2026 undergraduate literary journal --~· ------- •,~---(~~ ,,~ "f ,~ ~ IJ:j,~~ f'. 1- ~ •~ec::=:.-.~l~ -~ ~ ~~ s .~~~~~ undergraduate literary journal Metaphor is Weber State University’s undergraduate, interdisciplinary journal in its forty-fifth year of publication. The journal is staffed entirely by Weber State students across departments. Metaphor accepts previously unpublished submissions from undergraduate students of Weber State University in visual arts, poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and other experimental literary forms. 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 Literature Conference, and the community. Copyright © 2026 is retained by the individual authors and artists. Printed in the United States of America by Advantage ColorGraphics, Salt Lake City, Utah. Metaphor at Weber State University, 1395 Edvalson Dept. 1404, Ogden, Utah, 84408-1404 Visit our website: www.weber.edu/metaphor Book and Cover Design by Ava Blakeley Edited by Evelyn Ayers Dear Reader, letter from the editor Not many of you will take the time to learn about the minds who crafted the words and colors on the page. Not many will care to ask how we got here—what books, traumas, and art galleries molded us into who we are today. It takes one generation to write the text that shapes us, one generation to teach that text, and a third to write the texts that shape generations to come. Yet, few remember their names—our names. History and voice are some of the most defining qualities of an author or an artist. Each tells the story of the person that decided bleeding ink onto a page was better than bearing the pain of silence. I invite you to absorb not only the stories on the page, but the mind that birthed it. Soak in the hearts of the people who refuse to be silenced. Taste their words on your tongue, drown in our grief, swallow the hues and color palettes, never forget the way you feel holding our lives in your hands. Remember our names, seek us out. Scream our names, hear—or sign—our words, share our stories. Celebrate the journey that brought us here. “Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities” (Rebecca Yarros). It is up to us to write the texts that shape the next generation—to turn the possibilities into probabilities. Don’t let our names be printed in vain. Don’t let our stories be left behind. Don’t let fear leave us in ashes. With all my love, Evelyn Ayers, Editor in Chief letter from the assistant editor Sandwiched like peanut butter between the front and back cover of this book is a community of students with the same passion: art. It is the glue that holds a collection like this together. This is what is so special about Metaphor. For some, this passion comes in the form of prose arranged on a page. For others, it is a variety of visual mediums. Either way, it is the same honeyed understanding of the human experience and the importance of shaping it to share with others. I must express my admiration not only for those who are published in this edition, but also to those who had the bravery to submit at all. In a world so overrun with online exposure for artists, it feels necessary to say that we have put at least one part of ourselves tangibly on display. Publication is daunting yet delicious. For some artists in this book, this will be a repetitive joy. For others, it will be the first jolt of electricity to make its way down their spine. Either way, let me just say congratulations! As a poet and avid reader, this experience has only deepened my love for literature. Thank you to those who encouraged me to join Metaphor. Thank you to the staff who worked at a perilous speed to ensure the success of Volume 45. Thank you to the artists who have trusted us with something so special. Thank you, sweet reader, for taking the time to read this book and support an anthology that celebrates our community. This connectivity is the most important apparatus that we have through both effortless and exhausting times. With absolute adoration, Ellie Heiner, Assistant Editor in Chief note from the designer When I was asked to design the cover for Metaphor, I was a bit intimidated by the idea. I knew I wanted to create something that represented what Metaphor is and what it stands for. I started this process by looking through previous editions for inspiration. As I explored previous editions, several things stood out to me. First, I was struck by the strong sense of community. Metaphor brings together a wide range of artists into a single journal, creating a space for diverse voices. Second, I was deeply inspired by the vulnerability present throughout Metaphor. It is intimidating to put your work out there for everyone to see, especially when the pieces are deeply personal and vulnerable. What stood out to me the most was the celebration of individuality. Every story, poem, and artwork are vastly different from each other, not only within a single issue, but across all editions. Even the covers themselves reflect this diversity, as each one is uniquely designed and features an individual style. I wanted to create a cover that captured this sense of individuality, and I explored many ideas that could represent Metaphor’s diversity. I then realized that, much like fingerprints, no two editions of Metaphor are the same. Inspired by the uniqueness present in each published piece and cover design, I used the organic forms found in fingerprints to form the letters of Metaphor as a visual representation of individuality and creative expression. Metaphor is more than a collection of writing and art; it is a celebration of community, diversity, and creativity. Ava Blakeley, Graphic Designer table of contents poetry I-15 at 80 MPH Laura Crampton 11 Tearing Open My Ribcage Brighton Williams 20 Is That All There Is? Ellie Saree 13 The Sky Has No Memory Jayden Tomlinson 21 Vultures 14 Jacob Hiatt For Ashley Mickey Gines 23 Funeral 15 Aja Gubler Speed eating is eating us Dallin Dutson 24 Bursting with Clouds Emma Kirby 17 Photopsias Falling Dallin Dutson 26 Notes from Deployment Yecy Rubalcaba 18 Sitting Down with the Forest Joshua Colenda 28 Amouropathy 30 Elizabeth R. Barley Rainbow Taboo Ivan Cecil Nakai 40 A Butterfly in Winter Gideon Wheeler 32 dress-up 41 Cidney McQuade For Grandma and Poppy Ellie Saree 33 Rapacity 42 K.M. Downs DSM-5 34 Cidney McQuade do you feel like falling rain Andrew Kenison 44 Influencer 35 Ellie Saree Bastion 46 Joshua Colenda Land of the Free Jarenzy Hernandez 36 Unscarred, Unscathed, Unknowing. 47 Autumn Gomberg Sloughing Splinters Sophia Spencer 38 Rubbing Shoulders Gideon Wheeler What the River Took Jayden Tomlinson 39 48 art Utah Cryptid Illustrations with Utah Native Plant-life Trevor Collins 50 Poet & King Karli Dickamore 58 Spring’s X-Ray KayLeene Christensen 51 City Lights Drifting Sarah Jensen 59 Utah is a Desert Ashley Denney 52 Not Exactly a Self Portrait Abigail Bateman 60 A Hug For Little Me Kaitlin Wilding 53 Japanese Breakfast Kaitlin Wilding 54 City Streets Sophia Ochoa 55 Trustworthy Power 61 Abigail Bateman Blueprint with Butterflies, Finch, 62 Ladybug, and Wide Eyed Expression Karissa Strate Nature Follows Beauty Nate Johnson 56 Carefree Karli Dickamore 57 A Siren’s Call Theo Ochoa 63 Self Portrait Glitch Janika Linville 64 fiction Cold Storage M.A. Shelley 66 The Doll Shop Olivia Herndon 77 What They Deserve Brendan Harris 79 The Blue Door Anastazia Shupe 82 The Last Compassionate City and the Sweatpants of God Joshua Colenda 88 The Labyrinth Emma Kirby 96 The Cord Cutters and the Great Sky Fire Joshua Colenda 106 creative nonfiction The Season of Winnie K.M. Downs 114 Glass Ocean Jason Painter 129 Grace & Duane E.A. Morrigan 120 Meet Me Halfway Alejandra Espinoza 132 One Page at a Time Lindy Humpherys 123 Dear Jude Emma Workman 138 Arctic Circle Summer Aja Gubler 126 Another Fishing Idyl Davis Swanson 140 Emily Michie Jayden Tomlinson Emma Workman Marissa Archibald Pepper Rowley Cali Seguin Autumn Gomberg Riley King poetry Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, it just has to touch someone where your hands couldn’t. - Rudy Akbarian It is hard to define what makes a good poem because poetry can be anything. I’ve read poems about: insurance not covering surgeries, days spent eating fresh tomatoes, the Latin names of species that float alongside the garbage in the ocean, women handwashing clothes together, the music in your grandmother’s voice when she describes the flowers in her garden, the loss of your friend and their box that you keep under your bed, and so much more. Poetry is nonsense, it is rhythm, it is art. As many have said before, poetry is algebra plus fire. The poems in this volume have just that. Fire. In reading and discussing every poem, the poetry staff and I learned so much about what poetry can be, and our creative senses have shifted for the better. We wish we were able to include every single one of the 160 poetry submissions we received, if only to showcase the vast creativity that WSU students have to offer. This journal truly wouldn’t exist without everyone who submitted their work. If your piece wasn’t accepted: keep writing, and submit again. I want to thank the poetry staff for their diligent effort and precious time spent making this year’s collection come into being. Our little staff meshed so well together, and I am grateful for the opportunity to have worked with you. Our eyes, though tired, will be able to read these poems for years to come, and that is all because of your immense dedication. Thank you, Emily Michie, Poetry Lead I-15 at 80 MPH Laura Crampton 2026 Jan Hamer Prize for Outstanding Poetry Slow down, motherfucker. Stop riding my ass, asshole. It’s not your job to slow me down, dickhead. Please I’m late for class/work/church/home. Let me merge or I will cry. Sorry for speeding, Officer, I have to shit real bad. The Fastlane has no speed limit. Slower traffic—keep right. Or don’t, fuckface. Jesus Christ. The most aggressive drivers are dads forced to drive soccer-mom minivans. He’s driving like that with his kids in the back?! Baby on board Baby on board Baby all up in this bitch. That’s way too many stick-figure children on your rear windshield. Little old man behind the wheel, just knuckles, cloudy cataracts, and a hat. Daylight Savings Time plunges rush-hour traffic into darkness. Bright-ass headlights on big-ass trucks, Drivers for miles now temporarily blinded. Construction cones are the state flower, blooming one day, choking out the free-breathing roads. Reroute, alternate route, detour. poetry 11 Another temple, a thousand white steeples. The glittering lake. Autumn leaves turn the mountains to fire, raised up for all to see. A gradient sunset, from burnt orange to midnight blue. East to the mountains, west to the lake. Tattoos and piercings desecrate your spirit’s temple. But here’s another billboard for a boob job or lip fillers or a fix for erectile dysfunction, liposuction, cool sculpting, hair extensions, Botox, LASIK, laser hair removal, wax, braces, dentures, implants, permanent makeup, lash extensions. Pride flags, Trump flags, Make America Great Again Fuck Joe Biden Let’s Go Brandon Equal Rights Campaign We the people are pissed off Families can be together forever 12-foot skeletons fill our closets Unhoused on the streets with church buildings unused 6 days out of the week Californians Suicide crisis hotline It’s just the elevation, not the State or the Nation. 12 metaphor Is That All There Is? Ellie Saree Between Highway-89 and the riverbank we found the carcass of a fox, twice. The subsequent an autumnal equinox orange portrait of motion brushed in one stroke from the paved road onto gray boulders. Its head was thrown back with joy towards the sky to the cars doppler beat, canines curved into a vicious smile, right foreleg in 3rd position, neck at 90 degrees, black socks at a point, both hind legs outstretched in an everlasting jete, body twisted into a position that exposed its ribs. On the car ride back through the canyon in the rain the FM radio played “Is That All There Is?” That brownish fur of the fox stayed behind to decompose and drape like curtains over the pebbled stage of the riverbank… is that all there is? poetry 13 Vultures Jacob Hiatt A beast lies in the desert, sick and dying. Vultures circle over the corpse. They promise the beast they will help it, heal it. The beast smiles, grateful. The vultures get to work, they rip into the beast. Feasting on its bloated, diseased corpse. They soothe the beast between mouthfuls of flesh. Pain is part of the process of healing. Without us you’d die. Worry not, you’ll be healthier than ever before! Once the eyes are gone the beast can’t see. When the heart is gone, the beast can’t feel and when the lungs are gone, the beast can’t breathe. The beast slips from consciousness dying with a smile on its face believing itself saved. All that’s left are bones. The vultures take flight, to find more to scavenge, more to kill. Gaunt figures with emaciated skin. The vultures forever hunger, forever thirst, no blood or flesh will ever satisfy. 14 metaphor Funeral Aja Gubler l feel closer to her When I touch the baby-soft petals of the lilac bloom Than I do when I sit near her ashes Perhaps it is because they are alive And she loved them when she was alive I walk along a sandy road I don’t know how to keep going without her But I must I will Because I am a mother too Tires have traveled this road and rabbits, birds, and bugs The new, the old and me As my tears are ready to spill over the spillway again I see a heart-shaped rock that reminds me of her golden hair and the smoothness of her pearl-painted fingertips poetry 15 She must have had someone leave it here for me Or in the least, helped me to see it Perhaps she doesn’t want me to cry anymore But I hold this heart to my heart and I do I remember She wiped the tears from my face with her own tissue when she could no longer speak So I stop and brush them away again As life goes on her messages become buried on my phone But my gratefulness gathers, grows And so, even though I don’t know how to not cry I will try for her July 28, 2025 (25 days without her) 16 metaphor Bursting with Clouds Emma Kirby The taste of longing is cigarette smoke, burnt and bitter as ninety-seven percent dark chocolate, except you can’t chip off a piece to savor, it has to hit all at once. Longing punches you in the nose at the same time it forces itself down your throat, packing every crevice of your trachea and alveoli, your chest bursting with clouds of that which you could never hold if it existed outside of you. But everything reminds you of it, so you go in for another drag, tongue burning, lungs filling, because it’s nice to feel needed, and you think when they get here you will be. This taste can fill in for now, even as you live with longing long enough that you stop noticing the way it clings to you everywhere you go. poetry 17 Notes from Deployment Yecy Rubalcaba It smelled like salt. Stung the inside of your nose, until you couldn’t tell if it was the ocean, or something inside of you spoiling. The ship was a cage bolted to the sea. Gears clanked like distant bells for the dead. Bodies sweating, grunting, trapped together like tripe in a net. You showered elbow to elbow, with ghosts in human skin, people who hated you but knew the exact tilt of your shoulder blades. Prayers whispered into reused air. Mourning your family, who weren’t gone, but unreachable. Evoke them and they flickered like broken film. Outside, Poseidon whispered. Like he knew something we didn’t. Like he knew our secrets. He speaks in a kaleidoscope of blue. Blue. Then light blue. Then, that deep, bruised blue that feels like it knows your name. 18 metaphor You’d stand at the ship’s edge, the water yawning open. An invitation to forget everything, crashing like blood against the hull. It was terrifying. It was beautiful. Like lightning through a storm, splitting you open. Still you stood there, spellbound. Wishing for land, or wishing for the sea to open its jaw and just decide. Every wave is a funeral without a casket. Shards of blue spinning, twisting fracturing the edges of time itself. And here, between the breaks, we become neither here nor gone. Only the pulse of blue, the shimmer beneath the skin of the sea. We are the drowned, still breathing. We are the gone, still blinking in red light. We are the living dead sailing east toward nothing, toward— poetry 19 Tearing Open My Ribcage Brighton Williams How many days? Restrained by lush sheets, my frail, pale arms are hidden. A fuming ache corrupts my joints, and my nostrils catch the slightest breath of air. On the nightstand sits a mug of chamomile tea—a chill frost scorns the placid rim. The pain is familiar; its existence has rained since birth. Ailment guides the throbbing; no remedies calm the invasion. Beneath the pain, an itch flares, an unreachable itch, a torment that must be seized. Fingers pierce wrinkled skin; veins burst, and nails tear, splintering the bones that shield the lungs. Thick ichor claims the tissue; my fist plunges to my core, impulsively seeking the point where I am to be relieved. But no itch is found; it doesn’t exist, but my rib cage does, and it has been torn open. 20 metaphor The Sky Has No Memory Jayden Tomlinson The clouds came low with the whisper of a storm, bruised like a ravaged soul on the horizon. A hush fell hard across the windowpane, where silence stuck like dew to fading light. No hands were extended, no name was called. The house stood still, not sheltered from the rain. It fell like sorrow: slow, interminable rain, each drop a secret whispered by the storm. No one inside remembered why they called this building a home. The dusk blurred the horizon, and even memory curled up in the light, its breath fogging the glass of the windowpane. She traced her losses on the windowpane, fingertips following the streaks of rain. Her thoughts moved dimly through the failing light, like shadows falling silently through the storm. She could not speak of the horizon, nor tell whether she had ever been well-called. In dreams she wandered, never to be called, just faces dissolving in the windowpane, ghosts marching slow on the horizon with wet-lashed eyes beneath the steady rain. They cautioned her not to speak against the storm, to close her heart and wait out every light. poetry 21 But hearts go tired in the lack of light. She broke like glass that’s never softly called, a vessel shattering in the storm, just hollow echoes left on the windowpane. There was no song to drown in the rain, no voice to chase beyond the horizon. And she stood gazing at the misty horizon, hoping for a flicker of strange new light that didn’t stink in elegy or rain. But every hour passed without a call. The world kept seeping through the windowpane, a world untouched by loss or by storm. No storm remembers who stood and who was called. The horizon keeps its distance from the windowpane. What stays is rain, a bare unanswering light. 22 metaphor For Ashley Mickey Gines I see you—carved deep, into ancient, crumbling hieroglyphics on walls in palaces and pyramids that I’ve never touched except in my lucid liquid dreams and this incurable imagination of mine. Yet I can feel you—a timeless texture on the tips of my fingers. In between the smooth sandstone symbols carved centuries ago, by distant and desperate hands… I see you lingering, floating, and haunting me. Even outside of these dreams Somewhere in a future, long gone. I see you in the receipt for my coffee I see you sitting beside me while I’m driving I see your back facing me, shoulders rising as you breathe, in the hollow space beside me in bed I see a faceless trail of you walking ahead of me in these college halls always an arm’s length away Years too late I see you sitting in this audience, among rows of empty chairs, as I read these words out now. They are little black birds scattering in an evening sky. Disappearing in the distance. Like dying embers floating up to a fiery horizon. I am afraid to stare too long, see you turn away, and walk out again. Fading away with the birds. But I need to. …I would follow. Leap and reach for your arm. Live the story told by weathered symbols on far-away ancient walls, of forgotten Pharaohs in love—and be timeless, together, with you. — Except I am here now. Without you. poetry 23 Speed eating is eating us Dallin Dutson A constant pain between the temples. Cranium leaking through my ears. I stand in the center Of a circle of zealots. They Mock as I devour Page after page. Shoveling thick words down my dry throat. Chomsky, Kropotkin, Locke, Luxemburg, and The like. A bowl as bottomless as the ocean. They chant: “More! More! More! That’s not enough!”. I continue to feast upon the books, Choking down Every footnote and Endnote. Droplets of black ink bead Down my cheek. My belly is swollen Like their pride –I’m about to burst. I cannot stop. I must keep going. There’s several wooden pyres Outside the ring. Two men on one, Two women on the other, A family of foreigners, a man clad in rags, and an androgynous figure. A dolorous gaze from each Forces me to chew. 24 metaphor Beside me there’s another. Instead of chowing down on Intellectual giants, He devours the Elonian bible With a side of Benito’s cold doctrines. Gulping down each wad with a wicked smile. My insides boil with fury, A rumble in my intestines. I don’t have long, I wolf down the last Of what I can take. My opponent opens their mouth Showering the circle with an eloquent Symphony. Fourteen Strong words. I respond by vomiting. A grotesque eruption of red and pink follows, and I am no more. The fanatics cheer, Dancing around my puddle. All that’s left of me is a book with A broken spine–dyed with the Crimson red of my blood. More fuel for the pyre. As my spirit lifts into the sky, The orange glow and acrid Smell penetrate me. High Pitched wailing ringing in My ears. A memoir of failure. poetry 25 Photopsias Falling Dallin Dutson I walk in sleepless dreams, In fear of the inferno. It has peeled off my corneas, Left scorch marks on my retinas. My tear ducts are dry, yet The riverbeds cannot deny. Your fiery frame is all that remains, As I walk in perpetual pain. Begging for rain. Begging for rain. Your faded image drawn in invisible ink, The reference I study when I should think. Even in memory your fire replies, with A burning inside I wish I could hide. Stuck in limbo I await, The next circle burning with hate. Envious of every other fate. Envious of every other fate. The demons, they taunt, haunted by lies, Matches in the corners of my eye. Ashes in their wake, how I wish they had your face. Play with fire you’re bound to be burned. Yet for all that I’ve learned. It’s the cold that I’ve earned. It’s the cold that I’ve earned. 26 metaphor In Spring, in Fall, In Summer, in All. Talk through the trees, run from incineration. Frozen to the bench, melting into the perforations. Immolation I crave, In your enduring flame. O free me from the chains, I hate this dreadful rain. Incinerate me! Let the flame consume. I don’t want to assume. Trapped inside a windowless room, Its walls have become my tomb. Through hills of icy cream, Nothing is ever as it seems. For still I walk in sleepless dreams. For still I walk in sleepless dreams. poetry 27 Sitting Down with the Forest Joshua Colenda When I sat down with the forest, The forest sat down with me. I told it that I loved the way, Its roots, and stems, and leaves, Were ordered nice and proper, In a way that all were pleased. It looked at me, If that’s the word, And asked me, friendly, to describe, The ways in which the world works, Within the halls of men. I’m ashamed to say, We aren’t the same. In place of roots, We sow pain. In lieu of harmony, We seek gain. That’s why I came to the forest today, To escape the halls of men. The wind has a strange effect, On the foliage of forests. The leaves rustle, And the boughs creak. You can almost hear them speak. 28 metaphor As we do not see into the halls of men, They said, So do you not see: The war of roots, And beaks. Beatles, And disease. You do not see, The poisoned thorns, Growing from the rose, Or see the rotting carcass, Of the fallen tree, From which we grow. Death is a shame, And life is to blame, And in that way, We are the same. Killing so we can live, To sit another day, With each other, In the shade. poetry 29 Amouropathy Elizabeth R. Barley You were a new disease in my heart, re-triggering long forgotten symptoms. Amouropathy. That beautiful, romantic suffering Caused by a strong disposition towards love, and a life lived without enough. Its symptoms include: Muscle weakness; when I hold you in my arms, scared to hurt your heart. Gradual onset of numbness; when I cannot be around to hear your gentle voice. Blurred vision; when I look into your eyes and start to lose my mind. A sharp, burning pain; when I try to pull you close but you need your personal space. 