the WRITERS’ BLOCK

THE WRITER’S BLOCKThe Ada Long Creative Writing Workshop Anthology

Associate EditorsIsaiah Brown

Kathryn HargettCamille WomackKatana Soberano

Regan Snow

Faculty AdvisorsEmmett Christolear

Erica Turner

Student Media AdvisorsMarie Sutton

The Writer’s Block Ada Long Creative Writing WorkshopUniversity of Alabama at Birmingham

Hill Student Center Room 1301530 3rd Avenue South

Birmingham, Alabama 35294-1150205 934-4250

Colophon

The Writers’ Block Literary Arts Anthology is a publication of the Ada Long Creative Writing Workshop at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. The Writers’ Block is printed by UAB Printing

in the quantity of 250 per issue. The editorial process in forming this issue was performed by Adobe InDesign CC running on a Dell PC with a Windows 7 Enterprise operating system. Visual artwork was taken using a Canon Powershot A3300IS; author photos taken with a Canon DS 126321 EOS. Photos transfered to Adobe Photoshop CC. Fonts used are League Spartan, Lucinda Calligraphy, and Minion

Pro. Front cover art “Tree” by Lily Mixon; back cover art “Sand” by Lily Mixon.

6| ThighsSatura Dudley

7| AfroDiteAshley Tate

8| How to be a PrincessSunday Owens

9| My Bookkeeper Ashley Johnson

10| To Be a BirdLily Mixon

11| FavorDahlia Henderson

12| JuneElizabeth LedbetterBinder Clip Ellis Goldstien SheJailyn Ross

The Ravens of the Red SkyAlexandria McClinton

Husk Katana Soberano7|

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A March to Heaven Katelyn Chadwick Thank You to an Imaginary FriendBethany Warden Behind the ShadowsTerriana Richardson How to Write a Story From a Picture Regan Snow ClueElena Mangrobang A Small JourneyShelby Bradley A Chilling Affair Corey Davidson Ticked OffRachel Doudan excerpt from White Mosquitos Maya Quinn How to Kill Someone in Under a Minute Anna LaCruz

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25| 24|

21| 20|

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27| 26|

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“Tree” by Dahlia Henderson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Hymn 32: HeadlessKathryn Hargett

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The Absence of God in the Form of IronMcKenzi Williams

The Old Sloss Man Khrysten Bolling

Melody of the NightAnton Bennighof

I’m a Hard WorkerDoriyan Johnson

No SantaJeremiah Jackson

Young Dope Peddler at SubwayIsaiah Brown

Is Change Going to Come?Camille Womack

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Author Bios |35

ThighsSatura Dudley

My thighs are close,so close they rub together like lips brushing against one another.They don’t want the space between them that will be filled with your disgust or judgment.My thighs and my hands are close, too,so close that if you dare touch my thighs without consentmy hands will have no choice but to retaliate.

But I know that your hands are close with your lips,the lips that put goosebumps up my thighs with every distasteful word that drips from them,the lips that defend your hands by saying that it wouldn’t happen were I ‘fully covered’.

But you must realize that my thighs are mine,and every part of me is willing to defend me fromthe blonde in the back of the classroom saying I should lose a few poundsor the boy on the bus who can’t help but to touch me because he likes ‘slim thick girls’or even from myself when I let what others say get to me.

But my ears can’t unhear the hate.

6

AfroDiteAshley Tate

Honey Heiress,Melaninated Muse,I won’t turn my soul down just so you can hear yours.I have bathed in the Nile of euphoriawhere ecstasy runs like river water.I have filled hearts with soul food and mouth with eye candy.I’d bite you before I bite myself and struggle in paper chains before I call for help.I put the succulent melodies in Jazz, and painted my own trumpet golden,I dance with fragments so they won’t feel so broken.I’m the (Afro)dite without a Zeus to blame.I breathe life into you, so all will remember my name.#PYT#HGICAfroDiteThat’s me

HuskKatana Soberano

We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back. — Malala Yousafzai

I am the ruins, heaving my last breath, in the moment where there are still fingerprints under the limestone dust and memories in the rubble. I am disintegrating. I can feel the wind pull the feeling from my skin and the color from my hair. I forget my name, my language for a language I don’t speak, but it slips through my lips anyways, and sud-denly my only existence is the mindless exchange between my remains and a tourist. My only grasp on the world is the sounds that escape like pleas that don’t know that they are pleas and the tourist doesn’t know that they are pleas because the tourist is just here to watch me lean on ancient columns like crutches, dust pillars snapping like yellow fe-murs. The tourist just wants to see me, a husk, phantoms faded, to snap pictures and murmur, how beautiful, because he doesn’t want to think that this temple was left barren by dying dreams, and he doesn’t want to think this temple is broken and that it might be his fault.

7

How to be a PrincessSunday Owens

To be a princess, you must have a magical personality.You do not have to be perfect. You do not have to be pretty,you don’t even have to be smart. To be magical, you mustpossess the beauty within.

Offer every stray dog water. Shield a stranger from a bully,love everyone for who they are instead of what they are.Never be judgmental— well, at least out loud.

Make sure you smile. Smile and say good morning. Smile and say goodnight. Smile and high-five a stranger. Smile and help an elderly woman with her groceries. Smile at a baby, and if she smiles back at you, she senses your magical beauty. Congratulations, you now hold the magic of a princess.

Next thing to do is buy an island, preferably on Amazon.Create a monarchy. Crown your mother Queen because she deserves it. You didn’t just wake up this fierce, you wereobviously taught. Running a kingdom shouldn’t be any hard-er than running a home.

Make yourself a new name. Make it long. Make it foreign. Makeit difficult. Then say it fast for dramatic effect. The end resultshould sound something like Sunday Dandereasa ChristinaDominga el Dia del Sol.

Now, for marriage. Marry a knight in shining armor. If his armor is dirty and bloody from a recent battle, then it isacceptable. But only if the battle was for a good cause. Therefore, he, too, must be magical.

8

My BookkeeperAshley Johnson

Dear Brain, my squishy friendIt’s nice that you have me up at 3 A.M. againThinking and dreaming of the days to comeI really wish that you would rest someYou’re absorbent like a spongeRestless like the windCraving knowledge like Dean Winchester craves pieLifelong recorderThe absolute best when it comes to remembering song lyrics and storiesYou have no boundariesA dream scribe for remembering Exhausting and restlessMy bookkeeperAlways over-thinking every little thingYou never miss a beatBut it’s 3 in the morning and I would really like to get some sleep

by Jeremiah Jackson

9

To Be a BirdLily Mixon

I should like to be a bird,fly away from all of my problems whenever I wish,free from my earthbound confinement.But I don’t think a bird’s life would suit me well for very long,for living a life in constant fear is no life at all.But I would like to know the wind under my wings,the ground far below me.I should like to have the sky as somewhere safe to go.To be alone seems a rather glorious thing, to never have someone set boundaries on your life,to go far from everything you know.That is being truly free:letting the wind tell me where to go,never looking back.I should like to call out to the wind, “How far do you think I shall go?”The wind would softly reply, “Ever how far you wish to go, you are welcome to accompany me.”Oh, how delightful it would be, to never fear your limits.Then, after a time, I would grow tired, and I would stray from the pull of the wind.I would find a nearby tree, and I would perch on a branch,ever so gingerly.Oh, how I desire to be free,to never fear my limits,to always go where I like.Though there is plenty a reason why we do not have wings.They would bring us too much freedom,for we all need limits and boundaries.We would grow far too fearlessand fear controls us.It makes us human, for that is what we are.Oh, but I can dream,and dream I shall, of winged creatures in the sky.

