Month: May 2020 Page 3 of 4

Last Moments to Honor Love by: Joshua Alexander Villatoro, Acrylic Paint, 2019

A Tomboy Named Bobby

It felt like I had been sitting in this chair for an eternity but turned out I had only been sitting here for a couple of hours, which was still a long time, especially since I had become my sister’s personal doll to play dress up with.

“Hold still Bobby!” my sister barked as she held my face tightly, trying to fix the mascara I had smudged a few minutes earlier. I was not enjoying this whole debacle, in fact, I felt extremely uncomfortable. Unlike my older sister, Lacey, who enjoyed getting dressed up and fixing her hair into a different style every day, I took satisfaction in torn-up jeans, oversized t-shirts, a simple ponytail, and the same pair of ratty Chuck Taylors I wore every day. I never really saw the point in getting all dressed up just to parade around people I didn’t even like; it was a ridiculous idea.

Still, here I was. Lacey had fixed my hair in what she called a “half up half down” style. She had taken half of my hair, twisting it from the front of my face to the back of my head where she had created a messy little bun that somehow looked oddly cute, and the remaining part of my hair had been curled at the tips then laid to rest on my shoulders. The makeup was simple, with only neutral colors, as I had requested. My Chuck Taylors had been replaced by black heels with straps that traced my ankles revealing how small my feet actually were and exposed my toenails that had been painted a deep shade of purple to match my fingernails and dress. I even traded in my glasses for the contacts I never really wore.

Even though I didn’t exactly feel normal with all the changes I had just endured, the hair and makeup didn’t really bother me that much; what made me extremely self-conscious was the dress. When I first saw the dress I fell in love with it immediately. The top of the dress had a sweetheart neckline and was a dark purple that almost looked black. The bottom of the dress was a soft purple made from a different fabric to make it lighter: that way it could flow freely when walking in it, unlike the top which was tight around the waist. I wanted to buy it but I stopped myself because a girl like me could never pull off a dress like that. It was made for girls like my sister, not tomboys with the name Bobby. I had walked away not expecting to ever see that dress again, but I had made the mistake of telling my sister about it, who then blabbed about it to my dad, and a week later it was hanging on my bedroom door. I had the dress for over a month but could never muster up enough courage to put it on until my sister finally forced me into it.

“And done!” Lacey said, popping her lips. She stood back scanning my face to make sure every little detail was perfect and I hadn’t messed anything else up.

“Come on, Bobby, stand up! Stand up! I need to see the full picture!” she squealed, grabbing me by the hands, practically yanking me out of the chair, causing me to stumble over my own feet that were not accustomed to such high heels. Once I gained my balance, I stood awkwardly in front of my sister who was admiring her work as if I was a piece of art.

“Holy shit, Bobby, you look amazing,” Lacey said, smiling like a fool. I began to feel hot. The dress was much more form fitting than I had expected, hugging curves that were normally never exposed, and I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I just felt weird, out of place and odd. I peered over my shoulder to the mirror Lacey had covered up, dying to see what I looked like, when all of a sudden Lacey snapped my face back in her direction.

“Lacey, please just let me take one look at myself,” I begged, but Lacey didn’t budge.

“Oh no. If you take one look at yourself in that mirror all my hard work will go down the drain and that dress will be off in a split second, I know how you work,” she said with her hands on her hips, shooting me a nasty glare. I knew she was right but I continued to press her.

“Lacey, I need to see how I look. You haven’t let me even take a peek since you started dressing me up. It’s my prom – I should be able to see what I look like before I go waltzing in there,” I said getting rather annoyed, but it didn’t faze Lacey.

“Bobby, you are going to the dance with Otter, who has been your best friend for as long as I can remember and has also been the most fugly kid I have ever met in my life. Trust me, they will be staring at him because he will probably be in some hideous outfit,” she said, shaking her head as she made a few touch-ups to my hair.

I hadn’t even thought about Otter. He was probably going to make fun of me seeing that he had never actually seen me in a dress before and it was true that he was probably going to be in some ridiculous outfit trying to get a laugh out of people. I was especially curious about what he was going to do with his hair that closely resembled a mop. I smiled to myself imagining what Otter was going to look like tonight.

For the last couple of years as we got older, I began to wonder if Otter and I could ever be more than just friends. When he asked me to prom over all the other girls, I had played it off, making it seem as if it hadn’t been a big deal, but secretly I had been hoping he would ask me because maybe this could be the start of a new chapter. My smile widened across my cheeks. This could be the night we finally see what’s on the other side of the friendzone.

A nervous rush washed over my body. All of a sudden the giddy thoughts fled my mind and were replaced with obnoxious worries. What if he didn’t like the dress? What if we both look like complete idiots? What if I trip over the dress and break an ankle in front of everyone? In that moment I began to panic.

I didn’t even want to go to this stupid dance. I was perfectly content with sitting at home watching movies all night and stuffing my face with unhealthy foods of my choice. Instead, I was being forced to attend a dance filled with people who would judge every little thing about me. My palms began to sweat. It was unlike me to get flustered by the thought of people dissecting every part of me just to try and figure out my flaws, but being in this dress and looking the way I did in that moment was absolutely unnerving because I was out of my comfort zone, completely exposed. But what terrified me to my very core was that I actually felt pretty. I had never felt pretty before—I had never looked like this before—and I wondered if Otter was going to like this version of me better. I felt like vomiting. What if at midnight I reverted back to being just Otter Beckett’s best friend in a baggy hoodie with beat-up shoes? What if I never felt this pretty again? My heart was racing, tears burned my eyes, and a lump formed in my throat.

“Lacey, I can’t go,” I whispered, but she didn’t hear me. I felt my eyes begin to sting even more and my stomach was in knots. I did not belong in this dress and I was far from graceful in these shoes. I didn’t feel overwhelmed with excitement like most girls do on prom night; instead, I was an anxiety-ridden mess. Before I could experience the full-fledged panic attack that was about to explode my father’s voice chimed in.

