Share Art & Literary, 2015 by Kennesaw State University Student Media

SHARE.

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ART & LITERARY MAG

2015-2016

disclaimer Share Art and Literary Magazine of Kennesaw State University is published annually in print format. The publication is funded through student activity fees and is free of charge to all members of the KSU campus community. All literature, artwork, and digital work are self-expressions of those who created them and are not intended to represent the ideas or views of the Share staff or its advisers. They do not reflect the views of KSU faculty, staff, administration, student body, KSU student publications board, or the Board of Regents of the University System of Georgia. Artwork contained herein or on the website is not intended to specifically illustrate any literary work or vice versa, but may have been placed according to content. This includes editing artwork to better serve the magazineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s needs in terms of size or composition with textural elements. We welcome artists to contact us if they find this policy unacceptable. Though all artists and contributors may retain the rights to their work, Share reserves the right to print and reprint all submissions.

Letter from the editor We know what you’re thinking…“What is this, 1985?” To that we say…totally! Since 2015 is the year Marty McFly traveled to in order to go back to the future, we thought we’d pay homage to the decade (and its fearless time traveler) and celebrate all things 80’s. If you like totally spaced…don’t wig out! Consider this issue your very own time machine. Who needs a DeLorean when you’ve got Share magazine? But don’t thank us. Thank your fellow KSU students, who submitted the most far-out, righteous and totally tubular art, poetry and literature. We know you’ve been patiently waiting for this but like…don’t have a cow! If you’re wondering, “where’s the beef?” It’s right here inside this magazine. Okay, okay…I’ll chill with the 80’s references for now. After all, editors just wanna have fun. Brittany Maher Editor-in-Chief

Letter from the director This was super fun to make. My love of 80s graphic design is matched only by Brittany’s love of 80s pop culture. So this was a labor of love for the both of us. Just thinking of the light up floor from the Billie Jean music video gets me inspired. Gradients are my life’s blood and textures run through my veins you guys. That being said, this type of design is something that I don’t typically get to do, but 80s inspiration runs rampant in my artwork (some of which is inside for your viewing). It was probably only a matter of time before I let my inner 80s graphic designer roam free. Thanks to Brittany for letting me in on this fantastic project. Thanks to Student Media for giving me so many opportunities as a designer. Thanks to all the students who submitted because without YOU we wouldn’t have a magazine at all! I hope you guys have as much fun flipping through this as I did designing it. The artwork is killer, the stories are striking, and I think you guys are in for a treat! Kelly Rose Production Director

Greetings from the class of 1985! AKA The 2015 Staff of Share Art and Literary Magazine. Okay, so maybe none of us were actually alive in 1985, but we’ve seen enough 80s movies and jammed out to enough Michael Jackson and Cyndi Lauper records to know that it was an era of rad dudes, fly chicks and some totally bitchin’ times. Now THAT we can relate to. This issue of Share is a way cool, read-o-rama, that will spin your head right-round, like a record babe. Everybody’s been workin’ for the weekend just to get it out to KSU students, faculty, and staff. We just can’t fight this feeling anymore. Thanks to all that were involved in making this possible! It’s been a real thriller. We wanted to especially thank YOU, the reader, who makes every page worth printing. We hope you enjoy!

staff Brittany Maher Editor-in-Chief

Kelly Rose Production Director

Desmond Hilson, Jr. Art Editor

Damita Glaude Literature Editor

contents STAFF PAGE 5

POETRY PAGE 7

ART

PAGE 38

LITERATURE PAGE 58

y r t e po

swan song Brittany Maher Dragon clouds loom in duskâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s half-lit yawn, dragging shrouds of pale moonlight across a desolate pond. A nightly vision appears in the fog, she is a ghostly essence of lives gone wrong. Dragging shrouds of pale moonlight across a desolate pond, she floats through evening gloom and disappears before dawn. She is a ghostly essence of lives gone wrong, she is the gray guilt of our last swan song. She floats through evening gloom and disappears before dawn, a nightly vision that appears in the fog. She is the gray guilt of our last swan song, where dragon clouds loom in duskâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s half-lit yawn.

A Thousand Days Gone

Rachel Pendergrass

I shall miss you when you leave but worry not, my dove As your spot next to me grows cold I’ll keep it warm with love. The pond you built outside our door forever shall remain. For I will, should it start to dry, fill it with sorrow’s rain. When your perfume lingers no more I’ll shut myself inside. From enticing summer flowers, my senses will I hide. When the color of your eyes I cannot recall, I’ll tie a blindfold on my head and see nothing at all. When my lips forget your taste, I’ll no longer eat. For not a flavor in the world could ever be as sweet. And if, when you return to me you say we shan’t be wed, I don’t think I will mind too much for by then, I’ll be dead.

a human soul Vicka Gartavel I once feared placid waters with layers of unstirred sediment; I once feared that white, barren, winter skies Could somehow leave my mind sterile. Now, I lie in a still heapEntombed in gray fluids within the fissures of my own brain. The only reminder that there were once great convulsions, Electrical spasms of life, Is a buzz, An undying agitationLike that of a dismal fluorescent light.

Eli Hogan

Circa ’69 Mick Jagger

So I call it. I only say this for my mother, anything to get a smile, she’s taken this much harder than me. I am beginning to admire what stares at me in the mirror. My ribs are oddly symmetrical my skin tents over my collarbones and my hair is wild (The nurses call me Jesus) It’s all such perfect geometry (An untapped aesthetic and holy Christ I need a smoke) I don’t mind all this. My voice may have weakened and my body may convulse with pain butalthough my eyes are sunken still they shine through the darkness like cinders of Hell. I’ll shake my fist at God wake up tomorrow and go to war again.

