Copyright 2018

Editing and Layout by Kaitlin Tetreault

Cover Design by Mary Shakshober

All pieces in this journal were printed with permission from the authors, but

copyright reverts back to the authors upon publication; authors are free to

reprint their work in another publication without seeking The Manatee’s

permission.

Published by Town and Country Reprographics

Concord, NH

2
 The Manatee

WHAT’S THE MANATEE?

The Manatee is a literary journal run by the students of Southern New
Hampshire University. We publish the best short fiction, poetry, essays, photos,
and artwork of SNHU undergraduate students. As a branch of the Creative
Writing Club, we are able to produce such a fantastic publication with their
support and funding.

Visit themanatee.weebly.com for information, submission guidelines, news, and

past issues. Follow us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/TheManateeAtSNHU
for updates and follow us on Instagram at @snhuthemanatee for fun graphics.

3
 THE MANATEES
Editor-in-Chief Kaitlin Tetreault

Art Editors: Maria Celli

Maelynn Hill
Jaelle Matthieu

Poetry Editors: Megan Danis

Dee Dube
Marisa Jellison
Hannah Lewis
Megan Palmer
Correy Pelletier

Prose Editors: Becky Martone

Emily Murphy
Mary Newton
Madeline Reno

Advisor: Allison Cummings

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 The Manatee

Editor’s Note
The making of The Manatee is such a fun and rewarding process; we get to read
some of the best works that students from multiple disciplines have to offer in
various forms. The talent that SNHU students hold is expected yet surprising in
the best of ways. It has been such a pleasure seeing this batch of submissions,
especially since our art pieces now get to be printed in color thanks to the
Creative Writing Club’s financial support. We’re looking forward to developing
the relationship between our growing elected boards and what improvements
future Manatee magazines have to offer.

I want to express to my editorial board that I am so grateful for their hard work
and their willingness to meet my deadlines. Each editor made such great
suggestions for their pieces and I believe without their continual effort and
insights that this edition would not be nearly as high quality as it is. So, a
sincere and thankful shout out to our growing editorial staff.

I also want to take a moment to praise Allison Cummings, our advisor, for
letting me drop into her office at a moment’s notice, steal her chocolates, and
talk in thirty minutes intervals about all of my ideas. You keep this ship afloat.

This is my first and final year as Editor-in-Chief; however, I know The Manatee
is in good hands. My only advice is to continue nurturing a supportive and
creative space for all students, and I know success will follow.

As always, happy reading!

Kaitlin Tetreault
Editor-in-Chief

5
 Table of Contents
The Cost of Missing Girls, Elle Tibbitts 8
Band-Aids, Mary Newton 11
The Watercolor Girl, Jesse Wyman 12
Pins and Needles, Jaelle Matthieu 15
Aqua Tofana, Natasha Simmons 16
Gravestone, Kevin Bettis 17
Let the Light In, Ruth Way 24
Townsend Harbor, Mary Shakshober 26
The Day the News Came, Emily Murphy 27
Floral, Dee Dube 35
Kidding, Marisa McLaughlin 37
Out, Kaitlin Tetreault 39
Outhouse in the Snow, Anonymous 43
You, Maria Celli 44
Incomplete, Hannah Lewis 45
Unexpected, Madeline Reno 47
Deal Lake, Maria Celli 53
The Jimi Hendrix Sexperience, Travis Burke 54
Lovers for the Night, Lauren Borry 55
Tyjax, Michael Franco 58
Death by Dreams, Natasha Simmons 64
Cooperage on a Cliff, Mary Shakshober 66
Identity Lost. If found call (001)126-1865, Elle Tibbitts 67
The Pheonix, Amber Krane 69
Dirt Road, Anonymous 71
I’ll Work, Travis Burke 72
Unfamiliar, Ruth Way 73
My Morning, 12/14/12, 41°25′12″N 73°16′43″W, Marisa McLaughlin 77
Cloud Reflection, Maria Celli 79
4:30am, Kaitlin Tetreault 80

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 The Manatee

My Duty?, Natasha Simmons 82

Yooo by McKayla Hutchins 93
Autumn in New England, Jaelle Matthieu 95
Words From Vin, Marisa McLaughlin 96
Wounded, Hannah Lewis 105
The Persistence of Memory, Mary Newton 106
Contributors 110

7
Elle Tibbitts

The Cost of Missing Girls

By Elle Tibbitts

The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by

those who watch them without doing anything.
- Albert Einstein

‘It’s not a child,’ she corrected me. ‘It’s a girl baby, and we can’t
keep it. Around these parts you can’t get by without a son.
Girl babies don’t count.’
- The Economist, The worldwide war on baby girls,
March 4th, 2010

Purchase Power Parity doesn’t apply here.

It’s not like buying a Big Mac
Where near mirrored grease can drip down your chin in
Thailand for the same low price as in the States. No,
The price for a girl is relative from place to place.
Hell, in Mozambique I can get you one for 7 USD.
A steal.

It depends on a number of things.

Did anyone document her birth?

It’s a tragedy, really,
the birth of a girl. No need to keep record
of a warm, squishy thing whose lungs will soon
be smothered useless by a weathered father’s
hand.
Just makes for more paperwork.

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 The Manatee

How much to pay off the local law?

The boys with big guns and small salaries didn’t
get in this business for enforcing anyway.
Lady Justice hightailed it out of hell when cops
started buying 3-year-olds by the hour.

How fair is her skin?

Tastes tend to run white, heightens demand.
But a gallon of bleach isn’t hard to get your
hands on and customers won’t look too closely
at the splattered stains on the inside of her thigh.

Will anyone miss her if she’s gone?

Will anyone care if they do?

It’s only good business sense then,

Buy ‘em where it’s cheap
Bring the product to the consumer.
Transportation costs are down these days.
Political unrest breeds opportunity.
No one blinks an eye when product
Falls off the back of a UN truck.
They weren’t watching anyway.
It’s bad taste to show all that tightly packed flesh, wasting
Away from hunger and disease.
Upsets delicate sensibilities.
We’re in a time of unparalleled supply;
Simply a matter of connecting to demand.
This is a billion dollar industry.

Please Kemp, call me Khan.

9
Elle Tibbitts/Mary Newton

Please, try and keep calm

I can see that vein bulging beside your eye.
It’s not pretty.
But neither is running guns or drugs
And when was the last time you made $20,000 off a gun?
And when the DEA is closing in, you can’t kill
The coke and leave the scene clean.
Well, not clean. My hands have been blood-stained since ’93.
But my house has three floors and an inground pool, a BMW.
This suit is Armani. Look at the cut of the lines.
I dream American each night.

You need to stop thinking so small-minded.

We are not talking about people.

We are talking about girls.

When the world starts to give notice to the 200

Million girls disappearing beneath their noses
Each year, I will worry about the stability of my business.
But I plan to retire long before then.

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 The Manatee

Band-Aids
By Mary Newton

I always carry band-aids in my purse

and my coat pocket
and my wallet
and my car
because I find it comforting.
The idea that if someone is hurting
I can offer them help.
But band-aids don’t fix everything.
There are so many ways
a person can hurt,
on the outside and on the inside,
and most of the time,
band-aids are useless.
Still, I carry them.
You’re hurting, darling,
in a way that band-aids can’t fix.
And I want to help—
to find the source of your pain
and press a bandage over it,
watch it heal.
Pray it does not scar.
Band-aids won’t fix you,
and I can’t find the words
to paste together your broken pieces.

11
Jesse Wyman

Watercolor Girl
By Jesse Wyman

Lyla sat down with a plop on a couch by the window and tucked one leg

under herself; done with school for the day but the work never ended. Amelia

and Lyla had a big presentation in AP Literature the next day and Amelia

insisted they go over the talking points again. That being said, Amelia couldn’t

get out of her yearbook meeting early as promised and would be late. Lyla took

a sip of her one-part-coffee, three-parts-sugar, and looked around, trying to kill

time.

She always liked how comfortable the coffee shop made her feel, the teal-

colored walls covered in faded spots where old art used to sit. The owner

rented pieces from local artists, which made the place feel more authentic. She

wondered what new art he planned on putting in the absence. Across from her

sat a new watercolor painting of a young girl.

The painting played with white space. It was a portrait, so Lyla could only

see from the shoulders up, but that seemed to be a part of the point. The Girl’s

shoulders were vague. The lines that sculpted them were grey and faint, darker

in some spots and lighter in others. There was nothing filled in, just empty and

white. Her faded pink hair had blots of blue and orange, strands blowing in an

imaginary breeze, all shaped by white space. The details of The Girl’s face

pulled Lyla’s attention. Her lips were a faded rose, the brush strokes leaving

just enough bare to make them look chapped. The lighter fuchsia under her

nose detailed her cupid's bow. Dark flecks of paint splattered against her cheek,

her eyebrows gray wisps.

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 The Manatee

The Girl’s eyes struck Lyla the most, crystal blue irises with a glassy

sheen. The Girl’s face turned to her right, eyes focused on something only she

could see. Still, Lyla felt The Girl’s piercing blue gaze. A cross between blood

red and a depressing blue made an eerie purple that surrounded The Girl’s

eyes, hollowing her out and making the bags look more prominent. Lyla always

loved purple, but this purple invoked emotions Lyla didn’t realize she had. Lyla

despised this purple. Lyla felt as cold as the deep tones in the paint. Then she

saw the most important aspect of the painting.

Swelling formed around The Girl’s right eye and dipped down her cheek.

Lyla didn’t catch it at first, but, upon further inspection, the bruise became

clear. Having The Girl’s head turned away from the viewer almost hid the

bruise. The viewer needed to look for it, find it for themselves. Things of this

nature in life were usually hidden in plain sight.

The beautiful painting was saturated with pain. The background was such

a stark white that the viewer had no choice but to look deeper into The Girl. No

other background or scene distracted from the beauty of this girl’s disaster.

The painting may have been simple, but the violent impact it made matched the

violence it showed. Everyone knew terrible things happened in the world, but in

Lyla’s stereotypical high school life, she had never given it a second thought.

Lyla had been sheltered from pain like this her whole life. Perfect parents

who loved each other just as much as they did when they met. She lived in a

nice house and went to a good school. Lyla never experienced pain other than

losing her grandmother. It scared her to think about how the girl got the bruise

13
jesse Wyman/Jaelle Matthieu

and made her wonder if something like that would ever happen to her. Lost in

the art, Lyla hadn’t noticed her friend Amelia join her on the couch.

“That’s a pretty painting,” Amelia said, glancing at it.

“Yeah, pretty.”

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 The Manatee

Pins and Needles

By Jaelle Matthieu

15
Natasha Simmons/Kevin Bettis

Aqua Tofana
By Natasha Simmons

Are you tired of your husband?

Is he rude, crude, are you abused?
Or are you broke?
Have you insured that his corpse
will lead to monetary gain?
We have few choices when it comes to employment and love,
but here’s one. A chance to start over.
In 17th century Italy, divorce
is not a word we know.
We’re powerless and weak, unless
you buy this little bottle.
Darling, I’ve been running this business
for eighteen years. I won’t judge.
Just a drop or two and it’s over.
We’re so powerless and weak,
no one will suspect the broken hearted widow.
You’ll get relief without consequence.
For once, the choice is in your hands,
a choice favored by so many others.
A sisterhood of death. Once it’s over,
remember me. Tell all your friends
of the potion that transformed your life.
After all, a woman’s gotta find some way
to live. To kill. Just visit me,
Giulia Tofana. Here’s a secret for free.
Poison has always been
a woman’s true best friend.

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 The Manatee

Gravestone
by Kevin Bettis
Lit only by the warm glow of a desk lamp, I stare at the text on the

computer screen in front of me.

It reads:

[You come to the end of a road that leads straight up a cliff. Crashing

water can be heard meters below and the sound of seagulls liven the air. A

small shack can be seen in the distance to the north and a curious looking

“Headstone” lies at your feet.]

I lean back in my chair, reabsorbing the reality of the furnished basement

around me. The rubbery sound of leather assumes a relaxed position. I glance

at the tiled ceiling. This is not the first time this dialog scrolled in front of me. I

have seen this multiple times over the past month, and I have no idea what to

do or where to go to solve this puzzle. I must be missing something.

I let a moment pass. I hear the subtle sound of a whomp from the front

door upstairs, followed by multiple clacks upstairs from the kitchen. Judy must

be home from work. The steps approach the basement's doorway.

“Calvin, you down there?”

I swivel towards the stairs. “Yeah?”

“Did the kids tell you when they were going to be home?”

“Not to my knowledge, no, but didn’t they say they were going to late be

because of some meet at school?”

“Are you talking about that track meet?”

“Yep, that one.”

17
Kevin Bettis

“Hmpf, I thought that was tomorrow.”

“That’s what I said, too, but apparently I marked the calendar wrong.”

“Calvin.”

“My bad, dear.”

“Anyway, did Gary get a hold of you today?”

“No, but what did he want?”

“He was wondering if you could take his computer with you to the shop

to have it serviced. He says it’s acting up again?”

