Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

Mercury from Earth
Allison Parker

Mercury is a woman.
She is fast, she is full of gab
and she circles me and comes in
for a kiss when I hug her goodbye.
She sneaks it. I know her fists
will never break my skin.
She tells me when I look up at her:
A woman cannot abuse a woman. She can
only tease her, whisper her name, start rumors.
She can perhaps break your heart. But you will
find another. A woman does not hurt,
she is not like the release of a man’s fist, not
like his demands. Only an injured woman could abuse.
This woman wants to carry the message of war.
She is the toothless suit, the silly pugilist.
She is the critical eye under heavy lids, sizing you up.
This is when she becomes the shell of a pitted planet:
a powerless woman.
And only then does Mercury become a man.

Allison Parker is a writer and English instructor living in Wilmington, NC. She graduated with an MFA in poetry in 2002 from UNCW. Her poetry has appeared in Poetry East, Cobalt, Fjords, Lilies and Cannonballs, The Oklahoma Review, Scissors and Spackle, A Sharp Piece of Awesome, and The Lyricist. She currently performs with the sound art troupe 910 Noise.

Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

Sandi Leibowitz

Through diamond panes I watched snow fall,
a steady flight of forgetful moths
past black boughs’ crooked arches,
empty as mourning mothers.

How long I sat and watched, I do not know,
whether it was hours or years,
limbs slack, mind revolving nowhere,
till I sensed (but dimly) how seldom I did note
the passage of the clocks’ hands
or any other thing
except the panes’ dull show.

I observed without panic
my still hands’ subtle shift to marble,
vaguely admiring the blue-grey veining the white,
somehow felt I should have minded,
should have fought,
but sat queenly straight,
attuned only to snow.

Till one moment or one day,
beyond the diamond panes,
out in the woods, a single crow
lifted wings to somewhere,
and I thought of—go.

Might I move a hand or speak?
To whom?
I pushed through the skim of stasis
strong as ice
to remembrance that I had indeed spent years
enthroned, entombed, in a solemn room,
queen of nothing.

Light glimmered where the crow had flown,
a red sun at horizon’s edge,
dawning or sinking.
I surveyed the waste beyond,
the waste within,
and dimly wondered,
How had I sown light
in the time when I once lived?

The question heated me.
I sweated, as if the sun
that overhung a dusky world
burned me with summer fires.

I could not remember when another person
had approached the room,
when last I’d heard a voice.
What had I done in olden times
when I maybe fashioned something
with these frozen hands,
walked out in the world beyond the room,

How had I sown light?

Suddenly light
was something I desired
more than anything.
I desired.

So I cast my soul out after the flight
of that long-gone crow,
cast my thoughts to where a wind
—no matter how ice-bitter it might blow—
could stir a leaf or a curl of bark.

I heard the crack of ice
or marble
or imprisoned heart
and rose.

Sandi Leibowitz is a school librarian and classical singer who writes speculative fiction and poetry. Her works appear in Mythic Delirium, Metaphorosis, Liminality, Polu Texni and other print and online magazines and anthologies. Her poems have been nominated for the Rhysling, Dwarf Star, Pushcart Prize, and Best of the Net awards, and have appeared in Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year 5 and editors’ lists of recommended reading. She lives in a raven’s wood, next door to bogles—in the middle of New York City.

Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

First Date
Lisa Bren

A crowd of broken glass
bottlenecks suspended in the air,
dangling from thin strings of yellow
balls of rubber helium. The wolves were out
last night. I could feel the screams and the weight
of the deadbolt and the wind shifting east. Kiss me
like the winter cold. Transient. Promising. There’s
still a sound rattling in the ceiling. Our mouths
are still full of teeth and maple trees,
a collection of yellowing leaves.

Lisa Bren is a Pacific Northwesterner who drinks caramel lattes, wears wool sweaters, and thoroughly enjoys the ashy smell of campfires. Lisa is currently studying creative writing at Central Washington University.

Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

To My College BFF
Kim Hambright

You reminded me today
of words I can’t remember saying
something about loving you but
I couldn’t have said it so plainly
the boys believe us gay already
but mainly
I wouldn’t have shown
my pocket queens afraid of your aces

I memorized that face you made
when you came to class late
I hadn’t saved the seat next to me
the front row only paces behind B. Lenis
professor with the most condescending
eyelashes and an office peppered
with bobble heads
of the British Queen

To you who wrote the best papers
and struck up our first conversation
about purple hair dye To drinking
mugs of moscato with endless tiramisu
Best. Friends. Forever.
until we’ve grown too tall
to call and ask
How are you?

Kim Hambright is a Florida-based poet currently pursuing an MFA with Chatham University. She enjoys blogging for The Fourth River and collecting fabulous SEE Eyewear. Her work can be found in the “Home” issue of Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing.

Feature: Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

Sharing a Toothbrush, I Decide to Marry Him
M. J. Arlett

Before, too often I dreamed
my teeth were mutineers,
sometimes they would wobble in my jaw for hours.

Once, I gagged up a molar complete with concrete
and moss, a brick in the wall of my mouth gone.
A fear of change I was told. A fear of loss, I read.

I neglected to weed the whites of my eyes,
they grew wild and knotted. I planted acorns
in the pages of my dream dictionary,

between ‘Teeth’ and ‘Telegram’,
hoped their roots would pull up the skeletons
buried in my mind.

M. J. Arlett is an MFA candidate at Florida International University where she is the nonfiction editor for Gulf Stream Magazine. She was born in the UK, spent several years in Spain and now lives in Miami. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Lunch Ticket, Poet Lore, Mud Season Review, Tinderbox Poetry Review and elsewhere.

Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

The Droning River
Louisa Muniz

Then you looked into the burdened sky,
a voice calling your name, a release
into the arms of the river,
the altar assuaging your sorrow.

The morning after, the workplace,
a dissonant choir, broken words,
sounded in crescendo, like the droning
of the cicada in July.

The newspapers reported they found you
in the river, a newborn nearby in a garbage bag.
Your god, rendered helpless, grieved.
His will undone.

We read Cisneros in a writing class.
You loved her Salvador: the boy with eyes
the color of caterpillar, who is no one’s friend.

A connected moment pillowed in marrow.

Stifled by a controlling husband,
religion dictating your every move,
you suffocated, whittled into stone,
breathing into the seed of emptiness.

