VOLUME XXII

The Rook
MONTANA STATE UNIVERSITY-BILLINGS

VOLUME XXII
2020
Department of English,
Philosophy, and Modern
The Rook
Languages 2020 Staff
Montana State University
Billings Editor-in-Chief
Michael Wade
1500 University Drive
Billings, Montana 59101 layout editor
Brie Barron
therook@msubillings.edu
fiction editors
winner of MSUB’s 2020 “Outstanding Malia Schoenenberger
student organization award” Elizabeth Goffena

poetry editors
Daniel Lurie
Haley Barthuly

art editor
Elizabeth Fisher

STAFF
Kati Sanford
Kietyn Frost

faculty advisor
Dr. Bernard
Quetchenbach
 table of contents

Sigma Tau delta Misplaced 20

Poetry Contest by daniel lurie

Winners Memento Mori 31

by sarah williams
Third Place 2
How to Make Use of Hope The Sea Captures
32
by brie barron Another
by mccamey miller
Second Place 3
This House is Not a Home 3am at the Studio 34
by daniel lurie by kaitlin fouhy

First Place Aubade 41

Plastics 5
by augustus goldberg
by michael wade
Box of the Broken 43
Honorable Mention by jennifer downing
My Archive of Connections 6
by daniella garcia Stillwater Deliria 45
by michael wade
Honorable Mention
Aspect 7
Face Paint 46
by chase johnson
by haley barthuly

On Air Travel 56
Poetry by sarah williams

9 Eschar 57
Rickety
by kati sanford
by kati sanford

Wisp 62
What It Takes to Heal 18
by kati sanford
by haley barthuly
I Have Never Seen a Untitled 71
63 by Michael Wade
Room Lit So Quickly
by brie barron

Mannequin 64 drama
by amy hill
Survival Algorithms 35
Reproduction 66 by julie schultz
by haley barthuly

Longing 67 art
by amy hill

If It Ain't Broke, Feed the Fire 8

68
Break It by laura meintjes
by brie barron
Content Aware 10
Decision 74 by brie barron
by haley barthuly
2ndchildhood 15
by emmit bartsch

fiction
Dreams in Hand 19
by katie bertram
The Whale 11
by luke ashmore Still 21
by emmit bartsch
Martin 23
by kaitlin fouhy Evanescent 30
by laura meintjes
(untitled) 44
by megan hanson Mastadonna 33
by terrin bisel
Hundredfold 59
by brie barron Hopperish 42
by john allenbaugh
Mass Uniqueness,
Undefinable Vastness, Cover art
47
Nostalgia of Lost
Narrative Eclipse
by laura meintjes
by hannah harsha

15x22 watercolor on paper

bostonskreets 58 2019
by emmit bartsch

Reflections 65
by chloe fields

What Do You See

69
on Your Horizon?
by morgan syring

Where Will You 70

Run To?
by morgan syring

nonfiction

A Pilgrimage 16
by kaitlin fouhy

Robots are People,

Too?: A Critical Reading 48
of Nier: Automata
by augustus goldberg

The Grief of Others 76

by julie schultz
Sigma Tau delta

Each year, the Montana State University-Billings branch of Sigma

Tau Delta, the International English Honor Society, sponsors a
poetry contest for all MSU-B students. This is a chance for
students interested in creative writing to be recognized for the
quality of their work.

Open to all students in two-year, four-year, or graduate

programs, the contest awards up to five cash prizes, and every
winner also receives a certificate. The judges are faculty in the
MSU-B English, Philosophy, and Modern Language departments
and also local poets.

Winning poems are displayed in the showcase on the fourth

floor of the Liberal Arts Building and published in The Rook.

| 1 |
 third place
How to make use of hope
by brie barron

Fight the impulse

to pull out the bullet
and hold it up to the light.
Your arms don’t
have the reach anymore.
You must know that
once you open this wound,
you cannot close it—
this is a life sentence.

You will drown

in the smoke
that bellows from
your lungs. You will dye
your lips red without wine,
you will not settle for
anything less than blood.
If you die screaming, the one
who takes your place will be
silent. Your rage—
weaponized, realized, and tangible.
Carve from stone your malice
and hold it up to the light.

| 2 |
second place
this house is not a home
by daniel lurie

Walking the halls of this house

my fingers trace the paint
chipping off the walls,
cracks traipse the ceiling,
the siding is faded,
and the living room
window is still shattered.

In every imperfection
my father haunts this house.
House. Not home.

His picture hangs on a nail.

Compartmentalized into
boxes stuffed into the
confines of the crawlspace
that are now starting to mold.
Voice still ringing loudly,
in the staleness of space.

The kitchen table is gone now,

and with it his seat.

| 3 |
My mother rebuilds the house,
filling the cracks,
repainting the walls,
and fixing the window,
all in the hopes of setting
my father’s ghost free.

| 4 |
first place
Plastics
by michael wade

I no longer notice the ocean’s rolling waves;

I am fixated on the lustrous waste, swirling

at its surface. My eyes glaze over

in the same way that wax keeps an apple

from rotting. I don’t feel nervous about tomorrow

because those waves will wander

where they want, whether I choose to check the news

or ignore it. Gazing into LCD’s is as bad

as staring at the sun,

and going blind is what I’ve always wanted, as long as

it means that I can absorb the last bit of warmth

from the people around me.

| 5 |
 honorable mention
My Archive of connections
by daniella garcia

clothes from middle school

trinkets from before then,
pins and figurines from forgotten interests,
jewelry I never wear
candy that becomes wrappers,
which I finally throw away.

I toss the wrappers, sometimes the boxes

But I need to keep the rest,
this presence from others. How can I
just throw out all the thought that went in?

Or lack thereof
putty too tough,
glowsticks long-dead,
candles mere puddles of wax
hand-me-downs come to rest in my hands

| 6 |
honorable mention
ASPECt
by chase johnson

The past was not perfect.

My suit and your dresses had been worn every Sunday.
You were being watched by me. Did you see?
I had been taught to love through books and verses.

Little had I known the future will be perfect.

I will have taught myself new manners.

Lines will have held creativity
instead of running down my coat.
I will have been loving in my own way.

| 7 |
 Feed the fire
by laura meintjes

| 8 |
Rickety
poetry / by kati sanford

Persnickety, Pious,

Three-man band alliance

Tucking tired, tatty credence

Onto backs of fusty pews.

Indignity! Heinous.

No disciples – shameless.

Frail omission (admonition),

Plummet into subterfuge.

| 9 |
 Content aware
by Brie Barron

| 10 |
The Whale
fiction / by Luke Ashmore

“By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the
wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two
there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and mid most of them all, one
grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.”
-Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Peter lived simply. A relatively normal data entry job paid him well,
and he didn’t hate his coworkers. Sure, there were days that a nine-to-five
drained any joy he felt, but he was paid well and the hours were great. He
had plenty of time for hobbies, friends, and decompressing. Weekends were
fantastic. He enjoyed weekends because he could drink — really drink. He
and his buddies would start at one bar and work their way through their
favorite spots. It’s not like they were drinking at noon. They’d start during
happy hour. But even these weekends became boring after they became
routine. They started to play games to liven things up. Who could have the
most drinks paid for by lonely women? Who could “accidentally” spill a drink
on a girl and get their number by the end of the night? But after a while, they
grew tired of these games. There was little at stake. But that changed when
Markus provided a new scenario for our group.
“See those girls over there?” Markus asked while nursing his seventh or
eighth beer. He pointed towards a group of women who were participating in
what looked to be a dreadful bachelorette party. The bride-to-be was pretty,
but her friends, well they left a lot to be desired. Honestly, most of them
were overweight. Peter’s group normally wouldn’t pay attention to them, but
Markus had a proposition.
“Let’s make a bet. And actually put some money behind it,” he continued.
“We each try to take one of those women home tonight. The rules are simple;
you have to sleep with her, and you have to get a photo of her on a scale to
confirm her weight. And if you sleep with the heaviest one? You take the pot.”

| 11 |
 There was an awkward silence, but a collective fit of laughing soon
followed when the gentlemen realized Markus was being serious. And when he
was being serious, there was money on the table. Markus had just recently sold
his tech start-up. If his target wanted gastric bypass surgery, he could pay for it
as easily as Peter paid for coffee in the morning.
“Everyone in?” he asked with a grin.
“How much is everyone giving?” Jake asked.
“Actually, this one’s on me.” Markus quickly stated. “I’ll put in
ten. Winner walks away with that, but if I win, you all buy my drinks next
weekend.”
Another awkward silence followed. The group was seriously
deliberating the proposition of sport.
“Are interceptions allowed?” Peter asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… let’s say Markus is striking out with Bertha over there.
Am I allowed to step in and try my luck with her? Or once you’ve decided
on someone, do you have to follow through with her?” Peter continued as the
group nodded their heads to his question, lost in deep thought.
“It’s a hunt, right?” Jake grinned. “I think that sounds fair. As
long as it happens within the bar, and you don’t cross a line, I’m okay with
interceptions.”
“It’s decided then!” Markus declared. “But please remember,
gentlemen, these are people just like you and me. Do your best to be
thoughtful of their feelings.”
And with that, everyone agreed to the bet. Markus won that night.
The woman he slept with was 311 pounds. He went the extra mile and even
had a video of her on the scale during her weigh in. She cooperated easily and
didn’t seem to care about the situation. Maybe he paid her.
Peter’s first night went terribly. He approached a large woman
drinking a martini who appeared to be easy going. In hindsight, he believed
he should have asked her to weigh in over breakfast the next morning. The
food may have been a conversational lubricant. Instead, he asked her within
the first few minutes of arriving at his apartment. Maybe she wasn’t as drunk
as he thought. She cried and stormed out as quickly as she could. Relatively

| 12 |
speaking, she stormed out slowly.

