Images Fall '19 Zine - Vices by Images Magazine

IMAGES MAG Fall 19

Kimberly Cassels Kate McLachlan Christina Stanton Allie Wilder

uninvited Kimberly Cassels Poetry Winner

sour blood meandering my arms feeds the heckling gothic nest above my dreams damp and scalding then blanched come the cleaned creeps from my mirror wet slippery slugs clenching my jaw as they pocket their allegiance so I become the church organ which cues a hiss between my ears "cack cack you cunt, we're watching, we all remember the times you lied and made a scene" thrashing like piss to burst out this terrifying temple, sprinting within a pipe so empty and ancient my sight became Dalmatians and the mirror may be the only friend at home waiting for me

hungry Kimberly Cassels When you asked to spend the whole day there, I should have let you. Every cloth to brush over my dunes made of milk has been caught in your dulcet breeze, and gusts rippled out of confined, wildly conquering thunder. You crack me open for the taste of yolk, it glides in a glisten to my knees, I'm a blossom bouncing in rain drops from the zest around my staircase, step to step, you stalk your prey that is melodious on weeping legs. You take the little waist so eagerly, smiling, tongue out, melting chocolate into dripping strings. Sliding your spry spring Into my summer heat Bumping the doorframe with my wet palms, soaking the garden and length of the lawn. The air tried to lift itself up from our steam, but you beat and beat and beat sweat beads. I'm a bass drum, top hat, snare, Tamborine you pound every rhythm out of me. Swinging on slick ecstasy riding waves of luxury, no jewelry is as fine as the pieces you put in my mouth. I slurp on that merciless memory, every time we missed out on something you were busy feeding me, drooling before eating.

Ba da ba ba ba Kate McLachlan I’m an athlete again. This involves running so I do that now, I’m running on a trail and a bear dragged a bag full of trash to the middle of the path and I’m running. I knew I stepped on something because of the light crunch under my shoe but when I lifted my foot, that’s when I saw you next to a plastic straw. I ran away but my mind stayed with the waxy yellow wrapper could it be? Was that who I thought it was? I faintly whisper out loud so only god can hear me “Is the McRib back?” I have waited by the door for you for so long I forgot how to do anything else. Do you know how many people told me you weren’t coming back? I never listened to them. I should have because they all have degrees and mortgages and can afford health insurance and trips to Nashville or Portland or anywhere else hot baristas with little hats are mean to you and I am here, still a clown. Did you have fun at the White House? When that bear was sniffing your wrapper, did you two laugh about me? Did you show him my texts and read him my poems while he chewed on a used tampon? Do you know how fucking embarrassing it is that you didn’t tell me you weren’t coming back to town and I had to find out by running into you? I would never fucking do that to you, even though I’m the one who shit my pants on election night and it’s your fault. I have a girlfriend now and she’s sweet and kind she doesn’t know about you I don’t ever want her to know about you. What other trash did the bear even drag on to the trail? Probably a box of fries, you two were always so fucking close. That piece of garbage doesn’t ever remember my name, even though we’ve played monopoly together like fifteen times. I have ALWAYS hated your friends. I am not going to waste any more tears on you. Have a nice life, McRib. Enjoy laying on the fucking ground like that.

Slipped Secret Christina Stanton It swelled, welling up in the depths of her soul. Pushed constantly up against her heart beating fast, Threatening with every pulse to break to the surface but she would force it back below. It was to remain hidden – its only duty as a secret – Hide in the depths and never see the light. But a certain stubbornness flowed through its veins, a prominent refusal to fulfill its purpose. So, it fought pressing itself against her every thought, hinting at itself in her words, her actions, her fears until friends began to ask. They prodded, curious but to one after another she denied the prospect of knowing – of knowing this secret she kept down inside. The battle raged fierce but in a moment of weakness she let in. The secret’s desires fulfilled, and it slipped in the form of a blush and a nod.

