This issue is dedicated to the memory of the late Jeff Crawford, a Penn State York student and editor of Any Other Word. Issue 11 was edited by Dr. Noel Sloboda, adviser for the publication.
Contents
Poetry
In the way
Where
W
greener grasses
my apologies
Fiction
Uneasy Lies
Congratulations
The Problem
In the way
Ben Levalley
My neighbors
Cut down a tree that was in their yard today.
It wasn’t dead.
It wasn’t in the way.
It wasn’t threatening to destroy their house.
I guess
They just didn’t want it there.
I think it was about 250 years old.
Where
Ben Levalley
Where the young men are still sold
Promises of coal and gold
They stride with pride, yet tack backward.
Pealing reels, squealing wheels,
It’s the only tale for sale.
Where the young women are taught
How to twist up in knots.
How to bake him a cake.
How to care for her fare.
How to blame herself.
Where the river runs thither
Bubbling and doubling.
Hilltops roll around the bowls.
Eagles call and fawns bawl.
And all choke on the black smoke.
W
David Lin
Another dimension, another me.
I’m about to shower, and there you are,
You appeared before me so suddenly.
We’re the same yet inverted—how bizarre.
I raise my left hand and you raise your right.
But hey, at least we can do a high five!
While you won’t be there for me in a fight,
You’ll help tend my wounds and keep me alive.
Perfect and focused, you captured my all
To the smallest detail, even the bad,
from my pimples to my scars from a brawl.
Like a doxxer, you exposed all I had.
You know my true self and I know yours too.
For we are one, as I make double you.
greener grasses
Brynn MacDonald
in my nosedive, I recall love as it was:
unconditional arms and laughter’s bandage
permanence and sunlight trickling through the trampoline.
I recall the graying out of faith
of all the growing pains of my naïveté
and all the times I’d shown up for life
just to be stood up and startled into submission.
I recall all the stupid games I played and all the stupid prizes
the vertigo from the impulse
and all of the ifs that transfigured into whens—
a declaration of self-sabotage, a witch hunt self-taught.
I recall the delicacies of the concertos that kept me concrete,
and the violence of all the love I never got back.
I recall your Arctic eyes and sense a lure back to the surface,
an abandoning of my resolve
an urge to forget and forward think —
oh what a life it never was
what a life it could’ve been
and what a pleasure it’ll be
never to see me again
I imagine my soldiering home half my weight,
my withering and my whimpering and my wishing the world away,
and I decide that it might be better this way:
to die trying than to live letting them down.
so I close my eyes and tilt the nose
I kill the noise and still my heart
and buy the farm, green and green and greener and never ending
hell-sent and heaven bound—I go home.
my apologies
Brynn MacDonald
on the shores of my inconsistency
I pick up shells of apologies
I hold them to my eye one by one
and glimpse their refractions in the sun
spume sputters and fizzles out —
no growth from my walkabout
I’m doomed to be just like the sea:
surging niceties then pulling them back to me.
Uneasy Lies
Gavin Franz
Stanley sat quietly in his seat in the middle of the thirteenth row of the Gold Day Theater. He stared unblinking at the shabby props onstage: a makeshift rampart stage left, a cardboard forest stage right, and in the middle a barren courtyard for the players onstage to inhabit. He squinted into the forest and saw that one of the distant trees was unpainted, and the rampart was noticeably sagging a bit. The courtyard itself was merely a bunch of papier-mâché rocks, ringed by a carpet of green confetti that could vaguely be considered weeds. The corners of Stanley’s mouth turned downward in an almost imperceptible frown; he had certainly seen better in his day.
He then turned his attention to the actors onstage, one of which, a boy in drab princely garb, was speechifying in the middle of the courtyard. The boy himself appeared rather young, no older than 21 or so, while the duke across from him was balding and slightly wrinkled. Addressing the duke—who, rather predictably, would turn out to be his arch-nemesis by the end—the prince threw out sweeping movements and extravagant gestures as if to make up for his own mediocre stage presence.
“Lo, good duke, for I shall reward your kindness with an honor most high!” The prince’s arm swooped from one end of the stage to the other fast enough that Stanley thought it was going to fly off.
