FishHook 9 by FishHook

FishHook

Get hooked. volume 9

sheridan arnold, natasha awbrey, gretchen brown, marissa brown, chandler buchanan, hope burdette, emma corry, brad flittner, samuel herdegen, joshua joines, hannah jones, donald maclean-kennedy, brayden scarlett, lauren schmitt, shayna smith, jessica weinzapfel

fall 2019

FishHook Volume 9 Fall 2019

Logo by Carey Blackmore Cover Art: Solitary Bliss by Lauren Schmitt

Volume 9 Fall 2019

FishHook Student Literary Journal Proudly Presents The 2018-2019 Editorial Staff Editor-in-Chief: Samuel Herdegen Editorial Staff: Brandon Carrington (Poetry, Fiction and Nonfiction) Sara Deal (Poetry, Fiction, Art and Nonfiction) Alleigh Dillman Sophia Gill Kennedy Salts Faculty Advisor: Professor Anthony Rintala

a note on FishHook The student editors of FishHook believe strongly that USI’s student art and literary journal ought to be just as unique and inviting as the work it publishes. A fishhook speaks to Evansville’s sense of place, tucked as we are in a crook of the Ohio River, and serves as a rich metaphor for the process of being lured, hooked and changed by the images (whether visual or verbal) of our student literary journal. Like a hook pulled from a river trout’s mouth before the fish is tossed back into the water, the fishhook does not pull cleanly free; the barb catches, leaving an echo of its shape in the cheek of the fish. And that, gruesome as it may sound, is how we, the editors of FishHook, feel good literature and art leave us: changed forever, with an echo of its image and voice deep in our flesh. We hope you will enjoy this ninth issue of FishHook as much as we enjoyed compiling it. And, more than anything, we hope you will get hooked! —The Editors

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CONTENTS Poetry

Art (continued)

Natasha Awbrey

Untitled

Hannah Jones

Gretchen Brown

17 23

Prison Mask of Lies

Marissa Brown

When People are Human

Donald MacLean-Kennedy 35 36 37 38

A Touch From the Past Pinky Promise Portrait of Gene Restraint

Emma Corry

20 11

Ants in a Can I Saw The Birdman

Lauren Schmitt

Bradley Flittner

Mission Failure

Samuel Herdegen

Reflections from Reactor #4

39 40 41 42 43

Solitary Bliss Longing My Father’s Hands Venetian Daze Writhe

Joshua Joines

21 9

Knock Three Times Can’t Breathe

Chandler Buchanan

Inspiration

Brayden Scarlett

Oh, How I Miss You

Emma Corry

Pangea Shifts

Shayna Smith

15 10 24

Desperado Personal Hell Steep

Samuel Herdegen

Linger

Joshua Joines

Crying Emoji

25 1 7 13

Krista Fifteen A Sweetie’s Regard Antidote

Jessica Weinzapfel

Art Hope Burdette

28 29 30 31 32 33

Flower Child Fairies Fluffenchops JungSHOOK Green Bean Active Listening

Mountain Climbing

Fiction

Non-Fiction Sheridan Arnold 59

A Ten Cent Oriental Rug on a White Picket Fence

Samuel Herdegen

Westbound on I-64

Jessica Weinzapfel

As Green as Good

FishHook

A Note from the Editor What is FishHook? This is the question I asked myself when I first sat down and started putting together this ninth issue, and at the time I didn’t have an answer. I’m still not sure I do. As an editor I had to ask myself what good literature is, and believe me when I say that it’s an intimidating question to answer. I first started figuring out how I wanted to approach FishHook when my good friend and fellow USI student, Ryan Johnson, passed away last fall. In the weeks following his funeral, I started to reevaluate what was important to me and who I wanted to be in life, and it was in those weeks that I realized that FishHook, at least for me, is about helping students find their voices as writers and creators. That’s why this issue of FishHook is about identity formation—about all of the moments in life that help us figure out who we are, who we want to be and everything in-between. It’s about the moments of pure bliss from a newfound love, of remembered nostalgia and the pain of letting go. I hope this issue of FishHook lives up to that goal and that it helped all of our contributors become better writers and artists.

POETRY

Of course, FishHook would not be possible without the help of all of the contributors who submitted work for this issue, even if it didn’t make it to the final draft. Thank you all for your trust and patience, and for helping make this ninth issue a reality. A special thanks as well to the English Department at USI, the College of Liberal Arts, and the faculty who continue to support and fund the student publications on campus and for providing a space where students can put themselves out there. Thank you to USI Creative and Print Services for providing us with feedback and help compiling this issue, as well as printing the final copies. A huge thank you to Dr. David O’Neil, Dr. Casey Pycior, Dr. Joy Santee, Dr. Susanna Hoeness-Krupsaw, and Professor Matthew Graham for providing us with the quotes on good literature that are found at the beginning of each different section. A special thanks as well to Professor Anthony Rintala for trusting me with FishHook this year, and for all of the support, patience and guidance as we figured out what we were doing. Thank you to all of the editors who worked through busy schedules and class loads to make this issue a reality. I truly couldn’t have done it without you. Finally, thank you readers for your interest and support in FishHook, and for giving our contributors the attention they deserve.

Poetry is language distilled. The purpose of poetry is to tell us about life. Poetry puts into words the thoughts, emotions and experiences we all share but don’t have the words to describe. Poetry makes the ordinary extraordinary. Poetry—the best words in the right order.

What is good poetry? If I were lazy, I’d just say it’s like pornography—you know it when you see it. But let’s give it a go. Robert B. Pierce defined poetry as “the kind of text that rewards poetic analysis.” Disappointingly circular, I know, but the best we’re gonna get. So good poetry, obviously, is “the kind of text that really rewards poetic analysis.” Now don’t get me started on bad poetry, like this.

—Professor Matthew Graham

—Sam Herdegen

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—Dr. David O’Neil

Jessica Weinzapfel

Now you live in California After overdosing on heroin, Twice. You always remember my birthday And you still call me Grace.

Fifteen

The Cider was sweet, But bitter too. I liked it Somewhere between warm And burning my tongue With a pinch of cinnamon.

JESSICA WEINZAPFEL

I bathed for you Every Friday, Twice. I showered first Washing my hair, Losing my fingers Somewhere inside. Then I made A shrine of myself. Amid the candles I melted like butter In my porcelain tray As Billie Holiday coaxed me Into being a woman. Later, you would meet me on my porch With two jugs of apple cider, One in each hand, From your family orchard. Taking them, I would smile And open the door. On the floor beneath my house You found me, And I found you. I turned the cartoons we watched Up loud—too loud So my parents couldn’t hear The sound of their fruit falling.

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Mission Failure

Untitled

can’t you stay a little longer watching your chest rise and fall

Beautiful as a rose, and likewise, condemned and ridiculed for every flaw. Even an English rose has a winter to bear.

BRADLEY FLITTNER

NATASHA AWBREY

as it fills with breath calms me like the ocean calms the sand

Faces no longer faces but blank canvases to paint and cover with whichever palette that society has deemed acceptable for the time being.

my love for you was deeper than rivers wider than oceans

Bodies clothed by the eyes of a world of conformity. The one where being unique is a rebellious act.

under the pressure from leagues of countless moments I collapsed underneath it

on my tiptoes I feel myself getting high from you rising until I feel the heat of your thermosphere I smile—a rocketeer taking flight for the first time It wasn’t until it was too late I felt the pressure abort abort The pressure that would break me

“Don’t love you, love what you could be.” This message haunts us, bombards us. Blasted from every billboard, every TV set, every radio, and every computer screen. And how can we ever by anything at all if we are not that? How can we even hope for the day that someone looks at us and doesn’t see name brands and clothing lines, but a spark burning so brightly that it could set the world on fire! And the words that we’ve etched into our spirits with the scorn of those less brave, saying “We will not be broken!” What if the world was blind? How would you see us then?

FishHook

Marissa Brown

When People are Human MARISSA BROWN

I fall in love with people. This confession tends to confuse. Those I tell it to; they ask, “People?” They think it’s a ruse; Some sort of Christian rule. I have to love people, I can’t refuse. “Who?” They ask, “Just people.” I say, “It’s just something that I do. I fall in love with people With the things that people do.” When the boy studying in the library Sits aloof and alone, Rolling between two books And setting aside his phone. He puts a pen between his teeth And ponders the page before him, I smile to myself At the tiny innocent motion. When the woman in the frozen aisle Nods her head and sways To a song on the intercom I can’t help but gaze. When a girl on the bus A bit younger than me Hunches over in her chair With a book on her knee, shielded by hair. Her face scrunches with expression Mirroring a character, no doubt, Then she tilts her chin and smiles I wonder what the book’s about.

