1 Undergraduate Literary Journal 2024 Weber State University Undergraduate Literary Journal Note from the Editor-in-Chief I am what you would call a selective extrovert. At times, I can be the loudest person in a room. I can lead lively conversations and get even the most introverted voices to speak up. I’m a devil’s advocate, thriving on debate and the passion with which people defend their cause. I enjoy making people think and learning more about them when they’re forced to defend the subjects they care about most. I love being around people, thriving off the energy of pure connectedness. However, there are times when I find the real world overwhelming. During those times, I recline into myself and spend moments locked away and alone. Although, in those moments, I can hardly say that I am completely isolated. The key difference is the people I spend my time with. Metaphor is Weber State University’s Undergraduate Literary Journal, in its forty-third year of publication. The journal is staffed entirely by Weber State University students. Metaphor accepts submissions in visual arts, poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and performing arts from students of Weber State University. Publications in Metaphor are chosen through a blind submission process. The author, or artist of each piece is unknown until the piece is selected for publication. Metaphor is funded primarily through student fees and is distributed free of charge to students, faculty, guests at Weber State University’s annual National Undergraduate Literary Conference, and the community. Copyright © 2024 is retained by individual authors and artists. Printed in the United States of America by Advantage Color Graphics, Salt Lake City, Utah Metaphor Weber State University 1395 Edvalson Dept. 1404 Ogden, Utah 84408-1404 Visit our website: www.weber.edu/metaphor Book & Cover Design by Sydney DeJong Peeking into my office, you’ll technically see me by myself, but looking at the shelves of books on my wall will prove that I am, in fact, in the presence of many. During these lonesome moments, I find connection through art and the written word. I read stories in far-off places and write, putting my feet into fictional shoes and taking adventures of a lifetime. I let my mind wander while crafting and let my emotions show through the final product. When the world seems too loud, I take these moments for myself as a bit of silence and serenity. However, it wasn’t always this way. For years, I found myself too busy for books, too distracted for arts, and too depressed for company. During this time, I made a decision that changed my life forever. Though my career as a social worker didn’t pan out, it led me to the creative writing program, which is something that can fulfill all of my interests. Working with Metaphor allows me to use all parts of my personality. I can lead lively conversations and get to know people individually. I get to read the amazing pieces written by the undergraduates at Weber State University and take trips through works of both fiction and reality. In that room, I’m reminded that even on the worst of days, beyond the clouds and sleet, the sun still shines. During Metaphor meetings, fiction and reality collide. Poetry sings songs of the soul, and creative nonfiction speaks the facts of life. Visual arts bring color back into the world, and my fellow classmates remind me that I am not alone. In a world where times are rough, the arts stand strong behind us to offer support. However, we can’t share the joy of art alone. Without the many submissions from the undergraduates at Weber State, the Metaphor would only be a room of people without any stories or works of art to discuss. Thank you to all who shared your work with us. Over the last few months, we have thoroughly enjoyed experiencing your compositions, regardless of how difficult it was to decide which should be published. We’re honored to handle your work, and we look forward to more creative pieces to come. Your talents inspire us, and your work ensures that we at Metaphor can continue to do what we love. Sometimes, the world seems like a cruel place. We wish for sunshine, and Mother Nature brings rain. The pressure of the world weighs on our shoulders, and we gradually slump toward the ground, shuffling through the struggles of every day. Even though there are days when I would rather bury my head in the sand, I find that art is a much better outlet. Instead of hiding from the world, I can find an escape through art and the written word. I can only hope that by reading this collection, you may find the break you need, as I have, while helping put it together. Yours truly, Breanne White Editor-in-Chief Note from the Assistant Editor It takes great bravery to share your heart with the world. Artists do this every day, whether via pen, paintbrush, stage, screen, lens, or any other medium. We all have our hurts, and look to the world’s artists to help us make sense of it all. Art may not carry answers to the complexities of the human condition, but it can help us look at such complexities with sincere consideration and a critical eye. The works within these pages are potent, meaningful, and filled with the passion and truths of our fellow undergraduates. My own life has been filled with decades of intense beauty, ugliness, and everything in between. Art—writing in particular—has always provided me with an outlet to organize and distill my feelings in such a way that provides both reflection and comfort. It has helped me continue to flourish, even during the darkest of times. I hope you’ll agree that this year’s collected works exemplify the idea that art is the stuff of magic. Life is weird, my friends. This semester has brought forth a great shift in me, and a large part of that has been due to my role as Metaphor’s Assistant Editor this year. Working with the Metaphor staff has placed me on a path that I never would have anticipated. Therefore, I invite my fellow undergrads to join me and the additional returning staff members next year for another incredible publication. With love and encouragement, Shauna AV Gunnell Assistant Editor 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 9 10 12 Poetry in (e)Motion • A Multimedia Submission Gasoline • Anthony Hindmon Sunset in the Adult Psychiatric Ward • Audrey Metcalf 14 26 27 29 39 42 43 45 51 53 54 To be a Modern Gentleman • Gideon Wheeler The Robin and the Oak • Taylor Jenkins The Setting Sun • Noah Bury Time of Death • M.A. Shelley Why a Baby Cries • Hayden Goodman 11:48 • Emily Shelton Broken Things • Katherine Regis Vargus • Amelia Cuevas Horse-Face • Isabella Wentworth A Bitter Taste on the Tongue • Coby Crisler Wicked Pleasures • Breanne White 75 76 77 78 79 80 Sunkissed Princess • Xochitl Sustaita How the Future’s Done • Claire Safeer Blood On Your Hands • Xochitl Sustaita Virtually Stoned • Stacey Keller Untitled • Stacey Keller Yellow • Sharon Dansie Fall • Jazmyne Olson Self Portrait • Jazmyne Olson Fall Field • Jazmyne Olson Currant Creek • Jazmyne Olson Spring Beginnings • Jazmyne Olson My Existence is a Scandal • Jenna Mary Francis Untitled • Mackey Lin Soldadera • Xochitl Sustaita Haven’t I Given Enough • Xochitl Sustaita Suerpache no. 1 • Jenna Mary Francis 82 83 84 85 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 OCD • Elizabeth Mada Bodily 3rd Floor of the Empress • Shay Hulsey 2017 • Noah Bury Awaiting the Day Our Lungs Crystallise and Shine Antelope Isle: November 2, 2023 • Syndle K. Harvey California • Kadee Empie Dawn of the Black Hearts Bootleg Tee • Brandon Jackson Deciduous Miscarrying • Hayden Goodman Flossers For Hire • Sydney Foster Happy • Hailey Robins Hepar Eater • Hayden Goodman Hibachi • Emily Koelling Hopelessness • Rachel Douglass i drown • Mia Alvord 97 98 99 100 101 102 104 105 106 Poetry in (e)Motion (A Multimedia Submission) Weber State University’s Department of English Language & Literature in collaboration with Weber State University’s School of Performing Arts In the Fall semester of 2023, English Instructor Sunni Wilkinson and Performing Arts Professor Francesca Mintowt-Czyz asked their students to collaborate on a visual poetry project. Sunni's Intro to Creative Writing students wrote abstract poems. Then, Francesca's Voice and Movement students selected poems that spoke to them in some way and created a personal interpretation of that poem that engaged in sound and movement. The performing arts students also recorded each interpretation, and Francesca then compiled them into a video sequence. Then Sunni and Francesca chose those videos that they felt were the strongest in both their creativity and connection. Here is a video sequence from that project entitled "Poetry in (e)motion" which highlights the following work: “Home” Written by Jessica Guinan Composed and performed by Audree Clark Filmed by Braxton Burton and Hanna Archibald Find the video here: “Obsession” Written by Reagan Lee 125 127 131 133 134 139 A Day in the Life: Space Edition • Shauna Gunnell Canadian Bears • Loryn Merrill You Are No Longer There • Shauna Gunnell I am Beautiful • Hailey Robins My Lemons • Rachel Wasden Teach Me to Walk in His Light • Emily Michie Performed by Simon L. Bott “Trichitillomania” Written by Sarah Weller Performed by Bee Higgins 9 Multimedia 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 117 118 119 120 121 123 Just an End Table • Shay Hulsey Loose Change • Sydney Foster Loss of Things I Never Had • Taylor Jenkins lovelust • Cidney McQuade New Wife • Paige Winegar Fetzer Northwest Romance • Paige Winegar Fetzer ~Oh, to be Her~ • Noah Bury On Display • Sydney Foster OPINION OF THE COURT: Erasure of Dobbs v. Jackson • Shauna Gunnell Practicality • Ainsley Hilliard Paper Dreams • Taylor Jenkins Womanhood • Cidney McQuade Renovations • Ainsley Hilliard russian roulette • Cidney McQuade Sonoran Self Portrait • Shauna Gunnell Stories from the Dining Room Table • Taylor Jenkins The Misfit’s Moonlight Sonata • Devin Bringard The More You Know • Rachel Douglass The Silent Symphony • Frances Hudson The Widow • Shauna Gunnell This bubbling feeling inside my chest • Ainsley Hilliard Tum Mak Hoong • Ashley Vogbandith Just a Baked Potato • Olivia Herndon Gasoline beautiful. The metallic paint job and the flashy interior were my designs. I proudly drove it everywhere. I raced to the car shows with windows down for A/C and the exhaust note as my stereo. By Anthony Hindmon My legs dangled just past the exhaust manifolds inside the engine bay of a 1968 Ford F100 pickup truck. My father owned the truck for nearly a decade at this time, and I was half that in age. He pointed to different parts of the 302 cubic inch V8. “This is the carburetor, it sends gasoline to the engine,” he would say. “These are the plug wires and these are the spark plugs.” My child mind soaked up the information like a thirsty sponge. He explained how the pistons go up and down in the cylinder, compressing the air inside the cylinder until, BOOM, the spark plug arcs and an explosion happens! I gasp. Concerned, I ask, “An explosion?” He laughs. “Yes, thousands of times per minute right here in the engine bay.” With that, my passion nestled comfortably in my soul from that day on. The roar of the engines could be heard for miles. The racetrack lot attendant says, “Five bucks for parking.” On the track, big slick tires are forced against the blacktop with such force that clouds form. The clouds float listlessly into the atmosphere of my world. We park and walk to the dragstrip, gravel crunching under our feet. Hot rods with modified engines rumble the ground as they pass. I smell the smoke from the tires, the race fuel in the air, and the burgers cooked hours ago wrapped in aluminum foil at the concessions. A potpourri of motorsports memories. The ground quakes as two muscle cars approach the line to perform their burnouts and heat the tires. Exhaust screams and pumps the beautiful perfume of vaporized race fuel into the air; the green light flashes, and they explode away. My dad, my brother, and I make bets on which car will win as they line up, over and over until the stadium lights turn on. For seven years, I’ve been married to my best friend. Fate and soulmates were not things I believed in, but with her, and our two beautiful boys, I did. We are separated with intentions to divorce now. I understand these things happen, but the pain is immense. I still fall in love when I hear her name, her voice, or see her face. She asked me to come to our house, where our future will never be, to get my oldest son’s dirt bike running. He wants to ride it while his younger brother drives the go-kart. Later, in my garage, I take the dirt bike’s carburetor apart, gasoline pouring onto the counter and saturating my hands. Pieces of the dirt bike, like the pieces of my marriage, but unlike my marriage, I can put these pieces together again. The engine fires to life, light bluish smoke floods from the exhaust. My son’s eyes light up. Smiling widely, he says, “Thank you, Daddy! How did you fix it?! Will you teach me?” Tears in my eyes, I say, “Sure buddy.” Then I point, “This is a carburetor. It sends gas to the engine and then, Boom, there is an explosion.” A tiny gasp escapes him as I chuckle. “It’s ok, that’s what makes it go.” That night, alone in my apartment, I get ready to shower, the smell on my hands from the day’s work. The gasoline. I didn’t have a core group of friends in school. I wasn’t really popular, but not bullied either. I just existed, never invited to parties, football games, or the few bars that would let you in the back for a couple bucks. Instead, I was in the garage with my dad, building my 1983 Chevy S10. I installed a bigger engine in the tiny truck, giving it a roar like the cars at the dragstrip. A labor of love that took years to make roadworthy, it sounded 10 11 Contest Winner Contest Winner Winner of the English Department Fall 2023 Contest: Flash Fiction Classic ‘50s diner music pumped through the loudspeakers as we walked from car to car admiring other people’s hard work. All shapes and ages bent over, polishing the chrome pieces on their cars, Turtle Wax and Armor All in the air. I watch a young boy tug at his dad’s shirt and point at my truck, “Daddy, that one is so shiny and pretty!” I swell with pride knowing I just recruited another ‘car guy,’ a group that spoke the same language and accepted me. Sunset in the Adult Psychiatric Ward By Audrey Metcalf Winner of the English Department Fall 2023 Contest: Poetry Staff Logan Serr Alicia Duarte Carol Canales Michael Jones Katherine Le Just before the sun set We’d all file through stiff doors, All of us dried as rags left in the sink And stuck in squeezed shapes To watch the sky Contest Winner Over a cement wall where the men bounced deflated basketballs Against the gray And the women stood smoking cigarettes The sun would ooze itself across the clouds Leaving a trail of yellow and pink An engorged sun Vast and taunting in its welcome We would go inside and smear ourselves Across the floor, across the bed Festering in the thin hospital-grade sheets Our lungs leaked Air soured by breath Ready for the next morning The French philosopher Albert Camus once wrote, “fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.” Storytelling has always been the perfect vehicle to convey the thoughts and feelings one has to a greater community, turning one’s unique experience into a metaphorical escape permanently inked onto a page. There lies an insatiable need within us all to tell our stories to the world, Folding them into works borne from our imagination is the marble upon which we carve. Weber State University is home to the next generation of topshelf fiction writers. From a screenplay where certain characters don’t realize they’re part of the show, to a Ray Bradbury-esque piece where the big top will leave a rather lasting impression, to a modern take on traditional Nordic fairytale, the writers that reside here at WSU have a ravenous hunger for bold, thought-provoking ideas with a knack for molding them into a strong narrative. So sit back, relax, and enjoy a dizzying ride through the comfortable and serene, the abrasive and discordant, and the just straight up weird. This collection of short stories that the Metaphor fiction editing staff have selected for publication is sure to give any reader a mere taste of what’s in store for the future of fiction. The sun would piss its wonder all over us Logan Serr Fiction Editor 12 To Be a Modern Gentleman (A One-Act Play) By Gideon Wheeler As guests enter the theater, the curtains to the stage are closed. A pair of feet are sticking out from under them. An extremely ornate, and somewhat ridiculous looking chair has been set into the very front row of the audience and cordoned off with tape. A sign marks the seat as: RESERVED FOR PRINCE MANQUANT. A spotlight turns on as a man steps out from behind the curtain. He is wearing an old-fashioned suitcoat and a bowler hat, and stretches out his arms to address the audience. FRANK: Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and g- uhh… Frank cuts off abruptly as he notices the feet sticking out from under the curtain not far from where he is standing. He stands frozen for a moment before looking up at the audience, letting out an awkward chuckle, and then angrily gestures at Sly in the tech booth to cut the lights. The spotlight turns off, and Frank dashes backstage. FRANK: (Whispering angrily) Clyde!! You told me you moved all the actors into the dressing rooms! CLYDE: I did! FRANK: Then who is this you idiot? Frank kicks the body from behind the curtain, causing the protruding feet to shake and one of the shoes to fall off. CLYDE: Uhh… I dunno. I didn’t ask his name. FRANK: You didn’t ask h- what are you talking about!? Just get him out of here Now! CLYDE: Okay, okay! Grumbling can be heard as the body is slowly dragged back and the feet disappear under the curtain. Frank walks back out on stage and takes a deep breath as the spotlight frames him once again. FRANK: Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls! I am so pleased to… to… 14 FRANK: …I am so pleased to be able to welcome you to our humble theater’s production of To Be a Modern Gentleman: a timeless tale of humility, sacrifice, and finding one’s way in this crazy world of ours. You may notice that there has been a seat reserved for a very special guest. We are honored to have in attendance tonight the Prince of Quebec himself: Prince Manquant! We actually have a surprise… gift to give him when he arrives; however, it does appear that he is going to be a bit late, so we are going to go ahead and start the show. Please sit back, relax, and enjoy… To Be a Modern Gentleman! Frank walks backstage as the overture music begins to play. The curtains open onto what is supposed to be a bustling New York City street in the 1920s. However, while the props and set are all immaculate, there is only one man ( Joey) playing the part of all the busy commuters and citizens. He is both overeager and overacting as he gets into his different roles, constantly running off stage and throwing on a hat, or grabbing a briefcase, and then running back on as a different person. His expressions and actions are exaggerated as he improvs various “unique” citizens and their strange behaviors, silently, since the music is still playing. He even occasionally pretends to interact with some invisible person, and then rushes offstage to change, only to return with a different accessory and act out the invisible person’s response. As this utterly bizarre scene unfolds, Frank and Clyde have a conversation backstage, still unaware that the whole audience can hear them. FRANK: Alright, Clyde, it looks like the prince isn’t here just yet. That’s alright, I planned for this. We’re gonna have to go to phase two. Are you ready? CLYDE: I guess so. FRANK: You guess so? What do you mean, you guess so?! (Getting angrier) We’ve been planning this for weeks! I didn’t hijack my own brother’s theater so you could “guess so!” I certainly didn’t waste hours of my life memorizing the script to some crappy, offbrand, wannabe Broadway crap so you could “guess so!” Are you ready or not!? 15 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Scene 1 Frank trails off once more as he catches sight of Clyde’s hand reaching under the curtain, grasping for the missing shoe. He stares dumbfoundedly as Clyde gropes about blindly, unable to find what he is looking for. Clyde carefully pokes his head out from under the curtain and looks around, spies the shoe, and then notices Frank watching him. They stare at each other in silence for a few moments. Clyde slowly reaches out and grabs the shoe, and then just as slowly retreats back under the curtain, never breaking eye contact with Frank. For a few seconds Frank continues to stare at where Clyde has just vanished, then he closes his eyes, takes another, deeper, breath and then turns back to the audience and continues as if nothing had happened. CLYDE: Okay, okay, I’m ready! FRANK: Good. You know your lines? CLYDE: Yeah, I know ‘em. FRANK: You better. You almost gave us away once already with your forgetfulness, and I don’t want any more problems. All we have to do is keep the audience occupied long enough for the prince to show up, and then... CLYDE: And then we rob, ‘im blind! CLYDE: Yep! Right here in my belt! FRANK: Alright, it’s almost our cue. Make sure to turn your mic on before we walk out. CLYDE: Yes boss. Huh. Does the red light mean it’s on or off ? FRANK: You son OF A ... There is a clicking sound and their voices cut off. The audience can hear a loud thump from backstage, followed by a cry of pain. Joey has now taken his final role and position as a homeless man, slumped in a tent by the side of the road. He winces visibly as he hears Clyde get hit. The music fades as Frank and Clyde walk onto the stage. Clyde is cradling his head in pain, and Frank is trying not to look angry. FRANK: (In his best “fancy” accent) My my, what a dreary day it is today. CLYDE: (Monotone and without emotion) Dreary? I thought you loved New York. FRANK: This disgusting city? Of course not! It’s far too noisy and crowded. Why, just look at all these people dashing about like little brainless ants in the world’s biggest anthill. Clyde and Frank pause and look around awkwardly at the completely empty stage. Joey coughs. FRANK: It’s a shame most of them are too dumb to realize that anthill is just another word for a big pile of dirt. No, if I had my way I would live in the country somewhere far away from this city and it’s… (looking down at the hobo in disgust) interesting people. 16 CLYDE: (Still just as robotic) Then why don’t you, Mr. Robertson? Surely you have enough money to buy a house in the country? FRANK: (Scoffingly) Enough money? Hah! Why I could probably buy the entirety of Florida if I wanted to. But no, I would be a fool to leave behind New York and all of its wonderfully gullible citizens. CLYDE: I don’t suppose I’m one of those wonderfully gullible citizens? FRANK: Well Smith, you do work for me after all, so I suppose that’s one thing you have going for you. Frank notices Clyde’s script and angrily snatches it from his hands and puts it in his pocket. Clyde pulls a second script out of a different pocket as soon as Frank turns around. CLYDE: Now Mr. Robertson, I don’t think the people in this city are all bad. Maybe you just need to get to know some of them a bit better. Clyde leans down and hands Joey the hobo a wad of paper bills. JOEY: Why, this is far too much money, sir! I simply can’t accept this! CLYDE: Please, I insist. It’s the least I could do. JOEY: Thank you so much, kind sir! You don’t know how much this means to me! Clyde nods awkwardly and turns stiffly to catch up to Frank. Frank is waiting for him, and snatches his script again when he nears, glaring at him. FRANK: And I suppose that disgusting man is one of the people you think I should get to know a bit better? Folk like him only want to get to know people like me so they can pilfer my wallet as soon as I turn my head. Besides, that one had a stench that you could have smelled over the telephone. Clyde pulls another script out, this time reaching down the front of his pants, and searches for his next line. Frank looks horrified. CLYDE: Now, Mr. Robertson, just because he looks like that on the outside, doesn’t mean that he acts like a criminal. You never know, maybe on the inside he has the heart of a gentleman! Clyde looks up and smiles at Frank. Frank stares at him in disgust, and then pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something under his breath. 17 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal FRANK: SHH, not so loud! But yes, then we rob him blind. And remember, nobody can suspect anything, so stick to the script and no funny business! I can’t imagine His Highness will be later than a few scenes, so we won’t have to keep up the act for very long. Which is good because I’m sure that’s all you three imbeciles can handle. Now, do you have your gun? Unbeknownst to Frank, Clyde has pulled a crumpled paper out of his pocket and is now squinting down and reading his lines from it as he walks behind him. FRANK: Heart of a gentleman? What nonsense. Come, Smith, we will be late for my next meeting. CLYDE: (Speaking the word, rather than making the sound) Sigh. Frank stops stiffly at Clyde’s line, but quickly starts again, and they both walk off stage. Scene 2 FRANK: Another successful business venture. I hope you were paying attention, Smith; that is how money is made. Those fools were so incompetent they practically handed me their life’s savings. A few more business deals like that, and I might just be able to buy Florida after all. (Chuckling to himself) Smith? Are you listening? CLYDE: (With his nose stuffed into his newspaper) Hmm? Oh, yes, Mr. Robertson. You were very astute. Sarcastically. FRANK: (Forcefully ignoring Clyde’s blunder) Oh dear, I just remembered I left my best pen back at the office. Go and fetch it for me, would you, Smith? CLYDE: Now? It’s so late. You can just go and get it in the morning, FRANK: Now, now, Smith, is that any way to talk back to your boss? You’ll never get that pay raise at this rate. CLYDE: …Yes Mr. Robertson. Clyde turns and walks off stage. Frank continues strutting down the road until he passes the hobo once again, looking down at him sleeping. FRANK: (Scoffingly once again) Hah! Heart of a gentleman indeed. Any respectable gentlemen would never sleep in a tent by the side of the road, much less wear those filthy rags. No, this is simply a sorry fool, and one that I am glad to pass by quickly. As Frank is talking, Clyde walks back out on stage out of an alleyway that has been placed leading diagonally off the road. He is wearing a fedora and a dark coat, and is still holding the newspaper in front of his face. Frank eventually continues down the stage until he walks past Clyde. He stops as he reaches him and stands there expectantly. 