‘The First Floor Spider’, ‘The Problem With Asking For Help’ & ‘Resentments’

Aditya Kumar is a teen who's participated in several photography competitions, his best accomplishment being awarded 4th Place (Honorable Mention) in the PTA Reflections District Photography Middle School Division. He's currently a Sophomore in high school striving for excellence, having lessons each week for 5 different instruments (Guitar, Piano, Flute, Piano, and Tabla (Indian Percussion Instrument), and meetings every day for the countless extracurriculars he's part of.

The First Floor Spider

The frigid wind blew hard that November night
My bare feet chilled by the pearl ceramic floor
The TV sung loud, the shower water was hot
When in the corner of my eye, I spot it
A small black spider making his way to the door

My first thought was to pity how he got there
The far cry my hotel room was from his home
That I couldn’t kill him simply for being
My shower could wait until he’s back outside

Back to where he belongs, back to where he can roam
I grabbed a tissue and coaxed him to get on
He scurried away at first but soon crawled up
As I gingerly held it, he scaled the sides
Did he worry that he was going to die?
Had he done this before, been inside someone’s cup?

I opened the hallway door and shook him off
And onto the whimsical carpet he fell
But what if someone else walks down that hallway
And crushes him unknowingly as he sits
For far too long I thought, for far too long I dwelled

The Problem With Asking For Help

I know you so often worry about me
It casts a grey shadow
Across your face
It’s been getting tougher
The water getting deep
At night, it’s so hot
I can hardly sleep

Every apartment I tour turns me down
They all seem to want
Six figures, at least
But I make too much
To get Section 8
So, in my sedan
I will continue to sleep

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Nothing that I haven’t
Already tried
No Gram, I haven’t yet
Hemmed those beige pants
I’m a bit distracted
A bit preoccupied

Yes, I have recently talked with dad
He just called to ask
For money for dabs
Of course I said no
I can’t do that right now
She said “that is upsetting
I hope you figure it out”

He said that since I’m a big girl now
I will make it through
By changing point of view
To be dry-eyed

In this time of stress
I should try to reframe
This all as a test

I say I understand
You’re unable to help
Then in the same breath he asks
“How is your mental health?

Resentments

The midnight comes, the silence breathes
I felt the stinging winter wind
I took a moment for myself
Then, there I was
Entranced by my memories

I laid to rest underneath trees
The hops soured my hot breath
Then, I disappeared
Begrudgingly accompanied
By the words of enemies

The daytime breaks, the moon concedes
The air hung still and smelling sweet
I took a moment for myself
Then, there I was
Grieving with my memories

The sun is sharp, my mind’s edge dull
For now, that stale feeling recedes
But those thoughts never truly leave
I took a minute to myself
Then, I was gone
Swallowed by my memories

Maura Aradia Furtado, a New Jersey native, became enamored with poetry at a very young age and hasn’t slowed down since. She is a new writer with no prior publication history, but her passion and dedication to the art is unwavering.

‘WE KISS ATOP A MOUNTAIN’, ‘KNOTTED MESS’ & ‘PEACE IS A SONG I HUM TO MYSELF’

Faysal Khan Elahi is a celebrated travel photographer and visual storyteller from Northern Pakistan, known for capturing the essence of diverse landscapes, cultures, and human connections. With over 15 years of experience, his work has been exhibited internationally, published in renowned magazines, and recognized on major platforms. Faysal’s photography celebrates the beauty of exploration, blending his passion for travel with his keen eye for composition. Representing Pakistan globally, his award-winning visuals narrate stories that inspire others to see the world differently.

WE KISS ATOP A MOUNTAIN

We kiss atop a mountain
that we formed with our words.
Collaborative fantasies,
such constructions bridged our minds—
Cars never crossed and planes never landed,
lives diverged, resigned to levied sighs,
I handed you my strife:
I wished your life was mine.

We would have flown planes.
Peddled mountain bikes uphill
and on tabletops red wine’d spill.
You’d have played me jazz, piano
graced with the same hands I held.

Alongside Duke and Birdie and Blakey,
we would have been happy,
fucking for the first time on your couch
and walking through the rain
in Paris: the Jardin; the streets lit orange;
your face in my hands; my back to the Seine.

You let me be yours
with jokes of a wedding in Maine
and in headphones on trains—
All I Wanted Was You—
We could have flown planes,
played jazz, held hands,
the whole thing.

What I’m asking, my almost dead man, is
Do you remember our life?
The house we built alone on longing?
I still live as your wife in my mind;
on this mountain, with hike behind and view ahead,
here I kiss your lips as you do mine.

