KIOSK
63
KIOSK 63
Letter from the
6
EDITORS
Dear Readers,
We would like to sincerely thank our wonderful staff and our fantastic advisors, Mary Klayder and Andrea Herstowski, for helping us create this edition of Kiosk. To our family, friends, and you, our readers, thank you for supporting our work. In this time of exhausting uncertainty, we invite you to dream with us. Close your eyes for a moment. Let your mind wander. Open yourself up to the liberating power of imagination.
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At Kiosk, we encourage students to reimagine art and literature and to embrace the connections between them. We’re proud to feature undergraduate work, whether it be a mystifying, genredefying masterpiece, a reinvention of style, a foray into an unfamiliar medium, or captured everyday moments. With each edition, we strive to encapsulate a spectrum of artistic talent, to blur boundaries by bringing different forms of art together. For Kiosk 63, we asked authors and artists to put their dreams on paper. As the global pandemic, social isolation, and nationwide revolution reshaped our conceptions of the world, we craved a place for imagination to run wild. The artists and writers featured in this edition have whisked us away to surreal worlds and altered realities. In these pages, they delve into the mysteries of their minds, dreaming up whimsical fantasies, strange nightmares, elusive memories, and endless possibilities.
Dream on. Sierra Hunter Kelsey Rolofson Brianna Wessling
Section I 6
Letter from the Editors
8
Table of Contents
10
Credits
8
Section II 14
Requiem for the Boy with Face Tattoos in my Apartment
16
september 12, 2020, 7:53 a.m.
18
It's No Eden
Section III 22
I mist
24
GOOD GAME
26
Arthur’s Seat
Section IV 30
Dancing On Kitchen Floors and Broken Mirrors
32
dyssynchronous
36
Dimensions of a Psyche
table of CONTENTS
40
I, too, can fall
44
Leaves
46
after Emily—
48
Slippery
Section VI 52
Spirit of Falls
54
A Stranger in What I Hope Was a Dream
Section VII 58
how to know that you are being haunted
62
Image Index
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Section V
Credits
10
Artists Molly Carroll Grace Dickerson Emma Wolf Sophia Dominguez Katelyn Shirley Kelsey Rolofson Liam Hogan Charlie Pott Emma Kellogg Nicole Weyer
Authors Sophia Blue Coen Mahala Grace Dulani Hannadige Cailin O’Mara Dalima Kapten Kelsey Rolofson John D. Gorman Drew Windish Dulani Hannadige Brett Knepper Janie Rainer Brenna Eller Emma Louise Miller Faith Maddox
Literature Staff Kelsey Rolofson - Co-Editor in Chief Brianna Wessling - Co-Editor in Chief Sivani Badrivenkata Helene Bechtel Logan Bell Sophia Blue Coen Grace Cooper Brooke Ford Hattie Friesen Ben Grimes Grace Higginbotham Brett Knepper Ellynn Mayo Caroline McCone Lauren Miller Cailin O’Mara Madeleine Rheinheimer Josh Rubino Lily Swanson Morgan Van Der Wege Matthew Weich Graham Wilhauk Cameron Wood Taylor Worden
Sierra Hunter - Creative Director Grace Goga - Designer Sydney Deitz - Designer Alyssa Carson - Designer Anna Matuella - Designer
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Creative Staff
untitled — Charlie Pott
12
dreamy — Molly Carroll KIOSK 63
Someone sees a picture of you & says you look like a BLUE-EYED grave.
14
Passing By Your Memory — Grace Dickerson
“I suspect there will never be a requiem for a dream, simply because it will destroy us before we have the opportunity to mourn its passing.” — Hubert Selby Jr.
Requiem for the Boy with Face Tattoos in my Apartment Sophia Blue Coen
Jennifer Connelly was the first person I ever hated & now I don’t trust people with perfect brows. What I learned about heroines, I learned early.
Ever see a movie for the first time & remember the ending?
We’ve only got two spoons in this place.
You saunter around like your dad gave you trips to rehab every Christmas with a stocking stuffer of yes _____? & you answered sir everytime, while your mouth craved the simplicity of something else.