Communion Rachel Fletcher It only took 2 loaves to feed 5000 but My appetite for understanding never ends. I’m insatiable but still ignorant. I ask “if Adam and Eve ate from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, why are we still so ignorant?” No one has an answer; Perhaps their mouths are too full from devouring the weak. First they beat them to death with scriptures, the meat must be tender of course. Then they berate until they are nearly silent and hoarse. Still starving for an answer, I decide to pray for the wisdom of the 3 men in gold. I still lack their sense of direction. An endless communion of fish and wheat, A burning bush, the almighty washing a poor man’s feet All appropriate for fan fiction But I should, with blind faith, Accept that anything is possible. Yet all I understand is that I cannot fathom such greatness. My mind is too small. There is no room at the table. I am but a fraction of God’s plan.

dark Kamaria Blocker I walked into the room. Misty rocks and sheets of water form over every invisible corner of my space. Quiet and beautiful serenity. I let the gas fill my lungs knowing it is poisoning me ,but instead I take deep breaths over and over again until I can feel the limpness in my limbs and the quietness in my mind. You ask me a question and my politesse takes over before I can struggle to form my thoughts. I tricked you, reimagining the gas. You think it’s a question, but so did I. I imagined myself sitting in a room, with God watching me from behind a glass I cannot see. I am acting with the people of this world, but only I am real. I saw you think this and I promised I would not forget. You are my worst dreams and my best dreams… But when I awoke my thoughts were not real. I killed the troubles, so now they do not exist but the physical manifestations of the characters in my mind are on the outside deadening me. Get me out. But then I’m back to my room with blue skies and sunset reds. Rolling beaches and curved mountains and happy once more. And now I won’t forget. You are my best dreams and my worst dreams.

defeat of the slavic people Vicka Gartavel I saw a people whose faces were worn, Eroded by the trembles of war. Their skin was fractured And within every fissure, compacted earth filled to the brimOccasionally crumbling back into the musky, rich seas of soil. They stood like menacing stones, A proud, magnificent force And yet their eyes carried an anguished heaviness, an unspeakable defeat.

The Journey Rachel Pendergrass Bald and gray Thin and frail As loved ones wail Must it be? Why shall it not? Is our fate to simply rot? Find me solace and let me sleep Give them peace Lest they grow weak “It’s life,” they say No it won’t change So I’ll go on to find my place

Timothy Meador

london

It always seemed like a blur over thereno direction, no ambition, no idea. No need. Even in the wildest of nights, high on body sweat and tequila, loosened by strobe lights and cold pizza, I found clarity. The flicker of a face, the swaying of hips, the taste of bile, the gust of wind across my skin. Nothing felt more natural than letting go, forgetting what lies ahead, what’s held in store, what God has planned. I was alive for once, far away from those I knew and lovedtasting strangers, sniffing sugar, eating ramen. All shits lost, no fucks given. Since I’ve been home, I’ve wanted to leave again. I can’t define the lapse I’ve had since my return, but it floats around me like a balloon, taped to the bottom of my shoe, everywhere I go. As I make copies at work, as I wait in line at Starbucks, as I struggle through a lecture on Faulkner. I wasn’t even away for that long, but I forgot to bring myself back with my body. This substance of blood flow and brain matter, somehow checked in and boarded a plane without me.

For all I know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still lying in Soho Square, laughing at a hobo, hiccups stopping my heart. Fumbling over loose cobblestone, clutching trash cans, tugging grass, spitting up, howling to the stars. Now as I crawl out of my window and onto my roof, I look out on my backyard and search for the lightthe glow that set on the river, the diamonds floating in the sky, the spark at the end of a joint. It was there, it was real, and I hope to see it again someday.Vicka Gartavel I saw a people whose faces were worn, Eroded by the trembles of war. Their skin was fractured And within every fissure, compacted earth filled to the brimOccasionally crumbling back into the musky, rich seas of soil. They stood like menacing stones, A proud, magnificent force And yet their eyes carried an anguished heaviness, an unspeakable defeat.

One too Many Brittany Maher My pride is an angry drunk. Shouting at its own reflection with whisky drenched spit cursing at the wind reciting slurs through a grin. In smoke soaked leather starting bar fights through cold nights, breaking pool sticks for weaponry calling out to strangers, beckoning. Swinging closed fists, throwing tantric fits, clenching warn knuckles scathed with broken scabs, and blood stained skin from battling with broken glass. But, only until nights end. Waking up less evil, remorseful and reborn as a kind, soft sober whisper like the dawn of spring, only crisper.

Making breakfast - gentle and poised, speaking slowly about the weather, wiping spattered spit from the mirror brushing teeth clean from curse words. Washing hands under warm water to heal them, bruises begging to conceal them, and slowly slipping on fresh pressed cotton praying last nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sins will be forgotten.

Roadway to Heaven. Pitstop in Hell Matt Gay Yeah I couldn’t find the way My way back home Caught up in a void All alone and afraid Glancin’ at the desert skies Rollin’ towards the sunset Starin’ into you Cause the way I’m boozin’ The way I’m druggin’ It’s all what I felt before Now I’m right here standing before you But you can’t see all my pain Girl I’m on the Roadway to Heaven Makin’ a Pitstop in Hell Fuel me up for another trip Cause this war wagon ain’t slowin’ down Cause the way I’m glancin’ The way I’m rollin’ The way I stare at you It’s all what I felt before

And now I’m standing Proud and Tall When I say I’m on the Roadway to Heaven Makin’ a Pitstop in Hell Don’t try slowin’ me down Cause Lord when I reach the promised land The whole world’s gonna hear my engines sound

peyton Madison Tompkins Your foot bounces to some unknown rhythm, You gaze at your phone. Your foot bounces, To some unDa - Da / Da -Da Known Rhythm. Da - Da / Da -Da

Star Crossed Rachel Pendergrass Today I stopped and tried to smell a rose but lately flowers don’t smell quite as sweet perhaps they fade as our love’s distance grows or maybe it’s just summer Georgia heat For outside our hearts the universe is cruel and cares not if you and I shall be but we are stars that our own love does fuel and, through the miles I feel your warmth in me. Our ardor’s tale is that of the dog star appearing as a single point of lightto flaming balls of passion separate are their hopeless burning brightening the night. With love like ours that spans the universe are scentless blossoms really such a curse?

the boxer Eli Hogan I have little fight left just enough for one last round. I have been knocked down beaten and bloody. Each time I have risen but no more. My feet are dragging, my legs are shaking. My vision is fading and bursts of light play in the corners. My blows have become weaker, I can feel my heart dancing in my throat. I have strength enough for this. So I swagger from my corner with shining eyes to meet an unbeatable foe with great violence. Knowing this will be it, my last dance, soon I may rest. I knew it must end like this. I do not know what awaits me when I sleep and I do not care. I have fought the good fight and I have given the crowd a show.