Sometimes I drive over the bridge.
Beneath it, haunted water,
the gateway that claimed you.
Whispering, why, my throat fastens.

I have known sorrow sated,
dragging me down to my knees
& I have known faith, this body’s engine,
a clarity curling forth, to pull darkness out.

The cicada’s song rises & falls in crescendo.
It sheds its shell before taking flight,
out of darkness into the light.

Louisa Muniz is a freelance writer and a reading/writing tutor. She lives in Sayreville, NJ. She is a recent retired reading specialist and takes pride in having been a National Board Certified teacher who traveled to China to learn about their educational system. She has a Master’s degree in Curriculum and Instruction from Kean University. Her work is forthcoming in Tinderbox Poetry Journal. She is currently working on her first poetry chapbook.

Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

Louisa Muniz

Those last moments,
a bruised bird
fluttered ’round your death bed
waiting to be free.

You, father I never understood,
leave an ache,
spilling into empty arms,
one I must tend to over time.

Your last labored breath,
in the O of your mouth
is a sparrow of sorrow,
trilling into an empty sky.

We cleaned out your apartment.
I learned you stored long grain rice
in a yellow plastic container.
I claimed it as a keepsake,
a reliquary for holding the sacred,
keys and certificates: birth and death.

For years the relic sat on a pantry shelf
alive in its den of darkness,
spawning morsels of memories,
your flaming hand, a scarlet bird
lashing out with striking fear.

Inspired by Clementia,
the Roman goddess of mercy,
I soaked the container in forgiveness,
sudsed it in prayerful litany, chanting
our father, my father, non-father.
What I’m saying is…
it was time to expel the demons.

Louisa Muniz is a freelance writer and a reading/writing tutor. She lives in Sayreville, NJ. She is a recent retired reading specialist and takes pride in having been a National Board Certified teacher who traveled to China to learn about their educational system. She has a Master’s degree in Curriculum and Instruction from Kean University. Her work is forthcoming in Tinderbox Poetry Journal. She is currently working on her first poetry chapbook.

Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

Sometimes a Raincloud
Nahida S. Nisa

For Jehanzeb



One isn’t one, for there was no Other.


Long ago, before the land known as India split into three, its people lived in languages with geometric words. The languages bled from deep sapphire to sharp green and hardened like sun-struck pearls. Ghazals romanced the moon. In a tribe far into the east, hidden outside a village in Chittagong, a girl named Masna ran her comb through locks of stormy hair. In the morning as the sun pierced the crimson horizon, Masna combed by the river for fish. She ran her fingers through the movement of the cold twisting water as she separated the knots, and the fish sprung, sleepily, into the net of her hair, where they rested, gasping for air, struck by the star-like gleam of the soft tangles. Masna walked barefoot through the villages, the thickness of her hair branching behind her, the rising and falling of her voice luring clawed ants out of seashells on the beach. Children who waited to collect the shells once the creatures abandoned them ran after her with anticipation, whistling cheerfully into flutes that beguiled poisonous snakes from the nearby jungles, and leaving no footprints in the sand.

Monsoons showered the generative land, which had emerged from the sea and was due to sink into the ocean once more. At midnight, Masna danced with tigers, who called to her as she slept. Sometimes, the tigers killed wild birds, and sometimes they killed children. Masna’s dark eyes leaked as she wove the tigers and the children into her sari. She favored rich, powdery scarlet, but the sari was nearly always a lush green, darkened with welled leaves. When the British came, first with gifts, and soon after with weapons, Masna stopped singing. She retreated, quietly, into the shadowy corners, into the roses and trees of her stitching, and into the night that slanted over her. The conquerors spoke a language that tasted like water against spoiled metal. Their words cut her melodious tongue.

The strangers were armed with the ferocity of dragons. They came from the South, but they believed it to be the North and drew it so on their maps. The world titled for the Empire. They subjugated countries that were, from them, far away, mysterious, and, to their calculative gazes, untouched by the refined hand of civilization. Everywhere they attacked in the villages of Chittagong, there was violent resistance, immense sorrow, and the transpiration of the most depraved of crimes. Girls disappeared in the night. The bellies of starved children were pumped with air until they burst. Arms and legs, dismembered, and strands of hair collected on the banks, and both the young and elderly thinned to skeletal remains. The youth carved tunnels deep beneath the earth to escape executions. But with dragons, laced in white scales, weaponry as fierce as the monstrous embodiment of fire, victory for the conquerors was frequent and inevitable.

When a girl named Aadila returned from Lahore to the village near Chittagong, she arrived armed as well, with propositions. Her sari was a shade of sky blue that broke Masna’s heart; trimmed with silver, the sari and the heart fluttered upward toward new constellations as though greeting an old friend. Aadila was clear-eyed and restless; she had travelled far to study philosophy and law, and her hair was arranged with jasmine and kept away from her eyes.

“The dragons are not theirs,” Aadila related to Masna. “They have been stolen from Nanjing and painted white.”

Masna said nothing. With the new violent seasons, waters had warmed and the tigers retreated into the forests. Masna’s feet wandered in the night, but despite the longing in her own heart Masna had not travelled like Aadila, nor like Aadila’s friend, Zerina, from Kāñci-pura. Aadila had met Zerina in Nanjing. Masna did not know the girl well.

“I have never seen a dragon before, but Zerina has seen them,” Aadila added. “Zerina is well-experienced in trade, but the dragons she has seen were very far from the Silk Route. They live in the mountains.”

“They will fall,” insisted Zerina, who had studied in Persia and brought, with her trades, the knowledge of new religions that spoke of jinn made of fire, with a single diety and a new Prophet. “It is Foreseen. They believe that we are less human, that we are Other, but there is no Other; without comparison, there cannot be one, which can exist only with two or three.

“Only All,” Aadila agreed. “In Love, there is no Other.”

Masna said nothing, but listened to this philosophy, her cheeks sunken into her dark eyes. She heard, in the distance, a tiger growl, but it might have been the teeth in her stomach. She felt the teeth growing slowly as she slept.

Soon, when the most restless among the conquered people made way for an uprising as Zerina had prophesized, and as was inevitable and could have been Foreseen, the equipped conquerors arranged for a cruel agreement: liberation would be granted to the conquered peoples if, in three trials, a dragon were convinced to allow the competitor to live.

Unwilling to lose to what they viewed as the simplest of wit—“They want us to know we are monsters, not human,” repeated Aadila in tears the night of the proposition—the conquerors captured three among those whom they believed to be the weakest: three girls, who could not stand in strength against a dragon, three children who had barely reached womanhood and could access neither the wisdom nor experience of the grown. From a village near Chittagong, the imperialists took the girls from their sleep.

The girls had been resting together after speaking to Masna. Only Masna had been awake. She had faced Zerina and Aadila as the three of them were smuggled. The caravan drove into the jeweled capital, and although the girls were well, the fright and sorrow made the shadows on their faces appear skeletal. At their seizure, Zerina and Aadila had screamed, but Masna, her eyes dark and voice low, had sounded low, the base strings of a sitar, a tiger’s growl. A monster against a monster, laughed the conquerors, their tongues still foreign, about the dragon against the girls. Isn’t it then a fair fight?

On a day when the sky had been compassionate with rain and the earth sparkled in new mourning, Aadila stood before a terrible dragon and a crowd of intrusive spectators. The family of the girl was permitted to watch from the humid ditches below with other onlookers, while the conquerors, claiming the splendor of the view for themselves on the steps of luxury, swarmed the great monuments. Aadila gazed at the towers. Her own grandparents had erected them. A rich green forest surrounded them. Aadila had believed she would inherit the monuments in her name for the people of her village, but the imperialists, their faces pale as they watched from the balconies, had taken them for a different queen. She shuddered at the sight, for among the faces of the conquerors, she saw a few of her own.

The dragon retracted its claws and threw back its scaly skull and fumed at the sky.

Aadila, who had not until now seen a dragon, was in awe at such a regal creature of God, Whom she praised for this invention of magnificence. Zerina’s God or some of her own, it did not matter: her mind was too taken to form a distinction. What scales! What finesse like water! Aadila, though raised pristine in her conviction and sense of justice, reminded herself of kindness. At the dragon’s ferocity, she trembled, but still sounded her voice, pure, through the slow, sinking fog, to appeal to the humanity of the dragon. For surely, she reasoned, a creature sprung from the same earth that bore life, from the same God who created her, knew humanity.

“Fearsome dragon!” called Aadila, her tone lilt with reverence. “You have conquered our lands with might, but not with superior skill or virtue. You have not dealt with us justly. We were a peaceable people that did not threaten your country to adapt to our ways, and even provided your captors with our provisions. Surely you would return to us what is rightfully ours. Surely you see that you have wronged us greatly, and that this conquest is a grievous affront to virtue and integrity. Make peace with us, redeem yourself. And join us in Love!”

The dragon glinted. In a swoop and flash, his great tail swung, and his claw crashed upon the blade of her shoulder. He breathed fire on the young girl until she was burned to death.

Taken with overwhelming pleasure at the explicit satisfaction of a grotesque collective curiosity, the masses roared. Their celebration drowned a sob that rose from the ditches. Aadila’s grandparents, faces crumbling like dust, sank into more bodies in misery. Those who were hopeful erected themselves from the heap, blinking away either tears or remnants of the rain, staring wide-eyed into the opening, as if attempting to pray a more forgiving future into manifestation.

The next day, when sprouts of white flowers had begun to lace the flooded kingdom before a rambunctious crowd of amused conquerors, a second girl was flung into the rink with the dragon. Her shoulder was dislocated from the sheer force of the seizure nights before when the girls had been stolen away, but Zerina, who ached already from mistreatment during the journey, had always been a quiet child, making up for words in thoughtfulness; she was diligent in the meticulous craftwork that had once been a joy to her, and had been watchful of the ways of trade as her parents, merchants, travelled through Tehran and Karbala and Nanjing.

Noting that Aadila had failed, Zerina had strategized a different approach. A natural craftswoman of the most beautiful and elegant of pieces, she sought to appeal to the dragon with apparatuses that would bestow, to the eye of the admirer, all of God’s glory.

Zerina was astounded that her voice did not tremble. Her face was still wet from the thought of Aadila’s death. She had not spoken since. Like Masna, Zerina’s cheeks sunk into her skull, but now, she spoke. “Forceful dragon! I bear measuring instruments to map the movements of the ancient stars. These instruments will facilitate the navigation of the vast oceans for your people. If only you will leave us, these and many other inventions will be accessible to you, and together we can make great advances in knowledge. Imagine what we might create in our thrilling exchange of ideas. Is that not the most rewarding way of growth, far more appealing than violence and injustice?” At a memory of men from the caravan, her eyes darkened. “The exchange of… ideas?”

At this there was an uproar of feverish glee from the crowd, and they shouted, “Kill her, and force the equipment from her so that they will be ours for all of history! We will improve upon them! We will sail the oceans and harvest the world for our worthy country!”

And with flames and sparkling teeth, the white dragon did so. His claw pierced her, first through the womb, and Zerina was struck suddenly with a strange kind of tender happiness. She died in a victorious laughter, and the insatiable crowd jeered. The bodies in the ditches below released all pining for justice in a series of anguished sighs. Hair fell over faces like curtains. The show was over—already, two girls had lost. The conquered peoples had accepted their fate. A heavy sadness mixed with the humidity of the air.

On the third day, the telltale wind of an impending hurricane graced the meteoritic beauty of the towering stairways, ripping the new flowers from the dirt like Zerina’s veins. For a century, Masna would not speak, but she did not think of centuries. “You are painted white, but you are one of us, stolen from your home,” she would have sighed to the dragon, but she did not. Masna no longer spoke or sang to the fish. She waited by the forest, chained to the hut, and when the guards had fallen asleep, stood in silence until the tiger came. He slipped through the leaves and stared at her through fire-eyes. Masna opened her mouth. She gaped, widely, and the tiger looked on fiercely, until the tiger, with a tilt of its beastly head, unswallowed the eaten children, who bore for Masna a gift.

“We waited in the stomach of the tiger,” the children laughed. “We waited for you to sing to the fish.” They surrendered their gift to her, a glint of silver, then turned and followed the tiger back into the forest. “We must go. There will be a storm. Look! There are rainclouds. You are left. There is no other but you.”

No other but you. One isn’t one.

Delirious with the death of her countrywomen, Masna, the final contestant, prepared herself to face the dragon the next weak-sunned morning. Stormy dark hair clouded around her grim expression, and as she approached her fate, the audience of conquerors shouted in sneers and threw their fists in the air with twisted arousal.

Smoke rose from the dragon’s nostrils, and a claw curled, waiting.

