The Aesthetic

• Archer City, 1966

It happened in the final two weeks of high school. I was outside of the Royal Theater on a date with some blonde girl whose name I can’t remember...

• Knoxville Girl

The silver car drove along the deserted road, surrounded only by bare, lurching trees. As Diane adjusted herself within the driving seat, she reached her hand back to find the map leading her to her final destination...

• Eight Count

Even though the time was far past 11 o’clock, the restaurant still buzzed with a hum of life and activity. The soft, lumpy, cherry-red booths lining the walls were filled with all sorts of characters...

Stories Build Worlds

Stories are only as powerful as the worlds they create. The Aesthetic was founded to support and nurture these worlds by providing writers with a platform for expression. Anchored by short stories, one-act plays, and poetry inspired by America’s past, each new issue hopes to inspire imagination, creativity, and conscious thought.

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Scream Therapy

The world breeds anger and frustration. Our oceans’ waters are rising, our communities are becoming increasingly isolated, and the world of technology is expanding at a dizzying rate. These issues can cause anxiety, frustration, and a sense of hopelessness. The Aesthetic’s “Scream Therapy” is a platform for today’s generation to express these feelings in a productive and artistic manner. By creating honest art informed by genuine feeling, our writers can bring notice to the world’s most pressing issues.

• Issue 01

Archer City, 1966

It happened in the final two weeks of high school. I was outside of the Royal Theater on a date with some blonde girl whose name I can’t remember. She was dressed in a colorful, almost nauseating shirt with faded jeans. As soon as I heard the sound, I knew what it was. A lone gunshot ringing out into the night. Now, Archer City isn’t a small town, but when I tell you that shot rang out like some sort of screeching devil, I’m not lying in the slightest.Immediately, people outside the theater turned their heads so hard you would’ve thought some got whiplash. They peered out into the dark night, trying to catch a glimpse, some clue about what happened, but nothing was there. The girl I was with pulled on my arm and asked if I knew what had happened. I don’t remember what I said, but it was something along the lines of “I don’t know either. Why would I know?” That lie didn’t do much, but what could I have said? I told her that I had to go, and so I left that old broken-down theater playing Doctor Zhivago. To this day, I still don’t know what actually happens in that film. I never even got to watch the damn opening credits.Everybody in our town knew pretty much everyone, but that didn’t mean they liked each other. My friend at the time, Danny, told me that senior year, he felt the whole town was coming apart. Lucky for him, he had gotten a scholarship the summer before to Texas University for some bio-engineering degree. Pretty amazing, considering his parents were some of the most religious people in town. How he got so good at it, I’ll never know. I think he works down in Houston still or maybe moved out East. I don’t remember to tell the truth, but the reason I knew exactly what that sound meant that night was because of a guy named James Lucas. In school, he was a typical jock, popular with the girls and guys, but to everybody, dumb as a doorbell. I knew differently. I had met him a couple of years ago when we were still in middle school.
One day, after eating a nutritious meal of fluff and milk, I noticed him sitting by himself at the end of the yard. I don’t know why I did, but I just felt the need to walk over there, some instinct, I guess. When I got there, I asked him his name and what he was doing. He replied simply but I knew there was something underneath. He told me how his family had just moved here from some other town. Why someone would move here, I’ll never understand. He had gotten roughed up by some kid after the third period. He said he tried to fight back, kicking and punching, and even got the guy good in the chin but couldn’t win. I saw the anger on his face, but even then, I could see the sadness that dripped underneath the surface like a rusted faucet.Over the next year, I got to know him pretty well, and after a couple of months at school, he started playing football. Immediately, you could tell he was special. I mean, he threw a spiral like you’ve never seen before.We eventually grew apart, but I always kept watch of him… so did the entire town. In senior year, the whole state knew he was going somewhere. Each Friday night, when the day’s heat cooled, and a fall breeze flew through the fields, the two stands that our school had would be overflowing with kids and adults looking to get a glimpse of the great James Lucas. When the game ended, the crowd would mob him like he was one of the Beatles.
In March of that same year, he finally got the town’s dream: a full ride to the University of Alabama for football. The town buzzed with energy for weeks. Soon after that, tragedy struck. I knew from being his friend when we were younger that nothing meant more to him than his parents. He would tell me that if he ever got out of Archer City, the first thing he would do was buy his parents a home, something better than the crapshoot they lived in. When most people say that, they say it out of some false sense of self-pride, but when James spoke, he was dead serious. That night, a heavy rain fell. His parents, on their way home from a night out, were said to never have even seen the end of the bridge. People in town said the truck spun about six times before it finally stopped in the creek below. James didn’t find out till the next morning.For the next weeks, people saw James less and less around town. The ironic thing was that for all the love the town had given him for his running, passing, and scoring, after the first few days, no one said anything about the accident. Absolutely nothing. The town still loved him of course, but they couldn’t care for him the way he needed: the way his parents did. Pretty soon, he couldn’t play the way he used to, but the crowd didn’t care enough to ask why. They wanted him to be the star he was before.The day before it happened, I caught a glimpse of him leaving the cafeteria. His eyes were like a ghost’s. Murky and empty. In the afternoon, I heard a rumor that Alabama was going to rescind their offer if he didn’t get his grades up. No one helped him. The only person who even came to his house after the accident was a college scout who dropped off a letter.The night before, on the way home from school, I took a turn from my normal route and walked up the road James lived on. The house was eerie. There was nothing different on the surface except some faded paint on the surrounding fence, but the building held a deep feeling of despair. I remember walking up to the door and wanting to knock, but I couldn’t. Something held me back. Something stopped me. Even though it wasn’t the same, I still wanted to help him.I loved him like a brother, but love is a funny thing. Everyone in the world can love you and scream your name, but when the lights go out, love disappears real quick. That night, it rained in Archer City.© The Aesthetic 2023

