Roses
In a dream I had once a rose sat on my lap. The petals were wilted and the stems lay bare against my hands, thorns throbbing and leaves sunk into my fingertips. I danced around the room, though only with my eyes. Sunlight blossomed in soft peach tones through the windowsill. I looked through the glass, hoping to maintain eye contact with the rising sun. She hid her face from me, a cloud blocking my view. I think about her too often. The days turn by slowly in this dream, like cold honey. Golden fire waltzes through the shadows on my wall like an intense rain, a light turns on. In this room, I am nothing. I am a cool sweet glass of water, nothing more than. I am content on a hard pressed bench, holding a rose. It is my sixteenth birthday. I am youthful and I glow, though for separate reasons. When I am thirsty I drink. When I am hungry I eat. I sit with a rose on my lap. The sky above me is surely on fire, I know for certain though I cannot see it. The earth is hungry though she does not eat, I hear her rumble beyond window paine and shaking walls. The sky is pearly, the white walls glint in the sun, each slice of wood waving back at the stars above us. I am wearing a dress of soft pink satin. If I could stand; I would twirl; though I only dream of it. A dream within a dream. I wonder what loneliness feels like. I ponder as I toss almond slivers at the foot of the bed that sits perched in the corner, under a shelf with a snow globe with a broken glass shell. The fairy inside of it smiles. A guitar strums softly out of the corner of my mind. I worry so often I forget to listen. My skin is softer than clouds, a face as smooth as a cold breeze. I wear a jacket but it fits me funny, the sleeves are too long and the buttons are too large. I slide the jacket off and it hits the floor and vanishes. I try to speak and the words appear in gold above my head. The clock is the very time I want it to be each time I look. I hold marbles in my hand; when I blink; they are diamonds. I blink again. My hands are empty. There is a mirror in my room I do not go near. She watches me, a cat's eye, she offers me a gift. A magic map or the greatest secret, she whispers to me, holding out a birthday candle, holding a handful of them. Wish for a prince, she urges me, watching with a side eye glance. I close my eyes, blow air from my lips, try to think of anything else to wish for. I fail. The candle sparks sputter to the floor. I reach for them before I remember where I am, or rather who. But I do, I do dream of a prince in this dream. He approaches my tower but is never quite able to tear me from it. Willing perhaps or maybe he likes the security of my life in this cage. I ask him to give me space and he obliges me, what a gentleman. I toss him away regardless. The sun is full again, I shield my eyes as she casts a shadow over the gentle thoughts walking through the hallways in my head. I am free of anything and everything, I am the tree at the edge of the forest or the bird craning its neck as it soars further than my eyes care to wander. I am nothing and everything and no one holds me accountable for a damn thing and I am so pretty, everyone tells me so. I part my hair to the side of my face, pin them back with my mother’s clips. The evening wears me like thin socks and I wake in a cold sweat. My fingers bleed from clutching the rose in my lap, I am still in a dream. My head spins along with the chandelier above me, I wish harder than any wish before to have a chance to dance with her. My prince appears and his words are ever as hollow as before. I dismiss him with a wave as if he is nothing because he is(nothing). Enraged, he descends me, and I waste my own time once again, watching the clouds upturn and travel above me. The sun sets once more, I try to catch a taste. Cherry glossed and overeasy, the trees settle in for a night’s rest. Am I still sleeping? It appears to be so. I yawn metaphorically, I feel wide awake. My hair is long and my words are cheeky but endearing, anything a person might like to enjoy for a time. I feel crafted, a work of art or clay or upheaval, drafted into a human body. I grow weary once and finally. The prince appears with armfuls of flowers. I don’t know how to tell him, I glance down sheepishly, hold forward the rose in my lap.
It’s just me, I force from my mouth,.
It’s all I’ve ever needed; this entire time.
Alters and Sermons and Bibles
Walking into the unassuming glass doors each Sunday morning gave me a looming sense of dread. What would greet us on the other side of the walls, covered in banners of love expressions and smiling children with no shoes rallied around a white savior in a foreign country? Would it be the choir leader, a frumpy older woman with bright orange hair, who smiled so hard the wrinkles around her eyes seemed to droop down past the thin metal glasses that sat perched on her upturned nose? Would it be the group of teenage boys who professed their love for Jesus and abstinence in the early hours of youth group and spent the rest of their time harassing young girls and stealing dessert from the downstairs kitchen? Would it be one of the many older men that would rush towards me for a hug, only to linger a few moments too long for comfort? I would prepare myself for any of these, biting my tongue and walking expressionless behind my mom in her beautiful dresses and perfectly lain curled blonde hair. She was usually enough to keep the attention from me , and I hung around with my younger brother and played nintendo in the lobby until Mario would find us and tell us it was time for church.
“I shouldn’t always have to hunt you guys down to get you into church with us!” Mario chastised, half joking, half serious. “Why don’t you hang out in the kids lounge? Then you can get to know everyone.” MJ and I exchanged a knowing look.
“Dad, when we go there they always try to make us take bookmarks and read bible verses. They’re weird! Me and Courtney almost beat the snow level before you made us turn it off!” MJ exclaimed, still annoyed, and Mario tried his best to conceal his laughter, coughing into the nook of his arm. We would walk through the doors a few minutes late each time, Mario would turn pink and lead us to the front pew.
“See, I hope you guys are embarrassed.” MJ and I laughed, and that laughter followed us into our seats and continued through the worship songs and sermons. My mom standing in her typical angelic fashion on stage, Ellery stood holding hands with Mario, singing and swaying softly like a small flower sprouting from the rocks outside. The man standing before us lingered with the music fading into the background, and then signalled with outstretched arms to the rest of the room.
“You may be seated.”
I tuck my ipod into the pages of the bible which sits propped up onto my lap, completely out of sight of the elderly man who stood at the wooden podium, fidgeting with his glasses and explaining why gay people wouldn’t get into heaven. Mario saw me scrolling through the “pages”, and within moments my ipod was lost for the foreseeable future and I was left once again, counting the tiles in the ceiling and begging someone to jump through the stained glass window at the front of the room like the end of an action movie, an excuse to go home early and get some more time in on my board. The pastor continued on for minutes that aged like decades, though finally I heard the golden words of freedom,
“You are now dismissed.”
