Author: Alexis Chambers

Hannah Caison

Fabrice Poussin

Cheyenne Lawson

A Barefoot Ballet
Kristin Towe

The hush of twilight had settled in, and the mosquitoes began their slow secretion out of the bowels of the earth. Heat clung to our skin and we swallowed it in gulps, blinking it out of our eyes, wiping it from our philtrums. Across the lawn, dad lit a match and his hand began to glow as if it had been tattooed with starlight. He touched his torch to the firework wick and we all inched forward in our time-worn lawn chairs, breath held in anticipation.

It was a dud.

Everyone laughed about it, everyone but the girl with the forest green eyes. She had been hoping to see the sky catch fire. Disappointed, she disappeared unnoticed by her family and escaped from the torch-lit patio light to dwell in the darkness by the freshly-planted willow tree. Her young fingers reached for its frail, ashen limbs and she began to hum an elegy. She did not simply sing, she rhapsodized, and the willow reached out at the sound of her voice. In the suffocating night, underneath the hazy cloud of mosquitoes and failure, the forest girl and the young willow fell into the most sacred of friendships.  

Underneath those whimsical, life-spudded limbs is a gnarled trunk that has been forced to grow around life’s intrusions. Willow trees must be tended properly, and, when they are small, it is necessary to tie them up to a stake to keep their slender trunks from snapping under the weight of their branches. Pop brought me a piece of old, blue rope and we tied the willow up. Her trunk is too big now for me to even wrap my arms around, but amidst the wrinkles of old-age, she bears the scar of where that rope once was: a trench, a triumph. An autumnal breeze pirouettes through the air, and those dry appendages begin their waltz, clashing together and producing an orchestra I know is meant specifically for me.

Eight suffocating summers have come and gone since that day, and dry sticks now litter the ground beneath the willow. Remember how they once were green? How as children we would bend those supple limbs around us and dance barefoot to the medley of the wood-spirit’s pipe-organ? The sun would soak into our skins and we would radiate like newly-awakened fireflies in the purple-orange dusk. How long has it been since we glowed? I ask this to the willow, but she simply shakes her gray mane in reply, expelling an ancient sigh.

Oh, to be supple and verdant again. Oh, to gaze at the willow without calculating how much time it would take to trim those pliable dancer-leg branches.

I cannot even remember the last time I went dancing with the willow. It is as if I have traded those barefoot ballets for the concrete death march of work, ambition, and success. When I come home and curl myself up in a ball in my overstuffed black lounge chair, crying from exhaustion, are those tears being pushed out of my eyes from the little girl inside of me, the little girl who, when confronted with failure and disappointment, sought solitude with the trees?

The city is preparing for dawn and birds and people alike are quiet in repose as the girl with the forest eyes finally trudges out of work. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers the need to stop and appreciate the quietness of 1 AM in a normally chaotic city, but the pain in her feet and the list of to-dos rolling around in her head propels her onwards. She drives away, and the street lights in her rearview mirror look like fizzled-out fireworks.

Pieces
Chase Rogers

Part of my childhood is in a plastic tub collecting dust in the dark corners of my basement. The unfinished depths that holds up my house also hold all my memories. Cascading photos of birthday cakes to the face, awkward face shots during sports, and baby pictures as far as the eyes can see. I would only consider my mother a hoarder if one of the symptoms involved child memorabilia, because she has an uncomfortable sum of plastic tubs full of my old uniforms and clothes. My sweet mother holds onto anything that will remind her of her once little boys. The tub that I always smile at is overflowed with shattered remains of mostly Star Wars and knight structures. Building the Lego creations with me always revealed my father’s inner child. I see that same inner child in me these days when I pass the toy sections of stores. Where was that when I was ten?

I don’t believe that my imagination has fully eluded me in my early twenties. I can still create stories in my mind of situations and places that have not been given a home; other than on word documents or notes on my phone. I feel as though the older I become more and more dust is collected on that plastic tub and my imagination is suppressed further. I wish to return to the days when I could spend hours as an architect of my own mismatched world. Where knights and Jedi could coexist, and the plastic heroes would overcome any feat I built against them. I would play out scenarios in my head of the figurines coming to life once I left the room. Very Pixar..ish I know, but that was always my favorite storyline to play out.  Shhh Chase is coming back in the room.

