WRITER'S SPOTLIGHT: LiSean McElrath

Mother

by LiSean McElrath

The wind blows and time slows

Stops
and reverses to a simpler time

The gusts of wind are exchanged with the shaking of the train car under my feet
The smells of grass and woodchucks in this lonely park are replaced by the smell of your good perfume

The perfume that smells like cherry blossoms

It engulfs my senses and you wipe away any fear of a train car accident with the touch of your hand upon mine and a sly smile that could convince an atheist that they were in the hands of God

We were on our way downtown to your place of work
You saw it as a job but it was my escape route

I was tired of being home
Being overgrown
Being anywhere that wasn't with you

Mom

To this day
To this very moment
Thoughts of you manage to tango their way into my mind and start entire fiestas

You loved to dance with me
Even if it were a simple step touch
that was always enough

You taught me to dip and turn and spin
You taught me that as long as I was having fun I could always grasp a win
You taught me that money is not the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow
You taught me that family was the thing you needed most in life

You taught me to use my heart before all else because maybe this world is a horrible place but that's just because it hasn't been exposed to light of our love

You taught me that it was okay to lack material things as long as you had the spirit to feed your soul
You taught me how to run away from him

I'm sorry

He is not the point of this
He is not the reason I'm breathing in cherry blossoms instead of suburban parks

I'm not pouring my heart out onto this page as if it were the ink itself because of him
I'm doing this because it's been 12 days since I decided I am not coming back home and the everlasting smile that used to take up four fourths of your face is gone

But it is not gone because of me and it did not disappear over 12 days
Your light, beliefs, and character have been molding and changing for years
And it is tearing me apart

It has been tearing me apart because the woman that I

spoke to on night 11 of cutting ties is not the same woman I rode on trains with 10 years ago

The woman who would give to anyone in need has died
The woman who lit up every single room she walked into with a strut and smile no longer walks the face of this plane

The woman who danced in the middle of an empty house with a heart so big that it became her metronome can no longer keep tempo

The music is fading and if you know me then you know that the day I admit any piece is coming to a stand still is the day a tiny piece of me dies as well because music

Music is whatever you want it to be
Music is individuality/music is an expression of self
Music is meant to be shared

And without my metronome

Her heart

I just can't keep a steady beat anymore

The smell of cherry blossom is being replaced by the smell of a dusty, broken, empty home
I don’t hear the music stop

I feel it in my bones

Runaway

by LiSean McElrath

I'm not trying
to set off matches into a small can of gasoline in the middle of a forest in order to watch the audience's eyes light up like wildfire

I'm not trying
to be the cliche love stricken man who finds the love of his life on a boat

I'm sure as hell not trying to seek anyone's pity for fallen off my pedestal of being okay with being alone and into the cold hard red tile flooring of

this thing
this feeling

that people refer to as love

hell no

I just wanna write

I wanna write about how she made me feel
how she made me feel like I wasn't alone in a sea of hormonal madness even though I had spoken to every individual in the crowd

I wanna write
about how speaking to her made me forget about freezing temperatures
passed loved ones
and horrible ex girlfriends

I wanna write

about how my heart flew out of my chest like bat out of hell and we caught up to by asking questions
by letting our guard down
for one hour I talked to her

in that one hour I had told someone more about myself then I had told anyone in 18 years
in that one hour I had learned more about a person than anyone could learn about her in any amount of time

for one hour I did not have any fear

I did not have a single care in the world

Jesus Christ the only thing I could fully process was how I was going to convince her to runaway to New York with me

I wanted her to drop all of her baggage
all of her fears and regrets
and to just latch on to hopes and aspirations as if it were the steering wheel to a brand new Mercedes Benz or a spaceship
because goddamn it what we felt was out of this world

and no
this was not a one way love lane

I saw it in her eyes

I felt it in her hands

but no

we aren't going to run away and live happily ever after

we are going to go back home

and pretend it never happened
because wanting something this bad and not being able to have it
would hurt a hell of a lot more.

PERSONAL ESSAY

Writing

by Cameron Jones

I take a lot of stock in what Joan Didion said in On Keeping a Notebook. Didion discusses this idea of writing with your whole self. I totally agree with this. Quick example: It is almost midnight. I was ready for sleep to embrace me when my brain cut off her arms. You need to write this right now.

I live at the mercy of my pen. Thanks, Brain.

