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[nsu-mosaic]

"The Park With the Hills" by Marcus Quoyeser Mosaic 2021 Editor's Choice Award Winner

Gusts of cacophonous wind rappedon Art Rooney’s bedroom window, and threatened to knock down the organized array of green plastic army men on the windowsill. To Art's satisfaction, the soldiers resisted the elemental advance. Outside, Art's kid brother Joel tooled with his broken bicycle. The boy’s movements grew  sluggish. Art watched as Joel used his small hands to try to put the rusted chain back on the even rustier sprocket. Every time that Joel got close to fixing the bike, the chain would fall out of his hands. Art watched as his brother tried a fifth time, but Joel couldn’t get the chain stretched far enough to meet the sprocket. Joel dropped his head in resignation. Art turned back to his homework, unable to focus.

Art thought about the five years since his brother’s birth. With Joel came plenty of  nagging questions, annoyances, demands, quiet crying. The biggest offense, though, was Joel tagging along when Art’s friends were over. Their mom made a fuss about leaving Joel by himself, though.

“You know that your brother has a hard time making friends,” she would say. “He isn’t like you. He’s different, and he needs you.”

The words pecked at Art like a bird at a worm. Any more pecking and Art thought he’d need to go to confession, but confession was only a  small room that smelled of  incense and deceit. He laid his pencil down onto his notebook, aligned it with the ruled paper, and propped his chin up on his palm.

Joel hadn’t moved in what must have been over five or ten minutes. The boy’s head still hung low, chin tucked to chest, bare knees on fresh-cut grass. Gusts blew at Joel’s hair; the strands look like old and overused paintbrush whiskers. The bike rested on its side; it was a sculpture of trash dumped in an otherwise pristine yard. Art checked his watch, a silver Fossil like all the other boys in his seventh-grade class wore, and sighed. He shut his algebra book and hopped off his bed. Before he put on his shoes, he prayed the Our Father one time, two times, three times for good measure.. One was for forgiveness so he could avoid confession. The others were to protect him when he left his room. He grabbed his favorite army man—the one with the bazooka—and flicked the light switch on and off, on and off, and on and off.

Art’s mom was in the living room pretending to read Home Something-Or-Other magazine. She and Art's dad were talking about adult stuff. Taxes or coupons. When Art crossed the room toward the front door his father stopped him.

“Saw your brother out there when I was in the kitchen,” he said. “Looks like he’s having a hard time with that old bike of yours.”

“It’s not my bike anymore,” Art said. “I cut yards last summer to get my bike, in case you forgot.”

“Well, that bike out there was yours. It’s your brother’s now,” his father said, muting the news anchor on the TV that looked like an angry thumb with a bad haircut. He took a sip from the cowboy boot glass filled to the brim with foamy beer; the silver crucifix that hung from his neck clinked against the cup. “It doesn’t matter who the damned thing belongs to. Go help him, for Christ's sake.”

“That’s what I was doing,” said Art. “Not like you’re gonna do anything.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothin’.”

“That’s what I thought. Can’t even speak up for yourself.”

“Honey, please. He needs encouragement," said Art's mom. Art caught glances from her tired eyes but let them drop onto the faux-Persian rug that reeked of ash, dog hair, and pine with lemon.

“He needs a belt. That’s what I would’ve gotten: a belt, a sore rear, and a lesson. And he’ll get one if he keeps up that attitude.”

Art tuned out his parents as the evening arguing began. He got to the door as the shouting grew louder. He turned the knob first with his right hand, then with his left, and then a third time with his right hand for good measure. The inside noise cut off as the door shut behind Art in a soft thump.

The wind felt stronger outside than it sounded inside against the bedroom window. Art felt a low rumble in his ears as the gusts swept around him. The moving air brought scents of cooking, dead leaves, and coming rain. The army man lay snug in his jean pocket. The soldier sat under the grass stains and ink blots and crusted cafeteria slop. Art kept a clenched fist near the bulged denim that hid the soldier.

