Tip of the Hat

Author: Annika Bastain

When my family first moved to the South

When we were dirt poor

Even poorer than we are now

My momma

Would drive to Leeds

To the discount grocery

And buy rotten fruit and dented cans.

She and my aunts–

They were as poor as we were

Would bring an extra dollar

For the groceries to be brought to the car.

Old black men,

In old overalls and worn khaki trousers,

Faces fleshy and lined,

Would rock back and forth

In weathered gray rocking chairs

As sleepy as the Alabama heat,

Baking slowly in the sun,

Liveliness leaking out through the humidity.

They'd haul themselves out of the rockers,

Joints squeaking almost as much as the wicker bottoms of their chairs,

One of them looks at the other and says

"I don't want a lot of money. Just enough."

The other says "ain't that the truth"

And my mother nods sympathetically,

Knowing the truth of it all.

No teeth

No job

Maybe no wife

But probably kids–

These old black men would walk women's groceries to their cars

In exchange for a dollar or two.

They'd tip their hats and say thank ya ma'am

Like we were at a posh hotel instead of in

A baked asphalt parking lot,

Gray, with spiderweb cracks,

And as rundown as our cars.

The discount grocery went out of business eventually,

And my mother and aunts make more money now,

But I wonder

Still wonder

What happened to all those old men

Who tipped their hats and said

Thank you ma'am.

It Runs in the Family

Author: Erin Green

As he watched his little girl pickpocket the man he couldn’t help but feel proud. They were standing in the subway station of New York City, and his daughter, Beth, was walking around in a bright pink dress, something that looked like he had bought it during an “Easter 50% off” sale in a department store. He crossed his arms, leaned against the steel column that was holding up the roof of the subway, and adjusted his sunglasses. His name was Kirk and he was what one would call a “professional scam artist.” Every now and then he would use the word “con artist,” but “scam artist” had a nicer ring to it, in his opinion.

Kirk had taught his daughter, Beth, everything she needed know to embark in the career field of professional thieving. Kirk had been pickpocketing since he was thirteen years old—the age when his mother, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer died, and his father walked out on him because of the grief of losing the love of his life. Kirk had been sent to live with his aunt who was a crack addict and never really took care of him as a “guardian.” Beth was only nine years old, but she was about as talented as he was.

“I got a wallet with actual cash this time, daddy,” Beth said as she approached Kirk.

Kirk grabbed the walked and examined it. He pulled Beth to the side, behind a wall with a map of the city on it. There was a trash can sitting in front of the wall with fast-food boxes, condoms, and travel guides. He opened the wallet and looked into it with serious curiosity and a smile crept across his face like a cat creeping across a street under the moonlight. There were five twenty-dollar bills and a fifty-dollar bill. “Nice work, Beth!” He knelt down on one knee and gave her a hug. “I love you. You’re such a talented girl.”

“Well,” said Beth, “I learned from the best!”

Kirk chuckled and patted her on the shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Come on, let’s get on the train and see if we can get some more. Now, what’s the rule?”

Beth stood in place for a second, thinking heavily. She then lit up with glee, causing her father to smile. “Always be subtle. Never let anyone see me, and if I get caught, the blame is all on me and I should just start crying because crying girls makes people uncomfortable.”

Kirk nodded. His daughter had learned well. “Good, good girl. Now let’s hurry before it takes off.”

Beth grabbed Kirk’s hand and they both sauntered over to the subway as it stopped. People were getting on and some were getting off. Kirk looked to his left and saw an older woman with a giant diamond necklace around her neck. She had big black glasses on that he assumed were for blind people. His theory was confirmed when he saw she had a cane just like a lot of visually impaired people had. As people were loading onto the train, Kirk nudged his daughter Beth and he pointed to the older blind woman.

Kirk leaned forward as they sat down on the train and whispered into Beth’s ear: “She has a diamond necklace—that’s worth a fortune. I need you to get that.”

“But, how?” asked Beth.

“I don’t fucking know,” he whispered loudly into her ear, spit flying from his lips and entering her eardrum and flowing deep into it. “Just act cute. Give her a hug or something.”

Kirk sat down in the very back of the train. The doors closed and the subway took off. He could see that Beth was pondering her plan of action. He licked his lips, wondering what she planned on doing. Even though Beth was an intelligent girl and very talented at stealing, she was still just a nine-year-old and he was putting her in a high stress situation. But, in his defense, this wouldn’t be too hard because the lady was old and blind.

Beth began to skip down the subway. People sat and watched her. Kirk watched as she skipped past the Black woman who wore a turtleneck and a name tag with the name of a non-profit social work organization. Her natural hair was styled into an afro. Kirk saw a young white guy, who he assumed was a college student because of the “NYU” stamped on his t-shirt, watch Beth delicately, probably wondering where her father was. Eventually Beth made it all the way to the end of the train where the blind old woman was and, artistically, she tripped and fell.

“Ow!” Beth screamed. “I hurt my elbow!”

“Are you alright,” the old woman asked, sensing the child in front of her.

Kirk slammed his fingers into his mouth and began munching on his fingernails. He watched as the diamond necklace glittered in the fluorescent lighting.

“I hurt myself!” Beth cried. “I have a boo-boo—can you kiss it please?”

The old woman smiled. “Oh, of course I can, baby,” said the old woman. She reached her arms out for Beth to come closer. “I’ll kiss it all better and give you a hug.”

Kirk could feel his body sweating as the diamond necklace swayed as the old woman took Beth into her arms.

“Mwah!” The old woman kissed Beth’s elbow. “All better?”

“All better!” Beth said with a smile. The subway audience was uninterested—they saw a girl get her “boo-boo” kissed too many times in their life to even care. “Can I have a hug?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” said the old woman. She embraced Beth.

Kirk’s stomach clenched. He watched as Beth’s arms went around the neck of the old woman. He could see that Beth was fondling with it, trying to unhook it. He saw his chest rise and fall at a rapid rate. “Oh, fuck,” he said under his breath. What if people were noticing?

