phases
a
literary magazine
phases
Š 2016 by PubCrawl Publishing All rights reserved pubcrawlpublishing@gmail.com Manufactured in the United States of America Managing Editor: Rosamond Thalken Acquisitions Editor: Nicole Eisenbraun Copy Editor: Laura Gerkin Marketing Director: Abigail Goodwin Production Director: Cora McKnight Design Director: Lani Hanson cover photo by Brigitte Rathey
phases
a
literary magazine
Brigitte Rathey
table of contents
9 introduction
11 Bloom – Cassie Kernick 12 self portrait with denim – Michael Johnson 13 falling in love – Cassie Kernick 14 The Most Beautiful Thing I’ve Ever Seen Was Eye Contact – Araya Santo 21 self portrait with sweater – Michael Johnson 24 Culvert Casket – Cassie Kernick 25 fire for blood – Cassie Kernick 26 author & Artist biographies 29 about the editors
“And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time.” ― Libba Bray, The Sweet Far Thing
introduction You hear it repeatedly. The thousands upon thousands of clichés revolving around change. Change is the only thing that’s constant. Change is the only way to grow. People change; they never change. You can change, be the change. It defines us as humans. You see it as the months turn into seasons, seasons turn into years, and years turn into decades. You can see it in the turning of ideas, in the social justices that were reached or lost. In the colors of the sky as a new day begins and ends. It’s present in the relationships we have with lovers, brothers, friends, mothers, and strangers. It’s our lives as we grow and mold from children to adolescents to adults. There is some warrant in those clichés because change is truly everywhere, and we must accept changes as they come. That’s why we chose to title this magazine phases: phases of the moon, of the seasons, of life. Each one of you is in a different phase at this moment. The short story by Araya Santo “The Most Beautiful Thing I’ve Ever Seen Was Eye Contact” focuses on a man who goes from being seen to not, literally. His life and his interaction with humans must change. Cassie Kernick wrote four poems: “Culvert Casket,” “Fire for Blood,” “Falling in Love,” and “Bloom.” The first focuses on the changes that death brings; the second looks at the emotions of a break. The last two explored how outside things, such as a city or a song, can alter our vision of the world. The two art pieces by Michael Johnson show how a person can change physically. Each self-portrait has its own story and the clothing isn’t the only thing to change. Each of Brigitte Rathey’s photos show the changes in nature through the stages of flowers: budding, blooming, and wilting. As you move out of this phase, into the next, you will encounter change. It may not all be good. In fact, some of it will be heart wrenching, bittersweet, or cold. Other changes will be miraculous, calming, liberating. Change can’t be evaluated into a perfect little circle; it’s messy. But here’s the great thing about change. We are all shifting, changing together. And that is what I hope this magazine reminds you of. As you read these pieces, some of them deeply personal, I hope you can see that change is happening to all of us, flowing constantly toward the next phase. So enjoy the moments you have now, and go with the tide. 9
Bloom
Cassie Kernick Yesterday I learned, that my favorite love song is actually a break up song. Lines of forever meant to be sonnets of goodbye. Professions of true love drowning in resignation to reality. Listening now, it all starts to make sense. But I can’t help to think what irrevocable damage was done in years spent confusing the two. The Dr. says I can undo it, two doses of genuine love daily, one anti-cynicism tonic weekly. I’m not yet sure, if my glass of water is full enough to wash it all down.
11
12
michael Johnson
It feels ironic, that I looked most like a tourist when it happened. I was unshowered and in tennis shoes. I hiked to the top of Piazzale Michelangelo to meet the sunset. I’m sure I looked like a woman unhinged.
It took all of my being, not to call out, and let the city share in my euphoria. This is how it feels to belong. My particles intermixed with the Firenze sky, my American music whispered in my ear, somehow it sounded sweeter here.
Falling in Love
Cassie Kernick
Sane humans don’t gallivant with a toothy grin. Tears pricked my eyes and goosebumps arose to meet the evening air.
I had no great plans for the evening. Tonight I was cooking with wine, and writing for me. But it felt like I was headed to the moon itself. My feet began to levitate as I floated over the cobblestones below, I have never been this light. This is how it feels to love a place. Tonight I did not count the pairs I did not fit into. Tonight I only noticed how sweet it feels to move so freely. This is how it feels to love. 13
The Most Beautiful Thing I ’ve Ever Seen Was Eye Contact araya santo
14
Penelope, Enclosed you will find my poetry for the publication, as well as a story. The contract never said I couldn’t have any memoir. I told you I wanted to find him–this is how. Thank you for understanding. -Gregory
It’s possible that writing about myself may be the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Why should I describe myself, let others know me, when there are others in the world that people see but ignore? The last person who could see me was not my mother. I was nine years old when I turned invisible. My teacher, Mrs. Penke, asked me if I was feeling sick because my usually weasel-brown skin was unusually pale. I remembered I had jumped a little in my seat, my hands frozen on my desk. I had been eating Chee-tos as quietly as possible because food was not allowed outside the lunch room. She felt my forehead, and went over to her desk and picked up the school phone. “Yes, Marlene? It’s Heidi, yeah I’ve got Gregory Weasel—oh, sorry!” She realized her mistake as the other kids snickered. Some held their stomachs because they were laughing so hard. They were the ones who my mom hated. “Weasel, sorry, Gregory Wisel doesn’t look so good. It looks as if—” she cut herself off again, her small eyes flitting to me before she turned her whole body to face the window away from the class. “As if he’s losing color? He’s turning white sort of ?” My classmates giggled again and I sunk in my seat, feeling my feet squish in my socks. “I know he’s a negro but I swear to God
the Lord Himself is working a miracle on the poor boy . . . mmhm, mmhm, yep, I’ll send him down.” By the time I had gotten to the nurse’s office, she could see my veins through my skin, so she called my mother. She got to my school the same time the ambulance did, and she followed us to the hospital. Since she had to find a place to park, she was not in the room when the young hospital nurse was putting me in bed. He was the first male nurse I remember seeing. He watched my skin go from pale snow to translucent. Then he watched me go from translucent to seethrough. Then, finally, he watched my seethrough body turn invisible. He couldn’t see my eyes, or see my hands folded atop the bed covers. He couldn’t see a body inside of the hospital dress they give to everyone. He could see the hills of my legs under the blankets, and he could see the gown crease when I moved. He could see and hear my heartbeats on the monitor, and he could touch me. He could not see me, and he could not hear me. No one could see me. No one could hear me.
I left notes for my mother throughout the house after that. When I was cleaning out the house after her funeral, I found four boxes under her bed. Every note was in them, delicately folded atop each other, keeping each other company. I sat back in my chair, breathing out a long sigh of frustration as I dropped my pencil with a sharp slap to my journal. The only ways people noticed me were when I bumped into them, wore clothes, or wrote. No matter how loudly I screamed, how 15
hard I hit walls, knocked things over, no one could hear me. It would freak everyone out if clothes were walking around, so I wrote to be noticed. I wrote my thoughts, I wrote other peoples’ thoughts. I wrote instructions and directions that didn’t make sense and didn’t lead anywhere. I wrote lies and truths and wishes and curses. I made a promise decades ago that I would notice everything. So I do. And I write it down and give it to the wind so that someone else can notice too. I slapped my pack of cigs on my other palm before sliding out a single, placing it between my lips, and lighting it. In New York City, no one would notice a cigarette floating in midair, tip burning orange, smoke curling from the cancer stick into the already-polluted air. They never did. They did notice clothes that appeared to be clothing someone, but were confused when they couldn’t see the body inhabiting them. Since heat nor cold bothered me, I just walked around naked. Kicking back my feet onto the chair across from me, I continued to people watch. There was a man in a green coat walking his bike instead of riding it. He stopped at the toy store and locked his bike up before going inside. As he left it, an old white woman left, her saggy calves jiggling as she wobbled out. She tried hailing a cab but I think the taxi drivers were too afraid of her giant handbag she was violently waving around. I wondered how she was strong enough to still hold it—especially with that much force. Five taxis skipped her before a younger woman wearing purple high heels stuck her arm out, her hand limp with laziness and eyes hidden by sunglasses. Three taxis stopped for her. She waved the old woman over and helped her into one of the taxis, shut the door 16
once the lady’s bag was finally hauled in behind her, and walked on her way. She was walking closer to me in the outdoor cafe. As she walked up to the gate of the outdoor cafe, she looked into her purse and took out her phone, swiping the screen before lifting it to her ear. She smiled when she answered. As she walked through the gate, a man wearing suit slacks from last decade with cuffs that had worn threads dragging pebbles behind his unshined, scuffed, untied Oxfords ran into her. The left side of his stained white button up was untucked and the corresponding pants-side pocked was out turned. She dropped her phone and it landed with a high-pitched clap on the asphalt. He stuttered, apologizing to the muffins and orange juice he spilled on her purple high heels. She said it was okay but I could tell it wasn’t. He kept apologizing, but she stepped around him after taking her cracked phone from his hands. He picked the muffins and cups up swiftly, then stared at them. The muffins looked fine except for the fact that they touched the City’s ground. He walked to the trash and threw the muffins and cups away. Then he stared at the doors of the cafe, hands empty at his sides. I stuffed my journal and pencil in my jacket, flicked my cig and went over to him. I did not realize then, but that moment of spontaneity was the best decision of my life. He had a strange but familiar smell— like formaldehyde. As soon as I was close enough to see his probably unintentionally ruffled collar, he walked to the cafe. I followed him, staying a few inches away from him. There is something within each animal that can feel the presence of another. In the twenty-first century, humans have not lost that primal instinct of perceiving threats;
of determining wether or not they are the predator, or the prey. This withered man was no different. He continued to feel me when I followed him through the City. Through the subway where crumbs from his muffin fell into creases of his shirt that wouldn’t have been there if he’d have thought of being presentable. Through the exit on fifty-sixth and the two blocks he walked to get to the hospital. From the entrance of the hospital to the stairs, where he walked down three flights, his shoulders up to his ears even when he paused randomly, furrowing his dark, overgrown eyebrows for a few seconds while he looked around. He did that a few times. He felt the paranoia. He accidentally bumped into someone as he left through the same door at the same time. “S-sorry,” the worn man stuttered, hands going toward his coworker. The other man’s face tightened and I saw his fingers curl into claws beside his thighs. “C’mon, Marcus. You’re an accomplished doctor. Act like it.” He didn’t even look at him; he just kept walking, spitting acid to the clumsy man in front of me, who stared after the other doctor with drooping eyes. His right hand seemed to wander to his eyes, picking at the lashes for a second before he turned abruptly again and continued to walk through the locker room. His name is Marcus. And he’s an accomplished doctor. What kind of doctor? Some others were in there, in various stages of undress. Men and women. He did not look at them. He looked around a few times, and people walked out. It was silent now in the locker room. He continued walking before turning left and stopping at the fifth locker on the second row, turning the dial and opening the metal door. I flicked the locker beside me, feeling the purple sting in my middle
finger nail spread to the first knuckle. But something interesting happened. When I flicked the locker and my nail bruised, when the sound of my flick echoed through the locker room, he looked up, his shirt half way off him, crumbs falling to the ground. “Hello?” Marcus’ eyes were alert. The green irises were sharp, flitting to look exactly where I was. I figuratively shit my pants. “Hello-o?” He repeated himself, forcing attitude into the word to give it a third syllable. “Who is there?” I stayed still, barely breathing. His gaze was on me for only a second, but it felt so good. It was almost like someone could see me. In the past forty-three years, no one looked at me. Until a shirtless, clumsy Asian-American was spooked by the sound of an idiot bruising his finger. “I can hear you.” He said, walking towards me. “No you can’t,” I laughed harshly. Marcus stopped suddenly, his green eyes were not weak. “Yes. I can.” “What?” “Yes, I can hear you.” He looked around him, continuing to walk toward me. He passed me, but then backed away quickly, his already squinted eyes squinting more, hands waving the air in front of him. “And smell you.” My head became heavy and my face felt hot. “Shit, sorry.” He paused, and then Marcus let out a high laugh. “You’re insane.” He stopped suddenly, the echo of humor still in the locker room. “No. No, I’m not insane.” “Wait . . .” I actually spoke to him. I spoke slowly. “You . . . you can . . . can you hear me?” 17
The simplest word I’d ever heard became the one filled with the most meaning. “Yes.” Somebody heard me.
The geese flew south today. There was one that was far behind the others. I wonder if I’ve failed too, or if I still have a fighting chance. Marcus Zehn and I were in a planetarium at his alma mater. No one else was in the room. The video showing on the concave ceiling was about space. He spoke. “Nothing like looking at a screen that shows your size relative to your planet, and your planet’s size relative to another planet, and that planet’s relative size to the sun, and your sun’s relative size to another star, and that star’s relative size to the galaxy, and then your galaxy’s size relative to other solar systems to make you feel insignificant.” I scoffed, folding my fingers on my chest. “Everyone feels insignificant at some point.” “Yeah, but not like us, Greg.” Sighing, I patted his arm beside mine. “You are a very intelligent man, Marc! Don’t discredit your contributions to our society.” His eye roll carried his head to turn to mine, and his eyes met mine. He couldn’t see me, but it was easy to approximate where the eyes were if you could hear where sound was coming from. “The things I do are special, I know that. I know that I’m the leading brain surgen in the country, but that’s what I do. I’m not special. I’m just a face in a crowd.” “You’re crazy!” I exclaimed. I couldn’t 18
believe him. I couldn’t believe how wrong this genius was. “No I’m not!” he snapped. My toes curled. “But people see you.” I looked back up at the holographic sky. “I would give anything to be a face in the crowd. I would give anything to be anonymous because that’s not even what I am. I don’t exist.” He sat up, indignance tensing his muscles. “Yes you do! You’re here now.” “No one knows that,” I was almost unable to get my words through my throat. “I do.” I looked up at him, and he couldn’t see it, but I smiled.
My favorite Greek myth has always been the peacock. I wondered if the eyes of the feathers could see everything: colors that humans couldn’t see, dust mites, the past and future, ghosts. Me. The air came out of my nose a little too aggressively—some thin drops of snot stuck on the edge of my nostril and the skin atop my lip. “It was a different time back then. In the sixties in the South, it was still horrible to be black. When I started to turn invisible, it was as if my feet had holes and my pigment, my ancestry, was draining out of me. In the papers, they wrote that it was a miracle by God. They wrote how blessed I was that I was invisible instead of a negro. Black families from my hometown began naming their children ‘white’ names because they hoped God would choose to save their child next.” “So no one else saw this as a bad thing?” Marcus exclaimed. A group of
his coworkers gave him a funny look. His nose scrunched and he looked down at his clipboard, pushing his glasses up to his large eyebrows. As we passed by them, they looked at him like he was puke on a wall. Maybe that was an exaggeration. They looked at him like he was someone you really can’t stand. Marcus walked faster. I hit the bottom of the dick’s coffee cup and it spilled all over him, even dripping on the others a bit. Marc didn’t notice, but I had to jog to catch up. I shook my head, then I remembered. “I don’t know if anyone saw it as a bad thing. It wasn’t safe to speak up for blacks.” “So what did you do?” He was quiet now, looking down and not moving his lips. We walked through the hallways of the hospital. Shrugging, I continued, freely looking at everyone around us, lightly pushing Marcus out of the way when someone else was about to run into him. “I kept going to school. I went to college for free. I’ve been in hundreds of classrooms around the world. I’ve been every country in Europe and Asia. I’ve been through Australia and New Zealand. I’ve been to every state here and to every province in Canada. I’m still going to go to other places, but I’ve gone everywhere for free.” “What?!” His eyes were bright, looking at me and he stopped in the hallway. It was silent around us, but he turned around and saw everyone paused in their conversations in the waiting room looking at him. “Um,” he took a breath to them. “Uh . . . I-I-I, I’m, uh . . .” I pushed him on. “Guess I can’t talk to you at work anymore,” he said to the floor as the elevator closed. It was just us. I grinned.
“It’s okay, Marc. I’ve got plenty for you to hear.”
They dragged him away. “Don’t let me be forgotten!” He yelled, kicking and fighting against them. He kept screaming no and my name. I ran to the window and hit it, letting him know that I heard him. I heard him. “DON’T LET ME BE—” We were walking through Central Park. It was supposed to snow soon, but not as many people were out now. “If you could go back at any time in your life, where would you go?” I hummed to myself, but I already knew the answer. “March twelfth, nineteen sixtyseven. I’d tell my mom I loved her and I’d let her see me for a really long time. What about you?” His hands were in his pockets and one of his Oxfords—the one that now had a hole in it—was untied. Marcus’ answer was faster than mine: “I would never go back. Anywhere. I don’t want to even be in the present. I want to go to the future.” “You’re crazy!” “No. I am not crazy.” He was stern. I traded humor with seriousness. “Why? You’re just wasting your life.” He laughed harshly, trying to kick a rock, but undershot and kicked the ground instead, making him stumble. “Yeah, because my life is a waste. Even when I was a kid nothing good ever happened. I was always a giant dork and clumsy and nervous. I didn’t even have friends. I played pretend and had pretend friends. I told everyone that my friends went to a different school but they all knew I was lying.” 19
I breathed through my gritted teeth, knowing I said bullshit. “Okay everyone does that.” Marcus rolled his head, giving me a scathing look. Laughing, I lightly punched his shoulder and we walked on. He continued speaking, his smile turning from good-humored to sour. “They don’t do it through grad school and when they’re a pioneering doctor and scientist in their field.” My feet stopped. “You still do that?” Marcus turned and walked back to me, “Yeah, but no one believes me. They’re dubious on my social life.” He started walking again, this time faster. “On your left!” Someone called behind us. Marcus, in his hurry to move to the right, stepped on his shoelace, falling on to me and knocking us to the ground. We untangled and stood up quickly, dusting ourselves off. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, Gregory,” he was shaking, trying to help me dust me off, but missing. “Hey, don’t worry about it, Marc, it’s okay.” “Shit, I-I’m so sorry I always screw everything up.” He laced his fingers together through his hair on the back of his head. “Stop beating yourself up, Marc, Jesus Christ you tripped, it’s okay.” He stared at me, the self-hatred in his eyes washing the green out. He turned suddenly and continue walking. “I mean, I’m not the kind of person that people would be interested in for a friendship. No one sees anything in me.” I let him continue venting. It had been building his entire life, skin and resolve holding it back until now. There was too much for his mouth to handle, though. 20
It came out in his footsteps, the smacking on the concrete echoing through the barren park, his veins bulged against his skin, hatred so full in his blood that the veins were about to burst. It leaked out of his eyes, the tears drying in the harsh wind of the incoming East Coast winter. I watched him scream, yell, sob, trip, fall. I looked at a younger version of myself. He was twenty-four years younger than me, but every time I looked at him, it was almost easy to pretend I was looking in a mirror. My parents were both from Jamaica, which made my skin darker than Marcus’. But I always saw us as the same. Except I also saw him breathe. I saw him think, and I saw him wipe his tear from his face. I saw him rise. And I realized we were not the same.
People romanticize the idea of being invisible. What they don’t realize is that it does not feel beautiful to feel invisible. The idea of invisibility is more beautiful than actually being unnoticeable. “Look, I know no one really likes me. I know I’m bad at fashion and laundry and that I’m clumsy and messy but I care what you think, okay? I have feelings too! I care. And I’m not crazy! Stop trying to tear me down.” Marcus’ voice was finally audible through the door. He was in a meeting with his boss, and I had left him to help an old man from falling, so I didn’t make it in the office before the door closed. The entire meeting, I couldn’t hear anything but the defensive tone in Marcus’ voice. I read “Frederick Fliessner, Chief of Medicine” about fifteen thousand, two hundred twenty-one times. The office was right next to the psychiatric
michael Johnson
21
side of the hospital. Marc must have been in front of the office door now, because I could hear him loud and clear. “Doctor Zehn, I’m not trying to ‘tear you down,’ I’m trying to help you. You are the best brain surgen in America— perhaps even the world. No one knows the brain better than you. But people have reported you talking to yourself for months. You even laugh and gasp and have full conversations, but there’s no one around you! I’m concerned as your boss and friend that you’re working too hard. I truly think you need to consider getting help. Marcus, please.” “No, fuck you, Fred. You’re not my friend. You all want me to go? Fine! I’ll go. I quit. Effective immediately.” The door swung open, my best friend ran into me. We fell to the ground, and patients saw. It was comical, the way they gasped and covered their mouths, or how their hands shot to their chests. Everyone had heard his last outburst. The surrounding staff laughed at him. I and his boss were the only ones who tried helping him up. A doctor with a slightly brown lab coat said to his group around him, “What a screw up” Marcus heard him. “Marc, no,” I reached out, trying to hold him back. My hand found only air— he was already pinning the dick doctor against the wall, holding the lapels of his lab coat, seething in his face, screaming at the man. I started to go to him, but good old Fred punched a button between us on the wall and a gate came down, alarms came on, and other doctors came in to Marcus’ side of the gate. The White Coats came and took him away. The guy against the wall slumped to 22
the ground, grasping his throat and gulped air into his lungs and blood and brain.
At what level of development does a brain have to be before the animal begins to be capable of existential crises?
I never saw my best friend again. They transferred him to somewhere else. I looked. I went into psychiatric rehabilitation centers all over upstate New York. I went to the rich ones in Florida and Arizona and Montana and Washington. It was as if Marcus Zehn didn’t exist. I stopped looking for him eight months ago. Penelope, my agent, said that my poetry was so amazing that people wanted to meet me. They said an anthology of poetry wasn’t enough, that I had to contribute my talents to the world of novels too. People wanted to read what I had to say. People wanted to hear me say it. People wanted to see me say it. Penelope scheduled me for a tour, for speaking at universities and libraries and chain book stores, but I told her every time that I wished to decline the offers. I told her no one could see me, and that no one could hear me. She didn’t understand. She thought I “refused” to communicate via phone or in person. She thought I was being a moody genius artist. She thought I meant no one could see me. Like how no one saw Marcus. In the next email I sent her, I told her she didn’t understand. She told me to write about it. So I did. Here is my life. Here is who I am. For anyone who knows where Marcus Zehn is, please tell me. He’s my best friend, and we need each other. I am real, I promise. And he’s not crazy.
23
He stood in for Tim, the man my brother restored engines with, went fishing with, and welded culverts with every day. At the funeral my brother carried a culvert— one he and Tim’s real son had made together. The culvert casket held Tim’s ashes. My brother sobbed so hard the church organ echoed. For one day, my father’s phone stayed on silent as he put both suited arms around my brother’s shoulders.
Culvert Casket
Cassie Kernick
One week ago my brother was the one to find him dead— his pseudo father, his boss, his best friend. Today our father was a father, there to comfort, there as a stand in.
The church didn’t smell of frankincense or myrrh. It exhaled stale cigarettes. At the wake people wore my brother’s shirts “Kernick 2x Racing” on their backs. Some had a quote from Tim: “Don’t be a pussy” on their fronts. Tim’s funeral was meant to be casual. Beer drinking buddies shouldn’t mourn in suits.
24
Rise to the throne, gavel in hand, and put a price on hurt. Whose transgressions should be paid for in blood? Lord knows I’ve bled for you, but at last I’ve dripped dry. And I find I have only fire in my veins for you now. Fire to burn the happy light from your eyes. Fire to break down the jaunt in your step. Fire to burn you to my size.
Fire for Blood
Cassie Kernick
When you typed my name, five times over Messenger last night, I didn’t respond out of malice. When I cried out your name for five months, you didn’t respond out of indifference.
The size you made me when you put me in a corner and turned off the light. You turned my love to darkness and I’m not sure where to find my mind, except for in the light of the flames.
25
biographies
Michael Johnson is an undergraduate artist at UNL. She tries to use art to facilitate social activism and promote community around her. In her free time, she’s usually drawing, riding her bike, or reading a good book. Cassie Kernick recently took a quiz and was told her greatest strength is input. The up side of this means that she is inquisitive and interested in nearly everything. The downside is that others can find all of her random facts and anecdotes a tad dull. This has proven to be true in her frequent rants about the unethical and environmental impact of the dairy industry. (Cassie’s favorite part of life is dairy though, so she rants while crying over her four cheese pizza). She experiments with her love of writing through her journalism major and English minor. She realized her passions may actually lie in creative writing when she chose to study abroad in order to have more time to work on her novel. Her semester in Florence, Italy resulted in a lot of poems full of wanderlust and also an obsession with gnocchi and truffle oil. Reading books, watching documentaries, and singing throw back tunes in the car are just a few of her favorite things. Brigitte Rathey is a junior Animal Science major at the University of NebraskaLincoln. She is originally from Connecticut and came to Nebraska to pursue a career in the beef industry. Her love of photography began when Brigitte was old enough to hold a camera. Growing up, she was always the one behind the lens rather than the one in the pictures. Her dad has always enjoyed photography and taught her the basics. She has never stopped learning. Her passion lies in nature and animal photography. She believes that the most beautiful things are not made by man. School and work make it hard to find time for photography, but it will always be one of her most treasured hobbies. Araya Santo is a junior English and History double major with a concentration in creative writing. She writes poetry, short stories, creative non-fiction, and novels. Her current project is a YA fiction series involving several mythologies. She is querying the first novel of the series and writing the third. Araya reads everything - including, but not limited to, the tags on her pillows, shampoo bottles, astronomy articles, receipts, and candy wrappers. When not reading, she is taking pictures, watching the same six movies that make her cry, and wishing she could adopt every orphaned, abused, neglected dog in the world. She also drinks an alarming amount of tea on a daily basis. Araya intends to help people through her writings, and is determined to be the sunshine for people who aren’t strong enough to be their own yet. 26
27
phases
a Brigitte Rathey
28
literary magazine
about the editors
In the fall of 2016, our small team of six, brought together by education and a small pub called Dempsey’s, became a local Lincoln, Nebraska publisher known as PubCrawl Publishing. We set small daily goals in order to achieve bigger ones; publishing our first book, Literary Cocktail: An Anthology, was only the beginning. Our team gets together for a weekly “PubCrawl” to discuss opinions on creative pieces, scheduling, and what is next for our team in this publishing adventure, a cold drink in hand. Other days, we all enjoy a good laugh, reading, drinking copious amounts of coffee, and Nebraska Football. It is our mission to help you always, our fellow pubcrawler, to get a chance to sit down, lean back, take a sip, and enjoy a great literary work.
29