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FAVONIUSVOLUME 15 ISSUE 2

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© 2012-2013 by FavoniusPrinted in Iowa City, IA by Goodfellow PublishingAdvisor Tom LindseyEditor-in-chief Anna FurlongAssistant editor Asya BergalFinancial officer Hilah KohenScribe Margaret ParsonsAdvisory board Joshua Anthony, Max Granfield, Valerie Hsieh, Dan Kauble, Ethan Jorgensen, Alora Krauss, Jacob Nishimura, Henry Parsons, Ela Pemmaraju, Danial Sayed, Ben Sheff, and Eva Thomas

ChromatographyJason UhmWatercolor, ink on paper towl

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Lilies: A Heart Disappointed Dan Kauble 4Drug Store Lady Jeremiah Anthony 4To a Friend of a Friend Asya Bergal 8They say it’s not fake if you’re smiling with your eyes.*

Asya Bergal 8Lance Jeremiah Anthony 9Birthday Jeremiah Anthony 12A Year in “If”s Anonymous 13Hospitality Asya Bergal 13Hoover’s Reign Josh Anthony 14Fallen Soldier Anonymous 14

Table of ContentsArt

Poetry

Prose

Eye of the Monster Erica Fisher Acrylic, thread on vinyl CoverChromatography Jason Uhm Ink, watercolor on paper towl 2Unexpected Discovery Jason Uhm Watercolor, ink on paper 6Fish Eric Yang Pen on cardboard 7A Thing Jason Uhm Graphite on paper 7The Man Erica Fisher Marker on paper 7Self Portrait Colleen de Mata Acrylic on canvas panel 9Marbles Eric Yang Crayon on paper 10Untitled Colleen de Mata Acrylic on canvas 15Untitled Olive Carollach Acrylic on canvas 16Old Man Jason Uhm Ink on paper 19Jack (Diptych) Anna Furlong Watercolor, plexiglass prints on

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The Disconect Leela Sathyaputri 11Frostbite Ethan Jorgensen 17The Expiration Date Max Granfield 18

Thanks to West High for their generous sponsorship.

1. The man walked to his lover’s doorhis hands filled with roses and wine,his spirits higher than beforehe learned his heart was on the line. As he gave her door a soft knockhopefulness filled the brick doorway,but as he heard the door unlockhis heart’s prospects began to fray. 2. How funny is it that,in the many of the mostimportant moments of our liveswe process not the specifics of the

situation,such as the words which are spoken,but rather minute thingssuch as a breeze blowing through the

air,coldness inherent within opposing eyes,or the faintest fragrance?

3. She stood before him with eyes

bloodshot,

a half empty bottle of bourbon in hand,

and the wavering scent of perfume

encompassing the air around her

as it extended its grasp to choke him

with the intoxicating aroma of lilies.

Knowing the answer to the question

he’d posed to her the night before,

he did not hear a word

of her hollow explanation

as he slipped the wedding ring

back into the depths of his pocket.

4. Several minutes later,

his heart broken,

hers unmoved,

he stepped down from her doorstep.

Lilies: A Heart DisappointedDan Kauble

She hobbles in front of the drug storeHalf of her teeth are goneRejected and run over by societyHas made her mind , a rotten fruitOnce beautiful, now pitifulMumbling to herselfHair matted and wildViewed like an animal.Spat at and condemned.A deer not shot at first sight, but slowly

worn down to weakness.Life says it is almost a crime that she

is aliveAlive but forced to endure a mental

beating everydayEach step seems to be torture for herShe paces nonetheless in front of the

storeGazing at passersbys with blank looksAs if escaping the condemnation of the

communityTired and haggard on the outsideBut inside just a human, free to her

beliefs and belongingsSociety calls her an animalHold their breath and power walk past

her dazed face.She is like a rose trampled on the

ground.Life is a series of torture camps herSpit stains cover her tattered shirtsolidifying the judgment passed by her

peers.