Beth jumped from the woman’s lap, talentedly hiding the diamond necklace. “Thank you so much for the hug, miss old lady.”

“Oh you’re welcome, dear,” the woman replied and then scooted back into her seat, and when she felt her chest, she noticed the necklace wasn’t there. “What the…” She froze. “Did you take my necklace, sweetie?”

“Drop dead,” Beth said, and started to walk away.

Kirk’s mouth dropped. What he witnessed next could not have been predicted. The blind old woman reached into her purse and pulled out personal taser. She shot it in the direction that Beth’s voice was coming from and Beth screamed and vibrated and slammed into the floor. Kirk didn’t know what to do. The train stopped and he heard the conductor say that this was the next stop. People were screaming, yelling, crying. The black social worker dropped to her knees to see if the girl was okay. Kirk sighed with frustration and exited the subway.

She

Author: Jayla Williams

She moves like bee-bops and b-flats on air waves

And wraps herself so tight in night that they can’t help but to see the heavens in her

She be a storm that nature crowned in hurricanes and tornadoes

Arms strong enough to hold sons and daughters that she may never keep

She carries the earth that was toiled by great grandmothers in eyes that wonder 

Eyes that hold more starry nights than the universe that made her

Sun-kissed skinned proving that when God made her, generations before, he was making art 

Something more than Master could piece together

So great a masterpiece that he couldn’t tear it apart

Feels, xo

Author: Mira Nugent

This year I am a full time college student who hasn't missed a single class and I've been trying from the very start to make better grades. I may not have studied as much as I should but at least I got out of bed togo and take the test and when I finished, the biggest smile spread across my face as I waited for my friends to finish theirs. Am I hundred percent sure that I passed with flying colors? No. But I can guarantee that I didn't fail.

Not only am I a full time college student, I also work full time. When I was in high school I made a comment to Aaron that I will never work in fast food and I will never apply to Piggly Wiggly. Now that I've been there for a year and a half, I don't know what I was thinking. I started at the bottom and it was hard because I got crappy hours. I've been with this store for a year and a half and I couldn't be any happier. I love my coworkers and I love the customers, even the ones who think that I am part of the machinery. It's all a learning experience and what I learn there, I apply to my everyday life. Many people ask me what I plan on doing after school because who would want to work at the pig forever. I don't plan on being there forever but I don’t plan on leaving any time soon. The Pig has done so much for me and I can honestly say that.

I am not writing this to make stabs at Aaron or to make people feel sorry for me. I'm writing this because I want to inspire people. I don't want to be your hope but I want you to understand that it gets better. I am honest and I take chances. I make mistakes and I try to fix them. I still want to just stay in bed and avoid the world but I tell myself to get up because there are bigger plans at play here. I know it is harder than that but if you can at least say that you're trying then I would call that a victory.

We're all human, we all make mistakes. 

We're all humans, we are all beautiful.

We're all humans, we all have someone who admires us.

Please take this for what it is. It's not a cry for help but a victory scream. This past year I have experienced so much and I'm glad that I had the chance to feel all of it. Please know that you aren't experiencing anything alone, there is always someone there. Always

Miranda, xo

Street Markets

Author: Abigail Betts

“Do you want to stay for the show with everyone else?”

    She looked around at the horde that leaked from the booths and fruit stands toward a poorly constructed outdoor stage. “Not really. Do you think we could go somewhere else for a second and take stock of our spoils?” She lifted up the wicker basket that held their odd purchases from the street market. 

    “Sure, we could go find a warm, sunny spot by the tree line over by all the parking.” As they made their way toward the open field full of trucks and station wagons, he regarded her bare arms and the basket. “Is that getting heavy? Do you want me to carry it?”

    “No, I don’t mind it. The exertion keeps me warm.”

    He took the basket from her. “I thought you weren’t cold.”

    “I’m not.” She raised her eyebrows over guarded eyes and studied him. “My scarf looks good on you.”

    “It’s warm.”

    She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, it’s designed for harder weather than this.”

    “The color clashes with my hair, though.” He tucked an arm through the stubborn crook of her elbow. 

    “It’s got dozens of colors...”

    “The other colors clash with my skin tone.” He set the basket down at the base of a bare dogwood tree. 

    She studied him carefully and allowed herself a small chuckle as they settled down at the base of the tree. “So, let’s review.”

    “Right... Well, here’s the organic honey.” He handed the jar to her.

    She held the mason jar with reverence. “Score. I only like honey in my tea, which means I need honey at least four or five times a day…”

    “Well, I only like tea with my peanut butter and honey sandwiches.”

    She scrunched up her nose. “That’s disgusting, and it’s a disgrace to the purity of tea… and sandwiches, for that matter.”

    He nodded amenably. “You’re right. Tea is disgusting. It functions best in harbors. The smell calms the men on the docks while they enjoy their perversely patriotic peanut butter and honey sandwiches.”

    She put the jar back in their basket. “Yeah well, I’m pretty sure you’re about a century off on your peanut butter timeline, there.”

    “No, I’m pretty sure George Washington gave us the American pride that is peanut butter. It goes: ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of peanut butter’.”

    This time, her laughter wasn’t marshaled. “Well, it was certainly George Washington...”

    “You’re very polite, even in the face of falsehood.” He watched her carefully as her face hardened. “This is why America won the first time around.”

    “And there’s a reason there hasn’t been a second time around. Americans don’t understand the value of grace or subtlety in the face of defeat.” She reached back into the basket. “This must be your peace offering, then?” She held out a glossy ceramic teapot with patterns of blue and white that swirled together like chaotic ivy. “If you hate tea so much, why bother with this?”

    He smiled straight into her eyes. “I like the thought that when you’ll be drinking tea, it’ll be from an American-made teapot. I have a stereotypically British fondness for irony.”

    “Me, too.” She kept her eyes lowered on the teapot. “I worry though, that it might be a bit delicate for the trip back. Planes tend to be rough on packages.”

    “Planes are also rough on humans now and then. In the broader context and consequences of a plane, you’re just as fragile as the teapot.”

