Clamor 2017 by Clamor Journal

2017

CLA MOR

CL A MOR UWB LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL 2017

Clamor is the annual literary and arts journal of the University of Washington Bothell. Copyright 2017 Clamor. All rights revert to authors and artists after publication. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of Clamor staff or of the University of Washington Bothell. Clamor 2017 Editorial Board Hannah Dinero Nam Le Edward Scott

Rania Elshamma Mengyu Li Hannah Tashiro

Anndee Hilton Janelle Paraiso Calvin Tirrell

Taylor Hiner Meghan Sonenthal Mudasir Zubair

Faculty Advisors: Amaranth Borsuk (W&S 2017) & Jane Wong (F 2016) Graduate Assistant: Elisabeth Secor Program Coordinator for Student Media: Amani Carithers (S 2017) Cover Design: Anndee Hilton Mailing address: Clamor: UWB Literary and Arts Journal University of Washington Bothell Box 358561 18115 Campus Way NE Bothell, WA 98011 Email: clamor@uw.edu Website: http://clamor-journal.com Printed by Consolidated Press, 600 South Spokane Street, Seattle, WA 98134 We acknowledge the generous support of the Services and Activities Fee Committee, the Office of Student Engagement and Activities, and Club Council at the University of Washington Bothell.

CON TEN TS:

A Word From Our Editors

Hitoe Engelbrekt I Am From

Todd M. Kelley

Overlapping Timelines Upon a Petaled Throne

Kendall Wiggins

Ant Brains Night in the Cloud Forest

12 105

13 109

Jessica Kunder

Blood 14

Terrell Fox

Catalog Of Scars

John Kim

I am an Adopted Child of America

Heather Andrews

The Resolve to Protect Herself Cha Cha

Tracy Jane Gregory

beautiful and ugly (for Deborah) So what if I’m possessed?

18 63

23 72

Jacq Marie Babb

—a portrait of climbing— 24 —limbo— 94

Chris Johnston

Alpental 25 Lake Cavanaugh 83

Rania Elshamma When I was I Her

Allena Bassett

‘So we won’t have no need of more Slave Songs again’ ‘Comin’ for you now, Child. Don’t you be Afraid.’

Donna Lynne Griggs The Photograph Dear Box 238

Carl Boon A Teacher Photos Of Us

Benjamin Macke Sunset Star Light

26 79

27 58

29 90

31 89

Miguel Jimenez

Repetition 34

Yohandra Cabello Deck of Truths

Marinna Ewing What Lies Beneath

Dana Doran

[/life in the Matrix]: Anarchy [/life in the Matrix]: Acceptance

40 41

C.C.

Quetzal 42

Liza Boardman Hide and Seek

Corbin Louis

Serotonin 48 Dumpster Ethos 115

Hannah Dinero

Rx 49

Chloe Rock

Secrets of Spero

Mudasir Zubair

Untargeted 59 Stories I Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Tell You 87

Salvador Barriga

Hope 60

Maisha Manson Waves 61

Hannah Tashiro Eighteen

Ngoc Nguyen

The fear, right here

Donna Sullivan

Choosy Moms Day 42: Blueberry Meltdown

Allison Morton Shadow The Door

66 67

71 116

McCall Levy

Biopic 73

Thelma Tunyi

Iris 78

Jayme Woods Jumping the Gap

Joan McBride

Twirler 81 Engineering Ginger 101

Michael Warren Bagby Showing the Subject

PH Creed

When Merlin Fell Asleep

Janelle Paraiso

Clouds 88 Last Day of Summer 113

Fatima Al-Shemary Hidden Hands Words Make Love/Hate

95 117

Mina Jiaerken

Forgotten 96

Michael Thomas Cooper

We Walked Into Our Mass Graves, Not Watching At the steak house, the husband waited for his wife again, spun

97 106

Meghan Sonenthal

Alice 98

Anndee Hilton Lady Nasty

100

Senglong Ngor

Reflection of Innocence

Victoria Wettmarshausen Victory Heights What It Was

Jessica Birchfield

Out Into the Cold Night

Sydney Burdick The Hamlet Poems

Kyra Laughlin

The Girl Who Cried Rape

Calvin Tirrell

Demolition in the City Stressed in the City

103

104 114

107

110

120

122 123

Liezel Moraleja Hackett

Cicatrix 124

Morgan Thomas Runaways

127

Contributors 129 Digital Media 137

A WORD FROM OUR EDITORS

clamor clam⋅or

| noun | \‘kla-mər\ 1. a loud uproar, as from a crowd of people; popular outcry. 2. insistent public expression (as of support or protest). 3. a vehement expression of desire or dissatisfaction. 4. University of Washington Bothell’s professional grade literary and arts journal.

Welcome to Clamor 2017. As a collaborative student led publication, we are dedicated to creating a space for the arts on campus and beyond. In keeping with our name, we are passionate about the arts as “insistent public expression” and seek to advocate for the best creative practices within our journal, through a showcase of visual, media, and written arts. This year our editorial board wanted to foreground our commitment to intersectionality and representation of the diverse student body and broader community. We would like to take this opportunity to thank our contributors for bravely sharing their work. Inspired by the way they put their hearts into their art, we have put our own into exhibiting it. Thank you, as well, to our readers for their support, which has allowed us to publish our 11th edition of Clamor. We invite you to turn the page and experience the clamor.

I A M FROM Hitoe Engelbrekt

I am from tatami mats, from inhaler and bitter Chinese herbal tea. I am from sliding doors made of paper: fragile, yet it has a strong imagined boundary. I am from the sound of steaming water in a heavy iron pot surrounded by silence. I am from the cicada screaming summer and the chilblain toes winter, marigold orange on my way to school. I am from the being proud of who you are and hiding unhappiness from Minoru and Hana and great great grandfather who sold lumber with roving eyes. I am from happy and sad drinkers and seeking answers in books. From girls in the cage be good, put smile on your face, and obey your father or husband. I am from gods everywhere even in a piece of rice and in the bathroom. I am from the middle of island country where the Sun rises and pickled napa cabbage made by my mother, and tangerine oranges tended by my grandma. From the princess who once was a lover of the shogun, the mom looking at the window thinking about going back to her hometown. No picture to be found to retrieve my strawberry-shaped knitted handbag. I am from warm and broken souls mended by trying to care for each other.

Todd M. Kelley Overlapping Timelines Photography

A N T BR A INS Kendall Wiggins

Here is the difference between God and the Devil: God sees humanity and is proud, while Satan watches us and laughs in our faces. To His Holiness the Almighty Creator in Heaven we are a peculiar experiment watched like we would attend to the goings on of our ant farm. To Lucifer our scrawny wars and scuffles are a dogfight, a cockfight, a worm wrestling match put on chiefly for His entertainment. How amusing a last-ditch effort we are. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll take the winners, you take the losers, he said. Little Ant Brains.

Jessica Kunder Blood (detail) Micrographs

CATA LOG

OF SCA RS

Terrell Fox

Upper chest—knife There were occasions when I had to dig the pieces out (of) myself. Left ankle—blisters Left forearm—knife Once I only got a single stitch and the doctor laughed. Penis—circumcision Right forearm—knife Sometimes it took up to three months to heal. Belly button—original Upper chest—abrasion I have a small one that is a little white y. Upper chest—abrasion Left wrist—chicken pox My abdominal scars still give me trouble. Right cheek—chicken pox Right wrist—cat scratches I’ve spilled a lot of blood down the sink. Left front tooth—chip (rock) Upper chest—tattoo removal My fingers and hands are a mess. Left shin—abrasions & impacts Right front tooth—chip (spoon) Cold damp days cramp my knees. Left knee—abrasions & impacts Right shin—abrasions & impacts I didn’t think I’d make it past 30. Behind left ear—unknown origin Left elbow—abrasions & impacts Most scars don’t hurt anymore. Left elbow—abrasions & impacts Right ankle—abrasions & blisters I have plastic mesh in my guts. Left shoulder—cut (broken glass) Right elbow—abrasions & impacts They fade but they remind me: Left shoulder—smallpox vaccination Right hand—index finger (sheet metal) I left drops of me in the sand. Right eyebrow—baseball impact (stitches) Above pubic area—surgical incision (glue) Recklessness and disregard. Left thigh—lower, inner (unknown origin) Below belly button—surgical incision (glue) Icy Hot and acetaminophen. Upper chest—foreign object removal (knife) Upper chest—foreign object removal (knife) I was young and invincible. Upper chest—foreign object removal (knife) Right hand—thumb, second knuckle (impact) The pain was always bad. Center back—right of spine (unknown origin) Left cheek—expended light machine gun brass I am more careful now. Left hand—middle finger, first knuckle (impact) Lower left abdomen—surgical incision (stitches) I watch for survivors. Upper lip—plastic gun buttstock impact (stitches) Left hand—index finger tip (chef’s knife) (stitches) I lived like I wouldn’t. Left hand—middle finger tip (serrated knife) (stitches) Left inside triceps—abrasions (broken concrete and broken glass) And now I compare. Left hand—between thumb and index finger, X-Acto knife stab (stitches) Right knee—abrasions; razor wire; Humvee accidents; unknown origins I am breaking down.

I A M A N A DOPTED CHILD OF A MER ICA John Kim

I am an American. I was born in the land that bleeds red, sings blue, and remains white. I am not white, however, and therefore I am an adopted child of America. I am a child of this nation, but there isn’t a spot for me at the table. I have brothers and sisters around me, many of whom are of color. Yet our founding fathers and our founded mothers do not see us as their child. I bleed red like you. I sing blue like you. But I am not White like you. So what must I do? How can I be accepted? Won’t you tell me? I am educated by American schools. I speak American language. I eat American food. I enjoy American freedom. But why isn’t there a place for me in your America? I have brothers and sisters, many of whom are not of color.

They see me differently. They speak to me differently. So I must realize that I have to live differently. But must I accept that I am different? Must I accept that I am not normal? This is my America, and I want to change it.

THE R ESOLV E TO PROTECT HERSELF Heather Andrews

The fear was causing every neuron in her body to fire at once. The panic threatened to overtake her as she forced her spine straight. This time, it would be different. This time, she would protect herself. This time, she wouldn’t be the victim. Maybe she felt a change in the barometric pressure or maybe it was intuition…she didn’t know. She lowered herself onto the floor and attempted to slow the rhythm of her heart. It wasn’t that she heard him kick down the door, but rather she felt his anger shake the house. He had come back for her. The rhythm of her heart seemed to beat in time with her dogs’ constant barking. They could feel her terror. She was tucked in the small space between the bed and the wall. She willed her breathing to slow down, to focus. Her hands were slippery. In the moment, she couldn’t tell if it was from adrenaline or from the tears running down her face. She could hear his footsteps coming down the hall. This was it. He rounded the corner and came into view. His shirt was torn, exposing a sixinch scar just below his collarbone. She

remembered tearing into his flesh when he had attacked her. The bitter taste of his blood covered her face. That had been the only reason she had survived. The scar reminded her why she would survive now. She pulled the trigger. *** Elizabeth Drew stared at the desk in front of her. It was steel. She pulled back and looked at the bolts that fastened it to the ground. She remembered the way he had looked at her on that first day. He had smiled, and it was just a smile. It was the look afterward that should have warned her. His eyes were dark and, although he was smiling, it was as if his eyes betrayed him. They were darker and colder. They were the eyes of someone hiding a secret. Yet she ignored his eyes and welcomed the smile. When he had come up to her and introduced himself, she was caught off guard. He was not good looking in the traditional sense. His teeth were slightly crooked, and his skin was hard from working outdoors. Yet there was something that was appealing. Or at the very least intriguing. Yes, this guy

seemed different. His hands were rugged and he kept them shoved in his pockets whenever he spoke.

window, watching her. At first, Elizabeth was charmed. He was the first man to ever actively pursue her.

Tim was his name.

Elizabeth paused and made eye contact with Sergeant Parker. “Would it be possible to get some water?” she asked.

A woman in her forties entered the room. Elizabeth watched her carefully. She had dark hair cut just below her chin. Her shoulders were rigid, and she had the same desolate expression that Elizabeth knew so well. “Can I get you anything to drink?” She asked. Elizabeth shook her head, “I’m fine.” The woman pulled out a tape recorder. “Elizabeth, I’m Sergeant Parker and this session is being recorded. Will you please start at the beginning?” *** Tim had insisted that he knew her from somewhere. Although she was positive she had never encountered him, she was flattered. It was nice to be wanted. He showered her with affection. Every day, he showed up with gifts. Coffee, chocolate, and flowers. Soon he was waiting for her after all of her classes. He would wait outside, staring in the

The detective nodded, but she didn’t move from her chair. Elizabeth knew that someone on the other side of the glass would be bringing her drink. It was September 20th. Elizabeth remembered the date because she always scheduled her hair appointments on the twentieth of each month. It was easier to remember. She had smiled at her hairstylist as she shook her newly darkened locks across her shoulders. She loved it. Elizabeth had been smiling when he burst into the salon and headed straight toward them. “What did you do?” He demanded sharply. Elizabeth was taken aback as she watched Tim belittle her hairstylist. Elizabeth grabbed at his hand, trying to calm him down. “What is your problem?” She yelled, struggling to get her voice loud enough so that he would hear her.

He turned and slapped her across the mouth.

everything would be okay. Her dad would protect her.

It happened so quickly Elizabeth had not been able to register it.

And he would have, if he had known. But Elizabeth didn’t tell her father in fear he would be angry with her for dating someone so much older. Elizabeth thought she could handle Tim on her own. She stopped seeing him and refused his phone calls and emails. She had thought that it was over. That her life would go back to normal.