I tried to linger with the rest of my family, to mingle with strangers and comment on bland socio cultural topics, sports or the weather, but my feet seemed to be buzzing with one goal in mind, making it to the door. Mario saw this and glanced over at my mom, who seemed to be engrossed in conversation with a group of older ladies laughing. He walked to me, holding a styrofoam cup with traces of cappuccino cups stamped around the side.
“How about we top off some coffee before we hit the road?” I nodded awkwardly, and we pushed through the throngs of old people to find the Keurig machine in the little cafe towards the end of the hallway.
“Are you going to bring your skateboard to the park later? I know MJ has been wanting to try it and we can all play basketball, you can practice for your next game.” He effortlessly made conversation to help me feel comfortable, and I was halfway through answering when a short annoying girl with shoulder length flat brown hair and thick framed glasses bounced over to the table where we were waiting, spilling my newly filled cup of coffee.
“Hi Courtney! My mom is taking Emma and I rollerskating and we want you to come! I asked your mom and she said it was fine! Do you want to go?!”
Madelaine Peterson. This girl drove me absolutely insane. She was terribly annoying and followed me around from the moment we entered the building to the time we left,asking me to make friendship bracelets with her and have sleepovers, taking selfies with me when I wasn’t paying attention.I silently cursed my mom for opening me up to this, searching desperately through the archives of my brain for any excuse or reason not to go but sat mute, a deer in the headlights.
“Hey Madelaine, I’m sure Courtney would love to go but I think Mel forgot we’re going out of town today. Maybe next time though!” He turned his back to her and slid off the chair, jerking his head silently telling me to do the same. I smiled at her without saying a word and followed him to the door, walking out to the car before anyone else could try to steal my Sunday. She stayed behind, watching as the doors came to a close behind me.
“I can’t believe mom would throw me under the bus like that!” I exclaimed to Mario and he laughed.
“She just wants you to make some friends here. For some reason she thinks they’re nice, but I know that girl is 100% wacko.” My mom could burn down the building and Mario would defend her reasoning for doing so, he loved her so much. It made me roll my eyes then, but now I see how rare that is.
“How did I throw you under the bus?!” My mom exclaimed, appearing from a crowd she slipped through effortlessly.
“You said I could go hang out with Madelaine?! What is wrong with you? She’s insane, mom!” MJ and Ellery trailed behind us as we walked to the silver Durango in the corner of the parking lot, giggling at our conversation.
“Courtney, she is a very nice girl and I thought you might have fun roller skating! I didn’t say you had to go, I was just giving you the option!” I rolled my eyes and we piled into the car.
My mom turns up the music, contemporary christian with a soft guitar leading into a gentle, somewhat whining chorus.
“Guys we just listened to this at church, can you turn on something more upbeat?” My mom ignored me, and Mario dashed a mischievous look to my mom before punching the buttons on the radio, a screeching guitar solo overlays heavy rock music and we all burst out laughing as my mom scowled and turned the volume dial way down. Mario reached over to take her hand in forgiveness, she snatches it away right beforehand, pretending she is looking for something in her large purse. He pouts, and then turns back to face us all in the backseat.
“Kids, that was not funny. We need to respect your mom and her music, even if it isn’t the greatest or something we want to listen to.” He laughs as she smacks him playfully in the back of the head. They started talking about adult things and I took turns with Ellery and MJ playing Super Mario Bros, with one earbud stemming from my second ipod touch. That car ride drifted into the rest of forever, and I find myself questioning my own hesitations at these people I loved and who so very much loved me back. This was my family, completely and wholly, and I can never not think back to these moments and smile from my heart at the irreplaceable acts of my father.
flowers cure
There used to be a little girl who counted flowers. She sat beside her beautiful grandfather and their faces reflected the glory of the sun, while he trimmed and primed the delicate, lovely branches of greenery that thrived in the garden near his house. When she got tired of counting, she amused herself with chasing her youth in the form of premeditated butterfly games. Her ringlet curls bounced in time with her feet as she lunged in only the way toddlers could, to amuse any adults at hand. Sometime around twilight, the sun would stretch far against its perimeters of safety, to wave goodnight to the girl and her grandfather. They would wave back as it faded into and against the sky, and black ink flooded the clouds above them. The grandfather would then carry his granddaughter inside, and they would gorge themselves with laughter and pretty snacks. Every night when the girl would leave, she would always turn around and tell the moon to make sure the sun would always come back the next day, fore she was positive that her grandfather was made of the same cells as the sunshine she basked in, and she worried if the sun hid, it would hurt her beloved grandfather, which she couldn’t stand the thought of. But, the moon kept his promises and everyday she would return, filled with warmth that spread through her body like a warm summer spring everytime she walked through the gate back into her grandfather’s garden.
The years wore on, but the moon remained faithful in it’s protection of the sun, and that in turn the sun kept illuminating the days they rejoiced in together. One day, the girl awoke to the same darkness she had slept in. She opened her window, but nothing but rain fell upon her bare hand. Bracing herself, she made the trip back to her grandfather’s house, knowing that his astounding presence could brighten the eyes of any storm. The now twelve year old opened the wire gate, and saw his garden, empty. It was such an oddity to look at. Even when every plant was deemed perfect, her grandfather still had branches to ruffle or weeds to pluck from their habitance. Walking up to the door, she heard murmurs of family she wasn’t used to hearing, but it didn’t bother her. She went to see her grandfather and he smiled, such a wonderful smile, she was sure it could stop wars, or maybe even rain drops.
They played cards that day due to the rain, but the girl could feel the aura of the house change. The light that illuminated from her grandfather’s eyes had dimmed down to a bleak lantern, which worried the girl immensely. She asked him what was wrong, but he answered her with a great laugh, telling her nothing could be wrong with a world as wonderful as this. She shakily agreed, hugging him and noticed how sturdy he felt, her last reminiscence of home she could count on. That night when she went home, she grew angry, like a short weed sprouting between rows of daffodils. She knew her grandfather wouldn’t agree with this emotion, but the moon had broken its promise to her, she had never felt so betrayed. “How could you!” She screamed out her bedroom window, amidst a storm that didn’t know how to use it’s indoor voices. That night she only caught glimpses of the moon as she tossed and turned, dreaming of the sun.
