​The Possibility, the Dream and the Broken Heart
Miriam Crow

I think one of the most frustrating things was that I knew it was a possibility.  I’d read that about twenty percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage, but I did not think it applied to me.  I had taken the necessary precautions: avoided referring to myself as pregnant, knocked on wood and generally avoided the evil eye.  My vindication was that my mom had never lost a baby; my family was obviously hardcore baby making machines.  I was taking vitamins, I stopped drinking caffeinated beverages, cut down on pop, increased my vegetables and cut down on fast food—except for my obsession with stuffed crust pizza.  It was the best diet I had ever been on because I was not doing it for myself; I was going to give this child the absolute best head start possible.  She was going to be the first of my perfect children: she’d speak full sentences at six months, walk at nine, read at a year and a half, and do long division by her second birthday.  She would be born with a laser cannon in her chest—because that would be awesome—and we would teach her the way of the Jedi, about the one ring, Hogwarts,  Narnia, to always be polite to dragons and to be polite in general.  She would be creative, imaginative and talented, but at the same time grounded enough that she would grow up to be an actuary, engineer or biologist.She was going to grow into a well-rounded, enjoyable, smart, beautiful woman.

​

And then the little squish monster died on me.

I tried to logic away the sadness at first: there would be another, now was not a good time, it was always a possibility.  It was always a possibility.  It was always a stupid possibility that this would freaking happen.  And the logic I started with turned into anger because I needed a reason for why she had died; it couldn’t have just happened.  I was mad at my house because there was incorrect plumbing, so obviously the house had poisoned my baby with sewer gas.  I’d worked doubles the past weekend, the strain on my back had damaged my baby.  Obesity could be a factor, so my fat butt had squished my baby.  There could have been a chromosomal error in the egg.  My womb was a caustic tomb incapable of nurturing a precious, delicate infant!
 

I even had horrifying dreams where we sat facing each other.  She looked like a cross between a jelly fish and a piece of chewed gum, and she stared at me with glazed, dead fish eyes.   Maggots dropped from my decaying uterus while zombie-worm babies crawled in the background, waving their segmented arms.  They looked at me through empty eye sockets with disdain and judged me unworthy.



I cannot remember if I woke up crying or if I jerked awake with my heart racing.  It made me so bitter; who were they to judge me?  My pregnant co-worker had not even given up smoking but her baby decided to stick with her.  Why was she so much better even though she was pumping herself full of toxins every break?  I even started blaming the baby.  I wanted to know why she didn’t love me nearly as much as I loved her.  Just because I had high hopes for her didn’t me that I wouldn’t be proud of her no matter what she did.  I was resentful of my dogs; I got mad when someone would refer to them as my children.  I would bitterly think, “They are not my children.  I did not give birth to them.  I’m not good enough to have children.  My own baby didn’t want me.”  Sometimes I would move if one of them would sit on the couch next to me.  Their affections seemed stifling.  I was sad; I just wanted to lie there and be left alone, but I didn’t really want to be left alone either.



Eventually I went online to find a community that would understand me.  And I got mad at them too.  Every post sounded so sad.  They were so broken down and wretched, pitiable.  I was livid because I did not want to be a victim.  I wanted revenge on something.  I wanted to know what caused this so I could do something to change it –file an injunction, write to my senator, rip the wings off the chaos butterfly that did this to me—not just accept that life wasn’t fair sometimes.  I wanted to write angry responses on their threads demanding to know why they were just accepting this and why weren’t they fighting? Why weren’t there 20,000 women marching down the street, swinging baseball bats?  Why was there nothing we could avenge ourselves against?



I finally realized I was doing it to myself.   The baby was not making me feel bad.  She’d gone off to her eternal reward and was not whispering in my ear for acts of vengeance.  In a way, we were complete strangers; I had an imagined relationship with her and she did not even know I existed.  She did not make me eat all that grief food, gain all that grief weight and she is not why my body stopped resetting every month.   I should go back to the gym, start taking my vitamins again and quite drinking caffeine again.  But I cannot seem to do this for myself.

I keep ruminating.  Sometimes I feel the need to pack up and take a trip, maybe go on a vision quest and find myself.  I am bothered by the thought of not being able to fix myself, but I do not really think a trip is going to help.  Finding myself is not the problem.  A piece of my heart is missing and no amount of travel—or running away from my feelings or problems—will help.  Logically, the only thing that will help is time.  And that makes me angry.