*** A plainclothes officer placed a bottle of water directly in front of her before stepping out of the room. Elizabeth unscrewed the cap and brought it to her lips. Her hands were shaking so badly that some water dripped down her chin. Her eyes met the detective’s and she continued. *** He was apologetic. In the car, Elizabeth had placed as much space between them as she could. His apology was rushed and laced with anger as he weaved around cars. Elizabeth was not crying, but he was. His tears scared her more than his temper because it seemed like there was something inside of him that he could not control. She knew his behavior was not acceptable. She remembered thinking if she could just get to her parents’ house

It didn’t. He continued to send gifts and wait outside of her classes. Campus security escorted her to and from class, and even though she didn’t see him, she knew he was still there. Watching her from a distance with his dark and empty eyes. The text messages began a week later. One night he would demand to know whom she was talking to at the store. The following day he would text her, letting her know his relief that she had gotten home safely. The messages started including photos. Photos of her in class. Photos of her in the car. Photos of her in her home. Changing. His behavior became more frightening.

He would park his car across from hers in the parking lot. He wouldn’t attempt to talk to her, but he would follow her. Elizabeth remembered arriving at her car and finding the little black box wedged between her windshield wipers. Her heart was hammering as she clicked it open. There was a silver band. Inside the words “till death do us part” were inscribed. Elizabeth dropped the box as if she had been stung. The police couldn’t help unless he made physical contact. They urged her to keep a journal detailing her experience. Someday, you might have enough for a restraining order, they said. Someday. *** There was a deep sadness in the way the Sergeant looked at her that Elizabeth hated. Yet, she understood. She had spent the better part of the last ten years feeling that same sadness within her. Yet at this moment, she wished for nothing more than to disappear. Sergeant Parker drew in a deep breath and Elizabeth knew what she would ask.

Elizabeth recounted, in disturbing detail that night in January. Elizabeth’s entire body was rigid as she finished, except her hands. They were trembling in her lap. Both women looked at each other, their expressions mirroring the fear that Elizabeth had experienced on that night. On so many levels, Elizabeth just wanted to go home. It had been ten years, and she wanted nothing more than to move on and put him behind her. It had been eight years since she had testified in court. *** The prosecuting attorney had urged the jury to judge the man before them, not as a human, but as a predator. Elizabeth had refused to look at him. Police officers flanked her on both sides. She had been able to feel the heat from his stare. She had swallowed hard and tried to push it from her thoughts. Instead she stared at her hands folded in her lap, willing herself to stay still. Her pinky twitched, and she curled her hands into fists. She flicked her eyes up and caught his.

They were still dark, still empty. Instead of looking away, she held his stare. Memories flooded back to her in rapid succession. The meeting. The beating. The fear.

Over time, she began to feel at ease. Or at least, at ease with the decisions she had made. She would not be the victim.

The hate. She couldn’t look away. He had stolen everything from her. Her innocence, her happiness, her life. The rage she felt somehow calmed her nerves. It was as if accepting the anger allowed her to move on. When the jury sentenced him to the next five years in prison…that was when he had finally exploded. His scream was more animalistic than human. From the defense table, he lunged at her, his eyes wild with anger. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed. He had continued to yell at her, even as the officers hauled him away. *** For five years she had felt safe. Although the differences did not go unnoticed. She no longer made eye contact with

strangers. She varied her routine so no one could trace her daily habits. She went to three different gyms. She was careful not to reveal any intimate details about her life. She seldom welcomed new friends into her home, preferring to be alone. Yet she was stronger. She trusted her instincts.

When her dogs began barking that night, she knew he had come back for her. Elizabeth rolled from her bed and wedged herself between the wall and bed frame. She dug between the mattresses and felt the cold steel between her fingers. Closing her eyes, she waited. This time, she would protect herself.

Tracy Jane Gregory beautiful and ugly (for Deborah) Collage

—A PORTRAIT OF CLIMBING— Jacq Marie Babb

howl-less hollows— trees more alive in their silence than I. I burn in skins like cages. in all my darkness, my eyes will always find the light. shadows stretch into five fine lines to hold silken notes of a starry ode though leaves speak only when the world and I sigh, knowing more than they would ever care to know: tired young and quickly old. Grow. Fly. Decompose. Rise. I’ll climb— kiss the boughs, bowing beneath my meager size: secrets and secrets and secrets between the night and I, a cold and lonely home, and then fire, fierce and terrified— my eyes will always find the light, if I myself must ignite.

Chris Johnston Alpental Photography

WHEN I WAS I Rania Elshamma

Once, when I was a child, I was a child once. I was we I was them I was a child once.

Towers crumbled down

We I was no longer

Them battled I

I pleaded them

They versus I Once, when I was a child, I was a child

once.

‘SO WE WON’ T HAV E NO NEED OF MOR E SL AV E SONGS AGA IN’ Allena Bassett

Today there was no triumph She did not win so she gathered herself and her “bleeding heart” to rest and set to rights her “tender” self She called down the Moon The Grandmothers came too and took her Home Laid her down on a bed of sweetgrass Braided sage smoke into her hair Rubbed her down with oil and Earth Coyote curled at her feet Crow watched from the edges all shadows and laughter The fire kicked and popped as They hummed the Old Songs while They worked and She wept her wounds whole After a while they kissed her forehead and sent her back She didn’t want to go

but her heart had to bleed once again It was the only way to hold back the twisted tides So she said her goodbyes and set about her return to do her Work she had signed on for so very long ago

THE PHOTOGR A PH Donna Lynne Griggs

The old man sat down at the dining room table with purpose. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly and began to spread the photographs in front of him like a deck of cards about to be used in a childlike game of concentration. Gladys sat quietly beside him, her thin arms lying gently upon her lap, fingers intertwined in well-behaved graciousness. She looked at him and gently smiled, wondering what this man was up to. “Are you ready to play?” he asked. Her smile widened. “Oh, I enjoy games very much,” she answered. “I know you do,” he said, sitting back into his creaky aged chair. “Pick one.” Gladys looked at him timidly. The man gave her an approving nod, tenderly coaxing Gladys to return her attention to the life spread out before her. Her hand trembled. She could see how the years had weathered her skin; the deep lines and dark discolorations mapped out the inevitable passing of time. A puzzled look spread across her face, as if surprised to see she was as old as her features portrayed. Funny, she thought, she didn’t feel that old. Her knobby fingers

wandered among the worn images, finally settling on one that appealed to her. He seemed pleased. “You like that one?” he asked. “Oh yes,” she said smiling. “The trees are so pretty, the sun is shining…and the people in it look so happy.” Gladys saw the old man’s eyes begin to sadden. “So, you don’t know who the people are?” he asked. She looked down and studied the photo, her eyes holding the troubled look of a child who’s gotten a wrong answer. She didn’t know the mother who lovingly held the little boy upon her lap, or her son whose lively laugh was now depicted within the white borders of the image. “We’ll try another,” he said, gently taking the photograph out of her hand. “How about this one?” he asked. Gladys stared intently. She wanted so badly to please the man beside her, but, sadly, she did not recognize the carefully decorated Christmas tree surrounded with lovingly wrapped gifts, nor the happy faces that hauntingly glared back

at her. Her eyes hesitantly perused the other photographs sprawled out on the table. She didn’t remember the joyous birthday parties, emotional wedding ceremonies, or cheerful bar-b-ques scattered in front of her. He silently hung his head. This isn’t fun anymore, she thought to herself, placing her hands back into the familiar spot upon her lap. She breathed and expelled a deep sigh, a feeling of embarrassment drifting in; when out of the corner of her eye she spied a picture, half-buried, underneath the vast pile of memories. Taking the tiny tip of her feeble finger, she slowly tugged on the photo, unearthing the black and white image. She sharply drew in a breath while gripping the past tightly in her hand. “This one,” she said. She received no response. Her husband hadn’t heard her. “Glen,” she said softly. The sound of his name seemed to startle him as he raised his tired head to look at her. “This one?” he said hesitantly. “It was summer. My sister Ellen had gotten a new camera and snapped this picture of me.” She smiled. “It was so hot that day…sticky and wet like how the kitchen felt after mama was canning

all day.” Gladys chuckled softly. “All the dang humidity made that white sun dress stick to my legs as I walked down to Rexall’s drugstore to get a cold pop. It had lace across the top with four large buttons that ran up the back,” she said confidently. “I remember seeing it in the Sears catalog. We didn’t have the money for something like that, so I bought the pattern for fifteen cents and made it myself,” she said proudly. She looked at Glen. “Don’t you think I look swell?” Glen cleared his throat. “Course you do,” he said. “But, this is the one you remember…one with just you…and a dress?” Gladys smiled as a small tear trickled down her cheek. “Why Glen,” she said as she lovingly put her hand on his knee. “I remember everything about that day… because that was the day I met you.”

A TE ACHER Carl Boon

He’s laughing at the joke he couldn’t tell, fiddling with Whitman and how it matters, finally, this room that filters light in bars against their faces. This space where nothing stays except the stare, the unanswered question lingering, disappearing. He pauses. Something in the face of a boy in the back recalls to him his own face years ago, how he leapt to love, lied, and was borne unto a boat. They move to Hart Crane— he moves to Hart Crane— as the sounds in the hall grow louder, and it is him, youth cursing at age, divine declaring the dying

dead at last. A girl wants to say goodbye, another stands at the doorway, her knees trembling, her wrists like Stein’s, unready for the world. He knows with sudden anger it’s not him they seek but them they’ve lost, girls and boys spinning past their mothers’ laps, spinning because the world spins, and their segments have yet to be discouraged.

Benjamin Macke Sunset Star Light (detail) Photography

Miguel Jimenez Repetition

DECK OF TRU THS Yohandra Cabello

EL CABALLITO He spends his days riding around the old, decrepit town, making sure everyone is doing what they are supposed to be doing. People are supposed to be starving, people are supposed to be unhappy, and no one is supposed to be doing what they want to do. He takes his time to shine his motorcycle before leaving the house every morning. He shines his boots and shines his badge. Throughout the town everyone sees him pass by; everyone lowers their voice when he passes, everyone hides whatever it is they have in their hands—doesn’t matter if it’s a pound of sugar or American dollars—he makes them incriminate the only rights they have. He is master of this town, keeping everyone down, keeping everyone in line. He makes damn sure no one buys cow milk to drink, makes sure everyone has their libreta up to date—and if they don’t take today what is offered to them by the State, well, tough luck, they can’t come back tomorrow. At the end of the day, when he goes home, he finds there’s no electricity. The month’s supply of sugar is gone: there

won’t be any milk for the baby until next week. But he sits there on the edge of that bed, polishing his badge and polishing his boots. Items that lost their shine in the year 1959. THE CUBAN PATRIOT Never have two words been more juxtaposed than Cuban and Patriot. What the hell do you mean, exactly, when you say patriot? Patriot to what? Are you referring to being a patriot of the Revolution? A movement that began with such promise only to be turned into the darkest period in Cuban history? There are still many people who are patriotic to the Revolution today, although most of them work for the government, or are being paid by the government to say they are. Either way, same thing. Are you referring to Marti’s patriotism? The patriotism to your country, to the freedom of your land from those who seek to keep you under Master’s boots! Ah, even after decades of oppression, Marti’s words have never dulled and never failed to inspire. For there was a man who was a true patriot, a true Cuban Patriot.

La Patria. The Land. The Country. The Motherland. Cuba. I consider myself a patriot of Cuba. Not of the government, not even of its people: of the land itself. A blending of Spain and Africa. My home. Where my roots still grow even when I am no longer present there.

Well, it’s not working very well now, but we just got started, give it a few months. A few years. It works so well on paper. It practically has to work. Everything and everyone who does not live for the well-being of this country shall be thrown out.

Ghost roots. Ghost patriot.

Well, what’s the point of freedom if people can’t choose for themselves?

EL REVOLUCIONARIO

That’s an imperialist and capitalist idea. It has no business here.

Here is a man who is extremely proud of all he’s done. He’s a real revolutionary. He was up there in the Sierra Maestra all those months. Fighting. Surviving. He fights for a way of life. An oppressed people. No more, he tells himself. No more. Truth and justice throughout the land.

will

soon

ring

Well, after we take care of all these traitors then we’ll have fair trials. They don’t deserve fair trials. And after everyone has enough of everything then we can start producing everything for everyone.

He is a revolutionary. That sees his revolution imploded. It’s been deceased. Still, he is proud. Still, he imposes. He hoards and keeps things for himself— things no one else in the country has. But he puts on his olive green uniform, salutes the statue of El Che. THE COUSIN He smokes a cigarette with his coffee for breakfast. His mom is out on the small patio frying some eggs. The house door is open and he sits on the rocking chair looking out as the people walk back and forth. A couple of the neighbors walk in and go out back pour themselves some coffee, saying good morning to him as they pass.

And he wonders… Is this my entire life? Will I not know anything else? Am I doomed to stay here? He’s excited that his cousin, visiting from the U.S, is here—she’s still sleeping. She’s like his sister and he missed her. But he wonders what his life would be like if it had been his mother instead of his aunt who had left Cuba all those years ago. What would he be? What would he have done? He smiles as his cousin comes down the stairs and gives him a good morning kiss. THE FIRST LOVE She knew it was stupid falling for a boy here when she’s only going to be here for three weeks. They’ve known each other since she was four and he was six. He lives only three doors down to her aunt’s house, where she stays every time she comes to Cuba—the house that used to be her parents’ before they left the island.

Malecon, kissing in the rain, dancing, and laughing some more. But it’s not made to last, you see. She is leaving—gone. He’s left behind. Two yearning hearts. Idiots. THE MATRIARCH Her name is Julia. She’s eighty-five years old. Her nickname is Yuya. It’s become like a brand, passed down to her daughters and granddaughters—and now great-granddaughter too. Whenever they pass by, people always greet them on the street and say, “Ahi van las yuyas!” She had six kids in total. But one died still in infancy—Giovanni, Leukemia—and another only last year—Alberto, Lung Cancer. She’s got eight grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.