10

FavorDahlia Henderson

Herraclitus said that a man’s character is his fate. —Stobaceus

“Zenaye?” called Dad. “Yes?” I replied. “Come out to the backyard. I’m going to teach you how to shoot.” As I followed Dad to the backyard of our house on Candy Lane (which is ironically not so sweet), Mom asks where we’re going. While flawlessly concealing my nervousness, I simply told her that Dad and I were going to shoot. We continued outside, leaving my mother inside watching Dr. Oz like she does every morning, picking up health tips for her new book, Eat Up!, for patients and others. I managed to snag a hair tie before leaving the house to put my long, curly, Ethiopian hair away, like I always do while thinking. I wondered what I could do to get out of this. Guns weren’t exactly my forte. I just wanted to be a hairstylist, even though that’s not what my parents wanted for me. They wanted me to continue on the family tradition of being a doctor, but the one thing I couldn’t say was yes. All four of my siblings were doctors, like they wanted. As a child, I had learned that it was hard to please Dad. Maybe shooting this gun will make him proud of me, but I didn’t think it was worth it. Maybe I could compose a plan to get out of this. Pretend to break my leg? No. He was a doctor, so he’d have known that I was be faking. Act like Mom called me? No. Tell him I have homework? No. Oh boy, this is useless. Before I knew it, we were in the backyard. Dad stood in front of me, a Remington .22 rifle in hand. He looked into my big hazel eyes and said, “Here.” I hesitated, rubbing my sweaty palms against my jeans. Could this maybe be the one chance I get to impress my parents? I thought to myself. If someone had asked me then to make a wish, I would have wished that my parents weren’t so selfish. See, I’d always been good in school, but compared to what they’d accomplished, what I’d done was nothing. After a moment of hesitation, I suspected that Dad was becoming irritated. I saw it in his firm stare. It was actually amazing that I knew his emotion at this point. Dad never really showed any emotion. His facial expression was pretty much the same. After noticing his annoyance, I snatched the gun from his hand so he wouldn’t get too mad. A small shock traveled through my body when I looked down at the rifle in my own hands. I tried to swallow the huge lump in my throat. “Maybe this will toughen you up,” he darts. Mom and Dad thought that I was weak because I didn’t want to be a doctor. So not true. “Okay, so what you want to do is—,” Before Dad could even finish, I was running away from my dog, Bear. Bear had gotten pretty big since we got him on my birthday, and he kind of scared me. As I ran, I glimpsed the disappointment on Dad’s face as he picked up the gun I dropped in my attempt to flee from Bear. He snapped at Bear to stop, and thankfully, he did. I embarrassed myself. That didn’t show so much courageousness now, did it? Oops. I grabbed the rifle from Dad’s hands again. He taught me proper posture, how to cock it, pull the trigger, and look through the scope. After a while, I was ready. Our backyard had an ordinary old gray fence. Dad wanted me to shoot through one of the square openings of the fence. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

11

JuneE. Elizabeth “Trip” Ledbetter

June 12th, 2026 8:30 PM Her breath was hot against my lips as the lit cigar let out waves of smoke into the cold dusk air. My eyes were closed tight, too scared to open them and face the reality of what I’d just done. Until that night, her life had been completely normal. She had boyfriends, had kisses before, and she even had sex. But for those few moments, that was her first. That was the only time I’ve been myself, truly myself at least, in my entire life. I felt a sense of freedom rushing over me as I leaned in, my hand tangled in the back of her short blonde hair, her braces brushing over the skin of my bottom lip this time as we collided. Her hands moved forward to grip my thin hips, our eyes closing as she gently urged me back, my grass stained uniform tightly hugging my heavy chest.

June 12th, 2026 8:36 PM I hadn’t felt my brain strung this tightly since the day I watched my brother get married, and I wondered if that’s what this was. True love. But family values were important to her, and her family, for one, doesn’t believe in gay relationships. Especially not in their children. So what was I to do? What do I expect this to become when I’ve just kissed a girl whom I’ve been in love with since the third grade, who completely despises homosexuals? Our mothers always told us that gays would go to hell, and I had been having nightmares of rejection for days. I pulled back just a bit, hands slipping down to rest gently against her shoulders, fingers smoothing down the green fabric of her sweatshirt, legs wrapped around her waist like the bow on a perfect present. And this, really, is the best present I’ve gotten. Acceptance. She smiled, mumbling a light “it’s okay, Anna,” against my parted lips before she took the cigar from between my fingers and stole a drag, the smoke pouring from between her lips so delicately I couldn’t help but wonder if she was there, or just a dream.

June 12th, 2026 8:40 PM I smiled, leaning against her and stealing back the smoke piece, keeping in mind not to inhale. After all, it wasn’t like a cigarette. It was different. And kissing her, Ophelia, under the bleachers, isn’t like any other boy she’d kissed. None of them had been hidden. She hadn’t had to worry about her parents kicking her out just for looking at a girl as anything more than a friend. And most of all, it’d never felt this right. So, as I let the smoke drift from my mouth, spilling into the air around us, I smiled, pressing a soft, quick kiss to Ophelia’s neck.

June 13th, 2026 1:02 AM “I’m glad I finally did that.” I’ll remember that moment for the rest of my life, because it was the moment that my life did a 360 and started going in the right direction. Her face when I said that should have told exactly what I had done. I should have realized that her horrified expression wasn’t because of any noise in the dusk, it was because she had realized what I just did to her—what she did to me, and she was scared. Then, she asked me to drive her home. So I did, climbing off of her and standing up. She killed my cigar on the rocks beside where we were sitting and stood, taking my hand just to help steady herself before walking to my car and slipping in the passenger side. I started the car and drove her home, silent the entire way, as she chewed nervously at her already short nails. When we got to her house, she left my car without a word, and I watched her rush into her house, where her parents were waiting patiently for her to arrive home from her softball game. Instead of bothering to go in and tell them goodnight, I drove home, went to my room and sent her a few texts about how I hoped she was okay with what happened. After all, I didn’t expect her to do what she did that night.

June 13th, 2026 1:12 AM I’m gay. I loved Ophelia Jade McMallian with all of my being, and I have since the third grade. My name is Annabella Nicole Warler. She knows that I’ve been in love with her almost our entire friendship, all because I couldn’t control myself anymore. And if I’m being honest, I don’t regret it at all. That was ten years ago, and today, we’re happily married. Thankfully, we waited until college to tell her parents. Ophie has very little contact with her parents. They don’t approve of our marriage, and they always

express that distaste when they speak to us. But we don’t care, because we’re happy, and that’s exactly what we wanted our entire lives. We’ve drawn away from the religion that we had forced down our throats growing up. As 12

for my beliefs in God right now, Ithink he’s a cruel man if he does in fact exist. Any decent God would let Ophelia’s family love her regardless. I was one of the best players on my softball team. I made the AB honor roll every semester. I graduated from Stanford University. I’m making something of myself, and with Phie by my side, I can do anything.

June 13th, 2026 1:45 AM Right now, it’s raining outside. I’m lying in bed, listening to the soft music playing from our daughter’s room, looking over at the newborn in his crib near our bed. Ophelia is sleeping, her chest rising and falling as she breaths. These are the morning I dreamed of as a teenager. This is the life, overall, that I wanted. So I just want everyone to know that I’m happy with my life. I’m happy with my choices, and with my life, and my career. I love everything about how I live now. Ophelia’s skin is so soft that it makes me want to curl up and go to sleep again, but I need to say this before I forget. I never know when I’ll die. I don’t know if some day, Phie will fall out of love with me and we’ll divorce. Shit, I mean, maybe she already has. But for now, her breathing shows me that she’s still here, and while she’s here, she’s beside me, holding me, with her face buried in my chest, wearing one of my old shirts. And I’m so in love. We’ve been married for almost three and a half years, and seeing her groggy smile every morning still brings light into my life. So I’ll say this; I love her. I love my life. And when you love someone, you want to cherish every moment you get with them. So do that. Watch their breathing. Smell their hair while they’re curled up beside you. Run your thumbs over the back of their hands. Brush noses with them and cherish the closeness of it. Love them. Because you never know when their chest will stop rising and falling like it does right now, in this peaceful moment, beside you in bed.

by Isaiah Brown

13

Binder ClipEllis Goldstein

Discarded on the dusty floor, a relic of ancient papers stackedupon some distant shelf eternally hidden, until unneeded.Its wings were never meant to fly, nor lips to ever part, yet stillunclench to bite down on some new trophy, soon to vanish.Still more will she torment the little binder clip, for timeis far too vast to fill with idle things of unimportance:of family woes and dying pets, who wheeze ghost likethrough her macabre not- quite mausoleum.The binder clip is now on a shelf, half choked on stacks of filesnever read, or even glanced through properly again.It collects and becomes a part of the clutter deepening every day, watching, waitinguntil she is her own dusty heap, never moving, nobody coming, the dog gnaws, butnothing is there

SheJailyn Ross

People like to say what they like to hear,not caring if it causes pain or fear.Straight black shirt and a neon green skirt,prism heels of course.She doesn’t care about how they talk paying more attention to their walks.In this life I knew her well,Who i am is who she was, who she is, is what she does.

14

Hymn 32: HeadlessKathryn Hargett

Who knows the boys better than the coyotes in their ribs?Or my brother’s mouth, wider than the June that swallowed him— & the others, the ones with names that ghost away from my hands—burning the air out of the room, lurching over, foldinginto faces. What is worse?Somewhere, in the mesas, I watched myself dissolveinto sand. I watched coyotes shed rivers,cleave dresses, then wander out onto I-20 & become a smear of light.Brother, I’m trying to understand these boys who destroy the bodies of others on a flat, reptile screen, their eyes fleshed & petaling away:the ones who sit lemon slices in my mouthuntil I become a sinkhole, who slick all the kitchen floors in kerosene & move towards me bearing hyacinths.What is worse? I know boys who pull girls apartlike the bones of a New Year fish, & I know boys who move like songbirds,whose faces eclipse into jars in the morning light:maps of arms & olives & teeth rising up to meet me. Tell me, what is worse? They close their hands & cathedrals lift their heads from the cartilage & moss,capping the worst of it. Tell me, brother. I will line them all in a row. I will call them Window, call them Run Run Run, until they fall at my feet as green bottles.