“You’re kidding! That’s the third time this month I will have fixed that

piece of junk. Fine, tell him I’ll pick it up on my way to work tomorrow.”

“I’ll let him know.”

“And, hun, I know he’s your brother and all, but if he keeps this up, I’m

going to have to charge him every time he thinks the disk drive is a good place

to keep his business cards.”

“Thanks, Calvin, I’ll pass that message along. Hey, any chance you’re

going to be upstairs soon?”

“I will in a couple of hours.”

“Ok, see you in a few. Remember, there’s gonna be a new episode of the

A-Team on later tonight.”

“I’ll see you then, dear.” The sounds of footsteps start up again and fade

into silence.

I pull my attention back to my Apple II and stare at the blinking cursor. I

reorient myself and type, the keys clicking with each press.

[Inspect Headstone]

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 The Manatee

Text flashes before me on the screen.

[The “Headstone” has three holes within a triangular formation on its

forward-slanted face.]

I have typed and executed the command many times before with a sense

of false hope I would reveal something else every time. Three holes: what does

it mean? The holes are explicitly mentioned, so by that logic it means it has a

purpose. Let's try the shack again.

[Go North]

[You arrive at the shack. It looks old and abandoned. The door is wide

open, and there is a path to the East that leads to what looks like a garden.]

Well, there is nothing in the shack of interest, not even a secret door or

compartment. The only thing worth checking out is a lantern that was used in

the cave near the beginning of the game. It ran out of oil at that point, so it is

useless now.

I've been to the garden many times as well, but haven't tried digging

there. There may be something in the soil that I have not obtained yet. I do a

little dance in my seat at the idea that I may have found a way to progress.

[Go East]

[The garden is dull and lifeless. The dirt is littered with roots and dead

leaves. The area is slowly being consumed by the green of the surrounding

grass]

Here goes nothing.

[Dig]

[The command “Dig” is not a recognized command.]

19
Kevin Bettis

The feeling of enthusiasm washes away faster than it arrived. I am at a

total loss. Feeling a bit defeated, I go back to the headstone.

[Inspect Headstone]

[The “Headstone” has three holes within a triangular formation on its

forward-slanted face.]

Back to square one. The blinking cursor on the screen is mocking me.

Reappearing and disappearing, each blink just making me angrier than the last,

yet it does not make me want to give up.

I wheel my chair over to the opposite end of the desk and rummage

around the junk on my desk. Bills, birthday cards, tax forms. Aha! My notebook.

I flip through the college-ruled notebook to the section containing my notes on

the game. The pages are filled with crudely drawn tree graphs and charts with

the information of the current items in my inventory. Searching through my

notes, I find that there is nothing recorded that will help me connect the dots

and give me a clue on what I'm supposed to do. I can add “Dig” to the unusable

command list, but it still won’t get me anywhere. All my efforts thus far have

led me to dead ends. All items have served their purpose and there are no more

to collect, and there are even fewer new places that I can explore.

After thirty minutes of digging through my notes, I look back at the

screen and I stare at the last words [“curious looking ‘headstone’ at your feet.”]

A moment passes. It all starts to click. The word headstone is in quotes. I

decide to look at the headstone again.

[Inspect “Headstone”]

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 The Manatee

[The “Headstone” has three holes within a triangular formation on its

forward-slanted face.]

I look at my notes of known command words and I list it off.

[Pick up “Headstone”]

[“Headstone” cannot be moved]

[Talk to “Headstone”]

[You say “Hi” and it says nothing back]

[Touch “Headstone”]

[You touch the “Headstone” and it’s smooth to the touch]

[Eat “Headstone”]

[It’s a rock. It would not be good to eat]

[Lick “Headstone”]

Now my commands are just sounding silly.

[It tastes like a rock]

I stare, dumbfounded. Alas, I'm at a loss once again. I have gone through

every logical command and have exhausted my knowledge of known

commands. I have no idea what to do and now I may have to spitball this even

more. I type in other commands:

[Listen to “Headstone”]

[The command “Listen” is not a recognized command]

[Sit on “Headstone”]

[The command “Sit” is not a recognized command]

[Smell “Headstone”]

[It smells like a rock]

21
Kevin Bettis

[Jump on “Headstone”]

[The command “Jump” is not a recognized command]

[Yell at “Headstone”]

[What would you like to say?]

[Yell “YOU STUPID ROCK!” at “Headstone”]

[You yell “YOU STUPID ROCK!” at the “Headstone”]

My hands clench into white knuckled fists. Wanting to break something,

my gaze locks on my monitor. I want to punch it, but I would not find

satisfaction in destroying my Apple II. Translating my anger into something

less physically destructive, I start to slam the keys on my keyboard. In a fury, I

type the command that embodied everything I wanted to do at that moment.

[Punch “Headstone”]

[Are you sure you want to punch the “Headstone” with only your bare

fists?]

I type in my answer and press the Enter key with extreme prejudice and

satisfaction.

[Yes]

[You punch the “Headstone” and the slanted face breaks and crumbles

away, revealing a hidden compartment containing a jewel-adorned box]

My jaw drops. The anger flushes away and I stare at the screen in

disbelief. Shoulders slumped, I am in disbelief by the result. I could not help

but read the line over and over again.

I whisper, “I just had to punch the Headstone?”

22
 The Manatee

My whisper is soon no more for my tone became louder and more

hysterical as I wrapped my head around what just happened. “I just had to

punch the freak-ing Headstone. That’s it? That’s what I had to do? I just needed

to punch the fucking Headstone staring me in the face for the last month? I just

had to punch a rock, not a man, not a box or something that would be logical to

punch?” I throw my notebook on the ground. “So, everything else I did and all

the time I dedicated to complete this game is rendered pointless, because all I

had to do was punch a rock that had three holes in it? Are you fucking kidding

me?”

“Calvin, what’s the matter, darling? Why are you shouting?”

“I just had to punch a fucking rock.”

23
Ruth Way

Let the Light In

By Ruth Way
I forgot to let the light in:
Between the shine of a laptop screen,
And the faint flickering of fluorescent lights
The blinds stayed closed, shades pulled.
Between the printer whirls and keyboard commands,
I forgot to listen to bird chirps, and rhythmic beats to move to.
Between writing notes and deadlines,
The margins were left void of doodles, of repetitive song lyrics.
With the non-visible, therefore non-existent,
Stress strapping itself to my sleep, driving a caffeine fixation,
I forgot to make shapes of the clouds.
With neck craned down, eyes rereading paragraphs,
I don’t think I could tell you what shade of blue the sky was today,
Or yesterday,
Though I may have caught a glimpse as it faded behind a stop light,
Last week.
With a passing memory of game nights,
I cannot recall when a one-hour dinner became my version of “going out,”
But it did.
I had a dream last week of coffee orders
And another about alarmless mornings
And yet another about being an ocean.
I thought of more ways to relax,
made a mental list, and then forgot about it.
I forgot to look at the stars last night.
Between the 12am deadlines, and the body’s need for sleep
The blinds stayed closed, shades pulled.
Oh well,
Light only sheened my eyes anyway.

24
The Manatee

25
Mary Shakshober/Emily Murphy

Townsend Harbor
By Mary Shakshober

26
 The Manatee

The Day the News Came

By Emily Murphy

It was a sunny day when the news came. It had to be, because on rainy

days, the drive flooded into a torrent and the mailman couldn’t get his car up.

The abbot might have called with the news, of course. The telephone had rung

three days ago, but Peter was in Eugene’s room, and he got just halfway down

the hall before the message finished. And the message machine had been

broken for years. So Peter waved a hand, dismissing the machine, and trudged

back to Eugene’s room.

Since it was a sunny day when the news came, Peter read the letter

outside. It wasn’t that Eugene was any better, but he wasn’t any worse, either,

and it was boring to sit with him every moment of every day. The gardens

provided a nice change.

The one thing Peter always loved about St. Jerome’s was its gardens. It

was a sparsely wooded area, sitting atop a hill overlooking the roofs of Sterling

– a perfect place for contemplation and reflection on one’s higher calling. Even

now, with the grass overgrown and the lindens untrimmed, the gardens

commanded a view unparalleled in the city.

Of course, the hilltop also made it a capital place for rivers to form and

prevent mail and news from getting through. It used to be that the younger

monks would dig ditches to divert the water runoff. Peter had dug more than

his fair share. Penance, he recalled, for taking too long in the shower. That was

in the days when Brother Francis was prior. Oh, Brother Francis. And what came

of it? The news wiped it all away.

27
Emily Murphy

After reading the letter (for the fifth time), the clock chimed three. So

Peter went to the round chapel to chant the service. The empty rows of pews

and dusty quire stalls gave a lonely air to the place. The stained-glass figures

gave Peter company, except for the window to the left of the public entrance,

which had never gotten a donor to make it beautiful. Brother Clarence, in his

days as prior, saw what was coming and planted a rhododendron bush outside

the window. It was so wild now that it made its own form of stained glass with

shadows on the ground.

Peter closed the service book and went to tell Eugene the news. He didn’t

want to tell Eugene. Maybe he wouldn’t.

As he crossed the open-air hallway with birds chirping on either side, he

decided to tell him. It would be easier to hear now, on a lovely day when a

future seemed possible.

As he climbed the few stairs to the foyer, he changed his mind. Why

worry a dying man? Tell him a lie.

In the foyer, St. Jerome and Jesus stared him down. St. Jerome was stuck

in a wall niche, so his backside was permanently dirty, giving him a rather dark

undertone. The Divine Mercy statue was newer and out of place, really. It was a

gift from Brother Clarence’s rather thoughtless sister who saw a Jesus face and

instantly knew the modern, geometric, mostly blue and red reconstruction of

the usually peaceful image was just the thing for her ultra-religious brother.

And, as the prior, he had placed it in the foyer. He certainly didn’t want it in his

room – none of the monks did – and the idea was maybe a modern statue

28
 The Manatee

would attract more young men. It hadn’t worked, of course. If it had, maybe

Peter wouldn’t have to tell Eugene the news.

As he shuffled along the wooden floor, Peter thought maybe he could

express it in anger. Angrier than the painting of St. Jerome’s lions that hung

next to where the waiting room used to be. All of the first-floor rooms had

turned into dormitories years ago, when the remaining monks couldn’t handle

the stairs. The waiting room was one of the first to go. They never got enough

visitors to warrant a waiting room.

He rehearsed his speech all the way to Eugene’s room.

Peter opened the door and let it spill out. “Would you believe it, Eugene?

After all these years, all this time. They’ve had decades to think this thing over

and they choose to wait until you’re–”

Asleep. Eugene’s creased eyelids eased open. His face turned from a

peaceful pale statue into a crumpled piece of paper. But the paper had a smiley

face drawn on it when he saw Peter.

“Were you saying something?”

Peter swallowed his anger. How could he not? Why trouble the frail figure

already entombed in white sheets? Don’t lie.

“They’re shutting down the priory.”

***

It was a sunny day when Peter was to leave the Abbey. He had prayed

fervently for rain – surely some farmer nearby was doing the same. Then it

might have prevented the van from coming up the drive. As it was, the day was

sunny and the van was late. So Peter had some time to wander one last time.

29
Emily Murphy

He felt tired, even sitting on the bench waiting for the van. But his heart

compelled his knees to straighten, his feet to move forward.

He went to the gardens. The flowers were almost all dead, lying strewn in

the soil beneath the plant from whence they came. Peter had raked away the

ones on the dirt path, but stooping to get between the bush branches was too

much for his old limbs. Gardening was never his job anyway. He still resented

Brother Philip for dying and leaving him the task. But no one could resent dear

Brother Philip for long. And the roses still bloomed.

Peter picked a late rose off a bush. His hands automatically pried off the

thorns while his eyes gazed up at the main brick building of the priory. Three

stories, long, identical windows. Nothing spectacular. Even the chapel looked

like only a circle of red brick from the outside. It all looked exactly as it had

when Peter was a novice. He tried to remember what he had felt back then.

Hopeful, maybe. Young and excited. Full of ideas. But mostly, the building was

so common to Peter that he couldn’t place an exact memory of the view. It was

simply the outside of his house. Nothing special to recall later. He discarded

another thorn and watched it fall. If only he had been observant in his youth.

Then he might have remembered something.

He twirled the rose in his hands, carefully feeling out the stem. While he

couldn’t remember details too well, he remembered his youth as a happy time,

full of action. No, Peter would not change to another life for anything, even if it

meant he was nearly alone at the end.

Peter wandered down the other side of the hill where the meadow was. It

used to be farmland for the monks, even up to the days of Brother Francis. It

30
 The Manatee

was still charming now. Brother Clarence had planted a few trees and mowed a

few paths throughout the tall grass. It became another place for contemplation,

and a place for youth organizations to hold retreats. Oh, it was always

something to see the place filled with young men and women, chatting and

eating peanut butter sandwiches. A time of hope.

Peter’s legs finally wobbled, and he sat down on a bench. It wasn’t “his

bench.” Unlike some of the more contemplative monks, Peter didn’t have a

favorite place to pray. His old room on the second floor was his only consistent

place, but there was nothing special for him about that, any more so than his

new room on the first floor. Except his new room didn’t have much of a view,

only the driveway. Especially with the van coming, benches in the gardens were

sometimes preferable.