____
Markus’s game became a consistent affair for the group. Did it
become a weekly event? Of course not; these men weren’t monsters. It
morphed into an annual tradition. Even those who moved away would fly
back to the city to participate in the great whaling voyage every year. The pot
of money grew along with the game’s tactics. One of the greatest challenges
for the group was finding potential women. They searched in bars and buffets.
Interestingly enough, they often had fantastic luck at NFL games. Paying for
overpriced concessions did wonders for their chances with these women.
Over the years, there were multiple winners of the whaling
competition. Peter was the only back-to-back champion though. He slept with
the same woman twice. The commissioner had to change the rules after that,
but he didn’t blame him. He could have gone for a three-peat.
Eventually they returned to the bar where the game began to
celebrate their game’s anniversary. As they began to talk to potential
women, Peter was distracted almost immediately. He noticed a beautiful, fit
woman sitting alone at the bar. As he circulated around the room, he would
occasionally notice her looking his way. Peter should have focused on the
actual game, but something drew him to her dimpled smile. To the relief of
his friends, Peter forfeited that night because he wanted to pursue the blonde
who couldn’t stop smiling. Eventually, he bought her a drink and began a
conversation.
She was fantastic. She told him that her name was Julie. They
discussed art, films, and their work. She owned multiple yoga studios in the
city. Peter told her about his boring office job, but he made sure she knew it
paid well. They nearly stayed at the bar until closing time. Peter watched as
his friends left with their whales. Going off of looks alone, Jake was definitely
going to win.
“Do you want to get out of here?” She finally asked.
She brought him to her apartment. It was in a magnificent uptown location.
As she flicked on the lights, Peter was even more impressed. Her furnishings
revealed that her yoga studios were evidently popular.

| 13 |
 “Do you want another drink?” she asked as she walked towards a bar
cart. “I’ll make us a couple martinis.”
As she prepared the drinks, Peter poked around the living room.
Inspecting her bookshelves and sound system. She was checking all the right
boxes; she was perfect. She brought the drinks and they made their way to the
couch. The conversation was lively and picked up right where it left off. They
began to discuss novels and her favorite authors when Peter began to notice an
odd feeling. His left arm started to feel numb. After a few seconds, he could no
longer move his left hand. His unease must have been evident.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Peter tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t move. She just stared
at him. He tried to speak, but only puffs of air seeped through his lips. She
calmly stood up and got closer to his. She stared intently; where was her smile?
Peter lost consciousness.
When he awoke, he was seated at a large dining table. Whatever she
had given him had worn off, but as he tried to bolt up from the chair, he was
immediately caught by restraints. She had bound him to the seat. He began
to survey the room. The table was lined with all kinds of food: chicken wings,
cartons of ice cream, donuts, and pizza. As the trapped gentleman looked at
this shrine of gluttony, Julie walked into the dining room holding a plate of
chocolate chip cookies.
“What are you doing?” he screamed.
She didn’t say anything at first. She glided across the floor and sat in
one of the chairs next to him. She set down the plate of cookies and picked
one up. She admired the golden brown edges and the chocolate chips. It
looked like she was going to take a bite. Then she shoved the dessert in Peter’s
face.
“Eat,” she said.

| 14 |
2ndchildhood
by emmit bartsch
Digitally painted on Photoshop with Wacom
tablet

| 15 |
 A pilgrimage
Nonfiction / by kaitlin fouhy

In my life I’ve had innumerable experiences with both religion and

spirituality. As the child of an ex-Catholic/Evangelical convert and a new
age/spiritual Christian, I was able to see both sides of the spectrum from a
young age. This ideological mismatch soon led to a predicable, yet for-the-
best, divorce. This meant a childhood filled with conflating experiences of
both spirituality and religion. I have memories of attending Catholic mass
with my father’s family when we visited my grandparents farm and road trips
with my mother consisting of pit-stop palm readings at Southwest trading
posts covered in Kokopelli artwork on our way to visit Spanish missions. My
dad encouraged me to go to youth group and my mom bought me books on
Buddhism.
For me, the more religious side of things was always less open-minded
and more stringent. I found the other kids in my Evangelical youth group to
be the kind that were of a “better-than-you” attitude and of unquestioning,
closed minds focused on laying the groundwork for teenage cliques. I never felt
the sense of community that is so often used to describe the church, I felt more
like a 4th-grade pariah. I did, however, see the togetherness of the Catholic
Church when I was a guest. The weekly communion, the priest saying “peace
be with you” followed by the congregation’s “and also with you” in unison, the
kneeling and the wooden benches requiring that all members suffer together—
the rituals of Catholicism made it seem mysterious and archaic—like the
religion was a sort of living, breathing relic.
I could see the appeal and comfort of the Catholic church, but
was speculative and untrusting of organized religion from my youth group
experiences. As I entered my teens, I began a very agnostic approach to
spirituality. I was interested in learning about Buddhism and Hinduism, crystal
healing powers and chakra wands. I found this to be more rewarding than
church had ever been. Perhaps it was the exciting and novel ways of thinking
I was discovering, maybe it was the self-examination and the questions being

| 16 |
asked to the world and myself instead of being answered by the Bible or a
priest.
Now in my mid-20’s and with more (maybe not much) perspective,
I’ve come to a happy compromise with what each of my parents added to
my perspective. I think God is more inherent in us than we realize. God
would be the empathy we have for one another, the happiness we feel for
our fellow human beings, the laughter we share in as we relate to each
other’s experiences. God is someone I pray to, but I don’t read the Bible. I
feel fellowship in my personal relationships, but not in a church. Through
experiencing life, I’ve found that I come to nearly the same conclusions that
all religions attempt to come to regarding the existential questions that keep
humanity restlessly progressive.

| 17 |
 What it takes to heal
poetry / by haley barthuly

Because there was only one word

on the arrow of his tongue, I shot myself
with it.

Because blood shone red when mixed with oxygen, but blue
beneath the skin, I thought,
God must be good.

Good enough to stab through the layer of years

accumulated, and gift me a fresh
wound to make sense of.

Because I used others’ bodies like bandages

for my own, I knew a tongue had
adhesive powers.

Because we kept shooting on the night

globs of oil blotted the stars,
we had no choice

but to kiss each others’ bodies clean.

| 18 |
Dreams in hand
by katie bertram

| 19 |
 Misplaced
poetry / by daniel lurie

Every time I move

I always end up leaving
a little something behind.
the chair that would not
fit in my car,
video game figurines,
my favorite hoodie,
a piece of my heart.

I like to think that

they serve as a trail
of breadcrumbs to find
my way back, even though
I will never return.

I have moved so
many times that
I am not sure if home
is a place,
or a person,
or a feeling,
anymore;
perhaps I misplaced
home as well.

| 20 |
still
by emmit bartsch
Martin
fiction / by Kaitlin Fouhy

Martin was a shy man. He worked as an accountant in a print shop

where he spent his days alone with nothing but his computer, cup of tea (he
didn’t drink caffeine) and the whirr of his oscillating desk fan. He preferred
to observe, and if so required to engage with others, he kept to the necessary
pleasantries vital in maintaining his comfortable, hemmed-in job. On an
excruciatingly average Thursday morning, the desk fan blew a breeze right
through Martin’s hair, and the room was immediately filled with the scent of
Pert Plus.
Martin had been familiar with this scent for as long as he could
remember. His father used Pert Plus and his father, Pert, before that. In his
family, Pert was tradition, it was comfortable. But lately, Martin had grown
tired of the shimmering green liquid with its plastic-y rainforest smell. Sure,
the two-in-one action was convenient, but Martin wondered if he was ready to
make the change to a two-bottle set of shampoo and conditioner.
There was a problem, however. The thought of smelling shampoo
and conditioner while being overwhelmed with an innumerable amount of
options terrified Martin. Everyone watching him, judging him and the way
he smelled. Was he sniffing too loud? Too close? Too intently? His mind set to
coming up with reasons to avoid the risk of having to smell in public in order
to change shampoos. “I could order online to avoid the crowds of people,
but what if I don’t like the scent? I won’t use it if I don’t like the smell. It’s
not worth the risk,” he muttered. He still had a quarter of a bottle left in his
shower to use first, and as an accountant, the thought of wasting 77 cents
was almost unbearable. Sinking into the memory-inducing aroma, Martin
reflected and a change quietly began.
It was lunch time now, and Martin prepared for the second of the
three interoffice social efforts he made each day. He entered the break room
and sat at his favorite table, an unpopular one that faced away from the TV.
He pulled out the same lunch he’d had everyday for the last 7 years—a ham

| 23 |
sandwich, original Lay’s, an apple and ginger-ale in a glass bottle. He peered
over his ham sandwich at Leah, the receptionist. Or do they prefer the term
administrative assistant? He couldn’t remember. Either way, she had long dark
hair, green eyes and an innocent smile. Martin thought she was perfect—how
she acted, how she spoke, how she looked. He couldn’t imagine anyone more
ideal.
Martin wasn’t particularly unattractive or unpleasant, but his quiet
ways never won him any friendships. He had a rather nice smile and a fairly
symmetrical face, but his boyish habit of looking down hid any trace of
vitality. He did, however, have luxurious, chocolate brown hair… that no one
ever felt—not since the summer before 10th grade when he had his first and
last experience with a woman. Martin watched as Leah fixed her necklace and
ached for her elegant fingers to run through his wavy locks. He needed the
touch of another human being to make sure he was real. Suddenly, he had
an impalpable feeling that a new hair routine would give him the confidence
to ask out Leah. “That’s it. I’m going to the store after work to start my
life,” Martin whispered to himself in his quiet corner of the lunch room. He
excitedly ate his lunch for the first time since his first week at Perry Brothers
Printing. He felt alive knowing he was finally going to change shampoos and
went back to his office looking up instead of down.
The feeling of excitement soon turned to anxiety as the clock ticked
closer to 5 p.m. His palms began to get clammy and his heart rate increased
by 15 pulses per minute (he counted). Leah walked by and his heart fell to
his stomach. “I can’t do this. I’m not ready. I’m only 32. Whats wrong with
Pert? Pert’s fine. I’m fine. I need to focus on work.” Martin did just that and
Thursday’s workday soon ended.
Martin walked to his safest-in-class Volvo with a feeling of shame
knowing that today was not the day his life was going to begin. He started
the drive home and was careful to never go above the speed limit. He felt
comfortable here, in the Volvo, driving home. He felt safe, cheery even. Saying
things out loud like, “I can’t wait to watch the odometer roll over to 100,000
miles,” in hopes of distracting himself from the choice he made before leaving
work. He felt sick as he pulled into the driveway of his modest condominium.
He knew he had talked himself out of buying new shampoo and ultimately

| 24 |
Leah. “Thursdays aren’t for making changes, anyway,” he said to himself as
he sat in the driveway, “Fridays are for changes.”
He opened the door to his home and was greeted by the collection
of musical instruments he never learned to play—another reminder of failed
attempts to start his life. Martin sat down on his loveseat, the only living room
furniture he owned, and sighed into himself. After enjoying 15 minutes of
routine restlessness, he felt refreshed and headed to the shower to grab his Pert
Plus. It felt heavy. Heavier than a quarter-full. “A bottle usually lasts me two
months… that means, carry the four… I have to wait at least two weeks for
my fresh start.” On any other night, he might have had nothing better to do
than pour it out and weigh it to calculate the exact amount that remained, and
therefore the amount of money he would be wasting. This was a system of
rationalizing stagnancy that Martin had perfected over the years.
He drummed his fingers on the bottle. One, two, three, four… over
and over, until all he could hear was the half-hollow bottle hitting the pads of
his fingers. Out of nowhere, Martin took the bottle and dumped it down the
bathroom sink. He felt strangely empowered as he watched the lime green
liquid drip down the drain. For the first time in his life, Martin had acted on
his impulsivity and felt a high he didn’t know existed. He tossed the bottle in
the bathroom trash and said, “Now, I have to change my life. There’s no other
option. I can’t go to work without a shower, what would Leah think?” As soon
as the name Leah slipped through his lips, Martin’s rush began to wear off.
“Who am I kidding? She wouldn’t even notice.”
He looked in the mirror at the shell of a man he was becoming and
reluctantly realized he had to face his fear and go to the store. It was too
much. Martin looked to his right and saw the bottle sitting on a pile of tissues
perched halfway out of the garbage. He snatched it with the fervor of a single
mom on Black Friday, 1995 grabbing the last Cabbage Patch Doll for her
spoiled 8-year-old. He looked inside; there was enough Pert Plus left to wash
his hair one more time—two if he added water. With a sigh of relief, Martin
put the bottle back in the shower, upside down, knowing he could make it
one more day without smelling shampoo and conditioner in front of people.
“I don’t even know what aisle the shampoo is in. I need to prepare for this.”
Rationalizing again.

