2017 Issue

2017 Issue

Click on the cover above to read a pdf version, or stop by an MCC Writing Center, Student Services Office, Learning and Tutoring Center, bookstore, or library to pick up a hard copy.

2017 Writing Awards and Selections for Print

For his poem “Sandpaper Hands,” Scott Davis is the winner of The Metropolitan 2017 Prize for Student Writing, a 13.5-credit-hour tuition remission. The first runner-up, Feroz Mohmand, is awarded 9 credit hours tuition remission for his essay “From Presidential Palace to Refugee Advocate.” The second runner-up, Caleb Epps, receives 4.5 credit hours tuition remission for his poem “Uncle Jack.”

Sandpaper Hands and Two-Hour Friends by Scott Davis

From Presidential Palace to Refugee Advocate by Feroz Mohmand

Uncle Jack and Night of the Long Wasps by Caleb Epps

The Keilany Kingdom by Deena Keilany

Motion Parallax  and Memory Photograph by Kyle Brian Christensen

Asphalt Confessions by Christopher Alharithy

The Letter by Molly Trede

Urban Curves (cover art) by Christine Oliver

Sandpaper Hands

Scott Davis

My enigmatic father 

spoke very little.

“Dad, can you give me some advice?” 

I was fifteen.

“You’re supposed to be wise, right?”

His face concealed behind a newsprint curtain:

Retaining wall stones on sale, five cents apiece.

A summertime breeze whispered 

through the trees.

A moment’s pause, one moment more 

that which was two

became three and then four.

Bespectacled eyes breeched 

the newspaper horizon

edges crushed beneath the grip 

of sandpaper hands.

I leaned forward 

eagerly listening 

as if to hear

the words of God.

“Son, a good mechanic never uses pliers; 

he uses channel locks.”

Confused I sat, vexed, perplexed, 

waiting for the word that’s next.

There were no more words to be heard.

Fence panels on sale, 6.99 apiece. 

A springtime breeze whispered 

through the trees.

Scissors cut an obituary 

from the evening newspaper. 

I was eighteen.

And I have never owned 

a pair of pliers.

Two-Hour Friends

Scott Davis

Early morning was Elliot’s favorite time of day: the optimism of new beginnings, morning radio  shows, and  of course, warm coffee. The girls at the local coffee shop were always nice to him, greeting him with a friendly smile when he arrived each morning. Amber was his favorite barista, too.

Although she was twenty years younger, Amber had  wisdom beyond her years and understood him, or at least Elliot liked to think so. The jingly jangly sound of the shop doorbell,  the sudden rush of freshly ground coffee, and the muffled sounds of conversation all made him smile while he waited in line.

Elliot glanced at his reflection in the shop window as he stood behind two women from the running club next to the  coffee shop. He recognized them from his previous visits. They wore the trendiest running clothes, year round it seemed, as long as the weather permitted running outdoors. They sensed his quiet approach and gave Elliot a friendly smile.

“Good morning,” they said to him.

“Oh, um… well h-hello,” Elliot said. “How are you tod-” “Hi, can I help you?” Amber said to the runners.

He didn’t get to finish his conversation as they stepped forward to place their order, but he didn’t mind. He was next and would get a chance to talk with Amber again.

Elliot adjusted his faded blue work jacket and made sure   his shirt was tucked in and that his work boots were tied. The laces were old, and they would sometimes come loose if he didn’t tie them in a double knot. He couldn’t remember if he’d tied  them in a double knot before he left the house this morning.

Annette reminded him daily to double knot his laces, but she was showering before he left, so he didn’t get to see her. He was fairly sure they were in a double knot, though.

He checked his right back pocket to ensure he had his wallet, right shirt pocket for his “To Do” list, front right pocket for his car keys—he wanted to be sure he didn’t lock his car keys inside his car “again,” as Annette would say—and finally his right jacket pocket for his cell phone. He hated his phone, but he checked it anyway. No missed messages or calls.

“Elliot, I don’t know why you wear those ugly ass denim work pants each day. You have so many pockets, I don’t know how you can find anything.”

“I like them, Annette, plus they aren’t too much money and….”

“Well, you have too many pockets. And they are too loose on you, makes you look like you don’t have an ass. That’s not very attractive at all,” she said.

The runners stepped away from the register, and Amber was waiting for him.

She wore a drive-through headset and a bright green apron tied tightly around her waist. He always noticed the curve of her hips when she wore it. She had a red ribbon tied in her long sandy blonde braid.

“Good morning, Elliot. How are you today?” She was beaming, but then again she always was.

“Good morning, Amber. I’m doing well. I’m here for coffee today.”

“Well yes, silly. We sell coffee, so I’d say you’re in the right place.”

“Oh, yes, well I am, aren’t I?” His face reddened. “Yes, I suppose I’d better place an order.”

“Just the usual for you then? We all know what you like, Elliot.”

“Yes, that will be fine. Just my usual order.” He smiled. “What are you doing today? That will be $4.95.”

“I’m going to the DMV for Annette. Today is the last day of the month, and she needs her new registration. I have the day off, and she asked me to take care of it for her.” He withdrew his card from his wallet and handed it to her.

“Aw, you’re such a good  husband, Elliot.”Amber  swiped his card and gave it back. Elliot felt her fingertips brush against his as he took the card and receipt from her. They smiled at each other for a brief second. Suddenly, they caught one another’s eye, and Elliot saw what he thought was, well … did he just see … No, it couldn’t  be. He’s married, he’s twenty years older than she, and he has a house, a dog, two cats, and a decent job. He’s just a regular guy, and she’s young and beautiful. Besides … he also has Annette.

