Analecta 41 by Analecta Literary and Arts Journal

Analecta 41 Fall 2015

Analecta

The Official Literary and Art Journal of the University of Texas at Austin

Front cover art:

Heavy Quiet Erin Miller

Pen, charcoal, gouache, tea on paper Back cover art:

It Was Too Loud Erin Miller

lithographic print, charcoal, and colored pencil Analecta

Fall 2015

Acknowledgments Analecta 41 includes works of art and poetry submitted and selected by UT undergraduate students. The Analecta staff would like to thank everyone who made the journal possible, especially those students who submitted their artistic and literary creations. In light of the unavoidably arbitrary nature of content selection, we would like to note that the staff’s decision do not bear on the value of the works. We continue to encourage all UT undergraduate students to submit their best works of art and writing. We hope you enjoy Analecta 41!

Publication Information 4

The text of Analecta 41 has been formatted with the font families Baskerville and Oriya MN. The journal has been created using Adobe InDesign CS6 and InDesign CC (CS9). The works in Analecta 41 were submitted and selected during the 2014-2015 school year and were compiled in the Fall Semester of 2015. The Analecta Journal is published annually, typically during the Spring. Analecta 42 will be published in Spring 2016. Analecta

Editorial Staff Editors Rachel Abbott (Editor-in-Chief) Kathleen Woodruff (Managing Editor) Katie Bland (Blog Editor) Daniel Kim (Publicity Manager)

Prose Board

Colleen O’Neil (Editor) Elizabeth Dubois Allen Ross Josh Heaps John Calvin Pierce Trevor Heise Hillary Sames Samantha Bolf Nooshin Ghanbari Bianca Perez

Poetry Board Kendall DeBoer (Editor) Max Friedman Marissa Kessenich Michelle Zhang Thomas Nguyen Jacob Barnes Luci Bates Natalie Cormier Nick Patton Olivia Sone

Art Board

Anabell Horton (Editor) Emily Varnell Madison O’Shields Zoe Gonzalez Angela Xie Diane Sun Sam Holderman

Design Board: Jacob Barnes (Editor) Julia Bai Brendan Rodriguez Annie Daubert Michelle Zhou

Lucy Huang Sara Cutaia Lauren Hanks Caroline Miller Mary Tietjen Angela Xie Michelle Biancardi Brandy Reeves

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Table of Contents Prose 10 18 24 25 28 42 52

Clean Break // Logan Crossley 4, 637 Points // Xavier Rotnofsky Dolores // Meagan Waldrip Mama // Meagan Waldrip Out, Brief Candle // Dylan Davidson The Museum of Earth // Kelly Sackley The Tree // Antonio Hernandez

Poetry

55 56 57 60 61 64 65 68 69 72 76 78

To My Mother // Bhabika Joshi Act II // Paul Soto Home // Bhabika Joshi Piggyback // Meagan Waldrip The Love of Bees // Aza Pace Address to National Public Radio // Shannon Haley Jones Grandfather // Akash Gupta Old Gods // Madeline Grigg Elegy for a War Goddess // Aza Pace Midland Blue // Hannah Anderson Indian Summer // Hannah Anderson There in the Lowland // Hannah Anderson Analecta

Art FC Heavy Quiet // Erin Miller BC It was Too Loud // Erin Miller 08 Untitled // Jourden Sander 16 Temporary // Samuel Vanicek 21 Hideaway // Jonathan William Palmer 22 Meat Me // Sarah Ott 26 Capitalism // Jonathan William Palmer 41 Woolly // Sarah Ott 51 Fish Me // Sarah Ott 53 Grandfather // Connor Walden 58 Kids III // Samuel Vanicek 58 Gathering Fish // Samuel Vanicek 59 Three Generations // Samuel Vanicek 62 Untitled// Madhu Singh 62 Untitled // Madhu Singh 63 Untitled// Madhu Singh 66 Mother Nature // Jonathan William Palmer 70 Untitled // Madhu Singh 74 You Knob // Sarah Ott

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Selected Works of Fiction

Untitled

Jourden Sander Digital Photograph Analecta

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Clean Break

Logan Crossley

It took Cindy a full minute to respond to our knocking. When the mahogany door finally swung open, it did so gingerly, and our hostess forced a perky smile because none of this was bothering her at all. Thank you, Cindy, for not worrying about us. Never mind the 30-degree wind chill. We are sorry we rushed you. Kate returned the faux warmth as I stepped out from the evening air, subtle hints of potluck dips and appetizers wafting towards me through the crowded living room. Eyes from all across the killing floor, accustomed to a close-knit pack of regulars, tried desperately to avoid double takes. Intruders. Change. I quelled the masses with a slight nod while my wife and her “friend” exchanged compliments. The woman Cindy had been talking to greeted me with a sideways glance. I mumbled back a reply and adjusted the loaf of garlic bread I had draped across my arms, our last minute contribution to the peer-pressured feast. Speak softly. Carry a big stick. I sidestepped into the living room. The circles of conversation worked hard to make their exclusivity very nonchalant. More and more people poured in from seemingly nowhere, the crowd ebbing and flowing around the flat-screen TV (65 inches of gleaming electronic curves!). I fidgeted uncomfortably with my coat pocket, desperate for some Hail Mary phone call from our daughters that would require an urgent departure. Blank. I shuffled my way towards the kitchen to survey the spread as four kids darted past my knees in a train of fullspeed laughter. God knows why we got a babysitter; no one else seemed to have bothered. Kate has her qualms about exposing our girls to their mother’s impressive ability to knock back a few. If they could have seen her in college...

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My gaze fell back on the table, and I began my reconnaissance. Queso. Good start. Queso with sausage. New front-runner. I ignored a woman’s insistence that I try her spinach-artichoke dip (I pride myself on my ability to pretend I haven’t heard something directed solely at me). As the din settled into a murmur and the singer in the twilight of her career trotted forward to start The Star Spangled Banner, I took note of a sizable veggie tray towards the back of the table. 500 million people across the world were watching tonight’s game, but thankfully all the important ones were in this house. In waltzed the grand daddy of them all: Brett, my boss, cleanly shaven and dripping with self-satisfaction. He peered out across the sea of undying loyalty, admiring his handiwork, but not without the nagging feeling that while this Super Bowl party bested last year’s by a comfortable margin, it would have to be topped by next year’s. Raising one’s own bar time after time is tiresome work. How you doin’, Brett? So great to finally see the house, and what a place! With required greetings out of the way, I directed my attention to the TV screen in time to catch the coaches’ pre-kickoff expressions in split screen. The one on the left bared resemblance to Brett, but with a noticeable anxiousness that I had never seen in Brett’s face. A white text box at the bottom of the screen introduced us. Nice to meet you, Jim Yancey. Big game for you guys tonight, huh? The referee produced a coin from his front pocket and brandished it before the television audience. The quarter looked heavy, remarkably more so than most coins. It had been specially minted for this game with custom designs on the front and the back. Heads, I go home. Tails, I stay. Flip. Tails. Marty from the office wiggled his way over to me, clearly at least five beers in and not planning on slowing down any time soon. Where are the Bengals tonight, pal? The first day

