The Crucible ENG200 ENG244 eNg420

cru·ci·ble ‘kroosəb(ə)l/ noun 1. a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures. 2. a place or occasion of severe test or trial. 3. a place or situation in which different elements interact to produce something new. The Crucible borrows its name from UNC’s first student magazine, which served what was then the Colorado State Normal School from 1892 to 1920. We chose the name to honor both UNC’s heritage as a teachers’ college and its students of today and tomorrow. Like its counterpart in chemistry, The Crucible purifies its contents; it challenges its contributors to test themselves and to strive for flawlessness in their future creative ventures. © 2022 by United Student Literary Voices All rights reserved by respective authors. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. The views expressed in this book do not necessarily reflect the views of The Crucible staff. Printed in the United States of America First Printing, 1960 United Student Literary Voices University of Northern Colorado Campus Box 109 Greeley, CO 80639 www.crucibleunc.weebly.com Designed by Hannah Hehn “Crucible” definition courtesy of Google.com

Dear Reader, You know it’s rude to read other people’s journals right? This could house our darkest secrets or our subpar class notes and you’re gonna read it? With your full chest? If that’s really what you wanna do, I guess. Jokes aside, this is a piece of us. Every story about our cats, dreams of the sea, paintings, doodles. Reading this journal is like looking into our hearts, or the empty space where they’re supposed to go. In all fairness, this isn’t our journal. It's pages we’ve ripped from other people’s journals. Don’t tell them. I’m sure they know. Everything here is memories we’ve found, places we’ve seen, people we’ve met. There’s a story in every corner, on every page. This new, used, tattered journal is ours, hers, his, theirs, and now yours. Maybe we’ve cursed it. Maybe it came to us cursed. But it’s yours now. That’s how this works. These are stories for you to pass on because we don’t want them back. We’ll run into them again. In abandoned buildings, forests, our future loves, our past haunts. This journal is merely an amalgamation of all the chaotic thoughts we could find, bottle, and refine. This is perfectly potent chaos, ready to ship. So if you find this, don’t return it. Don’t look back. You’re a part of this now, and we welcome you with open arms. *peace sign* Love, The cruCIBLe Letter fron the EdITors

JoseDaniel Vespa Staff President - Catherine King-Burke Vice President - Hannah Erickson Secretary - Samantha Finken Creative Director - Hannah Hehn Social Media Directors - Editors - Katrina Johns

My Landlady is a Witch Enveloped on the Forest Drawing Forth the Hallow Eire Thoreau’s The Bean Field Salvation Turner’s Drop Bouquet Thinking for Oneself Our Eternal Burns Museum Backdrop My Dearest Elio The Warmth of Darkness Do Not Look Away Leaky Tap Moving Day It’s the invisible things I love the most House Tour Should I Cut My Ear Off Next Sliced Oranges The Gel Evolution Todd Shaklee Rosana Harrison CaseRasek Autumn Taylor Karsen Gromm Katrina Johns Joseph Steele Jack Lehnertz DavidC.Anderson Riley Kerr Caden J. Lefler Caden J. Lefler Karsen Gronn MaceyBoren MollyButler Ida Lewis Bones Joseph Steele CassidyGiles Raquel Eduardo Nunez Jeffrey Liang ShawnMiklich 9-14 15 16 17 18 19 20-21 22 23 24 25 26-27 28-33 34 35-36 37 38 39-40 41 42 43-44 45 Table Of Contents

46-47 48 49 50-56 57 58-63 65-67 68 69-71 72-74 75 76-77 78 78 80 81 82 83 83 84 85 86 87 88 Der Arzt ging Weiter Surrender I am a Mom When I Drink and a Dad When I Don’t For Progress A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings The Harp Prideful Woman Farewell On a Midsummer Night Flame Immortal Woes Go Away Death Summer Evening A Letter to my Beloved Tilt My World Doggie Portrait In A Library Off The Maine Seacoast The Chosen One Octopus Drawing To the Deep Metaphysical Geode Storefronts Sidewalk in Denver, Photographic Image I Am No Ordinary Plant Meraki Sean Kirk MaceyBoren Riley Kerr JTRigsby KarsenGromm AEphtenides MaceyBoren RyanMcDaniel Jack Lehnertz Chase Weynand Samantha Finken Karlee Sparkman CJK/G Nate Peterson Raquel Eduardo - Nunez JohnGrey Alexis Wright Raquel Eduardo - Nunez TimothyDodd MaceyBoren TimothyDodd Maya Peterson Raquel Eduardo - Nunez Bones

Where the Columbines Grew Frigg's Worry, Baldr's Delight, Wotan's Worry Bitter Winter Crimson Snow Blood Moon Mourning Self Wild Calico Kitty and The Blinds Contributer’s Notes Wren TranRyder Sean Kirk Adam Doll JustinDaggett MollyButler TeadoraRuiz Raquel EduardN-o unez Catherine King Burke - 89 90 91 92-9 6 97 98-9 9 100 101 102-1 06

How do I know my landlady is a witch? Well, for starters, she lives in a moss-covered cottage in the woods. Her nearest neighbors are several miles away, where they can’t catch the bright lights that escape her windows at night. See, she has this big rectangular magic mirror on her desk that allows her to see anything. Even into people’s rooms! She mostly uses it to watch cute animals, though. Sometimes, I watch through the window too. Then, there’s her color palette. Everything from her hair to her nails to her soft wristbands to her favorite pair of combat boots is black. Even her car is black. Don’t worry, she’s not monochromatic, like a ghost. Her broom is classic witchwood brown. If you saw me, you’d assume I was her familiar, but that would actually be Mister Mittens. He’s a dapper fellow who wears a tuxedo with a single white glove. The glove is greying at the toes a little these days, but I think it suits him well. He’s got a scar on his chin from the last time he chased a stray tom off the property. This is Miss Tabitha’s home, and Mister Mittens takes his guard duty quite seriously. Don’t let that put you off though. He’s an old softie, and kept me warm when I was little. How else do I know she’s a witch? Because she saved my life. When I was young and foolish, I left the nest and struck out on my own. There was only so much room in the Forester’s old attic, and with comfortable sleeping space becoming a premium, I left. After a couple nights of following the stream for easy midnight snackage, I ran into Miss Tabitha’s cottage. Literally. I mean, I heard it coming, but there’s a little beam that sticks out from the top of the roof and I clipped it. Like, crushed my wing with my body’s own momentum kind of clipping. So I spiraled down and landed in her grass with an undignified plop. Everything hurt, and I called out to figure out what else was on the ground. And then I heard something big and monstrous. The grass began to rustle. My heart pounded on my ribs. Everything fell dead silent. So I sent out a little chirp to test the airwaves, and what I heard made my tiny blood run cold. It was a fox, sure as my momma’s hooked nose. Like any good monster, it was so quiet I couldn’t even hear it breathing. All I heard was my own chirp bouncing back to me. Todd Shaklee My Landlady is a Witch Crucible Page 9

