The Russell Creek Review

Heaven

Josh Christian

 

Glimmering dress—

robbed men 
proceeding in silent
march—

between pillars—
mosques—shrines—

all stained scarlet,

where flowers and trees
had taken root—

tall stalks leaning towards Holy center.

Shifts of heavenly seat 
—genesis—

for rows of cedar trees—

whole forests 
intertwined with diamond floors

And at its center
sat a red Lamb—

earth shelved on forehead—

purple irises his throne—

awestruck men
turned to bended knee.

​

Power of Pink
A Poem to My Sister

Madison Ferriell

I am afraid to have a daughter.

I am afraid of pink ribbons and pink razors and pink polish and pink panties.
I am afraid of big girl dreams, princess Band-Aids, softball, and dance class.
I am afraid of Valentine's Day and sleepovers and birthday hats.

I am afraid of the very first day that she looks into the mirror and doubts that she is as beautiful as she once believed she was.

The day that she no longer sees her curls as lovely and her body as strong and her nose as hers and beautiful.

I am afraid of the day that her underarms grow hair and society denies her womanliness.

I am afraid of the day that she doesn't want to wear tights on stage anymore because her legs are too thick or too thin or too average.

I am afraid of the day that she is not invited to a birthday party because her hair is too curly or flat and her teeth are too crooked and she is too much of who she is to be liked.

I am afraid of the boys that will use her body or tease her for the size of her backside or appraise her worth to be what she may do to please them.

I am afraid of the day she logs onto Instagram or Facebook and thinks to herself,

I wish I had freckles
And rich cocoa hair
And a Beyoncé body
And a small button nose.

I am afraid of the day she asks me, "Mom, am I pretty?" And I will fail to find the words adequate enough to say that she is more than pretty—

She is beautiful and brilliant and kind.
She is a giver or a leader or an artist or a friend.
She is quiet, but that's okay, for she has a world of earthshaking ideas swimming in her head.
Or she is wild, but that's okay, for the world is run by loud women.

How do I tell my daughter that her worth does not depend on what she wears or what she eats or who says she is what?

I am afraid of the February 14th following her first breakup as her sense of self worth slips away with every picture she scrolls past.

I am afraid to have a 21st century daughter who has rights but not equality,

Who has access to porn and images of unachievable beauty standards in the palm of her hand,

Who relies on the validation of a like.

I am afraid of raising a daughter who grows up to be afraid.

Afraid of what the people around her think of her,

Afraid that she will never find someone to love her,

Afraid that no amount of makeup will ever cover her imperfections,

Afraid that who she is is not enough.

But she will live afraid if her mother lives afraid.

I pray to be courageous enough to be a greater influence on her than society will ever be.

I pray that I teach her to love herself fiercely.
To recognize that she has flaws, and her flaws are beautiful.
To shave or not to shave or to wear makeup or not to wear makeup.
To praise other women, not to compare herself to them.

I will teach my daughter to shatter the mirrors that do not reflect back to her an image of beauty, Of strength,

Of enoughness.

Of the power of pink.

​

Conversational

 

Anna Marie Laffoon

 

A conversation is a cloudy lake—

I can never gauge its depth till I jump in

And sometimes it's cold and painful—

Though it's even chillier when I get out.

"I wish I hadn't said that."

 

A conversation is a shallow pool—

Crystal clear and a little stale;

The same waves and water recycling

And nothing new to offer.

 

A conversation is a swift river—

Madcap rapids with no place to dive in—

Preoccupied with its own agenda

And its own rushed destination.

 

A conversation is a crashing waterfall—

Too many people thundering at once.

Often I get trapped in the undertow,

Unable to get my bearings and swim to safety.

 

A conversation is an endless ocean—

Too much to explore and not enough time.

And something about the haunting cry of the sea

Makes me wish I had never returned to shore.

"Goodbye."

​

The Romantic Comedy

 

Anna Marie Laffoon

 

She graced the screens with An Education—

And, perhaps with parody as his ambition,

The same premise a nameless director took

For his experiment, The Girl and Her Textbook.

The dialogue is far too practical and bare;

No imaginative fancy within can be found there.

Purposeful, perhaps? to reflect the content;

But two stolid, empty rhymes do not a poem make.

He tries to render love as an equation, vainly;

Romantic elements in algebraic symmetry

Bring about much less life to the screen

Than did electricity to the monster of Frankenstein.

It is all false, far too synthetic to believe—

Besides all this, the two stars have no chemistry.

Girl and Book is little more than chemical reaction:

The fumes are not fragrance, but putrefaction.

​

​

Love’s Labour’s Loser

Sarah Durham

 

            She closed her eyes and felt the warmth from the candles as they neared her skin. The subtle strains of a song she remembered from her childhood drifted through the heavy air around her. Her body was alive with anticipation and yearning. The deepest desires of her heart played through her head, and her lips, moist with her longing, parted as she lowered her head slowly. She squeezed her eyes shut for the last moment of bliss and let herself linger in this feeling. When she finally opened her eyes she blinked away the harsh fluorescents that flooded her vision. She found herself staring at a sad, little Birthday cake that had somehow managed to hold twenty-seven candles. Her family sat around the table, tucked into the corner of Los Gringos, their favorite Mexican restaurant.