18 CLYDE: Uhh… FRANK: Clyde! (Glancing over at Clyde’s newspaper) Oh, for goodness sake. Frank grabs the newspaper and turns it around in Clyde’s hands. CLYDE: Uhh.. oh! Hey you! FRANK: (Sarcastically) Oh goodness. You scared me. CLYDE: Where do you think you’re going? FRANK: (Getting back into character) What? Why that’s none of your business, stranger. CLYDE: Looks like somewhere nice with that fine suit that you’re wearing. FRANK: I told you, it’s none of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. CLYDE: Not so fast. Someone nice like you probably makes a lot of money, yeah? FRANK: (Chuckling) More money than someone like you would know what to do with. Now I really must be on my- Oh my! Clyde has pulled out a prop knife and is holding it limply in the palm of his hand. CLYDE: That’s right, you stuck-up fool, now you get it. Now hand over your wallet quick. FRANK: I shall be doing no such thing! FRANK: I said I shall be doing no such… (Whispering angrily again) CLYDE!! Clyde is looking back and forth between Frank and the script. CLYDE: (Hushed) Uhh… but boss… FRANK: Read the script, you moron! CLYDE: (Shrugging) Okay. Clyde proceeds to drop the newspaper, lean back, and then sock Frank solidly across the face. Frank yells in pain, and staggers back, falling to the ground. FRANK: Augh! CLYDE, WHAT THE HClyde steps forward and kicks Frank full-force in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. 19 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal The lights dim to turn the city into a night-time scene, and Joey lies down to sleep in his tent. Whispered arguing can be heard from backstage. Joey sheepishly peeks out from his tent a few times to see if the scene has started yet. Eventually the two will walk back on stage, this time with Clyde holding a large newspaper in his hands to hide his script. FRANK: (Whispering sharply) Clyde! It’s your line! FRANK: (Groaning) OoOhh! Clyde picks up his script from the ground and nonchalantly continues his lines. CLYDE: You know what, maybe I will just take it myself. The world might be better off with one less of your kind in it, anyway. FRANK: (Finally catching his breath) YOU IDIOT!!! I’M GONNA KILL YFrank starts to swiftly stand up, a fist raised in the air, but then abruptly stops and looks out at the audience. He slowly kneels back down on the floor, trying to quash his anger. FRANK: Uhh... I mean… Ahhhh. No, please… Spare me…. ahhhhh… As this is taking place, Joey has been sneaking up on the other two and spying on them from behind a trash can. As Clyde finishes his line, Joey dashes in and pretends to strike Clyde over the back of the head with a brick. Clyde turns around and looks at him confused. They stare at each other for a few moments until Joey reaches out his hand and gently pushes Clyde to the ground. FRANK: Thank you, kin- (Gasping) Why, it’s you! You—you saved my life! JOEY: Watch out, he’s waking back up! FRANK: … Frank savagely kicks Clyde’s ribs. Clyde grunts and jumps up, scrambling for his script. CLYDE: (Hesitantly) That’s it… now you both are gonna… uh… die? (More confidently) Yeah! Now you’re both gonna die! JOEY: Run, sir! Run while you still can! I’ll hold him off ! FRANK: But I dFrank pauses as a distant voice can be heard from backstage, followed by the sound of someone running and swearing. ORVILLE: (Mumbling under his breath) Must’ve… fallen asleep… The man whose feet were originally sticking out from the curtain arrives from backstage, clutching his head and staggering slightly. He is somewhat older, and dressed as a much better hobo than Joey, complete with ratty beard and the same ragged shoes that fell off his feet at the beginning of the act. He does not seem to notice his counterpart as he arrives, pausing for only a moment to catch his breath before jumping into delivering his lines as if nothing was wrong. 20 The other three stand frozen and stare at Orville, unsure of what to do. Eventually, Orville notices Joey standing next to him, causing him to shift his gaze back and forth between the other actors, ever so slowly realizing something isn’t right. ORVILLE: (Speaking to Joey next to him) Hey… wait a minute. Who are you? Frank turns frantically and begins wildly gesturing for the tech booth to turn the lights off once again. There is no response. If the tech booth is visible, audience members can see Sly dozing off in his seat. Joey begins to improv. JOEY: Well… Uh… I- I’m you! From the future! I came back to warn you not to save this man’s life. He is corrupt through and through, completely irredeemable. You might as well let him die here. The man blinks a few times in confusion, but then surprisingly starts to go along with Joey’s unconventional twist. ORVILLE: Oh… well, that can’t be! I believe that everyone is really a gentleman at heart, no matter how irredeemable they may seem on the outside. Frank continues to desperately gesture for the lights to go out, as the two hobos start to really get into their newfound roles, oddly getting more and more Shakespearen in tone. All the while Clyde is looking on in utter confusion, futilely searching for this scene in his script. JOEY: Oh to be as naïve as you are once more. That innocence seems now but a distant fleeting memory in the far reaches of my mind. ORVILLE: Why do you speak this way? What ill has fallen upon you, or should I say me, to cause such a foul mood to beset your countenance? Feel free to let the actors vamp for as long as the audience finds it amusing. Eventually Frank will cut them short. FRANK: CUT THE LIGHTS, SLY YOU LAZY... As soon as he begins to yell, Sly will jump up from his nap and scramble at the switchboard. After a few seconds, the lights finally go out. FRANK: Clyde, get him out of here! CLYDE: Uh, how do yo... FRANK: NOW! 21 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal CLYDE: It’s too late; there’s nobody around to help. And if there was, they would never help somebody like you. ORVILLE: Run, sir! Run while you still can! I’ll hold him off ! There is a loud cracking sound, and then a thump as a body hits the floor. The audience can hear something heavy being dragged off stage. Frank takes several long, deep breaths. Finally, footsteps return to the stage, and Frank will loudly clear his throat. FRANK: Ah-hem. AH-HEM! The lights turn back on. FRANK: (In a very small voice) … Oh. FRANK: Now, I believe Frank turns back around to see Orville looking very nervous where Joey is supposed to be. He waves timidly at Frank. FRANK: OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! CLYDE: Oops. FRANK: (Losing his grip) Okay. Alright. That’s it. No, really, that’s it. Frank turns around and pushes aside his coat, revealing his gun at his belt, and lays a hand on it. FRANK: (Yelling into the audience) I’m done. I’m done with this stupid show. I’m done with my stupid colleagues, and I’m done waiting for the STUPID PRINCE TO SHOW HIS STUPID FACE!! None of you are going to move an inch until he walks in that door, and then I’ll... FRED: (Shouting from backstage) Are you serious!? Frank whips around to see his brother Fred limping onto the stage. He is in his underwear and has a large black eye, neither of which deter him from angrily walking straight up to Frank. FRANK: (Surprised) Fred?! FRED: You knocked me out and tied me up backstage in my own theater, just so you could rob some prince?! FRANK: (Pausing for a moment before getting angry) Yeah, yeah, I did! Frank whips around, pulling out his gun and training it on Fred, who seems largely unfazed. FRANK: And you’re going to sit down and let me finish what I started! FRED: There is no prince, you idiot!!! He’s fake, he doesn’t exist!! FRANK: Huh? FRED: There is no such thing as the “Prince of Quebec,” it’s a province in Canada you moron, not a foreign kingdom! He’s just a 22 FRED: What was the end goal here, anyways!? Did you think a prince would just carry his wealth with him on a trip through some foreign country? Did you think he would just have bags of royal jewels tied around his waist? FRANK: (Defensively) Of course I didn’t think that, I’m not an idiot! I was just going to… uh.. take… you know, his wallet, and watch, and… stuff. FRED: (Even more incredulously) All this to rob a wallet?! You are that starved for cash, and this is the best plan you could come up with? No wonder you dropped out of college: you’re totally brain dead! FRANK: (Getting angry again) Well not all of us can just be handed fabulous success and wealth in our lives, now can we? Some of us actually have to work to get what we want! FRED: (Pausing in surprise)Is that what this is about? Are you just jealous that dad gave me the theater when he died? FRANK: You were always his favorite. He knew that I wanted to be an actor more than anything when I grew up. But he still gave it to you anyways. You have no idea how much that hurt. FRED: (More gently) Actually, you’re right. I really didn’t know. You were always so disdainful toward me and my plays, I just assumed you didn’t want anything to do with me or the theater. FRANK: No, I just couldn’t bear to watch you live my dream. FRED: Why didn’t you say something sooner? I would be more than happy to let you work with me as a partner. I could actually really use the help. FRANK: (Emotional) Do… do you mean it? FRED: Yeah. Yeah, I do. Fred holds out his arms, and he and Frank embrace. Clyde and Orville look at each other and smile. 23 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal dumb joke that we came up with years ago when we were all drunk! Tickets weren’t selling very well again this year, so Orville came to me with a ridiculous plan of plastering a fake celebrity’s name on all the advertisements to see if it drummed up any more interest. We ended up using the prince just because we thought it was funny, but obviously (he gestures broadly around him), the joke’s on me. FRED: You guys are definitely all going to jail first though. The cops may or may not already be on their way. FRANK: Yeah… that’s fair. Music plays as everyone comes out on stage to take a bow, including Sly from his seat in the tech booth. After everyone has bowed, the curtains begin to close amongst the applause as the actors wave their goodbyes to the audience. Suddenly the curtains stops moving and the music trails off. The actors look around confused just as a very finely dressed man, flanked by two muscular men in dark suits, enters from the back of the theater. At this point, the cast is at a complete loss for words, watching stupefied as the prince disappears, the exit door creaking slowly shut behind him. After another long pause, Clyde’s actor finally voices what the rest of the cast is thinking. CLYDE: (In complete and utter confusion) …W-What? Curtains close . FIN PRINCE MANQUANT: (In a thick French accent) Thank you, thank you! As much as I understand your adoration, applause is really not necessary. In fact, I have never been fond of—Oh, look! PRINCE MANQUANT: I told you they would save a seat for me! Manquant walks down the aisle toward the seat, the large pouch tied to his belt clinking loudly against his leg. The cast on stage stare dumbfoundedly as the prince saunters up to the overly pretentious chair, the two men in suits tearing away the tape as he gracefully settles into it. The theater is silent as the cast shoot questioning glances at each other, each of them shrugging in turn. The prince seems to get suspicious and begins scrutinizing the stage and its occupants more closely. Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Manquant notices the seat that has been cordoned off and turns to one of his bodyguards, pointing triumphantly at the chair. PRINCE MANQUANT: (With dawning realization) Now wait just a minute. Have you started the show without me? FRANK: Um… who… are you exactly? PRINCE MANQUANT: (Flabbergasted) Wh- excuse me? What kind of a question is that? I know you received my call about our unfortunate delay, and I was assured that accommodations would be made! You mean to say that you just couldn’t be bothered to tell me that you weren’t planning on waiting at all? FRANK: Uh… Another round of glances ensues, this time even more bewildered than before. PRINCE MANQUANT: This is ridiculous! I can obviously tell where I’m not wanted, and so you’ll excuse me if I take my leave. Manquant stands up angrily from his chair, and storms righteously back up the aisle, his two bodyguards close behind. He pauses briefly at the exit to get in one last quip. PRINCE MANQUANT: And don’t worry, I won’t be coming back. 24 25 The Robin and the Oak The Setting Sun By Taylor Jenkins By Noah Bury Once, long ago, there was a Robin and an Oak. They were the best of friends; had been for some time now. The Oak provided a safe place for the Robin to nest, while she provided him with her stories of the world. When she talked of all the places she’d gone, he felt like he could fly too. I’m in a place now, where the sun tilts gently eastward, the sidewalks damp with week-old rain, and the mountains snowcapped with fallen, frozen, and melted grains of pure sugar. The world has slowed down, the grass still green, parked cars casting shadows twice their size. The hustle and bustle of warmer months has waned off into final errands, as we collect ourselves neatly and prepare for the long night ahead. And yet, for those who have already prepared, I see their casual jaunts, I see their weariness, I see the exhaustion that weights their eyelids. Their steps have become heavier, their movements: forcibly strenuous, like an orchid’s death bloom, or a retail employee the day before Thanksgiving, hauling frozen bird after frozen bird, ready to give up, collapse, and indulge in his own gratitude for a world wrapped in cellophane. “But I have to leave,” the Robin told the Oak. “It’s too cold for me to stay any longer. I’ll be back when it’s warm.” The Oak’s branches swayed in the wind. He knew he couldn’t stop her; she wouldn’t listen anyway. So instead, he answered, “I’ll be here for you when you return.” That winter was the longest it had ever been. Eventually, the Robin returned in the summer and nestled into her home once more. They didn’t speak of her abrupt departure and dropped into their rhythm once more. The Oak tried to be happy, but something felt off. His roots weren’t as strong as they had been in years past. His leaves didn’t grow back quite as quickly anymore. The farmer that lived down the road had begun to notice too, and talk of chopping the Oak down sprouted up in town. Before long, cold crept into the weather and the Robin prepared to leave. The Oak begged her not to. “Stay with me. I won’t be here much longer.” The Robin chirped. “Yes, you will. You can’t fly like me.” Whether he could or couldn’t wasn’t up for debate. Still, he had to do something. “Please don’t go. I want you to be with me.” The Robin’s feathers ruffled. “You can’t protect me from winter! I’ll die if I stay with you! I will see you in the summer!” The words were finalizing, but neither of them thought they would be the last they shared. The parking lot is growing slimmer now: fewer patrons, longer shadows, darker hues. The ornamentals cling to their last hint of green. The sidewalk looks mouthwatering, enveloped in warmth and contentment, shrouding its secret winter skin with an orange glow of fiery camouflage. Stairs—no ramp. Streetlights—burnt bulbs. Ten thousand automobiles—and no drivers. The sky glances west, southwest, towards warmer climates and sun-soaked beaches, toward sandstone arches and towering buttes, toward red rock cliffs and desolate mesas, where petroglyphs hang leagues above canyon floors, never touched by another soul. This is the most important contrast, isn’t it? Between this and that. What was once one, has now been spliced right down the middle. There goes my flame, my sweltering ball of silent heat, soaring off toward a realm worthier of its touch, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, discovering his resting place is no longer the paradise in which he settled. I see the sun—taking its final steps toward the veil of dusk. I feel like reaching out, with my bare hand, towards the sun, saying come back, please, there’s no need for you to leave, your warmth is welcome. You are my muse, my holy sentiment, my disjointed thoughts when nothing else mattered. Come summer, the Robin returned to the Oak like she promised. But to her great horror, the Oak was gone, leaving behind only the stump of his memory. And yet, there you go, running, fleeing, cowardly as a lone doe. It’s despicable that you would give up on everything we built together. Think of the leaves and fruits we grew. Think of the warm concrete and errant searches for shade at high noon. Think of a cold shower and how it took 26 27 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Gradually, the Oak’s leaves grew duller and duller. A few had even fluttered to the grass below. When the Robin asked what was wrong, he insisted it was no big deal. This happened to him all the time and she had no reason to worry. As long as she was with him, he’d be all right. our heat and bathed us in wintry dew. We shared that. And now what? You walk away, watching your past life wither? Looking back from afar, casting your glowing mirage, iced and indifferent? You, now You, I thought I’d never lose, let alone have to stand idly by while you tiptoed out of reach. Time of Death Take one last look before you go. See this empty lot, painted black? See those people now. See their cars driving on. See the energy draining from their bodies. See their leaves exhaust from green to crisp and thoughtless. See their bite fade to bark. See their shadows grow longer until ultimately, they disappear, only to be resurrected by the faint, interminable glow of streetlamps. Von Raben’s chapel has always been warm. Despite the damp and the cold that infects the rest of the manor, creeping in like a horrible mould to even the deepest parts of the house, the chapel is a sanctuary. The air smells bittersweet, it is always bone-dry, and there is a certain warmth, indeed, that comes from the stained glass. Rays of rich amber and red flood the whole of the room when the sun begins to dip below the horizon. It has long been my favourite (I might say my only favoured) place in the house. For each night when we first arrived in this place—the first week, I should say—I slept on the chapel floor. It was not particularly comfortable, as I often only had a pallet of cushions separating me from the stone ground. I would wrap myself in two down blankets: that being, the one from my chambers, and the duvet from the nursery. The mistress had asked me on the third night why I would forgo sleeping in the queen-sized bed, carved of lush Italian mahogany, in the south wing. I told her it was because I felt God in that chapel. In truth, it is not that He was present there, only that His absence is so very stark in the rest of the house that it felt divine, at the time. And I mean it, the rest of the manor is a Godless thing. I have said it since the beginning, and I stand by this now. The attic, particularly, is a testimony to this. It is a cavernous creature, and its old bones creak and sway in the night, in the constant rain that has overtaken the valley each and every day for decades. In the almost year we have lived here, I have never once seen a clear sky, nor a sunny morning. No, it has always been the pitter-patter of rain, the roil of the eastern wind, the fat clouds of acrid fog that it brings with it. It was, from the first day on, as it is now: dark, wet, freezing, Godless. I’m not sure however Lady Crowe grew so infatuated with this place. Twice, in those months she was with child, she had spoken of the Corr Valley and its lofty crown jewel, set sturdy in brick and lime: The Von Raben Manor. I took these mentions to be driven by a sort of hysteria. After all, Angelica’s pregnancy had not been kind, and Heather’s birth had not been easy. She began to fall into bouts of mania in the days leading up to the spring, and for a period of time, she had experienced what the physician referred to as postnatal hysterics. These strange behaviours had apparently subsided shortly after Heather had weaned from her mother, but still, Angelica spoke of travelling to this place. She 28 29 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Doused with darkness, the city weakens, the lights flicker, and the people fade. What more can I ask? Perhaps, if you’d be so kind, leave me with one taste more. Leave a sliver of golden sunsetting light stuck to my forehead, so I can remember what it feels like to be held by your warmth. By M.A. Shelley convinced Lord Crowe—who in fairness is not at home often enough to care where “home” is—to buy the land, renovate the manor, and resigned herself to raise her daughter in the belly of Von Raben. Thusly, fables of all manners abounded rather quickly among the servants. None were quite like the others, and certainly, none were the truth. But they made merry the cold nights, if enough brandy was passed around, and created a sense of camaraderie amongst the staff. I could not say, at first, that I believed any of them. However, they made their mark on my temperament. The storytelling formally ended two hours past midnight, when the cleaning staff had to attend to their nightly duties. This was most often the time I chose to depart, for Heather was wont to take her nightly bottle thirty minutes later. As such, I was frequently left to wander the halls of the manor alone late at night. I walked from the servants’ quarters to the kitchen, where I would warm a bottle of cow’s milk with a drop of laudanum. I would then hurry to Heather’s nursery, quiet her to sleep, and put myself to bed. All of this I did guided only by the light of a candle. These long walks through empty, darkened corridors did wonders to spark the mind. Nearly every night, I felt as though there were eyes following me as I moved and worked. I would see shadows from the corners of my sight, and my heart beat wildly with paranoia. This extended very much into my dreams, which soon became harrowing. I didn’t remember the nightmares, not at first. I would wake with a start, but without memory of what had frightened me so. This went on for some time, worsening by the day. By wintertime, I became afraid to even lay my head on the pillow. Sleep began to elude me. I would spend the nights in the nursery at first, managing a few hours in the rocking chair beside the crib. But within a few weeks, the dreams followed me, even as I watched over the baby. It was nigh a month to Christmastime when Angelica first noticed the weariness of my countenance. Heather had gone down for a nap some hours beforehand, so I made myself busy by delivering some freshly warmed linens to the master bedroom. The rain had frozen into snow, and the chill had sharpened its fangs to gnash at the windows and floors, nipping naked toes and reddening noses where it bit. The last thing any 30 Angelica had done her best to make the house feel celebratory all through December, so much so that she hadn’t made it halfway through November before she ordered us to decorate. So, throughout the winter of 1878 (which I daresay, was the last happy time among the Crowe’s household), a grand evergreen stood in the drawing room. It was a fir imported all the way from America, decorated with all sorts of baubles and lit in candles, overseen by a porcelain angel perched on the highest bough. Garlands of winter flowers and dry oranges decorated every available space, and everything that came out of the kitchen was perfectly festive. In truth, it was much like dressing a corpse in its best clothes before a funeral. The scent of simmering wassail felt akin to the sweetness of dry roses scattered over a shroud, doing their best to cover the stench of rot. But it was no doubt more pleasing than the emptiness, somehow opulent in nature, that consumed the manor in less joyful times. The master bedroom was no exception to this decoration. Porcelain dolls dressed in carolling clothes had been unearthed from storage, and behind Angelica’s dressing screen there stood a mountain of presents for her daughter, cleverly hidden from plain view. I knocked thrice before entering and only waited a few minutes before Angelica appeared at the doors. She threw them open with an enthusiasm rare in this house, a jolly smile on her face. “My dearest Rosemarie,” she greeted, “what perfect timing you have! I was just going to ring for a maid, but you are far better suited for this task; come, come!” She grabbed at my arm as she said this, and dragged me into her bedroom with a swift tug. “My Lady,” I managed to say, closing the doors behind me. “I’ve just come with some warm blankets for you.” “And I shall take them with the most gratitude. But hurry to my vanity, and tell me what you think.” I set my load of laundry on the corner of the bed, thinking with some remorse that they would cool before Angelica made use of them. “Think of what?” I asked her, taking up my skirts as I followed her to her dressing table. Laid across it was a gown, cut of a rich scarlet taffeta that flashed gold in the light. Two sets of jewels sat on its bodice, one of pearls, and one of rubies and glittering white gems. “I’m picking out my wardrobe for the visit,” she explained shortly, “I usually wear the pearls, but these are new, and must admit I am searching Fall for an excuse to wear them.” By Jazmyne Olson “Then wear them,” I told her. She took up the necklace, and held it against my throat. She examined it carefully, and I imagined she might have been 31 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal I attended, of course, for a nanny is only needed where there is a child of that sort. Unlike the rest of the Crowes’ staff, I did not immediately voice any complaints about the house or grounds. The scullery maids, however, are a trio of gossips, susceptible to folk tales and flights of fancy. They quite hastily deemed the house to be haunted, and spoke very animatedly about the topic whenever they were able, conversing in an infectious manner that made one want to continue listening. of us wanted was for Lady Crowe to fall ill, especially before she was to receive guests for the holidays. deciding whether or not it would be gauche to receive guests wearing such jewellery. “For what occasion is this gown?” “Christmas dinner,” she answered, and smiled at the necklace. “So I think it is appropriate to wear something so extravagant.” Her eyes moved from the rubies to my face, and her smile readily disappeared. “Oh,” she said, immediately, “Miss Heathcliffe, are you quite well? I find you…paler than is usual, I think.” I recall forcing myself to smile, and noting the way my lips crackled when I did. “I feel very well, my Lady.” Angelica sniffed, whirling away from me, her hands ripped from my grasp. “You know, you’re a rotten liar,” she said. “It is, in part, why I hired you.” “It’s nothing dire,” I said. “Only a bout of insomnia. It will pass.” “We have plenty of laudanum in the medicine cabinet,” she told me, “You might make use of it.” I pressed my lips together. I, at this time, was not fond of the stuff. I cannot say that I am fond of it presently, though, only that I look at it with a great deal less scrutiny than I did that night. I stared at it for several minutes as I made Heather’s night bottle later on, weighing the boons, and eventually resigned myself to ten drops on a pressed cube of sugar. I did not partake of it until after Heather was fed and fast asleep, but sure as the stars in the sky, it lulled me into sleep, and my dreams were mellowed. In fact, I might say that was the first night which I slept soundly in many months. But bodies are weak; the small amount of medicine wore off rather quickly, and I was forced to increase the dosage I took the longer I relied on it. I thought this to be a miracle, nonetheless, for I was sleeping better than I ever had, so long as I ignored the grogginess I faced in the morning, and the great difficulty of waking up to tend to the baby. Still, I felt rested enough as Christmas came ’round, and even deigned to join the other staff once more for some hearty drinking the night before. Rather than ghost stories, on that evening, we told holiday fables. An account of Krampus nacht, now twenty days past, accompanied passages of Dickens Self Portrait and the newfangled American publishings of Alcott. IBy amJazmyne among oneOlson of the only servants able to read aloud, so I did most of the storytelling on Christmas Eve. As a girl, I had attended finishing school, and was rather prideful of my literacy and animated narration. 