So I hunkered down. I’m sitting there, my wing in agony, and I just prayed that this big predator would go chase a mouse or something. But no, he came running out after me. I started running and flapping and screaming bloody murder because that’s what the fox intended to do to me. The porch light came on, and Miss Tabitha emerged, like a vampire stepping out of its coffin, but in fuzzy pink slippers. I continued screaming, convinced that I was about to end up as either fox chow or potion ingredients. Miss Tabitha started yelling, and the fox was only barely phased. So she went and grabbed her magic water-creating hose from where she keeps it curled up by the house and she drenched the fox. I mean, just blasted it in the face with so much cold water that it took off with its tail between its legs. Can’t blame it. Miss Tabitha can create water, so I’m sure she could freeze it too. And the last thing a predator wants is their mouth frozen shut. Can you imagine? You couldn’t eat a thing. Sounds miserable. Anyway, she found me flopping around in the grass like a dum-dum and shrieking my head off because the ground is scary when you can’t fly on command. But she gathered me up in a towel and took me into her cottage. Miss Tabitha’s sense of interior decorating? Plants…everywhere. Now, Miss Tabitha’s thumbs aren’t actually green. They’re tan, with black nails. Sometimes she wears silver rings on them. So while she grows plants with the expertise of a druid, my gut still tells me witch. Her voice is hypnotic too. She distracted me with watermelon and talked to me while she looked me over. So I talked back, and we had a great one-sided conversation. After all, my tongue doesn’t let me speak human. Anyways, she spent the next couple weeks nursing me back to health. During that time I insisted on bunking with Mister Mittens. Well, only after I realized he had no interest in eating me, which didn’t take long. It helped that his fur color reminded me of mom, and he was far warmer to me than she’d ever been. Eventually, my wing recovered and I was able to fly again. So Tabitha let me go. I left for all of a day. Hung out by the stream, snacking on bugs. And while mosquitos are great, I couldn’t stop thinking about how sweet that watermelon had been. So the next night, I went back. I wouldn’t dream of inviting myself into her home. I mean, me–a lowly bat and her–a mighty witch with control over plants and water? It wouldn’t be right to be so presumptive. Crucible Page 10

Instead, I clung to the beam. You know the one. From before, that swatted me out of the sky. And I appointed myself to a different kind of guard duty. If Mister Mittens was supposed to keep the mice in check, then I figured I could help keep the bugs down. Token of my appreciation and all that, for healing me. Next morning, she saw me. Talked to me in that hypnotic voice, and called me a pretty boy. Her charm spell made me almost forget to hold on to the beam. But I didn’t. Falling in front of her again? That would have been too embarrassing. A little bit later, she came back out of the house with a bowl of water, which she set on the windowsill out of the reach of local preds, like that nasty fox. It was super kind of her, and she didn’t have to do it. After all, the stream was close enough for me to get a drink. But that’s just the kind of person she is. A couple days later, she started working in the shed. Disappeared inside and made a whole lot of racket. Eventually, she opened the window and beckoned me over. What was I supposed to do, ignore a witch that willingly showed me kindness? So I flew in and, you know what I found? She’d cleared out a corner just for me. Put some pegs into the framing for me to sleep, and set out some dishes with water and-you guessed it-fresh watermelon. I was so moved I could have cried, but that’s a human thing, so I didn’t. Much. While I nibbled on the succulent watermelon, she crouched down and asked, “Can I call you Alexander?” As generous as she was to me? She could call me whatever she wanted. I chittered as much at her, and I swear she understood me, because she nodded. I know what you’re thinking. “Alexander, just because someone fed you and is renting you their shed doesn’t make them a witch.” And that’s a valid argument, but don’t worry! After tonight, I have fresh evidence. See, tonight was a very special night. Miss Tabitha spent over a week preparing. She decorated the outside of the cottage with orange and black streamers, no doubt to capture the beauty of deep autumn sunsets. I took a fat nap while she was working. It was the middle of the day, and I’m nocturnal–don’t judge me. When I woke up, the place was even more transformed than I expected. She must have recruited the help of dozens of spiders, because the trees and bushes were covered in cobwebs. That, or the giant spider Crucible Page 11

parked at the end of the juniper by the front porch was responsible. She’s bigger than Mister Mittens, and frightens me a little. I’ve tried talking to her, but she just silently stares out at the cobblestone path up to the house. I’m worried that if I get in her field of vision, she’ll assume I’m a fly. Miss Tabitha knows she’s there, so she’s probably a stray. Didn’t know spiders came that big though. But Tabitha helps animals of all shapes and sizes, so maybe this spider was bullied a lot as a kid. Could explain the silent staring from the corner thing. Personally, I think Miss Tabitha used magic to make her too big to bully, and the spider’s still processing it. I mean, spiders must have tiny brains normally, so now that she’s bigger, she’s probably learning how to think. That’s my running theory, anyway. Where was I? Oh, decorating for tonight! Miss Tabitha must have visited the cemetery, because there were skeletons hanging in the trees. Humans, birds, cats—all gleaming white and dangling from more clear stuff I can only assume is spider-silk. But the pumpkins. I’d never seen living pumpkins before, but wow… So she used her car to go get the pumpkins. Probably a lot more convenient to carry them in the spare seats than trying to juggle six pumpkins in your arms while flying on a broom. And no, I’ve never seen her fly on her broom, but it’ll happen eventually. She carried the pumpkins into the house in the morning, and set them out on the porch in the evening. And they had the cutest and brightest smiles! Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Silly Alexander, pumpkins don’t have faces.” And you’re right. They don’t—normally. But Miss Tabitha used her magic and brought these to life. And they’re so happy! They can’t move, obviously—they’re pumpkins—but they’ve got big grins and bright eyes from the flame of life she left inside them. Now they faithfully carry out their task of silently greeting any visitors. Evening rolled around, and the bugs were at an all-time high. It was so bad, Miss Tabitha had to install a lightning golem out in the yard just to help me keep up. She calls him Mister Zapper, which I think is a dignified name. I don’t know what it is about his blue glow, but the bugs are just drawn to it. Maybe she built some charm or enchantment effects into him too. He’s a quiet one though. The only time I hear him make a noise is when he crackles with laughter as he shocks a bug to death. Bit sadistic for my taste, but I’m not about to badmouth one of Miss Tabitha’s creations. Besides, I appreciate the extra help. As the sun laid down to sleep, cars started coming up the drive, in unprecedented numbers. Miss Tabitha isn’t normally the type to have Crucible Page 12

