PROSE
WINNER of the Prose Award:
The Recipe Card
by Hazel Morgan-Fine
Apples
Through the chill of late November, you walk the leaf-littered sidewalks to Jackie’s Grocery store on the corner of Clive and 5th. The small establishment was on the square’s east side and had been there since its opening in 1922. Everything in your small hometown was old and had been there long before your memory could date. Jackie’s Grocery store was your preferred place to shop over the Hy-Vee on the outskirts of town because Jackie’s was cheaper by 75 cents. Even though 75 cents was not a lot, it made a difference. Plus, all the people who worked at Jackie’s were friendly, especially Danielle Patterson.
You and Danielle had been friends long before you could remember. Your mothers were high school besties and had remained that way into adulthood. When they started having children, they drifted, but your close friendship blossomed in Zelda Patterson’s basement. Danielle had worked at Jackie’s since freshman year of high school in 2018. When high school ended, you stayed in contact while off at Wartburg College in Waverly, Iowa. Though Danielle wanted to be a vet, she decided to stay to help her mom. Danielle had six younger siblings, and Zelda had recently developed Lupus, an autoimmune disorder that affects the connective tissues in her body. Family was very important to Danielle, so you knew that the decision was not one she had to deliberate about long.
It was Thanksgiving break, and you had come to the store to buy apples, oranges, and cranberries. Your grandparents typically hosted and prepared Thanksgiving dinner, but they decided to delegate that task to your parents this year. Your parents were happy to help even if they weren’t familiar with the recipes. Due to the unfamiliarity, they asked you to help prepare a dish or two for dinner. Hence, why you were at the store. You were making a dish your grandparents called cranberry relish, a dish you had never heard of outside the walls of your grandparents’ tiny two-story brick home. All you did was blend the ingredients together through a food processor and then add sugar. Thus, the recipe was relatively simple.
Weaving through the shoppers in aisle 15, you make your way to the other end of the store, where they stack the produce. Sifting amongst the various types of apples, you decide on the Honeycrisp ones. Not only were they on sale, but they also were much more enjoyable in a sweet dish than the stereotypical red ones. Your grandmother, Estel, often preferred the Honeycrisp in her apple crumble recipe.
“The Honeycrisp has less of a sweet taste. If you use an apple that is too sweet, you don’t have any dimension to the dish, especially when you add in the cloves.” Your grandmother would explain in the tiny wood-paneled kitchen. Only an island and some wall cabinetry existed in the kitchen when the house was first made, but your grandparents, in all the years they lived in the house, had added tables and cabinets to make up the needed space. You couldn’t stand in the kitchen if you didn’t have a reason to be there; at least, that is what your grandma said when your brothers pushed into the kitchen to talk and “take up space” she would joke. Everything else, such as holiday meals and birthdays, were in the dining room, where plenty of space was available to talk.
Oranges
The oranges were in a cart nearby, waiting to be stocked onto the shelves and bins of the produce section. Unlike apples, oranges really only came in one option at Jackie’s. Your small hometown didn’t have a particular love of blood oranges, so they were only in season during the summer leaving standard oranges to be stocked year-round. Your grandparents would pick up a couple oranges on their Friday grocery trips to turn the oranges into juice. They said they liked the juice when they went to the pool with your younger brother and sister. You remember sitting at the kitchen island as your grandma cut and pressed the juice into a small crystal juicer. When the arthritis in her hands became too much, you would gently take over when she went to the bathroom. You didn’t mind helping; it left time for your grandma to tell stories.
During your grandma’s youth, she used to receive oranges under the Christmas tree. She tells you this story every Christmas season while you open your stockings. Every meal for Thanksgiving and Christmas was at your grandparents’ house, and the same dishes were made the same way for generations. Your grandfather would spend months procuring the stores’ best ingredients before the prices increased. He would keep the items in cardboard boxes in his office until the meal was ready to be cooked. You used to laugh at your grandpa’s silliness and his patience in waiting for the perfect deal. Yet, in college, you realized everything was too expensive, just like your grandparents always complained.
Cranberries
Stuffing the oranges into the plastic bag, you placed them into the basket in your left hand, right next to the apples. Cranberries were only in season around the holidays, making them easy to find. Grabbing a bag, you toss it into the basket before heading into the aisles to glance at any deals you could take advantage of before you leave. Even a couple boxes of cereal at 20% off would help with the groceries at college. Besides, Jackie’s is the cheapest place in town and much cheaper than any store in Waverly.