“Bobby, Otter is waiting for you outsi—” I turned around now completely facing my dad, who was just staring at me in shock. My cheeks flushed red.

“I look dumb, don’t I?” I said, with tears threatening to spill onto my cheeks. My father smiled, shaking his head, making his way towards me. He dabbed the tears with the corner of his shirt, careful not to ruin the makeup, then wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his signature dad bearhug, squeezing me tightly.

“No, sweetheart, you do not look dumb. You look absolutely incredible.” My dad was not the most sentimental guy but he was always there to dust us off when we fell down and I loved him for that. I hugged him tightly, knowing I was about to get a mini-speech on putting myself out there and being confident in myself.

“Now you listen to me, Bobby Andrews,” my dad said, holding me by the shoulder so he could see my face, “I know this isn’t normally your style and you probably feel uncomfortable as hell but you deserve to have a good prom so go out there and have a fantastic time.” He kissed the top of my head. I gave him a small smile, trying my best to push down my insecurities although they were still trying to crowd my thoughts. My sister was tapping her foot impatiently.

“Can we get a move on, already? I want to go see what that dork is wearing!”

After a couple minutes of fixing my makeup for the millionth time, making my way down the stairs holding onto the railing praying to god I wouldn’t fall, and listening to Lacey repeatedly telling me not to step on the dress, I was finally at the front door with my heart trying to beat out of my chest.

I honestly don’t know why I was so nervous: it was just Otter, after all. The same Otter that ate a worm at recess in 3rd grade. The same Otter I had seen tear his pants at a pep rally in 6th grade in front of the whole class. The same Otter that had single-handedly started a food fight freshman year and got 2 months of detention. The Otter I had known my whole life. Yet I was worried that he wouldn’t like what he saw.

“Hurry up and go out there already!” Lacey yelled. I took one final breath, then opened the door. I saw him at the end of the driveway in front of his car with his back facing me. Carefully I stepped out of the doorway onto the porch. Once I made sure the dress was out of the way I shut the door behind me. He heard the door, then turned to face me.

His hair that he had been growing for the last 4 years that once reached the middle of his back was now a short chestnut-colored wave that flattered his facial structure, the peach fuzz he liked to call his “manly facial hair” was shaved off, exposing a cut jawline, and he wore a traditional tux with a dark purple bow tie which made him look extremely handsome.

I expected him to say something but his jaw simply opened and shut waiting for words to fall out but it was like he lost his voice. I smiled as my cheeks began to blush. He was never at a loss for words. In a split second, all of my fears and worries about prom faded, then were replaced with a warm, hopeful feeling that this night was going to be the night everything changed.

A Hard Day's Night by Ciaradh Twomey

Light Pollution by: Jonathan Sencion, Digital Photo, 2018 [responsivevoice rate=".9" voice="US English Female"] A Hard Day’s Night It’s been a long day; the sun went down hours ago and somehow, I’m still standing in the same place I was this morning. Most days at work are long, and when it’s slow in a restaurant, like it has been the past few weeks, servers, like me, find themselves with nothing to do. The one table I have sits five feet away from me. They paid out almost an hour ago, and are just sitting, chatting to one another. Normally I would be annoyed by this, but seeing as no one is here to take their seat, there’s no harm in letting them stay a while longer. Most of my co-workers have been sent home and Troy, the jolly general manager, has just told me that I must close the restaurant tonight. I am upset by the fact that it’s only nine o’clock and we don’t close for another two hours. My mind starts to drift as I think of what my friends must be doing right now. Dee got off at three pm, so she’s had her freedom from work for some time now. She’s probably headed over to Morgan’s with the whole gang. Morgan lives in what can best be described as a glorified garden shed. While the house itself lacks space and a woman’s touch, the massive cedar deck he built around it is beautiful, and the perfect place for friends to gather. I imagine they are all seated under the canopy, fairy lights plugged in, mimicking the stars above, as they inhale some inspiration. Dave is playing his guitar, hitting a wrong chord every now and again, disrupting the otherwise beautiful melody. He’s playing some acoustic rendition of a Beatles song. The only thing missing, I feel, is me. I hate being the last one at work on a Friday. There’s no way to convince myself I’m not missing out. I bet the dogs are running through the wooded yard, waiting on dinner. Everyone’s dog is a menace, but my dog, Kid, he takes the cake. At only a year old he still has the energy of a puppy. I can see him ignoring Dee as she begs him to stay in sight. He looks and continues with his shenanigans, sprinting like a madman through the yard. Lost in my own world, it’s almost like I’m there beside them. The clear night sky opens up and rain begins to pour. Shaded by the canopy and mildly inebriated, it’s unlikely anyone would move. “Ma’am, excuse me, miss!” I’ve been summoned back to reality. “Could you get me a to-go tea before I leave?” the young woman at my table asks. “Why of course,” I say, a subtle degree of resentment in my voice. I bring her the tea, she thanks me, and I give her a pleasant nod. The night is slow but the tables are never-ending. I usually work the morning shift on Fridays, filled with elderly brunches and business outings, but the night is different. Most of my tables tonight have been young groups and couples, some of whom are fun to interact with. I am sat once more, this time an older man, dining alone. He has a sad look in his eyes and his brow is wrinkled, I presume from stress. I greet him the same way I do everyone, with a large smile and my name. Before I can finish, he beckons for water. I hate when people do that. I can tell this will not be fun. I ask him if he would like any appetizers. He grunts and shakes his head. As I leave, I notice he is beginning a timer on his phone. ‘Really?’ I think to myself. The restaurant is empty and he’s timing his beverage order. I walk to the kitchen, calm and collected, but as I get out of sight, I race to grab his drink. Glass, water, lemon, straw, done. When I get to the table I glance at the clock. 56 seconds, not bad, it would have been better, but the water dispenser is the slowest of all. He stops the timer and I take his order. He begins his timer again as if I am in charge of ticket times. I let Franklin, our kitchen manager, know that we are on a time limit. We laugh for a while and talk as I wait for the food. After five minutes, I check his water for refills and check the time. 11 o’clock. I know I won’t have any more tables for the night, a joyous fact. I hear a chime from the kitchen and enter to see the man’s lemon pepper chicken in the window. I grab it and prep it, sprinkling parsley and garnishing with a lemon wedge. I round the corner and place the plate in front of the man. When he has finished his meal, I thank him and wish him a good night. All that’s left to do is clean my section. I do so as fast as I can, anxious to leave. I swipe my card to clock out for the day, hop in the car, and head to Morgan’s. When I get to the isolated driveway, I step out of my car to open the gate. I realize droplets of rain are starting to fall. I get back into my car and follow the meandering path to the house. As I approach the deck, I see the familiar faces I know and love, gathered under the canopy exactly how I imagined. I notice a small glowing ember in Morgan’s fingertips. I laugh to myself. As I step out of my car, I hear ‘Dear Prudence’ on the guitar with a few slip-ups in notes and a quiet hum of off-key voices. I join my friends on the deck and look around. Kid and the other dogs run in the yard and the joy on my friends’ faces lights up the night. [/responsivevoice]]]>