KNOTTED MESS

So there, blessed were the bedsheets we shared!
Both shaded beneath white leaves of cotton
Hiding from those summer storms we got caught in
We shed most hang ups, but a few were spared

Like mossed 'opihi and stoic rocks paired
You, anchored to your gains, ill-gotten
I, seeking where to place my lot in
And in the trap of moving kind, ensnared

Mid-air, our aho twirled and tangled
With no one there to unknot the strand
Breathless to call for help, we were strangled
Then dropped--on the empty frame we did land

Against protruding nails, bodies mangled
Thanks to that shoddy assembly we manned!

PEACE IS A SONG I HUM TO MYSELF

In this still room, dusty with silence, peace is a song I hum to myself.
Otherwise,
I would be staring myself down in the mirror,
feet sinking in quicksand below and heart racing
fast enough to beat Man o' War or Seabiscuit
in their prime, knuckle-gripping a twice-used purple
plastic toothbrush that, I swear,
I can smell the bacteria on.
Stopwatch in hand, scrubbing my teeth clean, I’d brush till gums dripped blood. Instead, I fumble

around the house, forcing my eyes shut.
I’m closing doors to nothing, tripping on old bones,
avoiding smudged reflective surfaces and dirt stains on the wall.
One wipe becomes twenty
becomes thirty-five becomes fifty. Sixty-five seventy, tally counter in my mind.
I want to sweep up my sadness and throw it out
with the piles of dog hair and dryer lint.

I try not to think of my older brother in the cave next door
or how he hasn't retreated in days,
but all I can picture is his potentially dead body
lain on his grimy bed, sheets and pajamas unchanged for months.
He camouflages himself in the filth
of maggot-filled trash bags, clutter-stuffed boxes
of moldy paper plates stacked on his resin-stained desk.
There is a trail he leaves in the air
when he passes, acrid and nearly rotten.
The air is too fresh, and I can hear my mother’s
wails, the same ones from when my nana died, where at first I thought
she was laughing.
So, I close the door and slip back to myself
I, eternal time waster with half-closed eyes and full bright screen. I, creator of all ails.
I, who tries in vain to mold the dried-up clay of myself in my atrophied hands
while endless cracks form at lipped ridges,
peace is a song I hum to myself.

Jade Silva was born and raised in Hawai’i. She will soon graduate with her B.A. in English from the University of Hawai'i at Hilo, with certificates in Creative Writing and Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages.

‘6.15.24’ & Collected Works

Gamaal El Attar is a filmmaker, photographer, architect, and urban planner. Originally, he is a Palestinian refugee whose resilient journey is driven by an unwavering passion for storytelling through film. 10 years ago, Gamaal started his dream of filmmaking activism. His documentaries amplify refugee stories and advocate for social inclusion, earning widespread acclaim and establishing him as a beacon in global filmmaking and social advocacy.

6.15.24

and in this house i am catching my foot in the screen door
and in this body i am entitled to what i am not
and in this place i am the galaxy standstill /
i wake whenever i please, and know not the meaning of calories. i take eyes turned upwards
towards me as submission. i take myself as oppressed for wanting to submit sometimes.
and in this town i am licking bookshelves clean
and in this building i ask the only questions
and in this room i am not receptive to consequences
and in this universe i do no wrongs
at the time of inception i am unbridled
by what is necessary or what is sufficient
by to whom to lend a piece of heart
and where tears go for those
younger with unaddressed ailments
those
the wiser with unheld hurt
and what it means, in general, to feel
fatalistic tie, to give to fatal degree
and in this situation i
can ride a bike, and better correct english, and welcome the dogs biting at my forearms
in this instance i know everything you don't although i
don't really quite know much at all

6.18.24

on your birthday i pretend to forgive you
i let it last, though just on paper
on the late train i’m asked if i mind a bitter man’s drinking
and he laughs when he says thank goodness no one smells, right?
i’m alright walking around when i know i’ll be found
make eye contact with the notary to
prove that we have mutual understanding i am who i am
thirty eight days ago i didn't think twice about
her girlfriend holy fuck, its been thirty eight days
i didn’t know phones rang through the halls on trains
i’m leaving sticky notes so they don't forget me
thirty eight days later i’m trying to untie her laces
i’m not infatuated, i promise, only if
it weren't my due diligence to gnaw at your eyes
i’m reframing feigning forgiveness and
wondering if you keep her afraid
thank goodness i don’t let it happen to me, right?

6.20.24

i think if no one is obsessed with me soon i might die
blackberry liquid palms and
on a case by case basis requests to not /
no knowing grins and no lies for benefits and for
those things i am sorry, i’m
sunken and in need of love my
lover does not give me.
eleven drinks, silent pre-phrase pauses, what i’d
trade for corrections and wrong visions of what’s real
the requests i made are not fulfilled and the
things i wished for all are horribly disappointing
apple behind the eyes and tree sprouting good roots but would leave you to burn alive;
negligent to burn a house down, conscientious enough to plan for a birthday.
who am i if no one is in love with me?, –
clearly i am not good enough for myself this yet

Ariana Eftimiu is a student at Barnard College, Columbia University, in New York City. When not writing, she is making a several-hour-long playlist on Spotify or on a long walk accompanied by a coffee and her loved ones. She has published work in the National Poetry Quarterly, Not Very Quiet, and the Columbia Daily Spectator, among other places. Follow her co-run online music and arts magazine at pottedpurple.com or catch up with her @arianadrinkingcoffee.

