In a Pitch-Black Room
by NOR AMIGONE | 1st Place, student prose contest
Director: Ellis Graves
Starring: Merrikat Black, Nico Sebastian
In a Pitch-Black Room is, on the surface, an easily forgotten, low-budget horror movie. The film follows Ruby (Black) and Seff (Sebastian) in the wake of some vague tragedy. It bears more than a passing resemblance to Lars Von Trier’s Antichrist, but where Trier swings for the fences in terms of art house shock, Graves pulls back, often to the point of boredom. Still, it is in the mundane moments that this movie becomes one of the most unsettling of the year.
Ruby and Seff begin as a normal, young couple. Black is beautiful as ever. Her big eyes and dark hair bring an innocence to Ruby that contrasts well with the severe edge the character is written with. Her smoky voice makes even the most eviscerating comments delivered by the angry Ruby sound nice. Sebastian has dropped his MTV rockstar look, looking shockingly like a more attractive version of that guy who works two cubicles over from you. Despite this being his first movie, his performance is equal to the more seasoned Black. All those years of music videos prepared him for the sparse dialogue and strong body language required. It’s a shame we haven’t seen anything else from these two since the release of this movie.
The secret genius of this film is that nothing in the foreground matters. The story happens in the background. We begin with a typical drone shot following a car through a northeastern forest road. The sky is blindingly blue. The camera takes us all the way into the lakeside cabin in one long shot that seems to go through the window glass, into the kitchen, and then the living room where we see Ruby and Seff enter. Graves loves his longshots and it could be argued he overuses them. Though his technique is nearly perfect. Rather than cutting from one character to another, Graves pans the camera between them. Sharp-eyed viewers will notice that items go missing in the background almost every time the camera revisits a spot.
The kitchen window looks out over the
conversations are placed. Even the landscape itself begins to disintegrate and disappear along with the house. The costuming should have been considered for an award as both Ruby and Seff slowly fade throughout the runtime.
The plot moves like a worm, contracting and lengthening in a
nightmarish way. Little happens on screen, but there’s so much more of it beneath the surface. Dig into the mud and you’ll see the
They have tense, shallow conversations that show the growing distance between the couple.
A few of the conversations are repeated with only slight alterations. The first time this happens, it almost feels like an editing mistake. After that, it becomes hypnotic as you notice the differences.
The secret genius of the film is that
We watch as the character’s
We feel hollowed out as they begin to fall apart. It’s in these mundane moments that this film is truly unsettling. For me, I haven’t seen color the same since.
At the
is gone and Ruby stands alone, wearing grey and staring dead-eyed out the window to the blank landscape beyond. It’s a shame we haven’t
In a Pitch-Black Room is an unsettling not-quite-ghost story about how
you’ll
Ω
JC Passiglia writes under the penname Nor Amigone. They love ghost stories and dogs.
Lucy Mason is earning her BA in English at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. She has been photographer for the Omaha Central Register (2018 – 2022), hired for events such as the Healthy for a Lifetime Conference (2019, 2021), and has placed at the Nebraska State Journalism competition (2022), and won first place at Skills USA Regional (2020). Lucy is the Creative Nonfiction Section editor for UNO’s 13th Floor Literary Magazine (2024).
Pill Head Eulogy
by LAUREN RANDOLPH
There are Xs where your eyes should be—skin turned
a gray kind of blue. I can’t shake the thought. Mouth open,
on the ground, a faceless someone breathing life
through your lips. I put words on your tongue;
they shoot anger down my spine. They burn,
sound like a plea, or a bargain, depending on the minute.
I wonder if you cried. I wonder what you saw—
who you were with—if you felt alone. I hope you
saw flashes, the good kind; hope you slipped
into your most treasured memory and let it carry you
on to the next stop. I hope we shared a moment in the field
yesterday—you as a deer, nearing, me as a shell of my hurt.
I like to think you were the nearest one, straight ahead,
fifteen feet far, five minutes of shared staring, your front leg
rising and falling—reading my grief, my awe, my level of threat.
You and the others ran—spooked by the sound of tires. I looked
to the sky for answers, found that same gray kind of blue.
Three deer, three deaths in three months—I steady myself
for another. I study the signs—hesitation in others, unraveling
in myself. I am flesh, bone, and nerve. You still are, too—
both of us in boxes, yours more padded than mine.
You will be carried, lowered, tucked into the Earth,
spirit maybe headed toward some new start or end.
I carry questions, a god-sized Hole, no comfort in believing
there’s a better place. At best, it’s somewhere different,
some place I’ve wanted to visit, some place I often still do.
The force that holds the cards must pull from them blindly,
must not carve prayers into stone, must ignore the raised hands
of those of us who beg to be next—with chests that still rise,
cheeks that still blush, eyes that are stained
wet with wanting. I wring the red from my hands—resentful.
I can’t take your place, take your pain, give you my pulse,
give you the hug I wanted to give you the last night we spoke.
Your passing was no surprise. The raw and rapid grief was,
and still is. You were a sister, we argued, I showed you
a hard kind of love, and you took it—held it in your hands,
shaped it into a candle—put it in your pocket, left it unlit.
I tried to hand you a flame, could have tried harder,
but my hands were hurting, too. I wrapped my wounds
in cacti, in quail, in dirt—in words and tools
you never got the chance to learn. Only you
could wrap yours—hold space for them to heal.
In time, the wild forces of air would not have stung
so badly, would simply have rushed past your scars,
then onto the next in its great rotation. I am healing
without you, leaning toward forgiveness, letting
grief in through my widest window, learning
minute by minute I can only control the wind so much.
Ω
Lauren Randolph is an emerging writer from Aiken, South Carolina. Previously published in The Southwestern Review and Silver Needle Press, she explores addiction and other dis-eases of the mind through candid exploration of both lived and witnessed experience. Her active recovery highlights three primary birthrights with which all are endowed: to honor the Earth and its Earthlings, to greet sorrow with a wink, and to trace forgiveness in the settled debris of loss over time.