Stereotypes

Donovan McKelvey

As I switch radio stations I hear stereo hype From Drake’s “How Bout Now” to “I ain’t got no type” It makes me wonder why America even has a type And why America’s type for me is not that bright See I’m BIG, BLACK & TALL! yeah that’s a nice build But y’all will never understand how bad it really feels I’ve had CEOs come up to me and ask me my field Only to say that they meant my position on the football field When I say I don’t play, they stray away They become uninterested in me, no longer in my face I never tell them that I had seizures as a kid And I don’t play because it’s not doctor recommended But still what’s wrong with being BIG, BLACK, TALL and not on the O-Line Why must I just use my physical? Why can’t I use my mind? Why box me in and never give me a chance to fly? Stereotypes never can get me right and I don’t know why Another thing I hear at least 30 times a year After someone gets to know me and their vision of me is clear I am not the thug they thought I was when I first appeared In fact I’m far from it, in their surprise I’m not endeared Because a thug is defined as a cruel murderer or robber So who did you think I killed or whose car you thought I hot wired Being a thug is always about behavior and never about appearance But let stereotypes tell it, I’m the most thuggish guy living I wish society could break away from this way of thinking Because stereotypes are a fountain of closed-mindedness that we’re all drinking I know that my heart and my mind will always be the best parts of me But how will anyone ever know that if the outside is all they see?

two seconds Timothy Henderson Did you hear that? The sound of passing time? The flick of an instant flying past your ear Did not even phase your aloof demeanor A handful of lives have come and gone While you were looking down, Infatuated with the palm of your hand Almost as it was worth more than the world Will you stand for it? With every breath, every heartbeat Something happens in the blink of an eye And reality is stood on its head. Will you miss it? Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock, Tickâ&#x20AC;Ś

waiting Eli Hogan He’s eighty six now stooped in a chair and surrounded by ghosts and shadows. He was once proud tall, straight backed, and stern. His West Point ring adorned a massive hand Every day for sixty years. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his coat. Now he wastes away ounce by ounceHe looks as though the wind could send him flying the way he once threw people on the football field. He’s wheeled down a hallway singing Broadway tunes. So quiet for so long. My father laughs to keep from crying and says it’s just sixty years of pent up energy. Every day he gets a little weaker the light dies a little at a time. We found the ring in the trash. It no longer fits.

Variations on a Tryst

Rachel Pendergrass

I I have no skills to paint this sight, but perhaps 100 words will do as I convey the breathless hue made when your hair plays with the light or when the lighting is just right and seems to frost your skin with dew. I have no skills to paint this sight but perhaps 100 words will do. For how could paint convey just right the thirst my eyes have for this view, how they drink in the sight of you my Mona Lisa for the night. I have no skills to paint this sight, but perhaps 100 words will do.

II My pen trails across the paper like your fingertips on my skin. Written in ink as black as my sins. Written to my ardent savior. I feel the wax drip from my taper, but it stops not what flows from my pen. My pen still trails across the paper like your fingertips on my skin. And though our love is but a vapor and I know it soon may end, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll have these luscious letters then that I can look back on and savor. Till then, my pen will trail across the paper like your fingertips on my skin.

III I once knew a girl who could not be tied down. Away she went, as light as a feather. In that one short night we spent together, when she wore the night like a gossamer gown, with each kiss my heart she wound around her will with a tender tether. But she was a girl who could not be tied down. Away she went, as light as a feather. A string of lovers sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d lost and found who she had sworn sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d love forever, who watched her drift off as the weather with their stolen hearts worn as her crown, knew she was a girl who could not be tied down. Away she went, as light as a feather. IV The ghost of that sublime sensation (your body pressing into mine) has, of late, haunted my mind, leaving behind empty elation. Am I to blame for this fixation? Perhaps my soul still longs to pine for the ghost of that sublime sensation of your body pressing into mine. Each night I dream the same narration of our bodies lying intertwined. Chills of pleasure race my spine until I cry out in exaltation to the ghost of that sublime sensation of your body pressing into mine.

romance Rachel Pendergrass We first met in a store… the glimmer of your jacket caught my eye. I hadn’t come there with the intention of picking up a new fling. My plan was simply to pick up some supplies and get out and home as quickly as I could. I didn’t have time for any new involvements. I was already swamped with work, and projects, and trying to figure my life out. But that glimmer I saw, that flash of blue, that hint of a word that stuck in my mind… it lingered as I shopped. I almost got all the way out the door before I found myself circling the aisles absentmindedly in search of you again. I didn’t have a chance after that introduction. You had won me. You were charming and witty and you smelled so good… familiar. Like something comforting from my past. And you spoke to me in a way that seemed inexplicably like you knew me. But how could you? We were strangers. And the more I looked at you the more I saw that… there was depth there. That there was more than just initial attraction. Maybe you could change me. Before we even left the store I knew that I had to have you. When we got back to my place, I climbed into my bed and took you with me, ripping off your jacket. I lay there for a moment, taking you in. They say you can’t judge a book by it’s cover, but let’s face it… aesthetics are key. I ran my fingers down your spine, admired every ridge, every scar, every wrinkle. There was something beautiful about all your flaws, signs of those who had come before me. Each mark upon you like a glowing recommendation. I don’t know what I was expecting. In the past, in situations such as these, I’ve experienced a range of things. Those I’ve just consumed. One night of frantic fumbling, an excited rush to the finish

line, and then.. that’s it. Never connected or thought of them again. Those who I’ve spent months with, off and on. Our time together lukewarm at best. But I suppose a better way to fill the time than being alone. And then there’s my least favorite, the ones that seem to only do it for themselves. Who made me work incredibly hard to enjoy it. But you. You were perfect.. From the beginning it was this wonderful balance of give and take. You were so lovingly dedicated. with so much character. You charmed me and sweet talked me into feeling comfortable with you. You made me care. You were witty. And let’s face it- there is no better foreplay than good wordplay. You moderated everything- pace, intensity, style, rhythm… and somehow managed to always balance perfectly between your pleasure and mine. As we reached the climax together I was so wrapped up in us, in this, in this art… That I didn’t notice… how close you were to being done. I mean, I’m not saying you finished too early. Everything was perfect. But, you know, you never really want it to end. Once it was over, I lay there emotionally and physically exhausted, feeling out of place in my bedroom, as though we had just come back from some other world. I held you for a few moments, laying you down on my breast, and admired you, and this journey we had just been on. It’s rare to find one like you, nowadays, you know. Especially on a whim. I took great comfort in knowing that someday we’d be back here again, with you in my arms. But for tonight, nothing more needed to be said. I picked you up and placed you next to Bradbury, Twain, Adams, Vonnegut, filling yet another slot in a shelf full of fulfilling conquests.