30 metaphor Lack of energy; from constantly trying to read your thoughts and actions. Dark spots in my vision; as I am blinded to both of our faults and flaws. Dizziness and lightheadedness; as I panic over your week-long silence. Shortness of breath; as I sense the end looming nigh. And an abrupt change in my vision when you rip yourself from my heart, to stop this deadly disease, but for once in my goddamn life, I think I actually wanted to be ill. poetry 31 A Butterfly in Winter Gideon Wheeler Slowly flaps its lazuli wings, Stark against the whit’ning sky. Lethargic, desperate for the spring, I fear it will likely die Each small scale on its fragile skin, Sloughs off drop by drop each hour. And yet the people pass and grin, Awed by the breathing winter flow’r They say true beauty’s only found In ephemerality, That evanescence brings about Meaning to reality. I’m told life is sacred only Cause it has a start and end. It’s due to death’s dark and lonely We appreciate our friends. Yet I can’t help but to lament As the cold sets in each day, And icy air my lungs cement; I doubt the butterfly feels that way. 32 metaphor For Grandma and Poppy Ellie Saree You would plant those flowers in the front yard garden bed, the one shaded by the overhang of the expansive family room windows, we would rub between our fingers and roll on our tongues. Forever, I think, I’ll choose basil over parsley and inhale with intensity the scent of cinnamon. let them fall open to expose their In my memories there is always opioid insides and droop scarlet onto the snapdragons, the ones we would pick and pinch at the corners to imitate nibbling mouths. I miss when the flowers were in season, the sun and it is always summer and the poppies are always in bloom and I don’t have to miss you so much. grieve the star jasmine and the honeysuckle that would suntan against the southern fence, their summoning of the hummingbirds and the butterflies. I nostolgize for the garden-fresh snap peas and the basil poetry 33 DSM-5 Cidney McQuade my leg bounces nervously as i look my therapist in the eye “you have gender dysphoria.” i chew on the words expecting them to change. but what i spit up is still the same: ouy ehva engdre pysdohair they taste sharp and honeyed. pleasant panic. dreadful relief. 34 metaphor Influencer Ellie Saree My mother’s smile lines are her star on the walk of fame, the dust on my father’s knees from kneeling to press his hands into wet cement. The sun at dusk is famous to those red faded couch cushions, his lips are idolized by the back of my neck, my knuckles of fame to the top of my kid brother’s head. I want to be famous like the shade under an apple tree. Memorialized like the scar on my big toe that reminds us of the summer we crashed our bikes and had to run home for bandaging. I want to influence genuine care and be famous like a warm home is to a cold winter’s day. poetry 35 Land of the Free Jarenzy Hernandez I find Mom sitting at the kitchen table, glasses perched at the tip of her nose as she traces words in English. She’s learning how to read and write, and she’s good at it, but she’ll never speak up. She gets too nervous. I embrace her, maybe for too long. Maybe I’m scared of it being the last time. I kiss her cheek, her soft brown skin feels so comforting. “Que te vaya bien, mija,” she says as I walk out the door. I find Dad outside, walking through his frozen garden, coffee steaming in his calloused hands. He’s planning his summer crops; he is hopeful. I notice gray peeking through his thick dark hair and his face beginning to wrinkle. His age is starting to show. “¿Ya te vas?” he asks, turning toward the chickens that remind him of his time in el rancho. I walk over and embrace him too, just like I wished I would have even before they circled our streets, watching and waiting to shackle the hands of our people. “Todo va a estar bien mija, tú no te agüites.” 36 metaphor But I see him, late at night, watching the news with anguish displayed all over his face. The words: “Dangerous, Illegal, Criminal” being spit at him. How do I live my life while my parents’ lives are shrinking? poetry 37 Sloughing Splinters Sophia Spencer some sense of stability has slipped off, leaving me to scrutinize a ceramic Man, who seethes with better strength than iam i full of distrustful termites and delicious sawdustis that what squirms successive with my spine? the evil ecstatic jittery rage that rattles in my solenoglyphous incisors that sibilate when I strike, is a gift of Supreme sin. were i a richer shade of sage, what should i sell to buy my existence? i only ever sought a safer solitude. feeding still gives me something sanguine and still i cannot blink to silence what i see without staring. i spit and stretch away in the face of Sapien heat, the sun hushes my heart till a still sleep reminds me i’ve been speared, skinned and stapled to my own door. 38 metaphor What the River Took Jayden Tomlinson I left you in the dark water, let you slip quiet into the black, where the city’s veins run thick with things we weren’t meant to keep. I watched the ripples swallow you whole. I told myself the current was mercy. What did I know of holding on? What did I know of hands gripping empty air? You would have come in spring, when the earth cracks open and pretends to heal. You would have known my name before I did. You would have learned to stay hungry. I would have held you with hands still stained. Would have traced your face, like something I didn’t know how to keep. I would have tried to be solid. A wall. A mountain. I would have failed. So I let the river take you, let the water wash my name from your mouth before you ever had the chance to say it. If I ever forget the weight of you— let the tide rise over my head, let the sky split me open, let the streets call me nameless, let the wind take me under. For your never-named sake. poetry 39 Rainbow Taboo Ivan Cecil Nakai A Navajo’s forbidden gesture I show you all my amazing colors, from my deep reds to my majestic purples. Yes, please admire my beauty for I am a rare treat. I am a divine, harmonic pathway, but I can show you my chaos. Appreciate my exquisiteness, but point at me with only your thumb. Any other finger I will cut off. 40 metaphor dress-up Cidney McQuade i wonder what costume i’ll put on today. will i be a boy or a girl? or maybe something entirely in between? maybe i’ll be me for a day. put on a dress and a suit in one sitting. comb my hair backwards just to do it again. feeling like a character in a play i didn’t know i was starring in. i’ll take my award for best actor! — thank you to my mother who always inspired me to play pretend. i’ve always been a girl a boy a thing maybe all of them. who knew playing dress-up would be this tiring? poetry 41 Rapacity K.M. Downs Rolling green hills, as far as the eye can see, With obelisk perforations between Sodden, unearthed turf, Like the gods themselves drew their fingers down The coast, Searching for resurrection. Here stands, in flawless emergence, A battlefield of blunder briefed In burden and butchering. Here stands, unscathed, An evocation of esse, Delivered as edification penultimate. Lonely lark hollows, as far as the eye can see, With tenacious roots quelling Overwrought, despairing victors, Whose voices ring with the veracity of borrowed visage in Divine testament, Searching for resurrection. Here stands, in solitary bloom, A battlefield of blunder briefed, In comeuppance and consciousness. Here stands, an edifice, To man and his transgressions, Dispatched as parched plains. 42 metaphor Assuredly, mother’s son must suffer, The thirst of his own throat dwindled, Like this realm reaped of entity, By the hand who knew him best. Surely, the heavens hollered, Man must pay for what he has borne Forever away! A virtuous outcome, beyond dispute, would take this destined form. Just the same, this is not a balanced land, And humankind’s rapacity will only Roar louder as memories drift, Like leaves upon a breeze. poetry 43 do you feel like falling rain Andrew Kenison alone alone in a wall a wave a legion of water cold in the wind racing toward the end once you were snow something so much more beautiful than dying and distant stars You were you shiny like a crystal light like a bird not something that falls not something that splatters something with grace 44 metaphor something no child could look at without smiling what happened I wonder that made you melt that made you stop twinkling that makes you sulk every morning when you button yourself up and sneer when you take those first steps out into a world filled with things that once were snow because now you’re a raindrop and when you hit the ground you’ll fill someone’s gutter poetry 45 Bastion Joshua Colenda The island of my heart is not outside their jurisdiction. Nor the machinations of my mind exempt from their inspection. Every step presents a chance for misdirection, Every breath, An indiscretion. Only here with you can I be free. 46 metaphor Unscarred, Unscathed, Unknowing. Autumn Gomberg Sometimes when I look at you with your face, unscarred, I fear you will never understand what I have sacrificed for you. And what damage I have caused. Sometimes I see you cry into your hands, Your knees against your chest as you sit on the cliff’s edge. And when you cry, sometimes I see her. Painted with white hair, not quite yours, Yours a fiery red, full of passion, full of the words she cannot say. And when I do see her, All I think about is you, And what we could have had. My sister, Unscarred, unscathed, unknowing. My dearest, darling sister, who I have sacrificed everything for, Yet you do not even know what I have done. And what I will continue to do for you, So that you can continue on. Even in your scarred grief. poetry 47 Rubbing Shoulders Gideon Wheeler I’ve always loved the look of sweaters, A wooly ward for winter weather, I’m wholly warm with fresh down feathers, But therein lies the rub: Hot in the heavy heat I’m tethered, Polka dotted, striped and checkered, Dying despite my best endeavors, Marooned like a cocooned June grub. Therefore I cannot wear the wretched style, Too stiff and itchy, drippy, sweaty. Like a gargoyle gargling argyle, Let’s skip back to spring already. 48 metaphor Abigail Bateman Jarrett Lawrenson Trevor Collins Nicholas Mosher Ally Jensen Ashley Denney art Every effort in creation is a wonderfully personal and universal human experience. From the smallest, quickest doodles to the most intricate and grand masterpieces, art is something that can help us understand ourselves and connect with each other. Art can be a thousand and one things with a thousand and one meanings. We can use art to vent, to express ourselves, to practice our skills, to capture what’s important to us, or to simply have some fun. Art can be used to build communities, to speak up, to reach out, and so much more. What’s important is that the effort of being creative means we are doing more than simply surviving. We’re living and exploring and sharing in a way that changes us. From Post-it notes to graffiti to museum walls, it’s important to take in art throughout our lives. There’s so much creativity in the world around us, and our everyday lives are brighter and bolder with art in it. We are immensely grateful for every piece of art that was submitted to us this year. It’s a privilege to see what people have created. We are very proud and thankful to present a few of the wonderful works that were sent to us. Abigail Bateman, Art Lead Utah Cryptid Illustrations with Utah Native Plant-life Trevor Collins 2026 Jan Hamer Prize for Outstanding Art Old Ephraim in Quaking Aspens (Left) Wasatch Wildman in Sub-Alpine Firs (Top Right) Old Briney in Great Yellow Waterlilies (Bottom Right) Graphic Illustration, 8”x10” 50 metaphor Spring’s X-Ray KayLeene Christensen art 51 Utah is a Desert Ashley Denney 52 metaphor A Hug For Little Me Kaitlin Wilding Oil on Canvas, 24”x24” art 53 Japanese Breakfast Kaitlin Wilding Digital Drawing 54 metaphor City Streets Sophia Ochoa art 55 Nature Follows Beauty Nate Johnson 56 metaphor Carefree Karli Dickamore art 57 Poet & King Karli Dickamore 58 metaphor City Lights (Top), Drifting (Bottom) Sarah Jensen art 59 Not Exactly a Self Portrait Abigail Bateman 60 metaphor Trustworthy Power Abigail Bateman art 61 Blueprint with Butterflies, Finch, Ladybug, and Wide Eyed Expression Karissa Strate Monotype print with collaged Chine Collé elements 62 metaphor A Siren’s Call Theo Ochoa art 63 Self Portrait Glitch Janika Linville Oil, 18”x24” 64 metaphor Michael Ludlow Amelia Cuevas Alexis Livingston Jana Moon Emma Kirby Sebastian Burkhardsmeier fiction In this time of unease, to call the events of 2026 so little, we are grateful to have received the most fiction submissions we’ve ever received in the history of Metaphor. To read through the works submitted left the staff here grateful for the chance to disappear into worlds fantastic and frightening. With the rise of AI, what do we write for? To touch the primal core, the human heart that we all share—that’s what I say. No regurgitation of the average, no conglomerate of stolen work will ever create the art that pours out from the living soul misspelled and messy. When the world is as dark as it is, accounts of monsters, dolls, and drone swarms make it all seem not so bad—maybe even a little hopeful. As you proceed, enjoy the works of the students here at Weber State, the works of living souls. May you find some light amidst the darkness. Michael Ludlow, Fiction Lead Cold Storage M.A. Shelley 2026 Jan Hamer Prize for Outstanding Fiction He hadn’t expected to hear all the bones just… crack like that, when he’d hit it. The deer had bounded out at him out of nowhere. They were better about it usually, these animals. They eerily knew how to stop at the edge of a road and look both ways. Some strange symbiosis, keeping the bucks alive, and the bumpers all in one piece. Shit. When was the last time he’d hit a deer? It’s splattered in an arc across the pavement, striking and crimson against that thin layer of frost. Fog rises in wisps from the pile of unwound intestines. He can see it just right against his hi-beams as they blare brights onto the newly made carcass. The light is reddish on the driver’s side. There’s a nasty gouge in the bra of his station wagon from— antlers, hooves, teeth—something. He can’t really spot it, from where he’s standing; it’s gone and rolled a few times, out of his sightline. But he can smell its offal on the wind. It churns into something nasty in the back of his throat, mingles with the lingering sting of whiskey, and like that— 66 metaphor It’s acid. He hacks up his last three drinks into the snow. The taste it leaves on his tongue has him gagging dry a couple of seconds, and by the time he wrangles hold of his faculties, the new ache in his neck is really starting to hit him. He hadn’t felt really drunk, when he’d left the office. His current reevaluation yields an entirely new result. His shoes slip against the asphalt. Now that he’s in the thick of it, he understands driving through the storm was a losing bet. Coupled with the dark, he’s not even sure he could have done it perfectly sober. He starts to feel stupid about it, but he won’t let himself sit with that, hold it in any way that matters. Is it really such a crime, he reasons, to want to fall asleep in his own bed? God, his bed. For a moment, he can almost imagine the smell of his comforter. But that gives way, rather quickly, to the stink of spoiling venison, and he realizes he should get away from this mess before he vomits again. He feels in out of his depth. It’s not like him to get queasy. He’s seen his fair share of horror shows, these last twenty years. Hell, it was only last week that he’d gotten a body delivered, still in its sleeping bag, mashed to raspb-man jam with ribbychip mix-ins. He’d barely even had an angle, with that one. How are you supposed to take tissue samples, when the brain matter’s been all folded in with the lean meat? (He’d figured it out, for the record. The poor man had been trampled by a pack of elk overnight hiking—he thinks. There’s a first for everything, he supposes. It’s almost nice to know life can still surprise him.) His keys smash sidelong against the lock at the back of the office. It takes him a couple of tries, and his fingers are stinging and bloodless when he makes it inside. The door clicks behind him, locks right back up, leaving him in the darkened hallways of Chettlenoll’s piss-poor excuse for a crime lab. His shoes squeak against the linoleum. It bounces around in a way that makes him dizzy. He needs a drink. He settles for a fresh pot of coffee. It’s instant, burnt shit, but he’s grateful for the bitter taste. It drowns out the rapid-fire memory of the last hour and a half, resets his neurons back into a neat little line. He can worry about it in the morning. The deer, the car, the insurance claims and the veritable verbal lashing he’s about to get from Sheriff Foster; it can all wait a while. He can’t do shit until the storm clears, at any rate. He doubts anyone will be able to make it in, and he sure as hell isn’t making it out. He squeezes his fingers into the softening crumple of the paper cup, and waits to come back to himself. He clicks on the radio to hasten the process, but he can’t find a signal. It’s the sound of a snowstorm for six channels, all varying shades of white noise, with the odd occasion of something shattering between flurries. He needs a new distraction. Not that he needs a distraction, by God. It’s not like that. He’s fine. He’s weathered storms worse than this from the Coroner’s, he swears. A few years back—‘89, he thinks it was now— he’d got trapped here for two someodd days along with his technician, Ila. A whole hundred inches of snow, it had seemed like. Overnight. They’d used the shutin to get caught up on a massive backlog of bodies, performed thirteen autopsies running off coffee, cigarettes, and the odd Corn-Nut. He doesn’t feel like he could manage a spree like that, just now. Barely feels up to the three tags he’s got waiting for him in cold storage. He tries to sleep. He’s got to drag an extra rolly-chair into his office to perch up his feet, but only after he’s fiction 67 peeled off his socks. They’re wet with melted ice and do absolutely nothing to warm him up. For a minute, he lets himself get all forlorn, thinking upon his woodstove back at home. It feels hedonistic, almost, to indulge in that imaginance. Cracking his toes out on a cushion, perched before a fire. Wife and kids setting the table. The smell of baked chicken wafting into the living room… Masochistic, that’s the word he thinks he’s really looking for. He makes it two hours before the knots really get into his muscle. He’s not sure whether or not he’s managed any rest in that time, not in a way that matters, but there’s some part of his hindbrain that gets all pleased with having said he tried. It’s even happier when he manages to bypass the thermos half-full of liquor on his desk as he stands up. Instead, he makes way for the dribbling jug in the hall. He takes a snowcone full of tepid water, swishes it in the back of his throat, and spits it back into the cup. He can still taste gall on the thick of his tongue, but the rinse has turned it sickly-sweet. Pinkish mucous swirls in the backwash. He stares at it. His fingers twitch. If he squints, it almost looks like entrails. He could imagine it sprayed across the hood of his car, but he tries not to. 68 metaphor He smokes his next cigarette inside. They’ve been making a push, lately, to get them to run out to the parking lot for a smoke break. He secretly thinks it’s a stupid move, shoving them outside in the Alaskan winter for ten minutes at a time, but he usually won’t bother barking back about it. Nothing usual about today, though. Without much lingering guilt, he burns through two of them, right down to the filter. It gives him time to think, at any rate. For some reason, it feels like he needs that. A ritual, a habit, a taste; something to pace to, an opportunity to notice his hands are shaking, a jolt of something to make him feel like he’s finally woken up. He checks the clock. “2:38 A.M.” winks back at him in neon green. Ten hours until first light, if he’s generous. Plenty of time to think. There’s got to be something he can do, he reasons. He thinks he’ll feel worse the longer he sits here. He’s always hated idling. He leafs through the stack of paperwork on his desk. There’s a few signatures here, a couple of pieces of evidence there. Some newspaper clippings have made it in with the police reports, and now he’s making piles per case, so it only stands to reason that he really should be pivoting, here. He cracks into the box of photographs he’s yet to examine, piles them up near his notepad, and gets to marking. The couple taking up the bulk of his deep freeze, Ahnah and Neil Howard, are really only here on routine. He can tell, just by reading the reports, that it was a gas leak of some sort. But there’s this whole mess with an estranged son, and an insurance policy, and someone, somewhere, needs a cause of death on them. He’s the only medical examiner within a hundred miles, so he’s got the pleasure of cracking through their ribs. He thumbs through a few shots of their living room, trying to reimagine the moment of death before he’s even got anything solid. Is he skipping a step, somewhere? He feels like he’s forgetting something. the details. And he’s nothing if not detail-oriented. It’s not like he’s nervous. In fact, he’s sure whatever he’s feeling—this nebulous void swirling around the pinprick on his corkboard that is Body #3—is much more akin to dread. Saying so feels dramatic, though, even when it’s only in his mind. Christ. I gotta move. (There are photographs of the contusions on Loretta Olson’s ribs, in there. He avoids thinking about them by scolding himself for letting his documents mix up.) I could try to sleep, he thinks again, but he’d rather die than curl up on those clunky office chairs a second time. He wonders how bad the whiplash got him, last night. Tonight. He’s crossed the threshold, if he’s getting down to He goes over the Howards’ photographs a third time before it feels Sisyphean. The glossy finish is separating at the corners, on some of these. They’d been fresh off the press when he started. How long has he been sitting here? He hasn’t got a clock within eyesight. He keeps meaning to attend to that, but it never seems all that important once he’s in the position to buy one. He brews another pot of coffee. His head’s starting to throb. It starts with pacing. He pulls his stilldamp socks back on, just because it feels distinctly wrong to walk around this place barefoot. Another cigarette disappears into thin air, and he finds his mind caught in a bruise-colored pit, lagging seven steps behind his feet. It’s like he’s caught dead in the water, floating aimlessly through thoughts until they wind up spiraling. Details of Olson’s death flicker through his mind like flashcards. The blood, the bones, the dented hub cap stained the color of brain matter beside her. The caked-up smears of earth and grave wax pressed into her skin. In his mind’s eye, he’s stuck knee-deep in the mud beside her, unable to will himself out of this hole. fiction 69 Police had rolled Loretta’s bloated body out of the ditch off Dalton Highway. When he’d identified her, he refused to look at her face. Feels counter-intuitive, but it really didn’t look like… her, anymore. The eyes were swollen where they closed, bulging at the seams, caved in all on one side. She was wrapped up in the bomber jacket her boyfriend gave her their senior year of high school. The snow had leeched out all the color. “This is a fucking nightmare,” he’d muttered. rearing and ready to go, it coos. The siren song drowns out his rational mind, and it hardly even occurs to him that he’s hardly in prime shape to operate, down one technician, and pickled better than most of his patients. “Didn’t know we could get that sorta rise outta you anymore,” Foster replied. Just the Howards, he tells himself. He can do that. A little self control, that’s something he can manage. Just the Howards, just the Howards, just the Howards, just th Maybe he’s losing steam in his old age. Maybe it’s just the Jameson. It tastes like gas, compared to his regular pickings. He prefers to drink 907, but he’s not made of money. He makes do. Always has. His feet take him to the morgue before his brain finds its terms. He stares through the crosshatching set into thin and skinny windows. Someone’s forgot to turn off the light, last time they were in here, and the silver table glints back at him from under the fluorescents with an unforgivingly sharp gleam. It’s all nice and shiny for him. He doesn’t even remember cleaning, but it’s perfectly set. Like the building’s teasing him, coaxing his forward. You’re already 70 metaphor “Damnit,” he mutters. He doesn’t like the way his voice carries out into the lab, but maybe it’s the echo back that’s really getting to him. He’s already disarming the crash bar. He doesn’t bother stop himself. Maybe if he ruminates on it enough, the idea will take root. (He feels like he should know himself better than that, by now.) Hoping to catch his nerve before he loses it altogether, he dons his gown. The examination room is but a stop on his rampage towards the morgue. He hasn’t even got his gloves on and his cap is dangling by ribbons, but he nearly doesn’t notice. He’s just tossing open dead cabinets at random. The’re all empty, the first three times; he can’t even remember which locker corresponds to which body, or where— The shelf squeals through