TEMPO Spring 2021 by Tempo Magazine

“HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS THAT PERCHES IN THE SOUL”. -Emily Dickinson

spring 2021 issue

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Allie Mitchell

Coastal Carolina Univesity P.O. Box 261954 Conway, SC 29526-6054 tempoccu@coastal.edu

ART DIRECTOR Hillory Summitt

@tempo_ccu

ASSISTANT EDITOR Sarah McGonigle WRITERS Caitlin Carter Brandon Davis Amanda Fiucci Christian Livingston Sarah McGonigle Allie Mitchell Kyle Panasiuk Emma Samuelson Melanie Schlesser POETS Jill Dudley Alan Lam Yasmine Lynn Megan Neil Sage Short Jennifer Terry GRAPHIC DESIGNERS Grace Lardear Hillory Summitt MODELS Malin Evans Caleb Turner ADVISORS Colin Burch Scott Mann

A note to our readers, The idea for adding a feature magazine to Coastal Carolina’s Student Media, emerged in the 1990s when the college yearbook started going out of style. It was thought that a production, now called TEMPO Magazine, would help students document club activities and athletics, provide a place to discuss meaningful and timely topics, showcase outstanding student achievements and theatrical performances, and give undergrad students a chance to gain production, editorial, and design experience. Over the 22 years since TEMPO’s birth, it has oriented itself more toward individual expression, as opposed to communal experience. It now features first person writing that tends to the confessional and personal. Since becoming Editor-in-Chief two years ago, I have focused on the combination of digital art, photography, and mixed media. This has manifested through the introduction of four differing magazine sections: interviews/ reviews, creative writing, research, and poetry. In this volume, at the beginning of each of these sections, we have presented a singular word for rumination. As you read through the category: hold one of these four words in mind: Evolving, Effervescent, Endless, and Exploration. The addition of a glossary was also important to me because it is a binding of our theme throughout the magazine. By presenting both collective thought through articles and a detailed description of one word--TEMPO shows the importance of both Zooming in and Zooming out. In times of compressed change such as the COVID-19 pandemic, many what ifs bubble to the surface. The Circles of Time theme has been a collective effort towards this notion of unexpected change and unboundness to come in 2021. This production is made possible through the aspirations of poets, writers, designers, advisors, and the diligent vision and hard work of Hillory Summitt and Sarah McGonigle. Thank you all. Best Intentions,

8. Thesis of the Heart 14. Patchwork

24. Flash Back and Forth 32. Our Gritty Encounters 36. The Monster Within 40. Clouds 42. Surviving The Happiest Safari on Earth

48. The unbounded future is full of unknown, but is shimmering with power and rebirth.

CONTENTS

54. Golden Hour 56. Continued from Marsh Girl 58. Coiled Humans 60. The Wedding 62. Piece of Me 64. “A Hymn of Four Seasons” 5

RE SEARCH

GLOSSARY

Clippings - An excerpt from a larger body of work.

RESEARCH

Sparkly Strangers - The blended mystery of meeting someone new-- not knowing someone but feeling intrigued by their character.

RESEARCH

By Brandon Davis

RESEARCH

Thesis of the Heart

ow Boarding: Gate A34. The red letters flashed on the screen above the seating area as the garbled voice of one of the airport staff came over the intercom to make the announcement. “Hello, passengers, the eight-thirty flight to Dallas-Fort Worth is now boarding… eight-thirty flight… now boarding… Dallas-Fort Worth… please have your boarding passes ready…” Doctor Minerva Alston sighed and gave her temple a light rub. She hated airports, the lights, the noise, the people. She would have preferred driving to the conference, and probably would have, if she hadn’t been too busy grading papers to get a head start on planning. Now, the conference would be starting tomorrow and she had no intention of driving through the night from her home in Delaware. So, the airplane it was. Gathering up her belongings, Dr. Alston made her way over to the boarding desk, her black heels clicking against the airport tile. “Hello, ma’am,” the clerk beamed, her sparkling, white teeth making Dr. Alston recoil slightly. “Are you boarding the eight-thirty to Dallas?” “Yes,” Dr. Alston replied flatly. She showed the girl her boarding pass and bustled down the walkway to the plane, her carry-on luggage rolling and bumping along behind her. She pasted the pilot, responding to his Good Morning! with little more than a terse nod. She stowed her black suitcase in the overhead compartment and clumsily crossed two seats to assume her position by the window. She smoothed out her skirt and pulled out her small phone and a pair of earbuds from her jacket pocket. She took a deep breath and relaxed back into her seat, putting her headphones in and starting a new episode of the BBC Earth Podcast. The plane slowly began filling up around her, as bleary-eyed travelers and jaded businesspeople shuffled down the aisle. The flight wasn’t quite at capacity, though there were still a handful of seats left empty. Dr. Alston silently hoped no one would come along and take the seats next to her. No sooner had this thought crossed her mind, however, than a tall woman with a large, burgundy carry-on stumbled down the aisle and stopped in front of Dr. Alston’s row. She managed to squeeze her large suitcase into the overhead before plopping down in the aisle seat. Giggling, she turned to Dr. Alston and said something. Dr. Alston furrowed her brows and removed one of her earbuds.

RESEARCH

As the plane cruised over Tennessee, Dr. Alston was gently confronted by a pulsing silence in her ears. Rousing from her semi-sleeping stupor, she checked her phone. She sighed and silently cursed to herself. She had made a miscalculation. She didn’t have enough podcast episodes downloaded to last the remainder of the flight.

more bearable. She swore herself to silence, even as she stole another glance toward the woman at the end of the row. Dr. Alston eyed the book in June’s hand and tried to suppress a derisive snort. She was reading one of those trashy romance novels, the kind with the cover art depicting shirtless men with rippling abs, and women in a billowy sheer gown, which somehow still managed to accentuate their breasts. It was the kind of novel one would be generous in calling literature, with sickeningly purple prose, absurd anatomical movements, and an insistence on the power of True Love. It was mindless nonsense. June heard the quiet scoff, and looked up from the book. Turning to Dr. Alston, she cocked her head and gave a curious Hm? Dr. Alston shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she muttered. “Was it my book?” June smiled, her eyebrows raised in amusement. “I’ll admit, it’s kind of a guilty pleasure.” “You do realize that it’s nonsense, though,” Dr. Alston smirked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Don’t you?” June shrugged. “I think they’re fun.” “What’s fun about a falsehood?” Dr. Alston challenged. “Nothing in those books is realistic.” “Oh, really?”