            “This time, twenty-seven years ago, your Dad was driving me to the hospital in the middle of a blizzard. It was twelve degrees in the middle of February.”

            “We thought you were a boy until they ripped you out of her.”

“Your Mom had to climb out the hatchback of our Volkswagen Rabbit because the door handles were frozen shut.” 

“We were going to name you Matthew. Already had your nursery filled with baseballs and a little jersey to bring you home in.”

“I was in labor for twenty-nine hours.”

“We could hear your Mom screaming from the hallway.”

“You still make an entrance everywhere you go.”

“My body was never the same.”

“Hey, you remember when she got sent home from school in 1st grade because she told her teacher that she was going to stay silent in honor of the Oklahoma City bombing?”

“Ended up naming you after Ruth from the Bible.”

“We always thought you were going to be a journalist. Go to Vassar or somewhere.”

“She always had crazy ideas.”

“I think it means friend. Or noble one.”

“My hair immediately started turning gray.”

“Can’t believe you didn’t go to Vassar.”

“Matthew means ‘God’s Gift.’”

“What are your plans?”

“Are you still doing that little writing thing?”

“When do you graduate?”

“What happened with you and Michael?”

She had remained mostly quiet through the two hours of stories she had heard countless times and questions she answered at every family function. She had not remained sober, however, polishing off two pitchers of margaritas throughout the onslaught.

“I can’t stand this,” Ruthie yelled as she rose to her feet. “Yes, Mom, I know I wrecked your body and gave you gray hair. Uncle Joe, I didn’t go to Vassar because I didn’t get in. I wasn’t good enough, but you know what? I’m just fine being a 27-year-old super, super senior, because now I know what I want to do with my life, or the ‘little, writing thing’ as Aunt Mary likes to call it. Sorry, Dad, I’m not a boy. Never was, never going to be. If those Softball camps growing up didn’t change me, your regrets won’t either. My plans, Lacy, are to graduate and keep doing the ‘little, writing thing’ and that’s all that matters right now. And Grandma, we’ve been over this, Michael broke up with me two years ago. Because I wasn’t Catholic enough for him.”

“What’s she saying, Don?”

“Ruthie, you need to sit down. You’re causing a scene.”

“Is she speaking in tongues?”

“She’s drunk as a skunk.”

“Who let her drink this much?”

“She has been going to that charismatic church, you know?”

“I blame myself.”

***

As she opened her eyes she blinked away the glare from the television screen. She was insatiably thirsty and she tasted notes of tequila, enchilada, and public embarrassment on her tongue. Ruthie slowly lifted herself off the couch and groggily made her way to the bathroom. She stuck her head under the faucet and let the water run down her throat. She found her phone on the bathroom floor next to a questionable pile of tequila, enchilada, and public embarrassment.

She typed out a message to her sister. On a scale of one to Amanda Bynes, how bad was the meltdown?

Holly’s response came as Ruthie brushed her teeth. Somewhere between Roseanne Barr singing the National Anthem and the time you came home high and told Dad you had been watching Old Yeller at Michael’s house and that’s why your eyes were red.

She cringed and held her thumbs over the screen as she decided what to write. Before Ruthie could respond Holly sent the last thing she wanted to read. You should call Mom. And take Advil. And drink water.

Ruthie replied, I’m not worried about the hangover. Mom on the other hand…

Get it over with.

Ugh.

            She crawled into her bed and stared at the unopened Birthday cards that sat on the desk. Her Mom answered on the first ring.

            “Hey Mom.”

            “You scared your Grandma.”

            “I know. Listen, I’m really sorry.”

            “You hadn’t seen your Aunt and Uncle since Christmas.”

            “I know. I didn’t eat much yesterday and those Margaritas were stronger than I thought.”

            “Thankfully you let Holly drive you home.”

            “Yeah. Look, I’m really sorry about things I said. I didn’t mean it. It’s just getting older, ya know?”

            “You didn’t say anything, Ruthie. You sang Feliz Navidad at the top of your lungs because you thought it was the Spanish birthday song, you slurred through some speech that nobody understood, and you threw up in your cousin Lacy’s purse.”

            “…I feel awful. I...”

            “Ruthie, are you okay? You would tell me if something’s wrong?”

            “I’m fine, Mom.”

            They were miles apart in their respective homes, but the silence that settled between them sounded like the face her parents made when they told Ruthie and Holly that they were going to have to put their cat down.

            “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

            “I love you.”

            “I love you too, Mom.”

            Ruthie grabbed the stack of cards and brought them back to her bed. She made her way through the cash, gift certificates, and cheesy, Hallmark bullshit and pondered when the switch from packages to cards happens. Ruthie wondered if there were some rare codex about adulthood that banned presents once you reached a certain age. She figured it was found somewhere between the edict that makes you an “old maid” if you are unmarried by the age of twenty-seven and the commandment that states, “Thou shalt not beeth of good cheer until thou hast submitted thyself to a man.” These thoughts only hit closer to home when she opened the card from her Grandmother and found two shiny, plastic gift cards. One was for a gym membership and the other was a year’s subscription to eHarmony. She started to taste the tequila again.