human guests at her cottage. It does happen, from time to time, but usually there’s months in between visits. Which is how I came to realize that she’d asked these people to come. How do I know this? Because it wasn’t humans that exited the cars. It was little goblins, and ghosts, and skeletons, and witches, and cats, and firefighters. They had human drivers who stayed in their cars, so these had to be important monsters. After all, they had their own chauffeurs! One by one, they ran up the cobblestone path to Miss Tabitha’s door. The pumpkins greeted them with friendly smiles as they knocked on the door. When Miss Tabitha answered, she was wearing a black dress, and a witch’s hat with a lovely black lace that shaded her eyes. The little monsters called out, “Trick or treat!” Miss Tabitha was so delighted, that she asked each of them in turn to tell her what they were. Then, she rewarded them for their answers with candy from a cauldron. I can’t imagine monsters find a lot of happiness in life, but leave it to Miss Tabitha to throw a party for them. That’s just the kind of person she is. This continued well past sundown. New little monsters would arrive, give the password, and leave with bagfuls of candy. Towards the end, there was one monster who showed his true colors. It was a zombie, with a big gash running down the side of his cheek, and a string holding his face up so it wouldn’t fall off. He opened one of the pumpkins, no doubt looking for brains to consume. Then, with grub-filled fingers, he snuffed out the light. The pumpkin went dark, its smile going dead as this zombie deprived it of life. As if that wasn’t enough, the zombie moved to put the dead flame in his bag. Having received such generosity from Miss Tabitha, this zombie deigned to turn around and murder such a friendly pumpkin greeter? Worse, he intended to steal the magic that gave it life? Well, as you can imagine, I was enraged. Telling Mister Zapper to hold down the fort, I flew straight at the zombie. Shrieked the whole way and started doing strafing runs through his hair. Now, I’m not normally that bold, but something came over me that night, and I couldn’t let such an atrocity occur. Not on my watch. Thankfully, after a few passes, the zombie screamed, despite his rotting vocal cords, and ran. The dead flame dropped to the ground, and I landed protectively beside it. Only after the zombie scrambled into the backseat of his car and his driver pulled away did I turn to examine the flame. The shape was there, but it was hollow and lifeless. The base was white, like a candle, albeit one that had never been melted by the heat. It looked intact, but the magic was gone and the flame empty. Crucible Page 13

I nudged it a few times, but I’m no warlock. I can’t cast magic. But I knew who could. So I flew over to the door and chittered as much as my little voice could handle. It didn’t take long for Miss Tabitha to open the door, her witch’s hat tipping backwards as she looked up at me. “What’s the matter, Alexander?” I chittered that there had been a murder and urged her to follow me. She did, and I landed beside the corpse of the flame. As gently as she’d lifted me from the grass when we first met, she scooped up the dead flame. “How did this happen?” she asked. My chittering reached new levels of indignation as I explained again that a zombie had committed murder. Glancing back towards the pumpkins, she saw the one that had died. “Let’s get you working again,” she said with that compassionate voice that immediately made me hungry for watermelon. Like I said, I have evidence for my claims, and this was the strongest evidence of all. Walking over to the pumpkin, she knelt down and lifted away his top. Then, cupping the dead flame in her hand, she turned it over and cast a spell by saying, “Let there be light.” With a flick of her finger, the flame sprang to life again. I watched in amazement as she lowered it back into the pumpkin and replaced his lid. The yellow glow shone through his eyes and his smile, his gratitude written on his face. His life had been restored. Crucible Page 14

Enveloped in the Forest RosanaHarrison

This night is quiet as zephyrs brushing the eyelids of the dead. Unfold, says the sunflower. Caress your inner longing for dark. Brittle and wither with grace. These curtains— veils of cobweb-thin spacetime— part to frame the orange glow from a hollowed, frostbitten gourd. Scatter yourself, says the seed head. Samhain vespers gather like dust motes, clumps of devotion swept into broom closets. Devils wait, they tell you, at the crossroads. Look not but feel their sharp teeth of glass gnawing to carve out midnights. Believe the woods instead as willows scrape your sides. Untouched crabapples rot on the branches, the ground. Torn through realms, a tendril of fabric the color of memory. Find your sacred altar among creek stones rounded grey, the ones with hag-holes. Breathe, says the wintry air, and laughs at your goose pimples. The string wrapped around tapered candles, the swallow’s aria: your sacraments. Bleed into night-shadowed peace. Branches rap against the windows. The porch-light moths know it too. Morning will come, but not yet. CaseRasek Drawing Forth the Hallow Crucible Page 16

I long for a land I have never been in. I study an army that did not fight for me. I seek out a language I have never spoken. I will die on soil I have yet to step in. I want to climb her mountains more than our's here. I want to walk in her limited countryside more than my endless one here. I will enjoy her sea more than these lakes. I will explore her every step and turn. My Eire means more to me in my head than this place has meant to me in my entire lifetime. Her green voice calls me. It would be cruel if I were to ignore her. Autunn Taylor Eire Crucible Page 17 ,

Thoreau’s The Bean Field Karsen Gronn

She was an awe-inspiring being to my young eyes. So vast and blue, with no end in sight. She had a regal air about her and perfume that smelled of salt and salvation. I wanted to drown in her calm embrace, to be rocked like a child, to forget my worries on the land that had scorned me. But, I shied away from her. Too ashamed of getting lost in her unknowable knowledge. Too afraid of never wanting to leave her. Too anxious of never resurfacing, of knowing what companionship was before it inevitably dissolves away and loneliness seeps into my lungs. Katrina Johns Salvation Crucible Page 19

She tells him not to worry so much. He breathes in the sweet smell of cigarettes that’s baked into the seats of her 2005 Honda Civic. The sun is setting, casting holographic pinks and citric oranges and yellows against a canvas of clouds. He doesn’t look at her, so she says it again. This time he turns his head to face her. She’s smiling. He smiles back, dryly, then turns back to watch the ocean. They are parked at Turner’s Drop, a pull-off that faces the vast blueness that lunges and rubs at the coast like an ages-old ceremonial dance. He sees a sailboat, a schooner, fore-and-aft, with big rose-colored sails and tiny toy people at the bow. He watches it sail, watches it glide, watches it ride freely away from responsibility and from fear. He thinks about his mother, how she taught him to focus on the distant minutia of the everyday so that the frightening present wouldn’t feel so close. It’s working, but not like he needs it to. He breathes with the ocean. She turns on the radio. The sharp and sudden sounds of static hit like whiplash. She tunes it to OCHR 101.9, the Oregon Coastal Highway Radio, “The OneStop Station for the Oregonian of Today!” A song comes on and she begins to tap her hands against the leopard print steering wheel cover. He looks at her, yearning for comfort. She stops her impromptu hand-drumming and turns to meet his gaze. She smiles; he does not. She asks him what’s eating him; he forces a chuckle. He says it’s nothing, that it’s just nerves, that he’s scared of what might happen if people find out about this, about them. She puts a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezes, and tells him that she doesn’t care about any of that junk, that it doesn’t matter if anyone finds out because there’s nothing wrong with them being together, no matter what anyone tells him. He doesn’t push against this, instead he lets the weight turn his head back to the ocean. The schooner is gone. She squeezes him again, this time on his thigh. She doesn’t ask him if he’s uncomfortable, instead she slides her hand further up. He feels cold. The sun sets, finally, and darkness envelopes the sea, envelopes her car, envelopes the woman in the driver’s seat, envelopes the boy in the passenger. She whispers something that he can’t hear over the radio. He turns to face her, and asks her to say it again. She asks again if he’s ok. He says he doesn’t know. She kisses him, the taste of Camel Reds and a large chai latte on her glossy lips. He doesn’t kiss her back. He remembers what his sister said to him when he told her he was meeting his History teacher alone for coffee, how his sister told him that she was twice his age, how his sister asked him if their mother knew, how his sister told him to be careful. The inexorable amalgamation of voices of everyone he knows pleads with him to turn away, to push back, to just watch the waves. But he doesn’t. He kisses her back. The next morning he sits in the back of the classroom, sketching anything, everything he sees, avoiding her eyes, avoiding the Joseph Steele Turner’s Drop Crucible Page 20