summer Timothy Meador Long days bleed into long nights, a constant sea of vacant eyes, plastic cups and car keys, awkward dancing, hazy faces, people spilling drinks, getting rough, laughing loud, and coughing up. Hollow, fearless, and free, you wake up with a foggy mind, a lazy smile, and a stolen phone, face down in a bathtub, throat dry, no clothes, Sharpie inked in your skin. I try and fail at blending in, while you let loose and make new friends, I huddle in some corner, scrolling through my phone, chewing my nails, scratching my neck. And when I stare out on this crowded room, filled with hollow fools, living in the moment, brushing away their cares, their curfew, their common sense, I feel left out. But every time I drag you home, dead weight in my arms,

up the same hill we flew down on scooters, blowing bubbles, jumping rope, etching chalk in black pavement, I picture those days when we laid by the pool, sipping CapriSun, listening to planes fly over, inhaling the smell of wet pine straw, sunscreen forgotten at home. You can’t talk right now, but I know you’d laugh with me, and then we’d lie out in your front yard, watching the sun rise, never growing up like the rest.

The Last Will and Testament of the Life Refusing to Flash Before My Eyes Madison Tompkins I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think of it as me, watching the white bucket-topped truck slowly crest the hill. It turned like a father, eyes fixed on me. I was startled at his presence. At first, it was a strange ocular blip. One to wish away with passing glances and forced blinks. As slow as the turn, came the crunch. As if biting down on carpenterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chalk, he slid into position: a skeleton hug, like a slinky folding in on itself.

35 Kensie Blackledge

UNNOTICED

Every day, I rise before the hoards At the crack of dawn Before kids bust through the doors. I trudge under the florescent buzz Through the empty white halls With squealing wheels of my cart Amplified by the lockers lining walls. I pick up their litter Carelessly strewn on the ground, From granola wrappers to cigarette butts While I try to fight off my incoming frown. I am like a mother working Without a thank you behind the scenes. Cleaning up after the collective kids, And never hearing anyone say please. When the bell rings its warning Of the impending flow of bodies I annex myself to a corner and observe How so many seem like carbon copies. Occasionally I hear them snicker A passing joke of cruelty about me I am not phased or impressed, I simply carry on with work and smile.

AMERICAN JESUS Eli Hogan Who gave us this china-white war machine machine gun in one hand rosy cheeked and bright eyed American baby in the other. He stands on a pedestal made of the bones of crushed Afghans wearing a crown paid for with defense contracts. He drinks crude oil from a cup of Babylonian clay he ushers in a new age of prosperity while the world starves. We seem to be the only people don’t dread his coming riding crackling waves of thunder into the homes of innocents. Clothed in a business suit and spo rting an elephant pin he does not resemble the stories of Matthew or Luke. I sometimes wonder if Yeshua would cry at how his image is exploited. This is not what was meant. The greatest commandment- love thy neighbor as yourself now we this “Christian” nation have slaughtered a hundred thousand and gained nothing.

WORST DREAMS Kamaria Blocker I walked into the room. Misty rocks and sheets of water form over every invisible corner of my space. Quiet and beautiful serenity. I let the gas fill my lungs knowing it is poisoning me, but instead I take deep breaths over and over again until I can feel the limpness in my limbs and the quietness in my mind. You ask me a question and my politesse takes over before I can struggle to form my thoughts. I tricked you, reimagining the gas. You think it’s a question, but so did I. I imagined myself sitting in a room, with God watching me from behind a glass I cannot see. I am acting with the people of this world, but only I am real. I saw you think this and I promised I would not forget. You are my worst dreams and my best dreams… But when I awoke my thoughts were not real. I killed the troubles, so now they do not exist but the physical manifestations of the characters in my mind are on the outside deadening me. Get me out. But then I’m back to my room with blue skies and sunset reds. Rolling beaches and curved mountains and happy once more. And now I won’t forget. You are my best dreams and my worst dreams.

T AR 38

Madison Tompkins “84 Days” Acrylic on Canvas

Austin Hatcher “A Still More Glorious Dawn Awaits”

Jae Lim “Blossom of Happines” Mixed Media

Taylor Chartrand “Can’t Keep My Head Above Water”

Desmond Hilson Jr. “Flame in the Dark” Digital Photography

Lynnette Torres “Colorful Pencil Pineapple”

Colored Pencils and Cardboard

Kelly Rose “Circle of Life” Screen Print

Lynnette Torres “Joplin’s Pineapple Rag”

Foam core and acrylic paint

Zachary Diaz Long Live the Kingâ&#x20AC;? Graphite

Kelly Rose “Music Mountains” Reductive Block Print

Jae Lim “Roots of Misery” Mixed Media

Desmond Hilson Jr. “Rose Noir” Digital Photography

Kelly Rose “Shut Up” Screen Print

Jae Lim “Swamping” Acrylic

Madison Tompkins “The Alchemist”

Acrylic on Canvas Board

Madison Tompkins “The Historian” Acrylic on Canvas

Desmond Hilson Jr. “Tilt” Digital Photography

Lynnette Torres “Tulip on Paint Chip”

Colored pencil on Bristol

Kelly Rose “Same”