In Memory of Yik-Yak, In Trepidation of Whisper Allie Wilder Invisible faced armies waiting to be conquered and I a solemn knight cell- phone held tight with the knowledge that my argument is surely right log in to anonymously fight with strangers on the internet tonight.

Zoe Larsen Kate McLachlan Joshua Mendrala

Kate McLachlan Prose Winner

When swinging on a porch, I have to furiously pump my stubby legs. My butt and abdomen get involved, but I don’t really know how or why; they are just along for the ride. None of this works; instead of simply rocking back and forth, the porch swing just jerks from side to side and occasionally, it jumps up like a marionette. It’s hard to be short when you’re a fully-grown adult because you have all the responsibilities that come with aging, but you’re still in the body of a child. I have to pay taxes, but my feet can’t touch the ground when I sit all the way back on a porch swing. It’s bullshit. If someone had joined me outside and given me a small push, I could have really gotten something going. Alas, that moment never came. There I was, swinging with the finesse of a teenager driving a stick shift for the first time. I would have looked insane if anyone was actually looking. It was late July and moths had invaded the night, flapping haphazardly around a solitary outdoor lamp. My sweater was optimistically draped on the back of the swing, but it was unnecessary. I think I was cold one night in July years ago, so now I always bring a sweater just in case. I really didn’t need it. I didn’t need anything, actually. I did want, though. I wanted to be tall enough to push the swing. I wanted to be cold enough to wear my sweater. Most of all, I really wanted a fucking drink. Maybe some cocaine if it was offered, but I wouldn’t want to buy any. Rehab was expensive, so I’m on a budget. My mom was so worried when I told her I was coming to this party. She was worried it would be too soon, too upsetting, too triggering, too too too. Instead of explaining that these were my closest friends and I felt ready, I hung up on her, so now I have something to look forward to when I turn my phone back on. When you’re in recovery, it’s important to have something to look forward to.

Just as I had given up on swinging, a moth landed in the palm of my hand. Will you look at that, I thought. I’m not alone anymore. At the beginning of the party, before everyone started drinking, I got a lot of hugs. Each embrace was accompanied by a slight moan, “hermmmm”, the pity kind, not the sexy kind. Sometimes, after the hug, people would put both of their hands on my shoulders, stare at me and ask, “How are you doing?” so slowly and carefully I thought they were having a stroke. For the first hour, everyone drank five feet away from me, like sobriety was contagious. Some people went so far as to turn around and face the wall when they chugged. How thoughtful. To my relief, people started to get tipsy. Their looseness released me from imaginary quarantine and people bravely held conversations with me. My friends are taller than me and their drinks were at eye level. As time passed and everyone traveled further from moderation, they slowly forgot I existed. I slipped outside; that way, it was my choice not to talk. The moth in my hand was small. I gently bent my fingers like a cage to protect it. It stopped flapping and relaxed in my palm. The wings had a golden slickness to them like a pleather skirt I had in middle school. It was nice. We sat there in silence. A very drunk girl stumbled onto the porch so she could fight with her boyfriend on the phone in private. Someone introduced us earlier, but I had already forgotten her name. Mascara and tears stained her cheeks as she repeatedly cried, “can I talk now?” into the phone. I wonder how she met everyone. She was a new friend, a new mess the group could clean up. She hung up and lurched back inside without ever acknowledging me. I looked down and realized that while she was on the phone, I had crushed the moth to death with my hand. I wiped away its small corpse, spreading the dusty, metallic oil of its wings onto my sweater. Gross. This bug was a nuisance to me in its death. I somehow thought the other moths would care, but they continued to flutter around the porch light.

Joshua Mendrala Our thoughts are not unique. They are provided, subjugated, whispered softly into our ears until we believe them. Our thoughts are not our own. I suppose though that the first step is to acknowledge this. My feet are stretched out before me, bare, splayed on a shag carpeting that comes standard in our paretic prisons. My hands grip the arms of a chair that feels like stone, shuddering as another rush of dopamine jolts my system. Our thoughts are not my own. Perhaps my eyes could open and awaken from their euphoric drift, what would they see? I imagine they would gaze down at my legs, atrophied and faltering, unlike the ones they show me. They would wander to my fingers, where long nails would have curled down to scratch the surface of my stone throne. They would look ahead at a pale wall with a small hole drilled through the side, just enough to supply me with necessary amounts of vitamin D. My wandering eyes would then begin to ache with the pressure of the vice pressed around my head, preventing my thoughts from expanding, constricting my ideas, holding me hostage. But alas, our thoughts are not our own. And if my eyes were to gaze the length of my body, were to wander the confines of my prison, I should imagine I would think to stand up. I would push myself up off of my throne onto shaking legs, a body I could not feel amidst the orgasmic sensation of the drugs they pump through my veins. And on realizing this, I would look down at my swollen veins, spidery bastards in my blistering arms, then down to just beneath my groin where a drip line pumped everything I could ever want or need into my aortic system. Our thoughts are not my own. Once carefully, and uncomfortably removing the drip line from my inner thigh, I slowly begin to feel my legs again. They are weak, but they are mine. I raise my hands up in front of my face and systematically begin to bite through my long fingernails. It hurts. I am in pain; it is beautiful. Years worth of dead skin falls to the floor, echoing like the footsteps of an infant. This process proves more difficult with my toenails, but I succeed nonetheless. My blood drips from my fingers and toes onto the white floor, and a saturated red circle has developed where the drip line once sat. I am woefully, perfectly, beautifully human. Their thoughts are not my own. They lobotomized the last one. I think of this as my aching legs propel me forward into the green throngs of what must be wilderness. They stuck a metal rod inside her eye, eased carefully into her prefrontal lobe where they surgically removed herâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;all of her. Her thoughts were not their thoughts. She too was flawed. She too was horrifically human. I can feel them in my head, suggesting I turn around, run back, seek another dose of happiness and euphoria. My thoughts are my own.

The blade is cold as I press it against my right temple, perhaps juxtaposed to the hot pulse in my head that ails me so. I waste no more time and press the tip deep into the tender, stretched skin. My body shakes with shock and vision in my right eye goes black. I can feel my blood on my fingertips and grin as I fish around in my skull for it. It is hot, pulsing, metallic. I grab onto it amidst the protest of the nerves I have pushed aside and pull. A long snake slithers out of my serrated skull and the vision in my right eye spasms for an instant. The momentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s actuality is a second in time, but for me it hangs in infinity, a gasp of pure euphoria. I stare at my flaw, bleeding in my hands. I am horribly, disgustingly, and perfectly unique.

Zoe Larsen “Bradley”. “Yes?” “Do you know where you are?” “I have absolutely no idea where I am.” “Do you know who I am?” “I have absolutely no idea who you are.” “Do you know anything?” “Hmm. I’m not sure I do.” “Well Bradley, I am God. You’re in the waiting room.” “What am I waiting for?” “You’re waiting to see whether you’re going to heaven or hell.” “That seems unlikely.” “Why’s that?” “Well, I’m alive.” “Now that’s just objectively false. Says here you died falling out of a tree.” “Lemme have a look at that. Huh, that was a nice looking tree.” “Really nice tree, Bradley.” “Tall, huh.” “Very tall. So, do you remember now?” “Remember what?” “Dying?” “Sure.” “Hmm.” “What?” “You don’t seem to care very much that you died.” “You don’t seem to either.” “Well, you’ve got a point there. But that’s my job.” “Not caring?” “That’s right. If I cared about everyone in the waiting room, well, it’d be pretty hard telling them to go to hell.” “Yeah, that would be pretty hard.” “Do you mind if we get started? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m on a pretty tight schedule.” “Sure, God.” “Thank you, Bradley. Now, if I’m reading this correctly, you took 43 lives over the course of your life.” 18

“That’s too bad.” “It sure is. Do you care to explain why?” “Amusement.” “That’s pretty inconsiderate, Bradley.” “Yeah, I suppose it is. Were they all here? Did you meet them?” “I did, Bradley. They didn’t have many nice things to say about you.” “I don’t have many nice things to say about them, either.” “They were pretty annoying, to be perfectly honest. Let’s continue. Ooh, bad news. You were very gluttonous while you were alive. I didn’t need to look at your file to see that, though.” “I liked to eat. What’s wrong with that?” “You ate excessively.” “I did no-” “You once ate four cans of tuna in one sitting.” “I needed them.” “Look in the mirror. Did you really need them?” “I suppose not.” “Definitely not. You look like a manatee.” “Now, I wouldn’t go that fa-” “A manatee, Bradley.” “I suppose you’re right.” “And what did all of that excess weight do? It made you lazy.” “I think I accomplished a lot.” “By occupying the same sofa cushion for 16 hours everyday?” “Sounds like an accomplishment to me.” “Did you know that laziness is a sin, Bradley?” “I don’t know much of anything.” “That’s evident. Well Bradley, I’m not even a quarter of the way through your file, and you’ve already managed to commit three of the seven deadly sins.” “Sounds like I’m an overachiever.” “I think I’ve made my decision.” “Can’t wait to hear it.” “You’re going to hell, Bradley.” “Now, wait a minute!” “No.” “Please, can’t I try to change your mind?” “Fine. Humor me.” “I may have sinned, but I did a lot of good in my life, too.” “Ok.” “I made a lot of people happy.” “Great.” “I loved unconditionally.” “Wow.” “I was kind to so many people. Even strangers.” “Nice work.” “Goddammit!” “Ooh, poor word choice.” “So that’s it then? It doesn’t matter how much good I did? I just get recognized for the bad?” “Bradley. You murdered 43 moths. Your owners spent hundreds of dollars on food that you didn’t need. That’s pretty selfish. And if that wasn’t enough, you sat on your lazy ass while your owners shoveled your shit into a little plastic sack and you licked your genitals and you purred. Do you really think I have a 19

place in heaven for something that licks their dick and purrs? That’s fucked up, Bradley.” “Yeah, now that I hear it out loud, it does sound pretty fucked up.” “So you agree with my decision?” “I suppose so.” “Well, that settles i-” “Wait a second.” “You’re starting to get on my nerves, Bradley.” “Don’t I have eight lives left?” “What the hell are you talking about?” “I’m a cat, God. You know how it works.” “No way.” “What.” “Sweet Jesus, you’re totally right.” “Great.” “Wow, I really was not expecting that. Definitely did not have that in the schedule.” “How could you not know about that? You’re God.” “Jesus came up with that rule. What an asshole.” “So, can I go now?” “Hmm. Good question.” “What?” “Well, this hasn’t ever happened before.” “Am I stuck in here? In the waiting room?” And for only the second time, God shuffled his feet.

Elise Lilburn Bryson Schritter

Haunted Bloom Digital Photography Visual Winner

Dangerous Indulgence Mixed-Media, Photogrraphy,

Distraction Reductive Woodcut Honorable Mention

Featured Faculty

Steven Meyers

That way hubris lies Steven Meyers They will tell you that love is more than sex, but what the hell do they Leave her her love. Oh yes, more than anything, leave her this. What is love without Okay, fine then, a form of divine on a mountain creek. It was far better than nothing. Than “We’re all dying,” makes it a bit more universal—and in need of running water. The on-call doctors would not let her leave the hospital for the walk dared because she wanted to. They had taken away her ‘morrow, poisoned the river a dying woman needs. It wasn’t the same as an afternoon of them going through the horror of the transplant. They didn’t know. They didn’t know! How dare he. He, with her, she with her lethal radiation, her lethal chemo? (The least they might have done was know.) More than sex? They say it as if sex between the loving dying is sin. We are all dying. Shall we none of us Wise ones, tell me, why are the nurses on 10 West appalled by a couple making love while one was left unsaid? Unknown? But we said it often enough. We knew. There’s something about knowing when the madness will end. An urgency. I’ll take this mundane madness any day. I don’t need the divine form. I need nothing reserved for the gods alone.