Knoxville Girl

The silver car drove along the deserted road, surrounded only by bare, lurching trees. As Diane adjusted herself within the driving seat, she reached her hand back to find the map leading her to her final destination. Her hand fumbling, she grasped a piece of paper. She brought the map up to her seat and traced her fingers across it until she found what she was looking for, Huntsville, Alabama.Diane set the map down next to her, turning her focus to the road. The fields seemed much drier than last year when she made the same trip. The once luxurious and vibrant grass that carpeted the surrounding fields had taken on an ominous yellow hue. The smoky, gray asphalt blurred as her tired eyes struggled to keep focus. Suddenly, while looking ahead, a dark smoke arose from the metallic car’s front, causing Diane to stop. The hum of the car’s engine erupted in a harsh screech before abruptly ending. Diane slowly stepped out and observed the situation. She placed her hands on the car’s hood and recoiled from the metal’s intense heat. Placing a handkerchief over her hand, she pulled the car’s hood open and over her head, inhaling a faceful of black smoke. She slammed the hood shut in defeat and walked back around to the driver's seat.The silver car, whose shine had blinded Diane earlier, was now subdued by the falling sun. As Diane looked across the darkened, imposing field, she thought about her possible actions. After some consideration, she decided to find safe shelter for the night. The once bright street now embraced the darkness as the oil-black road absorbed all rays of light. Diane closed the door and shuffled over to the side of the road, where she placed her hand out with her thumb facing upward.The road remained silent. Right before she was just about to admit defeat and make shelter in her car for the night, two blinding headlights fell upon her. Knowing this was her last chance to find shelter, Diane quickly shifted herself back towards the road and firmly jutted her hand out into the street. As the car got closer, she began to make out the vehicle as a red truck. The vehicle's headlights intensified upon her face, before suddenly coming to a stop. The driver’s side door opened, and a small, slightly heavy-set man, dressed in overalls and a baseball cap walked out.“Can I help you, Miss?” the man spoke in a disarmingly soft voice.“Yes, actually, my car broke down, and I need a ride into town,” Diane quickly replied, trying to hide her sense of desperation.“Well, you’re a bit far from town, but why don’t you stay at my family’s house for the night.” Hesitant to accept the stranger’s offer, Diane took a second to think, but the frigid fall wind upon her face rid her mind of any doubts. Diane rushed back to her car, picked up a bag of her belongings, and climbed into the stranger’s truck. As the truck's engine rumbled to action, Diane glanced back and watched as her silver car grew smaller in the rearview mirror on her way into the pitch-black night.“So, where were you headed, ma'am?” the man asked Diane as they continued their journey across the shadowy fields.“Huntsville, actually. My folks live up there, and I try my best to make it down for the holidays.” “My family is not quite city folk. We like to keep to ourselves up here, without anybody bothering us,” the man replied with a dry chuckle. Diane gave a performed laugh.“So, what’s your name?” the man asked, his rich brown eyes remaining steady on the road ahead, unflinching in their position.“My name is Diane.”“What an awful pretty name… Diane. My name is Gregory…Gregory Brown.” “Nice to meet you. God, it's really cold out there.”“Sure is. There's been a nasty cold spell around here lately…wiped out all the crops. It's been terrible for the farm.”“Are you a farmer?”“My whole family has been for generations.”“Did you grow up here?”“No, we used to live farther up in Brester before the soil went bad.”
“How far away are we?”“Not much further. When we get there, I’ll set you up in the house. We haven’t had too many visitors, but when we do…they always stay awhile,” Gregory replied, flashing a slight smile.When they arrived at the farm, it was past midnight. The night’s darkness completely shrouded the house except for a single, dim porchlight on the front stoop. Diane grabbed her belongings and tentatively stepped towards the entryway with Gregory beside her. As Gregory led Diane up the stairs to her room, she noticed several family portraits hung neatly alongside the stairwell. The walls were lovingly decorated with portraits of family members, faded floral wallpaper, and chipped China plates. Gregory's footsteps halted at the edge of the hallway as he opened the door, “You can stay in here tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll drive you into town.”“Thank you. I really appreciate all you’ve done.”“Alright, let me know if you need anything, ma’am. I’m gonna finish up some work in the back, but please try to keep it down for the little ones.”“Of course,” Diane replied kindly as Gregory closed the door shut.
After a brief sleep, Diane awoke abruptly to the sound of tools grinding in the backyard. Is he still working out there? She got out of bed and quietly inched to the window. The fields surrounding the house remained dark, but the noise emanating from the barn pierced the bitter air. Ignoring her skepticism, Diane closed the window, slipped back into her bed, and closed her eyes to the sound of clanging metal.When she awoke again in the morning, the suspicious sound of the night had disappeared, only to be replaced by the tranquil sound of wind whipping across her window. Walking down the stairs, she again looked across the family portraits, before making her way to the kitchen, where Gregory sat with a newspaper in hand.“Hi there. How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty good. Where is the rest of the family?”
Calmly he answered, “Out back in the barn house.”His eyes penetrated through Diane, creating an uncomfortable feeling. In a simple wooden chair, Gregory sat in the same clothes as the night before, but his left pant leg was now stained red. “Do you work with animals on the farm?” Diane asked.“No,” Gregory answered in a monotone.Diane stayed quiet for a few seconds, “Are you ready to head into town?”“Sure am. Just give me a second to get something from the back room.”“Ok,” she responded.Gregory slowly took one last sip from his mug and walked into the other room. Making sure he had left the room, Diane traipsed over to the table Gregory had been sitting at and picked up his newspaper.
“Missing Person Marks Seventh Disappearance Case in Last Year.”
She read further.“Over the past year, seven people have disappeared on the stretch of road located between Brockwood and Huntsville.”All of sudden, a voice spoke behind Diane, causing her to jump, “Ready?” Gregory asked. “Yes,” Diane quickly replied as she tried to surreptitiously place the newspaper back onto the kitchen table.The pair walked back through the house’s entryway and lumbered themselves into the red truck, now highlighted by the morning sun.The car cruised along the empty road as wind hammered the car’s windows. “Do you mind if I put on the radio?” Gregory asked.“Go ahead.”Gregory placed his hand on the car radio’s knob, creating an irritating sound, soon replaced by the sound of “Knoxville Girl” by The Louvin Brothers. The song’s lyrics blared over the sound of the engine.“I met a little girl in Knoxville a Town we all know well.”“Stop here for a moment,” Diane asked calmly.Gregory stared at the road ahead.“How far are we from town, Gregory?” she whispered. She slowly turned her head towards Gregory and gave the same easy-going grin he had given her multiple times before, but this time, there was something sinister beneath it.“Not far,” he replied, pulling the car to the side of the road. “Don’t you want to get to town?” Staring deeply into Gregory’s eyes with a frozen grin, she softly said, “Not today.”The radio stifled the sound of his screams, as the song on the radio continued to croon in unison,
“Oh Willy dear, don’t kill me here, I’m unprepared to die.”© The Aesthetic 2023

The Glance

Jackie woke up startled. Her glazed eyes glanced across the living room, still draped in the early morning’s shadows. She raised her hand and rubbed her tired eyes, watching a race of car lights flash across the room. Rising from her bed, Jackie noticed a poorly taped letter on her door. Inching closer, the letter read, “Party at 8 - should be fun.” Jackie rolled her eyes. While it had only been two weeks since she had entered college, Jackie had already grown tired of the same agenda her classmates resorted to. Walking to her closet, she drew a yellow flannel, pulled it across her slender frame, and opened the door.Jackie wandered around the school’s campus, illuminated by the sky’s final light. Despite the large number of students living there, the usually popular fields more resembled the empty farms that Jackie had grown up around. The farms she used to run through in a careless stride and a cheerful grin. God, she missed those days. To Jackie, her life today was an unfamiliar one. One that seemed to hide her past in a search for her future.As she walked, Jackie scraped the fallen autumn leaves across the cement with her boot and thought about her roommate’s offer. Do I really want to be at another one of these vapid parties? At the beginning of the year, the idea of a party with a room of her closest friends had charmed her; less that she wanted to act recklessly and more it was a change from her own experience -an experience she believed would be better changed.Halfway along the lantern-lit path, Jackie placed her hand in her coat’s pocket. Inside, she felt a small, crumpled piece of paper. *The note. *Pulling it out, she read the message again “Party at 8- should be fun.” The longer she looked at it, the more the words seemed to merge together in a confusing swirl. After a moment of indecision, she pulled the note back. Alright, I’ll go for a little bit. But just a little bit. The voice in her head spoke in a manner that seemed to have to convince herself of her own decision.A few hours later, Jackie entered the house party held by some of the school’s upper students. Peering across a sea of drunken, overly happy, and blubbering sad students, Jackie instinctively looked for her roommate. Almost instantly, her gaze was met with a pair of deep blue eyes. Yet, the eyes that stared back with equal attention were not those of her roommates but rather a boy with smooth auburn hair and a crooked grin. Jackie’s heart sank into a sea of ocean blue. In her transfixed gaze, the boy seemed highlighted over the rest of the crowd by the house’s junky party lights. As she stared, the people surrounding her moved at impossibly slow speeds. The moment seemed to last forever until the time surrounding Jackie returned to normal, and the boy’s crooked yet beautiful grin disappeared into the crowd.Whatever remained of Jackie’s dreamy state was broken by two arms wrapping around her back. “There you are,” a voice yelled in a familiar and unstable tone.“I’ve been looking all over for you, Jackie.”Jackie turned her head around and saw her roommate, who had obviously been enjoying the party too much for her own good. Before answering, Jackie scanned the room, hoping for another glance of sea blue eyes. Nothing. She pivoted back to her roommate, who held her shoulder firmly in what seemed to be a battle between herself and the floor.“You’ve been looking for me? I’ve been trying to find you all night. The only reason I’m here is because of your note in our room.”“Oh yeah…that. I totally forgot about that. I was waiting for you here, but then thought, what the heck, I’ll have one drink,” the roommate responded through gulps of intempered laughter.“One drink? It seems you’ve had a whole factory’s worth,” Jackie responded sardonically.“Well, maybe it was more than one. You tell me?”“Alright, that’s just about enough of you. Let me get you back to the dorm.”“Aww… but the nights just starting, Jacks,” the roommate begged.“I think the night is done for you.”Jackie pulled the pleading roommate onto her chest as she took one final scan of the room. No sign of him. Disappointed, Jackie walked carefully through a floor mosaic of half-empty cans, chip bags, and other sleeping students before making it to the front door; all the while, her roommate drunkenly chanted, “Jacks…Jack…Jack and the beanstalk!”It was going to be a long year.© The Aesthetic 2023