Acrylic paint on Bristol

E R U T RA

E T I L

WEAK DAYS Mustafa Abubaker On Monday, we hate ourselves. We wake up, dreading the day which beckons us, lamenting the volume of our alarm. We shower together on these days, a ritual which you introduced to me in college. It was a time during which I couldn’t help but admire the way you made it clear you were in love with the way I spoke when we smoked blunts in our secret spot on campus. The showers together seemed to give us life, drops of water splashing all around us but it was always just me and you. After showering is when you tell me you’re in love with me for the first time that week. I tell you I love you too. I retreat to the unkept table in the kitchen, preparing a light breakfast. By light breakfast, I mean Greek yogurt and a bottle of smart-water. You know how much I need minimalism in my life. This is why our walls are bland, why our food is scarce, why our moods are extreme, why our love is the purest thing in the world. You leave for work after finishing your second piece of buttered toast and I wonder what you’ll think about during your commute, what radio station you’ll listen to, if you’ll sing along to the sounds of Toro y Moi’s second album Underneath the Pine or if you’ll manifest my dreams, the dreams in which I see you driving to work in the car we share, weeping silently without any music playing. I think about all these things while I work on my figure in the gym, running on the treadmill in hopes that your parents will let us stay at the beach house in Florida this coming April. I have told you that I would like it a lot and you said you understood but, as far as I knew, your parents were not particularly enthused about this idea. I finish working out only to shower again (without you) and proceed to call the few people that remain in my life. I call my best friend from college, Elizabeth. She married a wealthy Persian man who wooed her upon studying abroad in France her senior

year. Today, she lives happily in San Bernardino with her blossoming flower of a child, Rostam. Elizabeth doesn’t pick up. So, I call my mother to see what she’s doing. My mother answers on the first ring and she sounds very sad. She immediately begins to go on and on and on and on and on and on and on about trivial things I never cared about because she knows, as do I, that the uncomfortable silence we share with each other is something which will never go away. It is only to be anticipated, to be prolonged, to be delayed; never to be ridden of. It hurts me but I listen as long as I can before I tell her I hope she had a good weekend. She hangs up the phone. She does not believe in good-byes. Before I know it, you come home and my heart bursts into flames, my cheeks widen due to a smile you say belongs in Crest commercials and my mind expands into thoughts about you and all of a sudden, we find ourselves watching a movie on the couch, eating popcorn out of the same bowl and I look at you and you look at me and suddenly, we are one. On Tuesday, we think about getting out of the house. I ask you if you would like to go to the aquarium and you shake your head, slowly form a melancholy smile and sigh. My heart breaks at the sight of this. I have nothing to entertain you with. You ask me why i want to go out, am I bored? Yes, yes, yes, I am bored beyond belief, I am bored beyond recognition. You say you have work and I act like I forgot when in reality I was hoping, just once, you would say you could take a day off and just go to the aquarium with me. But, you don’t. You go to work that day and I spend my day going out by myself, buying some nice shoes and thinking to

61 myself how nice it would be to wear these to a dinner party. While taking a taxi back to our place, I see a good amount of cars lined up in the house across the street from us. I feel a pang of jealousy, a jolt of envy. I cannot believe the audacity of the couple. Do they realize we live across from them? Do they realize we live in isolation? Do they realize we could benefit from an invite or two? So, I walk back into the house and try on the shoes for about the fiftieth time and sit on the bed and begin to cry. I foolishly wonder what my life would have been like if I told the taxi driver I would like to be driven to the marijuana dispensary. I would spend the remnants of my budget on og lemon kush and bake it into brownies because I hate smoking but I love being high. You would like it. You would probably have sex with me. That would be nice. But no, I am home alone and I am crying and I am wondering about all the choices a person makes in their life: the choice a person makes to be happy, the choice a person makes to make others happy, the choice a person makes to stay happy. I think about these things and I end up passing out into a deep sleep only to be waken up by your tree trunks of arms telling me we have to have dinner with your parents tonight. Your mother dislikes me, on account of all the marijuana she found in one of my suitcases upon my initial stay at your place before our senior year of college. I heard her in the other room while you attempted to calm her down, her claims of me being a “pothead” and a “junkie.” I resented these titles and I still do. However, I just cannot remember if you defended me in that room or not. So, we go and have dinner and your mother is a bitch and your father is an asshole and I cry on the way back home and you pull over the car on the side of the highway and you lift my chin up and I look at you and you look at me and suddenly, we are one.

On Wednesday, we realize we are half-way there. My mood is tremendous, waking up before you, letting you sleep only to prepare you a bountiful breakfast, my heart growing bigger and bigger at each compliment you have to offer about the madefrom-scratch blueberry muffins or the freshly squeezed orange juice. You tell me that I am the best and I believe it for a minute or two, disregarding Bethany from our journalism class sophomore year in which I admired you from afar. I did not know your name, did not know what your favorite color was, did not know which side of the bed you preferred sleeping on. I just knew you were breathtakingly handsome and that the sight of you holding hands with Bethany made me sick to my stomach and led to many sleepless nights in my cramped dorm room wondering whether or not you were with Bethany that night. You snap your fingers and I am pulled back into present day. You look at me with a quizzical smirk on your face and I know what we have is love. You ask me if I know that I am the best and I reply that I do. You say that I’m your girl and you leave for work for the third time that week and I am happy, I am still smiling. I go out on the porch, take a seat on the rocking chair and I begin reading a novel I picked up from the library on a whim. the book is called Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman. The book fictionalizes Einstein’s foray into the world of time and space and turns it into beautiful prose. I think about it for about three hours. When you come home, I begin to discuss this over dinner with you and you don’t say anything, playing with your food, wrapping the noodles around the tips of your fork. Once I am done explaining, you sigh. I sense that something is wrong. I ask you if everything is ok. You open your mouth, pause, then say it anyway. You inform me that you were fired from your job today. I gasp and I cover my mouth with my hands and my eyes widen and I just stare at you. I fight back the tears and I tell you that we will get through this which is when you tell me there is no

