Chromakopia – Caleb Finley

Countertop Dishwasher

Sachin Lakshman

Trent conducted his daily symphony of countertop appliances. With the precise hand he inherited from his surgeon mother, he cued in the mellow humming of the kettle to accompany the toaster’s buzzing. The devices harmonized in a grand crescendo until ending with a sequence of perfect beeps. The toaster rang out, followed immediately by the percussive pouring of black coffee into his tumbler. Last came his soloist, the countertop dishwasher, with a synthetic jingle. As steam rose from its mouth, Trent counted down the seconds for his plate to cool down. He marveled in his own genius- the genius that his parents were entirely responsible for.

Expecting flawless execution, like always, Trent nearly collapsed at the chaos before him. Everything was flipped: Bowls lay open, filled with stagnant water. His utensils were inserted so as to perfectly wash their hilts alone. Grime covered all of the bowls, forks, spoons, cups and – Oh, dear – His daily breakfast plate, the bearer of two slices of perfectly browned (as Trent had determined through meticulous experimentation) whole-wheat toast. It was disgusting, bearing yesterday’s butter and jam. Trent felt violated, as if his sacred ritual had been taken from him. When he was a boy, he was taught that transgressions must be punished with extreme reaction. All he needed to do was figure out who the subject of his revenge should be, and his distress paved the way to a single conclusion: Wherever his trashy roommate might be hiding, Trent would find him.

Though Mick only planned to study for his Chemistry exam, he’d brought his laptop, his math folder, a Latin textbook, and a broken calculator to the library. He alone entered the group focus room, and designed a perfect facade by leaving out his belongings on the table. He had delayed his preparations to the weekend before the exam, so he needed to guarantee a long-term study spot. As he closed the blind just far enough to cover the vacant seats, Mick reminisced about that time in ninth grade when he needed to escape his chaotic New Jersey home to study for his SAT. He built his set, acted his role, and basically lived out of that public library focus room. It also reminded him of leaving lights on, setting up coathangers in windows, and blasting music in his house the summer prior. It was supposed to be his graduation party, but none of his classmates cared to show up, and his family had Home-Alone’s him for their annual road trip to Palm Beach. Just like in the library, his set was convincing. So convincing, in fact, that the cops were called in for a noise complaint. Right as Mick gained awareness of how distracted he’d become, he heard the door swing open behind him. Anticipating an irked study group, unwilling to turn and face them, Mick falsified: “Sorry, my group’s out of the room right now, but we need it for a project.”

“What did you do?”

“We’ve got a… A Latin project! Would you- Trent!? What are you doing here?”

Trent responded with a grimace, as Mick popped open his phone. “Didn’t I tell you I needed time to focus?”

“I’ll ask again. What the hell is this?”

From behind his back, Trent produced his sullied plate.

“It’s a plate? What do you want me to say?”

Mick, in ultimate confusion, further provoked his roommate “Look, there’s like, five things you could be saying right now, and none of them make sense.”

“Michael, you broke my one rule. You loaded the dishes.”

“Broke your one rule?” Mick, now peeved, mocked. “Yeah, I did load them last night. I did you a favor.”

“Well good, I’m glad you admitted to it.”

“Cool, are we done now?”

“I’m kicking you out.”

“Kicking me- Dude, what?! You can’t kick people out of a dorm!”

“Like hell I can’t! Look at what you did!”

To Mick’s frustration, Trent kept pointing at his plate, as if it meant something to him.

“What did I do? You never told me not to load the dishes. In fact, when you bought that stupid portable dishwasher, you made me learn how to use the damn thing!”

“I mean, what do you want to hear? Yeah I loaded it, sorry I loaded it wrong? By the way, will you please close the door? There’s people trying to work.”

“SCREW THE DOOR!!”

Trent hurled the plate behind him. To Trent’s credit, the throw was quite perfect. It followed a beautiful trajectory, missing the astounded bystanders, flying directly out of an open window across the narrow hall, and out onto campus quad, where it was caught by a surprised frisbee player. Mick verbally blocked (even though the projectile flew away from him): “Whoa! Dude, you need to calm down! Stop, and think about what you just did-”

“Don’t put this on me!”

“I’m not, just, c’mon. Be serious”

“What do you mean ‘be serious!?’ There’s nothing to be serious about! Not my rules, not the dishes… All I’m serious about is kicking you the hell out!”

