Stories From The Previous World

STORIES
FROM THE
PREVIOUS
WORLD
Stories From
the Previous World
Pacific University
Spring 2021
Book Design I & II
i
Stories From the Previous World by Pacific University’s Book Design I
and II class
Published by Barnes and Noble Printers in 2021
All rights revert to author upon publication. No part of this book maybe
reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic,me-
chanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval
system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
Cover design by George Rickets, Drew Sherman, and Zoe Stanek
Interior layout by Zoe Stanek
Typography: Quatro Slab, Minion Pro
Publisher’s Cataloging Information
The artwork is courtesy of Emma Peterson and Zoe Stanek. The images
are original ilustrations.
Printed in the United States
ii
contents
EDITOR’S NOTE 2
BUILDING OPPORTUNITIES OUT OF NOTHING by nainoa akua 4
FLY FREE by kylee ancheta-maeda 6
FUCK MY LIFE IN NEW YORK by sagel bush 9
THE JOURNEY OF THE LAST PICK 16

by rhylee corpuz & jace filipo-rodriguez
THE OPERATION AND A HALF by bryant hayden 24
THE TRISTAN EXPERIENCE by tristan maningo 30
THE CHILDREN OF MOTHER by sophia lewis 34
WHILE WE WATCHED HIM HEAL by georgie luiso-knuckles 48
THE GIRL I USED TO BE by emma peterson 52
THE LITERAL UNTOUCHABLES by george rickets 59
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE REMEMBERED FOR? 70

by ronald robertson
TOO TIRED TO FAIL by drew sherman 76
ROCK WAVES AND BLURRY PHOTOS by zoe stanek 84
‘TIL VALHALLA by ashley stroebel 88
OF LOVE CLUBS AND BRAVADO by bren swogger 95
THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE SNOWMEN by haley taylor 104
THE ADVENTURES OF RAX by ethan won 110
iii
iv
Wash your hands,
wear your mask,
and write some stories.
Editor’s Note
Dear Readers,
I’m delighted to introduce this wonderful collection of work from the

writers of 2021’s Book Editing and Design I and II class. The title, Sto-
ries from the Previous World, highlights the impact of COVID and the
pandemic on our individual and collective psyches.
Directly and indirectly, these pieces explore the barriers and isolation
accompanying the pandemic and the ways in which our past routines
are a distant reality. These narratives reveal injustices, inequalities, and
obstacles, but they also demonstrate human resilience and community
in the face of extraordinary circumstances.
The anthology features storytelling at its best, through personal essays,

fiction, and graphic narratives. Georgie Luiso-Knuckles’s personal
essay, “While We Watched Him Heal,” reveals the division, sorrow,
and alienation of being a child of divorce and the healing that comes
with empathy and connection with a parent. Bren Swogger’s “Of Love
Clubs and Bravados’’ takes readers on an uplifting journey of music
and self-discovery, revealing, through words and photos, how pop
artist Lorde’s music has deeply affected their life over multiple years.
Ky Ancheta-Maeda’s personal essay, “Fly Free,” reflects on her first
time spreading her wings and leaving her close-knit friends in Hawai’i.
Haley Taylor’s essay, “Battle Hymn of the Snowmen,” is a humorous but
profound memoir about a group of friends and the battle of their two
snowmen with the destructive tendencies of human nature. Zoe Stanek’s
“Rock Waves and Blurry Photos’’ begins with the narrator standing in
front of the ocean in a mask, revealing the richness of community from
a previous life and the search for connection in this pandemic.
Nainoa Akau’s narrative “Building Opportunities about Nothing” is a

decree about injustice and sports in the college world and an inspir-
ing examination of how the narrator seeks and receives opportunities.
Similarly, Ronald Robertson’s “What Do You Want To Be Remembered
For” shares a story of perseverance and triumph as Ronald and his
2 editor’s note
teammates go from the worst football team their school has ever seen
to champions who made history. And Sagel Bush’s “Fuck My Life In
New York” reveals the inequalities and mistreatment in high school
sports and the resilience and determination of its narrator in the face of
injustice.
In their piece, “The Journey of the Last Pick,” Rhylee Corpuz and Jace
Filipo Rodrigues gift us with a hilarious graphic narrative following
a red ball’s yearning to be picked in the game of kickball and search
for hope and community in the face of social hierarchies. Through
prose and visual art, Emma Peterson’s “The Girl I Used to Be” paints a
complex and intricate story of the many lives she has walked and how
each one impacts her life today—revealing the delicate balance involved
in privileging any one identity over another. Tristan Maningo explores
identity through a graphic coming-of-age story. In his essay “Too Tired
to Fail,” Drew Sherman combines images and text to vividly describe the
many trials faced by Navy Aircrewman candidates in training.
Several students produced powerful, dynamic, and thought-provoking

pieces of fiction.
In “The Literal Untouchables,” George Ricketts paints Biblical characters
in a new light with a modern, fast-paced story. Ashley Strobel’s “‘Til
Valhalla” is a story of two sisters fighting a war within themselves, and
how the death of one devastates and empowers the other, transforming
her from a soldier into a Valkyrie. Sophia Lewis’s story, “The Children
of Mother,” is a fast-paced, lyrical, and immersive dystopian twist on a
girl-meets-boy story. Ethan Won’s “The Adventures of Rax” provides a
powerful twist on the fantasy genre that acts as an allegory for colonial-
ism, featuring a scorned clan of goblins as its main characters.
Together, these pieces reflect the struggle of 2020-2021 but also resil-
ience, meaning, and purpose. They inspire and capture the imagination,
determination, and empathy of this incredible group of writers.
Thank you for reading.
Warmest wishes,
Dr. Keya Mitra
eic: keya mitra 3

Building Opportunities
Out of Nothing
nainoa akau
Nearing the beginning of the end, roughly halfway through my

Senior year of high school, I had many goals and aspirations that I
wanted to achieve before successfully graduating from high school.
However, obstacles were thrown at me that I had to overcome and brave
through in order to reach my goals. My goals were: get enrolled in a
4-year college, pay the least amount of money possible, have the college
fit my 40-year plan after college, and receive an opportunity to continue
playing football at the collegiate level.
The biggest problem by far was dealing with the hellish corruption
by my football “coaches,” whom I thought would be great resources for
me to go to since I obviously played for the football team. However,
their corruption began towards the end of my Junior Year to the begin-
ning of my senior year while in high school. These so-called coaches
were more like tyrants who favoured certain people on the football
team and had them in the starting lineup for example, while the others
were considered fodder. A huge example of this would be punishing the
entire team for one person’s wrongdoings. This infuriated me and many
of the other unfavored football players.
It ultimately made no sense to me, that the coaches at my high
school punished those who didn’t do anything wrong and did what was
expected of them. Why?! This group of unfavored people like myself
were treated like pawns while we had to treat these coaches like gods.
The coaches didn’t deserve any of that treatment for the bullshit we had
to go through. The punishment workouts were hellish, but the two exer-
cises that I wanted to highlight that these coaches put us through were
called ”Bear Crawls” and “Rolls.” Simply, like their names say, you get on
all fours and “crawl” the full length of the football field. When we were
forced to do the “Rolls,” you lay on your back and roll the distance of
the football field and back. It seems easy right? Nope! My brother and I
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building ideas out of nothing
who were also a part of the football team have both gotten vertigo from
doing these exercises, especially when we had to roll. Everyone on the
team had points where they vomited and that was no fun when you’re
dizzy. What made it even worse was that we were timed. If we didn’t
finish in the allotted time, we had to do these punishment workouts the
moment after the following practice ended. So, these assholes weren’t
great resources to go to, so that left me scrambling to get myself right to
accomplish my goals.
Without any support from the coaches, I thought my goals were
a pipe dream. But, I decided to do something about it by taking the
initiative during the harsh times of my Senior Year playing High School
Football. I stayed consistent in the classroom, by maintaining a high cu-
mulative GPA, in an attempt to make myself a competitive applicant to
the colleges I was interested in. And then, I began to market myself as a
football recruit, to do everything in my power to play college football. I
collected the limited film I had of myself in practice and the video of the
final moments of the game where we were beating the opposing team
by a significant amount of points. I also partook in making a Twitter
Account where college coaches flocked to in order to look at football re-
cruits, along with using email and filling out recruiting questionnaires.
Gratefully, my strategy was a big success, and I’d garnered opportuni-
ties to play college football. I made sure to be realistic with myself and
do research on lower level division schools that had collegiate football
programs (i.e. NCAA Division 3 or NAIA) and programs that were
struggling as a football program and were a great fit for me academical-
ly. Many of these football programs were in need of players, averaging
around 50-60 players where it was barely enough to help them field a
team without being low on numbers when someone got injured. The
coaches from the college football programs I had been doing research
on and interested in, reached out and gave me opportunities to play
collegiate football. They were mainly from the Midwest, Northeast, and
the Pacific Northwest. I had limited film and wasn’t an elite football
player, but they saw my reliability because I did well academically by
getting myself admitted into the school, showing why I was interested in
the school, and saw my IQ and effort for football as an advantage over
other football players. It was such a great time for me regardless of the
fact that I couldn’t visit the schools in-person, due to the COVID-19
pandemic, even though I was about to make a lifetime decision.
memoir 5
Fly Free
kylee ancheta-maeda
It was a monday night, the 6 foot waves were crashing on the sand
as I was laying under the stars with my friends for the last time until we
parted ways to chase our dreams and pursue our careers.
With a curious face smalls said softly
“Do you think things will ever be the same”
We all sat in silence for a moment because we didn’t know how
to answer a question we had no answer to. This summer was one to
remember the day long beach day and the late night adventures. Little
did we know everything was about to change, but that night was one to
remember.
Aiden with a concerned face looked at us all
“I hope not… I can’t imagine my life not pulling missions and just
living life”
For our last night we planned the craziest and most eventful night
we had the whole summer. It started with our regular routine calling
each other coordinating what drinks and what kinds of food we were
going to bring. Then as always we met up at the same empty parking
lot in our hometown, it looked like something out of a zombie movie.
Broken down busses, trashcans, and emptiness.
“HELE AKU”
We all beep our horns as a sign that we got the message and we
were ready to head out on our greatest adventure yet. The drive down
to our favorite beach seemed so surreal, it felt like for once time was
slowing down. You could smell the salt from the ocean and the forestry
smell of the trees as we were driving down a asphalt road with sand
and dirt masking it. The sounds of families singing and laughing and
the love filling the air. This drive made me appreciate the little things I
6 memoir
fly free
haven’t noticed before.

Aiden looked at me “why does this have to end, why can’t it be like
this forever”
“Yeah it could… if we wanted to be beach bums for the rest of our
lives”
Kai looks at smalls, aiden, and i “no worries even when we’re old
and saggy i’ll make sure we have days like these”
We reached the third bay of mokuleia beach, the usual hang out
spot for muy group, the waves were 6 feet tall and the wind was blow-
ing… we knew we were home. We all hopped out of cars, came together
and started to dance to our friend groups favorite song irie beach party.
Hearing the “chee hoos” and the laughs from my friends filled my heart
with so much joy. Aiden dances without his slippers, kai dancing with
her hair going crazy in the wind, kylee and smalls dancing together
like leaves in the wind, and kaya attempting to catch the rhythm of the
song. As we danced the night away we appreciated the memories and
the company we all shared this summer. When we were living in the
moment we didn’t realize that everything from that moment on would
have changed drastically.
On nights we spent at the beach it was a tradition we had that

we all went night swimming. The warmth of the water felt so nice com-
pared to the cold strong air at mokuleia. We would try to catch as many
waves as we could when we were all in the water together, then when
we got tired we would tread in a circle flowing with the current of the
ocean.
“ are we going to have designated nights for us so we can all catch
up and talk about our days?”
Kaya splashing in the water asked hesitantly
I replied softly “we’ll have to see what all of our schedules look like
first”
Aiden carelessly floating on his back
“It shouldn’t be too hard right? We all have sports so we’ll all be
open at the same time… oh sorry smalls”
Full of frustration smalls replied with
memoir 7
stories from the previous world
“Uhh… yeah i’m going to be 4 hours ahead of all of you i’m not too
sure about that”
I interrupted
“Lets not think about the future and what it could be, let’s just live
in the now. It’s the only think we’ll be able to look back at”
As we were swimming we all had a heart attack hearing a
loud splash near the spot we were swimming. It wasn’t loud enough to
be something big, but because it was dark it caused all of us to go into
panic.
With her wet bushy hair all over her face kai screamed
“BRAHHH WHAT WAS THAT, AIDEN DID YOU FART”
We laughed so loud, our laughter echoed throughout the whole
beach. When the laughter died down the tension and fear began to
build again.
Now filled with anxiety I looked around
“So…. what was that”
“You when hear kai I farted so loud it made a splash”
We didn’t even think about the things that could be around
us in that moment. We never felt in danger around each other because
we were family. We knew that if we were all together we would keep
eachother safe no matter what the situation was. It was hard to think
that maybe one day we wouldn’t have our little family that we built up
over the past 6 years of our lives.
The night was coming to an end, we were all getting our things
ready to go to sleep. Usually we all lay next to each other on the sand
and star gaze while we fall asleep.
“No matter what were alway going to be family” kai said with a
yawn
“You already know,” we all said synchronously.
8 memoir
Fuck My Life in
New York
sagel bush
This is a sliver of my life. This was the worst year of my life. It has
flashes of truth, scenes, scents, and the strength of a determined young
girl in an odd, unfair world. It all started when my mother, her fiance,
and I moved to New York from Olympia, Washington and it was about
2015. I was starting my freshman year in High School in a brand new
place, not having any true friends and ready to find a niche for myself.
A few weeks after starting school I was already scared to go to
school. My neighbor and her younger sister were giving me rides to
school and they fought almost every morning, I had been snapped at
by a teacher, and there was a guy in two of my classes that was explo-
sive verbally and physically. I had attempted to make amends with that
teacher and get more help because I was already not doing too well in
his class: The Geography of New York (because I need that class after
moving back to the west coast a year later).
I decided to join the swim team in an attempt to make friends that
would be a good influence because I had, in multiple classes, talked
with people who had to get an abortion, did ecstasy the night before,
or had offered to show me their stash. The thing was, these people were
the only ones who would talk to me, be nice to me, or hold a door open
for me. All these things were bad, and they did get me in trouble a few
times, but the teachers didn’t blame me, they just told me to ignore
them and not be so nice. At some point in time, I decided that I should
get into a sport to waste my time and maybe make friends. My neigh-
bors were cross country girls so I knew that sport was off the list, I had
no hope in tennis, but I had been a synchronized swimmer for three
years when I was. . . years old so I thought that the swim team would be
a decent fit.
The night after my first practice my whole body was ice. My skin
didn’t exist. The cold went straight into my fat layers. My skin felt like a
memoir 9
wet white paper laid limply over my limp muscles, gelatinous fat, and
frail bones. The stairs creaked on my way up to the shower. My body
crumpled to the ground in front of my grey shower as my stomach
started pushing back up my esophagus. After a minute, adrenaline shot
through my blood forcing me to get in, turned on the water, and kneel
in the tub. Blood drained from my face and seemed to go down the
drain with the rest of the water. Nothing existed besides the numbness
that sucked the warmth out of every part of my body. The silver drain
opening looked back at me with a few of my red hairs threaded in. My
body punched me in the gut. Again and again, dry heaves shook my
body. Orange, red, green, tan chunks came up.
My body wouldn’t move for twenty minutes. I just sat and watched
the chunks spiral in the water. An earthquake from within started again,
but it wasn’t from my gut, it was from everywhere. All my body felt was
shakes. I couldn’t feel the flexing chlorinated water run down my face. I
couldn’t smell the rancid bile that swirled around the drain.
While still sitting I took off my clothes, wrung them out, and set
them on a towel. I stayed on the ground and cleaned myself up. I went
to dinner and ate.
During swim practice after school, I was at the far end, with an
obese girl, and a girl with ADHD. The three of us couldn’t hear a thing
the coach said so we depended on a telephone game that went through
the lanes to ours. We were obnoxious, always asking, “What did he say?”
“What do we have to do?” “How fast? How many laps?” “What stroke?”
Honestly, I felt terrible, like a nuisance, and an idiot. It was easy to tell
that everyone was frustrated with the three slowest freshmen in the
farthest lane. That in some ways made our lane better than the others
because we weren’t dicks. We looked after each other and complement-
ed each other, and covered for each other. Those two weren’t my friends,
but we were sisters going through the same shit.
After a few months my team started to compete, the only thing
I was good at was breaststroke and no one knew it until I won a race
against a few seniors. I was soon put in those races all the time. I still sat
with the freshmen in the back of the line-up. But one day before a meet,
my perception of the team changed.
We were waiting to be called out in one of the hallways so we could
have a nice entrance. I was furthest from the door completely silent
with the other freshman. All the seniors and juniors and a few of the
10 memoir
fuck my life in new york
sophomores were talking. I just watched the older girls right up next to
the door that led to the pool, wanting to be like them, confident, popu-
lar, and having a plan for the future.
One of the coaches came through the back door and called the
captain out of the hall to talk with her. When she came back “I just got
yelled at because all you freshman couldn’t be quiet for ten minutes!”
She continued saying that it was all the freshman’s fault that we were
too loud. No one said anything, we just took her yelling at us. I cried
like I usually do, and after that, I skipped practices, left school early, and
stayed away from the pool.
As time went on, the wrestling season was coming closer. One day
after school I went to the sports administration room in the basement
area near the pool. Smelling the chlorine made me nervous but I was
excited to sign up for wrestling. My dad wrestled in junior college, my
brother wrestled and made it to state a few times in high school, and
the whole family was in karate for five years. I was excited for the family
tradition to pass on to the female side of the Bush family.
A brunette lady was sitting at the desk talking on the phone. I stood
six feet away from her desk, hands clasped in front of me, for some
reason feeling like I was waiting to talk to the principal.
She eventually put the phone down. “What can I help you with,
sweetheart?” she asked too nicely.
“I want to join the wrestling team and I was told I need to come
here.” Eyebrows went up, and eyes widened questioningly. She looked
me up and down. “The sports administrator isn’t here today. Please
come back on Tuesday. I will also let him know that you want to talk to
him about wrestling.”
“Thank you, m’am. See you tomorrow then.”
I went back the next day and they sent me away. The administrator
wasn’t available.
The day, I finally got allowed in to talk to the administrator, he
brought me back into his office, all alone. We sat, with a table between
us. He explained that it was the first time that a girl wanted to join the
wrestling team and that the reason that I could join was because of some
aspect of Title 9. He eventually got to the point that he said that I would
have to be cleared by my doctor, pass physical fitness tests that a bunch
of middle schoolers had to pass, and answer a question.
memoir 11
“Why are you joining wrestling?”

“Because I want to wrestle? My dad did it, my brother did it, and I
want to do it.”
“So you aren’t joining because you want to be around boys, touch
boys, or get a boyfriend?”
This statement took me aback. “No. I am not joining wrestling
because I want to get a boyfriend. I am not joining this sport because I
want to touch boys. I just want to wrestle.”
Looking back at this conversation, I am furious that he would say
any of this to me, without another person around. I should have had
some sort of adult there, I shouldn’t have been put in that situation, with
an adult that I had never met before. He was asking if I was joining the
wrestling team for a sexual reason.
A few days later I got more than okayed by my physician to wrestle.
She was a military doctor and she didn’t understand why needed a pa-
per saying it was ok to wrestle. I stayed late after school with a bunch of
middle schoolers trying to pass physical fitness tests to become a part of
a high school sport. Many of them were half my size and couldn’t do five
pushups. I was embarrassed that I was being tested with them.
One of the tests was a mile run. I had to finish it in less than 10
minutes. In my mind, I just couldn’t stop to walk. In middle school,
I did 1.3-mile runs in nine minutes easy, but for some reason I was
nervous. The middle schoolers and I wound up running five around
the track while the football team was still out practicing. I felt dumb
running with a bunch of middle schoolers. I wound up finishing in less
than seven minutes so I didn’t have anything to worry about when it
came to the run. With that, I was officially allowed to join the wrestling
team as the first-ever female wrestler. May the ostracization begin!
I walked into the girl’s locker room and changed. Tan and pale skins
swirled around me getting ready for cross country and cheer. Pretty girls
in skin tight bright clothes laughed and giggled, bent over in conver-
sion. I had black leggings, running shoes, an oversized grey tee-shirt, a
sports bra that turned me into a cutting board, and my wrestling shoes
in hand. I made the short walk to the wrestling room. Guys swarmed
the door until I was able to push myself into the wrestling room. Blue,
green, and brown eyes watched me as I walked into the room. The room
was quiet. This was not my imagination. I had just walked into the guy’s
12 memoir
locker room and they knew it.