‘Eaters’, ‘St. Stephen's Green as a Lavender Field’ & ‘Venison’

Jules Brassard: This artistic approach is a world of spontaneity and reality. Mainly focused on street and event photography, humans remain the main subject. He likes to transmit emotions through his photographs, transmitting moments of sharing, of laughter, of joy, of pain... all these emotions that make us all human. These spontaneous moments where we reveal ourselves to others without a mask, without a filter.

Eaters

Your ghost sucks my torment like peaches
hand-picked from the summer tree
tethered to the shitty soil in the backyard.
Peach fuzz gliding against chains
rusted, bleeding, (rotting)
from deep sun and moths.

Plucking the meat off the stone
till it rolls along a vacant tongue
dry and ridgid, flesh fibers
confined between teeth. I floss
until my gums gush copper
and heavy
yet juice drips from my chin
it’s red and dying and of plums

St. Stephen's Green as a Lavender Field

The river reflects the silhouette of two bodies,
two souls merging on a stone bridge.
Evergreen oaks still bare, begging
to sprout and bloom and sing the prologue
of new desire, simmering to a craving
for how each others’ names linger
on swollen tongues like wine.

They thought stone awaited the imprint of incisors,
the splatter of blood faded to raspberry stains.
That their love would be bound to a diary
with the pronouns changed (just in case). Confined
to the spine of some journal in an underwear drawer,
imprisoned behind ribs.

That the scent of grass
(taking deep breaths)
didn’t belong to girls like them.

Here, the cobblestone just hums.
Stripped of rainbow flags and shirts reading
“i turn mascs into bottoms”
here, there is no audience
only sediment lining water. Here,
they sip the glitter of midnight without choking.

Wide gazes narrow with each glimmer
of robin calls, charmed
by one another’s reflection
in the glistening river—
a mirror of softened lips becoming one.

Venison

Crushed by hands slick with sanguine—
not his. A doe
who looked through his father, too,
sits submissive in the truck’s trunk, blackberries
blurred into the sand of her chest.
She still has that charming
sparkle in the echo of her pupils
where boy eyes gaze the reflection
of a voice choked. Years ago. Trailed off
the way murmurs do.

A fluttered heart hushed
to a whisper, there’s a boy buried
under flesh colored bricks
too heavy to bear, heavier
with age.
Reduced to an easy stone mug
and words
iced and antlered.

Like a willow or a mine he demands
to be felt.
White-tailed exhales caught
in a stranger’s throat
the way potted water boils,
rolling and regular. Pillow-feathered breaths
bittered by the whisk of early morning,
strict rises. Of unfounded blood.

Hear the boy sing ripped apart
caged behind ribs.
He laments the scent of pine
though he, too, becomes ash.

Sarah Mengel (she/her) is a sapphic poet and English grad student from PA. Her work has been published with The Ekphrastic Review and others.

‘Creek Onions’ & ‘Damp Woodland Earth’

Sarah E N Kohrs / As a photographer, Sarah E N Kohrs contributes to Foundation for Photo/Art in Hospitals. Her artwork is in CALYX, Culinary Origami, Genre: Urban Progenitor, The Sun, Quibble, Voices de la Luna, and more. Sarah has a BA from College of Wooster and Virginia teaching license in Latin and Visual Arts. http://senkohrs.com.

Creek Onions

Bubbles and babbles
on flatstones and shale
with splashes and dribbles
that climb up the banks with
dirt softened to mudpots where
creek onions grow tall
hoof prints and paw prints
sunk deep in the earth while
squirrels and chipmunks
scamper over
the windfallen tree trunks
that give them a bridge
from this side to that
up above the gurgle
and the gush of
blue-green translucence
that flows from
nowhere and streams
to somewhere spilling
into rock-split channels
all the time
burnishing and polishing the
stones left over from
the dinosaurs

but shallow pools still form
their surfaces peppered with
wide-legged water striders
and leaves dropped by the trees
the leaves that sink and
carpet the creek bed pools
sealing each basin and
keeping it deep and
bubbles and gurgles rise up from the muck
no matter how hard
the leaves try to stop them
still the water
bubbles and babbles
on flatstones and shale
it splashes and dribbles
up onto the banks where
the creek onions grow tall
and life sinks its
tracks down
deep in the earth.

