Tag: student work

In the Founder’s Hall

.Reading time 1 minute.

 

The rasp of coffee, followed by the hiss of whipped cream;

Pocket change singing after the ding of another sale;

A clatter of ice accenting the hum of the cooler;

 

And in the corner, a keyboard clicks.

 

 

The door thumps open at the rattle of the bar;

A woosh, then the slap of it closing;

Alarm beeps send annoyed footsteps back to the library desk;

 

And in the corner, a baby laughs.

 

 

That familiar voice, the slide of a chair;

A backpack slumps to the floor, the laugh of a close friend;

Timeless ringtone, the click of a phone;

 

And in the corner, a woman sighs.

 

 

“Hello”  ”How are you?”  “When’s your next class?” ;

“Nice shoes”  “Nice phone” “Did you see last night’s episode?” ;

“I love you” “Goodbye” “I need to get going.” ;

 

And in the corner, a young mother juggles life and dreams.

 

Bryan Haiser

The Panther in My Living Room

.Reading time 2 minutes.

In a woodland forest of my mind

There are oak trees with

Bark warped into faces,

They whisper on the wind

Of remembrance—stories

Once lost but now found,

They tell me these stories,

I listen.

And write their rustling rumbles

In a journal

Of leather bound parchment.

 

The oaks blend in

With the forest surrounding

Of grey green

The air always holding a hazy drizzle

Of mossy wetted earth

A panther is known to

Roam their forest

I mustn’t talk to her

They say—She has yet to become what

She was created to be—what I was to make of her;

A beautiful creation trapped in

The lucid bars of thought

Where I reside most

Of my unearthed days,

Lost in an eternal

Agitation until

Pencil meets paper once again.

I hear her sharpen

Her claws on the backs

Of the oaks.

Searching for her

Story to be written,

To find purpose in this

Forest of grey green drizzle.

Her eyes flashing green

Like the rustling leaves rooted

In the firm mudded ground

While I hide within the oak’s hollows

Like a wise owl

With a journal

Of leather bound parchment,

Writing stories for this

Creature of my creation.

 

This forest to me

Is home—forged out of necessity

Of an endangered imagination.

The forces of evil lurking in

The real world threatening to lumber

My oaks that hold the stories

That I’ve long forgotten.

I hide them

In the forest.

A home where the real world

Is a forgotten thought

That does not disturb me

While I write the story of

The panther that lies in wait

In the woodland forest of my mind,

Ready to become everything

She was meant to be.

 

Hayley Durham

Puncture

.Reading time 29 minutes.

Fire, in my opinion, has always been an enchanting element. Fire is such a lovely mistress, always able to seize my attention, flickering freely in any direction it so chooses, grasping onto whatever it can attach its sticky flames to, adding a spark of beauty to any object it consumes before devouring that very same object whole, leaving behind ashes of despair.

The flame that held my gaze shot vertically out of a Bunsen burner. The Bunsen-Burner was brand new, and my pretty much only real friend, Jackson, was fiddling with it. It was a purchase that he insisted I make; “It will make our lives easier” was his reasoning. Currently the apparatus which honestly should be inside a lab, made me anxious because Jackson had it burning so hot the flame was blue, almost transparent. I imagined the fire catching onto the hose it was hooked to causing the source of the flame’s energy, a natural-gas tank, to explode, leading to the destruction of our top floor loft, which would then lead to the collapse of the building we lived in. It would be too powerful to stop and would tear through the entire town of Royal Oak, Michigan. What would our reputation be at that point? Would we be considered legendary terrorists, or miscreants that couldn’t control their actions? Suddenly, a playing card was dropped into the flame of the burner and quickly surrendered itself into grey and black ribbons, withering and dropping onto our glass coffee table.

“JESUS FUCKIN’ CHRIST MAN!” I reeled back in fear, hitting my head on the wall behind the couch I was positioned on. The two girls sitting on either side of me squealed playfully.

“Chill man, I got this shit under control.” Jackson said laughing, twisting the nozzle on the side of the burner and reducing the flame to an orange-red color.

“Hurry up and get started then.” I nursed the back of my head. It didn’t actually hurt, but it was swelling up into a decent sized goose-egg. I was on edge. My body had that prickling sensation akin to when your foot falls asleep. My blood was at a boil and I could feel the sweat in my hairline. My stomach was in ropes, and there was a hurricane taking place inside of me. I wanted to feel good again. The worst feeling of all was the guilt, why did I have to feel so guilty…

“What does it feel like?” The girl to my left asked, Hannah or Savannah? I couldn’t recall. A blonde and one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, she’d also made it all but clear that she wanted me.

“Take the best orgasm you ever had, multiply it by a thousand and you’re still nowhere near it,” Jackson said confidently, as if he hadn’t blatantly stolen the quote from the movie Trainspotting, reusing the same line on every couple of girls that we brought over. I was going to object and mock his plagiarism jokingly, but suddenly my mouth felt far too dry and speechless as he finally poured the stuff out onto a paper plate.

The stuff? It was smack, dope, skag, junk, whatever slang you wanted to call it. Jackson and I simply liked to call it “H” short for heroin. Jackson was filling four syringes with water to correctly measure out “safe” portions of dope; we had built up quite the tolerance so our doses would be roughly twice the amount that the girls would get. Also we didn’t want to waste our finite goods on first timers. Jackson beat the H until it was a fine powder, and then lined it up onto four spoons. He released the water out of the syringe four separate times, onto the spoons with separate portions of dope. He must have felt the Bunsen burner was too hot; he turned it down until the flame was equivalent to what would come out of a gas-station lighter. Nobody was breathing as Jackson heated the first spoon to just the lightest boil, dropping a cotton ball onto the liquid to absorb it, and act as filler. I couldn’t watch anymore… he was taking too long; sweat was rolling off of my brow and into my eyes. I got up off of the couch and walked into the kitchen to get bottled water. I opened the fridge; my mind reminded me how my dad, long after being diagnosed with cancer, was in the hospital, and I, the worst son in the world, had yet to visit him. I shook the thought, closed the fridge, and turned around. I wasn’t alone in the kitchen. Hannah or Savannah (neither seemed correct) was with me. I looked at her from the feet up; the shorts she had on allowed me to see her long, tan, and athletic legs.

“I’m nerv… I’m scared,” she said, pitiful and innocent as an individual can sound. I turned to look at her. Jesus, she was stunning. Her eyes were a large and a glistening jade, and I say jade because green isn’t a pretty enough word to describe them. Her lips, perfect lips were complemented by the fact that she was chewing on the bottom one nervously with her fluorescent white teeth.

“You have nothing to worry about. It’s going to be amazing.” I smiled at her, locked my eyes onto hers before gently putting my hands on her hips, and pulling her towards me. Another word formed in her mouth but I replaced it with my tongue. She let out a sigh of relief, her tongue tangled itself around mine.

“Julian, this shit is all ready!” Jackson yelled from the living room.

I pecked Hannah/Savannah one time as I released her, grabbed four waters out of the fridge, handing one to her. She took it along with my hand and we walked back into the living room holding hands.

“Hurry up ya lovebirds,” Jackson handed me a prepared syringe, and I snatched it out of his hands.

