Paper Lantern Home

Spring 2012 Paper Lantern

admin — Thu, 23 Aug 2012 20:59:21 +0000

Click here to download a PDF of the issue. Cover art by Patti Lindaberry.

Little Monkey

admin — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 21:20:03 +0000

By Karen Wallace

He is hanging from the stairs, 10 feet above the ground

My heart jumps in my throat as I try to be nonchalant

Great swinging George, we smile.

90 miles an hour all over the house,

Let it outside, it will wind down eventually.

3 foot 8, 40 pounds of pure energy.

Was I ever like that? I think I was years and years ago.

What, why, how, always full of questions

He wants to know everything, and he will some day.

Enough to be president, or a rocket scientist

Watching his tornado dance, he can be a rock star, or a karate master

Whatever he wants, the future is wide open

As long as we don’t ruin him with our

Fears and disappointments

Our doubts and disillusionments

Our shattered lives.

Hope, Confidence, Dreams

Never let these things go

Little Monkey

The Old Man in Winter

admin — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 21:18:35 +0000

By Paul O’Halloran

He stands alone,

the old man in Winter.

Aloof to the cold

in a white field of frost tipped grass.

He is unshaken.

Snow flakes fall gently on his shoulders and crown.

He does not brush them off,

too proud to shiver.

The wind cannot knock him down.

He stands even taller.

200 years old today,

the last survivor in a world of progress.

His body is frail and contorted,

his arms twisted and bare.

He has lost his beauty.

In Autumn, as Winter approaches,

the old man weeps auburn tears.

But Spring will arrive, then Summer,

and the birds will remind the old man

how to be young again.

A Piano’s Gentle Sound

admin — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 21:16:06 +0000

By Keighley Null

A sealed, top glazed wooden piano

All eighty-eight keys silently sitting

Untouched, the bench pushed up far

Underneath by the pedals

Dust has gathered and coated the unopened

Top that was the door to the inner workings

Sheet music strewn all over the floor

A small girl comes and wipes the dust off

And picks up the music, placing it above

The keyboard to where they belong.

Pulled out the bench and sat down

First time in years, the piano made sweet music

Each note playing through the air, filling the house

The keys and pedals finally pressed down

Each song played was a bird gently using the summer

Breeze to glide along, and then land for a bit before

Starting up all over again, the songs were the river running

Calmly in the back yard

Each note, prettier than the chirping bird, or that of the

Flute or any other instrument, the sounds and notes carried

To the outside like a sailboat in the open sea

Music, each note, so gracefully played like a ballerina on stage

Each end nicely played out, after the songs were done being played,

The girl left the piano alone again, but this time, the music was not on

The floor and the body was not dusty because she would be back

Pinafore and Straw Hat

admin — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 21:14:00 +0000

By Teresa Klotz

I’m like that little girl

in the Mary Cassatt painting.

The one that stopped me

in my tracks, that time in Chicago,

maybe five years ago, I think.

The one that changed me –

woke me up to myself.

Cornflower pinafore,

straw hat controlling her sandy hair.

She can’t be more than seven.

Blue eyes forlorn

and hopeless. Shoulders

limp in defeat.

She wouldn’t take her eyes off me,

like she knew too much.

It calms me to see her twin

in this mirror–separated at birth.

My hand on the doorknob,

I close my eyes and wait

for my breathing to even out,

before I go back out there

and ask for a divorce.

Fairytale: A Tell-All- Excerpt

admin — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 21:08:00 +0000

By Rachael Dosen

Whenever someone's telling stories about your love life, you're always

the last to find out. Nobody knows this better than me, which isn't something I'm

particularly happy about.

Truth is, if they hadn’t made me put my full name on the marriage

license, I probably never would've found out. I certainly didn't think anything of

the judge’s expression when he read it. “Cinderella Fenimore” isn't a name you

see around very often, probably because it's too embarrassed to leave the house.

But then he asked if I was a fan of “the fairytale.” The fairytale. That's

how popular that wad of garbage is. It's the ultimate romance. The template of

fiction. The truest, purest love story ever. And it's more full of crap than a cat

with cholera.

The gall of that man. The absolute, ulcer-breeding nerve! The very day

I get married, I found that arrogant toad told everybody that he got me instead.

