He dragged himself to the hotel information desk. The facilitator stood tall; proud behind his name tag on his desk, readjusting the time on his wrist watch to nine-fifteen. The air held a musk you wouldn’t otherwise notice. He would have loathed the smell, had he been able to. “‘Scuse me,” He cleared his throat. The man behind the desk looked up with a smile which faded all too quickly. “S’there a nurse’s office of some kind I could go to?” Lifting a weak hand, He gestured to his face. His eye was swollen, a line of blood fell from His left temple to His cheek, and His nose looked more crooked than usual. His tie was loose, along with His shoulders, and underneath His blazer you’d see his untucked shirt. The man behind the desk regained himself. “U-unfortunately our nurses are between shifts.” “Okay,” He sighed. “Have any band-aids behind that desk there?” He motioned down at the counter. “No sir.” “Any pads then?” Through a wince, He managed a smile at the corner of his mouth. The man behind the desk did not. “No, sir.” He taped the desk with his hands and began walking away. “Shall I call the police, sir?” It was starting to annoy Him how he’d call him ‘sir’, as if He was 10 years his senior. “No.” He sighed again. No point. “The next nurse arrives at nine-thirty,” he called to His back. He paused a moment. “The time?” “Excuse me?” “The time,” pointing to His wrist. The man behind the desk looked down at his watch, while He pulled out his phone. “...Nine-fif-” “Fifteen, yeah” He paused again, and looked at His Benson, His fathers Benson. “Where’s the office?” The nurse didn’t arrive until a quarter to, but He had nowhere to go. In the bathroom mirror, He adjusted the band-aid to his forehead, then his tie, leaning towards His reflection. His tie didn’t stay. He took out His earbuds. Hall C. He could hear the music from the Prom from outside the doors. He didn’t like it, so He turned the volume up on His phone. He walked through and onto the dance floor, pushing His way by His classmates towards His table. It wasn’t in the corner, but it wasn’t in the middle of the room either. He slouched in his chair and watched the people He’d known, the people He hated, but not as much as He thought. Especially now. She walked over from Her table and sat in the chair next to His. He didn’t look up. He looked to the clock above the door He entered. He looked at His father’s Benson. He looked at his phone. 10 o’two. He didn’t much care for the time however, a poor habit He’d taken to. What the hell is She doing? Why now? “What happened?” She asked. As if it wasn’t obvious. “Fight.” I sipped my drink. She scoffed, “You don’t get in fights.” “Oh, cause you were there long enough to know.” Damn. She looks angry. And sad. Too much sarcasm. Why’s She sad? I’m the one with the messed up face. Why’s She sad? I’ll turn down the volume. She turned from Him, and He turned from Her. “Who was it anyway?” “Him.” There wasn’t much more for me to say. Her face fell. She knows who. Wish she didn’t have to. I see Her start to rub over Her arm with the opposite. She finally says, “You didn’t have to-” “Well I did.” “I didn’t want you to-” “Too bad! It’s not about you! It’s not about him! It is but it isn’t.” I press the off button on my phone and finish off the drink. Silence. The people They knew continued to dance; the people They thought They hated. But they were silent “Thank you.” She offered to Him. No response. A few people start leaving the floor. I take out one of my earbuds: Sinatra. They’re not gonna dance to that. I see Her look over at me. “Dance with me.” She stands from her seat, straightening Her dress from Her waist. “What?” He looks up. “Dance with me.” “Oh, I dunno how.” He shoos Her with His hand and turns His attention back on the few that remained. “I know you know how.” Their eyes met, and she put out her arm. He knew She’d say that. He had tried to forget. He wished She didn’t say that. I saw Her. Again. She looked beautiful, like I’d remembered, but it wasn’t the same kinda beautiful. The beautiful you can feel. The kinda beautiful you can look at and feel peace. I’d kill for peace. Begrudgingly, He stood from His seat and took Her hand. How He’d remembered. She helped Him to the dance floor. A hand on Her waist, a hand in Her’s. Left. Right. Forward. Back. Yeah, I remembered. The lights caught the two; a haze of purple and blue drowned Him, and yellow on Her face. The music felt quiet, drowned out by the feeling of melancholy. Although He fought, His eyes began to water. Mostly from the pain, and some from the fight. Finally, it was too much. “I’m so sorry,” He broke down, letting the tears fall from His eyes. “It was supposed to be better. I was supposed to be better-” “...Hey,” She whispered. “-You weren’t there a-and I wasn’t there-” “...Hey.” Her face hardened slightly. “-And I wanted to keep- It wasn’t your fault,” He could finish stronger, “It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t mine but it definitely wasn’t you-” “Hey!” She grabbed His face with both hands, bringing His attention back to Her eyes. They didn’t speak, but Her eyes said to Him ‘You weren’t supposed to change’. And He knew when Her eyes began watering that She heard Him say ‘You neither’. “It’s too much,” He managed through exasperated breaths. He grabbed Her wrists and held them there on his cheeks, then stared down His shoes. His mother buffed them before He left. She leaned into Him and wrapped Her arms around Him. He almost stumbled back. Upon seeing