Your town was in the furthest southwest corner of Iowa; often, it was easily assumed to be a part of Missouri. It was a small town, and it was simple in how it functioned. It didn’t have more than three stoplights, one Hy-Vee, and one Casey’s. The town was small, but the school district seemed bigger because all the students came from the countryside. Your parents are one of those families. The five-minute commute to town was not bad or brutal, even during the winter.
When you were younger, you would stay with your grandparents after school. They would make you an evening snack and bring it to you in the living room. They always sat you in the oversized recliner, a Dora the Explorer table tray on your lap, and your siblings scattered about the floor in their footy pajamas and swaddles. You loved seeing your grandparents, how they spoiled you, how they always made you feel loved.
When you grew up, you would stop by the house every day after class, pulling your piece of shit car into the slim driveway. You would talk to them for hours, catching up on the latest happenings in the community. Your grandparents rarely attended Sunday church, but your grandma always called her church friends on Monday to ask how they were. That was how she got the gossip, sitting in her blue recliner, Hallmark movie on the TV, and her 4th glass of iced tea on the side table beside her.
Sugar
Shuffling through the stacks, you glance at all of the Christmas decorations. Thanksgiving is only a couple days away, but the store, like almost every store in the town square, is covered with Christmas décor. Tiny reindeer and elves dawn the shelving next to advent calendars, wrapping paper, and comically large Christmas bows. Though the cheer is refreshing, you feel it’s still too early.
Everything lately feels too early. Though it is just Thanksgiving, you wonder if Christmas will be the same way. If your grandparents have finally reached an age where retirement homes and hospice care replace the discussions of memories and the news at the dinner table. Your grandparents are in their late 80s, but that doesn’t mean much in your conception of time. Yes, they are old, but how old is too old? Danielle’s grandfather still makes road trips to Arizona each Christmas, and he is 85. Yet, your grandparents have seemed to age beyond Danielle’s grandfather’s abilities.
Your grandma wears compression socks, though she has worn them since you were in 1st grade. However, the socks are thicker, and she often has to ask someone to help pull them on every morning and take them off at night. She is embarrassed to ask for help, yet she is in so much pain when she does it herself. She struggles to attend her class reunion each August in Waverly, and the couple of times you went recently to see them within your busy college schedule, the numbers at her reunion are dwindling to under 10. Granted, some people couldn’t make it, but it’s a startling sight.
Your grandpa is the most telling of the two. He was mowing the lawn during the June heat just a year ago, against doctors’ orders. Now, he pays the neighbor’s grandson to do it. He can’t drive the car for more than two hours, often switching with your grandma on long trips to Des Moines. He struggles to sit in his recliner without a heating pad, he talks longer in the bathroom because he struggles to stand, and he visits the doctor almost bi-weekly.
Your grandparents are showing their age, and you are getting scared. It is only Thanksgiving right now, but what about the other holidays they host. Soon all your holidays with your grandparents will be at your parents’ house or will be gone forever. You think back to high school when your grandma had that thyroid cancer scare. She beat it with the help of medical radiation, but it was still scary. You remember wondering if she would see you graduate high school. You graduate college in December, and you know she will see it happen. However, what about the other milestones? You started dating a new guy in July and plan to marry him. You want to have kids, but they may never meet their great-grandparents. What are you going to do if they pass?
Enjoy
The check-out line slowly lurches forward – time slipping away, and eventually, you sit your basket on the belt. Danielle smiles at you from behind the monitor.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, dragging out the end in a goofy tone. “How have you been?”
“Oh, just fine. My final thesis is killing me. Psychology professors are no joke when it comes to a thesis.” You laugh as you slide your card into the machine.
“Oh, I bet. I’m so glad I don’t have any of those. How’s the fam? I heard your grandparents aren’t doing Thanksgiving this year.” Danielle asks gently.
“Yeah, they just can’t prepare that much food anymore. Other than that, they have been doing good. Grandpa is getting better, but you know how he is-“
“Stubborn. Yeah, I definitely remember that.” Danielle interrupts with a smile
“Well, it’s good seeing you. Do you wanna go Black Friday shopping on Saturday?”
“Of course. Anything to get out of here. Tell everyone I say hi.” She says with a wave.
“You too.” You reply, lifting the paper sack into your arms.
You walk towards the doors leading to the chill outside. Though the snow has not fallen onto the ground, the air is still nipping at your skin. You drift down the sidewalk, back to your maroon 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe, uncertainty prickling in your mind. The recipe itself seems relatively simple, it’s the rest of it that you are worried about.