With mild irritation, she took out her earbuds, winding them into a tight ball and slipping them back into her jacket pocket. She had no idea how much longer the flight would last, and decided it would be best not to go back to sleep. She wanted to be awake when the plane touched down, and besides, she didn’t particularly want to be drooling all over herself if she was going to be sitting next to this woman. She glanced over to her right, where June sat next to her, her legs crossed comfortable and her eyes focused on a squat-yet-hefty paperback. Dr. Alston let her gaze wander across the woman’s soft, cherub-like features. She had an energy about her, like a child who, when sugared-up on soda, might plunge headfirst into the world with unreal enthusiasm. Minerva Alston did not consider herself a sentimental woman, but there was an air of innocence and authenticity to June that made her somewhat regret dismissing her so quickly earlier. The way her eyes darted back and forth across the pages, the way she bit her lip and held her breath with anticipation, not holding anything back as she let herself be swept away, in full view of the rest of the world; it was clear she was the kind to wear her heart on her sleeve. Dr. Alston cleared her head and turned back to the window. She would not be reduced to making small-talk with strangers. There had to be other ways to make the flight

RESEARCH

“I’m sorry?” “Oh, nothing,” the woman grinned, unphased by Dr. Alston’s brash tone. She brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. “I was just saying what a morning it’s been.” “Uh-huh.” Dr. Alston went to put her earbud back in, but the woman leaned over the middle seat and stuck out a well-manicured hand. “The name’s June.” “Dr. Alston,” she said, giving June’s hand a firm, but brief, shake. “Ooh, a doctor!” June’s eyes flashed. “What are you, like, a brain surgeon or something?” “I’m a biologist,” Dr. Alston grimaced. “I do research at a University in Lewes.” “Oh, wow,” June nodded. “That’s so cool! I had a friend who went to school there. Well, she was a Poli-Sci Major, so really, she was at the main campus in Newark…” Dr. Alston’s eye began to twitch; a sure sign of social irritation. Why was this woman talking to her? She was spewing only nonsense. Dr. Alston had no desire to be rude, but she had very little patience for people like June. She was starting to feel another headache coming on. “… and he actually landed her an internship at the Governor’s office, if you can believe that!” June continued, blissfully unaware of Dr. Alston’s lack of interest. “That’s fascinating,” Dr. Alston said, cutting her off before she could launch into another story. June looked a little taken aback by this, and in the intervening awkward pause, Dr. Alston managed to get her earbud back in and resume listening to her podcast. “Oh,” June bit her lower lip. “Um, okay then.” Dr. Alston turned away from the other woman and gazed out the window. They both sat there in silence as the plane taxied out onto the runway and took off, a steel arrow streaking towards the heart of Dallas.

Dr. Alston could feel her own face burning now. She knew it was just her sympathetic nervous system acting up, the chemicals in her brain flooding through her body and triggering physiological reactions. But there was a part of her that wanted to believe in something beyond the science of love. June reached a hand out to her, and before she could stop herself, she had taken it. “Your pulse is racing, you know,” June murmured, a breathless grin tugging at the corners of her face. “Yeah.” “Tell me, Doc,” she said. “Are you feeling any hormones right now?” “Call… call me Minerva.” “Well, Minerva,” June smirked, “you’re blushing pretty bad.” “You too,” Minerva choked out. June laughed at this. “Yeah… I suppose I am.” “This is crazy,” Minerva said. “Isn’t it?” “A little bit.” “How, um… how long will you be in Dallas?” “I don’t know… a week, maybe?” “Same.” “Would you… want to get dinner some time?” June ventured, her eyes sparkling. “While we’re both here, I mean.” “Sure,” Minerva nodded. “I’d like that.” There was a pause between them that felt like it lasted an eternity. Finally, Dr. Minerva Alston drew her hand away from June’s, trying to compose herself for the flight ahead. The plane hummed onward, rumbling towards its ultimate destination. Fields of corn and wheat waved beneath its shadow as new love was blooming in the Tennessee skies.

“She knew it was just her sympathetic nervous system acting up, the chemicals in her brain flooding through her body and triggering physiological reactions.”

RESEARCH

“Of course,” she said. “The romanticist’s view of love is all wrong; there’s nothing mysterious or indescribable about it! ‘Love’ is little more than a series of physiological reactions, triggered by the release of common hormones in the brain. So, a little dopamine he re, a little oxytocin there, and maybe a little stimulation of the anterior cingulate cortex…” “Doctor, please,” June said, rolling her eyes. “My jargonese is a little rusty.” Dr. Alston pursed her lips. “Your brain just pumps out a lot of ‘feel-good’ hormones which, as the name suggests, make you feel good.” “I see,” June nodded. “And you do n’t think there’s any ‘falsehood’ in claiming hormones can explain everything in matters of love?” “Absolutely not.” “Well, what about the giddiness you feel when you meet someone for the first time, the way your heart pounds when you’re looking at them, or that twisting feeling you get in your stomach when you’re just aching to be with them?” “Easy,” Dr. Alston scoffed. “What you’re describing is an adrenaline spike.” “What I’m describing is a sense of euphoria—a zest for life that makes everything feel all warm and fuzzy, and makes all of your goals and aspirations seem really and truly possible.” June stared at Dr. Alston with wide, pleading eyes. “Surely you can’t just chalk that up to hormones. It is so much more than that!” Dr. Alston returned her gaze, taken aback by her sudden intensity. June’s pupils dilated hesitantly, and there were hints of blood rising to the surface of her cheeks. An untrained eye might even describe her look as… “W-well, with all due respect,” Dr. Alston stammered, “hormonal shifts actually can explain that.” “What about seren dipity?” June asked. “What about the sense that you’re sitting at the confluence of all things, two beings separated only by the physical space of their bodies?”

SPRING 1999

“The issue of the Y2K computer bug”‘Y2K’ (a fiction piece about the 200s written by Jeff Farley)

SPRING 2001

“The first thing I think of are random, senseless statements”- ‘Black Majesty’ (Gretchen Fowler’s interview about superstition with her friend Michelle)

SPRING 2002

“It is a somewhat distant relationship, separated by time and space”- ‘Dirty Little Secrets’ (Anonymously written, describing the reader-writer relationship)

FALL 2000

“When is grunge gonna make a comeback?”- ‘Giving Pop Art the Finger’ (Lindsey Barnhill’s piece on the local rock music scene)

“Suddenly blue and red lights appeared in the rear view mirror”‘Black’ (piece by Rebecca Wright)

“Millions of tiny spots of light in the deep blacks and blues of the night sky” ‘Culture Shock’ (Suzette Lopez writes about studying abroad in Jamaica)

RESEARCH

The following timeline is a compilation of clippings from each of TEMPO Magazine’s issues, starting in 1999, and extending to our most recent publication in 2020. While this year’s theme, Circles of Time, is not a wholly scientifically correct statement because time is always moving forward, it is true in that, TEMPO lives within each of it’s past publications and grows toward the future through each student employee that contributes creativity and diligence to TEMPO publication.