What changed? Time? Me? I am still fascinated by all the things that I loved as a kid; they’re just viewed as plots and story boards to me now I guess. I haven’t lost my imagination, I just decided to let my pieces live on beneath my house while I’m far from home. It’s been a while since we’ve had to hide from Chase. One day I hope my future offspring sees that same inner child that I once saw in my father. The pure joy to see their creativity flourish with each piece. Maybe next time I am home I will visit my small companions and build them a shelter once more. My head wanders still, full of scenarios and pieces that I want to put together for the enjoyment of others. But I will never forget the first storyline where my mini men protected the House of Rogers. Now spending their days collecting dust.

Wine Press
Madison Hunt

The year is 1869.

A Methodist invents a way to prevent the fermentation of grapes. This effectively enrages churchgoers who had previously enjoyed indulgences in the fruit of the vine.

The year is 1951.

One year and one day after her marriage, a farm girl has her first child. A daughter. This effectively disappoints her husband who wanted a son. His heart would soften soon after, perhaps due to the addition of the young couple’s second-born son. A sailor in the Pacific, his remembrances of combat allowed him to discover the value of a girl-child. Boys go to war. Daughters don’t.

The year is 1969.

Grape juice celebrates its 100th birthday. America preemptively celebrates a quick victory on a peninsula called Vietnam. A young man with his name in a lottery he doesn’t want to win meets a girl. She wouldn’t be a woman until years later.

He was drunk when they met. She had been to church earlier that night. If she had been born half a century earlier, she would have been a prohibitionist. Whether a momentary lapse in judgment or divine ordination by the God she prayed to, she fell.

The year is 1971.

Their friends had been largely unsuccessful in the jungles of Vietnam. She, however, was successful on the battlefield of her marriage. She had never been on an airplane, but she had recently visited the great state of Tennessee. She needed a rocking chair, and her father – excited to be a grandpa – knew the perfect place. Like most Baby Boomers, she had been raised with faith in marriage and Jesus. Like most good girls, she thought the thrill of commitment would trump for her young husband the thrill of a night with the boys. She gives an ultimatum, a stoic prayer after nine months of tears: Become the father you already are. He did.

Firstborn girls run in my family. This mid-century discovery was supported by additional data in 1971. In 1997, the theory was accepted as law.

The year is 2001.

My favorite color is purple. My mother swears it was my first word, though I think this assertion can be chalked up to maternal exaggeration. I was a bright child…not that bright. Comfort comes in different colors. They don’t teach you about Freud or chakras in kindergarten. Maybe it’s not psychology or New Age medicine. Maybe it has more to do with the purple dinosaur on VHS tapes. Maybe color comfort is simply inherited. My grandmother’s childhood bedroom was violet, she’s told me on more than one occasion.

I had only heard of a place called New York City because my grandparents brought me gifts when they went there. My grandfather, on business. My grandmother, to see Broadway and Katie Couric. I saw my name on morning television once. On a handmade poster on 48th Street. It had purple letters.

Purple is the reason I preferred grape juice to apple. I don’t know why I cried in the middle of the night. I spent so many days and nights with my grandparents, that night shouldn’t have been any different than the others. But for some reason, it was. Few things are scarier to a child than a dark hallway. Rocking chairs sometimes face them, blending comfort and fear in the most unsettling of ways. She rocks me, and I drink grape juice that leaves a stain on her nightshirt. I hadn’t been rocked since I started “big girl” school, and I was proud of it. So many things about being a big girl changed that day. Compared to big cities and airplanes, hallways weren’t too scary. Still, a hallway was the last fear on my mind as I fell asleep.

The years are getting shorter, I’ve found.

