Manatee Issue 2018
Manatee Issue 2018
Manatee Issue 2018
All pieces in this journal were printed with permission from the authors, but
copyright reverts back to the authors upon publication; authors are free to
permission.
Concord, NH
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The Manatee
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THE MANATEES
Editor-in-Chief Kaitlin Tetreault
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The Manatee
Editor’s Note
The making of The Manatee is such a fun and rewarding process; we get to read
some of the best works that students from multiple disciplines have to offer in
various forms. The talent that SNHU students hold is expected yet surprising in
the best of ways. It has been such a pleasure seeing this batch of submissions,
especially since our art pieces now get to be printed in color thanks to the
Creative Writing Club’s financial support. We’re looking forward to developing
the relationship between our growing elected boards and what improvements
future Manatee magazines have to offer.
I want to express to my editorial board that I am so grateful for their hard work
and their willingness to meet my deadlines. Each editor made such great
suggestions for their pieces and I believe without their continual effort and
insights that this edition would not be nearly as high quality as it is. So, a
sincere and thankful shout out to our growing editorial staff.
I also want to take a moment to praise Allison Cummings, our advisor, for
letting me drop into her office at a moment’s notice, steal her chocolates, and
talk in thirty minutes intervals about all of my ideas. You keep this ship afloat.
This is my first and final year as Editor-in-Chief; however, I know The Manatee
is in good hands. My only advice is to continue nurturing a supportive and
creative space for all students, and I know success will follow.
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Table of Contents
The Cost of Missing Girls, Elle Tibbitts 8
Band-Aids, Mary Newton 11
The Watercolor Girl, Jesse Wyman 12
Pins and Needles, Jaelle Matthieu 15
Aqua Tofana, Natasha Simmons 16
Gravestone, Kevin Bettis 17
Let the Light In, Ruth Way 24
Townsend Harbor, Mary Shakshober 26
The Day the News Came, Emily Murphy 27
Floral, Dee Dube 35
Kidding, Marisa McLaughlin 37
Out, Kaitlin Tetreault 39
Outhouse in the Snow, Anonymous 43
You, Maria Celli 44
Incomplete, Hannah Lewis 45
Unexpected, Madeline Reno 47
Deal Lake, Maria Celli 53
The Jimi Hendrix Sexperience, Travis Burke 54
Lovers for the Night, Lauren Borry 55
Tyjax, Michael Franco 58
Death by Dreams, Natasha Simmons 64
Cooperage on a Cliff, Mary Shakshober 66
Identity Lost. If found call (001)126-1865, Elle Tibbitts 67
The Pheonix, Amber Krane 69
Dirt Road, Anonymous 71
I’ll Work, Travis Burke 72
Unfamiliar, Ruth Way 73
My Morning, 12/14/12, 41°25′12″N 73°16′43″W, Marisa McLaughlin 77
Cloud Reflection, Maria Celli 79
4:30am, Kaitlin Tetreault 80
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7
Elle Tibbitts
‘It’s not a child,’ she corrected me. ‘It’s a girl baby, and we can’t
keep it. Around these parts you can’t get by without a son.
Girl babies don’t count.’
- The Economist, The worldwide war on baby girls,
March 4th, 2010
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The Manatee
9
Elle Tibbitts/Mary Newton
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The Manatee
Band-Aids
By Mary Newton
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Jesse Wyman
Watercolor Girl
By Jesse Wyman
Lyla sat down with a plop on a couch by the window and tucked one leg
under herself; done with school for the day but the work never ended. Amelia
and Lyla had a big presentation in AP Literature the next day and Amelia
insisted they go over the talking points again. That being said, Amelia couldn’t
get out of her yearbook meeting early as promised and would be late. Lyla took
time.
She always liked how comfortable the coffee shop made her feel, the teal-
colored walls covered in faded spots where old art used to sit. The owner
rented pieces from local artists, which made the place feel more authentic. She
wondered what new art he planned on putting in the absence. Across from her
The painting played with white space. It was a portrait, so Lyla could only
see from the shoulders up, but that seemed to be a part of the point. The Girl’s
shoulders were vague. The lines that sculpted them were grey and faint, darker
in some spots and lighter in others. There was nothing filled in, just empty and
white. Her faded pink hair had blots of blue and orange, strands blowing in an
imaginary breeze, all shaped by white space. The details of The Girl’s face
pulled Lyla’s attention. Her lips were a faded rose, the brush strokes leaving
just enough bare to make them look chapped. The lighter fuchsia under her
nose detailed her cupid's bow. Dark flecks of paint splattered against her cheek,
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The Girl’s eyes struck Lyla the most, crystal blue irises with a glassy
sheen. The Girl’s face turned to her right, eyes focused on something only she
could see. Still, Lyla felt The Girl’s piercing blue gaze. A cross between blood
red and a depressing blue made an eerie purple that surrounded The Girl’s
eyes, hollowing her out and making the bags look more prominent. Lyla always
loved purple, but this purple invoked emotions Lyla didn’t realize she had. Lyla
despised this purple. Lyla felt as cold as the deep tones in the paint. Then she
Swelling formed around The Girl’s right eye and dipped down her cheek.
Lyla didn’t catch it at first, but, upon further inspection, the bruise became
clear. Having The Girl’s head turned away from the viewer almost hid the
bruise. The viewer needed to look for it, find it for themselves. Things of this
The beautiful painting was saturated with pain. The background was such
a stark white that the viewer had no choice but to look deeper into The Girl. No
other background or scene distracted from the beauty of this girl’s disaster.
The painting may have been simple, but the violent impact it made matched the
violence it showed. Everyone knew terrible things happened in the world, but in
Lyla’s stereotypical high school life, she had never given it a second thought.
Lyla had been sheltered from pain like this her whole life. Perfect parents
who loved each other just as much as they did when they met. She lived in a
nice house and went to a good school. Lyla never experienced pain other than
losing her grandmother. It scared her to think about how the girl got the bruise
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jesse Wyman/Jaelle Matthieu
and made her wonder if something like that would ever happen to her. Lost in
the art, Lyla hadn’t noticed her friend Amelia join her on the couch.
“Yeah, pretty.”
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15
Natasha Simmons/Kevin Bettis
Aqua Tofana
By Natasha Simmons
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The Manatee
Gravestone
by Kevin Bettis
Lit only by the warm glow of a desk lamp, I stare at the text on the
It reads:
[You come to the end of a road that leads straight up a cliff. Crashing
water can be heard meters below and the sound of seagulls liven the air. A
small shack can be seen in the distance to the north and a curious looking
around me. The rubbery sound of leather assumes a relaxed position. I glance
at the tiled ceiling. This is not the first time this dialog scrolled in front of me. I
have seen this multiple times over the past month, and I have no idea what to
I let a moment pass. I hear the subtle sound of a whomp from the front
door upstairs, followed by multiple clacks upstairs from the kitchen. Judy must
“Did the kids tell you when they were going to be home?”
“Not to my knowledge, no, but didn’t they say they were going to late be
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Kevin Bettis
“That’s what I said, too, but apparently I marked the calendar wrong.”
“Calvin.”
“He was wondering if you could take his computer with you to the shop
“You’re kidding! That’s the third time this month I will have fixed that
piece of junk. Fine, tell him I’ll pick it up on my way to work tomorrow.”
“And, hun, I know he’s your brother and all, but if he keeps this up, I’m
going to have to charge him every time he thinks the disk drive is a good place
“Thanks, Calvin, I’ll pass that message along. Hey, any chance you’re
“Ok, see you in a few. Remember, there’s gonna be a new episode of the
“I’ll see you then, dear.” The sounds of footsteps start up again and fade
into silence.
reorient myself and type, the keys clicking with each press.
[Inspect Headstone]
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forward-slanted face.]
I have typed and executed the command many times before with a sense
of false hope I would reveal something else every time. Three holes: what does
it mean? The holes are explicitly mentioned, so by that logic it means it has a
[Go North]
[You arrive at the shack. It looks old and abandoned. The door is wide
open, and there is a path to the East that leads to what looks like a garden.]
Well, there is nothing in the shack of interest, not even a secret door or
compartment. The only thing worth checking out is a lantern that was used in
the cave near the beginning of the game. It ran out of oil at that point, so it is
useless now.
I've been to the garden many times as well, but haven't tried digging
there. There may be something in the soil that I have not obtained yet. I do a
little dance in my seat at the idea that I may have found a way to progress.
[Go East]
[The garden is dull and lifeless. The dirt is littered with roots and dead
leaves. The area is slowly being consumed by the green of the surrounding
grass]
[Dig]
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Kevin Bettis
[Inspect Headstone]
forward-slanted face.]
Back to square one. The blinking cursor on the screen is mocking me.
Reappearing and disappearing, each blink just making me angrier than the last,
I wheel my chair over to the opposite end of the desk and rummage
around the junk on my desk. Bills, birthday cards, tax forms. Aha! My notebook.
the game. The pages are filled with crudely drawn tree graphs and charts with
notes, I find that there is nothing recorded that will help me connect the dots
and give me a clue on what I'm supposed to do. I can add “Dig” to the unusable
command list, but it still won’t get me anywhere. All my efforts thus far have
led me to dead ends. All items have served their purpose and there are no more
to collect, and there are even fewer new places that I can explore.
screen and I stare at the last words [“curious looking ‘headstone’ at your feet.”]
[Inspect “Headstone”]
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forward-slanted face.]
[Pick up “Headstone”]
[Talk to “Headstone”]
[Touch “Headstone”]
[Eat “Headstone”]
[Lick “Headstone”]
I stare, dumbfounded. Alas, I'm at a loss once again. I have gone through
commands. I have no idea what to do and now I may have to spitball this even
[Listen to “Headstone”]
[Sit on “Headstone”]
[Smell “Headstone”]
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Kevin Bettis
[Jump on “Headstone”]
[Yell at “Headstone”]
my gaze locks on my monitor. I want to punch it, but I would not find
[Punch “Headstone”]
[Are you sure you want to punch the “Headstone” with only your bare
fists?]
I type in my answer and press the Enter key with extreme prejudice and
satisfaction.
[Yes]
[You punch the “Headstone” and the slanted face breaks and crumbles
My jaw drops. The anger flushes away and I stare at the screen in
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punch the freak-ing Headstone. That’s it? That’s what I had to do? I just needed
to punch the fucking Headstone staring me in the face for the last month? I just
had to punch a rock, not a man, not a box or something that would be logical to
punch?” I throw my notebook on the ground. “So, everything else I did and all
the time I dedicated to complete this game is rendered pointless, because all I
had to do was punch a rock that had three holes in it? Are you fucking kidding
me?”
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Ruth Way
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Mary Shakshober/Emily Murphy
Townsend Harbor
By Mary Shakshober
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It was a sunny day when the news came. It had to be, because on rainy
days, the drive flooded into a torrent and the mailman couldn’t get his car up.
The abbot might have called with the news, of course. The telephone had rung
three days ago, but Peter was in Eugene’s room, and he got just halfway down
the hall before the message finished. And the message machine had been
broken for years. So Peter waved a hand, dismissing the machine, and trudged
Since it was a sunny day when the news came, Peter read the letter
outside. It wasn’t that Eugene was any better, but he wasn’t any worse, either,
and it was boring to sit with him every moment of every day. The gardens
The one thing Peter always loved about St. Jerome’s was its gardens. It
was a sparsely wooded area, sitting atop a hill overlooking the roofs of Sterling
– a perfect place for contemplation and reflection on one’s higher calling. Even
now, with the grass overgrown and the lindens untrimmed, the gardens
Of course, the hilltop also made it a capital place for rivers to form and
prevent mail and news from getting through. It used to be that the younger
monks would dig ditches to divert the water runoff. Peter had dug more than
his fair share. Penance, he recalled, for taking too long in the shower. That was
in the days when Brother Francis was prior. Oh, Brother Francis. And what came
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Emily Murphy
After reading the letter (for the fifth time), the clock chimed three. So
Peter went to the round chapel to chant the service. The empty rows of pews
and dusty quire stalls gave a lonely air to the place. The stained-glass figures
gave Peter company, except for the window to the left of the public entrance,
which had never gotten a donor to make it beautiful. Brother Clarence, in his
days as prior, saw what was coming and planted a rhododendron bush outside
the window. It was so wild now that it made its own form of stained glass with
Peter closed the service book and went to tell Eugene the news. He didn’t
decided to tell him. It would be easier to hear now, on a lovely day when a
As he climbed the few stairs to the foyer, he changed his mind. Why
In the foyer, St. Jerome and Jesus stared him down. St. Jerome was stuck
in a wall niche, so his backside was permanently dirty, giving him a rather dark
undertone. The Divine Mercy statue was newer and out of place, really. It was a
gift from Brother Clarence’s rather thoughtless sister who saw a Jesus face and
instantly knew the modern, geometric, mostly blue and red reconstruction of
the usually peaceful image was just the thing for her ultra-religious brother.
And, as the prior, he had placed it in the foyer. He certainly didn’t want it in his
room – none of the monks did – and the idea was maybe a modern statue
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would attract more young men. It hadn’t worked, of course. If it had, maybe
express it in anger. Angrier than the painting of St. Jerome’s lions that hung
next to where the waiting room used to be. All of the first-floor rooms had
turned into dormitories years ago, when the remaining monks couldn’t handle
the stairs. The waiting room was one of the first to go. They never got enough
Peter opened the door and let it spill out. “Would you believe it, Eugene?
After all these years, all this time. They’ve had decades to think this thing over
Asleep. Eugene’s creased eyelids eased open. His face turned from a
peaceful pale statue into a crumpled piece of paper. But the paper had a smiley
Peter swallowed his anger. How could he not? Why trouble the frail figure
***
It was a sunny day when Peter was to leave the Abbey. He had prayed
fervently for rain – surely some farmer nearby was doing the same. Then it
might have prevented the van from coming up the drive. As it was, the day was
sunny and the van was late. So Peter had some time to wander one last time.
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Emily Murphy
He felt tired, even sitting on the bench waiting for the van. But his heart
He went to the gardens. The flowers were almost all dead, lying strewn in
the soil beneath the plant from whence they came. Peter had raked away the
ones on the dirt path, but stooping to get between the bush branches was too
much for his old limbs. Gardening was never his job anyway. He still resented
Brother Philip for dying and leaving him the task. But no one could resent dear
Peter picked a late rose off a bush. His hands automatically pried off the
thorns while his eyes gazed up at the main brick building of the priory. Three
stories, long, identical windows. Nothing spectacular. Even the chapel looked
like only a circle of red brick from the outside. It all looked exactly as it had
when Peter was a novice. He tried to remember what he had felt back then.
Hopeful, maybe. Young and excited. Full of ideas. But mostly, the building was
so common to Peter that he couldn’t place an exact memory of the view. It was
simply the outside of his house. Nothing special to recall later. He discarded
another thorn and watched it fall. If only he had been observant in his youth.
He twirled the rose in his hands, carefully feeling out the stem. While he
couldn’t remember details too well, he remembered his youth as a happy time,
full of action. No, Peter would not change to another life for anything, even if it
Peter wandered down the other side of the hill where the meadow was. It
used to be farmland for the monks, even up to the days of Brother Francis. It
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was still charming now. Brother Clarence had planted a few trees and mowed a
few paths throughout the tall grass. It became another place for contemplation,
and a place for youth organizations to hold retreats. Oh, it was always
something to see the place filled with young men and women, chatting and
Peter’s legs finally wobbled, and he sat down on a bench. It wasn’t “his
bench.” Unlike some of the more contemplative monks, Peter didn’t have a
favorite place to pray. His old room on the second floor was his only consistent
place, but there was nothing special for him about that, any more so than his
new room on the first floor. Except his new room didn’t have much of a view,
only the driveway. Especially with the van coming, benches in the gardens were
sometimes preferable.
Peter gazed out over Sterling. The view had changed so gradually from
his youth that he could scarcely remember a time without the “new” airport
tower, let alone the “new” suburban development. The view now was as calming
as ever, with the buildings just below the horizon so, on a sunny day, you
thought you were gazing into Heaven. It had been better without the tall, latest
airport tower off to the right. When it was only the sky, the new airport tower,
and sneaking a break by the cliff in between carrying trays of peanut butter
sandwiches.
Peter’s knees urged him forward again, though his bones creaked more as
he rose. He walked a little more down the hill to the graveyard. He leaned on
the white picket fence, panting slightly. It wasn’t as common a sight to Peter, so
there were stronger emotions that surfaced. Brother Francis had pushed the
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Emily Murphy
novices to get this new plastic fence up, quite literally. Once Peter had been
resting on his shovel for a break and the prior kicked the shovel out from
under him, leaving Peter to fall face down in his own shallow ditch. He rolled
It wasn’t for no reason the prior had hurried. Only a few months later, his
was the first grave in the expanded portion of the cemetery. Peter felt bad for
hating him after that. You can never hate a dead man, especially a dead monk,
In between the old ironwork fence and the new white picket fence were
dozens, maybe a hundred simple headstones. Peter had seen each one of them
carved and erected. A hundred men. A hundred pieces of rock that would mean
nothing in a hundred years’ time. Brother Clarence and Brother Philip and
Brother Francis would be forgotten. Even little Brothers Peter and Eugene would
be nothing.
Peter rolled the now-smooth rose stem in his fingers. He shuffled his
gravestone, half for support and half for sentiment. He looked away, as if
Brother Francis could still see his tears and reprimand him for indulging. The
names of the other brothers crowded his head – George, Antonio, Harold…
“I’d give a petal to each one of you if I could, but I’m too creaky now.” He
smiled. “You all understand. I’d rather not join you yet.” He could almost hear
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the groans of, “Peter, stop trying to make jokes.” His eyes welled up a little
more.
The old monk didn’t like this train of thought. He trudged back up the
hill toward the dormitory. He wondered who would buy such a big place. A
developer, probably. Turn it into apartments. Peter turned around to see the
cemetery. A playground, perhaps, if they took the stones out. Brother Francis
might not like it, but Brother Clarence and Philip would like nothing better than
to have young blood around them again. Not that they had ever done anything
wrong. It was Brother Harold who had to fight off the allegations. It was awful
for all of them, but Brother Philip took it especially hard and really didn’t
Peter tried to imagine children in the garden. The cliff, he realized, was a
little dangerous for children. The developer might have to put in a giant brick
wall. Shame about the view, but children are priority. Peter noticed a maple tree
near the edge. The most adventurous child, provided he was a climber and not
afraid of heights, would be rewarded for his efforts by a stunning view over the
wall. Peter stood and raised his foot in an attempt to stand on a bench. But a
fiery crack in his hip told him he was no longer the most adventurous child.
He followed the trail of rose thorns back into the gardens. What would
become of the rose beds, the vines, and the daffodils? Well, the skeletal remains
of what used to be the rose beds, vines, and daffodils. Weed-ridden plots
weren’t very attractive. Peter couldn’t imagine the developer would keep it. A
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Emily Murphy/Dee Dube
The whole thing was a shame, really, but if no one ever built anything
A middle-aged monk leaned against the hood of a van when Peter finally
Peter nodded back, but couldn’t remember the man’s name. So, instead,
The driver hung his head. Peter glanced back in the direction of the
The old monk didn’t want to turn around yet. He could see the
dormitories, the gardens, and the view beyond, just as he had seen on his very
first day as a novice. He took the same deep breath – a little rattled now, but
just as calming.
The younger monk opened the back door and gave Peter a hand up. As
It was a rainy day when the last monk of Sterling Priory left.
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Floral
By Dee Dube
mornings irritate the kids who never play by the rules of the sky
unlaced, worn-sole sneakers kissing cracked pavement
well into the city’s streetlight time block
before you ever let your mouth droop open in our car ride lullabies,
we were rivals–
twin monsters with the same poison ivy or rug burn scars (i forget)
if we so much as let our eyes linger too long on the hands we desperately
wanted to bury our own into
then the game’s over, kids.
put your sunglasses back on
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Dee Dube/Marisa McLaughlin
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The Manatee
Kidding
By Marisa McLaughlin
He can pitch—fast.
quicker than the hands on a clock
move when we’re together.
I never knew I liked baseball,
never thought any player was worth waiting to see.
But he proved me wrong when he pitched 93
then just walked over to his bench
trying to hide his smile
as if that was no biggie?
Speaking figuratively,
We’re a two-man team
both deserving of MVP, shared authority.
A main character
in my favorite flashback scenes, mainly comedy.
The caffeine in my coffee cup,
Without, I’m left with a sense of urgency
My suga suga, a source of energy.
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Marisa McLaughlin/Kaitlin Tetreault
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The Manatee
Out
By Kaitlin Tetreault
“Why do we always have to meet here?” Miranda asked, her head resting
against the pale pink wall. She could close her eyes and reconstruct the
furniture around them; three sinks with a mirror hanging over each of them, a
paper towel dispenser to the left of the sinks, and three stalls, one handicap
accessible, on the other side of the room. Miranda pouted as Lydia leaned
forward.
“You know why.” Lydia pressed her lips to Miranda’s in a quick peck, her
“It’s disgusting.” Miranda scuffed the white tiled floor with her Converse.
Lydia gave her a kiss on the cheek, grasping the black material of
Miranda’s t-shirt. She looked Miranda in the eyes, her jaw soft. “I’m sorry. I- You
“Your mom’s the vice principle, I know,” Miranda interrupted. She closed
her eyes, suppressed a sigh. She couldn’t stand to see Lydia’s mouth form those
words. She didn’t want to hear her apology for the hundredth time. She hated
Lydia tugged on Miranda’s shirt, drawing her body closer. Lydia kissed
her left cheek, then her right. Kissed her nose. Stood on her toes to kiss her
forehead. Each brief contact a cigarette-burn apology that lingered under the
skin.
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Kaitlin Tetreault
“What does she know about me?” Miranda asked. She opened her eyes,
her gaze focusing on Lydia’s wavy brown hair and the curve of her shoulders.
Lydia smiled, kissed the underside of Miranda’s jaw. “Well, she knows
you play volleyball.” Lydia’s mouth hovered over her neck, teasing. “Assumes
you’re a good girl.” Lydia leaned half an inch forward, dug her teeth into
Miranda tilted her head, groaned through a grimace. Her eyes shut. The
pulse in her neck throbbed. She took a breath, but her voice was tight. “What
hang out sometimes.” Lydia shrugged, her voice non-committal. “Vague stuff.”
“What have you told your dad, huh?” Lydia tugged at her shirt, an uneven
“He knows.” Her eyelids pried open. She looked down the slope of her
nose at Lydia’s brown eyes. Her voice calm, “He also knows it’s a secret.”
Lydia dropped her hands, her mouth agape. She sputtered, her eyes wide,
searching, “Why?” She shook her head. “Why? Why, why, why?” She took a short
breath before holding eye contact with Miranda. “Why did- How come you
told?”
“It’s been seven months. I needed it to feel real.” Miranda’s voice was
quiet, her gaze drifting to the sinks behind Lydia’s left shoulder.
“Is this not real enough? Me being in front of you?” Lydia reached for
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Miranda took a step forward, her hands on Lydia’s thick sides. Her eyes
“What about this doesn’t feel real to you?” Lydia asked, her voice harsh,
staring directly into Miranda’s eyes. Her grip on Miranda’s wrists tightened.
splayed. “You’ve never introduced me to your parents, your friends.” She bit
her lip for a moment, her hands balling into fists against Lydia’s side. “We had
to exchange our Christmas gifts in the back parking lot of the Cracker Barrel.”
that?”
“You knew going into this that we couldn’t be public. That doesn’t lessen
what we have.” Lydia grasped at Miranda’s shoulders, face, hair. Her voice
The door to the bathroom swung open. The two girls separated,
Miranda’s hands balled at her sides and her gaze stuck on the tiled floor; Lydia
“And don’t you fucking talk to my boyfriend again.” Lydia threw down
Miranda watched Lydia’s shoes turn to face the opposite direction and
her jeans march towards the bathroom door. A pair of flats hurried towards the
stalls, passing Lydia. A stall door shut and moments later the bathroom door
hit its frame. Miranda looked up at the wooden door, wishing her girlfriend
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Kaitlin Tetreault
She closed her eyes. The sound of the person in the first stall magnified;
Miranda could hear every notch of the zipper release with perfect clarity, could
practically feel the scratchy material of the girl’s pants on her own thighs. Pee
hitting the toilet bowl echoed, overwhelming her. Miranda hated the bathroom.
Hated it. She could practically feel the germs surrounding her, ready to attack
her skin and infiltrate her immune system. She wanted to scream, wanted to
scrape the skin off her body one layer at a time. She wanted to never exist in
this bathroom again, never wanted to touch Lydia within these nauseating walls
Miranda pulled her iPhone out of her pocket. A new message from “Lydia
Miranda locked her phone and slid it back into her pocket. The toilet
automatically flushed. Miranda closed her eyes, leaned her head against the
pale pink wall as the stall door clicked. She wasn’t going to cry in the bathroom.
She wasn’t going to cry in the bathroom. She wasn’t going to-
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The Manatee
43
Maria Celli/Hannah Lewis
You
By Maria Celli
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The Manatee
Incomplete
By Hannah Lewis
45
Hannah Lewis/Madeline Reno
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The Manatee
Unexpected
By Madeline Reno
“We are now starting our descent into Bemidji. We hope y’all enjoyed
added to my growing headache. Her words made me turn and glare at him
again. I hadn’t spoken to him since the flight started. He just sat there, sipping
water and listening to music. He must have felt my glare because even before
This was supposed to be our vacation. I waited all year for this. The only thing I
put him in charge of was getting the plane tickets. He had forgotten, and last
Bemidji.
Minnesota.
That’d be the last time I gave him any important tasks to do.
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Madeline Reno
“You know, this isn’t actually the worst thing either of us has done when
we’ve been drunk,” he said in an attempt to make light of the situation. Like
“December 25, 2010. You got trashed and forgot about the Skype call
had been the day after, when half my family called me, asking if I had actually
done such a thing, a few even telling me their own tales of drunken adventures.
My grandparents still don’t look at me the same way and keep alcohol far from
me.
“To be fair, I probably shouldn’t have dared you to put your underwear
on your head. Though, I honestly didn’t think you’d actually do it.” He glanced
at me, grinning.
I struggled not to grin back. I turned my face away from him, staring out
of the plane window as we broke through cloud after cloud, and gritted my
teeth.
it, because I wanted him to know how much this hurt. I had really been looking
forward to exploring D.C. with him. What was there to do in Bemidji? Instead of
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going to the nation’s greatest museums and memorials, we were going to the
“curling capital” of the United States, which I thought was probably a self-
proclaimed title. I didn’t even count curling as a sport. It was a chore. They
literally sweep.
That’s what I did on the flight, besides letting my anger settle together
and stew until the pot bubbled over. Luckily, our plane was one of the newer
ones that offered free Wi-Fi, even in coach. With that slow Internet speed only
charming; population under 15,000; the complete opposite of the vacation you
dreamed about…
The plane was low enough now to see a few lights on in the town. It was
about two in the morning, thanks to the flight planner getting the worst
the weather. What had previously looked like rain was actually wet and heavy
snow falling from the thick clouds we broke through. Snow. In September.
The landing was bumpy, though we made it down in one piece. This tiny
airport had only two gates that I could see in its depressingly small terminal.
Pulling in and parking seemed to take what felt like forever, and right when the
seatbelt signs went off, I was up. There weren’t too many people on the flight,
but I was determined not to be stuck in this plane any longer than necessary.
and walked to the exit. I smiled forcefully and thanked the stewardess. I know
it wasn’t her fault that I was here, but I still disliked how chipper she was.
49
Madeline Reno
The rest of the night passed quickly. The snow kept falling, but it didn’t
seem like too much trouble. After we got our bags and found a bus to the
nearest motel, all I could think about was sleep. I made a half-assed plan to get
up at around noon, rent a car, and see if anything neat could be found in this
town, with or without my travel partner. I didn’t talk to him again that night,
mostly due to being dead-tired; being pissed was a side-note. I didn’t even
change when we finally got to our room; I just picked the queen-sized bed
I woke up groggy, not wanting to see the light peeking through the
SLAM!
--found myself on the floor, wedged in that foot-wide gap between the
bed and the wall. I wiggled my way out and found him staring at me, maniacal
laughter in his eyes. I stuck my tongue out at him and found my way to the tiny
bathroom. When I returned to the room, I realized he was sitting on his freshly-
“A few hours. I didn’t want to wake you ‘cause you looked peaceful and
less likely to bite my head off.” He smirked. I turned away and bit my lip so he
for?” I asked him, sarcasm dripping from every word. “What time is it, anyway?”
I checked before he answered, since my phone was next to me. The numbers
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4:00 PM
I shook my head. “You let me sleep until four? That’s twelve hours. Why
the hell would you think that’s a good idea?” I tried to keep my voice at a
steady level, but it wasn’t working too well. He knew I hated sleeping so late. He
also should’ve known that my whole sleep schedule would now be out of
whack. I sighed. “Great. Just great. I’m on a week-long vacation I now wish I
wasn’t on, we are in the last place I’d ever want to visit, and now our first day
here is wasted.” I was talking mostly to myself and felt regret pass through me
“I’m sorry. I thought you might want to get your sleep back. Plus, we can’t
do much today, anyway…” He sounded sad. I almost didn’t catch that last part.
window, then back to me. I walked over and opened them, seeing white. From
the time the plane landed and we got to this motel to the time I woke up, a
massive blizzard had settled over this town. I was looking at gray skies, heavy
falling snow, and what looked to be about two feet of it on the ground, thus far.
My mouth dropped. Great, let’s add more to this pile of crap this vacation
is turning into. I sat back down on my bed and just lay backward, arms splayed
He put his computer down, got up, and walked over to my bed. Without
51
Madeline Reno/Maria Celli
“I love you,” he said. “Even though I messed up, and the weather messed
up, and you probably hate me right now, I just love you so much and I am so
glad I get to spend a whole week with you, away from everything else.”
I blinked.
He was right. I had gotten so caught up in the fact that all of our plans
had been screwed up that I didn’t think about the fact that we were here,
together.
We had been together for three years, but we didn’t live together yet. We
actually lived an hour away from each other. At most, we got to spend a couple
days a week together. This vacation changed that. One whole week with him by
my side.
I slipped my hand into his, a smile spreading across my face. “I don’t hate
you, weirdo,” I said, squeezing his hand. “In fact, I love you more and more
every day, even when you do boneheaded things like order plane tickets
drunk.”
He looked down, but I could see the corners of his eyes crinkle, like they
always do when he smiled. I put my hand under his chin and guided it back up,
then kissed him. He pulled me in for a hug, one that I wouldn’t trade for the
world.
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The Manatee
Deal Lake
By Maria Celli
53
Travis Burke/Lauren Borry
54
The Manatee
55
Lauren Borry
“Come to me whenever”
There is no truth in your words,
But you taste like raspberries & I cannot deny you
I should have run—they told me to run
You don’t want to be seen, I want to be seen
There is no truth in your words,
But you drip like honey, sweetest at night
& I listen closely because you are more than you were meant to be
A fire spread deep in my chest; burning slowly—drawn to you
I want to be seen
There is no truth in your words
But you sound like sunshine, hiding behind the moon
& I am yours for the taking
“I always will”
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The Manatee
57
Michael Franco
Tyjax
By Michael Franco
I stood in the green grass of the field, contemplating the day. The clouds
above looked ominous. Rain was in the forecast, but not until later. The frigid
air blew through the leaves of a nearby tree, shaking a few loose. I always loved
“I never thought we’d meet like this, Tyler,” I said, head still lowered.
“Somehow, I always pictured this being the other way around. Life can be funny
that way, I guess.” I wrapped my hand around the object in my pocket, thinking
I lifted my head to the clouds and closed my eyes while the memories of
Tyler flooded in. Thinking about those times was like finding a box of
photographs in a closet; each one held their own special attraction that couldn’t
be ignored.
Tyler was always like a brother to me and that was never more apparent
than the time he moved in. He rented out a room from my parents for six
months. We were really like brothers then; we saw each other all the time and
I remembered the first day he began living with us. He sorted out all his
belongings; there were at least twenty dragon-themed items. I asked him about
them. He smiled, raised his eyebrows like a cartoon character, and responded,
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That day I learned to never doubt that man’s obsession with dragons.
piece he made was either by hand or all done on his phone. This impressed me,
especially as his skills sharpened and he began crafting more complex and
original pieces. He even shared his art with the world via the internet and social
media. He put them up under his nickname, Tyjax. He loved that name and
used it every chance he got, a referenced to a villain in the movie Deadpool; the
villain’s name was Francis, Tyler’s last name. I thought he’d be called Tyjax for
Yeah, those were good times, but I remembered the poetry slam the best.
It held a lot of importance to me. I had to attend one for a poetry workshop and
Tyler offered to go with me. He did a lot more than sit and listen to poetry
when we got there. He helped me overcome a fear of mine that night. The
About time, too; I’d had it with the detours. That first building we went to
“Cool, let’s head in. Do you think the open mic is still going on?” He
sounded excited, but he might have been cold. It was freezing outside that
November night.
“Yeah, it should be,” I responded, excited myself. “It’s the main draw of
these things.”
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Michael Franco
We walked in, thankful to be out of the cold. I paid our way and we both
received stamps on our hands. The dimly lit but cozy room gave off a
welcoming presence. People filled it from end to end, filling the booths and
round tables. The microphone held the only open spot, standing under a small
Tyler gave me a smile and looked down at me. “What does it matter if
there’s brews or not?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You’re not legally old
enough to drink.”
We shared a laugh over this and quietly made our way to the back of the
room.
Poets came out in droves that night. Almost every poem dealt with the
recent election of the evil Oompa-Loompa to the White House. Tyler had come
from a family who supported the now-President and I expected him to say
something against the poems. It surprised me when he stated how great the
poems were and how passionately the poets spoke. We ended up critiquing the
poems between ourselves, almost always praising the passion and emotion that
employee said something about there being a couple of spaces left for the open
mic, the thing that Tyler was really interested in. I was, too, but unlike Tyler, I
had a fear of public speaking. Despite this, I leaned over to Tyler and told him I
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would participate if he did. He got up and ran for the clipboard before I even
finished my sentence.
Tyler used his nickname, and a broad smile emerged when they called
out “Tyjax.” He walked up and, due to his massive height, had to lean over the
mic so he could be heard. He started by saying that his poem described the life
of a gamer. Good call, as his first line was, “I have died over a million times.”
He took the stage and the atmosphere changed. It had been filled with a
kind of rebellious spirit about the recent political bullshit that happened in the
last few weeks. But when Tyjax took over, everyone laughed and had a smile on
their face as they went through their own childhood memories of hours spent
playing games.
Tyler reveled in the applause showered upon him. I couldn’t have been
more proud of him; his artistic skills came out with a pencil and a brush, not
with words, and yet he had the place in laughter and good spirits from a poem
My heart sank when my name was called after Tyler left the mic. He
walked over to me, embraced me and whispered, “You’re gonna knock ‘em
dead.”
destination, I pushed down the anxiety that built up in my throat. I looked out
at that sea of unfamiliar faces. I found Tyler, his full beard and brown hair
start talking.
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Michael Franco
Then it seemed like time froze. Tyler was one of my closest friends. He
and our group of friends taught me it was okay to be who you are, no matter
what other people might think. I clung to that lesson and took a deep breath. I
said, probably louder than necessary, “Hi. How are you? Nice to see you!”
Feedback followed my words out the speakers. A few audible gasps and
laughs greeted me from the audience. I saw this as a good sign and continued
by saying that the poem I was going to recite was a song, not a poem.
“Songs are just poems put to music!” This came from my left.
over a few words and spoke faster than I intended. Fear threatened to take over,
but I refused to let it. The crowd burst into applause when I finished.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” I released the mic from the death grip
I had on it. “I hope you’re having a great night and please enjoy the rest of the
poetry.” I walked away from the only source of light in the room and back to
Tyler.
He stood up, shouted, “Come here, man,” and hugged me again. “I’m
proud of you,” he said over the crowd. “That took a lot of guts. I knew you
could do it.”
“Thanks, pal.” That’s all I could manage in that moment. I tried to catch
my breath.
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immediately blind me, only to find no rain. I placed a hand to my cheek and felt
“You don’t know how much you inspired me, Tyler,” I placed a hand on
the gravestone. “If anyone could teach me that it was okay to be myself, it was
definitely you. I miss you, pal.” My hand gripped the stone like it would vanish.
“Life’s never gonna be the same without you.” I loosened my grip and let my
hand fall back to my side. “But, you don’t really want to hear that, do you?”
No, he wouldn’t have. Tyler said he wanted people to celebrate his life,
not mourn his death. I couldn’t agree more with that idea. His life deserved to
be celebrated. I took out the object from my pocket, a switchblade with a pearl
grip. I pressed the button and blade popped out. It wasn’t much, but it would
have to do. I walked to the tree by his grave and started carving, rough tree
friends, myself included, tried to persuade his mother into getting his
nickname carved into the headstone as well as his birth name. She wanted to
because she knew Tyler would’ve wanted it, but she couldn’t get it done.
63
Natasha Simmons
Death by Dreams
By Natasha Simmons
I love them
as I love fear,
Clinging to every word I write.
Stalling my pen, my mind
A criticizing force.
A kingdom awaits.
Fantastical adventures.
That allow me to evade
The pain of a life where
I can’t find my place.
It whispers the intoxicating
promise of escape.
In my head clashing,
I compare the passion
and crippling self-doubt.
Tangled in one novel that
Takes and takes. I want
To break from this whole
World, my awful decisions.
Can it be?
I took the wrong path.
The fantasy of job security
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Floats in my sight.
Is it worth it?
If I’ll never be the writer
I wish to be.
Is failure all that awaits me?
65
Mary Shakshober/Elle Tibbitts
Cooperage on a Cliff
By Mary Shakshober
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The Manatee
Stop dr if t
- in
g
from the story
Now.
A Grin speculates direction
but I cannot find a sign. Who in the world am I?
67
Elle Tibbitts/Amber Krane
Stop when you find the end, they say. Not sane. Not me. Not anybody. I wonder
at the wound, fist splinters silvered glass. Grasp at shards. Piece back a
semblance of a path back to her. Lost.
Who in the world am I?
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The Manatee
The Pheonix
By Amber Krane
The sweet innocence of puppy love filled my tiny frame with hope that someday I
could find the Prince that was appearing in my dreams since I was a child. A sandbox
love, butterflies fluttering frantically through my tummy gave me hope that magic was
real.
A platonic love shared between two souls who only want one thing from each other:
friendship. The faithful companion one meets upon this journey we call life. Two
travelers that may go down different paths, but have a way to find one another at the
You were the Devil disguised as an Angel. You ripped my heart out, gutted me from
the inside so I became a hollow shell, deceiving me into thinking you were the Prince I
dreamt of so long ago. Once you had me in your loveless grasp, you tore away the
innocence I treasured so deeply. Finally realizing your charade was over, I attempted to
flee. Caught and cornered, you lacerated my wings, grabbed the torch, and ignited my
A warm light that shines brighter than the stars in the pitch-black sky. The kindness
and nurturing you showered me with showed me a new kind of emotion: love. True,
genuine love one feels towards another who provides light through this darkness,
spiraling outwards, trapped in what feels like a twilight zone. Little gestures to show
gratitude for coming to my aid when I was just a burning pile of embers, unable to
discern what to do with myself. You gave me the strength to rise from the ashes and
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Amber Krane
burn bright as the sun. Although you are blind to my gratitude and true emotions, I
can never repay you for everything you gave me. For after all, you helped create the
Phoenix.
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The Manatee
Dirt Road
By Anonymous
71
Travis Burke/Ruth Way
I’ll Work
By Travis Burke
for my friend
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The Manatee
Unfamiliar
by Ruth Way
eyes, 5’6-7”. If you have any information about her whereabouts, please contact.
Thank you.
--
Around 5, she stood in the bathroom, brushing her teeth to watch the
rabies foam from her mouth in cool mint. Her giggle fogged the mirror, but she
did not wipe it clean. Inside of her boiled no desire to see her flyaway hairs or
eyelashes. Instead, she climbed atop the sink, the worry of slipping off
unaccounted for, and opened the cabinets with no other reason than to shut
them in an entertaining pattern. Her mouth rested in a smile, and she only
She jumped off, ran out, crashed into a melting snow pile with nothing
but a light jacket. Brown shoes were wet. She rushed over to the bus, not
bothering about her slightly sopping socks. Instead, she recounted to the bus
driver and classmates how cold ice truly felt, soothing curiosity. She said
goodbye to each student as they stepped out the creaking doors, making sure
Around 10, she wandered down the halls with an extra bounce in the
balls of her feet. Her hair wafted in long waves behind her and she stepped, just
so, to feel its weight gently tugging at her head. Two boys passed her, stopping
short and staring, so she slowed a bit. Three girls passed, leaned against the ice
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Ruth Way
blue lockers, pointed. They started laughing as one grabbed the ends of her
own locks and tossed them about. Stumbling, our victim stopped her tip toe
treading, rolling her feet along with the hallways traffic instead.
She filled the break in her class, the hush in the crowd, with the crinkling
of a candy wrapper, the crumbs flaking onto crisp white pages of her book. One
glance, two, three had her breaking the bar into pieces in substitute for
enjoying each bite from the source. Three, four, five side smiles from six, seven
girls congregating in the corner made her slip what remained of the snack into
her jacket pocket, too aware of eyes, and later tossed in the trash.
Around 12, she stood in the women’s room, looking sideways in the
mirror. Sucked in, breathed out, looked at herself in that blue dress from all
angles. Another girl sprung from a stall, all elbows and pin-straight hair. She
surveyed our victim’s calves, triceps, fingers, her entirety, and left without a
word, alerting our victim that fat was not limited to the stomach.
She sat at a table, gobbling air and water. She had just sipped from the
bathroom sink, given herself a pep talk about starvation and what good it can
do for you. Her homework sat widespread on the table, and kids copied while
chatting. She liked it, this odd human interaction that mingled all around her,
like dipping a toe into water. Perhaps they had sat with her because she looked
thinner.
Around 15, her clothes, brown and green, resembled the bark and leaves
of trees, and she felt like a lumbering trunk. Head down, she walked with
perfect posture and gurgling stomach; you cannot slouch when sucking in and
holding breath.
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harmless wind. But people were always kind in asking for classwork and loud in
their suggestions for what she could change. Her potential seemed so vast; she
could become by destroying herself. With this bark aesthetic, came comments
and conversation, and so the lack of love made her stay, thinking attention to
be equivalent.
Around 18, she had done it. Broken a shell, burst forth in black-clad,
holding still-warm pizza crust. Her laugh cackled and cawed out of smiling lips
now used for eating, odd opinions, and telling strangers to “fuck off.” She
slouched more and cared less, though her spine spite her for it. Running
replaced walking, but her ankles still held out hope of hoping. Long locks had
been cropped close to her skull and her head felt light, even a bit dizzying, with
Where I wipe off flecks of toothpaste and look at the length of lashes. Where I
stare straight on, not turning to the side to gauge width. Where my jeans were
black and top maroon, reminding me more of the night than the soothing rustle
of tree branches. And free from skin that did not seem to fit right, I feel happy.
But with the lack of caring comes an indent in my compassion. The destruction
of my longing to get along has left me a little lonely. And now, with each
bathroom trip, above the sink hangs a moving missing persons poster.
--
75
Ruth Way/Marissa McLaughlin
like fingernails down flesh, I got torn apart and sewn together, but as I stitched
Thank you.
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77
Marissa McLaughlin/Maria Celli
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The Manatee
Cloud Reflection
By Maria Celli
79
Kaitlin Tetreault
4:30am
By Kaitlin Tetreault
My lips curled,
happiness slipping
through the upturned corners.
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The Manatee
81
Natasha Simmons
My Duty?
By Natasha Simmons
Unthreatening. Calm. As I woke each day now in a new nightmare, I still found
That day, I woke up in the best way. Rolled over in bed and got a glimpse
of those gentle, blue eyes still sleepily resisting the sun that was teasing at the
lids. Annabelle had tied back her playful, chestnut locks before she went to bed,
but they had escaped in the night, forming a beautiful, tangled mess.
I gathered her pale body into my arms, noticing with delight how her
stomach protruded. I couldn’t help but hope that our child would ignore my
murky brown eyes, dull brown hair, and prominent features, so that it might
end up even half as lovely as she was. Perhaps with just a tinge less worry
“Michael! Annabelle!” Catherine called from the kitchen. “I’ve made us all
breakfast.”
We groaned, both missing the mornings that had once dragged on as long
as we dared. Those three months had been short-lived, though. About a year
ago, Annabelle and Catherine’s parents were killed by ogres, and twelve-year-
Since then, walls had been built, traps invented, and a whole army was
formed to keep the ogres out. Scared, shy Catherine had bloomed into an
outgoing and helpful young lady who had doted on her sister throughout her
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pregnancy. We had become quite a happy little family. She was more a blessing
than a bother and added to the charm of the simple life we were living.
rumbled as the smell of maple syrup, bacon, and coffee crept into the bedroom
“I’m too tired for mornings.” She pouted. “The baby needs more sleep.”
Still, she rolled out of bed and made sure Catherine was completely ready
for school before even tasting a morsel of her own breakfast. I always tried to
help, but she insisted that only she knew how to do everything right. She was
bustle around. Their bubbly spirits filled the morning with love and energy. It
was amazing watching the two; Catherine had become a younger, mirror image
of her sister. I realized now how much those mornings shall always mean to
Even back then, before my eyes were opened to how great life once was,
the warmth of our small cottage made it difficult to leave. Yet it was spring, the
ground was awakening. The promise of a good harvest carried our hopes for a
bright future, especially since I had been able to attain more land this year and
increase our prospects. I lingered as long as I could, but soon it was time to kiss
both ladies goodbye and get started on the mounds of work that lay ahead of
me.
The hours spent outside were long, hard, and tiring. Despite the fact that
it was still early in spring, the sun beat down on me relentlessly that day, and
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Natasha Simmons
no matter how much work I did, there still seemed to be so much left ahead of
me. By the time I went home for lunch, I wasn’t even close to being done and
realized that I had far underestimated the amount of supplies I would need.
The fuzzy feelings from that happy morning had been covered over by a layer
of sweat and dirt. In its place, I had unearthed my old companions, exhaustion
and frustration.
wife. However, there was something else behind that smile today, something I
couldn’t quite put my finger on. During lunch, my love was quiet, took tiny
bites, and looked down at the floor much more than normal. Finally, I couldn’t
stand it anymore.
She sighed. “I suppose I’ve felt a bit alone and cooped up lately. I’m
weary, yet this sweet, spring day has been calling my name. I always see you
and Catherine out and about, and sometimes I miss the days when I could be so
“Well, I need to go into town for a short period of time this afternoon.
With the added plots of land, I need more supplies than I did last season. Why
don’t you join me? If it won’t tire you out too much, that is.”
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Her eyes lit up, and I got to see the first genuine smile of the afternoon.
That smile made me feel like the proudest man in the world. My first true
“Nonsense!” I replied. “We’ll leave after you’ve finished eating. Our baby
gets hungry, too, you know. You need to make sure to keep up your strength
We ventured out into the quiet town soon after, and Annabelle was
quickly restored back to her charming self. Chatter about what our baby would
be like once it was born, how much Catherine was growing, and future plans we
had for the farm, joined the music the chipper birds filled the air with. I took
Annabelle’s hand and picked a plump, pink, new bud that was just starting its
life on a tree that hung overhead. Then, I found it a new home, snuggled
amongst my wife’s earthy locks of hair. The day had returned to its previous,
amiss. People were bustling in and out of shops, their hands clutching any
weapons they could find. Children and women were rushing home, crying and
The grave look that clouded his features gave me pause. Suddenly, I
wished that I had kept my little bird locked up in that cage where at least she
was safe and sound. I regretted ever letting her out into this frightening world.
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Natasha Simmons
“The ogres broke through the wall,” he said. “East side. I guess it had
been crumbling. They started at the church, and when they didn’t find enough
And then, my pregnant wife took off running. I had no other choice but
to follow her. I knew that trying to demand that she run back to the cottage
The school wasn’t far from the marketplace, which was why everyone
there was frantic. Still, getting there seemed to take a lifetime. I kept thinking
about Annabelle, about Catherine. It was my job to keep them safe, my duty. I
couldn’t let anything happen to them. I cursed myself for ever letting either of
These worries gave me speed and strength, but as the schoolhouse came
into view, my worst fears were realized. A group of about fifteen ogres were
ransacking the vicinity. Children. They were going after the children, after the
school.
The monsters stood much taller than the few, brave humans that had
come to the rescue of those innocent souls. Their bodies were massive, with
folds of skin and fat unending. Even more dangerous, more sickening, were the
muscles bulging out in hideous ways, strength blessed upon these dumb, brute
creatures. There was no trace of intelligence in their gooey, yellow eyes. They
were only focused on obtaining as much human flesh as they could to fill their
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outsmart the men that were attacking them. Their bodies were covered in mere
armor. Still, the weapons that managed to touch them barely pierced the skin,
and didn’t do much damage. When it seemed a human was able to actually
cause a bit of pain, the ogre would just pluck them up and add them to the pile
Of course not!
These ogres that sent strong, young men running didn’t give her pause.
She didn’t notice the sprays of blood coming from the ogres’ foaming mouths,
the yellow teeth they sported, sharper than any knife we owned. Or, if she did
Despite her courage, I knew that I couldn’t allow Annabelle to get any
closer. I caught up to her and wrapped my arms around her to restrain her, to
try to talk some sense into her. She fought me off as if I was the monster, as if
she’d rather scramble away from me, and into the arms of the death machines
before us.
Catherine had just barely turned thirteen, and she was in a race for her
life that would scare even the bravest warrior. That little girl placed amongst
those nasty monsters was heartbreaking. Sickening. She was darting just out of
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Natasha Simmons
the ogres reach, trying to get to us, but it was a dangerous game. One slip up
to tear my eyes off of Catherine. “Think about our baby, Annabelle. Don’t kill
It was a cruel tactic to use, but it was the only way to make her turn
towards safety, and I refused to lose our little family. I ran to Catherine,
I didn’t get more than ten feet closer before Catherine’s scream sliced
through my heart. An ogre had grabbed ahold of her. Closer, but not close
enough. I dashed toward the ogre, but it was too late. Seconds later, her scream
was cut off by the sound of crunching bones as Catherine’s body was bit in
half.
were exposed for the world to see. Her mind so bright, so full of potential was
swallowed in that first bite. But the anguish in her eyes, the fear that rang out
in her voice, had never gone away. They have always found a way to link
In that short period of time it took for the ogre to consume her, the
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Memories of the sweet girl whom I had vowed to protect flashed through my
mind. I wished I could trade places with her, do something to stop it.
I did nothing. Could do nothing. The horror ripped through my body, the
distorting her features. She hadn’t even gotten halfway to the church, and I
I pushed through the emotions that I was battling and ran towards her. I
gathered her in my arms and carried her limp body to the church, where we hid
among the ruins. I figured that since the ogres had already torn through the
building, they wouldn’t bother coming back. Thankfully, I was right. For once.
We both cried as the world came down around us once more, as demons
tore up the life that we had loved. I tried to soothe her, but I knew that there
was nothing I could do but hold her and wait. Hours later, when I was sure that
the ogres had moved on to torment another town, long after the rest of the
survivors had come out of hiding, I led my wife through the destroyed
Annabelle was closed off, unseeing, throughout the long walk back. The
shock left her unable to do anything but walk with my guidance. My senses,
however, were on high alert. I was anxious, looking around every corner to
make sure there wasn’t a random ogre lingering in the shadows, a monster
under the bed waiting to steal the rest of my family from me.
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Natasha Simmons
me with accusations that I hadn’t tried hard enough. It pointed out that, as the
man of the house, I should’ve been able to keep my family safe. I didn’t though.
I soon learned that I wasn’t the only one still plagued by the disappointed
chorus of mourning. But beneath that grimy layer were talks of vengeance.
Much of the army that had formed previously was killed in the attack.
Now, angry sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands were ready to join
forces, follow those ogres, and hunt them down, so our town would never have
to suffer this kind of devastation ever again. We hadn’t been able to do our
duty before; we hadn’t been able to protect the ones that we loved. We had let
Their words were very appealing to me. My own thoughts joined theirs. It
my soul craved. Yet, these thoughts had to be pushed aside once I got home. I
hadn’t been able to do as I should, and I couldn’t save Catherine. Now, all I
could do was care for Annabelle and try to calm her with things I knew would
I led my silent, shocked wife into bed, then went to make her dinner.
When I came back into the bedroom to bring her tea and her favorite meal, she
was sitting straight up in bed, watching me with a haunting gaze. Once again, I
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“I know what you’re thinking,” she said as I handed her the tray. “I heard
the men talking. You can’t go, though. You absolutely can’t. I want vengeance
just as much as you do, but I won’t lose you in the process! You’re all I have
left. You and this baby, and I can’t take care of this family on my own. I don’t
want to.”
“I know,” I whispered as I sat down beside her. “I don’t want you to have
to. But it’s my duty.” I tried to take her hand, but she wrenched it away from
“I can’t do that if you’re both dead!” I paused and took a deep breath. I
realized how much this fight was affecting my already broken wife, and I knew
there would be no convincing her right now. I put my arm around her shoulders
and dried the tears that had started to fall. “Let’s not fight, okay? Today has
been dreadful enough as is. We’ll discuss this in the morning. For now, eat up.
She nodded and painstakingly ate her dinner. After some prodding on my
part, she tried to get some sleep. It would be hours before she drifted off. In the
meantime, I comforted her while she cried, truly appreciating every moment I
spent holding her. Savoring the feel of her warm skin against mine, her smell,
her presence. During this time, I pondered what my true duty was.
How could I be a good husband and father if I left my family? How could
I be a good man if I didn’t protect the ones I loved? What if Annabelle was the
next person I had to watch die? What if my own child found its way into the
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Natasha Simmons/McKayla Hutchins
I woke up early the next morning while the lovely Annabelle slept
soundly. I packed the bare essentials, leaving my wife with as much as I could.
Then I wrote out a letter for my darling that was blotted with tears. I laid it on
the side table, then kissed her forehead. I almost hoped that she’d awaken and
force me not to go, but the disaster of yesterday had worn her out.
It was my duty?
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Yooo
By McKayla Hutchins
A young girl
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McKayla Hutchins/Jaelle Matthieu
A leader
A response that
Stated Yooo
I’ll take the subtle hint
That this is my time to go
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Marisa McLaughlin
just to tell me I had a snow day and could go back to sleep. Which always
myself back under my comforter. I ejected my father’s DVD and slipped it back
into its case. I then placed his final “To Dewey” tapes that he had recorded into
“Dewey, today, I’m ‘bout to teach you how to find yourself a fine woman.
Now go grab a q-tip or four of ‘em and scrape that wax out of your ears. You
being my son, I know for damn sure it’s probably been about two months since
you cleaned those elephant ears of yours and if you’ve got any other traits of
mine, well, you better sharpen up a Ticonderoga Number 2 and grab a notebook
as thick as Aunt Cheryl’s thighs ‘cause you’re gonna wanna take some notes.”
“Dewey!”
pester me about for the eleventh time this hour. “God, Ma, what now?”
“Open your door. I’m not gonna yell from down here. And watch your
mouth!”
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my unathletic self from it. After nearly breaking a sweat just to get out of bed, I
dating back two Tuesdays. At this point, Helen Keller had just about as good of
a shot at seeing my bedroom floor as the next guy. I cracked the door, so my
mom would have one less thing to continue harping on me about, not realizing
her body through my cracked door. However, she quickly surrendered once she
realized that, even by exerting the full force of her buck-twenty body, she stood
“If you’re gonna sleep half your day away, would ya at least take a showa
before you come out here and start hurtin’ my eyes because you're lookin’ like
that? If you really aren’t gonna try out for the team this spring, at least do
somethin’ with yourself. You smell like McDonald’s french fries for god’s
I tilted my head to the left and did one of those wafting inhales, just to
get a little sample of my armpit’s aroma. You know, the ones your sixth grade
science teachers tell you to do when you are smelling chemicals from test tubes
in case they were too poignant, or whatever. Yeah, she was right.
“And would you clean your damn room? Did I raise you in a barn?” After
a second attempt she managed to squeeze her way through the door, now
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Marisa McLaughlin
hoarding reality television shows would be looking for. My mom looked like she
“Dewey. You shittin’ me? It looks like you just let Hank off his leash after
giving him five lines of cocaine and vodka redbulls. I swear you’re gonna give
“Did you even feed Hank today? Would ya feed him? I’ve got to meet the
Linda. We’re gettin’ our—” She stopped for a moment, as if stupefied by the
sight of a split end and a single gray hair. “Where was I? Oh, right, yes our hairs,
we’re getting our hairs done.” She continued to pluck and speculate every
flawed strand of hair she could find on her head as she told me her plans for
the day. “At that new place- what was it called? Oh whateva. I’ll bring home
some dinner for ya. Feed Hank. Look at ‘em. Have ya ever seen a bulldog look so
lifeless? Give him some leftover cabassi. Tell him he’s a good boy. He loves the
cabassi.” She leaned in to kiss me goodbye but stopped and gave me a quick
look of disgust and a love tap on my caramel curls. “Seriously. Take a shower.
I loved my mom, but waking up to her Long Island accent every morning
was about as bad as having the Cha-Cha-Slide as a daily alarm clock. I headed
down the stairs and chucked a cabassi onto the couch where Hank was
sprawled out to make my mother happy, even though I had already fed the
fatty twice today. But it’s not like I would ever talk back to her. You grow up
with an Italian mother from Long Island and you grow up with one fear: her. I
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The Manatee
wholeheartedly believed there was nothing scarier than a pissed off Long Island
woman.
I climbed back in bed and peeked out my window to check how much
snow had accumulated— only to see my plump, little mom frantically scraping
a foot's worth of snow off the windshield of her BMW. With her wingspan
prohibiting her from reaching even halfway across her windshield, I couldn’t
help but not help her. I was laughing harder than it was blizzarding. One
second she was using the scraper like a shovel trying to dig her way to a clear
view, and the next second she seemed to be going with a hammer technique,
smacking the shit out of the few inches of snow she could reach. After my abs
“You ever get so lucky to find a smart, independent, beautiful woman like
your mother, you better never let her go. I swear, God must’ve spent a solid
hour or two longer on your mother than everyone else in this world. With the
rest of us I think he kinda just said “eh, well, good enough. Not my best, not my
worst” and threw us in the womb. But at least you’ve got half your mom in ya.
That’s somethin’.”
could fit inside that five-foot-two woman. She had that Joan Rivers type of
attitude, you know, the type that would write a book completely inspired by her
family and friends and make them all buy it only for them to open it up and see
the dedication stating, ‘To Kanye West, because he’ll never fuckin’ read it.’
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Marisa McLaughlin
Even with an entire floor and my cracked bedroom door between us, I
could hear voice clearer than she would have ever gotten that windshield.
“Fuck it! This snow is ridiculous! I’ll have grey hair by the time I get back
from getting my hair done with Linda trying to drive home in this freakin’
disaster. What do you want for dinner Dewey? I’ll make some lasagna. I know
Answering her own question, I pressed play once again, focusing back on
“You see there’s three types of people, Dewey. The ones who brush their
teeth for the full two minutes because their dentist told them to. Then, there is
those who simultaneously slip on shaving cream while shampooing but also
brushing their teeth. You know, the people who are forced to multitask in
attempts to make up for the fact that they hit snooze three-too-many times.
The third type are the people that are born the second, but when the first type
comes along, they get their ass on track and make them the first type. I was the
third type, and boy, your mother was the first type. My type.
packing our bags and making your Aunt Cheryl and me move across the
country from Texas to Long Island was a good idea. Well, that is until your
grandmother, your Aunt Cheryl, and I arrived by plane and your grandfather,
who was supposed to drive with the movers, decided he’d actually rather stay
“Your mother had it all going for her. She didn’t have to look when she
crossed the street because everyone was already watching her. She was smart,
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The Manatee
funny. She’d smoke the boys in the timed mile in gym class every year and then
she’d shit on them for it. God, it was awesome. She was the type of girl you
“I continued football when I moved here. It was pretty big back in Texas,
you know, and I heard your mother had a soft spot for quarterbacks. She ran
track, fast. I swear, her feet moved quicker than the hands on a clock when we
spent time together. She was All-American, top of the class, a teacher’s favorite
student but not a teacher’s pet. A precedent for class president. She didn’t
waste her time with guys who were going to waste hers. And most importantly,
she knew how to make a mean lasagna even at the age of fourteen.
“I knew this because when I moved into the third house on the left of
Maple Drive, your mother was the only other kid I had along with your Aunt
Cheryl in the neighborhood. She lived two houses down. Every house was the
same, along with every neighbor. The houses were colonials, varied in color but
not in shape or size, and their inhabitants - Long Island Italians. As you can
imagine, we didn’t need to grocery shop for the whole first month. I swear to
God, every day was like an Italian food fest. Every hour I met a new neighbor,
and with them came along whatever their favorite Italian dish was as a
welcoming gift. And with me? Another food coma to be sedated into with every
bite and another pound put on. Insalata Caprese, Eggplant Parmigiana, my God,
the Cannolis, oooh, and the Ciabatto rolls, unreal. I had never had a ‘type’ when
it came to women. Coming from Texas, as long as they weren’t your sister, you
were pretty much in the clear. But from that day, Dewey, damn, did your pops
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Marisa McLaughlin
stove, along with the baking garlic ciabatta rolls in the oven, ascended up our
stairwell and into my room, covering up the stench that had branded itself in
“Specifically, your mother. Antonietta. I called her Toni for short because
she hated it. She called me ‘dumbass’ because I was one. The second day after
we moved in, she knocked on the front door, the house you still live in. Without
even strugglin’, your five foot mother was holding what-looked-like an entire
pasta isle’s worth of freshly baked Chicken Cannelloni in one arm and a
football in the other. I asked if she wanted any help and she goes ‘Really? Vin?
Does it look like I need ya help? I brought this football to teach you a thing or
two, so ya don’t make a fool out of ya self next week for tryouts.’ Then she
walked right in and put the Chicken Cannelloni right in the oven. She turned it
on low to keep it warm. I didn’t even know we had an oven. I didn’t even go by
Vin. It was Vinnie. But from that day on, I went by Vin.”
I cracked a smirk while a tear made its way down the curve of my cheek,
Pops speak about how independent my Ma was even back then. It was
“We’d race the distance between our shitty mailboxes that plows had
blown through more times than I could count on two hands. We hopped our
white picket fences to help her practice for when her Coach told her he needed
her for hurdles. To practice my footwork, we’d dodge the neighborhood soccer
moms speeding like bats out of hell because they forgot one of their sons back
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The Manatee
at the field. She knew she was good, but I knew she could be even better. I never
complimented her accomplishments; I applauded her for the effort that got her
there. And that’s how ya do it, Dewey. You don’t tell a girl they’re great. You tell
someone that and they’ll stop workin’ to get there because they’ll believe it.
And when they realize they’ve got nothin’ to show for it, your words will mean
nothin’. Acknowledge their hard work and they’ll feel like they have an
expectation to keep it up. I wanted your mother to be the best she could be, and
in return we pushed each other to get there. I sure as hell wouldn’t have made
it to the NFL without my Toni and she definitely wouldn’t have become a lawyer
if I didn’t always need her defending my dumbass. You’ve got two choices in
the mornin’: You can keep sleeping with your dreams, or you can wake up and
chase them. You have got to learn to live and learn to love. And when you find a
Ma’s lasagna and garlic ciabatta rolls. I could hear her yelling at Hank for
shitting in the foyer as if it wasn’t her fault for feeding the little man cabassi
fifty times a day, but zoned her out once she started to ask if I had gotten up to
“This cancer is going to end my life before I get the chance to watch you
start yours, but I swear, Dewey, if you make me sit up there and watch you not
make your mother proud, push yourself and push others, too, so help me, God,
your little Long-Island-Italian Mother will be the least of your worries, you hear
me?”
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Marisa McLaughlin/Hannah Lewis
Unable to finish the tape, I closed my laptop and sat for a moment. Then
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The Manatee
Wounded
By Hannah Lewis
he is a mosquito bite
that lasts all summer
long. you want to scratch,
but you know that it
will not heal.
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Mary Newton
She wondered what it was like in his silent world and wished he would
tell her. Instead, she bent down to trace his eyebrows with her fingertips. He
stirred, just for a moment, and a small breath escaped his lips.
But he needed his sleep. God, he needed sleep. Her fingers fell gently
He hadn’t slept in days, almost a week. His desk was littered with
crumpled papers and pencils broken in rage. A squat glass lay on its side next
to a deep amber puddle. The air in the room was still thick with the stench of
bourbon.
She sighed and straightened up. As much as she wanted to scold him for
She set about cleaning the office. That was her job, after all. And thank
God he had a wooden floor, because breaking out a vacuum now would disturb
First, she picked up all the trash in the room: takeout containers, used
napkins, discarded bottles, old clothing tags; all the usual stuff. As she did, she
walked to the rhythm of “Singin’ In The Rain,” which played softly from the
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The Manatee
After de-cluttering the floor, his kitchenette, and the rest of the living
area other than the couch he slept on, she walked over to the desk. He didn’t
like it when she touched his work, but she had to clean up the spilled alcohol
somehow. She started with the crumpled paper, tossing the balls into the
wastebasket as gently as possible to avoid the loud rustling of the trash bag.
Next came the papers that had been stained by the bourbon. Her gaze
strayed to his drawings, despite the fact that he would hate her for looking at
them. He was so serious about his art, although everyone knew he would never
amount to much. The pieces were hardly better than children’s cartoons. But
the doctor said allowing him to continue would help with his anxiety, perhaps
even make him comfortable speaking to her, and she could never argue with
that.
Yesterday, she came to clean the bathroom, but she did not remember it the
She walked in the door, the way she always did, to find him curled in a
ball on the floor, screaming. When she rushed to his aid, his screams fell silent,
but the terror remained in his brown eyes. She stepped away from him, cleaned
the bathroom, and left. He did not move the whole time.
Here, in this cartoon, the demons that haunted him before she walked
through the door looked like gentle house cats compared to her. Curlicue
smoke flowed from every orifice on her disproportionate body, and her jagged
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Mary Newton
This was normal. He had always drawn her like this, and that never
changed, no matter how hard she tried. No matter how much she loved him.
It was the next image that sent goose bumps across her flesh.
This was no scribbled, basic image. This was a real drawing, so real she
felt able to reach her hand in and touch the scene unfolding before her eyes.
She did not know where this came from, whether it had happened to him
or was simply imagined. She hardly knew whether it was his drawing at all. Yet
screaming around the bundle of cloth in his mouth. Someone approached him
“It’s called selective mutism,” the doctor told her. “Whenever the patient
is in a high-anxiety situation, his body prevents him from being able to speak.
We can treat it with speech therapy, but his anxiety will take time.”
In the month since his therapy started, the doctors reported he was
And now, she held the truth in her hands, and she didn’t know what to
do with it.
He stirred again, and his eyes fluttered open. They were still heavy with
exhaustion, and for a moment, it seemed as though he would fall back asleep.
Instead, his gaze found her, and he sat up quickly, eyes wide.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered. “Not like this.” She held out the
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She sat on the floor in front of the couch and placed the picture between
them. “I’m so sorry.” She pushed the drawing towards him. “I promise I would
For a moment, he was quiet, gaze trained on the drawing. When he finally
looked up at her, his gaze was soft and open, not a shred of terror in sight.
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Contributors
Kevin Bettis is a Videogame Art and Development major from Hartford, VT. He
likes the color Rainbow, and it’s Monkeymen not Lizardmen in our Government.
Lauren Borrey is a Creative Writing major due to graduate in 2020. She is from
Warwick, Rhode Island and has watched The Office over 3 times all the way
through.
Travis Burke is a senior about to finish his degree in Creative Writing in the
Spring of 2018. He grew up in Antrim, New Hampshire and will always have a
heart of granite, no matter where his travels take him.
Hannah Lewis is a Creative Writing & English student in her junior year, and
will be graduating in the Spring of 2019. Hannah is from Nashua, NH and
commutes to campus. She loves expressing her thoughts and feelings through
poetry and would like to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing after graduation.
Hannah also works for the International Student Services department on
campus, and loves meeting new people from different cultures.
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Mary Newton is a senior Creative Writing major from North Carolina. She also
has several Fine Arts minors.
Elle Tibbitts is a senior Economics and Math major from Merrimack, NH. She is
passionate about community engagement and telling stories.
Ruth Way is in the 2020 class, obtaining a double major in Creative Writing and
Communication. She is a book worm from Westerly, Rhode Island with a strong
caramel obsession.
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