"To the world we dream about, and to the one we live in now."
– Hadestown
A letter from the editors
Hello all! It's been a while, but we're back with a new issue for you here at Crown & Pen.
There's certainly been a lot to reflect on as we look back over the last two years since we launched as a digital tiny home for writing and art inspired by the pandemic – for everyone, on both a global and personal scale. Some good, some not-so-good.
For many of us, the word "reflection" calls to mind images of mirrors, of smooth lake surfaces, of wishing wells and rainbow prisms of light reflected on the wall. But reflection is not always a tranquil thing – sometimes it forces us to confront our deepest fears, our biggest regrets, or the old hurts and fractures we keep buried inside that still need healing. Reflection can hurt (notice how the word "reflex" is hidden in there, like when you get your knees bonked on at the doctor's office?). But, at the risk of stating the obvious, it's necessary for any kind of positive momentum to happen. When people don't stop to reflect on where they've been, they can't figure out a way forward. This is true for individuals and for civilizations as a whole, and right now we're seeing the consequences of the outright refusal to reflect play out on the global stage in truly terrifying ways (Russia's senseless war on Ukraine, the gutting of reproductive rights, book banning and aggressive assaults on queer and trans folks in the United States, school shootings, white supremacy, climate change, and countless other things).
Normally we would offer a more uplifting message, but the truth is that things are tough for everyone right now. There is a lot to mourn, a lot to be scared of, and a lot of reasons to be angry. And while by no means does that mean that there aren't reasons to be hopeful and many things to find joy in, we'd like to simply invite you to reflect on the not-so-good feelings you may be experiencing right now, as we experience the dying of an old world and a shift towards a new one. And know that Crown & Pen will always be home for your messy, messy human feelings about this messy, messy world we live in.
All our best wishes,
Nori & Ashton
PS: Stay tuned for our second annual PRIDE Issue, dropping on June 14th! Check our socials for updates.
Commonalities
by A.R. Salandy
Verdant vines demarcated narrow sides
As roads twisted to the incline of mountainous intrigue
Where turquoise stones and a delicate mix
Of umber and hazel trees trembled
Under the clattering of primates
In search of succulent fruit
Only to discover open balconies
And father at war with the leader of the pack.
But a truce was called and bread was broken,
Now, instead of battle cries
Sun rose to the sound of drawn smoke
And a fiery Langur nibbling on its daily egg.
As roads twisted to the incline of mountainous intrigue
Where turquoise stones and a delicate mix
Of umber and hazel trees trembled
Under the clattering of primates
In search of succulent fruit
Only to discover open balconies
And father at war with the leader of the pack.
But a truce was called and bread was broken,
Now, instead of battle cries
Sun rose to the sound of drawn smoke
And a fiery Langur nibbling on its daily egg.
Possessions
by A.R. Salandy
Lacquered descents
And luxurious lunches
Gliding beyond the caterwauling
Where forests seem to sway to natural pulses.
A percussion embedded in the hum of universal existence,
A din akin to little more than the light roar of rough engines
That tumbled toward rugged upland
And fields of quaint dwellings
Thatched microcosms
Beyond urbanized authority.
But as silken air caressed worn eyes,
One felt unwillingly relieved of artefacts personal,
For frantic calls
Were met only by distant speakers echoing
‘Siste toge til Oslo Central’*
Where under midnight sun
Bloodshot eyes became entranced,
Just waiting for luggage to materialize.
*Last train to Oslo Central
And luxurious lunches
Gliding beyond the caterwauling
Where forests seem to sway to natural pulses.
A percussion embedded in the hum of universal existence,
A din akin to little more than the light roar of rough engines
That tumbled toward rugged upland
And fields of quaint dwellings
Thatched microcosms
Beyond urbanized authority.
But as silken air caressed worn eyes,
One felt unwillingly relieved of artefacts personal,
For frantic calls
Were met only by distant speakers echoing
‘Siste toge til Oslo Central’*
Where under midnight sun
Bloodshot eyes became entranced,
Just waiting for luggage to materialize.
*Last train to Oslo Central
Mom's Cranberry Cake
by A.R. Salandy
Every winter I waited in anticipation
For the scent of rising cinnamon
To convert our little home
Into a fantastically warmed land –
Where cranberries would simmer
In the auburn pot where sugar bubbled
And berries twirled as they burst
So gently to the stove top fire
That summoned my mother to action,
But when the cranberries appeared soft
Only then would she prepare
The sumptuous cake for which we desired
All through hoary nights
That gave way to only more frigid dawns,
And as the baking commenced
Did my mother sit and marvel
At the creation only she could make,
As if a miracle of margarine –
My mother was the buttery buttress
That cushioned the shocks
That shook our resilience
Only to suppress her own,
Much like the growing cake
That now rested as it cooled
Just above that worn oven
That served as a reminder
For maternal sacrifice in domesticity.
For the scent of rising cinnamon
To convert our little home
Into a fantastically warmed land –
Where cranberries would simmer
In the auburn pot where sugar bubbled
And berries twirled as they burst
So gently to the stove top fire
That summoned my mother to action,
But when the cranberries appeared soft
Only then would she prepare
The sumptuous cake for which we desired
All through hoary nights
That gave way to only more frigid dawns,
And as the baking commenced
Did my mother sit and marvel
At the creation only she could make,
As if a miracle of margarine –
My mother was the buttery buttress
That cushioned the shocks
That shook our resilience
Only to suppress her own,
Much like the growing cake
That now rested as it cooled
Just above that worn oven
That served as a reminder
For maternal sacrifice in domesticity.