Writing comes with a lot of freedom, but it’s what is done with that freedom that makes a good writer. I find that the words in a script often matter less than the meaning they give. It’s like what the poet Robert Frost says in The Figure a Poem Makes, “ The sound is the gold in the ore.” A talented writer can integrate emotion into their work without revealing their process. The only trace they leave is the sound of their work.

This is why I believe reading and writing are inverse processes: reading is about taking words and drawing meaning out of them. Writing is about taking meaning and putting it into words. One can only read the words in front of them, but a writer can express anything in the bounds of their imagination.

I took a yoga class. Our teacher really pushed this idea of quieting the mind, gaining focus. Despite my best efforts, my head is filled with noise. There’s music and voices and blood rushing.

And there’s laughter. The relentless tapping of nails across my sense of insecurity.

I’ve found that I can only gain the quiet I want by letting the voices out; So I write them down, And I write a lot.

I write so much, in fact, that this paper is coming out of two notebooks.

Notebook One, I keep in my bag. It’s a spiral-bound academic notebook. I write essays and topical pieces in here.

Notebook Two goes on my bedside table. It’s a little black composition notebook. I write in this one almost exclusively after eleven PM. This notebook contains more satire, poetry, and thoughts on racism, sexism, and religion-- things I believe in that shouldn’t leave the room.

I have views on society that revolve around true equality. I write these down to remember what I value, and also to derive how to address my values. But if my views left my head or my pages, I would be laughed at. I would be an atheistic white man; My views would be judged by my background, not by their truth. This is why pianists’ wives would compose music under their husband's names. This is why writers use pen names. Premature judgment is the bane of any writer.

I would use a pen name, but it would make me a hypocrite. To write under a falsehood is to write without heart. I can’t worry about being taken seriously for who I am. My only goal as a writer is for readers to look past the individual and understand the message.

This is why writing is such a challenging craft. I write with a voice that is unique to me. It’s natural, springing from my earliest memories. My voice is likely to create bias in some people. So, my true goal as a writer is to choose the right words to reach my point, without creating bias in other people.

Readers’ bias is what makes a good reader. The whole reason conflict is appealing to readers is because they identify with it, either on some superficial level or somewhere deep they can’t admit.

And that’s the conflict in this story: My goals as a writer conflict with the desires of the reader. I would even go as far as to say this is a common occurrence in the real world. People like to see conflict unfold, but no one wants to see that they are the problem.

That’s why visionaries are never appreciated in their time. They challenge the face of society when society would rather read another Nick Sparks novel.

The point of this piece is to give my experience with writing. My experience is a world of frustration over not being accepted by a society that can’t take criticism.

Because the adage is false: No one is their harshest critic. Writers are.

SLAM POETRY

Heart

by Jorin Smith

Walking out yo door
The pain you caused
My feelings lost
I don't want to do this no more
My heart sore
You I adored
I love you so much more
Impressing you
With nice clothes I wore
Damn
I felt like
I treated you right
you treated me like
I wasn't yo girlfriend insight
I want you
I wanted you
I told you I fell in love with you
I wouldn't know what to do
If I ever lost you
Is one thing I have to do
To let my hurt go away
Always crying everyday
To your face
I be nervous
To say what I have to say
Crying because I think
Of our first date
If you leave
I will wait
We need to talk
face to face
Don't be late
You're my heartache.

Father

by Charles Ehlers

A father is a man who expects his son to be as good a man as he meant to be--Frank Clark

The problem with being who your father meant to be is
that you'd have to  know your father.

You'd need more than a two minute talk in the past ten years.
You'd need to know him as more than just the man that left you.

The problem with fathers is
you have them of you don't.

I know my father
or
I knew him.

I can vaguely remember his face.
I remember the apartment he lived in when I saw him.
I know the last time I actually spoke with him for longer than two minutes was when
I was a child.
I know a lot about my dad from pictures but not actual conversations.
I know a lot about what a dad should and shouldn't do and a dad shouldn't abandon his child.

No child should have to live a half hour away from their father and never get a chance to see him.
No one should have to explain to a child that their father is a liar.

That their father is married.
That he left to live with a wife that shouldn't exist.

When you tell them this, it takes a short time before that child realizes that they shouldn't exist.

A Ronin is a ninja without a master.
A ninja's sole purpose is to protect and, one day, exceed his master.
If a Ronin has no master, what are they trying to be better than?
If a boy as no father, what is he?
Without a father, there is no child.