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that I met Marty fifteen years ago I mentioned that I had been born in Cincinnati. He took this to mean that my life’s joys and sorrows rested squarely on the shoulders of my birth city’s football team. Maybe next year, Marty. The first quarter ended 24-0, and the room was visibly frustrated. A little kid bragged endlessly about holding the lead in the score prediction game. No rational person could have forecasted such an abject blowout. The commercials were doing their jobs far better than the NFC champions. Every forced joke was hitting. Every poignant tech ad proved moving. One woman almost laughed herself to death as a talking squirrel tried to sell her car insurance. More than half of the room had chosen Bud Lite from the cooler in the kitchen, and now they all watched the glowing screen as a group of cool, young singles assured them that they had made the right selection. When the score moved to 31-3, the women in the room lost interest entirely. The losing quarterback’s well-defined jaw and scruffy high school jock look finally failed to overcome his 28-point deficit, and the gossip of four days of wifing and mothering took undisputed priority. This left a group of abandoned men in a social black hole in the middle of the living room, desperate for the game to pick up so there would be more to discuss. The occasional joke was floated out here and there but then mentally retracted after being met with only a few less-than-amused grunts. I looked feverishly for an excuse to leave. The food beckoned; I acquiesced. Remembering the inviting vegetable tray, I sauntered into the kitchen, grinding my teeth and sweating from my neck. There it was, looking like it hadn’t been touched (I guess it paled in comparison to the calories and trans-fat elsewhere positioned on the table). I grabbed a healthy handful of celery, carrots, and tomatoes.

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The crunch calmed me. The sensation of the fibers cracking and splintering reverberated through my jaw, my skull. It felt good to sink my teeth into something, to unlock the juices and let them pour out. I grabbed another fistful before I finished my first, looking like some overeager kid on Halloween. A gasp travelled in from the living room, followed quickly by a yell and a low moan. Oh my god. That’s horrendous. It seemed that the men had found their conversation starter. The kitchen emptied out quickly, and the whole living room cried out in vicarious pain as the instant replay flashed across the screen. I rounded a corner and looked to see what all the fuss was about. There was the handsome quarterback. Helmet off. Lying on his back. Sweat- matted locks of hair draped over his forehead. Breathing erratically. Wincing. Eyes wide with shock. Right leg arched. Left leg in tatters. Hands grasping the grass, looking for something to squeeze. Left leg split in half. Jersey stained from a night of knockdowns. Left leg facing a direction that it shouldn’t have been. I scanned the room. The men felt sorry for him. The women wanted to jump into the TV and comfort him. The children took a break from their revelry to ask questions. How did that happen, daddy? Will he be ok? No response. You hate to see this happen to any player in sports, Tom. It’s the hardest part of the game, Jim. We can only wish him a full and speedy recovery. If any player can overcome steep adversity like this and bounce back the better for it, it’s him. Brett flew in from the backyard followed closely by a cloud of cigar smoke. What happened? Five men began to explain simultaneously, but Brett had no time for explanations. Show me the replay. As the talking squirrel commercial played

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in the background, everyone looked around for the remote. Up to now, this had been the type of game that no one wanted to see again. After a minute of impatient searching, Brett bellowed over towards me to open up a wooden chest near the entertainment center. Inside I saw the remote, next to seven more that controlled various other aspects of the elaborate home theatre. I closed the chest with my elbow and stood up, remote in my right hand, carrots and celery in my left. I halfheartedly pressed rewind, more than a little annoyed that Fate had deemed me the remote operator. As the entire scene played back in reverse, we watched the quarterback stand back up. We watched his leg get put back together. A rehabilitation process that would take months now took only a split second. Leg restored. The play ran backwards. Back to the line of scrimmage. Back to the huddle. A close up showed a calm and focused athlete, completely unaware of his impending agony. Stop. Don’t call the play. Stop. Stop. Stop it man. You’re missing the whole thing. Press stop, damn it. I had let the rewind run. Brett looked confused and furious as I fumbled with the buttons. I slammed down ‘play’ and let the horror show commence. Grab your popcorn, Brett. I’ll grab my carrots. I slid one between my teeth and felt the fullness of the crunch. My jaw chewed in rhythm with the saga on screen. Down. Crunch. Set. Crack. Hut. Snap. The pocket is collapsing. Crunch. He scrambles to his right. Crack. He’s wrapped up by number 95. Snap. Oh, and he appears to have injured his leg severely, Tom. Snap. I rewound again and reached for a stick of celery. He scrambles to his right. Crunch. He’s wrapped up by number 95. Crack. Oh. And he appears to have injured - snap - his leg severely, Tom.

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I pressed rewind a third time, ignoring Brett’s glare. I selected the largest carrot I had left. The heavy linebacker came barreling down the gap and grabbed the quarterback around the waist, yanking him awkwardly to the ground. I felt his leg snap between my front teeth. I felt it being ground under my molars. I pushed the shattered fragments around with my tongue. Rewind. Snap. Run. Snap. Tackle. Snap.

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Temporary

Samuel Vanicek Digital Photograph Analecta

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4,637

Xavier Rotnofsky

Dan’s low self-esteem stemmed from how little he was worth in Scrabble points. Dan, four points, didn’t get much from his last name either. Dan Hall—amounting to just eleven points. How was he supposed to have any confidence when confidence itself was worth eighteen points? Since an early age, Dan struggled to grapple with his linguistic Napoleon complex. As a child, he envied the other kids fortunate to be born into rich etymologies. He particularly resented his peers of Polish heritage, seeing how puny his Hall was to their Banaszynskis and Andrzejewskis. Dan was often the subject of ridicule to a bully named Quentin. On a regular basis, he would push up to Dan to call him “Mr. Four Points.” There was one rare occasion when Dan stood up against Quentin’s usual harrassments. Quentin had forced his way in front of Dan and jeered, “Hey Mr. Four Points, is that your ten-point pencil? Let me help you with that.” He then snatched the pencil and broke it over his knee. “Here you go. Five points now,” he gibed handing the splintered halves back to Dan. “Still worth more than you, though.” Fuming with rage Dan struggled to get the words out. “You’re nothing but a big ninnyhammer!” he spluttered hoping that the big word would hurt the big bully. It didn’t, cuing Quentin to hand Dan one of his quintessential beatings. The thing Dan didn’t quite understand at the time was that Quentin’s entitled attitude was baseless. He had nothing but a q to his name. Dan’s low self-confidence gave way to insecurity, shyness, and all the other traits rooted in low self-esteem that

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make men bad with women. But one night, after no significant day, Dan met the girl of his dreams. He’d found himself in a near empty bar drinking a pint of punctuation marks. He didn’t initially notice her until she slid up next to his barstool. “Two question mark martinis, extra curious,” she demanded of the bartender before turning to Dan. “I’m Zzxqezxq.” Her name entranced him just as much as her beauty. He was enamored by the name because as unique and valuable as it was (fifty-eight points) it still contained a small pock of an e—the most common letter in the English language and one of the cheapest tiles in Scrabble. Dan felt comfortable around Zzxqezxq, which he had never experienced with anyone in his daily life. He was pleased that Zzxqezxq initiated conversation with him, of all people. Luckily for him, she was also advancing their flirtations further along. After their fifth drink, she whispered into his ear, “Let’s go back to my place.” “Tht snds gd, bt r y srs?” he replied, dropping his vowels all over his lap. Zzxqezxq picked up the spilled vowels and placed them one by one back into Dan’s mouth. “Yes, silly.” Their exchange of words turned into an exchange of kisses, and then they rushed out of the bar. Zzxqezxq took Dan back to her Triple Word corner, where they Triple Word scored. Exhausted after the third time, they lay still, silently embracing for a long while. Words weren’t needed in their naked and breathless state. Then Dan spoke up, “Will I ever see you again?”