“No… Please, don’t! Think about this for a second. We have such a good deal going on right now. You stay on your side, I stay on mine, and we just coexist peacefully. All of that goes after one plate gets dirty?”

“It’s not just one plate, Michael. It’s everything about you. Your laundry pile-”

“Which I keep on my side!”

“Odor’s don’t recognize roommate boundaries, asshole! Anyway, it’s that, it’s the no noise rule, the leaving the toilet seat up, the everything! Michael, it’s you, not me. How could it be me!?”

“Have you ever stopped to consider you’re putting way too much value in a plate? Like, back home, we ate on paper plates. I promise, this isn’t that important.”

“What in the world would you know about, ‘important,’ Michael? I mean seriously, I don’t blame you for your deeply flawed upbringing, but don’t think for a second that our priorities exist on the same plane!”

“What are you talking about, dude!? You went to public school until you were nearly killed by that asshole who found out about your peanut allergy. You told me the settlement money is still funding you! You get one lucky break and think you’re a goddamn oil baron? Let’s be realistic for a second, who’s gonna make more: the hard-working pre-med, or the crashout music major? Huh? That’s what I thought.”

Trent looked distraught. It was the same question brought against him by his parents, during the last conversation they’d had. Frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to relive his horrible admission of, “giving up on himself,” as his parents had worded it, Trent was left wide-open.

Mick, raised by a legendary bar-boxer, knew exactly when to strike: “Hey Trent, if you’re kicking me out, I ought to tell you that I was the one who put sugar in your salt shaker.”

Trent bent over, laughing hysterically.

“Wow, Michael. It’s really funny. Wanna know what I did? Haha… I SET YOUR FILING CABINET ON FIRE, IDIOT! All of your high school math packets? GONE! Review materials, incinerated. It’s all mine! The dorm is ALL-”

“It’s on fire, Trent. The room is completely on fire.”

Mick tilted his phone upwards so that Trent could view the conveniently-timed notifications: “HOUSING: FIRE ALERT” and “DAMAGE REPORT.”

“Ok look, I don’t think everythings alright with you right now, man. You probably should go back and see what happened, though. I gotta study, so I’m gonna stay here, and, uh… I think I’m gonna… Yeah, no. I guess I’m gonna submit a Room Change before I leave.”

“Yeah, I’m not fine…wait, you’re doing what?’”

“No, and hey, look, I don’t blame you at all, right? How about this? I’ll stop by Target and pick you up a new plate, huh? A little going-away gift?”

Trent looked down at Mick, and before acknowledging his innocence, hurried out.

Hours later, when Trent finally got back to the dorm he saw two notifications: “HOUSING: FIRE ALERT” and “DAMAGE REPORT.” Trent’s vigilance returned, and he was immediately overcome by an ominous odor. He followed the scent of charring plastic into their bedroom, and immediately slipped in a puddle from the ceiling-mounted sprinklers. The back of his head collided with the ground with a great velocity, and, if it weren’t for Mick’s last minute decision to follow Trent back to the room, it would’ve never been caught on video. From his new vantage point, Trent saw his dishwasher. His pride and joy was in shambles, a molten hunk of its former glory. As Trent chuckled at his own misfortune, Mick slowly joined him on the ground to silently mourn the ashes that used to be his worksheets. Mick and Trent might have been the worst possible roommates for each other, but at least they were unified in their idiotic grief.

Beach House – Ariana Kish

New Home

Michai Sanders

The walls of your old home mean more to you than just paint and decorations. These walls hold your childhood memories along with laughter and the traces of the life you created inside them. Homes are meant to be filled with a lot of laughter, love, and memories that become a part of you. When you pour so much into something you love, it’s hard to let go and move on. Moving doesn’t just mean a new home; it means leaving behind everything familiar to you, whether that means the roads you know by heart to the way the doors creek inside every time you open them. How would you tell your friends you are leaving? How do you start over? A home you have stayed in ever since you were born is now being sold to another family.

If another family buys this house, would they know what all it meant to you?As the days go by, you constantly think about the decision your parents made. A new home has an array of emotions all mixed together in your mind. You can’t really tell if you are sad because of your negative fears or if you are happy because you have a nicer home. You are reminded that a home doesn’t necessarily have to be nice in order for your memories to be cherished forever. Your new home is bigger, cleaner, and unfamiliar. This home has space for new memories, but they aren’t yours just yet. It doesn’t smell like your home, nor does it sound like it, not yet.