Ever watch a movie & it fucks you up for a while?
Bet you were the kid going cross-eyed on the playground blurring the wood chips together. Bet you played in the dirt too.
Your forehead says to dust we shall return = DNR = do not return (to sender). As in, dust isn’t reassuring when a teaspoonful can destroy you.
Someone sees a picture of you & says you look like a blue-eyed grave.
I’m trying to think of a synonym for hell & today labyrinth will do. A different movie is screening: Somewhere an auntie is pressing play on a VHS copy of Labyrinth, leaving someone small alone, & disappearing to the basement. Always take the locks off bathroom doors because the movies are never that different in the end. Injectable plot: Heroine relies on man. Heroine makes choices that can’t be undone Bittersweet.
One of those spoons turned up missing. Ever try to dig to your antipode with a plastic spoon till you have to come inside for supper? I keep placing my prayers in coffins so the Earth gets the message. Filling up all those holes I dug when I was a kid Somewhere an auntie is clutching an antonym, just like you & it’s gonna end just like the movie & she’s gonna be just like Jennifer Connelly & sell dreams in exchange for something bitter parading around as sweet. (but somethings can never be made cinematic, no matter how symmetrical your brows are) The end-of-summer flies have been buzzing around in my room for weeks & I gotta wonder if their wings have eulogies written on them. I’ve got requiems to attend, but I can’t remember where I buried all my prayers & I can’t find any spoons. What are you digging now?
(fastforward)
Somewhere a faucet is left running.
You’ve got the antonym for immortal in your hand & that shit is cut with something between waking up tomorrow, linoleum glued to your cheek or hospital gown molded to your emptied torso.
Somewhere a door knob refuses to twist open. Somewhere on sweaty tile, you’re learning how to meet your maker & your lips spill out simple sounds: Nah I’m good man Somehow they pry open the door & gaze down a hole from Kansas to the middle of the Indian Ocean.
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CVS got Narcan for $150 a dose & I go ahead & get two. That shit’s immortality in a needle, bringing back people who’ve been dead = assurance = rewind.
= method acting
september 12, 2020, 7:53 a.m. Mahala Grace
16
my autumn forest shrivels. standing in her midst, i smell cinnamon apple candles and chocolate chip cookies still baking in the oven. it’s noon, but the daylight doesn’t glare. clouds snuggle the sun.
the ground is glass beneath my feet. my steps meld craters that resemble burial plots. squirrels and birds join the eternal sky after laborious efforts to breathe, bodies sinking into the earth.
her leaves, brilliant shades of mustard, berry, and marmalade, wave in the wind. her cobalt sky, affectionate with timely tears and tranquil breeze, keeps me in her atmosphere. alive with tiny animals and decorated by fallen leaves, her floor grounds me. a river branches in every direction from her middle, singing lullabies for when it’s too hard to sleep.
it would make sense for me to cry at the funeral of a home so dearly loved. years of tending and talking turned to rubble in minutes. colors fading faster than they formed. wilting flowers forced to slumber before their appointed time. soil hardened. water evaporated. air tainted.
my autumn forest shrivels. a wildfire flares from her heart and spreads through the arms of her river, an impossibility made reality by a whim that eludes me. charcoal fills my lungs. the smoke tastes like metal chalk. tears rim my bloodshot eyes, but i strain to see the flames take their course. i cannot bear to look away as her branches crack and crumple inward, warping around their trunks as if to protect them. shrubs grovel at the feet of their enkindled parents. when the families finally embrace, they blacken. coiled leaves gather at the bases of once-great homes. pyres now.
it would make sense for me to cry. but i am lost. i am the void of every crater i lay in the ground. i cannot admit that she is gone, that i do not recognize the gray abyss she’s become. i thought my autumn forest could never die. she is my favorite time of year. the beauty of moments unrealized. the warm melody to coat every frigid day. i feel alone in winter, mocked in spring, exposed in summer. but autumn is the gentle coo of a mother to her sleepy newborn. her wind sings the song i could never put to words.