It’s October and All of My Ghosts Are Free
by Summer Pasutti
It’s October and all my ghosts are free. They are free from the twisted metal cages that I lock them in so very tight, filing them so closely that their edges bleed into one another. I don’t
know if it is the fact that October is where the spirit realm is supposedly the closest to Earth, or if I just am so tired after locking them all away, but they are free. They found the key, or they slipped through the gaping bars. They haunt me. They mock me.
For as long as I can remember, my head has always been in the past. My body might be floating around in the present somewhere, but it is my brain that is always preoccupied with my personal history. I can remember driving around my driveway in my purple Barbie jeep. I can
remember conversations from long ago. Smells from the past plague me. I ruminate what could have been if I had done something different–what my future would have been if I had changed one simple thing.
The Butterfly Effect has implanted itself into my brain the moment that I learned of it. It floats in my skin. It gives words to my thoughts. To my emotions. It flutters in my heart. How can a butterfly flapping its wings cause a typhoon? How can I make an effect that ripples across the world?
My mother is an earth-shaker. She does not back down. She does not show her pain, nor her pride, no matter how much she feels. She looks down on these feelings, stamping them beneath her. If she does not let herself feel the pain, it does not exist.
I am the only living witness to the late-night conversations with my father that would
occur after a viewing of Saturday Night Live on an old 40-pound box tv that I had once carried up three flights of stairs to his apartment because he had gout. The same south side apartment that he taught me how to defend myself from an attacker.
My father had not been around for all of my life. I have many letters and lots of disappointed memories. But I also have those conversations in the apartment, darkness in the room that was never unpleasant. I would lay on the sectional couch, staring at my father while he was in his chair. I would blabber and blather about all of the things I was learning in science, and all his face would do was light up in awe for me. I was going to do so many great things. Even
now, I can feel the echoes of his pride and love warming my bones and radiating in my heart.
Death is a funny beast. I have had many occasions where a phantom breeze floats in the air, and I catch a whiff of my father’s cologne—Curve. Even now, as I write these words, I can just smell his scent while sitting in what used to be his chair. What does it mean that I can smell him when he has not been in this world for almost three and a half years? He haunts me every morning. He haunts me when I give my last name. He haunts me in the movies that we used to share together. Every time my friends utilize alcohol to mask their burning pain, I must think of him and his path. Even though he knows I am terrified of ghosts, he haunts me yet.
Memories—aren’t they in some way ghosts? They can lurk in every dark shadow, waiting to pounce. They can be in the light of the day, basking in the sun. They wait in corners. They sit on shelves in the form of glass flamingos and an urn. They also collect dust, like on the abandoned softball trophies that sit on a shelf too big for their owner’s room. Memories can sit
patiently, waiting for you to take them out and examine them when the moment is right. Sometimes, they wait for the cover of the night to throw shit at you and fuck up your mood. They are poltergeists and gentle spirits and sometimes the reincarnations of your loved ones.
Are we not written in the stars? I have always had my head up in the stars as long as I can remember. There is something so calming and terrifying about looking up and seeing the past and present above you. I look up and I feel at home.
I used to find it cool that my father used to show me space movies. It was something we connected on. Now, I wonder if maybe that was his way of reaching out. He knew what I loved and made the effort to build that bridge. He didn’t make it to more than one of my games a year, if not every other, but movies were something that he did show up on. I don’t remember the games—most of them, that is—but I feel him when I watch the movies we shared.
The moments we connected were like two little constellations waving at each other as the Earth spins around and around.
Are children not the remnants of their parents, even as these foundational creators pass
on?
I had to have been about the age of six the night the cops came to my house. I had never seen my mother cry—and I have only seen her cry one time since that night. I remember waking up and coming down the stairs to flashing red and blue splashing the white walls of the entrance to our townhome. I don’t remember the details, only that when the police officer asked my mother who was here and she indicated to herself and my tiny infant brother, I was compelled to dash around the corner to squeak, “I’m here too.”
When my mother hushed me and gestured for me to leave, I was hurt. I did not know why she did not include me. Was it because I was my father’s daughter—the one I later learned that
she threw out for good? Was that why when I sought the comfort of my mother’s arms later that night, I found her sitting on the cracking blue step stool crying? Tears leaked from her green eyes in little rivulets that she did not wipe. At that moment, I was frozen in place. Most children would have rushed to their mother, wiping her tears with gummy hands while placing sloppy kisses to her crumpled face.