I am not a Ronin.

I am not here to be better than him.
I was not born to be better than him.
I am already better.
I was a mistake, but I'm still a person.
I'm a mistake but that's because I am my father's son.

Untitled

by Briana Morin

You're dumb, they said.
It'll be too hard, they said.
Why didn't you have an abortion, they said.
He'll leave you, they said.
Your life is over, they said
You're making a huge mistake, they said.
You're a slut, they said.
You're only 18, they said.
You're not strong enough, they said.
You'll crack under the pressure, they said.

But what they didn't say was,
She'll be the best thing that ever happened to you.
She'll be the one that keeps you going when you feel like the world is against you.
She'll be the only person you know for sure will always have your back no matter what.
She'll be the tiny human that steals your heart instantly.
She'll be the true meaning of love at first sight.

Teen motherhood is no curse.
It's a blessing from above and I've noticed that every time I look in Riley's eyes.

I Love My Country

by Chloe Parquet-Evans

I swear I love my country,

though now a days everyone seems to be unhappy,

Trump is president 

now and riots are started here and there, 

people break out in fear everywhere.

They don’t know 

what to do now that they can’t say what the future will be,

But can’t they see.

Isn’t this familiar behavior, 

blacks for so long had no say,
But to be killed or stuffed on boats and cast away.

They were taken 

away from their families and sold,
there resources and rights taken.

We helped build this nation,
yet rights forsaken.

My mom always 

told me you work twice 

as hard as the white man to be noticed,

But I think it just made me that much more focused.

This is not 

to be a white shaming or guilt.

It is 2017 and look at the country we have built.

Though all peoples 

thoughts have not changed much since 1950’s and civil rights.

Not all bad people are white.

I love my country and all its diversity. 

Even if flawed in equality.

We as humans 

should not let our appearances define us, 

but unite to stand together so it can save us.

So it shouldn’t matter 

if you’re black, white, straight, or trans.

Everyone should be able to say I am who I am.

So here me 

when I say I love my country so.

Even if it does not love me back,

 there’s no place I rather go.

SHORT STORY

The Journey of Time

by Pedro Esqueda

“Almost there… just need a few more adjustments,” Dave Powell reaches for the screwdriver as he gets ready to make possibly the greatest achievement in human history. Years and years working on time travel and he’s now closer than he’s ever been.

It’s been a long road which has taken a toll on Dave. Some call him psychotic, some say he’s just plain weird. He doesn’t mind though, he’ll take these opinions as compliments for all his hard work and most notably his determination.

“Alright, let’s see if this piece of junk finally works.” He presses the cliché big red button as the lights begin to dim. Eventually all his power is solely focused on the machine as his warehouse becomes pitch black for a couple seconds. Nothing was visible but everything could be heard as the machine was extremely loud. A large multicolored portal appears out of nowhere leaving Dave stunned in disbelief.

“Flippin’ hell it’s actually working!”

He stands still, shocked, not knowing what to do as he just gazes in admiration. As he snaps out of it, he takes a glance at the date and time set on the machine.

March 9, 2023 // 9:42 PM
“About two hours behind. I don't even know even know if this piece of junk works. Who knows, this thing can kill me in a split second.”

As it continues to run, he questions everything and goes over all his study and work to give him some stress relief over the situation.

“You know what, screw it. I’ve spent too much of my life working for this moment and if this is the way I go then so be it.”

He built a reset watch as his only way to come back to the present. He figured if all goes well and he survives the portal then he’ll only be two hours behind leaving failure on the watch minimal and not drastic. He steps up to the machine, takes one last breath and lunges in.

He wakes up in his warehouse, feeling like he’s been knocked out. He glances over and sees the machine. Unfinished though.

“I didn’t actually do it… did I?”

He sprints to his phone lying on a table to check the time and there it was, vivid and clear.

7:50 PM

“Okay, okay let’s not freak out here, I still need to test the damn watch.”

It was very simple watch, it not only displayed time but also the date. Only trick was it displayed the date and time you wanted to return to. There was one button and Dave simply clicked it. Next second he awoke again in the warehouse and he proceeded with the same routine. It was astonishing, everything was working to perfection. Dave couldn’t wait, he was ready to go back to some of his most desired times in history.

“So much to see and so much to explore. Surely I have to witness the death of Kennedy, or even witness the signing of the Declaration of Independence.”