so, i demand, choking, “don’t leave me.” at her heart, a river turned to stone, the fire retreats. embers wither the remaining blades of grass. i follow the blackened trails to her center. a pit, six feet deep. i kneel over the hole and peer inside. the face i saw when i made up this beautiful lie.
skin like sand, soft as an evening breeze. a complacent smile that once beamed like sunrise, my center of gravity. ash shrapnel cascades from the skeleton of a nearby willow tree. a dull auburn in color, they light her face one last time. my autumn forest shriveled. gray hair and sunken cheeks. pale skin, too cold to touch. tears surge. my vision blurs; the dream unravels from its edges.
i cradle myself, orange sunlight filtering through the blinds of my window. my yellow comforter has been kicked off the bunk bed. i do not notice that i am cold. my hand reaches for my phone. 7:53a.m. i’m too scared to call. it is impossible to admit to myself that she could ever be gone.
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her hair, brilliant shades of mustard, berry, and marmalade. her cobalt eyes that cried over me when i told her my sorrows, now shut in eternal rest.
It's No Eden Dulani Hannadige
I watered my fears till they grew into demons, Lurking in the periphery of my conscience. I fed my trauma till it festered into vultures, Circling overhead waiting for weakness. I let my thoughts wander until they outpaced me, Restless and beyond my control. Of sharp thorns and thick briars, That scratch me, cut me, scar me Over and over and over until I bleed out.
-
It’s no Eden in here
psychic — Emma Wolf
18
I cultivated the garden of my mind into a twisted maze
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20
Frida with a Monkey Brooch — Sophia Dominguez
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I gently nudge through the sea of
LAVING PETALS
I mist
Cailin O’Mara
22
I mist congeal as a puddle of seafoam giggle-bubbling the secrets of the universe in Morse code.
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In The Mist — Emma Wolf
24
good game good game good game
Sk8away — Katelyn Shirley
GOOD GAME Dalima Kapten
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Past seasons of spilt Hi-Cs dripping syrup finishings on green licked burns Short white straws Salted upper lips Halftime on Smalltown scoreboard flicks through blurring mornings fingers tick Pit pat, pit pat Orbiting quick words cheers fog easy over back ear My body, mechanical maximalist I’m trying I’m losing I’m trying I’m losing good game good game good game
Arthur’s Seat Kelsey Rolofson
The pathway parts tangled naked underbrush Traverses burgeoning thickets of prickled thistles budding inviolate, blooming soft lavender warmth I gently nudge through the sea of laving petals Twinkling magenta bells line the worn stone steps An ascent marked only by rolling majesty of clouds fading brilliance
26
Below, ancient town nestled within blue-green crinkles Ahead, vast expanse stretches the sea into melted heaven I arrive, take my seat and settle in. Shroud of dimmed cloudlight. Flash of wind. Swirl of gull. A drop here and there They whiz past, pelting and pecking Sharp pitter-patters as I tumble down the steps A crest rising up to meet me The stairs shrinking away at the smack of my feet Elastic skin tensed by threads diametric Lizard-rain slithers into veiled glossy eyes A slip— a grasp for the brush— Ballooned gloves with a crimson smile Tiny serpents mired in my skin Little Nessies wriggling the mirror face of the loch Garden of criss-crossed trestles and unfurling waves Snail in curled marble shell scooting alongside The dancing arc of the swan’s neck, the curved face guiding the street Open-eyed scribbles, dusty lashes, brushed brow Glowing pools of sand-speckled golden wash Grassy hill flecked with floating moon A splinter memento still dwelling in my fingertip
KIOSK 63 Untitled — Kelsey Rolofson
28
Windy — Molly Carroll KIOSK 63
They might have
NEVER EXISTED at
all for what he could REMEMBER.
