The Bus Stop | Evan Rothman

    I sat down on the bench at the bus stop on the corner of N. Virginia and East Plaza. I wasn’t planning to get on, but I needed a place to sit while waiting for some of my friends from high school to get here. The girls and I were supposed to get together last weekend, but we ended up postponing until today. I was flying out on Sunday, so this was my last chance to see them before I went back to college for second term. The stop was grimy, but it was no worse than any of the others in this shit town. The post that marked the stop was covered in flyers for locksmiths and handymen.
    A bus rumbled to a stop, and the driver opened the door. She was wearing one of those white nametags with blue lettering the city makes all the bus drivers wear, not that anyone ever used their names. She looked out at me expectantly, and when she realized that I wasn’t getting on, she closed the doors and glared: She looked angry for her time being wasted. 
    A couple minutes later, I saw a man in an overcoat walking over to the bus stop. The coat looked like the kind a twenty-something businessman might buy, hoping he’d have to replace it in a few years once his career was going places. It was charcoal grey and looked too long in the sleeves; it probably hadn’t been tailored. This man looked forty, and his face was covered in stubble that he probably should have shaved the night before. He was lugging a black, two-wheeled suitcase behind him, and it looked like the one wheel was busted; it kept spinning in circles instead of just staying straight. 
    “You just missed the last one.”
    “I guess it’ll be another hour until the next one then.”
    He sat down awkwardly at the far end of the bench, as if he were trying to make me not feel uncomfortable. He pulled out what looked to be an old blackberry, complete with a little ball to scroll instead of a touch screen. I pulled out my phone to check the time, but ended up scrolling through Instagram instead. 
    “Do you mind watching my bag for a moment?” He said. “I like to get a coffee before I head to the airport.”
    “Sure, you can just leave it there, and I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Thanks. Would you like anything while I’m in there?” 
    “A green tea if you don’t mind.”
    “Cream and sugar?”
    “Just a sugar and a stir. Thanks.”
    “No problem.”
    I watched him as he walked into the cafe and got in line. He was behind a bunch of people, and the barista looked like she was struggling. I saw her fumble a cup while trying to write a customer’s name. Must be new. Normally, the person behind the counter was some cute guy; that was half the reason my friends and I chose to meet in front of the shop today. 
    I check my phone again. The time read 5:45. No messages. My friends were running late. 
Probably Trip, I thought. Trip is always running late. 
    I would have driven down with Brie, but she bailed last minute. Something about needing to finish a paper before going back to school. I had to drive down on my own. Everyone else lived on the other side of town. 
    I parked in the garage across the street and hoped to pay the two-hour fee, but it looked like that wouldn’t be the case. The next bracket was for five hours and cost twice as much; I wouldn’t be down here nearly that long. 
    After a while, I spied the man walking out of the coffee shop with two cups in hand. He walked back and sat down next to me as he handed me the paper mug. 
    “Thanks.”
    He nodded. We sat there for a few minutes in silence. He pulled his blackberry out again and was looking through some emails while drinking his coffee. 
     The bus arrived, and he looked over, thinking I hadn’t noticed.
    “Bus is here.”
    “Oh, I know. I’m just waiting here for some people.”
    “Oh, well it was nice meeting you then.” 
He smiled politely, but I could see the twinge of disappointment that crept onto his face. 
    I watched as he got on the bus and took his seat. I saw him glance back at me, as the bus started to move, and he rolled out of sight.
     I just shook my head and smiled. 