Drug Store LadyJeremiah Anthony

Desert StalksFrank WeirichDigital photograph

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Unexpected DiscoveryJason UhmInk, watercolor on paper

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A ThingJason UhmPencil on paper

A ManErica FisherMarker on paper

FishEric YangPen on carboard

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We went to China: Exchanged disjointed adventures in Europe, An Eastern soup in frugality, And a few rubles in good manners. We went to Bulgaria: Travelled to solemn villages by car, Finnish reveries by plane, And Scottish countrysides by stationary bike.We went to Japan: Suffered benign obsession through our youth, Bitter grins through our adulthood, And wasted memory through greying years.We went to Holland: Caught summer snow with our eyes, Autumn majesty with our veins, And winter solitude with our hearts.We went to Russia: Found rich islands and poor continents, Merry filth and beautiful sorrow, A windless airship and a broken time machine.

To a Friend of a FriendAsya Bergal

You always did close your eyes in photographs.Toothless eyelids grimace through lipstick-gloss paper.Her hand in yours like two knives, sharpening, one against the other.

You’re wearing my watch.

On your wrist, touching skin on both sides. A finely-crafted piece of leather.The ticking stays in my ears like the voice of a dead loved one,Dripping memor--

That’s my watch, goddamnit.…

It’s mine.

They say it’s not fake if you’re smiling with your eyes.*Asya Bergal

LanceJeremiah AnthonyThere once was a man named LanceWho won a lot of races in FranceLived with a CrowLost one belowNow reality TV’s his best chance.

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Self PortraitColleen de MataAcrylic on canvas panel

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MarblesEric YangCrayon on paper

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“Honestly, I’m trying. I’m trying, Dad, I really am,” the voice says, breathing static across the receiver. Tinny in his ear, it continues, “I think I’m too late.”

“Sometimes, you just need time. She’s like this now, but eventually—““I don’t know what to do. Fuck it, Dad, I don’t have time! I need help!”“…I’m trying to be helpful, son—““No you’re not, you’re being patronizing.” At this, he pushes the air out of his lungs. His voice is deep in his throat,

drained, when he denies, “…no, I’m not, Michael.” Nathaniel Davidson is sixty-two years old, with grey hair and paper-thin

skin. The veins in his arms are large and soft, bulging in the backs of his hands. They pale when he presses them, trying to push them back into his flesh.

When Nathaniel was in his prime, he had worked at the stock exchange. He’d been the proud owner of no less than fifteen monitors, all filled with flashing lights and graphs. He had had a constant tension in the back of his neck, the nerves in his fingers causing him to tap obsessively on his desk, leaned forward. He would wear out his voice, some days, shouting raw into his phone. He used to stay up late into the night, celebrating at bars, buying whiskey by the bottle. He had loved his job more than anything. He had been good at it.

Nathaniel is older now, and though he tries he can no longer bend down to touch his toes. He still drinks with the same level of bravado, but his voice has grown rougher, deepening his tenor. He has to squint when he wants to check the messages on his phone. At night, when he makes his way back to his apartment, his right foot sticks to the pavement, and his neck complains when he looks up to watch the elevator dial tick downwards.

“Please, Dad,” his son says, “Please.” On the patio, there is a potted plant whose leaves curl against his window.

Nathaniel presses his eyelids down. “I,” he says. His voice lies flat, rough and lingering in the silence.

He hears the scrape of twigs against glass.“What did I do wrong?” His son asks, hysterical. He hears his youngest child’s voice, stretched thin and high. He remembers. He remembers years ago, when Michael would still look at

him with blind trust and made to grasp at his hands. He remembers how it felt to fit both of his son’s hands, baby-smooth, in

one of his, the tiny palms clenched around his fingers like he was afraid Nathaniel would escape to some dark corner office if he let him go.

When Nathaniel finally answers, it’s with exhaustion lining his throat like bile, and he feels like his life is going to end right there in a cheap mockery of a corner office with only his son to hear his breath halt.

“Dad!” Michael shrieks. Nathaniel was never any good at this. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know.

“…I don’t know, Michael.” There is another pause. He swallows, feels it stick in his throat, over his

voice-box. His left hand traces the paper-skin over his neck, and he tugs at the skin there as if loosening a tie.

He waits a long, long time before his son finally says, quietly, “…I’m sorry to take your time, Dad. I have to go now.”

He says, “I hope it works out for you.” His son replies, “Okay.” He hangs up.The dial tone is palpable on the metal of his phone. Nathaniel lowers it onto his desk with a clack, supporting his palm on the

edge of it when he rises out of his seat. He stumbles to his bed, and his wrist aches

The DisconnectLeela Sathyaputri

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when he lowers himself into it. He imagines the stark white of the ceiling above him. He imagines his

ceiling fan, spinning and spinning and spinning, attached to it. Nathaniel had never been a very emotional man, and he had always hated

himself for it. He had no words for his children, so he never said any. When he was young, and his veins allowed only the hints of a bulge in the backs of his hands, he would stay up at night in his bed pondering the little touches his children gave him. Grasping his hand, tugging at his shirt.

