Clamor 2018

Clamor is the University of Washington Bothell’s annual Literary and Arts Journal, representing the best creative practices in literary, visual and media arts from across our campus and surrounding community.

CLAMOR 2018

Our goal is to support and promote captivating, inspiring, and lively art in the forms of visual, literary and media work. We provide artists and authors with publication opportunities through our print edition, media publication platforms, and website. We foster community by reaching beyond the UW Bothell campus borders for creative works and by offering audiences quality reading, viewing and listening experiences.

DIGITAL

EXCLUSIVES Visit our website for additional content: clamor-journal.com Denise Calvetti Michaels, Where is the Map?, Poetry Donna Sullivan, The MacGuffin Letters, Prose Dana Doran, Temptation: 404 Page Not Found, Oil on Canvas Sue Morgan, Emma Lazarus Sent Us, Photography

Staffed by an editorial board of current undergraduate students, Clamor accepts submissions annually in Autumn & Winter.

Laura Nguyen, Memoria, Video; Mortem, Photography

Visit clamor.submittable.com to learn more.

Shaelyn Peters, Food Chains, Gouache, Watercolor, and Ink

We are graciously supported by the UWB Services & Activities Fees.

Sam Prudente, Milk, Fist, and First, Acrylic and Mixed Media on Canvas Yiyi Zhou, Original Theme, Audio

CLAMOR 2018

UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON BOTHELL LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL

UWB LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL 2018

Clamor is the annual literary and arts journal of the University of Washington Bothell.

Copyright 2018 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 2018 Editorial Board Albee Abigania Beza Ayele Kayla Chamberlain Hannah Dinero Sally Elhousieny Jenny Fan

Mia Harrison Linh Dang Khanh Hoang Jessica Hundtoft Miguel Jimenez Mengyu Li Laura Nguyen

Nguyen Nguyen Kelsey Phillips Molly Rooney Soheila Samsami Tristan Setha Kahlia Shearer

Sage Stevens Hannah Tashiro Anna Vilhauer Yiyi Zhou

Faculty Advisor: Amaranth Borsuk 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.

CONTENTS

A Word From Our Editors Katherine Cole Collectively Listening

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Dana Doran Adaptation 12 Denise Calvetti Michaels The Lyric is the Desire to Breathe

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Thelma Tunyi Green Eyes

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Beza Ayele dark = good

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Hannah Tashiro The Time Between

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Lilia Rusu Homecoming 17 Hannah Dinero La Boqueria

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Anna Vilhauer *bold terms from U.S. Census Bureau Glossary 25 Mia Harrison whendeytrynstopubutdeycaint 27 Mina Jiaerken Smoke 28 Justin C. Berkbigler Who’s The Terrorist?

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Daniel Geiszler Through the Eyes of a Child

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Kayla Chamberlain Chimera 32 Sarah Lake Steven’s Landscape

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Sam Prudente Conservations: Out of Thin Air

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Corbin Louis Zen Liquor Store

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Philip Palios Working People

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Reed Lowell Weave 51 Dana Doran Woman: 404 Page Not Found

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Darin Gad Crazy 53 Beza Ayele College-Collage 57 W. Sean Mosman Sinclair Artless 58 Yiyi Zhou Robotic Human

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Morgan Thomas Anxious Baby Sitter

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Jessica Kunder Interloper 63 Mudasir Zubair Stray 64 Joan McBride The Dead Send Dreams

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Hitoe Engelbrekt A Student In Class

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Jacob Wilkes Escapism 69 Laura Nguyen My Memory

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W. Sean Mosman Sinclair A Draft On Distant Desire And A Pot Of Earl Grey Tea, EmilĂŠ Ricard (1983)

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Shaelyn Peters Pretty Bird

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Kelsey Phillips Butterfly Garden

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Sovannarith Khem Silent City Traveler

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Jasmin Will.

Surrender 75 J. L. Lorenz My Body

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Donna Sullivan Conversion Aversion

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Donna Lynne Griggs Green Apple Pop-Rocks

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Kelsey Phillips I Made A Gallery of You

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Liezel Moraleja Hackett Asthma

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Sue Morgan Afternoon Dance Class

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Elizabeth Salinas Heroine Within Me

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Mudasir Zubair Force 90 Kayla Chamberlain Evanesce

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Kahlia Shearer Inside Out

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Sally Elhousieny The Universe Within Me

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Conor Lorenz Late Night Watch

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Terrell Fox Unto Caesar

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Donna Sullivan Charlottesville, 2017

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Zachary Tan Depression 101

Donna Lynne Griggs My Resurrection

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Morgan Thomas Spell Caster

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Taryn Ziegler We’re Killing the World, Aren’t We

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Dominique Tate A Bookish Tale

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Shaelyn Peters A Weary Vagabond

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Cat Wild Spelling Tests And Other Life Events

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Corbin Louis Birth Certificate

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Mia Harrison Conversations With The Dead Girl Under My Dining Room Table

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Sabrinna Baker Tokyo House

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Lisa Fryett Columbia 120 Sue Morgan We Hold These Truths to Be Self-Evident

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Sally Elhousieny Purple 122 Hannah Tashiro The Past and Future

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Shanelle Clogston Salt Watered Eyes (A Shell’s Peril)

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Andrea Stein Glisten 125 Sage Stephens A Poem’s Plead

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Kat Seidemann La Isla

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Jessie Dixon Finishing 128 Contributors 129 Web exclusives 138 *Limited Edition Sticker: The Amazon Pledge by Corbin Louis

A WORD FROM OUR EDITORS

Welcome to Clamor 2018.

Clamor is a venue for public expression, as our name implies. In light of current events, we decided to showcase works that reflect opinions and identities representing the concerns of our community. While not everyone will agree with the ideas presented in these works, we chose pieces that resonated with us.

As a student-led publication, our decisions were not made solely based on the content of these works, but on their engagement with their materials. This year our cover features a botched end-roll from a film negative, something that would otherwise be discarded, but that reveals the beauty of the material of film itself. With our selections, we chose to immortalize materials that might not otherwise have achieved recognition. Most art signifies a moment, but by putting these works in the journal, we want them to be part of a larger conversation and play a role in our thinking about what art can be and do.

We would like to thank our contributors, readers, and supporters for allowing us to create the 12th edition of Clamor. This journal is as much yours as it is ours.

COLLECTIVELY LISTENING Katherine Cole

Here we lay Letting imperfections be what make us whole Letting confusion and fear lead us to discovery Letting discovery lead us to love and growth Letting all that doesn’t serve the higher self float away with every breath Here we lay Leaving our damaged selves exposed as we move towards collective healing Looking for connection and collaboration on some higher level Here we lay Letting everyone be a teacher and everyone a student Letting each moment be an opportunity Here we lay Listening to the pulses of the world to the silence we find surrounding the noise to the communication between the brain and the heart Here we lay

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Dana Doran Adaptation Oil on Canvas

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THE LYRIC IS THE DESIRE TO BREATHE

Denise Calvetti Michaels

The lyric is the desire to breathe underwater, diving for what was forgotten, to rescue this handful of fragments.

To closely observe ourselves, to take careful note of the color of our eyes in the mirror, required that this take place against the backdrop of sunrays lapping through the open window, the bottom pane raised slightly, enamel smell of the freshly painted ecru sill, the pair of billowy wine-colored voile curtains we hid behind to watch our grandmother cut the pink roses for the vase she placed in front of the statue of the Madonna Uncle Frank brought back to her from his annual trip home to Mexico, bringing this interlude, our performance to a close.

In other words, I didn’t know that someday I would understand that the afternoon light, its angle against the window pane, was essential to the way we saw ourselves.

In a room with no windows, we couldn’t have enacted this.

In the barn with the feral cats, in the midst of the dark forest, something else would have transpired.

Against the backlight, we were given the mirror of ourselves.

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Thelma Tunyi Green Eyes Digital Painting

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DARK = GOOD Beza Ayele

its light but better? no not in that sense dark = bad but dark = me

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Hannah Tashiro The Time Between Photography

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HOMECOMING Lilia Rusu

I did not miss my country, and my country missed me even less.

Nevertheless, I had to return one more time.

To Moldova. My grandmother had already postponed her last day of life several times, and I knew that I had to see her before it was too late.

Going back would not be pretty. After all, I was still a “mixed-blood” and viewed as a “mongrel” by Moldovans, a threat to nationalist society with my Russian sympathies.

I knew that the government would be interested in talking to me after my having written numbers of ardent letters undermining its leadership. And I knew that those “interviews” would not be friendly ones.

I also knew that my status as a protected asylee finally living safely in the United States was in grave danger if I returned. When granted the status, I was reminded that the US government would only protect me on U.S. soil. If I were to go to Moldova for any stupid reason, I would lose the privilege of protection. See, only carefully “selected” people are granted asylum in the US, and I was lucky to be one of them. After years of background checks, meticulously investigated evidence reviewed by an expert of Moldovan conditions, and psychological evaluations

which confirmed my PTSD, I— along with the hard work of my immigration attorney— won my case. I had been told very clearly what was expected of me and that I should, under any circumstances, not go back. “The US government is not able to protect you if you return to…” These words rang like fire alarms in my head. I knew they couldn’t protect me; no one could.

My life would soon be in grave danger again, I knew. But I had to see her. Had to see my grandmother—one last time. As I clicked to buy my round trip ticket to Moldova with a layover in Russia, I prayed to every god I’d ever heard of that I would actually be able to use the return portion. If I was seized and detained while in Moldova, a very real possibility, I might never, ever again return to the US, I knew. For any chance of exit, I would have to take very special precautions.

For example, I had to avoid going directly through the Moldovan airport because I was certain that my name would sit squarely on the infamous red flag list, the one on which the word Nedorita or Unwelcome is boldly stamped.

Moldova, sandwiched between Romania and Ukraine, allowed entrance via two other options: I could travel through Romania, for which I did not have a visa, or through Ukraine, which was—itself—currently volatile

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and war-torn. My only option was Ukraine.

It was better, I knew, to travel through war than it was through my home country’s own airport. *** I am at the airport waiting for my flight now.

I am numb and sick, but I am thinking of my grandma, of her soft and gentle touch and her kind and loving heart—the way she used to cook my favorite meals for me. She made the best rabbit stew with traditional mamaliga—a corn mush, similar to Italian polenta. My thoughts of her food are interrupted by the news I scroll through on my phone, absently: Today, July 17, 2014, Malaysian Airways flight MH17, a Boeing 777 loaded with almost 300 passengers and crew, was on a routine flight from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur when it was struck by a surface-to-air missile over eastern Ukraine. Everyone aboard was killed.

I am a zombie boarding this plane, one which is headed straight for where 300 innocent civilians were just struck from the air. I already feel dead, unfeeling. I have opted to fly and travel through this war zone—where civilians were just shot from the sky—simply because my own country views me as a traitor; this war-zone is the safer choice. If I fall into the hands of the Moldovan authorities, I risk

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getting detained; if I travel through Ukraine, I risk my life. I weigh options once more… I still choose Ukraine.

I try to read, but my book seems more focused on me than I am on it. *** It seemed that my mother could not find a better time or place to bring me into this world.

I remember my third or fourth winter in the former Soviet Union. I was dressed in a little blue faux fur coat with a fluffy hood that I inherited from an older cousin. With my warm red scarf bundled up around my neck and matching hat perched atop my head, I must have looked like a little smurf. The grey mittens my grandmother had knitted for me jutted out from my coat sleeves, looking like tiny mice. They jumped up and down as I walked. My grandmother, always ten steps ahead, had sewn the mittens onto rubber strings inside my coat. She had to be sure my little mice accompanied me everywhere I went; there was no way I could misplace them, or even try to make excuses if they were lost.

My grandmother knew me well—knew I might lose what we couldn’t afford to lose.

She’d knitted those mittens for me, but the unprocessed wool pinched and scratched my skin, and they smelled like sheepskin—like faint blood and dairy, a scent I despised.

I did not know then what a privilege it was to have mittens. I did not know then that a few years later my grandmother would unknit my mittens and re-use the wool to knit a new pair, one a few sizes bigger, and later, an even bigger pair after that. It seemed that she always had a plan. She was wise; she was always ten steps ahead. I suppose she had to be.

That winter’s day in the USSR, my mother and I stood in a never-ending line at the grocery store, waiting for our turn to buy a toy. It was a day I had been anticipating; I could not wait to finally have a Red Riding Hood doll. I had dreamed of the ways I would brush her soft blonde hair and share my little secrets and dreams with her. My mother had taken me with her so I could hold a place in one line while she stood in another. This would increase our chances of getting bread, salt, soap, and maybe even this toy. There were no other children waiting to get toys, and that meant that I was the luckiest child, I thought.

I was overjoyed, certain that stores did not sell toys to adults who did not bring children with them.

The people in that long and tormenting line were grey, as unfriendly and harsh as my little mittens. The sky was painted in that same shade of grey. It seemed that my washed out blue coat was the most colorful thing around.

That day, my grandmother had stuck two hot potatoes in my pockets, and I held them tightly in my little hands. She knew it was too cold for me to be out, but she also knew I couldn’t be stopped from tagging along. I would withstand any kind of weather to get my new Red Riding Hood doll. So, when people told me I would turn into an icicle if I did not go home, I brushed them off. I had my grandma’s mittens, her warm potatoes, and I was getting my doll.

When my mother returned from her line— matches, salt, and soap in hand—I looked at her with the hope that she would wave to me with my doll, but instead, her olive green eyes looked sad. “There were no dolls left, so I could not buy you one,” she told me.

There were no dolls at the end of my line either, I soon found out. I heard from behind the counter: “All dolls are sold out,” words that have remained like an indelible footprint in my memory. When our turn came, my mother bought two loaves of bread, and then boldly asked for a third. “It’s for two

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separate households,” she explained, trying to convince the woman to give her more bread than the allowed amount. The cashier, overweight and angry, yelled that two was the limit. My mother did not insist.

I looked at every netted bag that came out of the store. Not one person emerged with a doll.

Who had bought them all?

Outside the shop, my mother tore chunks of bread from the fresh loaf and gave me a generous piece. I held it with two hands, greedily devouring it as fat, salty tears rolled down my cheeks and soaked into the crust. It was the best bread I had ever tasted.

