Spring 2015 | Illumination: The Undergraduate Journal of Humanities by Illumination: the Undergraduate Journal of Humanities

SPRING 2015

illumination literature

essays

art

The Undergraduate Journal of Humanities

Lucy Hodkiewicz Feeling Heavy I Monoprint/Digital Print

Alice Walker-Lampani editor in chief

assistant editor Emmett Mottl Essay Laura Schmitt Samuel Wagner Suganya Sathimoorthi Prose Ainslie Campbell Kenneth Anderson John McCracken Rebecca Boehme Poetry Maham Hasan Marina Oliver Reid Kurkerewicz Anna Zabiega Art Sydney Scott Hillary Kuhlemeier Marketing Mitchell Turino Sean Barron Layout Rachel Wanat

Letter from the editor

ave you ever had one of those moments where everything you’re learning at that moment seems to be in perfect harmony- like someone has planned it? Recently, all of my classes have driven home the significance of the written word and the power of its mass production. A lesson that I must admit ,occuring in my senior year, after working and majoring in publications for the last four years, seems a bit scripted. While I hope that my life will have the satisfaction of a lighthearted drama, it’s hard not to reflect and appreciate what publishing speaks to our job here in PUB Com. The magic behind publications lies in the work of many to produce a product that expresses a passion. When we design, we design with the intent to inspire readers. Each publication, while it produces issues during the semester, also represents an identity, a family, shared by readers. Illumination has always been the “journal of the humanities” but it is also the only journal that publishes and highlights undergraduate student artwork on campus. The art world has always been a large part of my life and the ability to work within a journal that represents the work of our own campus is an honor. Working to collaborate with other organizations within the union, and on campus, is the first step within many to strengthen our identity as a resource for the artists on this campus. Hopefully inspiring the artists within us all to explore our own creativity, whether that’s through painting or the art of word.

—Alice Walker-Lampani

SPECIAL THANKS Illumination would like to extend a special thank you to Former Chancellor John D. Wiley and to the Lemuel R. and Norma B. Boulware estate for setting up the Boulware fund, which funds Illumination every semester.

Aaron David Cloud I Serigraph

table of

contents featured artists Aaron David Ben Skiba Caleb Weisnicht Danielle Bunker Oliva Chen Ryan Cain Jackson Froiland Kristina Warner Lauren Richards Lucy Hodkiewicz Luke Johnson Natalie Hinahara Nikki Johnson Ninghuang Zhao

Rebecca Gongora Suzanne Peterson Haoran Chang Lana Sholtz Anais Reyes Steven KP Jessie Sykes Sarah Rose Smiley Libby Rosa Grace Meurer Mira Kim Madison Portraz Samantha Bledstein William Doty

Essay

I Felt Good

In Honor of Jane Mitchell’s 90th Birthday

Daniel North Meg Huskin

prose Service

Above Bone

Boot Stamping On a Human Face Forever, Or English Dignity

Millenial Road

The Deconstruction of Nikki Thomas

Heirlooms

Ben Reiland Kieran Villoth

August Glomski Lindsay Nigh

Brianna Collins

Rachel Murnane

POETRY

46.8164°N, 90.6892° W

Sledding

Christmas 1914

Waterboys

You bird you rabbit

Canticle

elegy for a landmark

For the Boys Molested by Jerry Sandusky

Madeline Kelly Justine Jones Jack Casey

Cody Dunn

Mia Rose Sato

Caleb Weisnicht Emily Hegland Natalie Cook

ES SAY 8

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

YAS 9

Good

BY DANIEL NORTH

Felt

t was the only asphalt road I had seen since getting on the plane in Kazakhstan. The sand was fighting inch by inch, on both sides, to try and swallow it up and rid its home of the anomaly. The road was full of bongo trucks packed twenty feet high with stuff— grain, cows, donkeys, goats, fertilizer, furniture, and people—all halted to let us cross. I put the tube of my Marine Corps issued camelbak into my mouth and bit down on the end to release a flow of hot water that almost burned my throat as I swallowed. The sun in southern Afghanistan was unforgiving in the summer, and the 120-degree heat took all the pleasure out of hydrating. I didn’t really care though, I was a United States Marine and experiencing trivial displeasure such as this made me feel more alive for some reason, probably because I was naïve and blinded by the excitement of being in a warzone. I had been in Afghanistan for three weeks, and I was eager and determined to put all the training I had received to the test. I felt good; I felt a lot of things. I was part of route clearance platoon 3, in 1st combat engineer bat-

talion, and our job was simple: clear routes in the Helmand province of improvised explosive devices (IED’s) for follow-on forces to come through. We were on our second mission since becoming operational, and it had been boring and quiet; we hadn’t even been shot at. Martinez, my fire-team leader, was waiting on the other side of the asphalt road gesturing me across. He was a seasoned war veteran who was always pissed off. He was a tall fit man of Spanish descent with a serious demeanor and a hawk-like gaze that made you uncomfortable if you made eye contact with him. He had deep dark wrinkles that split his forehead into thin cigar-shaped sections from his perfectly horizontal hairline down to his neat eyebrows that looked as if he combed them. I struggled to get to my feet, fighting the 80 plus pounds of gear—M16 assault rifle, M203 grenade launcher, 12 magazines full of 28 rounds each, F12 mine detector, 2 frag grenades, 1 stun grenade, camelback, first aid kit, drop pouch, Kevlar helmet, and body armor—that weighted me down. After reaching the other side of the road I took a knee next to Marti-

nez who was in the middle of complaining about the locals. “These people are hopeless,” he said, “We should just drop a nuke on this place.” He had a hatred for all the people in Afghanistan that I couldn’t understand, but I never dared to question him and always just agreed with him to make things easier. I was hot; the sleeves of my fire-resistant camouflage blouse were covered with salt crystals that reminded me of the sugar glaze on a donut that had been sitting out too long. My sweat had dried and made my blouse feel like a cardboard suit. After his rant about the locals, Martinez explained to me that we were about a mile from the dirt road that we were to clear of bombs, and then he told me that he and I would be taking point on the road with our mine detectors. I felt good after hearing this. It was exciting to know that my platoon leadership wanted me out in front to find the bombs, and so I gave him the proper response, “aye aye Sergeant.” I felt good. We kept moving in our staggered formation toward our mission objective, the thick sand cushioning my

Aaron David Harvest Etching

steps as we went. The locals watched us as we passed them. All men—no women or girls; they were not allowed out of their mud huts when we were around; they were forbidden to show themselves around us. The men wore long “man dresses” that covered all their skin, and were

dirty and stained at the bottoms where the thin cloth dragged on the ground when they walked. Almost all of them wore sandals for shoes, or nothing at all, and they had funny looking hats on their heads that always made me think of a scene in “Indiana Jones” where the little monkey with the same kind of hat would run around the bazaar

and steal things to bring to his master. The locals never seemed to sweat, I guess they were just used to being outside all day in extreme heat, but it perplexed me all the same. Martinez stopped 20 meters ahead of me and gave me the signal to halt, so I stopped where I was and took a knee to provide security.

Martinez and some of the platoon leaders were using our interpreter to question some of the locals about the road we were about to go down. A local man was squatting like a baseball catcher off the side of the dirt road, studying me as I studied him. His face was worn—leather skin with age marks and wrinkles jutting off in all directions, disappearing into deep dark eye sockets. He turned to yell at young girls who were peaking around the opening of a mud hut, their curious eyes and foreheads vanishing upon the squatting man’s command. A young boy of 5 or 6 interrupted my view as he walked by, tugging a rope attached to a skinny dirty-white cow. The cowbell clanked and clamored rhythmically as the boy led the cow past me; the cows protruding hip bones seemed to almost break the skin, and almost all of the ribs were visible. The boy looked at me and smiled, that innocent smile of a young child who cannot yet disguise his emotions. I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, and he returned the gesture as most of the locals did. I felt good; I was excited and intrigued to be experiencing another culture. Martinez walked toward me from the huddle that was dispersing up ahead, his head swiveled back and forth on his broad shoulders, always scanning the terrain and the locals who inhabited it. Walking past the boy and the cow, he scowled and shoed the little boy off the road, then he did the same to the squatting man who was watching us. I felt bad for the little boy and the man; I watched their puzzled faces as they hurried into their hut made from earth and straw. Martinez yelled at me for letting locals get too close to our platoon, and then he told me it was time to get out my mine detector and accompany him to the front. As we walked the hundred or so meters up the

I got into my rhythm--a slow steady arm swing, making sure to keep the perfectly round detector head 3 inches above the dirt and as level as possible. road to the front, I was still thinking about the little boy and the way Martinez yelled at him. I could understand why we had such a bad reputation over there. We reached the front of the platoon and I saw where the road forked to the left. There was a line of rocks that cut across the road; the locals would do this to let each other know it wasn’t safe to travel past this line, an easy indicator that there were IED’s buried beneath the surface of the hot dirt. We got a quick mission brief from our Lieutenant, and then we got into staggered formation with Martinez and me at the front. I felt good. I slung my M16 assault rifle behind my back and unsnapped the 3 locking levers on

my matte-black F12 mine detector, pulling the long shaft out of the CPU before snapping the levers back in place. I felt good; I was trained to find bombs and I was happy to be doing my job. Martinez stepped off before me, down the left side of the narrow dirt road. I watched him go, his arm swinging back and forth like a pendulum as he used the same mine detector I had just readied, to carefully scan his side of the road for any sign of metal. I waited until he was about 15 meters away before I took my first step. I had done this hundreds, maybe thousands of times before, just in training though. I got into my rhythm—a slow steady arm swing, making sure to keep the perfectly round detector head 3 inches above the dirt and as level as possible. Every time I glanced up I could see Martinez striding along steadily in front of me, his combat boots created little dust clouds every time he took a step. I got comfortable pretty quickly. I felt good. We went on like this for some time—20 minutes or so, maybe longer. My right forearm burned from the constant swinging of my mine detector. I was thinking about switching the mine detector from my right arm to my left arm when it happened. My ears were ringing and it felt like I had water in them that needed knocking out. I was lying down in the road and the air was thick with dust that made me choke on it. My corpsman (a medic for Marines) was running towards me with 3 of my fellow Marines. I realized what had happened and turned towards Martinez. The dust was settling and I could see a large mushroom cloud forming that was already 50 feet in the air. My corpsman quickly checked me over before the group of us ran up to

where the blast had come from. The hole in the road was about 3 feet deep. My corpsman and two other Marines pulled Martinez out and put him on the greyish-green stretcher that had been set out next to the crater. As Martinez lay there on the stretcher, my eyes travelled up and down his broken body. His dusty manila combat boots were still on his feet. His legs were intact, his bones anyway. Most of the flesh from his calves to his waist was gone. There wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t much blood; the heat from the blast cauterized everything.

The bones were a smoky color and the mangled flesh hanging off of them was charred reddish-black. His torso was still there, but he was missing his right arm from the elbow down. His face was ghostly white and his neck was clearly broken. I will never forget his face. The blast pressure had forced his mouth wide open and broken his jaw, he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look like Martinez. The contrast of his pale white skin with the dark abyss that was his mouth made him look like a ghost. His eyes were open but there was nothing that was human left in them. Martinez was gone. Walking down

the road back to our convoy was blurry. I remember the spot where the boy had been with the cow, and the squatting old man, and the peaking girls. I walked down the road, perfect dispersion from the Marine in front of me, my head swiveled back and forth on my shoulders observing the terrain and the locals who inhabited it. There were young boys in the street begging for food and water and pens and pencils, as they normally do when we pass. I scowled at them and shoed them away. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel anything. l

Danielle Bunker Role Tide Photography

In Honor of

Jane Mitchell's 90th Birthday

took a selfie with my grandmother today. I held the phone in front of our faces and our images were filtered through its tiny lens, digitally encoded, and displayed back to us on the screen. I took a selfie with my grandmother and the only thing she could say at the sight of herself was “Good God! That face!” When my grandmother was my age, the world was fighting a war. She lived in New Jersey, and in high school, Jane and her boyfriend George had won “Best Couple” in their senior class. But that boy, along with the rest of them, had signed up for training and now were learning how to defeat Nazis. Jane’s father, my great-grandfather, thought she’d find a new beau soon enough, and before long would be a happily married, stay-at-home mother, as was common at the time. He didn’t consider it worth the money to send her to a four-year college, and instead sent her to a lady’s Finishing School in Virginia. I picture her packing her bags dutifully, concealing her worries about the war, about George, and about her future with feelings of hope. Virginia was a whole new world. But that didn’t mean it was a perfect world. In Virginia, at a school where she was supposed to learn how to walk, talk and eat like a polite, civilized lady, Jane encountered her first taste of Southern racism. Grandma told me she couldn’t believe it when she first saw the segregated bathrooms and drinking fountains. Compared to her life growing up not far outside New York City, the “bathroom situation” was an outrage. She spoke out; she joined protests, she expressed her dismay as well as a polite, dutiful young girl can, but ultimately, she left the school after a year. She had by then