Anthony Salandy is a Black mixed-race poet & writer who has spent most of his life in Kuwait jostling between the UK & America. Anthony's work has been published 215 times internationally. Anthony has 2 published chapbooks titled The Great Northern Journey (Lazy Adventurer Publishing, 2020) & Vultures (Roaring Junior Press, 2021) as well as a novel The Sands of Change (Alien Buddha Press, 2021). Anthony's chapbook Half Bred is the Winner of the 2021 The Poetry Question Chapbook contest. Anthony is the EIC of Fahmidan Journal & Poetry Editor at Chestnut Review. You can follow Anthony on Twitter and Instagram at @arsalandy or online at https://arsalandywriter.com/
The Poem That’s Beautiful
by Halle Preneta
Someone once told me
poetry is all about making
the bad
beautiful.
I could do that.
I could tell you anxiety
is like standing inside a dirty pond full of sand.
The bugs crawling up your back,
buzzing in your ears,
in your stomach,
in your eyes.
Having a panic attack is like
having a car alarm for a brain.
Listen to the heart beat
like an enthusiastic drummer at 3am.
The throat closing up;
listen as I swallow down every emotion I could have.
The spit and shit and sinus mixing together to create
one huge mess.
I could tell you that
wanting to die is wanting to be a star in the sky,
guiding others long after you’re gone.
Just wanting, for once in your life,
to feel shimmering and beautiful.
I could tell you all of that.
Make it pretty.
Dress it up in fancy clothes.
Pretend it’s 1920.
But I’m not going to.
Because that would be lying to you.
I don’t want to lie to you.
Instead, I’ll tell you I live
in a constant state of grey.
Cracks in the sidewalk.
Splinters in my fingers.
I hold back a cry
so you can hear laughter.
Instead, I’ll tell you that
wanting to die feels like
ripping out every single vein
I could possibly have.
String them up like fairy lights,
look at how they sparkle blue in the sunlight. Better than being inside me.
Instead, I’ll tell you
I’ve been getting sick for the past three weeks
anytime I eat anything.
Wanting to vomit every single intestine
that lives inside me out.
My head light-headed
like gravity was omitted.
I’m not going to lie to you.
Every day, I spend twenty minutes
getting out of bed,
trying to find motivation
only to see my battery at negative one percent. Every day
someone chalks up my feelings to nothing I
want to crack a skull open,
specifically mine,
watch as the blood drains
into the sewer in the street.
Every day I live is a miracle.
I’m learning that poetry
is life in a costume.
Life wearing makeup.
Life glittering in the sun.
It’s not real.
It’s absolutes.
It’s X is greater than Y.
It’s as fake as mannequins in a store window.
It’s hard for me to believe others
when they tell me it gets better
if everything I’ve ever written is fake.
Just life in costume.
I wonder when life will reveal who it truly is.
I’d love to see it when it does.
I’ll take notes.
Take pictures to remember.
Document who it is so that
when my life finally starts to be in color,
I’ll know what to do.
poetry is all about making
the bad
beautiful.
I could do that.
I could tell you anxiety
is like standing inside a dirty pond full of sand.
The bugs crawling up your back,
buzzing in your ears,
in your stomach,
in your eyes.
Having a panic attack is like
having a car alarm for a brain.
Listen to the heart beat
like an enthusiastic drummer at 3am.
The throat closing up;
listen as I swallow down every emotion I could have.
The spit and shit and sinus mixing together to create
one huge mess.
I could tell you that
wanting to die is wanting to be a star in the sky,
guiding others long after you’re gone.
Just wanting, for once in your life,
to feel shimmering and beautiful.
I could tell you all of that.
Make it pretty.
Dress it up in fancy clothes.
Pretend it’s 1920.
But I’m not going to.
Because that would be lying to you.
I don’t want to lie to you.
Instead, I’ll tell you I live
in a constant state of grey.
Cracks in the sidewalk.
Splinters in my fingers.
I hold back a cry
so you can hear laughter.
Instead, I’ll tell you that
wanting to die feels like
ripping out every single vein
I could possibly have.
String them up like fairy lights,
look at how they sparkle blue in the sunlight. Better than being inside me.
Instead, I’ll tell you
I’ve been getting sick for the past three weeks
anytime I eat anything.
Wanting to vomit every single intestine
that lives inside me out.
My head light-headed
like gravity was omitted.
I’m not going to lie to you.
Every day, I spend twenty minutes
getting out of bed,
trying to find motivation
only to see my battery at negative one percent. Every day
someone chalks up my feelings to nothing I
want to crack a skull open,
specifically mine,
watch as the blood drains
into the sewer in the street.
Every day I live is a miracle.
I’m learning that poetry
is life in a costume.
Life wearing makeup.
Life glittering in the sun.
It’s not real.
It’s absolutes.
It’s X is greater than Y.
It’s as fake as mannequins in a store window.
