Digital Bonus Content

The following submissions were also accepted by our editorial jury. They are either digital-only or we didn't have the space to put them all into the print journal, so here they are online for your enjoyment.

Untitled Art 4: Alayna Neubert

Pen and ink drawing of an elf sitting among giant flowers and Venus flytrap plants.

Marionette

Manipulate my strings to make me feel whole.
The wooden aftertaste of your lust
chokes the oxygen out of the air
you permit me to breathe.

Muffled my scream when you cut off my arm
because it didn’t move when prompted.
Blamed myself for the loss
because that’s what you taught me.

Convinced myself I was the faulty part
while you sighed every time I cried.
Sulking at the way my chains grow tight
the further I thrive away from you.

Pilfer the scissors behind your back–
hide them under my bed
to wait for the day I saw away
the rope you chained to my limbs.

The day I cut the thread
plays on a loop in my dreams.
The remnants I work to soften as I
anxiously wait for the day I don’t think of you.

Free-bird

Black and white illustration of a bird in mid-flight

You, Me, Giinawind

How your waves reach up to the sun
Their glassy peaks swallowing sunlight,
Folding it beneath your white, foaming caps
As you grasp at what starlight might yellow

The turquoise reflections of untouchable sky,
An unreachable heaven of white-whispy vapor,

Your foam folding, excited to get to
that next stumbling wave, to absolve

The previous surf of their collapsing until
They get back up
And you start again

And I am running
Heels bleeding
Smile stretching
Chest and wings fluttering
I do not hear you, Michigami
I do not hear our spirits
Only a purple screaming as
I catch frigid air in my throat
Not to breathe but to
Feel
And I need no dreamcatcher
I need no thread
Around my neck or chest
I am not bound by stone
Because I am fucking free
And I will never be
Tied
Tight to a home
Again, even the HOMES
even you,
because I can’t look back
and I won’t
and it is why
running on dried weeds,
leaving a bloody trail
is the one moment
I’ve finally felt
Free

We are unlike the Baawitig — rushing, pushing — of a
Water always new, always cerulean, those
Brilliant shimmers of ocean-dark Bluegill
Following the current, blind and beautiful
But it is the lilies, you see, that I find us in;

It is a most beautiful reflection of the

Pains in our pasts, the dirt between our toes, it is more

It is everything and more, You and me,

Together and free, where the wave returns and repeats,

Because I must find us in everything

Little Nightmares in Metal

Metalwork bronze etching of a video game figure.

Stellar

Interstellar travel
crossing through
two merging celestial bodies

they mend so well and burn so vivid

If truth was as vivid as that,
it would show my jealousy
fuming and scorching like tons of suns

only if I could achieve this binding love,
Slow and spiraling into each other

But I silently see and scorch

maybe our nebulae and matter
could one day begin to be,
burning so bright
doubts for what I see

Untitled Photo 2: Kassidy Paradowski Carne

Photo of a sunset sky over a lake house.

Measured by Marks

I do not ever want to let them down.
However, all they have shown me is doubt.
It is like they have wished to see me drown.
But they always take the easy way out.

The amount of days I spent studying,
The nights I lay awake and question how,
The quiet hours that left me crying,
Must finally prove their purpose now.

But what if I am not the one to do it?
What if I am the one who has been wrong?
I don’t know if I could ever admit,
That they were right about me all along.

For all that matters is what they will think,
Because it drives my spirit to the brink.

Release

Small, moss green ceramic pot.

In This Little Black Dress

Slink me down
a dainty black drape,
the only velvet I could ever afford
and forgotten its fit without a care.

Smoked in cigarettes, peppered and
sprinkled in polluted bliss.
Drum me along this acid trip, warm and melty
precipitation. Cement these limbs
to one cul-de-sac’s lips.

Eyeballs coated by falling tears.
The clouds are sad today,
for me?

Untitled Photo 2: Vanessa Winter

Photo of rapids in a misty forest.