She’s thirteen now—turning fourteen in three days. He’s already sixteen and charming. They are very much alike.

Her husband died young. A crane snapped and fell on his car, which happened to be passing by at that precise moment.

They spend those days talking, laughing, and walking around town, kissing by El

She never remarried.

And she raised her kids in a harsh environment. It was an island in paradise, sure, but the ones in charge chipped away at it until it was nothing more than a memory. Lost in time.

Marinna Ewing What Lies Beneath Pen and Ink

Dana Doran [/life in the Matrix]: Anarchy Oil Painting

Dana Doran [/life in the Matrix]: Acceptance Oil Painting

QUETZ A L C.C.

I: Before time came In canopies where sunlight flickers, a tail of jade feathers droops and I hear too’we-too’we-too’e. With that whimpering long note for company, I imagine your jade-crested head, round as an Indonesian Rambutan, jade cape down your back. In flight, your streaming tail streaks the sky with jade. As your plumes fall, they crown the heads of Aztec and Mayan kings and emperors, to greet the sun. And Moctezuma II, warrior jaguar, wears a crest fashioned from your molted plumes.

II: 1518 Half-man-half-horse creatures shine in their silver shells. Gods! the Aztecs cry. Messengers’ conches blow: Feathered-serpent, Quetzalcoatl has returned! they announce. Our ruling god’s promise is fulfilled, Moctezuma declares.

The human-horse creatures receive gifts— beads, furs, feathers, gold nuggets. The nuggets’ gleam sparks the glee of greed. Hernán Cortés speaks: Take me to your emperor; I wish to pay him my courtesies. Gold! Glory! God! Tenochtitlán, Venice of the Americas. La Malinche, enslaved princess of Paynala, whispers the legend in his ear, and Cortés proclaims to Moctezuma: I am Quetzalcoatl.

Drums beat painted faces beaded ankles dance begins death strikes Spanish blades cut golden-brown sinews. Moctezuma’s feathers droop, and you, Quetzal, wail: too’we-too-we-too’e! You flee to the heartland of your race: Guatemala. Your sorrow makes your blue plumage grow. Your wails never end.

III: 1981: The first of three years of Mayan slaughter Night falls hammocks sway doors are battered homes overturned, shrines wrecked. Death. The Guatemalan Army wears bloody berets. Their toothless swords spit fire. Men, women, children, are dragged. The Maya are silenced by thunderous gunfire— blood splatters stones. And Quetzal shrieks: too’we-too’we-too’e! Tú, Quetzal, angustiado con tu pecho manchado con la sangre de tu gente Maya, haces de tu canto un llanto.1

You, anguished Quetzal, with your chest stained with the blood of your Mayan people, make your song a lament. 1

HIDE A ND SEEK Liza Boardman

When I was 5 years old, I was the only White kid on my street. That changed as I moved neighborhoods, but it didn’t matter because I was the only White kid in my house all the time. My single mom, brother, and sister are all full Filipino and I remained the outlier. When I was 7, I went to the grocery store with my mom. “She looks so much like you!” the cashier exclaimed to my mom as she scanned our vegetables. I looked up, hopeful that maybe she was talking to me. Instead, she was smiling at my little sister who rolled her eyes, more than used to hearing this comment from strangers. I looked to my mom who smiled at my sister, stroking her hair. I wanted to look like my mom, too. When I was 10, my siblings and I went to the community pool. “Don’t play too long or you’ll get dark!” My mom shouted to us before she went back into the house, but not before giving me a long glance. I knew what that glance meant, and I wondered if she knew that I knew also. I can get dark, too. My half-Filipino heritage never seemed like enough when standing next to my dark sister with her Filipino nose. My half-Filipino heritage never seemed like

enough when my brother walked further from me on the way to the bus stop so that people wouldn’t ask questions. I was the only White kid at the family parties and the only White kid in the Jollibee* line. I was always hearing the gossipy Filipino ladies whisper “puti”* and getting stares whenever I entered a room. I’m Filipino too, though. When I was 12, I made friends by asking three words, “Are you Filipino?” I purposely attempted to surround myself by Filipinos throughout middle school, hopeful that if I had more Filipino friends, then I would be more Filipino as a result. One day, however, when someone said, “ching chong” to my friend, I suddenly didn’t feel so Filipino anymore. Looking at me with ashamed eyes, that friend said, “You’re lucky that kind of stuff doesn’t happen to you.” I am a walking borderland. I am a contact zone that shows up to Filipino parties followed by confused stares and questioning looks. I stand by the food and eat calamansi* with my pancit* the way I was taught. I spot an obviously White person across the room and all of a sudden I don’t stick out so much. At least I’m half.

My race as a Filipino American is an invisibility cloak I hide behind, a megaphone shouting out “check your damn privilege,” a deafening silence full of potential, a safety pin that speaks volumes but takes little action, an officer position in the Filipino club that does nothing but make PowerPoints. Check your privilege. Check your oppression. Check that Asian American, Pacific Islander, and Caucasian box all at once. But make sure you check the Asian one first. But wait…why am I hiding? Why am I hiding and making myself invisible? Why am I throwing myself against a white background for the purpose of standing out? I don’t want to be plain old white in a world of beautiful colors. But I don’t know what it means to lose my voice against the blinding white. The people that are visible to me, my fellow Filipinos, are so often forced to be invisible without a say in the matter. My mom worked at the same job for 10 years despite being more than qualified. My brother was bullied on the bus and the bus driver did nothing about it. My uncle worked all sorts of jobs for ten years just to move his family to America. Meanwhile, I am more than visible simply because

of my phenotype, but my mom gets the lower paying job because of hers. I am a walking borderland. The two borders that I am separated by, White and Filipino, clash within me in an attempt to find a perfect middle with one another. In my past, I chose to create a border where borders have already been imposed by forces so much bigger than me. I enforced those borders that Filipino American activists have worked their whole lives to tear down. “I’m more Filipino than I am White,” I used to say with such ease without realizing the true harm it caused within myself. What’s wrong with being who I am—confused. Yes, I am Filipino. Yes, I am White too. But even I have trouble finding where the line begins and where it ends. And I don’t want to find that line. I’m okay with blurred lines that, although they may confuse me, result in a representation of my two cultures filled with pride. When I was 18, I learned what it meant to take off my invisibility cloak and embrace my mixed race. By embracing myself, I have a voice. Even without embracing myself, I have a voice. The point is that I don’t need a megaphone to be heard or an invisibility cloak to fit in. My fellow Filipinos in hiding, they work so hard

to be found. My mom quit her job for a higher paying one with a much shorter commute. My brother took karate to learn how to fight and is now in the Navy fighting for our country. My uncle reunited with his family this year and has enrolled his daughter in college. As I begin to embrace myself, I recognize that even when I chose to hide, I still had the power to represent the stories not so often heard. As I finally come to terms with who I am, that power is realized. When I was 19, I learned what the term â&#x20AC;&#x153;oppressionâ&#x20AC;? truly meant. I learned my position in working against oppression and that my voice as a White American speaks so much louder even if it is just a whisper. I have power where power is limited.

*Puti: White Jollibee: Filipino fast food franchise Calamansi: Filipino citrus fruit Pancit: Filipino noodle dish

SEROTONIN Corbin Louis

Dope boys screaming from chronic pain heartbreak and pill bottle from stomach of empty Hundred day fucking run of all coke broken nose and switch blade regression A woman destroyed me the way cathedrals are turned inside out Bit my lips and said ‘goodbye/never, fuck you piece of shit bipolar rich boy’ But I was broke and she had the money and I couldn’t afford treatment Then I thought about suicide every night for a year straight (Gunshot-gunshot-buckshot-.44) I’d rather die than be alone on pills high every fucking day because my brain is a hollowtip leaking serotonin from past lives and dice games and the smell of a hundred weekends stuck on my clothes forever

Hannah Dinero Rx

SECR ETS OF SPERO Chloe Rock

Sam kicked the gravel on the ground as he walked with his family to the large building in the middle of the town square. It was Sunday morning on planet Spero. Everyone knew that it was time for the Weekly Message, or the W.M. It was Spero tradition for everyone to gather in the town square’s hall every Sunday morning to watch it. Eighteen-year-old Samuel was currently following this tradition with his large family. A dull roar filled the room as everyone walked around to find seats. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and the giant screen in the front lit up. “Earth. The year 2057,” a deep voice boomed over the crackling sound system, the message the same. It told of how the U.S. sent spaceships of the most promising citizens to different planets to create more resources. The message always ended with “…But our hard work is not over yet. Now that you are on the planets, it your job, as an American, to bring the planet to success. Remember, citizen, you can change the world,” and the screen went dark. *** Sam let out a pleasant sigh as he left the town square. Sam loved Sunday, the one

day a week the entire town would rally together for their pride in Spero. Even as a simple farmer, Sam felt that even he was important. Sunday was also the day he could see his best friend, Opal James. Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He lay in an empty field, grass tickling his sides, wind grazing his body. Sam always felt most relaxed alone with the grass and the sky. With one exception. “Hey Sammy,” Sam opened his eyes, grinning as he saw Opal. “Hey, O,” Sam said softly. Opal moved to lay down next to Sam in the grass, her movements were graceful and refined. She was so complex, Sam had a hard time figuring her out. The daughter of scientists, and herself well on her way to becoming one, she was smart, yet silly, rough, yet graceful. How Opal could be so complex was a mystery to Sam. But Sam always wanted to know more and more about her. Opal put her hands behind her head and closed her eyes, looking radiant as always. Time passed too quickly, as always with Opal. As the sun started to set, they talked about all sorts of things, family, school, or anything that made

them laugh. The only bothersome thing about her was her doubts about the Spero government, especially the head founder, Malcolm Willouby. Spero was too small for a traditional government, those duties were taken over by the founders of the planet and a small group of trusted peacekeepers. Willouby was strongly revered as the head scientist and leader of the colonization project. Opal thought Willouby was too generous with rationing. Sam completely disagreed with her. As a farmer, Sam worked with the other farmers, who handled nearly every aspect of Spero’s food. Most was produced through the farmers, but meat was taken care of with tremendous care to prevent any livestock illness—only the elite founders were to handle the production of meat. There was no worry over the quality of meat: the founders would regularly announce during the W.M. the good or bad seasons for livestock. Though it made no difference, a full ration of delicious meat would always reach everyone’s table. Opal wondered if maybe the founders were using hormones or steroids to make the livestock bigger and feed more people. Sam had no reason to question the founders’ announcements, and

felt uncomfortable with how fervently Opal questioned them. Their political discussions always ended with them agreeing to disagree, for the sake of their friendship. Stars materialized as the temperature dropped. Sam scooted closer to Opal, hoping she wouldn’t notice. To Sam’s surprise, Opal didn’t pull away, but came closer instead. Sam’s heart was beating a million miles an hour. He had never felt this anxious in his life. The stars flooded the sky. Sam couldn’t care for them, he could only focus on Opal. Her smile, her small nose, tipped red from the cold, her beautiful face... Opal glanced over catching Sam’s eyes briefly before she leaned her head against his chest. One ear to his racing heart, and another to the gentle wind around them. *** Opal looked so fragile lying on her hospital cot, Sam desperately wished for color, a window...anything besides this patronizingly white room. It had been less than a week, only six days, when Sam had heard that Opal collapsed in the marketplace, and was in

the hospital. Sam was terrified. Getting sick in Spero was rare, and now suddenly this disease appears, taking lives, and Opal was infected. Sam dropped next to Opal, quietly sobbing.

people that are getting sick disabled? The only people brought to Spero were genetically perfect, and I believe that the government didn’t expect their children to be born with problems—”

“Sam?” Sam turned around and saw Opal’s father, Noah James.

“That’s crazy!” Sam exclaimed, “the government doesn’t treat those people any different! I’ve been in school with them since I was little, one of my closest friends has Down’s syndrome!”

Sam quickly wiped his eyes, “h-hello sir, how are you doing?” “My only child is lying sick in a hospital bed...I just...ever since this sickness started, I’ve been really uneasy about its origins,” Mr. James replied. Sam sniffed, “Why sir?” “I’ve noticed that a lot of the people getting sick...are those who have disabilities,” Mr. James deduced. Sam glared at Opal’s dad, “And why do you think that’s happening?” Mr. James paused, sensing Sam’s anger and distrust. “I think that the founders are poisoning their people,” he concluded. “No—no way that’s true!” Sam refuted, too angry to listen. “Sam, please,” Noah pleaded, “you have to believe me, this is the only logical conclusion! Why are a majority of the

Noah’s face turned to shock, “Do you mean Lauren Donaldson? The apple farmers’ daughter?” “Yeah,” Sam tentatively answered, “why?” Noah’s face once again turned into one of sadness. “Follow me,” he asked. Sam hesitantly followed Noah to a room a few doors down. He watched as Noah opened the white door and stood shocked as he instantly recognized the dead girl on the bed as Lauren from agriculture class. She had been fine on that past Sunday. It wasn’t true... What happened to Lauren and... What Opal’s dad was saying... it couldn’t be true... Sam stood back, his breathing heavy. “Sam please,” Opal’s dad put his hands

on Sam’s shoulders, “please just listen to me. The founders are already too suspicious of me, I think they infected Opal to silence me. But they don’t know I have you. Samuel, you have to sneak into the Founders Building and find out what they’re up to, and see if they’re behind this sickness,” he pleaded.

the now-moving rover. The sky grew dark, and following became difficult, but Sam found the distinct rover parked just outside the Founders Building. He watched as they took Lauren out of the back and brought her inside. He entered the building, following far behind the peacekeepers to avoid suspicion.

“I don’t—I can’t—” Sam didn’t know what to do. Mr. James sounded crazy, this was too implausible! But... the more he thought on it, the more merit it had. But Spero was such an amazing planet, where Sam had never had to worry about anything in his life.