He stuffed his card into his left jacket pocket with the registration money and paperwork. He could hear the crinkling sound of the paper as he pushed the card deeper.

“I have too many pockets, that’s what Annette says.” He laughed nervously to Amber. “Sometimes it’s so hard for me to find stuff.”

“I like pockets, Elliot. When I was a little girl, my grandmother said that pockets are wonderful because  we  can keep our secrets inside. She told me that we couldn’t have enough of them. We  should always have one pocket for our hopes, one  for our dreams, and one for …. ”

Elliot felt his phone vibrate in his jacket from an incoming text message. He took his coffee from the pick-up area and withdrew his phone to read the message.

“I’m sorry, Amber. I have to go. I’m going to be late. I don’t want to be late.”

“Okay, have a good day, Elliot. See you next time.” She smiled and waved as he rushed out the door.

Annette: Elliot, are you at the DMV yet? You don’t want to be late!

It was eight o’ clock in the DMV office. Elliot Boole was the fifth person in line. His mind wandered aimlessly as he held his warm coffee and glanced about the room. The fluorescent lights in the lobby overhead made the entire room obscenely bright.

Number Five. The Fifth Man. High Five. Hawaii Five O. Gimme Five, he mused. The things that can come to mind during idle times are odd.

There were no seats in the lobby, only scuffed white tile  and four walls with a line guided around the room by retractable elastic lane markers wound in an odd “S” pattern to get as many people in the room as possible. Everyone had the same appearance, the look of everyday people with time off work to come in for their registration, pink and white papers in hand, some occupied by their cell phones, while others stared blankly at the state-issued driving awareness posters.

Elliot noticed the smiling portrait of State Treasurer Johnny Babcock, Jr. hanging imperiously above the DMV clerks’ workstations.

I’m number five today, Mr. Babcock. That’s right, five. Elliot smiled to himself and took a drink of his coffee. The smell of the coffee shop was still in his work jacket.

Today  was going to be a good day. He just knew it. Once  he paid for the registration, the rest of the day was his. Maybe he could go for a walk in the park, or to the discount bookstore to read a bit, or maybe the new coffee shop he saw on the way home from work last week. Maybe he could go to all of them. Elliot felt the vibration in his pocket again.

Annette: Elliot, are you at the DMV yet? It’s the last day of the month, and I HAVE to get my registration today!

Elliot: Yes, I’m here, Annette. I’m number five in the line.

Annette: Okay, after you get my registration, be sure you mow the lawn today. It’s your day off, and you have time. It needs to be done, you know?

Elliot felt a subtle rush of anger overcome him, starting at the base of his neck that crept upwards to his hairline.

Today is my day off, he thought to himself. Can’t the lawn wait till the weekend? God dammit.

Elliot: All right, Annette. I’ll take care of it when I get done here.

Guess I can go to the park after I get done with the lawn, he thought.

The DMV clerks approached their workstations and set the chipped plastic “This Station Closed” signs aside while logging into their computers. The clacking of the keys could be heard in the echo of the lobby. Elliot took another drink of coffee.

The lawn will take about an hour. It won’t take long. I just won’t shower afterwards. I’m only going to the park anyway, so it will be okay.

He anxiously rocked back and forth on his heels a bit. A DMV clerk in oversized glasses and a horrible sweater raised her hand. 

“First in line, please. Station Three.” The first customer approached the counter.

You see this, Mr. Babcock. Now I’m number four. Yup, four.

The Four Horseman, The Four Seasons. I’m number four, and it feels fantastic, as in Fantastic Four, except I’m the stretchy guy. He’s really smart, and he has cool hair.

Suddenly, there was a subtle pause behind the DMV counter, barely noticeable at first, but the keen observer could see the puzzled expressions on the clerks’ faces, seemingly in unison. First Customer and Horrible Sweater Lady muttered as they studied the computer screen together.

“I’m not sure, ma’am. It happened just now.” “Can you try again?” First Customer asked. “I tried three times. I need my manager.”

The DMV manager glided over to Station Three. “Did you try the backup entry?” she said.

“Yes, I did, but the screen froze, and it won’t let me in now.” “Let me call the service desk.”

A subtle tension crept into the lobby; Elliot could feel its weight bearing on his shoulders. He heard exasperated hissings released between clenched teeth, the shuffling of feet, and a few colorful expletives whispered beneath someone’s breath. He sighed when he realized his coffee had grown cold.

The office manager placed her desk phone receiver back in its cradle and hesitantly pushed herself away from her desk. Sheepishly, she approached the counter.

“Ladies and gentleman, I am sorry to inform you there has been a statewide network outage, and we have lost access to our system. I have been in contact with our service desk, and they  are aware of the issue. They are working on a solution, and we can expect restoration soon. They assured me it won’t  be long,  so please feel free to wait. They will call when the repairs are complete. Thank you for your patience.”

“What the hell?” someone’s grandmother said.

“Well, that’s the government for ya,” sighed a steel worker. “Oh my god, I have to get my kids to cheer practice,” said a mom.

“Tax dollars at work, right there,” scoffed a city bus driver.

“Whelp, I have all day,” laughed an old guy wearing a “US Navy: Retired” hat.