| 25 |
 Lying in bed and about to take his nightly dose of melatonin and
zolpidem, Martin stopped himself. The high resumed instantly as he broke his
routine for the second time that day. He bolted up like he had just awakened
from a nightmare he couldn’t remember. The kind where you wake up
dripping with sweat while shivering in fear, where you know something’s not
right, and you know you have to look elsewhere to find the answer to why it
isn’t. If he wanted to grow, he had to step outside his comfort zone, and the
first step had to be in the shower.
Full of adrenaline, Martin got dressed and headed to the nearest
24hour store with the best selection of hair products. He looked at the clock
and saw it was only 8:44? A feeling of incredible defeat enveloped Martin
as he realized how content he had been with his tedious life before being
invigorated that morning. He looked in the rearview mirror and told himself,
“Not anymore, Martin, not anymore.”
The next day, Martin was awake before the sun. He began his
morning routine of making a single pancake when he stopped, and
immediately got into the shower. Another break in the routine thrilled Martin
as he read the directions on his brand new shampoo and conditioner bottles.
Today was the day. He washed, rinsed and repeated until the water was
lukewarm. “I still have an hour and a half before I have to leave. This must be
what people feel on the first day of school,” he said to his reflection.
Martin walked to his closet and frisked through his drab collection
of muted dress shirts until he landed on the unworn shirt and tie combo his
mother had given him when he first got the job at Perry Bros. He remembered
telling her he loved it to spare her feelings. It was, under his normal opinion,
too loud for an accountant. The shirt itself was plain except for the fact that
it was the shade of dark green Martin equated to Whole Foods or Starbucks,
and the tie was a shiny plum color embossed with mauve paisley. It usually
reminded him of Barney, or an eggplant emoji. Not even a real eggplant?
But, on this unusual Friday, he felt like wearing it. “Thanks, Mom,” he said,
combing his hair one final time in the mirror before leaving 26 minutes ahead
of schedule.
On his ride to the office, Martin decided to switch from his normal
NPR to the 104.7 Hits from the 90’s and Today and found himself bobbing

| 26 |
his head to Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream.” He imagined Leah in her “skin-
tight jeans” and made his mind up to ask her out later that day. It seemed as
if everything was finally coming together for him. For the first time in a long
time, Martin felt normal. No longer was he void of emotion; he was happy.
He pointed the rearview mirror at himself for a little pep talk, “Martin, you
can do this. You’re a nice guy, who wouldn’t want to go on a date with you?
You always show up early to work, you’re responsible, you drive a nice car
and you’re not half-bad looking.” He let out a confident sigh and parked in
his designated spot in the employee parking lot. Still early, Martin waited until
Pat, the building manager, showed up to open the office park and listened to
“Ignition (Remix)” for the first time in his life. “I like this. I wonder if there’s
even an original version or if R. Kelly is really a bad guy…” The song faded
out just as Pat unlocked the doors. Martin eagerly hopped out of his Volvo
and almost skipped as he headed toward the door.
“Morning Martin, looking nice today. Got a little spring in your step,
too!”
“Good morning! Thanks, Pat, I just have a good feeling about today.”
“I hope you’re right. Have a good one.”
“Right back at ya!” Martin said in a foreign tone, that was
obnoxiously jubilant.
Martin headed to the Perry Bros suite and was surprised to see the
lights already on this early. He opened the unlocked door and saw that Leah
was there. He was stunned.
“Good morning, Martin. You’re here even earlier than usual.”
Martin, dumbstruck, replied, “M-m-morning, Leah. I was sure that I would
be the only one here this early. I was here before Pat opened up the building.”
“I actually have my own set of keys,” explained Leah nonchalantly.
“Oh,” was all Martin could manage to muster. He went to his office
to begin his daily accounting tasks only to be distracted by the thought of
Leah. “Why would she have keys, and why was she so casual about it? At least
she talked to me. She even seemed happy to see me. Today is definitely the
day to ask her out.”
Before he knew it, it was lunch time again. Martin realized that in
all of his excitement that morning, he had forgot to pack his lunch. Unsure
whether to embrace yet another change in his routine, or whether it would

| 27 |
throw off his day too much, Martin decided change was good and went to
go to the sandwich shop across the street. He entered the humble shop filled
with the smell of baking bread and noticed that Leah was sitting down at
a table meant for two. “Perfect,” thought Martin, “I can ask her out here,
away from the office.” The line to order was long and Martin watched Leah
as inconspicuously as he could. He noticed that she had two sandwiches.
“Maybe she wanted a second sandwich for dinner…” Martin’s place in line
was growing closer and closer to the front. He was now within earshot of Leah
and heard a ding from her cell phone. She tapped her phone and smiled the
way Martin wanted to make her smile.
“Hey, how’s it going? What can I get for you today,” asked an all-too-
chipper employee. A distracted Martin ordered the special and paid without
tipping. He grabbed his sandwich and as if in a trance, walked over to Leah’s
table and asked, “Mind if I join you?” The words felt strange coming out of
his mouth, but Martin knew there was no turning back now.
“Sure, Martin! Don’t you usually bring a lunch from home?”
“Usually, but I forgot to pack one this morning.”
“That seems unlike you. You’re usually so prepared.”
“Usually, yes. So, Leah…”
“Yes, Martin?”
“Well, I was, I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime?”
“Oh, Martin, that is so sweet, but I actually have a boyfriend… haha,
in fact, this is his sandwich. He should be here any minute.”
Martin felt his heart drop, then a red-hot flash of anger came over
him. He forced a smile to form across his face that could almost pass for
genuine, “Well, he’s sure a lucky guy.”
“Hey, would you mind watching my things while I run to the
bathroom?”
“No problem.”
Martin noticed she left her phone on the table next to the two
sandwiches. He glanced over his shoulder and realized not a soul was paying
any attention to him. Typical. Suddenly, impulsivity crept up on him again.
In a casual hurry, he slid her phone in his pocket and tossed the sandwiches
in the trash. After one more look around the shop, he headed towards the

| 28 |
bathroom that was shared by a yoga studio. Without sound, he slid into the
women’s bathroom. Only one stall was occupied. Leah emerged and before
she could react, his hand was covering her mouth and nose. Fear filled her
eyes as she struggled against Martin’s surprising strength to breathe. Within
three minutes, she was no longer struggling. He propped her limp body on the
toilet seat, grabbed the office keys from her purse, locked the stall and left the
women’s bathroom without being seen. He exited through the yoga studio that
he knew was holding a lunch time session, and made his way to the back of
the office building. Martin knew that if he came in through the back, no one
would notice he had ever left.
He snuck into his office and sunk into his chair. Martin never knew a
person could feel like this. He was numb, yet tingling. Tired, yet invigorated.
Bound to the earth, yet floating. Just like that, Martin was brought back to
reality as Leah’s phone chimed. With instinctual focus, he silenced it, wiped
it down with his antibacterial wipes, and snuck it onto Leah’s desk. He was
floating again. Another realization came over him. Accounting had lost its
organized luster as Martin suddenly knew what his true calling was.

| 29 |
 Evanescent
by laura meintjes
22 x 29” watercolor on paper
2019

| 30 |
Memento mori
Poetry / by Sarah williams
MSUB alumni feature

Here is a sacred place,

tucked beneath a church
near the Piazza Barberini—
six small chapels in a line,
lit mostly by pale light
squeezing through tiny windows.
They are beautiful and terrible:
yellowed bones, arranged
in circles and arches,
are affixed to whitewashed walls,
and empty eye sockets bore into me
from beneath a monk’s hood.
We are not allowed to photograph,
but I promise the dead I will remember them
and their swirling reminders
of mortality.

| 31 |
 the sea captures another
poetry / by mccamey miller

Wrists bound, and to my ankles, a stone is tied. I am thrown into

the deep. I meet the waters cold embrace. Looking up,
where the sun barely kisses the water. Water,
grabs my throat, forcing me to let the water be my
air. I watch death come as a sweet Savior
whisking me away to the Heavens
without a syllable. My body
drifting into the dark.
Further down.
Until the deep
And I
Are one.

| 32 |
mastadonna
by terrin bisel
Plywood sculpture

| 33 |
 3am at the studio
poetry / by kaitlin fouhy

Where is the word that is parallel to foresight,

yet simply pertains to listening, hearing;
a prophetic visionary, but with sound;
aural perspective expressed in a diagram
that can only be heard,
never seen;

a moment existing only in the echo of its creator’s mind;

intangible until its reverberation hits
the air, comes into being, and captures a feeling
you never knew could be externalized
until the second the vibration
hit
your
ear
with such intensity
you swore you must have known
its architect in a past life;

you hadn’t, of course,

but a simple delusion like this
proved the magic inherent
in you and me, us; and we
are linked by sound and sensation,
without needing to be acquainted.

| 34 |
survival algorithms
drama / by julie schultz

Characters

Jenna - a thirtysomething hipster

Jasper - her partner

Scene: Jenna and Jasper’s kitchen

Jenna is standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open while Jasper sits at the
kitchen table idly scrolling on his smartphone.

JENNA: I guess we’ll have chicken tonight.

