Brushing 2022 by Brushing Literary Journal

brushing. art and literary journal 2021-2022

CELEBRATING 50 YEARS Brushing Art & Literary Journal is a publication of Rollins College, Winter Park, Florida.

Est. 1972

contents The Golden Moment...........................................................................................6 Sarah Fosdick What You Remember..........................................................................................8 Alexandra De Felice Sapphire Eyes.......................................................................................................9 Elizabeth Smith Chipped Nails......................................................................................................10 Corliss Cranwell Dance with Shadows.........................................................................................11 Caitlin Cherniak ’18 Phyneus’s Abracapothecary: Legendary Items and Clever Curios........12 Lucille Stull Beautiful Ghosts.................................................................................................14 Brendan Manning .................................................................................................................19 Jackson Willis The Essentials of Others Are Killing My Artistic Heart..........................20 Caitlin Cherniak ’18 My Father in the Woods.....................................................................................22 Barbara Hughes Snow Globe..........................................................................................................24 Siobhan Cooney 50TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL.....................................................................29 Something........................................................................................................... 41 Hannah Butcher Host Body............................................................................................................42 Making Islands...................................................................................................46 Kara Wright Miscreation: Misgender....................................................................................48 Lucille Stull Will This Bite?....................................................................................................49 Dassika Gilkey

Rotten Pomegranates........................................................................................50 Savannah Horrell The Real Girl.......................................................................................................52 Sarah Fosdick ....................................................................................................54 Chadwick Sterling ’10 Providential Eye................................................................................................56 Jackson Willis Hurricane-Proof................................................................................................61 Natalie George

visual artwork Manifest...............................................................................................................25 Alysia N. Rivers Rodriguez Convite.................................................................................................................26 Amanda Judd ’95 Garden in the East.............................................................................................27 Adrianna R. Arosemena MountainScape..................................................................................................28 Emily Crain Magical Mystery Mist Descends.....................................................................37 Margie Sullivan A Moment of Truth: For Bebe.........................................................................38 Karlye Martorelli In the Palm of My Heart..................................................................................39 Karlye Martorelli HOPE....................................................................................................................40 Nana Takano

content warning In order to make our content accessible to all readers without censorship, we have added asterisks (*) to the title of every poem and story with sensitive content. It is up to the readers to decide whether they wish to check the marked stories for sensitive topics, or read on without knowing the nature of the piece. Topics we deemed worthy of warnings were depictions of sexual assualt, behavioral misgendering, dementia, alcohol/ substance abuse, racism, and death, as well as violence and use of weapons.

EDITORS’ NOTE It is with great excitement that we present the Golden 50th Anniversary edition of Brushing Art & Literary Journal. Not only does this mark an incredible milestone for our publication, but for our Rollins community as well. From the very start of production, the amount of involvement and demonstrated interest in this year’s edition has shattered thank you, truly, for your investment in preserving such an important artifact of our liberal arts institution. Your support allows us to thrive as a distinctive and inspired space for student creativity. To commemorate the 50th Anniversary, we have included a special “throwback” insert halfway through the journal. It features reprinted literary works from notable Rollins express how honored we are to contribute to such an important legacy. As you make your way through the journal, we encourage you to take the time to read the personal statements that accompany each story, poem, and work of art. Some are traditional biographies, while others read like memoirs. Regardless, this is a special opportunity to engage in a conversation with some of the creative minds of our Rollins Brushing would not exist. it will inspire you to produce something of your own. Brushing is committed to diverse creators and content, and we’d love to hear your story.

curate and polish the pieces included in this year’s publication. Thank you to our Head Designers, Jaianne and Dassika Gilkey, for bringing the 50th to life and elevating Brushing to a new aesthetic level. Lastly, thank you to Greg Golden and Victoria Brown for your expertise, guidance, and commitment to the success of Brushing.

All the best, Siobhan Cooney & Sara Mehdinia Co-Editors-in-Chief

DESIGNERS’ NOTE Brushing team over the past couple of months. From visiting the printing sites to choosing the materials we wanted to include in the journal, we cherished the freedom and possibilities available that allowed our ideas to come to life. Overall, assembling the issue, inspiration, and meeting and working together have enhanced this experience. Our creative process began with the intention to emphasize and celebrate the Golden 50th Anniversary of Brushing. We thought, what better way to do that than with a Great Gatsby inspired theme to allude to its regal essence? Immediately, the team was drawn to materials like blue velvet and gold foil to elevate these elements and consistently took inspiration from the archives to inform our vision for this year. When approaching the visual theme, reactive to the submissions we received, the body (both as a whole and in parts) infused with nature. Graphics of illusion, combined with an old, sleek minimalist style were intended to bring something new and unique to Brushing, while keeping connection to the designs of preceding issues over the last 50 years. There’s something tender about the human body and strong emotions that we felt could best be illustrated through simple, yet delicate line art, and we wanted to implement that relationship from each of the pieces selected. As designers for this issue, and twins in real life, we were happy to work together because teamwork’s always been a natural strength in our creative pursuits. This Brushing, which sealed our involvement in every department of Student Media. We’re super honored to be a part of this special 50th anniversary publication and hope that the lines on the page run through your veins just as they have traveled through ours. All the best, Jaianne & Dassika Gilkey Head Designers

THE GOLDEN MOMENT Sarah Fosdick

position in which to situate your body. Otherwise, even one micro-discomfort will inevitably hinder my ability to think deeply about nothing in particular— trapping me forever in the uncomfortable “I-must-scratch-my-ass-now-bardo.” my head and the rough pavement. I have pushed my AirPods deep into my ears,ensuring that I won’t fumble to readjust them later. However, once my last cigarette waiting for me in my jean pocket...and how convenient is it that my lighter happens to be in my wallet! Now I must dare to move my hands yet again to light it, and then—once I have found that golden zen-like, not so yogi masterlike position (the “laying-down-with-a-cigarette-in-hand” version of downward dog)—I will be absolutely transcendent. I reach down into my pocket and fumble around for the cigarette. It’s not there, damn it. Then I remember that I changed my pants, running my old pair through the wash with the cigarette still in the pocket. Shit. Now I have to stop at the gas station. Putting my feet in my sneakers is too much of a struggle. God forbid I untie my shoes, so I leave my heels exposed over the folded backs—a risky move because I must tread quickly—I don’t want to miss the sunset. When I get back to my spot on the driveway after my arduous trek to the gas station—this time with the cigarettes—I have missed the warm glow of the sunset. And now it’s chilly. I debate whether I should light a cigarette or go back inside and get my jacket: another cigarette it as much as I can until I put it out and go inside. I go to my room, choose my grungy but cozy sweatshirt, and go back downstairs to the driveway. I sit down, and retrieve my second cigarette: it’s clean, smooth, and oh so beautiful. This time, I am settled. Just as I am about cream and sugar… That would really take me to that next level of maximum comfort and bliss. So, I go back inside and make myself a cup of delicious

Back to my spot on the driveway again, this time equipped with cigarettes, my sweatshirt, and comfort. This is it. I put my sweatshirt on, push my AirPods back into my ears, start my music, light my second cigarette, and a dim shimmering starts to peak out from behind everything. I fumble around for a better position, skip to an I feel like those people you see in old movies, whose timeless faces appear contemplative yet perfectly content—forever lost in the moment at I have reached it. I close my eyes and savor this highly anticipated, tranquil space in my head for a while. But instead of completely diving into this space, I can’t help but to replay my trip to the gas station. My guy rang me out today. He had been squatting outside, peacefully smoking his cigarette and watching the sun set. When he saw me, he quickly put it out, went to the counter, and handed me my pack. I almost felt bad for interrupting his evening smoke, but he seemed eager to see me. He’s pretty goofy, and I was preparing for his wild statement of the day. I looked down at my red, pulsing, damp heels didn’t say anything. I put my card in the slot and waited for it to process. He held out his hand as if he were holding change, and like the absent-minded idiot I am, I held out mine, The familiar act of cupping my hand to catch the change confused my muscles, and my hand tingled. Of course, there wouldn’t be any change. During the long, embarrassing seconds of coming to this realization, a playful smile slowly widened on his face. signal to go inside. Maybe if my AirPods hadn’t died, I would stay out here longer. Next time, I’ll make sure they are charged all the way. I’ll also bring some bug spray. And a blanket. And I won’t embarrass myself at the gas station . I need to wake up a little bit. I head back inside to go to bed, but I lay awake for another hour—most likely

“The Golden Moment” is about the never-ending search for comfort. The main character designs an elaborate set-up to achieve this comfort only to fail because of arbitrary outside forces and thoughtful yet ironically trivial decisions.