The 500

List of CharactersCASEY. A middle-aged salesman who lives in “Palisades Paradise,” a run-down apartment complex in Lincoln Heights, Los Angeles.CROOK. A low-level thief who “works” in Lincoln Heights.MS. HAWKING. An elderly widow in her 70s who has lived in “Palisades Paradise” since the 1960s.Setting
A small apartment complex named “Palisades Paradise” in Lincoln Heights, Los Angeles, in the summer heatwave of 1989. The stage is set up as follows: A small staircase leads to a single door on stage left; farther stage right is a table; a wooden chair; a kitchen cabinet; and the outline of a small window.SCENE 1(CASEY grips a bundle of papers and envelopes under his arm as he struggles to open his apartment door. From behind, Ms. Hawking strikes up a conversation with him.)MS. HAWKING
Casey, is that you?CASEY
Evening Ms. Hawking. How is everything?MS. HAWKING
Fine. Say Casey, have you seen that they closed the old bakery off of Chester? I know the politicians want to change this place, but I say that isn’t what’s wrong around here.CASEY
Can’t say I have. Been awful busy down at the office the past few months. I can’t take much more of… (interrupted by Ms. Hawking.)MS. HAWKING
Well, I think it’s just dreadful. What could possibly replace such a neighborhood landmark?CASEY
Times are changing Ms. Hawking. Lincoln Heights isn’t what it used to be. Night.(CASEY closes the door and enters his apartment.)CASEY
God, that walk home just gets harder and harder. (muttering to himself.)(He sets the papers on the table and sits on the chair.)(Flipping through the papers looking for his monthly paycheck.) Bills. Nothing but damn bills. (runs his hands tensely through his hair.) How can I pay for these? Jesus.(CASEY throws the bills down on the table and walks over to the kitchen, where he takes out a glass and fills it with water. Suddenly the phone rings. He quickly sips his drink before walking over to the phone.)CASEY
(Picks up the phone.) Hello. (waits a moment.) Yes, I’m him.(Beat.) What? Can you repeat that?(Beat.) What did you say, officer?(Beat.) Charlie? Robbery?(Beat.) Well, what are you saying officer? $2,500 by tomorrow? (the phone clicks.)(CASEY remains stunned in silence with the phone dangling in his hand.)CASEY
Jesus (looks towards the floor.) Charlie, what the hell did you get yourself into?What am I going to do? What am I going to do? (nervously.)(CASEY holds the phone in his hand before dialing another number.)Hey, listen I know I said I wouldn’t call you, but I’m in some real trouble.(Pause.)Yeah, I know what you told me, Mitch. I’m begging you, just do this for me one last time. I’ll make it worth your while.Who? Tell him to meet me in the back of the complex in an hour. I need it tonight. (Phone clicks off.)SCENE 2(CASEY is standing stage left under a street light in front of his darkened apartment. Another man walks up to him from stage right, dressed in a dark, tattered jacket and an oddly colorful shirt.)CROOK
You Casey? (roughly.)CASEY
Yes. (looks side to side.) Now I don’t know if you know…CROOK
I know enough. (takes a cigarette out from his coat pocket and lights it.) Want a smoke?CASEY
Nah, I don’t smoke anymore. Stresses me out.CROOK
Hmm. (nods head.) Now when do you want to do it? I don’t have all night.CASEY
No…wait…listen. I don’t want to do anything. That’s what I need you for. You see, my brother just got arrested and is being held downtown. I don’t have the money to bail him out.CROOK
I see. (takes a puff from his cigarette and breathes out deeply.)CASEY
I haven’t seen him in months, but he’s still my brother. You know, he’s got a bad habit of getting into these kind of situations. Two years ago, he got into trouble gambling with some bad people and… (holds his hand to his forehead.) Look, I just need your help.CROOK
Sounds like a hell of a brother. (laughs slightly.)CASEY
You gotta understand. When we were young, and our mom was out working odd jobs in town, it was only me and him. We took care of each other.CASEY
I even remember one night when my mom came home crying and drunk…worse than usual. He came into my room and brought me a stack of those old Amazing Spiderman comic books he got off of this old man who lived next door. We stayed up the whole night just flipping through those pages. Laughing about the ridiculous villain names and how Spiderman should’ve lost at least one of those fights. God, I never wanted to leave that room. (a small smile escapes his face.)(A small pause.)Point is… he looked out for me, and now I gotta look out for him. I owe him that much.CROOK
Look, don’t give me no sob story. Plenty men have one. Now, I’ll help you out, but you’ve got to rob the place too. I ain’t pulling no one-man job.CASEY
I can’t. I just can’t. (stammering.) I’ve got a job now…one that pays pretty well. I mean, it ain’t great but it's something. I can’t put that at risk. Took me this long just to get here.CROOK
Fine, then I’m gone. (starts to leave stage right.)(CASEY thinks about the situation for a moment before calling out to CROOK.)CASEY
Fine, wait! ( CROOK turns around.) I’ll come. I’ll come. (defeated.)CROOK
Alright then. Cut’s 60-40. I’ll meet you right here at ten. On the dot. (takes time saying each syllable of “on the dot.”)
CROOK
One more thing. You better be prepared to go all the way. This business ain’t for the half-hearted.(CROOK leaves stage left. CASEY remains under the solitary street light pondering if his decision to save his brother’s life will mean the end of his. He leaves stage left.)SCENE 3(CASEY sits on a chair in his kitchen. The stage is dark except for a single dim light that hangs above his head. On the table is a letter that CASEY is writing. He reads his writing out loud to the audience.)CASEY
Charlie, hopefully I’ll be able to tell you this in person, but tonight, I’m getting you out. You don’t need to know how, but best believe I’ll come through.(Beat.) Shame we haven’t spoken lately. I know you got your reasons but let me tell you that you need to get it together. You can’t keep going this way anymore. I know mom’s death was hard, but we need to stay together.(Beat.) Do you remember when you brought me those comics? Remember when we stayed up all night with that old broken flashlight that never gave enough light to read anything, so we just looked at the pictures, making fun of all those crazy names. I never forgot that night. You’re all I got Charlie. You should know that… I can’t lose you.(CASEY stares at the letter for a moment before sighing deeply, ripping it up, and throwing it in the trash can beside the table.)
SCENE 4(CASEY frantically struggles to open the door to his apartment. The robbery has gone horribly wrong, and CASEY is now on the run from the cops. His white shirt is now stained a harsh red and his once slicked-back hair is disheveled.)
CASEY
C’mon, open up. Open up! (he knocks the door open hard and practically falls into the room.)Jesus. What am I going to do? (talking to himself.)(CASEY heaves a black duffel bag onto his kitchen table. He walks over to his window and closes the blinds with a twist.)I never wanted any of this. Okay. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Casey think…c’mon think.
(talking to himself to calm his nerves.)Did they see you leaving? Think. (slaps his head to jog his memory.)You stood behind him as he yelled for the money. Then, he grabbed the cash. All of sudden, the whole city’s department is down on you just like that? (motions his arm in a snapping motion.)
Must be those damn politicians in town for a publicity stunt.It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. That crook knew it too. Soon as he heard ‘em, he took off. He was never on my side was he? Probably just needed a body to steal some cash. Should’ve never gone and trusted Mitch. He’s always been trouble. (anxiously runs his hands through his hair.)Then you heard a shot. That crook, down on the ground. Sunk like a stone. So what did you do? You took the bag, ran out the back, and barely made it back here.(CASEY gets up and walks over to his kitchen, takes out a hidden cigarette from the cabinet, and starts smoking it restlessly.)Okay, where’s the cash? Where is it?Remember who we did this for. For your brother. For Charlie. (takes a calming breath.)Just count the money and get out of here. Pay his bail and it’ll all be over. (exhales.)(CASEY quickly paces over to the kitchen table set on stage right and unzips the duffel bag. He then starts digging through the bag to find what he is looking for.)(The audience hears a faint police siren growing louder.)Where is it? Come on now. Where is it? (increasingly restless.)MS. HAWKING
(Pounding on CASEY’s door in concern.) Casey? Is everything all right in there? I hear voices.CASEY
There it is. (pulls the money out of the bag in one ungraceful movement.)(CASEY takes the money and begins counting it.)(The pounding on the door grows louder.)
MS. HAWKING
Casey? What’s going on in there?
CASEY
1000…1800…1900…2000.No. No. That can’t be it. Where’s the rest? Where’s the rest?(CASEY again rips open the bag, frantically searching for the final five hundred dollars, but it is nowhere to be found. Upon this realization, CASEY falls apart.)No, no, NO! (each increasingly louder and more dismayed.) It can’t be. 500 more. Where’s the 500? 500 frees Charlie. 500 gets him out of there. 500 makes it worth it. Five…hundred! (voice crescendos.)(Falls to the floor crying.) I just wanted to help.(CASEY sits on the floor as the noise of sirens grows around him. The glow of red and blue flashes across the stage illuminating CASEY’s figure. The stage fades to black as he continues to weep.)© The Aesthetic 2023