My mother always told me that if I ate bread, I would grow up faster; she said the same thing about afternoon naps. There was a whole set of things I had to do in order to grow, I guess. I listened because I guess I was looking forward to adulthood. If this was what my childhood was going to be, then maybe I did not want to be a child.

I continued going with my mother to the store every Sunday, hoping that one day it would be my lucky day, but it never was. A doll was never inside any of the bags filled with bread, soap, salt, and cooking oil that we carried home with us. I learned not to ask anymore.

And I certainly did not cry.

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Later on, on my fifth birthday, the great day finally arrived. My mother came home excited and placed in my hands a doll that looked exactly like the one I saw in my dreams every night and a stuffed brown bear—both of which every child in my neighborhood had acquired a long time before me.

I never played with that doll or the bear. I kept them like treasures behind glass in the china cabinet, like trophies awarded for my patience and endurance. But I was happy to finally get them, even just to look at them, and to be no worse off than any of the other children on my block.

Later, I would come to understand that I really was worse off than them. My father was not Moldovan and that closed many doors for me.

Because he was Russian, and—in turn—I was not pure Moldovan, we were deemed mongrels, Russian occupants; we were enemies. I didn’t understand why. Moldova was my home. I knew no other loyalties. I couldn’t help that the blood that surged through my veins half belonged to an ethnicity from a country less than two thousand miles away.

Over the years, I worked extra hard to be accepted, but I never was. When I was denied admittance to a state university because of my ethnic background, my father took me to

a private university. He tried his best to make up for the traitor blood he had “cursed” me with.

While my mother was abroad in Europe making money to pay for my education, my grandmother and father became my whole support. My grandmother, knitting on her veranda surrounded by a forest of continually and shamelessly blooming red geraniums, would peer at me through her glasses and give me only one piece of advice. “Lilia, fii inteleapta,” she would say. “Lilia, be wise.” I would look at her wrinkles and grey hair, and I would think to myself “A-si dori eu sa stiu cum sa fiu inteleapta”—I wish I was wise.

When I finally did enroll in the private school, I was vivid; I was blunt. I was no longer a crying girl. I was—like my grandmother had instructed me—finally becoming wise. I wanted more than stuffed bears or dolls now.

I wanted equality, and I would not wait in line anymore—only to never get it.

In the very first months of my student years, I joined the Liberal-Democratic Party. When I was arrested for the third time by Moldovan police and everything that followed from there, I realized that my life was in danger. I had to flee.

On the day I left the land of my birth, my

heart was heavy, and I felt deeply hurt. I said goodbye to my friends, my parents, and my grandmother. I promised to return when things changed a little, but I was lying; I was almost certain I would not return. I was exhausted from fighting for my place in this rotten society. I was tired of proving I was not a Russian occupant, a Russian pig. I was overfilled with hate, and I deeply, wholeheartedly, despised the Communists who were responsible for my suffering, those who were responsible for separating me from my country, my grandmother. They had deprived me of my rights, my freedom, my peace, and now my family, too. That day was the first time I ever saw my father cry. It was also the last time I saw him alive. *** I land safely in Russia and go immediately to the train station to begin the twelve-hour train ride to Moldova through the war-torn Ukraine. The train seems more ancient than my ninety-two-year-old grandmother; it certainly seems to move slower. Several times I jump before faking a relaxed smile when asked to present my documents at the borders.

When I finally make it home, I feel like a stranger. Everyone asks me questions about New York, my life as a student in the US, my

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personal life—over and over and over. After only twenty times, I just want to hide away somewhere where no one would find me, something I’ve become used to now as an asylee.

I head to visit my grandmother right away.

She can not see me; neither can she believe that I have really come. Nothing in her face shows any sign of happiness, but she still looks kind. And wise. She always looked wise, my grandmother, and I wonder then if she is proud of me. Proud of me for leaving, for standing up for myself, for fighting. I wonder if she is happy that she taught me to be strong, to always be ten steps ahead—like her—to be wise.

She touches my head and winds her bony fingers through my hair until she reaches the ends. She smiles a little. She always liked that I kept my hair long. I turn my face away from her while she continues touching me. I do not want her to touch my face, which is washed in a stream of tears. I do not want her to know how guilty I feel. How guilty I feel…

For hating it here.

I am home for a week, but it feels like an eternity. The nights are stinking; they are hot, humid—no need for wool these days. Our house is invaded by flies and, like the thoughts

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that invade my head, they keep me awake.

I find myself remembering that rumors spread quickly in this place. My heart beats fast and I startle at any knock on the door, any sound outside—fearful that authorities might have gotten wind that I am here. That they will call for me. And then…

On the day before my departure, a call comes.

I am issued a summons from the police, dropped directly into my hand. Someone has told, I know. But, suddenly, I am not scared anymore. I feel nothing. That the police have been informed of my presence leaves me somehow feeling…greatly honored. I am wise now, I know.

My grandmother’s red geranium still sits comfortably planted in its pot on the same windowsill where I left it. It shows off its huge, fluffy, bloody flowers. The color of communism, I think, as I stare at it, knowing that I will never be back at this house again, will never see my grandmother again, will never get a summons again. I am happy that I came, but I know that it was not the wise choice, and I will never be able to choose it again. I know my grandmother will understand.

I say goodbye to her that day. I thank her in my heart for all she has given me, all that she has taught me—to be wise, always ten steps

ahead. It is time now, I know, time for me to get ahead again. I have to leave before my summons, and so I do, quickly and quietly.

My grandmother will die on Thanksgiving Day that following fall. And shortly after Christmas, her red geraniums go on to die too.

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Hannah Dinero La Boqueria 35mm Photography

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BOLD TERMS FROM U.S. CENSUS BUREAU GLOSSARY Anna Vilhauer You were my year of entry.

You broke in, Sending cracks through the foundation of my manufactured home You wanted a piece of my goods, in large gross shipments I became an object of occasional use, An occupied housing unit of little value Your fingers were my highways, your breath my heating system I was more like a crawlspace for you, I realized too late I didn’t have the capacity I never saw the warning message You pierced me with astounding accuracy, as if you had done it before You never return addressed your letters with my ZIP Code Nobody told me I needed fire protection from you You are the birthplace of my basement The urbanization from an unrelated individual you never wanted Because of you, I live in poverty, I couldn’t afford the price asked You are my nonguaranteed debt, I paid dearly for you, but nothing was promised I was your dumping ground, who knew the death rate would be so high Sanitation sanitation sanitation Would you ever have told me what kind of business you were in?

The only thing you taught me was how to be a leased department Did you meet your quota? Was my quantity sufficient?

My transit was your trade area, I became a degraded wasteland

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Your efficiencies employed me, but only while you were around I ran this race alone Ignored the most inactive members Obsessed with the journey to work Now I am a vacant housing unit, my value nonexistent X: There are no entries for this tab

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WHENDEYTRYNSTOPUBUTDEYCAINT Mia Harrison

Afro-pessimism isn’t anti-hope; it’s anti-optimism —Che Gossett

have you arrived yet? do you know your destination? does it matter? where are you going? what will you do when you get there? do they know you there? do they care about you? when was the last time you were here? what time are they expecting you? are you proud of what you are doing? does your family support you? when was the last time you cried out loud? what makes you insecure? are those insecurities real? should you reject time? when was the last time you were rejected? does gravity trap or help you? is it easier for you to refuse them? is it harder for you to be yourself? will you become lazy when you make it? what is the longest amount of time you have slept? how do you know if you’re actually awake? do you find yourself in complicated relationships between what things look like and what they are? when was the last time you felt love for something inside of yourself? who is the last person you said “I love you” to? did you mean it? do you want to talk about it? how do you get out of this?

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Mina Jiaerken Smoke Digital Painting

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WHO’S THE TERRORIST? Justin C. Berkbigler

Inspired by DAM’s song “Meen Erhabe” in the documentary Slingshot Hip Hop.

who’s the terrorist i’m the terrorist when you take away my land & occupy me

this wall one day will fall

who’s the outcast i’m the outcast when you kill my brother & destroy my city

this land one day will be free

who’s the child i’m the child when you tie my hands down & persecute me

this suffering one day will pass

who’s the stranger i’m the stranger when you isolate me in my own country

this distance one day will be gone

who’s the Ishmael i’m the Ishmael when you disperse my people & reject me

this wound one day will be healed

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who’s the radical i’m the radical when you surround my village & stereotype me

this hate one day will be love

who’s the animal i’m the animal when you check my i.d. & profile me

this insult one day will be praise

who’s the agitator i’m the agitator when you paint me on your t.v. & say i’m the enemy

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this deception one day will be exposed

Daniel Geiszler Through the Eyes of a Child Photography

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CHIMERA Kayla Chamberlain

OVER BLACK The sound of heavy rain falling against pavement.

EXT. DARK DYSTOPIAN CITY STREET – EARLY MORNING High overhead, flying vehicles and dirigibles with bright spotlights shine down.

SAWYER DAWES, looks mid-twenties, dauntless, tall, with broad shoulders, stands on the corner of the street in the downpour. He glares at a giant clock that dimly reads 8:37 a.m.

Sawyer’s hair curls down the center and dangles in dripping ringlets in front of his dark rimmed eyes, the sides of his head are cleanly shaven.

A large metal spider clings to him from behind. Across its back is a red digital logo reading “JS Penitentiary.” The body weighs heavily on his back. Two of its legs wrap over his shoulders causing him to slump, the other six legs curl around his torso.

Sawyer turns his gaze down the street and sees a MAN stop his hovercraft, dismount, and walk into a nearby shop, leaving the engine of the craft running. The spider wrapped around him constricts, and Sawyer hisses through his teeth in pain.

THE BOUNTY HUNTER, a nine-foot-tall female cyborg, appears midthirties, wears all black, approaches Sawyer from the curb and stands beside him. She has a slender build, and strips of metal embedded in her hollow cheeks. Dark circles rim her glowing orange eyes. On her hip is a holstered gun. She holds a small video device in her hand. She looks at the screen, her eyes squint, then she pockets it, and pulls out an umbrella from inside her coat. She opens the umbrella and holds it above her head.

SAWYER Hey, I know you’re happy betraying me, but

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would it hurt to find your last inch of humanity in that hardware you call a heart, and maybe shield me from this rain?

The bounty hunter moves the umbrella so that it’s held over the pair.

THE BOUNTY HUNTER You don’t need to have an attitude, Sawyer.

SAWYER That’s funny coming from you.

Sawyer smirks, then grimaces as a gust of wind sprays rain into his face. The rain continues to hit him, and he looks up at the umbrella.

The umbrella is held high above his head. It blocks nothing.

Sawyer glares at the bounty hunter but turns his gaze when she tries to meet his. He looks down the street into green fog. In the distance a muffled siren wails.

The bounty hunter places a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder, he shrugs her off and steps away, his face strains in pain with each step as the spider squeezes around him. He fights through the pain and reaches the curb of the street.

THE BOUNTY HUNTER Sawyer, get away from the road!

A muzzled bear snout leans close to Sawyer’s ear, then growls.

MALE VOICE (sarcastically) Sawyer, get away from the road!

Sawyer turns quickly to face the speaker. BOBO, a giant black bear towers over him. Standing on two legs, the bear’s build resembles a human body and his barrel chest is also bound by a dark metal spider that stretches over him like armored restraints.

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BOBO As if she’s got a right to feel sorry after turning us in!

Sawyer catches himself from falling over as Bobo sits down beside him on the curb.

BOBO (laughs) You know? I bet we could make it if we tried to run, I mean, we both know she wouldn’t shoot us... Well, at least she wouldn’t shoot you!

Sawyer stares, looking out across the street.

BOBO Don’t be getting any ideas buddy, I know that look. I was joking, okay? These spiders would crush us before we even made it halfway.

Sawyer drops his face into his palms, then slowly lifts his chin until it rests on his fingertips.

SAWYER (sighs) I’m sorry... It’s my fault that we’re in this mess.

Sawyer sits up, then grumbles and kicks at the small stream of water flowing beyond the curb of the street.

BOBO It’s not so bad... I mean, we had a good run, exploring so much of the universe as we did.

Don’t worry buddy, I don’t know why, but for some reason, I’ve got a good feeling about this.

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The pair look anxious and meet each other’s eyes, which are the same pale green color.

The bounty hunter approaches from behind. She extends her hand to Sawyer, but not Bobo. Sawyer ignores her hand and straightens his posture, staring past her.

A thunderous rumble sounds from down the road, then eerie green lights, bright against the dark fog, break into view.

A long prison transport rushes towards them. Its paint is aging, its lights flash red, white, and yellow. Its breaks screech as it comes to a stop in front of the trio. Smoke bellows out from beneath it.

THE DRIVER, a large old man, wrinkled and scruffy, with sunken eyes, descends the slick black steps of the transport. Rain splatters from his balding head before he shields it with a cap. The driver barks his words.

THE DRIVER This ’em?

He zips his coat over his wide waist, then steps aside the door, and extends his hand as if to invite the pair in.

Neither Sawyer nor Bobo move.

THE BOUNTY HUNTER You have to go... Get going!

She pushes forcefully, and Sawyer stumbles to a halt in front of the entrance.

THE DRIVER Yeah, no need to worry, it’s only what? Ten years?

The driver laughs and brings a cigarillo to his lips, takes a drag,

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coughs, then glances to the bounty hunter for confirmation.

THE BOUNTY HUNTER No, it will only be for nine.

THE DRIVER Only that?! I’d assumed cause he went AWOL for so long... Heh, well ’suppose it can’t be helped.

Sawyer stares at the ground, and Bobo nuzzles his shoulder, guiding him up into the roaring transport.

INT. PRISON TRANSPORT - CONTINUES They walk down the aisle, passing already full seats.

They pass both humans and non-human inmates. As the pair walk past them, curious, mean, tired eyes follow them.

Sawyer takes a seat near the middle of the transport. Bobo sits three rows behind him.

Sawyer pulls the window next to him down and looks out to stare at the bounty hunter. She rushes to where he is.

THE BOUNTY HUNTER I’m sorry Sawyer... I really am.

You know I had to take the job...

Sawyer sits back in his seat, he looks disappointed, and glares away from the window.

The transport rumbles to life and drives away.

Sawyer sits in his seat, and stares at a dim, yellow, flickering light.