A Hard Day’s Night by Ciaradh Twomey

Light Pollution by: Jonathan Sencion, Digital Photo, 2018

A Hard Day’s Night

It’s been a long day; the sun went down hours ago and somehow, I’m still standing in the same place I was this morning. Most days at work are long, and when it’s slow in a restaurant, like it has been the past few weeks, servers, like me, find themselves with nothing to do. The one table I have sits five feet away from me. They paid out almost an hour ago, and are just sitting, chatting to one another. Normally I would be annoyed by this, but seeing as no one is here to take their seat, there’s no harm in letting them stay a while longer. Most of my co-workers have been sent home and Troy, the jolly general manager, has just told me that I must close the restaurant tonight. I am upset by the fact that it’s only nine o’clock and we don’t close for another two hours. My mind starts to drift as I think of what my friends must be doing right now.
Dee got off at three pm, so she’s had her freedom from work for some time now. She’s probably headed over to Morgan’s with the whole gang. Morgan lives in what can best be described as a glorified garden shed. While the house itself lacks space and a woman’s touch, the massive cedar deck he built around it is beautiful, and the perfect place for friends to gather. I imagine they are all seated under the canopy, fairy lights plugged in, mimicking the stars above, as they inhale some inspiration. Dave is playing his guitar, hitting a wrong chord every now and again, disrupting the otherwise beautiful melody. He’s playing some acoustic rendition of a Beatles song. The only thing missing, I feel, is me. I hate being the last one at work on a Friday. There’s no way to convince myself I’m not missing out. I bet the dogs are running through the wooded yard, waiting on dinner. Everyone’s dog is a menace, but my dog, Kid, he takes the cake. At only a year old he still has the energy of a puppy. I can see him ignoring Dee as she begs him to stay in sight. He looks and continues with his shenanigans, sprinting like a madman through the yard. Lost in my own world, it’s almost like I’m there beside them. The clear night sky opens up and rain begins to pour. Shaded by the canopy and mildly inebriated, it’s unlikely anyone would move. “Ma’am, excuse me, miss!” I’ve been summoned back to reality. “Could you get me a to-go tea before I leave?” the young woman at my table asks. “Why of course,” I say, a subtle degree of resentment in my voice. I bring her the tea, she thanks me, and I give her a pleasant nod. The night is slow but the tables are never-ending. I usually work the morning shift on Fridays, filled with elderly brunches and business outings, but the night is different. Most of my tables tonight have been young groups and couples, some of whom are fun to interact with.
I am sat once more, this time an older man, dining alone. He has a sad look in his eyes and his brow is wrinkled, I presume from stress. I greet him the same way I do everyone, with a large smile and my name. Before I can finish, he beckons for water. I hate when people do that. I can tell this will not be fun. I ask him if he would like any appetizers. He grunts and shakes his head. As I leave, I notice he is beginning a timer on his phone. ‘Really?’ I think to myself. The restaurant is empty and he’s timing his beverage order. I walk to the kitchen, calm and collected, but as I get out of sight, I race to grab his drink. Glass, water, lemon, straw, done. When I get to the table I glance at the clock. 56 seconds, not bad, it would have been better, but the water dispenser is the slowest of all. He stops the timer and I take his order. He begins his timer again as if I am in charge of ticket times. I let Franklin, our kitchen manager, know that we are on a time limit. We laugh for a while and talk as I wait for the food. After five minutes, I check his water for refills and check the time. 11 o’clock. I know I won’t have any more tables for the night, a joyous fact. I hear a chime from the kitchen and enter to see the man’s lemon pepper chicken in the window. I grab it and prep it, sprinkling parsley and garnishing with a lemon wedge. I round the corner and place the plate in front of the man. When he has finished his meal, I thank him and wish him a good night. All that’s left to do is clean my section. I do so as fast as I can, anxious to leave.
I swipe my card to clock out for the day, hop in the car, and head to Morgan’s. When I get to the isolated driveway, I step out of my car to open the gate. I realize droplets of rain are starting to fall. I get back into my car and follow the meandering path to the house. As I approach the deck, I see the familiar faces I know and love, gathered under the canopy exactly how I imagined. I notice a small glowing ember in Morgan’s fingertips. I laugh to myself. As I step out of my car, I hear ‘Dear Prudence’ on the guitar with a few slip-ups in notes and a quiet hum of off-key voices. I join my friends on the deck and look around. Kid and the other dogs run in the yard and the joy on my friends’ faces lights up the night.