32 Thoroughly drunk, though, I was only able to stumble back to my room, and I passed out shortly after I managed to climb into bed. It was this night that I was first faced with the visions that would then torment me. I account it to my not taking a sleeping draught that day, but I am in truth not sure more laudanum would have chased away the dreams forever. But this was the first time I saw her, truly saw her, and it filled me with such a horror. I witnessed her, in a perfect likeness, in that cavernous attic, hanging. I had not known then that these visions would worsen, and soon, I did not only see her body. I witnessed the tying of the noose. I saw the very moment the madness overtook her, and other such monstrous things; by the time the New Year had come to pass, I had, in truth, even seen her rotting corpse in my dreams. Laudanum no longer chased away the nightmares, rather, it made them more vivid. I can recall it, now, in perfect detail. At first, it came to me in wisps, like cotton blotting over the darkness of my dreams. A widow, nestled deep within her web, spun in haste to house all overflowing grief that came from an empty bassinet; perhaps, she had also had intents on raising her child here, but I never saw a baby. Only the chest of unused childrens’ clothes, shrouded and perfumed as if they, themselves, were a grave. Von Raben had been decidedly emptier, then. Yet to be refinished, it was all bones and creaking wood. The haunting groan and sway of the building in the wind was worse when there was no asbestos to muffle it. The widow was once, perhaps, a fine lady. Her clothes were always well made, hand-stitched of fine silk and wool, but they were worn and illfitting. Split shoulder-seams, unhemmed skirts, moth-bitten stockings, and sun-bleached fabrics: everything which I witnessed spoke of a taste, once refined, that could no longer be afforded. She drank from chipped crystal, and the wine was always cheap. She was equally matched, in her disrepair, to the gaping maw of the manor, which seemed to cradle her with all the love of a mother. I wonder what happened to her—to this day, I admittedly know very little of how she came to be this way. It is difficult to explain my interactions with her. For when I witnessed her, she somehow understood she was being observed, an inexplicable 33 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal “Are you sure?” she asked and took me by the chin. “You look as though you haven’t slept in weeks. Is it Heather? Perhaps we should clear the chimney in her room, make use of it—” “Your daughter is sleeping well, I assure you,” I said, prying Angelica’s gentle hands from my jaw. I held them between mine, and told her with the most earnestness, “And I am quite all right.” You might imagine it would bring me great joy, then, to be given such an opportunity. But as the night wore on, I found that the air about me grew cold. I shivered, as if taken by a fever, and as I spoke, I was acutely aware of the strange feeling filling my arms and legs. It was that of stiffness, not unlike the stiffness of a corpse, and it came with an aching pain. A sweat broke on my brow, and for a moment, I was very sure that I was dying. I slammed the book shut with such force that it clapped, and had to hurriedly excuse myself to tend to the baby. feat that lent a distinctly voyeuristic air to my visions. Her hollow eyes would meet mine, as if she wanted to make sure I was watching. By the end, she was a dead woman on two feet, and the memory of her gaunt face is forever burned into my memory like tintype, as silvery as she was colourless, save for an ever-present smear of crimson over her mouth. It always seemed as though she had a square of blood-stained linen tucked into the edge of her bodice, ready to cough into—spitting herself to death. I saw her everywhere. Her silhouette in the fleeting shadows at the end of a corridor, the sound of her body dropping from the rafters in the steady drip, drip, drip of snowmelt creeping in through the ceilings. I saw her in the looking glass, when lack of sleep stole away the pinkish hue of my cheeks. There were bruise-violet rings beneath my eyes, an ever-present haunting punched into my visage—God, I was starting to look just like her. I wondered if she could see me, from wherever she was, as I rotted away. Was she gladdened? Did her anger tinge into sick satisfaction when she witnessed my ruin? Long gone were the nights passed entirely in bed. The dreams took unto them a repetitive quality, in which I would watch from the window in the attic, back pressed against cold, stained glass. She would climb up a bed, one carved of an eerily familiar Italian mahogany, and perch herself upon the highest point of the four-poster frame; crouched like an animal, a vulture watching still and silent from the dark. She would stare at me. She would grin this sickening, sharpened smile as she tied the rope about her neck, knowing I could not force my eyes to flee from her sight. And then, she would pounce. Her body morphed from the twisted carapace of illness to the still repose of death. And then, the rafter she’d tied her noose about would snap, and I would— Wake. The clock on the stairs would croon its call of night, the toll of a death bell, one, two, three, without fail. I began to wander throughout the nights, taking to the darkened hallways in lieu of rest. I found, at this point, that sleep did very little to invigorate me. I still woke with sandy eyes that begged to shut out the dreary light of midwinter, with aching hips and ankles and vertebrae. There formed a fiery pain in the side of my neck that flared whenever I lay down, and finding that a final reason to avoid bed, I walked. And often, I found myself back in the chapel, and I looked upon the one 34 Still, I sat often among the pews, gazing up at Christ on his cross, and I prayed like a madwoman. Sometimes, I heard the tap of house-shoes on the stone. Angelica happened upon my quiet sacrament, every now and again, and she would wait at the door of the chapel, watching me, as I watched her. Most nights, that was all she did, before she would walk back to her own chambers. I always hoped she forgot about what she saw. But I knew Angelica better than that, and it seemed that she used to know me better than anyone; so of course, one night, she decided to approach me, and pleasantly inquire, “Having trouble sleeping?” I did not answer her immediately. I had my hands clasped before me, bearing the breath of my frenzied words— “and banish her from my sight, allow me to see this demon no more, please, God, make her leave me alone—” Angelica placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. It halted my fervent prayer, but there was still a crazed nature about me, widening my eyes and chilling my blood into ice. I turned sharply and met her gaze, and was so thoroughly rattled to be reminded there was warmth and softness in this house. “How long has it been since last we spoke?” I asked her, tongue unbidden, for I could not recall when last I had even seen Angelica. There was not a time before the widow, not anymore, my entire waking life had become her death, her spectre, her maggot-filled— “Four days,” Angelica said. “You’re lucky that Heather has met your path more recently than I,” she scolded, but I could not remember seeing my charge all that recently either— “You look like hell.” “I am living in Hell,” I told her, though it was quiet and unremarkable, for she did not mention the quip. She was right, of course, and my body informed me of its current state of emaciation with a painful cramp in my gut. I had lost a grand sum of weight, in those first months of winter—a stone or two, at least, which had loosened my clothing from my skin so dramatically that my corset no longer felt restrictive. Fine silks, ill-fitted, hissed a voice in the back of my head, that same frigid whisper that taunted me before the mirror in the washroom. Eating had become a feat of great stress. The spongy texture of bread was somehow evocative of festering injuries and soft flesh, and the bones of quail suddenly seemed far too human to break apart. “You shouldn’t be awake, my Lady.” “Nor should you. And yet, here we are, very much awake—funny, how those sorts of things work.” Angelica sat down beside me and set a package swathed in a kerchief on my lap. I thanked her, then with trembling fingers, I untied the knot of fabric to unwrap what seemed to 35 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal And there was always a madness about her, a bitterness, a heavy hatred of something. It was confounding, an infectious anger that spun like a dark, swirling sea behind her eyes. It had a strong current, one which gripped me by my very being and dragged me under. It became suffocating, it was suffocating, it is suffocating. spot of warmth in this carrion, and I begged God for reprieve, and what would you know: he never answered. be a handful of dried, red plums. I stared at them, and on that square of plain white, the fruit looked so distinctly like droplets of blood, like the linen tucked into the widow’s bodice. Suddenly I started, wincing back from the offering of food like it, itself, would hurt me. Plums tumbled from the tops of my legs to the ground to patter round my bare feet like coins dropped from a purse. Angelica made a hissing sound through her teeth. “Rosemarie, what on earth has gotten into you?” she asked me. “When was the last time you slept? Christ, when was the last time you ate?” “I know not.” I drew in a shuddering breath, looking down at myself. My hands were trembling, fingers twisting into the soft cotton of my nightgown. “Christmastime—I–I think, I don’t…” “Maybe not,” I muttered. “Has it truly been so long? What’s the date, ma’am?” My voice had been thready. I wondered if I had spoken at all, in the past few weeks, because it felt so very foreign to do. “Why, it’s the 28th of January, haven’t you…” Angelica took up my hands, uncaring of the way I flinched. “Rosemarie, are you losing time again?” “Again?” I asked. I refused to meet her eyes, keeping my gaze fixed on the tops of my knees. They were scuffed—when had that happened? Angelica let out a long sigh, aired with a resigned sort of melancholy. “I suppose that answers that.” “Has this happened before?” I did not wait to hear her answer, for I knew what she’d do, she’d look at me with that bone-deep disappointment only a mother was able to muster, and she’d say yes. Rather than weather that shame, I dropped to my knees, and began to gather up the plums. Some had rolled under the carpet which ran straight down the cathedral’s aisle, wedged in a ripple under the rug. I took it up by the corner and flung it back to reveal the stone beneath and the three pieces of fruit hidden from view. “Just after Boxing Day,” she told me, and I could hear the frown around her words. I tucked each plum back into the kerchief, twisted it into a loose knot, and placed it back on the pew. Then I returned to the aisle, intent to replace the rug, but gave pause. My eyes found the worn engravings of two grave-stones, cut to fit between the tiles; for corpses, deep underground, somewhere, somewhere, somewhere— “Marigold Blaire,” I read aloud. Bereaved Wife, Beloved Mother, it said, 1655-1679. And a stone below it, half the size, Lily Blaire, 1678-1678. The widow, the frigid voice told me, and a chill seized my entire being. Look there, Ro, she was just your age. Gooseflesh bloomed over my arms. 36 No part of this home seems to escape her anger. Not even this place of divinity, which I had hitherto found to be a place of comfort, knows peace. The whole house is as sick as she was, as I am. And so, on this hallowed morning, I am vindicated. Knowing there is not a spot in this house that is pure, that is clean from her misery, her anger, her loss. The entire place is infected, spitting itself to death, and I do not wish to be here when Von Raben finally croaks. I refuse to let it take me, too, I refuse to become Corr Valley’s next Marigold, I refuse–I refuse–refuse—God, I’d rather burn in Hell than spend my death in the belly of this beast, because I will die here, I know it, I know it. I can no longer bear to look upon the chapel, knowing that she wastes away beneath the floor. I cannot bring myself to sleep in that bed, but I think only of the dead babe whenever I enter the nursery, and the attic— Nowhere. Nowhere is sacred. It is as it always has been. Godless. So long as Von Raben stands, Marigold shall haunt the valley, and who’s to say I am the only one being tormented? Perhaps I am only one of many servants that had been run mad in this place. Lady Blaire lives within each of us, for all I know, and we are all infected, we are all cursed, we are all in misery. It is cruel. This is what she wants, to ensnare as many of us as she is able, and to drag us down into this cruel fate, to make us as miserable and angry as she is. I won’t let her. And so, as I make my final pilgrimage to that cursed attic, I smile. I smile, because I know she will lose. She shall not entrance me any longer, nor shall she take the other servants, God forbid, she will certainly not take the Crowes with her. It has become plainly apparent to me that the rot festers in the very bones of Von Raben, for that was what had ensnared Marigold’s ghost in the first place, was it not? This place is mouldering from the inside out. There is only one way to stop such an infection, so I have heard, and that is to destroy it at the source. The candles scattered about suddenly seem far warmer. They, I know, are suited to my task, and shall purge this place of sickness better than I ever could. All I need do is tip the tapers over as I wander by; all they need do is consume. I listen to the whoosh of flames as they take their meal, devouring cotton and wood and insulation as though it is the heartiest of 37 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal “...Miss Heathcliffe, it’s nigh February. Surely, that cannot be right.” No third headstone commemorated a Lord Blaire. This somehow felt just, for in Marigold’s seeping anger, I had been imbued with a deep resentment for her ever-unseen husband—a man I assumed to exist, of course, though he had never shown himself to me in my dreams, not even in traces. I dropped the edge of the rug, suddenly disgusted with the chapel. Her body is in there. Why a Baby Cries Much of the furniture in this place has become familiar to me. The oak chest of Lily’s grave, the pile of books marked with M. Blaire on the first page, the broken rafter that bore her corpse. It looks friendlier, all lit up in gold and red, as flames run up the bones of the house to their apex. I gaze upon the stained glass window which I had become so acquainted with. It disgusts me as much as anything. I take up a book—a copy of De Martelaersspiegel, bound in green and chewed away at by moths—and hurl it at the window. The sound of its shattering fills me with a sick satisfaction, and the sudden flux of air emboldens the fire. Sweat pools on my brow, and breathing becomes difficult. But I did not come up here with the intent to breathe, so I pay it all very little mind. To be frank, it was quite an ugly baby. He wasn’t exactly what I’d call a handsome kid–like me in my golden years. I knot the rope around a rafter yet untouched by the blaze. I pray it will hold long enough. Because burning to death hurts, this, I know. But I am still, perhaps, naive enough to think that the dead do not feel pain. She told me other things, such as “A good pat on the back could really open up someone.” I coil the other end into my very own necklace of rope. It settles against my throat. Shards of glass bite into my feet as I teeter on the edge of the windowsill, heaving one last breath of fresh air. Blood trickles from the wounds, but I cannot feel them anymore. The clock chimes its weary toll, one, two, three, a shaky noise in the blaze, brass cylinders wobbling in the heat. I wonder if my grief is as strong as hers. I tip forward. (The dead do, indeed, feel pain.) By Hayden Goodman He kept crying and crying. The fridge had been empty except for the last little bit of a Coke can on the top shelf and some rice in the styrofoam takeout bowl from the Chinese place down the street. I looked in and nothing new showed up, so I shut it. The fridge gripped its magnetic edge, shaking the coke inside. I wasn’t going to clean it up–not now anyway. Man, he really won’t shut up. I guess I could go to the store and maybe get some milk. They’re supposed to like that crap. “Build their bones,” she’d always say. I got in her Honda Civic–couldn’t remember the year, before the twothousands maybe–and took off. I think it was her mom’s. Finally! I left him home, so no more damn crying. One of his lollipops was stuck in the passenger door handle, filling it with a purply-swampy goo. Absolutely disgusting. It smelled funky too–nothing like candy. More like how one of those kids from Willy Wonka might smell after turning into candy, reeking of artificial poison and what is wrong with the world. Clearly, he didn’t care much about it if he complemented what was supposed to be a good day (no clouds to cry on my parade, except him waiting, bawling for my return) with a fistful of his treats stuffed into the car’s handle. Bumps rolled under the left tire and rattled the bottles sitting behind the back seats. It was the same side she had dropped into the pothole on 12th street. I guess it was still there. I parked in the Walmart lot and approached the store. The automatic doors opened to a greeter who did their thing and gave an exhausted hand shake at me as if sitting was just such a pain. Try dealing with that baby’s crying, and then you’re allowed to shake your weary hand at me. Do babies like whole milk? Two percent? Ah, I bet it’s pasteurized. I bet he’d go crazy over it. Remind him of her. Soldedera IBy dragged the cold container off the shelf. Condensation was already Xochitl Sustaita wrapped around it, my grip almost dropping it on the floor. Someone must have had a baby of their own and were trying to figure out the milk 38 39 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal meat. At times, they get greedy, sinking their teeth into the hem of my nightdress and clawing their way up my body, chewing at the coil of rope in my hand. I am forced to remind them that they may not have me, not yet. I bear their burns with little consequence now, patting out the fire as I dash to the attic. they wanted, too. Envious of them, I tell you. I brought the sweaty milk to the cashier–they had one large snaggletooth. The kind that could open up a baked beans can in seconds. “$6.98,” Snaggletooth said, also almost dropping the bottle. The rot breath reached all the way over the counter. No, receipts are useless. Of course I want one. Hell, in this world you need them. I took the bag from Snaggletooth and walked out, but before I could reach the ungrateful greeter, the sun blazing through the glass of the open-on-their-own doors, I had to check for the receipt. Must have been some real good sleight of hand because it wasn’t there. What was that dumb bunny, Snaggletooth, thinking I was going to do? Let such an act slide? As I marched on over to demand the paper that belonged to me, they were chatting with some fancy blue vest with an ugly name tag–”Stephanie”, and “Manager” above. What an ugly name, just like hers. Yadda, yadda, Snaggletooth’s witch laughing tooth was aching, they explained. When I asked about my receipt, Snaggletooth had the audacity to try and show me where it was, where it should have been, lifting my sweaty milk and revealing nothing. Blue vest excused Snaggletooth and went to grab me a real receipt. How typical. An eyelid opened on the tooth and glared at me, and I threw the damn thing so far away where I, hopefully, will never have to think of it again. “Father,” the baby said. I looked down and he was smiling! Full teeth, just all along his tiny mouth in rows. His jaw was defined and out of place, but he spoke just fine, and his head leaned back. “I’m thirsty.” Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal “Would you like a receipt with that?” If it was causing him so much distress, why have it? It only hurts just once, so I went in and pulled. I yanked on it, and pushed my fingers in. There was no pus or blood or anything–it all drained out. It was like a dry, hatched egg. What had come out of my hand was, well, just pure ugly. The damn tooth had around seven roots to it, and it was pulsating. On my passing of the greeter, they, too, were having some toothaches since they kept holding their jaw. I drove back home and hadn’t even fully entered the driveway before I could hear the baby’s crying. It was so ugly and whiny. And Mr. and Mrs. Johnson need to learn to mind their own business. The baby needs to learn that in this world there is no room for crying. When I walked in, he was holding the roof of his mouth, and snot was running all along his face. What was he pointing at me for? I had brung him his damn milk. I took the cap off and ran a little of the milk down his small mouth, but he was rejecting it! That mouth needed to open now, and not just for crying. How else was he supposed to drink this crap? I looked in, and a large hill rested where his teeth should be growing in, like a big pimple. He kept calling me Dad, it was so annoying. I pushed on the pimple and, oh boy, was that a mistake. His screams deepened and nearly blew back my hair. I pushed again and it burst. Tendrils of pus, blood, and milk ran along the edges of his mouth and spiraled around each other. It was a big, pulsating, pale tooth. 40 41 11:48 Broken Things By Emily Shelton By Katherine Regis In the stillness of the dark room, I found myself lost in contemplation. The question lingered in my mind, “Do I look as empty as I feel?” The weight of solitude pressed against my chest, a sensation that echoed the unspoken void within. Content warning: themes of domestic abuse Facing the wall, I stared into the darkness, my deteriorating eyesight crafting random shapes into elusive images. The inconsistent symphony of snores filled the air, no longer the soothing melody that once lulled me to sleep. Instead, it became a cacophony, a dissonant background to the hunger that thundered in my stomach and heart—starvation, not just of the body, but of the soul. As I listened to him peacefully asleep, his snoring became a peculiar canvas of sounds, each one a unique expression. Some were sharp and snappy, like the crackling of twigs underfoot. Others mimicked the slow release of air from a tire, perhaps a mechanical Darth Vader in the night. A strange creature’s death rattle, a croaking frog, the rhythmic panting of a runner out of breath—each snore transformed into a world of its own. In this quiet introspection, I found myself trapped between the past and the present, yearning for the comfort that eluded me. The room held the echoes of unspoken desires and the silent plea for connection, weaving a tale of vulnerability and introspection in the stillness of the night. Remembered saplings and shovels lying forgotten by half-dug holes. Slow kisses are sour with the ghost of fresh lemonade. Remembered evenings spent cuddling on the couch, wrapped in a shared quilt, the TV’s laugh-track echoing their own. Remembered the worry that followed the news anchor’s voice, the worry that followed that opened envelope, the worry that consumed a halffilled bed. Remembered the empty gaze that came home and poisoned her relief and joy, dark eyes under a furrowed brow. She remembered the hoarse shouts and the flailing limbs that broke the stillness of every night. Remembered the first time her heart and trust shattered like the brown bottle thrown against the wall. Dawn remembered the first time she put ice to her cheek and the first time she wore a scarf in summer. Remembered pain and flashing red and blue lights. Remembered the lies she told the neighbors, the lies she told the Sheriff. Most of all, she remembered the lies she told herself. Remembered the flare of awareness, waking as if from fever-dream. Dawn remembered reaching for the phone, the conviction of her choice unstopping both her voice and her tears. “Dad? I’m ready now.” ---“Remember me telling you ’bout the summer I spent working your greatgranddad’s farm?” her father asked slowly. 