Peter gazed out over Sterling. The view had changed so gradually from

his youth that he could scarcely remember a time without the “new” airport

tower, let alone the “new” suburban development. The view now was as calming

as ever, with the buildings just below the horizon so, on a sunny day, you

thought you were gazing into Heaven. It had been better without the tall, latest

airport tower off to the right. When it was only the sky, the new airport tower,

and sneaking a break by the cliff in between carrying trays of peanut butter

sandwiches.

Peter’s knees urged him forward again, though his bones creaked more as

he rose. He walked a little more down the hill to the graveyard. He leaned on

the white picket fence, panting slightly. It wasn’t as common a sight to Peter, so

there were stronger emotions that surfaced. Brother Francis had pushed the

31
Emily Murphy

novices to get this new plastic fence up, quite literally. Once Peter had been

resting on his shovel for a break and the prior kicked the shovel out from

under him, leaving Peter to fall face down in his own shallow ditch. He rolled

over to see Brother Francis’s head half-blocking the sunlight.

“Jesus fell three times, Brother Peter.”

Never had a white picket fence been put up so quickly.

It wasn’t for no reason the prior had hurried. Only a few months later, his

was the first grave in the expanded portion of the cemetery. Peter felt bad for

hating him after that. You can never hate a dead man, especially a dead monk,

or grudge him a last request like a white picket fence.

In between the old ironwork fence and the new white picket fence were

dozens, maybe a hundred simple headstones. Peter had seen each one of them

carved and erected. A hundred men. A hundred pieces of rock that would mean

nothing in a hundred years’ time. Brother Clarence and Brother Philip and

Brother Francis would be forgotten. Even little Brothers Peter and Eugene would

be nothing.

Peter rolled the now-smooth rose stem in his fingers. He shuffled his

way towards Brother Francis.

“For everything,” he said, placing the rose down. He patted the

gravestone, half for support and half for sentiment. He looked away, as if

Brother Francis could still see his tears and reprimand him for indulging. The

names of the other brothers crowded his head – George, Antonio, Harold…

“I’d give a petal to each one of you if I could, but I’m too creaky now.” He

smiled. “You all understand. I’d rather not join you yet.” He could almost hear

32
 The Manatee

the groans of, “Peter, stop trying to make jokes.” His eyes welled up a little

more.

The old monk didn’t like this train of thought. He trudged back up the

hill toward the dormitory. He wondered who would buy such a big place. A

developer, probably. Turn it into apartments. Peter turned around to see the

cemetery. A playground, perhaps, if they took the stones out. Brother Francis

might not like it, but Brother Clarence and Philip would like nothing better than

to have young blood around them again. Not that they had ever done anything

wrong. It was Brother Harold who had to fight off the allegations. It was awful

for all of them, but Brother Philip took it especially hard and really didn’t

understand why he couldn’t hug the youth retreat attendees anymore.

Peter tried to imagine children in the garden. The cliff, he realized, was a

little dangerous for children. The developer might have to put in a giant brick

wall. Shame about the view, but children are priority. Peter noticed a maple tree

near the edge. The most adventurous child, provided he was a climber and not

afraid of heights, would be rewarded for his efforts by a stunning view over the

wall. Peter stood and raised his foot in an attempt to stand on a bench. But a

fiery crack in his hip told him he was no longer the most adventurous child.

He followed the trail of rose thorns back into the gardens. What would

become of the rose beds, the vines, and the daffodils? Well, the skeletal remains

of what used to be the rose beds, vines, and daffodils. Weed-ridden plots

weren’t very attractive. Peter couldn’t imagine the developer would keep it. A

parking lot, perhaps.

33
Emily Murphy/Dee Dube

The whole thing was a shame, really, but if no one ever built anything

new, nothing would ever be old.

A middle-aged monk leaned against the hood of a van when Peter finally

made it back to the entrance. He nodded a greeting. “Brother Peter.”

Peter nodded back, but couldn’t remember the man’s name. So, instead,

he asked, “Where’s Eugene?”

The driver hung his head. Peter glanced back in the direction of the

cemetery. Hopefully, they had room for one more.

“I’ve already called someone,” the younger monk continued. “They’re

coming to deal with him.”

The old monk didn’t want to turn around yet. He could see the

dormitories, the gardens, and the view beyond, just as he had seen on his very

first day as a novice. He took the same deep breath – a little rattled now, but

just as calming.

“All right. Let’s go.”

The younger monk opened the back door and gave Peter a hand up. As

they pulled out, a few raindrops began to fall.

It was a rainy day when the last monk of Sterling Priory left.

34
 The Manatee

Floral
By Dee Dube

mornings irritate the kids who never play by the rules of the sky
unlaced, worn-sole sneakers kissing cracked pavement
well into the city’s streetlight time block

before you ever let your mouth droop open in our car ride lullabies,
we were rivals–
twin monsters with the same poison ivy or rug burn scars (i forget)

suburbia couldn’t handle one of us running loose,

let alone two
unraveling their close-knit expectations

if we so much as let our eyes linger too long on the hands we desperately
wanted to bury our own into
then the game’s over, kids.
put your sunglasses back on

smother your despairing longings

back into the jackets you found
deep in your moms’ closets.

the story is always the same:

she bought it to impress a temptress, a siren
and golly, it worked magic

then the balloon popped

like she used to snap her gum, and suddenly: a husband,
and you, and a wedding where nobody cried
and suddenly: she doesn’t write letters

35
Dee Dube/Marisa McLaughlin

anymore, and suddenly: she lets the violets wilt

in their glass jars after she picks them

and just as suddenly: we realize

our averted eyes are caused by the same hollow pangs
in our hearts toward each other

and now our camera flashes always blind the other,

and now i don’t spend a night without memorizing the back of your hand all
over again
and now i promise not to wake you up for breakfast

even though an hour spent with you in this floral-scented bathtub

would do more than cover up the smell
of mothballs and our mothers’ perfumes

that leaked into our skin after another all-nighter

in the jackets we stole from our mothers’ closets
so we could wear them with the pride they never could show

36
 The Manatee

Kidding
By Marisa McLaughlin

I could make a list of reasons why:

his blue eyes, sarcastic replies, his big ass
truck that he drives.
The kid is my metaphorical high-five.

He can pitch—fast.
quicker than the hands on a clock
move when we’re together.
I never knew I liked baseball,
never thought any player was worth waiting to see.
But he proved me wrong when he pitched 93
then just walked over to his bench
trying to hide his smile
as if that was no biggie?

Speaking figuratively,
We’re a two-man team
both deserving of MVP, shared authority.
A main character
in my favorite flashback scenes, mainly comedy.
The caffeine in my coffee cup,
Without, I’m left with a sense of urgency
My suga suga, a source of energy.

I don’t always tell him

how proud he makes me,
or how incredibly dope he can be,
well, sometimes at least.
We just aren’t that sappy type,

37
Marisa McLaughlin/Kaitlin Tetreault

no “Man Crush Monday’s” or PDA foolery.

Instead, a noogie or a knuckle touch,
a jibe stated jokingly, but lovingly.

38
 The Manatee

Out
By Kaitlin Tetreault

“Why do we always have to meet here?” Miranda asked, her head resting

against the pale pink wall. She could close her eyes and reconstruct the

furniture around them; three sinks with a mirror hanging over each of them, a

paper towel dispenser to the left of the sinks, and three stalls, one handicap

accessible, on the other side of the room. Miranda pouted as Lydia leaned

forward.

“You know why.” Lydia pressed her lips to Miranda’s in a quick peck, her

voice steady. “It’s the safest option for us.”

“It’s disgusting.” Miranda scuffed the white tiled floor with her Converse.

“People literally shit in here.”

Lydia gave her a kiss on the cheek, grasping the black material of

Miranda’s t-shirt. She looked Miranda in the eyes, her jaw soft. “I’m sorry. I- You

know I can’t be out. My mo-”

“Your mom’s the vice principle, I know,” Miranda interrupted. She closed

her eyes, suppressed a sigh. She couldn’t stand to see Lydia’s mouth form those

words. She didn’t want to hear her apology for the hundredth time. She hated

to see her girlfriend struggle.

Lydia tugged on Miranda’s shirt, drawing her body closer. Lydia kissed

her left cheek, then her right. Kissed her nose. Stood on her toes to kiss her

forehead. Each brief contact a cigarette-burn apology that lingered under the

skin.

39
Kaitlin Tetreault

“What does she know about me?” Miranda asked. She opened her eyes,

her gaze focusing on Lydia’s wavy brown hair and the curve of her shoulders.

Lydia smiled, kissed the underside of Miranda’s jaw. “Well, she knows

you play volleyball.” Lydia’s mouth hovered over her neck, teasing. “Assumes

you’re a good girl.” Lydia leaned half an inch forward, dug her teeth into

Miranda’s skin. Sucked. Sharp.

Miranda tilted her head, groaned through a grimace. Her eyes shut. The

pulse in her neck throbbed. She took a breath, but her voice was tight. “What

have you told your mom about me?”

Lydia pulled away from Miranda’s neck. “You’re a friend of Kelsey. We

hang out sometimes.” Lydia shrugged, her voice non-committal. “Vague stuff.”

Miranda hummed, displeased. Her eyes still closed. A faint frown.

“What have you told your dad, huh?” Lydia tugged at her shirt, an uneven

laugh escaping. She watched Miranda’s face.

“He knows.” Her eyelids pried open. She looked down the slope of her

nose at Lydia’s brown eyes. Her voice calm, “He also knows it’s a secret.”

Lydia dropped her hands, her mouth agape. She sputtered, her eyes wide,

searching, “Why?” She shook her head. “Why? Why, why, why?” She took a short

breath before holding eye contact with Miranda. “Why did- How come you

told?”

“It’s been seven months. I needed it to feel real.” Miranda’s voice was

quiet, her gaze drifting to the sinks behind Lydia’s left shoulder.

“Is this not real enough? Me being in front of you?” Lydia reached for

Miranda’s wrists and pulled Miranda’s hands to her torso.

40
 The Manatee

Miranda took a step forward, her hands on Lydia’s thick sides. Her eyes

snapped back to Lydia. “I-”

“What about this doesn’t feel real to you?” Lydia asked, her voice harsh,

staring directly into Miranda’s eyes. Her grip on Miranda’s wrists tightened.

“We don’t go on dates.” Miranda’s voice was exasperated, her fingers

splayed. “You’ve never introduced me to your parents, your friends.” She bit

her lip for a moment, her hands balling into fists against Lydia’s side. “We had

to exchange our Christmas gifts in the back parking lot of the Cracker Barrel.”

Miranda’s voice lowered to a whisper, ashamed. “What’s romantic about any of

that?”

“You knew going into this that we couldn’t be public. That doesn’t lessen

what we have.” Lydia grasped at Miranda’s shoulders, face, hair. Her voice

desperate. “M, you know I lo-”

The door to the bathroom swung open. The two girls separated,

Miranda’s hands balled at her sides and her gaze stuck on the tiled floor; Lydia

jumped back, her hands thrown into the air.

“And don’t you fucking talk to my boyfriend again.” Lydia threw down

her arms, her voice biting.

Miranda watched Lydia’s shoes turn to face the opposite direction and

her jeans march towards the bathroom door. A pair of flats hurried towards the

stalls, passing Lydia. A stall door shut and moments later the bathroom door

hit its frame. Miranda looked up at the wooden door, wishing her girlfriend

hadn’t just walked out of it.

41
Kaitlin Tetreault

She closed her eyes. The sound of the person in the first stall magnified;

Miranda could hear every notch of the zipper release with perfect clarity, could

practically feel the scratchy material of the girl’s pants on her own thighs. Pee

hitting the toilet bowl echoed, overwhelming her. Miranda hated the bathroom.

Hated it. She could practically feel the germs surrounding her, ready to attack

her skin and infiltrate her immune system. She wanted to scream, wanted to

scrape the skin off her body one layer at a time. She wanted to never exist in

this bathroom again, never wanted to touch Lydia within these nauseating walls

ever again. She wanted to go home.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh.

Miranda pulled her iPhone out of her pocket. A new message from “Lydia

purple heart emoji”:

“Sorry. Will make it up to you. Stay 10 min after school?”

Miranda locked her phone and slid it back into her pocket. The toilet

automatically flushed. Miranda closed her eyes, leaned her head against the

pale pink wall as the stall door clicked. She wasn’t going to cry in the bathroom.

She wasn’t going to cry in the bathroom. She wasn’t going to-

42
 The Manatee

Outhouse in the Snow

By Anonymous

43
Maria Celli/Hannah Lewis

You
By Maria Celli

All day was spent looking at the trees

I wanted to talk to you

Your voice was hidden behind the gentle breeze

I won’t ever be able to take back what I said

But still look for our carvings instead

A rough and rugged stump lies there

44
 The Manatee

Incomplete
By Hannah Lewis

You caught me.

