PHOENIX

ISSUE 54 VOL 2 SPRING 2013

ISSUE 54 VOL 2 SPRING 2013

Letter from the Editor

During my time as a leader in the Student Publications Office I have learned from so many people. I appreciate each one, and I’d like to thank Jane and Eric for all the work and passion they put into this office and this magazine. At the end of the day, I am a moving fixture, here for a short time only, but you both are steady and lasting. Your guidance this year has created a space for me to make mistakes and think creatively, and your consistant encouragement has made Phoenix a postive and memorable experience.

For the staff members this semester, I want to reach out to each of you and say thank you. You all worked towards our goals and collaborated with the editors to create a fantastic magazine. Shelby and Carly, you both are talented and bright, and I look forward to seeing what each of you brings to Phoenix in the future. And lastly, I want to extend best wishes and gratitude toward Tara. As a designer you fulfilled every duty perfectly, but as an invaluable member of the staff, you worked to put together the jumble of thoughts and submissions that make up Phoenix and crafted them into a beautiful magazine that I am so proud of.

Thank you all for your patience and dedication, your work and contributions, your talents and vision.

RTToni Cloninger

Alyssa Johnson

Alizabeth Patterson

Jake Wheeler

Catherine Widner

Katharine Willford

P ETRYMelodi Erdogan

Hannah Kitts

Harrison Luna

Erik Schiller

Katharine Willford

FICTI NNick Bendeck

Clinton Elmore

Alicia Wetherington

Caroline

Caroline (2)

Breakdown

Self Portrait

Contrast Study

Overlook

Film Scan

Photo Jan. 04

Exist in Between

Medulla

Transience

I Came From You

Formation Through

Decay

Joy

Love Dove

Ballad of Alcoholism

(or, Honest Love)

#2

Thin Air

The Story that was Never Told

Conglomerate

Don’t Go

Scale

Hackers Anonymous

9

9

2-3

5

28

21

7

30

14

16

17

19

31

13

10-20

29

23-28

4

32

22

6

31

8

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Alyssa Johnson

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Lovey dovey Deewas always filled with glee.

She would treat all her family and friends with the utmost kindness,and even when everyone else was upset she’d never find reason to be mean.

Lovey dovey Dee loved everyone indeed,but sadly Dee never found someone who loved her equally.

In a while she came to believe she was invisible,convinced she was sick with a terrible case of the miserables.

Lovey dovey Dee went to the doctor for some help.She told the doctor, “There’s gotta be something wrong with me!

I love everyone I know, even boogie woogie Lee!From boisterous Ben to sappy Sophie,from racy Ren to monstrous Marie!”

Lovey dovey Dee looked at the doctor and breathed heavily.The doctor said, “Well Dee, have you met anyone you love a little more dearly?

Have you met someone that takes the wind out of you?Can you think of anyone you know, anyone you knew

that you may just love a little more than the regular few?”

Lovey dovey Dee thought for a minute, she told the doctor “I think I know just the one,” and walked out of the clinic purposely.

Instead of going home Dee went straight to the field where she knew he would beShe stopped and thought twice if she could or should but

Truthfully Dee wanted him to know fully.

After quite a while of arguing with herself, lovey dovey Dee decided to go on.Being the only two people in the field, Dee said, “I need to talk to you, Angelo.”

The boy looked up from the book he was reading with his big brown beautiful eyes and smiled that oh-so-perfect smile Dee had dreamed about, which was not wise.

Dee tried to speak, but nothing came out and she began to wish she had brought a disguise.

But before she could flee, he said, “Dee, since the minute I met you I loved you tenderly.

Your honesty, your sympathy, your caring intuition,struck me like cupid and has me asking your permission

to love you fully with no admonition.”

Lovey dovey Dee laughed with joyand threw her arms around the dark eyed boy.

And that’s the story of lovey dovey Dee:The girl who loved everyone, and found someone she loved a little extra, additionally.

L VE

DO

VE

Melodi

Erdogan

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Self PortraitAlyssa Johnson

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Note how the air smells crisp and stings:I can feel it in the center of my cellsLittle pools of DNA freeze over with each breath.My heart is still, my lungs shrivel.

I want to swallow the Sun And wash it down With the Sea.Ah!

Through the ice, the mountain watchesAs I descend, rain running off my back,Meeting the earth like a long-lost friend.

T h i n A i rErik Schiller

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F il m S ca nJake Wheeler

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ConglomerateKatharine WillfordWe are clastic girls bodies fractured by starlight on a summer night—buoyant, fleshy, harder to sink than granite, breccia, iron ore.Sometimes naked in the black waterwith the moon for our eyesand sometimes not.Sometimes the quarry water drips from our hair and dampens the front of our shirts,tangled messes crowing over the latest tragedywhile the dogwoods murmur incessantly jealous of our permanence.

We recrystallized during the intense heatof a southern summer, the cigarettes between your lipsfueling the burn, the sweat between our thighs moldedto cheap plastic lawn chairs, the melting of our brow,the long seductive trail of moisture from neck to collarboneto the foliation of our breasts.

I still feel grains of you inside of meeven in the colder months when you are gone.I hear them shift in the nightcementing with the more malleable partsthe parts that still need strengthening.

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Caroline (2)Tony Cloninger

CarolineTony Cloninger

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Don’t GoNick BendeckI watched the thick trunk jerk and then begin its descent to the forest floor. Its lush green leaves crashed through the

canopy created by the other trees. There was always an odd silence that occurred the instant before a tree was felled,

followed by what I could best describe as a gentle sigh released from the tree before it gave in to gravity. I’d been working in

the Renoan forest for about ten years and felled thousands of trees, and they all shared this formulaic end.

My boss was a burly man, rotund of belly. His face was covered with a coarse blanket of brown fur. The combination of that

and his constantly rosy cheeks made it very difficult to take him seriously. Boss had come by to inspect the landing of my

tree to see if anyone had been injured or if the wood had split in an undesirable fashion. This never happened to my trees.

I was meticulous. I was safe. I was fast. Boss liked that about me.

“Tommy. You done it again, by God,” he’d say. “This makes yer hundredth this month!

Great work, as usual. That record is comin’ up, ya know.” I’d say thank you and that I wasn’t thinking about it, but I absolutely

was. The pay bonus for breaking the record was some absurd amount that would set me financially for a long while. It was

my shot at getting myself, and my mother, out of Renoah forever.