I just stood there—frozen—waiting for the world to stop shifting. She did not cry. She has not since a funeral a few years ago. The image of my mother’s external pain has been etched in my brain since this moment on. The world kept moving, even if that moment in time did not. I am my mother’s daughter, uncertain what to do with emotions. I am my father’s daughter, ready to explode and erupt to protect those I care about. I am my own person, an amalgamation of them both and yet something entirely my own.
It was October 16th, 2021. I was at my little sister’s soccer game. My mom’s phone screen lit up with my aunt’s name and in the deepest part of my heart, I knew. I really did. What hurts the most is that I never got to say goodbye. I had just accepted seeing him after a year of going no contact. I was still angry at all of the things I thought he did. The last memory I have of my
father is where I wouldn’t let him stand near me. I barely tolerated him hugging me. I made him cry.
I don’t remember if I said I loved him. I thought I had more time.
We are all made of stardust, I am told. Remnants of this ethereal universe begging to explode. But I cannot erupt. I am only human. I am only a ghost of what a star is. I only have iron in my blood. I have breath in my lungs. What can I really do?
My thoughts are fleeting and quick. The ghosts have moved in. They are weird moments, chance meetings, and death. But the ghosts are also memories, smells on the wind, and
phantasmic pains. My ghosts are emotions and thoughts that have no place in the present time. I am me, but the ghosts are me. They are in my blood. They are in my veins and the little nooks and crannies in my brain. My ghosts lurk, waiting to tell me to be something more because I
came from something so big and vast.
Maybe the universe haunts me. But maybe, just maybe,
I will haunt it back.
What does that mean?
The ghosts will know.
The Memories
by Maddy Gunzenhauser
Up until my freshman year of high school, which was when COVID hit, I went to a tiny school called Mormon Trail in Humeston, Iowa. Contrary to popular belief, that is to say the belief of those who are unfamiliar with the school, it is not a school for Mormons, and, to my knowledge, no Mormons go there.
While I went there, the elementary was in Humeston, and the Junior High and High School were combined into one (very old) building in a town that probably had a smaller population than the school’s enrollment. This town was Garden Grove, or as I liked to call it in my head, Garbage Grove. It is a trashy rural town with practically no stable businesses and one single road that is properly paved. You would be lucky to find someone who lived in that town and actually followed the few stop signs it has. In comparison, Humeston is a tourist town, with its whopping two restaurants (maybe three on a very good day).
So it’s no wonder that the elementary, which was the newer and nicer of the school district’s two buildings, was where all of the school’s events were held, all sporting events, concerts, performances, science fairs, pep rallies, and general community events. If it was school sponsored or school adjacent, chances are that it would be in the elementary gym. Unless it was Prom, for some reason, that was held in the high school gym in Garbage Grove, up until the new high school was built next to the elementary in 2021. But that doesn’t matter, I left that school in 2020. What matters is that even after I left Mormon Trail, I kept returning to that elementary gym.
– o –
It’s very easy to find the gym at Mormon Trail Elementary. It’s probably the second thing you see when you walk in the main doors. The first being the long and daunting hallway that housed the second through fifth grade classrooms while I went there (when the new high school was built, everything got shifted around). But the long, daunting, low ceilinged hallway doesn’t matter.
The entrance to the gym is more or less a stairwell. The stairs going up go to the balcony on the right (yes, the gym has a balcony, no it isn’t fancy), or to the extra rooms that everyone forgets about and never uses on the left, up a few more stairs.
But what’s important is what happens when you go down the stairs. There is stuff to the left, but it doesn’t really matter. I could tell you about The Incident, but it’s not important to the point I’m trying to make. To the right is what’s really important: the gym itself. It’s old. Like really old. The floor was replaced when I was in mid-elementary, maybe fourth grade. Now it looks like any other gym floor, but back before it got replaced, it was dark wood planks that matched the “bleachers”. I say that in quotations because they aren’t what you would imagine when you see the word “bleachers”. They aren’t long metal benches, not by a long shot. Not even plastic-y benches, no, these are essentially wooden chairs fastened to the floor. The seat is like a distant ancestor to the ones that you find in movie theater seating, where the seat folds down, but these ones aren’t spring-loaded or whatever. They are, in every sense of the word I can think of, manual. There’s about eight rows of this seating stretching the close side of the long edge of the gym, tucked under the balcony, the non-fancy one that doesn’t matter.
