Kiosk 62

REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION •

KIOSK 62

REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION •

REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLU

REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION • REVOLUTION •

COVER ART: Postbellum by Kayla Cook

KIOSK 62

2

4

MANTRA

6

STAIN by Niya McAdoo

8

DISASSEMBLED DIRECT by Madi DeFrain

10

11:32P.M. by Grace Cooper

12

LASER FOCUS by D. M. Tomkins

14

[ANTI]PODE by Oddfellow

16

THE BOULDER by Jamie Hawley

18

THE CLOCKTOWER by Drew Windish

20

ELECTION DAY by Kayla Cook

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WHAT HE DOESN’T KNOW by Ally Jennings

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TRICHOTILLOMANIA by Oddfellow

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COCKROACHES, 11/9/19 by Scott Stone

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RED by Niya McAdoo

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NO SENSE OF PLENTITUDE OR PEACE by Madi DeFrain

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EXERCISING POWER by Kayla Cook

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CORONA RADIATA by Vinamratha Rao

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CREDITS

KIOSK 62

DEAR READERS, Our goal at Kiosk is to provide a creative space for the student writers and artists at KU. We look for skill, passion, imagination, and profound, unique, groundbreaking ideas. We embrace art that defies boundaries - art that is revolutionary - and we are proud to fill our pages with the inspired, the expressive, and the unconventional.

For this edition of Kiosk, we envisioned a collection of art and literature that captures this revolutionary spirit. We recognized a hunger for change, and we believe that art has the unique ability to spur radical action. We encouraged our authors and artists to disrupt the norm, leap into discomfort, to envision a better world and create art that reflects it. We pushed them to embrace the essence of rebellion - be they small, lonely rebellions, or revolutions of style or form - and they rose to the challenge.

The global pandemic brought about numerous changes to our style and process, both in how the magazine was put together and how it was distributed, as we publish this issue online rather than print physical copies. While we recognize the importance of holding art in one’s hand, we also know that publishing online means greater distribution for the artists and writers whose work is included in this issue. We hope that this will lead to a sense of connectedness and solidarity between our artists and readers, helping to bridge a gap created by unprecedented times.

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Although we certainly didn’t foresee the unusual circumstances of this semester, we find it rather fitting that our Revolution issue comes at a time of unprecedented uncertainty. Our previous issue, Paradise Lost, centered on the collective mourning of a future once promised and a golden world long faded. In many ways, this issue is its direct successor, and we can think of no better time to celebrate the transition from grief to collective action. As we mourn half a semester lost, we bring this revolutionary spirit into the new world we are entering, the world we hope to create not only through our art, but through our collective empathy, cooperation, and patience.

We would like to sincerely thank our staff and our advisors, Mary Klayder and Andrea Herstowski, for helping us craft this edition of Kiosk. We would also like to thank our family, our friends, and you, our readers, for your unwavering support of our work. As we approach the unknown, we hope that the revolutionary art and literature you find in these pages serves as a reminder of the power of creative expression to foster hope and transformation in times when they are most needed.

VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION!

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KIOSK 62

WE EMBRACE AR ITS OWN RULES. AND REACT DECISION, EVERY EVERY WORD HAS THE POTEN RADICAL C BECAUSE IT ABS 4

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RT THAT BREAKS ART IS ACTION TION. EVERY Y BRUSHSTROKE, FEELS LIKE IT NTIAL TO SPUR CHANGE… SOLUTELY DOES. 5

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Bait Niya McAdoo

6

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STAIN Her arms hold me close, milky in color and strong like reassurance.

She is me, in my face when I smile and in my walk with my head high.

But she is not me in the way we get stares wondering who I am to her, and what is she doing with someone like me attached at her hip.

Little brown girls surround her legs, milky white legs that hold us up when sneers come our way, wondering what she could see in the mud stains that litter her skin.

NIYA MCADOO

She loves the hot coffee no cream in her mornings, the darkness that surrounds her at night. She loves the caramel that embraces her cheeks with little hands and tells her she is their universe.

We are her taboo, the soft whispers asking who do we belong to, because her love could not create such unidentified bodies.

We are the unclaimed history of children not equal, othered in every sense, not belonging to one check box but multiple.

She will never be me but with her I’m free. She does not disgrace me. I am proud to be her other because without her there is no me - the stain on the corner of her bleached tee.

My mother. She is the root of We.

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Ribcage prods protruding heart (master of escape), speared like a hooked fish flopping:

Clunk Clunk Clunk like your body thumping down a flight of stairs, clunk like sonic detritus left un-plucked, clunk like my head alone tumbling clunk

MADI DEFRAIN

towards greener pastures where the sky is bluer than hospital masks & the trees are taller than sunset-stealing skyscrapers. *** I am a language spreading dry on the tongue.

Herea ripe wound festering obsolete; an archaic illness in a modern woman.

Hearhysteria rising like the titanic, and what is the iceberg that sunk my ship? *** together

we are spinning

alone

8

the earth stands still

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DISASSEMBLED DIRECT DISASSEMBLED DIRECT DISASSEMBLED DIRECT DISASSEMBLED DIRECT together DISASSEMBLED DIRECT we are spinning DIRECT DISASSEMBLED DISASSEMBLED DIRECT alone DISASSEMBLED DIRECT DISASSEMBLED DIRECT the earth standsDIRECT DISASSEMBLED DISASSEMBLED DIRECT still DISASSEMBLED DIRECT DISASSEMBLED DIRECT DISASSEMBLED DIRECT DISASSEMBLED DIRECT 9

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6:37a.m. / 0 calories A late 2000s song I don’t remember the name of blares from the plastic alarm clock plugged in across my room. Before the first chorus hits, I’m climbing out of bed and moving the clock’s switch three ticks to the right. It’s still dark outside. I hope my car doesn’t have too much ice to scrape off.

8:14a.m. / 0 calories “This is Grace, how can I help you?”

I miss the first few moments of what the person on the other end

says, preoccupied with the unfamiliar tone of my own customer service voice. The short familiar ding of an email notification lets me know that someone brought muffins for the office.

I peek to my left and through the crack below the staff kitchen

door. The lights are on. Better not risk it.

10:35a.m. / 0 calories I step to the side of the dining hall entrance, pulling out my phone and feigning interest in my lock screen. I’d walked in with such conviction, dammit. Less than forty feet ahead of me are perfectly average breakfast sandwiches. But $3.81 is probably too much to spend on my breakfast, especially when I could’ve grabbed something at home if I’d practiced basic foresight. And what if I want lunch later? If the hunger hasn’t passed by the time my next class is over, I’ll get something then. Probably. Maybe.

On the walk to class, I pull out the squished emergency granola

bar I’d stowed in my backpack and gag at the taste.

12:12p.m. / 180 calories / Wait, how many calories are in a mint?

It occurs to me that the question, “Do I deserve to eat lunch today?” would make my survivalist ancestors ashamed of me. And yet.

5:35p.m. / 180 calories Guilt seeps through my weighted blanket, but I’m just too tired to sit up. The gentle tink tink tink of keys hitting ceramic makes me clench, and I anticipate the short knock on my bedroom door before it comes.

“Hey Gracie, how was your day?”

“It was long. How about yours?”

“Sounds like we had the same day. I’m gonna make your brother

some dinner, you want anything?”

10

“Yeah, same as him.”

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5:58p.m. / 825 calories The paper plate, now marked with only crumbs, is stacked on the bookshelf beside my bed, sitting on top of another identical plate.

That’s bad for the environment. You should really get your family to switch to reusable dishware. Just imagine all the waste you alone have produced in the past twenty years. I lie back down and close my eyes, my bedroom lights glowing through my eyelids. You could probably fill a football stadium with all that garbage. Maybe two or three by the time you die.

11:21p.m. / 1310 calories I pinch the fox-shaped chip clip on the now near-empty bag of puffed white cheddar Cheetos that I’d snuck from the pantry. There are still a few puffs, no more than fifteen, sitting in the bottom of the crinkled bag. It’s disgustingly soothing to leave a few there.

Stuffing the bag in the small gap between my mattress and my wall, I lie back down.

I finish the bag and squish it into an empty tissue box so I don’t have to climb off my bed and feel the weight in my stomach. When I finally turn off my bedside lamp and feel my exhausted body sink grossly into the mattress, I promise myself I won’t have breakfast tomorrow.

7:18a.m. /

GRACE COOPER

11:32p.m. / 1445 calories

On my way to work, I make an impulsive right turn into the parking lot of my favorite bakery, emboldened by the rare joy of leaving my house with time to spare. I’m hoping a half dozen orange rolls might cheer up the friend I’ll be working the opening shift with. Pulling into the surprisingly empty spot right in front of the bakery, I put my car into park and peer inside to find a full rack of freshly-made pastries staring back at me.

I shift my car into reverse.

After a moment, I shift it back to park.

I leave with a dozen orange rolls, enough for both of us, and make

it to the bus on time.

11:32 PM 11

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I don’t mind crowded elevators, but I hate crowded rooms. With all the bodies smushed together,

the room grows hot and stifling. The air thickens, and my skin burns from the heat. It congeals around me, a gelatinous mass that holds me in place. I am trapped. Bodies pressed together push towards me, and I must pull myself out of the room before I am crushed.

It is different on an elevator. On an elevator, crowds are expected. On an elevator, everyone

knows what they’re signing up for. It would be arrogant to assume you are the only person who needs to move vertically through the world. There is something familiar, a certain camaraderie, about being squished into a group of strangers all waiting to reach their destination. For a brief moment, you’re all going through the ups and downs of life together. Even if you are uncomfortable throughout the ride, there is an assurance that everyone will eventually reach their stop and be free to leave. You enter an elevator expecting it to be uncomfortably full.

Rooms, on the other hand, are not supposed to be filled. There should be space in rooms. Space

to move, swing your arms, and space to breathe. Space to exist.

That’s why crowded rooms are so uncomfortable. It’s not the crowd itself, but the feeling that everyone there is misplaced. Like dishes placed in an overflowing cupboard: everything fits, but there’s a constant danger of spilling out.

Heat traps you in your body. When you are overheated, you cannot ignore your body. The

dripping sweat, the burning skin, the exhaustion, all serve as keen reminders of the frailty and finality of your body. You cannot escape your body.

D. M. TOMKINS

Feeling the softness of this oversized chair, I want to escape my body. I want to sink until the

armrests tower over me and I am consumed in the stuffing of the furniture. To be soft like this chair would be wondrous. The chair never feels its innards churning; it cannot feel its stitching coming undone. The only thing the chair feels is a delicate warmth— not an overbearing heat— when someone like me finds themselves wishing to drown in it.

The room grows louder. The TV is no longer the loudest thing in the room. Someone raises their

hand and spins the fan hanging from the low ceiling as they pass by, but the room only grows hotter.

In the corner, a rickety fold up table holds two teams of red plastic cups. They stand in formation on opposite sides of the table, pitted against each other. As the game goes on, the crowd at either end swells. Raucous voices reverberate throughout the room and break my reverie.

My surroundings swim back into vision, but they do not focus. Angles are too round. Borders are

too nondescript. Objects blend into one another in a sea of sound and color. The current threatens to drag me down. I am trapped. I will drown if I stay here.

When I get outside, I can hear nothing but my own breathing. The air is frozen. When I lift my foot it takes hours to descend again. Each step carries me miles, until finally I am home; alone, blanket taut around my shoulders, warm, in my own chair to drown in.

Sometimes expecting something does not make it easier. I expected to be in a classroom when I

enrolled, but still I was trapped. I remember my heartbeat. It’s all I could hear. It deafened all other noise.

My whole body shook. My heel tapped — up and down, up and down — continuously. The vibrations constricted my throat. I couldn’t speak. My head pounded. I felt the convulsions in my temple. My chest thundered, shaking my whole psyche.

I sat there for hours, trembling from the inside out. Surely someone would notice I was out of

place. Someone would see the fire that burned my face. Someone would feel the earthquake coming from my chest. No one said anything.

My name was eventually called, and I raised my hand.

The lecture began, and my pen moved across the notepad. Markings appeared on the page, but

I could not read them. The classroom blurred like a watercolor.

There was a black spot on my desk. A speck of ink from an uncapped pen. I stared at it, trying

to burn it away. I imagined a great blaze surrounding the desk, its remains left blackened and charred.

12

Maybe the heat would scorch us both.

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LASER FOCUS Untitled Ellie Closen

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[ANTI]PODE

He’s listening to his favorite music Meaghan Boyd

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night illuminates opposite streets ‘where are the beast?’

the clearing —

splayed

open

‘where

black

boys look

blue’

that like to bite

ODDFELLOW

dawgs

hands that like

to

beat

gripping sticks out

the window

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THE BOULDER THERE IS A BOULDER IN THE MIDDLE OF MY BRAIN. It’s sedimentary, like a salt deposit, or limestone. Layer upon layer made smooth from constant turning. It showed up with the fourth grad school rejection letter, and it’s becoming inconvenient. I should be savoring this, my last semester, but instead I live from day to day, dreading the days that come later. How do I move forward when I’m desperate to go back?

The boulder doesn’t hurt. Not really. It makes me feel like the world, my world, is more chaotic than it is. I can’t remember what day it is, and I can’t remember what I did the day before. I have a million things to do, even though my to-do list is only three items long. I can’t tell the difference between being busy and being free.

I work around it, like you work around loose trash and extension cords. I work in the margins of my brain. I write papers, I go to class, I see my friends. Every once in a while, I’ll bump into the boulder, and I’ll apologize for forgetting it was there.

It’s not like my brain has ever been healthy. But it’s never felt closed off before, just too much, too big, and too fast. I used to wish not for a boulder, but for a lobotomy. But only sometimes. Usually, my brain is malleable gray matter, and we belong to each other, even when it feels like we don’t belong to anything else.

I don’t know what to do about the boulder. I guess erosion is the best path forward, but how do I direct a flood between my ears? How do I send gusts behind my eyes? The only other option is to go back before the boulder formed, but try as I might, I can’t go back in time. The last four years are slipping away like dry sand from a clenched fist. I feel like I’m being tugged away. I feel like I’m screaming wait, wait, don’t make me go, there’s so much I haven’t done. I don’t know if I’m actually making sound.

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It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to go to grad school. I was always supposed to go to grad school. What else am I good for? All I have is my gray matter. I’m not built for anything else. I wasn’t made for anything else. Who am I if I’m not a student? How do I live my life without the promise of an A at the end?

I think I can get rid of the boulder. It’s going to take time, and probably some therapy, but I think one day I’m going to look at my to-do list and three things is going to feel like three things. I will know what day it is, and I will know what I did the day before, even if I don’t know what I’m doing the day after.

JAMIE HAWLEY

I don’t think the boulder is a boulder. I think it’s a black hole. It’s addition by subtraction, the palpable loss of the one thing I’ve always had: a plan.

I don’t have a fucking plan. I don’t know how to make one, or at least, I don’t know how to make one that feels the way I thought grad school would make me feel. Maybe one doesn’t exist. Maybe I’m just feeling the feeling I was trying to put off for another five years.

I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I never will. But I believe in the power of erosion. I will find my strength in the crumbling sand.

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The Clocktower Had read 4:32 at 7:48 that morning. the suspension of The

THE CLOCKTOWER

City’s Timekeeper Had meant one, or both, of two things: The Clock’s Machinery was under repair, or the Caretaker and his apprentice had been fighting again. in the instance of last night’s events, both applied.

A PROMOTION? the Caretaker said to the apprentice still chewing on His dinner in the side of His mouth. sixteen years flattening and selling scraps. sixteen years living off scraps and crumbs. sixteen years it had taken the apprentice to finally take initiative with the Caretaker. yessir i believe i — i have some ideas that could really change how we run this place He said that He couldn’t afford to make changes to The Clocktower in their current state.

He said that their situation was bad enough.

He said no and that his decision was final. this and more He spat, interrupting the apprentice at every spurn. He raved on until a crack and flurry of flying splinters from the apprentice’s chair demanded the full attention of the Caretaker. with reposed poise, the Caretaker stood up to meet the apprentice, who stood defiantly among the debris. a clean, wet slap across the boy’s face resounded throughout The Impassively Ticking Clocktower. poorly concealed tidal waves accumulated beneath the eyes of the apprentice as he stood in a stoical trance. he stole the loaves of bread from the table and left the Caretaker alone in the dining room. later as He slept, gales of metallic gnashing teeth and shrieking boiled steam sent bolts of panic down the spine of the Caretaker, forcing Him out of bed. He thought himself naïve to think that the apprentice wouldn’t retaliate again. the next morning, the Caretaker stood on a lofty platform in The Tower, Picking out the breadcrumbs and metal scraps from The Clocktower’s Gears while the apprentice worked below, flattening what scraps there were left with a sledgehammer.

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with grooved eyes and a heavy chest, the apprentice struggled to lift his instrument repeatedly. he lifted the hammer behind his head for one last swing but stumbled behind himself and ran into The Clock’s Pendulum. as the apprentice fell, The Tower Roared to life with cog and ignition. so too did fall the Caretaker. hand caught between the gears; the Caretaker pulled too hard in an effort to release himself. from platform to ground he fell intact, save for a right hand whose supporting arm now served as the fountainhead to the red sea in which he now lay. unbelief consumed the apprentice. with what resolve there was left to conjure, he suppressed a squall of impending shame and looked into the fading eyes of the caretaker. but, to his surprise, the old man’s demeanor manifested an aura of peace and pride.

IT’S Okay, my Boy.

apprentice sixteen years he had waited to displace his caretaker. sixteen years he had waited for his apprentice to complete the same cycle. the Apprentice stared into those sentencing eyes coming to a stark realization, now transparent within the shroud behind His mind. He was always meant to displace the caretaker. and so too

DREW WINDISH

sixteen years the caretaker himself had been an

would He find another apprentice to replace him in due time. the head never mattered. no matter how hard He tried to fight from within, The Clocks Would still run the same as before.

You Rat Bastard.

AT

THIS

REVELATION, THE

LOOKED STRAIGHT DYING AND

INTO THE

CARETAKER, BEGAN

APPRENTICE

EYES

OF

SLEDGEHAMMER

CHIPPING

AWAY

IN

THE HAND,

AT

THE

PILLARS

OF

THE

CLOCKTOWER.

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They didn’t tell you the American Dream was Ankles that throb as you try to sleep from Working doubles, over 60 hrs a week Starry-eyed over the next price tag that will help you Keep up with the Joneses but the Joneses can’t even keep up with themselves anymore

KAYLA COOK

“The land of the fee” doesn’t know the word “free” Or “affordable” and if you so much as think to question Why you have to work so hard just to breathe the air in your body-box apartment, Mr. American Flag Socks in Nike Slides wearing Daddy’s Christmas Gift AirPods will Breathe down your neck, “Don’t look for handouts—Pick yourself up by your bootstraps” So busy spitting in your face, he doesn’t look down to see your bare feet Alarm rings—Get on the good foot (or whatever foot left) Drink carcinogens in your daily drink “But it won’t hurt you,” articles say What would your cancer patient mother think of the news if she were alive today?

Today’s newspaper heading: “Key moments from the Betsy Ross-Uncle Sam Hearing” (He was ruled “Innocent”) You knew there was a reason those “I want you” posters left a bad taste in your mouth (Or is it the carcinogens they told you not to worry about) You shrug, jaded by another All-American morning “There’s always that one uncle,” you say, turn the page, and Printed in large ink letters: “Where are they now?”

Followed by a picture of Lady Liberty herself Mouth wide shut Because there’s no other way, Clock in and wait on

ELECTION DAY 20

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IMAGE

emily Rachel Lewis

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WHAT HE DOESN’T KNOW

Tomorrow, there will be tears. He will say that he loves you, but right

now, it is all too much. He will say that life is too heavy, and he would never drag you along through the dark. There will be a scene on the living room

ALLY JENNINGS

couch, a gut-wrenching scene. The knife of betrayal stuck so far into your heart that it will leave you reeling. He will try to convince you that you can do better, that someday you’ll be better off without him. You’ll tell him that he doesn’t know what you want; he isn’t thinking clearly, and this love you built is worth fighting for.

You’ll never be anything without his love, he thinks. There will be

punches and kicks, you’ll blame him for everything, he thinks. There will be cursing and spitting, angry words cracking the paint on the walls, he thinks. There will be a twenty-foot monster raging through the living room, smashing everything in its path, while he sits there calmly, he thinks. You will shatter the windows with your screams, so loud that the world will shutter at the sounds you make, he thinks. Yet, he is wrong.

What he doesn’t know is that you have seen it. It came to you in a dream where he left you in the dust, thinking you were kicked in the dirt, cut and bruised by the words he had to say. You weren’t.

Today, he wraps you in a hug, kissing your forehead, telling you that you

will never know how much he loves you. He pulls back, looking at you with emeralds. The smile descends on you, awaiting yours in return.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yes.”

What he doesn’t know is that you’ll be ok; maybe not

tomorrow, but someday.

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“IS EVERYTHING OK?”

“YES.”

WHAT HE DOESN’T KNOW IS THAT YOU’LL BE OK; MAYBE NOT TOMORROW, BUT SOMEDAY.

Courtesy Meaghan Boyd

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Untitled Kelsey Rolofson

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TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA TRICHOTILLOMANIA

KIOSK 62

ticking ticking before long a hunting a haunting materializes a trance creeps

unseen compelling reach

ODDFELLOW

hovering in passionate uselessness futile

every time, futile hours imbues demented procrastination anticipation direct unrest lay blunt ends

at certain patches fine splits bore into threadlike strands over a soma field ‘Circadian rhythms

may play a role in’ psychological amputation swallows back custody ‘stop doing that’ ask the silence, are you satisfied is this possession relief

does this falter compensate to deprive ‘nocturnal pruritus.’ comorbid tilling ‘why are you doing that?’

at the

of follicles

persistence arches

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DRUNK ON FILTH, WOOZY ON REFUSE.

WAITING FOR THE INEVITABLE MOMENT WHEN THEY CAN MOVE FREELY UPON AN INHERITED EARTH. 26

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COCKROACHES, 11/9/19

SCOTT STONE

“Cockroaches, 11/9/19” Grime shiny and skittering across dusty floors, Skulking clumsily in forgotten corners, Spindly limbs pathetically scraping snow-white baseboards.

Lazy trundling is the cockroaches’ gait, Drunk on filth, woozy on refuse.

Bastions of prehistoric epochs.

Still, they are tenacious And require comically colorful circus tents in Sweat-drenched Florida for temporary decimation.

The click clackity-legged invasion fuels nightmares, An evolutionary revulsion to decay, Not just some quaint Cleaver-esque obsession with The ornate presentation of pristine cleanliness.

Bottle-blonde soccer moms embrace a secret Howard Hughes-ian pathologic fear of The infected mucus-like mustard pus Seeping out of cracked, creamy innards, curdling and sullying Resplendent granite countertops Or the soles of Italian loafers.

Even the German naming of such horror Urges ancient elemental imagery, The guttural ungeheures Ungeziefer^ and Poor Gregor Samsa, A rotting apple lodged in his aching back, The true marksmanship of a furious father.

Remember the Apricot Autocrat* likening humans to vermin?

And the fascistic demonization of entire races?

Government sanctioned pogroms Nights of shattering glass Technological progress Systematic efficiency Atomic advancement.

Perhaps it is mankind with its mammalian arrogance and Bipedal self-righteousness that Disgusts the cockroaches.

Theirs is the long game, Waiting for the inevitable moment when They can move freely upon an inherited earth, Safe from stomping feet or The calculated attack of a Shoulder-slung spray can.

^monstrous vermin *courtesy of author Michael Harriot

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RED Black. Black. Black running into Red. My hands are red, my shoes are red, slick with the red from my side.

My side is red, and running down my black pants, it stains my black hands, it stains my

NIYA MCADOO

eyes as all I see is black faces.

Red is red, and black is black.

My black is black like hot asphalt in July, burning my feet as I run. Run from blue.

My black is the bottom of the unknown ocean, cold and full of the forgotten.

White. White. White. White hits me with Red. It holds my face down with black shiny shoes, and hits me with black shiny steel.

White is the shouts I heard telling me to put my hands up, and when I do red hits me anyway.

Black. Black. Black.

Black is what I see behind my closed eyes.

Black is all I’ll ever be.

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“BLACK IS WHAT I SEE BEHIND MY CLOSED EYES.”

Brother Niya McAdoo

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NO SENSE OF PLENTITUDE OR PEACE River runs rivulets wider, rainwater surges: riparian renewal.

MADI DEFRAIN

Mountain goats scamper in dew, salamanders slither up sinister storm, valley women weep war’s tears-Creator, Daylight, breathing life into women and rivers (formless function fuses).

Storm & choke, we drown now forgotten / misplaced become the same hopeless heart, beating beneath breast, wonder ing

when mystery is no longer mystery;

longing

is wantless and broken like a little toe crushed.

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Untitled Kelsey Rolofson

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A game, an exercise for all who can read this, The rules are simple: All players form a circle then strike a pose Quicker than the striking of a match to show Power.

EXERCISING POWER

Other players go before me. Young bodies Form fists then freeze, signifying striking blows Point bows and arrows, Raise guns from holsters, Kick, stab, and choke— Then it’s my turn.

I pull a knife from air then heave it high above my opponent’s head and— (Or is it a sword or a scythe?)

Hold my pose until the next power-override.

Once all players choose a pose, we are told We are no different than the other players from all over America (Alabama, California, Utah, New Mexico—) All were the same, All turned to violence for every single pose.

We feel respective pangs in our chests, Regretting that not one, not one player Kneeled in prayer, Removed a weapon, or Offered an open palm thrust forward as if to say, “Stop.”

“Power = Violence,” all players were conditioned to believe.

We all consider this exercising of power a lesson learned: We must work to unlearn and relearn, Reimagine, Rethink The 5-letter word That runs our country And other countries across the globe.

Over 7 billion players.

Over 7 billion chances.

Restart the exercise.

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POWER

Untitled Kelsey Rolofson

KAYLA COOK

=

VIOLENCE

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Cross Vinamratha Rao

“HER REVOLUTION WILL BECOME OUR REVELATION.”

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CORONA RADIATA at the center of the impact the burning heat blistered the womb red sky in jagged, pulsing veins bleeding out into ruptured amniotic yellow rising and roiling into a throbbing mushroom cloud planted in the heart of the firestorm she stood dressed in nothing but rage. we did not know where to look at a battered moon hiding the cowardly sun or mother mother mother o, once immaculate mother what have we done to you? we emerged grasping our cords

VINAMRATHA RAO

the crimson splashed between her shackled feet

and throttled her till her lips turned blue yet it is the prophets that finally hanged breathless in her umbilical grip we forgot our god came from a woman. she finally smiles upon the thankless fruit sheared from her vine bathed in her radiant glory we will witness the end our mother has birthed. her revolution will become our revelation.

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ENVISION A BETTER WORLD, AND CREATE ART THAT REFLECTS IT.

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Cowgirl Meaghan Boyd

KIOSK 62

CREDITS

ARTISTS

LITERATURE STAFF

CREATIVE STAFF

Ellie Closen

Jamie Hawley— Co-Editor

Sierra Hunter ­— Creative Director

Kayla Cook

Kelsey Rolofson— Co-Editor

Sara deNoyelles ­— Designer

Kelsey Rolofson

Brianna Wessling — Co-Editor

Sarah Smith ­— Designer

Meaghan Boyd

Bryce Bailey

Niya McAdoo

Helene Bechtel

Rachel Lewis

Logan Bell

Vinamratha Rao

Katherine Brauer Sydney Burns

AUTHORS Ally Jennings D. M. Tomkins Drew Windish Grace Cooper Jamie Hawley Kayla Cook Madi DeFrain Niya McAdoo

Grace Cooper SJ Dahms Tricia Drumm Madison Holloway Cailin O’Mara Madeleine Rheinheimer Joshua Rubino Lily Swanson Laurel Thompson Graham Wilhauk

Oddfellow Scott Stone Vinamratha Rao

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KIOSK 62