Letting go of the blonde girl’s hand I plopped on the couch. The girls didn’t know what they were in for, and how could they? Heroin is cruel: it treats you so gently at first making you feel so divine, and little do you know it’s a parasite just waiting to hook its talons onto your innermost desires and overtake each and every one of your other interests. Sure I still loved to watch movies, play games, read books. I still loved to sin, smoke pot, have sex, party, and drink, but these are all buffers that allow you to get through the sleepless nights until you obtained your next fix. My conscience was no longer bothered. Jackson and I had become vampires and dope was our blood. Indirectly our intentions were to turn these girls into vampires as well because shooting up with just another guy becomes tiresome.

“Here, I’ll help you,” I said to Hannah/Savannah. She smiled at me but said nothing. The nerves were getting to her; Jackson was already helping the other girl. I picked up the last needle on the table meant for Hannah/Savannah and pulled off my leather belt so I could make a tourniquet for her. I then laid her arm across my thighs. “Relax.”

“Is it going to hurt?”

“No more than a shot.” I tied my belt around her upper arm, right below her shoulder muscle. I could overhear Jackson sweet talking his girl; he had the tongue of a poet in comparison to me.

“Are you ready?” I gazed into her eyes.

“Mmmhmm,” she nodded, her eyes filling with liquid. I was starting to feel like I was committing a crime, oh wait…

“Relax,” I reminded her. I quickly grabbed rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball off the table and sanitized her arm, before flicking the needle, insuring that the dope would come out properly. I began pushing the needle into the vein inside of her elbow. She let out a small squeak, didn’t move. I drew back the plunger, the syringe filled with her blood, success! Picture the most beautiful sunset you have ever seen, take that sunset and insert it inside of a syringe, and now imagine that you’re about to inject that sunset into yourself. I don’t mean to romanticize heroin, but that is exactly the experience that you get when you are shooting up with an open mind for the very first time, putting the powerful, ambient, bright pink beauty of the sun’s final moments during the day into your arm and absorbing its very calmness. I shot the sunset into her arm.

“What’s your name?”

“Amy.” She whispered as her body relaxed and accepted the heroin. Wow. I was way off.

Next was my turn, and it was a no brainer. I shot up without acknowledging the motions. I was high. An earthy flavor filled my mouth. Euphoria rose from my torso and pulsated out into my fingertips, and then returned to my body. I felt so fucking satisfied; a man who walked through the desert for days and finally found his oasis. I wish I could explain the feeling. It’s like explaining a rainbow to a blind man.

“Oh my god I feel so… so… good,” Amy said right outside my realm of focus.

Warmth and comfort pulsated through my body; it was like the touch from a mother, a heroin rush. A return to where I wanted to be. No wonder so many people let heroin tear through their life. If you have to choose between feeling this good and being a sober drone, is it even a choice? I began to stand up, and that was when I noticed that Amy had her head rested on my lap. I ran my hands through her hair and then kissed her on her forehead; it felt good to have the company of a female, specifically one this gorgeous.

“Come with me, Amy,” I said out loud. I felt so quiet. Could she even hear me?

“Whatever you want.” She spoke as if she was hypnotized and sat up.

“Bro…” Jackson’s confirmation that he was indeed high.

I panned my eye cameras at Jackson, and smiled, he smiled back. Fuck. Jackson’s girl was bobbing back and forth like a buoy on the couch. I was already dizzy; she made me nauseous. I grabbed Amy by the hand, and we walked to the bathroom. As soon as we got in there I shut the door behind us. Amy was on the toilet peeing before I could flick on the light. I didn’t expect that. I pulled out my phone, 11:45. I sat my phone on the sink. My reflection disappointed me. All the sweating I did from being excited had messed up my hair, and instead of being held up by my styling cream, it had fallen down partially to lie on my forehead.

“I feel itchy… am I supposed to be this itchy?” Amy.

“Yeah,” I combined my word with an exhale.

Besides the bags below them, my eyes were looking gaunt. How much weight had I lost since I started heroin? Ten or maybe fifteen pounds, the occasional entire day without a scrap of appetite added up.

“I should start reading Kafka.” I said out loud.

“What?” Even her voice was beautiful, gentle, but not so high-pitched that it hurt your ears.

My phone began vibrating. It was my mom. I should hit decline.

It vibrated again. My face was numb; I probably couldn’t even speak with her.

A third vibration, this would all be easier if I weren’t alive…wait, what was I thinking? I answered the phone, and I put it on speaker. “Mom…” Why did I even answer it? I didn’t feel ready to hear what she had to say.

“Julian, thank god you finally answered. Listen, your father is on his last legs and you haven’t been to see him. You need to come see him immediately, tomorrow morning. Julian, if you don’t come see your father, your trust fund is getting cut off, I’m not going to spend your father’s money on a son that didn’t come see him in his last moments.” Her Jersey accent was out of control. She was usually great at hiding it, but not now. This was really hard to comprehend right now.

“Mom… I’m sorry.” I was beginning to lose control of my emotions. The rush had peaked and I felt exhausted, physically annihilated.

“You better be fuckin’ sorry Julian, your father wants to see his only fuckin’ son and you’re being a fuckin’ piece of shit. You need to be here at Beaumont Hospital. Fuckin’ nine o’clock in the morning sharp. Room 334, or I swear to god you’re getting cut off. You hear me!” She hung up the phone.

“Fuck, god damn it.” My voice was raspy. It surprised me, but what alerted me even more were the salty tears that were suddenly going into my mouth. I touched my face. I was crying. I glanced at Amy; she looked absolutely baffled. Amy hadn’t left the toilet. She was handling the heroin well, and I was surprised she was even looking at me. She should have been floating away by now. I grabbed her by the hand and led her to my room.

When we made it to my room I shut the door behind us and we crawled into my bed. We did not even bother removing our clothes. I wish I could say that I was going to have sex with her, but the reality of it was more disappointing. You see I could barely have sex on heroin, anyway. With all the shit that was suddenly bursting into my perspective it was impossible. The truth of the matter, I realized it now; I had an addiction. The epiphany bludgeoned me in the head with merciless certainty. I was an addict; getting high had become more important to me than anything else. I had to show some responsibility. I set my alarm to wake me up at eight.

“You’ll be okay,” whispered Amy. She cuddled herself up against me and seemed to lose consciousness. With most girls this would be cloying, but for some reason she brought me back to the world of drug-induced comfort. I fell asleep.

When my alarm awoke me, Amy was still asleep and cuddled tightly to me. Her hot breathe left condensation on my neck. She was an accolade of my angst, an antidote to my acrimony. Although we met under circumstances meant to induce a high, perhaps the beginning our relationship was a harbinger marking the end of my hedonism. I didn’t want to wake her, so I grabbed a permanent marker off of my desk and wrote on her arm. “Meet me here tonight –Julian.”

Standing up off the bed both dehydrated and hungry proved to be a trial; at least my head didn’t hurt. I needed a moment to regain my land legs. After my composure returned, it was a mad dash to Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak. I had no idea how bad my father’s condition really was until I arrived.

“Wow! You made it and earlier than I asked you, what a surprise,” my mother said to me aggressively as soon as I arrived. She was sitting in a chair outside of my father’s room smoking an e-cigarette. My dad’s sister Tammy was sitting by her side.

“Yeah… sorry,” I was unable to make eye contact with either of them.

“Julian, you don’t look so good, have you been eating right?” My Aunt Tammy asked, sounding concerned.