It’s hard for me to believe others
when they tell me it gets better
if everything I’ve ever written is fake.
Just life in costume.
I wonder when life will reveal who it truly is.
I’d love to see it when it does.
I’ll take notes.
Take pictures to remember.
Document who it is so that
when my life finally starts to be in color,
I’ll know what to do.
The Poem Inspired by Cherry Wine by Hozier
or, Why Do You Find Yourself Loving This Way?
by Halle Preneta
CN: This poem contains references to abuse.
The day the guitar in the song about domestic abuse reminded you of her,
you started to be concerned.
Even though there was no way nothing could have possibly changed,
they are both still the good people you knew when you left them!
But the what ifs still haunt you
like a sore throat,
reminding you of all your pain
every time you swallow.
They somehow swallowed you whole.
Found a way to seep into every aspect
of your brain.
Some days, you love holding onto them tightly,
remembering they aren’t dead.
Convincing yourself they aren’t dead.
Some days, you just wish they would
leave you alone.
Loving people is somehow the easiest
and hardest thing you have ever done.
When you find yourself loving like this,
like holding a black hole inside your heart,
like suffocating on your own air,
like being tied to a fencepost with a fire burning underneath your feet in the 1600s,
you ask yourself why.
Why you seem to always end up here.
Why they seem to never be able to leave you alone.
Why you love holding onto every single good thing that could possibly be thrown your way.
Why you love to hurt yourself like this.
Drown yourself like this,
in love you know
you will never be able
to have?
you started to be concerned.
Even though there was no way nothing could have possibly changed,
they are both still the good people you knew when you left them!
But the what ifs still haunt you
like a sore throat,
reminding you of all your pain
every time you swallow.
They somehow swallowed you whole.
Found a way to seep into every aspect
of your brain.
Some days, you love holding onto them tightly,
remembering they aren’t dead.
Convincing yourself they aren’t dead.
Some days, you just wish they would
leave you alone.
Loving people is somehow the easiest
and hardest thing you have ever done.
When you find yourself loving like this,
like holding a black hole inside your heart,
like suffocating on your own air,
like being tied to a fencepost with a fire burning underneath your feet in the 1600s,
you ask yourself why.
Why you seem to always end up here.
Why they seem to never be able to leave you alone.
Why you love holding onto every single good thing that could possibly be thrown your way.
Why you love to hurt yourself like this.
Drown yourself like this,
in love you know
you will never be able
to have?
She Writes Something on the Board and I Miss It
by Halle Preneta
She writes something on the board
and I miss it
because my brain is
too busy thinking
about my own handwriting.
Too busy comparing it to chicken scratch. Too
busy echoing my father’s hypocritical voice
throughout my neurons:
“Your handwriting really needs to get better.
Really needs some work.”
Some days,
I can barely even read
my own handwriting.
I get it, dad.
I’m sorry my teachers failed me
in first grade.
I’m sorry my hands have
always been too small
and my wrists even smaller.
I’m sorry I wasn’t your perfect, tiny, legible,
within the lines,
handwriting queen.
I don’t know what
you want from me.
She writes something on the board
as I scribble the word
trauma
into my notebook
like nails against a chalkboard.
Like a hernia.
Like something has burrowed
inside me for years
and is just now
making its grand entrance.
This one word on a page
breaking reality into little shapes,
opaque filter,
making everything
and nothing
make sense
all at once.
I don’t know what my
relationship to this word is yet.
If we’re friends
or lovers
or acquaintances
or nothing at all.
Just strangers passing by,
never to see each other
ever again.
I don’t know what this word means for the universe
I have built for myself
yet.
For now, I scribble trauma
in my notebook,
miss what she writes on the board, and listen to my dad’s voice in my
ear
like an ear worm on loop
for a nightmare:
“You can do so much
better.”
and I miss it
because my brain is
too busy thinking
about my own handwriting.
Too busy comparing it to chicken scratch. Too
busy echoing my father’s hypocritical voice
throughout my neurons:
“Your handwriting really needs to get better.
Really needs some work.”
Some days,
I can barely even read
my own handwriting.
I get it, dad.
I’m sorry my teachers failed me
in first grade.
I’m sorry my hands have
always been too small
and my wrists even smaller.
I’m sorry I wasn’t your perfect, tiny, legible,
within the lines,
handwriting queen.
I don’t know what
you want from me.
She writes something on the board
as I scribble the word
trauma
into my notebook
like nails against a chalkboard.
Like a hernia.
Like something has burrowed
inside me for years
and is just now
making its grand entrance.
This one word on a page
breaking reality into little shapes,
opaque filter,
making everything
and nothing
make sense
all at once.
I don’t know what my
relationship to this word is yet.
If we’re friends
or lovers
or acquaintances
or nothing at all.
Just strangers passing by,
never to see each other
ever again.
I don’t know what this word means for the universe
I have built for myself
yet.
For now, I scribble trauma
in my notebook,
miss what she writes on the board, and listen to my dad’s voice in my
ear
like an ear worm on loop
for a nightmare:
“You can do so much
better.”
The Poem With The Right Amount of Me
by Halle Preneta
Words we don't know how to say loom around us
like the ghosts that live throughout this place.