embarrassment and the shame. His letterman jacket smells like Chanel No. 19 and second-hand smoke. Her hair is up today, streaks of auburn and maple-red shimmering in the sun emanating from the windows. Her glasses are low on her nose, her eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. She asks her questions and his classmates raise their hands with enthusiasm and wide smiles. They all adore her. When the bell rings he skulks toward the door in the back of the room, but she calls him up before he can leave. She asks him if he’s ok. He thinks about the question and the true answer doesn’t readily surface, so he says sure. She asks him if he wants to grab some food after class, her treat. He says he isn’t sure, that his mother probably needs him home. She scoffs, places her hand under his chin and pushes his downcast face up to look at her. She tells him not to worry so much. Crucible Page 21

Jack Lehnertz Bouquet

“When was the last time I thought for myself?” The mirror wouldn’t answer. I asked again, but it would not speak. So, I asked the one who reflected the mirror, but he wouldn’t answer either. I asked other people days ago, but they gave only one answer, ask the mirror. And so, I asked again, but, yet again, it would not answer. I asked a psychologist, but she told me to ask myself. And so, I asked myself again, but no answer came. I asked my family, but the carved stone had no voice. I asked my dog, but it only brought a leash. I asked my cat, but it only returned to sleep. I asked my friend, but they never responded. I asked my wife, but the empty ring and unused diamond said nothing. I asked a man on the street, but he only gave me a needle. I asked an officer, but he only took the needle. I asked the mayor, but he asked the same question. I asked the president, but his guards wouldn’t let him answer. Finally, I asked a knife. It replied, “You never did.” David C. Anderson Thinking for Oneself Crucible Page 23

The Sun was struck by a sedan today, light spilling out on concrete. Staining it like bleach in my sister’s hair. Mother said she heard his screams as his innards spread through the air. Helium and Hydrogen. The Sun rests in a sterile room today, dimmed by doses of Ketamine. Doses of Morphine. His insides still slipping out from his newly ripped sunspot, barely stitched over with thread and needle. The Sun burnt out today, leaving our home dark as a cloudy new-moon night. We held him as he went. Our hands burnt for eternity. Riley Kerr Our Eternal Burns Crucible Page 24

MuseunBackdrop

Do you think of me In Italy, all alone In the mountains, or in your city Or when you realize you’re not home We were clear when it started. This was only for fun. No love, no reasons, no lies. As time went on, our feelings did too. Our connection changed and commitments were made. The alarms in my brain sounded like fog horns in the night. I was too naïve, too curious to be afraid. The sirens that inhabited your topaz blue eyes persuaded me with their hum. Their promises forced me to fall for your smile first. The way it glistened like the moonlight on the waves. We made conscious decisions and constant conversation over what the rules of our game would become. I ventured your waters carefully, knowing you harnessed the power to anchor my heart like no other has. At the start of our final week together, I welcomed an unexpected visitor into my appendix. As I doubled over in pain for hours, I watched the fear fill your eyes. Your topaz blue had dissolved to a midnight darker than the Aphotic. I saw right through you. I saw right through your disguise. I pretended not to be scared in an attempt to keep your worries at bay. I laid there all night, waiting for the day. You did too. You held my weakness in your hands, your love was tacit in the darkness of my room. Your whispers were a misty sea breeze blown straight from your heart. Your grasp was my flotation in the depths of so many unknowns. I went to urgent care the next morning after convincing you to stay home. Within minutes of my arrival, I was sent to the emergency room. On my journey, I told you everything the doctor had to say. Now I see, I could have spoken with a less terminal tone. You researched what would happen if my appendix had burst. You were paralyzed with helplessness on account of my morbidity. The storm that loomed your once blissful waters now struck lightning in assumption of the worst. You begged to join me in the barren sterileness of that hospital room 206. I refused to let you come. I needed to be alone for my final verdict. Within several hours, I was missing an organ and missing your calls. Patience was never made for you and this event had left you in disarray. You met me in my bedroom, the first left down the darkened hall. You asked if I was okay. You asked if I was in pain. You asked on a continuous loop. I learned quickly, even a battered record continues to play. Our final week had become a final three nights. I kept you close in an effort to stall our time. As we laid Caden J. Lefler My Dearest Elio Crucible Page 26

together, bodies intertwined, we discussed the future and the fractures of our relationship’s design. On our final goodbye, you held me for a while. Not tight, in fear of causing me pain, but close enough to hear the beat both of our hearts made. As I watched you walk away slowly, I pulled my heart from denial. I knew I loved you. And it was too late. We both left in the late spring to fall back into our other lives. We returned to the ones who never knew of our elaborate winter fling. We continued like sister ships in the night. I longed to feel your voice and your skin. I dreamed of the nights I spent in your topaz blue eyes, feeling your subtle gaze meet mine. Our late nights apart moved fast. We watched our separate lives grow. As I tried to make our connection last, you used thundering silence to let me know. Sometimes I wish everything was as it used to be. I write this in hope of closure I hope these feelings set me free I hope one day, you will look back and wonder Does he even think of me Crucible Page 27