Elliot was still number four, though, and he didn’t mind waiting. True, number four wasn’t as good as number one, but Annette needed her registration, and he was the man for the job. Things would be okay. The portrait of Mr. Babcock smiled paternally over them all.

It was ten o’ clock in the DMV office, and Elliot Boole was now the first person in line. The computer system repair was still ongoing, and several people had left over the past two hours only to be replaced as fast as the original ones departed. His lower  back was aching, the soles of his feet were burning a bit, and his coffee was long gone, but he was first in line.

The smile of the good State Treasurer, Johnny D. Babcock, Jr., didn’t seem as pleasant to Elliot as before. Now it was just irritating, goddamn irritating. The same irritating way a hangnail on your thumb gets during the drive to work as you try not to play with it, ignoring the urge to rip it free with your teeth because you forgot your nail clippers on the bathroom counter at home.

“You smug bastard,” Elliot said to himself. “I’d like to choke you with that three-hundred-dollar tie you are wearing.” Elliot felt the vibration in his pocket again.

Annette: Elliot, where are you? I need my registration. Elliot: I’m still here, Annette. There’s a statewide outage.

I’m waiting for it to be fixed, so I can get this paid for you.

Annette: It’s been two hours. What the hell?

Elliot: I know, but I want to wait just a bit longer. I’ll bring it to your work, I promise.

“Ladies and gentleman,” said the DMV manager, “I just spoke with the service desk. We  greatly apologize for the delay   in your day, but the repairs are still ongoing. They should be complete within the hour, but for those of you who are paying by check, we can process your payment and mail the registration to you.” A few people stepped forward to the counter. A few more left in frustration.

As the line was stagnant for two hours, Old Navy Guy became the official door greeter, informing all of the new arrivals of the outage and welcoming them to wait with everyone. Nearly all of them turned away.

“Reminds me of being on board the USS Kalamazoo,”  said Old Navy Guy. “Lines to eat, lines to get paid, lines to get  a haircut, waiting in line to get into another line. I haven’t had this much fun since 1955 when I got the clap in Thailand.” He laughed along with everyone there. “But look at this guy. He’s been here the longest, and he hasn’t complained once, not once. That man should be given a medal or something!”

Elliot realized he was being talked to. He turned painfully and winced a smile although his back protested a bit. Old Navy Guy was smiling, and Elliot realized he needed to say something. All eyes were upon him.

“Well,” Elliot started, “this isn’t about registration anymore; it’s a contest of wills,” he announced while pointing to the photograph. His confidence filled the room.“It’s my will against the will of State Treasurer Johnny D. Babcock, Jr., and he WILL lose!”

Elliot shared a bit of conversation with his new “Two- Hour Friends,” and he felt like Working Man, the blue-collar superhero.

The DMV clerk in the horrible sweater raised her hand  and announced, “The repairs are complete. First in line, please, at Station Three. Thank you for waiting.”

Elliot sat in his car, shifting his weight from side to side to ease the ache in his back. He glanced at the crisp new registration lying on the passenger seat. He heard the morning autumn breeze through the driver’s window as he sent a message.

Elliot: Annette, I got your registration! It took a long time, but I got it!

Annette: It’s about time. Bring it to my work. And don’t forget to do the lawn.

Elliot felt as if he fell flat on his back, all the air forced out of his lungs at once. His back was aching again. His feet were burning. He picked at his thumb as if there were an invisible hangnail he couldn’t find.

Annette: Hello?? Did you get this?

Elliot: Yes, Annette. I’ll take care of the lawn today.

He shoved his hand into his jeans pocket for his keys   and found nothing but lint. He frantically checked both front pockets, back pockets, front pockets again, but he couldn’t find them. He knew Annette was waiting, but he couldn’t find his goddamn keys! Were they in the DMV? Did he drop them in the parking lot? Throw them away with his cup? He didn’t want  to fail! Elliot realized he hadn’t checked his left jacket pocket yet and stuffed his hand inside to find the debit card, coffee receipt… and his keys.

“Dammit!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. “Annette was right, I have way too many goddamn pockets. I can’t keep anything organized. I hate these pants!” He tossed his card and the crumpled coffee receipt onto the passenger seat, rammed the key into the ignition and started the car with a hard twist of his wrist. The A/C fan blew the registration and receipt onto the passenger floor.

“Now her new registration is going to get dirty! God DAMMIT!” he yelled while desperately grasping for the loose papers. Then he noticed something on the back of the coffee shop receipt… there was… there was a note. He sat upright  and read it aloud: “Always keep one pocket for your hopes, one for your dreams, and one for someone special. Have a good day, Elliot. — Amber.”

He read the note again, looked out the driver’s window, then read it once more. Elliot laid the receipt on his leg, smoothed it the best he could, and placed it in his empty left jacket pocket as he left the DMV parking lot. He was at a stoplight when he felt a vibration in his jacket pocket.

Annette: Elliot, where are you? Are you on your way? Elliot: Yes, I am, Annette. I’m on my way.

He placed his hand in his left jacket pocket. Elliot: Annette, I’m doing the lawn tomorrow.