Diver's Story by Hunter Reagan

Movement in the Void by: Nicole Baldry, Ink and Foil, 2019 [responsivevoice rate=".9" voice="US English Female"] Diver’s Story A black horizon stretched out indefinitely, held at bay by the light of a swinging torch but nevertheless complete in its obscurity. Then, suddenly, a prick of light in the sea of darkness. A pinpoint that swayed as it descended, deeper and deeper still into the cold depths. An intriguing light, as it could not decide where to go. Made hesitant by the never-ending abyss, it turned to the side, flitted up, tilted down, and turned around. A beautiful yet ridiculous dance, the illuminating jewel was mesmerizing. Drawing closer, the brilliant jewel of light transformed into something much less magical. An oblong mass, dark and brown in color, was topped by a sphere of reflective scale. Situated at the front of the sphere was a massive eye, weirdly indented, and though it was reflective, no iris could be seen. Sprouting from that same mass was a tentacle, though incredibly long and uniform. Up and up the appendage went, out of the range of the creature’s light and into the great darkness above. Two puffy yet round fins emerged from below its ghastly head, flailing about without creating any meaningful current, and two more that firmly pounded the ocean floor. Stirring up clouds of sand and muck, the creature limped along the seafloor as if the notion of swimming was foreign to it. So slowly it moved that any self-respecting creature could easily surprise it, latch onto it with its teeth, and swallow it whole. Switching off the torch to edge in closer, the creature seemed completely unaware. Though it showed no recognition it was being watched, its aloof attitude coupled with its alien appearance served to make it all the more dangerous. Still, the beast must have a weakness, and sooner or later it would display it. A perfect opportunity would arise, if given enough time. All that is required is patience, and to wait. And wait. And wait. At this point, the entity had begun to move. Kicking up a storm of sand, it made its way on the floor with the tentacle trailing at an angle. Finding its way through the hills and divots, sometimes stumbling into a crevasse and at others climbing a steep incline, the beast made quite a racket. Crustaceans were pounded into dust and seafloor-dwelling fish bolted away. However, the thing stayed focused— never erring, never tiring. With its beam trained dead ahead, it continued forward. From monotonous plains where the whitest sand formed an even bottom, to leagues of craggy spires that spewed forth great heat and bubbles, the creature persisted. Only when presented with the Gorge did the being stop. A jagged gash in the Earth, the Gorge spanned miles across and its depth was equivalent. Even in the darkness prevalent at this level, the Gorge sported an even more tenebrous maw. Though a gentle grade that approached the opening hinted at an easy way down, a sheer drop awaited any foolish enough to try. Starting down the deep grade, the creature quickly lost its traction. Sliding down and frantically clawing around for any way to avert a grisly end, an opportunity presented itself… Tumbling down the sandy slope, a blur of limbs and flashes of light peaked out from an already growing trail of dust. Unable to right itself, the creature’s fins proved useless as it madly spun towards the encroaching abyss. Whipping out a glinting object from its waist, it jammed the device into the muck. Though stopping the monster’s whirling form, the measure did little to slow its motion. Within an instant, the creature met the lip of the Gorge and soared beyond, straight into its waiting maw. Plummeting backwards, the torchlight illuminated the waters above as the walls of the crevasse soared up on both sides. Rapidly attempting to reel in the hose, the rock seemed to rise even faster. Clawing, pulling, grappling, straining, tugging, heaving. The hose kept coming and so did the onrushing cliffs. A second, a minute, any sense of time was lost in that one-sided game of tug-of-war. The Stygian abyss sunk its claws into the ill-equipped existence, ushering it towards a briny death; the out-of-place explorer clinging to its last shred of hope as it fell, and fell and fell. A shriek of metal screamed out as the body of the Diver caught, the harness bending at an obscene angle and threatening to rip free but keeping the form suspended all the same. Turning to glance beneath, the light of the torch was swallowed whole before it could even reach the bottom. Wearily staring up, the beam caught something. Amidst the stone sides of the crevasse, now higher than ever, a shadowy form flitted past. Training the light in its direction, all that could be made out were the dark brown walls. A rush of water pelted the Diver’s back as something raced past. Whipping around, the source of the sound was no longer there. Hurriedly scanning the surrounding waters, only the occasional patch of wall-sprouting seaweed interrupted the monotonous scenery. Anxiety creeping into the impregnable suit, the Diver carefully reached back, producing a harpoon gun. The gnarled end, sporting multiple barbs to ensnare any creature unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end, glinted a vicious silver and felt heavy in the Diver’s hands. Wrapping the hose around its free hand, it began to sway from side to side, all the while keeping an eye out for its fellow inhabitant. As if finally noticing a disturbance, the being turned around, spying for the source. Its beam of white light penetrated the darkness, forcing a retreat. Dashing around, darting above and slinking below, the creature eventually lost sight. Upon doing so, its gangly arms removed something from its back. A long, thin object that shined as brightly as the head—a spine, perhaps. As the creature raised the lengthy object, just below its head, the device emanated a terrifying aura. Plunging below and staring above, the monster kept the object pointed away while frantically shining its light all but down. Spiraling up, jaw unhinged, ready to taste blood… the satisfaction never came. Waving the light around to spy for the pursuer, a new color emerged in the colorless depths—crimson red. Initially a trickle, a river of red blood rushed to engulf the Diver from below. Slowly looking down, a monster the likes of which had never been seen stared out. A mountain of a fish, from tail to head it must have been twenty feet in length and half as round. Baggy layers of diseased gray flesh wrapped the body, drooping down to its unholy jaw. A wicked line of serrated teeth the size of kitchen knives protruded at all angles formed an infinite number of rows, retreating into its maw. The worst, though, were the eyes. Bulbous globes of putrid yellow ooze stared out, rivaling dinner plates in size. Leaking out from those massive eyes and vomiting forth from the beast’s mouth was the blood. Writhing in pain, contorting its vile features into something that was almost pitiful, undoubtedly scared, it was crushed to death. Slinking back into the darkness below, carrying with it its freshly killed prey was a tentacle of unimaginable proportions. Pearlescent white in color, the appendage was marred with scars revealing its lifelong fight for survival; and long it must have been, for just in the brief moment that the segment constricted the monster fish, the marks were so numerous they resembled the grain of wood. Finally vanishing into the abyss beneath, the Diver was left suspended. Petrified, the Diver could do little but tremble. The spear gun in their hands no longer had the menacing weight it once did, and its metal had lost all luster. The technological advancements of its species were little more than annoyances to these creatures of the deep, and yet they had conferred such unbridled hubris. An insignificant pest was all the Diver was in the face of such an existence, and the numbing cold of reality sunk in. The gun fell away, down, down into the deep while a quivering hand reached out but grasped nothing. Trying again, the gloved hand fumbled with the switch. Another hand reached up, frenziedly attempting to extinguish the light, to not see it, to not know, to be ignorant. A seam split the abyss below. A gash in the tenebrous black that burst with a bright yellow light. The slit widened, growing to the size of a sailing vessel and still longer. Stretched to the limit, the tear ripped apart and revealed a terrible, gargantuan eye. The pupil tore across the orb, racing madly in its socket until it centered on the Diver. And then another eye. And another. And ano— The torch went dark. [/responsivevoice]]]>