He had feared what the grips meant, and so would never let them linger long enough to find out.

When the moon was high in the sky, he would stare at the branches of the oak outside scraping against the window. He would think about the press of his wife against his back, pressed hot and uncomfortable, the arm around his chest sticking to him like strands of a spider web.

Nathaniel thinks about her now as he pats the ice-cold sheets beside him, closing his eyes to her sweet, empty, faded memory. His joints creak as he drags his pillow down and holds it tight to him, pretending he’s holding her like he barely ever did in his youth. He could call her, but he won’t. Too many years have passed. His muscles begin to shake under the strain. He finds his wrists giving way, his grip loosening, tired, and oh God, he’s so old. He never thought he’d be so old. There is so much time piled behind him— and he could choke a clock, wrangle its hands so they slow, or stop, or reverse, even, but somewhere else there is always another clock ticking forward. There’s so much pain; his weakened, useless hands tremble with it. He wishes he could grab the fabric of time like he can clutch the sheet of his pillow. He wants to tear it apart.

The apartment groans softly, floorboards aching, as a gust of wind pushes at the building’s side. The rusted window-frame creaks in commiseration. He falls asleep tracing over puffy, blood-filled branches embedded under tissue-paper skin, the sound of wood scratching glass a muted lull.

Once, Nathaniel would spend hours sitting at his desk monitoring stocks. The adrenalin of his work would fuel his endurance, allowing him to stare at the screens unblinkingly for ages. His weak eyes can no longer stand the stark glare of a computer screen for long, but he still spends his hours seated there as a matter of habit. It has become a place of comfort for him.

He is sitting at his desk, listening to NPR on the radio, when his phone rings. His youngest son is calling. Their last conversation echoes dimly in his memory, an instinctive helplessness beginning to creep up on him like a shadow at sundown. Nathaniel eyes his phone warily, unmoving, but the phone only rings one, two, three times more, before stopping.

Ah, a token call, thinks Nathaniel, and feels relieved

Each flicker of the candle represents another dreamcrushed under the weight of the accumulated years.A ritual in celebration of maturation.Life just conftinement in misshaped boxesuntil a final rest in a human shaped one.Celebrations to mark a milestone closer to the final box.

BirthdayJeremiah Anthony

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November: A PuzzleIf the car had been lateand we had been cold,if I had been braveor you became bold.

Under the eves,with the evening long gone,we could have stayed there all night,held hands at the dawn.

You could have taken my arm-or I you in mine-and relished togetherour running-out time.

I’m afraid I’m at fault-I read flash-frozen fear,though perhaps I read wronglywith our faces so near.

December: A Christmas CardIf you tell me your talesI understand half.I’m too stupid to get itand too smart to laugh.

I’d leave this right nowbut on you it’d be hard;if I can’t burn this bridgeI’ll start with this card.

January: A Passing PeriodI watched you descendday after day-then you chose a new stairand sent me away.

I watched you descendand at the bottom I waited,forgetting my solitudewas long-ago fated.

February: St. ValentineIf I’d just have openedmy red tired eyesI would have realizedthe sleep always lies.

Dreams are just dreams,and I took the red pill.It tasted like ironand Siberian chill.

March: The Death of a CreatureThree soft souls lie dyingon my blood-splattered shoes.So it ends with a bomband a skeleton fuse.

April: A Dance CancelledAccords come too lateand you were too coldso I shrivel to copperand feel my bones fold.

A Year in “If”sAnonymous

The wreath hung on the door.The always-burning fireplace,The shaggy carpet floor.

Such luxury and kindness here,Unlike my former life.No filthy sheets, no empty bowls,No slowly-creeping knife.

So please forgive my hesitanceTo speak of “you” as “we”.But I am not your Goldilocks.This isn’t home for me.

Not yet.