I smiled at some of the lightweights and said hi. They kept walking.
My whole body was stiff and I knew I didn’t belong. No one talked to
me. There were at least twenty guys in that room and they either started,
glanced, or did their best to not even look in my direction.
One of the coaches called out “We are starting with five laps. Don’t
come back in till you have done them.”
I shoved my feet back into my running shoes and crashed after
the guys as we made laps in the hallway. My heart was in my throat as I
jogged behind one guy, then another. I didn’t count the laps, I just ran. I
stopped when I saw the heavyweights stop.
We went back into the wrestling room, all surfaces were padded
with evergreen. The smell of disinfectant and must coated everything.
The guys were in horizontal lines facing the front so I went to the back
of the room.
“Welcome guys, and ladies! We will always start with running then
warm-up, stretches, and then we will do practice, then some fun stuff at
the end. This will be the normal way practices go.” This was one of the
assistant coaches. He looked nice and I thought it was sweet that he also
said ladies, even though almost everyone in the room looked back at
me.
Going through the first two weeks of practice was the same thing
over and over again just like that coach said.
Force me into the room. Run a few laps and try not to throw up.
Sit in the back of the room and do the warm-up. Try to find someone
around my weight to practice with, get turned away immediately, or not
do the full move. Find someone who was forty to sixty pounds heavier
and do the actual moves but then have the coaches drop by and ask why
I am not wrestling with another 125 pounders. Go through drills and
get into live (treating the practice like a real match). Do sprints with
a chip on my shoulder and attempt to, and get close to beating some
of the seniors. During the cool down guys would start to take off their
clothes to check their weight, have them glance back at me and stop im-
mediately and remind others that I was there. Then as soon as practice
was over, I’d practically run out of the room so that they could weigh
themselves. Shower and wait till my mom or her finance picked me up.
memoir 13
It was like this every day. The thing was, I pushed through head-
aches, minor fevers, nausea, vomiting, and migraines to be able to make
it to practice. Nothing would keep me from wrestling practice and that
room covered in an evergreen mat.
There are three moments during that time that I will never forget:
1.) Outside of practice, this happened a few times, a girl and her
two lackeys would come up to me. They had beautiful hair pulled up in
ponytails, eyeliner sharp enough to cut paper, and fruity perfume. They
looked down at me while still having their noses in the air. “You are
the wrestler, right? Why would you want to wrestle? I mean you have
to touch guys all the time. Do you think the guys on the team are cute
or something?” All of this was rapid-fire, out of the blue, I didn’t even
know these girls. This happened during lunch, on the way to class, and
while I was running the warm-up laps.
2.) We were doing mid-practice cardio, a casual kill your lungs and
throw up workout. (I am not kidding, three guys threw up during this
part of the practice). We were sprinting, doing burpees, pushups, situps,
sprawls, sprints, takedowns, piggyback rides, more sprinting. Over
and over again. At this point, my long hair was completely soaked with
sweat. One of the captains that I looked up to was injured and sitting on
the side with a junior. I heard one of them say my name. A devil took
me over, “What did you just say about me?!”. Both of them practically
jumped back, brown eyes and grey eyes sprung open and leveled with
mine. “I was just saying that you are the only person in this room doing
proper push-ups and sit-ups.”
3.) We were working on live take-downs and I was paired up with
someone 180 lbs. He was going easy and gentle and I was getting fed
up. How was I supposed to learn how to wrestle when people wouldn’t
wrestle me seriously? He had gone three times and now it was my turn. I
set him up (did a fake shot, and he reacted by going down then began to
straighten out a bit), then I took a double-leg shot (grabbed around the
upper thighs on both legs), lifted him into the air, then swiftly but gently
put him on his ass. I can still see his dark brown eyes the size of saucers
looking up at me. I helped him up and did two more take-downs, a trip,
and a single leg perfectly. He took me seriously from then on out.
Three days before our first competition, I was doing life with a guy
14 memoir
60lbs heavier than myself, and I sprained my ankle. I couldn’t get up the
stairs to get picked up and I was on crutches for a few days.
The day I got back I was paired up with a junior who was all muscle
and during a post (putting my hand out to keep from getting turned or
falling on my face) I broke my finger. My tendon ripped a piece of my
bone off.
I was sure that I could get back into wrestling before the season was
over so I went to practices and watched. I would dream about getting
back and wrestling with people. I would do all the warm-ups, sprints,
and pushups with everyone else. Then after practice, I would go out and
run five miles in the dark.
As time went on I started to get tired, depressed, and I was having
headaches left and right. I would again push through these so I could
attend practice. But it eventually got so bad I was leaving school halfway
through the day because my headaches were turning into migraines,
and I wasn’t able to stay focused in class.
Six months later, after too many blood tests to count, a doctor
diagnosing me with severe depression and telling my mom to put me in
a mental hospital, and a spinal tap, someone had the bright idea to see if
I had mono.
I had mono. It had supposedly ended but I was still having the
symptoms.
That year of my life was the worst. Covid has nothing on that year.
My grandpa committed suicide, my dog got sick while I was sick, I got
mono, went through enough medical trauma to last two years, and went
through enough social trauma to jump out a window or two.
Given all that, I still wouldn’t have done anything differently. There
is probably a ton and a half you can psychoanalyze about this period in
time. Was I making up my illness? Was I really in pain? Am I making a
mountain out of a molehill? Or am I just seeing things out of the wrong
pair of eyes?
I guess there is a takeaway from this. The smell of chlorine makes
me anxious, and musty green places make me feel strong, at peace, and
overall, happy.
memoir 15
The Journey of the
Last Pick
rhylee corpuz &
jace filipo-rodriguez
Finally, the opportunity to be rolled, kicked, flung and saved. One’s

life in the hands of another. It almost seems exhilarating to have one’s
life seem so risky and adventurous. What could one do in a life like
that? What if it wasn’t a life. For example, what if a life span doesn’t
have the risk of life or death in situations?
This is the thought process of a ball as he imagines being chosen
to play kickball. He dreams about becoming the ball everyone wants to
play with.He loves being with his friends, all confined in a bag, but he
just wants his chance to do what he was made for.
16 graphic fiction
the journey of the last pick
graphic fiction 17
18 graphic fiction
graphic fiction 19
20 graphic fiction
graphic fiction 21
22 graphic fiction
graphic fiction 23
The Operation and a
Half
bryant hayden
Awakening
Blaring lights. Beep beep beep. The Pins and needles in my legs
were the result of 100 seamstresses. Darkness. Beep Beep Beep. The
needleworkers are back, and they brought friends. I screamed at them,
and like a baby on an airplane, I was relentless. Soaring higher by the
minute, I roared into the darkness. The higher I flew, the less the seam-
stresses seemed to mind, for they had other passengers to attend to.
Blaring lights, a bed made of concrete, and legs I could not feel. I made
it out of post-op.
I was on too many drugs to care. After going through the trauma
of hip surgery, that’s the kind of service you receive. I was not there for
an extended stay, just passing through. The food was adequate. This
wouldn’t be my first time in the hospital and certainly not last; however
it was one of the most memorable.
In the beginning
For the most part, my life was average: I played lacrosse and par-
ticipated in robotics. I played the bass and attained good marks in class.
Freshman year flew by, and it seemed as though high school would be
a breeze; I was unstoppable. Of course, that all changed the day that I
collapsed in math class.
It was an ordinary fall afternoon in Pre-calculus when the lunch
bell rang. That was my cue to stand up and jaunt to the cafeteria before
everyone else beat me there. I stood up from my chair, and like tectonic
plate shifted, my hip never again saw “normal.” Pain shot through my
hip and I screamed.
What is worse than pain? Fear. Fear captained my emotions that
day. “Did I just break my hip?” I asked myself as I got up on two feet, “Is
24 memoir
the operation and a half
that even possible?” “Surely I won’t be walking for a while,” I thought as

I hobbled to the front office. By the time I arrived, tears were running
down my face. I had no idea what was in store for me.
The following 6 months were filled with imaging…wait…more
imaging…wait, I had been put in all types of machines designed to look
inside my hip. In time, the pain passed. I was still in school, hopping
around every day, trying not to fall behind. Other days I lay in my bed
playing Fortnite and trying not to flunk out of class, but what could I do
when my legs said “no.”
Before my fourth semester of high school, a diagnosis was reached.
I had a labral tear in my left hip. The labrum acts as a “glue” between the
ball and socket of a joint. The plan of action consisted of using crutches
and oxycodone until I could have surgery to repair the tear.
I spent the next four months using crutches for assisted walking.
Looking back, this was a terrible choice. I was given other options, but
who wants to be the high schooler with a walker.
Day in and day out, I made it to my classes, missing only when
necessary. I don’t know what was harder AP-Physics or not being able to
walk straight. No matter how hard I tried that semester, my legs couldn’t
catch up with my grades.
When I was subjected to prolonged disposition, I found out who
my friends indeed were. I didn’t get to have a social life, and to unforgiv-
ing high schoolers, that means they were done with me. At the time, I
was too high to worry.
When I tell people that I was high for the more significant portion
of my sophomore year of high school, I receive a look of discontent.
I quite enjoy doing it, though. It is important to be said that I haven’t
touched drugs since that time, and I use the term to refer to prescribed
medications. When I couldn’t move after waking up in the morning,
that’s what happened. Somedays, I showed up high to 1st period. Some-
times I had a ‘lunchtime snack.’ My favorite, however, was when I left a
bunny trail of oxycodone all the way to Spanish class. With medication
in my pocket and using crutches to get around, it was bound to happen
at some point.
Surgery day was near.

I was put in charge of game film for lacrosse because I couldn’t play
memoir 25
on the field. In orchestra, I used a stool, and I was still limping around
the school. My course load of 4 AP classes slowly dwindled. I dropped
some classes and passed the others with the help of my friend ‘pity.’
Surgery Day
The long-awaited day was here. I was excited to get my hip fixed
and, at the same time, crippled with fear of surgery. My parents and I
woke early that morning. I believe it was a Thursday morning in April of
my sophomore year. All I remember that day were the pre-op room and
the operating room. When I got into the operating room, there were 6
bodies that I counted. Then in a flash, I was out cold.
New Policy
One of my favorite stories of that day came right as I was waking
up. They don’t tell you that your feet get bound together to prevent
blood clots and make you more easily moveable during operation. What
they didn’ tell a 15-year-old with sensory processing disorder, is that
when you wake up you’re going to wish they just chopped your legs
off instead. I ended up cursing out the nurses trying to help me in a
drugged-up tantrum until they knocked me out with more drugs. It is
now policy at that hospital to inform patients of this sensation and what
to expect post operation.
Recovery
The surgery, except for the numb feet, was a success. But the bad
news was soon to follow. We had hoped that this was the problem
and put this hip business behind us after that day. It turns out that the
diagnosis was wrong; however, it took surgery to make that finding.
I was guaranteed 10-days out of school. Then I spent 2 more months
on crutches. Eventually, I strengthened my hip to the point where I no
longer needed assistance.
My new diagnosis was a distinctive form of hip dysplasia known as
acetabular retroversion. This variant usually isn’t caught until puberty,
while normal hip dysplasia is detected and corrected as a newborn.
Lucky me.
As I struggled through my sophomore year, I went to weekly
physical therapy. I made plans to correct my hips for the following No-
26 memoir
vember and until then, I enjoyed summer.
Change of Plan
Plan
Over the summer, I made plans to attend the alternative school my
district offered. This would allow me to go to online classes and stay
home most of the time. I wasn’t happy that this needed to happen, but
I understood that if I got this surgery, I would need a way to learn from
home. When the school year started, things were going fine for me. I
was getting my work done and joined the jazz band at the school.
One night I came home with what seemed like a rash on my leg—a
red spot on the back of my calf no bigger than a Quarter. “No big deal,
I thought,”and continued life as usual. On Friday of that week, we had
an orchestra retreat, an all-day event for playing. At about 4 o’clock,
my body started telling me that something was wrong. All the energy I
had flooded away and I got very sick very fast. It was time for me to go
home, and I did. That night I slept fine.
Three days passed, and on Tuesday, I stayed home feeling unwell,
and I ate only a bite of food before I vomited. I spent the entire day
sitting in a comfortable chair watching Netflix. I tried to sleep several
times, but I never succeeded. At about midnight, I finally tried to stand
up, but my right leg wouldn’t cooperate. I literally had no control over
my limb. It felt as though it was an independent body all in itself. With
the assistance of my family, I hobbled out to the car and to the hospital
we went. When I got to the hospital, the doctors looked at my leg and
prescribed me painkillers and antibiotics. They then sent me home, and
I wish that’s where the story ended, but it is only just starting.
Two more days passed. I spent much of that time in the big blue
chair watching Family Guy. The pain that had engulfed my right hip was
replaced with the bliss of painkillers, but something was not quite right.
The red spot of my leg was growing at what seemed an exponential rate.
In one week, it had gone from quarter to baseball. On this Thursday
night, however, it had expanded to a 7-inch diameter. My mom told me
that we should go back to the hospital. Being a man, I was reluctant.
Against my will, we made it to the hospital. Turns out I was lucky to
have her because when we got to the hospital my entire lower leg was
bright red and this disease was working itself up my lymphatic system.
At this point, I was not in any kind of pain, so I was unaware of what
was to come.
memoir 27
The Hospital Again

Typically, when a person goes to the hospital, you have to go
through triage, where they get out your name and process you into the
hospital--unless it’s life-threatening. I am very aware of this process, so
you can imagine my surprise when we skipped triage and went straight
to a hospital bed. The first nurse said as he saw my leg, “You know that
you’re going to be here for a while, right.” Then they must have hit the
panic button because, in a minute flat, I counted six nurses and IV lines
in each arm. Looking back, I think that I gave them a nice scare because
I’ve never seen nurses move that fast. I spent the next few hours on
three-five different antibiotics, multiple painkillers, and I had lots of Im-
aging done of my leg. After about 4 hours, I got transferred to a bigger
hospital that could take care of me long-term. The ambulance ride was
alright, but the destination sucked.
I spent the next 9 days in quarantine, and this was before the
quarantine was cool. My body was trying to fight an unknown type of
MRSA. I was experiencing 50 percent kidney failure. There was no food
for me either because I could not digest it, so I drank water and ate ice
for about 5 days. This turned out to be a great diet as I lost 20 pounds in
a week.
The first few days, I drifted in and out of consciousness. I woke up
when the nurses came in, and then I went back to sleep. I was on more
antibiotics than I knew existed and painkillers stronger than I thought
possible. The painkillers were so strong that I decided to throw a party
in my room. Of course, I was hallucinating, but it was fun. After about
5 days, the antibiotics started showing their power. I was able to drink
apple juice and eat Jell-O; that was the best day ever. I was still getting
sick regularly. They tried to give me an MRI, but I puked everywhere.
After 7 days I was able to eat real food: the new, best day ever. As
I recovered, I was assigned to walk laps around the hospital wing and
do breathing exercises. When day 9 came, I was ready to run out of the
hospital like a cat running from a dog, and so I did.
Luckily, whatever was wrong with me left with the antibiotics
because they never did find the source. I do not think I would be here
without that fantastic medicine. Unfortunately, I went on to contract
Clostridioides difficile twice and re-contract whatever it was that put me
in the hospital the first time. That year I spent 15 full days in hospitals
and countless visits after the fact.
28 memoir
Reflection
These events all took place in my sophomore and junior years of
high school. Since my days at the St. Vincent hospital, I went on to make
a full recovery. I re-enrolled in high school for my senior year. I gradu-
ated during a pandemic and attended my first year of college at Pacific
University. I am on track to graduate and become a music educator.
I never did get that second surgery to fix my hips. It is best to wait
till the end of growing to make major adjustments like that. I got the
strand of MRSA that put another hold on it. Someday it will have to
happen though, and I will be bionic. For now, my hips have a fun click
when I walk.
Life has a funny way of challenging us to do our best and persevere.
It is up to the individual to accept that challenge. If we are never chal-
lenged, we can not appreciate what we have until it’s gone. I believe that
not many young people are faced with life experiences that make them
understand the precious gift they have been handed; that is the gift of
life. Most cannot appreciate this idea for a while. After all my medical
encounters, I can say that all we can do is be thankful and enjoy time
with the ones we love and make the most of every day because you do
not know how many more you have. There is not enough time in life to
do it any other way.
memoir 29
The Tristan Experience
tristan maningo
30 graphic memoir
graphic memoir 31
32 memoir
memoir 33
The Children of
Mother
sophia lewis
The birdsong defeated the rain’s attempt to banish the morning. Just
as the first tendrils of sunlight stretched into the east, storm clouds can-
tered in from the south, swollen and bulging with a coming tantrum. As
day broke, so did the clouds, and a soft rain fell down to the slumbering
earth, pattering upon the soil and filling the air with the familiar scent
of petrichor. The birds woke first, as they always do. They were unable to
feel anything but rejoice for surviving to see another day, and congre-
gated in the emerald bows of the mossy trees, whose branches provided
some shield to their feathers against the sudden presence of water.
Nestled in that last standing corner of an ancient town, a girl was
pulled from sleep. Linus and Lucy lay on either side of her, their backs
giving her warmth. They were already wide awake, alert, with swiveling
ears. Rory didn’t move for several moments after waking, adjusting to
the soft sound of day that contrasted the internal screams of her night-
mares. The rain sounded on the small shard of roof above that protected
the three of them from the elements. Standing walls were rare, let alone
a roof, and Rory was grateful for the shelter. Linus finally sensed that
she was awake and rolled over tongue flopping, tail thudding on the
concrete floor. As always, Lucy stayed on guard but accepted a head-pat.
Rory sat up, stretched, and listened to the morning for a moment
longer before she would disturb it. The chorus of birdsong came from
all the hidden places in the trees around them, with the harmonizing
beat of the now steady rain. It was almost like a song, she thought and
wished for a moment that she could go back to sleep, lulled by nature’s
choir. Then came a new sound, a blend of shrill notes, that carried over
the sound of the rain. It was familiar but entirely out of place. The bird-
song ceased with the unwelcome harmonizer, and the dogs’ ears turned
in the direction of which it came.
Rory tensed as she recognized the sound, the mournful melody of a
34 fiction
the children of mother
lone violin.
The sound of the instrument was one of the few Rory could recog-
nize, music was so rare in this world, and out here in the wilderness, it
was entirely out of place. The wailing melody was more than a song; it
was a beacon, sending out the exact coordinates of the musician. And
they were nearby. Too close to Rory for comfort. She was on her feet in a
second, stuffing the sleeping bag into her knapsack and the revolver into
her waistband. The rifle, she slung over her shoulder.
Her guns were her most prized possessions—her only prized pos-
sessions. Everything else, the sleeping bag, the knapsack, the hunting
knife, the canteen, the fire starter—everything she carried she would
trade in a heartbeat for something better. But the guns were hers. Since
the Reckoning, they’d been in her family, passed down to eldest son,
valuable antiques. Her father had left them in Reliance years ago, and
then her brother left too. When Rory was the last one standing and
decided to leave Reliance, no one was left to argue with her taking the
family heirlooms. Besides, she’d needed them. The world was brutal.
The three of them crept through the ruined town, footsteps unde-
tectable. Lucy led the procession, on the look-out for foes ahead, Rory
flanked her, rifle at the ready, and Linus brought up the rear, ready to
catch anything Lucy missed. They followed the sound of the lone violin,
enchanted by its song that coaxed the dawn into day.
There was an old bridge at the end of the old town, wide and low
over a dried-out river bed. It created a hollowed-out space beneath like
a short tunnel, the sound issuing from underneath. After a moment’s
hesitation, Rory paced down the bank to come into view of the tunnel’s
entrance.
The violinist stood in the river bed beneath the bridge. He was lost
in his melody, eyes closed, consumed by the song as it pulsed from his
movements. For a moment, Rory was mesmerized by it all before she
remembered why she sought him out in the first place.
“What are you doing?” She said loud enough to break the assembly
of notes. Her voice echoed in the tunnel.
Composure unbroken, the violinist broke off his song with a jerk
of his bow. For a moment, there was silence as he regarded her with
interest and annoyance as if she was the one disturbing the morning.
Then he recognized her, and his face softened. She’d recognized him the
fiction 35
moment she saw him. She’d only ever met one violinist.
“You,” he said, mouth twisting into what might have almost been a
smile. Out here, it was rare to meet anyone twice.
...
She’d noticed the pianist first. She’d only ever seen a piano before,
the one back home in the Town Hall. Her father used to play it. But the
pianist in the Inn sounded nothing like her father. She was skilled, but
her melody was stiff and lifeless. Then the violinist took the stage and
started to play those long, shrill, twisted notes. Rory became enthralled.
He played like her father. His music spilled from his soul and resonated
with her own.
After his set, the violinist found her at the bar. They were two of
the youngest people in there, sparks among old embers who’d already
fulfilled their duties to humanity and could risk being out in the world.
He bought her a drink. Whiskey. Whiskey was all there was.
She’d noticed his eyes, shades of a strange, pale grey of likes she’d
never seen before. His other features were similar to her own, with light
brown skin and darker hair, features that showed up predominantly in
their generation—a blend of all the races that walked the earth before.
Now there was no race, only human.
She’d never even gotten his name. Names were sacred, shared only
in trust and intimacy. What conspired between them had been anything
but intimate. A colliding of flesh. The indulgence of an animalistic drive
for release.
...
That was months ago, in the last weeks before winter. She never
considered that their paths would cross again. He was a traveling violin-
ist, and she was on a mission. But here he was, playing his ethereal song,
one lone idiot broadcasting his exact location to her and anyone else
within a mile radius.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She asked again.
“Did you hear the acoustics of this thing?” He gestured with his
bow to the space above.
36 fiction
“Yeah, I heard it. Me and everyone else around.”