42 43 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal As a child, I yearned for the warmth of an embrace, for someone to cradle me with love and care. Now, here I was, stroking his hair, rubbing his back, holding him close as he drifted into the realm of dreams. The roles reversed, and in the quiet act of nurturing, I couldn’t escape the realization that I was desperately seeking the solace I once craved. Dawn sat silently under the bright lights. Her father sat beside her, thumbing slowly through some magazine. His arm stretched across the back of the wooden bench. His hand gently squeezed her shoulder whenever she shifted weight. Although Dawn was used to silence, this one felt unfamiliar. Wary of breaking this new silence, Dawn chose instead to stare at her hands and remember. ---Remembered shared meals at the breakfast table. Toast and fluffy eggs topped in her special homemade salsa. Dust dancing in the sunbeams that warmed her kitchen. Dawn hummed low to let him know she was listening. Her eyes, however, remained firmly fixed on her fidgeting hands. “I woke up every morning before the sun came up. I killed my feet in a new pair of boots. I helped deliver foals and train the yearlings. I drove the subsoiler.” Dawn raised her head and looked at her father. Her eyes searched her father’s face, trying to discern the reason for sharing this memory. He turned and looked her in the eye. “I learned a lot working on that farm, but I think one thing in particular will help you.” He reached out and grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers. Dawn’s eyes tore away from her father’s as a woman dressed in a severe brown skirt suit approached them. The clack of heels broke the silence. Dawn tilted her head up towards the woman and waited for her to speak. “Ma’am, the judge will see you now.” ---Dawn stopped the car, and sat, and breathed. Her gaze took in the empty beach. The roar of the ocean was hidden by the patter of rain. After Dawn slipped her shoes from her feet, she left the shelter of her car and made her way to the water’s edge. Her hands grasped about her neck, pulling on a fine chain that held a gold ring. Her fingers struggled to find the chain’s clasp. With a huff, she instead caught hold of the ring and chain together and yanked. The chain slithered from her hand and fell to the sand below. Dawn ignored it in order to stare at the ring in her hand. Then in a sudden movement, her fist clenched, her arm drew back, and with a smothered scream she cast the ring away from her. She watched it disappear, swallowed up by the churning water. Dawn collapsed into the shallow waves. Her face was wet, she realized. She didn’t know if it was from tears of relief or from tears of sorrow. Or maybe there were no tears, and it was all just the rain. It didn’t matter, she decided, and so she sat in the gentle surf and just breathed. Eventually the rain stopped. Charcoal clouds became white, and Dawn watched as a distant beam of light cleaved through the clouds and fell from the sky. She watched as that single beam grew and spread until the world was bright again. ‘Some things are better broken,’ she thought. 44 By Amelia Cuevas In the dark forests of the North, there lived a small village of shepherds. By the first light of dawn, the men would take their flock to a lee of a hill where no trees grew, but was rich in grass that produced the thickest wool and the strongest milk. The lee was necessary to the village, despite it being far away from its walls. An inferior pasture would lead to clothes that were nearly warm enough, and milk that was nearly strong enough. In the Southern lands, nearly would be good enough, but the shepherds of the Northern forest could not survive the harsh winters on anything but the best. Three generations ago, men could recall their grandfathers telling them of an older village that was nestled on top of the hill. A village, they called it, for their grandchildren had no other word for it. But truly, it was more than that. The sheep were not raised for survival, but for the prices Southern ladies would pay for a shawl that could only be worn on their coldest weeks. There were more than just sheep in those days. Jewelers, poets, and great chiefs once dwelt at the top of the hill, but no longer. That citadel was deserted, and the grandfathers never said why. Of course, most could guess the cause. And that was Vargus. Vargus was the beast that wandered the top of the hill. For those who had seen him, he appeared to be in the shape of a wolf, although one that was as large as a horse. He only appeared once the sun had sunk, and retreated when it rose again in the morning. With a black pelt whose color was only broken by his yellow eyes and bright red of his jaws, he blended in with the midnight hour, until he was said to be a part of it. Before Vargus had a chance to appear, the sheep would already be placed within their stalls, and the men would be inside homes with locked doors. Without fail, they could hear the monster’s distant howling once the last trace of sun had gone. Occasionally, they would find the mangled body of a lost sheep whose master had forsaken it in order to save his own life. On rare occasions, they would find the body of a man who had not reached the safety of his house in time. Sometimes, he would be on the threshold of his home, with his hand on the knob. When that happened, it was noticed by one and all that the corpses had only been touched so far as to kill them. Clearly, Vargus was not after meat, but only cared for the fierce pleasure of the hunt. This increased the feeling of the villagers that Vargus was not a true wolf of flesh and blood, but rather an unholy creature that had come to persecute them. 45 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal “Dawn, sweetie, some things are just better broken.” Vargus stretched on, and the shadows grew longer, every man in the company saw that Skaldi had not returned. Staying longer would place them in danger of encountering Vargus on the way home, and so they all decided that one life was not worth the life of them all. Besides, a quick death from Vargus might be better than a slow death from the freezing wind. In this village, there lived a young man by the name of Skaldi. Like the rest of the villagers, he lived his life within the familiar routine the livestock required. He was the only son of parents long since gone. In life, they had not been rich, and had been forced to barter their sheep to pay a debt. For an inheritance, they left Skaldi with only five sheep. His was a hard life, but having known nothing else, he did not complain, and put all his effort into his small herd. By diligently caring for his five sheep, he could manage just enough to avoid freezing or starving to death in the winter. He changed from a youth to a man, but one that was weathered and thin. On the seventh winter of this kind, a plague fell upon the sheep. All herds lost some animals; Skaldi’s lost four. Skaldi had not been able to catch the ram, and in fact had given up looking for it several hours ago. He had tried to return back to the lee, and to human company. However, he found that he could not find his way back, so dense were the trees around him. He felt the stupor which had clouded his mind return with more force than ever before, and he wandered insensibly into the woods, not knowing, nor caring, where he went. A sort of despair fell on Skaldi, one that compelled him to continue with his old tasks like clockwork. He rose in the morning, ate whatever food remained to him, and brought his last animal to the lee without noticing it. Distantly, he understood that his sheep, a ram, could not provide milk, meaning that his already limited food would only diminish. And so, equally distantly, he began rationing his food. Once this decision was reached, his body assumed the wasted appearance that his mind had already accepted. The other villagers watched this with a distant and merciless pity. They all knew far too well what would happen to him when the sun would cease to rise, but the snow would continue to fall. They also knew that the plague had diminished their stock, and they doubted that they would have any food or clothes to spare. And so, they turned a blind eye to him, and simply waited for the inevitable. They could see nothing else that could be done. The days passed on, much like they always had. So it came as something of a surprise one morning when Skaldi’s ram started sprinting at full speed away from the lee. This unexpected event was enough to shock Skaldi out of his stupor. The ram had never been prone to wander in the past, and he had no reason to believe that he would continue to run for much longer. In his condition, he could not chase after it, but he could, at the least, follow it. He looked up at the sky. The sun was not yet at its peak. He still had enough time to find it and return home. The other shepherds watched him leave the sunny lee for the dense forest that lay beyond. Skaldi did not ask them for help, and they saw no reason to follow. But as the day 46 As night drifted on, Skaldi’s pace had not slackened, although he stumbled and staggered more than usual. Whatever moon there may have been was obscured by a thick mantle of clouds, and the rising cold numbed his limbs. Almost without noticing it, he lost his footing and fell. It suddenly seemed to him that he was falling farther than he should have if he was on a level surface. Either a ditch or a ravine had opened itself to him, and he doubted he had the strength to rise again. A solid wall arrested his fall, knocking the wind out of him. So thick was the darkness around him, that he could not get his bearings. It seemed that he had fallen on a pile of rocks, if the pricks in his hands and feet were any indication. The air seemed to have lost some of its chill, which led him to believe that whatever pit he had fallen into, it was sheltered enough from the wind. In the distance, a wolf howled. He closed his eyes, and found that it made no difference. He was suddenly aware that he must have fallen asleep, for the sky had changed. Where was once only darkness was now filled with the somber light of a full moon. Threadbare clouds, like tufts of wool, were illuminated by the cold light. Looking around him, he could see that the ravine he thought he was in was really a cave positioned next to a small slope. The prickling sensation in his limbs made him look down. And he saw that what he thought were rocks were actually the splintered remains of bones. Human bones. The horror he felt was only compounded by the sound of heavy pawsteps coming from outside. A breath, deep and heavy, arose nearby. Within moments, a black head with yellow eyes was visible in the mouth of the cave. Vargus. Skaldi had never seen him with his own eyes before, yet he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was him. Skaldi had told himself before that he was prepared to meet him, and even to die by him. Now he knew how wrong he was. He wanted to 47 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal But certain villagers pointed out the pawmarks that Vargus left behind. The front right paw was always skewed, hinting at a deformity. Clearly, a demon wouldn’t be impacted by typical weaknesses of the body? These arguments were given only half-heartedly, as not even the skeptics could deny that Vargus was a plague on the village. get up, to run, to scream, but he found that he was rooted to the spot. The beast had come closer to him now, he could feel his breath on his face. He saw the lips of the monster curl upwards, revealing the mouth that was as bright red as the elders had warned. Even the teeth were red, Skaldi realized. But Vargus did not strike; instead, he left his teeth bared while he stared at Skaldi with a fierce expression of savage delight. Then, to Skaldi’s surprise, he began to speak. “Ah.” He said with a voice that was more of a growl, “Are you my brother? Have they forgotten you too?” A harsh snarl escaped from Vargus’s throat, and Skaldi realized that he was laughing. “Really? Then why have you come to my house? Forgive my lack of courtesy, but I have no meal or fine feasts to announce your arrival, brother. You have come several hundred years too late, I fear.” Without understanding what possessed him to speak up, Skaldi replied, “I would not eat what you have to offer, Wolf.” Vargus’s lips curled up higher into a snarl, showing more of his unnaturally sharp and bright fangs. “No, I suppose not. After all, I only kill what is already yours. The sweetest meat comes from the glory in taking it. That alone has remained to me, long after I left behind the need for meat, brother.” Skaldi realized that what he had taken to be a snarl was actually a grin. One that did not convey mirth, but rather an animal’s savage and unfeeling joy at finding food that could not flee, but could still provide sport in the killing. He wished that Vargus would snarl at him instead. “But I suppose that they have forgotten about the hunt, too. I suppose that’s what comes from forgetting me. Once men only think of sheep, that’s what they must inevitably become. Such a pity.” The final words, delivered in such a sneering and malicious tone, roused a strain of anger in Skaldi. “The pity only comes from you. Without you, we would be free to feed our flocks without fear of your teeth! Without you, more would survive the winter! Without you, we never would have left the village on the hill!” Once again, a laughing gurgle. “That village only exists because of me. Don’t you realize, brother, that there was once a time when they praised me for the very deeds that I do now? Only, I was able to give them more in those days. I suppose that is why they have forgotten me.” “Well, I remember,” Vargus continued with a growl in his voice. “I remember when the songs we sang were filled with blood. When our swords hissed in the steam of men’s dying breath. When our houses were filled with the riches of the North. I remember the day when they swore that they and their children’s children would follow my lead. I remember, but they forgot. “What a disappointment their children’s children turned out to be! Fat and lazy Southerners came, and instead of taking what easily could have been theirs, they gave! Jewels in exchange for wool, Fruit in exchange for meat! Jewels and gold and the riches of the sun-kissed lands could have been exchanged just as well with iron! Isn’t that enough to make any man turn in his grave, brother?” Skaldi had listened in silence, but now started up, in a voice that was somehow quieter than it had been before. “And yet, you do not act as though your people should give you their loyalty. Is this how you want them to remember?” Vargus shook himself like a dog; Skaldi recognized it as his way of shrugging his shoulders. “If sheep-men and their sheep die, what does it matter? They chose to forsake me long before I forsook them. If I am to be remembered, it is to be as I am. I can no longer eat meat, human dwellings are no longer for me, my name has been taken from me. Yet, I am still myself, not even death can take that from me, brother.” “I am NOT your brother.” “No, I can see that now. What a pity. It would be nice to have followers once again. But tell me, Skaldi, what stops me from killing you now?” The grin had never left the wolf ’s face until this moment, and a true snarl arose in its place. Before the conversation, this would have been enough to scare Skaldi into frozen submission to his fate, but now nothing could scare him so much as that mirthless smile. “Because, wolf, killing me would mean that no one else remembers.” Vargus stopped mid-growl. Skaldi held his breath as the seconds passed. Finally, the wolf resumed the grin that he had previously discarded. “So be it. Brother.” “What are you talking about?” 48 49 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Skaldi still did not have the strength to look away, much less to run. But he still managed to blurt out, “You cannot be my brother.” “Oh?” Vargus said with a mocking voice. “Have you forgotten too, brother? Did you genuinely think that there was only one village in the North? That yours was the only people? Is becoming weak yourself the only thing that guarantees that you forget the weak?” Skaldi could not answer. Skaldi knew that the ram would not survive, he just never thought that he would live to see it again. But for the first time, he wondered why it died. It was just an animal, incapable of remembering, or swearing, ancient oaths. The only interest the wolf had in it was that the village needed it to survive. Whether they died from the jaws of a beast or the cruel fangs of winter made no difference to him. He looked at it again. The ground around it had no blood or signs of a struggle. Vargus had left it here. A pit, deeper than the one caused by his hunger, came to him as he realized why. It was with great difficulty that he turned away and left it untouched. His legs were faint, and his head swam from lack of food. He needed meat, but not meat that was meant to buy his loyalty. On climbing the slope that had driven him to the den of Vargus, he vaguely saw a haze rising from the top of the forest. Smoke. The cooking fires from the village must have just been lit. From his vantage point, slight as it was, he could see a path that would lead him back home. As the only known survivor of a night spent outside, he knew they would listen to him, but he did not know the exact words to say. He only knew what he must convince them to do. The village would not see any humans this winter, and hopefully, neither would Vargus. Skaldi didn’t know where they would go, or whether the wolf and his ancient vow would follow them. Either way, it didn’t really matter. Starting over was not the worst path that they could take. 50 Horse-Face By Isabella Wentworth Life never seemed to have been kind to Kathryn Newman since day one. She was inconveniently special. Her uncle Oliver said so himself. Being born the youngest in a family of Magiis, she was given the stronger portion of the family’s power. However, not only was the power strong, it was heavy, and dark. It was always known as the burden, and it was always passed down to every child until it was stuck with the youngest. Her family was always “encouraging” her to keep her power hidden, to lock it all away. Her three older brothers acted like they were so lucky not to have the burden on their shoulders anymore, and her uncle acted like he was in complete control of her. He even tried teaching her various forms of poetry as a way to control her abilities, and he made her write at least five of them every day. Sometimes he had her write two extra poems whenever he could tell his niece was getting riled up. However, despite her family’s bravado, Kathryn knew that they were afraid of her and the darkness she held. School didn’t make things any easier. The other children considered her to be weird because of her interests in myths and legends and they mocked her for it. She received a small variety of names over the years: Kathy the Weird, Kathy the Ugly, Kathy the Dumb, Kaffy Taffy, and Horse-face, for her big teeth and a somewhat horse-like smile she used to bear in her school photos. Trenton Crawford was the one responsible for that name, and he didn’t stop there. He would make horse-related jokes about Kathryn too, and sometimes he’d try getting her to put on that smile of hers just for a laugh. “Hey, Horse-face! Come on and show me your teeth! Show me your teeth, Horsey! Come on! Neiiigh!” Kathryn wasn’t sure how much longer she could tolerate him. She despised him deeply, so much that she’d write in her notebook: I loathe him, I loathe him, how I loathe Trenton Crawford. Eventually, Trenton really struck a nerve. He had made a caricature of Kathryn with distinct horse-like features to her face, and he had handed out copies of it to numerous students. It was even slapped on her locker. Everyone Kathryn passed giggled around her and pointed. The whole school seemed to constantly tease her to bare her teeth. She wanted to tear Trenton to pieces. 51 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal And with that, he turned and sauntered out of the cave. Skaldi watched him go until the moon was once again obscured by the clouds, and he was left in darkness once again. The next time Skaldi opened his eyes, the sun was shining through the cave entrance. He could see that the morning dew still clung to the grass. The bones that he had lain on the night before were still there. He rose up quickly from the ground and began to frantically brush his clothes off. Looking behind him, he saw something that had escaped his notice. A raised stone platform was the resting place of a single man. Unlike the other skeletons, which were scattered haphazardly around the floor, this one was arranged almost as if it was sleeping. A sword was clutched in his right hand, which even from a distance looked twisted and deformed. Lying beside him was a banner that had faded and frayed with time. Yet the sigil on it was still clearly that of a monstrous wolf bearing down on a horse and a rider. Skaldi turned and left the cave. Only a few feet away from the mouth a brown mass caught his eye. At first, he took it to be an unusually large mound of grass that had withered and decayed in the midst of the living turf. But on further inspection, he knew it to be the mangled body of the ram. Aside from the wounds that had killed it, it was left untouched. Skaldi was not surprised to see the misshapen tracks of a wolf beside it. During one of her classes, she ended up writing the words: Trenton A Bitter Taste on the Tongue By Coby Crisler Trenton Trenton Crawford How dare you call I sit on my crumbled curb as the nearby highway gorges on cars. A deep breath, and the putrid stench of the neighbor’s trash floods in. Their yard is a faded yellow, the same yellow as mine. The neighbor across the street, their yard is green. A plastic green that reflects the sun. I watch birds pick at little black rubber bits nestled between the blades of grass. me Horse-face? You ought to know your place. Now, with no remorse, the face of a horse. It didn’t seem like much, just a simple, hateful little poem. It wasn’t like anyone else would have to read it. Only Kathryn would know about it. No harm done, right? The next day, however, things took a turn for the weird. As the hours passed, Trenton’s face appeared to change. His eyes got bigger, his teeth became thick, and his ears grew long and pointy. By the time school was drawing to a close, Trenton had the head of a horse, and the day ended in chaos. People freaked out, pictures went viral. The boy’s parents, an ambulance, and the authorities were called. No one was sure what to make of the situation, and it was likely that the press would go wild over the news later. Kathryn was silently bewildered by what occurred, yet for a little bit of time she had privately relished the moment. Her uncle wasn’t too happy about it though. Magiis weren’t meant to be known to the public. They were meant to be hidden. Any phenomenon that a Magii was responsible for, even if it was just a prank, threatened to expose their kind to the world. Oliver was quick to scold his niece for her actions and made sure she wrote a reverse on her curse. Trenton would be back to normal by the following morning. I am surrounded by radiant greens that fade and bleed into each other. Grasses caress the roots of trees, and trees stretch to touch sky, and sky cradles the earth with its breath. I feel my face, my arms, and my chest. I feel my legs. I take off my shoes, my socks. I press my feet into soil. My neighbors wouldn’t mind if I borrowed their water hose? Only for a moment. Only to make some fresh mud for myself. Mud can be good for you, for the skin. My neighbors might watch from their window. They would whisper to each other, then giggle. They’d want to join me and the soil. We would laugh and dance in our homemade mud. Paint each other’s faces. Chase around a tall tree, its branches chasing us. We could invite the worms over for tea! Pine needles and flowering weeds. For dessert we would offer dirt from our yards. We would all eat our fill, one worm would cough. He would cough and cough, long painful heavings. Over and over until from his mouth pour little black rubber bits. Despite the harsher training she’d be given, Kathryn wouldn’t let Oliver stop her. Finally, she could give her enemies the punishments they deserved. At first, she’d start off with rather mild curses. In time she would slowly let them become more and more extreme, until her uncle would be no match for her power. I am back on my curb. Asphalt before me, and smog above me. A screaming highway, faded yellow yards, and moldy trash. I walk to my front door, resting my hand on the handle. Looking behind me once more my eyes land on the birds across the street. They continue to peck and pick at the plastic grass. I swallow the bile on my tongue and step inside. 52 53 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal I curse you to have A breeze threads itself into my skin, my bones, plucking my nerves. I close my eyes. Listening to the highway and its cars. I feel the cold cement beneath me. I breathe in the mold and mildew. I sit for a few more moments. Letting those sensations fill me and pulse through my veins. The highway sounds like a river, water tossing over itself and crashing into dirt. The cement is cold stone, as large as a boulder. The odor fills my lungs again, but I hold my coughs. Those microorganisms must work so hard. By Breanne White unaware that I’m with him at all other than the hand that guides me forward. Oddly enough, the man is downright giddy, happier than I’ve ever seen him in our six months as boyfriend and girlfriend. His anticipation buzzes through my veins, warm like the vibrations from heated bulbs above our heads. Moths take flight in my stomach as I find the nerve to step out into the late-night streets. With only the streetlamps to provide light, the path I take is dim and eerie. The lack of people bustling about makes the road seem slim and compact. The buildings inch ever closer, like large walls gradually closing in. There’s a slight fear that if I stand here for too long, the brick structures will slip over me, crushing my flesh and bones in an attempt for a simple kiss of a star-crossed lover across the street. As we walk, more and more people join us, singular individuals coming together to create a large crowd. Not nearly the entire city, but a decent number compared to that of the people still caught in far-off lands created in sleep. Some faces are familiar, while others I’ve never seen before. None of them speak, and yet, their presence alone fills me with a deep-seated hollowness, a hunger that tunnels through my stomach like rabid claws of a monster determined to be set free of a fleshy dungeon. I don’t know how I found myself here. One second, I was peacefully asleep, dreaming of an enchanted land made of a Thanksgiving feast: mountains of turkey and craters of mashed potatoes filled with enough gravy to swim in. The next, I was walking toward the door, caught in a beam of enchantment—a melodic call beckoning me from slumber like the Pied Piper playing his flute to summon me. My stomach rumbles, and I cover my hand over my center, my eyes wandering toward a dark business across the street. The dark windows are now a mirror reflecting back my image. But, it isn’t the pastries lining the shelves that catch my eye, nor the image of a lost girl lonely in the condensing street. It’s the familiar facial features and bright eyes peeking just over my shoulder. Ethan takes my hand with a wide smile, giving it a small squeeze as he tugs me away from the girl in the glass and down a road that, for all I know, could open the gates of hell and swallow me whole. The path we take is layered in a dense fog, emitting a tune I feel rather than hear. The melody travels like bugs under my skin, painting small bumps over my flesh. My eyes flick over to Ethan, though the man doesn’t seem to acknowledge the sinister trail we’re walking. In fact, he looks just the same as always. In the darkness of a black hole, Ethan acts as if the sun is blazing from above in the middle of the night. His sun-kissed skin is warm in my hand, his smile bright with excitement. He’s dressed in his typical attire: a letterman jacket from high school and a pair of shaded jeans. His hair is tousled as if he, too, had just woken from slumber to follow an unknown call through the abandoned streets. So, why does he seem so different? My stomach rumbles again, though Ethan doesn’t seem to notice the growl of Godzilla echoing from my midsection. In fact, it’s as if he’s 54 My feet leave the cement, landing on a cushion of grass, and my eyes grow wide as the large circus tent and food trucks come into view. Carnival music plays softly in the distance, a slow, melancholic tune that grows in volume as we ascend. Cotton candy, popcorn, and fried food permeate the air, though the scent does nothing to tempt my hunger. The smell may as well be rancid, an offer that’s already well past its expiration date. Chills run up my arms as we walk past the many food carts, unease triggering my fight or flight senses. My legs move mechanically as I contemplate returning to the buffet of my literal dreams. My limbs are like jelly, quivering as my boyfriend continues to drag me toward a fairground that could only lead to sin. Ethan and the others walk onward with large smiles on their faces, pointing toward various attractions as we pass them by. Cackles and howls echo deep into the hollow grounds, the sound of monsters in the night and not civil human beings. They leap and jump through the air, pumping their fists, as they make some sort of internal transformation. The people around seem far more animal than man, with large waving gestures and hackles that rise upon their necks. I swallow hard and grip tight to Ethan’s hand, using his warmth as comfort in this time of distress. He turns toward me with a wide smile, the flashing lights reflected in a set of cold and lifeless eyes. Gone is the warmth and comfort I found only hours ago, and in its place, I find not familiarity and care but a stranger who looks straight through me. It’s as if his soul has left his body. Packed its things and vacated its fleshand-bone home. The man has shut down shop for the evening, leaving behind nothing but hunger and wicked glee spotted through dark shop windows. Only my reflection in the dark glass looks nothing like me. The girl I see is timid and afraid, cowering away from the monsters that have taken over the streets. 