JASPER: Again?
JENNA: Nothing else is thawed, and I don’t think we want to risk it with some
of the science experiments we’ve got going on in here.
JASPER: We could always go out. (turns phone toward Jenna) This place—
JENNA: But we definitely don’t need more leftovers, and the chicken will go
bad if we don’t use it.
JASPER: That’s not really the end of the world, is it? (turns phone toward Jenna
again) There’s this—
JENNA: Well, it was the end of the world for the chicken.
JASPER: (resumes scrolling on phone) She probably only lived for a couple of
months.
JENNA: (slamming refrigerator closed) That makes it even worse!
JASPER: So, you’d have fewer qualms about throwing away an elderly
chicken?
JENNA: (pauses) A dead one. As long as it was already dead, then, yes. At least
it had more of a chance for a meaningful life.
JASPER: (looks up briefly) You think chickens ascribe meaning to life? Seriously?
JENNA: (leaning against counter) Whatever. The point is, we’re having chicken
for dinner.

| 35 |
JASPER: Can’t we just throw it in the freezer and have it another time?
JENNA: If you can find space in the freezer, be my guest.
JASPER: (puts down phone and walks over to open the freezer) Hmmm. Well, if we
take out the pork chops to thaw for tomorrow, the chicken will fit.
JENNA: We thawed the pork chops last week. Then we didn’t feel like them
and ended up at that new Thai place over on Cedar.
JASPER: Oh, right. Som tum and massaman curry.
JENNA: And sticky rice with mango—
JASPER: I think we may have gotten the last one of the season.
JENNA: No leftovers.
JASPER: (settling back at the table) Too bad chicken doesn’t have a season. I’d
probably like it more.
JENNA: It only doesn’t have a season because we designed it that way.
JASPER: Did you read that article on Slate the other day about aquaponics?
JENNA: (reaches for her smartphone) I must have missed it.
JASPER: (picks up phone again) Let me see if I can find it. (scrolls) You just
reminded me of it…we haven’t been as good at designing fish.
JENNA: So, aquaponics is about yoking fish to our needs just like we’ve done
with cows and pigs and chickens?
JASPER: That’s such a negative way of looking at it, especially for a
carnivore.
JENNA: I’m an omnivore.
JASPER: Don’t be pedantic. You know what I mean.
JENNA: So, what is this aquaponics thing?
JASPER: Sort of a mashup of a greenhouse and a fishery. The coolest part is
that it can be a completely closed system. (holds phone out for JENNA to look at)
(pause while JENNA scrolls briefly)
JENNA: Oh, so, no polluting our oceans? That is pretty neat. Although I
suppose it doesn’t do anything about the vortex of plastic in the Pacific.
JASPER: That’s not really the point.
JENNA: I just saw a YouTube about a Gentoo penguin colony living on an
island of plastic. (hands phone back to JASPER)
JASPER: Plastic waste isn’t even close to the most important pollution
problem.

| 36 |
JENNA: I think those penguins might disagree.
JASPER: Sounds like they are happy enough…they aren’t eating it, right?
Just living on it. With 3D printing, we’ll probably all be living in plastic houses
soon.
JENNA: But the penguins aren’t choosing plastic…it’s what’s available.
JASPER: (back to scrolling) Sounds like a sensible use of resources. Like
aquaponics.
JENNA: A plastic penguin island is like aquaponics? (scrolling on phone)
JASPER: (looks up) That’s it!
JENNA: What?
JASPER: Jorge and Gemma have been looking for a name for their band.
Plastic Penguin Island!
JENNA: Hmmm…
JASPER: (looks down at phone again) I should text Gemma.
JENNA: She’s going to think you’re insane.
JASPER: (texting) I’m explaining the context…that it’s related to efficient
resource utilization.
JENNA: (sarcastically) You should definitely say utilization.
JASPER: (still texting) It’s about feeding people sustainably.
JENNA: Clearly.
JASPER: (looks up) We’re going to have, like, nine billion people soon, or
something like that, and everyone wants more protein.
JENNA: Have you ever tried veganism?
JASPER: (sets phone down) Not seriously. I gave up dairy for a few months once.
JENNA: I tried for a while in college, but it was pretty easy there. We had a
great dining hall that catered to all sorts of weird dietary needs.
JASPER: Veganism isn’t that weird.
JENNA: Please. It’s still plenty weird. And back then, it was very fringe.
JASPER: I don’t think it can be weird if a chain like Albertson’s has vegan
stuff. Now, macrobiotic…THAT’S weird.
JENNA: Semantics. I just think it’s hard to make vegan food tasty without a
lot of effort. It’s not convenient.
JASPER: It’s unfortunate that chicken is convenient.
JENNA: For the chickens?
JASPER: I was thinking mostly for me.

| 37 |
JENNA: So, why do we buy chicken, then, if you don’t like it?
JASPER: I like it in massaman curry.
JENNA: So, you like it if it doesn’t taste like chicken?
JASPER: Maybe we should give up chicken for Lent.
JENNA: Since when is Lent a thing for us?
JASPER: I dunno, it just seems like something to do.
JENNA: I’m not sure Lent is the sort of thing you just “do.”
JASPER: (looking back at smartphone) No way! You have to look at this.
JENNA: What?
JASPER: It’s one of those fugitive posters. Someone just posted it on
Facebook. It looks just like Justin Lameer. Remember him?
JENNA: Sure. (walks over to look at the picture) I suppose that could be him. What
do they say he’s done?
JASPER: (scrolling on phone) Hmmm, looks like aggravated rape. And they’re
calling it a hate crime, since the victim is apparently Native American.
JENNA: Justin wouldn’t do something like that. He was always the biggest
teddy bear of a tree hugger.
JASPER: Environmentalists can be douches, too, you know.
JENNA: I hate when you use that term.
JASPER: Dickheads.
JENNA: Still gendered.
JASPER: Assholes, then. Those are universal.
JENNA: Justin wasn’t an asshole.
JASPER: People change.
JENNA: True, but rape? Power was never his schtick.
JASPER: Power is everybody’s schtick.
JENNA: C’mon, you don’t really believe that.
JASPER: Sure I do. Anybody who says they don’t want power is lying.
JENNA: I don’t want power.
JASPER: (looks at Jenna pointedly)
JENNA: Well, okay, I do, but I want it in order to effect change, not just for
the sake of it.
JASPER: Is there a difference?
JENNA: Totally!
JASPER: I think you’re conflating ends and means.

| 38 |
JENNA: That’s what you’re doing. I’m just saying that I don’t think Justin’s the
sort to want to wield power over another individual human being.
JASPER: You believe chickens have rich inner lives that we know nothing
about, but, at the same time, you think you can know another human being’s
motives?
JENNA: Those aren’t incompatible…if we spent as much time with individual
chickens as we do with our friends, I think we might have similar insights.
JASPER: (picking up phone again) Maybe you’re right, but I just can’t imagine
that there’s as much variety. I mean, chickens are essentially just survival
algorithms.
JENNA: So are we. (resumes scrolling on her phone)
JASPER: Well, maybe. Even if we are, though, we are a lot more complicated.
JENNA: You are proving my point…our algorithm can totally figure out a
chicken’s algorithm. We just haven’t tried, because we don’t think it’s worth it.
JASPER: Well, is it? I mean, seriously, what would we learn…which kinds of
insects are tastiest? And even if chicken taste buds are unique just like ours,
how is it useful to know that Hen #365 prefers crickets to grasshoppers?
JENNA: You don’t think it would be interesting to understand how much
variation there is within other species? We have such a cult of individuality in
this country, I’m surprised we haven’t tried to show that our houseplants have
personalities.
JASPER: Have you seen the Christopher Walken sketch where he’s afraid of
plants?
JENNA: Where he has to put googly eyes on all of them so he can make eye
contact? I love that one!
JASPER: Some vegetarians will eat animals as long as they don’t have eyes.
JENNA: Scallops.
JASPER: What?
JENNA: Scallops don’t have eyes.
JASPER: I love scallops.
JENNA: So why do we always buy chicken?
JASPER: We can’t exactly buy local if we want scallops.
JENNA: Unless that aquaponics thing takes off.
JASPER: Also, chicken’s a lot less expensive.
JENNA: (looking around the kitchen) I dunno. I wonder if we factored in how

| 39 |
much we waste if that would still be true.
JASPER: (looking up) I wonder if Justin was wasted.
JENNA: What?
JASPER: Alcohol lowers inhibitions…maybe that’s why Justin did what he
did.
JENNA: He’s an even bigger teddy bear when he’s drunk. I’m telling you, he
didn’t do it.
JASPER: We haven’t seen him in a while, though. Maybe he’s a meth head
now. My cousin’s friend was killed by her meth head boyfriend, and he didn’t
even remember doing it.
JENNA: Meth wouldn’t be Justin’s scene. He barely smoked pot.
JASPER: Addiction is like the will to power—it’s in all of us. It’s just the
degree that varies, not the desire.
JENNA: I always thought you were a libertarian.
JASPER: I am!
JENNA: But you have such a dark view of humanity….
JASPER: (looks back at phone) People should be free to destroy each other
without the government stepping in.
JENNA: And destroy everything else, too, I guess.
JASPER: Especially the chickens.
(long pause)
JASPER: (puts down phone again) I just don’t understand how you can be so
certain that Justin couldn’t have done it.
JENNA: We used to hang out a lot after college. He’s no more capable of
raping someone than you are!
JASPER: How do you know I’m not?
JENNA: You catch spiders and slip them outside unharmed instead of
smashing them and flushing their remains like everyone else on the planet.
JASPER: Most people on the planet don’t have flushing toilets.
JENNA: Now who’s being pedantic?
JASPER: (picks up his phone in exasperation)
JASPER: Hmmm. Looks like there’s an update already.
JENNA: And…?
JASPER: (reading from his phone) Authorities have apprehended Mitchell
Carson, the suspect in the brutal rape of a young Native American woman on
Saturday.
JENNA: See! I told you Justin didn’t do it.
JASPER: This doesn’t prove that he isn’t capable of it, though. I’m just saying
I don’t think you can ever know that.
(JENNA’s phone rings)
JENNA: (answering it) Hello? (pause) Oh hi, Mark. (listening to caller then turning to
JASPER) Mark and Javier want to know if we can come over for dinner.
JASPER: Sure! What are they having?
JENNA: Chicken.
| 40 |
Aubade
poetry / by augustus goldberg

Sun, don’t burn away my curtains

or I will paint my windows night

so all your intrusive fingertips

will be reduced to embarrassed pins

in the vertical sky’s chipped skin

and she will sleep on.

| 41 |
 Hopperish
by john allenbaugh

| 42 |
box of the broken
poetry / by jennifer downing

Words spill out of your mouth like milk

on the chin of a wobbly toddler.
Messes are necessary, a way of life.
To learn and grow and create a soul
like that of the earth—fiery, beautiful,
and dirty.

It’s magic. The science behind it all

Discovering your limits
Pushing your luck
Getting into trouble and for what?