The next morning, she saw the grim faces of her family and her stomach churned in time with the storm. She only stayed long enough to hear the word cancer, then she bolted from her statue-like state and ran straight into the storm. She embraced the icy water that cut against her face, the wind that tore at her jacket, she found peace in the physical destruction of herself in that moment. After hours, she left the storm and found herself at the same iron gate she had walked through thousands of times, now looking at it, memorizing the chink near the bottom rung, remembering how she used to have to get help opening it by herself. She entered the house and found him in his favorite chair, almost as if he had known she was coming. She ran straight into his arms, and in that moment every year she had run to him had emerged from her skin. She saw herself as a baby, a toddler, a child, always running back to the same warm beacon. He smiled at her, and the smile stretched 12 years wide, and she appreciated the familiarity of the expression. The next few months flew by with wind in shades of bruised blue. Holidays, days in general, nothing seemed to work. The girl was so confused, until one day they were walking and she saw it. The last trace of sun had leaked out of his eyes. She hadn’t seen the warm star since she had found out the terrible news. That night, she opened her window, and let her own eyes kiss the sky. She knew her grandfather was growing sicker and sicker, but she needed something back. She told the moon stories of her childhood that night. Weaving tales of secret gardens and adventures in the woods, until the moon began to weep, in the form of the most gentle warm rain the girl had ever felt. She let it dance against her eyelids and calm the pain that had grown, like a weed, inside of her. She asked the moon to bring the sun back, because she knew, if her grandfather could just see it again, the same warmth would return to his eyes, his face. The next day, the storm had not ceased, but her grandfather said the garden needed tending. They ventured out in warm jackets and cold hearts, finally reaching the sad garden beds. Against the wishes of her grandmother, They stayed out waiting, in hopes to see the sun yet again. The next day came and went. Finally, the sun broke between the clouds and they were flooded with memories, so warm their eyes began to water. The girl looked at her grandfather, and his face once again shown brightness in tune with the sun. “I remember when you were as young as these plants we grow,” he said heartily, “ I used to swing you from my arms, I used to be invincible. Now you’re the invincible one, my beautiful flower.” She looked at his bright smiling eyes for the last time, before they fell like a stage curtain, closed against his glimmering skin. She wept, feeling more betrayed than a planet full of broken promises. “Why are you crying?” She looked into the sky and saw her grandfather’s face, outlined by the circle of the sun. “No need for tears. You’re invincible now. Wear it well.” She felt the light kindle her broken spirit, as every cloud in the sky was chased away by the beauty of the scene unfolding. She went home and the moon wept with her that night, until the stars cradled her into a warm slumber. Even as the years passed and deteriorated with the garden, every time the little girl looked up at the sky, she saw the sun winking at her, with a smile that was 12 years wide, and eyes that illuminated every dark thought in the world. Smiling like a child, she ran into the light embrace of the sun, her ringed curls dancing in tune with her feet, chasing the love she knew she had never lost.
We
I exist in the space near me and the space near you, only. The moon carried himself with the power of a lighthouse, wisdom guiding late birds to empty nests and empty hearts to the arms of carefully placed lovers. I caught him watching me. Though; perhaps it had been the wine in my head creating stories.
I poured glass after glass, bubbling heroics brimming the rims with stories, until after a while I could see you;- fitted suit with an air of grace, intelligent feet that moved with the ease of a stream, and blue eyes that had entire fires behind each pupil. I remembered it taking my breath away and once again, I had empty lungs accompanied by a full heart.
I shook my head and you disappeared. I lifted the cup to my lips once more, either to make me remember or forget even more vividly, I couldn’t stand the empty grey place of between. I remembered the daisies that used to litter my front door because you knew they were my favorite, I remembered how we screamed at each other with the newness of love but the precedent of fear, I remembered how I would rotate every ocean on this planet for a few more minutes getting to explain to you how completely wrong it is for us to be apart.
I knew God had stopped listening a long time ago. ‘Drunken cries don’t carry messages to heaven’, I’d repeat, though sometimes I would still wish my hardest that they would. I carried my glass across the hardwood floors that echoed with my abandoned steps in the ways they used to echo with ours together. The glass dropped from beneath my pressing fingers and shattered into the ground. I looked up at your picture, finely printed eulogy underneath your radiance, I wept with a power I hadn’t felt in months.
You weren’t easy to find, I thought; existing in this world froze me. Day and day after, I only felt a desolate chime, nothing more or less. I knew I needed you, but I didn’t know you then, I hardly know you now. As I shook the wine from my vision I felt my eyes fill once more with the empty weight of liquid promises never kept.
You were hard to see at first. But seeing you was all that mattered. I looked near the balcony, gaining strength to shut the twin oak doors, and at first it was only your eyes. Their fire burned into my own vision and I blinked, hard. The fitted suit outlined my memory, but when I looked, it was only a faded shirt and cloth pants. I shook my head. This isnt real this isnt real this isnt REAL- the last words turned to shouting and I felt my body trembling with the weight of my own grief.
“You exist in the space near me and the space near you, only. “ your voice echoed through my mind and I felt my heart thawing and shattering, being rebuilt with your presence and being destroyed by the memory of your absence. I dared to try a response, but my tongue felt heavy and lost, trying to speak a language it had never heard prior.
“There is no you anymore; and there is no me because of it.” I could feel my voice breaking and blending with the chill of the room.
“I still exist because of you. You are the only life I remember; I watch your eyes still when you smile, I hold you while you sleep, you exist because it is what you do best. You have kept me existing because of it.”
I turned sharply; out of confused hurt and shame for indulging in whatever this was becoming. Suddenly I felt warm arms wrapping me, until we were intertwined and shining. I looked into his eyes and felt the happiness that had been desolate months finally break through my own eyes and entrap us together, in this moment.
“There is no reason to ever cry, we are as we are- we existed once together and we will exist once again. There is no me without you.”
You were my most prominent thought waking up the next morning. I could feel the emptiness returning to my bones like soldiers of a lost war, and it was all I could do to continue to breathe with your newly acquired absence sifting over me once again. I hadn’t remembered returning to my bed the night before, only the breaking glass and terribly true dream I had. I pushed my body to wake up fully, to clean the glass and attempt another day. I was in the same place as last night. My once broken glass set upright and whole beneath his picture. I ran my fingers down its edges, half expecting it to shatter once more. I walked over to the balcony doors, still opened and inviting in the chill of midmorning air. I froze. Daisies littered my balcony, leaving empty only a small space near where you had stood the night before, replaced with a note. My hands shook with the power of a storm, it took me three attempts to open the letter.
“You are the sun, I am the moon. I reflect the beauty you offer me. While we exist in opposite fragments of this life, break your sorrows. Soon we will breathe life into each other, once again.