            Ruthie picked up her phone and came dangerously close to calling Michael. While they had called things off ages ago, she still found herself sharing her bed with him time after depressing time. They would wake up the next morning and drink coffee as Ruthie tried to scavenge for any clues that he was dating someone new and he always was. She would always be a skinny, upper-middle class daughter of someone from his Mother’s Sunday School class, full of Catechism and Hail Mary’s. Michael would kiss her before he left and say something along the lines of “get back out there,” “you should try to find someone,” or “Ruthie baby, you’re a catch, you’ll find a guy in no time.” He would leave to go on a coffee date with some girl who was always halfway through getting her realtor’s license and Ruthie would put on her sweatpants, turn on reruns of The Office, and feel amazingly lonely.

            She had tried to meet other men, but had come up miserably short. There was the gentleman at the bar who told her that she wasn’t conventionally pretty, but that she was sexier than every size-two in the place. She still let him round a few bases before dramatically sobering up and faking sleep. There was the guy that she had gone to high school with who sent her numerous pictures of his anatomy posed in diverse and creative ways. He had died in a car wreck. The accident and the dick pics were not related, they had never actually reconnected, but nonetheless Ruthie found herself attending a very uncomfortable memorial service hoping that his phone was as dead as he was when they found him.

            Several days later she found herself sitting in a pew at Our Mother of Perpetual Sorrow or Cathedral of Immaculate Conception or Saint Whoever-the-Hell. Ruthie had Googled the steps of Confession, but couldn’t remember the name of the church. When it was her turn to take a stab at the booth Ruthie entered, made the sign of the cross and said the words she had rehearsed countless times at home and on the car ride to the church.

            “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been six months since my last confession.” Only half of that statement wasn’t true.

            “Tell me your sins.”

            She found herself desperate for words and then, all at once, her confession started pouring out of her. “I’ve slept around. I wouldn’t call myself a slut, but I’ve definitely had my fair share of umm, illicit exploits. I drink a lot. I know Catholics, I mean we, get down with that, but I drink an inordinate amount. I’m not an alcoholic or anything, but it’s definitely made me do things I regret. I made my Mom cry on my Birthday. I guess that isn’t as bad as making her cry on her own Birthday, but it’s still pretty bad. I lie almost every day. Today I told my sister I was going to the gynecologist, but really I was coming here. I also lied to you. I’ve never been to Confession before, I was scared that I would get kicked out if I wasn’t Catholic even though I saw online I can still confess, but I might not get absolution and I’m okay with that. I also saw online that there is a Saint Drogo. He’s the Patron Saint of Unattractive People. There’s also a Patron Saint of STD’s. I can’t remember his name, Saint Fred or something. I don’t have an STD I just think that’s hilarious. Not that STD’s are funny or anything. I tend to ramble and say things I shouldn’t, especially in front of men. Not that I’m trying to hit on you or anything, you’re obviously married to Mary or Jesus or whoever, I’m just nervous. I’m sorry sir, uh, Father. I always envied traditional religion. My family is Baptist. I guess the closest thing we have to a Pope is Billy Graham, except he might actually be dead. Jimmy Carter is a big Baptist too; he could be the Patron Saint of Peanuts or Hostage Crises. That wasn’t funny. I guess I can add that joke to the list of things I need to confess. I always thought Baptists lacked this deep, historical tradition. I read Anne Frank and wished I was Jewish. Looking back I realize that is incredibly insensitive of me since she died in a concentration camp. Actually, I read that Anne Frank might not even have been a real person or something. That’s beside the point. I guess I’ve always wanted to feel deeply connected to something. Lately I feel more lost than I ever have. I’m a 27-year-old English major and I’m desperately in love with a man who is...a man who is a pompous, Catholic asshole. Oh shit, I didn’t mean to say that. Ah! I did it again. I’m sorry Father. And also I know that not all Catholics are assholes, but Michael is. How can someone make me feel so special and so awful at the same time? It’s like he has this power over me, he texts and I’m there for whatever he needs. He’s the reason I’m even here. He wants a good, Catholic girl. I’m pathetic. No, I’m not. Well, I am, but I deserve more than fleeting hook-ups and backwards affirmation. Ugh! I just want to feel something more than lost and lonely and not good enough. I want my Dad to be okay with the fact that I wasn’t a son and I want my Mom to stop pitying me and worrying about whether I still have fruit in my loom. I want my Grandma to stop saying she hopes she doesn’t die before I’m married. I want Michael to go to Hell. Yeah, definitely know I shouldn’t have said that one out loud. I want to be okay with being enough. I don’t even care as much about finding love as I do with finding something to love in myself. I know you can’t absolve me of any of this so I’m just going to leave now and you don’t have to say anything. Thanks or Hail Mary or however you end these things.”

            Ruthie drove to her childhood home and sat in her parked car outside. She was working on gaining the courage to come in when her mother suddenly knocked on the window. Several expletives left her mouth as she opened the door.

            “What are you doing, sweetheart? Do you want some tea?”

            “Sorry, I was about to come in, but I was thinking through something,” Ruthie replied. “Have you ever heard of Count Drogo?”

            “Is that the puppet on Sesame Street?”

            “No. Sorry, not Count Drogo. Saint Drogo. He’s the Patron Saint for ugly people.” 

            “Are you going to the Catholic church now?”

