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    Do the Bus Stop By Anthony J. Langford

    The bus stop is her stage.

    Her school associates, the audience.

    Any passers-by get a free showing.

    7.55 a.m.

    It’s her time.

    Standing on the lip of the gutter, she pouts, she spouts, gibberish, about herself, what else is there, but she knows it doesn’t matter what she says, as long as they look.

    And they do.

    Her friends divided. The Green-Eyed Camp.

    And the Wannabe like her Popular Camp.

    But it’s the boys who bestow her with the most power. While the geeks don’t have the courage to peek, and those with no chance give her no glance, the majority stare at her perfect legs and the way in which she swivels, as she helps her skirt to rise and fall, like Marilyn Monroe, once before.

    7.57 a.m.

    Seems to be more and more adults going to work at this time.

    Funny how they’re mostly male.

    She bends forward; allowing her somewhat propped up cleavage to shine.

    She’s outrageous, but wants them to think, ‘she’s mine’.

    7.58 a.m.

    It’s her time.

    And she loves it.

    So does the bus driver.

    Ogling, he pulls in too quickly and the side mirror smacks her in the head.
    Gunk sprays the audience.

    She goes down like lead.

    Silence, for once.

    Today, there’ll be no Curtain Call.

    7.58 a.m.

    It was her time after all.

    The Urn by Holly Day

    “You don’t want to see the body,” said the man with the dirty shirt. “I don’t know how long she was in there before we called the police.”

    “You don’t want the last picture you have of your mom being that thing in there,” added his girlfriend, shoving her hands in her pockets, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean, I wish I hadn’t seen her like that, and I didn’t even know her.”

    “Thank you for all your help,” said Lee. She did not want the couple to keep talking. Every word that came out of their mouths seemed destined to lay the entire physical tableau of her mother’s suicide out for her. She did not want to know any more than she did.

    “After the police are done here, maybe you could come by and get her things?” said the girlfriend. “I asked them to open a window while they’re in there, so it should be pretty aired out.”

    “Oh, yeah,” agreed the man with the dirty shirt. “I’ve had this happen lots of times in my buildings, and a day or so after the police have cleared the body out, you wouldn’t even know…well, you know.”

    “We’ll be by,” said Jeff, grabbing Lee’s arm and pulling her towards the car. “Give us a call, and we’ll be by to clear out the apartment.”

    “Thanks! You guys have a great day!” said the girlfriend, then blushed and ran into the apartment building. The man with the dirty shirt grinned, shrugged, then followed the girl inside.

    “I can’t believe this is happening,” said Lee once the couple was gone. She opened the car door and sat down in the seat. Her bare skin stuck to the hot vinyl and burned.

    “I can’t believe we only live fifteen minutes away from Mom,” said Jeff. “I can’t believe we still live in the same state as that psycho-bitch.”

    “Don’t talk about Mom that way,” said Lee. She could see the police moving around in her mother’s apartment through the window, dark silhouettes behind the fraying lace curtains. “Don’t talk about dead people that way,” she amended.

    “Well, just think,” continued Jeff, quickly moving the rearview mirror so he couldn’t see the apartment building. “If we lived in other countries, far, far away, they would have had to call someone else to tell them she was dead, to come and pick up her things. If I lived in Spain, I wouldn’t have to even come to the funeral.”

    Lee snorted. “If you lived in Spain, you’d still come to the funeral. If you lived on Mars, you’d come to Mom’s funeral.”

    “Maybe,” said Jeff. “Maybe, if only to make sure she was really dead.”
    (more…)

    Things Trapped and Frozen by Emily Roth

    I get to ride shotgun in Mr. Gregory’s car because I missed my bus, and I missed my bus because I lost Spiderman in the snow at recess. I got Spiderman in a Happy Meal that Dad bought me once. His arms and legs move, but he doesn’t have a web.

    Mr. Gregory is my first grade teacher. I was supposed to be in Mrs. Anderson’s class this year, but the school put me in Mr. Gregory’s class by myself when I stopped using my voice. I like Mr. Gregory. He lets me read big kid books in class and he doesn’t yell. But sometimes his face gets really red and he stares at his hands for a long time, eyes closed. It’s how Dad looked when Mom got sick. I always thought Dad was angry, but really he was scared.

    Mr. Gregory asks me questions while he drives.

    “Why did you miss your bus, Julian?” It’s snowing, the flakes zooming straight at us. Mr. Gregory looked up my address in the school directory because Mom didn’t answer the phone. Mom sleeps in the afternoons. Spiderman is safe in my pocket because I’m not supposed to have him at school.

    Mr. Gregory’s car smells like Red Hots candy. Mom used to buy Red Hots for Dad and he always shared them with me like a secret. I like them even though they make my throat burn. When I breathe in through my nose I can taste cinnamon.

    “Is your Mom okay?” Mr. Gregory asks. I nod, but I’m lying.