63 getting through it this time, not again. Not when we have gotten through so many things in our lives. This is something which has left its mark, left its ugly taint on our lives and defamed it with its terrible effects. You begin to open up and complain to me how unfair it is and how you hate the world and you can’t face your father and I get up and hug you and hold you in my arms and tell you everything will be ok and we pull away and i look at you and you look at me and suddenly, we are one. On Thursday, we are depressed. We smoke ten blunts to alleviate the pain but we just sit around the house all day. We say very few things to each other. We order pizza. We go to sleep early. You don’t tell me you love me. I take note of this. I am frustrated. I am sad. But, right before the clock strikes midnight, you wake me up and tell me you love me. I smile and I look at you and you look at me and suddenly, we are one. On Friday, we trip. We wake up around ten am and you inform me that you have acquired shrooms from a source you refuse to tell me and you begin to, politely, inquire as to whether or not I would enjoy taking them with you. I laugh. I smile. I say yes. We make peanut butter sandwiches and put the shrooms between the slices of bread and grab two Cokes from the fridge and we finish all of it and we go outside. You bring your iHome outside and begin playing all of our favorite songs. I dance and twirl in the wind and I tell you that you are mine and nobody else’s. You just smile at me and tuck my hair behind my ear and tell me that I am yours. I am fully immersed in the trip at this point, your touch seemingly triggering all of my emotions. Everything becomes very bright. I can touch the music with my hands, I can see it with my eyes, I can even taste it. I feel very strongly about you and I tell you so for the millionth time that day

but eventually, you don’t say anything back. You just stare and smile. Somehow, someway, that is good enough for me. When we are at the mental stage of our trip and sitting on the porch outside smoking cigarettes, I tap you on the shoulder. I ask you whether or not you think we’ll be together forever. You light another cigarette, smoke it and sigh. You say that’s a very loaded question. But, you tell me that there is nobody like me and you are very thankful you have me during this rough time and that you genuinely appreciate my eternal support. You tell me that I am the spark to your flame. I think about this and it makes sense and we kiss and we pull away and we kiss even harder and I look at you and you look at me and suddenly, we are one. On Saturday, we wake up in different places. I wake up and turn to look at you but my fingers touch the pillow. Nobody is there. I begin to panic. I look at the clock and it’s seven in the morning. All of a sudden, I hear our door open. My heart beats faster. But, then I hear your breathing and I know it’s you. I begin to act asleep. You walk back into the bedroom, clearly attempting to be as subtle as possible and you crawl into bed next to me and go to sleep. While you sleep, I lay there, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling, thoughts of Bethany flooding my mind, thoughts of how there just so many women at the wedding on your behalf and how they all told me how lucky I was to have you. I admit, I am scared. I leave the bed and go outside for a cigarette. Are you cheating on me? What have I done wrong? Tell me, I can fix it. These are my thoughts as I finish smoking the last cigarette in my pack. I call my mother right after to inform her about what happened but she does not pick up. I wonder where she is. My mind is lost and in a daze after taking shrooms yesterday and I, foolishly, blame my new-found paranoia and sense that there is something

going on in the aftermath of tripping with a loved one. But, this is not the case. I walk into the kitchen and I see your phone sitting on the counter. I stare at it intently, narrow my eyes when, all of a sudden, it vibrates once. Reluctantly, I walk over to the phone and pick it up. It is a text from a number not yet saved in your phonebook. I think about all the talks we’ve had about each other’s privacy and how they’ve always been initiated by you. I let you look through my journals, rift through my old paintings, even touch me but not once have I used your laptop or even move your things around the house without your disapproval. I hear footsteps. You come up behind and put your arms around me and you embrace me and kiss me on the neck and I am overcome by you, succumbing to you simply because of jealousy, if nothing else. We make our way back to the bedroom and after we are finished, you smile at me. I smile faintly back and you tell me that you want to do something tonight. I say that I feel like staying in with a stern expression and you stare at me in a weird way, as if you know my thoughts at the moment, as if you yourself are thinking about me leaving me. However, just a minute later, I look at you and you look at me and suddenly, we are one. On Sunday, we ascend. Or do we descend? It doesn’t really matter. We wake up in a infinite space, tumbling through the void, fingers intertwined, souls warm with light and love. I look at you and I swear all I see is us.

MENANCING BEAUTY Victoria Banks It came towards us faster than we anticipated. I could see the black storm clouds and a torrent of rain in the distance. It traveled over the towering trees that surrounded the pastures and steadily approached us. I had never seen anything quite like it, and observed the storm in awe. It was as if it crawled over the treetops to reach us. It released a low, menacing rumble, and the wind progressively strengthened. My long locks tumbled about in a disarray while my two older siblings turned on their heels ready to escape the darkness that approached, but I remained still as I gazed off into the distance. “Lilly!” Davy bellowed over the wind when he noticed my absence. “Let’s go! We gotta get on back to the house!” My brother and my sister, Kate, were a few paces ahead of me as we jogged up the rolling green hills. The tall grass waved as the force of the wind bombarded us. It did not faze my siblings, but with my tiny frame, I found myself fighting to stay upright. The wind howled unbearably loud within my ears, and I felt engulfed in chaos. Kate looked back at me, and I could only faintly hear her voice as she motioned for me to hurry. I glanced over my shoulder as I trudged up the slope of a steep hill. The storm was almost on top of us as it spread and darkened the sky. As if it knew I was watching, it let out a deafening crack of white lightning. The wind pulled at my thread-bare clothes as I topped the hill. In the distance, I saw Kate and Davy lengthening the gap between us, but they did not seem to notice. I called out to them. However, the sound was caught in the wind, and even I could not hear my faint voice. Then the sleet came. I gasped from the freezing precipitation that enveloped me, for it felt like an infinite amount of icy

needles piercing my skin. As they struck, a sting was left across my exposed flesh. The barrage of ice did not ease, and it left my clothes soak while my body grew numb. I desperately searched for my siblings through the screen of sleet. I looked for Davy’s tall frame or Kate’s long braid, but found neither. I could only see directly in front of me and was forced to clamp my eyes shut every few moments due to the vicious sleet that stung my eyes. I opened them for brief seconds as I attempted to find the house, but it was of no use. All I could do was blindly push forward and hope to eventually find safety. I carried on, blind, deaf, voiceless, and numb. The storm growled and boomed above to intimidate me as it cloaked the Earth in darkness. Though I felt a number of unfamiliar emotions, fear was not one of them. I was fascinated. The storm was beautiful and menacing at the same time, and I suddenly felt a thousand times smaller with it hovering over me. I was in awe and left at its mercy. After what felt like an eternity, a dark wall appeared a few feet ahead of me. I fought the wind and huddled up against the house. After catching my breath, I sidle against the wall over to the front porch. I saw Pa near the stables leading the last of the cattle into safety. He clutched his straw hat as he rushed back to the house. Relief spread across his face as he reached me. “Get inside the house darlin’. Go on now. ” Pa lead me through the rattling front door and yelled into the hall, “I’m gonna blister y’all for leaving ‘er out in that ya hear!” Pa ushered me into the basement where Mama, Kate, and Davy were huddled together in blankets. Davy is shaking from the cold water that clung to him and Kate was whimpering in fear. I could hear the dampened sounds of the wind howling around the little house, and I felt a peculiar desire to go back outside.