From Presidential Palace to Refugee Advocate

Feroz Mohmand

The text messages popped onto my smartphone screen early each day in Kabul, becoming a regular part of my morning ritual, like your cup of coffee or bowl of Cheerios. I would glance down at the text that said: “Say goodbye to your family.” Or:

“This is going to be your last day.” Or: “Cooperate or else.” “You know what we can do to your wife. We have shown you.” I would read those texts, and then I would leave for work, riding in a car that bumped down Kabul’s uneven streets toward Afghanistan’s heavily guarded presidential palace. Also, my wife would leave for her job, too, accompanied by bodyguards as she attended a session of Afghan Parliament or, far more dangerously, visited the province she had been elected to represent. I never thought that one day I would be a refugee, but, when it’s your turn, it’s your turn and you don’t have a choice. However, in my journey, I learned how political powers can be dangerous when you resist them, how people behave when you have political power and money, and how they can change their behavior when you don’t have that power or money anymore.

Not long ago, if you wandered bleary-eyed into the Hampton Inn next to the Baltimore airport looking for a room, the smiling employee who greeted you at the front desk was not someone else; it was me, Feroz Mohmand. Once upon a time, I knew both Afghanistan’s ex-president and the former president of the United States of America. I was used to being ushered into hotels at the right hand of H.E President Hamid Karzai. Now I was working in one. A few co-workers noticed something curious about my accent, the way I talked and moved. I might seem poised. Self-assured. So, they started asking questions, as some people do. They crowded around me at the break room and asked: “How long have you been here? What did you do before you worked at Hampton Inn? Where did you come from, Feroz?” I would smile and pause, buying time, calibrating my answer, as a good politician does. I did not tell them I was the senior media relations officer (Press Officer) to the president of Afghanistan, and my wife was the youngest woman ever elected to Afghanistan’s Parliament, or how that election made both of us famous and targets. I didn’t mention the car bomb, or the day someone tried to kidnap my baby son. It’s hard to explain how my wife and I went from Kabul’s young political power couple to hiding out in Turkey to standing behind the front desk in Baltimore, so I thought about it, and decided not to try. I didn’t want to make their heads boom!

Up to this point, I had only known war. Just fighting, people dying, family members missing. That was my childhood. It was late January 2017, and my sons sat on the floor playing with their favorite toys at our West Omaha apartment. My wife and I were watching TV, the hottest news running on CNN. The 45th President of the United States signed an executive order to ban refugees from entering the U.S. It was a sad day for us since my mother’s visa process was affected by the refugee ban. We were hoping my mother would be joining us some time soon. We don’t have that hope anymore. I looked at my sons and told my wife “how lucky they are” that they will have the opportunity to go to a school and complete their education. Then the memory flashed back on days when I was their age and the Mujahidin took over Kabul, Afghanistan. Since then, people have not had the same life they had been living. Innocents were being tortured and killed as Kabul became a part of so many armed groups. Terrible moments started—kidnapping, robbing people during the day, raping, cutting off people’s heads and putting boiled oil on their remains. Taunting a crowd, the Mujahidin asked the people to watch how a dead body dances. Furthermore, I remember my sister crying when the Taliban took over because she would not be able to go to school anymore. That’s when I realized how important education was for her. Not so long after the Taliban took over, one night we heard a knock, and by the time my brother could open the door, the Taliban came into our house; they took my two brothers and my father. After a week, they returned with bruises, bites, and other signs of torture because of their work in the Afghanistan government. My family decided to leave Afghanistan. We fled to Pakistan and became refugees.

My family returned to Afghanistan in 2002, shortly after the U.S.-led invasion. Like hundreds of thousands of Afghans, we had been living as refugees in Pakistan, where my family was running a cosmetics store. I am from a politically-connected family. My father and uncles worked for government ministries. We re-entered the country believing there were only two reasons to return to war-ravaged Afghanistan. It was home.
And I could help make it better. Due to my computer skills and English, I was offered a job within the presidential palace as an IT specialist. I was the guy wearing jeans and a T-shirt who would come and fix your computer and leave. Because of my fluent English, I was promoted to senior media relations officer (Press Officer) to the president of Afghanistan. I served as a go- between for our government and foreign embassies, frequently working with President Karzai, the U.S. State Department, and the U.S. military on things like logistics for upcoming meetings.

Around this time, I met a beautiful young politician. I offered her a ride home after a late-night meeting. We talked and talked. We realized we had the same vision for the future of Afghanistan. We talked more and more, for months. We realized we had the same vision for the rest of our lives. We got married in 2008. It was soon after the wedding that my wife got the warning. She was in Paktika, the province she was representing, to visit after-school girls’ programs she had helped create and to advocate for a women’s hospital she wanted to build. The Taliban were no fan of either project. “They are looking for you,” the warning said. “Your two-car convoy may be attacked on the way home.” I, along with her bodyguards, devised a plan. She would switch to the convoy’s other car, the one that usually carried her security detail. The two cars would split up, so no attack could get both. Her new car took the lead, rolled smoothly north through Pakitka and entered a flat, dusty stretch of highway as the sun dipped in the sky. Then she heard the explosion. She spun around in her seat and watched the cloud of smoke rising miles behind her on the highway. The car had been incinerated by an IED. Two of our friends died in the attack. They were like family.

The threats escalated over the next year with anonymous text messages popping daily into my phone. “You are in love with the Americans.” “We showed you we can kill your wife.” “You will pay. You will pay.”