“You flatter me, good prince,” the groveling duke replied. “I can only hope to one day be as majestic as you!” His graying teeth poked through his smile, his eyebrows drawn back in a sniveling “I’m-definitely-not-going-to-kill-you” look.
The prince shook his head—in a rather wimpy manner befitting his performance, in Stanley’s opinion. “Worry not, brave duke, for one day, you shall be the greatest ruler in all the lands!” The prince’s arm once again swept over the crowd, threatening to smack everyone in its path. How very pretentious of him.
For just a moment, Stanley imagined himself onstage in place of the boy, with perhaps a bit less vibrato in his voice. A little deeper, too, to match the prince’s stoic disposition. He definitely would not have read that line like that. Oh no, not like that either. Much too whiny and droning. And why are you moving your arms like that? You’re an actor, not a conductor. Hit those consonants harder, for God’s sake, you’re royalty…yes, perfect…
Stanley’s reverie was interrupted by the clapping of a thousand hands. These hands clapped not for him, but for the boy onstage, who had just finished delivering his rambling soliloquy. Stanley reluctantly placed his two hands together, producing an inaudible smacking sound. He eyed the prince with a glare, though their gazes did not meet. The curtain closed, signifying the end of an act, as the crowd filed out into the foyer for intermission.
Stanley stood awkwardly in the corner of the foyer, uninterested in obtaining any refreshments or talking to his fellow theatergoers. He stared at the cars driving by outside, begging for something to take his mind out of the theater, when he saw a man in his periphery lean on the wall next to him. Stanley stayed silent, hoping for the man to not be one for conversation, but without any need for prompting, the man turned to him with his rounded glasses and blurted, “Some show, huh?”
Stanley turned his head toward the man and tried to feign a smile—his facial muscles convinced him he had been successful, but the man’s expectant expression suggested otherwise.
“And how about that boy playing the prince?” the man prodded in a breathy voice. “Kid must’ve worked pretty hard to get here. I tell ya, I can’t imagine doing that at his age.” The man chuckled, fiddling with something in his pocket.
Stanley shrugged his shoulders as if to respond, without committing to the act of saying something.
“That’s what I love about theater,” the man continued, once again unprompted. “Seeing all these up-and-comers, making the most of their lives…it makes ya feel young, y’know?”
Stanley said nothing.
The curtain rose again on a scene atop the rampart, this time enlarged to fill the entire set. The rampart was lined with what appeared to be a bunch of burlap sacks painted to somewhat resemble bodies, indicating the duke’s rampage. The dark clouds above were suspended by bits of rope, and a few of them swayed in a manner that Stanley deemed quite amateurish. The prince stood on stage right wielding a cheap prop sword, while the duke stood opposite him with a flimsy wooden staff. The time was nigh for their ultimate duel, but first the prince and the duke had to exchange taunts. The prince went first:
“Fie on you, cur! Your treachery is naught but the vilest of all! The blackness within your heart shan’t smother this shining kingdom!”
Gag.
Stanley eyed up the gesticulating prince, wondering exactly how he had gotten to be on that stage. Surely, there must have been some sort of nepotism in the casting process. Or perhaps there was simply no one else to fill the role, the other players much too old and crusty to play the radiant prince. Or maybe this kid was one of those fresh college upstarts who somehow started his career a good 10 or so years ahead of the rest of us. Stanley imagined him getting a full-ride scholarship to some silver spoon ivy league university. Little brat was probably born on Broadway, and he no doubt had plenty of gigs lined up for the next few years. He’d certainly be all over the news soon. Stanley seethed in silence; he had never been so offended by another person’s success.
“That’s what you think,” the duke clapped back. “You know nothing of what it means to rule! This kingdom deserves better than an unseasoned half-wit like you!”
Once again, Stanley imagined himself onstage, this time in place of the duke. He glared at the prince with steely contempt and readied his staff in preparation for their duel. With a presumptuous “taste my blade”, the prince dove at him by the hilt of his sword, but Stanley was faster. He sidestepped the boy’s sword, throwing off his aim and sending him stumbling to the other side of the stage. The boy looked back at him in bewilderment and once again lunged forward to strike. Stanley expertly parried the boy’s clumsy overhead strike and swiftly disarmed him, knocking him to the ground. He picked up the sword, and without a moment’s hesitation, walked over and plunged it into the boy’s chest. The prince convulsed in his overly dramatic death throes as Stanley stood over him. The duel was over; he had won. Stanley faced his audience and basked in the glory of their raucous applause, knowing that his story had rightly been told at last.