On the other side of the gym, opposite the seating, is the stage. For the longest time, that was the only stage I performed on. This stage taught me things. It taught me to perform. It opened my eyes to my love of theater. It taught me that just because you write a short film script about Albert Einstein in sixth grade, doesn’t mean it will ever get filmed. This stage taught me how to deal with people in tight spaces (the backstage area is almost nonexistent). This stage is where I learned two-point perspective in drawing, that one year when it acted as an art room because the old art room was occupied with preschoolers. To me, this stage means art, and joy, and storytelling. It also means ending. I graduated sixth grade on that stage, watched many more high school graduations happen there. I experienced post-show depression for the first time on that stage.
But now we move on to the gym floor. This floor taught me things. It taught me that sports take hard work, and even if you work hard, you may not be as good as you wish you were. It taught me to play fair when we had indoor recess. It taught me that if you get hit in the face during a junior high volleyball game and your glasses go flying, you should worry about your face before you worry about your glasses. This floor has seen me run, jump, dance, cheer, and play. To me, this floor means change and growth.
The stage and the floor are only about two-thirds of what the gym means to me. The other third is the space as whole, the emptiness that is ever-present, but never-bothersome. The air holds space for memory. Memories of elementary science fairs, like the one where my classmate accidentally burned a hole in the tarp covering the floor. Memories of the third-grade “wax museum” that my class started, where innocent and well-meaning students choose a historical figure to study, some portrayals of which were slightly problematic. Memories of the inflatable planetarium that was brought in to teach us about the stars. Memories of the steady decline of the high school theater program. Memories of junior high dances, like the Valentine’s dance I invited my friend to, after which everyone assumed we were dating.
Memories of theater productions, the good ones, the bad ones, and the downright weird ones. The first play I was ever cast in. The show that was falling apart right as COVID hit. The community theater production where seventeen-year-old me played a thirty-year-old character that was love interest to another thirty-year-old character, played by an actual thirty-year-old.
– o –
Every year since I left Mormon Trail, I end up in that gym less and less. It feels like growing out of touch with an old friend. It’s an ache, but if I went back, just for the heck of it, there would be that awkwardness of trying to catch up when one of you has changed and the other hasn’t. I’ve moved on, made new friends, and that gym is just as I remember it. The old wooden seating, the brick details on the front of the stage, the banners from championships before I even went there. The aura of years lived and passed. The memories.
Decisions, Decisions, Decisions
by Hazel Morgan-Fine
Beckham sat, displeasingly so, at another one of his mother’s cordial weekly dinners, knowing that the whole affair was, quite simply, a waste of time. It was another Friday night, another weekly dinner, and another 4-hour affair of his parents berating him about his academics. Every pointed question was aimed with military precision to try and blow up Beckham’s façade. Yet, Beckham was a Donahue, the last child conceived from his parents’ fulfillment of marital duties, and his façade could not quickly be diminished. Instead, he smiled and lied, as he had always done for the past four years.
“Well, boy, tell us about your class with Archibald?” Beckham’s father inquired, cutting into his steak and emitting a shriek from the porcelain dinner plates.
“Professor Abbot is a brilliant mentor.” Beckham began his woven lie, speaking in a sophisticated language so that his father had the impression that his son was becoming refined due to his education. Professor Abbot was an old, prudent, sour-faced man who turned every lesson into an overcomplicated lecture. “He is fantastic at explaining the intricacies of journalistic ethics and the law. The other day, he explained to another guy in my class that journalistic ethics was just as important as being a journalist. However, this guy didn’t see or understand his brilliance.” Beckham constructed out of thin air, fancying his language to imply that he was more intelligent than he actually was. His lie was a perfectly well-crafted specimen, a skill he had worked on since his brother Jude had left.
“Ah yes, Archibald can be quite advanced in his explanations, but I do feel that most students are below the ability to comprehend him. But not you, Son, you are a Donahue. Journalism is in your blood.” Beckham’s father said. The statement was a weekly reminder that tended to come up in the second hour of the four-hour commitment.
Beckham’s father, Chauncey Donahue, was a journalism business mogul based in Massachusetts who owned millions of newspapers nationwide. His father was a large man, and his strict workout regime ensured that. He had dark eyes that Beckham was informed were brown, but Beckham believed that they had been brown and were no longer that color. He believed his father’s eyes were black, like the sludge that occupied the part of his brain required to be a good father. His hair was peppering, as grey seemed to seep from his father’s hair follicles. Chauncey Donahue was good at his job. He was a cruel businessman with impressive abilities to rehabilitate and foster thriving newspapers. Yet, he could not rehabilitate his marriage or foster a working relationship with his children to offset his success. So, he settled on complete and utter control.