To find your boundaries. I can tell you

my intelligent boy, Scentsy wax—
with its hot, pleasant smell of warm
autumn leaves
is no place for a Hot Wheels Volkswagen
hatch.

Why don’t toddlers listen?

“No touching this.” My finger points
to the green and black
square holder. A look of discern.
A quick action
and the car is in the wax.

No more driving on the walls

Nor driving through the dirt.
The car of the day is gone.

A first edition in the Box of the Broken.

| 43 |
 (UNTITLED)
fiction / by Megan hanson

The building, whose purpose had long been forgotten, had all but
lost in its passive war against nature. The vicious assault of vines left only one
discernable room, which seemed to be losing its resolve against the tenacious
invasion of tendrils. The room contained no door for curious ears to press
against or locks to guard secrets, and thus any being could enter or leave
unimpeded. The concrete floor had deteriorated due to the neglect of its
former human caretakers. At the center of the room loomed a tall creature,
somehow thriving amongst the decrepitude that served as its home. This,
the commander who was responsible for the assault on the building, would
appear to the human eye as petrified. However, it contained a hidden life
within its long white arms, which stretched to the sun for its warmth, and its
green tendrils that searched desperately for the light. The room also contained
shelves, which had been introduced to the temptation of surrendering to a
death by rot, and on them are books. And the books, written in a language
erased by time, contained knowledge of a world that existed many worlds
ago and resided in the skeletal remains of a building where all things go to be
consigned to oblivion.

| 44 |
stillwater deliria
poetry / by michael wade

Every step is infinitesimal,

as we hop like fleas across the impossible plateau.

Nervous laughter is involuntary now (unlike

breathing) as the mind slowly spills itself into a sphere

that surrounds my leaky

skull like an astronaut’s helmet. Language

lights the polycarbonate like a constellation, and I

am reminded of our fantastic flaw:

when the animal’s thought first rose

from square to box. I can’t help

but personify the Universe, as she

screams and spits in my face all the way

from the Pacific. Today,

she’s a dumb, drunk bitch but tomorrow

she’ll yawn from the depths of the lake, and drag

herself to the foot of my tent, where

she’ll display her brilliance in the sand

like a capricious professor with a piece of chalk.

| 45 |
 FAce paint
poetry / by haley barthuly

my soul is name-brand
as in westernized as in globalized as in
McDonalds erected behind the Roman Colosseum.
The medium I hired eats popcorn with one hand, peeks through an archway
to recall how the tigers felt very satiated & rolled over with ease
once their stomachs were stuffed & the crowd left,
feeling equally satisfied. This gave us all a friendly
reminder of how beautifully anthropomorphized
our perspectives had become. Politics, Eric says, is all
tigers & warriors & prisoners & never
being able to distinguish exactly who is what & sometimes when
one licks his lips you feel happy for him,
the way you’d feel happy for the schizophrenic
who had finally been diagnosed yet still refuses to take his medication
because he loves the voices so Goddamn much.

| 46 |
Mass Uniqueness, Undefinable
Vastness, Nostalgia of Lost
Narrative
by Hannah Harsha
Watercolor on paper
22 x 30

| 47 |
 robots are people, too?
A critical reading of Nier:
automata
critical essay / by augustus goldberg
In traditional conversations around literary criticism, most attention
is given to texts written as books and other paper-based media. In modern
culture it is less and less the case that the old forms of narrative and literary
expression, such as poetry, novels and dramas, hold the sole rights to the title
of literature. The digital age has given rise to new forms of literary expression.
As film and television have progressed and grown elegant in their narratives,
many conversations on literature have found it difficult to keep the category
from including these new forms of text. Movies as adaptions of books and as
stand-alone experiences have gained a voice and have proved that they have
something to say about society and the human experience. However, other
forms of media such as video games still struggle to gain respect for their
literary voices.
The negative perspective towards video games is they are shallow
in their narratives, with straightforward or unimportant storylines created
to give consumers a nominal reason to keep playing the game (Ferguson).
Video games are usually seen as childish or gruesome depending on which
extreme of the pendulum they fall on. This is not an accurate understanding
of the medium as a whole. As video games have matured, their narrative
capabilities have increased alongside the precision of their gaming mechanics.
The narratives and “procedural rhetoric” (Bogost, 125) in many modern
video games have created new opportunities for discourse in literary fields.
Procedural rhetoric is the idea that video game creators can use the mechanics
and procedures that players use to experience a game to make varying
rhetorical arguments and create emotional responses in much the same way
that writers and poets use other forms of rhetoric in their texts. One game
that acts to highlight this new shift toward video games as literature is Nier:
Automata.
Nier is a game where the audience plays as an android waging war

| 48 |
on machine lifeforms in the year 11945 AD (Nier). As the game progresses,
the player is forced to consider why the choices in-game are made and finally
what obligations he or she has to other players around the world. This essay
will explore why Nier: Automata works so well as a piece of post-structuralist,
ethical literature. Specifically, this essay will argue that the procedural act of
playing Nier involves the player in the perspectives and changing point of view
imbedded in the story and that the final action of the player, namely deleting
their save file to help another player somewhere in the world, presents an
ethical challenge no novel could. The essay will begin with a brief synopsis of
the game and the responses from the gaming community in general. Then,
it will evaluate how the game’s shifting perspectives align with the Deleuzian
“becoming” (Deleuze, 473). Finally, it will examine how procedural rhetoric
makes Nier: Automata such a challenging ethical text.
Nier was written and directed by Yoko Taro and released in 2017
on multiple gaming platforms. He is known in the gaming community for
making complex plotlines and is considered “a little eccentric” for the intense
combinations of musical and narrative symmetry that he builds into his games
(Fahey). In an interview with a reporter for the gaming, internet journal
Waypoint, Taro explains that he decided to write games instead of books or
poetry because he believes that “computer’s cinematic abilities [will] evolve
and eventually catch up with films” and that he can “express” these forms of
literature in his games; although, he does enjoying writing plays as well (“Does
the Designer”). Nier: Automata is the sequel of a game Taro had written where
humanity was on the brink of extinction. The original Nier wrestled with the
concept of a digitized human consciousness and Automata takes that struggle a
step further by dealing with machine personhood.

Pictured above: 2B (left) and 9S (right)

| 49 |
 For the first 10 to 15 hours of the game, the player embodies 2B, a
cold and task-oriented female android as she works alongside fellow android
9S. They are each accompanied by a floating helper “Pod” each with a
designated serial number. The two androids are part of the YoRHa project, an
assembly of androids designed to protect the last remnants of humanity, who
live on the moon. The player quickly learns that YoRHa is waging a proxy
war against machines created by aliens who invaded Earth thousands of years
earlier. While the androids have human level sentience, they keep assuring
each other that the machines are just copying human speech patterns when
groups of machines begin exhibiting signs of sentience. Eventually, it becomes
clear that the machines have sentience and want to study humans because
finding what purpose drives humans fascinates the machines. Shortly after
this revelation, it is discovered that both humans and aliens have long since
gone extinct. Nevertheless, the two forces keep fighting, with nearly all of the
androids wiped out in a massive assault led by a highly intelligent machine
that the player eventually defeats. With this, the first play-through finishes.
Most games would give the player a statement of congratulations and start
rolling the end credits. Instead, Nier: Automata boots the starting screen back
up and begins the player as a machine.
After a short, emotional experience trying to heal the machine’s
brother, the character begins the second play-through, which takes the
perspective of 9S, a much more thoughtful and emotional android than 2B.
While 9S experiences the same basic narrative as 2B, the knowledge gained
in the first play-through and the difference in the personality of the android
being embodied drastically changes the perspective of the character. Up
until reaching its fifth ending, the game consistently presents the player with
perspectives that seem to conflict with or contradict previous assumptions. A
review for the gaming company Kotaku summarizes these changes well:
One moment I’m wandering through an overgrown forest,
hacking away at robots dressed as medieval knights. Then
the screen glitches, and I’m in a cut scene from hundreds of
years in the past, learning how the bizarre feudal robot society
was formed. I walk into a room expecting a major battle, and
instead a group of robots perform their rendition of a famous

| 50 |
 play. (Fahey)
The second play-through reveals much about the enemies the player fought
in the first run, both because 9S’s words are given more attention to and
because he can hack into enemies. Hacking bosses reveals much more of their
thoughts and reasoning. Sometimes this occurs through cut scenes, at other
times simple voice-overs will occur during a fight but all new information
muddles previous perceptions. One such boss is Simone, an enemy whose
personality is based on the philosophy of Simone de Beauvoir. Playing as 2B,
Simone is a terrifying monster with dead androids attached to her metal dress
who surrounds herself with the husks of other androids.
In contrast, when playing as 9S, it becomes clear that Simone is a
much more complex entity. She could not gain affection from a machine she
loved and was willing to do whatever she had to in order to gain his love. She
is not a static entity and the player’s understanding of her is fluid and shaped
by which character is being embodied in the play-through.
Gilles Deleuze, a post-structuralist philosopher, recognized that all
existence was in a constant state of change that he described as becoming.
He saw contradiction as a key part of the self and that uncertainty is “an
objective structure of the event [of existing] itself, insofar as it moves in two
directions at once, and insofar as it fragments the subject following this double
direction” (Deleuze, 473). Becoming is the self responding to what has been
and will be but being unable to exist in the present. Deleuze believed that
there was no stable identity and nouns could not every accurately describe
existence because they were too stationary. This fluidity expands into
understandings of the larger world as well as the individual and is present in
every major moment of Nier. The machine who had been a monster in the first
play-through becomes a girl trying to make herself a woman by beautifying
herself in the second play-through. A gaming website, Wise Crack, explains
how Simone’s character creates her identity by making herself a woman.
It says, “one way we create meaning in our lives is by constructing certain
gender norms like beauty and femininity. She literally becomes a woman by
constructing herself and cannibalizing other machines to improve her beauty”
(Sinclair). Simone is a sexless machine who builds her femininity by robbing
androids, also sexless, of their genders, resulting in the husks around her.