I exist in the space near me and the space near you, forever. “
A Heart as Black as Ink
Ink began spilling over every tangible surface- dripping down the desk like the melting smile of lipstick, falling to the floor like rain droplets and splattering against the tiles like echoes of an empty love. I saw it, I saw it, yet I did nothing to stop it. I was a helpless sinner, watching Noah’s ark drift to safety as I was overtaken by the flood that beckoned his departure. Before these words had begun to drown me I remember thinking about how holy they used to seem. Allusions to childlike wonder amiss in their homelike tales of love and adventure. Now the only thing alluded to was my own departure. Deep, and dark, and ever forthcoming.
Even the shadows felt thick. I tried to hide from them, worried they might travel backwards through the air and tell him I was leaving. Tell him I was still breathing. Leaving my apartment- I wondered what could break the loose chains I could hear faintly clinking around my ankles, tangling like vines and slowly gaining control of my direction.
“Hello sweetheart,” I turned on the heel of the same step, shock infested emptiness breaking the stride I had built into maintaining. Because no matter how far I went, he found me. He always seemed to find me. And I always seemed to let him.
His fingers traced the familiar path they had grown accustomed to, small lines that spoke of ownership and emptiness- all without exposing a single breath. I had thought, for a simply foolish instant, that he would have stayed at the apartment, maybe to sweep up the broken glass of his own disasters, maybe to clean up my ink that he kept spilling- yet he returned; with angry fingertips and a cracking leash.
I watched him wearily, a cat watching a wolf with a sense of casual panic.
“D a r l i n g, there is ink everywhere- are you just going to let it sink into the walls?” I could taste the menace in his voice, as if his own insecurity was spilling- as if the ink would divulge the world of his secrets- of the blossoming ink stains on my arms and the broken bottles dancing through the air in our late night ‘talks’.
The strange thing about ownership is- it never seems to be what is deserved, only what is stolen. Something stripped from hands that will cherish and given to hands blanketed in bruises and slashed with poor intention. He only proved this, turning a vacant thought into a cell I was trapped within. And there was ink everywhere.
Returning home, I let my eyes dance over the darkened furniture, the ashen walls coated with a glimmering sheen and carpet stained with darkened memories; tainted and ashen against the soft plush. Exasperated, desperate. The familiar shock settled into a quiet hum, life on earth splashed with the discontentment of living. He lurked behind, furthering my fear of shadows close or far away.
My desk was shattered. Paper lay astray like stars tossed lazily across the sky, typewriter keys broken and scattered across the floor and pens thrown like arrows stuck into the walls and the ceiling and the papers and all of anything I had ever cared about thrown and disregarded and destroyed. I was vacant in my own home. I felt his hands dig into my ribcage like detrimentally sharp knives- slinking around me like a snake, fangs poised and ready. I bent over with trembling hands and an angry heart, beginning to clean the mess of myself he had made. He had made.
Clarity. A swiftness of self recognition. Heavy flick of a wrist and empty empathy. Excuses hung all over the walls like paintings of masculine drunken mood swings and hands that sink like a fist into clay. I picked up the pen. Heavy golden decor and a sharp twisted end. A sharp, twisted, end. I stood with power I had never been allowed to show. I looked at the shattered remains of my life around my feet like ashes of a fire, jerking my fist back, aiming straight through the heart and not hesitating, f a l l i n g, relief.
Ink began spilling over every tangible surface- blossoming through his shirt and down to the floor, echoing like an angry clatter of bottles, silent after a deep breath. I saw it and did nothing to stop it, yet this time I felt calm. He grabbed me for the last time and I pushed away the fingers that had every surface of my body scratched onto them. I waited for the emptiness to settle into the old building, gathering my papers and thoughts. It was fortunate a match was struck just close enough to spark against something. It was fortunate I escaped just in time. As I watched the flames lick and savor the old wood of my home, I was not mournful. I felt the fire catch within the home of my own body. I left with the embrace of a warrior, knowing I had fought this fire too long by feeding it the wood of my body instead of letting it burn out.
midsummer fires
Soot spirals up towards the dimly lit sky as stars lay scattered behind the clouds. There is no breeze amidst the trees and bramble, or if there is it cannot be felt unless you are really paying attention. The moon hangs in the corner of the sky as if foreshadowing to the earthen world around me that it will soon be too dark to see without its glow. A fire sits vacant before us, burning as an afterthought atop a broken pile of twisted wood. Smoke bleeds through every inch of space exposed to the cool night air and flames dance with lazy purpose upwards with mangled hands toward the sky. Charred wood embers flourish beneath the rocks, glimmering in reflection of the pale gray sky. The sun seems to diminish with a slight of hand, she vanishes with no one watching.
There is a drawn out silence in the air that makes every crack of fire sound like a strike of lightning. Fireflies graze absentmindedly around us, vanishing and making a swift reappearance a few feet away. My sister trails after them, sprawling through the dense grass, fingers stretching into nothingness. I follow, more so out of concern than curiosity. Her laughter carries her back to the safety of a warm campsite, equipped with a leaning tent composed of rainproof plastic canvas and wooden stakes that pray to be unearthed each time wind passes.
I continue on this path, weaving between thick and thin branches, ducking so I do not rush into the heavy branches, though smaller limbs with sharper claws seem to catch me by surprise regardless. My footing is clumsy compared to the quick jab of a rabbit or delicate sprint of a deer. I wonder what the forest thinks of such disruption. I take care not to trample over the plants below me, though I must admit this is more so I do not sprain my ankle than for their safety. Light filters through the leaves swaying overhead, a thousand miniature spotlights illuminating the path before me.
The trees break at some point, scattering until the land is flat and even the grass grows sparse. I do not see the water until my shoes sink into the thick mud of the shore. I raise them from the ground, leaving two asymmetrical holes in the sand. As I walk along the shore, I hear the waves washing away any traces I leave behind.
I watch the waves lapping over one another like feet dancing in a crowded room. The crystalline crests reflect off of the moon and blind me if I try to focus on one at once. The water is pitch black, thick and sinister ink disguising itself by lack of sunlight. My thoughts drift back a thousand paces to a warm fire as the temperature around me slowly falls. I consider retracing my steps as my foot falls on the flat wooden surface of a boardwalk. It stretches from beneath the earth farther beyond the waves than I can see. I step on the first panel and it does not splinter beneath my feet. Step after step, until I see nothing on either side of me except the rocking black glass of the sea.
