Nicholle Davis:
1. Mirror – Chameleon Award winner
2. That’s Okay
Andrii Shadrin:
1. Quintessence – Be You, Be True Prize winner
2. Do I Really Love Him
Hailey Barnes:
1. It’s Cold and Empty Out Here
Talin ‘Maggie’ Teague:
1. The Space In-Between
2. All Yours
Caitlyn George:
1. The Repaired Awning
2. Names We Bury
What is it you see when looking in the mirror?
Do you see the powered woman in the bright red dress, bright lipstick smeared from a deep brush of passion? A dignified young lady with her hands clasped and eyes shining with a demand for justice? Or even a wild partygoer cloaked in nothing short of a magical rainbow that even the merriest of clowns would find themselves envious of?
Yes!
I hear you cry, flashing a smile as bright as the summertime sun and sweeter than the first bite of
that Hershey’s bar on Halloween.
That is who I am! I am everything, a beacon of–!
No. You are not.
What? B-but…I am…
No.
Stop
Lying.
You
Are
Lying.
The mirror, cold and reflective like the slickest ice, hides not the truth.
You see a young girl, face shrunken with a fear that reaches deeper than the holes you dug in the
mountains of snowbanks piled in your backyard. Eyes that show signs of wear and tear, not so dissimilar to the dull rags fished out of the bottom of Grandma’s dusty dresser, barely able to constitute a rag you’d clean your grimy
basement bathtub with.
You’d see a husk, slouched and devoid of any burst of warmth or minute wave of grief.
You know what you are.
Are
You
Nothing.
Crash!
Now the mirror sits, shattered, shards of fractured glass sprinkled about the tile. Broken and lost to the shroud of cruelty the world masquerades as opportunity and happiness. Left to wither
away at the hands of fate and haunt your ruined heart, infested with dark spiders that spend their mediocre days gnawing away at what’s left.
Left of what?
You.
And
your
pitiful
dreams.
You beam your radiant smile in my direction, though I know it’s not for me. I can only smile in return, feeling the painful stir within my lungs.
That’s okay.
You set our time together aside, left to wilt like a flower in the bite of winter, to walk by her side, your hand clasped tightly in hers. Heart aching, still I smile, drinking in the wavering glow of your brilliance. The first flower comes, blossoming where you stood.
That’s okay.
I smile and tell you that I’ll always be there for you. You thank me with that same smile, though its breathtaking radiance has gradually dimmed. You hug me, but it carries the feel of emptiness. There’s a hint of red; it stings, sharp and deep, as it coats my quivering smile.
That’s okay.
The flowers come quickly now; carnations, pure white and in full bloom, delicate petals stained crimson. A symbol of love, but a love left in the cold darkness, forgotten. Concrete floors shimmer in the unnecessary fluorescent light, reflecting deadly crimson. Breathing comes in short puffs as the flowers continue to spill forth, falling off the tip of the very tongue I used to tell lies. Lies to you, and especially to myself.
Carnation after carnation landing in silence. White petals now drip completely with cold crimson. The world spins and dims, and the flame of my heart that held you close begins to die. With the setting of the warm sun now cold, winter finally falls. The time of distant summer radiance has come to an eternal end.
A lone carnation, white as snow, and petals dipped with the final essence of life remains.
That’s okay.
For you, I’ll become everything in this world. An energy overflowing its banks. Your armor and loyal soldier serving with faithfulness. The blanket warming you on cold nights. The kisses to your brow before departing. The tight embraces after long absences. That voice whispering “I can hardly bear our separation” – even if we’ve only been apart for hours.
One day, we will finally escape to that place where no one exists beside us save the occasional deafening silence. We’ll build our own garden paradise. For hours we’ll gaze at the stars, wishing for that same desire. A place where the word “longing” loses all practical meaning. Where early morning begins with failed attempts to untangle from each other’s arms. A place where every line is about that one person alone, and words take on new, previously unknown significance. The place we’ll call home.
A home initially built only within us. Where someone runs to the front door, to embrace and never let go – at least for the next few hours of eternity. Where someone rises early to prepare breakfast. Where someone becomes the other’s living alarm clock – but instead of jarring
rings, only gentle kisses interrupting slumber.
Where love and understanding will reign supreme, regardless of circumstances, lack of resources, bad days, and the endless downpour outside. Where “I want to spend my whole life with you” are words proven over years shared.
A home where our love for each other is the only unchanging constant.
“Do I really love him?” I found myself asking every single day. Love, love, love. How does one truly determine if they love someone? I like caramel ice cream from Ben & Jerry’s. I enjoy smoking cigarettes while drinking cheap alcohol at my friend’s apartment. I love the scent of my English professor’s perfume. I think I like drinking coffee with my mom on early summer mornings while she reads the newspaper delivered by the neighbor’s kid. But that’s not the kind of love I’m contemplating.
Love is about giving yourself fully to another. It’s about finding time to be with them and fighting for any chance to spend even five more precious minutes together. And do they really love you back if they are perpetually preoccupied? Not just every once in a while but quite literally always. A l w a y s. Always somewhere else.
Then the realization sets in: It doesn’t matter. Your love will break you. It can happen at any moment. One blow, and you’re shattered. Two, and you can no longer pick yourself up. Three, and you’re broken so utterly that all you can do is whimper, lying curled in the corner of a room that now feels like a tomb.