    The attempt to remain peaceful must have been evident on her features. “I’m not sure I care for the implications of that bit of irony.”

    “I’m not sure that I do, either.” 

    She pulled the scarf from around his neck. “Stop your flirting, then. You’ll start to crack things.” She spread out the knit work of the scarf and wrapped it around the teapot before she placed it back in the basket. 

    “How much longer is it before you’ve got to go?”

    Loud cheers from the audience startled them both. Street markets appealed to them well enough, but the thought of Midwestern entertainment appalled them both with equal measure.

    “What was your major?” she asked. “That’s a basic convention that I’ve entirely, and grossly neglected.”

    “Biology. What time is the flight?”

    She intently studied the delicate scrollwork of one of the antique doorknobs they had acquired. “Don’t get cocky. I’ll throw you to the mob over there. I’m sure it’s nearly time for some audience participation.”

    “Are you cold?”

    “No.”

    “How much longer is it before you leave?”

    She pulled a handle of whiskey from her handbag. “Let’s not, alright? That’s why we’ve got this. Hand me the cups.”

    He gave her two mismatched teacups from their basket. The teacup she placed in front of herself lacked a handle, and his sported several chips across its rim. She poured a generous measure of whiskey into both cups. “Why did you want these, again?” he asked.

    “They’ve got blue and white patterns that don’t match the pot.”

    “Sure, that makes sense.” He drained his chipped, patterned drink. “How’d you come to like whiskey?”

    She smiled and purred. “Just that sound: ‘Whiskey’. Mmm. It sounds sexy and warm at the same time, doesn’t it? Whiskey...”

    “Whiskey.” His breath came out in a cloud that was pierced through with the rays of winter sunset. 

    “Don’t kiss me.” She insisted suddenly. She placed a hand on the shoulder of his jacket.

    “Are your hands cold?” he addressed the airy curls on the top of her head.

    She answered the center of his chest, “Nope.”

    “How much longer is it?”

    She edged away from him and tossed back her drink from a teacup without a handle. “Ten days.”

Midnight Man: "What's love got to do with it?"

Author: Miller Hagler

He sat up in bed in his jagged pajama pants, smoking apprehensively, silent. His wife was on her side next to him asleep, her shoulders rising and falling as she breathed the increasingly smoke saturated air. He dumped ash in the half-empty cigarette pack standing on the bedside table and scooted back further against the headboard, bloodshot eyes following trails of smoke illuminated by streetlights shining outside the window. He resisted the urge to turn on the lamp.

    His eyes drifted to the swell of his wife’s hips beneath the bedcover. It had been a long time since he’d touched her. But this moment felt intimate to him; the lilac-scented softener she used on the sheets every week was seeping into his head, making him feel dizzy. No matter how much smoke he blew into the air he could never get rid of her smell. He reached out a hand towards her.

    The clock she kept in the corner hit midnight, and stopped ticking. Marks hand ghosted over Elizabeth’s cheek. He thought she’d be warm. But she was freezing. There was someone else in the room.

    They appeared in the corner by the clock, sitting in Marks reading chair. They took the form of a man this time, a Clark Gable look-alike complete with thin mustache and slick hair. He sat illuminated by a tall lamp that hadn’t been there before, one white-gloved hand resting on an end table holding a lit cigar and tumbler of brown liquid. He smiled at Mark, crossing one loafered foot over the other and adjusting his white bowtie. 

    “Well that’s different.” Mark said.

    The Midnight Man smiled, shrugged. His fingers played with the trail of smoke rising off the cigar. “Thought I’d try something new.” He said. His smile suddenly grew toothy. “I was going for a dixie-mephistophilis look. Do you like it?” 

    “Like is a strong word. What prompted it?”

    “Your wife is trying to write a new poem, a critique the antebellum southern aristocracy, jumping off her visit to Vicksburg a few years ago. I was inspired.”

    “Is the poem any good?”

    “Good is a strong word.”

    Some people had Midnight Men. At least, that’s what Marks father had called them. Personally Mark thought that was an unnecessarily gendered term, especially since his Midnight Man more often than not came in the form of a woman. But then Mark had no idea if this was a trait unique to his or not. His father’s Midnight Man may very well have always taken a male form. Mark could in fact not definitively prove that he wasn’t the only person in the world with a Midnight Man. His Midnight Man and his father assured him there were others, but both of them were known to lie on occasion.

    The only thing his father had ever explained about Midnight Men was that you didn’t talk about Midnight Men. Mark still had several scars on his scalp beneath his hair to remind him of that lesson. You were supposed to go through your entire life without ever knowing for certain if anyone else around you had a Midnight Man, if your wife or manager or the kid ringing up your groceries at the corner store were visited by potentially malicious spirits each night. If you breathed more than one word to anyone other than a direct blood relation, your Midnight Man would kill you. Mark often wondered how many unexplained deaths he saw on the news were people with Midnight Men crossing that boundary, or people unluckily enough to not have a father and a helpful Midnight Man to explain the boundary. 

    He often wondered whether his father’s heart attack was really just a heart attack.

    “So, how have you been today?” the Midnight Man asked.

    Mark’s gaze drifted again to Elizabeth. “I’ve been thinking about your offer.” He said.

    “Skipping the pleasantries then?”

    “If that’s alright. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

    “Oh I bet. My offer still stands, same as last night, same as night before. Her life, for your soul.”

    It was times like this that Mark wished there was a Midnight Man support group. Or an anonymous phone-line he could call. Something. Anything to talk him out of doing something as stupid as what he was about to do.

    The Midnight Man folded his hands together in his lap. “Have you come to a decision?”

    “I have.”

+

    The morning after Mark Hill sold his soul he woke up with a slight headache. Somebody across the street was cutting their grass. The scent of his wife’s coffee was drifting in from the kitchen. The clock read five till six. Five minutes before the alarm was supposed to go off. 

    He found Elizabeth sitting at the dining table in mismatched underwear, staring out past the French doors leading to their backyard. Snow had fallen over their house last night, at least three inches Mark thought, blanketing the lawn and smothering Elizabeth’s third attempt at gardening. The neighbor’s pecan tree peeked over the wooden fence.