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Prose “I wouldn’t count on it,” Zzxqezxq replied, disintegrating into a pile of Scrabble tiles in his arms.

Hideaway

Jonathan William Palmer Photograph

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Meat Me

Sarah Ottx Oil on cotton bed sheet Analecta

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Dolores

Meagan Waldrip

You sneak me into this back corner suite of your secret mind where no one decent ever goes, so there’s no need to worry -- they’ll never find me here. I live inside your house of shame, I search the drawers while you’re away; I wander up the stairs and through the rooms and leave my cunt on all the sheets. I mark your linens with my scent and fly them like a flag outside your window, I knot them together like Rapunzel’s hair for you to climb up into bed with me, I tie them around my neck like a cape and shout that I’m very powerful. You shut me up and I love the way your hand fits inside my mouth, yanking out my voice like a fistful of flowers from the dirt. You’re my magician and I’m the velveteen rabbit in your hat. You hang me up by the ears for an empty auditorium — my squeals so loud they fill the seats. That’s the ticket. That’s the way. When the mice parade the cats will play.

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Mama

Meagan Waldrip

Mama remembered the milk but forgot her own daughter. In some ways, she’s still driving home from the store, trying to figure out why the backseat seems so quiet. Baby girl grew up on sucking the gin out of ice cubes. She remembers the hairy knuckles and gold rings crawling up and down Mother’s legs, remembers the leather shoes creeping in and out the small hours in Mother’s bedroom, remembers the cigar smoke curled into Mother’s hair. And baby girl won’t ever forget the sound a string of pearls makes when it snaps. In some ways, she’s still chasing those loose pearls across the kitchen floor.

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Capitalism

Jonathan William Palmer Photograph Analecta

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Out, Brief Candle

Dylan Davidson

“I wonder if anyone feels as though they’re the same person they seem to remember. It would probably make them have a nervous breakdown. It probably wouldn’t even make any sense.” David Foster Wallace, The Pale King

Do this: Go to a quiet place and close your eyes hard and look. Distrust what you perceive: those dissolving purplish clouds of leftover light. Those antecedent hints of shape, the beginnings of images that will not be, ever. Those brief, insistent flashes of memory. Push them back, out, away. You won’t really see it until you’ve reached the end of every last meandering thread of thought. But you will, if you make it. And somewhere, past the diligent, automatic work of the mind, it will occur to you that you are really, truly looking at nothing. Nothing. In a clear, palpable, non-metaphorical way. You are incapable of doing otherwise, of course; the thin, fleshy veil of your eyelids lying so far inside your focal range that you could not make this non-image into anything, even if you wanted to. Everything opaque, a slowly-shifting sheet. You perceive a color so ubiquitous and so primordial that you realize you have no name for it. Exist in this space. Breathe. A warning, reader: As time passes, it will become excruciatingly difficult to keep from opening your eyes. Your mind will burn for distraction like lungs without air. Excruciating. Burn. You will understand that these words are not platitudes, not empty exaggerations. Push through the pain. The nothingness will soon develop a monolithic and terrifying aspect. And it will seem pivotally urgent that you do absolutely anything else. It will become too much. You will open your eyes, and let the light back in. Now, do this: Imagine if you could not.

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Hi there. I should probably introduce myself, shouldn’t I? This isn’t the most common form of interpersonal communication. I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t quite know the rules. My name is Arthur Solomon. This is my stream of consciousness. Okay, maybe that’s the wrong term. You’re not reading Joyce. Don’t worry. I guess I’ll put it this way: I’m thinking these things at you. I’m not saying them out loud or anything, but it’s also not just every single thing that goes through my head. Example: the chorus of a pretty terrible song has been playing in my head for the last like three and a half hours.1 Doing that thing where the same five- or six-second phrase finds a way to loop right back onto itself and keeps going just fucking forever. You know what I mean? I’ve decided to leave that sort of thing out. Like for narrative purposes. That said, this is my first foray in telepathy, so bear with me. I’ll do my best to keep it coherent. Here’s what you need to know: This is my part of the story. Welcome. The room I’m reclining in is utterly still and almost completely empty. No sound enters from beyond the door, nothing murmurs through the walls. There are no windows. Don’t misunderstand me, though: I’m not in a prison. Not an asylum, either, if that’s still a word they use. Facility. Treatment Center. None of those things. Though I guess it’s possible that the architect of this building had those kinds of places in mind when he or she conceived of the space I’m currently occupying. The walls aren’t padded, but it sort of feels like they should be, if that makes sense. But generally, it doesn’t serve this room well to describe it. Though that’s a description, isn’t it? Shit. Try this: Imagine the room you’re sitting in, right now, and mentally subtract anything that gives it any sort of char1. For the curious: The song is “London Bridge.” I know. Your guess is as good as mine.

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acter. Anything and everything. Color, number, shape, depth, texture. That’s it.2 Do you see what I mean? It isn’t unpleasant; unpleasant is an adjective. That would be way too generous. This room isn’t anything. It just is. Not that I’m complaining. There’s nothing like totalitarian or oppressive or Kafkaesque about the situation; I’ve volunteered to be here, after all. I kind of like it, honestly. So anyway, it’s a patient holding room at a pharmaceutical research center in Syracuse, New York. I’ve agreed to be a test subject for an experimental antidepressant.3 Some kind of like pharmacological alternative to electroshock therapy. Like for suicide-prevention purposes. I’m the first human test subject, apparently. By the way, here’s some gloomy background information: earlier this year I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression. This was after a long chain events culminating in two attempts to end my own life. I was unsuccessful, obviously.4 Luckily. After the second time, I chose to undergo electroconvulsive treatment. That was about five months ago. Things are just starting to settle back down for me. So my guess is they’re going to have me compare the two experiences. ECT and the new drug, I mean. Which is tricky business, considering we have to wait until I’m feeling the same way as I did back in March, which I can’t really say I’m looking forward to. But I also know, pretty much for certain, that it won’t be long. Still, it’s hard to talk about, which I hope is understandable. Let’s change the subject. 2. I can’t read your thoughts. I just wanted to sound encouraging. 3. Okay, it’s not technically an antidepressant, as I’ve been repeatedly informed/advised/warned. More of an anti-experienceant. But in some sense the end goal is the same, right? 4. Or maybe not. Now that I think about it, it’s not outside the realm of possibility for this to be a ghost story, at this point.