HospitalityAsya Bergal

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The stocks fall downThe light goes outThe dust has comeGone dry’s the cowThe nation lies in hopelessness and painOf Hoover’s reign

You promise redemption, redemptionHelp the whole land with no exemption,

exemptionAll will be well after the election,

electionOf poverty a whole abolition, ablation

Start the New Deal nowNow the reform’s underwayWay to save the day Day will see no painPaying mortgages with jobsJobs are forming againGains exponentiallyPotentially resolveThe pain of Hoover’s reign

The stocks fall downThe light goes outThe dust has comeGone dry’s the cowThe nation lies in hopelessness and painOf Hoover’s reign

With every Act’s passage, Act’s passageMore aid is given unto the masses, the

masses

It won’t be long until Hoover’s damage, ‘ver’s damage

Is nothing more than scars and old baggage, old baggage

Keep the New Deal on Onto our convalescenceEssential sectors fedFed new dollars and breadBred like rabbits has successCesspools are washed awayWay over the rainbowBowls emptied of the painThe pain of Hoover’s reign

The stocks fall downThe light goes outThe dust has comeGone dry’s the cowThe nation lies in hopelessness and painOf Hoover’s reign

Of Hoover’s reignKnow Hoover’s lameOf Hoover’s reignKnow Hoover’s lame

The stocks fall downThe light goes outThe dust has comeGone dry’s the cowThe nation lies in hopelessness and painOf Hoover’s reignOf Hoover’s reign

Hoover’s ReignJosh Anthony

Longing walking alone hard street and city beats

Everything seems like massive mistakes and hate

Bad fate made even worse faith, no breaks in sight

The discrete street music, seducing the soon night

The man once conceit walks on to survive now

Former soldier and hero to a fake glory.Eight spits for every pass from his

“friends”

None know the feat he once did many years ago.

A man walks casually, different from friends

This man is not a government type manHe reaches out, his finger ends helpfullyThe GI Bill hype finally found its way to

truth.This hand is help, this hand won’t hurt

or spitEvery bad thought forever gone, a new

life born.

Fallen SoldierAnonymous

A parody of “Glad you Came” by The Wanted

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UntitledColleen de MataAcrylic on canvas

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UntitledOlive CarollachAcrylic on canvas

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Hi, Teddy! I’m home! Did you miss me? I missed you very much. Mommy says I can’t bring you to school, but it’s real cold out anyways so I don’t know if you’d like it. It started to snow today, so we should go play outside. Maybe we can make a snowman! Mommy won’t let me go outside, though, because it’s too cold right now and she says she doesn’t want to have to keep track of me all the time. She’s working right now, so I’m not supposed to bother her anyways. She got real mad last time I bothered her, and it made me all sad but as long as I stay in here we can play and she won’t be mad.

Daddy’s been gone for a while, Teddy, but Mommy says he’s coming back today and we’re leaving real soon to go meet him. She says he has to go places very far away to work so we can get enough money, which is important so we can go to school and eat food and get toys. I learned a lot in school I want to tell him about! I can count all the way to a hundred now! Mommy says he’s real busy and she doesn’t like it when Daddy and I play together but he never gets mad and he looks like he has a lot of fun. He helps me learn a lot, too! Mommy never does that but that’s just because she’s real busy all the time.

Mommy says we’re leaving to go see Daddy because he’s coming back from working! He’s at the airport, which isn’t very far away, but it’s real cold so Mommy puts me in my coat. It’s pink and purple and real heavy and it gets hot inside but it helps so I don’t get too cold. Mommy puts me in the car and she starts driving away and she says something real quiet but she seems mad so I just try not to make any noise because that makes Mommy angry. The windows are all white and I can’t see through them very much because it’s so cold outside. Once they start to get clearer, I see all the snow on the trees and all the Christmas lights and it looks real happy outside. Can you see them, Teddy? Aren’t they pretty?

I always like Christmas because if we’re real good then Santa comes and gives us presents! Daddy tells us all about Santa. He’s a big fat man in a red coat and he lives at the North Pole. When it’s wintertime, you have to make sure you’re not naughty or all he’ll give you for Christmas is coal! I’ve never gotten coal, though, because I’m real nice. Mommy gets angry sometimes when Daddy tells us about Santa, but I don’t know why. All around wintertime she’s real mad, though, so you have to make sure to be quiet and then she doesn’t get as mad at you.

Mommy says we’re there, so she gets me out of the car. She looks a little bit mad when she sees I brought you, but you’re my best friend so I can’t leave you behind. I love you, Teddy! She grabs my hand so I can’t give you a hug right now but I real want to. We walk across the parking lot and it’s real cold outside but soon we’re in the airport. It’s like one real big room with lots of chairs. There’s a counter at the front with lots of people in suits and big smiles, and Mommy goes there first and talks for a while so I just look around some more.

It’s nice and warm inside, and Mommy let go of my hand, so I unzip my pink and purple coat because I’m getting real hot. That feels better, but my Mommy sounds angry at the person and grabs my hand again and we go sit in one of the chairs. Mommy takes out her cell phone and starts to press buttons on it. She says she’s talking to Daddy! I ask her if I can say hi to Daddy, but she says no and looks mad so I decide to be quiet. She says to stay here and stands up and starts to walk off somewhere, so I just look around some more. The lights hang from the ceiling and look real nice, but I start to feel hot. I can’t pull my arm out of my coat. Where can I go to cool off while we wait for Daddy?

Of course! Let’s go outside! Maybe we can make a snowman! I see a door real close to us, so I run over. It’s got a bar that I push and it opens. The cold air feels real nice! Now we just need to find a place to make a snowman. The snow by the airport is real dirty and Daddy says snow that isn’t white is icky, so I keep

FrostbiteEthan Jorgensen

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walking. In a few minutes, we’re by a lot of trees and there’s nice white snow everywhere. I don’t have gloves on right now, so the snow’s real cold, and it doesn’t stick together very good. Daddy says it does that when it’s real cold outside. I wonder if Daddy is back! Which way did we come from, Teddy? Do you remember?

It’s getting real cold, Teddy. I can hear Mommy and Daddy calling out for me, but I can’t find them. It’s real windy outside and the sky turned dark. The snow all around is blowing, and it looks real cool, but I need to find Daddy! I haven’t seen him in so long.

Are you cold, Teddy? You look real cold. Here, you can borrow my coat.It’s not too cold, anyways. I feel just fine, Teddy. It’s getting warmer

outside, but the sky is still real dark.I’m kind of tired, Teddy. Do you want to take a nap? I haven’t had a nap

today.The snow is real soft, and it’s not too cold anymore. It must be getting

warmer outside, Teddy.So I lie down in the soft, downy snow and curl up in a ball. It feels nice,

Teddy. It feels real nice.

The Expiration DateMax Granfield

The old man Michael Galloway was an extreme regular at the coffee

shop on Friday nights. The outside world was always alive with young people,

walking at brisk paces and participating in enthusiastic conversations at this time

of night. Michael could still appreciate that kind of atmosphere, but it wasn’t for

him anymore. The inside of the coffee shop was quiet, save for the jazz playing on

the radio and the blocked out conversations of the other group of regulars and the

barista, and Michael preferred it that way. He always showed up on Friday night

and stayed until closing typing his stories. Sometimes he had small conversations

with the other group of regulars, but mostly he kept to his tea and his computer.

The computer was always in the same spot, and there was practically an invisible

sign on it that everyone could read: Michael’s Spot. He could practically leave the

thing there all day if he wanted, and no one would think of taking it.

Michael was happy in the sense that he knew that this was how he was

going to spend the remainder of his days and he didn’t much mind. Other than

Friday nights at the coffee shop, he spent his days sitting in the park with his wife

watching his grandkids, reading for endless hours in the local library, and talking

away entire afternoons with his youngest daughter, Charlotte.

Michael heard the bell above the door ring, and this was off. Everyone

at the coffee shop was already there, and newcomers were almost none existent.

There were footsteps crossing the tiles towards him, not stopping to order

something from the barista. The newcomer was definitely here for him.

He looked up, smiling and expecting to see Charlotte, who had said she

would be here a lot later, but soon found the smile completely eroded from his

face as he was completely unprepared for what he saw.

“Michael Galloway!” exclaimed Harry Grooteman, “My god, kiddo, it’s

been ages!” Harry had always called Michael “kiddo” despite the fact that they

were the same age.

Michael got up on his walking stick and braced his hand for one of Harry’s

finger breaking handshakes.

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Old ManJason UhmInk on paper

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“Harry!” said Michael “I… I don’t know quite what to say.”“That’s fine, Michael,” said Harry. “I was passing through this town and I

heard that you were here. Mind if I join you so we could have a chat?”“Sure.”So Harry sat down, and Michael still didn’t know what to say. He was

afraid that Harry would ask him how he had been, because than he would simply answer and ask the same question, and than they would have nothing to talk about, nothing but old times.

“So,” said Harry, just as Michael knew he would, “how have you been?”“Not that bad,” said Michael, and they exchanged routine pleasantries of

how they had been, with the kind of questions that everyone has prepared answers for. Than there was a few moments of silence as each of them contemplated what to say. Michael didn’t mind pauses in conversations, but he knew that Harry was the kind of person who was only satisfied when smooth conversation flowed like oiled gears, and because of this Michael was nervous for the conversation to continue.

“You know what I remember most clearly?” said Harry “The drop.”“I know what you mean,” said MichaelThe inside of the small plane could have easily been the inside of a massive

freezer, with the humming very much amplified and almost no light. Michael didn’t even bother to resist his chattering teeth, because no one could possibly hear them over the engine. Harry poked him on the shoulder on his way to the door, signaling that it was time. This moment had previously been a far of fantasy to him that was a million years away, but it had caught up with him now. Michael got up and trembled his way over to the bay door where Harry was already standing.

“Hey, I think I remember what you did,” said Harry. “You grabbed onto my hand, didn’t you?”

They had been connected to the same parachute because they couldn’t afford to be separated, and one of them had indeed grabbed the other’s hand before they jumped from the plane.

“I remember that,” said Michael, laughing. “Was it you who grabbed my hand or I who grabbed yours?”

“I’m pretty sure it was you,” said Harry. “What were you thinking, man? Captain Himes was in the back of the plane and he saw us. What’s he going to say when we get back?” This was a sentence of mock horror pasted right out of the old days

“I expect he’ll ask if he can be the best man at our wedding,” said Michael. He gave the exact same response he had said back in the day in the thick green foliage. He gazed down into his tea to check that his face was still wrinkled, and he looked around to check if skinny trees had not replaced the paintings and bookshelves on the walls.

It wasn’t just raining, it was storming, and the noise of the raindrops echoed off the wide green leafs and the tall undergrowth, making an organic drumbeat. The jungle was screaming at them, and Michael felt like he was walking around the natural equivalent of a room full of spinning, grinding, and roaring machines. The mud sucked at his boots, gradually loosening them. But the jungle stopped screaming eventually, seemingly accepting the two new ticks that it had acquired.

“One hell of an introduction to the people we got after that,” said Harry.As they had made their way through the jungle to the safe house, they

had come across a youth group camp. They had stayed in the bushes and watched as one of them was brutally beaten over allegedly stolen food. It seemed that all the kids were in line to use the stick, and one of them was egging the rest on, convincing each one to beat the victim more. All Michael and Harry could do was sit there and watch. Eventually, the youth group left the victim tied to a post and marched off into the jungle. The victim had looked morbidly hurt, and they had considered overdosing him on painkillers to put him out of his misery but decided

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against it.“God, don’t remind me,” said Michael. “The worst part is I could easily see

that kind of thing happening over here.”“You know, years ago, I would have disagreed with you, but now I know

what you’re getting at. Given the right circumstances, we are all capable of terrible things.”

“That’s the whole point of what was done over there.”“It must have taken real courage for those people to rise above their

environment like that.”After spending a day in the dense forests, they had finally found the safe

house. A woman named Meylin, who took care of the village’s population as the local doctor as well as looking after many orphaned children, ran the place. When they had first arrived, she was in a bloody smock, with kids rushing about the room to grab various medical supplies as she focused on a wounded patient who was screaming and gurgling for someone to put him out of his misery. This chaotic environment that lived on spare parts and borrowed time was perfectly normal to her. At first, Michael had been relieved to have a roof over his head, but after spending several days in the house, he found himself bouncing off the walls. Often, they had been rushed into the cellar to wait for hours at a time for patrols to pass.

They had spent much of their time there training people in the house. These were people that were going against everything that they had been taught, and it was necessary to constantly reassure them that they were doing the right thing. There was all sorts of people, peasants, miners, even a few people from the city, who stopped by on community convoys transporting people from place to place. They were taught how to disassemble weapons into unrecognizable parts and how to use them effectively. It was an environment oddly reminiscent of a classroom. Then they went back to their own corners of the country to wait.

“Ah yes, Meylin, I couldn’t forget her. You two had something going, didn’t you?” said Harry.

Michael winced, feeling his world plunge into a shade of blue at the mention of her name.

“We did, yeah. There was a small part of me that didn’t want to leave and that wanted to stay there and fight at her side for as long as there was fighting to be done. We promised to find each other afterwards.”

“Yuck, that’s incredibly romantic and cheesy. So, am I right in thinking I might see her if I stick around here a while longer?”

“No. She moved on. I spent my fair share of time looking for her, and it was years later that I discovered her. She has a family of her own now, and no place for me.”

The radio seemed to be louder than ever despite the fact that it was relatively quiet as it echoed off the tiles, playing more white noise than music at this point. Now it was Harry who had no idea what to say.

“Jesus, kiddo, I’m so sorry,” said Harry.“Don’t be sorry. We all need to have our hearts smashed at least once.”Another pause. Michael drank deeply from his tea, which had grown

lukewarm. Today, it seemed like they had tied together lose ends, conversations that should have happened years ago.

They ran through the gray streets, which where completely free of advertisements and mostly free of artificial light. The sky was dull milk, and most of the streets where empty. There was the yelling and panic from blocks behind them, when most of the people had gathered, was still audible. Meylin had given Michael extensive instructions as to how to walk in the city; eyes downcast, keep your distance from everybody, and if someone talks to you, reply with the minimum amount of words possible. But that was all forsaken now. The occasional person that they passed stared at them as if they where seeing a couple of giant tarantulas wobble past. A group of several people stood in their way at the entrance to a

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claustrophobic alleyway. They where normal people, perhaps having come out of the nearby buildings, and they seemed completely unfazed by Michael and Harry. Harry screamed at them to move, and he even shot at their feet, but they held their ground to the death.

“You know,” said Harry “Sometimes I really want to go back.”“Me too,” said Michael. “I think everyone who was over there wants to go

back just a little.”“The city…” said Harry, thinking he might say more after that and then

realizing he didn’t need to.“They had people coming after us, soldiers too, but people. What were

we to do? I don’t even clearly remember getting out of there, so it’s almost like I never did.”

After Michael said this, something happened that had not happened between them since they had first met; there was an awkward silence. Granted, not all silences are awkward and empty, and they generally happen between people getting to know each other, but in this instance it was a thing that Michael and Harry had outgrown. Michael realized with horror that there was nothing left to say to his old best friend.

The bell above the door chimed, and once again, footsteps crossed the tiles to the Michael’s corner of the room, but this time Michael knew who it would be. His youngest daughter, Charlotte was now twenty-six, and she was turning out to be a quiet yet extremely creative person. They would spend a lot of time talking about books, but one thing they never talked about was Michael’s past, specifically, Michael had never talked to her about the war. But Charlotte had a good idea of who this old man that Michael was with was, for whom else could he be than one of his friends from the war? He was a strange thing for her to see, a relic from some forgotten time that barely existed at all.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, “who’s this?”“Charlotte, this is an old friend of mine, from the war,” said Michael. “He’s

Harry Grooteman. Harry, this is my daughter Charlotte. Don’t break her fingers shaking her hand.”

They all talked a little, mostly about how life was now. Eventually, Harry said he had to leave, and he wrote his phone number on a napkin and handed it to Michael.

“Call me sometime, we should talk again,” he said on his way out the door, but when the bell chimed, Michael knew he had just had his last glimpse at his old best friend.

“Dad” said Charlotte, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but who was he, really?”

“He used to be my best friend,” said Michael. “We went through a lot of terrible things together, and on multiple occasions he saved my life and I saved his.”

“Are you ever going to talk to him again?”“Probably not. It’s a feeling that graduates from blue to black, knowing

that there is nothing left to say to someone who was once like a brother to you.”And so, life continued as normal. Charlotte stayed in the coffee shop and

talked with Michael for a little while just like she always did. After she left, Michael took only a moment to reflect on Harry. He didn’t like Harry any less than they ever had, but the expiration date of their friendship had passed, so from now on, Harry would only exist as a memory from a distant time in another world. On the way out, he casually tossed the napkin with Harry’s number on it into a waste bin.

23

Jack (Diptych)Anna FurlongWatercolor, plexiglass prints on paper

Eye of the MonsterErica FisherAcrylic, thread on vinyl