Conceptions Southwest Magazine 2016 by Conceptions Southwest

Conceptions Southwest volume xxxix

Copyright ÂŠ Conceptions Southwest Published by the Student Publications Board University of New Mexico All rights revert to contributors upon publication issn 1048-8790 c/o Student Publications MSC03-2230 University of New Mexico Albuquerque, NM 87131-0001 Printed by Starline Printing 7111 Pan Amercan Freeway NE Albuquerque, NM 87109 505-345-8900 Cover art by YooJung Hong Melodious Moment, page 70

Conceptions Southwest is the fine arts and literary magazine created for and by the University of New Mexico community. Its staff consists of undergraduate and graduate student volunteers and is directed by an Editor-in-Chief selected by unmâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Student Publications Board. Submissions are accepted from all unm undergraduate, graduate, and continuing education students; faculty; staff; and alumni. This issue is brought to you by the Associated Students of the University of New Mexico (asunm) and the Graduate Professional Student Association (gpsa). Copies and back issues are available in the Daily Lobo Classified Advertising Office, Marron Hall, Room 107. The Conceptions Southwest office is located in Marron Hall, Room 225. To order copies of our magazine, please contact us at csw@unm.edu or visit our website at www.conceptionssw.org.

Special Thanks Jim Fisher Dr. Leslie Donovan Carolyn Souther Becky Maher and Starline Printing Daven Quelle and the Daily Lobo Advertising Office asunm and gpsa The staff of Scribendi and Best Student Essays Every encouraging instructor Every staff member Every contributor Every reader Without any of you, this magazine would not exist. Student Publications Board members: Dr. Leslie Donovan (Chair), Faculty Senate Representative Monica Kowal, unm President Representative Ilia Rodriguez, Faculty Senate Representative Robert Salas, Society of Professional Journalists Student Representative Robert Trapp, New Mexico Press Association Representative Jenna Hagengruber, asunm President Representative Annie King, asunm President Representative Randy Ko, asunm Senate Representative Abigail Robertson, gpsa Representative.

Staff M embers Editor-in-Chief Georgia Lillian Casswell Managing Editor Jillian T. Kovach General Staff Melissa Baca Amy Zuverink Quinci LeGardye

Foreword

Georgia Lillian Casswell editor-in-chief

Here in the Southwest, the landscape may seem barren to outsiders, but we know that hidden mysteries abound. This magazine exemplifies everything that the Southwest has to offer. It is full of skeletons and the beauty that one can find in the desert. Climb into our magazine, discover new worlds, and let your imagination run wild.

Table of Contents creative nonfiction 44

Classy Chassis Keriden Brown

22 Commitment Catherine Cook 26

How to Get the Poem into the Teacup Catherine Cook

photography

Sea of Sky Kimberly Mitchell

23 Alone Lucas Winter

Bodies, Floating, Flying George Moreno

The Shopping List Catherine Cook

theatrical writing

Midwestern Gothic Lyndsey Broyles

43 Moon Liliana Rehorn

Islands of the Sky Lucas Winter

A Frustatingly Fickle Feline Fix Henry Bender

poetry

A Poem about My Skeleton Alexandra Katherine Magel T-Rex Frolicking Through Daisies Catherine Cook

I Know It Is Autumn When Aimee Lynn Stearns

Pi単on Picking Aimee Lynn Stearns

57 Gone Fishing Aimee Lynn Stearns 58 Infested Lyndsey Broyles

17 Deciduous Mandisa Bradley 18

Sturdy Stories Jesse Yelvington

Olfaction Begins at Death Kimberly Mitchell

60 Wanderstood David Piersol 61

Here, I Give You All of Me Liliana Rehorn

62 Jump Catherine Cook

Tricks Before Treats Lorena Molina

An Ohio Field Kelly Brocklehurst

Bahram, the Guide Lorena Molina

Hunting Season Lyndsey Broyles

Little Fox Spirit Zoe Devin Bell

Desert Secrets Liliana Rehorn

To Watercolor Owl Tattoos Jesse Yelvington

Forest Encounter Zoe Devin Bell [Staff Choice Visual Award]

short fiction

29 Peonies Caitlyn Carcerano 32

All Together Now Jesse Furr

Coyote Skull Study Jesse Furr Goddess of Flaura and Fauna Zoe Devin Bell

The Lantern Light Alexandra Katherine Magel [Staff Choice Literature Award]

Luck of the Irish Kimberly Mitchell

Our Father Kimberly Mitchell

66 Troika Julia Lambright

visual art

Guardians of Forty Julia Lambright

2 Anonymity Caitlin Carcerano

Melodious Moment YooJung Hong

3 Conceal Caitlin Carcerano

My Paradise YooJung Hong

I K now It Is A utumn When Aimee Lynn Stearns poetry

I know it is autumn when the bear comes nightly, sparring with my dog. Disputes of loyalty, territory, and the weekâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rubbish winter is on its haunches, hope of spring on its forehead in her den, dreaming of honeycomb and scooping salmon, dark, earthy grubs and new seasonal siesta locale.

A nonymity

Caitlin Carcerano visual art

oil on canvas, 11'' x 14''

Conceal

Caitlin Carcerano visual art

oil on canvas, 36 x 42

Piñon Picking

Aimee Lynn Stearns poetry

I kneel before the trees humbled breathing in the warmth of early fall winter is coming like the squirrel and the pájaro piñonero, I comb the forest floor for dark nuts we are preparing our spirits for the cold and quiet contemplation of winter I kneel in a perpetual pose of submission my hands working quickly collecting each nut as one touches each rosary bead a prayer for abundance and nourishment reverence of the earth the prudence of the deer I pray for my heart to crack and split and let the light in

I creep through the brush avoiding the cactus, contorting my body beneath the lower branches I think of empa単aditas and how satisfying the roasted and salted treasures crack between my teeth I think of long cold days tucked inside wood-burning homes, awaiting spring. these autumn days are warm gifts before the earth heaves a sigh and hunkers down in slumber. I contemplate this tradition how I, like my ancestors, spend a joyful day with a tin can and a simple lunch prepared to practice the patience and devotion to kneel so the trees can teach you prayer and persistence. The turistas can't figure out these crazy norte単os kneeling round and round trees in poses of submissive intent.

Tricks Before Treats Lorena Molina visual art

ink and colored pencil on 9" x 12" Bristol

Bahram, the Guide Lorena Molina

visual art

ink on 9" x 12" Bristol

The Lantern Light Alexandra Katherine Magel short fiction

staff choice written award

Hollis Levitt couldn’t focus on his work. He would stop periodically, stare blankly at the paper before him. After he ran his hands through his hair for the eighth time, he jumped when his professor broke the silence of the study hall. “Mr. Levitt, you act like you’re overworked. Take a break and come back fresh tomorrow.” Without a word, Hollis gathered his things, swung his bag over his shoulder, and left the room. Instead of heading back to his dorm, as Professor Rowe was likely suggesting, Hollis walked down the wide corridors of his school to the library. He dropped his bag on a table and took out the same materials he had just packed away. Professor Rowe was wrong about him—he wasn’t overworked. He was jumpy. For the past several weeks, Hollis had seen movement in his peripheral vision, shadows crossing the back of his head. Every time he turned around, there was nothing there. He hoped he was just over-attentive to his surroundings. He hoped he wasn’t overworked, like his professor said. But there wasn’t any cause for it: He wasn’t tired and his workload was as manageable as always. He’d almost suspected an illness—a bodily one, not a mental one. He kept trying to ignore it the best he could, quiet the lingering doubts, and get on with his work. In his school, you couldn’t fall behind an inch. It was the national school, the one devoted to training the next generation of politicians and scientists, to streamline students into exactly what the country needed. If you fell behind, you were lazy

or inadequate or worse, a daydreamer, and your He had given in and gone to bed early. So far, scholarship was ripped out from under you. He the morning had gone well, and he tried to didn’t want to be one of the ones who cracked downplay a tentative sense of relief. under the pressure and were left to wander the He thought industriously of all the tasks country, jobless. Hollis would rather die than let he had to finish for his classes, but let his mind that happen. go idle as he was lulled by the motion of his With this conviction, he bent over his own walking. This state of mind was suddenly books and papers again, pencil poised. As soon as the lead touched the paper, or the rest of the week various the light behind him briefly went out. He jumped—he dropped his pencil and objects would jump to different twisted around in his chair to see what places whenever he looked away it was. He saw nothing. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the quiet library. He stared out at the rows of tables, shocked out of him when something fast passed the bookcases, and the chandeliers to be sure, over him, like a large bird. He stopped and stood blindly grabbing for his pencil as he looked. rigid, eyes wide, hands tightening on the strap of When he couldn’t find his pencil through touch, his shoulder bag. After a moment, and no sign of he turned and saw it lying on the other side of what had flown over him, he realized his hands the table, where it couldn’t have rolled by itself. were trembling. It seemed like a bad omen. He exhaled to dispel the shiver of alarm that ran through him and decided that he should take Hollis and his classmates had a science Professor’s Rowe’s advice and turn in early. class under Professor Garrett after lunch. Hollis For the rest of the week, various objects didn’t particularly enjoy the project they were would jump to different places whenever he currently working on—raising tadpoles and looked away. He tried to convince himself that it calculating their life expectancy. While one was due to his absent-mindedness. of his partners measured the pH of the water,

One bright morning, Hollis trudged over the path lined with well-kept grass that connected the school’s main building to the student dorms. Yesterday evening had been another harrowing and frustrating repetition of the weeks before—none of his school supplies or books stayed in the same place for long.