55 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Wicked Pleasures I slowly slip my hand from his palm and back away, gasping as brilliant light filters out of a large red and white circus tent. The crowd rushes for the open flaps, screeching like apes in an uprising. Warmth trickles in my gut, the first currents of electricity traveling through my veins and bringing life to my icy hands. My feet stalk forward, moving with a mind of their own as if my soul also decided this was a great time for a vacation and I were a mere puppet, drawn to the same deadly bug zapper as the rest of them. Though it isn’t the man’s outfit that calls to me, nor his location. No. It’s that smile on his face, the bright soul beaming from his eye sockets in a crowd of lost citizens. While most of these guests have checked out, he remains present, and while I know that should disturb me, I find just the opposite. Comfort. Belonging. Acceptance. “Welcome, friends,” the ringmaster grins, his arms outstretched as he slowly turns to peer around the crowd entering the tent. “Come one, come all. Gather round and heed what I have to say.” My heart flutters like a bird taking flight in my chest, his ankle caught in a chain that prevents him from escaping my rib cage. The bird strikes forward and I jolt, fighting the urge to run at the man in the ring. “The prophecy is true. The darkness descends, and you feel the call to join in the battle of nightmares in the night. In your hearts, you know the truth. You feel the shiver in your bones, the need to break the constraints of society and break free.” A shiver runs up my spine as if called upon by name, directed by the circus leader on demand. “You’ve been drawn here because you’re bored with your meticulous lives. You’ve lost your way in life, and in your deepest of hearts, you hold a secret craving for more.” The man controls the crowd with his narrative, keeping each one of us on the edge of our seats as we cling to his every word. His voice is lyrical and wondrous, a symphony all on its own that calls me out directly, speaking the truths I could never admit. 56 “Look no further, ladies and gents. All of this is here for you. Eat, drink, and be your true selves,” the ringmaster says as he slowly lifts his hat and presses the rim to his chest. His golden hair sits atop his head, a halo of promise that falls over his eyes as he takes a deep bow. Moths flutter through my stomach, nibbling at the lining as the crowd lifts to their feet and lets out an eardrum-bursting cheer that would put a chimp’s shriek to shame. All at once, they rush out of the tent, pumping fists and swinging from the rafters, screaming in a way that sounds so far from English it’s foreign to my ears. All the while I stand frozen, staring into the eyes of the man standing in the center of chaos. Loud cackles draw my attention toward the exit, and by the time I turn back around, the ringmaster is gone. I rock on my feet and draw near the center, my heart throbbing in my throat as I approach the large podium. There isn’t a trap door or any hint as to where the man could have gone. Only the thinning cloud of smoke he left in his wake. Unsure of what to do, I wander around the circus, staring at the blinking rides and other attractions with dissatisfaction. As a kid, I loved going to the circus. The scent of funnel cakes and corn dogs. The excitement of standing in lines and the loss of my stomach with the woosh of an intense ride. Not to mention the main act, including clowns, elephants, and men who swallow swords that would surely pierce their guts. However, today, the whimsy that once filled me with joy comes up short. It’s as if I’ve been offered fillet mignon and received an old boot covered in dog feces instead. The rides hold no excitement, and the food makes my empty stomach churn acid. The lights overwhelm my senses, and I have no desire to see the act put on by the horrific affair. I stalk through the crowd with my hands in my pockets, contemplating leaving this strange fairground to go home and tuck into my comforter. As I move toward the empty streets, something seems to pull me backward. An invisible string in my gut. A hunger and promise of food somewhere in this mysterious place. I follow the feeling over the grassy ground, past a line of porta potties, and around a lemonade stand. I walk before a circular cage, the engine of a motorcycle purring in tune with the roar of my abdomen. That feeling of promise tugs harder, and I continue forward, stopping in my tracks as I 57 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Within the tent, a raised podium stands tall, lifting one man above the rest as if he needed a platform to stand out. Not only is this guy taller than most men I’ve come across, but he’s also dressed as a ringmaster with a brilliant red coat and black top hat. From the moment I set eyes on him, I’m entranced, my mind tossing my previous doubts in the recycling bin and pressing delete. The ringleader scans the crowd once more, drawing his tongue slowly across his lips as if I’m not the only starving creature in this circus tent. That simple action flips my stomach, not with fear or adrenaline, but want. With one gesture I’m curious, unsettled, and hungry, though not for the snacks on offer. find a couple making out in a dark corner. Only as I focus harder, does it becomes clear to me that they aren’t kissing at all. The ringmaster is leaning back against a large trailer, his face buried in a woman’s slender neck. Her blonde hair hangs over his face, the tips wet, painted in dripping crimson. My stomach catches in my throat, and I lose the ability to scream. I start to back away from them, only to find that deep-seated hunger drawing me in his direction. He takes my hand before leading me back to the party, only the innocent fair I once walked through is no more. In its place, I find debauchery and disorder. The night of nightmares is much more than a sentiment. It’s the calling of hollow souls bringing life to the seven deadly sins. Gluttony hangs from the windows of food trucks, stuffing its faces with anything it can get its hands on. Nacho cheese dripps from its chin as it eats as if they will never feast again. Greed stands behind them, shoving its pockets with cash from an open register, while fighting off others who trail behind them waiting for their turn. I will myself to check on the woman at his feet, or at least run for my life. But I find myself immobile, trapped as if I had entered that cage, and the motorcycle was racing around me in quick circles. My eyes are glued to the man in the top hat, the blood dripping down his chin, and the light of life and consciousness in his gaze. Lust hides in dark corners and out in the open, an erotic show put on with the slapping of flesh and howls of pleasure. Beyond them, Envy awaits, watching the carnal activity with harsh gazes that could bruise with a single glance. “I don’t believe it,” he whispers, and I freeze as his knuckles travel lightly across my cheek. His eyes flick down my body, and in his stare, I can picture myself in his arms, my life force dripping between heaving chests, honored for this man to feed from my neck. Wrath and Pride battle it out in the center, swinging long swords and what looks like pieces of machinery stolen from rides. All the while, Sloth sits off to the side, lazily watching the torrid torment as the circle around a not-so-merry-go-round. “Of all the people I attract to my festivities, I never expected to see you.” His thumb traces over my bottom lip, and my breath hitches as he ever so slowly leans toward me. “This is our feast, love,” the ringmaster purrs in my ear, his hand cupping my throat as he directs my head toward the people who have clearly lost their minds. “Have a look around and find yourself something tasty.” His lips press against mine, and a sharp jolt strikes through my heart. The ringmaster’s hands cup my neck, and like a puppet controlled by unseen strings, I open up to him, allowing his tongue to enter my mouth. His hands slip into my hair, and I find myself meeting his tongue stroke for stroke. It’s a feeding frenzy, a carnal trading of flavor and lust. In this moment, I don’t know where I end, and this man begins. We collide like stars in the sky, the very earth rumbles beneath our feet as if ricocheted by the strike of a second Big Bang. The ringmaster releases me with a gentle shove, and I trip over my shoes as I walk away from him. My heart hammers heavily in my ears, war drums breaking out in my time of need. I have no idea what’s going on here, but I can say with certainty that I’m not going to participate. The instincts that led me here were wrong, and my head had the right idea when I thought about leaving. I only hope it isn’t too late. After what I’d just witnessed, you’d think he would taste like copper. Bloody pennies and guilt. Though as I cling to him, I find the taste is so much more. Ambrosia picked fresh from the vine, a combination of sweet and sinful that curls the toes in my shoes. When the ringmaster pulls back, I stand as a marble statue, my teeth embedded in my lip as I try to conjure the fear that I should be stricken by. Though fear I do not find. Instead, I find myself licentious. Awed. Hungry. However, this time, it isn’t my stomach that craves something. No. This desire festers a little south of that border in a place where feasting equates to bliss. 58 I make my way toward the exit, hoping the man doesn’t drag me back to the place where those with missing souls destroy the night. I glance around the crowd as I go, shocked as I stalk through the embodiment of sin. People fuck, and people fight. Animals claw their way into locked structures, screeching in frustration as the door refuses to budge. Not a single person notices me walk past them. They’re all off in their own worlds, letting their true selves shine in the dim light of the crescent moon that brought them here. I spot a familiar figure off on his own, caught on the border as if he hadn’t found the sin of his choice. 59 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal The ringmaster’s head snaps to attention, his eyes wide as he drops his victim to the ground. He steps over the blonde as if she were nothing but a wrinkle in a rug. His gaze centered on me as if I were the one standing on a podium with a spotlight. “You poor thing,” the ringmaster tuts, tracing his knuckles down my arm in a way that elicits an electrical current over my skin. “You must be famished.” “Ethan!” The name rushes out of me as I fling myself in his direction, clutching my hands to his shoulders as I crash into him. “There you are.” He grins, a smirk that turns my stomach to lead. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He takes my hips and pulls me closer, completely oblivious to the danger we’re privy to. “Come on, Ethan,” I whine, my voice breathy with panic. “We’ve got to get out of here.” I tug at his hand, and he jerks me back, wrapping me into a tight embrace with his hands on my ass. Ethan tucks his face into my neck, and my muscles clench with the reminder of the scene I witnessed only moments ago. Thankfully, Ethan doesn’t eat me. Well, not in the literal sense, anyway. His tongue laps at my pulse, his lips sucking at my flesh. His intentions grow clearer as he starts to paw at my clothes, slowly lifting my shirt to reveal my breasts. I smack at his hands and try to pull away, but he only clings tighter to me, his palms bringing pain to my backside as he takes fistfuls of my ass. Panic swirls in my head as I realize I how wrong I was to believe a bit of the man I know could still be present. Ethan wasn’t unaffected by the sinful environment. He was only waiting to find his victim. “Ethan, no!” I wail, though Ethan doesn’t seem to hear me as he continues to fight my clothes. His hands fiddle with the button on my jeans, impatient as he digs for the treasure I have yet to give him. I try reasoning with him, but he presses on, his deep laugh echoing maliciously in my ear. The man thrives off my refusal, gathering my complaint like a roaring crowd egging him on. It’s as if my fighting back is the reaction he seeks. I don’t want this. Not here. Not now. Not with the eyes of a demon at my back and the temptation of a sinner in my soul. My vision blurs, and I pinch my eyes closed, doing my best to shove the starving monster into the darkness and stanch his hunger. But it’s no use. I’ve found a tasty morsel, and the more he pushes me, the more I want to snack. My hands cup Ethan’s head, and I pull him down to me, nuzzling my nose into the apex of his neck. The man smells like a forbidden delight. An all-too-familiar mixture of sweetness and sin that calls to me stronger than any siren’s song. Warmth fills my stomach, and the hunger I’ve felt all night expands tenfold. Though even starved, I’m elated. Caught on cloud nine without a care for the fall that awaits me beneath the night sky. To my disappointment, the sensation doesn’t last nearly as long as I was hoping. The flavor on my tongue turns bitter, and I drop my meal, both appalled and delighted with my actions. I lift my hand to my mouth, drawing my finger through the wetness that covers my lips. My finger slips inside, and my eyes roll back in my head as the saccharinity drags over my tongue. A soft chuckle echoes behind me, and I turn to find none other than the ringmaster standing in the shadows. He stands next to the lemonade stand, a look of pride on his stretched lips. His arm gestures back to the crowd, and all I can see is fruit, fresh and ready to pick from the vine. I delve back into the mass of people, searching for that same sinister scent that makes my mouth pool with saliva. A woman stalks toward me with a man in tow, offering me a wink as she passes me by. I shake my head and look back to the crowd, shocked to find there are more than two monsters at what should be a harmless event. All around the carnival, people are feasting on prey, sucking from necks, wrists, and even a woman’s thighs. Suddenly, I recall these aren’t tasty treats but rather people with hearts, minds, and souls, even if they have vacated their bodies. Holding my hands to my chest, I slowly back away from the crowd, horrified by my actions. Though even the terror that strikes me doesn’t stop the craving. The truth is, I want nothing more than to tear through this crowd, ripping at the necks of these people and using their heads as a goblet to pour over my mouth. My back knocks into someone, and I turn around to find a brunette woman lying out on the ground behind me. She looks up at me with dark eyes and a wild smile on her face as she clings to a large club. “Oh my gosh,” I offer my hand to lift her back to her feet. “I’m so sor–” My gaze settles on the woman’s club, or more likely the red substance dripping from the end of it. I peek over her shoulder, and my eyes settle over a man on the ground, motionless with a severe head wound. I watch his chest for movement, finding that the hunger only grows within me with each breath the man doesn’t take. My teeth sink into his neck, and the flavor trickles over my tongue, curling the toes in my shoes and setting my soul on fire. I cling to Ethan’s “No worries,” the brunette cackles. Her eyes, uninhabited as she slaps her club against her palm, that feral wildness emanating from her pores. “We’re just having a good time. Right?” her eyes light up with wicked 60 61 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal “Come on, baby. Don’t be a poor sport,” he laughs, his breath smelling like buttered popcorn as his lips brush gently over mine. “The fun’s just getting started.” head by his hair, tugging at the thick tendrils as his life force travels down my throat. glee as she pulls the club back, fully prepared to smack me over the head with it. Without even thinking, I lunge at her, tackling her to the ground with a savage growl I’ve only ever heard from large felines in the wilderness. My teeth sink into her neck, and she screams, her hands pressing to my face to push me away. Catching the woman’s wrist, I straddle her, drinking from the vein as if I haven’t had a proper meal in my eighteen years of life. Images flood my mind—vile, horrendous videos of vicious intent. Though the clips I witness don’t contain the sins brought on by this terror carnival. The images I receive are of everyday life. A woman selling drugs to teenagers in the park. A group of people with massive firearms in a crowded bank. A boyfriend savagely taking his girlfriend by force. The images flood in one after another, blurring the lines of one kill and another until I feel sloshy and full. My fingers untangle from deep red curls, and I leap back as the petite woman falls to the ground. Beyond her is a trail of bodies, each with gaping wounds left by me. People run by without a look in my direction, ignorant of the carnage I’ve decorated the ground with. They simply step over the bodies, sometimes leaping over them like acrobats diving through hoops. They all remain unbothered by the death that permeates the open air as if the violent act is to be expected. The liquid in my belly turns on me, sloshing against the lining of my stomach with the threat of traveling in the other direction. My arms wrap around my waist as I backtrack. My mind toying with the idea of turning myself into the police. I’m a murderer. A serial killer. A fucking cannibal. I belong behind bars. Locked away where I can’t feast upon human flesh or otherwise. Guilt weighs down my stomach, a cannonball settled in my gut instead of traveling through me. I’ve committed the vilest of sins. Caved into the temptation of taste in exchange for the lives of others. My head jerks toward the exit, but instead of seeing my escape route, I find the ringmaster. Unlike Ethan’s eyes that seemed to look through me, these actually see me. Cherish me. Crave me. The ringmaster crooks his finger, and I go to him without consideration, my head hanging and my tail tucked between my legs. I was out of 62 “Why so blue, love?” he asks as he tucks a strand of blood-stained hair behind my ear. “I’m a murderer,” I confess, closing my eyes as the truth strikes through me. The ringmaster carves a light path down my cheek, lifting my chin with soft fingers as he forces me to meet his eyes. I try to drop my gaze before I can spot his disappointment, but before I can look away, I spot amusement in his icy blue gaze. To my surprise, the man isn’t the least bit upset with me. In fact, he’s downright delighted. Instead of punishing me, he laughs, tossing his head back as he finds humor in my downfall. “No need to feel guilty, pet,” he chortles, cupping my cheeks with both hands. I wait for the other shoe to drop, for his teeth to sink into my neck and take what I have stolen. But instead of displeasure or contempt, I spot sincerity in his crystal blue orbs. I try to search beneath the surface for something more but come out with understanding. The man means what he says, and what’s more, he urges me to believe him with one slow blink. “Come with me,” he takes my hand, and I follow him through the food trucks, watching as people flow like the rivers in the underworld: hatred, oblivion, misery, and fire. “Can’t you see it?” he asks, watching me through the corner of his eye. “We’re all monsters here.” My gaze travels back to the illegal substances spread across the fairgrounds, their violent, unruly actions opening my eyes for the first time since I awoke only hours ago. These people are no vessels absent of souls. Rather, their depths are dark. Tainted. Decayed. The images of my feast trickle back to mind, the depravity and wickedness making my mouth water as I stand witness to not just their treacherous displays but the thoughts they hide in the light of day. The guilt has dissipated, and even though I’m quite full, I want nothing more than to eradicate them all. To feast until their blood bursts from my throat like a fountain, painting the squashed and dead grass in crimson. “No need to fret, my pet,” the ringmaster purrs, his fingers brushing across my neck as he gathers my hair and drapes it over my shoulder. His lips press to my flesh, and I groan as he slowly kisses my pulse. 63 Fiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Her screams mellow out to moans, and I cling to her arm, swallowing mouthfuls of sweetness until the flavor runs putrid. I drop the woman’s hand and move on to my next course, draining body after body, draining them until I can no longer stand the taste. control, and even a monster should be ashamed of my behavior. I’ve ruined his event, and I must pay the consequences, even if that price is my life. “Take your time. Enjoy your meal. Cherish it while you can.” He guides my head forward, and a low hum builds in my chest as my lips meet warm flesh. Staff Carolina Canales Alicia Duarte Michael Jones Jonah Delgado Kathrine Le Alicia Duarte My teeth sink into what I assume is a woman’s neck, and I take his advice, swallowing slowly as her blood spills into my mouth. My head grows light with a euphoric high that lifts me up and places me on top of the world. There’s no need to feel remorse or disgust. For with the ringmaster at my back, I can see the art of my kill. The beauty of eradicating evil. The bliss of giving myself fully to my desires. Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Once the flavor runs bitter, the ringmaster gently tugs me back by my throat, turning me to meet his gaze once more. I am high on life. Not my life, but the life of the low lives that once hid in plain sight. The ringmaster places his hands on my shoulders, grinning with pride as he pulls me forward to meet his mouth. His tongue licks over the slit in my lips, and once again, I open for him, sharing the flavor of my feast. I give myself to the ringleader of this monstrous circus, admitting in this carnal action that I am his equal. The combination of all sins. Gluttony sloshes in my stomach, with Pride filling my chest. Lust burns through my veins as the ringleader clings to me, awakening a beast of a different sort. Greed controls my actions as I cling to the ringleader, Envious of any being who has touched him before me. Wrath bursts through my mind as I consider taking them down. But Sloth is there in the background, fueling me with a laziness that keeps the other sins from snapping out of control. The ringmaster pulls away with a warm grin, devotion glazing over his eyes as if we were long-time lovers and not monsters delving in turpitude. His hand runs through my hair, and he pulls me even closer, pressing his lips to my ear. “The fun may be over tonight, love. But just imagine how divine your feast will be next year.” Art– a tapestry of emotions, thoughts, and whispered conversations waiting to be heard. It’s astounding how a single stroke of paint or a delicate line can stir a multitude of feelings and reactions within us. That’s the beauty of art, it speaks to each of us in its own language, gently nudging us to explore our inner workings. As you journey through the artwork within these pages, allow yourself to be captivated by the myriad of emotions and thoughts evoked by each piece. Behind every artwork lies a universe of feeling, a peek into the artist’s world, their joys, their struggles, their dreams, thoughts, and even a raw glimpse of their soul. To the remarkable artists who’ve shared their creations with us, we extend our heartfelt gratitude. Your willingness to express your creativity and provoke thought through your art enriches this collection in ways words cannot express. And to you, our cherished reader, may the art discovered in these pages ignite a spark within you – a feeling, a thought, a quiet reflection or even a conversation. Let it be a gentle reminder of the beauty and power of human expression. With appreciation, Carolina Canales Art Editor 64 Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Art Sunkissed Princess By Xochitl Sustaita How the Future’s Done By Claire Safeer 66 67 Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Art Blood On Your Hands By Xochitl Sustaita Virtually Stoned By Stacey Keller 68 69 Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Art Untitled By Stacey Keller Yellow By Sharon Dansie 70 71 Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Art Fall By Jazmyne Olson Self Portrait By Jazmyne Olson 72 73 Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Art Top: Fall Field Bottom: Currant Creek By Jazmyne Olson Spring Beginnings By Jazmyne Olson 74 75 Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Art My Existence is a Scandal By Jenna Mary Francis Untitled By Mackey Lin 76 77 Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Art Soldadera By Xochitl Sustaita Haven’t I Given Enough By Xochitl Sustaita 78 79 Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Staff Eliza Hill Jonah Delgado Shauna Gunnell Emily Koelling Alexa Stultz Brandon Jackson “Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.” –Carl Sandburg, “Definitions of Poetry” Poetry has a way of burrowing into the folds of your brain and lingering until it fills your entire being with tiny invisible keepsakes you didn’t even realize you were collecting. These keepsakes encourage us to connect, create, and consider the human experience. The following poems are exactly that: a packsack of collectibles to carry with you on the way to your next math class, shift at work, parent-teacher conference, tutoring session, or great adventure. We appreciate all those who submitted to Metaphor as we know the vulnerability required to share a work so precious to your heart. We see you. We hear you. We value you. As we considered the poetry submitted this semester, our thoughts were turned to how the poetry selected would represent the students at Weber State. There are vast differences between poems throughout this magazine to present the variety of people who offered their creativity to us. A special thank you to the poetry staff of the 2024 edition of Metaphor must be given, for without their voices, time, and care, our writing community would not flourish as it does. They are incredible. We hope you enjoy the selected poetry and that you will collect a packsack of invisible keepsakes to carry with you through your grand journey of life. Superpache no. 1 By Jenna Mary Francis Eliza Hill Poetry Editor 80 OCD 3rd Floor of the Empress By Elizabeth Mada Bodily By Shay Hulsey It plays like a broken record That night we knew fireworks from gunshots. Explosions, It plays like a broken record cast our apartment in shades of blue. Windowpanes alit shattering shrieks, a rainfall of sparks. A war of color It plays like a broken record with life and chewed up the darkness. From threadbare sheets, I watched Stuck on repeat, stuck inside me Stuck on repeat, stuck inside me I want to move on (It plays like a broken record) Think of anything else (It plays) Why can’t I let go? (It plays) Other things need my attention (Like) Other people too (A broken) honey stuck to our skin. In blooms of reds and pinks, I saw you. Restless and ready to burst through the paint-worn walls. Leaking faucets, black mold creeping, a threat to keep you pinned. Another shot of light from the darkened windows, another star reaching. In the everchanging This isn’t that important (Record) hues of fireworks, my hand failed to bridge the miles of mattress. But I find myself stuck (It) You were uncontainable—a bottle rocket meant to shatter the night. Until this is resolved (Plays) I’m lost in this loop (Like) My mind and heart both clinging away (A…) I was the hand—too timid to set your fuse to life. Broken. Record. 