Renoah was a poor farming town located in the valley of a staggering mountain range. Foresting and logging were the main

source of external revenue for the tiny town of about three hundred. Because the population was so small, the residents

were all very connected. Everyone knew everyone. Most people worked in their own gardens and fields and shared the

crops they reaped with their neighbors and the local markets. It was that kindness and generosity that Renoah used to

survive even in its poverty. For those who didn’t work in the fields, however, the forest was the only source of income.

In my eyes, working in the forest was the lowest form of human achievement. The wood didn’t even go into helping my

community. It went to neighboring cities that were “less fortunate.”

At least, that was the excuse the logging company used to sell the wood for profit without question. The work was dull and

incredibly demanding physically, so naturally it was delegated to the meat shields of Renoah;

those with strength of body but not necessarily of mind. I didn’t fit that category, but I had to take up work when my

father passed away in the war. It was the only job a strapping fifteen year old lad with no résumé could get, without major

connections.

But as father always said, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

As the last rays of precious orange light spilled over the peaks of the azure mountains, I returned to my house at the base of

the valley. It’s a quaint place, my home, a simple one-level wooden cottage with a basic kitchen and two bedrooms.

The wood on the outside had lost all of its color, leaving it a lifeless grey. Despite its faults however, it was sufficient.

Just three of us lived there: my mother, my beagle Sammy, and myself. We lived on the bare necessities, but in Renoah, no one

had much more than that.

I trudged through the door, shed my coat and made a beeline to the fireplace. It took me one summer and 1,356 bricks

to build, but the fireplace was an excellent and essential addition to our cottage, as the winter months oppressed Renoah

annually with their biting winds from the mountains and the illness those brought. As I warmed myself, I realized that

something was amiss. Sammy usually greets me at the door. His surprisingly jovial demeanor was quite refreshing in those

dismal times. That’s what was missing. After hours of working in the forest, I needed to see him. He was my detox agent

– my relief from the cruel reality that was life in Renoah.

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But he wasn’t in his usual spot by the door or by the fire. It nagged at my mind for a moment, but I decided he was most

likely napping with mother.

She was an incredibly sweet and passionate woman, my mother. She used to work. In fact, her garden was the most famous

in Renoah for quite some time. She was known especially for her giant yellow squashes. Something about the soil was more

than perfect for the growth of the oversized vegetables. One afternoon while she was trying to lift one of the behemoths

out of the ground, her body twisted and went limp.

She fell to the ground immediately. The doctor said she had ruined her spine and would need to stop working permanently.

After the accident, she had very limited movement of her limbs, and was confined to her primitive wheelchair and bed.

She became my burden to bear, but I loved her.

After I had adequately thawed by the fire, I called out nonchalantly, “Sammy?” No response.

Where could he be? After the third call that roused no indication of his whereabouts, my mind began to shift into an

alarmed state. There had to be a perfectly reasonable excuse for the situation.

I had been so preoccupied with finding Sammy that I hadn’t realized that my mother hadn’t greeted me either. “Mother?”

I said. It felt as though I was talking into vacuum. The house was deathly silent. My heart rate quickened and I began to

worry. Where could they be? The fire was started. The lights were on. They had to be inside. They were probably just napping

together.

Then I heard it.

Sammy was whimpering like he never had before. His cries were full of fear and trepidation.

I felt my heartbeat in my hot ears, a rapid throbbing. I couldn’t afford to let my mind race to the different thoughts it longed

to have. I knew she was in trouble.

I ran down the small hallway that connected the kitchen to our bedrooms 6and stopped at her door.

More accurately, I froze in fear. I had no idea what awaited me behind her door. I shook my head in an attempt to clear my

thoughts and I turned the knob. It stuck. I tried again, to no avail. “Mother!” I shouted. There was no response from her, only

the continued cries from

Sammy. I had to get to her. I slammed my shoulder into the thick wooden door and it popped open.

Pain surged through my shoulder and down my back, but there was no time to pay any mind to that. She was lying there,

motionless.

Sammy was in the bed, frantically licking her face, trying to tempt even the slightest reaction, but she was still. She had always

been very stubborn. I grasped her arms and began shaking her, gently at first, then more violently. “Mother! What’s wrong?

Answer me, damn it!” I demanded.

Nothing.

What had happened here? I had to stop for a moment to think. Get my bearings. I pulled my

hands away and noticed the red marks where my nails had dug into the soft brown skin of her

arms. “Slow down, Tom,”

I thought to myself, “Look around.” Poor Sammy was losing his mind on the floor by my feet.

He was not helping the situation, so I put him in the hallway and ordered him to stay. I looked

back to my lifeless mother and began the arduous battle against my tears.

“The fire was started. The lights were on. They had to be inside.”

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I ripped the covers off her and began to examine what I had a difficult time believing was my mother’s body. All of her

gorgeous bronze skin had been drained of its color. Her natural glow had been diminished to a wan unappealing dullness.

I had no official medical training, but I knew enough about the plants and herbs in Renoah to be prepared to alleviate some

basic illnesses. Rashes and swelling, things of that sort. But this was different. Her body was still, like a paralysis had stricken

her. As my mind scrambled for an answer, I lost my composure and started crying.

I began compressing her chest and breathing into her mouth, checking every few moments to see if anything had changed.

“You’re okay. I promise. You’re gonna be okay, momma.”

My speech was shaky and repetitive. I pressed my ear to her cold breast and listened for any signs of life. It was difficult to

hear anything other than the pounding of my own heart, but to my satisfaction, I heard a very faint thump in her chest. It

was weak, but by God, it was there. She still wasn’t responding to my constant verbal prompts, but her heart was beating

and that was a good enough start.

I quickly scurried to the kitchen and brought back some water. I poured some into her open mouth and coaxed it down

her throat. After some further tending, she began to come around. She was breathing somewhat regularly. The breaths were

shallow and rigid, but constant.

By this point, Sammy had all but torn the door off its hinges trying to get back into the room, so I let him in as I went back

to the kitchen to wet some cloths for my mother’s head and neck.

What the hell had happened? Why was the door locked? These and other questions raced through my head, but I couldn’t

stop to indulge myself by pondering them at that moment. Caring for my mother was the primary objective.

I made my way back through the corridor and into the dark room. She was sitting up, which I assumed was a good sign, and

I sat beside her. I pressed the wet cloth against her neck with my earth-caked hand and she took it in hers. With the other

she caressed my sweaty red face. A few minutes that seemed like a lifetime passed in silence before she broke down.

The tears streamed down her pale face as I wrapped my arms around her trembling body.

