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vol. 45 the peacock’s feet 2020

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the peacock’s feet vol. 45 | 2020

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the peacock’s feet vol. 45 | 2020

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staff Faculty Advisor Fiction Editors Peter Selgin Jacklyn Crawford Kinsley Moon Administrative Board Ava Leone, Editor-in-Chief Nonfiction Editors Lindsay Stevens, Editor-in-Chief Emma Boggs Claire Korzekwa, Submissions Chair Natalie Miller Eva Sheehan, Events Chair Cailyn Rushin Rosalie Bodkin, Public Relations Chair Poetry Editors Head Editors Diondra Franklin Madeline Ender, Fiction Matthew Malstrom Catherine Maloney, Nonfiction Heather Evans, Poetry Dixie Blanton, Art Alice Jones, Music

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table of contents Letters from the EDITORS 8 fiction 19 47 MONEY MANAGEMENT by Natalie Miller 55 PEACHES by K. Raleigh Hutchinson 75 95 THE ART OF ABNEGATION by Tanner Howard STACEY SMITH’S GUIDE TO SOCIAL ETIQUETTE by Matthew Malstrom RECOVERY by Emma Boggs nonfiction 117 121 POOHSTICK by Emma Parry 129 BACKYARD DRAGON HUNTING by Jacob Dallas SENSIBLE, RESONABLE, AND FUTILE by Claire Zekwa poetry 146 147 WAKING UP by Tanner Howard 148 THREE A.M. FLIGHT by McKenzie Weekly 150 152 ANCHOR by Natalie Miller 158 DISSOLUTION by Madeline Ballentine 159 GRANDMOTHER’S GUEST BEDROOM by Cameron Hallman 169 171 SPACE by Griffin Kilby 173 TWIN FLAME by Gabriela Faria NAMELESS MOUNTAIN by K. Raleigh Hutchinson FINDING EDEN by Lainey Waller LETTERS TO THE GIRLS I WANT TO BE by Ariel Ebaugh

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poetry 175 BREATHTAKING by Natalie Miller 177 COLLISION by K. Raleigh Hutchinson art 161 BEAUTY IN COLORS by Janet Sanchez 162 GROWTH by Sydney Saxon 163 SMOKING GIRL by Maggie Korn 164 A PEACOCK’S DREAM by Jessica Gratigny 165 STILL LIFE by Janet Sanchez 166 THE RED WAVE by Olivia Grube 167 CHASM by McKenzie Weekly 168 BLIND HAPPINESS LEADS TO SADNESS by Sarah Sander music 180 INVISIBLE WOMAN by Robert Wakefield 180 WITH HOPE TO BE DEFEATED BY GREATER AND GREATER THINGS by Robert Wakefield 180 A YEAR LATER AND COFFEE NEVER TASTED SO BITTER by Robert Wakefield 180 DRIFT by Parking Garage (Nathan Whatley and Dakota Snow) 182 ABOUT THE COVER ARTIST Janet Sanchez

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a8 THE PEACOCK’S FEET LETTER FROM THE EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Dear Reader, It has been such a rewarding journey to be this year’s Editor-in- Chiefs. We would like to thank our staff, who have worked so hard to make this journal. Without you, we could have never managed to create something this wonderful. We would also like to thank all of the wonderful Georgia College students who submitted to our journal and who participated in our Red Earth Readings. It takes an immense amount of courage to put work out into the world not knowing who will see it and what they will think. Thank you for your trust, bravery, and honesty. Without you, we wouldn’t have this journal. Looking back on this year, we recognize the struggles that arose while producing the journal and the innovative outlooks our administrative and editing staff used to solve them. Administrators, Claire, Eva, and Rosalie, thank you for supporting us in times of doubt and going above and beyond the outlined duties assigned to you. Your initiative to work with the journal was invaluable to us.

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THE PEACOCK’S FEET a 9 A special thanks go out to our head editors, Madeline, Catherine, Heather, Alice, and Dixie, for their leadership, flexibility, and most of all, patience. Thank you all for your willingness to help guide our team. Alongside the creation of the journal, we would like to acknowledge the establishment of our podcast, the Peacock’s Feet Podcast, which maintained student literary involvement through the spring semester. Thank you Rosalie and the staff members involved for your eager spirits in introducing the idea of and organizing the podcast. We would also like to thank all previous members of the Peacock’s Feet for their dedication to the journal. Without their contributions, this edition would not be printed today. We are so grateful for the opportunities presented to us this past year. Thank you for picking up the 45th edition of The Peacock’s Feet. We hope you love it as much as we do. — Lindsay Stevens and Ava Leone

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LETTER FROM THE HEAD FICTION EDITOR Flannery O’Connor Once said, “I write to discover what I know.” Every storyteller I’ve met, no matter what genre they prefer, writes with the hope that they’ll find a fragment of truth in what they’ve created. As writers, our stories are part of us, and they give the world a glimpse at the inner-workings of our minds, hearts and souls. I have found this to be especially true when it comes to writers of fiction. In this journal, you will get to see the inner- workings of some of the greatest creative minds Georgia College has to offer. I am honored to have had a hand in selecting the pieces you will read in the fiction section of the Peacocks Feet. I believe that all of the fiction writers selected for this year’s issue have created wonderful, thought-provoking works of literature and I thank them for submitting. I would also like to thank my fellow fiction editors for all of their hard work and devotion to the journal. Of course, this issue would not be what it is without our editors in chief, Lindsay Stevens and Ava Leone. Ladies, thank you for making a forty-four-year-old journal new again.

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THE PEACOCK’S FEET a 11 Finally, I would like to thank the person reading this journal for supporting the next generation of artists, writers, musicians and dreamers. Our stories would be nothing without someone to tell them to. – Madeline Ender

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LETTER FROM THE HEAD NONFICTION EDITOR To be a part of Georgia College’s literary journal is to see creative people courageously expose the deepest parts of themselves for constructive criticism, to witness true creation in its purest form, and to understand the breadth of talent that exists within our college. I have had the pleasure of working with the Peacock’s Feet for two years, and over the course of this time, I have read pieces that have made me feel more connected to my fellow students—this year was no different. I would like to thank everyone who submitted, encouraged their friends to submit, or simply enjoyed the wonderful product that is the Peacock’s Feet journal. You, reader, are the foundation for the success and celebration of our talented writers, poets, and musicians, and I cannot thank you enough for your unwavering support. Though I am no longer at Georgia College to witness the publication of this year’s collection, I am thrilled to have been a part of this tradition, and will always carry with me the creativity that this journal has allowed me to cultivate. – Catherine Maloney

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LETTER FROM THE HEAD POETRY EDITOR I would like to thank our editors in chief, Ava Leone and Lindsay Stevens, for their dedication to this year's journal publication. Their work and organization skills were invaluable and I am grateful I had the opportunity to serve as head poetry editor under their leadership. Additionally, I would like to congratulate all of the people who submitted poetry to the journal, not just the ones whose work was selected to be in this publication. It takes true determination and courage to share your work, so you should be proud of yourselves. Remember to keep writing and to stay true to yourself. Your personality and creativity will continue to shine through in your work. – Heather Evans

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LETTER FROM THE ART EDITOR Art is such an expressive medium. It’s one that evokes such creativity and passion. One that never fails to wow. Thank you to all who submitted artwork. Art takes time and manual labor. It takes love. I’m so grateful that you took the time to share your talents with the Peacock’s Feet as well as the student body. I’m grateful you took the time to share it with me. I have found the process of reviewing your artwork relaxing and rewarding. I have learned something new with each passing work. I can tell that each work was made with the very things listed above and it speaks volumes. The pieces that were selected speak to me. Each piece was a product of labor and love. They reflect a depth of knowledge within the arts. I am glad they are showcased within the journal as they should be. They have found a home nestled inside for all to see. Furthermore, I would like to thank my editors for their thoughts as well. They were a monumental asset for something so subjective.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 15 I appreciate the honesty that came with it as it was crucial for the development of the art section. Lastly, I would like to thank the editors-in-chief Ava Leone and Lindsay Stevens. Your never-ending enthusiasm was infectious. Your dedication was inspiring and thank you for opening your arms to me. I am so proud and honored to have been your Head Art Editor. Thank you for sharing such an amazing atmosphere with me and letting me help you create this year’s volume. – Dixie Blanton

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LETTER FROM THE MUSIC EDITOR I am so thankful to be chosen as the head music editor for my first year on the Peacock’s Feet team. This opportunity has opened my eyes to the talent throughout Georgia College’s campus and the ap- titude of my peers. I am also grateful for the artists and bands that have submitted their work and shown their dedication to music. Having the responsibility to oversee the music submissions for this year’s journal has assured my hope for continuing to find raw and real music. Ever since I can remember, I’ve viewed music as a uni- versal tool, allowing artists and listeners to express themselves through song. I hope those who listen to the songs included in this journal feel heard and inspired— just as I have. – Alice Jones

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 17 submissions The Peacock’s Feet accepts submissions for publication throughout the fall semester. In general, prose, poetry, art, and music submissions should be emailed as file attachments to [email protected]. In the body of the e-mail, include your name, the title of the submission, and the section of the journal in which you wish it to appear. For art submissions, please also identify the medium of the piece. For more information about the submission process, including the submission deadline for the 46th edition of the journal, visit us at www.gcsu.edu/creativewriting/peacock.

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fiction

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MONEY MANAGEMENT NATALIE MILLER Slap. A lunch tray clattered onto the table across from Liz Bent- ley, sending salty peas all over her face. “Did you somehow drop your phone out of a car window and run it over repeatedly, or are you just ignoring my texts?” Liz let out a breath, brushing the lukewarm legumes from her hair. A wiry boy stood opposite her, his twitching hands braced on either side of the tray. “Well, hello to you too, Ike,” she snorted. “How are you this fine Wednesday?” “Shut up, this is no laughing matter,” Ike said, which only made Liz snicker more. Isaac always had a flair for dramatics, as well as the chaotic tendencies of a gnat on methamphetamines. The first time Liz met Ike was on the creaking wooden playground out- side Leland Elementary. The ten-year-old boy had jumped so

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a20 THE PEACOCK’S FEET hard that he crashed through the floor of the treehouse, taking out Liz with a wrestler’s elbow in the sandbox below. That’s just how Ike was: crashing his way into people’s lives, flailing until he stuck against you forever. By the time the goose egg dwindled to a yellowed stain, the pair had become inseparable. Even though they were about to graduate, Ike looked ex- actly the same as he did all those years ago, just a foot or so taller. His hair was still the color of wet coffee grounds, but now it stuck to his forehead instead of hanging near his shoulders. His blue eyes still fizzed like Mentos and Coke. Liz was pretty sure she’d changed a bit more; or at least she felt like she had. “Sorry for treating your dire,” Liz paused to catch the last word in air quotes, “situation with such levity. Can I eat my lunch now please?” “Lizzy, I’m not kidding,” Ike slid into the seat. He flicked a few peas out at passing classmates. “Oh, my bad, I missed the part where you robbing a bank was a serious consideration.” Liz started to get up and leave, but Ike snatched her lunch- box from her before she could get away. “Not me,” he said. “Us.”

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 21 Liz grabbed for her food, but he held it out of her reach. “Have you taken your Adderall today?” she asked, exasperated. Ike rolled his eyes and rubbed his temples. “When I tell you, ‘We’re robbing a bank,’ your answer better be, ‘Are we meeting at your house or my house?’ not,” he adapted a nasal voice, pushing imaginary glasses up his nose, ‘Have you taken your ADHD medicine today?’” Liz tucked a strand of her bronze hair behind her ear, masking her offense. “Well, have you?” Ike jumped to his feet, talking with his hands in short, er- ratic gestures. “No, Lizzy, I haven’t! And you know I haven’t! But I need your help.” “The limit of my friendship is federal crime.” Liz stole her lunch back from her distracted friend. “Technically it’s just a burglary if we don’t have weapons or threaten people, I googled it and everything which probably means the FBI is on our trail so we have to act fast, come on!” Liz rubbed her eyes beneath her glasses. “This is insane, even for you.” She looked up, taking a bite of her sandwich. “Desperate times measure insanity!” “That’s not-”

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a22 THE PEACOCK’S FEET “Look, Lizzy, tuition’s due tomorrow,” the boy said, scratching at his hair. It stuck up on top of his head with the new static. “And I don’t have the money. Couldn’t get a loan with The Deadbeat’s credit. It’s kill or be killed.” With their class graduating in a few short weeks, everyone at Creekview High would be parting ways to go to various schools or jobs or any of the other numerous ways one can spend their twenties. For Elizabeth Bentley, this meant getting as many horizontal miles from town as she could possibly get. For Isaac Hoffman, this meant going to the local community college part time over the summer so he could continue work- ing downtown and keeping a watchful over his brothers while Mr. Hoffman ran off with his coworkers to the bar every night. Liz took a swig from her water bottle. “Cool motive, still a felony.” “Let me spell this out for you, dude,” Ike sat back down, his arms and legs spread wide. “We are robbing. A bank.” He punctuated each syllable with a knock of his fist against the cafeteria table. “It's not a negotiation! I’ve already written out my death note and when the cops ask ‘what are my demands,’ I’ve decided on a helicopter not because I know how to fly a

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 23 helicopter but because I thought it would be a good bonding experience for me and you!” “Oh, so robbing a bank is a bonding experience?” “No, the helicopter is, keep up!” “What’s with all the shouting over here?” asked a voice that made Liz’s stomach burn. Ike got uncharacteristically silent, an- noyance seeping into his expression. “Trouble in paradise?” “Don’t you have an eighth grader to screw, Hynes?” Liz asked coolly. Hynes Strickland, Jr.’s lips curled cruelly into a smile, draping an uncomfortable fat arm around Ike’s shoulders. “She’s a sophomore.” “Maybe in dog years,” Ike added, shirking away from the shorter man’s touch. Hynes wasn’t your typical jock-turned-college-Title IX-of- fender. He may be on the football team every year, but the only time the fleshy boy left the bench was when the coach knew Mr. Strickland would be attending. Hynes made A’s in an advanced math class, mostly because his grandmother taught it and gave him copies of the tests at home. He strutted around the school like he owned everything, because he truly

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a24 THE PEACOCK’S FEET did own everything. Or at least, his father did. Hynes flicked his greasy black hair to the side. “No need to be so sour, I’m just having a friendly chat.” He picked through Isaac’s lunch tray as he spoke. He decided on the flat roll. “What’s up with the bank?” He asked through a mouthful of bread. “None of your business,” Liz said. “Oh, but it is my business.” “It’s your dad’s business, that’s not the same thing.” “My name is on the front, it’s mine.” He threw the remain- ing half of the roll back on the lunch tray. Hynes Strickland, Senior owned the bank, Strickland Money Management. Consequently, Hynes Strickland, Senior owned Strickland Memorial Park, Strickland Manor, Strickland Highway, Strickland Peach Tree Farm, Strickland Grocery, Strickland Mills and the land on which any house in the town stood. The Stricklands weren’t exactly benevolent gods either. They helped the people they liked, but could keep the people they didn’t in poverty for as long as it took for them to submit. Every citizen’s well-being was tied into the success of this one man and his snot—nosed son. That’s why they had stayed on

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 25 top for so long: if the town takes the Stricklands down, the town takes itself down. “If you don’t mind, Your Grace,” Ike said, his thin patience grating like parmesan, “We’re kind of in the middle of some- thing.” “You know, the bank just got renovated,” Hynes contin- ued as he sat down next to Liz. “It’s been a pain, but it’s basi- cally indestructible now.” “Is that so?” Liz answered, not looking up from her phone. “Yeah, it’s like the fucking Titanic. Cost dad a lot but it’s worth it to keep all those stupid mill workers from trying to take what’s not theirs.” Hynes picked up Liz’s water bottle and took a swig. “My mom works at the mill,” Liz said with ice that made Ike recoil. Hynes looked at her and set the water bottle back on the table with a dull thunk. “Some people over there don’t know the meaning of hard work.” Hynes continued, unfazed. “Yeah, sure, Mrs. Levinson, your kid wants a scholarship. What kid doesn’t want a schol- arship? But he didn’t even write an essay.” Hynes Strickland, Senior wrote Hynes, Junior’s essays. But

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a26 THE PEACOCK’S FEET who’s counting? “But now, no one can swindle their way into our money. Not via dynamite or flattery.” Liz picked up the water bottle and moved it to the other side of the table. “Why don’t you go start warming that football bench?” Ike said, his foot tapping so incessantly the table shook. “Watch it, Hoffman,” Hynes glowered, but he slowly got up from the table. “Wouldn’t want your dad to have to leave the peach farm. Then what else do you have?” Ike opened his mouth, but slowly closed it. “See you at the pep rally,” Hynes said with a slippery grin before sauntering off to join his friends. Ike glared after him, fiddling with a pea on the table. Liz’s eyes didn’t leave her defiled water bottle. A sharp ring sig- naled the end of the lunch period. The lanky boy stood back up, slinging his backpack across his shoulder. “You coming?” If there was one thing Liz hated, it was being underesti- mated. She fought for everything, her grades, supporting her family, her future. Yet, someone like a Strickland can waltz

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 27 right in and the world is laid out for them. If someone judged her for her background, especially someone who has never had to work a day in their lives, she wasn’t about to let him live it down. “Let’s do it,” she said softly. “Do what? Come on, I’m gonna be late to Trig.” Ike asked, straightening his jacket. “Rob the bank.” Ike paused. A toothy grin slowly spread across his face. “You’re sure?” Liz stood up and tossed the bottle into the trash. She turned to face Isaac. “Sure as hell.” “Parking lot after fifth period. Partner in crime,” he added with an elbow to Liz’s ribs. Liz smiled and grabbed her bag. a “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Liz said, tugging at the poly- ester collar around her neck. The two soon-to-be criminals stepped through the ornate door into the interior of the bank. “You think it’ll work?” Ike asked from beside her. A fake mustache brushed against his bottom lip as he spoke.

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a28 THE PEACOCK’S FEET “It has to.” Without much time to come up with her usual ten-step- minimum plan, Lizzy settled for the best concoction she could cook up. After a short pit stop at her house to raid her mother’s closet, Liz and Ike waltzed into the bank dressed in the itchy, barf green jumpsuits of janitors at the mill. All of the patches were cut off, and Ike carried such a large toolkit that he had to keep taking breaks to put it down. The inside of the bank looked unlike anything Liz had ever seen. Carved stone billowed up to the vaulted ceiling. Her dirty white converse squeaked on the polished tile as they made their way inside. A few onlookers turned to look to- wards the newcomers, but soon went back to their work, either pleading for money or withholding it, unfazed. “You two must be the vault technicians,” a bald geriatric said as Lizzy and Ike approached the desk. Liz felt a sigh of relief against her shoulder. “You bet,” Liz replied, trying to make her voice as gruff as she could. “You got our phone call?” “Yes, of course,” the man replied. His voice shook with age. “Though, I’m a little confused as to why you have to test

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 29 the new system. It was only installed a few months ago.” The pair glanced at each other. “Never too early for pre- vention?” Ike tried. The man didn’t move. Liz could feel her breath burning at her throat as she waited for his response. “What company are you with again?” he asked finally. “Uh, Tencatay,” Liz said quickly, remembering the com- pany name she had googled for this very reason. “Where’s Lenny?” the old man asked. “He normally comes with Tencatay.” “Lenny? Ah…” Liz stammered, glancing to her mus- tached partner. Ike cleared his throat. “Oh, you know how it is. The wife.” The wrinkled man narrowed his eyes. Liz leaned back on her heels, ready to make a break for it. Maybe she could make it to the entrance before the man hit the alarm. “Mmm, Margot can be quite the hand—full, can’t she?” The old man cracked a yellow smile. Ike blinked, surprised. “Especially with the new baby.” “Yeah,” Ike added vaguely. “What a little tyke.” The man paused to dig around underneath the desk. In

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a30 THE PEACOCK’S FEET wavering, wrinkled fingers, he held up a small key. “That’s just women for you. This should do the trick in case you get stuck.” The man passed the key through the glass divider. Ike, a little astounded, picked it up in his fist. “Hey, we appreciate it, thank you,” Liz whisked Ike off before the man had a second chance to catch on to their scheme or offer a sexist insult. “Excuse me!” the man called after them. The teenagers’ shoulders tensed. The pair slowly turned back around. “The door is that way,” the man said, nodding his head to his right. Sure enough, a door stood marked “Employees Only.” “Heh… thanks,” Ike said with an awkward grin. Liz pulled her counterpart through the door and into the back corridor. For a second, Izzy and Isaac just looked at each other in the empty hallway. It started with a small snicker, which turned into a laugh, which turned into two fake maintenance men hunched over in the middle of the hallway heaving and cackling. “If I’d known robbing a bank was this easy,” Ike wheezed as he tried to catch his breath, “I would’ve done it a whole lot

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 31 sooner. And Hynes said this was impenetrable!” Liz shushed him, still giggling herself. “Shut up, I can’t even look at you right now. Come on.” They continued walking down the hall, more enthusiasm in their steps than before as they wandered deeper into the vaults. The hardest part was getting in; they were basically home free. Lizzy hadn’t given much thought to what she would do with the money after they got out of this. She didn’t think they would even make it this far. But now, with the cash within her grasp, her mind began to wander to dreams of secret libraries and owning her own business and one day being miles and miles away from her town and never having to go back. Even so, a bittersweet tune played in the back of her mind. None of those things could be hers. She knew it. Those kinds of dreams were for the Hynes Strickland’s of the world. If Ike and Liz managed to make it out with the money, she may have enough to get her and her mother by for another few months, but what then? There would always be another bill to pay, another job to do, another reason to stay. For Ike it was even worse. He’d always had a special kind

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a32 THE PEACOCK’S FEET of outlook. He could be happy anywhere he ended up, whether across the world or in the rickety barn he and his brothers had always lived in. He didn’t have the ability to see anything more beyond Creekview High and none of that made any difference to him. It had hurt Liz for years to know that she could find her way away from high school, but Ike would always be here rotting along with the town around him. Her thoughts came to a screeching halt as sirens blared all around the two. Sound and light echoed across the stone walls and beat like drums in her chest. Ike looked at her, his eyes wide. “Fuck.” Liz and Ike launched into a sprint. It didn’t matter what direction, as long as they got as far as they could. Their sneak- ers squeaked as they skidded around a corner. They looked for a door or a window, anything that they could hide behind or crawl out of, but the deeper they got, the more barren it be- came. The walls felt like they were closing in, squishing itself into a dead end that would be their ultimate defeat. They scrambled around another corner. Liz let out a scream as she was knocked backwards. She landed on her back on the stone floor. Her eyes swam from the shock.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 33 “Who the hell-? Woah woah woah, let’s calm down,” she heard Ike stutter. Liz pushed herself onto her palms, forcing her eyes to focus. Three men surrounded her like a noose, all wearing black ski masks and blazers. They reminded Liz of robbers in the forties, all dressed up to show off. One of the men had Ike against the wall by his jumpsuit and Ike had his hands in the air beside him like he was going to push the man away but chickened out. He looked over at Liz, but not directly at her — in front of her. Liz slowly turned her head and found herself staring down the cold barrel of a gun. “Jesus!” Lizzy couldn’t help but exclaim, backing away. “Look, guys, we can work this out,” Ike said with a nerv- ous laugh. His fingers rubbed the thin edge of his polyester collar. The man holding him didn’t seem impressed. “You’re robbing the bank?” Ike asked. The men glanced at each other but said nothing. The one holding Ike was average sized, but given the way his ski mask bulged Liz could tell his nose took up half of his face. The sec- ond one stood guard, watching the hallway for anyone inter- rupting. He stood shorter and rounder than the others,

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a34 THE PEACOCK’S FEET resembling a sort of hobbit if there were banks to rob in the Shire. The one aiming a gun at Liz’s head was easily the lanki- est of the three. The man carried himself in a regal way. His long limbs weren’t held with the awkwardness Ike carried in his own. Instead, they moved fluid and confident, even when holding a teenager hostage. “What if we are?” Hobbit answered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is there another reason you’re all wearing masks?” Ike asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen snow here since I was four.” “Don’t be funny,” Nose responded. He reared back threat- eningly, but Lanky cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t bother,” he said, his voice deep and slick. He looked at Lizzy appraisingly. “They’re just kids,” he said with a sniff. Something about the way Lanky said that made Liz indignant. “If we’re just kids then you can put the gun away,” she said, raising her eyebrows. Lanky’s mouth sneered. “Well, not so fast,” he said with the curl of a Southern ac- cent. “What are two teenagers doing in the middle of the bank vaults, hm?”

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 35 Liz hesitated. Ike didn’t. “We’re robbing the bank, too!” “Dude!” Liz groaned. “Yeah!” Ike either pretended he didn’t hear Liz. “We could do, like, a team up, y’know?” Lanky paused. His blue eyes squinted at Liz before turn- ing to face Ike. “What?” “He’s joking!” Liz called at Lanky’s turned back. The other men stood at attention, arms tense at their sides. “Ike, tell them you’re joking, now.” “Why? We’re all after the same thing!” “How did you get back here?” Nose snarled. Ike blinked in confusion at the man’s tone. “The guy up front gave us a key to the vaults,” Ike said slowly. Lanky stood and nudged Nose out of the way so his tall figure bored over Ike’s like a monument. “Let me see it.” “We can all use it together—” “Let. Me. See. It.” Ike withdrew the small key from his breast pocket. The silver glinted under the fluorescent light bulbs. Lanky took the key from Ike’s fist with deft fingers.

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a36 THE PEACOCK’S FEET “Why are a couple of kids trying to rob the bank?” Nose asked. “Bring down the bourgeoisie,” Liz said with a chill. When no one acknowledged her response, she added, “Mostly because some- one said it was impossible.” Hobbit snorted. “And who told you that?” he asked. Liz didn’t answer, glancing at Ike for ideas. “Come on, out with it.” Liz cleared her throat. “Hynes Strickland.” Two men winced like they’d been struck. They turned their eyes towards the third: Lanky. Lanky’s eyes had hard- ened into stone as he turned back to face Liz. She felt a shiver run through her heart. For the first time in their whole plot, Liz was truly afraid. “Junior,” she added in a whisper. Lanky took three steps closer until he towered over Lizzy. For a moment, she thought the man would go for the gun again. Instead, the man slowly lifted his hand. He grabbed the top of the ski mask and pulled it down over his head. Liz blinked, unsure what to make of this turn of events. The man had a long face with an upturned nose, his blue eyes murky and barren. He had a mole on his cheek. Most notable was his greasy, pitch black hair mussed from the cap. Although he dif-

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 37 fered from his son in both weight and temperament, there was no denying the familiarity. “Mr. Strickland?” Ike’s eyes grew wide. Hynes Strickland, Senior didn’t answer. Liz doubted he ever listened to people beneath him. He turned to his com- rades, who had also removed their masks. “We’ll do this another day,” he said vaguely. “I’ll go deal with the cops, you get the kids out of here.” Liz and Ike could do little but gawk as they felt tugs on their uniforms. Hynes Strickland, Senior’s polished dress shoes clicked down the tile floor. a The ticking clock antagonized the teens from it’s throne on the wall. It was nearly five o’clock. Ike’s brothers would be off the bus and home by now. Lizzy’s mom would be leaving for the night shift, stopping to look for her daughter to give her an early goodnight peck. Also probably looking for her coveralls. Neither would be there. Instead, they were trapped within the paneled walls of the bank break room, pressing their ears to the door to catch snippets of walkie-talkie static. Ike stood up

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a38 THE PEACOCK’S FEET and took the clock off the wall. “What next?” he asked. Liz shushed him without moving from the door post. Ike scrunched his nose in her general di- rection. “We could climb out of the vents,” he continued, “like one of those spy movies.” “No.” “Or we could pry the handle off of the—” “Shush.” “Or we could—” Liz slammed her hand against the floor and turned over her shoulder to look at her friend. “Can you stop?” she ac- cused. “You’re the reason we’re in this mess, the least you can do is be quiet so I can fix this.” Ike blinked the bewilderment out of his eyes. “I was just trying to—” “Well stop trying, Ike.” A rocky silence fell over the room, broken only by the com- motion outside the door. Liz pressed her ear against the key- hole. Ike looked after her. “I wanted you to remember me,” he mumbled finally. “What?” Liz asked.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 39 “I wanted you to remember me. Us. Y’know, whatever,” he shook his head at syntax. “What do you mean?” Liz asked, not letting her tone down. The brown haired boy shuffled his feet in his sneakers. “Liz, you’re leaving. After summer you’re going off to California or New York or wherever the fuck and you’re gonna kill it.” He started pacing, circling the four legged table in the middle of the room. “But I’m stuck here, Lizzy! I’m not going anywhere! And you always talk about how you hate this place and are never coming back even if the president paid you ten thousand dollars—” “I never said that—” Ike paused his pacing to point at her. “You definitely did. And that’s great but where does that leave me?” He sighed and rubbed his hands through his hair, making it ruffled with static. “I wanted us to do one last crazy thing! You and me! So when you’re off at college and working as a scientist or a lawyer all over the world that you’ll think about Creekview and think, ‘damn, that sucked. But remember that cool, sexy Isaac and how we tried to rob a bank that one time?’”

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a40 THE PEACOCK’S FEET “I thought you needed the money…” Liz stuck a strand of her coppery hair behind her ear. “Who doesn’t? But why not have a little fun along the way?” A smile edged into his voice. Liz shook her head, but smiled despite herself. “God, you’re so…” she trailed off, her eyes focusing in the distance. Ike cocked his head at her, turning to see what she was looking at. Seeing nothing, he turned back. “What?” he asked. “That’s it!” “What’s it?” Liz pushed herself away from the door, perching on the balls of her feet. She felt like she assumed Ike always did, fizzing and popping. “Who doesn’t need money?” she practically shouted. “I’m sorry, is that rhetorical?” Ike asked, eyeing her sus- piciously. “No, that’s what you just said!” Liz grinned. “Who doesn’t need money?” “Yeah, and?” “Why would Mr. Strickland want to rob a bank—his

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 41 own bank?” Ike sputtered. “I don’t know—” “Because he needs the money!” “Okay, dude, do you need some of my Adderall?” “Look, listen,” Liz said, she put a hand on Ike’s shoulder. “What did Hynes say at school today?” “That they just renovated the bank?” Ike enunciated. His eyes jolted wide. “Wait, so you’re saying—?” “Strickland went in over his head!” She squealed. “And he staged a bank robbery to get the insurance!” “So the people in town can still keep their deposits—” “But the Stricklands get enough to recover!” “Smart kids,” said a new voice. Both teens whirled around to see the king himself, Hynes Strickland, Senior, walking through the door. “Very smart,” he continued. The man was even more un- nerving in the light. His arms dangled past his small waist. He towered to the ceiling, his tar looking hair now brushed back into place. He walked past their huddle to the cabinets across the room. He plucked a glass out. He strolled to the fridge and pulled out a water filter. No one spoke as he poured himself a glass.

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a42 THE PEACOCK’S FEET “Thirsty?” he asked. No one moved. “Pity.” He took a long drag from the cup before setting it on the table separating him from the pair. “Go ahead,” he smiled sourly. “Celebrate. You solved the caper, figured it out.” “What happens next?” Ike asked warily. “Well, I am so glad you asked that, Mr. Hoffman.” Mr. Strickland leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. His shadow stretched over the room. “I was already stuck with the trouble of stopping a police investigation without any sus- pects. I was just going to pay them off, but,” he paused, his eyes flickering with a sick fondness, “you two just stumbled into my lap.” “You’re pinning it on us,” Liz stated blankly. “You could call it that.” He stood straight again, folding his hands behind his back. “Everyone needs a scapegoat, that’s just part of business. No hard feelings.” “Well, I’ve got some pretty hard feelings,” Ike muttered under his breath. “Don’t worry,” Mr. Strickland continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Your family will be well taken care of. And your

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 43 mother,” he spoke to Liz, “will get a promotion at the mill.” “We don’t want your blood money,” she deadpanned. Mr. Strickland, Senior laughed, an echoing, earth-shaking laugh. He tossed two black masks, the masks he and his cronies had worn, to the children. “You will.” A key turned in the door. All three looked to see who was interrupting. A portly policeman waddled through the door with a clipboard. “Yes, officer?” Mr. Strickland asked, turning his eyes back to the children. The pig cleared his throat and read from the clipboard, “There’s an issue.” Mr. Strickland turned back around. “What kind of issue?” Even the officer looked scared of Mr. Strickland. He took a wavering moment before continuing, “We’re unable to find plau- sible evidence that these two are the ones who robbed the bank.” “Whatever do you mean?” the lanky man asked, barely concealing the threat in his voice. “You said that you had fin- gerprints.” “Yes,” the officer stammered. “But they don’t match Eliza-

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a44 THE PEACOCK’S FEET beth and Isaac’s fingerprints. And since the camera footage was somehow lost, there’s no way to determine what happened—” “Well, how about you and your boys get back out there and find some more evidence?” Strickland said with contempt. “Do you know who’s fingerprints they are?” Ike spoke up. “Don’t talk to the—” “Actually,” the officer interrupted Strickland’s objections. “We don’t know. They aren’t in the database.” “Check out this glass,” Liz said, nodding her head to the half—full glass on the table. “Match that fingerprint with the scene.” “What?” Strickland asked. His voice was a nervous chuckle, but when he whirled on Lizzy, his eyes were smoking. “I didn’t realize that you are a forensics expert,” he hissed. “What’s the harm in checking that print, Mr. Strickland?” Liz asked naively. “Any evidence can help save your bank, right?” “And the cameras may be working again,” Ike added, catching on. “So you could see who touched it!” “Officer, they’ve devolved into lunacy from their guilt!” Strickland protested. “Now, now, it can’t hurt,” the officer took a hanky out of

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 45 his pocket and went to pick up the glass. “Unless you have something to say, Mr. Strickland?” Liz smiled at him. Hynes Strickland, Senior struggled for an answer, trying to think his way out. “Everyone needs a scapegoat,” Ike added. Mr. Strickland growled at him. He turned back to the offi- cer. “Do as they suggest. Check the cameras.” The officer nodded, confused, and left the room. Strick- land turned back to the haughty children. He sniffed disap- provingly at them before grabbing his coat from the coat rack. “When I get back to town, you two,” he glowered from the doorframe, “are going to burn.” “I believe your line is,” Ike grinned. “If it weren’t for you meddling kids.” Mr. Strickland’s glare spat sparks, but no flame. He fled the room. Sirens followed him soon after. “Junior is going to be pretty reserved at school tomorrow, what do you think?” Ike asked as he pulled his car up to the curb. He put the shift into park. “I’d be surprised if he’s even there,” Liz laughed. She

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a46 THE PEACOCK’S FEET grabbed her bookbag, stuffed with their jumpsuits and two black ski masks. “His football career is over, that’s for sure.” “Thank God, on behalf of the Creekview Pirates,” Ike smiled. The two shared a revelling breath together. Liz even- tually sat up and opened the car door. “See you later,” Ike called after her. The gravel driveway to her house crunched happily under her feet. She slung the backpack over her shoulder. “You know,” she said, facing the boy in the driver’s seat. “You were wrong.” “Unsurprising, but about what?” Ike asked, turning down the radio to hear her. Liz looked at Ike. “I couldn’t forget you.” Ike grinned, the green light of the sunset glinting through the rearview mirrors. “See you at school tomorrow, Lizzy,” he said, simply. Liz grinned back and swung the car door shut.

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PEACHES K. RALEIGH HUTCHINSON “To produce the sweetest fruit, you must know you are the sweetest fruit.” What does that even mean? I think while biting into my fresh peach, juice spraying onto the book’s page and my faded t- shirt. The summer sun peeks over head, while I seek refuge under the massive peach tree my grandpa planted years ago, before he passed. Now the branches sag, heavily drenched in peaches of all shapes and sizes. Though this summer has been dry, the peaches are dense with flavor, leaving me to fight the squirrels over the best. I set the worn, green book down next to me. I wasn’t even planning on reading but the dazzling gold spine glowing from the bookshelf caught my eye and I reached for it like it was calling me. For the past four years, I’ve spent every summer at Grandma’s house in North Georgia, two hours from home

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a48 THE PEACOCK’S FEET in Atlanta, while my parents traverse around some new coun- try for “work purposes.” They stopped bringing me along when I turned ten, because the company “stopped covering my fee.” I think they just got sick of me following them around the bars of Sweden or Germany or Morocco all hours of the night.“ To produce the sweetest fruit, you must know you are the sweetest fruit,” I slowly repeat, out loud this time. So, for this tree to make these incredible peaches, it “knows” it’s an incredible peach? I examine the bite marks in my fourth peach of the day, rolling the phrase around my mouth with the remaining fruit’s skin. I flip the book over and see my mom’s name etched on the back by her sixth grade hand. After a moment, I set it facing down. Maybe she doesn’t literally mean fruit. Maybe she means… an- imals. I readjust so I’m lying on the lush green grass, my head propped at the base of the tree. This is the spot where I’ve spent most of the summer, when I’m not helping Grandma around the house, playing with her golden-doodle Scout, or running errands into town on mom’s old blue bike. It hasn’t rained much this summer but the thick humidity curls my hair and the sun bronzes my freckled skin.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 49 To be the strongest bear, you must know you are the strongest bear. Hey that makes sense! Satisfied with my discovery, I take a massive bite, sticky nectar running down my jaw as I savor the soft orange flesh. “Rose! Your parents just sent another postcard! Costa Rica sure is beautiful — Hey! Don’t spoil your dinner with all those peaches. Come ‘ere and write them back,” Grandma hollers from the porch. Quickly, I slip the remaining three pits surrounding me under my leg. “I’m busy Grandma,” I call back. Great, another postcard. I already know what it will say. “Thinking of you and miss you! Love, mom & dad.” I roll my eyes. So, if the bear knows it is already the strongest bear — even if it’s the weakest bear — it will act strong, eventually making it strong so it really is the strongest bear. Hmmm. I wish I could be the strongest bear. Or strongest something. I raise my eyes to look around the yard. There are a bunch of honeysuckles, two hydrangeas, a dogwood, four bird feed- ers, three bird baths, four pecan trees, and a dozen hens. To say the least, my grandma takes a lot of pride in her backyard.

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a50 THE PEACOCK’S FEET But what she can’t control is the produce. Some of the peaches are mealy, the bird baths are cracked, and the hens won’t lay. But she never lets that keep her from planting and watering day after day. I think that the best time to be here is once the sun goes down. The temperature finally lowers and, as if saying ‘thank you,’ a symphony of nature begins. The cicadas sing their ever calming and enchanting melody. Lightning bugs dance in the sky, beckoning each other in a light show. Bluebirds coo as they nestle in their tiny blue homes. Wind rustles the soft leaves overhead. And I am just this tiny girl witnessing the symphony, sitting on the ground, nearly feeling the Earth’s heartbeat. Sometimes I lay down, press my ear to the grass, and match my breathing to hers. Often I catch Grandma watching me from her bedroom window on the second floor. I think she knows what I’m doing because the look on her face is soft, un- derstanding. Her eyes never judge, rather they echo love. I don’t look up at her. I let her feel hidden while I melt away. I finish the peach, throw the pit, and pick back up the book. Following the quote, the author discusses intention. She says deeds done with poor intentions are unfulfilling. I think

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 51 of school and the time I laughed at a boy who was sitting alone at lunch. I did it because my friends did it first. Afterwards I felt so guilty my stomach hurt the rest of the day. The next day I went up to him and apologized when my friends went to the bathroom. The intention of laughing at him was shallow, and unrewarding. But the intention in my apology was genuine and incredibly rewarding. So, what are my parents intentions for leaving me every sum- mer? Growing up the three of us went to Italy, Greece, Ger- many, Belgium, Sweden, Chile, France, Spain, and more places I can’t remember the names of. There are pictures of us laugh- ing in front of the Eiffel Tower or pointing our binoculars at the Colosseum all around Grandma’s house. I avoid looking at them when I walk through the hallway. My dad works for a mapping company. It’s his job to go out, explore the land, then draw it. Mom’s a 4th grade teacher, so during the school year it’s just she and I. But when Dad goes somewhere for the summer, she joins him. The first time I stayed with Grandma they went to the Congo. Mom said she was scared of me getting sick, and after that I was suddenly excluded from the plans all together.

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a52 THE PEACOCK’S FEET Maybe their intention is that they want me to be safe. Maybe it’s that they don’t want Grandma to be lonely. Maybe it’s that they have more fun without me. Would they notice if I was gone all together? I can’t help but ruminate this idea, letting it simmer in my mind. I breathe deeply in and look up at the branches. The sun is cascading through the leaves creating a pattern of light and dark shapes. None of them are the same. I imagine doing the same thing in Costa Rica where my par- ents are now and realize the shapes of those shadows aren’t the same either. I recognize the same is true for each of us. The light hits each of us differently. Just like the trees, our shapes and shadows are individual. Our goals and aspirations are unique, making our intentions unique, and in turn our satis- faction unique. What is my intention right now? So far I’ve spent the past thirty days eating peaches and filling out crosswords with Grandma. But at night when I breathe with the Earth I feel dif- ferent than I do during the day. I feel needed. I feel like I am receiving, not just spending. There my intention is not some- thing I can write on paper or share in class. It’s satisfied inside. I think that’s what the author is talking about.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 53 That to achieve daunting dreams you have to know you de- serve it. You don’t have to share it or know exactly why, but you have to accept it and follow it. Maybe I’ll never understand why they choose to leave me every year. But because of Grandma’s slice of Eden I can understand why I am here, to feel full. What if I stayed here? Then mom and dad won’t have to worry about me at all. Everyday will be like their summer trips — free of me. Grandma steps onto the porch smiling softly, holding a half complete crossword. I rise, clutching the book in both hands, and head towards her. “I’m ready to write back to Mom and Dad. I know what I’m going to say.” With a hand on my shoulder she ushers me in, but her eyes stay outside at grandfather’s tree. “Would ya look at that, it’s raining.”

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THE ART OF ABNEGATION TANNER HOWARD The building was massive, a looming monolith of polished glass and grey steel, crouching on the corners of West and St. Jude. The streets below swarmed with shoppers, pedestrians and cab drivers, shuffling in and out of streetside shops and apartment buildings. People hurried from building to building, scurrying frantically across the eroding cross walks, the streets alive with thousands of buzzing, manic voices. Endless throngs of nervous faces pulsing through the cramped arteries of the colossal mech- anism, shaded by the gaping shadows of office spaces and in- dustrial warehouses. As long as she had lived in the city, a part of her still resented it, the sheer, consuming size of everything. She ducked into the oversized office doors, almost running over an older man sipping on a cup of cafeteria coffee. The security guard waved to her as she came in, swiping her card with a smile much more genuine than she had seen today. A few months had not been long enough for him to re-

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a56 THE PEACOCK’S FEET member her name, so he left her with a “nice day, miss” as he ushered her inside. The crowd within the office building was much smaller than the one in the street but no less excited, hus- tling past her and calling urgently among one another, as if trying to find each other through a dense forest, holding up the weight of empires in their leatherbound notebooks and neatly columed numbers. She pushed her way through the collected masses of suits and skirts towards the main elevator on the far side of the building. She checked her phone. She was exactly on time. When she reached the main elevator she stepped in quietly and took her accustomed place in the far corner. She watched the crowd of people shuffling around outside, clinging desper- ately to their tall cups of coffee and small leather portfolios. They passed each other noisily, shouting at interns and softly cajoling business partners through their sleek phones, pristine teeth and their well treated but badly bagged eyes. They dodged nimbly around one another, interweaving like lines of ants, much too successful for a moment's rest. In the safety of the elevator, she managed a slight smile in spite of herself, smoothing out her skirt as the heavy steel doors slid together with a dull click. A panel of lit floor buttons sat eagerly aside the

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 57 door, waiting for the touch of a master’s finger. She punched in floor 13, watching the amber glow light spill across her fingers with childlike satisfaction. She closed her eyes, waiting for that quick, familiar jolt of upward motion. For some reason it always gave her a headache. It did not come. She waited for another moment, straightening out her already straightened jacket. She clicked the button again, the dull light of the button glowing cheerfully against the grey metal. Another moment passed. The elevator did not move. She clicked it a few more times, rapidly, the faint chirping tick echoing quietly across the small room. Irritated, she switched on the small circle labed “Open Door”. The little clear button lit up with the same cheerful amber color, flashing brightly against the dark hue of her skin. She waited a few more moments but the doors did not open. She sighed heavily and rubbed her temples. Not today. She clicked the “Open Door” button again, fighting the sudden urge to press all the buttons at once. She kicked weakly at the door with a black, high-heeled shoe. Her small foot glanced harmlessly off of the thick steel doors, sharp pain flar- ing up in her toes and ankle. She cursed under her breath, and

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a58 THE PEACOCK’S FEET bent to massage her swollen toe. Then she placed her coffee aside, knelt towards the small speaker, and pressed down the red “Call” button. This time, there was no light. She waited for a sound to tell her it was on, a grating inhuman voice suggest- ing she stayed calm. She waited another moment, clicking her heels in anticipation. There was no grating voice. No warm, crackling static. Just the deep, unflinching silence. She leaned a little closer to the speaker, unsure of what to do. She had never had to use a call button before. Perhaps there was no voice. She spoke hesitantly, as if her voice was something she had misplaced in childhood, and did not quite remember how to use. “Hello?” The speaker was small and circular, about four- inches wide, with small strips of metal running across it. She tapped it once, then pressed the Call button again. Nothing else happened. “Hello? I'm stuck in here, in the elevator, umm, on the—” She thought back, trying to remember the floor she had left. “The second floor. If you could send someone? I’m—I’m stuck in here.” She felt ridiculous talking into a silent speaker, but she could think of nothing else to do. She felt the skin on

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 59 the back of her neck burn hot against the pressed collar of her shirt. She paused for some kind of response, but nothing came. She leaned back against the wall, the air growing stale and suf- focating. She made herself breathe. Deep breaths. The sound of it made her feel a little better, rapturous in the silence that had settled like death throughout the room. She took out her phone from her purse, the sleek metal wrapped in a light blue casing, and taped quickly against the screen. She wasn’t exactly sure who she should call, but having it made her feel less alone. The clicking of her nails against the glass tinkled lightly across the little room. She noticed how similar it sounded to the but- tons of the elevator. Her phone switched on with a faded glow, a soft blue spilling out from behind the pristinely cleaned glass. On the screen was a picture of an ocean, the rising tide swelling to meet a sky the color of cut sapphire. The water was breaking gently against powdery white sand, a few droplets sparkling on the lens of the camera. There was no one else in the frame but the sand and water. At the time, it had been enough. She paused to stare at the scene, a sense of profound calm spilling over her, cooling her burning nerves. She tried to remember

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a60 THE PEACOCK’S FEET the name of the beach, but the memory felt fluid, impossible to hold onto for more than a few moments, obscured by the many nights since she had spent cradling thick stacks of fiscal docu- ments and expensive coffees. Elysian Shores, she thought. Something like that. She stared at it for a few more moments, promising herself she would go back soon, before clicking onto the main screen. A few colorful icons popped up, bobbing on the flat blue of the screen. She thought for a moment about who would be the best to call, opening her list of contacts. She thought she should probably call emergency services, but the idea seemed foreign enough to make her hesitate. She thought of the staring faces of her co workers, the tired, annoyed faces of the first responspon- ders, probably overworked already. In her head, she ran over the explanations she could give them. She would not get the chance to. After a few seconds the lights of her phone went out, the image of a drained battery flashing quickly across the black screen, almost imperceptibly, before vanishing altogether. She threw the phone hard against the wall, a hard metallic clang erupting through the room. It bounced off of the wall and skittered across the floor, coming to rest against the door. A

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 61 pang of fear for the device knit in her stomach, coiling over it- self and burrowing deeper as it expanded to encompass the fear for herself. Her hands trembled as she smoothed out her skirt again. Deep breaths. Her head buzzed and throbbed with a feverish pain, her skin feeling like it had been pulled too tight over her muscles. She sat down on the elevator floor as a feeling of dizziness washed over her, pulling her legs closer into her chest. A biting cold seeped through her exposed legs. The floor the same polished steel as the walls. She felt a curious anger that the fabric of her skirt was not longer. She had pressed the call button, surely they were already on their way now. She would wait. She had no idea how much time had passed since the doors first closed. She had no watch or cell phone, the room was a seamless compartment of dull, lead colored metal. It oc- curred to her that she could be trapped in the elevator for days with no real way to tell. Maybe she had been already. No. She reminded herself this was one of the building’s main elevators, and even if the call button didn’t work there was no way it would be left for days. The metal walls had been cleaned to a sheen, and she stared at the vague outline of her smoky reflec-

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a62 THE PEACOCK’S FEET tion until she thought, irrationally, she had seen one of the legs shift without her, and she turned to look at the floor. She had taken off her high heeled shoes and draped her jacket over her, but this could only do so much. The room was not designed for comfort. At first, she had simply let her thoughts wander. She found, however, that they would only wander a short distance before returning to the elevator. Bound, like her, to the small metal cell. Eventually, she concentrated on specific elements of the room, staring at the glowing elevator buttons, wondering at the inner complexities of a system she had never had reason to care about. She wondered how they worked, what mystic conduits kept the buttons powered even while in motion. She wondered about those unseen forces that carried the room through all of the floors. About what exactly had gone wrong on this specific day that up until this moment had worked so well she had not bothered to consider. It amazed her how thoughtless she had been, riding the same machine to the same floor every day knowing so little, understanding nothing. Her thoughts seeped into the buttons of the elevator, slith- ering up and down the yawning expanse of shafts, melting

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 63 through the hard steel walls and copper wiring and hydraulic pistons, grasping at the ideas just beyond her understanding. The gaps in between her knowledge she bridged with fantasy, picturing how such a machine might work, building grand mod- els in her head, slowly disassembling them for faults and weak- ness. She did this until her concentration broke, and she realized anew how alone she was. The thought scared her, and she dipped again into the ether of the complex shadow worlds that surrounded her. The sleek mechanization of her cell phone, the fabric of her coat, the metallic spine of her jacket zipper. Eventually however, she would return again to her little cell. It had felt like ages. The inability to know even the time weighed heavily, putting pressure on her stomach and ribs. She did not know how long it would take to fix an elevator. She did not know if the call button had worked when she pressed it. She didn’t even know if anyone remembered her getting on. If they remembered her at all. She pictured herself being dredged up from the shafts by EMTs and uniformed firemen, just to re- turn to her empty apartment and a job that she hated. She brushed the thought away quickly, but it was harder to con- centrate now. She hadn’t realized how lonely she was. She’d

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a64 THE PEACOCK’S FEET never even considered hating her job. She stared hard at her phone, as if it would suddenly light up and began buzzing by force of will. She sighed heavily, and nuzzled her head into the sharp corner of the room, forgetting the phone. She tapped the floor with her fingernails, a small sliver of polish falling to the floor. The sound was louder than it should have been, a hard, hollow clang that rebounded through the room. She tapped a melody, but the sound made her nervous and she pulled her hands back into her lap. They would be here soon. Whoever exactly “they” were. Her eyelids grew heavy and slipped closed, shutting out the bright fluorescent lights overhead. Then they snapped back open. The cameras. Elevators had cameras, she thought. Another otherwise useless fact she had not thought about until then. She was not sure if every elevator had one, or even if this one did, but if it did, and it was on the security feed, then at least they would know she was there. In some way, she would not be alone. She looked around at the upper corners of the room, were she rea- soned a camera might be placed. She scanned the room, the bright overhead lights throwing her elongated shadow across

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 65 the walls and floor at strange angles. She saw nothing. She bent her head back to check the corner she was sitting in, her mus- cles popping several times at the base of her neck. Nothing. No bulky overhead fixtures. No discreet lenses. Just the sharp cor- ners and plated steel of an empty room. She felt a flash of anger and raised one of her shoes over her head to throw, but her arm fell back weakly across her lap, the shoe clattering harmlessly to the floor. She was too tired to be angry. She must have been locked inside for ages, to have aged so many years. At some point, she was not sure when exactly, she knew no one was coming for her. The call button had not worked. There was no rescue party coming to pry open the steel doors. It was not a strong feeling, or an overwhelming one. It was a realization, quiet and natural, as if it could be the only logical progression of the inevitable state of things. She did not panic. To panic would be to take much energy to change nothing. She accepted it quietly, without interruption to her silent waiting. No one was coming for her in particular perhaps, but this was a highly trafficked elevator, so she assumed it must be fixed within a reasonable amount of time. She did not know how much

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a66 THE PEACOCK’S FEET time that would be, but, surely, it could not take much longer. Somewhere, out there in the vast multiverse of worlds and lives and people she did not belong to, there was someone, an old man she imagined, who spent each day sitting somewhere and waiting for some misfiring of the great machine he had dedicated his life to, so that he could rush in and save the hap- less, ignorant people who had built their lives around all of the things in the world which were not elevators. He would be the one to find her. He would tap some pump, pull some wire, turn some seemingly insignificant dial on a seemingly insignificant machine, and find her, trapped alone in the belly of his beloved beast. Somehow, the thought made her smile. Her legs had gone numb, burning with the static prick of too much waiting on hard surfaces. She stood up, stretched out like a cat rising from a nap, and paced along the room until her legs no longer hurt. Then she paced a few more times to ease her boredom. She banged the door a few times with the fleshy part of her fist, the meaty thump quieter than she expected. She supposed the sound might get through, but, for whatever rea- son, she did not believe this. She hit it a few more times any- way. She stood by the door, tapping at a steady rhythm, until

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 67 she began to feel a bruise forming on the underside of her hand. Then she reached over to press the open door button, just in case the universe had seen fit to correct its minor negligence and return her to the land of the living. Then she froze, her hand still hovering in the air, a cold shiver snaking through her body. The buttons were gone. She stood still for a few more maoments, a flesh hewn statue in expensive clothes. She wanted to backstep, but there was nowhere to go. She could reach out her arms and touch the bor- ders of her whole universe. Instead, she shook, trembling like a blade of grass in wind. In the space where the elevator buttons had been was a flat piece of metal. It blended perfectly into the rest of the wall with- out a seam or rift to mark the hallowed place the buttons had once been. It was as if they had pulled completely from existence. Fear rose in icy waves through her hands and legs, coming to rest her stomach. It was a cold feeling, like the walls. A wave of anger spilled over her, more out of a reflex to protect her from the fear than any actual source, and dispelled quickly

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a68 THE PEACOCK’S FEET without a target to direct it at. Her throat felt tight and hard, tears welling just behind her eyes. Her thoughts shattered in- side her head, breaking away in ways she was worried could be pieced back together. These things could not happen. It did- n’t make sense. It wasn't fair, wasn't right, for things not to make sense. Sense was all she had. She turned to the door, slamming her bruised fists into it. Pain erupted in her hand and wrist, jolting her arm and aching in the roots of her teeth. She railed at the doors, hitting them, screaming at them through flashes of pain, as if they had locked her in of their own volition. She hated them. Hated what they stood for, hated them for what she was terrified they were doing to her. She wanted to scream all of this at them, but her thoughts did not easily fit into language. If any of the words she had been taught to use as a child could convey how she felt at that moment, they were all gone now. Their absence only made her more angry. The clanging of steel and flesh filled the room, but the silence rushed in quickly to fill the space in between thumps, so she began raving as loud as her voice could carry. The words did not make sense, but they couldn’t be expected to. Not that it mattered. There was no one there to hear them.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 69 Eventually, she ran out of energy to feed her anger, and she slumped against the door, body aching, mind numb. She did not think. Thinking would only make it worse. Instead, she pictured home. Not her apartment. The beach. Her beach. The one she had saved onto her phone so long ago. Her mind strained painfully trying to capture each of the details. Where it had been. The sights, the sounds. She remembered the crash- ing of waves on sand, the taste of salt on her tongue. The cry of seagulls and the smell of sunscreen. But then, she only thought she remembered those. Maybe that was only what the beach could have been like. She couldn’t remember the place, couldn’t even remember the name of the ocean. She had been with someone, but she couldn't remember who. Maybe she had never been at all. She wished whoever she thought was there were here now. She wanted her phone, only to pull up the picture, to stare at it until it burned itself into the space behind her eyes. She needed to remember. If only to know that at some point that she had been anywhere else, that she had been happy there, that she was still human. She bent to pick up her phone, to leech life back into it with the life that was fading in her. To

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a70 THE PEACOCK’S FEET hold it in her hands and know that it came from a world be- yond, a clear, rational world where things still made sense. Yet, when she reached for it, the space she had left it was empty. She crawled across the room on her hands and knees, thinking she might have kicked it. Misplaced it somehow. But she saw nothing. The room was empty. Her phone was gone. Her purse was gone. The jacket she had covered herself with in the corner was gone. The high heeled shoes she had tried to throw. Everything. Everything was gone. Her hands flew to her mouth, trying to hold back some kind of sound she knew would never come. She covered her eyes, squeezing them so tight it hurt her head, blotting out the cold metal Hell she had been damned to. Then she started crying. Softly at first, then heavily, great chok- ing sobs wracking her thin frame like convulsions. Hot tears streamed down her face, dribbling across her clothes and splat- tering onto the floor. It wouldn’t help her, but she wasn’t sure what else she could do. She wasn’t sure how long she cried for. She wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. She sat leaning against the door, face buried in her upraised knees, wet with tears and drained from the ef-

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 71 fort. She was hungry, and her back ached from leaning against the wall. She thought about getting up to stretch, but this would not ease hunger, and the pain helped to distract her. Her ocean no longer worked. It felt like a lie, made all the more cruel by her having believed it. There was no ocean. There was no apartment. There was no elusive old man coming to save her. There was only the room. It was all fever dreams, smoke and mirrors. She had never left the room. She never would. There was nothing beyond those doors, they were the thick, silent sentinels of the universe keeping away the wanton, sense- less oblivion that lie beyond. Part of her wished they would open, sweep her away into the endless void where things could disappear and oceans could drown, a strange and distant Hell unlike the Hell she knew. Part of her no longer cared whether they opened or not. She wiped her face against the hem of her shirt, and pressed her arms under her ribs for warmth. Warmth did not come, but she held them there anyway. She wondered if she would die in here. Wondered how long it would take. In spite of every- thing, she still felt revulsion at the thought. She wanted to die on her beach. Tears welled up in her eyes again. They would

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a72 THE PEACOCK’S FEET not fall. They were interrupted by a sharp grating sound as a tiny crack of light appeared in the door. She jumped up from her place in the corner, staring with wide eyes at the small opening. The door had been opened less than an inch, the small gap running from the floor to the ceil- ing. She gaped at the small patch of deliverance, both cautious and euphoric, unsure whether or not she could trust these senses that had been so fragile. A thousand thoughts wailed in her head, all shouting commands she was too overwhelmed to follow. She stood in the middle of the room, features frozen, staring at the gap as if it would swallow her if she moved. All at once it came back to her. Her job. Her apartment. The picture from a long passed vacation. She buckled, struggling under the weight of it all. She thought she saw shuffling outside the door. The gap widened a little farther. For a few moments she was worried it would stop there. Just wide enough for hope but not quite enough to set her free. She wanted to shove the door open herself, but she still couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Her joints buzzed as if she had swallowed a live wire. Then, with a polished quietness that surprised her, the steel

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 73 doors slid open. Two men stepped inside, empathy scrawled across their faces. She felt the fear dissolve in her stomach. The buzzing in her joints stopped, and she flung herself at the closest one of them. She wrapped her arms around him, to keep him from fading away. He felt solid. Real. She could hear the heart beating in his chest. A human heart, pumping human blood through human veins. She laughed, trying to pass a chorus of thanks through her tear hardened lungs. Then she felt something press against her mouth, and slip down her throat. She clenched to him a little tighter, confused. Then, he eased her away from him, the same empathetic look written across his face. He looked apologetic now. She noticed, for the first time, that he was not dressed like a fireman, or an EMT, or any other kind of repairman she had known. He wore all white, with a small lanyard clipped to his chest. It had a picture of him, smiling, and a cluster of words in neat print. A sick feeling spread in her chest as she read them. She fell back, reeling away from him. Her head buzzed, and the walls around her began to sway. He gave her a pained look, and then turned from her. She sunk to the floor, which rolled under her like the waves of an ocean.

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a74 THE PEACOCK’S FEET She heaved, but her stomach was empty. The two men left the room, the doors sliding shut behind them. She tried to plead, to scream, but her head felt like it had been shoved inside a washing machine. She fell hard against the floor, arms and legs sprawling out like a crushed spider, brushing against each of the walls. She coughed up a sick, humourless laugh at the words cut in two neat phrases across the blackening room. —John Dawson, Ph.d Greyhaven Psychiatric Facility

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STACY SMITH’S GUIDE TO SOCIAL ETIQUETTE MATTHEW MALSTROM INTRODUCTION Stacy wasn’t really sure what the word “etiquette” meant. She certainly couldn’t spell it, but that was fairly usual. She had heard the word mentioned before with things like keeping your elbows off the table, but the word itself wasn’t really in her ver- nacular. However, when she woke up alone, flat on her back on the beer-stained carpet with busted bottles all around her, she assumed that whatever this “etiquette” thing was, she wasn’t doing it very well. ABSTRACT Now before I go any further, I feel the need to clarify that this guide is not a mere mishmash of made-up fiction, but rather, a work of methodically-conducted observational science. It is via the parable of Stacy that this study is meant to instruct the

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a76 THE PEACOCK’S FEET burgeoning adolescent in the demands and conventions of the rapidly-evolving contemporary society. Through primary sources and reliable accounts from multi- ple persons, including much from Stacy herself1, I have been able to compile an effective and exhaustive handbook to delineate the precise yet fickle demands of the present day, while outlining the basic construction of the model individual to fit within said expectations. I wish you, the humble reader, fine luck in your great expedition into our world, but now, let us return to Stacy. RESEARCH Upon opening her eyes with a pounding migraine, her first in- stinct was to find her cell phone. She felt groggily around the carpet, navigating unconsolidated bottles, cans, and cups to find the device. Turning her head to the side, she spotted her phone lying on the floor across the room. Slowly and exerting a tremen- dous amount of effort, she began to roll herself over and over again until she reached her phone. She took her it into her hands, brushed off the shards of broken glass, and checked for cracks in the screen. Satisfied that her phone was entirely intact, she then noticed that she wasn’t wearing any pants. Bits and pieces of the previous evening drifted in and out of her memory as Stacy struggled to recall the details of last night.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 77 The exerted effort only exacerbated her migraine. She thought back to her New Year’s resolution of only getting wasted twice a week, and how that had lasted about half of a month. She squinted against the daylight filtering in through the window blinds and wished that the sun would go bother someone else for a change as she took another cursory glance around her, hop- ing to recover her lost clothing. She gradually brought herself to her feet, only to have her vision fail her and flop once more onto the floor. Trying not to imagine the last time someone cleaned the carpet, she rose again and began fumbling about the medium-sized apartment, catching herself on the backs of chairs as she stumbled haphazardly through the living space. Upon en- tering the kitchen, she spotted a half-drunk bottle of beer, which, as an instinctual response, she took and finished off. The beer was largely flat and tasteless, as tasteless as Jenny’s fashion sense, Stacy thought, and did little to mitigate the pain in her head. If only I had some whiskey and honey, she wished, a little whiskey and honey fixes everything. Stacy, of course, had never had whiskey and honey, but she had heard from her friend Jamie that it was a panacea and worked wonders for hangovers. Stacy pondered how in the world she ended up here. After all, she typically only got blackout-drunk on Wednesdays, Fri- 1 Stacy agreed to contribute for the generously low price of some whiskey and honey.

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a78 THE PEACOCK’S FEET days, and Saturdays, and she was pretty sure that yesterday was Tuesday, meaning that she had better get ready for tonight. Stacy winced remembering that in a succession of hangovers, the sec- ond was always worse than the first. For a moment, she thought about her upcoming night in dread and contempt, the same way a child regards going to school. However, she quickly resigned herself to the fact that she had no choice, since her friends would never let her live it down if she took a rain-check on a night out. Oh, well, C’est la vie, Stacy thought to herself. She also had no idea what the phrase, “C’est la vie” meant, but her friend Katherine said it a lot, and Katherine seemed pretty smart. Still without pants, Stacy pulled out her phone and began to think of whom to contact for a ride back to her apartment. She scrolled through the myriad of contacts in her phone: Anne would still be asleep, James was in calculus currently, Ethan moved to Nashville after breaking out of prison, Kate wouldn’t talk to her on account of Stacy accidentally sleeping with her boyfriend multiple times2, Mark was an asshole. What about Katrina? Katrina probably wouldn’t mind, she thought, so she put her phone to her ear and waited for 2 After being accused of perpetrating this action, Stacy offered the defense that both she and Kate’s boyfriend were both “wasted off of their asses.” Therefore, she argued, she could not be held responsible for any of her actions in that state. Citing the philosophical ideas of Thomas Nagel in reference to re- sultant moral luck, Stacy claimed that, “If Kate’s B.F. [boyfriend] wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have slept with him.”

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 79 her to pick up. Katrina was famous throughout Stacy’s social circle for just going with the flow. Renowned for her extreme relative respon- sibility and patience, Katrina was the equivalent of a mother who loved her children enough to care for their happiness, but not enough to care for their well-being: a parenting philosophy heavily endorsed among Stacy and her friends. Katrina offered rides, listened to problems, and consoled others, all without questioning their life decisions. Many called her Saint Jude. And, as the saying went between Stacy’s friends: Katrina would give you a ride to your own funeral, but she wouldn't stay for it. Katrina answered the call within a few rings. “Hey Stacy, what’s going on this time? Is it Tommy again?” “No, no, I just need a ride back to my apartment.” “Sure, where are you?” Stacy looked down at the kitchen table and noticed a stack of junk mail sitting on the edge, full of political ads and an ad for the new “miracle diet” consisting of four different flavored waters. She read the address off the first piece of mail, “154 Johnson Street, Apartment 6.” “Got it—on the way.” Katrina promptly hung up, and within fifteen minutes was stationed outside of the apartment. Katrina knew immediately from Stacy’s look how her night

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a80 THE PEACOCK’S FEET went, specifically by the fact that she still had no pants on. At this point in Katrina’s life, she would have been more concerned if Stacy had left wearing pants. She didn’t bother to ask how her night went, because she knew that she wouldn’t remember. In- stead, Katrina talked at length about her new furniture she just ordered, especially how much prettier it is than Anne’s, how it was being custom-made and put together, how expensive it was, and how it would just tie the room together “like a bow on a Christmas present.” “Where did you get it from?” Stacy inquired. “IKEA.” Once the car pulled in front of Stacy’s apartment, she exited the vehicle, glad that her legs looked pretty good3 , despite it being roughly thirty-nine degrees outside. She thanked Katrina for the ride, who responded, “Don’t mention it.” and en- tered her apartment. She went immediately to her refrigerator and was dismayed at the absence of whiskey or honey and promised herself again that she would buy some when she was legally capable of it, which wouldn’t be for another three years. As she closed the refrigerator, her phone sounded off: another text from Hannah. It read, “U ready 4 tonight girl” followed by a series of pictures4 depicting a thumbs-up, a party hat, and some 3 When she was younger, one of Stacy’s friends claimed that she got her figure from her mother, who, as her friend stated, had it “goin’ on.”

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 81 confetti. Stacy unlocked her phone and responded, “Yes totally girl!” followed in suit by a party hat, balloons, and some confetti. Within seconds, Hannah replied, “I hear Jasons gonna b there!!!” Stacy answered, “I like his new wavy hair” to which Hannah replied, “yeah, its almost as long as his—” A notice popped up on Stacy’s phone letting her know it was on low battery. Stacy responded, “Yeah! say la vee!” Hannah texted, “see u tonight!” Stacy began to put her phone where her pocket would have been and then stopped and nodded to herself. Right, she thought. Stacy always admired Hannah’s promptness and punctual- ity in replying to texts. It was becoming increasingly more diffi- cult to find texting partners with their priorities in order, as more and more people began taking longer and longer to reply; it was bad form through and through. It is common knowledge that the acceptable response time when answering a text was from five seconds to four minutes and fifty-eight seconds precisely. Waiting longer than that would express disinterest in the person or the conversation, and waiting past twenty minutes would convey disdain or even contempt for the other party, while not being so bluntly rude or disinterested as to not respond at all, for no one respected a person who never responded. 4 These pictures are known as “emojis.” They are the equivalent of contemporary hieroglyphics and are essential in communicating one’s point via text. Without correct use of emojis, one’s intentions could never be properly expressed.

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a82 THE PEACOCK’S FEET This, of course, changes entirely when communicating with someone of the opposite sex. Responding to a text from a crush within six minutes imparts a sense of blaring desperation. This must be avoided at all cost, otherwise, one’s chance at a relation- ship is completely ruined. However, if one takes too long to text back5 , then the other person will lose interest, and he/she will have definitely moved on by that point. So, one must always wait anywhere from six minutes to ten minutes before responding6. Unless, of course, the other person breaks the conventions first. In this case, one must mirror the behavior of the other party and wait however long the other person waited to reply before texting back. When navigating these treacherous waters of texting con- versations, especially when initiating them, one must sail through them with the grace of a ballerina dancing through a minefield; one’s reasoning must be sound, word choice immaculate, timing impeccable, discourse justified, mind sharp, and body in peak physical condition. Failure to follow any of these procedures fully and effectively will result in a rather lonely Friday night7 . Unless, of course, one’s “style” is to ignore these conven- tions, that, and one has a six-pack of abdominal muscles with quick access to alcohol. Stacy decided that she was due for a shower, and afterward, 5 Anywhere exceeding ten minutes. 6 All numerical statistics are drawn from Harvard University’s “Study of the Average Texting Habits of Adolescents.” 7 One of the worst social stigmas to have was that of an FNL, or “Friday night loner.”

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 83 put on a fresh set of clothes. She then proceeded to hop up onto her bed and began scrolling through social media platforms. It was currently two o’clock in the afternoon, with sunlight flood- ing through the window and directly into her eyes. Stacy really hated the sun. However, she refused to change her position or close the blinds, as that would require far too much effort on her part. Why couldn’t somebody else deal with it? she thought. Well, in truth, nobody else could deal with it because no- body else was there. Stacy shared an apartment with her room- mate, Angelina, but the apartment stayed vacant most of the time. Angelina was an early riser, much to Stacy’s dismay, and always wanted to get a head start on the day. She left the apart- ment before dawn and wouldn’t return until midnight at the ear- liest. Sometimes, she would disappear for days on end before returning. Stacy was unfazed by these occurrences, and consid- ered it incredibly thoughtful of Angelina to go to such lengths to stay out of her way. Angelina was jumpy, often erratic, and acted suspicious whenever exiting the apartment. When asked why she would stay out so late, she would claim that she was “helping out with the family business.” She would often get calls on her phone and leave abruptly due to “extenuating circum- stances.” Stacy never heard much about these circumstances, al- though Angelina did talk to her about leaving for two weeks last

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a84 THE PEACOCK’S FEET summer to go see her godfather up in New York8and attend his daughter’s wedding. Stacy, of course, could hardly care less about Angelina’s affairs, and Angelina seemed to prefer it that way. Stacy spent hours navigating social media, hardly moving a muscle. She typically dedicated herself during this time of day to ensuring her friends that she, in fact, did not hate them and was not dead by liking their respective posts and pictures. It was, after all, only the proper thing to do. If she didn’t partake in this daily ritual, why then, mixed signals would be sent to all of her friends, rumors would start spreading like the plague, and within fifty-six hours, all of her friends would regard her with quiet contempt. They would never voice these concerns to Stacy, obviously, because that would lead to confrontation and, even worse, awkwardness, and no one could afford to be labeled as awkward9. These thoughts circulated constantly through Stacy’s head as she did her due diligence to prevent such a fate from ever befalling her. Stacy concluded her perusal of social media just as the light from outside was beginning to fade and fall away from her eyes. Finally, she thought, now I can focus. With distractions removed, she set about to the intricate task of finding out who she could 8 She refused to specify where and claimed that she wouldn’t be available for further interviews as she is going to Sicily to visit a family friend. 9 There was a hierarchy established between Stacy’s peers of the worst thing to be, which went as follows: A pervert, a “mega weirdo,” awkward, antisocial, a virgin, a Nickelback fan, a prude, a nice guy, broke, emotional, a fan of The Matrix sequels, a drug addict, and a womanizer.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 85 get a ride to the party with tonight. The party was being held at Derek's house, as usual on Wednesday nights10, and she had no car. This task was not as simple as finding a ride home from the apartment this morning; now, Stacy has group dynamics to be concerned with. The thing is, Kate had one of the very few cars within the group, and Kate would absolutely refuse to give a ride to Stacy, on account of her accidentally sleeping with her boyfriend multiple times11. That left Mark, Josh, and Jonathan. Mark, of course, was an asshole, and she would loathe to take a ride from him. Josh, meanwhile, typically drove James, Jacob, and Mary, his girlfriend. However, whenever Josh and James drove together, they spent the entire time discussing calculus and differential equations. Stacy, of course, had no idea what differential equations were, and it irritated her to no end how James and Josh would go on and on about such inane nonsense. She was thoroughly convinced that they were making these things up to sound smart. Worse than that, Jacob would spend the entirety of the time discussing12 various political issues that neither Jacob nor Stacy knew anything about. Even worse than that, Mary always played country music, and Stacy couldn’t stand country music in the slightest. That meant that Jonathan was her only option, so she called up Jonathan and solicited a 10 Stacy had never actually met Derek before. 11 See page 3, note 2 12 Arguing violently

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a86 THE PEACOCK’S FEET ride to Derek’s. Jonathan arrived outside of her apartment around eight o’- clock. With him was, as usual, Ryan, Katie, and Jessica. Stacy hopped in the middle of the back seat, squished between Katie and Jessica, as Jonathan set off to the party. The party passed a rather intense drive in a heated debate over whether a hotdog is a sandwich or not13. It was eight-twenty when Jonathan’s car pulled in front of Derek’s house. The house itself was of modest size and coated in fairy lights. Already outside were groups of guys, red plastic cups in hand, dancing wildly to deafening music14. Some groups were flirting, one man ran around the front of the house wearing only a loincloth, while others were vomiting over the railing of the porch. Stacy found the latter odd as people typically didn’t start vomiting until at least eleven. The volume of the music drowned the indignant shouts of neighbors as her group passed through the doors of the house and headed directly into the kitchen for a drink. For all the discussion of alcohol in this paper, it may be nat- ural to assume that Stacy was an alcoholic. In truth, she was not an alcoholic and could stop drinking any time she wanted to, the only problem being that she never wanted to. Alcohol is a means 13 Despite extensive research into the subject, the matter remains unresolved. 14 The music consisted of an overbearing EDM beat with unintelligible lyrics.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 87 of being social, and what better thing to be labeled as than social? The party is the ultimate social environment, and one’s perform- ance in this setting could make or break one’s entire social stand- ing. Naturally, one may feel a certain sense of apprehension, nervousness, or nausea15when attending one’s first party. These concerns must not be expressed to others, otherwise, one may be subjected to public humiliation or shaming. Naturally, this must be avoided at all costs. If one is to ever be accepted, one must pass the trial of the party—not once, but each time it is ini- tiated. The fickle nature of the party is that of the sea; one day, it may favor a ship, the next, it may sink that same vessel. To find favor with the roaring tides of party-goers, one must adapt and conform to the amorphous nature of societal expectations. Favor is never secured, but must be earned continuously. With drinks in hand, Stacy’s group ventured into the crowd and split as they mingled with their friends. She found some of her friends, Jessi, Richard, and Caroline, sitting around a small table in the living room and joined in on their discussion. “She’s a total bitch!” Jessi exclaimed. “Why?” Caroline asked. “I followed her on Instagram, and she wouldn’t follow me back!” 15 Not related to alcohol

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a88 THE PEACOCK’S FEET “That’s awful! Why would she do that?” “It’s because Jake and Adam told her I was a slut, all because I accidentally slept with her boyfriend a couple times.” “How could they say something like that?” “Right? I mean, is she really going to believe them anyway? Remember when Owen took Jake and Adam to Abby’s house for a party and they didn’t come home until six in the morning? You know they were having sex.” “Totally! Jessica told me that at Owen’s party, she saw Jake and Marissa go into the bathroom together.” “What about Adam?” “So apparently, Adam left early because he wasn’t ‘feeling well,’ or at least that’s what Jenny said, but she isn’t always that reliable, ever since she lied to Jared about Samantha cheating on him with Luke.” “Well, I think—” Richard began. “Shut up, Richard16.” Jessi commanded. “Yeah, well, what are you going to do about her?” Caroline questioned. “Well, I already talked to Catherine—” “Hines?” “No—Catherine Leslie. I talked to her, Joey, and Owen 16 Richard was often cut off in this fashion because, as he made sure everyone knew, he was a Patriots fan, which immediately invalidates all of his opinions.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 89 about not inviting her to movie night, but I’m worried that she might get suspicious and start asking questions.” “Would anyone rat you out?” “Owen and Catherine wouldn’t, but I’m worried about Joey. You remember last time when Joey told Rachel that Sarah was ignoring her because Johnny left Sarah for Rachel? Rachel blew up on Sarah and scared off Liam so Sarah didn’t have a date to make Johnny jealous anymore.” “Yeah, that was pretty spineless of Joey.” “Well, it seems to me—” Richard tried again. “Oh my god, Richard, your existence makes me want to die.” “Then it’s settled,” Jessi stated, “We’ll kick her out of movie night. Also, did you guys hear about Russell taking some girl’s pants from a party last night? ” This kind of discourse is very common in the party envi- ronment. This unique atmosphere enables the discussion of pressing concerns within various social spheres, facilitating the resolution of conflicts between individuals often without direct confrontations; the social pressure of the multitude of bodies in the environment heavily dissuades the causing of scenes or other abnormal behaviors17. Those types of behaviors, if exhib- ited, will result in the expulsion of the individual from the social environment, and the stigmatization of the individual as awk- 17 These behaviors include: expressing emotion—intense or otherwise, refusing drinks, expressing con- cern/apprehension, attempting to leave early, claiming that the music is too loud, generally being upset in any way, shape, or form, or complimenting Mark, who was an asshole.

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a90 THE PEACOCK’S FEET ward or antisocial18. Stacy left the trio and continued enjoying her night, becom- ing progressively more and more intoxicated as time went on. She would claim that from this point, the events of the night be- came rather hazy. The nights when she went out to party would even “blur together,” as she put it. Each party followed the same, comfortable routine of consuming massive amounts of alcohol and letting the night take one where it may, be it an apartment, a bedroom, or the back of a car speeding down a dark alleyway in New Jersey19. Truly, anything and everything could and did take place at these parties, and the more extravagant or exotic one’s experience, the more respect one garnered. Stacy was dis- appointed that, despite her best efforts, she often regained con- sciousness in safe and stable environments. She only hoped that one day, she would have a truly exciting experience. Just when it seemed that all hope of participating in some daring, inebriated escapade had all but evaporated, Angelina burst through the doors of Derek’s house with some unidentified red substance staining her shirt. “It’s, uh, barbecue sauce.” Angelina offered feeling that all eyes were on her. Before anyone else had the opportunity to ask questions, 18 See page 8, note 9. 19 This example comes from a personal anecdote. The one who experienced this event cannot be named for legal reasons.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 91 police sirens came speeding down the street and four police cars skidded to a stop outside of Derek’s home. “Oh, would you look at the time,” Angelina began,“I think I left the oven on; I better go.” She bolted through the mass of people through Derek’s liv- ing room and vaulted expertly through an open window as a 9mm pistol fell out of her back pocket. “This is the police!” the officers shouted from outside the front door, “Open up, now!” Stacy’s heavily-intoxicated mind was swimming. Had all the screaming and pandemonium died suddenly at that mo- ment, one would have almost been able to hear the gears grind- ing within her skull. Her ears were unable to process the commotion, and it was as if she went deaf. In this silence, her brain connected the floating fragments of an idea together: if she were to be arrested and go to jail, she would garner an in- surmountable amount of social favor, known as “street cred.”20 Why, she would never have to concern herself with social ac- ceptance ever again; her peers would pledge deference to her as to a god. She grew more confident in this idea as she parted the sea of panicked teenagers until she reached the front door, swung it wide open, and proclaimed triumphantly, 20 Short for “street credit,” referencing one’s infamousy in a specific, usually urbanized area. This renown is gained through surviving various dangerous circumstances including, but not limited to: a mugging, a home robbery, gang violence, Black Friday shopping at Walmart, and incarceration.

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a92 THE PEACOCK’S FEET “Yes, officers, I have been drinking tonight.” “Clear the house!” “Go, go, go!” The police officers flooded into the house, shoving past Stacy and shouting to each other all the while. The last officer to run by her spoke into his radio,” 10-10, suspect seems to have escaped the building, heading north towards Greene Street, over.” Stacy, convinced beyond all doubt that she was going to be arrested and sent to prison, watched the group of police run out of the house and up the street. She stared in utter shock and disbelief, and her head gradually sank to the ground as she realized in crushing disappointment and dejection that she would be passing the night safely and without incident. CONCLUSION The adult world is often intimidating, and the society we live in demands a certain level of maturity, professionalism, and the- atrical flair. I have dedicated myself to this research to ensure that no young, hormonally-imbalanced adolescent is subjected to exile from the respectable ranks of the public sphere. Now, I will not “toot my own horn,” as the saying goes, and suggest

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 93 that this study may be the greatest and most important research ever conducted, but I have a feeling that Adolescent Study Weekly may debate me on that opinion with the quality of work that I have composed. Once more, fine readers, I wish you well and that you may see me on the front page of ASW very soon.

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RECOVERY EMMA BOGGS The runner with two yellow French braids, Isabelle Waters, pictured herself not as a girl, but as any other creature she might come across in a book. She was a streaking white horse—no, a valiant hare—or rather, a lioness, pumping four muscular legs over unruly terrain as if at the start of an epic battle. She led the front line, face resolute, eyes slits of concen- tration, tawny fur rippling as each paw hit the turf. It was a windy Virginian morning, and the butter-and-eggs wildflow- ers swayed in the fields that the three cross-country teams tramped across. From the corner of her eye, Isabelle watched a pale boy with shining red hair rush to the sidelines and as- sume a stooping stance, his torso bent forwards and unmov- ing, an image that forced her to break her reverie. She sent him unspoken condolences when he lost his breakfast. The reality she faced was this: A continual stream of ath- letes with ruddy faces, her flimsy racerback tank with white

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a96 THE PEACOCK’S FEET letters shouting BELBRIDGE BEARS XC, a tag with the num- ber 4777 pinned over her stomach. She was not, in actuality, leading the front line. Overall, an unpleasant queasy sensation came and went as she jogged. Bears, she thought, like herself, seemed like odd candidates for long-distance running. Isabelle imagined things would be different if she were running six-and-two-tenths of a mile back under the trees near her old house in Connecticut. The Waters family owned a gen- erous few acres of woods surrounding their current house in Fairfax, Virginia, where they’d moved last summer, but the state forest near the late Redding homestead had felt endless. She could stand under the fat maple trees on the powdery compost of that healthy, untouched ecosystem, unable to dis- cern any trace of human voices or cars whizzing along the highway. The scenery was one to savor—dark silhouettes solemn, with only the occasional snap of twig or crash of dead bough ricocheting through the quiet. The leaves would be stunning at this time of year, mid-October, all blazes of red and gold laden heavily on each branch. She wouldn’t need to imagine regal beings or battles if she were running there; she could trot along as a lone girl in an enchanted wood. Ahead of her, the series of fields gave way to a trail through the trees, which they’d been told they would loop

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 97 through several times before the race’s finish. She thanked her luck, expectant for the pines’ sheltering privacy. Earlier the tension of starting her first official race coupled with the eyes of the onlookers had been overwhelming. But she shoved aside that terror now, focusing on her breath- ing and picturing herself a stag pummeling through a field of snow. And soon they were in the woods, sans the crowds. “Hey!” said a girl in the Belbridge uniform on her left. Ellie Barkman, who always wore a spiky ponytail. Although they’d never spoken, Isabelle knew she was a junior who ex- celled as a member of the volleyball team and a runner of promising middle-grade talent. “You’re pounding your feet too hard. Try landing more lightly, on the balls of your feet.” “Oh! Well—okay,” Isabelle panted, “Thank—” “Go team, am I right? See you later, and good luck!” Ellie said, bounding ahead, her straight hair flying out from its an- choring scrunchie. Isabelle sighed. While glad not to be the team’s only new- bie—there were several other inexperienced runners—she still felt set apart from the others (Ellie included). They would con- gregate around the water fountains after practice, laughing to- gether naturally and discussing teachers and tests and that

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a98 THE PEACOCK’S FEET weekend’s parties. Unless she was feeling unusually brave (or thirsty), she made a beeline for her father’s car after practice. It had become her custom to name the crayon shade of her face reflected in his side-view mirror every afternoon, once the door was shut: Cherry-red. Beet-purple. Twizzler-tinged. “Oh yes,” he’d nod and say, “I think you’ve nailed it.” She thought of a book she’d read recently and decided with melodrama that Ellie’s comment had stained her cheeks scarlet. Scarlet like the letter A, for Apart, because it had been another reminder of her differences from the others. a Isabelle had first broached the idea of joining Belbridge’s cross country team to her parents one hot night in July. The Waters were eating a casual dinner of salad and grilled chicken at the kitchen table, with moving boxes still stacked high in the hall. As the phrases “cross country team” and “want to try” came from their child’s mouth within the same sentence, her father almost dropped the jar of dressing he was reaching for, and her mother pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, as if to better examine her younger daughter. After a brief pause, she regained her power to form words. “Darling, you know what kind of a commitment that is, right?”

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 99 Her father had been similarly quizzical. Nevertheless, he smiled over at his daughter with warm eyes, always the most generous guy in the room. “I think you’ve successfully caught us all off guard,” he said. “You know that your mother and I want to be supportive of anything you’re interested in, and we do want you to be involved. Especially as you begin your first year at the high school. But why cross country, hon?” “I dunno,” Isabelle said, now folding and unfolding her paper napkin on her lap. “It just seems more approachable than other after-school things. I’m not out here to join drama club, you know what I mean?” “Sure, sure,” Mr. Waters said. Her older sister, Winnie, had been home for dinner, a rare appearance. “Iz,” she started, more than pleased to chime in, “practice is every afternoon after school. For hours. And all day on Sat- urdays. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear running shoes in public. I mean, you’ve never played any sports before.” You’re right. That’s because I’ve been doing better things, Is- abelle had thought, feeling both superior and irked. But her family did have valid reasoning for their surprise; her sud- den interest was out of the blue. Isabelle typically abhorred vanything related to Sports, which for an uncoordinated, un-

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a100 THE PEACOCK’S FEET interested person such as herself came with a daunting cap- ital S. The only reason she’d picked cross country was be- cause participation required no ball, rendering the skill of hand-eye coordination unnecessary. As an added bonus, Winnie had never run competitively for the school, so there would be no legendary expectations for Isabelle’s abilities. Winnie was a senior at Belbridge, and a social butterfly who floated constantly from friend to friend and gathering to gathering, stopping in at the Waters homestead mostly for sleeping and showering. Sometimes their parents joked with their friends that Winnie had basically already left for college, which Isabelle secretly resented because it wasn’t true; it was only the fall of her sister’s senior year. When Winnie wasn’t busy being the life of the party in her various social circles, she was playing team sports—soccer, lacrosse, softball, volleyball, tennis. All the hand-eye-combo-requiring Sports. She’d al- ready gotten a few scholarship offers from schools that wanted her to play softball, her specialty: Duke, Wake Forest, Univer- sity of Virginia, possibly others. Isabelle checked the mail every day after school and sorted it as she walked back to the house, looking for the thick packets in envelopes with curling university logos that belonged to her sister. So despite her family’s initial confusion and doubt,

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 101 Isabelle had found herself at the first meet of the season, on a bright Saturday morning that she’d typically spend at home, either with her nose in a book or hanging out with her favorite neighbor friends who happened to be twins. They had come to see her run today, sporting French braids on their heads to match hers. The deluge of sweating kids jostled Isabelle in its midst as they left the shade of the trees and shuffled by a pasture of cows who lifted wondering eyes, mulling over the disturbance of their morning feed. a The laborious business of running had at this point erased from Isabelle’s mind any inkling of time and distance trav- elled. Athletic amnesia. A small white rectangle of cardboard had been staked in the ground, its lettering slightly distorted from the muddy sneakers of a negligent runner. She read 5 MILES in a cursory glance, and spent the next few minutes negotiating the merits of full-steaming her last mile at a sprint. Deciding finally that it was high time to Go All In, she began to book it towards the invisible but adjacent finish line. She felt surprised by the ease of this morning’s race. (She’d only managed to muddle through the first week of practice

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a102 THE PEACOCK’S FEET with frequent exits for the bathroom and water; “EMER- GENCY,” she’d mouthed countless times at her coach while loping off the track, eyes burning from unruly perspiration.) Pumping her legs, her stomach fluttered when she began to pass runners one by one, and entering a larger field, she could see her parents in the throng of onlookers, settled on an old quilt and armed with their canteens of hot coffee. Winnie stood a distance away from the sidelines, chatting with some of her softball friends. It was unclear whether Winnie had come in the name of sisterly moral support or if she would have already been at the event; nevertheless, Isabelle could just make out Winnie’s hand as it raised and fell in nonchalant recognition. The twins, her twins, on the other hand, had come unques- tionably on her behalf. Isabelle loved Sylvie and Evelyn Jones dearly, and somehow her feelings supersized themselves as she observed them today. They stood as close as possible to the action, toes touching the white lines that stained the grass, cheering outrageous rhymes. “Run, run, Izzy, put ‘em in a tizzy!” “Isabelle WaTERS, she’s gonna slaughTER!” The twins’ eyes popped wide, like a pair of fish who had just been thrown the surprise party of their lives, when they realized their target was passing joggers left and right. Their bodies contorted fran- tically as they launched up and down on the turf, emitting a

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 103 unified “YIPPEE” that echoed through the chaos. Head pounding, Isabelle began to regret sprinting her last mile. She managed to scramble past a good thirty or forty run- ners, rushing along to the end of the open field, where the coarse grass led again to the dark opening of the pine trails. Her stomach dropped to her sneakers when she read the letter- ing of another white sign: 3.5 MILES. No—oh, no. Oh please no. I still have, what?—2.6, 2.7 HECKING miles to go. So basically three more miles. Total space-head! Her face burned with heat (the words Rhubarb-red passed through her head involuntarily) as she slowed to a tortoise- trudge at the trail’s polar edge. Avoiding runners as they passed, the backs of their neon uniforms overwhelmed her vi- sion. After a short while that felt like an eternity, she found herself alone on the trail, the few remaining sounds her now- slowing breaths and the subtle sliding of underfoot leaves against pine needles. She thought about the task of explaining coming in last place to her parents. To the exuberant twins. To Winnie. Nope, no thanks so yeah, no thank you. a

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a104 THE PEACOCK’S FEET She could have used a win today. Yesterday she’d climbed contentedly into the back of her dad’s car, with little knowledge that her good mood would be zapped by third period. While Winnie engaged her father in a discussion about her latest scholarship offer from the passenger seat, Isabelle watched the farms rolling past her window, clutch- ing her Tupperware of sparkly blueberry muffins. She’d mixed them up early that morning, sprinkling her mother’s special sanding sugar over the batter before baking. She doubted her classmates would notice such a small detail, but their textured sheen gave her a sense of aesthetic satisfaction. She’d signed up to bring something to Poetry Friday, during which the well- liked Ms. Carter and her students ate treats while reading poems aloud. Ms. Carter’s English class had been a steadying center of respite for Isabelle, amidst a chaotic jumble of less-de- sirable periods such as chemistry class (But what even is a cation?) and the dreaded lunch hour (Why, on top of every other stressor the crowded cafeteria held, did the food have to smell like it was shipped in from outer space?). She hadn’t really felt herself at school so far—not at all. Maybe it was the novelty of Fairfax, maybe it was the novelty of high school in general, but a creeping tightness filled her throat every morning at the sight of Belbridge. She often wished that the twins didn’t go to

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 105 their tiny private school; otherwise they’d be together. But as three-quarters of the Waters family sat in traffic yes- terday morning, Isabelle had felt peacefully expectant, at least for the brightness of Ms. Carter’s classroom. As soon as the car pulled up to the school, Winnie hopped away—“Peace out!” she called back without looking at her sister. Isabelle disem- barked more slowly, cautious with her Tupperware. “Honey, wait,” said her father, rolling down his window as she shut her door. She turned back, the line of cars behind theirs growing. “Yes?” “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk with you very much this morning. Your sister is feeling stressed about these decisions she’s trying to make right now—” “—I know,” Isabelle interrupted, “and I understand.” She was not usually this generous when it came to divisive matters with her sister. “Okay.” “I’m just peachy, Dad. Really.” “Okay.” “But I’d better go!” The carpool attendant, Mr. Fitz, was ambling in her direction. “Enjoy Poetry Friday!” her dad called out, “Eat a muffin

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a106 THE PEACOCK’S FEET or three for me!” He waggled a pinky finger, the others glued to the steering wheel, as he drove away. a “Great muffins, Isabelle,” Ms. Carter said a few hours later, munching above the jumble of poetry books on her messy desk. Her electric kettle sat on its edge, filled with hot water for tea, which Isabelle had volunteered to fill for the class in the teacher’s lounge. “Anyone want to begin with something from Fleurs du Mal? Baudelaire can be dark, but fascinating— lots of symbolism to discuss.” As several hands went up, Jamie Thompson gave a loud wheeze from his desk in the back of the room. “Jamie? You okay back there?” said Ms. Carter, rolling her chair slightly for a better vantage point. “Hm,” he said, his face paling. “Hmmm   ... ” he said again. “Jamie?” “I think I’m having an allergic reaction,” he said, now coughing. He flipped his long hair away from his face and stood theatrically. “Oh no,” enunciated Tina Hartwood on his right. “What are you allergic to?” “Um, tree nuts and I don’t mix too well. Did the muffins

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 107 have any?” In the second row of desks, Felicia Bing dropped her half- eaten muffin on her napkin, staring at it as if it were poisoned. Everyone looked towards Isabelle, including Ms. Carter. “No!” she said. “I mean—oh no.” Her face lost all color. Her own untouched muffin sat on her open notebook. She’d used almond milk in the batter instead of regular cow-dairy, which they’d been out of. “I’m so sorry.” Her limbs glued in place, she was motionless; only her mouth was working. “They were made with almond milk…” So washed-out Jamie left for the nurse’s office, escorted by Enunciating Trisha (“How terrible,” she said, patting Jamie’s back), while Isabelle repeated “I’m sorry” again to his retreat- ing figure, next mouthing the same words at her teacher when her voice failed her. She had spent her lunch hour in an abandoned corner of the library, the whine of a 3-D printer masking the noise of her fiercely rumbling stomach. a Isabelle made her way slowly on the shady trail—there was no point in trying now—and clutched at one side where her muscles were cramping. The race had been ruined; she had

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a108 THE PEACOCK’S FEET ruined it for herself, and now she was just a flustered Isabelle Waters in her tacky running garb. Alone. Without a nobler or stronger alter ego, and lacking any imagination at all. And then something rustled behind a brambly thicket on her right and drew her attention. She stood still. She couldn’t pinpoint the source of noise, but it sounded like an animal of decent size—maybe somebody’s dog back at the field had got- ten loose and wandered into the woods? Isabelle took a cau- tious step from the path and advanced a few paces out under the trees, and then she saw it. a A white-tailed deer, a doe, stood a few yards away. It froze when it noticed Isabelle, its huge dark eyes fixing on the human girl, and its nose quivering slightly. Closer than either species was accustomed, Isabelle was struck by the creature’s extreme delicacy. Its slender brown face was framed by big front-facing ears, and its features were enhanced by the fine white fur en- circling its eyes, muzzle, and throat. Isabelle sucked in her breath when her eyes wandered to the doe’s knobby long legs; something was wrong. Its stance was tilted to one side, so that it bore more weight on its left two legs. The hind right leg was swollen and twisted to such an unnatural angle that it barely

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 109 touched the ground, and towards the end of the leg, near the hoof, was a mangled abrasion. The doe’s nostrils flared sud- denly, and it turned with calculated care away from Isabelle, moving into a thicker section of forest down a small descent. It alternated between limping severely and lightly dragging its hind leg, and as Isabelle stood in her baggy uniform, her pulse raced for the second time that morning. Had it been hit by a car? Or injured itself in the panic of escape from a pursuing dog or hunter? Did a lion from the zoo go rogue, and then find itself stranded in a foreign ecosystem with low blood sugar? The injury didn’t seem natural—if an injury could be natural—it was as if a mutilated Stephen King character had shape-shifted into a deer but still retained a hint of its former qualities. This creature that once paraded through the minds of daydreamers had tipped over to the dark side. Was there any feasible way to bring the doe help? But this was a wild animal, not some trained furry pet or bridled horse. (As far as she knew. Last year, she read a tragic book called The Yearling, in which a backwoods-Floridian deer named Flag is orphaned and raised from infancy by a boy, Jody Baxter. It’s tame enough until it eats all the Baxter’s crops overnight, and Jody’s mother attempts to kill it, injuring it in the neck with her shotgun. Jody then shoots Flag to end his misery; perhaps

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a110 THE PEACOCK’S FEET this deer is a pseudo-Flag shot by a pseudo-Mrs. Baxter, whose son couldn’t reach his beloved in time? Who was too slow on his feet, and thus could not send his Flag away, into the light, all because the deer had already hobbled away?) All at once, her brain felt as sluggish as a swamp. She expected the deer to continue limping away until out of sight, but it stopped a mere hundred feet away in a clearing flecked with sunlight, turning to gaze back, catatonic again. A breeze picked up and in the clearing the doe watched the haggard girl with its haggard expression. Isabelle won- dered if the wind would make the deer totter over and crum- ple in a sad brown heap. Her heart jabbed in her chest; she did not want to spook the deer again, making it exert itself by limping away. Or by entering cardiac arrest, its own heartbeat jabbing faster and faster into overtime. Slowly, she sank her knees to the ground and rested her head on a smooth trunk, watching the wounded animal below and joining its stillness. a The last injury Isabelle had sustained happened over the past summer, and it was a light affliction in the face of the doe’s grave trial. In fact, she could laugh about it now—it had kick- started her friendship with the twins. The day after the Waters

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 111 moved to Virginia, Isabelle drove her bike into a ditch near their home, flying head over heels into their mother’s planted spider- wort. The twins ran over to where she lay sprawled, insisting she come inside and let their mom patch up her busted knee. “She’s a nurse!” they insisted together, ogling at her from above. “She’s right inside, and if she already knew the state you’re in, she’d demand it. That scrape on your knee looks brutal,” said Sylvie. “And she’ll do a better job than your own mother!” said Evelyn. “No offense. Unless she’s a nurse, too—is she a nurse?” With her knee running wet, Isabelle shook her head, dis- lodging a volley of purple petals, and followed orders. The twins could probably convince her to do almost anything, with their well-meaning enthusiasm which seemed to flow from each to the other. a Isabelle racked her brain, stirring up more empathy with the doe while she waited, to send good thoughts its way if nothing else. The most pain she’d ever felt was when she was six and upended from her tricycle. (She’d always been a klutz; maybe she needed to end it with wheels.) The Waters had had a long

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a112 THE PEACOCK’S FEET gravel drive leading to the old Connecticut house, and she re- membered flying down it one day and hitting a dead branch with her front tire, which flung her down so hard that she con- cussed her head and shattered her elbow. She spent many hot tears lying where she’d fallen before her dad found her as he was driving home from work and took her to the emergency room. He’d been so calm through it all—on the way he called the hospital in his steady voice, and then his wife to fill her in. Isabelle’s memory of the remainder of the day was fuzzy, but she’d been told later that he carried her into the hospital in his arms and questioned the ER nurses through every step of set- ting her arm and assessing the state of her head. The next day there were a dozen yellow roses by her bed, and her mom whisked in, making the first order of business to prop her daughter up with pillows, and the next a tray of muffins and hot tea. Winnie had entertained her sister for the entirety of that first day, reading to her and playing checkers and crack- ing jokes. Forever the family clown. a In a flash, she had her connection; she’d known all along that the deer was a kindred spirit. It all had to do with her poison- ing a strange boy in class yesterday, the tightness in her throat

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 113 each morning she approached school, the feeling of failure she faced when she compared herself to Winnie. She, too, was broken, faulty, in dire need of recovery. She, too, was lost in the woods, unsure of how to carry on. She, too, felt alone at times. Utterly alone. The sound of distant cheering reached her ears as she re- garded the slight form of the crippled deer, wishing she could give it the same quality of care that she’d received for her in- juries. If only it were possible to house the deer and nourish it back to health. She pictured the deer staying in an empty stall in the twins’ barn. The Jones family lived in a lemon-yellow farmhouse planted at the end of a long gravel drive, and owned horses and goats and peacocks and sheep. Isabelle liked to sit on a low stool in the musty animal calm of their barn and paint its inhabitants while listening to the twins gush about their tiny-private-school drama of the week. She envi- sioned herself coming every day in her green rain boots to see the doe, to change the straw and sit nearby, painting. The doe would grow fond of her, and as it healed it would stand and saunter over at the sound of Isabelle’s voice to give a nuzzle and eat a handful of peonies, violets, whatever it liked. It oc- curred to her that she’d never painted a deer before. But all of this meant nothing. The doe would have to recover, if it could,

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a114 THE PEACOCK’S FEET on its own in the forest. Isabelle willed with all the force of her being that it would live another five, ten years; she willed that it would wake every morning to the heady tree-sap smell of the forest and that it could have many more springs to raise bumbling Bambi fawns. She willed it a different fate than Jodi Baxter’s yearling. She stood, swiping dirt from her shorts and legs. “We really aren’t all that different, you and me, huh?” She posed the question to the mournful eyes. “What’s not to love about the woods? And what’s up with us and freak accidents?” The doe’s expression softened, and after a moment it low- ered its body to the earth and placed its head lightly on its forelegs. “Good girl,” whispered Isabelle, “you take all the time you need.” As she walked away from the recumbent doe and towards the trail, she realized that her family and the twins were prob- ably searching for her, wondering why she’d never crossed the finish line (though it was very possible Winnie was unaware). She felt a flood of gratitude as she thought about their faces— their healthy human faces who would scold her and joke about the girl who was Sports-Wise Seriously Inept, but nev- ertheless so stubborn about joining a cross country team. She

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 115 thought about her mother who’d laugh and her father who’d fold her into his arms in a bear hug and she decided she’d ask Sylvie and Evelyn if they wanted to come for spaghetti later. She had yet to tell anyone about the Muffin Monstrosity… a As she stepped onto the path, she pictured herself as a doe; she was a young, wide-eyed doe with many years ahead of her in this shining forest. It didn’t matter whether she would walk or run through it; perhaps, too, her personal growth was not a matter of recovery, and was just what it was. It was compli- cated, but the pain of injury—that which makes one unwell or incomplete—was different from the inevitable aches of getting older. But how easily she’d confused the two… And then she wasn’t alone with her thoughts. “I-z,” she heard Winnie’s wondering voice call, an intonation of concern rising and falling as it reverberated through the trees.

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nonfiction

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POOHSTICK BRIDGE EMMA PARRY The wooden planks were the color of Grandma’s wiry gray- black hair, but smooth from years of wear and rain. I could run my hand along the rails without catching a single splinter. Absent-minded drivers whizzing by might not notice it—this dinky little overpass. Engulfed in the leaves and branches of ancient trees, Poohstick Bridge seemed like a hidden treasure cherished by locals. Looking back, it was just another bridge, sturdy but slowly decaying, and nestled deep in the English countryside. I was easily entertained, but I doubt that the vil- lagers who traversed it by foot paid as much attention to our special place. Take me to my Grandparents’ village now and under its canopy of green, Poohstick Bridge would seem just as magical—only much smaller than I might recollect. I was three the first time I remember playing. It was Grandma, I am quite sure, who explained in her cheerful voice (which she used with everyone, not just me) that the game of

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a118 THE PEACOCK’S FEET Poohsticks had been invented by none other than Winnie-the- Pooh himself. It was easy to imagine a friendly Pooh-bear going for a walk somewhere like Avington, which when I pic- ture it has the lushest, greenest countryside I have ever seen. The fields in Hampshire are saturated with color, and their flamboyance is contrasted with gloomy skies that produce a dank, dewy chill: England’s signature weather trait. So many of my earliest memories are sensory, and I will never forget the feeling of my tiny yellow Wellington rain boots squishing into the soggy, slippery mud. Later, my mother would caption a photo of my brother and me in our rain gear with a cartoon- drawn speech bubble that reads, ‘does it ever stop raining here?’ And even later, she would fashion my yellow rain boots into makeshift flower pots. Becoming accustomed to the English weather convinced me that misty rain and humid air can actually be energizing. Maybe that was the reason that an inanimate teddy bear could come to life, talk, and eat honey. England was like a second home, yes, but something about only being able to visit every- so-often made it that much more important to my identity. I guess it was the same for my father, and I wonder what melan- choly childhood memories were resurrected for him, or if he was able to picture the scenery through my little green eyes.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 119 As we trudged down the side of country roads, I could only manage to grasp my little hand around one or two of his fin- gers. Whenever there was talk of a walk, which was every day in Avington, my brother and I begged to visit Poohstick Bridge. We spent what seemed like hours tossing whatever woodland objects we could find over one side of the bridge into the river below. Then, we would race to the other side and stare over the arm rails, waiting to find out whose twig or pine cone would become visible first as they slowly floated along the babbling creek. That was Poohsticks.

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BACKYARD DRAGON HUNTING JACOB DALLAS “How far do we have to dig?” “Until we hit lava rocks, of course.” We’d been out there for hours, shovels tearing at the stony earth. We stunk of hard labor. Sweat was leaking from every pore of our reddened skin. After ignoring our mother’s offer of sunscreen, we had nothing but kicked-up dust to protect us from the blazing sun. But we weren’t worried about a little pain. What’s a little sunburn compared to a mountain of dragon gold? My mom checked in on us every half hour or so, some combination of amusement and concern on her face. She’d told me there was no gold in our backyard, but I knew better. I knew what I’d seen in my visions. There was a dragon’s lair hidden deep beneath our house, and he was guarding enough wealth to buy a brand-new Nintendo DS. No one would hold me back from my destiny. Armed with my dad’s gardening shovels, and an eager- to-please younger brother at my side, I set out to uncover the

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a122 THE PEACOCK’S FEET ancient cavern, slay the dragon, and claim that sweet, sweet gold. I was a bit concerned about people stealing the wealth from me once I’d gotten it, but the rest would be a piece of cake! After all, digging is fun, and dragons always lose when knights like my brother and I come to call. Yes, knights like us just can’t fail. We were the veterans of ten thousand battles, most of which had raged in this very yard. Wave upon wave of dandelion goblins and grass pirates had fallen to our fearsome wooden blades. How many times had the Wizard of the Shadow Forest attacked our treehouse, hoping to turn Jake-N-Caleb Land into a fiery ruin? On count- less occasions he had tried to catch us unawares, creeping in- visibly through the bushes, conjuring high winds that would cause our tree-fort to sway. He always failed. Our ready stash of throwable pinecones did him in, as we peppered the forest floor with projectiles, until one would strike the hidden sor- cerer by chance and dispel his dark magic. The dragon would be the greatest foe we’d yet faced. This would be a treacherous road, but if we truly wished to bring honor, glory, and a Nintendo DS to Jake-N-Caleb Land, then this was the road that we glorious knights would have to travel. All day we toiled. It was thirsty, brutal, back-breaking work. Small rocks (no doubt strategically placed by the

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 123 dragon) blocked our path downward every few inches. We started piling them over by the swing set, making sure not to lose a single one. “After all,” Caleb pointed out during a well-deserved Goldfish and Gatorade break, “If they’re this close to a dragon cave, then they’re probably gonna be worth something!” In every grand adventure the heroes must face some ad- versity, and this quest was no exception. Summers in Georgia respect no person, be they a knight or otherwise. It was hot, and eventually we were forced to admit that so great a labor might not be possible in a single day. We laid down the shovels (by the hole, of course, not in the garage where we had found them) and agreed to return at first light the next morning. That night, it was Caleb who had a dragon dream. He de- scribed it vividly over our cereal the next morning, spinning prophecies before me as if he were an oracle of old. “The dragon knows that we are coming.” He warned, be- fore ominously pausing to take another bite of his sweet, soggy meal, “He is preparing for our arrival. He’s saving all of his fire to burn us to a crisp!” “How does a dragon save up his fire?” I asked. Caleb was the expert in dragon-lore, not I. “By swallowing lava!” My brother declared, a fire of an-

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a124 THE PEACOCK’S FEET other nature alight in his blue eyes, “He’s down there right now, swallowing all the lava of a whole volcano. He’s got maxxed out fire power ready to fry us to a crisp!!” This was grave news. Perhaps the battle would be even more difficult than we had feared. Nevertheless, this was our destiny. Red-faced and armed with our wooden weapons, we returned to the dig site. Shockingly, the two of us didn’t manage to reach the dragon’s lair that day. The further down we dug the more traps the cunning beast had laid for us. Now there were rocks so big that it took our combined strength to move them. Such obstacles were to be expected from such a conniving creature, of course. Panting, we agreed at the day’s end that the pres- ence of these larger rocks was proof that we were at the very doorstep of the dragon. Neither of us were visited by visions that night, but we didn’t need dreams to learn about the dragon anymore. Now we were pulling information about him from thin air. “His wings are crazy huge!” I told Caleb at our breakfast briefing, “They glow bright yellow ... and have super-charged lightning all over them!” “Really?” My brother was impressed, but not to be out- done, he countered, “Well, did you know that he has laser

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 125 eyes? The lasers can melt through anything.” I knew that was impossible. No laser can melt through anything. “They can’t melt steel,” I said smugly, “Everyone knows steel is undestroyable.” “Nuh-uh! Superman lasers cut through everything, and the dragon has Superman lasers,” Caleb had a point there; Superman lasers were an excep- tion to the rule. I made a rude face but didn’t offer any further verbal defense. That day proved a bad one for dragon hunting. The sun was hotter than ever before, the trick rocks were harder to dig out, and even heavier than yesterday. “We aren’t even going down anymore!” Caleb complained after a couple of hours. He was right. The hole had primarily grown sideways today, and that was no fun. I didn’t know how to pull off a proper eye roll, but I gave it my best shot, “You’re the one who is digging so slow!” I snapped, “Don’t complain to me.” Caleb took an excruciatingly long time with the next shov- elful of dirt, glaring at me all the while. “Dig faster!” I commanded. I had no time for this insub- ordination.

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a126 THE PEACOCK’S FEET Pretending he was trapped in slow motion, my brother replied in a sluggish tone, “I’ll ... do ... whatever ... I ... want.” That did it for me. In very unchivalrous fashion, I shoved him. He shoved me back. I responded with another shove of my own. He gave me another. And so forth. “Stop! Stop it!” I screamed, tacking on another hard push for good measure, “We’ll never find the treasure like this!” “You shoved me first!” He yelled, shoulder-butting me in response. “You know what, fine!” I broke the chain in the shoving match, “If we’re going to fight, we ought to settle this like true knights.” I picked up my wooden sword and assumed what I imag- ined to be a battle-ready stance, “On guard.” I challenged. He snatched his weapon from the dust, shouted a war-cry, and charged. Thus, the battle was joined. The Civil War of Jake-N-Caleb Land was not very long, but it was brutal. All over that yard we fought, dashing about behind the swing set, leaping around the rock-pile, and duel- ing dangerously close to the hole that we’d created. When great knights clash, all the world looks on in awe. In

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 127 my mind’s eye I could see it. The Forest Wizard was admiring his enemies’ skill at arms from the bushes, the dandelion goblins stood slack-mouthed all about, fair maidens giggled despite themselves, blown away by the caliber of my mighty swords- manship ... and my mom, was there too, of course, storming out of the house to stop our foolishness. But by the time she got there the fight had already ended. Both Caleb and I were cracking up with laughter, our anger forgotten in only a handful of sword-strokes. Of course, we still received a lecture about the difference in play-fighting and real-fighting, but it was a grand old time nonetheless. Once the lecture ended, we decided we’d had enough ad- ventures for that day. Tomorrow was to be our moment for certain. We ought to conserve our strength for the battle ahead. The morning of that last day dawned with a sense of solemn purpose. Every single day we’d been certain that the time was at hand, but we had never been more certain than we were right now. Weapons in hand, side by side, we brave knights strolled down to that pit of our creation to confront our draconic foe. The sight that met our eyes would be enough to move the most stoic of Dark Forest Wizards to tears of joy. A wooden box sat next to the hole’s opening, polished and

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a128 THE PEACOCK’S FEET beautiful, with a symbol of a golden dragon emblazoned on the lid. It came with a note, scribbled in fairly legible hand con- sidering it was written by a beast without opposable thumbs. It read as follows, “Dear Knights, I am writing this letter to say, congratula- tions! You have beaten me. For hundreds of years I have guarded my treasure, and in all that time I have never seen two warriors as brave as you. Instead of fighting, I will give you my treasure freely. Use it well.” To prove its authenticity, the note was signed, “Dragon.” Within lay the great treasure that we sought. We flung open the lid, and the fruits of our long labor were finally brought to fruition. A shiny, beautiful, perfect, gorgeous, wonderful, inde- scribably amazing, Nintendo DS. To this very day I do not know how the dragon managed to keep a Nintendo DS in such fine conditions for hundreds of years. I also remain baffled at how unsurprised our parents were at our victory over the monster (I suppose they must have known our victory was assured from the first). The one thing I do know is this: My brother and I are and always shall be true knights, and if ever a dragon appears again in these lands, we shall rise to the occasion and destroy it.

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SENSIBLE, REASONABLE, AND FUTILE CLAIRE ZEKWA Names changed to preserve the dignity of my obnoxious, but forgiv- ably young cousins. I’m standing in front of a pan of cracking oil, flipping sweet potato coins while Macy’s Parade plays in the TV in the next room. The heat from the oil is scorching my face and my hands, but my bare feet are stiff with cold. I dump candied sweet potatoes onto wax paper, one by one. All I can think of is turning off the oil, pushing the pan away, and taking a cook- ing break to watch Pentatonix sing from a float. I start to hurry, scooping and dropping as the panic in my stomach slowly grows. I might be missing it. It doesn’t matter, but it does. The Parade has always been part of Thanksgiving, and my first semester in college has left me deficient in tradi- tions and home-feeling. I’m moving so quickly that I don’t notice the gummy hand reaching onto the plate to grab a candied wedge.

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a130 THE PEACOCK’S FEET I drop a hot slice onto the plate, not caring that some oil splashes along with it. An ear-rending wail splits the air, and I jerk, splashing oil out the sides of the pan and spattering my arms with hot droplets. Next to me, my eight-year-old cousin, here for an ex- tended visit, shrieks with all the gusto he can muster. “Kyler!” My Aunt Wen sweeps into the room at her precious baby’s cries of pain, shock, terror— Aunt Wen wraps her arms around precious baby boy as Uncle Carl, my mom, and my cousin Bela race in. My dad, my brother Ryan, and my sister Rosie are outside, but I’m certain they can hear the commotion. I doubt they’ll come check-in. “Kyler, what’s wrong, what happened?” “M-m-m-m-my ha-a-and- it hu-u-urts all I w-wanted was a snackyyyy—” Kyler whimpers and weeps and whines, and Aunt Wen makes gentle shushing noises, talking to him in Chi- nese baby-talk. Unrepentant, I hold in my frustration, scoop out the last sweet potato coin and turn off the burner. I don’t apologize. Ig- noring the drama unfolding on the leaky floor of the kitchen, I slip out of the kitchen and down the hall. I only miss a few sec- onds of Pentatonix’s performance, but it still feels sour. Kyler’s

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 131 melt-down continues on the other side of the wall. For a moment, I feel the transformative effect of good music. I want to sing along, I want to be like them, I want to per- form from a float on TV. Then the song ends, Kyler continues to scream, and once again, I’m a tired pre-nursing major who is reasonable and sensible. Reasonable and sensible. Those words have guided me for years. Part of me wanted to go to a prestigious school, but it’s not sensible. Part of me wants to publish my books, but it’s not sensible. Part of me wants to jump whole-heartedly into the- atre, but it’s not reasonable, and I’m not good enough, and it’s too risky. So I’m a nursing major and have planned out my life based on this idea. I've been told that I’m smart enough to do well in the program and that nursing has flexible enough hours and good-enough pay that I can do community theatre or writing for fun, never professionally, for the rest of my life. I will be fifty years old and still writing my fantasy epic on wattpad after a twelve-hour shift of changing bed-pans. Reasonable and sensible. That’s what I am and how I am. I am a pair of clogs. I am a practical sleep schedule that leaves no room for mistakes. I am not a girl with a future on a parade float.

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a132 THE PEACOCK’S FEET I watch the parade transition with a sinking feeling in my gut. As an ad for Sears starts to play, I head back to the kitchen. A long hall-way bisects our house. On the right, the living room, the kitchen, and a tiny bathroom. On the left, my little sister’s room, my parents’ room, and another bathroom. Once upon a time, my room was between the kitchen and the bathroom on the right, but my parents knocked down the wall the week I left for college. My room is now a breakfast nook. It’s cute. I step past the wood stove, and Rosie blocks my path. Her voice is low and derisive. “He wants his mommy’s special boy greasy medicine for perfect angels,” she says. At thirteen, my sister's snark has reached peak levels. I step into the kitchen, and my mom, my uncle, and my aunt turn to me. “Kyler says you burned him?” asks my mom. “He reached up to grab food while I was cooking it, Ma’e.” My mom doesn’t doubt me. “Why don’t we put some bac- itracin on it?” Ma’e is ever the peace-maker. “I need Goose-y grease!” wails Kyler. “Why doesn’t Steve run to the store and get him Goose-y grease?” asks Uncle Carl. “Da’e’s frying the turkey,” I interject swiftly. “He’s busy. Besides, the store is forty-five minutes away.ʺ Curiously enough, Kyler isn’t crying right now. His greedy

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 133 eyes are narrowed and pig-like, looking back and forth between the adults in the room. A vicious smirk lurks at the corner of his lips, the same smirk that was on his face the night before when he grabbed marshmallow after marshmallow from the bag that I was trying to cook with. It’s the same look that was on his face when he demanded that his mother come lie down with him instead of staying for a nightcap with the adults, and when he insisted that he be allowed to have some of the special keto- friendly rolls I made specifically for my parents out of cheese, egg, and painstakingly squeezed cauliflower. “He needs his Goose-y grease,” says Uncle Carl. He looks to Aunt Wen. “You stay with him, and I’ll go get some.” He crosses to the door and starts pulling on his shoes. “Where’s your nearest Whole Foods?” At this point, I want to scoff. I have to hold my breath to keep calm. In the other room, I can hear the AKC Dog Show theme start up. I want nothing more than to sink down in a chair and watch lanky dogs sprint down the arena. Ma’e pulls some frozen peas out of the fridge and offers it to Aunt Wen and Kyler. Bela has just been standing in the cor- ner the entire time, watching the drama unfold. I meet his gaze, but I can’t read his expression. Bela deliberately shifts his attention from me to Wen.

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a134 THE PEACOCK’S FEET “Mom, can I have a sweet potato?” He points a pudgy finger at the still steaming plate. “Of course, bao-bao,” she says, “Help yourself.” He doesn’t look at me as he grabs a fork from the drawer and pulls a sweet potato from the stack. I keep holding my breath until he’s a few steps away then seize the plate from the counter. I wrap it tightly and put it in the fridge. The moment the door closes, Kyler begins to wail again. “Mamaaaaaa, I didn’t get a sweet potato! I wanted a sweet potato!” I round on him. “It is just covered in sugar, Kyler,” I say, trying to sound authoritative. “You wouldn’t like it, remem- ber? You said you hate sugar naturally.” I try to look stern. My attempts at stern usually just make it look like I have no mouth, but I can’t come up with anything else on the spot. Kyler’s face twists up, but before he can bawl again, I say, “Besides. That’s a dinner side. Breakfast is quiche and bread.” I point, more harshly than I need to. “Over there.” I try not to stomp out of the room. Ma’e is just on the other side of the door, and she seizes my arm. “I need to talk to you.” In two steps, we’ve crossed the hall to my parents’ room. She closes the door and turns the wooden lock-peg. At our feet,

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 135 Ma’e’s cocker spaniel Felicia wriggles around eagerly then heaves herself onto the bed, thinking we’re about to sit and relax. Ma’e loves on Felicia for a moment. I stew, crossing my arms and feeling put-upon. I still have lots to cook. A turkey to roast, a turkey to fry, potatoes to mash, stuffing to… stuff? I can hear the sigh in her voice. “They’re guests.” I know what’s underneath that two-word sentence. “Ma’e—” She stops petting Felicia. “Claire, they’re guests. Please.” “They’re brats,” I try not to snarl. I know it’s not her fault, but I still feel like it is. “Kyler is eight. How does he get away with this? He’s—ʺ My mom closes her eyes, and I fall silent. We’re speaking quietly, but even a whisper could be audible in this house. I feel like I have to explain. “I didn’t mean to splash him. He just reached up there while I was cooking to grab it off the plate.” ʺClaire.” “And last night he stole food from Aunt Wen’s plate! With his hands! And Bela—” “Claire.” I cut off my sentence, but I still feel rage and hate slosh- ing around in my veins. I have never experienced such vitriol

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a136 THE PEACOCK’S FEET towards someone I know in person. Just thinking about Kyler’s chocolate stained teeth as he took fourth helpings of low-sugar chocolate pudding triggers my acid reflux. I sigh. “Fine.” “Put in your head-phones. We can complain after it’s over.” So, I do. I make it through the day the same way I made it through my homophobic grandmother’s visit last spring. Music blasts into my ears as I stir and fry and chop. My uncle returns with goose-y grease, and Kyler screams like a banshee when they apply it, despite the fact that his ‘third- degree oil burn’ has all but disappeared. I cook the over-priced, special, healthy turkey that my uncle insisted on, and I hide the pecans that I need for my pecan pie to keep Kyler’s booger-crusted fingers out of the bowl. That af- ternoon, both Kyler and Bela grab triple helpings of each item of their first pass through the food line. Da’e has to cut more turkey and I put another canister of rolls into the oven. I set out the cranberry sauce, and Bela wrinkles his nose at the jellied slices. “Meemaw’s cranberry sauce is fresh,” he says. It takes a few minutes for everyone to be seated, because Kyler becomes distraught that he only gets a butter knife and not a steak knife. Wen gets up to get him one, only to discover

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 137 that we only have six. She gives him her knife. Then the problem is cups. Kyler and Bela want the wine glasses Carl, Wen, and my parents have. Finally, everyone is sitting and has food and utensils. The sauces are on the table, and despite professing disgust, Kyler and Bela take several large helpings, smearing them in with the gravy. “Should we say what we’re thankful for?” asks my dad. It’s not a real question. Every year, before we start eating, we go around and say what we’re thankful for. The other tradition, an unofficial and repugnant one, is right on its heels. Kyler pauses midway through his mouthful of food. “Why?” Out of the last five Thanksgivings, they have spent four with us. But every year, Kyler demands an explanation, and every year, Carl shrugs, Wen looks uncomfortable, and my mom gently explains that Thanksgiving is about reflecting on the things we’ve been fortunate to experience. As Da’e says he’s grateful for my mom, Kyler stuffs most of a roll into his mouth. The meal itself is relatively relaxed. Carl asks me about college, Rosie talks about barrel racing on her horses, and Ryan gets into a semi-heated discussion of Communism. I get to perform my career path monologue again: Nursing-school-

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a138 THE PEACOCK’S FEET emergency-room-practitioner-degree-blah-blah-blah. It’s sen- sible and smart. Just ambitious enough to sate my ego, but not so much that it puts flash over form. This plan has no crazy dreams that will never survive this economy. We fill up quickly, and soon the only thing being passed around is a bottle of sparkling apple cider. Uncle Carl has called it “pure sugar” and puts water in Bela and Kyler’s cups. But Kyler wants it. It’s special and everyone else gets it, so he wants it. At a signal from Carl, Wen fills Kyler’s cup. He takes a sip and spits it out. “My tonnnngue!” he wails. “It hurts!” Now Bela wants it. He sips it and with a grave look pro- nounces it to be: “Pure sugar, but good.” Kyler demands another glass. The two of them polish off most of a bottle. Their plates are still heaped high with food as I take my dishes to the sink. Aunt Wen has had less than half of a serving of some foods, thanks to Kyler digging his hands into her mashed po- tatoes and taking fistfuls of it for himself. He climbs onto her lap as she attempts to talk to my dad about the election’s effect on chemistry research. After a few minutes of his whining in her ear, she asks him to run along. I watch and try not to recoil as I watch Bela and Kyler scrape full meals' worth of food

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 139 straight into the trash. I don’t even get the chance to separate the compost and pig-scraps from the trash. Full turkey legs, rolls and sweet potato coins fall into the bin. I normally hate housework, but when relatives are over, looking busy is my saving grace. Rosie and the cousins scatter as soon as the sink starts run- ning. I’m grateful. As I scrub down the plates, Ma’e, Ryan, and Carl sit around the table talking quietly. Da’e has agreed to play Mario Kart with Rosie and Bela, and Wen traded a story time for the chance to get Kyler to stop asking for more apple cider. The hot water scours the stickiness from my hands, but I still feel bitter. Behind me, the conversation is the relaxed, slow-moving kind that comes with over-stretched stomachs. Ryan shares a few sentences about work; Ma’e reports on the goats; I chime in with Rosie’s livestock-naming process. “How are Bela and Kyler doing in school?” asks Ma’e. “Great, just great!” Uncle Carl chuckles. “Bela is so bril- liant, but Kyler—oh his teachers gush about him. But Bela is the more artistic one, of course—” Carl goes on and on about Kyler’s soccer prowess, the summer camps they’ve signed him up for, and Bela’s masterful sketching abilities. I can’t reconcile the image of two prodigies with the boys here today, or the ones several years ago who dropped their

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a140 THE PEACOCK’S FEET pants to pee in the street in the middle of a suburban cul-de- sac at our last house, or the ones who insisted that they couldn’t have Great Value peanut butter, only Jiff All-Natural. I finish the dishes and hide out back by the meat freezer with my phone. The cold night air feels good. My face feels both greasy from the food and cooking and stripped by the soap from cleaning. It just adds to my frustration. My stomach churns, and I wish that I hadn’t let myself try the Cajun-sea- soned turkey. I’d thought the deliciousness would be worth the stomach pain, but with the stress and caged-up emotions, it’s just made me feel nauseous. When I go back inside, chaos has returned. They are beg- ging for ice cream and apple pie, and my uncle cuts our single apple pie into six slices and gives two of each to the boys. “Is this all there is?” he asks, holding up a now-half-empty carton of vanilla ice cream. I don’t even answer. It seems my ‘all-natural healthy-diet’ uncle isn’t so strict when it’s not a question of ego. That I night, I lay down on my sleeping bag in the living room and applaud myself for having the foresight to hide the eggnog ice cream among the frozen meat in the game freezer. The next morning, we watch them climb into their hatch- back and bump down our unpaved driveway. As a last pot-

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 141 shot, Bela informed us that our cat Gigi’s name meant ‘little penis’ in Chinese. Good to know. Several weeks ago, Ma’e, Rosie, and I contemplated meet- ing up with Michelle, our other sister, for a little black Friday shopping. That’s no longer even a question. I sink down on our half-constructed porch next to my mom. “You want to talk about it?” she asks. Neither of us can really pin down what ‘it’ is, but I half- shrug. The others file off, my brother to the prefab-shed- turned-guest-house where his computer was, my sister to put her room back in order, and my dad to repair the pig trough. I watch the dogs race through the yard and try not to imagine the hatchback trundling back towards us. Oh god, what if they forgot something? But after a minute or so passes, it seems doubtful, and I dangle my legs. Ma’e decides to take the initiative. “So, you really didn’t like having them here, huh?” “Kyler’s a little bitch.” Ma’e bites back a laugh, but she’s half-nodding. “Carl’s too lenient,” she said. “And Wen doesn’t check him. I think she second-guesses what’s normal behavior.” I’m not fully listening. I’m still trying to pin down my

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a142 THE PEACOCK’S FEET feelings. “You know, I worry about Wen sometimes,” she says. “I love my brother, but he doesn’t get it.” “Laney! Can you get me the drill?” My mom kicks off her house shoes and grabs her boots from by the door. “We’ll talk later,” she says, slipping on the rubbery, manure-crusted shoes. She gestures to her slip-ons. “Put those inside, then get some rest. The Hallmark channel is running.” I give up on trying to figure out my feelings and sink down on the couch. After two days of sleeping on the floor, the couch feels like a cloud. I fall asleep to the soundtrack of a cold big-city lady falling for a hot, small-town hunk. That night, I produce the eggnog from the freezer and we have our traditional start of the season shakes. My mom and dad pour brandy in theirs, and we all seem to relax for the first time in days. The next morning, as we’re heating up some left-over quiche for breakfast, I lean oh-so-casually against a counter. “I think I need to change my major.” Ma’e raises her eyebrows. “Oh?” I look down at my bare feet. “I think being a nurse is the wrong call.”

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 143 “Why’s that?” I shrug. “I don’t know, I just—I hate old people, and I hate children, and that’s pretty much ninety percent of the patients at hospitals.” Ma’e is used to exaggeration, but this time she looks at me more seriously. “You don’t hate children.” “Well, not really, but mostly—” “Bela and Kyler are terrible examples to go by,” she says. I trace the grooves in the floor with my big toe. “Yeah, but kids in hospitals are probably not the best-behaved either. And I think a nurse shouldn’t be someone who has to try really hard not to hate her patients.” For a moment, the only sound is the hum of the mi- crowave and the faint bubbling sound of the quiche. “All right then,” she says. She sounds reluctant. “What are you thinking instead?” I have no idea. I just shake my head. “I need to look at the bureau of in- dustry website, and the University website to see what they offer—maybe science?” The microwave beeps and Ma’e pulls out the quiche. She cuts each of us a slice and we sit at the table. I’m now on an outside seat, opposite the one I sat in when I recited my career

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a144 THE PEACOCK’S FEET plan two days earlier. I don’t know what I want to do, but I feel like a rope has just been cut from my chest. I cut into my quiche and think on the subject. “You know that you can do whatever you want to,” says Ma’e after a moment. I try not to look surprised, but I am. She doesn’t seem to think this statement is a big deal, but to me, it feels momentous. That afternoon, I browse through the list of majors offered at my school. I have so many tabs open, I can’t even close them out without clicking into the tab itself. But as cluttered as my screen is, I’ve never felt so free.

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poetry

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WAKING UP (FOR MCKENZIE) TANNER HOWARD It was watching the moon coming over that did it, probably. Her envy seeing the sun hanging over the brick storefronts, drug-eyed and slow, making thick pink love over the wet-petaled night, chasing flocks of pigeons into the jealous, shivering morning. I had only meant to breathe maybe, or to pray, but the sleep-silence dripped in and choked me with Goodbye. A long, broken quiet like swallowing photographs, like liquid roses. I had meant to cover you in that night, wrapped like a caress around dawn’s thickness. Had meant to brush my prayers over your skin, fill you with the quiet the stars make. I had meant to hold you, but even my touch felt like silence. Grey and warm, barely heard

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 147 over the blues I left playing by your bed, the whispers of poetry decaying across your floor. I had meant to say Look! and Listen! The stars outside are falling again and God’s purple iris spread across the moon blurry-eyed and quiet, and the Devil is sulking around the streetlight with the broken bulb, wailing against the peeling, water-stained sky and you're not even awake to see it. I had meant to say Wait. Stop. Don’t fall asleep. I have things to tell you I can’t understand. Things that coil and burn and purr and sigh like the rain does, cast from heaven over and over again and again and again, things to say I’ve heard shouldn't be said and twenty years caught in my throat that makes it hard to breathe sometimes and Stop. Stop. But the only sound I made was the gentle brush of your shoulder, the soft suck of your lips as they parted, the warm emptiness of the sheets I left still holding the shape of us.

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THREE A.M. FLIGHT (FOR TANNER) MCKENZIE WEEKLY Honey-suckle lips plaster their warmth on my forehead, Leaving drops of sweet nectar in their place. Warm fingers run the length of my hair. A soft sigh tiptoes on starlight and moonbeams As each strand curls around your skin, Almost as if it was made for you. Stay. I beg. The subtle scream radiates through my body, Feet twitching and eyes stirring. But you don’t notice. The cry bleeds into the crickets, The symphony of fragile violins and mourning violas. Sweet dreams, You whisper. As your bare skin molds into the cool woody night, I dream of soft things. Of lilac tinted skies, Sand trickling between my toes, A lover’s step as the music syncs with the sound of twilight.

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ANCHOR NATALIE MILLER My only sanity is a cup of tea. In the grey fog of morning, It draws the curtains And warms my palms. Its smoke winds through my throat, Leaving the echo of dulcet tones Swimming in my ears. It drips like honey into my chest And smears billowing Sun across the curtains, Blanketing my heart into a gentle thrum, putting my shaking hands to rest, Wrangling my thrashing thoughts Until they have nowhere else to go And must give in.

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DISSOLUTION MADELINE BALLENTINE The heads and hands of strangers and seagulls roam over her name, play it on their tongues, whisk it between their beaks, squish it between their dusty, bloodied fingertips. They toss her name up in rage, later ride the same name out on thick waves of smoke. They love her with fury, they hate her with joy. Then, once emotions are exhausted, they burn the sage to erode any trace of the once sacred name Of the future suburban Madonna. The prayers found in the fiery screams of loving friends turned distant forms, found in the withered mothers’ blooming cries, found in 16 different cracked ashtrays lying

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 151 about her cracked blue porch, themselves pray for swift replies from the future suburban Madonna. Come inside her bruised temple, See the split altar strewn with angered anemone and carnivorous carnations and disdainful daisies. Drop your offering into her dying hearth, and Watch her embers dance, Watch her flames leap, Watch her light seep. The glory and absence found in her halls The glory and absence found in her home The glory and absence found is all an offering from the adoring friends turned forms turned strangers and seagulls with heads and hands that bathe up to their wrists in the blood of Him, You, Her, and me, the future suburban Madonna.

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GRANDMOTHER’S GUEST BEDROOM CAMERON HALLMAN [THE AIR] A wooden door with a golden handle opens, allowing the lingering fragrance to seep out. My grandmother’s perfume still clings to the air, and I feel like she is standing next to me. Maybe her spirit still lingers in the air too. [PINK CARPET] The light pink nylon would slide between your toes and tickle thin skin. It was so soft and clean. No one I knew had a pink carpet or a carpet without soda stains. [THE CLOSET] The sliding door closet remains shut as it always has. Plastic covered dresses hang from white hangers; they are coated in a light layer of dust, blurring the plastic. They are never re- moved and rarely remembered.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 153 [THE VANITY] I used to play with makeup, specifically red lipstick. I would sit at my grandmother’s vanity and smear red all over my lips and cheeks. She would say,“Dammit Cameron,” and then laugh at what she saw. [MIRROR] The mirror was surrounded by sixteen lightbulbs, and she used it every day. I can still see her reflection in it, but now it’s blurred. Eight years is enough time to make you forget the details in someone’s face; the details that the light from a mirror like this is supposed to help you see. [THE STOOL] She sat on a fancy white stool with a green cushion. She would let me sit in her lap as she did her makeup. Once, she put red lipstick on me, but I was so pale that the bright red color turned me into a clown. [RED LIPSTICK] There is an arsenal of red lipstick in silver tubes, and each day, she would pick one with delicate fingers. She would never leave the house without red lipstick, and she wouldn’t look like herself if she didn’t put it on.

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a154 THE PEACOCK’S FEET [PERFUME BOTTLE] A round glass with a golden crown is halfway full of pinkish liquid that smells just like a sticky summer’s day. If you sprayed it in the air, a puff of clear mist would take your breath away. [CURLING IRON] The Curlmaster she used to curl her hair with sits in the bot- tom left drawer. The handle is a shiny black, and the wand has teeth like a comb. These teeth don’t bite; they burn. [HAIRBRUSH] The blue hairbrush is filled with her grey and white hair. Each morning, she would brush out her curls with that hair- brush. It sits on the surface of the vanity table, and it looks like she just brushed her hair, but that was eight years ago. Only strands of her remain today. [SILVER HEART] The silver heart is filled with pins and thimbles. It is cold to the touch and sharp enough to draw blood from fingertips. I knocked it on the carpet once, and one of the pins wedged its way into my sole.

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 155 [THE BED] The big bed that was covered in pink pillows and a floral comforter was a place for staring at the dark ceiling, and lis- tening to guns and firecrackers on the Fourth of July. I would lay awake for hours, attempting to drift off before the sun made its way over the trees and into the room. [STORIES] I loved hearing the stories she told me. A story she told that I cannot forget is about the death of her younger sister. After that story, something in her shifted, and she would leave the room without another word. [THE SEAGRASS TRUNK] Braided strands are fraying from overuse. It rests at the end of the bed, holding the secrets of the past within its depths. Dust particles float in the air every time it is opened. [PHOTOS] She has short, dark hair. She is wearing makeup, but her lips are not red. Her smile is grey and overworked. If the photos could speak, they would sound like her.

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a156 THE PEACOCK’S FEET [YELLOW QUILT] This quilt was in the seagrass trunk. Yellow and brown flow- ers rest in formation across the fabric. She made it with her own hands, but she never stabbed her finger. It still smells like her. She isn’t here, but a part of her still wraps itself around me as I sleep. [SLEEP] I don’t know how many times I have slept in this room, but I could never sleep easily in here. I would always stare into the pale darkness for hours on end. Sometimes, I would leave to capture the light from the microwave in the kitchen. The green numbers would flash across my eyes as I lay down again. [SIDE TABLE] There was side table by the bed that had a lamp on it. I don’t know where she got it from, but at least it provided light in the darkness. I could never sleep with the light on, but it was comforting to know it was right beside me even if it wasn’t plugged in. [THE WINDOW] Sunlight and moonlight came through the window and peeked through the white curtains she made. This light

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 157 protected me from the monsters in the shadows. If she had- n’t made white curtains, I would have been left in total darkness for hours. [THE DRESSER] There was a dresser that had that sweet smell that sticks to sinuses. Instead of clothes, it held jewelry in each of the drawers. When I was little, I would ask, “When you die, can I have this?”

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SPACE GRIFFIN KILBY light, Spread thin across the sky. But all I have to offer Is the void surrounding those of mystery and life. You need more time; That promised “then” found after change. Things that the sand will bring. But all I have to offer Life held in updraft suspense. All I have to offer Is lasting emptiness. The gaps between words That fall short of their marks, And the stolen breaths Of what was never said.

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TWIN FLAME GABRIELA FARIA At times, I look upon you and I feel my heart caught in a deluge, though instead of being abandoned in rain, rather, I become a traveler of space, where all the stars in the sky keep granting me wishes Like the most careful cartographer, you map out the planes of my body - like the most gifted gardener, you kneel to the ground and carve out a space for my soul to bloom Somewhere in my mind, I sense a single question: when did the universe decide to be kind?

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art

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 161 BEAUTY IN COLORS BY JANET SANCHEZ ACRYLIC PAINT

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a162 THE PEACOCK’S FEET GROWTH BY SYDNEY SAXON PHOTOGRAPHY

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 163 SMOKING GIRL BY MAGGIE KORN SCRATCH BOARD

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a164 THE PEACOCK’S FEET A PEACOCK’S DREAM BY JESSICA GRATIGNY PHOTOGRAPHY

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 165 STILL LIFE BY JANET SANCHEZ ACRYLIC PAINT

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a166 THE PEACOCK’S FEET THE RED WAVE BY OLIVIA GRUBE SCREEN PRINT

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 167 CHASM BY MCKENZIE WEEKLY PHOTOGRAPHY

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a168 THE PEACOCK’S FEET BLIND HAPPINESS LEADS TO SADNESS BY SARAH SANDER INK AND WATERCOLOR

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NAMELESS MOUNTAIN K. RALEIGH HUTCHINSON There was a day when I woke up on a mountain top. I stood up into the clouds. six thousand feet tall I stood I blinked. Then I was looking into the abyss. miles of mountains crossing, making the most perfect valley. so unwelcoming but begging for a stroll. I blinked. Snowflakes stacked perfectly towering on each pine of each tree, I heard it fall and felt it land. Rooted alongside the trees, we jut out from the mountain,

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a170 THE PEACOCK’S FEET the nameless mountain, that possesses my favorite memory. Sometimes I still wake up on this mountain. I still feel the thin, frozen air in my lungs, the slick, rolling rock underfoot. Like heat craves rain and music craves dance. Like summer craves fall and tongues crave words. I crave that moment.

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FINDING EDEN LAINEY WALLER Rushing water rains against the shadowed banks, constrained by its essence, yet free in sound. When it subsides…the noise of the forest can commence with its natural ballad. Spring green leaves spiral in wind, finding freedom from their branches. An invisible force sweeps them back and forth, but their journey isn’t over. They land on the surface of the burbling brook to be swept away again. River rocks shine with hints of reflective crystal hiding among the shifting silt. The current gently pulls them from one spot to be deposited in another, never to be seen, never to be found. The chilled snap of mountain air glides past, leaving goosebumps raised in its wake.

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a172 THE PEACOCK’S FEET Valleys converge below: a painted portrait seemingly crafted by God himself. I hear the pattering rain—a refreshing jolt. I taste the leaves’ freedom—a prison break. I see the shine of stones—will not touch. I feel the frozen air—take me with you.

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LETTER TO THE GIRLS I WANT TO BE ARIEL EBAUGH Dear R., I’ve tried to fill in the lines you left behind, flesh out the sketch of you I once glimpsed. I trace over your poetry, but the elegance suffusing it eludes me, the way water lilies dis- solve into blobs of color when you look at them closely. I never saw you dance, but I try to line my limbs up with your phan- tom arms and legs. Whatever song you hear that tells you how to move, I can’t hear it. You capture every lovely moment: every letter, every sunlight pattern on the wall, every smile of a child you’re teaching to speak English. You wanted to tell everyone that they matter. I’m your biographer, finding you in ticket stubs and flowers and scraps of prose, remnants of your soul, but I’m never sure that I’m reconstructing you right. Dear B., you’re a house in a valley. Not a city on a hill declaring its presence like a lighthouse, but a house tucked away to be stumbled upon, with candles flickering in the windows. Your

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a174 THE PEACOCK’S FEET books and your baking and your knitting all fall into place like raindrops rolling down a window. You’re the whistle of a ket- tle; you’re the weight of a book on a misty afternoon; you’re the smell of fresh-baked bread; you’re the warm rough yarn of a knitted sweater. You adopt stray cats. Your mind is a map of history and recipes and uncharted worlds. And yet no mat- ter how I try to set my own books and tea and history in order, I can’t quite put them right, like dishes piled into cabinets without a clue where the plates and the coffee mugs belong. Dear F., you’re a statue of Eve before the Fall. Your marble eyes disdain the bending of my flesh, the swirl of my living blood; your hands and thighs are chaste as stone. You watch me from your garden, where you talk with God and eat the fruit of in- nocent trees and do not know snakes. But I have let my naked- ness become known, and I have tasted what is forbidden, and I have apple flesh in my belly and apple skin in my teeth, and I must surely die. You holy flame. You pure white stone. You re- mind me what I should have been. And in my teeth, apple skin.

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BREATHTAKING NATALIE MILLER Suffocation, for me, is like meatloaf for dinner: Unwanted, yet not entirely unexpected. My early years were spent in sterility— Stress balls were my mudpies, Oxygen tents were my pillow forts, IVs were my pets, squeaking on leashes. Bedtime was a routine set in stone: Two puffs of that, drink this cap, take half of that pill, swallow it; honey, you have to swallow it. Stop coughing, sit up, we can’t sleep, please stop coughing. Mom always called them “breathing treatments,” A funny name for a dull machine.

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a176 THE PEACOCK’S FEET I hated them—forcing me from my toys to sit still for a toddler’s eternity. Fresh oxygen tore through the den, Fighting and gnashing and wheezing. I strained To hear my cartoons over the thunder. I’ve learned, by this time, to accept the thin mountain air my crumpled lungs provide. Gym class was never an issue. Nor were the svelte of my age; Can’t take my breath away if I never had it to start. I’ve always wondered where it might have gone. Is it sailing in the breeze, flipping and flying; A blue jay gone in a beat with only The tangles in your hair as evidence? Maybe my breath is in the sea, sighing as it tickles your toes And warms your cheeks. Maybe it is simply gone, Slipped through my pram and into the gutters— A lost coin waiting to be found.

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COLLISION K. RALEIGH HUTCHINSON If I could be her coffee cup, kissed every few minutes and held between her small, smooth hands. If I could be her hands just to carry those books, even be cut at the paper’s corners, or slid through her sleek hair. If I could be her raven-black hair dancing in the wind, rushing around her pink cheeks, caught in her shiny lips, finally tucked in a hood.

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a178 THE PEACOCK’S FEET But I am stuck in this empty shell, repeatedly reduced by revolving days. made of weak hands and broken hair, my eyes locked behind glass desperately watching worlds away, yet only across the room. Forever I am here and she is there, the desks imprinted with years of pencil on paper know; the carpet squares beaten beneath our feet know; the chairs left strewn about know; we will never be one. Still I can’t help but stare. Wandering deeper, waltzing into her nose, smelling the same musty books. I see it turn towards me, I am skiing down its slope as it lifts up and up — “Yes? Can I help you?”

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music

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a180 THE PEACOCK’S FEET INVISIBLE WOMAN ROBERT WAKEFIELD WITH HOPE TO BE DEFEATED BY GREATER AND GREATER THINGS ROBERT WAKEFIELD A YEAR LATER AND COFFEE NEVER TASTED SO BITTER ROBERT WAKEFIELD DRIFT PARKING GARAGE (NATHAN WHATLEY AND DAKOTA SNOW)

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aTHE PEACOCK’S FEET 181 HTTPS://SOUNDCLOUD.COM/AVA-LEONE- 967582881/SETS/PEACOCKS-FEET-2019-2020

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ABOUT THE COVER ARTIST JANET SANCHEZ Janet Sanchez is a senior graduating this Spring 2020. Janet’s inspiration stems from her Hispanic culture and religion and the events most celebrated in her culture. The medium for her cover artwork is acrylic paint based. Additionally, she is completing her senior capstone project, a series called Las Celebraciones, which is also known as the Celebrations. She also worked on a series of chalk pastel influenced by her sister’s Quinceañera this past semester.

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The Peacock's Feet is grateful for the generous funding and support from Georgia College's Student Government Association (SGA), which makes this publication and its yearly growth possible.

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