“Yeah, I just haven’t been myself lately.”

“Well go in and see your father, Julian. He wants to see you.” My mother’s Jersey accent was hidden today.

When I finally got into see my father, looking at him in his weak state was one of the most difficult things that I have ever done; his eyes were closed and his breathing was weak. I wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or not.

“Dad,” I said, just quiet enough that if he were sleeping, it would not wake him. For a moment he didn’t respond.

“Oh hey there son, you finally made it.” The rasp of his voice sounded eerily similar to mine when I got off the phone last night with my mother.

“Yeah dad, I’m sorry that it took so long… it was.” My father was pulling himself up into a sitting posture, and I wasn’t sure if I should help him or not. The way he wobbled awkwardly as he sat up was reminiscent of a shaky-handed puppeteer controlling his puppet.

“I know, it must be hard to see me this way. Cancer is a hell of a disease. Listen, you’re the man now and you’re gonna have to take care of your mother, make sure she don’t forget about me.” My dad knew that his strings were about to be cut.

I spent most of the day with my father returning to my childhood, discussing my glory days playing football and then matching them with his own. We talked about old friends that neither of us spoke with anymore; we talked about the law firm that he could no longer be on the board of because of his health, and how futile all the years he spent in law school felt because he couldn’t even live a full life. When I walked away from my dad that day, I remembered how important he was to me and promised him that I would come back tomorrow.

On my way home night was starting to fall. I was craving a high; tonight would be the last night I told myself. I texted Jackson to “Get two needles ready.” He didn’t text me back. I stopped briefly by my dealer’s house and picked up an 8-ball of coke. Before I left, he did some lines with me as a motion of goodwill.

With the coke in my system and more heroin on my mind I drove home. I couldn’t wait to see Amy again. I wasn’t sure what I craved more, her or the H. I was feeling fucking invincible; if a cop tried to pull me over, I would probably run.

When I finally arrived home I was disappointed to see that Amy hadn’t come. Jackson was sitting on the couch with the Bunsen burner; he’d just finished the second needle and sat it on the table beside the first.

“Did Amy stop by?”

“The girl from last night?”

“Yeah man, I told her to stop by.” I really wanted to see her; she made me feel great.

“Shit man… I hope you’re not mad… she did stop by.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell her to stay?” I felt relieved she actually came by to see me again; the coke had me pacing the living room.

“Actually man, don’t get mad, but when she came by she said you guys didn’t end up fucking. So we ended up doing it.” Was he joking?

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, FUCK YOU MAN WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT!” I yelled at him. I couldn’t control myself.

“Dude, calm down. I didn’t think you would get this mad.”

Jackson reached forward to turn off the Bunsen burner. Before he could turn it off, my left had clenched into a fist connected with his face. I wasn’t sure what I was doing when my right hand followed behind it. I wasn’t sure what I was doing when my fists continued to strike Jackson until I felt my left hand crack and fall limp. He was sobbing on the couch, his face was a visage of what it once was, his teeth on his upper jaw were half gone, and I wasn’t even sure where they went. Blood bubbled out of Jackson’s mouth. I felt despair. Fuck. I reached forward and grabbed the first needle off the table, flicked it, and jammed it into my elbow. I missed the vein on the first try, but got it on the second and emptied the needle into my vein. A familiar earthy flavor filled my mouth as my heartbeat slowed to a thump. I felt good, but it wasn’t enough. I reached for the second needle and almost burned my hand on the Bunsen burner; it wobbled when I hit, but I didn’t even know how to turn it off. Carelessly, I grabbed the second needle and put it into the vein on my right elbow, a vein that I never used. As I felt the needle puncture my skin, I realized that I was in a meadow. The sun shined brightly over me, a breeze rolled in and ruffled my hair. Lying in the grass brought me nothing but joy; I was one with the earth. In a catatonic state I enjoyed the warmth of the sun as it consumed the earth.

 

Joshua Tithof

Death Square

.Reading time 14 minutes.

While deployed to Baghdad during 2006, the army had begun to utilize MPs in what had become known as “the year of the police.” A year of training continuity that was to be rigorous and detrimental to the development of Iraq’s brittle security forces. Routinely, we were tasked to train, support, and often supply local Iraqi police. Assisting them in whatever endeavors our higher-ups could concoct.

We were assigned several Iraqi police stations that were to be our designated “patrol zones” for the forthcoming year. During the beginning, we constantly and consistently strived to remain “Ever Vigilant,” remembering this motto from an excerpt of a speech our battalion commander had given during our pre-deployment ceremony. We were continuously alert, prepared and ready each time an ambush or an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) would ensue. But, as the deployment traipsed forward and the attacks began to increase, our motivation and morale became stagnant. We allowed ourselves to become complacent.

I recall actually thinking that it was nearly time to return to the FOB (Forward Operating Base) and remember looking forward to some downtime and maybe the possibility that I would get to call my daughter that evening. I hadn’t spoken with her in several days and had developed a severe pining just to hear her laugh. Contact with family at this point was sparse at best. It was the witching hour, as the guys in my squad liked to call it, the hour just before sunset when insurgent activity tended to spike. We had been dispatched on a routine call for body patrol, receiving a call to assist the Iraqi police in picking up a dead “haji” (our nickname for locals) that had been found in an area we called “Death Square.”

The area was well known not only to our squad, but throughout the entire battalion. Our squad had been hit with IEDs five times there alone in the last month. It was a quarter mile by quarter mile square block that held an abandoned TV station in the middle of an open field, and was surrounded by “mahallas,” the Iraqi word and our nickname for Baghdad neighborhoods. We knew it was bad news. Everyone was somber, our moods instantly changing. We entered the northeast side of the square and began to defensively position our trucks for egress in the chance that we would have to move to cover. The standard military police TTPs (Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures) that had been drilled into our brains since basic training were to dismount our up-armored hum-vees and conduct a 25-meter walking perimeter check around the vehicle after the gunner had stood up in his turret and conducted his 5-meter check for potential threats.

Before exiting the vehicle, I recalled an intelligence report from another patrol that morning that had suggested that the enemy was possibly rigging mopeds with IEDs, essentially turning them into vehicular improvised explosive devices, or what we refer to as VBIEDs. My gunner called the all-clear to exit the vehicle and I reached for the handle, shoving my shoulder into the five-hundred pound door. I stepped out, and almost into, what looked to be a crater from a former IED blast. I could see the Iraqi police and what appeared to be a dead, three hundred pound Iraqi, half rotted and bloating in three days of Iraqi sun right beside to them. My heart pounded as my first boot hit the sandy asphalt. Something wasn’t right.

My grasp tightened around the pistol grip on my rifle. I could see my friend, who also happened to be my roommate, begin to walk toward the IPs with my Platoon Sergeant. “At least someone’s going to help ‘em move the bastard,” I remember saying out loud. Sweat began to bead on my brow. It hadn’t been an exceptionally hot day, for Iraq at any rate. It was mid-October. Football season back home. My heartrate increased with each step I took away from the vehicle, away from safety. I knew something was about to happen. I hadn’t felt this way since my first mission outside the wire in 2004 when a sewage and waste truck we were escorting took an RPG to the driver’s cab.