The old wooden platform sways with the energy of the water, I pause to look into the waves. Even in light of the moon I can hardly make sense of the surface. I reach down with trembling hands to touch the water, a desire to confirm my own fear of how cold it must be. In the same instance a wave sprays against my face, I stumble back until the surface beneath me vanishes. I was wrong. The water is not cold, though it is everywhere, filling my lungs and causing me to wonder.
angels in alleys
Bullet shots echoed throughout the room making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, leaving me untouched but rattled to my very core. Goosebumps rippled across my arm and I fought against the shudder that ran down my spine. It had been nearly eighteen months since I had started the detective academy’s young recruits FBI program, and the sound of a shot firing rang through the back of my mind like a constant reminder that this very sound was the last thing that my mother had ever heard before being enveloped in a permanent silence. I shook the thought from my head, remembering where I was and why I was here. I wondered if I would ever be capable of shaking the everpressing rattle in my bones.
Sargent Bailey was a kind older man in his mid sixties, who wore a soft mustache and salt and pepper hair. He had been doing this for a long time, which he liked to remind us all of during the early morning classes and training sessions, when we assessed the current cases and kept up to date on any potential evidence that had been presented as a lower level priority. We weren’t yet skilled enough to catch the serial killers or monitor the more severe cases, although the higher up officers provided us the juicy updates and details of their cases at any opportunity, provided that the information was public knowledge. There was plenty that was kept locked behind the steely minds of the agents and officers that made me feel ill just to think about. He was the owner of the glock-22 that had been going off for the last several moments, as I stood in a stunned haze a few feet from the firing range.
I hated guns. I was hoping that coming here and being around them more often might change my mind, or change my feelings, but they both remained stubborn and stagnant, stuck on past worries and resentments. I wished that I had stayed home that morning, stretching out onto the generously sized mattress that I had moved into my cramped apartment just outside of the city. The commute was part of what I loved about the academy, although on some days I preferred to avoid other people entirely. Today was one of those days, but I chose to push forward regardless and do what I could to make it through.
“See how I aimed two shots at his chest and one at his head? If an attacker is this close to you out in the field, if their weapon is drawn and you’re unable to make another choice, you must draw your weapon and take aim to one of these three areas on the body, for your own safety.” The Sergeant droned on as my stomach dropped into the very pit of my toes, and I had to fight the urge to empty the contents of my breakfast onto the floor in front of him and all of the other officers at the thought of ever having to draw my weapon. I knew I was not ready for this kind of work, I could never imagine being the difference between a living person’s life or death.
I knew I could never be cut out for this sort of work, but that didn’t stop me from faithfully dedicating myself to the dark pre morning workouts, weekend seminars dedicated to experts that worked in the field of criminology, dealing with monsters and criminals far worse than I had ever seen. The most unfathomable criminal I had ever dealt with was a faceless coward with a pistol hidden in his jeans, who stole one of the most important people from my life on a misty Wednesday in November. It was now October and three years had slipped by in shameful resistance to carry forth, an effort on behalf of the science of time to never stop despite the everyday tragedies taking place. I half listened to the rest of the Sergeants speech, nodding when he made direct eye contact and trying not to wince as the next volunteer stepped forward, willing to demonstrate all that they had learned in the last half hour. I wouldn’t volunteer to do that in a million years.
“Celeste, why don’t you give it a try?” Sargaent Bailey’s eyes softened, and I remembered the conversation we had a few weeks prior about my reluctance to take my first shot. All twenty-something pairs of eyes turned to face me, and I had to fight every instinct in my body to not throw up on the spot.
“I’m sure that there is someone who is more…excited to give it a try. Maybe give them a chance first?” My voice sounded shrill and I hated the hollowness in my tone. With a curt nod, the Sergeant nodded and turned to the young man standing a few paces to my left, who had eagerly raised his hand a few moments prior. I watched in a fog as that man stepped forward, I think his name was Justin or Connor, and I imagined the entire room sniggering and laughing at my inability to do the one thing that was required of us here.
My eyes hazed over in a sudden mist and I blinked back the emotion furiously, begging for emptiness and nothingness and for my body to get the memo. In reality, I am sure that no one noticed much besides my declining the Sargaent’s offer, which I was sure was going to be the talk of the group as soon as I had to leave for the afternoon to go visit my father. Justin or Connor took his place twenty feet or so away from the perpetrator, a wooden cutout of a figure standing threateningly with holes fired through its torso and head.
I watched as he fired off a few rounds smoothly, the sound grating against my temple like grinding nails against a chalkboard, and I lept in the air as my shoulders involuntarily spasmed and I stood with a rush, turning towards the door and fumbling to take off the equipment required for me to even be back here. I threw the illuminated vest to declare that I was certified enough to be behind the main gated doors onto a chair sitting precariously near the exit before I threw open the doors and booked it out into the bustling city crowd, none whatsoever deterred by the rain misting its way down the street. I was sure that I wasn’t out of place dressed in all black, despite the attention I sometimes received from the contrast between my silver-white blonde hair and eyebrows and the dark jackets and clothes that I preferred to wear.
My thick black tennis shoes slapped the wet pavement as I navigated through the damp labyrinth of people and benches, strollers and bikers. It was getting late in the afternoon, and I knew the train from Carroll Ave to East Chicago would take at least an hour if not more for the south shore to complete. Most days I preferred the time to relax and listen to music or an audiobook on self help, but I was anxious and desperately needed a bone crushing hug from my eleven year old brother, Arthur. The image of his anxious thin frame sprang into my head, his unruly ginger hair billowing over the large frames of his glasses. I wanted to sit with him on our overstuffed yellow sofa and watch NCIS, snacking on crispy cheddar fries and analyzing every second of his school day.
Arthur was strange. It was my favorite thing about him. Wisdom trickled behind his soft green eyes and I knew at eleven years old he picked up on some subtleties that adults often overlooked. He would explain all of the fifth grade hot gossip to me over snacks and treats. I would stifle my laughter at the serious demeanor he took explaining such things to me, a twinkle in his eye as if he realized the joy it brought me to hear about his day. I made it a habit of taking the train at least four times a week to visit for dinner and sometimes a walk, which seemed to be a fair compromise for moving out. My father hadn’t had an easy time with the idea of my leaving.