its tracks. There’s a blast of cold air. A head of fawn-colored hair, caked with the maroon of dried blood, hits him in the knees, as the drawer rockets open. He’d shoved Loretta’s body in sidelong. The zipper on the body bag is split at the seams. Of course. She’s in the cubby closest to the door. He’d rushed the whole intake, with her. Ila had offered to take over (well, maybe offered’s too kind a word. What she’d really done was call him a drunk and point out that housekeeping’s her job, thank you very much), but he wouldn’t let her. “Gimme this,” he’d replied, “I deserve this, don’t I? Give her here!” Looking at it now, he should have left it to Ila. He’s nothing short of disgusted with the pool of ice-slick crimson that’d managed to dribble out of the plastic before she’d gotten down to temp. When he thinks about it, there’s a tinny little voice in his ears telling him that trying to perform a post-mortem without his technician here at all is a—well, it’s an idea. An interesting one. An enticing one, says the Jameson. He cards his fingers through Loretta’s hair, absentminded. He meets resistance where plasma hits air. He slides his over rigid follicles. It’ll take her some time to soften up enough for incision, so he’s got to get things going now. He trundles over the trolly and, using the baggage as a sled to help his cargo, slides Loretta out of her holding cell. Her frozen flesh clicks on the metal like unthawed beef hitting the bottom of a sink. For some reason, it makes his gut roil. The wheels whine under her weight. The cart shudders every time he hits a gap in the tile, and the half-open body bag shifts dangerously. He makes it back to the main lab without any grievous shatters. Loads her up onto the table. The fluorescents make her glow anywhere that’s not covered in blood, so… in few places, he comes to. Shards of frigid bio-matter dust his hands as he shucks away the outer layer. He guesses he should just be grateful that she’s out of the old clothes and all wrapped up, already. One less thing to do. One less task to wring his hands about. Instead, he takes his sweet time gathering tools. He finds fresh paperwork, a clean tape, and finally forces himself to run through the photos of her crime scene. Though— he doesn’t feel like he’s got to see it, anymore. He has a decidedly solid grasp of where everything was, when they’d found her. It’s a stumble blind through routine, something to let fiction 71 him burn a couple of hours. He reacquaints himself with the steep, the splatter, the… little bit of skull, left on the asphalt, shattered at the fissures. He vaguely recalls having tossed it in a bag for specimens. He doesn’t technically need it for this step. At least, he’s pretty sure. Not like there’s going to be much reconstruction to do, after the fact. No one else is going to see her, that’s for damn sure. He busies himself until he can put a dent in the softened flesh of her upper arm. It’s only now, when he comes away with a thin sheen of fluid on his skin, that he thinks to snap on a pair of gloves. Then, he presses record. The Talkboy whirrs to life with a little scratch. “Twelfth of February, 1993. Fourthirty-six A.M. This is Doctor Josiah Olson, performing post-mortem examination of—” He feels the muscles around his throat tighten up. He tries to swallow. It stalls somewhere near the hyoglossus. He sets the recorder on top of the report. “Deceased was retrieved roadside thirteen hours ago. Clothing and possessions have already been collected by law enforcement. External analysis: 72 metaphor left posterior skull shatter, apparent flattening, ocular bruising and wide swelling.” He begins to hatch marks onto the drawn out body, matching them to the cuts that litter Loretta’s face and shoulders. “Jaw looks to be broken. Clavicle fractured.” He blinks away the haze that’s gathered at his lash line. His hands are on autopilot, peeling back the rumpled sheet. He only flinches when he sees the massive patch of damage that trails from the bottom of her ribcage down to the opposite hip. It’s all crumpled peaks and valleys shoring up through paper-thin skin, painted in livid violet. “Pelvis and left femur show signs of internal damage. Skin’s broken on the hip. Bone is visible.” He feels like he’s vibrating. If he turns his back on her, he gets this tingling prickle all up the back of his neck, like something’s sat there, watching him. He does his best to ignore it, as he slides a new blade from the pack. He’s not… paranoid. He has work to do. The sharpened edge of his scalpel glitters up at him. It burns itself into his retinas, leaves little sparks of neon green that shudder when he looks down. He’s got to hold her jaw when he tucks the blade behind her ear, just to stop himself from shaking. It’s been—what, four?—years since he’s done this himself. Ila usually handles anything that doesn’t need diagnostics; so long as it doesn’t involve getting her hands in the thoracic cavity, of course. He applies pressure until he feels a bit of give, then he’s off. One long curved incision down to the collarbone, a curve at the sternum, straight to navel. In the time it takes him to slice the other arm of the Y, stagnant blood has begun oozing from the broken capillaries. “…I’m beginning the internal investigation, now.” It’s like unwrapping candy, peeling away the layers of skin and muscle sat between him and bone. He pins it back until he’s all the way through. She’s just as mangled in here as she looked beforehand, but it’s somehow… worse. As if the injuries have speared right through her. He can’t see much, he concedes. Too much blood. He needs to get in here, to do anything about that, so he takes up his shears. He hooks the curved side beneath one of her twelfth ribs, right where the cartilage ends. When he levers it down, it cracks, makes an awful, pithy noise that vibrates in his teeth. He can almost feel it in his chest. The slink of blade skirting blade, the sudden loosening of the whole skeleton. This process is repeated twenty-three more times. It takes him seven whole minutes. It’s like a dive in icy waters. He feels more shit-sober with every snap of bone, and by the last thoracic, it’s actually hitting him. “Jesus, this is fucked.” The shears clatter to the side as he takes hold of the shield. It groans as he wrenches it out of her chest. Loretta’s corpse shudders. “I mean—” he scoffs, and it trails into nervous laughter. He’s got nowhere to set this. “Christ. They couldn’t have sent her somewhere else, huh? Just… had to be me.” He’s got to step off to the counter for some empty space. Because, really, he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows, somewhere in the depths of his whiskey-addled brain, that there’s a massive conflict of interest here. They ought’ta just bite the bullet, pay the upfront cost, and airlift her to some coastal coroner with better funding. It’s just that, and here’s the real kicker, he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it. Can’t come to terms with the idea of letting anyone else see her like this. It feels private. Feels like a family matter. He wonders if this is how other men feel, when they learn their daughter is to be autopsied. Josiah started drinking the year Loretta left home. Which was—God, how long’s it been, now? Eight years? fiction 73 Nine? He’d stopped paying attention to dates, somewhere in that thrush of time. She’d graduated the month before, though, so he can at least pin down the year. Rather, he could. Should be able to. He can’t dredge it up just now, thats… all. That’s all. The whiskey doesn’t help, that’s for damn sure. There’s a part of him that knows it. But the bit of him that takes up more space, that rowdy, angry, headstrong man that’s taken over him in years of late, is far louder. It never allows him to listen; this, he knows too. Or, he’s heard it said. By Loretta, in particular. He ladles a whopping twenty-six ounces of cold, coagulated fluid out of her abdominal cavity. It’s sluggish. “It just…” he watches it pour, one thick ribbon, into the bowl. It smells warm, somehow. “You can’t help but think.” The ladle clatters down against the cart, bypassing entirely the rag he’s haphazardly laid out to catch the drips. “Wonder, y’know? Parents worry, it’s…” His hands brace against either side of the basin. “It’s what we do. Isn’t it, just?” The silence feels hungry. It clamps its jaws over his skull, brackets him head to toe, and waits. He can’t tell if in promise, or threat, but he knows it’s swallowing him up all too fast. The recorder clicks with a kink in the tape. There is no answer—not until he’s pressing his knife into the wall of her abdomen, and Loretta’s corpse heaves. 74 metaphor He stumbles back. His hip knocks hard against the table, and the liquid he’s collected sloshes up over the lip. In an instant, there’s a massive puddle of oxidized-innard maroon painting the tiles at his feet, striping his boots. Some has made it up onto his gown, but he pays it no mind, because Loretta had moved, and his scalpel is quickly discarded in favor of taking up his daughter in his arms because she’s breathing he heard it she’s alright and she’s stiff against him and—and— It’s… agonal respiration. Chill gas escapes from the point of incision. He’d just… disturbed things, a little bit. Like poking a hole in a bouncy-house. …And now there’s fluid. All over him. There’s an overwhelming tightness in his chest as he sets her down, careful as he can. Like when she was too little to hold her head up on her own, all cartilage and fat. He’s struck, suddenly, with the phantom weight of that memory in his hands. He’s got to pace to get rid of it. His shoes start to squeak again, now that’s there’s moisture on the soles, and it doesn’t help that he keeps wandering back into the puddle. He thinks, just stop moving, but for some strange reason his body won’t respond. If he stands still, he’s got to look at her. Has to dig around in her guts, stain his hands with her blood, sit there. Hold it. Hold her. He doesn’t know how to do that, never has. He gets that, now, he really does—“You can stop reminding me,” he says into the empty air. It gets swallowed up, like everything else. Her eyes are open. He can’t recall pinning them, but he’s sure he had to. At some point. External observations, maybe. Surely. There’s a grayness that’s clouded over the depth of brown. He guesses she’d been in the snow at least a day before they found her—but that’s his professional opinion. If he didn’t know anything about this girl, he might give it thirty-six hours on the generous end, but he knows. It’s a great misfortune to know, in this field of business. “Because I never liked that boy, do you hear me? And I told you that. God, how many times did I tell you?” He’s the Sheriff’s kid, Jesus, had always been the shrug-off excuse she’d given. “I know the Fosters, Lola,” he mutters. His vocal chords are all loose and watery. Because, really, is it that insane to assume that Billy would be just like his pa? Was it really such a jump to make, when his baby girl started coming home with badly-covered bruises? “You remember Marianne, don’t you?” Shit, who is he kidding? Of course she does. “You could tell, couldn’t you? Didn’t matter how good she painted over, you could always… tell. And somehow, I’m the bad guy for putting my foot down that he don’t belong in this family. I’m the bad guy for turning him away. Fuck that.” When he slams his hands down on the cartrails, he feels like he’s finally managed to catch back his spark. He takes his knife steady in his hands and finishes the incision he started. The muscle tears slightly as he pulls through it. He ought to toss out the blade, find a new one altogether, but does neither. Tearing is fine, he decides instead. He’s always taken a shine to moving along natural divisions. There’s a spot, here, where the broken rib’s moved enough to puncture through altogether. It’s stuck into her spleen. “Guess that’s where all that crud came from, huh?” he mumbles. He rips along the mesentery until it comes loose. He slips the damaged organ out, tosses it in the half-empty bloodbowl to bag up later. “Jesus, Lola. This… looks like it hurts.” He just wishes there was something he could do, y’know? He’d never been the caring father, sure, but “It’s only ‘cause Hazel’s so much better at this. She’s meant for it. Was.” Parenting, he means. He can’t get that bit of it out. “You had a good mom. I don’t get why—why…” His hands stall. There’s not enough room in the bowl for the small intestine, too, but he’s already halfway through. He piles it up haphazardly. fiction 75 He’s not sure what he means to tell her. Why you did this, comes to mind. But that makes it sound like it’s her fault, and, maybe it is. Sure. But he can’t just say that. “Why this happened?” Yes, that feels better on the tongue. “Why you’d do this to me. Jesus, I—” he can’t help but throw his hands up. It splatters over the busied canvas of red and blue. “You were the only thing I had left.” They were a normal family, once. He thinks. Back before Hazel miscarried, before he even knew Foster had a son, before the fighting and the drinking and the yelling and the endless alimony, before it all up and fell apart, they’d been average. He’d never wanted for anything more. His grasping hands never went any higher. A man, a wife, and a daughter. He could have lived with that. Instead, he’s dealt this. He’s seen some shit hands, in his time, but this takes the cake. “I get it, I win. Can we stop this, now? Lo?” He runs a bloodied thumb against the crest of her cheekbone. There’s no structure holding it up, nothing solid on the bottom end to keep it steady. Her skin crumples beneath his touch. “Please, sweetheart. It’s over, now, we’re done—” He just wants to rest. He wants his bed. He wants a whiskey on the rocks by a warm fire, with a baked chicken and living, breathing, babies in his 76 metaphor arms. He stares into her doe-eyes for more minutes than he can count. The recorder runs out of tape. Maybe he just needs to go home. Lay down his head. Put Lola to bed. He could manage that. He rolls the sheet over the empty cavity in her chest. He can sort of hook it onto the clamps holding open the incisions, make the pressure all even, like a swaddle. She’s all awkward as he scoops her up, holds her close. The thin paper of his gown is soaked through, joining with the fluids staining the bundle. He stumbles to the door. His shoes squeak. “You’re gonna be okay,” he whispers. He steps on a wheel, and the photographs go flying. The recorder clacks to the ground. He doesn’t hear it. “We got it, baby. C’mon.” He drags her upstairs. She doesn’t help him, not at all, but—she’s never been a baby with good cling, though. He can handle this. He can make it through the snow. He’s just got to find his car. The Doll Shop Olivia Herndon Shelved along the long beams of wood that were displayed around the shop sat several dolls, ranging in hair color, skin tone, and clothing. Some looked to be older, some younger – the cosmetics give away which ones are which – but all had the same wideeyed, doe-eyed stare as if some strange, dangerous thing was about to collide and shake their world and change their lives forever. Caught, like still frames, candid photos plastered on plastic bodies. Each had a paper, folded in two and placed like a greeting card before them. Name, age, fun fact, and cause of death. Janice was the first doll. She sat there with bright red, curly hair and a set of cat-eye glasses with those little beaded chains that loop around the stems of the glasses and the back of her head; her face was cracked with limbs torn, mangled, crunched, and bent, a gaping hole straight through the doll’s chest. Age forty-nine. Car accident. Fun fact! Steel crash barriers were created in order to protect drivers along long or winding roads, not to impale them. Lauren was the second. Age sixteen. Dressed in a beautiful purple ballgown with golden, shimmering locks of hair resting upon her shoulders, and the latest new phone in hand, an accessory for the little doll. The attention to detail on the bruising’s coloration around her neck really pops against the dress; it lets you know they’re new. Strangulation. Fun fact! Teenagers tend to enjoy scrolling through social media to check on their friends, but less so when private photos are leaked on prom night for the whole school to see. Rope sold separately. Jackson was the third. He’d have a leather jacket, adorned with patches he’d sewn on himself and pins clipped securely to the top: some musicians and rock bands, an anarchist symbol, and a few other odd ones that didn’t quite fit the theme. His hair was spiked upward in a short mohawk, and the doll reeked of hairspray, but it kept the hairdo intact. Age twentyone. Heroin overdose. Fun Fact! If you roll up the sleeves of this doll, you can see what track marks would look like with great detail. There were more, yes, several, dozens more that lined the walls, but each fiction 77 was no less heartbreaking than the last. The oldest, a man almost turned eighty-eight, died of starvation before his birthday, due to the neglect of a caretaker. The youngest, but a child, no older than three. Unvaccinated, died of measles. His parents didn’t trust it. Some say the owner of this place changes the dolls out every month or so; they know not how or why he makes these dolls, whether they are real people or not, but it is a sight to behold upon finding this odd little shop. No one wants to question the appearance of it all, in fear of perhaps being one of the displays someday in the future, though murmurs and whispers are bound to come. Some claim they knew the dolls on the shelves, or maybe just knew someone once like them, but to enter and see them brings an odd feeling. To stare death in the face, both tame and gruesome, of those you did or did not know, becomes jarring the longer you look. It churns the stomach, makes you squirm and wriggle, like watching an old horror where the skin melts off a man, or bones snap and break, forcing a person to change into something completely different. You change upon seeing these atrocities, all of which were preventable. It makes you wonder, what deaths you could have prevented if you’d just looked a little harder, or tried to reach out a little more. 78 metaphor Or maybe you couldn’t have. Maybe these weren’t preventable. Or they’re just dolls. Maybe none of this even matters at all. What They Deserve Brendan Harris I am Cynthia D. Doakes, and my father was a bastard of a man. He carried the smell of blood like a second skin, the sharp tang of iron clinging to him, thick as the damp stench of freshly carved meat. He never spoke much—his silence was heavy, edged with something colder than disinterest. His face, rough with stubble, looked like it had been dragged across barbed wire, and if he had softness, I never saw it. But in his butcher’s shop, he was a master. Every knife, every cleaver, every saw had its place, lined up in perfect order like soldiers waiting for war. His hands knew the weight of meat the way a gunslinger knows the weight of his pistol. I once watched an old woman, bent and brittle with age, ask for 1.24 pounds of ribeye. He didn’t reach for a scale. One clean cut, one perfect slab—exactly 1.24 pounds. At home, though, his hands weren’t so refined. The house itself seemed to brace against his presence—walls cracked from doors swung open too hard, appliances dented. The whole place barely clung to its foundation because no house would dare collapse on my father. Yet, amidst his destruction, one thing remained untouched: a vintage 1973 Gucci pigskin briefcase—rich brown leather, a beige interior, gold-toned hardware, double combination locks. He never used it, never carried it, never even put a damn thing inside it. And yet, it was always pristine. I never saw him clean it, never touched it, but somehow, it remained frozen in time. He never spoke much, but he found enough words to describe its beauty. Never where it came from. Never why he kept it. My father enjoyed teaching lessons, and there was one I took to the grave. A simple rule: Give people what they deserve. So, I did. I was seven years old when Jason Wheely decided to teach me his own lesson. He lured me toward a tree, promising me a dead squirrel. Instead, he kissed me—quick, clumsy, and without consent. The shock of it lit something in me, a fire that flared fiction 79 hot and fast. So I gave him what he deserved. I swung my hand with all the fury my little body could muster, leaving the loudest, angriest slap I could across his cheek. I wasn’t even that upset about the kiss. But he had lied to me about the dead squirrel, and for that, a righteous slap felt like proper recompense. The school called my father within ten minutes. When I got home, he was in the living room, sunk deep into his La-ZBoy, watching TV like nothing had happened. But when I stepped into the kitchen, I saw it waiting for me on the counter—a freshly scooped bowl of chocolate ice cream. That was the moment I learned a truth: actions had consequences, and putting people in their place reaped benefits. I was seventeen when I reaped my next reward. Leslie Grace wasn’t the most popular girl in school, but she was close—the kind of close that parasites keep to their hosts, feeding off borrowed attention. She wasn’t interesting enough to be queen, but she made sure she stood beside the throne. The night before, I had fallen asleep over my schoolwork—no big deal, 80 metaphor except I had been chewing gum at the time. As these stories go, I woke up with a sticky, tangled mess glued to my hair. My father, ever the problem solver, grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors and hacked off a chunk before I was even awake enough to protest. Leslie turned my reluctant fashion statement into an event. She spread it across the school like wildfire, a humiliating spectacle for the masses. She forgot one small detail. I sat behind her in AP Physics. It didn’t take much—a pair of scissors from my backpack, a single swift motion. Her scream was shrill and immediate, the sound of a social empire crumbling. I sat back and watched the spectacle unfold, let the horror sweep over her the way she had orchestrated mine. It took the school twenty-five minutes to call my father—longer than Jason’s slap, because they had to calm Leslie down first. Later that evening, my father handed me the keys to a 1988 dark red Ford Sierra Sapphire RS Cosworth. I drove myself to a salon. There was only one time my father’s lessons backfired. I was 27 then. My father—the man who could fill a room just by walking into it, who even death had to reckon with—was brought down by small, nasty cells eating his lungs. Pleural Mesothelioma. Turns out the same place that made him king of the butcher’s block had been poisoning him all along. The shop, with its dusty old air thick with asbestos, slowly ate away at him while he carved up the rest of the world. Guess in the end, it wasn’t the world that took him down. It was his own damn body turning on him. it burn alongside the words he never spoke. Yet, he was too dead to be put in his place. Too dead to gift me for fighting back. My father was a bastard of a man because he left me. I got a few things when he went. The house, the shop, and that damn briefcase. The shop had to be shut down—it couldn’t be touched until all that asbestos was cleared out. And since I didn’t have the money to fix it, I sold it off without looking back. The house held on a little longer— barely—until one night, a storm came tearing through. Without my father’s shadow holding the place up, it buckled in on itself, as if it was done pretending to stand tall. Which left me with the still-pristine 1973 Gucci briefcase. My father’s rule always stuck with me: give people what they deserve. So, three days after the house came down in pieces, I tossed that damn briefcase into a metal trash can and watched fiction 81 The Blue Door Anastazia Shupe I opened the door to death. I did not know it was death at the time. Instead, my mind was occupied by my own homesickness. I missed the Alps; the rounded peaks of the Appalachians paled in comparison. I missed the jagged lines of my homeland that broke the horizon every morning. I do not know if I shall ever be graced by them again. Were they still standing there, rising to the sun as it fell? Or had Otto von Bismarck finally buried them in the conquest of his own diplomacy? Now, all I have is the blue door of this strange estate we now own. It was not initially blue, a strong spruce if I recall correctly, but my mother insisted that we change it. She said it was like having our old home: a small fragment of what was lost in our quest to Maine. I did not understand this notion. As I am to preach in honesty, I shall admit that I still do not understand it. Maybe there is something poetic about it that I have lost, too young to understand or too arrogant to grasp. Still, the door was blue like forget82 metaphor me-nots growing against an old stone path. It was pretty, I could give it that. It twinkled at me beneath the highnoon sun as I picked at the weeds in my amateur garden. My mother thought it was important for a girl of my age and social standing to partake in some kind of hobby, if not to fit in