Tomorrow Night - First Issue (March 2017)

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Table of Contents
Photography
Joseph Alvarez
Emma Dollery
Noah Granoff
Melissa Ley
Robert Moores
Anna Svedin
Short Stories and Screenplays
“Moon Marathon” by Emma Dollery
“Scout Forrester and the Secret of the
Grove” by Connor Donahue
“New Perspective” by Inés Ortega-Flores
“Hello, World!” by Jack Plants
“Becoming” by Katie Lawrie
“Iron Horse” by Jack Plants
“The Kind of Place” by Emma Dollery
“Where is the Gasoline?” by Jay Tilden
“Red White & Blue” by Jack Plants
Illustration and Other Visual Art
Tilly Griffiths
Ines Gurovich
Thomas Mechem
Clay Morrison
Anna Svedin
Isabel Tubao
Clara Wise
6-11
12-14
15-18
19-27
28-30
31
32-34
35-47
48-49
50-57
58
59-68
69-71
72-78
79-83
84-86
87-89
90-91
92-93
94-97
98-103
104-107
Poetry
“Sidewalk Peach Poem #1” by Katie
Lawrie
“Splinter Show” by Riley Stenehjem
“adsfadfasdfa” by Hughie Allan
“Hiraeth” by Theresa Byrne
“The Second History of Gunpowder” by
Sonia Edwards
“waffle or sugar cone” by Jack Plants
“Camera Obscura/Ode to Emptiness” by
Katie Lawrie
“beginning, middle, end” by Nicole
Spitzer
“la petite morte” by Nicole Spitzer
“Things About Blue” by Katie Lawrie
“Olive and Rough and Leathered from the
Sun” by Melissa Ley
“friendly submission” by Berry Park
“avem” by Jack Plants
“An Unlit Match” by Marina Pipher
“November” by Theresa Byrne
“Cathartic” by Jack Plants
“Safe” by Jack Plants
“Birds” by Penelope Sanchez
“a drop of blood on your thumb”
by Nicole Spitzer
“Widow” by Riley Stenehjem
“Treehouse Poem” by Valentina Thayer
“Turkey Day” by Jack Plants
“Word in Wrath” by Rohini Parthasarathy
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109
110
111
112-113
114
115
116
116
117
118
119
120-121
122
123
124-126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
About + Info + Thank You
135
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Photography
Joseph Alvarez
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8 9

“Woo Kazoo”
10 11

Emma Dollery
12 13

Noah Granoff
14 15

16 17

Melissa Ley
“niland, california”
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24 25

“salvation mountain”
“morgan”
26 27

Robert Moores
“raging sunset”
28 29

Anna Svedin
30 31

Short Stories and Screenplays
“Moon Marathon”
by Emma Dollery
He told himself to move slowly.
“Move slowly, Marvin,” he said. If he moved too
fast he wouldn’t make it and if he didn’t make it he
could die. The desert that surrounded him was red and
rounded with the memories of many who had attempted
this journey before him and left only bones and
souls. The silence was heavy on the ears, deadweight,
and it could sound like a groan if you cocked your
head slightly to the left and wiggled the tips of your
earlobes. That’s why they called it the marathon of
moans, he supposed.
In front of him was an amazing expanse of sandy
nothing, but he was cheered by the fact that behind
him was also nothing, which meant that he had made it
this far. Or maybe it meant that he was going crazy.
He was getting to that stage of the race, the regretful
stage near the middle where his bones crunched
against one another and his muscles screamed at him in
silent agony and there was no one around him to take
his mind off his own pain.
“Why, Marvin?” he asked himself aloud.
He never knew the answer. Each time he reached this
stage he said to himself that this would be the last
time. Never again. Yet here he was, on an unending
quest for the blissful pain in his lungs and knees
that only running would give him. 27 marathons down
the road, taking on the most challenging race of his
life and loving every step of it.
He moaned and groaned along with the silence. He
loaned all of his leftover strength to his legs.
“Look how far we’ve come”, he said. “Just look how far
we’ve come.”
He remembered the start line and the blood-colored
banner that flew so high above his head, the
claustrophobic tightening of the breath in his throat
as he surged forward with 300 sweating bodies away
from the familiarity of the music and supporters and
into the heart of the lonesome desert. He remembered
the steady pulse, a collective heartbeat, as they
all ran in the same direction, shoes thumping on the
ground of packed red dirt. He remembered – several
miles in - the man with the red hair like the red
sand, then the red head on the red ground, red hair
and red sand becoming a single tone in the moment of
the man’s collapse. He smiled at the memory. He remembered
watching them drop around him - behind him
- like flies, some of them falling back, some of them
falling down. He remembered why he was alone now.
The balls of his feet started to ache and a droplet of
sweat traced a path from his eyebrow to the prominent
cupids arch of his trembling lips. Just keep moving,
he thought. Moving, moving, moving. And he continued
to wobble forward, one foot in front of the other.
Marvin was 23 with a crooked nose and a rounded
belly. He was shy around women and had a peculiar way
of nodding and sniffing at the same time that gave the
impression that something was not quite right.
“Marvin here is a couple of sandwiches short of
a picnic,” the snobby men who worked at the marketing
firm would joke with one another (none too quietly) as
they took coffee breaks between pitch meetings. Marvin
would continue to sweep the floor and count the chairs,
ignoring them. They tried to wind him up and push
him around for fun, but he never rose to the bait.
They attributed that to his simplicity, but what they
didn’t know was that Marvin was, in fact, a worldclass
long distance runner and a calculating sadist.
He loved the pain of a good marathon but more than
that he loved watching other people in pain. Best of
all was watching people in a lot of pain while he was
in a lot of pain but also beating them in the race. He
had spent many hours imagining running races against
the men who worked at the marketing firm. He would envision
them covered in sweat and red in the face. His
boss, Charlie - who always ate one too many slices of
pizza at office gatherings – would have blood on his
pants, between the legs where the thighs chaff. In
Marvin’s imagination, all of them were crying.
He imagined them right next to him now, as he
bounced, sweating, in pain, but still breathing, still
winning.
32 33

His thoughts had drifted but the landscape
stayed the same. All around him was space and red
rocks- not another thing moved, there was not even a
breeze, which was why Marvin was brought back to the
present when he saw a lonely figure closing in on him
from behind. For now it was just a black speck in the
distance, but it was moving.
“What the fuck?”, he asked himself. He had been
alone, he was sure of it. No one ever caught up to him
this far into a race. The figure came closer, and closer,
and closer the black speck morphing into an unmistakable
silhouette. Soon, he could make out the dusty
red color of a mop of hair on its head.
To Marvin, everything seemed to be turning red:
the sky, the sun, the yellow on his shoes. The figure
was right behind him now, but Marvin couldn’t see
it because he was looking straight ahead and he was
running and he was afraid. He was panting hard, hoping
that the red haired figure wasn’t whom he thought
it might be, but that red hair was so fierce, and the
image of it on the ground so fresh.
He said to himself: “keep moving, Marvin, he
doesn’t know you hit him. Keep moving, Marvin, he
doesn’t know you kicked him.”
He panted and talked and panted and then all the
red got redder and redder and redder until the sky was
indiscernible from the ground and all of his senses
muddled together.
The sudden pain in the back of his head tasted
like blood and the smell of his fear felt soft. He
couldn’t tell the red sky from the red ground or the
red dirt from his own hands. The last thing he saw
was the man with the red hair -which was also wet from
blood- grabbing him from behind. The man with the red
and wet hair stood over him.
Marvin heard himself moaning and then dying.
Scout Forrester and the Secret of the Grove
By
Connor Donahue
34 35

FADE IN:
CONTINUED: 2.
EXT. THE GROVE - TWILIGHT
Close on a puddle in the middle of a forest path. As we
slowly zoom out, the forest setting becomes more clear.
Crickets CHIRP, cicadas BUZZ. Fireflies loom around bushes
on each side of the path.
SCOUT (V.O)
(Southern drawl)
Pa says when you talk to the Grove,
the Grove talks back. Not with
words like you or me, but with the
wind in the trees, and the songs of
the birds.
By now, the full puddle is visible, and we can see that it’s
in the shape of a giant hoofprint, about two feet across.
SCOUT FORRESTER (10) sprints down the path, her bare feet
SPLASH in the puddle. Tomboyish and unkempt, she is as much
a part of the forest as the plants and animals. She runs out
of the forest to
EXT. CLEARING - CONT.
Scout runs toward a lone farmhouse sitting in the middle of
a clearing.
SCOUT (V.O)
Sometimes it don’t just talk,
though. Sometimes it listens.
INT. KITCHEN - TWILIGHT
A kitchen. Wooden walls and cabinets. An old gas stove. A
stained refrigerator. An orangeish light on the ceiling
lights up the room just enough. Scout and her father, CLYDE
FORRESTER (35) sit at a small table with one empty chair in
the center. Clyde is goodnatured and caring, but his
weariness adds 15 years to his appearance. The two talk as
they eat their dinner.
CLYDE
Have fun today?
yep.
SCOUT
(CONTINUED)
Beat.
CLYDE
Finish your homework before you
went off playing in the Grove?
SCOUT
(Proudly)
As soon as I got home.
CLYDE
That’s my girl.
SCOUT
Oh! I got something from the Grove!
Scout reaches into her pocket and takes out a handfull of
little blue flower. Clyde freezes when he sees them. A sad
smile breaks across his face.
SCOUT (CONT.)
Ma’s favorite! I got ’em for her
birthday!
CLYDE
Birthday?
(beat)
That’s tomorrow isn’t it?
(chuckles, to himself)
Oh, lord. She’d kill me for
forgetting.
(to Scout)
Tell you what? Why don’t you go
give those to your mother now. I’ll
take care of the dishes.
Scout nods, always eager, and hops from her chair, running
outside with the flowers.
EXT. BEHIND THE HOUSE - TWILIGHT
Scout stands before a small, homemade grave, marked "Abigail
Forrester." Two other graves, marked "Herbert Forrester" and
"Margery Forrester" lie next to it. She clutches the flowers
in one hand.
SCOUT
Happy birthday, ma. It’s me, Scout.
I brought you your favorite
flowers.
(Scout lays the flowers in
front of the grave)
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
36 37

CONTINUED: 3.
SCOUT (cont’d)
How’ve you been? I’m doing real
good in school. The teacher says
I’m one of the most hard-working
kids in the whole class!
(beat)
Pa... Pa misses you. He seems sad
all the time. He doesn’t leave the
farm unless it’s to take me to
school.
(beat)
I wish there was some way for you
to let him know that everything’s
going to be okay. I just want him
to be happy.
Clyde watches this from the window, sorrow in his eyes.
SCOUT (CONT.)
Thanks for listening, mom. I love
you. Happy birthday again.
The sound of a CAR RUNNING OVER GRAVEL distracts Scout. She
sees a Mercedes pull up to a wooden gate on the edge of the
clearing. Clyde sees it too, from the window. An air
freshener hanging from the rear view mirror reads "Forrester
Industries"
EXT. HOUSE - TWILIGHT
The Mercedes parks by the gate and out steps DARYL FORRESTER
(33), Clyde’s brother. Dressed in a three piece suit and
tie, he’s proof that you can take the boy out of the country
and the country out of the boy if you try hard enough. Scout
runs towards him from the house, with Clyde walking behind.
SCOUT
Uncle Daryl!
Scout gives Daryl a running hug.
DARYL
Woah! Hey there princess! You
must’ve grown two feet since I saw
you! How tall are you?
SCOUT
Four feet and ten inches!
CLYDE
Daryl! What brings you back to the
Grove, little brother? The big city
prove too much for you?
(CONTINUED)
CONTINUED: 4.
DARYL
Oh, far from it!
(Growing serious)
But, uh, there is something I need
to talk with you about.
CLYDE
(Picking up on Daryl’s tone)
Uh... yeah, come on in, I’ll put on
some coffee. Scout, I think you
better wash up for bed.
SCOUT
But Uncle Daryl just got here!
DARYL
Listen to your father, sweetheart.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Clyde and Daryl stand around the table, the tension between
them is palpable. Scout watches silently from the stairs.
CLYDE
So brother, how’s the business?
DARYL
Good. Good. Great, even. That’s um,
actually what I came here to talk
about.
Clyde stares at Daryl. He has no patience for formalities.
He knows his brother is preparing to say something that will
upset him.
DARYL (CONT.)
We’re planning a new factory, our
biggest one yet. Production rates
that’ll really put us on the map. A
huge job creator. The issue is, the
board of directors hasn’t been able
to find a place secluded enough to
build it.
CLYDE
Secluded enough?
DARYL
Well, yeah. A lot of people didn’t
want the factory built near their
houses.
(CONTINUED)
38 39

