1
We took our dreams and put them here. Our dreams are not
contained by sleep; even after we wake, they cling to us like tar. Rubbing them from our eyes is futile. A dream is just an ambition with the edges softened, a longing no amount
of fulfillment can satiate. It’s alright. No one is complete. Instead of perfection, you gave me this: how to love my broken soul, this wounded world.
— Joshua Welsch 2018
POETRY 03 UNTITLED Joshua Welsch 06 LAST DECADE AT THE FARM ON GLENDALE ROAD Jessica Vaughn 11 AUTOBIOGRAPHY I Benjamin Pinkley 14 ST. JUDE AND YOU Rachel Edgren 16 NEAR CHINA TOWN, NEW YORK Faith Sturgeon 19 TO DANCE WITH ALL ONE’S MIGHT Clark Hubbard 21 READING THE BELL JAR AND I’M REALLY TIRED Ali Rencken 22 TCHAIKOVSKY Sara Lytle 16 LATE AFTERNOON IN NANNING, CHINA Joel Holland
PROSE 17 AN UNFINISHED BALLED Liz Caldwell 26 SOUVENIR’S Emily Johnson
04 05 12 13
16 20 24
ART IVY Hannah Heckart FRANKENSTEIN Haeun Shim CRYING WOMAN Nick Gutierrez COOL GUY Nick Gutierrez
PHOTOGRAPH SERIES Campbell Padgett CHECKERED FASHION Maria Stewert REFLECTIONS Eli Creasy
2
UNTITLED • Josh Welsch
The perspiring popsicle dripped crimson into your nails. There were no napkins, but you didn’t mind. This too
was God blessing us in our lethargy, coating us in fructose to cover our bitterness. How could one be bitter,
with that cover-up draped from your shoulders like sunlight? When we were younger, our throats produced music instead of bile. Every butterfly was an angel, each streetlamp a ghost. You do not remember any of this now.
But choirs still sing when you lick syrup from your fingers.
UNTITLED • Hannah Heckart Photography 2018
4
FRANKENSTEIN • Haeun Shim
oil paint on canvas 2018
LAST DECADE AT THE FARM ON GLENDALE ROAD • Jessica Vaughn
A gate dangles from a currant-red post, held by a chain eaten up with oxidization. In the woods, everything is oxidized.
The metal’s molecular structure stings my nostrils and wafts
around till I have to accept it for what it is—decadent and numb.
The metal was new, once upon a time. The gate swings at my touch,
squealing Abandon all greed and worry, ye who enter here. Lay them down and adopt wonder, instead. I am now free to step onto the winding, rock-
encrusted trail that sweeps river-like through the trees and ends at a meadow opened wide like a maw hungry for the sun. Here the cattle graze,
lowing one to the other, communicating things too primal to understand.
The woods are graveyards for discarded combine parts, relics of a past, distant,
unknowable, and vast. They make excellent instruments when whacked with a stick. After supper, my grandfather rattles down the path in a pickup so old I can start it without keys in the ignition. Light filters
down through the heavy canopy to emblazon the truck a deep bronze. We keep fishing poles of stick and string nestled away in the crease of a tree. Let me tell you a history of everything, my grandfather says. He is an unpublishable almanac. I listen
far less than I should. Above the pond, flecks of dust float on eternally in streams of sunlight, seemingly unaffected by such frivolities as gravity. The stench of rust filters up into the air and assaults our senses, heedless to wonder or loss.
6
That’s when my eyes follow the one shiny strand of the web up to the top where the maker of the web
AN UNFINISHED BALLAD • Liz Caldwell
I wake up and walk to my kitchen one Saturday
morning. No one is around, and I wonder where my mom is. All is quiet. The sun is at my favorite point
in the sky. The rays fall through the windows at a perfect angle, illuminating the ivory on the piano keys and skidding off of the glass pitcher filled with
water and sliced lemon. I stare out the window to take it all in when something catches my eye on my front porch, about five feet from the window.
A baby wasp is trapped in a spiderweb. Not the
center of the web, but just one strand of it. The wasp is going insane too, spinning around. It tries to fly, but
I think one of its little legs is stuck, and it’s struggling to get out of this web.
