had a quick scout around the B&B room, ensuring everything I wanted to go with me wouldn’t be left behind. I put the keycard on the table and opened the door discreetly. On the way to the bus stop across the street from the B&B, the only sound I heard along the way was from my luggage wheels. A temporary chill in the early morning made me feel refreshed. While waiting for an airport bus, I fixed my eyes on the building where the B&B was located, realizing I had not taken a good look at it during my stay. The sky was so inky that the building looked even grayer. For a moment, what I saw and heard on this trip was projected onto the building like a beam of light. I was entranced by the spectacle, but the airport bus brought me back to my senses, reminding me that it was time to go. Many seats were unoccupied and I sat in the back after securing my luggage. Apart from the bus engines, stop announcements, and people getting on and scanning their Octopus, most people were dozing off. I looked out the window, greedily trying to capture more scenery to fill my eyes, but whenever I wanted to take a picture I missed chances again and again. I looked back and saw those sceneries transform into countless little dots, which vanished at light speed in the end. The hour-long drive was wrapped up before I knew it. Sun rays thrust through gaps in clouds. The sun was well prepared to awaken the sleepers. The airport was getting nearer and nearer and my hometown—was getting farther and farther.

ODE TO NORTHPORT

Lucas Brothers

In late summer Northport breathed slowly,
hotly heaving,
as if she was winded.

But in midsummer she was lively,
as if some hurried holiday
called her children
to creeks,
to forests.

It is there that I found her city-life,
not in her narrow streets,
nor empty churches,
not on her browning lawns,
nor living rooms,
but beyond.

Up the road and across the hills
she called to me and mine.
She bade us drink from her springs
and to fish her trout,
to hike to where her grass was still green
and where her flowers still grew
out of the ashes we had spread there.

WILDFIRES AND FLOWERS

Regan Richards

I roll over and throw up. I’m drenched in sweat. Every muscle in my body contracts and relaxes, everything burns.

I roll onto my back, away from the vomit. The sun is beating down on me. I’m lying on my driveway. What the fuck. My mouth is dry as dirt. Nausea still pulls at the insides of my stomach. It feels like waking up after a deep nap, that familiar disorientation and exhaustion slowing my joints. I choke on imaginary smoke, clogging my lungs. The scars all up and down my body feel like they’ve been ignited, hot-red-coals pressed into my skin. I take a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs.

I push myself to my feet and the world gently tilts underneath me. My heart races so loud that I can feel my pulse in my ears. I turn to look at the house. The door is wide open and I can see the chickens pecking around inside.

“Goddamnit,” I mutter.

I stagger into the house, shooing the birds outside. I make my way to the bedroom. The sheets are pulled and twisted off the bed, limp on the floor like wilted plants. The window is open—I’m fairly certain I had shut it last night. I find my phone on the nightstand—three missed alarms and four missed calls. Fuck.

Takes half an hour to get the chickens back outside and to get the mess they made cleaned up. Takes another half hour to get myself clean. I half expect the water to steam when it hits my body, I still feel so hot. My fingers bump and slide over my skin as I rub lotion into it. I can still taste smoke—just a little—as I get into my truck.

Aunt April is pissed when I get to her place. I apologize for being so late and say that I slept in. She makes all sorts of comments about laziness as I help her into the truck. Nevermind that I’ve been on time every single morning since I moved out. One mistake and it’s straight to the doghouse. Most of the time it feels like I only ever moved out in the physical sense.

The drive into town isn’t far, which is good, because every moment sitting next to her stewing seems to raise the temperature by about five degrees. I roll down the window and she snaps that it’s still too early in the year for it. I ignore her. Sun’s out, anyway, and the last snow melted weeks ago.

I park in front of the library and go round to help her out. She hands me her lunch and I lend her my arm until we get through the door. I head to the break room, opening the little fridge they have back there. The cool air feels like heaven against my face and I lean inside a little, letting it caress my skin.

Someone walks with quick, light footsteps behind me, and I glance over to see Oliver. He pulls a tissue from a box and wipes his glasses.

“Did you hear about the wildfire last night?” he asks, without looking over.

I remember the smoke. I could’ve sworn that I imagined that. It explains a lot, anyway.

He looks at me, and I clear my throat. “I didn’t.” My voice rasps. I cringe.

“You were late,” he says softly, airily, focusing on his glasses again. “I almost wanted to call 911. It’s unlike you two.”

“Nobody says ‘unlike’ out loud anymore,” I mumble. My fingers travel the bumps and valleys on my cheek. For a moment I smell smoke again and my hands twitch suddenly. I shove them into my jean pockets. Oliver is putting his glasses back on, politely ignoring, or innocently unaware, of whatever I just did.

“You look terrible,” he says offhandedly. “Bailey, you should take better care of yourself.” Then he and his carefully ironed shirt walk back out of the room. I chew my tongue between my molars and follow, my crappy boots clomping on the floor behind him as I leave.

At four thirty I drive back into town to pick April up again. She and Oliver are waiting outside. I help her up into the car while he loads bags of groceries into the backseat.

“They didn’t have half the things on your list,” Oliver says. “I hope she isn’t too picky about which detergent to use.”

I shut the door for him and lean against the truck. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You say that a lot.”

I shrug at him, then pull my wallet out and hand him some bills. “Thanks for helping us out with this.”

“It’s nothing,” he says quietly. “Get some good sleep tonight.” A switch flips and he gives me a sharp once-over. “God knows you need it,” he says before walking to his own car. I stand and watch him, trying to think of a witty retort. Nothing comes to mind so I scoff and walk around to get into the truck.

“You’re wasting your time on him,” April grumbles as I pull out of the parking lot. I look at Oliver, climbing into his car with the grace of a professional dancer, dressed like he works in a high rise somewhere instead of a library in the middle of nowhere. I look down at my own clothes: a ratty old plaid thing, loose and battered jeans, and scuffed boots. I look over at April.

She snorts. “You’re too… and he’s…” She looks out the window while I wonder what she thinks Oliver and I are.

I think about Oliver and his face, his soft eyelashes that fan against his cheeks when he drinks coffee, or that nose wrinkle that he does when I say something that offends his delicate sensibilities. I can’t name a single part of him that would be a waste of time.

When we get to April’s, I bring the groceries in and she unpacks them. I stick some food in the microwave and she takes certain things and places them at the bottom of the stairs for me to carry up later.

I can’t move I can’t hear I can’t breathe. It’s all so fucking hot. Smoke fills my lungs and I can’t breathe, in or out; I want to scream. It burns. It burns.

I wake up gasping, trying to displace the smoke in my lungs. I roll over and choke and spit onto the grass.

I look up, pressing a hand to my raw throat. I’m behind the house this time. I pant. My heart races; I’m aware of every blood vessel in my body. It still feels like flames are licking my skin.

I lay there. I can’t bring myself to move. Everything hurts and I just… I can’t.

“Fuck,” I creak, breaking into a coughing fit. Fuck.

April is pissed at me again. My voice is too far gone for me to have a chance to explain what happened. Overnight she came up with a rant about Oliver (how he takes so long to sort things because he makes sure books are lined up perfectly straight) and she delivers it with the enthusiasm of a preacher. She’s so two-faced, depending on him for things like grocery shopping and then turning around and tearing him to shreds about things that don’t matter. It singes a little. I just know she does the same when I’m not around.

Oliver comes into the break room with me again. He hisses softly. “Bailey, you really look terrible,” he says, not bothering with any formalities. “You need to take care of yourself.” He slowly slides his hand across the counter towards mine, but he stops before our fingers meet. My breath catches in my throat and I meet his eyes. “April always talks about how much she depends on you.”

I wince at his mention of her. “Never to my face,” I whisper. I close my eyes.

Oliver moves closer, lowering his voice. “You’re needed,” he murmurs. “You’re not okay—”

I draw my hand away and open my eyes. “Does it matter?!” drawing my hand away. I swallow a sob. He’s glaring at me, his eyes welling up. “Sometimes something isn’t worth fixing.”

“Sometimes you have to try.” He walks past me and straight out of the break room. I clench my shaking hand into a fist and try to slow down my breathing. Our hands had been so close.

I drive straight home, crawl under the covers, and fall asleep almost immediately.

Oliver runs just a few yards in front of me over rolling hills, the grass draped across them like crushed velvet. Wildflowers reach our knees but they don’t slow us down. He looks over his shoulder and the smile on his face stretches from ear to ear. He looks forward again and speeds up, always barely out of my reach.

I wake up in a cold sweat, sick and disoriented again. I check my phone but it’s only midday. I lay there and let my breath come slowly. I feel like I’m nine years old again, my skin still wrapped in bandages. April had held the phone to my ear while the officer on the other end tried to break the news about my parents and the house in the gentlest (or, in my opinion, most roundabout) way possible. I remember her pressing the phone into my ear so hard that I wondered if the cop could hear the thoughts racing through my mind, my heartbeat thudding in my skull.

I lay still for a while longer, my scars aching in time with my heartbeat. I’d sleepwalk at night for months after the fire. I stayed in one of the rooms that had only recently been vacated by my cousins and at one point Uncle Frank threatened to lock me in. The sleepwalking stopped eventually. I kept having nightmares when I smelled smoke, whether it was wildfire smoke in the summer or wood stove smoke in the winter. It’d been years since anything had triggered it, though.

Eventually, I grumble and curse my way back into the truck to pick April up. When I see Oliver, butterflies flutter against the insides of my stomach. I remember how he had smiled at me in the dream. He doesn’t look at me, even when I try to catch his eye, which makes every butterfly curl up and die mid-flight. April doesn’t talk to me during the drive, and I don’t stay for dinner. I head home, shovel some food in my face, and then crawl back into bed.

Fire and burning and I’m screaming but it doesn’t matter. It’s so bright that I can’t see and there’s a sound so loud that I—

—wake up and there’s so much light and I fall to my hands and knees, shaking, and I look up and there’s a car. I’m in the middle of the road. It’s pitch black out and I’m in the middle of the road. The car door opens and Oliver gets out, but the car starts rolling again so he jumps back in and puts it into park. He’s yelling and tears are running down his face as he falls to his knees in front of me.

“Bailey! Bailey, are you okay? Oh my god, oh my god,” he says, he’s shaking so hard.

I grab his wrists and hold them. “It’s okay,” I say, but my voice comes out as a squeak and I don’t think he can hear me over the sound of his own breath, loud and panting. He’s panicking. I pull him to my chest, my knees and feet scrape on the asphalt but I don’t care. I hold him and he’s shaking.

“Why are you out here?” he asks.

“Sleepwalking. It’s been happening for a few days. I haven’t…” I swallow and tighten my arms around him. “I haven’t gone this far before, though.”

“We should get out of the road,” he says, pulling away and standing up. He helps me to my feet and looks me up and down, clicking his tongue. “God, you must be freezing.”

Now that he mentions it, I’m shaking too, and only partially from the nerves. I’m only dressed in my pajamas, and my feet are bare, and it’s spring but it still gets chilly as hell at night. He herds me into the passenger seat and then gets in on the other side.

“I’ll take you home, get you cleaned up,” he says. I look over at him, illuminated by the dashboard and the headlights.

“I thought you were mad at me?” I joke.

And that was a mistake, because the next thing I know, he slams on the brakes and starts full-on sobbing, crumpling forward to lean against the steering wheel. “I almost hit you with my fucking car!” he cries, sniffling, “I almost killed you, I don’t care about a fucking argument!” He coughs and shudders. “I don’t fucking care, you can go to hell, just—!” He sits up, staring out the window and catching his breath. Finally he glares at me, furiously wiping at his eyes and nose. “Bailey, I fucking care about you,” he says, so softly, so quietly, that I can barely hear him.

I tentatively reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. He breathes and breathes and eventually sits up. I move my hand back into my lap and he starts driving again.

