355 fall2017 unbound by elevated press

(un)bound

(

(un)bound (un)bound

elev ted publishing

contents Front Cover

Riley Jhi “There’s just...something about Sandra” Introduction

5

A Bad Hand

6

Karmen Browitt Edward Moore

Promise to God

14

Aliseth

15

Perspective

16

Forgiveness

18

Best Pals

19

Leather and Metal

20

Zee-bar Code

20

Lucidity

21

On the Importance of Forgiveness

26

Right Knee as Viewed from the Front

28

Art in Life

29

An Attempt Was Made

31

Cambria Beirow Andy Zulkoski

Kyrsten Marie Athan Nina Cayou

Cambria Beirow Marcus Woodman Ken Gonzales Sarah Noel Cambria Beirow Zenith Sharma Kindra Foster Edward Moore

War (My First Time Kissing a Girl)

32

(hyr)steria

33

Your Kiss Cannot Fix Me

34

coldness be gentle

35

Cambria Beirow

Keshia Mcclantoc Cambria Beirow

Keshia Mcclantoc

Balanced Rock

35

David Harvey

Plant it, Water it, Watch it Grow

Ken Gonzales

Poem # 777

36

Shitty Assholes Dating Shitty Assholes

37 38

I Lean Back

43

Upon Questioning if One Should Come Out of the Closet

45

Auschwitz, Nonstop

46

Cow

49

With Her

50

Yellow Mama

51

Kyrsten Marie Athan Aly Holmes

Kindra Foster

Cambria Beirow Nora Rosenthal Adrian Silva Cambria Beirow Maggie Moore

Back Cover

Binisha Maharjan Graphic Design

Maggie Moore

dnuob)nu(

(un)bound

dnuob)nu(

(un)bound

4

Introduction Karmen Browitt

Weird. Outside the box. Powerful. (un)bound is a literary magazine that features stories, poems, and pictures that represents each of these words. It is a home for literary pieces that show uncommon stories or writing styles. As a team, we weren’t sure what theme we wanted to head towards, however, after looking through our submissions, we found that most of them could be considered unconventional in some way. While we knew this could be our theme, we wanted a title that would send a wow-factor to our readers. We chose (un) bound as the title, not only because of the way it looked, but also because of the meaning behind it.

We felt that, as creators, we should be able to make pieces without worrying what others will think.

We should be able to create, (un)bound by what society tells us are the new and upcoming trends.

are so attached to their phones, or any sort of technology for that matter, that they forget to step back and look at how beautiful nature is.

Being disconnected from nature’s beauty has become a social norm for today’s society. We felt that this poem could fall into the category of unconventional because it makes its readers step back and examine what they may be taking for granted.

The art featured through the magazine all uniquely push the boundaries of what we are used to as “art.” A piece in particular is Ken Gonzales’s picture, “Zee-bar Code”. This picture features four zebras whose stripes fade into a bar code. Our team considered this piece to be unconventional in that, it was different than any of the other pictures that were submitted.

We felt that our readers would spend a few extra seconds examining the picture and would appreciate how creative it was.

Some of the stories featured throughout this magazine are unconventional in the way that they were styled or created. A prime example of this is the poems by Cambria Beirow. These poems are completely original, however, they are made by taking pages from different books and blacking out large chunks of words to create a poem. As a team, we believed that this would fit into our theme as unconventional due to the different way that it was created. The end result of these poems is beautiful, striking, and leaves an impression on everyone who reads them.

All the stories and pictures that are featured in (un)bound are weird, powerful, and leave an impression on their audiences. As a team, we felt that it was important to include stories that had uncommon plot lines or used different writing styles because sometimes they can be overlooked by the mainstream pieces that are being published each and every day. We all believe that, as creators, we should be able to produce stories or artwork that we enjoy working on, rather than trying to please the voices that say we should stick to the new and popular trends of today. We hope that all of our readers can find inspiration in these stories or be encourage to beat to their own drum no matter what the circumstance.

Another poem that we considered unconventional is “Art in Life” by Kindra Foster. Readers follow a man as he explores nature and begins finding the grace and charm in it. At the end of the man’s life, he is thankful that he took the time to stop and enjoy the little things of nature rather than being disconnected. Nowadays it seems like people

5

A Bad Hand

Abridged Edward Moore

A

dam felt around for the switch hidden under the skin behind his ear, turning off the implant hidden to the outside world. The multiple processes running in his partitioned mind reformed into a normal line of thought, and his perception of time returned to it’s normal speed. The letters on the ancient CRT monitor that lit his face read “PLAYER 1 WINS”, and a digitized voice declared his victory to anyone in the surrounding area. The young man he had been playing with was upset about the turn of events, but paid up without complaint. As embarrassing as the loss was, it would have been more so to be seen as a sore loser after he had been so arrogant before.

Stuffing the money he’d won into his pocket, Adam walked over to the bar and raised one finger toward the proprietor, a large man that Adam had been familiar with for years. The old wooden countertop had been refinished, but that couldn’t hide the years of wear from the establishment’s previous owner.

“I told you I don’t want you hustling in here, didn’t I?” Adam shrugged, mildly irritated that his order was ignored. “I’m short on rent. It was either that or I’m homeless starting next week. I wouldn’t want to have to start sleeping under the bar.”

“You pass out here often enough that you might as well be. Besides, I’m sure the cops could find someplace nice and cozy for you to sleep.”

6

“So are you going to call me in or are you going to pour me a drink?”

The man stood sternly staring with his arms crossed in silence. Despite how long Adam had known him, there was a brief moment where neither was sure which he would do. The large man’s sigh cut the tension.

“Did you want to buy a drink or did you want to pay your rent?”

“I could always buy it somewhere else.”

“Fine. I’ll get the drink. But I don’t want to see any more of that shit. I’m serious, I don’t have a license to have gambling in here.” He slammed an empty glass down on the bar to punctuate his sentence.

“It’s not gambling. It’s a game of skill.”

“The hell do you mean it’s not gambling? It’s a bet.” translucent liquid filled the glass from the bottle the large man was holding, while the sharp smell of the alcohol poured out into the air around it.

“It’s not, legally speaking, gambling. And it’s different, besides. Games are fair. The better player wins. The one who works hard keep getting better. Everything’s an even playing field in bracket; it doesn’t matter who you are, or what you look like. It doesn’t matter if you dress poorly or haven’t shaved, the better player goes home a winner. Games make sense.”

“That’s bullshit. You act like it’s all predetermined. No one would watch if the outcome was decided before they even tuned in.”

“That’s not what I mean. Yeah, things vary. Sometimes the underdog wins. Sometimes equipment fails, or whatever. But generally, in games, if the little guy wins, it’s because he wanted it more. It’s because he gives it every bit of what he has, or because the other guy underestimates him and doesn’t bother trying. When you gamble, no one starts out on the same level. You’re stuck with what you’ve got. If you play Blackjack, and the dealer deals himself a 21, it’s over. It doesn’t matter if you’re the best damn Blackjack player the world’s ever known. It doesn’t matter if the dealer is so drunk he can barely see the cards; he wins, and you lose.” Adam became slowly more animated as he grew passionate about his speech, half ignoring the drink he’d insisted on just a minute ago. “It’s the same shit with life. Look at us. You get the government to pay to weld that state-of-the-art fuel analysis gear into your head, and five years later solar power becomes viable and you wind up waiting on assholes like me in some rundown bar in the town you grew up in. Meanwhile, I’m stuck hustling college brats for cash because a decade ago, some stupid kid that I can barely identify as myself decided to take the one chance he had to get something out of his life and waste it.” he tapped the side of his head where the implant was “Government grant to get whatever kind of hardware I want. I could be doing any other type of job, but 18 year old Adam decided it was a good idea to use it to play video games better.” He moved the glass up to his lips as if he were throwing a punch, angry and eager to get on with his rant. “I chose a bad hand and you were dealt one, and we’re both stuck with it.”

“Okay, first of all, I like my bar. And if you don’t, you can stop coming in and irritating the customers who do.” he leaned forward and uncrossed his arms, softening his tone. “Second, you don’t make any damn money because you play games no one wants to watch. There’s no money in old analog stuff that only people your age tune in for. Why don’t you try out that mental-interface stuff they’re doing now? I can actually get away with playing that stuff on the TVs here, the kids are really into it.”

Adam tapped the side of his head. “I’ve got ten-year-old hardware, man. I can’t hook up to it any more

7

than you could. Only top players can afford to upgrade to that stuff. I’m stuck playing in basements for pocket change.”

“Then why don’t you just find another job? And before you ask, I’m not hiring.”

“I’m trying to. I’ve got a few interviews next week. I don’t like it, but the way things are going, I really will be out on the street before long. Hell, I’d better get out of here and get to bed early if I want a chance of winning tomorrow.” He pulled some of his wadded up money out of his coat pocket and put it on the counter. “Thanks for the drink. And, uh... I didn’t mean to insult the bar. It’s a nice enough place.”

“Damn right it is. Get home safe.”