He chuckled. “There’s no one else around. In fact, I thought I was
completely alone. I apologize if I woke you.”
“You don’t know that,” she snapped, still gripping her gun. Then in
a softer voice, “The Children are on the move.”
The violinist knelt to the case at his feet and replaced his instru-
ment into its resting place. “Where did you hear that?”
“I didn’t hear it anywhere. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. I’ve
been avoiding them for days, but I always catch glimpses of them wher-
ever I go. They’re barefoot and in hunting parties.”
“I thought the Children didn’t hunt. That’s their whole point.”
“They’re not hunting animals,” she said.
The violinist’s hands stilled on the case’s clasp. He turned his face
up towards her. “Then what are they hunting?”
That’s when Lucy growled. Linus joined in a second later, a low
thunder rumbling up from the rib cages of the dogs who’d previously
been forgotten by the girl and the violinist. Rory instinctually readied
her gun before investigating. Finger inching towards the trigger, she
turned her attention to the dogs’ raised hackles and then down the
dried river bed.
“What is it?” The violinist asked, more curious than frightened.
Rory was frightened. She knew her dogs, and they knew the difference
between friend and foe. They didn’t greet friends with bared teeth.
Rory shushed him, annoyed by the amount of noise he made. Then
they all tensed, straining to hear over the soft drizzle. To hear what,
Rory didn’t know until she heard it. The snap of a twig, the murmur of
voices. The rustle of careless movement.
A figure quickened down the soft banks of the dried river and came
to a stop facing the bridge. Rory saw him the same time he saw her. She
knew she wouldn’t escape without some kind of confrontation. She saw
his gun at the same time that he saw hers and wondered if he had any
ammunition or if it was just for show. She was down to three rounds in
her rifle and six in her revolver.
The figure called up the bank to his companions.
The figure was joined by another, and then another. Before she
fiction 37
knew it, seven men approached them on bare feet, with one gun and six
wicked spears, seven rugged beards, and fourteen strong hands. Rory’s
throat filled with sour dread. Her instincts fought as she tried to assess
the situation, to fight or to flee. The men were approaching quickly,
showing no sign of offering a greeting, malice shining in their white
teeth.
“Run,” The violinist said from behind her.
“Run,” She echoed.
They both spun on their heels and accelerated into a sprint down
the river bed. Rory followed in the steps of the violinist, her dogs keep-
ing in pace with her. They could hear the men following them, a jostle
of movement, raised voices. She didn’t dare look back, only sped up.
They didn’t make it far before the gunshot fire, an explosion rup-
turing the last shreds of the quiet morning. At the same time, Rory’s
shoulder exploded a sharp, abrupt, and burning pain. She stumbled,
knocking into the violinist. They both tried to keep their balance, but
black blotches of sickening pain were blossoming on Rory’s vision. The
shouts and warlike cries of the men were coming closer and retreating
as her senses tunneled.
She gasped for air and twisted her neck to see her shoulder. The
violinist dipped his fingers through the hole in her jacket, contacting
her ragged flesh. She felt the blood dripping down her arm. He covered
the wound with the palm of his hand and helped her stay on her feet.
“I think it’s just a flesh wound. You’re going to be okay,” The
steadiness of his voice gave her the ability to focus, and her shock and
panic began to retreat. They made to run again, but it was too late. The
Children were upon them.
...
Ever since Rory left Reliance, her days had been ruined by count-
less obstacles. The earth writhed with predators and dangers, many of
which had intervened her mission at one point or another. The T-Rex
had been a nuisance, the pack of dire wolves, a lost afternoon. The
saber-tooth tiger had almost killed Linus, and the memory of the giant
scorpions still sent shivers down her spine. But no animal or beast had
ever caused such an inconvenience for Rory than the Children.
38 fiction
Mother had brought humankind to the brink of extinction, and

sometimes, in instances like now, Rory wished she’d done away with
them altogether. It was a punishment to live in this world. Rory found
herself hating mankind with each one of her encounters with them. At
times like now, she wished she could abandon her species entirely and
live in isolation with her dogs and Mother’s free will.
Her dogs.
Maneuvering around bound hands, she twisted around to look
at the trail in their wake, making sure Linus and Lucy hadn’t followed
them. The men had scared them off after Rory begged them not to
kill them. She knew they would follow her trail but hoped they were
smart enough to keep a safe distance until Rory could figure out how to
escape.
A tall man carried the other end of the rope that bound her hands
in front of her, dragging her along at a pace that would be her jog on
a good day. Every few steps, he yanked the rope, and she stumbled,
her balance thrown off by her bound hands and the gunshot wound.
She decided that the bullet had just grazed her. She felt like she’d be in
significantly more pain if there was a bullet lodged in her shoulder, but
still, it burned like someone had pressed hot embers to her skin.
The violinist walked solemnly in front of her, hands bound similar-
ly, though his captor was less harsh with the rope tugging. Every once
in a while, he looked back at her as if to make sure she was okay, his
mouth drawn in a perfectly straight line, eyes bulging with stress.
Rory gritted her teeth and trained her gaze on her rifle, bouncing
against the flat ass of a short man with the vocal authority of a leader.
Another had taken possession of her revolver and backpack, and yet
another carried the violinist’s instrument. Their small hunting party was
now weighed down with loot and prey as they dragged them deeper and
deeper into the woods.
The leader with her rifle cast a look back at her, noticing how she
trailed behind, grimacing at the blood that soaked through the bandage
someone had hastily tied around her arm. He turned to the man who’d
shot her and swore at him. “You’re an idiot, you know that? Look at
her bleeding out back there! I told you to scare them, not shoot them.
We’ve been looking for a girl for days. You’re lucky that bullet didn’t go
through her skull, or you know the Priestess would take one of your
fiction 39
girls instead. You’d better pray she isn’t mad at me for bringing back
damaged goods, or I’ll have your hide and your daughters.”
The gunman, whose gun privileges had been passed to another
man, ducked his head and mumbled an apology.
Rory swallowed the dryness in her throat and willed her arm to
stop bleeding. She was afraid to get too weak. She didn’t know what the
Children wanted with them, but she knew it wouldn’t be good. She had
no choice but to escape.
They walked on without conflict for some time. As the sun reached
its peak, they broke from the woods and found themselves looking upon
a small valley isolated by sharp ridges. Below them scrolled cultivated
fields and orchards, speckled with a network of rough abodes. The Chil-
dren’s home base.
With prods from the butts of their spears, the men corralled Rory
and the violinist down the ridge on a narrow path the width of one per-
son. The closer they got to the valley floor, the more Rory came to fear
her ability to escape. Their base was so protected by land, so isolated,
that it would be difficult to ascend the ridge unnoticed. She wondered if
it was even possible to do so without using one of the winding paths.
They were led through the valley, passing small fields of crops and
tiny stone houses. They passed people, young men, women, and chil-
dren, dressed in modest clothing with long hair and tanned faces. The
residents showed Rory and the violinist no curiosity. She wondered how
often people were led, bound, through their home.
At last, the men stopped them in front of an ancient oak that stood
proud in the center of the valley. Its trunk was as thick as a silo, its
gnarled roots texturing the ground. Its bows, laden with spring green,
hung low, creating a canopy over the clearing in which their procession
stood, waiting.
Not ten paces in front of her stood a large, flat rock. It was stained
with thick, scarlet rust. Rory looked to the violinist beside her, who
also noticed the red and paled in reaction. The men held spears at their
backs just as Rory got the urge to make a run for it.
Now people began to gather in the clearing, primarily men and
women. There were a few children who displayed a soft roundness that
Rory had not seen since she left Reliance. Children simply did not leave
the settlements. She scanned the rest of the faces and still found that no
40 fiction
one seemed particularly curious by their presence or how they arrived.

Evidently, this was not a new occurrence.
There was a rustle in the small crowd and from it stepped a mid-
dle-aged woman dressed in rich green robes. She surveyed Rory and the
violinist from a distance and then addressed the hunting group’s leader
in a silky smooth voice. “Why is she bleeding?”
“There was an accident, Priestess,” Said the leader. “She’s not badly
injured.”
The priestess looked like she didn’t believe him but also looked like
she didn’t want to approach Rory to confirm what the man said. “They’ll
do. Send them to the cave and send someone to mend her wound. We
prepare to have the ceremony at the moon’s zenith.”
Strong hands grabbed her arms, and when she tried to jerk away,
the man drove his fist into her side. After that, she more or less went
willingly. As they dragged her away from the clearing, Rory made eye
contact with one of the onlookers.
Her heart stopped.
A tall man stood with his arm around a woman. They were both
young, not much older than Rory. The man’s face was immediately
familiar, but it took her a moment to put a name to the face.
“Nathan,” she choked. He frowned. She craned her neck around, but
the men dragged her out of his sight.
It’d been five years since she last saw her brother when he left Reli-
ance. She’d been looking for him ever since.
...
Their prison was a cave not far from the oak tree. It was narrow and
barely tall enough for the violinist to stand upright. But that fact didn’t
seem to bother him because he’d been sitting in the corner with his head
in his arms since the men unbound their hands and left them.
Rory stood at the iron gate that barred the cave opening. Where
they found sturdy iron bars, she didn’t know, but she cursed the person
who’d installed them so soundly. For the past hour, she’d tried every-
thing to break out. Out of frustration, she’d resorted to banging on the
metal with a rock, hoping the noise would at least annoy the Children.
fiction 41
Her brother was with the Children. Her brother, who used to tell
her stories of the Children and before, laughed about how stupid their
alleged practices were. He’d left Reliance the same way their father had,
in search of a future in the form of the past. So how had he gotten here?
How had they both gotten here?
“Would you stop that?” The violinist snapped after a few minutes.
Rory threw the rock against the wall and slumped to the ground.
All the movement made her wound start to bleeding again, and her
head was starting to ache.
“Why are you just sitting there? Do you know what they’re going to
do to us?” She snapped right back.
He raised his head and gave her a fierce look. “There’s nothing we
can do,”
“There’s always something. There’s a way out of here. We just have
to find it.”
The violinist looked around the cave doubtfully. Rory leaned her
head back against the cave wall and closed her eyes, feeling the throb in
her arm.
After a few moments of silence, the violinist spoke again. “My
name’s Beck.”
She tilted her head in his direction and opened one eye. Though
they had met before, they were still strangers. Names were only shared
with people you trust. But they were about to be sacrificed to the earth
by a cult of crazy worshippers, so they had nothing to lose.
“Rory,”
“Is that short for something?”
“Aurora.”
“As in the Aurora Borealis?
“What’s that?”
Beck smiled as if thinking of something pleasant. “I’ll tell you later.”
Their conversation died with the sound of approaching footsteps.
Two men came into view, and one told them to stay on the ground while
the other unlocked the gate. She noticed the one with the key also had a
gun, and because she’d already been shot once that day, she obeyed. The
42 fiction
other man entered their cell with a stack of linen bandages and a bowl
of water.
She looked up at his face for the first time, and her heart leaped.
The man was her brother. Maybe he recognized her. Perhaps he was
here to help her escape.
“I’m here to clean your gunshot wound, so it doesn’t fester.” He said,
face neutral. She couldn’t tell if he knew who she was.
She didn’t resist when he knelt next to her to take off her jacket. She
did as he asked, searching his face as he tore away her torn and blood-
ied shirt sleeve, wincing as the fabric became unstuck from her tender
flesh. He’d aged, in body and soul. There were scars on his face , along
with dark freckles and some premature wrinkles. His beard was patchy,
and his hair needed a wash. His dark eyes, inherited from their mother,
looked wiser but cold.
Nathan cleaned her wound with silent tenderness, working quickly
and efficiently. Once all the blood was washed away, she could see that
it really was just a flesh wound. It would probably require stitches in a
perfect world, but it wasn’t a perfect world, and Rory was being sent to
her death.
“Nathan,” she whispered.
He didn’t reply, but his mouth drew into a straight line like he was
resisting the urge to talk.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said. She didn’t care if Beck or the
other man heard. Perhaps nothing mattered anymore. “Mom died,”
“Quiet,” said the man standing guard. She flashed him a vicious
glare.
Nathan finished wrapping her arm with the linens, and he stood.
“Nate,” she said, calling him what she used to when they were children.
Her voice grew more frantic as he moved away. “They’re going to kill
me. I am your sister, Nate. Don’t let them kill me.”
At the door, he paused and said without looking. “Mother must be
appeased. Your sacrifice will be for the greater humanity.”
“That’s insane,” said Beck, standing just as the door closed behind
Nate. The other guard re-bolted the lock, and the two retreated. Just
before Rory left sight of Nate, he turned back, for a moment, his eyes
fiction 43
locking on the neat stack of linens left by her discarded jacket.

Now it was Beck’s turn to frantically shake the bars. Perhaps the
reality of their situation was sinking in for the first time. He searched for
a way out with the disparity of a cursed man. Rory ignored him and in-
stead inspected the stack of bandages, not wanting to accept the spark of
hope that bloomed in her chest. But hidden in the folds, Rory’s fingers
found a material other than cloth.
Breath held, she uncovered two long, thin pieces of metal. She
wasn’t sure of their original purpose, but she knew what she was meant
to do with them.
“Hey,” she said, spirits lifted.
Beck paced the length of the cave, tugging at his short hair. He
didn’t hear her.
“Beck,” she said louder.
He stopped. She held up the two lock picks. “We’re getting out of
here.”
...
They planned their breakout for after dark. Beck claimed he knew
how to pick locks.
“And where’d you learn how to do that?” she inquired.
“I’ve met a lot of old folks in my travels, people eager to pass on
their learned skills to the next generation.”
After examining the heavy padlock that secured the door’s bolt, she
decided he probably did have the better chance of releasing it with his
nimble musician fingers and all.
They watched the day pass by, the shadows moving across the cave
wall. Every few minutes or so, someone came by to check on them.
Nathan never showed up again, and Rory’s mind stayed busy trying to
imagine his last five years and how he’d ended up with the Children. No
one brought them food or water, even in the heat of the afternoon, not
even when they begged.
With the constant guarding, Rory knew their moment to escape
would be slim.
44 fiction
At sunset, the chanting began—a low hum of voices that rose and
fell like haunting gusts of winds. Beck and Rory shared a disgusted look,
their anxieties growing in their chests. Beck fiddled with the lock picks,
waiting for the right moment to try their escape. Rory didn’t let him
practice on the lock prematurely, knowing a Child would be around any
minute to make sure they were safe and sound in their cave.
They watched the shadows darken as the sun tucked itself in under
the horizon, leaving a trail of coldness in its wake. Another hour passed,
and the chanting only grew louder. At some point, the moon rose, and,
unable to sit still, Rory paced the cave and found that if she stood in
the far corner of the cave and craned her neck, she could see the moon
rising full on the treetops.
Another hour passed. This time no one came to check on them.
Their chanting grew louder with every passing minute, crazed voices
carrying clear into the fresh night.
“Now, do it now,” Rory said finally. She couldn’t wait any longer. It
was dark enough now to provide them some coverage.
She didn’t have to tell Beck twice. He sprang to the door and began
working. She gave him space, listening to the disturbing chants, biting
her nails, knowing that any second they would come to take them to a
bloody death.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. Nearby, Beck cursed.
Rory waited. And waited. Waited for something to happen. Either they’d
escape, or they’d die. It had to be any minute now that her fate would be
sealed.
At last, Beck stepped back, throwing down the released padlock.
With a sound of satisfaction, he pushed open the cell door. At that exact
moment, the chanting petered out, immediately replaced by screams.
There came another wolf howl. More screams of terror. Animal
growls. Sounds of fighting.
“Let’s go,”
They crept towards the cave entrance and looked cautiously to-
wards the sound of the commotion. Fires were lit in braziers all around
the ancient oak tree, where the Children had been gathered for their
sacrificial ceremony. Now their gathering was disbanded, interrupted
by a pack of rabid wolves the size of horses. For a moment, Rory stared
fiction 45
in awe at the giant beasts ripping through the gathering of people. Men
and women fought back with their spears, but the wolves were apex
predators and had claws and teeth just as sharp and more powerful.
“It looks as though Mother is not appeased with their sacrifices,”
Beck said in her ear.
“Oh, holy heavens,” Rory was mesmerized by the scene.
“Let’s get out of here before they come after us too,”
He didn’t have to tell Rory twice. She was just about to turn away,
to leave her captors to their demise when Rory glimpsed a familiar fig-
ure. Her brother Nathan ran up to the brawl with her rifle in hand. She
recognized the glint of its carefully polished barrel and felt an insane
longing to go after it. As if looking for her, he turned in her direction
and shouted. “Run!” Then he fired the rifle into the skull of a wolf.
The sound set her off. She grabbed Beck’s hand, and for the second
time that day, they turned and ran. This time nothing stopped them.
46 fiction
fiction 47
While We Watched
Him Heal
georgie luiso-knuckles
Our dad had a divorce playlist.