15

The Ravens of the Red SkyAlexandria McClinton

Walking outside, I feel the sudden heat of the sun on my face.I sway like a pendulum in a clock.

When I walk into the subway station, I smell the horrible aroma of cigarette smoke, and the loud chatters of the people fills my ears.

The train arrives, and what seems like mobs of people come rushing out of the doors.I see a man sitting down on a bench inside the subway, a snake around his throat like a necklace.

He seems quite suspicious, but I soon come out of my imaginary phase,

and when the subway stops again I quickly step out.As I make my way out of the subway station

I get a soda from a vending machine,but when I got outside a woman knocks me overand spilt the soda all over my burgundy blouse.

I go to a little shop across the street in search of a new shirt. When I get to the shop the sweet smell of cinnamon hitsme with a wave of pleasure.

I see a shirt that is dull and grey and it reminds me of the sky in London. I purchase the shirt, and go to the restroom to change into the newly purchased shirt.

I walk outside the air smellsmore polluted than it had been when I went into the store.

I am walking and I start to feel tired and dizzy, so I slip into a coffee shop to sit down. I feel better almost instantly,

but I still feel tired.I order a coffee and I start to see

strange things.I look out of the window of the coffee shop and I see that the sky is a deep

shade of red.There is no one that can see seen anywhere.

I go outside to find people, butall I see are ravens.

I see their sharp talons and pointed beaksand I am automatically scared.

I run back into the coffee shop and close the doors so the ravens do not come in.I am looking out of the window and the ravens are

multiplying by the second.Then, all of the sudden, everything stopped.

The ravens fellfrom the sky like rain,

but the sky stayed the same—the same deep red color that the whole terror started with.

I felt a wave of coldness hit me,sending chills down

my spine.This wave of unbearable

coldness and sadnesshas caused me to feel no hope to escape

it is hard to avoid steppingon the corpses of the dead ravens.

I look at Xander, whose lightbrown hair blows softly in the light breeze,

and his big brown eyes are glisteningwith a tint of red from the sky.16

We stop and decideto go to my apartment.

We carefully and cautiouslyget to my apartment.

As we are walking up the stairs,a loud thump shakes the whole building,and that same cold feeling hits me again.

I look at Xander, and by the look on his facehe feels it, too.

I start to run up the stairsto my apartment,

and by the footsteps I hear behind me,I gather that Xander is following me.

We rush into the apartment and lock the door.

When I turn around,I see the hooded man from the train, and a scream

escapes my mouth.Xander runs at top speed

to my kitchen, gets a knife,and runs back in front of me in a protective way.

Xander runs towards the hooded manwith the knife in his hands ready

to plunge it into his chest,but the mysterious man is too quick.

He has Xander at headlockand in what seemed like a second

Xander was on the ground, dead, neck broken.I scream and wail

over his dead body,but then I feel hands on my shoulders

bringing me to my feet.I face the hooded man,

and I see his face.His face is wrinkled,

though not from old age.It is like a huge, nasty scar

all over his face,but his grip on my

shoulders is released and his handswrap around my neck.

I start to panic,but when I release that there is nothing I could do,

I give inand feel the darknessclose in around me.

17

A March to Heaven Katelyn Chadwick

The gritty smog of hell blinded my eyes, as gunpowder crawled inside the fabric of my coat,and I stumbled for footing on the disintegrating wood. With finger curled around the slick trigger and hardened hand on the iron belly,

I stood on the line of fire while a sun tanned fellow jostled behind; eager to crave up the rest of the sprawling force. On the fringe of death and glory, reminders flooded in:a woeful whine from my daughter and curses from my wife were my parting gifts.

Curses and aspirations spun against the other inside my head trying to dominate the other, but derived from our chaotic minds came Liberty,clad not in shining armor like Athena’s birth but a rumpled lemon gown. Liberty was rather pungent and held the eye with flying breasts and a divine acidic scent.

Liberty was our equal.Yet was the apex of this war torn pyramid. The gown flapped around her sculpted legs and loins as she strode; a plume of France crowned her head and her talons were drawn.

Liberty’s Nike at her side and he squished an infantry man underfoot; two tarnished pistols whipped around and shot bullet after bullet into the sky.She turned her classical chin and we adhered. I accelerated toward Liberty’s soaring gown. I stepped over the barricade.

“Oh Deer” Lily Mixon 18

Thank You to an Imaginary FriendBethany Warden

In third grade I sat on the swing set alone, but not caring that I was. Then I went inside and read a book while I waited to be picked up. In fourth grade I sat in the hallway reading, doing homework, or coloring. Sometimes I joined the other kids in crafts, or games, but I didn’t really know them., I sat by people during snack time, but I didn’t talk to them. In fifth grade I spent time in aftercare sitting on top of the monkey bars staring into the distance, my mind blank, waiting for my mom to pick me up. I felt empty, but I didn’t tell anyone. “How was your day?” Mom asked. “Fine.” I lied. Maybe sixth grade would be better. 6th grade was different, a little better, definitely not worse. Unfortunately, I was worse. I didn’t talk to anyone unless I had to, not even my parents. Even worse, this didn’t bother me. I lived my life in a haze. Then it changed. I was walking down the hallway, lost in thought, when I realized that I was not alone. An image was slowly forming in my mind. The image was of a girl, a princess. She had long black curls and eyes so dark blue that they were almost black. She wore a silver ball gown and a circlet of diamonds. She was everything I was not, confident, beautiful, secure in who she was, but she was also lonely. She was isolated in her castle because she could do things the other people could not and people feared her because of it. She spent everyday locked in her bedroom with only her books for company. Her name was Luna. We connected to each other because we were both different and we were outcast because of it. Luna told me her story, a beautiful thing with many twists and turns. I wrote it down and even helped to build it. While I wrote I began to change. I still didn’t talk to people and read every book I could, but I started reading more for fun than distraction and I started to wish I talked to people. Over the next couple of years more people joined me in my brain. I wrote more stories, I made new friends, and I realized I had a passion for art. I started to learn who I was and by the time I reached ninth grade I had become a new person. I didn’t hide my face behind books and school work anymore. I talked to people and made friends. I started to enjoy life again. Luna helped me put myself and my life back together. She may have been imaginary, but she was very real to me.

Behind the Shadows Terriana Richardson

The dark man who blows smoke from his noseHonks out like a goose and has ugly toes. Like a long shadow mourning across the beachHe had a purpose and withstood the moist and the heat.As some would say, “you’re a short stick in the sand”To others something much more appealing to the eyes of a man.It’s like he’s holding water that’s dying to spill.The big dark man seems fictitious, far from real.But still there’s a question behind his behavior.Something more than a dark man resembling as a savior.

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How to Write a Story From a PictureRegan Snow

The scene that lies before me, by paint,dances across the canvas and my mind;However, few see the beauty of the calm before the stormso I examine everything right down to thecolor of the canvas. Then, I begin todaydream and I forget the IPhone next to meas I feel the mist of the sea sprinkle my face, arms, and legs and look on atTiananmen Square and the only whip I seeIs in the hands of the slave. 2016 meltsaway as my pen takes lead Writing the thingsno one else can see but me and as the enddraws near I know that mistakes are there so Ilook back to the top to find Inspiration.