I fall in love with people When people don’t even know. While sadness and pain rock our hearts And cities are colder than snow. When the world is full of too much talk And everyone is blind How can I love people When people are never kind? I know pain and hurt, trust me, I’ve seen that rotten core. But I’ve also witnessed kindness In one soul that I adore. I saw my mother in her giant chair Playing cards or Mahjong Her brow furrowed neatly, Humming a Journey song. An alien emotion washed over me, Newfound love for her, It brought me to my knees. It’s been the little scenes since then, The ones people always miss. I wish I could stop them and zoom in, Because I fall in love with people When people are human

FishHook

Jessica Weinzapfel

Our life saving duties?” There I was, The nail in the floorboard. Scratching the bottom of a foot. “No,” pop mumbled. Your family said otherwise And he was overruled. “What is this a democracy?”

A Sweetie’s Regard JESSICA WEINZAPFEL

The hospital walls Were as white as always. Your pop was in room 5221. He can’t see a damn thing, But he always knows when you walk into a room. “There’s my boy,” You held back a tear Because men don’t cry. I held my tears too Because men shouldn’t be alone. “Is that your sweetie?” He was talking about me, And there I was; A sweetie in the corner Sitting on the air conditioner.

We were silent for a while. You sat next to your pop. You held his hand And he told a joke. I remember his faded blue eyes Holding the last bit of life in them As he smiled at you Not seeing a thing. We sat in the hallway. The white hallway. There was a picture of trees in front of us. Tall oaks with God’s light Breaking through the branches. The kind of picture they put in a hospital To invite death like Christians. But the pastor never came, Because pop didn’t want him to. I placed my head on your shoulder. We looked at the picture together, But I wonder what it looked like to you. We could hear pop tell a joke From the hallway with the picture. We both laughed, Because we couldn’t cry.

There weren’t enough seats. Your family members mumbled Around the hospital bed like flies. I felt like a nail in a floorboard Cracking the wood on the surface. A nurse connected pop to a bag of blood. “His numbers are all over the place,” She said on the phone As if we couldn’t hear her. She had the children leave the room. “If your heart were to stop beating Would you want us to preform

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Can’t Breathe

Personal Hell

I hold my grandmother’s hand in my own, without reciprocation. She lies dead-center in her new queen-sized bed, With the head of her throne elevated in protest to the waves of mucus in her lousy lungs. I cannot help but wonder if she knew she would die in this bed.

I hand myself over to the gaunt cherubs Who place me where I don’t want to be. My vision as I knew it gone And another sight takes hold of my lucidity.

JOSHUA JOINES

SHAYNA SMITH

Instead of hearing horrifying hums of face-grabbing machines, we count seconds between her breaths, often holding our own. I can’t breathe. I’m desperate for deafening machines to drown out the sound of dying.

I’ve heard one feels like ice during these times, But I’m certain it’s a brash wind that comes. It burns when air confines a paper cut, Burns cold, So the voltaic winter envelops me when The gust undresses me to the bone. Left in this bare state, Equilibrium sucked dry Left with no memory and the tips Of each live nerve has felt the flog.

Each breath sounds more villainous, like she is not my Grandmother, but instead a water-breathing alien, spitting mucus and gurgling its devilish demands at us: “DO NOT RESUSCITATE” I extract the fluid pooling in her mouth and return morphine in its place. I wipe the drool from her face.

I’m dragged through glass grasses, Blue by blood, Then staked through the life line on each palm And pinned to the murk. Left to hang.

Hours ago was the last time she was (will be) awake. My mother spoon-fed her mother Dairy Queen ice-cream, like she was a child, with the backend of the spoon tilted up like her bed, because she couldn’t grip her lips around it. I went home to take a shower and when I came back she was dead.

FishHook

Emma Corry

It’s the sound of descent. “Can you see me?” he says. I am too weak to answer; but he knows. His boney figure, light as a child, wraps around me. Warmth pours into my body like hot tea. I dissolve into oblivion.

I Saw The Birdman EMMA CORRY

At nightfall, he floats through my open window on silent wings. Light from the bone dry moon shines into the barren room and reflects on his emaciated silhouette. He perches above my clinical bed. That’s when I saw the Birdman. He clings to my ceiling with obsidian claws. A naked tail is wrapped around his hindquarters. Paper thin skin stretches around the sharpness of his bones. The wings that carried him here are kept tightly against his back. His face is that of a man’s, or a horse, or something in between. His eyes are two sunken voids that sit in his skull. Two singular red pupils shine; distant dancers in an inky backdrop. His mouth is open; revealing straight rows of yellowing teeth. I call for the nurse. She dismisses my paranoia with a patronizing glare. “There’s nothing there, my dear.” A single drop of blood falls from the gaping maw of the creature. It lands on her shoulder without a sound; staining the white rose on her cotton shirt. She cannot see the Birdman. I am left alone again. When the door creaks shut, he drops from the ceiling like a spider from a cave wall. He sits on my chest with undeniable weight. I can feel his dead gaze. I know I should be afraid. But, when I look into his eyes, I don’t see a monster or a demon. I see a face that reflects my own. A skeletal hand meets mine. The world around me is hazy mess of white noise. The moonlight that once illuminated my room blurs everything into vague shapes. I hear his voice. It’s the sound of deep water.

FishHook

Jessica Weinzapfel

The kind of too bright You see when there isn’t anything Left to see. But I wasn’t dead, And the dry bugs in the ceiling Were the only ones close enough.

Antidote

JESSICA WEINZAPFEL

But that was then And this is now One pill in the morning, To cure my vacuous tendencies. Hello world, Here I am Covered in pixie dust Waiting to be Better.

“It’ll help you be better” They said And I refused to be Better. Instead I organized Crayons inside plastic walls And I colored the inside Of my forehead With buckets of neon lights. I put an orange and white pill In the toilet at school And watched it breathe For the first time; Swirling, swimming To somewhere better. I watched cars out the window And imagined where they would go While I sat in a desk Traveling with them— Changing the radio, Singing along. I made a bundle of tiny braids in my hair And pictured them all being friends, Mingling amongst each other About how well I made them. The florescent lights Were always too bright,

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Shayna Smith

Now I love him differently, Like my love is an injured gait, and he Becomes a crutch. But you are too far From the monster I wish you were. You are human, conquerable. So I’ll raise new ravening eyes to your doppelgangers, And hope to hold them steady if It is ever you.

Desperado

SHAYNA SMITH

I ran from you late that night. And like warmed butter, softened words Were gifted to me by those who Encouraged my opportunity to fling A locked door opens from the inside. Girl, this is not love, they would say. Hollow-hearted, safely housed, Lines drawn in doorways with salt. Your pervasive figure never left the path ahead. And for you for years I’d done anything For praise. All the hands I held let go, Until it was just you. With one empty hand and one full, I mistook a python’s grasp and sharp, Digging nails for a mirror Reflecting my own admiration and resolute. But still, After you I felt my body grow disgusting without Your hand’s reverence. A healing scab that felt good to pick at. But ripping the dried tears on my cheeks caused scars. A smile hides everything, weighted curtains Contain a dark room, and I turned sable. Now I hunt through crowds of faces To pick out ones that look most like yours. My eyes flit like an escaping hare, like prey.

FishHook

Prison

Oh, How I Miss You

The floor beneath my feet, never solid, always shaking. Walls are thick and closing in darkness is my destiny. Above I see a bit of light barely visible, just beyond the veil. I strive to touch it, body stretching, spirit longing, eyes straining. Always seeking but never finding.

Oh, how I miss you. Your heavenly embrace, Engulfing me in endless rapture.

GRETCHEN BROWN

BRAYDEN SCARLETT

Oh, how I miss you. Your divine warmth, Shielding my heart from all worry. Oh, how I miss you. Your golden gates, Leading me to a land far from this world. You, who would never judge, were my confidante. You, who would never leave me, were my rock. You, who would never hurt me, were my guardian.

I hear them all around me now, they who are in the light. And though I call, all they hear is silence. Their fear of me exceeds my own, as if the darkness is contagious. Their light keeps coming closer but it’s not bright enough to penetrate through the black velvet of my isolation.

Every second, Of every minute, Of every hour. I think of you. You and only you. The time draws near. The time of our anniversary. The time of our reunion. As I step into the room, and shed my clothes. I think of you.

FishHook

Oh, How I Miss You

As I cleanse myself, and smother the lights. I think of you. At long last, the time is nigh. I pull the covers, and slide in. I rest my head on yours, and pull the covers over.