He looks away and peers down the aisle, at the front of transport. The driver is hunched over the steering wheel, his grip held tight. The driver glances half-heartedly in the rearview mirror every few seconds.

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Sawyer watches this with anticipation.

The driver looks away from the mirror and back to the road. Sawyer makes his move, and quickly runs back three rows behind to Bobo.

THE DRIVER Hey! No changing seats!

The driver’s eyes bulge and he huffs as he barks at Sawyer furiously.

The transport is brought to a rough stop on the side of the road.

The driver in frustration unbuckles himself and stomps down the aisle, his bulging sides hit the edge of each seat as he makes his way to Sawyer.

The driver grabs the back of the spider restraint wrapped over Sawyer and lifts him to his feet. Sawyer is dragged to the front of the vehicle by the driver.

The driver violently pushes Sawyer into the seat, grumbles to himself in irritation, then begins driving again.

Sawyer tries to turn his head into the aisle and look back at Bobo.

THE DRIVER Keep your eyes forward!

Sawyer once again stares at the back of the worn out green seat, distraught.

INT/EXT. PRISON TRANSPORT - DAY Hours later.

Sawyer sees four towers, with fires burning at their tops.

Sawyer scoots to the edge of his seat and stares out the front of the transport.

A giant beam with flashing purple lights blocks the road and raises into the air as the transport approaches. The transport pulls through a high

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arching entrance. Sawyer looks out at the long chain link fence that surrounds the compound as the transport drives through.

The driver pulls into line behind several other transports, and shudders to a stop at the curb in front of the four towers.

A mass of choking smoke escapes from beneath the transport, temporarily blocking the view of the building, then the door screeches open and the smoke bellows into the transport.

Sawyer starts coughing and his eyes begin to water, he stands and turns to head towards Bobo.

A hand crashes onto Sawyer’s shoulder, his eyes quickly search for Bobo before he’s turned on his heels.

Sawyer is face to face with the driver. The driver lowers his face menacingly close to Sawyers.

THE DRIVER You get off now!

The driver pushes Sawyer out the door.

EXT. PRISON - DAY Sawyer stumbles to the ground. The rain falls in buckets, drenching him.

Beyond the towers is a sinister building with left and right wings extending outwards, creating a semi-circle around the four towers.

The dark thunder dome swirls in the sky above the building.

Sawyer walks hastily down the length of the transport, his hand is shielding his eyes, rushing to the still opened window.

He’s disheartened as he discovers the window’s shut, and the panes are fogged over.

The transport rumbles, and then creeps away from the curb.

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Sawyer panics. He runs to the front. The door is closed. He’s hyperventilating and soaking wet.

The transport drives away, Bobo still on board. His face at the window.

Sawyer starts to run after the transport. The spider constricts around his body, crushing against his spine. He stops.

A pair of hands grab him by either arm, and a GUARD pulls Sawyer away from the road. Sawyer struggles as he’s dragged to the building.

GUARD This way. Come on!

Two wide doors slide open, and Sawyer is forced through them, though still facing the road. His eyes desperately searching, then the doors slam shut.

INT. PRISON COMPOUND - DAY Sawyer is lead down a sterile white hallway, under a series of bright ceiling lights. Loud clacking heels are heard.

MS. ARDID, 30, pushes horn-rimmed glasses from the center with her index finger up the bridge of her thin nose. She wears a tight ponytail that pulls her brows up, and paired with her scarlet rimmed smile, she appears joyful.

Sawyer walks in a line of other inmates being led by Ms. Ardid. Each one of them is burdened by a similar metallic spider. A long glowing rope chains them all together.

The shuffling group halts, Sawyer does not notice and bumps into the back of a large inmate. The inmate, a giant TROLL-LIKE WOMAN, turns and faces him. Sawyer jolts in shock, releasing a tiny yelp in horror.

TROLL-LIKE WOMAN Watch it twerp. Do that again and I’ll kill you.

At the front of the line, Ms. Ardid faces the prisoners, and gestures

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to the wall on her right.

The sound of air releasing is followed by a wall panel sliding to the side. Ms. Ardid then claps her hands twice and motions for the line to move forward and pass through.

Sawyer walks forward. Sawyer watches the heels of the person in front of him. The large feet turn and disappear, and a pair of pointed black boots come into view. Sawyer looks up.

Ms. Ardid is smiling at Sawyer, then cocks her head to the side, her brows lower, her smile remains.

MS. ARDID (shrilly) Well? What are you waiting for? Go on, take a seat.

Sawyer quickly passes through the doorway, then halts upon entering and looks around.

INT. PRISON ROOM - DAY The room is warmly lit, with tables and chairs set in several rows.

The walls are made of grey stone, with holograms of words in unknown languages projected on them in evenly spaced squares.

Arrows flash on the ground beneath Sawyer’s feet, indicating that he continue forward.

Most of the tables are already filled with other inmates. Sawyer searches for where the troll-like woman sits, then moves to the opposite side of the room. He shuffles past many of the others towards a seat closest to the window.

He tries to sit but stops as the spider on his back begins to shake.

It releases its grip around his torso, its legs retract into its body, then drops to the floor, its shape morphs into a small metal cube before hitting the ground silently, then flies into a tiny cubby in the wall

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nearest him.

Sawyer arches his free shoulders and extends his arms. He makes fists with his cracking fingers, opening and closing them. He looks to the doorway eagerly.

Ms. Ardid steps through and the panel slides out behind her, sealing them all inside the room. Sawyer is in despair.

Sawyer looks around but keeps his gaze low. He pauses on the troll-like woman who sits backwards in her seat, talking to two others, one human, one fish-like with a water apparatus wrapped around its neck.

The troll-woman turns and meets his gaze, glaring into him. She rises to her feet.

TROLL-LIKE WOMAN Do you have a death wish or something?

She begins to push her way towards him when an ear-splitting ringing fills the room and all the inhabitants shudder, grab their ears and look to the front of the room.

Ms. Ardid stands still, unfazed by the high pitch blaring from the bell on the wall behind her.

Sawyer falls into his seat and presses his head against the table, his eyes watering.

The sound stops. Sawyer slowly lifts his head and wipes away any trace of water from his eyes.

Ms. Ardid smiles sweetly, though her eyes appear hostile.

MS. ARDID My name is Ms. Ardid, and that is what you will call me. I’ve overseen this unit for twenty years now and have produced some of the greatest successes this institution has

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ever seen. But, to become one of my esteemed successes, you must follow the rules. Rule number 1...

Sawyer turns his head and the voice of Ms. Ardid fades away. He looks out the window and sees a wide dirt field, laden with fog. The top of the metal fence sparks along the perimeter, as blue electricity surges through it. On the other side of the fence, a forest of tall green tubes and pipes rise from the fog and cast a dark shadow over the compound.

Sawyer peers into the dark fog when a faint honking sounds. His eyes search for the source as the honking grows louder and sporadic.

EXT. PRISON COMPOUND - DAY There’s a loud crash, and an explosion of blue flames shoot into the sky. Chunks of metal fencing fall to the ground. Sawyer’s eyes grow wide in shock as the transport roars through the flames, horn blaring, and Bobo behind the wheel.

Behind Bobo is a tail of flashing police hover crafts, and above a spotlight follows him as he speeds over the muddy earth. Sirens wail, and Bobo honks the horn louder as he draws closer to the compound.

INT. PRISON ROOM - DAY Sawyer jumps to his feet, knocking his chair backwards as he does. He rushes to the glass and presses up against the large window, waves his arms, and laughs with disbelieving delight.

SAWYER (frantically) Here! Here! I’m over here!

Sawyer jumps up and down, shaking his arms, and grins.

INSIDE THE SPEEDING VEHICLE

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Bobo grins back at him.

Bobo yells out to Sawyer. Sawyer struggles to make out the words, and shakes his head, his smile fades. His arms still wave.

Bobo shouts more violently, when suddenly the words become clear.

BOBO Sawyer! Sawyer! Sawyer Dawes!

MS. ARDID Sawyer Dawes!

An eight-year-old Sawyer turns his gaze from the window and looks at Ms. Ardid.

THE PRISON ROOM IS NOW A CLASSROOM. The boy’s shoulders sink, and he takes his small hands away from the glass, then quickly shuffles his lanky frame to a wooden desk.

An eruption of giggles, and enthused whispers erupt from the others in the room, all children. Sawyer sinks into his chair and pulls the hood of his jacket over his head.

Ms. Ardid commands the classroom of children to be silent, then paces over to stand at the front of Sawyer’s row of desks.

MS. ARDID Sawyer Dawes, I know you’ve had a rather carefree education up until now, but this is a real school. Here we prefer serious attention and respect to be given towards adults when they are speaking.

Sawyer pulls his hood back and looks up at Ms. Ardid, he shifts uncomfortably as all eyes are on him.

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MS. ARDID Please refrain from ever having such outbursts while you’re in my classroom again.

Sawyer grabs a pencil from a colorfully painted tin can set at the corner of his desk, then begins to trace the eraser on the desk.

MS. ARDID Am I understood, Mr. Dawes?

Sawyer’s left arm stops moving, and he takes the pencil into both hands, twists it until an etched #2 is visible at the top, then looks again to Ms. Ardid.

SAWYER (glumly) Yes, ma’am.

Ms. Ardid smiles at this, and her chin tilts up slightly, though her gaze remains held on Sawyer.

MS. ARDID Very good. Now, come to the front of the classroom and please introduce yourself to your new peers.

Sawyer hesitates to leave his desk, then, with his eyes lowered, walks to the front of the room. He stands in silence, his arms locked at his side. Slowly he lifts his head and looks out over the crowd of faces, a mixture of amusement, intrigue, and anticipation.

SAWYER H-hello everyone, my name is Sawyer Dawes, I’m eight years old... I’ve lived in this town for my whole life. I was being home schooled, but my mom had to get a job, so now

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I’m here. I’ve never been to a real school before... and I-I um... I guess that’s it.

As soon as Sawyer finishes speaking, the other students start to chat excitedly among themselves.

MS. ARDID Ahem! Silence, please everyone. Thank you, Sawyer, you may return to your seat now.

Sawyer scurries back to his seat, keeping his eyes to the floor.

INT. CLASSROOM - EARLY AFTERNOON Sometime later.

Sawyer sits at his desk, his chin rests in his right palm, his left hand scribbles on a piece of lined paper. He stares furtively out the window. At the front of the room Ms. Ardid is writing in white chalk on a long blackboard.

Sawyer watches as the now overhead sun shines, breaking through the fog and casting a golden beam of light over the tall trees out beyond the chain link fence.

As Sawyer looks, the trees begin to shake, and birds fly out into the sky. The disturbance in the forest cuts like a line, the trees spread as it moves. The movement draws closer, then stops just inside the edge of the forest.

Sawyer shifts in his seat but doesn’t get up. He glances at Ms. Ardid, then back to the forest outside.

Just within the darkness of the forest, two glinting eyes appear, the same pale green as Sawyer’s.

As Sawyer’s eyes meet them, the hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

THE END

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Sarah Lake Steven’s Landscape Photography

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CONSERVATIONS: OUT OF THIN AIR Sam Prudente I. The air I skate on is thinning with each foul breathing denier.

Faster than I can recount them, my hair falls too (and in my dreams, my teeth) and I lose track, just trying to keep a crack open on a sliding casket/ /closet door between where I can cower, sleep blind forever/arise reborn: Phoenix, Spirit Anima!

(I &) II. OK, so for argument’s sake let’s all just agree.

There is no global warming: just a resurgence... of (boxing me in and all others like me)

( (the nuts who can see the wind) ) global weather patterns, so natural

(—we can see signs—when leaves—) they’re carved into the history of our rocks—

(…fling themselves to the ground…)

Why, the Grand Canyon has them! ( Ever read rocks revealed by glacier retreat?)

Won’t you surrender these false beliefs?

(But breathing is everybody’s birthright.)

Why waste so much hot air on this topic?

(O.K. So, who gets to get just one more, when we’re all down on the floor?)

C’mon, the last few gulps of air?!? Due to global warming? No. Such. Thing.

III. (& I.) Ever wonder if trolls & those who don’t believe in reincarnation can ever be reincarnated?

(As, what?)

IV. (& I.) if, then: who will have the last gasp? (

)

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ZEN LIQUOR STORE Corbin Louis

Where we use to buy bottles of Admiral Nelson, which were plastic, and drink them whole in the car which was parked in the parking lot, behind the Goodwill Zen because the owner was a Chinese man named Zhang who was a Zen Buddhist, and also because we felt Zen after sharing a pint of Admiral Nelson and popping three Clonazepam each The liquor store was called Liquor Store I don’t think it had a name just a red and white sign that hung in the gray sky like a flag of reckoning we’d grown familiar with Zhang worked the Liquor Store from when we were 18 to 23, selling us bottles of mostly rum until one day, Zhang was not there and instead there was somebody we didn’t know and would never meet on the level we knew Zhang, who we knew on a level of repeated smiles and conversation about our families like, “how is your daughter?” we’d ask Zhang, his daughter being a 3-year-old girl who had sometimes ridden a trike down the isles of vodka and gin

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That particular Liquor Store is a place I don’t go to these days because I live in a different neighborhood and don’t really buy bottles of cheap rum anymore, but the whole thing all seems very Zen, still, in that it was simple and calm and kind of loving to just go in there, talk to Zhang and get fucked up for the whole afternoon

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Philip Palios Working People Photography

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WEAVE Reed Lowell

aperture, apex, apogee, barb, bees, bind, bine, bone, braid, breach, breast, brink, burrow, bustle, cavity, chasm, chick, chirp, chirr, clutch, clutter, complete, coo, cradle, crane, crater, create, crescendo, crest, crevice, crib, croon, crown, culminate, dart, dawn, delve, den, dent, depress, devise, dig, ditch, dive, down, edge, elate, entwine, exultation, feed, fissure, flaunt, fledge, flick, flit, flutter, frantic, frenzy, gorge, grace, hatch, hollow, home, hum, impale, impel, incite, incubate, jerk, jubilate, knit, lace, lay, link, lip, mound, nest, nestle, nick, notch, nurse, opening, peak, peck, perch, pinnacle, pit, pleat, plunge, pocket, prick, puncture, push, rapture, release, rift, rim, rive, rod, roost, root, ruffle, scramble, screech, seed, sheathe, sing, sink, sire, slip, slit, snap, snick, spike, spindle, spiral, split, stick, strut, summit, swell, tangle, thatch, think, thread, thrust, tie, tip, torsion, trench, trill, tuck, tunnel, twig, twine, twirl, twist, twitch, urge, well, whirl, whistle, worm, wrap, writhe, zenith.