Stay (Part 3)

New Year’s Eve
We skipped to the end, saving the cream filling for last
Back gravel drive home after the bar
You were drunk singing in the passenger seat
I didn’t trust you to …

March
I put the hammer down, red lining out of the state
Destination: Anywhere New
You asked where I was headed
I asked why didn’t you try to …

May
The cool breeze of Lake Michigan brought inescapable woe
A published author over our beginning, a piece you’d never read
I knew it was over when your grandma died
And you let her …

October
The bright lights of the ER burned more than the pain did
If I came any later, I could have died
Chained to a hospital bed by needles and monitors
Why didn’t I try to …

One Year Later
You’re happily married
with the cute house and the dogs
The life you’ve always dreamed of, just never with me
I’m so proud you let her …

Now
I’m the happiest and healthiest I’ve ever been
My friends say I’m normal now, whatever that means
You left just as we were about to begin
But I’ve never regretted it
Because you helped me learn
that I needed to …
for me.

Untitled Photo: Brooke Senn

Photo of a boardwalk with a seagull.

Stop

I never thought I would make it this far, to see a day like this.
I thought at a certain point, a certain age, it would all just
Stop.
That all the pain and hurt that I felt and caused, it would all just
Stop.
That everything wrong in this world, it would all just
Stop.
But that was wishful thinking.
It hasn’t stopped.
It’s only gotten worse.
So much worse.

Untitled Photo 3: Kassidy Paradowski Carne

Photo of pink and ivory peonies.

Turmoil Within

I stood at the top of the stairwell, looming down on my suitors.
The women gawked at my presence.
So handsome.
So dashing.
The perfect man to rule over the kingdom.

Random fingers run through my hair.
Hands play with my collar.
The scent of perfume will stain my clothes for weeks.
I caught daggers from the other lords in my direction.
I can’t remember how long I danced.

My ice cold eyes glaze over their pretty faces.
I couldn’t make a smile if I tried.
Their faux laughs ring in my ear.
So shrill.
So rigid.

But then…
He showed up.

The man dressed in red strolled in.
The background around went blurry.
He brushed his hair out of his chiseled face.

My feet go weightless.
I moved with grace towards him.
All eyes on him.
But to me, the room was vacant.
Not a soul but him.

Questions flooded my brain.
Will he recognize my face?
How will I talk to him?
What will my parents think?
The kingdom?

None of those things matter to me.
I took his hand.
He took mine.
The dance floor disbursed.
The waltz started.

Butterflies flew around us.
My cheeks grew hot.
His expression turned nervous.
Was this right?
Was this the move?

Before I knew it, our lips locked.
Everyone’s eyes widened.

We release.
Yet I don’t know what to feel.

What have I done?

I dash up the stairs.
I see him over my shoulder.
His hand lightly grazes his lips.

I can’t be seen.
I must cover myself.

I shouldn’t be like this.

Why am I like this?

Untitled Photo: Vic Lyons

Photo of Big Ben against the sky.

Wandering Bear

I do not know what I stand for. Over the years I have transitioned from one cause to another, never committing. I do not know how to stand for myself. I live off begging for scraps. Hoping no one notices me. I am scared to speak as I know what happens when I am not careful. When I close my eyes, I am met by shouting and crying as I am forced to remember all I have done.

The eagle flies overhead. It does not speak. It has raised its voice before, but it was careless. Its talons are stained with the blood of those who did not deserve it.

I am multiple spirits trapped in one body. Each wants what is best but never agree on what that means. Pulling in opposite directions at every crossroads, each sure of our own superiority. Our voices too loud to hear the advice of others. The words we use are vicious in ways only we can manage.

The pack of wolves bloodies itself on its own teeth. None acknowledge that they are responsible for their own starvation.