BY MEG HUSKIN

very scandalous. “I came home every day with eyes as big as saucers!” Grandma says in her characteristic New Jersey accent which, still present after nearly 60 years in the Midwest, pronounces “saucers” as “sawsuhs.” But the war ended eventually. A victory! George came home in one piece, reunited with her and married her. They moved to Chicago where Grandpa George could finish out his education under the benefits of the GI Bill. In the late 50’s, Jane gave birth to twin boys. Later on, in 1963, she had a baby girl. She held her daughter close to her chest and wept as she listened to Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream Speech” live on television. Meg Huskin When the kids were old enough Jane Mitchell to take care of themselves, Jane Photography returned to work as a secretary. As gotten a wide enough taste of the far as I know, she enjoyed the job, world, and she was determined to but didn’t care so much for the pay. earn her degree. Noticing a discrepancy in wages Jane transferred to Syracuse between men and women doing the University. Despite her father’s same job, she demanded equal pay. grumblings, she succeeded there. Grandma chuckles as she recounts She double majored in Art and Psyhow many people were sent to “deal chology and rose to become president with” her, but ultimately no one of her sorority. She worked as a could break her one-woman rebelwaitress to help pay her tuition and lion. She left the job eventually, -- Grandma looks at me as she says but she must have made a lasting this -- her favorite people, the ones impression. Years later she ran into she learned the most from in school, her ex-boss’s son, who still rememwere the ones that had to work their bered her as “The Famous Jane way to a degree. Mitchell.” The mischievous gleam in After college she took her skills her eye as she tells this part of her as a painter to a factory that made story make me think that she’s inthermometers. From morning to tentionally leaving out a few sordid quittin’ time she painstakingly details, which only makes me look at handpainted each line and number this classy, kindhearted lady with a on the little glass tubes. The other new respect. employees were Polish refugees who My grandmother has seen a lot liked to gossip about the things that and done a lot. She lived through entertained them back at home, depressions and recessions, protests before the Nazis had invaded. With and presidents. But now it’s the wry smiles they told Jane stories of 2010’s, not the 1940’s. Now the Nazis the hidden, underground culture of no longer control Europe, and more Warsaw, of forbidden, clandestine women than men attend 4-year colmeetings in the night time. It was all

leges and earn degrees, and we have an African American president, and I’m holding in front of her a device as small as my hand that can perform nearly every task imaginable,

including snap a simple selfie. And yet, at the sight of her own face on the screen, at the sight of her white hair and sunken eyes, those eyes that have seen and done so much, all she

can say, is “Good God! That face!” Proving once again that, no matter how much we see the world around us change, nothing surprises us more than the changes in ourselves. l

Lana Scholtz Ivory Graphite and Charcoal

pr ose 16

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

eso 17

Service BY BEN REILAND

aycolle and Rawcliffe were beat. The two had been chasing the Senator’s loose hound when his wife left with the matador last evening. In a meaner spirit than usual, the Senator had again called their competency into question and threatened to remove them from the service. But they hadn’t been fired, so their night was spent tracking the lovers down. They’d driven all around the Baltimore area until they received a tip they couldn’t ignore. Now they were sitting in their black sedan parked across from the drowsy Grand Hotel of Columbia, staring at the row of glass entrances below the unlit windows set in colorless concrete. Waycolle shifted his gaze to the small yellow light on the handle of the Taser plugged into the cigarette lighter. His Taser; Rawcliffe had broken hers over the head of a thug last week when its charges had failed to debilitate him. He looked to her. Her gaze was focused on the building. Still her left hand remained steady on the steering wheel as though prepared to veer away at any moment. “They’re Spanish, right?” Rawcliffe’s jacket rustled as sh e lifted her shoulders slightly and let them drop. The charcoal suit coat’s sound ruled the car for a few seconds before Waycolle spoke again. “How much do you know about matadors?” “Nothing.” Waycolle dropped back in his seat, eyes falling once more to the little yellow light. If he didn’t know better he might have thought it was warning him against the duty he

had grown weary of. To break from those thoughts he looked to the hotel ahead. He choked his tie closer to his thick neck, checked the morning left on his watch, then turned back to Rawcliffe. “But most of them aren’t French.” Rawcliffe had nothing to say. She had the same information he did: the matador was invited by some film star or other in the area, their party was invited to the Senator’s party, the Senator’s wife had taken off with him while they were chasing Sparky. And he was French. Waycolle hoped she might have a fresh insight as she sometimes did, but when she answered it was to end the conversation. “Yes.” The passenger window caught his breath in a cloud of condensation, reminding him of better times on colder days. He wondered what would happen this time: if the lover would fight, if the senator’s wife would cry, if she would beg for them to just let her be. Some higher ups called the Senator the hardest man in Washington, long before Cheney showed up. At home he was even worse. Waycolle used to curse his assignment detail. He didn’t know how Rawcliffe handled it. He just breathed. His service was protection, and this service had been stretched by the Senator’s demands. “Today. It’s going to be different.” Waycolle was surprised. Rawcliffe seldom let him know what she thought, but she was doing so now. Her words were hesitant, careful. He knew she was being mindful of the vehicle’s 24 hour surveillance equipment. “You want it to happen today?” Waycolle replied. “Yes.”

He knew he shouldn’t say it, but it fell out of his mouth like stone through still water. “We should have done it sooner.” There was a pause before Rawcliffe responded. When she did it was with her typical soldier’s remove. “I’ve accepted that, as I’ve accepted we can only do so much.” He hoped it had been hard to her to find that remove. Waycolle watched the yellow light on the Taser’s matte black handle flash to green. “It’s charged,” he announced. Rawcliffe picked it up as he turned to open the car door. The motion reminded him of his cologne, the one that helped him talk people down in bad situations. Sure, it was a superstition, but as he stepped out of the car he hoped it would help him this time. The pair crossed the early morning traffic to the sunnier side of the street. Rawcliffe was taller than Waycolle, around 5’10” with long brunette hair she wore wrapped in a tight bun. Her cheekbones were thrust high on her face like the pommels of claymores, their blades meeting at her pointed chin. Waycolle, 5’7” or 5’8”, sported a baldhead and meaty face that matched his bulldog body type. They both wore sunglasses and matching suits which did not brighten as they moved from shadow into sunlight. If the hotel staff recognized them they did a good job of hiding it. The staff played their role not noticing them when they entered as they would pretend to forget them when they left. The pair had made many visits like this. When they made it to the empty elevator Rawcliffe pressed the button for the top floor. They both knew that the ride

William Doty Skybox Watercolor, Collage, Cardboard,Acetate Assemblage

from the lobby to the top floor was never longer than 2 minutes. They spent this time in silence, staring at their tainted reflections in the gold metal of the elevator door. The familiar blend of almond and vanilla, smelling both status and concealment, stretched from the carpet into their nostrils as the walked to the room. Below the dull hum of the hall lights, Waycolle could hear Rawcliffe was knocking her teeth together.

“Rawcliffe,” he said to her in a low register as they strode past the beige, green, and sand swirled walls. “You’re grinding your teeth.” Her jaw clenched once more, then stopped. She nodded without so much as a pause in her step. They arrived at room 3214 just as a hotel staff member rolled up from the opposite direction with a white clothed meal cart. Rawcliffe stared at the hotel employee through black lenses and wordlessly rapped on the door.

“Who is it?” a female voice called from the room. “Rawcliffe and Waycolle, Ma’am.” Her answer was met with silence. The room service boy looked about to say something, but under Rawcliffe’s stare he shrank away from the door and back down the hall. The two remained still, listening to the hotel’s quiet morning hours. Rawcliffe stood, statue of war before the door while Waycolle leaned his back on a swathe of thick burgundy wallpaper

and scuffed his shoes against the black and gold carpet. “Think she told him who she is?” Waycolle asked. “She tells all of them. She has to.” Rawcliffe replied without hesitation. They had no way of knowing this. Of all the lovers they’d marched in on, less than half of them remained in bed or stood aside as the agents did their job. Most of them bolted, scared children fleeing hostile kidnappers. But that was just how Rawcliffe thought: why else would they sleep with her? Waycolle knew arguing was pointless, so Waycolle tuned into the electric buzz of the florescent hall lights, and, just below that, sounds from the room. From inside, a man’s voice murmured something he couldn’t quiet make out. Then he heard the Senator’s wife say “If I don’t open it, they’ll find a way to open it themselves.” The door fell into the room, and there she was, blonde haired with a slightly crooked nose separating a set of downcast brown eyes. She was wrapped in deep red bed sheets, standing just beyond the light of the hall stretching through the doorframe. “Come in.” The woman retreated into the dark hotel room as Rawcliffe and Waycolle entered. Waycolle closed the door and turned to his partner. In the dim bottleneck of the room Rawcliffe motioned she would check the bathroom immediately to the right of the entrance. He gestured that he would follow the Senator’s wife. Walking into the bedroom he nearly tripped over the bottles on the floor. The scent of spilled wine, sweet and dry, filled his nostrils as he stepped around first the party reminders, then the piles of clothes to the drawn shades a few paces away. He pulled them open and looked to the light filled room. The off white walls and sand colored carpet soaked in the light without reaction, as did the mountain of tan luggage in the near corner. The olive green lounge chair seating a terrier sized lady’s purse,

the imitation oak end table, and the matching dresser on the opposite wall did not blink, nor did the king sized bed with its burgandy bed sheets and plump pillows. The man in the bed, however, began cursing in his guttural French. He shielded his eyes and jumped from the bed towards the window. Waycolle stood in the clearly naked matador’s path, stopping him a few steps from the shades. The matador blinked rapidly, wrinkling his face as he tried to see the man allowing the sun’s bright agony. He said something angrily in French. Waycolle remained rooted as he responded. “Sir, I understand French is your native language, but it will be best for everyone here if you speak in English. Please act civilly or Agent Rawcliffe and myself will be forced to restrain you.” The matador laughed as if this was a joke he didn’t understand, but was playing along with. The laugh ended with a cold stare and a movement of his arm, but the man stopped short of action when the Senator’s wife spoke. “Please, Paul, he isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s just confused.” She said this in a worried voice, as if Waycolle might hurt her bull-slaying lover. She had not said anything since they had entered. She was still standing wrapped in red on the other side of the room. Both of the men looked to her as Rawcliffe entered the room. “We’re not here to quarrel, Ma’am. We’re just here to get you home.” “Please, take off those sunglasses. They make you both look so… bad.” Neither of them humored her request as she gathered pieces of her clothes from the floor and continued to speak. “The both of you can relax while I gather my things. I just ordered room service. I’ve been so hungry. Perhaps you’d like some?” “We sent him away, Ma’am. We’ll be leaving too soon for you to have a meal. If you need food we can get it when we’re on the road.” Rawcliffe seemed to be reminding her of something. Waycolle knew that was her

The matador turned and laughed, a black tone that tossed mockery and spittle into Rawcliffe's unflinching face. The man stood taller and more muscled than the secret agent, but inside her suit of pitch, behind her lenses she did not waver.

play, her style. “What is it this time? Does Henry have another event I’ve forgotten?” “We’ll tell you in the car, Ma’am. For now, if you’d please be prompt, we have to get you home.” Then she’d pretend it was private business, not to be shared with anyone else. Waycolle had seen it enough times to know it was only a lure. “Oh,” she said like a balloon losing helium, the air slipping out of her in a long sigh as she sat on the edge of the bed, her feet hovering just above the ground, not intent on settling back down. The matador, who’d been watching from the opposite side of the room, now moved onto the bed with her and nuzzled her neck with his unshaven chin. “Mademoiselle, don’t go. We have fun, no?” Pulling her head to his, the matador began to kiss her, softy at first, then very passionately. Waycolle coughed politely, but this did not stop the matador from continuing the no longer private display of affection. His hands moved to unbind the bed sheets from her body, but then she drew away from him. Despite this withdrawal, he leaned into her again, this time to whisper for the whole room to hear. “Stay, Mademoiselle, just little longer.” “Sir, we won’t be letting that happen. We’ll be leaving now.” Waycolle could tell Rawcliffe was doing less than usual to keep the anger from her voice. “Mademoiselle is grown woman, can make choice for her own. She want, she stay.” The matador said with the smile of a gambler aided by extra cards in each sleeve. He looked to Senator’s wife with the smile, but she was standing up and moving to the bathroom. The matador jumped from the bed and grabbed her hand. Holding it with both of his own, he kissed it’s back almost as passionately as he’d kissed her mouth moments ago. Rawcliffe intervened. “Mademoiselle, ma petite amie—“ “Stop.” Rawcliffe gripped the man’s arm

by the wrist and pushed him away from her with her right hand, forming a barrier between their bodies. Her voice was steady as she spoke. “Sir, your actions are preventing us from leaving. We will not waste time putting up with your antics any longer. If you persist I will restrain you.” The matador turned and laughed, a black tone that tossed mockery and spittle into Rawcliffe’s unflinching face. The man stood taller and more muscled than her, but inside that suit of pitch, behind those lenses she did not waver. If anything she was seconds from making good on her word. His hollow mouth smeared into a sneer as he tilted his angular face toward her. “You think to frighten me? I fight bulls, I face death every—“ “About that,” Waycolle cut in from behind him. “You’re French?” The matador had to twist his body to look at his questioner. His face was dripping with the heat of his interrupted comment. Still he answered civily. “Oui.” “Then how’d you become a bull fighter? Isn’t that a Spanish thing?” “To have pride, to have bravery, that is not owned by one country, no?” Rawcliffe pulled the Senator’s wife into the bathroom as the matador shifted his attentions. He didn’t seem to notice the door close behind them. “No, but that still doesn’t answer the question,” Waycolle responded, pulling the matador along his thread. “You don’t just fall upon bullfighting as an occupation. You’re raised with it, right? Was your father Spanish? Your grandfather?” “My grandpa was Spanish, but he had no business with bulls. I am the only one in my family, the proud line of—“ “Nevermind then,” Waycolle stated and moved to the windows again, checking the late morning traffic on the street below. The matador hunched over his luggage a few feet away and began to pull out clothes, muttering to him-

self as he rustled them on. Waycolle did not know French, but he knew angry. He doubted the Frenchman would have any kind words for them when they left. He continued to look out the window until he heard the bathroom door reopen. Rawcliffe was stepping out, head down like she was searching the floor for a missing earing. “Could you say what color it is, ma’am?” “White, it was a white cocktail dress,” The Senator’s wife called from the bathroom. Rawcliffe shoved items with the toe of her black Dockers as she began slowly in on the room. Waycolle took to looking as well, but, aside from the bottles of wine, a few towels, and the matador’s recently removed clothes he saw nothing. He bent down to look under the bed. The underside was too dark to see anything. He moved his hand underneath. Stretched along the underbelly of the standard frame, he felt around until his hand fell upon soft cloth. He pulled up his arm and with it the white cocktail dress. It wasn’t white any longer. At least a glass of red wine had set into the rich fabric and one of the shoulders dangled by the hem where it had been ripped. “Have you found it?” The Senator’s wife called in a hopeful voice Waycolle did not want to disappoint. But then she stepped out of the bathroom. “Oh no…” she said, raising her hands to her mouth. She was wearing only the underwear she’d brought into the bathroom. Her uncovered arms and legs were no secret, but the skin of her abdomen, spotted with brownish bruises the size of fists, made the Matador stand up. Rawcliffe swept her back into the bathroom, but the matador had seen enough. “She has…” the matador began, then started moving toward the bathroom. Waycolle stepped in front of him, hands open palmed and level with his head. Words had become extremely important. He had to