Ivana Inés Tovilla-Bátiz is a Mexican-Canadian artist who is a recent fourth-year graduate from Ontario College of Art & Design University. Ivana spent the summer of 2019 in NYC taking part in the Parsons Summer Intensive Program for Illustration at the New School. She was granted immediate entry into the Drawing and Painting program at OCAD University, receiving the Mercedes-Benz Financial Services scholarship, completing an Association of Independent Colleges of Art and Design exchange to the Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA) and graduating with Honors and Distinction.
My Mother is a Gladiolus, My Father is a Magnolia
by MORGAN JENSEN | Sarah Stecher Prize, student poetry contest
My mother is a gladiolus.
Much like the bright sanguine hues, she is strong and bold.
My mother has taught me bountiful ways to exhibit strength.
Holding on to her sword and cutting away dead leaves,
She has ended a cycle by planting new seeds.
Producing the tools and the shelter I need
to defend against rocks, bugs, and weeds.
Quietly exuding mettle by fortifying others,
I follow the stone path she laid for my feet.
My father is a magnolia.
Much like the lofty branches, he cultivates a place to call home.
My father has taught me how to welcome others with open arms.
Caring for stretching stems and supporting growing trees,
He has ended a cycle by nurturing new seeds.
Laying a foundation for a warm flower bed,
A blanket of sunlight, a place to rest my head.
He perseveres when faced with poisoned soil,
I follow the worn path he has built for me.
No matter how the wind makes me toil,
The garden is where I’ll be.
I’ll remember
where my
roots
and
thorns
harbor
my
growing flowers.
Where the dirt
and
the
sun
embrace my
vibrant
leaves.
Ω
Morgan Jenson is a coffee mug-hoarding artist pursuing an AA in art. When she isn’t collecting shiny rocks, she designs emotion-evoking characters and writes thought-provoking stories. Find more of her work at https://mojayarts.wixsite.com/portfolio.
Baylee Haggard says: “This piece represents the whirlwind feeling of growing up, realizing you’re able to be observed by others and all the thoughts and feelings that come along with it. With vibrant colors and the subject ‘seeing stars,’ the painting evokes a feeling of living in the clouds.”
Sycamore Canyon
By CHRISTOPHER MENEZES and KRISS KRUCKENBERG
We wandered into the fields
in front of our childhood home
into Sycamore Canyon
to lay our backs against the boulders
and let the sun warm our skin.
We knelt by the trees growing from the ravine,
our knees sinking into the damp earth.
You plunged your hand into the cold water
snagged a crawdad with your fingers.
A hawk circled above us,
and I said to you, “I never want you to die.”
The grassy hills still speak
of who we once were—
kids riding bikes through the dirt,
grinding our skates against the curb,
under backyard stars, talking and laughing too loud,
parents yelling out the window to “keep it down.”
I dreamt I saw you in our house,
making coffee,
reaching for a mug.
You stood tall, calm.
Your fatherly presence
put me at ease.
You asked me for a spoon.
I grabbed one and dropped it.
With gentle eyes, you looked at me,
said, “It’s okay.”
I woke up crying, calling out your name,
the name I gave you—Dad.
It’s been ten years since you passed,
and I miss you
like I miss the moon
glowing over the hills of Sycamore Canyon.
I miss you as the sun drifts beyond the horizon
of Sycamore Canyon.
Ω
Christopher Menezes holds a BA in creative writing from California State University, Long Beach, and an MFA in poetry from Converse College. A flash-contest winner for Switchback and a 2023 Best of the Net nominee, his work has appeared in Red Door, RipRap, Rockvale Review, Gold Man Review, Untenured, and others. Check him out at christophermenezes.com or Instagram @menezes_christopher.
Braeden Sagehorn was born and raised in Shelton, Connecticut, but currently resides in West Haven. He attends the University of Connecticut School of Medicine as a third-year medical student.
Girl in a Raincoat
by PIA QUINTANO
Every time he saw the girl at Starbucks he thought he should talk to her, but he remembered his bad skin and thinning hair, and thought it unlikely that his status would improve over that of a stranger.
He loved the pooled caramel light of her hair across the back of her beige raincoat, the black tights and flat, ballet-like shoes. She sat in front of tall cups of latte, curling a strand of hair around her index finger or fidgeting with her hoop earrings. She always seemed to be there on Wednesdays, so he made it his business as well, although he had to remind himself that it had been a habit before he knew her. He went there after his last adult class each week, unwinding around total strangers who would be unlikely to ask him questions, unlike his endlessly curious students. He had seen her for the first time in March in a drizzle that pasted the windows with gray spots. She had stared in, at him, it seemed, and he thought he knew her. But when she walked in and shook herself out, he saw that her features were strange, as if she were a mix of different languages and habits which had somehow boiled themselves into a unified whole. He was uncertain what it was that caused him at first to think she was not pretty. Maybe she was simply a configuration that was unknown to him. His students were mostly older women, pinched, painted lips and eye makeup melting into their crow’s feet and fragile hair. They had become his orbit; he was powerless to dispute the authority of their images over all the others that ran through the city, for the others had nothing to do with him. The tiny rooms in the Village which he had shared with his wife before she miscarried and moved away, where he was the ruler over a kingdom of cockroaches and dirty plates, seemed to seal his separation from the rest of humanity as well.
When he first saw the girl, she seemed to him to be a mistaken traveler, into the outer rings of the solar system he inhabited. She sat at the counter in front of the window, and he watched the back of her, the bones that swelled in her neck when she pulled her long hair aside. Her hands were small and delicate, her face smooth and unformed as if no thoughts had hardened it.
He forgot about her after that first time but then saw her again the following Wednesday and again the next week. And he began to feel a kind of companionship with her—as if he were reaching out his arms from the loneliness of an unlisted planet and allowing her to enter its stratosphere—yet she kept out of reach. He watched her as she read paperbacks whose titles he couldn’t decipher. She looked like a student, yet she carried no textbooks, only a small black bag hanging from a thin strap on her shoulder. It rained every Wednesday, and each time she stood before the window, peering inside as if he and the other customers were the inhabitants of a zoo she couldn’t decide whether or not to visit. He studied her as she stood on line, the thin calves and small feet; she was completely beige and cloud colored. He sat at the counter where she might choose to join him, but she never used the vacant seats next to him. Fate was against him; a more private spot always seemed to open somewhere else.