SPRING 2000

By Sarah McGonigle and Allie Mitchell

FALL 2001

PATCHWORK

SPRING 2003

“It’s been cell without my hell phone”Article title from Lindsey Barnhill

SPRING 2006

“We did go on a journey that night; we are still on a journey on this planet as a whole”- ‘A Techno Journey: exploring an underground culture and its transformation (piece by Staci Sciotti)

FALL 2004

“And it’s into the car with Pop Tarts for two.” - ‘Raising Mommy’ (Laura weaver’s piece about her mom going back to school)

FALL 2009

“Network the New York and upstage sparkly strangers”- ‘New Youth City’ (Lauren Moore’s piece on NYC )

SPRING 2004

“Try to avoid crowded sports whenever possible, and instead, look for the spot that best suits your needs”- ‘Surf Culture’ (Piece about surfing in Myrtle by Thomas Brandon)

SPRING 2010

“What is good for our bodies is good for the environment”- ‘Yoga Universe’ (Piece on yoga by Lauren Moore)

RESEARCH

SPRING 2005

“I drink excessive amounts of coffee in between”- ‘The Real Reality’ (Carolina P. Smith’s piece on reality tv vs. real life)

FALL 2003

“And adversity, have mercy!”- ‘Complete Happiness?’ (piece by Lekeisha Edwards)

SPRING 2011

FALL 2014

“Fantasies of unlimited power and disembodied immortality”- ‘Post-Human’ (Katherin Hayles describes technology advancements and “posthumans”)

FALL 2012

“Fine line”- Fight Club book review (Owen Macleod)

SPRING 2014

“Everything is coming back with a vengeance”- ‘Hot Summer Nights’ (Fashion photo essay with words by Shawnte Posley)

FALL 2013

“Forever is no time at all”- Unattainably High Expectations (Ownen Macleod)

FALL 2015

“TomorrowWorld”- ‘TomorrowWorld’ (Diana Evans’ experience at an EDM music festival)

SPRING 2013

“Work within the confines of reason’‘Hooks’ (Short story set in late 50s and early 60s by Pat Siebel)

SPRING 2015

“To say my writing is irrelevant is like a cantaloupe trying to grow a trunk and dance like an elephant”- ‘Pars Dobetica...wait, what?’ (a poem by Michael Kane)

RESEARCH

“Dredging cautiously to conceptualize their artistic vision and present it via waves of sound”- ‘Octopus Jones Wants to Take You to the Limit’ (J.G Lesnick’s piece about a resident rock band)

SPRING 2016

SPRING 2018

“I was taught to accept love like hand grenades”- ‘Lies My Mother Told Me’ (A Poem by Alice Kitchen)

FALL 2017

“A pendulum of heartbreak and mistakes”- ‘Fire and Ice’ (a poem by Jocie Scherkenbach)

FALL 2019

“Sleeps on the clouds, speaks with the flowers”- “My Reality’ (A poem by Gabriella Harden)

SPRING 2017

“Quirky impulse”- ‘The Worry Contrast’ (Parag Desai’s piece on self-growth)

SPRING 2019

“He was better off floating among the otherness of the outside world.”- ‘Private Group Playlist’ (Connor Steele’s fiction piece about travel, music, and coming of age)

FALL 2018

“Alone in the cold”- ‘Worse Than Nicotine’ (Lily Bryant’s piece on toxicity)

FALL 2020

“Some thousand sunsets later, Who am I and who are You?”- ‘Talisman and the Moon’ - (A poem by Kele Bullock)

RESEARCH

“Some who only barely drift through their entire life”- ‘What Do You Want to Do Before You Kick the Bucket’ (Samantha Proulx’s interview piece on bucket lists)

CREATIVE WRITING

GLOSSARY

Bleary-eyed - Eyes that are unfocused or glazed over from sleeplessness or tiredness Cloud - A visible mass of condensed water vapor floating in the atmosphere--high above the ground Connectedness - Both the state of being and feeling of belonging in or to a particular person or group Constrained - Appearing forced, controlled, or contrastingly out of one’s control Grits - A porridge made from boiled cornmeal Mane - The growth of long hair on the neck of a horse, lion, or other animal Mixtape - A compilation of pieces of music, typically by different artists, recorded onto a cassette tape or other medium Romanticist - A writer, artist, or musician of the romantic movement

Ticking - A faint and consistent reminder of time

CREATIVE WRITING

Tchotchkes - An object used for decorative and miscellaneous functions

FLASH BACK AND FORTH

CREATIVE WRITING

By Amanda Fiucci

“My thoughts about work are interrupted when my hand flips to an old record of The Beatles. I let out an airy laugh, and a small smile dances across my face as I recall my ex, the person who originally introduced me to records.”

I need music’s lyrical embrace more than ever as I anxiously await news from my job. I pull the heavy glass door of Rewind Unwind and step inside. My ears are greeted with the sound of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” and the cold air conditioning nips at my hot skin. Music always calms me.

We smiled and sang the rest of the drive down. Enjoying the fun, tropical, music and the warm wind that flowed through the topless vehicle. “Kiwi” by Harry Styles comes from the Rewind Unwind speakers, removing me from this memory... “She worked her way through a cheap pack of cigarettes Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect And all the boys, they were saying they were into it Such a pretty face, on a pretty neck.”

“Yes, I’m back Well, I’m back, back Well, I’m back in black Yes, I’m back in black.”

CREATIVE WRITING

“Cheeseburger in paradise Heaven on Earth with an onion slice Not too particular, not too precise I’m just a cheeseburger in paradise.”

CREATIVE WRITING

I continue casually flipping through the record rows, starting with the right and moving my way left. I hum to the music and let the instruments’ energy pulse. I begin to feel more confident, the tension in my shoulders fades. My thoughts about this morning shift to a positive view, “The meeting went better than you think,” I tell myself. I am giving myself a hard time. After all, my boss looked happy and the conversation flowed well. I presented all my new ideas for the company in a succinct PowerPoint. I explained to her why I would be great for the executive position. She looked pleased. I deserve this. I constantly work long hours and help other people around the office. I had even made her laugh with a joke! There is no way it could have gone bad, right? My thoughts about work are interrupted when my hand lands on an old Beatles record. I let out an airy laugh, and a smile dances across my face as I recall the person who originally introduced me to records. My first time going over to their house after they had moved, I went into their new, small, eggshell painted room. Nothing was out of the boxes yet except for a few shirts hanging in the closet, twin bedding and blanket, and a stack of records sitting on the desk. The black portable turntable next to the stack played “Come Together” by The Beatles. I walked over to it and inspected the vinyls. There was something about the records and the player that made the music feel more exciting than the last time I’d heard it. I want to dance to that again. Those records made the small empty room feel lively and vast, even though that day was cold and rainy out.