We were too young to know any of the songs on it. It sat in the
same place, always cemented on the sidebar of iTunes way before its
user interface evolved into anything remotely intuitive. His playlist was
something my sisters and I giggled at, with all the cruelty of children,
because our mom had just moved out and we didn’t really know why.
But the concept of divorce was both normal and equally detached from
us. We were just the collateral. Nearly everyone in our southern Califor-
nia suburban bubble had experienced relationship problems that were
similar to the ones our parents were having. It happens. They weren’t
special, complex human beings. They were just our parents.
Our house was in a state of perpetual messiness that comes with
four children and a father. Aside from the physical carnage we only
existed in it. We’d been a family of rampant bickerers before but in 2013,
all we did was argue in hushed whispers.
Every day, when the sun turned our hallway a bleary, harsh yellow,
we could be found deep inside a walk-in closet. We would play music
from a small radio that wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out the
sounds of our dad. He wasn’t angry, just upset, and past the yellow haze
was a locked—oddly heavy—door where he could vent his frustrations,
clearly audible “fuck you”s rattling our makeshift bunker like it was
actively being invaded. His music was louder than ours, too. Leonard
Cohen’s “Hallelujah” always came first, because he hadn’t known that
the shuffle button existed. Regardless, the four of us continued to write
off his divorce playlist as a gag, an inside joke between us that ostracized
him from our small circle. An alien.
Luci and Toni liked to make jokes about it. They were both younger
and funnier than Mary—my other sister, two years older—and I. The
48 memoir
while we watched him heal
two of us joked along with them, desperate for camaraderie, afraid they
would abandon our crawl space if we didn’t laugh along. I guess they
didn’t really figure what the songs meant to our dad, or why they were
special enough to be repeated every day. I didn’t either. Not really.
Mary and I co-inhabited a bunk bed, but she didn’t particularly
enjoy waxing philosophical about what issues our family could possibly
be going through.
“Hey,” I pushed anyways, with a mumble that wasn’t much louder
than The Jungle Book soundtrack we had on tape, “Why do you think
he’s alone all day?”
“I don’t think it’s because of something that we did.” She reassured
me from the bottom bunk, sleepy despite the fact that she was humming
along just a second ago.“Everyone has their own way of dealing with the
things that happen to them.”
I didn’t know what else to say; sometimes I wasn’t really prepared to
have the conversations I thought I was capable of having. The tape went
silent, whirred for a moment, and ended with a prompt ‘click’.
My sisters were gone for a day, nearly a year later, all of them off on
a field trip or at a friend’s house. I was twelve. The safety of our closet
had long since lost its magic. We would sit on the couch and watch
reruns of our mom’s favorite cartoons. I was left alone, only once, but
long enough to subject me to a mortifying ordeal of individuality that
required me to make my own decisions. I couldn’t sit comfortably on
the sidelines, because no one was there to dictate how I should respond.
Our couch was lumpy and inhospitable. I had lost the TV remote an
hour ago, and couldn’t turn up the volume.
My dad’s emotions echoed louder than usual, all pain and disillu-
sion and anger. The tile was pleasantly warm when I padded barefoot
along the hallway and put my ear against the door, checking to see if he
was hiding something that I couldn’t quite hear. Like his yelling wasn’t
all that was there. My heartbeat felt almost tangible, and the hiccup
of his sobbing was the only thing louder. If I didn’t want to listen, I
wouldn’t have heard it in the first place. He missed my mom. I missed
my mom.
In that moment, my untouchable father was so much like me that I
could almost feel a “fuck you” bubbling in my own throat. The lyrics to
memoir 49
Supertramp’s “Downstream” were burned into my mind. I had grown

up with them in a different way than he had.
I didn’t open the door. It was probably locked, of course, but I
hadn’t checked to confirm my suspicions. I sat with my back against it
and my feet flat against the tile, long enough for its pleasant warmth to
dull into something lukewarm, straining my ears in an attempt to catch
the sounds of his tears hitting the floor. My dad was human in the same
way I was, but that wasn’t something that relieved me. I still scrambled
back to the couch the moment I heard his music shut off. I said yes
when he came in and asked me to watch a movie.
He had just learned about the magic of pirating, so we watched
the first four installments of The Land Before Time series, one after the
other. I had gnawed my lower lip raw by the time we had gotten to The
Great Valley Adventure.
“Don’t chew on your lip. It’s a terrible habit.” My dad nudged me,
fishing out a cylinder of Burt’s Bees lip balm from in-between the couch
cushions. It was weird, how well he knew me despite the fact that we
hadn’t had a real conversation in months.
I snatched the chapstick out of his palm, already half upset for
being called out mid-film, and said, “Everyone has their own way of
dealing with things”.
It’s weird; the things that stick with us. I don’t really understand
why I echoed my sister’s mantra, like my torn lips were an equivalent to
divorce. My dad didn’t either. Maybe I was testing to see if he heard us
talking about him. Maybe I was trying to hurt him.
I didn’t put on the lip balm. I had cuts on my lips, constantly re-
opening, for weeks.
A few years later, I was still guiltily laughing along to his divorce
playlist, like it hadn’t affected me the same way it affected him. It was a
coveted secret for me to know that he was human. I never asked any of
my sisters if they thought the same way; if they sat outside of his door
for as long as I had; if they knew what kind of power our mom had to
inflict that sort of scar on anyone.
Instead, we just grew up. Now, when we are in the car driving with
our dad to a house that wasn’t too far away from where we were raised,
50 memoir
while we watched him heal
sometimes one of those too-familiar songs decides to play. He goes to

switch it off. We tell him not to. He doesn’t, and we all sing along with
no laughter in our voices and try to ignore the implication of his hurt.
We all heal at different rates.
memoir 51
The Girl I Used to Be
emma peterson
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who dreamed of being a
dancer. She wanted to be flexible and strong so she could do pirouettes
and leaps. I am not that girl anymore. There was another little girl who
dreamed of being a famous artist and wanted to see her work in galleries
around the world. She wanted people to say her work was life-changing
and to think her message was important. That girl is gone too. Some-
where along the way, there was a girl that thought being a veterinarian
would make her happy. She thought that all she needed was to love
animals. Then she disappeared somewhere in math class. All these girls
are me, and none of them are me. They are like my eyes and my skin
and my lungs—individual elements that do not define me but together
make me who I am.
There was the girl who loved to draw. She
drew on everything, everywhere. The walls of
her closet are a testament to her love. When
her mom found the scribbles, she laughed and
couldn’t bear to cover them up. They are still
there now—a physical memory of her child-
hood. The margins of her homework were
blurred with drawings, her best friend’s skin
was covered in doodles, and she filled sketch-
book after sketchbook. But, as I got older, that
girl got quieter and melted into the back-
ground.
Now, my homework is all clean lines and
my sketchbook gathers dust between sporadic
uses. I keep trying to refind the intense love that she cultivated, but I’m
afraid I lost it in the rush to grow up and it will never come back to me.
52 memoir
the girl i used to be
My skin was once inhabited by a perform-

er. That girl wanted to make people smile and
laugh. She tried dancing and gymnastics and
drama class. Every car ride was a concert where
she sang loudly and proudly. Then, she got older.
She stopped thinking about how she saw herself
and started thinking about how other people saw
her. People said she wasn’t good at singing and
dancing.
So she stopped. She put on a new perfor-
mance, one that made her small enough that
those people wouldn’t see her. I’m trying to coax
her out of the dark corner she’s hiding in, but I’m
afraid she’ll never really return.
Part of my life will always be about the dis-
abled girl. She’s registered for accommodations
at school and has special braces to keep her arm
from hurting. Her life is full of strange little
looks and vaguely uncomfortable questions.
There are defining moments too, like filling out
tax paperwork and realizing that this girl counts
towards diversity points. That somewhere she is
seen as another number to fill a quota. Logically,
it is important to have those numbers—diver-
sity must be forced before it can be natural. But
it causes an old, familiar kind of hurt to rise
in my chest. The kind of feeling that makes me want to hide my arm
and pretend that I’m able-bodied. To pretend, just for a moment, that I
meet some metric of normality because, if I am
normal, that hurt in my chest will fade away until
the pain is just a bad memory.
There’s the adopted girl. She’s been here
since I was two. Before her, I suppose I was the
abandoned girl. She’s still trying to understand
why she wasn’t enough to earn unconditional
love from her first family. Then, the adopted girl
joined her. This girl was chosen from across the
world based on a photo. She knows she sticks out
because she’s brown and her family’s white. She
memoir 53
has to explain that she and her brother are seven weeks apart because
she’s adopted and that no, she is not related to the single other Asian
person in the room. That girl is used to all of this, but being used to it
doesn’t make it feel okay.
Then there was the girl who drank smoothies for breakfast every
day for an entire school year. She liked the taste of
fruit and its sweetness. It reminded her of summer
when the days became dark and rainy. These are
the things she told herself when she really wanted
to eat something different. It’s what she told other
people when they asked why she didn’t eat other
foods. I wish I could tell her to stop looking at oth-
er people, that food isn’t something to be earned
or controlled. But I know she would’ve nodded,
smiled, and made another smoothie the next day.
I know she couldn’t stop thinking about how her
thighs felt too big and how her stomach wasn’t flat
enough. This girl still comes and visits me. She asks
me if I really should eat. Sometimes she wins and I
skip meals. But, sometimes my roommate’s offer to
get breakfast together cuts her off.
The Chinese-American girl showed up
when the adopted girl came. She sits on the
hyphen, somewhere between two worlds, not
belonging to either one. She is not Chinese
because she was raised by a white family. She
has loving parents who tried their best. But
they could never give her back the culture and
heritage she lost with her biological family.
This girl searches for scraps of what could’ve
been. She takes Chinese in college and tries to
make foreign words her own, though they nev-
er come out right. At the same time, she knows
she isn’t white enough for America. People
ask her where she is from and she knows they
don’t want to hear Vancouver, Washington.
Asians are attacked in the news and she is
scared. She knows she has privilege and that
she does not have the same right to the pain
54 memoir
that Asian-American communities feel. But it emphasizes that this girl

will never be American enough. She holds my hand as I try to learn how
to live with being too Chinese to be American and too American to be
Chinese.
In middle school, I was the girl who wore all black. Somewhere in
the summer between fifth and sixth grade, that
girl decided she was going to grow up and that
meant changing her clothes. She didn’t want to
be a little kid who loved pink and sparkles and
unicorns and dresses; she wanted people to see
her as strong. She thought that strength meant
rejecting femininity. I learned later that being
strongwas not something I had to do in spite
of my gender. But in middle school, that girl
listened when the world told her there was a
spectrum with weak feminine things like pink on
one side and strong, masculine things like black
on the other. That girl did not know any better. She just desperately did
not want people to talk down to her and she changed herself so they
wouldn’t. I’m still trying to put color back in my closet.
There’s the girl who always wants to scream
at the world. She says that everything is unfair
and wants to fight whoever made it this way. She’s
angry about inequality and hatred and pain and
everything that makes her chest ache and hurt.
When she was younger, she didn’t understand
what she was feeling. She just knew that it didn’t
feel good and she wanted it gone. That girl sent
cruel words at the people who loved her the most
and slammed doors because she didn’t know how
to handle how much her heart ached. Then she
lashed out at herself for adding to that hurt. I don’t
really know what to do with that girl. I know she’s
right, the world is painfully unfair. But screaming
won’t fix it. Though sometimes it feels like screaming is the only thing
left to do. She gives me too many feelings and too many words and no
direction for it at all.
Sometimes, I’m the girl who sat in a large circle of friends, trading
memoir 55
stories and snacks over a short lunch period.

That girl smiled and laughed and it never quite
reached her eyes. She surrounded herself with
many people to avoid the silence of being
alone. Her friends made her look popular,
but none of them really knew her, even if
they thought they did. She felt bad when she
realized she was almost pretending to be their
friend, pretending she was a person she never
really was. I wish I could tell that girl it gets
better—that that feeling goes away—but I
can’t. It still feels like I’m walking through the
world alone, even though I know people want
to walk beside me. I don’t know how to invite
them along. It’s hard to tune that girl out when she tells me that I need
to be who they want because they won’t like the honest me.
Buried in me, there’s a girl who thought god and the church were
the answers to her questions. She believed the world was connected
and could not be explained by coincidences. If
gravity makes things fall, someone must have
decided it would be so. If the world started in
a big bang of high density and temperature,
someone had to trigger it. She thought religion
explained these phenomenons. But she couldn’t
understand why a benevolent god would let
people die and wars start and hatred fester. She
learned that once you start asking hard ques-
tions, religion loses the ability to answer. I grew
up with religion and it is hard to say I don’t
believe in it. But I don’t think I can believe and
trust a religion that told me to bow my head
and follow without questioning. So, I float away
from that girl, trying to find enough bravery to
face the truth—that I don’t know what I believe.
There’s a girl in me who wants to be independent. She wants to
be alone because no one can hurt her if she’s alone. She pushes those
closest to her away. It’s like she is testing them, seeing how far she can
push them before they leave. They tell her they won’t leave, but she can’t
believe them. The independent girl believes she might as well lose ev-
56 memoir
eryone and everything now because if she trusts

they will stay, she’ll only be hurt more when they
inevitably leave. I tell that girl she’s wrong every
day. I try to help her understand that indepen-
dence isn’t about being alone. That she is afraid
and that being alone only makes it worse. It feels
like there are days she almost believes me. Then
she realizes she let her guard down and she pan-
ics. She carves a deeper moat around herself and
raises the walls of her castle so no one can get in. I don’t know if I’ll ever
convince her that people will stay.
Then there’s the girl who desperately wants to be perfect. She
remembers how happy her teachers were when they told her she had a
high school reading level in fourth grade. They
praised her and said she was smart. She wanted to
keep earning that praise and they taught her that
her worth was tied to how well she met their stan-
dards of smart and good. Every time she slipped
a little, they were so concerned about what made
her be anything less than perfect. She said she
didn’t know and it wouldn’t happen again. It felt
like no matter how smart she made herself, she
couldn’t get teachers to smile like they had in
fourth grade. She alienated her peers because she
was a know-it-all who did well when they did
badly. They were so pleased when she failed. I
wish I could tell those teachers to leave that girl
alone. I wonder if her peers would’ve been so
smug if they knew how every little failure crushed
her. Mostly, I wish that girl could really believe
that she didn’t have to be perfect. She wraps her-
self around my shoulders everyday, whispering
into my ear about perfection.
Hidden inside of me are many different girls who guide my feet as I
walk. Sometimes they work together. The adopted girl and the popular
girl tell me that I started my journey in this world as unwanted and
eventually I will return to that place. But they also fight. The angry girl
screams at the disabled girl and the smoothie girl. She’s mad that they
make themselves smaller. She wants them to make themselves big and
memoir 57
force the world to change for them. They just want quiet. I wonder if
these girls are disappointed in who I am now. I want them all to look
at me with pride, but balancing them is hard. Sometimes I want to em-
brace the angry girl, but when I am loud and she is happy, the disabled
girl and smoothie girl are sobbing. I keep hoping to find a way to honor
all the girls I used to be. If I can achieve that, maybe I will finally find
peace inside of me and assurance of who I am. But, maybe it’s not so
simple. How can I ever find balance when lifting up one part of myself
means crushing another? This story does not have a simple happily ever
after. Instead, maybe the only peace and assurance available is in the un-
known and the fact that I will always be adding to the list of girls I used
to be. Somewhere in this knowledge, I find hope that in the discordant
noise they create, there will be moments of harmony.
58 memoir
The Literal
Untouchables
george rickets
In the city of Abebl, lost between its sea of quaint, bustling neigh-
borhoods and lavish skyscrapers, on the corner of Sanct and Bene Ave-
nue, sits a modest, one story brick building. Its birdshit-covered exterior
bears the many marks of erosion’s feasts, looking like it could collapse
at any moment. This is the Nevah family building. Unbeknownst to the
general public, this is the center of the city’s universe. The cogs of life are
wound to the family’s tune. Who gets to keep their apartment another
month, who gets a seat on the city council, and who needs to be “taught
a lesson” are just a few of the matters that the Nevahs settle within the
walls of this building.
Right outside the front entrance, a lean, muscular man in a brown
trench coat and a grey fedora hat paces around in the autumn rain. His
black leather-gloved hands fidget with the handle of a black briefcase.
The man’s olive green eyes dart toward his wrist watch. 12:25.
“Shit…” he whispers to himself, “Where is that sluggish bastard? He
should be here by now.”
Almost as if commanding him into existence, the second man in a
black trench coat and matching fedora whirls around the corner of the
building. He bends over slightly, resting his hands on his knees, out of
breath. Raindrop stains cover his coat and hat.
“Well, look who decided to show up” the first man scoffs, “Where
the fuck were you, Jude? Do you even try to look at your wrist watch?”
“Sorry, CJ,” Jude says in between exhales of fatigued breath, “I com-
pletely forgot the meeting was at 12:25.”
CJ walks over to Jude and slaps his back. “That’s alright, Jude,” CJ
says. “I get it. Life’s busy like that sometimes. Besides, everybody knows
these meetings never start on time, with the way my father is and all.”
Jude lets out a soft chuckle, knowing full well what CJ’s father is like.
fiction 59
“Just out of curiosity, what were you doing that delayed you?” CJ asks.
Jude pauses, concentration riddling his face, his shifty eyes aimed at the
upper right of their sockets.
“I was… doing… things.” He says, while his hands fidget with the
silver coin that hangs around his neck. His voice is coated in reluctance
and guilt, as if his mother had caught him masturbating in his bedroom.
CJ is surprised and concerned. Never in all his years of knowing Jude
has he seen him so anxious about a topic. He wants to ask him about it
but decides to let it go for now. They have a meeting to get to.
“Come on, let’s meet up with the others and get out of this rain,
eh?” CJ says, his body leaning towards the double glass doors. With
enough breath to move and his flicker of guilt resolved, Jude stands
straight up, his clothes outlining his shallow frame as he adjusts them.
“Okay, yeah, let’s go.” He says. CJ approaches the right door and
opens it with his free hand for Jude. He accepts the kind gesture and
moves through the doorway, with CJ closing the door behind them and
walking right behind him into a small lobby room.
Unlike the exterior’s ruined façade, the inside of the building is
beautiful. The crisp gray carpet almost glows underneath the warmly il-
luminating light fixtures from the white ceiling. The walls are a pleasant
sky blue, with a couple of family portraits hanging on it. On the right
side of the lobby, a black leather couch resides against the wall. A glass
table with today’s newspaper sits in front of it. On the left is a quaint
receptionist’s desk, littered with sheets of pencil-scribbled paper, crum-
bled food wrappers, and log books. Seated in a chair behind that desk
is a large man, his rotund body dressed in a grey work suit. On the wall
behind him, a gray clock makes its presence known with gentle ticking.
As CJ and Jude walk into the lobby, the man’s light green eyes light up
with delight.
“CJ! Jude!” He exclaims as he leaps from his chair and gives the two
men a colossal bear hug.
“GoodtoseeyoutooGabe” Jude quickly wheezes, his twig of a body
at threat of being snapped in two by Gabe’s hug, “Pleaseletusdown.”
“Oh yeah, sorry” Gabe says, letting the two men go.
“First running here, now this? I don’t think I’ll ever literally catch
my breath,” Jude says. Ignoring Jude’s complaint, CJ turns to face Gabe.
60 fiction
the literal untouchables
“What’s new on the homefront, Gatekeeper?” Gabe settles back into

his chair behind his desk, placing his hands on his belly in a satisfactory
manner.
“Not much. I’m thinking of joining a small football team on the
side. Nothin’ serious, just for fun.”
“That’s great to hear!” CJ says excitedly.
“Yeah.” Gabe says, nodding lightly.
When CJ first met Gabe in college, Gabe was on the defensive line
for the football team. In his first season, while he was on the field, he
tackled and neutralized many opponents, earning him the nickname,
The Gatekeeper. After college, Gabe stopped doing football and started
doing secretary and security work for the Nevah family.
“Hey, before you go into the meeting, have you seen this?” Gabe
asks CJ as he holds up his own copy of today’s newspaper for CJ and
Jude to see. The front page shows a weasel-like man in a suit waving
both of his hands to what is undoubtedly a large crowd. The headline
reads “HEDRO ELECTED MAYOR.”
“Get a load of this. He thinks he became Mayor because of some
‘inventive policies’ and his ‘good looks,’” Gabe says. He busts out into a
wholehearted snicker, “Can you believe this guy? Bastard’s dumber than
a box of rocks. The election was rigged as shit. The only reason he won
was because we wanted him to.” CJ and Jude both crack smiles. They
always love when Gabe goes off on rants like this. “Oh, and you two
remember the Spanish Flu, right? Well, apparently, some psychic claims
that something like that will happen again 100 years from now into the
future.” Gabe huffs, “A bunch of hocus fuckin’ pocus if you ask me.”
CJ glanced at the clock. 12:30. CJ says, “We gotta head to the meet-
ing. You wanna grab a drink later tonight, Gabe?”
“No can do, my friend. I gotta work late tonight. I can do tomorrow
night though.”
“Tomorrow night it is.”
“Great! See you later.”
As CJ and Jude leave Gabe and the lobby behind, they walk down
the hall straight ahead of them, approaching a lone wooden door. On its
surface, the gilded words “Private Affairs” are legible.
fiction 61
“You first,” Jude says to CJ.