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Dana Doran Woman: 404 Page Not Found Oil on Canvas

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CRAZY Darin Gad

Am I crazy?

Are you calling me crazy?

I hate being called crazy.

No one knows what it means.

Let me break this down Because apparently, the message hasn’t gotten around That women are forced beneath the ground When it comes to being allowed To be the same as anyone in a public crowd Who are you to call me insane For wanting what every human feels in their veins You’ll call me beautiful and pretty too But when I’m sad Suddenly I’m in a categorized class Lower than you Did I just get demoted to an animalistic creature?

Lashing out with my sharp fangs and claws Pounding into your privacy with the laws That underhandedly shape all The disadvantages handed to us like gifts That are supposed to make us all fit Right into a puzzle of control and misfit Jumping us like a mob hit

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Am I supposed to say that it’s all pretend When I’m wanting attention And that when tears fall from my eyes It’s not worth your time?

Cause then my feelings become invalid And it has to be your way, so have it Society has made it a habit To call women rabid But when it’s anyone else With a masculine enhancement It’s okay for them to be maddened To feel attacked Because a girl said no after being asked to smash A question she wasn’t supposed to pass Unless it was a yes And yet the whole world is clueless To the reactions that get blamed on a double-edged mess Of having to agree to get out of distress Because the guy would lash out at the mistress Threatening violence, claiming it was expressive Saying that he’s a nice guy so he’s allowed to be possessive Even though there was no consent, it was never her choice Never her voice That spoke up to escape an inescapable fate

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So Tell me that the sexual assault Was my fault That I was wearing something too short That I had drunk too much That I had it coming That I shouldn’t have guy friends That I should have been more cunning That I wanted it That I should have enjoyed it Because somehow justifying what happened is more important Tell that to the AIDS I now have to cover To the baby in my body with no father To the money I spend paying for therapy Because of the panic I get whenever someone touches my body Then tell me that it’s okay to not freely feed my kin When it’s crying loud, begging and wild in public Because someone can’t handle human nature, telling me my motherhood is a sin But somehow they can handle a hungry child Then tell me I look bloated That I shouldn’t have had a baby this young That I’m overloaded That I missed out on my youthful days As if I had a say in the first place

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Maybe I should put it up for adoption Give it to the system, give it no option Let it share the screaming nights I had Make its life miserable in the system that preaches hope for the hopeless kids But treats them like they’re mad When I really think about it, I should be grateful Thankful I haven’t lost my biological clock I shouldn’t let it go to waste and finish it off It’s a woman’s purpose to have sex after all Now There are so many stories, like this one, like me Like one out of four women you walk past on the street So I just want you to see The truth about Who’s really sane And who’s really crazy.

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Beza Ayele college-collage Collage

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ARTLESS; W. Sean Mosman Sinclair

Certain paintings, or rather certain books of reproductions of paintings, have a very particular flavor when I remember them from my youth. George Grosz comes to mind.

James Ensor. Seeing these books— they both lived in the wooden crates that held up the television—at seven or eight years old was a terrifyingly exciting experience.

are remembered in other places, in other stories for other moments. This story is about something else.

Why should it be that a child would have seen these things—the horrible off color drawings of Grosz (both by palette and by content), the out of control carnivalesque grotesqueries of Ensor (filled with their sense of static collapse)—why these things should

I cannot say if I am only broadcasting backwards in time to attach these affects to that child on the rug by the television staring into books of art that perhaps should have been, but were not, forbidden to me; or whether there might have been some genuine foreshadowing at play. I certainly grew from there into a darkly cynical, though oddly loving, teenager. And from there into a practiced alcoholic and committed junkie, as well a painter, poet, and half-earnest student of philosophy. Could the years of drink and heroin have been read in the small child lying in thrall of Christ’s Entry into Brussels or Skeletons Fighting for the Body of a Hanged Man? In my memory of love for George Grosz’s corpselike whores and bloated deathworn dandies, could there be seen the early ghosts of the family I would later gather to me—and be gathered by in equal measure—in that other world which hides in plain sight among the goings

be remembered by me as being so madly beautiful at an age where something more... naïve... might have been more suitable? Yet this is how it comes when I close my eyes.

Of course I loved childish things, too. Those

Maybe it was only a reflection of the home I lived in that I sought solace in scenes of horror and violence displayed as objects of sacred beauty. (Art, in that home, was absolutely

These artists put real horror into their work, yet both also managed a very nearly sublime quality. Not, as I am remembering, the Romantic Sublime rooted always in fear.

The feeling they have for me is of that which presses up to the unbearably beautiful and then slips through, past the curtain of this world, into the unboundedness of a sublime that is closer to the space between Rilke’s trees than Kant’s safely distant violent seas.

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on of this American life?

held to be Sacred. I remember my father’s fury when he caught me “mocking” one of Beethoven’s Symphonies that was being played on the radio. I was sitting on my knees in front of the small portable radio miming the conductor in what I imagined was deep reverence when he snatched me off the floor, carried me roughly to my room, and slammed me onto my bed so hard that I bounced, denting the plaster wall with my head. The wall was later repaired, though badly—it held the scar of that moment for the rest of the years I spent there. It’s not hard to imagine what defacement, even accidental, of an art book would have brought down.)

I remember the light of that room while I turned through those books. Always an indirect glow from an early summer evening sun, coming through the rear widows of our third floor apartment. On the walls all around my father’s own canvases (and one charcoal by my mother), every one in dark or muted blues and greys, color used so tactically and sparingly. The whole room looks in my memory soft and slightly bled of brightness, lurking just this side of some curtain in its quiet, safe-for-the-moment cocoon.

The rug I sat on was worn and intricate. The books feel so peaceful on it. And looking up

out of those books, the offcolor so barely controlled images spoke something to me in a language that I did not know but understood somehow nevertheless.

There is a disturbing sensuality in both, maybe more in the Grosz, that must have colored my pre-sexual sexual self with the idea that any passion should contain within itself a measure of violence—but also that this violence need not be destructive; it could be expressed in a loving, caring, and generative way. Again, this may have arisen as a necessary antidote to the very real violence—much of it sexualized— that lived in the apartment with us. *** What I miss now, what I missed then, is intimacy. And art is intimacy. All art. It can’t not be. To say something hidden and to share it with some other is an intimate act. It can be sensual and sexual and it can be none of these things. And yes, it can sometimes be violent.

But it is always intimate.

What does it mean to understand an intimate violence? This does not—cannot—include violence that moves only in one direction from some subject to some object, for in this kind of relationship there is never an intimacy.

But there can be, there is, a kind of subject to subject reciprocal violence that moves

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between and binds. And this intimate violence can be loving and caring and generative.

This is the measure of so much art.

To look upon the pages of a book and feel oneself torn wide. To be bloodied by the distant-static words of a page sent from some others’ hand to our eye. And to return this violence. To tear back at the page, to try to gut the words as they lash up at us. To do this in the shelter of one’s room, wrapped in the dark, feeding meanly on the pulp and ink of some strange and intimate thing.

And to lay in the light with another human beside you, naked but not sexual. (There can be there moments that are sexual, but for now I am dreaming of something else.) To not speak, to not move, to not even touch—but to be in an unspeakable intimacy. This too is art. And this too can be a softer violence; to be taken apart at one’s seems and appearances.

To be flensed and seen.

But listen! Please! It is not all violence and there are beauties and sublimes—loves—that are intimate and only loving without the touch of madnesses that grew on old carpets in the late summer sun as pictures of people who hurt and were hurt looked longingly from the page. There is such a thing as tender.

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There is art in the world that is made and unmade. There is intimacy without violence.

There is to hold and be open. There are kisses left that make one smile even years after they are gone. I would make an art that could be such a kiss to you.

I would tell you that I love you and have it mean nothing more than that.

I love you.

Yiyi Zhou Robotic Human Intaglio

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Morgan Thomas Anxious Baby Sitter Digital Painting

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INTERLOPER Jessica Kunder

A pebble plunked To the bottom Of the busy brook That peacefully surged past my fingertips, Before it could be guided Down the winding rivulet.

I was alone Between sun-steeped airspaces Where dragonflies flittered Listlessly in pursuit Of the enchanted seaward Passage, Wherever that may be— Alone before a pebble plunked To the bottom of the busy brook.

A sibylline sigh swept Through the treacherous Flowers of the field That dismally dotted the footpath, Before it would be guided Beyond the winding rivulet.

Behold! Her bold locust eyes, Voracious and swollen in muddy sockets.

Crimson-stained cheeks Sunken, surge in deranged delight Despite my silent plea— Her locust eyes welcomed me To the treacherous flower-flecked field.

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Mudasir Zubair Stray Digital Painting

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THE DEAD SEND DREAMS Joan McBride

From the opera Die tote Stadt

They send dreams like overdue bills or flowers from the shop near the rendering plant, posies stinking of chrysanthemums, a bundle of broken stems and frozen buds of the palest coral that will never open never unfold.

The dead send dreams in a surprise package left at your door.

The label is to you but the return address unclear and smudged to unattainable. And when you shake the box it rattles like broken glass so it sits on the porch until winter.

They send dreams on moonlight to the bier of a tangled bed where hands are twisted in a pall of night clothes and covers.

And in the breathless morning you almost remember the dream when you stare into the shattered face in the mirror.

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A STUDENT IN CLASS Hitoe Engelbrekt

Walking on an immaculate campus with patches of lawn unnaturally green, (do not enter), all I see is backpacks wearing their students.

Taking fast, steady steps towards their destination, the backpacks are filled with textbooks written by people who divide east from west.

My backpack sags with an English-Japanese dictionary thick with words.

In the building where everyone crams knowledge for higher income, posters scream Diversity!

Inclusion!

Everyone is welcome!

A professor walks my way.

I tell myself don’t bow.

I search for an honorific phrase for good morning.

In the classroom, I take the black, plastic chair.

Other students fill the empty space around me.

A girl looks into my eyes says hello and her name.

I say my name and she asks if I have a nickname easier for her to pronounce.

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A Chinese student stands up, yells at me, refuses to work with me in group.

Japanese soldiers killed his people.

I will never be forgiven, his pain passed down by his family.

A Filipino student points to the word ianjo, WWII military brothel, on her presentation slide.

Then she points at me. Say it!

Japanese soldiers raped and killed young girls.

I will never be forgiven, her pain passed down by her people, somehow caused by me, college education won’t help me to differentiate “r” and “l,” “b” and “v.”

My tuition won’t alter my accent, color of my skin, shape of my eyes.

My old cultural beliefs itch me like a tight wool sweater, one size too small.

A student tells me, “if you don’t like this country, go back where you came from!” as if I could pack my children in one suitcase.

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In a room filled with students, I am alone taking notes. I copy statistical formula with Greek letters. I scribble philosophical theories, pondered by white men who worry nothing about their next meal. I scrawl historical events painted by tears and blood.

Twenty nine credits more.

Words I jot turn to fuel to fight.

Notebooks pile up in my armory.

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Jacob Wilkes Escapism 35mm Photography

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Laura Nguyen My Memory Photography

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A DRAFT ON DISTANT DESIRE AND A POT OF EARL GREY TEA, EMILÉ RICARD (1983) W. Sean Mosman Sinclair

For H.B.—A heathen’s resolve

Through tired Willows play and go to sleep in words Milk in the Teapot, your voice on my tongue I want to ask you so many questions Cleaning to beat the Kettle so that I can come back with nothing left to do, even though words sent out quickly won’t reach back to me until sometime after dark I want to tell you so many stories So when you read this call me, or indulge a silent hour against my ear to know that you are breathing Like I would know if you were here reading your books while I read mine. ...occasionally glancing up through the rain To laugh at something serious

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Shaelyn Peters Pretty Bird Gouache and Ink

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BUTTERFLY GARDEN Kelsey Phillips

When I was little I had a butterfly garden.

I’d watch the caterpillar grow, evolving into what I was waiting for.

The cocoon would shed and the butterfly would soar across the small netted cage.

I never questioned if the butterflies wanted to be somewhere else.

It didn’t cross my mind that butterflies aren’t meant for a cage.

Now I don’t have a garden but I know I could fill a whole conservatory with all the butterflies I have caught for you.

I was never asked if I wanted them, so I kept them buried behind my throat, screaming to be let out.

It didn’t cross my mind that butterflies are not meant for a cage.

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Sovannarith Khem Silent City Traveler Photography

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SURRENDER Jasmin Will.

Striking ludicrous pale face pests buzzing and invading what is not theirs, hand swipes do nothing. they come back again to take the riches pollen on every land they come in herds all clustered together like an enormous cloud preaching twisted words pale face pests with their big eyes and striped golden hairs.

Helpless to cease their actions we’ve become a coping for one another a way of life for them, these pests are demonizing standing in a pool of blood

stained

bodies scattered

like

water

splashed on

the floor.

Our hearts broke in two, when you look inside

no different than any other beating heart that pumps life through every

God given creature.

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MY BODY J. L. Lorenz

My body is no longer sacred; no longer could its beauty compete with a sunset or the clear blue water of white sand beaches.

No longer does it draw delight at its sight.

No longer does it wish to be seen.

Now its sight assaults all eyes; delivering disgust.

Its deformity grotesque, as it announces its pain.

Now my body is a garbage dump; where trash is thrown, left to rot, unknown.

My body is a dirty wall; covered in thoughtless graffiti.

Vandalized, then forgotten.

My body is a thrift store; left only with the once loved and treasured things, that are now dreary, decaying, defective, unwanted.

My body is an old rag doll; Formless and left behind.

It has been bent this way, then that way, flung against the wall, left lying on the floor.

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My body is a hostage; taken without consent.

Told where to go, told what to do, what it must endure.

My body is a pincushion; stuck here, and there, then everywhere.

And without gentle thought, or kind regard. without a mindful pause.

My body is a battleground; it’s been stomped by muddy boots.

Upon where men have walked, and bled and fought, shed a tear then disappeared.