————— The house Adam was renting was old and lopsided. The ruin—assembled entirely of crumbling plaster and unlevel doorways—had felt like a treehouse when he had first moved out of his parents a place he could mold into his own, and an anchor point for his new-found freedom. But the longer time went on, the bleaker the cracked, colorless walls seemed. The farther behind he got on rent, the more he felt like it was a sinking raft, the only thing that stood between him and drowning, and he had begun to resent it. The haste with which he fumbled for his keys on the porch wasn’t for eagerness to enter the house, but out of desperation to escape from the world. He wanted away from the biting winter winds, away from noise of the traffic racing past on the street behind him, and away from the unrelenting pressure of consciousness.

As soon as the door opened, he ran into the room as if he was escaping. He ran away from the front door that closed behind him, the door that led to his failure tonight, that held back that cold winter wind, and led to the interview he’d rather not go to tomorrow. He threw his bag onto the couch, and dropped his coat on the stairs as he scrambled up them. Almost there, he thought. Almost free. Free for just a little while.

His doorway to freedom sat on a desk in his room. The PC screen lit up when he activated it, blinding him to everything else in the dark room. One icon sat in the center of his desktop, a stylized capital letter D. The text below read “Digital Dream”.

He clicked on the icon, then leaned into the tall back of his computer chair and stared up at the ceiling, trying not to worry about the possibility of the sagging plaster falling down on him. He heard the voice in the back of his mind.

Application “Digital Dream” wants access to this implant. Allow?

Yes/No Yes, he thought. Yes. Hurry up. Hurry hurry hurry.

Acknowledged. Beginning connection.

After a short moment, a different voice, a feminine voice filled with warmth, replaced the cold system voice in his head. “Welcome to the world of your Dreams,” the voice said, “we hope you enjoy your stay”.

8

Adam’s vision went white, and he closed his eyes. Every process in his mind began to focus on the brightness, still visible to him behind his eyelids. There was no part of his brain that was not simply experiencing the color. He did not think about what was coming, or what had happened before, he didn’t think about how much time had passed as the color slowly shifted to yellow. His mind stored no memories of the pure yellow color separating into a field of flowers, it just experienced it.

A field of Yellow flowers. Deep Blue sky. Green grass. Golden wheat in waves on the horizon. Yellow flowers. Blue sky. Green grass. Golden wheat. A Blue dress. Golden hair. White clouds. Yellow flowers.

A Green tree. A Warm breeze. A Blue Dress. Golden hair. White clouds. A Warm smile. Green grass.

Golden wheat. A Warm breeze. A Warm smile. A Blue dress. Blue sky. A Warm sun. A Yellow sun. White clouds. A Warm smile. A Shining smile. Yellow flowers. Golden hair. A Warm breeze. A Warm, Shining smile. A Warm, Shining, Yellow sun. Yellow flowers. A Warm touch. A Blue dress. Blue. Yellow. Shining.

White. Yellow. Blue. Gold. Green. Blue. Warm. Gold. Shining. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Red. He awoke to the colors of police lights, blaring through his window and onto his colorless ceiling. He looked at the digital red numbers on the clock, nearly invisible during the alternate flashes of red that lit everything he could see in monochrome. 4:23 AM, hours after he had started the Dream. The layers of his consciousness began to drift back to him, leaving only a vague feeling of what he had just experienced.

The feminine voice spoke in the back of his head again. “We apologize for the interruption. Local authorities have requested termination of all Dreams in this area due to the possible need to respond to a dangerous situation. Be safe, and we hope to see you again, in the land of your Dreams.”

The light show outside wasn’t an uncommon site in this neighborhood. Adam never bothered to find out what it was all about. Half of it was traffic stops, the other half was probably drug related. He didn’t care.

He got up out of his chair and stumbled toward his bed, annoyed at the interruption.

Damn, he thought to himself, I really ought to buy some curtains.

————— The noise from the event could be heard even before the door was opened. Adam had arrived somewhat late, and setup for the tournament had already started by the time he walked down the old wooden steps into the unfinished basement where the event was being held. Old friends from across the region waved to him as he walked down the steps.

Paint flaked off of the concrete blocks that made up the walls, and overflowed where the brushes had touched the wooden boards that crossed the ceiling. The boards intertwined with pipes, wires, and old cobwebs to make a sort of chaotic lattice overhead that the participants made a point to ignore entirely.

Any discomfort applied by the setting was washed away in the sea of energy from the participants. People who had been playing together for years were talking excitedly about recent developments in their lives, while some of those who felt that they had something to prove tonight were already practicing on some of the setups. While most of the players were older like him, there were some in their early 20s, who stood out by their visible hardware. Adam unconsciously ran his hand through his hair, feeling the bumps under the skin where his mental expansions were embedded in his skull.

9

To be honest, the “full human” look had been outdated even when he got them, but his parents had insisted on it.

“What about your career?” his father had asked him, “Are you going to show up to a job interview with the side of your head blinking like a damn traffic light?”

It seemed like a silly question for someone who wasn’t planning on white-collar work, but in the end, it was less trouble to just go along with it.

Unexpectedly, the look served him well enough. Having his hardware hidden meant his opponents couldn’t tell what he was capable of at a glance; no one could tell he was working with ten-year-old equipment. These kids were all happy to sacrifice that mystery to brand themselves with whatever style of equipment they had decided on. Adam scanned the room, sizing up what he was up against. There were plenty of the common occupational models: basic Toshiba storage expansions, HP processors and the like. They weren’t useless—more storage space means readily accessible data on the game if they were willing to dedicate space to it—but these generally weren’t a threat for him, and they painted these players and the type who showed up to these events for the social aspect rather than actually having a shot at winning. Then there were the more specialized units: a Canon visual processing unit stood out to him in particular, it was a model that had just launched earlier this year, and it cost a fair chunk of cash. That probably meant the kid was either rich, or that, like Adam, playing games was his job.

He estimated about 80% of the room was wearing the standard stuff. Occasionally you’d get a hero who could pull something off with that kind of equipment, but it was safe to assume that those people weren’t going to be a threat; you could ride by on superior tech and experience alone, but that tended to be frowned on. People generally didn’t like it when you’d totally destroy them either, they’d think it was unfair if you won on tech alone, so there was a bit of a balance to be struck if you wanted people to keep showing up. Sometimes people would ask for a fight with implants turned off... but when this was the way you paid your bills, that was a big risk.

There were maybe 20 or 25 players in the room, so he couldn’t expect the pot to be more than a couple hundred dollars, but that’d be just enough to get him by, so long as he could manage to win. It was getting more and more difficult, the older his hardware got, but he was still managing to keep on top of things.

There wasn’t anyone in this room who could beat him.

————— The weather conditions outside had worsened to a blizzard, and the snow was so thick that all he could see when he looked across the street was the colorless silhouettes of buildings in the dark. The lit sign at the bus stop indicated they had stopped running until conditions improved. He pulled a pair of headphones out of his bag, started a playlist on this phone, and started walking.

Dammit, he thought to himself. He wanted to scream it out loud.

Beaten by some kid, just because he had newer equipment. No, not just. Adam had underestimated him.

He should have known better. “Never sleep on anybody,” they say, and they’re right. But when games were how you paid the bills, it was more than common arrogance; it was a fatal mistake. Second place meant half the paycheck. He had been playing on auto-pilot all night, and it was just too easy not to try. He felt

10

like he might as well have stepped into a bear trap while he was daydreaming.

His eyes turned to the ground to keep the snow out of them, and his music deafening him to the surrounding world, Adam’s thoughts ran wild while his legs took him towards his home. He could wait for the buses to run again, but he wanted to get away. Away from the cold. Away from the humiliation.

Away from the world that no longer had a place for him. Back home. Back to the dream. Back to the brief time of warm bliss before he had to crawl back out into the cold, colorless world.

The storm got worse. Before long, the only way Adam could tell he was walking in a straight line was by the walls of the buildings near him. Anything further than twenty feet away was erased by the snow. The drifts got deeper, and more and more of the cold and the wet soaked into his shoes. He was foolish to try to walk through it, and he knew it. He just wanted to escape. He looked around for shelter, but it was nearly two o’clock. Nothing around was open.

He finally settled on hiding out in an alcove in the side of a building. Steps led down to a basement floor from the outside, which would keep him out of the wind at the very least. Once things had cleared up, he could get a cab, or maybe still make it home himself.

A mass of cloth shifted in a dark corner at the bottom of the stairs as Adam was walking down them, startling him. An aged, bearded face squirmed it’s way out of a mass of dirty blankets and looked him over.

“Whaddya want?”

Adam took off his headphones, then looked back out into the Blizzard “Oh. I didn’t mean to—I was just going to hide out under here—“ “Well c’mon. You’ve gotta be freezing your ass off.” The man motioned through the blankets for Adam to come down.

He wasn’t comfortable with the stranger, and he could smell ages worth of sweat and dirt coming off of him as he neared the bottom of the stairs. But he didn’t want to spend the time in the storm looking for another suitable shelter, so he sat down.

The two sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, listening to the wind howl past the opening of the alcove and staring up at the blank sky, muted by the snow. After some time, the man shifted the blanket around so it was sitting on his back. A hand appeared from the mass holding a weathered box of playing cards.

“Might as well play some to pass the time, eh? Do you gamble any?”

Adam shook his head. “I don’t really like gambling” “Ah. Well, that’s probably for the best. We won’t play for keeps, then.” he took the cards out and started a practiced shuffle. “Still better than just shivering in silence. Can you play five card draw, at least?”

Adam nodded. He didn’t like card games, even without money involved. But it seemed rude to turn the man down. Five cards were quickly and skillfully dealt to each player, and the deck placed between them.

They both started to muse over their hands. Adam held a pair of threes. The other man began to order the cards in his hand.

“So what is it you don’t like about gambling? Too risky for you?” the man discarded two cards and drew

11

two more to replace them. “I can understand that.”

“No, it’s not that. I just don’t like how everything’s up to chance. I’d rather lose because of something I did, and not something out of my control.” Adam passed in his three remaining cards and drew three similarly worthless ones. “When you get a crap hand, there’s not really anything you can do but pray for a miracle.

I lose interest fast in stuff like that.”

The two showed their hands. The man’s pair of sevens won the hand. He shuffled the cards and dealt again. “Ah, that makes more sense. You don’t seem like the risk-averse type. It’s pretty bold to go out into the world without all that metal headgear people are walking around with these days.”

“Oh, I have an implant. It’s an old-style sub-epidermal.” he flicked it on momentarily and brushed back his hair so the man could see the small blinking light just under the skin. “I didn’t realize at the time how fashionable they’d end up being.”

“Oh. That’s disappointing.” the man said absentmindedly while looking over his cards. His eyes widened when he had realized what he’d said he looked up apologetically. “I don’t mean anything by it. I just thought it’d be great if someone was managing to make their way in the world today without one of those damn things.”

“I’m barely making do with it, to be honest. Though that’s really my own fault. Why don’t you like them?

Religious stuff ?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” The man’s eyes were on his cards, but it looked like he was staring miles beyond them. “I just didn’t like the idea of having that crap messing around in my head. I was a bit rebellious, I guess. Maybe I valued my freedom too much. I knew it’d make life hard, but there was a principle I didn’t want to abandon.” He sighed as he replaced two cards in his hand. “Everyone else I knew went ahead with the operation when they were first being subsidized. People will tell you that money rules the world, or maybe fear. That’s crap. This world’s ruled by convenience and complacency, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You want to rule the world? Convince everyone you’ll take their troubles away. Tell them they’ll get all your work done early and will be able to just go home and rest. They’ll trip over themselves to hand their freedom over to you. Not out of ignorance. People aren’t as ignorant as other people think. Deep down, they all know what they’re giving up, but they do it anyways.”

“So how’s life as a freedom fighter?” Adam had a pair of sixes. He turned in two cards and got nothing worthwhile back.

The man laughed loudly, showing his yellowed teeth. “It’s shit. Look at me. I eat garbage and sleep in the street, and all I get out of it is a brief sense of superiority before I realize that the people I’m supposed to be superior to eat hot meals every day. I’m not bringing down the system, I’m just being left behind by it. The problem is that the world always demands more. I couldn’t compete with the rest of industry. I tried working in sanitation for a while, but even then some brat can flip a switch in his head and plan his routes twice as efficiently. There’s not a lot of room in the world for an old man that can only do half as much work as anyone else.”

The two showed their hands. Adam’s sixes beat the man’s fours. The man spoke again while he shuffled.

“That’s why I like the cards, I suppose. That miracle you mentioned earlier. There’s always a chance. In reality, I’ll never change anything by just being stubborn. If you don’t have the advantage, you get left

12

behind. My principles don’t stand a chance against convenience and efficiency. It was inevitable that the world would end up like it did. We all knew and we did nothing to stop it, so now we have to live in it. It doesn’t seem fair that the whole world has to be tied to the choices we made back then, but fair or not, we’re all married to the choices we’ve made, and we’ve got to live with those consequences. With the cards, once a bad hand’s over, you get a clean slate and another chance.”

The man dealt the cards again. This time, Adam’s hand showed a little more promise. Two tens. But more exciting was the long string of red hearts that filled the corner of every card but one. One card away from a flush, he thought. How likely was he to get it? Was it about one in four? Did it work that way? He didn’t know the odds, but he knew a flush was rare. But in order to take this opportunity, he’d have to throw away what he already had. Would the pair of tens be enough? It was a decent hand, but nothing amazing.

He imagined the embarrassment of throwing away a perfectly good hand on a longshot that he might not even need. The man would never know what he had traded in, but he’d feel like a fool. Better to keep what I have. It would have won every hand so far, he thought, and decided not to trade anything. The man traded two cards.

They showed their hands. The man had three queens; better than Adam’s pair, but worse than the flush he might have had. The man stared for a moment at the cards, the flicked his eyes up to Adam.

“I guess you don’t have faith in miracles, though, do you?”

He picked the dirty cards up off the ground and packed the deck back into the box. “It sort of lacks spice without the betting. I think I’ll just sleep until things clear up. Thanks for listening to me ramble.”

He scooted back into the corner and covered himself in the filthy blanket again. Adam moved to the opposite corner and pulled his knees in over his coat to stay warm. He stared for a while at the mass of blankets the man disappeared into. He wondered how much longer he could keep paying the rent for that house that he hated. Eventually, with his eyes closed, and nothing to hear but the howling wind, he drifted off to sleep.

He dreamed of yellow flowers, a blue dress, and of a warm smile.

14

Cambria Beirow

Promise to God

Aliseth

Andy Zulkoski

Perspective

Kyrsten Marie Athan

T

he last time I saw her was three days ago, when she slammed the door surprisingly hard for her tiny figure. She came into my life almost as soon as she left it. I suppose the story would be easier if I started from the beginning. From the first time I laid eyes on her.

I was jogging down the bike path at three a.m. Why was I jogging alone at three a.m.?

At the time I was looking for trouble. I lost my job at the law firm, Jason & Alder. My girlfriend left me after she found out I no longer had an income. My deadbeat friend came over and gave me free pills, out of pity, and I took them not knowing what in gods name would happen.

You could say I was in a funk.

So, now I’m jogging at three in the morning, and the fog is so heavy I can only see a foot in front of me.

As I jog, my mind feels light. Everything is hazy. I hear a small female whisper and stop immediately. Into the trees. She sounds so faint, I think I’m imagining it. If I wasn’t in such a slurred mental state, I would’ve kept jogging. Instead, I turn toward the Douglas-fir trees. I see a small purple light and I follow it into the woods. I can’t see anything except the small purple orb. I hear the wind moving the trees around me, and I can’t tell if the branches are snapping under my feet or from something around me. The orb of light stops, and it flashes like a beckon. I walk right up to it, and it floats at my eye level. I reach out my arms and cup the orb into my palms. I will never forget how it blossomed, like a flower, and revealed a small sprite. Her skin was purple hued, her eyes large and flesh colored with specks of gold. Her whole body was the length of my hand. She looked up at me and blinked, as if waking for the first time. She spoke a foreign language, it sounded like she was asking a question. When I looked at her with a puzzled expression, she

16

pressed her palm onto my palm. Why has your soul called? I heard her tiny voice in my mind. I called her?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...call you...? What are you? How did you find me?”

“Calm down,” she said, “What is your name?” Her voice was angelic.

“My name is Travin. What’s yours?”

“We aren’t given names from where I descend.” She said, “Though you may call me Violet, as I recognize that is the name of the color my epidermis reflects,” I smiled. She must have been one of the most intelligent beings I’ve ever spoken with.

“Why did you come to help me, Violet?” Her huge eyes looked into my soul. I think she knew what I was wondering before the words crossed my lips.

“Humans are usually left alone during their times of existential crisis. Somehow, your soul called to me.

I came to show you there’s more to life than what this species has led you to believe.” My mind felt like it was being indulged whenever I heard her speak. I could only categorize her as a sprite, because there was no other word to describe her. “Bring me to your place of slumber,” she requested. She dissipated into an orb and led me out of the trees. As we crossed back onto the path, my mind was blown. I jogged to my apartment, feeling as if the orb was reading my every thought.

As I unlocked and opened the door, she appeared as a full figure. Her skin had a glimmer of green and her eyes were a stunning pink and red. She looked at me and gave an imitation of a smile. “Where I am from, physical appearance is only a collection of energy. We are all energy.” As she stood with me face to face, I was engrossed by the idea of energy she was presenting. I knew that what she told me had no hidden meanings. I could see that she had evolved past deception. I was smiling without realizing.

“Why bother with us humans? Compared to you, I feel like I’m as simple as a monkey,” she smiled lovingly.

“Humans provide constant surprises. With every ounce of corruption I see, people like you remind me that humans are only a race that is seeking answers. Life will move forward. It is all a matter of if you choose to move with it, or continue along a path of stagnation.” I sighed with relief. It seemed like not even she knew the secret to life. But, she understands life. I suddenly feel lighter, as if I no longer have to worry. Her perspective alone helped me realize that no matter how many challenges life throws in my way, I can overcome them.

I smiled at her, which she kindly mirrored. “Thank you,” I said. She held my hand and in a flurry dissipated into an orb and flew out the closed window, through the glass. My feelings were confused, but I knew she wasn’t meant to stay forever. I went outside, onto my balcony, and looked up at the stars. For the first time in years, I felt genuinely happy to simply be alive.

17

Forgiveness Nina Cayou

Best Pals Cambria Beirow

19

Leather and Metal Marcus Woodman

Zee-bar Code Ken Gonzales

Lucidity Sarah Noel

C

ilia lay dazed and confused on the concrete ground. The ceiling above her was dripping in some spots letting out a sharp plink every time it hit the floor. A small puddle was starting to gather to the left of her head. She was aware of its growing size but felt far too dizzy even to roll over.

“Cilia,” a man wearing scrubs said peeking into her doorway. He motioned to an old musty smelling blanket and pillow. “Don’t you want to lay on something comfortable?”

Cilia’s eyes drifted over to him and latched onto him. She did not respond in any way but stare. The man, seeing he would receive no response, left the room and shut and locked the door behind him again. Her focus remained at the doorway.

On the metal frame, someone had scratched out the word TRUTH. By the boldness of the letters, it would seem that they had spent their entire stay in the room scratching it out over and over. That, or the many people who had entered this room since had come to the same spot and continued the scratching.

Cilia had spent many a night here in the detoxification center, in this very room, but not once had she ever been phased by the scratching. The first few times she had come to the rehab facility, she had been violent and unsteady. She cursed at any and everyone who came her way and even swung punches at those she particularly was aroused by. Now, when Cilia was brought here she felt nothing. No motivation to move, no trigger to speak up. She merely waited until her 24 hours were up before they would release her in sobriety. If she was lucky, really lucky, a family member had enough sympathy to pick her up and

21

take her home before the 24 hour waiting period was up. Usually they didn’t come. So she had naturally stopped providing the cops and facility employees with a contact to call.

They would ask, “Is there any responsible adult you would like us to call to pick you up when you’re sober or sober enough?”

And Cilia would say, “There’s nobody. I’m nobody. I’ve always been alone. I’ve just never known.”

And they would somberly go on to the next question.

When Cilia was picked up on this particular night, she had been sitting on the edge of the wall on the second to last story of a garage. She was not facing outward, but rather in at the cars. A pigeon was flying up into the ceiling repeatedly. It started first when Cilia walked over toward it on her way to the edge.

Its fight or flight sent it straight up as is with most birds but it never found its way out to the openings and wearily calmed itself down to the pavement. Maybe the pigeon was rabid. Or maybe it just had some other neurological issue.

Cilia hopped off from her seat to gather pebbles into her pockets and went back to the edge. She would take a rock, a few if they were small, and toss them at the pigeon to get it started up again. Up and up it would go to smack repeatedly into the ceiling, floating down once it had given up or forgotten why it had worried in the first place. Cilia envied its quick ability to forget and wished her own anxieties would leave just as easy. It did not stop her from continuing her torture, throwing rocks when she got bored and observing if only to keep herself busy.

Rain was starting to fall lightly on the streets below, creating a rising mist up to Cilia’s back toward the city. Police flashlights passed around the bushes below her. The lights climbed slowly up the wall before finally finding Cilia under their radar. She did not notice despite the hazy yellow halo around her.

By the time the cops got up to her floor, Cilia had slid off the edge to the floor of the garage, weeping. “Can we help you, ma’am? Are you trying to harm yourself?” one of the officers said.

Cilia stared adamantly at the pigeon. “Why won’t you just be free?” she yelled.

Cilia had not always been quite the mess that she made herself to be on such nights like these. She had once been loving, caring, popular. She became a mom at seventeen, but loved every second of it. Her son, Brandon, was the light of her life in his youth. She went to all of his sporting events, thinking of the days when he would be quarterback for a small college. Cilia’s husband, Adam, had remained in the picture for his son. Though, the turn-around time from high school grad to father was one too short for his original plans on life, he had loved his son just as much as Cilia did.

The love that each of them held for their son was unmatched by any other love, including that of each other. The two fought constantly, over anything, everything, and nothing. Cilia, whose high standards for a perfect life, was crumbling beneath the weight of their anger, but still holding on so tight. Adam was choking by her grasp and searching for air.

The history of Cilia’s alcohol and drug use is as blurred as the intoxication itself. Brandon had known of his mother’s habits but kept it hidden as best he could. Friends would ask about where she was or her unusual temper from time to time, but Brandon could always find an excuse. Blame it on work or extended family or in-laws. He could always reason it out. Brandon kept it under wraps pretty well, until

22

his senior year homecoming game.

It was halftime. His team was up by two touchdowns. While the rest of his team filed away to the locker room for a typical halftime pep talk, Brandon moved to the sideline with the other homecoming court candidates. All of their parents had been there the whole game, cheering on the team and crossing their fingers for their own child to become king or queen. Adam was out of town on a work conference and unable to make it to the game; though, he had called Brandon beforehand to wish him luck. Cilia just simply was not in attendance. Not on time, anyway.

By the time Brandon’s name had been called out to cross the field, Cilia had only just arrived in the parking lot. “Brandon Jacobs, son of Adam and Cilia Jacobs, plans to attend East Belle College and will be playing football. He is joined tonight by mother Cilia Jacobs…” There Brandon stood in the middle of the field alone, no flower pinned to his jersey like that of his classmates—a tradition for his school, a gift from the parents. He beamed as brightly as he could, the whole time worrying that something bad might have happened. That his mother had been in some sort of accident. That a family member had died. That she had been kidnapped, even.

The winner was announced, one of Brandon’s other teammates. Amongst the applause, raised a scratchy voice yelling out that her son deserved the prize. The speech was slurred and incoherent for the most part.

But it was clear to all, that it was a speech made to defend Brandon in his loss of a cheap plastic crown.

Cilia tripped her way into the middle of the field, reaching out to her son like a baby does when taking their first steps. At the 40 yard line, she fell, still yelling for her son to be named the winner. Brandon simply left the field without her, never looking back as she lay dizzy on the grass.

A week later, Brandon would find out that his dad’s work conference was not a conference at all, but a hook up with some other woman. When the divorce papers showed up weeks later and court cases would carry on, it was Brandon who made the final decision in who he would live with the rest of his senior year.

And Cilia had seen neither of the two most important boys in her life since.

In two hours time, Cilia managed only to roll over onto her side. One of the nicer employees at the rehab center had made their way further into Cilia’s cell to lay a blanket over her but stopped at the effort of getting a pillow underneath her head. The puddle was full enough, but the dripping had ceased finally.

Now, Cilia’s straggled hair sprawled out like a spiderweb over the surface of the dirty water.

Cilia could feel herself sobering up. Her sense of being was much more intimate now as she felt herself physically present in the room. Her focus was determined and decided, no longer staring ahead at nothing with the inability to look away. Now she lay tired, yet unable to fall asleep.

She thought of Brandon. She wondered where he was now. He would be twenty-six now, past his college days. He had a job of some sort, she was sure. Cilia could not possibly come up with any ideas of what career path he could have chosen. She had been too busy fighting with Adam during his high school years to pay attention to the interests he had that might develop into a career one day. Cilia guessed that he was probably married, maybe he had his own kids. Technically, Cilia could be a grandmother. But in an emotional state, she never could be.

When Adam and Brandon left her, Cilia tried over and over to get them back. It started with phone calls and lead to her showing up uninvited to their new house. The cops had been called a few times when she became too aggressive, but mostly they just watched her with sad, tired eyes. Adam found a new wife,

23

Karly. At first, Karly was accepting of Cilia, wanting Brandon to maintain a relationship with his mother.

Too many instances of Cilia’s threats to Karly’s own safety, quickly changed this opinion. Eventually, Karly could no longer restrain herself against Cilia and on one occasion, Cilia was taken away in a cop car with a blackened eye and a bit of Karly’s blood had made it onto her blouse.

It was determined that Cilia was no longer a good influence on Brandon and any attempt to see him would be noted by the court. Cilia did try one night after that hearing. She wanted to wish Brandon a happy birthday. The earlier part of the day had been spent cleaning herself up. Cilia took a good long shower, combed out her hair, and pinned back some of the loose strands at the front of her head.. She put on some makeup, something she hadn’t done in years. After feeling clean herself, Cilia then was motivated enough to even clean up her house. She tossed out bags full of old beer cans and whiskey bottles, vacuuming up afterward. For a split second, Cilia even wondered if she was on the track to cleaning herself up to sobriety at this rate.

Just before dinnertime, Cilia stopped at the drugstore to pick up a birthday card. She desperately wanted to get him more of a gift than this, but Cilia didn’t know what Brandon would possibly want at his age, nor could she afford much else anyhow.

At 6 o’clock, Cilia parked across the street, fluffed her hair a little and began to take a few steps toward the brightly lit house. Beyond the main window, Cilia could see Brandon at the dinner table, wiping his mouth with a napkin and pushing his plate away from him on the table. He smiled brightly and flicked his shaggy hair out of his eyes. Somebody must have said something to him, for he laughed with his mouth wide open—just like how Cilia always did when she laughed. Emerging into her view, Cilia saw Adam and Karly head into the room carrying a birthday cake, with the light of the candle flames dancing off the walls.

A light rain began to fall as Cilia took another step closer to the house, falling into the beam of a streetlight.

Her presence, though more ghostlike than real, was apparent to Karly through the protection of the house causing her to look up and out to where Cilia stood. Karly made no attempt to tell Adam or Brandon, didn’t even nod her head toward the direction of the street, but made her way out the front door with some excuse to step outside.

Out on the driveway, Karly stood with her arms crossed and had a stern look held on face. She intimidated Cilia, her towering personality was enough to keep Cilia locked where she stood across the street.

“You know you aren’t supposed to be here, Cilia.”

“It’s my son’s birthday.”

“So you’ve come to ruin that for him too?” Karly scoffed.

Cilia shook her head. The moisture outside was starting to ruin the curls of her groomed hair. “I bought him this card,” she said holding it up for Karly to see. “I’m feeling good today, Karly. I think I could see him.”

“You can’t see him, Cilia. You know we’ll call the police. We’ve done it before. You aren’t supposed to see him ever again.”

Cilia frowned. Tears began to well up on her eyelids. She blinked them away. “Karly, please. It’s my son’s

24

birthday. My own son.”

Karly shook her head and laughed a little. “It’s not the first or the last of his birthdays you have to miss out on, Cilia. You’re not his mother anymore. Not as far as I, or Brandon, are concerned. Maybe you never were.”

With that, Karly headed back into her home to a family she claimed to be hers and only hers, as if they had never mattered to anyone else ever before her. Cilia crept over to the edge of the drive and laid the card down, hoping maybe Brandon may see it in the morning. She went to her car. She drove home. But not before stopping at the liquor store for a quick sip to kill her sorrows.

In the morning, Karly found the card, feeling a deep pang of regret at the pit of her heart. She opened the card, curious of its contents. The front of the card pictured a sailboat on the ocean, white fluffy clouds hanging over head. In navy cursive, it read: “To my son on his birthday”. On the inside, in clumsy handwriting, it said, “I make mistakes all the time. Someday my mistakes will end. I am determined because of how good you are to clean myself up. I am sorry. Happy birthday to my greatest accomplishment. I love you.” Karly began to feel a little nauseous. Behind her the front door screen creaked open. Brandon stepped out.

“Hey, what’s that?”

Karly spun around holding the card behind her. She drew it out in front of her but covered it mostly with her hands. “It’s just litter, honey. It’s trash. Someone’s trash.” Brandon never would see the card.

Outside of Cilia’s room, another patient was being released. The patient was another woman, a few years younger than Cilia, whose physical state seemed to be in much better shape. The patient had her arms out wide against the doorway, doing everything in her power to stay inside her cell as the rehabilitation employees urged her to keep moving forward. The woman was obviously still intoxicated to some level and, as Cilia had learned overtime from her own visits to the center, must have been being released to a quote on quote responsible family member.

The woman kicked and screamed still, yelling out that she didn’t want to go. A young woman waited for her by the nurses station with reddened eyes and heavy bags beneath them. She was in her twentysomethings and looked like a replica of the patient. The younger woman made no efforts to coerce the older any closer, but sat dutifully on the edge of a desk waiting for the patient to be handed over. Within feet of the young girl, the patient reached out to strike the tired face of the one who came to care for her.

The employees immediately shuffled her back into her cell, no longer deeming the woman ready for release.

A fire burned inside Cilia’s throat. Although she could not see the scene for her own eyes, she could hear it loud and clear as if it had all happened within her very room. In a sort of possession, Cilia rose to her feet and went to the door frame. With her blunted nails, she began scratching away at the word TRUTH. Paint shards stuck under her nails and fell to the floor below. When she could take no more of the scratching, Cilia stepped back to run herself at the locked door, unable to get it to budge one bit. She stepped back and ran again and again and again, each time hitting the door with a thud. Cilia’s only break was returning to the scratching, lasting only so long there as it took for her to become anxious again and hit the door running once more.

25

On the Importance of Forgiveness

Cambria Beirow

26

27

Right Knee as Viewed from the Front Zenith Sharma

28

He captured all the bubbles in his hands and brought them to the middle of the sink.

A point, two humps and here he has a heart.

“This,” he said to no one, “Is a work of art.”

And then he laughed, but part of him within Perked up and listened to the silent pops.

He shut the door and toddled down the street; A shuffling of age infirmed his feet.

But every morning here he went To meet the day and look for art in life.

He’d learned that pain was nothing in the face Of beautiful inspired moments—that is all.

“Oh, heart,” he could have shouted to the crowd, “I’ll feed your desperate need for art in life!”

Then bending to the task, he floated free Among the people, things and sparks Of reassuring beauty in the trees, The verve soon calming to a trance.

In silent pleasure all along the walk He soaked the beauty in: here a textured stone, Then graceful web of steel with twists divine.

He placed his hand upon the sturdy rail And touched the twists, then clenched the bar To help him rise to glory up the steps.

The smoothness of the knob, ebullience expressed In form of brass and steel, had stroked soft hands From long ago to now, with inside-out embrace.

And now the knob caressed his hand and in it There was peace for him and one more shine Upon the happy message of the knob.

Inside, he gave his name and sat to wait.

Art came to him...the glass ethereal In front of some design upon the wall, The motivating twang of tangled legs on chairs, Akimbo in a symphony of form.

And then they called his name. The time had come.

Art in Life

The doctor sat beside him in a chair And spoke the news that he’d known all along.

“I know it’s time,” he reassured his bones, “But that’s okay. I’ve known about the end, Since I was born, and knowing made me smart.

I’ve seen the message from the start.”

Tonight, he’ll dream, and in the dream he’s young Without a care except the search for...what?

He doesn’t know. He only knows he loves The steps he’s taken on the earth in life.

Without a body, when that ghost time comes, Who says he still can’t see the art in life?

Kindra Foster

29

30

I eat it, I breathe it, I live it I give it all the passion I can push in to two weeks, but it’s a flash in the pan and when I’ve ran out of the fuel for my fire I’d be a liar if I said I’d like to do more.

It becomes a chore.

It sickens me to the core.

But this is who I am.

My fire burns out fast It’s not meant to last And when these moments of passion have passed, I get accolades for being a Jack of all Trades.

But I crack the shades and spy on others, My friends, my family, my brothers, They all have something that proves they exist And in jumping around I’ve missed the chance to leave something behind Something for future folks to find and say “My aunt’s roommate’s cousin’s sister once saw this guy in a crowd” and to be proud of that distant connection.

Upon reflection it’s arrogant to assume that any inspection of my work Will lead to anything but rejection

But to be known is to be alive And so I still strive to live in a day long after my body’s died.

And if I haven’t hit my stride it’s not because I haven’t tried But because I haven’t found the form that fits.

And if this arrogant experiment fails and I call poetry quits, Maybe I can try painting or something.

I dunno.

31

An Attempt Was Made Edward Moore

This meter is a mess and the rhyme scheme’s unstable.

It’s text-based spoken-word salad I’ve just dumped on your table.

I’m an amateur cook come to ruin this book’s flow with a slip-shod show of what I think a poem is.

It would be perverse to even call this free-verse.

Because I don’t know shit about poetry.

But a guy inspired me to write it and to fight it would do him a disservice.

Although I’m nervous it’ll come off as pompous to write this with no map and no compass when so many have studied the lay of the land, to just lay in the sand at the base of the mountain while this fountain of words pours into my brain would be a shame.

Because if I can measure up to just a fraction of my heroes, if I can be one digit after a decimal point and a thousand zeros, then I can be someone who matters.

I can hold on to my dreams; they’re in tatters, torn apart at the seams, pulled in every direction.

A collection of half-baked ideas and half-hearted affection.

I have no one-thing-to-rule-them-all, so when I hear some new interest call, what I’m holding clatters to the floor.

I spin around, looking at every single open door but I can’t choose.

Because I can’t bear to lose the opportunities I’m not taking.

So I’ll sit there half-baking until all the doors close.

And then who knows what I’ll do?

Without my potential, I’m through, because the only thing I can brag about is that when I try something new,

War

(My First Time Kissing a Girl) Cambria Beirow

32

(hyr)steria Keshia Mcclantoc

the first thing that adam took from eve was hyr anger. She, who was pulled from hys rib, built from stone, dirt, and hot breath like he. molded with softer, warmer, and smoother flesh. but underneath, a frame derived of the same furious bone. hysterical, because he tries to claim anger as hys own. he tells she, that hyr voice must stay soft, touch warm, and walk smooth. like hyr blood doesn’t boil like hys or the weight of hyr bones don’t vibrate with rage. hysteria ate eve; spat hyr out of the garden. but we are learning to practice hyrsteria. validating the ire of she, through years of tight-lipped smiles, downcast eyes, and apologies for daring to exist. hyrsteria because too long she suffered of hysteria. too long she refused to love the anger that is hyrs.

33

Your Kiss Cannot Fix Me Cambria Beirow

coldness be gentle Keisha Mcclantoc

in winter, i’m told to breathe in and out monotonous living forced frost patterns decorating my lungs i tell them take the blood in my veins too warm, too roving weave this pulsing agony into tender roots instead i stand in awe of those who so often humbly shed their skin slip into slow demise awake, to be revived again in winter, i say look up to naked tendrils reaching for the skies barren yet beautiful branches that seek no end tell me not to breathe begging away ragged breaths instead teach me how to die i can learn to be alive again

Balanced Rock David Harvey

Plant it, Water it, Watch it Grow Ken Gonzales

37

Poem # 777

It is of great mystery, Who we will someday be...

Life works quite unpredictably, We are always becoming, it matters not... if reality may be somewhat illusory.

Because one cannot discount...

The validity of feeling.

We create our own meaning...

We define our after death, Though death isn’t the end...

It is life without breathe.

There is still a pulsation...

A universal consciousness.

Yet, there’s less limitation...

As long as you can accept The truth about creation, The fact that we exist, There is no vengeful “god” That can take away your “is”...

For, we are. I am.

You can speak this simple truth...

Yet, until you believe, In your heart of hearts, The truth will not be proved.

Kyrsten Marie Athan

Life is beautiful...

Can’t you see?

It’s only illusion...

That separates you from me.

Two unique souls, Birthed from the same tree.

Many unique fish, Swimming in the same sea.

Excerpt from

Shitty Assholes Dating Shitty Assholes Aly Holmes

“H

ey best friend,” James drawled, approaching the cafe they met up at daily after classes let out. He smiled broadly at his best friend of sixteen years. The two of them had grown up on opposite corners of the block from each other, treating the sidewalk as a country-wide expanse they had to cross in their younger years, and a mild irritant as they hastened down the pavement once they grew older. Both still lived at home for college, but if they had roomed in the dorms, they would’ve been roommates.

“Hey J!” Theresa called back, waving at him, leaning against the iron lattice of the patio chair and holding her frappe in front of her. Scalekin, her seeing-eye dog, lifted her head and wagged so her tail thwumped against the shadowy sidewalk at James’s approach.

“How are my two favorite girls in all the world?” James asked, stooping first to kiss Theresa’s forehead and then hunching down to kiss Scalekin’s golden snout.

“Fine. Get your drink and help me check my MeetCute.” James laughed at her eagerness. He ducked in through the cafe’s doorway, got himself a boba tea, and rejoined Theresa on the patio, where she

38

immediately shoved her phone into his hands.

“Has she responded?” Theresa asked eagerly.

James opened the dating app to check and said, “Yeah, but you ain’t gonna like the news. She swiped no.”

“Ugh!” Theresa complained loudly, flopping over the metal backrest. “This is blindphobia.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Nope. Clearly this is because I am blind and she hates blind people. This is also homophobic.”

James laughed, humored by his friend’s antics.

“Did she say why?”

James checked to see if there was a “NOte” and found there was.

“Says she thinks your lizards are real motherfuckin’ cool an’ all, but she ain’t one for dogs. She gotta lotta cats apparently and she don’t want no squabbling between pets.”

“But Scalekin is a sweetheart! She gets along with all other animals—I have that in my profile right? I say that?”

James typed briefly. “Ya do now.”

“I can’t believe it. The sweetest dog in the world, my downfall.” Scalekin, knowing Theresa was talking about her, had lifted her head, and Theresa gave her a few scritches behind her ears. “You’re the best girl, aren’t you Scalekin? Yes you are, you’re such a good dog, you’re the only good person left on this whole wide world, I can’t believe somebody would swipe no on me because of you,” Theresa crooned at her dog, keeping her tone friendly.

“There’s some other motherfucker has found you, swiped yes,” James mentioned, going to the guy’s profile. “Katai Bhatia, he’s cute,” James commented. His eyes lingered on the photo. Real cute.

“Read his about for me?” Theresa asked before sipping at her frappé.

“Says the guy’s an asshole but hey at least he knows it and can own up when he messes up, got a big lung capacity, a lotta words, and high volume. Says he’s—” “Hey!” Theresa shouted suddenly, turning to “glare” at someone who had accidentally knocked her bag against Theresa’s chair. “Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

“Yeah, quit pickin’ on the blind girl!” James snapped, playing along.

“Oh— I’m—” “God, I can’t even going to a cafe without getting harassed! Think it’s fun to pick on strangers, buddy?

Think there won’t be consequences just because I can’t see you?”

James tried to open his mouth to continue the game, but ended up accidentally laughing instead. Theresa

39

huffed, much quieter, and turned to him.

“You always ruin this.”

“It’s funny!” James said, letting himself laugh a little more openly now.

“Wh—” “We’re just fucking with you,” Theresa told the stranger airily, waving her hand altogether too close to the newcomer’s face. Theresa could pull the blind card as an excuse, but James knew she had better depth perception than she let on.

“Sorry?” James added, grinning in a way that showed how very not-sorry he actually was. The stranger gaped between them, eyes darting and brow furrowing deeper and deeper as the pieces clicked.

“You assholes!” the stranger exclaimed, looking terribly affronted and storming off.

“Yeah,” Theresa and James chorused together, neither particularly bothered.

“Okay but the cute boy,” Theresa said. “I must rebound from the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“You don’t have eyes anymore.”

“I’m sensitive about that, you piece of shit!”

“Oh my god.” James was looking at her phone, not even paying any mind to her faux-offense.

“What?”

“Sister, you are not going to believe this.”

“What?!?”

“This brother is four foot ten!”

“No way,” Theresa gasped with a smile, leaning forward.

“Four foot ten! Holy shit this dude is tiny!”

“Oh my god that sounds adorable; read the rest of his profile!”

“Says he don’t own pets but he does have a lot of siblings so that basically counts—” Theresa snorted loudly. “—calls himself an expert in romance, likes judo—holy shit is this dude even real?—likes coding, his favorite actor is Will Smith—” “Good taste,” Theresa commented.

“Yeah. Speaks Hindi on account a’ his family moving to the states from India, pfft, says an’ I quote: ‘Your taste in music is probably shit and I’ll fight you on that’ in all caps.”

“My taste in music is shit,” Theresa agreed. “Say anything about how he feels about pets? Like, actual

40

pets?”

“Nah, but you got like, all your lil’ lizards and snake in your profile pic, figure he wouldn’t swipe yeah on you if he didn’t get the inkling that you like scaley things and have a motherfuckin’ eye-dog.”

“And what a good seeing-eye dog she is!” Theresa praised, giving Scalekin another pet.

“He’s a real cute motherfucker,” James commented, scrolling back up to stare at the dude’s profile pic some more.

“Yeah? How cute?”

“Like motherfuckin’ really cute. You gotta make him let you touch his hair on your date it looks fluffy as shit.”

“What makes you so sure I’m even going to date him?” Theresa asked, sardonically.

“Cause you wouldn’t let me get this far in his profile if you weren’t, swipe yeah on him now?”

“Maybe I don’t want to anymore. Maybe I changed my mind, I’m still mourning the swipe that broke my heart from dear, sweet, precious Natalie, maybe I want to sit here and wallow in self pity and caffeine.”

“Yeah, okay, I swiped yeah while you were talking.”

“Ass.” James laughed and flipped to Facebook. He knew all Theresa’s passwords (she had six) and she knew all of his (he had one that he used for everything), and sure the two of them abused that power in order to fuck with each other’s profiles and activity feeds, but mostly they just trusted each other. They had, after all, been living in each other’s back pockets ever since they were four.

“But shit, he’s a cutie,” James repeated, tonguing at one of his snakebites. “If you ain’t careful I might just scoop him up while you ain’t looking.”

“I’m blind, idiot.”

“All the easier for me.”

“So how are things with Olaudah?”

“Oh you know we still fuckin’. God, fuck, you know I am still motherfuckin’ all over that fine piece of ass,” James said emphatically, grinning with self satisfaction.

“You need to bring him around more, he has the funniest reactions to people fucking with him!”

“Don’t I know it. It’s the whole reason I’m dating him.”

“I thought it was because he’s ripped as fuck and has long hair.”

“That too.”

Theresa and James shared a laugh. James read over her Facebook feed for her while the two drank, then

41

proofread her daily blogpost that she’d typed up, searching for errors. Sure, she could type blind, but it was hard to see the little red squiggly lines when she couldn’t see at all. He posted it under “Diary of a Blind Asshole, Day 743” right as Theresa finished off her drink. He drank his boba on the way back home, listening to Theresa tell him about her day. A few kids asked to pet Scalekin as they walked, and James had to explain that Scalekin was working right then, and they needed to let her do her job, but thank you for asking. James was always polite to kids; the world was still new to them and they deserved to see it as a friendly place. Theresa could manage to be civil to children a solid three fourths of the time, but she really wasn’t a fan. Neither of them was ever nice to adults or teenagers, without exception, ever.

Once back to Theresa’s house, she took Scalekin’s harness off and went straight for her bedroom. “Babies!” she called loudly, flinging open her arms. She made a beeline for the tank of Pyro, her bearded dragon, and made kissy noises. “Where are you baby?”

James reached in and picked her lizard up for her. Theresa could locate them on her own, but it went faster when she had the help of someone with eyes still in their sockets. James then went and pulled her snake, Yellowsnout, out of his tank, and draped him around his shoulders.

“Who’s a good baby,” Theresa was crooning at her lizard before kissing him repeatedly on his lil head, “You are! You’re the best baby, yes you are!”

“Yellowsnout over here is gonna feel all motherfuckin’ jealous, you callin’ Pyro your best baby all loud and such.”

“Yellowsnout is also the best baby,” Theresa said, placing Pyro on her shoulder, “All my babies are the best babies, all of them.”

James laughed. “Fair enough!”

The two of them did their homework together, leaning against Theresa’s headboard with various scaly creatures on their respective persons, and then James cooked dinner while Theresa groomed Scalekin.

Golden hairs of dog fur wafted gently around Theresa as James sautéed mushrooms and dipped chicken in oil and breadcrumbs.

Ms. Jones, single mother of one, was working her way up to district attorney, and regularly got home much later than her daughter did. The three ate dinner together, as they did nearly every night, and Ms. Jones shared about her day before the two younger adults shared about theirs. James decided that he didn’t really feel like going home to sleep, so he stayed the night, sharing the bed with Theresa and Scalekin, all three of them piled together and surrounded by pillows and stuffed animals Theresa had accumulated over the years.

James’s phone buzzed with a text from his other lover, Travis, and James smiled at the bright screen. A pillow launched at mach 5 hit James in the face, and he yelped, nearly flinging his phone.

“Put it on silence, asshole, some of us are trying to sleep.”

“You’re just jealous because I have two boyfriends and you don’t have any,” James complained, leaving it on vibrate just to spite her.

42

I Lean Back Kindra Foster

Flipping pages of the calendar draw a wind that spins me high and fast, so blurry images of life stream by.

The years dissolve and turn to trash.

Is that my graduation speeding by?

I thought I’d be a famous writer then.

I think I see the days of wedding vows: thrice I started life again with ends.

I stand and watch the years with tears and, drunk with 20-20 hindsight, rip myself apart and break my heart.

I long for understanding from this height.

I bow my head and take a bleary breath, sipping in the colors of my life as if they were a five-hour energy drink— baby, child, student, worker, wife.

Finally, I finish sorting through the mash and sigh. I am what I am and that’s that.

I open my eyes and catch a glimpse of bold— The day my son awoke to the world.

That moment comes into focus once, Just long enough for me to see and love.

Another moment passes by in glory: The day my daughter launched her story.

My mind begins to see a little clearer some of the speeding moments as they pass, The ones that stand out even from Big Blur, The things that seem to move a little slower.

Do I see them just because they’re brighter, Or do they fight the cyclone hard to reach me?

Not caring why, I reach to touch their reach.

The energy they give me soothes at least.

Still spinning in life’s speeding top, I look a little deeper; I see it all, and suddenly I see the aim.

The blur itself is what we’re meant to claim.

Opening my eyes a little wider, I see the colors rolling by in ribbons.

The splendid composition strikes me flat Like an ocean wave, and I lean back.

43

44

Upon Questioning if One ShouldCome Out of the Closet Cambria Beirow

45

Auschwitz, Nonstop Holidaying in Poland as a Secular Jew Nora Rosenthal

Subject: From Poland with Love Dear Mom and Dad, Well, the raspberries are in season and the haircuts are resolutely what Brian refers to as “paramilitary soccer player”.

Finally got our phone to work thanks to the kindness of a computer store employee in a sprawling megamall in Łódź. Capitalism is in full swing, albeit different than the American version. Stayed drinking at the Tiki bar inexplicably set up in the middle of the mall’s massive courtyard and watching what looked to be Olympic beach volleyball trials beside us. There was no net, which for me at least meant I had to actually watch the game, both to avoid the ball itself and the broken glass blown overtop of the neighbouring tables in the ball’s wake.

Now of course struggling with said new tech, shouting at the feeble internet even as I write to you from this beautiful view of a bay in the Baltic Sea. Bye bye gratitude as this Luddite watches cows and types out an internet banking password eight times.

The two semi permanent platonic houseguests where we’re staying are downstairs enjoying a romantic dinner for two in total silence. Fresh pickles, potatoes, wine, soup. Theoretically we’re bartering for our stay here with work, but the man who built the house (Halvor, with whom we made agreement via email) is nowhere to be found and these guests seem confused when we suggest as much. We haven’t pressed the point too strongly.

There is ever the promise of other guests who never arrive. This couple

46

from Warsaw, this couple from Paris, another who did actually arrive, looked around and promptly got back in their car and drove away. Meanwhile our housemates play their Polski Leonard Cohen covers and we read, write, walk to town, watch the huge white storks come and go...

Anyhow, hope this finds you all well, Much love.

Nora

When I arrived in Poland two summers ago with my partner, both of us with a smattering of Polish heritage. I was sporting a giant mop of dark brown curls last popular sometime in the mid-80s, and him with a blond mullet. Not only did we both draw an astonishing number of stares in a sea of beautiful wispy blonds and what I would uncharitably characterize as brutish sports fans, but man, did I feel Jewish. I imagined my otherwise agnostic father during his first marriage to a daughter of Lutheran missionaries, sitting in a church pew somewhere in the American South. I felt that Jewish.

Maybe it was the little skinheads giving us the stink-eye in the mall cellphone store in Łódź, or the vehemence with which one of our hosts near the Baltic coast derided the film Ida as being anti-Polish because of its depiction of Polish complicity in the Holocaust, but the topic of 20th century intolerance arose almost daily. The bizarre and almost instinctual self-congratulation I must have heard a dozen times in three weeks: “But my family hid Jews in their basement!” Sure they did.

Polish graveyards are incredibly well tended. We didn’t pass a graveyard without seeing at least one relative hunched over a small bucket to wash a head stone, their head peeking out from all the immense bundles of fresh flowers. (I became convinced that the reason the produce section of every grocery store was so very tiny, so totally devoted to dill, is that the entire country is busy growing flowers for the dead.)

But more sombre yet to see all this and to imagine all the nameless thousands buried or strewn across the country.

In Warsaw, a metro ad commemorating local war monuments featured a propagandistic selection of WWII footage—mostly of pretty girls clutching their belongings to their chests and fleeing bombs— interspersed with contemporary footage of Warsaw parks and statues in a kind of then-and-now style montage. To see the legacy of fascism depicted this way was disquieting, to say the least.

After some socially exhausting couchsurfing in Warsaw featuring a truly heinous dog called Fidel (yes, after Castro), and what can only be described as a near shake-down by our Baltic hosts, we decided to actually pay for lodging, and checked into a closet-like but very cozy rental apartment in Krakow’s Kazimierz, the former Jewish district. I admit that I had nearly forgotten Krakow’s proximity to AuschwitzBirkenau until we arrived at our apartment and were astounded at just how actively and aggressively the memorial is advertised. Trip to the airport? Thirty-five złoty. Salt mine or Auschwitz: ninety. These signs, either on chalk boards or on rolling electronic scrawls that run twenty-four hours a day, are everywhere, accompanied by ads for the nearby but lesser Holocaust-themed destination, Schindler’s Factory. In Poland and elsewhere in Eastern Europe, 24hr stores and restaurants are often called “nonstop”. An all-night liquor store beneath our apartment bore the sign “Nonstop Alkohole”. These, then, were just nonstop Auschwitz ads.

47

Kazimierz is pleasant and vaguely shady in all the right ways. Full of reasonably priced restaurants and bars, grocery stores in seemingly random disarray, and tiny shops devoted exclusively to purses. In other words, the ads hardly appeared to embody the inevitable crassness of tourist neighbourhoods the world over, but instead seemed a more general reflection of how taken-for-granted a trip to any one of the Nazi camps has become. Before long Auschwitz, or more specifically, whether or not to go, had overrun all nightly dinnertime conversation, and a few days later we found ourselves at a temporary exhibit at Krakow’s Museum of Contemporary Art, entitled “Poland – Israel – Germany: The Experience of Auschwitz”, with work by artists from all three countries.

The exhibit was small and nestled beside some phenomenally banal Warhol portraits of Jewish intellectuals. The photo that we’d seen seen blown up in massive street ads for the show—a black and white self-portrait of a smiling Sarah Schönfeld in front of a barbed wire fence—was hidden on a wall busy with other works. The one video that had caused a hubbub of controversy, envisioning a ghastly and terminal game of tag played in a gas chamber and which dated, along with much of the work in the exhibit, from the 1990s, was cordoned off and guarded by an apparently vastly bored museum worker on her smartphone.

Beyond one downright weird and comic collaboration with the Lego company, and the subtly engaging final work, pencil on a plain white paper, which simply reads, in Polish: “I have never made a piece of art about the Holocaust”, the exhibit seemed terrified to say anything.

After leaving Krakow, we made our way to Lubliniec, the only town where we could find a place to stay near Koszęcin, the village my Bubie left when she was four years old. Our host, an astonishingly welcoming Buddhist Czech trucker and also the only human being I’ve seen who quite so resembled Barbie, took us out to drink clear liquor at the neighbourhood bar and translated between us and her former Special Forces boyfriend. They brought us to the “Lover’s Bridge”, lit from below with purple LEDs, and to the street outside the women’s prison, where her boyfriend fondly recalled how the women would flash the officers marching by. From where we stood we could look far enough above the prison wall to see the inmates watching TV in their cells. Even on this quiet, boozy evening, a carceral history managed to loom large.

Koszęcin was a pain to get to, and when we did, we bought a loaf of bread and some sausage and just wandered around with our bags in the sun. We had no address to seek out, and the town was frankly larger and more prosperous than what I had imagined it would be. We’d been to plenty of little villages in the previous weeks, the kind with chickens and tiny patches of corn in backyards. This was something else, some suburb radiating out from a couple of churches with what had become a familiar mixture of old world architecture, Communist-era mid-rises, and a handful of new shops. Four hours later we took the train to Częstochowa, then to Katowice, and a day later we left Poland. I wonder if there was any trace of what my Bubie knew from childhood, some tree perhaps, some corner of road. On this confused pilgrimage we spoke to no one but the clerk who sold us our bread. It was an aimless and sweaty walk in the sun, the threats of tragedy and boredom rolled into one afternoon.

Our reasons for visiting Poland in the first place seemed obscured once there, even more so after leaving.

Wandering through Krakow during our final days there I had tried to enjoy the place for what it is presently, a city uneasily navigating its past, and with a giant medieval square that even in August is only a sparse assortment of flower vendors, fountains, and couples.

48

What is a country to do, draped in a secret shame, but with seemingly no accountability for the past?

Post-Brexit, mid-Trump, we’ve all been reminded of the roots of 20th century fascism, of that potent mixture of hateful ideologues and a passive public. The Ukrainian-Jewish author and journalist Vasily Grossman once asked “What can we, people of the epoch of Fascism, say before the court of the past and the future?” He answered, “Nothing can vindicate us”.

As I told my aunt over the phone three weeks later and a good five minutes after arriving at my parents’ home in Toronto, “No, I didn’t go to Auschwitz”.

Cow

Adrian Silva

49

With Her Cambria Beirow

50

Yellow Mama Maggie Moore

Alabama’s electric chair, nicknamed Yellow Mama, was last used to execute an inmate in 2002. The state now oers death row inmates the option to choose death by lethal injection or by electric chair.

None of the 37 inmates executed since 2002 have chosen the chair. Yellow Mama is stored in the attic above the execution chamber.

Yellow mama sing me a song tonight oh mama let me rest between your arms feel so cold so old and tired, just take me in and hum the old hymns before this time your cold whisper voice will fill me up as your hot fingers take me down.

51

Contributors Adrian Silva

Cambria Beirow

Adrian Silva is a junior at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln. He studies architecture and enjoys a variety of art styles know why they do, but likes to feel confused about it. This is his first time being published.

Cambria Beirow is a grad student and a selftaught artist. Inspired by pop surrealism and punk DIY culture, their art is tinged with sour nostalgia and the pains of growing up queer in a heteronormative society. This is their first publication.

Aly Holmes

David Harvey

Aly Holmes is a senior English major with a minor in Psychology at the University of Nebraska– Lincoln. She has not been published before, but does frequently write, often staying within her comfort zone of fantasy and science fiction but sometimes branching out into other genres.

Her current life goal is to settle down with her girlfriend and own a frankly absurd quantity of cats.

Dave Harvey has been published in college newspapers/literary journals and a national literary journal. He is an exhibition tech at the Sheldon Museum of Art. Painting is hard, so Dave just draws.

Edward Moore Edward likes to identify as a writer despite never actually finishing anything. After having his 4th grade masterpiece “The Groundhog Rap” published in a book of student poetry, he wrote nothing but Yahoo chatroom RP and accomplished very little.

Andy Zulkoski Andy Zulkoski is a junior technical theatre major in the Johnny Carson School of Theatre and Film at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln. Being a tech major doesn’t give Andy much free time, but the free time they do get is spent hanging out with friends and/or drawing. Andy is very enthusiastic about the arts and is happy that they got the chance to be published.

Ken Gonzales Ken Gonzales paints as a hobby, working in acrylics and watercolors. His job at Sheldon Museum of Art is a perfect fit, as he not only works security protecting artwork, but also as an exhibit tech transitioning new installations.

Binisha Maharjan Binisha Maharjan is a junior psychology major with an English and gerontology minor at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln. She draws in her free time, using pen first which causes less mistakes, and she is five feet tall and can shoot threes.

Keshia Mcclantoc Keshia Mcclantoc is currently a graduate student at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln in composition and rhetoric who loves poetry in all forms. She has been previously published in The Tower, The Mantle, #thesideshow, and Rag Queen Periodical.

52

Kindra Foster

Nora Rosenthal

Kindra is a professional business writer and editor whose poetic muse has been held captive too long. Over the years, a few of Kindra’s poems have been published in small literary magazines and the Omaha World Herald, when it had a poetry column.

Nora Rosenthal is a filmmaker and photographer based in Montreal. This is her first publication.

She does contract cooking for a mobile bush camp in Northern Ontario. She sometimes tells “funny stories” which she is later told are incredibly depressing.

Kyrsten Marie Athan

Riley Jhi

Kyrsten Marie Athan is a double major in philosophy and English with a creative writing concentration and a double minor in psychology and communication studies. She is a creative fiction writer and a poet, and hasn’t before been published.

Riley Jhi is a junior studying computer science and studio art at the University of Nebraska– Lincoln. Her first published work, “There’s just... something about Sandra” explores the theme of sexuality through humor.

Maggie Moore

Sarah Noel is a senior English major at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She will graduate with her BA in December 2017 and will be attending nursing school in January. Her poetry has been published in Laurus, UNL’s undergraduate literary magazine. She enjoys writing fiction, poetry, and drama.

Sarah Noel

Maggie is a writer and reader living in Lincoln, Nebraska. She is currently a student at the University of Nebraska — Lincoln, working toward a career in the publishing industry. She is the proud mother of two beautiful cats, Roscoe and Isolde.

Marcus Woodman

Zenith Sharma

Marcus Woodman is a writing tutor who has only ever self-published his art and fiction online before now. He’s a gay trans man who writes about other gay trans men, and his stories can be found at orcishreject.wordpress.com.

Zenith Sharma moved to the U.S. from Kathmandu, Nepal in 2009 and is currently a senior at Creighton University studying healthcare administration and policy. In his free time, Zenith loves to draw and play chess with his dad. He also enjoys singing and is on his way to completing the training for Hindustani Classical Music.

Nina Cayou Nina is a sophomore fine arts major at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln with a concentration in painting. She has always had a love for art. She comes from a family of seven.

There has always been creativity throughout her life.

53

( ( (

Acknowledgmements We want to thank everyone who helped us create this project. It was a wild ride with short deadlines, and we couldn’t have done it without the support of our friends, family, and mentors. Thank you to all of our contributors, who sent us work on such short notice and patiently endured our editing process and nagging for bios. Thanks to Collin at UNL Print Services for her unending patience and support while we tried to figure out what the heck we were doing. Thank you to each member of our publishing team: Karmen Browitt, Binisha Maharjan, Emily Moseman, Aryn Huck, and Maggie Moore.

And thanks most of all to Dr. Bev Rilett, our voice of encouragement and guidance! We are so grateful to each and every person who has supported us throughout this process, whether we named you or not. Keep reading and stay wacky!

54

) ) )

dnuob)nu(

(un)bound

dnuob)nu(

(un)bound

55

THIS PAGE IS UNINTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK PLEASE DO NOT READ

)

art ought to

bre a k

boundaries featuring works by Adrian Silva Aly Holmes Andy Zulkoski Cambria Beirow David Harvey Edward Moore Ken Gonzales Keshia Mcclantoc Kindra Foster

Kyrsten Athan Binisha Maharjan Maggie Moore Marcus Woodman Nina Cayou Nora Rosenthal Riley Jhi Sarah Noel Zenith Sharma