I build new versions of myself, iterating on the past. But each time I shift the soil, hoping to find something buried beneath. Some arrow to point the way. But I never let the roots grow in, leaving the ground soft and loose. I build a new me only for it to be blown away as dust chokes my lungs. Then I iterate, modeling a new shape, new imperfections. I shift the soil again, nothing appears.

The crane builds its nest on the branch of a tree. The nest holds. The crane is proud and sleeps. The next morning it hunts, returning to find the nest gone. It builds a new nest in the branch of a tree.

I am never present. Always thinking back on the past or looking forward into the future. I miss the small moments where someone laughs. Where someone looks at me like I mean something. Where someone says they are unhappy with me. I remember them, each and every one. I remember and wish that I could have done something different. I wish I could have cherished their laughter. I wish I could have internalized their care. I wish I could have known when things had started going wrong. Instead, I am lost in my dreams of what has been and what could be. Never taking responsibility for what is.

The moose is asleep. It knows it is letting the world pass by, but the world is loud and unpredictable. In its dreams it is master of all there is, unburdened by responsibility or consequence. Free to continue dreaming until the end.

I am a spectator to my own life. Watching as the creature that thinks it’s me stumbles through life. Watching as it sits quietly while others are suffering, afraid that it will hurt those who do not deserve it. Watching as it tears itself apart, bickering over what food looks best until it decides that its own flesh will have to do. Watching as it builds a home for itself, refusing to rest long enough to build proper foundations. Watching it sleep while the world passes by, happy to live its life dreaming away rather than face what it could lose. Watching and being unable to point it in the right direction.

The bear wanders through the forest. The bear looks to the eagle flying overhead and says to take risks and choose a path forward, the eagle offers quiet reassurances that it will try.

The bear looks to the pack of wolves fighting amongst itself, and says to mix the food, the pack only pauses its fighting to snarl. The bear looks to the crane rebuilding for the hundredth time and says to rest for a moment and then search for a better foundation, the crane does not stop as it mutters to itself. The bear looks at the moose sleeping under a tree and says to wake up and face the world as it is, the moose continues snoring. The bear sees the eagle flying overhead.

The Inability to Understand

Ma says I need some pills. Pills that’ll make me think, to get my brain working, and to make me smarter. I’m not sure what to say. I’m looking down at my math homework and trying to answer a question I don’t know the answer to. No words are coming out of my mouth, like something big got stuck in my throat – a rock, an animal, a balloon waiting to be popped. My paper is blurry, the sentences all slanted, and letters all around the edges of the paper, running away from my eyes to see. I can’t feel myself sitting on the dining room chair, my grip on the pencil is loose, and my siblings are doing their homework next to me. Their heads are down, onto their papers, their textbooks, and I’m looking up – staring out the window as if hoping for something to happen. Maybe I’d see some kids throwing rocks at our window, causing a scene for Ma to be angry at, for her to direct her attention to. But obviously, nothing happens. We’re all still here, sitting in the dining room, and quietly working on our stuff.

In my class, I am taken out everyday at a certain time. Little 9-year-old me is curiously following

the lady, wondering where I’m going. My eyes dart to the walls, the ground, the lady, little steps that tap the floor, making echoes that disturb the hallway. We pass by many classrooms and some students that sit by the door are looking out into the hallway. They’re staring, sitting at their desk, looking out into the hallway because of my little, loud steps. I don’t know where to look at that point, their eyes are on me, staring at the animal that was sent out of the classroom. I am taken to another room, one with less desks and chairs. There are three other students who are also there, we’re all sitting in front of a big, red-headed lady. The room feels smaller than my classroom, it is quiet, and I can only remain still in my seat, unsure of what I’m here for. The red-headed lady goes through various reading excerpts and papers with us, all having to do with English grammar and sentence structures. The other students seem to be struggling, unable to answer the questions the red-headed lady rises. But I easily point out the correct answer, not even sure if it’s right, just guessing from what I’ve seen in things I’ve read.