“Why on earth would you want to move closer to the city?” His tone had been soft yet challenging, and I could tell the idea of me not living under his roof any longer made him nervous to think about. I was twenty at the time, and I felt that it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t stop time for the tragedy that had overtaken all of our lives. Despite my commute to the University of Chicago after graduation, Arthur and my father had never been used to me being gone long. They were adjusting, but it was difficult.
Arthur had been so young when everything happened, it seemed like a million years ago, yet the knifelike pain of her absence still tainted every happy memory that we created since we lost her.
My father had since visited and approved of all of my safety precautions, he loved the academy and wanted to encourage Arthur to follow in my footsteps. I begged him to never say that to Arthur, but I never told him why. I could never imagine such a sweet innocent boy growing accustomed to what horrors the world can produce. I think my father understood that on some level, because he dropped the topic after that.
We had dinner often though, like we had planned on doing tonight. My father often made one of my childhood favorites like eggplant parm or chicken alfredo or something Arthur loves, like breakfast for dinner or steak done medium rare. Tonight though, he decided to grill salmon, which he announced after we had greeted in a flurry of hugs after I arrived at their home. He had taken Arthur, in a haze and panic, and packed up the remainder of their lives to relocate to a small yellow town home on the bluff of the lake across the water from southwest Michigan. It was quaint and open; I knew my mother would have loved this place.
The air had an orange and purple tainted haze to it when I left that evening, I couldn’t explain it. As if the wind had sucked all of the electricity from the city like a siphon and was channeling it into my eardrums. Replaying the goodbyes in my head, I felt defeat in my chest like the echo of the bullet shots from earlier that day. I felt the shame deep in my bones of running from their sadness, I wished I could take every ounce of their emptiness and pour it into myself. I couldn’t stand to see them as desolate as they often seemed when they thought I was not paying close enough attention.
I yanked my golden curls into a loose ponytail. The walk to the train was long, and most of the lights on this street had been damaged or busted completely. My father always insisted that I get a car to take me to the train, but the first few times I was too emotional. The first time I had outright lied, telling him that I was getting one to pick me up from the library, saying it was cheaper. Everything flowed from my lips like the truth these days.
A sound ripped through the cold evening air that sent a jolt of horror down my spine and to this day still gives me nightmares, that sound she made. A woman. A few meters ahead of where I was standing on this abandoned street, in an empty alley. I faded from being a protective older sister and shifted into a training federal detective, senses tense for further clues about what was happening. I closed the distance as I trained my ears on the shuffling feet. A voice gnawed at the back of my head telling me that I was not armed. I had no protection of a bulletproof vest, no safety net of a squad of backup.
Another bloodcurdling scream ripped through the night and I sprinted the remaining feet until I stood at the end of the alley, cracked light filtering down just enough for me to see that a man held a woman by her throat against the brick building. It was her feet dangling from the pavement that caused me to charge the guy, and although I admit I could have approached things differently, I couldn’t tell if the girl was still breathing or how long she had been suspended for. Her hair hung in stringy curls framing her face and drenched with sweat, and I could make out her terrified expression from the few rays of light streaming from the moon and the dirty street lamps.
I hit the side of his body with all of the strength and adrenaline. He smelled like burnt cigarettes and oil. I thought that he might work in an auto shop. I turned my face to protect my eyes and to allow the full force of my shoulder to push him and distract him from the girl I had just gotten him to release and he stumbled a few feet sideways, colorfully cursing as he struggled to regain his balance. I turned to her, she grasped her throat and fought to regain air. I wrapped my arm around her in an attempt to comfort her, she was tall and thin with shoulder length chestnut hair.
“What’s your name?” I whispered.
“Jessica,” she choked out, bruises blossoming along her neck.
I asked if she had a phone and she shook her head. I pulled mine out and unlocked it, handing it to her.
“Go as far as you can and call 911. Give them the nearest street crossroads and describe the blue archway in front of the alley.” I folded my phone into her shaking fingers and turned to face her attacker. He grimaced at me like a rabid dog, moving closer and closer.
“You have no idea what you just did,” he snarled, inching closer to my awaiting fists. I saw his eyes drooping ever so slightly, and I wondered if he was drunk or high or both. That did not seem to impact his dexterity. He lunged and I dodged him easily, tripping him in the process and shoving him into the corner of the metal dumpster that had been sitting a few feet away. Although I was quicker, he was far bigger, and I was worried about how long he could last in a fight in his state, not feeling any pain or having any reason to stop. How long would it take the police to get here? The closest station to the house was fifteen minutes away, give or take. How long would it take for the emergency operator to relay the information to the local department? Seconds cost lives I knew, and my brother’s face flashed through my mind. I had to make it back home to him at some point.
He charged out of nowhere with a speed I was not aware he possessed. I tried to spring backward, but he caught me by my hair. My neck snapped like a doll’s yet somehow remained unbroken as he yanked me into his waiting fists. Hot and fresh blood sprang from my nose and poured down my face. I jerked my head to the side and rolled to his left, kicking his leg sideways from the side of his knee with the full force of my body. He crumpled and yelped in pain, and I grinned in grim satisfaction. I knew he would come back angrier. I was ready for it.
Suddenly I heard metal clicking into place and realized I was not ready for everything. Of course this violent idiot had a gun. Of course he had drawn it on me. He pulled the trigger and I flinched in utter terror, until I realized that he had turned the safety on in his haste. I dropped to the ground and sideswiped his legs with my own, forcing the gun to fall and scatter a few feet down the pavement in the shadowy sidewalk.
I didn’t think as I charged forward blindly to grab the gun, didn’t realize that he had already gathered himself from the spill and was right behind me. I screamed as he grabbed me by my own throat, and I tore with my nails against the flesh of his hands, berating him to free me. He didn’t. I felt each of his fingers closing in on my esophagus, and I stopped breathing altogether. Complete and utter loss and panic set in, and I scrambled desperately for an idea to save myself. As the life slipped from my body, my fingers went into autopilot and slid the safety off of the gun and I lifted it upwards towards the man’s chest before squeezing the trigger as tightly as I could.
Fireworks exploded from the end of my hand and the force shocked me, although I had shot a gun before it had never been at something breathing. His scream etched itself into the back of my head, baritone nails on a chalkboard. I kicked him hard and he let me go, his grip loosening itself from my neck and allowing me to breathe again. I gulped down fresh air, never so grateful for the simple act.
He fell backwards, and I pushed him hard once more before turning and running in the opposite direction towards the street. Panic set in and I forced myself to breathe, moving between garbage cans and debris.
I had never been so grateful in my life to hear police sirens.
I fell to my knees and slid the gun to the ground as the first car pulled up with lights flashing blue and red and blue. The car skidded to a halt a few feet from me and a stern looking woman got out of the driver's seat. I put my hands up as they approached me.
“There was a man attacking her. The girl who called, he pulled a gun on me. I had to try to keep him off, I think he’s on something. He tried to kill me, that’s his gun. I shot him.” I choked on the last words, and the woman reached down and picked up the gun, handing it to her partner who had joined her, a middle aged man with a lean build and dark curly hair. He ran to where I pointed, the alleyway. I heard him radio in the scene, and the other officer was speaking to me but I was too stunned to hear a word that she was saying.
An ambulance emerged from the street that had been silent and empty twenty minutes prior. Jessica suddenly appeared from the street, pulling me into a bear hug as her eyes overflowed with tears. It was then that I noticed all of the bruises that dotted her neck, but also her arms and face. Old bruises, yellowed and glazed over.
“Jessica, thank god you’re okay. Who was that guy? Do you know?” Her eyes fell in shame, an emotion that I related to all too well, though I wondered the reason.
“He’s my husband. Tyler.” My eyes widened.
“Oh my god. Jessica…I shot him. He was trying to kill me, but I’m.. sorry.” I didn’t know what to say as the ambulance pulled closer into view.
“Oh god, please don’t be sorry. I really hope that you killed him. You are my angel, what is your name?” I stared at her in shock and managed to say,
“Celeste Spencer.”
“Thank you, Celeste. I owe you my life.”
We stared into each other's eyes as the paramedics approached us, pulling us into opposite directions to check our levels of coherence and investigate the damage that had been done. A man gently wiped the blood that was covering the entire lower half of my face and gently pressed my nose. I yelled out in pain, and he apologized profusely and told me that he needed to set it because it was broken. I let him, bracing myself for the pain. My fingernails dug blood crescent moon’s into each of my palms until he was done. Jessica was safe, I was safe.
The bright neon white lights of the ambulance burrowed holes in my eyes, and suddenly in my worry I felt a deep sense of calm, a pang of relief. I rolled my eyes to the left and swear to this day that my mother sat there beside me, her outline shadowed and drawn by the light. I flexed my hand and felt the warmth of her hands on my fingers, and I gripped her hand tightly. I felt the cabin of the car jolt as we made a sharp turn but there was no worry in my heart, no longer and never again. I knew that I had an angel too.
happiest places
My happy place is driving in my car. Ellery, my sister, is there, of course. Windows down, summer breeze, a hot coffee, and cold smoothie resting in the cupholders. She plays the best music, even when I tell her it’s the worst. We sit and yell at the top of our lungs. Fergie, Lizzo, Eminem, Queen- anything and everything. The world is a more beautiful place on those days. Our eyes connect in laughter, sometimes- and it shows me that everything is going to be alright. I hold my coffee in one hand, our makeshift microphone in the other- I steer with my knees down Red Arrow Highway, I gloss over abrupt potholes and look for the ancient cop car that hides behind bramble and brush down the road ahead of us. She records videos that we never watch later, for fear they won’t be as beautiful as the moments in which we lived them. We would be right. Sometimes if our emotions are too high, she will turn down the song, it’s how I know she needs to talk. I listen to her. She tells me about how she hurts for Mario, about how she misses the love and consistency we used to have as a family, how things hurt her a lot more sharply, lately. I squeeze her hand and take my eyes off of the wheel, I tell her how strong she is, how special, how she is going to take over this world with her eyes wide open. I want to say more. I want to say she deserves better than what she has been given, I want to say there is no universe in hell where she should be disregarded and treated the way she is, but I don’t want her to get an idea that she’s missing out on something, because what she is missing we already had. The morning family breakfasts, the annoying brother that always put too much syrup on his pancakes and the older sister with too much makeup and a cold heart. She has so much love, even if I am just a person- the love that I have for her resides in the sky and the breeze and her own beautiful smile. This is my happy place. We cry and storm through our worst problems, we spill tea to each other and dance within the frame of our seatbelts and on very, very rare occasions we cry. We spill ideas and memories that sometimes jolt me, sometimes I have to ask her to wait for us to talk about some things, some things are still just too painful. These instances don’t occur as often, anymore. I listen to her stories of mean middle schoolers and vow to her I will run them all over with my car, I make her laugh. I tell her stories of my shitty ex-boyfriend and my crazy friends and funny things I do when I’m high, I make her laugh. She makes me laugh just as much. Her soul has been aged, it is translucent and caring and lovely. I tell her this and she shrugs. Trauma doesn’t give you much of a choice when it comes to personality traits. We speak good thoughts into existence. I tell her things I am excited for and so does she- I talk to her about trips I want to take her on and places I want to go. I tell her stories of when our parents used to be different people, and sometimes her eyes grow wide at the stories I tell her, sometimes they remain as they were. Sometimes I listen to her rap or sing and I look out the window- out at the glossy green of trees speeding passed our car and I think about Mario, our dead father, I think about how easily he could be in the backseat with us, watching her sing, watching us laugh, watching us cry-I think about how I want to cry with him. I think about how I want to hold his hands in my own and hug him and Ellery and I want us to all cry. I want to yell my apologies to him until my voice stops working, I want to tell him all of the things that have been happening and I want him to help me make sense of it all because he’s the only one that would make sense to me, most of the time. My happy place is here.
character sketch
character sketch preview Below!
Celeste Spencer has billows of blonde curly hair that falls in fine loops to her waist and eyes the color of a misty gray blue sky. She has a curvy and muscle-toned build and stands just short of being five and a half feet tall. With a longer nose that tilts down the center of her face, her mouth is small and often twisted into a wry smile or grimace. She has reading glasses that are often pushed up to her forehead to combat her billowing cloud of hair, which are large and circular with clear frames. Celeste has sensitive skin so she rarely wears any type of makeup coverage other than black or brown mascara and lipstick or chapstick, often opting to skip any type of lip product which causes her lips to often be cracked and dry or bleeding against the cold.