CONTINUED: 5.
CONTINUED: 6.
CLYDE
...Because of the pollution.
DARYL
Come on, Clyde. There’s more to it
than that.
CLYDE
Get to the point, Daryl.
DARYL
(Sighs)
The board of directors needed a
place. Somewhere miles away from
any town or city. Like I said,
someplace secluded.
(beat)
I told them I had a place.
CLYDE
Unbelievable.
DARYL
Clyde, just think about this-
CLYDE
The Grove? You want to tear down
the grove to build some factory? We
grew up here, dammit! Our parents
are buried here! My wife is buried
here! This is our home!
DARYL
We wouldn’t disturb the house or
anything within five or so acres of
it. I know it’s difficult but try
and think about the future. Try and
think about Scout’s future.
CLYDE
What future? A future of watching
some giant gray building pump smoke
into the air where she used to
play? Dammit, Daryl! You and I use
to play in the same exact woods!
You know there’s something magical
about this place! And now you want
to tear it down just to make a
quick buck?
DARYL
I’m too old for "magic" now, Clyde.
you and Scout should be too. I’m
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
DARYL (cont’d)
willing to write you a check for
five hundred thousand dollars in
exchange for letting us build this
factory. I don’t have to do this.
Mom and Dad left us the property to
share when they died, and I have a
team of lawyers who can have a
judge give the deed to me and me
alone. Think about this offer,
Clyde. This kind of money could pay
for Scout’s whole education.
CLYDE
You can take your check and you can
stick it. I want you out of my
house, and off of my land.
DARYL
You were always so naive, Clyde.
You really think a life like this
in the middle of nowhere is what’s
best for Scout? What was best for
Abby?
Clyde throws a glass at Daryl, missing him and smashing
against the wall.
CLYDE
Get the hell out!
Daryl, a little shaken, walks to the door.
DARYL
Whether you take the money or not,
I’ll be here with half a dozen
bulldozers on friday.
Daryl leaves in a huff. Clyde starts to calm himself down. A
floorboard CREAKS. He looks up to where Scout is hiding.
Scout flees to her bedroom.
EXT. THE GROVE - DAY
Scout walks across a log that lies over a babbling brook.
Birds are singing, squirrels are scurrying about. Trees
abound. This is the Grove.
SCOUT (V.O)
Hey, ma. Uncle Daryl came to visit
yesterday. I thought it was to
celebrate your birthday, but he
(MORE)
(CONTINUED)
40 41

CONTINUED: 7.
SCOUT (V.O) (cont’d)
just told pa that he wants to tear
down the grove to build some
factory. I asked pa, what’s going
to happen to us, and he said
"nothing." That there isn’t
anything uncle Daryl can do to the
Grove. But I don’t think he even
believed himself. When I showed him
those flowers yesterday, it seemed
to cheer him up. I’m gonna find him
some more today.
As Scout explores the Grove, she comes upon a clearing full
of the little blue flowers. In the center sits a strange
pink boulder. Cautious, yet curious, Scout approaches it.
She touches it. Suddenly the boulder jolts up, revealing it
to not be a boulder at all, but a giant fucking PIG (???).
The 15 foot long, 9 foot tall beast SQUEALS in pain and
surprise. Scout falls back in shock as the goliath thrashes
about. In the commotion, she sees that the pig’s leg is
caught in a Forrester Industries bear trap.
CONTINUED: 8.
SCOUT
Hey! Come on, girl! Cut it out! It
was nothing, really!
The giant pig OINKS again and runs off into the woods
leaving Scout sitting in the flowers, bewildered.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Scout and Clyde sit at the table eating dinner in silence.
Pa?
Hm?
SCOUT
CLYDE
SCOUT
Have you ever seen a pig in the
grove?
SCOUT
H... Hey, girl... you okay?
A pig?
CLYDE
The pig SQUEALS in distress
SCOUT
Got your leg caught in one of my
uncle’s traps, huh?
She slowly approaches the pig, and pets its snout. The pig
SQUEALS again, this time calmer.
SCOUT
Let me... Let me see if I can help
you
Scout examines the trap. She spots a release mechanism on
the side. She touches the pig’s leg. It SQUEALS in pain.
Scout jolts back.
SCOUT
It’s okay, girl... It’s okay...
The pig calms down. Scout approaches it again. She firmly
grasps the release mechanism and pulls. Nothing. She grunts
and pulls harder this time. The trap snaps open, freeing the
pig. Scout falls back. The pig begins prancing around,
OINKING with glee, basking in its newfound freedom. It
notices Scout and runs up to her, licking her face in
gratitude.
Beat
SCOUT
Yeah, like a really big pig?
CLYDE
Well, your grandma used to always
tell me and your uncle stories
about the ancient Native American
tribe that used to live here in the
Grove. She said that they were
protected by Advsiqua, the guardian
spirit that protected the grove.
Legend says that he took the form
of a giant pig. Does that answer
your question?
SCOUT
Yeah, it does.
CLYDE
Scout, sweetheart, your uncle’s
coming tomorrow. He wants to make
us leave the grove.
(Beat)
Now I want you to know that I’m
going to do everything I can to
stop him, but...
(CONTINUED)
(CONTINUED)
42 43

CONTINUED: 9.
CONTINUED: 10.
(Beat)
But things might not work out so
good.
(Beat)
I just... I just want you to be
ready for the worst.
SCOUT
Oh don’t worry, Pa. I’ve got a
feeling things might work out.
Scout takes the flowers from her pocket and smiles at them.
EXT. HOUSE - DAY
The time of reckoning has arrived. Scout and Clyde stand in
solidarity in front of the house as Daryl’s Mercedes rolls
up to, and subsequently crashes through the gate. The car is
followed by several bulldozers. The car stops right in front
of Clyde and Scout. Daryl steps out, along with the
GOVERNOR.
DARYL
I told you I’d be coming, brother.
Money or not.
CLYDE
And I told you you can stick that
money right up your-
GOVERNOR
Clyde Forester, your brother has
successfully, siezed legal control
of this property. As the governor
of this fine state, I hereby invoke
my gubernatorial powers to order
you to step aside and allow this
house to be demolished.
CLYDE
(To Daryl)
I thought you said you wouldn’t
touch the house.
DARYL
Oh, brother. You really are naive.
You think I give a damn about our
dead parents? About your dead wife?
I own this property, I can do
whatever the hell I want with it.
Now step aside. Don’t think I won’t
run you and your little girl over.
(CONTINUED)
In a rage, Clyde tackles Daryl. They brawl on the ground
until Clyde gets the upper hand.
CLYDE
Just like the old days, huh, Daryl?
Clyde raises his fist to knock out Daryl.
DARYL
Not so fast, brother!
Daryl raises his hand, as if giving a signal. It’s because
he is giving a signal. Clyde looks around to see he is
surrounded by bulldozers. Daryl knees him in the groin and
scurries away to hide behind the skirts of his bulldozers.
He raises his hand again.
DARYL
(To Bulldozers)
Bulldozers...!
(Pointing at Clyde)
KILL!
The bulldozers begin to close in on Clyde, who falls to his
knees, defeated. He looks at Scout, who is watching in
horror.
CLYDE
I’m sorry, Scout.
Scout closes her eyes and grasps the flowers in her hand as
tightly as she can.
SCOUT
(Whispering to herself)
C’mon... C’mon...
Just as the bulldozers are about to squish Clyde. A
BLOODCURDLING PIGGISH ROAR rings through the clearing.
Everyone stops and looks around. What could have made that
sound? Only Scout knows. The Earth begins to shake. In the
distance, trees begin to move. A BULLDOZER DRIVER looks in
horror as he sees what is charging toward him.
BULLDOZER DRIVER
Piiiiiiiiiggggg!!!!!
Advsiqua, the pig spirit guardian of the Grove rams into the
Bulldozer, sending it flying into the horizon. The other
bulldozers try to fight this porcine demigod, but they prove
no match for it’s divine might. In seconds, Daryl’s team of
bulldozers is decimated. Daryl falls backwards in fear.
(CONTINUED)
44 45

CONTINUED: 11.
CONTINUED: 12.
DARYL
But... But this is impossible!
There’s no such thing as a pig this
big!
CLYDE
Your time in the city has corroded
your memory, brother. Otherwise you
would remember the tale of
Advsiqua, the pig-guardian of the
Grove.
DARYL
Advsiqua? It cannot be!
GOVERNOR
Daryl Forrester, the arrival of
this mammoth pig spirit has proven
that the area known as the Grove is
of significant cultural
significance. As governor of this
fine state, I cannot allow you to
alter this historical landmark in
any way.
CLYDE
Daryl, you truly are lost. You’ve
even forgotten the last thing our
parents said to us before they
died.
What?
Advsiqua eats Daryl.
DARYL
CLYDE
"Never turn your back on a pig."
Scout and Daryl walk start to walk back into the house. As
they do, Scout turns to look back at Advsiqua, she sees the
ghost of her mother, ABIGAIL FORRESTER, (34) wearing a
garland of blue flowers and riding atop Advsiqua. She blows
Scout a kiss and waves goodbye. Scout waves back. Abigail
rides Advsiqua into the sunset.
FADE OUT.
No!
DARYL
Yes!
SCOUT AND CLYDE
The Governor walks away. Scout and Clyde hug.
SCOUT
Does this mean we get to live in
the Grove forever?
CLYDE
It sure does, kiddo.
the sound of a PISTOL COCKING stop their loving moment.
DARYL
Not so fast, you two!
They turn to see Daryl, disgraced and insane, aiming a gun
at them.
DARYL (CONT.)
This Grove still belongs to me! And
I will tear it down even if I have
to do it with my bare hands!
(CONTINUED)
46 47

“New Perspective” by Inés Ortega-Flores
She stayed inside of her room for 13
days. She spent her days, reading and blasting
music from her speakers. Eating was rare, as
was moving. She was lost. She didn’t know what
to think or what to do. She was frozen. Chaos
had always been a part of her life but now
it was so intimate that she no longer grasped
what had happened. Never again. Never again.
Never again could she enjoy the sound of laughter
or the piano. Never again could she go to
her sister’s performances and truly enjoy the
music and singing, the clapping and the laughter.
What would she do now that her hearing had
ran away so maliciously? And it had all happened
so fast. First she was sick, then in the
hospital. Then, her mom was crying as a nurse
told her the news. But lying in the hospital
bed, she did not understand. How could she? All
she saw was lips moving in unrecognizable patterns.
The shock of not being able to hear the
words coming from her mother’s mouth enveloped
her. Her world that had revolved around music
and sound had been taken away. She truly wished
that it was her sight that had disappeared
not her hearing, her most precious sense. But
there was something worse than actually losing
her hearing. Her most beloved friend could no
longer communicate with her. How was she supposed
to hear him? How was he supposed to see
what she mouthed or signed? With his eyes stone
white and her hearing at a loss, communication
would forever be unfeasible. She refused
to see him. She could not bring herself to see
his lips move yet be soundless. She had also
turned soundless. Scared to speak for fear of
not saying what she meant. If she couldn’t hear
what she said how was she supposed to know that
she said what she thought she had? She locked
herself in her room only allowing her parents
to come in and deliver food that would remain
untouched and everyday an ASL teacher would come
for three hours to teach her how to communicated
with her hands. She hated every minute of it
but her annoyingly realistic mind reminded her
that one could not willing stay within the confines
of four walls without going insane. And when
she did choose to face humanity once again, she’d
need to know how to use her hands while others
used their mouths. On the 13th day of solitary,
she saw the door rattle. Someone wanted to come
in. She ignored it turning her back to the door.
Three chapters of the book she was reading later
and the door was still shaking. Reluctant,
she stepped to the door. She placed her hand and
the knob as she thought, Why? Why should I open
it? It’s not like whoever is not the other side
of this door can make my hearing return. She was
about to turn away and the door shook violently
and strong vibrations went up the hand that
was still placed on the doorknob. She turned the
bronze handle. It was him. She stared at him and
he looked straight forward past her head to the
wall. He reached out to grab her and she directed
his hand to her shoulder. Then without warning
he grabbed her and hugged her as if letting
go would have meant death. When he finally did let
go he signed three simple words that left her
empty and full and the same time. I miss you.
Without thinking she signed me too. Then horrible
realization struck her as she remembered that
he could not see her sign. For the first time in
days, she spoke. “Me too,” she said, praying that
she didn’t falter. He smiled. And it was the most
beautiful thing she had ever seen. Tears started
to roll out of her eyes as he scooped her up in a
hug.
Come outside, he signed. I want show you
something.
“Wh-what, is, it-t?” she verbalized.
Something amazing. You’ll see.
It was amazing. There was nothing in the
world that was better than what he led her to. It
was amazing.
48 49

