The Disillusioning Gaze

    After making it to the bathroom, I walked into the stall that she was in. I closed the stall door behind me at that moment. I finally got the chance to hold her in my hands. She was surprised to see me. And she tried to yell, “Get help,” but I simply silenced her. She kept squirming but I held her and gently stroked her hair. Her eyes and mine locked into one another for quite some time, and I wanted to savor this moment forever. She was mine and wasn’t going anywhere. Putting the bead into that container was perhaps the most exhilarating thing that I’d done. As she closed her eyes, I said, “I’ll always keep a piece of you.” She seemed unsettled but I didn’t mind. I reached into my other tuxedo pocket to pull out the knife. I cut out her eyes and placed them into my pocket. Those green eyes, I finally possessed them.

By: Nyan Min

The Man in Black

    The mysterious man in black wept silently to himself in the pews, sun beaming down from the windows like Technicolor bridges to the heavens. The mahogany box positioned up near the alter spoke only of sadness, whispering of another man so close and yet so far from the earth. The guests were together in grief. Veiled women who knew him gazed silently up toward the pastor, eyes unmoving, yet alive with shimmers of light reflected off the lower eyelids. The widow was not present.

            The sermon was bland, empty promises of celebrating a good life were carefully distributed to the ears of all in attendance. Northern funerals were always as such. No one was laughing, dancing, or singing. All were quiet and mourning. How could a celebration be present in such an environment? The clothes were being watered down, as if their wearers might be able to grow a garden of happiness between the folds of satin and silk.

            Not many spoke. The Mother, too distraught. The Brother, too distraught. But the Neighbor was chatting quietly with the person seated to her right, behind the rest of the congregation.

            “Horrible business, that,” she said, her southern rumble betraying her origins. “Struck down in his prime.”

            The addressed man responded, “As the good ones usually are.” He never took his eyes off the pastor.

            “Where is Sheila? Wouldn’t she be front and center?”

            “Perhaps.”

            “Well what happened?”

            “A bit of a falling out in October.”

            “About what?”

            He hesitated for half a second. “He didn’t say.”

            The pastor announced the hymn, and the congregation rose to his instruction. The lyrics rang around the church, empty echoes filled the space, before dying down as the guests to the “celebration” returned to their seats. Many grieving members had resumed their tears.

             The Ushers stood at the door, vanguarding against unwanted rabble. The man who entered in that instant was neither. Dressed in a three piece black suit with a smooth yellow vest, he clattered through the door from the courtyard, smelling of fine wine and cologne. His cheeks were flushed.

            “Jesus, save me. I’m late.”

            “You here for Mr. Keele, sir?”

            “Yes I am. Oh God, how late?”

            “Not long, the service just finished the second hymn.”

            “Damn. Never thought I’d be late for my brother’s funeral.”

            “You can still go in, sir. It’s not too late.”

            He looked up. “No, I’ll catch my breath first.”

            “Water is behind you.”

            “Thanks.” He took his hands off his knees and looked through the glass for the first time. “What is he doing here?”

            “Who?”

            “It’s… it doesn’t matter.” He turned to fix himself some water.

           

            The pastor droned on, picking each verse of the Bible with the utmost care. The eulogy was given by his mother, whose tears made comprehension impossible. The Neighbor turned back to the man seated next to her. “He was always known to keep secrets, wasn’t he?”

            At this he turned to her. “Have some respect for the dead!” He softened. “But yes, I suppose he did.”

            “I suppose it was that that caused the split. Maybe she found something out.”

            He stole a glance at the man in black, but quickly regained his focus. “Or maybe he told her.”

           

            An hour passed, the service had ended, the guests had left, and still the mysterious man in black wept.

By: Tristan Hester 

The Shawl

            She sucked it drier than the desert, all she could think about was the child’s body twisting and turning arms zigzagging this way and that. The image haunted her, scared her, and burned down into her very soul. She knew the day of Magda’s death was near, but never could she have dreamt of the horror of watching it so helplessly and being only to watch. She still sucked on the shawl that once held her precious Magda, and soon fell asleep with the nightmare replaying through her head repeatedly.

            Rosa was soon awoken by Stella, who distraughtly gazed upon her friend. She said nothing to Rosa, but knew all that had happened just from the look on her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out, there was nothing to say. Stella knew that when she stole the shawl from Magda that it could lead to something like this, but she did it nonetheless. Stella knew that Rosa was better off this way, they all were. They no longer had a child to worry about crying, a child to worry about feeding, or a child to be a weight upon them.

    Stella helped Rosa up as they walked across the dirty floor. They walked together arm in arm until they reached the door that led to the arena. The arena where they suffered for hours every day gathering together, the dreaded arena by all, the arena where Magda died. If they went in, they would shoot, if they ran they would shoot.  The two friends looked at each other, nodded, and entered the arena.

By: Andrew Breese

Midnight Drive

The darkness clouds the way,

The headlight cannot shine through,

Through the dense night, I direct my way.

When I look out the window, I see only wilderness.

By: Vassilios Fassas 

Photo by: Connor Sheehan

Mrs. Turner’s Dinner

    His mom kissed him hastily on the forehead. She knelt down, her light blue uniform creasing and folding around her hips. “Love you, honey, behave." She smelled like perfume and coffee, and breathed impatience and work onto his forehead. His mom stood up and looked at his sitter: “I should be back around 10:30, thanks for watching him, Ms. Turner.” He never understood why his Mom always had to leave him here. It seemed like a weird thing to do. Here, it smelled like wet carpet, and the chemicals his mom used to clean the kitchen. How could she not tell this place was bad? His mom left, rushing into the night. Mrs. Turner stood in front of him like an impossibly large wall of flesh; wherever he looked, there seemed to be more of her. Fat and skin rolled down her face, spattered with boils and white wiry hair. “Timmy, how are you today?” Her lips smacked audibly as she spoke. She had a scratchy, high voice for someone of her size. “Fine, Ms. Turner” he said as he stared down at his feet. He heard the slam of his Mom’s car door outside and as the engine lurched to life he knew he was stuck.

    Timmy spent a couple hours watching T.V. on Mrs. Turner's old stained couch. Whenever he shifted his weight on it squeaked and moaned. Before long, it was time for dinner. Mrs. Turner stared at him as they sat down to eat. She cut into her steak, and Timmy into his. Mrs. Turner didn’t just cut her steak, she attacked it. She sawed though it with her steak knife with incredible power. At one point her knife reached the bone, and sawed clear through it. As she pulled the slice to her mouth, Timmy saw it almost completely raw on the inside. He tried not to stare, and he looked down
at his plate. “Something wrong, boy?” As she opened her mouth, Timmy saw all her teeth were sharp. A single bead of blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth, slowly making its way through the folds of her face. She chewed more with her mouth open, staring at him intently with one eye. “I'm just not that hungry,” Timmy said. Before long nothing but a puddle of blood was left on her plate. Mrs. Turner still looked hungry, though, as she stared at little Timmy.

By: Webb Hinton 

Ms. Riorden’s Room

I saw you at the top of the stairs

A vision of the past

With your white buck teeth

That had a slight over bite

As you approached me

It was different.

We were once there

in Ms. Riordan’s

room, where it smelled

of old cigarette butts.

Knowing that

Mother Time

Has changed this

World that I’d once known

Made me feel

Eccentric.

By: Nyan Min

Photo By: Connor Sheehan