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The stillness in the room has remained undisturbed, and I haven’t a clue how much time has passed. It’s funny, the way we think of moments: they don’t seem to have any set length. It’s only when something new happens that a moment begins or ends, when some action asserts itself on the present. This moment has lasted quite a while. It’s spread itself out and covered me like a blanket. I feel like I’m sitting at the bottom of the ocean. Which, in reality, now that I think about it, is probably full of motion and agitation, with all those squids and crabs and flounders and things like that. But for some reason I’ve got this really nice mental picture: strands of seaweed swaying in shafts of withering light. Soft sand and softer water. Everything gradual. And that’s where I am, even if it’s not real. Sitting at the floor of the ocean of now. My ocean. My now. My moment. Just me and my words. And you, in a way. And just like that, the present is made new as the door whispers open and a man glides cautiously in. He seems to have less character than the room, if such an idea is even conceivable: he defies description out of sheer uninterestingness. Surely there’s a rigorous screening process for people like this. He’s like an amalgamation of everything that means ordinary guy to me. And somehow this makes him seem less real, not more. His ordinary voice comes out of his ordinary mouth: Hi, Art. He addresses me as Art for some reason. I’m not entirely sure where this comes from, since I never told him to call me that. The only other person who ever called me Art was my Little League baseball coach from ages like five to eight. Coach Bryan. (Brian? Brian.) He was the sort of guy who’d spent so much time wearing a navy-blue baseball cap5 that his head 5. Always w/ optional brass fish-hook attachment, by the way. His son, too. They also sported matching pairs of those athletic-type sunglasses with the

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looked sort of simian and egglike when he took it (the cap) off to wipe the sweat from the top of his forehead with his t-shirt’s hem. I was a deplorable baseball player, as you might expect. Well, I guess that’s not strictly true. Uninspired is probably a better word. At six I had already discerned that most kids of my age group were like physiologically incapable of consistently pitching a baseball into the whatever-sized square is necessary to constitute a regulation Little League strike. So basically I never swung the bat, counting on the poor bastard on the mound to throw four klutzy pitches so I’d end up walking to first. This happened like 70-80% of the time. So I had the highest OBP and the lowest RBI on the team for like three years running, until kids started developing better throwing arms and I had the realization that I wasn’t having anything resembling a good time. And so the quotidian gentleman is standing in the doorway, smiling blandly at me. It’s one of those unconvincing interpersonal-communication-workshop type smiles that you associate with facial twitches, even if there’s no actual twitching involved. I’m not so much bothered as amused by fact that he’s pinned the nickname on me. I try to imagine how this man spends his weekends. Cats come to mind, inevitably. That’s probably not fair. He asks me if there’s anything I need. “No thanks, Clint.” I don’t actually know his name, but I’ve been addressing him as Clint, mostly because I think there’s something almost unconscionably funny about comparing him to the biggest badass in American cinema. He doesn’t seem to mind. He might be a robot. Hold that thought for me, actually. For the moment, my job is just to sit here and wait. For the feeling to come back, I mean. So they can whisk me off to curvy reflective red-orange lenses. At this point you should have a pretty keen sense of what sort of family we’re talking about here.

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the lab and start the testing. I feel I should tell you about something about myself: right here, right now, in this bland unpadded room, I feel good. I don’t feel the way I felt on the two occasions when I tried to end my life. The way I still feel, almost all of the time. A feeling of utter subtraction. The most terrifying thing about it, about depression, is its near-total incommunicability. The thing it hits hardest is my capacity to reach out to others and ask for help. And it’s in the moments where I need connection the most that I’m rendered incapable of actually doing something about it. Seriously, I cannot explain to you what it feels like, because the fact that I’m even able to project these thoughts at you is a sign that I’m not experiencing the worst of it. It’s an insatiable loneliness that feeds itself. The irony of that self-perpetuation cuts like a knife. I experienced it for the first time as a freshman in college. Out of nowhere, sometimes in a single moment, I’d be enveloped by this blanket of utter negativity. Not negative in the sense of like gloomy or pessimistic. I’m talking about negation: thick, oppressive nothingness. Like my body’s full of cement instead of whatever it is that usually gives people vitality and ambition and warmth. This is a nothingness with teeth, a nothingness that takes up space—every possible inch of it. You can feel all over, between your vertebrae, underneath your fingernails. Flowing through your veins. In these moments, which gradually became longer and longer, the idea of doing just about anything became distant and insurmountable. Classes. Friends. Sex. You name it. What was the point of any course of action if it would leave me feeling exactly the same way I did in that moment, in that expanding plane of impotence that never seemed to end? Here and

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now, it’s clear to me that this sort of circular logic is just part of the problem. But depression tints reality. And it can be hard to see things any other way. Earlier, before I could recognize it, before I had accepted it as a regular part of my life, the onsets of depression were utterly terrifying. A memory sticks out in my mind; I think it was the second or third time the feeling ever came over me. I was standing in the shower, eyes closed beneath the falling water. When I opened them again, everything had shifted. Like someone had changed the lens of my perception. Every surface seemed suddenly to project out toward me, to accost me. Everything harsh, cold, indifferent. The running water, just seconds before a source of warmth and comfort, seemed now to creep over me, to seek out and uncover the weak and shameful places on by body, thin silver streaks falling not just onto but into me, rooting out everything I thought I could hide from the world, everything ugly and selfish and despicable and lonely that I was so terrified to admit was there, was in me. And I tried so hard to turn inward, to curl into myself and let the water bounce back, away, but it just gathered and eddied in the crooks and curves of my coiled-up form, in the cracks and furrows of elbows and knees and thin shanks of flesh. Depression washed over me. It covered me like rain. And I caught myself deep in that pathetic, deafening thought: Why would anyone like me? That was when I knew. I went to counseling for the first time through Student Mental Health Services. I remember sitting in that room and noticing that it was decorated in Syracuse colors. A little Otto the Orange sitting on the bookshelf. And I thought, why the fuck would you show school spirit in a place like this? How could that possibly make things better?