    “Enjoying the view?” Mark asked.

    “It looks almost painful, doesn’t it?” she replied. “All that snow burning up under the summer sun not even a day after it’s fallen? Talk about ephemeral.”

    “I though all beauty was ephemeral?”

    “That’s a cliché.”

    Mark just shrugged, opening the fridge and checking the date on the eggs. He tended to concede to Elizabeth when it came to defining the abstract; she was the award winning poet after all. His experience was limited to an aborted attempt to write a novel when he was eighteen and a few angry, violent sex scenes he wrote for a writing course he took in college. 

    "Scrambled eggs?” Mark asked.

    “I’m fine with just my coffee.” She took a long sip to prove the point. “The burn will sustain me.”

    Mark cracked open a couple of eggs and plopped their innards onto a skillet, curious half-formed eyes rolling around in wonder at their first taste of the outside world. He turned the eye on and began stirring them up. When the eye turned red Mark put the skillet on it and waited for the screams. That was how you made the best eggs now, according to a cooking show he saw on Netflix last week anyway. Wait for faint screams. The screams flavored it.

    Unfortunately all Mark heard was sizzling and silence. He left the eggs on the eye for as long as he dared before taking them off, afraid of burning them. Frowning, he reached for the cupboard and began searching for the pepper. He must have gotten some bad eggs. The price you paid for buying organic instead of processed.

    After breakfast he showered and dressed for work, hesitating as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the front door. Elizabeth was still sitting at the table, staring out the doors and clutching a cold cup of coffee. “We need bread and eggs. Anything else you want me to pick up at the store?” Mark asked.  

“No.”

“Coffee, chips?”

“I’m good.”

“Tea?”

“No.”

“Bottled waters?”

“…no.”

“Writing utensils?”

“Actually yeah, if you could pick up some pens that’d be great hon.”

“Kay. Imma head on. Have a nice day. Love you.”

“…you too.”

+

    Mark walked into the Super-Mart nine hours later dead on his feet. He worked, ironically, in a distribution center supplying that very same Super-Mart, a chain store operating all throughout the southeast, and he noticed ruefully that the teenaged greeter had a censor dangling from one disinterested wrist. Mark perfectly understood the necessity of exorcising buildings customers were supposed to go in, but he had a hard time believing the price of incense was so steep they couldn’t afford to stock the distribution centers with it too. 

    The land the Super-Mart was built on, as well as the distribution center and most everything else built in and around Birmingham city limits, was incredibly haunted. It was particularly an issue in industrial parks and the residential areas south of the railroad tracks, owing to the city councils refusal to fund the street department properly for the last decade. An extension to the freeway connecting the downtown area to the suburbs on the other end of the mountain was of far greater concern at budget meetings, and most of the money that would have gone into spirit suppression or exorcism was dumped or diverted into that. Although the reason the extension was taking so long to build was that, funny enough, most of the plots the new sections of the freeway passed over were haunted. 

         Mark could appreciate how well off he was where he worked though; the Super-Mart didn’t have censors burning in front of each aisle just to pacify the produce. By Birmingham standards the Super-Mart distribution center was relatively well located, hugged right up against the edge of the city limits. Only three spirits inhabited that plot: a civil rights worker from the sixties tortured and killed by police, a policeman from the seventies killed over the course of an undercover narcotics operation, and the young heir of a coal miner-turned-plantation owner killed by malaria. There was also a fourth spirit inhabiting a good chunk of the parking lot, but that one preferred to remain anonymous and was mostly benign.     

    The three inhabiting the building itself however would have been a nightmare combination had Mark not come up with the bright idea of keeping their existences a secret from each other. Maintaining that ruse was a full time job in and of itself, but it kept the trucks rolling on schedule and saved the company the time and money it would take to relocate somewhere less saturated with bad mojo. It was because he had to deal with those three all day that Mark wandered the aisles wide eyed and a little jittery, and why he felt justified in screaming at the stocker checking barcodes in the school supply aisle when he told Mark they were out of the pens his wife liked.

+  

    He came home to the sound of Frank Sinatra singing out of a record player Elizabeth found on one of her wanderings. She did that sometimes, just took off without warning, sometimes in the car and sometimes on foot. She’d just be gone for a while, showing back up in hours or days or weeks with knick-knacks from Gods knew where and the occasional story or two. Mark had long since learned to find the quirk endearing. He assumed she was in large part gathering material for her poems. He certainly didn’t think she could find much inspiration in the quiet little slice of whitebread suburbia he’d settled down in, and refused to move from.

    That day, however, she’d apparently wandered into a grocery store. Mark quietly checked the cupboards, his concern evaporating when he realized she’d neglected to get any of the things he’d put on the list. It seemed everything she got was arrayed on the countertop, mostly tied up produce and a couple of frozen steaks. Two pots were boiling on the stove, one of some unidentifiable red sauce that smelled of marigolds and one of boiling water. A triplet of bound parsnips were watching the water with wary eyes. She said “hey babe” in a quiet voice when he came into the kitchen, her eyes never leaving the cookbook spread out in front of her. 

    Mark hung up his tie on the refrigerator handle and pulled a single-serve frozen pizza from the freezer. “How’d things go at the doctor?” He asked, not taking his eyes off the pizza he was unwrapping. It stared balefully back at him as it slowly regained consciousness. Elizabeth did not respond. He assumed she didn’t hear him over the bubbling pots.

    “How was the doctor’s?” He asked again, louder.

    “I didn’t go.”

    Mark turned to face the back of her bushy blonde head. “Why not?” He asked. She didn’t answer for a minute, having to struggle with the flailing parsnips to get them into the boiling water. Eventually she got them down, and covered the pot with a lid to block out their cries. She did not turn to face him.

    “I was working.”

    She grabbed hold of a steak knife and began eviscerating some variety of potato on the cutting board. 

    “New poem?”

    “Mhm.”

    “What’s it about?”

    “I don’t know yet.”

    “Think it’ll be any good?”

    “We’ll see.”