My eyes darted back and forth, sweeping the ground, trying to cover every inch, every nook and cranny, anything that might seem out of place. I didn’t want to miss a thing. I knew it meant the difference between life and death. I had started to feel a little a more comfortable toward the end of my sweep. Just a couple more steps and I could return to my vehicle. Then I saw it. A ratted, old, rusty moped parked on the curb. My heart leapt. All that I could think of was that intel report. Sweat began to drip into my eyes; my hand gripped my weapon so hard it began to shake. I crept forward, looking for possible wires or anything resembling an explosive. I stepped onward, parallel with the moped. Nothing. I leaned a little closer, still nothing to be seen. An instant sigh of relief escaped my throat, the words “All Clear,” began to form on my lips. Then it hit. One of the loudest noises I still can ever recall hearing. My ears began to ring before I could even register what had created the noise. Imagine your head in Neil Pert’s kick drum at a Rush concert. Now imagine it louder. A white flash seemingly blinded my vision followed by an instant blast of heat. It felt as if I had put my face in an oven. I could smell my own hair burning as I looked up. A second enormous ball of flames was headed directly toward me. Usain Bolt would have been proud of how fast I turned and high-tailed away from what looked to be the sun being hurled in my direction. As I ran I could see my hum-vee in front of me, no more than twenty meters, yet it felt as if I had been running for an eternity. Each step felt as if my boots were filled with cement. It all felt surreal.

Everything moved in slow motion. As I ran, I began to feel debris strike me in the back of the helmet, my arms, legs and body armor. Ignoring it, I ran faster. As I reached the hum-vee, I instantly took cover behind it, meeting my truck commander almost simultaneously. His training had told him the same thing. Get to Cover. I instantly remembered the debris that had struck me from behind. “Pleeease don’t be shrapnel,” I remember thinking as I began to check myself for possible injuries. “No pain, no pain.” I uttered hurriedly.

I patted the back of my legs and brought my hands up to my face to make sure there was no blood, but as I brought them to eye level, my worst fears were confirmed.

They were enveloped in blood. My entire back was covered in it. “But I’m not in pain!” I recall thinking. And then I realized it wasn’t my blood.

Intel reports later informed us that the body had been lying on top of a one-five-five millimeter mortar round that had been placed by insurgents. But at that exact moment, I had completely forgotten about the haji body. I was convinced that it was my friend’s blood. I turned and ran again, this time in the direction of the blast. Adrenalin coursed through my veins and I matched each stride with a guttural growl, forcing my body to move faster. I hadn’t yet reached his vehicle when I saw him. His body had been thrown from the blast and beneath the hum-vee, leaving only his head and arms exposed in a pool of his own blood. I yelled his name. Nothing. “Gleeenn!” I screamed again.

Nothing. I quickly began to pull on his arms, praying for him to wake up. I could see other members of the squad running toward me in the distance with a stretcher. Every ounce of combat lifesaver training I had ever received raced through my mind. In training, they had taught us to methodically check a casualty step by step, ensuring that you missed nothing. There wasn’t time for that. There was so much blood. I had to find the source, if I wasted even a fraction of a second I knew he was going to bleed out.

I began to pat his legs, slowly pulling harder to remove him from beneath the vehicle. And then I found it, a gaping hole, in his left thigh. I immediately began to apply pressure with one hand, while fishing with the other through the small medical pack on my body armor, looking frantically for a tourniquet. “Come on man, come on!” I yelled as I threw everything out on to the ground. Another squad-mate began to apply pressure, freeing my hand, allowing for me to find and unwrap the tourniquet. I wrapped the tourniquet as tightly as I could and began to twist the windlass trying to cut off circulation. With each twist his leg began to shake, then slowly, the bleeding subsided. He started moaning in pain. “He’s okay! He’s making noise!” I screamed. I remember letting out the longest sigh of my life. All that I could do was grin as the Quick Reaction Force turned the corner in our direction to pick him up and take him to the Green Zone hospital. He was going to be fine.

Glen and I remain close friends to this day. He is out of the army and is currently a postman in a small town near the New Jersey shore. Although the awards we received from the events of that day will be placed in a box one day and put away in the attic, I know that whenever I look at them, it will remind me of why I fought. It will remind me of why I am thankful.

 

Paul Maxwell

Pinched

.Reading time 10 minutes.

Guitar

I remember playing my own little games on the pile of clothes, and watching the sun and sky dance and play through the giant back window that a 1972 Ford Pinto possesses.

“Pigs!” I think I said.  “No, those are sheep,” Mom might have said.  It didn’t matter.  I remember feeling free and relieved.

Uncle Terry rented a wing of an old plantation in West Virginia called Willow Wall.  I remember it being a huge old scary place, but I always felt safe around Uncle Terry.  He was big and happy, bearded.  I cowered behind his giant calf while he played tennis with a lost bat in a great room.

Mom rented a little house.  We had a black dog named Sooner who ate our shoes.  We had a milk man who always gave me a little carton of chocolate milk.  Once, when I was hiding in mom’s closet I watched them in bed together.  I liked him.

My dad came to visit for my third birthday.  He gave me a guitar.  I remember wishing that he would go away.

Bicycle

I got a new bike for my fourth birthday.  It was red with chrome handlebars and a sparkly banana seat.  Dad set the training wheels flat on the ground at first.  When he raised them up a notch I learned balance.  When he took them off and gave me a shove down the sidewalk I learned freedom.

“Just go around the block.” he said.  “Don’t cross any streets!”  I might have made it around the block a dozen times before I met other kids on bikes.

I was five when I got a watch. “Make sure you come home for dinner,” Mom said, “6 o’ clock!”

A watch on a five year old is as about as useful as a eunuch with a condom.  I was late often.

“You’re late again!” said Dad.  “Don’t you look at your watch?”  “Sorry.” I must have said.  “What were you doing?”  “Just playing.”  Or something like that.

What we were really doing was exploring an old broke-down Victorian a quarter mile away.  I remember crawling through the broken window in the kitchen door.  Too scared to venture upstairs, our crew left the way we came, but a little faster.

Dad held a spindle in his hand at the table.  It was from a staircase I knew.  “Don’t you ever go in that house again.” And I never did.

The next time I was late for dinner he accused me of going back to the house.  He dragged me into the bedroom, pulled my pants off and whipped me with his belt.

That day I swore to myself that when I was big enough, and strong enough, I was going to beat my dad, for me, and my mom.

Porch

Walking home from school that day was just like the day before.   I spent the half mile walk daydreaming as eight year olds do,  but when I turned into the gate to the apartment building it was different.

Quiet.

In the yard a neighbor who babysat us looked at me and said, “You need to go upstairs. Your father’s waiting for you.”  I thought this was strange because I always got home before Dad.  I walked up the three flights to our apartment.

Mom’s third suicide attempt was the closest.

This wasn’t watching her being brought down the stairs on a stretcher on her way to get her stomach pumped, or like the time my dad and his “buddies” coaxed her off the roof of the last apartment building we got kicked out of.

I was led through the room full of strangers and family to my dad in a chair.

“Your mom jumped off the porch today, Will. She’s in the hospital.”  My dad said with a big hug.  I stiffened.

That’s all I remember about that day except that my brother was okay after spending hours screaming in his crib.

While mom was “recovering” in hospitals both physical and mental, it was made clear to me what my new responsibilities were.  “Will, when I come home………..”  “These dishes………”  “That laundry……” “Watch your brother so he doesn’t………”  These things I did the best I could because failure to do so was a scary prospect

Truant

Sticking his needles in the wall when I found them is what I did at sixteen.