Dancing On Kitchen Floors and Broken Mirrors
30
John D. Gorman
There is a house made of cobwebs with a foundation of mist. Three people with beating hearts live inside a house made for ghosts, yet all they are is cold. A boy sits at a desk behind a closed door on the top floor. He’s covered his window with sheets and broken the lights so all he can see is a visible darkness. He tells his waking hours from sleep by the faces on the walls; they are his Friends, and they come out when he dreams. So he spends his days in darkness, hoping one day he doesn’t wake up. Though, secretly, unbeknownst to even him, he dreams of a day when he wakes up and has the strength to turn on a light.
A father and a mother sit at a kitchen table covered in dust. Wilted herb boxes line their windowsills. Dried husks of flowers crumble until the pile of petals resemble sloughs of dead skin. The mother is waiting for her son, and the father is waiting for the words, the ones that will be able to tell her that their son isn’t going to come down until they replace the lights. Yet there is no electricity in a house made for ghosts, so there are no words for him to say to her. Is it strange for a house made for ghosts to lack lights? Maybe not, if ghosts are the glowing apparitions that float through walls and can read our deepest thoughts without knowing who we are, what we like to eat, or whether we’re capable of having hard, intelligent conversations. If they do indeed glow, then they are their own source of light. If something is dead and possesses light, then being alive means possessing darkness. This makes living inside a house made for ghosts difficult, if not impossible, but somehow the father remembers how they’ve made it work. He brushes the dust from his shoulders and offers his hand to the mother,
who takes it, hesitating to pull her thoughts away from their son. Still, they stand and he pushes his toes underneath her feet until she is standing on the tops of his. He takes her by the waist, and she by his shoulders, and they waltz to an invisible organ in their kitchen.
They might have never existed at all for what he could remember.
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The boy hears the organ, though he knows not whether he is awake or dreaming, for the faces blink at him from the dark, but he can feel a warm heartbeat echoing in his ears. The faces contort into wrinkles of frustration. The older faces spit glass at the boy’s feet and he dances to the same waltz, cutting open his toes and fleshy soles. The younger faces jeer at him when he cannot find the door. The organ swells as the words come to the father’s mind, but before he can utter them, the boy pulls down his sheets and lets a cold winter sun flood the room. There are no faces. There are no shards of glass; his feet are numb with chill but whole and unbloodied. The father and the mother dance undisturbed, yet the words have vanished from the father’s head.
dyssynchronous drew windish
32
i wake up in drink of the phosphorescent sun, untethered to sleep yet unwilling to dream. cradle by, he feasts upon my skin, warm as delight. coddled airdrops drip like dew in the morning, tonight
shape and structure dissolve into a spectral hue. color becomes form becomes life. and all that is known is finally true and seen with eyes unabashed. passing by, i know only that which may possess my wishes and plights
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Untitled — Liam Hogan
34
untitled — Charlie Pott
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untethered to SLEEP yet unwilling to DREAM.
36
Lesbian Utopia — Emma Kellogg
Dimensions of a Psyche Dulani Hannadige
I imagine my mind as a hellscape so often. Impenetrable. Restless. Place of ruin; Demons feeding on trauma And tainted memories. I see it in shades of black and red. Sharp. Unwelcoming. It is pain and darkness And every negative thought I have ever harboured.
... But most days, Most days, My mind is heaven.
It gives more love than it receives. And almost always It is content in that reality. Place of life; Turning the cogs of my body, Keeping me alive I imagine my mind in sunset colours. Soft hues with jewel tones. Light to set off the oncoming dark. Library of my secrets. Archive of my dreams. My mind is my keeper. Heaven. Hell. It is both and neither. My mind is so beautifully human. I need to remember that more often.
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Place of creation; Giving rise to whole worlds, Anything spawns stories.
38
untitled — Molly Carroll KIOSK 63
secrets of the universe in MORSE CODE
I, too, can fall Brett Knepper
40
At night, I sleep and my fear comes to light. Through that light, I wake and find myself nearly unable to continue the fight of midnight sleep. How it always goes is that I am a mountain growing higher and higher as a rock in the skies over an ocean spreading into eternity. My peak is like the tip of a blade, piercing and colonizing the sky, making everything my own and conquering with a power my waking self could only imagine. Expand, expand, expand. I continue to reach ever higher until I’m high enough to finally see everything below me. The world is a sprawling stretch, built on the hopes, dreams and desires of everything that ever was, is, or will be.