Ants in a Can EMMA CORRY

At long last, we are together again. My sweet, dear, bed.

A tiny red ant crawls on the concrete. It’s an ant that is not an ant. It’s a wasp. Not just any wasp, but a wasp with one of the most painful stings of any wasp. It’s a velvet ant; red and black. It takes three stomps from a great boot to take it down. I return to my station. The industrial fans whir; the breath of giants. In front of me, a large pile of bike tires awaits wrapping. Some tourist shop in California needs its supply. I hold the tires to my chest. The smell of rubber had already seeped into my clothes long ago. No amount of washing or fabric softener can remove that stink. I drop my cargo into the awaiting bag. Tape gun in hand, I seal off the package. The serrated edge of the gun pricks my skin. Small pinpoints of red dot my knuckles. I imagine small red ants with painful stings. One order down, ten more hours of them to go. The tin can we live in heats up as 12 turns to 2 turns to 3. The soothing sounds of Josh Groban are muffled by the sweat in my ears as my headphones slip. A door leads to the outside; revealing an open field of tall golden grass. I assume that’s where the little wasp-ant came from. It won’t be going home today. I’m not sure if I will either.

FishHook

Knock Three Times

Reflections from Reactor #4

Delivery instructions on the pizza box reads: “Knock three times and say you the milkman.” I knock three times and the residents of 6510 Harlan Avenue will never know if I said it. The door is too thick and I can see them in the basement through the window at my feet.

Like bone-white jets, the reactors Birth their steam into the cool August air. It escapes, violently, out of the cracked white façade Of the decades-old building that, despite its age, Still towers over the surrounding trees and fields And the muddy waters of the Ohio, While below the dull blare of an alarm Sounds, is ignored, and is finally silenced By one of the few, tired workers that staff each shift. Looking out from the tall platform of Reactor #4, I see the endless miles of distant roads and fields ready for harvest And can’t help but feel a moment of calm. And, like all things, it too passes.

JOSHUA JOINES

SAMUEL HERDEGEN

They never make me wait, or run back to my car to call them and ask them to please answer their door, and they always give me six dollars, without me having to dance through the ones in my pocket, waiting for the explicit command to keep the change. I have smiled for less, for nothing, and for less than nothing: I’ve smiled while a customer shorted me thirty-six cents. I just walked back to my car and drove away. I drove back to the restaurant to mop fifteen hundred square feet of ceramic tile, by myself, blindfolded, while leaping through rings of fire, for six dollars and fifty cents, before tax. I’ve never said it.

FishHook

Mask of Lies

Steep

They can not see me through this mask. They only see the painted on joy, that I show them. When I am alone, the mask falls, and in its place is darkness.

Some mornings the crust of my eyes melts From the light of a warming Pink sun. Sometimes my eyelashes are glued shut And my mother is not there to soak My lids with warm tea bags and I exist in my day With blinds stuck shut. Some mornings I accept this, Some mornings I rip them unshut Like a sword from a rusted scathe.

GRETCHEN BROWN

SHAYNA SMITH

They don’t see the mask, the glasses are there for a reason. At night sometimes, the tears fall endlessly, like a recycling water fountain. I cry for the death of the ones I love, for those who are hurting, and for the others who wear the mask.

Still shut I can see muted sunrise colors From underneath and I’ve fallen in deep With the comfort of what is Roseate in life. However, often the light of day Evolves. She becomes fiery and yellow Or so painfully white And my endless pupils shrink. I try to greet unforgiving daylight knowing She always gives good and bad to gain. So when alight hours Spiral and shrink, giving way for my next Forgiving twilight, I soak my own eyes with tea bags To see the next sunrise.

They who think I can not see behind their facade of deception. “It’s for the good of the others, it wouldn’t be right for the world to see our true selves.” So we all hide behind our fancy mask of lies.

FishHook

Jessica Weinzapfel

My mother is a reaped garden With her harvest in my hands. Everyone always says: “You are just like your mother.” If only I was.

Krista

JESSICA WEINZAPFEL

My mother is a strong woman. She smiles often. She smokes Virginia Slims Because she’s “on a diet.” She watches Days of Our Lives And fills me in without my asking (but sometimes I do); Chad and Abigail broke up again. She’s always the first to yell Yahtzee Even if she doesn’t have one. She loses her glasses on top of her head. When she finds them she cackles, And you can hear the past twenty years of cigarettes In the back of her throat. She drinks Budlight In small glasses Because “it tastes better that way.” She falls asleep in the recliner every night. Watching Dateline murder porn. She snores with her mouth open, And I can see the silver lining on her back molars. She loves going to the dentist. She listens to Christian radio instead of going to church, Because “People are nosey.”

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Art

Flower Child

HOPE BURDETTE

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Fairies

HOPE BURDETTE

Fluffenchops

HOPE BURDETTE

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JungSHOOK

Green Bean

HOPE BURDETTE

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Mountain Climbing

HANNAH JONES

Active Listening

HOPE BURDETTE 33

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Pinky Promise

A Touch From the Past

DONALD MACLEAN-KENNEDY

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Restraint

Portrait of Gene

DONALD MACLEAN-KENNEDY

DONALD MACLEAN-KENNEDY 37

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Solitary Bliss

Longing

LAUREN SCHMITT

LAUREN SCHMITT 39

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My Father’s Hands

Venetian Daze

LAUREN SCHMITT

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FICTION

Great fiction has, to quote Ben Marcus, a “relentless drive to matter, to mean something, to make feeling where there was none.” We read stories to be entertained, to be enlightened, and to escape, but first we read stories to be moved—to feel something we haven’t felt before or to more deeply understand familiar feelings. Marcus, again: Great stories “conspire not to be forgotten; they scheme to outlast their moment.” – Dr. Casey Pycior Good fiction keeps me interested and keeps me coming back for more, no matter how often I read or teach the same passage. Good fiction is not merely well-written, but intellectually stimulating. It develops and grows with me and, at each stage of my life, offers me new insights and pleasures. – Dr. Susanna Hoeness-Krupsaw

Writhe

LAUREN SCHMITT 43

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Joshua Joines

Crying Emoji JOSHUA JOINES

Two bright screens taunt me, each in their own way. Several minutes ago, I opened a blank document to write a paper about the finer details of some processor scheduling algorithms. That occupies the right screen and is due in a few hours. The screen on my left harbors the last conversation I had with an old friend, Cory. He died today and I just found out. I hold the CTRL button down on my keyboard while pressing TAB, changing the active tab to Cory’s boyfriend’s Facebook page, and hit the F5 key to refresh the page. There is no change. I hit F5 repeatedly, hoping that he posted the obituary in the last few seconds, like knowing when I’m allowed to witness his lifeless body is going to bring me any amount of closure. I shuffle between my unstarted paper and Facebook on the right screen, because I’m afraid to look at the left. On the right screen are pictures from Cory’s dad’s Facebook page. We were in elementary school. He was smaller than most would expect. I remember a day in middle school that he was bullied. I simply say “bullied” because I don’t recall the details. I remember the two important things of that day: he was bullied, and I did nothing. I click on another tab, which is showing a layman’s explanation of lottery scheduling, and type directly into the search box “Cory McClane evansville obituary” and hit ENTER, leaving the page. Hoping it is buried beneath all the arrest records of a different man, I dig a few pages in, finding only his mother’s obituary. I can see the resemblance. I don’t know if I ever saw it before but it is unmistakable now. She killed herself as well, when Cory and I were in high school. He seemed unphased. I heard rumors that his sister found her, but I have no way of knowing, because I never asked him. We didn’t discuss the subject. I was there for him, but only in presence. I close her obituary, and open Cory’s Facebook page. A few weeks ago, he was in Nashville with his boyfriend. He looks happy. He didn’t date in high school, and I never thought to ask him why. I had always assumed he was foolishly self-conscious of his stature, or maybe that bully bullied the confidence out of him while I wasn’t looking. He just hadn’t told anyone he was gay, and likely didn’t think his gay-slurslinging friends would understand.