WHAT YOU REMEMBER

Alexandra De Felice

This poem is about dealing with the emotions that come with someone in your life developing dementia. the constant back and forth between grieving what has been forgotten and feeling guilty for grieving when there are memories that she still

I wish you would remember the trips to the botanical garden the adventures in the ocean and the naps at the planetarium you remember some but not enough maybe I should just be grateful for the memories you still have crafting ceramics in the atrium dancing on coolers at birthdays cooking rice for havurah but part of me aches when you forget a name, a place, a moment when I ask a question and you don’t have an answer when you can’t remember where we parked where we’re going or what we ate for lunch I wish you would remember more but at least you have what’s left *Content Warning: Dementia

SAPPHIRE EYES Elizabeth Smith Mirror, minor, moreover, might I miss my maybe life, Wishing, dreaming, foreseeing as a child— A life taken from me, perhaps, Or a new life given? Mirror, minor, moreover, might I see a sea of constellations, A life altered to witness, Now, I know. As a child, I wished for eyes as light as the summer sky, Living amongst the artists, hoping for a decadent divine, I stepped forward— A tsunami of ocean waves engulfed me, Reality rushed its rhythm reeling me, Questioning, Oh, Queen of the Universe— As a woman, I admire my eyes as dark as sapphire, A depth depicted far before my realization, I wheel forward— An abundance of sun rays encircles me, Reality wrapped its wrath awaiting me, Awaiting me—

My name is Elizabeth Mary Smith, and I am completing my bachelor’s degree in Music and Communication while graduating with a Master of Public Health by 2024. I am passionate about women’s empowerment and disability rights. As a student leader, I serve as an executive member for multiple student organizations. I am also the CoProject Planner, with Dr. Parsloe, to create Empowerment Week at Rollins College (March 2022).

Mirror, minor, moreover, slashed with bravery, Triumph, stride, bold as a woman— A life revealing who I am, Those sapphire eyes.

CHIPPED NAILS

Corliss Cranwell

Corliss-Rose Callan Cranwell, Class of 2024 I hope more women feel the power to write through the pain.

I bite my nails It’s a bad habit I tried to nab it But I get so nervous in this house Memories of the pain It was my 16th When he peeled the lace– As I’m unwilling, forced to lay Having my innocence defaced I bite my nails Because Once I needed them to claw my way out– And all they did was chip

*Content Warning: Sexual Assault

DANCE WITH SHADOWS Caitlin Cherniak ’18 Shadows are ghosts of memories. They come out at night when you least expect the fantasies, and you start to feel them again. As I sit alone under the moon, on the empty sidewalk with a suspicious spider, I look over the lagoon I keep exchanging vertical glances to see if the shadow of you will appear — The shadow that resembles the chance

My name is Caitlin Cherniak. I graduated from Rollins College in 2018 as an English Major, Theater minor. I write novels by hobby trade, but I also like to poetry in my spare time. I have published work in Brushing and the Independent previously and for Down in the Dirt’s online magazine.

The question runs in circles like a dog chasing its tail. The question of remaining love hides in the shadowy black fog and clouds the bright stars above. As I dance with my shadow, I wait for yours to join, and lately, the truth is heavily prevalent. I fear that fate is steering me away from youth. a desert of fake grass and thin trees. My tears and romantic heart avoid me to cut the ties from the wishing to the logical mess. All that haunts me now are false hopes and wishful thinking as I drive home to reality. My head tells me to move on from hopes, yet my heart will weigh me with broken gravity.

PHYNEUS’S ABRACAPOTHECARY: LEGENDARY ITEMS AND CLEVER CURIOS Lucille Stull

Lucille Stull is a storyteller who works and poetry. Their poem “Phyneus’s Abracopothecary” is an exploration of one of their favorite fantasy genre character tropes: the old mentor who gives the hero the special item they need to complete the quest. What if the mentor used to be the hero? And what does they have passed their prime?

The bell at the door chimes. Someone new begins to wander between the shelves. I can feel their footsteps: slow, methodical, afraid to disturb the amber motes hanging in the air. the spines of books with titles abandoned and fading in the sun. I can feel their head cock at the crystal orbs when they catch glimpses of images waltzing inside. Ears strain towards the stained glass bottle, A siren’s song inside. And I remember dancing between the cabinets and curios before collecting dust.

“May I help you?” “Hm? Oh, no thank you.” “Alrighty. I’m here if you have any questions.”

I mean it. I’m here. It is easier to navigate behind the counter. There are thousands of stories sitting on the tip of my tongue about the subway token that belonged to the Vox Populi of New York City, The single earring listening to its lost counterpart like a walkie-talkie. between the discarded crown of the pirate king and the planter root. Between and underneath the weather altering umbrellas, They lift the Sword of Sortilege by the hilt Incorrectly. But there is a counter in my way and stitches over my hip, and I have become the things I sell: An old legend, lying in wait to be needed.

BEAUTIFUL GHOSTS Brendan Manning A late autumn breeze greeted Daniel as he entered the cemetery with a chill strong enough to reach the bone. He refused to make eye contact with the pale white statue of Mother Mary, her sad eyes would follow him for the duration of this meeting. He stopped to hang his red scarf on a low branch nearby to pass the time; the branch wilted under the pressure, resembling the strangled neck of a corpse. He made his way over to his father’s grave and sat down on the damp grass. Daniel took a deep breath––the steam that escaped brought him comfort on the dark, starless Pennsylvania night. He shivered while taking tea into each cup respectively and placed them on the tombstone in front of him, as if it were a table. Daniel thought nothing of it while mixing in cream and sugar. Don’t people always have tea parties with their deceased relatives? Maybe not, he thought. “Hello, Daniel,” the man said, his voice haunting yet serene. He sat on the stone facing his son. “It’s been a while since you’ve visited me. I almost thought you had forgotten.” for me after school.” His father looked at him with a painful look in his eyes, as if the memories that were lost long ago had suddenly resurfaced. Daniel opened the front door. “I’m home!” he called, setting his backpack down on while sharing details of their days. Sometimes his sophomore-year high school stories eclipsed the tales of his father’s workday, but Daniel never noticed. The tea kettle sat empty on the marble counter. There were no cups in sight either. His father stood at the other side of the room and put down his briefcase. His shoes were on, a rare occurrence for someone who typically worked from home. “Dad? Are you going somewhere?” Daniel asked.

His father looked at him with sad eyes. He touched the hospital bracelet on his wrist. “The doctor wants me to stay over tonight.” “What happened? I thought your numbers were going down.” “They were going down. But now they are back up.” The green tag was louder than either of their voices. Daniel looked away. “Does Mom know?” “Yes. She’s on her way home from work now. She’s allowed to come with me to check in.” “Can I come?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. “They don’t allow visitors because of the pandemic.” everything.” nerves to tell his son the truth. “Just remember that whatever happens, I’ll always be with you.” Daniel closed his eyes, taking in the scent of aged wool and apples that stemmed from his father’s sweater. The same old sweater that Daniel would wear as he poured himself tea after school every day since, regretting that he seldom asked his dad any questions about himself. The sound of his father’s voice echoing through the dark and empty kitchen. Maybe the news would have hurt less if he didn’t work from home, thought Daniel. He fought hard to forget the way he argued with his mother after learning that his parents had been walking on eggshells around him for months, keeping the relapse a secret from him. His father looked down at the cup of tea. “I’m sorry. I cannot consume anything in this form.” “Oh, right.” Daniel looked down, embarrassed, and brushed away dead leaves. “How are you feeling?” He repeated the question he had asked so many times when visiting his father in the hospital grave. “No longer struggling.” His bones were frail, he looked just as he had the last time Daniel had been with him in the hospital—before the disease took him away. Daniel merely nodded uncomfortably and held his hands around the cup, letting the warmth burn his freezing hands. “Why are you up so early this morning?” his father asked casually. “I had to get blood drawn the other day,” he said, shattering the ‘I’m He looked down to avoid the pained look in his father’s eyes.