Ma never seems to talk about my older brother or younger sister as much as me. I can always hear her from upstairs, her voice loud with a tinge of anger. And it is something about my stupidity, my extra class, the way other students or my siblings aren’t like me. I had asked my brother if he ever got put in an

extra class and he said yes, one time. It was once and he had gotten out, never asked to return again. He had taken a test and said he achieved a high score, which determined his capability to write and read English correctly. I thought to myself that if I could do the same, then maybe I wouldn't be stuck in an extra class, and Ma would be proud of me. I took the test, then took the test over and over, never even knowing my score – only knowing that I still had to keep coming to the extra class. Everyday I’d come into school, sit at my desk, just like everyone else. A normal student blending in with the crowd, reading her book until the red-headed lady comes in to take her away. My desk then remained empty with me leaving the class and everyone else’s heads in their book.

I kept trying. And trying. And trying, believing my efforts would be seen by the one person I loved. If I want to be academically successful, what part of me will I have to lose and what will I gain? I’m obedient, I listen to the pressure, the expectations, the differences, Ma’s voice. And I see those kids who don’t care to think about their ability to become smarter, get a grade higher, or an A+ on an assignment. They’re put in the room right across my class where I’m learning with the red-headed lady. I can hear them yelling, screaming even, and I look out the door – they’re fighting back, hitting the teacher, refusing to do something. Now I’ve become a looker. Watching from the side, as if they’ve become an animal now. Something about their refusal, defiance, and aggression made me shiver. My eyes were glued onto them as if some balloon’s went off and popped – so loudly and willingly. Something inside me wanted to go closer, stare at their behavior, the teacher’s words trying to calm them down. The desire inside me wishfully wanted to be just like them, towards all those eyes that dared to look, towards all the words that had cut in deep, and to Ma, who I loved so angrily.

At times like these, I would think about what Ma would say. She would not look at those delinquents, not even a glance. She’d pretend she wouldn’t see it, but she’d hover over my ear and whisper that I’d be like them if it weren’t her. She’d ridicule the way they were too loud and disturbing, or how they have no sense of awareness for other kids. Even though she wouldn’t be looking, she’d be listening. My attention was snapped back when the red-headed lady closed the door, and the noises went away.

Ma said I need pills and I didn’t answer. She wanted me to be out of the extra class, to be like my brother, so I’d be normal like the rest of my classmates. And in the shower, in the basement, I stared at the drain. I let the water sprinkle on my head, unmoving, and uncleaned. Some tears fell on my cheeks, cascading down until both tears met at my chin before falling into the drain. My chest felt tight, some air I was not willing to let out in case I made a noise of whimper, I was the balloon waiting to be popped. It was at the point that I felt like I was never going to be enough for Ma, that my smartness wasn’t as high as she wanted, and the A’s I received were overlooked as my siblings got awarded for going above and beyond. Still, I let that go whenever Ma hugged me and said she loved me. Ma’s words of affection always made me give in and forget the expectations she held for me. And I’m not sure why I had not yelled or said anything back to refuse her claim of “I love you.” All I knew was that this was the warmth I wanted, Ma’s arms around me, and her beating heart against my ear.

Those little groups of kids that had a high math score and reading score, privately meeting with the teacher, was always something I wanted to be in. They met up twice a week, sat around the teacher’s special desk, with a meal the teacher bought for everyone. I’d see it in the classroom as I’d pass by to go to recess. I’d hear them laugh, talk about how well they did on an assignment or test, and I’d listen as if it was for me. Then again I’d feel so bad, that these kids were stuck with the pressure from not only their parents but also their teacher. That they’d have to keep their scores high in order to eat with their teacher or sacrifice their recess time to talk about that 100%. And I came to not want to be in these stupid little groups, one’s that held high expectations challenging my abilities like I was sort of an animal to be trained. Then I’d see that room with those kids that were yelling at some teacher. Their words of “no” and “I’m not gonna do it.” Some stomps, hands swatting, a kid on the ground, and a messy classroom was what I really looked at while walking down that empty hallway to the doors. And it’d echo as I kept walking, the noises of not the laughter, but the balloons popping.