82 83 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Focus anywhere else (Like a broken record) the painted night splatter across the ceiling. July heat—a glistening of 2017 Awaiting the Day Our Lungs Crystallize and Shine By Noah Bury Collective Poem on the Great Salt Lake I used to drink and then imagine myself fucking women and sometimes men and sometimes men dressed as women. It filled a void I had deep inside. I would cloud my sorrows with cigarettes and flowered hash. I By Matthew Bass, Siena Cummings, Paige Winegar Fetzer, Joshua Hainline, Michael Jones, Kimball Price, Parker Shepardson, Caleb Slama, Elke Sprague, Maddison Allred, Elijah Cook, Jonah Delgado, Grant Fairbanks, Fern Ferguson, Zachary Gomez, Hayden Goodman, Jacob Guy, Syndle Harvey, Eliza Hill, Taylor Jenkins, Benjamin Jensen, Michael Jones, Adam Montgomery, Alayna Mosher, Hailey Randall, Bridget Smith, Zenock Walker, Dylan Watts, & Jazmin Winn used desire like a drug. I only ever really wanted… I was a sheepdog, protecting my herd of addiction from the evil outside. A broken man doesn’t sing, he claws for every last breath. I have bones too, you know. My heart sang, yes, but my thoughts and impulses and desperate urges of despair. I remember looking my mother in the eye and lying to her face. I’m fine, Mom. I’m not high. I’m telling the truth! It was so cold, the heavens were veiled, the poison had settled, and I drank from the empty chalice, willingly. Baptized by fire, and struck down by a vengeful God, I wallowed in pain and danced in sin, like swine in black tar, I left myself for death, hoping God would be kinder than blistered skin. I was everything until I discovered nothing, and in everything’s absence, I learned to crave that which nothing swallowed whole. And sprinkled throughout the stars; Stinging, screaming. Nestle your body deep into the grainy western ground She stands there forever – I could watch her forever. The salt crystallizes on her shell-pink supple skin. Glass lake, blue with salt, embracing The island of meadowlark jazz Sliding from a feathered throat. The sunset lathers the salt water with rays, Like a hug, a touch, a colorful embrace. The salt stars sway and stay Suspended Under the surface I follow her sand prints to the marble edge of this mystery grey wood I wonder how God felt when He got to Utah and saw the barren landscape before him I wonder how He knew That even something barren can hold beauty From the height of a ferris wheel, the lake is a puddle—with this Distance, a sliver in the horizon that can be pinched up and pocketed Bring on your slings and arrows, for I am the infinite, my enemy and friend is Gaia, who are you to dictate my role? Embrace of the water, earth 84 85 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal took control. Instead of glowing, I sank deeper into that hollow pit Salt is buried in our bones and sky, as one communes with nature and nature’s God. And tender, Which turns out was the great salt lake bursting Turns out the ass smell was coming from the big ass lake behind me More like great salt stank dude Animals, just animals Pushing our gummy hands through the dirt Searching for something to take home with us Looking down on this big zit nature had stuffed dirt in, I await the nightmare on the horizon— Salt-filled air breezes along my blistered lips Awaiting the day our lungs crystallize and shine When I think of the Great Salt Lake I think of loss With mineral whispers, That wash against my feet And leave their crusted Fingerprints behind Venturing into my own backyard The trail, the lake, the air, the landscape, it’s A brand new world I never knew could exist. The warmth of strangers and this salty sea, how dare my mind try to take it from me. I think of the war of attrition waged inside a sick body. Your scaly floor a chameleon, hiding Oasis from the world The Great Salt Lake is the desert’s diminishing man because Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Ancient, saline, brilliance You are bold water as the water recedes, the lake’s irregular ecosystem and industry die with it. A beached whale made of corpses shallow in the mud Water stings an open wound, it floats you, Above what’s left, The graves of engine blocks, settled Getting smaller, one is the size of a penny. As you look towards the horizon, water meets sky Connecting two worlds You can easily forget the land far beyond on the other side Bones amongst stones and clumps of thick water claimed - a Sepulture that guards the high-tide along the putrid lakeside Where insects celebrate at Desert Sea and rotting meat and Algae Fane Antelope Isle: November 2, 2023 By Syndle K. Harvey “Look: tell me what you see.” Sunrays mildly dancing around the edges of the causeway. A perching pair of Great Horned owls sleeping past the afternoon. Reeds and rushes hissing in the breeze, feathering my jacket with seeds. Thick pollution pretending to be a mystical fog. The beach blooming with weedy wounds. Salt spiders don’t care that they’re taking all the space The briny reflection muddling the sky and waterline together. Your soft-body bound Overcasting clouds rippling like conglomerates in the sand. just like stones in sand didn’t care when they hit my face. By a shore worn smooth Beloved bison grazing on the sparring grass. “Lake-life that exudes stillness and peace.” 86 87 California Dawn of the Black Hearts Bootleg Tee By Kadee Empie By Brandon Jackson You say inconsequential, like it’s curdled milk in your mouth but— “It’s about this deep,” said my mother. touched the second rung These are Poppies: on the Cholula bottle, orange California—bleeds bits flecking the spiral. Paper thin, whispers These are Jasmines “Does it hurt when it breaks?” Near crumbling trellis “Make her comfortable when you’re old I asked. “A little,” she said. Made for you— enough.” These are Lilacs Gardened in pennies: found in An old bottle in the back of the closet I never had the chance to comfort, and maybe that’s for the best. Because if I had, I would have only thought of vinegar and my mother’s fingers. 88 89 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Her nail, carmine splintering, Deciduous Miscarrying Flossers For Hire By Hayden Goodman By Sydney Foster Faith sang to her garden. It wasn’t really hers, though. No. Those I stand at the mirror brushing into the fantastic tree she knew it couldn’t be. She shoved her phalanges, Bristles against those hard, enamel vegetables she bought and rubbed soil around and hoped it would grow like roots or wires, into the dirt and searched for piano keys. She wanted to play the right note, didn’t know what it should’ve sounded like. But mulch was blackened–wasn’t it? She yelled at her organs until blood pumped onto pads, which she gave to the tomatoes and daisies, again stomach and belched out another mess–another lie, she convinced herself, like looking on her key belt and trying each one against every holy word, shoving them into the dirt. Someone said so many times that it might have been her gardener telling her, Reach your hands out to cup the rain. She would’ve squeezed all the fluid from her liver if that would’ve helped anything, but she needed her brain squeezed of every could have been and every portrait that ended in crimson or strangulation, or both. All that came from the tree’s flue pipes were spirited dreams and smoke. She held tight to her organs and washed them with her rain before planting again. Capsules fill the dimly lit room. The crevices packed with leftover Chunks of dinner slyly smirk At my fruitless efforts to scrub them clean. My toothbrush does no more than lick The cracks in which the debris Have nestled down into. My hand shoots To the drawer, desperate for floss. But to my surprise, the thin strands Have been replaced by tiny miners. Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal and again, selling them broken promises, yet again. She clutched her My teeth. The sound of swishing I scoop up a handful and shovel Them into my mouth. They get to work Picking and scraping between my teeth. When their work is done, I swallow Them whole, feeling their squirming bodies In my belly. I smile wide, my reflection Now beaming with pearly whites. 90 91 Happy Hepar Eater By Hailey Robins By Hayden Goodman I have a friend that tells me We never knew we were toddlers, Happy. words. Before the night shades captured I should write something fighting with our little hands and big Telling me my writing is just so transient hope, back then I had never Depressing. thought goodbye was as possible or close as While I don’t normally write picking pink flowers. Rain isn’t Writing the story is melting. The sink’s all full of ceramic Yapping along as I tell my tales. Mom was left rotting in her cup, Reminds me of birds Skin stretched so soon over bone salt, shark teeth. My plucked love for Happiness. oxygen attached to the nose by plastic tubes. And wrapping up a piece Singing their stories to the early morning. Their joyous melodies left to echoing seared into touch by a loss of suet. Dad always said liver’s too gross, Through my mind all day. tastes like a juiced cat tongue; I love sharing my piece That I worked on for who knows how long. I am sharing a piece of me with her When I show her what I’ve been laboring on. Her reaction to the piece makes me feel like an addict. it was always a little deathly–on the kitchen’s vinyl, Mom pounding her head, not telling it’ll be okay. It’s not a lot of fuel to become cruel, and drink clear neglect. Need to feed her ache, a little necessity– I can never How’s her burns doing? Drive with a paper Get bag, grease becoming pellucid, can see Enough. veins next to the burger meat. It just makes me Sanatorium, asylum, once a school’s gym, never bothered to tell me: let imagination eat So Happy. at the liver, intoxicating with burned memories– longing for numb love. 92 93 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Happy stories, Hibachi Hopelessness By Emily Koelling By Rachel Douglass The small grill, one of our first purchases as a couple, smolders on the tiny landing of the apartment where we pretend. Barely beyond our teens, playing grown-up. We share space, blend belongings, blend bodies. Proposal, wed, a stately bed. We practice preparing meals. Set our table with gifted plates, set our lives with passed down patterns. Patterns that will harden, patterns that will bond us—patterns that will eventually break us. Coals become slow to flame, won’t sustain. Fires still flare, but the warmth is not there. We separate space, break up belongings, block our bodies. This is ending, we stop pretending. Unachievable desires come with an anvil. Night arrives at long last, But forgets to bring the release of sleep with it. Yearning lingers like the final leaves in winter. Inevitably falling, hopelessly clinging. I refuse to find myself back in that hole— So, I continue climbing the endless mountain of self control. Fate is forcing me in opposite directions. Impossible images tempt my closed eyes, Imagination conjures up the most dangerous lies. The cure unattainable, kept at arm’s length. The path is long, the options narrow, Wanting what one can’t have brings only sorrow. If “hope is the thing with feathers”— I know why I carry this weight in the pit of my stomach. The apartment is empty, the landing bare, one of us heaves the broken grill into the dumpster. It doesn’t matter who, neither of us want it any longer. 94 95 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Pet words, pet birds, fancy books, young cooks. If “hope is the thing with feathers”- i drown Just an End Table By Mia Alvord By Shay Hulsey falling fading filling eyes open Dad once said, “I’m just another piece of furniture around this house.” Mother laughed, her playful slap echoing through the rooms until it became foundation. His ashes came in a box, one that wouldn’t fit a shoe. A person reduced to nothing. Scorched bone. He told me he wanted me to have the screws in his back, everything that held him together. But when they arrived, the screws were lost in a pile of other men’s metal. Shrapnel from wars without context. Plates from surgeries, vacant limbs grow cold as the water takes them nicks that pushed back expiration dates. Holding these pieces of people—silver nuts and bolts never meant to see sunlight—I wonder how many lives are within my hands. “Go wash your hands,” Mother grimaces, setting the pile of metal on the box of Dad. As he chest burning empty lungs weep for air collects the room. dust, she places a doily on him, so he goes better with Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal but can’t see stinging but won’t close drowning now and drowned before these empty spaces are not new they dwell in the night when there’s no one to hold them together they ache they bleed they plead for closure so i drown i sink into the blue like sinking into sleep and let the tide wrap around me 96 97 Loose Change Loss of Things I Never Had By Sydney Foster By Taylor Jenkins The currency of our love I live in a cell of my own making. Quarters clink like rings on nightstands. Preventing my love from escaping. Is kind words and quiet morning kisses. You offer to drive long distances I have been scorned too many times, in your eyes from the moon’s reflection. To my bare bones. because I get drowsy. Dimes dance Nights spent navigating darkened rooms And warm skin—your body on mine a need. Nickels fill our pockets, dragging us down. Playlists carefully curated with the other person In mind. Pushing play and letting lyrics speak. Pennies roll like melodies flooding our ears. Our tip jar is full of change tightly packed in glass, And our bank account bursts at the seams, For I’ll never be richer than I am when I’m with you. Stabbed and slashed and stripped So my bones learned to protect me. To protect my heart They cage me in. I often dream of having children Of holding an infant in my arms Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal My ribs cage me in, hold my heart captive and close, That looks remarkably like me. She giggles and gurgles And claps her chubby hands Innocent and unknowing of what is to come. When I open my eyes and wake She disappears like smoke in the night Fading out of my arms for eternity. It’s difficult to be upset, Because deep down I know, That my heart is trapped behind a cage of ribs. Bars of bones built to protect Have now done nothing but break. 98 99 lovelust New Wife By Cidney McQuade By Paige Winegar Fetzer wilting lips You’re sleeping when I stretch my arms against the dark and surrender again to the indigo pale of my restless legs and a wandering midnight. amongst vines of tongue melting and morphing into one it’s christmas eve and my parents aren’t home neither are my inhibitions down down down into a bundle of flesh combining into one am i supposed to feel this way? what happened to our teenage days? did i break? crash and burn? where’s my passion? my passion lies within my bones but it isn’t lust for intimacy but a lust for romantic love She cannot see me here. Four days, and I haven’t yet slept beside you It must be because we slipped into bed beneath blinds drawn up to roof the half-bright moon, and she feels like a stranger in this new house; a curious housewife neighbor peering with cloud-clipped blinks into the black of our bedroom and wondering why I still haven’t unpacked our clothes or passed a rag over the moving man’s fingerprints on our mirror. I drop toes taught with quiet to the brown Berber floor and feel the night cold pimple my skin; beneath this tan canopy of unfamiliar paint and her prying sweep of too-white moonlight. It must be because when I closed my eyes I heard her whisper to the bent boughs of the curled oak outside the window that she does not know me, but her reaching beams of dusty light tangle through my hair and remind her of someone she knew once; someone who dreamed deeply in the slumber heat of home. afraid to wake you with the whine 100 101 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal and so we go of the door hinge, I lower slowly to my knees at the foot of the bed, and line my spine with the still frame. Northwest Romance toward waves that are not ashamed After three years away, this steel-gray sea is nearly a stranger to me, sweeping over our feet with a bold, cold tenderness that sends me dancing sideways up the beach, til you reach to pull me back again; to loop sand-dusted fingers through the open buttonholes of my sweater and tug me slowly to the water’s edge. I shriek with laughter, suddenly ankle-deep, but for all my noise I am nothing but a witness to the way you love the world, watching as the waves leave tree rings of sand along the legs of your jeans and you smile with unabashed joy. I blink and wonder how I never knew this boy in you, and then we’re running on feet clumsy with cold 102 to tumble over small children in ill-fitting swimsuits, or toss tourists back to their grocery-store towels, and I’m frightened. I’ve never been much of a swimmer. But as I twist to turn home you gather me in, the harbor heat of your skin painting splayed fingers across my chill-stippled back, and I taste Pacific salt on your hair when you whisper, “What do you want to eat for dinner tonight?” This is how I know that you love me completely. This is how I know that we are both surprised when I press my toes against porous stones and tug, tipping us into deeper water, and we come up choking on dopamine, coughing a dithyrambic rhapsody as we push past the point where our feet can touch. 103 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal By Paige Winegar Fetzer ~Oh, to be Her~ On Display By Noah Bury By Sydney Foster To be a woman, what a sound! how those curves glide so smoothly, I don’t want to be seen as an object— Oh, to be a woman, I want to go deeper in another way. Elegantly, perfect curvature, like the sparkling surface of blown glass, To forsake my brutish form in favor of a quietly guided jawline, To shed the thick matt of auburn tuft and prickle in favor of I want boys to invade my mind, not my body. unobtrusive flush, But it’s not their fault I can’t stop Broken stilettos, rousing octaval temptation—the angelic frequency of Until my body lies bare before them. Pheromonal sweetness: No longer musk, instead, a journey to mist. tessitura. Spheric areolas and lips red like cartooned dynamite [She walks Undressing, can’t stop stripping Because I was taught to be desirable. in, ~igniting~] I saw girls around me flaunting Queen’s topiary, And boys followed them blindly all the way to the very edge of the A head of black hair, moisturized, curled, and manicured like The Their hips and breasts and skin Oh, to be desired! Am I not? world. And I wanted that. Phallic whispers— So I sealed my body in a display case, ultimate, glorious, platitudinous, reverential manhood. But it wasn’t long until I started to suffocate, But more so, to be honored as I am— To be accepted for my uniquity is bowing to my 104 Inviting everyone to get a look—take a picture. And my corpse became others’ viewing pleasure. 105 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal As disposable as the condom used during the act. OPINION OF THE COURT: Erasure of Dobbs v. Jackson Practicality By Ainsley Hilliard By Shauna Gunnell a woman’s own body prevents equality. a scheme outside the womb to brutalize and restrict. the Court concluded to impose an undue burden on a woman. Americans ask us to regard 6 weeks 8 weeks 9 weeks 10 weeks the womb is barbaric, dangerous, and demeaning. we consider the instrument which offers a right to sex: sex designed against women. Accordingly, governed by men, for men. the womb, subject to ancient law. the womb, sentenced to destroy her. 106 107 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal the womb. My hell is the nine-to-five job my mother wants me to have, the prim little house with a white picket fence and chains on both my hands. The one-way street from here to death, ruts in the worn road where all have walked. I am not built for this practical nonsense this sickening simplicity this ugly lovely thing I’m supposed to long for. Hell is knowing every what-if is unknown, Hell is regrets. Hell is the unlived life I know I should have, staring out a second story window at a world I should have seen. But here I sit on a brimstone throne, waiting for the clock to strike five. Womanhood Paper Dreams By Taylor Jenkins ~after Kate Durbin My name is Joanne, and I used to have Number two pencils with Dried out, chewed up Pink erasers and No lead. Broken pens and spilled ink Red X’s staining A new draft Of words. Rejection letters taped to a wall Their harsh words out Displayed for all To see. Corkboard with string plot ideas, Motivational, inspiring quotes, Pictures of the past, And hope. Laptop stocked with decaying, Forgotten manuscripts. Wallpaper that says, “Never give up!” My name is Joanne, and I used to have dreams. his limbs are stained red with the nectar from my body a sticky mess of limbs and sweat and blood and lust the forbidden nectar dances across his tongue. dirty. gross. sinning. the same fruit that stains my clothes each month marking me a woman for everyone to see hidden away by hushed whispers, and colored wrappers, and flowery commercials and the snickers from the boys from health class. too taboo to talk about. dirty. gross. sinning. my 10 year old self cries and screams. i’m finally a woman. 108 109 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Ripped pages out of notebooks. Papers curled at the edges, Yellow with age and Wet with tears. By Cidney McQuade russian roulette By Ainsley Hilliard By Cidney McQuade I sing morbidly out of tune. I have tried to stretch my vocal cords, one at a time, but they simply snapped with a finality that made me shatter windows. i never thought i would be scared of food. playing russian roulette as i pick up my fork. . . one piece then another, and another, bite by bite my insides tremble or maybe it’s my mind When I told my wife that my eyes had fallen out once and for all, she looked at me (how selfish) and said that I’d done it to myself and that it was about time I learned to echo. How? I asked, because she knows damn well that my ears are filled with the sand from our honeymoon. My pockets had been too full of honey. I like honey. Strings of honey in my throat— I could sing if I only learned how to echo. Put the sand in my pockets, set my ears free, and maybe My eyes will wander back to their sockets. chronic illness swept under the rug with doctors visits, and blood tests, and sick days and sleepless nights ——— and how did i get this way? everyone else seems to know best, saying i should try this, or try that, remove this, add that ———— meanwhile it’s there mocking me eating at me as i eat, bite by bite until i hit oblivion 110 111 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Renovations Stories from the Dining Room Table By Shauna Gunnell By Taylor Jenkins I toe through an audience of saguaros. Deigning to disembowel, I grope at the elusive discharge. This is my new home. Fetid memories litter the path behind But winds descend to launder my life Aimless, how many languid lies fell from me like winged seedlings aching to proliferate? Sleepwalking under a caustic sun, Perhaps it is time to move on. Or will Sonora consume me? Needles protruding instead of penetrating My body a monolith of water among the desiccated and dying, while dreaming of a sapphirine sea. And yet, if I must dream, let it be lucid. And if I must run, let it not be from myself. My grandma once told me that dragons live in our hearts. We’re born with them, an eternal friend from cradle to casket. In the beginning, they enjoy the warmth we provide, and the Precious Things we like to hoard. Their spiny tails curl around our veins, Their webby wings stretch into our valves, Such a perfect place for them to rest, A perfect place to reconnect them with us. We keep our love in there with them, to keep them safe and protected, but as we grow, most dragons don’t like living in a heart. How could they, anyway? Once the warmth leaves, hearts are terrible to live in, just the space of a clenched fist to make up a mess of blood and beats and vessels and arteries and— and most hearts are tiny, only a few are big enough for a dragon so it’s only a matter of time before the dragons choke on all the Not-So-Precious Things on all the things we mercilessly stuff in there— because we don’t care about the dragons we care about the Empty Space around them. 112 113 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Sonoran Self Portrait The Misfit’s Moonlight Sonata With outstretched hands and a nearby receptacle for his breath, With eyes closed and memories of the high school crush he was too By Devin Bringard scared to kiss, With the weight of disapproval from his father and the excited nudge from God’s natural spotlight, He slowly let go of the air in his lungs, becoming one with the The Misfit’s Moonlight Sonata Act I cool, midnight breeze of mid-July. And he placed his calloused, It is not sadness. For sadness is a reaction, And far too shallow a word for this context. No, It is this feeling. second, As he unlocked a part of his soul Strictly locked away from others, Lest they find out he has... …emotions... It can be heard if you care to listen, It can be felt, But it cannot be done the disservice of being assigned a single word. It is the 20-something-year-old, trying To understand the world and to The Misfit’s Moonlight Sonata Act II Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal It can be seen if you care to look, 20-something-year-old hands on the dusty keys, And fumbled for only a He was no prodigy. Find his place in it, He longed not for a grand piano Who wanders, for just a moment, On a grand stage Willingly, With a grand audience Full of wonder, Of stiff suits. Pulled away From the lights, the cameras, the action... Away From the beats and the bros and the bustle... To find himself in a quiet room upstairs. To find himself alone before a humble 2009 Yamaha PSR with no makeup on Just off center from the center of the room. Baby sky blue curtains parted just enough to invite the Shy moonlight into this intimate space. The divine luster softly approaching our young misfit, Then twirling gracefully to find its place, Perched upon the veteran keys of the 73-year-old southern Baptist’s fav’rite gawspel pianuh. 