Winter
By: Taryn Sims



I always find that my evenings are subtly wasted as I pretend to get things done. That night, I curled up on the couch after work with a novel and a cup of tea. Over an hour later, I had managed to finish three pages, and my tea was only half gone. Apparently, examining the wallpaper was a more rewarding use of my time.

Dead trees scratched at my apartment window like a dog stuck out in the cold. I left my cocoon of blankets on the couch and shuffled over to the pillowed nook. I pulled back the curtain and was greeted by gnarled, twisted branches, stripped of all their leaves. An icy wind swirled through the empty streets. Rain glittered on the pavement like an abandoned dance floor after a wedding reception. The sun had set just minutes ago, leaving traces of orange fading on the blackening horizon. Cold air crept through the cracks in the window pain. I shivered and closed the curtains once more.

My book was laying on the coffee table, binding up, pages bent outward. I was no longer interested in reading, so I switched on the local news. The forecast was dreary for days to come. I pictured myself stuck inside my small apartment with endless books and little motivation. If only I enjoyed reading like my mother. She could pick up a book and sit quietly for hours until it was finished. I never understood where she found her patience.



I brought my mug of lukewarm tea into the kitchen to reheat it. I realized that it was almost eight o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten any dinner. I think the cold weather causes me to lose my appetite. I’m always thinner during the winter months.



I spent the next two hours flipping through channels, never finding anything to watch. Five after ten, my queen sized bed and excessive amount of pillows were calling my name.  I proceeded with my usual nightly routine: lock the front door, close the curtains, check to make sure the windows are secure, and turn off the lights, with the exception of one small bulb over the kitchen sink.​
 

I can’t remember the exact time I woke up, but I know it was around two a.m. I sat straight up, tangled in sheets with my heart pounding. I looked around my small room and blinked a few times to adjust to the darkness. I fumbled for my bedside lamp, but I couldn’t find it.​
 

“Where is the lamp?” I muttered to myself. I leaned farther over the side of the bed and nearly fell onto the floor. There was no table there.

​

What the hell?​
 

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and my feet landed on cold concrete. I bent down to touch the floor. Cement.



“Where is my knitted rug? And my wooden floor? Where is my night stand?” I spun around to look at my bed. It was a small double with a light blue fleece blanket and one pillow.

​

“My bed…where is my bed? What is going on?” I scrambled to the door and tripped over my night gown.
I don’t own a night gown.​
 

The starched cotton was caught between my knees. I hiked it up and grabbed the door handle. It was locked.​
 

I don’t even have a lock on my bedroom door!​
 

“Help!” I screamed, banging my fists on the solid metal door. “Let me out of here!” I pounded on the cold metal until my wrists became sore. Finally, I heard a key turn in the lock.​
 

“Ms. Sterling?”​
 

I stepped back cautiously. “Yes?”​
 

“Are you alright, Ms. Sterling?” A woman clothed in a blue dress and a white apron entered the room.​
 

“Who are you?”​
 

“Ms. Sterling, where is your wrist band? Have you lost it again?”
I glanced at my wrist and saw a slight indentation of a wristband. I hadn’t been wearing any jewelry. “What wristband?”​
 

“I’ll get you a new one Ms. Sterling, don’t you worry. We should get you back to bed, it’s very chilly in here tonight.” I pulled away as the woman tried to guide me to the bed. “Tell me what’s going on. Where am I?”

​

“Ms. Sterling, we have had this conversation many times. You are in the Psych Ward of Hansley Institute. But don’t you worry, Ms. Sterling. You are normal, just like everyone else. There is nothing wrong with you.”​
 

I shook my head, bewildered. “What the hell are you talking about? I want to call my mother.”​
 

“Ms. Sterling, there is no need to be upset. You know as well as I do that your mother is unreachable. Now please, get back into bed or I’ll have to call security again. That would be the second time this week, Ms. Sterling. We shouldn’t have to go through that again.”​
 

I struggled once more as she began to usher me toward the bed, but she got a firm hold of my forearms and pulled me back into the room.​
 

“I’m not tired,” I grumbled.​
 

“Nonsense, Ms. Sterling. It is nearly three a.m. You need your rest.” She walked back to the door. “Good night, Ms. Sterling. Sleep well.” Then she left, locking the door behind her.
I didn’t know what to do. My head was spinning. I paced the cold concrete, racking my brain for answers. I searched every corner of the room looking for a camera, a secret doorway, a piece of paper, something to give me a clue of how I had gotten here. There was nothing.





