Edition 74, Volume 2 by Brushfire Literature & Arts

BRUSHFIRE LITERATURE AND ARTS JOURNAL COVER PAGE

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EDITION 74, VOLUME 2 UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA, RENO

EDITOR’S NOTE NOTE:

It’s often under the most mundane and ordinary of circumstances out of which the most absurd and unforeseeable events arise. A bold statement to start off with, I know. But it’s true. Most times, we are just trundling along in our daily routines, working ourselves doggedly to cross items off of a never-ending to-do list when— all of a sudden— we feel our legs buckle under the weight of some reality seemingly too heavy to bear. Maybe you were on your way to a job interview when you unwittingly stepped on the surprise dog turd some scoundrel left lying in wait for you on the sidewalk. Or maybe you were in a frenzy to finish up an important project that required countless hours of love and labor when, without invitation, an overwhelming sensation of driftlessness promptly washed over you. Or perhaps you were humming along, peaceful and productive for once, when you crossed paths with something that you could not understand — say, you learned that a loved one just watched the sun rise and set for the very last, last time and no amount of logic could alleviate the pain. Such moments can often feel isolating and unreal while we’re in them. The good news? By some strange twist of fate, these moments also tend to be the ones which reveal that none of us are truly and totally alone in life like we think. For just by virtue of the intimate knowledge we gain by living through them, moments like these enter us into communities of human experience wherein we can feel seen and heard. They connect us more deeply to people around us in ways we could not have possibly imagined, whether we know it or not. Ironically then, it can be said that the strange and heartbreaking moments of our lives not only help us to feel comraderie and solidarity with one another, but also allow us to learn from and teach one another worthwhile outlooks and practices for living a good life, despite all its bizarre ups and downs. Through such moments, we cultivate a sense of humor to combat hopelessness; we learn to recognize the absurdity of our own fears; we participate in the giving and receiving of compassion in ways that strengthen us for the next time we fall flat on our faces. This is what all the stories and artworks in this journal get at in one way or another. And in sharing them with you, we hope they not only bring you joy and laughter, but strength and companionship, whatever it is that awaits you—this next turn around the bend.

—Nicholas True Huffman, Editor-in-Chief (2018–2022)

Image by Christian Cojoc

Image by Mason Campbell

PROSE & POETRY Will Walker John Grey Jordyn Becker Michael Sandink Scott Lewis Rob Cook Sue Allison Virginia Schnurr Bill Garten Conor Watson Judy Myers Nicolette Reim Sam Ambler Marian Calabro Bill Garten Peter Beardsley J. Macon King Sandra Newton James Speese Denise Davis Hannah Potts

8&9 11 & 12 13 14 16 & 17 18 19 & 21 22 23 25 & 26 30 32 33 & 35 36 38 39 40 & 41 42 44-50 52 & 53 54

Jacqueline Mellor Jordyn Becker

56 58

Stepping In It My Connection Options Carrot Envy Cousin Neil Messengers How to Find Lost Things Leggy Choice Subduction Zone Heart Murmuring Cat Glimpses Death Conversation Almost False Arrest Mangia Bianco Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy Bad Weather for a Run All Saints Waking Saint Lighthouse (A Portrait) City Quiet The Strength of the Body, The Fragrance of the Spirit Glass Beach A Transverse Orientation

VISUAL ART & PHOTOGRAPHY Susan Solomon Christian Cojoc Mason Campbell Mario Solorzano Jennie Lau Nikhi Aum Chauntelle Murphy Scott Lewis Vyolette Hastings Vyolette Hastings Anna Hardacre Khanya Hlubi Mary Jane Tenerelli Roger Camp Mason Campbell Susan Solomon Autumn Hughes Kiddo Pan Mark Millicent Matthew Usukumah Vaidehi Sadiwala Christan Cojoc TJ Reese Renee Freville Danian Arguello Nina Samuels Lauren Sapperstein Mark Millicent Mario Solorzano Sarah Cryan Julia Lauer

Cover 5 4 7&8 10 13 15 16 18 20 21 22 23 24 27 28 & 29 31 31 32 34 37 38 39 41 43 48 51 53 55 57 59

Petroglyphs Rainset Untitled Epiphany Zorro Show, A Lesson in Consent Through the Isolated Eyes Khai Carrot Envy Cousin Neil Matryoshka Tooth Monster The Feminine Perspective Alone Side of the Tracks Reflection Window Trials and Tribulations Petroglyphs Grass Icarus Tiger Energy Power Dead Raves Furious Mime & Hydration Fond of Flowers Untitled Habits of the Heart Fountain Women Sloth Raku Masks Step Into Tahoe Rain Ginger McWay The Butterfly Project

STEPPING IN IT by Will Walker

So easy, first thing, to greet the morning. Perhaps not with a winged heart. But greet: Hello, you dark halls, avast, aching knees and somewhat weary spirit. Be still, giant can of worms called psyche. Leaning heavily on the lid, proceed to ablutions and appetites, prescriptions and self-medication in the form of legal drugs–– read: coffee. Brain engages as if settling into the gunner’s seat of a cranky tank,

Images by Mario Solorzano 8

ready for action. And then the dog pukes after leaving a cold pile of dookey in a special place, right under the ball of your heedless right foot. Life, as we say, gets interesting. Plans change to include another visit to the vet, and soon you find yourself envying your dog’s health plan, gold-plated all the way. That can of worms you’ve been leaning on overturns and spills out, making demands. You scrap your plans for peace on earth. 9

Image by Jennie Lau

MY CONNECTION by John Grey

The plane departs late. And it spends an hour or more circling Washington airport awaiting okay to land. Meanwhile, I’m in my seat, squashing the empty peanut packet, cursing, under my breath, everything from the pilot, to air traffic control, to time, to the nation’s capital, to the woman in the seat beside me who’s been all the flight working on the one Sudoku problem. Finally, we touch down. I have a half-hour to make my connection. I’ve no idea what terminal it’s taking off from. The airport’s so huge, gate D47 could be in Delaware for all I know. And then we taxi like we’re stuck in Times Square traffic. And the idiots deplaning in front of me move like snails in a heat wave. Finally, I get off that damn aircraft and begin what amounts to a marathon but at a sprinter’s speed. I do my best Usain Bolt imitation up the escalators, outrun the moving sidewalk, pace up and down in the inter-terminal subway car, burst through its sliding doors like a quarter-horse, then slalom through crowds,

at high speed, to my gate wave my boarding pass at the scanner before my final lap down to the tunnel, into the jet, to seat 26A, the only empty, strap in, then let out a sigh long and loud to be heard through the first-class curtains. Skip ahead six hours, and I’m kissing and hugging you like I’ve been on Shackleton’s Antarctic expedition and not a two-week business trip. Meanwhile, every other guy who could have been hugging and kissing you either missed their next flight, or had engine trouble or a three-hour layover, or trotted when they should have galloped. There were even a few who made it with me this far. But those dumb fools are now hugging and kissing other women.

