“It’s time,” a woman spoke, my attention pulled away.

“For what?” I asked, confused. This woman seemed familiar to me, but over time all the faces blurred into an amalgamation. It was familiar, but I felt nothing.

“Honestly John, you’re too much. You were supposed to pick the kids up.” She sighed, and I nodded my acknowledgment.

“Alright, Angelica, calm down. I’m going, I’m going.”

The keys sat upon my wallet on the kitchen island. I’d always hated the thing, but Angelica had insisted on the house with the island. It just got in the way though. John was my name, and Angelica was my life. We had children, too, but I was still no closer to knowing who I really was.

You grip the steering wheel with both hands, the power of the machine almost too much to believe. In these moments you are outside of yourself because it makes it easier to think of yourself as someone else. You did everything you thought was right, that was required to be a good man. You married, had a kid, served your country. Three tours. You were proud of it, except when you weren’t. A house, two point five children, a wife. The American dream. Eyes scanning and darting along the road, looking for hidden bombs that will never explode. Each time he killed, a part of him died as well.

In quiet moments doubt filled his mind, doubt that he dared not give voice to lest it drown all else out. The faces of the innocent, the weight of the trigger, the feel of the weapon in his hands as it kicked back against him each time, the sounds of the shots: they were all part of you now, disjointed and connected all at once. Simultaneously they were nothing, and everything, and the faces, oh god, you remembered the faces. Three tours. The faces. It hollowed you out, and who you once were had been replaced. You were as much dead as the ones you had killed.

He pulled in to the parking lot and smiled at the young faces, too much like the faces he had killed.

“Come on, kids!” I call.

Christopher Hines is currently pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing by night and programming by day. As an author, he is interested in the genres of Science Fiction and Fantasy, and is currently delving into Digital Humanities as a programmer. Introduced to computers at a young age, Christopher grew up almost parallel with the development of the modern internet and was born the same year as the WorldWideWeb. Christopher has experienced traditional hand-coded HTML website development as well as modernized content management systems, of which he prefers the latter.

Featured Image: “Bone Fragments” by Michael Coghlan is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

I turned over my shoulder. “Come on, slowpoke.”

Andrew had just reached the landing. He let out a puff of breath, which swirled like tendrils of smoke in the winter air. “Tell me again why we’re climbing up the city’s electrical tower.”

“You promised me you’d come.” I said, adjusting the strap of my pack. “Just one more flight of stairs.”

He groaned. “That’s what you said at the last landing.” He set down the tripod and held his side. “I wasn’t meant for this kind of exercise.”

“It’s good for your heart.”

“Mine would beg to differ at the moment.” His chest heaved, rising and falling with his bated breath.

I shot him a wicked grin. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I think I left it somewhere on the seventh flight of stairs.”

“It’s not that bad. Just a little exercise.”

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase, hands curled around the railing. “Look Selene, I know this keeps you healthy, but at what cost?”

I met his brown eyes, unable to stifle the chuckle in my throat. “You’ll thank me when we get there.”

“If we get there in this lifetime.” He muttered.

“It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

“I’m missing out on valuable sleep, carrying a tripod heavier than you, and walking up all these steps in the bitter cold. It better be freaking worth it.”

I smiled at him. “Come on, grumpy pants.”

I readjusted the strap of my pack on my shoulder. Andrew sighed dramatically before his feet echoed the sounds of mine.

I caressed the metal railing, my fingertips colder than ice. But, the mid November weather couldn’t shake the warmth in my chest. This is it.

I finally arrived at the last landing. The top of the city’s electrical tower loomed before me. Tall and cylindrical, whirring softly. My heart quickened at the thought that for once in my eighteen years, the world would be clad in nighttime. I used to sit on my grandmother’s lap and listen to her tell wild tales about a time when lights had been powered by their own nature and not the garish white and yellow lighted dome that kept our town in perpetual daytime.

I walked over to the side of the tower, looking for the fuse box. I heard Andrew grunt as his butt hit the landing.

“You’re lucky I like you more than I hate stairs.” He panted.

He pressed his back against the railing, wiping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his sweater. “So, what exactly does an astronomer do?”

I scanned the length of the tower, eyes fixing on the fuse box. “I’m not an astronomer, yet.”

He rested his head on the railing and looked up at the dome. “You mean, you made me climb up here claiming to be an expert on some ancient profession and now you’re telling me you don’t even consider yourself an astronomer.”

“You can’t be an astronomer,” I said, hand resting on the fateful switch, “if you’ve never seen the stars.”

His lips parted in question, but whatever he’d meant to say next got caught in his throat. I pressed the light switch off and darkness fell over the entire town. Extinguished like a candle.

We blinked a few times, adjusting to this new world.

“And how exactly are we supposed to…” Andrew followed my gaze up. “Holy sh—”

The night sky stretched before us. In the eternal day of the city, no one had ever seen the stars in the sky. But, bedtime stories didn’t lie. Night is real.

The whole sky was lit up like a circuit board, with flashing lights and splashes of color. Indigos and smoky blues and the darkest shades of purple were woven like a cloak of the finest silk. Constellations I had only ever read about in dusty frayed books dotted the sky. And the moon, in perfect full view, cast rays of subtle light in the darkness, faint and somehow bright all at once.

It was beautiful. I couldn’t hold back the urge to tear up a little.

Andrew got to his feet. “Selene—”

“I know.”

We turned to each other, both cast in pale moonlight. Shadows played on his features, outlining the sharpness of his jawline and the slope of his nose. Color was softer, muted, but the white of his teeth gleamed in the darkness.

“How did you know all of this would be there?”

“I didn’t,” I said, “but, I hoped.”

The edge of his lips curved up. “It’s amazing.”

“It sure is.” I set down my pack, pulling the zipper open. “Pass me the tripod.”

He raced over to the railing and propped it up in front of me. He arched an eyebrow.

“What is that? Some kind of spyglass?”

“It’s a telescope.” I corrected.

He snatched it from my hands and turned it over, studying it. “Did you make this out of old camera parts?” His brows were knit together.

“Mhmm.” I took it from his grasp.

I set up my makeshift telescope. I’d had to scour quite a few metal junkyards to find the perfect pieces and messed up my sleep schedule in the pursuit of its creation. But, when home always had perfect lighting, replacing sleep with work wasn’t a difficult task.

I took a deep breath and looked through my telescope. My heart soared.

“This is what astronomers see.” I motioned for him to take a peek.

Andrew bent over until he was eye-level. His jaw fell open.

“Whoa.”

He faced me, a look of utter bewilderment smacked on his face.

I smiled ear-to-ear. He matched my smile.

“Astronomy doesn’t seem like a bad occupation.” Andrew said, peering into the eye again. “Though, I would much rather take the elevator up next time.”

“Elevator?” I sounded dubious.

He pointed at a spot past his shoulder with his thumb. On the tower, a neon green sign glowed with the words: ELEVATOR.

“Oh.” I felt my face flush with embarrassment.

“Oh.” He said.

Natalia Sanchez is part of the Dual Degree Program at Chapman University. She earned her B.A. in English Literature from The University of Texas at San Antonio. As a first generation Mexican American, she hopes to bring the two disparate cultures and languages together in her writing.

Featured Image: “Starry Night in Denmark I” by Jochen Spieker is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

The pears on Mrs. Carroll’s pear tree were ripe. Lila searched for the perfect one­. The low hanging fruit was always too easy, but there was one, seven feet up, gold and green and plump. She looked up and down the street, grabbed two branches, pressed a foot into the bark and hoisted herself up. She reached for the pear. Her fingers shook.

Mrs. Carroll’s front door opened. Lila froze and grabbed a branch to steady herself. Mrs. Carroll was followed by Mrs. Jenner, both wearing white golf skirts with matching collared shirts. They walked below where Lila was perched and stopped at the end of the driveway. Lila held her breath. She had been caught twice already.

Mrs. Carroll and Mrs. Jenner leaned towards one another.

“Did you see Jenna Turner last week?” said Mrs. Carroll.

“Oh yes, I saw her at the general store— barely recognized her,” said Mrs. Jenner, “so sad.”

“I know. I can’t imagine how Tom is dealing with it.”

“And with three kids. Cat just turned thirteen.”

“You know, we should send them something. Maybe a fruit basket? I know this great bakery. We could send them muffins.” Mrs. Carroll sighed and brought a manicured finger to her lip. “Maybe I could send Honorio over to clean up their lawn a bit.”

“We can’t do that,” Mrs. Jenner said. “But, I know what you mean.”

“I mean, I feel terrible.”

“Oh, yes. Terrible.”

“But we pay a lot of money to live here.”

Mrs. Jenner nodded.

Mrs. Carroll leaned closer. “If we bent the rules for every family that went through tough times, the entire neighborhood would look like a ghetto.”

“Exactly.”

They stared across the street together.

“I’ll send muffins, then.”

September 28^th

Lila’s yellow bike leaned against the jacaranda tree in her front yard. It was one of those fine days when the wind towed clouds across a blazing sky and made the leaves wave and whisper. Lila stood beside the tree and followed its long shadow to the paws of a beagle. Cat’s mom was walking Tottie. He ran to Lila and tumbled into her legs. She bent and wiggled his ears while his tail wagged his body back and forth.

“Hi Lila. How are you?” Cat’s mom asked.

“I’ve been good, Mrs. Turner,” Lila said. Tottie rolled onto his back, baring his belly. “What a good boy.” Lila cooed.

Cat’s mom was silhouetted by the sun. “How’s school? I know Catherine misses you.”

“It’s been okay. I miss her too.” Lila said.

The light shifted. Cat’s mom wore a long red coat and black beanie. She brought a hand to her face and swept the bangs from her eyes. Her left eye traced Lila’s face while her right eye stood still. There was something off about it – the color was dull and stared above Lila’s head, like a doll’s eye. It was glass. She quickly looked away. Mrs. Turner’s smile fell.

“Does Cat like her new school?”

“I think so,” she said. “Anyways, we should be going. Say hi to your mom for me.”

Lila nodded. “I will.”

Cat’s mom turned up the street. She tugged at the edge of her hat, pulling it lower on her head. Lila grabbed her bike and rode away.

November 16^th

Lila hopped out of her parents’ suburban as another car turned down her cul-de-sac. It was Cat’s parents’ car. She watched the Mercedes pull up to the house two doors down. There was a patch of dead grass beside her ornate mailbox. She kicked at it.

The driver door of the Mercedes opened and Cat’s dad slid out. His broad shoulders slumped as he made his way around the back of the SUV. He opened the rear of the car and yanked out a folded wheelchair. He bent over it and pulled at the handle bars. Nothing happened. He knelt down, fiddled with something on the chair and pulled at the bars again. Still nothing. He turned the chair flat against his body, grasped the arm rests and pushed. The chair flung away from him, unopened, and fell to the ground. He sighed and cradled his head in his hands.

A car engine ignited at the end of the street. His head jerked up and then fell back down. He grabbed the folded wheelchair and dragged it into the house.

“Lila!” Lila’s mom called out to her. “Homework. Now!”

“Coming.”

November 18^th

It was raining and Lila stood in the center of the road. The asphalt reflected the pear tree in Mrs. Carrol’s front yard and its branches spread like veins across the street. Her over-grown bangs framed her face like a tattoo, dark and slick. The Turner’s were home. Their car was in their driveway, along with one she didn’t recognize. Cat’s lawn was a mixture of dandelions and crabgrass. They had taken over, infecting what used to be a pristine, well-manicured lawn. It needed the rain.

She had Cat’s number memorized, but had spent an hour staring at her phone inside. She could feel the weight of it in her pocket. Lila closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Her hair was heavy and reached for the ground. She sighed and opened her mouth wide. Three cool drops hit her tongue.

A car honked behind her. She waved at Mrs. Carroll and ran back inside. She’ll call tomorrow, she thought.

January 4^th

Lila watched a long black sedan drive up her street. The car pulled up to the Turner’s house. A group stood in the driveway. She counted – eleven people. The driver stepped out of the car, walked to the rear passenger door, opened it, and waited.

After a minute, Cat’s father got out. He was followed by his two sons and then Cat. Her hair was a tumbling mass of curls, just like her mom’s.  She was wearing the black dress she had worn to last year’s spring choir concert, the one with the purple trim. It was her favorite. She liked the way it moved when she twirled.

A couple approached Cat’s dad. He clasped their hands and nodded. A woman with wild auburn hair waited behind them – Cat’s aunt. She gave him a long hug and wiped her eyes with her palms. The three kids stood behind him, Cat between her brothers. Their dark straight hair was combed to the side, just like their father. They turned into Cat and hid their faces against her collarbone. She held them and stroked their arms as free flowing tears landed on the youngest’s head.

January 8^th

Lila stepped onto her welcome mat and pulled her jacket around her. She walked to the edge of her driveway and stopped. Cat was outside her house with Tottie. She was kneeling after having fastened his leash. He wiggled, whined, and scrambled up her leg. She was still, staring straight ahead with her hand firmly clasped around his leash.

Lila made her way up the street. As she approached, Tottie yelped and panted. Cat turned. She was wearing a middle school P.E. sweatshirt speckled with dried paint. Cat’s mom had always insisted on a painting shirt. It carries inspiration from past masterpieces, she would say.

Cat’s hair was disheveled. She wiped her hand across her nose and eyes. Lila stepped forward and pulled at the end of her jacket sleeves.

“Hi,” Lila said.

“Hey,” Cat replied. Her eyes shifted away.

Lila reached down to pat Tottie’s head.

“How are –” Lila stopped. “You okay?”

Cat shrugged.

Lila looked at the dog. His tail wagged enthusiastically.

Cat shifted. “We better go,” she said.

Lila nodded as Cat dragged Tottie with her.

“Come on,” she snapped.

Cat began down the street. The clamp in Lila’s throat tightened.

“Cat!” she yelled after her. She ran and met Cat under the pear tree.

“I am so,” she reached out and touched her arm, “so, sorry.”

Cat stared at her and Lila snatched her hand back.

“Yeah,” Cat said and continued down the road alone.

Sierra Ellison was a finalist in Sundance’s “Table Read My Screenplay” contest and writer of a nationally televised TV series, but her main goal is to publish fiction. She has a love for genre fiction, primarily fantasy, but is currently working on a chronological collection of short stories following the life of a “stunted” woman in her twenties. Beyond writing, she is very passionate about becoming a professor and currently teaches at California School of the Arts and Chapman University as a Graduate Teaching Associate.

Featured Image: “Pear” by Scott Meis is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0

No, no, too cliché. What am I thinking?

I stand up and glide towards the people on the grass. I smile down at them, my teeth daggers behind venomous lipstick and steely eyes. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” Then I walk away.

But god, where would I go? I’d end up bumping into someone or tripping over my own feet or running into the nearest store for shelter.

No. I had to stay here. Here I felt caged, but I could blend in amongst the shadows. They still hadn’t recognized me, which was almost suspicious luck. I am only a few feet away, really, dressed in black. I am an outsider in a room full of people, a purple bruise on ivory skin, the only black rose among a sea of green grass.

I want them to notice me. I flirt with confrontation, though it has never loved me back. Preening and strutting before the void allows me to feel powerful until I shrink back to the small human I pretend to be. I want them to see me.

Minutes drip by. I feel like the ghost of Christmas past, a dark reminder of what used to be, what can be, what I can be. I’m a nightmare, a terror plagued by anxiety and self-doubt. I’m an ice queen. I stay quiet and write in my journal and watch how they pull grass out of the ground – who does that? – and jeez my knees are killing me from sitting here.

I adjust my purse so I can sit on the flap, brushing off bits of damp grass from my shoes. Surely the movement must have caught their attention. I look up, ready to witness the moment of horrifying recognition but it doesn’t come. I wonder why it’s taking so long and send a text to my friend detailing my predicament. It’s hard typing when your claws are unsheathed. Thank God for autocorrect. An eternity later she writes back “lmao,” which doesn’t quite ease my nerves.

I can’t take it anymore. I leap to my feet and raise my arms above my head with a scream of “Witness me!” which I know is a quote from that Mad Max movie I haven’t actually seen. You learn too much from the internet. Everyone in the vicinity turns their heads and a murder of crows lifts into the air, cawing menacingly. Thunder rumbles through roiling clouds.

But no, it’s spring. I rarely see crows in spring and the weather definitely wouldn’t obey my command for dramatic effect. I scribble ‘why does the universe hate me’ in my journal, but I have to cross out ‘universe’ and rewrite it because I spelled it wrong. The paper is ugly now, like my feelings about the people on the grass a few feet away.

They sit up.

God! The sunglasses! They’ve been hiding me this whole time, obscuring the identity I so desperately need to be known. I take them off like I’ve seen women do in the movies. I feign elegance and poise but my hands shake. I make a show of fixing my freshly-dyed hair. See me? I’m here and I’ll always be here and I have a fairly large mansion renting space in your head that you’ll never be able to fully demolish. It’s painted lavender like the house down the street and the windows are peaked and I’m sure there are a few cats running around on the porch.

I own them. It becomes apparent when they see me. A surge of adrenaline courses through my veins when our eyes meet. I see it all in their face. Recognition, then dread, then a rush to get up. They grab their belongings and whisper to their companion while pulling them to their feet. In a moment, they’re gone. I watch them ruin someone’s photo by walking through it, not stopping to pause for a breath of the sweet spring air.

I own them. I haven’t said a thing, but the strength of my spell remains. I am afraid, but I put fear into the heart of the thing that scares me. I looked Death in the face and Death fell away. The tyrant crossed the street in such haste to flee my presence that it didn’t notice my gaze on the back of its head. I feel residual power burning in my fingertips, my eyes glowing red. Fear of such a little thing can topple worlds.

Lightning strikes. In its glare their house is illuminated so brilliantly I have to look away. When the thunder stops I squint through the deluge of hot rain and notice the house has changed. The roof has caved in, the crumbling walls overgrown with vines and weeds. When I put my hand on the gate the lock crumbles away in my fingers. I can do this now. I push aside the rotting, smoking wood and slosh through mud and uncut grass and post an eviction notice to the front door. I take a step back to admire my work, ignoring the water that soaks through my clothes and my skin and my spine.

And then the clouds part, the shade lifts and I’m free. I can feel the cool breeze playing across my shoulders and hear the traffic and the sun seems to shine a little brighter. I hadn’t realized the weight on my chest until it departed with them. My eyes are green again. I stretch my hands. The apocalypse will have to wait. I make a few more notes in my journal. The last word I write is ‘carnage.’

I know I haunt them for the rest of the night, a phantom lurking in the corners of their eyes. Incorporeality suits me. Dead eyes and cold breath and memories dredged up from the depths of the ocean of thought. I imagine how they picture me. Maybe I’m in my purple mansion, rocking on the porch and laughing, a bottle of Snapple lemonade in my hand. A striped cat wraps around my booted feet. Or maybe it’s Halloween and I’m in fishnets with buns and heavy eyeliner running in the opposite direction, always just out of reach. I delight in my power.

At 3 a.m. my phone dings.

“I’m sorry.”

I don’t respond.

Ryann Johnson is an MFA Creative Writing student at Chapman University, where she earned her BFA in Creative Writing in 2017. Her work is primarily in fiction and poetry, and she is writing her first novel. She one day hopes to teach writing at the high school or college level.

Featured Image: “Doll House” by Josh McGinn is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0

When he pulled the car over, his eyes wide and crazy, I was riding shotgun, my feet up on the dash, scraping the outer layer of flesh from a banana with my teeth.

“He will tell you a lot to get it, but you can’t believe anything he says,” he added, throwing the banana peel out the window and handing me the droopy, half-eaten remains. “You eat this with your hands.”

I ate it carefully, placing small pieces in my mouth. I was in trouble and I didn’t know why. I was nine.

Tonight, I roll a silicone sex toy around in my hand, the one that looks like a play torpedo, and try to figure out how I got here. 34 and no orgasm, unless you count wet dreams; the name alone seeming to suggest that my libido never progressed past puberty. We agreed we’d try something new. It’s too early to need this.

“You ready?” My husband closes his eyes and picks a lubricant jelly from the assortment in his sock drawer, purchases we have made while looking for answers. “Oh boy, get ready for a classic. Coming all the way from Waco, Texas,” he adopts a slow drawl, undoubtedly offensive to any true Texan, “the land of the fixer upper, home of the five-bedroom farmhouse estate with a monthly mortgage the price of our car payment,” he squirts mystery goop into his hand, “the one and only, the tried and true, you guessed it—”

He looks up, noticing that I’ve forgotten to look interested. “What’s wrong?”

I leave the torpedo on the bed and hurry us to the shower where sex is efficient. Bent over, head up, the water coming down on my chest, I try to answer his question. I tag on a prepositional phrase of my own. What’s wrong with me?

Allie holds a BA in Creative Writing from the University of Southern California, and is currently pursuing her MA in English and her MFA in Creative Writing at Chapman University. When she is not writing fiction of her own, she is most interested in the cultural consequences of capitalism, as well as the way that we navigate gender expectations in literature. She also enjoys teaching. As an instructor of written inquiry in Chapman’s rhetoric and composition department, she is often intrigued by the multimodal implications of texts in our digital environment and discussing those implications with passionate students. When she is not busy doing the academic hustle, she likes to read sad books, ride her bike, and laugh at her husband.

Featured Image: “Banana-plane” by The Shaun Woods is licensed under CC BY 2.0

The Parmesan Man pulled out the chair from underneath the tan granite bar top that reflected the light beaming from the ceiling. The man sat down looking above the beer taps at the 65” TV that displayed four screens playing different programs. I waited with my hand on the handle of the red ale beer tap, Parmesan Man’s favorite beer. My eyes waited for his response.

Parmesan Man lifted his grey, black brimmed, fedora hat off his grey, balding head. Placing it on the bar top, dandruff sprinkled out of the inside of the hat and on to the bar. His dark burgundy button up shirt was unbuttoned from the top, a little more skin showing than necessary. His gold watch shimmered as he placed both his hands on the granite counter and folded them, intertwining his old, wrinkly, crusty, uncut fingers. A loud grunt left his parted lips, his way of saying “yes” to the original question I asked.

I pulled my hand down and watched as the red fluid filled the cold glass. The liquid splashed and bubbles rose to the top, flowing over the rim. The malty, fruity aroma filled the air and touched my nose. I threw a coaster in front of him and placed the beer down. “How’s your day been?” I said as I entered in his routine food order of a salad with a thousand-island dressing and hot Tortilla soup. Another grunt was directed in my direction as the Parmesan Man went to grab the pile of newspaper at the end of the bar. He sorted through it and pulled out the comics of the day, grinning and showing his dark yellow teeth.

The food arrived. He started with the house salad and stuck his fork in the bowl of lettuce, tomatoes, and carrots. The prongs pierced through a few pieces of green and red leaves, the strands of carrots held, forced in between each prong. Parmesan Man opened his mouth and piled the vegetables in, chewing with his mouth open. Strings of saliva hung from both lips, stretching, as he opened and closed his mouth. Once the plate was empty, thousand-island dressing dried along the corner of his mouth as he pulled the steaming bowl of Tortilla Soup toward him. The plate stopped once it hit the front of his protruding belly that rested on the edge of the bar top.

The Parmesan Man earned his name for one reason: his love for the cheese. I placed the parmesan shaker next to his bowl of soup. “I’m going to need more parmesan,” he said without looking at the container. He unscrewed the cap of the parmesan shaker and dumped the entire amount of cheese into the hot bowl of soup. I grabbed another shaker from the cabinet behind the bar and placed it in front of him, removing the empty one from his reach. The Parmesan Man grabbed a black linen and placed it on the bar top in front of him. He unscrewed the second parmesan shaker and dumped a pile onto the black linen–the white cheese sitting in contrast to the black linen. The Parmesan Man outstretched his right forefinger and licked the tip, then proceeded to dab his wet finger into the pile of cheese and back into his mouth, rubbing the cheese on and around his gums. Then grabbing the spoon, the Parmesan Man mixed his soup and slurped it down. Parmesan man finished his meal, but continued to watch TV and dab his cheesy finger in and out of the pile. He smiled.

The hour passed slowly before the Parmesan Man gathered his things and proceeded out the front door. His pile of cheese was nothing but flakes now stuck to the moist surface of the black linen. Other guests watched in horror as the man walked passed them, keeping his finger directly in his mouth, grazing the inside of his cheek. I smiled and reached for the bill making sure to avoid the cheesy war zone that lay in front of me. The mysterious Parmesan Man was gone, leaving only a fifty-cent tip and two empty shakers of parmesan cheese.

Marco Randazzo is part of the Dual Degree Program at Chapman University. He is working toward an MA in English and MFA in Creative Writing (Fiction). He went to the University of California, Irvine and hopes to eventually obtain his PhD and continue teaching at the university level.

Featured Image: “Parmesan, 3 Months” by Brian Boucheron is licensed under CC BY 2.0 

It was on June 1, 2016 at the In-N-Out Burger near UCLA. After a long day on campus, where a great number of events left all the students feeling tired, I headed to In-N-Out Burger to eat the stress away. Once I picked up my order, I noticed a young blonde man, roughly my age, dressed in a suit from the 1940’s, and sobbing with a book held to his chest like it was his diary. It’s always unusual to see someone cry in public, since everyone around them knows the crier has lost all sense of shame. We’ve all felt that defeating acceptance, I’m sure.

Nevertheless, the book he held in his hand was tossed into the trash can. He did it with such little care, I thought it was a marketing stunt. But since he wasn’t a pretty crier, I knew it was real. At the moment, I just finished my second serving of fries, being too busy to care after that tedious day trapped in a UCLA classroom for too long.

After throwing the book away, he walked away, probably hoping nobody witnessed him commit that crime. Once I cleared my two burgers, another side of fries (no salt), and a vanilla milkshake, I realized nobody bothered to even check on book. So I did what any book lover would do.

From the trashcan of In-N-Out Burger, near the end of probably the most exhausting day of my student life, I held this chimera of a book, riddled with napkins that held a puzzle of their own. I knew people were watching me with the same sense of curiosity and slight disgust for the blonde dude, so I stuffed it in my backpack and walked. The next day at Powell Library, I hid in a secluded corner to examine the find.

The book itself is an oddity. It has a weird smell to its cloth cover, which barely displayed the worn letter ‘A‘. I traced my finger over the font and felt its indentation despite being eroded over time. Only until I opened the book, with napkins tucked away into every page, did this discovery intrigue me. Its opening page had no title page, just the initials, W.S. and three stories.

The first was Borges’ The Aleph in its original Spanish. While I understand my Spanish as el español de los gringos, I felt more confusion when I saw this story as an introduction to the next two stories. It felt like I found a joke, and my reaction was its punch line. The second story was Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, complete with its own introduction. I wish I paid attention in high school and read the book. I still haven’t read it, and I’m dying to know why the stories are included in the same binding. The third story didn’t really bring any clarity either. It was Nabokov’s Lolita.

The book’s presence, with that worn ‘A’ etched into its scarlet cover, and random stories that weren’t even in chronological order, made it all more compelling and out of the ordinary. Even when I confronted a student librarian, she explained, “the book’s not in our system, so it technically doesn’t exist. You can just take it home, sell it, whatever. We don’t care.”

Within the book were 64 napkins, written in perfect handwriting that held a hidden fourth story that existed beyond the confines of that very out of place book. I typed out most of it, despite some redactions.

As far as I can tell, it was written in three ink colors. Since I am red-green colorblind, it’s hard for me to distinguish more than my own limited eyes (look it all up). I am sure three colors existed on those napkins, at least. While I didn’t replicate the original writer’s use of color in the rewrite, I hope that you, as the reader, can assume the dedication and control to organize that story for us, and then have it misperceived by me.

One of the more interesting, and somewhat entertaining, dimensions to this “story” comes from the fact that I have no clue whether this “author” is being mocking or is seriously insane. The style is obviously delusional, but it’s that kind of delusion that could be seen as ironic joke, or an actual destructive drive. Even as I write this introduction in the very Powell Library that the “author” fetishizes, I get that uncanny feeling of a spider walking up and down my spine. Every few minutes, I steer my head away from my laptop, and inspect around the library shelves just to see if anything is out of the ordinary. A part of me expects that blonde dude, dressed like some looming ghost, watching me, waiting for a reaction to the writing he titled, A Burning Itch. As far as titles go, I kind of get it, but I don’t really know if it’s meant as some frantic reference to a work of literature I haven’t read or to some venereal disease. I hope it’s the former.

If the blonde dude is reading this, he can gladly have the ketchup soaked napkins and book back any time.

Whether you laugh at its corny prose and fancy attempt at pretentious writing, or shiver at its cruelty (or maybe both), the most I can wish for you is a simple bon appétit. -AnB

Dearest reader,

I stood there, witnessing him walk across that large lawn before the notorious Powell Library. His head gazed down at his phone. That’s when I knew he was the chosen one, my chosen one. The poor, little fool was meandering towards his class like the rest of the students flocking together as one, or like a group of birds that fly south for the winter. With his little head snapped down as he walked clumsily through the crowd, it looked like this little birdie of mine had a broken wing.

My distant vantage point gave me the perfect view, all while his shirt maintained a simple black color that could not go unnoticed within the usual tide of colored shirts. Imagine, dear reader, how a light pierces through darkness, so too did his unusually black shirt shine through the lightness of colorful attire everyone else wore. Poor young bird, just as the raven destined to dirty its feathers into a pitch black, he soon would drift to a doom further than his own out of place shirt.

I will tell you this, reader, my plan relied on me forcing an interaction, which is never as lovely as it sounds. I’m sure you all know. Off I went, nearby my favorite tree, and commenced an improvisation. Such a shame it was to witness a gross monstrosity of litter around that tree. I picked up one of the pamphlets scattered here and there as a prop. It would do its job well to ignite a spark of conversation. I waited until the walking crowd placed him near the mighty steps of the intact Powell Library. Once there, he did not even budge from his distant location. He merely glanced down and did not even bother to express any type of gratitude before UCLA’s great piece of architecture. How I long for the days where people would walk without waiting for some mindless interaction with others or themselves, where they should be witnessing the world of beauty before them. That is a poem Wordsworth would write. Such a shame that those lost souls will never encounter the smooth, delicate architecture that breathes every hour with glorious bells bellowing louder than a nightingale’s CHUKAWIG in the wind. I am glad to be beyond all those mindless musings.

I prepared my cue once I saw him approach the exact imaginary mark I imagined right before the library’s perfect steps. His approach allowed me to see the fine details of his face form like an instant photograph. He had a thin mustache peppered onto his upper lip, as if a meager caterpillar inched its way over as to prepare for a metamorphosis. His black shirt had a white animated font that was beginning to fade away like some worn piece of silk. It’s a shame to wear a shirt so worn.

“Excuse me!” I interjected. “Would you like a pamphlet? We worked very hard to get physical copies and I would appreciate if you gave it a gander.”

He paused his pathetic walk and signaled me to wait for a moment.

He must be a joy at parties.

Before the little bird could even lift his delicate head, a beautiful and monumental laugh erupted within the pit of my stomach. It was a laugh that escaped from a deep chasm within the body, like how some magician reveals a horrific object behind the illusion of a curtain. The poor bird seemed to be shocked by its authenticity. I took that as a cue to tune myself.

You must forgive me, reader, but the next inclusion of my fit of hysterical laughter must be included. I completely understand your need to skip over this gratuitous moment of emotion. It is rather disgusting, in my sincere opinion and if it comes to you as boring, my apologies. If anything, I wish my laughter may bore you into a deep reverie.

It is so very dear for me to express myself in completeness. It’s an artistic necessity to supply these pure moments of joy. Just as a match awaits for a moment of friction, I too need that burst. (REDACTED DUE TO REDUNDANCY AND WORD LIMIT)

“I apologize for that unexpected laugh. I’m so very, very sorry. I was simply marveling at the text on your shirt.” Here, reader, was my pitiful attempt to recreate that laughter. I am dismayed to report that I failed terribly. I promise it will pick up towards the end.

“Heh, no problemo brotendo,” chirped my bird. I sensed his words were filled with benign intention. Innocence is the most beautiful virtue. He snapped his neck up and I had a glimpse into his weary eyes. “What’s that pamphlet about?”

“It’s…” I took a glimpse at his shirt. “It’s the meme club. You wanna join, brotendo?”

That’s when I witnessed his most sincere smile, reader. It was a smile that could guide him through the hottest flames of hell and back, and probably elicit a friendship from someone with kinder intentions. Too bad that smile would never guide him to safety. From that enlightening moment, I forced a riddling smile.

“Yes! Of course! I would love to join your club. I love memes!” He snapped his soft head down to the smartphone and I could see the reflection of his worn eyes beaming out of his besmirched face like a lighthouse beaming its glory through fog. I hope he didn’t witness my blank face once I glimpsed at his smartphone. “Sorry, one sec. I just have to finish this, real quick.” As luck may have it for me, dear reader, he would never look up.

While he wasted more of my precious time, he motioned his hand up towards the pamphlet, attempting to grab the prop. I pulled back, letting the little bird scratch at the empty air as if he was clawing out of a rusted cage. It was a dance a leper could perchance perform as well.

“My apologies. This pamphlet has information from last generation’s meeting.” The little bird kept his gaze down, but nodded his head to signify a rudimentary acknowledgement. “Will you just come inside Powell library? I know where to find some updated ones. It won’t be forever, promise.” I attempted another dramatic pause, just for art’s sake. Based on the look on the bird’s own face, I had improved. “You will only vanish for a moment,” I said. He paid no attention to my sudden change of tone.