| 51 |
 This gender theft can be examined more closely to question the
different gender implications and narratives scattered throughout Nier. The
androids are built with gender and specific roles with male units designated
as scouts while female units are made to take on combat and command
roles. The traditional gender stereotypes in human culture are flipped in the
androids. 9S, an android that appears male, is much more submissive and
desires non-violent solutions to facing the enemy. Meanwhile, 2B, a female by
appearance, is hyper-violent and often refuses to talk through plans with 9S,
instead shutting him down when he tries to look for other solutions. However,
it is not only with gender that Simone and others attempt to construct their
identity, every character in Nier is trying to create a purpose for life. In the
case of the machine lifeforms, this purpose comes by mirroring ideas from
influential human philosophers or twisting their ideas.
Some readers might question if Simone’s character and the gendered
androids are creating a feminist narrative instead of a post-structuralist,
Deluezian one. However, when looking at other major characters, it becomes
clear that Simone’s personal convictions and the design of the androids are
not necessarily key to the argument as much as the fact that she was trying to
create a stable identity. Other characters’ obsessions with various philosophers
are rampant throughout the game. However, no matter where the machines
try to find their identities: whether “science, numbers, religion, politics, money,
work, country, family, and those that [they] love,” all fail in the end (“Does the
Designer”). None of these bastions of identity end up having any stability to
offer the machines who try to build reality out of them.
After the fight with Simone, 9S leaves the battle deeply troubled by
what he learned and speaks about machines differently from then on. He
realizes that he had believed a false portrayal of why this machine had begun
to collect and kill androids. His understanding of the world continues to fall
apart with the knowledge that humanity is extinct and that YoRHa has been
lying to him. Following the plot of the first two endings, the machine network
rebuilds the world around the player character as the machines attempt to
construct their reality in the style of human society. 2B gets infected by a
machine virus and asks a fellow android to kill her. The world and 9S’s sense
of reality morph faster and faster as the game nears its close. His loss of a

| 52 |
reality on which he had built his purpose makes 9S lose an understanding of
whom he is. Finally, 9S devolves into a creature unable to process anything
around him and ends the game fighting the only other android left.
While the end credits finally role, the two pods that accompanied
2B and 9S have a conversation. These pods seemed like mindless drones
throughout the game. Throughout the entirety of gameplay up until this
point they would respond only to direct commands and acted as simple
scanners as well as additional weapons. However, they were in fact in a state
of “becoming” sentient themselves and after an intricate conversation decide
to go against their programing and save 2B and 9S’s core coding. A bullet-hell
style game of frantic shooting and dodging against the end credits begins that
is nearly unbeatable. Each time the player dies, an onscreen message from the
pod pops up speaking directly to the player asking if the player will give up,
or admit that everything is meaningless, or any of four other questions. If the
player refuses to give into Nihilism, the combat will restart and each death
is accompanied by more and more encouraging messages from players who
completed the ending. However, it becomes clear that this section of gameplay
is impossible to beat with the current approach the combat. There are too
many enemies and not enough damage able to be done with the player’s small
courser which is attempting to battle through the credits. Eventually, one of
the pods speaks up again and says that another player has offered help. This is
the first time in 40 hours of gameplay that such an offer has happened in the
game. If accepted, a dramatic change occurs.

A swarm of other players arrives to help. It is a powerful emotional experience

and makes the section incredibly different to play mechanically. The section
is an incredible example of procedural rhetoric affecting a player’s emotional

| 53 |
response to the game. Procedural authorship marks the intention which
writers have when making a system by which to experience a narrative, i.e.
gameplay, instead of just writing a story (Bogost). It requires readers to go
through different actions and procedures in order to access the narrative. In
lay terms, this would mean that readers have to play the game. Procedural
rhetoric emerges from this authorship as “arguments are made not through
the construction of words or images, but through the authorship of rules
of behavior, the construction of dynamic models” (Bogost). Whereas there
was once only a lone ship, the player is now surrounded by six other ships.
Their ships all shoot along with you and sections where enemies were once
overwhelming as the player attempted to skate around hostile fire now see
the same enemies eviscerated by the player’s allies. In addition to that, each
time the player character is hit, a message pops up saying “[player]’s data has
been lost” as the friendly ship explodes and is replaced by a new one (Nier:
Automata). It is a jarring section as the player has been used to working
through multiple challenges on their own during the game while wondering
about the androids’ responsibilities to the machines they fight.
The player has reached the end credits alone. Even the plot of
the game ends with each character realizing that they are dying alone after
fighting former friends to the death. At this point everything that the player
has experienced has taken place within the microcosm of the game itself.
Bringing other players into the world to surpass an immense challenge moves
the conversation out into the player’s own world and sets up the key ethical
dilemma of the game. At completion of the game, a message asks if the player
wants to help other players as well but warns that all save data from the game
must be deleted in order to give a ship in aide of another person somewhere
in the world. A message explains that the player will likely never meet the
person they help or the person “may be someone you intensely dislike” (Nier:
Automata). The help will be given out at random, a truly ethical choice.
Giving up a save is an incredibly large ask of a player. Patrick Klepek
from Waypoint recognizes that the average player has invested “40 hours.
That’s nearly two days of life invested in Nier, represented by ones and zeros in
a save file.” and that the common thought with saves is “Even if I never went
back to play Nier again, I could at least know that somewhere in the cloud, that

| 54 |
time had been given a stamp” (“Life, Death, Sacrifice”). Nier: Automata does not
just provide a moral story for readers to experience and feel better in response
to; instead, it tests them, asking them to take an action of sacrifice before
they can even see the true ending of the game. If the player decides to give
up their save, the game ends with a short cut scene that shows every chapter
and section of save files be systematically deleted. Following this, the two pods
carry the bodies of 2B and 9S over the city and set them gently, implying a
new beginning for the rescued androids. This test of players is what cements
Nier a better piece of ethical literature than most books can be through its use
of procedural rhetoric. The interactivity of video games in general and Nier
specifically is key to the rhetoric of the games.
In literature such as novels, tearing down the worlds we have built
creates an apparent insanity in the text itself. Much of post-structuralism sees
the societally built structures as oppressive so it tries to deconstruct even the
text being written. While this is an interesting philosophic motive, most of
these texts become unintelligible to the point that most readers will not bother
trying to understand or decipher them. By removing the post-structuralist
message from a traditional text and transplanting the ideas to a new medium,
video games like Nier allow a more accurate and accessible reading of the
ideas. Likewise, no poem or drama can become a testing ground for the
ethics that much of literature tries to develop because they are voyeuristic
experiences where the audience only views the text. Even if a book challenged
readers to get up and help someone, it would have no actual power to force
readers to action or to prevent them from experiencing the rest of the book
if they chose not to follow its demands. However, in video games, the player
becomes the character and makes the decisions of the character so as to
actually make ethical decisions. Even this usually falls short of demanding
anything from the player himself. Nier makes an ethical demand of the player
by giving the choice to delete the entire save file for the sake of others. Then,
it seals the observation of the real end cut scene behind the requirement that
the player choose to respond to this demand. Nier should be seen as the literary
masterpiece that it is for the powerful achievements it makes specifically
because of its flexibility as a video game.

| 55 |
 on air travel
poetry / by sarah williams
MSUB alumni feature

America is not
a great melting pot.
That honor goes to airports,
where weary passengers of every
shape, size, and color wait
in contemplative quiet to be
flown away. A snapshot
of the Starbucks by the United gates
shows a Taiwanese businessman,
briefcase in one hand, in line behind
a British woman carrying a sleeping child.
At the bookshop just past security,
you’ll see a group of American teenagers
buying sodas and reading texts, while nearby
an Iraqi woman flips through a magazine.
There are sleeping adults at gate A6
and playing children running circles
around those waiting to board.
I have seen more in airports than
anywhere else on earth—
more stress as a woman runs halfway across
the building in heels,
more kindness as a young man
gives his seat to an old man,
and more people united in the common purpose
of escape.

| 56 |
eschar
poetry / by kati sanford

Blue eyes, fated future,

Light up my soul. Oh! that
Soul – a phenomenal
Actress.
We hear time heals all
Wounds;
Are open sores
With fingers searching each
Recess considered wounds
Or considered
A sentence?

Chasms, festered, know others

Since secrets loiter smugly
(maggots)
As time moves thoughts
From truth to that summer.
Damned not to fly: We don’t
Deserve escapes from
Wriggling beings reading
Minds, Soiled murmurs.
Please still my inquiring fingers.

No, I’m not in love, but

I’ll say that I am again
And again ‘til I’m dead.

| 57 |
 bostonskreets
by emmit bartsch

| 58 |
Hundredfold
fiction / by Brie Barron

Back when we owned an orchard, I spent a lot more time in the sun.
I miss the peach trees more than anything. Mama would sit with little Eddie
and Lee on a blanket dyed orange just below us. The boys would try their
best to crawl off of it and grab a fistful of grass. I remember Mama had this
way of seeming totally at ease. She’d sit there in the center of the trees, legs
outstretched in front of her, ankles crossed. She’d put her hands on the blanket
just behind her and sink into her shoulders, lift her face up to the sun, and
close her eyes. Even when the twins had a fit, which was often, you could see
her shut her eyes, and let the sky take over, even just for a moment. I think it
was really important for her. Mama wasn’t supposed to have more babies after
Leslie, and when she got pregnant with the twins she was in bed for months.
I was young, but I remember when mama was having them and Daddy
explained that we might not get to meet the new babies. He was well-versed
in delivering bad news, and he talked to us the same way he talked to patients,
until my eyes started to water. “They just might have to go right up to heaven,
first thing,” he tacked on the end, like he forgot that we were kids.
But we did get to meet them, and they just cried, really. They didn’t
stop screaming until after their first birthday. Leslie, of course, doesn’t
remember it as being so bad. I think Daddy taught Mama how to tune
them out and breathe, just for a second. She forgot how to do that after he
went missing. We still had the orchard after, and Leslie and I did all of the
harvesting and maintenance, but Mama started staying inside. A few times
we went in to get the boys when she was getting real loud, yelling at them for
stuff they didn’t understand because they were toddlers. But she’d lost the
love of her life and we couldn’t help with that. All we could do was give her
a second to breathe. She wouldn’t though, she would just cry, kicking herself
for spanking the boys when they didn’t deserve it. That’s what made it all so
hard for Leslie and me. It would’ve been easy to hate her after daddy was gone
because she certainly didn’t know how to be a Mama on her own, but she
would always apologize. She’d come out of her room, the door’s unmistakable
creak demanded an apology too, and she’d always be wiping tears off her face.
She’d hold both your hands—“Can you look at me?”—she’d stare right into
your eyes, the ones she made from scratch—“I’m so sorry, baby. Mama gets so
overwhelmed sometimes but that’s not a reason to act like that,”—and she’d
pull you in close enough to smell the talc and whisper—“I’m so sorry,”—in