Diver’s Story by Hunter Reagan

Movement in the Void by: Nicole Baldry, Ink and Foil, 2019

Diver’s Story

A black horizon stretched out indefinitely, held at bay by the light of a swinging torch but nevertheless complete in its obscurity. Then, suddenly, a prick of light in the sea of darkness. A pinpoint that swayed as it descended, deeper and deeper still into the cold depths. An intriguing light, as it could not decide where to go. Made hesitant by the never-ending abyss, it turned to the side, flitted up, tilted down, and turned around. A beautiful yet ridiculous dance, the illuminating jewel was mesmerizing.

Drawing closer, the brilliant jewel of light transformed into something much less magical. An oblong mass, dark and brown in color, was topped by a sphere of reflective scale. Situated at the front of the sphere was a massive eye, weirdly indented, and though it was reflective, no iris could be seen. Sprouting from that same mass was a tentacle, though incredibly long and uniform. Up and up the appendage went, out of the range of the creature’s light and into the great darkness above. Two puffy yet round fins emerged from below its ghastly head, flailing about without creating any meaningful current, and two more that firmly pounded the ocean floor. Stirring up clouds of sand and muck, the creature limped along the seafloor as if the notion of swimming was foreign to it. So slowly it moved that any self-respecting creature could easily surprise it, latch onto it with its teeth, and swallow it whole.

Switching off the torch to edge in closer, the creature seemed completely unaware. Though it showed no recognition it was being watched, its aloof attitude coupled with its alien appearance served to make it all the more dangerous. Still, the beast must have a weakness, and sooner or later it would display it. A perfect opportunity would arise, if given enough time. All that is required is patience, and to wait. And wait. And wait.

At this point, the entity had begun to move. Kicking up a storm of sand, it made its way on the floor with the tentacle trailing at an angle. Finding its way through the hills and divots, sometimes stumbling into a crevasse and at others climbing a steep incline, the beast made quite a racket. Crustaceans were pounded into dust and seafloor-dwelling fish bolted away. However, the thing stayed focused— never erring, never tiring. With its beam trained dead ahead, it continued forward. From monotonous plains where the whitest sand formed an even bottom, to leagues of craggy spires that spewed forth great heat and bubbles, the creature persisted.

Only when presented with the Gorge did the being stop. A jagged gash in the Earth, the Gorge spanned miles across and its depth was equivalent. Even in the darkness prevalent at this level, the Gorge sported an even more tenebrous maw. Though a gentle grade that approached the opening hinted at an easy way down, a sheer drop awaited any foolish enough to try. Starting down the deep grade, the creature quickly lost its traction. Sliding down and frantically clawing around for any way to avert a grisly end, an opportunity presented itself…

Tumbling down the sandy slope, a blur of limbs and flashes of light peaked out from an already growing trail of dust. Unable to right itself, the creature’s fins proved useless as it madly spun towards the encroaching abyss. Whipping out a glinting object from its waist, it jammed the device into the muck. Though stopping the monster’s whirling form, the measure did little to slow its motion. Within an instant, the creature met the lip of the Gorge and soared beyond, straight into its waiting maw.

Plummeting backwards, the torchlight illuminated the waters above as the walls of the crevasse soared up on both sides. Rapidly attempting to reel in the hose, the rock seemed to rise even faster. Clawing, pulling, grappling, straining, tugging, heaving. The hose kept coming and so did the onrushing cliffs. A second, a minute, any sense of time was lost in that one-sided game of tug-of-war. The Stygian abyss sunk its claws into the ill-equipped existence, ushering it towards a briny death; the out-of-place explorer clinging to its last shred of hope as it fell, and fell and fell.

A shriek of metal screamed out as the body of the Diver caught, the harness bending at an obscene angle and threatening to rip free but keeping the form suspended all the same. Turning to glance beneath, the light of the torch was swallowed whole before it could even reach the bottom. Wearily staring up, the beam caught something. Amidst the stone sides of the crevasse, now higher than ever, a shadowy form flitted past. Training the light in its direction, all that could be made out were the dark brown walls.

A rush of water pelted the Diver’s back as something raced past. Whipping around, the source of the sound was no longer there. Hurriedly scanning the surrounding waters, only the occasional patch of wall-sprouting seaweed interrupted the monotonous scenery. Anxiety creeping into the impregnable suit, the Diver carefully reached back, producing a harpoon gun. The gnarled end, sporting multiple barbs to ensnare any creature unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end, glinted a vicious silver and felt heavy in the Diver’s hands. Wrapping the hose around its free hand, it began to sway from side to side, all the while keeping an eye out for its fellow inhabitant.