Eight Count

Even though the time was far past 11 o’clock, the restaurant still buzzed with a hum of life and activity. The soft, lumpy, cherry-red booths lining the walls were filled with all sorts of characters. There were, of course, late-night truckers with tired eyes and unrested faces who leaned up against the booth’s backing, hoping it would hold them from their exhaustion. Then there were lovers, pairs who had just most probably returned from a lovely date at the lantern-lit waterfront or even a dirty yet lovable movie theater that only played the greats from an earlier era. Finally, there were the loners. Ones with nothing to do or nowhere to be on a frigid, wind-glazed autumn night. These were always the saddest cases.On the far side of the restaurant, decorated with faded pictures of the local area and decade-old frames of past stars and Hollywood bombshells, sat a man dressed in a silver overcoat and simple hat. As he took the final sip from his drink, his other hand fumbled nervously with a piece of paper on the table. He looked out from the window. The season’s frost made beautiful complex pastels on the glass. The nights were cold this time of year, but never as cold as this.The man awoke from his trance to the noise of a waitress’ high, shrill voice. “Coffee?” she asked, in a tone so mechanical it was obvious that she couldn’t care less about his answer. He waited a moment before responding. “Yes.” The piping hot, oil black coffee poured into his glass. Before taking a sip, he glanced upward, noticing a clock. 11:35. God, it’s getting real late. Seemingly on cue with his internal realization, a hoard of people stepped promptly towards the exit. The man took a sip of his beverage before lifting himself from the wooden chair.As he approached the exit, a voice thick with past emotion spoke behind him, “Anderson?” The man stopped in his tracks. Without flinching, he turned his head toward the voice and watched with anxious eyes as a small, unassuming man dressed in a tattered brown jacket stood in the voice’s spot. His eyes, filled with a smoky grey, looked pensively.“Can I help you?”“Are you Roy Anderson?”His eyes remained fixated. The men exchanged looks before words surfaced. “Yes, I am.” While Roy stood still, his hands twitched across the piece of paper he still held in his coat pocket. “Who are you?”“Listen. You probably don’t know me, but my name is Eugene. Eugene Clinton.”Roy felt a deep pain in his stomach, causing him to take a long, bitter sigh.“Nice to meet you, Eugene. But it’s getting late. I better be getting home.” He nodded his head politely and turned around, pacing softly towards the neon-colored exit sign that feebly hummed with light.“July 8th, 1959. New York. The Garden.”Roy once again halted in his tracks. Turning slowly to face him, Roy asked, “What did you say?” The younger man repeated his words with grave seriousness. Both men stood silent before Roy uttered, “I haven’t heard that in a long time.”“Listen, I need to talk with you.”“What do you need, son?”“I know many people couldn’t care less about that date or the place, but I remember. These people sitting in this old dump of a diner don’t know. But I do. You’re Roy Anderson.”“What do you want.”“You’re Roy Anderson. The boxer. The undefeated champ. Before that night, you were on top of the world. God, I wonder how that felt.”“Short.”“What do you remember about that night? Do you remember the lights, those brand-new velvet seats? The crowd all dressed up just for you? I mean, it’s just….”“Listen. Eugene, I’m not here to think about days gone. Now, what do you want from me?”“Do you remember who you fought that night?”“Of course I do.” Roy’s voice faltered as he looked sharply to the floor.“How could I forget.”As he spoke, a darkness fell over his face. Roy turned himself toward one of the waitresses in the midst of cleaning up a booth and asked politely, “Miss, how bout one more cup of coffee?” She finished wiping her rag on the table and answered.“Sure, mister. But we’re closing in a half hour.”Roy nodded accordingly and changed his focus to Eugene. “We should talk.”The pair sat together at the table as the fall wind outside pounded on the glass. Roy set down his mug, already almost empty, and took off his hat, placing it on the booth seat beside him.“What do you know, Eugene?”“I know enough that I needed to find you.”“What happened to my dad, Roy?” His voice crumbled.“That was a long time ago. He knew what would happen.”“Did he? I never saw him again.”“Eugene. You don’t know the half of it.” Roy’s eyes gazed solemnly.“Then tell me.”“Your dad was one of the best men I knew. I still remember the day that I heard about him. I was on the corner of 7th and Washington in one of the booths with a man claiming that he had found the next champion. I didn’t believe it.”“When I finally watched one of his matches in the old shed on the waterfront, I knew he was real.”“That was in ‘56, but I knew I was going to get in the ring with him sooner than later.” As he spoke, Roy’s eyes shone with the golden nostalgia of a simpler time.“Thing is. He left everything to become who he was. So the time he needed it most, he had nothing.”Roy’s eyes stayed joined with Eugene’s as his eyes flooded with a wild grey sadness with every word.“Don’t believe what you’re told, kid. Your dad was a fine man, but when you’ve got everything, it’s hard to see what’s really there.”Eugene shook his head in sorrowful agreement.As Roy picked his glass back up from the counter, inhaling a faceful of steam that flowed in the cold, dingy diner, he turned his head back towards one of the waitresses.“Miss, you got any of those to-go cups? I think it’s really about time I left.”“Yes, I’ll get one.” she returned in her shrill voice.Eugene remained his fixed stare on Roy as he calmly looked out the frosted window.“Where do you think you’re going?”“Home,” Roy stated bluntly.“The past is the past. Your father was a good man Eugene. You should believe that. But what’s done is done, and I’m finished talking about it. Have a good night.”Roy got up from his seat, readjusted his suit, and walked out the door, chiming a single note from the door’s bell. The night was cold as he walked, the autumn wind hissing violently around him. Walking to his car, Roy heard a slight echo in his steps. Continuing on, the mirrored sounds behind him grew louder. Roy jerked his neck backward, expecting to see someone, yet all that was there was the diner’s desolate lot. Listening carefully to what surrounded him, Roy made it to his car. The harsh screech of the wind erupted once again, causing Roy to block his ears. Trying desperately to enter his car, he fumbled with his pockets to find his keys. After some struggle, he pulled his keys out of his pocket. The paper he had been fumbling with earlier flew out, stolen by the night’s wind. Roy cursed to himself. Entering his car and closing the door, Roy was met with silence. Suddenly, a familiar voice spoke out from behind him.“How long did it take again? Three rounds?”Roy raised his eyes to the car’s mirror, where Eugene sat calmly in the back seat. His demeanor had changed since Roy had last talked to him.“You never did tell me, did you?”“What are you doing, Eugene?” Roy voiced concernedly.Ignoring Roy, Eugene continued, “You have no idea what it was like. The night I found out—the days after- I cried. I never knew why? How could such a horrible thing happen? Why to me?”“Now that I know, it doesn’t change much. My father was not a good man. No point lying to me. But you aren’t either, Roy. That golden glow of fame and glory has soured on you. You’ve made such poor mistakes, and now I’m here to make you pay.”“You know Roy, life’s funny. Isn’t it? They killed my dad because of you, and now you’re going to die because of them. I guess dems the brakes.”As Roy tried desperately to exit the car, which was now locked, he dropped his keys once again. Roy watched in horror as the same smoky grey eyes grew nearer. As Eugune moved closer, Roy could hear a faint whisper of a boxing call, "one..two...three...four." His scream hid under the night’s wind.© The Aesthetic 2023