After high school our friendship dissipated. I spoke to him two years ago at USI. This leads to a Facebook conversation, our last, the one I’ve read twenty times today, the one I’m afraid to read again, the one taunting me from the left screen. I read it anyway. He asked to play a video game with me. I said “sorry” and “I’m pretty busy.” People get busy, that’s what makes them people. If I scroll up, and unfortunately I will, I can clearly see a pattern. Several times since high school, he tried, and I didn’t. He stayed vigilant. He would resurrect our friendship from the ashes of neglect, if it was the last thing he would do. He kept trying every few months, until I hit him with a move I didn’t think I was capable of. He said “Bro we need to hangout sometime”, with the goddamn line ending with a crying emoji; I never replied. I stare at this dumb yellow circle that has been crying unanswered, ignored, and forgotten for the past two years. I just stare, afraid to move, afraid I might surrender and delete this message in an attempt to save my future psyche. I move. The message does not. Cory does not. I told myself we would hang out when I was less busy. There are plenty of unanswered messages in my inbox: I am ignoring them. I never meant to ignore Cory. It was a friendship I meant to repair, but like the blank document buried in tabs on the right screen, I procrastinated until it was too late. I close the blank document. I won’t be finishing it tonight.

FishHook

Emma Corry

Pangea Shifts EMMA CORRY

The white door looms before me like my worst enemy. It sits there with its glossy finish and gleaming gold handle. A worn door mat muddied with old shoe residue sits below my feet. It declares with a happy font, “Welcome!” “Maybe if we leave now they won’t even notice we were here,” Mike says. He’s got that stupid impish smirk on his face that I haven’t seen in a long time. I remember when I first saw that smirk. It infuriated me at the time. I also remember the first time I thought that smirk made him beautiful. I don’t think about these things much anymore. It’s been a long time since Mike and I have gone to anything like this together. Earlier, he made a valiant effort in preventing me from going. “You hate those people,” he said. And it’s true, I do hate them. But I learned a long time ago that what you think about people doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. There’s nothing I would want to do less on a Saturday night than rub elbows with a bunch of upper management hacks at my boss’s lake house. But a potential promotion is a potential promotion and I’m a big girl. I can suck up for a few hours if it’s what I have to do. I take his hand in mine and give it a whisper of a squeeze. He looks at me with big brown eyes full of disappointment; as if he was actually expecting me to change my mind. I knock three time in a staccato rhythm. As if waiting for me, the white door swings open. There’s the son of a bitch himself, Clark. I know he has a full name. But, to me, he is only Clark. He stands there in a polo shirt and khakis with gray, slick backed hair. His wife, Mandy or Mary or something, is hanging off his shoulder with her long hair and red blouse. She looks stiff and worn and nearly twenty years his junior. They welcome us inside; echoing the mat. I enter the house like I would enter the mouth of a cave. Mike and I share an exasperated glance of understanding. Into the belly of the beast we go. They give us a tour. Rich people always think everyone wants a tour of their house. I nod when he shows us his exotic vases or the super special wood carving on his ridiculous staircase. Mike gives me a look when Clark starts going on about how

he’s investing in Barbados timeshares. Suddenly, I am glad I brought him with me. It’s nice to have someone facing the chaos with you. Clark points out, on the dining room table, a particular item of interest. It’s a porcelain tea set. The eggshell colored cups and saucers are adorned with sky blue vines and flowers that are almost as elegant as the reflective silver platter they sit on. It shines with the same glossy flair of anything else in this house. He tells his wife, Maureen as I now remember, to get it ready for when the other guests arrive. He warns her not to break them in a joking tone and she laughs and smiles like a woman who’s spent a lifetime learning how to laugh and smile when a man wants her to. He turns to us and tells us to get comfortable. Everyone else should be here soon. As he walks away, what it’s like to live every waking moment of your life as a performance. I sink into a squishy maroon couch and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Mike sits next to me and stares off into the middle distance. I wonder where he goes in moments like these. “Are you sure you’re gonna be able to handle this?” “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?” He chuckles like a sad clown. And like that, the night goes on. Other guests file into the house. I drink cocktails and eat disgusting mayonnaise creations; both courtesy of Maureen. I laugh and smile with the higher ups and Mike stands beside me like a dutiful soldier. He tries his best to fit in, but I can sense the tension coming off of him in radiating waves. But it’s okay. I’m a well put together young woman with a good job and a good husband and a career on the upstart. I can handle whatever they throw at me. “So, I hear you’re a musician?” Mike is taken aback. He didn’t anticipate to be addressed directly. The group we had gathered in waits for his answer in anticipation. “I’m sorry, what?” “Anne says you write music.” The woman asking the questions looks at him with a wide and expecting gaze. All eyes are on him now. And he’s drowning. He’s drowning and I have to cast a line before he goes under. “He’s written some stuff, but it’s been a while. Isn’t that right, Honey?” Mike nods and I’m praying it ends there. Of course, miracles don’t happen and the woman takes the incentive to keep on prying. “Well, why would you stop? If I could write music, I don’t think I would ever stop,” she says this with an awkward laugh. Mike begins to fumble. His shoulders slouch and he grows a sudden interest in the candle on the table. “It’s just-it’s just hard these days.” He’s shaking and I have to stop this. I lay my arms on him and lead him to the safety of the bathroom door. Our dear party friends follow us with looks of confusion and vague concern. I ignore them, for now. Mike is breathing in labored

FishHook

Pangea Shifts

Emma Corry

gasps. His eyes dart furiously around the room like a trapped animal looking for escape. I rub his shoulders as I try to regain control. “Stay with me, okay?” “Can we go home now, please?” “I can’t leave,” I say, incredulously. “It’s just another hour, can you please hold on?” He nods, but the shaking hasn’t stopped. “It’s all just so much. It’s too much,” he says. I give a sympathetic nod. “Just one more hour. Why don’t you sit down in the kitchen for a while? You can get away from the crowd for a bit.” And I leave him behind. The upper management is staring at us and I leave him behind. I can’t lose it now. I can’t lose after I’ve come so far. I look back and he’s shuffling towards the kitchen. I return to my spot where I am immediately met with comments. “What was that?” “Is he okay?” “Is there something wrong?” I deflect and I deflect and I deflect. Why would anything be wrong? I have everything under control. This is when I see Maureen approach Mike out of the corner of my eye. She’s carrying the silver platter with the white and blue tea set. It’s shining from the living room lights. I get this intense feeling of dread. It’s something that’s been building in my stomach all night and I can feel it bubbling up to the surface. Maureen is oblivious. She is sauntering over to Mike with a wide white smile. “Hey! I’ve got to get the phone right now and my hands are kinda full. Would you be a dear and carry this for one second?” Mike doesn’t answer. He freezes as if he were caught doing something wrong. To my surprise, he holds out his arms. Maureen seems to take his silence as a yes and places the platter with the precious porcelain tea set in the cradle of his outstretched arms. “Be careful with that, okay? It’s very fragile.” She wags a pale finger at him like she’s talking to a school boy. And Mike just stands there. Maureen leaves to get the phone and he stands there, unmoving. He barely even blinks. I want to go over there. But some HR guy is in the middle of some irrelevant story and I can’t. I want to go and I can’t. No one knows what’s about to happen. No one knows what could happen. I want to quit this job. I want to find Clark and spit in his face forever making us go here. I hear a quiet rattling sound as the tea set jostles on the platter from Mike’s shaking. I pray. I pray more than I have for a long time. Maureen returns. Mike has not moved at all. For a moment, just for a moment, I’m wondering if it will all be okay.

“Thank you so much for taking those. My hubby would have been pretty upset if they got broken. They’re probably worth more than the jewelry of everyone in this room.” He looks her in the eye. After ten minutes of looking at nothing, Mike looks at Maureen in the eye with an expression I haven’t seen in a long time. He smirks just like an imp. Suddenly, as if he were punting a football. He lifts his arms up and brings down the platter. A sound like a gong being rung echoes through the room as the platter hits the varnished wood floor. It bounces back into the air and sends its contents flying in all directions. Cups and saucers burst into tiny shatters of stars with piercing sounds. Their flowers and vines split and stretch into fragments. The biggest teapot cracks right down the middle. It fractures off into sections; like the continent of Pangea separating to form the shape of our world. For once, there is silence. Maureen covers her mouth with her hands in complete shock. All eyes are turned on Mike. And they’re turned on me. The guests I were just conversing with look at me and my husband with wide gazes. I am reminded of Snow White. I’m thinking of the part where she runs through the woods and she’s frightened because all these glowing eyes are staring at her and she’s being chased and she can’t escape and she falls down in tears. Good thing I’m not fucking Snow White. Quick to action, I run to the scene of the crime. Mike had gone back to his catatonic state and Maureen has yet to move. I can see Clark coming this way with an angry stride as I try to do damage control the best I can. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was an accident, he didn’t mean it.” It wasn’t an accident. He did mean it. “What is going on here?” Clark says with a face like a tomato. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t know what he’s doing when he does this. Sometimes, Mike gets a bit worked up and I swear he doesn’t mean it. I promise I’ll pay you back. I promise I’ll fix this.” Clark starts as if to say something, but stops. “Just clean this up.” He storms away. “Yes, sir.” I lean down and pick up the platter. Its shining surface is now scratched. I see lines go across my reflection on its smooth surface. I notice Maureen is now crying. Tiny, little pathetic sobs are escaping from her throat. I turn around to see Mike isn’t there anymore. I lean down again to pick up more pieces and Maureen joins me. I stand on my knees and bend down to sweep up the little bits of porcelain into my hands. The shards dig into my knees as my body shifts. I pick up a rather big shard from the large teapot. A single blue flowers shows unmarred on its surface. I begin to cry too. Maureen doesn’t acknowledge me but she helps me in my cleaning efforts with some kind of understanding. The other guests are leaving. The show’s over. It’s time to go home.

FishHook

Pangea Shifts

Maureen and Clark send off the guests with quiet resignation. Before I leave, I promise again to pay for the tea set and the platter. Clark gives me the briefest of nods. As I walk through that white door, Maureen calls out to me in a soft voice. “Have a good night. Stay safe.” Our car is parked on the side of the road. Mike must have been sitting in there for the past hour. The night sky is devoid of stars. Nothing is left but an empty black wall. It surrounds us and suffocates us. I get in the car. Mike is leaning his head on the passenger door window. He gives me a brief glance before staring out at nothing, again. I just wait. I wait for an apology or a comment or anything at all to tell me he’s still there. “Well, do you want to talk about it?” He speaks, “Are you mad at me?” “Should I be mad at you?” “Yes.” “You’re right. I should be mad.” But the thing is, I’m not mad. I’m feeling a lot of things, but I’m not mad. “Mike, I need you to tell me what I need to do.” “Anne, I-” “I want to help you. Do you get that? I want to help you but I need to know how I can help you because I can’t keep doing this.” I’m crying. I can’t stop. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you. But I can’t help you if I don’t know what to do. Please, help me know how to love you. I want to love you. Tell me what to do.” He just stares out the window. Everything is silent. The night sky is a wall and everything is silent. I turn on the car and drive into the night. We don’t talk about it again.

Linger

SAMUEL HERDEGEN

The dog won’t quit whining. The damn dog won’t quit whining. It’s 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and the damn dog won’t quit whining. I wish I knew what to tell him: that’ll it’ll be okay, that if you just lay down and go back to sleep that it’ll be alright, and that I’ll get up in a little bit and let you out. But of course he doesn’t understand. He’s a dog after all. After a while I go back to sleep. I dream of brighter things, of the days before she left, and of all the silly moments and things we never did. She’s a ghost in the mirror of my dreams, reminding me of what I had but no longer do. Sometimes I see myself dancing with her, with her strawberry hair curled and a smooth red dress hugging her figure, before she fades again. Or I’ll see us sitting on the couch watching some stupid movie that I can’t even remember anymore. But I remember the way her hand felt in that moment, and the way she looked with her hair done up in a bun, without makeup (she always looked better that way anyway), and she’s wearing a tattered grey sweatshirt that proclaims “SPENCER CO. SPARTANS” in bold, maroon letters. And I see how the dog sat his white and black head on her lap and looked at us for attention. It all comes back to the dog. He’s rested his head on my chest and fallen asleep at some point in the past few hours. As I shift my body up to look at the digital clock across the room, he opens his eyes and looks at me expectantly. The dull, red letters read 8:24, and despite my apparent ten hours of sleep I still feel exhausted. The dog yawns and stands with his front paws on my chest before leaping off and scratching my bare skin. He paces to the bedroom door and looks back at me, before letting out another high-pitched whine. I sigh in response. I take a minute to collect myself, arch my back and legs, and finally get out of bed. He’s been waiting for this moment for who knows how long. An eager stretch and another yawn from him before I open the door and then he’s off. He runs to the backyard door, and again he looks back at me. No whine this time. I follow with a much less enthused attitude. I open the door to the sight of rain, and, surprisingly, he doesn’t take off. Instead he slinks through the door and pauses at the edge of the small dry area the overhanging balcony provides, and he stares at the downpour, and looks back at me.

FishHook

Linger

“I have no clue what you want me to do about that.” He whines. “Seriously, it’s just rain. Go on.” He whines, again, this time with some pacing for added emphasis. “Oh for Christ’s sake, let’s go already,” I say, and gesture out at the yard. He refuses. “Fine, fine. We’ll both go.” I gesture again at the yard, except this time leading into the downpour with a harried “Come on!” directed at him. I step off from the concrete of the basement patio and out into the yard. My toes squish into the dirt and grass, and as I walk my feet leave behind a faint series of impressions. The rain doesn’t stop, and the lifeless clouds above don’t look like they’re going to leave anytime soon. The rain rolls off of my hair, down my naked chest, and soaks my dark basketball shorts, before dripping down my legs and painting my hair in one smooth direction. I don’t stop. Twenty paces in I reach the middle of the yard and turn to look back at the porch. The dog has cautiously stepped off the porch and followed me, mercifully, out into the rain. He slinks around the chain-link fence that captures the backyard, occasionally making eye contact with me, before he pauses and lifts his leg. Before she left, she always loved the rain. She’d sit out on the front porch with a cup of tea and a book, the dog nestled at her feet, and just read for hours. Sometimes she’d take the dog out and play with him in the rain—he never seemed to mind it when he was with her—and I’d watch from the edge of the porch as they both would soak themselves, laughing the whole time. She’d come in and dry the dog off and I’d hand her a cup of cocoa and a kiss. At some point I’d closed my eyes and lifted my head to the rain, and the dog had come up and leaned against my leg. My hair clings to my forehead and water drips freely from its pointed ends. I wipe a hand across my forehead and run it through my hair, and I turn and look down at the dog. We are both soaked. Subtle drops of water cling to his whiskers and eyelashes before they fall. My eyes meet his, and I swear I recognize the look in his eyes as the one in my own. We’re both haunted by her absence, but Christ, every time I look at him I see her. Does he see the same thing I do whenever he looks at me? I guess I’ll never know. I bend down in the rain to eye level with him and put my hands on either side of his head, gently cupping its curve around his ears. I make eye contact and hold it for just a few seconds. “What am I gonna do with you, dog?” He cocks his head at me in response.

Inspiration

CHANDLER BUCHANAN

I was waiting at the coffee shop. Not necessarily for him, but someone. He just happened to walk in first. He’d been awake all night, and it showed on his face. That was all there was to see at the moment. Anything else he might have been thinking or feeling was well concealed. He was young in the classical sense, but at the same time far too old. He came in with a group of riotous young men, but couldn’t seem to decide whether he was part of that group or just a hanger on. He made that decision only after he had placed his order, after he had seen me. The boy came over and asked if he could sit down. I smiled and nodded in affirmation. He did. “Have we met before?” he asked me. “You seem somewhat familiar.” “I think we have.” I said, tilting my head to give the impression I was searching for a name. “Would you be Benjamin, by any chance?” “That’s me!” he laughed. “Gee, I feel bad now. I just can’t quite place you. Where’ve we met?” I shrugged, thoughtlessly running one hand through my hair. “I can’t say for sure. I’ve been just about everywhere.” “Really?” he asked. “I can help narrow it down for you. I haven’t been anywhere. I lived here just about all my life.” “Oh I couldn’t imagine staying in one place so long. I guess you must really like it here though.” He hesitated, as they usually do. “Not… really. I don’t hate it. I go to a good school. All my family lives here. Not to mention my friends.” Then he frowned, I suppose remembering that he hadn’t come here alone. He looked over his shoulder, but his crowd of young men had since dispersed into the night. He sighed. “Yeah, that’s just about typical. Back to the party or to sleep I guess.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore. Most likely he had forgotten me. It was irritating, but hardly new. Chalk it up as an occupational hazard. I cleared my throat to remind him I was here. “That’s alright. You can find better company than that lot.” He returned my smile and said, “I think I already have.