Art walked at a sloth-like pace across the front lawn. Joel could wait. There was the dark green rose bush to check on, the one with the thorns that Joel always seemed to catch an arm on. Then there was the bird feeder in front of the bush. There were more dead leaves in it than water. Art picked up a leaf that looked alive and held it in his hand. The leaf was wide and yellow, but brown had taken over the surface. The spots looked like the spots on the old people’s faces at church, or a near-empty bowl of cereal with too much milk. He pumped his hand upward toward the sky, and the wet leaf slid through humid air until it met the ground. He hadn’t seen the book on states since his brother took it off of Art’s bookshelf. “One day Mom will give me my own room,” Art always told Joel, whose brown eyes looked afraid at the notion of being alone.

“But where will I go?” his brother would ask.

“Not my problem,” Art would say. The words stung him for some reason, but he didn't question it. He had to be strong.

Art finished his survey of the front yard and rounded the corner of the house. He saw the trash bike. It rested in the same position that it had for the past half hour. But Joel wasn’t working on it anymore. Joel wasn’t kneeling in absolute defeat, either. Joel wasn't anywhere in sight. He was gone. Art scanned the sliver of earth that made up the side yard. There was the bike. No brother. A bike and no brother. The bike lay there still, but his brother was gone.

The wooden fence to the back yard looked locked; Joel wasn’t strong enough to open the gate yet. Art turned and scurried to the sidewalk. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three. He looked left and right and left once more, but no Joel. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two….

Art couldn't catch his breath, and the counting didn't help like it sometimes did, not that he had a choice. A single raindrop landed on his cheek, as if God was spitting on him for losing his brother. If his dad found out that Joel was gone, there would be punishments, groundings, and belts. His mom would cry. Art would end up in a school for boys, the kind of place whispered about on playgrounds. "Did you hear about So-and-So going to St. Peter's?" a kid would ask while others kicked rocks and ignored shrill whistles. "I heard he wouldn't stop cussing and taking extra bread at lunch. Nuns sent him away." Soon the neighbors would peer out of their blinds like they did when Art's dad came home late, before his mother started shouting. The street would buzz with fake concern.

Once Art spit out his meatloaf in an act of defiance during dinner, and Art’s father threatened to take away the army men, the green soldiers who protected Art—and even Joel—from whatever evil endured beyond the fogged glass of the bedroom window. Losing his brother would top the meatloaf incident. And that same evil that lingered outside his nighttime window would take him. He swallowed the nightmares as he stood on the sidewalk listening to the threes in his head and the rushing in his ears, looking down the sidewalks and through the yards and mailboxes. But no matter how much he didn't want to care for his brother—a kid who couldn’t shut a gate or fix a bike chain, who had no friends, who played alone, who watched Art like a freak or stalker—the one, two, threes and the swishing in his ears didn’t go away.

The weather looked grey and dark and like a bruise against a lunchbox-blue sky. The street had no cars on it. Adults hated driving in bad weather, Art learned through his dad's grumblings. “Should’ve listened to my old man,” he said one morning before school. Hail was pelting the Pontiac. Joel was staring at the floor. “Keep it in your pants, he told me…”

…two, three, one, two, three, one…

Gritting his teeth and feeling his new molar cap respond with a subtle shift Art ran toward the park. The park with the three hills, the park a few blocks away. Left then a slight curve right, a cut through an empty lot, a short distance straight. Joel always wanted Art to go with him to the park, to the one with the hills. “I want to roll down them like you do,” Joel would say while Art pretended to be too busy with homework, or the army men, or the Bible. “You’ll take me?” he would ask. But Art knew it was social hara-kiri to let your kid brother tag along to the park. Instead, he would hop on his bike and leave Joel behind. He always felt the boy’s eyes watching from the front yard as he pedaled away. He could picture the downward-tilting head staring at the turf under his bare feet. Art would hear their mom's voice tempt Joel back inside with oatmeal raisin cookies or checkers from the set with a missing piece. Art would always glimpse back before turning the corner. His brother never went in; he would just watch and wait.

The wind grew colder and stronger, and the gusts were sharp slaps to Art’s face. He’d not considered grabbing a jacket. No time, and if he went back home he’d have to tell his parents about Joel. His chest burned with each inhalation as he ran across the empty lot and down the tree-covered road of busted pavement and uneven sidewalks. The park loomed at the end of the street, a splotch of yellowing fields and a decrepit rec center against a foreground of darkness. The shadows of the tree-covered road grew smaller and smaller. Rain pelted Art’s body as he breached the shadows and entered the park. Thunder rumbled.

One hill, the largest and closest, was void of activity. No kids sat on bikes at the top tempting each other to race to the bottom. No older kids held hands on blankets. No dogs ran around chasing tennis balls or barking at butterflies. Art ran up the peak of the hill, panting. Joel wasn’t there, and he also wasn’t on the swing set nor on the playground that waited a baseball’s throw away. Tears streamed down Art’s face. The knot in his stomach felt deep, ancient, and afraid.

Art sprinted back down the big hill.. He almost fell at the bottom but caught himself. He galloped towards the next hill, this one smaller but still a decent climb. His sides hurt, but a pain inside of him dwarfed the burning feeling and made the climb easier. Cresting the top Art leaned forward to catch his breath. He wanted to scream, to apologize, to count until he was safe. The threes in his brain matched the speed of his short, unproductive breaths. Art stood up straight and wiped his eyes, hot and flowing like overfilled tubs. He prepared to shoot down the second hill and up the third. He scanned once more.

Out near the edge of the park, under a tree, was a tiny dot of a person. Art recognized the dot and sprinted from the second hill to the willow. The branches looked like wet hair hanging over the boy that sat beneath it.

Art ran like he did at recess; he’d never lost at tag. He could see that Joel's head was down, shoulders hunched but moving up and down. The rain slapped hard, cold and raw. Art's eyes hurt from the tears and his lungs wanted to pop like a brown paper bag at the back of a bus. But Art ran harder and harder until the distance between the hill and Joel was no more.

Lightning split the darkening sky. Wind kicked soda cans, cigarette butts, and other artifacts of suburban life across vacant fields. Art stopped right behind his brother. He heard the quiet crying, the same sound that Art heard when he told Joel that no, he could not play with him. He saw his brother's scraped knees and his hands, stained with rust. He saw tears rolling down his brother's face. He knew what his brother felt because he felt it, too. Art collapsed next to Joel and put his arm around him; Joel scooted closer, and Art could feel the cold shivering body that just wanted to tag along.

“Here,” Art said. He dug into his soaked jean pocket. He handed the army man with the bazooka to Joel. The threes were still racing in his mind, but Art ignored them. The loop wouldn’t stop until after a lecturing—or a belting—at home. Or some prayers, or a confession on Sunday.

“It’s okay?” his brother asked.

“No,” said Art through chattering teeth, “but we have to be brothers.”

[nsu-mosaic]

"Fakier Jewelers" by Destin Lausen

2021 Mosaic Art Award First Place Winner

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"Silver Cross" by Nathan Mylie Mosaic 2021 Albert Davis Fiction Award First Place Winner

In the cacophony of the bustling road, Bailey Hess’s boots splashed on the damp street. Through his foggy, brown-rimmed glasses, he was able to see the purple neon sign that read, “l'Équinoxe: World of Voodoo.” He emptied a Klonopin into his hand and dry swallowed it. He fidgeted with the silver cross in his ear before summoning the nerve to go inside. His phone vibrated in his pocket, but he left it unanswered.

The store’s door was wide open for any pilgrim or pariah to enter as they pleased. The store’s interior was small. Most of the shelves were filled with incense, books on spirituality and the occult, and some tacky t-shirts with colorful voodoo dolls. The most striking feature was a large altar near the checkout. It had statues, pictures, and iconography of traditional Catholic figures such as Jesus, Mary, and other saints as well as other figures recognizable only to a person privy to Voodoo. There were also offerings of all sorts including cash, candles, and bottles of liquor.

Bailey walked to the cashier, hoping they’d know something. There was a taxidermied raven with ruby- studded eyes at the register. The cashier had dark skin, buzz cut hair, and a neat lip piercing. He wore a black tank top with a flannel shirt wrapped around his waist. He wore blue headphones. His eyes were closed as he jammed out to whatever tunes he was listening to. Bailey stood there a few seconds before the cashier seemed to notice him and took off his headphones.

“Welcome, how can I help you?” The cashier looked at Bailey, but Bailey avoided eye contact. “We have mini voodoo dolls, only two dollars each.” The cashier gestured to a basket of small woven dolls attached to a key chain.

“I’m not a tourist.” Bailey said, “Does Saint still work here?”

“Who’s asking?”

“My sister was a customer of his.”

The cashier sighed. “Whatever he sells during his off hours ain’t none of my business.”

“It’s not like that. I’m worried about my sister.” He fumbled through his pocket and pulled out a photograph. “Have you seen her around here?”

The cashier looked at the girl in the photograph and then looked back at Bailey who looked nothing like her. “Your sister?”

“My foster-sister. What does it matter?” Bailey raised his voice a little without thinking. He was being snappy. Bailey lowered his head. Arthur Hess had never liked it when the kids were loud. He had liked it even less when they messed up the house. Any time something had broken or gone missing, Olivia was the scapegoat. She had always gotten the worst of it. Bailey was the younger of them. “She hasn’t been answering my calls.” Bailey’s voice quivered like static and he choked down his tears. “I’m worried about her.”

“She used to come in a lot. But it’s been a while. Maybe a month or two.”

Bailey twirled the cross earring. “How did she look the last time you saw her?”

He shook his head, “I don’t think she knew where she was. Girl was out of it.” There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence. The tension sucked the sound out of the store. “Saint should be at a meeting. He goes to the center next to the Gates of Heaven Church around this time.”

“Thanks, I know the one.” Bailey said, en route to leave.

“Hey, hold up.” The cashier waited for Bailey to turn around. “If you want to, you can put your sister’s picture on the altar. The loa may help her find her way, wherever she is.”

Bailey gazed at the grand altar and noticed that, among the sacred icons, were pictures of people in need of prayer. Were they still alive? Bailey saw a skeletal statuette whose eyes were blank, desolate sockets. Bailey’s stomach turned. “I should really hold on to her picture.” Bailey thanked the cashier and went back to the street.

The Gates of Heaven Church wasn’t a far walk. It was an unassuming building that looked more like a beige house than a place of worship. The great gold cross installed on the roof and the sign on the lawn alone gave away the church. There was a matching building used for social gatherings next door.

Before entering the center, Bailey spotted the huge shadow of an angel on the church’s walls. Olivia had dressed as an angel the first Halloween they spent in their apartment together. Bailey had been a stupid skeleton. There was a guy Bailey thought was staring at her all night. Olivia knew he was staring at Bailey. She was a hell of a wingman. He shook his head.The shadow was no angel, though. It was nothing more than a projection of the statue in the church garden.

Bailey waited in the community center’s hallway. People were talking in one of the rooms. He stood there alone with his thoughts and twirled his earring while waiting for them to finish.

Bailey had liked the Hess house, or at least it wasn’t the worst foster home. Arthur was always strict, and he yelled. But his foster-mom, Leslie, was nice. They were overall tolerable. Bailey was fourteen and had been there a few years when he met Olivia. He told himself not to get attached, but he did anyway. Two years later, the Hesses decided to officially adopt him. Olivia on the other hand had turned eighteen and decided it was time to head out.

The door slid open and Bailey felt the cool breeze of the air-conditioned room. Group members filed out, some exchanging in pleasantries, some with their heads down. Saint was one of those sunken heads. Bailey hardly recognized him clean-shaven. Last time Bailey saw him, Saint was underweight and wearing tattered green pants, the only pair he owned. Now Saint’s clothes were not only new, but clean for once. He was wearing a purple t-shirt and jeans. Bailey stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Sup, Lil’ Lee?” Saint’s charismatic grin was still the same. “You come for the meeting?”

“No,” said Bailey, “I wanted to know if you’ve run into Olivia lately.”

“Not since I got clean.”

“You’re sober?”

“Yeah, got my six-month chip.” Saint showed off the dark blue token. “Liv took my ass to a meeting after she bailed me out. Everything alright?”

“I was hoping you knew.” Bailey closed his eyes and exhaled, just like Dr. Andrews told him to. “Was she selling again?”

“Not that I know of.” Saint eyed Bailey. “You tripping right now?”

“It’s nothing,” said Bailey. He realized he was wobbling a bit. “Just something to help me sleep.”

Saint squinted at him without answering.

“It’s from my psychiatrist, okay! Did she relapse?”

“Couldn’t tell ya.” Saint sighed, “She been gone that long?” Why did he say it like that?

“She’s just getting some money together.” Bailey explained. His knuckles grew white and he clenched his teeth. The Hesses’ porch flashed in his mind. Arthur’s yelling had been getting loud enough for the whole parish to hear. Olivia had slammed the door as she walked, tired of the lecture. She had sat next to him and saw he was panicking. She’d told him to focus on something else. She said that when she was tense, she’d play with her earrings. It was she who had suggested he get his ears pierced. The memory allowed him to relax enough to think. Bailey asked Saint, “Could she be streetwalking again with the girls?”

Saint grimaced. “It’d be possible. But Lee, your big sis never ran in the safest circles.” He coughed. “If she been away, there might be a reason.”

Bailey didn’t want to think about it. “Whatever.” Bailey turned around but felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t ‘whatever’ me,” Saint said. “You ever heard the phrase, ‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions’?”

“Doesn’t it mean that a good intent is meaningless if you don’t follow through?”

“Can also mean that some actions got unintended consequences,” said Saint. “You don’t seem right.”

“I’m fine,” Bailey’s boots echoed down the hall. He didn’t listen to hear if Saint said anything else.

Bailey left the church and trekked down the moonlit street. He passed by Cengrove Apartments. It had been his and Olivia’s first choice, but the rent was too steep. They had to settle for a place more downtown, but even that wasn’t perfect. Three years in and they couldn’t afford rent anymore. Olivia said she’d go scrounge up some money. No more than two months, as always. Bailey’s job waiting tables wasn't paying the bills and Olivia never kept a job for long. When he asked how she’d get the money, she told him not to worry. She would take care of him. He never knew how he’d pay rent until she got back. At one point she suggested calling Arthur for money. He didn’t like the idea; he didn't like any idea of hers that night. He didn’t want her selling anything. Bailey had tried dissuading her one last time. She had simply taken her birth mother’s silver cross out of her ear and had given it to him for safe keeping. She had left and Bailey wishes she hadn’t.

He knocked on the splintering door of a house that was once violet.

“Lee, what you here for?” Jade stood at the door. She was wearing an airbrush crop top that said Princess.

“Bailey!” Selena ran up and hugged him. She smelled like lavender. It matched her hair. “How you been?”

Bailey didn’t reciprocate the embrace and waited to be let go. “Has Olivia been here lately?”

“Babes ain’t been around in a while.”

Bailey asked, “Was she working the streets with you?”

Jade gave Bailey a familiar look. It was the side-eye she’d give every time he tagged along with Olivia and her group to the pier. Jade would always be the one with pot who refused to share with Bailey. Jade stood there a moment and sighed. “You should go home, kid. You look like shit. We’ll tell ya if we hear anything.”

“I can’t.” Bailey heard his voice crack and took a moment to clear his throat. “Olivia needs my help. She’s gone and no one gives a crap about her. Not her friends, not the police.”

“Why you going to the police?”

“Jadie, calm down.” Selena said.

“You think they care about her?”

Bailey didn’t need to be reminded of his mistake. He knew it was a foolish idea after talking to the officers at the station. They had just groaned when he asked to file a missing person’s report. “I thought they could help.”

“The cops don’t give a shit ’bout some crackwhore who’s missing.” Jade’s voice carried across the street like a siren. “She ain’t shit to them. She just some problem they don’t wanna deal with.”

Bailey couldn’t respond. It felt like someone had him by the throat

“He didn’t mean anything by it. He was only looking for Olivia,” Selena said.

“Well he should check some back alley! Best case, she OD-ed on speed and ain’t trapped in some creep’s basement.” Jade choked on the last word and lowered her head. Her body was quaking. Tears stained her face. It was unnerving to see her this way. Bailey had never seen her like this. “For them it’s all the same. Just taking out the damn trash.”

Selena wrapped her arms around Jade. “She doesn’t mean it, hun. Jade’s worried about your sis. We all are.”

He was not the only one who missed her. He tried to force out an apology, but he didn’t know what to say. He looked around at their space. Their couch was held together by duct tape. There wasn’t much other furniture. The bed was across the room, it didn’t even have a frame. Bailey recognized Selena’s teddy bear laying on it. The ceiling fan wasn’t moving. The lights were off.

“Please go home, kid.” Jade lifted her head from Selena’s shoulders. “Don’t go down with her.”

There had been one night at the pier, where Saint offered Bailey some pills. Jade had stopped him before he could take any. She had punched Saint so hard his nose bled like a busted pipe. Jade had screamed at Bailey for an hour. On the ride home, Selena had told him that Jade was only looking out for him. He hadn’t believed her then.

Bailey left. He walked down the same crowded street aimlessly. Maybe Jade was right, he should probably go home. He kicked up a puddle as he walked. Who knew Olivia might find him. She’d have her six-month chip, like Saint, with a whole stack of cash. They could get a nicer apartment and invite Jade and Selena to stay over. That’d be nice. Bailey’s phone vibrated in his pocket.He ignored it.

He passed by l'Équinoxe. The purple neon sign still managed to catch his eye. Bailey didn’t notice he was fidgeting with the back of the silver cross, his fingernail latched onto the back of his earring. He didn’t notice the man in front of him until their shoulders met. Bailey became dazed. His vision spotted black for a second. The surprise had made Bailey’s hand jerk forward. He looked at it. He noticed a sharp pain coming from his ear. He brought his hand back to it. His fingers rubbed against his earlobe. A cold rush of blood shot through his veins. He didn’t feel the silver cross. When? He imagined the sharp clink the cross would have made as it hit the ground. He immediately turned around. His eyes darted around the dark pavement, looking around for anything remotely shiny. Bailey spotted green shards of a broken bottle, a few cigarette butts, a Lay’s potato chip bag covered in dirt.

He spiraled around, desperately searching. He saw the moving feet of the crowd. Could some pedestrian have stepped on it? The crowd was moving so fast. Where is it? Breaching the flow, Bailey threw himself on the ground and his hands scrambled across the night street. “No, no, my earring. Does anyone see my earring?” He couldn’t see it. Where was Olivia’s earring? Where? It must be somewhere. It couldn’t have disappeared. “Fuck!”

The crowd parted around Bailey. Perhaps, they didn’t hear what he was screaming about or why he was in distress. They kept walking. Eventually, on his knees in the middle of the sidewalk, Bailey began to cry. He was curled into a ball, his face nestled into his hands. Someone walked over to him and patted him on the shoulder.

Bailey looked up to see the cashier. He felt the man’s arms under his shoulder as Bailey was hoisted to his feet.

“Come inside.” The cashier unlocked the doors to the store and led Bailey inside. “Are you okay?”

Bailey’s breaths were stagnant. His muscles tightened as though restricted by chains. The world seemed to crumble around him like heaven was splitting open. He felt like he was about to stumble to the ground.

“Hey, buddy, take a deep breath. In and out.” The cashier demonstrated repeatedly.

Bailey mimicked in and out. After a few minutes passed, his breathing regained its rhythm.

“Now remember a time you were at peace.”

Bailey did as he said. He thought of the waves along the lake. It had been in the middle of the night. Olivia had taken a bottle of gin from Arthur’s cabinet. They had been laughing, they had been calm, they had been happy. Without thought, Bailey hugged the cashier and started weeping on his shoulder. Bailey needed something to hold on to, to ground him. He could feel the exposed skin touch his face, and it was comforting. After an eternity passed, the world stood still, and Bailey released the man. “I don’t know what to do. My sister’s cross is gone.”

“It’s okay, buddy, you’ll find it.”

“What if I never do?” Bailey’s eyes felt heavy. Was it the crying or was he tired?

“Things don’t just disappear.”

“Two months, that was always the rule. When she got out the house, she told me that she would never be gone more than two months. And she never was.” Bailey inhaled through wet nostrils, making a shrill sound. “It’s past two months, where is she?”

“Maybe she’s running late.”

“It’s been 98 days, and no one knows where she is, maybe not even her.” Bailey’s phone started vibrating loudly. Bailey growled and picked the phone out his pocket. “What?” He answered. “Yes, Arthur, I’m fine…Yeah, I thought about what you said… No, I didn’t find a new roommate. I’ll start looking…I appreciate you loaning me the money…” Then Bailey heard Arthur mention her. Bailey tried listening patiently for a few minutes. His hand gripped the phone, and he gritted his teeth. Finally, Bailey yelled, “Can you lay off her for just one second!” Bailey was shocked to hear Arthur apologize. Bailey sniffled, “I’m worried about Liv too…It’s not anyone’s fault…I’ll tell you if I hear anything…Thanks, dad.” Bailey hung up the phone and wiped his eyes with his arm. He looked at the cashier “I’m sorry, you’re a total stranger, and I’m crying like a madman.”

“It’s okay,” The cashier laughed. “I can tell you’ve had a rough night.” The cashier flashed a friendly smile. “My name is Jean, Jean St. Pierre.”

“Bailey Hess.”

“Do you want to get a drink?” Jean placed his hand on Bailey’s shoulder. “You look like you need a friend.”

He wasn’t happy, but he was touched by the invitation. “Maybe, just some water.”

Jean was about to lock up l'Équinoxe.

“Wait, can I step inside for a second?”

Jean nodded and opened the door.

Bailey walked in. He stepped toward the altar. All the candles had been put out. It looked prettier in the dark. He reached in his pocket. He unfolded the piece of paper and gave it a pained smile. Next to a bouquet of white flowers, he placed Olivia’s photo. Bailey looked at the skeleton with the kind black eyes. “Help her find the way. Wherever she is.”

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Mosaic 2022 Deadline Extension

Due to Hurricane Ida, the submission deadline for the 2022 issue of Mosaic has been extended from October 15th, 2021 to November 1st, 2021!

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"Slipping" by Angel Chaisson Mosaic 2021 David Middleton Poetry Award First Place Winner

At night I borrow a sculptor’s hands

and succumb to the artist’s mind.

My clay skin yields to expert fingers,

each inch pliable and primed.

The mind’s muse needs no template,

or so the mind should claim—

smoothing out my cracks and bumps

to prepare me for the flame.

But there’s such a thing as overworking—

the most fervent artist’s flaw.

Even tender hands can stroke too much

and strip their subjects raw.

Secure me to the spinning wheel

and squeeze my shoulders in,

throw until my form is lost and

stretch my legs too thin.

Beyond repair, cast aside in

a graveyard of attempts,

torn portraits and chipped statuettes

all held tightly in contempt.

I see my mangled countenance

there in the moon’s sick hue,

as sunken eyes slip down my face,

slick with undried glue.

But I am not alone illumined tonight.

No, the artist’s corpses sniff me out—

These women with patchwork flesh

and voids inside their mouths,

bodies stitched and scabbed with ink,

mottled skin soaked deep in bile,

teeth tattooed on each bony knuckle

to hide their face and help them smile.

I cannot run from the feral hands that

splinter my legs and knees.

The brittle clay cracks under pressure

but these paragons ignore my pleas.

They torch my damaged skin—

terracotta ashes set me free—

finishing the artist’s work,

inhaling asymmetry.

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Mosaic is the second longest-running university literary magazine in Louisiana, right behind The Delta by LSU-Baton Rouge. Mosaic, or Pencil Tracks, as it was known until 1965, was first published in 1949.

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What is Mosaic about?

Mosaic is Nicholls State University’s official literary magazine, which celebrates the talent of our students. The magazine is published in print and online annually in the spring—usually released in April. Mosaic consists solely of student-made works, such as short stories, flash fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, freshmen essays, artwork, short plays, sheet music, and comics. Submissions for the 2022 issue are open now. Only students of Nicholls State University may submit.

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We are proud to announce that the 2021 issue of Mosaic is out now!