As CJ turns the doorknob and opens the door, loud talking and the
thick misma of cigar and cigarette smoke greets him and Jude. Closing
the door behind them, Jude and CJ look around. It’s a small, dimly lit
room, illuminated with only two small light fixtures from the ceiling. A
moderately sized ornate wooden table and seven black leather chairs fill
up a majority of the room’s space. Four of the seven chairs are already
occupied. Two men and two women, all in suits, are seated, engaging
in boisterous conversation with one another, waving their disintegrat-
ing cigars and cigarettes through the air, disturbing the smoky haze
around them. The occasional smoke ring would be blown into the air,
sometimes ending up near one of their heads, looking like a crooked
translucent halo. At the center of the table, a loaf of sliced bread and an
unopened bottle of wine sat undisturbed. One of the men looked up to
see CJ and Jude. He sported a finely trimmed, salt and pepper beard and
steady brown eyes.
“Ah, CJ! Jude! I’m glad you two arrived. Please take a seat and join
us in conversation while we await Big G’s arrival.” CJ and Jude take two
chairs across from one another and peel their rain drenched trench
coats off, revealing crisp suits.
CJ turns to the man that invited them and asks, “How have you
been, Smelly Pete?”
The man turns to face CJ and responds “I’ve been fine. We were
all talking about the election of Mr. Killius Hedro. You’ve heard of this,
yes?”
Both CJ and Jude nod. “We got the scoop from Gabe in the lobby,”
CJ says, “Guy sounds like a real pushover.”
“I’m not so sure,” the woman next to Jude says. Her black suit
matching her short dark hair. She’s wearing dark sunglasses, making it
impossible to get a definitive read on her emotions. Despite those, how-
ever, it’s clear that her face is a mask of concern.
The other man chimes in, “Oh Judy, why are you so paranoid? He
literally has no idea that he was practically chosen to be mayor. None of
this will get traced back to us, so there’s nothin’ to worry about.”
“I’m not worried about that, Jon” Judy says in an irritated tone,
“What I’m worried about are his policies. They’re incredibly pro law en-
forcement. He’ll reallocate more funds to the police department, which
62 fiction
will mean better recruitment, better training, and better equipment. All
I’m saying is that his policies could prove inadvertently troublesome for
us.”
The other woman chimes in, “Wait, if he is as much trouble as you
say he is, then why did we rig the election for him to win?” She sports
a scarlet red suit, her long, ginger hair ending halfway down her back.
Her face is one of beauty.
Jon takes a puff of his cigar and responds “Because, Maggy, he’s so
hands off about these kinds of things. He’ll simply delegate the task of
improving law enforcement to some other people. The more distance he
has from directly carrying out these policies, the better chance we can
manipulate them to our will.” He leans back and starts fiddling with the
sperm whale tooth around his neck with his free hand, “All I’m saying is
that we shouldn’t fuckin’ flip our shit about this guy just yet. We picked
him for reasons that will benefit us. Remember that.”
Judy looks toward Jon and says “Right, because the crony who
handles our oceanic trade of illegal goods would know all about how
to properly rig political elections,” her voice dripping with venomous
sarcasm.
Jon fires back “Hey, my job can often lead directly with police
involvement, so I paid extra attention this time around, alright? Big G’s
the one who can handle rigging an election regardless of the candidate
line-up.” He briefly pauses. “Speakin’ of which, where is he at?”
“Don’t worry” CJ says in reply “It’s typical for him to be this late.
I’m sure he’ll be right along.”
Suddenly, the door to the room busts open, and a large, muscular
man rushes in. Even in the dim light, his white suit and matching fedora
look as if they glow. A red handkerchief resides in his breast pocket,
acting almost like a marker for his heart.
“Sorry I’m late” Big G says, as he hurries to the lone empty chair
furthest from the door. He swiftly seats himself. “I was teaching betless
poker to a group of kids, and I simply lost track of time.”
Everyone stares at Big G in complete disbelief, jaws hanging wide
open. “You mean to tell us” Judy says slowly, “that you, the leader of our
family business, were late to a meeting that will determine potentially
violent courses of action because you were playing card games with a
bunch of kids?!”
fiction 63
“That’s right!” Big G says with a huge smile on his face “It’s import-
ant to teach the youth how to have fun, you know?”
Jon slowly buries his head in his hands. “I can’t believe this…” He
says.
“Well, anyway, good day, everyone” Big G says to his seated guests.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we? I want to focus on one particular
matter that’s been troubling me. It has come to my attention that we are
losing control in the south side of Abebl. Every time we send people
down there, they don’t return. It didn’t used to be this way. What’s hap-
pening down there?”
Maggy responds, “I know what’s happening. In fact, I used to work
for the one responsible for this, before I left to work for this family.” Her
tone is solemn and distant, like she’s reliving an unpleasant memory.
Big G leans forward, his hand propping his head up. “Who is it?”
He asks.
Maggy takes a deep breath and answers, “Her name is Lucy. She
goes by the title of The Carnal Queen. She runs a cult-like brothel with
escorts so sexually alluring, people never want to leave.” She pauses, “I
only made it out by the skin of my teeth.”
Big G’s face suddenly turns pale, fear flushed. “I know Lucy…” He
says slowly “She used to work for me many many years ago. She was one
of my best: cunning, beautiful, and ruthless. As CJ grew up though, she
refused to treat him with respect. As a result, I cast her out of the family
business. Before she left, she vowed that she would have her revenge
against me. This must be what she spoke of…” He leans back in his
chair, silently in deep concentration.
“Big G?” Smelly Pete asks, looking towards the boss in earnest.
“What should we do?”
For a moment, Big G says nothing, still lost in thought. Finally, he
answers, “I will talk to Lucy… alone.”
Gasps of shock are released into the air.
“Big G, confronting Lucy by yourself is nothing short of cognitive
suicide,” Maggy says, fear gripping her voice. “She’ll chew your mind up,
spit it out, and render you helpless.” Big G’s mouth morphs into a thin
smile. “I appreciate your concern, Maggy, but this will be necessary for
the rest of your assignments that I’m about to give all of you to succeed.
64 fiction
Plus, she’s worked under me in the past, so I know how to handle her.”
He continues, “Jon and Pete. I want you to go to the docks near the
southside of Abebl. Talk to people down there and find out more infor-
mation about Lucy and her business. See if she’s getting supplies from
overseas. Bribe them if you have to.”
“You got it, boss!” Smelly Pete says, “The ole coin-in-the-fish’s-
mouth trick works like a charm.”
Big G nods, then turns to Judy and Maggy. He says “Judy and Mag-
gy. While Lucy is talking with me, I want you to go near her establish-
ment. Investigate the place and see what you can learn about it. If she is
as bewitching as you say she is, then going into the brothel when she’s
away will be safer.”
“Understood, Big G’’ Judy says.
Big G then looks at CJ and Jude and says “CJ and Jude. This is not
related to Lucy, but it’s equally important.” He presents a large envelope
and hands it to CJ. “This contains important documents that relate to
Mayor Hedro, material that we can use against him. See to it they get
delivered to our forces near city hall.”
CJ puts the envelope in his briefcase, then closes it with a crisp
snap. “I won’t let you down, father.”
Big G silently nods, then says “These are your assignments. Go
forth and good luck.” As everyone starts to get up from their chairs, put
on their trench coats, and head towards the door, Big G says, “Maggy, a
quick word please.”
Maggy turns around and stays behind while the other five exit the
room. “Yes, Big G?” She asks inquisitively, “What is it?”
“Maggy, do you remember if Lucy’s brothel had a telephone?”
Maggy cocks her head back in thought, then responds “Yes, I be-
lieve it did.”
“Do you remember the address’ phone number?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Before you and Judy go, tell Gabe to call the brothel and no-
tify Lucy of my summons, so Lucy can be away from the brothel while
you and Judy investigate.”
Judy nods, “Consider it done, Big G.” She turns around and pro-
fiction 65
ceeds to leave the room. Big G returns to his chair, fingers laced togeth-
er, mentally preparing for the confrontation ahead.
–––
Gabe opened the door to the meeting room, his face whiter than a
diener’s sheet. “Big G. She’s here.”
“Show her in.”
Gabe nods silently, then closes the door. Minutes later, the door
opens again, and Lucy walks in. It has been years since Big G saw Lucy,
and she looks like she hadn’t aged a day. Her clothes, however, were
proof of time’s passage. A gaudy black and red dress has taken the place
of an honorable suit and tie, her curvy figure visible in the dim light.
Black high heels replaced brown leather loafers.
“Godfreid…” She acknowledges Big G, her eyes possessing a cold-
ness that would freeze the sun.
“Lucy…” Big G responds, an undercurrent of shock in his voice. It’s
been years since anyone has called him by his first name.
Lucy crosses her arms and begins to slightly rock and forth in place.
“I know why you call me here.”
“Oh yeah? And what that might be?”
“You want your cronies back, right?”
Big G remains silent. Lucy lets out a light, sadistic chuckle.
“Yeeeaaaahhh, that’s not happening.” She begins to pace around the
room. “It’s interesting really… how easily seduced the human mind is.
Men, women, any form in between and beyond: it matters not. All are
susceptible to the pleasures of the flesh. Every time a customer wanders
into my establishment and sees someone that fulfills their every carnal
fantasy, I witness the moment when lust takes them over. All of their
highbrow cognitive abilities cease to function, and their brain wants
nothing more than to bathe in carnality.” She turns to face Big G. “Per-
haps we are, deep down, no different from our primate relatives.”
Big G stands up and speaks in an irritated, impatient tone. “I don’t
want to hear your soliloquies about why your business works from a
psychological perspective. Let my people go! If this is your revenge
against me, this should have remained between you and I. They have
nothing to do with this.”
66 fiction
Lucy turns slightly away from Big G, silently staring off into space
in thought. Then she speaks in a quiet tone, “I loved you more than any-
thing in the world. I wanted nothing more than to be by your side and
make you proud to the point where I could become leader. But when
your son came along and grew up, I saw the favor you show him over
me. I knew then that I would never be the leader of this business, and
that I would serve under your son, something I could never do with one
so inferior such as he.”
“He was my son, Lucy, my own flesh and blood. Do you blame me
for treating him so?” “ALL I EVER WANTED TO SERVE YOU AND
NONE OTHER!” Lucy explodes, “And you casted me aside without ever
caring about how I felt. But now…” She says in sinister optimism, “I am
free and building an empire to rival yours. We’re actually quite similar,
you and I,” she says to Big G with a dark gleam in her eyes, “We are both
virtually untouchable, with the power to puppeteer anyone else and fuck
them over to our every wish and whim.” “I am nothing like you” Big G
spits out in disgust.
Lucy shrugs. “Deny it all you want. Deep down, you know it’s the
truth. And where there are two apex predators, only one may rule.” Lucy
then moves towards Big G until she’s inches away from his face and
whispers “I will destroy everything you ever built and cared for. Then,
you will bow before me.”
“We’ll see about that.” Big G breaths in reply.
Lucy retracts and moves toward the door. As she opens it, she turns
around and says “Oh, and one more thing. I can’t quite put my finger on
it…” she puts a finger on her chin and cocks her head in mock con-
fusion, “But I think something bad is going to happen to your son. A
betrayal against him that will prove fatal.”
Big G’s blood suddenly goes cold, terror possessing his heart. “How
do you know this? You must be lying.”
A wicked smile flashes across Lucy’s face. “This is no lie. As for how
I know this, it’s simple. I’m partially responsible for setting it in mo-
tion!” She cackles maliciously as she exits the room.
Big G remains frozen in place for several minutes, petrified by
Lucy’s words. All of a sudden, the door bursts open and Gabe barrels
into the room, eyes wide with fear. “Big G. Something happened to CJ.
Something really bad.”
fiction 67
–––
In the middle of the Walledoh Cemetery, located on the outskirts
of Abebl, Big G, Gabe, Jon, Judy, Maggy, and Smelly Pete stand before
a grave, clothed in black. Big G pulls out a singular rose and places it
before the tombstone.
“I can’t believe CJ is gone…” Gabe says, tears running down his
face.
“It’s all because of Jude!” Jon roars “Fuckin’ bastard sold his friend
to the reaper for $3,000!” He kicks a patch of dirt in a fit of rage. Judy,
Maggy, and Big G all say nothing, lost in silent mourning. As the
afternoon sun dips below the horizon, bringing on sunset in its wake,
the party of six stands there, motionless as cenotaphs, the dying light
silhouetting them, until darkness consumes them, all at once.
68 fiction
69
What Do You Want to
be Remembered for?
ronald robertson
It all started with a “5’6”, 170 lbs quarterback, whose arm strength
was equal to maybe a 10 year old child. Going into my sophomore year,
we were supposed to be one of the most dominant teams in the East
Bay, but that all changed when nine soon-to-be seniors all decided to
transfer and leave Salesian’s football organization. And boom, just like
that, we were back to square one. A whole bunch of 15-year-old kids, 21
total players on the team, all trying to figure out who we really were on
and off the football field with each other.
It was August 2nd, 2017. This was a very unusual day in San Fran-
cisco. It was about 101 degrees; the sun was beaming on me like I was
standing right under a heat lamp with nowhere to hide and nothing but
my bare skin showing. The sky was so clear, it felt like I was in a dream.
This was our very first varsity game, ten sophomores starting on each
side of the football, offense and defense. We were going against Arch-
bishop Riordan, who was about 74 players on their team,38 of them
being seniors. To put that in perspective, they had more seniors on their
team than we had players total.
That game was one of the longest games of my life. It felt like it was
never going to end, like I’m watching a Law & Order SVU marathon.
I got hit so many times that game that it felt like I was a pinata, getting
hit from every angle possible with nowhere to run. My body felt like
I was in 5 car accidents, getting whiplash left and right. Finally, when
I heard the final buzzer go off, I looked up at the scoreboard and saw
42-7. We got our asses kicked. But it wasn’t the game that made me feel
bad, it was after, hearing our post game talk with our coach. And at that
moment, that’s when he gave our team an identity, “This is the worst
Salesian team I’ve ever coached, you guys straight up embarrassed our
organization,” said Chad Nightingale. Is that who we really are? An em-
barrassment? The worst team ever? At that point, I took a look at myself
70 memoir
what do you want to be remembered for?
and thought: is this what I want to be remembered for?

Not only was I feeling like a disappointment on the field, I was off
the field too. School to me was like trying to learn a new math equation:
you don’t understand it until you do it enough times. Going to class ev-
eryday, I saw everyone complete work like making a peanut butter and
jelly sandwich, but I was struggling as much as a car trying to drive with
no oil, just not getting anywhere. It was when one of my coolest teachers
ever asked me to have lunch with him and that things started to change.
Of course like every teacher, he asked how I was doing but you can
tell he was about to preach some knowledge to me. Mr. Martinez’s ac-
cent was so thick, sometimes it felt like he was just speaking gibberish.
But at the same time, I could understand everything he was saying. It
was as if he’s already lived 100 lives and knows the answers to questions
nobody will ever figure out. He moved to America with his family from
Mexico when he was 6 years old and boy let me tell you, does he have
some crazy stories to tell. He asked me, “If everyone at this school could
remember you for one thing and one thing only, what would it be?”
At first I had no idea what I wanted to be remembered for, maybe
being one of the cool kids, or having one of the coolest cars. But that
question really made me think, what I really wanted to be remembered
for is how my leadership skills helped people when they needed it the
most. And for me to achieve that, what did I need to do? Change doesn’t
happen overnight, so I started slowly. I started paying closer attention
to detail and the level of effort I put into things. If I want to succeed as
much as I want to breathe, I know I’ll be able to accomplish any task
ahead of me.
Here I am, trying to see what kind of person I can be, and the
impact I can make on others. Going into my junior year of high school
I wanted to make a statement to the football team and everyone in my
class. I was the first one to always volunteer for class assignments, try to
be the leader of the group and make everyone feel included and make
them feel appreciated.
The one thing that kept me going, kept me pushing to be a better
and better person was my younger brother. When I look at him, it feels
like I’m looking at a mirror that reflects what I looked like, and how
I acted when I was younger. His big bright brown eyes could catch
anyone’s attention walking by and his smile could put a smile on your
face even if you were having a terrible day. I wanted to show him how to
memoir 71
make people feel like they matter. All over the world there’s kids going
through stuff everyday that you would never know about, and that one
mean comment, or mean action you did to them could change every-
thing. I try to show him that it’s okay to help people, even if nobody
helps you. This can be a very cold and lonely world, so just always being
there for someone can make a huge difference. And lastly that it’s okay
to fail, it’s okay not to achieve what you were working for the first time,
because that’s when you get to see what kind of person you really are.
Everyone knows what to do when God says yes, when God makes a
blessing in your life, when God is making your path to success very
wide. But what do you do when he says no? What do you do when he
puts a 100 foot brick wall around you and challenges you? This is when
true character and personality is revealed, this is when you get to see
who you truly are.
With my football team, all year I tried giving constructive criticism,
but before that, I gathered a team meeting and told everyone, “this
season on the field, it might seem like I don’t like you, or I’m yelling at
you, but all I’m trying to do is make you better and the person next to
you better. I see the potential and brightness inside everyone on this
field, and I know if we stick together and love one another through the
ups and the downs, we’ll be successful.” I remember that day like it was
yesterday, and all of us just started yelling and screaming with joy like
we were little kids about to go inside a jumping bounce house.
That season we battled all the way, from being one of the worst
teams ever in the organization to making it to the North Coast Section
Championship with an 8-4 record. But at the championship game we
were like Kevin Hart; we came up short and lost 28-14. It seemed to be
one of the worst days ever. It felt like the tears that were running down
my face was the same water that was hitting the top of my head. The
rain wouldn’t stop. But in that locker room I told each player how proud
I was of them and how much we accomplished. Everyone needed to
hold their head up. I knew our story wasn’t over yet. I knew we’d be back
here next season in the championship, but we’d have a different out-
come. And sure as shit, that’s what happened.
Fast forward to the end of the season, here we were, on top of the
world. Our record was 12-1, we lost the first game of the season with
some mistakes that we made, but we knew we would fix them. I felt like
Zeus every night stepping on the field, doing everything possible to
make sure we succeeded. One year later, and we were back on the same
72 memoir
what do you want to be remembered for?
field, searching for a different outcome. That game felt different, the air
felt like it had a taste, a hint of victory. On the opening kickoff, it felt like
everyone in the stadium knew who was going to come out victorious,
our team knew we would not accept defeat another time, and prove ev-
eryone wrong who’s ever doubted us. Forty eight minutes later the final
buzzer went off, and there we were, holding the championship trophy in
the air and forgetting about all other worries in the world.
But now, it was time to accomplish something no team has ever
done before, win the Regional Championship. Going into the game, all
the odds were against us, nobody expected us to even score a point, but
we knew if we stuck together, and played for the person next to us, we
could do it. It was a cold rainy night, water dripping off my body like I
was getting out of the pool. There we were, all 23 of us football players
on our opponents turf, playing for the North Coast Regional Champi-
onship. The crowd was so loud, it felt like the ground was vibrating. We
were in our custom all-white uniforms this game. We looked so good
that I know the opponents’ moms really wanted to cheer for us. As the
game went on, the wind started blowing harder, the rain started feeling
sharper, and the ground was giving me a little foot massage.
It was within two minutes of the fourth quarter when everyone
knew my team would come out victorious. The sound of the final buzzer
going off sounded like an angel whispering in my ear saying, “You did
it, you beat the odds.” The smiles on everyone’s faces would light up the
sky on 4th of July. The hugs everyone was giving to each other; I never
wanted it to end.
“There he is, Ronald, can I interview you for a second,” a sports
interviewer asked me with a pant in his voice from running across the
field.
“Of course,” I responded happily.
“How you feelin; first?”
“I’m feeling good, it feels good to make Salesian history, none of
our past teams has ever made it this far. Our sophomore year everyone
doubted us, considered us one of the worst teams in Salesian history,
and now we’re here making history.”
There I was, one of the happiest days of my life. I looked like a 5
year old kid on Christmas morning who saw that Santa came. I was
someone who was once just this small kid, wishing to accomplish big
memoir 73
dreams, and he’s finally on the big stage, the lights so bright on him
he looks like a star. Nobody in a hundred years would’ve seen that day
coming, but me. I might as well have been speaking a new language
because I couldn’t put any words together on how I was feeling.
The game of football has taught me much more than running,
catching, and throwing a football. It’s taught me respect, discipline,
overcoming adversity, how to be held accountable, leadership, sacrifice,
and how to work hard. Through life and anything you do, you can’t let
people’s actions and words affect how you think and approach situa-
tions. If you want to earn and accomplish whatever your goal is, you
have to work hard towards it and can’t let people steer you away from
your path. One of my coaches always used to say, “What you put in,
is what you get out.” So whatever hard work and dedication you put
towards something, you’ll see your hard work pay off and accomplish
what you were aiming for, and that’s something I always think about
when I’m trying to accomplish something. I’ll never forget the last hud-
dle we had as a team, as a family. Everyone raising their arms with their
helmets to the sky like we were touching outer space. Everyone in tight
together like sardines in a can. It felt like I could feel people’s heart beats,
and we took one last break. “We beat the odds on me, we beat the odds
on three.... One... two... three... WE BEAT THE ODDS!” And just like
that, our team is in our schools Hall of Fame, and we’ll be remembered
forever as the team who overcame the biggest obstacles, and overcame
the biggest adversity when times got the hardest and didn’t fold under
pressure. I’ve also left my own legacy, leaving Salesian College Prepara-
tory with six school records and soon to have my jersey number retired
in the gym. I think people will remember me for my great leadership
skills and setting an example on what hard work and dedication can
lead to if you put your mind to something, and even if you fail, to keep
pushing and don’t let anyone stand in your way.
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75
Too Tired to Fail
drew sherman
HELL WEEK
Covered in mud, sweat in my eyes and ambition in my heart.
It is funny what we actually remember in stressful situations. I don’t
remember who I was standing next to or what I had eaten that morn-
ing, but I will forever remember the ass kicking I received that hot and
muggy Florida morning.
In all three pictures these Aircrew hopefuls are doing “Stress Sets.” A
term coined by our instructors
The Florida sun kissed my skin and I felt my body temperature

