Hercules’ first feat was to slay the Nemean Lion. To lure warriors into its cave, it took the form of a woman in distress. As a warrior would approach to aid the woman, it would transform back into a lion and attempt to devour him.

 

I.

 

The callus of his foot grazes the crest

of stalagmite, knobbles of mottled sandstone

jutting from oblivion. Knuckles bleached

with dread encircle the wooden bludgeon,

each tread punctuated by the palpitation

 

of shrieks. The faint outline of tawny tresses

materializes from the pitch, a shattered torso

draped across the nape of a boulder. Irises

doused in indigo entreat him to approach,

the spigot of her pleas caulked by curling lips.

 

By the next flit of her lash, ripples of feral

muscle protrude from the arch of her vertebra,

rust-tinged mane swelling with a Nemean lust for flesh.

An ink-dipped tassel sways between her hind limbs.

 

Shards of bones taper into sickles of iron,

forepaws slinging toward the flesh of his neck.

He stiffens into an upright cadaver,

conscience awash in a deluge of panic.

 

II.

 

Arching the basin of his wrist,

the bludgeon thrashes towards her

in a visceral retort, splintering

across the crest of her matted brow.

 

Spasms of the blow puncture her

skull. The beast submerges in a state

of rabid stupor, rivulets of blood

pooling near the calluses of his feet.

 

A laurel is wreathed across his brow,

leaves crested like the ellipses of dragonfly

wings, embossed in tints of lustrous gold.

 

Amidst the furor of the crowd,

a sensation of reward remains

as palpable as the panting of the beast.

 

Grace Xu

Will you write for me?

If I say your words can save me

if I say your art can heal me

will you try?

Will you draw for me?

If I pull my arm apart for you

trim my fingernails, hand a brush to you

should I try?

Where’s your masterpiece?

Empty canvas, left my chest open to you

plunged a needle inside, drained my blood for you

is it dry?

Where’s the life in me?

Did you paint a couple hearts in red

or was it pink? Perhaps the colors bled

did I die?

Niharika Shah

Sedona Epstein

 

Grace Evelyn

Annie, down the street Annie, just had the most beautiful pair of twins – equally caked in fat, equally full of bubbling giggles, equally innocent in this world of promises always broken and wishes never granted. 

It’s a shame Annie is such a terrible mother. 

Anyone could see it, even if they hadn’t spent the last three years and seven months reading every parenting book, going to every fertility doctor, and spending every possible free second fucking and praying that with every rhythmic thrust that this might be the time. 

But it never was. And, meanwhile, of course, sixteen-year-old, down the street Annie, drunkenly, casually fucked a boy whose name she can no longer remember, and ended up with not one, but two baby angels. 

When Annie gets home from school, she pushes them around the cul-de-sac and I watch her from behind my curtains. It’s cold outside because it’s always cold here and Annie never wrapped her angels in a blanket to keep them warm. She pushes the stroller with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth like it’s a quiet plea for the poisonous smoke to kill her babies. Even from a distance, I can see the cold wave of regret in her eyes as she trudges down the street, youth robbed from her teenage breasts, a certain glow absent from her wrinkleless face. 

How easy it would be for me to just take one off her hands. Perhaps then, some joy might return to her cheeks. The fraternal twins would never know they shared blood – Annie and I could keep such a quaint, little secret to ourselves. And maybe when the children were two and still too young to remember, Annie would see how great mine was turning out because I was raising a child as one should: with deep, profound love instead of spite. That child would mark the beginning of my life, not the end. Maybe once I had proven myself, Annie would simply give me the other one. 

I wouldn’t protest. This brief little moment of her pushing two perfect babies down a cracked sidewalk would be blip, a faded memory, and Annie could go back to fucking strangers (who would wear condoms from now on) and I could finally, finally, stop fucking according to a color-coded schedule. Maybe then we’d both be happy. 

But Annie keeps pushing the stroller and Harry closes the curtain. 

Cameron Katz

Allison Tsai

Veronica Paltaratskaya

Matthew Buxton

Ruth Nelson

Surely it is you — trapped, the butterfly.
Or perhaps not trapped at all but living
Finally with visible wings, I see
You flit across the air — an afterthought.
Surely it was you who painted this sky,
I can make out your initials in the
Corner of the canvas — you startled me,
There at the helm of the pirate ship cloud.
Leave me behind while you sail through these skies,
Only concerned with choosing the right hues.
This and all sunsets are yours forever.
Show yourself in any way, big or small,
And I will notice it, for I am still
Looking for answers, and looking for you.

 

Raegan Allen