I stand before you, fidgeting with my own hands,
wondering what I could possibly say in this moment
only for my brain to lose every single word I know
like gravity is the younger sibling
who just wanted to play with your toys
but didn’t ask first if they could take them away.
It’s only after I have left the room
where my words come back to me
in a flurry of sentences,
like it’s the coldest day of winter
and you have to fight for your life
just to get home.
“Hello. How are you today? How was Arizona? How’s class going?
I’ve been okay. I am slowly learning how to exist in this place. It
isn't easy but I'm trying.
I wonder if you can tell how hard I've been trying.
I wonder if it's legally okay to say that I miss you.
I wonder if it's emotionally okay to say that I miss you.
I wonder if you already know that.
If you feel the same way.
If when you care about someone,
your heart becomes the equivalent of a black hole
because I know mine does.
I had convinced myself you were gone at some point in the semester.
Grief works in mysterious ways.
It wanders throughout spaces like a ghost;
Makes you question entire realities.
I don't remember when I stopped looking for your ghost
or when I convinced myself you weren’t actually dead
but I know I did at some point.
I got my feet on the ground,
finally felt like maybe I was meant to be here
only to be thrown off balance.
Anxieties rising like tides in the night
making myself question everything I once knew,
making me feel like I'm being too much and need to back off.
Leaving me wondering what the right amount of me is
400mg?
600mg?
A full syringe and rubber tie off?
I do not know the answer
and I wish I did
so you didn’t have to feel
like you were drowning
everytime we end up here.
So our words didn’t have to drown us
in tides we cannot control.
So when we end up here again,
I can dial myself down
or up,
gather my words into a space
where I know how to use them,
and hope that what I have to contribute will be enough
for us to live
in the same room,
the same space,
together
without feeling
like we’re
drowning.
like the ghosts that live throughout this place.
I stand before you, fidgeting with my own hands,
wondering what I could possibly say in this moment
only for my brain to lose every single word I know
like gravity is the younger sibling
who just wanted to play with your toys
but didn’t ask first if they could take them away.
It’s only after I have left the room
where my words come back to me
in a flurry of sentences,
like it’s the coldest day of winter
and you have to fight for your life
just to get home.
“Hello. How are you today? How was Arizona? How’s class going?
I’ve been okay. I am slowly learning how to exist in this place. It
isn't easy but I'm trying.
I wonder if you can tell how hard I've been trying.
I wonder if it's legally okay to say that I miss you.
I wonder if it's emotionally okay to say that I miss you.
I wonder if you already know that.
If you feel the same way.
If when you care about someone,
your heart becomes the equivalent of a black hole
because I know mine does.
I had convinced myself you were gone at some point in the semester.
Grief works in mysterious ways.
It wanders throughout spaces like a ghost;
Makes you question entire realities.
I don't remember when I stopped looking for your ghost
or when I convinced myself you weren’t actually dead
but I know I did at some point.
I got my feet on the ground,
finally felt like maybe I was meant to be here
only to be thrown off balance.
Anxieties rising like tides in the night
making myself question everything I once knew,
making me feel like I'm being too much and need to back off.
Leaving me wondering what the right amount of me is
400mg?
600mg?
A full syringe and rubber tie off?
I do not know the answer
and I wish I did
so you didn’t have to feel
like you were drowning
everytime we end up here.
So our words didn’t have to drown us
in tides we cannot control.
So when we end up here again,
I can dial myself down
or up,
gather my words into a space
where I know how to use them,
and hope that what I have to contribute will be enough
for us to live
in the same room,
the same space,
together
without feeling
like we’re
drowning.
Halle Preneta (she/her) enjoys writing short romance, sci-fi, and horror stories along with poetry and gets her ideas from random life experiences and fanfiction. When she’s not writing, she’s either watching YouTube or playing Animal Crossing. Her Twitter handle is @YaTheatreNerd and you can check out more of her work here: https://sites.google.com/view/halle-preneta/home
July 2nd
by Tera Moellendorf
The alarm goes off. She wakes up.
She reaches for her husband.
He’s not there.
She doesn’t know why he isn’t there. Is he in the bathroom? Probably, he usually gets up before
her. Or maybe he’s in the office.
“Hon?” She calls. She gets out of bed.
“Tony?” Nothing. She goes to the bathroom and puts on her robe.
None of this is her house.
Why isn’t she there? This must be a hotel. She needs to leave and find Tony and her son. She
needs to pack her things. Which things though?
She needs to make a list. She walks over to the desk. She picks up a pen and paper.
She writes her list:
her purse. That’s right. But why did she need her purse?
She sits at her desk and looks down. Packing. She was packing.
She goes into the closet and finds a suitcase. It’s hers. She lifts it onto her bed and opens it.
She packs a picture that sits on an end table. She packs a sculpture of two old hands grasping each other.
She goes to her dresser and pulls out some of her clothes.
She walks to her desk and picks up her list. There are others on the desk. When did she write
those? She takes the stack and puts them in her bag.
She needs her meds. She can’t go anywhere without them.
She grabs her drink cup on the nightstand and walks out of the room.
There are people in the next room.
A dog barks. Two kids sit at a table eating. Tony isn’t there. Neither child notices her.
An older woman in her forties walks in and sees her. “Good morning Mom.” She says. She asks if
her mother had a good night while picking up plates from the table.