My body is a prison; it won’t let me leave its walls.

I’m trapped in here, breathing stale air desperate to be—on the other side.

My body is unnatural; no longer can it feel earthly pleasures or heavenly touch It’s numb, it’s sick, it’s a hellish fix.

It’s its own freak show, where others flock to gawk.

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My body is a cage; keeping me locked inside.

I wish to go and want to know: will I still live if it dies?

My body is: A hospital’s burn unit, the wrong side of town, the smoking section, the runt of the litter, where the lepers live, a junkyard, a psychiatric ward, a bird with a broken wing, the monster in the closet, —It growls, no longer sings.

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Donna Sullivan Conversion Aversion Acrylic on Canvas

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GREEN APPLE POP-ROCKS Donna Lynne Griggs

“I bet you can’t even get it close,” said Jimmy Varano in a voice just above a whisper.

“You kidding me? I can make it in without even hittin’ the rim,” I spat back.

“Psh, cannot.”

“Can to,” I said with confidence.

“Two packs of Pop-Rocks says you can’t,” he said, smiling.

“Deal,” I quickly responded, sticking out my hand for a firm handshake. Both of us returned our attention to the front of the room and with slow coolness, I leaned back in my chair and began to wad a piece of paper into a tight ball. I took my time, carefully making sure to push each little piece that stuck out tightly into the center with my tip of my finger. Cupping my hand over the top of the round paper grenade, my heart began to pound in my ears. I had to remain calm. I had to wait for my opportunity. I’m pretty sure it was only a few minutes but it felt like forever until Miss Thomas turned to write something on the board. I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and hauled off and let the ball fly. It looked like it was turning in slow motion as I watched the white orb sail over the waste

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basket, over the big wooden desk and smack right into the blackboard, just to the right of Miss Thomas’s head. As the class erupted in giggles, I immediately turned to Jimmy who was now doubled over with laughter. I quickly slunk down in my chair.

The slow screech of the chalk in Miss Thomas’s hand came to a horrifying stop. My eyes darted around the room to see if anyone was looking at me, hoping their glances wouldn’t give me away.

Miss Thomas calmly bent down and picked up the disruptive object. She unwrinkled it, carefully inspected it, placed it on her desk and continued the lesson.

The class quieted down and although I didn’t know whether or not I got away with anything, I breathed a little easier. I closed my eyes and put my hand on my chest, trying to convince the beat inside to go slower, that everything was going to be okay.

“Way to go spaz,” whispered Jimmy.

I opened my eyes and stuck my tongue out at him, certain that I would be able to return the name-calling—most likely on the playground where I’d make him cry like a baby. The last

part of the class went by without incident and as the bell rang I started to gather my things.

of her desk, feeling the cold hard wood underneath my fingertips.

“Samantha Carson?” said Miss Thomas.

“Have a seat,” Miss Thomas said, pointing to the front-and-center chair that she was now towering over.

The sound of my name startled me, and I stood red-faced with my back to my teacher.

“Yes?” I creaked over my shoulder, a lump forming in my throat. It was usually weird when someone used my whole first name.

Everyone, including my family, called me Sam and even though it seemed strange, I kind of liked the way it sounded coming from Miss Thomas’s mouth.

“Could you come up here please?”

I put my books back down on the top of my desk and looked over at Jimmy.

“You better bring me Pop-Rocks tomorrow… watermelon ones,” he said to me, smiling as he grabbed his books and headed for the door. Just as he was about to disappear, his pudgy hand grabbed the door frame and spun around. “No! Green apple!”

I immediately sneered back at him and then cautiously made my way to the front of the class. I nervously leaned against the front

I gingerly sat down and looked up at her. She wasn’t like the other teachers here at school, she was younger and although other kids saw her as old, I saw her as sophisticated, worldly.

She had this long brown hair that she always wore down and although she had glasses, they weren’t thick like Mr. Pederson’s or Mrs. Brinton’s…they were thin and green with sparkles on the sides.

“In light of your antics today, I think it would be appropriate to keep you after school,” she said as she placed the crumpled sheet of paper in front of me. “Don’t you agree?”

“Why do you think it was me?” I eked out, my voice trembling.

Miss Thomas laid her slender pointer finger on top of the piece of paper. “Perhaps it wasn’t wise to choose a piece of paper that you had already written your name at the top of ?”

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I could feel my cheeks begin to burn red as my chin dropped to my chest.

She turned around and began to erase the board, my eyes beginning to peep upward every few seconds. I was truly embarrassed and yet I couldn’t keep them lowered. I watched her soft hand sway back and forth as it smoothly rubbed the chalk away. She looked like that poster of Annie Hall I saw once; a checkered oversized men’s shirt, unbuttoned halfway down so that a white tank-top could be seen underneath and beige cotton pants that fell loosely, flaring at the bottom. I looked down at my own tank-top and tattered bluejean shorts; I had worn the same thing for as long as I could remember, along with my rainbow socks and black tennis shoes with the toes scuffed up from playing kickball.

I suddenly became aware of how worn my clothes were and feeling self-conscious, looked back up at my teacher, wondering if my waist was going to be that small when I grew up.

The sound of kids playing outside floated through the window to break my trance.

Miss Thomas stopped as well and turned to face me. “Silly me. I actually think that you should be doing this,” she said, shoving the eraser towards me in her outstretched hand.

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I stood and took hold of the scratchy black rectangle, lightly dusted with white. Her finger lightly touched mine, involuntarily bringing a patch of goose bumps to the surface of my arm. I immediately felt the weight of being in trouble.

“Good, all of it please,” she said and twirled around to go back and sit down in her chair.

The whip of her hair caused the scent of lavender and Ivory to penetrate my nose.

Every day she would pace between our desks, always leaving a faint trail of flowers and soap.

It made me think that maybe it was time to start putting on deodorant like my older sister does. I put the eraser against the blackboard and started to wipe but couldn’t help but keep looking over at Miss Thomas. I felt guilty.

Like I was really in trouble this time. She pushed her hands through the long length of her hair. The color was a deep shimmering brown, reminding me of a piece of chocolate that had fallen on my thigh just a bit earlier at recess, and then melted by the heat of the day.

As she ran her fingers through the sides by her temple I could just make out the pinkness of the exposed scalp between the strands of hair.

I put my free hand up to touch my own hair; it was always up in a ponytail clasped tightly with a bobble, a style I repeatedly told my mom I didn’t want to wear anymore. It felt so tight, confining and not me. Feeling the thinness of my own hair between my own fingers I suddenly became sensitive to how I looked. I dropped my hand to my side and continued to erase the board.

“I’m finished,” I said, standing at the end of the blackboard.

Looking up from her desk, Miss Thomas smiled at my compliance and crooked her finger at me. “Good, come here.”

I obeyed and as I stood before her I began to think of my parents finding out about my abnormal classroom activities. A feeling of fright washed over me. “You’re not going to tell my parents are you?” I blurted. The thought of explaining to my mom and dad what was going on made me sick to my stomach. I felt the shame wash over me.

“Should I?” she responded. “This is the third issue I’ve had with you this week.”

I felt my forehead crinkle up as I slowly

lowered my eyes. Oh god no. I thought. Oh please please please no.

Miss Thomas raised up my chin with the tips of her soft fingers. “You’re a good kid, Samantha.”

Her bright green eyes stared at me through her sparkly glasses. Samantha. I liked the way it sounded. Maybe I’ll make everyone use my full name from now on.

“I can call them right now?” she said.

Her words snapped me back to reality. “No!” My shout seemed to startle her. “I’ll do better…I promise.”

Miss Thomas sighed. “This can’t keep happening, or I will have to let your parents know what’s going on. Okay?”

I timidly nodded my head.

“All right, go on now,” she said, smiling warmly.

I quickly grabbed my things and made my way out of the classroom, my heart pounding like a jack rabbit’s foot. Jimmy, who had been

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playing out on the playground, came running over as soon as he saw me.

“Ha! You owe me candy!”

“Ow!” “Nope!” I said at the same time as Jimmy’s yowl. “We gotta go get our soccer ball, right Jimmy?”

“Yeah, yeah, all right, chill out,” I said.

“What?” he said, feverishly rubbing his arm.

“Was it bad?” he asked.

I widened my desperate eyes at him.

As soon as the words came out of Jimmy’s mouth, Miss Thomas stepped out of the room behind us. She slung her bag onto one of her shoulders and began to fiddle with the keys in her hand. “Hello Mr. Varano.”

Jimmy flashed a cheesy smile. “Hello Miss Thomas.”

She finished locking the door and tossed her keys into her bag. “Where are your rides?” she asked.

“Oh, our parents are gonna pick us up out front,” replied Jimmy.

“I mean, yeah…I forgot my ball,” he said.

“Okay,” said Miss Thomas, looking slightly suspicious. “I will see you too tomorrow then.

Have a goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Jimmy and I said together.

As our teacher turned and walked away, I carefully watched her make her way down the corridor, my mind becoming hooked on the “click, pop, click” of her high heel shoes striking the concrete underneath her feet.

Jimmy slammed his fist into my arm.

“Ah, I see. Would you like me to walk the two of you up there?”

As Jimmy began to shrug his shoulders, a chill ran down my spine. I quickly pinched the back of his arm.

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“Ow!” I said glaring at him.

“That’s for the pinch,” he said evening up the score. “Well?”

“Well what?” I said.

“Did detention suck?”

I felt my lips curl slightly upward as I answered him. “Nah, it wasn’t that bad.” I began to rub my arm as the two of us started to walk down the hallway.

“You better bring those tomorrow!” he reminded me.

Pop-Rocks

“Click.” “Pop.” “Click.” The sound seemed to bubble up within me, echoing in my ears as the smell of lavender filled my head. I looked at Jimmy and smiled. “Wanna make it double or nothing?”

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Kelsey Phillips I Made A Gallery of You 35mm Photography

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ASTHMA Liezel Moraleja Hackett

The problem with shattered glass is it never goes away.

Take a vacuum to inhale all the fragmented fractures.

The corners still harbor the shards.

The vacuum can only make the visible invisible.

Under the table or deep in the corner there are still many shards unseen.

The problem with shattered glass is it cuts.

Even if it doesn’t intend to or you don’t intend to let it cut you it still finds a way under your skin splintering, tearing, digging infinitely deeper targeting the tenderest point.

Maybe the attraction is saltwater.

The problem with shattered glass is it doesn’t stop shattering.

The first break sends a thousand flying fractals to become a smaller thousands of pieces until microscopic powder compressed over time becomes powdered dust.

Inhaling shards of shattered glass is why I find it hard to breathe.

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Sue Morgan Afternoon Dance Class Photography

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HEROINE WITHIN ME Elizabeth Salinas

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Mudasir Zubair Force Digital Painting

90

EVANESCE Kayla Chamberlain

Walking up the busy street of young, tired faces, moving briskly in the early evening haze, Evelynn Pawel tottered hastily along.

She was carrying a heavy cardboard box bound with twine in her age spotted hands, and it would hit the side of her right shin with each step she took. Very little bother came from this, however, at least none that she dared show. She pushed on, following the crowd up the hilly sidewalk back towards the main avenue, putting as much distance between her and the Finalities Office as her ninety-two-year-old bones were able.

Though it was a great burden on her, she tried to hide the reality of the box’s strain from those around her. But as the sidewalk inclined, her composure abandoned that reasoning, and with its descent, brought down a hailstorm of disapproving eyes, which were not inclined to withhold their accompanying sneers. She is a burden; their glares spoke to her. She is no longer necessary, simply an unwanted mouth to feed. Selfish. No one stops

the largest number on display. The deciding factor of this world for how long one’s lifespan could last, was all determined by the Life Credits system, and though she may have once had an average credit-count, her long lifespan was the result of becoming a widow on two separate occasions, with both spouses bequeathing their remaining credits to her. They both died at a young age, and because of that she had unwillingly gained a greater number of years in credits than she could ever hope to spend in a single lifetime.

As all eyes seemed to target her, she fixated her gaze on the ground before her, but her racing thoughts distracted her eyes, and it was too late to avoid tripping over the sudden raised pavement. Her vice grip on the box was released, and she flung both arms before herself to brace for the impact.

Seeing the tear in her stockings was like traveling back in time to a memory—very distant but still vivid—of a young woman, a younger version of herself she realized, who

to help her, no one even considers offering.

For all to see, floating above her left shoulder, beneath her name, age, and citizen ID, was the fuel for their resentment. It was the credit count that she possessed, which was

had tripped while dancing in the rain on an early evening many years before. That evening had no smoky haze, the skies then shimmered with silver clouds and sprinkling rain. At that time, she recalled, there was a hand extended towards her when she had looked

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up from her scraped knee, and an amused, yet equally concerned, smile kindled with it.

Of course, in her present situation, no hand was extended before her. The risk of social suicide is not the choice of many, and in this situation, aiding an Elder, is of the same likeness as declaring your own readiness to die. Luckily for them, Evelynn often thought to herself in situations such as this, there aren’t many people my age around anymore to bring them such unease.

Using her box for support, she heaved herself back to her feet, her arched spine popping as it made the effort of reverting to a somewhat straight posture. Her stocking would need to be replaced, but apart from that, surprisingly, her injuries felt very minimal. She brushed her coat and skirt over, and continued onward, all the way to the top of the hill.

Once she had summited, she turned back to look out over the city that she had spent so many years of her life in. Those memories seemed to belong in a different world, because the current one felt far too strange. Where skyscrapers once threatened to puncture the atmosphere, now tall smoke stacks bellowed over the horizon. Cobbled roads held

92

hieroglyphs of people in wheeled chairs, and faded lines—a sight she hadn’t seen in many years. In the restoration after the Great War, or rather The Decline, as it was proposedly named in the shambled courts of this world some forty years prior, many new views were adopted to bring the world back from its state of near destruction. Repairs were minimalized, and instead, the focus was made on making use of what was already available, rather than pursuing innovation.

Near to where she stood, a bench was poorly constructed at the edge of the street, and above it was an old sign indicating that it was for a bus. The sign had taken quite a beating, and it hung sideways, rocking back and forth in the chilly breeze. She waited well over an hour for the bus, many transports had passed her already, but most had age limits she had surpassed decades before. Finally, a bus arrived, the last of that nights run. On its side, just as it was with all the other busses that had come by, the Latin phrase “MEMENTO MORI” flashed rhythmically between that and its English counterpart, “REMEMBER THAT YOU MUST DIE.” It was the anthem of this new world, where one must always be aware of the life they are living, for it will end regardless. The young are encouraged to live

fiercely, while the old are to be shamed for living longer than it is believed they should.