As I walk through the store, past the wireless headphones, past the superhero, and past the merchandise, I notice the blended scent of new and vintage items. The scent is a mixtape of the kind of smell that hides in the middle of a new book, blended with the musty scent of originally packaged vinyl. I love new music-technology, and while wireless headphones make my morning jogs cord and hassle-free, I have a reserved appreciation for records. I walk down the aisles, all sorted by genre and by CDs and DVDs, and start to think about senior week many years ago. I remember being in the passenger seat of my friend Taylor’s Jeep, rolling down the highway, on our way to the beach. We were thirty minutes into the drive and could not find anything satisfactory to listen to. While they kept their eyes on the road, Taylor told me to open the center console and pick a CD from the CD case. I grabbed the case and unzipped it to reveal many CDs, two on each page. I got to the fourth page when I found one, Jimmy Buffett’s album Songs You Know By Heart. I pull it out and put it in the CD slot and press play. The song “Cheeseburger In Paradise” began to play. Taylor turned it up and blasted it as we sang at the top of our lungs.

CREATIVE WRITING

“I thought that I was dreamin’ When you said you love me The start of nothin’ I had no chance to prepare I coudln’t see you comin’.”

CREATIVE WRITING

The record store door opens and a bell rings. Chattering ensues and I turn my head and see three teenagers walking to the newer electronics section. One of them appears to be wearing a Jennifer Lopez t-shirt, probably bought from a concert. I turn my attention back to the records. A Billy Joel vinyl catches my eye and immediately I feel my heart swell. I grab the record. My eyes soften and my lips turn up slightly. Another memory... I sat, excitedly squirming about on the floor when I heard my mom tell my brother to grab the last two of my presents from under the lit tree--one flat and the other a large, heavy-looking square. “Give her the small one first.” A hint of excitement danced in my mom’s voice. I take the present from my brother’s hand. I find the end of the wrapping paper and tear it open to reveal Billy Joel’s Glass Houses vinyl. I stared at it for a few seconds. My first vinyl. I snap my head to the left to look at my mom who smiles at me with eyes that say it all. My face drops, my mouth opens slightly, and my eyes grow wide. I whip around to face my brother and jolt forward, tearing open the larger present, that sat, tempting me on the carpet. I tear away the paper just enough to reveal the image on the box. I open my mouth trying to make out words but they catch in my throat. I repeatedly glance at my mom then back at the box with wild eyes and an intense open smile. “This can…” The vibration of my phone in my pants pocket pulls me back to the present again. I put the record back and take out my phone. My eyes are met with the word “BOSS” that appears across my screen. I stare anxiously at the red and green buttons. My heart quickens, palms start to sweat, breathing becomes shorter. I stare down at it, it rings three times before I am able to reluctantly hit the green button. I bring the phone to my ear and swallow the lump in my throat, “Hello”.

I look at the record in front of me one more time before continuing to flip records, still not looking for anything in particular. I consciously moved my shoulders away from my ears. My body is still a little tense. My back and shoulders ache from pushing and clenching my muscles into a rigid upright position during that long meeting. I wanted so badly to impress my boss. I sat rigidly, scared that the slightest slouch would lessen my chances for a promotion. I start to panic again—calmness dissipating. Could she tell I was tense? I probably did not look relaxed. What if that shows that I do not work well under pressure? That’s not true, but maybe it could be translated that way. I really need this promotion. The money I could help pay for my wedding. My partner and I have been saving up for a year now and still do not have half of the sum we need for our dream wedding. I let out a long slow breath. All I can do is anxiously wait for a phone call from my boss and hope for the best. It will be fine. I will make the most of it, whatever happens. I move my shoulders in circles to loosen the muscles and move to the next row; still shifting and feeling the deteriorating cardboard covers on my fingers. A soft and dusty residue stays on my fingertips. The music in Rewind Unwind changes again. Playing a different artist, from a different genre, with a different tone. Franks Ocean’s “Ivy’’ begins. The store’s shift in tone causes my mind and body to slow down from the adrenaline of Styles’ last song. The smoother, calm energy of this song forces a deep breath and a slowed heart rate.

“THE VIBRATION OF MY PHONE IN MY PANTS POCKET PULLS ME BACK TO THE PRESENT.”

“Hello and congratulations.” Her voice comes out very professional but with sweet excitement. I could tell that she has a smile on her face. My heart is now pounding so loud that I can hear it. “You got the promotion. Take tomorrow off and celebrate. Come in Thursday at 9 A.M. to go over paperwork and information. Have a great rest of your night.” BOSS hangs up the phone. I slowly lower my hand and slide my phone into my back pocket. I stand in front of the records, excitement coursing through me, shock prevents me from moving. My eyes are wide and my mind is going crazy trying to process this information. I want to scream and jump but I am in a public record store and can’t even get myself to move. I did it. I can’t believe I did it. Now would have been a great time for “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen to play and soften me from my statued shock. “Excuse me? I have a question” I jump slightly, not expecting someone to speak to me. I look to my right to see one of the teenagers who entered earlier. She appeared to be about four years younger than me, probably eighteen years old, if I had to guess. “I’m sorry, but I don’t work here.” I look at her, still taken off guard. “I know.” She looked down at the record that was still in my hand and then back up to me. She continues with a curious tone. “I just thought you would be more honest with me than the workers here about which quality record players to buy.” While I had been reminiscing and in shock from my new promotions, the last song must have ended, and “Something Bad” by Carrie Underwood and Miranda Lambert bumped over the speakers.

“Well, my player is a Victrola Nostalgic. They sell it here.” I point behind her to a shelf of many record players. “It’s a bit expensive but it has Bluetooth so you can play music from your phone on it also. It can play records, CDs, cassettes, and tunes into the radio. It’s a lovely combination of new and old wrapped in a wooden box. I got it my junior year of high school on Christmas and loved it ever since.” “Thank you.” She smiles and walks away toward the record players. Just as the music changes to “something real” by blackbear. “You think you’re clever now, I’ll just turn and wave Wanna get it better now, but you ain’t the same You don’t wanna see me, girl, that’s your own escape ‘Cause I could do better now, you’re the only one to blame”

“Now me and that girl that I met on the street We rollin’ than the go down to the New Orleans Got full tank gas and the money out the mattress I got a real good feelin’ somethin’ bad is ‘bout to happen.”

CREATIVE WRITING

I let out a short laugh. “They can probably tell you more about them and the variety. I am a bit biased. I have used the same one for the past six years. It is a bit big but I will always prefer it over the portable turntables.” I look down at her hand and notice she is holding a Missy Elliott vinyl. “What’s wrong with the portable ones?” “Nothing. The portability is helpful sometimes. Mine isn’t portable but it does more than play just records.” Her eyebrows raised and then fell again quickly, indicating her interest in my opinion.