She did, but she doesn’t know where Tony is. “Where’s Dad?” The woman asks.
Her daughter stops and says: “he’s not here.”
The woman doesn’t understand.
Her daughter tells her she needs to take her pills.
“Tracy, where is Dad?” The woman asks again. Tracy tells her mother she needs to take
her meds first. She guides her mother to sit in a stuffed chair. She places a bowl of yogurt and a
shake bottle on a side table next to her before walking away. She goes to the kitchen.
The woman looks at the pile of pills in the cup. The big one is for the anti-rejection of her
borrowed kidney. The little ones are for blood pressure, upset stomach, and vitamins. The white
one is chewable. Her husband always had to remind her not to chew any of the others except this one.
She wonders where her husband is.
He hasn’t called yet.
He would never not call.
Is he lost?
Is he missing?
And where is her son? He is her eldest and her baby. Jay wouldn’t leave her again. He left
before. He came back in the end. Surely he would call, wouldn’t he?
Did he know that his father was missing too?
Were they together? Maybe they were at her house. They were there the last time she was at her
house. Tony is probably making breakfast, that’s why he isn’t here.
Then why was she here?
Tracy comes back to her side and reminds her to finish taking the pills. She needs to drink her
shake and eat her yogurt. It’s going to get warm.
Yes, she needs to take her pills and eat breakfast.
“What day is it?” She asks.
“It’s July second. Now take your pills Mom.” Tracy says.
Anti-rejection is down.
It smells like a skunk.
She calls it the horse pill.
It hurts going down.
It always has these past thirty years.
It tastes bitter, like egg salad that was made two weeks ago.
She should have egg salad for lunch.
She hasn’t had a sandwich in a while. She always loved egg salad. Her mother made it with
Miracle Whip instead of mayonnaise. She should go make it. Maybe Tony is in the kitchen. He would be at her house.
But she’s not in her house. It’s not her kitchen.
She doesn’t know where anything is.
She needs to go home.
She was packing.
She needs to get up and finish.
She needs to make a list of what she needs. There is a notebook next to her. It is one of the children’s.
It has math homework in it. The child won’t mind if she uses the back of one page.
Opening to a page, the woman writes her list:
finished the pills. Tracy comes back in, a little frustrated. She asks if all of the pills are down.
The woman says no. The boy walks away with his notebook. Tracy tells her she needs to finish
them. She reminds her mother to drink her shake.
The woman picks out the chewable pill and starts to chew.
She remembers she was packing.
Her husband isn’t here.
Her son is missing.
She needs to find them.
There was a friendly police officer that found her son years ago who could find them both now.
He was the son of her best friend. If she could find his address or phone number, she could ask him.
Does she have a phone?
No, Tracy won’t allow her to have one.
Tracy doesn’t want her to contact anyone. She can’t call anyone for help then. She’s a prisoner.
But she could write letters.
The woman gets up with her shake.
She walks back into her room.
She was packing.
Her husband is missing.
Her son is missing.
She sits at her desk. She picks up a pen. Her hand is shaky. She can’t hold the pen well. She
shuffles papers in front of her. Some of them have lists on them. More packing lists. More
grocery lists. More lists.
She writes:
“Dear Frank, This is Eva. I can't find Jay or Tony. I can't get to a phone I'm not allowed... Where
is your mother? She hasn't called me in a while. Not since Tony left.”
The door opens. Tracy knocks and looks upset. She asks why Eva hasn’t finished her pills. Eva
doesn’t understand. She did finish. She tells her daughter that she has finished them. Her
daughter hands her a cup that still has pills in it.
Tracy gently guides Eva to her bed. She picks up the suitcase and puts it on the ground.
She sits her down.
She hands her the shake.
She sets the yogurt on the side table.
She sits down next to Eva as she takes the rest of the pills.
She asks her why the picture and the sculpture were moved. Eva explains that she needs to go
home. Tracy asks why. Eva says this isn’t her home. She needs to go home. Her daughter tells
her she is home. This is her home now.
Tracy gets up off the bed, takes the empty shake bottle, and hands Eva the yogurt.
It’s slightly warm. It’s also mixed up. Just how Eva likes it. It was introduced to Eva by her
granddaughter.
Where was she?
She asks where her granddaughter is.
Her daughter tells her she’s living in the Austin house. She’s taking care of it and watching the
property since Eva lives here.
Eva says she doesn’t have to live here. Her house is fully paid for. She can live on her own. She
shouldn’t be here. What if her husband calls the house and she’s not there?
She asks if her granddaughter has called. Has she heard from Tony or Jay?
Her daughter says: "no.”
She tells her they can't call her from where they are.
Eva doesn’t understand.
Tony only left for business. He’s gone on business trips before. Except he always calls. And Jay
has left before. He left years ago, but he came back.
Her daughter gets up and starts to unpack the suitcase. Eva tells her not to. She’s leaving today.
She’s going home.
Her daughter tells her she’s not going anywhere.
Eva says she has a house. She doesn’t have to stay here.
Eva will call the law on Tracy if she’s not allowed to leave.
Her daughter asks with what phone. She’s louder now.
She places the old hands back on the dresser.
Eva knows the larger hand. It has a wedding ring on it. Just like the one she has around her neck.