I had a girlfriend who was eighteen.  She drove a light blue Camaro, and it carried me away from the ants in the cereal and the dog shit on the floor. From my dad.  Not so for my brother.  I left him behind.

On a September morning I readied myself for school.  I had my books in my right hand as I stepped past my dad on the living room floor.

As I reached the front door of our second story flat, I hear, “Will, that guitar is mine! That amp is mine!”

Pure rage came out of my mouth. “You can shove that guitar up your ass!”

I slammed the door. With my back to a flight of concrete stairs, I heard the familiar sound.  The stomping that shook the house.

My dad burst through.

I think I punched him in the face before my books hit the landing.  I’m not sure.  But I do know that I just kept hitting him as fast as I could.  Uppercuts when he tried to cover.

Finally my dad raised his head and said, “Look what you’re doing to your father!”

I remember looking into his eyes and seeing blood drip from his mouth.

I picked up my books, walked down the stairs, and went to school.  I spent the first hour picking little blood spots off my forearms and feeling sick.

The walk home was a long one.  My dad met me a block from home with a pat on the back.  “Wow, where’d you learn to fight like that?  I’m not gonna mess with you man! “  He was high.  I went to my room.

Soon after my dad lost custody of us.  My brother, as smart as he is, just stopped going to school.  It’s funny how, back then, anyway, a kid could show up to school with filthy clothes, malnourished and bruised, and nothing would be said.  Rampant truancy though, had to be addressed.

Tough

I think I was twenty-one when I got the call from my dad.  “HIV positive,” he said.

I went to visit him a few times.  We went to a coffee house near where he was staying. I remember thinking that he was the best I’d ever known him to be.  Never trusting.

When I heard that he was in the hospital, and getting worse, I made plans to go visit him.

I never did. I guess I just kept putting it off.

My grandmother called one morning and told me that my dad had died.  She gave me all the information about the service, when and where.

I walked to the casket with my brother, confident that I could handle this.

When I saw my dad, my knees buckled and I screamed like an infant who’d been pinched.  Like my soul itself had been shattered.  My brother held me up.

In the car ride to the cemetery, my grandfather said to me, “You gotta be tough, Will! You need to be tough!”

I still play guitar.

Will O. Wall

You Gonna Eat That?

.Reading time 1 minute.

Two men sit at the counter in a diner. One man is a rather large fellow sitting in front of a coffee and a plate with only the trace remains of a once-delicious meal. He looks over at the man next to him, who has polished off half of a steak and eggs breakfast. The large man eyes his neighbor’s fresh piece of apple pie, sitting there untouched. The fat man decides to go for broke. “You gonna eat that?” he asks the gentleman. “Excuse me?” he replies. “That pie. You gonna eat that pie?” says the fat man, mouth watering at the prospect of soon becoming the owner of that slice. “I was planning on it,” says the gentleman, “right after I finish my breakfast here.” “C’mon, it looks so good.” “No!” The gentleman starts to get a little annoyed. “That’s why I got it.” This puzzles the fat man. “Please?” he practically begs. “No! Get your own damn pie!” The fat man grabs a fork and tries to snag a bite from the plate. “Hey, what the hell?!” The gentleman knocks his hand away, grabs his plate, and moves farther down the counter a few seats over. The fat man, feeling rejected, looks around the diner and suddenly spots a woman two seats away on his opposite side with a large ice cream sundae. “You gonna eat that?”

Cody Kizis

Another Bar Band

.Reading time 11 minutes.

“Did I ever tell you guys about how David was a mistake?”

Her glass was mostly empty by this point, but she kept swirling the straw around nonetheless.

“Mom, you really don’t have to tell this story aga-”

“Do you remember ‘The Sponge’?” she interrupted, “You all might be too young to remember it, ‘cause they took it off the shelves a while ago.”

“Couldn’t imagine why,” David’s dad chimed in.

That made his mom burst out into an awful, snorting laugh. You know, one of the ones where you can’t tell if they are choking or not?

“Yeah! Because it didn’t work! Shoulda stuck with a rubber, I guess.” she said between gasps for air, “But, I mean, it was Veterans’ Day. We had to honor the troops somehow.”

David’s head was buried into his hands, but his girlfriend, Kate, looked amused. I doubt that was the first time she’d heard the story.

“It worked out in the end, though. Right, honey?” David’s mom asked as she tried to tussle his hair. She ended up missing and just smushed her hand against the side of his face.

“Yup. It all worked out just great.” David’s dad said after finishing his beer. “That’s why I’m sitting in a bar in Chesaning and not in a Corvette.”

“I’m feeling very loved right now,” said David in between his fingers. His dad rolled his eyes.

“Oh lord, we’re just giving you a hard time. Go put a pitcher on my tab for the band. You guys are going on soon, right?”

“Yeah, after this band.”

“Then, go! I’m waiting to be entertained.”

After David slipped off of his stool and left, his dad turned to me.

“I’ll tell ya. That kid just can’t take a joke. Love him to death, but sometimes I wouldn’t even guess he’s my kid.”

David’s mom started laughing again.

“We did have some good looking mailmen back in the day.” She snorted and then stopped suddenly, “Ohh boy. I got to empty the tank.”

 Katie ended up helping her to the bathroom, because God knows she really did need the help. Me and David’s dad sat and watched the band start to load their gear onto the stage. I fiddled with my camera a little bit, remembering that I was supposed to be there to take pictures.

The lighting was terrible in this place. Whoever set up the stage made a feeble attempt to put up a few lights, but they were angled all wrong and the only things lit were the ground and the back wall.  Gee thanks, I thought, that ought to make for some lovely photos for me. I snapped a few shots, but was thoroughly disappointed. When I sat back down, David’s dad got my attention.

“You’re still doing the photographer thing?”

I nodded. “Trying at least.”

“Tough out there for you arty people.”

He paused for a second and then continued.

“When I was your age, I had it in my head that I was going to play guitar for a living. I wasn’t half bad either. We played shows here and there around Saginaw. Played a couple as far as Ohio even. Man, I loved it. All those people there just to cheer for me… us. I mean.”

“I never knew that.”

“Well, there’s not much point in telling people. You can’t pay the bills on fun. Eventually you got to do something worth something. I shoulda took those drums away from David a long time ago.”

He stopped again and stared at his half empty glass.

“You want some advice?” he asked eventually.

“Sure.” I was pretty sure I was going to hear it regardless.

“Get a real job. Stop with this crap while you’re still young and got time to do shit. These days everyone tells their kids that they can do anything they want. They tell them to ‘follow their passions’.”

He laughed for a moment.

“What a crock of shit. Country would fall apart, ‘cause no one would do any real work. You get it? No one.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I told him, but he wasn’t really listening. His eyes had the slow blink to them and his words were starting to smear slightly.

“I told David that once,” he continued, getting more worked up, “I told him but the damn kid wouldn’t listen to me. You know what he told me back? He told me ‘Well, I’m going to try anyway.’ Stupid, stupid kid. Now we got yet another bar band playing for gas and beer money.”

“But you’re still here?” I asked.

“What?

“You still came to his show. You’re still sitting here watching him.”

“Well, yeah. I’m not gunna force him to stop. He’ll figure it out eventually. He’ll figure out you can’t be selfish forever.”