And Dave did exactly that. He traveled to many historical points in time ranging to the era of dinosaurs, to the Renaissance in Italy, and even just observing life in the U.S. throughout each decade. He was mesmerized by all of it. Yet he had one rule, he never wanted to travel into the future. Dave didn’t want to know about his future. He wanted to live it without worry, and rightly so. Anyways, he loved every single second of the ability to time travel, until he started turning heads by large organizations.

One afternoon he decided to go back to the 60’s and see a Beatles concert in person. He awoke in an alley in Manhattan, then proceeded to walk down the street to just look around as he usually does. He noticed a large black truck driving quite slow in back of him. Feeling freaked out he walked into a gas station to see if the truck would pass by. Dave stood by the door as the truck eventually did. 

“Hey sir, you gonna’ buy anything?” The man said with an irritated tone.

“Um no sorry I just realized I forgot my wallet.” Dave explains.

He proceeded to walk out and continue his journey, but also looking in all directions as he still felt like he was being watched. He reaches an intersection where a man dressed in a suit approaches him.

“Sorry for asking, but do you happen to know the time?” he asks.

“Nope, sorry I don’t have my phone on me.” Dave replies.

“Phone?”

“Umm, I meant watch sorry.”

“Okay… but then what’s that on your wrist…,” he asks extremely confused.

“Oh this is broken.”

The intersection clears as they stand alone and that’s when the man proceeds to ask one more question.

“Okay Dave, are we doing this the easy way, or the hard way? Your choice.” 

“Wait what? How you do you know my name?”

“Answer the question now,” he says firmly.

“The easy way I guess.”

The black truck pulls up extremely fast as the back doors open.

“Get in the truck. Now.”

Dave enters the truck and last thing he saw was a sack going over his head and the last thing he felt was a pinch by his arm.

He wakes up in a room, handcuffed. The smell of cigarettes lingers and all he could look at was a window with no other side. He noticed his watch was gone.

“Where the hell did they take my watch.”

As he wonders what will happen next he hears the door open. Two gentlemen come through the door one of them being the man at the intersection.

“What the hell do you want from me?” Dave yells.

“Whoa whoa relax a little my friend,” the man says calmly. “We know who you are and what you’ve been doing. You my friend have been really catching our interest and considering we’ve been able to see and identify you in so many historical photos, well that’s just been turning a lot of heads here at the Agency.”

“You’re CIA?” Dave asks.

“Yes we are and we are also the guys keeping this type of stuff in the dark from the public,” he explains.“Time travel has been around for awhile now. You really think me and my partner here are really from the 60’s?”

“I don’t know, I just assumed I was the only one who had this ability.”

“Nope. Not to go into too much detail but a couple years before your discovery, the CIA achieved this ability. Knowing we were successful we realized other might be too. So it was our job to silence any noise created from those who were successful.”

“What do you mean silence?” Dave asks worried.

“You can guess what it means my friend,” he says as he reaches for his gun. “I don’t like killing anyone Dave and I never did technically. You’re technically not born yet so this again does not count.”

As he panics in his last moments, Dave notices his watch on the man’s wrist. He realizes he’s got nothing to lose as his partner leaves the room to rid the situation of witnesses. The man points his gun at Dave. Dave springs up and throws himself across the table catching the man off-guard and leaving the pistol on the floor. Dave picks it up fires a bullet into the man’s head. He then proceeds to put a chair on the door to keep it closed as his partner tries to force his way in. Dave puts on the watch and presses the button but quickly realizes he never set the time in that split second.

He wakes up on a bed strapped down, yet still dazed and confused. Two men walk in dressed in white.

“Where the hell am I?” Dave mumbles. He looks up as he tries to fully regain consciousness.

“Every damn day he asks this,” one man explains.

“You never heard about his story?” the other man asks.

“No.. why?”

“This guy thinks he can travel through time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Short Story

The Way Out 

by Andrea Rodriguez 

Eighteen year old Emily stood in the driveway outside her small apartment complex. She tried to steady her breathing, but knew she couldn’t do anything to prevent the oncoming panic attack. Her vision blurred as she looked down at the cracked pavement and back up at the leafless trees that surrounded the property.

To Emily, it was just another day with the same smothered feeling of the dead end town that no one ever seemed to leave. She turned and headed back inside the garage to find that Steve, her 23 year old boyfriend, had finally got out of bed.