“Well, if you like him so much,” his darling mother began, “Then we will invite him to our Christmas ball in 2 months.” Beckham almost choked on his steak.
“Really, mother,” He choked out, “that is unnecessary. He is a busy man.”
“Nonsense, Son! He will make an exception for an old friend like me.” His father said slowly before returning to the green beans he was picking at.
Beckham contracted around his sigh and opted for a soft smile to his mother. Cordelia Donahue was the smell of honeysuckle compared to the sour milk that was Beckham’s father. Beckham only really cared about his mother. She was soft-natured but also resilient, her roots latching deeply into the limestone of their estate. She had elegant, straight brown hair that had lightened slowly into a light grey-brown and piercing eyes that could stop you in your tracks. She was as diplomatic as she was friendly. She was a congressman’s daughter when she met Beckham’s father. He was supposedly sweet before success became the only thing luring him to the bedroom, entrancing him to sleep so he could wake and work the next day. Yet, Cordelia remained kind and rebellious against her husband’s new attitude.
Chauncey was not violent in any way; he loved his wife, but success drove a wedge through the marriage until Chauncey gave up on finding a solution and settled into the large office on the top floor of his slate-grey business building. Cordelia resigned to her husband’s new nature and decided to keep their life’s social aspects afloat. She attended club meetings with the other wives of successful businessmen her husband adorned. Cocktail parties, Sunday brunches, and benefit dances were filled with cordial and pointless talk about planning more cocktail parties, brunches, and benefits. Cordelia maintained the home with grace and hospitality, all while loving Beckham and Beckham’s brother, Jude, to the best of her ability. Beckham loved his mother more than anyone else.
When the dinner was finished, Beckham began to drive back to his college dorm. While he drove, he began to let his mind wander deep into thought. He went to a prestigious private college, not quite the Ivy League but damn near close. Chartham College was in a small town in Massachusetts called Harborer. The architecture was all brick and limestone, the metal was all wrought iron, and the sidewalks were cobblestone. Most of the campus was centralized around the quad, making walking to class in the winter easy. The two buildings facing south and west were dormitories. Beckham was placed on the third floor of the south dormitory, which overlooked the quad. Behind them was a labyrinth of additions due to increased attendance with the scholarship program that started in 1996. Due to the shift, several new buildings and classrooms were now attached to the north- and east-facing buildings and were designated as faculty offices or classrooms. Though the campus looked jumbled on a map, it was at least old-looking and enjoyable to walk.
The quad had four exposed sidewalks branching from each building to meet at the fountain in the middle of the quad. When you walked to each building, a stone statue of the four central figures in Chartham College’s history greeted you right before you stepped into the shade of the archways. Like many colleges, Chartham College had little rituals or superstitions about these statues. The eastern statue was Theodore Montell, a favored science professor from the early 20th century; if you touched his outstretched hand, you would pass your next exam. The western statue was of President Zegler Carter, the first Chartham president from when the college opened in 1878. The superstition was that you would be promoted if you rubbed the briefcase at the base of his feet. The southern statue was of the architect behind the original four buildings, Connor O’Shea. He drew much inspiration from his homeland of Ireland, specifically the Kylemore Abbey Church. Chartham had a lot of intricate and beautiful stonework, windows that were straight and then rounded to a point at the top, and lots of steeples. His superstition was somewhat stereotypical in that it dealt with luck – if you kissed the left cheek of the statue, you would be given luck for a whole year.
The northern statue was of Della Dupont, a poet from the late 19th century, and the only female statue on campus. It was added in 2006, the newest statue despite being only 18 years old. The superstition was that if you touched her statue’s base with your foot, you would fall head over heels in love. Therefore, the statue’s base was stripped of its exterior layer, leaving a shiny polished, and a slightly dented section where contact had been made for years. Beckham had touched the statue daily since freshman year and hoped it would work this year. Now that he was a sophomore in his fall semester, he had developed a long-lasting crush on a girl in his literature class, Elenor Langford.
Elenor Langford was many things to Beckham. She was brilliant in class, drawing conclusions to literature in ways he did not even truly understand. She was beautiful, with dark brown hair and soft green eyes, and her bone structure was sharp but not pointed. The cold had forced her into chunky sweaters and jeans, but her brilliance and kindness to him was what drew him in originally. On the first day of classes, she had helped him grab all the novels, a list of 26 for the entire two-semester course, from the bookstore. She also helped him with notes during the first week of class as he became accustomed to the nature of English courses. Elenor was in the part of the 25% of campus that came from the scholarship program. He only knew this because she discussed it in class when discussing how authors like Mark Twain interpreted and described poor-income families. Naturally, Beckham remained silent during the discussion.
