Analecta 42 by Analecta Literary and Arts Journal

Analecta 42

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

2015 - 2016

Editorial Staff Editor-In-Chief Kathleen Woodruff Managing Editor Emily Varnell Design Board Jacob Barnes (Editor) Brendan Rodriguez Annie Daubert Julia Bai Michelle Zhou Prose Board Colleen Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill (Editor) Kate Richter Julia Rabensteine Katie Ray James Robertson

Publicity Managers Trevor Heise Caroline Miller Blog Editor Katie Bland Poetry Board Kendall DeBoer (Editor) Natalia Ruiz Nick Patton Thomas Nguyen Michelle Zhang Art Board Anabell Horton (Editor) Jacob Barnes Sarah Noor Gabi Velasco Amy Ong

2 COPYRIGHT 2016 by the Senate of College Councils at The University of Texas at Austin. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Analecta is published annually by the Analecta agency of the Senate of College Councils at The University of Texas at Austin. Please visit our website at analectajournal.com to view our web edition, contact our staff, and learn more about joining the staff, submitting work, and ordering a copy of the journal. The works in Analecta 42 were submitted and selected during the 2015-2016 school year and were compiled in the spring semester of 2016. The text of Analecta 42 has been formatted with the font families Baskerville and Oriya MN. The journal has been created using Adobe InDesign CS6.

Analecta 42

Gear and Gyzmo

Brooke Ashley Johnson Digital Photograph

Spring 2016

Acknowledgments

For the past forty-one years, Analecta Literary and Arts Journal has been one of the premier journals at the University of Texas at Austin. The current Analecta staff is proud to have continued the tradition of excellency by improving both the agency’s efficiency and efficacy. We designed and published Analecta 41 online in the fall, waded through exactly 200 submissions of prose, poetry, and art, chose 19 incredible authors and artists to represent our journal, and designed and published Analecta 42 online and in print. We expect even greater achievements in the years to come. I owe the publication of this journal largely to my staff: Emily Varnell, for facing all challenges with zeal; Anabell Horton, Kendall DeBoer, and Colleen O’Neill, for your organization and enthusiasm in working with your boards; Jacob Barnes, for your design prowess and adaptability; Trevor Heise and Caroline Miller, for publicizing so effectively; and of course, all the design team and board members, for your discernment of pieces and contribution of ideas. I also owe the publication of Analecta 42, however, to Veronica Cantu, Becky Carreon, and the rest of the Senate of College Councils, under whom we function and are supported and guided. Additionally, we could not have printed without the expertise of OneTouchPoint-Ginny’s. On behalf of Analecta, I thank you all. Thank you especially to everyone who submitted pieces for this year’s journal; it’s an indescribably brave act to share your work with other people. Though the limitations of publishing prevent us from accepting every deserving submission, we enjoyed the pieces and appreciate having the chance to review them. We sincerely hope that, if you love prose, poetry, and/or art as much as we do, you will submit your work to Analecta next fall. Analecta 42 is a fragment in time, dependent on our current experiences, and I hope that you delight in perusing it. I recently had the opportunity to look through our old journals, dating back even to 1978, and was struck by how everything from design to contributors to length to content has shifted. I know that this journal will continue to change in coming years, as new staffs and new decades influence it, but I’m sure that Analecta will still exhibit surprising and extraordinary work. In the past three years alone, I’ve witnessed much change.

Analecta 42

But it’s always fascinating to watch a project like this come together and a blessing to work with such talented people. I’m grateful for having the opportunity to lead Analecta and even more grateful knowing that I’m leaving it in capable hands. Kathleen Woodruff, Editor-in-Chief

Spring 2016

Table of Contents

10 18 26 36 40

Prose

Lost in the Supermarket // Paul Khermouch The Killers // Jesse Hanna And the Earth Quivered // Mary Elizabeth Dubois Terms and Agreements of Endearment // Charley Binkow Losing You // Courtney White

The Southern Lights Caroline Rock Digital Photograph

Analecta 42

Poetry 54 55 56 60 66 67 68 70 72

FC 03 06 08 17 35 52 57 58 59 65 69

Τέλος // David Edwards

Airport Art // Jonathan Lowell Utop()a // Asa Jonson California King // Austin Smith Football in Autumn // Raven Cortright Art Show Division // Joanna Drake Nepal // Bhabika Joshi Sleepwalking back to the battlefield // Nicole Ting

1989 Chateau Haut Brion // Dara Anya

Art

6.17.14 // Caroline Rock Gear and Gyzmo // Brooke Ashley Johnson The Southern Lights // Caroline Rock 12.30.14 // Caroline Rock Untitled (#39) // Rebecca Bielamowicz Stitch in Time // Brooke Ashley Johnson The Young and Old No Longer Thrive, Only Glass and Wood Survive // Rachel Tyler Unity // Rasavenger Homeward Bound // Rebecca Bielamowicz Freedom Tower // Rebecca Bielamowicz Back in the Day Portrait // Brooke Ashley Johnson Particles // Brooke Ashley Johnson

Spring 2016

Prose

Analecta 42

Selected Works of Literature

12.30.14

Caroline Rock Digital Photograph Spring 2016

Lost in the Supermarket Paul Khermouch

Archie hauled yet another crate full of cartons of grapefruit juice onto the chair, and started putting them on the shelves, reaching his frail arm forward to line up each carton with its neighbors. Between a gap in the Tropicana, he could see that the aisles of the Home Cookinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Food Superstore were nearly empty; most of the shelves had already been picked over, and Mr. Johnson was getting on his case to move faster and restock before closing time. Archie shivered under the cold fluorescent lights of the storage area, and grabbed another carton of juice. After this last crate, he just had to do the milk and then he could get out of here. Archie shoved the rest of the juice onto the shelf and started on the 2%, pushing his hair out of his eyes so that it hung under his baseball cap in a brown sheet down to his shoulders. The shelf was almost empty, and he could see straight through to the rest of the supermarket. Archie grabbed the first jug and reached through to put it on the shelf. As he stretched forward, Archie turned his head and looked down the refrigerated aisle. A woman stood near the juice section, poring over the cartons he had so meticulously arranged a minute ago. Her face was round, the jawbones curving smoothly to meet a slightly cleft chin, and her lips were covered in bright red lipstick. A small nose and a pair of shimmering blue eyes were framed by wavy blond hair that reached down to her shoulders. Archie hit his head on the underside of the top shelf, then quickly withdrew into the storage room. Hot damn! he thought. Archie stared down at the crates of milk he still had to unpack. They would take him another ten minutes at least, and by then she might be gone already. Maybe he could help her pick out which juice she wanted? Analecta 42

Prose After all, they had one of the best selection of juices in Toledo. He knew because he’d had to restock every damn one of them earlier that evening. Archie wiped the condensation off his hands onto his jeans, tucked in his polo shirt, straightened the badge on his chest which read ARCHIE and headed out of the storage room. The woman was still thinking about which juice to buy. She was wearing a blue blouse that hung loosely around her thin frame, and black pants that hugged her thighs but were looser at the ankles. Her feet were clad in sandals, dainty white toes with the nails painted pink. She twisted a bracelet around her wrist as she leaned forward to look at the cartons. Archie threw his chest forward as he strode towards her, then tried to quiet his footsteps; he didn’t want to surprise her and scare her. As he got closer, he edged into the shelves until he was barely in her field of view, and said, “Can I help you with anything, ma’am?” She jumped, and made Archie jump too; “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!” he cried. “Oh, it’s alright! I’m fine, I’m just trying to figure out where these juices were made. I try to buy from local farmers these days,” she said, smiling slightly. Uh-oh. One of those types. Archie grinned back at her and said “Yeah, I’m trying to do that too! I’d say these two are my favorites.” Archie pointed at two brands of apple juice he had never tried because they were in the expensive section, as he liked to call it. “Both of these farmers are within fifty miles of the Toledo area, and they taste great!” “Ok, thanks, um...” the woman glanced at the badge on Archie’s puffed-out chest. “Archie!” “Sure!” he squeaked, “I’m just here to help!” He smiled at her one more time before turning and retreating into the storage room. Spring 2016

I’m just here to help! You sound like a girl, lamented Archie in his head. He slouched towards the milk crates, and picked one up. Now what? Maybe he should have told her which juice to get. She had asked him for his help, and he had left her with another decision to make. Maybe she could tell, by the way he pointed at them and the way he talked about them, that he hadn’t really tried them, that he didn’t really know what he was talking about... Archie frowned, picking at the sharp stubble on his chin. He had barely said a dozen words to this woman, and already he was losing his mind and wishing he hadn’t talked to her at all. He’d only started acting this way three weeks ago, after Melanie had left him so abruptly to go to college. She said she didn’t want to drag him along with her, but he knew what she meant; high school sweethearts only last so long, anyway. Now that she was gone, Archie was having trouble returning home from work to an empty house every evening. Somehow, just knowing Melanie would ask how his day had been made working at a grocery store all the more bearable; now, the silence and the sparse furniture wore down his conscience until he went to bed each night. Archie set down the milk crate. The image of the woman’s face lingered in his mind, and he knew he had to learn more about her. After all, he hadn’t even learned her name! What if she never came back, and Archie saw her somewhere else? What would he say to her? Archie gave the milk on the floor one last glance. He could already see Mr. Johnson going red in the face when he found out that the new shipment of milk had expired sitting on the floor of the storage room. Archie burst out of door and turned down the refrigerated aisle. The woman was nowhere to be found. He raced past the aisles, looking for her: spotted, in aisle 5, picking out pasta. He kept going before she could notice him, and Analecta 42