Emily opened her shopping bag and pulled out a brand new aux cord that she had spent her last few dollars on. It was the last thing she needed to make the truck feel complete. She opened the up the cord and breathed in the scent of the truck’s air freshener she had just put in.

“Perfect,” Emily said aloud. Emily smiled as she hopped out of the truck and ran her fingers on the hood of it. She pulled her hands back and stared at them, they were beginning to shake.

Emily felt the familiar nauseous feeling as she remembered the day she got the truck.

“C’mon Em,” Steve said. “I’m not sure about this,” Emily mumbled. “You said you wanted a truck, and I found you a truck. But if you want it, you have to be the one to do it,” Steve explained.

Steve had already got the driver’s side door open for her and pulled off the panel covering the wires beneath the steering wheel. Emily just copied what she had watched Steve do several times before. Although she had never done it herself until now, she was able to connect the starting wire. The engine roared as the truck turned on. Steve laughed as he told Emily she did a good job. It didn’t take long for Steve and his friends to replace the license plates and repaint the truck to the black that Emily wanted. Soon it looked like an entirely new truck.

“Don’t worry, Em,” Steve said to her, “I’ve never been caught, and if I never have, I’ll make sure that you don’t too.”

When Emily got home that night after stealing the truck, she looked in the mirror and stared at her reflection. She knew she was no longer the same person she was before

Steve came along, and she wasn’t sure if she liked it. She had spent the night tossing and turning.

The next morning, Emily slept through her alarm. She sprung out of bed and smacked her palm to her forehead.

“I completely forgot I had work today,” she cried to herself. She quickly got ready and headed out the door.

Emily got out of her truck in the parking lot of the town’s only diner and jogged to the entrance. She put on a smile as she grabbed her pen and pad, ready to take orders from the usual customers. Emily’s smile quickly fell as she bumped into Sammy, her boss. She shut her eyes tightly, waiting for the yelling to begin.

“Emily, is it just me or does it seem like you enjoy the idea of being unemployed?” Sammy asked.

Emily felt her cheeks burning as her faced turned bright red. “You’re lucky there’s no one else around here looking for a full time job at diner or else I would have fired you a long time ago.”

Emily gave a generic excuse and apologized for being late again.

When it was finally time for Emily to clock out, she met up with Steve back at the apartment.

“I’m so sick of being in this town and this dead end job. I’m never gonna get anywhere. It’s like anyone who was born here is trapped and bound to die here,” Emily said.

“Well, hey Em, if you’re really serious about getting out of this place, I think I finally found a job that could get us far away from here,” said Steve.

“What do you mean?” Emily asked.

“I met some guys who need help with a job they’re doing in the city. If we both go, we’ll get the money once the job is done” Steve said with confidence.

Emily hesitated for a moment, then agreed.

Within the next few days, Emily managed to show up to work on time. Without having gotten any further detail about the job from Steve, she continuously wondered what she was about to get herself into.

As soon as Emily got home, her phone rang. She answered, already knowing it was Steve.

“Hey, I’ll be there in 10 minutes so be ready, Em,” said Steve from the other end of the line.

“Sure thing” replied Emily with a shaky voice.

A few minutes later, Steve pulled up in his old truck and got out, slamming the door behind him.

“Listen,” Emily began, “I already don’t have a good feeling about this and no job is worth getting prison time for.”

Steve charged toward Emily and aggressively put his hands on her.

“Look around Em,” Steve said, “you said so yourself you wanted a way out of this place and I found us a way. Do you really wanna be stuck here until you die like the rest this town?”

“No,” Emily finally answered. “I want out more than anything.”

“Alright then, help me load half the stuff into your truck,” Steve demanded.

Emily felt her eyes grow wide as Steve opened the back of his truck, revealing over half a million dollars worth of electronics. Laptops, flat screen TVs, music players, cellphones, and video game consoles were all stacked up in his truck. With shaking hands, Emily loaded half the stolen items into the back of her stolen truck.

“This is the course you’re gonna stay on,” Steve said as he handed Emily a map. “When we deliver, we get our money.” Steve looked into Emily’s eyes and told her, “Remember Em, I’ve never been caught, and if I never have, I’ll make sure you don’t too.”

A World Without Pain

by Dinah Clottey

“Please take a seat here.” Dr. Wollstonecraft says as he pulls out a chair for the young man who has entered his office.