Indeed, one day in 2009, they almost did. The daycare called. Our longtime housekeeper had shown up to pick up my son. She was not supposed to be there. I rushed to the daycare and found security guards detaining the housekeeper. She received some money from the Taliban to kidnap my six-month- old son for them. It was during these dangerous and uncertain days when my wife learned of an Afghan plot to attack military and diplomatic officials during a joint Afghan-U.S. briefing. The plot’s aim was simple: Kill important Americans. I sacrificed my job and called a friend in the U.S. Embassy and warned him of the attack. Basically, I saved the team that was there, at least eight people. I knew that after this, that was it for me in my home country. A day after that phone call, I called my wife and told her, “Grab the important documents. We must leave, and I don’t think we will be coming back.” We had less than twenty-four hours to leave the country.

In fact, we became refugees once again, which I never thought would happen. Looking back to the life in the Palace and political power that we had, people were respecting me more at the time, and we were there for my family and friends whenever they needed our help. I was there for my friends when they had any legal issues; I would stand next to them in their fight. I was paying my best friend’s college fees, and I paid for my sister’s wedding and bought her a lot of jewelry so she could be proud in her new life at her in-laws’. All that turned meaningless for them when I needed their help and support. They were not around on my dark days and nights.

Life can be very dangerous in a country like Afghanistan where every day human rights are violated. While resisting and being in danger, some people can change their behavior very fast, as I personally experienced. Those family members who I was there for disappeared when I became a refugee in Turkey. Friends who I was counting on were not there anymore. The most frustrating was the best friend who I did everything I could to support; I even paid his college fees. He changed his phone number after I asked for help. However, I will end with a quote. “When you fully trust someone without any doubt, you finally get one of two results: a person for life, or a lesson for life.”

Uncle Jack

Caleb Epps

At midnight,

when he tastes the bile rising in his throat,

Uncle Jack, staring at the starlit past beaming down, 

hears a sterling silver harmonica

playing the blues like a sledgehammer.

It rattles his bones, rearranges

his feathery frame under the sleeping bag.

 

Tossed and turned by rerun nightmares, he unzips his cover, 

finding his feet at the bottom

of some stranger’s spidery legs.

Drunk on the rays of Mississippi moonshine, 

he stretches his suspenders

like a kid

pulling back a slingshot.

 

And in the evening,

in beams of balmy sunshine

painting Rorschach sweat stains under his armpits, 

an intelligent design emerges, peeling off

the palette of Uncle Jack’s tie-dyed t-shirt,

and rising to the sky, the specter of a prehistoric bird

searching for a safe spot to sleep.

Night of the Long Wasps

Caleb Epps

We write on

the nest of paper wasps,

textured tessellations,

origami honeycomb,

 

chewed up words

of deadwood and muscle fiber 

written in gray ink,

spitballs speaking in Braille.

 

A poet’s pen stings,

blows hexagon-shaped bullet holes, 

sticky medleys

of venom and glue

on the sagging branch that binds.

 

In place of prose,

I give you this waterproof nest 

to open like an umbrella 

under the dive bomb rain,

 

or use as a shield 

against the wasps

starting to walk

in foot soldier formation, 

the bone rattling buzz

of boots breathing heavy.

 

The Keilany Kingdom

Deena Keilany

The car careened forward and lurched to a stop. I looked   up from my healing cuticles. I hadn’t picked at them in a week. This was a true cause to celebrate. I maneuvered my way between the two middle seats and slid the minivan’s door open. Peering over the awning, I recoiled at the sight of the vestiges of the “Al-Tayibat” sign whose luminosity once irritated my eyes.  Fares fastidiously stepped over the crack in the sidewalk. His superstitions were laughable, but I followed suit in order to appease him. Omar hobbled alongside my mother through the entrance, clutching one of the many pockets on her black cargo pants. Fares and I stumbled over the metal threshold in the entryway. Once we regained our stature, we took in the sight of the desolate store.

Tumeric, cumin, and cardamom coated the air like brine clings to the atmosphere neighboring the sea. I pulled out my headphones; the buoyant rhythm of American Pop seemed unfitting in such a Middle Eastern sanctuary. Baba raked the receipts that were strewn across the checkout counter with his burly fingers into a haphazard pile. His tender smile assured me that everything was in order.

“Why don’t you and Fares fill a shopping basket with what- ever you’d like to take home,” Baba suggested.

“Anything?” Fares inquired. 

“Anything.”

I snatched a basket from the stack adjacent to the first aisle. We strolled through the dessert aisle, scooping an unhealthy amount of Kinder Surprise Chocolate Eggs, baklava, and bags of ketchup-flavored Lays into the basket. Once we had three stomachache’s worth of junk food, we pivoted over to the next aisle. All that remained were a couple muumuus. Boxes were neatly stacked nearly twice my height. Mama sat on the floor, keenly wrapping glassware with newspapers. Everything she did seemed elegant, unlike me, the most graceless human on  the planet. I longed to be like her one day. Dragging my fingers across the shelf,I pranced over to the boxes nuzzling the wall next to her. A potpourri of Middle Eastern essentials lay in designated boxes. Various religious texts, prayer rugs, and hijabs piled in one box. Inestimable boxes of tobacco climbed the cardboard wall of another box next to (what I assumed) was a miniature hookah wrapped in newspapers. I looked at a box of bobby pins. Ugh, I thought to myself. Who would want those? They’re so ugly and useless. I had yet to understand the vitality of bobby pins in a young woman’s life. I plopped the basket down beneath the “Open” sign, robbed of its glow. It occurred to me that we might never enter this building again. I yanked my brother’s arm in the direction of the staircase.