However, I am not the sun…not the center of the solar system. The brightness above grows brighter. Then brighter. It blinds me and I can no longer see the world’s expansion below. I fear that I’ve climbed too close to the sun. The sun burns the mountain below my feet. It burns the rocky blade and the self-made throne until nothing is left but empty sky.
I’m suddenly standing on top of that mountain, looking out from a throne that I have crafted myself, seeing with my eyes something glorious in the sunshine above. It’s bright, yes, but so am I.
I fall.
I wanted to make something of myself. It was my dream to be someone people looked up to — the conqueror of my own dreams. But I’ve grown too high and found my mountainous self collapsing, just as quickly as I formed it. That’s my fear. Failing when everything appears to be going just right. When I look into that vast expanse across the distance and finally feel I’m in the place I always dreamed of being; when I’ve become a galaxy above the world below, I realize I’ve fought too hard, grown too tall. I fail. And then, I fall.
Every night, the same dream comes and goes. I rise as a mountain and fall as a man. The sun, a celestial beacon that knows my place, forces me down with the resistance only a god could bear. I’m reminded each night that I’m nothing more than a man, living life based on foolish dreams and ideals. In the waking world, I am often aware of my mortality. Everything I dream of, all those wishes of wonder and fulfillment and desires of finding myself and forming a stable mountain, are just that… dreams. I know that I may never find a following outside of my own parents. I know that I may never be a beacon to the world outside of my small group of friends. But at night, when my eyes close and the moonlight creates a mirage in my mind, I let the vision take hold and imagine what it could be like to have everything. To be everything…
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It’s not a graceful fall, where you feel the wind resting its hands across your back as you drift away, but a brutal fall, where you plummet from the top of the world and struggle in the air, trying to grab something, anything, to save yourself. But you continue falling because there is nothing. No longer stands the mountain where you once were, nor the throne where you once sat. There is no safety net, for safety had been an afterthought. Between my body and sky is air, sunlight and an eternal fall.
Imagine the world taking shape below, as you, the highest mountain, reach with all your might toward the sun and the light. Your fingers can almost grasp it; the heat of the celestial orb is closer than ever. While waking is imaginative, that moment becomes real. But, before you can reach, your moment of glory is up and fear takes hold. No one can stay at the top for long. All it takes is a moment too close to the sun for you to burn up and plummet back to reality…
42
I would be caught up in my thoughts and MY DREAMS, and not just my goals—the visions in MY HEAD—and then years or weeks or months or days later I would be upset that I had wasted MY TIME thinking about them or upset that I hadn’t thought about them deeply enough
Spell — Emma Wolf
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and let myself go.
Leaves
44
Janie Rainer
I accidentally stayed in bed. Half on my chest, half on my butt, twisted. I watched the wind give the trees orchestras of shivers. The leaves flutter and tremble and flow as a unit one way, and then the other. I followed their movements and forgot who I was.
I think of all the mental crises, dilemmas, and what I thought to be existential insights I have thought through my life, as short as others tell me life is. What mattered to me as a twelve-year-old I don’t give weight to any longer. When I did give weight to things, anyways.
James found me after work. I didn’t realize he had sat on my bed but he pulled my eyes towards him when he put a hand on my forearm. I imagined him quivering like the leaves, his essence pulling apart; some of him curved towards me and some of him gravitated away, in a fluid resistance.
I was loud and driven and I was adamant that I knew everything I wanted. But my consciousness goes through waves. I would be caught up in my thoughts and my dreams, and not just my goals—the visions in my head—and then years or weeks or months or days later I would be upset that I had wasted my time thinking about them or upset that I hadn’t thought about them deeply enough and let myself go.
I expected him to make me get up. He would see it as his obligation to take care of me since I clearly did not feel the need to. If I weren’t seventeen and I weren’t on summer break, the people in my life wouldn’t have sent me somewhere isolated and peaceful to figure myself out. They wouldn’t let me pass the days in bed and forget myself, else they would have to forget their unspoken contract with society. I was to be up and moving because life is a moving thing. Always, there is something new. And they can’t bear to look at me letting these somethings new flutter by.