You pulled me into your trap
faster than I could wrap my head around
who you were...
who the one I loved
really was.
You told me I could go and
be who I needed to be
but then,
you kidnapped my heart with
forgive me, I love you
and
I am the only one for you.
I believed you
and that destroyed me.
You took pieces of my identity
every time I gazed into your eyes.
You stripped me of my being
every time my lips pressed against yours.
Please don’t go.
I left and missed you.
I wept, for I longed to kiss you.
I fell for your deception
because you were all I knew.
Your mistaken adoration was engraved in me
like words on tombstones.
I couldn’t live without you.
I could live without you
but you convinced me

45
Hannah Lewis/Madeline Reno

through your words that

I would be lost without
your guidance.
You found me.
You swept me off of my feet
but my feet asked to stay on the ground.
You are mine forever.
I am yours
because you told me so.
I am me.
No, I am just a grain of sand
on the beach
that washes away every time
you come around.
I would never hurt you.
Why, then, do I bleed regret?

46
 The Manatee

Unexpected
By Madeline Reno
“We are now starting our descent into Bemidji. We hope y’all enjoyed

your flight. Come back and fly with us again soon!”

The much-too-chipper stewardess’ voice sliced through my eardrums and

added to my growing headache. Her words made me turn and glare at him

again. I hadn’t spoken to him since the flight started. He just sat there, sipping

water and listening to music. He must have felt my glare because even before

he turned to glance at me, he choked a bit on his water.

“I can’t believe you did this,” I whispered, finally breaking my silence.

This was supposed to be our vacation. I waited all year for this. The only thing I

put him in charge of was getting the plane tickets. He had forgotten, and last

night, wasted on excessive amounts of alcohol, was when he was apparently

reminded that he needed to get them. Instead of getting tickets to Baltimore

International Airport (BWI), so we could spend a week in Washington D.C., he

got last-minute, non-refundable tickets to BJI…the little airport in none other

than Bemidji, Minnesota.

Bemidji.

Minnesota.

That’d be the last time I gave him any important tasks to do.

My eyebrows pulled closer together, intensifying my glare. I felt

successful when I saw him shiver a bit.

47
Madeline Reno

“You know, this isn’t actually the worst thing either of us has done when

we’ve been drunk,” he said in an attempt to make light of the situation. Like

that was possible.

“I think it might be,” I sneered.

“December 25, 2010. You got trashed and forgot about the Skype call

with your grandparents. When they called, you answered it…”

“Still not as bad as t—” I tried to argue, but he pushed on.

“…while wearing underwear on your head, holding a nearly-empty bottle

of tequila that you admitted to drinking.”

“Are you finished?” I asked, trying to play it off. I was as embarrassed as I

had been the day after, when half my family called me, asking if I had actually

done such a thing, a few even telling me their own tales of drunken adventures.

My grandparents still don’t look at me the same way and keep alcohol far from

me.

“To be fair, I probably shouldn’t have dared you to put your underwear

on your head. Though, I honestly didn’t think you’d actually do it.” He glanced

at me, grinning.

I struggled not to grin back. I turned my face away from him, staring out

of the plane window as we broke through cloud after cloud, and gritted my

teeth.

“You wasted our vacation,” I finally said.

He didn’t respond to that. I considered apologizing, but I decided against

it, because I wanted him to know how much this hurt. I had really been looking

forward to exploring D.C. with him. What was there to do in Bemidji? Instead of

48
 The Manatee

going to the nation’s greatest museums and memorials, we were going to the

“curling capital” of the United States, which I thought was probably a self-

proclaimed title. I didn’t even count curling as a sport. It was a chore. They

literally sweep.

That’s what I did on the flight, besides letting my anger settle together

and stew until the pot bubbled over. Luckily, our plane was one of the newer

ones that offered free Wi-Fi, even in coach. With that slow Internet speed only

available among the cheapest of connections, I researched Bemidji. Historically

charming; population under 15,000; the complete opposite of the vacation you

dreamed about…

The plane was low enough now to see a few lights on in the town. It was

about two in the morning, thanks to the flight planner getting the worst

possible flight to this back-water town. As we got closer to landing, I noticed

the weather. What had previously looked like rain was actually wet and heavy

snow falling from the thick clouds we broke through. Snow. In September.

The landing was bumpy, though we made it down in one piece. This tiny

airport had only two gates that I could see in its depressingly small terminal.

Pulling in and parking seemed to take what felt like forever, and right when the

seatbelt signs went off, I was up. There weren’t too many people on the flight,

but I was determined not to be stuck in this plane any longer than necessary.

Not looking at he-who-brought-us-into-this-mess, I grabbed my carry-on

and walked to the exit. I smiled forcefully and thanked the stewardess. I know

it wasn’t her fault that I was here, but I still disliked how chipper she was.

49
Madeline Reno

The rest of the night passed quickly. The snow kept falling, but it didn’t

seem like too much trouble. After we got our bags and found a bus to the

nearest motel, all I could think about was sleep. I made a half-assed plan to get

up at around noon, rent a car, and see if anything neat could be found in this

town, with or without my travel partner. I didn’t talk to him again that night,

mostly due to being dead-tired; being pissed was a side-note. I didn’t even

change when we finally got to our room; I just picked the queen-sized bed

opposite him and collapsed into oblivion.

I woke up groggy, not wanting to see the light peeking through the

curtains. I rolled over to escape it and--

SLAM!

--found myself on the floor, wedged in that foot-wide gap between the

bed and the wall. I wiggled my way out and found him staring at me, maniacal

laughter in his eyes. I stuck my tongue out at him and found my way to the tiny

bathroom. When I returned to the room, I realized he was sitting on his freshly-

made bed, typing away on his computer I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“How long have you been up?” I rubbed my eyes.

“A few hours. I didn’t want to wake you ‘cause you looked peaceful and

less likely to bite my head off.” He smirked. I turned away and bit my lip so he

wouldn’t see even a hint of a grin.

“Anything to do in this historical marvel of a town you bought tickets

for?” I asked him, sarcasm dripping from every word. “What time is it, anyway?”

I checked before he answered, since my phone was next to me. The numbers

blinked up at me as I turned the screen on:

50
 The Manatee

4:00 PM

I shook my head. “You let me sleep until four? That’s twelve hours. Why

the hell would you think that’s a good idea?” I tried to keep my voice at a

steady level, but it wasn’t working too well. He knew I hated sleeping so late. He

also should’ve known that my whole sleep schedule would now be out of

whack. I sighed. “Great. Just great. I’m on a week-long vacation I now wish I

wasn’t on, we are in the last place I’d ever want to visit, and now our first day

here is wasted.” I was talking mostly to myself and felt regret pass through me

when I saw the hurt look on his face.

“I’m sorry. I thought you might want to get your sleep back. Plus, we can’t

do much today, anyway…” He sounded sad. I almost didn’t catch that last part.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. He glanced toward the curtained

window, then back to me. I walked over and opened them, seeing white. From

the time the plane landed and we got to this motel to the time I woke up, a

massive blizzard had settled over this town. I was looking at gray skies, heavy

falling snow, and what looked to be about two feet of it on the ground, thus far.

My mouth dropped. Great, let’s add more to this pile of crap this vacation

is turning into. I sat back down on my bed and just lay backward, arms splayed

to the sides. “Ugggghhhhhhhhh,” I groaned.

He put his computer down, got up, and walked over to my bed. Without

waiting for an invitation, he laid down next to me, mimicking my position

almost exactly. I turned my head to look at him. “What?” I asked, seeing an

unexpected look in his eyes.

51
Madeline Reno/Maria Celli

“I love you,” he said. “Even though I messed up, and the weather messed

up, and you probably hate me right now, I just love you so much and I am so

glad I get to spend a whole week with you, away from everything else.”

I blinked.

He was right. I had gotten so caught up in the fact that all of our plans

had been screwed up that I didn’t think about the fact that we were here,

together.

We had been together for three years, but we didn’t live together yet. We

actually lived an hour away from each other. At most, we got to spend a couple

days a week together. This vacation changed that. One whole week with him by

my side.

I slipped my hand into his, a smile spreading across my face. “I don’t hate

you, weirdo,” I said, squeezing his hand. “In fact, I love you more and more

every day, even when you do boneheaded things like order plane tickets

drunk.”

He looked down, but I could see the corners of his eyes crinkle, like they

always do when he smiled. I put my hand under his chin and guided it back up,

then kissed him. He pulled me in for a hug, one that I wouldn’t trade for the

world.

Maybe Bemidji isn’t the worst place, after all.

52
 The Manatee

Deal Lake
By Maria Celli

53
Travis Burke/Lauren Borry

The Jimi Hendrix Sexperience

By Travis Burke

Creamy darling, you’re so foxy;

I won’t go down on you,
but hoist you up to me

and sink in my teeth,

striking your g, primal
perfection to make you scream.

I peak over your curve and

see the observers, who twitch
with sporadic nerves,

unable to avert their eyes

and ears from our musical
intercourse, stuck, hypnotized

by the drug of love

and youth and freedom, morphing
vision into blissful fuzz.

54
 The Manatee

Lovers for the Night

By Lauren Borry

We were lovers for the night

& for the night after that
& for the weekend that proceeded
I learned to use your mouth to fill my lungs
Breathing through the mouth of a lover
Lover of mine, oh you are better with the lights on

We have pretended it is nothing more than empty kisses

But I’ve heard your heart
I’ve learned to listen to the tempo
& think nothing of its pace
Though it feels as if it’s moving mountains through your ribcage
Jumping at the touch of my fingers
A loving afterthought in the bask of the morning after
& I think nothing of its pace

There’s no gap between our bodies—glued together

With the promise of deep conversations as the sun tries to fight
The blinds, closed besides the tiny crack by the sill—
& it glows so gloriously against your skin
I’m tempted to touch you…so I
do
& there’s a pull against my ear as your heart bounces
& I think nothing of its pace

The pink sun calls to me

Can you hear it too?
She believes in love & so do I
Your heart resists the pull of its strings

55
Lauren Borry

Kiss the lips of another

Regret it
They were not mine, they were not yours
Mine have been yours—a million times over

Plummet into your arms—

Sweet raspberry lips, you are a flavor I crave
A tingle upon my tongue, we savor the taste of each other
It lingers for a day, you linger for longer

“Come to me whenever”
There is no truth in your words,
But you taste like raspberries & I cannot deny you
I should have run—they told me to run
You don’t want to be seen, I want to be seen
There is no truth in your words,
But you drip like honey, sweetest at night
& I listen closely because you are more than you were meant to be
A fire spread deep in my chest; burning slowly—drawn to you
I want to be seen
There is no truth in your words
But you sound like sunshine, hiding behind the moon
& I am yours for the taking
“I always will”

I remember your hands, if nothing else

They left marks I still cherish; pushing on the bruises
To bring back the love-bitten moments they were given
All for me…I’ve fallen into you—a wall shattered with sheer will
& a dream that could be real
You’ve come clean in my dreams

56
 The Manatee

My hands have felt the skin lining your back

Sewn neatly on your sculpted body
& for that night
& the night after that
& the weekend that proceeded
I have kissed my palms while you were sleeping
Pressed them to your back, wishing you the sweetest of dreams
The sweetest of lives

I will not ask you to stay—I know that you won’t

I ask that you are gentle, leaving softly in the night; do not leave me spread
open,
Gaping like a flower stretched by the sole of a shoe, trampled carelessly
I want to breathe without you, but I know that is not fair to ask of my lungs
I have loved a thousand different ideas of a thousand different people
But I crave for you to be the difference
I will not ask you to stay

Handed the wrong deck of cards

& we are still not empty, we are full of desire
Maybe it’s a lie, but for this night
& the next night after
& the weekend that proceeds
We can pretend we are nothing more than bodies
Sewn neatly to the sheets
Because we are lovers for the night
But you linger for longer

57
Michael Franco

Tyjax
By Michael Franco

I stood in the green grass of the field, contemplating the day. The clouds

above looked ominous. Rain was in the forecast, but not until later. The frigid

air blew through the leaves of a nearby tree, shaking a few loose. I always loved

autumn; it came with the promise of beautiful weather and plenty of

opportunities to spend time with loved ones.

I looked down at the ground, hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt.

“I never thought we’d meet like this, Tyler,” I said, head still lowered.

“Somehow, I always pictured this being the other way around. Life can be funny

that way, I guess.” I wrapped my hand around the object in my pocket, thinking

about what I came here to do. Yet, I couldn’t do it.

I lifted my head to the clouds and closed my eyes while the memories of

Tyler flooded in. Thinking about those times was like finding a box of

photographs in a closet; each one held their own special attraction that couldn’t

be ignored.

Tyler was always like a brother to me and that was never more apparent

than the time he moved in. He rented out a room from my parents for six

months. We were really like brothers then; we saw each other all the time and

would shoot the shit and always have a couple of laughs.

I remembered the first day he began living with us. He sorted out all his

belongings; there were at least twenty dragon-themed items. I asked him about

them. He smiled, raised his eyebrows like a cartoon character, and responded,

“I’m king of the dragons for a reason.”

58
 The Manatee

That day I learned to never doubt that man’s obsession with dragons.