Sam felt on edge as he entered the building. He was casual as he walked, and passed a couple of peacekeepers, none of whom seemed to pay him any mind. Sam eventually lost sight of Lauren, and wandered through the Founder’s Building aimlessly. The farther he got, the more he began to doubt his suspicions.

Sam wriggled out of Mr. James’ grasp and sprinted out the door to a nearby clearing. He sat down, head in his hands, revisiting every thought in his mind. Opal…Lauren...Spero...this sickness. Sam didn’t know what was right. Sam jumped up, startled, when he heard a rover behind him. Vehicles were only used sparingly by the government. Sam quickly spotted officials wheeling a gurney to a solar powered rover. He could see blond hair and could tell that they were transporting Lauren. Curiosity took over, and Sam followed

Suddenly Sam stopped dead in his tracks. He thought he heard something, a sound maybe, coming from the air vent on the ceiling. Sam walked closer, trying to hear it again, to no avail. Looking around, with his heart pounding, Sam opened the vent and crawled inside. As he moved, Sam glanced through passing grates into the offices below, nothing out of the ordinary. Sam stopped again, his blood ran cold as he heard the voice again: a moan of pain. He followed the moan through the vents. As he passed the offices, they turned to cold sterile rooms, with metal walls,

floors, and tables. Sam’s blood ran cold as he saw Lauren on one of the tables. There was a boy on another table next to her, moaning. Sam vaguely recognized the boy as a neighbor child whose parents made clothing, and he had lost three of his fingers once in a manufacturing accident. Sam was puzzled as to why those two were there. The door opened with a bang, and in walked a man, covered in scrubs, carrying a tray full of equipment. *** Sam scurried through the vents as fast as he could. He had to find tangible evidence of what he saw. He checked vent after vent and found a bare room. Sam tentatively poked his head from the vent, noticing a single wall covered in monitors—yet another rarity in Spero aside from the W.M. He grabbed a nearby remote and pressed play. The video started. A woman was chained to a table, looking frightened and confused. An older-looking scientist appeared. Day one with patient zero, the scientist said. We are about to inject the patient with Disease X. The scientist held up a large needle with this strange liquid in it.

They injected the shot into the woman’s neck and she struggled, then slumped into unconsciousness. The patient has been rendered unconscious, and will have no memory of being injected, the scientist continued. Day four, the patient will begin to feel the symptoms, and will faint, signaling the sickness has entered her body. Once the patient has hospital care, the second injection will begin, the scientist said, injecting her again, and death should occur within days. The scientist appeared again. Day seven. Patient zero is dead. I will now demonstrate the next process— *** Noah ran down the road, dirt puffing up behind him, sweat beading from his face, tears starting to form. It was Sunday morning. He stumbled several times as he ran toward his destination: the town hall. But instead of running through the front door, Noah slid to the back. It only took a brief struggle to subdue the peacekeeper guarding the W.M. Weird, such a large message being kept on a small disc. Noah put the disc Sam had given him inside. The people rumbled in confusion.

The video started. A woman was chained to the table, looking frightened and confused. An older-looking scientist appeared. Noah opened the window divider between the back room and the crowd. “How many of you have a loved one, a friend or even an acquaintance you’ve known get sick, never to return?” The crowd mumbled quietly to each other. “Go on!” Noah shouted, “raise your hands high!” Slowly, hands began to rise. Soon a majority had their hands raised. Day four, the patient...will faint, the video said. “Our government has been poisoning its citizens! Poisoning them, to kill them!” Noah shouted. The crowd gasped as the video continued. Certain death will occur within the day, said the scientist. The crowd erupted in screams, “And the reason the government is killing them—” Now, I will demonstrate the next process—

“Is so we can—” Noah continued. Preparing the body for consumption. “Eat them!” Noah shouted. *** Noah needed to know why. He and the crowd of angry citizens behind him. The mob charged through the doors, destroying the Founders Building. But Noah knew the one place Willouby would be. He separated from the mob, and sprinted to Willouby’s office. Noah crashed through the door, and there, in the large room, stood Willouby, stoic, beside the communications relay with America. Noah glared, grinding his teeth in rage. Staring down the calm, collected man who had poisoned his daughter. “Well, if it isn’t James. Lovely for you to drop by,” Willouby said, his voice smooth—like he was talking to an old friend. Noah knew better. The sounds of screaming and chanting were clearly heard through the room. Willouby knew something was up. “How?” Noah could only mutter, “how could you do something this terrible, this selfish, this—”

“Cold-hearted?” Willouby questioned, then chuckled, “yes, to everyone out there in a rage, they think I’m evil, or a monster!”

other and go to war, pollution grew worse as they lost focus on their lives and devoted themselves to war, it wasn’t long until they realized they were doomed,”

Noah snarled, “you’re killing people for us to eat them! You poisoned—” Noah choked back the lump forming in his throat, “you poisoned Opal, and for what? You’ve let our mission of Spero down.”

Willouby motioned towards the transmitter. “Do you know when the last time I used this thing was? Over two years ago. The last message was from the president. I was informed that we are Earth’s last surviving colony. The world’s population was quickly dwindling, and soon even earth would be devoid of any life whatsoever,” Willouby took an unusually long pause. “Could you imagine, the weight of such a decision? Sure, it sounds evil, but I don’t know of many leaders who were okay with the killing of so many people unless they thought it was necessary for their survival. These people had killed their planet, they were destructive. What would have happened if they came here? They’d destroy everything we’ve worked so hard for!”

“Don’t talk to me about this mission!” Willouby shouted back, the first Noah had ever seen him lose his cool, “I was the one who proposed this mission. After I graduated college and began to work my way up, I noticed how those rodents of people were letting the world fall apart, slowly crumbling to nothing. I spent my career—no, my life working on this mission. Me and the five lead founders of the other planets. I spent my life working to save humanity.” Noah could only open his mouth before Willouby interrupted him. “But you know as well as I, all that expanding humanity crap was a lie. Yes, we came here to develop renewable resources, but whatever we did it couldn’t fix what those maggots on Earth were doing. Their time flew by while we were here. Countries began to fight with each

Noah clenched his teeth, “Well if you cared about your people, why are you killing them off?” “The livestock couldn’t keep up with our needs. We needed more and more, but it was never enough. People shouldn’t

have to worry if they are going to get enough of this or that. I sacrificed the weak and the troublesome to sustain us. This was only meant to tide us until the livestock births could meet demand. Your daughter was very bright and had your smarts. I had great hope for her and her future, but unfortunately, her mind was too much like yours. She was chosen for the same reason I started distancing you from the founders. You were too curious. Everyone was happy, with only your family questioning why. Your daughter was chosen to stop your influence and silence you.” Noah lost control. Charging at Willouby, his fist landed squarely on the older man’s jaw. Even once Willouby had crumbled to the floor, Noah refused to relent. Needing to know why didn’t matter anymore—he only wanted Willouby to suffer. Noah tied Willouby’s wrists and ankles, and dragged him to the balcony at the end of the room. Noah thought of the countless instances Willouby had looked off this same balcony, seeing the people prospering and their tiny planet building new life. Now the view was obstructed by billows of smoke from the torches of those down below screaming in fury for Willouby’s death.

Noah threw Willouby to his knees hoisting him by his hair and forcing to confront the crowd. “Here’s what humanity thinks of your sacrifices,” Noah taunted. Willouby turned to Noah, face full of anger, “You know what, James? I know my fate. I devoted my life to saving humanity, and in turn, humanity will not save me.” Willouby struggled to stand up, his face once again cool and composed. “You want my last sacrifice? Well here it is.” Willouby threw himself over the balcony’s edge. The crowd below gasped, falling into shocked silence, then quickly re-awoke with cheers over its leader’s corpse. But as Noah looked down at the remains of the town’s once-beloved founder, he found no satisfaction in what he saw. The harm Willouby caused was permanent, and no matter what happened, it would never change what happened to Opal. Opal. As the adrenaline and anger began to wear off, Noah collapsed to his knees and a profound sorrow hit him. Opal was dying, any family on earth was dead too. Noah was vindicated. He was revered by the people. He was completely alone.

‘COMIN’ FOR YOU NOW, CHILD. DON’ T YOU BE A FR A ID.’ Allena Bassett

She took her first breath in 11 years. The collection of deformed darkness in her chest shattered— began to move apart— like polar ice during a summer thaw. Then she wept. Oh God, she wept.

U N TA RGETED Mudasir Zubair

I could write whole hours of my life— some things very pointless, some things that will be over in a minute, some things that will last forever. Some people would care, it seems no one should care, or if they do care,

when I try to explain what’s going on, I don’t know if people will construct a

home in their hearts for me.

So I built my own out of pens and sheets.

Some will

come to my den

I will greet them and with beginner’s luck we’ll chart the stars

and dance in the rain pick flowers and color our hair

till dawn

when we part

Salvador Barriga Hope Digital Painting

WAV ES Maisha Manson

I will love you in waves crashed bodies and riptides of lost voices and hidden messages from Morse-coded language to sunflowers on Wednesday

I will love you in pieces slow and broken with gentle fingers the only way I know how

Hannah Tashiro Eighteen Photography

CHA CHA Heather Andrews

And one, turn and smile bright, brighter, brightest. Wink and smack your lips. Two and three kisses are all it takes to be adored. The connection is superficial; loving everyone and no one. Mmm-mmm-mmm, flick and point, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone; curl your fingers and exhale; youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re no longer in love.

THE FE AR, R IGHT HER E Ngoc Nguyen

I. It’s two a.m. and I’m just sitting here Cover my head by shaking hands and a huge bloody fear I do not want to admit it but the fear inside is growing in every hurting minute Being a girl is not a choice Loving a girl is not a choice My skin does not have to make me feel so cheap in this way By the way they look at me by the way the talk to me I can feel that they think I don’t belong to this place It’s hard to live in this country right now, but it’s even harder to go back to where I was They don’t accept me, they don’t want someone who can break the peace They don’t like someone who does not belong to right categories What should I do Where should I go from now When everything seems so not sound and I can’t share my feeling out loud I don’t want to break it But don’t know how to keep it Feeling safe regardless of who I am

II. They don’t understand what I say They don’t see the reasons the act was made It’s the culture, it’s the skin color That’s why there are many people are being separate How many times do I have to be this way Dressed nicely, fully made up So in the shopping center, I will not be treated differently How to be like a girl? Be soft, not too smart and don’t try too hard Let the man take care of the rest, building our own nest

How to become a nice woman? Speak gently, don’t confront difficulty, don’t mess with masculinity It’s hard to be a female with all the fairy tales surrounding our childhood Double standards, all the expectations we have to catch I’m scared that I can’t do it That I’m not the one who is needed And I cannot overcome the storms hiding, not under my bed But in my head, in my future ahead

III. We have the right to choose to stay beside the one we love But why I cannot talk about the person that I hope Spend the rest of my life with feeling of deep admire They said it’s disgusting Many people have been abusing Just because they choose to love someone, not want to live in sorrow and blank Queer, should I label myself with that word Should I fight just like many queer people in this world Will it work, why am I still stuck when I want to talk with my parents When I can’t find any solution in this moment Why they can’t stop judging people We have all many variables That make us up, all the stories we long to tell The value and the bless, all things we know are the best Are covering up, like unwanted stuff Waiting to be seen, hoping to be recognized The tide will rise, and I still want to smile

Donna Sullivan Choosy Moms Acrylic on Canvas Board

DAY 42: BLUEBERRY MELTDOW N Donna Sullivan

Everyone in Johnny’s Diner now understood that Aiden did not like blueberries on his pancakes. All the diners hoped and prayed that the third plate of pancakes the waiter put down in front of Aiden would finally be the right one and there would be no more shrieking. Maybe this one would be right. So far so good. The room heaved a collective sigh, but it wasn’t over yet. No one but Aiden saw the five small drops of blueberry juice on the edge of the plate. One, two, three, four, five. Five drops of blueberry juice. “There, see Aiden? No blueberries now. They took them off the plate and they’re all gone.” Aiden’s dad consoled. “I’m sorry sir, I realize the young gentleman is a little...um...confused by our breakfast menu, but you did order blueberry pancakes, did you not?” the waiter asked Aidan’s dad. Five drops of blueberry contamination. Unacceptable.

juice

Aiden’s heart began to race again and he felt the slight sting in his nose that always meant he would soon be crying, again. He looked around for something. Then, as he gazed out the window through his

tears, he noticed a woman across the street in a blue chiffon scarf which was floating interestingly in the breeze, like undulating water. This made Aiden long for a swim. He felt relieved underwater. Quiet. Calm. Weightless. Five drops of blueberry contamination equals I can’t eat those pancakes. “Well, I did order blueberry pancakes,” Aiden’s dad confessed, “My wife knew how to order for him, but I stupidly thought when he said he wanted blueberry pancakes, he actually wanted blueberries on them. You see, my son just likes the name because blue is his favorite color, but he really doesn’t want blueberries on them and he has autism and she knew what to do, and...” he rambled and shrugged at the waiter in an effort to have him understand his boy’s odd behavior, though he still had little patience for it himself. Aiden’s dad felt the ache of his back, the loss of his wife, and the burn of every pair of eyes in Johnny’s Diner on him. He hoped the kid would calm down and eat the damn pancakes now. Silent water. Aiden’s mom always knew how to order his pancakes. It had been exactly 42 days since he last felt her arms squeezing him

too tightly. He never really liked hugs, but he had learned to tolerate her affection and now that she was gone he actually missed her “squooshes,” as she called them, and the accompanying assault on his olfactory sense. To Aiden, she was a whirlwind of fragrances. He really loved things that smelled sweet, soapy-clean or flowery. In fact, Aiden’s dad, who usually smelled like Starbucks coffee and Ben Gay muscle cream, had grown impatient at the grocery store earlier in the day because it was almost impossible to get Aiden out of the deodorant aisle where he was opening every container of Dove, Suave, Arm & Hammer and Right Guard. Aiden’s mom used Degree Cucumber and Lime. She didn’t really care for the scent, but Aiden loved it so she used it. Aiden missed smelling the Lemon Souffle lotion on her hands as they smoothed his sandy-blonde hair from his forehead, the MeadowFresh Tide on her blouse when she pulled him close, the Almay powdery smell of her cheek and the Bigelow Earl Grey tea on her breath as she tucked him in, gave a nightly, too-wet kiss in the dark of his room and whispered, “Love you, monkey.” Five drops of blueberry contamination equals can’t eat that, and mom would say “that’s ok.”