114 This was his moment. His climax. A moment of peace and solitude, As he pressed more undertones into Those three meager notes of the C minor Than Beethoven in all his symphonies. God cried tears of joy and pain As our misfit wrote his life story with 6 letters. Tales of loneliness, misunderstanding, mistakes, and humanity And our misfit was finally the main character. The moon and stars leaned in closer, Straining their necks to hear Every last detail, 115 To consume every last frequency Fingertips of our misfit And crawled their way up to the heavens. It is this feeling. That this type of purity, This type of beauty, This type of release, And the ever so slight glimpse of grief, When realizing the brevity of it all, Squeezing through the unremarkable part in the baby sky blue curtains. As the night went on, And our misfit’s meticulously crafted lullaby Coaxed his audience into peaceful slumber, He quietly locked again that part of his soul And withdrew his calloused hand from the keys. An intimate one-night-stand that no other had witnessed, The Misfit’s Moonlight Sonata Act III It is this feeling. This surreal moment, Quietly and respectfully interrupted, But never disrupted, By the knowledge that this extraordinary night Is temporary, Soon to be replaced by the ordinary. It is this feeling. The conclusion of an epic adventure, The growth, the revelation, The discovery of something rare. The deep rooted certainty that we’re made for something greater. At last, the exploration of the small chamber In the heart, that has Been locked and sealed shut by ancient magic And the truth-shaped key that whispers, “They don’t care” for what seems like Millennia. Words that echo through the deepest caverns and valleys Of the warden’s mind. Words that finally escaped the 116 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal And that our misfit could never mention. The More You Know By Rachel Douglass I am living my life in a state of conscious incompetence. I am aware of my insignificance in the grand scheme of the world But I am not yet at a point where I can do much about it. I see so much success and information around me yet I am frozen, Unable to find a foothold to begin my climb I started to feel like a big fish in a small pond but as the banks everexpand, I can no longer be certain exactly where I stand. The more I learn, the more I realize how little I know. Fuck you Dunning-Kruger. 117 The Silent Symphony The Widow By Frances Hudson By Shauna Gunnell she falls asleep with his name on her lips in the place where she would call out for him all. Silence is more than a quiet violence, though. Silence is complicated, with as many layers as a matryoshka doll. Each layer reveals something new, something wholly unexpected. Like people, Like most things, Silence cannot be easily defined and neatly filed away. Silence can even be beautiful, a welcome respite from the cacophony of sounds that make up the world. Silence can be peaceful too, at least in the right context. It can mark the end of a long, drudging war. Or the resolution of a vehement argument. with pleasure as her prayer but now she pleads for his return: “come back to me” the only reply, her own heart: irregular for lack of practice in beating alone. Silence is many things, both good and bad. It can be suffocating and wrathful, temperature boiling to a fever pitch. At the same time, silence can be wonderfully delightful. f o r Emily Sometimes the absence of noise is the most beautiful music of all. 118 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Silence can be asphyxiating, Misty tendrils creeping into every orifice, steadily constricting until there’s nothing left at 119 Tum Mak Hoong By Ainsley Hilliard By Ashley Vongbandith Turn me inside out. Let my maggots run free, my rot consume you, the stench burn to the back of your throat. Burn every thought of me, every whisper, every damn word and eat the ashes. Taste me—Me, the girl you knew some autumn day then forgot without a moment’s hesitation. I am gone, fading fast and you will not know me again. Bury me. My maggots would be happy to know you spit them out. My heart has been battered and chopped. In the same way you would take apart a papaya to make tum mak hoong. Fish sauce. Tomatoes. Thai chili. I burned my tongue enough to say I know this community. Lao women with my blood. Lao women show their stitches. Lao women and their tears and wishes telling stories in a circle of every wound. Every drop of fish sauce stirred in gently with a spoon. But you don’t use the spoon until you’ve pounded the salad repeatedly. Relentlessly. When he tastes me, I make sure he doesn’t taste who I am. I made myself more digestible. I have always wanted to be delicate and soft. But then I let him peel too many layers. And he knew he could tear me apart Battered. Chopped. If you ask anyone, Battered and chopped is not beautiful. They don’t want to taste bitterness. Not many can bear sourness. But that’s who I have always been. It’s in my food, history, blood. - 120 121 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal This bubbling feeling inside my chest I think about all the Lao women who left the bombs and left behind their love. and how they never really stopped bleeding. I don’t know how to leave. I never learned to flee. I run back to him and pray he would love me. But I often walk back home with a bludgeoned heart. I think about all the heartbreak I live with. And I meet back with scarred women, Who know how to bleed and smile at the same time. They add too many chilis and ask if I can handle the spice. And they teach me another lesson on how to survive. By Olivia Herndon You are a baked potato though, not too round, but a little cheesy. You are a skyscraper and I mean it in the best way. You are a jokester, especially at my expense but I don’t mind. You are a walking encyclopaedia but strangely only of corvids, despite your disdain for them. You could actually be a troll now that I think about it, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Speaking of puns, you’re a joke, my favourite one that makes me laugh every time. You definitely are a loaf of bread, you get a little stale and sad looking when left out. Oh but you’re definitely not a broken record, nor are you an old wrapper I’d ever want to toss aside. And you definitely aren’t the windchimes outside my house, as beautiful as they may sound, albeit a little sharp at times. You’re more of a cello, an incredible piece of work with a rich tone that I could listen to for hours on end. Though, in the end, I suppose, you’re just a baked potato: a little salty at times, but over all, something I could see myself enjoying for the rest of my life. 122 123 Poetry Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal And I think about how my aunt has a similar story. I think about the cycle and how I thought I could end it. Just a Baked Potato. Staff Alexa Stultz Shauna Gunnell Emily Koelling Eliza Hill Logan Serr Brandon Jackson The difference between a fictitious tale and a creative reality comes down to truth. Many may see life as uneventful or even ordinary when it is often stranger than fiction. While cliche as that sounds it is very much true. To write creative nonfiction is to walk that tightrope between the substantial and fantastical, doing so with boldness and grace. The pieces that have been selected share a variety of circumstances and perspectives from all walks of life. Just remember that these stories are genuine. These emotions and reactions are real. This is Creative Nonfiction. Time to turn the page. Alexa Stultz Creative Nonfiction Editor By Shauna Gunnell Captain’s log: Day nine million, seven hundred and sixty-two thousand, three hundred and ninety-three, aboard the starship SS Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. There is still no end in sight, and yet the call of the unknown continues to demand our attention. My captain’s chair is a glider at my daughter’s bedside, and my captain’s log is the piece of knitting in which I infuse each stitch with a different part of myself: a wish, a hope, a frustration, a fear. Norah’s existence is confined to this room: a mini space capsule with almost every modern amenity. Above her is a large monitor to display her vitals. A supply for nutrition directly to her stomach. A communication system to reach the rest of the ship. Her favorite feature is an allinclusive overhead entertainment system with Disney movies, toys, books, and music. The most critical component of her space capsule is her constant companion: a bulky blue and grey ventilator the size of a tall astromech droid. Corrugated tubing, a multitude of wires, attachments, humidification, suction, and other bits and bobs connect her to the machines, and the machines to the space capsule. Everything in here sustains her, my presence included. Between my co-captain (husband) and me, we report for duty every day. I lean into the meditative nature of my stitching, eyes closed, taking deep breaths just as I’ve done every day for the last year. This is the moment that her ventilator’s humidifier chooses to scream into the room, breaking my reverie. Someone must have turned the volume up last night. Why is it that the most benign alerts have the most penetrative alarms? I reach out to silence the alarm myself. The water drip is empty, so I grab the spare hanging up and drive the spike into the bag. Norah is hard of hearing, so while the alarm just about stopped my heart, it barely registered for her. Besides, these are familiar sounds; they’re the white noise of her life thus far. Still sleeping peacefully, her ventilator, not to be outdone, begins to alarm as well. This time, I don’t press the silence button. Just as I’m reaching for her suction tubing, the respiratory therapist arrives. I crank open the window blinds to let a little light into the room while the therapist is wordlessly suctioning the secretions that Norah can’t clear on her own. The therapist places a gentle hand on Norah’s arm to soothe her. “Shhhh,” she hushes. We all do it, and even though Norah can’t hear us, I’m sure she can feel the comforting intent. Norah lets out a series of wet coughs, and the therapist reaches for the suction again. Now her oxygen monitoring is beginning to alarm. 87… 125 Creative Nonfiction First and foremost, thank you to every participant who submitted their work for the Creative Nonfiction portion of Metaphor. Each and every piece was read, discussed, and appreciated by Metaphor’s staff. We are honored to publish these pieces and hope to hear more from all participants in the future. A Day in the Life: Space Edition 84… 76… Norah’s face begins to gray around her sweet full lips. The therapist turns up the oxygen concentration to full throttle. 72… 68… 73… 89… Norah bounces back and settles. I calm my own breathing, thankful that things didn’t descend into code-button-pushing-chaos. She is asleep again. I thank the therapist, and she thanks me for changing the water bag. She was coming to do that just when the ventilator alarm had gone off. As she is explaining this to me, the sliding door slams shut so hard that the glass vibrates throughout the room. When she cries, all that can be heard is the air passing through her airway. It sounds like a crackly, prolonged exhalation with staccato inhalations in between. Her tracheostomy tube prevents her from any vocalization. Some can manage it, but Norah’s anatomy and stamina just can’t. The peace is broken; there is no returning to her nap. Her ventilator begins to chirp in protest. I support Norah from behind while placing her in a sitting position (she has yet to do this independently), then proceed to rub and pat her sweaty back. “Oh, wow, cool,” the resident says at full volume. “That must be nice that you can’t hear her cry.” He looks genuinely impressed. “I’ll bet all new parents wish they didn’t have to listen to that all the time.” “Cool?” I repeat. “No. It’s very much not cool. It isn’t nice. It’s actually exponentially sadder that I can’t hear her cry. I would give anything to hear her cry.” Tears pool in my eyes, feeling the weight of not just the voiceless cries, but the airy laughs and coos, too. She can sign a bit, and babble, but there is no vocalizing. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Sorry.” For the second time, his face reddens with embarrassment. “Well, I can come back later.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. Rather than lay her back in bed, the respiratory therapist helps me transfer Norah into my arms while I sit in the glider. The oxygen is returned to its baseline setting, and we tuck in for a long snuggle. I rock us back and forth in time with her mechanical breathing. Captain’s Log: Admiral remains in critical yet stable condition. While she is unable to verbalize commands, our objective is clear. As seconds in command, my co-captain and I will continue our path forward, into frontiers unknown. By Loryn Merrill Montana, in all its glorious beauty, is not the best place to live if you are deathly afraid of bears. Unfortunately for me, I grew up absolutely surrounded not only by bears but by a culture of family members who are obsessed with camping, hiking, and overnight backpacking. Now, it may sound to you like I am afraid of bears, but I must come to my own defense and declare that up until this summer I never once felt an inkling of concern over the possible presence of one, no matter where my travels have taken me. On every trailhead in the Northwest, it seems, is a poster telling you exactly how to avoid an encounter and what to do if your efforts are in vain; naturally I have memorized the instructions down to the perfect knot with which to hang your food from a tree. The problem lies with my mother and aunt. Being twins, inseparable even in adulthood, they tend to share everything including their absurdly commanding fear of bears. They are also incongruously enthusiastic outdoorswomen, creating a sometimes entertaining but usually irritating dynamic where they drag their children out to hike while simultaneously singing “anti-bear songs” of their own creation and shrieking at the snapping of every twig. This summer my mother, aunt, two of my younger cousins, and two of my little brothers set off on our long-anticipated trip to Canada. The trip was a disaster from the start, due to lost passports, smoke setting in from wildfires, and the A/C going out on our fifteen-passenger van. My mother and aunt have ten children collectively and this van was purchased specifically for taking all of us kids on trips just like this. My experience with these trips didn’t make the summer heat or the constant fighting any easier to endure. I attempted to nap but was awoken every few minutes by one kid or another screeching or squawking or otherwise throwing a fit. The smoke from the wildfires ruined any beautiful views and made the driving slower than it would normally be, for safety’s sake. All of that aside, the greatest blow came when we arrived at our campsite after hours of torture. The kind park ranger settled us in with pertinent information about the rules of the campground. He then offered up a piece of information that most would find valuable, but to me, was utterly devastating. There’s been a bear in the area, we saw him last about two days ago. 126 127 Creative Nonfiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal She had only been lightly sleeping, so this wakes Norah with a start. An orthopedic resident stands before us, mouthing “Sorry,” as if speaking could worsen the impact of the shaking room. Norah begins to wail. Canadian Bears He couldn’t possibly have known. He could not ever have known how this simple statement, nothing more than a warning to follow the usual anti-bear rules, would affect my mother and aunt’s shared psyche. But alas, the damage was done and that was that. My cousins and siblings and I commiserated from the back seats as our mothers began to squabble about what to do next. We should get a hotel, too expensive, move campgrounds? No, the reservation… We asked our mothers who would be sacrificed. Our mothers responded that their fear of bears is irrational; surely a bear will not actually murder a person (despite their adoration of reading aloud articles that describe just that). Surely that bear would not attack us if we followed the rules. And so, surely, the best spots in the van would go to the mothers, followed by the youngest children which left… the oldest two. My brother and I exchanged glances at this. As previously stated, I had never before had any real fear of bears. But at this decision, I began to feel the first tickle of fear in my chest, knowing that I would be spending the night with nothing but a thin tent wall to protect me. At this thought, I realized that the fear of bears I had witnessed my whole life was perhaps, just slightly, contagious. I forced the fear down, admonishing myself to remember just how slim my chances of being murdered by a bear actually were. I got it together, and assembled my tent without further comment. I played everything very cool on the outside, and I really wasn’t that nervous. Yet. We settled in a little more to our campground, and began to fix the tin foil dinners we had prepared ahead of time. The dinners are traditionally assembled with potatoes, carrots, onions, seasoning… and meat. Delicious stew meat that filled the air with a savory scent on top of the campfire smoke. My mom and aunt joked incessantly that we were certainly attracting wildlife with the smell of it, secure in the knowledge that they would be sleeping in a fortress that night. I rolled my eyes at their comments and fished my tin foil dinner out of the coals. I slowly unwrapped the layers of foil to expose the food to the cold air and began to enjoy it. As careful as I tried to be, a little meat juice dripped on my sweatshirt. 128 Hours later, in the pitch black of night, a sound awoke me. I’m not sure what exactly it was, but it made my blood run cold. I was suddenly wide awake, heart pounding, with a sick feeling of dread rising. Whether my fear was heightened due to the initial fog of sleep, I’m not sure, but I have hardly been so afraid in my life. Then I heard what distinctly sounded like snuffling. It was precisely the kind of snuffling bears make in the movies, or nature documentaries, or when they are right outside your tent hoping to tear it open with their claws and drag you off into the woods. I looked over at my brother. He was sleeping peacefully, and I felt no need to awaken him to the situation of our impending death. I lay frozen in my sleeping bag. My imagination began to run wild, thinking every sound was a footstep, and hearing the snuffling sound many more times. I must have sat awake for hours, feeling certain that the very next second would be the moment the bear finally tore through the tent and came into view. I pondered how I was a perfectly prepared burrito, wrapped and warm in my sleeping bag. I considered running from the tent to the van, but ultimately decided a bear was definitely faster than me. My brother would be left behind in that scenario. Ultimately, my only real choice was to lie there frozen and pray. Finally, after an entire night of torment, the first light of dawn began to shine gray through my tent wall. I hadn’t heard any sounds for a while, and opened the window of the tent to expose the mesh and the view of the woods. A bird on a branch very near to my window was peering off into the 129 Creative Nonfiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal After some general panic and the exhaustion of every alternative, it was decided that the benches of our fifteen passenger van would suffice as beds. The hard side of the vehicle would save the mothers from fear and preserve our long-awaited Canada trip. However, there are only so many suitable places to sleep in one vehicle, and not everyone was going to fit. Note that I was the oldest of the kids on this trip, followed by my two brothers and two cousins. My mom noticed right away and waggled her eyebrows at me, while I tried a little too vigorously to wipe off the spot with a napkin. Again, I was beginning to feel stirrings of fear at the thought of the spilled meal leading a bear straight to my location by the nose. Perhaps a little more than a ‘stirring.’ I debated changing my sweatshirt, but this was the shirt I had designated as pajamas for the night and to wear anything else seemed like a surrender. Undoubtedly, my mother or aunt would notice the wardrobe change and figure out the inner workings of my mind, which were spiraling to a level of fear similar to what I had been witnessing from them my whole life. I resigned myself to spending the night beef-scented and perfectly seasoned. That night I laid my air mattress out in the tent and arranged everything nicely to get a good night’s rest. The tent had been meant to house at least six people, so my brother and I had an ocean of space between our two mattresses. I spent a little time thinking about the likelihood of a bear coming to the campground. At this point, I was able to convince myself that the odds were as close to zero as any camper could hope for. This was a lottery, and I would lose. Despite my earlier trepidation, I was able to fall asleep almost instantly. woods. It looked similar to a magpie, all black until it took flight and revealed the white underneath its wings. As it took off, the fluttering of the wings made a familiar sound: the same snuffling sound that had ruined my night. In an instant I could suddenly be certain that there had never been a bear at all. The contagious terror from my mother and aunt had poisoned my first night in Canada. I was disappointed in my foolishness and mourned my lack of sleep bitterly all through the next day. It was humbling to learn that I am so susceptible to the suggestion of others, but I can say now for sure that I won’t bother quivering over every bump in the night, even if it really were a bear there to eat me. It’s not worth the lack of sleep. You Are No Longer There By Shauna Gunnell Content warning: themes of sexual assault Your friend Andre knocked up his girlfriend, so they’re planning to marry after the baby is born. As his only close female friend, he asked you to throw his fiancée’s baby shower. You know her but haven’t spent much time with her. You assure him that, as requested, the party would be free of suburban-white-girl party games, but he still wants to discuss last minute details with you. You open the door to your apartment with a smile that gives way to mild confusion. Alongside Andre is someone you’ve never met. Perhaps something primal within you can sense danger, but you dismiss it and open the door wide for the two men. Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal “Yo’ Dre—imma step out,” Vic says just before he flashes a palmed blunt. The stranger slides open the glass door to your apartment’s balcony. “Sorry, Sha-na-na,” Andre offers softly after his brother is outside. He uses the playful nickname he bestowed upon you years ago, but it still sounds wrong in his mouth. His apology hangs thick in the air for the briefest of moments. “Aight, let’s get down to it.” He walks to the rear of your small apartment to your bedroom. You follow him, but the moment you breach the door frame, he pulls you in the rest of the way and slams the door behind you, and then his mouth is on yours, gagging you with his tongue which mutes your demands for him to stop, and the satisfaction from his own throat is vibrating its way into your skin and your hair, and then he unzips his pants while you 130 131 Creative Nonfiction “Wassup?” Andre strides with a lazy tilt in his hips that you don’t recognize. You recall a conversation with him about code switching: about how sometimes you speak or act differently with different people. He reassured you that this was normal, and that he did it too. He continues in uncharacteristically clipped and rough sentences. “My brotha, Vic. He just got out today. So don’t mind the piece.” In the years you’ve known Andre, you’ve never met any of his family and he rarely speaks of them. You knew that he had an older brother but hadn’t known that he’d been in prison. Vic nods to you as he shifts a gun from the rear of his pants to the front. Andre reads your unease. “Yeah, some fools tried to mess ‘round last time. He’s gotta be ready, ya know?” Andre pronounces his words with languid enunciation. This is not the same Andre who chatted with you about colors of auras, dating advice, and childhood bullies. “Finally, right?” You aren’t sure what he means. Finally, right? Does he mean that he’s finally finished? Or that, finally, it had happened because he had foreseen it? Or did he think that finally he gave you what you wanted? Does he know it was rape? You are thinking these things, still on your back, when you hear the heft of the front door slam shut. You do not get up to lock the door behind him. You do not get up to shower. You are no longer there. You take note, with detached passivity, that you are filled with relief that you are now alone. You are filled with gratitude that the gun is gone. You are filled with the seed of a traitor. But still, you are no longer there. I am Beautiful By Hailey Robins I just need to do it. The longer I sit there, the harder it will be and the more the anxiety will flourish. Building immaculate cities through my body, forcing its construction through my veins, housing every worry, weighing every bone in my body down. Beautiful towers of impeccable craftsmanship built by my own worries. I wearily raise my hand and mutter, “I’ll go.” “Awesome, Hailey, come on up,” Mr. Jensen said as he looked at me. Something about his mellow voice made the cities crumble just a bit. It’s just a small presentation. Only 5 minutes. Everyone here has done a great job so far, I can’t mess this up. Getting up, those towers forgot they could crumble and felt grander than the Taj Mahal. I grab the painting I made with Rachael. A small silly-looking painting with a beautiful purple nature background with a picture of two rubber ducks with rainbow hats and heart-shaped sunglasses. Thinking about when we painted it by passing it back and forth and Rachael asked, “Can I ruin this?” as she added the ducks. As I reminisced on that moment, a small, nervous chuckle forced its way out of my lips. Not to be forgotten, tears built up in my eyes, pushing away all memories of Rachael and me. I had decided the night before that this was the piece. This could show why I am beautiful. I am beautiful because of this funny little painting because if I think too hard about it I will cry. I needed something funny to distract me from the fact that I am just a liar. I am not beautiful, I am not smart, and I can’t even stand in front of the class. What is wrong with me? I can’t do this. It’s just stupid. Everyone else has beautiful pieces of art or poetry and can get through one little presentation. I just need that bullshit response I made last night about how I am beautiful. It’s not that hard. Why can’t I do this one project? I’m an idiot. I just need to lie for one minute to finish the project and get its letter grade. I just need to say “I am beautiful.”So why is this so hard? “I…I… sorry.. I. Just breathe.” “You’re doing great, Hailey. Why are you beautiful?” The tears get the best of me as I look at my painting. “I am beautiful because…” And for a moment I actually believe it. 132 133 Creative Nonfiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal tell him no, but he laughs because he thinks you’re being coy, and so he pulls off your clothes while you are saying no and saying please, but you worry that he thinks that your “please” is asking for more, but you know that you are saying no-please, stop-please, not please-please, and your brain is trying to catch up to this turn of events but it feels like you’re still standing in the kitchen deciding what to make for dinner, but now he has you pinned to the bed, and your futile pleas of “no-please” aren’t helping, so you simply give up and spread your legs and think about anything but what’s happening like the shadows in the room or the textures on the ceiling or how much the AC bill is going to be because it’s been such a hot summer and oh god it hurts so much why isn’t it over until finally—it’s over. Finally. It’s over. My Lemons months and then they were moving again, this time to a much more modest rental home, but all I saw was a girl, whose parents were fighting tooth and nail for her attention and affection, and I wanted that. Have you ever heard the saying, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade?” If you haven’t, I would be inclined to think you’ve been living under a rock, because I’ve heard this sentiment countless times throughout my life. Whenever I’ve gone through something difficult, there’s always been one person who would let the phrase escape their lips. The conversation would often go something like, “You know, when life gives you lemons…” as they let out a small chuckle and their voice trails off, assuming that I should know how the rest of the line goes. And, of course they’re right. I do know how the line goes. Even when my life is going okay, the metaphor has been plastered all over on mugs, phone cases, tote bags, and decorative pillows meant to be seen as an inspirational quote. The phrase seems to follow me everywhere, constantly telling me how I should be handling my trauma and my hurt, assuming that I should be able to turn my sour things sweet. The trick though, is that no one has ever told me how to make lemonade, only that I should be doing it. And because of that, it only seems fitting that I take the time to address my lemons and explore what some of them mean. Maybe by giving a name to each one, I can finally figure out how to grab hold of this elusive metaphor and create some sense from it. To start, my first lemon has been with me since I was a little girl. Ever since I can remember, my mom has told me that she loves my dad, but I don’t know if I believe her. My whole life, I’ve been walking on my tiptoes with baited breath, waiting for my parents to get a divorce. The word ‘divorce’ has almost become like Christmas - the event my whole family has been waiting on pins and needles for. Except, Christmas is supposed to be a happy, exciting, and fun occasion while divorce is not. Or, at least, it’s not supposed to be. I don’t think it necessarily would be for my family, but when no one really believes that my parents love each other, wouldn’t I want them to find something better? Thus, this first lemon comes into play. I know a split household is not one to envy. I had to watch my cousin struggle against a growing distant family due to her parents divorcing. Her mom was often gone because she had to work full time in order to provide for her kids, and her dad went bankrupt from constantly trying to buy his kids’ affection. At the time, we were too young to realize what was really going on, we were just amazed at the cool new house my uncle bought with a theater in the basement and a bathtub big enough to be an indoor pool in the master bedroom. He only had the house for a few 134 My experience was very different. I was used to fighting, but it was not the kind of fighting that I envied in my cousin’s family. It was the kind of fighting that caused everyone to flee to their rooms and lock their doors until the howling of the wind had subsided enough that you could uncover your ears and the rain finished blowing through. It was the kind where you didn’t know what was waiting for you on the other side of that door when you finally built up enough courage to open it, your cheeks still stained red from the water. I was told that it’s normal for families to fight, but when an argument is so bad that my mom had to leave the house just to get away from the wreckage, was that normal? Is that normal? Perhaps that is my second lemon; my mom often left to escape the hurricane that brewed in the house, leaving us to pick up the pieces by ourselves. I had to get used to the fear that would settle into my chest and gnaw its way through my heart, telling me that one of these times she wouldn’t come back; she would just leave us, and then I wouldn’t even have the option of living between split homes.   I often feel like I didn’t grow up with a mom. Not only from the days that she would disappear, but also because I often felt like I couldn’t go to her for comfort or for advice. She didn’t give great hugs (she didn’t like people touching her because her boundaries had once been ignored when she was little), and at times I would be forced to play the middle man between her and whoever was on the receiving end of her anger. I tried to be a peacekeeper. I tried to make this so-called lemonade that everyone kept talking about, but maybe my lemons weren’t ready yet. Perhaps they were still too sour and under-ripe, since the end result very rarely turned out to be sweet or refreshing. It could also be that I had a bad recipe, or maybe my ingredients were off. My tears were always way too salty to ever be used in a lemonade recipe. In my defense though, who wouldn’t cry when they thought their mom didn’t love their dad? When they thought their dad had given up? Surprisingly, after years of a rough upbringing, my parents are still together. I sometimes feel sorry for them. All of us kids have gotten married and moved out on our own, and they are still stuck in that same house, in the same marriage. To me, they seem lonelier than ever. My mom goes to work, and then goes home to her chair in front of the T.V. watching her shows while she grades her student’s homework assignments. When she’s done grading, she gets on Instagram and Facebook, scrolling endlessly through other people’s highlight reels of 135 Creative Nonfiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal By Rachel Wasden their lives, again, trying to escape her reality. My dad is often found on his iPad, watching movies and sending business emails. That’s when he’s home and not on a work trip to a different state, leaving my mom alone in the now-silent house. I don’t think they’ve cracked the code on how to make lemonade yet either. The only person I’ve ever met who seemed to have an inkling of an idea of what to do with sour lemons was named Ansley. She was one of the strongest, brightest people I have ever met. We met because we both struggled with chronic illness as teenagers—my third lemon. Chronic illness does not discriminate and does not care about how much destruction it leaves in its wake. I’ve lost most of my formative teenage years and some of my young adult life to illness, missing school, dances, facing major surgeries, difficult recoveries, and long, frequent hospitalizations. Because of this, Ansley and I found each other through a support group on Facebook that was made for teenagers facing these same issues, so that we wouldn’t feel as alone. One day, I made a post asking the group for advice on how they would navigate having parents who were always arguing about what treatment plan/path would be best for them. Since I was still a minor at the time, every health decision was difficult to make because my parents had to sign off on it, and they never saw eye to eye. I wondered if anyone else was in a similar position, and I wanted any help I could get. Ansley messaged me because of that post, and from that day on we became best friends. We would FaceTime all the time, and because we lived in different states, whenever we had time off of school and were healthy enough, one of us would fly to see the other. No matter what we were going through, we stuck by each other’s side. Ansley in particular showed immense strength and grace during her struggles. Don’t get me wrong, she would have bad days and she would scream and cry and complain about how unfair life was, but she knew the secret. She knew how to take those bad days and let them fuel her fire, and her drive, to have better days. She fought for every milestone she achieved, and she never took no for an answer. That following day at my husband Ethan’s family party, I remember sitting on the couch talking with his grandparents when his dad got a call. After he hung up, he pulled Ethan aside. I watched Ethan’s face fall as his dad whispered something to him, and his eyes locked with mine. Ethan gestured for me to follow him into the basement where we could talk in private. At this point, I knew something serious had just happened. Ethan led me down the stairs and sat me down on a chair, while he kneeled at my side with a grave look on his face. That’s when he breathed the name of my fourth lemon. The lemon I can’t, and never will forget. Ansley had passed away that morning in her sleep. My best friend was dead. I felt my whole world shift… and stop. I knew that I was irrevocably changed at that moment — changed in a way that could not be reversed or recovered. Nothing about my life would ever be the same. The phrase her family decided to put on her urn read “Choose Happy.” That gave me pause. Now, at my greatest moment of need, where was the person telling me how to make lemonade out of this? Where was the secret to turn this horrible situation into something sweet? In my opinion, nothing would ever make that possible. Looking back, I’m glad no one tried to tell me about lemons or what to do with them because if they had, I probably would’ve wanted to punch them in the face. But, as I sat and stared at this jar that held the ashes of the person that I loved and cared so much about — the only pieces I had left of her — I read and reread that phrase, her phrase, over and over again. I think that was her secret. Her secret behind dealing with her lemons was to “Choose Happy.” For her, I think sometimes that meant leaving the lemons exactly the way they were, and accepting them for what they brought. Some things in her life were unchangeable. She was born sick, and she died sick. She found a way to make peace with that while she was living. She never let that stop her from accomplishing what she wanted to accomplish. She still went out and did all the things she wanted despite carrying those burdens. She went to prom, she kissed a boy, and she graduated high school, all lifelong goals of hers. I will never forget the night she tried to call me, and I declined it because I was busy and told myself I would call her back the next day. It was a Saturday night, and I was hanging out with my new husband, who I had Now, I just want to learn how to “Choose Happy.” My lemons are what they are, and I can’t necessarily change that. But I can change the way I approach them. My parents have endured 30-plus years of marriage with each other and raised four kids together. They may not love each other the way I would like to see them love each other, but they must at least have some love for each other. How could they not, after sharing and sacrificing a lifetime together? I need to let go of the idea that my family 136 137 Creative Nonfiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal I do often wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up in a home with a family who did care for each other, who didn’t fight so loudly and hurt so easily. Would I have turned out differently? Would I recognize the value of having a loving family the same way I do now had I not tasted the sour, bitter opposite end? Who would I be if I didn’t pick up these lemons? just gotten married to three months prior. We were preparing to go to a family party the next day, so I thought it would be fine to call Ansley after all of the busyness of the weekend had calmed down. wasn’t happy or wasn’t normal. There is no such thing as a normal family. But families can choose to stick together, no matter what happens, and that’s what my family did. I need to appreciate them for that. I also need to appreciate my illness for what it’s brought me. It brought me perspective, endurance, patience, strength, and it brought me Ansley. After all of this, maybe I don’t need to see these experiences as sour lemons that need to be changed into something more easily digestible. Maybe I can look back at these situations in my life and see them for what they are: evidence of all the times I fought to “Choose Happy,” to choose to continue to push through the difficult times and find the positive that has always been waiting for me to see. I can choose to let Ansley’s light continue to shine through my projects and my ventures. I can choose to be kinder to my parents and to give them grace, believing that they did the best they could with the lemons they were given. Perhaps lemons don’t need to be turned into lemonade at all, maybe they can just be. And if all else fails, it is still pretty therapeutic to just take your lemon and chuck it against a wall as hard as you can until it’s squished into something unrecognizable and your anger/sorrow is gone. That is, until you have to clean up the wall. By Emily Michie My feet are crowded by the long, pale green grass and the rare wildflowers that pop from the ground, which is just wet enough to seep water into my hiking shoes. I can’t find a comfortable position to balance my journal on my knees without the small boulder I use as a chair, digging into my butt bones. A glance to the girls within my sight, they are writing fast or closing their eyes, their faces relaxed and uninhibited. Having hiked to a meadow up on some mountains, the Beehives, girls 12-13 years old from my stake, have scattered to find isolated spots to journal and connect with the Holy Ghost. Without many places within eyeshot of the counselors and not on an inclining hill, we are more like 15 feet away from each other, not exactly isolated or spiritual. The intention, I believe, was to give us the opportunity to feel at peace, alone with just ourselves and the spirit and write down any epiphanic thoughts that may come. With that, I am still not sure what I should be writing, I don’t have any thoughts about God or the prophets and I don’t hear any ‘still, small voice’ talking to me. I want to ask the girl nearest me what to do, what she might be writing about, but it’s so quiet beyond the scratching of pens and the sniffling of noses, that I decide against it. To appear like I know what I am doing, like a child of God worthy of His sacred words, I scribble doodles; swirls, spirals, and jagged lines across my page until it looks like a toddler grabbed hold of my pen. I leave my mess of drawings and keep it on the previous page, turning to the empty lines of the next. I don’t want to waste pages of space, saving for the things I actually want to write about throughout this week, so I pull out my Scriptures, flipping through the verses, desperate for inspiration. After quite a while searching through the unfamiliar book, I have a page full of exact quotes of random Scriptures that maybe make sense? I honestly did it to pass the time, I’m not sure I understand what they mean and I don’t hold any emotion from them. “Five more minutes, girls.” The counselors walk around and give gentle, quiet time-warnings, smiles on their faces, a hand on the girls’ shoulders to not shock them out of their possible prayers. Before the counselor walking towards me can glance at the “testimony” I’ve written, I close my journal. A squeeze on my shoulder, “Five more minutes,” 138 139 Creative Nonfiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal Even though I have my issues with my mom, I still had her. She was still as present as she could be in my life and she has fought for me, especially concerning my illnesses/health, sometimes even more than I fought for myself. She was always there when I needed her most and she hasn’t walked away. Teach Me to Walk in His Light I’m relieved that this is almost over, but terrified of the inevitable sharing of what we’ve written, knowing I have nothing to share. Opening back up my journal, I look at a wildflower sprouting near my knee: small, purple petals on shoots tall enough that they seem they should topple over in the breeze. Another,- a bushel of yellow wildflowers, close to the ground but overflowing with blossoms. I look up at the mountain tops, lower than usual because we are so high up in their valleys. The gentle wind against my neck, stirring up my hair, then floating away, and dancing through the meadow. I finally have something: I write about the beauty of the land around me. I do appreciate this time away, the time given to reflect, and am glad for the sentences I have written already, but I hurriedly write something about my love for Christ, how I ‘know this church is true’ or the allknowing calm I got in this meadow because of my ‘conversations’ with the Holy Ghost. I sigh at the fake words I graffitied onto my precious pages. I take a flower with me, thankful for its physical reminder of peace and stability, and close it in my journal. I try to ignore the pang in my chest, the other reminder that I still haven’t found the spirit we were assigned to find, and take an extra minute to look at the valley around me. The hills drop off in sharp declines or ascend in inclines we can’t—and won’t— climb. I close my eyes, as the girls around me had done, and in my head, for a moment, I do not feel watched or judged; part of me is carried off in the wind. Eyes open, I observe the vastness of where I am. I stand alone, meaningless and tiny, but thoroughly in my body—my feet stable on the ground. And just for a moment, I am free. —----------------------------------------“Do you have faith in and a testimony of God, the Eternal Father; His Son, Jesus Christ; and the Holy Ghost?” I think my upper lip is sweating, and so is the skin around my eyes. The cement walls that build this Church are not great for insulation. “Yes,” I respond, absolutely knowing that I have issues with some of their teachings. In the summer, or if the room is too full of people, the heat is sweltering, and I worry each time I stand from my chair that my sweat will leave an imprint of my butt behind. “Do you strive to be honest in all that you do?” 140 “Yes” In the winter, we hope that our pantyhose and puffy dresses will last us through the next few hours, until we can escape into our car and warm up on the drive home. “Do you obey the law of chastity?” “Yes.” Truth— for once—since I’m 14 and, of course, have not had sex, though it’s none of his or the Elder’s business. At the moment, the room’s heat leaks out through the cement bricks and poorly made scruffy brown-green carpet, and all that’s left is a chill; it seeps into my thighs from the metal chairs under my thin dress, and conducts away my precious warmth. “Do you understand and obey the “Word of Wisdom”? I’m not fine with lying when it’s so blatant. I can walk under the veil of not fully understanding the Church’s teachings or what even a ‘doctrine’ is, so I don’t feel I’m really lying , but I know the “Word of Wisdom,” well and understand what it asks of me. Since I haven’t immediately responded, the Bishop pushes, thinking I don’t understand the question. “You know the Word of Wisdom, yes?” From his black binder, he pulls out a printed page of the ‘Word of Wisdom’, written in fancy script up top, the ten bullet points of things we all must follow below. When did this room get so dark? He faces the sheet towards me to read; I pretend to read through it, feigning understanding. My face flushes; it does nothing to warm me. Why are the lights in this room off ? Did he assume the sun would keep it well lit through the blurry glass windows? “ For example, do you consume or have ever consumed caffeine?” Can someone please walk in and make this a not one-on-one interrogation? I have to clear my throat to respond, “Yes, I obey the Word of Wisdom.” I look anywhere but at his face. “So you don’t drink caffeine?” 141 Creative Nonfiction Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal “Ok, girls, time’s up, but feel free to take a second to breathe and finish up your final thoughts.” The girls around me shuffle, some stand and gather with the counselors, while others scribble manicly in their journals. Uh oh, seems the lord can read my thoughts again, he knows I just lied and am still going to. Why does this matter? “No, I don’t drink caffeine.” No veil to walk under, I understand what I lie about. The sun keeps going behind the clouds and the room stays a dark gray. My eyesight looks almost monochrome. “Do you support or promote any teachings, practices, or doctrine contrary to those of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?” The heat is sucked from my chest, leaving a hollow chamber, the cold continues inching towards my neck and up my head. “No.” Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal No? So your proclamation of your sexuality—the pink, purple, and blue waving flag- on those private social media accounts is a lie, too? My eyes start welling up, a lump forms in my throat, he doesn’t seem to notice, he now just writes on his papers in the binder, reading from the list of questions. Pretending the chill on my neck is a breeze cooling me on a warm day, I take a deep breath, and try to stabilize what feels like its toppling inside me. We have to be almost done with this. “Do you consider yourself worthy to enter the Lord’s house and participate in temple ordinances?” My head down, I watch my hands wring the bottom of my dress, dyed white and yellow flowers, patterned on black fabric, curl and scrunch in my anxious grip. I don’t feel at all worthy, but this was the entire point of the interview—so I could get a Temple Recommend, so I can just step foot in the temple, so I can do ‘baptisms for the dead,’ because everyone else my age is. But if I speak the truth, that no—I don’t feel worthy—he will ask why, and everything will come spilling out. My dress’s flowers, mocking bright colors, gray in the room’s light as the sun continues to hide. “Yes.” He signs the slip of paper, and hands me my Temple Recommend—now worthy to walk in the house of God. 142 Acknowledgements While Metaphor may appear as nothing more than a literary journal, I’ve found firsthand that it is so much more. Behind this paperback collection of creative works lies a machine consisting of many cogs and gears that work together to allow the undergraduates of Weber State to shine. Without the help from the English Department and the College of Arts and Humanities, those beams of light would be dim through only a handful of small flashlights. Thank you to the individuals, professors, advisors, and other personnel who spread the word about our publication and recruited staff members on our behalf. Without the entire department we would not have a space to meet and for that we share a special gratitude to you. First, as a staff, we are so grateful to our advisor, Jan Hamer, and our assistant advisor, Clint Johnson, for overseeing our group and guiding our way through this complicated process. Thank you both for your dedication to the journal. You are the gearshift of our machine, and your insights have been exponential throughout this process. Among the staff, there are many cogs who have dedicated themselves to our cause. Thank you to all who sacrificed personal hours to reach our deadline, to those section editors who lifted a weight off my shoulders by taking the wheel and steering their groups through piles of work, and a special thanks to our assistant editor, Shauna Gunnell, for lending a hand in the menial tasks and helping bring the journal to fruition. Our designer, Sydney DeJong, has taken on a heavy load, taking all of our hard work and combining it into one cohesive product. We appreciate her and her advisor, Jude Agboada, and all the time it took to create our cover, posters, and a perfect place for our submissions to shine. We value your work and express gratitude for your time. Finding a location for our open mics was nearly impossible, and for a moment, we were left with only the option of an on-campus venue. Happy Magpie, a pay-what-you-want bookstore, was our saving grace. Thank you, Patrick Ramsey, for providing Ogden with a space to share, purchase, and create literary works. The pages on which these works are stored are the engine block that cradles our large machine. Thank you, Advantage Utah/FC Printing, for handling our creative works and turning them into something physical we can share. Finally, we’d like to express our gratitude to all of you who trusted us with your works of art. You are the true stars here. It is your work that shines boldly among our pages and transforms our menial work to life. We truly appreciate your submissions and look forward to many more to come. Weber State University Undergraduate Literary Journal