“Selfish?”

“Yeah selfish. Why else do arty people do arty crap? ‘Look at this song I made! Look at this painting I drew!’ It’s never, ‘look at this paycheck that I earned through goddamn hard work.’”

I was pretty confused at this point. “Well what about the people who listen to that music or buy that painting?”

“What about them? What do they do for you? How are they going to feed my family and put a roof over their heads? It’s always an empty bar and a cheap owner. Anywhere you go” He was angry now, I could hear it in his tone. “How’s that gunna pay the bills? Huh?”

“Uhh, never mind.” Pressing the issue was not the best idea.

“Damn right, never mind.” He grumbled as he tried to flag down a waitress.

The band started to play, so I excused myself and went closer to the stage. As singer’s voice began to ring through the bar, David’s drums kicked in. The crowd of mostly friends and family cheered. I could see Kate smiling and waving, and David’s Mom singing along with her friends.

“Thank you for coming out tonight, everyone!” The singer told the crowd after the song ended, “We love each and every one you fuckers out there! Also, tip your bartenders!”

As they started the next song, I began to take pictures of the crowd.

Of the happy faces and the drunk dancers.

Of the owner, who was content to have even this meager amount of customers.

Of the waitresses pausing for moment to listen in between tables.

Of the sound guy carefully messing with his board.

Then, I took photos of the band.

Of the sweat spotting their faces.

Of their bloody knuckles.

Of their pieced-together equipment that took months to pay off.

I don’t really remember hearing the music much to be honest. It was loud enough to be heard in the next town, but I still didn’t hear it. People swirled around me as the kick from the bass drum hit my chest. The guitar would build and made me tense up without realizing it. I was waiting for the release. Waiting for the crash of the symbols. Waiting for the singer to just completely break down on stage. Waiting to exhale.

These moments played out in front of me. Each one frozen at a hundredth of a second. I could feel it in my finger’s tip. Feel the mirror clunk out of the way. Feel the shutter grind open and close. I swear to god I could. Each shot created a reminder. Yeah, that’s why I was there. I was there to remind you. Remind you of that feeling when the guitars start groaning and the drums slow down. You know? That moment when the dam breaks and takes everything with it.

In the middle of it was me, taking photos. They could have been terrible too for all I remember. But I kept taking them, because they weren’t for me. They never were, really.

Cameron Rohlof

The Girl with a T-Scar

.Reading time 9 minutes.

I could feel the cold vent plate pushed against the tips of my toes, the pressure from my mom pushing on my frontal plate, the dizzy spells that flashed me back and forth between unconsciousness and consciousness and the hectic movements of everyone around me. Life was in slow motion for me. I seemed to sink in every piece of emotional distress that was floating in the air. Dad was spazzing out, Mom was still trying to make clear of what really just happened, and I’m pretty sure my sister was wondering why her older sister’s blood was staining her hands.

Here was daddy’s little girl, lying in his living room floor, pronounced to not make it. We just put carpet in the week before and my red blood seeped into the tan shag as if we were changing the color to maroon ourselves. My mom finally got to sleep for more than four hours today, but of course, I stopped that. She woke up from a nap to find herself compressing an old bath towel against my forehead. My little sister stood by and watched this catastrophe unfold, with no clue that she was the reason I was going to survive. From that moment on, I never looked the same.

“You want to be like Ben Wallace?” kids would snicker at me when I wore my all-white crispy Detroit Pistons jersey with the matching jersey plaited mini skirts and Air Force Ones, low tops of course. They thought it was a joke to have an idol or someone to keep you going through rough times. What they did not understand was a energetic kid like me gets bored sitting in blood transfusions, chemotherapies and IV treatments and the only good thing to watch was the Pistons make their way to the Finals that year against the Spurs. So that’s what I did.  I tried to be like Ben Wallace.

I’m pretty sure it was around noon that day, my mom was sleeping, dad was cutting down pear trees in the back and my little sisters was upstairs playing in her room. I snuck outside to check out that new basketball rim Dr.Passal gave me. We were close; he was my pediatrician since I was a baby. He was also my lifesaver. When I was diagnosed with idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura, he was the only pediatrician who did any type of research on this case in medical school, so he accepted my file. There was no cure for what I had. If I bleed, I bleed for hours and then wait for a blood transfusion to pump the ounces of blood I lost back into me. If I walked, the bottoms of my feet would be black and blue. He gave me the basketball rim on a basis that I was not to touch it until I was pronounced cured. Which was kind of a teaser, seeing how there was no cure for ITP. So for that reason, my parents did not sand the hoop down. Do you really think I listened to them? My idol is Ben Wallace, and then you hand me a basketball rim and tell me not to touch it? Good joke. I ran out of that house, stood and analyzed what I was going to do. Then, I did it. I grabbed that wagon and I rolled it under the rim. I put my left foot up and the right one followed and I stood on the edge of that wagon. I grabbed that ball and I went for it. A full-out Ben Wallace dunk. But things went wrong, and that ball didn’t sink into the rim. That ball sank into my skull. My 7-year-old sister found me, with every ounce of strength she had, she pulled the rim out of the hole in skill and called for help. Now, I regret it.

See, now I have this scar left in the middle of my forehead. You know, the one I’m sure you would notice immediately upon meeting me. The one those middle school kids teased me about, the one I was insecure about through high school, my mom likes to say, and it stands for “T is for trouble.” As I grow older and notice my face transforming throughout the years, I never got to sit down and examine what happened that day. I never understood why it took me so long to accept that day and live with the scar on my forehead until now.

“I love your scars, they show you have character and that something happened that made you who you are today, no matter how little.” Pretty charming, hey? These were the words of my boyfriend, Justin, within the conversation of meeting each other. These words replay in my head every time I see that scar, I never understood how to pull anything positive out of an ugly facial mark. When I saw that scar, all I remembered was the puffy black eyes, blood gashing through stitches, the hole in the center of my face, the cuts and bruises and the agony of never being able to look the same again. Because of him, I realized that the scar on my forehead doesn’t mean “Trouble” like my mom says. It’s not the leftovers of a successful plastic surgery. It’s the image of someone who overcame something very serious in their life. If it wasn’t for this scar, I couldn’t live to tell you about this. If it wasn’t for this scar, I don’t think kids would have a way to separate me from the other kids. If it wasn’t for this scar, I think my peers would know my name before my past trauma.

So here I am, C’Priana, not the, “small Mexican girl” or the, “the short chick” but the “girl with the T-scar.” and surprisingly for once, I accept that and I am okay with that because that little scar that everyone snickers about has a message and that’s to take everything life hands you and show it off. Wear those scars proudly, model those moles, accept those bushy eyebrows, acknowledge your large forehead and smile with those crooked teeth. Because although you may have an ugly “mark” on your face, you’re beautiful. Way more beautiful than the Mary Kay beauty queen who took four and a half hours to get ready this morning. Strength is beauty. Being strong enough to accept your flaws makes you naturally beautiful so flaunt your stuff sister. And leave the dunking up to Big B.  Trust me on that one.

C’Priana Martinez

Oh Shit, Another Damn Stop Sign

.Reading time 12 minutes.

My family and I used to ride snowmobiles every winter when I was young. We would go on snowmobile trips to the U.P. or all day rides around Cadillac or Traverse City. It was a blast. We each had our own sled: a Polaris, two Yamahas, and an Artic Cat.