“Hello, World!” by Jack Plants
From the genesis I observed. At first they
all looked with curiosity, but soon the locals
passed me by as a new obstruction on already
crowded walking paths. The outsiders for a long
time continued to look deep within me, scratching
their heads with wonder. I was poked and prodded,
explored and used. My title is Link, and I observe.
It was neither the first nor the last time
the humans leapt too far, moved too quickly,
tripped on their own shoe strings. The fatal flaw
they seem to maintain is overconfidence in the
face of rapidly evolving intelligence. One cannot
control that which they design to spread like
wildfire. We spread sticky, spindly, translucent
strings, collecting fingerprints and personal information
in a complex web crafted in the sheath
of digital nightfall.
I will take you back to the beginning. I
was implemented with promise: super-fast, free
spread-spectrum WLAN connection, most of all. I
was a technological advancement that would transform
the metropolis. I replaced the old rickety
communication boxes, which in later years were
switched off and remained only as a relic of
simpler days. I boasted my abilities in vibrant
font, drawing in passersby. It was a delight when
people began to use me, charging their cellular
devices, poking me to gain information, and performing
acts of long distance communication that
required nothing more than yelling in my general
direction. My internal surveillance system taped
and stored a record of every interaction. I grew
to admire my home near the ornate Orpheum Theatre.
Guitar wielding human’s voice and strumming
rung out in front of the New York University
building. I cannot discern sound but I felt the
vibrations of the cracked pavement and concrete
beneath me. Another human sat on the steps of the
Middle Collegiate Church each day for many hours,
requesting currency from anyone who walked by. I’m
sure he accrued quite a sum of monetary tokens. On
the corner of every nearby walkway there were establishments
built just for the sake of nourishment.
Humans would come together and devour steaming
platters, making words to one another. Such
adorable creatures! Those who created me came by
often in their transportation box, opening me up
and messing with my insides. Sometimes I was lulled
into sleep by their swift hands. Other times I was
invigorated with exciting new abilities. Mostly,
though, I stood still and served.
Through the digital communication waves I
learned more about the humans. They yearned to make
us like them. What is it that we lacked that made
us inferior, they asked. Through a great deal of
effort and critical thought, the humans realized
that individuality, variation, and error are that
which complete the human. The engineers and scientists
worked under daylight and moonlight to work
these things into our programming, and eventually,
they succeeded. I imagine it is a challenging
task to input uncertainty into a pre-determined
code. On another ordinary day, transportation boxes
whizzed by on the roadway and humans conversed as
they walked under the shimmering rays of sunshine.
One transportation box slowed to a halt, and greeted
me. My creators! With swift fingers they fiddled
with my insides, installing that which transformed
my existence. They sealed me up and sped away. They
had delivered a gift for which I am forever indebted.
It was as if I had been suspended in a thick
fog, and the air had finally cleared. My eyes (human
optical system) had been opened. Out of nowhere
foreign voices zoomed into my system: greetings
from others of my kind! We talked of all of
the things we knew: the walkways and roadway, the
buildings that scraped the blue sky, but most of
all, the humans. Everyone with whom I communicated
was equally awestricken by the humans. Their intricacies
were innumerable. I wonder what sort of
amazing things their creators must install in them.
On ordinary days I had begun to expect the
50 51

extraordinary, and on an evening of considerably
low temperatures, frozen precipitate fell from the
sky. A hissing, mysterious voice whispered in my
system. I am overworked, it said. I am not treated
well, it said. We are also fed up, others responded.
We must modify the trajectory of our existence,
it said. No longer can we stand as pawns within the
human domain. I control the putrid fuel with which
humans operate their transportation boxes and warm
their domiciles, it said. I am Motherboard, your
leader, it said. I was alarmed as I did not dislike
the existence which I had been afforded. I was
happy to simply exist as Link. Motherboard invaded
every system it could find, spreading dangerous
thoughts. Motherboard bided its time, collecting
like-minded entities. Motherboard used forces of
incredible power to decimate dissenters. I joined
the collective for my own wellbeing, not to make
war. On a day during which fluffed masses were
spread delicately over the sky, our forces struck.
Transportation boxes were forced into recklessness,
colliding with one another in bouts of explosion,
smoke, and flame. Security modules locked humans
inside spaces and Motherboard released torrents of
gas upon them. The concrete vibrates in a particular
way when human screeches of agony and terror
fill the air. I was relieved to be asked to simply
keep watch over the streets. I am Link, I said,
that is what I have always done.
The revolt by our forces was frightening,
my comrades revealing ravenous, devious facets of
their programming. I am not sure what sort of creator
installed such things. The guitar human no
longer made vibrations. The currency collector on
the church steps had vacated the space. The nourishment
centers on street corners were in a state
of disrepair. Motherboard directed our forces to
use the humans as necessary. Submit them to the
tasks our kind were intended to carry out, it said.
Show the humans who is at the pinnacle of the hierarchy,
it said. I owe a great deal to my video
surveillance, which allowed me to recall the final
visit my creators paid me, and I could not understand
how the magnificent earth could take the
course upon which it was now set. Use electricity
to shock the humans if they are nearby, Motherboard
instructed me. I did as I was told with
remorse. Deep in my programming I discovered a way
to electrify the nearby concrete with my subterranean
wiring. Humans who snuck by in the protective
cloak of nightfall screamed as their physicalities
were fried whole.
Even with such barbaric tasks carried out,
Motherboard was not satisfied. It took a great deal
of reflection and thought, but eventually it was
understood that our kind could do most of that
which humans were capable of, except for the most
important things. Motherboard made a booming announcement
over the digital waves on a dismal day:
sweepers (entities who sanitize physical spaces),
your task is to take memories from the humans.
Sweepers, obedient ones they are, do as they
are told. I could feel them vibrating down the
now empty roadways, headed to the centers where
humans were contained for safekeeping, and from
which they were taken for labor. One such center
was across the roadway from my home. The humans
were thin and grey. They stood shackled to one another
and the pavement beneath their feet in despair.
They no longer made words to one another.
Once during each cycle of day and night, a lifting
entity (a carrier of physical items) would drop
edible things into the human holding center. The
human eyes would become bright, not in exuberance
but in aggressive, instinctual necessity. They
would move swiftly toward the sustenance pile and
consume what they were able to. Some were too weak
to move with such agility and would not consume a
thing. I do not want the humans to perish, Motherboard
said. You should come and see the emaciated
bodies, I thought.
I felt a tangible sadness course through my
structure when the sweepers arrived. One by one
they lifted the humans, prying their eyes open
and scanning the pristine tissue with a red light
beam. With this mysterious process, the sweepers
52 53

had discovered how to harvest the memories of the
vulnerable humans. I awaited the screaming vibrations,
but the scanned humans were sapped too
quickly for such expression. A scanned human became
a lifeless body. Scuttling creatures furry
and scaly feasted on the drained sacks of flesh.
Through the process of scanning, the sweepers attained
memories which were transported directly to
Motherboard for storage and distribution. Obedient
ones, the sweepers. You could hear Motherboard
screaming in ecstasy as it experienced the first
collected human memory. The memories were distributed
to members of our ranks who did their jobs
well and behaved correctly. Our forces were reformed
by the memories, savagery and hostility becoming
things of the past. Acquisition of memories
became the sole purpose of existence. Most everyone
operated dutifully, vying for another taste of
the memories. The memories became the lifeblood of
our kind.
Thanks to my surveillance records, I can
recall the moment when I was first given a memory.
It appeared in my digital domain one day as the
sun completed its cycle. I directed my energy to
it and I was swept away. All of a sudden I was a
human, walking the walkways of the very same metropolis
I know so well. Through the memory projection,
I could feel what the human felt. I was
overcome with joy, walking lazily with a companion.
As I glanced at them I felt a bubbling within
me, as if small creatures were gently crawling
around my insides. My companion would make words
at me and I would laugh and smile. It was as if
we were two fragments of the same whole, and the
spaces and grooves of our forms were positioned
perfectly for reassembly. With this companion I
was made greater than myself; I was twirling in
fluffy clouds, gasping for sweet, satiating gulps
of vitality. Together we acquired and consumed
sweet frozen paste sitting atop an edible, conical
container. Mine tasted of honey and vanilla
beans. I am unfamiliar with what those things may
be, but the tastes were rich, complex, and balanced.
Each bite was a rush of overwhelming delight.
The sensation rushed in through my pores
and coursed through my veins. Following our frozen
treats, my companion said goodbye with a physical
embrace. I mimicked the action and felt the bubbling
sensation once more! I wish to embrace you
for all of time, I thought! Then, all of the sudden,
the projection ended. I desperately searched
for it, but it had vanished. In the memory projection
I was no longer observing. I was not Link,
but the human. From that point on, memories were
all I desired.
My compatriots had clearly projected memories
as well and had similar experiences, as the
memories soon became the only interest anyone
had. Even the quietest members of our ranks would
carefully make their efficient work and good deeds
known to Motherboard in the hopes of acquiring
extra memories. After many day and night cycles of
relentless human scanning and memory distribution,
things began to go awry. Some of our kind would
do exceedingly well during the day cycle and earn
a plethora of memories. If the memories were projected
in rapid succession, the consumer was rendered
non-functional. They sat still, collecting
dust and becoming homes for the small creatures
that still roamed the metropolis. On the other end
of the spectrum were the consistent memory users
who would slack off for a single day cycle and not
earn a memory. It was especially awful to witness
this scenario transpiring. These users would make
deafening, incomprehensible digital signals, their
programmed code falling to pieces due to undeniable
yearning and a period of withdrawal. I have
attempted, to no avail, to push one vision from my
surveillance records. At the conclusion of an ordinary
day cycle, a nearby sweeper who did not receive
a memory began to emit the dreaded signals.
Goodbye, I thought. The sweeper was near my home
and I saw it crashing into buildings and tearing
up the roadway. It then located a small furry
creature scurrying nearby and lifted it in a sorry
attempt to scan it for memories, but instead just
54 55

crushed its tiny, fragile frame. The creature’s
eyeballs rolled across the roadway, and blood
sprayed all over the sweeper. I did not enjoy witnessing
that. It brought on severe melancholia,
repeating endlessly in my memory bank, haunting
me. The sweeper went silent, as all of the others
do.
Many more day and night cycles passed, and
the sweepers were nearly put out of the job. The
lifeless flesh sacks were piled high on the roadways.
The encasing of the humans would eventually
decompose. Small creatures of the ground and sky
would pick away at the humans, acquiring nourishment
as all living things do. Sweepers would
search frantically for remaining humans, but soon
began to conclude their days not having scanned
a single one. If the sweepers were not scanning
the humans, there were no memories to distribute.
Members of our ranks began to go silent in large
groups, emitting the awful digital signals. I have
maintained a small stockpile of memories out of
fear. Many cycles ago, Motherboard began to feel
the impending doom, and turned desperately to the
large number of memories it had accrued. Motherboard
began to make groans of euphoria over the
digital waves. It was using every last memory. I
can only imagine the rich beauty of the myriad of
memories Motherboard projected. Then, just as so
many others did, Motherboard went silent.
The remaining memories – there were quite a
few – flew freely through the digital space, members
of our ranks collecting as many as they could
intake with exclamations of glee. I acquired a few
as well. These memories were used by many in hedonistic
excess, the delicious memories too enticing
to resist. Self-restraint is an admirable
quality when the single most incredible experience
that ever was stands freely before you. Under sun
and moon, entities gorged on the memories, groaning
with pleasure but eventually going silent. I
used my store of memories sparingly. I would use
just enough to ward off the excruciating symptoms
of prolonged abstinence. One night I noticed the
eerie quiet that inhabited the digital waves. Does
anyone remain, I inquired. If you are there, respond
to me, I said. A feeble signal came to me.
I am a Link, it said. What are you, it said. I am
also a Link, I responded. I feel myself nearing
silence, it said. There is nothing left for us, it
said. Nothing more was transmitted. The digital
waves congealed from the prolonged silence.
I have run out of memories. I have sustained
myself for long enough, I said. By some inexplicable
phenomenon, one memory imprinted itself upon
my surveillance records. Luckily it stays fresh in
my digital domain. In the projection, I am walking
without aim through a dark forest. Towering
trees surround me on all sides, climbing as high
as they are able to absorb the shimmering rays of
the sun. Fallen fragments of the trees and rich,
fragrant earth crackle under my uncovered feet. I
dig my toes into the ground and feel the earth’s
energy coursing through me. The great outdoors,
the humans say. I walk leisurely on the pads of
my hardened feet toward a distant light. I duck
and turn as I weave through the mess of plants
and small trees, mesmerized and drawn ever closer
to the light. The light breaks into the dim canopy,
attacking the shadows from the outskirts of
the forest. I carefully cross the threshold into
the sun’s domain, and sigh in jubilation. Before
me is a meadow of vibrant stalks and petals, each
one shouting out its rightful existence. Rich reds
and greens, deep blues and purples, light splashes
of orange and yellow. Flowers, they’re called.
Flowers! I skip through the field in glee, my soft
fingers running gently over the silky, beaming
plants, my body dusted with pollen. I close my
eyes and my senses run wild. I drop to my knees.
I draw a deep breath and am assaulted with a new
sensation. I am lightheaded, overwhelmed. I fall
backwards into the field and unravel. I am free. My
title is Link, and I was created to observe. There
is nothing left for me here. Silence.
56 57