Love will inevitably shake you so violently that you’ll loathe yourself and the entire world for an agonizingly long period. It will happen unexpectedly when you least anticipate it. No amount of preparation, inner strength, or supportive network can prevent you from being cast into absolute seclusion, your resolve drained, your fighting spirit vanished.
So why put on this whole circus with vows and promises that you’ll be together “forever”? No, you won’t be. This person who now swears eternal love to you will flee tomorrow to another, to someone whose heart isn’t already broken into pieces.
The harsh truth of love’s existence is that we give every part of ourselves without reservation to those who don’t deserve even a fraction. Afterward, we are broken, our hearts in ruins. And no one will bother mending them. No one. Once broken, it leaves a permanent, unbearable imprint.
You can no longer gaze warmly into someone’s eyes or smile freely upon chance meetings. Your thoughts will batter you mercilessly night after night, and memories will never disappear. They’ll always linger deep inside you, patiently waiting to resurface. Then while sitting in your English History class, that haunting feeling will descend upon you once more as you ask yourself, “Do I really love him?” Love’s haunting question plagues your splintered soul, the shattered fragments leaving you feeling permanently hollow.
Dearest,
I fear the brush of your fingers along my arms. I fear the gentle way you tuck my hair back when’s it fallen from its place while I’m studying. I fear the way your eye gaze upon me, lingering a little too long.
But…
It’s because I’ve grown so used to the cold that your comforting warmth has become foreign to me. It’s because that piece of hair has been in my way while staring at my screen for so long that I just see around it. It’s because I have never known what it’s like to look someone in the eyes. And instead of seeing myself, I see and feel the deep affection you hold for me piercing through my chest to break apart the walls I’ve built there.
I am no stranger to love and her dance. But I have never been in a dance like the one you have drawn me into.
Soulfully yours <3
P.S. In all honesty, darling, outside of the metaphor, you are a terrible dancer and we’re going to have to change that.
“My name is Jazlyn, and I’ll be your waitress tonight. What drinks can I get started for you both?”
The question hangs in the air briefly, like a glinting piece of dust traveling briskly through a drop of sunlight before vanishing into darkness. My husband answers after a beat, claiming he wants a beer; any kind would do. The waitress then turns her practiced smile and blue eyes to me. I struggle to find the words to say that I only want water. Her name has taken me off guard. Jazlyn. I knew someone named Jazlyn once upon a time. But her eyes had been brown, and this is not, as I thought for a second, that same girl from elementary school. No, that wouldn’t make sense.
Now, the waitress and my husband stare at me with curious, expectant, and slightly annoyed expressions. “Just a water, please.” I smile, though I have been overcome with something like dread. For what, I am unsure.
“Are you okay?” In response, I smile reassuringly at Mike, a name I had only encountered in flitting moments and which meant virtually nothing to me until I met my husband. I respond the way he anticipates. “Of course.”
Jazlyn, the waitress, returns with our drinks and then takes our orders. The rest of the night goes the way I expect it to. After fifteen years of marriage, Mike and I have developed a routine for our Friday dinner dates. First, we order. Then we talk about our respective days and plans for the weekend. Mike is planning to visit his sister in Oregon. I plan to finish reading my mystery novel. The food will arrive shortly after we wrap up discussing our mundane schedules, and we will eat in near silence, broken only by a quip or question from either of us. Mike will pay the check, and we’ll leave. Back at our downtown Seattle apartment, I’ll pull the shades closed to keep the city’s dazzling lights out and crawl into bed. Mike will do some work before following me. But by then, I’ll be lost in unsettling dreams of a small Midwest town, the brown eyes of my best friend no longer visible because her eyelids are closed as she lies on satin, presumably forever.
Before the late afternoon sun sunk behind the hills, powdered white like a carefully crafted doughnut, a sound sliced the crisp, previously muted air. As far as Park knew, he was isolated. Utterly removed from civilization. Just the way he preferred. Yet… Yes. There was laughter traveling on the frigid breeze, whispering away in a language unexplored by him. He waited. The last remnants of searing light hunkered away entirely out of view, eclipsed once more. Park could no longer see his breath in the air as it danced and gently shimmered in golden hues.
He could no longer see the endless faces in the clouds that peered at him from their sapphire ocean.
He could no longer see the hills across the valley, looming yet comforting.
He could no longer feel the warmth of the dying fire beside him.
He could no longer lift his arms to pile on the firewood.
He could no longer linger in unwanted memories.
He could no longer sense the cold.
City lights appeared in front of Park’s unblinking eyes; he paced on the stoop of an apartment building, the rain pelting him through the slashed awning. No one answered the door, as Park knew they wouldn’t. No one lived there anymore. Behind him, the noise of the bustling city faded into nothing as the frost began to gnaw away at what was left of a man once full of vibrance.
Far away, a door opened, and soft snow landed delicately atop an intricate updo through the tattered awning. Laughter erupted through the noisy and crowded city, relinquished to the honks of cabs and other date-night goers giggling a little too hard at their date’s jokes. A laugh lost in a boisterous city. A laugh uncovered in the flitting ray of embers, so tangible Park could see it.
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