Sure puts a damper on your honeymoon, I can tell you that much.

Or at least it did for me. Marcel just thought it was funny. He told me

to calm down and stop worrying. I told him to shut up, get me a pen, and let me

vent, which he did, because contrary to popular belief, I don't go for stupid men.

My stepmother Michaela is a firm believer in the phrase, “Don't get

mad, get even.” For me, my being the former has never hindered my doing the

latter. And if angry revenge got me into this mess, it might just get me out of it.

Let's get something straight here, okay? In my story – the real story - of

“Cinderella,” there's none of that magical junk. There wasn't an evil step-family.

There wasn't a fairy-godmother, a pumpkin coach, or a glass slipper. What there

was was Hansel Broglund.

Remember the kid from the “Hansel and Gretel” story? Y'know,

breadcrumbs, candy house, witch flambe, that one? Now add twenty years, a

few million bucks, and eighty-five tanks of hot air, and you've got Hansel

Broglund at age 29. Broglund was the chief advisor (so that's ten dirtbag points

right off the bat) to the Duke of Pallarre, my home turf, and thanks to his brains,

charm, and a conveniently attractive and marriageable sister, he was the most

powerful man in town. Okay, you're thinking, so he's a weasel, but so what?

He's a politician; they probably test you on that. And I'm with you. I'm no

political vigilante - for one thing, I don't have a cape - and I wasn't after

Broglund for vote-buying or anything like that. No, I was out to punish a more

headline-worthy sort of “misconduct.”

Y'know how I said this guy was big on charm? Well, he wasn't just

using it in the treaty room. In fact, amidst all the panties being flung at him,

work was probably the last thing on his mind. That's why everybody called him

“Prince Charming” behind his back, although “Prince Massive Tool” would've

worked just as well, if you ask me. Smart, handsome, and bling-tastically rich,

Broglund had been in every skirt from here to Venezuela. Now for a while I

didn't mind this, seeing as my own skirt had proved to be the exception to the

rule. But then my kid sister tackled me at the door in tears one day, and things

got personal.

“Cripes, Marilyn,” I said, spitting out a chunk of her silky brown hair

and trying to pry her arms off my neck, “get a grip.” This was rewarded with a

rib-shattering hug and a fresh batch of sobs. “Not-like-that!” I gasped.

By now, Marilyn was bawling so hard tears were running down my

sleeve. “D-De-heh-laah,” she wailed, “H-He suh-suh-sedd thu-thah-!”

Finally, I wriggled out of her death-clutch and took her firmly by the

shoulders. “Look, kid,” I said, “just calm down. Let's get you inside and I'll see

if Michaela's got something for your nerves. You can tell me what happened

then, okay?”

Marilyn nodded, and we turned back into the house, her sniffling, and

me deciding what part of whoever had done this to her I was going to dissect

first. Because despite what you’ve heard, I am grizzly-bear protective of my

half-sister, and there's not a man in Pallarre who's not very, very aware of this.

Marilyn's the baby of the house, a gorgeous dark-haired eighteen-year-old with

blue puppy dog eyes and a waist the size of a pop can. She's lucky she's so

sweet, or somebody'd have dropped her in a lake by now just for existing. She's

a good kid and all, friendly as a summer breeze, but she's got this...thing for

nerds. Show her the latest beefcake who me and my girlfriends are all drooling

over, and she'll just shrug, but the sight of an acne-dusted nose in a textbook

makes her palms sweat. She says nerds are great for “intelligent conversation,”

which makes me roll me eyes because love her as I do, I doubt Marilyn could

spell “conversation.” Nonetheless, she loves listening to 'em go on and on about

their bug collections and their quantum physics and, well, themselves. It's kind

of impressive, really. The kid's dumb as a rock, but she's twice as patient, and

she's still thinking “fascinating” twenty minutes after I started thinking “shoot

me.”

Anyway, so this whole brain fetish of hers has geeks running after her

by the truckload. They behave okay most of the time, but every so often a rogue

one slips in, gets a bit cocky, and breaks the poor thing's heart. That's where I

come in.

I set some milk and cookies on Marilyn's bedspread and flopped down

next to her. “What's his name and where can I find him?” I asked. I don't tend to

bother with trivial things like “what'd he do?” Frankly, I don't care. When

somebody makes my sister cry, just point me in his direction and lemme rip.