There was makeshift silence. The conquerors waited eagerly to witness Masna’s brutal defeat. But to the astonishment of the crowd, the girl offered neither reason or compromise as the contestants had before her.

She raised her hand as though a signal, and in a shocking flash of silver, struck a sword at the dragon’s neck.

The creature fell.

Nahida S. Nisa writes about disruption. Her short stories explore power dynamics, upheavals, and the ramifications of trauma on human lives, problematizing the circumstances in which individuals are situated. They suggest unexpected resolutions. “Sometimes a Raincloud” is an homage to the subversive powers of magical realism. Nahida lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, as a settler on Ohlone land.

Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

The Boy in the Woods
Nora Shychuk

The story I am about to tell you is not a happy story. This is not a tale of redemption or closure or bravery. It is about pain and fear and strange friendship and escape. This is a story, told very often now, around fireplaces not so different from this one—around dinner tables and old, creaking rocking chairs—about a boy who was lonely, and treated too poorly, so he ran away from home.

To everyone else, the boy disappeared. His face stared out from newspapers, now yellowed, with a buzz cut and big eyes and a half-grin that looked at once mischievous and so, so lost, marked with inexperience and misplaced, stolen time.

The boy’s name was Cole, and he was just twelve years old when he left us.

Even though he didn’t get very far, Cole was, somehow, never heard from again.

Nobody mentions the ghost in the woods.

But before we get there, let’s retrace. This all started on a cold day, on a graveled road.


Cole stood outside and wiped the blood away from his nose. He didn’t turn back to the house, the house that was his, the house that stood right behind him. He concentrated on the road ahead, Hilltop Drive, and imagined it shooting up into the sky and taking him far away.

The crunchy, dying leaves fell from thin branches and scraped across the rough gravel like paper-thin, decaying hands. There was a smell of spice in the air that day. Cinnamon, almost. A subtle sweetness too. Like vanilla. Vanilla and burnt wood from distant fires.

Hilltop Drive wasn’t really a hill at all, just a slightly inclining road, and Cole’s house stood at the highest point. In both directions, the road curved downward. One end led to a park. The Borough—with a fishing pond and a creek and fossilized rocks. You could always find a few if you looked hard enough, if you flipped the stones over, but you had to be patient. You had to wait and keep looking. Cole usually did. He came back home with two or three heavy rocks in his pockets and lined them along his bookcase or used them as paperweights for his drawings so they didn’t blow away when he left his window open.

The other end of Hilltop Drive, shaded by trees, led to the woods.

On that October day, the wind rose and fell. The chill felt good on Cole’s face, on his open, bleeding wound. He smelled the blood and thought of old pennies as it dribbled out from his nose and out from the cut just under his right eye.

His father wore a ring, his old Fairvale Class of ’85 pride and joy with a green jewel in the center. The silver edges were slightly pointed.

Cole wiped at his face and the blood stained him, stuck to his skin, and he could see every crease, every line on his thin arm, on his small hands. Even as he wiped, even as he tried to stop the bleeding, it fell onto his white t-shirt. He had left in a hurry and hadn’t grabbed a jacket.

As he stood in the front yard that afternoon, Cole knew he was in plain sight—that anyone who looked out of their window, anyone who stepped out for a cigarette or to rake and burn leaves, would see the streak of crimson. But his neighborhood was small. He only had a handful of families to worry about, and most everyone was at work or prepping for trick-or-treating.

I should mention now that it was Halloween. Orange and black streamers wrapped around lamp posts. Blow-up ghosts with vacant, dark eyes whipped and turned in the wind. A wooden, black cat stood in its arched way in a neighbor’s dead, tangled garden, red-mouthed and crazy-eyed.

If anyone came outside, Cole would tell them that he tripped and fell.

He thought he heard the front screen door squeak on its hinges behind him, so he turned and found nothing but the wind as it rushed over the tops of the bushes. He stared at the chocolate brown, front door, eyed the gold-colored 323 at the top center. His address. The site of his memories. Within 323 was his growing height, year after year, penciled on the dining room wall which had stopped abruptly after his birthday three years ago. According to the cream paint, according to the graphite, Cole would forever be aged nine and fifty-four inches tall.

They say the smudged scrawl is still there now. Even this many years later, with Cole’s dad dead and gone himself, but nobody knows for sure. The current owner is so strange, so reclusive; she lets nobody inside because, according to her, the house is haunted. She says, with wild eyes and dove white hair, if she even answers the door at all, that the house is cursed and darkened by spirits. She feels Cole’s presence, back after a lifetime away, and claims that he likes to run from room to room and poke her when she’s trying to sleep at night. Sometimes, she even hears his father slam doors and holler down dark hallways in the early hours of the morning.

The old lady says she wouldn’t dare erase the pencil markings or paint over them for fear it might upset Cole. But Cole was not a troublemaker and would not retaliate; he was not an angry boy. He was quiet and afraid, always so afraid.

Because that’s what happens when your daddy beats you. It follows you and never lets you go.

Cole knew, on that day in his front yard, that his dad was in the house, on the other side of that brown door, maybe even passed out against the same wall he was measured against—or maybe passed out in bed. It didn’t matter. When he woke, he wouldn’t remember what he had done.

Another breeze and Cole shivered; the autumnal gust carried the scent of ice. It would be an early winter, he thought then. Snow on Thanksgiving, covering the sidewalks. Someone would trip and drop a bottle of champagne, spill a soupy casserole, lose an apple or pumpkin pie. Candles would glow in the windows. Chimneys would smoke. Early Christmas songs, Jingle Bells, Frosty the Snowman, Away in a Manger, would drift out from cracked doors, out of car stereos as the tires crunched on the road and slowed to a stop. Families would sit around tables, in red turtlenecks and heavy, white sweaters, and drink hot cider and rose-colored wine. Grandfathers would cut the turkey, mothers would set out napkins, forks, and spoons. Together they would look outside and see snowmen standing in the yard, motionless, save for a checkered scarf blowing in the winter wind.

Cole had been right. After he disappeared, the very next day, it snowed at dawn. When the sky was still pink, still dotted with heavy, purple clouds, the snowflakes danced silently downward and covered the ground in a sparkling white. November had come. Everything was new and everything was different.