    Mark turned back to his pizza. “Did you reschedule?” He asked as he covered the now wide awake eyes with a couple of errant pepperonis and stuck it in the microwave.

    “Mhm. First thing in the morning.” 

    That was the third time in a row she’d put off that appointment.  

+

    Later that night Mark sat up in bed with his Midnight Man, or Midnight Woman in this case. Elizabeth disappeared after a silent, awkward dinner, and the specter had taken up her spot on the bed. She’d come in the guise of a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman with golden eyes that shone in the dark of the bedroom, dressed in black pajamas covered in luminescent stars. Her feet were propped up on the headboard, and she took periodic nips from a bottle of Gentleman Jack she’d jammed between Marks shins. They went back and forth with a pack of cigarettes scattered across the bed between them.

    “Satisfied?” She asked.

    “Not yet.” He replied. She handed him the currently lit cigarette, which he took a drag from before continuing. “I won’t be satisfied until I hear that the doctor himself told her the cancer is gone.”

    “I thought she had an appointment this afternoon?”

    “She’s putting it off.”

    “Hm. What’s wrong? Do you not trust me?”

    Mark passed the cigarette pack to her. “You spent the first six years of my life pretending to be a monster in my closet. “

    She held it behind her head and shook the ash off onto the carpet, her glowing eyes flicking over to Mark. “And I’m so happy we’ve moved past that stage in our relationship.” She kept the cigarette still, letting its thin trail of smoke rise up to thread around the ceiling fan. 

    Her eyes turned back to the wall ahead of her. “I really was not expecting you to sell your soul away so quickly, you know? I thought modern media and high school sex ed. had gotten everyone way too paranoid about that sort of thing.”

    “Yeah, well, I don’t watch much television. And that sort of thing wasn’t really a concern back when I was in school.”

    “But for her?”

    “Why not for her?”

    “Do you love her?”

    Mark watched as the Midnight Woman’s fingers slid up the neck of the bottle and pulled it out from between Marks legs. She took a quick sip from it and offered it to Mark, who shook his head. She nestled it back into place.

    “I’ve known her for eight years. I’ve been married to her for four. I know just about everything that can make her happy, angry, depressed. I know what her favorite color will be on which day. I don’t know her life’s story, but I know several of the pertinent formative bits. I know her parents were emotionally abusive, and that their spirits are still a problem for her sometimes. I know about the waterfall that convinced her to become a poet.”

    “But do you love her? Physically, I mean. When was the last time you touched each other?

    “We’ve never been a very tactile…”

         “When was the last time you had a real conversation with each other?”

    “…she’s been depressed. She thinks she’s dying.”

    “And what have you done about that?”

    “Cured her cancer?”

    “Not that. The depression.”

    “What’s that got to do with me?”

    The Midnight Woman flicked her wrist dismissively, taking a drag off Marks cigarette before getting to the point. “I don’t think you really believe in love.” She said. Mark stared level at her. “I do not think you believe in souls either. I bet that is why you were so quick to sell yours away.”

    “What do you mean don’t believe souls? I work with spirits every day.”

    She passed him the cigarette, her feet crisscrossing next to his head. “Spirits and souls are two different things. One is an accumulation of psychic waste given an imitation of life. A curse to ensure that the living can never escape one another. A soul is a literal continuation of a beings consciousness.”

    She let that little chunk of forbidden knowledge hang in the air between them before adding, “They are also a myth.”

    “So, what? You just cured my wife’s cancer for free?”

    “Au contraire.” 

    Suddenly she was a he, right side up on the bed and pressing himself up against Mark. 

    “You did not know souls did not exist until just now. You may have not believed, but you did not know. The term soul, at the time of our contract, to you, was subjective. So I get the next best thing.”

    His hand traveled down the front of Marks bare chest. He leaned in close, his breath icy on Marks exposed neck. “I get whatever it was you thought you were giving up!”  

    Fingers sunk knuckle deep into Marks chest without breaking skin, gripped, and pulled. 

    Mark looked up and saw his spirit standing at the foot of the bed. 

+

    The scrolling ticker at the bottom of the local news mentioned that husband of nationally acclaimed poet Elizabeth Hill died in his sleep several nights before due to a heart attack. The widowed poet could not be reached for comment. 

Grimm's Reaper

Author: Mary Campbell

John was normal, stereotypical almost. He had short brown hair, and chocolate eyes. He stood at 5'11", and wore a gray suit to an eight to four job five days out of the week. He was in his early thirties, and lived with his long term girlfriend, and her daughter. John was anything but special; he was ordinary. John’s life was predictably boring, and remained that way until the day he died.

6:15 AM. The alarm sounds, the same as every day, except today would be the last time a high pitched buzzing would rouse John from his prescription induced slumber.

6:40 AM. John steps out of the shower, brushes his teeth, and nicks himself shaving; the first time he had done so in months, and the last time he ever would.

7:00 AM. Breakfast with the family. Eggs, bacon, and sausage. John loved his saturated fats; they would eventually be the death of him, had he not been destined to die today.

7:30 AM. John hastily ties his cheap tie that was a Father's Day gift, and kisses his stepdaughter on the forehead. She was unaware this was the last time she would see her father.

7:45 AM. John is making his daily commute to work. His red light turns green, and he goes.

7:46 AM. A driver who was texting speeds through their red light.

7:46 AM. The reckless driver slams into John’s driver side door, totaling his car, and bringing his uneventful life to a terribly typical end.

7:47 AM. John’s heart stops. There was a beautiful silence, the kind death always brings. It was as if time itself had stopped, special to his passing. After all the death I've seen, this phenomenon never ceases to amaze me. 

John opens his eyes; the poor soul thinks he's still alive.

He chuckles as he exits his car, from nerves more than anything.

"I can't believe I'm okay." He says to himself, ignoring the ambivalent feeling in the back of his

mind.

Time is still unmoving.

7:47 AM. I step toward John, revealing myself.

"Hello, John."

He turns towards me, frightened, very obviously so.

"Wh...Who are you?" He stutters.

"I believe you know the answer to that question." I say calmly.

