Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine Volume 50 by NinerMedia

PASSPORT

Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine

Letter from the Editor I have been to Arles, France; Shanghai, China; New York, New York. I have roamed Middle-earth; Dalí Valley; Mars. I have seen how the world was, is to come, and will never be. In supple pages and smeared canvases, I have lived a thousand lives and through these lives I have learned: Art is the one true liberator. The constraints of location, time, space, finances, ability, and opportunity dissipate through access to stories, both visual and verbal. It is the mission of Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine to increase the circulation of art in an effort to transport as many people as possible into as many places as possible. Through explorations of diversity, both unity and understanding are promoted. This publication is the result of forty-nine years and fifty editions of Sanskrit endeavoring to promote such exploration. We at Sanskrit invite you to travel all realms of possibility through interactions with literature and the arts. We present to you your passport to infinity.

Bon voyage, dear reader.

Melissa Martin

Table of Contents A Leap into the Void by Stephen Garza

Mother’s Edge by Claire Scott

I am not your negro by Philip Cherry

Boy in a Green Hat by Karina McMillan Luke 6 45 & Luke 6 45 No. 3 by Jamie Ku

Cinderella in Ashes by Samantha Holt

ok by Aba Hutchison 12 Surrendering Sierra by Clarke Armstrong

Scales by Natasha Morehouse 14

Brothers by Anna Johnson 15

Patriotic by Dominic DiNardi 16 Postcard from Limbo by Aaron Buchanan 17 Before the Service by Malik Norman

Madi’s Double Life by Carolina Quintana Ocampo

Figure Study with Rug by Myrthe Biesheuvel 28

Urban Light by Melody Songer 29

Native Echoes by Michél Claudio 30

Still Life by Malik Norman 31 Alzheimer’s by Claire Scott 31

Click by Alexsis Luciano 32 Home by April Lin 35

the shop by Ice Young 36 Meteozar by Mirelys Colon 38 I go running to combat emptiness by Madison Traina

Flying Above by Yesika Sorto Andino 39

Seashell by Amanda Leigh 39 Chaos by AlexZandria Evans 40 A Cockroach Story by Andrew Adams

Autumn Breeze by Carolina Quintana Ocampo

Charismatic Cactus by Clarke Armstrong

Hittin the Waves by Dominic DiNardi

The Obseveratory on a Partly Cloudy Night by Edison Angelbello

Were We Always Monolingual? by Samantha Holt

Glowing by Misty Morin 44 Laundry Day by Jarrett Moseley 46 Reaching by AlexZandria Evans 48

A Warm Place by Ethan Marano 50

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Cool Story by Jamie Ku 54

WCS by Anna Johnson 53 Drunken Dreams by Mirelys Colon

Dr. Cao, the G.O.A.T. by Jessica Miller

My Hellcat by Heather Scharding 56 Colorful Glass by Natalie Flinchum 58 Caught and Executed by Jenny Dao 59 Self-Love 3 & Self-Love 2 by Sheree Davidson

Self-Love by Danielle Walden

“I have set before you life and death...” by Samantha Holt

The End by Nancy Christine McGuire

Fingers Crossed by Erica Fox 62 Fruit Studies by Teresa Lopez 64

Summer’s End by Mekayla Johnson 67 Soft Colors by Justin Hicks 68 Pay Your Dues, Dirceo! by Alessio Zanelli

“Moore” America by Car by Heather Scharding

Snails by Stephen Garza 72 A Portrait of Montse Capel Rodríguez by Jessica Miller

Contemplates Self by Malik Norman

Gold like Skin by Philip Cherry 75 Bowl by Michael Kasey 76 The Boot, The Fox, and The Jug by Mirelys Colon

The Butcher’s Arm by D. Ferrara 78 The Car Counter by Alessio Zanelli 86 Music in a Square by Myrthe Biesheuvel

The Lonely Island by Stephen Garza

Out of Kansas by George Rawlins 89

Nature Finds by AlexZandria Evans 90 Matheson Bridge Skyline by Melody Songer 91 The Squirrel Olympics by Kiera Haberberger Marsha by Myrthe Beisheuvel

87 by Sierra Miles

Guardian Angle Cats by Teresa Lopez 96 A Trick for Finding What You’ve Lost by Edison Angelbello

Appendix

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A Leap Into the Void After Yves Klein Stephen Garza

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MOTHER’S EDGE by Claire Scott So not PC to want to toss your child out the window smother her with pillows

drown her in the bathtub

but she screams & screams

despite your best rendition of Hush Little Baby despite hours of rocking pacing cruising the block at 3 am nerves standing up hair on fire

nightgown covered in spit & snot

heaps of dirty diapers on the floor, the couch, the chairs the place is starting to stink

please god just a few minutes without her cries then I promise I will be good as I eye a pillow

an open window please

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I am not your negro Philip Cherry

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boy in a green hat Karina McMillan LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 9

Luke 6 45 Jamie Ku

& Luke 6 45 No. 3 Jamie Ku

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Cinderella in Ashes by Samantha Holt

The carriage was supposed to last until midnight, but I was ten and it was nine and the day was eleven, and there was the damn pumpkin.