then to find some semblance of normalcy in this foreign land. I thought that society was boring and had no interest in such things, finding that solitude was just fine as a hobby. Then, my nanny showed me the twists of beetroot just beneath this land, and suddenly I found myself knee deep in dirt. It is like this that the Stranger approached me. He was a man who walked quietly, but with purpose. He was wearing one of those American smiles and a clandestine demeanor. His hands were in his pockets as he spoke with a confidently timid tone, “Miss, are you the lady of the Meyer house?” “No,” I frowned, “that is my mother.” “Ah,” this did not seem to deter whatever mission he had. There was simply a moment of pause as his smile seemed to get impossibly larger. He straightened his tie on his too-big suit, “Then who would you be?” “Is that so,” he kept on with that grin, “Am I okay to go in? I would hate to intrude.” “Of course; you’re welcome to go in.” I stood up, meeting him at about eye level. He was merely a head taller than me, “Frieda. Who are—” “How old are you, Miss Frieda?” I blinked at the interruption, “Twelve.” “A beautiful age to be. I do not remember much of it myself, but it seems to be treating you well,” it was then that the pallor of his skin jumped out at me. It was less so in terror, and more so in relatability. My own arms matched his, a consequence of the many hours in the dark crevices of my own room. Still, his skin struck me as thin and easy to cut. It was as though, if you squinted just right, you could stare directly through his skin and see the very bones that held him. He took my starring as an inquiry, so he answered my interrupted question, “I do not have a name, my mother never gave me one— but I am supposed to meet with yours. Do you know where she might be?” I nodded at the blue door, “Just inside.” “Thank you, Miss Frieda.” I watched the Stranger walk to the door. Then, just as his hand touched the handle, he paused. I do not know what he was thinking, nor do I ever want to know. Still, he turned back to me and asked, “Do you know where she would be?” I did not know. My mother was not a creature of habit, but my father was. I told him a white lie, “My father’s study. It’s just at the back of the house—hard to miss.” He nodded and walked in. The door closed just as silently as he moved. Still, whatever gust of wind it conjured brought goosebumps to my skin. It was almost painful, a little too cool. But just as quickly as my hairs stood on end, they flattened. A woodpecker drummed against a tree in the distance; otherwise, it was completely silent. I had accepted his strangeness far too swiftly. Some naive part of me thought it was normal for men in this country to have no names. I did not understand this place; my solitude was my weakness. For this, I plead fiction 83 forgiveness; I was just a girl who knew no better. Maybe some part of me had disregarded any dangers as, in my youthful thinking, I could not think of my parents as anything other than Gods. The clouds in the sky were fat and round like boiled egg whites. I squinted at them, wondering if they would have the answers to my troubles; as expected, they did not. The sweat on my brow gathered as the harsh skies harassed me. Fifteen minutes had hardly passed before I decided to follow the Stranger inside. Of course, by that time I was no longer at the front of the house; a side door led me directly to the kitchen. It was quiet, as it was on all Sundays; the help did not work. This silence was not a red flag due to its regularity. What did raise my alarms was the absence of our cat, Cornflower. Usually, he would greet me at the door. Now, though, he was nowhere to be seen. This did not waver my homesick mood. There was likely some reasonable explanation, as he could easily be hiding elsewhere. I took off looking for him the moment my house shoes were on my feet. I called Cornflower’s name. Silence. I called again. Not even the sound of his little chirps, luring mice, to explain why 84 metaphor he did not meet me at the door. I frowned. Still, I tried again. Despite all the noise I was making, nobody sought me out. It was likely my parents were meeting with the Stranger, but I did not pay it much mind. I was too absorbed in my own existence to notice any others. A foolish child and nothing more. I delved further into the house. Cornflower was, by no surprise, nowhere to be found. However, the vase of dried white roses was knocked over on the foyer table, and there were claw marks on the stairway banister. I righted the roses and determined that this meant he was somewhere near; my mother would not allow her precious flowers to be knocked over for long. I continued looking for him. There was a crunching noise coming from the direction of my father’s study. Well, really, there was a scraping noise followed by crunching. The scraping resembled the movement of a cat’s claws. Cornflower must have walked that way; maybe he had gotten locked into the study with the Stranger and my father. It would make sense as to why he was not answering me. I’ll admit, as well, that I was curious about what the stranger wanted my mother for. Most people avoided us, given that we were foreign; they did not want us tarnishing their precious country. Besides, Sunday was God’s day, and we were not meant to do anything on the day of rest. He said he did not have a name, perhaps it was work? Maybe he, too, was seeking out a home that was no longer. That scraping sounded again. It felt deeper, like a chair’s leg catching on a divot in the floorboards. Wonder seized me, and I made my way towards it. Perhaps they were discussing something that would be more entertaining than the dirt outside; then again, anything would be more intriguing. I did hope that Cornflower was not embarrassing himself in front of the Stranger; it was sure to make a terrible impression on him. The noise sounded… off. It felt almost too loud to be coming from Cornflower’s teeth, but I found myself distracted by the pushed-up rug’s attempt at murdering me. I paused only to fix it, ignorant to the strange stillness in the air. My childish worries distracted me, you see; that was why the undertone of tearing flesh seeping from the study’s door was lost to me. All I hoped was that I had fixed the rug correctly and that Cornflower was not eating a rat, for, despite his feline nature, I doubted it would settle in his stomach properly. The hallway was cold. It was far colder than it should have been: just like the stillness of the air and the strangeness of the noise. I touched the brass knob on that door, and its frigidity pierced my skin. The siren’s warning of the dangers of the rocky shore. The noise was deafening. Joints popping out of bones. Water dripping. My stomach turned, but I paid everything no mind. I opened the door. It was a difficult task, much more than I anticipated. I had to put my entire shoulder into it. The quaint sound of fabric pushing on the floorboards sounded out. It felt as though I were pushing all my garments on the floor. Had I looked down, I would have seen the blood pooling at the precipice of the room, but I was too busy gawking at the scene in front of me. There were claw marks on my father’s desk. They were large, three in number, and wide like a bear’s claws. The wood exposed was pale in comparison to its stain. The papers that usually sat there were in pieces about the room, but that was not the worst part. The curtains were ripped down, their holder halfway in the window still. It was dragged towards the back of the desk, almost deliberately, but seemed to have failed in whatever it fiction 85 was seeking to do. The large window had a hole in it, as though a spear had pierced it. Still, this was not the worst part. There was blood spattered on the walls in little dots. It coated everything like rain. A rosy snail trail led my eyes to the desk again. The chewing noise was infinite. I called for Cornflower once more. It was faint—half-hearted. My heart lurched in my throat as the stench of dying filled my lungs, yet it was not the worst part. Blue shoes peaked from behind my father’s desk, entwined in the curtain and atop red stained stockings. I recognized those shoes instantly. Hesitantly, I pulled myself towards what I knew was my mother. Well, I did not exactly know that it was my mother. I knew the shoes were my mother’s, but I was in denial of the scene entirely. It could not be my mother, for it was not real. I was dreaming, still. I was not completely foolish, I should note. My father’s study was adorned with a brick fireplace, and he had cast iron stirrers. I grabbed and held it tightly within my hands. My fingers screamed at the tension. I did not have an inkling on how to use one, but I would make do. It was my makeshift sword: my only solace. 86 metaphor My lungs seized the closer I got to the chewing sound. I was unsure why I was still walking forward; perhaps some minor demon had possessed my legs. It was in my terror that I became porcelain in my movements. Structured. Some sense must have kept itself in me, though, for I made some attempt to lift the stirrer closer to my chest. My heartbeat was loud in my ears, but the noise! The god-awful ripping sound was louder. It was tearing at my eardrums, and I wished that I had stayed outside entirely. Bravery was a flittering feeling as I pushed on and on. I rounded the desk— My mother was lying at my feet, half consumed. Her… her torso was strewn about in ribbons: a pig that was being butchered. She had chunks of her shoulder missing, bite marks in their place. Her stomach was intact, but her pink lungs were flipped up towards her head where… The Stranger stared at me with that American grin. Well, maybe not American… worse. It was as though he had gotten caught eating cookies from the sheet, but there was no guilt in his eyes. Only the excitement of stealing, and the knowledge of getting away with it. Beneath the light of the window, he was translucent; I could count his veins and see where my mother’s blood was hydrating him. It was the most vibrant where his nose should be: twin holes protruding on a tuft of sea pinks. I did not believe in vampires, but he did seem like one; maybe the Morbach Monster was sent from our homeland to punish us for leaving. I was homesick no more. His eyes were blue. Not blue like mine, but blue like the door of our house. A bright, unnatural color—I do not remember what they were before, but it was certainly different now. My mother’s blonde hair dripped out of his mouth. His long fingers beckoned me closer. I was frozen. I could not move, even if I wished to. settled. I heard myself whimper. Metal clattered against the hardwood floor. Tears fell. I turned back to the desk. The Stranger stood in front of me, much taller than I remembered. I had to crane my neck significantly to see him fully. His tie remained flattened, his suit untouched: not even a misplaced hair. I… his teeth were sharp. So sharp. A thousand needles sent to weave me. Stained pink from the blood of… My parents… He wiped a tear from my cheek with long, white-haired hands. I screamed. “—eeda,” my father’s voice said to my right. Next to the door, “—eeda.” Shaking, with some wordless permission from the Stranger, I turned. My father laid against the door, holding his heart in his hands: still slowly beating. Weakly, his mouth was moving with a repetitive “—eeda” as his throat bubbled with blood. He was pale gray from the blood loss, exaggeratedly so against his dark hair. He quivered, unable to move his right hand out to reach for me. Reality fiction 87 The Last Compassionate City and the Sweatpants of God Joshua Colenda “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was... puppies.” Act I The Assignment A Thought Experiment in Divine Bureaucracy The meeting place of nations was a large room, like an amphitheater, supported by the combined authority and self-importance of the assembled leaders. One of them was speaking passionately about something, weapons or money, when God descended from heaven. The speaker was immediately teleported into his seat, as the image of God shone into the minds of all present. To some he appeared with muscles, to others he appeared with a beard, to some he appeared as a beautiful woman or a motherly figure, but to all he appeared in their own color, and to almost all he appeared in the finest dress, except one to whom he appeared in sweatpants and a T-shirt of a band that had passed away many years ago. He manifested in their minds, and within seconds his 88 metaphor supreme divinity was undisputed. He sat into the podium, which molded itself into a throne around him, stared out at the gathered leaders and spoke. “There are too many countries, too many people, so here’s the deal. I’m giving you…” he looked at his wrist, which was adorned with various chronometers, “One year. Sometime after that year has passed, it might be that very moment, it might be a year, or ten years, or thousand years, I am going to destroy every country except the one which gives their people the best lives. Questions?” He didn’t have to ask, he could read their minds, still, people like being understood. It took a moment for the spell to break, but when it did, every hand went up, and every leader began to speak at the same time. God rubbed his temples. When you say, ‘the best’? Figure it out. When you say ‘destroy’… Everyone will vanish. It will be painless and instantaneous. What about the…The plants and animals will remain. The nature, the land will remain, but every person and everything made by the people of that country will cease to exist. He answered every question at once. It was a single moment, fractaled in time so that every leader asked their question and received their answer, and then, when the answers had passed, so did the moment, collapsing in on itself like a delicate flower whose petals had served their purpose. When the question flower returned them to the same moment, the spell fell over them again. This was more than they had bargained for. Most of them had just wanted power. Enough to get by, or out, or ahead. They were prepared for debates not damnation. They were fine discussing trade agreements and border disputes but this…this was a little much, even for, well, they weren’t the best minds in the world, those were assembled a few miles away at a music festival, but certainly a very capable set of minds. more in the present. A moment older, and a mystery wiser. “By the way,” said God, “Don’t try to keep this hidden from your people. I already told them. I’m manifesting in a lot of different places right now.” He nodded and took one last look around. He hadn’t been to earth in a while. He had kept a watchful eye on it, but as any returning tourist will tell you, seeing a place and actually seeing a place were two different things. He nodded, satisfied. “Alright, love you. Peace.” And with those words, the sweatpants of God rose once more into the divine beyond. One of the leaders turned to his assistant, “Alright,” said God, “It feels like everyone got the message, everyone understands the assignment…” He looked around, and in their shocked faces he saw the enormous burden begin to sink in. “Good. Uh, any other questions while I’m here?” “Go ahead and clear my schedule.” Again, the thousand-petaled moment flower blossomed, revealing unto the leaders the answers to their individual riddles. Questions about deceased loved ones, past lovers, and old pets. What-ifs blossomed, bore fruit, and molted. And then they were once The Council of Alvara Act II Deus Ex Whiteboard The Prime Minister of Alvara gathered his cabinet in the capital, and stood in front of the white board, dry-erase marker in hand. fiction 89 “Alright.” He took the cap off, stuck it into the back of the marker, and said each word slowly as he wrote them at the top of the board. “…Give…People…Best…Life…” He underlined the assignment then turned to his assembled cabinet members. “Any thoughts?” The Secretary of the Interior raised his hand. “We are already 10th on the Global Happiness Index. It’s a good start.” The Secretary of Defense slammed his fist on the table hard enough to shake the medals on his uniform. “Damnit, man! Do you want to get killed? Didn’t you hear what the Republic of Varn just did?” His voice steeled with competitive menace. “They gave all of their citizens puppies.” The cabinet briefly panicked. “Gentlemen,” said the Prime Minster, “We have a year.” The reassuring squeak of the dry-eraser marker soothed them. “…Puppies…” said the Prime Minister. He turned. Give People Best Life Puppies. It was a start. The Secretary of the Interior raised his hand again. “Let’s start with the basics,” he said, eager to reassert some authority, “Basic human needs: Food, water, shelter, companionship.” He stretched out his hands and looked around. A few heads nodded. He had earned his paycheck for the day. The marker began to squeak again. “…Companionship…” This had started the ball rolling and now, the Prime Minister had to call on each person in turn, while gracefully acknowledging that he will get back to each of them, and that there was an order to things and if everyone could just be patient we can get through this together. “Freedom, Love, Art, a sense of Community and Belonging, and SelfActualization.” Said the Secretary of Education, who looked very proud of himself. “Security.” Said the Attorney General. “Health.” Said the Secretary of Health. “I’m just going to put …‘Community’…” 90 metaphor The Secretary of Defense raised his hand with the undeniable determination of someone who is not going to take no for an answer. “…Health… Yes?” “I have an idea,” said the Secretary of Defense in the tone of someone who is expecting pushback, “We attack the other nations.” A chorus of groans, and ‘You cannot be serious’ greeted him, but he persisted. “Hear me out,” he said, “If their citizens are suffering worse than ours, God will have no choice but to admit that we are giving our people a better life.” The Prime Minster pointed to the Secretary of Education. “What do you think?” He took a moment, his hands steepled in front of him. “I think he’s right,” said the Secretary of Education. “If they can’t protect their citizens and their citizens suffer as a result, by the framework of the assignment, we would be giving our citizens a better life and would win.” He turned and nodded to the Secretary of Defense as the words “… Kill…Everyone…Else…” squeaked onto the board. “But!’ said the Secretary of Education, raising one finger in the air. “We cannot allow ourselves to become so martial that it becomes a burden on our people. That could fall into ‘Not Giving A Good Life’ territory.” “…Don’t…Overdo….It…” “That’s good!” said the Prime Minister. “And if we thought of it, they probably did too. So, we’ll keep an army, and attack anyone who’s vulnerable, and stop them from attacking us. But we don’t get so wrapped up that it detracts from the public welfare.” “Uh,” said the Secretary of Defense, “I hate to be a stickler, but it should be ‘Attack Everyone Else’ not ‘Kill Everyone Else’, because if they’re dead they can’t suffer.” “Good point...Kill…Attack… Everyone…Else…” He spread his hands out, and looked around, gathering a consensus. People nodded. “Alright, so far we have: Puppies; Basics: Food, Water, Companionship; Freedom; Love; Art; Community and Belonging; Self-Actualization; Security; fiction 91 Health: Attack Everyone Else; and Don’t Overdo It.” This was progress. The Attorney General raised his hands. “I want to circle back to something: Freedom. Great Idea. I’m not saying it’s not. I’m just a little concerned that Freedom doesn’t turn into anarchy. Right? One person’s freedom might involve punching everyone they disagree with in the face or stealing whatever they want. I’m all for freedom, don’t get me wrong, but we still need law and order.” The Secretary of Education reluctantly agreed, and “…Law and Order…” squeaked onto the board. The Secretary of Housing and Urban Development raised his hand, and his eyes flickered uncertainty towards the Archminister of Finance, but he waited until the Prime Minister called on him. “Yes?” “What about money?” The Archminister of Finance reached instinctively to the symbol of his order, and spoke in reverent, ominous tones. “What about money?” 92 metaphor “Well, people like having money.” That was true, their internal polling consistently showed that. “And not having enough money could be seen as a form of suffering. An area of potential improvement. I’m not saying…” he tried to head-off the argument he knew was coming but he was too slow. “Thou wouldst bringeth the plague of Inflation down upon us all!” “Look,” said the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, “I think we can find a happy medium between inflation and being smote.” He looked around the room for support. “Am I too far off-base here? I don’t feel like I’m off-base.” A few heads nodded. The Archminister of Finance did not. The Prime Minster clapped his hands together and stepped in. “No, I don’t think you are off-base. I think it’s a really interesting idea.” He turned to address the Archminister. “Josh, I hear you. I see you. And I admire your passion, but I think this is a really interesting idea, and uh, one that’s worth looking into. Maybe there’s something in the Book of Stimulus that could…” The Archminister’s mouth fell open and tried to shape itself around the words. His mind went back to his days in the Moneystary when he had been a simple priest, to whom anything was possible. But then, his memories returned to falling consumer sentiment and negative returns. “Thou meddlest with forces thou understandeth not! Thou wouldst invoke the wrath of the economy!” “Can I talk to you in the hall really quick? Everyone else, just stay put for second. Josh? Do you mind?” The Archminister stood, gathering his cloak about him and followed the prime minister into the hall. There were some polite but firm statements like, ‘I feel like you are not being a team player’, ‘It’s nothing personal’, ‘We are moving in a different direction’, and, ‘I’m sorry but we are going to have to let you go’ and the Prime Minister returned to the conference room, without the Archminister of Finance. And lo, was the prophecy of the Archminister proven true, for he was now out of a job! And somewhere deep in the catacombs of the Cashedral, the unemployment rate on the holy spreadsheet ticked ever so slightly upward. “Alright, I have good news and bad news. Actually, I don’t want to describe it as negative or positive. It’s just news. I had to let Josh go.” There was a chorus of manufactured sympathy. “I feel like your idea, the money idea, was really promising, and his inability to compromise, uh, showed that he wasn’t a team player. And that’s what we’re looking for here: team players. Because we’re a what?” “A team.” Grumbled the cabinet. The Prime Minster put a hand to his ear and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, we’re a what?” “A team!” said the cabinet, a little louder this time. “That’s right. So, I’m going to put a little note on the side of the board here….Hire…New…Finance… Archminister, and, …Money?.... Alright, what else? What else have we got?” The Secretary of Defense raised his hand again. “Alright, hear me out. What if… Ready? One World Government!” He sat back to let the words sink in, then picked them up before anyone else could elaborate on his idea. fiction 93 “Look, God said he’d destroy every country but the one that gives its citizens the best life, but if we were all one big country… Only equals Best. We’d win by default.” “There it is!” He looked around. They were enjoying this idea better than his last one. The Prime Minister clapped his hands together and pointed. “Alvaran Prime Minster Daniel Morgan, how can I help you? Uh huh… yeah… uh huh… yeah, yeah no, we literally just had the same idea, like two seconds ago… no, no, I think it’s a good idea… Have you talked to anyone else? I’m flattered… Alright, well I put it on the board… Go ahead and put us down…” He looked at his cabinet, they were nodding, “Put us down as a Yes… uh huh… uh huh… And I can put you down as a…” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the board. There was a slight scramble, but the Secretary of State was the first to it. He picked up a marker and stood ready. The Prime minister mouthed “Ephebe” which the secretary wrote on the board. “A Yes.” Said the Prime Minister nodding his head. “Mark, I say this in the nicest way possible… but you are all over the place today!” He smiled, and so did everyone else. Their smiling faces made a little circuit from the Prime Minister to the Secretary of Defense to whoever they liked and thought liked them. The laughter subsided, even the Secretary seemed to enjoy himself. One does not become a general by having thin skin, and he had certainly heard worse barbs than, Those are two great, but very different ideas, Mark. I wish I was as smart and brave as you are, Mark. “In all seriousness, I think it’s a really interesting idea. And, since we’re thinking about it I wouldn’t be surprised if…” he looked at the row of phones on one side of the room and waited. They did not ring. “Alright, well, I still think it’s a good idea. I’m going to put it on…” The phone rang. 94 metaphor He crossed the room, took a moment, looked around the room, took a breath and then said, “…One…World…Government… Ephebe=Yes…” “Alright, well, uh, I will let you get back to your business. I put you down as a yes, you can put us down as a yes. I will talk to some of the other nations, and get back to you…. Alright. Yeah. Alright. Uh huh. Uh huh. Alright. Alright. Good bye.” He put down the phone and spread out his arms. “Alright, good stuff!” He walked back to the board and took the marker from the Secretary of State who gave him a deep nod and sat back down. “Alright, so now we have… Puppies; Basics: Food, Water, Companionship; Freedom; Love; Art; Community and Belonging; Self-Actualization; Security; Health; Attack Everyone Else; Don’t Overdue It; Law And Order; Money?; and One World Government Ephebe=Yes.” The aggregate nations of the world underwent more or less the same process. And while they reached out to each other about the One World Government, it required a lot of powerful people giving up their power which is generally a great stopper of things. Also, the amount of paperwork involved… Each nation spent the next year discussing and implementing plans to “Give Their People the Best Lives.” A year passed. Ten years passed. He stood back to admire it, then turned to his cabinet and clapped his hands. “Alright,” he said, “I feel like we’re making good progress. I want to take a quick break, and then circle back to this. Any questions, comments or concerns before we go on break? No? Okay, quick ten-minute break and then we’ll meet back here and uh keep it up. Good work everybody…” All the years passed. No one knew if they’d won. But everyone agreed: it had been a very productive meeting. The End. And far away, in a realm untouched by human eyes, a reoccurring appointment in God’s planner said, “And they all lived happily every after…” Act III The Great Circling Back Sunrise, Sunset fiction 95 The Labyrinth Emma Kirby The last thing Danalyn expected to find when she turned the corner was a man stuck to the labyrinth wall. She paused, and while the man looked up from his struggling, taking in the sword at her hip, she took in the stone crust splattered over his torso and limbs. She also took note, more importantly, of his dark hair. Blond hair was the distinctive trait of the Duke of Tharchester’s family. That had been the final detail about the noble family that Sir Bartley, the knight she’d served as squire to, had found relevant for her to know before they’d arrived at the De Blanchard Estates. They’re very proud of it, he’d counselled. Being unique makes them feel important. If you need somewhere to begin to endear them to you, begin there. To her credit, Danalyn had tried. Danalyn took a breath. “Right. How long has it been since the monster was here?” The man’s gaze flickered down the passage. “Not that long. Do you have anything that might break this stone?” 