I hate wasps. When I was little, I didn’t believe they
existed before The Fall. I still don’t. So when I see this smaller-than-average wasp stuck in a web, I am almost
excited. “Yeah,” I think. “Serves you right. One of your cousins stung me last week, and I can still see the welt.”
perches. She sits, barely visible in the daylight as her almost transparent body blends in with the web. A
chill runs up my spine as I watch her stalk her prey. I wonder if the wasp sees her too, but by his adamant attempts at escape, I assume he does.
For some reason this makes my stomach churn. This baby wasp was merely out and about one morning and all of the sudden, he’s trapped. He tries to fly, but he can’t, he’s stuck. He writhes in frustration and turns in terror, using every bit of stamina he has
in his little wings to try to escape. He looks up. He
sees his future killer, patiently waiting for him to run out of endurance, so she can restrain him and eat
him alive. He knows this, that’s why he continues to
struggle. Over and over he tries to fly, but the more he
struggles the more he is stuck. The adolescent insect wonders if his parents will realize he is gone most of the morning and if they will ever find him, or if he will be a late-night snack for the spider and never be
seen again. The spider sits, the wasp struggles, and here I sit, with the power to intervene and end it all.
Yet I don’t. I’d be messing with the balance of things. What if that wasp is destined to die? What if it grows up, stings a man in the neck, and the man
dies because he is allergic to wasps? And what if that
man would have been the father of the next great
and I think, “This is it. He’s a goner from here.” I hate
the first eco-friendly plastic or found the cure to the
want to sit here and watch its death play out. Feels
American inventor who would have constructed common cold? My mere interference could create a distortion in the fabric of future generations, and
I can’t let that happen. I’m not in the business of
wasps. I swear I hate wasps. But I don’t know that I a bit like I’m an onlooker of a shark attack that just pulled out my camera.
playing God, anyway.
The spider backs up for a bit, no doubt taking a
I think about what would happen if I went out and
going anywhere. She retreats up the web, catching
freed the wasp (I’d probably get stung) and killed the spider. Or if I just killed the wasp and saved him from his inevitable misery. Or if I just had a tiny bow
and arrow and was able to shoot the wasp and help out the spider. Fifteen minutes pass, and
I’m still hunched over, elbows on the counter,
breather. The wasp wriggles furiously, but he isn’t
her breath. The wasp uses all of his might to try to fly. I start to admire him. He really isn’t giving up. What
courage, what strength. In the face of his killer, he fights. Tied down and trapped, he refuses to be an easy breakfast (I mean dinner).
watching the battle transpire.
The spider moves in again, and I watch another battle.
The spider moves in. The wasp continues to struggle.
least five more times, and my elbows start to get tired,
She lunges, she lands on top of the wasp. The wasp buzzes so fast I can’t see his wings, but he doesn’t
escape. He’s spinning and spinning, the spider’s
Spin. Wrap. Sting. Retreat. This process happens at but I’m far too invested in this fight to just walk away, despite the fact I have no idea whose side I am on.
legs move feverishly around him. I keep waiting
Thirty minutes.
his wings. He doesn’t stop. He’s still moving, she’s
Finally, here it is. This has got to be the end. The spider
but she keeps fighting. He messes up her work, she
attacks and defenses for the final round. The spider
for the wasp to stop moving. She would surely trap
still working. The wasp stings her. She slows down,
holds him down. He tries to sting, she dodges. She
spins him around, using all eight legs to restrain and wrap him. I see the web forming around the wasp,
has rested, the wasp has waited, both planning their gets a running start down her web and charges for
the wasp. The wasp waits, confidently, conserving every bit of energy for his last battle. I mentally pay
8
him my respects and apologize for not intervening
I frantically glance around, looking for any sign of
make it out of this; although, part of me hopes I am
that any fight happened at all, not even a strand of a
for the last half hour. There is surely no way he can
wrong. I know full well that he will most likely grow
up to sting me, but he is a warrior, and I admire him for it in these last moments.
Just as the spider lands on him, my phone rings. Startled by the sound, I whip around and scan the
surrounding countertops for my phone. I don’t see it anywhere. Why would I get a phone call at 8:30—I mean, 9:03—in the morning? Whoever it is will have to wait. I have to watch the end.
The ringing stops, and I turn back around to look out the window.
Wait, not this window. It was this window. No. No, it was definitely this window. Wasn’t it? Where is it? Where is the wasp? Where is the spider, the web, the fight scene? Where is it all?
the spider or wasp, but there is nothing. No trace web blowing in the breeze. I slam my head against a
cabinet, enraged that I took my eyes off of the scene for even a split second. I watched for a total of 34 minutes, and in my head, I wrote a screenplay, I’m
already talking to Pixar about an upcoming short. But in less than 34 seconds, the whole thing is over,
and I have no idea how it ended. I look outside one more time, just to check, but there is not a single sign of life save for a small bug—so small I can’t even
tell what it is—that barely hovers around where the greatest battle of my entire yard went down. I think
about erecting some sort of memorial in the name of the unknown victor. Instead, I pour a bowl of cereal.
10
AUTOBIOGRAPHY I. Benjamin Pinkley
A slim, mottled cownose, sucked flat to peach sand by air trapped beneath it,
lilts an eye upwards for
the ocean it is not a part of, apart from the tide it feels receding.
Dad and I dig a trench
and wash it back to the Atlantic. My four-year-old palms tucked beneath its leathered skin, it skids forward and
runs the flume of froth and shells to glide above the water.
12
CRYING WOMAN Nick Gutierrez Charcoal on paper 2018
•
14
COOL GUY • Nick Gutierrez Charcoal on paper 2018
ST. JUDE AND YOU• Rachel Edgren
You aren’t looking either,
Your brother sits in a maroon recliner
Blue. White. Red.
next to you.
He’s watching the Walking Dead, and you both look up
as we enter the room.
You wave to me, knowing my bright red scrubs mean I don’t quite know what I’m doing but I’m trying.
Your nurse is premediating you for your next round of chemo.
She asks you where your mother is. You shrug.
Your brother looks at me
and his eyes ask, “aren’t I enough?” A zombie’s head gets crushed by the butt of an axe. I can’t look
(I never was into shows with violence and gore), but I can hear the blood spilling onto the floor.
I sneak a glance at you,
trying to avoid the screen.
your hands are up by your chest.
You touch your triple lumen CVC. Blue. White. Red. Again and again. A rosary.
You’re looking out the window
at trees like a summer campfire. Orange. Yellow. Red.
The fog climbs up their trunks and melds into the gray sky.
Your nurse asks if you need anything after she injects you with Benadryl
and some other drugs with names I don’t recognize, and you shake your head.
I catch your eye on the way out the door, sanitizer still bubbling in my hands.
Netflix asks, “are you still watching?” Your brother presses “yes,”
and you turn your head away.
NEAR CHINA TOWN, NEW YORK• Faith Sturgeon
Dedicated to Professor Lee Benson We part ways in the subway tunnels like rats drawn to the trash, each to our own
work and more work, nobody speaking up for the saxophone that is tossed about for
quarters and dimes in an encasement that is taken out and loaded back into the Aldi cart. We sway meshed together like a crocheted scarf, we think about Ezra Pound’s metro poem, and we think about how headphones with the sound off let us distance
ourselves and still be aware yet not speak at all. All the sculpture and graffiti is swallowed by the dismal repetition of crime ratings. Next morning, the dirtied man with a sad face and dark hair pulls his vulture wings from a satchel and swings them
over his shoulder and buckles them on and flies away from New York as an angel who
has found no person worth using or mentioning. Tourists try and wear black, but their black is only dark gray. Banksy is a god. The cops are unexpectedly religious.
16
18
NIGHT, WOMAN & GIRL PAINTING & GIRL TAKING COMMUNION • Campbell Padgett Photography 2018
TO DANCE WITH ALL ONE’S MIGHT • Clark Hubbard
Standing on top of a nine-thousand-foot mountain, the world went white, and I felt my ears pop.
I’ve been scared of lightning ever since.
I had a friend who used to lick nine-volt batteries for fun. His sixth birthday, all he asked for (and got) were batteries, and he licked them for hours at a Chuck E. Cheese’s. I didn’t understand
but then I tried to plug in a Super Nintendo and felt my bicep cramp up, a wave roll up my forearm, my fingers tighten against themselves, and a quiet humming in my sternum before I was punched across the room by an unseen, all-powerful djinn. If lightning could do that, I would run into open fields on bad days to feel that coarse pulsing in my head, hoping to be flung sideways like a marionette.
I want to dance before the storm
with all my might. Teach me.
20
CHECKERED FASHION • Maria Stewart Photography 2018
READING THE BELL JAR AND I’M REALLY TIRED • Ali Rencken
I’ve been looking at this page for nine and a half minutes, and I finally realized that the girl mixed a raw egg and raw hamburger in a teacup and she ate it.
And now all I can imagine is the transparent jelly of the egg smeared over the gummy pulp of the meat and the gluey, salty unborn fowl and dead cow hemorrhaging in my mouth, tasting a little bit like egg drop soup and plopping into the acid of my stomach. I think the platypus is the only mammal that lays eggs. Aren’t they funny? Duck bills, beaver tails, muskrat fur, geese feet quilted together. I type “are platypus eggs edible” in my search engine.
My roommate just told me I should go to sleep, as she plodded down the beige-carpet hall in her gray Army sweatpants. That sounds nice. But the night sky is out and I’m very busy smearing my eyeliner into wax rubbings of the moon cycle.
I saw a commercial once where a man cracked an egg With his thumb and splattered the quivering innards onto a skillet, where they belched chalky bubble, like stress-induced aerophagia. He warned that this would be my brain on drugs: a curdle of vomit shriveling into crust. Well, I’m not on drugs. Or caffeine. But something about the black iron skillet and broken shell makes me think of Prometheus curing Zeus’s headache by striking the allfather’s forehead with his axe. Amid the shards of ivory skull, Athena sprang with her sword drawn, bloodlight in her eyes. Grown from the roots of Zeus’s hair, cocooned in his ancient skull, she stood with cerebral afterbirth drying on her cheeks, and wisdom was born with the realization that even the mind of a god is as fragile as an eggshell.
TCHAIKOVSKY • Sara Lytle
Voluptuous lilies rustle the reflected sky
Sweeping the algae near the banks
The woodpecker taps tap,tap,tap Reed sway in melodious synchronization
As they are strummed by the night-breeze
The wind plucks the weeping willow strands
One by One
22
Hyacinth reflects its lavender
Crickets are hushed by angry toads
A single reed whistles The stars steady the moon centers to waltz
and the dragonflies begin
REFLECTIONS • Eli Creasy
Oil on Canvaas 2018
24
Jacob muttered out of one corner of his mouth, “And Yarborough steps to the plate. This might be a low
SOUVENIRS • Emily Johnson
July droned in Wallace, Missouri, loud as the cicadas.
The insects were the worst part, Jacob decided, kicking his feet out as he trudged down the eleven-
and-a-half minute stretch of road to Grandfather’s house. Just a little worse than the damp air. Lifting a foot to step over a murky pothole, Jacob paused.
Writhing shapes distorted his reflection in the black
water. He walked to a small oak sapling missed by weed eaters. The green wood peeled as he twisted
off a branch. Lifting the switch, Jacob swiped the puddle. Dark water sprayed, drops speckling his old brown dress shoes. This morning he’d worn nice
shoes instead of his favorite cloud-white Adidas. Mrs. Crowley had asked him to “practice professionalism” for his biology presentation. When he politely declined, she had asked again.
She’d asked in the way adults do when they’re not really asking.
He adjusted, shuffling backwards. His hands slid into position like he was holding a baseball bat.
pitch.” He swung hard, the switch snapping against
the water with a whipping sound. Jacob took
puddle-emptying very seriously; everyone knew
they bred mosquitos. Based on his calculations, by the end of the summer, Jacob fully expected to have prevented a plague.
Jacob had protested enrolling in Cunningham County Elementary’s “Get Ahead!” program. Everyone knew
you weren’t supposed to go to summer school if you
were smart. Grandfather was unmoved. He said it was to help with culture shock, to make sure Israeli
education standards held up to Wallace, Missouri’s Common Core. Jacob knew Grandfather just wanted him out of the house.
Today, he lingered, dragging the stick through the puddle and drawing shapes. It was the three-month anniversary
of Dad’s crash. Grandfather would be quieter than
normal. Across the drainage ditch, a mockingbird trilled from an ivy-draped elm. Insects sang like the choir from the cathedral back home in Tel Aviv.
