Archarios 2021

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Preface This past year, people have looked to art for strength and comfort in these unprecedented times. Art’s ability to unite us, transport us, and inspire us proves that creation is one of man’s greatest strengths. We have various expressive pieces from Coastal’s own student body to showcase for our 30th edition.

As always, we encourage you to live your art.

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Table of Contents BEST IN SHOW

ARTWORK

LITERATURE

CREDITS

Self Portrait

7

Internal Radiance

14

After the Rain

46

Beyond Me

15

Burning Rabbits

45

Same Time, Same Place

8

Wuyi Rock Teapot

17

MoMA Brochure

49

Tears for Mother

16

Swamp Rose

47

Fish n Teapot

9

Stripe

18

Eternal Growth

50

Gemini Rising 19

Birthing Water

10

Zebras

21

Pet Portrait

52

Chicago, 2020

20

It’s Just a Burning Memory

51

Other Omens

11

Joyride

22

Life

53

54

13

The Great Outdoors

27

Amazment

55

23

The First Time

Between Being Human

The Old Man With the Stories

28

24

56

Sink

Because Brett Kavanaugh

They Are Nothing

57

31

26

March

Rhiannon

Grey Afternoon

Earth Meets Sky

32

Insentient Sentinel

29

Frog Strangler

37

Carla & Danielle

30

Stuck At Home

40

Watering Tori

41

Biscuit Bombs and Belgian Waffles

33

Stevie

43

Sorry

38

True Heart

44

Piece of Me

39

Open Book

42

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Thanks 58 Staff 59

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Best In Show Art 1st

Place Self Portrait, Cebastian Thompson

2 nd

Place Same Time, Same Place, Caleb Merckle

3 rd Place

Fish n Teapot, Gabrielle Grobbel

7 8 9

Literature 1st

Place Birthing Water, Sage Short

2 nd

Place Other Omens, Lilith Yurkin

3 rd Place

Between Being Human, Jennifer Terry 6 Publication.indd 6-7

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Birthing Water

Other Omens

I was born from the mouth of a river I never met— The Shenandoah has many names—one of them is mother.

It was midnight, and they were talking about cicadas again. Ingrid collected them, plucked them off trees like ripe cherries and kept them in stacks of painted boxes. Even though they set her bones on edge, Shae was trying to convince herself that it was charming. Ingrid was charming.

“Cicada shells,” Ingrid informed her from a tattered armchair, “were once used as precious currency. They were more valuable than gold, and prettier too.”

Shae almost said the only people who would find value in insect waste were too-eager biologists like her but instead nodded sagely and took another sip of tea. Ingrid’s tea had grown cold hours ago and had been replaced by one of the painted boxes in her hands. She cupped it tenderly, like you would an egg, or blown glass. Like she loved it. Shae could just make out the artwork in the muted light: a large blue eye surrounded by leaves. It was dull and faded, but she could tell careful hours had been spent painting it. If she squinted a bit, she could just imagine a redness at the rim or the beginning of a tear. The eye put a foam in Shae’s stomach that wasn’t quite fear, but close.

“A memento mori?” Shae felt proud for asking as if she’d just told a joke only they could understand. She had always been a bit too much like a dog, doing cute tricks for new people.

“A fitting home for insect shells.”

Sage Short

She spreads like cream cheese crackers, like sunscreen and sugar are synonyms, like her sorrows can be compared to the oceans.

Clouds linger and drip condensation like a faucet of heated asphalt. I’ve burned my feet here and washed them too.

I’ve heard the rumblings beckoning me home, wherever that is. I always end up, somehow, with my toes submerged against a body of water, her tide brushing and lapping at my sins, and I watch the smoke rise from my ashes.

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Lilith Yurkin

“You have a good eye,” Ingrid smiled, clicking her nails against the aged pupil.

It struck her that she might have a cryptic taste in lovers.

The next foggy morning, during her daily escapade through the half forest behind her house, Shae found one. A cicada shell. It glittered in the morning light like polished citrine. She never liked touching bugs, but she wanted Ingrid to know that she had been thinking of her. Shae considered herself more of an “acts-of-service” lesbian, after all. She pulled it from the thin tree and shuddered.

It felt like plastic wrap, the kind from cheap packaging that stuck to your skin no matter how hard you thrashed. Shae couldn’t shake her frown as she realized there was nowhere to keep the thing safe besides her fist. She did hold on to it the entire time, but her walk ended early that morning.

Almost a week later, the hint of disgust Shae had felt in the woods lingered. Memories of the shell ghosted her fingers while she typed emails for work and when her hand hung off the bed at night. Even in clear daylight, as she painted a little box for Ingrid’s new addition on her own cracked couch, she felt it. She couldn’t really explain why; this wasn’t technically a bug and it was certainly not alive. Still, she found herself glancing at the ceiling and the windows often. Every shadow was a scurry, and she flinched at the click of the air conditioning one too many times. The painting suffered from her anxious fingers, but was good enough for a gift. She tried to be happy with it, a black and runny heart with clusters of forget-me-nots.

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She hoped it was romantic. After settling with the sloppy edges, Shae filled the box with a dishcloth to protect the present. Between her fingernails, the cicada shell trembled with her.

She dropped it in the box and snapped it shut.

As Shae walked to her car, she couldn’t help noticing how noisy the outdoors was today. The sun was dying orange and pink behind her. A fat squirrel yelled from a telephone wire. Birds scuttled away from her boots in the powdery grass. The world buzzed. It started with one lone cicada, screaming endlessly. Shae paused, toeing gravel as she looked up into the looming trees. All at once, countless others joined to shake the entire forest. The sound stung her skin, like her entire body had gone numb. She clutched Ingrid’s gift in both hands, trying to ignore the chill behind her eyes. Trying to ignore the box that rattled and cried with the others. As the shrieking dulled to a sharp whine, Shae took small steps to the car. She tried to imagine that the fear was just love-struck nerves, until the first bug latched on to her jacket.

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No later than expected, Shae made it to Ingrid’s house, windswept and searching.

Ingrid loved the gift, and she loved that Shae was thinking of her. She held onto the box through pizza and midnight tea, and placed it on its own shelf by her favorite chair. Like she loved it. Shae slept on Ingrid’s couch that night with a quilt covering her head and smudged lipstick burning her cheek. She pressed joy into her temples, breathing in tea, breathing out hope. But when she closed her eyes, she could still hear the crackle of wings.

Between Being Human Jennifer Terry I break.

I freeze.

Almost too easily.

That will be my undoing.

We take out words in spirit: The galaxy, Space.

The moon, Heaven.

A great glowing of silvers and greens.

Pennies into fountains, Yet, we are not Gods.

Charred wings ablaze.

Cycles of fragility and rage.

Scattered Human.

What if I forget you, in those quiet hours?

In between, being human and a God? My vision of you was never clear to begin with.

What if it disappears in the silence?

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Beyond Me Yasmine Lynn

I was yearning, Beyond my control To feel desired.

The emotion wouldn’t let go, I surrendered and sensed I succeeded, But didn’t win.

Thoughts of freedom Danced to and fro From one thought to another To a song I couldn’t know.

As I attempted to pinpoint What had me bound I raced and reached.

It could not be found.

The end approached, The moment departed, leaving me searching, for what I started.

Internal Radiance 14 Publication.indd 14-15

Jenna Dispenziere

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Tears for Mother Yasmine Lynn

God is my father, She is mother.

I walk behind where she guides, Her chest covered in lace designs.

I didn’t know this at the time, The holes weren’t a handcrafted design, They were bullets and artillery Seeking to destroy.

Aimed toward her, but their target was me.

She walked ahead to shield me, For she knew I’d die at their hands, Not strong enough to be alone and stand.

My shield weakened as time passed.

Their final attack was her last.

God is my father, and she is mother. She was in front, but now she’s over my shoulder, but don’t be fooled.

She is not feeble, she’s only tired.

Lies stabbed through her, Insults draped over her. Labor around the clock, rewarded with sleep.

To cook, to clean, to teach, to feed.

Did she too, once, dream? Late at night, she’d think I’m asleep, But I’m kneeling at her door.

Hearing her weep, I beg Father to bring her peace.

I open my eyes; the sobbing has passed.

I guess my prayer worked.

That breath was her last.

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God is my father, and she is mother.

I buried her body, deep down under.

God must be sad; I hear the thunder.

The skies crumble, grieving for mother.

His tears, her tears, and mine fall together.

Watering the garden, Arming us for storms we’ll weather. Broken hearts bloom as the brightest bouquets.

This moment in history is my mother’s day.

She was strong and fearless and now it’s on me.

To get the lace on my chest to shield my offspring.

Mother birthed all humanity. Her womb is where we’re conceived.

God is my father, but she is mother.

Man and woman need each other.

Like Yin and Yang, or war and peace. what good is Adam, without Eve?

Wuyi Rock Teapot Gabrielle Grobbel

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Gemini Rising Brandon Davis

The lights, they’re dancing in the sky; glimmering, gleaming Gemini.

And when these fiery orbs collide, their blazes burning meteorites, they’ll catch and keep our wandering eyes as we lay restless in the night.

Under the gaze of a listless moon, we count the stars, await our doom, and wish that we weren’t in our room, lest this becomes our final tomb.

A figure in the shadow looms; The Bogeyman, he cometh soon.

The Bogeyman, he cometh soon.

His figure in our doorway looms.

Lest this become our final tomb, let’s crawl out quickly, leave this room to count the stars, not wait for doom under the gaze of a listless moon.

Our souls were restless in the night.

You caught and held my wandering eyes.

Your cheeks, they burned like meteorites as we two children did collide with praises sung to Gemini, glimmering, gleaming in the sky.

Stripe 18 Publication.indd 18-19

Jefferey Davis

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Chicago, 2020 Ryan Patrick Hulbert

The yerba mate is a gas station essential; it was the first thing that I picked up when I walked into this Pilot. I would probably get increasingly chatty in the car and have to take a monstrous piss five minutes after cracking the can, but nonetheless I spun it in my palm while waiting in line at the cash wrap. Above a ransacked assortment of 5-hour energies, there were numerous black masks wrapped in cellophane, untouched. “Fashion Mask,” the lettering on the front read. I looked across the gas station at Addi. He had a purple bandanna around his neck, perfect for covering your face upon request or dangling underneath your chin in Midwest gas stations where all of the flannels were cutoffs and all of the pandemic restrictions optional. The crowd inside didn’t seem the type to jump at a “fashion mask” and probably saw my buying one as another northeastern nuance that made me “other.”

Taking a vacation during a pandemic is a layered experience. Granted, this wasn’t a vacation. Addi and I had been helping Jameson move his things into a different apartment across the campus of Purdue, and stories of deep-dish pizza and recreational pot were enough to drive us into Chicago from the corn stalks of West Lafayette. We weren’t on vacation, we were just passing through, trying to get a bite of a regionally famous pizza, maybe rent tandem bikes and ride around gawking at skyscrapers and snapping pictures with our phone’s way over our heads. Damn, 20 Publication.indd 20-21

we were on vacation.

Once we got into the city, it had taken us ten minutes of walking to see our first person outside. The deep dish was greasy and heavy, the legal pot was expensive, and the entire time the sun beat down on the back of my neck, now pink in pigment. The three of us wandered down the street, still under the shadow of the Willis Tower, walking past smaller buildings with plywood windows, stepping on small shards of broken glass with a grainy crunch. I had seen similar conditions in Philadelphia, the city nearest my hometown.

After the first shutdown, the non-essential businesses that weren’t wiped out struggled to make money, some put up plastic shields over the cash register and stacked chairs up against the walls like sandbags, like the virus would break through the walls and wipe everything out. In a way, that’s exactly what it did. Addi was walking between the yellow lines in the street. No cars were coming.

We sat atop blue bikes when we saw the protesters the first time, rented from a small, unmanned rack on Adams’s street. I wondered if the handlebars were routinely sanitized. On the bike lane of a small overpass, we pedaled past as the group marched down from both sidewalks. Old and young, black and white, all wearing masks that were black or blue. They made a low buzz, a quiet horde patiently shuffling down what was a near vacant street.

Some held signs, most of which said only a first and last name. As we biked in the opposite direction of their march, I felt selfish, riding in what was the literal and durational middle of

their protest, like I was going against their current. Despite my reverence for the cause, I still felt like an outsider, an obstacle, other.

That summer and the months prior, as Coronavirus raged, George Floyd was killed by a police officer, Breonna Taylor was killed in her own home by a police officer, and Ahmaud Arbery was killed by his neighbors. Some people were still too scared to leave their houses, some people were getting sick and losing family and the president didn’t condemn white supremacy and the vaccine isn’t out yet and he’s seriously still calling it the “China virus” and of course the cop was acquitted, and restaurants might shut down again next

week and all of the rage that people felt had to be screamed through a mask like a muzzle, and here I was on a bike with my fucking pizza.

Was I an outsider in the gas station because I was buying a fashion mask? Was I an outsider during the protest because I was not an active participant? Or I was an outsider the entire time because my friends and I looked at a world that was falling to pieces, and decided that it was a good time for a vacation? Were we outsiders for even being outside in the first place?

The phrase “Pandemic Vacation” is an oxymoron. Like “act natural” or a “false truth,” it didn’t make sense, and neither did coming to Chicago in the Summer of 2020.

Zebras Jefferey Davis

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The Old Man With the Stories Joelle Zima

Clues in my mind of times before, Beyond what lies right, I lift my feet from the floor, White wings beat like clocks in my mind, I fly above the sky to search the timeline.

Clues of decades faced by fate’s faces, A yellow mask of harsh times and hard graces, He snickers like his shoes that scratch the road, Forgotten by trees that wheeze and whisk dead leaves below Clues of whispered stories burdens Those empty ears that fear the closing curtains.

The stage is set yet the play shows no more, For no braver is the soul that runs from times before.

Joyride Christian Livingston

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Because Brett Kavanaugh Cathryn Zimmer

Because my fifth-grade teacher described my outfit as “skanky”. Because the boys took their shirts off at recess to play touch football, but my tank top made my adolescent body skanky. Because, in 2012, Amanda Todd committed suicide after nude pictures of her were leaked.

Because she was fifteen and the third try finally took. Because when I was ten, I stopped eating beef claiming I felt bad for the cows (lie) and I haven’t eaten it since. Because my mother’s white teeth gleamed, and the corners of her eyes crinkled when I told her I was only eating an apple for lunch that same year.

Because the thinner I got the prouder she was. Because I started watching l lesbian porn when I was twelve, on my iPod Touch in my twin bed. Because I thought that made me sick, diseased.

Because I was the first person in elementary school to get a boyfriend.

Because I felt like I needed to have a boyfriend to seem normal, to be liked.

Because, on the second day of 6th grade, I was told to put on my gym shirt. Because I didn’t understand why my favorite shirt from Justice was inappropriate. Because I loved that shirt, with the cheetah print, the ruffles, and the glitter, but the straps weren’t three fingers wide. Because I had to hide the fact that I used tampons from my 24 Publication.indd 24-25

stepmother for three years. Because she told me using them made me a slut. Because in 8th grade, I had to visit my friend Belle in the eating disorder unit of Sheppard Pratt Psychiatric Hospital every Thursday for two months. Because I did the same for Allison the summer before my junior year. Because my stepmother called me a hooker when she saw me in my sophomore homecoming dress.

Because Donald Trump thinks it’s okay to say, “Grab ‘em by the pussy. You can do anything.”

Because on November 8th, 2016 I should have been nervous for my solo vocal recital that night, but instead I was exhausted from crying all day. Because it was my first time singing in German and I couldn’t remember a single word, too distracted by the fear that I would lose my right to marry a woman. Because the one time we got the courage to hold hands in public, my ex-girlfriend and I were catcalled from a white pickup truck speeding past us.

Because “lesbian” is the most popular porn category in the world. Because “teen” is the seventh. Because a man followed me around the boardwalk at Rehoboth Beach for twenty minutes asking me where I was staying and telling me I was beautiful. Because all I wanted to do was enjoy my Senior Week, but instead I was trying to figure out how to get away from that man without making him angry. Because I was scared that he would hurt me if he were angry. Because Brock Turner was sentenced to six months in prison after he sexually assaulted

Chanel Miller. Because he only served three of those six months. Because when I was having a panic attack over the thought of seeing my ex-girlfriend at my junior prom, my mother texted me, “You look so thin and beautiful,” to try and comfort me. Because that worked.

Because, my senior year, I got addicted to the little white phentermine pills my mom asked her doctor friend to prescribe her. Because my mom felt she needed a phentermine prescription at all. Because I still have an emergency stash of those pills just in case.

Because in 2019, Horry County had the highest number of human trafficking reports in the state. Because I only wear clothes that are three sizes too big for me when I go anywhere alone. Because I check under my car, then my trunk, then my back seat before getting in.

Because a boy decided to grab my hand and put it down his pants when I was blacked out at a party. Because every time I cried during sex, they took it as a sign to keep going, that I must just be overwhelmed with pleasure. Because when my roommate’s crush sexually assaulted me, my roommate didn’t speak to me for four months. Because my ex-boyfriend still thinks he has a right to my body. Because men think they have a right to my body. Because I have never gone a day without fear. Because my body belongs to everyone but me. Because I am only what others think of me. Because I’m powerless. And yet, because I wake up every day fighting, I will not be silent.

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Grey Afternoon Brandon Davis

I wander around this place which used to be my home.

I walk past the murky, brown lake from which wooden pylons rise, their bases stained with copper green.

The corpses of summer leaves float on the surface of the pond, belly-up. The pond clover on the bank is mottled, its colors bleeding together, green-yellowbrown.

Everything here is dying, in this place which used to be my home.

I wander around this place until I see the old maintenance building, with bricks lain by hands no longer around to remember them.

I reach out to touch the Pepsi machine by the door, its sun-bleached-blue paint older than the “Out of Order” plastered on the front, but only just.

A small, half-peeled sticker, barely hanging on to the mammoth brick wall reminds us to “Go Green.”

But there’s hardly any green left in this place which used to be my home.

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As I wander around this place, I pass a flower bed of wilted Daffodils, their heads too heavy to bear their golden glory.

Under a tree, with barren branches like a scarecrow’s claws,there is a park bench.

It is the last testament to John Paul, the World’s Greatest Dad. Or so says the plaque.

I place my hand on the tree and drag my palm across the trunk, And watch my handprint, streaked and smudged, As it slowly fades away, just like everything else in this place which used to be my home.

I wander over a bridge and I see rust, bleeding red through the wooden bridge-posts.

I push open a door and leave my fingerprints, barely there, on the bullet-proof glass.

A crumbling chain hangs in the entryway, with a warning sign so faded you can no longer see the “Danger.”

And here, the storage rooms are filled with charcoal-smudged memories, in this place which used to be my home.

The Great Outdoors Amanda Giambi

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Insentient Sentinel Richard Wainright

The streetlight’s realm is shrouded in a saffron miasma.

A swath of opaque light carved from darkness, A safe harbor from unseen fiends That slither in the sinister shadows.

Luminosity filtered through the carcasses Of generations of nocturnal fliers, Doomed to photocell hell, Fused to the frosted glass of a man-made moon Casting ethereal radiance on illicit transactions.

Thrown away women selling their souls, The vacant gawk of crackhead zombies Fighting another battle in an undeclared war.

The lamppost, bejeweled by the psychedelic remnants Of a duct-taped flyer for a rave, Partially obscured by a dog-eared wanted poster For a lost puppy that no longer answers to “Sparky”.

Unable to either bear warning or witness The jaundice-eyed Cyclops’ Unblinking, sightless, oculus could But afford a sanguine oasis.

A young girl bustling home after curfew, Sharing Taylor Swift’s heartbreak Through awareness-canceling headphones, Oblivious to the footfalls of imminent danger, Snatched from the blackness Before she could reach the genial Flicker of her neighborhood night light, only A furlong from the sanctuary of home.

An amber alert bulletin, hastily affixed, Hanging haphazardly, akimbo, hopeless, Whispering, flapping in the gloaming, Covering the futile cold case of Sparky.

Sink Brittany Clark 28 Publication.indd 28-29

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Carla & Danielle Brandon Davis

Before Danielle, she was nothing.

Carla sat at her desk alone with the tap-tap-tap of a pencil to keep her company.

Her Mom and Dad figure the same will happen to her as with her sister.

They see Danielle broken, in some alley or dirty studio apartment, with nothing and no one, and they will shake their heads and say, What a waste.

And then, suddenly, Danielle.

She appears in different places: hanging back at the beach, sitting up in the Skywheel for hours.

She taps her pencil, too, sitting in the back row, coal-black combat-boots curled up beneath her slight frame.

Danielle flirts with her, And messages her, And she rarely takes notes.

Carla runs to her. Life will not end this way, crushed by the brutal weight of one night’s small comfort.

D+C Scrawled, will-o-wisps dotting the upper margins of loose-leaf notebooks.

Hearts, drawn haphazardly about while Carla daydreams.

A glance, a hand, and a long, passionate kiss.

Their world is theirs together and life will move on, marching to the steady tapping of a pencil, dancing like heart-shaped scribbles in the margins.

When Danielle blew her off, she was high.

She runs to check on her before she takes another hit from that pretty, pink pipe and passes out for good.

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There is love here, in Carla’s arms, if only Danielle would have it.

A breath, a pulse, a heartbeat.

Rhiannon Keely Campbell 31 4/25/21 2:01 PM

Biscuit Bombs and Belgian Waffles Matthew A. Gilbert

Earth Meets Sky Amanda Fiucci 32 Publication.indd 32-33

The morning sun yawned above the foothills, revealing the reservoir below as Papa and I descended the wooden staircase towards the water’s edge. Stubborn fog, which had held tightly to the surface of the water, melted away into daybreak.

“What a beautiful day,” Papa said as he bounded down the stairs like a child on Christmas Day. We walked along a narrow dirt pathway and, after a few short paces, discovered our canoe: 15 feet of green fiberglass and aluminum. For Papa, it was perfection. I watched as he approached the vessel gleefully and attempted to release it from the chains restraining it.

“How did I manage to do this?” Papa said, frustrated with the intricate web of chain links in which he had wrapped the boat a month earlier.

“Do you need a hand, Mr. Houdini?” I inquired. “Or shall I call you a nurse?”

“I stage one breakout and suddenly I’m a criminal,” Papa joked.

A few years earlier Papa had an allergic reaction to medication while in the hospital. It was so severe that seconds after receiving the dosage, he became the Incredible Hulk. Highly agitated, he attempted to forcibly extricate himself from his bed to the great surprise of his nurse who quickly summoned backup.

Within minutes, four additional nurses were trying to sedate him. With all other options exhausted, they confined him within a restraining jacket, which was then anchored to the bed.

When Papa awoke later that day – in a much calmer state – he took issue with his restraints. So, he liberated himself using brains over brawn. When the floor nurse returned to check on him, she discovered the discarded restraints and deserted bed. By the time she returned to the room with a search party, Papa had returned and was resting comfortably in the bed.

With the defeated device dangling from his fingers and a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame, Papa calmly inquired, “Were you looking for me?”

Even with clipped wings, Papa found ways to fly.

“Let’s go!” Papa exclaimed after unfurling the lock and chain.

We squatted next to the canoe and grabbed onto the edges. Papa positioned himself towards the front of the canoe, while I awaited his instruction at the stern. I stretched briefly and inhaled the rejuvenating air that surrounded me.

“One, two, three!” Papa said. “Up she goes.”

With the craft elevated over our heads we began walking towards the dock. Gravel crackled beneath our feet as the weight of the canoe traveled through our bodies and into the ground on which we walked.

Beads of sweat amassed on my forehead like troops awaiting the signal to advance into battle. The pace of my breathing increased dramatically. My arms quivered as they strained to balance the weight.

Looking ahead, I saw that, despite his advanced age, Papa was in great condition. Biceps the size of grapefruits rippled underneath his shirt while he easily supported his end of the canoe – and a portion of mine I suspected.

Maintaining Papa’s quick saunter was challenging.

His vigor and vitality often masked his years just as his mature wisdom serves as an odd counterpart 33 4/25/21 2:01 PM

to his progressive ideas. Wiping the sweat from my forehead with an elevated shoulder, I persisted.

“Are things all right back there? You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m just trying to keep up with you!”

“I disagree. You’ve been pushing me this whole time!”

Within a few minutes we arrived at the end of the dock and our two-man army came to a halt. I felt the wooden platform rock slowly beneath me as I tried to maintain my balance.

Firmly grasping the metal rails of the canoe, I awaited the next command like a soldier at inspection. The aluminum lip burrowed into my shoulder and my arms slackened. I ignored the pain and glanced at Papa for instruction.

“Up and over!” He instructed.

Following his lead, I slowly lifted the craft over my head and – in unison with Papa – gently placed the green fiberglass hull into the murky water. I seated myself in front, allowing Papa the helm, an honor he earned long ago during a family canoeing trip on the Russian River.

After recovering our spinning canoe from a whirlpool with the calm and command of Odysseus, Papa heroically rescued several other craft from the same fate. Papa was my personal hero: strong, gentle, humorous, sensitive, reliable, generous.

Adjectives cannot adequately define who this man was and what he meant to me.

“Off we go,” Papa explained as we pushed away from the dock.

“Into the wild blue yonder,” I added.

“Right-o,” he said.

Silence engulfed us, save the soft splash of the paddles stroking the water.

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We didn’t speak; words were unnecessary. Though void of sound, our time was full of meaning.

Papa was always more of a friend and colleague to me than a grandfather. As a child, he was my favorite playmate. During adolescence, he was my ping-pong partner. When I became an adult, he was my confidant.

When I became a parent, he reprised his earlier role and became a playmate to my son, Jacob, who embodies Papa’s kindness. My younger son, Max, was born six months before Papa passed. While he never met Papa personally, he possesses his joie de vivre; adventure is his middle name!

Forever my protector, Papa always appeared when I needed a shoulder to cry on or an arm to lift me up.

He was always very giving of himself, his abilities, and often, his well-being. Papa had an innate ability to understand people and bring them joy.

When World War II involved America, Papa was 26 years old. Although newly married with a promising life ahead of him, Papa volunteered to fight.

Sacrificing his own future for the survival of his nation, Papa answered the call of a country in need.

His military service well suited his personality: he was captain of “The Biscuit Bomber,” an Army Air-Corps C-47 Skytrain in the 55th Troop Carrier Squadron, 375th Troop Carrier Group. Based in New Guinea, Papa transported personnel and supplies to forward bases in the Admiralty Islands, New Britain, New Guinea, and the Solomon Islands.

In 22 just months Papa logged nearly 1,500 hours flying missions throughout the South Pacific. During three years of service in this unarmed aircraft, Papa continually risked his life to ensure the survival of others.

One particularly poignant situation occurred when he was transporting Japanese prisoners of war who were under guard by Australian soldiers. Midway through the flight he heard a commotion in the cargo area. Upon investigating the situation, he found the Australian soldiers trying to extract the gold teeth from the Japanese soldiers’ mouths.

Incensed, he pulled out his sidearm and aimed it at the Australian soldiers, instructing them that the POW’s were his responsibility, and he would not tolerate them being harmed or harassed in any way.

The Australian soldiers acquiesced. In the bleak circumstance of war, Papa preserved his humanity.

Had he been a fighter pilot his stories may have been more exciting, but they would have been less meaningful.

Anyone can kill. It takes someone special to sustain life.

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned from him was to always help someone in need, even if doing so was inconvenient or promises no recognition. Considering all he did for me, I can attest to the power of this philosophy.

If only everyone were as kind and generous as Papa, perhaps the world would be a more positive place.

Sadly, I have found that, most people are less like Papa than they are like him.

Nevertheless, I strive to live in the same sincere and sensible way as he did, although he was often too agreeable to the demands of other people. Despite his incredible generosity to others, he often gave away too much of himself to make others happy.

The one unintentional lesson I learned from him is that if you give too much of yourself to others you can lose yourself in the process. As a result, I often felt he was a bit unfulfilled, yet, admirably, he never

said as much. I appreciate his fortitude in this regard, but often wonder what life may have given back to him, had he embraced his promising potential.

After World War II he could have enjoyed a lucrative career as an airline pilot. The plane he flew during the war, the C-47, was the military version of the very popular DC-3, which was widely used in commercial aviation after the war (many are still flying and being used commercially).

He would have easily been hired by any of the airlines and enjoyed a rewarding and meaningful career. Instead, he chose — though I often feel he was pressured — to stay close to home. Whereas he could have been flying the friendly skies, he commuted instead, every day from New Jersey to New York, and managed a dry-cleaning store. He did this for many years until my Dad hired him to work for his company.

While I admire his fortitude as a father and grandfather, I often wonder if he was truly content.

After he died, my family discovered that he had been taking rides with a local private pilot in a small twin-engine plane. Some dreams never die, I suppose, and I am glad he never fully deserted his dream to keep flying.

I can also say that while he never made $400 an hour to turn a phrase, $1,000 a day trading stocks, or $10,000 a week as a professional musician, he was richer in character and wealthier in spirit than any one of those people could ever hope to be. Money and material possessions can never replace integrity, humanity, and authenticity.

Although he never accumulated a huge fortune, Papa contributed more to the world than most people I have known in my life and, presumably, will come to know in the future. He also never felt the need to 35 4/25/21 2:01 PM

elevate his ego by trying to make others feel inferior.

Ultimately, he made the most of his life and, in doing so, helped others make the most of theirs. Papa’s unique approach to life provided me with many priceless lessons. One of those lessons took place that day at the reservoir: spending time with someone special is worth more than anything that person could purchase for you. Although, that doesn’t mean letting that same someone cook for you had no allure!

“How would you like it if we head home and I make you some Belgian waffles?” Papa asked, breaking the silence and inviting me out of my introspection and into the present.

“You just said the magic words!” I exclaimed as we made our way back towards the dock. Like the canoe, Belgian waffles had been one of Papa’s trademarks.

Whenever I stayed over with him, he would whip up a batch of waffles covered in whipped cream and strawberries.

As we approached the dock, just before we reached out to pull ourselves in, Papa said something that surprised me: “I think next month you should take the helm.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. But only if you feel ready.”

I briefly considered his offer.

“I certainly do,” I asserted.

“After all, I had you for a teacher!”

Frog Strangler Brittany Clark 36 Publication.indd 36-37

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Sorry

Mahdiyah-Nur Elijah-El A genuine apology To whom it may concern I’m sorry to all involved I’d like to wipe the glass down But these fingerprints are permanent I tried covering them With stickers, and glitter glue, and colorful tape All pointless And now, I’m stuck in a ditch Alone Without a spoon to dig myself out It starts to pour Acid rain that burns my skin Soon rising up to my neck It invades my mouth

Piece of Me Yasmin Lynn

Fueled by my fleeting heart, Every movement mimicking the Rhythm of life, Rhythm of love.

Rhythm of light, Rhythm of dark.

Rhymes rediscovered for me.

Do you see what I see? It’s beautiful, It’s complete.

Look at the lines, it’s me.

I think.

My life on display.

I’m only what you describe to me.

A life I live but will never see.

Another masterpiece.

Beating heart reflecting on Breaking glass.

Do me a favor, tell me what you see Describe, my legacy

Seeping through my throat It tastes like guilt Replacing every drop of blood I have Causing my eyes to roll forward and out of my skull But I didn’t climb in, or fall I was pushed

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Stuck at Home

Watering Tori

Logan Beasley

Gabrielle Grobbel

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Open Book

Donovan Moore I am an open book, filled with a lifetime of metaphors.

Covers judged so hard it is criminal.

Opened up so often now I’m beaten and battered, and I’m splitting down the middle, so, run your fingers down my spine softly.

I’m an anthology.

I’m a collection of essays, of stories, poems, of definitions so twisted even Oxford is afraid of me.

I’m conscious of my contents, Chapter 1 is titled “Nostalgia” and yesterday titled, “Most Recent Broken Promise”.

I am highlighted, notes sketched in my margins, unclear where their thoughts stop and my own begin.

I am well read; the corners of my pages are bent but I’m worth reading again All I ask is, if you hold my story in your hands be gentle, don’t change a word, I’ve suffered through a lifetime of editors.

Paper cuts and blood stained pages are nothing short of adventure.

I’m the best edition of myself.

I am an open book.

Promises are best kept secret.

Secrets are best kept as promises, so read my lips.

I am not Frankenstein, but my name was forgotten and now I’m mistaken for a monster.

My biography is published as punchlines, pages sun-bleached, I’ve been told I’m “hard to read” and my flaws are anything but tragic.

Stevie Katie Stoneking 42 Publication.indd 42-43

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Burning Rabbits Brandon Davis

A polyester plush toy lies on cracked concrete while burnt fingers fumble with the fire-starter.

“It’s plastic,” somebody says. “That shit won’t catch.”

But thumbs flick anyway against the flint.

The scarlet-haired girl gathers up some dried leaves: “Do I need to break out my Girl Scout training?”

The plush is relocated to its new pyre; now nothing stands in the way of the orange, licking tongues.

The pink rabbit is now a fireball, its features melting away and blackening, while acrid smoke curls around the currents of the wind.

We stand in a circle to watch.

A flat, brown stream spills from a 12-ounce bottle of Coke, dousing our little conflagration before black Converse kick around the ashes.

“Can we please go before someone calls the cops?”

We pile in the car and jump the sidewalk, leaving our crime scene in the dust.

We bump, we jostle, we rattle around, and try not to get ourselves killed.

True Heart Yuting Huang

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With this act of violence, our fates are sealed.

Bearers of the secret, the burning of the effigy.

I minimize myself in the middle of the back seat, knowing that burning can never be undone.

Burning is the purest form of change, and this purity makes it irreversible.

We, here, commit to action, And we will never be the same.

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Swamp Rose

Richard Wainright

with curly red hair an’ green eyes, an’ she took to loggin’ right away, so I reckon Ol’ Tony was purty happy.

There’s a bunch a strange stories ‘bout the Waccamaw, but most ain’t true.

The one I’m gonna tell ya now, is true; far as I know.

I’ve lived ‘ere all my life, so ain’t many that know more ‘bout that black water ‘n me.

I was dunked in this very river not far from ‘ere; but it didn’t take.

She’d only been here ‘bout a year when Ol’ Tony up an’ died, right there in his cabin.

You can ‘magine there was lots a jokin’ in the camp ‘bout what actually kilt him.

Big Jake reckoned she’d screwed him ta death, an’ he’d died with a hard-on an’ a great big smile.

Ol’ Tony Todd wanted ta find a wom’n a quality, who at least didn’t have no clap, so he got hisself one o them mail-order brides.

Rose was from Ireland, as I recollect.

I don’t ‘member her last name, Mc sumpin’; an’ he had ta go all the way ta Wilmington ta pick ‘er up from them docks.

When she ‘rrived at the loggin’ camp she caused quite a hubbub; we all want’d to git a look at ‘er.

After the Rain Christian Livingston 46 Publication.indd 46-47

She weren’t near as purty as Ol’ Tony an’ us had hoped, an’ she was a bit long in the tooth, but Tony weren’t ‘xactly no Gary Cooper, an’ there ain’t much in a loggin’ camp to compare to.

She was friendly ‘nough, but I couldn’t hardly understan’ a thang she said, an’ I doubt she could understan’ us neither.

She mourned a little while, then got right back to work.

She stayed in their cabin, minded ‘er own bidness an’ didn’t look to have no ‘tention a goin’ back to Ireland on no boat.

A few guys tried ta court ‘er an’ had nuttin’ but bruises ta show.

One a them Johnson boys, (they’s always up to no good); it was the youn’est one, Clem, tried ta break inta the cabin an’ climb inta bed with ‘er.

That was a big mistake.

She cut his pecker clean off with a buck skinnin’ knife.

After more pain then I can ‘magine, an’ more blood then I thought a man held, he fine’ly died, which is just as well.

It ain’t much worth livin’ without no pecker.

She was a big strappin’ girl 47 4/25/21 2:01 PM

Rose jus’ dis’ppeared into thin air.

We all think the Johnson boys kilt her.

It’s easy ta dump a body in the river.

It’s been done afore, but that’s ‘nother tale.

Lots o’ people claim ta seen ‘er through the many years since, hauntin’ the banks of the Waccamaw.

I don’t rightly know who started callin’ ‘er Swamp Rose, nor when; but it stuck.

A swamp rose is a purty flower that grows wild along the banks o’ the river.

Sometimes at night, they’s sounds; I heard ‘em. We all have.

Sounds that ain’t natur’l, that don’t come from no animal nor bird I ever heard of. Human like: wails an’ howls, moans an’ screams.

The kind that makes the hair on the back a your neck stan’ straight up.

I’ve no doubt she’s out there, somewhere. Alone an’ pissed off ‘bout being kilt.

Cain’t blame ‘er.

An’ you know what? All a them mean ol’ Johnson boys is dead. All four of ‘em.

An’ not fall asleep, peaceful like, dead.

They was all kilt, outright. Weren’t purty.

Peckers and nut sacks ever’where.

Now my beer’s empty, an’ I talk better when my tongue is wet, an’ I think better when my memory’s greased.

After all, some a this tale’s been 60 years ago.

A feller kin fergit.

MoMA Brochure Jefferey Davis 48 Publication.indd 48-49

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It’s Just a Burning Memory Chris Enzor

Eternal Growth Jenna Dispenziere 50 Publication.indd 50-51

You’ve been looking forward to this Saturday for the whole week. The Depression’s been hanging noose-like around your neck for the past few years, but your coworker, Ben, insists that it’ll pick right back up in the next year or so.

You’ve worked these past five days like a dog and desperately need some relaxation, and when you heard that Al Bowlly will be in town, you just had to go hear him in person. The radio barely does anybody justice.

Jeanette, your wife, knows about the performance, so you and Ben go straight from work to the gig. Entering Jones’ House, you hear the musicians tuning their instruments. The quiet cacophony of almost random guitars and horns fills the air as the patrons settle in their seats. Ben chooses an empty table and you both get settled as Al addresses the audience. You’re finding it hard to hear what he’s saying, but you figure the noisy factory has got your hearing messed up.

The fear that you won’t hear any music instantly dissolves as they begin playing Heartaches. It’s not exactly your favorite song, especially after finding your Jeanette, but you’d enjoy Al singing Ring Around the Rosie. He steps up to the mic and begins singing the first lines while strumming away, his voice faltering some.

Heartaches, heartaches.

My loving you meant only heartaches.

Your kiss was such a sacred thing to me, I can’t believe it’s just a burning memory.

As he sings, you find his figure blurring and fading. The whole joint seems to slowly vanish as you desperately try to focus. Al’s figure turns grey

as the blue curtains melt into a singular color; the only thing that continues is the music, unceasing.

Suddenly, the form sharpens to show a strange album cover: a blank, curled up newspaper stands alone in a bleak scene; there isn’t even the name of the band on the art. The light cast by the artwork is bright in your eyes; realizing, as you look away, that the object is on a...oh, what’s it called? A computer screen, that’s it.

You look over to Ben but see a strange young man. He’s grinning massively and almost on the verge of tears, apparently from his joy. Your confusion pushes you to try to get some answers.

“Who are you? Where’s Ben? Where’s Al?” You ask him, but he just nods, wiping a tear from his cheek.

“It’s ok, Grandpa. Tommy’s here for you.” He answers, avoiding your question.

“Where’s Al? Who’s Tommy?” You ask again, desperately trying to figure out what happened.

The music stops and you turn back to theYou’ve been looking forward to this Saturday for the whole week. The Depression’s been hanging noose-like around your neck for the past few years, but your coworker, Tommy, insists that it’ll pick right back up in the next year or so.

You’ve worked these past five days like a dog and desperately need some relaxation, and when you heard that Layton & Johnstone will be in town, you just had to go hear them in person. The radio barely does anybody justice...

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Pet Portrait Logan Beasley 52 Publication.indd 52-53

Life Yuting Huang

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The First Time Cathryn Zimmer

The first time I remember making someone cry, I was seventeen years old. I was at Rayanne’s house, as I tended to be back then. We had just gotten out of the shower. Her long, blonde hair hung damp down her bare back. Combined, we were wearing a full outfit, me in her father’s old gray football t-shirt, her in oversized boxers we always assumed had been left at her house by one of her sister’s many hookups. She was always so beautiful, with her blue-gray eyes and impossibly long eyelashes, but just then, seemingly in her purest form, with water droplets still running down her back, she was the goddess Freya, and to worship her properly I needed to do everything in my power to make her smile.

I lit the candle next to her bed, lemon lavender, the same candle that’s burning on my windowsill as I write this, the same candle I light anytime I need to write anything. The setting sun cast a warm glow over the endless number of houseplants resting in front of her window.

Before she could sit down on her bed, I pulled her to me, and I began swaying with her, close in my arms, like we were at some cheesy school dance. I started to sing an old Elvis song. I thought I was being romantic. She had always loved when I sang to her, but I only got through the first chorus.

“Stop,” I heard mumbled from over my shoulder.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” I look at her worried, surprised to see tears shining in her eyes.

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“Please, just stop.”

“Tell me what I can do.” My time seemed to be running out.

She just shook her head. I tried to comfort her, rubbing the soft skin down her spine, whispering declarations of love into her ear. She collapsed onto her bed, the yellow blankets already in disarray from our time spent together. Rayanne was shaking. With tears streaming down her face, I couldn’t help but notice she was fidgeting with her promise ring. It was nothing fancy, just a silver band with a row of white sapphires. I had given it to her on our second Valentine’s day together and two weeks later, she still hadn’t asked me my ring size. She never did. I ended up getting myself one because she claimed to have let it slip her mind, but I didn’t want our promise to be one sided. I was a fool. In that moment, as she twisted it around her finger in the dim light of her bedroom, I understood. I had broken everything that promise ring stood for. How could she have known? Maybe because she was always the person who knew me best, but I think she could feel my debauchery. She didn’t say anything, just clutched my arm tight to her. I kissed the tears from her cheeks and laid her back next to the stuffed animal I had given her for our first anniversary. Maybe it was a rabbit, maybe a dog, I don’t remember now. I wish I did.

“I’ll make us a fort. Nobody can get in or out. We can stay here forever,” I told her. I was trying to comfort myself more than anything as I closed the canopy that I’d hung above her bed around us. “This is our castle, okay? Please stop crying.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I was apologizing over and over again, but she didn’t truly know why. She didn’t know about the

man I had drunkenly let fuck me, for “sex” is too beautiful a word to describe what we did. She didn’t know, but she could tell that we couldn’t go on like this for much longer. She found out two weeks later. I think she may have been psychic. Rayanne was always somehow able to read my mind. She knew when I was tired, when I could only stand to be around her, when I just needed to lay with her. She knew our relationship was ending before I did.

I brought her tea and leftover Indian food that we had made the night before, claiming it was always better the second day as she herself had done countless times before. I made her sit up as I brushed her hair, then braided it, hoping to somehow erase the doubts from her mind. I loved her. I love her. I recounted our wedding

plans to her, how we were going to get married in a garden as soon as we graduated, surrounded by our friends. I started crying then too, knowing that life was a fantasy, that I, myself, had ruined.

We fell asleep early that night, her curled into my chest, my arms wrapped around her waist.

Rayanne’s in Spain now. I was the one who took Spanish, she took French. I should be with her, but instead I’m here, in a world I don’t recognize without her. It’s my fault and that’s what hurts the most. I dreamt about her last night. It was the first time in a while; I guess I’ve been thinking about her more than usual. I still wear my promise ring. I wonder if she sold hers.

Amazement Caleb Merckle

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They Are Nothing

March

Bluebirds that sing from the billowing pines, Soft summer breezes and bright dandelions, Fires that crackle and shimmer like gold, Are nothing compared to the stories you’ve told.

F

Joelle Zima

Shimmering ballgowns and soft Autumn light, Dancing with fireflies all through the night, Dew in the morning and cool winter mist, Are nothing compared to the warmth of your kiss.

Clouds that depart with the silence of dawn, Sunshine that glows when the darkness is gone, Daisies and tulips that sway in the spring, Are nothing compared to the laughter you bring.

Twinkling stars from a far-away sky, Feathers and rainbows and petals that fly, Flowers that sway with a delicate grace, Are nothing compared to your calming embrace.

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Melanie Schlesser A

L

L

I

N

G pressure.

The Sickly, The Poor?

The powerful, The mighty?

Power shifts the tide The ocean wants its secrets back Floodgates opened Power on To the sliver of light Crying for release

quiet At a time of . peace In a time of stress And death And labor And riots.

Pain is not to be w o n Pain is not to be o n e Shudder of endurance quakes Light upon the dark The goodness in shadows PLAGUES the end In hindsight Irreverent, claimed are the masses But by whom?

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We at Archarios would like to express our gratitude to all artists and authors who submitted for the 2021 issue, to our hard working staff, Sam Kinon from Sheriar Press, and Coastal Carolina University for allowing us to continue the tradition of highlighting some of the school’s many talented visual and literary artists.

Carissa Soukup

Angela Florimbio

Editor

Art Director

Jeff Case Advisor

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