Atlantis Fall 2013 by Atlantis

cover art assembled by Katelyn Kerns

Dear Explorer,

Whether you are an elegant writer or a young, soul-searching artist—even an astronaut floating through space—this issue is for you. Within every cluster of well-planned words and each unique image that fills these pages, an exciting new adventure awaits your mind: to help it wander to places it never knew existed and refresh its perspective on everyday experiences. I became editor-in-chief of Atlantis Magazine because I believe in the immense power of shared creativity. The brave warriors of originality who submit their work to our cause inspire me to lead a publication that complements their talents and distributes it to the widest audience possible.

This issue diverges from anything Atlantis has done in the past. For the first time, we made our own cover design, instead of selecting one image to expand across the cover pages. Fragments from multiple compositions were used, representing the eclectic creations waiting inside. Each future issue will have a unique, snazzy theme, but the general layout for this issue will serve as the basis of our publication from this point forward. The theme behind the design of this semester’s issue is geometry. In the same way a triangle is the basis of structural integrity—from the wooden fence to the steel skyscraper, this semester’s theme symbolizes the creation of design principles that will be the foundation of each issue to come. In the same way squares have come to represent the ethereal box we are always urged to step outside of, we will continue to welcome art that pushes boundaries, despite our new self-imposed regimen. And in the same way a circle never ends or begins, we, as always, hope to bring a certain permanence to the work we see as timeless. The members of my fearless staff were the golden pioneers who made this issue possible; for their dedication, I am eternally grateful. Despite our hard work, it is really you, who by picking up our publication, created the demand for a creative magazine, and for that I personally thank you. Now, take a break from the businesses of life, and get lost in the latest issue of Atlantis Magazine.

Ally Favory Editor-in-Chief

www.atlantismagazine.org

Staff Editor-in-Chief

Ally Favory Layout Editor

Daniel Dawson Layout Assistant

Kristen Hutchinson Features Editor

Aurélie Krakowsky Prose Editor

Caleb Ward Poetry Editor

Kent Weigle Photography Editor

Rileigh Wilkins Art Editor

Editors’ Staffs Art

Photography

Asia Brown

Savannah Costner

Katelyn Kerns

Megan Frick

Catherine Durando

Copy Editor

Julliana Rankin

Carson Smith

Erin Roediger

Samantha Thompson

Taylor White

Jennifer Withrow

Poetry

Prose

Erin Ball

Joseph Fletcher

Victoria Flanagan

Hannah Gilles

Mekiya Walters

Colin Jacobs

Rachel Arrendondo Web Editor

Jordan Mallory Proofreader

Abby Chiaramonte Submissions Coordinator

Maddie Deming Promotions

Mary Kresge Intern

Hannah Payne

UNC Wilmington Atlantis Magazine Fisher University Union 1049C 601 S. College Road Wilmington, NC 28403 P: 910.962.3229 F: 910.962.7131

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Molly Klemarczyk Christian Podgaysky Lori Wilson

Like Atlantis, UNCW’s Creative Magazine on Facebook!

Contents Photography

4 Bed of Roses 8 Untitled, Ryan Smith 16 San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane 32 Untitled, Hannah Lineberry 38 The Solemn Dragonfly

Art

11 Drift Away For You 18 Challace 26 The Red Barn 28 Bare 31 Response to Duchamp’s Nude Descending Staircase 35 Untitled, Adele Packer 42 Peacock Blend 43 Sailboat 48 Untitled, Adele Packer

Poetry

14 Full. 27 Wax Dolls 34 Ars Poetica 45 #FFFF00

Fiction

10 Don’t Be Like Me 18 Mrs. Garcia 28 Jezebel 40 The Ballad of Roberto Padilla

Non-fiction

5 Green-Eyed Grapevines

Feature Articles

13 Guyanese Wood Art 20 Q&A: Justin Lacy 36 One Adventure Ends & Another Begins

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Bed of Roses clichĂŠ-verre by Erin Tetterton

Green-Eyed Grapevines non-fiction by Tyler Auffhammer

hen my mother was young and worked in the grape fields, grapevines were visible as far as her bright green eyes could see. Luscious, fat bulbs of grapes that climbed up oaken trellises faced southward as the August sun peaked overhead. The vines fought each other for the top position, tangling and intertwining in a mass of leafy veins. They yearned for sunlight more than the rain, already a week late. The trellises were set in neat rows like pennies on the cool ceramic checkout counter of the local grocery store. In the early ’70s, my mother—only a dark-haired, wideeyed teenager—would go to that store late in the day and try to assemble enough coins to purchase a chilled bottle of Pepsi or a tuna sandwich on rye. As my mother plucked bulbous, purple grapes from each vine, she’d pop one or two into her mouth and taste the sweet ripeness of their flavor. As the daughter of a drunken father and sister to ten other siblings, the juicy grapes were one of the finer flavors she’d tasted, especially compared to the cauldrons of steaming, unflavored oatmeal. Her mother would make it every morning for her slew of children. If she’d been lucky on a weekend morning to find herself alone in the kitchen, she’d pour a clay bowl of chilled milk and plop in a handful of bread trimmings as a sort of country cereal. Moving along to the next trellis with lavender stains down the khaki apron covering her dusty jeans, my mother plucked another grape and popped it into her mouth. A sour flavor gave her cottonmouth, and she spit the grape out. Leaving the mass of unripened grapes on that trellis for another week, she moved to the next and continued her process. Her chestnut hair had been pulled back into a bun earlier that morning, but now, curls escaped their bindings and threatened her eyelids. With a soft hand, my mother brushed back the fallen strands of hair. Her pious Catholic mother named www.atlantismagazine.org

her after St. Bernadette, another young victim of circumstance. With another trellis finished, my mother stood up and stretched her young back in the light of the sun. Placing a hand on her hip and with her other shielding her green eyes from the sun, she stared down the hill, across US Route 20, into the widening blue breadth of Lake Erie. She dreamed of dropping her grape bag, shedding her stained apron, and running down the hill into the water. There, imagined my mother, she would swim until she was too tired to move her arms and float on her back, the swirls of her long, dark hair like seaweed swaying in the tide as she smiled. There, my mother thought, she would be free.

•••

The green, curly carpet had felt like warm grass in my tiny hands. Ottomans and coffee tables were my landmarks in the ever-shrinking living room of our home when I was growing up. My father, a carpenter, fixed nearly every house in the village of Westfield and was now relegated to working for friends and family to get through winters. My mother worked at the Welch’s Grape Juice factory in town while she was pregnant with me. No longer handpicking from the vine, she bottled and sealed the product of her earlier years. Her assembly line job had since vanished. My father’s muscular, callused hands would pick me up from the floor and plop me down into his lap, or steer me away from a sharp table edge as I wobbled and fell. My mother, with her hair sheared short in her middleage and probably drying her hands with a red, speckled kitchen rag, would scoop me up like a stork and place me onto her hip. Her hands were only slightly softer and less callused, but always more gentle. With a subtle, quick movement, she would remove an eyelash from my pudgy cheeks or smear lotion onto my feet, making sure to get between my wriggling toes. My arrival was a shock for my parents, with three teenage children already, and it prompted my mother to finally leave the place of her birth and make a new life elsewhere. Arguments between my parents, I’m sure, were a nightly ritual as much 6

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

as the evening news or vacuuming. My brother and sisters, all unaware how much my arrival would change their lives, sat quiet and motionless in their rooms upstairs, playing loud music through their Walkman headphones to cover the shouts. I was downstairs, sitting wide-eyed with my fingers in my mouth on my mother’s hip as she argued with my father about why she couldn’t stand to live there anymore. My father tried to hold his ground, but there was no stopping her. My mother was born, bred, and beaten down by time and circumstance here. The grapes of her vine were withered and thirsty. The next day, deciding that Florida would provide proper precipitation, my mother packed her bags in anger and regret. Inside the U-Haul, with me on her lap and our giant yellow lab panting at her feet, she looked out the window and read the ripest words she had ever read: “You are now leaving New York.”