In the end, this puddle only took nine splashes to empty. Reluctantly, Jacob tossed away the branch and turned
the corner. Grandfather’s house was separate from the
others on the street, farther back from the pavement.
closed his eyes. Instantly, he saw it all again: the
summers. Wooden, with a deep green door and
calling “Jake! C’mon, I’m about to leave!” His smile
Remarkably white, despite years of steaming by shudders, single story, wide windows facing north. An ancient tulip poplar leaning in the wind. The sidewalk
was noticeably swept. Honeysuckle crocheted the
white, modern walls, the warm décor. Dad’s voice, as he handed Jacob an unwrapped shoe box. “Happy early birthday, Jake. They’re a big deal stateside.”
small picket fence protecting the front yard. Three
Jacob’s eyes blinked open quickly. No time for
named Helen had parked the black SUV in the street,
murdering loafers. It was time to change into his
months ago, when the woman from Child Services Grandfather had been on his knees in the front yard, hunting dandelions by hand. He sat back, eyes narrow
in the sun, and watched as Helen opened the door for Jacob. It wasn’t until Helen called “Mr. Yarborough?” that he slowly stood, leading them inside.
that. Sitting up, he kicked off his brown, mosquito-
Adidas. Glancing around the room, Jacob frowned. They weren’t in the corner. Jacob folded over the edge of the bed, lifting the bed skirt. No shoes. Underneath
his desk was clear, too. His shoes should be here—he knew he hadn’t taken them out of the room.
Jacob whipped open the front door. “I’m back.”
Standing, he grabbed his lunch bag and walked to
He was probably in the greenhouse, Jacob thought,
He wouldn’t panic. He scoured the couch and chairs,
Grandfather didn’t answer, but that was normal. walking down the hall to his bedroom. Jacob didn’t
like his room; it was dim all the time. In Tel Aviv, the light was clean, bright. In Wallace, the light that
seeped through the wide window was weak after
filtering through the dense poplar. Jacob thought it
the living room, trying to swing the sack like normal.
kneeling to search under cabinets. Nothing. The room was just as tidy as it had been three months
ago when Grandfather had gestured for him and Helen to take the couch.
was brave for making the attempt.
Before May 23, Jacob had never seen his grandfather.
Tossing his lunch sack into the corner near his desk,
away from Israel. He stopped taking vacation days
he bounced onto the old, wrought iron twin bed.
He’d pushed it under the window the first day to get as much light as possible. Without thinking, Jacob
After Mom died, Dad took on more work, more jobs at all. Jacob listened as Dad promised Grandfather over the phone that they’d visit the next summer,
always the next summer. That first afternoon,
26
watching his grandfather sit in the worn armchair, Jacob
The greenhouse was small, maybe three by four
hair was thick and white, but his face was tanned dark
ceiling. Green poured from the shed like honey. In
had thought he looked very old, like a marble bust. His
by decades of weeding in the Missouri sun. Grandfather
adjusted his soft cotton button-up, unrolling the sleeves. His mouth was straight; his whole body was straight and
narrow like one of the pear trees in the backyard. Helen was explaining again, saying things everyone knew:
that this was a temporary arrangement while distant relatives figured out who wanted the boy from Tel Aviv. Grandfather had nodded, spoken a few quiet words. He tried to smile at Jacob but couldn’t quite make it.
Dumping soggy PB&J crusts into the kitchen trash, Jacob paced the room, opening cabinets in a strange hope of
finding the shoes next to cans of Campbell’s. No white
Adidas. Jacob’s pulse increased. No need to panic. He’d find Grandfather; he must have moved them. Pushing
open the back door, Jacob was hit with a wall of heat.
Heavy sun lanced through his squinted lids. Clouds grazed across the sky. A jet inched between clouds, scarring the
meters. If he jumped, he could touch the glass-paneled every corner, leaves and blooms bathed in light. Jacob didn’t know the names of many. Squat, cylindrical plants sat in pots along the floor. Tall, stretching
ferns and palms stood like sentinels behind them. Ivy with gold and blush splotches ascended two of the walls and draped from the ceiling. Wide leaves with
serrated edges and needle-thin stems with bristles hid between larger pots. Some leaves were dark
and shimmered as light flicked across them. Others were pale and veined, almost frozen. There was just enough space to walk between them all and pivot with
a watering can. Like a nave in a cathedral, the space
led to an altar: a small, sprawling orchid displayed on a dark wood pedestal. Acianthera compressicaulis, found only in the increasingly rare rainforests of Haiti
and the Dominican Republic. Jacob had read about it in one of Grandfather’s books.
blue with a rippled white trail. Jacob’s muscled tensed.
As far as orchids go, Jacob didn’t think it was very
Images of broiled and twisted metal flashed into his head.
as algae. Narrow stalks held dozens of small flowers;
Jacob pushed the memory away. The backyard was small and tidy, with a row of pear trees in the back and a white
greenhouse just beyond the back door. Approaching the
shed, Jacob called, “Grandfather?” No response. Looking
behind him, Jacob opened the door and stepped into green.
impressive. The leaves were thick, tubular, and green the burden bent them in a graceful arc. Translucent, the yellow blooms glowed in the light like droplets of sun.
Acianthera compressicaulis was the reason he wasn’t
allowed in the greenhouse. Grandfather was worried
he’d knock it over or something. A dirt-worn tag was secured gently around a stalk in lieu of a name plate. To Dad, Love Jo
It reminded me of you Dad always brought back gifts. Jacob touched the orchid
gently in rebellion before turning back. He’d better leave before Grandfather found him. Moving faster, Jacob let
the screen door slam behind him. He heard a sound from the study; Grandfather didn’t like it when he slammed doors. He stopped before calling to ask about the Adidas,
remembering there was one room he hadn’t checked.
his originally white Tel Aviv Lightning baseball jersey. Garret Lewis, from his team back home, had sent it last
week. Jacob flipped the jersey, brushing the bright red, embroidered “16” on the back. Grandfather must not
have turned it over. Numbly, he picked through a wad of old underwear until the machine was almost empty.
At the bottom of the metal washer, his newly pink Adidas blushed up at him.
The cicadas’ descant faded into a high ringing. Jacob picked the shoes up. The damp color tinged his fingers.
He passed Grandfather’s study; the old man sat with
He’d told Grandfather you didn’t wash new tennis shoes.
anniversary days. Jacob didn’t want to think about it. He
It felt like he swam through the house. He pushed open
clothes mounded the hardwood floor. The organization
stitched across the blue sky. Lifting his arm, Jacob hurled
his head in his hands. Grandfather was always worse on turned into the laundry closet. Small molehills of sorted was clear: whites, brights, darks, reds. No tennis shoes.
The washer lid was closed. Stepping over a pile of old black and brown socks, Jacob lifted the top of the washing machine. Pink bloomed from the load of clothes. Grandfather did not own anything pink.
the back door. Humidity slicked him in sweat. Another jet a bright pink shoe into the wet air. He had never pitched farther. Jacob watched it clear the small back fence and land in the drainage ditch with a small splash. Rotating his arm, he launched the second shoe after the first, yelling.
Jacob’s empty hands hung heavy. The greenhouse glowed in the afternoon sun. Instantly, he decided.
Jacob began pulling out articles of clothing from the full
He shoved through the back door. The screen slammed
azaleas lining the front of the house. Finally, he reached
ignored him. Jerking open the junk drawer, Jacob fished
cycle. Everything was the same antique pink, like the
again. Grandfather called out with a weary voice, but Jacob
28
through the flotsam of broken pencils and appliance
battered screen door. Grandfather was standing in the
back, he let the door clap shut again behind him.
his hands shook a little. His shoulders sloped, and his
manuals. He gripped an old pair of scissors. Wheeling The sun was warm, and the plants in the greenhouse
seemed to drift. Acianthera compressicaulis basked in a beam. The tag winked at him. Grabbing a thick stem with
middle of the kitchen, holding a rosy pair of underwear; eyes were red. Grandfather opened his mouth to speak,
unable to meet Jacob’s eyes. He noticed Jacob’s hands, and stopped. The silence buzzed like static between them.
a pink-stained fist, he sliced through green veins and
Without saying anything, the old man walked past
at them, leaving torn, membrane-webbed gashes and
Jacob trailed behind, crying at the steps, watching his
arteries. The scissors were dull; he had to keep heaving cuts behind him. Soft gold petals fluttered to the brick
floor. Jacob stomped on them. Using the closed scissors as a spade, he pulled and stabbed at the roots, spilling the
plant onto the ground. He wept. He hadn’t cried, not since the first night when the policeman had come and Child Services had tried to deliver the news gently.
Suddenly, the cicadas were loud again, and he felt the
sweat dripping down his shirt. Staring at his pink, muddy hands, Jacob was afraid. He fled, shoving through the
Jacob and pushed open the screen door. He let it slam. grandfather stiffen in the greenhouse door like Pharaoh.
30
Landings on tiled balconies.
LATE AFTERNOON IN NANNING, CHINA • Joel Holland I.
An old man sweeps
Small plastic bags into his proud dust pile.
Sentries of glass shards scale the concrete wall That wraps around
The better part of an unfinished street.
The grey sheet darkens over the city,
Greeting the first rain in forty-three days. A five-year-old girl runs back
Inside her grandfather’s apartment
With a small green pail of water. She is pointing To changing shades outside and is soon
Excused from watering her family’s Sansevieria And three weeping figs. II.
The same sky is seen by students
Who really have been studying.
Sliding down rusted rails, recycled drops find
Below, umbrellas from the heat stay open,
Their owners navigating traffic’s blended beeping To catch a ride. The 2:05 bus has just arrived. Two men start playing a game of checkers Under the awning by the noodle shop. A man on his dinner break takes
His bowl to the steps and watches. He slurps
The last of his beef broth and saves the boiled egg for last. Behind them on the wall, the names
Of two people that haven’t spoken in fourteen years, Etched in Hanzi. IV.
On his way back from badminton practice, a twelve-yearold boy
Passes a homeless man on the dry bridge. He’s not sure
Why, but he’s called it the dry bridge since he was a boy. He stares at chafed elbows where limbs should be. Water drips down thinned hair.
Siblings whisper past a woman rushing home
In her green marigold dress. The puddles squish Beneath her loose sandals, and her
Husband is expecting dinner within the hour.
V.
A vendor taps his foot on the curb, Waiting for a customer
To decide between sugar cane and sweet corn. Then, he throws his cigarette down at the
Feet of a winding concrete wall behind him, Crowned at the top by glass.
Empty sidewalks on Ying Hua Road Lead to busy streets,
Komatsu cranes and aging trees Linger over both. The rain stops.
32
Josephine Paschall-Bullis, senior linguistics major, is a 22-yearold surrealist artist currently living in Jackson, TN, with her husband. Freshman English major Will Choate wrote this a few seconds ago. Natalie Gandy, senior art major, grew up in Africa and lost her first kiss to a giraffe. Junior art major Anna Guthrie has a passion for seeing beauty in the everyday, living in deep community, and chocolate. Joel Holland is a sophomore biblical studies and English double major, and he probably likes egg rolls more than you do. Senior English major Ellen Howard’s mother is alive and well. Sophomore double political science and English major Clark Hubbard hasn’t slept in nine months and doesn’t intend to start now. I, Songhyun Kim, designed this magazine because I’m a cool Korean. Aubrey Kurt, senior art major, has gone rogue. Bethany Lancaster, senior English and music double major, is North Carolina’s favorite daughter. English and film double major Lizzie McGaw unsuccessfully tries to sing all of the voice parts in Hamilton...at once. Benjamin Pinkley junior chemistry major is. Or is he? At any rate, he one day will be. Freshman English major Lillie Salazar misses her pet Labrador named Liberty. Junior art major Ricky Santos is a walking catalog of puns and dad jokes. Josh Smith, sophomore art major, likes odd textures and funky glazes and beautiful pots. Jessica Vaughn is a junior English major who loves Peanuts comic strips and blueberry tea and has post-grad ambitions to own a tiny house and a large, fluffy dog. Joshua Welsch, junior English major, sometimes fantasizes about being nuzzled to death by baby seahorses. Beau Williams, senior English major, wants to go to jail.
EDITOR
Joshua Welsch
EDITORIAL STAFF Bethany Lancaster Clark Hubbard Lillie Salazar Lizzie McGaw
DESIGN EDITOR Hannah Barr
DESIGN STAFF Chloe Akers Anna Guthrie
FACULTY SPONSOR Bobby Rogers Melinda Posey
PRINTED BY
Tennessee Industrial Printing, Inc. in Jackson, Tennessee, 2017
34
UNION UNIVERSITY / JACKSON, TN