Mocha Latte

Back when I started my job, I remember the manager saying that “Beasts are not allowed in the store.” At first I thought he meant animals or people’s pets, and I agreed. The last thing anyone would want is their coffee being spilled on another’s jacket. Maybe he was allergic, or didn’t want dirt being dragged in.

My job was easy. I would welcome a “resident” of the store. We were trained to call them that, to make them feel more at home. I’d wear my green apron, hear the hums of the coffee machines, and surround myself in the fumes of caffeine. My job title was “Barista/Gatekeeper” which I had yet to understand. The store could barely fit the counter and three tables, and the glass door was always in sight. Most of the room was illuminated by a warm yellow glow of the hanging lights, or the daylight coming in through the windows at the front. The only thing I could imagine gatekeeping, would be the two doors at the far end of the room. One was the manager’s office—when he rarely worked—and the other a storage closet.

My first few days were easy, serving up the residents as they arrived. Few would ask for more caffeine than liquid, but the sleep deprivation in their face spoke volumes. One asked for us to turn up the smooth jazz, while another demanded more whipped cream.

Three girls came in on day four, each wanting different espressos, and one trying her hardest to cover her pointed ears with her hair. The other two hushed, and began to whisper to one another, but I slid her espresso across the dark wooden counter all the same. She smiled, not focusing on the murmuring of her friends nearby.

On day seven, I worked the closing shift. It was expected to work closing once a week. The main difference for closing is that you need to put the restock in the storage room. I turned off the “Open” sign at the end of my shift, and for the first time, I opened the storage room. Inside was a room on the side of a studio apartment. Someone could’ve lived there, but most of the floor was taken up by dusty chairs, crates, coffee beans, and an old piano on the far wall. There were a few smaller windows with shades on them, but other than that, there were shelves of coffee goods.

Day eight, I swapped shifts, and my manager worked with me. He asked me into his office before the day started. “I heard you served an elf the other day,” he said. Obviously I told him the truth, that yes she had pointed ears, but she was a resident all the same. He didn’t take too kindly on that, repeating that my job as gatekeeper was to keep beasts outside. I repeated my reasoning, adding that in a world of catfolk and spirits, why an elf was considered a beast. All he said to me was “elves are like the rest: lesser. This is your first warning.”

Day nine, I worked closing again, and the girls returned. The elf walked up first, ordering her same espresso, still desperately covering her ears. I checked to see if there were cameras around the store, and once clear, I served her once more. She finished her drink, but I spoke up first, “Why do you come here?”

She said nothing, fiddling with her mug, then looked back at me, “Because you’ll make me a drink.”

“Not because of your friends?”

“Oh, no. You know me as well as they do; they only want to see me in trouble.”

Day twelve, had to cover closing again—co-worker quit—and another resident entered. It was an older man with cat ears. Unlike the elf, he didn’t hide them, he wore them proudly. He sat confidently down at the counter, enough so where other residents turned their eyes. His voice was nasally, but his cough validated his desire for something creamy.

I looked around the room, knew I would be written up for this, and passed him his glass. He took slow sips, and from his grin, he knew I was going against orders. Other residents seemed to recognize him, but he continued to go at his pace. He took one final swig, then looked at me. “The piano in the storage room? May I play it?”

I asked how he knew about it, and he recounted a small tale of a prior worker who would work the night shifts. How they were too weak to lift the coffee bags, and thus would ask him for help. In exchange, the worker would serve him. I thanked him for the story, and before I could offer him to play, he got up, said “thanks for listening to it,” and left.