“Come on, Aiden. Eat your pancakes now. All the blueberries are gone.” Aiden’s dad pleaded as he pushed the blueberrycontaminated plate closer to Aiden while trying desperately to convey a sense of urgency with his clenched teeth, lowered voice, furrowed brows, and darting eyes. Aiden’s mother would have known that these gestures and expressions would not be interpreted in the way that Aiden’s dad had hoped. In fact, they would only confuse the boy. She would know that the waiter’s sarcasm, although clear to Aiden’s dad, would not be perceived by Aiden. She would know that the disapproving stares of the other customers would not register in his blue, far-away eyes. She would know that the five drops of blueberry juice on the plate meant that Aiden would never, ever think of eating those pancakes. She would know that if the plate were not removed soon, if Aiden’s blood sugar was not leveled out, and if the tension continued to rise, Aiden’s dad was going to have a much larger problem on his hands. The first blueberry meltdown had been mercifully brief, but another wave was on the way. Five drops of blueberry contamination. The sight of them is making me want to

barf. Find something you like, monkey. That’s what she would say. Aiden looked around and saw the pen in the waiter’s pocket. It was a Bic pen, but he couldn’t really tell what kind because it was hidden behind the name tag that said “Paul.” He could tell that was written by a Sharpie, not a Bic. Interesting, but not enough. He looked around some more and saw the old metal Coca-Cola sign hanging by the door. Perfect. He knew the sign was old not by the flaking paint on the white letters or the rusty edges, but by the design of the logo. Thanks to his eidetic memory, and his beloved Internet, he had become a superior fund of miscellaneous knowledge. Upon sight of the sign, his mind filled with information about the Coca-Cola company and the history of its fascinating logo. There you go, monkey. That’s better. Aiden noticed the things that didn’t seem to matter to anyone else, what he didn’t notice was that these things didn’t matter to anyone else. A yawn, a body turned toward a door, a series of bored “uhhuh’s,” or sleepy eyelids did not seem to equate in Aiden’s mind with a need to change the subject. Aiden’s dad was always impressed with his wife’s patience

as she listened to Aiden recalling dates and facts like a tiny professor or some manic Jeopardy contestant. He was never sure how she did it, but he was sure there must be some kind of trick. Did she just tune him out and go to her happy place? Did she recite poems or sing songs to herself? Make shopping lists in her head? Aiden turned to the window again and saw the lady with the chiffon scarf. He let the flowing motion of the pretty blue fabric wash over him and then, a memory emerged. He remembered his mom giving him a bath. He was crying because he was afraid to lean back into the water, but she held his head in her hand and guided him gently backward, reassuring him all the way. “It’s OK, there you go, monkey.” His stiffened body relaxed and as she slowly let go, he began to float on his back in the warm, soapy water. “That’s better. you’re OK.” He remembered the smell of lavender from the purple plastic bottle of Johnson & Johnson Sleepy Time Bath Wash, and he heard his mother’s lilting voice softly singing the Beatles “Blackbird”:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night Take these broken wings and learn to fly All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arrive Aiden watched as the Number 255 bus pulled up to the stop and the lady with the watery scarf got on. As the bus carried her away from Aiden forever, he saw the advertising on the back. It read, “Share a Coke!” There you go, monkey. That’s better. Now, tell Dad. “Dad,” he said as he pushed the plate away and pointed to the five drops, “that still has blueberry on it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bad.” “Hey, kid. You’re not bad. OK? We’ll figure it out.” Aiden’s dad reassured him as he waved for Paul to take the contaminated plate away. “Let’s go home and I’ll make you some of my famous blueberry pancakes, hold the blueberries, OK?” “OK” Aiden smiled. “Hey Dad, did you know that Coca-Cola introduced the dynamic wave to their logo in 1969?” Aiden’s dad sighed. “Yeah, son? Why don’t you tell me about that?”

Allison Morton Shadow Mixed Media Poetry on Canvas

SO WHAT IF I’M POSSESSED? Tracy Jane Gregory

Can you say yes to my fervor? Chin tucked and giggling we float down skirt around me. I am welling. She tells the others my hideous secrets. She pumps my shallow lungs until I heave. We gnash my teeth. When I ask if my sorrow will repair, she eats the edges of my holes to make them bigger. A fluttering I’ve never felt before. I can’t remember life without her beating spirit.

BIOPIC McCall Levy

CHICK FLICK You are leaving a party with your friends and you hear someone shout your name from behind. You see a boy who looks familiar. You used to know him from school but haven’t seen him for a year or two. His unruly hair is more of a mess than it was when you knew him. He waves shyly and his goofy face lights up when you talk to him. He says you should catch up some time. He says that he’s surprised to see you there, you say that he obviously doesn’t know you well enough. You take his number and say you’ll text him sometime. But you forget about this boy because you are too busy looking for someone else. A few months later your phone is buzzing from a name called “Tim” and you think to yourself, Who is this Tim? What kind of name is Tim anyway? So naturally you look him up on Facebook and you see his goofy smile and unruly hair, and you remember this Tim. You remember his shy wave and friendly conversation. You remember you said you’d text him sometime. So here he is—he’s been waiting for you. You say you have movie tickets, and he says he can pick you up.

And this is when you realize you can’t do it. You can’t. You just can’t. You can’t. You can’t. You are going on a date? What is a date? How do you date? You tell him no you do not want a ride because now the nerves in your stomach are too strong and you worry you will vomit in his car. You don’t want him drive you home and pull up outside your house and lean in for a kiss and you are caught off guard and unprepared because you’ve never had a real kiss before and you don’t quite know what to do with your lips. What if his lips are so dry that they break off into a million pieces when he kisses you. What if his breath smells like eggs or onions or salami and his front teeth are crooked or your nose is too big and you bump into him and ruin the moment. What if his hands are cold and clammy or if they are hairy or sweaty or too big or too small and you feel like you are holding hands with a child. What if he puts his arm around you in the theatre and you get strangled and die quietly in the back and no one else in the whole room notices. What if he smells bad and his smell gets on you and you can’t wash it off it never comes off and you must live with the decision to go to a movie with him for the rest of your life.

But he texts you that he will meet you at the theatre at nine and now it is too late to back out. You are driving to the theatre half hoping you will get in a terrible wreck so that you don’t have to go because what if it is incredibly awkward and he is wearing a ridiculous outfit or his feet smell bad. When you arrive, he is leaning with one foot against the wall with a coolness reminiscent of an older movie where the boys have slicked back hair and wear leather jackets. You are both soaking wet from the rain and you say something dull and stupid about the weather but he smiles anyway. So you sit in the back of the theatre and you put your feet up on the seat in front of you and he does the same. There are only four other people in the room so you feel pretty much alone and scared and nervous but also excited. You are watching a horror film which doesn’t turn out to be very scary and you whisper loudly in the back mocking the actors and the special effects. He smells like mahogany and his unruly hair falls over his face in the just the right way and his front teeth are straight and his lips are not dry and he tells jokes that make you laugh. His hands are just the right size for

yours and you lean in a bit close to him so that your shoulders are touching and your faces are a few inches away. And suddenly you find yourself hoping that he will kiss you. But he doesn’t kiss you or put his arm around you or hold your hand or strangle you quietly in the back seat. You walk to his beat-up red car and it’s still raining so you make another awkward comment about the weather and he’s still smiling. You say goodbye and see you next time and you hope there is a next time because you liked his face and his jokes and the smell of his jacket and the way he whispered so loud the four other people in the theatre could hear. HORROR The girl wakes to find a man’s shadow hovering over her. She thinks she is still drunk because the edges around his silhouette are blurred. She does not know how long she has been asleep. She wonders where everyone has gone, why have they left her alone? The man climbs on top of her and, paralyzed with fear, her body goes limp is his arms. He is whispering something into her ear, but the girl does not hear what he is saying. She sees clothes on the floor and wonders if they are hers. She wants to scream but

can’t make the words come out of her mouth. She wonders if she is experiencing part of a dream, but his tense grip on her wrists feels too real. For the following year, the girl has nightmares about the shadow monster. She can’t clearly remember what happened that night, and perhaps the uncertainty is the most haunting part. FILM NOIR She sits anxiously on his bed while he brings out a sketchbook to show her a some of his drawings. His bedside lamp is positioned over the two of them. The walls are white and the bed black. The room is black but his face is white in the light. The room is hazy from smoke but the air thick with anticipation. Her fingers trace over the black lines on white paper. She breaks the silence between them, saying something about the weather even though it is night and the window is black so the weather is nothing more than black. The blinds are drawn and the black curtain is in front of the white window and he is in front of the window. He smiles and grabs her face and kisses her. Everything is still black and white. She closes her eyes and it is black but when she opens them everything is light.

SATIRE Sophomore year of high school I decide to sew my own homecoming dress. I will not blend in with the crowd, like all those other girls in their boring, overdone, uncreative tutu dresses. No, people will part as I walk into the gymnasium. There will be a hush in the room and people will whisper to one another “Who is that?” and “She’s a goddess!” Boys will drool on their tuxes or spit out fruit punch on their dates’ dresses as they gawk at me. Jaws will drop like I am a star on the red carpet. People will ask me what designer I am wearing and I’ll reply with, “I made it myself” and a sexy wink. I pick out the brightest pink fabric possible. It ends up being more expensive to make my own dress than it would have been to buy one just like all the other girls. But I tell myself, “you can’t put a price on beauty” and slide my card at the register. It takes two months to sew the dress. Countless nights of flipping through Teen Vogue for inspiration, poking my fingers with sewing pins, and drinking cans of Diet Coke. But I finally finish and on the night of the Homecoming I put it on. Looking in the mirror I am radiating pride and sparkling bright pink. I practice a few homecoming queen waves, blow a

few kisses to my reflection, and master the Taylor Swift surprised face (just in case I win). Still waiting for someone to ask me to the dance however, I sit at home eating ice cream, watching Hilary Duff’s A Cinderella Story, and trying not to spill any chocolate on the pink fabric. WHODUNIT One morning she wakes up to find flowers on her porch with a love note from a secret admirer. For the next week she stakes out her front porch, keeping a detailed inventory of each car that drives by. On the fifth day a beat up red car slows to a stop on the curb outside her house. She sees two dark figures heading up her driveway. All of a sudden a dog starts barking and the two shadowy people run back to their car. The mystery men drive away, obviously spooked from the encounter. She rereads the note and scans for more clues. She creates a list of possible suspects, but determines she is not interested in any of them. She throws away the flowers to erase the evidence. FANTASY They drive to an unfamiliar city. They say they need a vacation from work. They

say they need to “live a little.” They book a room on the top floor of an expensive downtown hotel. They pay for valet parking, room service, bath robes, and gourmet dinners. They dine on exotic foods like sushi, sorbet, and vegan pad Thai. They spend hours in a book store. Cozied up with a mug of artisan coffee and surrounded by aisles of novels, they sit in lounge chairs and read books. She glances at him over the pages of her book on feminism, his eyebrows furrow in focus as he reads a graphic novel. She smiles at the sight; he loves to read cartoons. She thinks it is because he likes to escape reality. In the evening, she slides on heels and a skirt and spends a while putting on makeup. She twirls in the hotel room mirror. He tells her she looks amazing and she mocks his untied sneakers and wrinkled shirt, he rolls his eyes in response. They go hand and hand to the bar downstairs, hoping they can get in without having to show an ID. But the bouncer won’t let them in, so they spend the rest of the night exploring the city streets. They split a bottle of wine and a bar of chocolate on a park bench. They talk about the best memories of their trip, reminiscing on bicycle rides, hipster home décor shops, and street art. There

is a small pond nearby and they stand looking at the reflection of themselves in the still water. He hugs her hips so she won’t fall in. He tells her he loves her softly in her ear. There are murals on each building in the city. Brick walls are covered in an array of colors, each one inherently unique. They walk along the sidewalk, stopping at each mural to notice the details and comment on the artist’s technique. She reaches for a brick wall, feeling the modern paint on an old surface. She feels the layers of brush strokes and wishes she could one day create such a work of art. She admires the lack of limitation these murals have. The artists are not confined by the dimensions of a canvas or a fine-tipped brush. The artists have freedom that inspires. She tries to pull her hand back from the brick, but it’s as if her fingers are magnetically drawn to it. It pulls her arm closer, yanking her to the wall. The magnetic feeling grows stronger, sucking in her shoulder and hair. She is pulled into the wall, half her body still on the sidewalk while what is left of her is in an unknown dimension. She can still see him standing there, reaching for her while her foot leaves the cement and enters the brick wall.

She now knows only two dimensions. She is the wall, her face composed of rustic brick and crumbling mortar. Pale blue brush strokes draw out her cheekbones and sorrowful stare. She cannot smile; her mouth has been frozen in a stoic grimace. She watches his vulnerable body beneath her; she hears him calling out. As much as she wants to cry, she cannot. There is nothing that can change her— the paint has dried. Her hair is painted whimsically behind her, like the wind is perpetually blowing it back, or perhaps she is in constant motion forward. He stands on the sidewalk looking up at her. Can she hear him? Will she ever come out? He bangs his fists on the brick shouting for it to let him in. But nothing happens. He has been cursed by the innocent sweet taste of young love. It is like honey on his naïve tongue, he cannot get enough. He waits for days. He comes in the rain, bringing her an umbrella, he comes in the sun bringing her flowers. Eventually he realizes he cannot get her back, the sweet honey is gone from his tongue. His mouth grows bitter, like he is chewing gravel.