Dr. Wollstonecraft is an old man. Well into his sixties, he’s devoted his whole life to the study of people. Wrinkles crease his neck and chin, the lines between his eyebrows indicating the tenseness of his study. His head glows in the center as the light from the wall reflects upon it, his shedding grey hair trying to keep its place around it.

The young man sits down and Dr. Wollstonecraft returns to his place behind his desk. As he sits, he utilizes the moment to take the young man in. The boy couldn’t be more than 19 years old. His skin is the color of dark chocolate, patches lay even darker, corrupting the look into an assortment of battered blemishes. He wears locks that are dyed a dark blonde at the ends and one earring. His clothes are big and baggy, hanging off of him as if though they could fall at at any minute. He was tall, but small, skinny. The young man sat with his hands crossed over his lap. As Dr. Wollstonecraft looks down at them he can see that they were bruised.

“What can I do for you, Mr. King?” Dr. Wollstonecraft smiles.

“I want you to prescribe me with some WWP pills,” he answers immediately. His voice is softer than Dr. Wollstonecraft thought it would be. It was young, the voice of a boy.

“I’m afraid I can not do that,” Dr. Wollstonecraft replies. “You’ll have to ask your personal doctor. I can’t prescribe to you if I’m not personally handed your symptoms.”

“Sir, I know that you're the only one who can prescribe the drug. I know that and I’m asking-no-I’m begging you to give it to me!” His brown eyes widen, Dr. Wollstonecraft sees him genuinely pleading.

He really wants this.

But Dr. Wollstonecraft had seen what these drugs have done to other young people like him. He’s seen how this world of no pain can create a world of chaos, only provoking more destruction.

“Have you ever been to the beach, Mr. King?” Dr. Wollstonecraft asks suddenly. King’s face fills with puzzlement but he nods cautiously anyway. “Okay then. Now I want you to close your eyes and picture yourself at the beach right now.”

“I don’t see how this has got to do with anything,” King remarks.

“It’s okay, close your eyes. If it makes you feel more comfortable, I’ll close mine too.” Dr. Wollstonecraft shuts his eyes and King follows hesitantly after. “It’s a nice, hot, sunny day. You jump in the cold water to cool off with your little sister. You’re having fun, splashing around, laughing. Inside of you you feel this abundant swarm of joy, and in that moment, that feeling will never go away. For the rest of you life, that is how you’ll feel with the WWP pill. But, while that feeling continues to swallow you up, you’re unconscious of your surroundings. You remain in your little bubble unaware of what could happen next. Suddenly, a shark rips through the water and engulfs your little sister. However, you sit there, still playing in the water while you sister bleeds out and dies behind you as that joy continues to take you over. Instead of saving her, you aid in her death because you made a choice in which you remain unaware.”

Dr. Wollstonecraft opens his eyes. When he looks at the young man, he sees his brows furrow and his teeth clench. He stares right at him as he says his next words.

“I guess the real question is, are you ready to sacrifice the happiness of others for your own? Are you willing to lose that trust and sense of honesty? Will you enjoy being kept in the dark for the rest of your life just so that you can be happy?”

Dr. Wollstonecraft watches the young man ponder. A deep sigh leaves his body, and when he opens his eyes, the once pleading look he had is gone and replaced with a new outlook, a stronger one. There, Dr. Wollstonecraft had found his answer.

“I will tell you again, I can not prescribe to you. Now if that is all, then you must be on your way,” Dr. Wollstonecraft says as he relieves himself from his seat.

King slowly rises from his chair and makes his way towards the door, but before he completely exits, he makes an immediate halt.

“Dr. Wollstonecraft?” King calls as he turns to face him. A smile traces the boy’s lips, his eyes glint against the light, “Thank you.”

Dog Down

By LiSean McElrath

Every morning around the time the birds start to chirp and the great big sun starts to shine, I would jump up in bed and yell to the top of my lungs just so I could wake her up.

The way she reacts varies.

Sometimes she gets up, nudges me off the bed and rolls back onto her stomach, and sometimes she looks me in the eyes, smiles, and lets me kiss her for what feels like years. This morning, she slowly sits up in bed, throws her hands to the sky, lets out a huge yawn, slouches over with her beautiful, curly, messy, bed hair wrapped around her face like vines around a tree, and just sits there. I move over towards her and use my nose to untangle her hair.