As if finally noticing a disturbance, the being turned around, spying for the source. Its beam of white light penetrated the darkness, forcing a retreat. Dashing around, darting above and slinking below, the creature eventually lost sight. Upon doing so, its gangly arms removed something from its back. A long, thin object that shined as brightly as the head—a spine, perhaps. As the creature raised the lengthy object, just below its head, the device emanated a terrifying aura. Plunging below and staring above, the monster kept the object pointed away while frantically shining its light all but down. Spiraling up, jaw unhinged, ready to taste blood… the satisfaction never came.

Waving the light around to spy for the pursuer, a new color emerged in the colorless depths—crimson red. Initially a trickle, a river of red blood rushed to engulf the Diver from below. Slowly looking down, a monster the likes of which had never been seen stared out. A mountain of a fish, from tail to head it must have been twenty feet in length and half as round. Baggy layers of diseased gray flesh wrapped the body, drooping down to its unholy jaw. A wicked line of serrated teeth the size of kitchen knives protruded at all angles formed an infinite number of rows, retreating into its maw. The worst, though, were the eyes. Bulbous globes of putrid yellow ooze stared out, rivaling dinner plates in size. Leaking out from those massive eyes and vomiting forth from the beast’s mouth was the blood. Writhing in pain, contorting its vile features into something that was almost pitiful, undoubtedly scared, it was crushed to death.

Slinking back into the darkness below, carrying with it its freshly killed prey was a tentacle of unimaginable proportions. Pearlescent white in color, the appendage was marred with scars revealing its lifelong fight for survival; and long it must have been, for just in the brief moment that the segment constricted the monster fish, the marks were so numerous they resembled the grain of wood. Finally vanishing into the abyss beneath, the Diver was left suspended.

Petrified, the Diver could do little but tremble. The spear gun in their hands no longer had the menacing weight it once did, and its metal had lost all luster. The technological advancements of its species were little more than annoyances to these creatures of the deep, and yet they had conferred such unbridled hubris. An insignificant pest was all the Diver was in the face of such an existence, and the numbing cold of reality sunk in. The gun fell away, down, down into the deep while a quivering hand reached out but grasped nothing. Trying again, the gloved hand fumbled with the switch. Another hand reached up, frenziedly attempting to extinguish the light, to not see it, to not know, to be ignorant.

A seam split the abyss below. A gash in the tenebrous black that burst with a bright yellow light. The slit widened, growing to the size of a sailing vessel and still longer. Stretched to the limit, the tear ripped apart and revealed a terrible, gargantuan eye. The pupil tore across the orb, racing madly in its socket until it centered on the Diver.

And then another eye.

And another.

And ano—

The torch went dark.

And by Tyler Whigham

Bridges by: Bao Han Tran, Acrylic Paint, Ink pen, 2019

And

The alarm blared and her hand sought and found with oft-repeated ease the button by which the sound ceased. Not once in those few seconds did she open her eyes, nor was the sound particularly surprising. Fitful sleep and half-forgotten dreams had long since surrendered to bitter wakefulness and the red light soaking through her eyelids.

A soft sigh escaped barely parted lips, and eyes that were so determinedly shut peeled themselves open.

The same sight greeted her as did every morning, tousled sheets and a bunched and rumpled quilt, shoes kicked off the night before lying on their sides, the shifting of shadowed leaves across glass revealed by half-open curtains. The sunlight dripped past the glass and into the room, draped across every surface like cobwebs, sent dust motes dancing golden with every breath.

She lay where she was, still, watching, weary, awake. The steady rhythm of her heart and the slow creak of her lungs were her only companions.

Necessity merged with willpower, took hold of her limbs as the alarm beeped again, the strident sound striving to breed urgency and succeeding only in sounding off a moment longer before ceasing yet again. Now she was sitting upright, and standing looked all the more possible, though how she would move lead laden limbs stymied her still.

Miraculously, she managed, just by willing them to move, to swing her feet over the edge of the bed and onto the cold floor. Then she was standing, walking as though with great purpose, setting out clothes and tracking down shoes and brushing teeth and relieving herself and drinking a glass of water and and and and and.

The world was full of ands.

A soft whistle of a kettle filled the air. She poured herself a cup of tea, spooning a dollop of honey into the softly steaming liquid. It burned her mouth when she raised the mug to her lips, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

She pulled a dark-spotted banana from its bunch, slipped shoes onto socked feet, and slipped keys into purse. Before she left her kitchen, she grabbed a small knife from a drawer and cut off the top of the banana, absently stripping yellow skin from pale flesh. It was gone after a few bites, a few seconds of mindless chewing and swallowing, sustenance received without pleasure, the empty shell deposited in the tall trash can by the side door.

Purse in hand, she rallied herself, steeled herself, put her hand on the doorknob. It turned easily, as always, and as always felt it should have been harder, as though a mountain was suddenly smaller than a grain of sand. She locked the door behind her, plastering a smile she didn’t feel to her face as she walked through the sun-soaked morning to her car. A tap of a button, and the door unlocked with a muffled click.

Keys turned in the ignition, the steady rumble of the engine sending vibrations through the whole of the vehicle. She closed her eyes, clenched her fist, gathered herself, opened her eyes. A quick pull put the car into reverse, and she backed out of her driveway, tapping the button to turn on the radio.

The soft sounds distracted her from her thoughts as she drove through the city, paying careful attention as though to make up for how disconnected she felt. She should be happy. She knew she should be happy. There was no reason not to be, with a nice house, a job she enjoyed doing, more than enough money to live comfortably, and a small padded box inside her purse, and yet, she wasn’t.

All she could think of was the ands.

She pulled into the parking lot, into an open spot, put the car into park, waved at a coworker who was walking by. Humming along to the radio, she pulled her purse into her lap, rummaging through the contents until the box was in her hands.

It was a small thing, square and white and smooth. So small, yet containing a decision of such monumental importance. She opened the box, held it within her hands as the music swelled in chorus.