Thelma Tunyi Iris Watercolor and Pen Painting

HER Rania Elshamma

She gives the world her smile in the light Only to release a flood in the blanket of night Footsteps of hesitation The reality of her destination Silence and the absence of her now come to reside in her mind Grains of sand left behind or is she still occupied? She visits from time to time When the waves bring her in with the tides Will you throw me back in … I’m drowning The light owns my silence It draws my face I am...ok...replied a million times Else I’ll prove their science I. am. b r O K e n In the thunder and storm when the root has flooded and her all is aching the gates of her break free and before the locks make way again She closes her eyes to pray: One day you’ll love EVE One day you’ll love ME

Jayme Woods Jumping the Gap Photography

T W IRLER Joan McBride

When we were in high school we use to laugh and shake our heads over the Majorette, the gal in our grade who loved to twirl a baton. Oh, she would pirouette and pliĂŠ with the best of them. High kicks strutting across the field, she dazzled in her saggy-crotch costume. In the twirling world, it is fair to say she was advanced. Her pretty feet articulated, toes pointed. Her baton rolls were flawless and followed a proper path across her body. She was kinetic art without the need for wind propulsion. Learning to juggle the basics, relying on peripheral vision and an ever confident toss, Miss Majorette didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice that she was ignored in the school halls and shunned in study hall despite her arabesques, and straddle leaps that took her far beyond the teenage angst of pimply skin and our homes steeped in alcohol and tragedy.

She always caught what she threw— she wasn’t concussed by her actions. things came back to her gently— having flashed her baton into the bedazzled ether. I remember on game night before the whistle blew— while the rest of us were trying to find seats in the bleachers— she was the one that led the team onto the field, her baton on fire and spinning toward the moon.

Chris Johnston Lake Cavanaugh Photography

SHOW ING THE SUBJECT Michael Warren Bagby

The overseer has to look at my theme, for he of lead himself. To hunt, one displays our slave on revealing myself, nor looking at your whatever. The guardian needs but to confer its overthrown, but their sine qua non-interpretation oneself. By direction, she elucidates his buried in conducting themselves, or affirming its matter. The agent is fated to disclose his victim, yet they have a duty to clarify herself. For track, one leads her serf of ostentation itself, or divulging in oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s topic. The steward gotta tell their affected, by she is committed to himself. In the road, she tells her affected off telling itself. The doer is compelled to disrobe oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s object, to be compelled to x-ray oneself. Of passage, someone exposes his object in explaining thyself. The performer was forced to read aloud the marrow, and forced to illustrate themselves. From a layer, it read aloud our citizen next to reading aloud himself.

The warden has to look at my topic, because he was of the act. Hunt, one shows our servant to identify themselves, or looking at your whatever. A guardian is needed, but to give him deposed, but their interpretation of themselves indispensable. Towards, she makes it clear he was buried in the conduct itself, or confirming their job. The agent is destined to reveal his victim, nevertheless, they are obliged to explain itself. To track one is its fortress of boasting, or disclosure in their subject. Steward must say its influence, for it seeks to himself. On the road, she says she suffered from telling herself. Doer forced to undress one object in in order to be forced to the X-ray itself. Pass, one exposes its object is to explain himself. Artist was forced to read aloud to the brain, and forced to show themselves. From layer he read aloud a number of our citizens read aloud to himself.

WHEN MERLIN FELL ASLEEP PH Creed

Camelot’s king and kingdom aged into memory while lands of Britain often green, rains of spring and summer, and winter snow fall on men young and old. Nine Valiants rose and Nine Valiants descend into history as their wise tutor is carried by the Dragon’s Breath into the Shadowlands where Roman emperors and Egyptian Pharaohs dwell in their ruins. Deep in the ground where Man once forged crude tools an ageless wizard of old legend and master of the Oldest Magics that have been lost lays still. Dreams of Avalon and Mistress of the Lake lie about him on the mossy ground where maggots and worms feast upon these specters of round tables, brave knights, and a witch who once bested him in the heat of the day or frigid mists of a cold night. Above him in the real time lay waste to the Old Ways once held as truth. Magic inherited fools who held words so weak not one spell could form and so word spread through the lands that all was dead and put to rest. Prophets were made silent, boundaries were reshaped, and new pillars of truth were built and still remain where legends once roamed in the hearts and minds of the people. Yet stand silent and still in the valleys or moors to hear the soft words of an old wizard. For Camelot, for the people, for the grace of all that is believe once again, believe in the fiery plight of dragons, believe Excalibur cut through enemies and lies, And see the past as it was, full of history’s lore which held a magician’s hope long before Merlin fell asleep and mankind let loose the curse of ignorance.

Mudasir Zubair Stories I Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Tell You Digital Painting

Janelle Paraiso Clouds Photography

PHOTOS OF US Carl Boon

We lean against sugar maples and listen to our parents’ transistor radios on the porches. Do you remember that static, delicious, that music, those voices of adults in decline? You were choosing dandelions for soup; I was tossing a tennis ball in the pines, hoping it would return, hoping to be Joe Charboneau in left field at Municipal Stadium. Or—in your denim jumper— you simply sat down, waiting for everyone to go away. I counted the cars going down Third Street, wishing the weather were warm enough for shorts, wishing I had a dog—until the season’s first mosquitoes came and we quietly went inside.

DE AR BOX 238 Donna L Griggs —Inspired by Stephenie Horman and a rainy-day discovery

My father was born in 1932, back when smoking was the hip thing to do and fedoras were worn by more than just the occasional hipster down at the local coffeehouse. He grew up in a time of suave masculinity, and he greatly admired movie stars like John Wayne and Dean Martin. One of the last truly honest salesmen, he was an invisible man in his everyday life; but to those close to him, he was a hopeless romantic who would belt out the chorus of Camelot in his best (albeit out of tune) Richard Harris voice. He was a humble and loving man who adored his children and the written word. He saw every second of sunshine as precious and soaked up life with enthusiasm. He was a true original. I only wish I had realized that sooner. When he passed away, I was in my midtwenties, and a life of rebellion and narcissism. As an adult, I had barely gotten to know him at all, and so as I gathered with my siblings to somberly sift through his belongings, I couldn’t help but feel as though I was somehow intruding. We all felt that way. Avoiding eye contact with each other, we moved like grainy staccato images from an old black-and-white movie within his tiny apartment. My older sister broke the stifled silence by letting out an onerous

sigh, and then made her way over to our father’s desk. I watched as her eyes slowly roamed over the homemade gifts we had all given him over the years, now dusty and littering his workspace; we flashed each other an awkward smile. A leatherbound portfolio sat squarely, almost peculiarly, among the remnants of our childhood; her hand lovingly caressed the cover. It was eerie to think that just a few days earlier he had been sitting there, perhaps writing a letter to one of us. Her fingertips gently crept around the edge of the folder, pinched the corner and then lifted it; her forehead crinkled with curiosity. “What is it?” I asked as I made my way over to her. She hesitated for a moment. “I think, it’s writing…poetry maybe?” she said. We began to spread the papers apart; different shapes, different sizes, some typed, some in his own handwriting, various napkins—scribbled with miscellaneous ideas and musings—that had been tucked neatly and hidden beneath the unassuming cover. Wow, I thought to myself, Pop wrote? As we collectively decided what items went to whom, my heart was struck. I had written poetry

for years, and I was beginning to feel a melancholic tug toward the possibility of kinship. I saw the potential for a unique connection with my father, a deeper understanding of a man I was realizing I knew little about. I jerked my head up, my eyes darting between my four siblings; I felt the pleading pouring from my eyes. My older brother’s face began to soften. “You should have it D,” he said, his voice shaky. I felt a thorny mixture of happiness and guilt as the tears welled up. I carefully gathered the contents and put them gingerly back into their folder. I slid my hand along the leathered spine, and tucked the folder underneath my arm. What would I find? My father’s writing sat in a blank banker’s box, buried in the back of a closet for years. I had almost completely forgotten about it when, upon a move to a new apartment, I dug it out. When I unpacked, I pulled out the folder and held it to my nose. Somehow I had hoped it would still smell like him. I sat down on the carpet in my empty bedroom and slowly opened the portfolio. I allowed my fingers to leaf between the various pages, a faded yellow piece of lined notebook

paper, a napkin from Denny’s. I smiled at the thought of him using whatever was at his disposal. The starkness of a typed, white piece of paper stood out. The typeset looked old; keyed on a machine that didn’t have a corrective feature, with strike marks through some of the either misspelled or unintentional words. Though technology had progressed by the 1990’s, my father—old-school and bent towards romanticism—shied away from any type of social modernity. The paper I had stumbled upon was a typewritten response to a singles ad; handwriting at the bottom noted that a Xeroxed copy had been mailed to the newspaper. As I poured over his words, I delighted in the fact that my dad, the eternal optimist even late in life, retained the hope that he might one day find a woman to love, who would love him in return. Dear Box 238, I can’t think of any other way to address you, so for the moment it’s Box 238. Has kind of a ring to it, don’t you think? You have had about a jillion answers to your ad by now, but I hope that you have time to read this one, or take the time. This manual typewriter doesn’t type or spell any better than when I bought it. “Never type a personal letter or

handwrite a business one” a wiser man than I once told me. But, it seems that my penmanship is still lousy, I can write as fast as I want, and an electric typewriter comes out like thisssssssssssssss, so I stay with the manual and use it for both. Energetic—First word in your ad, hmm, well that covers a lot of things. Does that mean that she won’t stop to look at the sunset when you’re walking in the sand at the beach? (I’m talking to myslef myself) Would she get restless sitting and listening to music on the lawn on a Sunday afternoon in Harmony by the café? Would her energy stop me from reading out loud lines from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam? No, I say to myself. Not that type of energy, but more the energy that brings with it a smile. The type that makes you jump up and down when you’re happy. To that type, I say yes. It’s that type. 40-Something and Good-Humored— Seems to me to go hand in hand. There is not enough of either of those things to go around these days. The 40 must refer to age, not to Ali Baba and his 40, or the famous 40 Days and 40 Nights, or the 40 to a boxcar of WWI fame. So assuming it’s of an age, I will just say, glad you made it this far, the best is yet to come.

If you are still reading this letter, than I know you are of good humor, or it’s on the floor of the Telegram-Tribune and you’re wishing you had your money back that you spent on the ad. Good humor is like a good letter in a sense, fun to get and fun to give. How do you describe oneself? Well, here goes. 50-something. Good natured and kind of heart. I enjoy this world we live in and try not to take too many problems of the world to bed with me. I wish that children, kittens, and puppies never had to grow up. I don’t like going to the dentist, fruit cake, or Morton Downey Jr. I do like Charles Kuralt, cheesecake, Marsha Mason, and Neil Simon plays. Good eye contact, meeting someone new and a firm handshake always makes me like someone. As you know by now, I’m not a typist, but I enjoy writing letters, short stories, and poems. My dad did, and my brother does, something in the genes I suppose. I hope this letter finds you with blank paper and an urge to write back. We can cover more ground next time. ‘Til Then, Steve

I let my hand, the letter still gripped between my fingers, plop down into my lap. A wave of astonishment washed over me like a rolling tide. Is it possible that I have learned more about my father in a one-page letter to a stranger, than I had in the twenty-seven years I had spent being his daughter? Incredible.

—LIMBO— Jacq Marie Babb

heartbeat like a limp— I should never be alone; I should only be alone — am too much— a loss / a lot of wanting and thought: a loss. a lot. a Loan.

HIDDEN HA NDS Fatima Al-Shemary

Our hidden hands devised our freedom dream. We link our arms and march and sing it through. So close to death whichever way we lean. So many promises they never mean. Our basic rights of life are overdue. Our hidden hands devised our freedom dream. Their memories erased our history. The scars upon our skin will ring more true. So close to death whichever way we lean. The system bends us to the master’s scheme. We’ll break our chains despite the threats they spew. Our hidden hands devised our freedom dream. Destroy the master’s house by every beam. We rule ourselves no matter what they do. Our hidden hands devised our freedom dream. So close to death whichever way we lean.

Mina Jiaerken Forgotten Digital Drawing

WE WALK ED IN TO OUR M ASS GR AV ES, NOT WATCHING Michael Thomas Cooper

the crickets as they danced on the floor among our bare feet: their tulle veils lifted to wed the cold. He saw his allies going nowhere, so he rose to his feet—out behind the railyard—and struck out at the boxcars, boxcars, boxcars, tagging his name on them and every electronic eye he could reach, made every metal rib or oculus his own. To wed the cold: first give the skin of ice off our faces, then our crystal bones, the infinite flex of our muscles squeezing our blood in the vein, finally the stillness of our lungs and heart. Your allies lived in the same body, along with every other living soul. To wed the cold: we stood still as the absent water table beneath our feet, sinking city of our bloodless, unchiseled thoughts, the nothing. Your allies stood to be counted and went as dismissed as the elderly you hid away in your nursing homes, or the mental health patients we displayed for public humiliation on our streets. To wed the cold forget all activity and make no move to return, leave the salt to the sea and the fields to the fire we used to raze them. These were your allies, salt and fear. To wed the cold to we the poor—become the house of no house, the person of no person: think only for the short-term from your Dias of corrugated cardboard—be the body of no body—with no center for the vortex to wring from us this endless shivering. They were your allies.