If you aren’t able to call this new home memorable when you are old enough to move out on your own, that then makes you consider, Why move into a new home anyway? A week before moving, you sit on your bedroom floor, looking through old photos. Each photo is a time capsule: your birthday party, your cousin’s sleepover, and the moment when you first held Travis in your arms. Running your fingers over the edges of each photograph helps trace the past. The smell of cake from your eighth birthday party still lingers in
your mind—the sound of distant laughter interconnected with each picture. These aren’t just regular pictures; they are proof this home was yours. You also can’t forget the crown you wore to your 8th birthday party that your parents got you.

The birthday crown is more than glitter and plastic in your eyes; it’s a piece of history. Leaving it behind is like leaving behind a part of yourself, just like the house taking a piece of you with it. The crown you have is treated as a symbol of good luck. You wore it that day, and you got a dog, your dream birthday cake, an iPhone, and the best surprise of all tickets to see Taylor Swift. You see the crown and think to yourself; you put the crown on your head for a slight moment. Does the crown still hold its magic? Maybe luck is not about where you are currently, but what about all you bring with you.

Harbored Stillness – Izzy Brown

There’s a Little Green in the Ocean

Emma Hessler

July 2, 2025 is the date shown on Boot’s fishing calendar. July 2. Today marks the anniversary of Boot’s marriage with his wife. He misses her everyday. He plans to drive down to his favorite place, the low cliff off of tuna trails. It’s where they first met 12 years ago. Boot had been staying at his woodland cabin with his best friend, Oliver. He was just planning to tell Oliver that he might go fishing near tuna trails, he didn’t feel like explaining much, it was a very sensitive topic. And maybe he would go fishing. Boot quickly strapped his favorite rod and hook onto his bag before throwing it into the back of  his car. “I’m off to fish, Oliver, I’ll be back by tomorrow night!” Boot quickly shouts through the door before jumping into his car. 

Boot is only 30 minutes away from the spot. He decided to pick up a bouquet of beautiful and fragrant red and pink roses to set underneath the tree where they had met. Roses were her favorite. Boot’s mind wanders around that moment, where his wife and he sat under the tree and watched the sunset. Before long, he arrives down the dry and rough dirt-sand mixture road. He stops and parks his car a few minutes away before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and walking the rest of the trail. A few minutes pass and Boot can finally see the big oak tree shading over the low cliff. What a sight. Boot thinks to himself. He sets his bag down against a nearby barrel. What is this old thing doing here? Boot gives the old barrel a curious kick with the inside of his shoe, and a small splash of water drenches the side of his jeans. 

Boot sets the bouquet down underneath the tree and sits down. He stays a while, pondering about what life would be like if his wife were still there. He sighs a sad sigh to himself. He knows he’ll never find another woman like her.

By the time Boot had finally gathered himself, the sun had moved at least halfway across the sky. It still sits high above the horizon, but will sink down into the waters in a few hours. Boot is reminded of the time he sat under this very tree and watched the sunset with his wife. “How beautiful” Boot says aloud, as if his wife were still sitting next to him, and would respond. He stares off, not into the distance, but into the stunning swirling waters in front of him. Many people say that the ocean is blue, but Boot could see faint streaks of green in between waves. The ocean is too scenic to just be a big, solid area of blue. It moves in a beautiful rhythm, and has veins of green that seem to swim underneath the surface. “There’s a little green in the ocean” Boots whispers towards the beach, and in reply the soft waves lap against the shore. There are no people around for miles.

It’s an hour until sunset, and Boot decides he should explore the area before settling down to watch the bright orange ball dip behind the horizon. He skids his heels in the sand. Gentle sprays of the ocean mist his body. He walks for what seems to be hours. Boot is fatigued and the glistening cave in front of him might as well have been a bed and blanket. The sun had been intensely shining its hot rays on him the whole walk. This shady cave is the perfect retreat. I can watch the sunset on my way back. I’ll only stay here for a bit and should be able to watch the last moments of the sunset under the tree. Boot lays down in a shallow pool of water inside the cave and rests his eyes. It was perfect. The cool salt water soothes his burnt back, and the cave protects him from the harsh beams of the sun. He thought he wasn’t tired enough to doze off, but when the faint smell of lavender wafted in the air around him, he couldn’t help but let his consciousness drift away. How odd, lavender. His eyes grow heavy. A stabbing grip snatches Boot out of his slumber and drags him deeper into the water in an instant. The unknown figure ripped him from his peace in a fit of anger and, almost, revenge? In his last breaths, all Boot could think about was the overwhelming smell of lavender, and the sunset he never got to watch.