            “No, Mom. I just was reading about this guy. I read that Saint Drogo all of a sudden came down with a deformity and he was so ugly that he scared the townspeople. He had a cell built at his church and he stayed there. I mean he lived there for like sixty years. Victor Hugo would have had a field day with this guy. Oh, he could also time travel. Drogo not Victor Hugo. Drogo was this horribly mutilated guy who only ate bread and water and even he found his meaningfulness and now he’s my Saint. I’m not saying that for you to tell me I’m pretty or anything. I just think I need you to know that I’m sad, Mom.”

            “So you want to live in a cell for sixty years?”

            “No. No, I just want to feel wanted. All my life I’ve heard how I was supposed to be a boy and how your body was never the same and I think, deep down, I’ve felt that your lives would be better off without me in it.”

            “Oh, Ruthie, let me make you some tea.”

            Her Mom led her inside and poured two glasses of tea. All of a sudden Ruthie was seven and ten and sixteen and she was drinking tea at the table where she cried to her mother about falling off her bike, losing the fourth grade spelling bee, and not having a date for the Prom.

            “Your father and I aren’t the type of people that dote. Maybe we should have been gentler as parents, but never in our lives would we regret you being our daughter. You are passionate and kind and you say whatever you want. I think I’m jealous of your freedom. I married right out of school and I love your Dad, but I’ve never felt particularly brave. You are my brave girl.”

Ruthie and her mother talked for hours. She knew that it wouldn’t solve everything, but she finally felt wanted. She drove home and immediately threw away the eHarmony gift card. She kept the gym membership because she had heard they had really great Smoothie bar. Ruthie put on her sweatpants, turned on reruns of The Office, and felt, only slightly, lonely.

​

​

​

The Intricacies and Inevitable Shortcomings of the Improvisational Mind

Aaron McKinley

 

            My name’s River and I am an improviser. Now, I can tell with reasonable certainty that you have no idea what that means. That’s not to say that you don’t know what the word “improviser” means because chances are you do know what it means because the word “improviser” is not that rare a word to know. The reason you probably don’t know what I mean by “improviser” when I say “I am an improviser” is because there are far too many ways that word can be taken to be certain which one I mean. On top of that, you probably don’t know what I mean by that because when I say “I am an improviser,” I do not mean it in only one sense of the word. No, you naïve simpleton, I am not stooping so low as to use only one definition of a word when I use said word. I am far too pretentious and far too fond of linguistic complexity to use a word and only mean one thing by it. Especially if that word is to begin an entire story like this one. 

When I say “I am an improviser,” I mean two things. I mean that I perform improvised theater (yes, I am one of those people) and that I do not plan in my daily life. I live life as it comes. That sounds cool and inspiring, like something you’d see on one of those Instagram posts in overly elaborate cursive font on top of a generic landscape scene that’s been filtered to hell, but it really isn’t all that great of a characteristic. It’s not good to not plan ahead. Improvising in your day-to-day life doesn’t really work out all that well, and if you don’t know that already, you will by the end of this story. I guess I should probably start telling you that story. I’ve already wasted more time than should be spent explaining a first sentence on explaining my first sentence. See? This is what happens when you don’t plan ahead.

The results of not planning ahead are the perfect place to start for this little tale of mine. I am sure that some of you (yes, I’m being overly optimistic and assuming that more than one person is going to read this) are already aware that there are two possible outcomes when one doesn’t plan ahead: comedy and tragedy. It’s rather fitting that those two outcomes happen to be the two most basic forms of theater, because improv (yes, I refer to improvisation as “improv,” get over it) is a theatrical art. Although, that’s not too neatly serendipitous because one can argue that all of life is either tragic or comedic. Anyway, when one doesn’t plan ahead and instead improvises something to say or do in the moment, the result will either be a whole lot of laughter or a whole lot of awkwardness and even pain. Ideally, the former will forever be the only child of improv, but we all know that just isn’t true. Sometimes, when one is on stage, one will make a quip or a joke or a racial remark that one will suddenly realize will fall flat. But the problem is, it never falls flat, it does something far worse: it offends people or disgusts people or makes people mad or makes them sad and then the perpetrator of this horrendous quip or joke or racial remark is left standing still with two or a thousand eyes staring at them in cold judgment, wondering how they could be so careless as to make such a terrible quip or joke or racial remark.

The same is true for real life. Sometimes, one will improvise something funny or clever or even life-saving, but every now and then, that same person will improvise something that confuses or horrifies or hurts people. If you haven’t figured out already, the person I am referring to in all these hypotheticals is indeed a real person and said hypotheticals really aren’t hypothetical at all, they are indeed real situations. Maybe you’ve been clever enough to figure out that the real person in these real situations is me. Maybe you’ve also figured out that I was being sarcastic when I called you “clever,” because figuring out that I am that real person is not a difficult thing to figure out. Have you figured out that I am chronically sarcastic and demeaning? You have? Good job. I’m so proud of you.

Now, back to that story I said I was going to tell you. This all started when a friend of mine asked me if I would be his wingman for a night. If you are unfamiliar with the term, a “wingman” is someone who goes along with a friend in a scenario where the friend will be around a potential romantic interest (or, more honestly, a sexual interest) and acts in such a way that makes the friend appear more appealing to the romantic and/or sexual interest than they actually are in whatever form this may take. In this case, it was done by going on a double-date with my friend because my friend’s romantic interest also had a friend and she would feel much more comfortable on a date with my friend if her friend were there. Because I am very clever, I realized that my friend’s romantic interest opted for the whole double-date scenario because she believed her friend desperately needed to get laid. Hey, wait a minute. I just realized that that’s what my friend was probably doing with me. Dammit. If you’re reading this, screw you, Warren.