Her teary face against His chest, He embraced the hug. At some point, the music changed to some 1960s garbage from the ‘moms and dads’, I think. I didn’t hate it. “I gotta be home by 12,” He whispered. She held Him tighter, and He closed His eyes and returned the favor. “I gotta be home by 12.” ~ He pulled His car up to the bridge. He just got that car. Crossed the bridge hundreds of times without it. He looked at His wrist. He looked at His phone. The old Benson never did work, and His phone died somewhere around nine-forty. He looked at the dashboard: 12:43. Damn thing was always either an hour ahead or an hour behind. He never could remember. Didn’t matter, He had nowhere to go. He parked the car, then took off His Benson, His father’s Benson. From the glove compartment, He grabbed a brown paper bag and got out of the car, leaving the door open behind Him. The night was warm, it was June, but the air was cool, waving the few strands of hair covering his forehead. He probably didn’t need His jacket. The bridge ran over train tracks. They followed up to the city. He used to take the metro with His sister to meet His grandparents over in Manhattan. East side. He tripped over Himself, got back up and continued walking. Now He stood leaning against the metal railing, looking out on the tracks and the stars. Have they lost their spark? Damn city lights. He thought to Himself. He shifted his weight and pulled the bag to the railing. He pulled His father’s nine millimeter pistol from the bag and held it in His hands. The handle was cool, and loosely fit his finger around the trigger. He brought it to His head. Took a deep breath. He began to shake, His breath sped up and He started bawling. “DAMMIT!” He wailed over the tracks, echoing in the night. He folded over Himself, pistol still in hand, convulsing on the ground. He struck the pistol to His already bruised cheek. Then it came. Two short horn blasts. GACHUG! GACHUG! GACHUG! The train ran over the tracks like thunder beneath Him. He picked Himself up and watched as the train disappeared over the horizon. It was quiet then, although He was sure He could still hear it. When He got back in His car, He threw the gun in the bag and on the passenger seat. He wiped His nose on His jacket sleeve, slammed the wheel, and pulled out. He didn’t turn on the radio, all He wanted was peace. He’d kill for peace. Charles Zenhausern
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The arrival of sunlight demands the start of a new day
Of course, new days aren’t very much different from old days We’re all just doing the same thing most of the time… I mean come on We’re told what to do, when and where to do it, and worst of all, Are punished in one way or another for anything less than perfection How can you not call that a routine? But people love to keep a strict schedule It gives them direction, reassurance even. And that comfort gives them permission to pretend as though their routines aren’t just strings. People just love to believe that they’re free. What they don’t realize is that Strings are everywhere Whether you acknowledge strings or not is up to you But nobody can completely negate their influence This material is special, you see It has a mind of its own: Invisible strings attach themselves to bones, limbs, and organs To every inch of the body. They loop up and down and all around They constrict and draw blood, Each strand bound tightly into place You want to force out a yell But of course, the lace is fastened firmly around your throat, Only authorizing sentences that suit its fancy to pass Strings govern your movements, your speech, your actions You are a mechanical doll, automated by societal pressure and fear. However, There can be interference. Confidence, impulsivity, entitlement, originality, They cause the strings to loosen And you become the puppeteer. Sam King When you’re a young & innocent child, you tend to wish your
time away. You wish to be like the big girls and boys that surround you. You wish for a chance to have the Same opportunities as the “big kids”. Waiting until the day you can be big like them. Tik tok Tik Tik tok Now you are an adult, struggling to adapt to your new life, you wish you had not wished your time away. You wish you were like the little girls and boys in grade school. You wish for a chance to be a child again. All of your time was spent wishing it away, and now you want it back. Con
SiDer tHIs, I Ha V E HaD SleepParlsiysOnce . Can I say , It(was) tHE SCARIEST THInGn Ihad Experienecd. iT LsTeD, IF i cAN rMEmbEr 6 mINuTEs . ThE siLEnCe WAs ToO LOUD , mY eYES Could(N’t) shut , My arms were IMMoBiLe And I DoN’T Rmembmber ScrÆMiNG, BuT IF I diD, NobodY Would have HÆrD mE Opinions are unpredictable weapons:
Some are dull, devoid of truth They roll off my back Others bare fangs, and hiss, and chew on pride like it’s gum. Only, no one sees that They see me laugh and assume I’m fine. Until those tireless judgments creep up on me at night They yell in my ear, You’re fat, you’re ugly, you’re stupid And I pay close attention Words only hurt if you let them, they’d say I’m only joking, they’d remind Stop taking it so personally, they’d chide Suck it up, be a man, don’t overreact Well, why? Why does it matter so much what they say? It’s shoved down our throats overtime Day after day they continue to say: You can’t cry, you can’t run away, you can’t show that you care I don’t. We don’t. They told us not to. They said not to be a certain way and we listened. Sam King |