Then, on the last Wednesday in March, with a sense of nothing left to lose, he picked up his cup and brazenly sat down next to her at the counter. She was looking straight ahead at the window, at the streams of drizzle running down it and he had an impulse to touch her face, clear the reflection of the water from her cheek. She didn’t look at him, but he could tell by the movements of her eyes that she had found him in her peripheral vision. He tried to drink as neatly as possible, to make only a slight interruption in the straight and unfettered line she kept. Her shoulders appeared narrowed and sloped and there was something fragile about the thinness of her neck. He wondered what thoughts were trapped within the smoothness of her skin. He didn’t attempt to talk to her.
In April, it rained heavily, and on the first Wednesday she came in and sat in the seat beside him at the counter. He felt himself blush and thought about the uselessness of his ideas, the things he was attempting to teach his class that beaded up on them and rolled away, the literature he would explain to them as if he were coaching them in the possible existence of unicorns. They had no talent for anything that wasn’t nailed down. It was as if by teaching them a work like Turn of the Screw he was asking them to become Satanists or sell their country homes to the state. She took a book out and he saw it was a popular novel, the kind he would never give his class, the kind having no “vertical life.” All the equations happened on the surface. She read steadily and then came up for air, poking her head up and looking out the window in front of her, then laying the book down and reaching for her coffee.
It was almost spring, and he was 45. He thought of himself as something damaged, which stood outside the seasons since he only piloted its ships and did not come to harbor with anyone he cared about. His wife had miscarried a deformed infant in the second trimester and in his grief over the unrealized baby for which they had bought crib and clothes, he saw in the girl something newborn and fresh, and into her image, he poured the spilled feelings of fatherhood and shame. He couldn’t sympathize with his wife because, on some level, he blamed her for the loss, not of the child but for the loss of the idea of the child in his head. When he looked at the girl, he saw no blame: something for which he felt no sympathy or regret. His mind embraced her as if she were something too special to have been born to them.
He cleared his throat. “Good book?”
She turned to him as if she had been poked, and he suddenly regretted having intruded into the space that had been established between them. But then her face softened a bit.
“So far. I haven’t finished it yet.”
Her voice was gentle and tan-colored like her face, as if it had been mixed on a beach with sand as fine as silk.
“I always ask because I teach literature, and I’m always curious about what people like in books.”
She seemed to be weighing what he said, not as if she didn’t believe him, but as though she were seeing inside, wondering how she should judge someone who played their card so soon.
“I don’t know what I like about books. I just like to read.”
The simplicity of her response endeared her to him. He noticed that she wore a delicate watch, with a thin gold band that hung on her narrow wrist like a bracelet.
“I like to read too but I forget that sometimes in teaching.”
She nodded. “I like to read,” she said again. “But I’ve never studied it.”
“No reason to,” he said. “If you have a natural instinct toward understanding it.”
“I think I do.” She seemed to tuck herself away, lifting her elbows up. For a moment, the view of her face was obscured.
“Are you a student?”
She looked at him as if she had momentarily forgotten his existence. She shook her head.
“No, I’m finished with school. I do websites. I wouldn’t want to be in school again.”
“I guess most people wouldn’t.”
“Except if they teach. I guess a teacher never really graduates.”
“No,” he said, trying to strangle a dry cough. “We retire…sometimes. If we don’t die first.” He looked at her and smiled.
“I guess it’s sort of a relief either way.”
She seemed to be drinking her coffee at a faster pace. He wondered if at any moment she would get up and leave. What would he do then? Would he look back over the last several weeks and see them as nothing but an illusion leading up to a disappointment? But she sat there still as if she were a child at a table waiting for a parent to dismiss her. He forgot he had a cup in his hand and spilled a bit on the counter, making a small puddle in front of him.
Finally, unable to bear the silence between them, he stood up.
“I guess I’ll move on,” he said.
“What direction are you walking in?”
“Seventy-seventh Street. I take the subway. The six.” The subway. The word was suddenly part of this new universe: there it lay in his mind, warm and long and eel-like. The subway. A lovely word.
She stood up, too, and followed him out. Once in the street, he saw that she meant to walk alongside him, and he was stupefied. They walked through the crowded drizzly streets that still didn’t feel like spring and talked about nothing. Her presence and his discomfiture seemed to take up all the space between them and the humidity made his mind feel as soft as cloth. Yet he was walking with her. The people who passed them took on a complementary glow. They were inside the dream.
When they reached seventy-seventh street, she waved goodbye and turned east. He walked down the subway steps, a person unlike the one who had gone down the same ones many times before. Once in the hot station, he took off his raincoat. The train took a long time to come. He didn’t care.
That night, he studied his face in the bathroom mirror. His hair was thinning but not gray. Still, the mirror wasn’t very clean.
The next Wednesday, he didn’t expect to see her, but she was there again at the counter, and like a mirage she waved to him. He hung his raincoat behind the chair next to her and then ordered his coffee, feeling his whole body vibrating slightly. When he returned to his seat, he saw that she had a book open: The Ballad of the Sad Café.
When he sat down, she closed it and turned to him.
“I think that poems are a great act of love,” she said. “Have you noticed that no one demonstrates that anymore. Young men are lazy.”
He didn’t stop to wonder why she was confiding in him. He only wondered why he was so suddenly blessed.
“Well, I don’t know that it’s lack of energy so much as lack of imagination.”
“That’s very sad,” she said. “But it doesn’t surprise me.”
“Imagination can be stimulated by reading. If young men are no longer reading books about romantic gestures, then they won’t know they are supposed to make them.”
“I guess not. But I didn’t read those things and I still know. By instinct.”
“That’s remarkable,” he said.
“I can always tell when something is missing. It just comes out as too pragmatic. Dry.”
“I’m surprised you would say that, considering that your work involves the computer.”