Warren was my best friend. He still is my best friend. His mischievous attempts to get me laid haven’t changed that. Warren’s romantic interest that night was a girl named Summer McTaggart. Summer was the kind of person I could really approve of dating Warren, apart from her simply appalling surname. Granted, I’m in no place to be judging people’s names because a person’s name is not their own fault and my parents thought it would be neat to name me after a body of water. What the hell kind of a name is River? Anyway, Summer had a disgusting last name but a personality (and a body) that seemed perfectly tailored to her lovely first name. Summer looked and acted like the season for which she was named. There’s no other way to say it. She had hair the color of rosewood in such volume that you were tempted to lay your face in it and just stay there and forget about the rest of the world for a little bit. Maybe that’s not a temptation everyone would have, but I sure did. I’ll admit it. That’s a genuine thing I thought about Summer’s hair, and I’m pretty sure Warren thought that as well. Summer’s face was like the sun, not in the sense that it would burn you if you share my cadaverous complexion, but in the sense that it was bright and made you feel nice and warm. She had a voice like a cool breeze and a figure that would stop people like a deer in the headlights, like the deer that Warren almost hit that one time because he didn’t see it and the only comment I gave in the moment was “Oh, dear,” and that apparently didn’t get the message across. But that’s another story, and one much more pleasant to me than this one.

The reason this story is unpleasant to me is because of my date that night. See, while Warren got to go out with Aphrodite, I got the pleasure of being set up with Charybdis, or, as she was known to her friends, Taylor Blanchet. I was not excited about meeting Taylor. I was not excited about being Warren’s wingman, or at least, I wasn’t excited about it when it came time to be such a thing. I was excited about it when he first asked me and I said yes because it sounded like a fun thing to do and I wasn’t about to stop and think about the choices I make. The first rule of improv is “Yes and,” meaning you don’t shut down an idea, but rather, you take it and run with it. That’s what I did with Warren. He presented the idea of going on a double date and I ran with it. In case you were wondering, the second rule of improv is to never ask questions, and I also followed that rule rather well, if I do say so myself. I didn’t ask where we were going, what Taylor was like, or even what exactly Warren expected me to do. I just went along with it. That proved to be a fatal mistake.

            I wasn’t worried in the moments before I met Taylor. I was bored. The thrill of meeting someone new for no other reason than to better the image of a friend in the eyes of a stranger had left me and was now replaced with the dread of having to sit through an entire dinner next to two people fumbling over their words trying to impress one another. So, naturally, I spent this time probing the beverage menu and trying to find the most affordable way to become quickly intoxicated. I could have taken this time to ponder my strategy for successfully wingman-ing Warren or even thinking of how I would talk to Taylor, but I didn’t. The whole thrill of improvisational comedy is not knowing what one is going to say or do next and I had thoroughly integrated this principle into my off-stage life. Besides, alcohol was far more interesting than some girl I didn’t know. Speaking of drinks, Warren could have used one right about then. It was like his eyes were having their own little seizure, turning every which way with no seeming purpose. His expression itself wasn’t telling of any particular emotion, but his face was repeatedly twitching, as if a human feeling were trying to break through his rather shoddy façade.

“I should have picked her up,” he suddenly spat out.

            “What?” I replied with unparalleled apathy.

            “I shouldn’t have told Summer to meet us here. I should have picked her up and brought her here myself.”

            “I really don’t think it matters that much, man.”

            “What if she thinks that I’m incapable of looking out for someone? That I have nothing to offer? What if –”

            “You have nothing to worry about, dude. She’s probably only going out with you tonight because she feels bad for you, so there’s no image you could ruin. You’re in the clear.”

            Warren was about to say something, probably acknowledging how I am the greatest, most comforting friend in the whole world, but at that moment, he saw Summer walk in and so his brain stopped working. Her appearance made Warren look criminally underdressed by comparison, but that’s not saying much, because Warren is and always has been in a perpetual state of looking homeless. He did shave in preparation for the night and opted to not wear cargo shorts, which for him was a big deal, but he surely did not look ready to eat at an establishment that did not have a drive-through, especially if he was eating at said drive-through-less establishment with a female whom he was trying to impress, which happened to be the exact scenario he was in at the moment. Being as incredibly sharp-witted as I am, I immediately came up with the perfect insult to mock Warren’s dumbfoundedness at the sight of Summer, but then I saw Taylor and I became equally dumbfounded.

            It’s not often that I am found dumb, because I am not dumb nor does one such of myself become dumb. Not easily, anyway. I wasn’t dumbfounded because of her looks like Warren, because she didn’t look particularly special. If I’m honest, I’m not sure why I lost my train of thought at that moment. I guess it wasn’t really a train of thought, it was more like a Malaysia Air flight of thought, because it just sort of disappeared and no one can agree on why or how. Whatever the case may be, the moment I saw Taylor, I couldn’t think of any sort of joke or clever remark to make. That should have been my first warning. If you find yourself having trouble insulting your best friend, you should take a moment and evaluate your current circumstances. I did not. Of course I didn’t. That would have required me to stop and think for a second, and any amount of thinking that requires stopping is too much for me. That said, I probably should have stopped and thought.