ALICE Meghan Sonenthal

It’s been a week since you’ve left. You can’t be certain, you slept for several hours, or days, when you return. Being abroad can be exhausting. Especially when you had to cut your visit short. There has not been a place you’ve visited that you have not brought something back from. You’ve always brought something back. A beautiful embossed bound book featuring the country’s best written works. A sampling of sweets, wines, and cured meats. A kitschy knick-knack sold by a street vendor by national landmarks. But no. Not even a brochure, or a pebble in your shoe. Not that you think you could even get such things. A new habit could have been fun. Malt vinegar on your food, newfound appreciation for Vegemite, the real way to eat a crêpe. Bisous, bowing, taking off your shoes when you enter a home. But no. You find yourself tossing salt over your shoulder, and leaving milk and bread out at night, hoping it’ll suffice whoever takes them. Being empty handed would be ok if you had something to make up for it. Memories would have been nice. Of the places you been, the people you met, the activities you did. The things you’ve seen. The beautiful luminous path with incandescent flowers and mushroom rings that you’ve never seen before. The luscious banquet and gracious hosts you’ve never met before.

The things cajoled into your ear as you took a bite of the most scrumptious looking delicacy that youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never heard of. The horror on your face the instant you taste your food, only realizing too late what youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done. You brought something that cannot be held or even seen. It is the contract you found yourself in. Bound by magic, unwavering, unbreakable, Forcing you to return by the next Sabbath.

Anndee Hilton Lady Nasty (detail) Multimedia Painting

100

ENGINEER ING GINGER Joan McBride

We’re finalizing Ginger today, putting on the finishing touches and running through the check list. The eyes are now green and clear, the nose straightened, and face-lift done. Hair color? Between platinum blonde and golden — she wants hair so bright and reflective it will knock a bird out of the sky. Notice how the new veneers make her teeth as bright as headlights on the Corvette about to run you down. And the Parisian Slingshot lipstick jumps from her lips. The new identification cards arrived: a library card, blood donor tag, and cat rescue membership, ready to go in a new change purse — the kind that snaps shut. She is almost ready. A new name and new look. A new way to walk out at night. Let’s build a story: First, she wants to be a slut. Check Mysterious. Check Absolutely no history. Check Drinks until dawn. Check Loves pain killers. Check

101

And isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t that what this was all about; assembling a person who is not scuffed by sorrow. The kind that coughs up blood from lungs fried in grief. The kind that causes the heart to stall when encountering accidental deposits of memory: A used glucose strip The tiny glass pig Any Beatlesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; song A backpack full of books A cookie with pink frosting. Ginger is done, ready to wander through her slutty days, smoking a porcelain cigarette, winking at some of the boys and all of the girls. When she takes out her green contacts, her brown eyes are so dry they need artificial tears.

102

Senglong Ngor Reflection of Innocence Charcoal Drawing

103

V ICTORY HEIGHTS Victoria Wettmarshausen

lawns the various shades of dry and in the lazy afternoon sun dogs are barking secret messages to other dogs star-crossed lovers divided by neat fences and rosehips this white summer looks like red skin on paternal foreheads dads here wear concerned faces like political statements watching little girls on little bikes wear purple skirts that fly up when they hit the pedal in this silent universe of pastel houses and carefully aligned mailboxes every woman is a kindergarten teacher and everyone knows the name of everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dog at night the only thing you can hear is muffled sounds of faraway televisions tall evergreens stand guard to watch this childhood memory of someone when they invite you into their world of abandoned sprinklers and towering sunflowers make sure to wear your pastel smile

104

Todd M. Kelley Upon a Petaled Throne (detail) Photography

105

AT THE STE AK HOUSE, THE HUSBA ND WA ITED FOR HIS W IFE AGA IN, SPU N Michael Thomas Cooper

his wedding band on the tabletop next to the cloth napkin and silverware, trying to ignore the fly circling him on the ceiling. The full thickness burns: their tornado, an endless vein of milk and blood, has its eye upon their house, lifting its shingles. The fly knew better than anyone, there is a finite number of heartbeats in a body. Full thickness burns the wingtip vortex of her return flight lifted and spun the char and salt up from the fields of death passing below her. Her husband stared at the fly in sympathy, laying back on its wings, unable to lift itself from the table, legs bicycling in the air. Full thickness burns: they windmill, arms twisted by the sky that grinds blood from the stone of the coupleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hearts. He watched the slow death spiral of the fly until his wife arrived, absent-mindedly swiping the fly from the tabletop with the back of her hand. Full thickness burns: destroy the epidermis and dermis, damage underlying bones, muscles, and tendons, burn wounds are white or charred, nerve endings, connections destroyed. Late that night the couple laid back on their wings, peddling the twin bicycle of the sky, its tires spinning with smoke and fire, together. They lay in the same room but in separate hospital beds, watching the fly crawl on the ceiling: under their gauze bandages, full thickness burns.

106

OU T IN TO THE COLD NIGHT Jessica Birchfield

Over there. Long legs hanging Out over the edge. Long feet stuffed Into size-too-big socks. Long recliner in The third-floor lobby. Long body: the Cold won’t claim you toNight, will It? It will. Sprawled, sleeping. Oh, he is just A student. Before him, two bags: a backpack, a gunnysack. “Just” jammed full of his entire Life. Witness his humanity transformed, laid Bare: Oh...he is “just” A student? Long floor of a pure white Union, now but a polished Division, as you walk past, Away.

107

Sweetheart, your polished stilts so red, your fur coat so refined, where are you going to Sleep tonight? Is it Warm there? Long buildings, Short hours: those numbers so determined behind desks of fragile flowers, will soon cast us both Out into the cold night, As you Sleep. Hun, you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even Know: the frozen flights, the fluorescent lights, the soundless fights, the streetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s insights. So I smile at you. At you.

108

Kendall Wiggins Night in the Cloud Forest Photography

109

THE HA MLET POEMS Sydney Burdick

I. HAMLET Today upon the empty throne (Remember Me) Dawn upended your answer burnt (Remember Me) Under the rest of gestures (Remember Me) That too solid flesh would melt (Remember Me)

A king of infinite space (Remember Me) I gave wandering hours between too fine lines (Remember Me) To speak of truth and pale sinews (Remember Me) And the femoral anecdote trembles (Remember Me)

It is a consummation (Remember Me) And something to do with body parts (Remember Me) A vascular conduct (Remember Me) Capitulation pulsing from your limbs (Remember Me)

110

Oh dirt my skull (Remember Me) Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll sleep like a confession (Remember Me) To beg you in your swollen rags (Remember Me) And kiss the garments at your feet (Remember Me)

II. BLUE ARMS (or Ophelia) blue arms vessels hold me swing surges round just to float upon a ring, white sapphire somebody to bear my chambre superior little force, tight, tender

blue arms burning carp you medial of the deep power Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll give you departure grieven cast immortal stiff us to the surface yearning wrist wanting deletion

111

III. HAMLET on life after death of images in me my wishing craving immortal cloud overpowered by existence the images of someone drowning unconscious into the water

attempt portrait of eternity present figurative projections reality is due an exclusive consciousness present space and time bound in being

revise descending revive my anima

112

Janelle Paraiso Last Day of Summer Photography

113

WHAT IT WAS Victoria Wettmarshausen

Treading barefoot on spilled popcorn

So many avocados waiting to be eaten

A silver Toyota A nonchalant elbow

Remember when you said the waxing moon looked just like a clipped toenail

y) I hate I hate sleeping I hate sleeping on your couch I hate I hate not sleeping

When was the last time you changed these sheets?

I stretch my body until itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s long and tender

I bend over backwards/Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m building a bridge

A driveway An interface

114

A beaten path

I loved you in all of those weird ways

none of them neatly obscure

DUMPSTER ETHOS Corbin Louis

The dumpster! The dumpster was full! Dumpster full of pill bottle relapse, seventeen nights of December spent cocaine rage for the fuel of dreams. My friends and I. We were and are high. (Stoned). Galactic. Getting footage of road trips and swapping stories about blowjob missions. Everything in a man’s life is a blowjob mission. And guitars. No pick, extra long fingernail and eight ball of nightmares. My ex-girlfriends are dead angels with petrified faces and switchblades sticking out of their mouths. I have a razor for every week I loved. Empty heart valley of scar tissue. Just please for the love of god let me get high and laid and brain damage neurotic from the car commercials I won’t stop watching. Mom told me stop. I said no. Pills are my favorite. The dumpster was a redux. Everything we filled our lives with was then put out into the dumpster and recycled back into the trash heap of our hearts. I threw out CDs. Then bought an iPod. Threw out the iPod for an iPhone. Now I throw wav files into the gates of heaven, 350 windows rolled down and music about devils. The metal strings of a capitalist guitar. Good strong American music that taught us to suicide. My redneck friends. My heroin boys. My daughters of war. This country has made me an empty vase full of so many gas stations. And I have become a pill. I have become a loosey and a swig of gin in the backseat of Tim’s Subaru. Dumpster of heaven. Take me there. Take me to the Alabama nothing back street funeral of friends I let die. Trust. When I relapse I am forgiven by the best. 26-year-old guardians that have grown into obelisks. Nobody knows better than me. That life is a metronome made of switchblades. And a girlfriend that will put her tongue anywhere I want. So put it into my liver. Put it into my mistakes and crucify me for the ways I want to keep you. Locked up in a trunk full of gasoline. In the end we will die in a dumpster and be taken out to the Staten Island junkyard by massive ferryboats made of wax. This is where our burials lay. Hundred-foot-tall pyres infested with crows. Every one of my friends will be commemorated with a giant torn up American flag and sky scrappers made of Mountain Dew bottles. Plastic funeral. Jesus’s name inscribed on our cocaine eulogies. There is no reason to die sober. Everything is bullets, pussy and alcohol.

115

Allison Morton The Door Mixed Media Poetry on Canvas

116

WORDS M AK E LOV E/HATE Fatima Al-Shemary

rhetoric shapes fragments only from my point of view love is born out of letters that connect in ways that connect us, love words ask questions how to not to feel empty when words don’t make love? on a magazine page, on a screen, on a billboard saying buy, buy, buy, but we know these words don’t make love, only fill space not with words. love isn’t made simply out of words on a page, or on the lips they say love but watch what they do when spoken words lie I love you

117

is that really what you want to say? I hate you. always have comes easier weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re still looking for the right words hatred, yes pain, for certain i hate myself always have love, yes absolutely militant and absolutely intended words make you want to love/hate on a news ticker on a bumper sticker: we are on the brink of _________ _________ are against us the _________ are coming

118

fill that empty space with whatever suits your love/hate relationship with the world with yourself

119

THE GIRL WHO CR IED R A PE Kyra Laughlin

I was raped. I cried. I told my coworker he raped me. He said, We should take equal responsibility. I cried. I told my boss I was raped. He told me, Your actions have consequences. I cried. I told my friend I was raped. She said, Take it as a lesson learned. I cried. I didn’t tell the police I was raped. Being too drunk to remember isn’t a crime. I cried. I told a social worker I was raped. She convinced me, It’s your fault if he rapes other girls. I cried. I told my doctor I was raped. He told me to see someone else. I cried. I didn’t tell my parents I was raped. My father says, Rape victims have nothing to complain about. It’s easier today. I cried.

120

I told my classmate I was raped. She said, Me too. I cried. I told a therapist I was raped. She diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I cried. I told my professor I was raped. She hugged me. I cried. I told myself I was raped. I didn’t want to believe it. I cried. * * * Even with the disturbingly high incidence of rape across all ages, genders and sexualities, we still find ourselves embedded in a culture of victim-blaming. We are asked how much we drank, what we were wearing, or if we were leading our attackers on instead of being treated like the victim of any other crime. I wrote this piece because before I was raped, I had no idea what it was like to navigate my everyday life and seek out resources when everyone undermined or questioned my traumatic experience. It wasn’t until other women shared their stories with me that I felt truly understood and supported. Although acquaintance rape is the most common, survivors often struggle or even refuse to label their experience as such because it doesn’t fit the standard rape narrative of a woman attacked by a stranger in a dark alley. We need to stand together to advocate for rape survivors and put a stop to the added emotional and mental distress that victim-blaming causes them. It wasn’t my fault—it has taken me five months to be able to say that, and I don’t need anyone trying to tell me otherwise.

121

Calvin Tirrell Demolition in the City Photography

122

Calvin Tirrell Stressed in the City Photography

123

CICATR IX Liezel Moraleja Hackett

She set me on fire that I may always remember the day I woke her. She set me ablazeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; heat under my shoulders through my elbows pulsing in my hips consuming my knees burning under my feet walking on hot coals. I cried so hard driving home everyday. I fell asleep drowning in the salt of my tears. Reaching blindly frantically, for armor. It was hiding in the music all this time. Câ&#x20AC;&#x2122;mon Torpedo, do your worst.1 I made a playlist of songs to ride into battle. It tapped into my anger Get me right in the heart and my frustration Blow me up till you see my ghost and my unwillingness to let anyone there see me cry. I refused the pain a voice.

124

I came prepared with war paint. I will not lay down in the road. High heels and power suits. I will not make it easy. I curled my hair, I glossed my lips deep red. I don’t got no saints or saviors. I know how to perform—I’ve danced for years. This is guerilla and I will fight this war. But I lied. I couldn’t hide the undiagnosed that slowed my gait matted my hair made smiling painful. The undiagnosed that delighted in watching me lose my grip and the ability to hold things. The undiagnosed that induced them to tell me I looked more and more haggard and incapable. If you ever want to wake the sleeping dragon tell it a lie.

125

I told a hundred lies. This is (not) where I belong This is (not) what I was meant to do This is (not) me No. This is a battlefield. This is toxic. This is unstable. This is war. This is me getting us out of here. She set me on fire that I may always remember the day I woke her.

126

Jillette Johnson, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Torpedo.â&#x20AC;?