Marilyn took a big, shuddering breath and winced. “Oh, you're gonna

be so mad at me for this, Della...”

“Probably,” I said, “but I'll get most of it out of my system dealing with

him.” I snapped my fingers under her nose. “Name, address, description, pain

tolerance, go.”

She bit her lip for a moment, then looked down at her hands and

sighed. In a small voice, she murmured, “It's Hansel Broglund.”

My mouth suddenly went dry. “Marilyn, what did you do?” I said.

“What did you let him do?”

Tears started welling up in her eyes again. “H-He...he said he loved

me...s-said I w-was special...”

I pounded my fist on the nightstand and jumped up. “God, I can't

believe you, Marilyn!” I yelled. “How could you be so stupid? You know what

he's like, everybody does!” I grabbed a handful of my hair and tugged, and for a

minute I felt like doing the same to her. “Didn't I tell you to stay away from

him? Didn't I tell you a million freaking times what a snake he is? I mean, pick

up a newspaper, for Pete's sake, they've got a running list of his girls!”

My sister's lip started trembling then. “I'm sorry, Della,” she whispered

in that stabbed-by-a-begging-bowl-pitiful voice of hers. “You're right. I was

stupid for seeing him.” She hid her face in her hands. “He was just so nice to

me. I really thought he cared, but...” She sniffled and curled up on the bed, face

still covered. “I'm so, so stupid.”

I stood there awkwardly for a minute looking down at her, and then my

guilt pushed me back into my seat. Cripes, it's hard to stay mad at her. “Oh, you

manipulative little wench,” I said with a smirk, patting her on the head.

She looked up at me, confused. “I'm a what?”

“A wizard, Harry,” I muttered under my breath. Her brow furrowed

even more, and I sighed and waved it off. “It means I'm sorry for fighting and

I'll give you a hand. I might need some stuff from Michaela for something this

big, but I'll help.”

Marilyn's face brightened, and a hundred and twenty pounds of

teenager came flying at me again. “Really?” Oh, thank you, Della!” She planted

a grateful kiss on my forehead. “I'm sure Mommy can get you an audience with

him, so just tell him how I feel, okay? Ask him what went wrong, tell him how

much he means to me and how perfect I think we'd be for each other and

everything, would you do that?” Her smile faded a little, and she looked down at

her fingernails again. “I'd try myself,” she said, “but he won't see me, and

anyway he's so smart, Della, I wouldn't know what to say, and I know I'd look

like a fool, I just know it! But you, you can get through to him, can't you? Can't

you?”

I got up and dusted my dress off. “Sure I can,” I said as I walked out

her door toward the study. “I'd bet my life on it.”

Or his, I thought to myself, knocking on the dark wood of the study

door. Whichever comes first.

My stepmom and I usually see eye-to-eye on things: That God helps

those who help themselves, that blue cheese is delicious, that Daddy needs to get

organized and look both ways in traffic once in a while, that Broglund needed a

good round kick in the ass, and, most importantly for my purposes, that magic is

awesome. But there is one thing that we've never quite agreed on, and that's

whether magic should be used for personal purposes. I say yes, she says no.

Unfortunately, she's the only one who has any.

“Come on!” I begged. “She's your kid, Michaela, have a heart!”

“Cinderella, this is the fourth time in ten minutes you've said that to

me,” my stepmom said coolly, taking a jar of eyes out of her cupboard, “and it's

not getting better with age. I understand you're upset, and I agree something

must be done about this man, but he is a public official and sorcery is not

popular with the court as it is.”

“Oh, please,” I said, putting my hands palm-down on her desk and

bracing myself on my arms, “nobody would find out!”

But she didn't look up from the box of rat tails in her hands. “Can you

prove that?”

I scuffed my foot along the floor and pouted. “No.”

“Then we have a problem, don't we?”

“But,” I said, throwing my hands in the air, “can't you cover your tracks

or something? Surely you've learned how to do that!”

“Not anything fatal, no.”

“I didn't say it had to be fatal.”

Michaela looked up from her cauldron, eyebrow raised, an amused

smile on the corner of her lips. “My dear girl,” she said, “when it comes to

Marilyn's boyfriends, 'fatal' seems to be the only thing you're interested in.” She

tossed a tail and a set of eyes into the cauldron, and the clear liquid inside turned

vomit green. Hm, I thought to myself, that looks like it would be...interesting...

“Besides,” my stepmother added, sprinkling grains of purple over the

stuff and turning it into black paste, “you know my vows. Magic is only to be

used to help with the healing process, and contrary to your theory, Cinderella,

vengeance is not one of its steps.”

“Well, then does Daddy have anything I could use?” I said, twirling the

spoon resting on the side of the pot.

“Possibly, but I wouldn't try him if I were you. His latest inventions are

certainly powerful, but if you want to hit a target more than three feet away

without burning your hand off, I'd look elsewhere.” She took the spoon from me

and cleaned it on her apron before setting it down on her desk. “The answer is

no, and I assure you it will remain that way.” She took a spellbook down from

the shelf and cracked it open. “And that's cough syrup, Cinderella, so you can

put that flask back, it won't do you any good.”

Scowling, I emptied the glass bottle I'd swiped into the cauldron and

stomped out. “Wicked old witch,” I muttered.

“Now, now, dear girl,” she said, “'old' isn't a very nice thing to say, is

it?” She licked her finger and turned a page. “Anyway, you don't really need

magic for this,” she said.

I paused. “What do you mean?”

“You just need to be a little...” Michaela thought for a second, and then

smiled. “Creative.”

Creative, I thought to myself as fat raindrops slammed into my scalp,

think creative. Of course, it's always hard to link “creative” and “humanly

possible” together, especially when what you really want to do involves piranha

tanks, 3 grappling hooks, and a ping-pong ball. That's where magic comes in

handy, and so I found myself tramping through the puddles back to work and the

only other person I knew who had some.

“Bud!” I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the wind, which had

been getting naughtier as the night went on. I tucked my fluttering skirt between

my knees and banged on the costume shop door with my free hand. “Open up,

nimrod, I need to talk to you!”

I heard the latch pull back and soon I was bathed in what little light

wasn't eaten up by Bud's enormous shadow. “Took ya long enough,” I said,

shaking the water out of my short, carrot-red hair. “C'mon, I gotta job to do, and

I need your help.”

My stepbrother waved a hand the size of a couch cushion at the staff

room. “Take a seat, kiddo,” he said. “What kinda job are we talking here?”

Woah, woah, woah, you're saying, back up a sec. I thought Cinderella

had 2 stepsisters? And you're right. In a manner of speaking, anyway.

I plopped down in a chair and glanced up at him. “Y'gotta lemme

borrow that lipstick sometime, it looks good.”

He laughed and tucked a strand of his blond wig behind his ear. “In

your dreams, sweetheart,” he said. “You remember that necklace I lent you last

month? You said you needed it for just one night? Thing cost thirty bucks and I

haven't seen it since. Ron keeps better track of stuff than you do.”

I stuck out my tongue at him. “Oh, lay off about that, I'm looking for it.

How's the wing?”

He shrugged, adjusting the bandage on his back. “Getting better since

Mom took a look at it. That ointment stuff she made still stings like hell,

though.”

I should clarify something here: Courtesy of recessive genetics, Bud

here, Michaela's kid, is a fairy. But that's not the reason for the makeup. Fairies,

despite what you'd expect, aren't too into that stuff. Transvestites, though?

Different story. Now, those two things would probably get the tar pummeled out

of him every other hour if it weren't for the fact that Bud, the magical crossdressing

fairy costume salesman, is also 200 pounds and six and a half feet tall.

It's sort of funny, seeing as my brother is the least violent, least vengeful person

I've met in my life. But, like mother, like son, this pacifism tends to make

problems for me.

“So,” Bud said, taking a seat across from me, the chair groaning in

protest, “you said something about a job?”

“Yeah,” I said, “a really important one, too.”

“Somebody want a custom costume?” he asked. “Cuz Halloween's

over, so I'm sure we could squeeze a fitting in.”

“No, it's a little more personal than that.”

He rolled his eyes. “Red needs a place to crash again, doesn't she?”

I glared at him. “For your information, no she doesn't,” I sniffed. “She's

got her own place now, she's doing fine, and for the millionth time, you're only

allowed to diss my friends when I'm not here, comprende?”

“Sorry, but after Goldy made off with the register last time-”

“-And ya notice we're not on speaking terms? Gimme some credit.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, “but then what do you need?”

I fidgeted with the end of my coat as innocently as I could. “Um, well,

something's happened-nothing big, y'know-and I wouldn't have bothered you,

only Michaela said she didn't have ti-”

“-No,” he said. His eyes had grown to the size of teacups, and he

backed his chair away as if I was trying to eat him. “Della, I'm not getting mixed

up in another one of your little schemes, understand?”

“But it's just-!”

“Nope.”

“C'mon, Bud, it's about-!”

He put his fingers in his ears. “Not listening!”

“Knock it off, this is-!”

“Lalalalalahhh!”

I tried to pull his hands away from his ears, but he held firm. “C'mon,

dude, this guy did-”

“Don't know, don't care, not interested.”

“Bud, it's one of Marilyn's.”

Instantly his hands dropped to his sides and clenched into fists. “Do

you want it instant or painful?”

I smirked, the creative cogs in my head finally starting to turn.

“Actually,” I said, “I was thinking I'd try humiliation this time.”

“Ah,” my brother said, nodding sagely. “And would this humiliation be

of the “public” variety?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is there any other kind?”

He grinned and stuck out a gigantic hand. “Happy to be of help,

m'lady.”

“Good,” I said, an idea taking root in my mind. “I've got a feeling I’ll

need it.”

A week later I found myself standing, mop in one hand and bucket in

the other, under the withering gaze of the Duke's Head of the Scullery, which is

the single saddest title since the king decided someone else should wipe his

royal behind.

The Head, a beak-nosed old woman with beady green eyes and

spectacles, glowered down at me and sniffed, “Not much arm muscle on you.

We'll have to remedy that.”

Lowering my eyes to the floor, I bit back my usual up yours, lady, and

squeaked out a brief, “Yes'm.”

The Head made a mark on her clipboard and then tucked it under her

arm. “Well, Miss Fenimore, I suppose we can give you a try.”

“Yes'm.”

“True, you've almost no experience-”

“Yes'm.”

“No references of note-”

“Yes'm.”

“And we'd prefer more attractive staff members at such a high-class

establishment-”

“Yes'm.” Oh, what I wouldn't do for an “up yours, lady” right now.

“But, we're in a pinch, so,” she let out a heavy sigh and waved her hand

dismissively, “I suppose you'll have to do for the time being.”

“Yes'm. Thank you'm.”

“Very good,” she said. “We'll start you off changing the bedsheets,

which shouldn't take you too long.” She took off her glasses and cleaned them

on her handkerchief. “After all, there's only a hundred and twelve.”

My heartbeat came to a screaming halt. “A-A hundred and twelve what,

ma'm?”

The Head glared down her nose at me again. “Beds, you silly child. Get

to them!”

I bobbed my head and shuffled away, but my nerves were starting to

gnaw at me. I gritted my teeth and closed my hand around the packet of bee

stings in my pocket. I had to find Broglund's room, and fast.

Yet after poking my nose in what felt like a million and twelve rooms, I

was still out of luck. Arms crossed, I turned the corner and found myself face to

face with a massive portrait of the fat rat himself. I screwed up my face as I

examined it. It was eight feet tall and three feet wide, done on smooth canvas in

deep, rich colors, and set in a heavy, cherub-covered golden frame. Subtlety was

clearly not this man's thing. “I'd like to rip it out and feed it to the buzzards,” I

muttered to myself.

“Goodness, is it really that bad?” a male voice drawled from behind

me, and I froze.

Rabbit Season

admin — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 21:01:29 +0000

By Levi King

"Who goes there?" The voice called from the hilltop, where the speaker stood

silhouetted against the setting sun.

"No one of consequence," said the man below, "I am merely a traveler in search

of shelter for the night."

"Shelter! Ha! You couldn't be further away from shelter!" jeered the guard, "It's

rabbit season, ya know."

"What? Rabbit season?" the traveler called back, confused. Trudging up the hill

towards the guard, he asked, "How does that have anything to do with it?"

"The rabbits attract the foxes o' course! Ye don't want to be out here in the wild

country during the times that the hungry foxes prowl. It ain't just rabbits they be

hungry for."

The traveler boggled at him. "Foxes? Why would I be scared of foxes? They're

hardly shin-height!"

"It ain't the size o' the foxes that makes 'em dangerous!" exclaimed the guard,

getting right up in the traveler's face with his eyes wide. "It's the number of 'em!

A clump o' them can tear a man apart!"

The traveler was about to inform the guard that foxes did not travel in packs,

much less in “clumps,” when it occurred to him that the guard didn't seem to be

guarding anything at all. "Er, pardon my curiosity, but what compels you to

guard an empty hilltop like this?"

"This ain't just an empty hilltop! It's the highest hill for leagues in every

direction! I'm up here to act as a lookout for the village over yonder, o' course."

He gestured towards the north with a short sword, where a small town was

faintly visible in the remaining daylight.

Squinting, the traveler realized that would do very well for shelter, and asked the

guard why he hadn't mentioned it before

"Because it ain't shelter! It ain't safe during rabbit season. Y'see, the rabbits

swarm the village to get at the gardens we plant. The foxes naturally follow!

Most o' me fellow villagers 'ave harvested what they could and left for the

season to safer climes. I stayed behind to watch the village."

"Look here, sir," said the traveler, who was getting quite impatient, "you are

armed with a sword and bow. You must be braver than most of your fellow

villagers if you're the only one to stay behind. Why on earth do you fear foxes,

who do not travel in packs, when you could easily kill them or chase them

away?"

"I told ye, the foxes travel in clumps, not packs! They form up into one great

beast with a roar that shakes your bones, and they ain't afraid o' me puny

sword!"

Suddenly, from a nearby cluster of trees came a low growl, and a great orange

beast leaped out to gallop up the hill.

"I told ye! I told ye they traveled in clumps! AAAAAAUUUGH!" The guard ran

down the opposite side of the hill as fast as he could, dropping the sword in his

haste.

The traveler stood stock-still, processing this bizarre turn of events. The beast

lunged towards him.

His last thought before it ripped out his throat was "What's a tiger doing in

England?"

What Happens at Recess

admin — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 20:58:52 +0000

By Teresa Klotz

It’s not true. All kids do not love recess. Only the people who’ve forgotten what

actually happens at recess still believe that. As predictable as a TV sitcom,

seconds after that bell rings, the doors explode and waves of children wash onto

the playground. The clock is ticking.

Teachers in their Ray Bans channel the juice of FBI agents. Highly attuned to

plotting behavior, they scan the crowd, the perimeter, the kickball diamonds,

moving in when they catch a cluster of kids, huddled up, heads drawn together.

But they can’t catch everything - some of these kids are just too good. Behind

closed doors in the teacher’s lounge, they call it the “Fifteen Minute Miracle,”

the damage mean kids can inflict before the next bell.

Maybe some of them have an M.O. about whose life they’re going to ruin, but

my money says most of them aren’t that smart. They’re just looking to stick it to

someone, and the formalities are irrelevant.

When the telltale shadow of the hulking she-hemoth finally fell over me that

day, it was like I was trapped in one of those time-elapsed nature films on “The

Wonderful World of Disney.” I couldn’t have been easier prey, paralyzed by

the brick wall at my back and the solar eclipse of her face in my face.

Inspired by sheer nastiness, and time running out, she acted fast – right upside

my head. And before the bell rang, through clenched teeth, she made her

position clear, “You tell anyone, and I’ll find you and smack you again.” Then

she was gone just like she arrived – like Adam Sandler’s butler in Mr. Deeds.

Whoosh. My stinging cheek and ringing ears were the only evidence we’d ever

met.

What landed me in her crosshairs that day? It’s not even worth wondering

about. Odds are she just had time to squeeze one more in before that second

bell, and it was my luck to be between her and the door.

Fall 2011 issue of The Paper Lantern now available

admin — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 19:44:26 +0000

Please click this link to begin your PDF download. The cover art is by Jason Hollenbeck.

The Invisible Poet

admin — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 17:00:07 +0000

by Kyle Lenzen

You are my muse
I'm your invisible poet
Amazingness is in you
Forever beauty, you will be

Picturing how perfect we can be
Night with you
By the sea
Under the stars and moon
Together, right by me