Her daughter places the picture back on the shelf.
It’s of an old couple. The man is hugging the woman in it. It was taken in her bedroom at the
Austin house. She remembers the man. It’s Tony.
“Where’s Dad?” She asks.
Her daughter answers: “with Jay.” Eva shakes her head. No, they aren’t gone.
She tells her daughter that she’s being told a tall tale. She doesn’t believe her.
Her daughter looks defeated.
She walks to the desk in the corner. She picks up a plastic sleeve. It has legal documents in it.
Eva knows what they look like. She used to work for the state. She would have egg salad
sandwiches for lunch every day in the cafeteria. They weren’t as good as her mother’s.
Her daughter sits down on the bed.
She hands her mother the sleeve.
Inside are two certificates.
One for Jay, one for Tony. They are dated seven years apart.
Eva looks at them.
She starts to cry. Jay died first. Then Tony.
“They didn’t die.” She says.
"Yes, they did, Mom." Her daughter says.
Eva throws the papers down. She reaches for a tissue. She looks at the wall. The picture of her and Tony hangs there.
“Do you remember Mom? Do you remember that night? It was one year ago. The cancer
destroyed Dad’s body. He had gone back to the bed to rest. He wasn’t speaking or recognizing
any of us. But he remembered you. We had to sit him up so he could breathe better, and he put
his arms around you. And he interlocked his fingers behind your back. And he hugged you. He
gave you comfort because he knew you were sad. Because you were his girl. And that’s when
the nurse came to help move him to the hospital bed. So he could sleep better.” Her daughter says.
“That was his last night.” Eva says.
“Yes.”
The picture reads: Forever in my heart, July 2nd
“I can’t go home because he’s not there.” Eva says.
“That’s right.” Tracy says.
“And Jay is still missing?” Eva asks, holding her tissue. Tracy shakes her head. Eva asks if he’s
with Dad. Tracy nods.
She looks at the yogurt. It’s warm. Warm yogurt tastes like a skunk. One of her pills she takes
smells like a skunk too. Did she take her pills?
She gets up and puts the yogurt on the shelf and turns to face her daughter.
“Where’s Dad?” She asks.
She reaches for her husband.
He’s not there.
She doesn’t know why he isn’t there. Is he in the bathroom? Probably, he usually gets up before
her. Or maybe he’s in the office.
“Hon?” She calls. She gets out of bed.
“Tony?” Nothing. She goes to the bathroom and puts on her robe.
None of this is her house.
Why isn’t she there? This must be a hotel. She needs to leave and find Tony and her son. She
needs to pack her things. Which things though?
She needs to make a list. She walks over to the desk. She picks up a pen and paper.
She writes her list:
- clothes
- shoes
- bras
- underwear
- socks
- wallet
her purse. That’s right. But why did she need her purse?
She sits at her desk and looks down. Packing. She was packing.
She goes into the closet and finds a suitcase. It’s hers. She lifts it onto her bed and opens it.
She packs a picture that sits on an end table. She packs a sculpture of two old hands grasping each other.
She goes to her dresser and pulls out some of her clothes.
She walks to her desk and picks up her list. There are others on the desk. When did she write
those? She takes the stack and puts them in her bag.
She needs her meds. She can’t go anywhere without them.
She grabs her drink cup on the nightstand and walks out of the room.
There are people in the next room.
A dog barks. Two kids sit at a table eating. Tony isn’t there. Neither child notices her.
An older woman in her forties walks in and sees her. “Good morning Mom.” She says. She asks if
her mother had a good night while picking up plates from the table.
She did, but she doesn’t know where Tony is. “Where’s Dad?” The woman asks.
Her daughter stops and says: “he’s not here.”
The woman doesn’t understand.
Her daughter tells her she needs to take her pills.
“Tracy, where is Dad?” The woman asks again. Tracy tells her mother she needs to take
her meds first. She guides her mother to sit in a stuffed chair. She places a bowl of yogurt and a
shake bottle on a side table next to her before walking away. She goes to the kitchen.
The woman looks at the pile of pills in the cup. The big one is for the anti-rejection of her
borrowed kidney. The little ones are for blood pressure, upset stomach, and vitamins. The white
one is chewable. Her husband always had to remind her not to chew any of the others except this one.
She wonders where her husband is.
He hasn’t called yet.
He would never not call.
Is he lost?
Is he missing?
And where is her son? He is her eldest and her baby. Jay wouldn’t leave her again. He left
before. He came back in the end. Surely he would call, wouldn’t he?
Did he know that his father was missing too?
Were they together? Maybe they were at her house. They were there the last time she was at her
house. Tony is probably making breakfast, that’s why he isn’t here.
Then why was she here?
Tracy comes back to her side and reminds her to finish taking the pills. She needs to drink her
shake and eat her yogurt. It’s going to get warm.
Yes, she needs to take her pills and eat breakfast.
“What day is it?” She asks.
“It’s July second. Now take your pills Mom.” Tracy says.
Anti-rejection is down.
It smells like a skunk.
She calls it the horse pill.
It hurts going down.
It always has these past thirty years.
It tastes bitter, like egg salad that was made two weeks ago.
She should have egg salad for lunch.