It’s only once he parks that I realize we’re not at my house. “I’ll go inside and get you some shoes,” he says, getting out. I wait for a moment, but I’m capable of walking barefoot over a driveway so I get out and follow him inside. His house is tiny and neat. The streets are entirely silent, so it’s after ten o’clock at least. I walk inside and find him digging through a hall closet. He turns around holding a pair of fuzzy slippers, but he drops them when he sees me.

“Come on,” he says, walking over to take my hand. He pulls me through the house and I can only look at him, his clothes rumpled and messy. He stops and I look around. We’re in his bathroom. He gives me a change of clothes and steps out of the room.

I run the shower hot, but I make it quick. The worst part is the mud caked to the bottoms of my feet, but it comes off eventually.

The clothes fit a little tightly. I walk to the mirror, smoothing his shirt down and taking in the sight for a moment. The stark white light illuminates me and makes my scrubbed-raw skin stand out pink against the blue fabric and blotches of white scar tissue. I run my hands over my clean hair and feel peace and a gentle warmth settle in my stomach.

When I leave the bathroom, he’s sitting cross-legged on a sleeping bag. The bed is up against the wall. “I’m a light sleeper,” he says. I walk towards him, slowly, as though I were in a dream. “If you get up, you’ll step on me and I’ll stop you.”

But that’s moronic, so I grab his hand and pull him up onto the bed with me.

I wake up curled around him. He rests a hand on the side of my thigh and sighs.

“I’m not going into work today,” he says. “And you’re not, either. You need to rest.”

We lay quietly.

Eventually we get up, though, and I grab his hand and we get dressed—I’m in his clothes, which are still snug, but they fit. We make breakfast—a healthier one than I usually allow myself—and afterwards I lead him outside to the car. I climb in on the driver’s side and we take off, both of us quiet. I drive out of town. The closely-huddled shops and businesses turn into loosely-scattered houses. After another mile and a half, we’re out in the open farmland, rising and falling over gently rolling hills full of emerald-colored wheat. Oliver looks over at me from time to time. It’s silent, but it feels peaceful, not awkward.

It’s not long before we’re in the woods beyond the farmland, driving roads I haven’t been on since I was a child. I turn onto the tree-lined driveway that leads to the house my parents lived in. Nothing seems to have changed, though everything looks so much smaller than I remember. But as we reach the end, I can see the clearing that the house sat in, and there’s no picturesque two-story house sitting in the center. It’s only a charred husk, the remnants of the house my parents died in.

Oliver sucks in a breath when we see it. “Oh…”

I put the car in park. My hands are already shaking. I can feel the white-hot pain. My chest tightens and I can feel the smoke roiling within my lungs. My stomach flips and I press one hand to my mouth. Oliver leans over and takes my other hand. He looks at me intently.

I close my eyes. “You’re right,” I say quietly, carefully squeezing his hand. “You’re right. I…” my voice breaks. He doesn’t say anything.

I open my eyes, unbuckle my seatbelt, and get out of the car. It’s just charcoal. I sniffle. The clearing itself looks like it has recovered, but I can see where the fire had spread out and caught the nearby trees. They’re black against the bright green leaves of those that escaped the flames.

Oliver joins me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I lean against him. The clearing is full of bright, vibrant wildflowers and tall grass, contrasted sharply against the dead, bare trees; something living where I had only remembered death and pain.

NIGHT OWL

Phoenix Fong

“Stop! You’re going to fall!” I shouted at the young woman in front of me. I tried to run towards her to pull her back to safety, but each stride sunk heavier into the rocks on the rugged terrain of Mt. Fuji.

“Come baaaack!” I continued to screech.

With a 180-degree rotation of only her head, she revealed a pale white face with black streaks originating from her bold eyes. Blinking twice, she quickly returned her face back towards the darkening sky. Only the crescent luminance cut through the sea of blackness that was beginning to embrace us. I could feel the cold draft upon my forehead as I pulled closer to her. Up this high, all I could hear was the wind’s constant humming and flapping. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t responding. Maybe she couldn’t hear me. But she obviously was not aware of how dangerously close to the edge she was perched. I heard a sudden rumble and felt the ground shaking beneath me. I reached out to her hand, but I was too late. With her arms spread horizontally in a perfect wingspan, she swooped off the edge. My heart raced faster than the caw could escape my mouth as I too began to sharply drop when the ground gave way. Both my upper extremities clawed above towards the night.

As my breathing paced faster, I heard an overhead “ding.” My eyes blinked to get rid of the blurriness.

“This is your captain speaking. We are experiencing a bit of turbulence so this is a reminder to remain seated with your seatbelts fastened.”
Still groggy, I reached over my waistline to check the buckle and tapped the touchscreen in front of me. There was an hour left until we landed in Tokyo. I adjusted the cold air fan above and swung my head left to right, puzzled by the most surreal and vivid dream. There is a saying in Japan that if you cannot fall asleep, then you are awake in someone else’s dream. So, who was awake in my dream?

Four weeks ago, we embarked on a journey to Southeast Asia for a family funeral and memorial in Laos. Three weeks were dedicated to pecking at every single detail in preparation of materials and food needed for the series of ceremonies. Canary yellow elongated thin candles were cut to match the wingspan of each family member. It adorned the banana leaf altar that was also feathered with multiple strands of braided white strings. Lighting these candles and Jasmine incense was believed to open a portal to help our deceased family member transport into the spirit world safely. The fourth week was dedicated to chanting prayers while securing the braided white strings onto our wrists like friendship bracelets. Mom reassured us this is always done whenever family members are bound for a long trip to bless them with a safe journey home.

As a reprieve from grief, Mom decided that we could conclude our trip with a week in Japan before heading home. All of us siblings agreed it would provide a much smoother transition between climates. It would allow us to adjust from the roasting tropical heat of Laos to Japan’s crisp air before returning to the nips of frost back home in Washington. Lacking climate adjustment experience, unlike other members of our flock, we didn’t have the opportunity to migrate south annually every winter. My sister Raya and I were exceptionally excited to go to Japan. We each compiled a long list of things we wanted to do and places we wanted to see and then rearranged them in order of priority. The magic trick to pulling this bird out of thin air was fitting all the listed activities into one week.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now descending into Tokyo. Our current local time is 10:10 pm. All unseated passengers must return to their seats,” blared overhead from our Captain.

I peered out my window, mesmerized by the darkness. My heart fluttered with the arriving glimpse of an island of spotted lights.

“Flight attendants, prepare for landing. Cabin crew, please take your seat for landing.”

As the plane eased downward, I could feel my stomach rise into my throat. The balloon in my head continued to inflate while trying to escape my ear canals. And just as the sound of the wheels colliding with the pavement vibrated into my body, I could hear the balloon pop. Thrilled and eager to deboard, I nudged Raya. “We’re here!”

Emerging from the plane’s shell, we were tired, stumbling hatchlings. We circled our way around to find our luggage and hopped into our taxi. While my siblings resumed dozing off late in the evening, I was wide-eyed and absorbed in all the lights. Like a bat entering a cave, we soon closed in on the Yamate Tunnel. I tapped my siblings, “You guys it’s a tunnel, hurry, hold your breath! Or die young!” Undisturbed, they were dead asleep. But not me. I took a deep breath in through my nose, filling my belly full. Crossing my fingers, I struggled to contain myself. The dark tunnel seemed so endless. I began to lean side-to-side as my vision seemed to fade into that tunnel. Bewildered with the time that had passed underground, my stomach finally caved in and my lips forced out an exasperated breath. So much for living long, I sarcastically thought. Fifteen minutes passed and we were still underground in the tunnel. A little over eleven miles and we finally emerged into another darkness, the night. Hindsight, had I successfully held my breath the whole eleven miles, I may have stayed underground.

The roads began to narrow into alleys as we neared our rented apartment. My parents thanked our driver, “Arigato!”

Waddling in with our luggage into our temporary abode, we were rushed by Mom to get to bed. “We have an early day tomorrow. Make sure you get some good sleep.” And off we went to our nest to rest.

Raya and my brother Raylan had no trouble returning to their snooze. I, on the other hand, lay wide awake scanning the shadows that faded into the ceiling. All was dead silent, but the spirit of the night was alive and so was I for now. Awaiting my moment to sleep, I counted sheep, awake in someone else’s dream.

“Shhhh…follow me.”

My eyes opened to the sound of a childly whisper. Greeted by an unfamiliar young girl, she held her hand back behind her as if to catch hold of mine as she led the way through the dense bamboo forest. I could hear and feel the breeze that swayed the bamboo.

“Who are you? Where are we going?” I inquired.

Ignoring my question with a giggle, she chirped “We’re almost there!” She continued to glide onto a series of thin jagged slabs of stones, hopping with one foot, then both feet, then one foot, and then both feet. Without turning back to reveal her face, she guided my next step. “You must do it like this, one foot and two feet and one foot and two feet.”

As I landed on my two feet, I encountered a stone candle lamp.

“They will need you to light the way in the dark.” The young girl exclaimed as she turned around in one pivot, her face pale white with black streaks originating from her dark black eyes. I could see her mouth begin to move as if warning me of something impending, but all I could hear was an increasing steam whistle screeching higher and higher.

“The water is hot!” Mom piped as she moved the kettle off the burner. “We need to catch the train, we’re going to Hakone today.”

“Ha-Ko-Nay?” I uttered inquisitively.

“Yes, we have quite the journey today to get to the hot springs bathhouse in Hakone. First, we’re going on the old train for an hour to catch the red train then get on the switchback train. After that we need to get on the gondola that carries us over the Owakudani Volcano and we’ll catch the ship to cross Ashi Lake.”

The words zipped out of her mouth. My head was spinning and my body was not fully awake as everyone else around seemed to flutter and float by with energy.

“Red or black?” Raya asked, pointing to her swimsuits.

Shrugging my shoulders with uncertainty, “Black?”

“I’ll just bring both just in case!” She smiled back.

Raya always carried the natural perkiness of the daylight. She enjoyed the chatter and the noise of the day’s chaos. She’s always up at first sight of sunlight. And most of her day’s work is done before the afternoon. Raya had her lists, her planner, her checklists, and her backup plans. She was a responsible, ambitious early bird. Never scared to take on the day.

Not me.

I’m not that brave. I thrived in the dark, quiet and serene, where my pulsating heart rate could slow to a pause in a bout of deep breathing. Sure, I had my ambitions. But they were not easily visible to the average eye. My sense of responsibility was hidden within organized chaos. Only I knew where to find each specific document within a stack of messy jumbled papers. My productivity only soared in the dark hours.

We made our way out into the alley and crossed the train tracks towards the main station. Looking for our boarding gate, we passed by several bullet trains. The bullet trains could clock a speed faster than the average bird’s flight. At 200 miles per hour, the bullet train’s closest competition is a diving falcon. I was very happy taking the old car train. It carried a personality of a lifetime. It offered an efficient slower pace to take in the scenery and life outside the train windows, unlike the bullet train where life seems to pass by in a blip.

Everything seemed fine until we arrived to board the gondolas. I was becoming filled with hesitation as the smell of sulfur from the volcano overwhelmed my nostrils. Reaching for assurance, I clasped my mom’s side. “Mom, you’re sure no one’s ever fallen off this ride into the volcano, right?”

She looked at me softly, “Not that I know of. But stop worrying!”

We ascended higher, rocking side-to-side like a cradle. I tried to remain calm and look outside the window, but the higher we rose, the more my pulse and breathing accelerated. I squinted my eyes shut and clenched my fists, praying in silence that this wouldn’t be the moment I died. My mind raced, hoping it would speed the ride to end faster.

Please don’t let me die. I haven’t lived yet. There’s no way my life is going to end from plummeting into a rotten-egg-smelling pool of lava.

The gondola suddenly jerked back and halted. With my eyelids still forsaking any daylight to penetrate, I anticipated a sharp drop. To my surprise, I heard Raya giggling.

“Open your eyes Phoenix. It’s time to get off.”