Ever since she’s been swimming closer and closer to the surface, Marina kept on bugging her to be careful. They’ll see you. Marina had hissed. They’ll fish you out of the water and filet you. Her sister had told her all these things, but she always exaggerated. “I’ll be fine”. Pearl said under her breath. She felt that affirming that she’ll be okay will ensure her safety. She didn’t understand why her sister was so strict about swimming near the surface. All the other mermaids did it. So why couldn’t she? Well, who’s stopping me? I can go near the surface if I want, actually, I’ll go beyond the surface. Pearl always wanted to prove her sister wrong. This would be her chance. If she were to go to the surface and return  unarmed, surely her sister will trust her to go closer to the surface unbothered. She did feel a little guilty. She’s never been above the water before. As a compromise, Pearl quickly carved a message on a leaf of seaweed with the pointy end of her seashell charm and set it on her sister’s favorite flower necklace. Pearl never understood why her sister loved those bunchy purple flowers so much. They smelled so strong. 

Pearl swam as fast as she could to the surface, her green tail was almost getting tired, and she never got tired. Pearl leaps out of the water and far from the ocean onto the beach. There was a low cliff, more like a heightened area of land. Pearl climbed up and sat on a large rock. She looked out at the horizon. She then looked behind her, and saw the tip of the sun rising up. It was sunset. She then looked back at the ocean. How beautiful. She thought to herself. She’d never seen the ocean from above, let alone the sky. She knew why her sister came to the surface so often. Well, for one, to get more of those purple flowers, but also, to see this view. No people came here often, so it should be normally safe. 

She felt bad. Her sister must’ve read the note by now. Pearl reminded herself to bring her sister back some of her favorite purple flowers. All of a sudden, what she thought wouldn’t happen, happened. From afar, she could clearly make up the figure of a man walking down the trail towards her. She had to hide. But where? There was a tall wooden container that the fishermen used to store their wine placed behind her. It looked old, and sort of dirty, but what other choice does she have? Pearl can’t go back to the ocean. Not yet. She still hasn’t gotten the purple flowers for her sister yet. She managed to drag her legless body across to her hiding spot. It wasn’t too difficult. Her smooth scales slid easily across the fine strands of grass. She lifted the lid, and climbed inside, just before the wandering man was able to notice her. 

It’s been a few moments. She should’ve just gone back to the ocean. It was filthy inside. She couldn’t see much, except for a small slit at the top. Her view of the ocean is blocked by a sharply curved rod. She hears walking, and eventually the footsteps fade away. She must be safe…? She waits a little extra just in case before crawling out. Finally, fresh air! She knows she has to find those flowers now. It was like a magic genie had heard her wishes. Out in front of her, a fresh bouquet of roses were laid under a tree. They weren’t purple, but pink should be similar enough. What a view Pearl thinks to herself. She can’t help but admire the beauty of the ocean from the surface. She places her hand on her chest in admiration. It feels…empty! Her seashell necklace? Pearl realized it must’ve fallen off while inside the container. She hurries back over and reaches inside, but she finds that it’s difficult to reach deep inside and hold a big bouquet. She reaches at the wrong angle, and falls into the barrel.

Frozen by fear, Pearl shook at the thought of leaving the barrel. What would she do if someone saw her? Nothing. There would be absolutely nothing she could do, she would simply be caught and eaten. She knew that she should wait out for at least two or three days, just to be safe. Fishermen tend to only stick around this area for a day.  Locked inside for a while, Pearl remembers how her sister told her that if a human were to catch her, she’d hunt them down and drown them. Pearl knew deep down that her sister would kill any fisherman who she even suspected of harming her.