Stanley opened his eyes to the audience around him now standing up, cheering at the prince’s victory. The envious duke lay in a heap on the floor, the prince’s blade stuck deep within his chest cavity. What? That doesn’t make sense. Isn’t the duke supposed to win and put the little brat in his place? Stanley shook his head; clearly these showrunners had no idea what they were doing. He reluctantly stood up and began clapping silently. The boy onstage bowed profusely at his audience, his Burger King crown threatening to fall off his head and into the crowd below. For a moment, his eyes met Stanley’s, and the boy smiled. Stanley simply stared at him blankly, his inaudible claps speaking words he felt no need to.
Congratulations
Avery Volz
Dear Lilith,
My suspicions were confirmed at approximately 12:23 p.m. yesterday when my ears took on a superhuman quality to amplify your whispered confession: “He is so cute.” He, being the man I also think is “so cute.” I watched your icy blue eyes trail after him down the sidewalk, your mouth ajar like you wanted to say more but simply couldn’t. Because he disabled the language centers in your brain. He does that to me, too, probably because his golden hair forms a cursive C as it curls around his ears. And because his teeth are so perfect that I want to preserve them in my scrapbook for safe keeping after we graduate. I know you ponder the same things. I watched the thoughts float across your face yesterday as the August sun assaulted the top of my head. Meanwhile, our Adonis of a man sauntered away.
I feel a pang at your words, Lilith, I really do. It is a pang of jealousy. Of: oh-shit-not-more-blonde-competition. Of: dammit, now that I think about it, he wrapped you in his arms as soon as he saw you, not as a quick, awkward goodbye (like he did for me). But I guess I understand. You copied the single dimple in my cheek, and you stole my emerald eyes. Of course he likes you. You even took that job at the Starbucks right off campus for some extra cash, even though we both know that is his favorite spot to write his college essays. You offered to clean the tables outside during your first shift—definitely to uphold proper cleanliness and not to check for his car in the parking lot. I admire your obsession—or, dedication, excuse me—because it mirrors mine.
Since you’re like me, you also fall in love with your enemies.
I know you’ve been watching me watch you, Lilith. I saw your icy blue eyes tick to mine after you watched our Prince Charming disappear in the crowd yesterday. I know you’re just as thirsty for my secrets as I’ve been desperately pining for yours. We know Mr. Perfect is in class from one to two-thirty today, but we also know that both of us are free. Meet me at the outlook. And don’t tell your friends.
Forever yours,
Avery
PS: Wear that cherry lip gloss you know I’ve been dying to taste.
The Problem
Avery Volz
I am a crisp navy-blue T-shirt that’s been lying on the foot of the bed for nearly a week. The cream-colored shorts hiding at the bottom of a hamper that will need to be pressed. I am a solo braid slung across a golden forehead, secured by two trusted bobby pins. I should be a bow, but I’m not that pretentious.
I am the escort to fifteen men in sharp, checkered suits and the starstruck lunch date to their leader: a woman. I am the sick July heat and the mustard seeping from Cuban sandwiches and the sweaty handshake that will be wiped on a blazer as soon as backs are turned. I might as well be the envy of the adults in my life as I sip on this cucumber concoction and talk success with the president. I should be the future doctor’s dream girl, but his head is in the clouds.
Even though I am everyone’s slice of sunshine—a diary of a text message, a half-dimpled smile, a sweet pastry oozing strawberry filling—
I don’t get along with anyone.
My lips aren’t plump enough. They’re too small, yet not small enough to trap that outburst on my tongue. My brain is three pounds of judgment and one quarter conceited. My smile is the punchline to a joke I was not present for. I fell in love with the wrong guy…
I am a bottle of Advil and gallons of cough syrup. I am the scuff marks on his white sneakers. The frantic voicemail to a therapist who’s off duty. The aching walls of a house on Friday night.
I am the twinkling image of success.
And I am the problem.