My face was flushed red partly from the panic, but mostly from the embarrassment.

We flocked towards a red rectangular arch that was supported by a square cement platform hidden under a layer of the lake. Raya made sure we knew it was called a Torii. “Did you know the Torii is a portal to the spirit world?” she continued to educate us.

Mom wanted to walk onto the platform and take pictures to commemorate the moment. As I hopped onto the cobblestone path entering the water, I froze in place staring into the dark lake water that revealed a reflection of my pale white face. Everyone continued on the next ten feet or so to reach the arch platform, while I continued to brood only on the first step.

“Are you coming?” Mom called out to me.

“I can’t do it! What if I fall into the water and drown?”

I could hear my siblings “bawking,” teasing me not to be a chicken.

Mom returned back to escort me across the path, our claws intertwined the whole time. A quick photo snap and I flew right back to the shore as fast as I could. Even if it was just a fable, I couldn’t take the risk of being swallowed by the lake or the spirit realm.

We continued to hike into the greenery and reach the opening to a forest. Raya opened her notebook with excitement. “Oooh did you know that there’s a place called Aokigahara Forest? People come to the forest at the mountain when they want to leave the living world.”

I was convinced Raya was doing her best to scare me.

Mom tried to hurry us along. “Keep it moving!”

The walls of bamboo became thicker and taller the further we hiked. It eventually closed off any sunlight. It felt like the night had arrived early. Mom and Raya continued a few feet ahead while little Raylan trailed behind. I stopped to let him catch up. As I turned around to the direction I thought Mom and Raya were walking, I lost sight of them.

“Mom! Raya! Which way did you go?”

No reply.

Great! We’re lost in a forest of lost souls, I thought.

“Are we lost?” Raylan whimpered.

Paused in silence, I whisked his hands into mine. “Let’s try this direction, Raylan.”

We came across the beginning of a stepping stone path. Terrified this path would be just another dead end, I quickly wiped away the onslaught of tears taking over my eyes. I can do this. I can find a way out. I tried to reassure Raylan with a distraction, “Don’t worry. We’re going to get back to Mom and Raya soon, but you need to hop and skip this path like me ok?”

We hopped and skipped. One foot. Then two feet. Then one foot. And two feet. With my phone’s flashlight lighting the path, we made our way out the shadows of the forest.

“Phoenix! Raylan! Where did you go?” a familiar but welcoming scold from none other than Mom.

The remainder of the trip flew by quickly. It was a drastic change in environment to return home. But one thing remained the same. It was late and I was wide awake. Maybe I was in someone else’s dream again. Maybe dreams are just a reflection of yourself. I never really understood the meaning of dreams. I always thought sleep was for the dead. The moment I went to sleep would mean I stopped living. But perhaps I’m not living at all if I’m just living in fear. I just need to be brave. I went to the bathroom and prepared for bed. I saw the reflection of my pale white face in the mirror as I washed away the black mascara streaks from my eyes.

“Take some melatonin! You need to get some sleep so you can get up earlier!” snarked Raya as a medium rectangular pouch of down feather flew towards my face.

I was never really the type of bird to be interested in catching the worm. To me, worms were unappealing. They lacked the flavor that could liven your senses in the midst of the night. But the early birds certainly enjoyed them. And as far as I was concerned, my Raya could keep them.

There was something about the night that resonated with me. The night was absent of the chirps and the flapping or the squawks and the quacking. When you don the brightly colored feathers like the day birds, you’re not guaranteed peace. I prefer my dark camouflage and silently flying in stealth. I’m a night bird. A night owl.

In Japan, the owl is known as the protector and bringer of luck. As my large eyes glowed from my phone and my talons tapped away on the screen, I heard the rustling of leaves from my little brother’s room as he tossed and turned in his bed. I spun my head around to hear him cry.

“Phoenix, I can’t sleep. I had a nightmare. Can you stay with me please?”

Gazing back into his tear-filled eyes I hooted, “Of course!”

I perched upon the branch of my brother’s rectangular down feathered nest. As he began to close his eyes, I whispered to him, “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

Lucky for him I’m a night owl.

14th JANUARY

Lauren Roberts

In the thick of gloom
one winter eve, I was
told my mind
oozed out of my left ear.
Plastic rhinestone jewelry I threw
out—the spoon with
her knife were not
husband and wife.
The jolly fool I ceased to
delight to become
and none were those lazy
June days with blue canoes.
I knew that joy had gone like
July burning its
calm into September ash.
My moods flashed.
Then, a silvery moon
after a day of cloud
music filled my left lung
The cuckoo’s cry was
a letter from the small
girl I used to be.

THE MAN WHO LEFT

Lauren Roberts

Irises of a great eye, colored
sleepy yellow and jade,
slowly blink at me,
scarred, bumpy pink on his brow.

My tree waves hello to a vault
of light. Ravens glide by and
disappear; the cloud closes but
my tree stays
rooted, waving.

A STRANGER AT THE DOOR

Caden A. Nelson

Bill stood face-to-face with his older brother. He was almost unrecognizable through all the stubble and the tattered clothes. A soggy bucket hat rested limply on his head—partially obscuring his eyes—rain droplets dripping off the crown. In a way, he didn’t look any different to Bill than back when they were kids. Just a little more weathered and used. It had been nine years since Bill last saw his brother, so he had to be, what, twenty-seven by this point? Bill couldn’t believe that. What was he doing here at midnight? He was just standing on the second step of the porch, shuddering. There he was, softly illuminated by the dull glow of the porchlight; a beat-up guitar case resting by his feet. Bill watched as an expression of confusion quickly overcame his brother’s face.

“Billy?”

“Joe?”

“I don’t—where’s mom?” Joe sputtered.

“Uh, she’s out with some friends this weekend… I’m sorta watching the place while she’s gone.” He didn’t mention that he was there because he was unemployed.

“Oh.”

The brothers awkwardly stared at each other for a moment. Neither was expecting to see the other tonight, and they didn’t know where to go from here. Rain pattered against the street like white noise. Finally, Bill broke the silence.

“Well… Do you want to, uh…” he started, vaguely motioning inside the house.

“Oh, yeah, if that’s alright,” said Joe. He picked up his guitar case from off the porch and stepped inside.

The Bruford family house was modest and generic. It was a one-story house. Just one of dozens of stock suburban houses that populated this section of the broader neighborhood—not quite nice enough to be a house of luxury, but not a dump either.

“This place is a lot smaller than I remembered.” Joe’s eyes were scanning the walls down the hallway as they walked.

Bill was waiting for him to comment on all the Jesus pictures, and sure enough he did.

“More biblical, too.”

“Yeah, mom’s been sorta into that lately.”

“Christ,” Joe muttered, scowling slightly.

The two made it down the hallway to the dining room. Joe trailed rainwater behind him as he walked, and slumped casually into one of the wooden chairs next to the table. He set his equally-wet guitar case down on the tile floor next to his seat and let out a deep exhale. There was a brief silence in the room, disrupted only by the sound of rain pelting the roof.

“Oh, uh… Can I get you something?” Bill asked.

“Sure,” Joe muttered. “Do we still have cereal?”

“I can check. Hold on.”

Bill went into the kitchen and opened the pantry door. Thoughts raced through his mind at an incomprehensible speed, tripping over themselves inside his head and refusing to fit into any coherent sentences. Digging around, he found a box of some off-brand sugary cereal on the top shelf, unopened. He set it down on the countertop and opened the cupboard. The sound of Joe tapping his fingers against the acrylic wooden table in a galloping pattern was audible from the other room.

Bill decided to try making conversation. “So, uh… How’s things?”

“Things are good, mostly,” Joe answered. “Mostly good.”

There was a pause between the two of them for another few moments.

Bill pulled a bowl out from the cupboard. “What’ve you been up to, recently?” he asked, pouring the cereal into the bowl.

“Y’know, just getting by.”

Bill poured milk into the bowl and grabbed a spoon, then walked back into the dining room and set it in front of his brother. There was a small puddle underneath his chair now.

“How’s this?” Bill asked.

Joe gave a slight nod instead of answering, then leaned over the bowl, grabbed the spoon, and started shoveling the multicolored flakes into his mouth.

Bill stared at him silently. He wondered why his brother had showed up to their mother’s house. What did he want from her?

Joe finished eating the cereal and pushed the bowl away. “Thanks, man. I needed that.”

Bill looked down at the bowl which only had milk and some loose flakes in it now. “Aren’t you going to drink the milk?”

“Nah, that’s not my style.”

Bill was a little caught off-guard by how casual his brother was acting about all of this, but oddly it was helping him calm down too. It was like they picked up right where they left off. Like Joe had never left.

“Do you want any more?” Bill asked.

“Sure. Just uh… Just bring the box out here.”

Bill got up and walked back into the kitchen. He closed the pantry door that he’d left open and grabbed the cereal box off the counter top.

“Oh, do we have any beer?” Joe called out.

“No. Mom threw it all out,” Bill replied. Cereal and beer? he thought, What’s with that?

As he reentered the dining room for the second time, he’d finally thought up a decent question to ask.

“So, how’s the whole music thing going?”

Joe seemed to perk up at that.

“Oh man, it couldn’t be better,” he said. “I feel like I’ve just started hitting my stride with this whole thing. I’m finally playing well enough to write music and all that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. People dig it too. I get lots of tips. More tips than I used to get. Enough to, y’know, buy stuff that’s actually important and all.”

“And you’re writing songs now?”

“Yeah, man. Lyrics and everything, you know? I think people really dig it—are really going to dig it, y’know? Once I get enough money to hire a singer…”

“You don’t sing?”

“Nah.”

“So, what, you just play chords?”

“Well, I trust my audience, man. They can fill in the lyrics themselves. If they know the song, they’ll know the song, and if they don’t—well, then maybe they don’t deserve to hear it, y’know?”

Bill was quietly amused by this. It sounded like nonsense, but Joe seemed to whole-heartedly believe in what he was saying. Bill wondered if his brother was really as successful as he claimed.

“Yeah,” Bill finally agreed.

“Yeah. It’s more personal—it’s more personalized that way, cause, you know, each person gets their own experience with it. You can pretend the song has poetic lyrics, trashy ones; a good singer or a bad singer. It’s totally up to them.” Joe was making vague gestures with his hands while he spoke.

“I’ve never thought of it like that.”

Joe poured more cereal into his bowl and started eating again. This time not so rabid.

“More people should, man. I’m just saying,” he mumbled through his full mouth.

“So, where are you living these days?”

“The van,” said Joe. “A lot of different parking lots, technically, but basically the van.”

Bill felt like he shouldn’t have asked that.

“Oh… yeah…” he replied.

“It’s pretty nice, so long as I can pay for gas and all.”

“I don’t—did you drive your van over here tonight?”

“No, tonight I walked. The van’s over at the Safeway down the block.”

“Ah.”

“So, by the way, do you know when mom’ll be getting back? Do you know how soon?”

“Uh, she’ll be back on Monday, I’m pretty sure. Monday evening.”

Joe looked a little disappointed by that response, but he was quick to distract from it.

“How’s she been?”

“She’s good, y’know. As good as she can be,” said Bill. “She still works at Walmart, which takes up a lot of time, but she says it pays well enough. She’s actually at a little retreat-thing with some church friends this weekend, so that’s nice.”

“God… does dad know about all this religious shit? I know he’d flip if he did.”

Bill looked at his brother with confusion. “Uh, no, she only started after the, uh…”

“The divorce?”

“The funeral, Joe.”

He looked taken aback by this.

“What?”

“He’s dead. He died about—well, almost a year ago now. Didn’t you get mom’s letter?”

“I don’t have a mailbox anymore.”

“Oh… shit.”

There was a pause. Joe stared vacantly into the table, seemingly mulling over what he’d just heard. Their father was a cruel, petty, hateful old man, and as the oldest, Joe had to endure his worst and most targeted abuse. Bill realized that despite everything, there was still some weird relationship there that had just ended for Joe tonight. Bill struggled with what to say.