    “Do you see your Dad sometimes?” I lie again.

    “How’s Megan?” Megan always goes to her boyfriend’s house after school. I don’t really mind. It used to make me very upset, but now I like it better than when Megan’s boyfriend comes to our house.

    Mr. Gregory turns the car off in front of my house.

    “Julian, I know you’re tired of hearing this, but you have to talk eventually. We all know that you have a lot to say.” I’m not really listening because I’m staring at my house wishing that Megan would come home and Mom would wake up.

    Then Mr. Gregory grabs my leg hard. Moves his hand up towards my pocket. Towards Spiderman. I feel that familiar pain in my stomach. The pain that keeps my voice locked up. The pain of things being taken away. His hand hurts. I feel words kicking their way up my throat. Mr. Gregory’s hand moves to my pocket, pressing down hard. Spiderman’s cold arm digs into my hip.
    My mouth is burning, and then—

    “No!” I say, my voice coming out like dragon breath, the words crackling. “Please don’t take Spiderman!” The words spill out too fast, like they had grown tired of waiting inside of me. “Please.” I take a breath because my voice is making my whole body shake.

    Mr. Gregory’s hand jumps back, his eyes big and dark.

    “Spiderman?” His hand hangs in the air like the metal grabber in a claw machine. “Who is Spiderman?” His face is red and scared.

    As I walk up the driveway, I feel very warm and very cold all at once. My voice made my heart beat too fast. I can see my breath in the air and I wonder if that’s what my voice looks like. I take Spiderman out of my pocket and grip him tight because I know he won’t get hurt. The air smells like ice but my throat is still burning. Mr. Gregory’s wheels crunch the gravel as he drives away.

    I lock my voice up inside of me again.

    When I found Spiderman on the playground one of his hands was sticking out the snow, a tiny red flag waving to me. Like he knew I would always come back for him.

    Emily Roth is an undergraduate at Columbia College Chicago.

    The Road to Something by Peyton Docks

    “What am I supposed to do?” Lanie cried into the empty space. “What do you want me to do, when there is nothing!” She stumbled forward, cursing herself for wearing the wrong shoes. The type of shoes that gave her blisters on the heels of her feet that hindered her ability to walk distances longer than five minutes. Then again, she hadn’t planned on wandering around, speaking to nothing. Her nose was running from the tears, but instead of reaching into her pocket and pulling out the Kleenex she had brought, she wiped it on the shoulder of her sleeve. Screw personal hygiene.

    It was hot and humid out, not the keenest day to be outdoors. The smart, would be inside their air-conditioned houses sipping lemonade, watching comedy Wednesdays on TV. Instead, Lanie searched.

    “It has to be here. It has to.” She whispered, exhausted. “It just has to be.” She checked the next headstone. ‘DORNBUSH’ it read. She was beginning to think the person she was looking for didn’t exist. She had to exist. She’d visited this place enough times to know where it was. They don’t just unbury bodies and replant them elsewhere! A new set of tears brimmed her eyelids, and another choking cry escaped. She didn’t care who was watching, it was a graveyard, for cripes sake. Crying was okay, it was practically mandatory.

    She was lost. She’d covered the same length of distance at least three times, and still nothing. “This is where it was, this is the area you always were. I remember. I remember seeing you. Why can’t this just be easy.” Something in her life had to be right, had to be easy. Everything she seemed to do of late was horrible, or disapproving. Lanie needed to find her. She was the one person in this world who couldn’t judge her, or yell at her, or tell her she was a screw up. All things Lanie already knew. She just needed silence. Lanie figured in a graveyard, she could easily achieve that. But not any gravestone would do, she couldn’t just hunker down beside the Greenes, or the Temelltons, it needed to be her. It needed to be.

    “I didn’t come here to search for you! I came here to be with you!” She sniffled. “Just send me a sign! Show me where I’m supposed to go!” She collapsed herself against a tree and shrivelled down to sitting position. Drawing her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around, tucking them beneath her chin. She looked around, helpless. She didn’t come here to feel helpless. She felt this already, this emptiness. Nothing went as planned. She came here to relax, to let go, to cry. Not the tears of being lost, but tears to release all this anger she’d bottled inside her.

    Safety. That’s what Lanie came here for. She wanted to feel safe, for once. She needed to feel the burdens she carried, be lifted, if only for a few moments. It was so much more, she came for so much more. She needed a place, where she could be herself. A place where she could unwind, after a stressful day, and just be the person she was trying so desperately to become. Whoever that was.

    Finding herself was something Lanie needed to do, and with all these people breathing down her neck, she found it nearly impossible to do so. She was falling apart, piece by piece, she could feel it. They were telling her she was wrong, she was immature, easily pressured, incompetent, untrusting. She was tired of it. Tired of being judged, and constantly watched. She had to cover her tracks, be careful, and watch herself. It became more and more like a fulltime job and she had grown emotionally haggard.

    She pulled her music player out, and plugged it into her ears to drown out the silence that had suddenly started to scream at her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back to rest on the tree trunk. She inhaled deeply, and released a shaky breath.

    Music was supposed to sooth her, it was supposed to heal her. She could feel her throat close up, and the welling of tears began. Fighting them back, she swallowed them down. She would not cry anymore, she could not.

    She pulled the ear buds forcefully from her ears. The silence had turned deafening, and music could not protect her. Thoughts of her family gushed into her mind. She had let them down, again. She had let her friends down; she probably had even let herself down. Living up to people’s standards was exhausting, and time consuming.

    Lanie pushed herself up from the ground and resumed talking to herself and the silence she needed to escape

    “I didn’t know you. I never even met you. They tell me I met you, and I was happy with you. But I was a baby, and I don’t remember. You were there for everyone else before me, why couldn’t you be there for me?” Tears rolled down her cheeks in an unsynchronized rhythm. “I need you now, and you’re not here. You’re supposed to be here, right here, I remember. I’ve visited you. Why aren’t you where I remember! You can be here for me, I need you to be here for me now.” She wiped at her nose with the backside of her hand. “Please,” she barely whispered. “Please be here. Let me find you.”

    In the midst of her outburst, Lanie had ambled over the gravel path to another patch of headstones. She stopped, looking about her, she sighed. Looking down, she saw it. The name, carved perfectly in the sunken headstone. She fell on all fours and pressed her hand to the name. “Thank you.” She sobbed. “Thank you so much.”

    Her tears were no longer of anger, and abandonment, but of happiness, and a sense of accomplishment. She had scoured this place, for something that wasn’t where she had thought it was. She had felt as lost here, as she did in her own life. She’d felt helpless, in a place where all she wanted to feel was hope, and a sense of security.

    Maybe the search for the headstone was what Lanie needed. She needed to look where she shouldn’t, in order to open her eyes. To see something about her life that she hadn’t been able to see till now. She was looking for happiness, and solitude in her life in all the wrong places. She needed to look elsewhere, to family, to friends, to the people she knew were doing everything she despised, just to help her. The lady beneath the headstone had helped her in her path to self-discovery before Lanie had even found her.

    “I found you,” Lanie breathed. Perhaps in addition to, she’d just found a ray of hope for herself.

    Rolling over to fall on her back, Lanie smiled. For the first time that evening, she smiled. An uncontrollable laughter erupted from her lungs, and she could feel the pieces of her shattered life start to make their way back to each other. Her healing had begun.

    Warrior by Eric LeGrow

    Sitting above a crossbar of steel, high above the roaring New York, so staggering a view, I knew a man, though he was not my friend. He stayed isolated from the group, working the harder jobs along the trim steel, hauling wires and jumping rails, as if he dared God to let him slip. When the boys ate their lunches hundreds of feet above the solid concrete, he drank from a small silver flask, the only sustenance we ever saw him ingest. But that man, alone atop the blaring city, rivaled the memory of Hercules.

    Watching him work, you could image him beating raw ore into form. A brute who a thousand years ago would have been hailed a God, only to be the grunt, the fat ant doling out his life. Knowing him made me scoff at TV; boxing, bare knuckle, even famed blood sports paled in comparison.

    One night with my wife I sat eating quietly in a diner adjacent to a club notorious simply for the patrons who frequented. Out of the blue He came, flask peaking out of his jeans. His eyes took sight of the club and he gave a roar, his body launching him through the door. Gunshots fired, quickly overpowered by the sound of fists packing meat into the floor. I watched as minutes later he poured out of the door, his chest slipping blood from entry holes, his fist still gripped tight to one man’s neck.

    He spent the next at work free falling from one railing level to another. Some starred in wonder, question why any man would tempt death so much.

    Why wonder, I say.

    He was a gladiator at his prime, hauling metal. A small child had better education than this titan. None had right to judge.

    Men who claimed him a degenerate stared in awe when his fists swung, both exhilarated and demeaned, for the could never match up.

    Women who recoiled in disgust lived in a fantasy at the quiet hour, a world where his arms wrapped tight around them and their breath left in ecstasy.

    For 25 years I knew him, without ever knowing him. At 45 he had a heart attack at the 20th floor of a building and fell. The concrete spilt beneath the impact of his incredible mass. Ribs cracked, bones shattered, and still he attempted to rise only to spit blood. It took medics twenty minutes to even cut far enough to drain the blood from his lungs, but by then it was too late.

    He was laughing though. A rolling laughter till the last moment, the final chuckle echoing.

    In all those years, the only thing I’d ever heard him utter was, “I’ve got no time for dreams or wishes. You can’t fell nuthin’ in em’ anyhow. Pain is real.”

    People ask me where the heroes are nowadays. I laugh and say we killed them.