January

By: Megan Marguerite

The eye was watching. Calculating, staring, and peering into the room. The black orb sat in the corner, the red light of the camera visible through the heavily tinted glass.  She stared back at it. Her navy blue dress clung to her sides; her hair fell in loose strands from the satin ribbon she had fashioned to hold it back. It had been two weeks since she had consumed a full meal; her frame had become more and more deprived. Food was a weapon in this place, and they used it viciously to force obedience. She could feel her ribs becoming more visible, poking at the seams of her dress. She could hear her stomach grumbles rattling her entire body as she used her hunger to fuel her focus.

Her eyes narrowed, her hands shook. She sat half kneeling, half crouched, bracing for the next breaking point. Her hand wrapped around the crude bone from the night's “dinner”. Her fingers barely graced the edge of floor. She made her final calculations and leapt towards the black orb. The bone came crashing into the watchful eye shattering it in one swing. She recoiled back, grabbed her footing and made her second leap. She shattered the horrid eye, knocking it from its pedestal, the camera body crashing to the ground with a resounding stumble. The wires showered the corner with a small cascade of sparks bleeding from the wounded camera base.



She turned towards the door; they would be coming and quick. She grabbed her improvised weapons; a shattered plate, the bone, and a braided rope made from her tattered sheets. She placed her back to the right of the door where it would swing and slowed her breath. She heard the footsteps getting louder and closer, her eyes sharpened and her senses heightened. The door swung open and caught the flat of her foot; she kicked it back and smiled as it connected with the first guard. He stumbled back grasping his nose, blood spewing profusely from his battered face.



She lunged back towards the bed bracing for the next guard to come into the room. The second guard came barreling in throwing the door back so hard against the wall; she could hear the plaster yielding to its force. He ran towards her, panting like an injured bull still fighting. She lunged past him, the sharpened bone connecting with the soft flesh between his ribs. She imagined, from the look on his face, he would've screamed if his lung had been inflated.​
 

The doorway stood empty and she felt a strong sense of disappointment. They severely underestimated her, and this was their fatal flaw. She moved out into the hallway, searching for more of the black orbs. She progressed cautiously but swiftly down the hall, the bone and broken plate held so tight in her hand she feared they may slit open her porcelain skin. She hung the rope around her neck so it draped down her torso.



She could feel the eyes laying into her from overhead. As she reached the end of the hallway, she saw the floor to ceiling window and paused, looking down from above. The height was not extreme but still enough to give pause to bravest of souls. Her eyes focused on the horizon, the sun just barely kissing the edge of eastern sky.



"January, please understand that if you leave you will be hunted like the animal your species has become. Here you are safe. Your meals, clothes, shelter are all provided for you in exchange for just your participation in our research. We want to cure people like you. Not destroy them. You want freedom, that is an acceptable goal but understand that the short amount of freedom you experience will be quickly rectified by the tortuous death that the uneducated creatures from beyond will gladly administer to you. You want your freedom, take it. But understand that with every breath of freedom comes the cost of it all."

January looked down below and turned the sharpened bone so the blunt end stared at the last defiant barrier to her liberation. With three swift swings, she shattered the glass. She gazed one last time at the empty bleached white halls, her hermetically sealed prison, and jumped into the unknown.





The Deal

By: Grace DeHoogh



“There she is.” The older man pointed a thick, calloused finger to a small wooden corral. The man standing next to him nodded silently with his arms crossed. He studied the scene before him. Dust was flying, hooves pounding and shaking the hard ground as the horse circled the corral. Her wide eyes saw the two men standing, and she wheeled around and skidded to a stop with her front legs stretched out in front of her. Her muscles rippled, and sweat glistened on her dirty white coat as she stood still and stared with her nostrils flaring.

“She sure is wild,” he said matter-of-factly. “I bet you $100 I can tame her in a week.”
The older man laughed. “Always knew you were stupid.” He considered him. The man was young, mid-twenties perhaps, with a brown, dusty cowboy hat and faded shirt and jeans. Maybe he was just reckless, but his confidence struck him. The old man stuck out his hand and said, “You’ve got a deal.” They shook hands while the mare watched and snorted angrily.