“So… what got him?” Joe finally asked.

“Lung cancer. You know how he was.”

“Right, right.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry, Joe. It’s just… we tried to reach you, but… without a phone it’s… You should have been there,” Bill said sullenly.

“I mean, I don’t know,” said Joe. “It’s probably for the best. He wouldn’t have wanted me there anyway.”

“That’s not true,” said Bill, but he knew that it was.

“Were there a lot of people there? At the funeral?”

“Uh… there were a few. It was small. Grandma was there. Some friends of his I didn’t recognize… me, Mom, and Cassie… I think that was it.”

“Cassie!” Joe exclaimed. “Shit man, how’s she doing? It’s been years.”

Cassie was the middle Bruford child. She and Joe were close when they were kids, closer than Joe and Bill ever were. Joe’s absence had hurt her the most, but Joe hadn’t thought enough to realize it. Bill took this as a desperate plea from his brother to change the subject.

“She’s good! Uh, last I heard she was doing good. She’s somewhere in Europe right now on, like, an apprenticeship thing.”

“Badass.”

“Yeah, totally. She’s staying at one of Aunt Bea’s houses last I heard… the one near the Alps, I think. She comes back for Christmases and birthdays, but other than that she’s just living over there now.”

“Man, I’m really glad to hear that,” said Joe, and Bill could tell he was. Joe was beaming in a way he hadn’t all night.

“Yeah, she’s great…” Bill agreed. She knows what she’s doing with her life, he thought.

Another silence fell between them, but no longer an awkward one.

“So, how are things with you?” Joe finally asked.

“Oh God, uh… Well they could be worse…”

“Did you end up going to college? WSU or whatever?”

“Oh shit, you remember that? Yeah, well… I ended up going to this community college for a little while, but… I didn’t make it very far. That was a few years ago at this point.”

“Oh, damn.”

“Yep.”

“Uh… Are you working?”

“Well, I’m… I’m in-between jobs at the moment, actually. I dog-sit for the neighbors sometimes.”

“That’s solid.”

“I mean, it’s not much, just enough for rent… I haven’t been up to much lately, I guess.”

“Do you still do the whole writing thing?”

Bill was surprised that his brother remembered “the whole writing thing.”

“I mean, I’d like to be, but I guess I haven’t really,” he replied.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, man. I just sorta, y’know, get too into my own head sometimes.”

“I’ve read your stories man, they’re good. They’re good. You shouldn’t give up on that.”

“Thank you.” Bill knew Joe would’ve only seen what he’d written in the fourth grade, but he pretended that Joe was talking about more recent work. Hearing praise from his older brother in any context was unexpected, so Bill took what he could get.

It was 1:00 in the morning. The rain seemed to have died down quite a bit, and Bill could just barely hear it if he focused hard enough. Joe’s clothes weren’t dripping anymore, but they were still soggy and damp. Bill noticed this, and saw an opportunity

“Oh, by the way, uh… If you need dry clothes…” he started.

“Nope, I couldn’t do that to you,” said Joe.

“Come on man, you’re soaked.”

“I’ve been worse, you know,” Joe retorted.

“Joe, I’m going to have to insist.”

“Fine, fine.”

The two stood up and walked over to one of the bedrooms. This one had long ago belonged to both of the Bruford boys, but these days it was a generic spare-room for their mom’s guests. At the moment, that meant that it was Bill’s room again. There was only one bed now tucked into the corner under a window, and Bill’s hardshell suitcase sat open at the foot of it. He walked over to it and grabbed a pair of sweatpants.

“I figure you and I are close enough to the same size, right?” asked Bill. He threw the sweatpants to his brother still standing in the doorway. Joe seemed to be processing the new layout of the room.

“Now… you can change here, if you’d like. I’ll be in the living room,” Bill said.

“What if these don’t fit?” Joe asked.

“Uh, mom’s got some robes lying around, I think.”

Joe let out a short series of laughs, a sound foreign and strange to Bill. He left his brother and walked into the living room. There, he sat down on the sofa and sank into the cushions. His wallet and his laptop were sitting on the little coffee table by the couch, and Bill shifted them off to the side for his brother’s convenience. He flicked on the TV and the weather channel came on: A man in a suit gestured vaguely towards Washington on the map and talked about the chance for snow. Disagreeing with his guess—this station was never right—Bill rolled his eyes and switched to some soap opera on the other channel.

Eventually, Joe reemerged from the bedroom, standing awkwardly in his brother’s sweatpants. “How do I look?”

“Honestly? Not bad,” Bill said, turning off the TV.

After a brief detour to the kitchen—to grab his guitar out from the case—Joe entered the living room and sat down on the couch, one cushion away from his brother.

“Are you gonna serenade me?” Bill asked.

“I mean, I could…” Joe responded. He started lightly strumming some chords.

“What are the lyrics for this one?”

“Well, this one… I actually haven’t got words for this one yet, so… you can just imagine your own, if you’d like.”

“Sure, I’ll try,” said Bill with a grin.

The two sat quietly while Joe strummed his guitar. It was old and beat-up, but it sang harmoniously through the grime on the strings. Bill watched his older brother get lost in the music he was creating. Eventually, Joe struck one final chord and let it ring out. Bill gave him a respectful round of applause.

“Thanks,” said Joe.

Bill looked at his brother with admiration in his eyes.

The two sat for a moment in quiet reflection.

“You know, Joey…” Bill started. “You don’t have to live in your van, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe said absent-mindedly, starting to tune his guitar.

“No, I’m serious. Nobody’s forcing you to do that.”

Joe paused.

“You know, we worry about you a lot, man. Me and mom. It’s been years since either one of us has heard from you… we thought you were dead or something. We’re here for you, man. And now that dad’s not around to—” Bill stopped himself for a moment.

“Well,” he continued, “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not anymore.”

Joe stared into the carpet.

Bill hesitated, then tapped Joe on the shoulder to get his attention. “Hey,” he said with a gentler voice. “Why don’t you stay here for the weekend?”

“Huh?” Joe looked up.

“Stay here. We can go get your van tomorrow, park it in the driveway, and you could sleep over for the next few days. I’m sure mom would love to see you when she gets back.”

Joe seemed to contemplate a moment.

“You wouldn’t have to worry about money or the rain… You’ll have clean clothes, a bed to sleep in…”

Joe didn’t seem convinced.

“If it’ll take beer, I can go buy you some beer. You can keep it in the van. We won’t have to tell mom about it.” Bill let out a half-smile to try sweetening the deal, but there was desperation in his eyes.

“You know…” said Joe, “That doesn’t sound half-bad.”

Bill felt relieved. “So, you’ll stay?”

“Yeah, man. Sure. I’ll stay. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The two stood up and embraced. Bill clung to his older brother tightly, like he was trying to keep Joe from slipping out of his arms. Eventually, they broke the hug and Bill let out a content sigh. He glanced at a clock on the wall which now read 1:45am.

“Alright, I guess it’s about that time,” he said. “Do you want my bed?”

“The couch suits me better, but thanks,” Joe said with a sly grin.

“Alright. Sleep well, man. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Take it easy.”

Bill walked into the guest room and shut the door. He climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

Bill rolled out of bed at around 8:15 am. He’d just woken up from some weird dream that he was already forgetting, and he had a light headache. He stood up and stretched, yawning deeply. Bill checked the time on his cell phone and scanned his news feed, then he walked to the door. Remembering that Joe was in the other room, he silently turned the knob and slowly pulled the door open. He tip-toed out to the hallway and looked into the living room.

The couch was empty. Bill’s sweatpants lay crumpled on the floor.

“Joe?”

Bill was confused. He looked around at all the immediate areas: the dining room, the kitchen. It was all the same. No guitar case. No Joe.
Bill glanced into the garage, but still found nothing. Then a horrible thought shot him through his gut: he turned around and reentered the living room. Looking at the coffee table, Bill saw his wallet and noticed a slip of paper sticking out of it. He nervously approached the table, his stomach in knots.

There had been $60 dollars in his wallet when he last checked. And now there wasn’t. The paper was folded up into three pieces. Bill tentatively unfolded it to find a message written in handwriting that was borderline illegible. Some horrible mixture of grief, nausea and anger overwhelmed him as he as he read the note:

“Billy,
Thank you for last night. One of my best nights in a while. Sorry about
the money, I hope you understand. I’ll try to write more often, so you
and mom don’t miss me too much. I gotta get going now. Go write
your novel. Live life. See places. Love you.
-Joe”

Bill stared at the paper. He shouldn’t have been so naive. Why was he surprised by this? Joe never intended on staying, and Bill should’ve realized that. He fell backwards onto the couch, lost in thought. His sadness was nearly overwhelming, but he found himself unable to cry. He wondered if he’d ever see his brother again, and tried to ignore every part of him that knew he wouldn’t.

ONCE IN YOUR SHOES

Lizeth Hernandez

My lovely child
You roam this earth by foot
hoping to seek protection among your feet
You seek a trail that guides you there
In return, thousands of thorns dive deep into your skin

Get up try again
This time avoid picking them out
Behind the mountains is a pile of gold
It may be painful my child
a reward awaits you
My child this is your path
no other like yours

A STRANGER ABROAD

Tom Darby

I don’t know how long I lay unconscious by the curbside of that ancient, cobbled, African street. As my head cleared, I became aware of footsteps walking around me. I began to think that those nearby were just waiting for me to die so they could steal my shoes.

It was 1972. I was in my early twenties and I had spent a year hitchhiking around Europe. About a month of that time was in Morocco where this story begins.

My days there were occupied with a world I had never seen and could hardly imagine before—the beauty, the history, the intrigue, the poverty, and the filth. What an adventure: Casablanca, the Marrakesh Express, the Casbah, the blue men of Morocco, snake charmers, stories of the Crusades, and rumors of the white slave trade. North Africa.

Traveling on the cheap as I had for many months, I ate out of small back street cafes and fresh food vendors in the market squares. I soon picked up some sort of intestinal bug. I remember the fever and chills, pain in my gut, weak muscles, thirst, and diarrhea that seemed like the biblical flood.

After several days of being afraid to leave the nearest toilet, I realized I was not getting better and I needed medical attention. I asked the local pharmacy where I could find a doctor. They directed me to a back street where there was a small free-standing adobe building. At the doorstep, I joined perhaps twelve or fifteen people in line. All of us waiting for an impossible dream. There was an old woman at the front of the line with a sunburnt face, wrinkled like polished brown shoe leather. Draped around her was an azul fabric covering her head. Behind her stood a young woman with dirty, straggly black hair and vacant eyes, staring into the distance as if blind. Next, a teen boy with baggy, out-of-style pants probably handed down from an older sibling or bought from the rag market of “dead white people’s donations.” Then, the mother with a bright colored headscarf, trying to soothe her crying baby in one arm. An older toddler clung to her skirt. Finally, me in travel dirty, blue jeans, shoulder-length curly hair, and a backpack too heavy for me to shoulder.

I spoke no Arabic, but tried to inquire with my small collection of French and Spanish verbs or nouns, if this was the doctor’s office. It was. As the morning sun began to rise and the wait was testing my weakened condition, I realized that I had to exit the line and find a toilet again. When I returned the line was double in length. When nature’s call came again, I realized I might never get to the front of the line. I needed an alternate solution.

Later that day, I found myself lying beside that curb on the ground, unconscious. I couldn’t recollect fainting, but I did realize that I was in serious trouble. My fears increased. My first thought was of being so far from home. No one seemed to care if I was sick or not. In those hippy days, in conservative countries, long hair, ragged jeans, and backpacks were considered a threat. I was no exception. I had wandered over Europe for nearly a year and experienced a lot, but never in my life had I felt so alone.