“It doesn’t mean I want my relationships to be pragmatic. Although sex is that way sometimes.” She seemed to get a little depressed. He was rubbing the rim of his coffee cup repeatedly, thinning out the streaks of coffee. If he kept up the same motion maybe the spell wouldn’t break. “I was always very romantic,” he said. “Probably frightened a few young ladies away.”
She brightened. “Did you? I think it’s better that way. I guess I was born in the wrong era.”
“All romantics feel that way,” he said, happy to join in her distress. “I certainly always felt that way about myself. It’s probably why I love literature so much. It isn’t just that it takes place in a past era, but people no longer seem made the same way emotionally. No one makes grand gestures anymore unless it’s shooting up a school.”
She nodded her head vigorously. He had noticed a bit of color rimming her cheeks.
“Why do you think it appeals to us so much?” she said. “The idea of romanticism?”
But that was a question he couldn’t answer because, looking at her, she seemed to him to be embodiment of the romantic ideal he had searched for his entire life. All the things he had felt and suffered so recently—grief, loss, meaninglessness—evaporated in her presence.
“I think you are here to teach me a lesson about life,” he said. Then he wished he could take it back.
“Maybe I should hide in books, too,” she said.
They left together a few minutes later. After walking a block, he stopped and, feeling suddenly very close to her, cut through the space between them and hugged her. She was so slender it reminded him of the time he had stooped down and picked up an injured sparrow from the sidewalk. He’d closed his hand around it and felt within his fingers the near possibility of breaking all its bones. It felt like he could break her, that he should apologize for the force he had applied, but they kept walking, and she left him at the subway. He wondered if he had offended her.
The following Wednesday, they arrived at Starbucks at the same time, and he felt exhilarated just entering the shop with her. They spoke of the book she had brought: La Vita Nuova, poems he practically knew by heart. It moved him incredibly that, because of him, she had bought a book of poetry. He had never felt that way about any of his students. In fact, the ones who really seemed to listen to him offended him most of all.
That day he waited only until they were outside the shop to hold her close to him and she shivered a bit in his arms. She took his hand, leading him past the subway when they reached Seventy-seventh Street, and he tried not to let it show in his gait that he had crossed a barricade in his life he had never passed before.
She led him to a shallow street east of Second Avenue, to a small walk-up on the edge of an inordinately ugly block, and up three flights of steel-rimmed steps to a small, dim apartment. Without turning on the light, she opened his coat and pressed herself against him. He felt like he was kissing a cloud, like he was touching an image that was retreating from him and yet he continued to do it, without the satisfaction of meeting flesh. She led him into the bedroom and undressed in front of him in the twilight. He did the same, slowly fumbling with his shirt buttons, belt, and zipper. He felt like he was inside a dream, his actions far away, his mind shrouded in mist.
He was unable to get an erection. It was as if his body refused to be stimulated by the slim perfection of her, her smooth pale limbs that asked no participation from him. He began to wonder if the nature of attraction were in the acknowledgement of incompleteness, of the need to add something to the imperfect. They lay side by side on her narrow bed and he looked at the shadows from the striated blinds on her torso. He saw that she was fragile as a bird fallen from the nest: tiny bones, transparent skin. He almost expected to see her heart beating visibly through her breast. She bent her body toward him and kissed him on his face and neck and he shuddered at the idea of her lips upon his pitted cheeks. He was aware that the smell of coffee wafted up from him and his hair was hanging in strands from his face, the moon gleaming off his bald spots and oily skin.
Finally, at midnight, unable to bear the sounds of his stomach growling into the quaint solitude of the room, he sat up. She was resting beside him, her eyes open and he saw in the perfection of her something distasteful, like the uncovering of the soft body of a snail inside a shell. He wondered if this was the beauty at the center of his books which he saw his students gnawing at like a bone. He was side by side with it and couldn’t reach into it, could barely hit against the image. He got out of the bed, and she bent toward him again, putting her fragile hand like a cold leaf against his back. He got dressed and left her coiled on the bed, her hair spread out like a palm leaf.
The next Wednesday, he stood outside the shop and saw that she was once again at the counter inside. Her thin fingers were around a book. He saw that for all her beauty she was vulnerable: there was something edgy and frightened inside of her that needed him. Perhaps he could go inside and sit there, finding in the harsh light an imperfection in her. Perhaps the desire would rage in him like a storm.
But he stood outside, unable to move, knowing that if she failed him that way, the ideas that had become the template for his existence would lose their meaning and pool into a cradle of grief at his feet.
Ω
Pia Quintano is a New York-based writer/painter who likes to explore the temporary atmospheres found by people who have recently endured a loss. Will it be a permanent state or is it providing only a transient peace? Her short stories have been published in Havik and Lunch Ticket.
Steve Zimmerman is a writer and photographer grown in Ohio, now rooted in the Pacific Northwest, finding outlets in literary and art journals such as the Evansville Review and the Bellingham Review, as well as gallery shows and the Tacoma Art Museum. More work available at szimages.photography.
Purple Hyacinths
by HANNAH CONATZER | 2nd Place, student prose contest
Streets lined with vendors selling their goods, people under umbrellas trying to keep the spring shower off their Sunday best, and the occasional kid who wandered off trying to sneak a sweet treat from a vendor were all seen by Oliver Grey, who lingered in the shadows, but none of this mattered. Nothing mattered. Not anymore.
Oliver braced his shoulder against the red brick of the building in the alley and watched the people coming and going. It was dreary for an Easter afternoon with sprinkles of unwelcome rain, but that didn’t stop the vendors or the people searching for that last final touch to their Easter dinner.
A couple rounded the corner and paused, their faces scrunched in confusion. Oliver noticed them but returned his gaze to the crowded street.
“Good day, sir.”
A high feminine voice penetrated his defenses, sounding like hers. He jerked his head toward the woman, but it wasn’t her but rather the couple he spied moments ago.
“We seem to be lost.” The man wrapped an arm around the woman’s waist as he spoke. “Can you tell us which way to Blossom Avenue?”