I felt so mature in each stage of my life; my thoughts my mindset always felt the wisest it could be but now that person—those people—aren’t me. And I don’t know if the person I am now, the person who can’t feel time pass who can’t cry when she’s expected to who doesn’t remember the emotions she used to detail in her diary if that person is any more real and lasting and wise as all the people I’ve been before. Will I forget what it is like to forget myself and all my past selves, too? Will I have these thoughts again someday, unable to remember that I’ve thought these thoughts before?
James watches me watch him come apart and then watch myself come apart even though it’s not happening as I’m watching because it’s already happened and I just happened to remember.
“What are you thinking?”
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I look away from his leaves and look at his fingers on my forearm. There is mud at the base of his fingernails.
“I don’t remember.”
I see him swallow. He falls back onto my pillows, and I can no longer see him. I don’t want to look out at the trees anymore, so I move myself for the first time since that morning. I take a pillow for myself and close my eyes, because my head has begun to pound. I imagine it not pounding and it numbs. He doesn’t say anything and I think he is frustrated. The truth is I didn’t think anything all day, from what I can remember, until I saw James’s face become leaves and I thought about thinking.
46
Reality — Emma Wolf
after Emily— Cailin O'Mara
the Veil drops — and suddenly the flash-fiction of the universe behind my eye.
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after a huck-hulled day I cave cranium peeled like a clementine its flesh exposed and sinewy.
48
Arm AROUND my waist Head IN MY LAP Breath IN MY
HEART I don’t even WANT THIS I
just want something I
I’M SORRY//
Slippery Janie Rainer
Not high, just spread out A little elastic Watery// Lights like when you Press your palms into Your eyes//
But it’s not mine and I wish he wouldn’t She is right there, sand In my eyes// I think about my fingertip On his forehead His hair There’s a change gonna come I don’t know where or when// I’m slippery Past where others can’t squeeze through But I can lie because it feels like truth Everything is truth I say it, it is I’m simple// Arm around my waist Head in my lap Breath in my heart I don’t even want this I Just want something I I’m sorry//
Too slippery Now I’m forgetting the dreams I had But it doesn’t hurt to let it fall It’s a relief But then it feels like I skipped a step No return Because time won’t// I didn’t know heads were supposed to fit under ribs like this
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I like a heartbeat On mine Someone Warm Touching me It’s gentle//
Lights flashing and Bass in my drums Wide swollen eyes Tongue raw Catching his eyes Is he looking at me? Wouldn’t that be a thought Not the one wrapped around me The one from time gone by Does time return if you let it go//
50 48
Fade Away — Grace Dickerson KIOSK 63
Too slippery Now I'm forgetting the DREAMS I had
Spirit of Falls Brenna Eller
In a middle of nowhere borough, living up to its name, homes once glowing die out, the extinguished flames, father’s tears replenish, as mother’s heart mourns so, Evermore, the town of Wicker Falls begins to let go. The convicted locked away, murderer in defeat, darkness stretches its fingers toward rays of heat, a groundbreaking case lasting a few years, file closed, a village overcoming its fears.
52
Eyes glint with giddiness once again, trying to restore what was broken by sin, reverting to old ways, the people of “Falls”, losing sense of caution, ignoring protocols. They don’t recall how I came to pass, how a life can wither away so fast, I know. I was the one captured by him, the gloomy Monday I fell victim. They think Lucifer is still in Hell, oblivious to danger, under his spell, he lives amongst them, more deceitful, conniving fox who caused such evil. The hint of mint wafting from the cafe, brings me to that wretched last day, when he stole my last breath, gave me cold earth, kissed with death.
untitled — Charlie Pott
Reality claims my eyes to see, ahead a figure daunting as can be, panic swells as cold blood boils, at the sight, my body recoils. I scream at them, It’s him, it has to be! I beg them to beware and stay clear but screams are silent for spirits like me.