Day thirteen, fourteen, fifteen were all similar. Morning shifts, but rumors about the manager started to spread amongst the regular residents. I tried to listen in, but new residents would walk in, asking for a drink and steal my attention. The elf girl visited each day, same as before: order, serve, drink, then leave. Though, the last one I had asked a question. “That’s ridiculous,” she responded. “You want to know my name?” Of course I did. I had learned all regular resident’s names at that point. Regardless if it was in my job description to kick her out, I had grown fond of seeing her, seeing how she began curling her hair to better cover her eyes, I had her order memorized. “Emeline,” she said, finishing her drink, then leaving once more.

After that, something shifted in the store. Days sixteen to twenty were met with residents of all types. A few catfolk, another elf or two claiming they knew Emeline, and even a spirit. All of them talked about how they knew I’d serve them, even if I had never met them before.

Day twenty-two, the cat man came again. He met me in the back of the store at close and asked to play the piano once more. The manager had ordered a large shipment compared to usual, so I asked for assistance in return. He obliged, and when he finally sat down at that piano, it felt as if he had owned it. A few taps of the keys and his fingers danced. They slid to the next notes, and the vacant storage room was filled with life. I can’t recall the tune, nor its name, but it was a classical blues piece. I can vividly remember humming it as I closed up, and as I left, it felt his song was still hugging the walls.

Day twenty-three I was fired. It turns out that the manager lived across the street, and heard the piano being played. When I went in for work, he waited for me at the front door, yelled at me to enter, and began berating me with his words. “You have one job! You are to not serve beasts here! Not them, not creatures, not anything un-human!” I pleaded for my job, but he recounted all the times I had served Emeline, and even the others. I tried to change his mind, telling him that everyone is a resident. Outside the “beasts” are residents of the city, why not here? Then, he slapped me. Hard enough where I fell to the ground. “Listen here,” he said, grabbing my collar. “Get out of my store.” Then, there was a squeak from the door, and on the other side, Emeline. Her face had gone pale, and when we looked at her, she ran.

Day twenty-seven, the manager was arrested. Emeline ran to the police, and after a thorough investigation, the manager was arrested on several cases of assault. The officers told me that him hitting his employees before firing them was common, and many ex-workers voiced their experiences.

Day twenty-nine I had gotten a call. It was from Emeline telling me to go back to the cafe. She said that it was under new management, and that she would love to take me there. When I arrived, she was standing outside, ears proudly shown, and dressed up. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside, where classical piano music sounded through the building. Sitting at each seat were different people, catfolk, elves, humans, spirits, and kappas alike. At the bar, a familiar cat served the drinks. “Emeline, see you brought an old friend,” he winked, polishing a mug like a shot glass.

He turned to face me, then gazed over the whole room. Before I could ask what happened, he insisted on telling me the tale. He recounted that he used to be a small performer with a desire for genuine connections. In all the stages he performed on, his favorite was the piano in the storage room. Each night when he would play for “Jerry” he felt fulfilled. Thus, he bought the place. We laughed as he finished the story, but then he turned to me, “How’d you like a job?”

I was shocked by the offer. He claimed that “You would just be a barista. The doors would be open, and anyone could get a drink.” I asked why he would want me for the position, in which he replied. “Perhaps it is because I miss Jerry, or that I know you will serve us a drink, but no… I just like you.” he laughed. I asked if he would be the new “manager” and instead he just said to call him “Joel.” The rest of the night was us sharing caffeinated drinks and stories until the sun rose the next day.

Day thirty-two was my first shift. I opened the cafe once more, and Emeline joined me behind the bar. She smiled, happy to see me before joining me behind the counter. “You ready for our first day?” she asked. I looked back at the door, the “open” sign bright Joel’s piano music filled the room. It was the same classic tune he played before, same windows, same wooden tables and bar, but now I eagerly awaited to see who was next through that door.

Meet the Team

With years of experience as an editor-in-chief for The Green American, a magazine focused on environmental and social justice issues, Professor Tracy Fernandez Rysavy is our advisor for the Northern Lights Journal. You can also get in touch with our current editorial staff.