Once my nose touches her wet face, I suddenly feel disheartened. I can't remember ever seeing her face like that before this morning. It was as fiery as her hair and there were streams of water coming from her eyes and this made me upset because she was sad, and I didn't want her to be sad because I love her. So, I go crazy. I start yelling and bouncing around the bed and she tells me to shush. She wraps her arms around me and she holds me really, really tightly. She holds me tighter than she ever has before, then she kisses my forehead like she does when she tells me she loves me too.

Then, I look up, and I see her face isn't as red anymore. She cracks a smile, and I forget why I was bouncing around the bed in the first place.

I jump out of bed, and she trudges behind me as we make our way to the kitchen. You see, I love everything about her. I love the way she walks, the way she smiles, and the way she makes me food. Today she is going for the good stuff; bacon. As she places the luscious can of bacony goodness in my bowl, my mouth waters and my tongue sways back and forth like the large clock in the living room. Before i can even start chowing down, she runs her fingers through my hair and my tail starts wagging uncontrollably.

Now, I’m not usually this affected by her touch, but today, as her hands rushed through my fur, thoughts of our history together rush through my mind. I reminisce about the day where she first saw my puppy dog face through the small metal squares of my cage. I was at a puppy adoption home and everyone walked past my cage like I wasn't there. I would look down at my arms and see all the scars that covered them. I can't remember where I got them from, but maybe that's why no one wanted me. I was a damaged item, but she didn't care. She stepped in front of my cage, leaned down, looked me right in the eyes and cracked the biggest, brightest smile I had ever seen. When she stood up and pointed to my cage telling the woman with the clipboard that she wanted me, I spoke again. I spoke for the first time in who knows how long. My tail came back to life and it shook like a vibrant brown blur. I remember looking at her and thinking, “wow, she is beautiful,” and i remember looking at her and thinking, “wow, her arms look a lot like mine.”

She didn't move very fast when she first brought me home. On the way back to her third-floor apartment, she was great, loving, and happy, but, once she stepped into her apartment, she instantly changed. She would trudge around the house in baggy clothing and just stare at this picture next to her bed, but geez I am a dog with needs. There was no way I could just sit around the house all day. So, I jumped up into her bed and yelled, screamed, and bounced up and down, until she decided it was time to take me outside. That's how I got her to smile again for the first time since the shelter.

I remember playing catch with her in the park after she would serve food at the homeless center. She didn't always help out. One day, while we were making our way to the park, I got a whiff of an absolutely mind blowing delicacy: Bacon. I ran in there so fast, no one could stop me from knocking down all the tables and people in my way. She had to help pick up everything and clean up the mess, but, after that, she was hooked on helping people.

She went there everyday before we hit the park. Man, I love that red ball she throws to me. I love looking at this picture of her too. She is wearing this pretty red dress. I've never seen her wear it in person, but I always shout and wag my tail at the picture because she looks so happy. Her being happy makes me really happy. In the picture, there are so many different lights and colors in the background because she is standing on top of some building, and then I start thinking of lights.

I remember seeing really bright lights like that in person, and then I remember.

I remember being on this solid white bed and seeing a bunch of pretty colors.

I remember the doctor saying there wasn't much time left.

So, in the middle of me eating, I drop my ears, and I slowly walk towards her, laying down on the couch curled up in a ball. I just lay down with her. I think today is an okay day to just lay down. In the next couple of weeks, I just show her as much love as I can. It's harder to move around and yell, but I know she knows that I love her. I can see it in her eyes; right behind the sadness.

The day it finally happens, it felt so weird to see me just laying there, and it hurts so bad to see her crying. I yell and scream and run around her like the moon circling the Earth, but she can't hear me.So, I just stayed with her.

I was there with her every time she went to the homeless kitchen.

I was there with her every time she stopped to stare at the picture of the man beside her bed.

I was there with her every time she trudged through the house like a drunken turtle, and when she finally decided to go put on her beautiful red dress and head to the top of the building in the picture, I was relieved. T

he thing is that once she got to the top she couldn't stay happy. Her smile dropped and tears rushed down her face like a rainstorm, so I yell like crazy. I tell her, “I love you with all of my might. No matter how far I may seem, no matter how tough times get, I am going to always be right here with you. You need to pull it together. You need to be okay. You need to move on because the hurt in your soul gives me the pain of standing in front of thousands of firing squads. Do you understand? I will always love you.”

Then the wind picks up.

Almost instantaneously, the watering of her eyes fade. She looks up from her soaked palms and she says, “I’ll always love you.”