CREATIVE WRITING

I smile and turn back to the records. My body feels loose and my chest is warm. I take a deep inhale to try to calm my racing heart. I am unsure what to do with the information I was just given. The anxiety from throughout the day is gone. It has been replaced by excitement and achievement. I feel unrestrained. I need to tell Alex! How long have I been here? I take out my phone quickly to check the time. 5:55. I glance up at the records and back down to my phone. I need to get home, Alex is making dinner and we need to celebrate. Should I stop and get wine? I shove my phone in my pocket and turn towards the door. A new record catches my eye. I hadn’t even looked in that section. I walk over and snatch the Fletcher vinyl, pivot, and make my way to the cash register in a hurry. $17.95. I pull a 20 out of my wallet, I feel less guilty buying stuff when there is no proof in my bank account, plus I deserve this. I collect the change, almost dropping the nickel, grab my vinyl, and rush to the door. I can’t wait to share my news. Oh, the doors this will open for us. The streets are empty but the sweet smells of wine and freshly baked bread greets my nose from Drunken Dough. The bakery and wine shop just ahead is already open and welcoming customers inside. The color theme of light blue and white add to my internal calmness. I do not wander aimlessly because I know what I want. I walk to the right wall, grab the Apothic Red wine, and make my way to the counter that lines the left wall. The glass bakery display is filled with sweet pastries. I ask for challah bread, check out, and bolt to the car. Good news, homemade dinner, fresh bread, lovely wine, and a new record to be shared.

“Breakfast is ready,” Those three words sent us racing up the stairs and knocking on every door to wake up all the family members. We knocked with caution as we couldn’t remember who was staying in which room. I walked through an open door where I saw my two aunts on the bed talking. I squeezed my small body into an open spot on the bed, forgetting the reason why I came in.

This hearty meal prepared us for the day. I sat and ate these grits surrounded by my siblings and cousins outside on the porch next to the pool. We’d talk and laugh as we devoured breakfast. They had a special ingredient that would breed connectedness in all of us as we ate them.

After another loud call from downstairs, we each proceeded to the kitchen where the room was filled with talking and laughter. Family standing hand-in-hand, a strong voice led us in prayer, and I could hardly contain my excitement. I opened my eyes and looked around the large room as the adults squeezed each other’s hands and whispered, “thank you, Jesus.” After a collective “Amen,” hands were unclenched, and loud voices and laughter began to fill the room again. I stood behind my older cousin as she fixed my plate for me. I couldn’t reach the serving utensils yet.

One early morning, I quietly crawled out of the bed, careful not to wake my sister or cousin. I passed the living room and the other bedroom where the rest of my cousins slept then headed to the kitchen where my grandfather was cooking breakfast. Over the stove, he hummed gospel music as he tried not to get grease on his khaki dress pants and white tank top. “Good morning, Christie,” he said to me as I plopped down into the couch, trying to catch up on some sleep from my early morning.

…

Grandmother shuffled around setting up the bar while my cousins found a seat on the couch. I sat back, trying to hide my impatience for breakfast. “Ok, breakfast is ready,” my grandfather called and we packed into the bathroom to wash our hands and faces. Back in the kitchen, we joined hands in a small circle around the gas heater, and after a short prayer, we grabbed our plates and dipped the food. The high point of visiting our grandparents was the grits. Whether the plans of the day were painting the house, going to the beach, picking peanuts, preparing to cook a hog, or learning how to drive with my grandfather, we always knew that we’d start our day with a plate full of grits. No matter what we were doing, breakfast, and the love attached, were always consistent and there was always enough for everyone--even when great aunts and uncles would come early in the mornings before church or when our parents came and took over the house as they worked on last-minute details for the family reunion.

The kitchen island was covered with plates of eggs, bacon, salmon patties, sausage, fruit, biscuits, sweet potatoes, and most importantly, grits. Though this was something I ate at home, there was something different about my grandfather’s grits. The delicious grits were more than morning fuel to boost our vacation activities, they were a reflection of our childhood. The thick nature of grits resembled our family’s strong relationship. The gritty texture was a symbol of passion and perseverance--the kind we carried throughout the year. The warmth I felt while absorbing the love, joy, and fellowship we all had while eating this meal, brought me into togetherness.

We always found ourselves at the table, surrounded by the food that brought us together. No matter how differently we ate these grits, they filled our stomachs with food and our hearts with love.

CREATIVE WRITING

I remember waking up early one morning after a late night of playing in the pool with my cousins. I came downstairs where my grandfather was frying bacon and laughing with my great-grandmother. After greeting them both, I took a spot behind my grandfather as he continued to cook. He handed me a piece of bacon and told me not to tell anyone. I giggled. My great grandmother was watching at the table and she began to laugh at our mischief. I sat across from her and we talked about the day’s agenda. While my day would be filled with more attractions and movement than hers, we were equally as excited for the grits as the agenda.

… My grandfather knocked on the door to let me know that breakfast was ready. I rolled around in the large bed and stretched my arms as far as they would go. I got up and headed to the kitchen where he and my grandmother waited for me. The pots set up on the bar were small and few since there were only three of us. We stood in front of the heater, holding hands as my grandfather said a prayer. After we fixed our food, my grandfather and I sat at the table, and my grandmother at the bar. Without the bustle of the crowd, I’d gotten used to grabbing the cheese and butter myself. The TV played as we ate breakfast and my grandfather asked me questions about college, my classes, and asked what time I wanted to be back at school. “Y’all don’t have food like this at school, huh?” my grandfather would ask, proud of his cooking skills. “Not at all,” I’d say, scarfing down his delicious mixture of breakfast foods. He could tell by my wide eyes and big grin that I was very appreciative of a home cooked meal. He’d ask about my usual plan for breakfast at school and I’d lament how I didn’t always have one. The three of us ate slowly and quietly, there was no rush and I no longer had to wait for a spot to wash our hands in the bathroom. On the table, my combination of grits, eggs, cheese, bacon, and biscuits looked like an abomination compared to my grandfather’s plain grits.

CREATIVE WRITING

I enjoyed my food and thought about how it used to be. Not being able to contain my excitement those mornings during vacation. Joking and laughing while watching Sunday’s Best in Hemingway. Remembering waking up to the loud conversations between my grandfather and his brother early mornings before breakfast. And, how my cousins used to talk about me because I didn’t put sweet potatoes in my grits. Being younger and eating this same breakfast, at this same spot. Remembering the happiness that was on my grandfather’s face as he looked around the room and saw all of his favorite people in the same place. I looked up and saw that same happiness as we ate breakfast together. The connectedness, wholesomeness, and joy all came back to me. With or without my siblings, cousins, great aunts, and uncles, the feelings were still there. While I can’t relive the moments that I had, but the memories remain.

CREATIVE WRITING

36 37 CREATIVE WRITING

By Kyle Panasiuk

“When I felt my throat close and choke up on saliva I would try and talk my own throat out of choking me. What kind of demonic warfare was my mind engaging in here anyways”

My body was restless and tense, as I don’t sleep well at night. Suddenly, a feeling in my chest contracted with a tightening grip. My fingers felt sweaty. I called out Chesty’s name, “Chesty! Why won’t you loosen your grip on me?” This is what I’d named my anxiety--to help it feel more tangible and controllable. I’d imagined him saying, “I won’t loosen my grip until I pull you below the surface.” I bit my nails out of nervous habit. My fingers were shaking too. Mom told me not to bite or pick at my nails, but I couldn’t help it. My inner anxieties manifested through teeth clenching, and I was always a nail-biter.