Ice runs through John’s veins as he sinks to his knees.

"You're the angel of death." He says quietly. "Aren't you?"

I nod. "That is one of my many names."

John begins to sob, taking shaky breaths, trying desperately to accept his reality.

"Please." He begins. "Please, I'm too young...I...I have a family."

I do not answer. John knows his fate is not negotiable; he does not need me to tell him.

"God!" He shrieks loudly, head in hands. "There's so much I haven't done! I wanted to see the

world!"

Still, I remain silent.

"Please..." He says to me again. "Is there nothing you can do?"

I debate silence again, but decide to answer John’s pleas.

"Tell me, John. Why should I take pity on you? Hundreds of people die every day."

John holds his head in his hands, shaking. "Just...please..."

"There is another option." I say after a moment of thought. "However, I doubt it will appeal to

you."

John’s eyes fill with hope. "Anything!" He exclaims.

"You see, my line of work takes me to all corners of the earth. This form also retains immortality, as I am neither alive nor dead, simply a bridge between the two."

I pause.

"But I am incredibly tired. So here is my proposition: I help you if you help me. You inherit my duties, and you will not be alive, but you will not die. You will be free to roam as you please."

John sits in shock. Clearly not expecting what I had offered.

"I...I don't know." He stammered. "I'm not sure I want immortality."

I shift impatiently. "Time is running out, John."

"Will I be able to see my family?"

"If you wish."

"Alright." He says while wiping the tears from his face. "Alright, I'll do it."

I smile. Finally, after centuries my burden shall be lifted.

"Be cautious, John." I warn. "As your touch does not bring comfort, it will bring death."

He nods fervently as I kneel before him. I take Johns hands, and relinquish myself to him, finally unburdened, finally free.

My eyes had been squeezed shut, afraid to look upon Death. Slowly, I opened my eyes as I felt his touch fade.

I was in my front yard. It was a normal day; the sounds of children playing in the distance, trees dancing in the light breeze. Had this all been a dream?

I scramble to my feet and run to the door, busting through, desperate for the sight of my girlfriend, and my daughter.

"Lori!" I feverishly shout. "Lori! Where are you?!"

And then I see her. I never appreciated her beauty. Fair blonde hair and delicate blue eyes. I want nothing more than to hold her in this moment.

But as she sees me, a smile does not flash across her face, nor does the slightest bit of happiness. She stares at me in horror.

"Lori, what's wrong?" I say in confusion.

She drops the laundry she's holding and backs away from me.

"No...No. You're dead." She's says in a hushed voice. "You've been dead for months."

"What?" I walk towards her, my arms outstretched. "Lori, I'm right here."

"NO!" She shrieks. "Get away from me! You're not real!"

Lori falls to her knees, sobbing, rocking back and forth. "You're not real." She says over and over. I stand there, dazed and confused. What did she mean I had been dead for months? I saw her just this morning, didn't I?

Just then, my stepdaughter came peering into the hallway, wearing her soccer uniform, and a bouncing red ponytail.

She freezes as she sees me. "Daddy?" She whispers.

"Hi, Becca." I say with tears in my eyes.

"Daddy!" She exclaims while running towards me.

Lori looks up, terror in her eyes. "Rebecca, no!"

I scoop her up and hold her tightly, appreciating her soft skin, and the tickle of her hair against my face.

Something isn't right. Lori is screaming, Rebecca isn't holding onto me anymore, she's gone limp.

I let go of her slowly, fear pumping through me.

Dear God, no.

Lori is screaming frantically, cursing me.

"Rebecca, no! Becca please wake up!" Tears are streaming down Loris face. Tears of loss, tears of agony, tears of more loss, and tears of hatred.

She turns to me, distraught and spewing venom. "Get the fuck out of my house! God! Haven't I been through enough?! Get out! GET OUT!"

Lori bends down over Rebecca, crying and begging her to come back, please come back. The world is going silent around me. What have I done? What is happening? Why is this happening to me?

Finally, pressure builds, and I collapse onto the ground screaming. I let go, I let the tears come. Emotion is pouring out of me like a faucet turned on high. I feel the loss of everything at once. My life will never be the same, I am alone, and I will always be alone.

When I open my eyes, I am no longer in my home. I am at the local park, now deserted. Not even the wind stirs movement.

I see him, sitting at the bench. Death.

Suddenly, my pain turns to rage.

I storm over to him, demanding answers.

"What the hell?!" I howl, my words mixing with sobs.

Death simply stands, and puts an understanding hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He says in his eerily cool voice. "I warned you, your touch would bring death to those around you."

"I...I didn't know..." I said in between tears.

"I am sorry." Death says to me. "Nothing is more tragic than the loss of a child. I understand."

In that brief moment, his voice was almost human. For the slightest second, I could see empathy in his eyes. But it went as quickly as it came, and he was ice again, cold and unfeeling.

"Speaking of which..." He says morosely, "I have to train you."

He turns from me, and begins to walk towards the pretty white town house that overlooks the park. Tom and Stacey, I recall. They're the young couple who lives there; they're new parents if I

remember correctly. I have no choice but to follow Death. So I do.

Everything was silent; it was stillness unlike any other felt in this world.

"What is this?" I wonder aloud.

Without turning, Death answers my question. "It happens when someone passes. All is halted; time itself pays it's respect to the departed. It's beautiful."

We enter the townhouse, and find ourselves in the nursery.

I turn to Death, and he nods.

"God, no. I can't." I plead with him. 

"We do not make the rules, John. Simply carry out orders."

"I just...I can't. Tom and Stacey wanted a baby for so long. I can't take him from them."

To my surprise, Death becomes angry. "We do not choose the details of life and death, John!" He yells at me. "We carry out the law that is delivered to us! If we do not, there are repercussions!"

I stare at him, shocked. I didn't expect any emotion from him. He continues.

"Do you know what will happen if you do not take that child?" Death points to the corner store half a block away from the home. "That store is going to be robbed in 20 minutes. If this child remains, Tom will enter that store, and be shot trying to stop the robbery. Stacey will be driven to suicide, and that child will be left an orphan!"