Winter Ash | Idris Mansaray

    “Ian… you stay put now. They won’t get you if you stay put.” I crouched in the bushes with my elder brother Alex holding me tightly. Was he protecting me, or did he need me more right now? My father on the other hand gazed stoically across the horizon, not daring to meet our eyes. His glasses had fallen far down his face, but he didn’t dare raise them, he didn’t dare move or even breathe… none of us did.
    “Quiet boys…” he said.
    An AFE soldier stood near our farmhouse, darting his eyes in search for us. He took out a pamphlet and coughed loudly. “Gregory Aldrich, you’re hereby under arrest for crimes against the American Federal Empire! Your crimes: treason, resisting arrest on multiple occasions, assault on several military offi-”
    “Torch the place.” The soldier turned to face a gray haired man. He wore a white officers uniform with a shoulder cape, differing from the generic black uniform AFE soldiers wear. Judging by the multiple badges he wore on his chest and shoulder, he was probably of a higher rank.
    “Commander Stein, with all due respect. If we do that, all of Aldrich’s work will be lost… we need it.”
    “Then we’ll make him do it again. Quantum mechanics, multiverse theories, the man's well versed in all of it. Consider it punishment for his crimes. He already knows full well what he’s done, so torch the place… don’t make me ask again.” Commander Stein stared deep into the younger officers eye, looking for any sign of insubordination.
    “O-of course,” the younger officer turned towards the other soldiers and saluted them. A few soldiers with gas tanks on their backs came from the rear of the battalion and pulled out a long hose.
    “Torch it, set ablaze, light em up… teach Aldrich a lesson,” Commander Stein said with a sadistic laugh.
    “Dad, we gotta run. Forget the farm,” Alex said to my father. 
    “No no no… we can’t, moms stuff,” I said desperately. My father gritted his teeth. A bead of sweat rolled down his face. He wasn’t thinking about the actual farm, or even moms stuff but his entire life's work was in it, he was about to lose it all.
    “If we run now, they’ll shoot us. He knows were around here, he wants to draw us out. We run when they… torch the place” my father said reluctantly. The soldiers flipped a switch on their gas tanks. We heard a low rumble, and then sparks flew from the hoses… 
    It started slow, but the flames quickly got closer to the farmhouse, licking at the dry fields around it. In seconds, the place we once called home was engulfed in a storm of ember. I could feel the heat from where we hid. I watched in horror, unable to bear the thought that the last remnant of my mother were burning to ashes inside.
    “I feel sick…” I said. My father turned to me and grabbed my shoulders. He looked me in the eyes, peering into my soul.
    “Hey hey, Ian. You’ve gotta be my soldier, be daddy's little soldier. What did the soldier in winter want Ian?”
    “He wa- wanted to be God’s child,” I said on the verge of tears, quoting a line from the poem my father would constantly read to us.
    “Attaboy,” my father said. “God’s looking down on us, you’ll see.”
    Alex gripped my small hands even harder.
    My father grabbed both of our arms and pushed us forward just as the flames begun to draw near us.
    “Run boys!”
    Alex picked me up and we ran alongside our dad. I looked back to see Commander Stein staring at us through the wall of fire, his menacing eyes making him seem the victim. I gazed at him with rage, but his eyes just seemed to reply You hate me don’t you? well screw you too
    I knew I would hate him for the rest of my life. I hated him when he called the soldiers after us, I hated him when he shot my father as we ran, bringing him to his knees, I hated him when my father told us to run anyways, I hated him when he put a bullet in my father's head, and I hated him when Alex didn’t stop. He just kept running. We gotta keep moving Ian, honor Dads sacrifice, live for him… 
    Honor? Sacrifice? Screw that, I want to kill him, I want to fight for the resistance, that would avenge my father's death… 
    Though it wouldn’t be years until I realized, you don’t need geniuses to start a war, just two people who hate eachother and money, lots and lots of money. My father… he had forgotten one thing about the soldier in winter. It wasn’t God he needed to appease. He always was a child of God. In the ash of winter, in his wandering path, it wasn’t God’s, but man's own wrath… 

Piano | Peyton Mills

I wake up early in the morning
to get ready for work.
I complete my morning rituals
and head down stairs,
each one creaks with every step.

I head into the dining room,
but something feels off.
I look to my left and hit the light switch.
The switch turns on a single light
plugged into an outlet on the
opposite side of the room. 

Something is blocking the source,
for all I see is a silhouette.
Something massive is set
before me. As I move closer,

my eyes begin to adjust and
I realize what this thing is.
It is my grandfather’s grand piano.

Why is this here? 
My grandfather lives in
England.
The more I look at it, the more I realize
there is no other thing it could be. 
Just like my grandfather’s,

the door to cover the keys is missing,
and the same three keys are
gone.
I walk to the other side. 

There are scratches all over
the back, and there is a dent
on the first leg in the exact
same spot. I look to my right
and see a stool in the corner
almost completely hidden
in the blackness of the room.

I take it and seat myself
in front of the piano.
I stare at the familiar sight in front
in front of me. The smooth keys

as their gloss shines from
what little light is present.
I think I’ll stay home today
and do nothing but play.
 