I hold a toddler who isn’t mine. I realize that’s what my grandmother has been doing for the last twenty years, though she claims her grandchildren take up more love in her heart than their parents ever did. I watch her reach to alleviate the weight from my younger hip. “I’ve got her,” I promise. “Are you sure?” she looks at me like a child in high heels-under qualified to pour juice or assume responsibility of a pacifier. I kiss her cheek and remind her how old I am. Before she walks out of the kitchen, I notice a stain like watercolor on her shoulder.

I wait for people to die now, something I had never considered before. By some miracle or blessing from the Lord, I have never experienced the death of grandparent. I know I will gain that experience with proximity too close for my comfort. Like those little pre-raisins, everyone eventually rots. The difference is that grapes grow sweeter after their life source has been cut off. Consider the sacrament. This is my blood of the covenant, which was poured out for you. I have always wanted to be like Jesus. What I didn’t know was that being like Jesus means spilling yourself for others, giving thanks for the consumer: the church lady and the drunk. What is universal about grapes and us, however, is that we are eventually consumed. If not, then we are crushed into the ground and left to decay. Consumption, I suppose, is better than waste.

Paper Crane
Alexis Wright

The room was engulfed in chatter. A mournful ballad mingled with the empty words floating from careless, carefree mouths. Frustrated clicks from keyboards and hurried scribbles from overused pens came from all directions of the room, conveying a sense of urgency and sleep deprivation. The stark warmth of coffee beans and the sweet stickiness of cinnamon buns enveloped the quaint café, reminding its visitors of the simple pleasures in life.

Friends were made, hearts were broken, and promises were kept in this café. Strangers became lovers, and lovers became strangers. Though humanity was unaware, this little café was the center of its life, love, and loss. A world outside did exist, but it was trivial, unimportant, and filled with too many unnecessary woes.

Through the door, past the people, perched at a table by a window sat a girl. As it goes, the world outside this place offered her no pleasure. Her life wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. She simply existed. Like all of the other denizens sitting at tables and sipping coffee, the girl found relief in the warm atmosphere of this oasis.

Here, she read a bookshelf’s worth of novels and wrote enough poetry to move a man. Most notably, however, she took pleasure in the simple act of folding paper cranes. She didn’t know why she did it; she just did. Folding these paper cranes was a distraction, a moment of complete and utter focus on a solitary, meaningless act that diverted her attention away from her not-bad, not-good life. It was also an offering, a meager gift of gratitude for the solace and sustenance the café offered to her and to all of humanity.

It was almost ritualistic. She would enter the little café on Thursday afternoons, find her table by the window, and pull out a thick novel, a musty leather journal, and small box of plain origami paper. She would read for a while and then write for a while, but she always found herself spending a majority of her time peering out the window. The world appeared so much more beautiful, so much more captivating and interesting through the window. It filled her with longing and satisfaction. When she had her fill, she selected a piece of origami paper and effortlessly folded, creased, unfolded, and refolded the paper until the form of a crane appeared in her hands. After placing the crane on the windowsill, she left. This occurred every Thursday afternoon.

One Thursday afternoon was different. As the girl sat down at her table by the window, she noticed an unfamiliar object from the corner of her eye. A thoughtfully crafted origami lotus lay nestled in the corner of the windowsill. She picked it up and examined it. Carefully along the petals were inscribed the words dépliez- moi. Not wishing to desecrate the beauty of the lotus, she ignored the command and placed it carefully in its original place.

The girl opened her novel and read, attempting to engulf herself in a world different from her own. Every word that passed through her mind required effort to comprehend. With every minute, her focus waned. She closed her novel and opened her journal. The words that usually flow from her mind, through her pen, and onto the page were absent. She put away her journal, frustrated that her ritual had been interrupted by the interloper sitting smugly in the window.

Her mind was focused on that one piece of paper, folded and written upon. She picked it up again, read its inscription, and, throwing caution to the wind, meticulously worked to unfold the paper lotus. After grueling minutes of carefully undoing creases, the girl found that a message had been written on the inside: Bonjour. Répondez, s’il vous plaît.

She was confused and disappointed. The girl admitted to herself that she had thought the message might have held the one secret of the world. Dismayed, yet intrigued, the girl placed the paper inside her journal, crafted a paper crane, placed her offering on the windowsill, gathered her belongings, and left the little café.

The Thursday after, she had returned, hoping that her ritual would remain intact. Fortunately for the girl, it didn’t. As she sat down at her usual table, she found another paper lotus waiting in the windowsill. Forsaking her usual habits, the girl went straight to work unfolding the paper lotus. As she expected, she found a message: Bonjour. Répondez, s’il vous plaît. The girl held the paper in her hands and thought for ten and a half long moments. Nervously, she withdrew from her belongings a sheet of her own origami paper and a pen. After scrawling a simple bonjour on the paper, the girl folded it into her usual paper crane, placed it in the windowsill, and left.

Anxious anticipation took hold of the girl as she stood in the door of the café. Her table by the window used to be a place of comfort for her, a place of rest. Now her sanctuary has been breached by a paper lotus desirous of nothing more than communication. With a sigh of courage, the girl approached her table, sat in her chair, and plucked the paper lotus from its place in the window. Unfolding it quickly, but carefully, the girl found what she had expected — a response to her own.

Words had been excitedly inscribed on the paper in familiar ink and style: Ah! Une réponse! Merveilleux! J’espérais que vous écririez! Je m’appelle Dorian. Comment vous appelez-vous? The girl meticulously selected a sheet of origami paper, considered carefully what she should write, and noted a single word on the paper before folding it into a crane: Violette. She carefully placed her crane on the windowsill and left.

This correspondence continued for weeks and eventually months. Notes were written, paper was folded, and a friendship was created. Soon, the girl’s original ritual was replaced by this strange form of letter writing. Soon, the square pieces of paper were not enough to hold all that needed to be said, so two or three paper lotuses and paper cranes were left at a time. The chattering didn’t matter; the heartfelt songs didn’t matter; the coffee beans and sticky buns didn’t matter; the world didn’t matter. All that mattered were the origami and the notes.

At the end of one note in particular sat the words J’aimerais vous rencontrer. Fear flooded the girl’s veins and settled into the pit of her stomach. Communicating with the stranger had been its own adventure, but meeting him posed too many uncertainties. The café was becoming too much like the world. The girl quickly wrote down non on a piece of paper, folded it haphazardly, left it on the windowsill, and left.

The next Thursday, the girl brought a novel and her journal, but left the origami paper at home. She sat at her usual table by the window, though it felt different now. The familiarity and routine had dissipated. The café’s chattering was empty; the heartfelt songs were empty; the coffee beans and sticky buns were empty; she was empty, all because of the paper lotus. Fortunately, there was no paper lotus that day, so the girl read the novel, wrote poetry, and left.

Time flew by, and the girl established once again her café routine. She read, she wrote, and she folded paper, though she took her cranes with her. The paper lotus refused to make an appearance, much to the relief of the girl, the café, and the world. Everything was as it should be.

The girl entered the café on a Thursday afternoon, book, journal, and paper bundled in her arms. She took in the familiar, warm smell of roasting coffee beans and baking cinnamon buns. Pushing past the friends, the strangers, the enemies, and the lovers, she found her usual spot. As the girl sat down at her table by the window, she noticed an unfamiliar object from the corner of her eye.

It was not a paper lotus, but a boy. Russet scraggly facial hair surrounded a nervous smile. Eyes the color of summer leaves stared back at her. He was young in an old sort of way, just as she believed herself to be. Something about him intrigued her, but that did not prevent her from becoming irritated. No person had shared her table. On Thursday afternoons, it was hers and hers alone. Just as she was about to ask him to perhaps find another table, the boy opened his mouth and familiar words penetrated the café’s chaos: Bonjour. Répondez, s’il vous plaît.

Black Coffee Poet
Jesse Lee

Something about the color black makes me want to write poetry. A black sweater, baggy, warm, and slightly sophisticated. Black coffee, steam rising from the white mug until the early morning silence smells like comfort. Like home. A dark, rainy night, tucked under a blanket and reading an old, weathered novel in the golden pool of lamplight. A journal, given as a present to a budding writer. The ink that stains the pages.