by Isaiah Brown20

ClueElena Mangrobang

6/1/20xx 10:32 PM

“The bloody wrench, the footprints, the stain of blood on your sleeve? It has to be you, there’s no one else who can possibly be the murderer!” “I say that I must concur! After all, you were also the quickest one to shift the blame for Mr. Black’s demise on everyone else, AND you were the one who supposedly ‘discovered’ his body! Is that not suspect? What do you have to say for yourself?” My gaze darted between the two well-dressed men who were hounding a young blonde who seemed no older than 23 years of age. I, along with five other unfamiliar faces, stood inside of a dimly lit room with various flora littering the wall behind me. Through the slim fragments of moonlight, I could see the green and white checkered tiles, woven chairs decorated with pillows, and the entrance to a flight of stairs that led to the floor below. The aroma of cinnamon and ash tickled my nose, permeating the thick anxiety that clogged my lungs. My hands felt disgustingly clammy, but I dared not move from my spot, lest I attracted the fury of the two gentlemen who were currently feeding the poor lady the grapes of their wrath. To say that I was only afraid of what was occurring before me would be an incomplete statement. Although the matter at hand was crucial enough, something else tickled the recesses of my mind. Where exactly was I? Who were these strangers surrounding me? And more importantly… Who was I? I had been in this God forsaken mansion for roughly five hours, and had managed to make a few observations about myself despite the chaos. Obviously I was myself. However, it was plain enough that I wasn’t actually inhabiting my own body, but the body of someone else. Someone who was a bespectacled male around 5’11”, Caucasian, and wore a ridiculous plum colored suit. It was bewildering, to say the least. A shift in movement from my right drew me out of my self reflection. Glancing to my right, I noticed another man, stocky and balding, striding toward me with resounding footsteps. “Professor Plum, what are your thoughts on this madness?” he spoke in a low tone. Professor Plum was the man who I had become, for some reason. I noted his clerical collar and the black garments that he adorned. Hesitating, my eyes shifting back to the scene unfolding. “I...I don’t know what to make of this situation, honestly,” I muttered. And I didn’t. My voice was a shaky tenor that seemed to stutter and crack every few words, but perhaps that was due to the apprehension clouding the room. I remembered the events up until now. Doctor Hugh Black, the funding he provided for my - or more accurately - Plum’s expeditions, the strange and sudden invitation to his mansion… Black’s mysterious death, and the people who were now yelling murder and fidgeting around me. The man beside me was Reverend John Green, the two people roaring near the stairs were Colonel Michael Mustard and Prince Philippe Azure, and the unfortunate young lady was Miss Amelia Peach. My vision swam for a moment as information on them flooded my mind.

21

A Small JourneyShelby Bradley

Sera was the head scientist aboard the Waker 5000. This spaceship is what she grew to call home over the course of a year and a half. She and her crew were on a mission: find intelligent life. Although being on an important space voyage would seem to be the thrill of a lifetime, there wasn’t always something exciting happening. Since they’d had no luck, her life had fallen into a monotonous pattern of waking up, checking all systems, reading a bit, and making painfully awkward small talk with her crew. She still would get questions posed from her crew-mates like “How did you know you were a girl?” and “When did you decide you weren’t a man?”. And when the answers she gave weren’t what they were expecting, the disappointed and confused looks they’d give her would always send her into a state of unease. She knew it could be a lot worse. She knew that she should be thankful to even have this job. But it’s not like she hadn’t earned it. Jin, the captain, was the one who made her the most uncomfortable. He was a tall lanky man with stringy black hair, and his jaw was chiseled like a stone. He still referred to her as her birth name, and every time she was addressed as such, her stomach sank, so she tried her best to steer clear of him. Sadly, she had to do routine check ups with him at least once a week. It’s not that he was ever hateful towards her by calling her names… it was just his blatant attitude towards her that she was just not a she. The fact that she was a woman was not recognized by him. He called her “him” and “he” and asked why she would want a room in the women’s quarters. She could handle the dumb questions from anyone else, but the fact that the captain would not recognize her as she was filled her with anger and sadness. The one thing that no one could question about her though, was her capability as a scientist. She graduated in the top of her class in bioscience and astrophysics. She completed both of these in half the time of what it would normally take. She had been awarded on her strenuous studies of where and when life could be in the universe, and the whole reason theywere on this mission was to follow her hypothesis about alien life. Jin may have been the captain, but if Sera were to say “turn around,” that’s what they would do. Sera had to strive to be polite and courteous to everyone at anytime, so no one could have any complaints about the transgender woman aboard. It’s not that she minded being polite; it was just that putting on a face was exhausting. She had already had to put on a face for over half her life, pretending she was something she wasn’t. A man. All she longed for was to be able to be herself, and when this mission succeeded, she’d be able to. They’d have to respect her once she had accomplished what no other man, woman, or non-binary person had, and that was find new life in the galaxy. She had pinned a planet in a near star system that held water and had a stable atmosphere, and that was where they were heading. Today was fundamentally different because, they were almost there. No one on the crew was more excited than she was. This was it. Her chance to prove to herself and the world, that she was phenomenal. Sera nervously came into Jin’s office to report in. “We’re 3 hours away from our, destination, sir.” Jin said to Sera without looking up or turning around to face her. It stung a bit. “Affirmative. We need to be extraordinarily cautious, Captain, if there is life here, we will seem like aliens to them.” “Thank you for the advice, sir,” he said, dryly. What dumb advice, Sera thought, of course he knows that. “That is all, sir, just sit back and relax, while I do my job. You’ve done yours.” And with that, Sera left. She guessed that all she could do now is relax. They had landed, and none of this was at all what anyone had expected. There was life. Intelligent life. And they were there greeting them. Sera was at least relieved that there wouldn’t be any type of attacking going on. She was not a soldier. These life forms, they were so peculiar to look at. They were something you would expect to be aliens. Their skin was a pastel light blue. They were partially humanoid in the way that their bodies were shaped. On their heads they had four eyes, two on the left and two on the right, one underneath the other. In the center of their head was a hole for a mouth and sharp teeth. It was underneath their heads, on their necks, that there was a whole for breathing. On their torso they had two arms and 8 tiny appendages on both arms that seemed to serve the same purpose as fingers. Underneath these arms there was an orifice under both arm’s where some of the strange creature sent out tentacles instead of using their arms. Finally, these creatures had 3 legs that were set about like a tripod that they would use to scamper around. They were wider than the average human, but only about 5 feet tall. To everyone on the ship’s surprise, they spoke English when they greeted them. Sera was so bewildered that before any of the humans said anything, she blurted out “How do you know English?”

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One of them, the one who had greeted them initially replied, “We’ve been watching you humans, as you call yourselves, evolve for centureies, waiting for you to finally eveol enough to come fine us for yourselves. We are very pleased to finally meet you. We know English because we have learned many of your human languages, awaiting your arrival.” Everyone, every single human was in shock. But Sera wasn’t going to let this silence herfor long. This is what she’d been waiting for. She had been right, and now everyone on earth would respect her. Only she had pointed out this planet. And she, had been right. Sheglins, as they explained to Sera and her crew, is what they were. Time passed differently on this planet, it seemed. It felt to Sera that they had been there for days with no sleep. How could she sleep in such a foreign place? There were a few things that reminded her of Earth, like the sky. The sky was still different shades of blues and pinks, all swirled together whenever it began to get dark. This one thing was enough to give Sera partial peace of mind. Now that she had become more comfortable, it was refreshing to have conversations with the Sheglins, to talk to them about their technology, to try to grasp how much more advanced they were. But honestly, what was the most refreshing to Sera was not being questioned about her gender. They treated all of the humans exactly the same, and it seemed that they already had a perfect grasp on human culture. They didn’t ask many questions, just educated the humans on their own species. Sera really felt like this was a home away from home. On about the third day there, one of the men on Sera’s crew, finally asked the question that she knew would come. “So what’s the difference between your boys and girls?” Sera watched anxiously as the Sheglin’s did the equivalent to human laughter. Except when they “laughed” their necks vibrated and an odd squeaking sound came from their mouths. “We do not have “males” and “females” as you do, but when a Sheglin comes of age, they do pick their own title. We Sheglins believe in choosing for ourselves our own self -identity; no one knows themselves better than they do,” one of the Sheglins said, informatively. It was still difficult to identify one Sheglin from another. Her crew stood about with puzzled looks on their faces. But Sera understood. After a few moments, Sera’s captain approached her. Her stomach tightened at the sight of him. Are we leaving? She thought. She wasn’t ready to leave. She wanted to stay as long as she could and learn about the Sheglins. She felt more safe with these aliens than she did back on Earth. “You did it, ma’am. You did your job, and you did it well. You’re the best woman I’ve had the honor of working

23

A Chilling Affair Corey Davidson

“You’re not the only one. I’m married to Zac Efron you know.” Frost’s eyes shifted to the woman seated in front of him in their stifling hotel room. Smoke from her lit cigarette lazily drifted up above her head as she spoke; it filled the cramped room, making him feel as if he were being choked by some invisible phantom. “Yes darling I know.” Frost said coolly, “I’ve met the man. Very strong, very handsome, very..” he toyed with the half dollar piece in between his long fingers, searching for a word, “Musical? I guess one might say.” The woman frowned, “Yes well he’s also very clingy.” She said, taking another long puff from her cigarette. “He doesn’t understand me Jack! Not like you do.” Frost watched as she rested her chin in her hands, cigarette still lit between her fingers. She was [particularly beautiful tonight, he noted. Her tight, light green dress defined her body well, showing off how small, yet very mature she was. The lights of the city down below shone on her face through the open hotel window on the opposite wall, lighting her features beautifully, defining her cheekbones and making her wings folded neatly behind her back shine like a Christmas tree. Frost quickly pushed that thought from his mind; he could not afford to get aggravated at that blasted holiday right now.“I think it’s because he doesn’t understand my work,” said the Tooth Fairy, snapping Frost out of his thoughts. “I move around a lot Jack, you get it! It’s not my fault that he always wants to stay at that same stupid high school all the time.”“Darling relax,” Frost said, waving away her complaints lazily, “This is Dubai remember? Take this time to unwind,” he leaned forward, brushing her thigh gently with the back of his hand. “Unwind with me.” “Jack Frost!” The Fairy exclaimed, an air of playfulness lining her tone. “Oh I’m so sorry,” Frost said, withdrawing slowly from her, making sure to trace his fingers lightly down her bare leg. “I didn’t realize that you weren’t in that kind of mood yet.”“Now who said anything about that Jack?” she asked, leaning towards him, a suggestive grin spreading across her face. “Well if I’m so wrong,” Frost said slowly, looking deep into her dark eyes, “Why don’t you prove it to me?”The lights in Dubai were bright with passion that cold winter night.