Damp Woodland Earth

For the lingering scent of
damp woodland earth
after a storm and
the stinging stink of ozone from the mountaintop
lightning strikes all just
wisps of smoke without a flame
for the squish of damp moss and mud
sliming out from under my boots
the tracks that sink and
then pop back out from
the damp moss and mud
deep within the woodland earth
for that lingering scent
accompanied by soft piano plinks
from a piano that
doesn’t exist still the
perfect accompaniment to the
flutes and clarinets of the
wild birds’ songs and the
soprano songs of the eagle
surveying the valley
we all watch the eagle
from inside the brush in that
damp woodland earth -
me, the deer, the birds
a spider from his web
probably a wandering bear, too
we all, all of us, hear the piano plinks
and the flutes and clarinets and
we all go about our ways
following the lingering scent of
the damp woodland earth
after the storm.

Frank Weber is a freelance writer from Erie, Pennsylvania. He is a published author, featured in several magazines, anthologies, books and advertising campaigns as both writer and model and is a Staff Writer for Bare Back Magazine. Frank draws inspiration from the Kerouac-Bukowski-Thompson vein, and his work encompasses a simple honesty in written word and enough of a raw edge to make people feel what they read.

‘Superman Is Dead, Long Live Superman’

Kai Kim-Suzuki is a high school senior at Fieldston School in New York City. He particularly enjoys monochromatic, minimalist nature photography. His other main creative outlet is cooking a mean breakfast for himself every single morning. He hopes to pursue mechanical engineering in college.

Superman Is Dead, Long Live Superman

11 years old
Queens, New York
1959
We’re stone silent after cracking wise
about the news of George Reeves’ suicide
each joke a variation on TV’s Superman
shooting himself with a Kryptonite bullet.
We huddle in the cavern of a fallout shelter
each of us holding on dearly desperately
to the latest Superman comic book
still beguiled by this all-American alien
still keeping secret his transparent dual identity
this hero both mild-mannered and so daring
who kills something in us along with himself
yet still joins us on our fitful flights of fancy.

Robert Eugene Rubino has published prose and poetry in various online and print journals. He's old enough to remember the Cuban Missile Crisis and smart enough to solve The New York Times crossword puzzle on Mondays (other days not so much).

‘The Oedipus Myopus Mystery’

Wendy Wahman’s illustrations have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the NY Times, the Boston Globe, Harper’s Magazine, and more. She is best known for her children’s picture books, ”Don’t Lick the Dog,” which was a Bank Street Best Children’s Book of the Year, starred for Outstanding Merit & accepted to the Society of Illustrators Original Art Show, "Old Pearl," "Pony in the City," and others. Her new work, shown here, are meditative, improvisational drawings she calls, "Wenderings," as they begin with a line and go from there. www.wendywahman.com; Instagram: @wendywahman

This story requires some context. I wonder how far back I should go? In fourth grade I couldn’t read the board. Everything was blurry. I moved closer for the year and got glasses that
summer. This may be too far back.

Let’s fast forward to my sophomore year of college, when this story transpires. I was sitting in the campus café. Buckle in, because this is a bit of a mystery story. No murder, no sexiness, just an unsexy man and his terrible eyesight. But trust me, as poor as this premise sounds, it could be interesting... I was working on my laptop in the campus café. Writing an essay or doing a project or something. I sat alone at a table intended for 4 and capitalized on the space. Notebooks, pens, my water bottle, my glasses (note this) and other things were littering the table. I was honed in on my work. Instead of my prescription lenses, I wore blue-light glasses. For those who don’t know this obvious fact, blue light glasses do not rectify vision in the slightest.

Most of the time I worked in the library, but Tuesday was the day I always ran into her. A romantic interest? Maybe. Just keep following along.

He was- wait- I was feeling low because of the disappointments of the World Series. I mean, they weren’t even putting up a fight. 3-0, are you kidding me? I wasn’t even going to tune into game 4, but then again, you never knew...

So Tuesday in the campus café. I don’t know how many times I have to reiterate this point. Maybe until I reach the minimum word count. Okay, I trust you understand where I was now. I was sitting close to the screen so I could actually see what I was doing. I typically wore my prescription lenses and leaned back in my chair, but that day, for whatever reason, in the campus ca- okay, sorry. That day I wore my blue-light glasses for the first time in my college career.

For the past few weeks of the semester on Tuesdays, without fail, she’d come up to my table as I worked in the café. I understand we live in the information and cell-phone social media age, but she was terrible at using these things. She was a videographer for the TV club, writer for the school paper, a full time student with a part-time job and... I forget what else, But I think that’s enough to illustrate that she was a busy person.

She’d respond to my texts once a week or so. Now, I wasn’t a very busy person at this point. I had a chunk of savings that I drew sparingly on and spent my free time that wasn’t spent doing homework (which I usually finished quickly) reading. So texting someone was a nice change of pace from my very sexy and exciting schedule. (I think I’m undercutting myself here. I was, after all, chairman of the poetry club. I was the only member and I didn’t advertise it at all. In fact, when people asked if they could join I’d say I didn’t know of any poetry club. I wanted to put it on a resume, but didn’t want to put much
work into it). So I was sitting in- wait, you get it, I’m sorry.

I’d be hard at work (or sitting around bored, reading or writing poetry) and she’d come up and with the cutest and most innocent voice ask “can I sit here?” It was like hearing “Here Comes the Sun” for the first time every time those words blessed my ears. I’d laugh, close up my book or finish a sentence/stanza and say: “You don’t have to ask every time you know,” with a smile. She’d smile sheepishly and say in a quiet voice: “I feel rude not to,” as she settled down.

She’d open up more as we talked and caught up on events from the past week. She’d tell me about her clubs and urge me to join and I’d always say I’d “think about it” (my thoughts always came back ‘no’). Then we’d both have to go to our 1 o’clock class in the same building, so we’d walk together and part ways.

It was hard to tell if she liked me.

I’d like to think “yes,” but I couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt to the people of the jury. I wrote a note once of a thought that came to me that I intended to incorporate into a poem sometime: “It is in uncertainty that God tests our faith in Him” or something along those lines. So I bounced back and forth. Should I trust God, go with my gut and just tell her, knowing that anything that happens is His will? But then I’d think about the relationship broken like taking a firm step on an old wooden plank just for your foot to go straight through. Crack and now my leg was broken and splintered and she’d never want to talk to me again.

Sigh. What to do?

To make this story dramatic and interesting, I could say that that day was the one I resolved to tell her. Yes, with certainty I was going to tell her that day. I was sure I’d see her because I saw her every Tuesday without fail. I could hardly focus on my work that day because I was so eager to tell her. Not anxious or nervous or even confident. I just calmly was. But I wasn‘t resolved to tell her that day. I didn’t carpe that diem because I was just cruising along waiting for the moment to be right. Whenever it felt right, I was going to say: “You like reading, right?”

And she’d say something like: “Duh” or “are you stupid, I’m an english major and a writer for the school paper, you know this” (this, of course, after she settled in and opened up). So I’d say:

“You wanna go to this local used bookstore?” (probably some other details about it, I’m not too sure).

And she’d say:

“Just you and I?”

I must interject for fantasy clarification here. We had hung out outside of school only once. It was with two other people. It was the worst double date ever because the girl she brought along had a boyfriend and the guy I brought along had a girlfriend. I wasn’t too sure about her relationship status and I don’t think she was certain about mine. I’m assuming the reader can guess mine and no, that’s not the mystery of this story. It would be a quick one if it was.

The four of us had gone to a movie. At one of our Tuesday meetings I absentmindedly brought up my desire to see a certain new movie and she expressed eagerness. It wasn’t my intention to suggest plans at all, but she was quickly telling me how we should go, how she was free this weekend and her friend wanted to go too and if I had anyone who might want to go to feel free to invite them- if I and they were free of course.

I had no qualms with this. I suggested matinee for the sake of my savings. I knew my friend would be free because we had talked about doing something that weekend and so it was. Her friend and mine sat on one end, she sat next to her friend and I sat on the other end next to her. I hope this isn't hard to keep up with.

She was focused on the screen and I snuck glances at her in the flashing blue light of the screen. Our arms brushed once and I felt electricity (not static, but metaphysical) between us. I quickly moved my arm because I am constantly self-conscious about women not liking me. I had been rejected and abandoned many times. (A clue? No, this isn’t the mystery).

The rest of the day was platonic and ordinary. I dropped them off at campus and went home.

The Tuesday after that hang out, she came into the café as usual and we had an ordinary chat. We talked a bit about the movie and she told me what had happened between Saturday and the day we were talking. It wasn’t much. Oh! She remembered. She wrote a review of the movie to debut in the next issue of the paper later that week. I told her I was excited to read it.

Needless to say, she didn’t mention me or the spark between us even once in her review. It stuck strictly to the subject matter. I knew I was delusional to expect anything, but I was disappointed slightly nonetheless.

And then our fateful day on which this story begins...

Wait- not that day in fourth grade with my poor eyesight. No, the day in the campus- sorry, sorry.

As I said, I was leaning close to the screen, only 15 feet from the pick-up counter of the café. This seems close enough, but anything more than two feet away looked like it was underwater to my eyes.

Something caught my eye as I sat there working (and here comes the mystery, get your magnifying glass and Sherlock hats). A tall guy was approaching the counter with a short girl next to him. A short girl with light brown wavy hair and black spectacles. She wore a brown sweater and knee-length skirt. It looked like it could’ve been her, but I couldn’t be certain. He grabbed a drink from the shelf, they turned around, she looked at me for a few moments then away, and they walked out.

Now she wasn’t the only short brunette with glasses who dressed that way on campus. But she was one of few. Then again, I couldn’t tell for certain because of my blurred eyesight. I recall a time where I thought I was flirting with a girl across the room in a restaurant, making periodic eye contact and smiling and thought she was smiling back only to put my glasses on to find out it’s a metal-head and he’s not even looking at me, but somewhere over my head. Turns out Seinfeld reruns were playing on the TV above me.

So I didn’t know beyond a reasonable doubt.

But it was the time she usually came in and it did look like her. But there shouldn't be any reason for her not to acknowledge me. Unless she didn’t want the guy she was with to know she knew me.

And my heart and stomach dropped and my appetite ran.

What if that was her boyfriend? Her new or old, I didn’t know. But she never mentioned him. Was she juggling the two of us? Living a double life? Or did she just start dating him and had no need of me anymore. Did she never like me in the first place?

Was it even her?

I returned to the ebook I was reading, The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro. Ishiguro is a master of world building, of deliberately leaving gaps in order to fill them in and make the story complete later. Of the slightly surreal. Of the-

“‘Sup Calvin,” I heard a blurry face say and they sat down and I realized it was Henry from Philosophy class.

This was my class acquaintance and, incidentally, the other contender for her heart. I liked him to an extent. He was another unsexy individual like myself (and when I use “sexy” and “unsexy” here, I mean in the Wallacean sense and not the corporate consumer sense. Or maybe those two are linked? This is not the place for such a thesis) and, as I said, contender for her heart (contender may be too strong here. I feel like that indicates that we have a fighting chance when the opposite is likely the case. I should probably say something else, but “contender” is convenient).

It’s important to note here (since no dialogue of significance is about to transpire between Henry and myself. Actually, the mystery may deepen if I ask something. Let me ask and then I’ll get to the important note).

“You seen Daisy today?” I asked.

Now, Henry was always keeping tabs on Daisy. He’d joined her clubs and tried to get classes in the same buildings as hers. Daisy had mentioned these things about Henry to me before with a laugh.

“Doesn’t he know he can’t do that?” she said lightheartedly.

“I guess not,” I responded with a laugh, hoping she was telling me this as a potential lover and not as she would “one of the pals.”

He, of course, perked up at the mention of her name. Henry was notorious for doomscrolling instead of having conversations, laughing to himself and seeming to forget he’s immersed in society. He’ll look around with slight perplexion after looking up from his phone.

But at the mention of Daisy’s name, he immediately looked up, then around us.

“Daisy? Where?”

“I asked if you saw her today”

“Oh, not yet”

Another dead end. I was hoping he’d be able to tell me “yes” and if she was walking with somebody. I considered the timing between her departure and his arrival. As the din of sound became a blanket of white noise around me, I puzzled over the entrances and exits to the building. The most popular ones and least used ones. I was just about to ask which entrance

Henry had come through when I realized that was creepy.

“I gotta go to class, I’ll see ya,” he said, standing and still looking at his phone.

“See ya,” I said quietly. I was so sad to see him go.

The mystery thickened.

If we fast forward or rather jump cut, I can finish this story. Some context: I wanted to die.

I walked around with my glasses on. Actually, I was walking my friend to class. In the distance, in the direction we were heading, I saw her. She was talking to someone. A guy. This guy, in fact, was in my Philosophy class (not Henry) and from my ideas, seemed to be a bit of a womanizer. I didn’t direct much hate at him nor much attention. There was just this fact. It didn’t help that he was “handsome” or, rather, “sexy” and, as we’ve established, I’m “unsexy.”

This is who she was chatting with as we drew near. And wouldn’t you believe it, he was tall just like the guy from the café. She looked up at him, smiling and laughing at everything he said with his cool Bond-like gaze.

“Hey Daisy,” I said as my friend and I walked past.

She turned slightly and gave back an unenthusiastic:

“Hey”

And turned back to him.

It was overcast that day. I didn’t bring a raincoat. The forecast said sunny. It wasn’t the first or last time I’d been lied to. The Yanks lost the series. I gave a halfhearted “goodbye” to my friend as he entered his class. As I reached the front doors of the building to leave it began to rain hard.

I felt like Henry at the end of A Farewell to Arms after Catherine dies (and to hell with your spoiler alert):
“But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn’t any good. It was like saying good-bye to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain”

I never wore my glasses again after that. Not even to drive.

I may have overreacted.

I don’t think it’s any use at this point to return to the café with Henry. We’re beyond that.

You know what happened next. It’s similar to seeing the man behind the curtain and being expected to go back to how it was before seeing him. I’m at an impasse as a narrator. My character got a little ahead of me...

Let’s just strike that from the record, if you will. We can pretend I never revealed what happened next. The mystery continues... But the mystery is gone. It can’t be stricken from the record. Well, it can be stricken from the record, but not your mind. So I guess we’ll proceed to what happened after that.