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your ear. She made it hard to hate her. For a while anyway. It got easier.
I miss the orchard a lot these days. It’s the same sun here in Boston,
but not the same sunrises. Grandpa moved us in with him just a couple of
months ago (“It’s just for a time—no, Mom is staying here. Just grab the
clothes from the—you two can pack yourselves—get some clothes from
the dryer—”) and I hadn’t quite gotten used to watching the light rise over
the city’s buildings and roads, glistening as they might, from his somewhat
neglected cement balcony. It’s not at all the same as watching all the pink
blossoms on every branch stretch and yawn and drink in the warmth. Daddy
and I always woke up before the sun. “They get to sleep in, but we get to
watch the world wake up. What’s better?” It was magical, in the best sense
of the word. The earth itself is dark, he’d explained, it has no light source of
its own. Without the sun, the earth is in blackness, with no life on its surface
to speak of. So at every sunrise, Daddy and I saw the sun transform the earth
from its most natural unnatural state to one that gives life. The earth was
never meant for us on its own and I try to never take that for granted. I still
watch the sun.
Occasionally, we all wake up before Boston’s angular sunrise. We
used to wake up together more often, when we had the peaches to look after,
but now the night has long gone before my siblings start to stir. This morning
however, Leslie had already made breakfast for the twins by the time I went
to wake them up. I watched him drink too much coffee and sleep far too little,
but I don’t blame him for his nerves. We let the boys clean up after themselves.
They were old enough now to be trusted with the heavy ceramic dishes. Lee
passed a plate to Eddie and set down his sponge to ask Leslie if he was excited.
Leslie responded with the tips of his fingers. “Very.”
Driving to the appointment was quiet, as most things are with
Leslie, save for Grandpa’s boisterous Jeep. It was peaceful, but strange. Leslie
thrummed his fingers gently on the edge of the window, oddly in sync with
the car’s rumbling. Even the twins were almost silent. I’d explained over and
over how big a day this was for their brother. I hoped they were drinking it in
like we were. We’d grown far closer since leaving our mom at the orchard and
moving to Boston with Grandpa. These days it seemed as though whatever
impacted one of us rippled through all of us. The twins said they felt like
that all the time. “We’re never alone even when we’re by ourselves.” I didn’t
tell them how starkly different that was from how most people feel. I suppose
Leslie must have had an awfully lonely existence, but when I asked he never
had much to say about it. He would simply nod in agreement. I squinted
through the glare from the still rising sun and Leslie pulled my visor down. He
smiled and went back to looking out the window.

| 60 |
 Leslie always had a knack for taking care of people in small ways like
that. I noticed it every time he’d sign two fingers across his body as a reminder
for the twins to buckle up when they got on the school bus, or how he waited
for the neighbor girl to make it inside her front door before he’d start walking
back to Grandpa’s. Today, I saw it when he insisted I park somewhere else
because of the poster on the telephone pole I’d parked in front of. It was
bleached from being in the sun for almost exactly a year now, the word missing
fading, the name Charles August barely visible. The picture of our father in
the center of the poster was faded too, but more easily discernible than the
contact number of the investigator, which you couldn’t even see anymore
if you didn’t know it was there. I didn’t need to watch Leslie’s signs to
understand. I found another space. We could spare the twins of that today.

It was three full days after he got his hearing aids before Leslie spoke
out loud to me.
“Les? What do you think? No more silence.” My hands twitched with
the memory of the shapes we no longer had to speak through.
“It wasn’t silent. Silence isn’t something deaf people have.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t respond at all. Leslie had
been deaf since he was born, though nobody knew at first, so mama taught
him to sign at the same time she taught me to speak, but the two were the
same to me. I always felt a bit like I was there with him, in all his silence. It
wasn’t until now that I realized how truly separated Leslie and I had always
been. I hoped he didn’t feel that way.
“I thought the sun would be louder.”
I looked at him.
“And I don’t like my voice.”
I could feel my eyes narrow; I couldn’t stop them. I forced myself to
speak.
“The sun doesn’t make a noise, Les.”
He blinked and peered through the window as the sun and its silence
disappeared below the buildings. He clenched his jaw and didn’t respond.

| 61 |
 WISP
poetry / by kati sanford

Up she would go right into the clouds (that she’d make with her friends on a
70’s couch) so light and surreal and alone. The most delicate breaths could
blow her away, yet she’d grab them with ease, snatch up the reigns. Peering
down, she would quietly shout as loud as she could to companions with minds
like chocolate. Sweet and lovely – or so one would think. These were baker’s
thoughts, no sugar, no heat. One bitter taste turned her sour and crumbly,
though only a night at a time.

Looking at her, one would see right through to the backdrop of wherever one
was, too. A wisp was she, floating and feeling yet making no difference to her
world. Enjoying tall figures adorned with shadows of the five ‘o clock variety,
her solace was found in musty sheets. Actions she took to maintain brittle
connections pulled her apart and away with each vain attempt to bring atoms
back inside. Less there, not real, withdrawn to persist. Once she even gave up,
yet it wasn’t enough. Long shadows filled her midst.

Some years, some months, some hours went by, scrounging along at an un-
ceasing pace as figures grew sparse and pages piled with meaningful letters
cluttering creased surfaces. At a point unknown, unwelcomed, this wisp had
come to agree that she did in fact have hands and she did in fact have teeth.
Both could hold pens and one helped shout words and one worked to clutter
up pages. Praising new tools, she bore into reality, gnashing and scratching in
search.

Now looking at her, one would see a soul as opaque as living trees struck down
to create parchment with bindings. Hands move across papers in an organized
beat, they create, do not move idly. An intentional mind dwells behind eyes
that work to find magic and strength. Her teeth now have lips and these she
loves most above anything else about her. For her words may be shared and
restrained and examined, but her smile creates instant change.

| 62 |
i have never seen a room lit
so quickly
poetry / by brie barron

My eyes closed tonight and they opened

in someone else’s head. The breaking of my wrists
keeps you from spreading up my arms and
I can’t write about you for years.

My dear, you have breath where you should have nothing.

You can oil your legs and I’ll do it too, the hands
will slide off because tonight there is no hell
to drag you into.
The forest in your chest has drowned you
in meaning, still the graveyard at your feet
implores you to look closer at the needles and I beg
you to open your eyes.
I have written you so many poems this year, none
in a language I speak but this tongue
happens upon you once in a while. It dances
but stops when it sees you,
when I unbuild the world to build it again.
But, love, you have given up your teeth and tongue
to some cruel voice in your head
and if only I could get near
enough.

You have said before: a place, once left, is loved differently.

In the window, there is a child with a puzzle piece, a man
with a hard face sitting at a piano, and a thin man
with bright eyes staring at me through the warped glass.
I beg the child.
I beg his mother.

| 63 |
 mannequin
poetry / by amy hill
msub alumni feature

trying to fog the glass

on my side of the window,
watching all the life
beyond my grasp
come easily to others.
they glance with envy
at my flawlessness
and dignified solitude,
unaware of how I long
for imperfections of flesh.

| 64 |
reflections
by Chloe fields
35mm film, black and white print

| 65 |
 reproduction
poetry / by haley barthuly

Get up. Get out. Quad shot.

Coffee americano and this is your
alley you said your ex looks like
your favorite porn star how
lovely lets play each other
so loud that the neighbors complain
this is such a wonderful summer day. Look
at the dragon flies latching on
to one another. Look at how prim
the Mantis’s body is
as she takes another head.

| 66 |
longing
poetry / by amy hill
msub alumni feature

I wonder if this heart will ever settle

Long enough to put down roots
And grow anything beautiful
Anything substantial
Anything worth keeping
And drying by the kitchen window
Or pressing between a book’s pages
After the season is long past
When the shadows have come in quietly
Tiptoeing like a mother come to comfort
Instead of a stranger come to steal

| 67 |
 if it ain’t broke, break it
poetry / by brie barron

You’re a stranger
til she whispers you can stay
She wears her
heart on her sleeve and
her hands in a lockbox
as if one cannot act
without the other
restrained

In another town’s night

her fingertips do not slow
They move up your arms like a
glacier
You will mistake
the blood
pounding
in your ears
for footsteps
Her eyes will widen
when you grab her hand—don’t fall for it—

She is not caught by surprise

She does everything
on purpose
But make no mistake
She does very little with agency

| 68 |
WHAT DO YOU SEE
ON YOUR HoriZON?
by MORGAN SYRING

| 69 |
 Where will you
run to?
by MORGAN SYRING

Handmande indigo ink on yupo

2019

| 70 |
Untitled
fiction / by Michael Wade

Dale’s breath halted at the root of his tongue. He felt the heat
prickling at his cheeks.
He leaned into the painting, as though it were reeling him in. It was
an acrylic pour, with vibrant, eddying pools of crimson and magenta. Spirals
of eggshell white and canary yellow carved through its focal point like an
insecure, poisonous snake.
Dale heard an elderly couple whispering as they slipped behind him
and he grew annoyed. Normally, he’d visit the galley between 8 and 9 a.m.
so that he’d have the place to himself. The owner would only smile softly, and
walk to the back to make tea because he knew Dale wasn’t much of a talker.
Dale jammed his fingers into his pockets and rocked on his toes.
The couple paused at a shelf lined with glazed pottery. He could hear the
old man’s fingernails zipping back-and-forth against the threads of his wife’s
sweater. Love. Comfort. Reassurance.
Dale knew then that he had the wall to himself. He’d never been a fan
of acrylic pours before. He had always seen them as something too shallow
and leisurely to be considered even abstract. This one, though, was talking to
him. And he’d always been a good listener.
He leaned in once more, reminding himself of the breath that was
supposed to come involuntarily. Light from the raindrop chandelier glazed
the painting, its sunny rays invigorating a sheet of ice on a March morning.
Bubbles of emerald green greeted him suddenly, like subtle lily pads. Oh, he
thought to himself. Where did you come from?
He was familiar with the painting, and he was certain that the
painting recognized him as well. It was a piece as clear as day— like a precise
slice of a memory, contained within a picture frame. Dale smiled to himself
as he closed his eyes, allowing a younger sun’s rays to swipe its amber strokes
beneath his eyelids.
“C’mon now Dale. What did I say? Without any weight, that thing’s walking on

| 71 |
water. And these fish ain’t baptists.”
His father shook his head again, as Dale splashed, stumbling across the river rocks
with an outstretched hand. He took the pole from his son, and bit into the split shot’s soft
metal hinges. He had been fishing enough times with his father to know that his impatience
would linger until the first fish. That’s all it took. After that, Dale would suddenly evolve into
a version of his father’s friend. His father would see his own essence in Dale, and he’d treat
his son like a younger version of himself: the boy who never got what he needed.
That first fish did bite— and fast too. There were plenty of fish to follow, and
Dale’s father was delighted by each and every interruption. He laughed at the abundance,
even dancing a little when Dale finally tied the score at six.
“That’s a dozen!” he marveled, “We should have brought a cooler!” He laughed at
the otter too, when they saw it flop onto its back over on the opposite bank with a juicy trout
balanced on its four furry limbs. “There’s plenty to go around, right?” he said, nudging Dale
with an elbow.
For the first time ever, they grew bored with catching fish. Thirteen in two hours,
which left far too much daylight to waste.
Dale never lost that particular image, gazing up through the ‘V’ of the drainage.
Sunlight, bursting through the leaves of a dozen huckleberry bushes. His father’s eye, sizing
him up and down before gauging the scramble.
“Think we can make it up there, kid?” he asked.
Dale nodded. His youth would take him anywhere.
His father grunted and cursed as they clawed their way up the incline. At the
steeper portions, he’d reach a hand out to Dale, hoisting him up and over the granite boulders.
They paused to watch a golden eagle swoop into the treetops below them.
His father sighed when they finally approached the first bush.
“Are those blueberries?” Dale asked.
“Even better. Huckleberries,” he responded. He bent forward and tugged at each of
the flaps of Dale’s cargo pockets. “Stuff ‘em full as you can.”
Later on, Dale’s father would brush a sleeve against his boy’s chubby cheeks,
soaking up the purple juice that had already stained his lips.
“Bet you never thought you’d find candy growing in the mountains.”
Dale shook his head, licking his fingers. Perhaps that had been the first lucid
thought of Dale’s silent, green life, as he watched his legs swing beneath the overhang of the
granite:

| 72 |
 Candy in the mountains. Sweet, sweet, sugar.
He tilted his head up toward his father’s face, and saw how the sunlight cast its
shade into the creases of his skin. “We better get back to your mother.”