reaching critical levels. My vision narrowed and my hearing became
dull. The ferocity and intensity of the instructors’ voices only grew loud-
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too tired to fail
er as exhaustion set in. I thought to myself, “What the heck did you get
yourself into?” and I quickly began replaying the events that inevitably
lead me there. My decisions gotten me there and now it was up to me to
sink or swim.
As it would just so happen, sinking and swimming in various
combinations was actually a lot of the training. Hours and hours of
moral-lowering push-ups and gut busting sit-ups turned into hours and
hours of swimming. The PT field can be trained for. . . but no amount of
swimming could get me ready for what we were exposed to in the water.
. . well let’s just say nothing in my civilian life could have ever prepared
me for some of the aquatic trials we faced. One lap in the pool turned
into ten and ten laps turned into over a mile! “My body wasn’t built for
this!” I repeatedly told myself, “There is just no way I can keep going.“
Class of Aircrew Candidates after water survival training
If you are familiar with waking up from surgery, then you can
imagine how I felt waking up after my first day. Every single muscle in
my body was screaming “uncle” and begging for me to let them rest. The
lactic acid levels in my muscles had reached critical levels. Although my
muscles were begging and pleading with me to stay in bed I knew if I
didn’t force myself up and out the door then my muscles and I would
get to experience what a real world of pain is. This cycle of unending
calisthenics, running, and swimming had broken the moral of even the
strongest among our ranks. Luckily for those of us left, the fun was just
about to begin.
memoir 77
WATER SURVIVAL
After getting our butts kicked for more than a week straight, moral
was in the gutter. Monday rolled around and instead of heading to the
PT field for more “fun,” we loaded up into a big white bus. Unknowing
of exactly what was in store for us, the bus was silent. The only sound
was of the wind rushing through the open windows. I would describe
to you the wind cascading through our hair, but most of us were still
bald from bootcamp.
Students and Instructors in Water Survival Pool
After our quick trek to the other side of Pensacola’s massive naval
base, we arrived at our next hurdle. Our eyes widened as the building’s
sign came into focus: Water Survival. Water Survival!? I thought we
had done all of our swimming last week…? I quickly found out the
torturous conditioning that was just getting us tired for what challenges
awaited.
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too tired to fail
Water Survival – Tread and Float
Water Survival has to be one of the toughest parts of Aircrewman

Candidate School. Most of us are familiar with the feeling of swimming
with a bathing suit on, but a lot fewer of us are familiar with the feeling
of having all your clothes on in the pool. Taking that to the extreme,
we are required to complete the water survival portion in full kit: flight
suit, helmet, gloves, socks, and boots. When entering the water, the
flight suit wrapped around my extremities like an anaconda finding
prey in the Amazon River. My helmet narrowed my vision, my gloves
removed any dexterity, but most debilitating of all, the steel toe boots.
To really no one’s surprise, but everyone’s dismay, jumping into the pool
with all that stuff on, you sink, and it requires maximum effort to stay
afloat. After a few days playing in the water, we began our crash simula-
tion training, AKA, THE HELO DUNKER!
The training began with an instructor putting us in a big metal
chair and flipping the chair upside down. This was repeated several
times until the instructors were certain they couldn’t fit anymore water
into our noses. All joking aside, I was so glad that the torture chair was
over, but now I had to apply my newfound knowledge of drowning to a
moving simulator.
memoir 79
Helicopter Crash Simulator
Sitting on the same metal chair but inside the dunker, my heart
began pounding and my muscles began straining. Here we go. . .upside
down, strapped into a metal cylinder with no air supply, only my one
breath and my training to get me out. As the metal tube submerged and
filled with crystal clear water, my only thoughts were those of empathy
for all the men trapped at the bottom of the USS Arizona in Pearl Har-
bor. Doing everything in my power to avoid a similar fate, I released my
seatbelt and knocked out the window like magic. “OK. That wasn’t so
bad,” I thought to myself, but now I have to do it two more times. . .
Round two, the simulator filled with water and disorientation set
in. Fall back on your training and you will be just fine. Freeing myself
from the harness, I reached for the window lever but found no handle.
Time for plan B: use someone else’s opening. Using my arms to propel
myself through the aluminum tomb, the candidate in front of me was
struggling, still strapped in upside down and fumbling with her seatbelt.
I’m not super proud of this, but I thrust her exit open and torpedoed
out without hesitation. You may be thinking to yourself “what a POS,”
but the fleeting oxygen levels in my body reverted me back to fight or
flight. Since I can’t beat up the water, I got the heck out of dodge. I guess
she should have been nicer to me weeks prior because if it had not been
in a controlled environment, she surely would have perished.
Round three, very similar to rounds one and two, is for all the mar-
bles. We line up to be given our seat order. Unlike rounds one and two,
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too tired to fail
when we are assigned our seats, we are given a pair of swim goggles with
the lenses crudely blackened with a Sharpie. Complete blackout! Like
before, the dunker filled with water, but instead of being able to visually
see when to take my last big breath, my only reference was the frigid
water level scaling my body. I believe it is Murphy’s Law that states that
“anything that can go wrong will go wrong.” I reinforce this ideology on
my last run though.
Upside down, blind, and drowning. Using my newfound egress
training I started going through my mental checklist. Trouble started
almost immediately, when I unlocked my seatbelt and it became stuck
around my neck. You are probably judging me pretty hard right now,
“He can’t take his seatbelt off?” but keep in mind this wasn’t a normal
car seatbelt. This was a giant harness to keep you in place when falling
out of the sky. It was cumbersome and had large nylon straps that wrap
around you like a spider’s web. Eventually, with large violent motions
and possibly some external help from an instructor, I liberated myself
from the clutches of that damn seatbelt. By now, the urge to take a
breath was almost too much to bear, but I had come so far. Was I going
to quit on the last evolution? Would all of this be for nothing? HELL
NO! With little dexterity and a ton of luck I found the hatch handle.
Out of sheer survival instinct I hurled myself through the hatch and up
to the surface where our instructors eagerly awaited the opportunity to
ridicule those who weren’t as lucky as I.
GRAD WEEK
With water survival behind us some 34 hopeful sailors lined up
in ranks eagerly awaiting their instructors’ orders. Upon arrival, our
instructors informed us that the tempo would not be lackadaisical just
because we had been through hell week and Disney week. We were
marched to the PT field, where we were met with arduous exercise. As
our morale dropped, the Florida sun rose and with the sun came the
heat. Temperatures quickly exceeded 90 degrees Fahrenheit. The air was
so muggy that it could almost be cut with a knife. Humidity was close to
73%. These conditions weren’t by happenstance, I tought to myself, but
instead chosen as torture devices to weed out the weak.
Friday. Finally, graduation day. This was an amazing day. All of my
hard work had paid off. We lined up, patiently awaiting our instructors’
commands. Upon arrival our instructor informed us that we would not
memoir 81
be going straight to the graduation ceremony but we would be going

on a 10-mile graduation run with our brother class. Once again, our
morale was leveled. “10 MILES!” I thought to myself. “Oh my goodness,
I can’t run 10 miles, I can barely get out of bed. Maybe all this is for
nothing. All of my effort, all of my suffering comes down to one run,
our grad run!”
Five miles in, we reached the lighthouse, our midway marker.
“Man, we’re finally halfway done. The light at the end of the tunnel is
actually visible. . . I hope” I think to myself. Our legs were heavy, as if
they were filled with cement. Each step was more painful than the last,
yet we pushed through. I can say with pride in my heart that I did not
give up on that long run even though the thought of quitting was ever
present at the time. Not all of us went on to be Aircrewman, but all of us
did graduate from candidate school together and that is an accomplish-
ment in itself.
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too tired to fail
References:
• https://images.app.goo.gl/9DBQjDwRvrcjLQkm 8
• https://images.app.goo.gl/mvu2b2Ex6Zavix3j9 • https://images.app.
goo.gl/5kWNDJ21BLFYdoT6 A
• https://images.app.goo.gl/3vwH43LYowrFsqf3A • https://images.app.
goo.gl/LVvLAD4AHUX8QTs V8
• https://images.app.goo.gl/CDDQ9AFEVfeYYeyM 7
• https://images.app.goo.gl/d4kDUaKiT9Eg1Tdh 7
• https://images.app.goo.gl/cGiAv9x3Cua3zqBHA
• https://images.app.goo.gl/vxEyX3ZMeWtW2Tgt 98
memoir 83
Rock Waves and Blurry
Photos
zoe stanek
It’s hard to smell the ocean through a mask.

The beach is wet with fresh rain and the lapping of the sea. Rocks
storm the sand in curves, reminiscent of waves. They mirror water until
they wash away or become sand. Pebbles glisten in clusters accompa-
nied by pearlescent shells and shimmering sea glass. There are pine trees
and tall grass and washed up seaweed holding tightly to pools of salt wa-
ter. The wind blows toward the land from far away places and you know
that outside the mask is the smell of the sea. You yearn to pull it off; to
remove the mask for a moment and breathe deeply; to hold the ocean
air in your lungs and never let go.
But you are not alone.
People are scattered across the sand. They stand or sit or sift
through rock waves and although you are distanced you are not apart.
You share the same space and the same breeze, the same smells caught
in cotton shields. Children splash and laugh with energy, enthusiasm
long abandoned. Families frame photos against the sea, their faces
masked: memories of COVID-19.
I stand on the shore of a tiny town on the Washington peninsula.
What was once an active military base, Port Townsend now stands as a
tourist attraction, divided between the wealthy and the outdoorsy. The
downtown is a well-maintained series of independent businesses and
street musicians. The beachfront is a parade of bright white boats and
seaside World War II artilliteries, the latter of which serve as part of the
inactive-military-base-turned-campground.
When we were young, we’d spend hours at the fort, wandering
empty rooms and peeking behind rusted doors. The five of us would
scatter, nothing to guide our paths but the sunlight bleeding through
broken window panes and the feeling of rough concrete walls at our
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rock waves and blurry photos
fingertips. We’d shout “Marco Polo” or sing haunting lulls that would
echo from chamber to chamber. Sometimes we’d sneak up on each other
from behind and there would be a piercing scream followed by roaring
laughter.
Tessa is the oldest of the five of us, 11 months my senior. She was
always delicate with a smattering of freckles. She reminded me of a
wildflower. Gabe, her younger brother and two years younger than my-
self, was adventurous and energetic and any chance he got, he’d throw
his body off of a shallow ledge or plunge into dark corridors. Isabelle,
nine at the time, is the first born of our Aunt Lisa and always had a
stubborn streak that made us far too similar and birthed an abrasion
towards her that lasted unnecessarily long given how close we are now.
Zane, her younger brother, was six at the time and wanted nothing
more than to be like Gabe. My oldest cousin, Jake, the brother of Tessa
and Gabe did not play with us because we were babies in his eyes. My
youngest cousin, Flynn, and brother of Isabelle and Zane was only three
and was not allowed to wander the fort with us.
I had a camcorder then: a 50 dollar red one that fit in the palm of
my hand. I wanted to take artsy pictures or record cinematic master-
pieces. I’d force my cousins to pose across the outside of the structure
and we’d make funny little videos of us disappearing into the dark
depths of the fort. We’d do it over and over again until I thought it was
right and they were happy and willing because we were young and we
had so much love.
I could smell the ocean then. It twinged the inside of my nose and
made my face crinkle and for the life of me I couldn’t understand why
so many people wrote poetry about the sea. From what I saw it was
musty and murky and the smell was not the least bit charming. The sand
wasn’t soft and warm; the beaches were spotted with rock and jagged
seashells and more than one patch of slimy decaying mystery.
Nearing the one year anniversary of the United States’ declaration

of the COVID-19 pandemic, I found myself standing beside a rundown
concrete structure overlooking the sea. This structure, referred to as
Fort Warden, occupied a happy place in my memories. I’d spent days on
shore, running through the sand and exploring the unlit fort passages
with my cousins in tow. Now a few cousins short, two of them in Colo-
rado, and ten years later I am in the same place, masked face.
memoir 85
It’s an early Sunday morning in February and I’m bundled in long

layers and red rain boots because it’s definitely not beach season but I’d
jump at any opportunity to be here with the memories and the smell I
cannot smell. I’m crouched low examining the rock waves and searching
for sea glass crumbs and eventually I am the only person on the beach.
It’s just me and the lapping waves and for a moment, just a moment, I
indulge myself and pull the mask below my chin.
The air is cold against my face and colder in my nose but the smell
is intoxicating. It’s so much better than I remember: 12 years old and
thinking of nothing but rotting seaweed and dying fish. Now I smell the
salt and the wet sand and I think of the way the water has always existed
and how it will continue to exist. Water that is part of a life cycle that
predates human life and although that is scary and daunting it is also
beautiful. It is this beauty that I seek in a year so ugly. I breathe deeply.
A figure approaches me from behind. It’s short and petite, with
lush brown hair and hazel eyes as wide as Bette Davis’. On her head is
the monotone hat I made her for Christmas. It’s my cousin Isabelle,
kind-hearted and college bound. She wears a smile beneath her mask.
“I came to help you get driftwood for your mom,” she says, “I
brought a bag.”
“Oh, I’m done with that now. She gets that bag and if she wants
more than she can come and get it herself.” I point to a plastic grocery
sack bursting with sandy sticks my mother has requested for an art
project. I say this as a half joke because my mother lives in land-locked
Colorado and she has neither the means nor the time to travel to the
coast for sticks but this is neither her first nor last request for beach
commodities. C’est la vie.
Isabelle chuckles, “Okay, then what are you doing now?”
“Sea glass!” I say, squatting down to search the rock waves. Port
Townsend is known for bounties of sea glass, the result of years of
dumping their waste in the ocean. Glass bottles get broken up and
buffed by currents until it washes up on shore, a shiny little pebble.
“Alright,” Isabelle replies. She bends down and plucks a piece off the
ground. It’s green like spring grass, one of the rarer colors. She hands it
to me, “Green.”
“Already?!” I say and by then she’s picked up two more. Isabelle has
a gift. “Damn you.”
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rock waves and blurry photos
She says nothing.

“Where are the boys?” I ask, referring to her two younger brothers.
“Probably eating or talking or being annoying somewhere,” she half
jokes.
“Sounds about right.” We laugh.
I returned with a camera this year, albeit quite different from the
last time. Before, I was obsessed with “perfection” now I am intrigued
by the lack thereof. This new camera is a vintage find with a viewfinder,
a roll of film, and not much else. Every picture is a mystery and every
moment a rarity.
I put the sea glass in my pocket and pull out my camera. “Isabelle,”
I say and she turns around. I press the shutter button and it flashes.
There’s a click and a roar as the film rolls and I hope it captured the
redness of her cheeks and the curve of her eyes. “Thanks.”
Her mask crinkles: she’s smiling.
memoir 87
‘Til Valhalla
ashley strobel
Guide:
Svartalfheim - The realm of the dark elves
Asgard - The realm of the gods
Valhalla / Fólkvangr - Halls of the dead, filled with those who die in
combat. Kept as an army for Ragnarök
Einherjar - The dead of Valhalla
Midgard - The realm of humans
Bifröst - Magical rainbow bridge that connects Asgard to the other
realms Veljal - Vel-yall
Sanðr - Sann-th-er
The fields of dead spread across the valleys of Svartalfheim, and