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Don’t get me wrong. My counselor, Rebecca, was a wonderful person. I don’t know if I’d be able to speak even this much about my depression if it weren’t for her. But I only had a handful of appointments; the university’s policy was to offer provisional counseling while students arranged something permanent and private. But at that time, the trip to Student Health Services was about all of the agency that I could muster, and after those six appointments I drifted back to inaction. That was in January. By spring, it had eclipsed what I considered to be my normal self. It ceased to be just a feeling, an exception, and became a reality. There’s something weird and kind of scary about that. Like, the version of me that you know from this interaction is who I used to be, who I only am in glimpses. It feels almost dishonest, to introduce this tiny fraction of myself to you as the Arthur Solomon. But the more accurate picture, the ninety-nine-percent-of-the-time me, just isn’t the self I want to be. I’m sorry for sharing all of these inconsequential memories with you, by the way. It’s almost embarrassing, honestly. I can’t see how my Little League coach’s nickname for me could possibly be of any importance to you. Much less the details of some depressive shower. I even told you that I’m trying to be selective about what I send your way. But I can’t help it: it’s so rare that I get to feel like the same person who experienced those memories. Even the bad ones. It’s like visiting the old house you grew up in, walking the halls where another you once toddled, once ran, once slipped and fell and cried: Every fixture at once a reminder of an absolute past and a vessel for someone else’s present. Every detail whispering some memory, exhaling the pale breath of history. I consented to electroconvulsive treatment after the

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second time I tried to kill myself. I don’t really know what to say about it. I guess it’s hard to imagine being in a place where I’d allow myself to be electrocuted rather than trying to buckle down think my way through my problems. But the idea of suicide is equally foreign. Those motivations are opaque, like somebody trying to kill somebody else. And yet I know that it happened. I know that in the deepest, darkest, narrowest parts of me there’s someone who would rather die than feel what I felt. There’s a sort of gruesome irony to the way that ECT works: It’s like medically-sanctioned self-violence, the electrical induction of a serious seizure. But despite what you might expect, it doesn’t hurt. Quite the opposite: It takes the edge off of everything. Off of Nothing. I don’t know if that makes any sense to you. Be grateful if it doesn’t. So here’s the truth about me: I am an unhappy person, or rather, Arthur Solomon is. I don’t know if I have the right to claim that those two are the same anymore. I guess, maybe, that I should amend what I said about this not being a ghost story. I, the narrator, am a thing of the past. That I rose to the surface of Arthur’s depression to meet you here is almost miraculous. But this glimpse, this window, will not last. It never does. You don’t know exactly what this is like. Being reduced to a specter by a neurochemical imbalance. It feels odd to say something like this with such confidence, but there’s just no way that you could know. The chain of events that’s led up to here and now is, for me, completely mine. You’ve got yours, of course. And Clint the Quotidian and Coach Brian and Rebecca the counselor. You’re all stuck in there, in your bodies. Just like me. But in spite of that knowledge, for some reason, I still

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want to feel like there’s some common ground, some bridge between us. And what’s scary to me is that this oblique reference to how another version of me feels is the closest I’ll ever get to conveying how desperately I need help in those moments. I need you to try and understand what I’m feeling, knowing at the same time that you can’t. Not completely. There’s this old illustration for a Faulkner book cover, the first edition of The Sound and the Fury, where a man is caught in a struggle with this enormous, hulking shadow. The faceless, squidlike thing has pulled back the man’s arms and head and he’s stuck, throat out, grimacing, trying to break out of its grip. There’s this look on his face of urgent desperation, like he’s trying to scream, but the black thing’s serpentine fingers have begun to spread over his mouth like kudzu, like a wax cocoon, and you know not a sound is emerging. Every muscle on his body is flexed hard with struggle, with sheer effort, but it’s obvious that it’s pointless. Because in spite of all of the illustration’s violent energy, the most chilling thing about it is this overwhelming sense of stillness. He’s frozen in this struggle. If something new needs to happen for a moment to change, this one has lasted for years and years. And the idea is that this black shape is invisible to everybody except for the guy he’s got pinned, who’s fighting every second to break free. This shadow is there for everyone. Keeping us from really reaching each other. Do you understand that? For most people, it’s not this big monstrous grappling thing. It’s more like a little black bird, pecking away at your words as they leave your lips. But it’s not all that prohibitive. You can convey the sense of what you mean with fairly respectable precision. A few loose ends get caught in the wind and drift away like fallen leaves. And it’s fine.

Fall 2015

Prose But not for everyone. Not for me. Sometimes that little imperfection opens up like a jagged black mouth and threatens to swallow me up, to hide me away forever. I need to feel that I won’t be alone in that darkness, even if I can’t know for sure. Because in case I haven’t made it clear, my depression will come back. It will wrap me up, and it will fill my mouth with thick black sand. And I will be silent. So I’m asking you. Reader. Confront that logical conclusion, the impossibility of ‘real connection.’ Personify it, look it in the face, and say “Fuck you.” You’ve got to fill in the blanks. Take the bits and pieces you get and make them real. Not just for my sake. For yours, too. It’s the only thing you’ve got, really. ---

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It finally arrived, as you’d expect. Back to the new normal. I sit in this room alone. All alone. Time slides by slowly, a blade stretching out past the horizon in both directions, cutting into me. Cutting out of me everything that once made me who I am. Everything that made me happy. Or whoever it was that these memories belong to. Images rise to the surface of my perception, but they have no effect on me. They are tethered to no part of me, and they float away into meaninglessness. If I could reach out to you and ask you to hold me, I would do so in a heartbeat. But this feeling—this reality—is a cage. It grips me like a clenched fist. No air enters my lungs when I breathe. I am gradually emptying out, day after day. Moment after moment. I lack the breath to invite you in. And I know that I will never really share this space with you, never really know that you know what it’s like. It’s just not possible. There’s a reason they say that time passes. It doesn’t wait. It goes without you, takes the self you wish you were somewhere much, much too far away. It passes and passes. Eventually, the door opens, again. It’s odd how the moments blend together, their beginnings and ends dependent on the disruption of motion. The man to whom I was derisive and dissociative and somewhat cruel enters the room. He looks at me and seems to understand. But it is a recognition that I am feeling, not what it is. From the other side of the room I cannot tell if the widening of his colorless eyes is an indicator that my condition has created some feeling in him other than the discomfort at having been confronted with it. A thought: I hate how solipsistic depression makes me. And I hate that any part of me is okay with attributing this basic problem of human interpersonal connection to a mental disorder so difficult to pin down, that this urgent Mephistophelian dread can be explained by

Fall 2015

Prose the undepressed as “a simple neurochemical imbalance.” I hate that I am broken. That at any point in my life I made the conscious, willful choice to be electrocuted rather than continue to endure the full brunt of my emotional storm. And I hate these inbent Byzantine chains of self-criticism. He is still standing there. More than twenty but less than thirty seconds have passed. The question fills the room without his having asked it. I’m ready, Clint. I’m ready. “I’m ready.”

Woolly

Sarah Ott Oil on cotton bed sheet

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Fall 2015

Prose

The Museum of Earth

Kelly Sackley

“Hello, and welcome to The Museum of Earth, located only 8.3 light minutes from the white dwarf formerly known as the Sun! Please note that the tour will proceed in the humanoid dialect of English only. No exceptions.” Hzzzbilpf rolled all thirteen of his eyes. The automated guide knew that reminder was unnecessary. After all, it orbited the giant spherical museum in crimson letters large enough to interpret halfway through the solar system.