I stood astride with my hands on my hips in a determined fashion. The deadly spiral staircase loomed over us.

Fares widened his eyes. “Do you have a death wish, Deena?” 

“This is the last time we’re going to be here, and we’ve never been upstairs.”

“But Baba said kids aren’t allowed up there!”

I looked over my shoulder and narrowed my eyes. “We’re not kids anymore,” I declared.

As I linked arms with my brother, I scanned the premises for our parental units. We clutched the railing because our lives depended on it. The staircase wobbled with every step. I was sure it would break into a dance if I were to hasten our stride in the least bit. We triumphantly took the last step up and high-fived each other. I didn’t care that the area was just utilized as storage. The view of the store from up there was unlike anything I had seen before. I felt like a queen examining her kingdom from her throne. Our parents’ voices echoed beneath us. We froze.

“Don’t worry. Look at it as an opportunity to start over,” Mama chimed.

“I’ve poured all my money and the last ten years of my life into this place. I’m not young anymore, Rana. Starting over isn’t going to be easy,” Baba sighed morosely.

“I know it’s not ideal, but we can get through this.”

They dejectedly began carrying boxes outside. My queenliness had been shattered, for this was no longer the Keilany Kingdom. Fares and I climbed down the steps with a newly found ease. We picked up a couple of the smallest boxes, doing what we could to help our parents. Baba halfheartedly smiled at me, his eyes heavily encumbered with sorrow. The next hour was spent loading the last of the merchandise into   the U-Haul parked outside. Silently, I made my farewells to mysurroundings. The trees that I once feared due to fictitious stories Mama had told us seemed much friendlier now. They hugged the store as if they understood the solemnity of the situation.

Baba was the last to leave the store. He wistfully looked   at the empty shelves, shut off the lights, and locked the doors. Mama climbed into the U-Haul and sped off. I climbed into the front passenger seat of our Toyota Sienna and watched Fares buckle Omar into his forest green car seat. The trip home was grievously silent. I picked at my cuticles and thought of how Baba was just a person. Guilt plopped into my lap. I had
wrongly ridiculed them for being incapable of understanding the emotions that paralyzed me. The only difference between them and me was their selflessness. They didn’t allow their sorrows to weigh on their children, but nonetheless, they had sorrows just like any other person. They were idiosyncrasy-ridden, emotional, breakable human beings.

Motion Parallax

Kyle Brian Christensen

Evergreens scurry by me in a tight race that ends abruptly 

Giving way to the snow-dusted plains and

Unveiling that old windmill, halfway through the

Shorn-down cornfield. It’s hideous, and even at this great 

Distance from it, I despise it. Only two of its vanes remain and 

It spins in a jerking gallop, like an aging washing machine.

The few spots of chipped red paint that persist are the 

Bullet holes that are bleeding week-old blood from the

 Graying wooden legs, still planted, in a courageous 

Attempt to stay upright. The windmill stands defiantly, and 

Although I’m speeding past, its distance from me suggests 

That I’m not moving at all. Its dilapidated

Frame scowls at me like it hasn’t forgotten all

The times I’ve driven around it without seeing. But just as the color 

Starts to drain from my knuckles, the trees begin

Running past me again 

And all is obscured.

Memory Photograph #3

Kyle Brian Christensen

I.

Because of the stroke, I couldn’t understand what he yelled, but I 

appeared as an apparition in the living room to catch him, as the 

cigarette fell from his lips and into someplace to be discovered 

much later, when I was looking for something else. He spoke but 

said nothing; his eyes intimated that he needed the bathroom so 

I drug him there, with strength I didn’t know I had, and laid him 

at the base of the toilet. I panted heavily, not from exertion, but 

because I thought, subconsciously, that my lungs could become 

his lungs and repaint his face with something less grey. I awoke 

from the moment, found the telephone, and dialed 911.

 

II.

“Put your shoes on.” “Where are we going, Dad?”

“I thought maybe we could shoot some hoops,” he said, 

adopting a foreign phrase in an attempt to love

his son for the second or maybe third time. 

“I’ll get the ball!”

He worked his way up from his chair in a disjointed 

way, as if feigning injury.

“We can’t stay too long,”

he said, affixing a cigarette to his lips and patting 

his pockets in an accusatory manner.

 

III.

As I walked in, I saw that the chair and he had merged into one 

creature. Around him lay many conquered bags of fast food and 

packs of Wildhorses and small translucent orange bottles and 

half-drunk glasses of water. I stepped around the rings of detritus 

that orbited him and produced the loan papers.

“Sign here.”

“Now listen,” he said, picking up the twenty-pound pen, “I 

know I asked you not to give up on me, but I got a plan.” He 

paused to think while signing his name, like he had forgotten, 

his muscles and bones even, had forgotten who he was.  “Don’t

worry about me. I decided I’m just gonna smoke until it kills me. 

That way you ain’t  gotta worry about me anymore.” He laughed 

a wheezing, manipulative laugh and handed me the paper. As

I walked out, he said, “Hey, how ‘bout a picture of that kid of 

yours?” I pretended not to hear as I dragged the weight of him 

out the door with me and into the world.

 

Asphalt Confessions

Christopher Alharithy

Don’t tell me I’m ready

sliding behind the wheel, she sinks

deep, deep into the hot bucket seat, burning 

skin strawberry red, a skinned knee

and a bent little red trike. A time warp

placed now in this seat, time stripped away, my mind slipped 

back to that little girl with milk dud eyes and mud curled hair.