They had interacted a couple times outside of class, but they were slim and short interactions. Sometimes, it was at the college bar “The Lucky Horse” or in the dining hall line. She was always lovely to him, respectfully and shyly engaging in conversation until some event or action forced the conversation to a halt. His heart would thump harder when he walked past her in the hallway. She wore a perfume he did not recognize. It had notes of vanilla, but something about the concoction made it complex enough to linger in his nose long after she passed him. They smiled across the room at each other when the professor often said something silly, and she had handed Beckham a napkin with her number on it at the bar last week. She told him she gave it to him in case he wanted to swap notes. He attempted to take it literally – since he didn’t want to assume the nature of their relationship – but he couldn’t help his giddiness at the opportunity. Yet, amongst all the giddiness he felt at possibly asking her out, he also felt terror. Deep-rooted and ingrained terror that he would fail.
“Women only date successful men. You are a successful man because you are a Donahue. When you have a job as the CEO of my empire, someday, women will fall at your feet.” Beckham’s father had told him one evening at dinner. However, that very thought haunted him.
Beckham was not a successful man, not in any way that mattered. He achieved high grades and had several leadership positions lined up on campus. He had also applied to be the English undergraduate assistant but was unsuccessful. Since coming to college, Beckham had slowly realized that his success was not his own. All of his success was tied to his parents, their wealth, or their name. His college was paid for, so he didn’t have to evaluate other options. His parents and teachers were all old friends from college, and his parents paid hefty sums to their charitable causes, so he never could fail a class if he tried. After college, his life was planned out, and an office in his father’s retched office building waited with a bronze plaque already nailed to the door. His name was printed simply as “Beckham Donahue,” with no title displayed but all the power implied. Beckham’s father had been training, breeding, and toning Beckham to take over his journalistic empire since he could hold a pen.
Jude, Beckham’s older brother, had been a failure from the minute he began speaking. Jude was very combative and disagreeable regarding their parents’ rules. As a kid, he would run around and break all kinds of things, throwing elaborate fits while docile little Beckham just sat and watched his seven-year-old brother wreak havoc on everything. The seven-year age difference and Jude’s rebelliousness became evident as they grew up. At 18, Jude moved out, married a yoga instructor, had one kid, and refused to let his parents have any connection with the new family. Jude had cut their parents out, leaving Beckham to clean up the mess. Now, Beckham still talks to his brother, but in some small way, he is still angry with him. Jude and Beckham fought constantly in their youth and had only gotten along since Jude left.
Thus, Beckham was heir to his parents’ empire, and he knew that it was not what he wanted, but he could not tell his parents. Beckham decided that he wanted to declare himself an English major – not a business or journalism major like his father wanted – about three weeks ago, neglecting to inform his parents about the application on his desk. If he told his parents, they would be crushed that their golden child, the only one who even wanted contact with them, was going against their will. They would disown him if he swallowed his nerves to tell them that their bright future heir to the business empire was choosing to be a teacher or writer over security and family morals. Indeed, they would tell him how penniless he would be in an unforgiving world until he broke down and lived out of his car.
Beckham’s heart began to race in his chest, and he started to feel the edges of his vision blur as he reached the dorm parking lot. His ribs ached and groaned as they attempted to keep his pounding, anxious heart inside the ribcage. He slowly climbed out of the car, hitching a deep breath of air into his lungs. Beckham hated decisions, especially ones involving talking to his parents. He hated having to decide which option was best in any situation because, quite frankly, he could always see the downsides to both sides. He hated choosing, and he hated the results even more. If he told his parents, then they would rip him from Chartham College – insisting that his English professor, Mr. Donatello, had been brainwashing their poor son – and toss him into some other college of their choosing. They would tighten the ever-loving grip they had on his throat until he became unwilling to resist. His will and stubbornness were never as strong as his brother Jude’s. His mom would try to be kind, but Beckham and Cordelia knew Beckham’s father. They knew his controlling nature and his crafty ways of maintaining it. So yes, Beckham’s mother would try to loosen the claustrophobic-inducing grip, but it would not go far. Beckham would be broken like a wild stallion until he became the prize of his father’s will. This option was not acceptable.