I stare at the floor, still silent.

"You carry out the law! You do not make choices! You are not God!" He bellows.

"I understand." I whisper.

I look into the crib, into the bright, smiling, blue eyes looking up at me. I close my eyes; I reach down, touch the child on the forehead, and feel his life drain away.

Many years have passed, I can't say exactly how many, I've lost count. At least a century has passed since I first accepted this burden.

I have been to all corners of this earth, and seen countless deaths. I have watched my loved ones fade away through the years, actually being the one who has to steal their life. I am alone in this life, and I always will be.

5:03 AM. I walk the streets of Rome right before sunrise. I've been to Italy millions of times; the beauty has faded. I wish for nothing more than the ordinary.

5:15 AM. Adrian De Pietro, a sickly young man lies in his warm bed, sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks. Unfortunately, this would be the last time he would enjoy a morning in bed.

5:45 AM. Daylight breaks, a beautiful mixture of blues and oranges cascading down on the city.

The last sunrise Adrian would experience.

5:50 AM. Adrian's weak heart gives out, and I welcome the silence.

5:50 AM. Time halts for Adrian, tipping its hat to the dearly departed. The stillness of Rome is captured as if we existed within a painting. The silence is the only beauty I find in this world anymore.

5:50 AM. I greet the boy. "Hello, Adrian."

He turns his head to look at me, and immediately tears well up in his eyes.

"You're here to take me aren't you?"

I simply nod.

Adrian begins to shake, afraid of the unknown. "I knew I was going to die." He whispers. "But now that it's time, I don't want to go."

"Death is a part of life, Adrian. It is inevitable."

"But I haven't lived. Not really." He says, trying not to cry. "I never had the chance to…I don’t

want to go."

I pause for a moment in thought, and smile, taking Adrian’s hand in mine.

"There is another option."

Her

Author: Briana McDade

When I grow up I want to be just like her.

I want to walk around my home barefoot, telling people how cold it is, while I wear a sweater.

I want to sing out loud to my heart’s content, not worried about what others think.

I want to step into her shoes, those legendary shoes.

Crafted out of whatever she could find, those shoes that haven’t worn out over time.

Made with beads from old shirts, and fabric from tattered cloth, and rhinestones from the lost abyss of nooks and crannies.

I want to quote people who wrote stories, who had imaginations that could be understood through sentences that gripped one’s soul.

One soul.

Her soul.

An old soul.

Museum Hands

Author: Abigail Betts

The children who are shrunk by shouts

In museums of oils and foreign lands;

Because of the oils on their hands,

Become the great impressionists.

The children whose voices shake,

In classrooms of plaid oppression;

Because of the age-old suppression, 

Become the darlings of The Academy.

The children with undeserved demerit slips,

In testing rooms of finished work and boredom;

Because of urgent, unbidden words that must come,

Become the antagonized authors.

All     Because they didn’t want to be published.

    Because they didn’t want to speak up.

    Because they didn’t want to get in trouble.

Lady

Author: Wanda Wesolowski

Lady's swallow made the summer.

But followed by her blight & blunder,

the prickly plight, the thoughtless thunder.

Consumed my thoughts and all my wonder,

took my heart & soul in sunder.

Lady wrote goodbyes in masses.

She died in letters. Dots & dashes—

simply remnants of the crassness

that remained within the ashes:

"Rest assured, we will get past this."

Lady's light turns night to day.

Lady's flights all get delayed.

But maybe that's why lady stays.

To show the world, to mark her place.

Maybe that's why lady stays.

Because Lady's never truly gone.

She is the night, she is the dawn.

She's all that's right & all that's wrong.

Lady left to linger on, in every breath,

in every song.

mirrors, stains

Author: Wanda Wesolowski

you’re the words i need when i can’t speak.

you’re the apple that falls far from the tree.

you’re the light in the sky that helps me see.

you’re the blood that pumps through these veins in me.

but the problem with love is it can’t be

cause you don’t think it’s worthy of the time it needs.

i left the milk on the counter and i woke to find

that it curdled like the blood flowing through my mind.

we are mirrors, we are stains… you and i.

still your posture isn’t perfect when you stand up straight.

and i thought this was worth it but made a mistake

when i loaned all my pennies to the girl on the street,

she took them in her weak hands and smiled at me.

oh, she smiled at me.

but all is well within the house of hell and lies

all that’s left to do is rest that head at night.

i’m a drifter thats my role in all your lives

but you promised me a home i could live inside…

a permanent resident of your heart and mind.

still the numbers come in doubles and i can’t forget

how you told me all your troubles on the night we met

the car that cut me off and nearly caused a wreck

was your same make and model only painted red

as the blood flowing through me, as the blood i bled.

Dad

Author: Jalen Thompson

I did not like you, but I did not hate you. 

I wanted the real thing, but he was not there. 

I never called you “Dad”, but you were.

You were mean, you were tough. 

I was bad, always bringing notes home.

I remember the many discipline exercises you made me do:

Bear crawls, wall sits, push-ups. 

Really, it was borderline abuse.

I wanted him and not you. 

He would not discipline me like this or at all. 

Surely he would talk to me about it instead of 

bear crawls, wall sits, push-ups. 

Yes, it was abuse:

That time you made me watch IT and

on the playground at school

my light blue jeans would slowly

turn into dark blue jeans. 

I was afraid of you. 

You found joy in disciplining me. 

Yes, I did hate you.

She loved you. You loved her

and you both loved your son

and loved me too, out of obligation. 

I was there, simply there. 

That’s why I was always bringing notes, 

to feel like I was not just there, but that I was living there too—

I guess.

It was just me and her before you

got here and she was doing fine without you. 

No, they would not have gotten back together, 

but I would have seen him because there was no you and

she wanted a He there for me. But I was fine with me and her.

I thought you were just a replacement. 

No not even that: a place holder. But you stayed.

You were there for me, for us, me and her. 

You wifed her.

She gave you a son, a real son. 

I was the one you pretended to care for,

I still am, but now I don’t mind.