After what feels like hours of being locked inside this wooden prison, Pearl starts to think that she may never escape. She could technically leave, if her mind let her. She was trapped, and she was her own captor. Images of the horrors that could occur if she left too soon were on a constant repeat in her mind. At least she got her seashell necklace, and fell in with the beautiful bouquet. She thinks about how her sister would have loved the flowers. Her sister. She remembers a stern lecture her sister gave her once. Pearl had mentioned leaving the ocean and Marina warned her about the dangers of the cruel fisherman who would easily be able to catch her. The reason her sister was so set on scaring Pearl about the dangers of the outside world is because a close friend of hers was actually taken by a cruel fisherman and turned into sushi. She knew that her sister must be looking for her by now, worried sick. She wouldn’t let any fisherman get to her. Pearl knew that Marina would go as far as to kill a fisherman herself.

It’s been days since Boot has left. Oliver knows that he’d be back by Thursday morning. He said so himself. Worried, Oliver realizes he should’ve driven to tuna trails with his friend. He didn’t want to at the time, he’s never really liked that place. “That place is run-down and sketchy, I don’t know why he likes it so much down there!” Oliver yells aloud to the emptiness of his friend’s cabin. He isnt used to how lonely it is there. Overwhelmed with guilt, he finally takes action and heads outside to his beat down, red truck. It’s cloudy outside, a nasty storm will be right behind him. 

Oliver finally makes it down the rough, muddy road. The storm had caught up to him, he knew he had to search for his friend in this violent storm, but that was the least of his worries. He was completely fixated on finding his friend. He sees a leafy tree swaying its big, heavy branches in rhythm with the storm. He doesnt think about how dangerous it could be, and parks under it. Oliver rips the car door open and takes a look around. A red ribbon catches his eye. It’s attached to a big, leather backpack. It’s Boot’s backpack. His sharp hooks and long fishing rod are still strapped in. What in the world was he doing down here, if not fishing? Oliver briefly snapped out of his fit of determination to think. Who does he think he is? Lying to me, saying he’s fishing. He didn’t even take his rod out! I’ll be having a long talk with this guy when I find him. Oliver turns to the raging ocean. The giant white waves harshly crash against the rocky sand. His confidence slightly diminishes at the sight of it. He realized that his friend might not be okay. Angry with himself, he yells tragically and beats his fists into the ground, as if the land around him might feel bad for taking his friend, and decides to return him. He then gets up, and walks over to Boot’s flapping ribbon. His bag is propped against an old barrel. Oliver takes a look at the ribbon. 1st place winner, tuna county fishing competition, Boot Jackson. Oliver grips the ribbon in his hands and leans his head on the barrel. It smells disgusting. Like rotting fish that had been sitting for too long in cold water not cold enough. And, strangely enough, he gets a whiff of roses. Then he sobs. Overwhelmed and afraid, he continuously wails, hoping that some miracle would occur. The sudden and nonstop booms of thunder further overwhelm him. He gets up, his old white tank top sticks to his skin. Even in the storm, there were more tears on his face than raindrops. Frustrated, he kicks the nearly rotting barrel over, spilling whatever was inside over the side of the supratidal zone and onto the shore, sure to be quickly washed away by the roaring waves. Suddenly, a strong gust of wind brutally knocks Oliver over into the stagnant water that was just inside of the barrel. His shirt that was just wet with fresh rain, now reeks of marine life and…roses. He feels hopeless. He props himself against the head of the barrel, still sitting in the marinated ocean water. He looks beyond the low cliff he was on, and amidst the grayish appearance that the storm created around him, he sees a sliver of shiny green slip from the shore into the ocean and underneath the harsh waves. What is that? He thinks to himself. His gut tells him there’s something fishy about this place, like something was hunting him. He is only able to see a flash of dazzling green before it disappears into the wild waves. I’m never going to be able to find Boot in this storm. Oliver realizes the severity of the situation. He decided he should come back with a rescue team. His determination returns, and he gets up to run over to his truck. He feels like an injured bunny being stalked by a hungry wolf. Something definitely wasn’t right. Before he can get more than a few paces away, sharp nails, almost like claws, grip him from behind and drag him toward the shore. He thrashes wildly, but his efforts are no use. He gets pulled under the viscous blanket of white. He is only pulled deeper underwater, where it is all blue, and all he can smell is the saltiness of the deep sea, and bunches of lavender.