There. The shack sat at the end of the dusty road, obscured by overgrown grass and untrimmed trees. Gravel crunched under Jamie’s feet as he walked along the side of the path just above the ditch. The summer sun beat down on his sticky face and the Midwest humidity made his lungs feel as though they were drowning. He knew better, though. He wasn’t drowning. He’d tried six days ago in his bathtub. Drowning was pure pain, much more than thick air could ever hope to cause. Most people think of drowning as wet and cold but it was actually a fire bursting inside his chest as his instincts forced him to stop swallowing water. He’d sputtered out mucus and vomit onto the bathroom floor before finally coughing air back into his lungs. Jamie could still feel the burning inside his chest and his stomach any time he took a breath. His drowning attempt had failed, but he hadn’t given up. Jamie had been told stories of the shack and the man who lived inside it for years as a kid, but for the longest time he’d considered them just another one of the folk tales that spread around rural farm towns like this. Everybody knew them—the ghost girl who murdered lost drivers at night, the scarecrow man who hid in the forest and pushed kids off cliffs when they got too close, the poltergeist who’d strangle anyone who forgot to lock the door to the old armoire at the antique store. Jamie had chalked the old man in the shack up to nothing more than any of the other town monsters. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Jamie climbed through the wires of the sad, crooked fence outside the property line and wove through the wild grass, his shoes disappearing in the dry, yellow prairie beneath him. He briefly thought about what might be hiding in the folds—a bird’s nest or a snake or any number of small field rodents, ready to bite or peck through the holes in his jeans at a moment’s notice—but his attention quickly returned towards the house before him, if it could really be considered a house. The entire structure fell slightly to the left, with several beams ready to crack under the weight of the wood above it. The planks were raw and splintered, worn down from the cycle of harsh winters and intolerable summers, and a dull gray lay in the wake of what used to be a warm ebony. The broken screen door thwacked against its frame as the summer breeze whistled through the cracks in the house. Karsen Gronn The Warnth of Darkness Crucible Page 28

Jamie’s footsteps creaked up the two front steps to the porch. He stood in the doorway for a moment as he peered through the grungy screen door. Inside, he saw the shadow of an old man hunched over in a stiff rocking chair, framed by a halo of hazy, yellow daylight outside the window before him. The wind whistled through the house again, and this time the entire shack swayed on its foundation, the supporting beams moaning under the pressure of it all. Jamie stood frozen in the doorway, his fingertips brushing over the rusted handle, wanting to go inside but suddenly feeling intimidated, a cold pit settling in his stomach. While the wind howled through the unsteady house, the old man turned his head towards Jamie, but never looked at him. “I know you’re there.” A feeble, menacingly low voice whispered. Jamie felt his breath catch in his throat, but he swallowed his nervousness and stepped carefully into the shack, the screen door banging shut behind him. He could see the old man clearly now. He looked like one of the beams outside holding the porch roof up, bent and crooked and ready to fall over once the next gust of wind came by. But there was something hard and commanding about his presence that said he wouldn’t be moved so easily. The old man would be subject to the whims of neither of a lazy breeze nor a thundering tornado. His bony fingers curled around the armrests of his rocking chair, and he peered out of the corner of his deep-set eyes towards the boy. Dark patches dotted the leathery, sagging face, and a few white hairs still clung to the top of his head. On the surface, the man looked like any other old, cranky, dementia-ridden ward from a nursing home, but the legends told Jamie he was much more than that. The man’s breath rattled through his chest as he prepared to speak again. “What do you come for, boy?” It wasn’t a question. Folks only ever came to the man for one thing. “I heard you can do things.” Jamie’s breath caught in his throat. He coughed and tried to sound more confident. “Like magic sort of things.” The old man said nothing. He kept staring at the spot on the wall he had been examining ever since Jamie walked up the front steps. Jamie’s heart pounded in his chest as he said his next words. “I want to… to disappear. Not like, be invisible. I want to stop existing.” Again, the old man failed to acknowledge him, and Jamie began to panic. What if it didn’t work? What if the old man couldn’t do what he’d always been told could happen out here in this shack? What if he didn’t think Jamie had a good enough reason to ask for this? “Everything is just too much. It’s too much,” Jamie sputtered on, “and I just want to stop existing. Not die, not really. I tried that, tried it a lot, and it never worked, and I hate it that that’s the only thing I can do, but I hate being here more. There’s nothing left for me—nothing! People keep telling me there’s so much left, but that’s bullshit and we all know it. It’s the same thing every day, and it never stops, and everything hurts and my head feels so Crucible Page 29

loud all the time, and I wish it could just be quiet for one minute! Everything just seems worthless and I just… I can’t do it!” The words tumbled out of him all at once and left him breathless, just like that day in the bathtub. The thought of continuing on like this day after day for the next sixty-odd years was enough to make him feel like he was back there, cold on the outside and burning on the inside, swallowing gallons upon gallons of water trying to make the noise of his hollow future go away. Jamie hung his head, tears stinging his eyes, and let out a few last desperate words. “I’m so tired.” “You,” the old man wheezed, “are in great despair.” “Yes.” “And you think I am the answer.” Jamie swallowed hard. “Yes.” The old man turned his head back towards the window again, and Jamie thought maybe he had lost, that the man hadn’t thought he had a good enough reason to give Jamie what he wanted. But suddenly Jamie heard scraping on the floor and saw the old man’s rocking chair turning on its own to face him. The old man’s dark, sunken eyes locked with his as the wind began to pick up again, stronger this time. Grass and dust flew through the holes in the walls and whip around Jamie’s ankles as he stood, stunned at the image in front of him. The old man began to laugh a sinister, wheezing, rattling laugh that showed the few rotting teeth still left in his mouth. His laughter grew louder as the wind picked up faster and faster, ripping through the shack so hard that floorboards and siding began to fly away. Jamie felt as though he were floating, disoriented by the wind and the wreckage and the laughter growing louder by the moment. The sun outside faded quickly, replaced by dark clouds and shadows. A sharp cracking above him told Jamie the roof had been completely torn off and was now being sucked away into the tornado quickly forming around the shack. The destruction swirling around where the little house used to be reached a crescendo, and the clouds grew darker and darker until they enveloped Jamie in blackness. This was it. He would cease to exist. The shadows overtook him, and everything went black and silent. Jamie felt nothing but a trickling warmth in place of where his body used to be, and if he even had lungs anymore, he would have breathed a sigh. It was over. Finally. Crucible Page 30

But the peace lasted only long enough for one breath before he was jolted back to life. Jamie lurched forward and found himself in a train car, speeding through the dark subway tunnels of a city he didn’t know. He looked around for the old man, the shack, the miles of farm fields he’d just been in, but he found none of it. All he had now was a metallic, fluorescent train car and the searing sound of the wheels clacking over the tracks in sync with the rocking of the car. Jamie gripped the pole next to him while he spun around, trying to understand where he was. He wasn’t sure if anybody else could see him since nobody seemed to notice his sudden presence or his frantic search around the train car for any information that would explain what was going on. Wasn’t he just gone? Why was he here now? While he was looking around, a man caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Jamie didn’t know what made him stop to look at him, but he swore the man looked just like… Jamie? Older, of course, but the resemblance was unnerving. This man had the same hazel eyes, same curly brown hair, same freckles dotting his face. The man’s hands moved the same way Jamie’s did, and his mouth quirked up to the right just like Jamie’s when he smiled. It took him a moment to realize the man was sitting with someone else, a girl Jamie didn’t recognize. He couldn’t get a good look at her since she was turned away from him, towards the man who looked like Jamie. The boy felt captivated by what he was seeing. The girl took her hand and ran it through the curls framing the man’s forehead as he spoke quietly to her. He looked down and gently touched her fingers with his, barely there but strong enough not to let go. The man’s eyes lit up beneath his dark lashes, and his whole body let off a sparkling energy. Not passionate or overwhelming, but it was content, a satisfied joyfulness. Something caught in Jamie’s chest. Some unarticulated need fluttered through his bones as he watched them together. Just then, a silhouette he recognized emerged sickeningly slowly from behind the young man’s head. The old man from the shack had returned, rocking chair and all scraping against the train car floor. Everything seemed to move as if underwater, floating heavily through time. Once the old man’s beady eyes appeared, his head snapped towards Jamie—the train’s breaks screeched as the metal sides ripped into long shreds and flew off down the tunnel, and the boy was jolted once again into a new reality. It was raining. Not even just raining. Huge drops poured down from the sky and pounded onto the pavement. Jamie spun around just as he had on the train car, getting his bearings. He was in a parking lot, empty except for a few outdated cars on the far edge. As he tried to make out if anyone was in the cars through the downpour, several kids came rushing past him. Crucible Page 31

This time, one of them was definitely Jamie. Older again, but only by a few years, and undeniably Jamie. He was running alongside a few other kids that the younger Jamie didn’t know, and they were all laughing and yelling at each other. They weren’t running through the rain to get out of it, Jamie quickly realized. They all splashed through the biggest puddles they could find in the dips of the asphalt and they kicked water towards each other. Their hair clung to their foreheads and droplets ran down their faces. Jamie noticed himself most. He was bursting with energy, a broad smile never leaving his face. He turned his face towards the sky and held out his arms, thrusting his fists into the air. Jamie heard himself yell out a few times and finally made out the words over the pounding of the water. “Come on!” His older self yelled to the clouds. “You can do better than that! Give us a real challenge!” The other kids with him joined in his challenge to the sky. The sky answered by pouring harder and sending lighting streaks across the sky with roaring thunder loud enough to feel through their bones. They all shouted with joy at being answered, at the stakes being raised. The group continued to run around the parking lot soaked to the bone while Jamie watched, once again unnoticed. Then he heard the scraping of wood on asphalt. Please, no. Not yet. Just another minute. Jamie’s head turned inch by inch until he could make out the form of the old man and his chair. Jamie found himself dreading the sight of the old man now—he wanted to watch himself yell and laugh and run in the rain for just a few more minutes. It wasn’t really Jamie, at least not yet, but it could be, he hoped, and he wanted to remember every detail of the moment when the water wasn’t a means to an end. But the old man wouldn’t give him that time. His eyes flicked up again and Jamie pitched forward into the water and the asphalt and came up standing in the middle of a sidewalk on a quiet suburban street. He stood in front of a porch, empty except for a man sitting on a bench swing overlooking the street. Jamie figured this man must also be him, but much older now. His eyes were more tired and his body leaned into the swing cushions with exhaustion, but a quiet grin crept across his face, quirked up on the right side. Cicadas chirped from the trees and the sound of air conditioners hummed quietly from all the houses on the street. Dusk had begun to take hold of the sky, and the last few specks of pink and orange light faded from the horizon. The air grew cooler but kept the same heavy humidity that had been there before, though not as suffocating as it had been when Jamie was back on the dirt road. The weight of the moisture in the air was comforting, almost cozy in a way. The old man on the porch swing watched as fireflies started to light up the dim front yards along the street. Their glow was ethereal, turning the silent street into a place that felt as sacred as a church and mysterious as a grove deep in the woods. Crucible Page 32

Jamie marveled at the tiny lights dotting the air, igniting and extinguishing over and over as the final colorful lights of the sunset faded from view. The man on the porch swing sighed as he watched over the street, used to the sight but never sick of its beauty. Jamie could have stood forever amongst the weightless lights. But the thwacking of a broken screen door caught his attention, and again Jamie could see the old man sat in his rocking chair. The man’s piercing eyes shot up to meet Jamie’s which now ran over with tears begging to stay. Not again. Please. Not again. Already the sound of cicadas and air conditioners reached a deafening peak, and the impending night engulfed the tiny specks of firefly light until Jamie was once again hurtled through the darkness. The old man led Jamie through more moments, each more beautiful and striking than the last. Jamie saw peaceful first snows and stumbling first steps of pudgy babies. He saw scabbed knees and acceptance letters and first kisses and tears over silly disagreements. There were long summers and raging fights and nights spent on the couch and nights spent driving and singing at the top of his lungs. Flowers and letters and fireworks and new sneakers and clouds that looked like dinosaurs and reading out loud and old cassette tapes and carnivals and days spent staring at walls and burnt fingertips and scribbles on paper and photographs of people long gone and photographs of people still here and crying in the kitchen at midnight and broken china and glow-in-the-dark stars and finger paint, it was all there. Jamie saw everything, every little moment that could ever matter and every moment that he didn’t think would but that did. They did. Every single one. They all mattered in the end. And when it was all done, Jamie fell back into the shack with the old man in the rocking chair in the shack in the middle of the dusty field in the humid Midwest summer. Jamie stared into the man’s eyes, completely in shock at all that he had just witnessed. The old man gazed at him knowingly, and sneered his crooked, nearly toothless smile at the boy. “I am not the answer.” “Wait—” “But you have made your choice.” The old man snapped his fingers, and Jamie was once again wrapped in the warmth of darkness. Crucible Page 33

Do Not Look Away Macey Boren

Drip, drip, drip, goes the tap in the bathroom. It’s an annoyingly steady drip into the bathtub, like a small, persistent drummer from a miniature marching band. Tap, tap, tap. Something else is making a noise. Ever so slightly out of sync with the drip comes a tap from somewhere. A clunk of the pipes perhaps, or the creaks that come with an old house. Scritch, scritch, scritch Now, what is that noise? Beyond the drip and the tap there’s a scritch coming from somewhere. Somewhere… close. Scritch, scritch, scritch Is it behind the mirror? In the cabinet? Beneath the floor? In the walls? Scriiiitch… My god, is it inside my ear? Scritch, scritch The left ear? No, the right? No. It’s both, it must be both. Scritch, scrITCH, SCRITCH, Oh, it just won’t stop, that infernalMollyButler Leaky Tap Crucible Page 35

SCRITCH Give me something – anything. A q-tip; some tweezers; A pencil! A screwdriver! I’ll gouge it out myself, this thing clawing on my eardrum, if it means it’ll be quiet again! Drip, drip, drip, A silent trickle feeds into a slowly spreading puddle of red on the white tiles. I watch as it falls, dribbling down my face, from my ears to the floor. The door rattles in its frame. Someone must be banging on it from the other side. It’s of no matter to me anymore. Because finally, finally, I don’t have to hear that scratching anymore. And yet, in the puddle, I can find no trace of anything that could have made such a noise. Crucible Page 36

I am the mournful cabinet of an aband -oned house. My po -lish worn in corners used by gentle hands who filled me with their treasures. Then left their child’s hidden toys in my shadowed shelves The child weeps they chide its heart Forever I will hold their things, though they depart. —O I am a secret-keeper You can trust me, dear. To my grave, this heart stay near But who can stop the grave diggers? lda Lewis Moving Day Crucible Page 37

lt’s the invisible things l lovenost Bones

She stood in the cold, watching new people, new faces, leave her old house. The house she bought, the house she raised her children in. She waited, watching her breath condense and float away, patiently, for the SUV to pull out of the driveway. The tires crunched bits of salt still left over from the sleepy winter as it went, crackling like a small fire. Once they’d left, bumper stickers out of view, she approached the front door. Her high heels made echoey knocks on the stone walkway that slithered up the great green lawn, the silent chitter of a distant sprinkler responding like a snake in the cold (s-s-s-s-s-s). Her phone buzzed obstructively against her leg, but she pretended she didn’t feel it. The porch was completely unrecognizable; there were no plants, no gnome statues watching over the lawn, the porch swing had been removed (yet they hadn’t removed the hooks from the wooden support beams it had hung from), and the antique lion head door-knocker was completely removed and replaced with a wreath. If she weren’t already so tired and exhausted from hours of crying, she’d have shed a tear then. One thing did remain, however: a key, just barely peeking over the top of the door, right where she had left it. She retrieved the key with a smile and it glinted pleasingly as she did so. Inside, she was still. It was so warm, the constant hush of the heating system pumping the space full of air that smelt of lavender. She removed her heels, leaving them at the door beside work boots and children’s sneakers. She made her way from the foyer to the living room, brushing her fingers along foreign paintings and foreign books on a foreign shelf. She took the remote from the arm of the couch and turned the TV to a channel playing a telenovela (without subtitles), and hid the remote in a flower pot against one of the walls of the room. From the living room, as she wiped dirt from her fingers, she made her way into the kitchen. There she opened the fridge, judged scrupulously every condiment and item of food, rummaged through the drawers that lined the new and modern kitchen island where there was once a lovely oak dinner table. She wondered what haunted junkyard harbored that table, her old door-knocker, her porch swing. She grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter next to the sink and bit into it, then made her way upstairs to her old room. There she had slept with her back turned to a man she didn’t love and who didn’t love her, where she dressed and undressed in private in her walk-in closet with a door that locked. The new family’s bed was against the same wall, a little larger but still in the same spot. She couldn’t even begin to try to imagine the new couple Joseph Steele House Tour Crucible Page 39

making love in such a perfectly made bed. Perhaps they were just as broken and sinister as she and her husband had been. She turned away, her eyes welling with tears that she didn’t think she had to cry, and then she saw it: her airmoir. They kept it. It was the only thing still left (besides the spare key), the only thing deemed worthy of keeping by the termitious new residents. Inside were pairs of long slacks, pink and green blouses, plain khaki shirts, and dress shoes lining the base. It smelt of new skin, and it made her sick. Her stomach acid churned like cement in a cement mixer, twisting her up inside. She set the apple in the center of the wooden base, half eaten and slowly bruising in the lavender air, then balanced the spare key on top of it, then wiped her tears. She started downstairs, back through the kitchen, the fridge left open and its contents already beginning its process of dethawing, back through the living room, the TV still blaring Mexican love stories (¡Pero Ricardo, tu no eres el padre! / ¿Que? ¡Eres una puta infiel, Rosalita!), back through the foyer, where she decided to leave her black heels as a sort of parting gift. Her bare feet touched down on the cold wood of the porch, then pittered across the stone walkway. The sprinklers had come on while she was inside, showering the turf with prismic visions of the night. She stepped off the path, feeling cool and slick grass between her toes, then laid and shivered there, gazing up into the ebony sky and feeling the sprinkler water (or maybe it was her tears?) pool under her eyes and stream down her cheeks into the freezing and muddy earth below her head. Crucible Page 40

I feel yellow to obsession, much like the artist. Synonymous with sadness, we share an overwhelming desire to bring the outside in, to feel what yellow so selfishly keeps to itself. I soak in its positivity, smearing it on my walls so it may reflect on my body. I still shy from my bloodstream. A surplus of joy saturates the mind, killing it in delirium. I crave yellow in the way of a painter. Hungry for what it claims to be. I am starving for starry nights, too. Happiness is not without cost, it will never pass my lips. Cassidy Giles Shouldl CutMy Ear Off Next Crucible Page 41

Sliced Oranges Raquel EduardN-ounez

You finally found me in aisle 8 at the supermarket. Ninety-two percent Aloe Vera, in use since ancient Egypt, I am the gel that can soothe your sunburns and your lizard-skin rash. When nights of incessant scratching came to you, as they always did, there was no silence, only fingernails scraping skin. You reached for the tint of moonlight on my container. You opened my lid and dug down. You savored that first instant when my cool gel was applied. It was almost good enough to make you forget your growing confusion for why you suffer. Before I came along, your mom gave you that medicine from the doctor. A total waste of money, but you willingly became a pasty white ghost. One night, as the medicinal scent filled your bedroom, you dreamed you were a ghost wandering the streets of Shanghai. As you passed Family Mart, your stomach growled, so you reached into your pockets. Nothing but lint. When you woke, your chest sputtered. Could something like that really happen? It was only a dream, but dreams become reality. Your brother used to tease you, “Maybe you should worship God.” He didn’t know how much you prayed for your voice to stop squeaking in debate, how you prayed to bust a move at prom to get the girl, how much you prayed your rash would go away. Sure, I eased your skin, but my effects couldn’t replicate the hug of a friend or those careless days when you flew across the monkey bars and did backflips off the swings. I couldn’t make you forget that competitions must result in positive outcomes to add to your resume like newly acquired badges to a clueless Boy Scout. At night, when you stuffed your face in that ocean-themed pillow, the crashing Pacific waves of long-ago vacations returned in your mind: That morning you awoke in that rundown hotel in Switzerland, where cows fed on patches of grass next to a calming lake. That hike on Shika Snow Mountain where you raced your brother to the apex, beating him by just a few snowy stairs. That trip to your grandparents apartment where you and your brother slept on the same bed and laughed so loud your parents had to forcibly separate you. Now that you had found me, we became inseparable. You placed me next to the dog-eared 900 Practice Questions for the SAT Princeton Review on the left side of your desk, where you studied late in that wooden chair. You sat there so long reading historical passages about dead white men, wondering what had become of you. Could you become a mannequin? That might be nice. In your efforts, you jumped from one professor to another learning programming languages rather than writing those stories about robot children, you finished derivative questions rather than Jeffrey Liang The Gel Crucible Page 43