The next day, the young man climbed the fence and into the corral. The horse stood on the other side, alert and ready to go into a frightened panic. Her ears were pinned back, and her neck was taut. The man stood there for many minutes, not looking at the horse but rather at the landscape of dry, flat desert and blue-grey mountains behind her. She was a statue, frozen in terror. Slowly, she sniffed the air, keeping her eyes on him. He pushed his hat down over his eyes and began walking along the fence. He kept his interest on a wooden post, his leather gloves, and picked up a clod of dirt, pretending to study it. She skittered away after every move he took. After a while, her ears slowly pricked forward, and her head lowered a fraction. He did this for a little bit longer and then climbed out.



The following day he did the same thing. After he walked around for a few minutes, he turned his body away from the horse and stood still while looking outside the corral. He lowered his hat over his eyes again. He could hear her heavy breathing and restless pacing from the “catch me if you can” game she believed they were playing. Slowly, ever so slowly, he listened as she quieted down and watched him. The young man smiled to himself as her hooves slowly and inquisitively approached him. One step after the other, the mare walked to this mysterious man standing on the other side. She couldn’t help herself, the curiosity was too much. Finally, she stretched and blew a warm, moist, hay scented breath on the back of his neck. The man slowly turned around and faced the horse. Her ears swiveled back and forth, unsure what to make of him.



“Just couldn’t stay away from a handsome fella like me, could you?” he joked. The mare was apprehensive; one move forward and she would jump away. Little by little, he raised his hand and rested it gently on her velvet nose. She jerked her head back.​
 

“Shhhh,” he reassured her, keeping his hand in the same place. “It’s alright, girl.” She lowered her head until just the short whisker-like hairs on her nose touched his hand and sniffed. She let him rub her nose. The man took a daring step and reached to stroke her neck. Tensing nervously, she allowed it.

He began singing softly an old country song. Her ears pointed towards him and listened to the quiet, deep voice. He grinned and continued singing as every muscle in her neck loosened. He scratched her neck and breathed in the sweaty, dusty fragrance that only a horse has.

He brought a medium-length rope with him as he climbed the fence again. Casually walking around, he fiddled with the rope, and gently twirled it about. She couldn’t help but notice the perfectly ripened, shiny, red apple in his hand as well.

“Well, you see, we’ve got this scary lookin’ rope here,” he told her, lifting it up. “But…we also have this very tasty, crunchy apple.” He held it out on the palm of his hand in front of him. “Your choice.”



The mare trotted back and forth, kicking up little clouds of dust while eyeing it. She stopped in front of him, and hesitantly reached for the apple. She bit in as he raised his hand with the rope and rested it on her neck. He patiently tried over and over again, using up four more apples as she shied away from the rope. He praised her when she finally let him to lay the rope over her neck on top of her matted, grey mane.



Later, he did the same with an old green halter and rope. She stood still and watched him as if daring him to come any closer.​
 

“Come on, girl. It won’t be that scary, I promise. Look, I even have some more treats,” he patiently pleaded and showed her the handful of red peppermints in his hand. He let her timidly dip her head down and dig in. She happily crunched the candies as he scratched her neck and ears, still holding the halter.
Time after time, he continued unwearyingly to strengthen the trust between the two as sweat poured down his face and he tasted the dirt in his mouth.​
 

Finally, after seven days of patience, an astonished little crowd gathered around the corral to watch this young man work his magic on the mustang. They held their breath and stared as he slowly slid the halter over her head while murmuring softly. The old man stood by himself, fascinated, as she let him rub behind her ears. The young man saw him watching and walked over with a smile, the mare following behind.



“Well, you had me fooled,” the old man said. He handed him a wad of twenty dollar bills and gave him a friendly slap on the back. He watched as the young man grabbed the mare with her halter and walked out of the corral, not before tipping his hat to the crowd.

​



Lightning and Those Other Days

By: Jade Borger



You know those dreary days where everything dark and mysterious seems to congregate in the shadows and whisper to each other their nefarious plans. Plans that you only catch glimpses of through the wind, well that was today. However, today, they whispered to me.

It was these plans my mind was on when the screeches of children just let out of school defiled the calmness of that dark day. My bones racked against each other with a sickening crack. I cringed at their interruption. I walked along, staring downward as I put one loosely laced boot in front of the other, pounding on the cold cement sidewalk. With each distant burst of laughter I shoved my fists deeper and deeper into the pockets of my cargo jacket. Why did I choose to walk by the elementary school on my way home?

There was, however, something particularly intriguing. A small, rather round, child flying a red kite. Its vibrant color stained the cloudy skies like blood seeping through a wounded soldier's clothing. I stood, my stormy black eyes mesmerized, lulled, as the kite rocked back and forth across the sky. The evil whispering attacked my brain once more, brutally, unrelentingly.I raced home with a newfound vengeance and pounded up beer stained steps, through hallways laced with weed and sweat straight to my apartment door.



With shaking hands, I heaved the splintered door inward and stared at the lifeless body lying on the dark blue carpet. Every inch of me numb. Even my lungs, waterlogged with tears, testified to my angst. Reluctantly, I entered.​
 

My legs were wooden stilts, unstable and untrustworthy. As I got nearer to the body, the stilts caught fire. Their smoldering ashes offered no support and I fell to the floor next to her cold, pale corpse. Her name was Randi. Pixie short brown hair exposed her beautiful face with freckles turned gray at death. A satin red dress, lying elegantly across the floor, was the only color on her now. With cold, unseeing eyes left open; an ocean of lifeless blue stared straight at me, her murderer.​
 

Earlier that day, masked by morning fog, I had pitched the incriminating syringe into the Atlantic, with only one drop of morphine left on its needle. There, on her left arm, you could see the broken skin where I had thrust the needle into her then pulsing vein.​
 

Pacing over to my closet, not for one second taking my eyes off of Randi, I searched, using a flashlight to illuminate tunnels of junk. Finally, I stumbled across what I was looking for. My father's tackle box.Running my hands over the dented metal, I let a slight smile slip across my face as I opened the box, its rusty hinges groaning. There were countless hooks and strings all knotted together. I untangled them one by one.



The hooks were dull and decaying, but not useless. I pierced her nose first, the cartilage offering no resistance. Then through the palms of her hands, leftover blood trickled down and bones shifted as the hook went through. Then, her ankles. I slid my hands across the fabric of her dress on the way down. With difficulty, I found the fattiest part and shoved the hooks strait through, shuttering slightly, but felt no remorse. I attached strings to each individual hook, being careful to tie secure knots. One big yank confirmed they wouldn't tear her flesh.

I scooped her up in my arms, being careful to support her head, and carried her out into the hallway, pushing the door aside with my foot. I dragged myself over to the staircase and headed to the roof. It was laughable, here I am carrying her like a knight in shining armor, the damsel's savior! When in reality, I was the dragon who burned her alive. I killed her!

I emerged onto the pebbled roof of the disgustingly intolerable apartments and sat, my feet dangling over the edge and Randi cradled in my arms. A dreadfully dank breeze captured my hair and whisked Randi's dress around my body. When I had first met her, we sat on this very roof and talked about our future adventures. We were just teenagers then.



“You know what, Joanna?” 



“What?” I looked at Randi with excited, ignorant eyes.​
 

“Let's run away.” She threw her beer bottle off of the rooftop, standing up. With her arms outstretched she threw her head back and yelled into the starry night sky, rivaling Van Gogh's, “Away from it all!” dragging out the last few syllables just to hear the echo.​
 

It was two weeks later that we were on that same roof, watching the most beautiful lightning storm you had ever seen. Everything draped for a few fleeting seconds in dark purple, our bodies soaked to the bone. And she told me. She told me she had been diagnosed with Alexander's disease. Her brain was going to lose all function. Then kill her.

​
“When it starts, kill me,” she pleaded. “I want to die knowing you.”

​

All I did was nod. Now on this roof, holding her dead body, I buried my head in her chest. Looking up, eyes scarlet with tears as if her dress stained them, I beheld that red kite in the distance, soaring so free above everything else. She deserved that.​
 

I gathered up the strings, and with one last deep inhale of Randi's dark perfume, I threw her off the roof. The wind caught her, momentarily, and for that moment she looked like a rose in full bloom. Then the earth reached up with its gray, vein-covered hands and pulled her down.



The strings attempted at escape, but I held on fast. I wouldn't lose her twice but the hooks started to rip through her flesh. Digging in my heels, kicking up dirt, I toppled backwards. In my last few seconds of consciousness, I felt free.