“What’s your name by the way?” asked the bird. He brought his glance up for a moment. Was it to taunt me or just check if I walked away? I wished to open his head and find out. Soon, dear reader, soon we shall all see what is locked away and hidden in that beautiful mind.

“My name?” I was glad to find a chipper tone. “My name is Tommy.” Of course, as you can guess, reader, this name is completely fictional. “Tommy Dunn. The one and only.” Forgive me, reader, for I would find amazing pleasure in revealing my actual name, but unfortunately, I must remain two steps ahead of those malicious critics who pursue me for the actions described within my written pages. Sorry for the annoyance and inconvenience.

“Nice to meet you Thomas.” He placed his phone into his ripped jean’s pocket and extended his fragile hand. I grabbed his hand with the delicate touch of an archeologist uncovering the lost skull in Pompeii. “My name is Edgar.” I sensed a pause of hesitation and regret erupt out of his hand in the form of moisture. “Most people call me Ed. Yeah…Ed now, Edgar is my old name, before I transferred.” He paused and brought his hands up and forced a cringe-inducing salute. “Go Bruins!” Why did he suddenly provide this interjection rally? I have no clue. Even reflecting on this response, I still cannot believe people talked like this in real life.

Ignoring his attempt to evoke any sort of enthusiasm, I tried to react appropriately. “Ah! Ed is a better name anyway. It’s the name of my favorite writer. Have you heard of Poe, Edgar Allen?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ve never really read any of his works though, sorry.” He spoke with such a confidence in his timid ignorance that I was appalled how one could go on living for this long with their pathetic lives, not reading the bountiful works of the greatest and most influential writer in the history of all the written and spoken literature. Shame to his eyes for not glancing. If I could have carved any shape into his body to help this troglodyte mourn for his ignorance, it would be a million frown emojis. I hope he would scream after each agonizing and worthless step taken within his life! How dare he choose to burn the name of greatness onto his decaying body of worthlessness. Forgive my excessive curse words here, reader, for I am writing to the page without any pause and I am doing my best to maintain a steady flow of prosaic thought while staying true to realistic, artistic integrity.

“Not a problemo, brotendo,” retorted I with perfect calmness. “Just a writer, nobody special in the long run. And hey, he’s not going anywhere soon.” Will you now give him a hello for me, my dear Edgar? Please?

“I just like the sound of his name.” He brushed his fingers over his awkward facial hair over his upper lip. “And I really dig his ‘stache.”

As we began walking up the steps of the Powell library standing tall and proud before my act of passion, Ed gave a chirp.

“Could you show me some Poe books to check out? I’ve heard a lot about him. He sounds totally goth.”

Can you imagine, dear reader, how boring his would writing would seem? How much his prose would perambulate around the actual plot?

“Of course! I know the exact shelf where I stash away all my favorite authors.” This new detour may have complicated my intended script, but the thrill of improvisation possessed my body. I gladly accepted the challenge in devising an easy cure for Ed’s plaguing illness I diagnose as living.

He followed me into the library. At once I could tell the feeling of wonder had aroused his ability to perceive our world. Ed awed at the step’s firm structure, the delicately placed mosaic artwork decorating the walls of the sublime library with a curved yet subtle beauty. I shall always envy and adore it all like some lunatic raging to the moon. Within every single memory I possess from then till eternity, I shall never forget the beauty of these walls, each delicate lamp, window, even the computer stations emitting a luscious light embellishing my view of this unruly world, enhancing my ideals. Symmetry and beauty will be blossoming, all shall quiver before the prophetic mysteries of that didacticism.

I continued to guide Ed towards the lowest floor of the Powell library. Just as a helpless animal would follow a trail of crumbs to their demise, so too did he follow me through the maze of shelves filled with ancient books that nobody had ever bothered to read. If only little Ed kept his gaze on the decaying labyrinth I had created by my Virgil guidance, he would have escaped the fiery pits of his coming hell.

“You know Ed, I always loved libraries. All the books, new and old, placed above and below our line of sight, looming everywhere like ghosts still lingering after their doom.”
“Too spooky for me, man.” He gave another subtle grin and expected me to understand some reference. Alas, poor Ed, I knew not his reference well.

“Oh but my favorite idea about the library is that it’s a catacomb, like the ones under Paris. Every book is another lost skull or their shade trying to sing their song, luring each passerby into one’s doom with their stories, waiting perhaps for eternity to release their lore out from painful shelves.” The foolish Ed ignored my reverie. It seemed like a just treatment. But could he ignore my jokes as well?

“Maybe they want to escape their graves? I know I would never be able to cope knowing my life’s work is trapped under a layer of dust amongst the others.”

Still, no response.

Yet at last! I directed this humorless little bird to take shelter in a chair hidden behind a massive bookshelf. It seemed as desolate as the rest of library given the lack of sound from the students studying.

“What’s the wifi btw?” he asked. I did not feel like giving a reply and ignored him with a well-executed walk away.

The library became the perfect lair. Ed sat in a chair that seemingly appeared far too large for his little body. Yet I could tell he took comfort in its wooden framework of the seat only until he removed his smartphone from his pocket and directed his gaze downwards once more.

“I’ll be right back, friend Ed.” I could tell my words had reached his ears, given the faint response he returned, but I realized that he fell into another trance. I could easily have wrung his neck like a little bird that fell from mother’s nest, but I knew the noise would be eruptive and not as exciting for you, my grateful audience. Can you empathize with me, reader? Wouldn’t you want to see a sublime display of action, plot, destruction bursting at the seams of existence? I know you all want to be entertained, not annoyed. I knew how Edgar would perish and how the effect would render best in the written words.

I sprinted to find the first copy of the book Ed had requested. The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe felt firm in my hand. Like a freshly scavenged heart from the tomb, I knew of its soon to come power, its bloody thirst for companionship. The cover felt smooth on my youthful face, although I do admit, I somewhat expected every page to bleed blood onto my face. Unfortunately, such miracles cannot be expected of reality. There is more blood to come, trust me reader.

“Here ya go, ranch Eddorito. My favorite story, The Cask of Amontillado, is here for you.” The fool nodded his head slightly, not bothering to look up and witness my smile. I imagined a jingling jester’s cap bouncing along with his ignorance. I placed the book at his feet, like it was some sacrifice to an almighty deity. He seemed mesmerized by the soft sounds and illuminations from the device.

What joy once again bloomed from my soul when my prediction had come true. Ed would never budge or react to any other stimulus unless it possessed any sort of relevance to his own world. I could have once again wrung his neck like a pigeon, but like I said, what joy would that bring to us, reader? What entertainment? The urge to laugh once again possessed my soul. I contained myself to a silence, dear reader, since I truly believed that the entity of the library is an institution of silence that should be respected.

In the next hour, I sprinted throughout the three-dimensional maze of the library, placing each book as a brick. At that moment, I realized that the chime of the hourly clock tower bells would awaken sweet Ed from his dream within a dream. It may even result in a sour turn of events incongruent to my improvised plot. I began to run, like the cliché, as fast as the wind could carry me.

I could only bring the best novels of my knowledge that deserved to be part of Ed’s casket. A few of those perfect books over 800 pages were the first bricks to be laid. After all, I found that it was true they had the support, due to the rigidity of their bound structure and intricate plots of epics like Don Quixote, Ulysses, In Search of Lost Time, Gravity’s Rainbow, yadda, yadda, yadda. If everyone held their head up to these fascinating written perspectives before our Ed, the world would revolve twice as fast!

A sudden pang of paranoia tapped me on the head like a lobotomy. I was, once again, aware of the possibility of my bird breaking free from his shell. It could be the hourly bells that awaken him from his trance, or my inability to keep him away from hypnotic boredom with my antic disposition.

Sometimes, I could not resist providing some exposition. My first slip of the tongue arrived when I brought forth William Blake. I knew he never heard of him before, yet he deserves an introduction.

“Here is a poet I adore, Edward. His name is William Blake, known for attending a marriage between heaven and hell. He’s a glorious poet. Even Jim Morrison loved his work. You know Jim Morrison? He went to UCLA, isn’t that wild? ‘Come on babes, just light my little-o fire. Yeah oh little fire just do it.’ Okay, you caught me—I don’t know the lyrics. It’s such a catchy tune, right?” Ed nodded his head and I still felt the sting of ignorance burn my skin, despite the poetic justice of my actions.

“Ah, once again Edwin, here is another classic that I adore. Lolita by the mighty Nabokov. Oh, what I would do to be a child again, hear my dear old Uncle read me this piece of novel writing before me as I went to slept. Who could forget the first opening lines? ‘Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.’ You have heard this, right Ed? It is legendary.” He vaguely shook his head to signify a disagreement. “Oh my soul burns with the passion of a million stars bursting the sky. How rude of me, I’ll lay this poetry right here for you. Be careful, some of the pages are a bit sticky. I suppose someone had a bit too much fun reading. You can even feel the moist hand print on its spine.”

I brought more works that would reflect the irony of Ed’s soon to come situation, until I discovered every high has an eventual crash. Although every book felt like well-placed bricks cemented into a growing casket, I began to feel less euphoria after each placement. Fahrenheit 451 didn’t feel as sufficient as placing the star-crossed lovers, American Psycho and Infinite Jest, on top of each other. Both The Divine Comedy and The Secret Agent had a diminished effect once I placed The Satanic Verses with the Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire before Ed’s pile. It’s true, the classics are losing worth.

I was saddened to feel bored with this act of careful plotting. I paused midway and held my hand under my chin like some detective searching for a clue. At last! As I placed Les Fleurs de Mal between Wuthering Heights and Rebecca, The Diary of a Young Girl onto Labyrinths, The Bell Jar sandwiched between Call of Cthulhu, and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mister Hyde, an epiphany appeared. I had found the perfect cherry to place on top of Ed to send him and his casket straight to the oven. I couldn’t wait to whisper bon appétit.

I sprinted to the next library on the campus, Young Library. I must confess, I am gravely disappointed. With its vague quotations from Borges, I deem it an insult to true libraries like Powell Library. I do apologize to the other students who seem so kind and serene, but I would have rather have this library ignited like a tree in a forest fire. One day, I will satirize it all. For now, I apologize once more for this necessary digression.

I emerged into the lower lever of the library, cupping my hands to shield any real eye contact. In the corridor, directly beneath the stairs, sat a lonely silver shovel. The shovel had apparently participated in the founding of UCLA. It was encased in some glass casket, which seemed more of a tragedy than a reflection on the past. It would be best to put the retired tool to a more productive use rather than letting that relic rust.

I plucked it out of the glass casing, like some fruit upon a tree, and ran back to the casket of the little bird. It took exactly 440 steps to return.

At this point, I must admit there may be some flaws in accurately describing things. I will provide an oath before you, reader. I swear the perceivable events I have and will depict are valid, cogent, and true.

Upon returning to Ed, I was pleased he had not even budged. But I did begin to worry about the health of his neck and posture.

This is where I hoped to end his suffering. I held the shovel, slashed its silver blade at his head. It landed between his eyes. I was proud of my precision. Yet to my dismay, the blood did not seem to spurt like some fountain. Perhaps the many films have given me unrealistic perceptions. Yet I have discovered one maxim this entire journey. Experience shall always provide the truth.

From here, I deserve to mention that it was eleven o’clock and the jingle of bells chimed throughout the holy body of the library. Unfortunately, the walls did not tremble, the floor did not quake once hour summoned the tolling bells. Our Ed still did not budge from his hypnosis. I did feel my body ache, reacting to those bells like a wolf with the moon. As the bells chimed, I had struck a source of golden euphoria within me. At last, I found joy.

He tried looking up at me. Oh, what poetry had I dug up beyond his human skull? Beyond his fleshy interior, with his blood running as like river throughout Eden, lies the mind, the consciousness. The bells continued to chant. The sweetest delirium of the Elysian Fields brought me to conceive an unspeakable glory. I hope my words reflect that emotion.

I withdrew the silver shovel glistening in redness. The blood seeped out like moss on a prison wall. Perhaps with my optometrist treatment, he could see me now.

I know, reader, you are dying for me to answer one final question. When did the hourly bells finish their chime?

I have no clue.

In my defense, I was not entirely aware of my surroundings. The rush of sublime and serene emotions molded together and produced novel sensation. Reader, I hope you can understand the thought of seeing colors never described by poets, philosophers. I felt myself enter a new dimension of reality.

I felt flames appear within the stacked books surround the silenced Ed. After opening my eyes, I saw the flames spread onto Edgar. It was too damn godly to extinguish, for I knew it was a miracle.

The magic possessed me and I fell into an unescapable joy. I realized the truest sense of the present, the truest moment of the present. Can you understand how the past and future can burn away?

Nobody noticed my burning pyre. I wanted to leave a plaque to commemorate the offering, stating “A BLOOD-STAINED SHOVEL KISSING A SKULL — EXCALIBUR LODGED WITHIN ITS ORGANIC STONE.”

Ed’s phone continued to chime after his murder. The students hushed at the sounds. As I danced out of the library, the urges for silence grew louder as the chimes from Ed’s phone evolved into shrieking alarms. I hope to only hear echoes of those bells and alarms in my dreams. Those bells of victory.

I pray those bells drown out Ed’s device as well, for I still hear its chiming echoing in my mind as I write. I would rather not be haunted. I fear that I may be flawed and my mind is corrupted.

I hear it is everywhere now. As I drive on the 405, as I watch my favorite shows, as I jog, even as I watched the library melt into a mound of ash while the sky was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood.

Ariel N. Banayan is a dual degree MA/MFA Student at Chapman University, focusing on short fiction and novel writing. Previously, he as taught children reading skills and literature comprehension in after school enrichment programs, as well as piano musicianship and karate. He is a first generation Iranian American, born and raised in the West Los Angeles area. He received a B.A. in English from UCLA in 2017.

Featured Image: “The Raven” by Kevin Burkett is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 

Author Image: Portrait by @yoni_keynan 

Say you know. Say he’s a dick. Tell her it’s going to be alright as though you’re sure of it. As though you’re sure of anything.

Her lower lip quivers because she’s cold but also because she’s close, again, to tears. Close but determined not to cry.

Pull her to you and kiss her hair; that’s what you can reach with her face pressed into your chest and since he kissed her everywhere else it’s the one place that seems sacred. It’s the one place untouched.

You rock her and she twists against you. She doesn’t want to relax or be still, she wants to rage and scream and slam her fists into whatever she can reach but you keep her close, knowing how much she’ll hate you for resisting her. For saving her. But it’s worth it because you think of what she’ll say, ten years from now when her husband (who isn’t you) talks her into seeing a therapist and she goes. She’ll talk about the friend who held her while she refused to cry, who rocked her and made her be still. She’ll say it made all the difference that night. She’ll say that’s what saved her. She’ll realize halfway through a sentence that her husband (who isn’t you) should have a different face.

But tonight this is just a shadow of thought at the back of your mind. Tonight you’re fighting past six shots of cheap tequila and there’s so much noise in her tiny, silent bedroom. The window is open and icy cold is seeping in, attacking the weak spots in your sweater and it’s all you can do not to stare at her mostly-bare skin brought to life, billions of goose bumps all of which you want to feel beneath your fingers. Tonight you can barely force out two words but you have to say something.

It’s uncomfortable on the floor, but you can’t ask her to get up, you can’t ask her to let you onto her bed where he was an hour ago. You check your cell phone with her face still buried in your sweater, feel guilty because you only wanted to know the time and put it back down before she notices your lapse in attention. Her breathing is shallow but steady; you just wish she would cry.

He didn’t mean to hurt her and you guess you know that. She knows, too. She knows she should have voiced the no, knows she can’t take it back, knows she’ll smile tomorrow when she passes him. He’ll think tonight meant something else. You know that his not meaning to hurt her doesn’t make her not hurt. She’s far away. He has earthquaked her out to sea—she’ll develop her own dialect in absence of the mainland, a language for coping. You can’t kiss her mouth into the shape you wish it was.

Say you’re here for her. She nods. Say you’ll do anything. She nods.

*

Grey light filters through her crooked plastic blinds. The temperature has dropped further but you’re curled against her back on the floor beneath the quilt her grandmother gave her. Her head rests on your arm and you can’t feel your fingers.

Her makeup is smudged; a single eyelash balanced on her pale cheekbone. You want to brush it away but it will wake her. You can’t bring yourself to wake her.

The hangover isn’t as bad as you would’ve expected but your head still pounds. Your phone is feet away on the carpet, face up, just out of reach. Your shoes are still by the door where you left them, under the mirror with the picture from the photo booth at the movie theater on the edge of town, next to the bookshelf overflowing. You’re just here filling space she doesn’t need.

She stirs in her sleep, lips parting and one hand moving to encircle your wrist. She’s clinging onto the solid thing in the room. You wish you could kiss her into wakefulness, know it would build up a mountain between you, know you don’t have any experience summiting mountains.

Tell her in a whisper that everything will be okay before laying your head back down and drifting into uneasy dreams.

*

You wake with a chasm between your arms where her smallness should be.

She says it’s almost two in the afternoon. She says even though it’s a Sunday and there’s nothing much that should need doing, she needs to get things done. Polite and cold, she encourages you to leave.

Your legs are shaky but you heave yourself up. You ask if she’s okay. She turns away, fusses with the quilt on the floor, still flat where your bodies were warming it minutes ago. You ask again.

She says no.

You ask what you can do.

She says nothing.

You ask her to let you in.

She smiles, says that’s what got her into trouble last night.

You walk down the stairs and out into the world which, last night, was barren but now glistens, bright white and frigid. Trees naked, street pockmarked, an echo where there used to be breathing and the morning so different from the night. It would be a wonderland on any other morning, but today it is bones. Cold wakes you as it jabs through the worn patches in your sweater and you wrap your arms around yourself to shut it out. You intend to go back to bed until the headache subsides so that maybe you can pretend last night didn’t happen. Maybe you can pretend a love without shadows; maybe you can pretend her a heart still open. Maybe you can make faceless the men who still touch you in dreams.

As you walk, stare straight ahead. The sidewalk is uniform, rough, rough, rough, by squares; you don’t think to wonder at the glossiness until your feet are out from under you. For a moment, you are suspended, weightless, immune to gravity, staring up at too-white sky. It’s a shock when you’re sprawled on your back on the pavement. Everything hits at once. The tequila headache has spread to every inch of skin, the ground bucks beneath you and stars pop before your eyes. Damned ice, you think, as the throbbing in your skull punches harder.

Wiggle your fingers. Follow suit with toes. Blink in the snow-reflected sunlight, breathe deep. The frigid air burns in your lungs. You try to speak, to test: laughter and a low, guttural cough splutters up from your throat. You are a woman in a thin sweater lying on her back on an icy sidewalk laughing and there is sanity in that.

Your phone buzzes inside your pocket. With the fingers you now know you can wiggle, you raise it to your ear without checking who wants to talk. Still laughing, you say hello.

Thank you, she says.

Carly Taylor is a first-year in the MFA Creative Writing program, focusing on poetry and nonfiction. She earned her bachelor’s in Creative Writing and Dance Studies from Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois, where her enthusiasm for collaboration and interdisciplinary art were also sparked. She is originally from Boulder, Colorado. Her writing can be found at Rag Queen Periodical, Door Is A Jar Magazine, and Allegory Ridge, among others.

Featured Image: Author Contribution

When he stepped into the foyer, a place he remembered as ocean blue, the first thing he noticed was the missing white bench.  It had been replaced by a flowered antique cabinet, a burnt brown hue that nearly matched the new paint on the walls.  Maybe it wasn’t new.  He couldn’t remember.  Once, his mother had called him on the phone to tell him she was repainting the walls, but he couldn’t place the exact time of that call.  There had been so many phone calls.  Especially near the end.

His father greeted him, his hair thinner than the last time he saw him, a year ago in the city, when he put on a brave face and pretended that everything was going well.  There was no point in worrying his mother, the one time she would get to see him all year.  He was surprised that his father made it to the door before the dog, but then he remembered that the dog had died two years ago.  He thought about how little emotion he felt when he got the news, a feeling he was not proud of as he realized he would have been an intruder in the dog’s mind.

That first night was hard.  He promised himself three years ago that he would never move back into his parent’s house.  And although he didn’t have anything to move in, he couldn’t help but feel like some sort of failure.

He stared at the ceiling fan, still stuck on the medium setting, just like it had been when he first broke the remote when he was 15 years old.  Ten years ago.  Yet everything felt like it happened in one jumbled yesterday.  He couldn’t put his finger on where things went wrong, because really, they hadn’t. He had done everything he was supposed to, as well as he could, and yet still, he lay in the same twin bed that he had spent his entire childhood sleeping in.

And before he knew it he was sitting in McNamara’s, or “Macs” as they all called it, his four best friends flanking him, each drinking a $2 beer, something that he had never realized he missed so much.  They talked about nothing, just like the old times.  Everything went along as it used to; like there wasn’t a gap in their history.  Maybe it was social media, or the pointless group chat, he didn’t know, but something made this feel almost like it could still be home. That’s what terrified him.  He remembered thinking how that final sip of his fifth beer – the sip that finally got him drunk – tasted so much like regret.  His friends would never judge him.  He knew that.  They didn’t care what he had been through, and they didn’t question it either.  He appreciated that.  After all they would never understand.  They still lived with their parents, dated girls who slept in their parents’ houses, and ate food bought and cooked for them like they were still children.  For three years he had survived off of take out, dated girls his parents would never meet, and paid rent far too expensive on a salary far too low.

He drifted off into the sinking space that had become so much a part of his life of late.  It was like being trapped in a plastic bag, just barely below the surface of a lake.  He knew he was so close to emerging unscathed, unharmed, but the extra bit of effort it took to break through the molecules, always felt like too much.  His legs were too weak, his mind growing rich with panic.  He thought about the day when he finally made the decision to leave, but then he removed the intrusion.  If he was going to leave the west coast behind, he had to erase it entirely from his memory.

Then he was staggering up to his doorstep, walking across the cool, damp grass of early Autumn.  He looked up at the clear sky and saw stars. He had spent so much time in a city with so many, yet he almost forgot what they looked like. He stumbled to the door, his breath stale with beer, reached in his pocket and pulled out his keys.  He put the keys in the door, and only then did he remember that he had not taken a new house key from his mother.  For all intents and purposes, he was homeless.  His keyring lonely with just two keys from his first job and a safe key for a box he left back in his old life.

He kicked off his shoes, walked down to the sidewalk, and stood above the sewer grate.  He stared down into it, remembering the time that he had jokingly put his friend’s hat over it only to be spooked by a passing car and drop it in.  His friend’s mom had screamed at him relentlessly.  Pathetic, he thought.  He dropped the keys and watched them disappear into the darkness.

He woke up the next morning, got on an old bike and began to ride, feeling every bit like the child he had respawned into.  He rode the bike down to the trestle where he had spent so many nights in his youth.  As he meandered down the dirt path, hearing the soft ripples of the creek approaching, he was surprised to hear his name shouted.

He looked up to see two men, shirtless, with faces so recognizable but names so elusive.  He threw down his bike and said hello.  They offered him a beer and he was back at it again.  He sat off to the side as they did backflips off the trestle into the creek.  When they lit up a joint they sat next to him and offered him a hit.

The man with the darker hair said he thought that he had moved away; that he was working in the movie business or something, living his dream.

He was quiet for a moment before telling the man he had just moved back, something had happened, and he needed a change.

The lighter haired man laughed, took a rip of the joint, and announced that even the most perfect people fail sometimes.

Then he was back in Mac’s with his four friends, their girlfriendss well.  The conversation carried on.  He was included.  He was never left out, making his witty comments like he had always done, hiding the pain inside of him like he had always done.  Again, he went home with the stale taste of beer in his mouth.  But this time instead of throwing away his keys he threw away his cover.

He sent her a text and imagined her sitting up in bed, her roommate nestled closely into her, eating the vegan cupcakes that she had forced him to eat, and that he surprisingly enjoyed.  It was only 10pm where she was and he knew she wouldn’t be at a bar.  She hated bars.  He always joked that it was fate that they should meet at one.  Something extra put us there.  She had cried when he said he was leaving, but he knew she would get over it.  She was too good for him anyway, something she hated that he said.  While he was working his ass off, 10 hours a day getting screamed at, she was hiking, painting, seeing the world.  It was the life he wanted but wasn’t talented or brave enough to have.  As he laid in bed waiting for her response, he felt guilty for all of the things that he said to her, for never really giving her a chance.  His self-loathing was exhausting and yet it never scared her away.  He fell asleep.  She never texted back.

The next day he rode his bike 23 miles to the boardwalk, his legs aching, butt sore from the seat.  He walked out onto the sandy beach, empty because it was a Tuesday and it was September, and watched the seagulls fly helplessly into the wind.  He walked toward the ocean and sat down just as the beach began to slant downward.  The waves crashed and occasionally the water would lap at his toes—the bubbly white froth that looked so menacing when it thundered down, but was so peaceful on the sand.

This was the furthest he could possibly be from his old life – the other side of the country, his back to the ocean that he had called home for too long, his eyes facing out at another sprawling in front of him.  He started to cry.  It was pitiful, but he didn’t care.  No one could see him here, and after moving back, crying was to be expected.