The Danish have a term for this feeling. Pronounced hoo-gah, spelled hygge, and almost untranslatable. It is a time of peace and comfort, a space in which all you have to do is exist happily. The moments of simple pleasures in which the heartbeat slows and the limbs grow heavy, eyelids weighted with warmth. The Danish write books about it, promote it as a lifestyle, make it seem like a new concept. These books are pretty and happily colored, placed on the front display at bookshops. But once again, mankind is generations late.

The Bible has a centuries old term for this lifestyle. Pronounced say-lah, spelled selah, and felt more than translated. It is the space between heartbeats, the moments of everyday life in which God is a constant presence. The feeling of complete rightness as you go about your day, typing at a computer, drinking coffee, walking the street. It is not a lifestyle that requires you to set aside a time for hot drinks and soft blankets, carving out a portion of our day. It is an idea woven seamlessly into your day, prompting you to smile and thank God for cold mornings.

It was a sleepy morning. The kind of morning where even the clouds are too weary to hold themselves aloft, so they sink to rest in rolls of cold fog on the earth. Spider webs draped the bushes like recently abandoned fairy beds. The only sound was the lone bird, a soloist in the dawn chorus. The morning smelled like mist, tasted like black coffee and poetry.

A Fractured Memory
Hannah Cauthen

Eight years old in a shiny fish-skin bathing suit on a white plastic bench swing, feet dangling and toes wiggling like live bait; my aunt Jane and I sit, watching my cousins splash in the turquoise pool that was a red hole in the ground just last fall. The thick July air, filled with chlorine and shrieks of laughter, hangs even thicker above the water. My temperament could only handle so much shrieking and splashing, so I had ambled up on the swing and plopped down next to my aunt. My parents and other aunts and uncles sit around a blurry glass-topped table a few feet over. Diane and Jerry smoke, their grey plumes mimicking the cloud of grey kittens weaving through legs and tumbling across concrete. The cacophony of sights, smells, and sounds create a chaotic peace; this is summer at Jane and Jerry’s.

I pick up a handful of Goldfish from a salmon-pink plastic bowl and toss them in my mouth. “Here, this is what I do,” my aunt says. She picks up one Goldfish, one of the puffy ones, and sets it between her molars. With a gentle crack, she splits it perfectly down the middle and exposes its hollow insides; she sees the wonder on my face and adds her bubbling laughter to the surrounding melody. I spend the rest of the hazy afternoon trying to split Goldfish in half, never getting it quite right—leaving the bowl littered with fractured tails and smiles turned to dust.

Views from the moon
Chase Rogers

I’m starting to find my voice in these pieces
I can unleash my stress upon the pages
The words pour out these nights

Inspiration strikes like a lightning bolt straight through my fingers

It comes in scattered storms though
Droughts occur and lightning is scarce at times
So I search the sky elsewhere for another spark

From the window of my bedroom I gaze on the moons night journey

He climbs up the stars to his seating place
He paces himself greeting each star I’m sure
It’s his turn to occupy the sky

The moon is my only companion at night

The sight of the moon inspires prayers of flight
Lord grant me the ability to fly
so that I may see earth as the moon does

I doze off for a moment, it’s late

My dreams allow me to visit my rumored to be made of cheese, pal
I follow the moons climb up the stars
The moon allows me a polaroid with the US flag upon arrival

I didn’t speak to the stars yet

He would introduce me once I reached his resting place
The stars are more welcoming than expected
I’m reminded of the actual significance of my existence as I look down

The earth can fit in my hand

I spring myself from my lucid dream
The view has to be better from the roof
Caution on the climb up

My thoughts were correct on the view

Now maybe the moon can hear me
I call him by name to come and pick me up
I’m ready to see what he sees

No response was received

How could the moon hear me
Writers lose their minds when it’s the moons turn to occupy the sky
I still pray to leave the ground, for example

The moon follows his same path these nights

I’m still aimlessly searching for a revelation
As I gaze at the moon and I’m reminded of the view of my dream
But the lightning still eludes my fingers

Perhaps I should sleep and contact the sun when he shows his face
Writer’s block is real