Hollis counted the number of tadpoles in the various stages of the transformation. He tapped the eraser of his pencil gently on the glass as he pointed out each one. Then he began the long and tedious process of doing the math to find the percentages he needed. When he was almost finished—and almost nodding off—the fingers on his right hand started to go numb. He

stretched them out absent-mindedly in between equations. “I’m going to get a clean phial,” his partner said. Hollis nodded without looking up, staring down at his neatly drawn graph. He tapped the end of his pencil against the table as he thought. His fingers were still numb and it seemed to be getting worse. He let his eyes wander to the side of the room, where a statue had been gouged through to allow water pipes into the room when the building had been converted into a school. Then, an odd feeling spread over his entire hand, like it had fallen asleep, and he snapped his gaze back. His pencil rolled out of his grasp. Then the fingers twitched on their own. All at once, his hand slammed itself into the beaker of water his partner had set down and knocked it over. Water spilled all over the desk, and his nearly complete work was soaked. Hollis stared, stunned, at his ruined assignment as his partner ran back, asking what had happened.

nothing wrong with his hand, that there seemed to be nothing wrong with him at all, and that he should come back if he experienced any other problems. She told him that he should try to get more rest after she noticed how pale he had become. Hollis was only half-listening to her. There was a mirror on the wall opposite him, and he could have sworn that as soon as the nurse turned her back on it, his reflection looked like someone else. Hollis sped back to his dorm in growing terror. He charged up the stairway and unceremoniously tossed his things onto his desk. He slammed the door to his tiny private bathroom and sat on the lid of the toilet, head on his hands, trying to breathe normally. He was scared; he could admit that to himself now. This went beyond missing schoolwork. The weeks before had been full of things he didn’t understand and things he couldn’t explain—and this was the worst. He raised his head and exhaled, eyes shut. He tried to rationalize what had happened in science class and all the things he’d seen. e let his eyes wander to the But every time he ordered his thoughts, side of the room where a statue they collapsed in on themselves and left had been gouged through to allow him with newly powered fear. It was like trying to keep water in a tap. water pipes into the room Eventually, Hollis’s breathing “I don’t know,” Hollis said shakily, became more measured. He opened his eyes. stretching his hand, no longer numb. “I think it When they focused, he found himself looking into was a nervous twitch or something.” the mirror on the wall across from him. Professor Garrett came over and briskly He stood and walked toward it, putting told Hollis that he should go to the nurse. After his hands on either side of the sink as he leaned her examination, the nurse said there was in. He watched his reflection very carefully,

short fiction

noticing each time his eyes moved in their The shape came toward him faster than sockets and every slight movement caused by the distance seemed to allow, but it was still far his breathing. There was something odd about it off when it resolved itself into something he in a way he couldn’t place. He leaned closer. recognized. He immediately knew the white He never would have seen her if she face with the black features, and immediately hadn’t moved. But she did. Hollis saw something about his omething about her was constantly mouth change, saw a wide smile that did not match his own spread over it, and moving like the dancing tip of a then instantly saw a face—bone white, flame but less distinct with black suggestions and the wicked, black smiling mouth that overlaid his, previously invisible due to her perfect mimicry thought to run, but he was frozen in place, of his face. forced to wait. He yelled and fell back from the mirror. She stopped when she was a few yards As he fell, her image followed his out of view, from him. Now he could see her clearly, if and he vaguely heard what sounded like laughter that was the term. Something about her was coming from the back of his head. He hit the constantly moving, like the dancing tip of a floor hard and scrambled away into the narrow flame, but less distinct. She flowed rather than space between the toilet and the wall. For a few moved, although she could move rather quickly. panic-stricken moments, he stared in terror in Her entire body was pure white, except for her the direction of the mirror before he fled back pitch black eyes and mouth, and a spot on her into his dorm room. He jumped toward the bed chest, which writhed like a tiny black fireball. and crammed himself into the corner it occupied. Her short “hair” could barely be called that, as He rocked back and forth for hours. But despite it was practically invisible until she moved—it his best efforts, he finally fell asleep. was the same color as the rest of her, and defied gravity by falling straight up, fitting around the contours of her head. She wore no clothes, but Hollis dreamed that he was in a large, she didn’t seem to need to. He wouldn’t realize open space. Something like a grass field, bright it until later, but he didn’t notice if she had legs and sunshiny, but somehow blurrier and more or not. She seemed more like a moving painting muted. The sky was a blinding gray-white. He than a person. stood in this field, alone, until he thought he She tilted her head as she looked at him. could see something walking toward him from “So,” she said, suddenly breaking into a grin, “we the far-off horizon. It was too far off to see meet face-to-face again.” clearly, so he stared at it and waited.

the lantern light

He shuddered as she spoke; when she opened her mouth, there was no distinction between the inside of it and her teeth. It was all the same blackness. “Who are you?” Hollis yelled at her. “What are you?” “You already know part of that answer.” She watched his face carefully. “This isn’t the first time we’ve met, you know,” she said. “So you are the thing that’s been following me and moving my things! Why?” She laughed, mouth opening wide and eyes crinkling into lines. “Yes, that was me.” “But why?” he continued. “What was the purpose behind any of that?” “Aaaah, purpose.” She was abruptly very close to him, one hand on his shoulder and the

“There is no point!” she spat, coming within centimeters of his face. It knocked him off balance and he fell to the ground. “You don’t understand that anymore! That’s what they’ve been teaching you.” “Who’s ‘they’? The institution?” he asked as he rose to his feet. She twisted around herself, wrapped her arms around her chest. “They don’t understand me, they can’t figure me out, so they try to box me up in their charts and wind me around their spools, but what they don’t understand—” she paused to look back at him, grinning again, “— is that this is where I come from!” She threw her arms wide open, to gesture to the wide fields around them. “From this field?” Hollis asked.

“From this place. Do you know where we are?”

He looked around. “No?” “You should—this is the place hy does anything have to have inside everyone’s heads.” “Everyone’s?” an ironclad purpose hat s what “Everyone’s. Your teachers, your they ve been teaching you hm peers. Your parents, your neighbors, the shopkeepers, the postmen, handymen, soldiers, artists, children, doctors, church other gently pushing up his chin. He stumbled leaders. Everyone.” back out of her grip and she curled around “And you come from here?” behind him, her hands seizing his shoulders, her “I do. This is how I found you,” she said. head coming around to talk to him again. “Why does anything have to have an ironclad purpose? She floated around, not looking at him. “Through the place in everyone’s heads.” That’s what they’ve been teaching you, hm?” “Yes.” “Well, everything has to have a purpose.” “…I don’t understand.” As he spoke, she released him and floated “You did.” up, forcing him to raise his head to see her. “And what are you doing now that you’ve “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

short fiction

' , ?"

found me?” Hollis asked with new violence. light inside a lantern, but unbounded by the She turned her head down to look at him. “You, framework that usually encased the flame. what, follow me? Move my things? You’ve cost In his mathematics class that day, Hollis me sleep and ruined an hour’s worth of work I’d was called up to the chalkboard to work out an done! Why?” equation. As he put the eraser down after he “Why not!” she chirped. had finished, he noticed a fleck of something “What if I was standing next to a big caught between the shelf and the board. He window: What would you make me do? Jump out?” picked it out. Back at his desk, he held it out “Why not!” to the light. It was an old paint chip, probably He stared at her. “I think I know why from the painting that had been scraped away people don’t like you,” he said. to make room for the chalkboard. Hollis had “It doesn’t matter if they like me. I’m just here.” he saw his stunned expression “You’re dangerous.” “So are they.” and smiled widely the corners of She saw his stunned expression and her mouth turning up past where a smiled widely, the corners of her mouth turning up past where they should have, normal head would have ears to where a normal head would have ears. He shuddered at the effect. “Well, in any cause,” she said, coming back never given this a second thought before, but down to his level. “I’m here to stay. Bye, now.” as he stared at the paint chip—which was green She pushed him, but instead of falling to and might have once been part of a meadow—it the floor, he fell farther than seemed possible made him a little sad. and woke up with a jolt on his bed. He was still The professor started the next section of curled up in the corner and he stretched out his lecture and Hollis reluctantly started taking his aching limbs. According to the clock, it was down notes when— much earlier than he normally got up. Not only Isn’t it sad, how nobody will ever know did he know he wouldn’t be able to get back to what that was a painting of? sleep, but he was afraid to try and succeed, in He jumped and looked around, but case he would go back to the field and see her nobody was speaking to him. again. So he slid off the bed and started getting “Is that you?” he thought. ready for the day, rubbing at the dark circles It’s me. under his eyes. He realized on his way to class, He thought he could hear smugness in hours later, what she reminded him of: the her voice.

the lantern light

Is that really so terrible? “Yes, it is! Then I won’t be able to get a respectable job or they’ll lock me or—stop that!” While he spoke, she grinned wider and wider. “I don’t see how the thought of me losing my All throughout the day, he tried to freedom is funny!” concentrate on his classes and ignore her, but You can’t lose something you’ve already lost! soon found himself trying to pay attention to “What does that even mean?” two conversations at once. You used to know. He yelled in exasperation and left f you keep this up ll keep the bathroom. He expected her to keep him, but she remained silent and messing up my work and they ll think pestering he had no dream that night. “Are you going to talk to me like this all the time now?” he thought as he erased the line he’d made when he jumped. She only laughed.

, I'

I'm losing my mind!"

You miss me when I don’t talk to you. “I do not!” Hollis yelled, getting to his feet. When everyone looked around at him, he realized that he had shouted in the library. Irritated, he stuffed his things into his bag and hurried to his dorm room. The door to the bathroom banged loudly against the wall as he slammed his hands down on either side of the sink. “What is your problem?” he shouted at his reflection. “I can’t concentrate on anything with you talking to me all the time. Leave me alone!” Her face appeared transparently over his. Why? she asked, challengingly. He winced—her mouth in the mirror moved but her voice came from the back of his head, inside him. “Why not?” he countered. Because I belong here. “No, you don’t! If you keep this up, I’ll keep messing up my work and they’ll think I’m losing my mind—they’ll kick me out of school!”

short fiction

The next morning, she still hadn’t spoken to him and Hollis went through his first class with no interruptions. But by the time his third class started, he became uneasy. It didn’t seem likely that she would just leave. Their teacher had set up an exercise for them: They needed to design a device that would protect an egg, drop the egg from a onefoot drop, and use minimal materials to do it. Everyone struggled and Hollis had just as much trouble as the rest. He caught his egg for the eighth time before it cracked against the table and carefully put it down before he ran his hands through his hair, wondering what to do next. Break the egg. He was startled by the return of her voice. “You’re back,” he thought. Break. The egg. “What? No!” he thought. He felt rather than heard her sigh. If he

could have seen her, he was sure she had rolled reflected back. She was smiling in a very her eyes. He fiddled with the pitiful materials satisfied way. provided for the project. Then he felt the same So, she said as he started making his way feeling, the numbness he had felt when she down the stairs, have you changed your mind knocked over the water beaker. But now, it about doing things that don’t have a particular creeped over both his arms, all the way up to his reason? shoulders. “No,” he thought. “You nearly ruined He sat rigid. He didn’t dare breathe as another one of my projects!” he watched his hands pick up the egg. The shell But I didn’t. crunched under their grip and dripped into the “This time!” small paper cup that was with the project kit. This time. The feeling in his arms vanished. He stared at Hollis paused at the landing in the stairs, the gooey remnants on his hands. thinking. He was interrupted by the sounds of After a pause, he brushed the rest of the yelling from the ground floor. Immediately, he egg into the cup and laid the provided piece of ran down the rest of the stairs to see what was cloth over the top. He secured it with string, happening. lifted the cup to the height of a foot above the A crowd had gathered around the big table, and dropped it. main hallway. Hollis reached the bottom of the “Well done, Mr. Levitt,” Professor Rowe stairs just in time to see the principal drag a said from behind him. “That’s an ingenious student by her arm and throw her to the ground. method to the problem. Break the egg before the The student’s face was red and she seemed to be drop so it can’t be damaged in the fall. Not one crying. The principal pointed his finger at her of my students has ever done it that way. and announced to the hallway: “This young lady What made you think of it?” “I—It was…It was just an idea, Sir.” e felt rather than heard her sigh Professor Rowe regarded him f he could have seen her he was suspiciously for a moment. “Well, good work. You may take the rest of the class sure she had rolled her eyes period off. Mr. Stevenson, if you copy someone else’s work I will double the height you will have to drop your egg,” has informed me that she wants more classes he said as he whipped around to face another geared toward the arts in our curriculum. She student. wants training as an artist.” He spat out the last While Hollis gathered his things, he word. Hollis felt a knot of dread start in his glanced at the window and saw her face barely stomach.

H I

the lantern light

“As you all know,” the principal continued, “this institution is founded upon the ideals of organized thinking and is meant to foster the next generation of leaders and brilliant minds. Our country doesn’t need yet another promising student lost to the arts. The very thought that this young lady, that this student, would want to nurture such hobbies and neglect all her good work here is not only astounding, but insulting to what we stand for. “Students,” he raised his arms to the crowd, “we all know what place artists have in our school. There is no room for such frivolous and pointless endeavors among us.”

He lowered his head and was

into his arms and legs. She was winding up for something big, in front of this huge crowd of his peers and his principal. “And so, students, don’t you agree with me that what this young lady is truly attempting to do is throw away her life?” the principal finished. Agreeing shouts rang out and echoed off the high ceilings, but Hollis didn’t hear them. He was in shock, and insulted, and didn’t really know why. He barely felt her anymore as he inhaled deeply and they shouted together, her and him: “No!”

about to leave when he felt that now-familiar numbness spreading through his body. As whispers rolled across the hall, Hollis felt his eyes prickle. He lowered his head and was about to leave when he felt that nowfamiliar numbness spreading through his body. He could feel her smile as she twisted her way

short fiction

Deciduous

Mandisa Bradley poetry

Hemorrhaging cottonwoods Say something. confetti disseminating choking the acequias Tacit leaves mourning the preying, yet whispering winter Turn. Say something Golden graffiti etched around our feet to flourish margins of parched stationary

Say something.

Choke for the ditch to mull, the river to drown in abeyance Catkins.

sun.

thin

bark.

our unsacred season has passed.

Sturdy Stories Jesse Yelvington poetry

I am sturdy, yet my thick cover crackles slightly as I am opened. Your fingers brush against me; the left hand there for support, the right-side pointer absentmindedly hooking around the next page. Sometimes slowly scanning; Frequently fumbling furiously, I feel your gaze sweeping over my crisp sheets. I wonder why each time I am opened you expect me to say something new.

Hope, I suppose. Though my words will never change and that you know I taste the ocean drops from your eyes and feel your mournful longing for I too am sorry that I cause you such pain. Yet Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather have my ink run in rivulets from your tears than be put back on the shelf for another year.

Olfaction Begins at Death Kimberly Mitchell poetry

You know, the secret of Hell is it smells just like happiness. Warm cookies. Rain. Old books. Cinnamon. From every charred corner; from every sulfur-colored river; from every devil’s crimson smile. These things exude a perfume more ambrosial than the icy breath of snow on Christmas morning. It draws you close, infinitely close, until you’ve molded your soft flesh into the cracked bricks of the walls. Until you’ve drowned yourself in the yellow brine of a cursed sea. Until you’ve kissed your soul away, and your lips and nose drip scarlet.

These things entice the strongest, the souls unbroken by the simple tragedy of living a life in an anosmic world. From every tarnished heartbeat; from every diamond-edged voice; from every hand’s blood-red print. Cold cider. Smoke. New crayons. Chocolate. If you’ve ever smelled happiness, you’ve known the secret of Hell.

Commitment

Catherine Cook poetry

Sometimes our hearts commit Without our mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s consent Sometimes the days are long But night is even longer Sometimes the truth will hum Instead of sing in words Sometimes the world is muck And gloom and grimmer Than tombs on rainy days Sometimes I wish the rain Would kneel down and pray Before your altar Sometimes bent grass is the only sign That anyone is listening to the prayer.

A lone

Lucas Winter

photography

Little Fox Spirit Zoe Devin Bell visual art

ink, 9" x 12"

Forest Encounter Zoe Devin Bell visual art staff visual award

ballpoint pen, 22'' x 15''

H ow to Get the Poem into the Teacup Catherine Cook poetry

Boil water. I sit cross-legged on the floor of the shower Wet jeans suction-cupped to the speckled tile And watch things swirl down the drain. I spot a shiny dream thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been nibbled On the underside, perhaps by mice. I snatch it. Steep

For two to three minutes. I carry it out of the damp with me Cradling the dream to my chest, And nestle it against my heartbeat, Letting wishes and regrets Drain away behind me.

The left corner is folded down As though someone bookmarked it For future use.

Sweeten A sliver is eaten out of the middle Letting light shine through to scatter Across the surface of the dream And make the silver veins shimmer Like gossamer. If desired. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wrinkled (and obviously soaked) But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s purring, and I think if I take it home, dry it off, It might fluff up a bit And remember how to jump From hidden root-thoughts Into teacups.

Islands of Sky Lucas Winter photography

Peonies

Caitlin Carcerano visual art

oil paint on canvas, 30" x 32"

Sea of Sky

Kimberly Mitchell poetry

Just the other night, I flew up high as if I were deep in a dream, and I scuffed my shoes atop the folded waves of a billowy cloud. I twirled and spun in an airborne waltz with an excited young albatross high above the sadly stagnant ground and a sleepy springtime city. Lights glowed silver, gold, and clear against the deepening night, fastened like a sea of fallen stars on the far-away fields of the ground. Within a wingspan, I forgot my stationary home on the hard ground and ascended beyond heights where the bravest birds don’t even dream. It was under the friendly glow of a full moon on a soft summer night, when I took a spinning turn up and around a spire made of clouds, and I saw, suspended at cruising altitude, an impossible floating City. And I understood the ever longing, wandering heart of the albatross. The city flew toward me—as if I were its guide, its albatross— thousands of miles up, in the thin atmosphere above the ground, caught in the inertia of a constant pushing battle between City and gravity. It seemed I treaded the ebullient waters of a dream, no longer just flying, with a golden city held aloft by a cloud, shining like a beacon before me—a lighthouse in the night. I changed direction and flew swiftly under the beam of this nighttime sun. I plucked a bit of cumulous and folded an albatross,

and aimed it at the City’s spires, so delicate they made clouds around them resemble the gritty loam of the far-away ground. My cloud-folded bird dissolved, fading into wind like a dream. For hours, I soared above the four winds, abreast of the City. Then, through the stillness of the starry sky, it seemed the City called my name. No. Not the City itself, but another nightwanderer, somehow snared in my own private flying dream. “Hello,” the captain of the City called. “You pretty albatross, Let me cast a rope ‘round our necks to keep us from the ground. I pray to the omen of your supple wings to steer my City’s cloud.” I settled in a gentle current that brought me closer to the cloud, and saw that the beautiful yellow light coming from the City flickered and forked: hellfire unleashed above its underground kingdom, a siren call to unwary mariners and birds of night. The voice called again, but I did not wish to die like the albatross. I flew away before this devil could shoot me down in a fever dream. I do not know where the cloud followed the winds after that night, carrying aloft that scorched City, seeking its own poor albatross. Since that day, I’ve stayed on the ground, except for when I dream.

A ll Together Now Jesse Furr visual art

Five color screen print on BFK Rives, 10.25" x 10.25"

Bodies, Floating, Flying George Christopher Moreno Poetry

They arrived thinking they had come to a place where they could live, rest, and explore, a place where with time and effort they might one day call home. Many came together, the first group being the largest of them all, thousands of them dressed in black, so to speak, creating in numbers a body of black so unified as to appear whole and not made of separate parts. Many came alone too. Whether alone or together it didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t much matter, because at bottom they were all alone, that is to say on their own, their own journey, each of them equipped with their own sets of eyes and heads and bodies and faculties, or else ill-equipped, some of them, and those that were ill-equipped had to work harder, lacking what others possessed, but no fuss was made by them, everyone carried on as well as they could.

They flew in from all over, they are from all over, that is all that can be said of their origins, because to accurately name and describe the exactness of their origins, from nothingness onward, and also from what circumstances they came, it simply cannot be done. Some have attempted the noble and life-consuming task of naming origins, but no one has succeeded. It may not be impossible, but so far it hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been done. All that can be said is they flew in; by no other means of travel did they arrive. Flight was all that was available to them. They had no other options. The placeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the place was unlike anything they had ever known or seen, or so they thought upon arrival, because the appearance of it was new to their eyes. In terms of size, it was larger than anything they had ever seen, with many rooms, big and small, rooms of innumerable sizes and shapes and depths, and the vaulted

ceilings, and the walls and doors and drawers, and even the hardwood floors, they were all white and freshly painted, it was plain to see, with greatest care, greatest focus, and with the steadiest of hands. The windows must be mentioned, too, for the windows were another highlight of the place, filling every room as they did with their own varied shapes. One of the walls in the living room was made entirely of glass, which allowed for a view of the vast expanse of evergreens down below, a sight which captured many for many hours at a time, so majestic was the sight. Every window offered an eye-pleasing view of the land surrounding the place, and in days of clear skies and sun, every window in every room let in the most natural light from outside, filling each room with a warm glow, and warmth for the body. Many loved the light and lived in it as much as they could. They really believed they had found the place to beat all places, and it was hard to doubt them in their belief, because they had traveled a long time, across many lands, and had seen their fair share of dwellings, and none could compare to the place they were now in. “Finally,” so many of them thought. “We have a place. We can rest now.” And they did rest, each and every one of them, in every piece of space available to them, because as it has already been said, there were many that arrived, and lots of space was needed, and that place afforded them that, but that wasn’t enough. These observations are based on fact, but are not facts. They are merely observations, stabs at truth. At best these observations add up to possibilities, because what these travelers saw and felt and thought cannot be known. It is impossible to know, that much is certain. There are immeasurable amounts of limitations—there is no getting around that. For example, their language employs none of the same characters or sounds, it is not written, or at least it is not known that it is written, and as for the meanings of their words, that is even more unknown to us. With what we have available to us, with what we have been able to harness, we have begun to makes sense of certain things, but very few things. Anyone who says otherwise is delusional or else they are lying, because there are no grounds whatsoever to point to the clear knowledge of the understanding of their language. It is important to note that now, that we have no clear knowledge, lest we forget along the way. They are dead now. All over the place they are spread about, on every step and every windowsill, on every inch of the floor, and in every nook and cranny they originally came to take rest in, and maybe build their homes in, or so they might have thought when they first arrived. Things could not have gone worse, but how could they have known what misfortunes lay ahead of them? There they are now, as dead as

poetry

they can be, with no plots. Side by side they lay, most of them, while others lay atop each other, as though in their last moments of life, as they fell, they wished to be together, to not be alone in death. “Let us go together. It will soften the blow.” One hears such things. The ghosts of their voices rise from their motionless mouths, and somehow, by the strength of the brain and the imagination, they are rendered real, that is to say audible, these voices now heard. One needs only to listen closely. It is a cemetery where none are buried, where below is above, and grey clouds hang over their bodies. “We are bound to each other,” says Death. There is movement. Some are moving. They are struggling near the windows. They are trying to find an exit, it seems, but there are no openings. The windows are shut and locked, and they aren’t strong enough. They’re screaming, silent screams, but screams nevertheless. They need help. The locks—the locks first. Now the windows. Push them open. Now the screens. Take them down. It is winter. The air is cold. Their spirits have risen, the ones able to move. They haven’t given up. It is rather remarkable. They’ve been confined all this time with no food, no help, no resources, nothing at all, and yet they haven’t given up. Others have risen. They’re hovering together in the air. They’re taking flight. There they go—one by one, two by two—their black bodies, floating, flying. They’re alive. They’re free to go. They’ve gone. The dead will be swept up tomorrow. The living will sleep in the wind.

Bodies, Floating, Flying 35

A Frustratingly Fickle Feline Fix Henry Bender

theatrical writing

A man, tom, and a woman, tabitha, stand in the kitchen of their shared apartment, staring at what appears to be a wide-eyed longhair cat, cornelius, floating vertically in the center of the room. The cat is completely still, staring into space. tabitha has a finger to her chin while tom clutches a coffee cup, taking anxious sips here and there. tom: Umm…Tabitha? tabitha, unmoving: Yes Tom? tom: Why is Cornelius floating? tabitha: If I knew the answer to that question do you think I’d be staring at him with an expression of deep pondering? tom: Point taken.

A moment of silence. tom shifts uncomfortably. tom: Any hypothesis? tabitha, raising an eyebrow: Is anything metal also floating? tom, looking around: Not that I can see. tabitha: Okay, so it’s not magnetic. And if there were aliens in the area we’d be dead by now. tom: Maybe it’s an illusion?

tabitha ponders it for a moment. tabitha: Possibly, but we should test that immediately…

She glances at tom; he catches her eye mid-sip. tom: I—I’m holding coffee. tabitha: That cat has clawed the shit out of me every time I’ve tried to pet him. tom, gesturing to his mug: B—but, coffee… tabitha: Tom, you’re the only one who can safely pet that kitty. tom: Ugh, fine.

tom puts down the mug, reaches forward, and pets cornelius's head. Without breaking his gaze, cornelius purrs loudly. tom recoils instantly. tom: Holy shit. tabitha, snapping her fingers: Black magic. tom: What? tabitha: That cat is a level 10 wizard. No fucking doubt. tom: How did you reach that conclusion? tabitha, looking at tom: It’s a known fact, dude. Cats are the spawn of Satan. They got all kinds of dark powers bundled up in them. Why do you think witches keep them as pets? tom: Okay, first of all? That’s stupid. Second? If cats were demonic and you knew it, why would you want to have one?

tabitha points to the cat. tabitha: Because of cool shit like this! tom: Okay. Admittedly, this is pretty…interesting. I won’t say it’s cool, because it’s scaring the fuck out of me, but it is interesting. That being said, we have jobs, we have things to do, and before we go do those things, we need to figure out how to get this cat onto the ground. tabitha: Why?

tom gestures to the cat dramatically as if to ask “Are you not seeing this?”

tabitha: I mean, theoretically, we could just leave him. Right? tom: Wh—No! Why would you suggest that? We can’t just leave him hovering like this! tabitha: Why not? What’s the big deal? tom: What if he falls? tabitha: He’s a fucking cat! He’ll land on his feet. Also, it’s been proven that Cornelius clearly doesn’t care about gravity. tom: Jesus Christ, you always do this. tabitha: Do what? tom: Your solution to literally every problem is to just leave it. Dirty laundry? Just leave it lying around. Dirty dishes? Just leave them on the goddamn coffee table. Your turn to pay the electric bill? Ignore it and go without lights for five days. tabitha: Why are you yelling at me? What does any of this have to do with Cornelius? tom: I’m just saying the way you’re treating this is the most recent in a long line of disappointing and shitty attempts to take as little responsibility as possible. tabitha: Why are you always so mean to me? Why do you always have to call me a loser and a disappointment? Why can’t you just ask me to do the laundry or wash the dishes instead of—

She stops as the lights begin to flicker wildly before going black. tom: Great. Just great. Forgot to pay the bill again? tabitha: Fuck you.

They are about to tear into each other when a booming voice is heard. cornelius: Foolish mortals! Your squabbling has done nothing but given me ample time to accumulate my full power! Now tremble in terror as I, Cornelius Cat, Supreme Feline of Fluffiness and Dark Lord of the Abyss, ascend to the skies and begin my assault on the earth! tabitha: Boom! Black magic. Fucking called it. What did I fucking tell you? tom: Shut up, Tabby!

A single spotlight shines from above on cornelius, who begins to rise as Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain plays. cornelius's top half is out of view when the music stops abruptly, and the lights come up.

theatrical writing

cornelius: Um…it appears that Cornelius Cat, Supreme Feline of Fluffiness and Dark Lord of the Abyss, is stuck in the attic. tom: Okay, this shit’s getting ridiculous. I’m getting something to eat. tabitha: Right behind you.

They don their jackets and head offstage. tom: In-N-Out or Wendy’s? tabitha: Let’s go to Wendy’s. The Baconator is back on the menu.

A door shuts. cornelius is left hanging in the air. cornelius: Hello? Anyone? Please come back, it’s dark up here! the end.

a frustratingly fickle feline fix

The Shopping List Catherine Cook poetry

The note is in my grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand Neat cursive, feminine In a way my writing never has. Hiding somewhere behind those curves and flips She is sitting at her desk in the pale blue kitchen Writing out her grocery list for the fudge recipe She surely knows by heart After sixty years of making it And mailing heavy tins, East, north, south, and west, Tins that seal that heady smell, Rich milk chocolate fudge, A food with weight. I still have the dish towels she mailed Wrapped about the tins When I turned nineteen Because I was trying to learn The art of keeping clean

That she knew so well, Did laundry every week For fifty years of marriage. Laundry for four kids, Then just three. In the car last week with my mother and my aunt, My grandpa next to me on the backseat, I thought, this is all thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left of the nuclear family that you built, These three. But what a legacy, What a legacy she left.

M idwestern Gothic Lyndsey Broyles poetry

Avoid puddles of fallen leaves and the shade of tall field grass— snakes roam unseen in spring and summer and writhe heavenward coiling around the preacher’s wrists like shackles— those wilderness churches believe God protects from meth trailers becoming chemical craters, abandoned save for copper thieves— don’t buy sympathy like stigmata and rebel flags draped over truck beds— concealing rifles and beer cans soon to be thrown by the roadside, bleached white by animal urine and sun.

Moon

Liliana Rehorn

poetry

Part of the moon is missing: he is chipping away at it with his chisel made of heartbreak and sipping the white gold blood see as it drips down his chin his lips part into that perfect smile

Classy Chassis Keriden Brown

creative nonfiction

Let me be clear: I was not drunk when I met you. The New Year’s party was a smutty, ragtag gathering of carousers and phallic items. I was not one of these carousers, and neither were you. “You have ten toes.” Polydactyly occurs in about 0.03% of the population, I learned. Hard to believe you were sober since that’s the first thing you chose to say to me. But I could see the glass of water and I couldn’t smell any booze. I was babysitting my first and only beer of the night. “That’s probably the most attractive thing to me. It’s like a superpower.” Not my ten toes, but to drink without getting drunk. You were a recovering alcoholic at twenty-three— you drank so much one night you lost a few days of memory. That’s what you told me.

A person who can adapt and grow. Willing to learn, brave enough to admit mistakes.

A lovely human I wanted to know.

It was quick. Spark to wildfire in less than a week. You crafted words specifically to convince me of your false affect.

“I’m like Pan watching the nymphs. You’re my Syrinx. Tantalizing. All I want, all I see, and all I need.”

This line was lame and unnecessary, sure, but you knew literature and intelligence is sexy.

Duplicitous words like these came up often.

Thick baiting.

Honey tongued. Sweet mouthed.

You hypnotized me and my awareness dissipated at your demand.

Less than a month, and to me, you could do no wrong. Everything was my fault. It had to be, because you said so.

And that was bat-fucking-crazy.

Waking up every morning to make breakfast and wondering what would piss you off today. Dreaming up ways to keep you from yelling, hoping you wouldn’t make me cry again. Fifties household play and “domestic discipline” are not what I signed up for, but that’s how we lived. Rigid and plastic. April, back from Basic. I remember you were nice to me once, even though I messed up the coffee. Your coffee.

“If I can hold it up and see light through it, it isn’t dark enough.”

You smiled and ran the Rocket Fuel through the brewer again, with more ground coffee beans in the filter. Worm dirt. You kissed my forehead (cheesy, as you always have been) and you pulled me close.

“Get it fucking right next time, yeah?”

No more smile. Your hand, my hair, our gritted teeth. You always said “yeah” like it was a question or a choice.

Let’s do this, yeah?

We’re going home, yeah?

We’re going on a walk, yeah?

Do this, yeah? That, yeah?

Shut the fuck up, yeah?

I don’t know how long I pretended to love you. When I thought I loved you, we were happy. Just for a little bit. But even that forced and feigned “love” left a shitty taste in my mouth. I never figured out why, but calling you “sergeant” behind closed doors, like your army subordinates did in the field, made me uncomfortable. I never wanted to give you that sort of control, but you forced me to hand it over. You overpowered me, broke my will, and forced me into a corner to prod with hot irons heated on your fiery tongue. I asked you about something once. Tattoos, small, hidden away. Initial agreement but, said and done, you derailed, threatened, shouted. “You’re my girlfriend, my property. Do you think I like this fucked-up piece of you? You’re fucking tainted!” You established yourself as my proprietor. I was your owned slave. I decided on my own to dirty my body permanently. You were dissatisfied.

I let you down.

Hard.

We didn’t light the fireworks.

Fall. We broke up, but you didn’t break your hands from around my neck.

creative nonfiction

I’d be at your house every weekend for you to use until I had nothing left for you to steal. And I wasn’t the only one. New lace and racy things hanging from your bedposts and door knobs every time I came over were subtle reminders that I had no right to question your shitty character anymore. It was always so hard lying next to you, thinking about the things you had done and how I stayed.

It’s fucked up.

But I guess we’ve always been sorta fucked up.

And then there was one time you made me miss you. You reminded me of the few and far between times we had when I saw a future with you living the stereotypical, whitefence and lawn life. Times I forgot I was filling your shit-Duramax with hyper-priced fuel, when my friends didn’t say you were a douche, when you weren’t a totally useless piece of shit who did everything in his power to convince me otherwise. Times I wasn’t blinded by your attractiveness or limited (but convincing) intelligence. Times you didn’t try to poison my mind or demonstrate your ability to knock the wind out of me as easily as slamming a car door:

Do you wonder what happened to us?

What if we didn’t work out because we slept on the wrong side of the bed?

What if we did it wrong?

What the actual fuck.

I thought I was over your poison.

I left you that day, stupidly questioning myself as if I hadn’t made the appropriate choice. They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, but you muddied that part of my life so badly I can’t be sure what did or didn’t happen.

Did you decide to care then?

Maybe you just wanted your rag doll back. classy chassis

Why did I think I loved or even liked you?

Why would you ever miss me if I was always wrong?

I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know a lot about what happened.

Your toxicity did something to me mentally.

And even now, I am only physically free from your possession.

You will always haunt my waking mind.

creative nonfiction

Luck of the Irish Kimberly Mitchell short fiction

Finbarr caught a bad dose of the cough five months after we’d buried Aine, my third youngest. He lay on a thin mattress, and I stroked his sweaty hair away from his eyes. Each breath came with a rattle in his chest, like he’d gone and stuffed himself with rocks. He’d already lost the strength to cough properly, settling instead for a dry wheezing. He had fallen asleep an hour after sunrise. “Siobhán,” I said. My eldest daughter was huddled under a thin blanket, curled around the baby. She looked up, her grass-colored eyes large in her sallow cheeks. “I need you to get broth from Mrs. Allen,” I said. When the curse started two years ago, Mrs. Allen had been kind to us, sharing food and coals. I could only hope she still had enough luck to be kind to us again. There was a time when Siobhán would have argued, dashing out the door with her bright red curls bouncing on her shoulders. She would have skipped to school, carefree. Now, she just nodded and unfolded her bony limbs to stand. Her gray dress—oh, what a lovely shade of green it had been!—hung off her shoulders shapelessly. She nestled the baby closer to her brothers. They slept in a mass of blankets on an old mattress for warmth. Donall and I had the other mattress, but when Finbarr woke coughing… Siobhán barely made a sound as she closed the front door. A chill of cold air came in. Finbarr snuffled. Across the room, Cormac groaned and sat up. He leaned his shaggy head against the bare wall. “Ma, I’m hungry.” I felt in my pockets for the last of the bread I’d saved. Donall had gone out to get more, since he hadn’t been able to yesterday. We didn’t have enough luck to even find someone who would sell us food. Hope was a lot emptier than hunger.

It was barely more than a handful of stale brown crust. Seven kids, one sick. I broke off a corner and held it out. Cormac didn’t scramble for it. His movements were listless, and his thin fingers shook when they took the bite from me. He chewed it slowly, probably to give himself the illusion of it being enough food. That’s what I did nowadays.

“Mary,” he whispered. “This isn’t working. We don’t have means to feed all ten of us.” “Nine,” I said. He still counted Aine. “We need to—” The door opened again, and Siobhán stumbled in on cold-numb feet. She wasn’t carrying anything. Snot was frozen on the tip of her nose. “The Allens’ place was empty. Luck Collectors are out—think the curse got them.” Finbarr’s forehead burned under my hand, but even that wasn’t enough to onall s murky green eyes had make the chills leave me. Not after that. “Thought I saw those bloodsuckers sunken deeper into his face than lurking around,” Donall said. If he’d eaten had ever seen them in the past two days, I know his words would have had some proper fire. He just sounded tired. “The Allens were less The door opened. Another breath of behind on rent than us. Mary, you know we’ll—” frigid air washed over us. I shifted to block the “We’ll be fine,” I snapped. worst of it from reaching Finbarr. I didn’t turn I must have spoken too loud, because to look until after the door had shut, but I didn’t Finbarr stirred and went into a pitiable coughing need to anyway. The cludding steps told me it fit that lasted several minutes. My other kids just was Donall. watched from their own mattress, wide-eyed. He put a hand on my shoulder and “Da,” one of my boys asked. I couldn’t tell lowered himself to the floor. “How’s he doing?” who it was without looking—Cormac or Conall, “Finally drifted off. He’s weak as a kitten,” probably—their voices were all so thin. “Is Finny I said. We all were. gon’ die?” Donall’s murky green eyes had sunken “No one is going to die,” I said. They all deeper into his face than I’d ever seen them. His stared at me, except Finbarr, who continued to cheekbones were sharp, even under the scruff he cough with his eyes closed. Our heatless, onehadn’t shaved in weeks. He shook his head; he’d room home suddenly felt too hot, too small. returned without food. “I’m going to find us something for breakfast.” I was glad he didn’t say it loud enough to I kissed Finbarr’s burning forehead wake the boys. They didn’t need to start another before I slipped out the door. day hearing their da couldn’t bring home food. A steady curtain of snow fell from the

short fiction

gray sky. Only a few dark figures dashed about The Luck Collector followed close and on the street. I’d just needed to get away. Now crossed his arms while I pretended to search that I stood out of the house, I didn’t know for the spot. He probably didn’t know it when I where to go. spun around and stabbed the sharp of the trowel I hunched up my shoulders and took a through his throat. I guess we did have just dozen steps away from the wind when a voice enough luck left; dark blood bubbled out around cut through the frozen air. “Mrs. Donnelly, isn’t the edges of the trowel. it? Glad I caught you.” I stepped back to keep it from spattering I didn’t know the flaxen-haired man my coat. I hadn’t considered how I’d wipe the who stepped forward from the shadow of the blood from the snow or how I’d turn this man’s neighbor’s house. But from his shifty gaze and meat into a meal. I just needed to feed my fine hat, I could only guess he was one of babies. those Luck Collectors my husband and daughter had mentioned. “What do you guess we did have just enough want?” luck left dark blood bubbled out “Straight to business, then, I see. Grand. Mr. O’Grady wants his luck. You’re around the edges of the trowel long due for rent.” “Please, sir,” I said. I don’t have the luck to spare. My kids are hungry. I need to find them something to eat. He wouldn’t care. The man was a parasite, a bloodsucker. But what if… “We’ve buried our luck omens in the yard. Follow me, I’ll get them for you.” He followed me around back of the house, and I grabbed the small trowel I’d used to use for gardening. Back when gardening was worth a damn, before the curse.

;

luck of the irish

Coyote Skull Study Jesse Furr visual art

brush pen on paper, 4" x 6"

Goddess of Flaura and Fauna Zoe Devin Bell

visual art

ballpoint pen, 9" x 12"

A Poem about My Skeleton Alexandra Katherine Magel poetry

I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sleep on my stomach when I try, I feel the strain on my ribs like thin wooden slats taking the weight before they crack and cave in I have to adjust my position sit up or hold my stomach and skin in place because it feels like my rib cage is cutting into my organs I use pencils thicker than the bones of my smallest finger I have laid my backpack on branches as thick as my arm and theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve snapped for all this delicateness my hip joints can feel like ball-joint sockets of some solid industrial machine

it’s compact enough to fit perfectly in a chair like an egg in a cup but as unwieldy as a pterodactyl scuttling along the sidewalk in bitter winter I can feel the cold sink into my bones encasing them like they’ve been coated in enamel when I place my naked feet directly on the vent the heat makes them feel like boiled chicken bones, sweaty and rubbery there’s a flat spot on my skull that I’m sure has deformed my brain and I clench my teeth so hard I swear they’ll fall out my pinkie toes have gone through the wringer so I’m sure they crunch but for all this delicateness and crudeness and potential my frame has never broken

T-R ex Frolicking through Daisies Catherine Cook poetry

The T. rex lumbered joyfully Quashing daisies with each step His tiny arms flapping Nostrils flared Squash-shaped purple tongue Lolling from his mouth The warm candle glow of a first kiss Put a spring in his monstrous step Glinting claws splayed To enjoy the summer breeze As his swampy legs carry him Sailing through the field of flowers And the tiny flower heads Scream at their gruesome fate.

Gone Fishing

Aimee Lynn Stearns

poetry

I sat by the Rio Hondo with my dog and an open, empty notebook. my back to himâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the game warden approached, to see if I was fishing without a license. I told him all I was fishing for was ideas.

Infested

Lyndsey Broyles poetry

It begins as a tickle —a trickle— Of crooked footsteps Dancing behind my heavy eyelids. Scuttling, Spider-spinning words away Like cobwebs at the back Of my throat. Clock Ticks…Ticks…Ticks Bite and bloat, Tiny vampires feasting on Lovely words and pauses. Exoskeletons harden my insides, Burrowing out my bone marrow, Incubating in my brain.

When ready, I pluck them From my ear canals, my nose, Cry them out in black ant trails. I pin back their iridescent wings, Crack open the shell and frame Their insides, displaying as my own The creatures that grew insideâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Though I was really just the hive.

Wanderstood David Piersol poetry

that girl with fiery eyes whirling smoking burning consuming all she sees depolymerizing ink into bodies of meaning stripped of skin raw and bleeding dead men come alive in her sight, albert fishâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s phantom flying through time fuming and cutting and scorching everything he sees

well, she wanderstood halfwits

through cracks made by acts of their thrum

while i laughed and wept and dreamt cities

whose paper men met both sides of the sun

H ere, I Give You A ll of M e Liliana Rehorn

poetry

I take the knife easily in my hands. It is pristine like a mirror. I am not the kind you want so I will carve myself better. Do you want my hands? Here. Take them. Ignore the blood. And my mouth? Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s yours. It always was. Please, take anything you want have me have me I am honey brown and unnecessary, my insides splayed across the table like velvet fabric. You snip you refit you stitch I snip I refit I stitch It hurts but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worth it if it means I can be someone who will better fit inside you

Jump

Catherine Cook poetry

Sometimes you look down and you just want to jump. You know you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fly, canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t swim like ducks. Will flail and crash, broken head angled like a rag doll or you will sink beneath the splashing surface of the murky pond. The ducks will squawk and scatter trying to escape the tidal wave of you. The koi fish will come, the fat orange one who has lived in the pond

for as long as there has been a pond, and it will nibble at your toes, curious to know if you taste like breadcrumbs or trash. In my daydreams my eyes are closed and every fidget is stilled, but I know they would be open blue and staring back up to the surface or at the woman I abandoned on the balcony.

An Ohio Field Kelly Brocklehurst poetry

What must he be thinking, this man born in a farmhouse that stood in the empty field we are driving past, our car behind his, tied together by the cell phone in my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand, his voice coming through the speaker as he tells us about this land? I cannot fathom how my grandfather was born in the country, green grass growing in a field bordered by trees. I imagine it as a dark night, the drone of crickets filling the air, stars sprayed above, when he came into the world.

Hunting Season Lyndsey Broyles

poetry

My father will not read women writers. Too many hunting scenes, he balks, Filled with clumsy descriptions of guns By authors who know nothing Of cleaning a buck. But I’ve pierced a fawn’s lung With a hunting rifle, Seen the bright violet tissue and deep Burgundy blood color the dead leaves. Its tongue lolled dumbly out of its mouth, Almost comical but for the bleeding. And I’ve sliced and skinned a poem, Emptied its syllables and stanzas Like handfuls of warm organs. I’ve snipped the ligaments of articles, Butchered meaning clean from the carcass Wrapped in wax paper and a bow of twine.

Troika

Julia Lambright visual art

egg tempera, gold leaf, and oil, 36" x 32"

Guardians of Forty Julia Lambright

visual art

egg tempera and gold leaf, diptych, 2 panels of 68" x 23"

Desert Secrets Liliana Rehorn poetry

The sky here is a devastating blue that’s been split open as a shell to be cracked for God to eat the heart out. The heat bleached the sky white around the edges and today there are no clouds. The baseball diamond on Lomas is fragrant with silence now that the boys have gone home. The coach has a secret and the air keeps secrets so well: This clean air is the kind of clean that was once cigarette-smoke dirty. Around the corner is my house, the little brown house that was my great-grandfather’s (He was a bad man, I am told, who kept dirty magazines and was mean to children) my little house lets light in like it can’t help it, and crawls with cockroaches inside and out when the desert night welcomes them. They are mute. The air has told them the secrets because the cockroaches won’t tell,

They wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell about the coach, about the drink, or my mother and her mother. Scum of the earth, low to the ground, inside the house and out they skitter. And they know, they knowâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; til morning when the light comes in through the windows and they scatter: the air grows hot again, the sky is split open and drained into that pale blue, the flesh of it the milk-white heart exposed, then removed.

M elodious M oment YooJung Hong visual art

My Paradise YooJung Hong

visual art

Our Father

Kimberly Mitchell short fiction

For the first time in ten years, Audrey Key considered going to church with her family. It was the Sunday morning Mass the day before her father’s funeral, and Audrey stood barefoot in the unmowed front lawn to wave goodbye to her mother and two sisters. As the silver Murano backed out of the driveway, Audrey imagined herself opening the back door and jumping in over her younger sister Jean. Maybe the scripture and tedium she had hated in her teenage years would be enough to clear the dull haze that had plagued her all week. But she let her family drive off without her. The street had been packed with the cars of well-wishers when she’d arrived in Clarksville last night. It looked strangely desolate now, despite the manicured front gardens and the bird song. Kristen and Jean had been home when he died. Audrey hadn’t been able to get away from work, or she would’ve been there sooner. It was after midnight when everyone finally left Audrey and her sisters alone with their mother. The rusted, white screen door creaked shut. Her dad had probably meant to fix it, even when he couldn’t get out of bed those last few months. The picture of him at his wedding to her mother, affixed to the wall where it had been for thirty-three years, stared across the hall at her. Next to it hung the Lord’s Prayer in a dark brown frame. She lowered her eyes as she passed them. Audrey wandered into the kitchen. She hadn’t slept at all, and maybe some coffee would help keep her from curling up in bed for the rest of the day. It was all she wanted to do, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it wasn’t from tiredness. She had to remove a couple of vases from the countertop to get to the coffee pot. The well-wishers had brought dozens of bouquets, as if watching delicately colored orchids

and lilies wither and die over the next week She checked her watch. Her family would help anything. She imagined throwing had left half an hour ago. It would be another the vases out of the back door, one by one, and several hours before her cousins were expected taking comfort in them shattering on the back to arrive for dinner. If she’d gone to the church, porch. The warm March sunlight would make she’d at least have company to help pass the the shards of glass glow, and the slight breeze time. Kristen had encouraged her to go, but not would carry that cloying floral scent out of the even Dad’s death could break her ten years of house. The coffee burned her tongue, but risten encouraged her to go but she continued to drink like it hadn’t. She took it with her down the hall to her old not even ad s death could break bedroom. When she’d gotten in last night her ten years of obstinate atheism she’d left her suitcase on the floor and spent the rest of her time in the living room. obstinate atheism. No, she’d have to find another In the ten years since she’d left, the room way to pass the slow tick of time. hadn’t changed much. The bedspread was Absentmindedly, she opened the drawers of still the pink, flowered one she’d had in high the desk, half-remembering the things she’d once school, and her vanity desk still stood under the kept in there. The bottom right was still stuffed full window. Even the walls were still a dark blue—a of printer paper, and the one right above that had color her mother had been dead-set against sewing supplies and some fabric scraps. The top when Audrey picked it fifteen years before. drawer stuck briefly, and she struggled to get it open. Some other time, she might appreciate how little When she did, she discovered what had blocked it: actually changed over the years. She sat at the her old jewelry box. old desk, and felt almost like she was back in She’d forgotten about the damn thing. It high school. was fake oak, with a drawer on the bottom and Surely Mom or Jean would have gone a shallow compartment under the lid on top. through and moved her old stuff. Maybe even The handle on the drawer matched the one on Kristen, although she had moved out before the door of the old library she used to frequent, Audrey had, and gone even farther across the which was why she’d once adored the box. She state. Why her older sister had moved to New pulled open the drawer without really expecting Orleans, Audrey still didn’t understand. Baton anything to be in there. Rouge had been far enough away for her. Then A simple silver chain and pendant lay on again, Kristen had always liked booze and the felt-covered bottom. It was a crucifix with parties more than she did. “1 Cor. 13:13” inscribed on the back. Her father

D '

had given it to her eighteen years ago, on her tenth birthday.

Her mother was a large woman, partly because she was pregnant with Audrey’s baby sister. She had sharp eyebrows and chocolatecolored hair in a permanent bun at the top of Audrey barreled down the stairs. She’d her head. She looked cuddly from a distance, spent the morning up in the loft, setting out but she wasn’t really. games and balloons for her party. But Dad had Her dad ruffled her hair again. “She won’t woken up, and she could smell the bacon and do it again, Minnie. My Little Peacock is just pancakes on the stove. excited about her big day.” Nothing motivated a ten-year-old faster Audrey looked up, but didn’t meet her than fresh bacon and an excuse to drown stuff mother’s eye. She nodded so fast her dark braid with maple syrup. “There’s my grown-up girl,” he said when whipped against the tops of her shoulder blades. Her mother nodded sternly. As she went she turned the corner to the kitchen. He stood to the coffee pot, Audrey returned her attention over the skillet in his orange bathrobe, expertly to the bacon. flipping pancakes like a real chef. She reached for another piece, but Dad smacked her wrist with a spoon. It wasn’t enough to actually hurt her, othing motivated a ten year old but the sudden movement surprised her faster than fresh bacon and the chance enough that she dropped the bacon back on the plate. “If you keep taking it there to drown stuff with maple syrup won’t be any for Kristen.” Audrey pouted. “But it’s my birthday.” Audrey puffed out her chest. “I’m not a Dad smiled, wrinkles appearing at the girl. I’m a young lady.” corners of his gentle eyes. He didn’t look cuddly When she crept up to the counter to swipe like her mother did, but with his fleshy cheeks a piece of crispy bacon, Dad ruffled her hair. She and quick smile he was approachable. “Even swatted at his hand, but only half-heartedly. “Well, young lady,” her mother said from birthday ladies have to share.” She crossed her arms and stamped her the doorway to the kitchen, hands on hips. “You foot. “I don’t want to share.” may be the birthday girl, but you know how I “Audrey, quit whining or you’ll get no feel about you running down the stairs.” bacon,” her mother said over a steaming mug Audrey stared down at her shiny blue flats—an early birthday gift from her grandma— of coffee. She wasn’t supposed to drink much coffee, but she had some every morning anyway. and mumbled out an apology.

short fiction

She wanted to huff at that, but she didn’t say that she hadn’t been memorizing her verses dare. If her mother said she’d get no bacon, then properly. she wouldn’t get any bacon. “So you can look at it and always Dad must have seen the look on her face, remember how much I love you,” he said as he because he turned and knelt in front of her, eyes clasped the chain around her neck. level with hers. “Hey, Peacock. I’ve got something for you. You don’t even have to share it.” The crucifix was tarnished. Audrey stared “Roger!” her mother said. at it in her hand until it became a blur of color “She’d get it later today anyway, Minnie,” and she had to blink. Dad said. Then he reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and pulled out a little present wrapped in purple paper. It fit in he crucifix was tarnished udrey the palm of her hand, weighing little more stared at it in her hand until it became than an egg. She tore into the wrapping paper a blur of color and she had to blink before she stopped to wonder if she should try to save it. But neither of her parents She’d moved to Baton Rouge ten years reprimanded her, so she finished removing it to ago. The necklace had to have been forgotten for reveal a small felt box. that long, just sitting at the bottom of her old He’d gotten her jewelry—not just any jewelry box. Dad wouldn’t have known she’d left jewelry, but adult jewelry! Plastic kid’s jewelry it behind when she moved out, but a feather of didn’t come in these fancy boxes. guilt settled in her gut. She used to be so proud Inside was a small silver crucifix on a of that necklace. delicate chain. It was similar to the one she’d Her coffee had cooled enough that she always admired in her mother’s jewelry box, but could gulp down the rest of it without burning smaller and shinier. her throat. How long had she been reminiscing? Audrey lifted it out of the box. On the Her aunts and uncles would be arriving for inside, she wanted to squeal with excitement. dinner in a few hours. There were things she But she was a young lady now, so instead she could do to get ready—move those damn thanked her dad and held it out to him so he flowers off the counters, gather all the spices could help her put it on. That’s when she saw the they’d need for the gumbo. Should she start the inscription on the back. roux? She didn’t know when everyone would “Why that one?” she asked. She tried to arrive, or when they’d want to eat. remember what verse it was and resolved to look She closed the vanity desk drawer and it up as soon as she could. She didn’t want to turned to leave her old bedroom, but not before

our father

she clasped the crucifix around her neck. Just because she didn’t believe anymore didn’t mean she couldn’t wear it under her shirt. She wondered if Dad would be proud of that reasoning, or if he’d shake his head in sorrow at her irreverence.

opportunity she could to get smashed and collect every photo of Dad in the house. Jean had clung to Audrey’s side for hours, mascara streaking her freckled cheeks. It was the first time in years they spent more than ten minutes with each other. Audrey had never thought Jean liked her that much, especially since she’d left when Jean was The evening was cool for March, and eight. They hardly knew each other. the forecast promised a night of rain. It was “How are you so calm?” Jean asked for unfortunate, otherwise the family could the sixth time. She hiccupped and set her bowl congregate on the back porch instead of packing on the coffee table. the dining room and kitchen. Audrey almost did “It’s all that math in her head,” Kristen the math to determine how much of the cajunsaid. She wreaked of alcohol, and had taken to seasoned air in the house they were all using. carrying a bottle of wine around with her. Instead she sipped at whatever cheap beer her Audrey shook her head and spooned cousin Ennis had handed her and tried to ignore more gumbo into her mouth to avoid her Aunt Teresa’s raucous laughter. answering. She wasn’t hungry, and the rice was undercooked. She’d almost burned the roux, and the entire meal tasted just he wondered if ad would be proud wrong, like the shrimp had been frozen of that reasoning or if he d shake his before cooking. If grief had a flavor… She sighed and set her bowl aside. head in sorrow at her irreverance She’d gone to school for math, not poetry, yet here she was making inane metaphors. The house had been full since two in the Talk about waxing melodramatic. afternoon. First her sisters and mother returned, “I should have been here,” Audrey said. followed by her mother’s three siblings and their Jean brought her gingerbread-colored families, and then Dad’s one divorced brother. eyes back to Audrey’s face, frown lines clear on The kitchen had been a nightmare with everyone her forehead. She’d gotten Dad’s orange-brown trying to help with the gumbo and cornbread, hair and freckles. Audrey had always envied her or sneak scraps from the cutting board, or drink little sister’s looks. She and Kristen had taken booze and offer too-loud platitudes. after their mother. Audrey had done her best to stay out “Why?” Jean asked. of the way, but Jean didn’t want to be left alone It took a moment for Audrey to register in the crowd, and Kristen had taken the first the question. “What do you mean, ‘why’?

D ,

short fiction

Because he was my father too.” gesturing at Audrey with her bottle. She poured “He was all our father,” Kristen said. the last of the wine into her glass. “Not after Audrey left,” Jean said, her “Well I never asked you to.” Audrey stood normally soft voice growing louder with each so quickly that the edges of her vision darkened. word. “You left. You broke his heart.” She couldn’t do this anymore. “Stop it,” Audrey said. “That’s not our fault,” Jean said. “He couldn’t understand why his Little Peacock didn’t want to go to he rest of the house had fallen church anymore, why she left the family to go be some fancy analyst.” Jean’s voice silent with only the ambient hum of cracked, but she didn’t stop. the refrigerator and ceiling fan to “Kristen left too,” Audrey said. Kristen swayed in her seat, her mask the thumping of her heart mouth working as if she were trying to speak. “I didn’t leave.” Kristen threw her arm around Jean’s “She didn’t just leave. She visited. She shoulders. “Don’t get mad at us, Aud, all we—” went and started that charity group at St. “Girls, stop it,” their mother said, Andrew’s. She came back and helped take care stepping forward as if she were prepared to pull of Dad this last year.” them apart. Her eyes were dry, and somehow “I would have been here—” she’d managed to maintain her usual steely self“But you weren’t,” Kristen said. control. If Audrey didn’t think she knew better, “He didn’t talk to me for months when she’d guess Dad’s death affected her mother you left. You weren’t there for him then, so why least—and maybe it had. “We’re all grieving, and should you have been there when he died?” your bickering isn’t helping anyone.” “You’re wrong. He understood.” The rest Jean turned away from their mom. of the house had fallen silent, with only the Kristen clearly wasn’t sober enough to ambient hum of the refrigerator and ceiling fan back down, though. “But Momma, Aud needs to to mask the thumping of her heart. Beyond the understand what she put us through.” windows, crickets chirped. Their mother stood akimbo and fixed “You know what he understood?” Jean’s Audrey with a sharp glare. When she turned her face was a splotchy mess. “He understood that expression on Kristen, Kristen shrank back into his loving, church-going wife and daughters the couch. were there for him when he passed. And you “We missed you, Aud,” Kristen said. The know what we did? We prayed.” way she said it reminded Audrey of a scolded “We prayed for you too,” Kristen said, child being forced to apologize.

our father

“I’m sorry,” Audrey said. She barely felt her lips move with the words. Maybe she only imagined she’d said them, but it didn’t matter. “Should have said that to Dad,” Jean said. “Jean Winifred Key!” “I thought bible thumpers were supposed to be forgiving.” “Audrey Elizabeth Key!” Audrey’s legs shook as she stepped away from her mother and her sisters. Her ears rang. “You don’t have to be so harsh,” Kristen said. She swirled the last of her wine around, splashing it down the sides of the glass. Jean stood and advanced a few steps around the coffee table. “I don’t know how to forgive you.” “Girls, stop this now. You’re embarrassing me.” Audrey wasn’t surprised that’s what her mother was concerned about. She remembered why she had been so eager to leave as a teenager.

Bug emitting an unholy screech. Her parents’ house was in the one real neighborhood in Clarksville. Most of the town’s three thousand residents lived off back roads, farther away from the center of town. The other houses on the street were squat and faded, and even the onset of dusk couldn’t hide their plainness. Some of the magnolia trees in the front yards already had glossy flowers. They reflected her headlights and looked like ghosts perched in the branches. A left turn at the end of the street would take her to her old high school and the grocery store. There was an old cemetery down there too, where she used to go with friends to smoke pot after class. But she turned right, toward the one stoplight in town, as well as a few other businesses needed to sustain small-town Southern life. She could get on the highway from that side of town, and maybe go all the way home to Baton Rouge. She hated Clarksville. When she’d turned eighteen, she couldn’t leave fast he other houses on the street were enough. But Jean was wrong. Dad had squat and faded and even the onset understood why she’d left. Hadn’t he? They’d still talked on the phone twice a of dusk couldn t hide their plainness week after she’d moved out.

“Why don’t you pray to learn how? It’s the only thing you know how to do,” Audrey said. She grabbed her car keys from the hook by the front door and left the family staring at the swinging screen behind her. The cool rain managed to drench her before she could make it to her car. Typical Louisiana. She peeled away from the curb, her poor

short fiction

Audrey had been accepted to lsu once she graduated. Her plan was to get the hell out of Clarksville and study math. She had a boyfriend, Evan, with whom she was going to move in once they got to Baton Rouge. “You should get dressed, Peacock. You can finish packing when we get home,” Dad said from the doorway to her room. He was dressed

in his Sunday best, his coat draped over his left She opted for the most bullshit answer arm. Some time in the last few years, his reddish she had. “I don’t belong in a church, Dad. It’s hair had started to turn gray, and the wrinkles just not my place anymore.” around his eyes had deepened. He didn’t fuss. He didn’t argue, didn’t “I’m not going,” she said without looking ask any more questions, didn’t even express up. If she didn’t look up, she wouldn’t see the disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he said. disappointment in his eyes. “Not going?” ow could she tell her dad that She folded a pair of jeans and set them on top of a pile of clean clothes ready religion was for people not smart to go in a bag. “Nope. I’m done going enough to understand the real world to church.” It was strange how casually she could say that after eighteen years of faithful attendance. Audrey paused, a teal T-shirt half folded “I don’t understand.” in her hands. She looked up to ask him why he’d She stopped folding clothes long enough to apologized, but he’d already left. take a deep breath. She still avoided looking him in A few minutes later, she heard their old the eye, but she could tell he didn’t feel comfortable truck backing out of the drive. She finished with the conversation. He half-turned away from packing as quickly as she could. her, and somehow seemed to take up less of the She hadn’t told him that she was leaving doorway. He’d never been a particularly large man, the next day. There was only so much bad news but now he just looked tiny. she could give him on a Sunday morning. “Look, I just need to do my own thing. Church isn’t where I need to be right now.” There were only three other cars on the “But why?” he asked. His voice didn’t road. She drove in circles around Clarksville’s shake, but it also wasn’t very loud. She could one roundabout before she picked a direction have ignored the question, pretended she hadn’t to go. Some shit country station twanged in the heard it. background, but she didn’t care enough to change She didn’t want to offend him. They’d it. In fact, she welcomed it as a kind of penance. been so close once, but she couldn’t well admit to The bakery was closed. The two him that she’d abandoned her faith. How could restaurants in town were closed. The gas station she tell her dad that religion was for people not was open, its windows glowing with a brownishsmart enough to understand the real world? yellow light. As she passed the funeral home, She’d known for months this conversation was her arms shook, and she nearly swerved out of inevitable. That didn’t make it easier. her lane. If she didn’t stop soon, she’d drive right