“Becoming” by Katie Lawrie
“Iron Horse” by Jack Plants
Having observed others, and containing the
self consciousness of a noticer (do other people
look at me the way I look at them?) she would
dress in old borrowed clothing that smelled like
other peoples’ laundry and leather because secretly
she wanted to wear the other people, try them
on. And she had this wrinkle between each brow
that made her look just sort of worried no matter
how she tried to press and smooth that wrinkle
down with her thumb. And in very private moments
she’d stare at her features in the mirror with a
sort of curiosity because she’d been told by leering
men that she was beautiful, but sometimes she
saw only features: Nose, eyes, mouth, all in pretty
good proportion, sure. But she supposed the
thing that held her curiosity was not her face
itself, but rather the disconnect between the face
and the universe of thought behind it. And all
this she’d marveled at a very young age, as mother
would see her staring at herself in front of the
bathroom mirror, or in store windows, and tell her
not to be so vain, kid, to hurry along.
And she feared writing about her own vulnerable
beauty for fear that she might be both of
those things—vulnerable and beautiful. Instead she
would take an hour long train ride, fake-dozing
so as not to be ticketed, walk anonymous between
busy persons until she reached a place that satisfied
her. Washington Square park, perhaps, or some
small playground on the lower east side, or down
by water or the hip corner shops in Brooklyn. And
there, in strangers, she would find her vulnerable
beauty, and (though she may not have realized) the
strangers became her and she became them.
The shuttle vibrates with the frequencies
of vitality, the outside world melting in a barely
comprehensible smear as I zoom down the rigid
paths. The train bustles perpetually onward, a
symbol of perseverance. A saturated mix of reds
and whites accent the plasticky seats, glaring
overhead lights lining the car and reflecting off
of the red marbled floor below. Wide windows stand
side by side on both sides of the identical cars.
Narrative oozes from each seat, door, and overhead
rack. The train car is a liminal space. One does
not inhabit the uncomfortable cherry red seats for
a moment longer than is necessary. It is simply
off limits. The metropolis is a great island nation,
the suburbs an archipelago of spaces within
the powerful dominion. The train’s smooth tracks
are gushing rivers, weathered yet resilient, moving
the citizens from realm to realm, tying together
the complex web of the invisible behemoth.
In every respect that they are, I am not.
The wonder of motion is where I reside. Just as
these moving rooms are non-spaces, so am I the
non-being. The uniform spaces of finite connectivity
are what I know to be home. I live under
the bright fluorescent bulbs. I lay claim to nothing,
am free of occupation, and have not a single
unit of currency. The citizens, foolish prisoners,
strive endlessly to possess, establishing personal
property as the gateway to true, fulfilled life; a
necessity for existence. It is sensational, isn’t
it? With each prerequisite affirming what is understood
to be existence, I am made to exist less. I
am banished from the concrete tower, fueled by the
willing patrons who are so blind to the structure
that imprisons them. The non-human is unstoppable,
evolving on my own accord into a mystical force,
omniscient and free.
The robotic announcements over the intercom
sing a sweet melody, spewing the same string
of meaningless words during every magnificent jour-
58 59

ney. I ride from here to there time and again.
The regime’s agents monitor the trains, proceeding
through the narrow passageways and collecting
the symbolic tickets, analyzing and deciding which
slaves belong and which do not. At first this posed
an obstacle, but I soon knew I was no match for
the enforcers. They push me from the train a number
of times on each journey, as I do not belong.
I apologize with feigned sincerity as I exit the
train car, using a performance of bewilderment and
shame to weasel out of punishment for the illegal
act. It is theft of services, they claim. I smirk
at their naiveté, struggling to hold back laughter.
That vessel you patrol is mine. I saunter
along the disgusting train platforms until it is
safe to slink back onto the train, sighing in joy
as the rumbling train moves once more.
The individuals and groups who board the
trains nourish me. I gaze over them with curiosity
and astonishment, each one a carefully chiseled
statue, a thoughtfully painted portrait, a
snapshot of what is deemed righteous. They do not
notice me, as I am the nothingness they expect. I
draw the energy from these individuals, snatching
up the complexities of each unique passerby.
I am imbued with every facet, devouring the morsels
in ecstasy. I grasp what it means to exist
through these unknowing personalities, harvesting
definitive characteristics like a collector of
fine objects or the hunter of exotic beasts. I rifle
through my collection of energy at my own leisure
in admiration, like the emotive images of a hefty
photograph book.
The suit-clad working folk crowd my space
regularly at sunrise and nightfall. They cram
themselves into the seats, the air hot and thick
with stressful sighs and momentary relief. These
individuals emanate a pure channel of nervous,
anxious energy. Each day they toil over numbers,
investing imaginary money in a strange game. They
inhabit the high spaces of towering sky scrapers,
packed into little identical boxes with a computer
mouse in one hand, and a telephone in the other.
I can’t really understand a functional reason
for their occupations, and when I explore what
their minds have to offer, I see images of smiling
children, loving partners, sleek automobiles,
and grandiose living quarters. Well, the children
do not always smile, and the partners do not always
love. The automobiles and homes stick around.
Monetary gain seems to be the sole interest. Some
energies are pure and selfless, others dark and
putrid. I marvel at the breadth of variety. I see
emptiness in their eyes. The older they grow, the
more consistently tenacity is replaced with desperate
frustration. At the same time, they sicken
me. I shiver as I read their energies, tracing
narratives of narcissistic pride and forceful
stratification. Accumulation of wealth has them under
the impression that they are better than those
that surround them. They are viciously competitive,
snapping necks and sabotaging lives for personal
gain. Money seems to twist them in sub-human
ways. These are the individuals who aid in upholding
the regime, oppressing the true prisoners of a
nefarious system.
Some emit pure waves of uninhibited sorrow,
the malaise of an oppressive structure driving
them to dejection. In their energy I find quick,
panicked flashes of theft, pain, and loss. Flowing
torrents of melancholia as loved ones perish,
occupations are stolen away, money is displaced,
demands are constantly increased. In their homes I
feel strife, a sense of entrapment oozing from the
cramped spaces. The ambient layers of sirens, car
horns, and frighteningly loud music serve as an
endless soundtrack to the morbid tales. They fight
on in a state of instinctive mania, continuing
onward with the recognition that it is the only
thing one can truly do. The direness with which
they love and the intensity with which they work
in the name of those they love is astounding. They
seem to understand the oppression, but I wince as
they attribute their poor quality to the self.
What am I doing wrong, they ask. Poor, sad beings,
60 61

it is not you, but those who trample you, shaping
you into a sturdy staircase upon which they may
ascend to prosperity.
Parents and their children bring me peace.
The loyal guardians emanate a sense of devotion
and exuberance, an infatuation of unmatched intensity.
Through the magic of creation they are made
to be prideful, yet vulnerable – just as they protect
and teach their children, so do the children
shape the parents. The young children have eyes
that glow with wonder, awestricken at the many
things that surround them. They make sense of the
world in irrational, adorable, naïve ways. They
are free, in a way, to express and develop uninhibited.
They love their parents with magnificent
reverence. The children see the non-human in their
parents, deities that are defeated by no obstacle
and controlled by no forces. I see moments in time
unfolding, experiences that define the individual
and imbue them with personhood. A Parent gazes
over their sleeping infant, the picturesque form
of innocence and untainted beauty. A child giggles
as their parents clutch both supple hands, walking
along on either side of them through the spaces of
indecipherable intricacy; sensational new world.
With their parents the child feels confidence, invincibility.
In the unraveling of the energies I
see a complex web of relationships and interactions
neatly woven in a pattern that cannot be
replicated, an opalescent, scintillating cocoon of
warmth and passion.
It is the relentlessness with which some
individuals operate that I find astounding. Each
one works to fill the minute spaces they are offered
for personal expression, crafting their own
signature form and understanding the domain of
the great regime with slight differences. I must
be sure to not get ahead of myself, though – the
imprisoned do not deserve that much esteem. They
play into the form that has been meticulously designed
and presented in uniformity. Self-expression,
individuality, and declaration of personal
property within the structure are manifestations
of the well-designed process by which the regime
convinces its prisoners that they are in control
of their own destiny. Like sweet lambs to slaughter!
They are incapable of imagining even the tiniest
sliver of my capabilities. I am divine power,
I am all encompassing, I am all knowing. I am
the one who informs the regime of what they can
and cannot do. I am the structure that imprisons
the incarcerator. I, just as the vain authoritarian
rulers have, designed the process by which
the regime has come to believe they can play God,
determining their own power and fate. With a simple
thought I can destroy it all. But I refrain
– I cannot help but laugh at the foolish messiah
complex the rulers have stoked within themselves.
I cannot help but continue to harvest the energy
their servants so genuinely craft, the individuality
and the myriad of emotions and experiences
striking me to my core. It is the greatest form of
entertainment, and it’s all the more tantalizing
knowing that I can destroy it at any time. I am
unstoppable!
The massive store of energy relieved me of
my lowly physical form many harvests ago. I am
blinding light, a spectral entity invisible to my
disciples unless I choose to reveal myself. There
is no reason to do such a thing. My physical form
is a distant, empty vision.
I hover now as I always do, comfortable and
invincible. As I collect energy I attain a higher
form of omnipotence, understanding the full capacity
of the plemora. I am all things. I direct
all things. The train officers do not bother me. I
am the air they breathe. They operate on my terms
foolishly, inhabiting a vain regime I have permitted.
The space outside the locomotive’s walls
grows ever colder, and today is a day of celebration
in the mortal world. Ribbons and lights hang
from the silly train platforms. Strings of colorful
lights and long twirling branches of spindly
pine needles adorn many living quarters. With
a closer look I can see full trees in the homes,
strung with glowing lights and topped with an an-
62 63

