Thank you to our contributors for this issue: Jamon Buhr, Sophia Lukesh, Allie Rodman, and Madison Schaeffer! Consider sharing for a future issue. Send submissions to [email protected].

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Hey, Bud

by Jamon Buhr

You’re probably back from school, sitting down
He probably hit you again, you didn’t know what to do
You just kind of sat there, and you couldn’t even frown
You won’t have to deal with him for another year or two
Then you don’t really have anyone, not for a bit
Your counselor won’t have a clue

You probably remembered the time before he would hit
Building Lego in his basement pre-flood
Then your friendship fell into the toxic pit
Don’t cry for too long, he didn’t draw blood
When you’re my age, you’ll have people who care
You just have to get through all this crud

Your mom still loves you, love her like a cub loves mama bear
Your dad works around the clock; give him some grace
Even though you fight, never let the relationship tear
Five years from now, you’ll be able to look at your own face

You’ll have so much to be proud of
Nothing you’ve done so far is too much of a disgrace
Just remember, when push comes to shove
When you feel alone. trapped. isolated
There is always someone to give you love.

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Cattle Trade

by Sophia Lukesh

“Do you like him?”

“No! He’s old and has wooden teeth like George Washington!”

“George Washington didn’t have wooden teeth.”

“Well… his teeth’re still rotting.. and he’s rotting too… just like George Washington. And who even has wooden teeth anymore?” Eloise straightened the puffy sleeves of her chalky gown. “He’s old enough to be my grandpa.”

“What a creep,” the maid of honor, Janice, groaned.

“And his mother, God… Carol. What a crone….”

“Isn’t she, like, a million years old too?” Janice inquired, fluffing the fabric roses along the bride’s neckline.

“One hundred and four, I think… old hag….”

Janice gasped in surprise.

“What a micromanaging witch… acts as if it’s her wedding,” Eloise muttered bitterly.

“Jesus…” Janice reached up to Eloise’s hair to examine the baby’s breath poking out through her sandy waves. She let out a scoff. “And you’ll be living in her house!”

Eloise cheerlessly rolled her eyes. She did not love this elderly man; she did not want to become Mrs. Enoch B. Hornson. What an awful name, she thought.

A young man with a camcorder entered the room. “Hello, ladies,” he chimed as he proceeded to record the lavish walls, quartz pillars, and silver mirrors.

The two young women politely waved before continuing their conversation:

“Why me?” Eloise whispered sullenly, tapping her crown of milky roses.

“He likes blondes.”

Eloise grimaced. “He likes children.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“No, it’s evil,” Eloise retorted.

Janice crossed her arms. “Alright!” she barked. “Just say you don’t wanna marry the damn man! He’s a creepy, good-for-nothing, swine!”

“I have no control—”

“Then demand it.”

Eloise sighed before offering Janice a tender smile and throwing her arms around her friend’s neck. “I couldn’t have picked a better maid of honor.”

“Oh, shut up,” Janice sweetly hissed.

Eloise wiped a tear from her eye with a dainty finger, snickering at Janice’s lighthearted remark. She gazed over the maid of honor’s shoulder and met her reflection. The gaudy dress had not been her choice. The prickling lace across her bust choked her. Her pale arms grew flushed; the sleeves threatened suffocation. Her bodice hugged her tight, begging to snap her ribs. The power of choice was a foreign abstraction. The young bride had never felt the riveting sensation: the sight, sound, touch, taste, or fragrance of possibility.

This is not my day, she thought somberly. It’s his.

Eloise squirmed, agitated by the long wait. Her clammy fingers brushed against the silk of her gown. Her cherry lips fractured from wheezing. The Victorian house whistled to the tune of the breeze, leaving the bride unnerved. One by one, each pair of bridesmaid and groomsman exited the dwelling and walked down the aisle, their gaits radiating with pride and confidence.

To subdue her queasy apprehension, Eloise looked up and surveyed the room. Despite having been constructed in the nineteenth century, the mansion displayed every era of design. Delicate daisies decorated the lapis walls; the young woman’s gaze followed the flowers’ ascent up the spiral staircase. A vintage sputnik chandelier hung from the ceiling, its bubbles of light jutting out like a sea urchin. Each doorway was lined with walnut and oak. The neighboring Palladian and picture windows remained concealed behind claret curtains.

Eloise’s father was a heavily decorated Marine, adorned with various medals across his dress blues. He had been a loving and warm father. He always came home with a smile on his face and a story to tell. His betrayal broke her heart.

The bride’s wobbly hands clutched her veil and pulled it down over her heavy makeup. She turned to her father and smiled in false reassurance. How could he do this to me? she thought. How could he give me away to such a foul tyrant of a man?

I’m gonna say no! she thought stoically. With one fierce step forward, Eloise began her march out of the mansion; the cobblestone beneath scuffed her white heels.

The bride’s guests were an eclectic bunch, derived from all backgrounds, economic statuses, creeds, and races. They wore what felt true, nothing expensive or garish like their opulent counterparts. The groom’s company was more dogmatic and indistinguishable in physique. Their plummy laughter and posh attire nauseated Eloise’s party. Her mother-in-law-to-be sat hunched in a rickety wheelchair. Her gray skin, the texture of fish scales, seemed to peel from her face.

The bridesmaids wore brassy, lumpy dresses laden with sequins. Their bedazzled arms stuck out from billowy sleeves. Each young lady exhibited adoration and succor for their fellow girl, Eloise, a stark contrast to the groomsmen. The men were older, slimier, and stunk of liquor. Their oily hair fell limp over their pimply foreheads. One of the men, Mr. Hornson’s brother and best man, looked Eloise up and down; he seemed to have a fondness for the lace of her dress. She had heard rumors of the man’s inclination towards young girls, just like his brother. By the sight of his piercing, predatory leer, she believed the speculation.

The groom lifted his bride’s veil. Eloise met eyes with her counterpart. Mr. Hornson loomed over the petite bride with the stature and rigidity of a grandfather clock. His grotesque face was covered in a spiderweb of wrinkles. A wicked, rotting grin crawled across his aging flesh. His antique teeth reeked of onions and seawater. A sailor he had been, having traveled the world at the century’s turn.

“Dearly beloved, thank you all for coming today to share this wonderful occasion,” said the officiant. “We are gathered here today to join Eloise Edi Willoughby and Enoch Bartholomew Hornson in matrimony.”

She felt like a cow, the young victim of trade. The farmer had auctioned her off for wealth and reputation. The lost calf desperately examined her surroundings. The guests ignored her forlorn visage. The bride’s valor promptly vanished. I can’t say no, she thought.

“Do you, Enoch, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?” the officiant recited.

“I do,” the groom breathed, his wormy lips curling into a grin.

“Do you, Eloise, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

Eloise furrowed her eyebrows and swallowed in trepidation. She hugged her bouquet of pale anemones. “I d…” Her eyes darted between each brick below her and the worn shoes of her groom. “I don… I-I d-d…” she whimpered. Eloise squeezed her eyes shut. “I do.”

“Enoch and Eloise have chosen rings to exchange with each other as a symbol of their unending love.”

The officiant’s voice faded away. The bride’s heartbeat pulsated through her dry throat. Her arms grew numb. Her stomach churned, a wave of nausea crashing down on her. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Janice’s fallen head; a disappointed sigh slithered through her lips. The other bridesmaids hid behind their bouquets to shield their disquiet. Eloise was mortified to see Mr. Hornson’s spindly fingers reaching towards her with a ring, his fingernails hooked and yellow.

“By the authority vested in me by the State of Connecticut, I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride!” the officiant chanted.

Mr. Hornson curled his crooked spine and made for Eloise’s lips. She turned her head in time but caught his cheek; its texture resembled that of a hot dog. She gagged at the stench of cigar smoke.

Eloise’s new husband’s fingers interlocked with hers. He leaned close and softly hissed, “Let’s find out just how womanly you are.”

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The Summer of Sixteen

by Allie Rodman

The summer I survived on

the ‘summer edition’ of RedBull,

and learned how caffeine

fills that giant, burning place

in me

with anxiety,

thinking too hard about

body versus soul,

like how my mind hated

the feeling my stomach

procured ‘arbitrarily’

when I vomited my feelings up

in Orlando

last March.

That was the summer

I went quiet,

and tried hard to undo

all of the meanness I’d poured

into everyone around me

a year before,

but it’s hard to fix

something like

an eggshell smashed

beneath white converse

and an ego bigger than

this hole in my heart.

That was the summer

we visited Colorado,

I took no pictures,

and it felt more like

a test of patience

than a vacation,

and hunger

could only be fixed

with being full,

never just satisfied.

The summer I had my

drivers license,

and freedom started

to taste like guilt,

souring in the back

of my raw throat,

but they

never really wanted

me home,

and when I remembered

to turn on my headlights,

the road turned pink,

like the color of

the hair at the base of

my neck,

I forgot to mention.

Pavement nurtured

the adrenaline

that came from

behind the wheel,

tar slathered across

concrete cracks,

all I saw was my face

staring back at me. 

I’m sorry if

The Summer of Sixteen

was a time

you never saw

who I really am.

The summer that

The Ones I Couldn’t Have

closed my inner eyes,

lids like butterflies

landing on soft water,

the beauty I chose to see

still lingers

even as obsession 

curbs a notice,

a hefty spirit of desire,

how can one be so

in tune to blue eyes

that were never their own?

eyes covered by

crush culture

eyes covered by

the blackness

of a front seat,

I am sorry.

The summer I spent

too much time reminiscing

on The Summer of Fifteen,

because there was someone

next to me,

and I’ll lie to the

lifeguards that

you were there,

but truthfully

it felt good living

in my own head,

like when a sentence

poured from my tongue

it’d move to fruition

in front of my face,

but the back of my brain

reminds me

I am a liar,

always a liar.

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Origin

“Omage”

by Madison Schaeffer

What defines who you are:

The things people infer,

What stories you’ve left,

A place, or a moniker?

My title has changed many times

A simulacrum, yet fully mine

I don’t remember who I used to be

Multiple concussions have done that to me,

But in my time now I reflect

The present is here- and it does not reject

The conclusion in which I will keep changing

My past and my future, creating erasing

I am bare-boned

I am new

I was created

Solely on what I mean to you

In time you’ll forget,

For may it be childish

But it’s resonated with me

And I decide not to abolish