Tyler loved art and dreamed of becoming a professional artist. Every

piece he made was either by hand or all done on his phone. This impressed me,

especially as his skills sharpened and he began crafting more complex and

original pieces. He even shared his art with the world via the internet and social

media. He put them up under his nickname, Tyjax. He loved that name and

used it every chance he got, a referenced to a villain in the movie Deadpool; the

villain’s name was Francis, Tyler’s last name. I thought he’d be called Tyjax for

the rest of his life.

Yeah, those were good times, but I remembered the poetry slam the best.

It held a lot of importance to me. I had to attend one for a poetry workshop and

Tyler offered to go with me. He did a lot more than sit and listen to poetry

when we got there. He helped me overcome a fear of mine that night. The

memory still lived in my mind like a movie on repeat.

“Stark Brewing Company. We’re here, Tyler.”

About time, too; I’d had it with the detours. That first building we went to

was like something out of a horror flick.

“Cool, let’s head in. Do you think the open mic is still going on?” He

sounded excited, but he might have been cold. It was freezing outside that

November night.

“Yeah, it should be,” I responded, excited myself. “It’s the main draw of

these things.”

59
Michael Franco

We walked in, thankful to be out of the cold. I paid our way and we both

received stamps on our hands. The dimly lit but cozy room gave off a

welcoming presence. People filled it from end to end, filling the booths and

round tables. The microphone held the only open spot, standing under a small

oasis of light, surrounded by a sea of faces.

“You know,” I said to Tyler, “for a brewing company, there sure is a

severe lack of brews.” I looked up at him, a smile starting to appear on my face.

Tyler gave me a smile and looked down at me. “What does it matter if

there’s brews or not?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You’re not legally old

enough to drink.”

My smiled widened at that. “The key word there is ‘legally.’”

We shared a laugh over this and quietly made our way to the back of the

room.

Poets came out in droves that night. Almost every poem dealt with the

recent election of the evil Oompa-Loompa to the White House. Tyler had come

from a family who supported the now-President and I expected him to say

something against the poems. It surprised me when he stated how great the

poems were and how passionately the poets spoke. We ended up critiquing the

poems between ourselves, almost always praising the passion and emotion that

the poets spoke with.

Tyler noticed an employee walking around with a clipboard. The

employee said something about there being a couple of spaces left for the open

mic, the thing that Tyler was really interested in. I was, too, but unlike Tyler, I

had a fear of public speaking. Despite this, I leaned over to Tyler and told him I

60
 The Manatee

would participate if he did. He got up and ran for the clipboard before I even

finished my sentence.

Tyler used his nickname, and a broad smile emerged when they called

out “Tyjax.” He walked up and, due to his massive height, had to lean over the

mic so he could be heard. He started by saying that his poem described the life

of a gamer. Good call, as his first line was, “I have died over a million times.”

He took the stage and the atmosphere changed. It had been filled with a

kind of rebellious spirit about the recent political bullshit that happened in the

last few weeks. But when Tyjax took over, everyone laughed and had a smile on

their face as they went through their own childhood memories of hours spent

playing games.

Tyler reveled in the applause showered upon him. I couldn’t have been

more proud of him; his artistic skills came out with a pencil and a brush, not

with words, and yet he had the place in laughter and good spirits from a poem

about simple pleasures.

My heart sank when my name was called after Tyler left the mic. He

walked over to me, embraced me and whispered, “You’re gonna knock ‘em

dead.”

I walked to the mic on legs that felt numb. When I reached my

destination, I pushed down the anxiety that built up in my throat. I looked out

at that sea of unfamiliar faces. I found Tyler, his full beard and brown hair

visible even in the near dark. He flashed a thumbs-up at me and motioned to

start talking.

61
Michael Franco

Then it seemed like time froze. Tyler was one of my closest friends. He

and our group of friends taught me it was okay to be who you are, no matter

what other people might think. I clung to that lesson and took a deep breath. I

said, probably louder than necessary, “Hi. How are you? Nice to see you!”

Feedback followed my words out the speakers. A few audible gasps and

laughs greeted me from the audience. I saw this as a good sign and continued

by saying that the poem I was going to recite was a song, not a poem.

“Songs are just poems put to music!” This came from my left.

I pointed in that direction. “Someone buy that man a drink!”

I focused back on Tyler, closed my eyes, and recited my song. I stumbled

over a few words and spoke faster than I intended. Fear threatened to take over,

but I refused to let it. The crowd burst into applause when I finished.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” I released the mic from the death grip

I had on it. “I hope you’re having a great night and please enjoy the rest of the

poetry.” I walked away from the only source of light in the room and back to

Tyler.

He stood up, shouted, “Come here, man,” and hugged me again. “I’m

proud of you,” he said over the crowd. “That took a lot of guts. I knew you

could do it.”

“Thanks, pal.” That’s all I could manage in that moment. I tried to catch

my breath.

62
 The Manatee

I felt a wetness on my face. I opened my eyes, expecting rain to

immediately blind me, only to find no rain. I placed a hand to my cheek and felt

tears. I wiped them away and looked back at the ground.

“You don’t know how much you inspired me, Tyler,” I placed a hand on

the gravestone. “If anyone could teach me that it was okay to be myself, it was

definitely you. I miss you, pal.” My hand gripped the stone like it would vanish.

“Life’s never gonna be the same without you.” I loosened my grip and let my

hand fall back to my side. “But, you don’t really want to hear that, do you?”

No, he wouldn’t have. Tyler said he wanted people to celebrate his life,

not mourn his death. I couldn’t agree more with that idea. His life deserved to

be celebrated. I took out the object from my pocket, a switchblade with a pearl

grip. I pressed the button and blade popped out. It wasn’t much, but it would

have to do. I walked to the tree by his grave and started carving, rough tree

bark flying up and hitting my cheek every now and then.

I stepped back after a while and looked at my carving. A lot of Tyler’s

friends, myself included, tried to persuade his mother into getting his

nickname carved into the headstone as well as his birth name. She wanted to

because she knew Tyler would’ve wanted it, but she couldn’t get it done.

Something to do with finances. I read the tombstone.

TYLER ANTHONY FRANCIS

BORN: JAN. 26th, 1995

DIED: OCT. 31st, 2017

Beloved son, brother and friend.

The carving on the tree read: Tyjax, King of the Dragons.

63
Natasha Simmons

Death by Dreams
By Natasha Simmons

It’s not my fault,

I promise you.
It’s the characters
Haunting my thoughts.

I love them
as I love fear,
Clinging to every word I write.
Stalling my pen, my mind
A criticizing force.

A kingdom awaits.
Fantastical adventures.
That allow me to evade
The pain of a life where
I can’t find my place.
It whispers the intoxicating
promise of escape.

In my head clashing,
I compare the passion
and crippling self-doubt.
Tangled in one novel that
Takes and takes. I want
To break from this whole
World, my awful decisions.
Can it be?
I took the wrong path.
The fantasy of job security

64
 The Manatee

Floats in my sight.

Is it worth it?
If I’ll never be the writer
I wish to be.
Is failure all that awaits me?

65
Mary Shakshober/Elle Tibbitts

Cooperage on a Cliff
By Mary Shakshober

66
 The Manatee

Identity lost. If found call (001)126-1865

By Elle Tibbitts

Begin, speak fast, jumble lines, who in the world am I?

Not yesterday’s girl, today’s ‘ll do fine, but who in the world am I?

My confusion muddles clock hands, call me the queen

Of hindered time. Yet who in the world am I?

Stop dr if t
- in
g
from the story
Now.
A Grin speculates direction
but I cannot find a sign. Who in the world am I?

Last I knew, she was chasing freedom ‘til tumb

lin
g
d
o
w
n
a ways,
Lost her six times since breakfast, seven times since nine. So who in the world
am I?

Impossible you say, as I wipe the red away.

Roses paint a pretty face, but enchanting as the mask may be
there is madness in this place. And who in the world am I?

67
Elle Tibbitts/Amber Krane

Surely nonsense is the answer, swallow champagne and

Whispers deep. Weep; I lost the girl fierce, disappear, lost me
Lost memory. Keep curiosity. Keep bones unsplintered, string of pearls intact.
Only
who in the world am I?

Stop when you find the end, they say. Not sane. Not me. Not anybody. I wonder
at the wound, fist splinters silvered glass. Grasp at shards. Piece back a
semblance of a path back to her. Lost.
Who in the world am I?

68
 The Manatee

The Pheonix
By Amber Krane

To the boy who gave me my first taste of flight,

The sweet innocence of puppy love filled my tiny frame with hope that someday I

could find the Prince that was appearing in my dreams since I was a child. A sandbox

love, butterflies fluttering frantically through my tummy gave me hope that magic was

real.

To the boy who taught me to soar,

A platonic love shared between two souls who only want one thing from each other:

friendship. The faithful companion one meets upon this journey we call life. Two

travelers that may go down different paths, but have a way to find one another at the

end of the day.

To the boy who scorched me alive,

You were the Devil disguised as an Angel. You ripped my heart out, gutted me from

the inside so I became a hollow shell, deceiving me into thinking you were the Prince I

dreamt of so long ago. Once you had me in your loveless grasp, you tore away the

innocence I treasured so deeply. Finally realizing your charade was over, I attempted to

flee. Caught and cornered, you lacerated my wings, grabbed the torch, and ignited my

body into flames.

To the boy who turned me into the Phoenix,

A warm light that shines brighter than the stars in the pitch-black sky. The kindness

and nurturing you showered me with showed me a new kind of emotion: love. True,

genuine love one feels towards another who provides light through this darkness,

spiraling outwards, trapped in what feels like a twilight zone. Little gestures to show

gratitude for coming to my aid when I was just a burning pile of embers, unable to

discern what to do with myself. You gave me the strength to rise from the ashes and

69
Amber Krane

burn bright as the sun. Although you are blind to my gratitude and true emotions, I

can never repay you for everything you gave me. For after all, you helped create the

Phoenix.

70
 The Manatee

Dirt Road
By Anonymous

71
Travis Burke/Ruth Way

I’ll Work
By Travis Burke

for my friend

I’ll work, for you.

I’ll break my back if
it will allow you to go
slack and just…
breathe….breathe….relax.
I’ll turn the faucet on
the back of your head;
we can’t always reach it ourselves.
I’ll catch your tears in
a pouch to show you
physical emotion, like
spit shot out after laughter.
Sweet laughter.

Mostly laughter, grinning when

you speak
because something about your
bouncy cheeks
reminds me of childhood
trampolines
and young wonder.

72
 The Manatee

Unfamiliar
by Ruth Way

What I am about to recount is the disappearance of a girl: brown hair, green

eyes, 5’6-7”. If you have any information about her whereabouts, please contact.

Loved ones are extremely worried.

Thank you.
--

Around 5, she stood in the bathroom, brushing her teeth to watch the

rabies foam from her mouth in cool mint. Her giggle fogged the mirror, but she

did not wipe it clean. Inside of her boiled no desire to see her flyaway hairs or

eyelashes. Instead, she climbed atop the sink, the worry of slipping off

unaccounted for, and opened the cabinets with no other reason than to shut

them in an entertaining pattern. Her mouth rested in a smile, and she only

clambered down when her mother knocked, reminding her of school.

She jumped off, ran out, crashed into a melting snow pile with nothing

but a light jacket. Brown shoes were wet. She rushed over to the bus, not

bothering about her slightly sopping socks. Instead, she recounted to the bus

driver and classmates how cold ice truly felt, soothing curiosity. She said

goodbye to each student as they stepped out the creaking doors, making sure

not to miss even one.

Around 10, she wandered down the halls with an extra bounce in the

balls of her feet. Her hair wafted in long waves behind her and she stepped, just

so, to feel its weight gently tugging at her head. Two boys passed her, stopping

short and staring, so she slowed a bit. Three girls passed, leaned against the ice

73
Ruth Way

blue lockers, pointed. They started laughing as one grabbed the ends of her

own locks and tossed them about. Stumbling, our victim stopped her tip toe

treading, rolling her feet along with the hallways traffic instead.

She filled the break in her class, the hush in the crowd, with the crinkling

of a candy wrapper, the crumbs flaking onto crisp white pages of her book. One

glance, two, three had her breaking the bar into pieces in substitute for

enjoying each bite from the source. Three, four, five side smiles from six, seven

girls congregating in the corner made her slip what remained of the snack into

her jacket pocket, too aware of eyes, and later tossed in the trash.

Around 12, she stood in the women’s room, looking sideways in the

mirror. Sucked in, breathed out, looked at herself in that blue dress from all

angles. Another girl sprung from a stall, all elbows and pin-straight hair. She

surveyed our victim’s calves, triceps, fingers, her entirety, and left without a

word, alerting our victim that fat was not limited to the stomach.

She sat at a table, gobbling air and water. She had just sipped from the

bathroom sink, given herself a pep talk about starvation and what good it can

do for you. Her homework sat widespread on the table, and kids copied while

chatting. She liked it, this odd human interaction that mingled all around her,

like dipping a toe into water. Perhaps they had sat with her because she looked

thinner.