“Dale?” the man asked. “Are you okay?”

Dale opened his burning eyes and absorbed the owner. The steam,
twisting from his mug. Orange peel and star anise.
“I couldn’t find the label on this one,” he muttered to the tile floor.
The owner arched an eyebrow and smiled. “This doesn’t seem much
like your usual taste, Dale. I’m surprised.”
“It’s more for my daughter,” he replied. “She likes these styles. I never
understood why.”
The owner nodded and swung around, pacing to the counter. He
flipped through his pad as he returned to Dale’s side.
“What’s it called?” Dale asked, attempting to bury the torment
beneath his tongue. The owner slid his finger down the edge of the page and
rested it in a point at the bottom corner.

Maurice Catlin (1960-2019)

Tig Ol’ Bitties & Banana Splitties, 2019
Acrylic pour on canvas

Dale felt the heat return to his cheeks, much hotter than before.
“Thank you, sir,” he said quickly. He stuck his hands in his pockets
and made his way toward the gallery’s exit.

| 73 |
 Decision
poetry / by haley barthuly

Today, I’m going to tell my mother

the marigolds bloomed

at the same moment

I started missing home.

I’m going to spend all day watering

what I’d otherwise let die

drops

I pour back

whiskey

into her drained

iris golden brown aged and

dripping.

While time

inside of the circle—slowing

its expansion—

retracts to a single pupil.

I’m not going to let her know

I was all petals

and no stem, which is to say,

I was decoration. Or

| 74 |
 about the spiral of smoke

that descended over the whole

of my blurred reasoning. No,

Mother,

I never had to wear

beads of sweat like jewelry

or dew. I knew

all along

that it’s worse to drop

down on your knees

when you’ve lost your way home.

| 75 |
 The grief of others
Nonfiction / by julie schultz

On the day we buried Dave, at a cemetery not far from I-95, the
major artery of the eastern seaboard, I watched six men almost drop his
coffin as they approached the strangely tidy open wound in the earth. Despite
their obvious struggles, the box looked too small to hold him, and I found
myself wishing I had agreed to view the body, a regret that still hovers on the
edges of my grief a decade later. It was a grey December day, the previous
weekend’s snow forgotten, absorbed into the earth, and I wore the swirling
black coat he’d helped me pick out when we strayed from our normal routine
of forays into nature and instead explored a suburban mall not far from where
I now stood. Underneath, I wore a black kriah ribbon, a sign that the family
accepted me as a direct mourner, something that marked my status to those at
the service and, later, at the family’s house for shiva.
This was my first shiva. Although I had by this time lost grandparents
and attended memorial services, the rituals of grief had remained largely on
the fringes of my life. At the funeral of my best friend’s younger brother, killed
like Dave in a car accident but a decade earlier, I remember being chastised by
an extended family member for wearing black, since apparently the family had
decided against that custom. I was stung, not wanting to create any additional
distress. It was my first inkling of how ill-prepared we are for the anguish of
others, but also how rituals and ceremonies serve a broader purpose than just
facilitating the grieving process, how they ease communication when nobody
knows exactly what to say. Wearing black is a way to stand in solidarity,
communally. “We are with you.” Something that goes beyond the banal
platitude of “I’m sorry for your loss.”
When someone close to you dies, you quickly learn to feel like a
failure. Even though people are sorry about it, they remind you repeatedly that
you have lost something, and it is hard to escape the idea that if you had just
looked after it properly, kept it safe, loved it enough, you would still be able to
find it. I don’t have children, have never wanted them, a preference blessedly

| 76 |
shared with Dave after having caused tension in previous relationships, but
after Dave’s death, I suddenly understood why parents get so angry when their
kids break curfew without warning. The dread of losing someone, especially
someone you believe you might have protected, is an incalculable terror.
Another popular, well-meaning prosaicism, “I’ll keep you in my
prayers,” bothered me less. As an out-and-proud atheist, I would rather
people just say “I’m thinking about you,” but in the days and months after
Dave died, I couldn’t summon the energy for anger at what might be subtle,
likely involuntary, manipulation of grief for proselytization, and I chose to
interpret the intent as wholly benevolent. Part of me also wished that I could
nestle into the comfort of faith, cocooning myself in rage at an unfeeling
God or sheltering under an umbrella of trust in his Divine Plan. I received
several religiously hued books on grief from kindhearted relatives, many of
whom are ministers and missionaries, but I found the most consolation in
reading philosophy. Boethius may not have approved my specific choice, but
Heidegger and a Hippo Walk Through Those Pearly Gates did more than the
Bible ever would have to help me comprehend the sudden absence of what
had seemed an irrepressible spirit.
Inexplicably, comprehension is not one of the traditional stages of
grief, regardless of whether you divide them into five or the supposedly more
accommodating seven. Perhaps that is a tacit admission that loss is enigmatic,
but we still try so hard to find reasons and justifications, to make the sort of
linear progress prized by a society that venerates rationality. Eventually I
stopped wishing I had crashed into the back of the semi with him. In fact,
I think I moved beyond that dark place quite quickly, although I have no
idea how to calculate fast or slow in this context. That progression, however,
was the only linearity of the first few years, as I bounced between anger and
depression, never touching acceptance. I even occasionally still have moments
of denial, when I catch a glimpse of someone who moves like him, unhurried
with confidence belied by a slight slump of the shoulders to hide height. In the
hours after The Phone Call, I was sure that someone had stolen his driver’s
license and his truck. Despite an obsession with television crime shows—
where, if necessary, dental records are compared before family are notified—I
was convinced that a mangled body on I-78 had been misidentified. As the

| 77 |
improbability of that became clear, I moved on to another television staple:
witness protection. This is the fiction that still flashes through my heart when I
see a ghost. Hope, like grief, is not rational, and it certainly is not linear.
Six months after Dave died, I had an appointment with my
neurologist, a regular check-up to gage the progression of my MS. She asked
how I was doing, and when I indicated my still-fresh grief, she asked if I
wanted a prescription for something. I know she was trying to help, but it
seemed like an indictment of my process. Somehow I was taking too long.
Never mind that Victoria mourned Albert for forty years. Never mind that, in
a previous era, I still would have been wearing black, complete with a weeping
veil. Never mind that the unveiling of Dave’s tombstone hadn’t happened yet.
I wasn’t invited to the unveiling, the moment in Jewish culture when
the tombstone is dedicated at the grave, probably not close enough to Dave’s
family, or their religion, for inclusion. By then, though, I had stitched together
my own schema of grief: journals (always green, Dave’s favorite color), yoga,
Häagen-Dazs mint chip. Someone—many people, actually—had strongly
suggested counseling, and I would have done it, but the daily logistics of
life already were more than I could handle. I was never more aware of how
demanding our personal grooming standards are, how much time we dedicate
to wiping bits of us away, arranging the remaining bits, and then adding
other bits. The daily application of deodorant was, for me, the most frequent
casualty.
I must still have smelled okay, though, because people talked to
me. The beautiful silver lining of grief, it turns out, is that it gives others
permission to share their own anguish. I learned about a good friend’s
abortion, another’s rape. The loss of a son in circumstances similar to Dave’s.
The intricate betrayals that run like invisible threads of spider silk through
the webs of people’s lives all around me. It astounded me, the incredible
reserves of strength required by our cult of self-reliance and independence,
to hide pain, to keep individual suffering from inconveniencing others. My
own inability to hide my sorrow, it being a far more physical experience than
I would have expected, should have been seen as a failure. Instead, I have
never felt more intimately connected to people, including some I barely knew.
On a weekend climbing trip in the Adirondacks a couple of years after Dave

| 78 |
died, my guide, whose name I do not remember, shared the story of his entire
family’s demise in a plane crash. In an increasingly atomized society, where we
stay single, put off procreating, and bowl alone, grief not only reminds us of
our shared humanity but also concentrates our capacity for compassion.
Loss isn’t as common an experience as it was before the advent of
modern medicine and regulatory oversight of everything from sanitation
standards to building codes and air traffic control. We are out of practice.
Although we can still offer indelible empathy one-on-one, we don’t have
the institutional memory of how, in social settings, to help others grieve.
Additionally, with the atrophying of religious affiliation, many of us don’t
have institutional guidelines, either. We all find our own ways to process pain,
but as I look back, a decade later, I wish the rituals had been more clearly
marked, not for my own sake, but as a blueprint for others. Most of the people
at Dave’s shiva knew exactly what was expected of them. As his stepfather
explained, it was duty that brought everyone to the house, with its pail of
water outside the door, shrouded mirrors, and piles of kosher food. I’m not
suggesting we all convert to Judaism, but even just an acknowledgment that
what we share is more important than what segregates us could go a long way
toward assuaging the grief of others.

| 79 |
 Works Cited for “Robots are People, Too?: A Critical Reading of Nier: Automata” by
Augustus Goldberg, pages 48-55

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Deleuze, Gilles. “What is Becoming?” Literary Theory: An Anthology, edited by Julie

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Waypoint, waypoint.vice.com/en_us/article/xw8xzd/does-the-designer-

behind-nier-automata-believe-in-god. Accessed 24 April 2019.

Nier: Automata. PlatinumGames. 2017. PS4.

“This is the fiction that still flashes through
my heart when I see a ghost.
Hope, like grief, is not rational, and it certainly
is not linear.”
-Julie Schultz, The Grief of Others