“…if she only knew…”

Her brow furrowed. A moment of stillness stretched out. Finally, she glanced at the time, shook herself out of her funk. Hurriedly, she snapped the box closed, throwing it back in her purse, gathering it and her half full mug and yanking the keys from the car, bursting from the door in a veritable whirlwind of motion and activity.

The last words of the song that played before she turned off the car and the radio hung behind her, heavy and taut, weighing her down every bit as much as the box in her purse did, and try though she might, she could not leave them behind her.

“…she’s not enough…”

The day passed by in a blur of work and effort and congratulations both murmured and called and outward excitement and hidden pain. She wondered vaguely, in those few moments she was alone, away from the wide windows and sunlit spaces in the luminescent lighting of the bathroom, if they knew how brittle and fragile the pasted smiles and repeated thanks truly were, how small and sad and thin as wet tissue paper they were.

She doubted it.

So she accepted the thanks and threw herself into work, hoping doing something she loved, something she enjoyed, would snap her out of the funk she found herself in, but to no avail. It seemed that knowing she was sinking did nothing to stop her from sinking, but she had no idea where even to begin, so she persisted.

It was a light work day, unfortunately. She wished it was heavy, that there was so much to do and get done by the end of the day that she had no time to think of what was coming later that day, after the sun surrendered to the moon and all the cards were punched, but the work was light. It was far too light to free her from the muck and mire of thoughts flying in sharp contrast to the glorious spring day just outside the windows, to the constant delight of friends and coworkers. It was too light, and there was too little to do.

Only once did someone come and ask if she was okay. She smiled, nodded, and said she was, and sent her on her way, though what she wanted to do was shake her head and let the tears lingering in her mind rise to her eyes and fall across her cheeks and admit she was anything but okay. She smiled and nodded and worked and laughed like she was just as happy for herself as everyone else was instead of sitting and staring in shocked silence and admitting that nothing was as she thought or hoped or wished it would be.

But she did none of those things, because that moment was an or, not an and, and it was one or the other. Which, in the end, meant she could only choose one.

She was the last to leave the office, only shutting down her computer and picking up her things and cleaning up her workspace and locking up behind her when the sun started to kiss the horizon goodbye, painting the air and the clouds with gold and red and purple, a sight so completely ordinary and unique it coaxed a genuine smile to her lips, the first of its kind to adorn them all day.

It lasted only a moment, the softness of the sunset sending her shadow stretching far before her as she got in her car and sat there for a moment, thinking, dreaming, looking out the windshield without seeing anything. She turned on the car, turned up the radio.

“…nothing can change…”

She sighed, put the car into reverse, flicked on the headlights, drove home. It took her only fifteen minutes to change from the casual comfortable, professional clothes she wore into a dusky red dress and heels that would inevitably be less comfortable and makeup that matched the whole ensemble, twisting up her hair into a simple, elegant knot, and then she was off again.

Orange lights lined the busy streets, mingling with the reds, greens, and yellows of traffic lights, the whites and distracting blues of headlights, the neon of storefronts and the warmth of restaurants, the whole of the world changing in the night, fighting with the darkness for dominance, for the right to exist. It only took moments for her to find where she was going, moments more to find and navigate into an empty space, headlights spearing into the shadows, parting them before her like the sea before the escaping Israelites.

Her breath caught in her chest. The night was upon her, the very moment, and as the immediacy struck her, so too did the realization she could hardly breathe. In that moment, the whole of the world seemed underwater, the air pressing thick and heavy against her skin, her heart steadfastly, steadily enduring the weight of the world that fell against her shoulders.

“…her broken heart…”

Somehow, she found herself outside, car doors locked, keys in hand, knuckles white. She walked, quickly, surely, inevitably, heels clicking against pavement until the front of the restaurant was in sight, and so was he.

She stopped in her tracks. The world rushed in, colors and sounds and smells returning as old friends, comforting, reassuring, anchoring. An errant curl brushed against the side of her face, pushed by a gentle breeze. He saw her, smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes, and with that smile, she saw everything with crystal clarity.

With him, it was always about the ands, never about the ors or what ifs. It was about getting the perfect job and getting the perfect house and marrying the perfect girl and having the perfect kids and the perfect car and the perfect dog and the perfect life. With him, she was just an and, and no matter how he treated her or how special he made her feel, there was always the understanding that everything was just because that was how it was meant to be, never because he wanted her, needed her, loved her.

She would always be another thing crossed off the list, and once she realized that, realized what he wanted, she realized that she wanted something more, something not tied to and nor to or but to only. And in that moment of perfect clarity, she found it in herself to want more than a life that would eventually, inevitably make her miserable, a life lived to check things off a list. She wanted more, and he would never be able to give it, never be able to pursue her as she followed what she wanted.

So she walked up to him, reached into her purse, pulled out the white velvet box, and held it out for him to take back. Startled surprise arched over his face, followed by the slow blossom of anger. He tried to say something, but she just shook her head, said she was sorry, and finally took his hand, giving him back the box and the ring it contained before turning on her heel and walking away, leaving him and his and behind.

Someone, not him, called out for her to stop, to think about what she was doing, but she had done nothing but think about it, and her mind was made up. The only thing left to do was walk away, so walk away she did, heedless of what anyone else thought, because the decision she made was for herself, not to satisfy anyone else and their desires and their expectations, and in that choice, she was satisfied.

For the first time in a long time, she felt free, the burden fallen from her shoulders as she walked away and he stayed where he was, rooted in place, calling for her to stop, for her to come back, but he could no sooner have returned her to his side than stopped the tide. No longer suffocating under his weight, she smiled, a deep, shuddering, cleansing breath flying from her lips.

She stepped into her car, sank into the leather seat, reveled in the familiar hum of the engine, and let the night in through the windows, thinking. Perhaps not happy, not yet, but for that moment, for that night, content.

“…she draws the lines…”

A Day at the Beach by Nell Townsend

Distance by: Gilberto Garza, Archival Inkjet Print, 2019

A Day at the Beach

So, I decided today would be the day I would visit my place of solitude, Whiting Beach. I had been putting it off for quite some time. I knew the way by heart, I’d gone so many times before. Whenever I was troubled it was my place to find inner peace. There I could sit and contemplate my future as I watched the Ore boats traverse Lake Michigan. It had been a rough year; I really needed this time out.

I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined. I could almost feel the sting of the cold water as I waded through the dark blue waves, and feel the gritty sand between my toes. I welcomed the thought of the hot sun on my shoulders and the smell of Coppertone. My transistor radio belting out the latest tunes from WLS radio station and the DJ’s corny jokes.

Alewives season was over by now. In late spring those smelly little silver fish wash up on Lake Michigan shores by the thousands. They would have been cleaned up by now. Being at the beach brought back pleasant memories. When I was a child my parents would take my siblings and me there on Sundays after church. Picnics at the lakefront park and long walks along the shore. Just past the pavilion is where the carnival would set up every 4^th of July. We would spend the day with friends swimming. The day would culminate with a giant firework display set off on barges in the lake. I loved Whiting Beach. Something about the force of the water hitting the breakwater on the deep end and the gentle splash of waves on the sandy shore was grounding. Surrounding the inlet cove were the steel mills belching pollution to the left. Off to the right, way way off in the distance you could see the Chicago magnificent mile skyline. Whiting Beach was my ‘in between’ place to find inner perspective. I thought a day’s drive was not too high a price for reflection.

I loaded up my Ford Pinto, with the hole in the floorboard, and headed off. I drove for miles until I came to the old wooden drawbridge that was suspended over the Little Calumet River, the river a channel from Lake Michigan to the mills. The river was the passage that supplied coal and raw materials to the industrial complex. The poor old river was more oil and gas runoff than water. Its thick polluted sludge slowly moved the boats to their destinations. After crossing the river, at once, you knew you were getting close. The smell of oil, gas, and smog assaulted your nose. Standard Oil, Sinclair, Inland Steel, and LTV jockeyed for position along the lakefront.

In the heyday of the sixties, the parking lots were packed. Long lines of workers would wait their turn on to Chicago Avenue parking lots. The refineries pumped thick toxic billowing fumes into the air. The relief smokestacks stood like gray birthday candles with their bright orange flames burning out the impurities. Huge oil drum storage tanks lined the street for miles, as cars looking as small as Match Box toys drove along the road.

After what seemed like hours the road widened and Marx town lay ahead, a small subdivision built by the steel mills to house the workers and their families. There were a small grocery store and plenty of bars and taverns serving hot food and drink. These were for the men who needed to cash their paychecks and have a slug of whiskey before heading home. I always felt a little depressed passing these little houses in the shadow of the mills.

The town of Whiting wasn’t far now. Whiting was a small town sixteen miles east of downtown Chicago. Its brick houses, well kept, were a point of pride to the residents. The town primarily of Polish and Serbian descent reminiscent of their old-world setting. As I drove by, the church bell from Sacred Heart rang out. Where did the day go? I was almost there, only the railroad tracks separated me from my destination. I could see the White Castle restaurant as I rounded the curve. White Castle hamburgers, my very favorite. The town boasted proudly it was built in 1920. The building with the white block castle theme was my goal. I loved those little nuggets of grease. My friends called them “gut bombs.” Those square little three-bite burgers with steamed buns and grilled onions were so delicious. Their claim to fame is they are the original “slider”: they slide going in and slide coming out. I always took a stack of burgers and a liter of pop to eat while at the beach. What a treat for a day in the sun!

The switching set of tracks, my last hurdle separating me from the beach. They lay ahead of me like a spilt box of spaghetti noodles. My window down as I crossed the tracks, I could feel the cool breeze and slight fishy smell of the water. I could hear the roar of the waves pounding the embankment on the far side of the road.

As my small Pinto drove over the last rail I heard a loud thud. My frail car, not built for railroad tracks, came to an abrupt stop. The front tire wedged into a pothole the size of a drum. My Pinto, the latest victim of winter’s wrath on the asphalt road.

My day at the beach would have to wait for another day.

The Surfer by Michael Verastegui

B&W Sea by: Jacob Leones, Digital Photo, 2019

The Surfer

His naked
Hands soft yet coarse
With long
Scars on their backs and
One chipped
Index nail.

His right
Scrubbing a sponge
On the long
Board while
His left
Keeping it stable.

The beach
A cinema;
The black
Carpet sands,
The ceiling of overcast
Clouds, someone
Turns the sprinklers on,
And the silver screen sea.

I ask if
He is finished.
He
Turns to me,
Looks up
Then down,
Faces the water
Again and says,
“Ten more minutes.”

Ryujin's Train by Lu Min

Elevate by: Jose Cuevas, Acrylic on Canvas, 2019 [responsivevoice rate=".9" voice="US English Female"]

Ryujin’s Train

There was no hesitation standing on the platform As the doors opened to the sound of a chime; Dragons boarded the train. Oh! It’s a man. A young man with an odd patch of white in his hair. Intrigued, she spoke. Only muffled sounds came out. He smiled. It was such a familiar and gentle smile. What is he saying? Only the sound of chimes rippled out of his mouth. Then realization imploded her mind. A dead end. The chimes start again. She glances at the young man. Fumes exhausted, the doors opened. Beyond the train, the smell of the afterlife emitted. She stands and walks towards the exit. As she takes a last glance, inner conflict ensues. The man looked as if he was grieving. What does that mean? Chimes burst her eardrums. In an instant everything became blurry. Filled with concern the man held out his hand and filled the cold air with warmth. She stares at the now small hand. In a moment of blink, the distance between them grew. She ran and lunged for his hand. “LIVE,” he shouted. The walls broke down and they were no sounds of chimes. Just the wail of new life. She looks down. Her hand firmly grasped. Raindrops fell from the sky. Both in sync with the Dragon’s cry.

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Ryujin’s Train by Lu Min