Around 15, her clothes, brown and green, resembled the bark and leaves

of trees, and she felt like a lumbering trunk. Head down, she walked with

perfect posture and gurgling stomach; you cannot slouch when sucking in and

holding breath.

74
 The Manatee

Her voice went unnoticed as it brushed the skin of passersby like

harmless wind. But people were always kind in asking for classwork and loud in

their suggestions for what she could change. Her potential seemed so vast; she

could become by destroying herself. With this bark aesthetic, came comments

and conversation, and so the lack of love made her stay, thinking attention to

be equivalent.

Around 18, she had done it. Broken a shell, burst forth in black-clad,

holding still-warm pizza crust. Her laugh cackled and cawed out of smiling lips

now used for eating, odd opinions, and telling strangers to “fuck off.” She

slouched more and cared less, though her spine spite her for it. Running

replaced walking, but her ankles still held out hope of hoping. Long locks had

been cropped close to her skull and her head felt light, even a bit dizzying, with

the lack of weight to ground it.

Here I stand, blinking at acne-covered lack of innocence in the mirror.

Where I wipe off flecks of toothpaste and look at the length of lashes. Where I

stare straight on, not turning to the side to gauge width. Where my jeans were

black and top maroon, reminding me more of the night than the soothing rustle

of tree branches. And free from skin that did not seem to fit right, I feel happy.

But with the lack of caring comes an indent in my compassion. The destruction

of my longing to get along has left me a little lonely. And now, with each

bathroom trip, above the sink hangs a moving missing persons poster.

--

75
Ruth Way/Marissa McLaughlin

Written above is the detailed disappearance of a girl as she grew. Slowly,

like fingernails down flesh, I got torn apart and sewn together, but as I stitched

myself closed, pieces fell out and scattered across my years.

If you have any information regarding my whereabouts, please contact. I

seem to have lost myself and am mourning vital mannerisms.

Thank you.

76
 The Manatee

My Morning, 12/14/12, 41°25′12″N 73°16′43″W

By Marissa McLaughlin

I dropped to the floor of my first grade classroom that day.

White, cold, just like their lifeless bodies would soon be.
I squint my eyes, as if that would make me unsee
my best friend, Emilie, beside me. Leaking a puddle of pain,
her blood from the bullet, it helped to save me.
Don’t inhale. Don’t exhale. This is not just a game of hide-and-seek.
My classmates, I lay among them,
panicked. Wondering if he would hear my heartbeat
over the sounds of his weapon.
Visibly distraught, he takes one last look around at what he has done
Then he stampedes off and enters the next classroom door.
Do I run? Would he come back? Was I alive? Was anyone?

I felt the presence, the pressure, of 26 angels’

hands. Holding me, my back, to that floor.
“My students are at P.E.” Ms. Soto screams out
as he breaks through the door.
Another set of shots go off
And Ms. Soto, a true hero, now lies dead.
Her class, my friends, survivors, the “lucky ones,” people say.
Because she hid them in closets, cupboards,
told them to play the quiet game, and locked them away.

I felt the angels hands release - I could breathe.

The alarm clock to wake me from this state of shock
was a final shot.
Its soundwaves rippling outward through the hallways
expanding in direct correlation with my now opened eyes.

77
Marissa McLaughlin/Maria Celli

I could taste one thing:

Pain tampering with my tonsils.
I could see two things:
Blood,
bodies.
I could hear three things:
The pumping of our class’s last left pulse- my own,
the click of the class clock.
The apology to the parents whose hopes were still high,
misinformed when told that one last bus was to come with
kids still alive.

I could feel, I still feel, everything:

The terror existent in every parent’s shriek.
My teacher, My classmates, Emilie, Me, lying on the floor; bleak.
The frustration of why it couldn’t have been me.

That day a bullet did not sentence me to my death.

By the grace of God, I survived.
Living imprisoned with the guilt for still being alive.

78
 The Manatee

Cloud Reflection
By Maria Celli

79
Kaitlin Tetreault

4:30am
By Kaitlin Tetreault

We sat in your golden car

thinly cloaked by early morning.
One hand placed on my thigh,
the other on my face.

Our languid kisses stop,

so you could whisper,
“You know how you asked
if I would miss you?”

My lips curled,
happiness slipping
through the upturned corners.

“Does this answer your question?”

Your voice heavy, husky
before your lips were again on mine.

I thought it would be desperate,

passionate, but it was the same–
deliberate, in control, wanting.

“I think that means

you’ll miss kissing me,” I tease.
A cover, a cop-out,
for you to be
as non-committal as me.

But you stop,

80
 The Manatee

an earnest edge in your voice.

You grasp my face a little firmer,
your voice adamant, “No. It means
I’ll miss you.”

The boy with the black heart,

who feels little empathy for others,
has broken down and
given a piece of himself to me.

81
Natasha Simmons

My Duty?
By Natasha Simmons

The devil came dressed in the disguise of a peaceful spring morning.

Unthreatening. Calm. As I woke each day now in a new nightmare, I still found

myself struggling to understand how everything changed so quickly.

That day, I woke up in the best way. Rolled over in bed and got a glimpse

of those gentle, blue eyes still sleepily resisting the sun that was teasing at the

lids. Annabelle had tied back her playful, chestnut locks before she went to bed,

but they had escaped in the night, forming a beautiful, tangled mess.

I gathered her pale body into my arms, noticing with delight how her

stomach protruded. I couldn’t help but hope that our child would ignore my

murky brown eyes, dull brown hair, and prominent features, so that it might

end up even half as lovely as she was. Perhaps with just a tinge less worry

troubling her mind.

“Michael! Annabelle!” Catherine called from the kitchen. “I’ve made us all

breakfast.”

We groaned, both missing the mornings that had once dragged on as long

as we dared. Those three months had been short-lived, though. About a year

ago, Annabelle and Catherine’s parents were killed by ogres, and twelve-year-

old Catherine had come to live with us.

Since then, walls had been built, traps invented, and a whole army was

formed to keep the ogres out. Scared, shy Catherine had bloomed into an

outgoing and helpful young lady who had doted on her sister throughout her

82
 The Manatee

pregnancy. We had become quite a happy little family. She was more a blessing

than a bother and added to the charm of the simple life we were living.

“Good morning, my love,” I said, then kissed my sweet wife. My stomach

rumbled as the smell of maple syrup, bacon, and coffee crept into the bedroom

and nudged us to get moving.

“I’m too tired for mornings.” She pouted. “The baby needs more sleep.”

Still, she rolled out of bed and made sure Catherine was completely ready

for school before even tasting a morsel of her own breakfast. I always tried to

help, but she insisted that only she knew how to do everything right. She was

most certainly right about that.

So instead, I teased Catherine in between bites and watched both sisters

bustle around. Their bubbly spirits filled the morning with love and energy. It

was amazing watching the two; Catherine had become a younger, mirror image

of her sister. I realized now how much those mornings shall always mean to

me. How I cherish those haunting thoughts, those better days.

Even back then, before my eyes were opened to how great life once was,

the warmth of our small cottage made it difficult to leave. Yet it was spring, the

ground was awakening. The promise of a good harvest carried our hopes for a

bright future, especially since I had been able to attain more land this year and

increase our prospects. I lingered as long as I could, but soon it was time to kiss

both ladies goodbye and get started on the mounds of work that lay ahead of

me.

The hours spent outside were long, hard, and tiring. Despite the fact that

it was still early in spring, the sun beat down on me relentlessly that day, and

83
Natasha Simmons

no matter how much work I did, there still seemed to be so much left ahead of

me. By the time I went home for lunch, I wasn’t even close to being done and

realized that I had far underestimated the amount of supplies I would need.

The fuzzy feelings from that happy morning had been covered over by a layer

of sweat and dirt. In its place, I had unearthed my old companions, exhaustion

and frustration.

My spirits were cheered a bit by a well-maintained home and a smiling

wife. However, there was something else behind that smile today, something I

couldn’t quite put my finger on. During lunch, my love was quiet, took tiny

bites, and looked down at the floor much more than normal. Finally, I couldn’t

stand it anymore.

“What’s the matter, Annabelle?” I asked. “This dreary mood is quite

unlike you.” I didn’t dare add that it was also unpleasant.

She sighed. “I suppose I’ve felt a bit alone and cooped up lately. I’m

weary, yet this sweet, spring day has been calling my name. I always see you

and Catherine out and about, and sometimes I miss the days when I could be so

free, as well. I guess this pregnancy is just starting to get to me.”

I smiled at my caged up little bird. I covered her dainty hand with my

dirty, worn one. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” I asked.

She smiled ever so faintly and shrugged.

“Well, I need to go into town for a short period of time this afternoon.

With the added plots of land, I need more supplies than I did last season. Why

don’t you join me? If it won’t tire you out too much, that is.”

84
 The Manatee

Her eyes lit up, and I got to see the first genuine smile of the afternoon.

That smile made me feel like the proudest man in the world. My first true

accomplishment all day.

“I don’t want to be a bother…” she said.

“Nonsense!” I replied. “We’ll leave after you’ve finished eating. Our baby

gets hungry, too, you know. You need to make sure to keep up your strength

and good spirits.”

We ventured out into the quiet town soon after, and Annabelle was

quickly restored back to her charming self. Chatter about what our baby would

be like once it was born, how much Catherine was growing, and future plans we

had for the farm, joined the music the chipper birds filled the air with. I took

Annabelle’s hand and picked a plump, pink, new bud that was just starting its

life on a tree that hung overhead. Then, I found it a new home, snuggled

amongst my wife’s earthy locks of hair. The day had returned to its previous,

wonderful self. Or so I thought.

As we approached the market place, it was clear that something was

amiss. People were bustling in and out of shops, their hands clutching any

weapons they could find. Children and women were rushing home, crying and

screaming. Annabelle’s grip strengthened as the color left her face.

“What’s going on?” I asked an old man who passed us.

The grave look that clouded his features gave me pause. Suddenly, I

wished that I had kept my little bird locked up in that cage where at least she

was safe and sound. I regretted ever letting her out into this frightening world.

85
Natasha Simmons

“The ogres broke through the wall,” he said. “East side. I guess it had

been crumbling. They started at the church, and when they didn’t find enough

people there, they moved towards–”

“The school,” Annabelle whispered. “The church is right near…”

And then, my pregnant wife took off running. I had no other choice but

to follow her. I knew that trying to demand that she run back to the cottage

would be useless. Stupid. I had been so stupid.

The school wasn’t far from the marketplace, which was why everyone

there was frantic. Still, getting there seemed to take a lifetime. I kept thinking

about Annabelle, about Catherine. It was my job to keep them safe, my duty. I

couldn’t let anything happen to them. I cursed myself for ever letting either of

them out of my sight.

These worries gave me speed and strength, but as the schoolhouse came

into view, my worst fears were realized. A group of about fifteen ogres were

ransacking the vicinity. Children. They were going after the children, after the

school.

The monsters stood much taller than the few, brave humans that had

come to the rescue of those innocent souls. Their bodies were massive, with

folds of skin and fat unending. Even more dangerous, more sickening, were the

muscles bulging out in hideous ways, strength blessed upon these dumb, brute

creatures. There was no trace of intelligence in their gooey, yellow eyes. They

were only focused on obtaining as much human flesh as they could to fill their

giant bodies. Yet, this didn’t give us an advantage.

86
 The Manatee

Intelligence wasn’t necessary for them, anyway; they didn’t need to

outsmart the men that were attacking them. Their bodies were covered in mere

patches of cloth strewn over their skin in no particular order. No particular

armor. Still, the weapons that managed to touch them barely pierced the skin,

and didn’t do much damage. When it seemed a human was able to actually

cause a bit of pain, the ogre would just pluck them up and add them to the pile

of bones that were settling in their stomach.

Did this deter my vulnerable wife? My pregnant, fragile, beautiful wife?

Of course not!

These ogres that sent strong, young men running didn’t give her pause.

She didn’t notice the sprays of blood coming from the ogres’ foaming mouths,

the yellow teeth they sported, sharper than any knife we owned. Or, if she did

notice, she didn’t seem to care. She just kept on running.

Despite her courage, I knew that I couldn’t allow Annabelle to get any

closer. I caught up to her and wrapped my arms around her to restrain her, to

try to talk some sense into her. She fought me off as if I was the monster, as if

she’d rather scramble away from me, and into the arms of the death machines

before us.

“Catherine!” she yelled.

“Annabelle, you need to…”

“Annabelle!” Catherine yelled back. “Michael! Someone help me!”

Catherine had just barely turned thirteen, and she was in a race for her

life that would scare even the bravest warrior. That little girl placed amongst

those nasty monsters was heartbreaking. Sickening. She was darting just out of

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Natasha Simmons

the ogres reach, trying to get to us, but it was a dangerous game. One slip up

and it would all be over.

“Go to the church!” I demanded to Annabelle. I started running, unable

to tear my eyes off of Catherine. “Think about our baby, Annabelle. Don’t kill

our child. I’ll save Catherine.”

