Dear Readers, This year has flown by like they always do. By the time this issue releases, half of the Atlantis staff (including myself) will have been set free into the big, bad world as UNCW graduates. (Insert panicky cry here.) The summer issue of Atlantis is fully black and white. It’s the issue that gives our staff and readers a chance to let the shades of gray speak for themselves, without the distraction of louder colors. While flipping through all the beautiful submissions, don’t forget to take a peek at our exciting features for this issue. They include several world traveling surf artists, a model/musician, and a local woodworker. Once again, to our readers, contributors, and featured organizations: Thank you for always supporting Atlantis. Without those of you who pick up the newest copy of Atlantis, let us pick your brain for a features article, or submit to the magazine, Atlantis would simply cease to exist. This being my final Atlantis contribution, I want to extend the biggest thank you to my Atlantis staff. You all are some amazingly talented individuals and I wish you the best of luck as you continue on your life adventures.
Yours truly,
Jessica Lowcher
cover art:
Wyngs by Sarah Roberson Pen and Ink on Paper University of North Carolina Wilmington Atlantis Magazine Fisher University Union 1049C 601 S. College Road Wilmington, NC 28403 P: 910.962.3229 F: 910.962.7131
CONTENTS Prose
9 “Deer Eggs” by Bridget Callahan 16 “You” by Genevieve Abell 20 “Excerpt from the Galactic Encyclopedia: The Greatest Instrument” by Kent Weigle 24 “Target” by Megan Tracy 25 “Dust” by Genevieve Abell
Photography 7 10 14 18 21 22 22 24
“The Wanderer” by Savannah Costner “Old as Earth” by Savannah Costner “Untitled” by Ethan Sigmon “Another Summer” by Sara Pezzoni “Petty Pride” by Rileigh Wilkins “Thoughts” by Erin Tetterton “Untitled” by Jennifer Winthrow “Fire Lion” by Anna Kennedy
Poetry
6 “An Unorthodox Birth” by Susannah Richardson 15 “An Invention. We Were Such a Good Pity” by Stephanie Shoffner 17 “Up and Down Stairs” by Noah Gray 19 “Last Words” by Dillon Lee
Features
12 An Artist’s Piece of the Universe 23 Heart Wood: A Return to Craftsmanship 26 The People You Meet on the Water
Art 1 8 11 13 16 19 20 28 28
“Wyngs” by Sarah Roberson (cover) “Mixed Media Idea” by David Wilson “Untitled” by Jennifer Thompson “Portrait of Jenny” by David Wilson “Two Heads” by David Wilson “Untitled” by Erin Tetterton “Mother and I” by Sarah Roberson “Yellow Woman” by Nam Yun Kim “Figure Drawing” by Chelsea Ellwanger
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contributors Savannah Costner Spends most of her days with her head in the clouds.
Rileigh Wilkins Keep it sassy.
Sarah Roberson Just a hopeful adventurer trying to find her places in the world.
Jennifer Thompson Studio Art Major/Digital Arts Minor at UNCW. From Silver Spring, MD.
Erin Tetterton Life is inherently serious, therefore, I choose to elevate the ordinary, celebrate the silly, and proclaim the profound. Come, view life through my lens.
Anna Kennedy Artist, Adventurer and Animal Enthusiast.
David Wilson David is currently a senior at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. There he is majoring in fine art with a concentration in drawing and painting. The foundation of his work comes from influences in the classical styles of the old masters. His goal is to find new ways to express emotion through the human figure.
Bridget Callahan Bridget is Cleveland born and raised. She misses her hometown immensely and is pretty sure that being away from the Lake is affecting her sex drive. She recently self-published “Cleveland is Your Best Friend”, and her personal writings can be found at http://www.bridgetcallahan.com Noah Gray Noah is a freelance writer and poet from Massachusetts, and will receive his BFA in creative writing come May of 2013. Lifelong reader and musician, he started writing poems as a way to explain things to himself. He hasn’t stopped mumbling since. After graduation, he intends to move cross-country, where he’ll continue to write and enjoy coastal living.
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Jennifer Winthrow Jen is a Sophomore at UNCW. She is majoring in Film Studies.
Genevieve Abell She is 20 years old and a Creative Writing Major at UNC Wilmington.
Kent Weigle I’m a nihilist if I don’t eat breakfast.
Ethan Sigmon Twenty something year old photographer, filmmaker, writer, artist, explorer, nomad, animal commander, philosopher, pizza marauder.
Megan Tracy I hate that I love cheesy things. But I love it at the same time.
Sara Pezzoni Senior at UNCW, picked up her interest for photography six years ago on a trip to Hawaii. Ever since, she’s fallen more and more in love with photography and it has quickly become a hobby-turned-passion.
Stephanie Shoffner Stephanie is 23 and from Rockingham, North Carolina. She currently works at Aussie Island Surf Shop and Milners Cafe and Catering in Wilmington NC and attends Cape Fear Community College. She spends her spare time writing, listening to music, and spending time in the sun.
Susannah Richardson Susannah is a May 2013 graduate of UNCW, receiving degrees in Spanish and Creative Writing. She loves coffee, her fantastic family & friends, riding horses, and sleeping in. She is excited to continue traveling after graduation and see what life after college has in store!
Dillon Lee Dillon is an undergraduate Creative Writing student at UNCW focusing on poetry. He thinks many things we experience can be related to spectrums. Good to evil. Hot to cold. Black to white. Each one relative to one’s perspective. The black and white issue stood out to him, because in the myriad of colors that we exist in, black and white can show us specific differences hidden to those lost in-between the two ends.
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An Unorthodox Birth poetry by Susannah Richardson
Our passion was not born an infant, but a toddler, clumsy and excitable. It didn’t begin in blood-warm wombs as we each did once so separately. But maybe it will end up there, a beginning for an end. Stumbling, our newly-created love explores its world. Fleshcolored walls and tongue-textured carpets, it is alive and precocious. It fed hungrily on anything we gave it: warm milk stirred with honey, whiskey, apple cores, grocery lists, sweet cream and bruised berries. It grew, dared to gnaw on sinew and cartilage. Snarling and grinning like an animal caught.
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The Wanderer — photography by Savannah Costner
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Mixed Media Idea — charcoal and acrylic on panel by David Wilson
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Deer Eggs — ficton by Bridget Callahan Gladys comes into the office holding a carton of eggs in her hand. The office is very modern, all the walls are painted happy shades of yellow and white, and the furniture is pale blonde. Gladys is not pale blonde, she is dark mahogany, and her figure is very trim. She wear cotton skirts and cute button up blouses. The effect of her walking across the tastefully gray carpet towards my desk is very neat and professional. Except for the eggs. She puts the eggs on my desk, and I can see they are larger than chicken eggs, very large in fact, and cracked all over. “You need to take these,” she says, and this is not a request. One of the eggs shakes a little, quivers on its axis in the plastic carton. There is a new crack. Something is moving around. “What is it?” I try to remain calm. Everything is always a crisis around here. “Deer eggs. I found them in my backyard, and I can’t have them in the house, Gary will go apeshit if we get deer. He loves his chrysanthemums.” She stands there with her perfectly formed hands on her trim little hips, and for a minute I am consumed with hate for neat little Gladys and her neat little yard and her neat little husband who gardens and has the same first initial as her. But it’s fleeting. I actually like Gladys a lot. I just wish she wasn’t so pretty. “What am I going to do with them?” Everyone in this office comes to me with the weird stuff. I suppose it’s because I don’t dress like I belong here. I tried at first, but then my entire wardrobe became work clothes, and I felt boring when I went out socially, so I decided it was better to not fit in at the office than not fit in with my friends. And if it’s not my clothes, it’s probably the mousepad on my desk, which is blown up photos of viruses and bacteria I got from a friend of mine who works at an animal hospital. Being the weird one is okay. It keep the serious stuff off your desk, and it’s important to not let things land on your desk. Once it’s physically on your desk, the problem is yours; that’s the golden rule here. “I thought maybe you could take them out to your mom’s farm. Let them live there. They’re mostly deer eggs, but I think there’s a few chicken in there too. Doesn’t you mom have chickens?” Pushing aside the absurdity of the situation, the fact that Gladys has just brought me a tray of living breathing about to be born animals and that she brought it as casually as one might bring in a jello salad to the company picnic, my nurturing sucker instincts take over. If there are chickens in there, they need heat. I pick up the tray and position it under the sun lamp I have for my cactus. Gladys seems satisfied that I’ve taken ownership by my act of touching the damn things, and walks away. I’ve never heard of deer eggs. I sit there in my office chair for a minute studying them. They are large, almost the size of ostrich eggs. I pick one up carefully with two hands. It is hot and disturbingly smooth, like a child’s hand. It gives a violent shake and I almost drop it, so I put it safely back. But they will need to be moved. I have a bread basket on my kitchen counter, I think I can line it with a towel and that should do. It is impossible to work after that. I try to type, but the slightest movement of the
eggs distracts me. I google “deer eggs” and find nothing. I feel a fear building in me, a worry, I have no idea what’s actually in those things. Are they hawks? Ducks? Platypuses? Obviously I know it’s not deer, I’m not an idiot, I know how mammals work. But it’s hard to fight the instinctual excitement of something being born. Whatever’s in there, I want them to survive. Finally the day is over. I drive home carefully, the eggs cradled in my coat on the front passenger seat, my hand hovering over them in case I have to stop suddenly. I feel infinitely relieved when I get them upstairs to my second floor walkup and they are established safely in my smallest laundry basket, the bread basket being too small after all. They sit there, on my kitchen counter under the sun lamp for the rest of the night. I lock the cat in the second bedroom. I drink a beer and sit there on my only stool, watching them, gently touching, tracing the cracks with my fingertips. I can tell which ones are the chicken ones, there are two of them and they are much smaller. They don’t move nearly as much as the four larger eggs and I worry they are dead, by maybe they are just not ready to come out. The next morning when I wake up, I’m estatic to see one of the chicken eggs is cracking too. All of them are moving like crazy, it shouldn’t be much longer. I remember something about turning the eggs, to make sure they are coming right side up. Sticking my hand in the basket to gingerly move them is the same as sticking it in a basket of scorpions. I recognize there is now a terror weight in my chest, a large beast breathing slow hot air into my cheeks, which are vivid and red. I call off work, tell them I have a fever. I have a little fantasy while I’m eating cereal that Gladys wonders why I’m not there, wonders if something happened. But better that it be me, the girl living alone with no husband or kids to worry about. I start to feel more charitable to her, but only a little. It’s a beautiful warm sunny day. I take a book with me to the back yard, and the basket. We lie in the sun. I’m vaguely aware that an actual mother would never do this because of hawks and vermin. “Lucky eggs, you. You landed in the arms of a superior predator,” I say to them. They are being still at the moment, it must be hard work, hatching. Especially if you’re a little deer, trying to kick out with your spindly little knocky knees all tied up in knots. Someone close by is cutting the grass, and it smells warm. I fell asleep briefly. I dream of pulsing red beats of life, of the color of your thumb when you hold a flashlight to it, of the spark of Life Savers in my mouth late at night around a school trip camp fire. I dream of falling off my bike, and first dates. They are dreams of being afraid and full of awe at the same time, a euphoric lack of control over the universe’s laws and regulations. When I finally open my eyes, my body is cold and stiff. The sun has gone down, way down, and the yard is night time dark. There are crickets chirping in the blue shadow leaves, and the memory of the sun still lingers but has chilled considerably. I sit up. Even the grass feels sharper. Looking down by my side, I can see the eggs are lying broken, empty. They are stumbling in the weeds, a few feet away. Tiny, delicate, and awkward; only a few inches tall and glowing a faint
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moonlight green. The hooves of the stumbling glass feet must be smaller than my fingernail. My eyes trace the contours of their arched necks, their pointed fawn ears laid back in confusion, their big dark eyes wide with introduction. The babies stumble and climb up unsteadily again, the strong ones are fairly walking already. Among the stalks of grass that are barely taller than their heads, the light from their bodies spearkles and drifts, interruped like glitter. I stay incredibly sill, and barely I catch the soft high pitched squeals and murmurs. It sounds like pieces of chandelier glass knocking against each other.
Then I catch a different sound, a very ordinary cheep, a chirp, from a little closer. By my knee, the one little chicken to survive. She is shivering in the evening air, curled up against a fold in the blanket. I reach down and cup her beating weak body in my hands, hold her up to my cheek. She settles into me immediately, and falls asleep. I think to myself that I’ll give this one to Gladys in the morning, she and Gary can take care of a chicekn, they’ll probably like that. A pet chicken playing among the chrysanthemums. The chick and I watch the deer, keeping each other warm.
Old as Earth — photography by Savannah Costner
Opposite Page: Untitled — mixed media by Jennifer Thompson
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An Artist’s Piece of the Universe By: Ashley Johnson
From singer to make-up artist, and pianist to model, twenty-year-old Jules Britt has explored many outlets of expression, and is continuing to broaden the spectrum. It is not only the different art forms that make her a wide-ranging artist, but also the varying genres and styles of music she undertakes as a singer. As someone who embraced her creative nature at a young age, Jules has a refreshing enthusiasm for creating art inspired by the beauty of life. It began with a little girl who had a passion for singing. Her best guess as to where this passion was derived is the Disney movies of her day that were very much musical. “I used to pop Aladdin in the VCR over and over again,”she said. From that point on, she was hooked. In high school she trained to sing with operatic vocals. After that, she went to college in Asheville for one year, where she became involved with a college band that called themselves Goldbrix. “I used to go to parties and rap as a party trick.” It was a time for her to experiment with music and Goldbrix did this by defining their very own genre called “kitty crunk”. “I have a wide range of vocal variety and I put it in my original music that I create now,” Jules said. Jules returned to Wilmington, where she obtained her Aesthetic degree. For her day job, she is currently a make-up artist full time. Things were not always easy for Jules, but she found a way to embrace that and learn from it. “I was in a funk for about two years where I did not write a single song…it was a really unhealthy space but I’m glad I went through that because I feel like I had to experience that to come out on the other side,” she said. She joined a band, Harmonic Content, in September of 2012. She described the band’s style as “soul/funk”. “It takes a strong willingness and desire to want to come together and create because there’s a lot of different personalities, but there’s nothing like sharing your music with a group of people and being amazed at the material that can be produced out of nothing.” She describes the members of Harmonic Content as some of the most talented individuals she has encountered in her music career. Harmonic Content performs covers as well as originals. “When we work with original stuff in the band I get to be a little more expressive.”
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Aside from the band, she is a solo artist. She plays piano, sings, and writes her own songs. She prefers to solely sing so that she can really get into the music, but she learned piano so that she is able to record at home and create her own instrumentals to go with her original lyrics. “My personal style, I don’t know, I really like piano with vocals but I also like synth sound in the background with strings. I would really love to take what they call ‘ethnic percussion’ and place it to strings or piano overlay.” She likes orchestral music, down low rap beats, and Middle Eastern music synched together. Her songs are reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, Lana Del Rey, and Dusty Springfield. “I like to draw things from the ancient Sufi poets like Rabia… I love the way she kind of refers to God or the universe as her lover.” She also draws inspiration from the beats of nineties hip-hop artists like Jay-Z and Biggie Smalls. “‘Politics as Usual’ by Jay-Z, oh man, lay it down on the mic boyfriend!” Jules models on the side with the University of North Carolina Wilmington, Cape Fear Community College, and the Cameron Art Museum. She says the art modeling is meditative for her. She is also trying to build her acting portfolio. “I would say it all comes hand in hand…I just find my bliss in singing and song-writing, and I find my bliss in acting and modeling as well. I really revel in beauty.” It was this sort of natural inspiration and creative process that led her to create one of her newest originals, “I Would Too”, which you can find on her Facebook fan page. In this song, Jules gives a little taste of her eclectic musical experiences at exactly two minutes and fifteen seconds where she incorporates her own operatic vocals in the background. “I used to think I couldn’t write well enough, and that everything I’ve written has probably already been written before... and then I finally allowed myself to realize that nobody else has my voice or my specific way of writing.” Jules has faith that she will go far with her music. She plans to create a full demo over the summer that she can send to labels. Jules Britt believes “people aren’t necessarily defined by their actions, but by their intentions,” and the intention of the music she creates is “pure joy”. “It’s my way of sharing my piece of the universe,” Jules said.
Portrait of Jenny — black chalk on paper by David Wilson
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Untitled — photography by Ethan Sigmon
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An Invention. We Were Such a Good Pity. poetry by Stephanie Shoffner
You raked your palm over the skeleton On the floor of your room. They crawled into my mouth, pulling my wires toward you now. The left over ones you put away for later. Maybe you will make me a something. Maybe you’ll make me a Raylan Givens. Hat and Gun and boots and all. You might enjoy him too. You could borrow his hat and gun. You could borrow his skeleton parts, they’re too pretty for only him.
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You — fiction by Genevieve Abell Let’s say things stop working out for you. And you don’t try very hard to make them better. So you go back home where it’s easy. And you realize it’s hard. You lie in your old bed and you look at that hole in the ceiling where you stored your plans and painted dreams with your eyes as a child. And you grow distrustful the longer you’re home because this place doesn’t make you happy anymore but you don’t remember when you stopped loving it. Your mother asks you to go shopping with her and you tell her “another time” for the third time. And your dad tells you to get a job and you like it when he says that because he believes you can. You forget what color your sister’s eyes are and you tell your mother you never liked playing the piano. And she cries and you do too because people look sad when they talk about you. Let’s say your dad finds you a job filing papers at his work and you smile and thank him because he’s tired of your pastel expression. Let’s say people avoid you on your first day so you take too many breaks and spend more time in the hallways than you do filing papers. And one day your boss catches you leaving and he says “going somewhere” and you say “I used to be” and he lets you go because maybe he remembers what it’s like to look young and feel old. Let’s say you don’t go back. Your dad says you’ve embarrassed him and you apologize and realize how sad you can get if you want to. You lie on your bed because it’s twilight somewhere and you realize how long you can stare at something.
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Two Heads — acrylic on board by David Wilson
Up And Down Stairs poetry by Noah Gray
Papa drinks he falls into the cellar
distilled liquor down the hatch hits rock bottom
Mama wants she cries her whole life
more madness in the bedroom an empty mug
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Another Summer — photography by Sara Pezzoni
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Untitled — ceramics by Erin Tetterton
Last Words
poetry by Dillon Lee It’s black and white, he said. Yin and Yang. As though the moment you’re born you’re sentenced to die. It’s simple, only two ends of a spectrum.
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Excerpt from the Galactic Encyclopedia: The Greatest Instrument — fiction by Kent Weigle
Mother and I — modified blind contour by Sarah Roberson
On stage, under the eyes of all, she opens her ribs like french doors and tunes a web of strings running from throat to hip. The audience gasps as her bones take fire under the spot light; each one shaped from the maple of an antique orchestra. They marvel at her spine—thirty-three hand-carved ebony vertebrae from a tree so old its rustling leaves described inland seas and unimaginable beasts. The instrument’s nervous breath is a songbird’s sigh as she tests the burnished brass valves jutting from her neck. As the ushers quiet the audience she begins—working the bellows in her feet, coaxing ambrosia from the air. The audience closes their eyes. Necks undulating in time as she plucks chords, every finger conducts a symphony. From her throat arose catharsis.
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Petty Pride — photography by Rileigh Wilkins
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Untitled — photography by Jennifer Winthrow
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Thoughts — photography by Erin Tetterton
Heart Wood: A Return to Craftsmanship By: Matthew Egan
“Around here,” he said, “it’s a lot of the old heart pine, because they used to float it here down the river. As they go in to tear down, they’ll remove the valuable parts of the structure. It’s just garbage to them.” Heart pine refers to the center of a pine tree, which is not living. Dealing with these cuts of wood from a hundred plus years is more ideal than fresh pine on the market. “They don’t grow that type of pine anymore. With genetic engineering, trees grow differently these days; faster, straighter, a looser grain. You can’t get the old stuff, it’s not even an option.” Furniture crafted in The Wood Studio doesn’t come out with a factory finish. Much of the aesthetic relies on the natural shapes and elements of the source piece of wood. Duncan strives to create a balance between a finished piece, and something that came from nature. Duncan likes his customers to be able to look at a piece and know that it was once a tree. He swears they all were at one point. “You have to do what the work wants you to do,” he said. “Wood naturally has so much character in it to begin with, you don’t want to take too much away from it. You want to leave it as close as it would come in nature, while also being functional.” The Wood Studio’s current model involves ninety-five percent of their sales coming online. Each piece is handmade, and that causes every piece to be unique. Duncan believes in the importance of grass-roots ventures, and the turn back to quality. “I think the resurgence of the American craftsman is going to be more and more prevalent in the next few years.”
Photography by Dana Laymon
Peter Duncan grew up in a woodshop. With his father being a master carpenter, there was little chance he would escape the influence. During his studies at Alfred University in New York, Duncan deliberately focused his attention on mediums that did not involve woodwork or block printing. After relocating from New York to Wilmington, Duncan found himself working for a local Print Production company. With the slowing economy, Duncan turned back to something he knew well to generate some supplemental income. This was the birth of The Wood Studio. “It stemmed from, you know, something that I didn’t necessarily love to do,” Duncan said. “That is being locked in the shop with my dad, to something that you just kind of find your way back to.” In only a few years, The Wood Studio has grown to multiple locations and two paid employees, besides Duncan. The most recent piece of property is a studio behind the house Duncan now lives in. “I get to literally walk out my back door, across the yard, and into my shop,” he said. “A lot of people strive for that, but I’m lucky enough to have it.” Works produced by The Wood Studio range from ornamental pieces, to benches, to dining room tables that can weigh 600 pounds. Much of the source wood used for projects is reclaimed from the Wilmington area. As old houses are torn down, people like Duncan bid on valuable wood that can be used again.
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Target — fiction by Megan Tracy One night, when the youngest boy was laying awake in bed, he imagined he could fly. He saw himself soaring, way above the heads of his family, above the trees and mountains and through the clouds. He could feel the fierce wind pulling back his hair and causing ripples in his clothes. And he imagined that his family was proud of him, being the first man to fly and all. Then he thought: what if they grow jealous? After all, he could fly and they were all left behind, forever being pulled toward the center of the earth by the very same gravity that eluded him. What would this jealousy cause them to do? Would they stop watching him in his amazing feat? Would they shun him, and never let him return home? Or would they grab their guns and bows and arrows, and shoot him down, as if he were a bird they were going to pluck and stuff for their dinner table. If anyone were to shoot him down, it would be his father. He had always been the best shot, rarely missing a single target when they lined empty cans along the fence for shooting practice. The thought of his own father shooting him straight through the heart just because he was jealous that he could not fly was scary and sad to the boy, and he had to stop thinking. He closed his mind and gave it over to sleep to quiet the panic that threatened to pulse through his body. The next day, the boy saw a bird floating through the air while he and his brothers were out shooting targets. His brothers all turned to shoot down the bird, blasting away wildly at the sky and shouting and whooping to get each other riled up about killing the animal. But the youngest boy wanted nothing to do with them. He backed away, put down his gun, and turned to run in the opposite direction.
Fire Lion — photography by Anna Kennedy
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Dust — fiction by Genevieve Abell I remember that a man coughed twice. I remember that my cousin’s newborn baby cried for seventeen seconds before his mother was able to pacify him. I remember the pianist played one wrong note in the opening hymn as the men in the family carried the coffin down. I remember the path a ladybug took as it trailed through sunshine on the hardwoods floor beneath the stained glass window. Or maybe it was a lightning bug. I remember the way the strangers laughed outside with each other once the service was over. I remember feeling sorry for those around me. I don’t remember when my aunt pulled me in tight for an embrace. I don’t remember the feel of her tears as they dropped onto the crown of my head. I don’t remember the priest’s words. They weren’t worth listening to, anyway. I don’t remember the smell of incense or the sweetness of a hundred flowers that littered the alter. I don’t remember crying. Because I didn’t. I don’t remember driving home, but here I am. I take the steps two at a time. I know she’s waiting for me in her room. She’ll have a book in her hands. I hope she hasn’t gotten too far ahead. I laugh and my palm curves around her brass doorknob. “Miss me?” I say as I step inside. She’s not there. I look out into the hallway. Maybe she’s in the bathroom. I walk to her bedside table. Her book is sitting atop it. I drag a finger across it. Dust. I hear footsteps and smile. I turn around to face her. Wait till she hears where I’ve been. But it’s not her. It’s my father. He looks strange, his eyes the color of fog. It worries me. I lift up her book and shake off the dust. A blue, pressed flower falls out. She’s so clever with her book marks. I hope she won’t be angry I lost her page. The flower falls apart when it hits the floor. The petals float and dance around my feet like tiny ballerinas. “Daddy?” I smile and hold up her book to him, “Where is she?”
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The People You Meet on the Water By: Rachel Arredondo
Photography by Logan Mock Bunting
On a February morning before eight a.m., surfers clad in black wetsuits dot the crests and valleys of the cold ocean waves, bobbing to an ancient rhythm. The Atlantic Ocean beats a steady pulse against the shores of Carolina Beach. A storm is due the next day, and the waves are larger and fiercer—perfect for surfing—than the normal two to four-foot waves of the Carolina seashore. In the warmer months local surfers and tourists flock to the Carolina seashore to catch some of the best waves along the East Coast. Within the beach communities in the Cape Fear region, locals Tony Silvagni, Randy Seller and Christian Cardamone have been surfing for more than a decade. They each approach surfing with different motives and aspirations, from competition to aesthetic enjoyment, but once out on the water, it doesn’t matter why they are there. The same desire pulls them daily, weekly, monthly out into the waters of the Atlantic Ocean to surf the waves of the Carolina Coast. “I didn’t have the very best car. I was always putting my money to the next trip,” said Silvagni. “And now being a highly ranked surfer—I don’t mean to brag—but I am now ranked fifth in the entire world.” Silvagni is a local surf hero who lives in Kure Beach, North Carolina. A professional surfer, his world ranking is fifth in longboarding. He still makes almost monthly trips to countries like Australia and Costa Rica for longboarding competitions. Although constantly traveling is tiring and he does not get to spend a lot of time at his home, Silvagni is glad that he can make a living doing what he truly loves. It isn’t easy to make a career in professional surfing. The International Surfing Association (ISA) estimates that between seventeen million and twenty-three million people surfed worldwide in 2012—and not all these surfers can make a living from it. Silvagni won his first competition at the age of ten in Bodyboard Division in Ocean City, Maryland, and hasn’t
stopped since. In 2011 at the ISA Olympics in Puerto Rico, Silvagni helped the US team win the Gold Medal in the final competition. “One of the best memories of my life was winning the Gold Medal in the ISA World games,” said Silvagni. It was the first time in thirteen years Americans won. “I had some of my heroes in the competition that I have watched in surf movies growing up.” Silvagni grew up in Kure Beach. His family visited the area in 1993 for Thanksgiving, and a month later the entire family—his father, mother, brother and sister—relocated 564 miles from Williamsport, Pennsylvania to Kure Beach. He started surfing in New Jersey at the age of five and competed in his first competition at the age of nine. Throughout his career, Silvagni has had the constant support of his family; they are the ones who first taught him how to bodyboard. “My childhood memories have stuck with me, being in my first regional event in the bodyboard division competing at Ocean City, Maryland in some big, oversize surf and my family cheering for me on the beach,” said Silvagni. From the beginning his mother filmed him and his brother surfing to help critique and improve their surfing ability. The family even helps with his enterprise, the Tony Silvagni Surf School, in Carolina Beach. His sister gives lessons in surfing and his mother helps run the school and shop. He taught two of President Obama’s secret service agents how to surf. While in Hawaii in summer, he took them to Diamond Head in Oahu, Hawaii. “The two secret service agents didn’t know how to surf,” said Silvagni, “and I was able to get the guys up to their feet riding on a bunch of waves.” He has found that when he has his surfboard it is easier to experience the local culture. “It is really humbling. You embrace the poverty level, and it makes you a better person,” said Silvagni. “You get to realize what you have as Americans.” For Silvagni, everything in his life is centered on surfing. Whatever money he earned he was always putting to his next international trip, and it has paid off. Silvagni has surfed in competitions in Japan, Costa Rica, Peru, Italy and Hawaii to name a few; winning the 2011 ASP Japan Pro Longboard Champion, & placing sixth in the World or competing in the International Surfing Games in Peru. Along the way, Silvagni met Randy Seller, another local surfer from Wilmington, N.C. Seller, thirty-three, is a patient financial advisor at New Hanover Regional Medical Center. He first attended school to get a degree in biology, and Christian Cardamone
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Christian Cardamone, thirty-three, met Randy Seller at St. Marks Catholic Church when they were both sixteen. Although Cardamone doesn’t surf as much he used to, he still gets out when the weather is warmer a couple days out the of the week. Most of his time is taken up with the real estate company and contracting company he owns in Wrightsville Beach. On weekends he plays bass guitar with the Bibis Ellisson band, a local band that recently won Encore Magazine’s Best Musician/ Band of 2013. Cardamone admits to being the least competitive person he knows. He has only ever competed in two events. One of the events was against Seller. “He ended up beating me by a pubic hair,” said Cardamone. “But I had to try.” Cardamone mentions that while Seller is the competitor, he’s more of a “purist surfer”. He enjoys the waves for their own sake. Cardamone has traveled to Costa Rica, Mexico and Puerto Rico for surfing. “If you show up with a surfboard in hand, you have something to talk about,” said Cardamone. “It is fun to go to a new place and see how people view it.” Cardamone got into surfing after moving to Wrightsville Beach from New York over fifteen years ago. While he lived in New York, an uncle who was a surfer in California sent him subscriptions to surfing magazines. Cardamone was fascinated with surfing and the surfing lifestyle before he even moved to North Carolina. He was fascinated by the sport and the lifestyle of a surfer portrayed in the magazine. When he moved to Wrightsville Beach he didn’t have a lot of friends, but he did have an interest in surfing. Because surfing is a large part of the culture in Wrightsville Beach, surfing was his way to connect with people and make friends. “I kind of took surfing on as my friend,” said Cardamone. And fifteen years later, he and surfing are still friends.
Photography by Rick Bickford
intended to go to medical school. However, after graduation, he decided to take a less conventional route; he nixed medical school and took to the road, pursuing his love of travel, surfing and fly-fishing in different countries. His Uncle Kurt first taught Seller how to surf in New Jersey. Seller loved surfing the moment he tried it. He didn’t get a chance to get back into surfing until his family moved from Syracuse, New York to Wrightsville Beach when he was fourteen. Living in Wrightsville Beach brought Seller plenty of opportunities to surf, and he soon found himself trying to get out in the water and surf every day. “I just immediately wanted it more than anything,” said Seller. “So, I just started going every day or as much as I possibly could, just surrounding myself with ocean.” Seller’s life has been shaped by his family, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, mother, and father. Although they are spread out across the United States and abroad, they are still close. The family makes almost yearly vacations to Oahu, Hawaii. He recalls evenings spent grilling by the ocean with family or visiting hole-in-the-wall restaurants with plate lunch deals of the best Philippino food you could stuff your face with for less than five dollars. His family’s outlook on life is similar to Seller’s. “My family has never just sat around,” said Seller. “We would always do everything, cookout, go places, hiking, body surfing, canoeing.” In 2001, Seller competed in the national finals at Huntington Beach in California, beating out forty other surfers to get there. Even though Seller came in dead last, he still enjoyed the experience of surfing among the top surfers of the time. “I went against the people you look up to, and I finally made it to the final,” Seller said, “And I came in dead last. When I got out there, at that point, I was so surprised, that I was out there. It was…surreal.” When he was seventeen, he competed in his first longboarding competition in Emerald Isle, coming in third. At nineteen, he traveled to California and Florida to compete. Then he started traveling to different countries including Peru, Costa Rica and Japan. Having his surfboard has opened cultural experiences he might not have experienced otherwise. Surfing isn’t just about experiencing the next wave or a new beach; it is about getting the most out of life. “You can’t take your money with you. You can’t take your belongings with you,” said Seller, “but you can definitely take your experiences.”
Tony Silvagni
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Figuring Out Form Figure drawing is a requirement in the UNCW Art Department. This semester, beginning and intermediate classes were asked to submit their best in-class work for publication and these were selected:
Yellow Woman — charcoal on paper by Nam Yun Kim
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Figure Drawing — charcoal on paper by Chelsea Ellwanger
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STAFF WITH CLASS
Pictured above from left to right: Maddie Deming: Submissions Coordinator Matthew Egan: Features Writer Sally J. Johnson: Poetry Editor Dan Dawson: Layout Assistant Caleb A. Ward: Prose Editor Jessica Lowcher: Editor-in-Chief Ally Favory: Photography Editor Rachel Arredondo: Art Editor Shauna Seaver: Layout Editor Michael Tomaselli: Web Editor Ashley Johnson: Copy Editor
Photography by Connor Buss
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Staff Members Prose Molly Klemarczyk Colin Jacobs Joseph Fletcher Lori Wilson
Poetry Katie Jones Alexa Doran Becky Eades Heather Hammerback
Art Asia Brown Laney Branch Megan Frick Kathryn Allman
Photography Rileigh Wilkins Carson M. Smith Jen Withrow Sammy Thompson
Special thanks to: Bill DiNome, Dr. Persuit, Jamie Moncrief, and the rest of the Student Media Board. Atlantis would not have progressed as it has without your patience, assistance, and tough love. Thank you for sticking with us and for all that you do. Thank you: Readers, contributors, Gene Spear and UNCW Printing Services, our fellow Student Media organizations, our staff members, Freakers, Small Noah, Brother & the Harmony, Connor Buss, almond milk, strawberry rhubarb pie, Atlantis bombs, horse masks, Casey Mills, Fauxhawk, Ben McCarthy, Matt Gossett, Johannes Lichtman, Treehouse Magazine, when it’s face time, Bottega Art & Wine, staying classy, skimming emails, Jules Britt, Tony Silvagni, Randy Seller, Christian Cardamone, go-karts and laser tag, Peter Duncan, Dana Laymon Photography, Rick Bickford, Logan Mock Bunting, nachos, beer, and that other thing.
Interested in advertising in Atlantis? Call (910)962-3789 or Email ads.uncw@gmail.com for rates and information.
Colophon: 750 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. 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. 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. 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.
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