Oliver looked from the woman to the man and then back to the woman. Their eyes sparkled with love, making his insides twist with regret. This could have been him and her. He wanted to shrug and tell them to find their own way, but the way the woman’s voice resembled hers. He had to hear it again.
“I’m Oliver,” he said, offering a hand and ignoring the man’s question.
Confusion creased the man’s face as he shook Oliver’s hand. “I’m John, and this is—”
Oliver ignored John and stretched out his hand to the woman. “And you are?” A pretty blush tinged her cheeks as she accepted his hand.
“I’m Colette.”
The melodic sound of Colette’s voice made Oliver want to keep her talking. “Are you visiting, or do you live here?
“We came in from New York City to visit my mom for Easter.”
“Well, it’s not New York, but it has its own charms.” Oliver could see John was annoyed but kept it at bay with a forced smile.
“We are in a rush,” John said. “So do you know the way to Blossom Avenue?”
Pushing off from the wall, Oliver nodded as he pointed north. “It’s that way. You’ll have to walk five blocks before you hit it.” He gave a half smile as he added, “Buy her flowers. There’s a flower shop just as you reach the avenue; it might be closed because of the holiday, but you never know.”
“Thank you.” John’s voice was clipped as he propelled Colette forward, but she slipped from his grasp, turning back to Oliver.
“Thank you.” Colette’s voice was soft, almost inaudible, but Oliver heard it. “I hope you have a happy Easter, and may God bless you.” She smiled as she looped a hand through John’s expectant arm.
Then they were gone just as quickly as they appeared. Colette’s words rolled over and over in Oliver’s head as he returned his gaze to the street but blankly saw nothing. God had cursed him, not blessed him, cursed to always see glimpses of her in other people but never have her.
Pushing down the sorrowful feeling Oliver had when he thought of her. He headed for Blossom Avenue.
Everything seemed duller even though every shop was decorated in bright colors for Easter. The sprinkles Oliver had felt early were gone, but gray clouds still hung in the sky. Everyone he passed had a smile despite the dreary weather, which only soured his mood more. Thankfully, the walk to Blossom Avenue didn’t take him long. Relief washed over him when he saw the flicker of the open sign on the flower shop. He picked a deserted ally facing the shop he had recommended to the couple. He waited.
Some might think Oliver was stalking, but he had to know if John was a worthy guy for Colette. That was his reasoning as he crossed his arms while he watched the flower shop.
Oliver began to think they had ignored his suggestion, but then the chime of the bell on the shop door opening made him relax. Colette emerged with a small bouquet of red roses, followed by John. The pure delight on her face was worth the wait. They didn’t notice him as they walked down the street, too absorbed by each other’s company. He watched as they rounded a corner, never to be seen again.
A soft rain began, then a downpour, but Oliver didn’t move from the alley as he debated going into the flower shop. He had been to many over the years, but this one was different. It was small, family owned. Swirls of pink spelled out The Blossom, giving it an inviting look. It was the last one he had taken her to, and he had never been back. He couldn’t explain it, but something was drawing him to it.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Oliver sprinted to the shop, already soaked. The bell chimed as he entered, and a young girl, probably around sixteen, waved a greeting as she tied ribbons on bouquets behind the counter.
An older man with graying hair on his temples, who he remembered from last time as the owner, chuckled, “Looks like you got caught in the rain.”
Oliver grinned and shook his head, water droplets spraining off at the movement. There were several people already perusing what was left of the rose section. Twisting past a couple, he maneuvered to the section of smaller filler flowers for bouquets. He fingered the baby’s breath and closed his eyes, trying to remember her, but it pinched his heart.
Opening his eyes, he watched the people around him. Some frowned while others smiled. It was strange to think people gathered here for one purpose. Buying flowers. It didn’t matter if it was lovers, friends, or strangers; they were all buying flowers. He wondered what had propelled them to make their selections as one couple headed for the checkout. Joy, pleasure, friendship, purity, forgiveness, or death? What was the occasion? An anniversary, wedding, birthday, illness, or funeral?
Oliver slowly headed to the checkout counter, where the girl was finishing tying a baby blue ribbon around a bouquet.
“What can I do for you?” she said.
“I’m not sure,” Oliver said.
The girl raised an eyebrow but then flashed a smile. “It’s for a girl, isn’t it?”
Oliver marveled that she had guessed right and nodded, “Yeah.”
“We’ve been pretty busy today, so our selection is smaller than usual. Hmm.” The girl hummed as she tapped her fingers on the counter one, two, three before her eyes lit with an idea. “Are you looking for meaning behind your flowers?” Before Oliver could answer, the girl dodged into the back and came back with three different elegant bouquets. She set them on the counter as she spoke, “We have peonies, sunflowers, or tulips, which symbolize happiness, prosperity, and romance.” A dreamy look crossed her face as she expectantly looked at him.
Setting his jaw, Oliver looked the flowers over and shook his head. “I don’t think these will do,” he said.
Undisturbed, the girl darted to the back again, leaving Oliver staring at the cheery yellows, pinks, and whites of the flowers she left behind, which made him scoff.
The girl reappeared a moment later with yet three more bouquets. “Perhaps these will catch your fancy.” One by one, she set them down, pointing to each one as she did. “Daisy is loyal love, violet is faithfulness, and aster is love, affection, and wisdom.”
Again, Oliver looked them over, but none of them could convey how he felt. Nothing could he fear. “These won’t do, either.”
The shop owner stood beside the girl and asked, “What won’t do?” He cast a glance at the girl, who shrugged.
“It’s not what I’m looking for.” Oliver indicated to the bouquets on the counter. “I need something else. Something better.”
The owner looked Oliver over hard, and a deep understanding seemed to tense his face. “I’m afraid what you are looking for can’t be found in any of my flowers.”
Fisting his hands, Oliver felt the fear clawing its way back into his mind. “There must be something,” he said. “Anything.” Despair choked him as he tried to keep the tears from his eyes. He whispered, “She needs to know how much I’m sorry.”