Beckham quickly went inside his dorm, climbed up three flights and scurried into his room. He leaned his back against the door and took several deep breaths, attempting to work himself out of a spiral. He knew that he needed to find something to occupy his thoughts enough for him to calm down, so, he began to search for the napkin with Elenor Langford’s number. He started with the bookshelf above the desk. It was not a large bookshelf but one long wooden slab on several metal brackets, making it lengthy. Beckham pulled off every book on the shelf, uprooting the dust from behind the books into the air. He quickly scanned the pages for exposed papers before slamming the book shut and moving on to the next. When all the books had been found empty and returned to the shelf, Beckham began to sift through the desk. He threw stacks of papers on the unmade bed sheets, the top sheet falling off the bed corner from his restless sleeping. He tossed the large textbooks to the floor and shoved the pens and pencils into a cup on the desktop. His journalism ethics case brief midterm flew under the bed, and he made a mental note to grab it later. However, he knew deep down that he would forget it was there, print another for submission, and find the original copy under the bed when he left for winter break.
Dozens of notebook papers with half-written poems, unnecessary doodles, and crazed scribblings about his philosophy lecture in the margins were hastily tossed into the top desk drawer for later sorting. He tossed his car keys to the bed, trashed a Pizza Ranch coupon booklet and a sticker from the orientation that read “Class of 2027”, and untangled his headphones from the broken HDMI cord before he finally spotted the napkin. In the right corner of the desk was a small built-in box with vertical wooden slots inside to divide notecards, sticky notes, and any other materials you wanted. The bent tip of a napkin was between the fold of a stack of bright blue sticky notes.
Beckham lunged for it, hope surging through him, causing the hair on his arms to rise. He quickly snatched it from the slot, haphazardly unfolding the napkin. His shaking hands moved roughly, ripping the fabric at the corner. He cursed at himself and continued. Having gentle hands was not his strong suit. Donahue’s were notorious for remaining guarded in their dealings. Both parents were reserved and methodical in their discussions of emotional matters. The only emotion they expressed was anger, and often connected with anger was distaste. So, Beckham did not know how to be gentle or nurturing when handling someone with care. Finally, he opened the napkin to the number smeared in permanent marker.
The number was “680-762-159” and his heart began to drop. The rip he had made had cut it short in the corner where the last number would be sprawled. The end of the sequence lay in the mess below his hands. He looked at his squalor and cursed himself for his messy habits. Was finding the last number worth all this effort? Was this girl he hardly knew worth all this effort? He looked out his window across the quad at the statue of Della Dupont. He saw the statue from his window every morning. Maybe the missing number was actually a sign.
So, he slid the major declaration application into the top desk drawer, where it would stay for one more week. For by next week, when the weekly dinner churned to the present, he would pull out the application to stare at it, debating telling his parents about it at dinner in two hours, defeatedly decide against the truth, then leave it there as he grabbed his keys for another 4-hour affair of dodging his parents’ insistent questions. Yet for now, Beckham gently laid the napkin on the pillowcase and plopped into the creaking desk chair to clean his mess. He laughed at the thought of the housemaids at his parent’s house that used to clean his room. He laughed at the irony that he had to clean his own messes now and that those messes went beyond those on his floor to those he had decided to avoid again tonight. He laughed at his predicament and how he could not escape the consequences of talking to his parents. He laughed while he cleaned until he eventually cried.
Dear Sister
by Thomas Griego
Spring is coming again; the last of the snow for this year is melting away, making room for new life. Can you see them from where you are? My first role in this life was being your brother, but a lot came with that. I was your partner in crime, your best friend, and your biggest enemy. But you were always my protector, the one I could go to for anything. I’m sorry I couldn’t be that for you. You taught me to be strong, even when I thought I never could. You always believed in me, even when I didn’t. You never let me give up, always told me, and pushed me to keep going. I hope you know how much you mean to me. I hope you knew it when we were kids, and I hope that you know it now. I wish I’d told you how much I love you more often and how you’ve made me who I am.
Sometimes, I find myself reaching for my phone to text you or going to send you a dumb video I saw, and I’m forced to remember that you’re gone all over again. I try to stay strong and focus on the road ahead because I know what you want for me, but sometimes I’m stuck in my memories. Navigating my haunted memory garden. The silence you left behind is the hardest part of losing you; it’s heavy on me and everyone who knew you. I miss family game nights, watching you argue with mom or our brother over something stupid. I miss staying up with you, watching horrible indie horror movies, and talking about anything or nothing. I miss your laugh; sometimes, I hear it in the wind. I miss your smile, something that could change anyone’s mood. I miss you; you were my first home and always will be.
Sequel 