            Warren stood up to greet them. I remained sitting. I didn’t want to greet them. I didn’t want to meet them. I wanted to go home. But Warren was my friend and I had already agreed to go through with this for him, so I was stuck. My mind had returned to thinking of drink prices and ABV percentages when I heard Warren say, “And this is River.” I looked up as soon as I heard my name because I’m a good listener because I’m a good improviser and good improvisers are always listening for a cue. In this case, the cue wasn’t for a line or a joke, it was for some form of social interaction. So I smiled. I’m sure my smile looked genuine, because I’m also an excellent actor, but Taylor responded to me by quickly showing her teeth and then resuming an expression of boredom and bitterness in a smile that was every bit as forced as mine, albeit not as convincing. That was the first instance in which I felt something for her.

Her lack of enthusiasm drew me in and I noticed then that she was actually rather attractive. She had straight chin-length blond hair that framed a face which seemed to have a constant look that said, “I don’t want to be here and I don’t care that you know that.” She put more effort than Warren into her appearance, but she clearly cared more about being comfortable than impressing me. She wasn’t wearing a form-fitting dress like Summer, rather, she wore a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up one-third of the way with enough buttons undone at the top to reveal a t-shirt that wouldn’t catch most people’s eyes, but I immediately recognized as a Cage the Elephant concert shirt. I knew what it was because I had the exact same one. I owned the record on vinyl, which I bragged about to her as soon as I identified the logo on her shirt. She smiled, but this time it was genuine. It was even more beautiful than her fake one. As the four of us talked, I realized something about her. I noticed something in the way she spoke to Summer, in the way she looked at Warren. There was something different about the way she treated people. Something different in the way she thought. Taylor was an asshole. So needless to say, I was in love.

I don’t remember how long we stayed at that restaurant. It was probably something like an hour and a half, but it felt like years. I felt like Taylor and I became best friends that night. We didn’t, of course. That’d be ridiculous. But I felt that way. She felt that way, too. I know this because after that night, we acted like we were best friends. We hung out every day. We talked constantly. She would ask me to go to the most random places at the most random times and of course I would say yes every time, because that’s what you do when you live in the moment like me. At this point, I’m sure you’re thinking, “River, you’re doing all the things that best friends do. That means you really were best friends,” but you’d be thinking wrong. Silly. I already told you Warren was my best friend. Warren and not Taylor. Do you know how I know this? Well, I’ll explain that in the rest of my story. Stop being so impatient and let me say what I want to. I’ve wasted so much time explaining stuff to you. This would be a lot easier if you weren’t so dumb.

So here’s the part of the story where I explain to you why Warren is my best friend and not Taylor. It’s also coincidentally the part of the story where I really show you why it’s not good to treat life the way I do. Sorry if I spoiled that for you, but with someone as dumb as you, I have to take great care to get my point across. About six months after the night I met Taylor, I had been dating her for about four months. (Shocker, I know.) Here’s what’s significant about six months after I met Taylor: it was July. Here’s what significant about July: it’s Taylor’s birthday month. Here’s what’s significant about Taylor’s birthday month: I didn’t know about it. It’s not that I didn’t know she had a birthday. I’m not that stupid. I’m very clever, remember? I just didn’t know her birthday was in July. I never thought to learn her birthday. Hell, I never thought to learn anything about her. What I learned about her, I learned in conversation. In the moment. Her birthday never came up in conversation. Here’s something else that never came up in conversation: how important birthdays are to her.

I don’t get birthdays. I’m all for another excuse to party, but the whole concept of celebrating the day one was born makes no sense to me. If you’re not a significant historical figure, there’s no reason to do it. What’s so special about being exactly a year older since the last time you celebrated being a year older? Nothing. It’s arbitrary and stupid. Taylor didn’t think so. Taylor was of the camp that birthdays are somehow significant events in one’s life and that one should for some reason be treated especially well on their birthday. I know, it’s stupid. If I had known that before, I might have second-guessed how highly I thought of her and her opinions. But I didn’t think twice before asking her out. I just sort of did it.

Now, Taylor’s birthday is in July. Taylor and I both attend college traditionally, and what I mean by that here is that we do not take summer courses. Taylor and I also have different hometowns, so over the summer, we did not live in the same city. Because we did not live in the same city, we did not see each other every day. I did not see her on July twenty-third. I did not see her on her birthday. That was a mistake. This was also partially her fault. She did not say anything about her birthday, I guess because she assumed that I knew about it and planned to come see her and surprise her or something like that. But assuming makes an ass out of you and me, but mostly out of you. Taylor was an ass for assuming I knew or cared about her birthday. Okay, maybe I was a bit of an ass for not knowing or caring about her birthday, but I already explained to you that they don’t matter, so who’s really at fault here? The logical person would say her, but most people I’ve met said me. She was one of those illogical people. She believed this to be completely my fault. I’ll accept part of the blame, that’s only fair, but you can’t put this entirely on me. Those happened to be my exact words to Taylor when she found out that I didn’t do anything for her birthday. Those were not good words to say to her at that moment. I didn’t plan on saying them. They were the first words that came to my head, so by God, I said them. See, kids? Improv doesn’t do good things for you in real life.