Cherry Street

In a town named Olema, on a small but quaint street, lived a girl named Marilyn. Named after the famed actress of the former decade, Marilyn’s parents had moved to the house on Cherry Street in an attempt for a peaceful reprieve from the city. The town of Olema was famous for its former success in California’s great gold rush but had, in the years after, outgrown its former prosperity and, for the next century, was resigned to a small assortment of charming yet declining Victorian style homes and shops strewn across a simple three blocks. So, there in Olema, in a rose-colored home, Marilyn learned about the world around her.The lost history of Olema often seemed to hang over its citizens like a morning fog that, despite being constant in the air around, was not enough to block the view. When Marilyn’s parents had first moved, they often would joke about the past, claiming the golden colored paint that lined their home’s windows was forged in a long-forgotten Californian treasure. On days when the coast’s morning frost crept into the house’s warm, Marilyn would open her window, inhale the fresh, sweet air, and observe the buzzing town beneath her. Below her second-story window, Marilyn would watch as men dressed in loosely fitted overalls and puffer jackets walked purposely, armed with their tools of the day.Some days, as Marilyn walked aimlessly around town, she would spot travelers. These groups, with their tired eyes and unwashed faces, never stayed long, often retreating from the town’s small charm for the allure of the endless road. Curious of their seemed aversion to her home, Marilyn often asked travelers why they refused to stay. Their response was always the same.“Oh, hi, little one. No, we can’t be staying. We’re just passing by on the road to Frisco.”Unlike others in her town, Marilyn never understood this sentiment. Why would someone choose to be on a cold, unforgiving road when they could buy a real genuine artifact from the Smith’s shop or get a nice filling meal from the Meriln family who lived down the street?As Marilyn grew older, she spent Olema’s summers in the meadows hidden behind her home. There, she walked carefree along the hill’s long winding paths, enjoying the wind that whipped tenderly across her face and the bashful creatures that surrounded her. When she finally felt it time to return to Cherry Street, the sky would be dark, and her home silent, filled with sleeping people and cold meals. During that summer, Marilyn spent every waking moment this way.In Autumn, Marilyn met her first love named Edwin: a shy boy with a crooked smile but sweet face. Together, they spent every moment by one’s side, dreaming about a future together spent in a small house off of the Golden Coast. Being realistic about their dream, the boy promised to follow in his family’s footsteps working as a farmhand while Marilyn would go on to become the best saleswoman in Northern California. On their walks back from school, Edwin would make Marilyn laugh, telling her,“Y’know, Mer. You could sell a real businessman his own company.”As the nights grew colder and the morning dew turned to frost, Marilyn and Edwin saw less and less of each other. By the season’s end, the pair hadn’t talked for weeks, and their once charming future together was resigned to a collection of awkward glances across a classroom.The following year, Marilyn’s parents decided they had had enough of Olema’s small-town charm and that the city’s promise of better pay and hours was worth the move. Unsurprisingly, Marilyn disagreed. She argued, begged, ignored, and cried, but her parents remained unmoved in their thinking.In the spring, the meadows behind Marilyn’s house seemed to burden the truth. The lime-colored hills grew tattered and harsh, and the creeks struggled to flow and instead dripped slowly like tears. Even the once breathtaking house on Cherry Street, with its crimson red paint, looked worn and faded in the sun. It was time to leave. Without realizing it, Marilyn had outgrown her town, or maybe it had outgrown her.On her final encounter with Olema, Marilyn felt older. The town she believed would remain stainless forever had grown spots of faded and disjointed memory. As she entered the car to leave, Marilyn closed her eyes tightly. In her mind, she pictured home, its red walls glowing in the sun’s gleam, the meadows dancing to the morning’s wind. She smiled. In her memory, home stayed. On a small but quaint street named Cherry.© The Aesthetic 2023

To Dance Under a Red Sky

“Is it always this blue?” Luna moved her hands to the sun, letting the light and shadows intertwine between her fingers. She watched as the sky moved calmly, each wispy cloud floating across a lazy river of blue. As Luna looked intently at the clouds, she remembered something her dad had told her a few months ago while trekking the empty fields behind her home. If you look hard enough, you can see your future. Recalling his sage advice, Luna scrunched her face in concentration as she peered up towards the clouds. At first, they all appeared the same. Squeezing her hands together as hard as she could, she stared across the blue sky. “Aha! Mom…Mom. I can see my future!” She heard her mom’s distant voice within the house, “That’s nice, Little Moon. What is it?”“It’s a ballerina! Mom, look!”“Okay, Luna. Give me one second.”As Luna’s eyes remained glued to the cloud, she jumped up and down in a mix of frustration and happiness, waiting for her mom. Luna heard the screen door shut beside her.“Mom! Can you see it?”Feigning the same level of excitement as Luna, her mom replied, “Yes, Little Moon. That’s wonderful.”“Now, make sure to get ready. Dad’s getting home pretty soon. He says he had something important to tell us.”As Luna heard the screen door shut again, she turned her eyes from the clouds and imagined herself on a large stage, twirling in the most beautiful outfit she had ever seen. Moving with such grace and beauty, Luna leapt across the stage, her audience in awe. Suddenly, her eyes opened, and she stood once again in her backyard. Luna took one last look at the sky before running inside, shutting the screen door behind her.Inside the house, she noticed her dad sitting in the kitchen. Brimming with excitement, she ran up and jumped onto him, nearly wrestling him to the ground with her hug.
“Hi, Little Moon. How has your day been,” Luna’s dad asked in a soft, gentle voice.“Dad, I found my future.”Luna’s dad swung her playfully in his arms as she continued to bubble with excitement about her discovery.“The clouds told me I’m going to be a ballerina,” she exclaimed.“Wow. I always knew, honey. I told you the clouds always know.”Suddenly, Luna’s mom entered the room, and the mood took on a more serious tone. Luna’s dad stared her in the eyes with a tainted glance of joy before saying,“Alright, Little Moon, let me talk with Mom for a tiny bit. I’ll see you later.”Luna climbed down from her father’s arms and walked back outside, forgetting to close the screen door behind her. As she returned to where she was before, staring at the wispy clouds that flew above, she heard the soft murmur of conversation within the house. While it sounded normal to Luna at first, the voices began to grow louder. Trying to close her eyes, she imagined herself within a world-class theater. The ballerinas, dressed in beautiful fabrics, moved effortlessly across stained wood to orchestral ethereal music. Luna watched from the front row as they seemed to glide in front of her. However, as the arguing grew louder outside her imagined world, Luna’s vision became more and more corrupted. The dancers’ graceful moves were pierced by sounds of reality, forcing Luna to open her eyes and face her truth. She could not take it anymore. She opened her eyes fully and began to inch herself toward the still-opened screen door. Surreptitiously positioning her body against the cream stucco wall, Luna placed her ear against the screen door. Inside, she could hear the voices of her parents,“How could you take a job with them?”“You know I had no choice. I’ve gone through every single one in this town.”“Do you know what this does…for the future? She’s going to grow up in it.”“Don’t you think I understand? We have no choice.”Someone took a deep, meditative breath.“Where is it going up?”“I don’t know yet.”“I hope to god it’s not near here. We can’t have the family around that.”Unexpectedly, the voices in the house stopped. Waiting a few moments before peering inside, Luna saw the kitchen empty.
For the next month, very little in Luna’s life changed on the outside. She attended school, daydreamed during class great fantasies of tutus and symphonies, returned home in the evenings to her mom and dad, and watched as the clouds changed across the seasons from her backyard. In fact, had it not been for a muggy August evening, Luna’s life would have stayed the same. That summer had been much hotter than the ones previous. In the morning, steam rose off the neighborhood cement, and in the evenings, the day’s searing memory lingered deep into the night. In town, the biggest news was that the local government had begun construction on a power plant just outside of the neighborhood where Luna lived. Shortly after construction finished in late spring, its oil-tinged chimney smoke began to fire, twisting the spring’s bright colors with a blend of repugnant grey and black.One night, after spending the evening outside watching the clouds move over an autumn sky, Luna noticed dark colors beginning to swirl and weave themselves with the blue sky. As the colors grew more prominent, Luna became worried this mysterious smoke was hurting the sky she had grown to love. Running inside her home to find her parents, Luna realized that her home seemed empty. She called out the names of her parents but to no response. Running through the home, Luna heard a harsh cough coming from the last room upstairs.“Dad? Mom? The sky is hurting…” Her eyes stopped her words. In the bedroom, her father’s frail figure lay slumped on a chair in the corner.
“Dad? Are you ok?” Immediately, Luna’s father’s sickly composure returned to his usual healthy self.
“Yes, little one. Just tired, that’s all.” He coughed again, this time spitting dark color onto the floor. Not quite believing what she saw but trusting her father, Luna continued on with what she had originally come there for.“The sky is hurting,” Luna pleaded.“What do you mean,” her father replied.“The sky is hurting.”Slowly, Luna’s father eased himself to his feet and walked outside. Instantly, he could see exactly what his daughter meant. In the once-blue sky were now swirls of dark ink and gray. As Luna watched beside him, she noticed her dad becoming visibly emotional. In his eyes, she could see his conflict between happiness and reality.For the next weeks, very little changed in Luna’s life on the outside. She attended school, dreamed during class with the same fantasies of tutus and symphonies, came home in the evenings to her mom and dad, and then watched as the clouds changed across the seasons from her backyard. Yet these were not the same clouds or the same sky.As the summer continued, the black smoke that was once entangled with the blue sky now consumed it. In school, Luna watched as other children suddenly became violently ill. When she arrived home, there was no longer anyone to watch the sky with her. Her mom was overwhelmed with the responsibility of her new jobs, while her father became increasingly resigned to his room, where Luna heard the faint echoes of his sickly coughs from their backyard.At the end of summer, when the morning’s heat had given way to fall wind and the evening was glazed with an amber sun, the sky turned a deep crimson. Endless wildfires from the nearby mountains combined with the factory smoke made the place where Luna called home a visible hell. On the way to school, Luna could hear the other kids whispering about the red sky. Their words frightened her. As they spoke, Luna closed her eyes and imagined a place where a blue sky still existed, a place where she could still dance with the grass between her feet. Finally, she could breathe.
As she entered the classroom, Luna felt the weight of the sky. Everywhere, the crimson glow burned. Sitting in her chair, she pulled herself back into her dream. She imagined the breathtaking landscape and the beauty of her movement. There, she leapt weightless, almost flying. Luna’s dream was interrupted by the harsh voice of the school secretary,“Luna Bridges. Will you please come to the front desk?”Luna felt her body tense as she walked down the hall. Turning the final corner, she saw her mom standing near the desk. Her eyes drowned in silent sadness.Hours later, Luna sat alone in the hospital waiting room, surrounded by an eerie glow that smoldered in the sky outside. Luna closed her eyes, hoping to escape. Trying to lose herself in her memories, all she could see was the red sky. No matter how hard her eyes tightened, the red color bled through. It was all that remained.© The Aesthetic 2023