The door opened, and she stepped on the bus, but before her aching joints could relish in the heated comfort that had rushed over her, the driver stretched out his arm to bring her attention to the sign just inside the door, set low to the ground. She squinted at first, but did not have to bother making out the rest of its message before she recognized the words proclaiming that her age made her a liability for the bus to carry her. Neither her “Excuse me,” nor “Thank you,” were reciprocated by the driver as she stepped back out into the cold, now very dark, night.

Exhausted, she was contemplating attempting to walk the distance out of the city, when an old taxicab pulled up beside her. At first, she believed they were simply there because they were awaiting a client, or perhaps someone inside the tinted windows was taking their time in exiting the vehicle, but after a moment

and the words “Too. Old.” flatly uttered behind it. The air hadn’t even cleared when Evelynn shot back as fast as should could with the question, “Your rates, please?”

“Ay, lady look, I’m not supposed ta take your age,” said muttered behind a quick drag on his cigarette. “But, I sees ya numbers, and I gotta say, that’s one crazy credit count you got,” the cab driver finished with a dragging lull to his words. She wasn’t surprised that that was his reason for stopping, it was a similar situation that had gotten her into the city after all, but the uncertainty lies with how to respond in a situation such as this. He either simply wished to admire her impressive number of life credits, or he hoped desperately to cut a deal of some sort. Most likely she knew of course, it would be the latter reason.

“Look lady, your age is—” he tried to counter, but she had already silenced him before his sentence was finished, “I’ll transfer tenfold the rate into your own credit span.” The

of neither her nor the cab showing any sign of movement, she decidedly reached for the passenger door, heaving the box to a halt before it could slam the side of the car. The handle didn’t budge. But then, the window rolled down, releasing a great puff of smoke,

driver gawked, having never heard such an offer in all his life, and quickly accepted it.

The door opened on its own, and after pushing the heavy box onto the seat beside her. Evelynn slid in herself, slowly setting one

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tired leg down gently, hoping to spare her hips as much pain as she could. She gave the driver an address to a place she had never been. It was attached to the box with instructions to her new home. A place far, far away from the city.

As they drove on, until at last the lights of the city grew dim into a faint gleam skirting the horizon she was leaving behind, finally, she exhaled a long, tired sigh. Leaning back, she glanced as the meter ran on, and then rested her gaze at the palm of her hand. Slowly, the numbers on her palm, the same projected above her left shoulder, declined into such low digits, she had forgotten such small numbers even existed. A faint smile pulled at her thin lips, and she closed her eyes, feeling much more alive than she had in ages.

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Kahlia Shearer Inside Out Photography

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THE UNIVERSE WITHIN ME Sally Elhousieny

Stars die in fiery glory He says I destroy him The core shrinks and relights while the outer layers expand I don’t see how

He says I destroy him The core relights over and over until iron is made I don’t see how The iron core the collapses while the outer layers expand

The core relights over and over until iron is made

I have a solid grip on his heart

The iron core then collapses and the outer layers explode

He’s blinding me with his passion

I have a solid grip on his heart

If the core survives it becomes one of two things,

He’s blinding me with his passion

A star that emits radio heart beats or a black hole

If the core survives it becomes one of two things,

We are two hearts that beat as one, or so he says

A star that emits radio heartbeats or a black hole

He used me to fill a gap in his heart while my sadness became a void

We are two hearts that beat as one, or so he says

The faster pulsars spin, the faster the heart beats get

He used me to fill a gap in his heart while my sadness became a void

The threshold of gravity and light, also the center of our milky way

The faster pulsars spin, the faster the heartbeats get I was his whole universe The threshold of gravity and light, also the center of our milky way And to me he was a dying star 96

Conor Lorenz Late Night Watch Digital Painting

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UNTO CAESAR Terrell Fox

Welcome to my Church Welcome to my place of war-ship To the nave of muscle memory and reflex action To the reliquary of hollow point and semi-auto Please, do not bow your head Bring your hands up And keep your finger straight Open your eyes And let the target fade Open your hymnals And sing with me Focus on the Front Sight (front sight, front sight) Failure to Stop (Escalation of Force) Slow Steady Squeeze (so let it surprise you) Follow Through, Follow Through (Follower, Follow Me) But just the first few verses now: Two in the chest, one in the head (always leaves the bad guys dead) Two in the head, one in the chest (always puts your fears to rest) Now lift up your voices to their highest capacity!

And open up! Open up! Open up!

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We will not be silenced We will not be suppressed Sing with me Talking Guns (die, motherfucker, die—die, motherfucker, die) Abdomen, Sternum, Throat, Face!

Muzzle Rise (Double Tap) And we’ll end our sermon Our little revival With breath control So: EMPTY THE MAG Sing with me Sing with me Welcome to my Church Sing with me Sing with me Sin with me

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Donna Sullivan Charlottesville, 2017 Digital Painting

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DEPRESSION Zachary Tan

A sinister fog rolls in, refuses to clear; it blocks all, forces a retreat to the darkest abyss of my mind—the floors are drenched with tears, but nobody can hear the sobs, the internal cyclone of gloom keeps me from escaping (I am prisoner here) I try to outrun the shadows only to end up in the same spot, the sinewy tethers pulling me ever lower (I am prisoner here) the people around seem to notice, most don’t care, some pretend to, and a handful actually do; do this, do that, that’s how you’ll feel better, just stay positive, look at the bright side of things—easier said than done when you’re not being crushed by the sheer gravity of the black hole that has come to replace your soul (I am prisoner here) when your eyes have been gouged by that creature that lives in the chasm of your mind, seeing the bright side of things becomes nigh impossible, because you know you belong to darkness, and it will never let you go (​you​ are prisoner here); the internal consumes the external— those around you avoid you for fear of getting sucked into your event horizon, stretched painfully as they too are consumed by that fog—the endless whirling drains the vigor and hope out of anyone foolish enough to stay, turning them too into empty frail husks ready to disintegrate at any moment; we all end up in the same place when our bodies

cease to function, why take the long road if instead it can be expedited; early grave, late grave, either ways it’s still a grave; who’s to say that a “fulfilling” life is the “right” way to live; why should we care when we have no soul left to save; nothing matters—I don’t matter, you don’t matter, we are all bags of dust waiting to be disassembled by time and nature—nobody understands the damp uninviting hole that we’ve fallen into (​ we ​are prisoners here); welcome to the abyss, welcome to your new home, finally, somebody that understands, too bad there’s nothing you can do about it.

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MY RESURRECTION Donna Lynne Griggs

I measure the age of my soul by how many moments of tragedy have ticked by, invisible scars now etch into my psyche like prison dashes. My depth is calculated by the number of miles I have traveled—between “nethermost” and “never give up”—always clawing my way back to reality. I clutch every minute of what’s good between my fingers, refusing to let even an ounce of it go to waste.

After being mired in melancholy for so long, you realize the benefit of breath; you become thirsty for it, ingesting its energy with the full capacity of your lungs. I am seeing the world without that dirty filter of sad experiences obscuring the image. It is not that I no longer see that reality; it is that I am now able to view its reflection from the other side. I am tasting life like never before. *** Sun and moon align Gravitational pull turns the tide Don’t blink *** My well-fortified façade is waning at the weight of its own exhaustion. I have negotiated a thorny journey. The years tumbling into one another while my fear-filled hands attempt to keep the wall from failing. You found that one crack, that tiny fracture—barely even visible—

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held together by a fading ember of a dream I did my best to extinguish. But it was you; it was all the tiny, broken bits of a shattered life—lying just beneath the surface—that finally solidified my own. You have awakened me. For years our delicate words and honesty have tenderly licked our wounds in the darkness. I had been there alone for so long that the sharpness of your light blinded my eyes; but I cannot run away from it, from you, anymore. My chest constricts as the pangs of these fresh—nearly breathless beats of a restarted heart—pierce through. Your beautiful words, your boundless empathy, and your unyielding passion pour into me. I admit them like an arid earth thirsting for water.

Your whispers cross your lips in an attempt to breathe life into me. I take you in: your energy, your faults, your humanity, your appetite for living, now resurrect my own desire to fight.

I am beginning to thaw. Sharp tingles shoot through my body at the thought of being able to feel the life that surrounds me, at the thought of you. I’m alive. *** Winter isolation Savors the Spring runoff She radiates warmth ***

I found myself on the precipice of a life I never thought I would have. The transition from death to living again is unsettling; I feel the sweet bitterness to my core. I do not have the luxury of amnesia. I not only remember everything, I carry it all with me—folded neatly and packed into the sack I carry on my back. With new eyes I continue moving forward‌ *** A crisp fallen leaf Shaken by the bitterness of Winter Is light when lifted

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Morgan Thomas Spell Caster Digital Painting

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WE’RE KILLING THE WORLD, AREN’T WE

Taryn Ziegler

It was an owl that I drove past, creeping along my single lane, glued to cement and stone alone in a vehicle swept by a current of traffic, curling and unfurling along the countryside in its insidious patterns Cutting swathes of human flatness like scars into the back of a terrible, wild beast the trees line the streets but stand at a distance, watching fearfully It was an owl that lay splattered by some hapless hunk of metal and plastic, coughing deep coughs of exhaust Every day I drive this tar scar holding to my lane, cranking the music, restraining myself from going completely insane under cloudy skies pregnant with rain hurtling forward like some sort of godforsaken train Usually It’s a racoon disemboweled, a possum disavowed, a pigeon split down the middle and, with its own innards, festooned

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But today it was an owl and, shaken from my human stupor, I felt my eyes prick with tears and my heart seized with the tree’s fear Then the person in front of me rolled forward and I, too, carried on leaving behind the owl as unremarkable carrion

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A BOOKISH TALE Dominique Tate

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do

creature

young

thought

coming. it

seen

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Shaelyn Peters A Weary Vagabond Ink, Gel Pen, and Gouache

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SPELLING TESTS AND OTHER LIFE EVENTS Cat Wild

Daniel couldn’t help but feel betrayed by school. He’d been led to believe that school was fun, something to enjoy and look forward to. And at first it had been. But now he was in Year Four, and school was no longer fun—it was work. Here they were, barely a week back from the half-term break, and they already had to prepare for an upcoming spelling test.

Daniel despised spelling.

Plus, with his brother now in Year Seven, he couldn’t even count on having Jack’s support at school. They weren’t in the same class, of course, but Daniel had always found comfort in knowing Jack was somewhere in the building, ready to come to his rescue if things ever got truly dire. Now, though, he was on his own. At least Jack’s school was near his, which meant that Daniel could walk to and from school in the company and protection of his older brother.

“Jack, look!” Daniel was making the short, but treacherous, journey home after school with his brother when he spotted a multi-coloured jumble on the sidewalk ahead. “What is that?”

“I dunno. Looks like it might be a handbag.”

The two boys cautiously approached the heap. It lay on the bottom step of several leading to the front door of a terraced house.

Daniel put his hand out to pick it up, but Jack

stopped him.

“Wait.” He looked up and down the sidewalk.

“It is a handbag. Do you think it belongs to whoever lives in there?” Jack jerked his thumb toward the front door, glancing furtively behind him to see if they were being watched—a gesture common in twelve-yearold boys everywhere.

“Let’s find out.” Daniel sensed the potential for adventure, which wasn’t too frightening with his brother standing beside him. He put his hand out again, hesitating briefly, but when Jack didn’t stop him this time he extended his arm fully and took hold of the bag. He sat on the step where it had been and plopped it on his lap.

Inside he saw an envelope, a piece of paper, and a wallet. He pulled this out first and handed it to his brother. Jack opened it and retrieved the sole item of identification, the driver’s license. “It says here it belongs to a lady named Alice Moore, and,” he glanced at the door, “this is her address.”

Daniel wasn’t really listening. He’d pulled out the piece of paper and was reading intently.

“Jack, I think… I think something might be wrong.”

“Why do you say that? What’s the note say?”

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Daniel didn’t respond, just passed the paper to his brother.

To Whom It May Concern, I guess you could say this is my final letter. This isn’t a will, because I don’t really have anything, and I don’t have anyone to leave it to if I did. The limitations of this physical life have gotten to be too much for me. I just can’t handle it anymore. The medications I have to take are having such an adverse effect on my body.

I’m in pain all the time. I don’t really see the point of staying around. I’ve closed my bank account, and I’m going to buy myself a one-way ticket somewhere far away, as far as my money will take me. One final treat, you might say. Tell Dr. Campbell I know she did her best for me, and I thank her for everything she did.

Alice “Whoa.” Jack exhaled loudly and passed it back to his brother. “Is there anything else in there?”

Daniel slowly pulled out the envelope. “Just this.” He handed it over.

“Damn!” Daniel snapped to attention. His brother, being older, did sometimes swear, but it didn’t happen often. Their parents, Mum especially, had a fit if the boys used foul language.

“What is it?” Daniel strained to peer into the envelope Jack was holding. His brother pulled

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out a handful of fifty-pound notes. He’d never actually said a bad word out loud before, and he was too nervous to do so now, but the urge was strong. Daniel had never seen so much cash in one place before. At least, not unless he was watching TV. “Whoa. How far do you think she could have gotten on that?”

“Far enough,” said Jack. He started to put the envelope in his pocket, but then stopped. The two brothers looked at one another.

“Do you think she’s home?” Daniel asked.

“There’s only one way to find out.” Jack climbed the steps and knocked on the door There was no answer. The boys exchanged a look, and then Jack knocked again.

“I’m coming! I’m coming! Give me a minute.

I don’t move as fast as I used to,” came the reply from within. A moment later they heard a bolt sliding home, and the door opened.

A woman with a scarf wrapped around her head stood before them.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

Jack started. “I think so. Um, my name’s… I mean…”

“I’m Daniel, and this is my brother, Jack.”

Daniel stepped forward, holding his hand out

as he’d been taught. The woman shook it, her grip weak and limp.

Daniel continued, strangely emboldened by the sight of this forlorn, deflated woman. “We found this, and think it belongs to you. Does it?” He held up the handbag.

The woman was clearly surprised. “My goodness. Yes. Where did you find it?”

The boys pointed to the bottom of the steps.

“Down there.”

“Oh, dear. I must have dropped it and not even realized. Stupid medicine… Makes me so flustered.” That last was muttered mostly to herself. But then she straightened, holding her head high. “Thank you. So much. Would you like to come in? I was just about to make myself some tea.”

Jack didn’t move. Daniel jabbed him in the ribs. “We also found this.” He gestured to the envelope Jack was still holding. A clouded look passed over Jack’s face, a mixture of regret and relief. He held the envelope toward the woman so she could take it.

tidy. However, even with the distinct lack of clutter, there was an air of oppressiveness.

Hope had once dwelt here. But, like a cat that ran away to find a new family—one that might sneak it bits of chicken under the dinner table—hope had slunk away from this house long ago.

“Please, sit down. Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right back with the tea.”

The woman moved across the room and disappeared through a doorway, taking the handbag and envelope with her. Daniel and Jack each perched uncomfortably at the edge of the sofa.

“What are we doing here, Daniel? I thought we were just gonna give her the stuff back.

Why did you come in?” Jack raised his knee and gave Daniel a swift, though not particularly hard, stomp on his toes.

“Ow! Bum face. I came in because she needs us. She needs help.”

“How do you know?”

Daniel thought about the woman’s letter and

“Oh,” was all she said. Then she opened the door wider and stepped aside to let them enter.

the look on her face when she opened the door. “I can’t explain it. I just know. You can go if you want but I’m staying here.”

Daniel walked through the door, Jack trailing a few steps behind. The place was small but

Jack knew his brother, and he knew that tone. A year ago, when their beloved family

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pet, Pepper, died, Daniel had insisted that they bury her in the garden. Their mother hadn’t been keen on the idea, and their father had started to refuse outright. But Daniel, normally shy and soft-spoken, told them all that Pepper had been more than just a dog.

She was a loyal and devoted family friend and had a right to find peace near her family. She deserved nothing less than to be buried under Mum’s coveted rose bush. He’d looked each one of them in the eye as he spoke, daring any of them to deny that what he said was true. His chin had jutted out then the same way it was now, with him sitting on that tired old sofa in a stranger’s dreary living room.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”

They sat in silence for several minutes before Alice appeared with a tray, which she set down on the table. In addition to tea cups, milk, and a sugar bowl, there was a plate with three different kinds of biscuits. Daniel reached for a vanilla cream. Jack didn’t move.

Alice sat down and took a cup of tea. “I want to thank you boys for returning my bag and my… Well, I think most people would have kept all that money for themselves. It shows real character and courage on your part. And to show you both how grateful I am,” she pulled something out of her pocket, “I want

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to give you this.” She handed each boy a fiftypound note.

Jack immediately folded his note and rammed it in his pocket, mumbling a thank you. Daniel looked at the note he was holding, his hands in his lap, gently fingering its edges. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know. I want to.”

“What were you going to do when you got… when you got to wherever you were going?”

Daniel still hadn’t looked up.

Alice regarded the boy sitting on her sofa.

“Well, I wasn’t planning on coming back.”

Daniel waited for her to continue. She didn’t.

The curtains were drawn, but not all the way, and a narrow shaft of afternoon sunlight filtered through the break, illuminating dust particles floating slowly toward any surface they could reach. In the weak light, Daniel thought that even the dust motes seemed dejected, sad, unmotivated. He followed one particle on its path to the floor, but once it made it below the windowsill, it disappeared in the murky gloom.

“What does adverse mean?”

“Why?” “It’s one of my spelling words this week. Part

of our homework is to use the words in a sentence.”

“Ah. It means harmful or unfavorable.”

“Are you good with words? I mean, do you know stuff like vocabulary and definitions and stuff?”

“I’m not too bad. English was my favorite subject back when I was in school.”

“Huh. Math is my favorite. I don’t like spelling and grammar and all that junk.”

“Daniel,” his brother interrupted, “I think we should get home, or Mum will start worrying.

You know how she gets.”

Daniel looked over at him. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He looked at Alice. “Thank you for the tea. It was nice to meet you.” He stood up, but hesitated, his shyness showing for the first time in her presence. “Do you think, um, if I came here tomorrow, would you help me study for my spelling test? And help me write these sentences for my homework, so they don’t sound stupid? Would that be

these curtains for you. If you want.”

She hesitated for only a moment before repeating, “Yes. That would be fine.”

Dust motes swirled and danced in the fading but newly welcome sunlight as Daniel pulled the drapes open. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Goodbye.”

Daniel started visiting Alice at least a couple of times a week. Sometimes she’d help him with his homework. Other days, especially when Daniel could see that she wasn’t feeling well, they would sit on the sofa, eating biscuits and watching television. Daniel enjoyed the game show Tipping Point, and was duly impressed when Alice would answer more questions correctly than she got wrong.

Eventually, Dr. Campbell declared that Alice was in remission, and the two friends celebrated by splurging on a fancy chocolate cake from Marks and Spencer. When Daniel went to university, Alice presented him with a

okay?” He held his breath as he waited for her to answer. It seemed an eternity before she finally said, softly, “Yes. That would be fine.”

Daniel sighed with relief, and Jack headed for the door. As he passed the window, Daniel turned back to Alice and said, “I could open

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fountain pen, engraved with his initials.

A year later, when Jack was killed in a car accident, Alice held Daniel’s hand all through the funeral service and didn’t let go once. His parents were huddled together in the first pew, but Alice never left his side. And when the cancer returned, Daniel sat quietly with Alice while she wept, making sure she wasn’t alone with her tears.

As the vicar spoke at her graveside, Daniel removed a worn slip of paper from his wallet.

Instead of dirt, he dropped her farewell letter, written a lifetime ago, into her grave as he said goodbye to his friend.

Three years later, his daughter was born. Her name was Alice.

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Corbin Louis Birth Certificate Digital Multimedia

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CONVERSATIONS WITH THE DEAD GIRL UNDER MY DINING ROOM TABLE Mia Harrison

omen #1 (she does a sleepy pirouette beneath the kitchen table) It starts in a dream the dream where you realize Rome is synonymous with home for two months mistakes are opportunities dues are due was your mind ever laid to rest does your body ever omen #2 (the window in the living room bursts open amidst a still breeze) black body—unclosed in a white rectangle white rectangle—a temporary coffin for outdated versions of self bed—flesh against the blank wall feet—dangling over the edge; the fabric of your existence there are two I’s in identity but which one am I demons enter through your feet when you sleep there’s nothing to anchor your thoughts omen #3 (a fine-tooth hairbrush goes missing, it had three strands of hair threaded between its bristles) 116

sleep is the cousin of death death is tripping on memories which haunt you tripping on insecurities lodged in between cobblestones attune to the rhythms of the Earth’s rotation; the cars bumping onto wet cobblestone weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning omen #4 (white polaroid camera goes missing) eyes tilt up to watch God God stares back at the golden body bloated with sunshine floating unaware of the thin membrane that keeps you from drowning; translucent indigo shimmering with each inhale— the float of the living go deeper and when you think you’ve gone deep enough go deeper dive deep into that layer of you that you’ve hidden from yourself omen #5 (J has a dream resulting in sleep paralysis, the Little Girl hovers over her) your feet keep moving but your mind freezes it freezes as you unthaw your emotions excavating the past

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lifting the lost flavors from the time you stopped writing the time you remembered your dad saying “pick em up, put em down” they say the devil sits on your chest and that’s why you can’t move you can’t move because you haven’t tried yet omen #6 (J has another dream we are all in her room with the little girl, she calls out for me and I tell her to relax and sink into the next level) dust is in the air air is not light, but dense with baked sweat and caked dirt— the release of yesterdays and tomorrows sin self-portraits turned into a mask of false promises eye is to mind what ear is to heart what is justice paint the picture inside of my skull human response to what humans have made the fragility of civilization but, God is law God is law but money gets in the way you awake from the dream yelling “don’t let me disappear, let me appear” eye to heart ear to mind

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Sabrinna Baker Tokyo House 35mm Photography

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COLUMBIA Lisa Fryett

Oh Columbia, you seductress, who is your god of destiny?

Tribes fleeing, not fighting?

Bison running, not rotting?

You don’t even spare the snow.

What knowledge so great what god so grand as to worship destruction as Master’s grand plan, does your Jesus permit the mass graves you omit so your spirit rests well in the night?

Build your trains and plow the fields and pray in churches grand— but remember this your soul’s dark abyss, is a tombstone on Indian land.

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An ekphrastic poem referencing the painting American Progress by John Gast, which observes Columbia; a symbol of Manifest Destiny and a historical personificationof the United States of America.

Sue Morgan We Hold These Truths to Be Self-Evident Photography

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PURPLE Sally Elhousieny

Things that remind me of you: The miscommunication of storm clouds Late night ideas and 6 am parking lots The touch of sleep, the beautiful morning view Holding my breath, hope on queue Clenched fists with ruptured veins

Violet bruises, violet spots

Soft candlelight and tangled knots Are all just things that remind me of us

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Hannah Tashiro The Past and Future Photography

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SALT WATERED EYES (A SHELL’S PERIL) Shanelle Clogston

Turned over by a knave wave and washed on shore above the rugged sand from the ocean floor, if you stick your ear against its insides, it talks back, full of writhing emotion, silent confidence and loud insecurities, be still and soundless to hear the ocean’s riotous motion, longing to say, take me away, by a lady in wading with dreadful dreams of delightful drowning and cuts from crunchy sea salt on the roof of the mouth, screaming dreamy hopeful sounds fading.

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Andrea Stein Glisten Pencil and Digital

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A POEM’S PLEAD Sage Stephens

Use me.

Allow thoughts to flow wild like rivers, breaking down beliefs until canyons run deeper than flesh.

Align words like constellations and let them bury in your mind, the explosions of their death like epiphanies.

Watch lines battle as stanzas sit like warzones within the hollow of your skull.

Let sound bubble from between your teeth like potions, spilling on the page like misshaped spell-craft as it bewitches it admirers.

Free me from your fingertips like the syllables from your lips and watch as I cause spirits to shatter.

Use me.

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LA ISLA Kat Seidemann

Today I would like to say | some things about Puerto Rico | I would start with words like Colonialism Repression Monoculture | Sterilization and Devastation| I could mention Crime and Poverty Corruption and lack of representation | I could use Atlantis as a fitting metaphor | In a more sentimental mood I might| espouse the beauty of its flora and fauna | of soft sand beaches and clear jewel-toned waters | of verdant mountains harboring tales | far older than Columbus | of blue cobblestone streets weighted with history | Next I might speak of a people who applaud | when their planes touch down safely on tarmac | who paint their wrought iron embellished homes | no matter how humble | in glimmering sherbet colors | who themselves come in a rousing variety of hues | I would talk about my abuelita’s pride and my mother’s rejection of our culture| while humming songs from West Side Story under my breath | I could tell you of missing three Aguadilla boarding calls | due to the sound of my German surname | spoken by mouths accustomed to romance | In jest I might mention rainforest cockroaches the size of apple pies | and roads that only lead to one place | how making a wrong turn means backtracking to where you started | perhaps a fitting suggestion for Puertorriqueños | I could tell you of the time a glossy travel magazine | featured a photograph of La Perla without a hint of irony | I should remind you that Puerto Ricans are citizens of the United States who pay | fight and die for the country | but cannot vote for its leader | Today I would like to say these things and more | History tells me no one will listen

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FINISHING Jessie Dixon

Miles of uninspired gray perfuse my will. In a frigid-winded downpour, left arm hanging heavy at my side, I ride a bicycle down this muddy gravel road. Persistent yet lukewarm wanting and four more sour weeks—a cold sponge soaked in old peppery milk, which I will not abandon, says of me, “She kept showing up, disdainful and proud.”

Or I quit—light a fire and raise the room temperature, white flag to my comfort zone. Take my time in sky blue cashmere. Yet my breath, released, would not relieve the weight of regret.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Beza Ayele served as an editor for Clamor from 2017-2018. She likes combining art with writing. She received the literary magazine: poetry honorable mention at the 2014 JEA Awards in Washington D.C. Sabrinna Baker has been a hobbyist photographer since she was a kid. Her style has since evolved away from doing kitschy middle-school photoshoots and macro-everything with her best friends. She doesn’t stick to a single style and loves capturing all different subjects, especially architecture, nature, fashion, and social scenes. Her interests lie in different mediums of film, ranging from spontaneous Instax snaps and disposables, to point and shoots and manual SLRs. Capturing her travels and the moments between her and her closest friends are her favorite. When her photos are uncontrived, evoking authenticity and emotion, she feels the most satisfied.

Justin Berkbigler is a multi-media artist who focuses on prose, art films and ambient music.

He has been writing prose and composing music since the age of fifteen. Over the last ten years he has self-published two books of poetry and prose. His current collection is entitled The Saturn Return. In June he will be completing his Bachelor’s in Interdisciplinary Arts with a Minor in Visual Media and Arts. He lives in Ballard with his girlfriend and three cats: Merwin, Clyde and Mama.

Denise Calvetti Michaels’ new book, The Things Down River, maps locations of childhood to reimagine the sensory realms of memory in which she and brother Dennis summered with their Italian immigrant grandparents on a farm in Salinas, California. Her new work is episodic, impelled by the lyric, driven by the desire to sustain remembering. Michaels teaches Psychology at Cascadia College in Bothell. Michaels’ first poetry book, Rustling Wrens, was published by Cave Moon Press, 2012.

Kayla Chamberlain is a Junior majoring in Culture, Literature, and Arts, with a minor in Japanese. Writing has always been her passion, as well as instrumental music, and film. In her free time, she writes both fiction and non-fiction stories. Her life-long dream is to write for films, and animations, and hopes to someday open an animation studio with her best friends.

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Shanelle Clogston is a girl who loves to read and write. She received a standing ovation in a creative writing class after reading her poem “Bogged Antique Monologue.” Shanelle is working towards her BA in Culture, Literature & the Arts at UW Bothell. Shanelle aspires to be a novelist and write YA novels. Her favorite YA novel, at the moment, is Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli. In her downtime, Shanelle enjoys reading novels, writing poems, painting, and watching movies, especially if they’re book adaptations. Make sure to read her poetry in Clamor!