Prose thought up a plan. He would spill something and block off the aisle, then direct her away when she showed up; he could ask her about the juice then, and see where things went from there. Archie stepped into aisle 9 and looked at what was on the shelves. He had to pick carefully: something too thin would be a quick clean-up, and might be taken care of before she arrived; something too expensive, and Mr. Johnson would make sure it came out of his pocket. As he glanced up and down the shelves, his colleague Pepito sidled up to him, wearing his typical oversized blue jeans and cap on backwards. “Hey, man, what you doin’ here? Ain’t you supposed to be workin’ the shelves?” “Yeah, I was.” Archie’s eyes flitted up and down, looking for the right item. “Hey, how about you and I switch, just for a minute? Mind doing that for me?” Pepito frowned at him. “Oh, I don’t know, man. Mr. Johnson might get upset.” “It’s just for a couple minutes, Pepito.” How do I get rid of him? Archie had picked out his victim — extra virgin olive oil, thick and greasy — but he needed Pepito to leave him alone. Archie glanced around the end of the aisle. The woman was walking towards them, and would be here any second. “Please? Mr. Johnson’ll never know!” “What are you looking at, man? There a hot lady or somethin’?” Pepito burst out into a high-pitched laugh. “You gonna give her that olive oil, show her a good time at the supermarket?” He cackled with glee. It was no use. Archie grabbed the olive oil by the mouth of the bottle and smashed the corner against the metal shelf. The noise of breaking glass made Pepito jump, and the base of the bottle cracked open; a slow drizzle of oil trickled onto the floor, and Pepito said, “Hey man, what are you doing?” The woman turned the corner of the aisle and saw Archie crouched Spring 2016

over the floor, cradling the smashed bottle as the oil spilled onto his hands and the green-yellow pool on the floor crept towards his sneakers. Archie looked up at the woman, smiled, and said, “Oh, hello again miss! My colleague and I are just cleaning up a little accident here. Finding everything ok?” The woman looked at the bottle, then at Pepito, who stared back at her blankly. “Um, yeah, just fine. Could I get a bottle of olive oil, and then I’ll leave?” “Sure!” Archie jumped up and brushed past Pepito, who continued to stand and stare, and grabbed another bottle of olive oil. “Here’s one!” He held it out to her, then realized that he had coated the handle with the oil from his hands. “Oh, uh, sorry... Pepito, could you—” “It’s alright,” the woman said, stepping carefully over the glass on the floor and taking a third bottle off the shelf. She stepped back, turned quickly and disappeared around the corner of the aisle. “What’s going on here?” Mr. Johnson demanded as he approached Archie and Pepito from the other end of the aisle. He stood over Archie, who was still hovering over the spilled olive oil. He had his hands on his hips, tie perfectly straightened in his buttoned-up shirt and khakis barely touching his shined shoes. The badge on his chest was also perfectly straight: MR. JOHNSON, MANAGER. “Who did this? Archie, why are you here? Didn’t I tell you to restock the refrigerated goods? Did you finish that already? Pepito, why aren’t you helping him?” “I’ll clean it up, Mr. Johnson,” said Archie, not daring to look at him as he straightened and rounded the corner, headed in the direction of the storage room. He could hear Mr. Johnson questioning Pepito behind him, poor Pepito stuttering out answers whenever he could. Archie should have known Mr. Johnson would show up now, of all times; he Analecta 42

Prose was always giving Archie a hard time when he least needed it. Mr. Johnson hadn’t lightened up at all since Melanie had left, either; Archie hadn’t bothered to tell him, since he knew he wouldn’t care. Archie had talked about it with some of the other employees, and he assumed the news would trickle up to Mr. Johnson one way or the other. But maybe the guy was just deaf to everyone below him, after all. Archie reached the entrance to the storage room, thinking about what to do. The woman was probably already in line to check out; if Pepito hadn’t been in the aisle with him, Archie could have delayed her a little longer. Archie looked over his shoulder to make sure Mr. Johnson wasn’t watching him, and turned down aisle 5, hurrying towards the checkout area. By now, the store was nearly deserted; between his quick footsteps, Archie could only hear soft country music playing over the supermarket speakers, and in his mind’s eye he saw his car pulling into his garage at midnight, the house lights cold and dead. He got to the front of the supermarket, and scanned the area for the woman with the blue blouse: target acquired, checkout, lane 2. She was the last customer for the night, the others straggling out behind their overfull shopping carts. Beth was her cashier, scanning her items and chatting with her. Archie saw Jimmy finish hoisting another man’s groceries into his shopping cart, and turn towards Beth’s cash register to help her with the woman’s goods. Archie rushed forward and elbowed Jimmy out of the way; Jimmy cried “Hey!” as Archie grabbed a plastic bag and starting filling it with the woman’s groceries: Ogden Farms organic apple juice (the pricier one, Archie thought); the store’s last bottle of merlot, also made locally; a jar of Home Cookin’ garlic tomato sauce; a pound of El Gusto Italiano linguini, imported from Minnesota; a can of basil-pesto sauce; and the olive oil. “Hey again miss, sorry about what happened earlier!” Spring 2016

The woman was laughing at something Beth had said, and didn’t hear him. She swiped her card through the reader, and gave it her PIN number. Archie watched her delicate fingers touch the worn buttons of the number pad, fingernails clacking against the grey plastic; one was slightly chipped, the way Melanie’s always were. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Johnson appear from between two aisles across the room, head turning, looking for him. Archie lowered his head and filled the grocery bag. The woman turned to leave, and faced him; her eyes widened as she recognized Archie. “Oh!” she said, as Archie smiled at her again and held out the bag, plastic straining under the load. “Thank you!” She carefully took the handles from his hand, the corners of her mouth creeping upwards in a forced smile. Archie stood back and let her pass through the sliding doors out of the supermarket and into the parking lot. When he had come in to work that morning, the sky had been a pleasant blue and the sun had streamed through the clouds; now it was dark and forbidding. As Archie’s heart sank, a small voice inside of him wondered Should I carry it for her to her car? But right at that moment, Mr. Johnson’s voice sounded off, low and dangerous, right behind his head: “One step out of that door, and you’re fired.” Archie watched the woman’s hips swing back and forth as she switched the bag from one hand to the other, and disappeared into the darkness. He turned around and saw Beth, Jimmy and Pepito all look away at the same time, while Mr. Johnson towered over him, arms folded, brow furrowed and mouth unsmiling. Archie looked at the floor as he slowly tread to the back of the supermarket, and re-entered the storage room. He remembered the spilled olive oil, but his face felt numb and he didn’t want to leave the room again; perhaps he’d finish unpacking the milk first. The clock on the wall read Analecta 42

Prose 10:59 PM. Archie untucked his shirt and went back to work.

Untitled

Rebecca Bielamowicz Digital Photograph

Spring 2016

The Killers

Jesse Hanna

The police put out a warrant on the young couple after a robbery at a pawn shop resulted in the death of two employees. The two were identified as Wyatt Philips and Mary Carlyle and their names and photos were shown on the news and in the papers across the country that afternoon. It was noon when Wyatt and Mary were making their way across the country in a barely working tan yellow station wagon. The dying car had been rattling and clicking for a few hours, but Wyatt kept on driving, stubbornly refusing to stop. That was until a cloud of smoke blew out from under the engine and forced his hand. “Shit!” Wyatt said. He pulled the car on to the dirt shoulder and cut off the engine, the car let out a sigh that made it sound exhausted. “We’ll need to get another ride,” He said. Mary didn’t answer. Her nose was buried in her paperback. Wyatt looked over to her, trying to get her to come out of it. “Not a lot of cars coming, might not have much to choose from.” “Just let me finish this chapter,” Mary said, not looking away from her book. “Staying parked out in the open aint exactly a good idea either. Especially if a cop drives by.” Mary didn’t respond. Wyatt reached over and grabbed her paperback and pulled it up so he could see the cover. “Been reading that since Nevada, how long is it gonna take to finish?” “I’ve already finished it. I liked it, so I’m reading it Analecta 42

Prose again,” Mary said, still not making eye contact with him. Wyatt wanted to yell, but knew he needed her to be a willing participant if they were to get another ride. He reached in the back seat and pulled out a sign. He held it out in front of him and looked it over. It was a piece of cardboard that read, Car Broke Down, Need Help. “Don’t have time to stay out here like this.” Wyatt said. “Okay, just let me finish this chapter.” Mary said. “But you’ve already read it.” “Fine,” Mary said flatly and threw the book against the windshield. She grabbed the cardboard sign, stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind her. Wyatt sighed, and tried to say something to her, but she had already stormed out of the car. He reached in the glove box and pulled out some binoculars. He took his time, and tried to calm down a little before stepping outside, not in a hurry to go outside and into a fight. Mary was standing on the edge of the road with the sign dangling in her hand, barely making an effort. Wyatt walked further away from her and stepped onto a mound of dirt near the shoulder to get a better view. He looked through the binoculars and in the distance was a silver blur moving their way. “Gotta a silver truck, Wyatt said, “could be new.” Mary shook her head in disapproval, “rich people don’t own trucks.” There were a hundred reason why passing on the truck was a bad idea. Wyatt wanted to yell at her and list them all, but instead he held his tongue and simply nodded. “Should get out of sight though, till it passes,” He said. Mary turned away from the road and sat down in the front seat of the car. Wyatt stepped back away from the mound and ducked Spring 2016

down behind some bushes. The two waited for the truck to pass from their respective covers. Wyatt staring at Mary, and Mary trying to look at anything else. Wyatt caught Mary’s eye and winked at her, she smiled back and turned away, not wanting him to see. Wyatt now a little relieved that the fighting had stopped, even if it was only temporary. The truck passed and the two went back to their positions. In the distance, Wyatt saw a car heading their way. “Alright-got something. A black four door. Looks new.” Wyatt looked back, hoping for her approval. “That’s good. Let’s try,” Mary said. Thank God, Wyatt thought. She seemed more interested now, and was now holding up the sign over head, waving it back and forth. She smiled as if it was a relative she was welcoming home at the airport. “Can’t imagine too many people happy to be stranded.” Wyatt said. Mary caught herself and adjusted her expression. She pulled the sign down and started to play the part of a stranded driver. Wyatt over laughing and shaking his head along the way. “It’s stopping! It’s stopping!” Mary said. Wyatt turned toward the road and saw a polished black Audi slow down pull onto the dusty shoulder. It slowed down and rolled next to their broken down station wagon. The car stopped and the engine cut off, barely making a sound. Wyatt walked over to the car, ready to greet their samaritan. The door opened and a man in a white button down dress shirt and slacks stepped out of the car. He looked like new money. He walked to Wyatt and Mary and reached out his hand. “Sure is a hot one today,” He said. Mary stepped ahead of Wyatt and introduced herself. “Name’s Mary, and this is Wyatt.” Analecta 42

Prose “Pleasure, name’s Joe.” He said and shook their hands, though he only spoke to Mary. “You been out here long?” “A couple hours, some cars drove by, but you’re the first to pull over.” Mary said. “Well that doesn’t sound too neighborly,” Joe said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I don’t have a charger with me, but you’re welcome to use it.” Joe said, handing the phone to Mary. “If you got anyone you need to call.” Mary grabbed the phone from Joe and looked over to Wyatt, “I’m going to call your sister, she must be worried sick,” Mary said, making sure both men heard. Mary dialed a number on the phone. “Hey Sarah, this is Mary, we’ve been having a little car trouble.” Wyatt looked at her, not sure who she was talking to. Mary started to walk further from the two men until she was out of range. Joe watched her as she walked away, a little longer than would be appropriate, which Wyatt noticed. He looked over at the wagon. “Did it overheat?” “No, was in the green,” Wyatt said, “started smoking and had to pull over.” Joe walked to the back of his Audi and opened up the trunk. He pulled out a tool box, and grabbed a flash light and looked over to Wyatt, “Would you mind if I took a look underneath? I used to work for my uncle’s auto shop when I was younger, and I might be able to get her back on her feet.” “Don’t want you to get your clothes dirty.” “That doesn’t matter, I’m washing them later anyways.” Joe bent down on the ground and crawled underneath the engine. He went so far underneath the car that all Wyatt could see was the end of his pants and his loafers sticking out. “Oh, I can see why it started to overheat.” ”Think you can get her back up?” Wyatt said. Spring 2016

“I don’t know, cars pretty old.” Wyatt felt the dig, but kept on working. “Stopped at the grocery store a few hours back, got some water in the back if you’d like.” “Yeah, that would be good.” Joe said. Wyatt turned to Mary and waved her over to their car. She hung up the phone and walked over. Wyatt walked to the back of the car and opened up the trunk. He pulled out the shotgun, and a bottle of water. He slung the gun over his shoulder and shut the trunk. He looked over to Mary, waiting for the green light. She nodded and walked back to the wagon. Wyatt walked down toward the car and reached down handing Joe the water. Joe’s arm reached out from the hood of the car and grabbed the bottle. “Thank you.” Joe said from underneath the car. Wyatt pulled the gun forward and racked it. He held it at his side, ready, and waiting for their new friend to pop back up. “So, Joe, are you from around here?” Mary asked. “No, Chicago originally, moved out here a couple of years ago. Wife wanted to find a place away from the city, so we looked at where I could work and settled on Utah.” “Well you seem to be doing pretty well for yourself, if you don’t mind me saying.” Mary said. Wyatt looked over to Mary, shaking his head at her lack of subtlety. “Oh, the car? Well I have to thank my kids for that. When my wife got pregnant, and something about being a dad just put things in perspective. Stopped messing around, went back to school. Just started being more responsible.” Mary looked over to Wyatt and exchanged a look of pity after hearing a little bit of Joe’s story. Wyatt put the gun over his shoulder, realizing now that Mary was having second Analecta 42

Prose thoughts. “Oh, kids?” Mary said. “Yeah, four,” Joe said, “seventeen year old, fifteen, eight and the youngest just turned six this past June.” Mary shook her head at Wyatt, calling the thing off. Wyatt looked back at her and shook his head no, denying her request. Mary glared back at him, more intensely and he backed down. Wyatt walked to the back of the car, opened the trunk and set the gun back inside. Slamming it down, making sure Mary heard. “Well sounds like they keep you busy,” Mary said. “That they do,” Joe said. “Your wife must be getting worried, she going to be wondering why you’re not home?” “Ohh, I’m not married. Sorta have a girlfriend, but not married.” “I’m sorry, I thought.” Wyatt went back to the front of the car and sat down on the dirt, waiting for Mary. “No, I was, twice actually. My first wife, Mother to the Seventeen and Fifteen year old lives out in California. My second wife lives out over in Salt Lake with the six and eight year old with her husband and step kids.” “Oh, I didn’t mean to pry,” Mary said. “No worries. I’m just the settling down type” Mary looked over to Wyatt, noticeably upset at what Joe was saying. Wyatt had a smirk on his face, enjoying the moment. “Took a few too many tries to figure that out.” Joe said, and laughed to himself. “I guess once a bachelor, always a bachelor.” Wyatt started to laugh, and without waiting for the word, he stood up, walked to the back of the car, opened up Spring 2016

the trunk and pulled out the shotgun and walked back to the front of the car. Mary had her arms crossed and was giving Joe a disgusted look, though he couldn’t see it. “Hey Joe, phones vibrating,” Wyatt said, “don’t know if it’s important.” “Yeah, that’s I should get that. I’ll just be a minute.” Joe climbed out from under the car and brushed off the dirt from his pants and grabbed the phone from Wyatt, “it doesn’t say there’s a text,” he said. Joe looked back up to Wyatt and looked down to see a shot gun pointed in his direction. Joe didn’t say a word, his eyes fixated on the gun and he let the phone fall from his hand. His eyes watched the gun and slowly moved up to Wyatt. Wyatt stood there silently, expressionless and waiting for Joe to catch up. Joe turned to Mary, but she too was unyielding in her expression. Slowly Joe began to process what was going on. Wyatt raised the shotgun slightly. “Don’t speak, don’t make a sound. Just walk.” He gestured the gun to the desert and the two started to walk, further inland, away from the road. They walked until the road was out of sight and they were under the cover of darkness. “That tree, walk to it.” Wyatt said. Joe turned and started to move towards it. As he got closer Wyatt slowed down a little and let Joe get some distance from him. Joe stopped at the tree, and turned to back to face Wyatt. Wyatt raised the gun higher and pulled down on the trigger. The shot fired as Joe was turning to face him and the force of the blast caused Joe’s body to spin as it hit the ground. His eyes stayed fixed on Wyatt as the blood from his back started to seep down and soak into the dry dirt. Analecta 42

Prose Wyatt slung the gun over his shoulder and bent down next to Joe, pressed his fingers to Joe’s neck and waited for his pulse to stop. Wyatt stood up, pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and began to walk back to the highway. The sun was starting to set when Wyatt made it back to the cars. Their belongings were already in the new sedan and Mary had situated herself in the front seat of the car, with her nose buried in her book. Wyatt went to the trunk of the car, opened it and laid the gun inside. He walked back into the front seat, turned the car and put it in drive. Mary put her book down and looked over to Wyatt. “I heard the gun go off. Did he cause any trouble?” “No,” Wyatt said,” something about him was bugging me.” “Oh.” She said. Wyatt started to accelerate toward the highway, but stopped just as they were about to get back on the road. He stopped, put the car in park and waited. Mary stopped reading, put her book down and looked over to him. Wyatt didn’t say anything, he waited for the right words to come. He looked over to Mary and, with a smirk on his face, he asked, “would the madam like anything else?” Mary smiled and said, “no, that will be all.” Wyatt laughed and pulled the car on to the highway. Mary went back to reading her book and the two killers continued on the road, headed to their next destination.

Spring 2016

And the Earth Quivered Mary Elizabeth Dubois

We’d been seeing each other for about a month when he finally told me the story. He was much older; I was twenty-one. He hunched over his patch of grass like this old man I once saw lost in the crowd at the Macy’s Day Parade. I wore a collared tan dress and a red and gold striped sweater. Sprays submissively lounged at the base of his trunk; the boughs clutched the base of their forks as if they were too nervous to branch out alone into the crisp October air, curling back toward the crotch like mice tails. I wore red lipstick. “You’re young and beautiful,” the oak tree said to me, his muted juniper-green leaves at the tallest branch clawing toward the sky like dissident hairs in a frothy comb- over. “But I’m wise.” His honest arrogance never dissuaded me from scandalizing his insides. In fact, I kind of liked the power complex. I listened to the oak as he whispered his sad history, slinking inside toward the soft womb of the underbranch, using the tips of my fingers to caress the warm base where the prigs and caterpillars dejectedly accepted their lifelong marriage. There were still a few acorns from ’97, if anyone could believe that, which I didn’t, and kind of accepted were placed there by the Society of Arboriculture to incentivize funding. As I sat there that afternoon after class, my long, girlish limbs pressed against the soil that was simply the undergarment clothing the trembling roots below, Treaty Oak finally rehashed to me the pre-narrative of his vandalism: “His name was Cullen. Initially it was so easy, you know, falling in love. He would come here, just like you, Peg, Analecta 42

Prose and sit there and listen to me talk about the sticky, honeyed hands of the Tejas women, or the callused, tender fingertips of Mr. Stephen F. Austin. He’d just listen, his thumbs massaging the soil by my bulging roots. I blossomed underneath his touch; my branches reached a 127-foot spread, the largest they’d ever be. The whole city could see I was in love: the skinny, gauntfaced boys who skateboarded by in mid-calf socks, the girls strolling downtown with their whale spout ponytails. It was the late 80s, but Cullen and I were entombed in the past, or so I thought.” “Well, what happened?” I asked lazily, because he wanted me to. Most people knew what happened. “He was in love with someone else.” “Who?” “His methadone counselor.” “Sounds dramatic.” “Peg. Yes. You have a lot to learn about the world, so let me just tell you now: people lie.” “What do you think of me?” I asked. “You know I care for you, Peg,” he said. “We’re having fun.” I liked that he thought he knew more about the world than me. I liked that he sounded like my grandfather, but touched me like a young sapling. I liked that he was an oak tree. I’d first discovered Treaty Oak the summer before I moved to Austin for university, when everyone was running around meeting people and joining clubs and posting pictures online to make their high school friends jealous. Sure, I told my parents I was doing all of those things, and even had a couple of photos of me sporting burnt orange with now-obscure-tome people I begrudgingly talked to at various, suspiciously Spring 2016

uninformative information sessions, but, per usual, the moment the university released us to go make friends or get drunk I found myself amongst the vegetation. I was walking downtown, picking small leaves off of bushes. I loved the way any greenery felt, but, naturally, in the way of dendrophiliacs, I primarily lusted after trees. I was happy, however, strolling through downtown, palming two wax leaf ligustrum leaves. They were of the highest caliber: at the prime of their lives, thick and leathery. I walked over Town Lake toward Zilker Park, trusting the word park wholeheartedly. I was disappointed. There was an oval of limp, unimpressive oaks at the perimeter of the park, but mainly grass and dogs. Not to mention there were too many humans. I was walking home, slightly disappointed, thumbing two cotoneaster evergreen shrub leaves (they were memorably waxy and without any aphid stain), when I saw him. I waited another year before I made a move. It was better this way; my hair grew longer. 28

My mother called me the morning after Treaty Oak had finally started to reveal his secrets to me. I was sitting in the apartment, meticulously mapping out a register machine for my logic class, when she called. “I hope you’ve been eating.” “Yes.” “Well, I saw Jacqueline the other day at the home football game, Jackie Burrows, and she looked like she’d lost at least ten pounds. You haven’t lost weight, right? Did the doctor weigh you when you went to ask about birth control?” “Yes. No. I haven’t lost weight.” “I wish you’d come home for a home football game.” “Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been busy.” Analecta 42

Prose “Well. What about the birth control?” “I didn’t go yet.” “Peggy,” she said. I knew what she was doing on the other end of the line, pressing her palms on the Silestone kitchen countertop, staring out the small, circular window across from the kitchen sink. I could hear the hum of the dishwasher in the background. She almost exclusively talked on the phone in the kitchen, standing up, staring out at the neighbor’s sideof-the-house shrubbery. Growing up, I’d sat at the kitchen table doing homework while she gossiped on the phone all afternoon with her own mother, only occasionally resting her thigh on the faux-quartz next to the coffee pot. “Sorry.” “Don’t be sorry. I just want you to be safe.” “I know.” “How are classes? How’s Alyssa?” “She’s good. Tired. She had two exams this week.” “Does she still have that boyfriend?” “Yes.” “That’s nice. She’s a nice girl.” “Yeah.” “Okay, well. Your father and I are going to Home Depot today. We’re thinking about buying a new Christmas tree.” “That’s exciting.” “Well. I don’t know. I’m not sure we need a new one. Dad’s always wanted a smaller tree, more of a Charlie Brown tree, but I can’t bear the thought of not being able to fit all the presents underneath the tree.” “Just keep the old one.” “Well. We’ll see. I mean, imagine having a party, and not having enough room for all of your cousins’ presents.” “Yeah, just keep the old one.” “Well. We’re just going to look, that’s all.” Spring 2016

“Alright.” After she hung up, Alyssa was home making pasta and dusk was rapidly softening into night, as though with every inhale I sucked more of the sunlight out of the sky and through the slits in my blinds. “You ok?” I asked from my desk. I had a perfect view of the kitchen. I watched her as she lazily stirred the wooden spoon in the bowling water, her other hand rapidly texting. “Yeah, hey.” She looked up briefly. “How’s logic?” “Shitty, I guess.” “Yeah, you’ll never guess what I got on the CS test.” “One-hundred?” “Nope. But close. Ninety-eight.” “You rock.” “That’s right.” She waved her phone in the air, grinning at me. “How’s mom?” “She’s mom.” “Yeah, mom. So, I think Alex is coming over soon, just so you know.” She turned the stove nob off. “He’s also having that fire pit party tomorrow, at his parents’ house, a little north. If you’re interested. I’m driving.” “Alright.” By the time Alex came over, it was night. I slipped out of the apartment, wrapped in my piebald winter fleece, my thick hair tucked into the collar, protecting my neck from the wind. I remember my first love. He was a willowy Sweet Acacia, semi-evergreen, with rich, orange-gold flowers that bloomed in the spring. I was fifteen. My family and I were visiting my grandmother in Groves, Texas for a two week long stay, and although Groves always surprised me as being decidAnalecta 42

Prose edly less arboreal than its name encourages, I’ll never forget the long hours I lolled about underneath my Sweet Acacia. In my memory he’s standing there as if in some old Brando movie, an impish smile rippling through his yellowing leaves. I found the Acacia just past the Texaco where I’d sucked down my first Icee years ago. I liked to walk the path down the refinery road where my grandfather worked his entire life; I’d usually turn around at the Texaco and start the trek back to my grandmother’s house, but that day I approached the refinery gate. The landscaping near the fenced entrance was non-existent; lackluster weeds, thorns, and blood red berries held hands along the chain-link. “Hi!” I heard his voice before I saw him. When I turned around, the tenor matched the appearance: he was young. He stood with his shoulders back, eyes upturned, towering over the archaic city below him as if he was their golden calf. We passed the days telling stories: I talked about the novels I was reading, he told me the refinery gossip he overheard. Unlike most first loves, we never spoke about the future. We perfected the confidence of permanent, the energy of temporary. When the two weeks were over, we kissed goodbye. I never knew how much I broke his heart until I returned a year later. The demigod was gone. In his place stood a relic. Treaty Oak was standing there, his thin arms reaching toward me. There was a hint of a four-o-clock shadow on his ride side, cast by the street lamp in the parking lot behind me. The soft, low wattage light illuminated the plaque in front of him: The Caldwell Treaty Oak Park Estimated to have been a majestic tree of about 100 Spring 2016

years when Columbus first landed on North American shores, this live oak tree has been pronounced the most perfect specimen of a tree in North America, and its picture hangs in the Hall of Fame of Forestry at Washington. Formerly standing as the center of a group of trees called “The Council Oaks,” this tree takes its name from its role in the history of the Lone Star State. Stephen F. Austin is reputed to have signed the first boundary line agreement between Indians and whites under the canopy of its branches; battles and important conferences have been planned, pacts signed, and feasts and religious ceremonies celebrated in its shade. The Treaty Oak was purchased by the City of Austin in 1937 to stand as a living and fitting symbol of the mighty state it has watched develop.

“Cullen?” he asked. “Peg.” “Peg. Hello.” “How are you?” I asked. I softly pushed away the outer branches that led to the womb, milking every moment as I heard his breathy inhale. “I’m here,” he said. “You always are.” I wondered why he could possibly be expecting Paul Cullen; I wanted to tell him I was in love with him. Instead, his voice broke. “I was poisoned, Peg. I’m sure you know.” “I do know.” “I was poisoned by the only man I’ve ever loved, Peg. He poisoned me.” “You can tell me. Talk to me. If you want. I’ll listen,” I said. I was using both my hands to rub two smaller roots at the base of the trunk. His branches sank with the repetitious Analecta 42

Prose rhythm of my hands. “He brought supplies. The ceremony was quick. I’ll never forget the way the papers called it an occult ritual, as if it wasn’t an attempt at murder. He placed the objects in a circle around my roots. Her objects. He poured the Velpar.” “What did he say?” I asked. “He wouldn’t answer me. At first, I thought he was organizing some intricate surprise for me. You know, a gift. Then I started to feel it. In my roots. I blacked out for four days.” He was silent. A cool breeze funneled through the hydrangeas and briefly lifted my cotton dress underneath the fleece. It settled back down among the sprigs. “I love you,” I said. He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, the voice was muffled, as if a door separated us. “Oh, Peg,” he said. “We’re just having fun.” Alex’s parents’ house was twenty minutes outside of Austin in the heart of the hill country. Everyone was huddled around the fire pit, pretending it was cold outside. My hands were shaking as I sipped from my Irish coffee one of Alex’s friends had made for me. “You ok, Peggy?” Alex asked me. He had a Viennese scarf wrapped around his head, a present from Alyssa when she went abroad the previous summer. “Yeah,” I said. I was standing a little a part from everyone else by the square-cut Beech hedge, sipping furiously. “You look manic.” “I’m a little drunk.” He lifted the scarf to faux cover his eyes. “I won’t tell.” I pulled off three Beech leaves from the hedge, massaging them carefully between my thumb and forefinger. “I do that, too.” Spring 2016

Alex was smiling. “I pull them off everywhere I walk. Alyssa thinks I’m crazy. There’s this tree I pass everyday on my way to class, and I’m pretty sure the thing’s going to be bare by the time I graduate.” I dropped the leaves. “Where’s the bathroom?” Inside, I stared at my face in the bathroom mirror. I washed my hands. I went back through the kitchen and saw the garage door. I put the chainsaw into Alyssa’s car. I stole her keys from her coat pocket resting on the sofa. I drove ninety miles an hour down the highway. Now, at the hospital, they tell me it’s all in my head. They tell me trees don’t talk. They tell me I can’t make love to a tree. They also tell me, by the way, Peggy, you cut down the most famous tree in Texas. As if I don’t know my own relationships. This is all very funny, because the Bald Cyprus outside the thin hospital window is already interested. “Peg?” he asks. 34

Stitch in Time

Brooke Ashley Johnson Thread and Painted Canvas

Analecta 42

Prose

Spring 2016

Terms and Agreements of Endearment Charley Binkow

Not much can phase your run of the mill rosy-cheeked six-year old boy. He’ll eat the bugs off a dung heap, watch the goriest of horror films, construct a Great Wall of Boogers on his bunk-bed inches from where he lays his head. But nothing strikes more fear into him than the dreaded phrase, “I know someone who likes you.” The first time the rosy-cheeked lad hears this he is instantly paralyzed by an all-enveloping emotional wave. It’s as if his world suddenly shifted from black/white to color. He had just spent six years getting comfortable in his own skin and now those six words force him to reevaluate everything—and I do mean everything. He starts asking questions like, “Is this how I should be tying my shoelaces? I mean, the bunny-ears method has been good to me, but the third-graders are doing the loop, swoop & pull…” The first time I heard this phrase was during recess at The Willows Elementary School. I was taking care of some administrative cleaning; my cubby was far too cluttered, even for my standards. It was hard to tell where my folders ended and my expired sack-lunches began. I was disposing a weekold Gogurt tube when a pig-tailed associate of mine named Amanda appeared. “I know someone who likes you,” she said between giggles before running off. Then the aforementioned emotional wave coursed its way through me. She had tossed a bomb and retreated behind impenetrable enemy lines—the girls’ circle. I could do nothing more then stand there, dumbfounded, rancid Gogurt still in hand. However, as soon as I saw team captains forming dodge-ball squads, I abandoned my thoughts and Analecta 42

Prose rushed the asphalt. My attention span has since then grown (granted, only slightly). It wasn’t until the car-ride home that I began to digest what had transpired. At first I was excited. Then I started to feel flattered. Perhaps Grandma was right in calling me the most handsomest boy in the whole wide world. But soon after, the flattery faded and all the feelings I had previously suppressed came rushing back full force: fear, anxiety, hope, dread, curiosity, joy, and many more I am probably forgetting. They came and went sporadically, repeating themselves in peculiar and unpredictable fashions. The process left me an emotional wreck, too confused even to finish my after school Scooby Snack. I mentioned the event to my parents over dinner, they being my main source of advice outside my Beanie-Baby brain trust. “Well, do you like her?” asked Dad. I didn’t know. Heck, I wasn’t even sure who her was. “Maybe you should talk to her and see if you like her,” he suggested. Talk to her? What awful advice. Clearly Dad was useless. If only he knew what it was like to be a young tortured soul like me. It looked like I was going to have to take on this situation solo. That night, as I lay next to my Great Wall, staring blankly at the rails of the top bunk, my thoughts achieved speeds previously thought impossible. However, after much internal debate, I reached two conclusions, based on some admittedly loose deduction: 1) the love of my life/future wife would reveal herself to me the next day; and 2) since (1) was sure to happen, I had better look my best. I woke up with a leap out of bed the next morning. I brushed my teeth with my finest bubblegum toothpaste, put on my classiest Chucky Finster t-shirt, and velcroed my glowup shoes with the red lights (my fastest pair). Then I went to the mirror to comb my buzz-cut and put on my efficient, i.e. Spring 2016

mature, transition-lens glasses. I rolled up to school in the back of Mom’s Ford Escape, and I felt as good as I looked. Excitement overtook me as I crossed the threshold between infancy and manhood. I was ready for whatever lay ahead in maturity: taxes; driving; heck, even vegetables. But in order to achieve that level of what I called adulthoodedness, one must not only look the part, one must act it. I puffed my chest out, held my chin high, and walked on the tippiest part of my toes. Now I was an official member of the adulthoodedness class. And it felt great. When the recess bell rang, I tiptoed out of the classroom and waited with great enthusiasm for my secret admirer to show up. I waited and waited, standing by the cubbies (adults always stand, except during dinner), but she didn’t come. Eventually I had to pressure Kathy, a confidant of Amanda’s, to tell me of my lover’s covert identity. I whipped out my big guns: “pretty pretty please-please-please-with-extra-sugar-on-top!!!” Eventually Kathy cracked. Turns out that Amanda herself was the someone who liked me. Clever girl. But by that point, Amanda had already given up on our fling—her attention span being slightly more advanced than mine. How did I know? I saw her playing tetherball with Sammy. Sammy for chrissakes! After that, I did what any rational human would do in that situation. I faked a tummy-ache and had the nurse call home for me. I was new in the ways of love. I am only slightly more experienced now, fifteen years after Amanda-gate. I would like to say that I grew from that experience, but I can’t. Growth doesn’t happen from a singular event. Growth comes about with repeated failure and seldom successes. And that’s perhaps the best way to describe my love life since then, repeated Analecta 42

Prose failure and seldom successes. I waited for Amanda by the cubbies like I waited for Sandy by the lockers and for Jessica by the Coffee Bean. 1 That heart making and heartbreaking day at the cubbies didn’t necessarily change me, but it got me ready for what was to come. Events like that have occurred innumerable times. I don’t think I’ll ever get over them, but I will always remember the first one. 1 Except for Mom and Dad, all names in this paper have been changed.

Spring 2016

Losing You

Courtney White

No one wants teenagers. Adults like babies. I don’t know why though. All they do is shit and holler. When they don’t get their way? Well, there goes that antique vase that’s been in your family for years. Who wants a headache like that? Now me and my sister? We’re pretty great. We don’t get in anyone’s way, we help clean up the house, and we’ll even cook dinner for you if we’re asked to. We’re perfect angels because we don’t want to get split up. Maybe if we make our foster parents really happy and help them see that we can take care of ourselves, then maybe they’ll decide that two kids really aren’t that much to handle, and they’ll keep both of us. I’m used to being on my own. I’ve been in and out of foster care since I was four. Six years of being bounced between the state and my drug-addicted mother until she finally died on the floor of our dirty bathroom giving birth to my sister Jada. Six years later and here we are at Miss Rita’s Foster Home where we live with ten other kids for the moment. People come and go all the time. Some kids get adopted and others turn eighteen and leave. Jada and I have been here for two years. Our other foster mom hit the lottery and yelled, “I never have to see you snot-nosed little bastards again!” So we ended up with Miss Rita. “Evie!” I look down at my six year-old sister. “What?” “Are you listening to me?” I shake my head and she tries to roll her eyes, but they never go all the way around. “I told you to stop rolling your eyes. They’re going to get stuck like that one day and you’ll never get them down.” Analecta 42

Prose “Don’t say that!” She chunks a pillow at me and I fling it away with my arm. “What do you want?” “I asked you where our mama is.” Not this again. “Jada, I told you where mama is. She had some important stuff to do, so she dropped us off until she could get it done.” “Well how come it’s taking her so long?” “She’s just really busy right now.” “Well how come you know about all of this and I don’t? And how come you got to see her and I didn’t. And—“ “Jay! Enough. I told you where she is and that’s that. Don’t ask me again.” She looks up at me with her big brown eyes and I see tears swimming in them. I sigh and move from my bed onto the floor where she’s been playing with dolls. “I’m sorry ok? I don’t like talking about mama.” “Are you mad because she left us behind?” “Yeah I am. We should have been enough for her, but she loved… work more than she loved us and I’m sorry, Jay, but I don’t think she’s coming back.” At that, she leans her head on my shoulder and cries. I walk down the dimly lit hallway of Miss Rita’s house. The carpet is so filthy that it’s matted together with black spots from spilled juice, lost gum and other things kids can’t hold onto. I never walk around the house without socks or shoes on. As I get ready to turn the corner to go through the living room, I’m pushed to the side by Reese and Lexy, two eleven year-olds who seem to have crushes on each other. Lexy is running and screaming in joy as Reese chases her through the living room and into the backyard. Miss Rita, who is sitting in her recliner, Spring 2016

yells at them to stop running before they “fall and break their necks.” I walk quickly across the living room, the only clean room in the house besides Miss Rita’s, to get to the front door. “Hey! Where are you going?” I look back at Miss Rita and say, “What do you mean? I’m going outside with Jada.” “Didn’t I tell you to clean that kitchen? Go do it. Jada is busy right now.” “But Miss Rita, if I don’t leave now I won’t get to meet the people that came to talk to her.” “Do I look like I care whether or not you get to see those people out there? Go clean that kitchen.” I suck my teeth and stomp away from her. She does this on purpose because she doesn’t like me. It’s better when Jada is around. Everyone likes Jada. She’s too innocent to have developed an attitude. Not like me. Miss Rita says my attitude is what’s keeping people from wanting me. “They already don’t want a girl as old as you,” she told me. “and you have the nerve to have an attitude? Your behind is going to be with me for the rest of your life.” I hate that woman. I enter the kitchen and it’s clean with the exception of the pile of dishes trying to escape the sink. A little boy whose name I haven’t learned yet, runs through the kitchen and runs his mud caked hands across the front of the white refrigerator. “Hey! Get out of here! I’m trying to clean up.” He sticks his tongue out at me and turns and runs away, running his filthy hands across the fridge once more for good measure. I roll my eyes and start to clean the kitchen as fast as I can. It takes thirty minutes of a half assed job that I’m sure I’ll get chewed out about later, before I run back through the living room, passing Miss Rita quickly so she doesn’t have time to stop me. Analecta 42

Prose I walk outside and see a man and a woman stand up from where they were crouched in front of my sister who’s playing in the sandbox. I frown at them as I walk closer. The woman has blonde hair and green eyes and the man has black hair and blue eyes. Both of them have the whitest skin I’ve ever seen. Do these people ever get out of the house? I catch the end of the conversation as the woman says, “Well it was very nice talking with you Jada. We’ll be seeing you very soon. Bye now.” Jada waves at them, but doesn’t look up from her work in the sand. The people walk out of the fenced gate that scales the front yard and get in their shiny red car and drive away. “Jada, what did those people want?” She shrugs, still not looking up and says, “Nothing. They were asking questions and then that man asked me if I wanted a mommy and a daddy and I told him my mama is doing important stuff, but she’ll be back to get me. He said what is she doing, and I said that you said she was doing important stuff, but you don’t think she’s coming back, but I do and he said—” “Jay! What did they want?” “I don’t know, Evie. They just wanted to talk I guess.” She looks up at me now. “Did I do something bad?” “No Jada, you didn’t do anything bad. Just try not to talk to people when I’m not around.” “Miss Rita told me to talk to them.” Dammit Miss Rita! “Well Miss Rita isn’t always right.” We sit in silence for a few minutes then Jada looks up at me and says, “Evie, if your mama doesn’t look like you, can she still be your mama?” “What do you mean?” “That man asked if I wanted a mama, but that lady Spring 2016

doesn’t look like us. How come she doesn’t want one of the kids that look like her?” I look at my sister’s brown skin and curly hair, then down at my own brown hands. “Just because we don’t look the same doesn’t mean they can’t love you the same. Don’t you love dogs?” “Yeah.” “Are you that dog’s mama?” “You can’t be a dog’s mama!” “Exactly, but you love it and take care of it just like it was your own baby even though it doesn’t look like you. Maybe they just want to love you like you were their own baby.” Or maybe they need to go find another kid to talk to. “But what about you? Who’s gonna love you Evie?” I look at her serious face and I feel the first pin prick of tears in my eyes. “Come on. It’s time to go get cleaned up before Miss Rita yells at us for not bathing before dinner.”

***** Every day after school, me and the four other teenagers from the foster home walk a couple of blocks to the elementary school to wait for Jada. The younger kids get out of school sooner than we do, but instead of going home with the other small kids in our house, Jada goes to the after school program so she can ride the bus with us. Before we go home, I take Jada to the corner store and let her pick out a candy bar to eat on the walk home. Once we get to there, it’s about four o’clock and in Miss Rita’s house on a weekday, that means it’s lunch time. Since I’m the oldest in the house right now, it’s my job to make everyone else lunch. I make a dozen bologna sandwiches, no mayonnaise, no cheese, just meat and bread. Miss Analecta 42

Prose Rita says that we don’t need anything “extra,” as long as we eat, that’s all that matters. In reality, she’s just pinching every penny she makes off of us and keeping it for herself. I pass out the sandwiches and send the kids on their way. I pick up the last two and carry them to the backyard. Jada is sitting at the small picnic table coloring. When I place her food in front of her she looks at it and wrinkles her nose. She pushes the sandwich away and continues to color. “Come on, Jay. You have to eat. It’s good see?” I take a big bite of mine and, using great effort to keep my face convincing, I swallow. “No it’s not. You say that all the time. We eat these nasty sandwiches every day. How come we don’t get to put stuff on them or get some different meat?” “Because this is what Miss Rita buys. You have to eat or you’re going to be hungry until dinner time and you know Miss Rita doesn’t like anyone in her kitchen unless it’s breakfast, lunch, or dinner.” I never understood that. Heaven forbid you go in her kitchen “after hours” as she calls it, without her permission. You never hear the end of it. “I don’t want it.” “Fine, don’t eat.” I sit next to her and eat my dry sandwich, nearly choking every time I try to swallow. Jada is still coloring, but I hear her little stomach growl. “Jada, please eat. I know you’re hungry.” “I don’t want that nasty sandwich, Eva.” She rarely ever calls me Eva. She must be getting upset. Well so am I. I’m about to demand that she eat, but the grating sound of the sliding backdoor interrupts my words. I look up and see those people that came to talk to Jada the other day. They’re back again and they brought something with them. Spring 2016

The lady is carrying a small blue bag in one hand and the man is holding a bottle of juice. They reach the table and sit across from us. They are all smiles and pearly white teeth. All for Jada. “Hello Jada. Do you remember us?” the woman asks. “Yes.” That’s all she says as she continues to color, clearly still mad at me. The lady looks at the man with a frown and nods her head towards Jada. “We’re sorry if we upset you with all those questions the other day,” the man says, misplacing her anger. “Do you want to talk about something else today?” “She needs to eat her lunch first,” I say. They both look at me with big eyes as if seeing me for the first time. The woman is the first to recover. “Oh are you Jada’s little friend?” “No, I’m her big sister.” They exchange a strange look with each other. “Ah… You must be Eva” the man says awkwardly. “Rita’s told us a lot about you.” Of course she did. I just stare at them, knowing they already have an opinion of me based off of whatever the hell Miss Rita’s told them. The woman gives me a warm smile. “Hello Eva, I’m Laura and this is my husband Mark.” “Nice to meet you. Jada has to eat lunch now, so—” “Oh yes,” Laura says. “We wanted to give her something special for lunch. Would that be alright, Eva?” I look down at the blue bag she placed on the table when they sat down. “I guess that’s ok.” Laura opens the bag and starts pulling things out. A Analecta 42

Prose sandwich, it looks like turkey or chicken, with mayonnaise, cheese, lettuce, and a slice of tomato. A bag of potato chips, an apple and a package of frosted cookies. I hear Jada’s crayon clatter onto the table and I watch it as it rolls toward me, forgotten. Laura slides the food toward my sister and Mark puts the juice next to the pile. “I remember you telling me what you like to eat. I hope we got it right.” Jada nods excitedly and reaches for the sandwich, but stops and looks at me with her glittering brown eyes asking for permission. At my reluctant nod, she mumbles a “thank you” and digs in. “So Jada, have you had a good day,” Laura asks. “Yes. I got to walk to the store with Evie and she bought me candy.” “How sweet.” “Don’t talk with your mouth full Jada,” I say. “Sorry,” she mumbles and looks down. “Aw that’s alright,” Mark says. They continue talking to her about small things like school and what she wants to be when she grows up. When she tells them she wants to be a firefighting ballerina, I knew I was about to lose my sister. I’ve only seen people look at someone like that in movies. They were completely in love with her. Everything she said was cute, everything she did was precious. They were going to take her away from me. “Laura and I were thinking you might like to visit the aquarium tomorrow, Jada. You can see lots of really cool fish there. Would you like that?” “She can’t go.” I hear myself saying this, but I’m not sure I’ve given my brain permission. Laura frowns at me. “Why not?” “We have a lot of stuff we have to do around here toSpring 2016

morrow. Miss Rita isn’t going to let her leave.” “Well I’m sure Rita could spare one adorable little girl for just a few hours. What do you think Jada?” Laura winks at her then pinches her cheek which sends Jada into a fit of giggles. “Please Evie? I’ll be really good, I promise.” Her eyes are pleading with me. “Yeah, please Evie?” I look up and see that Mark and Laura are mocking Jada’s expression, possibly thinking that I may find this cute, which I don’t. “Fine, get her hopes up, but Miss Rita isn’t gonna let her leave. We don’t even know you people like that. Come on Jada, we’ve talked enough. Let’s go inside.” “But I’m not finished with my food.” “Grab it and let’s go!” She looks at me, confused by my sudden anger, but does as she’s told. Before she follows me, she turns back to the couple and hugs them tight. “Thank you,” she says and bounces away. I glare at them before following her in the house. I’m not sure if what I feel is jealousy that my sister is getting attention from these people, who I’ve since learned are collectively known as The Dawsons, or if it’s hate towards Miss Rita for doing this to me. She’s getting us split up on purpose. She knows that if people keep hearing that Jada has as a sixteen year old sister, she’ll never get adopted. Obviously these people don’t seem to care. They keep coming back. It’s been a few months since they took her to the aquarium, but since then, they’ve been back almost every single day. Whether it’s both of them or just one of them at a time, they still come by to let Jada know they’re thinking of her and they just can’t Analecta 42

Prose wait to take her home. Over my dead body. My sister isn’t going anywhere without me. What do we even know about these people? They could be insane. I researched the process for adoption at school and it says they do thorough background checks on people. Social workers do home visits to make sure the child is in a nice home and is being treated well. I don’t care. How am I supposed to look out for her if I’m not with her? I roll over in the small twin sized bed and let my mind wonder back to Saturday. A lady came to talk to Miss Rita. She had on pant suit that made her look like a man, her hair was pulled into a painfully tight bun and she wore no makeup. Her face was so severe I was afraid to walk into the living room. The woman inspected the entire house. It was clean from the front door to the backyard thanks to Miss Rita and her frantic “cleaning party” the day before. The woman asked kids questions about how they like it in the foster home. She spoke briefly with Miss Rita who was smiling so widely I thought her face was going to crack. I stayed hidden in the hallway as they chatted. She looked at a piece of paper and asked to speak to Jada. My stomach dropped and I finally made an appearance. “Eva,” Miss Rita said. “Why don’t you go get your sister? Tell her this nice lady wants to talk to her then you can go outside and play with the rest of the kids.” There was no room for argument in her eyes so I did what I was told and was left out of yet another conversation. Staring up at the ceiling, I felt like screaming. I glance at the tiny clock on the sill of the window and notice that it is nearly half past noon so I get up to go make lunch. I’m crossing the living room when I see Miss Rita opening the front door and in walk the Dawsons. I start to walk over when I feel someone pulling on my arm. I look down and see Jimmy, a new nine year-old tugging at my sleeve. Spring 2016

“What do you want?” “Eva, I’m hungry. Where’s the sandwiches?” “I’ll make them in a minute. Go away.” “But I’m hungry now,” he whines. “I said I’ll do it in a minute now go sit down!” He kicks me in the leg and takes off running. I look back at the front door. Miss Rita is chatting happily with the couple. “I’ll go get your baby ready. She doesn’t have a lot of stuff. We can fit it all in one bag. Jada!” No. They can’t have her. “What are you doing back here? What do you want with my sister? Leave us alone!” Laura steps toward me and puts a hand on my shoulder, which I shrug off. “Eva, I know you’re upset, but Mark and I love Jada, and we’re going to take good care of her. I promise. You don’t have to worry about her anymore.” “Why couldn’t you take us both? Why did you have to split us up?” “Eva, we didn’t know she had a sister until later. Plus, you’re almost seventeen. You wouldn’t be with us for very long.” And this is what it all comes down to. First no one wanted me because they knew I came with a sister. And now no one wants me because I’m too old. Adults like babies. Why can’t they like me too? “I’m a good kid. You won’t ever have to worry about a babysitter. I don’t have many friends at school so I don’t go out. I can watch her when you want to be alone. I can cook, I clean really well. I like animals.” I feel tears spilling from my eyes. “Eva…” Analecta 42

Prose “I’ll do whatever you tell me to. I can take out the trash. I know how to mow the lawn. I know that’s what the boys are supposed to do, but I can do it.” I see Jada come around the corner hand-in-hand with Miss Rita and I start panicking. “Please don’t take her away from me. She’s all I have.” “I’m sorry Eva, but we have to go now.” Laura turns away from me reaches for Jada’s hand. I open my arms and she runs to me. “I want you to come too,” she whimpers.. I wipe my eyes and try to smile. “No Jay, you have to go without me, but when I turn eighteen I’ll come find you ok? So be good because I don’t want you back here and I want them to tell me you’ve been a good girl. Do you understand?” She nods at me. “You promise you’ll come?” “I promise, now hug me.” I hug her tight for a long while then she’s being tugged away by Miss Rita. “Let go Eva.” I hate her so much. I release my sister and watch as she’s ushered from the room. I stand on the porch as they load her into the car and drive away. I continue to stare down the street even when the car has long since disappeared. I hear a match being struck, and I know Miss Rita is behind me lighting a cigarette. “Those sandwiches ain’t gone make themselves.”

Spring 2016

Poetry

The Young and Old No

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Poetry

o Longer Thrive, Only Glass and Wood Survive Rachel Tyler Pencil and Watercolor on Paper

Spring 2016

Τέλος David Edwards But this is our future, this is our inheritance: Hands that lift up sand, wet with ocean surf, dripping into puddles that form at our feet. This is ontology, this is one’s birthright -the meaning of “humankind”.

Whether words or sand We slide past each other not as ships, as ghosts of the night. We are the wanderers, we are the seekers that hope to find (“This is the way... This is the way... This is the way the world ends...”) The meaning of it all.

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Poetry

Airport Art

Jonathan Lowell

At Hartsfield International Airport in between the screens scrolling place names, thin brown carpets, and moving sidewalks they wedged statues carved by Zimbabwean sculptors. There is an eye carved into the palm of an upward-facing hand, a crane-necked eagle, embracing a man with its wings, green springstone molded into the shape of flowing water, a child burying his head into his mother’s thighs. In this frictionless space, meant as a conduit to glide from place to place, a floating, anodyne voice interjects between the sound of tinkling thumb pianos: When using the moving sidewalk, please face forward. Don’t look to the side. Don’t stop to touch this stone immobile, pulsing, anomalous. That’s not what it’s there for.

Spring 2016

Utop()a*

Asa Johnson

Analecta

Poetry

Unity

Rasavenger Pencil on Paper Spring 2016

Homeward Bound Rebecca Bielamowicz Digital Photograph

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Poetry

Freedom Tower

Rebecca Bielamowicz Digital Photograph

Spring 2016

California King

Austin Smith

“How will you remember me when I’m gone?” I’ll remember laying in a California King In rural California, late at night. Any time past midnight is foreign to a child, Or at least it was for me. And the things that kept me lying awake Next to you, lying asleep, Were the brand new constellations I was making through the skylight. They didn’t ask to be created, But I made them anyway.

I’ll remember the year and a half When I didn’t see you And I didn’t get a call. I thought maybe you were dead; Turns out you were only dying. (Chemo will do that to you, I guess) I’ll remember watching “A Christmas Story,” A movie that I hated, But only because you took my books To make me watch it In houses I didn’t recognize With family members I didn’t know Saying “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby!” I’ll remember asking my mother Analecta 42

Poetry (When I was old enough, of course) For the story of my life (When she was drunk enough, of course) And the 9 months before it started. I hadn’t asked to be created, But you made me anyway The weekend before New Years (I’m a September baby) With that girl down the hall (When she was drunk enough, of course). “You were born in Orange County,” I groaned, I knew what she’d say next. “Because that’s where I was, And you wanted to be close by.” She kindly failed to mention That you were absent. I’ll remember you teaching me How a car engine works I wanted to play Pokemon But instead I played along So that you would think I was becoming A man I’ll remember San Diego airport; I felt more at home there Than in your house Because, unlike in your home I’m supposed to be a stranger in Terminal B. I’ll remember opening your computer, Seeing an email from your sister: A reply. Spring 2016

“I don’t agree with it either, but he’s your son.” My stomach dropped but I scrolled up. “Makes me sick” Yikes “Worst thing to ever happen in my life” In your life? What about me? “Was he molested as a child?” God no, do you really think that’s how it works? “Sin. Satan.” I hadn’t realized you were so religious. “Every time I close my eyes I see a grown man Fucking him up the ass.” I was surprised. I had thought you already knew.

I’ll remember when you made that joke At your mother’s house. You offered me a pin-up calendar With photos of beautiful women You had taken yourself. You were an insurance claims agent by profession Before you lost your job (I was sorry to hear that, by the way) But you were an artist at heart. “I mean, with those pink shorts of yours You probably wouldn’t be into this anyway.” Classic dad joke. I mean, that isn’t quite how it works, pops. “But at least,” I thought, “It means you know, deep down.” I’ll remember when we both retreated Analecta 42

Poetry To the internet, where everything is safer. Scott Curtiss July 10th, 2014 “Something I’ve learned in life... doing the right thing isn’t always popular and is never the easiest...” I’ll remember the time you wanted to take it back 6 months later “New Friend Request: Scott Curtiss” It took me about a month to accept. I guess I wanted to get back at you So I decided to be childish, too. I’ll remember the day I first stood up On a surfboard, when I was 10. You taught me that. You were so proud. I’ll remember the day I first stood up For myself, when I was 17. You taught me that. I was so proud. I’ll remember when you told me I’d understand when I was older. I’ll remember being older And still not understanding. I’ll remember Disney Land Seen from atop your shoulders And then the next time From the ground. Spring 2016

(Chemo will do that to you, I guess) Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll remember the night When I made new constellations And named my favorite after you. It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ask to be created But I made it anyway.

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Poetry

Back in the Day Portrait

Brooke Ashley Johnson Pencil and Watercolor on Paper Spring 2016

Football in Autumn

Raven Cortright

My eight-year old self loves the great oak Beneath which we stand And I hear you speak The world with each syllable The football in your hand a gateway To your wisdom And the leaves fall like glowing embers We are in an autumn snow globe Next year I love watching you still As we prepare battle plans beneath the great oak And your strong voice Still booms the secrets of maturity While feet crunch on autumnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s debris Three years later we do not go outside Because autumn is late And it is too hot I think your voice is softer now 66

Five years later We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even pretend To have any interest And watch the great oak Indoors alone Ten years later your voice Is no longer Wise And the great oak No longer Stands Analecta 42

Poetry

Art Show Division*

Joanna Drake

Spring 2016

Nepal

Bhabika Joshi

everyone asks about the mountains but i remember my dining room the most my grandfather sat on a chair at least ten years old and he would tell me about his sister she was raised a mother her own fatally taken away before she could talk the cupboards were stocked with sweets at six, i could barely reach with a ladder but by seventeen, i grabbed the ones in the very back the chocolates purchased from aisle five

grandmother had on one sweater too many but with stardust in her eyes she kneaded and seasoned and let us taste the magic right off her fingers the hanging clock was my favorite each hour introduced different people the ticking filtered new stories through the doors but the clock continued regardless of calamity or comedy people ask about the lakes and valleys but i remember my dining room the most

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Poetry

Particles

Brooke Ashley Johnson Digital Photography Spring 2016

Sleepwalking back to the battlefield

Nicole Ting

i used to be innocence and smiling eyes, hair neatly pinned back with careful, steady fingers. but now i’m dissonance smashing the piano keys until they turn red – a stray cat spitting at anyone who comes close, carving the scars on its back into the wooden door of an empty house.

i tell my friends that my greatest fear is getting defecated upon by a pigeon flying overhead but it’s not. it’s a rat: a ghost of a cigarette burning out as you watch your house burn because a rat thought it would be fun to light a thousand matchsticks in your living room and throw them at all of your favorite books.

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Poetry

they never tell you these things when you’re a kid, but let me tell you: some veterans will end up sleepwalking back to the battlefield and aiming their guns at their friends because they can’t remember who the enemy is anymore. the truth? the ending of a book isn’t the end because happy endings will rust under too much sun, and storms will shatter the horizon when you least expect it. the sad thing is, you never really leave the war, even years after it’s over – it’s like the moonless night crawls into the back of your throat and haunts the forest inside your chest. and all that your lungs can remember is rome burning – and the smoke that scorched your holy ground until there was nothing left except the skeletons of hearts that used to talk.

Spring 2016

1989 Chateau Haut Brion

Dara Anya

Smoke. Hot bricks. Cassis. Spice. Truffle. Cigar box. Forest floor. You stand French and tall as you wear high shoulders. We met in a petite French brasserie that settled in the heart of Pessac along the perimeter of Bordeaux. Blinded by the moonlight, our bodies collided. We swayed, to the tunes of the chambermaid stars. Uncorking a bottle of 1989 Chateau Haut Brion, we decanted the red wine into our clear glasses.

The intense wine stained the glass as its spiced truffle aroma ignited the hot bricks of the cigar box burning the forest floor as cassis teared from its barks. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Love matures as it marinates in time.

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Clink.

Poetry Splotches crept along the sheets of the tabletop, Making its way to the edge. The wine flowed onto your lap staining the lining of your warmed uterus. The moon departed. You vanished. Leaving me abandoned with an unquenchable thirst. I try to forget, but one may never forget A good wine.

Spring 2016

Author/Artist Bios Dara Anya is an undergraduate senior at the University of Texas at Austin pursuing a BS in Neuroscience. His ambitions lie in the creative stimulation brought on by writing, film, animation, music and game development. Influenced, he hopes to one day transform his ambitions into his professions. He fancies himself as an amateur cook as well as an amateur boxer. As its foundation, Dara wishes to express the sensations of love in the relaxed soothing tone of “1989 Chateau Haut Brion.” This is his first publication. Enjoy. Rebecca Bielamowicz is a senior finishing up a double major in Sociology and American Studies. Charley Binkow is a fourth year History student originally from Los Angeles, California. After graduation, he will pursue a PhD in American history. He has brown hair and wears glasses. 74

Raven Cortright is a sophomore Neuroscience and French double major. When she’s not studying, she is usually competing with UT’s rock climbing team, cuddling with her husky, running around downtown, or working as a barista. Joanna Drake is a lover of words and the people behind them. She is a returning alumnus who has recently discovered a love for fiction writing alongside her first love of poetry and is exploring the realm of short story writing. She enjoys ruminating on the idea of grad school and hopes to one day apply for MFA programs. She has been previously published in the Rio Review and Unbroken Journal.

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Author and Artist Bios Mary Elizabeth Dubois is a writer and student living in Austin, Texas. Her short fiction piece “Poppy” was awarded the Red Hen Press Short Story Honorable Mention in 2015, and her poem “Annabelle” was published in the 2015 edition of Hothouse Literary Journal. Her short fiction piece “The Lions’ Den” was displayed in New York City at Carnegie Hall during the summer of 2014. David Edwards is a graduating senior at the University of Texas at Austin where he studies English and History. He is currently writing an honors thesis on Virginia Woolf. He is pursuing a doctorate in English and spends his free time running, reading, and fighting his new puppy over potty training. Jesse Hanna is a sophomore at the University of Texas majoring in English. When not studying, he makes short films and is a photographer for the Daily Texan. He was once bitten by a radioactive spider, but nothing ever came of it. Asa Johnson is a senior English and Radio-TV-Film student at The University of Texas. He is a frequent attendee, and occasional participant, at the Austin Poetry Slam. Last summer, he published his first chapbook of poems while taking classes at Oxford University. Some of his academic interests include imagist poetry, comparative literature, and trans-media storytelling. He is currently teaching himself French and hopes to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing following graduation. Brooke Johnson is a freshman pursuing a BFA in Studio Art. She is currently focusing on producing work centered around internalized emotions. Brooke would also like to take classes in Art History and Film.

Spring 2016

Bhabika Joshi is a third-year student double-majoring in Speech Language Pathology and English. In her 20 years, she has been published internationally multiple times and received accolades for her advocacy in equality and education. She plans to go to graduate school with a focus on the Autism Spectrum Disorder. She calls Nepal and Fort Worth home. Bhabika’s hobbies include petting dogs and going on hikes to pet more dogs. Paul Khermouch is a senior studying Computer Science at the University of Texas at Austin. He has always harbored a curiosity in writing prose, but he is seeking publication of his work for the first time. When he’s not struggling to perfect his craft, Paul is usually riding bicycles, fixing bicycles, buying bike parts, or thinking about bicycles, either at school or in his home town of New York City.

Jonathan Lowell is a PhD candidate in Geography at the University of Texas at Austin and has a B.A. in creative writing from Emory University. His poems have appeared in Echo, di-verse-city, and Raw Paw 4 & 5. He has also published a chapbook entitled Postcard Habitats. Rasavenger is a freshman majoring in Electrical Engineering but he likes to live in the twilight zone between science and engineering. He draws when he’s supposed to do homework. His mind is as deranged and disturbing as his art. One day he wants to rule the world with his razor-sharp nails. Caroline Rock is a first year English and Japanese double major and Liberal Arts Honors student. In her free time, she can be spotted trekking across campus with her camera, bombarding her friends with fun facts about Japanese, or obsessiveAnalecta 42

Author and Artist Bios ly updating her Google Calendar. She also goes by a pseudonym: C.R. Kastner. Austin Smith is a freshman Liberal Arts Honors student studying Government and Economics. He does not write poetry often, but when something comes to him he acquiesces and writes it down. He is grateful to his supportive friends, to whom he owes much. Nicole Ting is currently a freshman majoring in Petroleum Engineering and planning to pursue a certificate in Creative Writing. In addition to writing short stories and poems, she enjoys baking, takingÂ midnightÂ drives, and spending her afternoons in coffee shops. Her life goal is to impact the world in any way she can as both a writer and engineer. This is her first published poem. Rachel Tyler is a sophomore Studio Art major. Her work focuses on the human figure, identity, and age. She is also a movie buff and a sucker for trivia and costume contests. Courtney White is a senior English major at UT. In her spare time, she enjoys reading all works of fiction, but her favorites are historical and fantasy. Writing has been always been a great passion of hers, and someday, she hopes write memorable works that inspire and entertain those who love reading as much as she does.

Spring 2016