Running Through Obstacles | George Welsh

    The doctor invited us into his office.  He examined me; I was 10 years old. I lost a lot of weight and was using the bathroom excessively.  My mom and I found seats in two uncomfortable, wooden chairs that faced his desk.  Without wasting time, he candidly announced that I had Type 1 diabetes.  I was fine with the news, and a little relieved that the diagnosis was not more severe, but when I glanced at my mom her eyes filled with tears. He directed us to the Emergency Room where I would be admitted to Endocrinology for a three-day stay. Little did I know how profoundly those 72 hours would change my life. 
    While in the hospital, I learned about Type 1 Diabetes and the inconveniences, large and small, that were now a routine part of my everyday life. I would forever carry a "diabetes bag" containing supplies like insulin, syringes, a blood sugar test kit and juice.  I had to check my blood sugar constantly and monitor how I felt.  Still, I remained unbothered. Throughout the rest of elementary and middle school, I ignored my diabetes. I attempted to live just like everyone else hoping that in doing so, my diabetes would disappear.  
    I began running for the Loyola cross country team as a freshman years later.  My running times escalated to a new high by mid-September, and I quickly emerged as a leader for the JV squad.  Entering a new school, my confidence soared, but just when I thought I found my groove, it all came to a screeching halt.  At the end of one race in late September, I could not catch my breath and my blood sugar plummeted.  I sat on the ground after the race trying to catch my breath so that I could drink some juice.  Dripping wet, my head pounded as I coughed and wheezed relentlessly.  I could not inhale.  What was 15 minutes seemed like a life time.  I was not sure how this was going to end up, and I did not want to attract any attention.  In the weeks that ensued, my breathing was labored and running was difficult.  After multiple trips to the doctor, he diagnosed me with exercise-induced asthma.  My times continued slipping while everyone else’s got better.  I went from leading the pack to a running casualty.  Even my mother suggested I try a different sport. 
    Quitting a team mid-season was not an option. I already made running a part of my life, so I pressed on.  Running big races, practicing ten mile stretches, and hitting the wall with fatigue, low energy, and legs of lead brought our team together. We were always there for each other and always picking each other up. We had a unique bond, and I would not let them down.  Because of the asthma and diabetes, I carefully kept my sugars in check.  Imminent trouble pursued if my blood sugars dropped, as it is impossible to drink a juice box when air passages swell up and grow narrow.  Running on the cross-country team meant taking control of my health.  It meant brotherhood. 
    When I was 10 years old, life threw me into a tough situation. For many years, I did not know how to handle my diabetes, and it formed a constant weight on my shoulders. I often got mad at myself for letting my numbers soar out of control. My parents constantly lectured me and asked, “Why can’t you just check your sugars? It is easy and takes no time at all.” All this pressure mounted and it created a burden most 10-year-olds could never fathom. Eventually, I did take control of my diabetes. It taught me to never give up because if I did I would face fatal consequences. When my doctor diagnosed me with asthma, to some it seemed like a career ending blow. To me, it was just another bump in the road. I knew that I had to be relentless and chase my passion. Now, I have been through more obstacles than many will face in a lifetime. I know that only more will come, and I am ready to overcome these obstacles. My diabetes and asthma have only prepared me for the future, more so than I could have ever imagined. 
 

Aftershock of Love | Pujan Baral

    Premonition of this moment has been wandering my head for the last half an hour. I receive the last two “da-ding” noises, as my phone vibrates as slowly as my heart beat. The messages say, “We have been together for so long. I don’t think it is you, but it is me.” The next bubble reads, “I think we should take some time off and see other people.”
    We both might be obnoxious and emotionally unstable, but we have been building this relationship for the last couple of years like a skyscraper on sand. The painful part of an earthquake is the aftershock, and in a flash, all of these memories and hopes dig into you.
    Breaking up with someone whom you’ve invested so much time into hurts more than stubbing your toe. You cannot buy back time, especially when those moments were special and all you did was spend it with that one person. Moving on might be the second worse pain after these burdens of emotions hit you.
     Grab some tissues, pillow, or anesthesia because you need to stop thinking about the first time she held hands with you. When you went on your fourth date, then she sullenly slips the phrase we all are anxious to hear, “I love you.” All of these memories do not fade and who knows when you will write the next chapter. Wait! Remember the first time you meet her parents and they asked you, “What are your intentions with our daughter?” 
    Here I go again, stepping out of line, rambling of course. The worst part of a break up is learning to forget.
 

Found, Then Found Again | Malachi Brown

He wore purple as he watched the storm drains.
The first question is, “Why is he wearing purple?”
What everybody questioned and asked,
They also questioned on Slack, 
Messaging their friends on the same topic,
“Why is the guy wearing purple watching storm drains?”
They all say, on Slack Messaging,
Even when they said Slack will never garner buzz.
January came around,
So did the rise of Facebook and Twitter messaging.
Somehow, Someway,
Slack didn’t stand back
Society didn’t question anymore, though,
No longer did they need to.
Even in the midst of other Social Media, 
America was always looking for more ways to communicate.
Why can’t he just wear purple while watching storm drains?