I was 13 and had just gotten my snowmobile permit. I had to take a two-day course to get it. I was so excited. I was going to be able to drive by myself, no one with me. I would have total control. I would be able to do spin outs, throw snow with the track, and take turns sharp. That same year my mom got a new sled: a 1999 Yamaha Phazer, white with yellow and red lighting strips. It was an awesome sled. None of us were going to be able to ride it. It was hers and she wanted to be the first to put miles on it. But we hadn’t had snow yet that year. We got a lot of rain and ice.

We finally got snow in the middle of December; it was about a week after my birthday. Eight inches of pretty white fluffy powder is the best to ride your sled in. My dad and I were so excited we were going to be able to ride that weekend.

The weekend finally came. The other groups of snowmobilers we ride with wanted to go for a ride. So I begged my mom to let me take her sled out. “Dani, no, the sled is too fast for you, so stop bugging me about it,” she said. But I didn’t stop bugging her. She finally gave in. She said, “You can ride the sled but you have to be careful.” Like all kids my age when parents tell you to be careful, I was thinking Yeah, yeah. Then I said, “I will.” I was so excited I was going to ride the new snowmobile that whatever she said went in one ear and out the other.

My mom went to work that morning, and my dad and I got all geared up: helmets, snow pants, coats, gloves, and scarves. We went out to get the sleds all filled up with gas and the oil checked.

The sleds were finally ready. My dad and I hopped on to go meet the other riders in an open field like we always did. The field was filled with the white fluffy snow. We shot the shit, and the smokers had their smokes like always, and more of my dad’s friends showed up.

When everyone was there, we finally jumped back on our sleds. Our first stop was Boy Scout Bridge, then Taffel Town, Mesick, and Kingsley. It seemed that we stopped at every stop sign so the smokers could have their smoke and shoot the shit some more. We had lunch at the Mesick bar and played music on the juke box. My dad and I shared a one-pound hamburger. Oh boy, was it big.

It was around 4 p.m., and we started to head home, stopping at every stop sign so the smokers could smoke. It was getting late and everything was freezing. We stopped in the field where we had met up earlier in the day to say our goodbyes to everyone. Then my dad and I were on our way home to meet my mom so we could go out for dinner.

We were less than a mile from home when we hit this straight shot. My dad and I opened up the sleds to burn out the carbon, and we started racing. I pulled away from him.

I was winning. I thought I was, at least. I passed my dad. I was thinking, This sled is awesome. It’s fast. I’m going to beat him home. I didn’t see my dad waving at me, trying to get me to slow down. I was so excited that I was ahead of him that I didn’t look back.

Then there it was: another damn stop sign. I did all my hand signals to indicate I was stopping and hit the brakes. “Oh shit, I can’t stop.” I hit ice that was under the snow. I never really panicked; I just braced myself for impact. I flew right past the stop sign and went through a directional sign’s legs.

I must have blacked out because I don’t remember anything after seeing the stop sign. When I finally came to, I was on my knees in front of the sled, my body feeling numb like it wasn’t there.  I started freaking out: My mom is going to kill me. There was no front end to the sled; it was gone. The front end was pushed all the way back to where the tail light was.

It seemed like it was a long time before my dad showed up, but it wasn’t. It was only seconds. He started patting me down because I told him I was numb. He was trying to get feeling back in my body and kept asking me if I was ok. All I could say was, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He said “I know, I know,” and asked me again if anything hurt. I was finally getting feeling back in my body and that’s when it hit me that my wrist was hurting.

My dad put me on his sled holding me and drove us up to the house, which was only a block away. He called his friend Ray to ask for help getting my mom’s sled. Luckily for my dad, my mom wasn’t home yet. My dad and Ray brought the sled home and put it in the garage while I stayed in the house, lying on the couch crying. I had no idea how my mom was going to kill me.

It wasn’t long before my mom got home. My dad had to explain what happened to me and my mom’s sled. I was in the house waiting so I never heard what was said between the two of them. He was probably getting his ass chewed. After my dad was done explaining what happened, my mom came in to see how I was. I said my arm hurt, and she said we’d go to the ER.

At the ER, it ended up being a big night with people coming in for snowmobile accidents. Due to the first fluffy snow of the year, there were two other families for snowmobile accidents ahead of us. The police were busy taking reports because any motor vehicle accident has to be reported to the police. The other two families’ accidents happened in their yard, so it was just private property, and the police couldn’t do anything. My accident happened on a road, and we soon realized that if we told the truth, I wouldn’t be able to get my driver’s license until I was probably eighteen or older. We would also have to pay for the sign. The story we told police was that I was riding with my dad on the back of his sled, we hit a bump, and I slid off and hurt my arm. The cop said okay and wrote the report that way. I believe he had a lot of snowmobile accidents to file that day, so he moved on to the next accident.

I was finally called back for my x-rays. My arm was broken, and I had to wear a cast for six weeks. I got a purple cast. It’s my favorite color.

When we were through at the hospital, we met my sister for dinner. We went to Burger King, and I tried some fries. I felt my face going flush, my stomach queasy, and then I threw up on my tray. It was gross, and right in the middle of the restaurant. People were looking at me, and my sister was embarrassed. We cleaned up and went home. My dad had to take my mom and me to the garage to see the sled. That’s when I saw the skis parallel to the tail light.

My mom’s sled was totaled, and she was pissed. Two years before this, my sister and I were riding my dad’s new sled, and we hit a culvert. We bent the skis straight up and bent the tunnel of the sled. It couldn’t be ridden for about six weeks. My punishment for my mom’s sled was a broken arm, and I couldn’t ride the rest of the year, which was fine with me. I didn’t want to ride anymore.

Danielle Zuzula

The Odds at Hand

.Reading time 16 minutes.

What breaks your bones,
is not the load you’re carrying
What breaks you down,
is all in how you carry…
– The Fighter by The Fray

March 1990 — Part 1/ Infant was born. She was premature by eight weeks and only one pound, but complications forced doctors to deliver her early. She wasn’t getting the nourishment she needed in the womb. Doctors were hopeful though. Premature labor gave her better chances at growing, even if her lungs were barely developed and she couldn’t breathe on her own. Her parents had decided to call her Shannon.

March 1990 – Part 2 / Shannon had abnormal swelling in her head, making it larger when compared to her small frame. Doctors presumed she had a condition called Hydrocephalus, which is an abnormal buildup of fluid in the brain. They were checking for other conditions such as Spinal Bifida because she had an abnormality of the spine, as well, which is often found patients with Hydrocephalus, but not always. Surgery was inevitable. Shannon’s father persisted, rather rudely, that she didn’t have the condition. He refused to let doctors place a shunt in her head to control it. They proceeded with a Ventriculostomy to release the access fluid from her brain.

June 1990 / Shannon was released from the hospital. She had good vitals and was four pounds in size. Her parents were ecstatic to finally have her home, but they were concerned about the hole in the little girl’s heart, which was also discovered soon after her birth. Doctor’s reassured them it should disappear over time on its own.

November 1990 / Doctors thought Shannon might have had a mild form of retardation and suggested her parents take her to group therapy for families of birth-defected children. They reluctantly agreed since she had yet to hit the milestones most babies her age should achieve such as sitting up on her own and crawling.