Her knuckles, ghostly white at ten and two 

staring out into the blackness of the new asphalt 

sweating, shaking, racing, beating

heart, a choking victim unable to move

her chest, suddenly gasping as if it was her inaugural 

breath, a flick of her wrist and like a newborn protests, 

her engine screams to life.

Burning rubber fills the cabin air, its stench stinging 

my nasal passages, like a freshly mutilated skunk, 

jerking, bumping, screeching, conjures images

of twisted and crumpled metal invade 

thoughts of eighteen wheelers whooshing

by, dust like fog blurring the eye, screaming thoughts fall 

upon deaf ears of yesteryear. Oh, please, please

can’t we just go back to that little red trike?

The Letter

Molly Trede

“With the issuing of the 13th Amendment, slavery was ended on December 6, 1865,” Mrs. McEvoy said  just  before the bell rang. The class began to pick up their bags and head for the door as she continued, “Don’t forget, you have an exam on Monday! Make sure you study. Have a good weekend!”

“I can’t believe she actually expects us to study,” Makenna said as she did an awkward trot to catch up to Virgo. “This is the easiest class I have. I’ve never even opened the book.”

“I’m going to study,” Virgo stated. “You never know, she could surprise us.”

“With what? An extra question?” Makenna continued sarcastically. “She has a bagel with blueberry cream cheese and a chocolate milk for breakfast, every day. Always.” She leaned against the lockers and raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response.

Virgo rolled her eyes and let out a sigh as she opened her locker. “Whatever you say, Kenz,” she said, deciding to let it go. She tossed her books in the bottom of her locker, then checked her planner to see what she would need for homework.

“I just don’t understand how she thinks anyone even cares about the class,” Makenna continued yet again. “All we’re  trying to do is pass it so we graduate. No one really cares.” She smacked her gum so loudly that you could hear it at the other end of the hall. 

“I care, because the grade I get decides if I go to college or not.” Virgo had enough at this point. She slammed her locker door. “If you just want to get through life ‘passing’ everything, that’s fine. Leave me out of it.” She sighed and turned to Makenna, needing a deep breath after her little rant.

“Jeeze, what’s got into you?” Makenna’s face was a mixture of horror and frustration; her eyes were wide, but she quickly furrowed her brow.

“Nothing, I’ll talk to you later. Have a good weekend.”

Virgo turned on her heels and headed for the exit, clutching her keys in her hand much tighter than normal.

She weaved through the parking lot, dodging cars driven by other students who wanted nothing more than to get home for  the weekend, no matter who was trying to walk safely in front of them. Virgo approached her dark green ‘97 Honda Accord and pressed the “unlock” button on her keychain. She pulled on the handle and threw her head back in frustration as she let her bag slide off her shoulder, down to her elbow. The car was still locked. “Shit. Again?” She put the key in the lock and turned her wrist until . . . click. The handle came loose.

She reached in and pressed the button on her door to unlock the rest of the car. Opening the back, she tossed her bag onto the seat, on top of the papers and clothes her father had left there from his weekend trip to South Dakota. Two years ago, Virgo’s dad wrote an entire book, something she never thought possible. The Way of the Lion was a book about being a successful businessman which her father, quite truthfully, had little-to-no knowledge about. It wasn’t famous or anything, but it did surprisingly well, well enough that they had a bit more money than they did before. Since his first “best seller” hit the shelves, her father had been in what he called a “creative drought” or “imagination constipation.” He took weekly trips to places like Vermillion, as if there was so much more to see there, to “inspire” his next book. “You can only find so much art in Omaha,” he would always say before he walked out the door to begin his next weekend-long adventure.

Virgo turned the key in the ignition and listened to the engine croak for a minute before shifting to reverse and making her way safely out of the parking lot. Once on the road, she rolled down her windows and reached for the radio dial. Tuning to her favorite station, a small smile crept across her face when she heard “Mr. Brightside” through the speakers. She turned the knob until she couldn’t turn it anymore and gripped the steering wheel so that her knuckles turned white. She looked up through the sunroof for a moment, her hair flying all around as the sun crept through the windshield, and took a deep breath.


Even when she was little, Virgo never really got the chance to be a kid. Her parents were always supportive, raising her to know how to take care of herself and make sure that they helped whenever she needed them to, but the fact of the matter was   that her parents never quite grew up themselves. Her father was always trying to write his next book, and her mother was   a teacher at the high school, but never came home before nine o’clock every night because she felt the compulsive need to help  in the theater department in any way she could. So, almost every night of the week, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and whatever else needed to be done, were all up to Virgo. She didn’t mind; it was  a nice change of pace from being at school all day, since she was able to have a few hours to herself before her mother came home and her dad made his way out of the den, away from his computer for a quick snack.

She knew she missed out on being the relaxed, carefree   kid that she was supposed to be, and it hadn’t become any easier for her lately.Senior year was supposed to be the easiest year in high school, but that was proving to be false for her. With three advanced courses and no study hall, she had been in a time crunch since the very first day. It didn’t help that her only true friend at Burke High School had been annoying the crap out of her lately, and even though Makenna’s intentions were totally innocent, Virgo was getting sicker of her by the second. To  top  it all off, her parents wouldn’t shut up about her going to college the next year at the university that was only 15 minutes away from where they lived. It was the first time they had taken any real, mature adult action in about 10 years, and they didn’t even ask her if it was what she wanted. Needless to say, Virgo was fed up, but no one had ever listened to her opinion or suggestions before, so she figured they sure wouldn’t now.