She hasn’t had a sandwich in a while. She always loved egg salad. Her mother made it with
Miracle Whip instead of mayonnaise. She should go make it. Maybe Tony is in the kitchen. He would be at her house.
But she’s not in her house. It’s not her kitchen.
She doesn’t know where anything is.
She needs to go home.
She was packing.
She needs to get up and finish.
She needs to make a list of what she needs. There is a notebook next to her. It is one of the children’s.
It has math homework in it. The child won’t mind if she uses the back of one page.
Opening to a page, the woman writes her list:
- clothes
- money
- bras
- socks
- purse
- pills
- lunch meat
- bread
finished the pills. Tracy comes back in, a little frustrated. She asks if all of the pills are down.
The woman says no. The boy walks away with his notebook. Tracy tells her she needs to finish
them. She reminds her mother to drink her shake.
The woman picks out the chewable pill and starts to chew.
She remembers she was packing.
Her husband isn’t here.
Her son is missing.
She needs to find them.
There was a friendly police officer that found her son years ago who could find them both now.
He was the son of her best friend. If she could find his address or phone number, she could ask him.
Does she have a phone?
No, Tracy won’t allow her to have one.
Tracy doesn’t want her to contact anyone. She can’t call anyone for help then. She’s a prisoner.
But she could write letters.
The woman gets up with her shake.
She walks back into her room.
She was packing.
Her husband is missing.
Her son is missing.
She sits at her desk. She picks up a pen. Her hand is shaky. She can’t hold the pen well. She
shuffles papers in front of her. Some of them have lists on them. More packing lists. More
grocery lists. More lists.
She writes:
“Dear Frank, This is Eva. I can't find Jay or Tony. I can't get to a phone I'm not allowed... Where
is your mother? She hasn't called me in a while. Not since Tony left.”
The door opens. Tracy knocks and looks upset. She asks why Eva hasn’t finished her pills. Eva
doesn’t understand. She did finish. She tells her daughter that she has finished them. Her
daughter hands her a cup that still has pills in it.
Tracy gently guides Eva to her bed. She picks up the suitcase and puts it on the ground.
She sits her down.
She hands her the shake.
She sets the yogurt on the side table.
She sits down next to Eva as she takes the rest of the pills.
She asks her why the picture and the sculpture were moved. Eva explains that she needs to go
home. Tracy asks why. Eva says this isn’t her home. She needs to go home. Her daughter tells
her she is home. This is her home now.
Tracy gets up off the bed, takes the empty shake bottle, and hands Eva the yogurt.
It’s slightly warm. It’s also mixed up. Just how Eva likes it. It was introduced to Eva by her
granddaughter.
Where was she?
She asks where her granddaughter is.
Her daughter tells her she’s living in the Austin house. She’s taking care of it and watching the
property since Eva lives here.
Eva says she doesn’t have to live here. Her house is fully paid for. She can live on her own. She
shouldn’t be here. What if her husband calls the house and she’s not there?
She asks if her granddaughter has called. Has she heard from Tony or Jay?
Her daughter says: "no.”
She tells her they can't call her from where they are.
Eva doesn’t understand.
Tony only left for business. He’s gone on business trips before. Except he always calls. And Jay
has left before. He left years ago, but he came back.
Her daughter gets up and starts to unpack the suitcase. Eva tells her not to. She’s leaving today.
She’s going home.
Her daughter tells her she’s not going anywhere.
Eva says she has a house. She doesn’t have to stay here.
Eva will call the law on Tracy if she’s not allowed to leave.
Her daughter asks with what phone. She’s louder now.
She places the old hands back on the dresser.
Eva knows the larger hand. It has a wedding ring on it. Just like the one she has around her neck.
Her daughter places the picture back on the shelf.
It’s of an old couple. The man is hugging the woman in it. It was taken in her bedroom at the
Austin house. She remembers the man. It’s Tony.
“Where’s Dad?” She asks.
Her daughter answers: “with Jay.” Eva shakes her head. No, they aren’t gone.
She tells her daughter that she’s being told a tall tale. She doesn’t believe her.
Her daughter looks defeated.
She walks to the desk in the corner. She picks up a plastic sleeve. It has legal documents in it.
Eva knows what they look like. She used to work for the state. She would have egg salad
sandwiches for lunch every day in the cafeteria. They weren’t as good as her mother’s.
Her daughter sits down on the bed.
She hands her mother the sleeve.
Inside are two certificates.
One for Jay, one for Tony. They are dated seven years apart.
Eva looks at them.
She starts to cry. Jay died first. Then Tony.
“They didn’t die.” She says.
"Yes, they did, Mom." Her daughter says.
Eva throws the papers down. She reaches for a tissue. She looks at the wall. The picture of her and Tony hangs there.
“Do you remember Mom? Do you remember that night? It was one year ago. The cancer
destroyed Dad’s body. He had gone back to the bed to rest. He wasn’t speaking or recognizing
any of us. But he remembered you. We had to sit him up so he could breathe better, and he put
his arms around you. And he interlocked his fingers behind your back. And he hugged you. He
gave you comfort because he knew you were sad. Because you were his girl. And that’s when
the nurse came to help move him to the hospital bed. So he could sleep better.” Her daughter says.
“That was his last night.” Eva says.
“Yes.”
The picture reads: Forever in my heart, July 2nd
“I can’t go home because he’s not there.” Eva says.
“That’s right.” Tracy says.
“And Jay is still missing?” Eva asks, holding her tissue. Tracy shakes her head. Eva asks if he’s
with Dad. Tracy nods.
She looks at the yogurt. It’s warm. Warm yogurt tastes like a skunk. One of her pills she takes
smells like a skunk too. Did she take her pills?
She gets up and puts the yogurt on the shelf and turns to face her daughter.
“Where’s Dad?” She asks.
Tera Moellendorf is thrilled to be a returning writer to Crown and Pen. This theatre tech turned playwright previously wrote and directed for the Crystal Sea Drama Company’s stage, where she also learned how to build a better mousetrap and tell a good story. She is currently a student at The University of Texas in the Creative Writing program and will be completing her bachelor’s degree in Rhetoric and Writing in the Spring of 2022. When she’s not working her day job, she’s reading historical fiction and baking just like her Mama taught her.
Maze of Memories
by Shireen Arora
in the endless maze of scrolling through his memories
he could find nothing
nothing
about himself
he could catch
nothing
to unlock a room of thoughts he needed
he could see windows, tiny windows pitied towards him
he climbed up to the windows for a glimpse of a few of his memories
and he saw a car crashing
and being transported to the maze of memories
as he wandered around staring at his feet
trying to leave with all of his memories back
memories that had just been shown to him
a set of doors appeared,
rumbling, sprouting from the ground
the doors had flowers wrapping around them
taking a step forward it smelled like there was a pond nearby
he pushed the doors open
to a courtyard with a bright orange fish swimming around
in a little pond
he felt like a magnet drawn to the pond
like he was a puppet being controlled
he took a sip
and felt the salty water in his mouth
as the water trickled down his throat
memories came flooding in
his past, and his present, and
visions of his future
and the courtyard disappeared with a flash
and he was taken aback to that car accident
as if nothing had really happened
he could find nothing
nothing
about himself
he could catch
nothing
to unlock a room of thoughts he needed
he could see windows, tiny windows pitied towards him
he climbed up to the windows for a glimpse of a few of his memories
and he saw a car crashing
and being transported to the maze of memories
as he wandered around staring at his feet
trying to leave with all of his memories back
memories that had just been shown to him
a set of doors appeared,
rumbling, sprouting from the ground
the doors had flowers wrapping around them
taking a step forward it smelled like there was a pond nearby
he pushed the doors open
to a courtyard with a bright orange fish swimming around
in a little pond
he felt like a magnet drawn to the pond
like he was a puppet being controlled
he took a sip
and felt the salty water in his mouth
as the water trickled down his throat
memories came flooding in
his past, and his present, and
visions of his future
and the courtyard disappeared with a flash
and he was taken aback to that car accident
as if nothing had really happened
Shireen Arora is an Arizona resident. She likes to explore various art forms such as painting, calligraphy, writing poetry, playing the piano, and learning Indian classical dance.
Ruffled Ankle Socks
by Kristin Garth
A womanchild in mismatched socks — five toes
in cotton clouds and five more in shamrocks
because I always feel in the shadow
of playgrounds I can never leave or locked
in bedrooms where I was aggrieved; though I
have learned I am a little lucky, too,
to shop for fishnet stockings in mermaid
hues. It was only Mary Janes, lace frills for you.
Sometimes you stumbled in an abusers shoes to
try to become something you would never be
a stockinged woman, like me, who outgrew
a saddle-shoed savage history
to wear the hosiery, heels you will not.
They buried you in ruffled ankle socks.
in cotton clouds and five more in shamrocks
because I always feel in the shadow
of playgrounds I can never leave or locked
in bedrooms where I was aggrieved; though I
have learned I am a little lucky, too,
to shop for fishnet stockings in mermaid
hues. It was only Mary Janes, lace frills for you.
Sometimes you stumbled in an abusers shoes to
try to become something you would never be
a stockinged woman, like me, who outgrew
a saddle-shoed savage history
to wear the hosiery, heels you will not.
They buried you in ruffled ankle socks.
Last Portrait
by Kristin Garth
First portrait — wide irises, retracted teeth,
an embouchure glossy as bloody red
meat puckered to a circumference he
will widen with use. His watercolored
gallery documents degradation
in puce — emaciation, uneven eyes,
contorted bones, infantilized, hydration
by breastmilk of some former hypnotized
drone illustrated long before you arrived
alone, nourished until you turn rotten
and green, decomposition revived
when he’s feeling particularly mean then
banished to a basement while they repent.
Nobody wants to be your last portrait.
an embouchure glossy as bloody red
meat puckered to a circumference he
will widen with use. His watercolored
gallery documents degradation
in puce — emaciation, uneven eyes,
contorted bones, infantilized, hydration
by breastmilk of some former hypnotized
drone illustrated long before you arrived
alone, nourished until you turn rotten
and green, decomposition revived
when he’s feeling particularly mean then
banished to a basement while they repent.
Nobody wants to be your last portrait.
Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 21 books of poetry including Crow Carriage (Sweet Tooth Story Books) and The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and the editor of seven anthologies. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House: a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter @lolaandjolie and her website kristingarth.com