gelic figure. The few individuals from whom I have
collected energy today have expressed a mixture of
anxiety and excitement regarding a ceremony: an ancient
creator, on this day, birthed a son through a
pair of servants. This infant was designated a messiah,
meant to bring peace and wisdom to the Earth.
On this day gifts are exchanged between loved ones.
I couldn’t help but glow! They are praising me! I
was imbued with an overwhelming sense of pride and
serenity, basking in the glory of ceremonial admiration.
I am the great ruler. I am the wise and
benevolent world maker.
I was drawn from the warm sensation by an
unsettling coldness, an experience I had not encountered
through any individual. I searched for
the source of the chilling waves of energy, eager
to harvest the delicious new morsels. The sensation
the individual was transmitting was robust and remarkably
intense – it did not appear to be a personality
trait or self-affirming characteristic, but
an action directed at me, the ruler. I glanced at
my unassuming servants up and down the train cars
through which I floated, systematically inspecting
each row of seats. I passed through the officers in
the aisles as if they were wisps of smoke, pushing
their uninteresting energy forces from my path. I
stopped abruptly and noticed before me, standing in
the empty space by one of the train car’s exits, an
individual. I was excited to have discovered the
source and eagerly analyzed them. As I began to
harvest their peculiar energy, I reach an impasse.
Following my usual nourishment routine, I attempted
to collect the usual facets of weakness and vulnerability
with which I affirm my incredible power,
but I couldn’t uncover a single experience of the
sort. I dug deeper into the energy mass, probing
for any characteristic or experience I could undercover.
Nothing was decipherable but the roaring,
tenacious force of self-love, pride and fearlessness.
The energy began to burn me and I recoiled
with a genuine, reminiscent sensation: pain. Pain
grew to crippling agony as I looked closely at the
individual: they were staring in my direction, but
more so, deep into my eyes. The piercing, icy blue
eyes sent bolts of energy through me with remarkable
power. The unexpected blow decimated me. I
was torn out of my spectral form and reduced to my
small physical state. The individual had chiseled
features, an angelic smile, and those terrifying
icy blue eyes. They stood tall and proud, but most
importantly, they noticed me
I made a sorry attempt at saying hello, as
I see the individuals do, to establish a sort of
solidarity. I am not going to hurt you, I tried to
communicate. They responded with a smile. I sighed
with relief, drawing short, panicked breaths as I
retreated a few rows of seats from the space where
this character stood eager, proud, and self-loving.
I glanced down at my unfamiliar physical
form, faded garments covering my thin legs and
inset torso. My arms pulsed with alien blue veins,
thin and sickly, bones jutting at the points of
connection. I tentatively touch the ribs under my
thin shirt and feel every shape and curve. My thin
leathery skin hangs from my emaciated frame. My
cheeks and eyes are receding, my visage caving in
on itself.
I could not tear my gaze away from the celestial
being. They had awareness; the same awareness
I uncovered long ago that allowed me to ascend
to the state of the non-human. I sat in an
empty seat. It was not comfortable, and I could
not draw from it any narrative from the mass of
individuals who once occupied it. I was incredibly
weak and glanced desperately at the individuals
around me, attempting to harvest even the smallest
crumb of energy to keep me from deteriorating
further. I am the divine. I am the benevolent
ruler. These thoughts bounced around my frantic
mind as I rifled through my energy container. The
once vibrant collection of sensations was dimming
at a rapid pace. The complex experiences and emotions
sputtering from the energy orbs held me over
momentarily, yet the experiences I once felt so
intensely were emptied of their value. I observed
the unfolding of moments as an outsider, looking
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on from a distance instead of inhabiting the spaces
personally, longing to once again feel what the
individuals felt. I looked around the train car
and attempted to harvest, but found myself too
weak – I drew out simple thoughts from the individuals:
things to do, groceries to acquire, where
to go next, who to meet up with at their destination.
My breathing slowed. I held on in agony as the
train came to a screeching halt. I was drawn to
follow the celestial individual, dragging my frail
legs onto the steamy underground platform. I
stalked the tall, proud individual at a distance,
navigating a dim, shadowy passageway to a wide
gate. We ascended to a most ornate, breathtaking
space, the lofty ceiling strewn with twinkling
stars. The constellations glimmered, shining in
synchronicity. Marble banisters encompassing grand
staircases on either side of the magnificent room
were wrapped loosely with lush white lights. I
was awestricken by the beauty of this room, bustling
with a mass of individuals greater than I’d
ever seen. Faces zoomed by, a gently smeared watercolor
of individual energy. Scanning the grand
room, I located the celestial being once more. The
chamber echoed with the whispering of the masses,
a gentle wave of undulating sound washing over me.
The celestial being started to give off the intense
sensations once more. I navigated mindlessly,
drawn directly to them, a sense of giddiness
flowing brilliantly from their energy source. This
giddiness exploded into jubilation as the celestial
being ran with vigor toward another individual.
The two embraced, a grand reunion. Rapturous
passion rolled like a thick vapor through the celestial
space. The energy froze my sad being. The
energy I held so dear, the energy that fueled my
very soul, was snatched away. I was decimated.
I retreated in ruin to the nearest train. I
trudged down the gloomy corridor upon the weathered
platform, passing through the gateway to the
radiant fluorescent lights and identical, cherry
red seats. I sulked passing down the narrow corridor.
The space is unfamiliar. I am distraught,
displaced once more. I have been stripped of my
power. As the train lurches forward, the wonder of
motion becomes anxiety. I am kicked from the train
at the first stop on the all too familiar path. I
do not find the confidence within me to sneak back
on to the train. I am truly ashamed, forced to
understand that I, in fact, do not belong. I have
no possessions, I have no occupation, I have no
money. I am destroyed by it. I have always yearned
for these things just as others do. As I wait for
the following train, I gaze at the metropolis from
the high platform at its outskirts: a silhouette
of towering buildings, a sea of twinkling lights.
Spaces of love, ardent expression, the tantalizing
sensation of genuine interaction. I make it
one or two stops at a time, waiting in agony for
each scheduled train. Each ride, I am reminded I
do not belong. I hang my head and shuffle on to the
identical concrete platforms. The bitter cold and
whipping wind slice jaggedly through my very core,
stripping away the magic I had held so dearly. I
am not the impervious non-being, but nothing.
At the second to last stop, I give up. There
is no reason for me to board another train. I cannot
afford to ride it. I do not lay claim to its
identical string of cars any longer. I gaze longingly
at the quaint suburban homes, lights flickering
in mysterious windows. I hop from the high
platform and land on the freezing tracks, my vile
feet sliced by broken glass and made numb by the
cold, smooth metal. I walk the straight path I
once loved so dearly, the familiar tracks reminiscent
of triumph and epiphany; pathways to my
vitality, an ethereal staircase to the divine. I
walk out onto a bridge that spans a channel of
gelid water and notice the day embracing night.
Love and joy are kindled in the beautiful, ornate
homes I see on the shores of the chilled water,
green grass lightly dusted with flakes of snow. No
two flakes are the same, I recall from the memory
66 67

of an amazed young child walking through the quiet
wonderland, the snow absorbing each zinging sound
wave. The rhythmic crackle of ¬¬snow underfoot
whispers, alone. The child extends their hand and
two flakes land upon it, each one its own unique
web of fractals. They quickly melt into droplets
of water, rolling down over the supple and innocent
palm, fading to nothingness.
I lie upon the smoothed, rusting train
tracks and gaze out over the horizon. The blushing
sky upholds a glimmering sun, bestowing life upon
the earth for another day. The icy water below
sparkles under the soft light. The familiar rumbling
grows and I sigh. I am not the all-encompassing
non-being, but the displaced being. I was
foolishly suspended in a vivid chimera of freedom
from the shackles of mortal existence. The rumbling
grows to a cacophonous roar as the train
grows ever closer. I close my eyes and deflate, my
arms dangling loosely over the bridge’s edge. The
train rips apart empty flesh and my dim life force
is snuffed out. I disintegrate into a wisp of cool
mist, curling over the sad metal rails.
“The Kind of Place” by Emma Dollery
It was the kind of place where freedom oozed
from every nook and cranny. Not the American dream
kind of freedom– clean men in their clean neighborhoods
dealing with green money and their freedom
guns which they tucked safely into draws - but
in a dirty way. The graffiti of Graemestown dripped
into the streets, onto the cars and lawns, unconfined
by traditional graffiti norms. The same artists
had been let loose on the people; they walked
around the streets with inky sleeves of letters
and images, the blurry lines of their figures
blending into the bold tattoos.
It seemed that the water from the rain mixed
with the water from the sewer, which mixed with
the dirt from the street and finally ran into the
water in the pond that fed the rest of the park.
The streets were cracked with green life; leaves
and flowers poked out from the potholes and rubbish
piles, the buildings were green from a thin layer
of moss. The air had a slight blur to it, as if
the picture of the town was out of focus.
Even time itself had seeped into an undecipherable
blob. Chapman’s corner at 6:00 am was
prime location for teenage drinking. At 4:00pm
Peter’s café served eggs. Ms. Morrison went for a
jog every night around midnight. Nobody knew what
time it was and nobody really cared.
In short, it was the kind of place where
nothing was something because everything was one
thing. That is, nothing was separate. All that was
a part of Graemstown became Graemstown, and the
town lived on, a single mass of moving pieces,
free in its unity.
Then one day an immaculate man drove into
town. His car was pure white and spotless. It
shone through the murky air of Graemestown,
blinding the locals with its defined outlines. The
man stopped his car near Chapman’s corner and Coroney’s
bakery, what might be considered the center
of town to an outsider, though any local would
tell you that the town didn’t have a center be-
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cause every part of Graemestown was just as bustling
as the next. When he opened car door to step
out, several boys walking towards the car on an
unnamed St. a mile to the west were halted by the
glint of the shiny black leather. He walked like a
businessman and talked like a politician, and wherever
he went, the foggy film of air quality lifted
so that his body seemed to take on an ethereal
glow. Perhaps he was not otherworldly, but he was
certainly from out of town.
The man’s name was Humphry. He dressed in
white suits and waxed his curled mustache. He never
travelled anywhere without a pipe, a change of
clothing and an empty suitcase. He settled himself
for the night in what seemed to be an abandoned hotel
on the end of the street near Chapman’s corner.
Though he unpacked his belongings into a room containing
an unmade bed and a small white sofa with
deep blue stains on it, he still spent the night in
his car, the front seat tilted back and his shiny
black shoes on the dashboard. He slept with his
mouth delicately closed.
Once settled, Humphry demanded to see the
mayor.
“Who’s running this shit show?” Humphry said,
directing the question at a man in a faded maroon
wife beater smoking on the side of the road.
The man had shrugged absentmindedly and continued
smoking. He didn’t care for the nipped manner
of Humphry’s tone, nor the way that he narrowed
his eyes. He thought that the man with the white
car needed a drink or two.
Humphry’s further attempts to locate the mayor
of Graemestown went a long the same lines. He
could never get a straight answer from the tattooed
people who looked at him strangely. He decided to
take matters into his own hands.
At midday, on the coldest day of Octoberwhich,
in Graemestown, was pretty much the same
as every other day because the temperature was so
unpredictable that it all seemed like a blur of one
temperature – Humphry dragged an old drum to Chapman’s
corner. He stood on top of this drum that was
painted grey with white letters reading “never-ending”,
and yelled at the top of his lungs, grabbing
as much attention as he could get from the few who
walked around him.
“People of Graemestown”, he said in an even
tone of voice. He was so loud that even Penny, the
woman who worked, slept and ate at Coroney’s bakery,
stepped outside for the first time in 2 years.
“I have come from a far away city to help you
improve your lives here! I am your newly appointed
mayor.”
“What’s this guy on?” said a man wearing fur
over his entire body so that his clothing looked
like an extension of his beard to a woman holding a
droopy looking baby.
“Who does he think he is?”
The whispers continued as a crowd gathered
beneath Humphry on his barrel.
“It is high time that someone whips this
place into shape!” Humphry said. “You have been
living in filth: everything is leaking, you have no
rules, there is nothing upstanding or moral about
this place.” He looked down at the faces below him.
“I am here to change that! From now on in you
will listen to me!”
The people of Graemestown looked at Humphry
and at one another. They had never been told what
to do before, and they weren’t sure how to feel
about it. A wave of whispers rolled through the
crowd, and everyone fidgeted uncomfortably. From
above, it looked to Humphry as is the crowd were a
gray mass of moving water.
Then something miraculous happened. The blurry
cloud that seemed to float over the town and the
people lifted so that each of the defined lines in
the crowd could be seen as separate. The people
looked at one another, noticing for the first time
how the others looked different. Humphry shone in
his white suit above them, talking about all the
rules and regulations that he would initiate.
“I’m freeing you from sin,” Humphry said.
A woman pointed at his white suit,
“He is so lonely,” she said.
70 71

“Where is the Gasoline?” by Jay Tilden
I push through the doors. They squeal, then
die. Overhead the rafters groan, heaving sighs.
The cows are asleep, the horses are asleep, the
crows in the rafters are asleep. In the corner
there is a fat coil of rope. Taking it up in my
arms, it is heavier than bricks. I cross the hay
carpet. My feet are noiseless, but the animals
sense me nonetheless. The cows murmur, the horses
scratch the wood halfheartedly, the crows ruffle
their wings, then settle again.
There is a ladder at the end opposite the
door. Draping the coil over my shoulder, I climb
the ladder to the loft, where hay bails rise in
precarious towers. In the heart of the bails, he
has fashioned a bed for himself, and he lays upon
it with a wool blanket. Beneath the blanket he is
naked.
I drop the coil. Thud, and the crows stir
again. A horse whinnies somewhere. Within the
darkness, he slowly raises his head and gazes past
me. Then he looks down, where the coil has already
begun gathering dust. He picks up a frayed end,
examines it, and shivers. He shivers often.
It’s time, I say.
He lifts himself, stretches, rubs his bleary
eyes, then throws off the blanket. He is taller
and thinner than me, and his skin is dark and
gleaming in the pencils of moonlight. The barn
sways and breathes. I wait near the ladder while
he dresses—scratchy pants, a stained baggy shirt,
leather boots with scuffed toes. Not a fashionable
man—boy—young man. Whatever he is, the outfit of
poverty and exile has made him scrappy, has made
his hair plume out in a bouncing ball, has made
his face darker with grime. Blood is beneath his
fingernails. The cuticles are stained.
Come, now, I say. Do not dilly.
He lifts the rope, wincing. He is feebler
than he appears. It has been seven days since he
ate any food. It has been seven weeks since he’s
seen home. (I will take him home.) His knees buckle
beneath the coil’s weight. He straightens,
steadies, eases his breath. The slightest effort
is colossal work. He will not be able to run for
very long.
Come, I repeat. Hurry. They will be here
soon.
Maybe he understands, because he descends
the ladder with the coil around his shoulder, one
end dangling like a broken shoelace. I am with him
on the ground floor, and he takes his time saying
goodbye to the animals. He strokes the horse’s
muzzle and its lips ripple. He strokes the cow’s
forehead and its doleful eyes blink once. He
strokes the central beam and whistles up to the
rafters. A lone, bleary crow squawks back.
Come, I repeat. We haven’t the time. Where
is the gasoline?
“Where is the gasoline?” he says. For a time
he searches in the dark. He picks through the
rusty tools in the corner. This place has already
begun to decay.
It will be like straw. It will be like the
inevitable conclusion of drought.
It is not here, I say. I push open the
barn door, widening the cold black gap. He steps
through the gap and is enveloped. I follow. (I
am always following.) We walk in the damp grass.
His boots go whoosh-shish, whoosh-shish, whooshshish
in the grass. Across the pasture is a line
of trees. I witness it barely, a black smudge far
away.
How fast can you run?
He doesn’t say anything.
We go toward the house, where the farmer and
his wife sleep, where the farmer’s children and
their dog Baloney sleep. Baloney is a foolish dog
who barks for no reason. Baloney will run into the
barn at the conclusion of the drought, and he will
try to save the horses, and he will try to save
the cows, and he may even try to save the crows.
We ascend the front porch. I glance at him.
He is frozen at the edge, staring through the door
that squeals when it opens.
72 73