96 metaphor “I do, actually.” Danalyn pulled off her belt the chisel and hammer she’d been using to carve arrows into the towering stone walls. Not for the first time, she was struck by how easily the people in the labyrinth began working with someone new. Of course, she’d found that to especially be the case when dealing with monsters, which she appreciated. The labyrinth liked to make its monsters tricky. The man let out a relieved sigh as she stepped up to him. “Thank you. That thing was chasing the rest of my group, and I’d like to make sure they’re okay.” Danalyn set the chisel against the stone on the man’s arm, then glanced up at him. “Anyone important in that group?” He frowned. “Why? You looking for someone?” Danalyn nodded as she tapped the back of the chisel with the hammer. “The Marquess de Blanchard, heir of the Duke of Tharchester.” The man blinked. He coughed out a surprised laugh as the first pieces of the stone shell clattered to the ground. “Sorry, a nobleman? In the labyrinth?” “Yes.” Danalyn set the chisel on the next section of stone. “If you’ve met him, he probably introduced himself as Tyrus instead of using his courtesy title, but most would recognize him by his blond hair.” The marquess had already disappeared into the labyrinth in some act of childish rebellion by the time Sir Bartley and Danalyn had relocated to Tharchester, so she’d never met him. However, Lord Rylan, the marquess’s younger brother, had immediately begun training under Sir Bartley alongside her. Though, that hadn’t been quite how he’d seen it. You favor her, the young nobleman had accused. Let the commoner maintain the armor and swords. The work will suit her better. Danalyn kept her expression even and shrugged, tapping the chisel. “His family wants him home safe. I’m here on their errand.” “Ah.” He said the word as if she’d just explained all he needed to know. “Well, I can tell you he’s not in my group, but I’m afraid I can’t point you in any particular direction beyond that.” The next chunk of stone fell, and while he shook out his newly freed arm, Danalyn started chipping at the larger section covering the man’s chest. “That’s one less group I need to check, so thank you anyways.” The man snorted. “You’re doing me the larger service here. I should be thanking you.” “You already did.” Rylan had scoffed and shot another glare at Danalyn, but, apparently sensing his fight wouldn’t be won that day, had relented. After some work chipping away the stone on his chest, legs, and other arm, the man was free. He only paused long enough to offer another thanks to Danalyn before he scooped up a sling from the ground and dashed down the passage. Almost as quickly as he’d started, he stopped, seemed to consider something, then looked back at Danalyn. “Are you coming?” “Why are you even looking for the marquess?” the man asked. Danalyn furrowed her brow. “Coming?” She’s done that work plenty enough, Sir Bartley had said. I still need to see whether you know how to do it, so forget her and tell me what you notice about that blade. fiction 97 He thumbed over his shoulder. “There’s a monster to fight. I know you have your own business, but I won’t say we couldn’t use the extra sword.” Danalyn hesitated, her hand drifting to her sword’s hilt. She couldn’t find the marquess if she was dead. But, there was no telling what state this stranger’s group would be in when he caught up to them. He might be rushing to fight a monster alone, and she had a duty to preserve human lives where she could. And, admittedly, helping him would be a way to give back to the people of the labyrinth the same consideration she’d consistently been met with. Danalyn nodded, more to herself than to him. “Okay, yeah.” She stepped forward. “Do you know which way it went?” “It shouldn’t be hard to follow. Come on.” Danalyn jogged behind the man as he led the way to where the passage T’ed out to either side. True to his prediction, a stone splatter with tall peaks in the center made it easy to know which path the monster had gone down. The splatters looked like thick, petrified fluid, and reminded her of the water that had once dripped off her hair and clothes onto the Duke of Tharchester’s polished floor. 98 metaphor Back then, she’d stood back, her fists clenched at her sides, scalp and wrists still sore from her struggle against Lord Rylan and his lackeys, and forced herself to let her master speak on her behalf. Your Grace, your son threw my squire in the river, Sir Bartley had said, and Danalyn had known him well enough to hear how he’d forced his voice to carry the correct amount of politeness. Still, the duke’s frown had twitched. Watch the way you speak. That girl should not be the only one you call your squire. And she should be the less important one at that, the duchess had added. He could have killed her, Sir Bartley had objected. Then you should consider yourself lucky the maid survived, the duke had replied, as the opposite outcome would have been an unfortunate proof of the adequacy of your training. In the end, Danalyn and Sir Bartley had been casually dismissed. The trail of occasional splatters eventually led Danalyn and the man she was following to an unusually long passage. Three people were stuck to the walls and floor along its length, and beyond them the monster—six- legged and larger than a horse, with spiked frills at the back of its head and a thick tail with a wide, flat portion at the end—was spraying dark gray clay out of its mouth onto a woman trying to dodge away. The extra weight made her stumble enough that she was caught by a swipe of the monster’s tail and thrown against the wall. As soon as the clay covering her touched the wall, it lightened in color and hardened to stone around her, holding her in place. A man encased in stone shouted the woman’s name. The man Danalyn was following cursed under his breath and rushed forward, and Danalyn kept close behind, drawing her sword. She barely registered a surprised “Ty?” as they passed another man stuck to the ground. When the man Danalyn was following slowed, pulling a round stone out of a bag on his belt, she continued past him. As she began to close with the monster, it turned towards her, and she noticed the wounds it already had were dripping a gray blood that wasn’t far in color from either the stone walls or the clay it spat. It snarled and swept its tail, and she skidded to a stop just outside its reach. The monster growled and lurched towards her, but a round stone struck its head and it reeled back, disoriented enough that Danalyn could dash in closer. While the man continued slinging stones, skillfully timing them to keep the monster from being able to focus on Danalyn too closely, she kept moving, working to stay at its side to avoid both its tail and jaws, dodging around the monster’s strikes and slashing back in retaliation, while at the same time trying to lure it away from the woman it had stuck to the wall. The consistent motion meant she wasn’t able to deal any serious blows, but that was alright for the time being. She needed to figure out what the labyrinth’s trick with this monster was. Sweat bloomed on her brow, and when the monster paused, lifting its head and flaring its spiked frills, she took her chance to close in. “No, move!” the closest man stuck to the wall bellowed. Danalyn switched directions even before thinking, staying close but darting around the monster instead. The monster’s mouth snapped open and it swung its head to try to follow her motion, clay spewing out of the back of its throat and hardening into stone splatters behind her heels. Danalyn dug her sword into the monster’s side, carving a long gash that seeped more gray blood, and the monster reared its head and roared. Another round stone hit the monster near its eye, making it turn its head fiction 99 to protect itself. Because that made it lose track of Danalyn, the monster swept its tail in a wide arc, forcing her to leap away to avoid getting slammed into the wall. She rolled back up to her feet and stumbled, the strain starting to make her limbs leaden. She quickly nodded her thanks to the stuck man for his warning and resumed her efforts at avoiding getting knocked down. It felt eerily similar to the way she’d just resumed as she had been in the wake of the Duke of Tharchester dismissing his son’s actions. But, it hadn’t been long before Danalyn and Sir Bartley had been summoned for another audience with the duke and duchess. We have decided it is not proper that our son be trained alongside this commoner, the duchess had declared, and she will no longer be permitted to be your other squire if you wish to continue in our service. If— Danalyn’s station has nothing to do with her skill, Your Grace, Sir Bartley had interrupted. Lord Rylan will not be disadvantaged for associating with her. Let her finish, the duke had said through his teeth. After Sir Bartley had paused, then obediently stepped back, the duchess had continued. If, however, she wishes to prove herself worthy of the privilege, 100 metaphor she may venture into the labyrinth and retrieve our heir, Tyrus, before we give the heirship instead to his brother. As an additional generosity, the duke had added, we have postponed the official transfer of heirship for two months. If she truly is as skilled as you say, that should provide ample time for her to reach the labyrinth, find Tyrus within, and return with him. Both Danalyn and Sir Bartley had been stunned to silence. Lord Tyrus had already been inside the labyrinth for two months, which said nothing of the time it would take to travel to the labyrinth’s entrance on the outskirts of the kingdom. It would take more than double the allotted time to find the marquess and come back, and that was if his petty rebellion hadn’t killed him already. The Duke and Duchess of Tharchester had found a way to get rid of Danalyn by separating her from Sir Bartley, cutting off all her work from ever coming to fruition, all while keeping up appearances by offering an impossible task that, given the infamously unforgiving nature of the labyrinth, might doubly get rid of her by claiming her life. They’d seemed very satisfied with their neat solution, which had made anger bubble under her skin. She’d burned with the desire to go to the labyrinth, find their other self-absorbed son, and bring him back, if only for the slight chance of getting to prove them wrong. She hadn’t been left any other options anyways. As she rounded the monster, Danalyn got a better look at the stone the monster had sprayed behind her, which had formed with the same peaks she’d seen in stone splatters on the way there. Having seen the monster’s spray, now she could pick out how the peaks looked like its clay had hardened in a wave that extended from the ground up the spray. The transformation likely didn’t make it further up only because the stream of clay from the monster shifted enough that it lost contact with the stone. “I’m running out of rocks!” the man Danalyn had followed called. “Time to finish it, then!” she called back, an idea forming. She was determined not to let inaction decide her fate again, and though her idea was a risk, it was a risk she found herself surprisingly comfortable taking. The next time Danalyn’s furious dance with the monster took her closer to the man she’d followed, she tore the hammer and chisel off her belt and tossed them towards him. As the tools clanged to the ground, she ignored his shouted questions about what she was doing, dashing back around the monster. When it raised its head and flared its frills again, she dodged closer, this time without changing course. She swung her sword right as the monster’s mouth opened, and she saw clay spray down her sword just before she closed her eyes and mouth against the clay flying at her face. More stuck to her torso and legs, and at the same moment she felt the resistance of her sword cutting into the monster’s throat, she also felt her feet lock in place as the clay started to harden. One second, her sword was slicing flesh. The next, her blade stopped, caught in stone just as completely as her arms and legs were. All went quiet. Danalyn waited. The stone held her tight, stopping her from lowering her arms. She couldn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t breathe. Through an uncovered ear, she heard frantic footsteps rush up to her, then the man’s voice. “Are you insane?” Danalyn felt each hit of the chisel on the stone covering her face just as much as she heard it. “What could have possibly possessed you to try something like that?” Danalyn’s lungs started to burn. Internally, she asked him to hurry. fiction 101 “You don’t even know us!” The stone covering her mouth loosened, and with the next hit it fell away. Danalyn gasped, then drank in the air, breathing as deeply as she could with her chest constricted by stone. In response to that sign of life, the man released a heavy sigh. The stone over her nose and eyes came off quickly after that. Danalyn blinked her eyes open to find the man regarding her with a worried expression. “Is she alright?” the woman stuck to the wall further down the passage called. The man glanced up at her, then looked back to Danalyn. “Are you?” Danalyn tried to nod. “Yes, I’m okay,” she breathed, still catching her breath after having held it for so long. “Good.” He lifted his chin to shout Danalyn’s answer back to the woman, then got to work chiseling away more of the stone. While the man finished chipping the stone off her head, she looked past him to the monster. As she’d hoped would happen, the wave of transformation from clay to stone had flashed from the ground up and 102 metaphor over her, past her sword, and into the monster. All it had required was the clay having an uninterrupted connection to the labyrinth’s stone. And, by the looks of it, her idea had been even more effective than she’d expected. She’d been trying to solidify whatever clay the monster had in its throat, hoping it would lodge there and choke the monster, or that at least it wouldn’t be able to keep spitting the stuff while it died from the wound. However, around each of its wounds where there had been gray blood, there was now gray stone. The monster’s very blood had turned to stone inside of it, freezing it in the pose it had died in, jaws hanging open above Danalyn and the man helping her. Nodding her satisfaction, Danalyn pulled her eyes back down to the man. “Alright, tell me. Are you Lord Tyrus? I heard what your friend called you.” He froze, looking up at her. After a beat, his surprise melted into resignation. Tyrus shook his head. “It’s just Ty here. That’s kind of the whole point.” Danalyn bit the inside of her lip. While Tyrus turned to start chipping at the stone around her hands, she struggled to reconcile the man before her, whom she’d just rightly trusted with her life, with the way his family had carried themselves. Not sure how else to voice the dissonance, she asked, “Why did you invite me to come along if you wanted to hide?” “I’m not hiding,” Tyrus objected without looking up. “I’m just… different. I colored my hair for my own good, to give myself some distance. I like who I am inside the labyrinth better than who I was out there.” He shook his head, sighing. “I’ll admit that I nearly made up my mind about you once you said my family sent you, but I realized it would be hypocritical to not give you the same chance I had to be someone different from them.” not going back with you. I hope that much isn’t surprising.” Danalyn closed her eyes and took a breath. Given the things she’d just realized about him, that was the answer she’d expected, but also the answer she’d been scared of since starting this endeavor. Without retrieving Tyrus for the duke and duchess, what could she do? She had nothing to go home to. Her life was again slipping softly out of her grasp. Last time, she’d turned to Sir Bartley for help. Hesitantly, she lifted her gaze and asked, “What happens now, then?” Sir? she’d asked stiffly, trying to smother her anger as she turned from the duke to look at her master. She’d hoped that one word would be enough to convey what she was asking for. She hadn’t needed to go to the labyrinth to remain Sir Bartley’s squire. All he’d had to do was speak against the duke’s decision, either to convince the nobleman to change his mind or to declare the end of his service in Tharchester. “I get you out of this stone, borrow your tools for a little longer to do the same for everyone else, make sure you’re undeniably aware of my gratitude, and send you on your way.” Tyrus paused from chipping at the stone on Danalyn’s arm to meet her gaze. “But before you ask, no, I’m Sir Bartley had known her position. He’d known Danalyn saying anything defying the duke on her own would’ve been a sure way to get herself imprisoned or killed, or at the very least banished without even the pretense of a chance to keep the life she’d been working with him to build. It was Danalyn’s turn to look away. Setting aside the irony of nearly being subjected to her own assumptions, from the way he spoke and acted, it seemed Tyrus was no longer the sort of man she’d expected to find in the labyrinth, if he’d ever been that man at all. fiction 103 But, when Sir Bartley had turned his stunned expression to her, she had seen it in his expression. The most respected and honorable knight in the kingdom, the one who had been willing to break deeply ingrained custom to take her as his squire, still worried about his social standing. He still worried about who would provide him with land to pay for his needs. He’d already been in shaky standing after the river incident. To again insult someone as influential as the Duke of Tharchester might put him to ruin. But, punishments for someone of his station would be less than would be given to someone of hers. He’d stood there, seeing the pleading in Danalyn’s eyes. Then he’d looked away. You are truly generous, Your Grace, he’d murmured. His gaze had stayed lowered until they’d been dismissed. He hadn’t looked her in the eye nor answered when she’d demanded to know why he hadn’t done something. He hadn’t even come to bid her farewell when she’d left for the labyrinth that very evening. She knew it was because he was ashamed. She also knew the duke and duchess carried just as much blame, if not more, for having forced him into the position where he’d needed to make that choice at all. She’d tried many times in light of that knowledge 104 metaphor to badger some sympathy for her master out of herself, but hadn’t ever succeeded. Yes, he’d taken her as his squire, but when the ultimate decision had needed to be made, Sir Bartley hadn’t fought for her when she couldn’t fight for herself. His being ashamed of it couldn’t change that fact. The words tumbled from Danalyn’s mouth even before she realized what she was saying. “What if I want to stay?” Tyrus paused his work again. He pursed his lips as he looked at her. “That’s not a decision to be made lightly. The labyrinth isn’t for everyone.” Determination rose like a fire in Danalyn’s chest. “I know.” “It’s still going to be dangerous.” “I know.” “And you’re sure you want to stay?” Go back to a life where she had nothing, or build a new life in a place where even strangers had each other’s backs? It was an easy choice. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. “I’m sure.” He regarded her for a moment. He nodded thoughtfully, then broke into a smile. “Well, if you happen to also be interested in joining us, we could always use another sword.” Ty glanced at the stone-encased blade and added with a chuckle, “Even if we need to carve it out of a monster first.” Danalyn hesitated. “Join you? I mean, I’d be happy to travel with a group for once, but you’re sure the rest won’t mind?” Ty laughed. “With the stunt you just pulled? Please, you’ll fit right in. Let me finish getting you out of this and I’ll introduce you to everyone.” He paused, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. “If I ever learn your name myself, that is.” She chuckled and finally matched his smile with one of her own. “It’s Danalyn.” “Well, Danalyn, I want to formally thank you for figuring out how to kill the monster that got the better of all the rest of us. That was impressive.” Danalyn shook her head. “You don’t know what you just offered me. I should be the one thanking you.” fiction 105 The Cord Cutters and the Great Sky Fire Joshua Colenda Ukraine, 2039 Junior Sergeant Demetry Shevchenko’s weapon of choice was 20-inch garden shears. Miles above the frontlines, satellites monitored the battlefield for heat and signal signatures and relayed that information to units on the ground, which meant the first line of defense in the drone wars of the 21st century was other satellites—disrupting signals to and from the commandand-control centers. The next lines of defense were the Advanced Electronic Reconnaissance and Integrated Suppression (AERIS) aircraft—the E-4 Wardens—massive beasts with giant radar discs on their backs, which cast great electromagnetic shadows, like eclipses, onto the battlefield below. The Wardens were accompanied, like remoras around a whale shark, by escorts of drones and fighter planes. If you saw a Warden Swarm, you had better hope it was heading away from you. Then there were the drones. Suicide drones. Drones that dropped grenades. Machine-gun drones. Shotgun drones. Flamethrower drones. Double-prop, 106 metaphor quad and octocopter drones. Drones that dropped other drones. Drone swarms… Some units had mobile Electronic Warfare (EW) vehicles, which could silence all signals in the area but their own—like a weighted blanket thrown across the electromagnetic spectrum. But all of these expensive, hightech countermeasures could be circumvented by a string. Not just any string—a fiber optic cable which connected the drones to their operators. The cables came in great spools, which could hold several hundred kilometers of material each. And none of the satellites, planes, or mobile EW units could do anything to disrupt the signals contained in the cable’s silica womb. And for that, they had the Cord Cutters—Delta Company of the 414th Unmanned Aviation Strike Battalion—and Junior Sergeant Shevchenko with his 20-inch garden shears. They lay prone—behind the skeletons of fallen trees—listening for the bladed whir of death. Broken lengths of fiber-optic cable lay strewn across the remains of the forest— discarded—snapped by the cold or crushed underfoot. Some of the smallest shards were carried away by birds, and, for lack of foliage, reinforced their emaciated nests. Back in the shelter, under several layers of protective EW and Air Defense umbrellas, they ate their dinner rations. They heard it now, high-pitched and getting closer. Shevchenko gave his shears a few idle snips—they were ready. In more peaceful places, drones carried food—ordered by people on their couch with their phone—and delivered straight to their balcony. Drone taxis ferried commuters to and from work in great motorized rivers in the sky. The drone whizzed by—four rotors carrying a small bomb, its cable trailing behind it like an umbilical cord. He waited. Never cut the cord too close to your position. You only had to make that mistake once. He snipped. The whir of the drone lowered several octaves. It fell to the ground and exploded. The Cord Cutters stood up and fell back to their entrenched shelter. The Russians would pinpoint where they had lost contact with their drone, assume—correctly—there was something unfriendly there, and call in 155mm artillery strikes on their position. And the Cord Cutters did not want to be there when the shells began to fall. The Ukrainian battlefield was not the only place in the world swarming with drones. Drones swarmed pedestrians too. Surveillance units hovered overhead, scanning faces for arrest warrants, monitoring the crowds for anomalies. There was no point in looking at them anymore. In fact, the act of looking was rebellious. Rebellious because attention was monetized, and looking somewhere that was not occupied by an advertisement meant corporate failure. Solicitations scrawled across the outside of two-way windows, and drone swarms made ever-changing commercials across the sky. People displayed their values in little pins on their lapels—flags and symbols, the hieroglyphics of ethics. But even those with opposing symbols fiction 107 did not bother to fight in public, better to screenshot their faces with their Smartglasses and harass them online. Artists and celebrities were AIgenerated, it was more efficient that way. They could be algorithmically optimized, and they kept very little of the profit for themselves. In the cities, food was grown in great green skyscrapers. In less populated areas, it was grown on sprawling farms, popular destinations for the field trips of schoolchildren. Actual soil. Like, the earth? With like, worms and stuff? Like, from the movies? Schpleesh! Chili and Macaroni MREs in the trenches. American battlefield rations, not Shevchenko’s favorite, but good enough. He looked around their little battlefield home. It was as cozy as they could afford to make it. Cots lay in rows on the wooden planks of the floor. Thin nylon ropes ran across the walls, hanging socks and underwear. A comms center in the corner ran cable through a small hole in the roof, culminating in an antenna that was tied to a dead tree outside. Anna de Armas stared across the small space at a Liverpool Football Club poster. Their mascot, a tabby cat named 108 metaphor General Mittens, lay curled up next to the comms. It should have smelled like socks, but it didn’t, or maybe they had just gone nose-blind to it. It smelled like plastic and dirt. It wasn’t warm, but it was warm enough. Not dry, but dry enough. Not home, but home enough. American MREs. British radios. Swedish outerwear… Shevchenko shook his head. The whole world was on the battlefield, supplying each side with weapons and equipment and cheering them on, like boxers in a prize fight, too cowardly to fight each other themselves. What was the point? He thought. The other country had the wrong system of government. The other country had the wrong religion. The other country had a bigger economy. The other had. That’s what it came down to wasn’t it? The other had something, and they wanted it. Like children, wanting to play with each other’s toys and crown themselves kings of the playground and make the rules for all the games. Except these kids owned the drones, and there was no escaping them. So, you allied yourself with the kids with the drones who could protect you from the other kids with the drones and you kept your head down and you ate your chili mac. of the squad raised their eyes. “About your mother.” He scoffed. Shevchenko smiled. He couldn’t say “Fuck you” because then Oliinyk would say “That’s what she did alright. The woman is an artist, and love is her craft” and he couldn’t say “You motherfucker” for obvious reasons. Staff Sergeant Oliinyk turned to him. “What is it?” “Nothing,” said Shevchenko, “Just thinking.” He opened his mouth to speak—but the birds whistled first. “How’s that working out for you?” Fwoom, fwoom, fwoom He shook his head. Fwoom, fwoom, fwoom “Not well.” Silence followed, interrupted only by the sounds of chewing and the crinkling noises of their plastic pouches. Staff Sergeant Oliinyk, with his mustache, his bald head, his encyclopedic battlefield knowledge, his “work hard, play hard” attitude and load-bearing sense of humor, was not technically in charge. Technically, Captain Siverskyi was in charge. And, technically, General Mittens outranked them both. But his influence was undeniable. It would be wrong to say he was the heart and soul of the Cord Cutters, because each man brought his own. “I was thinking,” said Oliinyk. The tone was obvious. The other members No one knew why the birds imitated the sound of rockets. Were they trying to mate with them? Maybe they thought the rockets were some kind of avian gods? Or maybe, they were just picking up little pieces of the world around them, like everyone else. But for whatever reason, the birds outside sounded exactly like 220mm self-propelled multi-rocket launcher systems. Oliinyk stiffened. His face blanched and his breath arrived in quick, shaky bursts. Everyone else stiffened, not as quickly or as tightly as Oliinyk—they sat ready. Oliinyk closed his eyes then opened them tentatively and focused on the fiction 109 first thing he saw—his Shredded Beef MRE. He focused on it, taking in every detail, grounding himself in a reality that contained, for the moment, only him and his food. No birds. No rockets. No explosions. Only him, in this moment. His breath began to slow. It was deeper now. He focused on the smells. The dirt of the trench, the smell of rain and sweat and cheap meals cooked over thermochemical reactions. He took one hand off his MRE and rubbed it against the worn, familiar material of his combat fatigues, caressing it with his fingertips. Only him, in this moment. He relaxed, then nodded, and gave the trench an embarrassed smile. “Stupid fucking birds,” he said. This got some relieved laughter from the boys. to follow. The Cord Cutters put down their MREs, picked up various weapons, and rushed outside. Maks pointed at the sky. The sky was on fire. The boys stared. Straight bright lines flashed across the sky—slicing and separating like a celestial neuron storm. He tore his eyes away and ran back into the trench. He emerged a few moments later. “Comms are down.” Comms are down may have been the understatement of the century, but it was actually the runner-up to a farmer in Nebraska, who, after watching the kaleidoscopic display for a full thirty minutes simply said, “You don’t see that every day.” Private Maksym “Maks” Horobets, the unofficial youngest brother of the Cord Cutters, a little green around the edges, but a deadly pilot with a virtual reality headset and a keypad, put down his MRE, carefully so it didn’t tip over, and headed outside, mumbling something about “going to piss”. The rest continued eating. He ran into the trench a few moments later, gesturing violently for the rest 110 metaphor No, you do not see that every day. It took many years for most people to figure out what had happened. In Moscow, General Nikolay Teplinsky, of the Russian Aerospace forces, realized that he was losing. He did not have the electronic warfare capabilities to counter the Americans, so he ordered one of his satellites to crash into one of their satellites. It was a calculated decision—unfortunately, his math was terrible. There are more than 11,000 satellites orbiting earth. Those in Low Earth Orbit travel at approximately 28,000 km/h, or 17,000 mph. Those in Geostationary Orbits travel at a paltry 11,000 km/h (7,000 mph). Their paths are carefully monitored and choreographed in a complicated network of laws, regulations, and international agreements. But now, they crashed into each other and exploded—like a domino run made of shotgun shells. It did not just affect military satellites; it affected all satellites. And it wasn’t just the Cord Cutters who stared. The whole world stared. For seven days the sky bled in luminous geometrical destruction, visible in the day to even the few remaining uncontacted tribes of the world: humanity’s last sentimental objects. Comms went down. Everything went down. The internet went down, celebrities lost their artificial charm, and all the drones came down in a thick black hail. Humanity, for the first time in decades, was earthbound and still. But not for long. Rudimentary technologies like radio and telegram were dusted off and pushed back into service, local plants and wildlife became food and medicine again, people built things with their own hands again, debts and fortunes were wiped clean, but that was all after the upheaval. Whether through fear or greed or vengeance, people stole things and broke things and many people, poor and powerful alike, found themselves significantly more dead than they had previously been. Brilliant people huddled together in sterile rooms and calculated, by hand, how long the sky fire would last, and, more importantly, how long before it would be safe to put up new satellites. And then the lights turned back on. And everyone just…carried on. The rules were a little different now, a lot of people had moved back to the country and divided the great farms into many smaller farms, which worked well enough to accommodate the smaller population. And they decided, unanimously, that they preferred looking at the sky, instead of at drones. And in the evenings, and the weekends when the work was done, they didn’t watch AI celebrities; they watched their family, friends, and neighbors. And when the soldiers left the frontlines to go home, the trees grew back and grew leaves, and the fiction 111 birds didn’t have to make their nests with string anymore. “Varenyky,” he said. Oliinyk’s grin vanished, replaced by a slack jaw and a hungry, determined look. 10 Years Later “Like, actual varenyky?” Kyrylo Oliinyk and his wife, Yulia, strode up the path to the Shevchenko farmhouse and were greeted by Demetry and his wife, Natasha. Then, the birds began to whistle. “Actual varenyky,” confirmed Shevchenko. Oliinyk gave his wife a sheepish grin. Shevchenko leaned forward. They all turned to the noise. “How’s your mother?” Oliinyk did not know how long birds lived. Ten years was apparently long enough for multiple generations of birds, because—like a story that has been passed around so much it lost what made it true—the whistle of these birds did not sound like rockets. “She’d be better knowing we’re about to have some real (expletive) varenyky!” They waited until the laughter had faded. Then, Shevchenko patted him on the shoulder. They sounded like birds. “It’s good to see you.” The wives watched their husband exchange looks and then exchanged looks themselves. They filed it away under “war stuff.” Oliinyk rubbed his hands together as a characteristic grin washed over his face. “So, what are we having? Chili mac?” Shevchenko shook his head. He leaned forward. 112 metaphor Taylor Mantz Mia Alvord Hunter Hyde Alexis Knight Olivia Herndon Brendan Harris creative nonfiction Your eyes linger on a page. The ink is neat. It is pretty. But the words, sometimes, tell you otherwise. In the blackpoints of the letters you think there is something that looks like truth. What have you found here? There? You can watch the world move around you in voices and tears and laughter and silences and dark rooms, messy rooms, or bright stars, cloudless days… but something has you lingering on a page. There is a blurred line, you feel, between that thing called fiction and nonfiction, and they are both story as they stare each other in the mirror. A beginning, a middle, an end. An end… is there really an end? No, not when you linger, not when you float into the space of truth. My friends, this is where you are, this is what you’ve found. To read or write creative nonfiction is to experience life in another form, in a dimension of you and the page. You and another soul, a soul typed, a soul rendered, a soul that took a brave step out into the world to tell a story. A story of truth. And you, my friend, have been kind enough to observe. You explore, you place a thoughtful cheek on your palm and you read. Creative nonfiction, so it seems, is you taking a moment to observe the threads of the souls baring themselves to you. To me. To the world. So thank you. Thank you, the reader. Thank you, the writer. You have come together in a curious step, a courageous step, a trustful step, to experience life together, even for just a few pages. You will, in the end, know more about the created world, the creator, the creative, and the souls that have been bared and are baring. So whatever these mean to you—“create,” “creator,” “creative”—you will find the pieces within the souls on the page, and within your own. Be brave. Be bare. Be reader, be writer. Be you. Taylor Mantz, Creative Nonfiction Lead The Season of Winnie K.M. Downs 2026 Jan Hamer Prize for Outstanding Creative Nonfiction I can still vividly recall the way the girl sat on the grass, her back hunched and her knees drawn tightly beneath her, her gaze fixed on the cement as though something urgent were unfolding upon that ordinary stretch of sidewalk. She was undoubtedly alive—anything with such a striking presence would have to be—although she didn’t display any movement to indicate as such. Even as I walked closer to her small frame, she seemed as anchored as a rock in a cliff face, unbothered, and utterly still. The only thing that could touch her was the air itself, and even that had minimal influence, merely grasping at wisps of her blonde hair and twirling them around her soft face. Strangely, no one seemed to notice this quiet strength, except me. It was undeniable that she attended the same school I did. She had to, for it didn’t make sense for a lonesome child to sit outside of a school facility otherwise. I was fairly certain I had seen her before too, lingering at the edge of the playing field, though it was difficult to be sure. If it had been her, she would have remained on the sidelines, quiet and unnoticed. Even so, it was hard to reconcile this still, 114 metaphor immovable figure with the chaotic frenzy of my elementary school. Only minutes earlier, I myself had been swept into that chaos, carried along by the whirl of an after-school theater club. With a paintbrush in hand, I had been bent over a flat canvas backdrop for our upcoming performance, surrounded by the familiar clamor of children who could never quite keep still. Like any sector of the school, the cafeteria was filled with bright colors, not only from the paint but from the myriad posters on the wall, each boasting our plump eagle mascot alongside some sort of inspirational phrase, from “THE CLIMB IS WORTH THE TIME” to “SHADOW VALLEY EAGLES KNOW HOW TO STAY SAFE.” Their whimsical, oversized fonts shouted for attention, reflecting the flamboyant spirit of the students themselves. The average elementary schooler was just as loud and colorful as those posters: clothes stained with sticky reddish-brown streaks from lunch, voices echoing down the hallway in piercing squeals until a teacher barked at them to fall back in line. They were children wound tight as coiled springs, practically vibrating with energy, desperate for the smallest excuse to fling off the reins on their mouths and minds. These were the students I knew best—the ones who always let you know what they were thinking before you even asked. The ones who bounced at the edge of their seats, sneakers tapping the carpet’s artificial fibers as they shot their hands into the air, ready to blurt out a clever quip, or sometimes just to ask for a bathroom break. They lived bright and fast, drawing attention effortlessly, though never quite knowing how to sit in silence. But the girl in front of me was none of these things. She didn’t fit the narrative at all. She seemed instead the very embodiment of ease, her limbs splayed carelessly beneath her. To other students passing by on their way home, she was likely no more remarkable than a tree or a stone, as unmovable and untouchable as the ripe red plum trees fenced off in Mr. White’s backyard. Everyone else just hurried past her on their own journey, faces split with smiles, eager for the sunny weekend, without even wondering why she sat so isolated in the first place. Perhaps without even seeing her at all. But I saw her. And I wondered. Crossing the faded white lines of the crosswalk, I stopped and stood directly before her. She didn’t even look up, although my worn, hole-ridden shoes blocked her piercing line of sight. It was clear she wasn’t going to pay me any mind unless I paid her some, so I spoke. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Are you waiting for your parents to pick you up?” Suddenly, the girl’s head popped up, quick and sharp, reminding me of a meerkat emerging out of a stony crevice. I had recognized that her features were soft from a distance, but up close, the depth of her eyes startled me. An almost buttery chocolate brown, her eyes were large, round, and cavernous, brimming with unspoken emotion. In contrast to her distant, statuesque exterior, they were vibrant and expressive. For a moment, we just stared at one another, her right eyebrow knitting in faint confusion. Finally, she spoke. “No, I’m waiting for my sister to pick me up, but she’s not coming. My mom’s at work.” This puzzled me. If her sister was meant to collect her, why wasn’t she here? And why did the girl sound so certain she wouldn’t come? “Did you have an after-school club?” I inquired. I feared I already knew the answer, but it felt reasonable to ask anyway. creative nonfiction 115 “No. I’ve been here since three.” I did the math quickly: an hour and a half spent at the theater club, plus the half hour it took for buses to load, meant she had been sitting here for nearly two hours. “And no one’s come to pick you up? Not even a call to check on you?” “Nope. This happens a lot, honestly. I’m used to it.” With that being said, she lowered her gaze to the sidewalk, and my ruddy shoes, once more. The subtle dip of her head struck me as an expectation: that now, having satisfied my curiosity, I too would leave her behind. The thought made my mind reel. I had always seen myself as quieter, more observant than my peers. Yet if I had failed to notice her day after day, waiting patiently, though never hopefully, for someone who might not come, had I really been any more perceptive than the rest? Was I, too, so wrapped up in the exuberance around me that I had blinded myself to the silent figure on the sidelines? I didn’t like the thought. “Here,” I proposed awkwardly, “why don’t you come home with me? I live close by, and you could just text your sister or mom to pick you up there. That way, you don’t have to sit in the 116 metaphor sun any longer, and you can get a drink of water.” Frankly, I didn’t think she would take me up on my offer; I know I wouldn’t have if the roles were reversed. My mother had drilled the idea of stranger danger so deeply into my mind that even the sound of a car slowing beside me could send my imagination spiraling. I would picture it instantly: a greasy man with slicked-back hair jerking his car to a stop, the squeal of the brakes echoing too loudly in the still air. The window would roll down with a mechanical groan, and he’d ask if I wanted to come with him. When I refused, he’d feign disinterest for a heartbeat before springing like a starved mutt lunging at scraps, his fingers clawing for any hold on my small backpack or shirt. This girl, however, didn’t seem to share any of those fears. “Sure,” she replied with disarming ease. “They won’t mind.” She rose to her feet— taller than I expected, only a few inches shorter than me—and without hesitation began walking in the direction my body was angled. And just like that, off we went. And so, with that, a new tradition was forged. The girl—Winnie, I learned her name was—had been right: her mother hadn’t been bothered by my kidnapping of her daughter. If anything, she seemed relieved, whispering a quick thank-you to my mother for feeding her before whisking her away around six or seven each evening. I recognized this as unusual and asked Winnie about it when I could, but she rarely gave more than fragments. From what I pieced together, her family was poor, her mother a single parent with four children to care for. She didn’t have the time or mental energy to wonder where each of her kids was at once, as long as they all made it home, or let her know where they were, before she came home. According to Winnie, one time she was forced to walk home herself, even though her house was miles from the school, and across the roaring expanse of Harrison Boulevard, once it became evident no one was coming for her. It had taken at least an hour, and, when she arrived home, stumbling through the doorway sweaty and disoriented, her siblings hadn’t even batted an eye or asked what took her so long. They simply sank back into their rhythm of silence until bedtime called them away. That seemed to be the way of Winnie in general: silence. She wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and she would respond with a simple nod or shake of the head whenever possible. That is, until I was able to break through her shell. It started slowly, but I like to think we both became more enlivened in each other’s presence. At least in retrospect, my time spent walking home certainly became much brighter. Where I used to journey home alone, traversing not only the land below me but my innermost thoughts in silence, I became suddenly grounded. Before, the trees and houses around me had been nothing more than fluff, a superficial backdrop, padding and directing my path. I hadn’t paid attention to the scenery or anything else around me because I’d been so caught up in myself. However, with Winnie at my side, I was reshaped: first into a guide, then a mentor, and, finally, a friend. After a long day of lessons, I could no longer slip easily into the solitude of my own consciousness, content to let the world pass me by. I had to be present for Winnie, who had so little to call her own. And in the end, that responsibility revealed itself as a blessing in disguise. Talking and conversing with Winnie, the world opened up. I felt small things I hadn’t felt before, like the squish of my shoes against the pavement and the hollow, slapping sound they made. My ears cleared of their muck, and suddenly I could hear the birds in the trees, listen to their serenading songs weave together into free and easy melodies, inspiring nonchalance in myself. I could smell creative nonfiction 117 the freshness of the neighborhood around me, replete with the crisp scent of newly cut grass, the aged musk of tree bark, and the faint sweetness of lingering dew. And above all, I could feel warmth: the heat of the sun, flush against my cheeks, tingling with tranquility. In this way, I was transformed. And so, too, was Winnie. As she began to open up, we discovered a surprising number of shared interests. From the book series we devoured— The Hunger Games and The School for Good and Evil—to the pastimes we adored, like playing dress-up, filming ridiculous home videos, and scaling the nearest climbable tree, we quickly became inseparable. It turned out Winnie could, in fact, talk for hours when the subject interested her. Her eyes, once so guarded and opaque, would catch a sudden spark, and her words would tumble out in a rush, her mouth racing at a hundred miles an hour while her face animated to match the vivid expressiveness of her gaze. Where she had once seemed so far away, as if inhabiting a world entirely her own, she slowly became part of me, woven into my very being, as essential as breath or heartbeat. Without her, I could not imagine myself whole. And, in a selfish corner of my heart, I hoped she felt the same. But as with so many fleeting seasons of childhood, the warmth we shared 118 metaphor eventually cooled. I wish I could say our friendship lasted forever, but life rarely grants such permanence. One summer, her mother was offered a better job, and within a week Winnie and her family had packed up and moved to southern Salt Lake City. In truth, it wasn’t so far from my home in Ogden, but to my naive mind it felt like light-years away. And without phones of our own, or even the foresight to exchange addresses, we were left with no means of communication, only the steady current of life sweeping us forward. Soon we were thrust into the whirlwind of junior high, that awkward new stage where everything demanded our attention, and slowly, inevitably, we drifted apart, as children so often do. Even so, the memory of those small acts of kindness—choosing to see her when no one else did—remains a reminder of how simple compassion can change not only someone else’s life, but your own. As I grew older and entered the more critical environments of junior high and high school, everything seemed to shift toward the individual. No longer were we encouraged to work together simply for the sake of camaraderie; instead, collaboration existed only in the form of tedious group projects, which often drove wedges between kids who had once been friends, separating those who wanted the grade from those who wanted the joy. No longer was it acceptable to just approach someone you found interesting and ask their name, hoping to make a new friend. Do that, and you were labeled odd, desperate, or unworthy. And slowly, it became unacceptable to appear as anything less than perfect, to reveal flaws or vulnerability, for fear that your true colors would invite judgment. These are the realities of growing up, of becoming aware of where you stand in the world. than ease someone else’s burden; you uncover pieces of yourself you never knew were missing. So although our season together ended long ago, the warmth of it remains, urging me even now to look outward, to notice, and to act, even when it seems impossible. But I don’t believe they are the only realities. There is something pure, almost magical, in a child’s wonder. Children are not yet consumed by self-image, ambition, or performance; instead, they look outward, hungry to understand why the world is the way it is. They know instinctively that life is so much larger than them, and so they search for meaning beyond themselves, which is something most adults have forgotten. In a sense, feelings of inadequacy stem from feeling isolated from others or locked within yourself. Little do we know, we were the ones who caged ourselves in the first place! Therefore, although my friendship with Winnie may not have lasted into adulthood, it endures in memory as a lesson I cannot forget: that stepping outside of yourself to help another is never wasted. For in doing so, in choosing kindness, you do more creative nonfiction 119 Grace & Duane E.A. Morrigan Grace & Duane Met August, 2021 Born in the lands of Sídhe Dead or alive? —————————————— Twirling, arms outstretched, muscles twitching from the strain, trying not to collapse into an empty grave. Balancing on soggy soil, fighting to stay upright, toes sinking into maggot infested mulch, rot engulfing my nose and lungs. Bones splintering, fractals gasping for air piercing through flesh. Tearing through tissue till sunrise. I’d give it up just to burn it down… I’d give up a lot not to see everything we built burn down. If it dies here again, you can blame it on me. My inaction would be the turning stone of the haunting, haunting past tinged with vast paradise. Let my cowardice fuel the funeral pyre of a futile fugue. Inching closer and closer, until your arms wrapped around me, hands in my hair, down my back, my knee notched on your hip, before falling into your bed. The aftermath leaves behind a euphoric feeling and few 120 metaphor words spoken between harsh breathing and wispy laughter. Struggling to lose myself in the folds of your sheets, in the sweet scent of gingerbread mistaken lavender, my broken body, a distorted skeletal frame. Through no fault of your own, gentle and kind, drawing out your addictive high, yet eventually my physical pain outweighs my heart as the clock tick tick ticks away… My broken body makes me want to scream until my throat bleeds raw and the pain stops, yet when I’m in your grasp I never feel the need to scream. I know the control of my body, I know safety in your arms, despite the hate of some other man’s beliefs. The masquerade mask melts away in your vicinity, knowing the taste of the word “safe.” My heart hounds for answers to our third one-night stand since the day we passed, my skeleton still rattling on the edge of a grave, threatening to crumple under the possibility of a fresh start. Skeletons dancing on the edge of our gravestones, grinding bones, the pluck of broken tenons sounding the dissonant waltz. Trying to solve the puzzled distortion of unconventional love, searching for something that sings “I am yours and you are mine” a definition that is only for us to understand. A spoiled twinge of jealousy on my tongue, injecting my veins with emerald formaldehyde envy. It’s easier to talk about edgerunners and enchanted pirate ships than it is to talk about the words I want to write on your skin with my lips or the ink stains I splattered down your neck, violet thumbprints along my thighs. Mauve teeth marks you never care to hide. Almost as if you’re proud… For the first time in years, curled under the weight of oxford blue blankets; my phone silent and across the room, still set to the same “do not disturb” setting as always. The one that allows one soul to disturb my peace, but without the need for an ear piercingly loud ringer. Unafraid of missing a distress call from the man lying to my right. Holding tight, molding my arms to your ribcage like clay, slipping on my mask again as I walk away, hoping you can’t see the tremble in my hand or the tears behind my eyes. Relieved not to be setting up your gravestone, there was a time where you would let me know, before your words were taken by your indigo, and I could write it all down in a matter of lines, to read back what we had from a previous time. If I don’t force myself to go, I’ll lie here listening to your lungs expand and contract, your heart beating at a peaceful pace. Carving the curve of your jaw and the flutter of your eyelids to memory through a sleepy daze. Rotting in your bed in bliss, forever grateful not to be setting up your gravestone. How do I hug you goodbye without fearing it’ll be the last time? I promise, I’m gonna take you to the moon myself one day, lose myself in the vibrant marigold hue of your smile and the rich coppers of your eyes, content not to be setting up your gravestone. Not until we’re old and grey, waltzing to the grave, hand in hand, arm by arm, side by side and all of that. Yet through the distortion I see something behind your eyes, remembrance. I hear the way you talk about me and suddenly the whiskey pouring into my ear canal shifts with a sweet and credulous undernote. Relieved to hear the words I see in your actions, knowing at least some of my obsessively, over thought observations are factual. creative nonfiction 121 I want to meet you in a slow dance, but I can’t speak or dare to cross your room. What’s a girl to do? Lying in a grave, staring into the blue moonlight, unrequited, terrified, thoughts of a second chance are driving me a bit insane, have to get this off my chest… but you know I’ve loved you from the start. —————————————— The fragile heart you’ve protected for so long, maybe we’d get 40 years together if we were vampires and death, was a joke. If I wasn’t dancing to death on our grave, we’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke, laughing at all the lovers and their plans. Satire and poetic grandeur aside, I have always and will always love you. No matter how our story ends, you will always have a place in my heart. You’ll always be my favorite pain in the ass, my sunshine, and my best friend. No matter what we go through, no matter how much it hurts, I’ll always be in your corner as you have been for me. I will always love and support you as long as you are happy, healthy and safe. Tunes of starting over chill me to the core, afraid of what a second chance could turn into, of the future I see in your eyes, afraid I’ve imagined the red string tied ‘round your finger. Afraid, afraid, afraid; that every gesture, every glance, every gasp of kindness is nothing more than a ghostly mirage meant to hold me together, only to grind my bones to dust. Confess I love you… afraid of burying our corpses in a fresh grave. DETECTIVES IN A LEXUS HERE LIES JACKIE & WILSON AND THE DREAMS THAT DIED ON RHYTHM AND BLUES —————————————— A note for [REDACTED], With all my heart and love, {REDACTED} —————————————— How do I spill my guts without bleeding out in putrid soil? How do I scream that I never stopped loving you without the moon falling from the sky, crushing my bones to rubble? Do I dare risk suffocating again, in the hopes that you’ll breathe air into my lungs? 122 metaphor One Page at a Time Lindy Humpherys Once upon a time, a little girl learned how to read on her mother’s lap with a mouse named Geronimo and stylized letters. Her world was quiet, and her mind was quieter. She lived in bliss as she explored time with Morgan le Fay and saw fairy-tales come to life with Sabrina and Daphne Grimm. She listened as her mother told her of the Baudelaire’s misfortunes. She picked up book after book. She was put on a pedestal for her ability to read threehundred, four-hundred, five-hundred pages so quickly, so thoughtfully. Reading was who she was. She loved her books, and she believed that, if she treated them well, they would love her back. And I know for certain that they did. More than anything. She lived in the library, breathed its air. With a new book each week, she tackled life and whatever it threw at her with a myriad of witty protagonists by her side. She fantasized of helping others find books to love. As she ran her hand along the library shelves and hid in its secluded corners, she dreamed of living in the endless world that books created. Each character, each plot, each book itself taught her about loss, and growth, and rebellion, and revolution, and joy. Pure joy. They taught her what love wasn’t, and assured her that what she had was what love is. Good. Beautiful. Her soul was loving and her hands gentle. She regarded new and tattered pages with the same care as you would with a newborn baby or a precious gift. She saw a priceless value in each word and treated each book as if it held the secrets of the universe. She treated them with respect, and love, and kindness. Why wouldn’t they love her? I loved her too. More than her books could. She was sunny and joyful. She loved the smell of inked pages and the worlds that emerged from them. She loved simply to love, and she read, simply to read. But… Love fades and shifts. As I aged, it became less clear, less cut and dry. Love becomes many things at once and nothing at all. My love for her and for the books turned into swears, and excuses, and apologies. “I swear it’s not you.” “I swear I meant to come back.” creative nonfiction 123 “I didn’t mean to leave you alone.” certainly had the time for it. But, alas, ignorance is bliss, and it favors youth. “I didn’t know I was losing you.” “I’m sorry for not trying harder.” “I’m sorry I let you go.” But love stays beautiful through all of this. Her love for books did not change, nor did mine for her. It just became what love becomes: complicated. Her books grew with her. They became more complex; the characters experienced personal and systemic trials and change, the plots begat subplots upon subplots. She still loved them. They still loved her. Her books helped her to come to know herself better than she ever could have without them. They weren’t just in her hands or on her shelf, they were in her soul and on her mind. They were her. She was more concerned with finding a new book than she ever was about finding herself. She’d rather find a fun bookmark than find healthy coping methods for what God, fate, or what have you, had in store for her. She would have loved to find good friends who stuck by her, but a good book was easier to find and usually only put her out twenty bucks. Sometimes I wish she would have found all of these things, as well as good books. She 124 metaphor I remember when I was her. A little lady in love with worlds others created for her. A proud preteen put on a pedestal for all to see and admire. The love wasn’t as clear anymore. It was covered in dust with tabs labeled “TBR.” It was more of a facade of my literary prowess rather than reality. The pedestal wasn’t so high anymore. It was scuffed, and crumbling, and discolored. It offered me more shame than it did pride. It was there I stayed: in longing for who I was, in shame of who I’d become, and in fear of people finding out. I wept; I wrote; but I did not read. Not until I entered a classroom of children filled with the joy I once had. Not all of their joy was for books, but for sports, math, games, music, each other, and more than I could ever attempt to list here. Their joy was palpable from the moment they stepped over the threshold into my classroom, but I started to see it more clearly and more often after an assignment I gave them in my second week of student teaching. They wrote poems imitating “Song of Myself ” by Ghareeb Iskander, a poem about the author’s love and admiration for Walt Whitman. I read poems about authors, actors, athletes, creators, family members, and beloved characters. Each poem was unique to the child who wrote it, but what they all had in common was joy. What they all had in common was love. I see these children everyday. I see them talk about books, and shows, and sports, and clubs, and languages. I see their smiles and I hear their laughs. Their youthful bliss reminds me of mice, and fairy-tales, and misfortunate orphans. I remember, I reminisce, and finally: I read. in them. I held her shoulders and looked into the beaming face of my former self. My face split into a wide grin, and a few joyful tears painted paths on my cheeks: “What are we reading next?” “Strange!” The first book I had finished cover to cover in 3 years greeted me with one word on the first page: “Strange!” Funny how the experience wasn’t strange at all. It was comfortable. It felt like coming home. As I read the last line and closed the book, I felt it: the joy I had been missing. I saw it: the possibility of new worlds with a flip of three, four, five-hundred pages. I smelt it: the unmistakable, familiar, smell of ink and dust. I heard her: little [redacted name] running to tell me about the latest book she had read. I saw it: the smile on her face as she ran; the smile on my face as I realized she was returning to me. I knelt down and wrapped my arms around her little body. Her tiny hands gripped me tight, and I felt that there was a book creative nonfiction 125 Arctic Circle Summer Aja Gubler She invited me to go to a kesämökki with her church group, and I said, “No way” because I knew that Finns always go to sauna naked, and I was not, under any circumstance, going to go sit in a small wooden room with a bunch of strangers wearing nothing but my birthday suit, especially when that suit was twenty pounds heavier than I wanted it to be. Not long later, she asked me if I had ever experienced a wood-burning sauna, and I said, “No,” but that I still couldn’t do it. She didn’t know that when I was in high school, I couldn’t even go to the showers in the locker rooms unless I was fully wrapped in a towel. She didn’t know that this thing she was begging me to do felt like the last thing I could ever do. “I just can’t,” was my reply when she asked again. Sari, my husband’s aunt, feels more like a cousin that is just a little older than me, exotic, adventurous, cheerful, and bold. Then she told me I was sexy, a word that probably didn’t mean the same thing in her part of the world as it did in mine. Regardless of its meaning or if she was right or not, me being sexy did not feel like a good reason to go to sauna with a group of church 126 metaphor ladies. I’m sure I thanked her for the compliment, though. It’s not like I didn’t want to go, either. I really enjoy going to sauna, and I think doing new things is what keeps life fun and interesting. I wasn’t prepared to make this decision. Other than gym class, I had never been presented with the choice of whether or not to walk around naked in front of other people (except in my nightmares). I still don’t know how she convinced me to go. She just kept telling me about how I would love it, how much fun it would be, how I would never regret going. That’s how I found myself surrounded by all that skin: smooth, wrinkled, flat, baggy, scarred, freckled, and dimpled—bodies all as different from each other as our faces. Everyone was chatting happily to each other in Finnish. I sat on the wooden bench, trying not to hide my most embarrassing spots with my arms, trying not to cross my legs more than the other women. She was right. The wood-burning sauna was so different than the electric saunas I had experienced. The hot air flowed freely though my lungs as it enveloped my body from my toes to my fingertips. It didn’t catch in my throat the way the wall of heat from the electric sauna did, or the way the below-zero frozen air at the opposite end of the thermometer did. It was lovely. It was natural. When every part of me was properly heated, it was time to take my first plunge into the literal arctic waters. As I walked down the wooden pier, I was still spending a significant amount of brain power forcing myself not to cover my nakedness. I hadn’t walked outside unclothed since toddlerhood, something I didn’t remember, but I had seen evidence of in the form of photos. (This wasn’t weird. My parents were both hippies.) I could feel the sensation of the air touching all of my skin at once. I came to the edge of the pier and looked down into the black water. If there was ever a sea monster, this would be the best place to hide. Every second that passed, my body was cooling, and it would be less pleasant to jump in. Other ladies were jumping in and shrieking happily from the cold, not in terror from being eaten. I knew I shouldn’t hesitate, but I did. What if the water was too cold for me? What if I landed on rocks below the dark surface? What if something did grab me, pulling me under forever? But what if I stood there looking scared and foolish for so long that everyone looked at me even more, even longer? So, I jumped. I had never in all my life felt water so cold, which surprised me because it was the middle of summer, and not just the middle of my summer in America, but the middle of their summer too. It didn’t take long before it felt like everything from my neck down was numb, so I made my way to shore before I was frozen solid. The air was warmer than the water, but I was wet and cold and highly motivated to make my way back to the sauna. I then experienced the niceness of that room at a whole new level. It was even enough to make me think a little less about my lack of attire. One might believe that once I was warm again, I would be satisfied, but the thrill and invigoration that the cold water had given me called me back to the edge of the pier, my body rewarmed. I don’t know how many times I jumped into the water. I don’t know how long it took before I went from being embarrassed about my body to feeling on the verge of free. Maybe one more day could have set me all the way free. Maybe. creative nonfiction 127 That day taught me that beauty is not at all what I thought it was. I was young then and didn’t realize that going to a Finnish kesämökki was likely a once-in-a-lifetime chance. If I had made the wrong choice, I would have missed so much. Not just what I learned, but also the picture of Sari and I with our heads leaning toward each other, with big smiles on our faces as we sat (fully clothed!) on top of that giant rock. Not just the best sauna I’ve ever experienced, but a day that stands out as a day when my body felt most alive. 128 metaphor Glass Ocean Jason Painter A fish tank sits atop a stained laminate countertop in a disheveled kitchen. A young boy, six years old, intently watches his fish. His eyes sparkle with joy. A smile from ear to ear. Four vibrant fish dance around the neon-colored decorations as a small filter hums quietly in the corner of the tank. The newest addition swims to the front, shiny blue scales with a bright orange tail. His mother kneels on the floor next to her son. “Hi little guy,” says the boy as he lightly taps the glass. “David? That’s an interesting name for a fish. How’d you come up with that?” says his mother. Faded voices in the distance say, “How many times… I’m not the one… You better shut…” The boy keeps his eyes on the tank tuning out the loud noises. All he can hear is the subtle hum of the tank. The boy’s mother walks into the kitchen alone. “Hey honey, what would you like for dinner?” says his mother. “Pizza!” says the boy, his attention still on the fish. “That’s a great idea. Why don’t we have a make your own pizza night?” “Yeah!” She points to the newest fish and asks, “What’s his name again?” As she extends her arm, her long sleeve slightly recedes and reveals a purple bruise just below her palm. “That’s David. He’s their leader,” says the boy. “I don’t know. That’s just his name.” His mother chuckles as she stands back up. She puts her hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezes him. His eyes stay focused on the tank. “I love you, kiddo,” she says. She starts walking towards the refrigerator behind them, crunching on pieces of chips and loose papers. Opening the fridge reveals a sparse supply. She rummages through what little there is and finds a half-gone jar of marinara sauce that is about to expire. Inside the bottom drawer of the fridge is a moldy bag of shredded cheese. creative nonfiction 129 “Son of a bitch,” she mutters with an audible sigh. She takes the moldy bag of cheese to the overflowing garbage can. As she pushes down the trash, the smell of decomposing produce puffs in the air. She takes the bag off the lips of the garbage can, pulls the elastic tight and ties it shut. She pulls the bag out of the can and sets it next to the sliding glass door. A loud bang echoes into the kitchen. The sound of a slamming door. Heavy footsteps barrel towards them. The boy is still focused on his fish, feeling the pride of the vibrancy of his decorations. “What the hell are you doing?” says the man with an angry tone. “Excuse me?” says the boy’s mother defensively. “I wasn’t talking to you!” The boy peers up from the dancing fish to acknowledge the man’s presence. A tall, heavily tattooed man looms over the child. His tattered and stained tank top clings to his abdomen. He walks closer to the child. The boy steps back while attempting to avert his gaze. The look in his eyes signal a request for help. “I asked you what you were doing! I told you an hour ago to put your dishes in the sink and here you are just 130 metaphor standing here!” the man shouts at the boy. The boy makes brief eye contact with him but says nothing. “You need to respond when I speak to you!” The boy stares down at the flooring, fixating on the pattern. Long, brown rectangles separated by thin gray lines that were once white. Waves of wood grain pulsate from the center and extend outward. “Fine!” the man screams. He unplugs the fish tank from the wall socket, aggressively picking it up with both hands as water sloshes from side to side. The boy shifts his attention to his mother, a look of fear in his eyes. “What are you doing?!” yells the mother, without moving a muscle. “I asked him to do one simple thing and all he does is stare at me like a damn idiot! The only thing he cares about are those stupid fish! I’m sick and tired of the disrespect from your kids!” The man peels the lid off the fish tank and throws it next to the sink, knocking over a large plastic cup half filled with day old soda. The cup bounces as soda leaks from the lid. The boy’s focus is now on the sound of the slow dripping off the countertop. The man dumps the water with the fish into the sink. As he’s scolding the boy, water starts to swirl and gurgle as it goes down the drain. The fish are swimming with the current, unaware of what is below. Tears start to stream down the boy’s face. His mother stands between the two of them, trying to divert the man’s attention to herself. The boy could not make out what was said but saw the look in his mother’s eyes as one of protection. “Now clean it up, you bitch!” he shouts, stomping out of the kitchen. The boy’s mother softly approaches her son with tears filling her eyes. The boy stands numb, eyes fixated on the shimmering glass ocean, as he mourns his lost friend David. She wraps her arms around him, brushing back his hair. The only thing he hears are the gentle words of his mother. “I’m sorry.” The man flips on the garbage disposal to regain control of the situation. The brief sound of crunching bone. An overpowering aquatic odor fills the air as the water mixes with the massacred fish. “This is how I handle disrespect in my house! Maybe if your disciplined your kids, I wouldn’t have to do it for you,” yells the man. “You only know how to give disrespect,” she scoffs. “What did you say? I’ll show you disrespect!” He throws the tank across the room. Glass shatters as it violently hits the wall, covering the floor with sparkling shards. creative nonfiction 131 Meet Me Halfway Alejandra Espinoza Gaps and Boxes At some point in life I decided I didn’t want to argue; I just wanted to inform. So in telling my story, I hope to inform readers about the gaps. To me, gaps are the pieces of information about someone that the world doesn’t know exist. In my case, these gaps resemble the parts of myself that make me human. Not a statistic, a number, or a part of the margins. My gaps show that I too am completely unaware of the path that my life needed to take. Unfortunately, these gaps get consumed by the bigger picture. Since the world can’t see these gaps, it’s easier to label me based on my decision to survive. An Immigrant. For a long time I too felt it was easier just to label myself. I’m an Immigrant. That is what I did, and that is who I am. Everything else in my world was consumed by this idea. It secluded me from the norm and gave me a space to call my own. A space that very few dare to understand. A space that I myself didn’t understand for a long time. In my senior year of high school I realized that I had gaps. These gaps presented themselves on the day my 132 metaphor teacher set a time aside for all of her classes to have access to the school library in order to fill out financial aid applications. I was so excited to partake in something that meant I was going to make something of myself. I began to fill each box with information about myself. Name, age, gender, etc.­­—all parts of myself I understood very well and that I didn’t have questions about. I felt confident about letting the world know who I was until I came upon the box. The box that connected my gaps to my reality. A box requesting a set of nine numbers that I never knew I needed. As I try to explain to my teacher my confusion over nine numbers she begins to put the pieces together. I could see it in her face. She gave me a slip of paper. On it, the information needed to access the application at home with the help of my parents. My teacher didn’t say it that day but although her and my parents had never met, they both knew something about me that I had yet to know. A gap. After my parents explained to me that our trip to the United States was more than a move, I realized that the box was going to remain empty. The empty box read: I’m an immigrant. That’s what I did, It’s who I am. After my parents shared my story with me I realized, my immigration story has a lot of gaps because it’s a story I didn’t write. It’s a story I was forced to live. So at some point in my life I realized that just as I have gaps in my life, so do those who don’t understand what it’s like—I hope that we can meet halfway. Five-Year-Olds We were on the porch that night, at least that’s how I remember it. My dad had just sent me a brand new set of markers as an early birthday gift. I was turning five that summer. That meant I was going to start kindergarten that August and participate in the Independence Day parade that fall. For a five-year-old, I had a lot to look forward to at the time. That night I was on the porch testing out all my new markers. As I was carefully tracing the outline of an apple, I saw my mom approach the stairs. Her hands were shaking as they gripped a white piece of paper tightly. Her sobs, more like screams at this point, reached my grandma’s ears. They gathered at the bottom of the stairs, both shaking their heads, tears sprouting from their eyes. I didn’t know what was happening then or that the paper in my moms hands would change my life. I was about fifteen years old when I found out what that paper read. El Salvador at the time and for many years to follow was known as a gangland. My dad lived in the United States at the time. He left us for a few years after obtaining his residency with the promise that he would work hard to help my mom and I get ours. We would be together again; that was the dream. Because my dad was well off in the United States, my mom and I lived a good life in El Salvador. Seeing someone live a good life was like bait to the gang members. “$2,000 debajo del auto antes del sábado. Si no lo haces, matamos a la niña.” This translates to: “$2,000 under the car by Saturday. If you don’t, we’ll kill the girl.” I was a five-year-old with a lot to look forward to, until that day. We packed a bag and left that night to my grandma’s house in another town. When my dad heard the news, he flew out to El Salvador immediately. There were a lot of conversations behind closed doors that summer. A lot of gaps. Our every move was carefully calculated from that day on. We moved to my grandma’s house creative nonfiction 133 and tried to live a normal life again. For a second after my dad left back to the U.S. life felt normal again. I celebrated my fifth birthday, I began rehearsing for the parade, and I started kindergarten. One day when I got home from school my mom bore the same face she did that night on the porch. The gang members had found us and the threats were back. This is what led to the writing of a story that I never had a choice to be a part of. We left El Salvador late August. Just a few weeks after I had started school and a few weeks before the Independence day parade I was looking forward to. Remember when I told you we would all be together again, that was the dream right? The dream remained the same but the process changed. Pig Shaped Coin Purse and Pizza I only remember parts of my journey to the United States. I don’t remember the major things like how many months the trip lasted, what places we passed through, or how often we had to hide or run. I only remember certain details like a pair of pink overalls I wore, eating spicy eggs, and a love struck blonde in our group who called her boyfriend everyday. I used to hate the fact that I didn’t remember anything major 134 metaphor because it made my story feel weak. I now treasure the details I remember because it means I didn’t lose myself in the most treacherous moments of my life. Once we made it to the United States, my mom didn’t talk about our journey. I could only imagine how tiring it must’ve been for her to take it all in but at the same time shield me from taking it all in. Thanks mom. A few years later my mom would talk about our trip occasionally. She would only mention the things she felt I could handle. My story was a puzzle and each time my mom opened up about it was a new piece. Once I was old enough, my mom filled in the following gaps for me about our journey. My journey began in Guatemala. This is where we joined a group of approximately twenty other immigrants. We said goodbye to my grandma in Guatemala. My grandma didn’t cry because she had hoped we’d see each other again. There was a lot of that going around in my life. The guide, or as they’ve infamously been named: “The coyotes”, only let my mom take one bag. The majority of things we packed stayed with my grandma. It’s as if each step we took got us closer to a new life and farther from the life we knew. Even though I don’t remember this moment. I can’t help but feel sad at the thought of parting with a life that I never got a chance to live. The only thing I remember about Guatemala is a small pig shaped coin purse that my mom bought for me to stay entertained. For $1.25 this coin purse made her way into becoming an eyewitness of a journey she didn’t ask to be brought on. By the time she made it to the United States she was dirty, stained, and didn’t look like the version of herself that she was before the journey–like me. After Guatemala, my mom says we spent a few months crossing Mexico. I’m glad I don’t remember Mexico because it gives me an opportunity to go back and take it all in with bewilderment instead of with trauma. me I had to get out of the tub because it was time for bed. I didn’t realize it until later in life, but my mom was shielding me from a reality so cruel that it would crush a five- year-old. She knew how to keep me safe from the gaps. We went to bed at 6:00pm. that day because my mom didn’t want to crush me with the truth. The truth being that we couldn’t be caught off guard because we might have to flee at any moment. I wish the coyote knew that I didn’t understand what wanting to survive required of me. I just wanted the simple things in life. Sometimes, survival and simplicity can look the same. I remember one night and one night only from this part of the journey. We were in a hotel in some part of Mexico. This hotel had a bathtub; I had never seen a bathtub before. I had one goal that night; I was going to get into the bathtub full of water and bubbles just like in the movies. Like everything else in my life, my mom made it happen. For a split second I wasn’t in the middle of nowhere with strangers, eating food that made me sick, or sleeping on my mothers lap for comfort. For a split second I was a five-year-old again with a lot to look forward to. It was just for a second though. In the middle of my moment of bliss the coyote called my mom out of the bathroom. My mom came back into the bathroom with a face flooded with disappointment. She told We did a lot of driving after this. Everytime we stopped was an opportunity to eat and stretch. I’ve always been a picky eater, so eating wasn’t something I looked forward to. It had been months since the last time I had a pupusa. This Salvadoran delicacy–a flour tortilla stuffed with cheese and beans–had been on my mind for a few weeks. We pulled over at a gas station that served pizza. As a way of improvising, my mom bought a few slices of pizza and took all the cheese off and told me it was a backwards pupusa. My imagination, still fresh at this age, led me to believe that it tasted like a pupusa. I ate a few slices just to throw them up a few minutes later. Everything in my life was shifting into new versions of things I used to know. My stomach creative nonfiction 135 wasn’t used to all the rapid changes. I didn’t eat pizza for years after that. One of my uncles was part of our group. I remember he would play games with me on the long bus rides through towns. When the bus stopped for long periods of time, he would tell me stories about my cousins who were waiting for him in the United States. He would teach me how to spell their names and would make me count on my fingers how many days we were apart in age. I realized later in life that he did that so that I wouldn’t see the police officers step on to the bus asking people for their documents. One night, he was mid-story when a few officers escorted him off of the bus we were on. My mom told me he was going to go before us and meet us on the other side. At least that part was true. He did meet us on the other side but it took him way longer after being detained and sent back to El Salvador that night. Thanks to him, I’ll never forget how to spell my cousin’s names. The Big Day Can you believe the only thing I remember about the big day is losing my bracelet in a river? The big day consisted of crossing El Rio Grande that runs through the border of Mexico and the United States. I didn’t know it then but life would bring me 136 metaphor back to this place later. The first trip I ever took after obtaining my residency years later was to Reynosa, Tamaulipas for a church mission trip. When my mom found out that’s where I was going she gave me a tight squeeze on my shoulder and said “That is where we crossed the river”. It was my victory lap. On the day we crossed the river, my mom said we had to be separated for a little while. The river was too strong for her to cross and carry me at the same time. My mom crossed first with the small bag that accompanied us the whole trip on her back. Everytime my mom retells this part of the story, I always bring up the bracelet I lost; the gold bracelet my grandma gave me on my last birthday before crossing over. My mom never fails to remind me that each time she looked back to check on me, I was fighting against the current trying to hold on to the bracelet. “That was the last piece of your old life and you didn’t want to let go”. She was right. It’s as if in order to cross the river you needed to rid yourself of the life you once lived. My life at that point in time was just a small, golden, bracelet caught in the vicious currents of life fighting to remain attached. I’ll never understand how one second you can be in one place still clinging on to the remains of your past and the next, you’re in a completely different world that demands for you to say your goodbyes. When I reached the other side where my mom was, the coyotes led us to a truck that would take us to the airport. The next day, my mom and I were on a plane to Salt Lake City. We survived the big day. My First Independence Day I became a U.S. Citizen July 11th, 2024. A few weeks prior to my ceremony, I celebrated what I call my first Independence Day. I gathered with my close friends and family and we celebrated. I had celebrated the Fourth of July plenty of times before but this one was special. I was finally free from feeling like my past was just a label. On that day, I celebrated my entire story that led up to that moment, even the parts I didn’t write. On the day of my ceremony I took a picture of myself at five years old in my school uniform. As the ceremony went on, I remember looking down at my lap where a five-year-old version of myself stared back at me. This was the moment where there were no gaps between her and I. It was just us finally finding a story to tell. I guess that five-year-old really had a lot to look forward to after all. creative nonfiction 137 Dear Jude Emma Workman You and I speak in words. I suppose everyone else does that too, but not the way we do. We speak in stories. Our words flow like a raging river. I was with you the first time I felt the phrase caught in the rapids of my mind. I fished it out, and it read, “I like you.” Admittedly, I didn’t know what to do with it at first. I tried to step out of its way. I tiptoed around it for weeks, then months. But I slipped on the grimy, tainted rocks and had no choice but to acknowledge those words as I hit the water. Face them once and for all. Frigid, shocking, lonely… then, all at once, not so bad at all. 138 You caught me at the bottom. Hugged me, held me, bathed me in the comfort of your own words of crushes and feelings. That first kiss had me imagining altars and white tulle. We swam in the comfort of our confessions. We made our plans. We started a relationship. I woke the next morning with raging rapids of words begging to part my lips, trickling in from my dreams, and they read “I love you.” You stirred with hesitation after a night of restless sleep. A night where you almost left me without a word. I found my footing in a river that wasn’t as deep as I thought it would be. The water flowed against my hands, through my fingers, like a soft caress. I felt safe once I saw the words for what they were—the truth. But the matter of telling them to you was like tumbling down a waterfall. The rising sun brought a steady stream of reasons we simply couldn’t work. I never wanted to believe you were right. I wanted to believe all the time I had spent fighting the jagged rocks on my way to confession had meant something. I wanted to prove that my determination would be enough to make you happy. I let the words carry me downstream, pushed along by the current of your smile. By the time I reached the edge, I was finally certain. I let the water take me, let the words flow with many anxieties but zero hesitation. Maybe I slipped. Maybe you pulled me. But in the excitement of falling, I didn’t realize the water below was not as clear as it should have been. You said you wanted to explore more before committing to one pond. You metaphor held me under to keep yourself afloat, then cried as you watched me drown. I watched you drive away through blurred eyes. Saltwater rivers carved canyons down my cheeks. Then reality called and the tears dried in the heat of the moment, leaving only a trace of salt, the dust of a memory. Sincerely, Never yours creative nonfiction 139 Another Fishing Idyl Davis Swanson Hot days are terrible for trout. I don’t know where they go during those long scorching summer months. Ask a better fisherman; he may tell you. Though, I’ve found any fisherman claiming to know the whereabouts of a fish not on his line or in his creel is simply practicing something between ichthyologean divination and lying. All things considered, I’d much rather set out on a cold, dark November morning, but opportunity knocked on my door in the middle of August, and knowing him not to knock twice, I opened it. So it came that grandpa, his best friend Dave, and myself found ourselves riding that ever-familiar road up to Strawberry Reservoir, pulling in tow a boat old enough to have sired the man that sired me. We daydreamed out loud about cutthroats, kokanees, and rainbows. Chances were low but hopes were high. Hope is a fisherman’s greatest, and sometimes, only friend. Hope, that day, was the thing with fins. The August sun proved much more timely than the familiar November one and was well into its daily journey by the time we reached the boat ramp 140 metaphor at the marina. Chirping swallows circled overhead as grandpa clambered into the back of the boat and I took the wheel of the truck, slowly backing the boat-laden trailer into the water. Dave shuffled out onto the dock to watch the affair. He favored his bad knee as he went over the wet, bobbing planks, though this phrase should not be misconstrued as implying he has a good knee. By the reckoning of the soreness in my right shin, onerously depressing the brake pedal, many minutes had passed yet the boat still solidly sat in the trailer. Again and again I would hear the motor grumble about its task before returning to silence. Dave and grandpa debated, out of earshot, just what the problem may be. Querying fingers pointed from bow to stern while heads were scratched and curse words practiced. When you’re eager to get your lines wet, time crawls along at such a pace to make tedious even the most urgent of activities. Finally, a laughing shout signaled a change in fortune. “Jim!” Dave called to my grandpa. “You’re still hooked to the winch!” I watched him double over in laughter while grandpa shook his head and disappeared into the cabin. He reappeared a moment later, popping his head out of the hatch on the bow in his best impression of a groundhog. He unhooked the cable that had kept us dry-docked for far too long and not a minute later, found the old girl to be seaworthy. I parked the truck and walked back to the water as grandpa was pulling up to the dock and tying on a mooring line. Dave placed steadying hands on our shoulders as he stepped into the unsteady ship. I hopped in after. We cruised out to the open water, spitting wake onto that liquid glass mirror. “Damn, that’s beautiful,” Dave said. “Tell you what, it’s sure nice just to be out here, even if we don’t catch anything.” It’s a nice sentiment, and not a wrong one at all. A sportsman who isn’t able to enjoy himself in the face of disappointment won’t stay one for very long. Still, he sounded like his primary motivation for sharing the thought was to convince himself of his own belief in it. Grandpa and I muttered in agreement and returned to our business. Before long, we were plunging our lures into the depths clipped to downrigger cannonballs. We trolled around, staring at our bent rod tips, waiting for them to flick up, giving away the fish that had pulled the line free of the downrigger. Our first fish came quickly, a modest cutthroat, but not a hard fighter. I reeled it in and popped it free; it was in the slot, not a keeper. It swam away in a flash of bronze and verdigris. Having got the skunk off in a matter of minutes and with a healthy quantity of returns on the fish finder, we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves. How wrong we were. A second fish, comparable to the first, hit grandpa’s rod an hour later, then the wait began. Minutes turned to hours that then took the shape of a fish-free afternoon. The sun sat overhead and if you turned your head down to it, it stared mockingly back up at you from the water’s surface, promising crimson cheeks in days to come. Grandpa and Dave began to recount the same stories that had been shared on the morning drive and on last year’s fishing trip. I laughed at the punchlines I had heard before. Dave unpacked a sleeve of Oreos and a bag of Fritos. He passed them around, insisting we take some. “Nice just to be out here with you guys,” he repeated. “Even without catching anything.” creative nonfiction 141 I wasn’t sure I agreed anymore. We decided to waste a few more hours. I switched to something I could cast and retrieve, just to keep myself awake. Before long, thunderheads began to bellow in the distance, and an incipient wind heralded their coming. Little ebbs turned to proper waves, and we steered our way back to the marina. Something of an embarrassed shame trailed me back to the truck. On a bad fishing day like that, you keep your eyes down and walk with purpose. No reason to invite queries from strangers wanting to know if you’d had any luck. No reason to admit to them and yourself that you’d squandered your day off. I drove back to the boat, picked up the others, and we set off, Dave and grandpa up front and me in the back. I dozed off halfway while the old friends chatted about their lives, their health, people they’ve known that have died and when and how they did, and a dozen other things. “How’s Carol?” grandpa asks. Carol is Dave’s wife. “Not as bad as she’s been, but still not good,” Dave replies. “She doesn’t feel like doing much most days, she don’t even want to cook hardly ever anymore.” 142 metaphor Dave loves his wife. More than anything. They’ve shared the better part of a century. She isn’t well and hasn’t been for a good number of years. Dave’s hands that tremble to tie on a lure are the ones that steady hers. His lopsided gait with pained winces is her crutch. A love like that is a thing most people only dream of. A love like that is an anchor around the neck. It’s a burden he’s only too happy to bear, but one he will follow to a promised end. “Awful nice,” Dave tells us a third time, “Just to be out here, even without catching any fish. Sure beats just sitting at home.” Hearing his mantra, I am now convinced of his belief in it. Aldo Leopold’s words come, restless, out of my remembrance: What was big was not the trout, but the chance. What was full was not my creel, but my memory. Like the whitethroats, I had forgotten it would ever again be aught but morning on the Fork. With his wisdom ringing in my ears, I search for some of my own. A dam sits at the outflow of the body of water we were now driving away from. One of concrete, not twigs and mud. Just thirty-four years ago, the whole reservoir was poisoned and restocked by men. The rainbow trout swimming in it with their clipped fins were not born there and will leave no progeny. All those angling rules and regulations protect the fishery, not the fish. How much of what we call “nature” is carefully crafted for our own use? Would Leopold decry the crude facsimile or would that angler in him push away all doubt at the thought of feeling a ten pound lunker on the end of his line? I turn my eyes back to the reservoir, captured in sunset amber. It is human habitat. But when my eyes return to Dave, grandpa, and a flash of myself in the rearview, I figure we’re a creature worth saving too. creative nonfiction 143 acknowledgements Metaphor has been in publication since 1982 and continues to publish undergraduate students from Weber State University after forty-five years. I would like to thank everyone who came before us. You laid the foundation for our success. In addition, I’d like to thank the following: Abigail Bateman, Alexis Livingston, Cali Seguin, Emily Michie, Emma Kirby, Jarrett Lawrenson, Jayden Tomlinson, Michael Ludlow, and Taylor Mantz. You were essential to our success. You kept me sane, and I have loved working with each of you. I will miss you, and I hope to work with you in the future. Ellie Heiner, my Assistant Editor in Chief. I never doubted you for a moment; I know you will do amazing things. You killed it and I’m lucky to have had you by my side throughout this process. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you. Ava Blakeley, our brilliant Graphic Designer. Without you we never would have been able to put this together. You’re an incredible human being, and a wonderful artist—I can’t wait to see the places you’ll go. I’d also like to thank Ben Evjen for advising our design process throughout this edition of Metaphor. Clint Johnson, our faculty advisor. You’ve helped us grow on a professional and personal level. You were the best mentor we could’ve asked for. Shauna Gunnell, thank you for the copyedit rescue. You took a scared room of undergraduates and taught us the skills that will help us thrive in this industry, and guided me through the responsibilities of Editor-in-Chief. WSU’s Lindquist College of Arts and Humanities, and the English Department in particular. We extend our gratitude to the faculty and administration for uplifting us. Mike Woodley and the team with Advantage ColorGraphics, for printing another gorgeous volume of Metaphor. Alex Jackson, Atlas Dedman, Riley King, and Wil Blanch for officially and unofficially advocating for Metaphor this past year. Last, but certainly not least, our readers and submitters. Metaphor would be dead and forgotten without our readers. Never stop reading. Never stop writing.