•••

I struggled from my position at the foot of my mother’s bed, searching for the words that would permeate and stain her like dark grape juice on a toddler’s chin. I was angry with her, upset that packing my bags and unloading a U-Haul were my greatest skills as a teenage boy. I stared at her—her green eyes like marbles, swirling and turning until finally resting on me, her black pupils unmoving. My lips searched for a retort to her decision to uproot us from the backwoods of Tennessee—our third state that year—but could find no words. I shuffled my sneakers and stomped down the stairs to my room where I slammed the door behind me. Sitting on my twin bed, I stared out the bedside window. I looked closely at every moving object outside—a slowly descending cluster of pine needles, the quick flutter of a robin’s feathers in the camouflage of brown leaves on the ground, and then my own eyelids flickering in the glass. I spotted my own green eyes. My older sisters have green eyes too, and so does about one to two percent of the world’s population, but my own were replicas of my mother’s eyes. In my eyes, I saw her; I saw a baby gnawing his fingers as he sat on

his mother’s hip—a baby watching the trees fly by the dusty window of a U-Haul heading south as a large yellow lab sniffed his toes. I ripped myself away from the window and lifted my rolling suitcase from beneath my bed. In a ferocious bout of expert packing skills, I assembled a half-neat pile of floppy T-shirts, white socks with grey heels and toes, and a few choice DVDs. In the next week, I’d reluctantly help my mother pack the rest of our select items into a U-Haul and head for her next seemingly random destination. Along the way, on some roadside stop for cigarettes and relief, I called my father in North Carolina and set up a meeting to move my luggage to his van and free myself of her traveling. It prevented me from growing roots that would take hold of the soft, fertile earth beneath me. I tried to break the news to her subtly and quickly, like a mother removing a stray eyelash from her son’s cheek. She was strong, stubborn to a fault, and simply acknowledged the time and place of the meeting with my father. The next day I saw my father’s white van parked at the shopping center, and I opened the passenger door of my mother’s car before she came to a complete stop. After throwing my luggage into my father’s van, I allowed my mother a peck on my cheek before I climbed up into the van next to my father. I saw my mother in the side-view mirror standing by her car as my father started the van. We drove off. On the mirror was written the sourest—most unripe—words I had ever read: “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” Not anymore, if I could help it.

•••

During the last weeks of my summer vacation from college, I had been in New York visiting family with my father. I walked slowly up the sidewalk to my mother’s front door, a house two streets over from where I once skinned knees crawling across curly green carpet. She opened the door and invited me in. I dropped my suitcase, and she embraced me, pulling me tight—almost too tight—not letting me go until I said something about how the inside of her house looked. It felt strange to visit my

mother. She had finally taken her knickknacks out of their specific boxes and placed them on shelves. She had fastened her trellis in the same earth from which she had ripped up her roots many years before. Later that week, as my mother and I drove down a back road on the way to the store, the late summer sun fell slowly as white, puffy clouds floated lazily across the sky. A few sporadic potholes sat on the road like depressed scars. It wasn’t hard for my mother to remember the route—she had grown up in this area and knew just about every shortcut and back road for miles around. Sitting in the passenger seat, I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She sat straight up, with both hands on the wheel, and her long, dark hair tied into a loose bun. Some curls had escaped and were tickling her face. Her car rose over a hill and then quickly descended down a steep grade of pavement that was gnarled on either side from reckless plow trucks and heavy salting in the winter. I turned my head and stared out my window. I saw rows of thick grapevines attached to oaken trellises. The vines seemed to curl and twist around each other. Popped grapes lay wounded from the ravaging crows that spat dark juice on the earth. My sight adjusted and I saw my face reflected in the passenger window. I examined the thick green irises of my eyes, and then I noticed my mother’s face in the window. Her equally emerald eyes stared at me as I gazed out the window and then her eyes shifted past me, down the hill, across US Route 20, and into the open blue expanse of Lake Erie. I followed her eyes to the lake that rose from the earth like another layer of sky. She turned her head back to the road. I dreamed of us pulling over the car and running down the hill and leaping into the water. I imagined that we would swim until we would have to float on our backs from exhaustion, my mother plucking a stray strand of green seaweed from my cheek and smiling. There, I thought, we would be free. x www.atlantismagazine.org

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Untitled photo by Ryan Smith www.atlantismagazine.org

Don’t Be Like Me

fiction by Genevieve Abell

on’t be like me. Don’t be the curtains in my window—sheer like mist, see-through like hazy creek water. Don’t you know you are the deep green of a solid sea, thick with currents the color of danger? You don’t believe me, but I always had an eye for color. I was never dangerous, and the world pushed me aside—to watch from the benches. But that’s where I learned to count the stitches in the sky. Again, don’t be like me; surge like a storm. Giving in always fit me better than my favorite sweater, but success, I see, will look lovely with your skin tone. I call the edges my home, and now regret is my skin tone. Don’t retreat like clouds on the edge of black. Don’t be like me. You know how to swim, so let go of the edge. I never did; my hands chafed and blistered from the wear of the concrete. They burned. Listen to me. They burn every day. I wasn’t greedy for life. I’ve only the curdled taste of silence in my mouth. I never tasted the tumbling sweetness of pushing forward—I hear it’s lovely. Let me know.

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Drift Away for You digital illustration by Mohamed Abdelrazig

Guyanese

Wood Art by Aurélie Krakowsky

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

photos by Aurélie Krakowsky

ain or shine, Marvin Phillips comes back every day. For twelve years, he has set up his stand of wood sculptures under the same tree on Main Street Promenade in the center of Georgetown, Guyana. Born fifty years ago on a sugar estate outside of the city, Philips is proud to call Guyana his home. Phillips has always created things with his hands. As a teenager, he worked filing keys. On the side, he would sculpt small pieces of scrap metal into different shapes. It taught him to acquire a feel for things. One day, his brother, an emerging artist, brought home an art book. It inspired Phillips to work with a new and different material: wood. For the past twenty-five years, Phillips has sculpted different kinds of wood, including mahogany, cedar, and purpleheart. He is very passionate about what he does: “I put my mind, my soul, my everything into it. I love it.” Each piece of wood is special. He explained that every one has its own destiny and that it takes time for him to figure out what is hiding inside of it. “As every artist knows,” he said, “inspiration can take a while.” Sometimes it takes him four months to decide what he wants to make out of a new, naked piece of wood. Certain sculptures have special meanings for the Guyanese people. Several years ago, a tree that towered over the Prime Minister’s residence fell. The tree, supposedly hundreds of years old, serves as the basis for many stories about Guyana’s fight against Britain for independence in 1966. Phillips was lucky enough to obtain a large piece of the trunk and carved a sculpture that now stands in the lobby of one of the hotels on Main Street. Many of his pieces reflect the beauty of Guyana. One of them, entitled “Three People Sheltered Under Nature,” represents the luscious rainforest of Guyana’s interior. It depicts leaves and trees merging into human shapes. Other creations, such

as African tribal figurines, represent the origin of his ancestors. Tourists come to Guyana from all over the world. Phillips said he has sold pieces to clients from New Zealand, China, Iceland, and the United Kingdom. In addition to his art’s international presence, Philips showcases his art at exhibitions in the Caribbean and Suriname, as well as at local Guyanese exhibits. For Phillips, art is a form of self-discipline; he said that he has learned a lot about life and himself through it. He is not alone: other artists who sell their work on the Main Street Promenade are equally as passionate. Earlier in the year, Phillips and a group of eleven other artists launched the

Main Street Art Group with the intention to share and promote their art with the rest of the community. Phillips has already passed on his love for what he does to his daughter, who attends art school in Washington, DC. He hopes that she will come home and make art with him some day. At the end of the day, Phillips carefully wraps up his sculptures and folds his table, leaving the space clear for the next morning’s setup. Even on days when nothing is sold, he is thankful for the people who stop by to admire his work. He hopes that one day, art will become a valuable medium for the Guyanese to thrive. x www.atlantismagazine.org

Full.

poetry by Hayley Neininger It would behoove my grade school Bible teacher to know that I have finally found Jesus. He sits alone at my neighborhood bar, and in a fashion that is not unlike the line at a New York City deli shop, he takes questions. Ticket Number 347. “What kind of man will I marry?” Ticket Number 7,623. ”When will the end of days come?” My Bible study class, oh, how they would shake inside their buttoned blouses with envy to know that I was the one to find Jesus, between drinks, between cigarettes, with beer and peanut excrements on the bottoms of his sandals, handing out answers like pork cutlets to mouths that you’d have thought hadn’t eaten in years. They are gaunt and pale, they’ve been feasting on the food that is uncertainty for years, twisting their bellies with worry that all of their problems have no solutions, that all of their questions are answered silently and the fear of self-reliance festers in their stomachs as hunger. A hunger that shakes these believers so hard in the night they fall off their beds and land conveniently on their knees. They wake up in the morning with bruises and scratches. I found Jesus in a bar. When I see him, I remember Sunday school and how I stood up on the sweaty, palm-stained pulpit and yelled, “He is not real, I am!” My mother sent me to bed without dinner for a week, and now, in this bar, when I am confronted with my falseness, I wonder, was I wrong to deny a food I didn’t have a taste for, to protect my knees and rely on my own feet, to find my own answers before I starved? I take a ticket. I stand in line. I wait.

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

The knot my Sunday school teacher tied with my intestines years ago tightens itself and pulsates with the influx of another beer and growling bowel movements that only make me more sure of the source of pain in my belly. I watch as Jesus nods politely in between admissions of sins and proposals of betterment, a gentle, deliberate nod. I think of his neck like the waist of a Hawaiian girl on the dashboard of a big truck, or maybe like the aged fast-food wrappers on the dashboard that tilt forward with the inertia caused by strategically placed speed bumps. I think each nod like a mini-bow that seems to contradict his devotion to his divinity and his authority over the hungry servants with bleeding knees around him. I am the last ticket before the last call and being this close I can see sweat stains under his arms; my mother would probably say they were extra halos. “And your question, my child?” he says, and I think I should have been more prepared or at least not have stuttered. I sound like a five-year-old stuck playing the underappreciated Pluto in a school play. “Was I wrong that day on the pulpit?” I ask. It is rudely put. I am embarrassed. And he says, “Did it ease the hunger pain of uncertainty?” He knows it did. So do I. “Then no, you answered your own question.” He seems drunk when he says that, so I trust it as a sober man’s thoughts. Then I walk away, full, with knees unscathed.

www.atlantismagazine.org

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane photo by Sara Pezzoni â&#x20AC;&#x153;San Carlo alle Quattro Fontaneâ&#x20AC;? photo by Sara Pezzoni17 www.atlantismagazine.org

Mrs. Garcia

fiction by Mary Christensen

asked if she needed groceries brought by, if she’d like me to spend the afternoon cleaning up the place, but no. She asked me to bring dictionaries, any volumes or printings, said she couldn’t be picky at her age. I thought it was a dementia-addled request, one I wasn’t going to fulfill. However, I was a child-like bibliophile and the used bookstore on Main was an old lover with well-worn sheets. I always used the same excuse: it was on my way to the market. Of course, the first thing I saw was an old cart packed high with dictionaries, thesauruses, and encyclopedias. I gave in.

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Challace colored pencil art by Juliana Rankin

Within the hour, I was struggling up Mrs. Garcia’s front steps, avoiding potted plants and stray cats. I was inspected every visit, her tongue clicking distastefully at my thin frame and untouched ring finger. Even with her tiny stature, I always felt the need to walk around her, not squeeze past. She followed me into the kitchen, her eyes on the books in my arms and the bag of groceries balanced on my hip. Childbearing hips, she called them. Setting everything down on the counter, I could feel those old brown eyes on me, expectantly waiting. “Mija ’em my books?” she asked. “Mhm. Three dictionaries, a thesaurus, and a ’76 World Encyclopedia. . .letter D,” I said. “I thought I’d bring a variety of reference books.” She said nothing at first. I wiped cat food debris off the countertop and laid the groceries out. She stood there, eyes darting from the stack of books to me, a curious smile revealing swollen gums. “Albóndigas sound all right?” I asked. “You’ll have enough for leftovers, and I picked up some fresh rolls, the kind you like, right out of the oven. . .” “My books, take ’em to my room fo’ me.” She hadn’t heard a word I’d said, and there was no point in repeating. I just hefted the books across the small expanse of apartment and set them on the bed where she pointed. Mrs. Garcia shuffled into the room behind me but only stood there. It was clear she wanted me out, so once more, I walked around her. The door closed behind me. As I chopped and cooked vegetables, boiled rice, and then rolled it with ground beef into spheres peppered with cilantro, I was serenaded by rummaging, uneven drawers being pulled out and shoved back in, by the tearing of book pages. “Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Senor es contigo. . .” I am not a religious person. I don’t attend Mass. I’m a good Catholic only in the sense that I keep the old lady’s prayer candles burning and replace them when asked to, but those noises and her strange request brought Sunday school fresh to my tongue. Part of me wondered if she’d started new medication, but a quick glance at the line of pill bottles decorating the top of the microwave all proved familiar. The other part was sure that old age had finally stolen Mrs. Garcia from reality.

I was nearly done with the meatballs when “Mija!” rang loud and clear. A hunk of meat and rice plopped onto the floor as I ran to the bedroom, wiping my hands on the apron tied low on my waist. “Are you okay?” I asked. I stopped in the doorway. The walls were covered in photographs, pages from the books I’d brought, and bilingual scribbles. Mrs. Garcia was leaning against a wall, her tiny arthritic legs lost in the fabric of her dress as it spread itself across the bed, which was littered with scraps, tape, and scissors. “José. My husband. I love ’em,” she said, pointing to a discolored photograph of a thin Hispanic man with dark bushy eyebrows and an electric looking smile. Around his picture she had the words noble, moral, and home taped with their synonyms from the thesaurus. Encyclopedia passages and pictures also scattered the walls. One was of a map. “Durango,” she told me. It was her home before José found work on the railroads and brought her to Texas. I never knew that. I knew so little of this woman I checked in on. I was only repaying a debt. She had helped when lupus destroyed my mother’s body. She’d taught me long division. “You look like her,” she said. I followed that wrinkled finger to another photograph, older than José’s. In it two teenage girls in light-colored dresses stood, hands clenching together, shoulders brushing. They were posed in front of hydrangea, tight-lipped, but their eyes were all adolescent giggles. “Bossy, too,” she added. The picture was that of Mrs. Garcia and my grandmother, a woman I had only seen on film. I looked at the old woman, my turn to be expectant. “Your abuela roll in her coffin, you so white skinned.” She grinned, elfish and young, her smile boiling over like the vegetables on the stove. “Put that there,” she said, her finger wobbling below my grandmother’s picture. I took what was handed to me, tape rolls already backing it. It was of me—a candid photo I didn’t know existed. “Why?” I asked. “I no want to forget.” x www.atlantismagazine.org

Q& A sessions:

Justin Lacy & The Swimming Machine

20by AurĂŠlie Fall 2013 Krakowsky | Issue 66

ustin Lacy and the Swimming Machine originated in Wilmington, NC. Since their debut in 2010, the band has been performing at numerous venues in and around the Wilmington area. I met with three band members: Justin Lacy, lead vocalist; AJ Reynolds, saxophon-

ist and clarinetist; and Sam Candio, bassist. Although many of the members have their own side projects, they meet regularly to practice and and perform. The band released Overgrown, their first album, in 2012. www.atlantismagazine.org

HOW DID THE SWIMMING MACHINE FORM? Justin: We all met at UNCW. I had been writing songs throughout school, and my friend was putting on an “Anything Goes Acoustic Showcase” at The Whiskey. He asked me to participate. I was already going to go, and I decided to put together a band for one night. So I got a group of friends to do that and that’s how we got started.

HOW MANY MEMBERS ARE IN THE BAND? Justin: Our core group is usually six. We’ve done shows with four, and we’ve done shows with thirteen. We’ve had a couple of lineup changes recently —Sam just started playing with us in the summer. So the extra group kind of varies. We have people that we rely on to come and play who are flexible. Sam: I have the minivan, so I’m the driver too. AJ: Yeah. He’s kind of essential. Justin: We’re really ambiguous. It makes it weird. The music kind of is, too.

DO YOU FEEL THAT THE MEMBERS OF YOUR BAND HAVE DIFFERENT PERSONALITIES THAT BRING DIFFERENT 22

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

COMPONENTS TO YOUR MUSIC? Justin: Absolutely. Their personalities and their own musical experience come into play. We’ve always allowed the sound of the band to be shaped by everybody. It’s not like I write the full arrangement out and we do it. I take a song to the band and the band interprets it. AJ: We swiminize it. Justin: Yeah. We swiminize it based off of everyone’s individual input. Sam: And the music changes every night depending on how people are feeling during solos. Sometimes certain parts will be intense, and other parts will be toned down.

SO YOU ARE CONSTANTLY ADJUSTING TO EACH OTHER’S BEAT? Sam: Yeah. Dynamically, melodically, and tonally. We listen to each other and try to play off of each other as much as we can. On the other hand, there are things that are set in stone. AJ: 30% of the stuff is really in stone [laughs]. Justin: It’s not a jam band, though. We’re definitely not a jam band. AJ: The greatest thing I love about playing in the Swimming Machine is that Justin is not controlling about the sound. Sam: He’s not a diva.

AJ: [laughs] He said it, not me! Justin gets a song, he’ll sing the song for us, David, the lead guitarist, will come up with his own little thing to do on the guitar, then Sam will come up with a little riff he wants to do. Me and Aaron, trumpeter, kind of just look at each other like, “Okay, how are we going to harmonize with what Justin is doing?” He gives the musicians the artistic input. He allows you to keep your own artistic mindset towards playing his music instead of just saying, “this is how I want it”. Justin: Yeah, it’s a collaborative thing.

parts coming together to build this sound. I couldn’t come up with the sound by myself, so it’s this machine. We are all parts that have to work together. AJ: That’s a pretty darn good interpretation. Justin: I don’t know why it necessarily swims, but it does. One person who reviewed us mentioned that our sound was very fluid, so he took that interpretation of the swimming part. I go to the YMCA and sometimes I see people there who have seen the band. I worry that, because I’m swimming, they think I’m a swim freak [laughs].

SINCE JUSTIN WAS THE ONE TO START FURTHER TO THE SWIMMING MACHINE THE BAND, WHO CAME UP WITH THE EXPLANATION, HOW WOULD YOU DENAME? SCRIBE YOUR STYLE OF MUSIC? Justin: The name of the band was sort of a joke. I signed up to do the “Anything Goes Acoustic Showcase” by myself and then later decided to bring my friends aboard to make a band. So we had to make it a “Justin Lacy and the band” because my name was already there. That’s the only reason we did it. We randomly found swimming machine on Wikipedia [laughs].

Sam: It’s funny how often we get asked that and how nobody has an answer yet. Justin: We need to do a study to find what answer is the most acceptable. AJ: I still quote David: “It’s a gypsy caravan colliding with a freight train.” Other than that, we’ve been called “gutter folk.” Justin: I like “gutter folk.” I don’t like the word folk in general because I think it’s vague. But I WHAT DOES THE NAME SWIMMING MA- most often tell people folk rock because that’s my CHINE MEAN TO YOU? cop-out. AJ: It’s just got so many flavors, you know? There’s Justin: For me, I mean, it is the band. It’s the whole definitely folk in there, definitely Americana, defiprocess and collaborative energy of these different nitely jazz. www.atlantismagazine.org

Justin: We try to stick to traditional instruments, such as acoustic guitars and banjos—as well as brass instruments. Then we bring in layers of backup vocals, and we take that and allow improvisation to occur within it.

pay whatever they want for a CD. It’s also online. So really, our goal is to get them out to people. We’re a new band and selling physical merchandise is hard for any band. If we can break even, that’s fine.

HAVE YOU EVER USED ANY NON-TRADI- JUSTIN, YOU’VE WRITTEN MOST OF THE TIONAL INSTRUMENTS? SONGS THE BAND PLAYS AT SHOWS. WHAT ABOUT THE ONES ON THE NEWJustin: We had a girl tap dance for us for a while. EST SWIMMING MACHINE’S ALBUM?

We have a guy who whistles incredibly. If he wanted to, he could be a professional whistler. We defi- Justin: “In Cold Blood” I wrote for the first show to have more material. Then it became a Swimming nitely like to play with sounds. Machine song. Then other songs on the album, like HOW OFTEN DO YOU PRACTICE AND “In Chiaroscuro” and “I’m Alone You’re Alone,” HOW DO YOU PRACTICE? IT SEEMS LIKE were written for EVERY TIME YOU PLAY, SOMETHING the album beNEW COMES UP. cause we knew we wanted to Justin: When we practice, it feels funny because make a seamless it’s like “Well, we’re gonna get up on stage and it’s album. We were gonna be totally different.” trying to tell a Sam: We practice the skeleton—that’s really all it narrative between is. all the songs in Justin: There is a form. We have to be together. We the album. We can’t throw each other off too much. So we run it added new matelike we would a show. We usually practice a couple rial to tie everything together. The other songs were times a week before we have shows. When we’re just songs we had been playing for a while. practicing, something will come up and we’ll be like “Oh, that’s awesome, let’s make that a thing.” WHAT IS IT ABOUT THE ALBUM THAT It’ll come out of improvisation, and then we’ll ac- MAKES IT SEAMLESS? tually use it and make it concrete. AJ: Practice is just really weird. Justin has been Justin: I’ve never heard anyone notice this, but the playing this music since before the Swimming Ma- album starts with the same drone as it ends with. chine was made. The question usually is “How do The idea is that if you were listening to it in the car, we make it better? How do we make it so we’re not you wouldn’t even realize that it was starting over again. It’s like a drum fade out, then it fades back playing the same thing?” in. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR ALBUM OVER- AJ: I’ve definitely done that in the car. I zoned out GROWN. WHEN DID IT COME OUT AND and didn’t notice it was starting over again. It’s WHERE ARE YOU SELLING IT? completely seamless.

“

We have a incredibly. If he wa be a professional nitely like to play w

Justin: October 26th, 2012. In town, it’s sold at HOW FAR HAVE YOU TRAVELED TO Gravity Records and Planet. There’s some in Ra- PLAY? leigh and other places. At shows, we ask people to 24

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

photo (22-23) by Brianna Elliott,

Justin: I think Pennsylvania would be the farthest. the audience. We have these moments when we’re quiet and the energy is kind of mute, then it grows, Sam: We got there an hour after we were supposed and they react so we let it grow some more. It just to. It was nerve-racking. It was supposed to be eight feels really rewarding playing at shows like that. hours, but we allotted for ten—then it took more. We were actually playing all the little instruments AJ: While we were at that show, there was a sketch in the car to make traffic go faster. The tambourines artist there. She was taking live sketches of every and shakers, frog shaped wood blocks. band. I really love art, and she really caught the AJ: We had a jam session in the car while stuck in emotion of every person in our band. That was a traffic on 25. We got a lot of looks. really rewarding show. Definitely one of my favorites.

ALL THIS IN THE MINIVAN?

ANY ADVICE FOR OTHER, LESSERSam: In the minivan with all of our instruments. KNOWN BANDS? We had three grown men sitting in the back. We got to know each other really well [laughs]. Justin: We’ve been playing out more this year. Sam: We’ve gone to Raleigh a lot. And Asheville.

Sam: Work. Not work get-a-job work. Play out. Be nice to people. AJ: Believe it or not, it’s actually a hard rule to follow up on. When you’re traveling a lot, you’re tired, you’ve been in the car for four or five hours, you don’t want to stick around and talk to the other band members. Sam: And even if it’s an empty venue and you’re bummed out, you still have to play like you have ten thousand people there because maybe there’s one person there who loves it. And maybe they’ll WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE VENUE FOR tell five people “this is a great band.” Sometimes A CONCERT? you have to work to keep that energy up, but it’s super important. AJ: As far as the trip is concerned, I’m going to say Philly. It was fun. We got to know each other Justin: You can’t perform a show that’s under par really well. How do you feel about a favorite show, for what you want people to think of you. Bands Justin? around here are going to have to play in less than Justin: We played in Carrboro at the Station. That ideal conditions. It’s going to happen. And there’s was really fun. It left us pretty giddy. Going along always going to be sound issues and monitor iswith what I told you about sound and being able to sues. evolve: it was a show where we were playing, and we could all hear each other fine and we were in AJ: There’s an ego check you have to have. I feel control of our dynamics amongst each other. When like the biggest ego check I had to have, becoming all that’s right and the crowd is feeling it too, then it a functional musician out of college, was that the feels like we’re playing off of the crowd’s reaction crowd doesn’t owe me anything. If anything, I owe to us. At a show like that, you feel the energy from the crowd. Once you gain their trust, or gain their the people. And what this band does, that I haven’t attention, then it becomes a working relationship experienced with any other band, is when we feel between you and the people that are there. x that energy, we spit it back out. We take the vibe off

guy who whistles anted to, he could whistler. We defiwith sounds.

”

(24-25) by Kate MacCallum

www.atlantismagazine.org

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

The Red Barn acrylic on board by Erin Tetterton

Wax Dolls

poetry by Heather Roughton My mother taught me to obey, to answer when asked questions, to have dinner waiting at six, still warm. I should have been more like the wax in the candles my mother lit. I could never learn to melt beneath an angry flame the way she did, and when the smoke cleared, to hold together again, cool quickly, scarred from the burn, but healing. I wondered which died firstâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the candles she lit with misplaced care, or that flame within, quieted by the apron around her hips.

www.atlantismagazine.org

Jezebel

fiction by Jade Howard

9:00 PM t was snowing. It was always snowing. She was used to the icy touch of winter against her bare legs, the soft kisses of snow against her silky flesh. It was winter in the city. She slinked down the barren streets, face occasionally illuminated by the lampposts. Maybe she should call her mother. It was a fleeting thought brought on by years of habit. Her mother liked it when she called. Her mother liked to hear her voice ooze through the phone line strangled, wheezing, aching to please her. The conversation would quickly escalate, the girl knew that, to the point where she would be near tears from her mother’s bitter tone and disregard for her. Hi mom. No mom. Yes. I’m not. Yes. Yes. Christmas? At home? Sure. Yes. No. I’ll pay. No.

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

I’m fine. Sick? No. Tired? No. I’m fine. No. There is no one. Don’t worry, I won’t die an old maid yet. Bye? Yes. I’ve really got to go. Bye. She wasn’t her mother’s favorite or her father’s. But they at least had to pretend to dote on their youngest, oldest, and only child. They’d ask to visit and then throw a lavish party. The guests would come and say how beautiful she was or how she looked exactly like her mother. Then, after the compliments, came the begging and pleading. Just one meeting with her father was all they needed—just one. If the girl, since she was such a sweetheart, could tell her parents about their business they would be grateful. They’d laugh and kiss her cheeks or pat her hands, like a baby, hoping for the best. The girl never talked to her parents about the desperate people. She knew her parents would look

Bare acrylic art by Leah Ferrer at her, through her, and, showering her in compliments like the guests, leave the room. She stood partially illuminated. She looked mysterious, but had an air of femininity—easy prey. In the end, she decided to not call her mother.

The pounding of his feet on the stairs, carrying the prize that wasn’t putting up a fight. She wasn’t desperate, no, but as much as his skin revolted her, it was human contact. That had to count for something.

10:00 PM He had clammy hands; his skin was slightly sticky like molasses. He tripped over his tongue, stuttering for words, stumbling, and slightly revolting. A disgusting beast of a man. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. Dragging her up the stairs and to the room on the sixth floor (or had the women said the seventh?) of the inconspicuous hotel, the girl knew how they looked: him, cutting off the circulation in her wrist, and her, following behind submissively.

10:30 PM It began with a pressure; it always did. It reminded her of when she was a child, and the neighborhood boys would ask her to wrestle. The crushing feeling of their bodies on top of her. On her chest, suffocating. On her neck, choking. Overpowering her. At first she fought and struggled, screaming for her mother. Her mother would sit by idly with the other parents who giggled and whispered and exclaimed how nice it was for the children to play together. She would sip on her cocktail: the glass of bright, red embers. Her face cast into the shadwww.atlantismagazine.org

ows by her hat, she’d laugh. Her mother would laugh. And laugh. After a while, she gave up, letting the boys lie on top of her. Letting them crush her, she would lie there idly, waiting for them to finish. Some days the feeling of those limbs—arms, legs, hands, torsos, mouths, teeth—would be the only comfort she felt for days. So she cherished it.

He stumbled over to his slacks, rummaging through the pockets. He fingered through the bills and shuffled towards her. Her face was still obscured by smoke. Had he gotten more than a glance all night? What he could make out had been beautiful. As he got closer, he could see her freshly applied lipstick. Her lips were curled into a smile—or was that a grimace?—it almost seemed like she would laugh, Laugh at him and his desperation and how he had begged her. Or cry. For herself? For him? For the world? Nervously he held out the paper, some falling to the floor from his shaky hands. The girl smiled sweetly this time and slinked off the ledge. She meandered to the door, picking up her clothes as she went. She passed his outstretched hand, ignoring the money in his open palm. When her back was facing the man, she flicked her cigarette butt into the carpet. The smoke followed after it, trying to capture something just out of reach. She got to the door. Clothes in hand. Jacket on. Covering her but barely buttoned. She put her hand on the knob. He put his hand on her shoulder. The rough, dark fabric bunched beneath his fingertips, and the money crushed in the opposing fist.

11:30 PM He looked back—the man with the clammy hands—at piles of fabric and tangled sheets. The golden ring on his left hand gleamed. She moved and the sheets pooled around her midsection, her hair falling limply. She looked so broken, her back so small. Her shoulder blades quivering from laughing? From tears? He couldn’t handle this: the guilt and the satisfaction. He ran toward the shower, tripping over discarded mementos and high heels. He entered the bathroom, briefly looking over his shoulder, unable to resist a glance. She looked beautiful but truculent. Beautiful but broken: a fallen angel, the epitome of the downfall of man. If there was ever a reason for him to pray, he had just found one. 12:00 AM He opened his mouth and closed it again, unClosing his eyes, he tried to then. He gave up, sure of what to say. Why had he grabbed her? She and went into the shower. didn’t want the money? That was fine. He would live with that. He couldn’t find a reason to keep 11:55 PM The window ledge was cold and smooth his grip on her and began to loosen his hold. She against the back of her thighs. The winter breeze tightened hers on the doorknob. caressed the nape of her neck, shoulder blades, “What’s your name?” he asked. The question and bare back. hung in the air, and, for a second, he wasn’t even He looked at her. The cigarette between her sure who had said it. Had those words really left fingertips winked. The smoke slithered around his lips? her. Green eyes gleamed in the darkness. He It was a hot whisper against her skin. She bit her shuddered out questions: would she like to take lip and tasted blood. Tentatively, as if handling fine a shower? Should he call for room service? Was china, she parted her lips. The redness split apart, it too hot? He trailed off; her silence was enough. most likely to tell a lie, and sobs spilled out. x

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Response to Duchampâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Nude Descending Staircase art by Sarah Horak

www.atlantismagazine.org

Fall 2013 | photo Issue 66by Hannah Lineberry Untitled

www.atlantismagazine.org

Ars Poetica

poetry by Kristen Suagee-Beauduy To For

Reconstitute words. Channel fervent incantations. Revel in tension between ribs. Quell the siren’s internal pressure. Labor within two-dimensional cells. Covet lead & ink, patterns of keys stroked. Sabotage child-sized icicles before burial in snow. Catapult indestructible seeds into deforested futures. Hunt for the sake of camouflage, entourage, adrenaline. Navigate underground sandstone caverns to amaranthine aquifers.

Night, in all its dark edges. Grace of eucalyptus umbrage quaking under moonlit, charcoaled clouds. Flock of teals against blue-grey sky skirting over white sands, stagnant ponds. Violet blue & indigo Easter confetti showers, shells of cascarones left in laundromat washing machines.

Shredded lace paper petals in water-laden air. Gold bangle bracelets buried deep in raven’s nest. Aggression distilled within hummingbird frames. Bougainvillea detritus skirting desert interstates. Angled sunlight, cascading through ostrich feather awnings.

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Untitled photomontage by Adele Packer

www.atlantismagazine.org

One Adventure Ends & Another Begins by Aurélie Krakowsky

y the age of twenty-three, Colby Byrd obtained a diploma in metal design from East Carolina University, studied under some of the best Italian metalsmiths and jewelers, and opened his own studio and businesses in Wilmington. Like many college students, Byrd changed his major a few times. “I’ve always been interested in art and no matter what career path I took, it was going to be in the direction of art,” he said. Before graduating, he was granted a life-changing opportunity to study in Tuscany, Italy. There he found artistic inspiration and learned most of the techniques of metal design that he applies in his studio today. “Something hit me while I was living there, and it made me realize that it was not just a trip to

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

learn the culture. It was a trip to learn about myself and figure out what I wanted to do with my life,” he said. “I took the inspiration and the things that I saw while I was traveling and started sculpting, making molds and models of different jewelry pieces and sketching a lot.” During a trip he and his classmates took while in Italy, Byrd found a beach populated by sea urchins of various colors, shapes, and sizes. From that point on, Byrd started to design and produce his very first collection: sea urchin jewelry made from hand chased and enameled copper. These pieces would serve as the foundation for all of his work. After returning to North Carolina and finishing his degree, he moved to Wilmington, where he had spent part of his childhood. Byrd began taking cus-

photos (opposite page) by Rileigh Wilkins, (above) Colby Byrd

tom orders for the coastal-inspired work he started in Italy, but he didn’t yet have the mindset to open an actual business. Everything changed when he attended a local art show, where he sold every piece of jewelry. “It got me thinking: wow, there’s not just an art part to it, there’s also a business part,” he said.

Soon after the art show, Byrd partnered with local artist Dawn Capron, along with a few other emerging artists, and opened Anderson Shelton: Fine Art Studio and Gallery. It wasn’t long until Byrd decided to establish his own branch: Shelton Metal. In April 2013, he created an independent, online business through social media and Etsy. Lula Balou, a local bou-

tique, was the first shop to carry Shelton Metal pieces. Since then, Byrd’s outreach has increased, and his jewelry is now sold in boutiques across North Carolina in Wrightsville Beach, Charlotte, and Dunn. Shelton Metal’s most recent growth was in August with the establishment of a small booth at Tickled Pink in Lumina Station. He shares it with the artists of Anderson Shelton. “I’m really proud of how it turned out,” Byrd said. There, he is able to personalize how his jewelry is displayed, arranging it in ways he feels the public should see it. The majority of Byrd’s creations have a modern feel to them, but they stay true to his original inspiration: coastal waters and the ocean. Shelton Metal’s traditional pieces include the sea-urchin-inspired jewelry and cast sterling silver octopus tentacle earrings and rings. His best seller is the Simple Necklace, which is a thin, enameled copper bar attached to a silver chain, available in numerous colors. Shelton Metal puts out a new collection of jewelry twice a year. During the summer, Byrd worked on designs for this year’s fall collection, based on the Seven Seas. “There will be pieces formed around everything from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea and the Black Sea. I want to go back historically and create wearable pieces that are reflective of the seas. I’m really excited about it,” he said. In addition to his seasonal collections, Shelton Metal will be releasing a men’s jewelry line in spring 2014. Shelton Metal continues to thrive and Byrd does not have time to be bored. “Things are still new and I’m learning every day. I literally never stop,” he said. But he’s still not fully satisfied. His ultimate goal is to continue to grow – not only as an artist but also as a businessman. He plans on getting a larger studio within the next year in order to expand his business and art production. “One adventure ends and another begins,” he said. “That’s how it’s been for the past three years.” x www.atlantismagazine.org

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

The Solemn Dragonfly photowww.atlantismagazine.org by Kelby Roberson

The Ballad of Roberto Padilla

fiction by Sean Stoll

ear Editor, I can see him yet, entering through the gap in the right field fence, the door of his mother’s Toyota flung open expectantly, a small boy chewing bubblegum with the hardened intent of a Major League tobacco spitter. This is the story of the greatest Little League shortstop I’ve seen in all my years of coaching in this town. He really should have been snapped up by a top-class high school program by now, but he has one Major League drawback: he doesn’t exist. His name was Roberto Padilla; at least it was before it was changed. No one knows how he came to this small Florida town. No one knows if he came from Cuba, or Puerto Rico, or just plain old Kissimmee. Different people will tell you different stories, but Roberto himself was as tight lipped as any eleven-year-old can be. All that’s really certain is that, within weeks of showing up, he was diving left and right to snag ground balls and making unassisted double plays so often that the second baseman began to sit down beside his post. I wasn’t happy about that particular detail, but there wasn’t anything to be done. Roberto was simply good enough to do it all by himself. He would marshal his fellow infielders with an unquestionable authority. He never raised his voice—he rarely even spoke, yet whenever a teammate made a throwing error or was more interested in cloud formations than fly balls, they would receive a sharp stare. That would be enough to keep any of them in check for the rest of the game. Most of the time the thing that posed the most tempting distraction was the teamwide habit of Roberto-watching. To watch Roberto Padilla field ground balls was to be reminded that baseball is a child’s game, simple and romantic. He would see the ball connect with the aluminium clang of the opposing bat, and then, without fail, he would skip once on his left leg, bend, snag the ball, and throw to first in one fluid motion. No matter how close or important the play, he would trot dutifully back to his position, no high fives, no showboating. No one knew if the skip was a stubborn childhood habit or

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

the product of an elite coaching academy; as with much else, Roberto was silent. Unfortunately for the other teams in the county, his bat was less quiet. Even those who never got to see him play are familiar with his scouting report: the best Little League hitter never to record a home run. He had the power. He just never tried for a home run. He would blast singles, doubles, and even triples into the gaps and alleys left by a defence that was at best tired and yearning to watch television. Despite his accuracy with the aluminium, he would never swing for the fences. He approached the game as if it was a job—a job designed for the express purpose of having Roberto Padilla arrive unannounced and calmly dominate. If the phenom’s mother approved of his attitude to the game, we never knew. She would drive only to the edge of road beside the right field fence and minutes later, sputter away. That’s not to say Roberto was not accompanied to the games. It began to happen after the first three weeks. Just as we were getting used to the youngster showing up to games all but alone, his entourage arrived. They came in a black Cadillac Escalade, with a sticker for X-star Sports Management on the side. From the driver’s side came a pale-skinned British man who introduced himself as Larry Davis, the CEO of X-Star. He also announced that any questions about what he termed his asset could be addressed to Gabriel, a large African-American man in a purple X-Star polo shirt and dark shades. That was the last anyone in the town would hear from Larry Davis, in person at least. But it was enough to start the rumors, and from then on, they came thick and fast. There were whispers of X-Star forging documents and visas, talk of Larry Davis funding the Padilla’s housing expenses, even stubborn rumors of late-night border crosses with the muscular Gabriel climbing steel fences with Roberto on his back. The rumours became reality when Gabriel informed us, right before the first game of the playoffs, that the asset would now go by the name of Roberto Jordan. That same day, Roberto arrived with new X-star branded polo shirt, shoes, and amber-tinted sunglasses. I don’t know if it was the idea of X-star Incorporated or Roberto’s mother to rebrand the young ball player as Roberto Jordan—a name one vowel

away from that of the blues player who is alleged to have made a deal with the devil at a nondescript crossroads—but it added to the unease that had begun to take root in the stands and would soon spread onto the field. During the division quarterfinals, the myth of Roberto began to unravel before our eyes. It was the bottom of the fifth, and Roberto made an uncharacteristic error. The ball was hit towards shortstop. He took his customary short skip and bent down to field the ball, but to the disbelief of the onlooking parents, the ball sneaked under his glove and rolled into the outfield. What followed was even more unlike Roberto. That eleven-year-old center of stoicism flung his new X-star sunglasses to the ground. After a quick glance at Gabriel, he repositioned the glasses on his face and trotted back to his. This would all be forgotten after the Fourth of July. It was the county semifinals. Roberto was unfazed by the occasion—calm enough to go three for four and score the tying run in the seventh. We won on a passed ball in the ninth. Amid the shouts and hugs of jubilant preteens, something unusual happened. The faded outline of Roberto’s mother’s Toyota came into view outside the park. It had become customary for me to drop Roberto home after games. But on this night, the little shortstop jogged toward the hole in the right field fence. He was followed by the terse, professional strides of Gabriel. When Gabriel approached the car, Roberto’s mother climbed out and yelled something unpleasant in Spanish and threw a large stack of white paper at him. Then followed a long argument, mostly in Spanish, its meaning lost to all of us as the only translator was seated mutely in the back of his mother’s car. Roberto did not attend the finals two days later, but Gabriel did. He stayed only to read a typed letter in a deep monotone. It informed us that X-star Incorporated had reached a financial and moral impasse with its client and, as a result, had decided to buy out the remainder of his contract in order to prevent the infringement of competing corporations. It concluded by wishing both us and the asset the best of luck with our future ventures. It was signed “cordially” and “professionally” by Larry Davis. That was the last we heard of the former

Roberto Padilla—a name I have begun to question, since it is not traceable in any database. The final game was abandoned in the seventh inning when the opposing first baseman killed a dog with a line drive. A group of shocked ball players helped the umpire drag the large brown heap to the side of the diamond as its inconsolable tenyear-old owner looked on. By then, all we cared about was the disappearance of our shortstop. A group of parents and I drove to Roberto’s house, but all we found there was a group of cleaning ladies who told us the property had been vacated that morning. It has since been ten years, and in that time, I have wondered whether he was an apparition, a dream, or a fairytale we had collectively made up. A new bellhop started work at the hotel on Main Street, around the corner from the Little League ball field. He speaks little English, but he works hard and hustles to carry luggage to the appropriate room. Before he picks up each bag, he performs an almost unnoticeable skip. I have not spoken to him. I choose to remember Roberto as a small intense shortstop—one who gave us that beautiful summer before greed intervened, and the game was not a game anymore. It’s funny, the hotel with the skipping bellhop is not only right beside the intersection that leads to the ballpark, it also shares a street with an abandoned cinema. It has two large towers, and in the moonlight, it looks like a church. I suppose it is a church, of sorts. Kids would go there to imagine, if only briefly, the existence of better worlds. It is an empty shell now. Its parent company pays each month to keep it closed to prevent “the infringement of competing corporations,” I suppose. Somewhere in between all this talk of infringements and assets, the magic is being squeezed out of life one shortstop at a time. I wrote this letter to the editor just to say that I have seen these things. I know I called it “The Ballad of Roberto Padilla,” but it’s a tune that’s being hummed everywhere—from the abandoned cinema to the skipping bellhop to the strip malls and mega-churches that dot the freeway. I care because what is happening to Central Florida is happening to America, and what’s happening to America is what’s happening to me. We can’t go back to Eden, even if it is just around the corner. x www.atlantismagazine.org

Peacock Blend serigraphy by Silas Hite 42

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Sailboat scratch paper by Dean Sullivan www.atlantismagazine.org

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

#FFFF00

poetry by Amber Whittemore I’ve hated it ever since my golden retriever died from eating daffodils in my grandmother’s garden. It is the banana smoothie that gave me an itchy tongue. Or the overalls I wore in grade four, where the mustard stains didn’t just blend in. It is the cab where I left my wallet. Or a reminder of my EpiPen, which I only use after getting stung by bees. It is the poor baby chick that fell off of my bunk bed. Or the faint tint of the toilet water As my head was shoved into it.

www.atlantismagazine.org

Contributo Mohamed Abdelrazig

Silas Hite

Student by day, explorer by night. From Greensboro by way of Sudan.

I’m a senior studio art major at UNCW focusing on graphic design and printmaking. I’m inspired by 19th century textile arts and love spending my time at the beach or in the printing studio.

Tyler Auffhammer

Sarah Horak

I’m a junior secondary English education major at Western Carolina University. I work for my campus newspaper and at the writing center. I enjoy reading, writing, and riding motorcycles.

Life is short...be happy and make art!

Genevieve Abell

Jade Howard

I’m a creative writing major and junior at UNCW with a concentration in really morbid and depressing fiction. That’s my life.

A dreamer commonly celestially transcended from thoughts of a world full of possible impossibilities tucked securely inside everlasting daydreams.

Mary Christensen

Hannah Lineberry

I’m a twenty-two-year old English major and Arizona native now residing in Western North Carolina. Writing seems to be a thing that I do quite frequently.

Leah Ferrer I’m currently working toward a BS in Art Education from Appalachian State. Though I specialize in painting and mixed media, my most recent artistic endeavor is making the foamy leaf design on top of lattes.

Who’s that girl?

Hayley Neininger

Writing and reading have always been hobbies of mine, but through the years those hobbies have evolved into passions. I’m an English major at UNCW with dreams of educating others so that they can find the same passion I have.

ors

Ryan Smith

Light painting duo comprised of UNCW student Ryan G. Smith and CFCC student Frank Culotta. Straight out of the camera or die.

Adele Packer

Sean Stoll

Hi! I am a visual artist from Australia, currently living and studying in Wilmington, NC. While studying abroad, I have found a new love for photomontage and these are some I’ve created over the last semester.

I am an international exchange student from Ireland; this is my first and only year at UNCW. I enjoy surfing, reading, and the music of Bruce Springsteen.

Senior at UNCW, picked up my interest for photography six years ago on a trip to Hawaii. Ever since, I’ve fallen more in love with photography and it has quickly become a hobbyturned-passion.

I am a Junior at UNCW majoring in Business Administration with a concentration in Finance as well as a minor in Mathematics. Art has always been a part of my life and hopefully it will remain with me in the future.

Sara Pezzoni

Juliana Rankin

Dean Sullivan

Kristen Suagee-Beauduy

I’m Juli and a freshman at UNCW. Art is a passion of mine and colored pencils are my absolute favorite medium to work with. I’m tall, silly, outgoing and looking forward to a great year!

I study professional writing and Cherokee studies at Western Carolina University.

Kelby Roberson

Erin Tetterton

I am a photographer with the desire to create unique perspectives of natural and synthetic phenomena not typically not noticed by the naked eye. I find much of my inspiration from my childhood.

Life is inherently serious; therefore, I choose to elevate the ordinary, celebrate the silly, and proclaim the profound. Come, view life through my lens.

Heather Roughton

Amber Whittemore

“Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.” - Emily Dickinson

I am a UNCW senior, graduating in May 2013, and receiving a BS in Computer Science with business concentration. I enjoy problem solving, organizing, winning board games, and baking. I also hate the color yellow.

Publication Information

Untitled photomontage by Adele Packer

Advertising Call (910) 962-3789 or e-mail ads uncw@gmail.com for rates and information.

Copyright All rights are reserved to the individual authors and artists. Permission must be obtained to use any material from this publication in any way.

Colophon Seven hundred and fifty copies of this publication were printed at a total cost of $1260.00, or $1.68 per copy. Atlantis is published three times a year at the University of North Carolina Wilmington in mid-November, mid-April, and mid-June. 48

Fall 2013 | Issue 66

Editorial Policy Once a submission is received, the Submissions Coordinator immediately codes it with a tracking number, keeping a spreadsheet with the contact information for each submission. The submissions are then distributed anonymously to the student staffs for review and are labeled solely with their tracking number during this process. No one except the Submissions Coordinator has access to this spreadsheet. The Submissions Coordinator does not participate in the review process and the spreadsheet is not opened until each editorial staff has made content decisions. Every submission is carefully discussed and reviewed.

Submissions

To submit to Atlantis, you must be a currently enrolled undergraduate or graduate student at a university within the UNC system or Cape Fear Community College. Contributors may submit up to ten pieces of art, photography, poetry, or prose to our website at atlantismagazine.org/submit.

Thank you to: Bill DiNome, Student Media Board, Justin Lacy and the Swimming Machine, Jules Britt, Ashley Schmee, Routine Man, Will Wilkinson, Tim Bass, Clyde Edgerton, Heather Wilson, Old Books on Front Street, Grinderâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Coffee, Treehouse Magazine, coffee, Cape Fear Wine & Beer, UNCW Publishing Laboratory, Pomegranate Books, everyone who submits to our publication, three-year-old pixy sticks in the Student Media Center, Jack Danielâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, Home Haircuts, NASUH, fearless squirrels, honey, people who smile at strangers, flavor blasted goldfish, sunshine, dollar tacos, DaFont.com, Reeses peanut butter pumpkins, water, bubbles, blueberry lemonade, all the literate people in the world, and anyone with the guts to make something up.