She had been applying to colleges for a while now and got acceptance letters in the mail at least once every couple of weeks. She checked the mailbox every day to make sure that she took  any new letters out before her mom came home and discovered them. She had a close relationship with both of her parents; she never hid anything. But this was something that she knew they wouldn’t be very happy about. It was always an idea in the back of her mind, moving far away for school and finally getting to be the kid she never truly was, but she knew her parents would never allow it. Makenna always told her, “They can’t stop you from going. If it’s what you want, you should do it. Who cares what they say?” but Virgo knew it was more than that; she knew she could never leave her parents like that without a word. She just liked the way it felt to know how many schools would actually want her, even if she would never go.

Virgo turned the car down her street, 45th, and came to a stop on the curb outside their little suburban house. It wasn’t anything special, just a beige two-story with a white door and   a single garage that her parents constantly raced home to park in before the other took it, but it was home. She threw her bag over her shoulder and put the key in the handle to lock her    car back up. Walking around the front end, she looked up and stopped dead in her tracks. The blue Chevy Malibu was in the driveway, meaning her mother was home. Her mom never came home before Virgo did. She always stayed late with the theater department, and even on the nights she didn’t, she still stayed at school to grade papers before coming home. Virgo ran to the mailbox and pulled the door open. It was empty. She hoped no mail came for her today; if it did, her mother got to it before she did. She took a deep breath, adjusted her backpack, closed the mailbox and headed for the front door. It was unlocked, and she stepped inside. She rounded the corner to the hallway, but before she could hide in her bedroom, her mother’s voice stopped her.

“Virgo, could you come here, please?” It was coming from the kitchen. Her mother sounded calm, almost too calm, and for just a moment Virgo wished she could get in her car and go back to school. She walked back into the kitchen where her parents were sitting, an unopened envelope on the table in between them.

“This was in the mailbox. Were you expecting it?” Her father looked up at her and slid the envelope toward her.

She noticed the label and nearly jumped out of her skin. The University of Chicago was written in the top corner. This was it. Her dream school. Of all the places she’d been applying to, this was the one application she could never quite finish. A few weeks ago, she finally did it, and she wasn’t even expecting to get a letter in the mail. This. Was. It. Her eyes widened, but when she looked at her mother’s expression, they quickly shrank back to normal.

“No, I mean. . . I wasn’t expecting to hear from them, no.” Virgo’s palms became sweaty. She knew that no matter what she said, this wasn’t going to go well.

Her mother was the next to speak up. “Why didn’t you tell us that you were applying?” She didn’t look angry, but her brow was furrowed, and there was almost a look of hurt spread across her face.

“I don’t  know; I’m  not going there anyway. I didn’t  think it was important.” Virgo shrugged and looked down at her feet, hoping they would let it go.

“Why not? It’s a great school,” her mother replied. Virgo nearly pinched herself before answering.

“You’re not mad?” she asked and almost cringed. She didn’t really want to know the answer.

Her father stood up from his chair and wrapped Virgo in a hug. “Sweetie, of course not! We were just worried that you didn’t say anything to us.”

Okay, now she really needed to pinch herself. She couldn’t figure out why her parents were being so calm about the letter, or why they weren’t yelling at her for trying to get away from home after graduation.

“Is this the school you want to go to?” her mother asked, grabbing her hand.

Virgo took a deep breath for what felt like the thousandth time today. “Yes,” she said, “I’ve had this dream of going there for a while now.”

“Well, I think that’s great,” her dad said. “Your mother and I obviously want you to stay close to home, but there’s no way we’re going to keep you here if you want something like this.”  He lifted the letter and raised his eyebrows. “This school is a big deal.”

“I know, that’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I wasn’t even planning on opening it.”

“Why not?” her mother said. Her parents looked confused by her negativity.

“Well, I didn’t think I would get accepted anyway.” Virgo was definitely telling the truth there. When she applied to the University of Chicago a few weeks ago, she laughed at herself before hitting submit on her application. There was no way that she would get accepted to a school like that, and even if she did, there was no chance she would actually go.

“What kind of attitude is that?” her dad asked.

“Certainly not one that we want in our house,” her mother replied and gave Virgo a smirk. “Go ahead now, we’ve been waiting. Open it.”

Virgo was still too confused to make a move. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?” She looked at her parents one last time, trying to read their expressions before making her next move.

“Will you just open the envelope already?” Her father sat back down at the table and scooted to the edge of his seat. His elbows rested on his knees, and he leaned forward expectantly. Her mother looked up at her and smiled. She nodded her head in approval.

Virgo took one last deep breath and relaxed her shoulders that had been tense since the moment she walked through the door. She reached for the letter and noticed her  hands  were balled into fists. She chuckled at herself for a moment at how on- edge she felt before. She picked up the letter from the table and looked at the seal on the front of the envelope before she began   to rip the opening. She looked down at her parents one last time. They both gave her encouraging glances before urging her to continue. Her parents scooted closer to her as she held the letter up to her face and read it silently. She watched her parents read through the letter next, fidgeting with her fingers and rocking back and forth on her heels. Her smile got bigger and bigger, but her stomach was still a bituneasy.