Sure I was only 13 years old, but I felt that I had already experienced enough stress-induced trauma within my life. Middle school was tough and it wasn’t worth going to school and letting the bullies have their way with me. To them I was a rag doll; to me, they were cut-throat. Should I let the bullies have their way with me or I let the sheet monster have its way with me right now. Either way, I was the equivalent of school cafeteria lunch meat! My chest was still contracting and tightening and I still couldn’t see any sunlight through my window---it was another cloudy day.

CREATIVE WRITING

At night, the sweat and glazing over my body made me feel trapped under the bedsheets. “Strips,” another anxiety I’d named, always made me feel this way. He hovered, ghost-like over the sheer silk. Suddenly, I found myself feeling unable to breathe. Was I actually trapped? “Why are you doing this to me, Strips?” He expanded over me and I swear I heard him say, “You are doing this to yourself.” I swallowed his words and pulled myself into a ball. I wanted to get out, and yet, I was okay with being miserable and staying where my oxygen level was low.

I felt more constrained now than when the bullies at school would throw me against the lockers. It was a difficult time for me. Those other 8th graders were ruthless. Alas, my inner anxieties were just as bad as the bullies. What kind of demonic warfare was my mind engaging in anyways? I begged “Theo,” the anxiety manifesting in my throat at the moment, to quit choking me. Sometimes

When she told me to put my clothes and shoes on, it frightened me because I knew what was coming next. Every time the school bullies approached me, my feet cemented into the tile floor. These daily encounters stopped me in time as if the minutes were falling off the clock. My nerves would spill out of my stomach and fill the cracks between the tiles. Out of fear, I would call out my name and say “Jimmy, they can’t hurt you!”

it would help make me feel less scared when I assigned my inner anxieties names. I thought that if I were to call them out by name maybe they would stop harassing me. Suddenly, the bedsheets tangled themselves around me with a tight grip. I felt as if I wouldn’t be able to break free. There was a loud pounding knock at the door. The knock at the door progressed as a voice sounded. “Jimmy, are you in there?” The bedsheets spread over me like a dark storm cloud in the midnight sky. The words had fallen flat out of my mouth onto the carpeted floor and they were too far out of reach to grab at and grip. Theo tightened my throat again. I was now laying on the carpet below the bed frame.

I realized I was going to be just fine with my anxieties once I learned how to control them. Not having control over them at first was the scary part. Now I think to myself, how can I be afraid of something I named? My stomach sat with ease now. I glanced upward with a calm expression on my face. I’m still not sure how I was able to calm my nerves today. Eventually, they all died off once I was able to assign them each a name and take away their meaning. This allowed me to elevate my feelings of certainty--I could stay in bed without imagining that I am being sucked into another universe. Over time I remained above the covers. My anxieties, nor my thoughts or bed sheets had the ability to consume me any longer. Now, reading the clock the time struck to 8:45. I was officially late for school, and I was okay with that.

I know that as long as I succumb to my anxieties, they are always going to continue to work day and night, at school and in my bedroom. There was no escaping my fate. I could now see stars. I’m under the impression that my bed monster knocked me cold. I feel like I’m floating but still no sunlight. The only thing to be seen--darkness. I couldn’t see my anxieties. I couldn’t even feel them at this moment, but I knew that they were close. They always were. My mother rushed over to me, breaking through the door. Pulling me out from under the bed holding me close and telling me everything was going to be okay. She let go of me. Now, I was walking around my room letting a fresh beam of sunlight strike my face through the shades. I felt like I could breathe again.

CREATIVE WRITING

“Why is this, Strips?” Soon panicking, I tried to get out of bed but my anxieties tugged at my throat. It was too dark under the sheets and my stomach twisted in knots as it curdled and suddenly I felt as if I was going to vomit in my sheets. I was scared that I couldn’t get up. My own two feet couldn’t travel 20 feet to the door but my anxieties could travel with me for miles. Eventually, my Mom would come running in as my second alarm reminded me how late I already was for school.

woke up. My eyes gazed over at the alarm clock. The time read “7:37 AM” and I knew I would be late for middle school, even on this typical mundane Monday morning. My name is Jimmy; I’m 13, and I don’t struggle in school. I actually only struggle with myself.

I like to hide away sometimes, and watch the clouds that represent time. They cluster in their little packs, they advance without turning back. How do I make myself like that? The clouds don’t worry about time ticking by. They converge without a story that keeps them aside. The clouds do not dwell on the bad parts of life. They just move on, and keep floating by. We believe the clouds move slowly in our eyes, but they actually trudge quickly, like time. The little things they do happen right before our eyes, but all we see is the view of the sky. The clouds do not worry about time ticking by, they converge without a story that keeps them aside. The clouds do not dwell on the bad parts of life. They just move on, and keep floating by.

CLOUDS CLOUDS

Whether I’m on fast forward or rewind, my soul is unbound from the bad on my mind. My soul is free, just like the clouds above me. The stopwatch cannot withhold me. The clouds don’t worry about time ticking by, they converge without a story that keeps them aside. The clouds do not dwell on the bad parts of life. They just move on, and keep floating by.

CREATIVE WRITING

A song By Emma Samuelson

You know what I hate? When you try living your best life and people ruin it. Well, okay, in my case, not people. I can’t tell you the last time I saw another person that was not dead. I’m just not going to include the skeletons I scavenged off of the past few days, weeks, months, however long it’s been since It happened. Wait, where was I again? I’ll admit, I knew it was coming. It was only a matter of time. But before I get into that, let me set the scene: a dilapidated castle sits center stage. Communities entrap it like an altar to a mouse god: Frontierland, Tomorrowland, Fantasyland, Adventureland. The Main Street in front of it always smells like a vanilla candle masking death’s stench. Buildings lie in ruin. The remnants of jolly music echo across the park. I can almost picture myself among a bustling crowd that emanates a joy so powerful it’s intoxicating. Reality would’ve faded as the biggest issue became which ride to get to first. The real world would have felt far away, like another universe before it melted away into the rubble I find myself buried under knowing I’m alone in the happiest place on Earth with no one around—

Now, I’d be a lion if I pretended like I wasn’t in a precarious situation before. So, I’m gonna ignore the dread that pun gave me and be honest. I was always picked last for sports. I dropped out of the Pacer as soon as the laps hit doubledigits. The most exercise I did was taking my dog on a walk. It was the best life. Well, maybe not the best. But it was more of a life than I could even imagine having now. I just wish I knew how long ago it was. That seems random, I know. But I always think about it whenever I spend hours climbing rubble or trying to run from angry birds. The heavy breathing wasn’t helped by spikes of panic. I swear I heard things, like roars and growls and the kind of noises you don’t want to hear alone in the wilderness. I haven’t had a chance to venture out of the gates. But I’m beyond curious to find out how the rest of the parks fared. I don’t have much hope for them. I do wish that some Disney Magic spared Epcot as best it could. I’d hate to see if the World Showcase fits my imagination of the real world.You’re definitely wondering why I don’t just go check out these parks. The dishonest answer is that I’m more than content surviving in the death of my childhood from eons ago. The frank answer is that I hear animals at night and it scares me. Do I particularly want to live in survival? No. But do I want to be beef jerky? Again, no. It’s a fun balance I’ve been working on for the past few months. If you ask me what animals I hear at night I will not know the answer. I think I remember hearing a lion or hyena or some animal that calls the safari home. I should be safe from them, right? I mean, Animal Kingdom is about six, ten miles? . . . okay I honestly don’t know how far is between them but it seems far from my many trips weeks ago.Wait, no. It’d have to have been years ago. Right? Last time I visited Disney, prior to the latest trip that stranded me to survival among the Mickey Mouse tchotchkes, I was about 8 I wanna say. At departure for this trip, I was 16. But now, I feel 80. But surely there would’ve been someone to look for me if I had gone missing for 70 years. Surely. Right?