“And… How did that go?” “The tests came back negative. It just hurt.” “The needle?” “No. Well yes, that hurt too. But I thought about you having to get blood transfusions every other week without ever complaining. And somehow that hurt me more.” Daniel pulled up his sleeve to show his dad the bandage around his arm. His father reached for his hand and grasped nothing. Daniel pretended he could feel the ghost’s touch. “At least the nurses are nice, right?” “You always tried to make the best of a bad deal.” Daniel sighed. His father smiled, the same way he had when Daniel sat down next to him in that grey hospital room. Machines buzzed all around. While relieved in the absence of the nurses, Daniel worried that if something went wrong he would be unable to do anything in time. “How are you feeling?” he asked. His father could barely sit up in his bed, let alone answer a question. He breathed heavily, gasping for air. He turned his head and smiled weakly, probably struggling to do that much. Daniel held his hand and waited for a response. A train that would never come. He wished he had been able to come visit when his father was still able to speak. Due to the pandemic the hospital did not allow visitors, with the exception of a patient ready to let go. It for this reunion. Tubes and wires connected to his father pumped blood into his heart. He looked like a rusted version of the Tin Man, desperately in need of an oil can. There really is no place like home. Daniel wished something would happen, for better or for worse, nobody should have to struggle so hard to live. He breathed deeply through his face mask. His mother came in with the nurse to pull him away. “It’s time,” she said. He couldn’t bring himself to look back over his shoulder on the way out. The machines continued to beep more rapidly.

A dog barked from a house at the edge of the cemetery, bringing Daniel back to the present. “Do you think the dog sees you?” “Maybe he only sees you.” His father’s eyes twinkled. “How is the afterlife treating you?” Daniel asked to avoid the fact that he could be imagining all of this inside his head. “Have you reunited with your parents? Or shaken hands with your favorite president? If you see Malcolm, please don’t forget to tell him my favorite song. I always think of you when I

put that record on.” His father sighed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to give it to you myself.” “It’s okay, Mom did it for you.” “Have things improved between the two of you?” “I guess. I mean we’re talking now. She just likes to pretend it never happened, that you never even existed.” Daniel sat beside the Christmas tree, staring at the twinkling lights. His cup of hot tea sat untouched on the table beside him. The presents he had wrapped for his father mocked him from their permanent spot under the tree. “Aren’t you going to open that one?” His mom gestured to the neatly wrapped square in his lap. His father was notorious for his sloppy wrapping paper skills, and this certainly was not the work of his father. Looking at it, he cringed even more in his absence. Daniel slowly unpeeled the tape and unfolded the paper. He picked up the record that he had admired in the store window only a month ago. It felt wrong to hold in his hands after wishing so hard for it on that rainy day in November. How the times have changed. The eyes of Mac Miller on the cover did little to remind him that everything would be alright. His mom didn’t wait for a reaction before placing a hand on her son’s shoulders in an attempt to soothe him, although those were not the hands he craved. She knew no boundaries, the same way she did not hesitate to get rid of every scrap belonging to her dead husband following his funeral. All except the old wool sweater which Daniel had held onto stood half empty in a never ending suburban nightmare. The skin under his bandage pricked with painful memories that tugged at his heart seams. A whole year hadn’t even passed since then, but the memory hurt as if it had just happened yesterday. There was much to be said but very little that could be spoken of. “The doctor told me that it often can’t be detected so early. He told me to come back every few years.” Daniel looked into his father’s eyes, the same eyes he saw every time he looked into the mirror. Eyes might not be the only things he inherited from his father. “So you’ll go back and get checked. I always did. There was nothing to detect now so there’s no reason for you to be worried.” His father said, reassuringly. “How would you have liked it if I just sat down and sank into despair from fear of dying? You would not have had the happy life you had.” Daniel felt warm as the sun began to rise, casting shadows over the trees–– shadows of his past. He smiled, grateful to remember those happy

days. A young Daniel pedaled fast uphill to catch up with his father’s bike. “Stay behind me.” “Why?” “What if it doesn’t stop?” Daniel’s dad smiled but didn’t speak and continued to pedal faster, racing to the top. back to the same spot on memory lane. Daniel smiled softly as tears pricked his eyes, he fought the urge to let them fall. His father rose from his seat on the stone and looked towards the amber sky he used to love so much. “You should go now, Daniel. Don’t want to be late for school.” “It’s senior year, I don’t really care about being late anymore.” He laughed, remembering all the times he had yelled at his dad in the car for making him late. “Go, now that you don’t have me to blame for anything.” his neck. “Remember,” said his father, “I will always be with you. Just keep in your heart the memories and there I will always be.” The dog in the distance had ceased its barking as the shape of his father vanished in the sun’s soft rays. Daniel stood up and vowed only to was the sound of the whispering wind; gentle but fading.

Brendan is a second year junior majoring in English who, despite the dark tones of this piece, dreams of working (and writing) for Disney. He is him to write and submit his work, and for entertaining his rambles on everything from Barbie to Johnny Depp.

AFFLATUS

Jackson Willis

in the style of the Petrarchan sonnet. The title comes from the Latin word for divine inspiration, but it also sounds a bit like this was appropriate, given that the poem is sort of about a muse gone malignant.

She toils at her craft for hours on endless Watching helps not in easing her burden Peace comes with death, not till her last word in Denouement as preface, the heart in stress Now the observer must go on friendless Muse without artist, here comes the curtain Object inverts, it’s his turn for bourbon He can’t refuse when abyss begs ingress But maybe there’s more, and maybe it’s good Maybe there’s beauty to see on the dive He watches the carpet where once she stood The dead can be mined to help the alive Something like honor, to do as she would To drown is sordid, not so is to thrive

*Content Warning: Death, Alcohol/Substance Abuse

THE ESSENTIALS OF OTHERS ARE KILLING MY ARTISTIC HEART Caitlin Cherniak ’18

Dull this world of its colors. Take creativity apart. My way with words falters, replaced by language commonplace. away, left me without grace. “Art is for those who live poor,” Speaks the rumor people spread. “Art is a maid at the door. Pay her and she’ll leave you dead. Money sustains pleasures long. Money buys you an easy life. The lark does not have a song. Stab imagination with strife. Art confuses the logic for those who work for potential. The death of art, indeed tragic, gives birth to the ways essential.” The essentials of others are killing my artistic heart. Dull this world of its colors. Take creativity apart.

What about those who are wealthy by artistic virtue? Their happiness seems to far exceed those logical and true. “But have you watched the news, pet? Have you seen them die from the stress? You are too young to go yet. There are more crucial things to press. Consider the family you have yet to form and father. Consider the underling who will look to their mother or father. They need your intelligence. They need your spoils and fortune. Why misguide in gentleness, throw their dreams without caution? Shame you will bring, an artist. Shame you will bring, a young dream. This world is better artless. Kill your darlings, you redeemer.” The essentials of others are killing my artistic heart. Dull this world of its colors. Take creativity apart.

MY FATHER IN THE WOODS Barbara Hughes

Dear Brushing, Thank you for considering my poem, “My Father in the Woods.” As an emerging writer, I am grateful for the time my work receives. I am currently an English major here at Rollins College and a senior. As a Rollins student my life has been evolving since I set foot on this campus and started my new life journey. Writing has opened new worlds for me. In my spare time, when I am not studying or working, I love to create poetry, and have long conversations with the moon.