April 1992 / Shannon’s sister, Megan, was born only a month ago and already she’d began to develop and grow in ways that Shannon didn’t. Shannon, now able to talk, was surprised by this new revelation called ‘the little sister’. She was no longer the center of attention, as is normal for most children to feel uncertain about, and was something she’d have to get used. But there was more. She was beginning to notice, if not necessarily understand, the differences between the new baby and herself. Megan was a big baby, with light, light blue eyes and white-blonde hair growing in tufts on her head. Shannon saw that she was small, almost smaller than the new baby, had darker curly hair, and was less pudgy than this baby. Regardless, Shannon smiled in delight at having a sibling.

August 1994 / Shannon circled what felt like miles around the house in search for her mother, so excited her face was sore from all the smiling but she couldn’t stop. A Kermit the Frog book was wedged in the crook of her little arms. She had taught herself to read and she wanted the world to know it, but especially her mother. She finally found her in the front garden, rushed her inside, and sat her on the steps leading to the second-story of the house. She read the book to her again and again, almost as if she had memorized it. Long after her mother had returned to the garden, she still had the book in her grasp. She could read. She felt normal.

September 1994 / Shannon had to get glasses. They had to be specially made to fit the frame of her tiny face, but her parents reminded her that that was normal for most children as was everything else in her life. There was nothing wrong with Shannon, no sir, and the little girl smiled, believed them, and put on a brave face for them even if she realized something that couldn’t possibly be normal. She couldn’t see through both eyes when the doctor asked her to look at Mickey Mouse while he tested her. Shannon left the eye doctor as she did every year after that: confused.

August 1995 / Shannon’s mother had signed her and Megan up to take dances lessons. It quickly became apparent to everyone, Shannon included, that unlike her sister, Shannon was more prone to forgetting steps and losing her footing than the rest of the students. Shannon noticed, but took it in stride because she still got to wear the frilly costumes and take lots of pictures. “You’re just a little clumsy,” her mother reminded her. “You’ll grow out of it, someday.”

May 1998 / Shannon’s teachers had started to nickname her “The Girl Who Called Home.” For days at a time, Shannon would trudge into the office, complaining of flu-like symptoms, headaches, and pains that shoot up and down her arms and legs. All of them disappeared upon having gone home and taken an over-the-counter supplement. Every time Shannon complained, her mother insisted the pains were a part of growing older, taller, and wiser. Shannon shrugged off the excuse, because she didn’t feel as if she was growing at all. She just felt the pain, and she didn’t know why it was there.

June 1998 / Shannon tried her hand at playing the piano by convincing her father to pay for lessons. Megan went too, because if Shannon wanted to play, she did too. It was obvious to Shannon, like with dancing, Megan was faster at learning how to play and that made her jealous. She’s also frustrated because she just wasn’t getting it, each key should be somewhere, but she’s pressing the wrong ones. This made the teacher mad too. Shannon saw it in her red face, in her stiff posture, heard it in her voice. Shannon gave up lessons after that. Playing piano just wasn’t her thing.

October 1998 / It had been the week from hell for Shannon. Home sick with a persistent cough that didn’t seem to end, her mother finally took her to see a doctor. But the notion of a simple visit took a dramatic turn. A nurse came in with a gigantic breathing machine to cover Shannon’s little face. Suddenly, Shannon was overwhelmed with fear. Her mother had disappeared and she wanted to cry. Large men took her away on a stretcher. She briefly saw her aunt in the waiting room. “Where’s my mom?” she screamed, “MOM! MOM!” Her hand was grasped and her mother was suddenly at her side. She promptly explained to Shannon that she’s sick and was going to be taken to the hospital. This does nothing to calm Shannon. She hadn’t been there since she was born. From what she’d heard of it, that place symbolized that something was wrong with her. They loaded her into the ambulance and her father was waiting at the door. Both parents promise her they’d be following the ambulance. The door shuts. She was left to fight her stewing fears on her own.

November 1998 / Weeks passed in the hospital an despite her insisting that she was okay, Shannon had yet to leave it. “Your immune system isn’t fighting off the infection like it should and it doesn’t help either that when you were born your lungs were just barely developed. It makes it harder on you and you have to be patient,” they had said. Oh that again, Shannon would think. Why does it always go back to how I was born? I thought I was just born small. Eventually she was released and able to go back to school. She was diagnosed with asthma and her parents were told to monitor every cold she had from there on to prevent the re-occurrence of pneumonia and avoid another lengthy hospital visit.

December 1999 / Through her cousin, Shannon discovered the craft of making websites. She quickly became immersed, almost addicted to the thrill of learning how to add color, meaningless text, graphics, an HTML to a simple page; it was magical. It was something she could call her own where her sister couldn’t outshine her. It was something she was good at and she needed to be good at something after so many years of grasping at straws and nothing coming to surface. Despite the seclusion it brought after spending days at a time with the computer rather than people, Shannon finally felt normal again.

February 2005 / Shannon discovered that high school could be very hard. Everyone seemed to have something to say about her size, her poor grades, and her mental health. Shannon couldn’t walk through the halls without someone commenting on her height as if they’d never seen someone so short before (“Oh my God, did you see that munchkin walking down the halls? I thought Oompa Loompas weren’t real?”). They took things from her, would hold them out of reach, and occasionally pick her up and toss her around like a doll. School specialists were persistent to test her for learning disabilities and depression. Shannon refused the offer on the promise that her family once gave her, “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m as normal as anyone. I was just born small and you can’t tell me any differently because you weren’t there!” Anger and frustration fueled this teenage denial like gasoline on a fire, but despite this, her worst nightmare was slowly creeping up on her reality and Shannon was terrified that she just may have been wrong all along.

October 2006 / Shannon slowly swallowed her pride and began to disguise her grief with sarcasm. The emotion still seeped through her face, but she would ignore it and say something witty to break the tension. Episodes like this were especially evident in times of crisis such as when Shannon started, almost randomly, having seizures: “I totally meant to take a nap in the shower…” Each one would terrify her mom and sister to the point of tears, and Shannon, to be brave despite how much the seizures scared her too, would be on the floor making jokes even if she was unbearably sore and tired. “I don’t know why you have to wheel me away on this thing. It’s not like I lost a leg…”

May 2008 / A school project about her life allowed Shannon the opportunity to open the door to her past. She found a video recording of the days she had spent in the hospital as an infant, igniting an itch to know everything about her story before she knew she even had one. Neither parent had satisfactory answers when recalling her beginning. Neither parent told her why she was dealt the cards she had in life. She searched for answers through God, but all that came back was silence and a disgruntled need to blame someone for her problems. Finally, she sought answers for herself by looking up every condition and symptom she had on the Internet. Some clarity rose from the ordeal. Problems associated with Hydrocephalus can include learning disabilities, vision problems, migraine headaches, and epilepsy, among other things. But that still didn’t explain everything…

February 2013 / Another long visit to the neurologist brought to light why, since she a little girl, why Shannon would have shooting pains up and down her arms and legs. Once again looking to her abnormality of the spine, it was discovered she had had Cerebral Palsy her whole life and the developmental delays as well as the pains are a significant indicator of that. As the doctor left the room, Shannon breathed deeply to take it all in. You are normal, Shannon. This is just normal for you and that’s okay.

Shannon Stevens