CREATIVE WRITING

So, anyways. I was telling a story, wasn’t I?

This might’ve defined my personal hell. At least, for the day. I was digging around the old corn dog restaurant not far from Cinderella’s Castle. I can’t tell you the name because the sign has been ripped off by something. I remember it having good food. The memory is, surprisingly, not ruined by the hellfire that rained down as I was shoved under a bench for protection, only to watch my parents be crushed by falling debris. I got hit, too, of course, but I came out less scratched than my murdered parents. I still don’t understand it. What I do understand, though, is my desperate need for food. Which brings me back to my story. I had found some old bread in what I assume was once the kitchen. Like, the building was relatively well preserved given what happened to it. I just never went in so I have no idea what the barriers were. But I digress. I managed to scrounge up a couple of hot dogs that didn’t seem too spoiled. I don’t know how long they were sitting there but they were still red so I assumed they were fine to eat. I walked outside and put together a small fire to fry up the dogs. I snacked on my bread while the meat cooked. Then I heard it. A roar. Deafening. Survival shattering. Right in front of me. Or maybe he didn’t. But in cartoons, the carnivore always licks its lips while staring at the tasty human. Or maybe I’m just hallucinating. I don’t remember the last time I drank water. I tried not to make any sudden movements as I reached for a large chunk of rock near me. The lion examined me closely. His eyes didn’t pry off me even after I threw the rock at him. He lunged at me. I threw my hands up in front of my head, praying my death would be swift. A loud crack echoed as the ground shook briefly. I slowly opened my eyes. A surprising scene greeted me: the lion, dead underneath a fallen street lamp. I stared in awe. If that lamp post was so fragile, how did it not crush me sooner, after all the time I spent here over the years?

CREATIVE WRITING

I’ve decided not to overthink it. After all, where will that get me? So, I’ve just decided that Disney magic is still in the air even after everything got blown to bits. And I, for one, don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth with that one. I’m just happy to have survived; I’d much rather be meat jerky at a much later date, thank you very much.

RE VIEW

GLOSSARY

Easter eggs - Movie Easter eggs are hidden references, clues or inside jokes that have been inconspicuously placed into TV shows, video games, and movies.

REVIEW

Male gaze - Invokes the sexual politics of overtly sexualizing a women, typically positioned as an “object” of heterosexual male desire

The unbounded future is full of unknown, but is shimmering with power and rebirth. By Caitlin Carter

REVIEW

Snow White’s poison apple did not look rotten from the outside. Neither does Emerald Fennell’s film Promising Young Woman. This movie challenges what society offers women with a twisted and unpredictable plot. This rape-revenge story has audiences squirming and flinching in every scene. The star of the film, Carrie Mulligan, jumps into the stiletto heels of her character, Cassie. Cassie is a 30-year-old med school drop-out, chasing demons, and making them pay. The film is genius in the way it tackles the roles in which women often find themselves--including the male gaze, societal constructs, sexual assault and harassment, careers, and more. Promising Young Woman takes place after the MeToo movement, but highlights and reminds us that there are still acres of mandatory change. Manipulative easter eggs are placed throughout the movie that traps the viewers into underestimating Cassie. Every ounce of this movie is carefully meticulated to push its message. Plainly put, Emerald Fennell said in a recent interview, “You can like Britney Spears and multi-colored manicures, and still be dangerous.” Being a woman in this society can mean stepping into the unknown. Physically, mentally, educationally with a career, in relationships, in motherhood--women play many roles. The male gaze is the puppeteer that pulls the strings in almost every life, and Cassie tries her best to snip the wires. The film places many moments that seem to receive audience chuckles for spot-on portrayal and insight into what it’s like to be female: A Youtube lipstick tutorial before a night out called, “Blow Job Lips,” with bright colors and overlined edges, which Cassie ends up smearing all over her face. This scene then cuts to include the movie’s “good guy,” Neil. He mansplains that he likes women who wear only light makeup and how he doesn’t understand why Cassie looks so painted. The male gaze presented has been a toxic Hollywood element since the first black and white film. Promising Young Woman understands this, mocks it, and throws the notion of the male gaze on its tail. This “male gaze,” doesn’t have to exist in their world. The male gaze is a Hollywood design that women can take control of and re-write.

Cassie goes to bars and pretends to be belligerently drunk so much so that she cannot even stand. Every male onlooker scoffs at her short dress, open legs, and droopy eyes. She must be more careful, she’s practically begging for it, yet, these same men, also found themselves forcing her into a bedroom. Not only was she asking for it, but she was weak. She needed assistance from a man. These are all societal tell-tales that haunt the minds of women whether they know it or not. This film confronts these disgusting stereotypes and pushes them off a cliff. Finally, everything can be unbound, pulled free, and wiped clean. “I’m a good guy.” Another quote shattered from this film that encompasses the eye-roll title of your everyday blind date. Once alone with these prince charmings, Cassie snaps out of her drunken act to catch them all about to do unspeakable things. They are mortified, furious, confused, but most of all, end up pointing the blame back at her. Many characters throughout the film say that rape victims were too intoxicated to know what is right and wrong and that it is more or less...their fault. This is false. The accusers are “innocent until proven guilty,” and the lives of good boys should not be ruined from a sloppy scandal. In this film, we learn that there is no such thing as a “good guy,” at least not in the way that our society has wrapped it up.

The costume and make-up design in this film are more than the script. Clothing is used as a complex contradiction to the dark themes of the movie. In the daytime, Cassie is seen in perfect pin-up looks, with pastel colors, polka dots, and ribbons in curled hair. She is a natural, picture-perfect girl, who works at a coffee shop. When the sun sets, she transforms into her superhero-like attire, with thick eyeliner, multi-colored hair, and bold lips. While she dresses like this for sexual appeal, it is also showcasing her mental spiral. With each scene, her looks grow in drama and become more unhinged. By the end of the movie, Cassie’s hair is completely wigged, and she is full of revenge. Much like the Greek mythology character, Medusa, who lures men with her beauty and power-filled eyes, Cassie does the same in this film. This symbolizes how men often treat women strictly based on what shade their eyelids are that day. The perception of women is subjective with every choice they make while getting ready in the morning; a sickening reality. The soundtrack of Promising Young Woman plays a large part in the symbolism within the film. The songs in each scene map out the progress and growth of Cassie’s trauma. Song lyrics often guide the audience more so than the spoken dialogue. The movie begins with Charli XCX’s, “Boys,” while the camera pans over a mass of older male characters, ignorantly displaying gross behavior on the dance floor. Thus, comparing the fantasy and reality of the flashy, romantic song about boys playing in the background. “It’s Raining Men,” plays as Cassie is catcalled by a group of construction workers. Instead of ignoring the men, she faces them with her menacing stare. This moment presents unbound beauty for all women, especially those who are objectified through catcalling.Viewers can find comfort in Cassie’s strength. Paris Hilton’s “Stars Are Blind,” sends us into a truthful love montage, and Britney Spears, “Toxic,” accompanies the darkest finale of the film. There is immense power in Promising Young Woman and its fully female narration.

REVIEW

It is estimated that over 734, 630 people were threatened, partially, or fully raped in just the United States in 2018. A harrowing fact, but one that isn’t spoken about enough. Promising Young Woman brings attention to victims who are both silent but begging to be heard. There are many social constructs that the film tackles with full, unashamed force. Take the following phrase for example, “Women are asking for it.”

REVIEW

The end of Promising Young Woman twists hearts. Some see it as a disappointment for women and rape victims. Others view it as not a revenge fantasy, but a revenge reality. A singular, lone person cannot break down all the walls that women have to climb over, but Cassie’s character makes a crack, and that crack can be doubled in size by the next woman, and the next, and next, until all the walls fall down. The underlying themes of female empowerment and how women can all stick together are enough to keep audiences smiling as they exit the theatre. Societal constructs can be obliterated by strong characters. Everything does not have to be bubblegum pink and blowjob lipstick. Sexual assault is too common. Promising Young Woman symbolizes a David and Goliath-like story for today’s women. It shows how far they have come, but also how much further they have to go. The future is shimmering with power and unbound rebirth. There can be a new era, and it starts with roars instead of whispers.

PO ETRY

GLOSSARY

Dawn - The break of day with the first beams of light streaming through sky Enchant - To dwell within great light Facade - An outward appearance that is maintained to conceal a less pleasant or creditable reality Icarus - A historical figure in Greek mythology who flew too close to the sun Rhythm - A melodious repeated sound or motion

POETRY

Sprout - A natural process when seeds or spores germinate and put out shoots, and already established plants produce new leaves or buds

Do you think Icarus was afraid? As he plummeted to Earth? Or do you think he took it in? In his last moments, As he fell from the sky? Do you think he saw the galaxies, The clouds, skies, and seas? All at a distance, crystal clear. An intimacy with life and death. By Jennifer Terry

Close enough to touch. To smell. To breathe in. A sensation unmatched. All the colors of the world at once. Crowds of people watching. Icarus, surrounded. Held, let go. In the last moments before Icarus touched the ground, Life was magnificent. It was a faded falling, Cascading down in the light from the sun. Weightless as a bird when it drops from the sky. Not a plummet but a punctuation, On the life he lived. A golden retelling of failure but flight. A halo of clouds, drawn to that magnificence, A masterpiece unearthed in mistakes. With a final sunset as an ending.

POETRY

Finished.

…Continued from Marsh Girl I Googled my old house, which swayed A few songs down the road. I saw Pictures of my aged room painted Newborn again, like I never smudged The wall in 2008 or cursed the world in 2016. I drove by. The instinct to climb From the window was gone. My new house has a front yard tree, It had to get used to me. Its leaves Shed layers around my fingertips. My new House didn’t smell like anything old. Raindrops hemmed like sap to the bare Bones of the tree outside my window Which facade as icicles until I remembered I live in a swamp.

POETRY

I wish I wanted to stay here forever or that it would be easy to leave. The climate is warmer month after month, the water creeping further inland to the marsh. The marsh asked me to stay another year. It whispered, the bodies of water who carried you here, are begging you to swim.

How I wish to touch the darkest parts of you To feel you etched in my skin Your essence soaring through me As you dive into the depths Travel through the chambers within, and Illuminate my crevices of you. “Enchant me with your luscious words” I whisper “Bound me within your heart and Allow the colors of your eyes to grip me” Ravish through my passion and cleanse me with your beauty. Set me ablaze Nourish me; let me sprout. Flourish me to the sky and intertwine our love in the stars. Into the openness of you, the galaxies fill up.

POETRY

I want nothing more than to be cherished by you. To merge my rawness into yours. Until the day I die, you’ve captured me.

The Wedding I wanted to twirl her around in that Ivory dress. The silk draped her small, pinched waist. Caressing the deep line of her back. The freckles that dot her spine. Her pointed slippers slide on smooth floorboards. Chestnut, with a few dark scuffs. Tilting my head, my eyes follow her Waltzing away. She is delicate, legs floating underneath the gown. My hands yearning to hold her. But I’m locked in a chair, as they cut through the cake. Lillian takes another man’s name, because I can’t take her dancing. Her mother’s pearls laying on her budding chest. One, two, three. One, two, three. Our feet never did stop. I can’t come back her auburn locks, Tucking each strand behind her ear. What a beautiful day for her, a somber sight for me. I can’t be a man, the man she wanted, so I sit. I stare at the newfound lovers. Feeling the pain that holds my heart So heavy. My legs denser than ever Yet, I can’t feel them. Never can I, Take her dancing.

POETRY

By Jill Dudley

Piece of Me

POETRY

YASMINE LYNN

It’s complete. Look at the lines, it’s me. I think. My life on display. I’m only what you describe to me. A life I live but will never see. Another masterpiece. A reflection on broken glass. Do me a favor, tell me what you see Describe this piece of me.

POETRY

Fueled by my fleeting heart, Every stroke mimicking the Rhythm of life, Rhythm of love. Rhythm of light, Rhythm of dark. Lines, thin and thick, Some unbeknownst to me. Do you see what I see? It’s beautiful,

“A Hymn of Four Seasons”

Dawn breaks, and we part ways, That happiness was only a dream, so I turn to the warm wind for comfort. The same wind flowing when we embraced. I can still smell the sweetness of your fragrance, reminiscing about holding hands under a red sky, while you hummed visceral melodies. Now all that’s left is the cold, star-stud of night. Spring gives wildflowers permission to dance, Summer arrives when grass fields sleep, Autumn arrives as the harvest moon wanes, Winter swings as the snowflakes fall in sway,

POETRY

I count off the passing days until I can think of Someone other than you. Dusk comes, and I return To my senses, the last images of our love evanescent, A collateral reverie. The seasons begin again.