FishHook

Inspiration

Chandler Buchanan

“Anyway, I’ve been hogging this conversation. What about you, mystery woman? What is someone as well traveled as you doing in a town like this?” “Oh, you know, following my work,” I answered. “It takes me to a lot of smaller towns like this. I prefer the cities and exotic locales—Who doesn’t?—but it takes all kinds.” “Your work huh? What do you do that requires you to visit little towns like this?” “Hmm, tough question.” I responded, and it really was. Normally my clientele is too busy spilling their guts to me to ask any personal questions. I would have to phrase my answer carefully. “I assist people. What type of assistance I provide varies pretty wildly. I’ve worked with plenty of painters, authors and even directors. There have also been more than a few teachers and detectives. I spent a few years working with a doctor. She was brilliant and we helped a lot of people. I think she was my favorite.” I felt a wistful smile on my face. “Wow.” he said, leaning back in his chair with an awed expression. “Sounds like you’ve really been around the block. I can’t imagine the kind of job where one would be qualified to do all of that.” I frowned. “I mean, it hasn’t all been great. There was a guy I worked with for a couple years. Usually one of my sisters would take this kind of job, but somehow it became my responsibility. He was… disturbed, I guess. He hurt some people. I’d like to say I didn’t, but I provided guidance, which is just as bad. I helped him perfect what he considered an art. I’ve seen real art though, and I can guarantee you it’s nothing like that.” I shivered briefly as memories I tried to keep at the peripheral of my mind came screaming to the forefront. I shook off the negative feelings best I could and reapplied my facsimile of a smile. “Hopefully you aren’t anything like old Jeffery.” “No,” he said quickly. “I really don’t think I am. You said something about your sisters. Is it a family business you’re in?” “Hmm, I guess you could say that,” I said. “The three of us were pretty much born for the job.” Benjamin nodded. “I know what that’s like. When your father’s a doctor, and so’s your mother and your brother too, you just follow the trend.” “You’re going to be a doctor?” I asked. “That’s really cool. Is it what you want to do?” Another long, contemplative pause from him. I gave him a second to think, taking a sip of my coffee.

At last he responded, “No. I mean, being a doctor isn’t offensive to me. It’s a good option, a good job, meaningful work. Except it doesn’t mean anything to me. Helping people absolutely should matter to me, but I just can’t bring myself to care about mending someone’s wounds or stretching their lives out by a few more days or years.” I’ve had this conversation before. In many coffee shops, with many men and women, young and old. It repeats year after year, cycle after cycle. I should be getting bored with it by now, but I’m not. Every time, with every new person, just makes me want to dive back into my work. And this next bit is my favorite part. I quietly cleared my throat and then I asked, “So what do you want to do?” And Benjamin told me his story. Not the story of his life or his dreams for the future, but the story he would tell the world if he could just find that voice, find his will, find the push to embrace his existence as a thinking entity of creation and not just a sentient drone of survival. The story was not a particularly original one, I’ve heard variations on the same theme at least a dozen times, and it wasn’t anything that would rattle literary society. But the story rang so clearly of him, of Benjamin, that it justified both its own existence and his in one fell swoop. Hearing the fable he would spin, I could put myself in the flesh of that man across the table from me. Just like the hundred stories before it, his story made me feel like I was human for the first time. Benjamin was not yet done, but I could tell he was finished. So I interrupted. “Benjamin, should we go back to your home?” The young man suddenly came to his senses and looked around him. Since we had begun our conversation, the coffee shop had cleared out and now the attendants were working on closing for the night. If we did not make our exit soon, Benjamin would be ushered out. So he nodded and said “Yeah, sure.” We walked home that night hand-in-hand, not talking. Benjamin was lost in his thoughts, and I suppose I was lost in them as well. His story echoed around throughout the fabric of my being, changing me even as I altered him in much more subtle ways. Much as I love my job, this is always the loneliest part. We do so much for them and they, by the very nature of the exchange, cannot return the favor. Even wellmeaning Benjamin didn’t acknowledge me that night. At last we reached Benjamin’s abode. His fingers were on the doorknob when I stole his attention for one last second. I placed a hand on his shoulder and said his name. He turned to me in a daze, not truly seeing me. “Yes?” he asked. I smiled my well-practiced smile. “Could I kiss you, Benjamin?” His eyes lit up for just a second, just enough to make me wonder if I was actually being seen. “Of course you can-” he tried to say my name, and realized suddenly that he never asked it. I saw the fear in his eyes and wondered how this had gone so far off script.

FishHook

Inspiration

I was tempted to see where this sudden diversion would lead. Could I have stayed there? Could he have gotten to know me in the way I already knew him? Pursuing such options will always been a temptation for me, but I am too well behaved not to complete my tasks. So I put poor Benjamin out of his misery and gave him our kiss. And in that moment, the girl from the coffee shop was gone. She collapsed on herself within a bubble of subconscious wish fulfillment. Benjamin recoiled from the absence of me and stared at the space briefly in confusion. Then he went inside, taking me along. The night that brought him there was already buried deep in his mind. Details, names and conversations peeled away and came to the place where I reside, which was fine because they didn’t truly matter. Only one thing of value came from that night: The story Benjamin had revealed for himself. That single construct with which he had captured me and possibly saved himself. And so Benjamin sat down in front of that glowing altar of escapism and knowledge. His fingers began to type. As they typed, they typed out me. They placed my soul, my flesh and my enzymatic nature into script. I stared up at my captor, my new creator from the page on which he wrote. That, my temporary home, was as good a place as any to reflect on the peculiar gratitude they always show. That satisfied smile when a sentence rolled off the page. The aggravated growl when they couldn’t find the perfect phrasing on which I insist. When the pages before him had reached a level of perfection I found almost acceptable, he closed the computer. I drifted for a moment in the words and feeling he had left behind. For but one second more I remained Benjamin, or at least as a small, important part of him. And then I let go, allowing myself to drift back into the endless muse I call home. My sisters dwell there, as do all the people I have been and will be. It is not a bad place to be, merely a place of waiting where impatience is the ageless anthem. I wondered how long it would be before the boy needed me again. When would Benjamin decide to finish that tale of his, to announce his presence to the world and let it know he was a being of creation who would be heard, God help those who stood in his path? I cannot know that. It might be days, more often it is years. Too often, it is too late. And so I do the two things I can do: I allow myself to grow envious, and I wait for the day I am needed again.

Nonfiction

Good creative nonfiction uses sensory descriptions, a firm grasp on place, and engaging storytelling to compel us toward empathetic experiences we may not otherwise have. I’ll never be a mountaineer, musher, or model, but creative nonfiction introduces me to those communities, piques my curiosity, and teaches me something about the world beyond myself. – Dr. Joy Santee

FishHook

Sheridan Arnold

Life as I know it was built on a secondhand vision. It started out with a family friend from church telling my mother about a dream she had where she saw her getting off the plane with a young Chinese girl named Sheridan. My mother who was a devout Christian woman viewed this as a sign from Jesus. After mounds of paper work and substantial credit card debt, I arrived in Evansville, Indiana as a skinny, three-year-old. However, I would not become aware of my race until I was six. This began when I started kindergarten and received many questions about my appearance and my background. The pointed stares from children and the careful questions from adults about my heritage made me realize that I was different. After a particularly hard day of questioning from children who teased me about my eyes or were curious about my ability to see, I looked around at my surroundings and saw white tables, white walls, and white faces. Everyone seemed to belong to this bleached world. I pondered where I fit in to this place that advocated individualism but admired the familiar. I knew was different on the outside, but I felt that I belonged to the society that all the children I played with belonged to. My memories and my ethnicity were distinctly American, yet my face was not. I searched for people who could understand me, but the children who looked like me were usually raised by families who had a sense of where they came from, whereas my knowledge of my heritage was just as generic as the “authentic” Chinese Buffet my family often dined at. I have always been aware of my dual identity and the isolation that occurs as the result because there are few people who share my background. I could not even find solace from the stereotypes associated with my race because I was not in honors classes or a genius like my sister, Dani, who was revered by all teachers and known for excelling in almost every subject. This feeling of seclusion was cemented by one night that I will never forget. It was one of those cool, late summer evenings where the day eased into the night. My sister and I were tasked by our parents to pick a movie to watch from the local Redbox, a movie rental company that lets you pick a movie and rent it through a machine. I was not old enough to drive yet, so it was Dani who volunteered to drive. Dani was short, Chinese-American, and adopted like I was. However, she had a

different battle than I because she fit the stereotype of “Asian Excellence”. She was a class favorite among her teachers, but as also known for fighting the racial jokes with a measured hostility and hid her hurt behind a mask of apathy. She enjoyed shocking people and changing their perception or stereotype they had fit for her. When she had gotten her license, she was overjoyed at getting the chance to drive our father’s old pickup truck. She knew that people did not suspect a Chinese woman who was only five feet two to be driving a Ford pickup truck. This is the main reason she often volunteered herself for trips that many people saw as chores which included our job for that night which was picking a movie at the local Redbox. When we arrived at the local CVS where the Redbox was located, there was an older man who was wearing a worn, white t-shirt scrolling through the options on the screen. I walked on the cracked sidewalk and stopped a few steps behind him, trying my best to urge him to hurry up without being rude, when he abruptly blurted out, “N h o.” I was stunned by his reply, but not surprised by his assumption. Being who I am, these types of situations happened to me frequently, yet this one sticks with me to this day because of how fast it all happened and because no one was worried about it. I told my sister about the event as soon as I stepped into the truck and expected her to empathize with me. Instead, she told me that he was just a random person, his assumptions do not matter. She expected me to deflect my feelings and to keep them hidden just like she had. The same encounter happened with my mother and father who seemed to disregard the situation with a coldness much unlike them. They were helicopter parents who kept a close eye on us and went to the principal for any situation that resembled bullying. Looking back, I know their coldness resulted from their emotional exhaustion because situations had happened like this before, but my parents fought back. It seemed to them that no matter how much progress is made, ignorance will still bloom. Something like this had happened to me once more, but in a much more aggressive way. It occurred when I was fifteen and working with a heating and air company that was close to home. The daily tasks I were given comprised of dry paper work removed from human faces and replaced with numbers, stamps, and names that had no significance to me. I was confined to a cubicle covered with a gray, carpet like material that was hidden in far-right corner of the square shaped building. What made me quit was when I first encountered my boss’s brother. He walked through the two front doors of the building and, quickly, began speaking with some of the workers who were mostly men and were still in their blue uniforms, drinking coffee in the common area that was for customers who came in for appointments. After he was done speaking with them, he strolled through the gray cubicles that made up a quarter of the building and stopped when he saw me sitting in one of them stamping papers with a sizeable, red, FINALIZED. When he approached me, I expected him to be as courteous to me as he had been with the men. Instead, his red tinted mouth turned into a grin that made me uneasy and stared at me with blood-shot, blue eyes: “How you doin’ China? Think you could help me with some calculations since you’re probably good at that stuff.”

FishHook

A Ten Cent Oriental Rug on a White Picket Fence SHERIDAN ARNOLD

A Ten Cent Oriental Rug on a White Picket Fence

The abruptness and coldness of his words stung my heart like a six-inch long icicle. My mouth became frozen, but my face became as warm as the sun. What came out was a staggered protest, “My, My, My name is Sheridan Arnold, not China.” The eyes looked back at me with triumph. Pride shown on his face because he knew he had secretly shamed me. He turned away from me and began to walk to his sister’s office which was near the front of the building. My mortification turned into rage after his departure. I made a vow to myself that I would not let his actions go unnoticed. Surely, his sister would care about what had just occurred. The anger I felt rose up in my body and lead me to her office. It was in that dusty white room filled with pictures of her family and grandchildren that I recounted my story and expected to be sympathized with. Instead, she looked at me with a slight look of concern but shrugged off any hopes I had for my vengeance by claiming that her brother was just a “jerk.” The conversation ended there with no other words being spoken. No consoling or empathy was felt. Instead an emptiness filled the space that was uncomfortable and restricting. No longer could I stare at those dull, gray walls and do mindless work. The next day I put in my two weeksnotice citing my schoolwork as the reason for my termination, but we both knew the real reason. That day, I did not go straight home after work as I usually do. Instead, I went to a place where I could think and sort through the baggage of my mind that had been thrown on me. I drove and drove until I reached Blue Grass Park. Families could be seen fishing off the dock or hiking on one of the trails. I came here for the simplistic beauty of the thousands of colors that populated it. I discovered this place happened when my sister wanted to go on a drive after I received a bad grade on a test. She said that she knew somewhere we could go that would take my mind off the pressure I was feeling. The view she showed me overlooked the six lakes of varying sizes and glistened like gems. The trees danced in the wind and cradled the lakes closely to themselves like a mother does to her child. It was a brisk, fall evening after my search ended I finally found the place my sister had shown me. The leaves that were once a vibrant green had now turned a dark maroon. Observing the changes occurring in the leaves made me realize that I could change as well. I did not have to handle the racist jokes that came from people who claimed to be my friends. I would not be like my parents who ignored the inner turmoil I felt about my race, or like my sister who hid her feelings deep within herself or lashed out with hostility. I vowed to myself that I would be the only person to define who I was and what I stood for. This vow carried me and made me stronger through every assumption and ignorant person I came across.

Westbound on I-64 SAMUEL HERDEGEN

When I was a kid, I used to watch the rain come down in chaotic waves and wash over our car. The rain would well up in drops, separate from the others, and pattern the windows with hundreds of spots. As we drove down the roads, I’d trace their tracks with my chubby fingers, smudge the windows with my greasy hands, and try to pin raindrop after raindrop in place. I pretended that I could control where they went, what they would do, but of course they never did. They were like the countless bubbles that rise up from the bottom of a freshly poured Coke, and like those bubbles, they too would disappear. I’m not a kid anymore. Now I’m driving West on I-64 from Louisville after two days of visiting with my girlfriend and her family. It’s late and I’m tired and I want nothing more than to be back home in my own bed. Of course it’s raining, and like before the rain collects in bubbles on my windshield before the rhythmic sweeping of my wiper blades whisks them away. I don’t reach out and try to pop them like I did before. Instead I stare out past at the endless miles of road between me and home. I stare out at the lights of the silver Toyota I’ve been speeding with for the past 20 miles and at the semis I’ll have to pass miles ahead. The landscape creeps past me to the soft soundtrack of Alex Turner from the Arctic Monkeys and Dan Auerbach from The Black Keys, and I can’t help but think about how bored I am. Driving home after any trip is like being caught in Limbo. You’re too exhausted to want to do anything other than get home as soon as possible, but you’re excited at the thought of finally getting to sleep in your own bed. It’s boring, plain and simple. All the tricks you used to amuse yourself on the way up are dull and just aren’t interesting anymore. There isn’t the anticipation of a fun day to make a car ride a little more bearable, but rather the dull pressure in the back of your head that reminds you that you’re returning to all the stress and responsibility you’ve left behind for however long. It sucks, so instead you think about nothing important and stare out at the road and wonder when they’re finally going to finish the construction or if you should stop at the rest stop now or wait until the one after Santa Claus about 70 miles from now. Or at least I do. I start to think about how the way the wind whips the trees up into different shapes, forces them all to lean in the same direction just as it threatens to push my

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Westbound on I-64

car into the other lanes. It reminds me of the trees back home and how they’d all creak and moan with the rising winds of a thunderstorm. I remember sitting on our back porch with my mom and watching the grey clouds roll in and darken the background. The wind always came first, starting softly and then growing more and more aggressive as the storm built. The tops of the trees started to bounce and sway and threatened to hit each other, and the soft rumble of thunder sounded like a semi passing on the distant highway. My mom made us cocoa sometimes, and she’d hand me a mug without a word as we sat and watched the storm build. The sky darkened, the storm built, and the rain finally came—nothing at first, then all at once. Thunder roared upon us, lightning scarred the sky. We didn’t say much of anything, because there just wasn’t a need to. We sat in our battered old, white wicker chairs and felt stray mist from the rain hit our bodies, and I watched as the wind strung her hair back and forth across her face. When it finally became too much for us, we went back inside and sat on the old brown couch in the living room and laughed as Wayne Hart on News 25 told us that there might be a chance of rain tonight. We’d try to do that every time a storm came along, but now we don’t. I don’t know at what point we stopped doing that together, but we did. Now it never seems to rain as often as it did back then, or when it does I’m busy or she’s busy or we just don’t feel like it. We’ve sold the wicker chairs and the couch since then, and even though Wayne Hart still gives us the wrong forecast, he does it on a different channel. I used to be able to lay in bed at night and listen to the remnants of those storms outside my windows, but now I’ve moved to the old guest bedroom in the basement and I don’t have any windows. A foot of dry wall, reinforced concrete, and vinyl siding separates me from the rest of the world. I can’t hear the beat of rain on the ground outside, or see the crack of lightning at night, hear the thunder’s return or the storm sirens blaring in the distance. Now it all happens and leaves me behind, just like I’ve left miles and miles of road behind in the span of these memories. I draw myself away from my daydreams long enough to pass yet another semi going five miles below the speed limit, hit the cruise control, and slip back into my thoughts. Memories of my childhood well up on the surface of my mind like the raindrops on my windows. I want nothing more than to go through and relive them, manipulate them. I want to make them dance for me the way I tried to make the rain do long ago, but I can’t. There’s too many to sort through and only so many miles left before my exit. I can’t make the rain dance for me. I can’t bear to dwell in the past, as much as I want to. I don’t have time to lose myself in my childhood fantasies, even though for these next 30 miles I have all the time in the world. Instead I’ll think about the pointless stuff, prop my head against my driver’s side window, and stare out past the rain.

As Green as Good JESSICA WEINZAPFEL

My favorite color has always been green. Not one of the standard Crayola greens like granny smith apple, hunter green, inchworm, or electric lime, but a very specific green. As a kid, I would lay in the grass between the two tall oak trees in my yard. They stood close enough to each other that their branches would blend and bend together that I couldn’t tell which tree the leaves belonged to, but they stood far enough apart leaving a hammock out of the question. As I laid in the grass, collecting chiggers and beetles in my pocket, I would stare up at the branches of my two favorite trees. The sunlight would glare upon the freshly born leaves and illuminate them, creating an unforgettable green—that is my favorite color. My childhood was beautiful, but difficult. Everything was a distraction. I was one of those kids that the teachers talked about at lunch. One of those kids that always had to sharpen her pencil and get a Kleenex. One of those kids that never listened because she was too busy trying to think of how to describe her favorite color. My pediatrician told my mother I had ADHD, which was no surprise. I took one little orange and white pill every morning to help me “be smart,” but I became something entirely different—maybe that was being smart. I began to hold my tongue and fear the wind. Anytime the wind would blow I would hide myself under my desk. I refused to go out to recess because I was afraid a tornado would blow me away. I was acting different but I was getting my school work done and doing well in class. My mother started to notice that I didn’t play outside anymore. I would sit in my room, quietly, and do my homework. I didn’t rollerblade, jump on the trampoline, or even water my strawberry plant in the backyard (which was my pride and joy). Being the mother that she was, she took me to my doctor’s office and demanded that I be taken off of all my medications and not be prescribed to anything else until I was old enough to decide for myself. When I was kid I would lay between those two tall oak trees and submerse myself into that world of swaying leaves and bending branches. I imagined myself being small enough to lay on the surface of my favorite color like a warm bed. I pictured all of the leaves as individual beings talking to each other about me staring up at them (they always said nice things). I would lay there for hours talking to myself and my two favorite trees. The grass was itchy, but comfortable and I loved

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As Green as Good

CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

being covered in dirt. My mother would let me lay there up until she called me in for dinner, and I would pray to God that it wasn’t fucking spaghetti. I never had a lot of friends in school; I had a cousin in the same grade as me and she was my only friend. We understood each other. We loved all of the same things—playing in the dirt, running through the woods, getting lost in cornfields, and collecting little frogs in a bucket. But I was one of those kids that the other students didn’t understand. I could never stop talking and half of the things I said didn’t make sense. I’ve always told people that I am so terrible at keeping secrets that I can’t even keep my own, and middle school is the worst time to be honest. On my eleventh birthday my cousin thought it would be a good idea to ask my crush if he would be my boyfriend. I was entirely unaware of this situation, and was at a Battle of the Books meeting instead of being with the rest of the class at the time. When I returned to the classroom all eyes were on me and all smiles were covered with hands muffling laughter. The boy I had a crush on greeted me at the doorway (the teacher was out of the room). He looked at me, smiled and said, “I would never date you. You’re an ugly lesbian slut.” Yes I know this sounds too harsh for an eleven year old, but when someone says this to you on your birthday, you don’t forget it. Now I may have been ugly but I had never kissed a boy nor did I find myself wanting to kiss a girl. The teacher returned and there were still ten minutes before we were to go home. I sat in my desk trying to think of happy thoughts but happy thoughts didn’t live in that fifth grade classroom and I didn’t want to either. There is a rope swing that hangs from one of those tall oak trees. At the bottom of the rope is the top of an old kitchen stool that we used as a seat. Next to the swing is a picnic table my father crafted himself with faded handprints of each of his children. When my father first tied it to the end of the rope, I brought out the only nail polish my mother owned and painted a bright pink heart on the seat. Although it is faded now, the outline is forever tattooed on the wooden surface. Before my father would get home, I’d situate myself on that little wooden circle and climb onto the picnic table with the rope between my legs. After reaching the top, I’d jump off and swing back and forth until the rope settled back to its resting place. When my father would get home in his bright blue jumpsuit he would push me as high as he could, running beneath me, sending my screams throughout the entire neighborhood. Both oak trees stand now, but they won’t for long. Their insides have been taken over by termites. Just last week I ran my fingers across the rough surface of one of the trees and cried. Everyone has their happy place and mine lives in the green the sun unveils when she touches the surface of my two favorite trees.

Sheridan Arnold is a sophomore studying social work. She is a passionate reader who has enjoyed traveling to fantasy worlds but has only begun to explore the lives of real people and their experiences. She hopes you enjoy a glimpse into her own life. Natasha Awbrey is a senior finishing her double majors in anthropology and art. She loves writing poetry and fiction and the poem published was inspired while studying abroad. It highlights the pressure of all societies to conform to the social “norm”. Gretchen Brown is a freshman who enjoys reading fiction, poetry and biographies. She will be majoring as an occupational therapist’s assistant. She enjoys anything involving nature, and this is often the subject of her poems. She is a strong Christian and disability rights advocate. Marissa Brown is a junior creative writing major from Mitchell, Indiana. She’s working hard to become an editor or publisher in order to help other writers get their books on the shelves, perhaps along with her own. She hopes you enjoy the new edition of FishHook. Chandler Buchanan is a current student at the University of Southern Indiana. Hope Burdette is a freshman who is currently pursuing a degree in marketing. Her ideal afternoon would be spent teaching her animals new tricks and photographing the end results. Sometimes her best photos are complete accidents. Emma Corry is a junior pursuing a bachelor of arts in journalism and a staff writer at The Shield. She loves creating stories in her head and telling the stories of other people. She is excited to share her work in The FishHook. Brad Flittner is a senior management major in the Romain College of Business and is the 2018-2019 Student Government Association president. He is elated that his poetry is included in this edition of FishHook. Joshua Joines is a senior in the computer science program. He’s an avid fan of science fiction, because he believes it’s important to consider the future. He thinks you should take more pictures. Hannah Jones is a junior pursuing a studio art degree. Her work explores personal narratives and emotions that when examined appear universal and unique to each viewer. She utilizes the figure and rich details to connect and envelope the audience into her environments.

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Donald MacLean-Kennedy is a senior studying psychology and studio art. With hopes of studying art therapy, his current work is an exploration of how different individuals deal with the unique experiences life presents individuals through gestural drawings and expressive color usage. Brayden Scarlett is a senior pursuing a degree in mechatronics engineering with a minor in computer science and a passion for robotics. He is part of the Student Writers Union and enjoys writing humorous poetry. He is always out to make people laugh with his work.

EDITORS’ NOTES Brandon Carrington is a senior pursuing a degree in English to become a high school teacher and fiction writer. He is a student worker for the College of Liberal Arts and a fellow member of the USI Chamber Choir. Sara Deal is a senior at USI and will be graduating in May with a bachelor of arts in English. She enjoys writing poetry, fiction and reading books way too much.

Lauren Schmitt is a graduating senior pursuing a degree in photography. She sees photography as a visual pleasure that evokes emotion and has the ability to personally touch an individual. Her current work is made up of mostly portraits and figurative images embodying an aura of certain perceptions: intimacy, naturality, femininity, sensuality, vulnerability, wantonness, allure and desire.

Alleigh Dillman is a freshman at the University of Southern Indiana.

Shayna Smith is a senior pursuing a degree in English with a literature emphasis. She enjoys writing poetry and spending time with her dog, José. She also is excited to share her first public works with FishHook readers.

Samuel Herdegen* is a junior at USI, majoring in English with an emphasis on professional writing and rhetoric. He enjoys reading and writing in his spare time, taking his dog on long walks and making occasional comments about the weather. He hopes to go into publishing after graduation and is grateful for the opportunity FishHook provides. After reading this issue, he hopes you, too, will Get Hooked!

Jessica Weinzapfel is a junior at USI pursuing a career as an English teacher. In her free time, she enjoys singing, playing the guitar and writing her own music. But most of all, she enjoys writing poetry. Jessica’s love for creative writing has led her to her career of choice. One day she hopes to have a classroom that values imagination and individuality.

Sophia Gill is a recent graduate of USI, receiving a degree in English that emphasized creative writing. She enjoys reading challenging novels with complex story lines and writing whenever she can find time.

Kennedy Salts is a senior wrapping up a degree in professional writing and rhetoric and also is a member of the Alpha Sigma Tau sorority as well as the Vice President of Sigma Tau Delta English Honors Society. She adores literature of all kinds and finds joy in reading and writing fiction.

* denotes editors who also contributed submissions

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