Katherine Cole acknowledges that no matter where life takes her, the Pacific Northwest will always be a home. She is pursuing Environmental Studies at UW Bothell and explores her creativity through various mediums. Overall Katherine is very passionate about exploring this human experience through reflection, expression, and communication. Feeling a constant connection to everything in this world is what inspires her to learn, grow, and create. Much of her work is centered on the theme of interconnection. In a world that has been conditioned to “other” and disassociate from the bigger picture, Katherine aspires to inspire re-connection to our roots so that we can unite as we collectively face local and global issues.

Hannah Dinero is a multidisciplinary artist. Her first love language is a close tie between touch and memes. For her current mood, check @iloverhannah on Instagram.

Jessie Dixon is not very experienced at writing poetry.

Dana Doran, a UW Bothell Alumni has recently completed a series which challenges shared reality aptly named “[/life in the Matrix]” and is moving forward with a series dubbed “404: Page Not Found” which explores truth and propaganda through a surrealistic view.

Married for 42 years with four grandchildren, she lives and works in her studio in Lynnwood, Washington surrounded by inspiration.

Sally Elhousieny is an Egyptian American studying Media and Communications at the University of Washington. She loves to write poetry, watch movies, and hopes to one day join the film industry.

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Hitoe Engelbrekt, a lifelong student of life with a curious and open mind. She speaks and thinks in Japanese, and listens, reads, and writes in English. She finds both languages are not sufficient to express herself.

Terrell Fox is a graduate of the MFA creative writing program at the University of Washington Bothell. He is a former Marine who can’t draw, paint, sing, dance, play music, take pictures, sculpt, or throw pottery, so he writes as his way of artistic expression. His work has previously been published in Proximity Magazine, Ricky’s Backyard, Holy Shit Journal, and Clamor. He has upcoming work in Black Candies: The Eighties, and Incoming: Sex, Drugs, & Copenhagen. He was recently selected to be a group leader for Planting The Oar, a literaturebased veteran/civilian discussion group sponsored by the National Endowment for the Humanities. He has also completed a novel-length experimental memoir about his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan. Terrell can be reached on Twitter @FogButWithAnX. Lisa Fryett (Blackfeet) has a personal passion for writing about Native heritage and ancestry. After many years of working as a Project Manager in the corporate world, Lisa changed her life course by returning to college to complete a degree in Society, Ethics and Human Behavior. Having graduated in March of 2018, Lisa is currently enjoying her new position at Mother Nation, a Seattle based non-profit which provides culturally based advocacy for Native women and families.

Darin Gad, the author, is a nineteen-year-old woman who is majoring in Media and Communications. She enjoys writing in her spare time because it allows her to express and understand herself. For her, poetry are just words that don’t fit in your body anymore.

Daniel Geiszler is a 17-year-old Running Start student, graphic designer, photographer, and pizza lover living in the Pacific Northwest. He hopes to be a travel photographer and blogger after completing his degree at Cascadia College.

Donna Lynne Griggs is a second-year MFA student in the Creative Writing and Poetics program at the University of Washington, Bothell. She received her BA in English from UC Berkeley and won the Samuel C. Irving Prize for American Wit and Humor in 2015. She

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writes: Being a writer is about the act of living, about squeezing myself in between the tissues and tendons to explore the interior. I feel an obligation to the life I have lived, a desire to echo its existence in a way that both reflects and propels relatability. My dream is that my writing accomplishes that.

Liezel Moraleja Hackett received her MFA from UW Bothell, and writes nonfiction, some short fiction, and poetry. She is working on several projects, including the manuscript that her thesis was based on, and a collection of haikus.

Mia Harrison, THE BLK BLND is an experimental Artivist (Art + Activist) and poet from the Pacific Northwest. In a time where words hurt more than sticks and stones, she uses her poetry as a form of activism.

Mina Jiaerken did a digital painting in Photoshop named “Smoke.� In the painting, Jiaerken put three characters that are from one family. A mother is holding her stuff and the little daughter, the older brother is standing on another side of their mother. Their faces are covered with fire smoke. In front of them, is the white barbed wire with a few olive leafs on it. Her work is more about imagination. Jiaerken provides a ground for audiences to explore their feeling by combing all the elements that show in the painting.

Sovannarith Khem is a Cambodian American born and raised in Seattle. He is an Interdisciplinary Arts Student at UW Bothell. He enjoys expressing himself through the arts through various mediums from drawing, digital, fashion, photography, and creative directing.

Jessica Kunder is a senior biology student who lives in Seattle with her boyfriend and cat.

Sarah Lake is inspired by the beauty and emotions captured in landscape and sports photography. In the future, she intends on being a sports photographer for a MLB baseball organization.

Conor Lorenz is an aspiring digital and traditional artist. He is Media and Communications Studies major and is working towards a job in comic books.

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J. L. Lorenz is a Culture, Literature and the Arts Major at UW. She is a bona fide Seattle girl, having been born and raised there. Lorenz is a recovering addict, having survived a ten year battle against the opiate epidemic. She is studying to be a college professor of Creative Writing and European History and hopes to become a published author.

Corbin Louis is a poet and performer from Seattle Washington. He is a recording artist and MFA graduate at University of Washington Bothell. Corbin’s work has previously been featured in Best American Experimental Writing, Clamor, 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!

Reed Lowell is currently an MFA student at the University of Washington Bothell. When he isn’t working, he is busy trying to write his way through life.

Joan McBride lives in Kirkland and is a state legislator.

Sue Morgan is a self-described “observer of things,” and always has her phone or camera ready in case something catches her eye. She enjoys taking “photo junkets” around town in her free time and tends to look for subjects or objects seen in everyday life that others might otherwise look past or make them feel uncomfortable.

Laura Nguyen is a current 4th year at the UW Bothell. She enjoys taking photos, dancing and reading humorous books in her spare time. She hopes to take her knowledge a step further into producing short films in her future career.

Philip Palios was born in 1985 and has lived in the Pacific Northwest for most of his life.

Shaelyn R. Peters is a mostly self-taught painter who loves combining the beauty of nature with her wild and whimsical ideas. She has been drawing her whole life and loves to bring joy to others through her art. She is currently pursuing nursing and hopes her art and humor will enrich the lives of the people she encounters throughout her career.

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Kelsey Phillips is a senior in the Media and Communications major at UWB. She is a lover of words, photos and art and she lives her life finding meaning in everything. She hopes to one day use her passion for writing to inspire others.

Sam Prudente has only recently revisited painting and mixed media, passions he thought he had left behind him as he explored writing, performance and audio-visual media. As an immigrant from the Philippines now living in Washington, he personally feels how the political conflicts acutely impacts his trans-nationalism.

Lilia Rusu is a former Law and Society major at John Jay, who has a great passion for writing.

Born and raised in Moldova, she studied foreign languages and currently works as a translator from home for Moldovan, Romanian, Russian, and Ukrainian language. Having recently relocated from New York to Washington state, she is finding her new setting a perfect, tranquil place for writing and reflecting. She dreams of writing a book someday. Maybe she’ll start with a book for children first.

Elizabeth Salinas is a Mexican girl with a strong passion for love, laughs, and literature.

Elizabeth is an amateur poet and an aspiring author, especially of romance fiction. One of Elizabeth’s long-term goal (one day) is to publish exceptional stories that every reader will fall in love with. Besides writing, Elizabeth is taking college classes that will help her transfer to university for a Bachelor in Arts in English literature. Elizabeth hopes to work in editing and publishing upon graduating as well. When Elizabeth is not in school or at work, she enjoys spending time with close family and friend.

Kat Seidemann is a poet with more vice than versa, a writer often left speechless, and artless artist. Her poetry, prose, and visual art have been published in Licton Springs Review, Rogue Agent and included in several PNW galleries.

Kahlia Shearer is a Media and Communications student. When she is not at school or working, Kahlia enjoys practicing her artistic abilities through ceramics, photography, painting, and much more.

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W. Sean Mosman Sinclair has been alive for some time, counting from the first of Kings County until the present day. Having spent few consecutive years in any one place, there is pining now and again for various here and there’s. Sometime art is made, but it always thought of. “The work is everything, and everything is the work.” Longtime companion of their (ever gracious) Goose, and full time member of an extended and collected family of people who are often otherwise disincluded from what might be called “society,” William has been building towards a perhaps idealistic, yet tangible, idea of the flattened hierarchy (the level field) where all human and all non-human objects are held to be of an equal ontological value. With any luck, and a lot of practice, this goal glimmers through the pages.

Andrea Raye Stein, 22, is a junior at UW Bothell. She chooses to work mainly with pencil and digital editing programs. Andrea Raye is an aspiring artist in the field of advertising and design.

Sage Stephens is more of a viewer than a participant but attempted art nonetheless.

Donna Sullivan, East Coast roots, Tennessee childhood, Southern California upbringing, and a Pacific Northwest heart. Donna uses visual art and creative writing to explore social or political themes. A graduate student in the Master of Ed program at UWB, Donna dreams of waking each morning to the sounds of the surf and the soft panting of her dog, the aroma of tea and toast, the lure of an unfinished painting, and the affection of her beautiful family.

Zachary Tan is an entrepreneur and a thrill seeker, currently studying as a MCS student at the UWB campus. Ironically, he despises formalized academic institutions as he feels it gets in the way of learning; despite this, he understands the perceived value of a degree, and has therefore opted to suck it up and graduate.

Hannah Tashiro is a junior studying Interactive Media Design. She loves music and photographing those around her.

Dominique Tate, a lifelong artist with a passion to recreate the world she sees on paper and canvas. Dominique is a Cultural, Literature, & Arts major at UW Bothell currently studying

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to become a middle school teacher of English and Language Arts. Most of her work, whether poetic or painted includes strong imagery; especially of trees and flowers. She uses art as a way to express her joy and sorrows, faith, love, and friendship.

Morgan Thomas is an aspiring professional doodler who also happens to be a student.

Thelma Tunyi is an American painter and illustrator who resides in Seattle and is currently studying at the University of Washington. She is part of a group called Sunshine Tangerine, which includes two other artists who together sell their art.

Anna Vilhauer is a senior at UW Bothell. She is part of the IAS Department, earning a degree in Culture, Literature, & The Arts with a Creative Writing minor. She hopes to work in the publishing industry after graduating in Spring 2018. In her final year, she wanted to submit a piece to Clamor to hopefully leave her own little legacy at UW Bothell.

Cat Wild is a graduate of and former writing tutor at UWB; she has fond memories of her time there. Now living in Stratford-upon-Avon, she spends her time drinking tea, feeding swans, and writing (something that is not at all intimidating in a place with such a revered writing history). Her work has appeared in Stratford Literary Festival Sharing Stories Collection 2017, The NW, 101words.com, Poetic Asides, and Clamor. She has a strong preference for the Chicago Manual of Style and her opinion on use of the Oxford comma is immutable.

Jacob Wilkes is a photographer and enjoys shooting his fellow classmates at Santa Monica High School in Los Angeles. His work aims to capture the modern teenage existence through 35mm photographs. Jacob shoots in film because he believes the limitations make him think more deeply about each frame captured, ultimately creating a more intentional result.

Jasmin Will. is a senior student at the University of Washington Bothell pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in Culture, Literature, and Arts and a Creative Writing Minor. She has a passion for the Performing Arts and enjoys reading, writing, singing, sightseeing, and traveling. Jasmin wants her writing to captivate and invite readers to another world of imagination, suspense,

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and adventure; to allow readers to feel and embody the emotions of others from a diverse perspective.

Yiyi Zhou is majoring in Interdisciplinary Arts at UW Bothell. He has experience with photo and film shooting for commercial and advertisement. Yiyi is a media editor and enjoys composing music as a hobby. He loves to get in touch with media.

Taryn Ziegler is a digital content specialist working out of the greater Seattle area. She has managed content production, strategy, editing, and scheduling for a variety of different clients.

She graduated from the University of Washington Bothell and harbors a deep love for all things content-related. She is happily married and enjoys living the Pacific Northwest lifestyle with her husband and two dogs.

Mudasir Zubair is a content creator, marketer, and artist at UW Bothell. Before his senior year, he worked on Clamor’s 2016 and 2017 issues. When away from his studies, he’s recording his work process as “Speedpaint,” writing down the first few words of a poem, or learning how to make interesting and engaging work. You can contact him at mudasirzubair@gmail.com.

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WEB EXCLUSIVES

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

Denise Calvetti Michaels, Where is the Map?, Poetry Donna Sullivan, The MacGuffin Letters, Prose Dana Doran, Temptation: 404 Page Not Found, Oil on Canvas Sue Morgan, Emma Lazarus Sent Us, Photography Laura Nguyen, Memoria, Video; Mortem, Photography Shaelyn Peters, Food Chains, Gouache, Watercolor, and Ink Sam Prudente, Milk, Fist, and First, Acrylic and Mixed Media on Canvas Yiyi Zhou, Original Theme, Digital Audio

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Clamor is the University of Washington Bothell’s annual Literary and Arts Journal, representing the best creative practices in literary, visual and media arts from across our campus and surrounding community.

CLAMOR 2018

Our goal is to support and promote captivating, inspiring, and lively art in the forms of visual, literary and media work. We provide artists and authors with publication opportunities through our print edition, media publication platforms, and website. We foster community by reaching beyond the UW Bothell campus borders for creative works and by offering audiences quality reading, viewing and listening experiences.

DIGITAL

EXCLUSIVES Visit our website for additional content: clamor-journal.com Denise Calvetti Michaels, Where is the Map?, Poetry Donna Sullivan, The MacGuffin Letters, Prose Dana Doran, Temptation: 404 Page Not Found, Oil on Canvas Sue Morgan, Emma Lazarus Sent Us, Photography

Staffed by an editorial board of current undergraduate students, Clamor accepts submissions annually in Autumn & Winter.

Laura Nguyen, Memoria, Video; Mortem, Photography

Visit clamor.submittable.com to learn more.

Shaelyn Peters, Food Chains, Gouache, Watercolor, and Ink

We are graciously supported by the UWB Services & Activities Fees.

Sam Prudente, Milk, Fist, and First, Acrylic and Mixed Media on Canvas Yiyi Zhou, Original Theme, Audio

CLAMOR 2018

UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON BOTHELL LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL