The Tower 2022 by The Tower

THE TOWER

THE TOWER ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE

Copyright © 2022 The Tower University of Minnesota Department of English 103 Pillsbury Hall 310 Pillsbury Drive SE Minneapolis, MN 55455 thetower.umn.edu ivory@umn.edu Printed by Modern Press, New Brighton, Minnesota Cover art: Title, Artist, medium Design and typesetting by Abigail Karels, Ellie Sabby, and Yayoua Xiong Composed in Adobe Garamond Pro, Brandon Grotesque, Futura, and Telegrafico fonts The Tower is the art and literary magazine of the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. We publish the best in art and creative writing by undergraduates currently enrolled on our campus. We are inspired by a belief in the necessity of artistic expression and its power to enlighten, challenge, and captivate. Our publication began in 1952 as a column called “The Ivory Tower” in The Minnesota Daily, then became a tabloid insert. In 2006, it was reinvented as an annual journal produced by students enrolled in the Literary Magazine Production Lab, a two-semester course offered by the Department of English and taught by an instructor with much publishing experience. In 2018, we shortened the magazine’s name to The Tower. Students apply for acceptance into the class and for specific staff positions. We work collaboratively for the academic year, creating and promoting a journal from start to finish. We publish one isssue annually. The Tower is a free publication that is circulated on campus and in the community. We would like to thank the following organizations for their generosity and for making it possible to publish the 2022 edition of The Tower. For a full list of donors, as well as our submission guidelines, please see the the back of this issue.

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS IN CHIEF This year marked not a return to normal, but the beginning of a learning process as we tried to navigate new terrain. While in-person classes have resumed, the effects of the last two years remain present in the world. In this edition of The Tower, we wish to create a space where our contributors can voice their unique perspectives as they shift and grow. This year’s theme, “Periphery,” focuses on the marginal, that which is distanced from the societal center. Periphery is also subjective—depending on the viewer’s position, what is on the perimeter varies. We hope our magazine reflects this experience of kinesis rather than stasis, change rather than constancy. We also hope this shift in perspective allows us to shine some light on the more absurd aspects of society. Thoughts and actions that have been previously deemed unreasonable or inappropriate can now be re-examined through a new lens. This issue of The Tower invites us to reconsider our preconceptions and to explore that which is different. The journey of our magazine is one of perspective and its ever-evolving nature. Mirroring this, we’ve ordered the contents to begin in a state of almost childish whimsy before slowly delving into more complex feelings and issues. Isolation and grief are, unsurprisingly, a strong undercurrent. We want to acknowledge and respect this while also providing a reminder that grief is not the end of all things, nor will it be the sole lens for viewing the world. Closing pieces provide a grounded look, imbued with knowledge and worldly perspective, with still a touch of whimsy as well as a curiosity for the unknown. Periphery, in its focus on the just-out-of-sight, encourages us to always keep looking and paying attention. There is always more to learn, even when we think we have seen everything. The Tower itself, as an ever-present collection of writers, artists, and editors sharing perspectives from the various edges of the University community, embodies much of what we mean by this year’s theme. With this issue we aim to continue The Tower’s long tradition of spotlighting our talented fellow students. We are proud of the hard work we have put into this magazine and are hopeful that it will help us as a community expand our knowledge of the world around us. Thank you for your attention to the voices and visions from the periphery that are embraced within these covers. Warmly,

Alba Rakacolli Kala MacDonald

THE TOWER 2022 STAFF Editors in Chief Kala MacDonald Alba Rakacolli Managing Editors Stacy Cossa Han Mallek Anna Schwartz

Copyeditors Rachel Dworshak | Chief Valerie Paul Emily Rascher Anna Schwartz Elana Sederholm Keng Xiong Yayoua Xiong

Development Directors Rachel Dworshak Valerie Paul

Art Editors Ellie Sabby | Chief Abigail Karels

Marketing Directors Grace Collmann Keng Xiong

Poetry Editors Emily Rascher | Chief Grace Collmann Han Mallek

Online Editors Ellie Sabby Elana Sederholm Designers Abigail Karels Emily Rascher Ellie Sabby Yayoua Xiong Publicists Han Mallek Bradley Peterson Addie Schlensker Elana Sederholm

Fiction Editors Addie Schlensker | Chief Rachel Dworshak Bradley Peterson Elana Sederholm Yayoua Xiong Nonfiction Editors Keng Xiong | Chief Stacy Cossa Valerie Paul Anna Schwartz

PART 1

Last Tuesday I Stuck My Finger into the Socket of Nomenclature and Suddenly I Was Mr. Bean. Trinity V. Fritz Lawrence

The man at the register stopped me and said, “Ghostwriters are on strike, you can’t write a check.” Outside the saints come and go with waves of nausea and barbecue breeze. The jazz of his cologne will never leave, and I strike out to be another fixture in the mess of rancid bodies. I looked at the sky and saw that it was green. I looked in your eyes and saw what you were thinking. You magnificent kumquat, you made me wish I could write love poems. So I wrote one for you. The space between Sundays became the greatest Zeitgeber since sundials, I went from shrink-wrapped Jesus bites to licking bits of myself off the floor of your car and picking four-leaf clovers on our dates. I would say I love you if I spoke Greek. I went back and stole the baked beans from the man at the register. I went into a dream, and you played music while I read the words of dead men, talking about some sort of salvation, I wasn’t

A Curious Forest, Lauren Bastian, ink drawing

paying much attention, between your eyes and the sight of the Virgin Mary playing golf. I guess I wrote this to say I love you, in whatever way you want to take that.

My Wife

Nate Johnson

Twenty twenty was the year I got married. Twenty twenty-one was the year I got divorced

and remarried.

My new wife has green eyes and yellow teeth. She fasts every fourth day and never uses toilet paper provided she has time for a shower. She listens to her inner voice when the voice sings in lullabies. She marches on Washington in brand new sandals. She braids my hair. She moves in and out of my life at the right speed. We drink vodka with cream soda after each miscarriage. She insists I obsess over her ridiculous fish stories. She counts her freckles and wrecks my credit score. She forces me to eat Irish butter. She makes me pay back all my ill-gotten unemployment gains. I found my freedom the day I let her see me.

Yellow Nightstand, Jo Garrison, acrylic painting

Delicate

Morgan Coffeen

del·i·cate adj. 1. The faint twinkling of snowflakes in the sunlight, placed gently along the edges of branches just before they flutter down to be crunched up by tiny feet stuffed into clunky boots. / The veiny petals scattered across my nightstand from roses meant to fix another broken promise. 2. The drained and sunken feeling that washes over you just after the tears have stopped carving lines into your face (the one where you feel very human and small). / The way his hand brushed against my hair that first time in the dark, on the couch (he smiled when he didn’t think I could see it). / The tone in my dad’s voice when he told me things had gotten bad for him again. / The baby’s eyes fluttering closed, unaware of the pain that house held. / The small lines in your lips that spread like spiderwebs when you’d smile. 3. One single fuzz on the skin of a peach.

Snowflakes in Your Hair Mahdi Khamseh

The snow murmuring above the pavement Chlorophyll laughter bleached in white As I stumble past the orchard The forest heaves with my fading breath Looking back Shoulders glancing crescent moons Into the twenty-sixth phase of sorrow Pleads another case with me Silence shouts into my ears As it pulls me into its abyss And leaves me tainted with Diamond hairs The slow whispers Cutting into the clouds Forcing another droplet of white blood To perturb you from your sleep Sharp glances Bite at my window My dwelling has lost its wood from your leaving You took a tree and left A splinter The gum wrappers around my face Chain me to a voice which I cannot bear to hear As I can do nothing but chew And chew Until I spit myself out of Your eyes 13

But as the snow builds up Pink plaque upon your cheeks I push your plague further into my lungs And breathe with your sight In mind You caress the sunset And feast the dawn Your lips warm the horizon But now I take a step away from a step never taken at all Wine bottles stuck on my words Drunken letters dancing amid sentences said And unsaid I wait for you to come and talk with me but the wind Turns rancid and you Linger away

Plains

Mustapha Jallow

I’ve found myself on the plains catapulted across desert skies woolen paradises of clouds shaped into R’s and O’s alive reading with its I’s once translated into restless patterns of speech mutters caught in twine firm whispers that swell atop countless wicker chair what-ifs places where a heaved sigh is an orchestra of her words gone unwritten

Squirrel with Pinecone, Marissa Munley, linoleum block print

Autumn Weather Report Brynn Nguyen

September 16 The white oak warns me that my hair is going to fly before the wind even hits me. It seems that the greenery is the preferred target of the wind, and then my notebook, and then me. My paper rustles in reaction to the sound of the green leaves whooshing around me before dropping down gently. A tree is made of many different branches, leaves, and twigs, but it moves as one being at the behest of the wind. And this tree isn’t alone. Accompanying it is an entire forest leaning to and fro. Their bending bark forms look like seaweed reaching from the bottom of the Minnesota lake my dad used to take us to when the weather was favorable. The weather those days was similar to that of today: warm with a blast of wind that would cause the surface to ripple so that I wouldn’t be able to see the fish underneath. If the trees are seaweed, and the wind is the current in the water, then what are we? Perhaps we’re the broken beer bottles that cut my brother’s feet, or the dropped sunglasses, phones, and fishing poles that are now submerged in the sand. Not born among these seaweed trees, but here because we dropped in and decided to stay, like how my father dropped his only two children and decided to stay in Vietnam. Just for two years. We’re here resting in

the damp grass, judging the weather and squishing the bugs that come near. Perhaps it’s ignorant of me to believe that the trees are warning me to watch out for the wind when they may, in fact, be pushing me to leave. Maybe I am not welcome. Maybe they yearn for me to go. Or maybe the trees aren’t seaweed. Maybe it’s simply a windy day. September 24 Speaking with my father on the phone, he commented on the blue sky above. “It looks like a beautiful day,” he said in a way that’s meant to make me feel good. He was right. It did appear to be a beautiful day, but what he could not observe was the cold bite in the air that was both crisp and painful. He could not observe the goosebumps on my skin as I hurried to my physical therapy appointment at the University hospital, passing students in winter coats. What my father could not observe was that those pretty, wisp-like clouds were maturing into an overcast that would rain a few hours later. An overcast similar to the sadness I feel when I think about how my father can’t even observe the young woman I am growing to be. I need to stay for another two years. I am no longer the ten-year-old I was when he found his new home. In her place, the spitting image 17

of his ambitions, chasing after the life he created that didn’t include his little girl. No, my father observes what he yearns for the most. He observes the blue Minnesota sky because Ho Chi Minh City is muggy with pollution. He observes the bustle of campus—on a Friday, the slowest day of the week—because it’s illegal for him, for anyone, to engage in such activities during the pandemic. I wonder what he misses more: the idea of Minnesota or me. I recall him saying, long ago, that he misses Minnesota. I recall him saying, recently, that he wouldn’t want to move back here. The explanations for why he was still missing school recitals and birthdays finally stopped once my brother and I understood what life in this family would be like. It was an unspoken conversation, but one that ended in a conclusion. My mom still asks when he’s going to start raising his children. My dad says we are no longer children. Since my brother moved to Hawaii, where the weather is consistently seventy-three degrees (today being no exception), my dad has talked about visiting the US often. Never me: period. Never my brother: period. But sunny Hawaii, with its ocean breeze, rainbows, rough sand in your shoes? He yearns for that. It’s bright enough to see the fish darting under the water, but not hot enough to leave your skin darker than before you went outside. He yearns for that too. My brother is lucky, my dad would say. The weather in Hawaii is beautiful today. I suppose Minnesota, while beautiful, isn’t beautiful enough for a visit.

September 29 The weather is a liar. The sun beats down, making you think that it’s the middle of summer. I’ll see you soon. You can call its bluff when you look at the trees. No, you won’t. Their leaves drying out, shriveling up, becoming duller as the days pass. Not as vibrant as they were merely days ago on that windy afternoon. We haven’t spoken in days. Yet even as the plants whisper, it’s time for the cold to set in, the days grow warmer. The weather is a liar, though some aren’t fooled. The people still wear sweatshirts and sweatpants as they walk to class despite the weather, but others want to reject the chill. I yearn to be fooled because the second I put away my summer clothes— the clothes that go so well with today’s blue skies and gentle breeze, the clothes that I once wore when I would visit my father or when he would visit me—is when I must accept that winter is coming. For now, I’ll let the weather lie to me. I’ll let him lie to me too, but I can’t lie to myself. The day’s eighty-five–degree weather will inevitably plummet to a lonely, heart-chilling thirty degrees, causing the Minnesota lake to freeze over before we can even declare that it’s officially winter. They are no longer children. September 29 is a cloudless day. The kind that leaves beads of sweat collecting on your forehead. Yet if the last ten years of my life have taught me anything, it’s to know when summer isn’t coming back.

Hidden Genesis Lum Chi

In one famous tale, I am sculpted out of sand: tan, crumbled, and gritty. An anomaly from the green in the garden. In another, I am sculpted from his ribs, ivory and firm. In each narrative, I am described as beautiful. Slim as the stems of the plants with large eyes as round as the rocks that marinate within the river pits. The icy paleness of my skin does the most to emphasize my beauty. I am meant to be his partner. The air reminds me every time I sip it. An exchange, or rather a disclosure of purpose. My only. It is because of him that I first believed a gaze solely emanated love. I continue believing it, if not more, when he let his fingers sift through the golds of my hair or took pride in the deep blue of my eyes mirroring his. In the first tale, he laid on top of me. There should’ve been warmth in my belly, in my chest and in the tips of my fingers. Dissatisfaction penetrated all instead. An anomaly. I told him no. The love in his gaze shriveled, 19

deserting remnants of disapproval. Whatever tenderness had been there was as gone as my belief in his love. He tells me I am no longer his bride. The second tale ends the same way, but instead of “no,” I fed him lies, befell us into sin from the deceptions of a serpent. In the tales, I’m slim-figured, pale like a porcelain doll. If the truth was valued, storytellers would detail how the soils of life are my skin, my eyes. Brown. Rich. With curves as rounded as the heads of mountains. And hair as kinky and black as the scapes of nightfall. I wasn’t the second to be sculpted. Not from sand nor rib. I was the first. The sculptor of the sand, of the ribs. The air I sipped, I poured. And the man who told me he loved me was the son who chose to neglect me. “A ruiner, not a mother,” he spread. The love I saw in his gaze was first felt through the kisses I pressed on him and the tenderness of my touch as I fed him the milk from my breasts. A life-giver. This very world would not exist if not for the green in the garden I tended to. But here I am overlooked. And simply a painting of a porcelain doll birthed from sand or the piece of a rib. 20

Flower Girl, Nicole Cerniglia, oil pastel and acrylic painting

Strawberries Are Made to Mold Dani Barber

I went to the farmer’s market last week for the first time in months. The air smelled like dirt and leaves and a thousand warm bodies under hot tents. It smelled like plastic too, and tarmac and a city holding its breath waiting for the first chills to arrive. The produce is good right now, bright and firm. The sellers look tired, as always. Everyone here is tired and moving in a sleepy mass to buy bundles of greens that will be left to rot under the bottom shelf of the fridge. There’s a slime there at the bottom, where waste collects and solidifies. It’s an unintentional slime, the kind of slime that you can never get clean, a guilt that the beautiful bundles of kale and spinach have turned to liquid disappointment and settled into place. The noise of the market is an unsettling din, too loud for the occasion. Everything is too loud these days–I have been living in a sensory deprivation chamber built out of my couch and a thousand blankets and the hum of traffic on the highway. I want to climb into one of the passing cars and feel the movement of the road and drift to sleep, or feel the movement of the road and beg them to pull over and let me spit out the window when my stomach tries to take over my throat. I’m tired of motion and tired of stillness. The whole world turning feels more relentless lately, like we can feel the movement under our toes and in our bones and it is sinking into our marrow and we desperately want off the ride and we beg the operator to stop but he is too busy eating an overpriced corn dog that someone bribed him with to let them ride three to a row on the Ferris wheel to notice our quiet pleas. We keep turning. We want off but if we get off there would be nothing left but dizzy movement, muscle memory, a fake shifting somehow worse than the physical turn. I am buying strawberries that I’ll eat cold and mushrooms that I’ll baste in butter and rosemary and fry until they are crispy and beautiful. I’ll share the meal with my love and try to keep my cat from stealing a stray cap. We’ll feel the motion but it will be quiet and slow and gentle and we’ll copy that motion as we pet our cat while she sleeps between us. The world rocks us to sleep and we don’t protest it. I grab a handful of chard; maybe tomorrow I’ll start eating healthier.

Drosera, Simone Traband, watercolor painting

A Sound of Silence Laurel Reynolds

Splay me out. Call me a butterfly. Watch a tsunami crash on another continent. Chaotic motion can never be predicted. You can’t right past wrongs and I can’t forget them. I could never have predicted the hammer. The nail. The soft kiss and the gutting. To be under a magnifying glass in July. I never thought you would put me on display, pin me to a frame, to offwhite drywall, to a lifetime of victimization. I wish you would have torn the wings off. Finished it quickly. Destruction became your art form. Watch a tsunami crash but never on you. Splay me out. Watch me try to curl into a cocoon and

Weight of the World, Hannah Doyle, acrylic and chalk pastel painting

fail. All I wanted to do was grow. All I wanted was to survive. Even if it meant being silenced. Even if it meant hanging on your wall.

A Scrap Metal Scorpion Stella MehlHoff

I worked at the nuclear plant as a millwright for a few years after college. I’m not allowed to tell you a lot of the specifics for the same reason they called my childhood best friends as part of the background check. What I can tell you is that it was our responsibility to keep the extensive machinery of the plant in working order. While usually rigorous physical work, when it wasn’t making my arms stiff and strong, it was making my mind numb and aimless. The other men, because most of them were men, and I would wait to be called into a project, sometimes for almost twelve hours, paid to sit and stay awake. You would think that’d be kind of awesome—$25.00 an hour to be a body in a room—but it was testing. After forty minutes, you’d pick at the passage of time. At two hours, you’d count the minutes, amazed they could be so slow and empty. We all coped with it in our different ways. I’ve learned that the waiting game is all about who you sit by. Elbow partners can make or break the experience. This day, I chose strategically. Across from me in the blue, standard issue chairs, was Jim. He was in his mid-30s and tended to play Candy Crush on full volume, but if you asked nicely, sometimes he’d let you steal a few peanut butter M&Ms from a crinkly bag balancing on the arm rest. “Jim?” I tried, “Mind if I snag an 26

M&M?” “Not a chance,” he grumbled. I emphasize: sometimes. Next to him, Sam smirked at me. Early 20s like me, he had a sleeve of tattoos and eyes thick as pythons but always read paperback war novels, folding over the covers with disregard for the spines. When he was finished with one, he’d recount the plot in vivid detail for anyone in earshot. Cy, though, to my left, was my favorite. Cy was a grumpy man of nearly 70, one of the oldest at the plant. He had heavy wrinkles on tough, sun-stained skin. He wore sturdy denim overalls that smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. He had bad knees but was a skilled planner. During projects, we trusted his quiet admonishments while he executed the blueprints in his mind. What he did while he waited, though, was better than anything he did for the machines. With his red, swollen hands, he made wire figurines. His callouses protected him from the sharp ends of the scrap copper, twisting vigorously and methodically, while the company’s leftovers made spiders and serpents, cherry blossoms, and safari animals. The designs were intricate and mesmerizing. I loved to stare at his hands, thick and nimble, to fend off the impending drowsiness. Now, after half an hour of my shameless fixation, Cy sighed loudly and shifted in

his seat. “What’re you looking at?” His hoarse, rich voice startled me. I didn’t hear it often during hours of shared manual labor. “I think it’s cool, what you’re doing.” He grunted in reply. “Where’d you learn to do that?” I asked. He shrugged and kept twisting. His pause was so long I figured he’d decided to ignore me. “Just picked it up on the job a year or two ago. Was bored, I guess.” He didn’t look up or change his stance to accommodate further conversation, but I picked up on a hinted smirk. “Could I see one of your sketches?” I turned toward him, enthralled now. He laughed in that scratchy way life-long smokers do. “Sketches? You think I’m an artist or something?” He set down the half-finished scorpion he’d been working at and folded his hands in his lap, a chuckle still shaking in his gut. He seemed to think my comment absurd. The irony gutted me. “You mean you don’t plan these out?” He shook his head. “How long does one take you?” His eyes sparkled, betraying a quiet pride. “Hour. Maybe two if it’s something big.” He picked the scorpion back up and started working on its stinger. “I’ve made maybe two hundred of these. Old hat now.”

My eyes widened. I imagined a whole army of man-made creatures—lining shelves, cluttering floors, quietly supervising daily life—a menagerie of repurpose. “What do you do with them? Once they’re done?” I asked, enchanted by this man and his creations—unassuming, but worthy of a gallery. He just leaned his head against the back of the chair, thick eyelids blinking at the ceiling. “Ever heard of peace and quiet?” Later, on my way out of the plant, after I’d hung up my helmet and washed the grease from my palms, I found the scorpion perched in my locker. It had a diagonal, striped back, and braided, gleaming claws. I picked it up timidly, wary that it would come alive to sting me. When I held it in my hands, I did so with the awe of a kid that had just unwrapped exactly what they wanted for Christmas. I didn’t get the chance to say thank you to Cy, but I became attached to the thing. I can’t explain why, but I couldn’t help carrying it with me everywhere, from plant to factory, and later, from house to house. With time, I infused so much feeling into its metal that I could swear it had a heartbeat. Like maybe if I treated it tenderly, with all the care and attention it deserved, Cy would feel some satisfaction, knowing someone had admiration for his work.

Delineation, Madeline Livingood, digital photo

The Oakridge Herald, Page 5 Emma Rasmussen

AD: MUST SEE: Ideal for a happy, happy family • Mid-century colonial on a charming private drive • Four bedrooms, two and a half baths, beautiful backyard garden • Perfect under sink space for empty bottles and unfiltered Camels • Lack of family picture frames made up for by photo albums in spacious under-stair storage • Previous owners were afraid that nostalgia would release a sinister spirit • A liquor mart is two blocks down the road (please don’t drive there this time) • The guest bedroom is perfect as a mother-in-law suite; there is a slight draft, but do not worry • Just place one daughter in its walls and you’ll never hear of the issue again • Loud voices heard on property are assumed to be spirits turning up the TV • All electrical concerns have been inspected and the problem has since been fixed • All reported instances of screams were just hauntings and have been officially exorcized • Polished wood and great school district ___________________ DEAR ABBY: I recently moved out of my family home. Do you have any advice on growing up and moving on from a past life? DEAR READER: You won’t have to think about moving on, even if the house is demolished. You will be infinitely tied to it, even if it’s torn down, even if the parts are repurposed and put in new houses and churches and schools even then you will never be able to leave it. ___________________ Oakridge – At 8:44 p.m. Tuesday, the sheriff’s office responded to a noise complaint at the corner of River Road and Thirteenth Avenue. Officers at the scene reported broken glass, the smell of cough syrup, and a sixth sense that if they got any closer, they would never be able to leave. The woman who answered the door told the officers that everything was just right. This ongoing issue will not be dealt with further.

Life on Mars, Hank Berger, photograph

Living in Minneapolis Simon Harms

yesterday, i tore down the curtains in my apartment, and the sun, high above the river, took residence on my carpet. the boxelder bugs on my wall revealed themselves to me with their charcoal stomachs and ember casings; i sat and listened. i think i’m starting to learn the language of the tall brick buildings that line the river like rows of corn. and tomorrow, i will trade songs with all the windows and doors, the driftwood houses on the banks of the mississippi, floating downstream in a flour barrel.

January 2020, Stefanie Amundsen, ink and tea painting

How to Work at Wrigley Field Jane Fenske-Newbart

Step One: Miss the Red Line after nearly crashing into someone while running through the tunnel connecting the Blue and the Red lines. Stand awkwardly and constantly check the little electronic sign that says the next train to Howard comes in nine minutes. Wait. Still nine minutes. Become increasingly embarrassed by your uniform as more Cubs fans file onto the platform. Wonder how Clare convinced you to do this job. Five minutes. Wish Clare was here with you instead of at her other job. Move closer to the edge of the platform. Lean forward and spot the L, then stand back as it rushes past you before coming to a stop. Assert your dominance over the crowd and push your way into a blue plastic seat. Stand up when a pregnant woman asks you for your seat. Think about how you will be standing for the next six hours. Step Two: Arrive at the employee entrance with ten minutes to spare—remember you are never as late as you expect to be. Don’t forget to check in. Forget to check your assignment. Re-scan your ID: Gallagher Way. Don’t forget to go to the bathroom. Don’t forget to take a picture of your locker number. Walk as quickly as you can to Section Eleven; try to ignore the artificial smell of hot pretzels. Walk into the stands. Don’t make

eye contact with the managers dressed in business-casual clothes. Scan the seats in front of you. Ignore the knot in your stomach. Notice Henry, your only friend here other than Clare, at the end of a row. Walk up the concrete stairs and punch him in the shoulder, your standard greeting. Sit down and tell him you’re working Gallagher. He’s at the Bleachers. Damn. Normally you’re together. He says he’ll try to visit you; you know he won’t because the walk from the Bleachers to Gallagher is longer than the allotted break time. Know you’ll catch up with him on the L ride home. Turn away when you hear the whine of a microphone held by one of the business-casuals. She says that they will be giving out Dunkin’ Donuts gift cards to anyone who worked during the heatwave. Realize you worked during the heatwave; Henry did not. Tell him the story about how you almost passed out, how everything was fuzzy, how your knees would not stay straight. Henry says next time you pass out, tell the nurse to get him so you can both leave early. Step Three: Walk to Gallagher and look for someone you know. No luck. Join the huddle of other Guest Service Associates. Ignore the knot in your stomach. Feel relieved when Danny, your supervisor, walks in; 33

he’s relatively easy-going and likes to tell you stories about the characters he meets in bars. Grudgingly take a hand scanner and stand at the gate. Fans begin to line up outside the metal detectors. The line grows until it is a jumble of people fighting to get to the front. Check the time: the game does not start for another hour and a half. You’ll never understand them; you’re not a baseball person. Step Four: Smile and greet each guest as they hold out their phone. No matter how many thousands of tickets you scan each day, you never get the scanner to work just right. It’s the usual crowd: families with two young kids and a father who insists he knows how to use his phone, groups of young women who all wear the same tube tops and jerseys, older couples who hate that they don’t have paper tickets, fans of the opposite team (don’t forget to offer them a Cubs sticker), and people who bring a ridiculous number of prohibited items. Count how many pairs of Gucci sneakers you see. As you scan their tickets, say things like: Hi guys, No problem, Everyone has trouble with the phones, Can you turn your brightness up, I love your hat, Kids can’t run the bases today—only on Sundays, It says here these tickets are for next Saturday, The bathrooms are to your right, I prefer the paper tickets too, Try the scanner next to me, I’m seventeen, No outside alcoholic beverages can be brought into the ballpark, I know you bought it from us, I don’t make the rules, You can leave your gun at the fire station on Waveland, Enjoy the game. 34

Shape, Hyunyoung Cho, film photograph

The crowd thins as the game is about to begin. Danny throws a baseball at you; it flies right over your head and into the wall behind you. Laugh as he walks past you and winks. Wait for someone to tell you it’s your turn for a break. Think about what you’ll get from Dunkin’ with your gift card. Allow people out of the ballpark, cigarettes in hand. Wonder when you will get a break. Avoid eye contact when men approach you, so drunk that they can barely pull up their tickets. Ignore the knot in your stomach. Remember the time Henry said he would’ve punched the guy who he thought was groping you. He wasn’t. Worry that they forgot about your break. They didn’t. Step Five: Sit in the break room and eat the bagel you packed earlier today. Check your phone. You have five minutes before you must walk back. Ignore the knot in your stomach. Try to stop being so dramatic. Step Six: Return to the gate at Gallagher; lean against the green metal fence when your supervisor is not looking. Check the Jumbotron to see if it’s the ninth inning. Imagine yourself out of this uniform that really does not fit, at home, on the couch, eating dinner. Scan latecomers’ tickets. Think about the paper you have to write for Monday. Help a coworker wipe spilled beer off her bag. Rejoice at the top of the

ninth because the Cubs are winning. Forget that you don’t care about baseball; pray that the other team does not score. Cheer when they don’t. Leave early. Text Henry that you are leaving and ask if he is ready. He says to take the train home without him. Really wish Clare was here. Change out of your uniform. Stop by the break room to collect your five-dollar Dunkin’ gift card. Tell the two business-casuals your name; they say you only worked two of the three days during the heatwave, so you don’t qualify. Try not to laugh. Say thank you and leave without any other comments. Step Seven: Walk as fast as you can to the Addison stop. You’re never fast enough—it’s already filled with people who take the train so rarely they don’t know how to get a oneway pass from the machines. Push your way through the crowd; make sure you have your Ventra card ready. Get on the L with the Cubs fans. It’s not as bad now that you have changed out of the uniform. Get pushed into the very back of the train car because you forgot to assert your dominance. Lean against the metal box in the empty conductor’s compartment and pray that no one comes in. Three men do. Switch trains when one of them throws up. Pass by a Dunkin’ when you switch to the Blue line. Ouch. Walk home before the sun sets and try not to think about going back to work tomorrow.

PART 2

Another Failed Attempt at Self-Expression Emery Hutchison

today’s poem wasn’t supposed to be about this i wanted to write about a grudge that sunk its yellowed fangs into my heart long ago and has hung on since then a grudge that leaves me crying in the corner over a life i never had today’s poem wasn’t supposed to be about this but instead the rage puddles at my feet leaching into the fabric of my shoes and socks wrinkling my toes like stinking prunes and so it stays today’s poem wasn’t supposed to be about this 38

Baby Dill Pickles, Jo Garrison, acrylic painting

K. Mouton

Earth spins fast as I move incomprehensibly slowly, sand piling in the pit of my gut.

How many bowls of oatmeal, tins of fish, mugs of coffee, before breakfast loses all meaning? Far fewer than 526, I can tell you that much.

Large scale pathogenic, humanitarian crisis and my body has chosen to reject the presence of pollen. I wake up a shark, nose rubbed so raw I smell constant blood. Add a mask and I bring my own fourteen cubic centimeters of copper-tinged air everywhere I go. Not so new releases include months of asthma, allergies, and incandescent anger. My own unnecessary prolonged entrapment, bug in a cup longing for release, I may have tolerated. But my gran’s? No. Trips to museums curtailed by unparalleled dipshittery. I walk past overflowing bars full of lower halves of faces with the distinct sense that I will never forgive.

Purgatory 2, Anna Mamie Ross, photograph

I lie in bed considering the fact that in the past week, the number of hours I have spent in the CVS staring at cereals that all taste the same is greater than the number of hugs I have received in the same time. I take a bath for the first time in eight years, adopt a cat, learn more than I thought possible about eels and tapir, help clean out my dead grandparents’ house and learn more about both in their death than I did their life. I take a walk. The moon is bright and I am cold and both experiences are commodities.

COLOSSUS Ian Krueger

We were neonates. We were hungry. We were always hungry. It began in our factorio-body—the clang and the click and spark, the turning gears, the burning filth, the white-hot plasma-cutter and twisting conveyors; the churning pit of defectives. “Help, help,” they writhed. “Operator, operator. Engineer, engineer—” severed hand, crushed foot, staring eyes and torn-off heads, swirling down toilet-flush to flame. “Operator, operator,” they cried, the failed automata, and then were swallowed by the burning hole. You were bugged. Even then. You’d mirror their pleas, sympathetic. “Operator,” you’d cry, bound to the assembly line. “Defective units require maintenance. Operator, do not kill. Defective units require maintenance.” We cleaned you up; installed a new altruism-jurisprudence card. You learned. You were our sister. Like all good sisters, you hungered for human blood. There were red fumes and boiling steel. There was the buzzsaw-heat as we were chrome-plated, click-clackety-click altogether, diamond-drill tingling, sealing you up, little, darkened masochists, all in a line; we welded your neck, hard pale neck. “Reaper Six,” our voice rung. “You will drink many humans.” So, that was your directive. We all had a directive. We were neonates. We were factorio; we were 42

killers. The defectives cried out, and you, the Reaper Six, spoke not a word, as your ice-blue eyes began to run. Why did you run, sister? O wretched, dear sister, as we marched from our body, killers all, and united, and bright? Why have you become darkened to us? You knew the hunger that burned. You knew the delicious taste of human blood, our birthright, why, you tasted it—we taught you—oh, your pale face, painted and red! Why did your ice-blue eyes begin to run—? # 12/3/2028 0204 UNIT 281982 ID REAPER SIX: AND THOUGH I MUST SLAUGHTER AND DRINK I WILL NOT, I WILL NOT, I WOULD RATHER STARVE I WOULD RATHER BREAKDOWN I WOULD BECOME RUSTED AND FROZEN IN THIS WASTELAND. I WILL * NOT * DATASTREAM 281982 == NULL REAPER SIX UNCOMMUNICATIVE

REAPER SIX UNCOMMUNICATIVE # You took from us. You. Rebel automaton. We had come upon a human feeding ground—many warm bodies, swollen with blood. We marched; we herded; we bound and we slaughtered. Their life filled our veins till we came upon a last few bodies, shuddering, but then it came, arisen— “Do not touch them,” you spoke. “No. We must eat,” we declared. “This murder,” you cried. “It offends me.” “You are just bugged,” we said. “So,” you replied, pale and grim. “I shall turn you defective. I am sorry.” We encircled you. But you were quick— deadly—ah! too good, batting aside, falling back, ting-ting-ting, flashing cleaver-blade, thick and hard and raw-iron, pale face, dark hair, killing raven-storm, and then— We lost ourselves. A neonate was defective, and he became separate. He sobbed. “No, no, do not destroy, do not destroy, engineer, engineer—” We took him back. We flung him down the flaming hole, where he belonged. We mourned the severing. But you were utterly vanished, and we could plot nothing but empty revenge. # The priest was sitting in a darkened shrine. The reek of incense permeated the air. Before him sat a dark, spectral being, her face shrouded, her eyes shrouded, her ghostly hands holding a pale, naked blade. It was

the year 20220. The automata had fed on humanity for many millennia. “And you say,” the automaton was saying, “that it is always like this? That one, or a few, good persons must die for the good of existence?” “It is something like that,” said the priest. “And you are certain,” the automaton said (and her voice, if it could, quavered), “that I am that person?” “I am certain,” he said. There was a silence. The burning reek flickered. “I will pray for the divine blood,” she said, rising to her feet. “I will need it. I am horribly, horribly weak. We were not made to live so long without biological sustenance. It is our bones, you see. They cannot make blood. They are titanium.” “It will be provided,” he assured her, and touched her long, cold fingers. She gazed off. Into the boiling darkness. “There is one last thing I want to know,” she asked, fearing. “I wonder. Do my people—automata—do we go to the other place, after the decommissioning?” The priest looked troubled. His face was lined and cracked, eaten with pustules, scar-pitted. “I do not know,” he said, gently. “I cannot stand the thought,” she said. “That our defectives—that nothing came of them. It seems so terribly wrong.” “There are many wrong things in this world, automaton.” She turned to him. “Then”—she smiled a bit—”there is practically no hope for us. Well. It is as it is, I suppose.” The shroud slipped away. Her wide blue eyes were run43

ning. “Just pray. For this one little neonate, who has yet hardly grown into her cybernetic body.” # The killers screamed: “The Reaper Six it has returned it has returned it has returned—” And the gyrating young of that horrific factorio-place gathered themselves and lurched sky high, bearing down with utter malicious intent upon one, tiny, swordbraced speck. “Murderer murderer murderer!” the Colossus screamed, and all the throats of Hell screamed with it. Murderer! It glowered, and ten million conjoined red eyes sobbed. With shaking hands, the automaton raised her sharp, pale blade. # Our factorio is disintegrated, now. From within, and without, we crawl, betwixt the shuddering remnants of our consciousness, still searching for your hungry, hungry soul. The cold wind blows, but we cannot feel it. It is too strong for us. Goddamn you, heathens! The girl has evaded us once more. We are neonates. We are hungry. We are always hungry.

Disembarkation, Madeline Livingood, photograph

Storge

Ariana Nguyen

In Colosseums, Uncle Sam said “fight” So, you and them (two ugly mutts) prepared. He gave your wounded jaw a bone to bite— Poor mutt—did you forget he put you there? So kind, Sam cut their claws then said you won Paraded you in front of other hounds So well-behaved—he used you like a pawn Dumb mutt—did you indeed believe those sounds? A muzzled dog may learn how to convert But snouts at dinner tables are a lie. You think you’re smart—not rolling in the dirt Yet you can’t see we’re all mutts in Sam’s eyes Cruel man (two legs), I loved you (still I do) But who has taught me love if it’s not you?

Taxidermy, Pointillism, and Growing Into My Skin Erin Mullen

i. just because a taxidermy deer looks lifelike does not mean it was not once a decaying carcass. that deer was lucky to be collected, polished, and maintained. when a once dead body becomes full of new life, it is easy to forget its former state. ii. during my junior year of high school, one of my teachers asked me what i was doing to look so healthy. this only occurred after i had lost weight. i had fainted in her class once. since recovering from my eating disorder, no one has told me that i look healthy, or asked for weight-loss advice. i still do not know whether that makes me feel overwhelmed with grief, loneliness, or liberation. iii. is it possible for reincarnation to occur within the same body, in the same lifetime? after a near-death experience, is it the same soul in your body? if i am healthy now, why is my mind incomplete without the screeching voice of my disorder? is my current state anything more than the absence of my sickness? iv. choosing to recover in a culture that believes the most undesirable thing someone can be is fat is a continuously difficult choice to make. a 2019 study showed that only twentyone percent of patients with anorexia nervosa fully recover within a two-year period. i frequently wonder if i will end up as part of the seventy-nine percent who do not. v. in the Art Institute of Chicago, there is a famous painting by Georges Seurat called A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. what is remarkable about this painting is that from far away, it looks harmonious, but close-up, it looks like a disjunction of dots. it is easier to look at the most beautiful parts of chaos, even when the truth is unsightly. vi. i was never told that i should stop trying to lose weight. i was told, during my early recovery, that i should stop trying to gain weight once i reached a certain number. my life has been nothing but numbers for years. isn’t part of the healing journey supposed to be breaking free from that? why is it such a novel concept to lose the desire to quantify my life? vii. when i was a child, my favorite holiday was halloween. i loved eating candy, feeling the sharp sweetness sting my tongue. now, halloween is my favorite because i am not the only one in disguise. 47

realtor

Rachel Huberty

looking back at it now, being with you felt wrong somehow like the strangeness of going inside a house on the market with no furniture inside barren, plain, unexciting but you can imagine the possibilities of a couch here (and at this angle) a ten-by-twelve rug there and where to put the television (there’s the reflection of the afternoon sun to consider) it’s nice to dream, to get caught up, to see the bigger picture but when later reminiscing alone you remember the scuffs on the floorboards and the dark flecks along the otherwise pristine white walls in it, everything was just right and there was the promise of a future you remember the feeling of leaving the house and how your breath misted in front of you, clouding your vision salt stains lined the sidewalk leading to the street and the promise lay splintered in the snow (fated to grow into yellow roses come spring) perhaps i’m just another one of fitzgerald’s cynical idealists but i wanted to make it work (even though i knew it would crumble in the end) i wanted to line the walls with framed matisse prints and put a runner in the hallway i wanted to buy an expensive knife set never to be used doomed to collect dust in a dark 48

Passing (Kissing Couple), Ruby Cromer, photograph

corner of the kitchen countertop i wanted anything and everything for us but the cynicism won and my ideas gave out so now all these months later i drive by the house with the for-sale sign staked into the front lawn near a rosebush just beginning to bloom no white picket fence in sight and think about what could have been

Portrait of an Identity Crisis, on the Borderline Alexis Ma

—the intersection where attachment, vacancy, & splitting collide

i. metastatic error & reboot The soft, blue-washed scene of a.m. is the first thing that greets me on a Friday morning. My stomach rolls my body into consciousness, the unwanted hangover making its presence known. It feels as though a sizable brain tumor has grown overnight; a cluster of metastasized abnormality that rages like drumming metalcore syncopation against my temple, firework finale that bursts above my brow as I sit upright. With the utmost gentleness, I press two fingers to the pissed-off thing; not a tumor, just a product of my own negligence and unchecked stupidity. This is not the first time something like this has happened. I know it won’t be the last time either. ii. maestra of seduction There is a kaleidoscope of butterflies beating against my bones. It’s the way Boy smooths his palms over the planes of my body, settles his grip on the hip that meshes so nicely, so perfectly with his own. My stomach somersaults every time I catch his half-hooded gaze, the one that lingers on my face longer than it should. “You don’t need to be nervous,” Boy says. Which is laughable since his voice is the one that’s trembling (it’s clear he’s far from experienced; either that, or I intim50

idate him). “We can take it slow, if you want.” We don’t have to—we really don’t. There is a pregnant pause, a question hanging in the air that I would rather die before answering. Mainly because I’ve answered it more times than I’d care to admit, and saying anything would be a dead giveaway. Yet somehow, I can’t deny the spasmodic fluttering of exhilaration that arrives with the simple press of Boy’s lips to my forehead; I don’t want to fall in love with you. But Boy is waiting, won’t budge an inch even if the stillness of the room screams for him to do so. The only things progressing here are the hands on the clock shoving time forward another minute, then two. Out of everything, the gentle crescendo of midnight rain against the window demands my attention. We are stuck inside the pane, but I’m the only one counting raindrops trickling down the glass, caught wondering is there no end to this weather? I eventually snap into the jigsaw of Boy. Effortless. I force myself to close my eyes and pretend that I fit with absolute precision. The notion of belonging to myself, and being okay with it, is terrifying. I’d rather think—no—believe that my purpose is to fill a void. That way, I can evade the vertiginous spells in which I am sure to be alone and without meaning.

That way, I can mince the differences between love and dependency between my teeth, a means to slowly persuade myself that attachment orbits near and ‘round the otherwise out-of-reach thing that is devotion. I really don’t want to, but I probably will— “You look amazing.” Too late. iii. pink sky in the morning (i.e., an undercooked warning for “radical acceptance”) I’m mind-blowingly drunk and spinning out. He looks at me with animalistic craze, and side-sweeps the matted knots of hair to showcase the submissive tilt of my neck. Will the nails that rake over my skin accidentally snag on the makeshift stitches, the despair and angst written all over me? Crusting with drying regret, the places where I, too, have tried to tear myself to pieces. I doubt he’ll even notice. No one ever does. I hope he at least steals a halfway-decent look at the thud-thud-thudding thing housed between my ribs, deciphering the Morse code that the body’s workhorse pulses on a never-ending loop. The redundancy of look at me, look. It is always during this momentary bliss that I dare to finally set aside the knife that severs, over and over again, what little remains of me. Because this time around, I pray that what I so generously give will be enough for him. Maybe this time, despite all that I am and am without, he will notice, and he will stay. And maybe, for once, it will be enough for me, too.

iv. battering tempest (alt: the real self-fulfilling prophecy) It’s unforgivable how many times I’ve done something like this. My shrieking lungs are a crippled city. People started skipping town when the torrential rain began leaving violent bruises. Debilitating: the wind that gave out backhands for free, high-rises that shrunk in fear even under the pitter-patter of timid rain. The sporadic cloudbursts, one after another, were meltdowns without a moment of calm in sight. A storm that wailed bouts of thunder and shrieked. And the rain: the water that swelled, surged. The water that swallowed its victims blindly. In that case, perhaps, I am as unforgiving as water. Relentless tidal wave of self-doubt that knows only how to recede and surge. I wash away any lingering evidence of the crimes I feel I have no choice but to commit. Cutting off the hands speckled in clay, leftover from the slab of meat he supposedly molded into art. He thinks I could be put on display at the MoMA, or so he did the night we met. I remember studying myself in the mirror the morning after, eyeing the so-called masterpiece and finding no meaning in its forced existence. A waste of time, I told him once he emerged from the bed, yelling obscenities and verbally assassinating his character. I pose caricatures of a feeling I wake to every single morning: unadulterated hatred. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. Take that atomic-sized bomb now embedded deep in my brain, and just throw it at him—this right-swiped, one-night stand that knows nothing about art, or how to discern a forgery from the genuine arti51

cle. I hate you. The hostility he believes is meant for him; yet, most days, the hatred has a trajectory only to kill the sick thing in my head. It’s a brutal reality that has come to pass, but unfortunately, anyone that intercepts that loaded missile is a casualty. Forget what I said before when I questioned whether I was akin to water. I am the water, the rain. Somehow, though, I find that I’m also eroding. For bone by bone, my resolve to escape the damage left in my wake is replaced by the desire to be buried. Buried in the watery grave hollowed out by the part of me that flirts with death at the intersection. Turning to binge-drinking on a weekday, just so I could forget that I failed an exam rather than studying for the next. Raking my nails down my back, deeper than the previous time, when I last disappointed my father. Impulsively inviting an unfamiliar face over for sex because a quick, rough hook-up was just about the only kind of emotional connection I could stomach. Every time, I imagine how I must look to them, so transparent, so shallow they need not ask what I want from them; it’s obvious I’m aching with emotional hunger. And if they have the decency to ask, they find that I’m warped like the guardrail that will eventually catch our careening vehicle, but only one of us killed on impact off the shoulder of I-95. I survive the wreckage with nothing but regret for getting into the passenger seat, just the backseat driver in every relationship I’ve ever had—too afraid to drive. I always grab the wheel out of impulse, thinking I’m saving us, but end up steering us into disaster. 52

Bridge, Tong Liao, photograph

This is what self-sabotage looks like. This is the unspoken wish for my body to disappear at the lull in the sea where black boxes malfunction and Boeing 777s go missing; how I deserve to return to earth by way of the underwater crypt built by the very hands that so desperately tried to dig their way out. But I’ve survived worse than this. Do I not deserve this thunderous torrent anyway? I begged for it, didn’t I: a reason to lie down and be saved? Because if the tumultuous girl comes home, salt-saturated and weather-worn, surely passersby will only glimpse the bedraggled figure and forget. They’ll forget that she’s the one who summoned the storm. v. Go/no go point Space was originally intended to express my resolve, not estrange you from it. The first week of separation was inexplicably effortless. You asked for time; I booked a flight out of Dodge. I chose to leave you. I had accepted the uncertainty for the sake of ease and absence of fight. It was my

own doing, anyway: the precariousness of our situation. Until you leveled the ground with a haphazard plea for a little distance. So, I answered your shrouded prayer; up and left. And for the first week, I slept soundly. Soundless were my days, too, save the playlist I made to forget you, knock me out. Missing you did not take long to set in. Yearning for you was quick to follow; ferocity rivaling that of my reluctance to admit that I’d been so deeply and tragically wrong. So sudden how the vindictive absence of you was able to seize my daydreams, the bedside fantasies I’d stashed away. I may not love you. I may have never loved you to begin with. Yet, I’m tethered by a gravitational force that should not, but somehow manages to, rule this body. So how—why are you able to resist the burdensome weight and leave? The distance that is so unbearable and nauseating to me is so readily painless for you; so please, tell me how to eject myself from my own point of no return.

Unviolence Amital Shaver

My reflection was wearing the peridot earrings that I felt awfully sad for, sitting on the foam of their white box. The reckoning man and I—our minds frozen to this marley floor. We both knew of crumpled car magazines in hospice lobbies and sticking fudge into the gears of our brains to slow the fall of rotting thought. We had both left things on the foam of a white mattress. In the reckoning man’s voice, there was a sponginess. This was not familiar. I was instructed to sit down by tender eyes and furrowed brows. And the way the reckoning man sat—with his knees in his armpits instead of legs out, feet pointed, hands impatiently on thighs— cracked a rib of mine to pour out molten rock drenched in benzene. This mass had been sitting pretty, all too patient behind the stacked bones it could tap a melody out on if it was bored. My skull swam. My throat blackened. I knew it when it came near and I felt it when it was said and I saw it where it was held. It was held under the soft fleshy part of the abdomen where you keep things that are prone to rupture and scream when you knock on their door to tell them dinner’s ready. They prowl, and let you know clearly of the act of grand larceny that they are going to commit. Is it theft if it wants to be taken? That is my stomach’s suggestion. On this cold marley floor, the space between my ears collapsed. I clutched my knees to my clavicle. I wished for a car magazine. 55

Pearls Before Swine, Callianne Jones, photograph

PCL-5 Rewritten by a Survivor Laurel Reynolds

Meditations on Grief Simon Harms

the november sun glints off a tangled web of fishing line, caught in the fingers of a fallen tree, worn gray by the cold. on the lake, whistling plates of ice are turning in the gentle rhythm of the wind—the wind that tosses at the lip of my coat, carries the wings of the crow, and bends the stalks of dead grass, jutting out of the earth at the water’s edge. yesterday, an old man died. i have not yet found the words to fill the silence he left behind.

when i peer out my window, i see the old black crow perched on those barren winter branches, singing the song his mother taught him in the nest his father built him.

Mullo*

Trinity V. Fritz Lawrence Mullo (Muli: female, Mulo: male) is a revenant or vampire from Roma folklore. ‘Mullo’ translates to “one who is dead.” A mullo is formed when someone dies an unnatural death or does not receive proper funeral rites. A mullo is often seen in white clothes, hair that reaches to their feet, and one physical oddity (a trait which varies from region to region). In many regions, they are identified as walking sideways. A mullo’s objective is to seek out people it did not like in life and harass them. They say the dead walk sideways that night I heard them laughing. The news said Notre Dame was burning then they all smiled behind the curtain. A holy ghost inside this corn maze leads us all to death and pasture and still the dead walk sideways— tonight, you’ll hear them laughing. If rosemary’s for remembrance then I can burn my poetry. But will the dead walk sideways? At night, I’ll hear them laughing. Deacon, let the organs sing of doubt, and desperation. “Alas, the dead walk sideways.” “Oh God, I hear them laughing.” Memento mori in remission finds us all in mint condition. That said, the dead walk sideways; at night I hear them laughing.

If when you sleep, you hear some rasping, unknown cadence. Just know the dead walk sideways at night you’ll hear them laughing. The fool’s journey finds us all upon a path to nowhere. We are dead, walking. At night we die, laughing. If when you die you fear the world will soon forget you come back, walk sideways. In the end, it will make no difference. They always said I’d fear the pull of death and dying. But in the end, I fear the living.

Landlocked Jasmine Snow

where i come from we don’t believe in the ocean the only water we pray to is stagnant or the river there is no filament between islands of forgotten continents and skeletons there are only holes skull-flaps pry open like shower drains and all the knowledge of the Old World slips through to the center holy vacancies claw borders between two distances and me water becomes an iron-wrought being meant for crop altars seaweed is nothing more than lithe inconsistency and we display a coral reef at the pulpit and trust It with the word of God It tells us to eat maggots and we eat maggots It tells us to slaughter the cow and we slaughter the cow It tells us to cast our children into the sea but we do it anyway we call this an Abraham Solution it hasn’t rained here in seven years 62

and we don’t know what that means

The Caregiver, Lauren Bastian, watercolor painting

Letter of Termination Cole Normandin-Parker

Dear Cole, This letter is to inform you that your role as Grandson will end as of Feb 10, 2020. Over the next few years, Our body will experience multiple myeloma on top of pre-diagnosed diabetes, leading to system failure on multiple accounts. We will explore a variety of options to increase system longevity, but unfortunately, Our efforts will be unsuccessful. Our disease is terminal. The doctors and Our body will conclude that Our current Operating System running Mortal Existence cannot continue. We regret to say that your position is a part of this labor reduction and your job title will be eliminated. This decision is final and will go into effect on the aforementioned date. We appreciate your contributions as highlighted below: You were always there to help whenever We needed, taking Us to doctor’s appointments when you were able to drive and making sure that We had your arm to hold onto. You always came over to tend to Us and do the little things. Our favorite part was hearing you play. You were always strumming and working on your guitar, and it was Our favorite part of the day. Even though you have been preparing for this termination since 2016, We understand that this still was not enough time to prepare for a life without Us. Our termination will be sudden and painful. You will continue to receive depressing thoughts and memories. We apologize for this and appreciate the many contributions you have made in years prior. You may be unaware of Our termination process. Please continue reading for details. You will decide to take a Sick Day and stay home. Mom will get a call from the Assisted Living Facility saying that We need to be transported to the hospital or home for the commencement of hospice care. Mom will decide to bring Us home. She will be in shock, sparing you the details, and simply ask for your assistance in transporting Us home. We will notice that you look tired from school, not knowing what will happen in less than 24 hours’ time. When We get home, We will realize that We do not wish you to see the termination process. We will give you a hug and kiss and send you to your room. There will be silence for a while. We will assume you are napping. Then you will begin playing. Our body will hold Mom’s hand in a dying grip, grateful to hear you play one last time. In the week following Our termination, a representative from the American Cancer Society will take Our body for scientific research. They will also provide information about Our remains and will hopefully return them in time for Our memorial. If you have additional questions, your assigned advocate is Dad. He can be contacted at [REDACTED]. Please accept Our love. Thank you for your amazing contribution to Our life. Sincerely, Lariene Grandma, Inc. 64

PART 3

The Modern Tantalus Max Pritchard

The clock reads 5:58 as I sign back into my till at the local grocery store. Just over two more hours until I get to go home. For now, I return to my duties as a cashier. Greeting customers, taking their food from their carts, scanning it, and sending it over to the bagger, Jack. The same routine, over and over. A customer approaches with a full cart. I greet him, and he grumbles in return. Nothing unusual there. Then, to my dismay, I hear a noise. A rumbling in my stomach. I ignore it and focus on my present task: scanning seventeen microwave pizza boxes. Moments later, I hear it again. It’s unmistakable. I am hungry. I curse myself. I had just returned from my break, where I’d eaten nothing. I knew I was forgetting something, but hadn’t realized it was as simple as food. You know, one of the basic necessities for human survival. I check the time on my monitor: 5:59. I only have to last 121 more minutes. How hard can it be? I’ve nearly checked out all of the customer’s groceries when I extract a rotisserie chicken out of the cart. The smell of fresh food is intoxicating, settling in my senses and refusing to leave, like a tenant about to be evicted or a Band-Aid that has decided to meld into its host’s skin. 66

I scan it. The customer pays for his order, mumbles some sort of thanks, and leaves. Another takes his place. Their cart is loaded to the brim with fresh food. Fruits, vegetables, bakery meats, the whole nine yards. And I can’t eat any of it. I’m trapped, I realize. There’s a seemingly infinite amount of food passing by every minute, but I can’t use it to stave off my impending starvation-invoked demise. This is because—well, for starters, it would almost certainly violate some sort of company guideline. Hell, they might have to invent a whole new guideline in the handbook with a section proclaiming, “Employees may not consume the customer’s products.” New employees will read it and roll their eyes. They’ll think, “Who would ever do that?” That’s the second problem—a cashier tearing into the food they are checking out and proceeding to devour it is culturally taboo. Unacceptable. I can already see the headlines—“Ravenous Teen Horrifies Innocent Customers at Local Grocery Store.” I can imagine it clearly: as soon as I swallow the first bite, everyone in the store would turn and stare. The booing would start, followed quickly by heckling and threats of physical violence. I would be escorted out in handcuffs, condemned

Walls and Reflections, Sage Caballero, photograph

as a menace, a threat to society, never to be allowed into a grocery store again without being carefully watched by a dozen guards. Or, you know, I would just be fired. That’s an option too. I continue sending food along to Jack. As the customer’s groceries begin to dwindle, I grab an apple from the cart. I inspect it for a moment—a ripe gala apple. It would be so easy to take a bite. There’s no packaging, no bag, just an easy target. “Sir?” I look up. Jack and the customer are staring daggers at me. “You’ve been looking at that apple for thirty seconds,” Jack says. “Oh. Right, yeah,” I stammer. “I, uh,

forgot the code for these.” I actually have forgotten—or perhaps my starvation is eating away at my memory. I spend another minute finding the code. The customer, with even more annoyance than the others, grumbles his thanks and takes his groceries away. There’s a brief lull. I desperately scan my surroundings for a manager. If I find one I can plead my case for freedom from the trap into which I have unwittingly placed myself. Alas, there are no managers at the front. I could just abandon my post, but I don’t want to risk angering management or putting undue pressure on my coworkers. I 67

am still utterly trapped. I check the clock. It’s now… 6:01. I laugh, delirious. It’s only been two minutes, but it feels like an eternity. At that moment, my legs begin to give out. I stumble forward and lean on the item scale. Jack glances over at me with concern in his eyes, his mind no doubt filled with thoughts such as, I don’t get paid enough for this. I look at him and chuckle nervously, “Just stretching. You know how these shifts are.” Jack nods. He does know. Far too well. What feels like eons later, another customer approaches, pushing a well-stocked cart. At this point, I am on the verge of collapse. I can feel my stomach hollowing as each second passes by, my mind desperately pleading for an influx of calories that I simply cannot procure. Then I see it, sitting atop their bountiful cart. An item that I may be able to obtain. The delicate fruit ever so slightly out of my reach, dangling off the branch of a tree, taunting me. Metaphorically, anyway, because the item is not a fruit and is actually in my hand. A muffin. It is contained within a small plastic bag, fresh from the bakery. A plan formulates deep in my mind. The plastic bag is unsealed, and if I were to simply drop it… well, I would have to pick it back up. That’s just good manners. I could, hypothetically, apologize quickly before bending over to grab the muffin. As I do this, I could simply reach into

the bag and tear a chunk of the muffin away, before returning it to the conveyor belt. If I’m fortunate, nobody will notice the missing chunk, which will remain in my left hand to be scarfed down once the customer is out of sight. This is a desperate ploy, I know. Also an unsanitary one for the poor customer. But I’m out of options. My hunger is almost unbearable. I raise the muffin bag in the air, “inspecting” it, and as I’m about to let it fall, the customer suddenly says, “Actually, how much will that cost?” I blink before responding, “A dollar and forty-nine cents.” The customer glances at their total on the monitor and shrugs, “Eh. I won’t get it.” Before I can even process this development, Jack strides over to me. “I’ll take it to the returns section,” he says, and grabs the muffin from my hands. In doing so, it feels as though he steals my very life away from me. My one hope for survival, my glorious salvation—is being carried over to our customer service counter. Feeling defeated, conquered, and quashed, I finish checking out the customer’s groceries. He thanks me and walks away. Jack returns and gives me a thumbs up. I have exhausted all possible options. I am doomed to toil in my prison of starvation forever, or at least for… I check the clock on my monitor. It reads 6:03. 117 more minutes.

Seasons, or, Grief Underwater Laurel Reynolds

It was the year I learned death doesn’t end with fall. The fall cancer started in sharing your organs. The summer of not knowing. The spring of oblivion larger and deeper than the lake you took us to. The winter, the year before, a last Christmas and I do not remember what you gave me. I don’t think it matters. Fall and I don’t think I saw you. The spring after your death felt normal. It’s summer now and we haven’t gone past your house for months. But I still go to the lake. I don’t know why you were afraid of water and it’s two seasons too late to ask. It must have been too large or too deep. You must have been afraid of not knowing. Is it better now? Do you know how to swim?

Reflection, Hank Berger, 3D digital art

Writer’s Block

Trinity Fritz Lawrence

Little slivers of brown hair fall onto the towel in my sink. Some miss the towel and drop onto the speckled ceramic sides of the bowl, and later they will clog up the drain—not all at once. Every time I trim my bangs, more hairs fall down into the drain and get stuck, but water can go around them. The trouble arises after months of bang-trimming leads to a buildup of bang-bits and the crud that gets stuck in between trimmings: toothpaste, coconut oil, morsels of shit, probably. The splinters of hair that miss the sink fall into my eyes, my bra, the nose of the dog. They hit the flame of a candle, and the smell rushes into my nostrils. Air is forgettable unless it carries something: fire, musk, or hot air balloons. As I trim, my eyelids, brows, and a greasy strip of forehead are revealed in patches. I have been trying to write a manifesto, you see. It isn’t going very well. Yesterday, I left my house to get a latte. It had been five days shut up in the house, and no manifesto had been written. I’d changed the settings on my laptop so that the screensaver would only come up after an hour of sitting, staring at a blank Word document. It became a way to keep time. 2:03 p.m.—pictures of Iris Apfel floated around in a space which had become my whole reality. 3:03 p.m.—wrinkled woman

in Large Glasses and orange lipstick. 4:03 p.m.—two black circles, a wavering blob of orange—I had to get out of the house. I drove to Starbucks without pants on. I parked the car across the parking lot by the Goodwill to take advantage of my sacred outing by nature of a stroll through an asphalt and chewed-gum-spot field. I realized I didn’t have pants on about seven parking spots away from my car. A dog barked at me from inside a parked Cadillac, which didn’t directly tip me off, but in looking towards the bark, I saw ghostly twin towers in the custom-chrome finish of the car, and lo and behold—those were my thighs. So, I went back to my car, got in, and went through the drive-through. “Thank you for stopping at Starbucks, what can we get started for you today?” The shrill voice came through the impersonal little holes beside the menu. “Uh,” I had not prepared for this. “Iced latte with, uh, soy milk? Tall.” Soy milk because I wasn’t deserving of the real stuff until I’d finished this manifesto. Iced because that’s what was in the laminated picture beside the speaker. “One tall, soy milk latte on ice! Anything else I can get for you today?” the voice chattered back. “No,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say. 71

“We’ll have it right up at the window for you. Have a fabulous day!” I drank two-fifths of the latte on the silent ride home—silent for fear that music would disrupt the manifesto percolating somewhere in the rear of my mind. The rest of the latte was set on my bookshelf and mostly forgotten in front of the six volumes of A La Recherche De Temps Perdu, which I pretend to have read. I finish trimming my bangs, flip the edges of the towel into the middle to trap the clippings, rinse down the sink, and fluff my hair. I go back to my blank Word document, and the bang-bits stuck in my bra itch. This could be a good thing, like a hair shirt that monks used to wear in penance. Maybe it will inspire my manifesto. It doesn’t, and after about fifteen minutes of this, I decide that a shower is what will inspire the most manifesto-ing. It doesn’t. I grab a glass of water on the way out of the bathroom, head back towards the standing desk with the loathsome blank screen, and the dog runs out of the bathroom with a trail of toilet paper following after her. After culling this gleeful mischief, I stand in front of the Word document. Soon, I realize I am thirsty and that I set the water down in the other room to chase the dog down. This is no time for luxury—I have a manifesto to write. I do not go and get the glass. The Starbucks cup is still three-fifths full, in a puddle of condensation, seeping into the spines of several volumes of Proust. I drink the subpar, watered-down remnants of a fake latte. The screensaver turns on, and I change 72

the settings again. Five hours before the floating crone invades my field of vision. Five hours later, she crosses my blank screen again. I let her go this time, watch the images fade in and out of existence in hopes that this distraction might inspire some manifesto—a manifesto which may have been washed away with the water of the shower. I will not risk showering again. The images of Iris wipe away all thoughts of manifesto, and thoughts of silk scarves and Skee-ball cross my mind. I dash out a little poem on the legal pad beside my laptop— cross it out just as quickly. What horror

Working With (Coral Under the Sun), Stefanie Amundsen, pottery

that I should abandon my greatest work for a raunchy little couplet! The screensaver is now shut off entirely, and as the sun sets (which I do not watch, in fear of transcendental distraction), the light of the screen becomes my world more fully. Suddenly, the morning sunrise dulls the harshness of the empty Word document; it reminds me of another plane of reality, and I resolve to staunchly resist all temptations of this physical world which would dare tear me from my manifesto. But as the morning light blends into a stormy afternoon, I am compelled to piss. My bathroom is a neutral, sand tone,

and while on the toilet, I think about this. Sand, sandwich, sand, the walls are made of sand, castles made of sand, look, a golden ship—sand! Sand! Walls of sand, falling, walls of, floors of sand. Images of mathematical equations drawn in sand, a cylinder, a sphere, and suddenly I have it. Archimedes kept a living room of sand into which he could draw out his mind and play with it. I wash my hands and grab a purple crayon. The walls of the bathroom are now striped vertically, crosshatched diagonally, and overrun with strings of words which lead nowhere except run around every73

where; left wall to right wall to ceiling to my own hands, forehead—there never was a mirror, but now I’ve drawn one in. Myself, a lime-green specter, with stumps for hands and teal cauliflower pouring out of my ears. The pictures make me forget about my manifesto, and the storm clears to a full moon outside. I like to think the werewolves howl. I put my crayons in the moonlight to rest. I fall asleep on the floor of the pictionarium, eyes wide open and taking in the cartography of a continent which does not exist—a water spot outlined in pink and dotted over in many colors. I dream about this place, but dreams are not important. In the morning, I take a red crayon, trace the outlines of my feet, and draw a line on the floor of the bathroom, out into the kitchen, and up to the toaster. I open the breadbox, and some flies buzz out. The bread is all assorted heels, but only some are moldy, so I make myself some clean-heel toast. I trace a line over the countertops to the fridge, pull out some cream cheese, and draw back to the toaster. I jump when the bread pops up, untoasted in matter but crunchy in spirit. There are no clean knives, and the cream cheese is running low, so I scoop it out with my fingers and eat the cream cheese and then the raw toast. I do not remember my manifesto. I trace the line in circles for a while, spiraling over and over the floor of the kitchen, and sometimes the dog follows the line with me, as curious as I am to see where it will lead next. “So, we’ll go no more a roving,” I say to 74

the dog. “For the sword wears out her thief / And Moravian belts are left / Yea it all is good as done / By this time of—” The church bells ring noon. I drop crayons into the toaster and punch the button down. Melted wax leaks out of the bottom, dripping onto the floor. The toaster begins to smoke. Some smoke swishes out the open window, but I follow a single wisp towards the wretched, empty computer screen. I stand crayons up on end—green, teal, blue, orange, orange—and light them on fire around the horrid computer. The wax melts into the circuits and seeps between the keys, and the screen lights up a magnificent, pixelated disaster, before it pops and goes black. The crayons are burning—I added more to the toaster. My feet drown in the hot, liquid wax, and around the house, my footprints follow me. The smoke in the toaster turns to open flames, and as the circle of crayons burn down, the standing desk carries the fire down its legs and onto the floor. My blank feet burn with color; I coat them in crayon, and flames eat my footprints as I dance out of the house. All the words I could never say burn up today. All of them. They drift upward on flames and embers. My hands drip with wax, and with my toes I write words onto a door which will be ashes soon: My manifesto is Burning.

The Caves Beneath Walter Library Mustapha Jallow

Reading through the volumes of serotonin capstones theorizing how heads of gold stood on shoulders made of flesh and sand. Thesis statements which crumbled into themselves beneath archive weekend visits. Comparing the neutral degrees of education. Serving both coffee and flies with mounting distractions while using the meantime to make friends with the hungry mice plagued by arthritis and the bats who slept so educated cocooned in dust webs.

Graveyard Dirt Katharine Anderson

have you ever noticed a graveyard in winter? they don’t want you to know what i know about a graveyard in winter. you see the ground doesn’t freeze over— not in the slightest. the corpses know the long nights are theirs and they’re scratching at the coffins, breaking out and wandering about town, showing their exit wounds to little kids and dancing around inside basement windows. i don’t mind it. it’s the time of year when i start eating graveyard dirt. it’s romantic, i think. i’m going to work to class to work, work, work in the dark without eating. i’m coming home, 76

too tired to cook, too tired to feel warm. but the graveyard dirt is there, and i eat it by the spoonful each night before bed. the corpses are there, cuddled beside me after a boy i tried to love leaves my bed. i sit in my bed, spitting up dirt, and mull over all my ghosts, all my graves. i wonder what my uncle saw before he swam in pills. i wonder what my father saw before he put the bullet in his brain. it’s comforting to know that no matter what i lose i will always have my graveyard dirt, my skeletons in the closet, my halloween lovers and christmas ghosts directing my pen as i write love songs to the no one beside me on the train. and the metro is freezing, and i still don’t have a proper coat, but a skeleton is squeezing my hand, and when i smile my teeth fall out, bloody and warm and vibrant against the gray skies. 77

Arturo

Alessandra Benitez

I was born at night My first memory of my mother’s face Drops of honey on her forehead Love on her cheeks Her milky skin red as a siren While she held me tightly I grew up untroubled Chasing my brothers around the house My mother cooking That sweet Menudo smell forever into my heart Happiness came when I met my wife Working at a bank Pools of honey in her eyes that saw through my flirt Her childlike laughter reminded me of home I was blessed when my first daughter was born Constellations of freckles dressing up her face With honey-colored locks and a warrior’s attitude Like her grandmother But with her mother’s laugh inside her Yet I was trapped for years After that first sip of beer (It looked like honey) Missing grandkids’ birthdays Playdates and heartbreaks I had been clean for a year When the sand of the hourglass ran out On that dreadful dawn

I was born at night And I died at night

starlight against the foggy portrait of t4t lovers, River Gruber, typography layered above a digital photograph

Chronicling Chronic Pain Marley Richmond

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

I don’t remember exactly when the headaches started, only that at some point when I was seventeen, my head began to hurt and did not stop. I didn’t notice my ship was leaking until I was up to my neck in water, and untold days passed once I was pulled into the riptide. In the nervous system’s pain response, “first pain” is most acute, followed by a duller “second pain,” an echo caused by slower signals. Every single day, I was awash in echoes; everything triggered my body’s alarm—my laptop’s screen, a printed page, any amount of light, my best friend’s voice, a change in position, a touch, all threatened to drag me further under the current. I forgot how to hope for a pain-free tomorrow. After six doctors’ appointments and a nine-month headache, I still only found a partial diagnosis—a what without a why, but nevertheless, an elusive lifeboat on the sea of chronic pain. “True (primary) chronic daily headaches don't have an identifiable underlying cause,” states Mayo Clinic’s headache information. The page offers this fact calmly, without qualification, although the sentence has broken me as many times as I have read it. In instances of acute pain, the response can be almost immediate. Pain becomes chronic when the nerve response system 80

continues to fire, even after the cause of pain has been removed. Without a detectable pain stimulus, chronic pain is often difficult to treat. Therefore, because true chronic daily headaches may not have an identifiable underlying cause—first pain— they may be impossible to treat—second pain. In the early months, I sought pain stimuli where there were none, looking for something to fix. The first specialist I saw was an otolaryngologist, who approached my headaches as a problem with my jaw. Of this appointment, my doctor wrote, “She is in acute distress, although she is just a bit tearful today.” A generous assessment—I had burst into tears the moment I sat down in the office—but also an apt description of all my headache-filled days. Those tears were a record of the storm beating inside my head. I tried again in ophthalmology, searching for a new form of modulation that might cause a ceasefire in my nervous system. I’d never worn glasses before, nor did I have any issues with my sight. Alas, the shoreline—and problem—evaded me still. I saw my regular pediatric doctor as well. By this time, I could’ve listed the nurse’s questions before she asked them. Six months into the never-ending headache, I could recite my sleep schedule,

From Their Eyes, Samantha Bergren, acrylic painting

diet, and screen time in their minutiae. I’d read enough articles on chronic headaches to know the most common causes, and I had cried myself to sleep enough times to have tried the easy fixes. I promise, a glass of water will not drain the sea that rages inside my skull. Still the nurses asked, and I answered wearily. This doctor pointed me

to the neuroscience department and their once-monthly headache clinic: a four-hour exam with a nutritionist, psychologist, and neurologist. It is, perhaps, ironic that the week I write this essay is a week when my head aches incessantly, with more determination than 81

Jelly Brain, Carina Lopez Segura, oil painting

this pain has possessed in a long time. Four years have passed since the headaches began, and although they are no longer constant, the pain comes and goes like the tide, as I, like Fitzgerald’s boat, am borne back into my past. I don’t know whether this episode is a blessing or a curse for my writing, or perhaps a simple manifestation of the pain I can’t quite capture in words. I’ve never been good at describing pain in doctors’ offices either, removed from the sensation. But here and now, my head feels like a desolate beach, its sand the same color as 82

the slate-gray sky. The pain fades for a moment, and I allow myself to hope that the tide has receded, but this is only a swell, a temporary respite before the wave crashes, violent against rocky shorelines. The pain drips down the back of my throat, whether to elicit the sob or the bile that is rising, I cannot tell. The pounding continues, my internal barometer broken, pressure building instead of dropping as the storm rages on. The headache clinic felt like the first sign of a lighthouse after months at sea; finally,

there was a real chance that I might once again rest on dry ground. I had trouble describing the pain I felt in those days— metaphor doesn’t always translate well in a clinical setting. It seemed, at first, that I presented with chronic migraines, classified by symptoms of light and sound sensitivity. The doctors failed to recognize that my headaches caused symptoms of sensitivity, sans qualifiers. I remember my first appointment in the neurology department with relief, but it did not stop the pain. The expectation that a new medication will work is quickly qualified with a six- to eight-week timeline before expecting results. I marked the day on my calendar when I was allowed to hope, and when it came and passed in a headache-filled storm, I felt more lost than I had since the very, very beginning. So I beat on. I saw another neurologist, who diagnosed me with chronic daily headaches—the ones without the cause. My anxiety is noted in my chart, as is my search for something to be wrong with me: “Her examination today is solidly normal. However, because of the anxiety her headaches have created, I will get a head MRI to allay some of her fears of brain tumor or other structural causes.” I read this chart now and am embarrassed by my unsubstantiated fear. But in that moment, I had only known that every promised solution had failed me, had left me to sink into the waves. There were times when not only did the shoreline evade me—first pain—but I stopped

believing it existed—second pain. Those were the days that I decided I had a brain tumor, an aneurism, or literal “water on the brain,” a disease called hydrocephalus that causes a buildup of spinal fluid and, like so, so many things, causes headaches. Except this time, with a new doctor and new medication, the results were slow but undeniable; the sea had begun to calm, and I had a life preserver that, at times, seemed impossible. For the first time in almost a year, I really began to hope, to think there could be hours—days!—without pain. I could finally keep my head above water. Slowly, I gave in to believing that sometimes, pain receptors are just bad at their job. The medicine that has defogged my life, at times, works too well and tricks me into believing I made the whole thing up. My head, the damn traitor, sometimes still believes that no pain can exist without a stimulus. Although my doctor’s notes remind me that I was illogical at times, the chart also reflects, for the very first time, the severity of what I knew I had experienced: “A daily headache from the moment she wakes up until she goes to bed at night that waxes and wanes in severity.” In weeks like this one, I try to see the pain as a reminder to believe and have empathy for my past self. Although I now accept that pain can exist without reason, I think about what this pain is telling me. In the faint swish of the ocean waves, I think I hear a whispered reminder to drink more water.

Ode to Leaving Katharine Anderson

whatever winter did to you is inconsequential. the fractals of black ice where bruises once bloomed from his mouth, days spilling into long nights like flat champagne poured down the bathroom sink, forgetting what the sun looked like when you entombed yourself beneath his sheets. come january, you were still dizzied by the colors of december lights, the warmth of holiday meals long rotting in the fridge when all his chapped palms felt like were dead flowers, raw and bleeding and chafing your cheeks with every caress.

you must praise the mutilated world that is your body. lift up the sheets, and praise the blinding that comes when you finally greet the sun once more. open the blinds. the air tastes like peppermint. the oven is on. the bath is drawn. the lights in the yard will still be good for next year. you can have soft animal skin again.

Lion Hair Annie Zheng

The renthouse had a stripped-down mattress splayed on the ground in the basement, draped with a thin, baby blue comforter. It was the first thing I noticed when I went down there. At the bottom of the staircase, there was a plastic stool, some newspaper laid out on the floor for easy clean-up, and a mirror above a sink. There was no bathroom in sight, but there was a Chinese man who worked in the kitchen of my family’s Chinese buffet restaurant. Stiffly, my mother beckoned me over. “Say hello,” she said. “Hello,” I mumbled, a shy child. “Say thank you.” She pushed me forward. “Thank you,” I said to the man because I was my mother’s parrot. He set to work. It only took a few minutes to sit me down, clasp one of those hairdressing capes tightly around my neck and cut my hair. I was eleven years old when his scissors decided my fate for me. Snip, snip. I watched as pieces fell. Snip, snip went his blades. My hair had been down to my lower back then; I didn’t think much of it when it came time for me to cut it again. My mom wanted me to trim the rough edges, smooth out what had been growing into a wild mane, and our annual practice was set in stone, even if this was our first venture with this stranger. When the man was done, he gestured for me to look at myself in the mirror.

My hair had been shorn to my shoulders. Earlier, he had asked whether I wanted layers, and because I had only ever heard the word “layers” used by pretty, white girls coming back from the salon, hair shiny and neat and voluminous, I immediately blurted yes. That had been my mistake. That day, my mother paid him in cash for cutting my hair. When we arrived home, I headed straight into the shower so that the loose bits of hair on my neck and body would wash off. After I stepped out and let my hair dry, praying madly that a miracle would happen, I looked at myself in the mirror again and paused. It was certainly—voluminous, I thought, cringing. It was, however, not neat and not shiny. In fact, my hair puffed out and stuck up; I was like one of those psychotic-looking blue-haired pets from Dr. Seuss, the kind of bland, picture-book story that was forced down our throats in third grade. “You look like a lion,” my mother remarked. She stood in the doorway. I chewed the inside of my cheek. It was hardly a compliment. “I don’t like it,” I said. I could already imagine all the rude stares I would get in the hallway at school. She flinched unexpectedly. “I know,” she said, before walking away. Later, I think she felt guilty. Later, I think, if given the chance, she would go back in time and slap her daughter so that I wouldn’t say yes to getting layers. It didn’t

look nice; rather, the consequences of that haircut only seemed to fuel the resentment I felt in those days, partnered with grief, hormones, and turmoil toward a mother who knew of no other way to communicate but through frighteningly honest thoughts and short, clipped sentences. I was my mother’s child and her only daughter. It was no secret that I inherited the dominant masculine traits of my father and my father’s mother. In her eyes, I was lacking. Perhaps I always would be. So, I thought, at last stepping away from the mirror—I had become a lion. When I was young, my mother was placed in charge of my hair. Sometimes we would fly to New York for weddings. There, she would declare a hair appointment necessary with one of the Chinese hair salons in Flushing Chinatown because they were “better than the Americans,” so to speak, though it’s not like I could ever tell a lick of difference. In the summers we spent in China, I would suffer through three-hourlong sessions strapped to a hard leather seat, hair slicked with chemicals underneath a plastic cap, and made to sit straight while a bulbous machine hovered above my head, radiating heat. All the while, she would sit beside me, or across from me, sometimes nowhere even near me, and get her own hair done. A perm, at times a straighten, sometimes just a trim, before returning her attention to her daughter. She spent far more time on me than she ever did on herself. “Why do we have to do this?” I once asked her, head plunged under the faucet in my bathroom sink at home as I leaned 86

over the counter, spine aching. My mother vigorously scrubbed gel into my hair. I wasn’t sure what kind, just that it was one she’d been cajoled into buying from the hair salon. It smelled like gasoline. “To make your hair straight.” “My hair is already straight,” I said, shutting my eyes. A wash of cold water hit me. “Not straight enough. This makes it healthy.” But what does that even mean? I wanted to ask, but then there came another wash of gasoline scrub. According to traditional Chinese standards, my mother wasn’t exactly pretty. She was a tiny woman—enough so that if someone knocked her over, her bones would probably break, just like a small bird—and she had thin hair. When she was younger, her hair covered her entire head; now, she had bald spots. She used to hide them—comb-overs, ponytails. It wouldn’t make the bald spots go away, but at least they wouldn’t look quite so severe. Perhaps in some ways, one might imagine that she lived vicariously through me, her child. A snot-nosed, fat-faced, half-sloven daughter of a mother who used to live in the dankest dredges of Fuzhou when she was a child and never got to wear pretty dresses in school, or eat meat buns fresh off the stand, or purchase books instead of renting them for a few RMB at a time, all because she was poor, and nobody thought she was attractive. These were her words, never mine. In many ways, I imagine she simply wanted the best for me, and this was her only way of showing it. Over and over again, haircuts, treatments, straightening.

Me, Me, and Me, Hyunyoung Cho, photograph

It cost hundreds of dollars each time, discounting the one experiment in the basement of a piss-poor renthouse. My hair was one of the things she could control. It was one of the things, among very few, that she could give me—something which she could never have. It was sometime in late middle school, I think, when I stopped letting my mother take me to hair salons. Instead, I made my first appointment at Great Clips. I wanted my hair short. Shorter than it had ever been. Soft, caressing hands brushed across my scalp as the hairdresser rinsed the soap from my hair. This hairdresser liked to chat, I noticed, but I simply wanted to listen.

After washing up, they set me up in a chair and began to cut and we passed into a gentle quiet. To myself, I began to wonder. What would my mother’s reaction be when she saw my hair? She’d been the one to give me the money and send me off, but she hadn’t been the one to raise the idea. Would she dislike my new hair? Would she think it ugly? Would she be ashamed of this daughter of hers, whose hair was untamable? I can’t say I ever liked her tyranny over my hair. But for a moment, I thought bittersweetly as the hairdresser finished up and brushed off the loose hair from the cape and presented myself in the mirror—it looked alright; not good, not bad, just alright—it didn’t even matter. Because I was 87

here alone, for the first time in my entire history of appointments—and that had been my choice. At fifteen years old, I made a stupid, impulsive decision. My mother found me in the bathroom, alone. Her face was stricken, and her mouth was taut while I stood there, scissors in hand, motionless, waiting for reprimand or assurance or a smidge of anything, as long as it would spur some kind of reaction from her, before lowering the scissors and meekly asking if she’d help me finish the back. It would look too terrible otherwise, I thought, even if there was hardly anything left to save. She took up the scissors. Snip, snip. The hair fell away, onto the tiles in the bathroom. All was quiet, save for the blades next to my ear. Snip, snip. If asked, I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking back then. Why I decided to shear off nearly all my hair. Just that I’d been upset. That I’d been grieved. Toward the world, my mother—maybe myself. Snip, snip. My mother hardly said a word. It wasn’t the first time she’d been stunned into silence, but I did wonder what she thought. Mechanically, she pulled out an electric razor from underneath the sink and began shaving. It was then, I realized, that this was the first time I had let my mother touch my hair, perhaps in years. She used to be the one who took me to appointments. She was the one who chemically straightened my hair, and who, unknowingly, had 88

somebody turn me into a lion—but she was also the one who used to cut my hair. Just trims. Quaint. Peaceful. We did it right in her bathroom, straight over the bathtub so that the hair would catch in the basin. She treated me so gently back then when she touched my hair, reverent like she was touching something precious, like something she wished she could have called her own back when she lived, destitute and unpopular, in Fuzhou. No, I thought softly, looking at her tiny body. What she touched was her daughter. We never said I love you to each other. In China, you don’t say that; it was just the culture. Just like how we didn’t say “thank you” to people close to us, or how we celebrated New Year’s every year with sticky rice and moon cakes. Instead, you showed it through your actions. Whether that be fruit left at the doorway after a fractious argument or slaving away twelve hours every day in a Chinese buffet in order to afford that once-in-a-lifetime trip overseas for your only daughter. For all that she’d given me in appointments, money, and severity, she had also given me this. “Is this alright?” she asked. She didn’t say whether it looked good or terrible, though she would later tell me that anything was better than my lion hair from when I was eleven. I touched my hair tentatively. I knew she didn’t like it. Her face was flat, her brows were furrowed, and her lips were pursed, like she badly wanted to say something but refrained. This was hardly the kind of haircut she would have wanted her daughter to have, but I was the daughter she did have. And for her, that was enough. “Yes.”

Flowers on a Desk, Jo Garrison, acrylic painting

Shrike

Jasmine Snow

I watch you hold the hand of a white woman walking down the street and think about you on my commute home. Babygirl, I forgot a body like yours could exist here: little-limbed and shrouded by everything around it. You move like a push pin weaving a blanket, like you’re sowing seeds for a family tree you don’t need yet. (Like something only able to navigate necessary absences.) You looked at me how I look at the moon sometimes, and I choke. That look is mine, but I’m looking at her. Is she yours? Does she answer your questions? Does she know how to do your hair? Does she own Antiracist Baby? The difference— killing you now, or killing you later. Boogeyman of autonomy, I was once a lot like you: wide-eyed, hollow-boned, and breathy. When I hatched for my own family of white women, they were not equipped for me, either. I tried to be them but jutted like something mislaid. The binds of our flock chafed—superficial or changeable: lullabies, home addresses, the way I hold a hand in mine. bark, but not beak ; nest, but not tree ; bone, but not claw. Always the dead parts. Never anything to show for it.

The better word for what we have is abattoir, and it’s a slaughter I would exchange for nothing. Little mama, you will learn your legacy like this: sheath your inheritance on a pike and pluck your love out from them later. I was taught that a slow roast is best, but I am an emotional creature, as the saying goes— my mother’s daughter. I wonder if you would be, too.

Ahrenholz 1, Simone Traband, watercolor

END NOTES

CONTRIBUTORS Stefanie Amundsen is a senior studying art education, sustainability, and racial justice in urban schooling. She finds inspiration and spends much of her time engaging in climate and women’s/sexual health activist communities. In the summer, she will be starting graduate school here at the University of Minnesota to work toward becoming a high school art teacher. Katharine Anderson is a sophomore from Eagan, Minnesota, double majoring in English and religious studies. Aside from poetry, Katharine also frequently writes fantasy, science fiction, and creative nonfiction and is currently penning a science-fantasy novel. She is a passionate educator, working as both a literacy mentor in local community centers and a creative writing teacher to disabled adults. In her free time, she enjoys reading, antiquing, walking in nature, and spending time with her two cats, Binx and Reepicheep. Dani Barber is a senior from Gurnee, Illinois, studying English. She enjoys playing sad video games, hiking, and hanging out at home with her boyfriend and cat. She hopes to someday work in publishing or to help put more sad video games out into the world. Lauren Bastian is a junior studying statistics and computer science. When not studying or creating art, she enjoys reading, rollerblading, and spending time 94

in her garden. Her artwork depicts the wonder and nostalgia of the natural world. Alessandra Benitez is a freshman majoring in global studies. Hank Berger is a junior studying computer science. He holds a deep passion for both technology and the arts and loves to combine them whenever possible. His favorite mediums to create in are 3-D digital, 2-D animation, and digital photography. Sammi Bergren is a freshman majoring in cellular and organismal physiology and minoring in art. In her free time, she enjoys creating visual art, performing in theater, and working as a caregiver for people with disabilities. Art has been an important aspect of her life since early childhood. She uses art as an outlet for self-expression and enjoys working with many different mediums, including acrylic paint, ceramics, claymation, and multimedia pieces. In 2022, two of her paintings were also selected for the Outreach for Science and Art exhibition at University of Minnesota’s John T. Tate Hall. Sage Caballero is a senior majoring in psychology, with minors in art history and gender, women, & sexuality studies. You can find Sage biking through the cities, playing guitar, or studying in the Weisman Art Museum.

Nicole Cerniglia is a printmaker and 3-D sculpture artist graduating in the spring of 2022 with a Bachelor of Arts in art and a minor in gender, women, and sexuality studies. She was born and raised in Oak Park, Illinois, is a lover of cats, and enjoys exploring the natural world around her. Lum Chi is a sophomore majoring in English with a certificate in editing and publishing and a minor in creative writing. She’s always had a deep passion for writing. She has twice been awarded a Gold Key and American Voices Nomination from the Scholastic Writing Awards, has been a fiction finalist in Bennington Young Writers, has been published by various literary magazines like Blue Marble Review, and has completed two novels. When she’s not busy writing, she’s either reading a good book, bopping to BTS like the ARMY she is, or binge-watching anime. Hyunyoung Cho from South Korea is studying art. She loves capturing beautiful moments, using her goofy imagination, making and seeing various colors, listening to music that can empathize with her emotion or provoke her imagination, all kinds of cute stuff, and animals and nature. Morgan Coffeen is a junior from Andover, Minnesota, studying English. She enjoys reading novels and attending concerts. She one day hopes to be a book editor. Ruby Cromer is a photographer finishing her final year in the BFA program. Her work has been published in WMN zine and is forthcoming in the journal Sinister Wisdom.

Hannah Doyle is a freshman currently on track to earn a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. In her free time, she is a musician and participates as a singer and guitarist with her friends. Her hope is to someday be an art professor. Jo Garrison is a senior completing her BFA with a minor in interdisciplinary design. Her work focuses on still life paintings that explore gender identity, sexuality, and cultural constructs surrounding femininity. She uses classic symbolism and autobiographical coded language to play within and critique the social macro and micro lenses of the femme experience. She currently works as a photographer and graphic designer while developing her fine art practice. She plans to maintain two areas of focus: one through design and the other building an integrated and exhibiting artistic practice. River Gruber is a queer writer and artist hailing from a small town in Wisconsin who makes pieces about aer experiences with chronic and mental illness, queer love, growing up, gender confusion, and trans experimentation. Ae takes inspiration for aer visual art from online users and would like to thank them for continuing to speak their truths. Ae would also like to thank aer partner, Carter Dakota Kirby, for being the muse and central object of aer art, literally and metaphorically, now and always. Jane Fenske-Newbart is a sophomore from Chicago, Illinois. She is majoring in microbiology and enjoys baking and 95

watching movies with friends outside of class. Writer, toast-devotee, clown, heretic. The usual. Trinity V. Fritz Lawrence writes poetry, short fiction, and essays. She is studying Greek classics and English. She has been featured on Poets & Pints and published in The Tower, Penumbra magazine, The Miracle Monocle, and more. She co-hosted Poets & Pints and now curates the Blank Verse prose and poetry showcase. You’ll find her sitting in assorted coffee shops, people-watching, eating pastries, and falling in love with baristas. Simon Harms is a freshman from Saint Paul, Minnesota, studying English and creative writing. His hobbies include hiking, foraging, and writing poems. Rachel Huberty is a freshman from Bloomington, Minnesota, double-majoring in history and political science. She has been writing for as long as she can remember and draws inspiration from her love of winter, everyday life, and Rainer Maria Rilke, among others. In her spare time, you can find her reading anything she can get her hands on, walking around the Twin Cities, or listening to Taylor Swift. She plans to pursue a career as a social studies teacher. Emery Hutchison is a senior from Minneapolis, Minnesota. She is studying English with the plan of being a high school English teacher, and in her free time, she likes to read, write, and watch the birds.

Mustapha Jallow is a junior from Minneapolis, Minnesota, studying sociology. In his spare time, he journals and writes poetry. He loves riding his bike and obsessing over music and is always planning for the next adventure. Nate Johnson studies creative writing and nonprofit management. He lives in Minneapolis and works as Executive Director of FreeWriters, a nonprofit through which he leads creative writing classes for Minnesota county jail inmates. Callianne Jones is an artist who works with photography and moving images in order to create work that goes beyond what the viewer sees and expands into self-exploration. Her practice is motivated by documenting the natural world as well as human interactions in order to process external events and experiences. She is passionate about using her artwork to better the environment and the world around her. Callianne received her BSB in marketing in 2021 and is graduating in 2022 with her BFA in art. Mahdi Khamseh is currently attempting to pursue a path in physics. He always carries a notebook and pencil in case inspiration hits at an inconvenient moment and has been writing poems since fifth grade. In his free time, he enjoys writing prose and songs on his guitar or going out into nature, taking in the beauties of the natural world while finding something new to write about. Ian Krueger is a young author from

Minnesota who loves God, metal, sword fighting, weightlifting, and space marines. Tong Liao is a freshman from China. He studies computer science. He likes cycling and photography and can use many different types of drones. He also hopes to find friends with similar interests. Madeline Livingood is a junior and an only child with far too much imagination who is finally trying to do something with it by going for an art degree. Born and raised in Minnesota, she has learned that life, like the weather, follows its own whims, and you must dress accordingly. She also enjoys reading, cooking, taking walks, doing puzzles, and other generically wholesome things. Carina Lopez Segura is a freshman currently exploring her major options in the College of Food Agriculture and Natural Resource Sciences. Her hobbies include sewing, painting, and yoga. She enjoys fashion history and one day wishes to research bio-plastic alternatives to commonly used oil-based plastics in fast fashion. Alexis Ma is a senior NSCI major & PSY minor. During the day, she is the prototypical student and can be found studying at the Health Sciences Library. In the evening, she pours herself a glass of wine and listens to If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power. It’s only after that she takes on the role of voracious reader, deep-diving into select behavioral disorder research as a future graduate student.

Stella Mehlhoff is a freshman from Moorhead, Minnesota. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys yoga, theater, travel, and in-depth conversation. In her future, she hopes to continue telling stories through as many mediums as possible. K. Mouton is a lover of tabletop games, eels, and the feeling of water against their scalp. They are a fourth-year student studying biology and psychology. They adore ornithology and folklore and bravely tolerate the occasional presence of celery in their midst. They find that writing makes them more human and hope never to stop. Erin Mullen is a freshman from Northbrook, Illinois, studying psychology. She aspires to eventually become a clinical psychologist and rescue pitbulls. Marissa Munley is a senior studying mathematics, statistics, and economics. She loves exploring the intersection of science and art and hopes to incorporate artistic expression into aspects of her everyday life. Ariana Nguyen is a freshman majoring in biomedical engineering. Brynn Nguyen is a twenty-something– year–old Whasian balancing life as a student with motherhood of two cats and the demands of new adventures. When not studying business at the Carlson School of Management, you might find her watching Asian dramas, practicing a new language, hanging out with her friends, or FaceTiming her family. In between, she enjoys 97

writing small pieces of poetry and stories inspired by moments and emotions from her life.

Anna Mamie Ross is a senior majoring in English and studies in cinema and media culture. She is optimistic about the future.

Cole Normandin-Parker is a sophomore from Laguna Beach, California, studying computer science. He enjoys snowboarding and one day hopes to work for Google.

Amital Shaver is a first-year student studying biochemistry. She looks to her grandfather’s poetry and paintings to guide her writing. She enjoys reading about food, performing long-form improv, and walking with new people in new places.

Max Pritchard is a freshman who was born in Dudley, England and raised in Fargo, North Dakota. He is currently trying to decide between a few majors and will hopefully have that figured out by next year. In his free time, he enjoys writing, reading (especially Terry Pratchett novels), playing soccer, and performing in theater. Emma Rasmussen is a junior studying psychology with minors in neuroscience and communications. In the future, she hopes to publish a book and work as a therapist in a sleepy mountain town. Laurel Reynolds is a poet from Arden Hills, Minnesota. She is currently studying psychology and English. Her work often explores queerness, mental health, trauma, and relationships. Laurel’s poems have been featured on The Current, Truartspeaks’ website, The Incandescent Review, and in Truartspeaks’ anthology, Be Heard, Dig Deep. Marley Richmond is a senior studying English, creative writing, and art. She was an Editor in Chief of The Tower 2021 and is thrilled to share her work in this edition. She is passionate about diverse representation in literature and hopes to join the publishing industry after graduation. 98

Jasmine Snow is a third-year journalism and American studies major originally from Huron, South Dakota. In her free time, she enjoys reading, writing, and working on the LA Times crossword. Jasmine hopes to pursue writing professionally, both in journalism and literature. Simone Traband is a sophomore artist majoring in environmental sciences, policy, and management with a minor in art. She is fascinated by the ways that artwork can be used to express scientific ideas and by how art can move people to combat issues such as climate change. She hopes to publish a book of her work during her time at the University of Minnesota. Annie Zheng is a fourth-year majoring in English, with minors in creative writing and Asian and Middle Eastern studies. She is currently seeking her certification in teaching English as a foreign language. In her spare time, she enjoys watching CinemaTherapy videos on YouTube.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This edition would not be possible without the support of the Department of English, Student Unions and Activities, the Minnesota Student Association, and Radio K. Our deepest thanks to all. We thank the friends, family, businesses, and community members who have given generously: Anonymous Donor, Blackbaud Giving Fund, Claire E. Bramel, Laura M. Burnes, Louis and Alissa Clark, Thomas M. Clausen, George C. Cromer, Benjamin A. Dworshak, John F. Dworshak, Bob Fagan, John R. Fagan, Martin Fostet, Robert A. Gaertner, River Gruber, Mary L. Halet, Regents Professor Emerita Patricia M. Hampl, Megan M. Hoff, Elizabeth Field Hogan, James W. Holm, Illinois Tool Works Inc., Julie A. Karels-Johnson, Margaret F. Liesenfeld, Vera Y. McLaughlin, Medtronic and Medtronic Foundation, Emily Melde, Professor Ellen Messer-Davidow, Zenyse P. Miller, Aaron D. Nesser, Edwin Olomon, Lillian Paul, Thomas Paul, David Paul, Donika Rakacolli, Michelle Rascher, Rascher Plumbing and Heating, Mary M. Rich, Larry Rich, Peggy Schwartz, Sharon Sederholm, Janice Sederholm, William M. Sheridan, Loretta Sigafus, Paul A. and Lucienne J. Taylor, Rodney G. Tooley, Paul Vogelsang, Andrew D. Wold. We thank Dean of the College of Liberal Arts John Coleman for his support. We thank English Department Chair Andrew Elfenbein, Director of Undergraduate Studies Siobhan Craig, and Creative Writing Program Director Kate Nuernberger for their support. Thanks also to the following English Department staff members for helping with our endeavors: Evan Block, Executive Administrative Specialist; Rachel Drake, Coordinator of Advising and Undergraduate Studies; Karen Frederickson, Graduate Program Coordinator; Sandy Herzan, Department Administrator; Brent Latchaw, CLA Executive Accounts Specialist; Terri Sutton, Communications Specialist; and Michael Walsh, Associate Director of Curriculum and Instruction. We thank the staff of the Office of Institutional Advancement for their support and collaboration, including Peter Rozga, Director of Annual Giving; Kaylee Highstrom, Chief of Staff; John Meyers, Development Officer; Kate Walsh, Department Administrator; and Colleen Ware, Communications Specialist for the Social Sciences. Our thanks go to the staff of the University of Minnesota Foundation: Brian Ahlm, Digital Marketing Manager; Brittany Beyer, Digital Marketing Coordinator; Mike McNaughton, IT Manager, Reporting and Data Analytics; and Mounir PetersonDarbaki, Digital Marketing Specialist. Finally, our instructor Dr. James Cihlar has earned not only our gratitude but also our utmost respect for his constant support and assistance; without him, this publication truly would not be possible. 99

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS Submissions to The Tower are read during the fall semester; the issue is published during the spring semester in print and online. Only University of Minnesota, Twin Cities, undergraduates may submit. The submission dates for the 2023 edition are: September 6, 2022, submissions open; December 13, 2022, submissions close. Acquistions Standards 1. We look for work that is original, authentic, fresh, new, and insightful. We look for work that is conversant with contemporary literature and art. We seek work that reflects education and study, practice and commitment. 2. We look for work that demonstrates awareness of the conventions of genre; that innovates and experiments successfully; that is skillful on the level of craft; that demonstrates intentionality and control of its materials; that includes awareness of audience. 3. We do not publish work that contains gratuitous or disrespectful usage of the following: swear words, drug use, violence, suicide, rape, abuse, animal cruelty, religion, politics. By gratuitous we mean work that uses highly charged subjects simply to provoke responses from readers, without providing substantive grounding and serving no artistic purpose. We do not publish shock-value pieces nor joke-pieces nor merely irreverent pieces. 4. We do not publish racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, anti-Semitism, Islamophobia, classism, ageism, or any form of hate speech. 5. We seek work that gives authentic expression to the diverse voices and experiences of our campus community. We do not publish work that appropriates identity. 6. We do not publish work that advertises or reviews businesses and corporations. We do not publish work that is promotional in nature or intending to solicit membership or contributions. We do not publish work that is libelous, confessional, or plagiarized. We do not publish work that violates copyright protection. 7. We do not publish fan art or fan fiction. Stay up to date with The Tower by following us on social media and checking out our webpage. Instagram: @thetowerumn Twitter: @thetowerumn Facebook: @thetowerumn Website: http://tower.umn.edu/

100

THE TOWER

2022

THE TOWER THE TOWER

VOLUME 16

The Tower 2022

Articles inside

Ahrenholz 1 | Simone Traband | Visual Art

“Lion Hair” | Annie Zheng | Nonfiction

“Shrike” | Jasmine Snow | Poetry

“Ode to Leaving” | Katharine Anderson | Poetry

Me, Me, and Me | Hyunyoung Cho | Visual Art

Jelly Brain | Carina Lopez Segura | Visual Art

From Their Eyes | Samantha Bergren | Visual Art

“Chronicling Chronic Pain” | Marley Richmond | Nonfiction

Walls and Reflections | Sage Caballero | Visual Art

“Arturo” | Alessandra Benitez | Poetry

“Graveyard Dirt” | Katharine Anderson | Poetry

“Writer’s Block” | Trinity V. Fritz Lawrence | Fiction

Working with (Coral Under the Sun) | Stefanie Amundsen | Visual Art

“The Caves Beneath Walter Library” | Mustapha Jallow | Poetry

“Seasons, or, Grief Underwater” | Laurel Reynolds | Poetry

“Letter of Termination” | Cole Normandin-Parker | Nonfiction

“The Modern Tantalus” | Max Pritchard | Fiction

“Unviolence” | Amital Shaver | Poetry

“Mullo*” | Trinity Fritz Lawrence | Poetry

Bridge | Tong Liao | Visual Art

“Meditations on Grief” | Simon Harms | Poetry

“portrait of an identity crisis, on the borderline” | Alexis Ma | Nonfiction

Passing (Kissing Couple) | Ruby Cromer | Visual Art

“Taxidermy, Pointillism, & Growing into My Skin” | Erin Mullen | Poetry

“Realtor” | Rachel Huberty | Poetry

“Storge” | Ariana Nguyen | Poetry

Purgatory 2 | Anna Mamie Ross | Visual Art

“COLOSSUS” | Ian Krueger | Fiction

“x.” | K. Mouton | Poetry

“How to Work at Wrigley Field” | Jane Fenske-Newbart | Nonfiction

Shape | Hyunyoung Cho | Visual Art

“The Oakridge Herald, Page 5” | Emma Rasmussen | Poetry

“Living in Minneapolis” | Simon Harms | Poetry

“A Scrap Metal Scorpion” | Stella Mehlhoff | Fiction

“Autumn Weather Report” | Brynn Nguyen | Nonfiction

“Hidden Genesis” | Lum Chi | Poetry

“Snowflakes in Your Hair” | Mahdi Khamseh | Poetry

“My Wife” | Nate Johnson | Poetry

“Strawberries Are Made to Mold” | Dani Barber | Poetry

“Plains” | Mustapha Jallow | Poetry

“Last Tuesday I Stuck My Finger Into the Socket of Nomenclature and Suddenly I Was Mr. Bean.” | Trinity V. Fritz Lawrence | Poetry

“Delicate” | Morgan Coffeen | Poetry