be very careful with what he chose to say. The matador still looked puzzled, like he was piecing together what he’d just seen and not quite sure what to do with it. “The dark…I no see…she…” the matador directed his confusion at Waycolle. “You? You do this?” Confusion began slipping away as the matador pointed a firm finger to the bathroom. His eyebrows narrowed and nostrils widened. He looked like he was ready to charge. Waycolle spoke softly as he took small steps backward, lengthening the distance between them. “Sir, there are things you don’t understand.” “No? What I no understand?” His mind jumped to an article he’d read in the car earlier that morning. “Are you familiar with Pancreatitis?” “Pan-cre-tis?” “Pancreatitis,” Waycolle repeated, “Inflammation of the pancreas. We’re taking her to an appointment

she forgot.” The matador relaxed a little. His hand fell to his side. With the language barrier, if something was lost in translation and there was a certain medical term he didn’t understand, surely he wouldn’t question it. Then a light flashed in the matador’s eyes. He shook his head without moving his eyes from Waycolle. “She no sick. You LIE.” Hearing his voice shake into steady rage, seeing his eyes grow in anger, Waycolle knew nothing more could be said. He couldn’t appeal to the man’s public image or his occupation. The matador began to move forward, ready to attack. “Rawcliffe, code red!” Waycolle announced. Then the matador was at him, pushing him aside. Waycolle bent his knees to hold his ground, but the matador swung his fist and as Waycolle ducked he slipped away. As he fell the Matador lunged past, toward the bathroom and Senator’s

wife, toward the door as it opened and toward Rawcliffe’s figure, Taser outstretched and firing both charges full into his chest. He halted mid lunge and crumpled to the carpet like a slain beast. “He was just trying to protect me!” The Senator’s wife cried from the bathroom, but the agents were beyond motivations. Waycolle and Rawcliffe took to moving the unconscious matador to the other side of the room, farthest from her sight. Through the exertion Waycolle huffed out his excuse. “I was talking him down, but—” “I know, I know. I just don’t see how they don’t notice right away.” They set the matador down next to his luggage. Rawcliff looked to the bathroom and back to Waycolle. “We need some of his clothes. She can’t leave in what she’s wearing. The lower profile the better.” They took to the luggage, sorting through bright shirts and stripped pants, digging for “unnoticeable”

in a pile that caught eyes like a broken Piñata. Waycolle pulled up a light orange shirt and handed it to Rawcliffe, who shrugged, matched it with some tight khakis she’d found and took them to the bathroom. After a quick change, Rawcliffe and the Senator’s wife stepped out. “Is that everything, ma’am?” She nodded as her eyes shifted to the matador’s feet, still visible behind the bed. “What about your purse?” “Oh, that’s over in the chair by the bed. I’ll go—“ But Waycolle had already picked it up, and pushed it gently into her hands. “Thank you,” she said in a whisper to the room. Rawcliffe opened the door to the hallway. She slipped through first, followed by the Senator’s wife, and, lastly, Waycolle. As they stepped out of the room Waycolle thought he heard a sound like the rustle of clothes or a whispered name. The Senator’s wife paused just beyond doorway. “Did you hear that?” “It was nothing,” Waycolle lied as he shut the door behind them. “I meant something to him,” she said quietly in the silent elevator ride. “You’ve meant something to all of them, ma’am. That won’t prevent us from doing our job.” Rawcliffe

replied. “You’re real monsters, you know that!” her sharp words cut their ears, but neither one responded and no one said another word until they reached the car. “Would you like to go somewhere before we return home, ma’am?” Waycolle asked as Rawcliffe started the car. “I would like some breakfast, thanks.” Her tone was weary, like she didn’t care anymore, like she couldn’t be hurt anymore, and was just tired to know the world was still against her. “There’s a place just down the street, Ma’am. A Perkins I think. Does that sound good?” The Senator’s wife nodded slightly. They drove down Miles Street for a few blocks, then turned right into its parking lot. The restaurant was just falling off its busy hour and on a Sunday this meant heavy traffic. They parked and entered with the bell ringing at their ears and breakfast playing at their noses. “I have to use the bathroom,” she said as they entered. Rawcliffe remained where she stood. The Senator’s wife waited for her to turn around and guide her, expected her prompt movement, but she stood rigid and overdressed in the establishment. She looked over to Waycolle, but he pretended not to notice the glance, letting his eyes roamed the restaurant’s cheap

wallpaper, its thin brown carpet of synthetic threads, and sticky surfaced imitation-wood tabletops. She was still waiting just behind them when the hostess stepped up to the doorway. “How many is your party?” “Two.” Waycolle replied as he shuffled forward. “Is the woman behind you part of your group?” the hostess asked sweetly as she peaked around them to the blonde woman in the orange shirt. “What woman?” The hostess looked at Rawcliffe, confused by the response. “We’ll be with you in a moment ma’am.” She told the woman behind them before giving Rawcliffe and Waycolle a strange look. “You two can follow me.” Rawcliffe and Waycolle sat down at the table facing the parking lot. As they waited for their waitress, Waycolle pretended not to notice the woman wearing an orange shirt and khakis walk through the parking lot and step into a newly arrived taxi. It was almost as easy as pretending not to notice the door by the dog’s open cage being left ajar. “Do you think she’s safe?” Waycolle murmured as he perused his menu. “As long as we can’t find her,” Rawcliffe replied in a tone Waycolle couldn’t hear as anything but hopeful. l

Olivia Chen Do You Want A Strawberry? Wood, Mirror, Paper, LED Lights, and Acryllic Paint

On left page: Mira Kim Favorite Place (Chazen 2013) Oil Painting

Natalie Hinahara Light Study Painting

Above

Bone

yann drives us to St. Beth's the night after the full moon. If her plan works, I’m driving us back even though I won’t be sixteen for another month. I don’t like breaking laws, but she promises it’ll be okay. Just don’t speed, Jer, and we won’t get caught. I’ll try, but sometimes I can’t help it when I’m nervous. We step out of the car and she arches her head backwards to look at the sky. Her neck curves like the white underbelly of a snake, and I trace the movement of her spit as she swallows. It’s a very kissable neck. She looks at me and smiles because the moon is still on our side. The cemetery is actually St. Elizabeth’s, but only the nuns call it that. Everyone else sticks with St. Beth’s, like our town is on nickname basis with the saint. Everyone except for Ryann. Let’s go to Beth’s, she will say, like the graveyard is actually a person’s house with a pool or something cool. The moon is bright, but its light catches in the willows as we weave our way through darkness. We don’t mind because we know every foot of the graveyard. Gravel crunches beneath our feet, but we’re much lighter than the cars that carry the dead. We go there every night when it’s warm. It’s ours, Ryann will whisper as we lie between the graves and hide from the living. Then she will roll on her side and kiss me, soft, like she’s afraid her lips might burn. We stop at the pump so Ryann can drink from the well. I take my place next to the rusty arm and start pushing, counting each stroke. Ryann cups her hands beneath the spigot. By thirteen, the first trickle falls. By fifteen, a stream pours into

BY AUGUST GLOMSKI her palms. Her hands scoop water into her mouth. I keep pushing the lever until she takes a step backwards. She swallows the last mouthful and then lets out this great breath that reminds me of a tiger. The skin around her mouth gleams in the faint light. If I kiss her now she will taste like iron. She steps close to me and squeezes my arm. It’s how she says thank you when her mouth is full of other thoughts. Walking through the cemetery, the zippers on her backpack jingle like loose change. She’s moving fast, but she pauses before a headstone. It’s beautiful when your girlfriend takes time for your favorite grave. It belongs to Francis “Fitz” Williams who was only fifteen when he died. I know I should be sad because he died too soon, but I’m not. I don’t think anyone can die too soon. I don’t think anyone can die too anything. At my sister’s funeral, everyone kept saying she died too young, my aunt mouthing the words as they lowered the coffin. Yeah, she died young, but she sure as hell didn’t die too young. That makes it sound like she didn’t die right, like it was somehow her fault. I really love that whoever made the headstone included “Fitz” instead of just Francis. It makes him seem real, like he actually lived and burped and turned around when peopled yelled Hey Fitz! at lunch. The “Fitz” reminds me that he wasn’t always a grave, which is easy to forget if you spend enough time in a cemetery. I also like Fitz’s grave more than my sister’s because it doesn’t make me feel like complete shit. When my sister died last summer, Ryann and I started visiting her. We never used to hang out in St.

Beth’s, but now I can’t imagine life without the graveyard. We wouldn’t do all that much when we came. We’d write her letters and buried them in the dirt. We’d scatter skittles on the ground because she used to love them. Other times, we spent hours without saying a word. Just the two of us, lying above bone, stuck in the place between thought and sleep. The more time I spent at her grave, the shittier I felt. Not because she was dead, but because of the rose. It’s carved on the headstone right next to her name. It’s very cliché. I know because I counted and there are 57 other roses in St. Beth’s. 57 other roses exactly the same as my sister, which is so wrong because she was an individual. At least, that’s what my mom called her after she dyed her hair purple in eleventh grade. She didn’t care about things like other people did. She said things that would make adults shake their heads, as if they were saying no, she’s not my child. She was never mean, she just spoke the truth. I guess the truth is hard to swallow from a girl with purple hair. When I told her about my first kiss with Ryann, she hugged me really tight and drove us to get ice cream. She let me talk about it for the whole ride. She took it all in, laughing at the points that she was supposed to. Like when I told her I had completely missed Ryann’s face and kissed her ear at first. At the shop, she ordered us two cherry cones because we were feeling fruity. Two weeks after she died, my mom took me shopping for gravestones. She wanted the whole family—the new whole family—to make the decision together and feel closure. As though decorating her

Samantha Bledstein Dress Ink

grave was like signing a contract accepting she was gone. My mom picked out the rose and asked me if I liked it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it Jer? I nodded my head while staring at the ground. I didn’t want to see her cry again. Not in the middle of a gravestone shop, at least. Then people would know the truth, and they wouldn’t believe that we just liked looking at headstones because they were pretty. I didn’t know how many other mothers and brothers had also chosen a rose. If I had, I would have forced my mom to choose a guitar instead. Something cool, something

for an individual. Anything but a rose, so people in fifty years won’t see her as another overused headstone. Ryann grabs my sleeve and pulls me towards the back of the cemetery where everything is old. The ground isn’t artificially flat like the newer sections. It’s rough and filled with character, roots slithering along the dirt like fossilized snakes. There are more trees because old dead people liked nature more than new dead people. We stop in front of the Virgin’s grave. We call it that because Colligi Virgo Rosas are the only words on the whole tombstone. Ryann told

me that it’s Latin for something nice about being young. Still, I wouldn’t want virgin in any language plastered over my bones for eternity. Unless it was a sarcastic kind of virgin, like a clearly he wasn’t a virgin kind of virgin. I’d be okay with that because then I’d be a grave with a sense of humor. Ryann grabs my hand. It feels warm and nervous, like holding a guinea pig. I turn towards her, but she keeps staring at the grave in a way that looks beyond loneliness. Like she doesn’t even know anyone else exists. We used to think it was strange that the Virgin was buried without a

name. Then we found out she was a witch, and it kind of made sense. Ryann heard the sound a few weeks ago. We were walking around the old graves when she suddenly placed a finger against my lips. I remember because it smelled like fresh polish. Shh, she whispered, and I shushed. Ryann doesn’t ask for much, so when she does it’s more like getting a present than a burden. I didn’t hear anything, but she started walking towards this one grave. She sank to her knees and placed her head against the dirt, her little butt sticking up in the air as though mocking God. Do you hear it? she whispered. I placed my ear against earth and heard the flames for the first time. My head sprang from the ground, but Ryann stayed put, as though she was cold and wanted to feel the heat. It sounds like fucking fire, she said in a voice that sounded like ice. I put my head back against the dirt. Blades of grass tickled the hollow of my ear, but I couldn’t hear anything. I stayed there for a few minutes and was about to pull away when I heard the noise again. It crackled like flame, as though someone was popping bags of potato chips just a few feet beneath the earth. We stayed there all night, listening to the flames, afraid it would disappear as soon as we left because good things never last around us. We got ice cream the next day, and Ryann talked the whole time. She’s gotta be a witch, Jer. Why else would it sound like fire? She must have been burned alive or something. It’s a sign and you can’t tell anyone about it. This is my chance. She’s still got magic in her bones. Hi, we’ll have two cones, both cherry. In the graveyard, the backpack falls from Ryann’s shoulders like ice calving from a glacier. She gets down on her knees and listens for the fire. After a few seconds, she whispers something, but it’s lost in the darkness between us. We unpack the bag. Ryann lights a match and jabs it into the belly of a lantern. The light expands as far

as it can, painting her cheeks and forehead yellow. I grab the toad jar, its inhabitant pushing against the glass walls like a magician suddenly trapped within her own devise. Ryann hands me the rope, and I place it on the ground for later. A knife gleams in the dim light. After everything is in order, we find our way to silence. She looks at me with those eyes that know me better than any others. She extends a hand. “Ready?” she asks, soft as thought. “Yeah,” I reply, even though I’m not. She leans in so close that I can see the ridges in her teeth. “Kiss me.” Our lips touch, and hers are strong and rougher than mine. They were the same the first time we kissed. I hold on to the feeling because they might be different tomorrow. Ryann gets back to her feet and sheds her clothes. Her torso glows like a distant star against the darkness. She stands naked with her arms extended and her head tilted back so that her hair hangs down like burning wheat. And then she does this thing that I know I’ll remember forever. She smiles. This big, toothy grin directed at the moon. “It’s going to work, Jer.” She’s still facing the moon. “I can feel it.” She lies down and I tie her hands behind her head like she tells me to do. I struggle opening the jar. Ryann screwed it on when she caught the toad this morning. I’d ask her to help, but her hands are tied. I keep twisting until it finally pops off. I grab the toad tight within my hand and pee drips into my palm. I don’t look at it too long because that will make things harder. My knife slices the toad’s belly and organs ooze out like a jelly donut. It smells swampy and hot, and the legs twitch between my hands. Each time a webbed foot brushes against my palm I feel guiltier on the inside. “Ready?” Ryann asks, and I nod in response. Anything to stop thinking

about the dying thing in my hand. I turn the toad over and open the wound onto her chest. When it’s empty, I throw the carcass as far away as I can. My hands fall to Ryann’s body, and I smear blood and guts on her pecs. Her chest feels hard, the sinewed muscles tense from excitement. My fingers swirl the blood into circles radiating around her tiny nipples, lingering on her boy body for one last time. I drag the thick liquid down to her crotch, the spot she hates so much. Blood covers the hatred. “I bet I look fantastic,” she says with a smirk. She sounds nervous, but it’s still amazing when your girlfriend can makes jokes while she’s covered in toad. “Is everything set?” I nod, glancing at the ingredients that stand in a row. She closes her eyes, and her face turns into prayer. Not that she’s praying. She hasn’t believed in God for years. There’s just something about her that’s divine. Her eyelids are so smooth, little flaps of wrinkleless skin as timeless as the sky. She starts the spell with a whisper, the words memorized since she was eleven. I wait in silence for my cue. “With knife still wet from sister toad, cut into flesh and catch what flows.” I take the knife and gently slice along the side of her stomach. Her blood appears at the tip of my blade like ink to a pen. She keeps talking, but I hear pain in her voice. She wants this, I tell myself to stop the tears from falling. I pick up a vial from the ground and place the opening alongside her wound. Blood runs down her side and into the glass. I hold it there until the flow turns into a trickle. The vial is a third full. “Then comes the rain that falls from sky, and changes seeds to maples high.” I open a bottle of rain water and

pour it into the vial. Clear tentacles creep into the base layer of blood. “At last, above our sister’s bone, To potion, add her magic loam, Then mind and body will atone.” My hand rips a hole in the grass so that I can reach the dirt. It’s damp between my fingers, and I fill the rest of the vial with it. The spell is cast, and Ryann stops speaking. I place my palm over the opening of the tube and violently shake it. Her blood feels warm each time it sloshes against my hand.

Her eyes beam against the darkness, greedy to find out what it’s like to see the world through the right body. But her breath quickens as I bring the vial towards her mouth, and I know that she’s just as scared me. Scared that it won’t work. Scared that if it does she won’t be enough of the same. I tilt the shaft so the dark liquid can drip into her mouth. She swallows the first half in silence. I watch her throat strain as it carries the potion into her stomach. After it goes down, she gasps for air.

She swallows the first half in silence. I watch her throat strain as it carries the potion into her stomach. after it goes down, she gasps for air. When the potion is mixed, I show it to Ryann. “I’m ready,” she says. I know she's never been anything else. “Make sure I swallow all of it. Otherwise, it’s for nothing.” Neither of us move. It’s one of those moments when everything around you feels important and every breath feels heavy. I look into her face and want to tell her that she doesn’t have to do this. That I don’t care either way. That a pronoun switch and an extra n is good enough. I stay silent because the words feel traitorous even inside my mind. Nothing will change unless she does. The boys will keep pulling down her pants in the locker room, slapping her ass like they own it. The teachers will keep ignoring the jeers that sail across the classroom when their backs are turned. Her father will continue beating her when she accidentally crosses her legs at dinner, his fists slamming into all the places that hide her bruises from everyone but me. I lean over her body and cradle the back of her head. The potion feels impossibly heavy in my hand.

Sweat breaks over her face, and I lean in to kiss away the tears that leak from one of her eyes. “Not as much this time,” she whispers, and I bring the vial back to her lips. Her neck bulges with muscle, and she emits a little moan. I whisper to remind her that she’s not alone. She’s writhing on the ground, and I’m forced to straddle her torso to keep her calm. “We can stop,” I tell her. She shakes her head. “No Jer, we can’t.” She opens her mouth once more and I pour the remainder of the sludge. She tries to swallow, but it stops moving halfway down her throat. Her head jerks, and I know the vomit is coming. “I’m sorry,” I whisper as my hands close over her mouth. She wants this. But it doesn’t stop the tears this time. She fights to break free, but I hold her steady. The vomit feels hot and guilty against my palms. Sickness must be pooling in her mouth because she starts screaming

beneath my hands. Her eyes roll backwards, and for a second her hair looks purple. This is what she told me to do, but everything in my body wants to let her breathe. I have to make her swallow, but what if she changes her mind and can’t tell me? I suddenly want my sister more than any time since her death. She always knew what to do. She could calm me down when I wanted to punch the entire town at once, and could drag me from my bed on days that it felt like there was no point ever getting up again. But my sister is here—she just can’t help anymore. There are only two living people in St. Beth’s, and one of them is choking beneath my hands. “Ryann, it’s okay,” I cry, my tears falling onto her face because I can’t brush them away with my hands. “You’re so close,” I whisper to both of us. Then I feel the bite. My hand burns in pain and I fall backwards. She rolls onto her side and hurls her dreams onto the grass. For a few minutes, I stay perfectly still. She shakes on the grass and throws up again. She keeps puking till she’s hollow on the inside. She curls into an impossibly small ball, head turned into her stomach. When she finds her voice between the tears, she howls into her body. I want to go wrap myself around her so that we can become one. To multiply our pain into something that matters. I think about those satellites that can detect a person’s heat all the way from space. If they made one that measures pain, we’d be a brilliant burst of red. She’s not ready for me, though. She’s been shot and needs time to figure out what’s missing. I walk over to my sister’s grave and curl into a ball to see if it helps. I’ll spend the night here because I don’t think I can drive back. I don’t think I can do much of anything. Even sleep seems impossibly long. My sister’s rose watches over me, and for once I’m glad it’s cliché. I’m glad it’s normal and pretty. I put my ear against the earth and am comforted by silence. l

Ben Skiba I Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Promise Anything Ceramic, Wood, Found objects

Boot Stamping on a human face

Forever, Or English Dignity BY KIERAN VILLOTH

hapter the First “Why do you let him hang this garbage in your café?” Martha Higgens asked. She did not know that I could hear her. “It looks awful. All of them do.” She spoke of an original painting of mine, “Honor and the Value of Sweat”. It depicted a field, drawn so accurately it looked as if it had been photographed. In the field stood a mouse. He held a shovel, and wiped the sweat from his brow while he worked. The mouse was drawn in the style of the late Walt Disney, partially as a tribute to his artistic vision, partly as a commentary on the current state of the world. Just as Walt had died, and his artistic vision with him, Germany had died, and with it the pride of a hard day’s work. Now, people were content to laze around. Society had crumbled. Of course, Martha was a fat and stupid housewife. She was not cultured; she did not think. I did not expect her to appreciate my genius. “He is an old friend,” said Jon-

athan. He owned the café. I had known Jonathan for around fifteen years. He was the first friend I made when I moved to England. “He can make use of these walls in whatever way he sees fit.” “Well, I still think you’d better take them down. They probably scare off customers.” She looked in my direction. “Paying customers, I mean.” Jonathan went back to reading the paper. Certainly, he would have liked to defend me, but that might have offended his customer, and Jonathan had a business to run. I understand this, which is why I did not confront Mary. This is why I did not explain to her that in comparison to the work of art before us, her own existence was meaningless. This is why I didn’t explain that this painting would one day be worth more money than her family had earned in all of its generations. I was Jonathan’s friend, and he was mine, and to defend my work would cause him trouble. This is why I did not confront Mary Higgens.

“Besides,” Mary continued, despite Jonathan’s obvious disinterest. “A thousand pounds? For this? He must be out of his mind!” She laughed to herself, then realized that nobody was laughing with her, and fell silent. She noticed that Jonathan was preoccupied with the paper, and not her, so she coughed and tried to compose herself. She walked out the door, feeling quite sheepish I should think. Jonathan and I were alone in the café now, so he came to my table. “Look at this, Adolf.” He put the newspaper in front of me, his finger motioned to the headline. It was in extremely large font, and took up at least a third of the page. I had read it from across the room, while he spoke to Mary Higgens, but I indulged him. “Soviets Land Man On Moon,” I read aloud. “Fascinating.” “The moon, Adolf.” Jonathan said, gazing up at the ceiling. His eyes sparkled like those of a child. “A man on the moon. And by the Reds, no less. Here I thought the Ameri-

cans were sure to get there first. “I’d have landed a dozen Germans by 1949 if I’d been elected.” “Undoubtedly. You’d have beaten them by at least six years.” “Mmm.” I finished my tea, then set the saucer down. It had not been bitter enough. “How was it?” “Perfect, as usual.” Jonathan smirked. I did not, but rather nodded. I had always held the belief that smiling made one look foolish and the thought had become more adamant when my hair lost its color. “I have no money, but I have doodled on this napkin and autographed it. In the coming years, when I am recognized, you will be able to sell it and retire. I imagine this will suffice for the tea, as per usual.” His smile was wider now, but did not appear entirely genuine. “Another original Hitler for my collection, eh? I’ll make sure to hold onto it.” “Indeed, you should,” I replied and got to my feet. “Take care of yourself, Jonathan.” “And you yourself, Adolf.”

Chapter the Second

I wore a very presentable suit. It was brown, and had a tight fit around the arms. I held a briefcase, but it was empty. The content did not matter, only the illusion of content. I was made to wait outside the office of Richard Brant: superintendent. This was a crude tactic, one I had encountered many times during my political career. I had even used it myself, albeit on rare occasion. Forcing others to wait on your pleasure is to exert dominance upon them. Dentists are known to make one wait in their lounge, which is why I no longer visit them. This tactic did not affect me. It relies on the victim to allow dominance to fall upon them, something I refuse to do. I have willpower not found in most men. As such, this exercise was a waste of both of our time.

Eventually, I was allowed to enter his office; he motioned me to take a seat. I accepted and examined my surroundings. A few pictures sat on his desk, a few more hung on the wall. His wife was ugly. She looked as if she had been in an accident when she was young. At least this meant she must be a nice girl. His son had stunning blue eyes. He sat in front of a piano in one picture. I found myself feeling proud of the child, although he was not my own. I had no children. I had never found a woman as compassionate, as intellectual, as myself. There was also a vase sitting in the corner. I identified it as Chinese, and not nearly as old as it looked to be. I hate the Chinese. I am of the opinion that the Chinese are far worse than the Russians. It is only a matter of time until they turn Red. This can be guaranteed. “Well, Mister Hitler,” Richard Brant began. “I’ve looked over your resume, but I find myself confused as to your, er, qualifications.” “As I understand it,” he continued, “you have not been employed for almost two decades. Why is this?” “I have not been formally employed, but have lived off my art for a very long time. This alone should speak for my artistic capabilities.” This was not entirely true. I took with me a very large sum of money from Germany. Although it took many years, these funds had finally began to run out. “Alright. And you would like to teach art, I understand. Have you any experience teaching?” “I do not. However, I believe my intellect will make up for experience.” Brant did not respond. “And these,” he pulled a few pieces of paper from a folder. “These are samples of your artwork?” “Yes.” “Well...” he folded his arms. “Unfortunately, we aren’t hiring cartoonists. We teach the arts at this establishment, not children’s

entertainment.” “What you see before you, sir, is the art of a genius that this world has not yet seen the likes of.” It would be a lie to say I was not insulted, but more predominantly, I was disappointed. Disappointed that the man in charge of educating the children- who are the future of society- was too ignorant to adequately understand modern art. I gathered my portfolio and stood up. “Good day to you, sir.” “Well, if you want to be taken seriously, consider shaving that moustache. You look like a comedian!” I slammed the door as I left. Even more than the Chinese, I hate Charlie Chaplin.

Chapter the Third

On occasion, I find myself unable to sleep at night. Sitting alone in bed, my mind wanders. I cannot help thinking of what might have been, what glory my hand might have wrought were I given the opportunity. I understand that I cannot change the past, and that it does not bode well to dwell on these things, but at night, in my bed, I sometimes cannot help it. When I was a child, I thought there was a monster underneath my bed, and that if I set my bare foot upon the floor it would reach out and grab me and I would never be seen again. I asked my father Alois to check the bed, and he beat me. He told me that I was weak, and that I should have died in place of my brothers. I did not like my father very much. I sometimes think about this at night. He died when I was not yet a young man, and I did not cry. I was a man when my mother died, but I bawled like a babe then. It was the last time I cried. She was a lovely woman and deserved much better than my father. Perhaps she deserved better than me. When I eventually sleep, I have a recurring dream. I dream that I am standing among a crowd of people, all of whom are looking to me. I then realize that I am not standing, but instead hovering. I am a full foot

above the ground and no part of my body seems to be held by the suggestions of gravity. In the crowd I see my mother, and she is holding four children. I know them to be my siblings. I do not see my father, and I do not see my sister. She smiling at me and so are my baby brothers and sisters. They smile with an unconditional love and admiration.

The other faces smile in awe, not love. Then I look to the sky and I see the Lord. He bleeds from hundreds of cuts around His body, which obscures His pale skin. He wears the Crown of Thorns upon His head and it causes Him to bleed into His hair, which radiates like the sun itself. He reaches out His hand and the people look to me to take it. Without hesitation, I grasp His palm and I

Rebecca Gongora Bath Time 35 mm Black White Film

blessing, and are instead cleansed. The flesh on their skulls tear, and horns erupt from them covered in blood. Their tongues part and they lose the gift of speech. They begin to cry, but the pure white liquid of sorrow is replaced by a black tar and they fall to the ground. The golden race then tears them limb from limb. The vision closes as I sit on My throne above the world, looking down on a perfect world of perfect men. In My right hand I hold Excalibur, proof of My strength and nobility. In My right, the Holy Grail, proof of My divinity and all-knowledge. On My head sits the Crown of Thorns, proof of My suffrage and piety. All is good and all is as it should be. Then, I wake. Sometimes it is morning, and a suitable time for me to wake. Usually, though, it is still the dead of night, and I am unable to fall asleep again.

Chapter The Fourth (Reprise)

feel a heat unlike anything I have felt before. I know, then, why I was born on Easter Sunday. I know, then, why I have always known greatness was to be Mine. My skin is no longer that of a man. It is pure gold, as are My eyes and hair. I look to the Lord, but he has gone, and I am alone in the sky. I understand that he has chosen Me, that I am now blessed with the

responsibility he once held. I look down, and I touch the hand of My mother’s babe, and its skin turns to gold. The infant reaches up, and it touches its tiny hand to My mother’s lips. Her skin, as Mine, shines of the purest gold. My touch is spread around the crowd, first, and then the world. For some, My touch does not bless. Some are unworthy of My

I went to Jonathan’s café to share a bit of tea only to find the door locked and the lights off. I could not see inside the building. It was ten o’clock and Jonathan was a responsible man. He would not stand to see his café closed at such an hour, when a respectable establishment would be turning a profit. I pressed my eyes to the glass window, and cupped my hands. There was no light inside the café and I saw no movement. In the reflection, I noticed a man standing on the other end of the road. He was bald and wore a long black coat. Beneath the coat was a shirt, colored as an image of the Union Jack. His lips were twisted in a wicked grin and he held a cigarette between the fingers of his left hand. He had an evil sense to him. Perhaps he thought I was attempting to break into the building. I walked to the back of the building, through the alleyway. It smelled of disgusting things, but I ignored the odors. I discovered the back door to be open. This was not correct, I

thought. To leave the door open, to allow anyone onto the premises without permission, this was not something Jonathan would have done. The hallway was dark and it took me a moment to find the light. I had been here a scarce few times before, as Jonathan and I usually passed the time during the daytime, while he tended to customers. I knew of the small basement underneath the building, where Jonathan read and slept. After finding the light, I made my way down. His bedroom and study were one and the same. Some books were taken off the shelf and stacked neatly at the end of a dark red blanket. I noticed that Jonathan slept with three pillows, although he did not share the bed. Curious. Jonathan had a bad habit, I decided. He would buy books that interested him, but not read them. We had never discussed literature, and had he actually finished the books he stored here, he would have been eager to converse with a peer of some intellect. Or, perhaps, he was afraid that he would look the fool before me. I was not certain. I left the study and returned to the first floor. The hallway before me led to the main area of the building, the body of the café. Here, I knew the lights. The switch was positioned to the left of me, slightly beneath my shoulder. I illuminated the room and I saw Jonathan. He sat alone at a table in the far left of the room. It may have been the table we had spoken at last. In fact, it may well have been the same seat. I was not sure. He sat slouching, wearing his standard working clothes: a white button-up, a blue tie, and fine black pants. In his lap was a shotgun. I recognized it, or rather the italics of it. Around half a decade ago, Jonathan had shown it to me. He intended to keep it for protection, just in case a burglar chose him as a target. Needless to say, Jonathan’s skull had been blown to pieces. On the table was a note. I picked

it up and read for awhile. It spoke of hopelessness and confusion. It spoke of an age unfitting for man, where the thoughts of the individual were overthrown by the deafening scream of Armageddon. It did not, however,

We had never discussed literature, and he had actually finished the books he stored here, he would have been eager to converse with a peer of some intellect. or, perhaps, he was afraid that he would look the foo l before me. i was not certain. mention my name. I set the note down and walked to the front of the store. I turned the lights off and unlocked the doors I first came to. I exited the café. The bald man in the black jacket was still on the other end of the street and was still grinning. Whether he was the Devil or Death, I am unsure of to this day. I walked to my home, deciding I would begin another search for work tomorrow. For today, I would paint. Martha Higgens walked on my side of the street, toward me. She carried a bag of groceries and wore a fur coat that was much more obviously fake than she knew. She smiled as she passed me. “Good morning Adolf.” she said. I returned a smile. “Good morning, Miss Higgens.” I said. I continued to walk, and was struck with inspiration. I decided, then and there, that my next project would be a series of twenty paintings. They would detail, in chronological order, the events of my recurring dream. These paintings, I was sure, would finally bring me the praise and recognition that my arts deserved. l

Nikki Johnson Swamp Creatures Comic Page 1 No Medium Listed

Jessie Sykes Tetons Reduction Woodcut

Millennial

Road T BY LINDSAY NIGH

hey’ve been on the road for over an hour when Seth finally feels his shitty instant coffee kicking in. It’s long since grown cold, cradled in his hands because the paper cup from the motel won’t fit into any of the cup holders in Aiden’s car, and Aiden “just got it detailed, so suck it up and hold it.” There’s still a low-lying layer of fog blanketing the Oklahoma fields—the sun’s not high enough to burn it away yet—and Seth has to admit that it’s kinda nice-looking. Maybe even picture-worthy. Transferring the nearly-empty cup to his left hand, Seth fishes out his phone and presses it up against the cool glass of the window, snapping a quick photo and hoping Aiden won’t notice. Aiden notices. “Hey, you looking to get insta-famous over there? Hashtagging that misty morning for your followers?” “Shut up, it looks nice.” “Your face looks nice.” Seth cocks an eyebrow at him. “Wow, thanks. Sick burn.” Aiden’s squinting at the road like it’s offended him, green eyes still blurry with sleep. “Yeah, that sounded better in my head.” “You liking my face sounded better in your head?” “Man, come on, it’s too early for this. I can’t even see straight right now.” “Nope,” Seth replies cheerfully. “You don’t get to complain about that. This was your idea, Mister ‘I want to be at the Grand Canyon in exactly 17 hours.’” “I told you, I don’t give a shit about Texas or New Mexico—might as well blow through them now so we can make a pit stop at the Grand Canyon before moving on to bigger and better things—namely, the women of L.A.”

Suzanne Peterson A Fragile Luxury Video Still (glass/plastic/cubic zirconia)

Seth rolls his eyes. “You are completely missing the purpose of a road trip. It’s not about the destination, it’s about getting there.” Aiden snorts. “Yeah, okay Gandalf. Look me in the eyes and tell me you care more about the desert than California girls.” “Yeah, because I’ve never seen fake tits and blonde hair in Chicago.” “Jesus Christ, you’re a fuckin’ downer today, you know that?” “And you’re a fucking idiot if you think any girl who lives within two digits of 90210 is gonna be interested in a broke college grad with no job prospects.” “I’m not looking to get married, just get laid.” Aiden glances over at Seth, narrowing his eyes. “Are you okay, man? You’re acting weird as hell.” “I’m fine. Are you?” “What,” Aiden asks, “does that even mean.” Seth sighs. “Nothing. Nevermind.” The car fills with a strange kind of silence when Aiden, in a rare moment of self-control, actually listens. Seth glances over at him. Aiden’s got a loose grip on the bottom of the steering wheel with one hand, and the other is wrapped around a Red Bull like it’s his lifeline. His dark, curly hair is still in a state of complete disarray, although the old t-shirt and sweats he’s wearing certainly complete the look. Seth’s not entirely sure Aiden even changed out of what he was sleeping in last night. Seth slumps back into his own seat, momentarily letting his eyes fall closed. The car is really starting to smell. Apparently, you can only stuff so many McDonald’s bags in the back seat before your nose cries foul. They’ve only been on the road for three days, but Seth’s starting to lose his mind a little. This trip was meant to be an adventure—‘Seth and Aiden Take Route 66,’ Aiden had proclaimed—but being alone with Aiden for so long is perhaps not the best idea Seth has ever had. Aiden, as if aware that he is being mentally considered, lets out a short huff, squinting viciously at the road. Seth looks back at him and abruptly realizes—

“You’re wearing your glasses.” “No shit, Sherlock,” Aiden bites out, still squinting like this old country road has personally offended him. “Aiden, those are your old glasses.” Seth balances his nearly-empty coffee cup in one of the too-small cupholders and twists around in his seat, reaching for Aiden’s backpack and yanking the zipper on the front pocket open. Sure enough, Aiden’s newer glasses are nestled in their case there. Seth fishes them out and turns back around, suppressing a chuckle at the disgruntled look on Aiden’s face as he unfolds the glasses. “Here—” Seth leans over, taking care not to poke Aiden in the eye as he pulls the old pair off and slips the new pair onto his face, “better?” “Much,” Aiden says, voice odd. “I—the frames are the same. I must’ve mixed them up.”

Seth balances his nearly-empty coffee cup in one of the too-small cupholders and twists around in his seat, reaching for Aiden's backpack and yanking the zipper on the front pocket open.

“The frames actually aren’t the same,” Seth says. They almost are— they’re the same general shape and color, but new pair are just a bit wider and darker. They give Aiden a weirdly studious appearance. “But they’re close enough, I’ll give you that.” “How the fuck do you know what my glasses look like better than me?” “Well, for starters, I’m not the one who needs glasses.” “Har har.” Aiden rolls his eyes. “You’re a regular Jim Carrey.” “I’m here every night.” “Wow, are you gonna be this snarky all day? Because if so, I’m really gonna need to get high tonight.” “With what?” Seth looks at Aiden skeptically. “The pot in the glove compartment?” Aiden glances over at him with the loudest unspoken ‘duh’ Seth’s heard since middle school. Seth chokes. “Dude! What if we get pulled over?” “We don’t.” “Wow, great plan. Totally foolproof.” “My thoughts exactly.” “Aiden, seriously.” “Seth, seriously,” Aiden flops his head back against the seat, shooting Seth a grin, “don’t worry about it. We’ll just smoke it tonight.” “All of it?” “Yeah. There’s not that much.” Seth bites his lip, frowning. “Fine. As long as you don’t try to drive, after.” Aiden laughs. “I’m actually a better driver stoned.” “Aiden.” “Alright, alright. Don’t get your panties in a twist. We’ll find a motel.” “Thank you.” Aiden reaches over nudge his knuckles against Seth’s shoulder. “Anything for you.” Seth lets out an uncertain laugh. “Thanks?” Aiden drops his hand and they fall back into that strange silence. Seth rubs his hands on the fabric of his jeans. His palms are sweaty—the sun’s finally getting high enough that he can feel it heating up the car, and while Aiden’s A/C is broken, the radio’s not. Seth flips it on and

Seth's immediate gasp draws it down, away from his fingers and into the bowl. A moment later, Aiden lets go, flame vanishing as he watches Seth breathe in the smoke, pulling the pipe away and bringing it to his own mouth when Seth lets out an aborted cough.

fiddles with the dial until something other than static is coming through the speakers. He lets the muffled bass line of what Oklahoma deems rap music wash over him for a moment and glances out the window again. The fog is gone. *** Lunch and dinner are both incredibly brief affairs, although Seth puts his foot down when Aiden suggests Taco Bell (“I have to get back in the car with you after this. You’re out of your damn mind if you think we’re going to Taco Bell, Aiden.” “But—” “There’s a Panera down the street. We’re going there”). Aiden wasn’t kidding around about his timeline—

they finally make it to the Flagstaff Motel around dusk. Seth climbs out of the car with a kind of delicacy that makes him dread what his joints will feel like in 20 years. Aiden declares intent to get them a room. Seth barely listens, moving on travel-weary autopilot and gathering their overnight bags out of the backseat. Aiden returns with a key and a victorious grin minutes later. “I got us the last fuckin’ room in this joint. Feel free to bow down and sing my praises.” “Yay, Aiden.” Seth flaps a hand in the air tiredly. “You exchanged money for a good and/or service. You’re finally putting that econ degree to good use.” Aiden makes an unattractive noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh, good mood apparently unimpeded. “You know what you need? A little something to help you relax.” “I am extremely relaxed,” Seth snarks back. “As a matter of fact, I am so relaxed that I will probably pass out as soon as I see a pillow.” “Aw, you’re no fun.” Aiden hip checks Seth away from the passenger door playfully, pulling it open and rummaging around in the glove compartment until he emerges with a conspicuous plastic baggie. “Jesus Christ, Aiden,” Seth sighs, grabbing the key out of Aiden’s hand and plodding off towards room 6, according to the key. Aiden follows him after remembering to lock the car. When Seth finally gets the decrepit lock to accept the key, he kicks the door open, stares for moment before turning to Aiden. “Did you ask for a king or two queens?” “I—” Aiden frowns. “I just asked what they had available and this is all they had.” “Cool.” Seth walks in and throws their bags on the king bed. “This time, don’t try and deny you were cuddling me when you wake me up with your dick against my ass.” “What the fuck.” Aiden chokes, kicking the door closed. “That was one time sophomore year, I was fucking drunk, and we agreed never to speak of it again.” “Nope,” Seth says, flopping onto

the bed. “That was three times, and I never agreed to that NDA. I just haven’t brought it up before because I’m an awesome friend.” “Yeah, well.” Aiden fumbles with the weed he’s already packing into the pipe, cheeks pink. “You can go right back to not talking about it. That’d be great.” “Whatever you say, Aiden.” Aiden gives him the finger before lighting up and inhaling deeply. He holds his breath as he walks over to where Seth’s laying on the bed and then exhales a cloud of thick white smoke into Seth’s face. Seth’s blue eyes snap open and he coughs once, glaring at Aiden. “Warn me, you asshole.” “That’s what you get.” Aiden shrugs, plopping down on the bed and handing the pipe over to Seth. “Your turn.” Seth sits up, taking the pipe but hesitating over the lighter. “You know I can’t…” “Oh my god, still?” Aiden lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “It’s a fucking Bic lighter, Seth, everyone knows how to use them.” “I know how to, I just burn my fingers every time.” “That’s because you’re not sucking hard enough.” Seth bites the inside of his cheek when Aiden gives him a warning look. “Don’t even—look, do you want me to just do it for you?” Seth nods, holding the glass pipe against his lips and looking at Aiden expectantly. Aiden returns his look with an odd one of his own. “Right,” he says, one hand coming up to anchor Seth’s hands, steadying the pipe. “Breathe in as soon as I light it, okay?” Seth nods again. Aiden lowers the lighter over the bowl, pulls his thumb back, bringing the flame into hot, sparking existence. Seth’s immediate gasp draws it down, away from his fingers and into the bowl. A moment later, Aiden lets go, flame vanishing as he watches Seth breathe in the smoke, pulling the pipe away and bringing it to his own mouth when Seth lets out an aborted cough. “Not as bad as some of your other first hits.” Aiden smirks, letting the

smoke cloud between them. “Hey, fuck you.” Seth laughs shakily. “This is stronger stuff than you usually have.” “That’s the idea.” Aiden offers Seth the pipe again. Seth takes it. Aiden lights. They fall into an easy pattern; light, hit, pass. Light, hit, pass. By the time the bowl’s done, Seth has his wonky stoned smile plastered across his face and Aiden can tell he’s seconds away from the giggles. “I’m gonna pack another one,” Aiden whispers conspiratorially. Seth gasps in on a bizarre little laugh. “What? For real? But I’m already. I’m there.” “I know you are, bud.” Aiden smirks at him. He’s pretty much ‘there’ too, wherever ‘there’ is. “Maybe like. Half?” Seth flops his hand onto Aiden’s thigh holding his thumb and index finger in vague proximity to each other. “Maybe like—that much. Like a quarter.” “That’s way more than a quarter.” “Like, two hits then.” “Just two?” “Uh huh.” “Okay, I’ll try.” It’s barely anything and it’s honestly probably just a waste at this point, but Aiden packs it anyway and prompts Seth upright and into their ritual again. Seth gets halfway through inhaling before he locks eyes with Aiden and bursts out laughing, smoke billowing out of his mouth. “Oh my god, you moron.” Aiden rolls his eyes, smile still on his lips as he finishes Seth’s hit. “Sorry.” Seth giggles, and yup, okay Seth is definitely there. “You’re still wearing your glasses, and I thought you were cross-eyed.” “Oh, fuck.” Aiden reaches up to pull off his glasses. “I forgot.” “No, no.” Seth stills Aiden’s hand with his own. “Leave ‘em on.” Aiden stares at him and Seth’s giggles die off suddenly. Seth stares back, cheeks flushing. The smoke sits low and heavy in the room, particles suspended in the air, charged. “I’m gonna try something,” Aiden says. “Sure.” Seth’s voice is soft. Aiden lights what’s left in the

bowl, draws it into his lungs, leans forward, and breathes it out against Seth’s parted lips, into him. Seth is motionless, save for his shaking hand against Aiden’s thigh. Aiden pulls back. Seth breathes out. The smoke hangs between them. Aiden leans back in. “I thought—” Seth tries to say, but Aiden muffles him, swallows the words into his own mouth. Aiden, Seth notes, has always been very good at being distracting. But then Aiden’s fingers are brushing at the hem of his shirt, and Seth has to push him away, gently. “I thought we weren’t doing this anymore.” “We’re not,” Aiden breathes against him, one hand coming up to thread through Seth’s copper hair. “This doesn’t count. We’re high.” “No, that—” Seth shakes his head, “it still counts.” “It doesn’t have to.” “Yeah, it does.” “No, it doesn’t.” “Yeah, it does.” Seth pulls back. The high doesn’t feel good anymore. He’s too hazy. He can’t explain— “It matters.” Aiden stares at him, green eyes bloodshot behind his glasses. “Does it,” he asks slowly, words unusually weighted, “matter? To you?” “Yes.” Seth exhales on a rush of air. “Yes, Aiden. It always mattered.” “Oh,” Aiden says, quiet, shocked. Seth turns away, kicks their bags half-heartedly off the bed. “If you wanna get to the Grand Canyon before the crowds tomorrow, we should go to sleep now.” “Yeah,” Aiden says vaguely. “Right. I just gotta. Bathroom, first.” “Right,” Seth says, rolling over onto his side pulling half of the scuzzy motel blankets over himself. He feels Aiden move off the bed, hears him walk to the bathroom and close the door. It’s quiet for a long time. Seth squeezes his eyes shut. He can hear the ancient A/C unit rattling away in the corner, spreading its damp, mildewy chill throughout the room. It settles into his bones, a cold he can’t shake. He’d known this day would come eventually, but he’d hoped maybe they could postpone it

for a while longer. Aiden had always been happy to blame everything on a high. The first time, he’d even feigned a blackout. As long as they didn’t talk about it after—as long as it was just some purely physical, unspoken thing, Aiden had seemed fine with it. For a while, Seth had been okay with that too. It was exciting, some little secret just between the two of them. Aiden had always been easy on the eyes, and Seth had taken a kind of private thrill out of the fact that he got to have that, have Aiden, when he was at his most vulnerable. The problem was, it didn’t stop there. Aiden seemed unaffected by their new arrangement. If anything, he was pursuing more girls than ever before, and Seth found himself feeling less like a wingman and more like a third wheel. When Aiden walked up to the girls at the bar and leaned in close, flashed a smile and offered to buy them, ‘what are you drinking, beautiful? another cosmopolitan for the lady, please’, Seth felt like he was burning, charring from the inside out. I know what he tastes like. The girls would smirk and lean in, captivated by Aiden’s full red mouth. You wouldn’t like how he tastes. Not as much as me. Seth saw some of the girls on mornings-after, in their kitchen. Aiden rarely came out of his bedroom until after they’d left. Then he’d flash Seth a kiss-bitten smile and Seth would offer him a brittle one in return, like he wasn’t breaking inside. This, it seems, is their mutual breaking point. After days of Aiden as his only companion, his only familiarity, another unmentionable night is too much for Seth to handle. Aiden, he knows, does not feel the same. That’s why there’s a chilling silence emanating from the bathroom, where Aiden has apparently decided to seek shelter for the night. When Seth finally manages to drift off into a restless sleep an hour later, the bathroom light is still on. *** The morning is awkward, stilted. When Seth wakes, Aiden is lurking around at the window, having procured two real coffees from some-

it's quiet for a long time. Seth s queezes his eyes shut. he can hear the ancient a/c unit rattling away in the corner, spreading its damp, mildewy chill throughout the room. it settles into his bones, a cold he can't shake. where that is not the motel as what Seth assumes to be a kind of peace offering. Aiden also looks like he hasn’t slept, but offers Seth a weird, fragile smile. Seth decides not to comment on that. He’s done enough commenting for a while. Instead of heading immediately for the Grand Canyon, Aiden drives them a few blocks to a ‘Martha’s Diner’ and leads them inside without a word. Seth follows. They’ve been sitting at the table their overly-cheerful waitress led them to for five minutes in absolute frigid silence when Aiden finally clears his throat. Seth lowers his menu (which he hasn’t actually been reading, just white-knuckling and staring at) and glances across the table. Aiden’s cheeks are unusually flushed. “I don’t like waffles.” Aiden blurts out. Seth stares at him. “That’s… nice?” Aiden winces. “What I mean is, I like pancakes.” Seth is opening his mouth to ask if Aiden is maybe going to start making sense sometime soon, when the waitress comes back over and, apparently oblivious to the palpable tension in the air, asks for their orders. Seth can’t really stomach the thought of food right now, so he asks for another coffee. Aiden makes a face before ordering the same. The waitress fills up their mugs with significantly less cheer and leaves them. Aiden takes a sip from his mug and shifts uncomfortably. “You know I like pancakes, right?” “Yeah.” Seth raises an eyebrow at him. “Pancakes are great.” “I just.” Aiden runs both

hands through his messy curls, frustrated. “Okay, listen. I’ve always loved pancakes, right? Pancakes are amazing. Beautiful. Delicious. And waffles are just like. I can appreciate them, y’know? Like, I get that some people like waffles, but they’re just not my thing.” Seth nods hesitantly, utterly lost. “Right, so,” Aiden continues, “I still love pancakes. And I still don’t really care for most waffles, but. There’s this one kind of waffle that I actually really like. It’s got strawberries on top and everything, and I’m thinking maybe I could really like having these waffles all the time for, like, a long time, y’know?” Aiden offers Seth a uncertain smile. “Aiden,” Seth says as patiently as he can manage. “What the actual fuck are you talking about.” Aiden flushes bright red and reaches for his coffee, bringing it to his lips and chugging it at an alarming speed before slamming the mug back down and standing abruptly. “We should probably leave now to beat the rush.” Aiden pulls out a five dollar bill for the coffee and tosses it on the table. “You ready to go?” “Sure.” Seth says slowly, standing as well and following Aiden cautiously out of the diner and back into the car. Aiden immediately flips the radio on and turns it up to a level that staunchly eliminates the possibility of talking. Seth is fine with this. They’ve got about an hour’s drive before they reach the Grand Canyon, and Seth is more than happy to avoid talking about whatever’s festering between them until he absolutely has to. When they do make it to the

Grand Canyon, Seth is the first one out of the car and standing against the fence on the overlook. He hears Aiden approach more slowly, hears his footfalls stop just behind him. The sun is just peeking over the horizon, gilding the inner canyon walls with warm golden light. Seth can’t help the shaky, reverent breath he lets out. The canyon stretches out for as far as he can see, an intricate labyrinth of rock, water, and light. The tips of the canyon walls are almost pink in the early morning sun. “It’s…really something, isn’t it?” Aiden says quietly. Seth half-turns to look back at him. Aiden’s gaze is unusually soft. He’s looking at Seth. “It’s very beautiful,” Seth agrees. “You—” Aiden looks down. “You gotta be patient with me. This is all still—this isn’t ever something I thought I could have.” He’s not talking about the Grand Canyon, and Seth realizes suddenly that he was never talking about waffles, either. “It’s something you want, though?” Seth asks, hoping his voice doesn’t betray his desperation too clearly. “Yeah.” Aiden says, more certain than he has been all morning. “It is.” Seth nods, swallowing thickly. “I can work with that.” Aiden steps closer, brushing their shoulders together and looking out at the canyon. “You should take a picture.” Seth shrugs, stuffing his hands self-consciously in his pockets. “It doesn’t really matter.” “I think,” Aiden reaches down and curls his fingers gently around Seth’s wrist, “it does.” l

hiteness consumes me. That was how it felt to walk into the empty room designated for my unnecessary therapy session: consumed by the whiteness of the walls, the chairs, the floors, and the little table in the middle of the room. It was wintery, deadening to my mind and displeasing to my eyes. The whiteness swallowed me up and held my body frozen. I realized how still I was and jerked towards a chair. There were two dull white chairs sitting in the back of the room. A small white table between them. I chose the farthest chair, so that I might see the man who was supposed to help me enter this barren place. I don’t know how long I sat there – perhaps it was a minute or maybe even thirty. I felt, rather than heard, the time ticking away since there wasn’t even a clock to mar the purity of these walls. I couldn’t even gauge the time by watching my cell phone – it was prohibited from entering the room. In fact, I was asked to leave everything from my phone and purse to the gum in my mouth in the waiting room with that frosty blonde receptionist. Maybe they were afraid I’d taint the chamber. I found myself staring blankly at the door, the doorknob to be exact. The unstimulating nature of this room left my mind blank and unable to think of anything besides my desire to be gone. I was stuck in a vacuum, a caged lion ready to jump from her cell. My patience crumbled to nothing. My legs began to bounce. My fingers drummed to some rhythm unknown to me. My eyes zeroed in on the turning doorknob and sudden-

BY BRIANNA COLLINS

The of decon Nicky struction Thomas ly I regained perfect control of my body. My back straightened, my legs crossed prettily, and I adopted the friendly but business-like countenance that expressed my willingness to be kind until I could no longer play nice. The man who entered was uniquely average. He seemed like a coalition of every white man I had ever seen: His hair was a dull dark color, his eyes had no certain color, he wasn’t tall or short, nor was he fat or skinny. Nothing about him seemed concrete, the only things about him that I could latch onto were his long, white lab coat and the manila folder that was tucked under his arm. He immediately took the open chair, seemingly unsurprised by my choice to face the door. He pulled the little white table closer to himself and spread the folder over it. “Hello, Ms. Thomas,” he began. His voice was elevator music, both melodic and aggravating. “I will begin by introducing myself. I am Doctor Coleman, and I will be assessing you today since you’ve been referred to my private practice.” He kept his eyes down on the file, sifting through all of the papers, scanning them for information on me. I leaned forward in my seat, watching him glance over the scattered pages of information that’d been dug up on me. I knew what my profile would say: Name: Nicole Thomas (prefers Nicky) Age: 23 Race: African American Profession: Harvard Law School student Anyone could have gathered this kind of data on me. As an intelligent,

young black woman, I was revered in my hometown. I was constantly plastered on the city’s newspaper as the star point guard on our varsity women’s basketball team and as a 4.0 student every single term of my academic career. My parents assured that I maintained a great image by taking me to church every Sunday, signing me up to do paperwork at our local law firm–which greatly enhanced my desire to be a lawyer– and helping me make connections with people who gave me inside knowledge as to what I had to do to become an attorney. When the time came to apply for college and scholarships, I was the most qualified and deserving student I knew. “Nice to meet you, Doctor Coleman,” I responded. I did not want to just give this man any aspect of myself. My answer was polite but not too inviting. Nor was it very telling of myself… or maybe it was. The doctor looked up at me. Intrusive and unyielding, it would have been difficult for someone less guarded to meet and hold his gaze. I did so with ease. Our staring contest did not last long; he dropped his gaze, jotting a quick memo on a notepad he’d pulled from the folder. “Ms. Thomas, why are you here today?” he inquired. I leaned back in my seat, unwilling to let my body betray my thoughts as I debated how to answer this question. I couldn’t possibly declare that I was in this awful place with him unnecessarily–a woman such as myself didn’t get sent to a therapist’s office without cause. Nor could I play coy and pretend I had no idea why I sat before him. I’d already thrown that card away by falling into the staring contest trap, demonstrating my inability

Tucker Braunschweig I Think, Therefore I Am Hickory

to back down from a challenge and unwillingness to lose even a simple dominance game. I wanted always to be the most dominant person in the room, and it had cost me in this moment. I would have to play by his rules for a bit. “I’m here because I’ve been told I have an anger management problem,” I answered coolly. My response did not surprise the good doctor. “Do you think you have an anger problem?” he asked. Suddenly, his arranged his face into a picture of concern and sympathy, but his eyes remained calculating. The face was a front that I could not condone. My eyebrows lifted, an involuntary reaction. “Do I think I have an anger problem?” I repeated incredulously. “No, I don’t. I think my control is excellent. I think my anger is healthy. I think that I’ve been cornered and forced to heel with a ridiculous accusation of mental incompetence that has absolutely no business being associated with me.” The answer sprung quickly from my lips. I was defensive, but controlled.

An outright denial like mine should be emotional, but not overly. I kept still. My eyes locked onto his, allowing him to see the clarity of my mind but not its contents. I could tell he felt as though he’d struck a nerve with me. His eyes became zealous, introducing a slight glint to their ambiguous color. His hand scrawled quickly on the notepad while his eyes remained trained on me. I bitterly wished that his scribbling was so quick and unchecked that his notes became indiscernible. “Ms. Thomas, I’m intrigued by your response. You feel you have been wrongly judged, but I can feel anger in your speech.” He stopped there. Somehow, it felt as if he was trying to urge me on, to draw out the beast inside me. He wanted me to put up some type of offense denying the palpable emotion I’d displayed. But I would not fall into a trap that easily again. I stayed silent, forcing him to meet this lioness head on. He backtracked slightly, his eyes losing some of their luster. “Could you describe the situation that led you to

meet me?” he asked, again donning that façade of innocent concern. A little smile curled the tips of my mouth. “Sure,” I told him. Law school hits you hard. I had to study and sharpen my mind to a point to get through it. The class I loved most, Criminal Law, was perhaps the most difficult. We struggled to understand the ways in which law can be understood and twisted. There are so many loopholes in our justice system, I’d feel like I’d been thrown for one after every class period. The debates were what kept me sharp. I thrived in debates. I loved to see someone build up their cases, only for me to obliterate them in one jab–a pinprick to a balloon. That fateful day, class began as usual. Our professor, WIlliam Drake, had handed us a new case that he was working on to study the day before. I was up all night memorizing the information. It was a rape charge: a white woman crying rape against a black man. The woman claimed that she went to a party, got drunk, and woke up with the man beside her in bed. The breathalyzer

Lauren Richards The Thirteenth Photography

confirmed her inebriated state, but it was not so high as to warrant her complete loss of control of her body. The man’s profile was also in her favor. The man was described as a hulk with a scowl, someone who little kids would be scared to cross. He admitted to being at the party and even having sex with the woman, but he said it was consensual sex. I thought long and hard about how to approach this case. The next day, I was ready. I’d dressed in a blazer-skirt combo that announced my empowered femininity. My opponent, conservative junkie Blanche Van Hise, was dressed equally as professionally as myself, but she lacked the stunning fierceness with which I was able to present myself. She attacked my defendant’s profile as expected and played the poor victimized woman card to a T. But I was able to drum up something special. I found Facebook statuses and pictures of the woman

showing her reckless party habits. I attacked her convenient inability to remember anything from the night of that party, and used the breathalyzer as proof that she should have had the ability to act clearly enough as to consent to sex. I also found that the woman’s conservative family posted very strong anti-interracial relationship comments on the internet and used that to determine the reason for the woman’s inability to tell the truth about her sexual experience with a black man. I also used records of the man’s kind nature. He was an avid church-goer. He constantly volunteered at the shelter near his apartment. I built up his character until I saw my professor’s eyes twinkling with pride and I knew I had won my case. My hard work had paid off and I felt all the better for being the champion of an innocent black man. The room was quiet as I basked in the glory, but then I heard a whispered,

“So says the angry black woman.” I remember being angry after that. I remember feeling it wash over me, taking me over. I remember showing everybody in that lecture hall what the speech of an angry black woman really looks and sounds like. I remember the stark fear in those eyes. I remember grabbing my briefcase and my dignity and walking out of that place feeling like I’d destroyed everything I’d ever worked for. Like the fighting I’d done to raise myself and my race as much as I did, was for nothing. Like I’d disgraced every civil rights leader that ever utilized non-violence to promote our race. As I spoke, the little smile I’d earned from my power struggle with Doctor Coleman lost its place on my face and my head bowed in shame. “What happened, Ms. Thomas?” the doctor asked me. “What exactly did you do?” Flashes of red and black splashed

across my mind. I couldn’t allow myself to go back there. It was too dangerous. Nor would I perpetuate that violence any further. I wouldn’t give him any more. I couldn’t. My head shook vehemently. For my entire life, I’d been giving the world every drop of black blood I had so that I could fight. I fought for my race. I fought for every spec of recognition, for every little inch that I climbed to get to law school, just so that I could stop having to be judged by my blackness. All of my life, I’d been jealous of the ease of life that whiteness granted people who took it for granted. So I fought like hell to taste some power and fight, in the future, for people like me. I’d always idealized lawyers as the strong people. The people who fought for those that couldn’t fight for themselves. The people who fought with words and their brilliant minds. And it was that. That was the principle of it, anyway. But how could I fight for others when the people with the power barely allowed me to stand up for myself? It infuriated me – the absolute powerlessness that I felt that eventful day – that I was demeaned in a matter of six small words to something so miniscule yet so completely shattering. But my fury was no match for my guilt. How could I disgrace myself, my family, my friends, and every black face in America by becoming the very fictitious monsters that the white man loved to demean us as? “Ms. Thomas,” the doctor said. “Let’s revisit the original question. Do you think you have an anger problem?” My head was still bowed, tears threatening to come down. My body sagged under the weight of my guilt. The white chair beneath me was the only thing keeping me from falling to the floor. I latched onto that fact. The insignificant white chair in this terrible chamber was the one thing that kept me from losing the very spirit that embodied me. With this thought, I sat upright. I would not let this thing support me. I stood on the shoulders of many great men and women who fought hard for me to get this far. I would not bring us all down now. I gathered my will and

my body, lifted my chin high, and looked into the watchful eyes of the man before me. “Doctor Coleman,” I began quietly. “I will admit that I am angry. I’m angry that I have to wonder whether people think I got into law school simply because of my skin color. I’m angry that every word out of my mouth seems to represent my entire race at every moment. I’m angry that I can be the most articulate person in a room and it’s a shock. I’m angry that negative stereotypes haunt me at every turn. I’m angry that I can’t just let go of slavery because it still affects me today. I’m angry that I can’t be unaware of my skin color. I am angry!” With every word that came out, I felt more empowered, but also more bothered. Years of repressed feelings spewed out of me. I suddenly couldn’t stand this chair. I couldn’t allow it and its inherent whiteness to support me any longer. I stood slowly, the doctor’s wide eyes following my rise. I took a step towards him; this lioness had left her cage and he could see it. He slowly leaned all the way back in his chair, inhaling heavily. “But Doctor,” I shook my head. My voice became softer and I stepped even closer to the man so that he would hear my every word. “You cannot tell me that I don’t have the right to be angry.” The white man just watched, his eyes gazing up at me as if in that moment I had realized some great truth. I was scaring myself, but I couldn’t be contained any longer. I stepped back from the doctor and took a long look at him. Suddenly, everything about him became clear. The face that had been so strangely ambiguous now had definition. There were deep brown eyes that mirrored mine and thin chapped lips. His chin was pronounced and so were his cheekbones. He was lean and well built. But more surprisingly, Doctor Coleman had no hair on his head whatsoever. His baldness glowed in the white of this room. I had been so deep my hatred of all things white that I completely redesigned the person standing before me. Astounded by this new revela-

tion, I staggered back a few steps. My right hand flew up to my heart and I took in all the oxygen from this room. The doctor said nothing, just watching as I came into my revelation. And when I was done, when the reeling ended and reality sunk in, I met his gaze and held it. I offered no challenge, and neither did he. Instead, he too rose, held out his right hand which I gingerly shook and said, “Thank you for coming to me today, Ms. Thomas. I think you got what you needed.” He gathered his papers calmly and efficiently, and left. I stared after him, unsure of what had happened but feeling that together, that man and I had saved me. When I realized that it was time to leave, I gathered my strength and walked towards the door. Before leaving I looked again at the room, and although it was still startlingly white, there was no prison-like feeling to it. It was just a very white room. I walked out the door. Darkness engulfed me, and I felt free. To Whom It May Concern, You at Harvard Law asked me to assess Ms. Nicky Thomas. I originally wondered why you referred her to my private practice, but I can see exactly the reason, now. My specialization in reverse psychology has been extremely effective in regards to Ms. Thomas. After the appointment, I determined that Ms. Thomas simply needed a healthy outlet of her frustration and exhaustion with living and struggling through life as someone who identifies as a black woman who needs and deserves control over every outcome. She suffered from the pressures that society places on the African American community and those that she burdened herself with. It is my professional opinion that once you speak with her upon her return to Harvard, you will agree with my assessment of her. After twenty-two years in the psychological field, I’ve never had a patient that I respect and admire so thoroughly. She will do wonders for this world and you are lucky to have her. – Dr. Coleman. l

Heirlooms

A SHORT STORY BY RACHEL MURNANE

nruly and deciduous, the northwoods abound with wonders of worlds past. Deep within a particular acreage, a gate of an ancient farmer’s fence lies ajar, hinges broken – a child’s makeshift swing. Further in, rain water drips from the ceiling of a forgotten tunnel whose opposite end is a quarter-sized light; and at the shallow stream’s edge, a series of crumbling cemetery monuments have been nearly obscured by jurassic, vibrant ferns. Hazy summer is in full throttle. Two doe forage for food, heads bent together as if in intimate conversation. Hidden behind a veil of evergreens, the pair meanders near a gravel country road. All around are whispers: the trees shush. Be quiet, they say. Still your heart. Vera stands in the woods, slightly disoriented. For a moment she glances straight up, appreciating the kaleidoscopic, interwoven tree branches and their sharp green leaves, and the spots of gray sky in between. Similar patterns often catch her eye; perhaps it’s in her genes. Her last name is Webb. Maybe she was born to see these things. A single raindrop hits her cheek and she snaps back to her purpose, continuing her hunt. Not only are the clouds on the verge of bursting, the trail she has been following has been steadily disappearing over the last five minutes. Just as she whispers to herself, I must be getting close, Vera practically stumbles upon the structure she seeks. Is this it? This can’t be mom’s secret. First of all, it is astonishingly tiny. Two weeks ago when the lawyer informed Vera that she was heiress to a piece of lakefront property, she’d imagined a fairytale cottage or a cozy cabin. This structure is the

size of a tool shed, smaller than her bedroom in her apartment in Minneapolis. Even though the lawyer emphasized the value of the land, encouraging her to simply demolish the structure and sell, her hopes for her own secret place to escape to remained high. Now they begin to dissipate like smoke. The shack is decrepit and buried beneath years of overgrowth. Its roof is covered in inches of moss, vines cling to the somehow solid wood siding, and wild plants and flowers surround it in every direction. When she locates and uncovers the door, Vera’s heavy heart lightens. It’s not what she’d been expecting, and it’s far from ideal, but it seems to have good bones and an undeniable magical spirit. I could use a little magic, Vera sighs internally. She told her friends she was going to spend her first summer after college graduation finding herself, journaling, soul-searching: carefully convalescing. In June she was entirely convinced she’d have an inward epiphany after a month or two, but the summer is nearly over now and she’s lonely and lost. Her mom is still gone. Driving up north was actually the first spiritual journey she’d had since the funeral. The cool yet humid air and winding country roads took her back to her childhood summers, when she and her mom would vacation at her grandparents’ lake house in Two Harbors. She loved sitting in the passenger seat, safe in her mother’s station wagon. She liked how the car would almost catch the mirages on the pavement; she liked the way they escaped just in time. Many years later, she was driving alone with the windows down. Her mother’s favorite song “Catch The Wind” played softly on repeat. Vera didn’t inherit her mother’s soulful singing voice, but she did have her

eyes. Round and sorrowful, Noelle Webb’s eyes were pink rimmed, watery sea-glass green, and fringed with coarse blonde lashes. An exact replica, Vera could hardly bear to look at herself in the mirror. When she absolutely had to, she saw her white-blonde hair, the color of the inside of a seashell, and her small pink mouth. But she avoided eye contact with her own reflection. The coordinates to the land her mother had somehow neglected to mention were entered in her GPS. It took her four hours to find the small red sign marking the property, which had an abruptly short gravel driveway leading to a clearing. From there it was a quarter-mile hike along the eroded trail to where she now stood, in the unpromising but endearing entryway. She thought of how when she’d inquired about a key, the lawyer laughed. There’s no key. To her confused countenance, he’d elaborated, Vera, it’s abandoned. And it’s in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere was a word that crawled under her skin, made her feel displaced. Where’s mom? Is she nowhere? Where am I? Vera’s memory flashed back to the evening of the day her mom died. Exhausted and numb, Vera fell into a leaden sleep. The next dawn, she stretched and stood like a morning kitten; unanchored, she recalled what and where and why, her mouth shuddering in a weary yawn. That sense of nowhere still follows her like an unshakeable shadow. When Vera opens the cottage door, the thinnest scrap of shadow creeps across the hard clay floor. Though the sun is concealed behind layers of rainclouds, the dark and musty interior of the shack starkly contrasts the bright outdoors. She hesitates a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust before stepping gingerly inside. She naively thinks she

Ningshuang Zhao In A Gym Oil on Canvas

is prepared to understand why her mother, her best friend and confidant in all matters of the heart, kept this from her. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as if the air hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been breathed, hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been stirred in decades. The space is barely twice as

wide as the door, which swings to a silent halt. As the upset dust motes settle, Vera notices that it is surprisingly clean. The ground underfoot is cold, but covered with a rug of knotted cloth. The room is spartan and spare, with just a folding table

and a single black chair situated beneath the window to the left. On the table is a glass jar filled with paintbrushes, stiff and wiry. Bare builtin shelves line the back wall, and a kitchenette consisting of a metal washbasin and a forgotten

Finn Curry Untitled Monotype, Dental Floss Dispenser

teacup are by the right-side window. A pile of firewood is stacked behind the door. Light pierces through small holes in the roof and walls, illuminating without electricity. There isn’t a trace of modernity to speak of. People once lived here, is all Vera can think. This barren shack was their shelter. After her meeting with the lawyer, Vera did some research regarding the history of her inherited land. Last week, with the help of a local historian, she learned that it had apparently been passed down for generations. In fact, her grandmother lived in the lean-to for an entire summer. Her grandmother’s parents and two siblings had nowhere to go after the family home, which stood in the nearby clearing, accidently burned down in 1930, six months after the crash of the stock market. At least they were only summering, Vera thought in amazement. Winter would be impossible here, in these conditions. After the summer of 1930 passed, the family of five moved from the woods to the Cities, for good. Vera silently contemplates life during the Great Depression. She imagines her ancestors’ sleeping arrangements, cooped up together in a row on the floor, for where else would they have slept? How did they eat without refrigeration, bathe without plumbing? She feels detached from such a rustic way of life, even as she stands in their footprints. Then again she wonders if life was really so drastically different for them and for her. Across the wavelengths of time, she too has lost something, sunk into depression, and wound up here, in this beyond-repair, makeshift nest. Cautiously, Vera examines the china teacup. It is light and delicate in her hands. She thinks of how in the late stages of illness her mother looked like an antique porcelain doll. Like her mother’s faint veins and pale skin, the painted teacup is a web of tiny fractures. As if taking a sip, Vera presses it gently to her lips before setting it back down. She sits in the chair, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. Outside the rain is waiting patiently

in the swollen sky. In the distance, she gets a glimpse of the shimmering lake. A loon cries out in echoing earnestness. With this view before her, Vera can envision the endless hours of entertainment possible on this land: swimming, exploring, bonding. Perhaps these simple things were enough to distract from their hunger pains and sadness – maybe even enough for happiness. She used to love the time spent on the shores of Lake Superior with her paternal grandparents, who remained in her life long after her father left. The northwoods are home. Urban life had not eradicated her appetite for nature; quite the contrary, she feels a longing growing inside her. She stands up and takes another glance around. Someday soon I will come back here, she promises herself, running her hands along the rough back wall. Suddenly something catches her index finger. She draws it away, instinctively assuming it’s a sliver, but when Vera peers closely it bleeds like a paper cut. In the wall, something pink protrudes from a slit between the boards. She faintly remembers once hearing about how in the old days people would sometimes insulate their homes with newspaper; she couldn’t vouch for the truth in that though. She pulls out an envelope, and behind it a piece of gray paper emerges, still stuck. The envelope is small and faded, with the words “The Heirloom” written on the front in an unforgettable font. The calligraphy stops Vera’s heart; it’s her mother’s handwriting. She carefully breaks the seal. But the letter inside does not match the envelope. The handwriting is unfamiliar, and at the top it’s dated much earlier than she’d anticipated: August 5th, 1942. Vera scans quickly, seeing her grandmother’s name, Arden Juaire, signed in the bottom right corner. It’s a letter written by her mother’s mother, who had been in this space many summers before, whose pen touched this paper some summers later. A woman Vera never had the chance to meet. The greeting reads Dear Stranger. Trembling, Vera mentally trips over the words in excitement.

I wouldn’t be surprised if no one ever found this letter. But if someone does, as it appears you have, since these words cannot exist without a reader, please know how much this little house meant to me. It was more than mere shelter. It was where I was stung by a bee for the first time. Where my mother taught me how to build a bouquet of wildflowers (cut the stems at an angle, so they’ll live longer). It was my family’s last resort in an era of despair. It was, in my fanciful imagination, a boundless palace. Where I began to paint – my homegrown studio. I mixed my own paints from the natural pigments and dyes in my backyard, the blackberry juice both deliciously sweet and colorful. I think the inspiration for my paintings has seeped into the very framework of this structure. I hope my paintings, hidden behind these walls, will resonate with you. They’re all yours, as is this little house, if you’ll please promise to keep them. On the back is a message from her mother. It says Vera, I love you always. Find strength and solace here. Noelle’s beautiful voice no longer haunts but soothes Vera. Until now, she hadn’t felt tied to the land. Before, it wasn’t terribly significant, despite her heritage. Now, a maternal presence invades the space and she is reassured, aware that every woman’s heart is a deep lake of secrets. She carefully pries the bent wooden board enough to see the papers tucked behind the walls. But a crack of thunder right overhead stops her from taking them out. The clouds have finally given in, unreservedly relinquishing fat drops of water. She will have to come back another time to retrieve the paintings. Someday soon I’ll return. Someday, Vera chants, sounds like a sigh. Outside again, she inhales the earthy air deep into her lungs. Vera carries the jar of paintbrushes and the letter with a sense of proud ownership. She lets the raindrops pelt her face in their relentless fury, so that when she finally bows her head and walks away, the phantom drumming sensation lingers. l

Haoran Chang Trash Bag #3 Oil Paint

Sarah Rose Smiley Sister Oil on Board

po ems 54

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

sme 55

Caleb Weisnicht Fjordhead Graphite Water Color

46.8164°N, 90.6892°W BY MADELINE KELLY The map of my body was drawn in green glitter gel pen on a torn diner napkin under the buzzing white light of the bulbs above the restaurant booth. It was carved with a pocketknife into the surface of a wobbling wooden table littered with crumbs of a meal eaten like wolves to a carcass— greedy and rabid— flesh ravaged by incisors and not even bone left behind. Dark silhouettes of men sat around the table, brows furrowed and heads bent inward in twisted benediction. They cut through the varnish and scraped into the wood, lines both delicate and brutal— the atlas of my anatomy. Engraved into cedar surface and eyes of unknown men.

Now I draw what I can from memory, tracing hooks of elbows, right knee (and scars), curves of hips, left eyebrow (and scars). Soft white chalk crumbles my shape onto the wet sidewalk as hopscotching children watch and my figure gains dimension, inhaling the greyness of asphalt and clouded sky, exhaling flecks of doubts painted gold.

The map of my body was drafted in sugar cubes onto the linoleum of my grandmother’s kitchen floor. Sleepover pillow talk, front-of-mirror body talk, cousins, aunts, sisters, mothers, sat together and whispered to me the sweetness of Woman— single-use, crumbling corners, meltaway. The faucet was dripping, and the wind was blowing the french doors open and shut and open and shut and open again— valves to arteries. This cartography was written gingerly by the one person who knows the constellations of my birthmarks. There is a full moon freckle on the bottom of my foot, connected by electric veins to a matching mark on the tip-top of my scalp. They are knotted together, head-to-toe, by hidden telephone wires pulsating with a current of harried whispers. trustmetrustmetrustme rolls over itself like waves, like bedsheets, like fingers interlaced with another’s. The map of my body was never mine— my mother unfolded me to the air, and I let myself re-crease, stuffed in well-worn pockets, sun-stained in the windshields of old cars.

Jackson Froiland The Seahorse King Mixed Media

sledding BY JUSTINE JONES “do you have any memories of him?” this one emerging out of the wind, the blank gray stones of that vague house quiet underneath a blaze of snow. the red Maryland forest curving like the rim of a dull sun, a blooded autumn fray on the steep winter hill. these things fall light and fast on my closed eye, maybe true or maybe the lines I shaded in many years later. maybe the snowsuit wasn’t crimson, soft and worn, maybe the sky a looming blue. but this I know: my father’s arms around me, the uncontrollable whim of the falling sled, snowflakes bent like cold steel on my lips.

Kristina Warner The Market Encaustic and Mixed Media

christmas 1914 BY JACK CASEY Two sides lay in wait Spotlighted by blackened faces And imaginary trenches dug Against the stately enemy Nobody really knew The future is tied up in words Sung softly Silent Night Back and forth Across a dying Christmas Day

WATERBOYS BY CODY DUNN I like to think waterboys go home after a day of dispensing Dixie cups, kick on 6-inch heels and feel overqualified to serve drinks. After all, someone fought as hard to put men in stilettos as we did to put them on the moon. I hope they wrap their chipped shoulders in the seven-color flagâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;Atlas in a tasteful shrug. That would be best; to warm themselves in the compact of weathered rain and shout, half a foot closer to clouds, I do not fear the flood; I am the flood.

Steven KP Connect (Broach) Bronze, Copper, Steel

Luke Johnson Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Falling Too Paint and Varnish on Paper

Libby Rosa Nina Oil and Graphite

you bird you rabbit BY MIA ROSE SATO You bird— grabbed from your wasteland— do not struggle. Hold your breath as you’re clenched by the canine down the dirt road home, limp from all your traditions. I’ll see you here at the cusp, wings wet from prayer & apology, where I’ll wait for that hound wind to push you from the cold. Fall back, straight to my front door, where the porch light blinks for your homecoming. You rabbit— heaved onto my welcome mat, shame full blood and all. That pawing on the screen door calling me. You panting & I muzzled. Drag yourself home. I’ll stay up for your bark and your bird, your rabbit. You bird, you rabbit, you rabbit.

canticle BY CALEB WEISNICHT in the piss-scorched artery of earth that you and i never let heal, frame me like the names of every color emptied into the shade around your feet.

Haoran Chang Untitled Oil and Spray Paint

elegy for a landmark BY EMILY HEGLAND the rabbit corpse on the brown grass is ripped like a plush toy at the neck. he marks the spot near the trees on Johnson between my home and the sidewalk square that says VISCERAL in spraypaint. the first time i saw his mud tipped fur and neatly stacked haunches, i jumped – each day i saw him, bleak paws as i left, matte black beetle eye as i returned home and each time, i lingered a moment longer. i’d only ever seen the roadkill cadaver of a rabbit before. once my childhood cat chased a mole into the house and killed it at the bottom of the staircase but i didn’t look. she’d always leave toads and birds on our welcome mat in a neat line. one day she never came home. where i live, i know no one is tidy enough or sentimental enough to move the open-necked creature out of public sight. soon he became a landmark and a source of silent entertainment here was my game: lurk some paces back from another quicken as he came, and observe. i remember the rabbits from my home town. there was some chemical in the water or the lawns that resulted in a high mutation rate. a bump between the eyes, protruding from the skull. the horned creatures fidgeted behind every pine tree, in every aluminum eave. my brother swore he’d seen one with a third eye someone finally cleaned up that dead rabbit, with its missing jugular and like missing a stair in the middle of the night i faltered in step, expecting my rabbit to greet me.

For the boys molested by Jerry Sandusky BY NATALIE COOK In the beginning of darkness No one sees that the wind blows trees Dusk Wind bends tree over Branches hang on air for support Oxygen slippers out of grasp Motion stumps bark Wind barks at stump Howls like thunder Rain pours down trunk Wind ravages tree Paper is made from tree Pen move on paper rapid like wind Pen pokes hole in paper Holes mistaken for balls Penn coaches ball Penn coach throws ball into holes Holes of trees Bent over Trees know nothing of love Just wind In darkness No one prays because no one sees Wind has raped the faith out of trees Children know not of innocence When guardian angels break their wings but still want to ride their backs God reigns But that is not Him pouring from the shower faucet When the light goes off in the locker room Wind blows in Rears his ugly head into rear Horned angel Heaven and hell look too much alike I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell a demon from first glance Even if heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been in practice for over ten years In practice he is an angel At games he is a God Cause he knows how to teach ball Thrusting them after each conquer When the field lights go off The ones in the locker room come on The shower is his personal stadium Dusk

Wind has been caught trespassing forest The trees are now bent Wind claims that he was just giving a breeze Not a dusky blow Dusky doesn’t blow Dusky just loves children and ball Boys are balls handled by a pro Boys’ balls are handled by a pro Horses and donkeys may look similar but you can’t tell me that anal rape sounds like horseplay Why were you showering with little boys anyway? Coaching ball must not have been fulfilling You wanted to play to feel the sweltering brown in your palms You went in showers to be dirty And football games still went on Students in stands Trees at stance The Wind was seen and not heard Kind of like how children are taught to be But what if wind was once just a bent tree? A horned angel who once had a halo who wasn’t kicked out of heaven Just screwed out of his Kingdom If wind was once a 10-year-old boy who only bent over when setting a play A 10-year-old boy who hadn’t begun to think of his back arched like a rainbow A 10-year-old boy who just wanted to play ball Not play with one If at some time wind did not blow Then we’re all just variations of Lucipher walking on clouds of smoke Heaven and hell look too much alike even when Dusk is brought to light The deforestation of innocence smells of burning crosses The trees are bent The Wind is still The Wind still claims the same innocence he grabbed in his palms Running freely with dirty hands Ryan Cain Infinite Hum No Medium Listed

A little boy is not a football game You don’t touch down there

Ryan Cain No Manifesto No Medium Listed

Madison Portraz #18 and #22 Oil on Wood

Meandering with maier This spring, WUD Art put on an exhibit displaying the wonderful art of Vivian Maier. Inspired by her famous and eccentric street photography they worked with Wheelhouse Studios to try their own hand at capturing the beauty on the streets of Madison. Below are just a few of the pictures that were submitted by University of Madison students meandering the streets, inspired by Maiers. To see art exhibits in person or to try your own hand at some art look to WUD Art and Wheelhouse Studios.

Mission

The mission of Illumination is to provide the undergraduate student body of the University of Wisconsin-Madison a chance to publish work in the fields of humanities and to display some of he schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best talent. As an approachable portal for creative writing, art, and scholarly essays, the diverse content in the journal will be a valuable addition to the intellectual community of the university and all of the people it affects.