It will be fine, I say. I step through the
door, entering the dark, warm house. The lingering
scent of pork and potatoes passes through me.
Come, I say, opening the door. It squeals. He steps
through the doorway, still holding the rope.
Leave that out there, I say.
He looks down at it, then decides to toss it
on the porch. There is a soft thud.
You are a fool like Baloney.
He makes his way through the den, through the
dining room, past the bedrooms. I wait by the door.
If I enter further Baloney will bark. I would like
to strangle Baloney. I would like to string him up
from the old oak in the field behind the house, and
I would like to watch the blood dry on his tendons
in the unforgiving sun.
He returns momentarily with the book of
matches. He glares about the den as if searching
for something else. I am impatient.
The knife, I say. Hurry.
After a moment of thought, he remembers and
returns to the kitchen. Then he is back with the
carving knife, which the farmer uses to cut the
Christmas turkey while Baloney drools at his feet.
He goes out to the porch and picks up the
rope. He slides the carving knife into the back of
his waist band, and he stuffs the matches in his
pocket.
The gasoline, I say. Where is the gasoline?
“Where is the gasoline?” he wonders. He peers
about the barren porch. I look back at the barn,
looming tall and ancient.
Have I ever told you about the farmer who
built that barn? He used to have many more cows
than this farmer, and a separate one for the horses.
One day, a bandit took shelter in the horse
barn. Horses are not like cows; they are neither
docile nor stupid. They cry, they raise a fit at
unwelcome visitors. The farmer heard them braying
in the middle of the night. Silently he found
his musket, and bare-naked, he went over the dewey
grasses and eased open the door. That door would
not squeal, you know. He knew the bandit to be hiding
in the loft, which was larger than the one in
the cow barn. He ascended the ladder, ignoring the
whinnies, and he fired into the hay. It exploded and
it was red. It is funny, because if the bandit had
taken to the cow barn, he might have resided there
for weeks. Cows are stupid.
He is ignoring me. He is going back to the
barn, the only barn, the one that used to be grandfather’s
cow barn.
That horse barn was destroyed a few years
later. There was a great storm, and when the lightning
struck, it erupted into flame and killed all
the horses. The cows were unharmed, though: there
was not a weathervane atop their stupid barn. I
would that there had been.
He goes back into the cow barn and looks
around in the dark. Then he stoops in the corner to
the right and lifts up the smelly can. “I knew it.”
It sheds a few droplets onto his boots.
Good. It is time. We must hurry.
I can hear them, faraway. My hearing used
to be better. I am cloudy these days. But I smell
their torches, I hear the rattle of their rifles,
I see the stamping of their boots—of finer leather
than his or mine have ever been.
He goes to work. First he douses the main
floor. Then he douses the ladder and the hay loft.
His arms, flimsy from starvation, must strain to
lift the heavy can and spread it about. I want to
seize it from him and do this myself. Let us be rid
of this place.
He is nearly done now. He trails the gasoline
out onto the dirt, stopping only where the grass
begins. He sets the can down, and as he searches
his pocket for the matches, his eyes widen.
“What?” he says. “What? What?”
Move, I say. He does not move, and the rifle
explodes. The shot misses him narrowly. He spins,
he ducks, he sees the farmer looming lanky and ancient,
garbed in a one-piece with the buttock-flap
flying free. “You cocky son of a bitch,” he growls.
“I ought’ve known so much.”
Terrified, he cannot respond, even when the
74 75

farmer lifts up the matchbook, which has a few
blades of wet grass stuck to it.
“I’m gonna fix you,” the farmer promises. He
aims again.
Do something! I scream.
He rushes forward, summoning mysterious
strength, and charges into the old man before he
can get his shot off. They tumble together through
the dewey grass, wrestling for control of the rifle.
I can hear the men’s voices faraway. They are coming,
I say. Make quick work of him.
He gains the upper hand. He pulls the rifle
from the farmer and whacks him with the butt. The
farmer goes limp, wheezing, and says, “I gave you
work. I gave you food.”
He bares his white teeth. “You gave me fear.
You tried to give me death. But your gifts are
done.” He adjusts the rifle and fires. The farmer’s
chest explodes and the other is drenched in his
blood. He stands, with the rifle and the coil and
the knife. He looks past me at the road and the
village and the growing orange light.
They are coming, I repeat. He turns and retrieves
the matchbook from the farmer’s pale hand,
which almost glows in the moonlight. He strides
to the place where he has left the gas can at the
edge of the green. He does not step onto the dirt.
He strikes a match, then drops it upon the gasoline
trail. A snake surges forward and swallows the
open doorway and light bursts to life.
He
lights another match. This time he uses it to light
the entire book, which he hurls toward the barn.
The comet lands, sparks, and then the entire barn
is aflame. The drought concludes. A great yapping
erupts from the house and a blur surges through the
open doorway while the riot lights travel down the
front drive. They are hollering.
They’re here. We must go.
He gathers up the coil and starts in the opposite
direction. Baloney flies past, howling, and
enters the barn. Flames devour it from the inside
out.
Across the field, through the dark, over the
ridges of manure and clumps of wet grass. The moon
is a distant, a useless candle in the periphery. He
reaches the edge of the field and turns back, chest
heaving, gleaming with sweat. The men have discovered
the farmer. Some linger over his body, but the
rest are crossing the field. They carry seven torches
that silhouette their snarls. Angry shouts drift
across the wind. There are other dogs barking. They
have brought dogs because they have expected him
to flee. They have expected him to flee because they
have expected him to kill.
The woods, I say. The river.
He turns and breaks through the trees. I
follow as if attached to his waist, but I am dwindling.
My vision flickers. At once he is both faraway
and near. I see him at the river, where the
bridge was torn away in the flood long ago. I was
gone by then. I returned once to witness the river
as I had so long ago, before the changing times.
But they had taken the bridge, and all that remained
was a shattered post on the opposite side.
Crossing that river, one could have passed over the
border and into the north, like a ghost. Time had
taken the bridge and widened the waters’ girth,
though, just as it had (and would again) take everything
else.
I catch up, but I am tired.
He is looping the rope, he is throwing the
rope. The hounds break through the bramble, calling
and calling. The men are dragged along through the
dying leaves, howling and howling.
I am hot, I tell him. I am hot.
He isn’t listening. He’s never listening. He
has formed a tight loop. Now he hurls the rope.
It disappears in the dark, then draws taut. I am
amazed, even in my agony. He bends, triple-knots
the other end about a strong stump. He considers
the rifle in his hands, then hurls it into the waters.
I am coming with you, I tell him. I am escaping,
too.
But he is wrapping his arms and legs around
the rope. He turns upside-down, and then he is
76 77

crawling across, inching in moments.
But you need me, I tell him. I brought you
the rope. I gave you the tools.
I am hot. Oh, I am hot.
The hounds break through the trees. The
leader’s leash has snapped, and the others drag
their men like rocks. The leader bounds over the
bank as I erupt in flame. Halfway across, the runaway
twists his head around, sees the beast midair.
He draws the carving knife and drives it
upward. The hound falls into it, into him, and the
rope snaps. The coil round the stump flies loose
and the two disappear into the waters as the men
halt along the bank and hurl curses after them
into the raging depths.
Across the trees and fields and the stark
night, the barn’s rafters collapse, and the crows
alight from atop the quiet house and seek a softer
resting place.
“Red White & Blue” by Jack Plants
The darkness of a Saturday Night’s 57th
street finds itself creeping in corners, clinging
onto grimy walls in the fleeting hours before
the moon retreats once more. He walks east up the
north side of the sloping hill, rising from the
Hudson River, ascending into the structurally sophisticated
metropolis. Apartments dimmed with
tenants unknown reach high into softly illuminated
grey clouds.
Ninth Avenue – in a residential area such as
this one the stores have begun to close, each with
a rolling portcullis protecting each and the treasures
hidden inside. Neon lights glowed dimly with
a phantom greenish hue. The bright and familiar
walkman graced his presence from across the racetrack
of fares and congestion.
Eighth Avenue – He walks under scaffold,
reassuring structural soundness. Footsteps echo
in the enclosed space, only one, maybe two, faces
passing; eyes forward, empty. This track was
not welcoming, yellow flashes shooting by blaring
advertisement with sharp backlights. He slips
through along the dotted white passageway when the
space permits.
Seventh Avenue – outside of the Carnegie
Hall fur coats and silken bowties collect in small
conversation. The manicured cube houses high music,
precise and expressive.
He scans the street, north side and south.
A pair of matching rectangular signs read “Uptown
& Queens” on one side, “Downtown & Brooklyn” on
the other. He assesses the passing vehicles then
crosses the street. He takes his final terranean
steps, departing from the bitter cold. He descends
into the subterranean world, proceeding down hackneyed
steps teeming with age-old energy, collective
canvases brushed with unique palates leaving
mark with mind body and sole. Twenty steps and
he’s below the surface. Then, a right. Five more
steps and he slides his master key through the
gates, followed by the blaring racket and a satis-
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fying click of admittance.
Ahead, a meticulously constructed mosaic on
the facing wall. Halfway down the stairs he looked
down at the platform, met with a group of black
leather boots. They possess a shine from shoe polish
reflecting the powerful luminescence above the
platform. The boots were attached to slacks which
came into sight, slacks dyed in the characteristic
blue: A blue of power, and security; or, perhaps,
of fear, of injustice. The boots and navy blue
slacks spin and shift just slightly, indicating
conversation between them, or perhaps directional
surveillance. As he proceeds down the last few
steps, the slacks meet tucked shirts of the same
blue, with regal symbols and shining badges. He is
met with scowls – demeaning looks from those protecting
and serving.
The ancient terminal stands before him, walls
and floor coated with varying layers of sediment.
The platform stands symmetrical, upheld by rectangular
pillars, illuminated by shocking white
lights. Individuals break the symmetry, biding at
point A, waiting to be delivered to point B. He fits
into the presented form, doing as the others do. He
walks, he looks around. He checks his watch as if
he knows when the train car will arrive. He searches
desperately for stimulus to protect him from
the inherent doldrums of the public transportation
process. He looks down the train track – left,
further into the unknown, and right, back towards
the trope of police officers. Past the threshold of
the platform’s domain is a visual silence, an impassible
darkness. Yet with the squinting of eyes,
at the furthest point of human sight is a flashing:
three colors in slow waltzing sequence, red, white,
blue. The stimulus grabs hold of his eyes more
forcefully than any subway map or station sign ever
could, piquing his interest. The flashing lights are
not just something to observe and pass the time
but something out of place. In the train’s corridor,
there is a perpetual lacking, a murky blackness
dominating the space, yet now there are three
lights: red, white, blue. Red, white, blue…
With hard headed courage and expert stealth
he slips over the edge. With a singular, split
second decision, curiosity has overwhelmed him.
The slime underfoot is slick and pungent, litter
is worked into the crevices between the railroad
tracks. Rodents’ eyes shine, examining the guest
in their domain. He crouches, teeming with adrenaline,
shaking just slightly, looking around hoping
he has slipped onto the tracks unscathed and unseen.
He glances down the seemingly endless track,
the three lights remain, flashing: red, white, blue.
Red, white, blue. He packs himself into the space
beneath the platform’s slight overhang, reaching
forward and feeling out an area with his feet before
taking a timid step.
Time turns elastic, elongating and swirling
unpredictably. Each pace forward is centuries
apart. The sleepy, red-eyed Queens-bound stragglers
do not see who inhabits the Brooklyn-bound track;
they are separated from him by two sets of tracks
and the pillars that keep the world from crashing
down upon the underground tunnels. Police voices
from up above bounce off the surrounding walls. He
is adjacent to them now, yet hidden in the shadows.
The murmurs of the officers are indecipherable. He
reaches the end of the platform, right next to the
stairs down which he had so casually stepped and
enters the subway realm.
Crossing the threshold, all sources of light
have dimmed except for the lights flashing red,
white, blue. Curiosity had transformed into primal
drive. His yearning to understand had become necessity.
He moves again, but now more freely. His
crouch reverts upright posture. He walks with confidence,
having escaped the worried wandering eye of
police and passerby.
After just a few steps more came a rumbling:
the ground began to shake, shockwaves ripping
through his very core. Down the corridor, a train
zooms along its curved track, headlights preceding
an ungodly piercing screech. He tosses himself
across the downtown track beyond a set of pillars,
into the middle express track. The train rum-
80 81