“I might have something,” The owner said. He turned to the girl. “Put these back.” He disappeared while the girl solemnly gathered the bouquets and disappeared, leaving Oliver alone. The people who had previously been pursuing the flowers were also gone. A hundred memories of her swirled in his head, but the sound of the owner’s heavy stride shook him free of those haunting thoughts.
When Oliver looked up, his breath caught in his throat as the owner placed flowers of the most vivid purple he had ever seen in front of him. “These are purple hyacinths,” the owner said. He eyed Oliver before continuing. “They mean deep regret, sorrow, and asking for forgiveness.”
Oliver fingered the silky petals. They were perfect. “I’ll take them.”
The owner gave a soft smile as he handed the bouquet to him. “They’re on the house.”
“I can’t do that. Let me pay.”
“Living with regret is the worst thing. I’ve been there.” A saddened expression creased the owner’s face. “All you can do is try to make it right.”
“What if I can’t make it right?”
The owner leaned against the counter, his face earnest. “There’s only one way to find out.” He winked. “Now go get your girl.”
Carefully carrying the purple hyacinths, Oliver bid the owner and girl goodbye and stepped onto the street. The smell of rain hit him full force, but thankfully, the downpour was a mere drizzle now. He waved down a taxi and told the driver where to go.
“Are ya sure?” The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror. “It’s a ways.”
Settling on the seat, Oliver answered confidently while he kept the hyacinths in his hand. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Alright then.” The driver turned on his meter and turned the taxi onto the street.
As they got closer and closer to his destination, a nervous sweat beaded Oliver’s forehead. A jerk of the taxi made Oliver grip the hyacinths tighter.
“We’re here,” the driver said.
Oliver dug into his pocket and handed the driver the required amount plus a tip.
“Thanks for the tip,” the driver said as Oliver stepped from the car. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
Oliver mumbled back, but he couldn’t tell you what he said as he stared at the sight in front of him. The Fairview Cemetery. It was gloomy with gray clouds that swirled in the sky, releasing a slight drizzle. The grass was green from all the April showers, but the headstones contrasted against its bright foreground. Many graves had various flowers or none at all the person beneath was no longer remembered.
The one Oliver picked his way to was the only white marble headstone. It was still as pristine as the day it was placed. He ran a hand over the engraving that spelled Emily Harper 2002-2022. She had been his fiancée. A woman who could make the greyest day the brightest just by simply existing. Tears fell as he kneeled in the mud, his voice shaking.
“It’s all my fault” he said. “I’m so sorry, my love. I failed you.” He placed the purple hyacinths on top of the grave. “Please forgive me.” It suddenly began to rain hard, but Oliver didn’t care. He was already soaked from earlier. “I don’t want to live with this hole in my chest, love. I want to be with you.”
Nothing seemed to matter as Oliver stared at Emily’s headstone. He wished he was beneath the ground instead of her, but life was cruel. She was only twenty years old. Her life had barely begun before God took her away from him. Anger stirred in his heart as he fisted his hands, but it dissipated as fast as it had come. It was his fault, not God’s. He should have protected her.
Oliver stayed hunched in the rain for what seemed like forever, but night finally came, leaving him more heartbroken than before. Glancing at the small chapel, he wondered, if he prayed, that maybe God would take away this sinking feeling of regret. The last time he had been in a church was Emily’s funeral, and he never wanted to set foot in another one. He believed God had abandoned him. However, he was willing to try anything to rid himself of this guilt.
As Oliver mounted the steps, his stride got heavier. He came to the door. He paused, breathing deeply, before he pushed the heavy wooden doors open. There were only about six rows of pews on either side, with an aisle through the middle. Rows of candles lit the darkened sanctuary. He noticed no one was inside, so he closed the door behind him. He sat on the first pew and stared at the serene glass window that depicted the last supper. Nothing stirred as he tried to think of what to say.
Folding his hands, Oliver bowed his head for the first time in two years and asked for forgiveness. That all the regret he felt for Emily would go away and that he would have some sign she had forgiven him. Raising his head, his eyes found the reverend of the chapel staring at him with compassion.
“I’m sorry,” the reverend said. “I didn’t mean to stare.” The reverend took a step closer. “I wasn’t expecting someone so late on Easter Sunday.”
“I wasn’t expecting to be here either.” Oliver indicated the direction of the cemetery with his head. “I just came to visit someone special.”
The reverend settled in the pew next to him. “They must have been very special.”
“She was,” Oliver said. Clearing his throat, he looked straight ahead. “She was my fiancée.”
“I’m sorry.” The reverend was quiet for a moment. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you pray for?”
“I haven’t been in church since the funeral,” Oliver said.
“Do you blame God?”
Oliver shook his head, still avoiding the reverend’s gaze. “I blame myself. I prayed that God would forgive me and that He would give me a sign that Emily has forgiven me.”
“I’m sure Emily has forgiven.”
“But I need a sign,” Oliver sighed. His eyes strayed to the familiar shade of the purple hyacinths sitting in a glass vase; however, daffodils were also in the same vase. “What do those mean?” He said, pointing to the daffodils.
“What do they mean?” The reverend scrunched his eyebrows in confusion.
“Yes, you know, every flower has a meaning, like purple hyacinths, which mean regret and stuff like that.” Oliver tried to contain himself as he stared at the reverend, expectant for his answer.
The reverend came beside Oliver as he spoke. “They are often associated with new beginnings.” He paused, tears brimming in his eyes. “They mean honesty, truth, and forgiveness.”
Oliver nearly collapsed at the relief he felt as he stared at the vase. The daffodils surrounded the purple hyacinths like a hug, like Emily was reaching down from heaven to hug him with forgiveness.
“You have your sign,” the reverend said.
Oliver was so overcome with emotion, speaking about Emily for the first time in two years. He felt true peace. The regret had vanished. He knew he would always miss her, but he didn’t have to die every day with the guilt he had been carrying. It was a start to healing.
Ω
Hannah Conatzer is currently a student at TCC and is pursuing an AA in Liberal Arts. She enjoys many hobbies, including reading, writing, pottery, and traveling. Writing is one of her passions, and she hopes to one day become a published book author.
Eric Calloway says of his photography: “These are moments in my life where I got lost in thought, completely detached from the world around me, and lost in thought an imagination.”
American sonnet on finding out
by DAISY BASSEN
The leopard is enjoying eating your face.
That’s no consolation, I imagine.
I wouldn’t presume to know, to declare
Empathy, when that’s something you never cared
About before your face was a meal, not savored
But consumed with a certain zest, the inverse
Of the way a leopard lies in the hot sunshine,
Every moment being added to the one before,
The embodiment of potential energy. The pause
Before the strike, the kill that turns you
From someone into something, voilà! The leopard
Isn’t wasteful but doesn’t gorge herself.
She leaves what’s left for jackals, who,
It is alleged, love to laugh over their dinner.
Ω
Daisy Bassen is a poet and community child psychiatrist who graduated from Princeton University’s Creative Writing Program and completed her medical training at the University of Rochester and Brown. Her work has been published in Salamander, McSweeney’s, Smartish Pace, Plume, New York Quarterly, and [PANK], among other journals. Born and raised in New York, she lives in Rhode Island with her family.
Alpie Lein graduated from TCC in December 2024. She moved back to Germany to obtain her English BA in Berlin, where she is living and working as a photographer. In her free time, she is writing poetry and prose.
Sacrifice
by NELLE YVON
Alice is covered in bruises, gaining no weight,
and daily, syncope pulls her to linoleum.
Her obstetrician tells her to
eat a steak or a burger for chrissakes
but she hasn’t eaten meat since she was ten,
since a field trip to a farm featured calf-butchering.
At the first stick of exsanguination, she went lights out.
Straw clung to her hair the long bus ride home.
But today, on doctor’s orders, she drives through In-n-Out,
gets a Double-Double. She idles in a parking lot,
holding the cheeseburger with both hands.
Flashes of cattle fill her mind as she chews—
gorgeous Holsteins, Belgian Blues,
their bellies sway as they low. As they chomp grass.
Alice touches her own belly, the papaya-sized baby
she feeds and grows.
She feels me kick as she finishes lunch,
as she licks her fingers clean.
Ω
Nelle Yvon (she/her) lives in Georgia and writes about the doomsday cult of her youth, high-control fundamentalism, and psychopathy. She is the managing editor for Beyond Bars, a journal dedicated to amplifying the voices of incarcerated writers and artists.
Caleb Ishaya Oseshi is documentary photographer. He embarked on his photography journey during the pandemic and has since never relented. He aims to tell stories through photography, exploring nature’s beauty and human diversity. His photographs are featured in Sunlight Press, Synchronized Chaos, Watershed Review, and other publication platforms. With exhibitions in Nigeria and the United States, he is a member of the African Photojournalism Database (APJD).
Up in the Red Mountains
by ALPIE LEIN | 2nd Place, student poetry contest
for Maren O. Mitchell
She plants handpicked words
And petunias
In poems and beds
And with delicate hands,
Folds pieces of paper
Into flocks of birds—
Airy-winged—
Unable to escape winter,
But bound to withstand time
And seasons.
Winter in the bones,
On the doorknob,
The early morning floor,
And on the porch.
“Not a good time,” she says,
Feels frozen—to the calendar day,
And stiff like the paper birds.
Hot tea, and pain, and feeding the kitty,
And pain—
Up in the red mountains,
Where winter migrates,
When birds migrate south.
“Not a good time,” she says,
I’m not sure she knows—
But blue spring is burbling in her eyes—
Held captive in a fragile body
With winter in the bones—
Still—withstanding time
And seasons
With an abundance of blissful patience—
Cultivated and watered over countless winters,
In poems, and beds.
What she knows:
“They will bloom!”
Ω
Alpie Lein graduated from TCC in December 2024. She moved back to Germany to obtain her English BA in Berlin, where she is living and working as a photographer. In her free time, she is writing poetry and prose.
Mahshid Gorjian is a multidisciplinary artist and PhD student in Geography, Planning, and Design at the University of Colorado, Denver. With a background in fine arts and creative technologies, she explores the intersection of art, culture, and environmental studies. Her work focuses on digital painting, GIS, and urban design, reflecting themes of tradition, identity, and resilience. Through her art, she aims to bridge past and present, using digital tools. See more at mahshidgorjian.artstation.com.
Rattan Vanity
by FRANK CARELLINI
They walked to the edge of the shore.
“It’s just there,” he pointed. “We just have to get to there.”
She was skeptical. She had heard about this place before. Had been warned not to try. Even though it was a stone’s throw away, many had drowned.
He started removing his shoes with his right hand while still holding hers with his left. Uncoiled his socks into balls that fit inside his shoes. Turning to her in an embrace, he reassured, “it doesn’t even go more than waist deep.” He dipped a toe. “And it’s warm.”
At this point in their life, it was necessary to try. Nothing had worked out. Not the counseling. Not the all-inclusive. Nor the extra day per week working from home. Nor the new bed. Nor the burning of the old one.
Laughter streamed from across the water. So clear. It was a bright, yellow sound, like a clavichord. All one could make out as far as the eye could see was a speck, but the sound of joy so clearly tunneled into their ears. So clearly seemed to be the song they wanted to be singing along with.
It didn’t go more than waist deep. It was warm. They were already a foot in.
The day was mild. The drive there had been effortless. Getting to the coffee shop early enough to get one of the vegan bear claws that typically sold out felt like an accomplishment. It felt good to make something work. It felt good to taste thick clumps of iced sugar melt on their tongues.
The day was mild in its bashful sun behind clouds—not so that the day was gray, but so that there was a light-yellow film over the horizon. A warm-but-determined air blew uninvited into their nostrils. They breathed easily. It felt good.
It didn’t go more than waist deep. Their ankles were, at this point, submerged but visible. Split from their bodies by a plane of light. Discolored by the distance to the surface. Unrecognizable. The tide bringing and then taking back heaps of sand that covered their toes.
Her guard was lowering. Now she led him. This felt like an accomplishment. Her hair blew with the gentle breeze. Today, beauty was easy.