Unsurprisingly, she was not very happy when I defended myself thusly. She started yelling at me, employing liberal use of some words even I won’t repeat to you. I can’t recall everything she said, but I remember her saying something about me not caring about her, which I said was totally not true, which I think she responded to by saying that if I really cared about the relationship, I would have known these specifics or whatever. I don’t exactly remember the specifics, but you get the point. All I know for sure is that at some point in the conversation, I said that she shouldn’t get so upset over something that doesn’t even matter, and then she got even angrier, and so I did the first thing that I thought of and hung up. Oh, did I not tell you this whole thing was taking place over the phone? Well, it was. I think it began when I called her to ask for her Netflix password that I forgot. That sounds right. It would also explain why I don’t have Netflix anymore.

Taylor didn’t talk to me after I hung up on her that day. Ever. I tried talking to her, and every time, she just walked away or hung up or told me that she would call the cops if I showed up in her room again. But because she never spoke to me again, she never told me we were breaking up, so I guess I’m technically still dating her, although I doubt that’s what her new boyfriend would say. I’ve been doing improv for a long time now, and I’d still say that this was the worst improvised choice I have ever made. It was the worst series of improvised choices I’ve ever made. Starting with agreeing to go on a double date with Warren that night to that fateful moment of hanging up, almost every single in-the-moment choice I made had accumulated to disaster. Nobody laughed. Some people cried. No one was happy at the end of it. You would probably assume that because of all this, that I have sworn to start thinking about my choices and have never employed my improv instincts in my real life ever again. Well, you’d be wrong. I’ve been improvising my whole life. To stop now seems like too big a risk. Someone might get hurt.

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Nightmare: A Monologue

Sarah Durham

I was always terrified of the Rapture growing up. I was raised by Southern Baptists, so you know that’s definitely a rite of passage. I would lay awake at night staring at my ceiling and listening to this voice in my head that sounded remarkably like a mixture of Bill Clinton and my grandpa, the two biggest authorities for a child in the ’90s. The voice would say “forever” over and over again. Like the freaking kid in The Sandlot, “forever, forever.” I could never wrap my mind around the idea of forever. Jesus was going to suck us all up into the sky, and we would be there forever. When I could sleep I would have this dream that Jesus came back in an old pick-up truck, and he drove down my block picking up all my friends and family. They all piled into the bed of the truck, but when I tried to get on they just laughed at me. He drove away with everyone I loved, and they all waved with these big grins as they drove off in Jesus’s pick-up truck. I’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping again. I read this article the other day talking about how most people think the world is going to end after they die. It said the older you get there’s like this psychological thing that happens where you think the world is getting worse. Not just because you’ve seen more, but because you think the world must be over when you die because we’re all egomaniacs. Sociologists have been studying the idea that as we get older we begin to believe that the world is going to be around for a shorter amount of time. Sometimes it’s because we think we’ve experienced a lot, but they also claim that we’re so egocentric that we believe the world couldn’t go on with us gone. All of a sudden I’m the kid running down the block chasing after Jesus’s Rapturemobile. This is the stuff that keeps me up at night. And then I think about the fact that I’m lying there awake and on the other side of the globe it’s the middle of the day and there are millions of Asians going to work and school and that their life hasn’t stopped because I can’t sleep and it wouldn’t stop if I died. Now global warming? It is definitely going to kill us all eventually. And that leads me to thinking about the mountain of cardboard that I need to take to the recycling center which makes me hungry because the only things I have to recycle are pizza boxes. But I’m too tired to do anything about it so I turn over and try to fall back asleep.

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Surely the Good King Abel Will

Aaron McKinley

 

Cast of Characters:

The good King Abel

Sir Will

Sir Sorley

Queen Vvoman

 

            The good King Abel, Queen Vvoman, Sir Sorley, and Sir Will sit around a slightly ovoid table, in the center of which lies a map. All men have stern expressions and keep turning to one another, as if waiting for someone to say something.

Abel: Well?

Will: Well, what, milord?
Abel: Well, what are we here for? This meeting was surely called for something.

Sorley: I do not recall calling for this meeting.

Abel: I do not recall saying that you did. I do not recall saying your name at all, in fact.

Sorley: You said Sorley called for something, and surely that is my name.

Queen: Shirley is your name? I thought it was Sorley.

Sorley: Right, that’s what I said. Surely Sorley is my name.

Queen: Shirley Sorley? What an odd name. Your parents were surely sore in the head when they gave it to you.

Sorley: No, milord, my name is just Sorley. But not Just of the house Sorley, mind you. By just Sorley, I mean my name is only Sorley. But not Only of the house Sorley, mind you, by only –

Will: (interrupting) Please cease your babbling. Surely the king is able to understand.

Sorley: No, not surely. Sorley.

Abel: And I am able.

Sorley: I know you are Abel, milord. I wouldn’t be a very good knight if I did not know the name of the king.

Abel: No, I mean –

Will: (interrupting) I believe we understand you, milord. Anyway, it was I who called the meeting. There are important matters that must be attended to.

Abel: Ah, very good. Let’s get on with it, then. What is going on within my kingdom that you deem worthy of my attention?

Will: Well, to begin, the peasants are revolting.

Queen: Yes, I am quite aware.

Will: (slightly taken aback) You are? How did you hear of it?