When I left home, a wise older friend of mine wished me well and asked if I was all set. We both knew I had never been away from home, never been on an airplane, and I was going halfway around the world alone. I had said that I was worried about what I would do, being on my own, if something bad happened. He reassured me by saying: “Hey, you always have yourself and that is enough.”

As I lay there on the street, biting my trembling lip, realizing that no one was going to help me, I recalled my friend’s reassuring words. It was up to me to help myself. From that moment on I knew that I needed to leave Morocco and return to the less exotic civilization of Spain for medical help.

I caught the night ferry to cross the Straight of Gibraltar at dusk and booked a cheap room in Algeciras, Spain for a sleepless night.

At daybreak, the first thing I needed to do was to exchange money to use in Spain. Banks in Spain, being official buildings, are grand and elaborate edifices: tall columns, marble, and lots of shiny glass and polished brass. The home of wealth and privilege. They were a striking contrast to me, this lone wandering soul, weakened with illness and disheveled with an unkept beard and clothes not laundered since some distant unremembered wash basin.

I waited far too long in the ever-present Spanish lines to get to the cashier’s counter. I filled out the transaction slip requesting an exchange from dollars to pesetas. The cashier slipped my pesetas through the small opening in the counter’s glass window. As I picked up the paper currency and a handful of coins, I sensed the floor rushing toward my head. I collapsed on the cold stone slabs. The last thing I remembered was the sound of the coins hitting the hard marble floor and rolling away from me.

Almost immediately someone was patting my cheek, shaking my shoulder, and mumbling in excited Spanish. Four strong arms were lifting me and dragging me to the door of the bank. Given my unkempt condition, I thought they were throwing me out on the street. I was shivering with sweat rolling down my forehead when the men leaned me against a shiny, expensive Mercedes Benz, opened the door, and pushed me in.

My head was still spinning as my body rolled with the sharp turns as the car sped through the winding narrow streets. The well-dressed, determined driver screeched to a stop and helped me out of the car and into a small but well-equipped medical office. I told him that I didn’t have a lot of money and didn’t know how I was going to pay for this. The driver registered me at the clinic’s counter in whispered Spanish that I didn’t understand.

We sat silently in the waiting room.

A gray-haired doctor in a pressed white lab coat came to me and spoke in incomprehensible Spanish. He seemed to me to be mostly talking to himself. He handed me an envelope of large chalky pills and, as best I could gather, said there wasn’t much else he could do for me here. He suspected I had food poisoning or dysentery, and hearing I had come from Africa, suggested I either go back to where I got sick, where they knew the local germs, or go to the tropical disease hospital in London.

Back in the car, the gentleman driver told me he was the bank manager. His thin, trimmed mustache and hair had touches of gray. He was smartly dressed in an expensive silk suit. He said he would take me to my hotel, which was a cheap pension.

At the pension, as I was getting got out of the car, he handed me an envelope full of money. I was too overwhelmed to know why at the time, but presumably, it was the money I had dropped on the floor of the bank.

Fumbling with my basic Spanish, I asked this kind gentleman: “Porque eres tan amable?” [Why are you being so nice to me?] He had known me for only a moment and yet he had gone so far out of his way to help me.

I caught a glimmer of a tear well into his eyes as he looked at me silently for a long moment, searching for the words in English. Then he spoke softly with a little break in his voice: “I am a parent. You are somebody’s son. My son is traveling alone this summer too and I have not heard from him for far too long. I hope to God that wherever he is, people will be kind to him too.”

I was tired and weak, still very shaky, but as I looked into this man’s eyes I saw the resemblance of my own father’s eyes and my lips began to tremble.

On my journey toward home, a stop at the American Hospital in Paris and the London Tropical Disease hospital produced no cure. The symptoms lingered on for years.

Now, nearly half a century later, one of the lingering regrets I have of this grand adventure is that I didn’t have the foresight to get this man’s name or address. I have always wished that I could contact him and thank him for that wonderful act of kindness he shared. This was one of those life-changing moments for me. From his example, I realized that we are all pretty much the same. We all have families that need to be looked after. We all have struggles and adventures, and we all need to share a little kindness along the way.

SAD TIMES

Pierson French

Another day
another day
wake up
sad and cold
along the shore of
a forgotten town

Food is gold
right now
fighting over crumbs
as if the sky is falling

With only fish and bread
if only someone could
multiply it
to feed the
thousands under
these dark and
gloomy skies

HELLO, GOD SPEAKING

Richard Cole

Five billion, six hundred thirty-seven million, nine hundred twenty-one thousand, two hundred ninety-six people all lay down their tools. Some reach up to deactivate large factory machines, others drop a drying marker or pen from a weary, clenched hand, and most of them simply lift their fingers from a keyboard. Five point six-three-seven billion people breathe a joint sigh of relief. The work is done. A panting intern, or a PA announcement, or a celebratory shout has informed each and every one of them that The Project is officially finished. The first breath that over half the global population takes is the single most synchronized moment in all human history. In twenty-six hours and nineteen minutes it will be knocked down to second place.

For some of these people, work has continued at an unrelenting pace since they began. For others, their work ended months ago, and they have mostly been finding reasons not to be fired, but so have their bosses and managers, and so no one has been. A great deal of people’s first thought is not of satisfaction that the work is done, that they can rest now, or of what a milestone humankind has just reached. They wonder, ‘where will I work now?’ A plurality of them have been working on The Project all their lives or at least since they were old enough to work.

The person who has worked on The Project longest started when she was twenty-one, as an intern of sorts for the Murphy Company. She has had to sign over a dozen NDAs since she started working, and has remained fastidious in her secrecy, never letting a detail slip. She continues to retain this covert opening even though by now, more people know than not about The Project. She is now seventy-three, and has been directing the design, then operation, of the largest structure in human history. This superstructure is roughly the same area as the country of Bulgaria, and just barely smaller than Olympus Mons, on far away Mars. Despite her phenomenal wealth, she remains humble, hardworking and always takes care to be kind to the people around her. She takes certain care for any lizards, which she has a soft spot for. The decent people, like her, will be important in the days to come.

She is one of the half-billion people who will not lose their jobs now that The Project has been completed. The rest will be chewed up and spit out by an antiquated system of industry-reassignment developed by the Murphy Company almost thirty years prior. The majority of the conglomerate will be disassembled and handed back to various governments, corporations, people, and companies of all shapes and sizes, all over the world. Many people will starve. Many people will slip through the cracks. Many people will find a way to get something out of it. Most people will continue on as they have, in factories which have already begun the process of transitioning to the manufacture of new goods, or companies which will simply pivot to the next project; pitched, lined up, and waiting for bigger things to be done.

Until their myriad paperwork is complete, all of these people will continue to work for one person.

Stanislaw J. Murphy’s furrowed brow is pink and pasted with moisture. He practices his postulations with Shakespeare; the ease and rhythm with which he speaks contrasts intensely with his scrawny body and awkward stance. Every word is laced with conscientious truth. The far-away look of someone desperately avoiding concentrating on their own performance. The light of the stage, in all its immensity, bears down heavily on the frail-seeming man.

Stanislaw clatters to a halt as the door opens. Hands regain color as they unclench to dart upwards and straighten a mismanaged tie, shifting side-to-side to repair minor details important for an affluent individual.

A thickly-built man at the door breathes a heavy sigh.

“You know I don’t care, Stanislaw. It’s only the cameras who do.”

Despite his earlier timbre, the voice that escapes Stanislaw has now lost all its practiced majesty.

“Right—just habit, Lincoln. I assume it’s time to go?”

“Yes, sir. The car is outside. I’m afraid our schedule is quite tight today,” Lincoln replies gently, but firmly.

Stanislaw doesn’t say anything. There’s no need. It has been just under twenty hours since The Project was officially finished.

The theatre he exits is not the same one he will be occupying in the evening. Secrecy is a necessity for this event, and although it will be televised globally, the list of guests is small, and highly curated. Stanislaw had felt a knot of discomfort at the unfairness of it, but he understood that interruptions could be potentially catastrophic.

“It’s just a phone call,” he mumbles to himself.

It is anything but.

The drive is in that narrow degree of length which is just long enough to be boring, but not long enough to warrant the addition of small talk or other social pleasantries. Even so, he requests they stop. They have prepared well, and although a hatchback with such darkly tinted windows is unusual, it is far less likely to draw attention than the man riding inside. Despite his discomforts with it, Stanislaw’s face has been known to the world almost since he was born. His father was a man who gave up secrecy in the public domain for extensive privacy in his company’s ambitions. Although the latter too, has almost ceased to exist.

The car comes to a stop in front of a gas station, an old place, given to rust. The door rings as Stanislaw and Lincoln enter, swinging shut with an old sigh. Behind the counter is a young woman, outlined by a haloed wall of cigarettes, each poster and package advertising their addictive nature with a salacious irony. Stanislaw prefers to talk to people who do not work for him, but he does his best to avoid the eyes of the cashier and any lingering gazes that might lead to recognition. He pays for a small bag of gummy sharks with cash, and asks to use the bathroom. He doesn’t particularly want them, but will later offer the candy to Lincoln. Stanislaw knows his aide likes them, even if Lincoln would never admit it.

The bathroom is dilapidated and grimy. Stanislaw strips to the waist, hanging his jacket awkwardly on the door knob. He looks himself over, analyzing the wreck of his lanky flesh. Acne scars, blemishes, and the wear of thirty-two years spent exhausted occlude what might otherwise be a good-looking man. His face has the base elements of attractiveness, but a sickly pallor has always dominated him, and dark circles occupied his eyes.

Stanislaw stares at himself, tired beyond belief. With an effort of will, he gently rinses his face, and attempts to apply some order to his hair. He does his best to return himself to proper appearances, before opening the door.

Outside, Lincoln is waiting. He was developing the nerve to knock when Stanislaw opened the door, and smoothly hides his hand.

“Shall we?” Stanislaw says, erasing any trace of weariness from his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

The door chime sounds as they exit and make their way to the hatchback. The cashier wonders quietly if she recognizes the scrawny man.

The remaining twenty minutes to the studio are mostly silent, until Stanislaw turns to Lincoln, drawing something from his pocket.

“Do you want any?” he asks. Stanislaw holds out the bag of sharks politely and indecisively.

“I—uh, sure. Thanks.” Lincoln takes the bag, slightly confused, but he has had a taste for gummy candies since he was a child; something attached to a private, but warm and slightly forgotten memory of his mother and father. An instinct in him wants to tear the bag open and devour the blue and white sharks inside, like he did then, but today, he retains the appearance of a professional aide, and quietly eats a handful as they ride.

Stanislaw and Lincoln step out of the car’s rear doors, and the over-tinted hatchback pulls away discreetly. Ahead of them looms a large but boring building. Inside its lonesome red door, the two are met by the rush known to anyone who has ever worked on anything with anyone else—the deadline approaches, and quickly. Flurrying makeup artists, prop managers and all manner of stage crew speed around in a hurricane of movement, speaking quickly to one another, calling out for who they need to find, and generally being stressed. They are some of the last few hundred people still working. They have five hours and fifteen minutes of nonstop crunch ahead of them, and most are already overworked.

A tall person approaches; recognizing Stanislaw immediately. They have the distinct appearance of someone in charge, in a way that belies the necessary insecurity.

“You’re late. You were supposed to be here 15 minutes ago, Mr. Murphy.” Hefin’s tone brooks no argument, and they begin to move towards the rear of the room, evidently expecting no answer.

The two men follow. Their androgynous guide calling a number of haggard people over as they walk. Hefin points to the bare metal door ahead.

“In here. We need to start makeup now if we want to stick to the schedule. We’ll give you a touch up twenty minutes before the cameras start, but don’t go getting mucked up before then.”

Stanislaw feels out of his depth, but drums up the reserves of his composure. He coughs lightly, and says, “Thank you, Hefin. I’m sorry about our tardiness. I’ll stick to the schedule from here on out. Don’t worry.”