THE MUSEUM OF EARTH

ENGLISH ONLY. NO EXCEPTIONS. INDIFFERENT APOLOGIES FOR ANY INCON- VENIENCE

Thankfully, Hzzzbilpf ’s eighty-ninth birthday present was an English filter for his language translator, or this galactic history field trip would be a waste of lifetime. He could always apply for a few hours of existence extension to compensate, but dear Void, what a bother. Even mentally processing the idea of boarding the ship to galactic headquarters, waiting in line between smelly Lematoads and chatty Multagobs, and initialing stacks of paperwork, warranted a three-day hibernation. So, who knew what attempting the task would do to him. Extension was meant for the infamous mid-life crisis period, and that, for young Hzzzbilpf, was not for centuries to come. For now, this half-grown Repzilla from the exclusively cold-blooded planet Uzgarth contented himself with the fact that, perhaps, after thirteen years of listlessly repeating the ninth grade, he would turn in his research paper. That is, assuming the museum interested him, and, at the end of the day, Analecta

he felt like it. uuuuuuu Stomping after the rest of the transport ship’s occupants, Hzzzbilpf scratched an iridescent pimple on his chin as he emerged from the entry hull into a darker antechamber. Rows of single-passenger transport tubes in various sizes and colors filled the room with the dull strum of an endless bass beat. “Please! Choose the level you would like to explore, type in the number, and learn about the most amazing planet to have existed in the history of the universe!” chirped an overly enthusiastic virtual attendant with a pinwheel wave of his arm. Heaving a weary sigh, the young Repzilla clutched his tail to his bulky body and navigated the narrow isles toward the largest transport tube in the back. A digital menu hung from a slim chain next to the sliding hatch. Hzzzbilpf opened it and skimmed the level descriptions for criteria most befitting his potential paper. . . .

#33- Animal: Cannibalistic Tendencies . . .

#335- Animal: Superior Intelligence . . .

#3498- Fungi: Edible

Fall 2015

Prose #3499- Fungi: Non-Edible . . .

#5763- Homo Sapiens: Anarchists . . .

#6054- Homo Sapiens: Criminal Masterminds . . .

#6227- Homo Sapiens: Overview . .

. Maneuvered with expert dexterity, the filed nail of his right pointer talon pushed the numbers 6-2-2-7 on the transport tube’s glowing selection screen. 44

uuuuuuu A high-pitched whistling vibrated the air as the tube dropped at an unnerving speed into the belly of the museum. Struck by nausea, Hzzzbilpf let his eyelids slide shut and tried to ignore the sinking suspicion that the tube shrunk with each breath. He marveled again at his mediocre luck in being assigned Homo Sapiens as a focus for the Extinct Galactic Species research paper. As far as he knew, the species had little to be proud of, aside from a few superb children’s books and a variety of impressive, but poorly handled, plagues. Homo Sapiens’ conspicuous lack of intra-star-system wars and advanced

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machinery gave them little weight on the universal scale. “Why do they matter?” he wondered. The tube shuddered to a stop on level 6227, and the hatch glided open. Stumbling into the spacious, white hallway, Hzzzbilpf heaved a deep breath as the knots in his chest loosened. On the left side of the curving passage, historic photographs hung in time-locked frames, while on the right, glass partitions revealed elaborate displays. He took a step toward the nearest exhibit when, suddenly— “Greetings!” Hzzzbilpf jumped and whipped his head around in search of the speaker in the empty corridor. “Oh, so sorry, my invisibility is on… give me a moment.” Hzzzbilpf groaned inwardly at the unwelcomed prospect of company. “Ok, I think I got it.” A switch popped, and, to the Repzilla’s right, appeared a young female… thing. Hzzzbilpf squinted and tilted his head. The female’s body was pink, aside from a black dress covering her middle sections’ and a dark brown wave of glossy hair that came to her shoulders. Her structure was simple, with two legs, two arms, and two eyes, of a blue-green color, that stared at him from a single, tiny head. The female thing stuck out a spiny lump at the end of one arm. “My name is Lucy! I will be your guide through the Homo Sapiens: Overview Level of The Museum of Earth.” He looked at her for a moment, uncertain. Laughing at his lack of reaction as if she had seen it before, Lucy grabbed Hzzzbilpf ’s right claw with her spiny lump and raised it up-and-down twice. Her mouth turned up in a

Fall 2015

Prose

reassuring smile. Then, she flipped a wave of mahogany over her shoulder, winked at him, and began strolling ahead down the vaulted, white hall. After a slight pause, he followed. Without further ado, Lucy gave an explanation of the sociological facets of Homo Sapiens’ society, gesticulating to both photographs and display like a magician’s showgirl. However, Hzzzbilpf barely listened. Instead, his eyes darted from the photographs to her, from the display case to her. A realization struck him. “Are you a Homo Sapiens?!” asked Hzzzbilpf, interrupting her roll call of the different genres of humanoid music. Taken aback, the tour guide tottered to a halt on her gangly legs. She hesitated, scrunching her eyebrows, as if she had not been asked that question for ages. “Well, yes and no. In Earth’s 24th century, when I lived, I was a human woman. I had friends, a family, and a home. Now, though, I’m a reanimation of my former being and consciousness in pixelated, light form. According to galactic guidelines, I don’t exist,” said Lucy with a bitter laugh. Hzzzbilpf opened his mouth, and then closed it. Her face flushed red. “Sorry, that was too much information for a yes-or-no question. Beings don’t normally come to this floor, so I haven’t seen anyone in a while…” For a moment, the Repzilla and the woman stood in awkward silence, staring through the glass partition at the four-dimensional projection of the Grateful Dead concert at Woodstock. “So, do you… remember things? From your life on Earth, I mean?” asked Hzzzbilpf. Perhaps a firsthand source from an extinct species would make the tiresome experience of essay writing worthwhile. A wide smile broke the poorly hidden gloom

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shrouding her features. “Of course. That’s what I’m here for! The human perspective.” And with that, the pair embarked upon an exploration of a general history of Homo Sapiens. uuuuuuu Lucy’s melodic voice echoed throughout the white hallway as she explained the display illustrating the development of language. Hzzzbilpf observed, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, as holographic Homo Sapiens progressed from meaningless grunts to multiple branches of borderline-sophisticated dialects. Toward the end of the planet’s existence, the projection then showed the dialects recombining into a global language. An amalgamation, it combined the most descriptive portions of each tongue into hodgepodge: German for angst, French for sexual intercourse, Chinese for business, Italian for yelling, British English for cursing, American English to be friendly (unless, according to Lucy, the Southern accent was used, which implied hospitality and subtle judgment), and the list continued. Further along, an intelligence progression timeline unfolded. Mankind, Lucy explained, barely knew how to survive. After the invention of the wheel and discovery of fire, the rate of innovation accelerated astronomically. Over time, Homo Sapiens developed rudimentary physics and, thereafter, a beginners’ knowledge of the universe. However, Homo Sapiens were obliterated knowing nearly nothing of other galaxies or species. Embarrassingly, humanoids also failed to establish relations with the other life forms in their own solar system. “But, we did manage to discover two of the eight refractal colors on the invisible color pyramid!” said Lucy with a

Fall 2015

Prose smile.

Hzzzbilpf remained unimpressed. uuuuuuu

Hours passed as they roamed Homo Sapiens: Overview, and Lucy delved into a wide array of topics, from the miserable celebrities reduced to objects of global envy to the various rituals that Homo Sapiens partook in, such as Christmas or covering their faces while sneezing. As Lucy laughed at her own joke about a fat man named Santa Claus, Hzzzbilpf decided that her easy company was not the imposition he expected. The more time they spent together, the more Hzzzbilpf appreciated her presence. If all Homo Sapiens were as good-natured as Lucy, they must have been fairly tolerable. However, the more he learned of Homo Sapiens’ eccentric but humble, history the more dubious their importance as an extinct galactic species became. “I don’t get it,” Hzzzbilpf said, “What makes Homo Sapiens’ special enough to have their own museum? Why are they supposed to stand out against the rest of the extinct species in the known universe when they’ve achieved so little?” By the time she opened her mouth to answer, Lucy’s face had acquired a reminiscent shadow. “How old are you, Hzzzbilpf ?” she said. “Eighty-nine, almost ninety,” he said with a sheepish grimace, “Young, I know.” Lucy glanced at his embarrassed expression and chuckled. “Can you imagine dying right now, at your age, Hzzzbilpf ?” “Well, no,” he said, “that sort of thing hasn’t happened

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for millennia. Most of the time, we control when we pass into oblivion.” “Exactly. Your lives are so long now that you don’t need to worry about the limits of time. It wasn’t like that for us. We couldn’t create the time to accomplish everything we wanted to. Life was short. Humans, homo sapiens, whatever you want to call us, were forced to take advantage of what we had.” “How do you mean?” “All of the emotion you experience and everything you do over hundreds of years, humans did their best to stuff into around seventy-five.” Hzzzbilpf ’s jaw dropped. “Yeah. With our turnover rate, it’s a miracle that our species progressed over time at all! And therein lies the big deal about Homo Sapiens— the determination we felt to accomplish as much as possible in such a limited timespan. Without it, we never would have moved forward. You don’t see that type of urgency anymore, not since the extension program developed. Beings have too much time now. Everyone has gotten lazy. What’s the point of doing anything when you have all the time in the universe?” The pair drifted down the hall a bit as Hzzzbilpf processed with wide eyes. “Everything that Homo Sapiens accomplished may seem silly or backwards to you, but the fact that any of this developed is a testament to the past, when time still called the shots. And, maybe, it’s a reminder to the future that beings can someday move forward like we did again. Do you understand?” He nodded solemnly and thought of his own prolonged schooling and limited endeavors with the newfound weight of guilt. For the first time, Hzzzbilpf experienced the terror and elation of questioning what he was doing with his life.

Fall 2015

Prose

uuuuuuu

Back on the planet Uzgarth, Hzzzbilpf attempted to construct an end of term Extinct Galactic Species research paper for his ninth grade history class. Thoughts raced through his mind of Lucy, of the problem with lifespan extension, and of Homo Sapiensâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; admirable urge to do as many things as possible in the little time they had to live. He felt overwhelmed by what he learned, as if suddenly, the universe opened to reveal secret meaning tucked between layers of velvety blackness. In fact, he was so overwhelmed that he became sleepy at the thought of it. So, Hzzzbilpf, the eighty-nine year old Repzilla, lay his head down to nap, after which, he reasoned, his mind would no doubt be refreshed and prepared to compose. Unfortunately, what was supposed to be a quick nap turned into a long slumber, and, for the thirteenth time, Hzzzbilpf missed the deadline for the end of term Extinct Galactic Species research paper. Another year of ninth grade awaited him, but what did it matter? He had all the time in the universe.

Fish Me

Sarah Ott Lithograph and graphite pencil on paper Analecta

Fall 2015

Prose

The Tree

Antonio Hernandez

I spread my wings, but they are weak. I can barely move. I look at my feathers and see their tarnished aspect. I take one off and remember your touch. You were just another tree in the forest of illusions, and I was a bird trying to build a nest for the winter. Your trunk was warm and strong; your branches were welcoming and enchanting. Your leaves were so colorful, so full of life! I was full of live too. My wings were strong and my feathers were beautiful. There was nothing my beak could not peck. And so I picked up the twigs from the ground and began building my nest. I dreaded being away from you, but I had to bring food every day. And though I enjoyed flying free, I knew I would come back to you. You were my favorite part of the day. Then, I flew to your crown and beheld the sky and the stars. But the cold front was coming. I tried to bring more twigs, more food, more of me. Nevertheless, the branches that once welcomed me were now closing my path to the nest. I tried flying through the branches, but all I got were scratches. And everything fell from my beak. I fell, too. The snowflakes descended one by one, slowly, till my feathers were frozen and I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t move. Thus, I was on the ground and there you were so close to me, but I could not move any further. The winter is over, and yet, I am still here on the ground. Spring has arrived for you, but not for me. And I have to see how lively, how beautiful, your leaves look; even more than ever before. And I have to see other birds flying and fluttering around you. I, however, am still on the ground.

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Grandfather Connor Walden Ink on Paper

Fall 2015

Poetry

To My Mother

Bhabika Joshi

my mother lent me her hands so that i may use them to fight back so that i may grasp the handrails and walk without her next to me my mother lent me her legs so that i may chase my demons so that i may trust my instincts and stand for my own beliefs my mother lent me her eyes so that i may observe the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s love so that i may reel in silence and see only hope that is still left my mother lent me her cheeks so that i may understand shame so that i may destroy sin and preach togetherness

my mother lent me her wisdom so that i may not repeat history so that i may confront my mistakes and take heed her advice, above all defined by neither parts nor parcels, only in all honesty, you are whole

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Fall 2015

Poetry

Act II Paul Soto

She showed me Shakespeare On her tangerine toes and twirled When I read the part We dipped onto the sheets, Victorian petals And I kissed her center, Taut like drum-skin I chewed on chunks of hot chocolate, now cold And carved out hedgerows In her hair Falling asleep, her breath on my elbow And lip on my vein, she said “You’d make a great Ferdinand.”

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home

Bhabika Joshi

familiarity with the ladle curry, spiced with cumin stirred, circled right to left, left to right wasting time on the wrong apologies laundry rooms and blankets a soft, soft bed and love, undying

Fall 2015

Poetry

Kids III

Samuel Vanicek Digital Photograph

Gathering Fish Samuel Vanicek Digital Photograph

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Three Generations Samuel Vanicek Digital Photograph

Fall 2015

Poetry

Piggyback Ride

Meagan Waldrip

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got no room On either shoulder For sound counsel â&#x20AC;&#x201D; The devil rides my back Like a child, shrieking With joy and dripping Ice cream into my hair.

The Love of Bees Aza Pace

The bees took over the hollow tree today, Spiraling in like golden electrons While we watched through the glass door. I had to look away. I retreat into a bath, and a bee slips in. You gently wave it out again While I crouch in the hot water, humming Lullabies to my never-born children. Come in, love, and bring your candle. Slide into the water with me While the bees mumble Outside in their honey tree.

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Fall 2015

Poetry

Untitled

Madhu Singh Digital Photograph

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Madhu Singh Digital Photograph 63

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Madhu Singh Digital Photograph Analecta

Fall 2015

Poetry

Address to National Public Radio

Shannon Haley Jones

ponder the window dumb face. mechanical jaws. eyes wide. blank. burned coffee press your beating heart into my outstretched palm

and squeeze. the window shatters my hand, spills red-feathered glass onto sad carpet

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Grandfather Akash Gupta

Memory soon forgets Names and places, Except for those That are kept elsewhere. Woven into an old jacket Are the whiskers Of his mustache. Sealed in ink Are the gentle strokes Of his pen. Wrapped in individual packets Are his blessings disguised As tea biscuits. Covered in glass Are the brief moments caught By his Polaroid. And faint is his farewell On the quietest Of summer nights.

Fall 2015

Poetry

Mother Nature

Jonathan William Palmer Photograph

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Fall 2015

Poetry

Old Gods

Madeline Grigg

According to the Prose Edda, Loki Lie-Smith loses his head in a wager to the dwarves, but manages to keep it through clever wordplay. As punishment for his trickery, Odin orders his mouth sewn shut. The needle pricks politely at the corner of his mouth, like a snowfall in the spring, cold, but warming to the seamster’s touch. The thread itself is not cotton, catgut, or twine, but something far more clever— wire spun from Sif ’s summer hair. How cruel to let tarnish a tongue so fine— why not melt it and weld it into something that glittered like the time before the bet?

Already, words bubble in his mouth like blood, spumy pleas and myths and other lies too true to be untold, and settle bitter on his tongue the pith of an orange on the back of his teeth— he wants to spit, but too late— The seamster knots his work, and the punishment begins: they will call silence golden and forget the time when people still believed in poetry. Analecta

Elegy for a War Goddess

Aza Pace

The sun scratches its bald head against the sky, Which droops low ceilinged in this August heat. I lie flat in the sparse, yellow grass And imagine propping up that hanging dome with my hands. A few yards away, my father harvests thistles With a rusty machete to run them, inky, Through a printing press. I will help him lay down the paper. It is only after one of my mother’s dogs kills a squirrel That I see them swoop in, the three giant crows, To bicker over the carcass. My father pauses his reaping to scold the dogs. They reel away from the machete shadow, leaving the crows unchallenged. But I promptly name the little murderer Morrigan and give the old war goddess a deep bow. How far you’ve fallen, I think, and I resolve To search the woods for her armor. One crow Peers at me sideways and snaps her beak, If you find it, keep it. I’m happy living off squirrels. So I dash into the forest thick with the cicadas’ whine, Past my father’s thistles, Past the pack of dogs lolling in the dirt. I will wear Morrigan’s armor, Weave crows’ feathers into my hair, And hold up the sky with my bare hands.

Fall 2015

Poetry

Untitled

Madhu Singh

Photograph Analecta

Fall 2015

Midland Blue Bullet, A Dirge of the Highway

Hannah Anderson

I once saw a man at a five and dime staring at a wall selling Texas-themed Postcards. He asked me which one he should buy And I pointed my band aided finger towards The Armadillo one with the red Texas letters that said AIN’T NO PLACE LIKE THE LONE STAR STATE!

Poetry I took a Greyhound to Midland, Didn’t even think to sleep In the dreamed-in window seat, I noticed there were no five and dimes along the way— So I sat on the steps after the service Counting dead crows near the telephone wires. If six feet of Midland soil was the kind of earth someone Wanted to be buried under, then why couldn't I Ride in a blue bullet to the edge of America and never look back?

He smelled like wild horses, like old saddle leather, Like he never got to say goodbye to someone And rarely regretted where the road took him. I smelled like a long goodbye and found The five and dime as a rest stop for my troubles— Only I didn’t have a dime or a map that showed 476 miles to Midland. 72

I asked like a child in love: Do you wrangle horses? But he just tipped his Stetson hat like a wink And let the old cashier ring up the postcard Without words. I don’t even think he bought the one I suggested. Even now I remember the sound of his ’67 Blue Chevy rattling the gravel, And the BLUE BULLET license plate And the squishing sound my band aid made When I pulled it off in a Circle K restroom afterwards— I was going to someone’s funeral, He was probably driving to the edge of America.

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Fall 2015

Poetry

You Knob Sarah Ott

Lithograph

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Fall 2015

Poetry

Indian/Summer/Orleans # 4 Hannah Anderson It’s safe to say that rainbows bleed Beneath rainy southern skies— The aftermath of a hurricane Yet the way dead salmon flies Hit the windshield going 70 Really gets the summer Blood rushing.

Like fake stretched pennies From side street crank machines That cost more Than what a pennies worth— But it has all the worth Of a Picayune lost In the underbelly of the Gulf Of an old man called Mexico.

A split marble cemetery Where your half-parents rest Is never the filled Honey jar of daydreams. On a fourth day of the Indian summer Blue fireworks Ripped across The already ripped up sky And tore a bigger hole between Me and my way back home. On the drive back I caught a salmon fly On the dashboard alive— But the wild Orleans wind Took it out of my hands And sent it on to the next life.

The jingle jangle rhythm Scrape of cafe fork against Nighttime washboard reminds anyone That they could dream Of being a peripatetic.

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Fall 2015

There in the Lowland

Hannah Anderson

A sky full of red in its Hudspeth eyes, Crying into the dust Of a million clean salt flats where once Some outlaw was buried With a gun in his hand. The I-35 is lined With lucid lines of yellow Repeating Until telephone lines Turn into hypnotic Rituals for miles And miles.

The dirty Galveston Gulf runs Into sand like brown Curtains where wooden Docks once held the keys To the Flagship Hotelâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Who knows how many ghost lovers Drowned below when the wrecking ball hit? Red neon lights Of road life Turn aisles Of gas pumps And lotto tickets Into dance halls Of Peterbilts and topless Jeeps waiting To get through The madness one mile at a time. Analecta

Poetry The smell of dried cervezas Seeps through The wooden cracks Of a soggy cantina bar Flemenco music Becomes an old blue Jean jacket that keeps Earning more holes For a friend. The rusted tracks of Richmond Are hidden in the overgrown Farms of yesterday Fleeting horses And diamond cut Bayous where Kids on bikes Paste magazine pages Of pretty ladies Under the Brazos Bridge. The white blinking lights Of a faraway refinery Look like stars On the highway at night And a vintage postcard That is a map of Houston Has number codes For directions But any driver Could get Lost.

Fall 2015

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Fall 2015