I understand, I do.

To be “Dad” is to be there,

and you were,

he wasn’t. 

I see that now. 

I see that you weren’t pretending.

I see the crawls, the wall sits, the push-ups,

The fear of you, made me, me.

Now, there is no fear, 

Only respect.

Is this like Stockholm? 

No, you weren’t that bad,

You were a drill sergeant.

You were “Dad”.

You are “Dad”.

And I love you, I guess.

Murder, Murder

Author: Ryann Taylor

Bare toes claw your wild leg hair

Skin suffocates skin— over and over again

You open the fridge, yellow bottles rattle—

Not your own.

My chapped lips encompass a water bottle.

One hair that peeps over the others

And a nose that sniffles day in, day out.

I keep searching for words—

And words I am lacking.

In words— there’s a thought that I could keep you

Apart from my “work.”

But you’re a part of my words.

Precious indeed.

Broken porcelain piled on your desk, 

 The scattered pattern on your chest; 

 Safety to me.

I dream of the suffocating smoke that once spun 

To your ceiling—is it home yet?

Your clothes are strewn on the floor.

Wrinkled, folded, and kicked in their residence.

Sheets scrambled. What dreams do you have?

A gentle hand to comb—

And the other

Protecting 

My tender scalp.

I said I would keep you separate.

Imagine

Author: Mary Parker

It’s hard to imagine. 

To imagine a world where we don’t personify our sins.

Daily.
Weekly.

Monthly.

As long as time permits, really.

Didn’t you know?

We can’t really escape them,

It’s natural after all.

After all the silence,

the hurting,

the weeping,

the pain of what we’ve done.

You ask.

What’s one to do?

It surrounds us after all,

tempts us,

manifests itself onto us…

Daily. 

Weekly.

Monthly.

As long as time permits.

It’s greed,

Its envy,

It’s pride…

just to name a few.

But really now.

Are you still unsure,

Of what’s one to do?

White Heather

Author: Miller Hagler

He grows white heather out in verdant fields.

A shallow, promised threat in his vast yield,

while she grows white heather out in the badlands.

Strong withered roses raised with dry, bloodied hands.

No Childhood

Author: Jayla Williams

Be a child without a hood 

And never draw suspicion

Because you never want to have someone 

Make a “grounded” decision

It takes a village to raise a child

This very well may be true

But don’t be a child with a hood

Or the village won’t be raising you

Because if it’s just past dark

And you want to get skittles for your brother

A vigilante might get excited

And take you from your mother

Creative Writing Assignment

Author: Lily Elmore

I am not sure if I’m real anymore

I float through my life like a dream

The truth is so hard to say these days

Because the truth is not what it seems

Am I expressing anything anymore?

Trying too hard to create

My art’s for “art’s sake”

And I can’t catch a break

So I ride out the wave for hours

I know it’s a painting, not a puzzle,

But the pieces still feel wrongfully placed

I’ve been reading to learn for so very long

But I’m not sure I know how to read.

I’m starving but the fridge is empty

The fruits of my spirit consumed

I didn’t know when I left home

How dark was the darkness that loomed

And I’m doomed.

Or maybe just overdramatic.

But probably both.

Defrost

Author: Abigail Betts

It’s a warm, wet world.

My body is damp,

And my jacket chills

My skin.

Hands slip along

A leather wheel.

It feels just like

Sweaty palms

But fingers are

Cold to the lips.

Face feels heavy and wet.

Drips on the brow,

Like a cold sweat.

Rain drips from hair

To the neck.

I swear I hear the drops

Sizzle and steam

On skin.

Headlights flash by

In a foggy glass haze.

And there are tiny

Headlights

Strung above and along

Lit-strip malls,

Arranged into snowflakes,

And wreaths.

In the dark rain

On black ice, highways

Are Technicolor holidays

Like pink trees.

You pass lines of

Christmas trees

Left out in the rain.

Your pity and worry 

Seem so silly:

Trees are born in the freezing rain.

Syncopation

Author: Callipoe Pettis

Syncopation, S-S-Syncopation

We're Livin' in a Psycho Nation, Ps-Ps-Psycho Nation

They'll try and tell you what to think

While your mind is on the brink of more Beautiful Things

They tell you that it's wrong, but you feel right

Don't let their judging words keep you up at night

Just follow your Good Heart

And you'll start to see a Change

Most Change is for the better

    It ain'teasy I know

But Change is Pain and Pain is Growth

    Have Faith in where you'll go

Don't Change for anybody

    Make a Change for yourself

Be a Better you than yesterday

    Take your life off of the shelf

Go someplace you've never been before

Just open up your Heart and Give far More

Than you've ever gave

Stop trying to save yourself

You feel uncomfortable, you don't feel right

You're out of Rhyme and Time, don't fit in anyone's lines

You change your Mind

Every time they speak

Most Change is for the better

    It ain'teasy I know

But Change is Pain and Pain is Growth

    Have Faith in where you'll go

Don't Change for anybody

    Make a Change for yourself

Be a Better you than yesterday

    Share in your Happiness and Wealth

Syncopation, S-S-Syncopation

We're Livin' in a Psycho Nation, Ps-Ps-Psycho Nation

They'll try and tell you what to think

While your mind is on the brink of more Beautiful Things

Bloodwood

Author: Reed

Winding roots the sturdy shackles.

Family name a choking vine.

Father fixed far away.

Mother hovers, gentle sway.

Ancestry, authority.

Family, slavery.

Sister tree, shelter me,

still vale of my anxiety.

Leeching roots, damp and dirty,

Steals from us what keeps us sturdy,

and only through them filtered rancid

drinks the water withered branches

Spokes of seasons, wheel of time.

Drought and desert, flood and blizzard.

Fretting fruitless, fit and choke,

Grieving leaves fall from the oak.

Germinate, obliterate.

Generate, incarcerate.

Leeching saplings strangulate,

so only tall proliferate.

Protection with your leafy roof

From warm embrace of sunlight through,

And keep the sapling low to smother

In cold shadows of the mother.