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Mint floated on the muggy morning, disregarding my instinct’s warning, a smell guided me, I couldn’t see, mourning doves echoed in the trees, barely seeing him, so clever and sly, his fool-proof sticky trap left for the fly, struck from behind without time to fight, my head filled with kaleidoscope sight.
A Stranger in What I Hope Was a Dream Emma Louise Miller
A slim shadow of a man appears illuminated by the silver of the moon and crouching on the concrete curb, hands wrestling with blood poppies and hyacinth bruising the grass. A forest of leafy spikes curls around us and pushes me forward-
54
a blur of green, eggshell, blue, rust and suddenly I’m behind him, close enough to touch and close enough to hear gentle sobs and see tears seasoning the pavement. I reach out, fingers grasping gently at his hood until it falls down and he seems familiar but he doesn’t turn to look at me. Silent for now, still facing the ground, he points to the stars with his little finger and out crawls a drawled rasp
up there-
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At Rest — Nicole Weyer
he asks, as my ears drip red and metal coats my tongue,
is that Your god? is this what is inside You? so many points to Your starsstuck in Your eyes, it looks like it would hurt. You look nothing like it. are You the nothing in between?
He is pointing at me now, gaze still glued to the ground. I take his hand, empty and stained with red and violetIt stains mine too. It feels cold, I grow numb, he feels nothing, he lets go, first. it was nice to meet You, goodbye. where will You go now? Enter Death, Exeunt not a soul.
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Untitled — Kelsey Rolofson KIOSK 63
from the top of the world and STRUGGLE in the air
58
“In Anticipation of Disaster” — Emma Kellogg
how to know that you are being haunted faith maddox
1. Sleep does not elude you, it has simply taken a new name. You might sleep through the day, each one becoming more and more of an indistinguishable haze, until you can no longer tell if you’re dreaming on Monday or walking in the middle of a busy intersection on Saturday. You’re not sure if there’s much of a difference anymore anyway.
3. One morning you wake up and notice that the hands you now wear are not your own. The fingers are slightly crooked towards the top, and deep lines have formed in the crook between thumb and index. Burn marks pock the knuckles, though you’re pretty sure you’ve never held them near an open flame. And now that you’re thinking about it, you’ve also recently noticed that 4. your shadow lags when you walk, as if it’s trying to imitate your long gait and faltering steps, mocking you as it plays catch-up with your stride. 5. Have you always been this tired? You don’t know the last time you slept, but you’re not entirely convinced you’re not sleeping right now. Last night you
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2. Any door left open is a tangible threat. Even a hairline fracture in the doorframe is a reason to move. You can no longer remember which ones you’ve opened and which ones slammed shut with the breeze.
thought you heard someone in the corner, a voiceless sound that still rings so loud in your ear you wonder if it’s stuck itself to the back of your neck while you were dreaming. Anyway 6. how do you know if this is your dream at all? Hold up a flashlight to your left eye and see if a small man is crouching behind your cornea; he might be hidden in the ridges of smooth pink, which has begun to ripple and quake as new cracks form in its foundation. and when you think about it 7. the man looks familiar, the faceless kind of person that bears resemblance to everyone and no one all at once. he is your high school art teacher who would grab a fistful of your hair when he watched you draw, he is the boy who told you you’d look better as a tree, he is the lover who bought you a book every time he found a new bruise, the father that preferred whiskey to a winter at home and 8. you realize the little man in your eye has been casting shadows on the wall, puppets distorting their bodies in moonlight, craning necks to make sure you’re still watching, and the puppets slide down the wall as the man makes his way to a new part of your body and 9. where are they now? you look under the bed just in case 10. and there’s nothing there but dust and half-lit silhouettes
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You might sleep through the day, each one becoming more and more of an indistinguishable HAZE, until you feature spread can no longer tell if you’re DREAMING grace on Monday or walking in the middle of a busy intersection on Saturday.
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éclat — Molly Carroll
Image Index
Images in this issue have been edited to fit the theme, but we wanted to do our best to respect each artist's original work.