Hefin is too stressed to care, and they turn away, giving Stanislaw a nod as they return to the colossal flow of personnel behind them. Something in their demeanor shrinks for a moment as they look towards the unbridled chaos which they alone must wrangle into something resembling a coherent workforce. They take a breath, and step forward once more.

Stanislaw looks downwards as their coterie of followers move inwards, glancing at the wide briefcase Lincoln has brought in with them. He pictures the old rotary phone inside, a camellia tea-colored Western Electric 500 the same age as The Project, clasped and shrouded in soft foam. He remembers being glad his father decided to hold onto it when Stanislaw inherited The Project after the man’s death. There would have been little issue finding the same model, and even one in the same color, but this one is significant by association. It carries a symbolic purpose now, the same as him.

Stanislaw starts slightly when Lincoln’s heavy hand touches his shoulder, saying nothing, but guiding him towards the door.

Stanislaw does not enjoy the lack of control in being prepared for the stage, but submits to it willingly. The artists around him, and they are artists, masters of a craft of one kind or another, cover the unhealthy gleam to Stanislaw’s face and do as much as can be done to transform a haggard and marred personage into something resembling the popular image of someone like him; not a paragon of beauty, but stern, attractive in a way which commands deference. The last of them steps back, at once admiring her work and ensuring no mistakes have been made. She lifts her hand, smiling at Stanislaw and pointing a thumb to the sky.

“You’re all good, boss,” she says. Her tone is halfway between sarcastic and genuine, but she does mean it. Stanislaw nods, standing from the chair and making an effort to mask the stiffness of his joints as he does.

“Thank you.” His smile is real, “If you haven’t been properly compensated, as I’m sure someone has seen to, please contact my office directly. Until your contracts are pulled, we can always improve them.”

It’s an odd thing to say, but he means it too.

Lincoln contemplates the naivety of his employer quietly, and wonders how many of them he’ll actually talk to over the phone in the coming days.

The remaining hours before Stanislaw takes the stage are spent relatively quietly and mostly in boredom. According to the protocols stamped in brass on the side of the briefcase, the phone must not be removed until the time of use, so someone in the stage department has placed an exact copy, another green Western Electric 500, on the small table which the stage centers around. It shines brightly under the stage lights, making the reddish chair near it appear almost invisible. For several minutes, Stanislaw has been staring at it, ignoring the myriad speakers who come and go around it, and imagining his fingers tracing along and pushing against the plastic buttons inside the dial. He stops only when Lincoln taps him and points to the approaching Hefin.

They say nothing, weaving across the room like a spectre passing through a graveyard. An eerie silence has descended over most of the theatre, even in the still-chaotic back rooms. Almost no one speaks. The broadcast has already begun, with a long list of guest speakers and experts sharing opinions and analysis on The Project for hours on end. Most of it is useless, and consists of guessing about who will pick up the phone, and what they will say. None of the various religious representatives, physicists, philosophers, and what have you are even close to correct.

Hefin directs Stanislaw back to the makeup area.

He follows them wordlessly.

While the last few experts do their speaking on stage, Stanislaw is quietly prepared for his momentous role by the same makeup artists. They see to his face, adjusting and altering silently and diligently. Now, with the moment so close, they all treat him with some degree of estranged reverence—the way one does to a beautiful but unfamiliar animal.

It takes only a few minutes, and when they are done, the seven of them scurry away. Stanislaw waits in the dark behind the stage, anticipating failure. As any discerning individual can tell, save for him, no one else could possibly do what comes next.

The moment arrives. The last speaker off the stage looks to Stanislaw for approval as he passes by. Stanislaw doesn’t even know who he is, but can tell he’s a sycophant of some kind, and ignores the older man. Stanislaw smiles brightly, and all the world recognizes the flash of his teeth and the expression of idle anticipation—the same as his father. He clutches to his right hip the mossy green Western Electric 500. Almost ritually, Stanislaw lifts the other phone off the dark table and sets it behind the cushioned maroon chair. He sets the proper phone in its place, removed from its case for the first time in nearly forty years. He lifts the long grey cable from the floor and quietly plugs it into the back of the phone.

Somewhere far away, a building the size of Bulgaria begins to whir and hum loudly. Technicians and engineers begin to move, echoing the rush of the stage crew hours before; a weathered hand strokes the back of a reptile’s scaly head. The machine is working properly. There is little need to worry, but Stanislaw and his father before him, is cautious—there can be no chance of abnormality or failure. Not now.

Finally, as the entire world, even previously uncontacted tribes and isolated communities, watch or listen in earnest. Every single person holds their breath. Stanislaw speaks, a voice that could have belonged to Alexander or Ramesses; the same voice that a young boy spoke with when his father died. The same one that cheered in Göbekli Tepe when his uncle brought the first harvest home.

He feels the disappointment in the world when he begins to read. Although he knows the words which appear on the teleprompter before they show, knows them by rote, they do not belong to him. They are carefully constructed platitudes and assurances, the words of a marketing department one-point-two million strong.

“Hello, everyone. If you do not know who I am, my name is Stanislaw J. Murphy, the owner of the Murphy Company and the official head of The Project. The time has come. As you know, the final stages of work were completed just yesterday, and thanks to the efforts of billions of people and five decades of non-stop work, we have done it. I want to thank the presenters who came before me for their thoughts and contributions.”

He pauses, mulling over the words. The conscientious truth which he represents is absent.

“I want to thank you, the workers and people who each played a small but vital role in The Project.” His right-hand twitches, just a few feet from the phone.

The teleprompter carries on, out of sync with him now.

“Know with pride that all of you have been part of the greatest project in human history. That you have contributed to the advancement of every field of thought, engineering, manufacturing, philosophy, and in truth—”

He takes a shaky breath.

“—everything that humans do has been improved by you.”

Stanislaw stands up, looking away from the camera and the autocue. His voice is captured, even as he moves across the stage, by five different microphones constantly maintaining perfect clarity. In the darkest areas of the theatre, producers and directors and people-managers begin to panic, silently. The room’s dim light has become untethered. The vision of the audience shifting side to side to track Stanislaw’s gait as he moves back and forth.

His voice is now synchronized with the gravity of the room; in tune to the lithosphere and the waters of the world.

“I will tell you this. We cannot begin to understand, until I pick up that phone, who or what will reply. I do not know if they will even answer,” he stops his pacing, and looks back at the camera, “and I am afraid. We hope it will be God, or a god, or something we know and can understand. But for all the work, all the money, all the time, we still don’t know what’s on the other end. Just that something exists to call. I will not lie. I am afraid not only of that phone, but also of what we will do when we know. I will plead if I must. Be cautious and be kind.”

Slowly, he begins to approach the maroon chair again. He speaks as he sits down, rubbing a tired hand against his tired head.

“I apologize for the… deviation from our programming. Please, be careful.”

Stanislaw leans slightly and reaches out to the green phone on the table.

Hundreds of miles away, on a bus which continues to drive despite the monumental events occurring, there is a woman. She is young, just about brain-developed. Her name is Merin Constantine. She and the other sixteen people already on the bus watch in silence as they approach the next stop. It’s crowded—eleven people get on, each gingerly paying their fare or swiping a card, and finding somewhere to sit. Every one of them bringing their crowding to the bus. Merin is one of the few who retains a solitary seat. She watches and, in the instinctive way people do when they are bored and in a crowded place, evaluates each of the oncoming passengers.

There is a pair of men at the front, lugging suitcases behind them and guiding a tired child forward. They stand out by virtue of her interest in their destination, and she wonders if they are approaching or leaving an airport. Most of the rest are uninteresting and very much like her. Nearly everyone is holding some kind of phone and everyone who has one is watching, or listening to the same thing.

Just behind Merin and on the opposite side of the aisle an old vagrant sits down. He occupies only a few moments of her attention and pays her no mind. His life has been primarily suffering. The withered man has a look about him, one that brings fear and pity together in equal measure, like an abused dog lashing out at its owner. She ignores him as soon as he is out of sight, the same as the couple, and everyone else on the bus.
The passengers, alongside the rest of the world, have all been vaguely tuning out the speakers and presenters and sycophants on the broadcast. Nearly everyone perks up when they see the wafer-thin man come on stage. He does not need to introduce himself, but does anyway. Just as Merin begins to tune him out, too, he stands up from his seat. She sees the moment of hesitation in the camera as it turns to follow him across the stage. It shows the undiluted background of the production; light fixtures and stage hands, a man holding a heavy microphone up high. Merin thinks cynical things and compassionate things about what he says.

People are contradictory creatures.

When he sits down, Merin watches his arm shaking as it approaches the rotary phone. With great care, and over thirty-six agonizing seconds of anticipation, he dials. She idly wonders what this special phone number is. She never wonders if it is fake. That time has come and gone and it hardly matters anymore.

The man, dwarfed to inches by her screen quivers and raises the receiver. She glances back towards the vagrant, and then at the pair of men and their child. In her headphones, she hears the dial tone, which sounds exactly as you imagine a rotary phone of such importance would. She waits.

Marin’s heart nearly stops. She hears a loud chiming behind her. It is not quite what you imagine, but close. The sound is comforting and welcome, but unfamiliar, like a visit from a dearly-missed friend. She looks for its source, and sees the crowd behind and ahead of her. They, the twenty-six human beings on the bus, become untethered.

The men and the women, and the vagrant, and the child, and everybody else, all look on in awe. There is a proverbial, but not physical, motion of a not-exactly-there wrist, clicking the flip-phone open and raising it in equal time to the “ear”.

The voice is firm, but warm, like a parent who has put anger aside and helps you to correct your mistakes with a gentle hand and love in their voice.

“Hello, God speaking.”

There is a moment of clarity. Of silence. The whole world is quiet, and together, everyone takes in a sharp breath.

The silence for the television and the people-managers, and almost everybody else, continues for some time. The microphones are dead. The video continues to play, silent and disappointing to almost everyone. The seventy-thousand dollars of microphones poised to capture the conversation hear nothing. There ought to be some kind of rush or a panic. Internally, there is. Everyone in the theatre and everyone in the bus feel an overwhelming desire to rush forward, to come close and listen, and to know. But they do not. For seventeen minutes, they are all still. No one interrupts. They sit silently, watching something, which may not be a man or a woman, or any kind of someone, but still something parental and almost kind, speak to Stanislaw J. Murphy.

The bus continues on its way from somewhere unimportant to somewhere inconsequential, and the people politely pull their cords when they reach their stop. The drive continues as if nothing spectacular were happening. No one gets on. When the call is concluded, there is no jostling or rush to ask questions of their own. Everyone sits, waiting patiently.

God gets off at the next stop.

UNTITLED

Darian Ferguson

A pretty pink petal
Glimmering through the night sky
Never let it go

IT’S STILL NOT TOO LATE

Sunny W. Hays

You just needed to get home.

You had been walking since the sun went down and at this point weren’t even sure what time it was. It had started raining a while ago and you were soaked. You were exhausted. Something bad had happened. You just needed to get home and sleep.

You saw a bus stop ahead. It had a roof which meant you could get out of the rain for a bit. There was an old man sitting at the bus stop. Seeing another person there made you want to keep walking, but you felt like you were about to collapse, so you stopped. He looked tired and when you sat down he didn’t even look up at you. It seemed like he was ignoring you, which was good. You didn’t want to be seen right now and definitely didn’t want to talk.

“You’ve already been this way.” The words groaned out of him making him sound like you felt.

You were a bit shocked as you looked up at him. You hadn’t seen him before and didn’t recognize this stop. “I have?”

It was hard to speak without stuttering, but it would have been rude not to respond. You were cold and scared, but you didn’t want him to know that. He might try to help you if he did and you weren’t his problem.

“You’ve walked past here a few times.”

“Sorry, I’m a bit lost… I just figured I’d spend a few minutes here to get out of the rain.”

“Why are you apologizing? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You could hear the frustration in his voice, but with those words he made it clear he didn’t know you. “Um… right, yeah, sorry.”

He paused at that like he wasn’t sure if he should call you out on it again.

“Where are you trying to go?”

Your eyes met his and you could see nothing but pity in them. You had to look away.

“I need to get home.”

“How long’s it gonna take you to get there?”

You didn’t know. “Not too long now. Just needed to get out of the rain for a bit.”

“Yeah… you’ve been walking through it for a while now, huh?”

You weren’t sure how long. It started raining when the sun went down and you’d lost track of time.

“I guess so. Hasn’t felt that long though.” You said through chattering teeth.

He nodded at this. “I’m sure it hasn’t.”

There was a stretch of silence between the two of you. You listened to the rain dancing on the roof and watched it define the beams of light coming from the light poles. For a moment you felt safe.

Breaking the silence, the old man said, “It’s good you’re getting out of the rain. It’s really coming down tonight.”

You stayed silent. This safety you felt was fragile and you knew it. You didn’t want to ruin it.

“I remember my friends and I used to go on these hikes. There was this hike that we went on where the rain was coming down like this… we took the wrong trail and ended up walking for hours and hours. It was dark by the time we got back. I remember waiting in the bathrooms at the head of the trail for them to catch up. It was the only place we could get out of the rain.”

The exhaustion was really getting to you at this point. You weren’t thinking straight. You broke the protective silence to ask, “What were you waiting for?”

“We got split up somewhere along the way. Some of us really wanted out of the rain and others couldn’t keep pace.”

“How long were you waiting for them?”

The look he gave you brought the world back into focus. The pain in his tired eyes told you wordlessly that he still was and he always would be.

The sound of the rain fell away as you felt your heart speed up. You shouldn’t have spoken up. If you hadn’t said anything maybe you could have stayed in that moment for a bit longer.

“I should really get moving if I wanna make it back before dawn.”

As you stood to leave the man reached out and grabbed your forearm.

“Hold on a minute. I’ve got a question for you.”

You wanted to go. You were sure if you just pulled he wouldn’t hold on tight enough to stop you.

“What is it?” You decided to entertain the man. Probably just some lonely old man. Who even takes the bus this late anyways?

“You’ve been walking this way for a while. Longer than you think. I know you’re lost and probably pretty shaken up, and that you just wanna leave and keep walking. But I can tell you for a fact you’re not going to make it home tonight.”

You were right. This is just some insane old man. You knew right then that you needed to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“What do you mean I won’t make it home?”

“I don’t know where you’ll end up, but it won’t be where you want.”

The longer you talked to him the more you wanted to stay.

The old man continued, “Listen, the bus is gonna be here soon. If you come with me I can give you somewhere safe and warm to sleep till dawn, then we can figure out where you’re looking to go and I’ll make sure you get there safely. I can’t make you do anything. All I can do is ask. Will you please come with me?”

You wanted to go with him, but he could have meant to kill you, or kidnap you, or any other number of unspeakable things. Knowing your luck, that was probably what would have happened. You were better off on your own. You had no reason to trust him.

“Ummm… I don’t know,” you stuttered out.

The cold must have really been getting to you at this point. You couldn’t even think straight and you sounded ridiculous. You had no reason to trust this man. As you stood there unable to figure out how to politely remove yourself, you heard the crunching of asphalt and saw headlights illuminate the bus stop.

“Listen, you can’t delay your decision any more. You’ve been here so many times and every time you’ve left just to end up back here. I won’t be here next time. Come with me. Please.”

As the bus’s headlights illuminated the two of you, you got a good look at this man for the first time. He looked familiar in a way you couldn’t place. He wasn’t as old as you’d thought. He looked tired, like he’d been waiting for this bus for ages. He looked well put together aside from the desperation in his eyes. He looked truly concerned for you. He knew how scared you were and he only wanted to help. He wasn’t the crazy one. The bus’s headlights also fell on you.

You weren’t about to ruin this man’s night. You weren’t his problem. You needed to get home or something bad would happen again.

“No thank you. I appreciate the offer and I’m sorry if I’ve worried you, but I really need to get going.”

You kept yourself together saying exactly what you needed to. Perfectly polite and entirely reasonable. You pulled your arm from his grip and you watched as his face fell. Any pity he once had, he stowed away. He had to. He was out in this rain too. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Okay, kid. I hope you make it wherever you’re going safe.” There was a finality to his words. He was saying goodbye in the only way that wouldn’t break you. He turned away from you and stepped onto the bus. You watched it leave you in the cold dark rain.

Now that you were alone you debated sitting back down. You wanted to get back that safety you felt. You tried to listen for the rain but even though you could see it, feel it, you couldn’t hear it anymore. You looked out and the street lights seemed dimmer. Though you looked for it, that safety was gone.

You kept walking.

It was better this way. No need to worry someone. You didn’t even feel the cold anymore. You just felt numb. You didn’t need his help. You just needed to get home.

You had been walking since the sun went down and at this point weren’t even sure what time it was. It had started raining a while ago and you were soaked. You were exhausted. Something bad had happened. You just needed to get home and sleep.

You saw a bus stop ahead. It had a roof which meant you could get out of the rain for a bit.

It was empty.

MICHELLE: MY NAME AND IDENTITY

Michelle Oida

Past

My name’s lovely—
But I didn’t regard myself
as someone unique

I was calm—
Yet my anger, at times,
conquered my emotions

Compassion was an
emotion I felt often when
sadness crept in

How come I
was an outsider who
wandered, feeling lost?

Everything I did
seemed to impact others in
such different ways

Love was pointless—
But I wanted to find
someone who cared

Like a cloud—
I floated away, pouring down
droplets of sadness

Enduring this cycle
made me face harsh realities
again and again

Present

My name means
“godlike”—But I’m not unique…
I’m just myself

I’m someone outgoing—
Though anger can sometimes overwhelm
and consume me

Compassion’s my strength—
Understanding others when they struggle
deepens my empathy

Hoping to accomplish
my dream: to impact others
with my words

Everything I’ve done
reached someone—either for better
or for worse

Love’s still pointless—
But deep down, I long
for someone’s affection

Like the sun—
Clear clouds and brilliant skies
surround my being

Emotions may change…
Sometimes despair will drag me…
But I’ll survive!

PERSISTENT DOUBTS

Anwyn Foreman

I often wonder:
If what I write
Makes sense.
If it is a gift
Or a deranged idea of one.
If it’s only in my head that I’m good,
Despite reality proving otherwise.
If I’m truly gifted with a talent,
One that turns the thoughts and feelings
Of this vast and complex world,
Into ink stains that form
Beautiful loving words,
That comfort us on dark nights
And inspire us in the bright sunshine.
Or if I am merely writing letters out,
Forming a sad cluster of words and phrases.
If I am producing a living, breathing body
Or just a pile of bones.

GRÁSTA Ó DHIA AR A HANAM

Ariel Melton

The Ferryman stood on the deck of his boat. The world nothing but rolling white fog around him. It wrapped around the mountains, distorting their forms into shadows, and hovered thick and heavy over the lake’s surface, blanketing the trees and muting the first notes of birdsong. It wrapped around the Ferryman too, its fingers sneaking underneath his coat and catching in the bristles of his beard—collecting, coalescing, and dripping onto his jacket in a steady stream. The sun would be up soon. The Ferryman leaned against the wall, idly knotting and unknotting a line, watching the sky grow lighter.

The ferry’s bow knocked against the lone dock, sending ripples across the water’s otherwise still surface. The Ferryman filled his lungs. The morning air was sharp and heavy in his nostrils, sticking to his throat with every inhalation. Somewhere beyond the fog, someone was cooking bacon. The Ferryman could practically hear the sizzling meat on the hot iron, smell the smoke that escaped from the stove. He could hear the woman humming quietly as she left the meat to chop up some greens. Her auburn hair caught the light of the morning sun, turning a beautiful gold as the rays of light danced between the strands and kissed her face. A little girl with bright copper curls stands on her tiptoes, her cheeks a rosy red from running outside in the morning cold, her fat fingers grabbing at more carrot peels to feed her goat. A man stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and boots creating puddles on the wood floor.

A dog barked in the distance, and the Ferryman dropped the rope.

A shaggy mutt emerged from the fog, trotting down the path to the dock where its claws clicked across the wood of the pier. The Ferryman could see patches where the matted fur revealed bare and scabbed skin. There were lines of old scars too—long and gnarled, twisting, and puckered.

The Ferryman stuck a boot out, blocking the dog from entering his boat. The mutt staggered back and gave him an affronted look.

The man shrugged. “I can’t let you on without a fare, pup.”

The dog huffed and bobbed its head. The meager, hazy light caught on a small piece of metal held between its teeth.

“Oh, you’ve come prepared, have you?” The Ferryman held his hand out. “Let’s see.”

The dog dropped a small copper penny in his outstretched hand with a wet plop and trotted aboard. The Ferryman sighed and wiped the coin against his pant leg before dropping it into the cashbox. The dog’s nose was pressed to the floor when the Ferryman turned back, the hairs of its muzzle dragged in puddles of lake water, creating little rivers in the wake of its exploration. The Ferryman pushed past the mutt to the helm, unwrapping the rope that tied the boat to the dock.

“Lay down.”

The dog paid him no heed as the Ferryman made ready to shove off. It followed him up the steps from the deck to the cabin and stuck its nose into the folded pile of bedding shoved in the corner. The Ferryman clicked his tongue and shoved his boot between the dog and its prize. The dog raised its head, droplets of water flinging off of its fur, and stared at the man.

“Go lay down or I’ll make you swim the rest of the way,” he said, pushing the dog down to the deck.

The dog huffed and lowered itself to the floor with a groan. It pillowed its paws under its shaggy head—chastised and petulant.

“I know it’s in your nature.” The Ferryman crossed his arms against his chest. “But it’s my boat and my rules.”

The dog sighed, his eyes following the Ferryman as he strode to the motor and flicked the switch. The pull cord whined against its receptacle as the Ferryman tugged on it, his elbow cutting through the air until finally the empty world filled with rumbling.

Fog around them thinned as the boat cut across the water’s surface, its fading fingers stretching out around them until it was gone, burning off from the morning sun. A woman was waiting for them on the opposite dock, her hands clasped and her skirts bright against the receding fog. The ferry knocked against the planking and the Ferryman dropped his gate. The dog stood, shaking its coat before creeping past the woman, its paws expertly avoiding the expensive cloth of her dress. The Ferryman watched the mutt climb into the hills, the sun shining off of its matted fur, almost making the dirty thing glow before it began its descent to the village on the other side.

The woman reached into her purse and placed a banknote into his money box. She stopped short of stepping onto the boat, noticing the lettering on the side.

“Your boat’s name is Aisling?” She asked, staring at the faded paint.

“My daughter.”

“Oh, I see.” The woman nodded slowly, her eyes tracing the name. She stepped aboard and settled into her seat, looking at the warped wood and growing puddles of water with no small amount of trepidation. “Is she… seaworthy? Not that I am not grateful, but there is an awful lot of the lake inside the boat, you know.”

“She floats.” The Ferryman closed the gate, running a hand across the weathered, splintered wood. “And she doesn’t deserve to stay docked.”

The woman quieted after that. Her hands were perfectly folded in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle. Her eyes followed him wherever he moved. She opened her mouth several times before apparently thinking better of it and looking away into the hills.

The boat rumbled across the lake, the sound a steady drone against the rhythm of water slapping against the sides. The dock was now long gone behind them, and the woman was staring again.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive…” The woman finally began, looking to the Ferryman for permission to continue. He stared forward, his hand gripping the rudder as he directed the boat towards the opposite dock. “But I heard a rumor around town about your daughter…”

The boat knocked against the dock and the Ferryman walked to the gate, leaving the engine idling and tether coiled. The Ferryman dropped the gate and glared at the woman. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

The dog returned the next day, the sky a sickly grey that seemed to make the scars on the mutt stand out all the more.

“I don’t envy whatever it is you went through, pup,” the Ferryman held out his hand for the now silver coin in the dog’s mouth.

The dog shook its fur and licked its lips, its eyes half covered with matted fur as it looked up at the Ferryman.

The Ferryman huffed. “If you keep riding my ferry I may have to give you a haircut,” he said, plunking the coin into the box. “It’s not a good look for my image, you see, carting around mongrels.”

The dog wuffed and laid on deck, looking up at the man through its curtain of fur.

“Mornin’” the town Clergyman greeted, taking his hat off as he approached.

“Speaking of mongrels…” the Ferryman muttered to the dog.

“Ever so grateful you’ve started this, you know. It’s quite the hike otherwise!” The man sat down, fanning himself with his hat. He looked up and down the ferry, his eyes following the rivulets of water streaming down the deck, his brows creasing in worry for a moment. The Clergyman rubbed his hands against his pants and took a deep breath. “How’s the missus faring?”

The Ferryman stared at the Clergyman until the man began to squirm. “You need to pay the fare.”

“Oh! Oh, yes of course. Of course.” The man patted down his jacket, dipping into his pockets and producing a handful of coins that he dropped into the Ferryman’s hand. “That should be enough, I hope.”

The Ferryman sighed and dropped them into the box. “It
will do.”

The Clergyman cleared his throat and shuffled his polished shoes. “We brought a pie ‘round your place couple days back, me and the wife.”

“Thank you.” The Ferryman slammed the gate shut, the wood crackling ominously on impact, and turned away from the man.

The dog startled at the noise, standing alert and watching the Ferryman fiddle with the engine’s switch, which flicked dully.

“Ehm—Myrna said you weren’t there. That you haven’t been there.” The Clergyman’s eyes were fixed on the little cabin near the ship’s bow and the pile of blankets, still warm from last night.

When the engine finally turned over and roared to life, the Ferryman grabbed hold of the rudder, looking past the Clergyman who was now staring directly at him. The mutt walked towards the Ferryman and tentatively sat beside the man, the warmth of the animal seeping into his legs through his pants. When the creature wasn’t immediately shooed away, it groaned and settled down, its chin resting on the Ferryman’s foot.

Even when they arrived, the dog didn’t leave the ferry, instead it pressed itself against the Ferryman’s leg while the Clergyman shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“Ehm.” The Clergyman hesitated at the edge of the ferry and dragged a hand down his face. “I’m—I’m truly sorry to hear about your daughter.”

The Ferryman’s face didn’t move a muscle, maintaining the same stony expression. The Clergyman seemed to take the silence as an opportunity to continue talking.

“It’s just such a shame, with the young people these days.” The man babbled, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket, seemingly unaware of the growing glare the Ferryman was sending his way. “They get so caught up with muck and misery these days they can’t hardly see God working in their life. It’s selfish really—”

The Ferryman grabbed the man’s collar and pulled him close, the edges of his beard prickling the man’s chin. “Get off my boat.”

The Ferryman shoved the man, sending him reeling, arms flailing in the air.

“Now—I didn’t mean to cause offense. I only meant to extend my condolences—”

The Ferryman pushed the mutt off onto the dock with his boot, “You too.”

He pressed his boot against the dock and shoved off. He stopped for only a moment to slam the gate shut which promptly fell off its hinge, dragging in the water behind him. He paid it no mind and tore through the motions of sailing, slamming and ripping through his routine until he began to stutter to a stop. A well-oiled machine without enough cogs to keep it going. The boat lost its direction and began to drift, the bow rocking with the wind.
The Ferryman stood on deck, staring off into the hills, the rope in his hand twisting and knotting around his palm. He pulled it tight until the edges of his skin began to swell with trapped blood, turning darker and darker red until he could feel his pulse against every fiber of the rope.

From the corner of his eye, the Ferryman could see the dog still on the dock, pacing. Watching him. The Ferryman’s eyes followed the mutt’s movement for a moment before he licked his teeth, and released the rope.

A couple arrived at the dock in the murky grey of evening. A strong wind had picked up and was whipping the bright skirts of the woman around and threatening to snatch the velvet hat from the man’s head.

“I just—I just don’t know. With this wind and the ferry being so… weathered… I don’t think it is safe.” The man was waffling, one hand placed on his head to keep the hat down and the other scratching his hairline under the band. “Perhaps we can visit your sister another day.”

“She is having a baby today, not tomorrow. We need to go now,” the woman’s fingers dug into her husband’s arm.

“Well, we won’t be much help if we are dead—oh good lord!”

The Ferryman turned to see the dog, one paw on the ferry, the other hovering uncertainly in the air.

“What’s the matter with you? Have you never seen a mongrel before?” The Ferryman glared at the couple and nodded to the dog. It slunk aboard, head low, apparently aware of the eyes on it.

“You’re letting it on?” The woman squeaked, shuffling closer to her husband.

“He’s a passenger, same as you.” The Ferryman collected two pence from the mutt, and the dog jumped up onto the seat.

“Has he got fleas?” The woman asked.

“He might,” the Ferryman answered. “But so could your man with the way he’s scratchin’ under that hat of his.”

“It’s allergies!” The man said, snatching his fingers away from his scalp.

The Ferryman took in a breath, “The mutt paid his fare and I’m the only way to the far dock unless you want to go through the mountains. Now are you getting on or not?”

The couple said nothing, only shuffling gingerly onto the boat, the woman bunched her skirts up to avoid the hem getting wet. The Ferryman unraveled the rope tying them to the dock. He shoved his boot against the structure, sending them into the water.

The Ferryman walked to the ship’s bow as it lazily bobbed in the water. He tousled the mutt’s ears as he passed, receiving a cold nose against his palm in return.

The couple exited the boat without a word, hurrying up the hills without even a second glance. The Ferryman shrugged and looked at the dark, heavy sky in the distance.

“Storm’s brewing.” The Ferryman said, looking down at the mangy dog who returned his gaze curiously. “You’d better find a roof to hunker down under ’til it passes.”

The dog gave him a sidelong look, tilting its head at the man.

“I’ll be fine. Cabin shields most of the rain, and my coat does the rest.”

Creaking and cracking through the night was not uncommon, but the aching, pained groan from the ferry would have been enough to wake the Ferryman from the dead. The Ferryman sat up. Lighting sparked and crackled in the skies. The ferry shuddered. The Ferryman stood bracing himself against the walls of the cabin and looked through the cabin door to the deck. The boat tipped and several inches of water rushed in past his feet, soaking his already wet bedding immediately.

The Ferryman snatched up his bailing bucket and began scooping up bucketfuls of water, throwing them overboard. The vessel groaned as the Ferryman worked, pitching and shuddering. The water on deck was more than just rain and waves. No matter how much he bailed, the water level would not go down. Water seeped up from cracks in the floor, every gust and shudder testing the strength of the already-wearied wood, splintering the deck more and more. The waves around him crashed over the sides as the ferry sank.

None of this should be happening. Boats are built for this, it should be stronger than this. The Ferryman didn’t understand. He didn’t understand where the damage had come from. The ferry should have been able to withstand the storm, but the weight and pressure of the water was splintering it.

He didn’t know how to save her.

Another swell hit them, and the deck gave way underneath the Ferryman with a final crushing scream. He clung to the ship, but no matter how he dug his fingernails into her deck, he found himself submerged in water. Debris thrashed around him. Rope tangled his legs as he struggled, impeding his movement and pulling him down, down, down with the boat.

The Ferryman took one final gasp of air before he was pulled beneath the water. His lungs were burning for air already. But it was quieter down here, no more screaming, no more cracking, or frantic bailing. It was over.

She was gone.

He was gone.

If this is what his daughter had felt—if up above the surface is what she had been enduring—the Ferryman could understand why she had chosen death over struggling to live. The line around the Ferryman loosened, but he made no move to free it entirely. Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself drift.

Muffled, frantic barking cut through the water and the haze of dying. The Ferryman opened his eyes; the lightning illuminated the shattered remains of his ferry and glinted on a single copper coin.

A girl with unruly curly hair ran through their yard, her feet muddy from the fresh rain. The sun reflected in her copper hair as it bounced with every stride. She laughed, her head thrown back and her missing teeth on display as the Ferryman caught her, lifting her into the air and spinning her around.

The Ferryman unwrapped the line from his boot and kicked. Clawing at the water and the splintered wood around him until he finally broke through the surface with a gasp. The roar was back.

Rain pounded down on him and the agitated waters tried to swallow him up again but he reached out a hand and clutched the dock. He gulped down air and water, his fingers hardly holding on as the storm buffeted him and the debris threatened to pull him down again.

The Ferryman could feel teeth latched onto the collar of his shirt and the warmth of the dog’s breath against his neck as he tugged. The Ferryman’s fingers scrabbled for purchase against the wood slats as he pulled himself up.

“I lost her!” The Ferryman choked, hauling himself further up the dock and out of the water. “Oh, my dear God, I lost her!”

He finally freed his legs from the depth and hacked up water, coughing and retching. “God, it’s not fair! I’m her dad, I should have been able to fix it! God, why couldn’t I fix it!”

Morning crept up, unwanted and bright as the dog led the Ferryman—shaking and coughing—up the winding hill. The Ferryman’s steps were clumsy and uncoordinated. The dog leaned heavily against him, guiding him to the little cottage with orange glowing windows and smoke twisting from its chimney.

There was a woman in the window with pretty auburn hair, watching the storm recede over the hills. Then she was gone.

The door to the cottage slammed open. A woman rushed out, her skirts snapping in the wind as she stumbled towards the Ferryman. “Dear God, Colín!”

“Myrna,” Colín rasped. “I’m so sorry I left you alone—”

Myrna fell into him, twisting the fabric of his soaked sweater between her fingers and dragging him close, tears streaming down her face. “I know, I know.”

Colín wrapped his arms around her, clutching at her hair and the fabric of her dress. She pressed his face into the crook of her neck as he choked on a sob, his shoulders shuddering under her hands. Colín’s knees gave out beneath him. Myrna followed suit, lowering them to the wet ground. They cried; the shaggy dog curled up around them as the rain pattered on.

The Swift: Volume Three

Table of Contents

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

CRITTERS IN THE GRIME

Alexi Byrnes

HOW DOES ONE CHOOSE TO KEEP LIVING OPEN-HEARTED IN THIS WORLD?

Alexi Byrnes

KINTSUGI

Emma Tsui

SAUDADE

Jasmin Adams

AN ODE TO FILIGREE

Angel Shetley

INHABITANTS OF A WANING EARTH

Julia Crawford

A LIFE SENTENCE IN PARADISE

Steven Carpenter

FORGIVE THE MESS

Shylee Greene

HURT YOU TO STAY…

Shylee Greene

444 (YOU’RE STILL BLUE)

Tram-Khanh Nguyen

TRAPPED

Anwyn Foreman

MUNDANE HAPPINESS

Lucy Cunningham

THE DREAMING & LOVING POETS DEPARTMENT

Sophavie Rang

IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

Little Breeze

ODE TO NORTHPORT

Lucas Brothers

WILDFIRES AND FLOWERS

Regan Richards

NIGHT OWL

Phoenix Fong

14th JANUARY

Lauren Roberts

THE MAN WHO LEFT

Lauren Roberts

A STRANGER AT THE DOOR

Caden A. Nelson

ONCE IN YOUR SHOES

Lizeth Hernandez

A STRANGER ABROAD

Tom Darby

SAD TIMES

Pierson French

HELLO, GOD SPEAKING

Richard Cole

UNTITLED

Darian Ferguson

IT’S STILL NOT TOO LATE

Sunny W. Hays

MICHELLE: MY NAME AND IDENTITY

Michelle Oida

PERSISTENT DOUBTS

Anwyn Foreman

GRÁSTA Ó DHIA AR A HANAM

Ariel Melton