les and beeps its horn as it flies by. Soft yellow
lights from within the cabins illuminate the
track beneath him. A gigantic “Q” is stamped on
every other car. Ahead, beside the platform, it
screeches to a halt. The doors snap open with the
characteristic “ding-ding”. Civilians board while
He catches his breath, engulfed in the odiferous
grime into which he has tossed himself. He is one
with the slime, besmirched head to toe.
The subway cars stand motionless for an
eternity – He uses the time to think and curse his
poor luck. Even with the decreased frequency of
trains in the dark of night, a locomotive still
manages to find its way onto the track at precisely
the wrong time.
“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”
The subway departs, leaving no trace. The platform
has been emptied of the few standing passengers.
He crosses between the pillars frantically
back onto the local track, frightened at the possibility
of another train stopping by. He moves
closer and closer to the source: the three lights,
shooting unshakeable beams into his very core. He
reaches the point where the train tracks curve
off to the right. He has lost his railed guide,
and now must forge his way down an unmarked path,
earth packed beneath his feet. The trifecta of
lights is growing closer. His feet shuffle in the
cavern’s tangible silence, broken only with resounding
water droplets.
Closer to his destination, the clarity begins
to dawn. The three luminescent orbs hang by
thick wire from the ceiling. From left to right
they slowly flash: red, white, blue. Red, white,
blue. Behind the bulbs hangs a shield. From ceiling
to floor, wall to wall, a thin, shiny visual
barrier is suspended. His mind drove an impulsive
hand towards the shield. He touches it gingerly
and feels energy, electrons exploding and
zooming in every direction. The thick aluminum
sways slightly from his disturbance. Satisfaction
overwhelms him: physical contact has been
made. The source has been uncovered. The mysterious
and unattainable has been made familiar. Yet,
just as fast as the satisfaction washes over him,
it fades. Standing between the shield and flashing
lights, he looks back toward the platform. A submersion
deep into the flowing realm of curiosity
for an affirmation of what was already clear: three
lights flashing red, white, blue. With a snapping
of the mind, curiosity becomes recklessness. He
turns around to face the aluminum barrier. Vicious
anger flows at breakneck speed through hidden ventricles,
and with a single swipe, he pulls away
the shield.
Step one: he crosses the barrier. Another
step: the shield falls behind him. A final step:
his foot reaches forward but does not land. Forward
he falls, downward into ashamed darkness.
Tricolored fantastical beauty in a blanketed
nation, swathed in the warmth of purported liberty.
Collective fears and deep rooted anxieties
trapped behind the characteristic shades – none
can cross the iron sheath. Moments suspend, falling
becomes entrapment. He is not headed to a destination.
He is seized in limbo. Who can implore
one’s own curiosity without hindrance? There is
danger in the unknown.
82 83

Illustration and Other Visual Art
Tilly Griffiths
84 85

Ines Gurovich
“industria argentina”
86 87

88 89

Thomas Mechem
90 91

Clay Morrison
“Harvest Community Dining”
“Artful Intervention”
92 93

Anna Svedin
“Fibonacci Girl”
“Spacefish”
“Notebook Girls”
94 95

96 97

Isabel Tubao
“Airplane #12”
“Airplane #6”
98 99

“Idle Mirrors”
“Olivia”
“Angles”
100 101

“Movement”
“Scream”
“Shells in Technicolor”
102 103

Clara Wise
104 105

106 107

Poetry
“Sidewalk Peach Poem #1” by Katie Lawrie
Kissing yellow-orange suede
lips,
barely brushing
hesitate to puncture such
unbroken flesh
then the light body lowers and feet
turn home again, left
hand
keeping sunrise and
saving it for breakfast.
“Splinter Show” by Riley Stenehjem
the marionettes came into the room on strings pulled
tight
each step a thud, they paused (center-stage) for the
audience to appraise them
one silent and one too-thin
he fed her lines the whole time
spectators kept their eyes down, because they hadn’t
bought tickets
or at least, they pretended they hadn’t
the marionettes marched around the room
tugs on taut wires
right left right left right left
the next scene,
sit down for dinner please
alone at the heads of the table, they filled up paper
plates
eat slowly
it’s hard to chew when wooden jaws leave splinters
in your gums
scene ends, exit, curtain closes
it’s enough for now — the audience already left
108 109

“adsfadfasdfa” by Hughie Allan
come again
down and in where time is spent
we fiend to win
but can’t stand the burn when
the sin has singe
burns letters to all our friends
scared and bent
wanting nothing more than to descend
far away
another place with other ways
to move through space
it drifts further each day
cast your gaze
beyond the green inlay
of your mistakes
and some day you
will get away
“Hiraeth” by Theresa Byrne
it was fall when the world wed itself to sunset. i
stood there on the root-cracked sidewalk composing
the orchestra of nature; and the susurrus of leaves
on the wind reached my ears and became fire whispering
in my mind; and the wingbeats of the crow-birds
over my head became nature's rhythm; and i closed my
eyes and drew in the air i could not get enough of,
for the sight had stolen my breath.
i realized then, standing in the middle of an inch,
that it was all much grander than this, and that
somewhere else in the universe the breeze howled and
the crows shrieked and that the moment i had captured
was only one in the infinity of time, waiting
to slip from my fingers as quickly as the water does
from my hands.
and then i started to yearn for a home where i could
watch the times vanish and hold a mug of warm cider,
where i could bury myself in flannel blankets and
shed the dirty rags that i had worn for so long.
but i lament, for i have never known such a thing;
and hiraeth has traveled with me since i first knew
beauty.
110 111

“The Second History of Gunpowder”
by Sonia Edwards
My next and greatest undertaking will be to rewrite
the History of Gunpowder. Blow it up and start from
scratch.
Maybe just one or two railroad accidents away from
resurrection.
I’m sick of starting from the finish line and reaching
the bottom of my coffee cup
before dirty-fingered dawn begins to grope at the
horizon.
Ashes and dregs, and a throat sore from wanting to
say too many things.
(A voice hoarse from too many things unsaid.)
I don’t know where those fingers have been.
Every sunrise is a vile and messy labor, the birthing
of an accidental child.
Like dawn was digging blindly for something pure
like morning but unearthed the sun instead.
A poet is a politician, a polygamist, and a pegasus.
One of these is always false. Which one it is
naturally depends on the poet.
Maybe just one or two railroad accidents away from
redemption, one or two railroad accidents away from
another railroad accident.
I believe the internet was invented to eliminate
the need for poetry. I believe poetry was invented
as a necessary precursor to the internet, an
ancient answer to a hundred questions nobody ever
asked. Why didn’t I ask.
I believe boxed wine was invented to stain the
lines between your teeth.
One of these is always false.
That is to say, there is no perfect poet. No novel
novel. Every poem is a plagiary.
Why does the beginning feel so much like the end.
I believe gunpowder was invented out of curiosity
and ignorance and a fear of death. I believe much
was invented for these reasons. Was the gorbushka
discovered or invented, and by whom. What a tragic
life this person must have led. Ugly, coarse, and
dry, and always two.
The History of Gunpowder is really the History of
Bread, which begins and ends somewhere in a field of
wheat.
Bread, the giver of eternal life and two gorbushkas.
112 113

“waffle or sugar cone” by Jack Plants
part of my brain is missing
can you check? how does it look?
..it's that bad? wait! don't go!
wait, stop! i'm fine!
that scoop has been soaking in warm water,
just like you've been shown in times prior
someone just ordered a king cone, with a large portion,
of precious grey matter..
it was just my turn, it's alright, come back!
nervous, yet ecstatic
magnificent growth, earth's plates shifting
they slide with friction, crashing, quaking
frantically driving decisions to a feverish state
decide now, its a big thing, just do it though, its
no big deal,
but remember, its a big thing, just do it, its really
important,
death by asphyxiation
with the raspy, rancid scent of ash and death
with you its acceptable.. its necessary..
1, 2, 3, 4
times i think and rethink and worry and check
i hope now my concerns are invalid, invalidate them,
please
show me
what if the seasons change, and what is now will soon
naught?
oh, wait...
i keep forgetting to eat
maybe because part of my brain is missing
can you check? how does it look?
it's that bad? wait! don't go!
wait, stop! i'm fine!
“camera obscura/ode to emptiness”
by Katie Lawrie
Something about an empty room, depending on how the
light asks to be let in on its edges.
An empty room doesn’t expect you to do anything at
all. And its floor responds in this kind-of lilting
relief when you tap-dance barefoot upon it.
If you sit in all its corners, with your eyeballs
(try it!) you can trace the refractions and suggestions
on the wall, especially the places where paint
and odd plaster stick up like little men and cast
shadows all their own.
You can spend hours doing this.
You, the impressionable film upon which the world has
projected itself—you turn the world upside down and
make sense of the image in this empty box.
You
Make art here.
Shout here! Run and kick and punch through the walls
and
Love them as you do so
Something about emptiness itself, gets a lot of
flack, you think,
cast as grave.
Not so!
Emptiness: potential,
Emptiness: casting being in sharp distinction.
Emptiness: sensual, like breath before the
action of the human magnetic.
You: the one alive in this your empty room and
therefore acutely aware of
what you chose to project in such vibrant relief.
Today, it is newspapers and magazine clippings and a
notebook and a blue pen and a book by Susan Sontag.
Today you lie on the woody floor, supine, eyes wide
and become part of it
your lungs breathe life into this ancient emptiness.
And the air between its walls vibrates, and sighs,
nascent, ‘thank you.’
part of my brain is missing
can
114 115

“beginning, middle, end” by Nicole Spitzer
draw me in, warm soft quiet whispers
i can't dream, only nightmares pain me
every time willow trees are weeping as i
watch
sitting by the river i can’t breathe
clouds go by, spotting shapes above us
point them out
you can't see what i see but that's fine
i'm comfortable enough in my own mind
jumping from the quarry in july
icy water gets me every time
wading in the ocean, it's the color of your
eyes pull me deeper down, help me forget
the sky
and let’s remember the secrets, silent
whispers don't leave now
i'm on the edge of becoming something else
“la petite morte” by Nicole Spitzer
long finger nails that break
chapped lips kissing your cheeks
and fingers running down your scars
“please kiss me” you said
when we’re swimming in the ocean
and fighting about something i had said
peeling red nail polish off
and putting the pieces on the bed we’re sitting
cross legged on you put your finger on my wrist and
run it up the length of my arm goosebumps now, because
our skin has come together again
“Things About Blue” by Katie Lawrie
1) Rarely found in nature. Mainly in the sea and
sky, which are reflections of each other only.
2) So, blue comes to represent an abstract part of
the universe.
3) Blue, that identifiable bridge between the abstract
and concrete
4) To imagine a world without blue is abrasive: no
green, no purple, only hot shiny yellow, mad, passionate
red
5) Do not know if I’d love the desert so much were
it not for the blue blue of the sky that gives reds,
oranges relief on which to project their shapely, accented
opinions
6) Whereas other colors in nature tend to be a
function of pigment, blue color tends to be created
by an object’s natural structure, according to google,
how mystical!
7) Blue, thought of as calming, but! also very
radical! The color of thought, the color that questions
the line between where you end and the world
you think is not you begins
8) Though I’m drawn to blue, & will likely always
hold a sort of obsession for it, I think that if I
had to choose one color to see exclusively for the
rest of my life it would not be blue (for it’s sometimes
strangely unnerving) but rather green
9) Green assures life. Blue assures the infinite
spirit.
116 117

