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Volume 36, Issue 1 Fall 2021
Editors Editor-in-Chief Julia Savoca Gibson Copy Editors Meghan Gates Lauren Mullaney Art Editor Anna Harshman Poetry Editor Eli Gnesin Shawna Alston Paige Foltz Prose Editors Lauren Wilson Jack Gillespie Digitization Editors Emma Eubank Juliana Santry Publicity Editor Jenna Massey Staff Editors Alys Goodwin Courtney Hand Emma Conkle Erin Brownlow Katie Diehl
Malvika Shrimali Raphael Chambers Rebecca Golden
Cover Art
Man Rests Along La Petite Ceinture See the complete work on page 46
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Contents The Fall The Ichor of the Sun Hits My Lonely Sad Windowsill And Her Tears Fall Like The Guillotine Nowhere, Never Songs of my Dreamscape Mi palomita negra Ambiguous Sex, Aged 18-68 Lot’s Wife Equinox Alcoholic Dumpster Squirrel Seasonal Allergies kitchens Just Before the Second Death The Peckham Experiment MY BODY AND I WENT FOR A RUN TODAY Salivate Painting with Water August Witness When the Teapot Fell Wild Life earth Yawn The Last Orphic Hymn Lenox Avenue Midsummer Day Looking Fireworks Autumnal The Altar The Whisper Pilot Girl and Grandfather at Boisde Boulogne Pink Octopus Woman Visits Grave in Pere Lachaise Girl in the Leaves 6:00 AM Cognac Calm Before the Storm Flora Life in Late July A Bike Ride Away Rehanna Shit! My Glasses illusion Collage Man Rests Along La Petite Ceinture Monaco Coast Davis (For your safe consumption) Davin (For your safe consumption) Two Friends at Parc des Buttes Chaumont Aiva Of Queens and Concrete Jungles A Barcelona Cafe In Memory
Poetry 4 7
Mark Bravaco Pelumi Sholagbade
9 10-11 13-14 14 20 22 27 27 28-29 29 32 36 39 40 43 44 47-49 51 59 61 Prose 12 17 30 54
Jack Gillespie Shawna Alston Nylah Wiggins Meghan Gates Liz Williams Rory Edgar Mia Carboni Lace Grant Mateo Cherry Jenna Massey Liz Williams Abby Comey Shawna Alston Mia Carboni Jenna Massey Anneliese Brei Shawna Alston Mateo Cherry Shawna Alston Julia Savoca Gibson Tessa Wilkinson Klara Smith Jack Gillespie Daniel Posthumus
Art 5 6 8 15 16 21 23 24 25 26 33 34 35 37 38 41 42 45 46 50 52 53 55 56 57 58 60
Charlotte Daum Anta Gueye Mary Reduzzi Sara Butcher Jamie Holt Danielle Swanson Jamie Holt Emma Ackerman Rachel Eom Tom Plant J.R. Herman Charlotte Daum Emma Ackerman Lauren Mullaney Dawn Bangi Anta Gueye Lily Lin Lily Buro Jamie Holt Danielle Swanson Dawn Bangi Dawn Bangi Jamie Holt Dawn Bangi J.R. Herman Charlotte Daum Lauren Mullaney
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The Fall In the autumn, the leaves fall— But they’re not just autumn, and they don’t just fall. They’re yellow, golden, orange, red; they swirl, they fly, they drop, they shed. Hanging up high, a blazing flame, but to the earth, like embers tame. On the ground, they crinkling creep. It’s as though the trees do weep. But they don’t weep. Rather, they know that soon shall come the cold, the snow. To lose their leaves, to become bare, is to evade the winter’s snare. It’s this time, now, for all to see the wisdom of the silent tree. Thus do not view in terms of grief the falling of the autumn leaf. — Mark Bravaco
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Charlotte Daum
Autumnal
Oil on Canvas
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Anta Gueye
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The Altar
Photography
The Ichor of the Sun Hits My Lonely Sad Windowsill And Her Tears Fall Like The Guillotine I killed a mosquito but it had got me first I smeared her blood, I smeared my own It’s another Monday morning, and I wish I was dead. It’s weird, like trash at the bottom of the river. There’s no good way to put it. But that’s my job. There’s one thing I can do, and it’s bleed Not too much. It has to be a surprise. I pull oblivion out of the dairy section in the grocery store And that’s laudable? Void curdles too, you know. I’ve sinned. It’s all I know how to do. Smush Stupid bugs when they fly through the blinds on my heart and Muddy the afternoon with their corpse because who can stand it, The flutter of what refuses to refuse Living unborn in their brain? — Pelumi Sholagbade
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Mary Duzzi
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The Whisper
Ink on Paper
Nowhere, Never All I know is this nighttime-burgundy mist That smells heavy and tastes damp — Wrapping me up warm and thick In suffocating comfort. When the golem appears Still in his obsidian silence We share non-surprise. Though we’ve never met, Our eyes know each other Friends of the eternal never. He nods slowly In ancient crypt-keeper wisdom And I nod back. His stone-mouth opens; A dark-night hum pours out Deeper than forgotten timeless caverns Vibration hangs heavy on the air. All is heavy All is dark. I have no worries I am nowhere. — Jack Gillespie
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Songs of my Dreamscape i’m tangled up in tar and wrapped so sweetly in the confines of colonial continuity
i breathe when they breathe and sing when they
ask me to.
i sing so sweetly. like a canary or a blue jay or a scared child holding a book of way-back-when hymnals
i beg, and that’s their favorite part when my lip quivers and my hands tremble and my songs sound like out of tune organs
oh, i beg
and they laugh and cheer and demand i
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keep going
keep going, girl, keep going
beg me again! beg me again!
and with tar-stained cheeks and in the wrong key, i beg
please
— Shawna Alston
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Lenox Avenue by Tessa Wilkinson
He’s standing in that doorway again. It’s like he heard “Dweller on the Threshold” once and climbed inside it like he was a hermit and it was his shell. It makes him look so small, like maybe he really did lose his shell and this was the only one he could find. Like he must have been scrambling for safety and once he found some semblance of it he never wanted to move again. So instead he wedges himself in these doorways. It’s like watching a game of limbo, seeing him caught so soundly between worlds. It gets unbearable once the stick gets this low. Only the ones who really care keep going, and who cares that much about limbo? But what an obtuse way to metaphorize your fear of the future, right? I just wish he’d jump in already, even if he has to go feet first. Like pencil-dive style? Like a bullet fired right into the deep end? Like you really want to touch the bottom of the pool but you can’t swim there on your own so you try to gravity your way to it? But then you run out of breath right before you can touch it, and you freeze for a second trying to decide if you can still make it. But you can’t. So you flounder your way back to the top and you’re gasping for breath and you tell your brother you touched the bottom anyways, because he always does. He always can. He’s always so colored with some deep blue despair, that hermit boy. Not really royal, maybe more lapis or cobalt. I want to paint him happy and careless and free. Like carolina, baby blue. Born-again to try again. But there’s no palette in this world that would let me, and no easel for him to lay bare on. He sits folded between the pages of a decade old coloring book; ferociously filled in but immediately forgotten. Childlike passion is so listless, so unchained, untethered — so incomplete and indecisive — so fleeting but so full. So earnest. He’ll have to stay there until he remembers. For now, I’ll fill his shell with clouds and sunbeams and little swirls and curls. I’ll fill it with him and me, I’ll fill it completely. G
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Mi palomita negra It would be nice, to note how the bird takes flight For it knows not of the human plight In its own rite, and in its own mind It folds and swings far and wide, such a lovely sight Small and quiet, does the dove smile? As it is free from the grounded misery stretching for miles The distance, and for how I missed it, by meter and miles My own black dove, 20 minutes to flight It’s been quite a while, will I remember to smile? Will the thought of hope ease my plight My messy mind, and solemn sight I have forgotten a piece of my mind. Goodbye to my cruel mind Have you forgotten what you’ve repeated to me, mile by mile? But the lord has given me back my sight To watch my dove take one more flight Oh so forgotten, tears for my sorrow, my plight I was the blind man of Bethsaida, prayers answered with a smile Would a duel with death make you smile? Only for you would I search the corners of my mind If what pleases you is my plight I would suffer through it, for miles Longingly, I lived my time, for my black dove to take flight I am green with envy, as you are in my line of sight I have tasted, I have smelled, I have touched, and heard of your sight Forevermore may I bask in your smile? My glory, my dove in black, I beg you to take flight You never seem to leave my mind You have escaped me many miles For my plea I will fight, you are my wish and my plight If I was never know you, my burdening plight Would I have ever encountered a sight You have shown me blessed assurance by the mile I ask with a smile Give me back my mind? My little black dove, I have cried for your flight
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For miles, for time, and for you, I am accompanied by plight I write to you, and your last flight My black dove’s smile, my only peace of mind. — Nylah Wiggins
Ambiguous Sex, Aged 18-68 If archaeologists found my skeleton, I do not think they would identify my skull as female. I’m pretty sure my forehead is double bossed, and there’s a good chance that my nuchal ridges could be too robust. It doesn’t matter: They wouldn’t be able to tell that I have identical freckles on both my middle fingers or that I bite the insides of my cheeks when bored or anxious. They wouldn’t know the first time I kissed a girl was lakeside and under the stars or how laughing loudly and often is a trait I am so proud of. The closest those archaeologists would get to me would be looking at my clubbed thumb and guessing that bowling gave me a hard time, which is maybe sort of close all the same.
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— Meghan Gates
Sara Butcher
Pilot
Acrylic on canvas
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Jamie Holt
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Girl and Grandfather at Boisde Boulogne_ _
Photography
Midsummer Day by Klara Smith
The last bit of anguish left my body as she leaned in to kiss me. For a moment, I paused and let Ellie’s lips collide with mine. It felt like an eternity since we had done this. Kissing. I gently wound my fingers through her hair, the same color as grass during the dawn of winter, and kissed her back. Kissing her was like letting the ocean crash into your legs and feeling the force of the tides suck at the sand at your feet, threatening to pull you back out with it. It was rough at first, but once you started you quickly felt yourself being pulled back and wanting more. All day I had been fantasizing about her lips on mine. I had tried to distract myself with meaningless activities and chores, but it quickly proved to be in vain. She was like a drug, filling up every corner of my waking consciousness till all I could think about was her. Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie. I would turn her name over and over in my mind and admire the new details that I found in it each time. Our love was like a newborn butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. It was still so young and frail. Yet, I feared the darkness that lurked in the shadows, which threatened to disrupt the tiny bit of sanctuary that we had carefully constructed for oursleves. The weight and gravity of the situation had come knocking on the door and demanded for us to mature quickly. If we do not, the delicate wings of our love would be torn from our backs before they had even dried. The sun beat down on both of us as our shadows eclipsed, the lighter grey caressed the form of the darker gray. I let her hands shape my actions. We were falling back into the same old routine like worn puzzle pieces clicking back in place. A gentle buzz filled my body, starting at my head and traveled its way down my spine. Suddenly Ellie pulled away. Her eyes were wide as she scanned the landscape behind me. “What’s—” I stopped myself mid sentence and swallowed my question. “I thought I saw someone,” she whispered. I turned my neck and squinted across the grassy field. I could have sworn that we were alone here, in the middle of the overgrown rec center soccer field. Just her, the leafhoppers, and myself. All alone. For a second we paused like two deer in headlights. We both knew what the repercussions were if we were to be caught. “Ellie?” I said, breaking the silence. “Mhm?” “I really missed you.” “I know...me too.” I struggled to say something else, my thoughts were snowflakes falling onto warm ground. Delicate and fleeting. My eyes traced the strong curve of her brow and fell down the gentle slope of her nose. Instead of filling the heavy summer air with more grief, I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I wish we could be here forever. Just the two of us,” I said.
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I felt her hand begin to draw soft circles on my inner thigh. “Me too.” She replied. “This is all so.” She scrunched up her face as she searched for the right word. Painful, Wonderful, agonzing, magical? “Unfair.” That was it. The word to describe this all. It was fate that brought us together. Yet, I am now lying here in the grass with Ellie wondering if fate is cruel and torturous or loving and kind. We were in the prime of our youth. It was midsummer. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck. I had fallen deeply in love with another girl. Lord help me. I couldn’t think of anything more unfair in the entire world. I looked her in the eyes and she quickly looked back down, refocusing her attention back to drawing circles on my inner thigh. “You remember though?” I asked. “Yes, I do,” she said. “This is indeed still a comedy not a tragedy.” A short and bitter laugh escaped her lips. Images of what she told me, about what her parents had said and done to her flashed through my mind. The word...flashed through my mind. Dyke. An immature part of me wanted to cry at the injustice of it all. I felt my eyes begin to burn, but I forced myself from falling over the edge by pinching myself. It was not my place to cry. She was the one who deserved to. It was quickly becoming harder and harder to see ourselves as Hermia and Lysande. Romeo and Juliet seemed far more appropriate. Shakespeare’s stories are always riddled with tragedy and sadness anyway, regardless of the genre. Helena is abandoned, Caesar is betrayed, Opehlia drowns, and Romeo and Julitet both die at the end. Tragedy and comedy quickly become intertwined and are one in the same. “This really is funny if you think about it.” Ellie continued. “We both love each other and yet there is nothing more that my parents hate. Ironic isn’t it?” “Yeah,” I said lamely. My vision was still blurring a little. I pulled down on her shoulders until she had no choice but to lie her head on my lap. I wanted to touch her more. I ran a hand over her dark eyebrows and gently pushed on her cheeks till the soft wrinkles appeared. I lived for these tiny moments. The sun relentlessly beat down on the both of us, leaving an uncomfortable warmth all over my body. I was on fire both inside and out. “Ellie?” “Yes Klara.” “I’m sorry.” I said. “I know I’ve said that a lot but I really mean it. I feel like that’s all I really can say.” I’m sorry. I am very lame. “It’s okay,” Ellie replied. It is an undeniable truth that being together makes us feel better. Every time we touch, the scars from our past become a little bit more faint. It is almost frightening how quickly we have become dependent on one another. I have recently realized that loving someone, really loving them is not as easy as what I had naively believed. I had never expected to feel like my chest had been sliced open and my ribs cracked. Like my still beating heart had been exposed completely to the harsh world. Most love stories do not consist of silently crying while your lover recounts
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how their own parents believe that they can change and stop being who they are, a lesbian. I glanced around the grassy expanse that surrounded us and picked a fluffy dandelion up out of the ground. My fingernail dug into its green stem until it bled a sticky clear substance. “Kiss me please,” Ellie announced. “Wait...what?” “Kiss me again. Please Klara.” Her big eyes pleaded for me to do so. “This is all so dumb, just please kiss me.” Ellie’s voice raised an octave and she pulled gently on my shirt collar. I did not know how else to help her, so I leaned in and gently pressed my lips against hers. Sometimes, I feel like a robot that is programmed to perform the same actions over and over. Are you ok? How are you feeling? I love you so much. Those are the same phrases that I am doomed to repeat till the end of time. “I love you.” I said for the hundredth time. Our time together was drawing to a close. “I love you too,” she replied. I took her calloused hand in mine and we both stood up. It was time for Ellie to go home. G
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Lot’s Wife Days move around like panning for gold, like sifting through a mess for something to grasp and pawn off. I spy today, and under that I see this day last year, and the year before that. What desperation lies in my body, trying to insert my hands into the cavity of last year’s days. I want to touch the feeling of my last day there, the bench on the plaza in the sun, the feeling of leaving the places that hurt me. My perpetual attempts to leave and leave and leave and cut every thread in my life’s godforsaken quilt and tie up my loose ends. These days I look in the mirror and catch myself turning back. No matter where I am I am restless, and restless with the marble-like memories clattering through my head— all the places I’ve been, where I am now, and how I got here. So call me nostalgic. Call me a name that is not my own, the wrong one. Call me Lot’s wife. Call me pillar after pillar of salt after salt. One last look will never sate me. I am continually leaving, looking back, and taking that burning city with me.
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— Liz Williams
Danielle Swanson
Pink Octopus
Acrylic on Canvas
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Equinox A gravesite sits with springtime hand in hand, Narcissus roots laced fingers with the earth like nerves within the dirt to feel the pain Too far from skeletal lover, reaching up. In spring white flowers spread their petals wide, The purity of tilting face to sun, But petals skyward doesn’t mean the roots Don’t stretch below, as close as flower dares. When breath of frost begins to stall the air Snow falls and lays a blanket on the grave. Alike, the flower falls down to the earth To fall in love again like sleep of death. A gravesite here, no springtime to be seen For she has gone below while winter mourns, Yet she rejoices in the company this winter lets her keep ’til warming thaw. The melting snow sinks deep into the grave As symbol now, the end of lovers time, The flower kisses gently dead goodbye, And up above, green shoots poke through the earth. Begin again the cycle, love and death. A gravesite sits with springtime hand in hand Awaiting her return next winter’s chill. — Rory Edgar
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Woman Vists Grave In Père Lachaise Jamie Holt
Photography
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Emma Ackerman
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Girl in the Leaves
Acrylic on Canvas
Rachel Oem
6:00 AM
Photographs, construction Mixed paper, andMedia acrylic paint on wooden board
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Tom Plant
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Cognac
Oil on canvas
Alcoholic Dumpster Squirrel A slight scratching down low, nails against metal An acorn-sized brain ricochets off the wall Perceived by only the most acute listener Cared for by none and sought yet by still fewer. He chews the paper receipts floated down Gnaws the tossed-away bottles, a dull faded brown A verminal headache from inside and out And sharp rotting vinegar piercing his snout. Toes cold, tail heavy, heart numb, tongue sweaty He sits down in the corner, his paws are unsteady Fur melts in the puddle of rot dripping near A father’s discarded and beckoning beer. They take out the trash but leave him behind A gesture so merciful and yet most unkind. Consuming the toxins at the bottom that fall Banging his head against the thick metal wall. — Mia Carboni
seasonal allergies burn it all away! those aging maple tree leaves congesting my thoughts — Lace Grant
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kitchens i was born in a kitchen in the middle of the night and i have the pictures to prove it pictures of paramedics of blood on white tile of sweat drenched foreheads and smiles i was grown a kitchen fertilized with pounded yam fried plantain and boxed banana bread. grew tall enough to reach cupboards above fingers grasping for cups like a man dying of thirst. the first time my fingers touched that cool ceramic without the aid of a carefully placed chair i felt tall my arms outstretched like wayward branches on a sapling on the way to becoming a mighty oak I found God in my kitchen. listened to my father’s fervent sermons about algebra, and geometry and politics and good and bad as i prayed to an unseen god for the answers felt her wrath in every cut and burn. baptised myself in the waters of the sink as i found worship in the washing of dishes.
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i was born in my kitchen. i sat on the same seat my mother did as i watched her carried out. screaming. watched the blue and red lights dance across the bone white walls as she left and never really came back. i stood on that cold tile years later. weeping on a shoulder. heaving deep sobs that shook the china, knocked the magnets off the fridge, and for a second i couldn’t reach the glasses anymore
— Mateo Cherry
Just Before the Second Death Early morning — everyone in the house still blessedly asleep save Stevie, who makes a sandwich with butter and jam and marshmallow, and does not bother switching out his knife. This is a melancholy week: the stretch between Christmas and New Year’s, made drearier this year by sudden death. We are spending the hours as we always do, half drunk and capable only of sleeping and eating, and I am quite useless these days but I have strung popcorn and dried oranges from the kitchen ceiling in joyous candied strands. Stevie is worried the garlands will attract ants. I am not worried about anything. — Jenna Massey
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Looking
by Jack Gillespie Serious businessmen take deliberate strides down the sidewalk while purposefully talking on the phone. Passersby are pesky obstacles in the way to their next significant destination. Rampant unruly children scramble in unpredictable directions, expertly eluding their parents. Small bodies carelessly allow themselves to be enveloped by larger ones in a swarming human sea. Devilish laughter spews until they fearfully realize the riptide that has swept them. Frantic-eyed mothers sift desperately through the ever-increasing herd to find their kin. Unreturned calls ring out. No one cares. Pigeons make stealing swoops through stretches of susceptible table-sitters. Easily peck-pecking at neglected remains graciously bestowed by patrons long gone. But table-sitters must symbolically swipe at the knowing pigeons who, anticipating attack, have already fled accordingly. I am looking for something. Unapologetic homeless people populate pockets of sidewalk. Some freely stretch out to sleep and others ritually shake their clink-clinking cups. They know, but do not tell (no one would listen anyways). Self-proclaimed generous upstanding citizens unconvincingly act like they do not see the homeless people. The homeless people of course know the truth but do not care. The poorly-executed performance is not for them. I go into a store. “Can I help you find anything, sir?” “No I’m just looking.” Carefully-planned displays structure the terrain with enticing invitations for robbery. Echoes of greedy boardroom banter evilly permeate the sales floor, unknown to unsuspecting customers. Nametag-laden zombies with sad eyes shuffle around, feigning purpose. Conflicted but convinced consumers line up to make willful sacrifices at the altar of their choice. I leave the store. “That’s not what I’m looking for.” Sizzling steam billows off rickety carts that create clouds of savory fragrance. Unknown items line lists of lengthy menus. Others opt for choices more comfortable such as “cheeseburger” and “fries.” Everywhere persuaded patrons produce fistfulls of dollars happily. Everyone wins. The pretty person attracts envy and admiration and is immediately known everywhere. The ugly person slips through in silent secrecy. Both quietly covet the position of the other, but no one knows this and so all suffer. Sly-grinning cops openly enjoy their power. They shoot persecutory eyes at previously-innocent civilians while meaninglessly muttering to each other. Guns stay holstered but anxiety-grenades explode everywhere. A foreign person speaks indecipherable code to an unknown recipient. The
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sounds click-clack and zip-zap throughout the street but mean nothing to anyone, and so the timeless secrets are preserved. I walk into the park. Time-knowing butterflies sparkle in ephemeral beauty while the sagely willow noddingly approves from above, in complete and total agreement. Misunderstood bees and timely ants occupy distinct domains but maintain mutual respect. Endlessly-unfolding plumes of green grass invite all to play. “This is what I’m looking for.” I sit down at a park bench. The balloon man waits expectantly at his cart with sneaking foreknowledge. On queue a giggling gaggle of children come flolopping, their bundle of adults trailing at a watching yet reluctant distance. But the wardens prove generous, and each departing balloon carries a happy-lipped child along with it. Meanwhile competing teenagers jockey jealously. The sinister ringleader rules with an iron first and keeps his subjects in line. The well-meaning boy extends an honest branch to the sympathetic girl, but it is skillfully severed by the ringleader instantly. The ringleader laughs casually but it echoes hollow inside him. Everyone loses. Swirling sounds from the sensual saxophone sweetly disperse through the air. A collection of strangers form an approving semicircle, all aligned in their entrancement. The tempo increases and the operator holds on for dear life as the adventuring melody pilots itself, wildly going in any direction it chooses. When the satisfied melody grows tired and puts itself to sleep, it does so to united applause. Sincere hands find easily-accessible dollars, which feather-fall into the convenient cup. The ghost-skinned junkie slouches against the tree, experiencing total nothing. Non-seeing eyes adorn a non-living body. Perpetually-scarred arms (needles) match perpetually-red eyes (tears). Parkgoers deny humanity to the junkie and no one questions them. The junkie is unable to take offense. The now balloon-wielding happy-lipped children use their combined youthenabled esoteric senses to echolocate and descend upon the nearest ice cream stand. Difficult decisions are made in impressive timing, and the benevolent ice cream man is happy to bestow their rightful treats upon them. Sticky hands are of no concern. Children are wise, so I take their advice without contest. “One ice cream cone, please.” I return to the bench, slowly filling with simple joy. Sweet chilled delight overtakes me. I skillfully perform rotating drip-maintenance to safeguard myself and the precious delicacy. When the time is appropriate I commence undressing the cone. Lick becomes crunch. The gold-green leaves of the godly trees warmly gather the sunlight and nourish it with maternal kindness. They say “all is good, everything makes sense” and they are right. The scurrying squirrels, chirp-happy birds, and silent regal pondswans all go about their tasks in a way that signals agreement. All is good, everything makes sense. G
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The Peckham Experiment It’s the same deep swimming pool three thousand miles away. The parallel of the people I could be and have the ability to inhabit stretch in all directions around me, as oil in water, scattered. It’s the same silken skin and duck feathered hair. My fingers whisper at me in the night, “Please can we touch that hair”. Kitchens are everywhere he says, as a comfort. Kitchens are everywhere—tell me where we can cook. The summer turns a million broken international promises, as capillaries, as freckles on a butter colored shoulder. Let me be the bread onto which you spread, the red ribbon to tie to your finger, to remind you that we see the same moon and I am everywhere I am everywhere. That butter colored shoulder begs for a touch. — Liz Williams
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J.R. Herman
Calm Before the Storm
Photography
The Gallery 33
Charlotte Daum
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Flora
Gouache on Paper
Emma Ackerman
Life in Late July
Oil on Canvas
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MY BODY AND I WENT FOR A RUN TODAY We chose the trails so as not to be seen— freakshow that we are—two heads or head within head. Either way, no one wants to witness our Siamese affliction. Any way, he likes the give of pine needles the morning after a rainstorm. I like the views of the lake and the occasional squirrel scared shitless by Janus in Hokas. Together, we paint ourselves strong by shrouding ourselves in forward motion. The final sentence was an uphill stretch. I gave up when we passed the first beautiful thing— an oak whose fiery death sang orange and yellow— but he kept going, unphased by my rapture, nourished by my agony, and I followed because to stay and see would be to sever us clean, and then who would ravage my insides? We made it to the top and collapsed together on a patch of grass at the mouth of the trail where my body sank silent into his weightless rest, and I vomited myself empty, then kept on. — Abby Comey
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Lauren Mullaney
A Bike Ride Away
Photography
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Dawn Bangi
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Rehanna
Photography
Salivate If I got stuck in between your teeth I’d be the happiest I’ve ever been because the room behind your lips is what I dream of and when I think of those pearly whites and that bright pink tongue I decide that it would be the perfect spot to make camp for the night so open up and let me in I promise I’ll never leave — Shawna Alston
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Painting with Water What of the sun will come home in your harvest? Which of her gifts will you pass through your door? What songs of the moon will float home on your breeze? And what from her tides will wash up on your shore? If there is strength while you wait in the darkness, Hiding yourself far away from the light, Why do your eyes seek the contact of others Touched by the stars, safe in bed in the night? How could you possibly let yourself rest While paint spills on the table in permanent hues? When loving now feels just like knives on your chest And blades of grass tearing the soles of your shoes?
— Mia Carboni
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Anta Gueye
Shit! My Glasses!
Photography
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Lily Lin
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illusion
Digital painting
August Witness Too early: yellow leaves like confetti strewn forth upon the tar, the stark white casualty of a belly-up cicada punctuating their ruin. Closer, you can see the body crawl with ants. This is not a kind month. These are heatsick days. These are heartsick days. I turn and I watch the road shimmer with heat and farther, maybe, the soft patina of July. The breeze surges, a door opens, and my savage heart reminds me I am running out of time.
— Jenna Massey
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When the Teapot Fell I was sitting in a pub when a teapot fell on my head and nearly knocked me off the White Cliffs of Dover. Thinking back, it seemed not so much to fall as drift slowly like snow. It gave a little silvery ping! An unassuming vessel that could hide unnoticed in a cabinet as a sign of resistance. I fell in love with the simple aesthetic. The ring of dimples around the lid crowned with a modest finial. I sat up all night gluing every single piece back together — became even more enamoured. But when the morning light fell across the teapot, casting shadows, you could see the shatter of it. — Anneliese Brei
44 The Gallery
Lily Buro
Collage
Mixed Media
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Jamie Holt
46 The Gallery
Man Rests Along La Petite Ceinture
Photography
Wild Life I. I talked with a snake once. He was wrapped around a branch of a sycamore tree. I perched on a branch across from him. He was watching two school-girls palm each other’s chests. What are you looking at? Sin, he says, sin sweet as sugarcane and sultry as sycamore sap The girls were kissing; hot and heady What’s so sinful about youth? About sap? He turns his head toward me and smiles a snake’s smile. He hisses out his answer Oh, child. The sin isn’t in the sex or the sap or the roaming hands The sin is in their eyes, cutting and uneasy; untrustworthy They’re going to leave here and lie about those hands and that sap They’ll get each other killed He laughed, and suddenly, I wanted to taste sycamore sap and sugarcane II. I talked with a honeybee once. He was busy and my eyes couldn’t keep up with his frantic disarray. Ever had sycamore sap? Never. I’m a honeybee. Sycamore isn’t my favorite. Ever had sunflower nectar?
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No. Is it sweet? Sweeter than sap, child. Sweeter than any sap you’ve ever had. I’ve never had sap. He buzzes along; completing the tasks only he is allotted to complete. And suddenly, I’m jealous of sunflower nectar III. I talked with a bunny rabbit once. She was searching for something I had never heard of Can you say it one more time? Salvation, child. And greenery, brighter than eyes and stars Salvation. I’ve never tasted that one You must try it, my child It’ll fix all that stickiness in your soul Sticky. Like sap. She found the greenery brighter than eyes and stars And she soon disappeared into the shrubbery. And suddenly, I could no longer stomach sycamore sap and sunflower nectar IV. I talked with a fawn once. She was lost and looking for her mother. Where are you going, child? I’m not sure, she says, as she looks into a lake. Where is your mother? I’m not sure, she says, as she looks into the lake.
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Do you need help finding her? She looks up at me then. No, she says, I don’t. Why not? I’m not sure, she says. She’s looking into the lake again What is she sure about, if not her own mother? She’s running off now, hastily; her head moving faster than her legs. Where to? Anywhere but here. She’s gone now. What exactly was she looking at in that lake? V. I talked to a mirror once. It didn’t speak back, but the face I saw belonged to the treetops. What was all that for? What for? The eyebrows were bushy and the lips sticky. The mouth stayed unmoving. What was all that for? Tell me, what for? The face had never lost its roundness, but the eyes were shining, like sycamore sap. Tell me. Tell me. The skin was deeper, darker, lovelier but those eyes, those eyes were slicing branches out of my mind Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. — Shawna Alston
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Danielle Swanson
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Monaco Coast
Acrylic on Canvas
earth i go on walks deep at night wading through muggy air that clings to skin like a lover reluctant to loosen his grip i am getting comfortable with who i am never was a fan of labels hated the process of explaining who i am to you my name clings to the roof of my mouth like the shitty kind of peanut butter the kind you are allowed on food stamps that mom gets and isn’t ashamed of never be ashamed of who you are on these walks i talk irrespective of an audience letting words fall drifting to the ground for the ants and worms to dissect i spoke to the cicada on my doorstep i asked her if upon my burial she could sing for me — Mateo Cherry
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Dawn Bangi
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Davis (For your safe consumption)
Photography
Dawn Bangi
Davin (For your safe consumption)
Photography
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Fireworks
by Daniel Posthumus George Gershwin and fireworks. If you’d only ever watched Woody Allen movies and United Airlines safety videos, the two seem meant for one another. It’s almost like Gershwin was watching fireworks when he started humming. Despite some fast-talking snobs ahead of you in line at the theater, life’s not a Woody Allen movie, although it does sometimes resemble a United Airlines safety video. Fireworks don’t last—we can watch Manhattan sitting on the couch eating takeout Chinese until the end of the world, but you can’t relive how you tasted the salt air that night. How you ate squid and pesto salad from a convenience store by Kamakura Bay, down the street from the shores where an invading force landed in 1333, as annual fireworks explode in outbursts of tradition and shimmer on the surface of the still water. Maybe you still saw fireworks inside McDonalds—a harshly lit beacon of commercialism in an ancient capital packed with couples trying to keep the night alive as long as they can—where you enjoy an obnoxiously green melon soda float. Maybe you saw them again when you told her how you loved her and how you’ll miss her and how two months isn’t that long. You cried out, ‘how can I last without you’ and she responded calmly, ‘you’ll wake up, go about your day, and I’ll wake up, go about my day…we’ll live’ with an inspiring earnestness you’ll never forget. Those chords in all their deafening quietness capture the unspoken wisps of feeling you can’t grasp until it’s too late, they color the red music of fireworks blue. When you were young, living on a hillside replete with lush green, you would find burnt husks of fireworks littering the rough gravel outside. You never saw the fireworks, just the testaments to what must’ve occurred. All that lingers is a worn-out scrap of the past. You had to look up to the sky blindingly bright with sun and wonder. Today, fireworks bluntly thud into the night sky from the park across the street. The music of a police car two blocks away accompanies the muted display while a couple makes love next door on the woman’s 30th birthday. Once they’re set off, once the moment is past, you sit with your lonely quietness. No hushed exclamations of love, no heartbeat you can feel on the periphery of your consciousness, no ring on her right pointer finger. Under a cold light that illuminates nothing, you sit on a dirty couch and remember. G
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Jamie Holt
Two Friends at Parc des Buttes Chaumont
Photography
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Dawn Bangi
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Aiva
Photography
J.R. Herman
Of Queens and Concrete Jungles
Photography
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Charlotte Daum
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A Barcelona Cafe
Ink on Paper
Yawn So unbelievably tired Today I spent the aimless hours between lectures and meals rediscovering myself against my cotton pillowcase, and no, not in the dirty way I spent an outrageously ambiguous amount of time counting and naming and killing sheep I snored I missed lunch, went to class and missed dinner I miss home, I miss him I miss when exhaustion was for old people It’s only Monday what am I supposed to do now? — Shawna Alston
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Lauren Mullaney
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In Memory
Photography
The Last Orphic Hymn In another life, I was a liar The happy kind, whose stories Became a myth that I myself Believed until at the end When I realized the truth And the sore lack of it. I imagine seeing you again, After so long divided, The joy to hold you in my arms Once more and hear your laugh, When we will wear new faces And we will not be as we are. That bright day is distant, Lingering at the edges of my hope As the centuries pass on slowly, And our life becomes history. I still dream of what lies beyond, But, to reach you here, I sing to the stars a song Of how I will find you, After so long divided. I imagine seeing you again. — Julia Savoca Gibson
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Contributors’ Abby Comey - I’m a senior majoring in English and Religious Studies. In addition to writing novels and poetry, I love to sing and stargaze. Anneliese Brei - is a senior at William & Mary, majoring in Computer Science and minoring in Creative Writing. She is excited to pursue both passions after graduation and perhaps a bit of tennis. Danielle Swanson - is a second year graduate student in school counseling and has understood the value of creative expression since she was a child. Writing and fine art are passions of hers and she continues this work with her business, Likvan Creative. Emma Ackerman - is a senior majoring in psychology and minoring in anthropology. When she isn’t hiking, painting, or cooking, she’s probably listening to Fleetwood Mac or playing with her dog. Jack Gillespie - is a sophomore studying English and Government. His personal bible is On the Road by Jack Kerouac, and he thinks everyone should work less and make more art. Jamie Holt - is a senior in the class of 2022 double majoring in Photojournalism and French & Francophone Studies. These pieces are from a body of street-photography work taken during her time abroad in Paris in the spring of 2021. Jenna Massey - is a sophomore studying English at the College. She has a copy of “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver taped above her bed, and thinks that says just about everything you need to know about her. JR Herman - ‘24 is a Classics and Ancient Near East & Africa Studies double major. During her free time, JR enjoys writing, taking photos, curling up with a book, baking sweet treats, listening to French music on Spotify, and deciphering Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. Julia Savoca Gibson - loves to tell stories, both those she finds and those she creates. She hopes you enjoy her tales. Klara Smith - is a freshman at the College of William and Mary. She plans to major in History and Government. In her free time she enjoys writing, reading good books, and watching artsy movies. Lace Grant - is a sophomore studying Marketing and English. They began to write poetry only in the past few months, and they hope to contribute more in the future. Lauren Mullaney - is a freshman planning on majoring in biology. She enjoys listening to music and taking pictures, preferably at the same time. Lily Lin - In the mist, do I see the real you or a projected fantasy of myself ?
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Notes Liz Williams - is a graduate student in the School of Education. She has an affinity for stone fruit, her dog Cali, and singing in her car with the windows down. This is her first publication. Mary Reduzzi - would just like to say that drawing has always been an outlet for her and that receiving opportunities like this to publicize her work makes her genuinely happy. Meghan Gates - tries her best to remember to take her multivitamins and tries her best to forget that time in the 5th grade when she tripped in the cafeteria in front of the third graders. Pelumi Sholagbade - is a sophomore at William & Mary studying psychology and English. Rachel Eom - I am a junior majoring in Kinesiology, and I have practiced fine arts for 13 years now, in which I have worked with a wide variety of media, from colored pencil, to watercolor paint, and to metal (but I do have to say that my favorite media is colored pencil). As someone who is interested in all spheres of STEM and aspires to establish a career in the field, I strive to intersect my knowledge of art and science whenever possible, combining the two disciplines in both my academic studies and my artwork. Shawna Alston - is a first-year who pulls words from clouds and kisses them gently. She wants you to never forget them. Tessa Wilkinson - My name is Tessa Wilkinson and I am a Junior majoring in Film & Media Studies and minoring in English. This piece is named after the first street I ever lived on. Tom Plant - is a senior at the College majoring in International Relations and Hispanic Studies. Outside of his research into online mis- and disinformation, Tom enjoys painting as a hobby.
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Dear Reader,
Editors’ Note
We live in momentous times, don’t we? This is the second issue of The Gallery created during the COVID-19 pandemic. After our previous super-sized issue combining three semesters of student art and writing into one magazine, this issue brings us back to our usual format: one semester in fifty-something pages, featuring some of the best art and writing at William & Mary! We are so grateful to all our contributors, whose creativity and brilliance went into this fantastic fall issue. Thank you for sharing your work with us. This is actually an expanded version of The Gallery, available exclusively on our Issuu page, featuring extra pieces from contributors that we couldn’t fit into the print issue. For the past year, The Gallery team met remotely, but this fall we returned home to Tucker Hall to gather each week and review submissions. We welcomed over a dozen new members of staff, many who will take up editorial roles this upcoming semester as our senior editors prepare to graduate. From hearty discussions in Tucker about potential pieces to working together on magazine layout in the basement of Campus Center, it’s been incredible to see so many talented students get involved with the magazine. For my part, as I head into my final semester as editor-in-chief, I couldn’t be more excited for the future of The Gallery. We truly hope you enjoy reading through this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it together. — Julia Savoca Gibson
Colophon
The Gallery Volume 36 Issue 1 was produced by the student staff at the College of William & Mary and published by Carter Printing Co. in Richmond, Virginia. Submissions are accepted anonymously through a staff vote. The magazine was designed using Adobe Indesign CS5 and CC and Adobe Photoshop CC. The magazine’s 56, 6x9 pages are set in Garamond. The cover font and the titles of all the pieces are Derivia. The text on the cover is set in Lora.
Check out the Gallery online www.issuu.com/gallerywm/ www.instagram.com/thegallerywm/ www.facebook.com/wmgallery/
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