Morgan Thomas Runaways (detail) Digital Painting

127

CON TR IBU TORS

Fatima Al-Shemary writes: I am a UW Bothell graduate with a degree in Culture, Literature, and the Arts. I write for fun, for love, and for activism, and I enjoy all scopes of art and literature. Yellow is my favorite color. I’m a cat person but I also love puppies. I was a Clamor editor for the 2015 issue, and I am proud of the work that goes into this journal! Heather Andrews is a graduate from the University of Washington. As a former professional ballroom dancer, she enjoys to express her passion for dance through writing. Although she majored in Media studies, she is intrigued by psychology and continues to explore psychological issues through her writing. Jacq Marie Babb is an ex-pat of Central/Southern CA where the skies are too frequently too blue for their liking. They create music under the name Jacque Babb and presently attend UW Bothell in the Creative Writing and Poetics MFA Program. They are usually found exhibiting nocturnal behaviors and tipping Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs completely upside down. Michael Warren Bagby is a lifelong resident of Seattle, and a graduate student in the UW Bothell Creative Writing and Poetics MFA program. He writes poetry, fiction, screenplays, and anything else that will stay still long enough to get on the page.. Currently a student working towards an Interdisciplinary arts degree at UWB, Salvador Barriga enjoys working in media ranging from digital painting, sculpting, and drawing in sketchbooks as a means of cope. Allena Bassett is an Environmental Studies Major in the IAS program at UWB. She plans to advocate for sustainable urban development that balances human population growth with non-human life survival needs in urban natural areas and urban-rural borders. She is a proud “bleeding heart,” struggles with depression, anxiety, and a sensory disorder on top of the madness of the world, and finds refuge in art and nature for her tender, feisty soul. She believes (tough) love will ultimately triumph and just hopes it does before Climate Imbalance drops its hammer. Sophisticatedly crass is how certain friends describe her. Jessica Birchfield is a second-year student at the University of Washington pursuing a degree in Law, Economics, and Public Policy. In her spare time, she explores the ways 129

that the law, economy, and policies of the local area and around the country ignore, exploit, and dehumanize the most vulnerable of Seattlite and American society. Her appalling experiences with the apathy and ignorance of more privileged individuals have compelled her to rise out of the shadows and take action by giving herself and her community a voice through her lifelong passion for the art of creative writing. Liza Boardman is a second year Global Studies major and a founding officer for the Filipino American Student Association sa UW Bothell. She has always had an interest in creative writing and enjoys expressing her identity as a mixed race Filipino-American through poetry. In her free time, Liza enjoys reading, finding new cafes in the Seattle area, and learning languages. Carl Boon lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches courses in American culture and literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Burnt Pine, Two Peach, Ink In Thirds, and Poetry Quarterly. He is also a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee. Sydney Burdick lives on the surface of a black hole. She dreams of sirens, radio waves, and of finally figuring out what she wants in life. Yohandra Cabello was born in Cuba in 1989 and migrated with her parents to Miami, Florida on February 4, 1996. She’s an only child and has been writing from the age of 11. She has a Bachelor’s in Art History from FIU and is currently finishing her Masters Degree in Creative Writing at U-dub Bothell. Alfredo Cervantes has been practicing on and off with audio composition for 3 years. He approaches composition in an unorthodox form. He is driven by what he hears and records as he plays with little reliance on editing to form a composition. Michael Thomas Cooper wishes he were a wave. You can hear the ocean at poetcooper11.wordpress.com Cristina Cortez writes: I am a first generation Latin-American writer born to immigrant parents. I happen to have cerebral palsy, and I am bound to a wheelchair. I dedicate myself to the art of writing fiction, poetry and travel writing. I am a graduate student in the MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics program at University of Washington, Bothell. 130

My preferred genres are historical fiction, fantasy and free-verse. “Quetzal,” like any true piece of art, is open to the reader’s interpretations. Being an old soul, PH Creed has an old fashioned style about him which makes him seem strange to some and unique to others. As an avid reader and student of the arts, he continues to hone his skills in any way he can and loves to explore the beauty around him when able. As a devoted author, he writes every day and has four thick journals he has written in for over half his life. Some of his published works can be found on Amazon or Nook. Growing up between Washington State and Riyadh, Saudi Arabia has influenced Hannah Dinero’s decision to take on a double major in Media and Communication Studies and Global Studies, with a minor in Visual and Media Arts. Hannah practices film photography, videography, and collage. She strives to use her multi-cultural perspective and open-minded approach in all that she pursues. Dana Doran has been exhibiting her paintings and fiber arts since 1978 in various venues, albeit infrequently. Actually, it wasn’t until she reached the age of 60 and completed her degree in interdisciplinary art did her thoughtful views and often humorous perspective of the human condition begin to reveal itself in her work. She is a former editor for Clamor. Married for 42 years with four grandchildren, she lives and works in her studio in Lynnwood surrounded by inspiration to complete a cohesive portfolio. Dana hopes to market her work in the future. Rania Elshamma will be completing her major from UWB in Media & Communications this year. She has been an editor/ contributor of Clamor since Fall 2016. Her passion lies in both the arts and social issues and works on integrating the two creatively. Hitoe Engelbrekt is a non-traditional student at UW Bothell who learned the true value of education much later in her life. She is an avid hiker and carries her fishing pole to the mountains. She has another name giving by the tea ceremony master: “Bingyoku” meaning “diligent gem.” Marinna Ewing is a self taught artist who works predominantly in the medium of traditional pen or pencil. Marinna completed a BA with distinction at the University of Washington in 2014 and a certification in Adobe programs with distinction in 2016. 131

Terrell Fox is in his final year of the MFA program in Creative Writing and Poetics at the University of Washington Bothell. His portfolio includes fiction, creative nonfiction, and prose poetry. He is a Pacific Northwest native who enjoys reading about astronomy, emergent technology, military history, and the history of Washington State. As a former Marine officer, his thesis project focuses on crafting his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan into a collection of short stories. Tracy Jane Gregory is a cross-genre writer, collage artist, and musician. She is an editor at Letter [r] Press, a micropress that publishes chapbooks and Small Po[r]tions Journal. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in A Bad Penny Review, Best American Experimental Writing, Clamor Literary and Arts Journal, QUEEN Magazine, and Transfer Magazine. Tracy is a recent graduate of University of Washington Bothellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics program and currently lives in San Leandro, CA. Donna Lynne Griggs is a Master of Fine Arts student in the Creative Writing and Poetics program at the University of Washington, Bothell. A graduate of UC Berkeley with a degree in English Literature, she previously studied under Robert Hass, Georgina Kleege, and Ed Roberson and was the 2015 recipient of the Samuel C. Irving Prize for American Wit and Humor. Liezel Moraleja Hackett is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics at the University of Washington Bothell. She writes creative non-fiction, short fiction, and some poetry. She is interested in mythology, music, dance and choreography, and she teaches Filipino Folk Dance for the Filipino American Student Association at UW Seattle. Hashtag Sayawforevs. Anndee Hilton is a UW Bothell senior and is an editor at Clamor. When she is not doing homework, she can be found spending time with her chickens and goats. Mina Jiaerken is a current University of Washington Bothell Kazakh student artist who loves painting, drawing and digital drawing. She loves fantastic style and her own culture. Miguel Jimenez is a digital communications professional by day and avid Netflix watcher by night. Somewhere in between those things, he finds time to make art, watch sports, and eat cookies. 132

Chris Johnston is a second year UWB student pursuing Computer Science. When heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not in class or at work, he enjoys making things and spending too much time with computers. Some previous projects of his include building a mechanical keyboard and making an Internet controlled Christmas tree. Sleep is his weekend hobby. He also likes photography. Todd M. Kelley is a self taught artist & photographer. John Kim is a Sophomore at UW Bothell. He showed interest in arts and human relations since his childhood. He is very sociable and expressive in nature. And through the development of his character, he has defined himself in many forms. He is a rugby player, a photographer, a writer, a poet and a social entrepreneur. Jessica Kunder is a full-time biology student who hopes for her work to inspire others to never stop exploring the world around them. Kyra Laughlin is a senior at UW Bothell and is double majoring in Gender, Women & Sexuality Studies as well as Society, Ethics, and Human Behavior. She is also president of the student organization S.A.V.E (Sexual Assault and Violence Education). She hopes to continue to work with survivors of sexual violence in her future career endeavors. She would like to thank professors Kristy Leissle, Julie Shayne, and Lauren Lichty for all of their support, compassion, and encouragement. Nam Le is currently an undergraduate student studying Business at UW Bothell McCall Levy is a sophomore at the UW Bothell. She plans to major in Business Administration with a concentration in entrepreneurship. McCall expresses herself through several mediums such as drawing, painting, and creative writing. Most of her work centers around femininity and what it means to be a girl growing up in this generation. Mengyu Li is a UW Bothell community psychology major student. She loves art, nature, and reading. Corbin Louis is a poet and performer from Seattle Washington. He is a recording artist and MFA student at University of Washington Bothell. Corbinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work has previously

133

been featured in Best American Experimental Writing, Clamor Magazine, Atticus Review, The Visible Verse Film Festival and others. The author seeks to extend stage performance through design mediums and visual rhythm. Ink becomes saliva and sweat. Salt water and whispers. The poet lives! Benjamin Macke was born in 1990 in Springfield, IL, went to school at Taylorville high school, Lincoln Land Community College, Seattle Central College and currrently Univeristy of Washington Bothell. He is the middle child of three. His father is a civil engineer and his mother is a private business owner. Maisha Manson is a first-year graduate student in the IAS Master of Arts in Cultural Studies program. A writer and artist originally from San Diego, they completed a BA in Deaf Education at CSU Northridge. Their research analyzes intersecting systems of oppressionâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;regarding ability, race, class, gender and sexual identity through ghost stories and poetry. Joan McBride is an elected official and lives in Kirkland. Allison Morton is a 2nd year student in the Creative Writing and Poetics MFA program at UW Bothell. She is a poet, filmmaker and painter. Senglong Ngor is a 19 year old sophomore student at UWB, majoring in Interactive Media Design. Ngoc Nguyen is an undergraduate Community Psychology major at UW Bothell. She loves using her artwork and creative writing to address social problems, which aim for empowering people to overcome the difficulty in life as well as embrace personal identities and differences. Bre Ogata is a photographer, vlogger and artist. She hopes to be a voice for young AsianAmerican girls who feel intimidated by social norms and conformity. Janelle Paraiso is in her final year at UW Bothell majoring in Media & Communications and an editor for Clamor. She loves dogs, cheering for her favorite sports teams, and watching sunsets at the beach.

134

Chloe Rock is a University of Washington Bothell student. Her love of writing started when she was young, writing fake newspaper articles and short stories for her sister. Since then she is pursuing a Creative Writing minor, and hopes to be able to continue finding ways to work on her creative passions. She currently lives in Everett with her boyfriend, his parents and their dog, and she wants to thank all of her family, friends, and professors that helped her along her creative writing journey. Meghan Sonenthal is a MCS major finishing her last year. She enjoys reading, cute things, and French chateaux. In her free time she likes to draw and take pictures. Donna Sullivan is a student of the Interdisciplinary Arts program at UWB. A child of the sixties who relocated from California to Washington at the turn of the 21st century, Donna enjoys dabbling in creative arts including painting, music, and writing and finds particular satisfaction in incorporating political or social themes into her work. Currently residing in Kenmore, WA with her husband and 12-year old son, Donna dreams of owning a multi-media arts studio located on the Pacific Northwest coast where she can awaken each morning to the sounds of the seaside and spend her days in creative splendor. Hannah Tashiro is currently a sophomore student. She has always had an immense interest in a variety of art forms and hopes that her future will involve the arts. Morgan Madeline Thomas writes: Still not doing my homework. Still drawing. Uses the sunglasses emoji too much probably Calvin Tirrell is documenting trips wherever he goes. Thelma Tunyi is a painter and illustrator, and a member of a group with two other artists called Sunshine Tangerine. She self-taught artist, creating watercolor and mix media portraits. Victoria S. Wettmarshausen is an international graduate student at the University of Washington Bothell. She holds a B.A. in English literature from Hamburg University and is currently pursuing a Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in cultural studies, where her research centers around feminism and poetry. She likes to write poems in English and German and is interested in the ways writing in another language can limit as well as expand our thinking.

135

Kendall Wiggins is a UW Bothell graduate and a current student in the Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s of Education program. She loves science, art, nature, reading, and is developing her skills in social justice. She has traveled the world and back, where she intends to stay. Jayme Woods was born and raised in Seattle, earning a BA in Art History from UW Seattle and M.Ed. from UW Bothell. She has been a life-long lover of art and an amateur photographer ever since she submitted a photo to a contest in elementary school. You can find her taking photos at weird angles down Seattle side streets and in unique cities around the world. Mudasir Zubair is student studying Media, Communications, Science, technology, and society. He worked on the Clamor literary Arts board for the 2016 and 2017 editions.

136

DIGITA L MEDI A

Visit our website for additional web exclusive content: clamor-journal.com

Fatima Al-Shemary, “Fly,” poetry Jacq Marie Babb, “—the unbearable heat of tea—”, poetry Alfredo Cisneros, “Amorphous,” audio Hannah Dinero, Myrtle Beach, photography Dana Doran, Life in the Matrix: Invasion, painting Rania Elshamma, Lost & Found, photography Hitoe Engelbrekt, “The True Value of Education,” audio Anndee Hilton, Netflix and Chill, sculpture Mina Jiaerken, The Kazakh Hunter, digital painting Nam Le, Dawn, photography Mengyu Li, The Back, photography Bre Ogata, Beauty Tutorial: How to Be Whoever the Hell You Want to Be in Your Own Skin, video Donna Sullivan, I Will Greet the Sun Again, painting Kendall Wiggins, Stillness, photography

137

139

UWB LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL