Caliburnus

by Danna Dekay

I had a bit of a fiasco with my fish during school one day and ended up having to say goodbye. My beloved fish, Couscous, named after the North African wheat, died on April 13th. The exact time of death: unknown. I thought 2020 couldn’t get any worse.  

Couscous was gifted to me in my sophomore year as a Secret Santa present. A science class observed a group of Betta fish for a project; Couscous was one subject. At the end of the unit, many students volunteered to take some of the fish home. They adopted every fish except for Couscous. That’s what made him one of a kind. On the last day before winter break, my friend gave him to me at lunch in a small container, similar to those that hold trail mix in the school cafeteria. My friend set him down on my table along with a bag of rocks. Couscous was a goldfish, but he had brown smudges as if a child had held him down and took a marker to his body. Nevertheless, he was my new pet, and I was excited for our adventures together. After school, I introduced him to all my friends. It was a happy day.

Couscous died on the first day of online school. I had just finished what I thought was an extended spring break, stuck at home, spending time with my family. I was nervous for my first Zoom school day, anxious that digital learning would be silent and awkward. You can always tell who’s looking at themselves instead of the teacher. Throughout the day online, I would look over at Couscous in his tank. He barely moved. Things made a turn for the worse during my last class, English. As my teacher was praising Henry David Thoreau, I saw Couscous jump out of his water. I immediately sprinted to the bookshelf, where he flopped around on the wood next to his tank. I had my camera and microphone on in class, but I was out of the frame. Everyone on the Zoom call just saw an empty chair, but they could hear me panicking.  I turned off my camera and muted my microphone. Thoreau can wait. I returned to Couscous, picked him up with a gentle hand, and placed him back in the water. He swam around as if nothing happened. Couscous was strong like that. 

It wasn’t until the last minute of class that I noticed he had stopped swimming. At first,  I wasn’t worried that his gills weren’t moving because Betta fish breathe out of their mouths. When the class ended, I turned to his bowl and lightly tapped on the glass. I say glass because I’m insecure that I actually kept him in a plastic fish tank from Petco, but I promise you his environment had nothing to do with his passing. His tank was cleaned regularly, and I always made sure to add new floating plants. Usually, if I tapped on the tank, he would wiggle around. It was hilarious. This time he didn’t wiggle. That is when my tears started to form. I recalled that it is best to place fish into a new water environment to test if they are dead. I picked up his tank and made my way downstairs. Little did I know my phone was recording in my hand. The audio sounded like a little girl struggling with her asthma, shouting for her mother between heavy sniffles. Someday, I’ll listen to it again and laugh. Once I made it to the kitchen, I put Couscous in a new container. That’s when his body flipped on its side, and he floated to the top. By this time, my whole family was in the room watching me cry. I didn’t want to flush him down the toilet, and my parents advised me not to bury him in the backyard. 

“Maybe we wrap him in tinfoil and throw him away?” 

“Tinfoil?” I gasped. 

“Well, we can’t just dump him in the bin. What if he gets stuck to the bottom when the garbage truck tries to dump everything out? We don’t want his dead body flopping around in there.” My family continued to converse, but I tuned them out, scarred by the image of my poor fish having his body unwillingly slammed against the walls of a trash can. 

Eventually, we agreed upon wrapping him in a small yellow cloth napkin and throwing him away. Not even my fish’s death would allow my family to waste a strip of toilet paper or paper towel during the pandemic. We said a prayer for Couscous. I played “You and I” by One Direction as my dad carried him to our bins. 

by Maggie Haas

The lights flicker as the waiter brings Dad his meal: lamb with mashed potatoes. He is the last out of the four of us to get his entrée. We drool over our food. Mom and I have the “Veggie-Christmas” consisting of oozing mac and cheese and steamed veggies. The perfect Christmas Eve meal. I look into Mom’s sparkling eyes as she sips on her champagne, holding Dad’s hand. I glance over at my sister. Her head rests on her hand, and her eyes are riveted to her phone. This is usually my job, being the younger sibling. 

“Claire, what’s up?” I whisper. 

She does not look up. “I’m fine.” 

“Seriously, you can tell me. Are you just tired?” 

She takes her hand from under her head and clenches her fists. “Nothinggg.” She resumes scrolling on her phone. She catches me watching her. “Jane, stop staring like a ten year-old and act your own age”. 

I inhale the peppermint-infused air. “Jeez, sorry.” 

My parents turn their heads. They exchange a look  with me and take deep breaths. I’m hoping this time Claire will snap out of her mood. 

“Darling, what’s wrong?” Dad waits for Claire to look up, but she doesn’t. “Are you just tired?”

“Dad. I am fine. Oh. My. God. Just leave me alone.”

“Sweetpea, if you are tired, you are welcome to go back upstairs back to the room and sleep, but no phones at Christmas dinner.” Mom taps Claire’s phone from across the table. Claire rolls her eyes as she sets her phone face down in the middle. The rest of us follow and place our phones face down in the center. Mom glances at all of us, “Ahh..see, much better. Now, all we have is each other, this delicious food, and this beautiful hotel.” 

We all smile. Except for Claire. Instead, she pushes her food away from her and rests her head on the table on top of her crossed arms. 

I reach for the hotel key in my purse. “Here, Claire. Take the key, go up, and go to sleep. You look exhausted.”

Dad adds on, “We seriously do not mind. Tomorrow is a new day, and it’s Christmas Day, even better.

Finally, Claire lifts her head. She stares into me and moves her gaze across the table to Mom and Dad. “If you want me to leave so badly, I will leave!” She rips the key from my hand and grabs her phone from the center of the table. She storms off and runs up the stairs to get to the lobby. 

Claire’s moodiness has never resulted in this kind of outburst. I turn to Mom and Dad. Mom’s grip tightens on her champagne glass, and Dad’s fingers are spread wide across the table. 

He bites his top lip with his bottom teeth. “Does she really think she can do that? Does she really fucking think she can sit here on her phone, cold and distant, and when we bring it up, she just runs away? The answer is no way.”

I drop my fork from my hand. “Dad?”

“Ruining my Christmas Eve. Ruining my night. Ruining our trip.” His voice continues to rise as his spit flies across the table. “How dare she?!”

I look at Mom. 

“David,” she says, “are you kidding me right now? You are going to do this in this restaurant and make a scene? She is your daughter, do not talk about her like that, especially not in front of Jane.” 

“How dare Claire? Does she have no respect?” 

A tightness builds in my chest. I wipe my eyes with my napkin, stopping any tears from dropping down. Our family has fought, but not like this. “Dad, please stop. It’s really okay.”

“Me, stop?? How about Claire should have stopped with her stupid shitty phone, or how about you stop protecting her, or how about you guys get angry too for her ruining our night? The disrespect she has to–”

A man sitting behind my father taps him. “Sir. I can hear every word you are saying and–”

“Okay, man. I do apologize for that, but... stay out of my  business.” Dad stares down this small man with glasses. Dad intimidates him enough that he returns to his table. He sits across from his wife, who is smiling at us with her big eyes. 

by Phoebe Bayer

“She’s so pure, isn’t she? Exactly one month since we brought her home, Dave,” Lauren said as they watched Natalia dawdle around the kitchen, navigating her way through the entire house, noting every crevice.  

As Dave watched their adopted two-year-old prance around, his brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed. “Yup…”  

Auburn locks framed Natalia’s face, and her winsome smile never seemed to disappear.  Little things always made her giggle, and that was all the couple had really ever wanted––a happy child.  

“What is it?” Lauren whispered, knowing something was off.  Right then, with her back turned, Natalia stiffened and paused in total stillness.  She tilted her head upward as if trying to overhear the conversation. Dave grabbed the remote on the side table and pressed play. Do you remember the 21st night of September…

“This will keep her occupied,” he said, turning his attention toward Lauren again.  “You ever have a thought, one that lingers, and...and eats away at you?”

“Of course I do, I just prefer to keep those things to myself. Save you the drama,” she said lightheartedly.  As we danced in the night, remember.  Dave turned to look at Natalia, who was still in the same position with her nose in the air.

He dismissed Lauren’s attempt to make him laugh. “Natalia is just, so…mature. For her age. I mean even the way she looks at you, it’s like she knows more than she’s letting on, Lauren.”  Ba de ya, dancing in September.

“So? She’s wise beyond her years,” Lauren said, shaking her head.

Dave bit his lip. “I guess.”  He grabbed the remote to turn off the music, ending their conversation.  He couldn’t shake the fact that the adoption agency could never confirm Natalia’s date of birth, and though Lauren also thought that was strange, she never questioned it.  

Just then, a soft voice echoed through the room. “Mother.”  The couple immediately diverted their attention to Natalia, who had turned around.  When Natalia noticed their reaction, she quickly resorted to “Ma--ma.”

Lauren sighed with relief, “Yes, Sweetie?” she asked.  

Natalia pointed to the remote. “More music please,” she said.

“No more, Natalia, it’s annoying,” Dave said sternly.  Natalia smiled, and moved away with her back hunched toward her playroom.  

“I do think we should ask the doctor about that thing she does when she walks,” Lauren said.  “She bends her back a bit and limps a little.”

Dave just stared out the window, his gaze fixed on the willow trees blowing in the wind in their front yard.  “Let’s take her in soon. Maybe find out more info about the day she was born, why her mom gave her up, you know?”

“Fine, we’ll take her tomorrow. But just because the agency didn’t tell us the day that she was born doesn’t mean they’re hiding anything,” Lauren mumbled. The sound of something being continually picked up and put down echoed through the house walls.  The couple exchanged confused glances, got up, and followed the sound until they reached the playroom.  There Natalia sat with her legs crossed next to a table displaying a game of chess.  She didn’t look up from the board; she just kept moving the knights and bishops automatically. She moved both the white and black pieces.  In a state of terrified awe, the couple stared. She was too wise beyond her years.

by Casey Grae

There’s no better combination of sounds than the laughter of teenagers and mediocre indie music. 

The grass muffles Mia’s “Art Camp” Spotify playlist. She has decided that the official musical theme of camp is trippy but not like too trippy. She’s playing a Tame Impala song that’s not one of their two popular ones. I ask what it’s called. She glares at me. I am interrogated about claiming to be a real fan. I deflect, reminding everyone of the time she admitted to having never seen Rocky. We call a truce.

Ryan asks why we’re here on this Earth. None of us know. So instead we tackle the smaller issues, like why is he like that and why is everything so annoying. We don’t know the answers but we have theories. Emily cites Bojack Horseman in her psychological analysis of Mia’s math teacher.

Kanevsky puts his arm around Mia. Emily feigns vomiting and we laugh. Some things are always funny. Kanevsky rolls his eyes. Mia says. “Oh, Simon, they’re just kidding.” Ew, she calls him Simon. He’s clearly Kanevsky. We ask what his friends at home call him, and he says he doesn’t really have friends. We assume he’s kidding and laugh. We feel bad. Then he tells us he was kidding, and that they call him Kanevsky.

Emily asks me if I’m dating anyone at home. I say no and the conversation moves on. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what I want it to mean. No, wait, I definitely know what I want it to mean. Five minutes later we accidentally make eye contact and quickly turn away.

The conversation slows. Mia figures it’s time to change the music. She puts on a playlist called “Sad Boy Hours.” 

We won’t be here in a week. We’ll be far away. Ryan lives about an hour from me but I know neither of us are willing to travel that far. I love this group, but I’m busy. And it won’t be the same in suburban Chicago. In the real world.

I’d probably travel that far for Emily.

I guess social media helps. But not really. The best case scenario is that somebody sends a meme to our Instagram group chat once a week. And that’s not the same. It won’t do this feeling justice. It’s not just the people I want to hold onto, it’s the atmosphere. The fact we can sit around and talk about nothing for hours.

by Maggie Hutchins

1

Even at 6am, the smell of cigarettes and the buzz of the radio had already filled up the kitchen. I sat glued to my chair, staring out the window to avoid Mama’s gaze. The sun was just starting to rise over the scramble of trailers, casting the whole world in pink. Betsy Dryphus sipped coffee and took her new boyfriend’s underwear off the line. Mr. Murray chatted with the birds, and Kacie Maycott picked out striped socks for school. All seemed lovely and fine in the world, except for Mama. She stayed glaring at me from across the table, her nails plastered in a new set of rosy gemstones tapping on the table, and deep, dark roots spreading in through her part.

“So are you gonna tell me why in the hell you were so late last night, or do ya want me to keep guessin?” she said, adjusting her pink cheetah robe. “‘Cause seriously I’ve been mullin’ it over all fuckin’ night. And I’m pretty ticked off, to say the least. It is a Tuesday, Lucy. What makes you think you can run around until two in the morning? Are you an adult now? And I was so looking forward to finishing my book that you know I've been dying to finish, but I was so worried that I couldn’t even pick it up.”

She lit her third cigarette that morning and exhaled long and sweet. 

“You’re selfish, Lucy, really.”

There was no use apologizing. Her eyes were full of her all-business look; in my lateness, she had had time to create a seamless case. I felt like I was watching her brain trace over each main point and sub-category of what made me a terrible daughter, and all I could do was admire her for it. 

“I know and I’m sorry but honestly I was studying with Luke and then we both fell asleep and that’s it.”

“Oh I’ll bet. Were his sheets fuckin’ nine-thousand ply? Did his mama make some sundried fuckin’ casserole? I don’t like you hanging out in East Pine anyway, much less with Mary-Anne McCalaster. Seriously, who raised you?”

She looked out over the park and then at me, examining the streaks of makeup under my eyes and the freckles that stretched beneath them. She smiled.

“Your daddy liked money too, you know. Couldn’t make a dime but liked all that nice shit we couldn’t afford. You’re like that, too, and lord knows it scares me. We’ve got a lot going for us right here, and don’t you forget that. Now let me do your hair for school, it looks a mess.”

In a lot of ways, I knew she was right. I liked Eggo breakfasts and my mom’s big hair and watching the headlights of cars stream down the highway from my bedroom window. But I also liked Luke writing his name on my wrists and his American flag on the front lawn and feeling like there were rules for when and where and how often I could kiss him. I liked his mom’s all white outfit and primped red hair. I wanted to tell her all the right things – about youth group at a church or applying to college, and I wanted her to like my skirt. The McCalasters were like the country club or travel team baseball or fireworks at the barbeque, and I didn’t want them to go away. I got up from the table, feeling choked up for some reason, and grabbed her hair kit from the kitchen counter. There were ants crawling all over, and a brand new neon nail polish spill. 

“I love it here and I love you. No casserole necessary.” I sat back down and looked up at her, handing her a blow dryer hesitantly. “Could you just blow it out this time?”

She ran her fingers through my hair and tucked it behind my ear. 

“Yeah that’s fine. Just a few curls though.”

2

The McCalaster’s house was set for autumn with a foliage wreath and year-round little white lights that flowed across the trees in their front yard. The lawn stretched beneath us in deep, clean green, sucking Mama’s heels into the mud below it. She studied the “Love Thy Neighbor” doormat and raised her eyebrows. I elbowed her.

“Please just be nice. They aren’t that bad”

 “I know how to behave.” She gripped her Saran wrapped plate of slice and bake cookies, tucked her hair behind her ear, and rang the doorbell. “I just don’t like judgy people, that’s all. White lights rub me the wrong way.” 

Mrs. Macalaster answered the door decked out in white jeans and a burgundy Lilly Pulitzer blouse. Her hair was newly dyed auburn in preparation for their upcoming Christmas card photo. I could feel Mama shaking next to me, but Mrs. Macalaster didn’t seem to notice. 

“Caroline! I’m just giddy about seeing you; it has just been too long! Having Lucy around is a start but let me tell you that it is just not the same!” She smiled and looked my mama up and down, her chin perched on top of her manicured hands. “I’m dyin’ to hear everything but I’m gonna need y’all to come in first! Come on now, make yourselves comfortable.”

We trailed in behind Mrs.Macalaster, her voice chirping through the house as she described how busy her day was with planning the Women’s League Fall Fundraiser and how Mrs. Booker was late again (most likely because she and Mr. Booker haven’t been sleeping in the same bed if we knew what she meant) and how that stays between us, because she didn’t mean to tell us that and it just slipped. Mama didn’t seem to hear a word of it, her fingers tracing along the wooden furniture that stretched through the halls, carefully adorned with silver framed family photos and small seasonal charms. I held on to her every word. She turned around and beamed at us both. 

“I made roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens for dinner. It’s my mama’s recipe and lord did she know how to throw a party! It’s usually a hit with guests.” She glanced up the staircase. “Luke, come down here and greet our guests! Ms.Collins made cookies.” 

He yelled a faint “Lord, Mom, one second” before scuttling down the stairs sporting a too-tight red sweater and a mop of sandy hair. He had grown too fast and didn’t have the weight to fill his length, and his smile was so big and goofy that it took up his whole face. I pictured marrying him every night. 

“Hi Ms. Collins!” He leaned in and hugged her, and Mama’s whole body seemed to loosen. He really was just good, all the way through. “You look great. And those cookies smell great too.”

He squeezed my hand, and mouthed a small “You good?” A lot seemed to be packed into those two little words, and his thoughts seemed to surge through my whole body. How was his Mama? How was mine? How was I? How should he be? I smiled up at him and shrugged, and mouthed an even smaller “I think?” Mrs. McCalaster started towards the kitchen. 

by Devin Derian

A piercing noise causes my eyes to shoot open. My retinas burn from the blinding white lights, and there’s a sharp pain around my ribs. The middle of my back aches, and there’s a vein in my throat that beats in unison with my heart. I slowly raise my left arm, but as I do, a shooting pain spirals down my elbow. My eyes finally adjust to the lights, and reveal a completely white hospital room. To my right are multiple monitors, and a transparent tube that’s connected to my right forearm.   

Turning my neck to my left, I see my Aunt’s hazel eyes glaring at me. There’s a pounding against my temples, and my sinuses feel like somebody’s pressing their thumbs against the ridge of my nose. She opens her mouth, but the blue door at the other side of the room swings open. An Ash officer appears in his crimson suit, black pants, and black shoes. His eyes are dark purple and his black hair is slicked back.

“I need to speak to Liam,” says the officer.  

“While I’m here, of course,” Aunt Vickie responds, squeezing the edges of her tablet.

“I just need Liam,”

“I’m his guardian—” says my aunt, walking up to him, her black heels clicking against the white floor. The guard backhands my Aunt across the face. Her head jolts to the left, and her hand instantly grasps her lip.

“Remember your place, Doctor,” says the Ash Officer in a deep monotone. A stream of blood oozes through my aunt’s fingers. My stomach jitters and my fingers press against my damp palms.

“Of course,” says my Aunt, her finger wiping across her lip. She looks at me. The noise from the heart rate monitor slows. Vickie puts her hand gently against the door, and a green light illuminates underneath her fingers. The door slides open and she leaves.

My chest feels compressed. The heart monitor spikes, and the breeze from the air conditioning cools my wet forehead. The Ash Officer walks to the foot of my bed.

“Are you aware of the number of people that survived the accident?” asks the Officer, circling his fingers around a silver bar.

“No, sir,” I say, my tongue pressed against the roof of my dry mouth.

“Six,” he says, “and of those six, you appear to be the least injured.”

“I got lucky,” I say, a sharp pain prickling hurts my temples.

“It’s quite a miracle that you noticed the bomb.”

My eyes widen. “How do you know—”

Before I can finish, the Officer lets go of the bar and walks to my left. He pulls up his sleeve, and touches his temple. His irises change from dark purple to light pink. His chip illuminates on his forearm, and a holographic screen rises. 

On the screen, I see myself walk towards the metro’s door, and as the explosion happens in the video, a sharp pain radiates from my ribs. 

“Is that not you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

A pounding sensation slams against my temples. “Are you suggesting that I somehow knew that the bomb was going to be there? If that’s the case, it was just a coincidence,” I say through my teeth.

“I was not trained to believe in coincidence.” 

The drumming in my temples intensifies.

“Is that not you approaching the door?”

“Yes, but—”

“Are you aware of the town square bombing that occurred three weeks ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who set the bomb?”

“No sir.”

The image on the pink screen shifts to a dark hooded figure placing a bomb next to a fountain and scattering away. People walk by in their white outfits, and then the image goes black. He places his fingers near the hologram and turns it counter clockwise to rewind the footage. He stops at a pixelated image of the figure. 

My eyes widen when I see the pixelated image, and Jax’s face appears. 

“Do you know Jax Jacobs?”

“Yes, sir. We are good friends.”

“Interesting, isn’t it? Two friends who happen to be involved in two terrorist attacks?”

“Once again, coincidence,”  I say, my head continuing to throb. The Ash Officer places his pale hand on my shoulder; it’s cold.

by Emma Goss

My mom believes

Dead people come back as birds. 

To find the ones they left behind, 

Appearing in the kitchen window  

And humming out the soft tune 

Only you know. 

To visit lost lovers,

Mothers and fathers, 

Friends who never heard a 

Goodbye.  

She believes the white heron 

Was him. 

His beastly eyes locking into hers,

Whispering to her heart, 

It’s okay. 

It’ll be okay. 

She believes the mallard was him. 

Stopping to drink from our 

Waterless fountain. 

His long grey wings resembling 

The dusty beard you once had. 

She believes that he drifted from the flock 

Just to say 

You found me. 

She believes not in God, 

Not in heaven 

Or grandma’s midnight prayers, 

Tossing coins into restaurant fountains, 

Making sure to blow out all the candles at once. 

She believes that

Dead people come back as birds. 

To hold her hand, 

Help swallow her grief. 

To make sure she never feels alone.

And to watch over us like pawns, 

Guiding us to the right moves, 

Right answers.  

I’ve tried so hard to convince her. 

Telling her that this 

In-between feeling, 

Would fade if she just

Gave up. 

But somehow, 

As I lay here now, 

Listening to the soft chirp 

Of the morning’s

Sparrow, 

by Emma Goss

That is not me. 

You try and catch my fleeing fins, 

But only come up with rotting gills. 

Skin that I shed just to deceive. 

Ha. 

You do not know how fast I could swim 

If I wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder, 

Locking eyes with your devilish stare, 

Trying to avoid your 

Sharpened teeth. 

You do not know 

That I could puppet waves big enough to crush boulders. 

Scare the Great White. 

And the hairs on my neck wouldn’t flinch 

Half as much as your trembling fingers.  

You do not know me at all. 

You do not know how long it would take

To sink to the bottom of my mind. 

No breath could bring you back alive. 

It’s a sacrifice I know you’d never make, 

Because you do not trust a sea-ridden lover. 

You do not know how wonderful it would be

To breathe underwater with me. 

To not have to clench my chest as I watch you gamble on air. 

To be breathing with you, 

Instead of holding my breath, while you whisper yours,

freely. 

You do not know how marvelous it would be to 

Float 

Through darkest caves, 

Softest sands,   

With nothing but kelp guiding us through this 

Lost and lonely

Life. 

Because I am too extraordinary to not be swimming. 

I am too marvelous to be skipping when I could be flying. 

So no, 

You will never learn the language of my mind. 

Not until you hold your breath, 

by Tess Riordan

ANGELA is a 50-year-old woman who owns her own PR firm. She has soft, pretty features but a strong personality. She is a cool mom who is well-liked by the parents and kids at her son’s school. She doesn’t really care how she looks, but somehow always has good style.

DAN, 53, is Angela’s husband. His hobbies include guitar, photography, and writing. He is a respected book critic but doesn’t work full time. He has a good sense of humor and is easy to get along with. He often wears flannels, blue jeans, and boots. He has a scruffy beard and is traditionally attractive.

OLIVER, 17, is a junior in high school. He is tall and skinny. He is attractive, but not in a stereotypical jock sort of way. His favorite book is Little Women and his favorite movie is American Psycho. He is kind and witty but doesn’t have many close friends.

Angela: Our son is kind of embarrassing.

Dan: Can you be more specific?

Angela: I just asked him what his plans are for the weekend, and he replied with, “I don’t know, whatever you guys are thinking.” I mean, Jesus, he’s 17 years old, and his parents are his closest friends.

Dan: Yeah, I know, but what’re we supposed to do? Punish him for not partying, having good grades, and being a respectful kid?

Angela: …maybe? Look, if he doesn’t go to at least one crazy party before he graduates high school, he will not survive college. Joanna’s son told me frat hazing is the most extreme it’s ever been.

Dan: Ange, he’s going to Middlebury, I highly doubt fraternity hazing will be an issue.

Angela: Don’t underestimate those English majors. Do you remember what you were like?

Dan: I choose to forget. But that was the ‘80’s, things are different now.

Angela: The only thing different is cigarettes are vapes, pot is kush, and Zima is White Claw.

(Oliver enters the living room.)

Oliver: Are you guys talking about White Claw?  (Oliver throws up finger guns and laughs to himself.) I heard that stuff is crazy!

Dan: It’s a hard seltzer, Oliver.

Oliver: What?

Dan turns to Angela.

Angela sighs and nods.

Angela: Oliver, sweetie, can we first firstly just say how happy we are that you enjoy spending time with us.

Dan (Nodding his head, backing Angela up): So happy.

Angela: But, we’ve recently noticed that you don’t really seem to go out much or have many friends.

Dan shakes his head.

Angela: Um, and we don’t want you to feel like we’re holding you back from going out. We get that you’re a teenager, it’s what you guys do.

Oliver puts his hands on his mom’s shoulders.

Oliver: Mom, seriously, I don’t want you to worry about me.

A wave of relief passes over Angela’s face.

Angela: Phew. Ok, good because we were just–

Oliver: I don’t need to go out and party and do drugs to be happy. I’m happy just hanging out with you guys. Don’t worry, mom; you’ll never get a call from me at 2 A.M. asking you to pick me up because I’m throwing up at a party or anything.

Angela: Not even just once?

Oliver: I promise.

Oliver walks over to his dad.

Oliver: And Dad–

Dan: Oh, boy.

Oliver: You’ll never have to catch me smoking in the backyard or sneaking into the house late at night.

Dan: Ok.

(Beat)

Dan (Upbeat tone): But, son, you know if we ever did catch you doing any of those things, your mom and I would be understanding.

Oliver: And I appreciate that. But if Parenthood has taught me one thing, it’s that giving your child freedom and independence actually prohibits them from rebelling. So, I recognize what you guys are doing, and I’m on to you.

Oliver squeezes his dad’s shoulder and flashes his parents a sly smile.

Both Angela and Dan sit staring at each other, not knowing what to say. Oliver steps back and picks up the remote.

Oliver: So, what will it be tonight: “Dateline” or “Downton Abbey”?

As Angela begins to respond, Oliver nonchalantly pulls a joint out of his pocket and lights up.

by Katherine Hightower 

I always knew we had 

magic in the family.

I just thought she’d 

outlive us all.

Her memorial service

was the last day of summer,

everyone was handed 

a loaf of bread

and a jar of kumquat jelly

as they left.

A turquoise collection

larger than New Mexico

divided between her 

grandchildren,

soon to be stored in shoeboxes

at the bottom of closets.

They smiled when we entered

in our mourning attire,

dusty worn out slip-on shoes

and black pants two sizes too small

in the middle of August.

The ride home in the car with my dad

was silent.

I think I killed Aunt Zelda he said 

By Jameel Shivji

By Maggie Hutchins

Noah threw his head back with one hand dangling out the window and the other perched on my thigh, holding the list so that we could both read it.

“This has to be a joke. She apparently is allergic to hazelnuts, oranges, and gluten, but her ‘symptoms’ are ‘brain-fogginess, behavioral, and gut.’” Noah looked back down to  read silently before looking up from the list and dead into my eyes. “‘Scarlet should not be seated next to messy gluten eaters. She will be supplied with a surgical mask and gloves, but those will not protect her from the threat of airborne flour.’ What the fuck is airborne flour?”

The limitations list is given out at the beginning of every session so that counselors are briefed in any personal or medical information we’d need to know about our campers. A typical entry consists of a few lines - “divorced parents - different bus routes, give Advil for migraines, got braces last March.” Scarlet’s entry was two pages and consisted of a comprehensive list of every art supply she isn’t allowed to use.

Noah put the list down and pulled me into him.

“Do you think her mom is Silverlake crazy or La Cañada crazy?”

I shook my head.

“Neither. I’m getting more true-Pasadena vibes. Definitely not crunchy enough to be Silverlake but she seems too eccentric to be a La Cañada mom.” I shrugged and looked up at him. “Maybe they’re from somewhere super rogue. Like Monrovia or something.”

The heat from the Chick-Fil-A parking lot filled the open windows of the truck, making every part of us that touched stick together. I refused to move. I looked out the windows at the expanse of mini-malls and car dealerships that stretched across San Dimas, all of which was framed by beige mountains under washed out, cloudless skies. Noah had to be the most vibrant thing for miles. I looked up at him and tapped as breezily over his arm as I could.

“Odds you drink every pack of buffalo sauce when Hannah comes back with the food.”

Noah beamed. “That’s easy. Like I wanna do it. 1 in 3. No problem.”

“Noah we literally get six packs of buffalo!” I laughed. “It’s gonna be so brutal. You’re a mad man.”

He nudged his fingers into my side. “Not a mad man,” he corrected, tickling me a little harder. “Just extremely manly.”

I rolled my eyes, pretending that I didn’t feel like everywhere he touched glowed and that his voice wasn’t made of honey. I laid my head on his shoulder.

“How weird is it that we only have a week left? This had to be the fastest summer ever,” I said as Noah leaned his head on top of mine. “What’s weirdest though is how long it feels looking back. Like the Fourth of July feels like it was a year ago.”

He smiled. “That was a good night.  I’ve never seen anything hotter than you catapulting yourself through your brother’s window when we got locked out of your house. So badass.”

“I was terrified of you! I literally thought you hated me because I couldn’t tie the stupid sails and made you help me every single morning.”

He smiled. “No, I knew you were cool. But you still don’t tie them right.”

I gripped his arm, wishing I could hold on to underwater kisses and car ride competitions for the rest of my life. I looked up at him.

“What are we gonna do when it’s over?”

Noah shrugged. “We probably won’t ever see each other.”

My whole body twinged and the dry heat from outside caught up with my mouth, causing my throat to stiffen under the weight of his casual detachment.

“Noah don’t say that.” I pretended to laugh. “It’s not like we’re dying.”

“I mean not technically.” He forced a laugh to match mine. “But all the things that made this good will.”

I loosened my grip on Noah’s arm and felt every paddle-board backflip, frosted lemonade and inch of summer slip away and get sucked up by the black heat that surrounded us.

By Brenne Hoeven

Diamonds in the window screen filter the savor of smoke, family barbeques and old wood. I kneel down, imprint my nose on the diamonds, inhale it. Somewhere, something is burning. My neighbors play in the street, the sky a still blue lake above them but sweltering in the heat, black ash tingles under our noses.

By Trixie Davis

ivy with roses made of ears I still cry about you sometimes and your arms in the ocean the open windows purple lights tears I draw you in my mind I walk through your house eat at restaurants with you All to break my heart again

By Sophia Fossati

We were trapped like dogs in filthy cages. Our bodies pressed against one another, men in heaps with shackles and chains, cold and lost within the darkness. The air was stale and dank. The stench of body odor, piss, and shit was sickening. There were the occasional groans of pain or madness, but we were all too frightened to speak, too weary to fight. It had been days, I think. It felt like more.

That’s when the footsteps began to echo through the halls.

The man next to me was jerked from my side; only the chains on his wrists kept him from flying away. With what light peeked in, I saw how every inch of his face was covered in boils, scratches, and dirt.

I turned to see what had thrown him, but I was pulled forward.

“Let’s go.” A grimace shoved itself up to my face.

“I’m busy,” I said.  

“Yeah, yeah.”

I rustled in the intruder’s grip, hoping to shrug him off. Instead, the guard kept his fist around my collar and pushed me backward into the stone. My head knocked against the wall. “Come. Now.”

I spat in his face. He slapped me and dragged me off.

I was satisfied enough.

***

The door opened on a silhouette of a man before a fire. His hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders broad, his posture strict and stern. Beside him was a plain wooden desk: unadorned and precisely arranged, papers neatly folded and stacked, quill pen stood at attention, inkwell clean and spotless, pistol and powderhorn placed on the corner. On one wall, the regimental colors, on another, a painting of his king. I felt the cold wind from the open window beside me and heard the whistles of it racing through the branches of the trees not far beyond. There was no object of comfort in the whole room.

The man nodded slightly. The guard holding my arm released it and unlocked my shackles which fell to the floor. He placed a seat next to me and left.   

“A warm fire on a cold night is a comforting thing.” The Captain remained still, regarding the flame before him. I ignored the cold and didn’t answer.

“How long have you known Sergeant Collins, Mr. Herring?” He said.

I studied the man. “Why am I here?”

“War is an unfortunate and unpredictable affair. Making sense of it is not often as simple as we’d like.”

“Why try to make sense of something that does not concern me?”

“Doesn’t it?” He turned toward me, revealing his grey eyes and a nose that was twisted and misshapen. A burn across his cheek shone in the candlelight, fiery red as if half his face was missing. He drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me.

I broke the wax and read.

“How did this come to you?”

“The care of his Majesty’s subjects is my greatest concern and responsibility.”

It felt like the cold steel of a dagger thrust into my heart. I sat.

“How long have you known Sergeant Collins?”

“Since I was a boy,” I said slowly.

“And your association continues.”

“No.”

“The letters we found in your home suggest otherwise.” His voice was calm, steady.

“And the letter from my wife suggests?” I lifted the paper.

“We’re only trying to protect them.”

“From what?”

The Captain gave a curt laugh. “It is only a matter of time before every man in these colonies has taken up arms. None of us are safe.”

He reached for the pistol, held it up and gazed at it, allowing me a good look as well.  The light flickering over his disfigured cheek suggested something like a smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Simple lines, elegant form, dependable, deadly. I had it made when I received my commission. Cost me a year’s salary. It’s the most precious thing I own.”

“I am of no use to you. Nor is my family.” I gripped the letter.

This earned a couple seconds of silence, and then his grin spread. Some of the moonlight stretched from a window and onto his teeth. My breath became shallow.

“You could be.” His fingers traced the barrel of the pistol, thumbing its details. “Tonight you will escape from this place. Then you ride south to Pennsylvania where you’ll join Mr. Collins. There, I expect reports on a three-week basis, and our courier will deliver what you find.” My pulse quickened, yet the Captain was calm and his movements were slow. He examined his weapon, taking his time before raising it. He pulled back the hammer and pointed the barrel at his shoulder. “Take it from me, Mr. Herring, loyalty must be spent wisely.” He fired.

What followed was nothing more than a blur, but I could feel the pistol in my hand, and hear the captain laughing as I raced for the cover of the forest ahead.

By Jed Bynum

Logan’s eyes scanned the pale desert that surrounded him, ready to pick out anything out of the ordinary. The light of his fire melted into the glow of a setting sun, basking his makeshift campsite and the chalky white stone it laid upon in somber orange. His eyes meant the world out here: any subtle noises were swept away by dry wind. Even then, the things he really ought to worry about never made any noise at all. His survey of the landscape was interrupted by the electronic squawk of his radio which was sitting upright atop his bedroll.

“Yo! You better be on, man. I’m expecting a warm welcome, been off the grid for too long.” The voice was garbled by static, though it’s cheer was unmistakable. Logan’s respirator wheezed in protest as he dragged himself to his feet, taking one last look at the shale cliffs in the distance before turning his attention to the radio.

“Evening, Markus. Er. Long time no speak, buddy. If anyone else went quiet a whole damn week I’d start to get worried.” His words were muffled by his filtration device’s thick padding.

“You know me, I’m a wild card like that.” Clanging pots and pans joined Marko’s voice on the other end, dishes being done. “You should really tag along next time, homey. Like really. I’m pulling a wicked haul. Four discs, bike tires, little teevo, and a whole bag of bits and I don’t even know what they are. I’m gonna make bank when I sell this shit. Didn’t run into nothing weird neither.”

“Geez dude, you digging for that stuff?” Logan settled down on his bedroll and grabbed his big book to start scratching down records of the ground he’d covered. “If you ain’t, remember to mark everything. Go back there when we got our own digger and we’ll probably find a whole goddamn city.” He buttoned up his jacket with his free hand, a ragged t-shirt wouldn’t stave off the night’s silencing cold.

“No. Didn’t dig. There’s a goddamn fortune waiting there for us, buddy.” Marko’s voice faded out for a moment, likely preoccupied. Logan’s pencil slowly traced his day on the map. Circles for areas that were profitable, squares for ones that were dry. The sound of his friend’s preoccupied humming was soothing, an added layer to the desert’s twilight lullaby. He sat there for a moment, letting his eyes unfocus until the radio spit out some more words. “Say, where are you? Gull said someone spotted a worm in C-Twelve, sixteen.”

“No biggie. What kind? What kind of worm, I mean.” He spoke with limited interest. Talking for the sake of talking. “Just curious, I’m in C-Eight anyway.”

“Not right sure. Too small to be a mouth worm, he said. Could be new, lots of new things show up this season.”

“You think that’s why the doctors get all worked up around now? I figure it is. All the new stuff.”

“You would know, your hunnybug is one of them. How is she, Logan?” The question was amiable, but it’s tone stung. For a second, Logan forgot he was talking to his friend and not the radio itself.

“Anxious, doesn’t want me around all that much right now. She doesn’t like to talk about work, but this season all she’s got is work, so we don’t talk.”

“I wouldn’t talk to nobody neither if I had to do what she does. I’d probably start talking to myself if I had to be a doctor.” There was a static chortle through the radio. “Really though Logan. There’s something wrong with her.” His voice hardened into criticism.

“Alright. I know.” Logan’s eyes were on that metal box searching for expression where there was none. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Don’t brush me off like that, dude. I hate when you do this. Let me say it clear, your fucking girlfriend- Actually, she doesn’t even like you, not like it matters. Because she looks for hands in people’s heads for a living. How does that sound? How does it sound when I say it?” The off switch sat there below the channel dial.

“They’re not people, they–” He caught himself as he spoke, letting out a breath instead of his next word. The other voice went silent. It was silent for a while.

“Listen, man. I’m sorry. You know I love you brother. You know I’m just looking out for you.” Logan slumped against his bedroll, deflating a bit.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Alright. I’m gonna hit the sack so I can start heading home bright and early. I’ll see you then.”

“Goodnight, buddy.”

“Goodnight. And remember, if you hear anything else on this channel tonight, even if it sounds like me, don’t pick up.” The voice on the other end started to fade.

Pas Si Simple

By Aubrey Ahmanson Art by Brenne Hoeven

To be read with “pas si simple” from the Amélie Soundtrack starting at 0:27