among them walked two sisters. They just finished fighting against
the dark elves and their duty as Valkyries now stood higher than their
duty to fight the war. Sanðr folded her wings tight against her back and
surveyed the corpses as her sister, Veljal, collected the nearest souls into
her care. The souls always had so many questions, but were respectful
and bowed to the Valkyries for their transport to Valhalla. They were the
chosen dead, fit to join the ranks of the Einherjar and wait ‘til Ragnarök.
“I think this is the last of them,” Sanðr said over the howling winds
around them. It twisted her hair, but her braid remained. Every morn-
ing it was her joy and honor to braid her black hair the way her ances-
tors did.
The sun hid behind clouds of smoke which left an acrid odor over
Svartalfheim. With the war, the clouds weren’t going anywhere soon.
The wind died down as quickly as it arrived, vanishing away somewhere
further down the plain.
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‘til valhalla
“It would seem so,” her sister replied. Veljal’s voice was melodic
with every word—something Sanðr always resented her for.
Sanðr walked over to her sister and brushed off some of the ash
from her gold-plated armor. The souls Veljal had collected twisted
around her and swept her white hair as if they were one with the wind.
Sanðr smiled at Veljal, her blue eyes glimmering with joy, and
nudged her sister’s shoulder. “To Valhalla?”
“Not quite,” Veljal said and stepped over a mass of bodies, making
her way to a hill that had avoided the battle. “Valhalla will be there, but I
want to take a minute.”
“What? Out on the battlefield?” Sanðr chuckled and followed her.
“It’s a holy place; you can leave your laughter in Midgard. We’re
maidens of the slain, and those who die glorious deaths are under our
care. It doesn’t have to be a blaze of glory… it simply has to be any kind
of fight.”
“Well yeah, but I didn’t collect the souls of the dark elves,” Sanðr
replied.
“Precisely. We don’t collect the souls of those who are… hm. Evil?
Even if it is a fight for their homes. Collecting isn’t even our main duty
anymore; Nullian is constantly on the frontlines cleaving dark elves.”
Veljal sat down atop the hill, her gaze sweeping the battlefield. Despite
being the same age, her eyes always carried an age and weariness that
Sanðr’s lacked. “It’s what the Allfather ordered us to do. ,” Veljal contin-
ued. “We’re Valkyries, so we follow him and the Queen in whatever may
happen. Even war.” Veljal shook her head and curled her legs towards
her chest. Sanðr sat down next to her as her sister said quietly, “Blind
obedience is exactly what put us here. We shouldn’t be fighting, Sanðr.
We should only be collecting and holding the souls, then bringing them
to Valhalla or Fólkvangr. That is our duty.”
“Our duty seems to have changed,” Sanðr said and stood up, offer-
ing a hand to help Veljal to her feet. Her sister took it and she hauled her
up.
“Valhalla awaits,” Veljal whispered and angled her head upwards,
preparing to summon the Bifröst to bring them back. Before she could
gather her magic, an arrow tore through Veljal’s shoulder and sent her
toppling to the ground, followed by two more into her wing. Sanðr
fiction 89
pushed in front of Veljal and drew her sword, cutting two arrows down
before they hit her too.
Five dark elves bared their teeth and clambered over a pile of bod-
ies at the base of the hill, three of them wielding bows, two brandishing
swords. Thin armor crafted by the dwarfs clung to their gangly limbs
and body. They charged for Sanðr in one mass, hissing curses on terrible
tongues. They had nothing but hatred in their orange and green eyes.
Sanðr squared herself and breathed in slowly, letting it out in a long
breath as they approached. The world stilled and it was just her and the
elves who harmed her sister. She was a Valkyrie, and she would not fall.
The first two elves fell in a quick sweep of her sword. One of the others
fired an arrow and missed, the shaft landing somewhere behind her. She
closed the distance between them. With five quick cuts, the remaining
elves collapsed to the ground, their bodies still. Sanðr wiped the blood
off her blade and sheathed it back at her side.
Their aim was sloppy. She expected more from a race swearing to
destroy the realms. Sanðr shook her head and turned back to Veljal with
a sneer at the horrible elves; all of them violent and barbaric. The sneer
quickly faded when she beheld the arrow in the back of her sister’s neck.
Sanðr sprinted to her side, rolling her over onto her back. There
was so much blood. How could there have been this much blood from
one wound? No, two wounds. Three wounds. Gods, no.
“Veljal!” Sanðr screamed and shook her sister. “Veljal, get up; we
have to go back home. Veljal!”
A Valkyrie’s soul wasn’t one that could be taken and carried to
Valhalla, but Veljal’s soul remained nearby. Sanðr broke through a sob
and summoned the dregs of her magic to grab Veljal’s soul, hoping the
laws could be broken for once. But they couldn’t, and her soul remained
floating.
“Everything feels… dark. Trapping… Sanðr?” Her sister’s voice
filled her mind, a mere whisper on the wind where her usual melody
was.
“Veljal? Oh gods… oh gods no, no I can’t lose you. I can bring your
soul to Valhalla and visit you there,” Sanðr replied quickly.
“I’m dying,” Veljal replied. She was frighteningly quiet.
Sanðr shook her head and held her sister’s body close to her, her
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‘til valhalla
tears carving paths through the ash staining her face. “I can save you.
I’ve saved plenty of people before. It’s just a few arrows. Please.”
“This is different,” she said. “You don’t have control over my soul. I
wish you did.”
“We’re talking now!” Sanðr screamed in her mind. “I can find a way.
Don’t leave me, Veljal. Please don’t leave me.”
“I will always be with you,” Veljal replied and her soul vanished
from Sanðr’s grip. Sanðr blinked away her tears and looked over her
sister. Maybe her soul had returned. Maybe she was back and they could
sit on the cliff near their village again. But Veljal’s chest was no longer
rising and falling.
Veljal was gone.
~
Smoke singed Sanðr’s eyes, but she kept them open despite the
burning. The other Valkyries left long ago, leaving Sanðr to stand in
silence. She hadn’t removed her eyes from the pyre since her sister’s
corpse was laid upon it. The winds whipped around her in harsh circles,
carrying the smoke up and out over the grassy cliff where Veljal was laid
to rest.
Behind Sanðr sat the small village her brethren remained at for the
time being, an outpost on the edge of Midgard that prevented the dark
elves’ scouting parties. Or so they hoped. It couldn’t protect them on the
battlefield.
Sanðr blew out a breath, trying to find the words to dull the ache in
her heart. “May your soul find rest in the halls of Valhalla. The fields of
the dead are no longer yours to oversee; you belong in the arms of the
einherjar. Find peace my sister, för mjödet flödar I Valhalla.”
Sanðr’s tears poured down her face and she couldn’t stop them from
falling onto the grass. For once in her life, she didn’t want to stop them.
The minutes turned into hours and still Sanðr remained.
The pyre was still burning when she turned around and returned to
the village. She was looking for the Valkyrie in charge, Nullian.
Nullian’s house sat above the others on a hill, small like all of theirs.
The sun bathed the village in a golden glow; it was as if they had never
left Asgard. The gods had offered the Valkyrie better homesteads, or
fiction 91
even to let them remain in their own homes, but they insisted on stay-
ing in their weathered, yet sturdy, homes. Sanðr pushed the door open
with a thrust of her palm and wiped the remaining tears from her eyes.
One thought had pushed her to this tent. One thought had kept her
silent through the funeral: it shouldn’t have happened.
Nullian raised her head from one of the myriad books scattered
across her house, almost equal in number to the swords and shields and
armor. A lone sconce lit the room from the center, casting long shadows
across Nullian’s perfect face.
“Sanðr,” she said by way of greeting. Her eyes, a stunning green
weathered with age, looked up to Sanðr’s. Whereas her sister’s were
naturally ancient, Nullian earned it through her eons in the realms.
“What are you doing here? The funeral is over and you’re not needed in
Svartalfheim. The other Valkyries will oversee your duties until you’re of
sound mind.”
Sanðr clenched her jaw at the dismissal of her sister’s death. “I’m
not here about the war in Svartalfheim. I’m here because my sister died
with an arrow through her throat due to this war.”
Nullian stood up and walked around her desk, stepping closer to
Sanðr. Nullian towered over Sanðr easily, the height still imposing from
a distance. The only ones she didn’t stand over were the Allfather and
Thor, neither of which were here or would ever be here. It was hardly
their war to fight it seemed.
“Veljal’s death was regrettable but it’s a fact of war, even for us. We
are not immune to the conflict that has plagued the realms.”
“Why are we even in this fight?” Sanðr’s voice rose a little and she
began to pace around the foyer. Her eyes locked on Nullian. “The dark
elves have done little more than upset the gods.”
“It is our duty to protect the gods, to claim the souls of the dead and
bring them to the afterlife, and to listen to the order of the Allfather. If
he orders us to the fields of Svartalfheim, then to those fields we will go,”
Nullian snapped back.
“Our duty is to carry the dead to Valhalla and Fólkvangr! We’re not
meant to wage war until the days of Ragnarök!”
Nullian stepped towards Sanðr and pushed her towards a corner of
the room. “Our duties have changed and our traditions have changed.
92 fiction
‘til valhalla
We are warriors fighting a war now, and we will guard and fight whatev-
er the Allfather deems necessary.”
Sanðr laughed and looked Nullian in the eye, stepping away from
her. “Our traditions have so quickly switched to violence and we don’t
really look at what they used to mean anymore. We are Valkyries, maid-
ens of the slain and guardians of the dead. We’re not warriors. But when
the Allfather asked you to turn your back on everything we have ever
held dear, you didn’t even question it.”
Nullian bared her teeth. “Then why don’t you leave it behind?
Clearly you’re faltering as a Valkyrie. Maybe that’s why your sister died.”
“Take that back,” Sanðr ordered and balled her fists, white hot rage
flowing through her blood.
“I won’t take it back, and you know it’s true. Deep down. You don’t
want to talk about it. Though, a true Valkyrie wouldn’t take such slander
to her face.”
“Maybe I’m not your true Valkyrie, whatever that is anymore,”
Sanðr said. “I want to live a life where our duty is to the dead, not to the
living.”
Nullian gestured towards the door and walked back to her desk
with a grin. “No one is stopping you from leaving, Sanðr. Go right
ahead.”
She turned towards the door and made her way out with her lip
curled. Sanðr stopped outside of Nullian’s house and breathed in twice
through her nose, letting it out through her mouth. The anger flowed
out of her and into the earth, leaving only a peaceful calm in its wake.
Sanðr picked up her head, walking out of Nullian’s house with a
clear mind for once. She angled back the way she came, past the Valky-
ries who watched her stalk through their village and to the embers of
the pyre on the edge of everything.
Her sister had once stood here with her on that very cliff. They had
sat and watched the waves, Veljal spouting some nonsense about seeing
the World Serpent’s tail flailing in the cold depths. Sanðr didn’t believe
her then. It circled around the seas of Midgard, why would it be found
in the waves near their village of all the places?
Sanðr began to understand as she sat down, her legs dangling off
the edge of the cliff. The wind threw her hair around her in spirals, al-
fiction 93
most trying to tug it free from her scalp. But it remained rooted. She re-
mained rooted. Sanðr dug her fingers into the grass and closed her eyes.
If she didn’t know any better, she could’ve sworn a gentle hand rested on
top of hers. “I don’t know how to do this without you,” Sanðr whispered
to the winds around her as if they’d answer back as they once had; as
if she could go back to that moment on the battlefield. But Veljal’s soul
was gone. There was no extra time anymore.
“You said you’d always be close but I can’t find you anymore.” She
swallowed a breath and closed her eyes for a moment. “Out there I can
find you… maybe.”
Sanðr stood up and brushed away the dirt from her legs, not daring
to look back at the pyre. If she did, she knew she would never leave; her
grief would swallow her and drag her down with the World Serpent. She
had to keep moving.
“You were right, though,” Sanðr whispered. “Our duty is to the
souls of the slain. Our duty is to those who can’t take care of themselves
but are worthy. I’ll make more of our kin see it, in time.”
Sanðr spread her wings out and let the wind catch them, carrying
her high above the cliffs. She turned herself away from the village and
coiled her magic in her hand to summon the Bifröst to take her to the
fields of war. For the first time in hundreds of years, she wasn’t returning
as a soldier, but as a Valkyrie.
94 fiction
Of Love Clubs
and Bravado
bren swogger
March 10, 2018, 10:30 pm.
There’s nothing quite like the rush of cold air when exiting a hot,
crowded building. For so long, I stood in that crowd of people—all
packed onto the floor, rising to the rafters of the arena, creating a wall of
sweat, screams, claps, cheers, and tears. It all pools in the air, descending
like a muggy cloud upon the masses, raising the temperature to unfor-
givable heights.
When I arrived earlier that evening, I was bundled up in multiple
layers, beanie pulled tightly over my head to conserve the escaping body
heat. But now, jacket off, I welcome the rush of ice-cold air, enveloping
my body and wicking the beaded heat and sweat from my skin.
Hundreds of bodies exit the doors alongside me, a field of noise—
laughter, voices, singing—all swirling around. They all go in multiple
directions, diverging paths to the garage, the train, the now empty, dark,
and damp streets of Portland.
But my night is not over. Weaving through the hustle and bustle,
I make my way to the back of the building where three tour buses are
parked under a blinking street light.
I’d thought there would be more people here, more fans willing to
brave the elements, even if the chances may be slim. But as the minutes
tick on, and the expansive arena campus is emptied, it is only a small
group of us left in the parking lot:
There’s me, my friend Emma, her friend Taylor, and one other per-
son—though he keeps to himself, pacing around on a phone, separated
from our tight-knit group of three.
memoir 95
“How long do you think we should wait?” Emma asks. She’s sitting
close to me on the damp concrete curb, as we try to keep ourselves
warm in the crisp winter air.
I look at my watch again to gauge the time.
11:00.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “But if there’s any chance at all we’ll meet her,
I don’t want to waste it.”
I’ve known Emma for almost two years now. We understand each
other on a level much deeper than many others. We think the same way,
we share the same passions, and she knows how much this moment
means to me. She knows I’d do the same for her.
We sit there in silence for a beat more, keeping a keen eye on the
buses and the backstage doors, for any activity that may be an indication
of things to come.
Emma tucks her hands into her denim jacket. “Let’s give it till mid-
night,” she says.
As the minutes tick by, the memories flood through me.
August 10, 2013.
I’ve been in love with Lorde since the day I first heard her voice—
that sweltering summer day in the rurals of Oregon. My friends and I
were all packed into our friend’s mom’s van, the air conditioning blast-
ing cold air onto our faces, as sweat trickled down the back of my suit.
We were on our way to a wedding. I believe it was a cousin—or a family
friend? The wedding itself is not the part I remember most. What I do
remember, clear as if it happened yesterday, was when that song came
on the radio.
As the scenes of rural farmland rolled by through the window,
everything else around me seemed to stop. It was just me and the music.
A simple, yet captivating drum beat. That low, sultry voice. My breath
stopped. I listened. Before the song reached its final notes, I managed to
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of love clubs and bravado
take out my phone. “Royals” by Lorde, it informed me. Thank god for
Shazam.
November 19, 2013.
I’m in my childhood best friend’s bedroom. We’re sprawled out on

her bed, Soundcloud open on her laptop next to us, as Lorde sings of
love clubs and bravados.
After I first heard “Royals,” my best friend and I went down a rabbit
hole of her music, basking in the awe of every song we could find. The
passion grew deep, leading us to create a Tumblr fan account.
Just days before, a dream began to take shape. Lorde was coming to
Portland, and we got tickets. It was truly a miracle. The whole show sold
out in less than a minute. But with the show on the horizon, we decided
to take a chance. We messaged her about the show from our Tumblr
account.
“Can we meet you after the concert?” we asked.
As we sat there on the bed, the message open next to us on the lap-
top, the music filtering into our ears, another sound came through the
laptop speaker. A new message awaits. As we looked toward the screen,
our jaws went slack.
“For sure,” Lorde replied. “Try to always X.”
December 4, 2013.
We never did meet her that year. But that night, packed into the
Crystal Ballroom, hanging on to the barricade and screaming those
songs at the top of my lungs, was a night I’ll never forget.
memoir 97
March 10, 2018, 11:30.
It’s the middle of the night, and the still unknown fourth man, tired
of pacing around, waiting for something that might not even come,
decides to call it a night.
“I think I’m gonna head out you guys,” he says.
We say our goodbyes, tell him to have a good night, and return to
our waiting game.
Now, we’re down to three.
We’ve been spending the past hour in the middle of this parking
lot, alternating positions between sitting on the curb, standing up, and
pacing around. Though the weather is cold, and the heat from the crowd
has dissipated into the winter air, it is at least dry and clear. We’re com-
fortable here, and our hopes still have not diminished.
Every once in a while, a crew member will come out of the build-
ing carrying equipment to the truck or going in and out of the tour bus
parked behind us. The bus hasn’t officially left, which leads us to believe
that neither has Lorde. We hope that she’s still here somewhere. And
maybe she knows we’re here too.
We’ve tweeted at her, letting her know where we are. But, of course,
no response has been made. But we still sit, and wait, and hope for the
best.
Sitting on the curb, scooted in close to Emma, we scroll through
98 memoir
the camera rolls on our phones, reliving the small moments of the show
from just hours before. Lights flash, music blares from the screens of
our iPhones. Somewhere in the background, hidden beneath the boom-
ing bass and vocals pouring from the stage, we can hear our own voices,
singing along at full volume.
In scrolling through, I happen upon a photo from a different show.
Less than a year ago, my long-awaited reunion with Lorde. As the mem-
ories play fondly in my head, I tap on the thumbnail...
September 2, 2017.
...and I’m there again, dancing in a stadium in Seattle, green lights

flooding the field, fireworks electrifying the air.
It had been a long four years of waiting. After her first album and
the tours it sparked, she went into hiding—a long hiatus in which her
fans’ hunger for more music continued to grow insatiable.
We waited, and waited, and waited. We listened to her first album,
looping on repeat to fill the void we felt. Then, one day in 2017, the
drought finally ended.
That was the year we got Melodrama. I remember vividly the first
time I heard “Green Light,” once again in a car, driving through winding
country roads with my windows rolled down.
My first listen through the album was another moment I’ll never
forget. Closing the door to my bedroom, I turned off all the lights, put
my headphones in, and listened all the way through—dancing like
nobody was watching, laying on the bed to soak in the more tender
moments, feeling every little emotion she had packed into these eleven
songs.
When I’d seen her name in big, bold white letters on the top of the
Bumbershoot Music Festival poster, I knew I couldn’t wait for another
opportunity. Four years since the last time I saw her was long enough. I
bought a ticket as soon as I could.
That September, with my friend Amelia in tow, we trekked up to
Washington State for our reunion with Lorde. We both planned our
memoir 99
outfits impeccably, brandishing as much Lorde merch as we could. We

blasted her music on the radio the whole drive up—singing every word,
both of us imagining what this night would bring.
We made our way into the stadium early that night, snaking our
way through gaps in the crowd, through drunk frat boys and the smell
of alcohol as Weezer played their set on stage. By the time the sun had
set and the hour was finally upon us, we had managed to find a snug
spot only a few rows back from the barricade.
It all felt like a dream, a hallucination that, if I blinked a little too
hard, would fade away. But I managed to hang on, stay in the dream for
just a moment longer until the lights went down, the bass boomed out,
and she was there again, standing on the stage in front of me, just as she
was four years before.
I wanted to meet her that night too—had thought about trying, but
to find an artist at a festival is a bigger beast than at a venue with only
a few stage doors. Luckily, after the hour we spent in that crowd—the
lights, the fireworks, the music, the people, and the tears it made me
shed—I felt a sense of satisfaction.
After all, I would have another chance. And next time, I wouldn’t
pass it up. Next time, I’d do everything it took.
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March 10, 2018, 11:58.
The minutes quickly passed. We told ourselves midnight would be

our cutoff. We didn’t want to leave too late. Emma and Taylor had to
drive back to Eugene, and they couldn’t risk postponing that two-hour
drive any later. We were only moments away, and we hadn’t seen much
activity. Still, a small flicker of hope kept me alight.
I scrolled through Twitter, waiting—possibly—for a response to my
tweet to her, or some kind of indication of something to come: a post
from her account, a picture from the show, another fan spotting her
miles away elsewhere. Anything to either crush my hopes or surge them.
My eyes flicked to the time in the upper-left corner of my screen.
11:59.
I know it’s a superficial thing. After all, she’s just a person. But her
music has been a constant for me—through all these years, trying to
figure out where in the world I felt I belonged. Every step of the way, her
voice and her words have gotten me through. More than anything else,
those words she messaged me all those years ago: “try to always.” Those
words that told me no matter what the chances may seem, if there’s an
opportunity in front of me, I had to take it. They lead me to some of
the most meaningful moments of my life—moments of impossibilities
I’d never dreamed of—and every time I look down at my arm, at those
words forever on my skin, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come.
After everything she’d done—without even knowing—I wanted…
no, I needed the chance to thank her.
“We should probably head out soon,” Emma said. She and Taylor
were starting to shuffle a bit on the curb, getting ready to make our
move back to the garage and begin our drive home. But I stayed put.
Just a second longer. There was still time. Who knows what could hap-
pen in a second…
memoir 101
March 11, 2018, midnight.
“Hey, you guys!”

That voice. I knew that voice. I looked up from my phone.
There she was, walking toward us out of the shadow of the parking
garage, surrounded by a group of security. She wore a black tour hood-
ie—the same one I’d been eyeing at the merch stand earlier that night.
Her long dark hair was straightened, waving behind her as she strode
toward us, smile beaming.
Time seemed to stop. The air around me was gone. I don’t quite
remember telling my body to move. I just remember standing up, and
suddenly moving—seemingly floating—toward her. I don’t remember
what I said, what was happening around me at all. I just remember my
arms opening, her arms opening, and suddenly the gap between us was
closed.
And those five years of waiting finally came to an end.
It felt like reuniting with an old friend, even though we had never
met before. Her arms wrapped around me, her head nestled into my
shoulder. We stood there together for what might have been only a sec-
ond, but it felt like forever. It felt like five years of time closing around
us. A world of impossibilities finally standing there under the street-
light.
My emotions welled up within me. I felt time start to move forward
again. Before I let go, I said softly, with my whole heart packed into
those two words:
“Thank you.”
The next minute went by like a whirlwind. Emma and Taylor came
over, they exchanged some words. She smiled at us, gave us all hugs,
hung close by as we all shuffled to take out our phones. I tried to begin
to explain everything I wanted to say: hearing her for the first time, her
message on Tumblr, seeing her in 2013, her words tattooed on my arm.
There was so much to unravel, and only a moment to do it. My mouth
opened, the words began to form on my tongue…
“We have to get going,” one of the security guards interrupted. “We
102 memoir
can’t talk. Just pictures. No autographs.”