My father standing tall, from the roots up, doesn’t hear me when I call yesterday, I ran to the trees to listen My father’s smile is a celestial globe with eyes that are sea-blue under the glossy crescent moon his gray hair shimmers into pale waves, his strong legs, like tree trunks, sink into the milky sweetness of the cosmos as he walks away from frozen-over footprints

My father’s voice is like a songbird singing through the silence his teeth like pearls blowing smoke out in rings misting the windows of our house he stands in the night like a ghost My father steps into the void toward consciousness and away again the earth’s drum carries him against the urban wind scattering his ashes for miles

SNOW GLOBE Siobhan Cooney She willingly gifted him her heart: a snow globe. Fragile, crystalline, asking to be handled with care. She allowed him to wrap both of his hands around it, though perhaps he was unaware of the power of his hold. drowning in a sparkling swirl of hope and heartache. Held in sweet, suspended animation was an indescribable feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was there for barely a moment. It was there just long enough to nurture the enchantment before everything else fell around her. Little pieces of herself winter ecosystem. Inside, she craved spring. But what is the fate of a snow globe if not to be shaken? Otherwise, it sits on a shelf collecting dust. When he looks in, he does not see the tempest he created. All he can see is the aftermath. The brilliant, cryonic calm.

I consider myself an empathic storyteller, using narrative not only to express my own thoughts and emotions, but also as an outlet to connect with forever between the lines.

This is my third year serving as Editor-in-Chief of Brushing, and I have loved being able to bring the stories of the campus community to life.

MANIFEST

Alysia N. Rivers Rodriguez

PAINT My name is Alysia Rivers Rodriguez, and I am a 22-year-old student at Rollins College. I am studying clinical psychology in pursuit of becoming a therapist. For as long as I can remember, I have used visual art to express complex emotions or experiences and this piece psychological phenomena that I have become aware of throughout my undergraduate career. Although I have assigned meaning to this piece, I encourage you to speculate your meaning before integrating mine. To me, this blue mountain horizon is conveying the law of attraction and manifestation. Manifestation is when your mind, body, and soul interact in a the law of attraction or the idea that you attract what you put out can be a powerful tool.

Amanda Judd ’95

CONVITE

PHOTOGRAPHY A traditional folkloric parade, a convite is a celebration of festivities in many rural to modern-day superheroes. The costumes can indicate celebration or even frustration of a Refuge International medical mission in the community of Purulhá, Baja Verapaz, Guatemala as a way of showing thanks to the participants from many of the patients and drivers who received services that week.

GARDEN IN THE EAST

Adrianna R. Arosemena

PHOTOGRAPHY This tryptic is meant to provoke thought and exude a sense of nostalgia. They are physical representations of the biblical relationship between the serpent, Eve and even God. One can interpret the progression of images to catalog the journey from one’s innocence of youth to an acceptance of the world’s wrongdoing and cruelty. The arm in the third paragraph may represent perspective, but with the price of taking away the irreproachability of the child. The images can also be an exposition of humanity’s downfall through curiosity. While the story of Adam and Eve is the original inspiration behind this collection of stills, the beauty of art is the power given to the beholder to interpret the work before them. This photograph was taken using a 50-year-old

MOUNTAINSCAPE

Emily Crain

embroidery textile Instead of using traditional fabric, I embroidered the design directly onto a miniature canvas I found at Sam Flax. Made to represent the tranquility of a

50TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL BRUSHING THROUGH THE YEARS

Welcome to the 50th Anniversary Special, celebrating the creative legacy of Brushing Art and Literary Journal through the years. We’ve curated a “throwback” insert that highlights a selection of reprinted literary works and cover designs published in previous editions of Brushing. Read more about our featured alumnae below:

Chelsea Cutchens Chelsea Cutchens graduated from Rollins in the Class of 2013 with a degree in English. During her undergraduate years, she served as an editor of Brushing and an intern in the Winter With the Writers literary festival. Since leaving Rollins, Chelsea has had an impressive career in the publishing industry, and she is currently an Editor at ABRAMS publishing in New York City. Kristen Arnett Kristen Arnett graduated from Rollins’s Hamilton Holt School in 2012 with a degree in English. She was an intern for Winter With the Writers and returned to speak for the 2019-2020 season as a renowned author. With Teeth: A Novel (Riverhead Books, 2021), and the New York Times bestselling debut novel Mostly Dead Things (Tin House, 2019). She holds a Masters in Library and Information Science from Florida State University and currently lives in Miami, Florida.

UNDERWORLD Chelsea Cutchens ’13

water table. I became the ant, the earthworm, the chalky bones beneath your feet. The yellow canary singing in the mine shaft was long past, three stories above this mirror-walled box and its Muzak. I wanted to fashion for you a kingdom of dirty diamonds down there, but the bleached overworld beckoned.

OFFSPRING Kristen Arnett ’12 The cortisone shots aren’t working. Regina knows by the nests of hair. Piles of it; spun brown sugar woven through the bristles of her daughter’s hairbrush, sewn and draped along the white cotton of her nightgown, coating the kitchen table next to an uneaten plate of cold eggs. The hair moves and breathes and replicates itself. It spreads

her body - a sickness that perforates her young limbs, poking her joints full of holes. The lupus has turned her gait rickety; made bones ache and break with frightening regularity. A single fall down the stairs or one bad cold could end her daughter’s life. So Regina collects those loose strands, bundles them into forget-me-nots. pages of her Bible. She searches out those brittle tufts when she dusts the shelves or when she makes the beds. Then she surreptitiously sticks the hair under her nose. Breathes in the clean, living fragrance of her only daughter. But now she’s not cleaning; she’s preparing their lunch. She sings hymns under her breath as she slices up apples with the sharp edge of her kitchen knife. “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine.” Lately all her daughter craves are pickles, cold and crisp from the of a fresh bruise. Every time she sees her daughter, it’s a shock to the senses, like encountering a stranger in her own home. Will she be bloated, thick through the middle from water weight? Will she be slim and bony, knees cracking at the bend? So she does the only thing she knows how to do: she cooks. Regina fries up two ham sandwiches and pours cold lemonade into glass tumblers. She is certain aplomb. That’s a mother’s job. When the food is done, she calls her daughter from the foot of the stairs. “Lunch is ready.” From behind the closed door of her daughter’s workroom there is a

“Mary Flannery, I mean now.” The clacking slows and stutters to a sullen stop. A chair scrapes against table. She puts out nice white china plates for their shared meal. The center of the table holds a crystal bud vase with a rose inside, plucked damp from the to forego good manners. Flannery has her mouth screwed up in a knot, blue cotton dress a rumpled mess from hours spent in front of the typewriter. Regina notes the slimness of her daughter’s wrists as she plucks up her napkin and smoothes it across her lap. The veins in those lean arms run royal blue and pulse darkly beneath thin, translucent skin. The stranger-daughter seated across from her shares some similar features (the small nose, the overlapped teeth), but it’s her mind that’s the real conundrum. Regina can’t penetrate her skull and get inside. Mary Flannery keeps her precious thoughts locked up tighter than Fort Knox. “Ham?” Her daughter eyes the sandwich with undisguised loathing. She pokes at it with the tip of her fork, like it might be poisoned. “Eat,” Regina admonishes, pointing toward the plate. “I’m not hungry.” Mary Flannery picks up her glass and then sets it back the tablecloth. “I was working. You know that I was working.” Regina does not understand her daughter’s work. She cannot remains puzzled over their plots even when Mary Flannery explains them over and over again. There is so much violence in her daughter’s writing. So much unnecessary pain. She doesn’t understand the all-consuming drive to create, how she’ll willingly puts her health at risk to type for hours at an unforgiving machine. When Regina tries to coax her daughter from the room, it’s like pulling teeth. She can’t get Mary Flannery to sit down and have a conversation without the two of them bickering. Even when they’re together, her daughter’s not present – and at what cost? Mary Flannery enters her workroom looking hopeful and leaves it looking beaten. She emerges with her back aching, bowed, spine crumpled from the strain. And the things she writes about… There is a soft whirring from outside the kitchen window. A mellow coo and hum, and then a rustle of branches that tap-tap-tap at the glazed panes. “Those birds.” Regina slaps her hands against the table and gets to her

feet, shoving open the windows. She reaches through and shakes the branches, hard and swift. Peafowl fall left and right from the tree, unleashing angry hoots of reprisal. “Those damn birds roosting again. Your uncle is going to have a Her daughter’s face is myopic in its innocence. “Peafowl don’t distinguish between an apple tree and a roost box, Mother.” “Well, they should.” Regina sits down and tucks back into her sandwich. “And between its beak, I’m going to chase it down with my pruning shears.” “Now that’s something I’d pay to see.” Her daughter’s unwilling smile is almost enough to lessen the depth of Regina’s as she picks apart the crust of her bread. Those same eyes snag and catch on the illness has transported her back to childhood - she no longer ears her food. She plays with it. She opens up the sandwich and nibbles at the fried meat, gripping it like a savage. Regina bites her tongue against the nagging words that clog her throat (stop, don’t, musn’t). She wills herself to an unhappy complacency – at least her As she daintily chews the last of her meal, she tries out some civilized small talk. “Come to the lady’s social this afternoon. My head aches and I’d like you to specialty. Mary Flannery’s eyes narrow, and she drops the remains of her meal in a jumbled heap on her plate. Regina swallows the last of her lemonade to block

opponent as looming as Mary Flannery’s work. The work wins every time. “If your head aches, then don’t go at all,” her daughter says, wiping roughly at her lips with her napkin. They come away looking chewed and red.” Just the thought of being stuck in a room with those women gives me a migraine, so I’m no help.” Her daughter climbs awkwardly to her feet and braces herself against the lip of the table. Her crutches are still in the workroom, but she often tries to walk without them. The girl is too much like her father. He’d hidden from her, too. Edward had always kept his pain private, steadily working through the agony in his joints, covering his lack of appetite with excuses: I already ate or it’s just indigestion; it’ll pass. She hadn’t realized he was dying until he was already in his sickbed; until he was halfway into his grave. Regina supposes that the O’Connor pride makes them unable to ask for help when they really need it.

Irish-Catholic way. “Thank you for lunch, Mother.” The fabric of the dress tents around her daughter’s waist as the girl juggles her silverware and messy plate. The meal is over and Regina hasn’t gotten what she wanted. Her daughter barely ate, just poked at the food she prepared. If anything, the meal has broadened the ever-widening gap between them. Their conversation was stilted and patently passive-aggressive, and it bothers her to know that her daughter will go pour all of her real feelings into her typewriter. All of it will go into her stories, with nothing left over for Regina. Mary Flannery suddenly overbalances. As she struggles to right herself, she catches her hip on a sharp corner of the table. Her daughter grimaces, teeth biting deep into her lip. She’s hurting, must be hurting, but Mary Flannery doesn’t make a peep. Regina knows this is because she’ll make her daughter take a nap, make her lie down on the settee with a cool cloth over her eyes and her legs elevated. Anything to keep her out of that workroom. But her daughter is crafty. Though her sallow face is sheened with sweat, she never breaks. Never cries. Regina wants to hold this poor sick thing in her arms and stroke her head, tell her everything is going to be all right. Tell her that things are going to get better soon. That she loves her. But she can’t say those things out loud. So she does what she can and takes the dishes from her daughter’s shaking hands. “Let me take care of these. You go on.” “All right.” Mary Flannery pauses at the door. “I’ll go feed my peafowl. the soapy rag over the plates, she stares out the window. Through the bent branches of the apple tree she watches Mary Flannery feed her birds from a help to hear. home on Lafayette Square, tiny body slippery-slick with soap. Limbs still strong and intact, body whole and perfectly formed. This was the beginning, when Regina felt secure in her knowledge of her daughter. She’d tipped that baby’s downy head back into the water and her daughter had never cried; just clutched at Regina’s arms, latched on with complete trust. She’d understood that baby’s wants and needs; she could placate her with simple songs or dry her tears with kisses. She could tickle her behind her chubby knee and make her laugh. There was no mystery. It was all instinct. Regina just knew.

But now her daughter doesn’t want or need her obsessive mothering. Mary Flannery wants what she wants. She is stubborn like her father, God rest his soul, but this is not the life that either of them wanted for her – no husband, no children, no real life of her own. Just her work. Only her work. Regina believes in an omniscient God: one that sustains and refreshes, one that imbues every action with meaning and purpose beyond the scope of human imagination. But as she watches her only daughter wither and fade in the same way she watched her husband waste away into nothing, she prays as hard as she can that there is something that the doctors can do to make miracles happen. Edward was beyond her control, but Mary Flannery is not. Not yet. Regina refuses to stand idly by and watch the same scene play out again. If she can lengthen her daughter’s days by pulling her from her work, she’ll do it, regardless of the repercussions. She looks up when she hears a sharp bark of laughter. Mary Flannery is luring her peafowl across the yard with bits of seed from her sack, and one especially adept young male is performing tricks to garner her attention. He creeps along the brush at the side of the house – coos low and whistles shrilly – and spins circles with tail feathers not yet brilliant. Mary Flannery looks on him “Come on now,” her daughter urges, trailing seed over the bird’s head like rice at a wedding. “Show them how it’s done.” Regina holds her soapy hands to her breast and watches Mary Flannery guide the bird into an assimilated dance: one step backward, then two steps, year-old Mary Flannery – the girl who taught a barnyard bantam to follow commands. Her accomplished daughter in the Pathé news, the bright young girl who tamed her charming chicken. That same daughter who still had her whole life ahead of her. the china gifted from her mother that has followed her from home to home all her life, the same bone ware she’d planned to pass on to her daughter. But that each one carefully, sliding them back into their lonely nook in the china hutch. The screen door squeals open and the sounds of the outside world drift

passes her mother without a single word, without a backward glance. She’s already refocused on her work – if she ever left it. Her daughter goes right back to her typewriter. Shuts her door against the world. Regina bites her tongue and starts planning dinner.

MAGICAL MYSTERY MIST DESCENDS

Margie Sullivan

PHOTOGRAPHY Walking behind Alfond Sports Center on December 8, 2021, at 7:32 AM, the fog and mist were so thick, you could not see across Lake Virginia. Heading toward the Fox Lodge, I noticed that the fog was slightly less prominent near the gazebo with none near the edge of the lake where I was standing. The bright green grass and the evergreen tree juxtaposed the trees near the gazebo created a nothingness that gives the viewer the freedom and creativeness to imagine what might be in those spaces. The photo invokes serene feelings, while at the same time, a curiosity and uneasiness regarding the unknown. The fog in Orlando in December 2021 was a common happening but was only seen during the early hours of the day. I was fortunate to be able to capture a moment.

A MOMENT OF TRUTH: FOR BEBE

Karlye Martorelli

MIXED MEDIA My childhood best friend, Bebe, is the inspiration for this piece. She passed away in 2016. In the piece is a poem of hers which expresses that it only takes one person to change your life. For me, Bebe is that person. Bebe will always be that ray of light beaming through the shadows of young and old trees, shedding light on these trees of life rooted in the earth and growing towards the heavens, enduring the strong winds, the rains, perhaps losing branches, but ever hopeful, it begins again and sprouts new life, new energy, new branches. To me, Bebe is that light, that energy, that source of Will to continue, that new life. She is everything that is beautiful. She is giggling with joy. She is everything that pushes us to grow. She is laughter and sorrow. She is the moment we are in, the teacher, the moment that gives us exactly what we need to learn. 30’ x 40’ canvas, made with acrylics, spackle, oil paint stick, and pencil

IN THE PALM OF MY HEART

Karlye Martorelli

MIXED MEDIA In the Palm of My Heart, inspired by my husband, Jason. on our boat, the joy and laughter we share, and at times the sorrow. My heart is full because of Jason- because I hold him in the palm of my heart. 30’ x 40’ canvas, made with acrylics, spackle, oil paint stick

Nana Takano

HOPE

PHOTOGRAPHY I am a Junior Studio Arts major and I have always had a love for photography. This photograph represents how even when something is destroyed there is still hope shining through.

SOMETHING Hannah Butcher There’s something about you standing there in just a towel that makes me want to wrap around you like gauze Maybe it’s because I know that healing is found in damp chest hair and acne scars and your hair, splattering my dress This is what it’s like to miss someone I’m with, to ache for warmth

Hannah Butcher is an English major with Creative Writing and Jewish Studies minors. Her poetry has appeared in “Sequestrum,” and appears in “Sky Island Journal” and “The Headlight Review.” She currently serves as editor-in-chief of The Sandspur, the campus newspaper.

beautiful, you say, and I agree, there’s something beautiful about you, your naked toes on the tile, and me, my parted lips like an open wound

HOST BODY

It lived inside of her. Every day, when she looked in the mirror, it stared back at her through her veins. It mocked her. Wormed its way through her brain, in her eyeballs, on her tongue, and in her sinuses. It inhabited her. no longer owned her body but shared it with a creature that had no right to live within her. She was never alone. *** forehead with a damp rag. Vomit was in her hair. Her throat was sore and she had bruises on her legs. Her roommate was giggling. Tears welled up in her eyes, but the girl couldn’t imagine crying in front of her over something that she wouldn’t understand. She bit her tongue and didn’t blink. He kept asking her to go. The frat boy from math class. The one one who would often ask for her notes because “You just make it easier to understand.” She didn’t know why she said yes this time. He invited her out to a party every Thursday. He said that she needed a break from work and school, that it was okay to come out just this once. Sweaty men, sweaty men who break tables when they’re drunk didn’t seem like peak entertainment to her, but he just kept asking. a shut-in and telling her she needed to loosen up, that grad school wouldn’t notice if she went to one party and got a little drunk on the weekends. He wasn’t wrong, and his persistence made her wonder whether or not this was just an excuse to get closer so that he could eventually ask her to do his math work. But every time, he ended it with a smile and a slight laugh. She liked him. This time she agreed. When she walked in, she was greeted with a joint and a compliment on how her skirt made her ass look. The music was loud. It was uncomfortably that was now tinted brown from stains. There were girls everywhere. Girls with their tits out, girls with their thongs showing, girls who were way too

drunk. Girls who have bad things happen to them. Math class frat boy was playing beer pong in the next room. When he saw her, he smiled and waved her over. It made her feel good. He wanted her. But as she walked toward him she could tell he was already too drunk. The alcohol on his breath smelled sour and made her reconsider kissing him before she left. His slurred words, though, exposed a new side of him she’d never seen. A side that allowed for him to enjoy himself, yet still focus purely on her. let her bounce the ping-pong ball a couple of times. She made it in only once, yet when she did he cheered as if she’d won the football championship. He then asked her how many drinks she had. When she told him none, he shook his head and left her alone at the table with the white ball. It made her laugh. She continued to play and even forced herself to down two cups of beer. It was nauseating, but it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. When math class frat boy came back, he had two red solo cups in his morning. An excuse about how she didn’t like the taste of alcohol, hoping he hadn’t seen her with the beers. But he insisted. He said he made it especially for her. He gave her that same cute smile he always gives her. She couldn’t help but smile back and drink. Tequila. Slightly salty. Fruit juices attempted to mask the alcohol taste. It wasn’t terrible. She continued to drink and he put his hand around her waist. It wasn’t long before he was dragging her upstairs. She doesn’t remember much, but what she does remember is tripping and falling. She remembers him picking her up. Somehow he seemed more sober than he was a few minutes earlier. She doesn’t remember the white door being shut and locked, or him unzipping his pants. She was blacked out. It found its way into her body while she sat sleeping. Encroaching on her most vulnerable self. The creature gave her dreams of hopelessness and hatred, yet she couldn’t awake. She was helpless and alone. She woke up to math class frat boy shirtless next to her naked body. She wanted to scream. To cry. Both. She pulled on her skirt and headed out the door. The long walk back to her dorm room across campus seemed to stretch for miles as her insides screamed and bled. She quietly entered her room so she didn’t wake up her roommate and went straight to the bathroom. hands undid the buttons to her blouse and the zipper to her skirt. Her clothes

and arms were already forming. Mascara ran down her face. The image of a parasite gnawing its way through her organs kept replaying itself in her head. She could feel it inside her. It was eating away at her insides. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. The naked form collapsed. It writhed on the ground. Tears streamed from her eyes. He put something inside of her. He was letting it eat away at her body, letting it take over. She wanted themselves underneath her nails. It burned. Blood started to pool on her skin. Behind her eyeballs. In the corner of her stomach. between her legs. Her throat was bleeding now. Her stomach was bleeding She threw up all over the ground and herself. She was heaving. Gagging and gagging and more gagging. It was like her entire hand found its way down her throat trying to grasp the wriggling thing in her. Nothing else would come up. It was escaping. She couldn’t do anything else. Whatever he put in her was Leaving her a hollow shell for it to inhabit. The cold, gentle pressure of the damp rag brought her back from out of the shell. While her roommate was giggling, she said, “I heard you had a great time last night.” The girl couldn’t explain. You didn’t know what it feels like to have something foreign enter your body - your mind - and absolutely ravish you. You feel dead. You feel empty. You have no room to try to expel it. It is a part of you now. It invaded you, and now it will always share a space with you. She got up and left the bathroom. On the edge of her bed, she bent over and put on her right sneaker, then the left. “Where are you going?” “I have to get ready for math class.”

*Content Warning: Sexual Assualt

As a writer, I focus most of my work on the female body, particularly pertaining to the idea of the female grotesque. Mixing elements of horror, both supernatural and physical, with the female experience I tend to create stories that present very visceral and real imagery in order to evoke emotion and reaction from the reader. I seek to pursue and write about topics that aren’t blatantly discussed in order to highlight issues and instances that most people deal with daily. Within both my short stories and poetry, topics such as eating disorders, depression, sexual assault, and other mental health struggles take priority. readers to digest and talk about. My poetry, on the other hand, allows for manipulation of structure and formatting of pieces. Overall, writing is something that I have been passionate about since I was young, and being to produce pieces saturated with imagery and emotion.

MAKING ISLANDS Kara Wright

Kara Wright is a Sophomore majoring in English with a minor in Creative Writing. She has always had a passion for Creative Writing and her goal is to become a published author in the future. This piece is a found poem, one that is created using only words, phrases, or quotations that have been selected and rearranged from another text. The inspiration for this found poem was the song “Transatlanticism” by Death Cab for Cutie.

I’ll tell you how the clouds above let it out. Standing on the surface, the water, thousands upon thousands. Making islands (oh no). People took to their boats. The rhythm of footsteps silenced forevermore. The distance is farther than ever before (oh no).

Original Lyrics: Death Cab for Cutie. “Transatlanticism.” Transatlanticism. Barsuk Records, 2003. Transcript of lyrics. The Atlantic was born today, and I’ll tell you how The clouds above opened up and let it out I was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere When the water And thousands upon thousands made an ocean Making islands where no islands should go (oh no) Most people were overjoyed they took to their boats I thought it less like a lake and more like a moat The rhythm of my footsteps Door have been silenced forevermore And the distance is quite simply much too far for me to row It seems farther than ever before (oh no)

MISCREATION: MISGENDER

Lucille Stull

Lucille Stull is a storyteller who works and poetry. Their piece “Miscreation: Misgender” is an excerpt from a poetry collection they are currently working on. The poem is based on their personal experiences being misgendered as a genderqueer individual.

She lingers on a sentence She wraps herskin over another hull She crawls nine-legged spiraling a spine She nibbles on the nape behind a brain She-mandibles munch, marking a membrane female She picks at a pelt and pickles it in plasma She eats away inside an eardrum She titillates tendons She irritates involuntary irate She sips on surface epidermis She perpetuates perverse presentation She falls for face value She is not considerate, she demands She creates a crusting carapace She is a creature She wanes wonder in words like “woman” She echoes externality She ignores an inner (in)tangible She forces a feminine façade She feigns herfeelings

*Content Warning: Behavioral Misgendering

WILL THIS BITE? Dassika Gilkey

squeezing like an angry snake — They say pent up desire can turn to anger. I missed your eyes and how they’d stare at me, lingering after a quiet convo we just had, darting after I said something that made your heart rise a bit, dancing after we had maybe just too much to drink

You didn’t really give me this ring — I just held onto it hoping that you wouldn’t ask for it back, hoping I’ll have some of you with me, hoping that part of us is still wrapped around just waiting to be unraveled into something more. Will this bite? Maybe I guess we’ll never truly know.

My name is Dassika and I’m a Theatre Performance major with minors in Studio Art and Film Studies. FM as Music Director and at Brushing as Co-Designer. Normally I express my art through visual forms, like photography or painting, but I’ve chosen to write a poem to submit for the 50th Edition because I was inspired by a writer I know. This piece explores feelings of falling for someone, something I feel happens a little too easy for me. I love using metaphors of animals to walk through my stories – here I follow the idea of a snake.

ROTTEN POMEGRANATES Savannah Horrell Have you ever eaten a pomegranate tipping toward decay? They’re my are almost always some degree of overripe. You get used to the rhythm of separating good seeds from bad ones. Over the years I’ve learned some lessons about the process of picking sweetness out of rot. 1. It starts near the edges and works its way in. pomegranate. Don’t be discouraged by this. Deep inside, at the heart of the fruit, there may be some red goodness left. 2. You will have to inspect each individual corpuscle. There’s no way around it. Thoroughness is the only way to achieve perfection. If you yank out handfuls of seeds, you’ll let some bad ones in with the good, and conversely some good ones in with the bad. 3. Go by touch, not by sight. It seems counterintuitive, since the most obvious sign of spoilage is beige discoloration, deep red gone pale and then sickly brown. But you’ll get feeling for soft spots, for interruptions in the skin, a malformation of the ideal jewellike shape. Once you get the hang of it, the work will move fast. fruits are dark as plum juice, don’t be discouraged. purple wine and old cellars. 5. Keep the bad seeds aside and check them once you’re done. You’ll make some mistakes along the way — I know you will. We’re all fallible. Give the discarded seeds a once-over before you move on to the next step and see if you threw away any good ones by mistake. You’ll want to save

each drop of goodness; your overall yield will already be less than a normal pomegranate. 6. When you’re done dissecting and checking, get your bowl of water.

7. The second time, look for silver. them, pick them out, swirl the bowl, and try again. You’ll be surprised at how this is what you want to eat. 8. Wash one last time with cold water. The chill plumps the seeds up, and the water rinses away the last aftertaste of blight. 9. When you’re done, don’t delay. Time stops for no one. into your mouth by the dozen and feel no shame. How sweet a minute of satisfaction tastes when it took an hour to get there.

to bringing hard-hitting produce journalism to the people.

THE REAL GIRL Sarah Fosdick

The real girl has legs. She doesn’t have roots. She is not recorded; She is real-time. She can just walk out of his room, manifesting into the real world as the boy’s real sin.

The plant on his window sill Cheap cologne and loudspeakers Of Kurt crying something about being In a jar and thinking you’re happy. Indeed, nothing is more nourishing Than the approval of a brooding boy Who’s sensitive enough to buy plants The plant on his window sill Was anointed as the only beautiful Thing in the ugly world he hates, Valued because of its untainted beauty, But forgotten because it’s only a plant. The leaves that were once green And pointed to the far away sun Have turned brown and shriveled Because he drank all the water. The plant on his window sill Knows that he is a murderer who went Hiding inside his safe haven: The place where he crawls back To dry his tears and wring his hands And relish in his victimhood, Thanking God he does not contribute To the ugly world he so nobly transcended.

The plant on his window sill Feels hopelessly similar to The pretty girls on his screen, So it wrote a poem about him. It goes like this: “He lies under his ceiling layered in sequins. A trap for demise, his hand willingly begins. But they’re only imaginary virgins, They’re only his imaginary sins, The crown of an imaginary prince.” The plant on his window sill Once saw him take a girl back with him, A real girl with long hair and easy lungs who Endured the stabs of his bitter sword and Bore him light and beauty in his little room. But she didn’t know there is always a serpent In the garden; she thought she was being watered. Despite his great struggle to balance his crown, He still didn’t notice that she was not just The plant on his window sill.

THE DIFFERENCE

Chadwick Sterling ’10

I graduated in 2010 with a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature. Currently, I am working as a technical content developer and adjunct college instructor. While my professional writing is mostly in the I have always been a storyteller and continue to write creatively whenever I can.

Two boys leave two houses in the middle of the night. waving at his neighbor from across a well-cut lawn. The other tucks something into his pocket, avoiding the eyes of those huddled in the corridor of his apartment building.

partly like a pioneer riding into new territory, those brave souls who have been around since the Birth of a Nation. Like his father’s hero John Wayne, he strides to his car with purpose: His grandpa had fought in the war, a member of the greatest generation to correct the tilt of history. In his veins runs the blood of men and women who braved the wilderness of the west in the time of President Polk. He knew how to use the gun and he was no coward. The second boy wears the dark colors, who withstood the heat of the southern sun His grandpa too had been a soldier, but like the boy hiding his hand in the folds of his hoodie, his grandpa hid all signs of his time at war before taking the bus back home. He too knew how to use the gun and was no coward.

He has seen the images of neighborhoods burning, and his grandpa taught him that was when he was most needed to hold the red lines drawn by those who founded this country, to stand up for what was right. True, he was just a boy and a year too young to join the force, but he was also the heir to an ancient legacy, the same legacy that protected his young grandpa that night in ’55 When a man whistled at his daughter, who was then only 16, and it had been up to him and his friends to protect her honor and his own. The other boy wants to feel safe. just like it had always been. His grandpa had taught him how to survive, that he had been born a suspect and needed to act like one, avoid eye contact when walking to the bus stop, carry all the answers even though they could be heavy, because to be caught without them was a death sentence. When he was young he did not understand, But then once His grandpa caught him playing with a plastic gun, grabbed him by the collar of his wrinkled white shirt, and with a hoarse voice told him about the baby-faced uncle he had never met who had been hanged in ’55 after he smiled at the girl in the gas station.

*Content Warning: Racism, Death, Violence, Weapons

PROVIDENTIAL EYE Jackson Willis HELEN The hospital’s third-story maternity ward trembles with us. We’ve all been on edge since the emergency power came on twenty minutes ago. The other grown folks stay quiet; I think we’re doing enough talking in our own heads. Squealing babies remind us where we are and what’s at stake. Last we heard on the news, the storm was a Category 4. Now the internet’s out and I know we’ve all got to be thinking the same thing: What if it gets worse? How much can this building take? Everyone’s moved out of the rooms with windows now, crowded around the central nurses’ station. Nobody’s showered in a couple days since being quarantined for the storm, and the air reminds us of that. All the sterile white medical equipment smells like isopropyl, and all the people smell like grunge and sweat. A man sits across from me with his face buried in his hands. The women are still mostly in the rooms deemed safe, bedridden with labor or postpartum recovery. “I don’t wanna die here,” he says again and again. He doesn’t work here, so I guess he must be a father. Other people sitting by us avoid looking whining about himself when he’s got a new child and a woman to think about. another man squatting on my right. “Yes indeed.” No point denying it in my blue scrubs. “My baby’s in the NICU,” he says. “They got her on oxygen. If the a little fourth-grader staying down in the basement with the other employee all these little angels come back home so soon. “This place has been through storms before.” away how he’s really feeling. The man across from us is still carrying on, getting louder and louder.

“I don’t wanna die here,” he says, like it’s a fact we need to be maybe worse than before. A couple babies are still crying. It’s not until a hollering, too. ABBY My favorite part was the FEMA trucks. Momma said they’re here because the storm killed our city, so don’t be too happy about it. I still smiled and ran up when they turned the corner. The plastic-wrapped military meals they handed out down the road built-in heat pad to warm them up. But FEMA always gave you as much hot food as you wanted. Sometimes it was hamburgers, or barbecue sandwiches, or beans and rice. Leave that food, Momma would say, we don’t need it. We didn’t need help because she was going back to work soon, just as soon as they built the hospital again. She helped people have babies, and people would always need that. I lined up with the neighbors on the sidewalk and said ”Four, please.” One for me, one for Momma, two for later. I told the FEMA lady I had a brother and a daddy so she wouldn’t look at me wrong. Momma would pretend to be mad, but she liked having real food. The fridge was empty since the storm killed it with the lights and toilets. Momma said it’s like camping. We ate food from FEMA and Salvation Army and sometimes the plastic-wrapped meals too. We lit the apartment with candles, and we took our dumps in gray Publix bags. HELEN People tumble down the stairs looking for safety, skittering like roaches and hoping to be as resilient. I’m getting to the bottom now. I think the stairs are quaking under my shoes and pray that it’s my imagination. Then I hit the basement level, where the friendly hospital facade turns into brutalist concrete that’s painfully good at echoing all the alarms ringing out. I worry about my daughter despite myself. The girl’s always been a rebel — all her teachers say so; I have just got to trust that the folks in childcare can keep her behaved. I can’t think about what would happen if she got lost in the hospital with all the chaos going on. I try putting those thoughts out of my mind. My heart beats fast when I don’t

see her. “Momma!” She looks up from a drawing-in-progress. My racing heart skips a beat even in relief. God has a plan, even for this. We will come through stronger, like the Israelites in the desert. ABBY There’s a man who lived on the corner of our street. Not in a house, but really on the corner. He was happy about the storm. I know because he started smiling and standing up all the way when he walked, and he looked more alive in line for the FEMA truck than he used to holding that crinkled cardboard sign. Big trucks came to give us toilet paper and blankets and band-aids because stores didn’t open anymore. One time I asked, “Are they gone for good?” Momma said some of them are. “What will come back?” Momma didn’t answer that one. She sat there quiet on the porch and watched the neighbors sawing up an oak tree into pieces small enough to pull out of their roof. A big truck parked down the street, the kind that gave out toilet paper and water bottles. The neighbors stopped their sawing and headed over to the line forming by the truck. I would have followed but Momma was watching and she had that look. She shook her head while the line grew. I didn’t mention the corner man. HELEN to. I breathe deeply walking outside, mentally preparing for what’s out there. My chest is tight and sharp. Abby’s pulling at my shirt sleeve with her brow When I see the parking lot, I think maybe it’s not so bad. The damage could be worse. A cacophony of car alarms threatens to make my ears bleed, and all the palms are tipped over and resting in windshields, but then there are some cars with barely a scrape. I keep an eye out for my SUV while we walk. There’s a surprising amount of garbage strewn around the pavement, and only some of it looks like chunks of car or tree. “Momma, look.” Abby’s pointing behind us. I turn to see where the

face of a rubber doll, and the rooms are exposed to the outside like a doll’s where a treeline used to frame the building. All I can think is that it’s wrong, everything’s wrong. The SUV is totaled. I know it when I see the windshield caved in. God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers. Abby looks at me funny, “Get the blankets out the bag,” I tell Abby, pointing at the suitcase we had brought to the hospital. I wipe the glass out of the driver seat and throw a blanket over it for protection from any strays. Abby climbs into the back seat and looks out the window while I pull out of the parking lot real slow. I push the car’s damage out of my mind. I need to forget about how much it’s going to cost. It’s running — I should be grateful for that. The landscape gets worse as we get farther from the hospital. It gets My city doesn’t have buildings in the highway. Doesn’t have cars stacked on top of one another. Doesn’t have trees divvying up houses. I don’t see national emergency service vehicles coming to the rescue anywhere, and with a sinking feeling I come to a stop where a three-foot-thick oak trunk blocks the whole street. It might take days or weeks just to make a way for disaster relief to come in. I take a detour around the tree. Needles poke my heart. All the tall buildings and trees are down so that I can almost see across the whole city. It’s an open sore. We’re almost home and I can’t keep myself from looking. I look and look around my murdered city. All across the open landscape, I can see everything but God. ABBY The school closed down after the storm, but not for very long. Me and the other kids had to walk together through rubble streets to reach the school. Walking was safer because everybody had to drive slowly, and because all the intersections turned into 4-way stops with the lights and signs gone. Sometimes you could tell when someone had evacuated for the storm and was coming back. They would drive even slower than the other cars. They would hang their head out the window and point and say hey, there used to be a 7/11 there. At school I learned what Momma meant when she used to say how God provides. I was running out of the trailer that was my new classroom. A building across the street was being used as a kitchen since our cafeteria was

gone. It was better than the cafeteria. I went in, and all the other kids were eating, even the kids that didn’t used to. The food was just like what the FEMA trucks had, the same food that brought the corner man to life. dirty clothes and smelled because the water wasn’t back in our houses yet. With a paper plate turned soggy by barbecue pork sitting in front of me, I clasped my hands like Momma always did. I upturned my head, eyes closed, and prayed thank-you to God for the storm.

This short story has been brewing for a couple of years now, sparked by Hurricane Michael in 2018. Recently the story became ready to bear physical form, and I’m glad it has found a home in Brushing.

HURRICANE PROOF Natalie George

When I was younger I would watch the oak trees creak and sway during a summer storm I would cower before them Just a child watching as nature fought to survive or die in the torrent

Nature has always been about survival of the personal relationships. In this piece of poetry, I looked to explore the connection between the two in relation to events from my childhood.

My parents would soothe me Saying that this was their test If the trees can survive this storm they’ll survive it all The greatest hurricane won’t be able to bring them down because they’ll have grown roots to keep them sturdy for years to come So now when I look to us I know that we’ll survive when our hurricane comes We are oak trees who have been through storms that made us bend but we did not break We built our roots deep and I know that we are ready to grow taller than my childhood trees for we are stronger than hurricanes

EDITOR BIOGRAPHIES Siobhan Cooney ’22 | Co-Editor-in-Chief Siobhan Cooney, 21, is a double major in English and Communication Studies with a minor in Spanish. She has served as Brushing’s Editor-inChief for the past three years. Ending her tenure in the role on such a momentous occasion has its pressures, but it is also an honor. Knowing that she has contributed to such an important campus legacy has been incredibly meaningful, entwining her personal narrative with the college’s history and sharing the stories of other members of the Rollins audience. A graduating senior, she is preparing for a career in the publishing and media communications industries. After hitting the books, Siobhan hits the stage as an Open Championship Irish step performance experience under her belt, she is now

Sara Mehdinia ’23 | Co-Editor-in-Chief Sara Mehdinia is a computer science major and creative writing minor. She served on Brushing both a reader and a copyeditor, and this year she has been honored to step into the role of Co-Editor-in-Chief. She writes summer, she will be working as a researcher studying arctic river hydrology. She would like to thank her family for their support. Lastly, she would like to express how proud she is of Brushing’s th

anniversary edition.

DESIGNER BIOGRAPHIES Jaianne Gilkey ’22 | Co-Designer Jaianne Gilkey, 22, is a Theatre Arts major with an emphasis in performance and a double minor in Film Studies and Studio Art. She is extremely thankful for her experience with Brushing and is honored to be involved for creative expression and inspiration that she will carry with her for years to come. She is preparing for a career as an artist and storyteller, whether it be in front of or behind the camera, through music or radio, or creating physical or digital media. Above all, she’s eager to branch into as many creative areas as possible. After three years of experience working for WPRK, she has developed a deep respect and passion for radio broadcast. She’s also come to appreciate the inner workings of the radio station, putting on concerts, communicating and collaborating with other creatives, hosting a DJ show, and being involved with marketing and music. She hopes to continue this in the

Dassika Gilkey ’22 | Co-Designer Dassika Gilkey, 22, is a Theatre major with a concentration in Performance, and a double minor in Film Studies and Studio Art. She holds the position of Music Director at WPRK 91.5 FM and is the Co-Designer for Brushing. She’s also been a designer / artist for The Independent and an artist / photographer for The Sandspur, completing her relationship with Student Media at Rollins. Dassika is a graduating senior and she’s excited to open a new chapter while still holding onto her passions for visual art and radio.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

editorial staff COPY EDITORS

READERS Seaneka Collie Angel Colon Alexandra De Felice Lorenzo Naimoli Isabel Polanco

Hannah Butcher Aqsa Hasan Taylor Ingrassia Peyton Poitras Fatima Sani

ART EDITOR Zach Taylor

special thanks to Greg Golden Director of Student Media Librarian Expert

Department of English

Presented by Fox Funds

Faculty Advisor

Brushing 2022

Articles inside

Hurricane-Proof

Providential Eye

The Real Girl

Host Body

Will This Bite?

Rotten Pomegranates

HOPE

Something

In the Palm of My Heart

A Moment of Truth: For Bebe

Magical Mystery Mist Descends

MountainScape

50TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL

Garden in the East

Convite

Manifest

Snow Globe

My Father in the Woods

The Golden Moment

Dance with Shadows

What You Remember

Phyneus’s Abracapothecary: Legendary Items and Clever Curios

Sapphire Eyes

The Essentials of Others Are Killing My Artistic Heart

Beautiful Ghosts