Image by Nikhi Aum

OPTIONS

by Jordyn Becker I don’t know if I am ready to spread myself onto your toast, but to remain twisted inside a glass jar seems worse.

CARROT ENVY

by Michael Sandink Just think: dirty; defined; defiled. Now, there’s no need to get riled I’m just telling you what’s up! And no, it’s not a turnip, nor a parsnip nor a quick quip made in jest in a hole it rests—untouched, tended, and ripe for the pluckings the Great Girth of it growing out from the depths of a mind to pick or a kind manic prick or a manic prick in kind. O! mirror, mirror, on the wall! Root veggies always make me feel small! i mean, Just think: flirty; refined; beguiled. Carrot top crests the crust of Gaia—with lust. Dashing little Daucus! Nature’s stocky lovechild resting, waiting for the pulling, and the scrubbing and the rubbing but Ye of small stature, deformed and decrepit Beware! (it’s the pits) the Carrot Cockpits of despair!

Image by Chauntelle Murphy

COUSIN NEIL

Image and story by Scott Lewis “He always has to do something, and this is one of his stupidest,” Travis said in a mock subtle manner, hoping to be heard. A resigned shrug from Carla. “What can I say? He thinks it’s funny. You gotta give him credit for always coming up with something different.” “If he wasn’t your cousin, we would never invite him.” “Is that so? I guess you can do without the cases of wine he always brings. I don’t see your friends bringing anything. Oh, wait, there was the time your buddy Dave made the Peppermint Fudge Cake that tasted like toothpaste. Yeah, real gourmet stuff.” “Ok, ok,” countered Travis. “Yeah, I admit he is generous, but it comes with a steep price, his showing off. Plus, Neil never lets anyone forget that he brought all that wine or goat cheese

dip or whatever. Besides, Dave apologized for forgetting to add chocolate to the cake mix. Personally, I thought it was a very refreshing cake.” Carla sighed. “It’s real important to Neil that we invite him. He does not take criticism well and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Totally agree, he is embarrassing, but everybody gets it and expects it. They know he will make a fool of himself; it is only a matter of when. He is my cousin and that is just the way it goes. Don’t be surprised by anything he does.” “I’m surprised that you are saying I shouldn’t be surprised. So his crazy behavior should not be a surprise? If he chose to do nothing, that would be a surprise. So acting normal would be the surprise, but doing something ridiculous would not be a surprise?” “I have no idea what you are saying. I think you are putting too much into this. Give him a break.” “He is like a little kid on a sugar rush with a big allowance,” a frustrated Travis responded. “Neil wants everyone to notice him – he craves attention. Remember when we went to the Natural History Museum? Little kids were crying they were so scared. Idiot thinks dressing as a caveman carrying a club is funny? And those boxers he was wearing under his loincloth! Security stops him and what did he say? ‘Caveman good. Dinosaur bad’. Lucky he did not get arrested. Or when he invited everyone to a surprise birthday party picnic for Gia and he skydived onto the blanket. Should have known something was up when Gia said her birthday was not for months. “ “But you have to admit he provided a nice lunch. He gets the best olives. Unfortunate that he dropped the bottle of champagne while floating down,” defended Carla. “Serves him right, getting caught in a tree. He talks a load of bullshit. That story about saving his company millions and that he was voted employee of the year. I thought he said he was a nautical accountant with his own business! And who asks for quiet and then gives himself a toast? How about that model he said he was dating but we never met? Seemed she was always away on an exotic shoot. I don’t believe for a second that she drowned in a lagoon because her bikini got caught on coral.” “Listen, give the guy a break. He wants to be liked and does not realize he is going about it the wrong way. He wants to be the life of the party. Although I will never forget that bathing suit he wore to the beach. I did not realize they make thong swimsuits for men.” “He called it his Neil-kini. Too much Neil, though not enough kini,” Travis sarcastically replied. Beth smirked and protectively stated, “He really does not mind people laughing at him. Not at all self-conscious. Kind of an admirable quality in a way.” “Who’s the guy standing on his head?” asked an amused Tara. “Oh, that is her Cousin Neil”, Travis scoffed. “Why is he doing that?” “He always does screwy stuff like that. He will be glad you noticed him.” “I am impressed! That is a surprisingly good headstand.” “Not a surprise. It was expected,” said Travis. “Not standing on his head would be a surprise.”

MESSENGERS by Rob Cook

Messengers who deliver unwelcome news have never been particularly popular. They may have traveled many miles braving the elements and wild beasts. But does the king say well done? Not bloody likely. No, if the king doesn’t like the message it tends to be more like off with his head. It’s an understandable reaction. When a message upsets us, it’s tempting to pretend we just didn’t hear it, but that’s hard to do with that annoying messenger standing there. These are my thoughts this morning as I stand in front of the mirror plucking out another gray hair.

Image by Vyolette Hastings

HOW TO FIND LOST THINGS by Sue Allison

I lost a bracelet. It was a present from my husband on a milestone birthday. I wasn’t immediately ready to tell him I had lost it. Presented with a problem, he has one response: the need to fix it. And since this wasn’t something he could fix, I would fix it myself, as in finding it. How hard could that be? Where could it have gone? It was in the house somewhere. I hadn’t “lost” it; I had merely forgotten where I had put it. I could have told my husband that, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate the subtlety of my categorization. So, why didn’t I want to tell my husband? I didn’t want to tell him because I didn’t want him to think I didn’t care about the gift; that I was indifferent to it; that I wasn’t wearing it. I didn’t want him to think poorly of me, that I didn’t deserve nice things because I didn’t know how to take care of them. I wanted to protect him from the stress of being presented with a problem he couldn’t solve. I didn’t want to be the problem he couldn’t solve. Or maybe it was because I didn’t want to confess my irrational method of storing my valuables, which was to hide them. Not only hide them but then change the hiding place. I don’t even want to confess that here, since it makes me sound ridiculous. I sound ridiculous to myself. Who was this would-be thief lurking around my house I was trying to foil by changing a hiding place to another hiding place when they, obviously, hadn’t found any of them? But the fact remained that I couldn’t find the bracelet, and I felt an urgency to rectify this situation before my husband noticed I hadn’t been wearing it and said something. My strategy for finding something I lost is to clean. Don’t look for the thing; just start cleaning, and it will show up. I am irrational about storing my jewelry, but I am methodical about finding it. I would scour the house from one end to the next. I would look for it as if it were my job. I started with the obvious place, but the obvious place was, obviously, not terribly obvious, so I moved quickly on to known hiding places, which I will not reveal here. I worried I might have come up with a new one. So that was a problem. But I had confidence in the system. Besides resulting in the found object, of that I was sure, this system gives me a sense of purpose. I am cleaning my house. This has the added benefit since I am engaging in a positive activity and distracting myself from negative thoughts: how could I have been so careless; what was I thinking; what was I doing the last time I wore it; why did I take it off, I never take it off; what is wrong with me; am I losing my mind? (The bracelet was, after all, the kind of gift you get when you turn the age you never thought you would, so it’s a kind of compensation, since you never thought you’d get a gold bracelet either.) That kind of negative thinking is what I use the distraction of cleaning to free myself from. Distraction is known to be good for problem-solving. Once you stop thinking about the problem you want to solve, the solution appears. Archimedes is famous for discovering two things: the relation between surface and volume, and that taking your mind off a problem can open your mind to solving it.

Image by Vyolette Hastings

So I clean. I don’t mean brooms and brushes, vacuums, and Windex. I mean getting on your hands and knees, up on ladders. I mean cleaning the hidden, closed-off, neglected spaces, the shelves, behind the books, the cabinets, the drawers, the desk drawers, the dressing table drawers, the kitchen junk drawer. Why I have a junk drawer I have no idea. I stuff everything I don’t know what to do with at the time in it until I can’t open it and, when I decide to clean it, end up throwing everything out. Needless to say, the bracelet was not in the kitchen junk drawer. So, there I was, simultaneously driven by worry, practical, psychological, emotional, and existential, and happily giving my house a thorough cleaning. I went through every nook and cranny, tossing and organizing as I went, being very productive, but coming up empty. After two weeks of this, I was nowhere. So I started back from the beginning of my search and found the bracelet where it belonged: in my jewelry drawer, one of the first places I had looked. But looking is not only a physical act. It’s psychological. I was still too stressed—it was the first mad rush—to see what I was looking for. I was ecstatic. I heaved a huge, silent sigh of relief. But a slight disturbance accompanied this joy. Now what was I going to do? Having found the bracelet, I missed having something to do with my days. I lost looking for something, and I missed that more than I missed my bracelet. I had thought I had lost my mind, and then when I found I hadn’t, I knew I had to do something with it; I had to get back to work. It was easier to look for what I had thought I lost than finding what I hadn’t.

Image by Anna Hardacre

LEGGY

Image by Khanya Hlubi

by Virginia Schnurr Because I’m leggy, I expect to get where I’m going. Last September, I sat on the stoop outside my therapist’s office, legs clothed in zebra tights. As he drove up, I stretched my limbs forward. He asked, had I been waiting long? I nodded. He unlocked the front door. Commenting on the crisp weather, we climbed the stairs to his office. To facilitate, I held his Dunkin Donuts coffee as he tried a number of keys on the next door. “Only one left to go,” he said. I smiled patiently, attributing his confusion to my long legs. Inside the office, in our chairs, we revealed a few scars on my leggy being. He drank black coffee to stay awake. Forty-five minutes of not being sure 22 where I was going, my legs braced like a proper lady.

CHOICE

by Bill Garten I grew up in a yellow brick house in West Virginia, too small for a family of six, soon to be just five; it was that planter by the window which scared me from going to the only bathroom downstairs at night. I scurried back upstairs because the plant looked like a wolf —so I peed the bed I shared with my now-middle brother, who beat me up every time it happened. I learned to just crack open our second-floor window and pee out, arching enough clearance—no matter how cold the winter. Even when the twelve-year-old twin sisters next door nightly stared—it was still less embarrassing, way fewer bruises.

Image by Mary Jane Tenerelli

Image by Roger Camp

SUBDUCTION ZONE by Conor Watson Duncan’s seat is to be found towards the back of the class. Here sit the boys who demonstrably do not care about geography or passing exams. They loathe those who do, a miserable cluster of nerds towards the front. Duncan would like to earn a seat at the very back of the class, where sit the boys who are both hard and cool. Duncan has no insecurities about his hardness. A bulky lad, he simply forces his victims to the floor and sits on them until their submission is total. Coolness is a trickier quality to attain: for that, a member of the miserable cluster must be mocked with sufficient wit or cruelty. But the cluster has learned to ignore the taunts and endure the minutes until the ring of the bell or the return of the teacher. * The teacher, Mr Ogilvie, has more important things to do than educate his class. He’s just heard that the chronically ill mother of the delectable Ms McGill, the politics teacher, has finally carked it. This is too good an opportunity to miss, so he’s heading in the direction of her classroom. This time, he’ll pretend he’s misplaced his laser pointer. Ms McGill, since she arrived at the school a year ago, has proved a tough nut to crack. Mr Ogilvie is neither convinced that she’s one of them, nor that she can resist his swashbuckling, joke-soaked, roguish charm for much longer. She can’t be cured of her Englishness, thinks Mr Ogilvie, but he’ll certainly help with her integration. * Duncan, hard but not cool, neglects the chapter on plate tectonics he’s been told to read and sets about making the most of Mr Ogilvie’s absence. He scans the cluster, singles out Mark with the awful psoriasis. Duncan warms up with some obvious fare about whether the snowstorm outside was caused by Mark’s itching. A few titters sound from the very back of the class. Duncan then asks Wayne, the Jehovah’s Witness, what he’s getting for Christmas. More perfunctory chuckles, but it’s not enough. Frustrated, Duncan starts on Kaarima with the hijab, tells her to take her towel off. Kaarima immerses herself in the mid-Atlantic ridge and awaits the return of Mr Ogilvie with rock-like stoicism. Duncan’s eyes fall on the nearest member of the cluster, Jill. * Ms McGill’s class is quietly reading about totalitarianism when Mr Ogilvie knocks and enters. He ushers her into a corner, stands too close to her and stage-whispers a clunky apology about her dead mother. He believes delivering this sentiment in front of her class displays uninhibited emotional articulacy. Ms McGill patiently listens while trying to formulate a sentence to express, concisely and delicately, that she finds Mr Ogilvie overbearing, tedious, smelly, obstreperous, ignorant, unfunny and unattractive. She fails to do this, so unsmilingly thanks him for his concern. Satisfied that he is winning over her affection with his sensitivity, he forgets the pointer and saunters back to his class, badly humming “Brown Eyed Girl.”