our father

off the road. The deluge cleared and the clouds dispersed, revealing a beaming half-moon. Typical Louisiana weather. She didn’t acknowledge where she was going until she pulled into the dark parking lot of St. Joseph’s Church. There were no other cars, and she knew it would be locked. Had it really been ten years since she’d been inside? It looked like the same old church from her childhood, with white eaves and a taller roof than most of the buildings in town. He hadn’t understood at first—Jean was right about that. But he’d forgiven her. He’d told her so over the phone, a year after she’d moved away. The conversation had lulled after she told him about her promotion at work.

“Yeah, Dad. I called this morning.” They’d never discussed it again. She’d never thought they needed to. There wasn’t anything else he could have been forgiving her for. She’d never disappointed him any other way. Jean and Kristen just didn’t get that. She couldn’t go into the church. She wasn’t sure she wanted to, anyway. The thought of going back to face Jean and the others made her stomach hurt. Instead, she sat in the church parking lot until the sky to the east turned almost white and the sun rose.

There wasn't anything else he could have been forgiving her for. She'd

never disappointed him any other way. “Peacock, you know I love you, right?” “Of course, Dad. I love you too.” “And you know I forgive you.” She waited for him to explain. A minute passed, and she knew he was waiting for her to apologize. “Did you call Kristen and wish her happy birthday?”

short fiction

To Watercolor Owl Tattoos Jesse Yelvington

poetry

During the day, it waits. Resting gently across your skin, taking in the bustling life around you. It watches. Huge, reflective black eyes survey you and everyone you know. It listens, too. To your conversations, your arguments, the songs you sing in the shower. As a part of your skin, it feels what you feel. The tender brush of a lover’s fingers across your arm, too subtle to be seen by a passerby yet powerful enough to send volts of electricity shooting down your body and into the floor, though the bricks or floorboards separating your feet from the soil prevent you from being grounded. It provides some of that grounding. A connection to nature, the earth, where you came from. You’ve never been free, but at least you have this symbol of freedom, permanently etched into your skin that can distract you from that. Or does it remind you? During the day, it is silent and watchful. In the night, it gives you a glimpse of great wings spread across the world, enveloping everything though they’re smaller than your own human wingspan. It provides a picture of powerful patience, soaring through the night, waiting for that small movement far, far below that will signal a final meal. At all times it is a grotesque splash of color against your pale skin and the dark night and the light of dawn. Yet it is grotesque in the most beautiful way. Unnatural in the most natural way. It is spring blossoms and vast summer skies, black beetles and the brown damp dirt. It fades into your skin as its relatives fade into the distance as the sky subtly shifts hues. They find home before the first rays find their way over the horizon, and have completely vanished by the time the first edge of the sun reveals itself. The only daytime proof that they are watching over us is a small pellet of stripped bones and digested grass at the foot of a tree, and the ink suspended beneath your flesh.

Contributors Zoe Devin Bell Zoe is a design for performance student and plans to study illustration at an art school once she graduates. Graphic novels are her calling and one day she hopes to illustrate works that depict the struggles of the oppressed. 24 Little Fox Spirit 25 Forest Encounter [Staff Choice Visual Award] 53 Goddess of Flora and Fauna Henry Bender Henry is an aspiring director and playwright currently studying at the University of New Mexico's Department of Theater and Dance. He's had a short story published in Teen Ink, and his short play "Bloody Mouths" was produced by scrap Productions as part of their 2015 tenminute play festival, "Out of Order 4ever." 36 A Frustratingly Fickle Feline Fix

Mandisa Bradley Mandisa is an African studies major, community member, and scholar who believes that art is a revolutionary act. 17 Deciduous Kelly Brocklehurst Kelly is a University of New Mexico alum. She has been published in Conceptions Southwest and in The Oklahoman Review. 64 An Ohio Field Keriden Brown Keriden majors in English at the University of New Mexico to further elaborate on her celestial exploits. She rather enjoys the comfort of cats and roaming her home without the shackled restriction of pants. Dark coffee, though, is her one true solace when it comes to stressful days working as a paralegal at a reputable, femaleowned, Civil Defense office. 44 Classy Chassis

Lyndsey Broyles Lyn is a senior at the University of New Mexico. After graduation, she plans to attend graduate school with a focus on critical film analysis. 42 Midwestern Gothic 58 Infested 65 Hunting Season Caitlin Carcerano Caitlin is a junior studying art studio with a concentration in painting and drawing. She lives a life in pursuit of creative endeavors and draws on personal experience to make art. Caitlin was published in the 2014-2015 edition of Conceptions Southwest and is proud to be published among talented artists and writers again this year. 2 Anonymity 3 Conceal 29 Peonies Catherine Cook Cathy is an English major in her third year at the University of New Mexico. She draws inspiration from the desert landscape. 22 Commitment 26 How to Get the Poem into the Teacup 40 The Shopping List 56 T-Rex Frolicking Through a Field of Daisies 62 Jump

Jesse Furr Jesse is in his third year of the studio art program at UNM. He has begun printing his own line of T-shirts and hopes to one day make a successful living off of them. He has been published in Conceptions Southwest twice before. 32 All Together Now 52 Coyote Skull Study YooJung Hong Hong considers her work a mixture of cultural symbolism and imaginative world. Hongâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s art practice has been inspired by traditional beliefs and the philosophies they embody, but these motifs continually are reborn and reconstructed in her own contemporary style and expression. In the margins between the past and present, realism and idealism, tradition and modernism, and eastern and western culture, Hong discovered her own symbols in her life and what she likes to convey with these symbols. 70 Melodious Moment 71 My Paradise

Julia Lambright Julia was born and raised in Russia. She received both a bfa and a mfa degree from the University of New Mexico. Working primarily in oil in the past, her recent explorations are rooted in an interest in traditional egg-tempera painting, a knowledge of which she acquired in her native country. Experimenting with an artistic interexchange of Russian traditionalism and American conceptualism, paintings have served as Lambright's voice to address her vision, experiences, and tension that she feels when going back to her home country. 66 Troika 67 Guardians of Forty Alexandra Katherine Magel Alexandra has lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico her whole life and loves being an English major at UNM. Rather than being haunted by a weird spirit, she is haunted by deadlines and lack of sleep. Her skeleton is fine. 8 The Lantern Light [Staff Choice Literature Award] 54 A Poem About My Skeleton

Kimberly Mitchell Kimberly is a junior who lives in a world of her own nonsensical creation. She likes to record this nonsense and share it with other people. Some record of that nonsense can be found in the 2015 Conceptions Southwest. 20 Olfaction Begins at Death 30 Sea of Sky 49 Luck of the Irish 72 Our Father Lorena Molina Lorena is an aspiring illustrator studying as an art studio major at UNM. She loves cartoons, clouds, and sugary foods. SpongeBob quotes are also a large part of her vocabulary. 6 Tricks Before Treats 7 Bahram, the Guide George Christopher Moreno Originally from California, George now lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. His fiction has previously appeared in Antioch University's Two Hawks Quarterly, and his work for Heidi Duckler Dance Theatre's The Groundskeepers was called "…beautifully moody…elegiac… Beckettian…" by Victoria Looseleaf of The Los Angeles Times. 33 Bodies, Floating, Flying

David Lee Piersol David has spent his life with a foot in either pond, having spent half of his life in the Southwest and the other half in the Northeast. Accordingly, he sticks out like a sore thumb anywhere he goes. He is pursuing a BA in history, with emphases in medieval and Middle East history and culture. 60 Wanderstood Liliana Rehorn Liliana is studying foreign languages and literature at UNM. She hopes to begin teaching yoga after graduation. 43 Moon 61 Here, I Give You All of Me 68 Desert Secrets Aimee Lynn Stearns Aimee is from Taos, New Mexico. She graduated from UNM with a double major in psychology and English. She experiences life deeply and wishes to translate that into words. Writing and sharing her writing have been important lessons in courage and vulnerability. 1 I Know It Is Autumn When 4 Pinﾌバn Picking 57 Gone Fishing

Lucas Winter Lucas is a journalism student and an explorer by heart. The world captivates him with its beauty, rich cultures, and landscapes. 23 Alone 28 Islands of Sky Jesse Yelvington Jesse is a queer, vegan, transmasculine Hufflepuff who uses they/them/theirs/he/him/ his pronouns, and adores cats and the smells of green chile and rain-soaked desert dirt. He is a social justice activist, musician, and slam poet and believes in questioning and staying true to oneself, as well as the uniting power of adventure. His poetry has also been published in Trickster and The Malpais Review. 18 Sturdy Stories 81 To Watercolor Owl Tattoos

Submit your work to csw Want to see Conceptions Southwest publish your work in the 2017 edition? Send it in for consideration! How to Submit Head to csw.submittable.com to submit your work. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll begin accepting submissions after our opening on April 28, and all submissions will be due by Monday, November 21, 2016. What to Submit We accept creative works of all varieties: prose, poetry, visual art, photography, screenplays, short film, and more. Submissions may be in any language, but non-English submissions must be accompanied by a translation. All photography and art images must be at least seven inches (on their longer side) at 300 ppi. Questions? Head to www.conceptionssw.org for more information, or shoot us an email at csw@unm.eduâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;we're always happy to help.

conceptions southwest volume xxxix the fine arts and literary magazine of the university of new mexico