24

Ticked OffRachel Doud

Every hour he listened to the steady ticking of the clocks, and worked surgical miracles on broken clocks, chaotic rhythms, silent chimes, rusty cogs and too large screws. Late in the day, when the clocks all struck eleven, which he knew they would. He placed his delicate spare parts and tools back in the neat and tidy corner of his office where he made his bed; a nest rather. He never forgot the rhythm. Even when he had the worst of customers he’d be busy building clocks again and in his own beat with the ebony hands of the time tellers. On the rare occasion he got peeved with a customer because they seemed to always think he could take their ideas of insane grandeur and jam them into a clock. By now he could tell what types of customers would come in at certain times on instinct. In the early hours the busy, stiff and impatient ones would march in and demand that their clocks be made of fine silver or gold with ornate inscriptions in dead languages. In the middle of the day the lazy ones would trudge in, implying halfheartedly that they may or may not be interested in a clock made of whatever the clockmaker had in mind. He always enjoyed those moments, where he could be free with his creativity. In the late night hours few teens would come in and ask for theirs to be made in the likeness of a certain celebrity or band. The clockmaker held back a cringe at these folk, instead opting to peer skeptically over his fragile spectacles at them. One evening as his last customer left for the day, the clockmaker was setting away his tools in their very specific places. He heard the doors open again, and he paused. His cycle had been broken, and he quickly plastered on a smile and swing his frame around the corner. “And how may I help you this fine evening madams?” he said in a delicate, pleasant tone. The women in question glared condescendingly at him, and he held back a frown. Something seemed different in the stance of these two women, shoulders and back straight like furious kittens. As a child, he had learned that his craft took much patience, and so in thismoment he imagined he was simply working on two, extremely temperamental locks One, a thin woman with makeup that paled her face even more than it was to begin with, and a dress so grey that it made her look even more gaunt, said, “You said my clock would be finished today.” “And mine!” Chimed in a portly woman with a purple dress and an eyeglass squished against her face. Her face was so round that her cheeks squished against her eyes and made it look like she just stumbled along blindly all day. She was wearing offensively pink lipstick, and her blush was so purple it looked like she was punched in the face with a handful of grapes. The clockmaker placed his fingers on his forehead to stem the tide of a coming headache. He had doubts that this would ever go down smoothly. He analyzed the situation, then composed himself again before speaking. He had a plan formulating in his busy mind. The one thing he couldn’t say was his favorite curse word; he didn’t want to make the situation worse, if it could even do that at this point.”Now ladies, I would like to explain something to you about the creation of a clock.” He moved around to a delicate piece of clockwork, pointing to various pieces. “See all these delicate parts? Besides all the sophistication of creating all the complicated designs that my customers want. I am very sorry to say that the level of elaborate planning involved” He looked back up at a rustling and moving of heavy frames, and gasped. They held over their heads his favorite clocks in his shop, and went to smash them. He held up a patient hand, making sure to control the tremors so that they didn’t mistake them for being nervous, he was simply old and furious now.“Now ladies, please be rational.” He barely got those words out before pieces and shards of clock went flying, and he yelped. “My God, you’ve gone mad! ” He exclaimed. “Give us our clocks!” They chanted, and they didn’t stop until he brought out their partially unfinished pieces. Of course, they looked fine to others but to the maker he thought there was much more to do to them. They functioned, but their design was lacking. He rather didn’t like these pieces, now that he thought about it. The designs didn’t fit their new owner’s personalities at all. He then decided enough was enough. He wished he didn’t have to do what he felt he had to, but he didn’t have any other option. He was done. He in turn, held up their pieces above his head, and the ladies, realizing what he was going to do, shrieked like bats protesting for him to stop. He let the clocks fly, and they crashed to the floor as if in slow motion. As they broke, he looked up at the women with unwavering gaze. “It looks as if your time, has run out.” He said, as he took a particularly sharp instrument out of his arsenal of devices. They shrieked, and ran out the door. The clockmaker laughed softly, and put his items away, and began cleaning the mess up. He then went to his nest to go to sleep, shaking his head at the absurdity of the evening. He remembered something his father said to him as the curtain of night draped over him. “The finer details aren’t meant for those who are themselves not fine at all.”

25

White Mosquitos (an excerpt)Maya Quinn

She remembered the first time the bus drove down the street; Henrietta grabbed her bag and decided to visit the true owner of the drugs hidden beneath her sister’s favorite tree. Her neighbor, a man that only answered to the name Chico, had promised her a hefty sum for helping him out. She walked inside his house, the door slightly ajar. Chico was sitting in the living room with his nephew dubbed Tarzan by his peers because of his somewhat natural locks in his hair due to poor hygiene and avoidance of proper human interaction. “It’s already nine. Come get this stuff outta my yard Chico.” “He’s asleep. Had a long night.” Tarzan spoke after several moments of stillness. “Well, he needs to wake up. He promised me money. It’s been a week like he asked. I can’t keep this stuff any longer, and I have to put the money back in my sister’s account before she notices.” Tarzan had been looking through a workbook in his lap, barely paying attention to her. “Can I see your calculus homework? I don’t get this shit.” He scratched the back of his neck and looked up into her annoyed expression. “I’m talking to you about something important!” Chico stirred and Tarzan stood up, now “I’ll help you later with that. Let me see your homework.” She relented and pulled her book out of her backpack and surrendered it to him. “Thanks.” About an hour into the gruesome troubles of working without a calculator, a car pulls up, ripping through the granite driveway. Tarzan yanks Henrietta up and out the back door. His legs leaving her no room to slow down as a loud crash is heard behind them. She wants to look, to scream, but is panting to hard as she tries to keep up. The deep baritones shouting about sapphires, pixie dust, and other euphemisms for drugs ring through air. Several blocks away, Tarzan allows their pace to slow, but remains cautions as they near a large warehouse with a rusted garage door and empty alleyway beside it. Henrietta looked around the very unfamiliar surroundings and smelled the harsh twang of a strange smoke and cheap liquor. Tarzan goes over to a keypad and keys in numbers too fast for Henrietta to attempt to memorize. The click of the door unlocking sounds and Tarzan lifts it for them to enter. Henrietta is greeted again with the scent of strange smoke unlike any cigarette as it loudly circles the room. The lights are on, but dim. “We can finish the homework while we wait for my uncle.” Tarzan calmly sits in a metal folding chair and unlaces his purple high-tops, clearly making himself comfortable in the midst of Henrietta’s confusion. She shook her head and stood in front of him, her gaze demanding answers. Tarzan studied her for a moment and pointed to some napkins on a nearby table. “You’re sweaty.” Henrietta grabbed a few and dabbed her forehead. Tarzan gestured to her armpits as well and she huffed at him. He went over to a fridge in the corner and pulled out “I’ll tell you some stuff.” He handed her one and resumed his seat. Henrietta leaned against a table that held a stereo emitting a soft buzz as the background for Tarzan’s story. As he spoke, Henrietta began to realize that Chico owed more money than he actually had to give her. Tears pooled in her eyes when Tarzan explained that his uncle’s supplier was demanding his debt too. “That’s probably why those guys were there. My uncle isn’t good on uh, on timeliness or “Punctuality,” Henrietta mumbled. “Yeah. Morning Dew is his supplier. He’s some guy that was a yakuza. It’s the big Japanese “I know,” Henrietta was visiting Tokyo herself, “I’m supposed to be visiting Japan with that money…” her voice trailed off and she looked up at him. “I need that money Tarzan.” “Well you can get a job.” He offered dryly. “That makes two grand in two weeks? Doing what?” “Selling drugs.” He said immediately. “My uncle is probably beat too bad to sell that cocaine “And I should do it?!” She squeaked out. “That cocaine you got is straight from Columbia. It’s worth twenty five grand.” “It doesn’t even weigh two pounds and it’s worth $25,000?!” He nodded. “It might be worth even more over the border. We could do it in a few days easy.” She blinked at him, his expression as cool as before. A pounding sounded loudly on the door. This wasn’t the last time she was going to leave.