* Duncan’s unsure where to start with Jill. There’s the white foundation and black lipstick. The fishnet tights. The God-awful metal shite she’s into. The pierced septum. That weird, spicy scent that only greeting-faced freaks like her seem to reek of. Duncan unleashes his verbal assault, a clumsy mishmash of all his visual, musical and olfactory objections to Jill’s existence. Jill, well used to being a target, reacts as she’s always done to Duncan’s nonsense. She rolls her eyes and stares straight ahead, looking perfectly unperturbed. Duncan decides to play his trump card. He’s recently learned Jill has a disabled brother who attends the special needs school, so he feigns an impaired voice and asks after him. Duncan awaits the approving laughs from the very back of the class, but is instead rewarded with the sight of a furious girl with a pierced septum, a mad bipedal bull, charging at him. * Plodding down the corridor, Mr Ogilvie plots his next move in ensnaring the delectable Ms McGill. An art exhibition followed by fajitas? That should do it, the good old culture/cuisine dream-ticket. His tuneless humming increases in volume. He would like to think this projects to the world his easy-going nature, his fearlessness in the face of all the challenges life may hurl at him. But the people who encounter him always register an overly confident, workshy teacher fond of murdering popular tunes. * Jill in her entirety weighs about as much as one of Duncan’s legs, but she nevertheless launches herself, boots-first, into the nearest one. As Duncan stands up to defend himself, she sinks her fists into his belly, all the while babbling colourful expressions of love for her brother and hatred for Duncan. In such an encounter, the laws of physics will eventually prevail. Duncan grabs Jill as she comes at him for a third time. He pushes her backwards and she topples onto a desk as easily as if she were a cardboard cut-out. Duncan, filled with a rage which has nowhere to go, is compelled to slap her face. Jill calmly rises, spits on Duncan and returns to her seat. As Duncan returns to his, he glances at the ranks of the back-row boys, who look aghast. Duncan knows he will never join them. He’s vaguely aware of some unspoken code about never hitting lassies, but he’s seen that rule broken, plenty of times, at home. * Mr Ogilvie re-enters his classroom with a big smile on his face, badly humming at top volume. “Brown Eyed Girl” absorbs the poisoned atmosphere and drops to the floor with a thud. Instead of looking at him with the usual distaste, every single child is staring at the floor. Something has happened, but Mr Ogilvie feels acutely ill-equipped to find out what. He takes immediate refuge in the chapter on plate tectonics. As he’s speaking, he looks nervously at the pupils, who all secretly wish he’ll never again leave them alone. None more so than Duncan.

Image by Mason Campbell

29 Image by Susan Solomon

HEART MURMURING CAT GLIMPSES DEATH by Judy Myers

A cat quandary, a query fifty thrums a minute gasps startle her usual silence she recedes, shshshsh slows her breath to ease The mostly silent, silvered soul waits by the door reasons, reflects a cat’s way of ken She was feral forsaken, a snipe wandered to the warm dryer She knows everything sees the stunning motion to follow—fill her lungs? her heart flickers, flits away

her breath quickens white fur throbs swirled into a sphere curls to find calm soothes, cushions, quells. stalks the hallway, mute what she fathoms only the routine of habit creature’s privilege forlorn street kitten, cast-off huddled, spinning in the glow nothing slash of sparrow wing Fateful resignation its own dream of wings flying

Image by Autumn Hughes

Image by Kiddo Pan

CONVERSATION by Nicolette Reim The small egg on the ground was the size of a thimble. I pick it up. It is speckled. One side caved, inside a dark clump. I show it to the boy. Let’s open it, he says. The shell powders beneath his fingertip, leaves behind the barest outline of a beak. If we hadn’t found it, no one would know it had existed, I say. Pretty heavy, he replies.

Image by Mark Millicent

ALMOST FALSE ARREST by Sam Ambler

I’m walking down the street, see, breezy, easy, sloughing off the cold with my hands in my pockets and my head held high. I’m singing up a storm, singing street songs, sweet songs, singing out loud ’cause I’m feeling real good. Just walking down the sidewalk, hopscotch, hip toss, strolling down the walk not minding where I’m going, going home by habit, keeping warm by humming, not minding what I’m thinking, not watching the cars. When quick stop, heart flop, lights flash, cops stop, talks sharp, one short, fat cop calling: “Say, buddy, hey, can we talk for a minute? Now I don’t say you did it, and I don’t say you didn’t, but you’re in the vicinity and you’re wearing his clothes. First I got to check for weapons, put your hands on your head, feels clean, just a second, spread your legs, hold still, got to check there too, still clean, good for you.

Where you been? Where you going? What are you doing? Where do you live? Where do you work? Have you got a driver’s license or any ID? Let me see it. Let’s see: How tall? What weight? Color eyes? Color hair? This your present address?” So he radios HQ, Okay, I admit it, radios for reinforcements, I’m guilty; I’m the one, radios the suspect’s name, I did it; take me in, radios for rap sheets, Let’s go; lock me up, radios about me. Now wait just a minute; I didn’t do whatever it’s supposed to be. People walking down the street, see, eyes looking, faces looking, lots of nameless people looking, thinking, Ooh, they caught some guy, wonder what he did, People thinking, He’s guilty, people thinking, He did it, people passing by thinking, Yep, he’s the one!

Images by Matthew Usukumah

Already I’m thinking when I see the people thinking what I know the cops are thinking, then I can’t stop thinking like they think I should be thinking: Okay, I admit it; I’m guilty; I did it; I’m the one; take me in; let’s go; lock me up,

But I hesitate, speculate, wait just a second, I been standing here thinking, thinking I did it, “could you tell me one thing? What did this guy do?” “He made a bomb threat. He’s the Berkeley Mad Bomber. He scares everybody! And we thought he was you!”

Hey, wait! That’s ME! But I tell you, I’m lucky, super lucky, while I’m standing there thinking that I must be guilty, cop’s radio static bleeps, buzzes out phrases only cops can decipher, but the sounds have meaning and they mean I’m free.

So I’m walking down the street, see, shaking shaking shaking

shaking shaking

shaking shaking shaking shaking sh

Somewhere else they caught the culprit, somewhere else the guy is guilty, somewhere else he did it, thank God not me. “Say, sorry, buddy; hey, sorry for the trouble, for taking up your time. Thanks a lot for stopping, thanks for helping us out. What about this report? I’ll just tear it into pieces. Look, I’m ripping it up. Say, buddy, sorry, you can go.”

MANGIA BIANCO by Marian Calabro

Fear is food that feeds more than the stomach. John cooked well enough. He learned by watching. Made himself two soft-cooked eggs for breakfast, trembling, with a thin skin on top, yokes ripe. Chicken broth with pastina for lunch from a box with a cherub on the front. Mary did dinner, veal cutlets Milanese, she sometimes cut her finger when she sliced the lemons paper-thin. The blood cooked in. Mangia bianco. Eat white. Food that slips down, no hard chewing. Still, you must swallow. John—two Johns—father, friend—eaten up too soon. In the pages of their colons, their pens filled the margins with notes in red ink.

Image by Vaidehi Sadiwala

TAKOTSUBO CARDIOMYOPATHY by Bill Garten

The ether they placed over my nose and mouth, knocking me out when I was seven getting my tonsils removed really stayed with me. My parents nor my doctors told me about that sleeping part. Sometimes as an adult now, when I drink single-malt scotch, I think I am still trying to imitate that surprising nothingness, that blackness I’ve experienced during operations. Takotsubo is Japanese. It means “octopus pot” or “trap.” It is also a syndrome when the left ventricle of the heart spontaneously enlarges. The EKG shows what looks like a heart attack. A patient has troponin levels that are elevated, and it looks like the patient’s heart could stop. All this is brought on by extreme emotional pain. As the nurse gives me my cocktail right before the cardiologist slips the catheter up my groin artery, he shoots his escaping black squid’s dye into the river of me. I see my brother who got a pain in his shoulder while painting shutters on his home last summer. He went to his doc. His cancer cells zoomed through his blood, jumping off onto his bones as if his bones were circus nets waiting for trapeze artists. My brother died in ten months. I told my oldest brother not to tell my mother. But he did. Older brothers don’t listen to younger brothers. The last time I saw Mom at her nursing home, she did not recall Joe, but upon the news, she remembered. Mom laid down and within a week she was trapped: Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy. Goodbye, Mom. Joe. Me.

38 Image by Christian Cojoc

Image by TJ Reese

BAD WEATHER FOR A RUN by Peter Beardsley The snow hits my skin like birdshot, but I keep running. I push into the freezing wind until my face goes numb, my fingers, my ears, until the world dissolves into a cold sting. My ragged breathing is a desperate prayer. I want the wind to set its hooks into my skin and peel it off. I want to leave behind those parts of me which hurt, bloody chunks in the snow. I want the numbness to push past my skin, and reach my heart.

ALL SAINTS

by J. Macon King “Look” my friend says Stained glass protected by window glass Between clear and the stained true stains—one thousand bees Dead. Trapped, one foot high honeycombed catacombed carcasses brittle, desiccated Above Tomales Bay Steep hill, hoary pine bearded lichen-covered hairy fingers gesture Lonely Craftsman church St. Helens. Steeple, oddly on ground Mission bell remains “Here” he points Likewise trapped writhed in pain skeletons of birds Wing bones spread as limbs of Christ For Christ’s sake, I say. “That’s what she said” ......Who? “Some girl. I took her” Bay fog slithers around us He points “There” Rocky deer trail to knoll “Spread my motorcycle jacket down”

You mean...you...? He shivers. Smiles. I contemplate bee remains

Horrible death. Trapped in peace and beauty for Eternity Does God still live here? I ask, Really? After seeing this? “Hey, if you’re not the one dying... Life goes on.”

Image by Renee Freville

WAKING

by Sandra Newton I watched my father die and did not see the mist/It could be a clouding of the mind that kept me from it.

from “Mist” by Kirk Wilson, quoted with permission of author.

I wake early this morning to feed the restless cats Clean out their yesterday’s-dinner dishes And I recall how much you loved these dawn-breaking hours The sky barely pink at the horizon And stretching lazily to dispel the night With all the pastels touched and warmed by the sun. This was your time of day Puttering softly through the house Checking that locks were still locked Thankfully unaltered and secure from the day before Because you were a keeper of routine Because you husbanded time As you did your summer vegetable garden every year Pulling out the unruly weeds Staking each plant into its rightful place Puffing your pipe to confuse the gnats And gently relocating each offending insect From the tomatoes’ fuzzy leaves. Finally, you slipped out to the silent yard To the seat that you had so carefully positioned to face the dawn And smoked your pipe and sighed and leaned back To let the sun’s soft hand caress away the chill on your cheek And shine bright sparkles of light behind your eyes To confirm the quotidian dawn, the mundane magic That was the secret of your serenity But unknown to your careless daughter Who slept away these hours until she lost you And has to make her own peace with each dawning day.

43 Image by Danian Arguello

SAINT LIGHTHOUSE (A PORTRAIT) by James Speese

He sat tired on a large rock in the center of the stream. Far up the brook and on the shore, his family absently continued with their picnic. The boy, ten years old and adventurous, had waded through the rapid water to this rock, which stood like a statue, a monument in the middle of the stream. The water swirled about it, soaking his bare feet dangling over the side. The sun was shining. It was springtime. He stared downstream, away from his family, and watched the rapids flowing over the rocks. There was a lot more out there to explore. But there was also plenty of time. He lay on the sun-soaked rock and was reminded of lying on the warm pavement next to his neighborhood pool. He remembered sitting in his backyard, surrounded by distant buzzing insects and dandelions, the green grass clinging to him. He remembered watching cars rush past his house, speeding from someplace he’d never been to someplace he’d never be. The water, like those cars, rushed past him swiftly, gurgling and splashing from the past into the future. It was vaguely frightening. He closed his eyes and listened deeply to the water rushing. The stream became a lullaby, singing him softly to sleep and haunting his dreams. * Jon Lighthouse was actually smiling as he mindlessly typed the numbers on the checkout register at King’s Discount Department Store. Usually, Jon didn’t smile much. After recently graduating from high school to end up working as a department store clerk, he was pretty much a cynic. Which was why it was so strange that now, in one brief and completely unspecial moment at King’s, he felt genuinely special. He wondered why he was smiling. He was relieved that no one asked him. Instead, the customer in his lane asked him how long the present sale lasted. “Saturday is the last day,” he answered, smiling like a simpleton at nothing. These days there wasn’t much that could make Jon Lighthouse smile. Only his best friend, Fred Simon, could really make him react anymore, and Fred was away at Penn State University. Jon had apparently become kind of numb. He tried to figure out something he enjoyed, something that thrilled him. There wasn’t much anymore, except maybe tennis. He loved playing tennis—it was the only sport that really excited him anymore. He could spend hours just playing tennis. He was a lousy tennis player.

Many things in Jon’s life were going to change, and change sooner than he thought—at least consciously thought. Deep in Jon’s subconscious were vague ideas and images from his upcoming life. But like everyone else, Jon ignored his subconscious, keeping at bay for the moment the deluge of dreams and memories that haunted his mind. And despite all these upcoming changes that waltzed along the edge of his brain, one thing would remain constant in Jon’s life: He would be a lousy tennis player forever. Jon concentrated a moment on Fred Simon. Throughout high school, Fred had been Jon’s best friend. He’d had other acquaintances, but few friends. A lot of people, curiously, hated him, including a few teachers. Jon gathered that this was because he’d pretty much ignored high school. Everyone always told him that he should’ve taken school more seriously. His parents, some of his teachers, and even a few of his fellow students knew that he was a lot smarter than he let on. He once took an assessment and scored the highest in the school. His guidance counselor told him his IQ was in the genius category. After that, he was put into advanced classes. Suddenly he had twice the work. During the next assessment, Jon fell asleep. His teacher woke him. His snores were disturbing the other students. Eventually, he was placed in easier classes again. This was okay with Jon Lighthouse. Now, Jon simply typed and numbly stared ahead, vaguely trying to remember something. He remembered haphazardly. Memories came to him at random. He didn’t even seem to recognize them all. One random memory was of himself in the hospital when he was ten years old. He had caught some kind of virus, and his family doctor had prescribed tetracycline. But he hadn’t gotten any better. He’d just gotten worse. His fever had reached 103 when they carted him to the hospital. He was given a spinal tap. Spinal taps had often saved lives, often discovered unique and invisible diseases and thus offered cures, but the doctors still couldn’t find out what was wrong with Jon Lighthouse. Slowly but surely, Jon slipped into a coma. The only thing he had to be grateful for was his roommate, Robert Gumphrey. Robert was in the hospital because of a strange case of chronic hiccups. He didn’t hiccup in like everyone else does. He hiccupped out. His hiccups sounded like burps. Jon and Robert would laugh all night over Robert’s hiccups. They kept the other patients awake. Then they’d be interrupted at six in the morning for Jon’s blood tests. Jon hated blood tests. He hated the hospital. The doctors put him through all kinds of tests, including a brain scan, to find out what was wrong with him. The day Robert Gumphrey was released, Jon fell into a coma. He never even got Robert’s address. He would never see Robert again. Eventually, he would forget the sound of Robert’s hiccups. This would often make him cry. Jon was easily driven to tears over many such strange things. At night he would often watch late movies all alone, and cry. Or whenever he saw images of starving children in Africa

on those late-night commercials. He would even cry while watching happy movies. He never understood why. The doctors stopped giving him drugs when he fell into his coma. He began to recover almost immediately. It turns out that he was allergic to tetracycline. The doctors who were supposed to save him had almost killed him. For some reason all these random memories were racing through Jon’s mind, a deluge of past experience, as he continued smiling like an idiot at King’s Discount Department Store. Then the checkout’s phone rang. Mary, Jon’s supervisor, lifted the receiver. “Hello, check-outs,” she answered. Her voice was so sweet and charming that it made Jon sick. In fact, it made everyone sick. Jon suspected that she was aware of the sickening power of her voice but that she didn’t particularly like anyone. He suspected she was happy to sicken people when she spoke. “Okay, I’ll tell him,” she lilted. Jon’s smile almost faded. “Oh, Jo-o-n! Jane would like to see you.” Jon focused for a moment in an attempt to remember who Jane was. Then it came to him. Jane was the HR manager at King’s. She was a recently divorced young woman, a very sad person who always tried to make others happy, expecting the same in return. Some people are so naive, thought Jon. Jon knew what she wanted. Dave, the security manager at King’s, kept track of everyone’s register. Jon’s was always over or under a slight amount. Every week Dave and Jane told him about it. They never took any action though. Jon liked Jane, but he hated Dave. All Dave ever did was suspect all the employees of stealing. He always tried to catch them. He hated everyone. His joy came in hurting other people. He loved to watch employees break down and cry. It was his favorite pastime. He was really the exact opposite of Jane. They were lovers. Jon wasn’t very good at math, but he was fast with his fingers. He’d often brag that he was the fastest checkout operator at King’s. He was also the least accurate. The reason that he wasn’t very accurate was that his mind wandered while his fingers did the work. He would just be daydreaming, imagining himself painting bizarre images. Or, he suspected, forgetting everything about his life and then desperately trying to remember, to piece it back together. Mostly though, strange phrases would run through his mind all day, phrases that seemed purposeless and mostly incomplete. One was “’cause it’s not good enough.” Another was “if I want to, I can shut it.” Another was “we all have our own crosses to bear.” He never understood where these phrases came from, and he usually forgot them by the end of the day. And sometimes, as Jon’s fingers punched, he would remember the past, remember falling down the stairs as a child, or lying in a hospital bed, sick from tetracycline and doctors. And sometimes, Jon would remember strange glimpses into the future, see vague impressions of things that might someday happen to him, staggering in a daze in the hot African sun, waving to well-wishers in a large crowd. Then customers would interrupt him.

He was supposed to say “Thank you for shopping at King’s” as customers left. He found, after two years, he could only accomplish this with a smile when, as he said it, he actually thought “Fuck you for shopping at King’s.” Occasionally he’d accidentally say it aloud, but the customers never noticed. Jon usually had a blank look at work. Everyone thought he was on drugs, but he wasn’t. He was just bored. Still, his fellow employees called him “Marijuana Man” or “The Quaalude Kid.” Jon vaguely wondered how he had gotten here, how he’d become so apathetic and cynical. He wondered why he was so bored. He wondered when the boredom would end, or even if it would end. Jon, his mind wandering, smiling like an imbecile, turned the key that closed his register. He handed the key to Mary. “Okay, Jon. Hurry back!” Even her saccharine voice failed to spoil Jon’s stubborn smile. Jon began to walk to Jane’s office in the back of the store. As he passed the checkouts, he came to the bargain book table. He stopped and stared. Lying on top of all the other books was a light blue, hardbound book with its author’s name printed in thick red letters on the cover. The author’s name was Dick Christian. The name tickled his memory. Jon’s smile grew. He thought that was a great name. Mindlessly, he grabbed the book, then continued his journey. Halfway to the back of the store his thoughtlessness was interrupted. “Jon? Jon Lighthouse?” Jon stopped and turned, wondering who was trying to distract him now. He faced a skinny young man with glasses, but to Jon, the face was a blur, a pale collection of dots. Slowly, and with difficulty, Jon connected the dots. “Bill Gallagher?” he asked the finished sketch. “Yep. Goddamn, how are you?” Bill had gone with Jon to St. John’s Catholic Grade School. Bill had always been a straight-A student. Jon hadn’t. But Bill had always sensed an intelligence in Jon, a kind of kindred spirit. Jon had always wondered why. Seeing Bill’s face brought back another rush of memories. Bill Gallagher had been a good artist at St. John’s. Jon Lighthouse had been an artist as well. There had been exhibitions for Bill’s art, but not Jon’s. Bill drew trees and sunsets and pictures of Jesus. Jon drew monsters and deformed naked people and pictures of war. Once Jon drew a picture of Jesus dying on the cross. Nobody liked it. Jesus was so bloody that you couldn’t even tell it was him. It could’ve been anybody. Now this avalanche of memory, spurred by the reality of Bill Gallagher staring at him in King’s Discount Department Store, faded. “How’s it going, Jon?” “Okay.” There was a pause as both young men reminisced. “Do you remember Brother Joe?” Jon shook his head.

Image by Nina Samuels

“Man, don’t you remember? The Jesuit priest who taught sex education? The meanest, most strict disciplinarian at the school? Nobody fooled around in Brother Joe’s class.” Bill Gallagher laughed at his own joke. Jon, staring vaguely but directly at Bill, nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Man, everyone thought you were so cool for arguing with him over that stupid essay on ‘morality.’ Remember? In front of the whole class?” Jon nodded again. “Yeah,” he said again. “I got sent to mini-court. And I flunked sex ed.” Jon was always getting into trouble at St. John’s. In the fifth grade, the year Jon was destined to be hospitalized for tetracycline, St. John’s had set a method of dealing discipline called the “mini-court.” It consisted of students and teachers who meted out justice to particularly troublesome kids. Jon had a long and drawn-out mini-court record, mainly for talking back to teachers and getting into fights. Bill Gallagher laughed. “Man, I never got sent to mini-court. What was it like?” “Um,” said Jon. “And I can’t believe you flunked anything,” laughed Bill. “Everyone knew you were so smart. As smart as me!” A lull fell over the conversation. Bill Gallagher quickly broke it.

“What are you doing these days?” “Working here.” “You?” Bill asked in disbelief as if he couldn’t accept any kindred spirit to have fallen so low, “Working here?” “Um.” “Oh.” Bill paused and swallowed this fact like trying to swallow a live squid. “I’m going to Notre Dame now,” he added. “Oh. That’s nice. I, um, have to go.” Bill Gallagher had never gone to mini-court, had never talked back to anyone, especially Brother Joe. Bill had never failed sex ed or any other class at St. John’s. Eventually, though, Jon got kicked out of Catholic school. All through his deluge of memory about Catholic school, and his brief surreal conversation with Bill Gallagher, Jon had kept smiling. Now Jon walked slowly and mindlessly along the aisles. As he did so, he passed the various customers of King’s. Most of the employees made fun of the customers here. These customers were poor. They were minorities. They were old and senile. In short, they were riffraff. Jon firmly believed, despite his unique “thank yous” that he was so indispensable to King’s because he was so nice to his customers. He identified with them. Despite his white suburban upbringing, he felt like a minority too. He felt somewhat senile. He was out of place. He, too, was riffraff. He stepped up the stairs to Jane’s office, for some reason imagining oceans far away, and knocked on the door. “Come in,” said Dave from inside. Jon groaned inwardly, then opened the door. Jane sat behind her desk, with Dave sitting in the front. On the wall was a plaque that read, “Your wardrobe is not complete until you wear a smile.” Jon was still smiling. His wardrobe was complete. “Hi, Jon,” said Jane, smiling too. “Hello.” “Hi, Jon,” said Dave, smiling too. “Let’s not beat around the bush,” said Jane. Dave giggled at some inside joke. “Your register was low again this week.” “That’s four times in a month,” interrupted Dave, “And I’m afraid, well…” Jane found it hard to continue. “That’s cause for termination. I’m sorry.” Jane’s eyes were filled with sympathy. Jon stared ahead, not really comprehending the conversation. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. Dave chuckled. “You’re fired,” he said. “Oh.” Jon’s smile faded briefly, his wardrobe faded into incompleteness. He looked down. Floating in his hand were the words “Dick Christian.” He noticed the title of the book. It was Dreams and Memory—An Explanation of Genetic Memory and the Significance of Déjà Vu. Ironically, he felt he’d seen that title before. He felt himself sweating.

And he suddenly remembered sweating only about a year earlier, sitting in the hot sun on a Sunday in May, waiting for the principal of Roosevelt High School to hand out diplomas. Jon’s whole class had been sweating that day. They’d just sat through a long speech about values and hope for the future. They all wore the obligatory black robes. The speaker had been a minister from a nearby church. No one remembered his name. No one ever remembers his graduation speaker’s name, thought Jon, not even ten minutes after the speech. Jon had been cracking jokes the whole time to Fred. They’d spent the afternoon making fun of the minister and his boring speech. Jon was very witty. No one denied that. He wasn’t yet nearly as mindless as he’d aspired to be. Sitting behind the minister had been the principal, the school superintendent, and the class valedictorian, Tracy Spencer. They were sweating too. No one was special. When his name was called, Jon remembered stepping up the platform and politely taking the diploma box from the principal. Jon had been tired. He had sweated all his energy away. The sun was affecting his brain, burning that away as well. He was perilously close to the mindlessness he’d apparently coveted all those years in high school. He’d smiled. “Congratulations,” he’d said to the principal. Now Jon looked up at Dave and Jane. “Thank you,” he said. His smile returned, completing his wardrobe “Thank you,” he added again for emphasis. * The water was rushing by him. The sun cast shadows of trees across the stream. It was late afternoon. He’d awakened afraid, afraid that he’d wasted all his time, his entire day, sleeping on a warm rock, getting sunburned, with his bare feet dangling in the stream. He woke feeling ready to cry. Then he tilted his head slowly toward the sun. There was still plenty of time to explore further downstream. He stood and stepped into the cool water. It was a beautiful day. He watched the water rushing by. He stepped with it, moving downstream. He realized, strangely, that he was happy. And this made him smile.

Image by Lauren Sapperstein

CITY QUIET

by Denise Davis Tonight, an open balcony door serves as a reminder of my season ticket to a rarely applauded, yet delightfully entertaining performance, produced and directed by natural law. Those who will see tonight’s repertory only as a source of inconvenience and irritation void their reserved ticket. All are welcome. So few attend. The light dims, as other free souls join me this evening. We become one… we listen, we watch, we see, we are. >>>> THE CURTAIN RISES >>>>> First, the youngest, the inexperienced understudies reluctantly setting the scene. Irregular pitter-patters on the dry insatiable pavement, their roles begin and end with soft percussion. Now a cast of millions, dutifully running to their places on stage. As it must be… as it always is. Each fulfilling roles of interchanging constant movement. Rumblings of thunder provide a moving accompaniment. Those who select the sidewalk land quietly, unequaled in grace. At rest yet anticipating the well-placed shoe…the recess…the change…the ever so slight whisper of vacuum. Tonight, many are happily destined for the gutter with its promise of freedom and strength. To travel far and touch the unknown that is always anciently familiar, enlisting limp scraps of paper and textured autumn leaves into their ranks. Multitudes, coursing in intuitive union, roar as they go by. And finally, the greatest loved stars enter, offering us only a fleeting glimpse as they pass through light beams supplied by the diminishingly spaced street lamps. On impact, they dart impatiently across the wet blacktop, searching out the speeding tire that will return them skyward. We wait. We watch. They rise. 52

There in the light, all is silent as they perceive themselves in the new arrivals. Then, once again, they descend to become the whole. (These performers are only seen and never heard). But all free souls know that… Tonight’s performance is brief. . . . the storm has passed.

Image by Mark Millicent (when the players begin to take their leave, I ask if I might bring you next time. In answer, they swoop up over the railing and kiss my face. You see, they are most affectionate in late September). 53

THE STRENGTH OF THE BODY, THE FRAGRANCE OF THE SPIRIT by Hannah Potts When I walk, I marvel In myself, the oneness of me In the strength of the body And the fragrance of the spirit The wonderful worshipfulness In the tilt of the head And the sound of footsteps The loneliness of living in a body My body remembers The wrong I’ve done to it The work I’ve demanded of it Torn from it with hooks and chains All the effort of my body It’s keeping of my soul, tender Running reminders to my mind That it exists, a thing of flesh and joy My body shelters my mind A gentle sort of strumming tune Makes electric hopes run in my brain To wake my thoughts, to sing Bones of stardust, gleaming white A spirit made of something Strange and startling, my spirit A thing science might call holy I celebrate my brain and body My spirit flowing like scented smoke A thing of wonder, my body A thing I call a miracle 54

Image by Mario Solorzano 55

GLASS BEACH

by Jacqueline Mellor On the coast in a little town in Northern California, there is a beach covered in glass. The cove, where it is hidden from view, is encased between rocky cliffs, towering over the wreckage scattered across the quarter-mile of space. In the light of the midday sun, light sparkles on the craggy rocks, dancing shades of browns and greens, rolling hues of blue. This glass used to be from a dump on the beach and, once the dump was moved, the wreckage of all the broken glass was left and no one wanted to clean it up. So they left it there. And the seas rose, and the waves licked these pieces like only the sea can do. And they left it there. After decades of crushing against itself and the rocks and sand and water, the glass is rounded. It is soft. And now the beach is a landmark. Something to sneer at, nose pointed towards the sky, now turned beautiful. But people come to the beach now and take the glass. After all those years of work, pieces are being stolen. It happens slowly. After so long, the value is seen and taken. To be put in a vase somewhere and forgotten about. To be left on a windowsill to gather dust. The beach is almost clean again now. The odd mix of sand, black and gray pebbles, and fragments of shells coming together. A monochrome image developing under light. Like it once was all those years ago But that’s not the whole story anymore.

Image by Sarah Cryan

A TRANSVERSE ORIENTATION by Jordyn Becker

I wake to moths, speckled & white, clustered around a window, flying hectically, few managing to grasp the glass illuminated in harsh yellow by the bedside lamp. My mouth is dry with a thirst unquenched by water. I take a stroll & find myself sitting cross-legged on the wet sand of a beach in blue pajamas. Every wave is alive, scintillated in brilliant whites by the moon. A whip of wind shakes my body, salts my taste buds & aches the bumps on my bare arms. Like moths, I follow the light & walk into the water, into sparkling foam. I’m just trying to find my way.

Image by Julia Lauer 59

STAFF

Nick Huffman, Editor-in-Chief

Sequoya Casey, PR Manager

Phoebe Coogle, Literary Editor

Jillian Briare, Visual Arts Director

Special thanks to Jaqueline Martinez for her continued support, thoughtful feedback, and positive presence throughout the rigorous process of review and design. Your effort and kindness are greatly appreciated. Also, special thanks to our top volunteer this semester, Abigail MacDiarmid, for bringing her creative enthusiasm to our Friday meetings, for sinking her hard-earned free time into reviews, and for offering up ideas that were crucial to the development of this edition of the journal. We really enjoyed working with you, and we hope you will join us again in the coming semesters!

The Brushfire is the oldest literature and arts journal at the University of Nevada, Reno. Established in 1950, this nationally recognized, biannual publication provides an opportunity for emerging artists and writers to publish and share their work. With each iteration of the Brushfire, we strive to represent the diversity, originality, and interests of our community. Athelas is the body copy throughout the book. din condensed is used for the headline text and din alternate is used for names and page numbers respectively. Greenerprinter San Francisco & Oakland printed this FSC-certified, 8.5 x 5.5-inch book on 100-pound paper. As a UNR organization, we also strive to be the creative outlet for our student body. Our priority is to connect with the various art communities throughout Reno. However, anyone may submit to Brushfire. While we focus primarily on student and Reno-based work, we continually receive and publish art from across the country. To all of our submitters: we greatly appreciate your creativity, dedication, and love for the arts and freedom of expression. You are what makes Brushfire unique. Thank you. Brushfire received the 2016 ACP Best-0f-Show Award for Literary Magazine, and received an honorable mention for the 2017 Pinnacle Awards.

WANT TO HAVE YOUR WORK PUBLISHED? Brushfire publishes bianually. We accept all printable forms of art. Our deadlines for the spring and fall semesters can be found online. To learn more about submitting, visit us at unrbrushfire.org Have beef with the journal? Let the editors know! brushfire.staff@gmail.com Copyright © 2022 Brushfire and its individual contributors. All rights reserved by the respective artists. Original work is used with the expressed permission of the artists. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. The opinions expressed in this publication and its associated website and social media are not necessarily those of the University of Nevada, Reno, or of the student body. Brushfire is funded by The Associated Students of the University of Nevada.

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: Brushfire Staff : Petroglyphs Rainset : Susan Solomon

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