And so, my speech cut short, I settled for a photograph. She leaned
in again, both of our smiles beaming, and a single moment in time was
captured in a series of pixels.
It wasn’t the greatest photo. No single selfie, no pixel or image could
capture the five years of emotions that lead to it all. But that moment—
that one impossible moment, born of her words that told me to never
give up, to take the chance, to try to always. That moment will mean
more to me than anybody will ever understand.
memoir 103
Battle Hymn of the
Snowmen
haley taylor
“It looks like a murder scene,” Megan gasped as the four of us stared
at the spot where our snowman, Gregoria, had stood the day before.
One giant snowball remained in place with the deep imprint of a boot
where someone had repeatedly kicked it. Her head was in pieces behind
it. We could just make out the remains of her smile and an ear amidst
the carnage. What was once the middle part of her body was now little
piles of snow a few inches away. An arm was close by, sitting at an odd
angle where it must have fallen when she was attacked.
The scene of the crime

We stood in silence for a moment, trying to process what had just
happened. Megan began investigating the remains and I could almost
see the gears turning in her mind. “Who do you think did it?” she asked.
As I scanned the area, as if hoping to catch the long-gone culprit, I
noticed the other snowmen. There was a little one sitting on the nearby
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battle hymn of the snowmen
bench, another one off in the distance on top of a trash can, and a large
one over by Walter Hall. All of them stood proudly, perfectly intact. “All
of the other snowmen are fine,” I pointed out, angrily. “This seems like a
targeted attack.”
“Someone must have seen my Instagram post,” Megan concluded.
“I follow a lot of Pacific people. Anyone could’ve seen it.” As she began
listing people to consider as suspects, I thought back to the previous
day, wondering who would’ve gone out of their way to murder Gregoria
in cold blood.
-----
It was a cold Saturday afternoon in February of our freshman year
of college. We had just finished eating lunch and there was a few inches
of snow on the ground for only the second time that winter. Being
the child at heart that I am, I really wanted to play in the snow. It was
the perfect day for it, so Maddy, Lanie, and I bundled up and headed
outside. We did pretty much all of the normal snow day things. We
had a snowball fight, made snow angels, and had a competition to see
who could throw a snowball the highest on one of the exterior walls of
Walter Hall (I lost). Finally, we decided to build a snowman. He was on
the smaller side, with pieces of pinecone for eyes, a rolled leaf for a nose,
a small stick for a mouth, grass for hair, and larger sticks for arms.
Lanie, Maddy, and I with Gregory
memoir 105
We took a picture of him and sent him to Megan, who was at her
speech and debate tournament. She promptly named him Gregory.
After we had finished building Gregory and taking a lot of pictures, we
decided to head back inside, since we knew we’d probably be going back
outside once Megan’s tournament got over.
About a half hour later, the group chat that the four of us had with a
couple of other friends exploded:
(Maddy) Gregory is dead…some guys just knocked him down
(Megan) NOOOOOOOO
MY HEART
(George) Nooo! Not Gregory!
(Me) I’m not surprised, just disappointed
(Megan) We need to make a sign in Gregory’s memory
(Maddy) I just looked out my window and watched a guy take a bat
to his head and it went flying into pieces and then he kicked the rest of
him down. Why are people so violent smh
(Jakob) THATS SO MEAN OMG
(Megan) You literally witnessed a murder
(Maddy) I find it so sad that it’s so easy for some people to just
come in and destroy something that another person spent a lot of time
on, it’s just heartless
And he was a freaking cute snowman too!!!
Despite what I told the others, I was shocked. Obviously, snowmen
don’t last forever, but I’d thought Gregory would last more than an
hour after we built him. Once I thought about it, it wasn’t so surprising.
Guys can be jerks sometimes and college guys even more so. It’s not
outside the realm of possibility that some college freshman got some
sick enjoyment out of destroying our hard work. I should have expected
it, but I didn’t. I was used to building a snowman in the safety of my
yard, where I would watch it slowly melt away with the rest of the snow.
I hadn’t thought about the snowman murder hotspot that is a college
campus. However, there wasn’t anything I could do about it other than
just move on with my day. A couple of hours later, Megan got out of
her tournament and she wanted to have some fun in the snow. Maddy,
Lanie, and I joined her, and the four of us made our way to the south
106 memoir
part of campus, away from the spot where Gregory had stood. As we
walked, we admired the other snowmen that people had made. One of
the snowmen even had a mask made out of leaves. As we made snow
angels, Megan suggested making another snowman. “It can be Gregory’s
little sister, Gregoria. She’s upset that her brother was murdered and
she’s gonna avenge his death!”
We laughed in agreement and set to work. Gregoria was much big-
ger than Gregory, probably around 4’6” or so, and we spent a long time
putting her together. We added a lot of detail to Gregoria, including
eyelashes and ears. In the end, she looked pretty cool and we were very
excited about our creation.
Gregoria with the four of us
Megan, our resident storyteller, made up a long, elaborate backstory

for Gregoria as we built. The story went that Gregoria felt the death of
her brother, Gregory, before she was even created, and once we built
her, her only goal was to get revenge for her brother’s murder. We had a
lot of fun imagining Gregoria, the avenger of murdered snowmen, who
would fight back against the horrible college guys who went around
destroying things. I could picture Gregoria sneaking up behind the
murderers, freezing whenever they turned to look at her so that they
wouldn’t expect anything.
When we had finished Gregoria, we took some pictures, had a
memoir 107
quick snowball fight, and headed inside. Megan, Lanie, and I all posted
about Gregoria on Instagram, proclaiming her the avenger and protec-
tor of all Pacific snowmen. It was a fun day, and we thought that was the
end of the story. Boy, were we wrong.
-----
“I could understand it when Gregory got destroyed,” I said finally.
“I didn’t like it, obviously, but it’s not like someone went out of their way
to ruin our days or anything. It happens, you know. Whatever. But this
just feels mean.”
Lanie wondered aloud, “Why would someone just go out of their
way to destroy only our snowman? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“People are just the worst sometimes,” Maddy agreed.
Megan reported the sad news to our group chat:
(Megan) GREGORIA WAS BRUTALLY MURDERED
(Jakob) This is outrage
We just riot
(Megan) Yes
One of our own was taken
An eye for an eye
(Jakob) That’s two of your own
(Me) We think this was a targeted attack. Multiple other snowmen
were in the area and they were completely fine
(Lanie) Smh. People.
“I’m genuinely upset about this,” I admitted later as we hung out in
the common room. “It was just so unnecessary. I could be okay with it
if other snowmen were destroyed, too, but it really seems like someone
went out of their way to get to us.”
“I know, right?” Lanie agreed. “People are just the worst some-
times.”
“I really want to know who did it,” Megan said. “I wonder if we
could figure it out.”
“Probably not. Not unless someone admits to it,” Maddy replied.
108 memoir
“If I ever find out who did this,” I declared, “we’re gonna have
words.”
We never did find out who the snowman murderer was, at least
not yet. Maybe years from now someone will admit to it, but I kind of
doubt it. It makes me kind of sad that there are people out there who go
out of their way to ruin people’s days like that, but I’m not going to let
those kinds of people stop me from having fun with my friends. When
it snows next winter, we’re going to build another snowman anyway.
Maybe that snowman will finally help us get revenge on the murderers
roaming campus. More likely, that snowman will get destroyed, too. At
least it will be a fun story to tell.
memoir 109
The Adventures of Rax
ethan won
“In the name of Akhar I banish you, unholy beasts!” The paladin,
clad in full plate armor with white robes flowing from underneath,
shouts as he catches another goblin square in the face with his warham-
mer, sending him sprawling to the ground, lifeless.
“You seem to be having way too much fun with this, priest!” An-
other one of their party shouts over the carnage. Goblins are running
in all different directions, many of them running to fight… and others
running away. The usually dark and grimy cave is lit by fire and tinted
red from the blood of goblins. I finally come to my senses after being
caught in the blast of a fireball. There is still a ringing in my ears as I
stumble to my feet.
“Rax, you have to run!” I faintly hear my dad Gork, chief of the
clan, yell out. He stands strong with a sword in his hand, but I can see
the worry on his face. Although, the deep frown lines always made him
hard to read.
I try to respond to him, but no words come out of my mouth. I turn
and run, slipping on the crimson stained floor. As I approach the exit
of the cave, I turn my head to look back and I see my dad with a dagger
through his back, blood staining his green skin. A hooded man stands
over him and removes the blade. I try to call out, but again nothing but
air comes out of my mouth. My legs become heavy, like they have been
filled with sand, and I drop to my knees. I can’t see anything but my
dad’s body: his eyes are wide open, and his scarred face is permanently
locked in that look of shock.
My eyes fly open, and I take a huge gasp of cold air. My heart is
beating out of my chest as I sit up, hugging my knees. It’s been nearly a
month since our clan was attacked. The assailants are being praised as
heroes who cleared out the land of evil. The land that used to belong
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the adventures of rax
to my family is now being settled by man and elven kind. A few of the
survivors and I have established a small camp where we eat and sleep.
We hunt together and take care of one another as we try to get to Hala, a
nearby tribe of goblins. Our clans were rivals, but we hope that they will
take us in when they hear about what happened. There are about ten
of us in total. Skar, Tiere, Rakar, and I are the forward party who make
sure the way is clear, and the rest trail a distance behind us, carrying
supplies and shelter.
“Another nightmare?” I look for the voice and I see Skar getting
up from her bedroll across from mine. Her black hair hangs messily
in front of her face. Skar and I were childhood friends; she is always
looking out for me. I don’t know where I would be if she didn’t make it
out of the cave with me.
“Yeah, they don’t stop.” I’ve had nightmares nearly every night since
the attack. Almost every time, it is the same replay of the raid against
my clan. Sometimes it is exactly how the real thing happened, but most
of the time it comes in brief flashes of chaos and I can’t do anything to
help. The worst part is that every time, I can’t do anything to change
what happened. I can never warn people, or take action. I can only
watch. Just like I did on that day. “At this point, I’m not sure that they
will ever stop.”
“You can’t think like that! We are going to get through this,” she
reassures me. “We will get to Hala in a few days, and then we can have
normal lives.”
“I know, it’s just, what have we done that’s so wrong?” I feel my

frustrations all rising to my head. “We hunt to feed ourselves, and fight
to protect our land. We are not that different from the elves or humans,
but still when we fight an invading group, we are the monsters, and they
are the heroes. It’s not right!”
“It’s not, but that is our life, whether it is right or not. Since they
refuse to learn our language, and we don’t have the resources to learn
fiction 111
theirs, our only choice is to fight back. Which in the end just makes
them hate us more. It’s a shitty cycle, and I don’t see a way to break it.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s better just not to think about it.” The sun is rising
at this point, and we get up to break camp. Tiere and Rakar, who were
keeping watch, come to join us, and the others begin to wake up. We
finish breaking down the camp, and head east through the grasslands.
On the trail, we pass a group of humans hunting for food and leather.
They wear hoods that have a mix of green and brown to help them to
hide in foliage, along with heavy boots leaving their imprint on our land
as they carelessly walk through.
“Ignore them, we have to keep moving.” Rakar says. I look at the
group and see the disgust on their face as we pass.
“We can’t stop.” I hear Skar whisper in my ear. We keep moving.
After a day of travelling, we stop for camp again.
“We’ll get to Hala tomorrow, but tonight, we rest.” Rakar explains to
the group. Rakar is two years older than the rest of us, so he has become
a sort of makeshift leader for our group. We break out our bedrolls, and
I take the first shift on lookout. After a few hours, Tiere takes my po-
sition, and I prepare myself to be embraced by nightmares once again.
Nearly as soon as my eyes close, I am back to that day from one month
ago.This time, it is different. As the armored man hits his first target,
flames dance out from his hammer. And suddenly--
“Fire! Fire!” The invaders are unfazed by the fire, but the other gob-
lins are panicked. “Fire! Fire!” I hear again, but slightly louder this time.
The paladin strikes a goblin with his hammer. Something is wrong, the
fire grows hotter, and I am frozen in place. “Fire! Fire!” The shouting
grows louder as my father is stabbed. “Fire…”
I am shaken awake, leaving that hellscape, only to find a new one.
I look around and see our tent has been set alight. The shelter around
Skar and I is ready to collapse, and I can hear Rakar and Tiere outside
trying to put it out. “What do we do?” Skar asks with panic in her voice.
She is right next to me, and must be the one who woke me up.
“I-I don’t know,” I respond. I feel like I am still in my nightmare,
unable to wake up. I come to my senses and decide to hold one bedroll
in front of me, like the shield of a legionnaire, and have Skar hold one
above the two of us for protection as we ram the entrance. One of the
supports for the shelter gives off a loud CRACK! as it snaps, and the
112 fiction
the adventures of rax
roof sags down lower, bringing the thick layer of smoke even closer.
“One… Two…” We burst through the entrance, and behind us the

tent collapses. We do a search to see how many resources, or even lives,
we lost. Thankfully, no one died, but a lot of our rations were burnt, and
water used to put out the fires. There are remains of tents all over, and a
small patch of foliage looks disturbed. Leading off into the woods are a
trail of boot prints.
fiction 113
nainoa akau
Nainoa Akau was born and raised in Kapolei, Hawaii. He currently is a

Pacific University (Oregon) undergraduate who plays for the Boxers’ Col-
lege football team. He plans to study Business and is currently learning
the Japanese Language to further his career opportunities, specifically
aiming at going abroad to work and play American football in Japan.
kylee ancheta-maeda
Kylee is a small town girl that lives on a rock in the middle of the Pacific
Ocean. She is an adventure seeker that loves to be surrounded by nature.
When she’s home people think that she’s part mermaid because of the
amount of time she spends in the water. She also plays softball and has
been playing since she was 5 years old and is currently playing for
Pacific’s softball team.
sagel bush
Sagel Bush is a first-year college student who loves challenges. This

attempt at an adult loves wrestling and having every part of her
body sore. She may complain about it but she wouldn’t want it any
other way. She is drawn to the camaraderie on the wrestling mat and
friendships made in bathrooms.
rhylee corpuz
Rhylee Corpuz grew up on the Big Island of Hawai’i. She is currently

playing volleyball as a Pacific Boxer and pursuing a major in Biology.
She will possibly minor in something that she isn’t sure of yet, but
what’s the rush when there is so much more to come in life?
bryant hayden
Bryant Hayden is passionate about music. His setbacks in life have

only served to strengthen him. For an art major he has a surprising
interest for computers. When he isn’t studying you’ll probably find
him working.
114 contributor bios

tristan maningo
Tristan Maningo is a simple creature. When he isn’t busy doing

homework, going to class, or doing something football related, you
can find him dwelling in a dark room, playing his Xbox, surrounded
by a sea of leftover take out food, and his friends begging him to
leave his room.
jace filip rodriguez
Jace Filipo Rodrigues is a first year student at Pacific University,

coming all the way from Waianae Hawaii. He’s a nice dude to be
around unless you’re against him on the field—then he’s your worst
nightmare. He wants to major in Environmental Science.
sophia lewis
Sophia Lewis grew up in Northern California. She attends Pacific University,
in Oregon, where she is pursuing a writing career. As a freshman, she’s de-
clared her Creative Writing major with plans to minor in Editing and Pub-
lishing, and possibly film studies. In her freetime she can be found hanging
out with her friends or doing something creative. She hasn’t achieved much
with her writing yet, but she is excited to excel at Pacific.
georgie luiso-knuckles
Georgie Luiso-Knuckles genuinely believes she should have been

born a worm. In a good way.
emma peterson
Unable to leave the dreary and fantastical Pacific Northwest of her child-
hood, Emma Peterson has found herself in the labyrinth that is her first
year at Pacific University. She can be found rambling about everything
from the narrowness of the Western literary canon to the cuteness of
otters. Though she tends to go from one existential crisis to another, she
trusts she will eventually find the string to lead her out of the labyrinth.
contributor bios 115

george rickets
George Ricketts is currently studying Creative Writing at Pacific Univer-
sity. He is a metalhead, poet, drummer, total fanboy of pacific northwest
weather, and lover of mystery books, movies, and tv shows. Ricketts also
enjoys hanging out with his friends and family. While he is usually filled
to the brim with crippling anxiety from pondering the future, Ricketts
is abnormally eager to see what is in store for him. . . probably doggy
cuddles, metal concerts, and lots of deliciously meaty burgers.
ronald robertson
Ronald Robertson is from San Francisco California and has found
himself majoring in Business Administration with a minor in Com-
munications at Pacific University, where he is currently a freshman.
If you don’t see Ronald’s head in those books, you most likely can
find him on a football or baseball field, being a very outspoken lead-
er, trying to help his team feel more like family, and win games!
drew sherman
Drew Sherman lives a quiet life full of explosions and high energy
action. After a long day of saving the world he hangs his hat and
focuses on the simple things in life like rocket science. After hours
of grueling and selfless world saving he trains to be the first man to
make the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs.
zoe stanek
Born in the plains of Nebraska and raised in high desert Colorado, Zoe
Stanek has found her place among the trees in Oregon’s Pacific
Northwest. A lover of bread, magic, and whimsy, Zoe enjoys creating.
She is a painter, potter, and writer. She will graduate in 2022 with a BA
in Creative Writing and on the eve of her 23rd birthday she will become
Godzilla.
ashley strobel
Born and raised in Oregon, Ashley has always found a love for the
nature around her and the rainy days that occupy the latter part of
the year. Even with a wonderful world around her, she finds herself
diving into worlds people have created, time and time again. From
books, to shows, to games, all of it interests her and inspires her to
work for a Creative Writing degree.
116 contributor bios

bren swogger
Bren Swogger is a Libra, and therefore, very indecisive. This explains
a lot about them as a person. Bren likes to write, but can’t decide
what they want to write about, so they’ll just continue to write every-
thing they can until they can’t write anymore. Bren is also 23 years
old and lives in Oregon City with their family, two cats, one dog, and
one hedgehog. These are facts, so Bren doesn’t have to decide.
haley taylor
Haley Taylor is studying Creative Writing at Pacific University.

When she doesn’t have her nose stuck in a book, she enjoys coming
up with weird stories, taking random aesthetic pictures, and crush-
ing her friends at Mario Kart Wii.
ethan won
Ethan Won is a freshman from Kaneohe, Hawaii. He thinks he is an

entertaining person and can act, but 5 failed auditions say different-
ly. He generally has no clue what he’s doing but he hopes you like his
little story. He will graduate in 2024 with a degree in [REDACTED].
contributor bios 117

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STORIES

Published by Barnes and Noble Printers in 2021

Cover design by George Rickets, Drew Sherman, and Zoe Stanek

Interior layout by Zoe Stanek

Typography: Quatro Slab, Minion Pro

Publisher’s Cataloging Information

Printed in the United States

BUILDING OPPORTUNITIES OUT OF NOTHING by nainoa akua 4

FLY FREE by kylee ancheta-maeda 6

FUCK MY LIFE IN NEW YORK by sagel bush 9

THE JOURNEY OF THE LAST PICK 16

THE OPERATION AND A HALF by bryant hayden 24

THE TRISTAN EXPERIENCE by tristan maningo 30

THE CHILDREN OF MOTHER by sophia lewis 34

WHILE WE WATCHED HIM HEAL by georgie luiso-knuckles 48

THE GIRL I USED TO BE by emma peterson 52

THE LITERAL UNTOUCHABLES by george rickets 59

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE REMEMBERED FOR? 70

TOO TIRED TO FAIL by drew sherman 76

ROCK WAVES AND BLURRY PHOTOS by zoe stanek 84

‘TIL VALHALLA by ashley stroebel 88

OF LOVE CLUBS AND BRAVADO by bren swogger 95

THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE SNOWMEN by haley taylor 104

THE ADVENTURES OF RAX by ethan won 110

I’m delighted to introduce this wonderful collection of work from the

The anthology features storytelling at its best, through personal essays,

Nainoa Akau’s narrative “Building Opportunities about Nothing” is a

Several students produced powerful, dynamic, and thought-provoking

Thank you for reading.

Dr. Keya Mitra

eic: keya mitra 3

Nearing the beginning of the end, roughly halfway through my

haven’t noticed before.

On nights we spent at the beach it was a tradition we had that

“Why are you joining wrestling?”

locker room and they knew it.

Finally, the opportunity to be rolled, kicked, flung and saved. One’s

that even possible?” “Surely I won’t be walking for a while,” I thought as

Surgery day was near.

vember and until then, I enjoyed summer.

The Hospital Again

“Yeah, I heard it. Me and everyone else around.”

Mother had brought humankind to the brink of extinction, and

one seemed particularly curious by their presence or how they arrived.

locking on the neat stack of linens left by her discarded jacket.

Our dad had a divorce playlist.

Supertramp’s “Downstream” were burned into my mind. I had grown

sometimes one of those too-familiar songs decides to play. He goes to

My skin was once inhabited by a perform-

that Asian-American communities feel. But it emphasizes that this girl

stories and snacks over a short lunch period.

eryone and everything now because if she trusts

“What’s new on the homefront, Gatekeeper?” Gabe settles back into

“You first,” Jude says to CJ.

and thought: is this what I want to be remembered for?

The Florida sun kissed my skin and I felt my body temperature

Class of Aircrew Candidates after water survival training

Students and Instructors in Water Survival Pool

Water Survival – Tread and Float

Water Survival has to be one of the toughest parts of Aircrewman

Helicopter Crash Simulator

be going straight to the graduation ceremony but we would be going