Consider the tall man. Was he the one from the café? Was she the one with him? Survey says “yes,” but again, not beyond a reasonable doubt. As the narrator I’ll play the judge. For fun, we’ll let the mystery continue. I hope you didn’t throw away your magnifying glasses or Sherlock hats. The mystery thickens.
For the next week, I saw her everywhere. I’d be walking behind her on my way back to the commuter lot. I’d walk faster to catch up with her only to realize it wasn’t her.

She’d drive past me as I walked to the convenience store down the road. I wanted to jokingly stick my thumb out and ask her to drop me off there only to remember she didn’t have a car.

I’d walk past a classroom and- I think you get the point. I’d see her, but not her.

I started to go to the library on Tuesdays. I had watched The Notebook over that weekend and was feeling like romanticizing my life, so I wrote her a long poem. It started with the night I first saw her. She was taking pictures for the school paper (yet another activity of hers) at a nighttime carnival on campus. I prayed I’d be able to talk to her, but left it up to the Lord. The Lord answered my prayer.

“Can I take your picture?” her sweet voice asked from beside me.

I was next in line for the food truck. She apparently needed pictures of smiling students receiving their fried dough, but so far nobody had looked happy enough. I put on a huge phony smile, making her giggle as she took my picture.

“How was that?” I asked her after getting my food and moving to the side. Still laughing, she answered:
“Perfect,” and showed me the picture. I started to laugh too.

I took note of her deep brown eyes- eyes so deep brown they almost appeared velvet- and tiny beauty mark on her cheek near the nose. I asked if she minded if I followed her the rest of the night. Not solely because I wanted to soak in her presence, but because I had an interest in photography. In high-school I had taken a few classes and only ever really photographed nature stills. I wanted to see how moving subjects worked, especially at nighttime. She talked me through the settings and difficulties and how to overcome them. I held on to every word. It was good advice.

There were things in between that I touched upon, but the next big thing I wrote about was the “date” (I say that feather-lightly) and my disappointments about her paper article. Then, of course, I ended with the heartbreak on the rainy day.

“I pray every day that I see you anyway because seeing you is like finding money on the ground when you’re dead broke and about to be evicted”

This is what flowed out of me as I wrote longhand in my notebook. I tore out the multiple pages of the poem (cross-outs and all) and put them into an envelope that I had asked for at the front desk. I fully intended to give it to her the next time I saw her.

By the time I saw her again the romantic feeling had faded. That’s not to say I didn’t like her anymore. I most certainly did. But the burning passion that had produced those words had smoldered into coals of comfort and I knew to give it to her would be delusional. I happened to be in the campus café. It was Friday.

“Can I sit here?” she asked.

[ins. “Here Comes the Sun” lyrics].

My heart nearly exploded and my hands were shaking. I tried to keep myself calm and cooly smiled, acted like I was finishing my sentence and said the same line I always said:

“You don’t have to ask every time you know”

She briefed me on all that had happened in between.

“Geez, I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said bewildered as she finished

You’re telling me, I thought.

Apparently the boy she had been talking to was her assigned partner for a class project. He was pretty cool and sometimes funny, she said (and I cringed) but mostly serious. He was either too serious or too funny. She was glad to finish the project and move on from him (music to my ears).

She was going home for a week coming soon, so she had to catch up on a lot of work for her classes and clubs so as not to fall behind. The paper liked her articles and was asking her to write more than she was accustomed to.

She was in love with me and had been longing to see me to finally tell me. She didn’t want to be apart from me even for a moment. There was a piece of technology she devised so that she could shrink me down and open the tiny cage of her heart and put me there forever.

There were too many “sexy” men around and she wanted someone genuine and “unsexy” and
nearsighted who read and didn’t do much else. The mystery was solved three paragraphs ago and now I’m writing nonsense. I wish she said this, but I have to take what I can get (the envelope sat eager in my bag. I ignored it). If it’s a conversation then so be it.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short stories can be found on both Half and One’s and Wordsfaire’s websites. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.

‘A Surgical Poem’, ‘Black Hole’ & ‘Stay’

Larissa Hauck: “Through the exploration of visual mythmaking, I confront the notions of queer identity, the resilience of the natural world, and the parallels between the fluidity of nature, gender, and sexuality. I place emphasis on the tension between the longing for control and the inescapability of change. Confronting the human urge to impose order onto the chaos of nature and where the line between the boundaries of the two exist.”

A Surgical Poem

In the Operating Room:
The doctor held my hand, and I knew I stood to be forever changed
Fluorescents glowed above me like some vision of a faraway heaven
The lights shone white-hot and blurred together as my sight quickly dimmed
My heartbeat hummed in my ears, the start of a symphony I wouldn’t forget
Patient laid on the operating table. Patient put under general anesthesia. Bilateral breast augmentation
with silicone prosthesis to begin.