TROUBLE Daniel Peters I hated trouble because I knew trouble for me equaled a red butt. I’d have to whimper each time I sat down after I heard that terrible word. Probably the worst kind of trouble was trouble with Grandpa because it usually also came with the words, “pick a switch,” and I’d have to go to the nearest bush and pick out a proper branch to get whooped with, aching as I watched him tear off each leaf. I’d end up with lined calves that looked like I took a pink marker to them. It was absolutely terrible, my biggest fear, but Grandpa had a special way of letting me know I had it coming. One time in particular I can remember throwing a rock at Sally, the little blonde girl across the street, right before hearing my name called. Grandpa said, “Henry come in for dinner! Your momma made spaghetti, and I have a story I wanna tell you when you’re done!” The rock struck her on the forehead pretty hard. I could see that I made a little break in her skin and the dirt from the rock mixed with the blood in a dark clump. I had no idea he saw me throw any rocks, so I thought I was getting off easy. Sally had already run inside her house crying. I still remember her red brick staircase, I fell up them every time I went to get her to come out and play. I was always in such a hurry to get Sally. She was fun, and there were no other kids my age down our street. I still don’t remember why I was throwing the rocks, but I know that sometimes I just liked doing things to get Sally’s attention. I’d done nearly everything with Sally before then. Sometimes

we’d sneak inside my house and hide my Grandpa’s glasses or steal candy from my mom’s end table drawer. She thought we knew nothing about her stash. When we did things together we nearly always seemed to escape trouble, but this time I wasn’t with Sally... I went inside and momma got a phone call on the house phone and Grandpa Jamerson was in the den, so I ate my bowl of noodles all by myself. I used to hate the tomato sauce and ground beef mom would put in her spaghetti so she cooked it all separate just for me. Anyway, after all my noodles were cleaned up outta my bowl, I went to sit on Grandpa’s lap in the den to hear that story he promised me. His lap was always comforting, thin and hard, but comforting. There was always this sweetness about Grandpa whether he was happy, sad, or mad. It didn’t matter, so when I was with him I always felt safe. I looked up at the scruff on his second chin from where he missed shaving. Grandpa had put a fire on while I was eating. My back felt warm because the recliner he always sat in was, in my opinion, way too close to the fireplace, but I thought it was nice seeing the fire reflecting in his thick glasses. Grandpa started as he rubbed my wiry red hair, “Henry, did I ever tell you about the time I took your dad fishing on the Okefenokee Swamp?” I loved hearing stories from my Grandpa. They were always about my parents, but I liked them especially when they were about my dad. My dad died in a car accident about two months after I was born, so I only had the stories I was told to really get to know him.

“Nope,” I said, after a short pause. I know my dad must of been a fun guy like me, because most of the stories Grandpa would tell me about my dad were about him messing with Grandpa or Grandpa getting my dad back for pulling a prank on him before my parents wedding. Grandpa always knew how to take a joke. He said that he and my dad went back and forth all the time. But there were a few things Grandpa Jamerson just didn’t take well to. They usually involved some form of downright meanness on my part. I learned most of them pretty quick but there are exceptions to every rule especially when it comes to the overall morality of a six-year-old. Trouble with grandpa is probably why I was more likely to have a red butt rather than pink lines on my calves. I think there wasn’t a time I didn’t learn from the trouble I got myself into as long as it was grandpa who was doing the discipline. He started again, and I just let grandpa tell me a story I never forgot. I sat there staring up at his scruffy face, hanging on to every word. “Well son, before you were born me and your dad were real close. He just got engaged to your momma and him being from up north, never really gone fishing. So if I was gonna let him marry my child, I had to take him. So I took him out on my little Jon boat, a 74’ Lowe with a tiny motor hitched on the back, and we went for the mudfish and jacks. It was later in the spring, just before the bugs would’ve been too much for even your old grandpa.” I thought about how thin and wrinkled Grandpa Jamerson’s skin is as I held on to his arm. He continued, “I watched your dad hook himself about three times when he’d try

71 to tie his fisherman’s knot, about five more times when he’d try to cast, and that’s not mentioning how he almost hooked me casting. He was so stubborn and full of pride he wouldn’t let me help. You can imagine how embarrassed he was when he finally had the spinner on the line and I told him all he needed to do was tie the wire lead to his line and just clip the spinner to the end.” Dad must have been as hard headed as me, I thought. “Well, that was just the start of the trip, a little later your dad, doing his best to stay out of trouble with me, almost landed himself in more trouble than he or I could’a handled. See the swamp at that time, and to this day, is full of gators, big ones and not the kind wearing those cut off denims. We finally had our lines in, your daddy finally cast without giving either of us a bad gash, and you wouldn’t believe it but he had a fighter on the line... So, he was leanin’ over the boat and rocking every which way. We weren’t gonna flip, I don’t think so anyway, but if I didn’t tell your daddy to let that one go and get my pocket knife out to cut his line, “Granpaaa! You didn’t let him catch the fish? That seems mean,” I said upsetly. He continued ignoring what I said, “I’m sure he’d a fell in and had a tussle he couldn’t win with that gator... he just couldn’t see it. That gator had come right up to our boat! He was right next to your dad just waiting on him to fall in. He had a green gravel back like the road up to your Uncle Jr.’s house and eyes as yellow as the hair of that girl you’re always playin’ with across the street. I saved your daddy from a whole lot of trouble that day. All because your Grandpa Jamerson sees things people just don’t expect him to. Problem is for you, I see things people don’t expect me to...”