It was a cruel tactic to use, but it was the only way to make her turn

towards safety, and I refused to lose our little family. I ran to Catherine,

determined to do whatever it took to get her out of harm’s way.

I wouldn’t fail, I couldn’t fail.

It was my duty to protect her.

Annabelle’s duty was to be safe.

I didn’t get more than ten feet closer before Catherine’s scream sliced

through my heart. An ogre had grabbed ahold of her. Closer, but not close

enough. I dashed toward the ogre, but it was too late. Seconds later, her scream

was cut off by the sound of crunching bones as Catherine’s body was bit in

half.

The ground was coated in a shower of blood, as Catherine’s intestines

were exposed for the world to see. Her mind so bright, so full of potential was

swallowed in that first bite. But the anguish in her eyes, the fear that rang out

in her voice, had never gone away. They have always found a way to link

together in my mind and form a nightmarish scene that would haunt my

thoughts forever. A reminder of my fatal mistake.

In that short period of time it took for the ogre to consume her, the

consequence of my failure was displayed in gruesome detail in front of me.

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 The Manatee

Memories of the sweet girl whom I had vowed to protect flashed through my

mind. I wished I could trade places with her, do something to stop it.

I did nothing. Could do nothing. The horror ripped through my body, the

pain held me pinned to the spot.

I then noticed that my wife was paralyzed, a look of mental agony

distorting her features. She hadn’t even gotten halfway to the church, and I

doubted she could make it on her own.

New mission. New duty. New person to fail to protect.

I pushed through the emotions that I was battling and ran towards her. I

gathered her in my arms and carried her limp body to the church, where we hid

among the ruins. I figured that since the ogres had already torn through the

building, they wouldn’t bother coming back. Thankfully, I was right. For once.

Did something right.

We both cried as the world came down around us once more, as demons

tore up the life that we had loved. I tried to soothe her, but I knew that there

was nothing I could do but hold her and wait. Hours later, when I was sure that

the ogres had moved on to torment another town, long after the rest of the

survivors had come out of hiding, I led my wife through the destroyed

marketplace and to our humble abode.

Annabelle was closed off, unseeing, throughout the long walk back. The

shock left her unable to do anything but walk with my guidance. My senses,

however, were on high alert. I was anxious, looking around every corner to

make sure there wasn’t a random ogre lingering in the shadows, a monster

under the bed waiting to steal the rest of my family from me.

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Natasha Simmons

The wind still carried tendrils of Catherine’s screams. My mind tortured

me with accusations that I hadn’t tried hard enough. It pointed out that, as the

man of the house, I should’ve been able to keep my family safe. I didn’t though.

I hadn’t kept them safe.

I soon learned that I wasn’t the only one still plagued by the disappointed

voices of the dead. Cries of broken-hearted survivors joined together in a

chorus of mourning. But beneath that grimy layer were talks of vengeance.

Much of the army that had formed previously was killed in the attack.

Now, angry sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands were ready to join

forces, follow those ogres, and hunt them down, so our town would never have

to suffer this kind of devastation ever again. We hadn’t been able to do our

duty before; we hadn’t been able to protect the ones that we loved. We had let

them down, but now we had a chance to make up for it.

Their words were very appealing to me. My own thoughts joined theirs. It

could be my one chance at redemption. An opportunity like this was something

my soul craved. Yet, these thoughts had to be pushed aside once I got home. I

hadn’t been able to do as I should, and I couldn’t save Catherine. Now, all I

could do was care for Annabelle and try to calm her with things I knew would

never help her get over the pain of that day.

I led my silent, shocked wife into bed, then went to make her dinner.

When I came back into the bedroom to bring her tea and her favorite meal, she

was sitting straight up in bed, watching me with a haunting gaze. Once again, I

was the enemy.

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“I know what you’re thinking,” she said as I handed her the tray. “I heard

the men talking. You can’t go, though. You absolutely can’t. I want vengeance

just as much as you do, but I won’t lose you in the process! You’re all I have

left. You and this baby, and I can’t take care of this family on my own. I don’t

want to.”

“I know,” I whispered as I sat down beside her. “I don’t want you to have

to. But it’s my duty.” I tried to take her hand, but she wrenched it away from

me. It was as if my touch burned her.

“Your duty is to be a good husband, a present father!”

“I can’t do that if you’re both dead!” I paused and took a deep breath. I

realized how much this fight was affecting my already broken wife, and I knew

there would be no convincing her right now. I put my arm around her shoulders

and dried the tears that had started to fall. “Let’s not fight, okay? Today has

been dreadful enough as is. We’ll discuss this in the morning. For now, eat up.

You need your strength.”

She nodded and painstakingly ate her dinner. After some prodding on my

part, she tried to get some sleep. It would be hours before she drifted off. In the

meantime, I comforted her while she cried, truly appreciating every moment I

spent holding her. Savoring the feel of her warm skin against mine, her smell,

her presence. During this time, I pondered what my true duty was.

How could I be a good husband and father if I left my family? How could

I be a good man if I didn’t protect the ones I loved? What if Annabelle was the

next person I had to watch die? What if my own child found its way into the

mouth of an ogre? Shouldn’t I try to stop that if I had the chance?

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Natasha Simmons/McKayla Hutchins

I woke up early the next morning while the lovely Annabelle slept

soundly. I packed the bare essentials, leaving my wife with as much as I could.

Then I wrote out a letter for my darling that was blotted with tears. I laid it on

the side table, then kissed her forehead. I almost hoped that she’d awaken and

force me not to go, but the disaster of yesterday had worn her out.

“I love you,” I whispered.

I forced myself to walk away.

It was my duty?

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 The Manatee

Yooo
By McKayla Hutchins

It’s stupid, I get it,

But it’s hard to say goodbye
I listen for the sound of reason
Yet never look it in the eye

The escalation of emotion

Is a rush I hate to bear
Your response is like a question
Unanswered yet still there

To rock the cradle is offensive

Your intentions are for the best
I really like you and it’s hard
To set this all to rest

So, when I see you

I shatter, I know your heart
Your intentions are accidental
You always play the part

A friendly guy who seems outspoken

Yet never hits the mark

And so, I leave this here to read

My feelings are confusing
I like you, it’s stupid
Because my position has been chosen

A young girl

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McKayla Hutchins/Jaelle Matthieu

A leader
A response that
Stated Yooo
I’ll take the subtle hint
That this is my time to go

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 The Manatee

Autumn in New England

by Jaelle Matthieu

95
Marisa McLaughlin

Words from Vin

By Marisa McLaughlin

I swear, my mother’s favorite thing to look forward to was waking me up

just to tell me I had a snow day and could go back to sleep. Which always

resulted in my inability to do so. I grabbed my laptop from my desk and tucked

myself back under my comforter. I ejected my father’s DVD and slipped it back

into its case. I then placed his final “To Dewey” tapes that he had recorded into

my laptop and pressed play.

“Dewey, today, I’m ‘bout to teach you how to find yourself a fine woman.

Now go grab a q-tip or four of ‘em and scrape that wax out of your ears. You

being my son, I know for damn sure it’s probably been about two months since

you cleaned those elephant ears of yours and if you’ve got any other traits of

mine, well, you better sharpen up a Ticonderoga Number 2 and grab a notebook

as thick as Aunt Cheryl’s thighs ‘cause you’re gonna wanna take some notes.”

I redirected my head from the screen across my room towards my

bedroom door, to where my mother’s voice was entering.

“Dewey!”

I paused my laptop to see what in the hell my mother could possibly

pester me about for the eleventh time this hour. “God, Ma, what now?”

“Open your door. I’m not gonna yell from down here. And watch your

mouth!”

Okay, I stand corrected, twelfth time this hour.

Embodying a burrito, my comforter wrapped around me, I looked like one

of those “LookOurWay” inflatable men flailing in the wind as I tried to unravel

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 The Manatee

my unathletic self from it. After nearly breaking a sweat just to get out of bed, I

then maneuvered my way through dirty laundry scattered around my floor

dating back two Tuesdays. At this point, Helen Keller had just about as good of

a shot at seeing my bedroom floor as the next guy. I cracked the door, so my

mom would have one less thing to continue harping on me about, not realizing

she had already made her way up the stairs.

“Jesus Christ, Dewey.” The pestering persisted as she attempted to barge

her body through my cracked door. However, she quickly surrendered once she

realized that, even by exerting the full force of her buck-twenty body, she stood

no chance of pushing past the pile of pants.

“If you’re gonna sleep half your day away, would ya at least take a showa

before you come out here and start hurtin’ my eyes because you're lookin’ like

that? If you really aren’t gonna try out for the team this spring, at least do

somethin’ with yourself. You smell like McDonald’s french fries for god’s

sakes. Showa. Take a showa!”

I tilted my head to the left and did one of those wafting inhales, just to

get a little sample of my armpit’s aroma. You know, the ones your sixth grade

science teachers tell you to do when you are smelling chemicals from test tubes

in case they were too poignant, or whatever. Yeah, she was right.

“And would you clean your damn room? Did I raise you in a barn?” After

a second attempt she managed to squeeze her way through the door, now

having a full view of my room.

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Marisa McLaughlin

My floor looked like a precedent for what a producer of one of those

hoarding reality television shows would be looking for. My mom looked like she

was about to conduct an exorcism. I looked terrified.

“Dewey. You shittin’ me? It looks like you just let Hank off his leash after

giving him five lines of cocaine and vodka redbulls. I swear you’re gonna give

your mama cardiac arrest by the time I reach 45.”

“Mom, you turned 45 two yea-”

“Did you even feed Hank today? Would ya feed him? I’ve got to meet the

Linda. We’re gettin’ our—” She stopped for a moment, as if stupefied by the

sight of a split end and a single gray hair. “Where was I? Oh, right, yes our hairs,

we’re getting our hairs done.” She continued to pluck and speculate every

flawed strand of hair she could find on her head as she told me her plans for

the day. “At that new place- what was it called? Oh whateva. I’ll bring home

some dinner for ya. Feed Hank. Look at ‘em. Have ya ever seen a bulldog look so

lifeless? Give him some leftover cabassi. Tell him he’s a good boy. He loves the

cabassi.” She leaned in to kiss me goodbye but stopped and gave me a quick

look of disgust and a love tap on my caramel curls. “Seriously. Take a shower.

Ya really startin’ to smell. Seriously.”

I loved my mom, but waking up to her Long Island accent every morning

was about as bad as having the Cha-Cha-Slide as a daily alarm clock. I headed

down the stairs and chucked a cabassi onto the couch where Hank was

sprawled out to make my mother happy, even though I had already fed the

fatty twice today. But it’s not like I would ever talk back to her. You grow up

with an Italian mother from Long Island and you grow up with one fear: her. I

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wholeheartedly believed there was nothing scarier than a pissed off Long Island

woman.

I climbed back in bed and peeked out my window to check how much

snow had accumulated— only to see my plump, little mom frantically scraping

a foot's worth of snow off the windshield of her BMW. With her wingspan

prohibiting her from reaching even halfway across her windshield, I couldn’t

help but not help her. I was laughing harder than it was blizzarding. One

second she was using the scraper like a shovel trying to dig her way to a clear

view, and the next second she seemed to be going with a hammer technique,

smacking the shit out of the few inches of snow she could reach. After my abs

began to hurt from chuckling to myself, I opened my laptop and continued to

watch my father’s DVD.

“You ever get so lucky to find a smart, independent, beautiful woman like

your mother, you better never let her go. I swear, God must’ve spent a solid

hour or two longer on your mother than everyone else in this world. With the

rest of us I think he kinda just said “eh, well, good enough. Not my best, not my

worst” and threw us in the womb. But at least you’ve got half your mom in ya.

That’s somethin’.”

The front door opened, then slammed. I paused my laptop to refocus my

attention on her cavilling to herself. It always humored me how much attitude

could fit inside that five-foot-two woman. She had that Joan Rivers type of

attitude, you know, the type that would write a book completely inspired by her

family and friends and make them all buy it only for them to open it up and see

the dedication stating, ‘To Kanye West, because he’ll never fuckin’ read it.’

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Marisa McLaughlin

Even with an entire floor and my cracked bedroom door between us, I

could hear voice clearer than she would have ever gotten that windshield.

“Fuck it! This snow is ridiculous! I’ll have grey hair by the time I get back

from getting my hair done with Linda trying to drive home in this freakin’

disaster. What do you want for dinner Dewey? I’ll make some lasagna. I know

you like my lasagna.” She does make a mean lasagna.

Answering her own question, I pressed play once again, focusing back on

my father’s words instead of my mother’s chaos.

“You see there’s three types of people, Dewey. The ones who brush their

teeth for the full two minutes because their dentist told them to. Then, there is

those who simultaneously slip on shaving cream while shampooing but also

brushing their teeth. You know, the people who are forced to multitask in

attempts to make up for the fact that they hit snooze three-too-many times.

The third type are the people that are born the second, but when the first type

comes along, they get their ass on track and make them the first type. I was the

third type, and boy, your mother was the first type. My type.