They were not more than five or ten paces from the shore. Turning, one could see their arranged clothes—his flannel shirt folded over those brown boat shoes. Her summer coverall coiled like a snake. The day remained cooperative. It had not revoked its promise to be mild.
“Okay,” she said, which was as much a vocalization of trust in him, as it was a reassurance to herself. “Ooh, colder,” she amended as, at knees’ depth, their feet slid into a decline of colder water. Ankles still visible. Not toes.
Now he led. Trying to part the cold water, so that she could step in warmer tracks. He didn’t remove his undershirt. Now the bottom was wet and clinging to his swimsuit.
The day remained cooperative and mild. The stone outcropping, their destination, came sharper into view. The laughter more decipherable. Still, figures of bodies could not be made out. Had this been right? “We’ll only know, if we get closer,” she said, this time purely for her self-assuredness.
They waded for a while, waist deep. Her bellybutton submerged. The coldness of the water did not subside. But remained clear. Clear, but here, a darker blue. No longer the innocent green tinge of inch-deep water, where toes were still part of the body and baby fish nipped at them. Knees still visible. Not ankles.
Weird to study the body in terms of what can be seen, she thought. I want to know my feet.
He looked back. Now she was trailing at an arm length. She moved slower and slower as they waded further in. His hand pushed the water aside, as if that made it easier. There was a degree of calm in the sound his hand made moving in its own personal tide.
She trailed him. He looked back, with a reassuring smile and slight nod. Something smacked against her leg. She startled in a hop. Something slick and muscular had smacked her calf. Some sort of tail whipped around her shin. He looked back. The day remained cooperative. She moved even slower now. Setting into a thicker layer of cloud, the day remained cooperative but turned from yellowish to blueish.
They reached a small incline in the water. Now, her bellybutton was above the surface. Warmer now. Bit of a shiver. Warmer, but still blue.
Laughter became louder, more surrounding, as if raining down on them.
They looked back. The shore, where they left their belongings, was no longer in view.
They turned to look forward. The stone outcrop was no longer in front of them. Without panicking, he looked around, scanned the horizon with his hand to his forehead.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
It was getting darker, but the day remained cooperative. Shards of orange light splayed through splits in the last remaining layers of cloud.
He did another survey. Turning his body in each direction to look. Mistake. That was a mistake. Now he had lost which direction was forward. He did not realize he let go of her hand. He turned and saw a figure maybe twenty paces. To his right. He waded with a bit of haste. Making a small wake in his path.
He approached her. “Didn’t even realize you’d wandered off,” he said. She didn’t reply but stared downward. The day was cooperative; the water remained clear. But these were not her legs. She did not know how to operate them. He reached for her hand. Cold. He put it under his arm to warm.
The stone outcropping had reappeared in the horizon. Closer, they could hear laughter but also crying. Or perhaps it was just hard laughter. The moon was at the mouth of the water, transparent and huge. It rose. It was kind in lighting the surface of the water, which remained still. But for the waves he made with his hand.
He looked back at her. He loved her more in this moonlight. “Like a mermaid,” he said with a slight laugh. “Just a little further.”
No storm in the night. It felt good to make something work. Sun had risen. They could start to make out trees on the island. Good fruit. Likely by tomorrow.
Trees, but also thickets. That wasn’t fruit. But beautiful flowers. Weird. They said there would be others.
Ankle deep now. Water back to yellowish. And those small fish. Nice to see them again.
A plank of wood floated by. He laid her onto it. She had grown weak. Didn’t notice those streaks of gray before. Her mouth uttered something, but he couldn’t make out the words over the loud streams of laughter. Must need water, he thought. He took handfuls of water from the surrounding sea to her mouth. She coughed. It burned.
They got to shore. Two perfectly arranged outfits. Great, they got his request for the seersucker suit. Wasn’t sure the email went through. He shed his bathing suit. White, pruny thighs and ass. Shook the sand from his groin. Put on the seersucker suit. Comes with a hat. How neat.
She had not gotten up off the plank. He was in the mood for a smoothie. The menu online said that Wednesdays was guava pineapple. He would find help after his smoothie. One of the counseling sessions had taught him to “practice self-love.” He found himself laughing. Loud. With the others. Wow, this seersucker suit fits perfectly. Who would’ve thought. A thirty-eight regular.
The bar was ornate layers of rattan. Thatched roof. So authentic, he thought. No bartender. Just a tray of the Wednesday special. Piece of pineapple sliced to fit on the rim. Cherry too. He drank and it cooled his insides. He could feel the crushed ice move down his esophagus. Loved that feeling. Thursday special was mango passionfruit. That would be a good one.
Oh, he remembered. Let me find help. No attendant at the medic tent. Autonomous robot vacuum in the lobby. Figured he’d check-in while he was here. Rooms looked nice. Two double beds. Jacuzzi hot tub. Rattan vanity.
Wrote note “need help” and left at front desk. Didn’t bother to ring the bell.
Hard to find his way back to her. Only directions were to the wellness center, restaurant, and main lobby.
He passed surfboards for rent. Maybe tomorrow.
The day had been cooperative. Though, bit of a haze. He matted zinc sunscreen onto his face. Read it was safer for reefs.
He made his way back to shore.
Plank of wood was not there. Neither was she. Her perfectly folded outfit sat alone. Seersucker jumper. He thought she would look so cute in it. He looked toward the horizon. The brim of his hat was kind in blocking the sun.
There, in the distance, she was floating on the plank of wood. The tide had taken her back into sea. He couldn’t really get his new shoes wet. And he wouldn’t be back for luau hour.
She drifted and drifted.
He turned to go find a piece of fruit.
Ω
With previous or forthcoming publications in Bayou, Meridian, and Barzakh, Frank Carellini makes poetical and visual works out of the Hudson Valley.
Brandon Smallwood writes: “Personal Motivation” depicts a person twice: once in the mirror, dressed up and pointing, symbolizing confidence and aspiration, and again outside the mirror, the same person looking inward, reflecting on their goals. This dual image conveys self-inspiration and introspection, highlighting the power of personal motivation, while also sending the message that you are your best motivator.