She prefers darker tones, typically choosing to be clad in black from head to toe. The dark makes her appear more pale than she truly is, and when she leaves her eyelashes and eyebrows blonde she appears as lovely as any marbled statue come to life, jumping from beyond the canvas of her features. It is cold in Seattle this time of year, so her nose and cheeks are often blushed red by the constant mid-October winds that push relentlessly against her face and hair as she walks the city. She bites her nails because she is anxious, so they are all typically chewed down to the wick unless she has polish on, which she rarely tolerates for any long period of time. Her typical outfit consists of dark jeans or cargo pants and a turtleneck sweater or jacket.
Personality:
Celeste stays strong because she is training and interning at her local police station to become a specialized federal detective, which has provided a lens of caution that she sees the city through. Her birthday is April 9th, 1997, and she is very loyal and protective of her younger brother Arthur, who she often calls Art or Artie. She has an obsession with forensic psychology and criminology. She has a father who adores her and a mother who passed away a few years after Arthur was born because she was killed in a bank robbery, which was where she worked at the time. This is what prompts Celeste’s obsession with crime. This traumatic event causes Celeste to be hyper aware and paranoid, as she is often obsessed with potential dangers and situations that could cause them. This obsession helps her excel in her internship to become a federal detective, but can also cause her to have panic attacks or get violently ill when she is overwhelmed. She is very empathetic and is often saddened by simple difficulties of life, such as accepting death either by loved ones or in passing animals that have been hit by cars. She gets easily emotional and this can sometimes cloud her judgment, although it does assist her in having insight into the thoughts and feelings of those around her.
Family History:
Celeste has a brother named Arthur, a father named Tim, and a previously deceased mother named Miriam. Celeste’s relationship with her brother is very much like a mother/son relationship with some obvious differences such as their bickering and subtle immaturities. She loves him dearly and feels very protective over him and her entire family. Tim is a loving father to Celeste, and also makes sure to continually check in on her after her mother’s death which included in getting therapy for after the incident occurred, who she still routinely checks in with. Miriam and Celeste were close although they did not understand each other well. Miriam wanted Celeste to be focused in school and academically succeed, and Celeste only cared about creating art. While her mother encouraged her, she often worried that Celeste wouldn’t have a strong foundation to support herself in life which worried her. Miriam's death definitely strengthened the relationship between Arthur, Tim and Celeste because they all had to learn how to communicate their sadnesses and feelings with one another.
Personal Conflicts:
Celeste’s mother Mariam who worked at a bank near the house they previously lived in was murdered in a bank robbery, which is a very deep personal trauma that she carries with her. Celeste struggles with constant anxiety of something happening to her brother or father, and this flows into practically every aspect of her life. While Celeste has managed to turn her grief and pain into something positive by interning with the police which causes her to feel more safe and allows her to channel her energy, she still has to battle daily with the anxieties and thoughts that plague her life.
Character Questions:
Q. What kind of music would this character listen to?
Celeste would listen to music that would drown out her more difficult thoughts, and I think she would listen to Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, the Ramones, and heavier and softer rock groups depending on her mood for that given day.
Q. Where would this character spend her free time?
Binging criminal minds or NCIS, or reading. She enjoys visiting her local library and has read nearly every crime related novel they have available. Sometimes she might stray to fantasy or romance, when things are going well for her mentally.
Q. What would this character's favorite meal be?
Celeste loves eating and preparing food, and she would prefer anything that invites comfort- like a hearty soup or pasta meal. Her all-time favorite food would be autumn squash soup or chicken alfredo pasta.
Genre & literal
I read something profound recently. Something that has stuck with me like a soft spoken secret that I feel i now must share. Lauren Groff’s “At the Round Earth’s Imagined Corners” is a profound work of art. In her short story, Groff said, “There was nothing but numbers, then. Later, there were numbers, the great ravishing machine in the laboratory into which he fed punched slips of paper, the motorcycle Jude rode because it roared like murder. He had been given a class to teach, but had it taken away after a month and was told that he was better suited for research. In his late twenties, there were drunk and silly girls he could seduce without saying a word, because they felt a kind of danger coiled in him, (Groff 89).”
To re-write this excerpt in my own words, I have included the following passage outlining the following as genre fiction:
“Tragedy struck so completely that he understood no language or spoken word, only numbers written on pages before him, logical solutions needing to take place, equations replaced the vacant feeling of numbness that had rooted itself deeply in his chest. Numbers and the swift defeat of highway’s black asphalt as Jude gallantly navigated his motorcycle, sleek as night.
“Jude, while you have a phenomenal sense of intellect, we all feel you are better suited for…research. Behind the scenes work. You understand that, right?” His boss’s words grinded his ears like worn sandpaper. It didn’t matter in the end. The girls were simple but they were usually drunk and allowed Jude the opportunity to hush the roaring thoughts of loss in his mind with their attention and warmth and intimacy. They flocked to him like birds, unaware of the danger writhing inside of him like the ghosts of the dead snakes his father spent years hunting and beheading.”
Some of the choices that I made in order to make the excerpt more genre fiction leaning was to provide a voice to the office head who told Jude he was better suited for research, as well as providing a wide insight into the grief and devastation that he must have been feeling after reuniting with his mother after such a tragic event only to lose her thereafter to an illness. I did this by drawing out how Jude must have been processing the grief, and connected the release of his position and riding his motorcycle and getting girls to like him to the loss that he was experiencing overall. I also worked to connect the work to Jude’s past by referencing the snake’s that Jude’s father killed, which was definitely a trauma that he experienced when he was working with his father, and would have caused him to have a haunted demeanor that people might want to understand more deeply.
I have many long-term goals that involve writing. I am currently working on a novel that has been a personal hobby but I have hopes of eventually publishing, along with poems that I have drafted into a short book’s worth as well. While I know that I have many areas to improve upon with my writing, it has always been one thing that has provided a consistent outlet and relief for me in the times I have needed it, along with allowing me to channel my creative thoughts into a story that I might someday have the chance to share with others.
I would love to experiment with different genres being such a young author, and am also hoping that this Blog can help focus my writing skills and process to be as strong and as efficient as possible. I am interested in learning about what realistic goals I might be able to make for myself in regards to publishing my work, and I would also appreciate feedback on my writing as a whole. I look forward to continuing my writing educational journey and working towards the rest of a beautiful lifelong journey.
Works Cited
Groff, Lauren. “At the Round Earth’s Imagined Corners.” Five Points, vol. 15, no. 1/2, Feb. 2012, pp. 81–97. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=ip,shib&db=prf&AN=86915062&site=eds-live&scope=site. Accessed 8 Sep. 2024.