I started to think to myself at this point, “Yea, sure.” Grandpa’s glasses were thicker than my head at that time. He continued, “See, with your daddy I got him out of a whole lot of trouble he wasn’t expecting. With you boy, you’re about to be in a whole lot of trouble you know you well deserve...” I began to feel sweat drop down the side of my head. The fire was hot, but it wasn’t that. The pounding in my chest got really rapid. I imagine my eyes were inflating like a water balloon about to pop. Then, as I tried run away before I heard those terrible words, “pick a switch,” he grabbed me bent me over his knee and said nine words instead that stuck with me until my wedding day. Each word came out with a smack to my behind. “Throwing. Rocks. Is. No. Way. To. Treat. A. Lady.” At the time I was just thankful that my butt was red instead of my other option but as I look back I realize me and Sally, probably never would’ve worked out if it weren’t for my Grandpa. I even proposed after me and Grandpa went on a similar fishing trip. We went to the swamp about May and got in my new Jon boat, a Lowe L1236, and I let him know the good he’d done me. He took me to the same spot where my daddy almost fell in. It was right under a cypress tree next to a little cove full of water lilies. I didn’t

see that mean ole’ gator, but I told Grandpa about how that one time he gave me a spanking instead of my own switch changed my life. How I never would’ve learned to treat Sally right if it weren’t for him. Grandpa Jamerson, he showed me my way. Trouble is needed to avoid it later that’s a lesson he taught me and one I’ll always keep. Grandpa Jamerson, I wish you could’ve seen it. The wedding was beautiful. Sally planned the whole thing, and I didn’t throw any rocks.

EYES CANNOT UNSEE Dee Dee Merrill I shuffled toward the stench of the coed bathrooms, shooing flies from my eyes with one hand while holding a towel over my open mouth with the other. I squeezed tightly against my ribs with my elbow so as not to drop the toilet paper I had tucked under my arm. Though my eyes tried to avert from the large man seated in a stall, I couldn’t help but notice sweat beading off his freckled bald head onto his hairy shoulders, or the dingy tank top that sported rings of perspiration, or his abnormally skinny legs that blinded me from never having seen the sun. I could have lived my entire life without seeing any of that, especially the inside of the pants crumpled around his ankles, but there were no doors on the men’s side. Once inside I slung my towel over the stall door, careful not to knock it from the one hinge it held on to. While I strategically placed it to block the view of the man, my eye caught a glimpse of the girl in the stall next to me. I didn’t linger, but I couldn’t help but notice her. She wasn’t using the toilet, just sitting on it, which was unusual - no one came in here unless it was absolutely necessary. Her position also seemed rather odd, her wrists were pressed firmly together as if bound, and her hands were clenched into tight fists. She had them pulled in close to her chest, and was hunched over onto her own lap. Her face was turned toward me, and her eyes were shut. I could see her lips moving as if she were praying so I turned my attention back to my own business. Hovering over a filthy toilet seat without touching anything took quite a bit of effort - though I had become quite good at it over the past

year. Sure, it would have been much easier to go into the woods nearby, which I did in extreme urgency, but there was a much better chance of returning from the bathroom- or so I thought. As I stood and pulled my pants up, the girl in the stall next to me shot up as if taking off for flight! Her hands still pressed tightly together and extended straight up over her head. In a blink of an eye she was plastered against the wall, her body stretched taunt as if she were trying to touch both the ceiling and the floor simultaneously. In almost the same instant she was riveted to the wall behind her by a huge piece of metal through her throat. I stood for a moment staring in disbelief of what my eyes could never un-see. Within moments the dilapidated building was full of people who had rushed in to witness. I had stepped forward - my towel held loosely in my hand and dragging behind me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. The blood that rushed down the cinderblock wall was so dark that it looked black. It was not until it reached my feet that it revealed its carmine hue to me. My eyes followed the stream around and under the shoes of people hurrying to do nothing. Somehow I rode the panic of the crowd out of the bathroom, and as I looked back, I could see the man still seated in the open stall- I could tell from his face that he had been in the appropriate place while witnessing such a heinous event. Some of my friends swarmed around me. “What happened?” “What did you see?” they chanted, knowing that I had been in the bathroom. I tried to answer all of their questions, but managed to unintentionally avoid them all. As people heard the questions thrown my way, I became subject to suspicion. “Were you the only one in there with her?” asked a little old woman suspiciously.

“No! I…I wasn’t in there with her” I stuttered. Faces I recognized as friendly were quickly turning to foes. I had never seen such contempt and judgment from these people, much less directed at me. Sadly, I couldn’t blame them. I was only one of two people in there with her, and the only one that couldn’t be seen. The voices and questions disappeared to the deafness that my eyes caused. I couldn’t get over the look of horror on her face. I could still see her from where I stood, and I watched reluctantly as they scurried to try to free her. As the loud angry voices became clear, my eyes shifted to the crowd that now surrounded me. Fortunately for me, an old man by the name of Delmont came to my defense. Delmont was an elder, one of only three in our compound. He was not popular, though he was greatly respected. He was in his early sixties, and his body showed the many years of abuse he put it through. Hard work and even harder play left him fortunate to be alive to share his tales. His short stature did not do his strength or courage justice, but it did not encourage teasing either. His white hair lay perfectly in place, cut just above his ears and off his collar. He had a white mustache that was stained yellow near his nostrils from the years of cigarettes he exhaled- as was the skin on two of his thick, scarred fingers. He had been a butcher in the big city for most of his life - before the slaughtering of animals had been outlawed. Not to say that it stopped his diet of thick cut steaks, his strained shirt buttons were proof of that. But the thing that made him stand out the most,

aside from his permanent scowl and knack for making people feel stupid, was his willingness to take up for me. “Make a hole!” grumbled Delmont, as he made his way through the crowd, towards me. He reminded everyone that I, like them, was being forced to live in this hell hole. Knowing his reputation and strong personality, the crowd began to thin and go back to the main attraction. “Thank you.” I whispered as I scooted closer to him and looked around nervously. I hoped that no one might be rethinking an approach. Delmont smacked my hands from his arm, “what the hell happened in there anyway?” he asked. I told him everything that I had seen. He looked at me with a nervous look that I had never seen his face wear before. Delmont was the backbone of our community and nothing shook him- at least not until now. “Come on” Delmont exhaled, “let’s go get a fire started so we can put her to rest.” I followed closely, I knew that this was just the beginning of something much, much worse.

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Notes

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