Queen: (laughing) You do not need to hear much to know the peasants are revolting. They have been for quite some time.

Will: I do not believe we are on the same page.

Abel: Of course we are. (Gestures to the map on the table) there is only one page here.

Will: No, I mean, I do not believe we are on the same page when I say that the peasants are revolting.

Abel: Oh, believe me, we are. I have always been quite aware of how revolting the peasants are.

Will: See, that’s what I’m talking about, milord. I don’t mean to speak of how the peasants are disgusting.

Sorley: Then why did you bring it up?

Queen: (nodding in agreement) Surely he has a point.

Sorley: No, milady, it’s Sorley. And why is this woman even here?

Queen: No, it’s Vvoman.

Sorley: I’m almost certain it isn’t.

Queen: My name! It is Vvoman, with two v’s.

Will: I beg your pardon?

Abel: Anyway, we must get on with business. Never mind your talk of how the peasants are revolting, I have recently received more troubling news. It would appear that the peasants are in rebellion.

Will: That’s what I –

Sorley: (interrupting) Where’s Rebellion?

Will: It’s not a country, it’s a state of being.

Sorley:  Fine, then, where is this state and what about it is so enticing as to draw all the peasants off the good King Abel’s lands to it?

Abel: No, we mean that the peasants are rebelling against the throne.

Queen: What could they possibly have against the throne? It’s not like they’ve ever had to sit in it. Besides, it’s quite comfortable. No need to complain about it.

Will: No, it’s metonymy.

Sorley: What don’t the peasants like about metonymy?
Abel: No, we are using metonymy when we say the word “throne.”

Sorley: Ah! That makes a lot more sense now that I think about it.

Will: Now that we’ve got that out of the way, we need to address how to handle this problem. My spies tell me that the peasants generally do not feel ill towards the throne, nor do they really wish to revolt.

Queen: Though they are indeed revolting.

Will: (unsure about what the Queen means by “revolting”) Right. Well, anyway, the peasants are only revolt – er, rebelling because of the rhetoric of an influential member of their community.

Sorley: The solution is simple, then! We take his rhetoric from him!

(Abel and Will both stare inquisitively at Sorley.)

Abel: Surely you have been better educated than that.

Sorley: Milord, it’s Sorley.

(Abel and Will stare at each other in disbelief.)

Will: We digress. The peasant leader’s name is Milton Malus and my men tell me that he will be staying in the inn in the south side of the city this night. I suggest we place a team of some our best soldiers in the inn and in disguise to wait for him. When they see that Malus is vulnerable, they kill him. The revolution will die shortly after he does.

Abel: Such scheming, no matter how effective, seems an ill way to handle things politically. I’m not sure the people will be happy with such – malice.

Will: They are happy with Malus, that’s why we must kill him.

Abel: No, we must kill any feelings of malice within the kingdom.

Will: Is that not what I said?

Abel: Not Milton Malus! Malice! Evil!

Queen: Yes, Malus is evil. I though that’s why we are killing him.

Will: Precisely.

Abel: How is it that neither of you understand me? And how is it that neither of you see my point of view in this? Assassinating Malus will only make me seem as a tyrant, someone to be feared. Will neither of you support me? (Turning to Will) Surely you will.

Will: Surely I what?

Sorley: Once again, it’s Sorley. And I don’t know what the king wants of you, ask him.

Abel: I was asking if you would stand by me in this.

Will: Yes, and then you addressed me by name and didn’t finish what you were telling me after that.

Sorley: (addressing Will) And then you asked me to clarify, which I don’t very well understand.

Will: How is it that you always think we are talking to you when we say “surely?” Sorley and surely are really not all that similar.

(Sorley shrugs)

Queen: Will you all cease this whining?

Abel: But we haven’t even started whining, no one has even brought anything to the table.

Sorley: I brought this map.

Will: You can’t drink a map.

Queen: I wish I could, I’m rather thirsty. Abel and Will high five. Where is the wine?

Will: We’re having a bit of a cork shortage in the kingdom.

Queen: I’ve never had that problem.

Abel: We must get back to business! I agree to your plan. We will kill Malus in the inn.

Will: You’ve made the right choice, milord. Now, we must decide which knights will do the job.

Abel: I thought it was this night.

Will: (in disbelief) Sorley?

Sorley: Yes?
Abel: No, not Sorley.

Sorley: No, it is Sorley. You’ve got it right this time, milord.

Abel: No, I meant “this night” as in “tonight.”

Will: We should probably send more than two knights. We don’t know how many men Malus will have with him.

Abel: I do not believe we are on the same page.

Will: I believe you are right.

Sorley: I thought there was only the one page. (gestures towards the map)

Queen: (to Abel) Milord, why exactly did you knight this man?

Abel: Well it certainly wasn’t because of his wit.

Sorley: My what?

Will: No, your wit.

Abel: Now that I think of it, I’m not sure why I knighted either of you.

Sorley: Well, that doesn’t make me feel particularly good.

Will: Nor I. Now, what were we talking about again?

Sorley: Surely it was something important. Whatever it is, I do not recall. Do you remember?

Queen: No, I do not. But we’ve gone so far off track, I’m not sure anyone will remember why we were called here in the first place.

Sorley: Surely the good King Abel will.

Will: Yes?

Abel: Oh, dear. (Puts his head in his hands)