26

How to Kill Someone in Under a MinuteAnna LaCruz

All I can see is him. It’s always this way when he’s in the room, everybody watches to see what he’ll do next. If he stands, they stand. Where he goes, I go. For a bright second, Cameron locks eyes with me. They’re familiar, a piercing green with hints of blue, like an ocean full of algae or the point where tree meets sky. I smile at him, at my familiar love, at the person I know better than myself. My heart swells as he darts the interaction, he looks at me, but for only a second. The warmth of his body passes quickly, and he sits down at a table with a girl. A girl with sandy hair that looks soft enough to touch, and falls down her face in perfectly brushed waves. Cameron opens his mouth, the same one that smiles at me, and the same one that I spoke to no more than hours ago. He kisses her on the cheek, and says something that mutes the whole room, a simple “I love you”, to the girl with yellow hair. The girl that is not me. The crashing of the plates behind me and the frantic yelling of a language I don’t recognize cannot cover the chaos in my head. I must be dying. This must be what people talk about in the fleeting few minutes before life goes out of them. This is me, going into the light. Cameron is my little death, I can see him sitting there, inches away from my table, ending me in only seconds. I don’t even crave the food that passes by, dishes that I previously loved, I can never eat again. The smell brings a bout of nausea to my body and I stand up, knocking my table and my chair against the wall. A familiar chant echoes in my mind over and over again, I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I walk in fear of falling, and say nothing to the friendly waiters as I walk out the door. My Cameron, my love, my boyfriend, a series of titles he once owned, now tossed away like spoiled meat, or a letter with bad news. My throat closes and swells as humidity of nighttime brushes my face. I am convinced that I can’t breathe anymore, like all the air I possess has been stolen. I can’t bring myself to cry, for now I only trust myself to look out at the city, at a place I once loved. While I look, I search for a place to go, somewhere my feet won’t ache and I can no longer remember the night I want to erase. He is everywhere my eyes land, in the rain water under tires and the fog blocking stars. Cameron has taken my world away, and as if I’d been banished and in search of a new life, I look out at a place that was once my home, unsure of where on earth I could ever go again.

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The Absence of God in the Form of IronMckenzi Williams

Carve your names into our spines.In this ore is salvation.In this coal is heaven.Find peace in this burningchapel. Know that it serves as our god;The hand to our mouths.

Remember us as diamonds and rubies.All treasure chest among limestoneand brimstone. It is not thehowl of the wind that you hear, darling.It is the screams of our souls;It is the creaking of our bones;sounds once muffled by the worship of heat, turned steam, turned sacrifice for iron deities.

This is religion, by which we call routine,by which turns hearts into iron and eyes into coal.This is how we bow. This is how we say

Down with the ThiquenessElena Mangrobnag

by Jeremiah Jackson

28

The Old Sloss ManKhrysten Bolling

I can hear him still workingHe is still there…The lost man He was broken and weak Money meant so much to himHe forgot about deathThe price of death was a lot more than 32 cents an hour, Though, the sum he got paid for his work. But he has been moving on ever since, workingSearching for the family he left behindStill turning lava but now in hell

I wish that old man wellHe wrote “god is absent”On a post that’s still standingBut his god is not absentJust ashamed

Money meant so much to him he forgot about deathThe price of death was high, though,Higher than the 32 cents an hour He got paid for his work.

“Untitled” by Jeremiah Jackson 29

Melody of the NightAnton Bennighof

Melody of the night,Reminds me of the days,Of my young childhood,When days were long,And dreams were reality.

The rain soaked streets,Reflect the memories of days long past,And the distant buildings,Express the textures of meaning

The streets lights are on,And the ground is wet,Yet the sky is solid blue,The complexities are so unique,

The lanterns shine,As an orange in radiant light,The imagination never stops, but pleasure always does.

I’m A Hard Worker Doriyan Johnson

Oh I tell ya, I’m a hard workerWorking nine to nine for the iron manBaring the intense heat, me and my brother workLifting, Shifting, pushing that rock hard money for the iron manHaving nothing to keep us safe but our brothers in armsOh I tell ya, I’m a hard workerWaking up, getting dressed everydayForcing a smile for the wife and kidsBaring the intense sound me and my new brother workDigging, running, dying for the iron manOh I tell ya, I’m a hard workerWorking seven days a week with my new brotherShoveling, tiring, risking my life for the iron manOh I tell yaI’m a hard worker

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Young Dope Peddler at SubwayIsaiah Brown

Alone in the light of Subway,I glance to where his headlightsstare in the abandoned parking lot.

I, too, could stare out at the car,fingers twitching, eyes wild, searching for an angry fix.. Something stalks them as they wait there,

nearly motionless, hungry as newborns. My brother was one of them oncefrozen in his sleek black Camaro,

out looking for another victim. Finding none, he’d wait and follow the addict.Then, when done, come to Subway at 12.

Someday, I’ll go back there to reflecton the young dope peddler and the days instead as years,not as parking lots crowded with addicts.

No SantaJeremiah Jackson

She sits me down on the couch under the picture of Christ in a manger, her face crowned with guilt. I hold my Santa Clause doll in my hands- so blissful, so ignorant. Then, she tells me that he’s not real. I crawl in the corner and cry. I cradle myself and think of all the times I’ve waited for him by the fire place, all the cookies I’ve baked for him. My mom picks me up, but I push away from her as angry tears stampeded down my face. Is this real life? I go to the fire place. I look at his face on my stocking. I always thought he was real. At Christmas time, when I opened my presents, they all said it was from Santa. Real or fake? I feel like I just fell of the monkey bars. I should be over-dramatic so my parents will feel guilty and buy me stuff. Maybe I can get a new video game- I try to imagine myself playing the latest Pokémon. I never thought of it this way, that such a tragedy could be so beneficial. So, I go to my room and cry very loudly until my parents come in. They ask me what will make me feel better and I ask, “Can you buy me something?”

by Jeremiah Jackson

31

“Is a Change Going to Come?” Camille Womack

“I say to you quite frankly that the time for racial discrimination is over.”-Jimmy Carter

“Come here son. Why in such a fuss?” my granddad, Paul asked, he was sitting in his brownworn-out recliner sipping on some iced tea Granddad Paul was in his late sixties but acts like he is forty-seven again, I must say myself he doesn’t look like his age at all. He is well-built, still workouts every evening and jogs to keep his glow, he was famous to everyone in my neighborhood because he was there during the bombing of 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. He moved up here to St. Louis, Missouri as soon as he graduated college to escape the capital of racial violence. How rude of me, my name is Gideon currently a senior in high school, graduating and going to the University of Alabama at Birmingham on a full football scholarship. I know you’re thinking “Why do you want to go away for college?” Well, it is paid for and I want to be where my grandad grew up and find out my history. “Son, why are you in a fuss?” he said breaking me out of my daze setting his glass down “It happened again, Grandpa.” I said shaking my head running my hand down my face “What happened son?” He said with worry lacing his voice “Another police shooting, Pop, they shot Mike.” I said taking a deep breath before continuing “Heand Dorian were at a convenience store and stole some cigarillos and the owner called the cops. The cop showed up and called for backup. The cop said Mike was fighting with him for the gun and witnesses were saying Mike had his hands up. The cop shot him twelve times total, Pop, not one, not two or three but twelve times, Pops. I understand Mike was wrong for stealing but he didn’t have to shoot him twelve times.” I said shaking my head “What are your raw feelings about this son?” he asked coming to sit by me “I’m so upset and fed up with this, we never catch a break we always have been the target forhundreds of years. Trayvon being profiled and shot by a resident trying play “cop” and he was setfree are we ever going to get justice for these police brutalities or racially motivated murders?” “Actually let me tell you a story...” he started “I was just two years younger than you, sixteen years old, as you know your great-granddad father, Paul Sr., was a deacon and a big burly man with a soft beautiful heart and voice though if he needed to get loud he would and was very much in love with you great-grandmother, Donna, she was a very small, petite woman with a rich caramel skin tone and long beautiful jet black hair but demanded attention in every room she walked into, just like your mother does. Mama was just beautiful but tended to have temper sometimes.” “Like mom does.” I said referring to my mom “Yeah but anyways the night before the bombing I experienced racial harassment. Mama and Dad always said be respectful, don’t talk back and answer “Yes sir, No sir.” I didn’t have a run in with a cop but an old white drunkard and his son. I was trying to hurry up and get home from the church, where I set up the room for Children’s Church for Sunday. I was halfway there when an drunkard called me out: ”Aye negro what you doing boy?” he said taking a swig of his Old Forester and coughing due to the sting on his throat “Just walking home, sir.” I said clearing my throat to get rid of the shakiness that was evident “Better get going and go home boy for I get my son on you.” he said laughing grabbing what looked I picked up my pace and walked away. “Go on boy for I shoot.’ he said laughing and shot the gun off up at the sky I ran shakily, tears streaming down my face out of the fact that I could’ve been dead a few minutes “Paul what’s going on?! What happened?” my dad said putting down the newspaper and a worried expression masking his face.

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“I..almost..got..shot..by..an..old...white...drunk..man.”, I said catching my breath and sat down on the “Here drink some water and tell me what happened.” he said sitting next to me “We made an agreement to not tell Mama and he would just pick me up from the church instead of me walking except on Sundays when the white folks were at home eating Sunday dinner or at church across town.” Pops finished “I don’t see how you could’ve controlled yourself like that.” I said shaking my head “but how was justice served?”, I said raising my eyebrow “I was getting that part now hush.” he told me. I nodded my head and leaned back on the sofa with attentive and curious ears. “Well, Sunday morning I got up and dressed pretty quickly, so I could meet dad at the church to see what I needed to do before church started. As I always do, I gave Mama a kiss on the cheek and left to go set up the church ,but something felt different about that morning.”, he started “I went downstairs to check on everything and everything was fine, dad had already left to go get Mama and Grandma to bring them to church. I was cleaning up and getting the fans out plugging them up and started folding the programs.” “Hey Paul, How are you?” Denise, Addie, Cynthia and Carole asked me “I’m doing great and how are ya’ll?” I asked them “Good.”, they answered in unison “How are you?”, I asked Addie’s little sister, Sarah “Good.”, she answered “Well we’re going to changed now.” Cynthia said I saluted them off and they went downstairs to get changed in their robes for choir this morning. I resumed to folding the programs when Carolyn came running up to me. “What’s wrong?” I asked scared at her panicked expression “Some man called and said “Three minutes then hung up.”, she said shaking “How long ago was that?” I asked “About TWO MINUTES!” she shouted “We have to get out, where are the girls?!” I asked panicking “Still getting changed!” she said gasping and started crying My heart dropped to my stomach I moved towards the steps but I was too late a deadly silence filled the room before it was torn apart within seconds by horrid shaking and explosions from the basement. I covered Carolyn so nothing would hit her as we fell to the floor due to the force of the blast. An eerie silence filled the atmosphere, I felt stuck like I was paralyzed by fear trying to figure what just happened, I felt myself being pulled out of the church several minutes later and saw someone carrying Carolyn out as well. “What happened to the girls?” I questioned the man who was helping me which turned out to be a fireman “They were killed in the bomb, I’m sorry sir.” he said to me but without no empathy evident in his “Paul!” I heard my mom’s voice shout I looked around and found her in all the chaos and hastily walked towards her. Once I was in arm’s reach, she grabbed me into a hug holding me tightly. I felt her body shake and violent sobs escaped from her mouth all I felt was pure rage. “Who did it?” I asked Pops interrupting the story “Robert Chambliss, a former Klansmen, who despised black people with a strong passion. He immediately didn’t get convicted. It took them fourteen years to reopen the case and he was sentenced eleven years after the case was reopened twenty-five years total for justice to be served.”, Pops said shaking his head “Were any other men involved?” I asked “Yes, three other Klansmen were involved and helped orchestrate the bombing. One of the men died before they could take him to court but the other two were convicted like Chambliss and sentenced to life in prison.” he finished

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me so mad I just want to yell “I ain’t tryin to rob you.”.” I said “Son, we just got to hold on, a change is going to come just trust me.” “Aight Pops.”, I said getting up from the couch “Gideon, you either complain about what’s going on or do something about it? You choose.”, Pops said “Yes sir.”, I said grabbing my jacket Gideon headed out the door with his mind made up that he was going to do something about this instead of sitting on my his butt mad about it. Unfortunately, justice was never served in the Michael Brown’s case which made national news. Now police killing unarmed black men is the new norm, sadly. It is as if we are backtracking instead of moving forward a part of a quote from Sarah Jean Collins, the sister of Addie Mae Collins whom was killed in the bombing stood out to me, she said: He will face God. We turn this problem over to God, because no one else can solve Birmingham problems. We leave it up to God to solve them; Chambliss not only killed her sister but the blast from the bomb left her partially blind and nightmares to last her a lifetime and she said that. I will end with this quote from Benjamin Todd Jealous: “Racial profiling punishes innocent individuals for the past actions of those who look and sound like them. It misdirects crucial resources and undercuts the trust needed between law enforcement and the communities they serve. It has no place in our national discourse, and no place in our nation’s police departments.”

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Khrysten Bolling is a freshman at Midfield High School she is always apart the cheer-leading team. GO PATRIOTS! She has attended the YMG (Young

Musical Genius) program at Art Play for five years now. She received numerous awards for her musical and creative talent. She hopes and prays to get into Yale one day. When Khrysten grows up she would love to be a pianist at the House of Blues in Tennessee. Also Khrysten loves to write music and poetry.

Anton Bennighof is a sophomore at shades valley high school.He is part of FBLA, which is an extension of the academy of finance.

He dreams to become a doctor, to save people lives and help the community.

Shelby Bradley is a Capricorn, and a Senior at Shades Valley High School. This year, her creative writing class won 3rd place in a Books-A-Million

book publishing contest, and she had some of her writing published in a completion of her class’s works. The name of the book is “The Valley Echoes” , you should go purchase one from the the Books-A-Million at located at Brookwood Village. Shelby is a sarcastic, dank meme loving nerd, who is also very openly an angry feminist who will fight you about social injustices. She will never let a man tell her what she can’t

do. Shelby also loves space and the concept of time travel, and hopes to gain knowledge throughout her life to bring her closer to unraveling the

secrets of the universe. If Shelby could have one Pokemon in real life, it’d be a Luxray.

Isaiah Brown will be (he doesn’t really know). He will either be attending University of Alabama at Birmingham in the fall or joining the Air Force.

He likes to secretly watch “Grey’s Anatomy.” He does a weird cry laugh because he can’t take himself serious enough to cry for real. He loves people; he is a social creature that thrives on social settings.

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Corey Davidson is a rising Junior at Walker High School. Like many others, Corey seeks to understand the more simple things in this precious life

that people are so freely given; like how in the world a bee is able to fly considering that all of the rules of aviation state that a bee should not be able to lift its fat little bee-body off of the ground with its short little bee-wings. In his free time, Corey enjoys taking long strolls through candle scented roses, touching various museum artifacts, and overall, frolicking. Throughout his school career, Corey has not learned what

a mortgage is, how to finance, or how to pay any taxes whatsoever. However, he can thank his lucky stars that when the need arises, he is able

to find the hypotenuse of an equilateral triangle.

Katelyn Chadwick is a rising junior at Randolph High school, and enjoys working for the Randolph Theatre department with fall plays and spring

musicals. However, you won’t find her out in the spotlight on stage, but hiding in the dark with the techies backstage. Handy with asewing kit and a pocketful of safety pins she is ready to help actors with rips and tears in their costumes. Her dream job is to be a “cool” history teacher with miniature models of B-17 and Hellcat planes hanging from the ceiling and a plaque of swords from different historical eras.

Aside from being a teacher she hopes to publish her first book in a fantasy series.

Rachel Doud is a high school student at Homewood High School. She does track and field in the summer, and during the school year she does

wheelchair basketball. Rachel loves to sing and play guitar. She loves theater and hopes to either get a degree in theater or writing. She hopes to become a master stair climber but is not sure how that will work out in the end for her.

Satura Dudley is an upcoming junior at Hoover High School. She loves French fries, music, and her cat. She has no real accomplishments besides

raising her cat right. She aspires to take on an internship with UN women as soon as she graduates and hopes to become a published author.

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Kathryn Hargett is a rising senior at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. Her work has been recognized by numerous organizations and universities,

including the UK Poetry Society, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, the Alabama Writers’ Forum, Princeton University, and others. Her work can be found in “Sierra Nevada Review,” the Adroit Journal, “DIALOGIST,” “Gigantic Sequins,” and elsewhere. Hopefully, she will be attending Columbia University next fall.

Hailing from Homewood High School, seventeen -ear-old Ellis Goldstein has no idea what she should say about herself. Maybe she should describe her

hobbies, but let’s face it, this is a writing workshop. That sort of speaks for itself. She is also fond of drawing and “Criminal Minds.” She aspires to write a great American novel one day, but will settle for something people like. She loves her two dogs, and is afraid of one of her cats. The other cat is kind of a jerk, too. Not gonna lie.

On September 11, 2001, a beautiful and wonderful baby named Dahlia Henderson was born. Currently, Dahlia participates in band, playing clarinet and plays piano

in churches. Reading, drawing, and writing are just three of the many things that she loves to do. She also enjoys caring for her three dogs, Daisie, Dakota, and Donald Dahlia is an upcoming sophomore in high school at Ephesus Academy. She has always been at the top of her class. The awards that she has obtained this year alone include Citizenship, Principal’s List, Spelling Bee 1st Place, Literature Excellence, Music Excellence, Mathematical Excellence, Science Fair 3rd Place, President’s Award, and the Student Council Award.

She plans to continue succeeding at UAB to study medicine. Her aspiration in life is to become a pediatrician. Her loving family encourages her through every

step she makes. But most of all, her goal in life is to be happy.

Jeremiah Jackson is a person of many titles. He is an exuberant and spontaneous person who enjoys the company of others. As a rising junior at Hewitt Trussville

High School, he is getting serious about his studies and his work. He wants to leave an impact on his school and his peers. Though he hates exercise, he runs track in hopes of avoiding a cardiac arrest from all the sweets he inhales. He has won a few metals in the two years he has been running. He has become the band’s drum major for the 2016-2017 school year. He writes his own skits, then directs and acts in them. He has his own YouTube channel that

he post his skits on, but he mostly just post devotionals. Just search his name on YouTube and you can find his channel. He plans to major in film and some

sort of science (most likely pharmacy) at the college that pays him the most and fits all his requirements. When he completes college, he will eventually become the

owner of a Christian based production company that will present films in a way that everyone can enjoy while upholding the integrity of scripture. 37

Doriyan Johnson is a sophomore in homeschooling. He is fourteen-years-old. He likes to cook, watch anime and play video games. Doriyan’s favorite

thing about writing is dialogue. He wants to go to Harvard but most likely will go to UAB, More House, or maybe WSU. When Doriyan grows up he wants to move to Japan and be an nerd.

Ashley Johnson is an upcoming senior at Ramsay High School. She is an adventurous, quite, somewhat sassy and overall nice person. Being

musically talented, she plays the piano, viola, and is working on learning to play the cello. Ashley dreams of traveling the world and is going to China in July, exciting right? Her fascination with the brain has led her to wanting to be a psychologist. She plans to attend the University of California, Berkeley and start her research on human behavior. Listening to music is a passion of hers and she’ll listen to just about

anything, but rock and J-Pop happen to be her favorite. The kid is a little weird, but an amazing person. You should get to know her.

Anna LaCruz is a senior at Leeds High School, a place where she runs out of the building the second the bell rings, and tries her very best to avoid all

school functions whatsoever. Her best friends are her little sister, Lydia, and her beagle, Calliope. She wants to pursue a degree in neuroscience as well as receiving her M.D. at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. She hopes to be a practicing physician and teacher late into her years. Anna enjoys ridiculous amounts of snow, and riding in cars with the windows down. Her entire family is taller than her and she very

frequently wonders about whether or not dogs have feelings, too.

E. Elizabeth “Trip” Ledbetter is a rising freshman at West End High School, though she plans on moving to Albert Einstein High School for

her freshman year, and perhaps onward. She’s struggled with anxiety, depression, PTSD, among other mental health disorders, but she maintains a positive attitude towards her future. She has one published collection of her poetry, titled “Where the Bullet Went,” and is working on her second. Elizabeth plays clarinet, ukulele, and acoustic guitar. She’s gotten, among many others, awards for her excellence in Solo&

Ensemble, first place in her 6th grade talent show, and many awards for her work in math, English, and technology.

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Alex McClinton is a freshmen at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. She is a cellist, and her cello is named Bruce. Alex is in the Alabama Symphony

Youth Orchestra. She loves Harry Potter and her favorite character is Severus Snape.

Elena Mangrobang is an aspiring necrodancer and practices metalmancy for a living. Her favorite genre of music is igneous rock, and her puns are stone

cold. Her motto is, “Styx and stones may break my bones, but my soul is at the heart of the crypt.” Elena’s favorite songs are ‘Mausoleum Mash’ and ‘Fungal Funk’, and she plays the deep sea bass guitar. Her dream is to become one of King Conga’s Knights to C.

Lily Mixon is an upcoming freshman at the Alabama School of Fine Arts in the Creative Writing Department. She has aspirations of becoming a

forensic anthropologist and plans to pursue this dream in college and graduate school. Lily also has an appreciation for the visual arts, as theyhave always been a huge part of her life. This past year Lily’s artwork titled “Oh Deer” was on display at the Birmingham Museum of Art for their Youth Art Exhibit. Lily has donated her photography to the Off the Wall Foundation that raises money for children and women in need.

She has also volunteered her time as a photographer for the Ride for Kids Foundation. Lily Enjoys being herself and she is excited to see what life has

in store.

Sunday Owens is a rising senior at Fairfield High preparatory school where she serves as a member of the SGA. She also writes online at MyGirlSquad.

com, where she posts bi-weekly. She hopes to one day be a Disney Princess and also own a bakery/creamery/therapy called Sunday’s Sundaes. Sunday loves to inspire others and achieve the highest impossibilities.

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Terriana Richardson is a senior at Fairfield High Prep School. She was recently inducted into the national Beta Club. She’s been the captain of

their varsity cheer-leading team for two years. Her goals are to complete medical school and become a pediatrician. She has always been a hardcore athlete, but she also enjoys participating in beauty pageants. Terriana is running for Ms. Homecoming and planning to win. Someday, you’ll see her in Lifetime movies if you remember her face. Expand your horizon; expect the unexpected, and the sky isn’t the limit.

The motto she follows is “to fail is not to fall; you fall when you don’t try.”

Maya Quinn has recently graduated as the valedictorian of Ramsay High School, class of 2016. Her friends adorned her with the title of “The Biggest

Nerd of all Time” because she had answers when no one else did, even to life’s secrets. She plans to attend Samford and major in biology to eventually pursue a career in breast cancer research. She’s very excited that all of her schooling is paid for by the Gates Millennium Scholarship, and plans to use it to her full advantage. Maya is currently expanding her writing realm by trying out absurd tales and chillers

involving the hidden secrets of Birmingham as well as poems that tease the senses with imaginative description. Even though she is tiny, one day

the world will know her name.

Jailyn Ross is a rising junior who is excited to continue to have the opportunity of attending Hoover Christian School of Hoover, Alabama. Her

favorite hobbies include reading, writing, drawing, eating, and martial arts. She dreams of becoming a journalist and is steadfastly working towards that goal. She thanks God for His grace and mercy everyday and her favorite Bible verses are Philippians 4:13, “ I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” And Joshua 1:9, “ Have I not commanded you be strong in the Lord and the power of his might.”

Regan Snow is an upcoming senior at Homewood High School. Her junior year she was awarded 3rd place in a school poetry slam run through the

creative writing classes. As a result, she was a participant in the city-wide poetry slam. She was excited to be published in the school literary magazine, “The Menagerie.” Regan is a member of the school yearbook staff and one of many in the symphonic/marching band. She wants to major in creative writing; however, which college she plans to attend is unknown at this time.

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Ashley Tate is an upcoming junior at the Alabama School of Fine Arts. She is apart of the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute Legacy Youth Leadership

Program, and is also an Alabama School Of Fine Arts Ambassador. She soon plans on attending Howard University her freshman year in college screaming #GoBisons wherever she walks. She devotes her life to liberating minds and breaking barriers through her writing. She goes by one quote and one quote only....”My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive, and to do so

with some passion, some compassion, and some style.”-Maya Angelou

Katana Soberano has no recognizable accomplishments except surviving sophomore year and ascending to 11th grade at George Washington Carver

High School. As a neophyte writer, she plans to change that by becoming published. Creative writing consumes her life, and she has resigned herself to keeping it that way. For recreation, Katana toggles with Photoshop CS6 and doodles cycle animation. She is still figuring out how to balance her interests, but she plans to go to an arts college like SAIC, Ringling, or Columbia, so that she can be surrounded by what she

loves. Her spirit animal is the Wonderland rabbit with the fancy pocket watch, because no matter how hard he tries, he is always late.

Bethany Warden is in 10th grade at Pelham High School. She enjoys singing, art reading, writing, acting, and exploring the world. Her dream is to be

an author and own a house with lots of secret passages (like Hogwarts). Bethany’s one wish is to change the world.

Mckenzi Williams is a recent graduate of FHPS. In the fall, she will be attending Berea College to double major in psychology with a concentration

of political science and English. Mckenzi aspires to become a Criminal Profiler. Though work is necessary for survival, Mckenzi refuses to perform hard labor for the rest of her life. Her primary passion lies in the dream of developing non-profit programs designed to help disadvantaged youth foster their love for the arts.

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Camille Womack is a rising junior at Restoration Academy, a small private school in Fairfield, Alabama. She loves all genres of music and WWE;

let’s not forget to mention her love of basketball and football. She hopes to major in Sports Medicine as a Physical Therapist or in Biomedical Science at the University of Alabama at Birmingham.

Staff Picture by Elana Mangrobang42

The Ada Long Creative Writing WorkshopWriting lives 2016