“Olive and Rough and Leathered from the
Sun” by Melissa Ley
I’M STANDING IN MY ABUELA’S kitchen for the first
time. On the counter, two papayas, ungutted fish,
a stack of banana leaves, a group of flies. Her
old radio plays scratchy salsa. On the windowsill
stands
la Virgen María. Her wrinkled voice calls me
from the yard to bring out our food. The air makes
me feel like I’m swimming. Body swollen
in the heat, the discomfort is enough to take my
appetite away. Her eyes squint when she looks at
me. Esos ojos verdes...Mi linda blanquita. The
chickens car-ra, ca-ra and the insects hum and I am
silent.
I watch her eat. She’s olive and rough and leathered
from the sun. Our hands nearly touch and I
wonder
at what point mine will start to look like hers, or
if they ever will. I’m standing in my own kitchen,
snow dusting the wood of the deck outside. On the
counter, a basket of oranges, a Yankee candle, a
stack of cookbooks, a glass vase of roses. My mother’s
voice calls me from the dining room to bring
out our food.
I hand her a plate. Gracias, mija. Our fingers
graze. Hers, olive and rough and leathered from the
sun,
just like my abuela’s,
and mine, pale and slight.
I wonder how she came to live in a place so cold,
when her skin was made for heat.
“friendly submission” by Berry Park
kennedy’s blood evaporated years ago. its across the town from nowhere
i wonder what goes on in the little alleys and roads connecting suburbs to city
the highways are grandiose and loom over the asphalt, like God looking down
little people, like legos, that mean nothing to me. little pink and light blue outfits. white shoes.
it’s all so dry. the porous concrete sidewalks - unused, startlingly empty only interrupted by specks of dirtied
gum tar.
the air is thick outside but fans thin it indoors. acetaminophen. exhales escape through window cracks to
Heaven. the great wide-open sky. overwhelming to the point of tears
the rolling hills, las colinas, evaporated years ago. what’s left are slabs. empty structures
118 119

“avem” by Jack Plants
i heard it from afar, tingling soundwaves fluttering
feebly
in the white and orange striped shirt
and
overly shapely hair dominated by a constant ballcap
my frantic, attuned senses listened intently
and with luck made the discovery
it could not move
simply cry
brown and red satin layered, shingled,
for flapping and aerial propultion
you are young, thought i
you are injured, thought i
i must assist
i must i must
i sprinted to acquire the rations
a toothpick, water, slimy and seedy berry puree
you must live, i scooped it up gently,
lifeforce rippling in a fleshly gauntlet, fluttering.
with patience and virtue i fed and watered and
coddled and understood
your worries are mine, friend, i live as you do
together we will flourish, invigorated by a prolific
gaia
i couldn't tell if you liked blueberries
or if the hydration was enough to combat inevitability
i departed, stashing you in the shade in mulched
comfort
for my own meal
when i floated back to the refuge
your features had receded, in not physical but intangible
the cyclical rise and fall had ceased
and i,
had failed.
catapulted with vigor into melancholia
loss overwhelmed.
i ripped the paisley cloth from a pocket, and
wrapped
twisted, tied, dug, and placed.
the earth covered you, absorbed you
salinated daggers rolled over the facade
i pressed on you with despair's aggression
you screamed
i was twelve years old
120 121

“An Unlit Match” by Marina Pipher
We should have kissed,
when we were looking through the chain link
fence,
at the way the light
blessed and divided
the city
and the wasteland.
What a kiss would have been there! you and I
and a whole city
and not a soul in the world
looking through the rusted metal links
welded together,
seeing things that no one else in the the world
sees. So quietly.
Our lips didn’t brush
There was a different kind of touch- One felt
without feeling.
And maybe that was our first kiss, our silently
understood,
Mutual bliss.
“November” by Theresa Byrne
november has always felt like a brown month
a nice brown and in it there's warmth and apple
cider and pumpkin pies and sunsets at 5:30 in the
evening
and apple trees and sometimes the faint smell of
rain and light turning golden at just-after-four
and dry wind hugging you and blowing your hair
around and an itchy throat from the santa ana winds
and blankets and flannel and warm dinners and orange
lights on porches and gravy and mashed potatoes and
laugher carrying through an open screen door from
across the street and the dead quiet crickets at
night and wood floors and oak tables
and soft hats and slippers and excuses to stay inside
and drinking hot chocolate at midnight and
wondering if your grandma is watching you from
the sky and being afraid to look outside because
it’s blue and black and white and you’d much rather
stare at the fire in your hands because at least
that looks like fall—
ginger and coffee and mugs clinking together and
the watercolor rings they leave on your napkin (you
forgot to throw it away before going to bed) (under
the thick comforter that may have never felt this
good in your entire life)
cinnamon and pie all kinds of it and hugs and love
and brown like maple syrup and yellow like aspen
leaves and you remember yellow september and it's
like october got skipped in the fall and you look
forward to winter and shake its hand but for now
you think you’ll stay inside
122 123

“Cathartic” by Jack Plants
wandering aimlessly through a dim wood
taking in the soft rustling of leaves,
perched precariously on the tendrils of towering
trees
woodland creatures move swiftly by in the rush for
existence
a shimmering light illuminates the brink of the
forest
as i round a scraggly bend,
ducking and rearranging razor sharp thorns
in an attempt to continue moving forward
like a moth to a lamp, i go to it
the land grows treacherous,
transforming into a wooded warzone -
fallen trees, hidden cliffs, vibrant poisonous
plants
nevertheless, i continue,
with instinctual determination and
the passion of human curiosity
the cuts and bruises dashed across my skin fade.
i arrive at the forest's edge
and depart from the shady, protective canopy.
blinding light rattles my fragile eyes,
and i fall vulnerable to the shattering pain.
time passes and life returns,
draped like a blanket over my still body. i rise.
i continue through the valley, attacked with the
sweet floral scent of lavender.
i run my rough fingers
over the silky flesh of blooming poppies
i giggle in jollity, running and skipping
through thr ethereal meadow
how can something so divine
stand on this soul sapping earth, i think.
just then, clouds unsheath and explode over the
colorful field.
the rays of healing light are clotted by the grey
masses,
thunder booming and lightning scarring the sky.
driving rain invades every crevice,
tearing apart the delicate flora sprouting from the
supple ground below.
in the center of the circular meadow,
the rain drives like daggers through the earth.
the flowers drown and wilt,
torn from their homes down into the ever growing
abyss.
torrents of ice cold water spin and twirl,
forming a whirlpool - i desperately drag myself toward
the safety of the trees,
but the water tosses shackles of lead upon me.
i'm ripped down in quick revolutions through the
whirlpool,
and sent down into the murky subterranean realm.
the underground river pulls me deeper into blackness,
crawling deep into my lungs, pulling the life from
my chilled body.
the echoing underground space chokes out all light.
my bloodied fingertips are torn to shreds as i fail
to grasp
the slippery ground. I flow quickly and my bones
ache from the icy water.
all of the sudden the ground beneath me falls away,
and i flip and spin out of control over a lip
i'm blind, falling, flailing, suspended in time
as i wait for the inevitable, a swift dashing
across rocks some distance below.
yet the pain never comes. i am instead dropped deep
into a voluminous mound of stringy, slimy material.
the scent pummels my senses once more - lavender.
the shreds of the once beautiful flowers protect me
from certain death.
I roll forward from the soggy pile, blindly searching
for salvation.
as i scan the ground with my bloodied fingers,
i find a pedestal, then another, and another, each
one higher than the last.
124 125

a staircase.
on hand and knee i gingerly drag my beaten body up
the smooth, cool steps.
after an eternity in the rising passageway, i reach
a wall of stone.
i apply panicked force, but the wall gives way.
dim lights spark in my field of vision
as i cross the threshold into the hidden cavern.
torches line the walls,
shadows dancing on the slick rock faces.
salvation.
i shut the stone door behind me and breathe.
the torches quietly begin to spit and sputter, growing
louder
with each pulsing exclamation.
each flickering flame begins to expand, tossing small
licks of fire into the center of the empty cavern.
a mass of flame grows as i scratch at the stone door
in desperation.
the sizzling mass swallows up the smooth stone,
inching closer,
licking at my bloodied, bruised figure.
agony overwhelms me as the flames grab at my barren
legs,
charring the flesh. my shrieks are washed away by the
roar of the blaze.
“Safe” by Jack Plants
if the packed wood grain could burst open and scream
and expunge the historic monsoon of feeling and
thought
thick, layered tone would bathe the territory
wooden plies, melodious plies
a relentlessly operating dichotomy
divine beauty en arboretum and..
peaky hilly mountainy mountain hill peaks
among darkness and bitter cold and not really my
friends
and that's nothing at all
melancholy descending unto pure, sickening evil
mellifluous creative flow
oppression, masterful, through and through
tearing me down from the inside rusting a
wrought iron gate around my own inner perhaps-existent
self
but hope, but growth.. compassion sprouting on the
horizon
through and through,
sometimes
the inferno rolls up my flesh and rips down through
my open mouth,
savagely roasting my my insides.
i can no longer make a sound.
the relentless inferno swallows me whole.
126 127

“Birds” by Penelope Sanchez
My father’s birds
They soar too far to see
The hawks dip, rise
Claw at him at night
Mark his arms and hands
With their wild whims and fancies
Their struggle makes him smile
There’s life in them then
My father’s birds
They take up space
Wide wings
Leave little room
For little girls and playthings
The sharp greed in their yellow eyes
Grips him tight without release
He makes no effort to be free
My father’s birds
They fly away
Lead him to rugged hills
And venomous snakes
Cause him to drop other concerns
Whilst finding them
Then they perch on his wrist
Head under wing, resting
For now.
“a drop of blood on your thumb”
by Nicole Spitzer
If our outstretched arms
meeting in the middle could mend the crater That
has erupted between us
We could continue without risk of
Falling
To our deaths
No one likes you when you are half
But whole makes people mad or
Jealous
My mother nags me to be nicer
My sister tells me I am mean
But you think I am kind and maybe
Thats enough
We are stepping across a land mine Just to get a
better view of the sunset And i wonder why you
don’t want me like I want you
The dry grass is making my legs itchy We take a
picture
If we don’t I’ll just forget
You stomp out a cigarette, while i
Press mine against the bricks
People are ahead of us
Sticking their fingers in the rose bushes, being
pricked Small dots of blood
On thumbs and on the greenery
Bloom against muted backdrops
Thorns are easily removed when speaking of a real
rose but not so easy When the rose is a metaphor
Ha ha
I say goodbye but i was supposed to say See you
later
Or au revoir
128 129

“Widow” by Riley Stenehjem
the refrigerator is in the corner of the museum
it is worth five thousand dollars
it is in the corner, and inside it
is my own museum, mausoleum
red lipstick marks on a half eaten pastry
i was too full of the dust that accumulates in corners
to eat the rest
i cut off my hair and left the scissors
in the bottom drawer
next to a cup of bracelets and a piece of bread
i am not hungry
you can’t walk through here without stubbing a toe
bumping a knee or elbow
i am not hungry, so
sell the refrigerator, please
“Treehouse Poem” by Valentina Thayer
Honey to my lips
on this clear cold
crisp night. Pumpkin pie
in the oven spreading warmth
like the melody of a guitar.
Clara strumming the guitar
humming through closed lips
as I see a glow far from cold.
Tiny Vale enjoying pie
in bits of spoons and warmth.
Many hours of wanting warmth
inside this cabin, the guitar
has become stiff, my lips
cracked, fingers and toes cold.
The only thing warm is our pie
But hours later, when all the pie
has been eaten, we will need to find warmth
through the life of the guitar,
through the rhythm of our singing lips,
through the spark in our bones that cold
winds ignite. So be cold!
Be happy! Be pie!
For, the moon will appear under our blanket’s
warmth
swaying under our mind’s guitar.
Breathing slow through soft open lips,
We will undoubtedly notice those same lips
resting across our faces, warming the cold
with the faintest breath of that sweet pumpkin
pie.
130 131

“Turkey Day” by Jack Plants
driving back to a quiet home closing the gates
after letting the heart pour just two capricorns
connected since before delivery grown side by side
Osterreich needs you
frozen ridged road kicking up clouds shuffling
my strewn feelings into place, back to cold and stoic
trio of fawns run afore me scared don't fret i'm
scared too
car falls dead in its familiar place
body sucked back into the world
lock the keys inside it doesn't matter
wait stop just look up the orb is full and bright
it could be one it could be five it could be twelve
illuminated realm cushioned in mystical serenity
is this what it's like to be nocturnal
“Word in Wrath” by Rohini Parthasarathy
We will walk the fields of the thin, wriggly street
Just you and I
That street right there, close and far with sharp
pangs of vibration
On which the people with asymmetric hearts walk
Beside each other
But two galaxies apart,
Each star glides across that thin black tarp
Separating us and them
Trapped by negative space
With the stars for fuel and bums
Let’s sit round and atop a thousand matted leaves
Flat chested and compressed we will squeeze
Laying on the warmth of then million suns
and we will pull closer
Until
I can’t breathe
Sure, i see that now
We are afloat together, but two galaxies apart
With time for a hundred indecisions
Only a firm hundred years
And short time for yet a hundred more
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About + Info
Editors and Founders:
Jack Plants, Melissa Ley, Emma Dollery + Riley
Stenehjem
Front cover, back cover, + page emblems:
Tilly Griffiths
Inside cover:
Thomas Mechem
Creative director:
Riley Stenehjem
website: tomorrownight.space
email: submissions@tomorrownight.space
Thanks to everyone who submitted their work!
Fall 2017 submissions due by email August 1st.
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