A small, navy car turned onto Hilltop Drive that afternoon and crawled closer toward Cole. Dead leaves fell on Mrs. Witherson’s windshield like raindrops. Cole could tell it was her by the vanity plate at the front of the car—a painted image of the Earth with the word PROTECT beneath in a large, yellow font. She worked for the science museum in town, just past the library, and yelled at Cole once for leaving a Coca-Cola bottle outside on his driveway instead of recycling it. It had only been there a few minutes; he had planned on coming back for it. Her voice, he remembered, had been venomous. His hair stood up on the back of his neck as her words shot through him.

Tires ground on stone. The car engine rumbled. In a moment, Mrs. Witherson would see Cole standing there, frozen, unsure of what to do. She’d crane her neck from the car window and lock her beady, spectacled eyes on his. She’d see the blood. She’d ask questions the way adults always do with kids. Especially twelve-year-old boys, assuming they have been up to no good.

And so, Cole ran away, down Hilltop Drive, away from Mrs. Witherson and in the direction of the woods.

The sun was high in the air as he ran, with only a few stark, white clouds floating across the deep blue sky. Leaves hit his face as they fell from above; he kicked sharp gravel as he put one foot in front of the other. He felt his heart beat fast, then faster, as he pumped his arms and turned off Hilltop Drive. Just a slight veer to the right. He was relieved to find the adjacent street quiet with no cars coming either way, so he crossed the road and ran through a small bunch of withered trees.

Branches knocked into each other in the cold wind like phantom applause and cracking bones. Above, a bird screeched, its call high and hoarse. As Cole looked up, he saw only a pair of black wings fly away, on a journey to some other far off tree in some other far off town in the south to escape the winter. The next gust of wind brought with it the scent of old corn stalks. Cole thought of the farmland around Fairvale. Houston’s Farm to the west, with Jimmy-boo, the elaborate scarecrow they put out every October, standing guard. Sometimes, on clear nights, he walked to see Jimmy-boo. It was easy enough. His window opened out to the front yard—all Cole had to do was climb out.

The Houstons used spotlights to illuminate Jimmy-boo in the dark. When Cole visited for the last time, just a week before he left us, Jimmy-boo had looked angrier than he remembered. His mouth was wide open, his eyebrows slanted downward harshly. Poor Jimmy-boo’s flannel shirt had holes in the arms from birds snapping and pecking and little bits of straw poked out everywhere. Jimmy-boo was getting old, Cole had thought. The least the Houstons could do was buy him a new shirt.

Years ago, the Houstons used to do hay rides all around their farmland. Mrs. Houston would collect the money and give Cole and his dad hot chocolate or cider or tea or whatever they wanted and they would climb up the wobbly wagon and sit and drink and breathe out and watch their hot breath dance on the cold air like smoke from flames. Cole’s dad would chew tobacco and spit every once in a while and wipe his chin clean, then take a sip of his tea. He always brought a blanket in case they got cold, and they always did.

Afterwards, they would stop at the pumpkin patch and pick out a pumpkin each to carve later. In the kitchen they’d spread old newspapers on the floor and take serrated knives and cut open the pumpkins and remove the guts. Then they’d work like sculptors.

On the front steps they’d set out their toothy, smiling jack-o-lanterns and light candles and plop them inside, facing the road, for their neighbors to see. Having saved the pumpkin seeds, Cole’s dad would place them in the oven and roast them in olive oil. Once cooked, they’d put the greasy, salted seeds in plastic bags and snack on them for a week.

But that was a long time ago, when his dad didn’t get so mad and still wrote Cole’s age and height on the wall.

Cole walked slowly, deeper into the woods. Every tree began to look the same, tall and thin and windblown. The branches curved and drooped. As he took a side step to avoid a small, dribbling stream, a twig snapped beneath his foot and he realized he was lost.

“What are you doing out here?”

The biting voice came from behind him. Cole whirled around to see Kyle Graham seated on his bike. He wore his football jersey and clutched his shoulder pads in one hand and his cleats dangled around his neck like a chunky piece of jewelry. When they made eye contact, Kyle spit.

“What’s wrong with your face, freak?” he asked.

Cole had nearly forgotten. He touched his face and felt the hardened blood.

“I—I tripped. Over there,” Cole said, pointing to a mess of roots on the hard ground.

Kyle Graham lived just three blocks over from Cole on Maple Street. He had two dogs and a mom and a dad and an older sister named Becky. Cole had always liked Becky. In the spring and summer, Cole would walk by and see her lying outside on a blanket reading or sketching. She would always wave, and he’d wave back. One time he stopped and almost told Becky that he drew too, but when she looked up and smiled and he saw the light in her eyes he walked off with clammy palms and a dry throat. The words were stuck, somewhere down deep, and he knew he’d never find them.

But he’d still think of her from time to time, out there, scribbling, with colorful flowers dotting the walkway and the bushes behind her.

If Kyle was outside with Becky, Cole kept his head down and did not wave.

Kyle spit again and tightened the grip on his bike. Then, the whiz of tires and the chiming of a bell. Jake Tyzinski, Kyle’s best friend, came into view over a small hump of dirt and sped up to do a wheelie before coming to a rest at Kyle’s side. Unsettled dirt drifted up and clouded around him.

“Just out here with all your friends, huh?” Jake asked.

Cole looked down at his feet and thought of running away again.

“Look at us, you faggot!” Kyle yelled.

Cole obeyed and crossed his arms, attempting to look tough, but he felt his body shake, the way the leaves did on branches right before separation, right before they let go and floated away.

“I say we hang him from a tree,” Jake said.

Kyle gave Jake a sideways glance and nodded, his mouth pinched up into a grin.

The two boys dropped their bikes to the ground and walked over toward Cole with clenched fists. Kyle chewed bubble gum. A bead of sweat dripped down Jake’s throat, somehow, even in the cold. Everything slowed down. Cole took a step back, then another, then another, before the ground gave way and there was nowhere to step and Cole fell backward and rolled down a muddy, steep hill. He felt his shoulder dislodge as his back crushed into a rock jutting from the side of the hill. Bringing up his other arm as quickly as he could, Cole shielded his head.

Eventually, Cole came to rest in a small field. The grass, browned from the cold, scratched at his skin.

An explosion of laughter. Kyle and Jake pointed from above and jumped up and down. Bending over, Kyle clutched his stomach.

“Look! He fucking pissed himself!” Jake yelled. “Oh my God! He fucking pissed himself!”

Cole looked down and saw the darkened circle at his crotch, felt the warm wetness on his inner thigh.

They kept laughing, kept nudging each other and pointing. Cole closed his eyes, tried his best to ignore them. He turned over on his side so his back faced Kyle and Jake, and felt the hot prick of tears.

“Aw, he’s mad at us! Poor baby!” Jake yelled. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Bye, Cole!” Kyle called.

Cole heard their footsteps from below, thumping on the earth. He heard the trill of Jake’s bell as he picked up his bike, heard them shift gears, heard the chain snap as they planted their feet on the peddles and rode away. All the while, they were laughing, and their laughs carried on the wind and danced through Cole’s ears in harsh echoes.

The leaves were cold on his face as he lay on the ground. He smelled dirt and grass and water somewhere. There was an enormous ache inside his head, a crushing, throbbing pressure. It pounded, repeatedly, like a hammer on wood.

And so, Cole curled up into a ball and cried.

He cried hard into the ground, saw his tears fall on the leaves, on the dead grass. Taking a sharp breath in, he inhaled dirt and coughed. It unsettled his stomach and he gagged. He punched at the ground with his good hand, his fist aching as he repeatedly brought it down, blow after blow. His other arm lay limp at his side, dislocated. It ached, sent a shock through his back, every time he smacked and clawed at the ground.

Then he saw his father in flashes. His large, calloused hands, his face blood-red and twisted in anger, the veins protruding from his neck, and this stopped him.

Cole turned on his back and stared up at the sky, heaving as he wiped tears away from his eyes and watched as the clouds hurried below the sun. As he lay there, motionless, he realized how cold he was. His hands were reddening, almost numb. He tried to forget, tried to ignore the icy wind, the pain in his shoulder. Watching the branches sway, back and forth, Cole remembered the bird that flew away. It all seemed cruel. The bright blue sky and the multicolored leaves, shades of reds and yellows and oranges and purples and browns. The bird’s escape. The kids who would come outside later, with their mothers and fathers who loved them and old pillow cases and buckets for candy.

Perhaps he fell asleep then for a moment, or maybe for an hour. It doesn’t really matter, but when Cole opened his eyes, there was a boy there, a boy who grabbed his hand and helped him to his feet.

“Come on,” he said. “We should leave.”

The boy was William, the ghost, and he was completely, miraculously dead.

But William did not, at all, possess ghostly powers in the way we think of them today. He could not fly and he could not disappear. He was just there. Just dead.

William wasn’t rotting away, with a dangling eyeball or a partially disconnected ear, nor was he angelic. He was not translucent, did not sparkle, did not glow in an effervescent light. I will only tell you that this young boy looked nearly normal. A bit tired and a bit pale, but normal nonetheless. It was evident, to Cole, that he had been out in the woods a long time. Twigs stuck in his hair, heavy circles were visible beneath his dark eyes. Strangely, he wore no shoes. William’s outfit consisted of a blue coat, worn, grey slacks and a white collared shirt. It looked too old for him, like he wasn’t quite the right age to be wearing it yet. Cole thought of old photos he had seen in history books, of boys holding muskets and staring at the camera with wide, distant eyes. They wore clothes like that.

The only real giveaway, the only indication that William was dead, was a large, deep laceration along his forehead, but the bleeding had stopped a long time ago. It was just slightly raised and nude-colored by then.

And sometimes, while deep in thought, William’s face would shift. It was such a subtle thing, gone almost as quickly as it came, that it was barely noticeable. But it was a change.

“This way,” William whispered.

He walked briskly for a short distance, to a crumbling stone structure with a missing roof. Cole followed and cradled his arm carefully as his shoulder throbbed in pain. William stopped and looked back at him, and Cole realized he was whimpering, his own breath tired and uneven. He sat down on the ground.

“You’re hurt,” William said.

Cole gave no reply. William knelt beside him and touched his hand.

“I’m going to pop your shoulder back into place now, okay?”

Cole looked at the boy, at William, at his pallid face and slight smile.

“It’ll be alright,” William said. “Don’t worry.”

He put a hand on Cole’s shoulder and told him not to move.

“On the count of three, okay? Just breathe. Relax.”

And then William counted and Cole bit down on his tongue and shut his eyes; William pushed up, fast and hard, while he kept Cole’s back straight and still, and for a brief second Cole felt only the fiery jolt, the heat, and he yelled and tears filled his eyes.

But then there was relief and William let go.

“Nothing to it,” William said with a grin.

“Thanks,” Cole said.

The boys stood and William gave Cole the coat that he wore, as a coat wasn’t much use to a dead boy, anyway. It was just for show.

“Who are you?” Cole asked as he buttoned up the heavy coat.

“Name’s William,” he said, extending a hand.

Cole sniffed and shook the boy’s hand, surprised at how frigid William’s skin felt.

“You’re freezing,” Cole said.

William sighed and sat down on a nearby stump. He dug his bare feet into the ground and looked at Cole.

“I got lost in the woods a long time ago. It was very cold. Nobody came for me. I fell asleep and never woke up.”

After a moment, after staring at William’s dark eyes, Cole only nodded. He did not question William’s history, but only asked him why he had grabbed him off the ground and took him away and William said, with a shrug, that Cole looked like he needed help.

The boys sat together out in the woods as the sun fell, as it set behind the high heads of the trees, and William asked Cole for a favor. It was simple enough, really. He told him that his house was not far from there, from where they sat. That he wanted, desperately needed, to get home. That he had been wandering around the woods for such a long time, and that he was tired and very, very sad.

“I can’t do this alone,” William told Cole. “The first time I tried to go home it was early summer and there were hikers and runners and dog-walkers all over the woods, so I had to be very careful. I was afraid of them, can you believe it? I’m the ghost, but I was afraid of those people, who were alive and who belonged.”

Cole was still, silent, watching. William laughed.

“I don’t even know what year it is,” he said.

“2016,” Cole replied.

“It’s been that long?”

And Cole saw William’s face fall. He frowned and brushed dried mud off the bottom of his trousers.

“It’s been so long,” was all he said, barely above a whisper.

“What happens when you try and leave?”

“When I reach the end of the trees, something happens,” William said. “I get very confused. My eyes—everything gets blurry—and then I black out and find myself back where I started. In the dead center of these woods. At first I didn’t believe it. How could I? I tried to leave again and again. I tried walking other routes. I tried finding different ways out, but every time, it was the same. But with you, with the help of someone still rooted in time, rooted in life, I think I can latch on. I think I can go home.”

Cole kept quiet and stared at the ground. He heard William shuffle his feet and sigh. When he looked up, William’s head was bowed and his eyes were closed.

“Don’t you want to go home?” William asked then, with eyes still shut.

Cole considered this. He thought back to his small, yellow house with the matching yellow mailbox. He thought of the high hedges around the back yard and the pine tree in the center. He thought of his room, filled with pictures and magazine clippings and scattered books and sketching pads. He thought of him, that ring, and he agreed to do what William asked. Because boys like Cole, boys who are wounded and ruined from reality, boys who are defeated every day by the cruelty of their lives, have no choice but to believe in magic. What else is there other than to fall through the cracks, to trust, to believe, over and over again, in something fantastic? In something better. In something unreal and frightening. That is all they have. They would rather stand in the cold and believe in ghosts from shadowed woods than go back to warm, comfortable houses accustomed to hiding their darkness.

And he agreed mostly because William had helped him.

“Okay. Let’s go,” Cole said.

“Really? You’ll help me?” William asked, jumping up from the tree stump.

“I’ll help you.”

Cole took William’s hand in his as the sunlight from the dying day fell away and dimmed; it streamed through the trees in a deep, rust color.

“It’s just that way,” William said, pointing. “I’ll lead. Hold on tight and don’t let go.”

In that moment, Cole thought he heard someone calling for him. He turned in the direction of the sound. A voice, a yell, all too familiar, over and over again, urging him to come back. To go home.

But Cole only turned back to William and ignored the voice behind him. Together, they walked on.

Time passed. Stars appeared above their heads and blinked at the boys as they traveled through pale moonlight. In the distance, they heard laughter from little children—from princesses and superheroes and witches and vampires—as they rang doorbells somewhere, in another world, under bright porch lights and with smiling parents behind them.

“Don’t worry,” William said. “They can’t see us. They’re much farther away than they sound.”

Cole closed his eyes and listened to them, to the way their giggles and playful yells simply floated on the air, but he never stopped; he just kept moving. As they walked even deeper into the woods, their voices and laughter faded and Cole could barely hear them.

I could say that they spoke, that they shared things with each other. That Cole told William about the bullies at school, about his father, but he stayed quiet. They only held onto each other and walked on as owls watched them silently from high branches, hoo-hooing as twigs cracked beneath their feet.

As they traveled, the voices of the children fell away completely. The moon rose higher. It got late. Cole imagined the children retreating inside and pouring out their candy, swapping Kit-Kats for Snickers and M&Ms for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups as fires were lit and porch lights were clicked off and Michael Myers cut up his sister on basic cable television. Cole felt, as he looked up at the shining moon, now half obscured by a blanket of heavy clouds, that he was the only boy really alive and left in the world.

The sky was brightening on the horizon as the boys passed a final clump of trees. As they stepped out into a small, mowed field, William looked back at Cole and pointed ahead to a white, shingled house with a brick chimney. Leaves strewn across the walkway, up to the front door.

“That’s it. Just ahead,” William said.

The dead boy’s eyes filled with tears and his skin glowed in the moonlight. As he turned to Cole and smiled, there was a touch of color in his cheeks. He reached out and hugged Cole, nearly causing him to lose his footing. Cole laughed, out loud, and it sounded strange, somehow out of place, in the dark field. He tried to remember the last time he had really laughed as he tapped William’s cold, hard back.

“Thank you,” William said.

“It was nothing.”

“You helped me. You did what friends are supposed to do,” William said. “I hope that, from now on, your father is kinder to you.”

How did he know? Cole wondered, but he didn’t ask. He remembered the power of the unknown. Of magic. Of the life that continues, right next to ours, a mere breath away, just under our noses. A world that we can’t see, but one that is there, nonetheless.

Cole knew his own, little world all too well.

And then there was a shift in William’s expression, as if somehow, he had read Cole’s mind.

“Would you like to come with me, Cole?” he asked.


“You would be safe. Nothing can touch you where I’m going. Not anymore.”

“But I’m not dead,” Cole said.

William shrugged and smiled, as if to say that did not matter.

“I got to say goodbye. It’s time for me to go,” he said. “Do you want to leave with me?”

Cole could make out the white, lace curtains in the window and a few pumpkins on the stoop of William’s house. He wondered who lived there now. Who was inside, sleeping under warm blankets and dreaming, drifting?

The sky, the white, twinkling stars, continued to blink overhead. The cut below Cole’s right eye stung in the chill air and his nose ached. He thought of how his face would swell; he thought of school on Monday, of the whispers from his classmates, of the explanations—the lies—he’d have to tell.

A snowflake fell from above and touched his cheek. Clouds rolled in as the sky began to shift from navy to a soft pink. Morning.

The image of Christmas trees dressed in lights entered Cole’s mind. He thought of the snow again, of Kyle and Becky sledding down a hill. He didn’t know why he thought of Kyle, why he thought of them now, rushing over some shallow slope. But he did; he thought of them smiling and laughing and falling gently into soft banks of snow.

And then Cole nodded once to William. William took his hand and, together, the boys walked on, through the snow that would continue to fall all morning.


Cole did not go home; he did not make things right with his father. He did not seek help from neighbors. His bones had been broken one too many times, and a heart can only take so much before it gives in.

There are always speculations, always questions, and I should tell you, that I am not the most reliable narrator. I’m just someone who saw Cole and then never saw him again.

But his face, those eyes, the way his body always shook from cold and fear, the way his shoulders reached upward as if in a perpetual defense, stuck with me. He always looked too small, no matter where he was. Perhaps that was what saddened me the most. He always looked so small and swallowed up.

Maybe Cole did run away from home and meet a dead boy. Or maybe he ran away from home and got lost and froze to death. Maybe he never met William, maybe he never made a friend. Maybe, when he fell down that small hill, away from Kyle and Jake, he didn’t make it. Maybe he snapped his neck on that rock. Perhaps another man was in the woods that day. A mean, scary man, who found Cole bloody and promised him safety but did not mean it. Or, maybe, Cole never left his house that Halloween, and inside, his father got too angry. It went too far.

But these are just the stories we tell ourselves in the face of tragedy, to make sense of things that happen. We never want to believe the things that can rock a small town, but they are there, chained up and breathing.

Cole ran away from home and left with the boy in the woods. That’s the story I tell.

Nora Shychuk grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania before she hopped across the pond and earned her MA in Creative Writing from University College Cork in Ireland. Her work has appeared in The Quarryman Literary Journal, The Rose Magazine, and The Lonely Crowd. More of her work can be found at

Feature: Issue No. 19, Winter 2016

Jessica Jernigan


3:03 am

Her baby’s crying.

She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back on against the pillow before she climbs out of bed and starts down the hallway.

This is not the hallway.

The packed earth is cool beneath her bare feet. There’s just enough light to see carvings in the stone walls, spiral after spiral. She traces them with her fingertips as she walks toward the crying

The crying stops.

She hears a tuneless, wordless crooning.

How do I know that sound?

She keeps walking.

Her mother is standing next to the crib, swaying, eyes closed, holding the baby against her shoulder. But the baby is not her daughter, and—

“Mom, you’re dead.”

Her mother opens her eyes and smiles at her, still rocking the baby, still singing her wordless song. Her mother closes her eyes.

As she watches her mother dance slowly around the room, she catches a glimpse of the baby’s face, and she knows: This is baby she lost. Before she had a daughter. Before she had a husband.

“It was a boy?” she asks.

Her mother nods.

As her mother sways, the baby’s head glows in the soft light of the nursery lamp. His fontanel hasn’t closed. She can see that. His downy hair is red. Like his father’s.

“Can I hold him?”

Her mother’s smile falters. The light in the room flickers, dims. The fairytale wallpaper she’d hung when she was thirteen weeks along with her second child, her daughter, is gone. Replaced by stone walls, carved with spirals.

“He’s ours now,” her mother finally answers.


4:17 am

She hears shuffling in the hallway. The noise wakes her.

She’s in the house alone.

She doesn’t get out of bed. She doesn’t move. She only listens.

“Quiet, ye eejits,” a voice hisses. “Do ye want to go back to the old way, thieving from cows? There’s butter in the kitchen here, and cheese.”

Her bedroom door creaks and someone says, “Back to sleep, love.” The voice is soothing. Her body relaxes.

She sleeps.


5:03 am

She’s standing in the hallway.

She doesn’t remember getting out of bed.

There’s a beeswax altar candle in her hand. She doesn’t know how it got there.

The wooden floor creaks. The hallway is longer than she remembers it being.

She sees a shadow. There shouldn’t be a shadow.

She’s not afraid, though. She keeps walking.

The shadow is a boy.

The light of her candle is reflected in the diamond and ruby buttons on his suit, in the shimmer of his glass shoes. The light casts a mellow glow on the little bronze crown that sits atop his red hair. In this light, his eyes are a translucent blue.

He holds an iron wand in his left hand, a book in his right.

“You. You’re—”

He’s handing her the book. She takes it, but her eyes never leave his face. My boy.

With shout of laughter, he turns and runs. He’s gone from the light in a few steps, but she can still hear the clatter of his crystal heels on the floorboards.

When the sound of his shoes is gone, she looks at the book in her hand. She recognizes it. Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry. On the flyleaf, she sees her own name, written in her mother’s careful script.

As she clutches the book, it crumbles in her hand. Nothing but dead leaves.


6:00 am

Cold air creeps against her skin when her husband lifts the quilt and climbs out of bed. It’s still dark. She has another hour until she has to get their daughter up for school.

She rolls over and stretches, taking up the warm space her husband has left behind. This is her favorite part of the morning, not that she’d ever tell him that.

She suspects that he knows.

But there’s something she’s forgetting. Something important.

She’ll remember later.


7:23 am

She slips on a robe and pulls on the sheepskin boots she wears around her drafty old house.

She walks to the window. It’s a beautiful day outside, sunny and clear, but the glass doesn’t protect her from the stubborn chill that takes her by surprise every spring.

It’s the first of May.

She hears the sound of slippered feet scuffling against the floorboards and she turns to see her son. He’s wearing flannel pajamas covered in lambs. The buttons of his shirt are diamonds and rubies. She runs her fingers through his red curls as he leans against her thigh.

She hears something else. Bells? She leans into the cold glass, cocks her head. The sound is so faint that it’s hard to tell what it is.

Her son tugs at her robe.

There’s a crowd of people, walking down the middle of the street. How odd. She looks to see if she recognizes anybody.

Is that her husband?  What

Her son tugs at her robe again. “Mam,” he says. “Please.”

There’s white horse, and a woman riding it. There are bells on the horse’s harness.

“Look away!” Her boy is adamant now.

She turns to him and smiles. She ruffles his hair.

The procession passes.


8:07 am

The orgasm that wakes her is so powerful that it hurts. Every muscle in her body quivers. She gasps for breath.

She’s never had a dream quite like this before. Nothing so intense. Nothing so real. She reaches between her legs and—

Her fingers are tangled in hair. Not her own. She feels a scalp beneath her fingers, clutches at the hair in her grasp, and pulls.

A face rises above her belly. Unfamiliar.

No, not quite.

His eyes are blue enough to be disturbing. Morning light is pouring through the sheer cotton curtains, and she can see the sunburn on his cheeks and nose. She can see every freckle. His red stubble scrapes against her thigh. His hair is unwashed. She can feel that, too.


10:27 AM

The sun is streaming through the windows. It’s late—so late it must be Saturday if she’s still in bed. The air in her bedroom is hot. It smells like summer. She’s naked, and her skin is damp where it’s pressed against the boy sleeping next to her.

But there’s no boy there.

And she’s not naked. Her nightgown is long, organic cotton, a Christmas gift from her daughter.

She stirs, and she stretches. She remembers that she’s alone.

Those boys she knew. They were so young. They thought they were men, probably. They are men now. Unless they aren’t anything anymore. Either way, those boys are gone. If they’re dead, they’re young—so young, too young, just like her husband. If they’re alive, they’re as old as her.

She doesn’t feel like she’s old, except when she does. And she does right now. She’s never felt older.

It’s not summer yet. It’s still spring. After the longest winter she can remember.
She looks at the clock. She’s been asleep for almost twelve hours. Twelve hours that feel like a hundred years.

She gets up.

Because she’s awake now.

And she’s still here.

Jessica Jernigan is a writer, editor, and student living and working in Central Michigan. Her writing has appeared in Bitch, Web Conjunctions, Maximum Middle Age, and The Women’s Review of Books.