When he woke up it was dark and a beach police officer was shining a flashlight in his eyes.  The officer asked if he was drunk, if something had happened.  He stood up and walked passed the officer.  The officer didn’t even question him, the defeated man, covered in sand, his face leathery from the sun.

That night at Mac’s—for the third straight night—the conversation faded to the background and he broke down.  His friends stared at him, the waitress asked what was wrong.  He said nothing, stood up, and stormed out into the parking lot.

His friends followed—of course they did—why wouldn’t they?  He told them he was a failure, that he couldn’t live with himself, with no direction, no dreams, and no idea why he got up in the morning.

Failure?  You can’t be a failure.  You went for it.  So, what you came back?  People move on, people change, people get different ideas about their lives.  If you’re a failure than what the fuck are we?  You’re here today, we’re all here today, but that doesn’t mean we’re all going to be here forever.  We’re struggling, but what else can we do?

He told them he was meant for something greater, something more.

We all hope that.  But maybe we’re not.  Maybe we’re just ordinary fucking people meant to live ordinary fucking lives.  Is that so bad?  You’ve seen the other side.  Why did you come back?  What you told me was everyone was miserable and you didn’t want to be a part of it.  Well now you’re here and we’re all miserable too.  But at least we have a reason to be, and Goddamnit, if Mac’s is the only source of joy we have – if we’re the only source of joy we have – well fuck, we better make the most of it.

They all hugged him one by one, as he stood shaking in the parking lot, like some sorry little boy.  It wasn’t sadness, it was frustration.  A feeling they shared.  They all had a sinking space, just like he did—everyone had a sinking space.  But it was up to him how he wanted to handle it.  It was up to him if he would surface and rip the plastic bag from his head.

That night he texted her again.  He knew she wouldn’t answer.  When she didn’t answer it was purposeful, not simply missed in the chaos of the day.  He thought about her hiking to their secret spot, high up in the mountains, her bag strapped tightly on her shoulders, her hair flowing in the breeze, as the sun set over the city.  She would look down and in that swarm of people and lights, she would unknowingly see her future.  Her husband, who she would meet at an art exhibit—not a bar.  The empty warehouse where all of her work would be put on display.  The conference room where she would pitch the idea that fulfilled her purpose.  The street she would cross, lost in her music, oblivious to the car barreling toward her, the driver texting his mother that he would be late for dinner.

Her whole life would take place in that city, and she would never speak to him again.  She was the one thing he regretted more than anything.  He hurt her when all she had wanted to do was help.  She was too good for him.  He wasn’t wrong about that, but through his mania he couldn’t see that even in a city with such scourge, some people really could love.  His hasty decision that had been years in the making came at a time when he selfishly told her to stay, that he didn’t want to be the reason she gave up her dream.  She promised him they would find a place, to just give it a little more time.  To let her figure some things out.

And then he left.

He laid in his bed, wide eyed, staring at the ceiling fan, slowly spinning, the rain softly pattering against the window.  Pathetic for texting her, pathetic for crying in front of his friends, pathetic for living with his parents again.

The next morning, he rose from his bed a sleepless zombie.  He stumbled downstairs passed his mother who was drinking coffee and reading the morning paper.  His father was there in a polo and faded blue jeans, heading to the body shop yet again.

His father said he noticed that he’d been coming home late.  He wanted to know if everything was alright.

He lied and said it was.

His father said that he could get him a job just to get him on his feet, that he had to start working again.

He said nothing and walked out the door, hopped on his bike which he had thrown down in the middle of the lawn the night before.  He rode as fast as he could for his friend’s house, and when he got there he found his friend walking out the front door getting ready to leave for work.

When his friend saw the look on his face, he knew it was dire.  He picked up his phone and called his boss, told him he needed the day off, his stomach wasn’t right, and then he stepped back inside the house holding the door open for him.

They sat at the table and his friend offered him coffee.  He didn’t drink coffee.  His friend opened the fridge.

Too early for a beer?

They sat at his friend’s parent’s kitchen table, drinking beers before 9 am.  He told his friend that his father had offered to help him find a job.  His friend said he should take it, look at it as temporary.

And then he opened up.  It wasn’t another night of shaking in a parking lot.  It was what was truly inside of him, something no one could heckle him for because no one could see it.

My whole life has been temporary.  It was here, then it was college, then it was there.  Job after job after job, being treated like a raw slab of meat needing to be tenderized in order to be properly prepared.  I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t tough it out and watch my 20s disappear while the world around me continued on.  A world I was never going to see.  I despised those people.  Those people who preached happiness and peace for all and then turned around and demeaned me and everyone else until they no longer felt human.  They used to tell me my parents should move out there, that they could live in the richest, most beautiful parts of the city.  Gagging on their silver spoons they didn’t even think to ask what my parents did or what they could afford.  Ignorant, yet so intelligent.  Wealthy, but so unhappy.  I see those people who look down on my father from their mansions, high up in the hills, or their palaces along the ocean.  I look at my contemporaries, as they scream and march, acting holier than thou, all while banishing anyone with a differing opinion.  I wasn’t like that.  I wasn’t raised like that.  And that’s how I knew that my father, my mother, they are so much greater than any of those people. 

But, I don’t want to be my father.

His friend looked at him, clinked his beer against his, and then leaned back.  His friend said he understood, but they would never know the easy life because whatever they got they had to earn.  And no matter how bad he wanted to help him he couldn’t because they were all just as helpless.  Every morning was a choice.  And he had made his.  He wasn’t worried about proving himself to anyone.  He wasn’t worried about how successful he was perceived to be.  At the end of the day he was worried about coming home and being happy.

He got up and made for the door.  His friend stopped him.  He wanted to know where he was going.  He honestly didn’t know.  His friend thanked him for the day off and then watched as he walked out the door.  His friend sat at the kitchen table where his parents used to cut his meat for him and force him to drink milk.  He looked at the refrigerator, saw a picture of a newborn baby, his niece, just entering into the world.  He stared at her for a moment, then sighed, chuckled to himself, and took a sip of his beer.

He was riding out to the ocean again, this time with much more purpose.  By the time he got there the sun was already going down, twilight starting to set in.  He threw his bike on the beach and stomped down to the water as fast as he could.  He stopped on the precipice just before the decline to the ocean.  The waves crashed, much stronger than they had been yesterday.

He texted her one final time.  It was exactly 83 days before she would meet her husband.  She considered answering the text this time, his persistence and her attachment to him weighing heavily.  But then her roommate came in and had an incredible story to tell her about a date she went on last night.  She listened intently and by the time the story was done she had forgotten all about the text.

He stripped off his clothes, the sun descending quickly behind the dunes at his back.  He stood there naked looking out at the ocean, the dark sky beyond creeping up on him.  The wind was whipping hard off the ocean, his hair blown back like a movie star.  It was cold and he had second thoughts, but then he took the first step down the incline, and then the second, the third, fourth, and then a wave finally touched his toes.  It was freezing but still he sprinted directly into a wave as it crashed.  He dove, completely submerging himself.  He came up for air and lifted his feet off the sand.  For a moment he floated.  He looked back at the sun, lifted himself up over another swell, listened to it crash down on the shore.

And then he went under.

The ethereal darkness took over as the waves continued to crash on the shore.  His friends texted him to see if he would meet them at Mac’s.  When they didn’t hear from him they went anyway.  His mother and father watched a movie in their bed.  His father asked if his mother had heard from him.  She said no, but it was nothing to worry about.  In his old life she went for a walk, her headphones in, and passed by the bar where they had first met.  She remembered that he had texted her yet again, and feeling a twinge of nostalgia thought about responding.  But then she continued walking on, her hands still in the pockets of her black bowler.  This was something she was going to have to let go of.  And she did, as we all do.  But there were nights when she would lay in bed, the desert heat simmering in her apartment and wonder what might have been.

After a minute he came up for air, inhaling desperately, his lungs burning.  He made his way to shore and stumbled as a wave crashed at his knees.  He struggled to his feet, the fresh wet sand giving out beneath him, and for the first time in years he saw clearly.  The past was irrelevant and the future unknown, but in that moment, the moon illuminating his wet, naked body, he was in control.  And with that power he made his choice.

Phil Wood is pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University.  Previously, he held jobs at numerous companies in the film and television industry, including Foresight Unlimited and Warner Brothers.  He also conducted film sales at the Cannes Film Festival, Berlinale, and American Film Market.  A Miami (FL) alum, Phil currently serves as a staff writer and podcaster for CanesInsight.com, where he provides football and basketball coverage.

Featured Image: “liquid metal days II” by nosha licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0