• The Aesthetic

Issue 01

Exclusive Stories

• The 500

• A Heaven From Hell

• To Dance Under a Red Sky

• Interview

• The Aesthetic

Gavin McLoughlin on Archer City, 1966

What inspired you to write this story?
I was inspired by many things to write this story. Before I began, I had this strong idea of a melancholic Americana. In America, this era of the 60s, on its surface, is presented as a conflicted time of American pride. I found it interesting to show a character with all of the ideal characteristics one could give the all-American boy and give them an immense vulnerability underneath it.The setting of your story feels incredibly vivid and immersive. How did you go about researching or creating the world in which the story takes place?The creation of this story took part in an unusual place. Before writing, I had a strong idea of what I wanted the atmosphere to feel like. Therefore to accomplish this goal, I went onto google maps and started looking for small rural towns that matched the image I imagined. One of the places I found early on was Archer City, Texas. Looking at the town, I knew this was the perfect place to construct my story. Once I knew this, I began researching fascinating facts about the town that could give the world a more realistic feeling. From there on out, the story came naturally.Your characters are very well-developed and relatable. Can you share your process for crafting these characters and bringing them to life?
Every character I create is part fact, part fiction. There are always inevitably parts of your own story inside the stories you write. However, for this particular story, I chose to frame the main character as a narrator to drive the story. Therefore, I had to rely solely upon action and dialogue to make the characters feel authentic to the audience. This was a challenging process, but I believe I delivered a character my readers can empathize with.The plot twist is an integral part of this story. How do you approach plotting, and did you have the ending in mind from the beginning?
I remember reading something from Stephen King in which he said he never prepares his plot and lets his story take him wherever it ends up. I employ a very similar approach when I write. While I generally have an idea for the story idea before writing, I enjoy exploring the creative process and discovering where the story will ultimately lead. For Archer City, 1966, I had many story elements completed in my head, but I used the story's narrative flow to determine where it would finish.Are there any specific authors or literary influences that have inspired the way you write?
While every author is inspired by the authors they've read in the past, I always try to approach each new story with a clear mind and explore new and unique writing styles that are not reminiscent of any other author's style of any genre. However, some narratives feel more authentic when written in a particular manner and parlance. Archer City 1966 was influenced by many types of stories, such as The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry. I drew inspiration from this story's theme of adolescence in a declining rural town.

A Heaven From Hell

• About This Story

In the early morning of June 12th, the trees in Mound Bayou swung softly to a cold breeze. As it moved gently through the neighborhood’s unlit streets, the mockingbirds that usually sang its arrival remained silent. For the past months, the chirps of these birds seemed nowhere to be found, their tongues parched by the heat that plagued the city of Jackson, Mississippi, growing only more intense through brutal days and endless nights.The silence of the morning was broken by the mild hum of a car’s engine. As it approached a small suburban street named Margaret Walker Alexander, the car’s headlights brightly shined against a row of lurching trees. The car, newly painted a cream white, continued its way past a line of unlit homes before finally slowing down and turning into the front of a quaint turquoise-colored garage. Despite the noise of the engine, the street remained eerily silent.
Quickly this silence was pierced by the sound of a car door opening. In the early morning’s shadow, a man pulled himself out of the car and looked out across the road, his eyes exhausted from another tireless night of work. As he picked up a suitcase and a sloppily thrown-together box of clothes from his back seat, the man looked contemplatively in the darkness, not for anything particular but instead to take in the place around him, still blissfully unaware of tomorrow. While he could feel the morning breeze against his face, he also felt the future day’s heat waiting to rise from the air, blistering and bruising his skin. Turning himself to his home, the man brought his items up onto his chest and walked towards a screen door lit by a single porch light. He took only a few steps forward before he felt a new gust of frigid air pierce the back of his worn button-down shirt. A single scream hit the morning air.Immediately, the man fell hard against the concrete. As he lifted his body up to meet the searing pain he felt, he noticed a pool of dark red growing around him. As loud as the shot had been a moment ago, the neighborhood remained deadly quiet, either in blissful ignorance or knowing resentment.Despite the overwhelming pain, the man brought himself up to his knees, limping forward, the image of his painted screen door blurring in his mindless panic. As his sight and strength grew fainter, a powerful memory returned. A memory blurred with trauma and patriotic courage from a foreign place, limping across bullet-strewn fields under dark clouded skies, asking only for a simple thing in return. With all left of his strength, the man placed his hand on the screen door. There, in front of his family home, he collapsed for the final time.Across the street, a pair of anonymous eyes watched pleasurably as the neighborhood returned to the early morning silence. While these eyes had never met the man who now sat motionlessly on the floor, they had seen eachother many times. In diners, in schools, in city streets, in hotel rooms. The man who now lay face down faced these eyes every day. After a moment, the pair of beady eyes fell away, and the colorful, turquoise screen door ripped open in fear. A scream once again echoed throughout the neighborhood. It wasn’t quiet anymore.The following morning, there was no breeze to quell the heat that burned from the ground below. The mockingbirds who remained silent throughout the brutal heat now screeched and cried in rural and urban streets alike. Jackson, a town sewn together by a few worn strings, had unraveled, and the anger that had risen with the summer heat had finally reached its climax. Faces of grief, resentment, and outrage marched, hoping their unity would be a tribute to tears and a thrust for freedom. Yet their unity was met by another malicious kind. The city streets soon sang with the screams of men and women who, again and again, were beaten viciously and forced to run from something that would only follow.On the day of the funeral, it seemed every person within the town had stuffed themselves inside the Masonic Temple on Lynch Street, where they watched a grief-stricken woman speak gracefully about what had happened three nights prior. As her words resounded through the crowd, they remembered what the man had done in his short life. They remembered a humid August eight years before, just a few miles from where they now stood, where a young man had been discovered at the bank of the Tallahatchie, and the equality men spoke of was found bloodied, bruised, and bloated. They remembered ghoulish grins in stuffed courtrooms where “justice” hung out of reach in chalky white hands. They remembered days spent in dimly lit churches filled with the sounds of suffering. They remembered having to watch as children played behind decayed white picket fences and groups of up to twenty rode through streets holding only rope and hate. They remembered it all.As the people in stands watched the woman finish her eulogy, she uttered one simple but important line, “Do not let Medgar’s death be in vain.” From these words was built a new movement. No matter how hard the journey would be, they would not let his death be in vain. They would continue to build upon what he had achieved in his short life. They would make a heaven from hell.© The Aesthetic 2023