I opened my own wet eyes and looked down to her nightstand. Sitting on the edge was a bowl filled

with a purple mush and some flowers. I quickly cycled through my knowledge of the plants in Renoah

to find one that would connect the dots drawn by the situation at hand. After a moment or two,

it came to me. Wolfsbane.

I remembered a book I had read in the small library in town. “Wolfsbane: Incredibly toxic when

ingested. Small amounts are known to sometimes be fatal in 2-6 hours. Large amounts kill almost

instantly. Some symptoms include: heart and lung paralysis and gastroenteritis. To treat, monitor victim patiently to see if

heart rate becomes irregular. If so begin chest compressions.”

My mind was clouded with confusion and my eyes with rage. I pushed my mother away and stared blankly at her.

“Thomas,” she began. “I don’t really know what to say. You caught me,” she said with a sheepish smile. Her feeble attempt at

making light of the situation angered me further and without any knowledge of it, my hand rose. As I began to bring it down,

I felt two sharp pains. One was in my shoulder, stinging and burning, and the other was in my ankle. I looked down to see

Sammy had latched onto it with his small but powerful jaws in defiance of my intention. The combination of the emotions

and pain was enough to bring me crashing to the floor into a sobbing heap of man.

I know he didn’t mean any harm to me. He was only protecting us. That had always been his main role, protector. He sat

next to me and licked my face with his floppy wet tongue and I threw myself around him, almost completely forgetting

“You’re okay. I promise. You’re gonna be okay, momma.”

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JoyKatharine

Willford

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about my mother who still just sat in the bed. I rose from my pile of self-loathing and silently helped my mother into her

chair. I then motioned for her to follow me into the kitchen. She came without much struggle. We sat down at the table, and

after a brief emotional respite, I began the inquisition.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I asked.

“I...I just want what’s best for you, honey.”

Her simple hackneyed answer infuriated me, but I couldn’t risk losing my temper again. I let her reply sink in for just a

moment as I watched her head fall into her hands. Her tears splashed down onto the table and collected into a small puddle,

but I saw this as another attempt to deter my questions.

“I know I can be tough to handle sometimes. I should be taking care of you, not the other way around,” she sobbed.

“You’re my mother. Eventually, I’m supposed to take care of you anyway.”

She looked up to take in the emotions on my face. “But not at this age, honey. You work so hard already. You grew up so

quickly – too quickly.”

“Everyone works. What’d you expect me to do? Not work and let us both die off?” My dry humor was her favorite and she

snuck in a slight giggle between watery snivels. I was doing my best to remain calm and not let my anger get the best of me. I

didn’t want to lose it on my poor mother after her traumatic afternoon.

“I know. I know. Sometimes, I just get to thinkin’ and I realize that you’d be better off just you and Sammy.”

I lost it.

“Do you hear yourself? That’s ludicrous. How on Earth could my life possibly be better without you? It can’t! That’s a

rhetorical question. There is no scenario in which I am better off without you. I just can’t believe—” A thought entered my

mind and I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach by a fist full of bricks.

In Renoah there was an insurance policy, one that most families couldn’t afford, that granted children who lost both their

parents a multitude of benefits. Recipients would be granted immunity from work if they wished, a pass in the next 3 draft

cycles, and a healthy monthly allowance for the rest of the child’s life. The money came from the Renoan government funds

and other outside private investors. She had obviously done it for the money, but this still didn’t make sense to me. We

didn’t have the policy. It was too pricey for us even with me working since I was fifteen.

Exist in BetweenCatherine Widner

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I scooted my chair closer to her and placed her soft hands in mine. “We don’t have the plan, momma. What were you

thinking?” Her lack of a response was disconcerting, so I prodded further. “We don’t...do we?”

“Your father,” she said in a hushed whisper. “They had a pool at

work. The owners didn’t know, but they all put money in every

week and when the pot got big enough they had a drawing.

His name was chosen, Tommy.” The information washed over me

in waves of agonizing realization.

I began to question my own actions. If I hadn’t stopped her I

would have been financially stable for the rest of my natural

life. I would have taken Sammy and we would’ve moved out of

the cottage. No more work in the forest. I wouldn’t have even

needed the record.

“No!” I shouted so loudly it derailed my train of thought and caused my mother to jump.

I would never have been able to live with that pain. I couldn’t lose her too. I looked down and saw that I had slammed my

clenched fist into the table so ferociously that I had left a dent.

Sammy came hustling down the hallway and rushed to the kitchen table. He hopped up on the table and barked sharply. I

pulled him to my side and stroked his soft fur because it calmed me. It always did. I looked to my sobbing mother, fully

understanding now what she had done, and we sat silently for a few more painful moments.

“Well, that is some interesting news.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Tommy. You mean everything to me. I just want you to be happy.”

“I know you do, but you must realize that money can’t replace a mother. Right? It doesn’t magically create happiness and

family values.”

“I know it can’t replace me, but—”

“Oh stop it! I have some news for you, now.”

Her face went from sorrowful to flummoxed with a blink of my eyes. “What?”

Mother knew about the record, but I hadn’t told her about the bonus because I had wanted it to be a secret when it

happened. It had become obvious that that was a huge mistake. But hindsight is 20/20. “Do you remember that record I told

you about?”

“Well, of course! I’m so proud of you dear, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“I get a huge bonus for it.” The words came out faster than I had intended. She cocked her head slightly to one side as if that

would help her comprehend the complexity of my simple statement.

“How much, Tommy?” she asked softly.

“Too much. It’s from the same people that fund the insurance. We’re gonna be fine, momma.” The faucets behind her eyes had

been opened once again. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but you kinda forced my hand, didn’t you?”

“I had no idea,” she said. “I don’t know what to say,”

“Nothing. We’re gonna be just fine. The three of us.”

“Well, when do you think you’ll break the record?”

“As soon as I get another six hundred trees. About six and a half months I’d say,”

“A few minutes that seemed like a lifetime passed in silence before she broke down.”

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“That’s great, Tommy,” her eyes shot down to the table. “That is just wonderful. I’m so proud of my big man,” her words came

out in massive sighs. Both of us were obviously physically and emotionally drained. The events of the evening had taken quite

a toll on our bodies.

I stood up and walked over to her, embracing her in my sap-covered arms, and whispered gently, “It’s okay, momma. It’s all

gonna to be okay.”

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A doctor had been to the house a few times to check on my mother’s condition after the incident. One visit, on a

particularly dreary day, he came out of her room and sat down with me at the table. He said her spinal fluid was leaking and

causing the signal firing of her nervous system to deteriorate.

“She’ll be in quite a bit of pain, but that’s the least of your worries,”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother is going to become very easily agitated. Her mind is slowly going to slip away and most people don’t handle

that well. She will most likely lash out on her caretakers. The disease is manageable, though. If she stays at the apothecary,

we can treat her.”

“No. I can handle it.” My eyes began to water. “I’ll get the medicine and treat her here.”

“Tommy, I really don’t think that is advis—”

“I can handle it,” I said forcefully.

The rest of his words bounced off my trembling body and eventually he showed himself the door. I was left alone with

MedullaCatherine Widner

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my thoughts. There was no way we could afford to put her up in the apothecary. A bed-space there would cost a substantial

amount, and I knew I would need to spend most of my money on the medicine. I knew my life, our lives, would be drastically

different after that visit.

Originally, there was some awkward tension between us, so I took a few weeks off work to stay with her full time after the

incident. I wanted to believe that she would be fine on her own, but I couldn’t rid my mind of the thoughts of coming home to

another silent house.

The changes in her manner were immediate and noticeable. In the weeks leading up to my major award, my mother had

become very curious about work and the record. “Who set the record last? How many people have broken this record?

Where do those people live now?” These and other questions were fired at me during dinner on a fairly regular basis. Her

normal curiosity had become more and more of an obvious skepticism of the whole scenario, and that bothered me. It

bothered me because I had been having similar thoughts for about the final month.

As I made my way up the well-trodden path to work on the final day, I couldn’t help but let my mind feverishly conjure up all of

the doubts I had been having previously. Why hasn’t anyone in town mentioned anything about the last record holder? Roger

Jones was his name, so

I’d been told. But where was he now? I’d had never heard anything about him or his family at work or at the markets in town.

He had probably just used the money to do exactly what I had wanted to do since I heard about the bonus: escape.

Despite the negative thoughts, my gait as I walked to work on the morning I would break the record was less like a funeral

dirge than usual. Instead it possessed more of a swagger. I had been averaging four trees a day, which put me three weeks ahead

of what I had quoted my mother on the day she tried to “help me.”

TransienceCatherine Widner

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I approached the elevator that carried the workers to their locations for the day. The rusted steel cage would zip around

on a single track above and below it, twisting and turning to avoid the massive trunks that composed a maze in the forest.

It was one of the better work perks, of which there weren’t many. But on that day, it wouldn’t zip me around.

Oscar the elevator operator had been working for the Renoan Lumber Company for about thirty-five years. I had grown

to like the polite old man. We would share pleasantries on the rides through the forest and chat about the weather and

the crops. In the time I had been working for the RLC though, I had never seen him miss a day of work. That day, he

wasn’t at his post. Instead, a tall flaxen-haired teen stood before me.

“Where’s Oscar?” I asked.

“He’s been let go,”

“What? Why? Is he okay?”

“I’m not authorized to say anything about it, sir,”

“Well who is?”

“That’s none of your concern, sir. However, this is,”

The boy reached into his pocket, removed a small yellow envelope, and handed it to me. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but

my heartbeat became immediately uncomfortable. The worries and fear traveled from my mind down into the pit of my

stomach, leaving my body cold. I stared at the envelope as if it were a puzzle for a few seconds, then I ripped the top off

unceremoniously like one would a birthday present. Inside was a folded ivory-colored note card. It had a red RLC stamp

on the front flap and under that was a name neatly written by some sort of calligraphy pen.

Good morning,

We’re sorry to inform you that as of the sixteenth of June, you will no longer be employed by the Renoan

Lumber Company. You’ve been a valuable member of the RLC’s crew for these past years, but we have been

presented with the unfortunate task of lightening our work force.

While your work was excellent, there are older members that deserve to stay with us. Please do not take this

personally, as the decisions were incredibly difficult for us to make. Again, thank you for your years of service

and we hope you have success with the rest of your endeavors, Tommy.

I couldn’t comprehend what I had just read. My world was spinning and my breath had left me. I was being let go.

I whispered to myself, “No. Not on this day. This...this can’t be.” I trained my gaze on the boy. “What the hell is this?”

“You no longer work here, Timmy,” The smug boy’s purposeful mistake conjured images of me throttling his pencil neck in

my mind. “You need to leave immediately,”

“Just like that? I’m done here? No notice? No courtesy handshake from the boss? Just a meaningless letter?”

“Correct. Sorry about the bonus,”

His response jarred something loose in my head and I was stricken with the same pain I had felt when I realized that

my mother had tried to obtain the insurance. There was no record. There was no bonus. My mother’s suspicions were

confirmed. The whole idea had been a hoax from the onset. Most likely, it was a ploy to get workers to stay on the job.

Those conniving bastards!

I stood there, mouth slightly agape, wondering what in the world I was going to do. My saving grace, the goal I had been

working for fervently for the past years, had vanished in a single moment. Taken by a hackneyed thoughtless letter given to

me by a snot-nosed twerp, no less.

And the company knew full-well there would be no “future endeavors.” If I couldn’t work in the forest, there was no way

of earning income otherwise. The markets were volunteer-only and our garden hadn’t produced worthy vegetation since

my mother stopped tending it.

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The pep had been effectively removed from my step and replaced, once again, with the dirge-like gait I was accustomed to, as

I returned home. I was consumed by a sense of overwhelming hopelessness and fear. I don’t even remember talking with the

neighbors who had seen me leave earlier and wondered why I had come back so soon.

My mother.

There was no way for me to care for her any further. I couldn’t support

us without that job. She was becoming increasingly more dependent while

conversely becoming less responsive to my care. The combination of which

had been wearing me and my patience to the bone. On a number of occasions,

I found her medication under her bed. That led to stricter supervision and

higher tension between us. But this didn’t even matter because I couldn’t

afford the remedies sold by the apothecaries without my job.

I finally arrived at the house and Sammy scrambled around the corner yipping

joyfully, as was his norm, but it had no effect on my broken state. Ignoring him,

I floated through the foyer into the kitchen and numbly prepared a daily dose

of mother’s medicine. The bottle that contained the mixture of herbs and chemicals was practically empty. “Great. Just great,”

I said,

“Why bother? She isn’t going to take it anyway.” I felt sweat forming on my forehead and palms as I walked down the hallway.

I opened her door and entered the quiet room and, before I even approached the bed, she was snapping at me. “Stop

wasting our money on that garbage. I’m not going to take it. I’ll be dead soon anyway. Just let me go, Tommy,” She had

an outburst like this every now and again, but I usually just ignored her words and made her take the medicine. That day,

however, her words crushed me. They crushed my spirit and my hope for our new life. I made her take the medicine, despite

her unwillingness, and left her to take her afternoon nap.

“I couldn’t comprehend what I had just read. My world was spinning and my breath had left me.”

Don’t Go by Nick Bendeck | continue Don’t Go by Nick Bendeck | continue

I Came From YouCatherine Widner

20 | FICTI N

Sammy joined me at the kitchen table, as I sat with my head lying on my folded arms.

My mind was broken. No job. No money. No medicine. No hope. We were trapped. My mother’s words echoed in my head,

“Just let me go, Tommy.” She didn’t want to live. I wanted her to, but was I being selfish? She had been suffering so much. She

was in so much unbearable pain. Why was I letting her suffer? That was the answer. The suffering had to stop. For all of us.

I rose from the chair and headed to my room. Sammy must’ve known something was different, because he was barking

constantly. I grabbed a pillow from my cot and returned to my mother’s room. She seemed peaceful in her sleep, her chest

slowly lifting and falling. I watched her and for a few beautiful moments I felt closer to my mother than I had in months.

Sammy yapped from behind the door, scratching feverishly at the wood. My mother’s eyes opened briefly and I covered

them with the white cloud of salvation in my hand. Her arms flailed violently and her body jerked and spasmed as she tried

desperately to remove the pillow from her face. The work in the forest had granted me considerable physical strength, so

there was no way for my poor mother to escape.

I was a zombie. My mind was blank. No thoughts. Into the whiteness of the pillow I stared as the life drained from my

sweet mother. She was going to be better. I saw her arms drop to the bed and her body stop jerking, just as Sammy had

plowed through the door. He rammed into my knee, knocking me to the ground and relinquishing me from my mental

black out. I looked to the bed and saw her. Lifeless. No motion. What had I done?

I shook her arms and beat on her chest. “You’re going to be fine, momma. Wake up! You’re going to be fine.” No response.

The tears in my eyes, rolled down my face and onto hers.

I panicked. What was I going to do? “Don’t go, momma! Come back! It’s all ok now,” Sammy was in the bed licking and

barking, trying to revive my beautiful mother, but she was gone. I pulled Sammy off the bed and we sat in floor moaning

together for an hour. I had killed my dying mother. For what? A better life? How was life going to be any better now? I just

wanted her pain to stop.

No one asked questions. They all assumed she had passed in her sleep, that the disease had taken her. The town was very

sorry for my loss and expressed their condolences with gifts of food and extra clothing. The doctors came to inspect her,

but had no suspicions. The same man that had first told me of her disease was the one to console me after his inspection.

“I’m so sorry that this happened, but you were very strong, Tommy,”

“Thank you. I just don’t know what to do without her,” I said. My words were emotionless and empty.

The doctor’s eyes slowly looked to the ground. “Well, the city will have someone out here eventually. Until then stay rested

and keep eating.” He left and that was it.

A few weeks later I heard that the doctor had left Renoah and closed up his office. It didn’t make sense at the time, but

after a few more weeks, it became clear. I had been surviving on the kind gifts of my neighbors, but their generosity was

running thin. I needed the money.

It was a cloudy wet Wednesday morning when I went to check the mailbox. I reached in and pulled out a single yellow

envelope. My heart stopped. Inside was a name written familiarly by a calligraphy pen.

Good morning,

I am very sorry to hear about your loss and cannot express enough the sadness I feel for you. Unfortunately, I bear more

sad news. Your parents’ application for the Renoan Life Insurance policy seems to have been terminated, due to some

discrepancies found while filing. Your father’s application was terminated after we found that he had been involved in some

unsavory practices while working for the Renoan Lumber Company. Again, I am truly sorry for your loss and to bring you

this unfortunate news, but I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors, Tommy.

Don’t Go by Nick Bendeck | continue

21 | RT

Don’t Go by Nick Bendeck | continue

VERLOOKAlizabeth

Patterson

I watch the creek’s waterAnd hear its bounty, andSmell its purity,But wonder to myself who told it to flowAnd from which force of physicsCame its froth. Which drop pulled the others behind its power,Which bend pressed this drop and thatTo flow as one for a moment,Then to breakFrom each other the next Then I received the answer in its voice and in its transparency.Each from each, their power derived.And in each other’s efforts did theyCarve the rhythms of the land, and theCurrent of my veins.

HarrisonLuna#2

22 | P ETRY

23 | FICTI N

Olympia, Washington. Friday Evening - 9:35 P.M.

We’d like to cause some trouble. Heard you were the hacker for

the job. Find us, and we’ll talk.

No signature, no “sent by.” Sophia checked the metadata. The email had passed through about half a dozen

servers and at least eighty dummy IP addresses. The message had been sent to two of her more publically known aliases: Al

Grithum and Sir Veer. She had to give the sender their due credit. They knew a trick or two—enough to find her twice. Not

bad. There were other aliases: Para Grimmer, Heir D. Rive, and some that are too secret to mention. Most other hackers

liked darker, more predatorial sounding titles: Falcon, Hound, Jackal, or that new guy who had been cropping up on forums

recently, The Grim—like the reaper. Dark indeed. Definitely the type of ego-maniac to avoid out in cyber space.

Sophia, on the other hand, preferred titles that were clever, even chuckle-worthy. Of course, there were disadvan-

tages to cleverness. Like that news anchorwoman with the 1950’s hair who never pronounced things right—always with a

long “i” in Grithum so it sounded like writhe instead of rhythm. Ridiculous.

Sophia ran the email through one of her tracer programs and narrowed its origin down to three IP addresses.

Two of them were PCs, one was a Mac. She checked the text font: Helvetica. There was always something. People rarely

thought to change their font defaults. She ran a search on the Mac address. The machine was registered to Kevin Riggs in

Indianapolis. He had a criminal record. But, of course, they all did. Straight shooters never came to her for help. Kevin Riggs

was an activist.

She sent him a reply.

I’ve found you.

I’m interested.

Let’s talk details.

- Sir Veer

Sophia arched backwards over her computer chair, stretching, and checked the time. 9:58 P.M. Footsteps thudded

up the stairs in the hall outside her room.

“Sophia!” Dad’s voice sounded from downstairs. Sophia hear the front door thunk and clack shut. “Come on

down. I want a hug from my girl.”

10:26 P.M.

You found me fast. I’m impressed. The job is in New York; Times Square. I

want the attached video file to play on every screen there at five o’clock in

the afternoon next Friday. Can you do it?

Sophia checked the mp4 file for viruses. Being too careful in this business was impossible, especially lately. The

past six months had seen a dramatic increase in the number of unmasked hackers. There were a grand total of three possible

reasons for this: hackers were getting dumber (not likely), INTERPOL was getting smarter (yeah, right), or they were up

against one of their own. The latter was a thought worthy of fair paranoia. Hackers weren’t exactly in the habit of getting

together for cheery tea parties, but there was a sort of community linking the underbelly of the internet—a trust forged

from camaraderie that adhered to one universal rule, don’t look for me and I won’t look for you. Everyone knew that, no

matter how good you were, offense always held the upper hand on defense. Maybe that was why hackers so liked their dark,

predatorial titles.

Hackers Anonymous Alicia Wetherington

24 | FICTI N

The file finished scanning. It was clean. She opened the video. It was home edited and probably shot with a smart phone.

The content was fairly ordinary; raising awareness for starving kids in Africa.

Times Square was doable. She had hijacked the 1515 Broadway and ABC SuperSign before under her Al

Grithum identity during an internet censorship protest. She had spent sixteen days on that program. Riggs wanted her to

do a job twice that size in less than a week. The Square was pretty well networked, but the trick was that not all of the

other screens were linked. She would have to build a program that introduced itself into several networks simultaneously.

And, while the city’s advertising alliance isn’t exactly Area 51, they tended to guard screen time better than their own

offspring.

I’m in.

You’ll have your trouble.

My fee is 3180 British Pound Sterling.

Payment directions are attached.

I await confirmation.

-Sir Veer

SEND. Her fingers hovered, twitching and shacking over the keyboard. She didn’t have to wait long.

Excellent. I look forward to it.

The air left Sophia’s lungs in a rush. Her room looked like a water damaged ink painting. She breathed in. Thank

goodness for Spring Break. If she had to waste eight hours at school on top of everything else—well, there was just no way.

The digital display on Sophia’s wrist watch read 10:42 P.M. Six days, fifteen hours and eighteen minutes remaining. Time to

get started. Six Days, Eight Hours And Twenty Minutes Later - Friday Morning - 6:02 A.M.

Light from the computer monitors doused the dim room in a pale, flickering film. Sophia’s fingers tapped con-

cisely on the keyboard. A window appeared on the right screen.

Will of Man: All work and no play, Sophia?

Sophia: Working on a project.

Will of Man: Business or pleasure?

Sophia: It’s private.

Sophia switched view screens. Her eyes zigzagged down the rows of code. She paused, scribbled something in

her notepad, typed, clicked twice. The other view screen flashed:

[Laura the Water Mage is now online.]

She ignored the second view screen, which continued to flash as her friends conversed.

Laura the Water Mage: Sophia’s being way quiet.

Will of Man: Maybe she’s dead. The grim reaper got her early.

Laura the Water Mage: Stop that, Wilson! Soph, are you coding in the dark again?

That’s like way bad for your eyes.

Sophia flipped the light switch over her desk.

Sophia: The light’s on.

Laura the Water Mage: Yeah, and I’m Dick Tracy.

Hackers Anonymous by Alicia Wetherington | continue

25 | FICTI N

Will of Man: You don’t even know who that is.

Laura the Water Mage: Not the point!!

Sophia smiled and glanced at the clock on the messenger: 6:32 A.M. Mom would be up in half an hour. Her mouse

zipped to the window full of code. She clicked the save button, closed the window, and shut off the left view screen, leaving

the one with the message board cued up.

Sophia: Going for a run. Care to join?

Laura the Water Mage: This early? No way!!

Will of Man: Pass. I prefer not to move at high speeds under my own power, thanks. Archer’s

not feeling well so I’m looking after him. You do, however, have my heartfelt moral support.

Laura the Water Mage: Awe! You are such a good big brother!! We still on for movie night at

your place, Soph?

Sophia: Yes.

Will of Man: Awesome. See yeah later. Have fun getting all sweaty.

Sophia logged off and shut down the second view screen.

6:43 A.M.

Sophia jogged toward the intersection of Caster and Mallow. Dad’s golden retriever, Socks, loped behind her. That

morning, after confirming the receipt of her customary fifteen percent down payment from Kevin Riggs, Sophia had begun

coding immediately. This hack was a sticky one. After her standard three proof readings, she still didn’t feel confident it would

run smoothly. And it would have to run smoothly the first time. Another half hour’s work on it would have been beneficial,

but that would have been cutting it far too close. Mom always came upstairs around 7:05 for a good morning hug. Sophia

needed more time and she definitely wasn’t going to get it.

She rounded the last corner of the block. Socks looked a bit miffed when she stopped to pick up the mail—once

around the block was never enough for him. The clock in the entryway read 6:58. Sophia shed her trainers and took a mo-

ment to catch her wheezing breath. She heard Mom’s footsteps padding about overhead as she ascended the staircase then

continued into her room.

Mom wobbled in right after her and mumbled a “Good morning” into the top of her head.

Sophia backed up and studied her mother. “You look extra tired this morning, Mom. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sweetie, I’m fine. Your father sure can talk, though.” Mom sighed and raked a hand through her hair.

“You know, you could have slept in.”

“I would have—I like my eight hours—but I forgot to reset my alarm clock last night. Oh, well. One early morning

isn’t going to kill me.” She smiled, embracing Sophia before sauntering back down the hallway. “Oh,” she said, stopping

abruptly, “I should probably ask what you’re doing today?”

Sophia shrugged. “I have projects to work on.”

“Projects?” Mom stuck out her lip in a mock pout. “You really should do something today—something with friends.” Hands

on her hips, she continued, “Wilson and Laura are sweethearts, but you

should really expand your social circle. Maybe you could find a club of people with your same interests.”

People with my interests don’t hang out in groups. Sophia wanted to say. Has this nasty side effect of getting them arrest-

ed. Or maybe they did have a sort of group. She imagined all the reforming hackers had a club: hackers anonymous. What a bad name

for a group of busted hackers.

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26 | FICTI N

1:53 P.M.

Sophia plugged her flash drive into the computer and up-loaded a file entitled NannyTS.exe. It was almost 5:00

in New York City. She had been monitoring the Times Square networks all week. She cued the file. Execution would have to

happen at 4:56 eastern time for this to work. She slipped her program into place and set it to activate at that exact moment.

Nanny was Sophia’s watcher program. It received live information from the hacking program, kept an event log, and gave

Sophia pass/fail notifications at key points in the execution. Since there were several networks being hijacked simultaneously,

Sophia had tailored this version of Nanny to let her terminate specific portions of the program should something go wrong.

If one or two screens failed to show Kevin Riggs’ video then he would get a ten percent discount. In that case, Sir Veer might

have a slightly less perfect reputation, but it would have been damaged trying to save starving children, and everyone loves a

wounded hero.

Nanny blinked out a notification.

4:56:00 – Initial Start Up: PASS

Sophia leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms to watch. Nanny threw out notifications in rapid succession.

4:56:32 – Clear Network WP324: PASS

4:56:46 – Clear Network TSADVERT: PASS

4:57:03 – Clear Network APPLECENTER: PASS

4:57:18 – Clear Network TSOPEN: PASS

4:57:19 – Clear Network BRDWAY: PASS

4:57:22 – Clear Network TSWIRELESS: PASS

4:57:55 – Successfully Clear All Networks: PASS

4:58:13 – Beginning Sleep: PASS

Perfect. The program successfully infiltrated on all points and was set to wait the remaining two minutes. Sophia

watched the seconds tick by. The sitting and waiting bit was always the most difficult.

5:00:00 – Execute Video: PASS

Sophia let out a breath. Had she been holding it? Nanny was throwing up checkpoints at lightning speed this time.

The program had to dodge attempts to shut it and the video down. The watch dog programs weren’t happy. All checkpoints

read “PASS,” but they were now coming in faster than Sophia could read them. She tilted her body closer to the screen and

leaned her elbows on the desk.

“Sophia!”

Sophia shot out of her chair and banged her thighs on the underside of the desk. The chair fell back, clattering to

the wood floor. The door knob rattled. Sophia alt-tabed out of the Nanny program and spun around.

“Soph—Oh!” It was Mom. “Are you alright?” Her eyes darted between her daughter’s wide eyes and the over-

turned chair.

No! I’m the exact opposite of alright! Get out of my room! Sophia’s head was pounding. “I’m fine.” She forced her breath-

ing slower. “I’m . . . fine.”

“Are you sure? Because it looks like you just had it out with your office chair.”

“You startled me is all.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” Her eyes shifted and narrowed as they came to land the computer screen behind Sophia. “What

are you up to?”

Sophia’s mind raced. She pushed herself away from the desk and stepped directly in front of the screen. “I’m jour-

naling.”

“Journaling?”

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27 | FICTI N

“Yeah. You know—deep dive in to my psyche and so forth.”

Mom’s mouth flopped open a few times before she spoke. “I guess that makes sense. I would be startled too if I

had been shaken out of that.” She lifted her right hand and placed the antenna of the cordless phone over her lips as though

it were shushing her. Her head jerked back and looked at the device as if it had just appeared in her hand. “Oh, yes. It’s for

you.” She handed her daughter the phone before exiting the room.

“Hello?” Sophia asked.

“Hi ya, Soph.” It was Wilson. “So, you were in a kerfuffle with a desk chair? Now there’s something I would buy a

ticket to.”

Sophia smiled. “The chair would win.” She could hear Wilson’s scoff from the other line but ignored it. “So, what’s

up?”

“I wanted to see if you knew about what’s going down in Times Square right now, even though it sounds like

you’ve got plenty of excitement as it is.”

“Times Square?”

“Yeah. Apparently some guy rigged up a live feed. It’s all over the net.”

Sophia bent over the keyboard and did a quick net search. There was indeed a live stream in Times Square, the

source of which, by the quality of the video, appeared to be someone’s smart phone.

“The news is saying some hacktavist group commandeered the screens,” Wilson continued. “Pretty cool, right?”

“I guess so. The screens just went blank.”

“Yeah. I’m seeing that too. I guess it’s over.” There was a short pause before Wilson spoke again. “’Kay. Well, I’ll see

you tomorrow.”

“Sure. Bye.” Sophia ended the call. She picked up her desk chair and pulled up the other view screen where the

Nanny program was still running in the background.

5:09:24 – Terminate Video: PASS

5:10:04 – Repair Pathways: PASS

5:10:58 – Program Self Destruct: PASS

5:11:09 – PROGRAM COMPLETE

Sophia closed her eyes, pressed her cheek onto the cool desk surface, and wondered what sort of secrets normal

fourteen-year-olds kept from their mothers.

Meanwhile – Elsewhere

“Authorities remain unwilling to speculate as to who might be behind today’s media hijacking, and have admitted

to being unable to retrieve a copy of the video from the effected computer systems for analysis. Business owners in Times

Square are choosing not to comment on their obvious breach of security.” The drone of the anchorwoman’s voice drifted in

from the next room.

Fingers clattered on the laptop keyboard resting on his crossed legs. He attached a file to the email he was com-

posing.

Impressive work. The media is buzzing. I’ve attached a proof of

transfer for your fee, plus a bonus for keeping the video out of their

hands. Nice working with you.

He sent the message and the window in the upper left-hand corner displayed a new line of text.

MESSAGE RECIEVED

And again,

INFILTRATION SUCCESSFUL

Hackers Anonymous by Alicia Wetherington | continue Hackers Anonymous by Alicia Wetherington | continue

28 | RT

“Always beware Greeks bearing gifts.” He smirked and traced the decal below the keyboard with his index finger:

a blood-red scythe clutched in a boney hand. “The Grim takes no prisoners.”

A light knock sounded on the door. He answered it and his mother passed him a buzzing baby bundle. “Hold

Archer a minute while I make a call? He’s too fussy for me to hear the doctor.”

“Sure, mom. Where’s his pacifier?”

“In the nursery on the changing station, I think.” She stopped him as he turned to walk down the hall.

“And, honey,” she smiled, hand on his shoulder, “thank you for helping. I know you would much rather be with your friends.”

Wilson returned the smile with his own toothy one. “It’s not a problem.”

Contrast StudyAlizabeth Patterson

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29 | FICTI N

The alarm was a metronome between his temples. He sighed with

the pain of getting up, silencing the alarm. Dreading the sharp

lightning down his leg if he moved to quickly, he heaved himself up. Stained and speckled with dandruff and psoriasis flakes,

his black, riped T-shirt rode up his ever-expanding belly, exposing matted hairs and odd blemishes. Muscles bulged through

the loose hanging skin of his arms as he positioned himself on the edge of the bed.

The lights were on. He never went to sleep without them. He liked to read himself to sleep at night. Directly

across from him, a dusty six-foot by one-foot vertical mirror hung, between a picture of Michele and a sonogram. It had

been there for six years. The idea had been to torment himself every morning to inspire another diet--a successful diet. Chin

on his chest, he looked at the other guy reflected back at him.

“Show me what you got,” they said to one another.

Damian took off his shirt and let his hairy breasts hang free. The other guy mimicked him. They were not tall, but

had broad shoulders and thick, muscular legs. When he could stand up, people could see them, and he liked wearing shorts

to show them off. The rest of him was awful. The problem was that guy across the room was a lie. He wasn’t forty, broken

down and morbidly obese. The real Damian was a God among men. They both laughed at that thought.

He took a deep breath, shifted his hips forward to ensure his legs were under his bulk and then stood straight

up. Since it was his birthday, he decided he might as well shower. There was just one thing to do first. Picking his way over

discarded clothes and rejection form letters from reputable publishing houses, he walked into his bathroom, accidentally

slamming his shoulder into the doorframe. Absorbing the impact without notice, he turned and stared down at the digital

scale. All he had to do was lose ten pounds by his birthday, today. It was a promise he had made again and again. If he had any

hope of redeeming his life, he had to lose weight. The goal was to be below 400 by his birthday. His left foot dangled just

inches over the scale before he caught himself. The ritual required that he void first to make sure he was a light as possible,

so he took care of that. And because it was his birthday, he showered too.

Naked, standing on the creaking scale, he could hear birds chirping outside the bathroom window. Through slivers

from its blinds everything looked green and alive with a golden glow. He had to bend to read the scales display: 425.

“Damn,” he said, a slight tremble in his voice. “Well, a promise is a promise.”

With more than a little reluctance, he got off the scale and went into his bedroom, rummaged for his best clothes

and the special birthday present he bought himself six months ago. There were two boxes, one red, the other blue. One

gift for if he failed to lose the weight and the other if he managed it. After dressing, he picked up the red box and looked at

himself in the mirror. His long brown hair cascaded over his shoulders and an unkempt beard hung every which way. The

black silk shirt and matching slacks nearly covered his bulk adequately enough to make him look normal. He could pass for a

retired football player at least. He smiled at his reflection, holding up his right hand, index finger extended and thumb up like

a kid pointing a pistol.

“You’re funny,” they said, and pulled the trigger.

Back in the bathroom, he put the red box on the toilet seat and stepped into the bathtub, careful not to trip. He

couldn’t lift his right leg as far up as he should. Bending over tenderly, he ripped off the wrapping paper from the box and

took off the lid. A black .38 Special nestled in matching velvet placed just above a single hollow point shell. He took them out

and cracked the cylinder on the pistol. He slid the bullet in place and shut the cylinder back in to make sure it would align

correctly when he cocked the hammer. He put the gun under his chin. A promise is a promise. Weight, I mean wait. He let

the gun drop to his side. Michelle wouldn’t want this, but the guilt and the physical misery weighed him down. It was amazing

that the scale and paneled floor underneath hadn’t cracked when he stood on it. From the bedroom, his reflection watched

the closed bathroom door with horror, straining to get a better vantage point. Damian put the gun in his mouth.

The memory of Michelle laughing at the way he mopped the floor should have been a happy one. There was more water on the

linoleum than in the bucket she teased. He thrilled in the way she waddled by him to the refrigerator, cradling her stomach tenderly in

her hands.

Their shoulders bumped and down she went, belly first. He should have caught her, but his back seized up as he lunged forward. She

rolled over on her back and her left hand shot out to him, grasping. Blood staining the legs of her maternity pants, she cried for help. As

he hobbled to get the phone, he slipped and fell.

Hand trembling, he aimed as best he could for his brain and pulled the trigger.

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Sca

le Clin

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Elm

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30 | RT

Photo Jan. 04Jake Wheeler

Formation Through DecayCatherine Widner

31 | P ETRY

Erik SchillerYou had on a baggy shirt-The face of James DeanSmoky, like whispered vowsPressed in grey monochrome-He used to be a man. And now?A spirit printed on a page. For a moment I imaginedI was printed on the shirtSmiling against the swell of your breasts.

Lately, I’ve been looking for the remainsOf the story I meant to tell you,That night on the stairs.Outside, pellets of waterSmack against the wet,Eel-back of the road Sliding over smooth stonesSoftening the earth.This is the joy of a rainy day.

What happens to stories that are never told?If things that never had a chance to liveHave a limbo to go to, they are probably there.Waiting for prayers and pools of poetic candle waxTo articulate them into a higher state of being.

But maybe, instead, they wanderUnder the overcast sky,When things are soft and low with joy,Sprouting out of the ground like outstretched fingers-Little ghosts of words stillbornOn lips dried beneath the heat of footlights-

Sprouting up like Soil-TonguesStriving with pointed tipsTo catch every falling drop…

But I’m tired of the rain.

Warm and dry, I go back to work- Mending broken words And fractured lines, Once, they were all women and men. Now they are stories.There is joy in this as well,And night comes on without anyone to blame.

To the Spirit of a Story That Was Never Told

32 | P ETRY

The Ballad of Alcoholism (or, Honest Love)Hannah Kitts I Drink. The smooth burn leaking into my stomach Puddling into a warm glow Slowly crawling through my veins To warm my frozen fingers. I press my hands into the warmth of your skin Accept your vodka-soaked kiss. Our private meandyou party begins. II The bottle half empty Graces the top of your tv. Your so-familiar room holds comfort- The two mattress bed, The trash can at the opposite end Visited often by empty bottles and used condoms: This place feels like home. III We share our last drink Plastic shot glasses given an imaginary “clink”, The way you push me into the bed And kiss me- You grant my body your warmth, The sounds of our breath swallow the world. I love you the only way I know how. Naked next to you, I sleep. IV Morning comes too soon. We wake tangled bare in the blankets, Wearing coats of alcohol sweat, Mouths dry, the warning sign of an aching head. My lips find your shoulder And strange as it seems, I love you. V My mind allows exhaustion to win. Arms and legs weak, Stomach empty. Every bad choice I can’t help but make, And the feeling of prison: I cannot escape. Saved and damned by addiction- Together we leap from this cliff

Editorial Staff

Melissa BishopChris CableEmily CentkoSarah DixonAshley Wright Advisors

Jane PopeEric Smith

Editorial

Hannah BloomfiedEditor-in-Chief

Shelby StringfieldFiction Editor

Carly DuckettPoetry Editor

Tara SripunvoraskulDesigner

THANKS FOR READING!

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Rights retained by the individual contributors.

Send submissions to: Phoenix Room 5 Communications Building

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