“Two weeks before my freshman year, your grandparents decided that

packing our bags and making your Aunt Cheryl and me move across the

country from Texas to Long Island was a good idea. Well, that is until your

grandmother, your Aunt Cheryl, and I arrived by plane and your grandfather,

who was supposed to drive with the movers, decided he’d actually rather stay

back in Texas with his mistress.

“Your mother had it all going for her. She didn’t have to look when she

crossed the street because everyone was already watching her. She was smart,

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 The Manatee

funny. She’d smoke the boys in the timed mile in gym class every year and then

she’d shit on them for it. God, it was awesome. She was the type of girl you

feared but you loved.

“I continued football when I moved here. It was pretty big back in Texas,

you know, and I heard your mother had a soft spot for quarterbacks. She ran

track, fast. I swear, her feet moved quicker than the hands on a clock when we

spent time together. She was All-American, top of the class, a teacher’s favorite

student but not a teacher’s pet. A precedent for class president. She didn’t

waste her time with guys who were going to waste hers. And most importantly,

she knew how to make a mean lasagna even at the age of fourteen.

“I knew this because when I moved into the third house on the left of

Maple Drive, your mother was the only other kid I had along with your Aunt

Cheryl in the neighborhood. She lived two houses down. Every house was the

same, along with every neighbor. The houses were colonials, varied in color but

not in shape or size, and their inhabitants - Long Island Italians. As you can

imagine, we didn’t need to grocery shop for the whole first month. I swear to

God, every day was like an Italian food fest. Every hour I met a new neighbor,

and with them came along whatever their favorite Italian dish was as a

welcoming gift. And with me? Another food coma to be sedated into with every

bite and another pound put on. Insalata Caprese, Eggplant Parmigiana, my God,

the Cannolis, oooh, and the Ciabatto rolls, unreal. I had never had a ‘type’ when

it came to women. Coming from Texas, as long as they weren’t your sister, you

were pretty much in the clear. But from that day, Dewey, damn, did your pops

know he would need to get himself a nice Italian woman.”

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Marisa McLaughlin

The aroma from my mother's homemade tomato sauce simmering on the

stove, along with the baking garlic ciabatta rolls in the oven, ascended up our

stairwell and into my room, covering up the stench that had branded itself in

here from my dirty clothes.

“Specifically, your mother. Antonietta. I called her Toni for short because

she hated it. She called me ‘dumbass’ because I was one. The second day after

we moved in, she knocked on the front door, the house you still live in. Without

even strugglin’, your five foot mother was holding what-looked-like an entire

pasta isle’s worth of freshly baked Chicken Cannelloni in one arm and a

football in the other. I asked if she wanted any help and she goes ‘Really? Vin?

Does it look like I need ya help? I brought this football to teach you a thing or

two, so ya don’t make a fool out of ya self next week for tryouts.’ Then she

walked right in and put the Chicken Cannelloni right in the oven. She turned it

on low to keep it warm. I didn’t even know we had an oven. I didn’t even go by

Vin. It was Vinnie. But from that day on, I went by Vin.”

I cracked a smirk while a tear made its way down the curve of my cheek,

landing on the spacebar of my laptop. It was refreshing in a way, hearing my

Pops speak about how independent my Ma was even back then. It was

reassurance that she wasn’t faking it for me all these years.

“We’d race the distance between our shitty mailboxes that plows had

blown through more times than I could count on two hands. We hopped our

white picket fences to help her practice for when her Coach told her he needed

her for hurdles. To practice my footwork, we’d dodge the neighborhood soccer

moms speeding like bats out of hell because they forgot one of their sons back

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 The Manatee

at the field. She knew she was good, but I knew she could be even better. I never

complimented her accomplishments; I applauded her for the effort that got her

there. And that’s how ya do it, Dewey. You don’t tell a girl they’re great. You tell

someone that and they’ll stop workin’ to get there because they’ll believe it.

And when they realize they’ve got nothin’ to show for it, your words will mean

nothin’. Acknowledge their hard work and they’ll feel like they have an

expectation to keep it up. I wanted your mother to be the best she could be, and

in return we pushed each other to get there. I sure as hell wouldn’t have made

it to the NFL without my Toni and she definitely wouldn’t have become a lawyer

if I didn’t always need her defending my dumbass. You’ve got two choices in

the mornin’: You can keep sleeping with your dreams, or you can wake up and

chase them. You have got to learn to live and learn to love. And when you find a

woman you love, ya better teach her to do the same.”

At this point, my entire house was pervaded with the redolence of my

Ma’s lasagna and garlic ciabatta rolls. I could hear her yelling at Hank for

shitting in the foyer as if it wasn’t her fault for feeding the little man cabassi

fifty times a day, but zoned her out once she started to ask if I had gotten up to

take a shower yet.

“This cancer is going to end my life before I get the chance to watch you

start yours, but I swear, Dewey, if you make me sit up there and watch you not

make your mother proud, push yourself and push others, too, so help me, God,

your little Long-Island-Italian Mother will be the least of your worries, you hear

me?”

103
Marisa McLaughlin/Hannah Lewis

Unable to finish the tape, I closed my laptop and sat for a moment. Then

I started the water for the shower.

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 The Manatee

Wounded
By Hannah Lewis

he is a mosquito bite
that lasts all summer
long. you want to scratch,
but you know that it
will not heal.

105
Mary Newton

The Persistence Of Memory

By Mary Newton

She wondered what it was like in his silent world and wished he would

tell her. Instead, she bent down to trace his eyebrows with her fingertips. He

stirred, just for a moment, and a small breath escaped his lips.

She wanted to kiss them.

But he needed his sleep. God, he needed sleep. Her fingers fell gently

onto the dark blue skin beneath his eyes.

He hadn’t slept in days, almost a week. His desk was littered with

crumpled papers and pencils broken in rage. A squat glass lay on its side next

to a deep amber puddle. The air in the room was still thick with the stench of

bourbon.

Perhaps that had been his undoing.

She sighed and straightened up. As much as she wanted to scold him for

drinking, at least it had gotten him some rest.

She set about cleaning the office. That was her job, after all. And thank

God he had a wooden floor, because breaking out a vacuum now would disturb

his sleep indefinitely.

First, she picked up all the trash in the room: takeout containers, used

napkins, discarded bottles, old clothing tags; all the usual stuff. As she did, she

walked to the rhythm of “Singin’ In The Rain,” which played softly from the

outdated television set against the far wall.

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 The Manatee

After de-cluttering the floor, his kitchenette, and the rest of the living

area other than the couch he slept on, she walked over to the desk. He didn’t

like it when she touched his work, but she had to clean up the spilled alcohol

somehow. She started with the crumpled paper, tossing the balls into the

wastebasket as gently as possible to avoid the loud rustling of the trash bag.

Next came the papers that had been stained by the bourbon. Her gaze

strayed to his drawings, despite the fact that he would hate her for looking at

them. He was so serious about his art, although everyone knew he would never

amount to much. The pieces were hardly better than children’s cartoons. But

the doctor said allowing him to continue would help with his anxiety, perhaps

even make him comfortable speaking to her, and she could never argue with

that.

She remembered the moment depicted in the cartoon before her.

Yesterday, she came to clean the bathroom, but she did not remember it the

way his picture depicted.

She walked in the door, the way she always did, to find him curled in a

ball on the floor, screaming. When she rushed to his aid, his screams fell silent,

but the terror remained in his brown eyes. She stepped away from him, cleaned

the bathroom, and left. He did not move the whole time.

Here, in this cartoon, the demons that haunted him before she walked

through the door looked like gentle house cats compared to her. Curlicue

smoke flowed from every orifice on her disproportionate body, and her jagged

teeth and claws were poised to destroy him at any moment.

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Mary Newton

This was normal. He had always drawn her like this, and that never

changed, no matter how hard she tried. No matter how much she loved him.

It was the next image that sent goose bumps across her flesh.

This was no scribbled, basic image. This was a real drawing, so real she

felt able to reach her hand in and touch the scene unfolding before her eyes.

She did not know where this came from, whether it had happened to him

or was simply imagined. She hardly knew whether it was his drawing at all. Yet

there he was, naked, limbs bound to a bedframe in a spread-eagle position,

screaming around the bundle of cloth in his mouth. Someone approached him

with a menacing expression.

Suddenly, she understood.

“It’s called selective mutism,” the doctor told her. “Whenever the patient

is in a high-anxiety situation, his body prevents him from being able to speak.

We can treat it with speech therapy, but his anxiety will take time.”

In the month since his therapy started, the doctors reported he was

speaking well, except for when she was mentioned.

And now, she held the truth in her hands, and she didn’t know what to

do with it.

He stirred again, and his eyes fluttered open. They were still heavy with

exhaustion, and for a moment, it seemed as though he would fall back asleep.

Instead, his gaze found her, and he sat up quickly, eyes wide.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered. “Not like this.” She held out the

drawing, tasted bile in her throat. “Never like this.”

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 The Manatee

He shrank in on himself, hugging a couch pillow close to his chest. Silent

tears fell from his eyes.

She sat on the floor in front of the couch and placed the picture between

them. “I’m so sorry.” She pushed the drawing towards him. “I promise I would

never do this to you.”

For a moment, he was quiet, gaze trained on the drawing. When he finally

looked up at her, his gaze was soft and open, not a shred of terror in sight.

109
 Contributors
Kevin Bettis is a Videogame Art and Development major from Hartford, VT. He
likes the color Rainbow, and it’s Monkeymen not Lizardmen in our Government.

Lauren Borrey is a Creative Writing major due to graduate in 2020. She is from
Warwick, Rhode Island and has watched The Office over 3 times all the way
through.

Travis Burke is a senior about to finish his degree in Creative Writing in the
Spring of 2018. He grew up in Antrim, New Hampshire and will always have a
heart of granite, no matter where his travels take him.

Maria Celli attends Southern New Hampshire University as an English and

Creative Writing Major. She is expected to graduate in May 2018. She was born
and raised in Ocean, New Jersey. She really likes to skate and surf.

Dee Dube is an English Language and Literature major from Manchester, NH

graduating in 2018. She makes her bed every morning and probably wouldn't
survive without a Spotify subscription.

Michael Franco is an Accounting/Finance major and a Creative Writing minor.

He is to graduate by 2019. He got his start in writing via songwriting. He lives in
Raymond, NH.

McKayla Hutchins is a Psychology major with a concentration in Mental Health

and has a second major in Law and Politics. She is from Fall River,
Massachusetts and will be graduating in 2020. Fun fact: she has the SNHU quill
tattooed on her right ankle and President LeBlanc is planning on getting a
matching one. Peep the twitter for proof.

Amber Krane is a sophomore majoring in English Language and Literature,

anticipating to graduate in Spring of 2020. Amber is from Litchfield, NH and
loves to cosplay, sing, act, sew, read, hang out with friends, and travel to new
places.

Hannah Lewis is a Creative Writing & English student in her junior year, and
will be graduating in the Spring of 2019. Hannah is from Nashua, NH and
commutes to campus. She loves expressing her thoughts and feelings through
poetry and would like to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing after graduation.
Hannah also works for the International Student Services department on
campus, and loves meeting new people from different cultures.

Jaelle Matthieu is a sophomore majoring in Law and Politics and minoring in

History. She dabbles in photography, once longing to be a photographer. Now
she uses her talent to help with The Manatee and the Penmen Press.

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 The Manatee

Marisa McLaughlin is a junior and is a member of the women's lacrosse team.

She is from New Milford, Connecticut and has an equal love for writing as she
does athletics; completing her first marathon this October, she now hopes to
achieve her next goal by becoming a published author.

Emily K. Murphy is a Creative Writing major from Merrimack, New Hampshire

who will be graduating in May 2018. She's quite the name-nerd and looks
forward to seeing which of her fellow Manatee authors has the coolest name.
Her favorite name, in case you're curious, is Róisín (for non-namenerds, that's
pronounced "roh-sheen").

Mary Newton is a senior Creative Writing major from North Carolina. She also
has several Fine Arts minors.

Madeline Reno is currently a junior at SNHU, graduating in 2019, majoring in

Creative Writing and English with a concentration in fiction. She is a native of
New Hampshire and loves reading, writing, and learning about whatever she
can.

Mary Shakshober is a dual major in Graphic Design and Mathematics from

Townsend, Massachusetts. She will be graduating in May 2018, and is curating
her own "fractal art" exhibit on campus to finish out her undergrad career.

Natasha Simmons is a Creative Writing major from Gilford, New Hampshire,

who will be graduating in 2018.

Kaitlin Tetreault is a senior set to graduate in May with a double major in

Creative Writing and Math. She resides in Indianapolis and wants to own a
Bernese Mountain Dog one day.

Elle Tibbitts is a senior Economics and Math major from Merrimack, NH. She is
passionate about community engagement and telling stories.

Jesse Wyman is a senior graduating in December of 2017. She is a Psychology

major with a concentration in Child and Adolescent Development and a second
concentration in Mental Health. She was born and raised in Boston,
Massachusetts. Jesse is currently working on a novel.

Ruth Way is in the 2020 class, obtaining a double major in Creative Writing and
Communication. She is a book worm from Westerly, Rhode Island with a strong
caramel obsession.

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