Silver Bullet

From the very first day, Philip Dean lived as if it was his last. Stories about him as a young child leaping off of rusted bridges, pickpocketing close neighbors, and even stealing from his teachers during detention always surrounded him wherever he went. Still, when you met him, with the image of some no-good James-Dean crook with an attitude in mind, you were quickly mistaken. Philip did retain some of the mystique, but when you met him, he seemed like any average man. He held a somewhat burly figure, dressed in ordinary clothes, and had his dark hair neatly combed, albeit messier than most. The one part of Phillip Dean that stuck out to everyone was his eyes that blazed with a reckless intensity.When I finally met Phillip Dean in ‘63, he was in his mid-thirties and had long wrinkles on his forehead and dark, sleepless color under his eyes, but somehow you could still tell that something set this man apart from the crowd. For the first three weeks in county, we never spoke, even though we were cramped in the same cement coffin. On one cold night, Phillip Dean finally talked to me. I was attempting miserably to fall asleep in a jungle of faulty lights that hummed like filthy insects when he asked me, “What are you in here for?” I was taken aback by his sudden question and only understood later why it came in the first place.“Robbery,” I replied simply.“For what?”“A couple of things. A store…a bank… a home.”Without saying anything, the man who sat beneath me sighed. Not of contempt or impression but of apathy. It wasn’t until the next day that I heard from him again. I was sitting in the middle of the cafeteria when he came up beside me and, without speaking, sat down. I stopped, and after a small glance, I continued eating. I was halfway finished with whatever despicable meat they served us when he asked me,“So…where are you from?”“San Antonio. What about you?”“Sante Fe. Now, can I ask you a question?”“Sure. What?”He looked to both sides of him, almost trying to see if anyone was listening, and moved closer before telling me, “You know what? Nevermind. I think I’ll see you around soon anyway.”
This conversation stuck with me for a long time. I had no idea who this man was or what he had done, but he lived in my mind for ages. Walking outside across a wind-battered field, I would look around crowds and see semblances of the man. Never quite him, but someone very similar. With other inmates gathered around playing cards, I would ask some men,“You know about this guy in my cell?”“Yeah, cell block D.”“You know his name?” I swear he’s in here for something bad. Those kinds of rumors start fast around here.”While it's almost impossible to tell the months here, the days you feel. Rising and falling at ease with the sun. Each day starting and ending the same. Well, whatever semblance of nature we had to tell the seasons was only told by a faint green hue across the yard. But I always knew when it was fall. Growing up East, I never forgot the brash wind that greeted you on walks back from school. Where the only heat was in the form of a weak hum in the back of the classroom, and you had to wear three layers of passed-down T-shirts just to sit down without shivering. I remember it all. Anyway, it was a night like that when the man living in my fascination appeared. Standing behind the cell’s bars, the prison’s fluorescent lights highlighted his figure while his face remained entrapped in darkness. Too scared to say anything, he spoke first,“Have you ever been to Mexico?” He uttered gruffly with a sliver of earnestness.“What?”“Mexico. Land of cactus, mountains, small towns, and some damn fine tequila.”“No. Why?”“It’s a great place. That’s where I would be.”“Instead of where?”“Here.”“How did you even get here?”“Doesn’t matter. This place is just some sort of purgatory. I’d rather be free or dead. Ain’t no in between.”“When did you go there…to Mexico?”He began to inch closer as he answered, “Too long ago. I was there with a friend of mine. We took a trip with all the money we had after getting severance checks from being laid off at a factory. It wasn’t much alone, but together, with that money, we bought a sliver Jaguar.”“Since I was a kid, I had been itching to get one of those cars. One of those European beasts. Engine rumbling and screeching on a road. Faster than a silver bullet.”As the man spoke, his eyes flared with reckless excitement. Weaving and bobbing as he told a tale he obviously had been looking to share for years.The next morning, during our mandatory recess period, I saw him again. Despite them calling it recess, in Fulton County, it meant one of two things. Either it was a place where guys ended up sitting around smoking packs they snuck in or made a deal with the guards to get, or a place to walk aimlessly for 30 minutes. Most of the time, I was the latter.On this morning in November, it was exceptionally cold. The kind of cold you could feel your skin freezing from the inside out. Trying to beat the weather, I kept my shivering hands inside my uniform, rubbing them against my chest for warmth. Across the grounds, I could hear the sound of men speaking loudly to themselves. I turned around and saw Dean. He walked over, his chest high, in a direct line to me. I could feel the weight of the inmate’s eyes on me.“I want to talk to you.”Even though I had already met him, Dean’s intimidation never lessened. It grew the more you knew him. He seemed unstable - ready to blow at any sudden moment. Reluctantly, I answered, my voice three octaves above its usual pitch.“Yeah, what do you want?”Keeping my words to a minimum, I tried to hide my fear of the burly man before me, but my voice couldn’t help but expose me.“Follow me. Too many eyes here.”We walked across the field, finally stopping between two corners of cold cement. Dean turned slowly towards me. I could still feel eyes on my back.“Do you know how long I’ve been here,” he asked bluntly.I shook my head in ignorance.“23 years. 23 years, I’ve been stuck in this hell. Well, no more.”“What do you want me to do,” I asked, my voice traced with apprehension.
Dean stared at me with his reckless eyes. He paused intently before speaking,“You…are going to get me out.”He continued, “But I can’t let anyone know you’re helping me.”“What does that mean…”Before I could finish speaking, Dean’s fist hit my face. I fell to the ground in a daze, listening to the shouts of the guards and other inmates. Eyes were no longer watching.The next morning, I woke to the gentle ticking of a clock. Opening my eyes, my blurred vision slowly returned as I noticed I wasn’t in my usual cell. I could feel a ringing pain in my head. I placed my hand to meet the pain and felt rows of wrapped bandages around my forehead. I started to remember what had happened. Dean’s fist to my face. My memory was interrupted by a stern voice,“Inmate 15907, I have you diagnosed with a slight concussion and bruised left arm. Here is some medicine. You should feel better in about 5-6 hours.”I turned to see an older woman with noticeably dense eyebrows dressed in a white nurse outfit. Her hands were out one with a cup of water and another with a small blue pill.“Thank you,” I managed to utter, grabbing the pill from her hand and drinking the water.As I got up, I felt an uncomfortable spot on my sleeve. I grabbed at it, and a small piece of paper dropped out. Before the nurse could notice, I quickly picked it up, hiding it in my palm.I unraveled the paper discreetly, waiting before looking. When the nurse turned around to place something in one of the cabinets, I pulled the wrinkled paper before my eyes. Get the tools. Without any hesitation, I knew what it meant. Dean had sent me to the infirmary so I could get the tools to break him out. I placed the paper back into my sleeve as the nurse faced me again.“You should recover in 24-48 hours. Guards will take you back in a minute or so,” she spoke in a voice layered with years of obvious heavy smoking.Standing up slowly, I walked with the nurse to the front. As I took my first steps, I saw a single scalpel sitting on top of a medicine cabinet, almost certainly from another patient the nurse had forgotten to put away. Placing my arm behind my back, I grasped the tool, cramming it in my pant leg.As two brawny guards arrived at the door, I was taken in their arms and walked back down an anonymous hallway, its florescent lights humming above. Just as we had almost reached my cell, we turned, entering a small room decorated lovingly with a cold metal table. I felt the guards hands let go of their tight grip and the door behind me shut. I turned towards the door, disoriented. Suddenly, I heard multiple muffled voices outside. The door opened, revealing three enormous inmates, their eyes full of heartless violence. Before I could react, I was struck, falling to my knees. The men beat me over and over. I felt numb, hearing only the crashing sounds of their knuckles against my defenseless body. I heard them above, laughing and cursing. I felt the cold sensation of metal against my neck with one of the inmates whispering, “We’re going to kill you for talking with that negro. You know damn well better than to talk to one of them.” While my body was clamped against the cement floor, I moved my hand down to my pants, where I felt the figure of the scalpel. Closing my eyes, I counted to three. One. Two. Before I could strike, a ringing pierced the prison. I felt the pressure on my body release as the men ran out of the room.When I finally returned to my cell, I noticed Dean sitting on his bottom bunk, looking intensely into the wall. I saw his eyes rise, looking at me. Without saying a word, he looked at me with anger and great sadness. He knew what happened. I walked forward, reaching down and placing the scalpel on his bed beside him. “I got it,” I stated gruffly. Dean looked down at the tool before looking again at me, “Well, let’s get out of here then.”That night, I couldn’t sleep. My brain ran in circles, keeping me awake. Unexpectedly, Dean spoke from below, “You should get some sleep. You gon’ need it.”“Can’t,” I replied.“You know, my first night in Fulton. I don’t think I closed my eyes once,” he uttered.My curiosity outweighed my fear,“Why are you in here?”There was a profound silence, only filled by the sound of wind outside the cell. Just as soon as I thought he would never answer, Dean began to speak,“The whole thing was never supposed to happen. My friend and I were outside a gas station on the way back from Mexico… somewhere in Texas. Some guy started running his mouth, and my friend pushed him. Before I knew it, it was a full-on brawl. We both were throwing punches, but then the guy and his friends pulled out knives.”Dean continued to speak, his story slowly revealing itself like a string pulled from a ball of yarn.“My friend got pinned by one of them, so I punched him. Hard. He fell to the ground and hit his head on the ground. Another sliced me in the back, so I threw another. My friend took one of the knives they dropped and got one of the guys good in the arm. I still remember his scream. So real and scared.”As Dean talked, I could hear the resentment and sadness in his voice. A man who had more regret than anyone knew.“When the cops finally came and arrested the gang of guys, they saw me and my friend standing beside a pool of blood. My friend got a night. I got a life sentence. Should’ve known that’s how it works around here.”“I left everything. All I wanna do is get back to how things were. Get on the road. Stand under a blue desert sky.”His voice trailed off. I looked blankly at the cement ceiling above as I thought about Dean’s story. Suddenly, I uttered, “We’re getting you out. Tomorrow.”“Tomorrow,” he replied.The next morning was a confusingly beautiful day for fall in Futon. As we ate our meals silently, I looked across the cafeteria and saw Dean sitting over his mush. We locked eyes and shook our heads. It was time. The only thing we had to get past was rec-call. I planned to do what I always did in rec: walk aimlessly until they finally rang the bell again.
While I walked, Dean sat on one of the poorly constructed tables they had lining the yard. As I took steps, I inhaled the sweet fall air and, for the first time since I had started my year in Fulton, took a breath. Yet, as soon as I exhaled, I felt the familiar pinched grip of an inmate. Turning my head, I already knew who it was.“Remember us? Don’t think you could walk away so easily,” the inmates sneered.I struggled to get out of their hold. They pulled and pinched my arms behind my back.“Get away,” I screamed.“We got ourselves a screamer. Better fix that,” the inmates joked, laughing.Suddenly, I saw a large shadow over the main inmate’s shoulder. Dean, I thought to myself. The inmate holding me suddenly dropped, releasing my body. Standing up, I saw Dean throwing punches, knocking the inmates down. One by one, they fell. I watched one inmate on the floor take out a rusted knife.“Watch out,” I yelled, but it was too late. Dean fell to the ground.Rushing over to him, three gunshots rang out, causing me to dive to my knees. I held my hands over my head in terror, whimpering, “No, Dean. Stay alive…stay alive.” After a moment of silence, I raised my head and saw Dean sitting on the field, now stained red. As I got up to help him, a buzzing speaker erupted, “Stand away from the inmate. I repeat, stand away, or I will shoot.” I stopped in my tracks. I felt helpless. So I just stood there. Stood there with dirt red under a blue sky.The rest of my time in Fulton felt lifeless. After a month in solitary, I returned to my normal schedule of sleeping, eating, and rec, but it was vapid. Every minute, I could only imagine Dean surrounded by crimson on the ground. It felt unfair, and the more I thought, the more anger I felt seep into my veins. He never should’ve been there in the first place. He should’ve never been arrested. He should’ve never helped me. These thoughts took over my mind, spinning over and over.On the day I left Fulton in ‘64, I felt I was leaving a part of me, a ghost that would haunt me for the rest of my life. No matter where I went or what I did, Dean’s memory stayed in my mind. When I finally got enough money after completing the government’s ex-inmate college program, I traveled to Mexico. I wanted to see the landscapes Dean talked about so often and with such passion. After passing the country’s border, I stopped at the side of an empty road. Exiting my car, I felt the hot desert air blister on my skin. I looked at the blue sky above.© The Aesthetic 2023

A True Hero: The Medgar Evers Story

If Medgar Evers’s life is marked by anything, it is a willingness to speak the truth no matter how many try to silence your voice. From even the very beginning of his childhood, Evers was taught how fear and white brutality could control communities and perceptions. At the age of 14, he witnessed the murder of his friend Willie Tingle. This young boy, who had allegedly winked at a white woman, was dragged by a mob behind a wagon through the town's streets before they shot him multiple times and left his clothes as a reminder to black residents. Unsurprisingly, this mob was never prosecuted.While this experience certainly traumatized Evers, it also motivated him for his entire life to bring those who committed these hateful acts to justice, raise equality for black citizens through voting rights, and support black-owned businesses. For the next 23 years of his life, Evers was a crucial part of the civil rights movement, becoming one of the first black citizens to sue a university for refusing to admit him because of race and leading countless impactful marches and strikes that returned power and respect back to African American communities.When he was 28 years old, he became the NAACP’s first field secretary of Jackson, Mississippi, where he continued to work for the rest of his life. In this position, Evers worked on criminal cases where black citizens were being tried unjustly and found evidence to support their case. One infamous example of this work is Emmit Till’s trial after his brutal murder in 1955. Working through the NAACP, Evers worked tirelessly to find witnesses and evidence to prove the guilt of Roy Bryant and J.W. Milam. While the charges were ultimately dropped due to an influenced jury, Ever’s work helped bring the case to the nation’s attention as well as cement Till’s truthful reputation to the American public. Working in such a public and controversial setting, Evers often faced countless death threats by white supremacists and organized groups such as the KKK. Sadly, on June 12th, 1963, Medgar Evers was assassinated outside his family home by a Ku Klux Klan member. His death immediately sparked outrage within civil rights groups and became an inspiration for future social justice movements.I chose to represent this dark chapter of Medgar Evers’ life in A Heaven From Hell because I believe it was important to emphasize the immense pressure and fear civil rights leaders subjected themselves to for the advancement of their communities. Without such courageous people as Medgar Evers, the civil rights movement would surely not be as successful as it is today.