In the Waiting Room:

I wore robes of lavender and maternal prints, creasing as they clung to semi-damp skin
I paced around the office like my time for judgment was nigh, waiting over an hour for the doctor to come in
I felt fear consume my thoughts which scattered like a startled flock of doves
I reached for my phone yet and again, to see received well wishes from those that I love
IV administered to patient along with pre-op medications. Surgical area cleaned and patient dressed in
hospital gowns. Doctor comes in to mark up the surgical area. Patient is led to the operating room after it
has been fully prepared for surgery.

In the Car:

I tapped the window and watched my fingerprints stamp and fade
We took the backroads and I was all the better for it, my aunt at the wheel softly humming
Waves of forest green blossomed before me as far as the eye could see
Manicured lawns gave way to untamed woods; both fighting for a place in this weary world
Elysium passed me by time and again and I saw the beginnings of a little life for myself
Distance from home to surgical center is an estimated 36 minutes by car. Traveling from central
Connecticut down to the shoreline. Arrive in a timely manner for the check-in.

In My Apartment:

I hastily dug through my closet which seemed to stare questioningly back at me
I threw on a button-up and short skirt, starched white and midnight black contrasting each other
I was barer than I’d ever been, gold jewelry and ornate perfumes sat disappointed on my vanity
I kissed my cat goodbye, slipped on my shoes and walked out into new beginnings
No food the midnight before surgery. No clear liquids two hours before surgery. No oils and lotions on the
body. No jewelry or piercings. Have on comfortable clothes, preferably a button up shirt and loose
bottoms.

In the Post-Op Room:

I came to with spots in my vision, two nurses stood bent over gazing at me
I splayed out like some lounging goddess gracing some gilded Renaissance scene
My aunt stood waiting by the door, her gaze of concern washing all over me
I felt my body come alive again, and I knew I had been forever changed,

No lifting any object over seven pounds for the next five weeks. Take two weeks before going back to a
sedentary job, five for an active job. Immediate bed rest is recommended and take medications as
directed. There will be pain, but it all will feel better. Just give it time.

Black Hole

I disguised myself amongst the people at the bus station, a woman interrupted by her own mind
I wonder if they knew of the beast that lived deep within, making a home in the pit of my stomach
My leather purse lay slung over my arm, my eyes scanned the street as cars passed by in droves
I spoke gently to myself under my breath, cooling the storm that churned inside
I clutched my stomach with my hands, pressed down and took a deep breath
I tapped my feet to the beat in my head, my sandals slapping back against cracked concrete
The beast lay satiated for now, but I knew sooner or later it would be time to feed
I ran my sweaty palms through my hair and gazed up at the cloudless sky seeking sweet relief
Let me tell you about the beast, tell you how it came to be
It was born of bloodcurdling agony and all the moments I’d spent courting death
I was once a hunted deer; the more arrows that pierced the more the beast grew
I was broken down to the bone again and again, death by a thousand cuts come true
Whenever I fall to harm, whether purposeful or incidental it grows, oh it grows
Doesn’t matter if it’s by the hands of a stranger, myself, or my closest friends
For the beast feeds on misery, tears it apart like a vulture fresh at its kill
And after it feasts it still needs much more, crying for the hunger that sets in again

The bus pulled up in time and I stepped back as it creaked to a stop
I stepped on and fisted the dollar bills and spare change for the waiting conductor
I went all the way to the back, sitting all by my lonesome watching the others board
I felt the beast growl so softly; I gazed out the open window and knew I couldn’t yet let it go

Stay

Soft loam births the expanse of your being, you burst all at once from salted earth
Angels shot down, angels shot down
I found two- no three crows perched upon my windowsill
I listened to their chatter, talk of the coming winter and the frost that followed suit
Of kites dancing in the breeze and the bubbling laughter of little children
Like dandelion seeds in their sheer multitude
You tried to call to them but your kite lagged behind the herd
I found a penny on my nightstand, rusted ochre and faint emerald
I held it between my thumb and forefinger and flipped it in the air, tails
I knew that to love was to give, to love was to yield your guard
Memories came and went, celebrations danced around my line of sight
You were whole then, simple with your worn-out boots and sweat pooling upon your brow
I did not know what it was to love until I knew what it was to lose
I did not know the path to choose until I saw it in your eyes
Moments passed me by in your embrace, the perennials waited with baited breath
A thousand years condensed into a smile, the words followed suit, “please stay for a while”

Marceline Campbell-Ogbunezu is a 21 year old who lives at the crossroads of multiple intersections. She is a plus-sized transgender Nigerian woman who is currently living in Middletown, Connecticut. She has been published in many journals including The Periphery, Havik Poetry, and the Adirondack Center for Writing. She also served as a guest editor for the Inlandia Magazine 2019 Teen Issue. She dreams to one day be one of the great American poets and is hell-bent on making her mark.