writing poems about cicadas perched on high branches, and you chased after tennis balls instead of your brother who was going off to college. Was it worth anything? Did it soothe your rash? When it came time to write those college essays, your whole body was on fire. What would you write about? Your rash? Your tennis skills fading? Your evolving relationship with your brother from friends to mentor and unwanted disciple? What about your desire to explore song-writing, to become a club tennis coach, and to study creative writing? No matter. You’ve continued to follow the path of excellence, scared that a less impressive presentation of yourself would be followed by waitlists and rejections, leaving more marks on your skin. But a few more doesn’t compare to what's already there. Besides, you’re already in the endgame. You are the three words used to describe yourself. You are a list of achievements with a specific, dedicated amount of hours. You are head-to-toe scales and red. You are itchy. You are the gray matter in between your ears, the billions of neurons firing off in sequences, the hippocampus, the parietal lobe areas. You are the voice in your amygdala. You are the tension, the pressure, the squeezing in your chest. You are your efforts and your experiences, ready to grip tighter or let go at your will. And some day, when all of this is over, and you’ve settled down, maybe your rash will finally go away. Perhaps it will leave scars. Maybe it’ll just return at another moment. No matter, whenever your skin calls out to me, I’ll be on the shelf of the nearest grocery store, ready to be checked out at the cashier’s counter. For now, I’m 92% Aloe Vera, 100% empty, and full of faith in you. Crucible Page 44

Shawn Miklich Evolution

Aldrich moves from step to step past each empty bed, hat in hand. The large warehouse crescendos with each click of his wing tip shoes, each tap of the crutch below his arm. Beds are bare, all still in their neat rows. Six rows of 50; 300 altogether. All empty. Once this was all full of action, full of movement, naught but a week before. His mind is wrought with the faces, wrought with the guilt. An echo speaks. Aldrich, the man in bed 40 needs an immediate tracheotomy. Aldrich, the supplies are running low, bed 103 will have to go without treatment for now. Aldrich, they’re gone, call the time. Now empty and the silence shocks the system like adrenaline to the heart. Aldrich stops at bed 248, an empty white sheet where once a bright young lady had been. She was stabbed through the side with a piece of rebar. Her name was Margit. The bar ruptured her gall bladder and pierced straight through her liver. Aldrich sewed up the holes in her body and stopped any internal bleeding to the best of his ability. She left at 3:06 AM. Aldrich was not there; he was sleeping off a 27 hour shift. She had been complaining of headaches for a week before. Aldrich prescribed morphine for the pain, but that was all he could do. He had other patients. She had died in her sleep of a brain bleed. She had apparently hit her head a week before her arrival in bed 248. Margit was 20. Aldrich is alive. Aldrich lowers himself down on her bed, the shrapnel in his leg made itself aware. 20 patients and 14 nurses and doctors died from the shell which left him a limp. He refused morphine during surgery Aldrich laid his head where Margit had laid her own. He looks up at the ceiling that she had. A week of pain ended mercifully with a sleep that didn’t end. The ceiling is old, rusted. Beams of iron span across the room holding up an arched roof of old dented aluminum panels riddled with bullet holes. “If there is any justice in the world,”Aldrich whispered aloud to the ghosts, “it will fall in.” The Sean Kirk Der Arzt ging Weiter Crucible Page 46

wind picks up at that declaration, it rattles against the roof and rustles the white sheets. His rattled, ill-humoured mind hears her in the wind, Aldrich you old fool, the world is full of justice, you carry it with you. Aldrich sits up from his self pity and glances about the darkened hall expectant to see the devil themself. The ghost speaks, For every death you couldn’t stop, there are ten you could. In the dark Aldrich sees her; an ethereal creature of black and white borne aloft in the air like a strip of gauze. Her lips didn’t move, I want to thank you, Aldrich. It was not your fault, help those who inherit the years I lost. Be what you’ve always been. Aauf wiedersehen, doctor. Aldrich stays for a long while after. The concrete below him stained with blood and puke now being cleansed by tears. He stands, bones creaking, shrapnel burning. Step by step he moves down the aisle, bed to bed, now almost too full. Past each friend, each face which crossed this warehouse. Each of them showing him their thanks, some shaking his hand, some kissing his forehead. There were children who embraced him in hugs, whispering messages to deliver to broken-hearted parents, His face was wet; with joy, with grief, with the pain they could no longer feel. He reaches the door turning to the empty echoing theatre where he played the role they needed him to play. And with a long exhale; the doctor moved on… Crucible Page 47

Surrender MaceyBoren

l Riley Kerr an a Mon When l DrinKand a Dad When l Don’t Crucible Page 49 You say I am a man now. What is a man but a dull knife scratching an invisible reality / reality forgets that it is nothing a thought visible only on the surface of the brain of a baby boy who still cannot see contradictions creation carved in the cosmic conscious of mankind. I say I am like a star exploding and reforming across the tightly stretched skin of a solemn God who drinks alone peering down and seeing only the children who still stare back, unblinking. The brain of a boorish boy a giggling girl a forceful father a mournful mother a misplaced moon a suppressed sun a neglected nebula a shunned star all atoms in essence. A martini mixed in the good glass of a God coming down with Alzheimer’s forgetting our faces like she did the last time we visited Topeka.

My Explorations of Past Experiences guide, when he was my History teacher, said transition periods are when History gets amnesia; when the anecdotes get equated to ghost stories to make way for official narratives. From what I can tell, transition periods are just when things get renamed or forgotten. I used to go to Caledonia Highschool. Now, I go to Neo-Caledonia Free Space for Expression and Understanding. Most people are excited and maybe they’re right to be. Maybe things will change in a way that more than 51% of the population will see it as positive. Excuse me if I feel like the whole country, or whatever we’re calling it, is only dying its hair purple. I guess I’m cynical, but I have an excuse: Companies sell an aftermarket sort of black box you can get for a car. Well I guess they used to sell them when people still sold stuff. Anyways, they record sound like all black boxes, used to be for insurance purposes. Now, they’re mostly for capturing funny road-rage audio. They install as easy as a dashcam and survive most crashes so they’re fairly prevalent. My family had one in our car. Now, me and my mom don’t drive. But I do have this cute recording of the last time my dad and brother did. “What makes you think you don’t have to wear your seatbelt?” “Andrew said his brother told him there were no rules anymore.” “I hate to break it to ya but Andrew and his brother are wrong. And even if they were right, it wouldn’t change what we’ve always said about safety first, would it?” “No.” Here, I can tell by how my brother’s voice sounds that his arms are exaggeratedly crossed and he’s wearing his best grumpy face. “Alright, buddy. Now, buckle up. We’re running behind.” “Do we have to go?” “Of course we don’t have to, but when you’re older you’ll see how important a time this is and you’ll be glad you participated.” “Then why isn’t mom or Isa coming?” “Well, that’s a deep subject.” Before, this would’ve made me laugh until I cried. Now, I skip the laughing. “Turning my own lines on me, eh?” By the sound that always accompanies the gesture, the recording lets me know Ion is sticking his tongue out at the face in the rearview. JT Rigsby For Progress Crucible Page 50