They? Since when is there a ‘they?’

She tries to hide her red eyes. Her legs wobble, so we sit criss-crossapple-sauce on the floor with glass slippers hanging in the air

The TV is loud. Loud enough to hear glass break people shout steel crash

between us. There was an accident, one slipper crashes as she speaks, the only thing meant to last.

Turn on the news. Not you. Take your sisters somewhere else, you don’t want to see this.

sound?

Does death make a

Let’s watch a movie. My older sister pulls out a VHS tape. Cinderella. She knows.

Not Dad? Not Dad.

The clock on the VCR says 10:28 but it might as well be midnight since it eats the tape.

A plane. A passenger plane. The towers.

Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo can’t fix our broken VCR and it can’t bring Cinderella back from

How does a plane crash into a building by accident? How many people were on it?

Why are you crying?

tangled masses of black film, cracked plastic, a body exploded on the pavement.

He comes home from work early and the second slipper shatters— kids can be scared, not fathers.

The door opens and I see it coming but I close my eyes because this isn’t happening, this is not the clock striking twelve on my childhood, this is not the defining moment of my generation, but it all goes silent and he says

They got the Pentagon.

It wasn’t an accident.

Another one. Oh, God, not another one.

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ok Aba Hutchison 12 | SANSKRIT

Surrendering Sierra Clarke Armstrong

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Scales Natasha Morehouse

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Brothers Anna Johnson LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 15

Patriotic Dominic DiNardi

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Postcards to Limbo by Aaron Buchanan

Kristina looked at Interstate 80 as a buttress that kept the United States from collapsing in on itself. She never knew why. It stretched from New York City all the way to San Francisco, from one distant foreign world to an entirely different one. Some miles south of the house she grew up in, in Limbo, Kristina slid in her mom’s favorite CD—ELO’s Greatest Hits—and drove to the gas station in Red Crow. The CD skipped on the back end—the beginning of “Telephone Line”— and got worse over the last four songs. But she’d never get rid of it. Her mom had earned those scratches. And when the car’s player paused and tried to make sense of the track, Kristina thought maybe she could hear her mom in the space and void. At the Shell in Red Crow, Kristina Monahan leaned against her car, arms folded as the gas pumped into her mom’s Chevy SUV, and thought about her dad who had not seen her off and had not said goodbye. Kristina hadn’t spoken to him since her mom’s funeral six months ago. At first she thought his continued silence was because of her operation; how when her mom was dying, she spent her savings on Kristina’s gender reassignment telling her husband he had plenty of his own money to retire on in a few years. Bill Monahan acted like he couldn’t pronounce the word transgender, and in St. Tom County, it wasn’t a word bandied about very

often—even in 2002. Instead, Bill said transvestite. He spat it out. Stuttered it rather than said. And even though Kristina’s brother had married young and moved out and her sister moved to San Francisco, Kristina stayed and cared for their mom until the end. Her father said nothing as his wife passed away or as the old version of Kristina receded away. But he never told her to leave his house. So, Kristina held the hope that he was the same man he was when they were kids; the man who had used three-by-five index cards to write little notes and sketch out doodles and put them in their lunch boxes. The cards might say I love you or learn stuff today. He’d kept it going until Ruby went to junior high. Kristina was in fifth grade. Her little brother, Dennis, was in fourth. He stopped abruptly. He’d never done them every day. Just once or twice a week. Every so often he’d tape a quarter or a half-dollar to the card. Kristina envisioned herself sitting in the school cafeteria, recalling Mrs. Fellows and her glass eye, wondering what had happened or if she or Ruby or Dennis had done something to make him stop. Kristina kept a Roman coin she’d inherited from her grandpa in her pocket for good luck. Using one hand to steer, she pulled the coin out, rubbed at it through its clear vinyl pouch, felt LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 17

the indentation of the emperor Marcus Aurelius’ profile, and hoped for safe travels as she turned onto the entrance of I-80. She resolved to start her own postcard project. She would buy one for herself to document the Great Buttress Across America, and then she would pick out a postcard for her dad. On his postcards, she’d write a poem— or part of one. At a rest area out outside of South Bend, Kristina bought her first two postcards for Indiana. When she reached Fisherman’s Wharf three days later, she bought two more. That last postcard, Alcatraz in the foreground, the Golden Gate beyond, she addressed it to Bill Monahan, rather than Dad, and wrote: With the ocean to the west, it’s like having a second sky. Kristina stayed with Ruby for a week and drove south towards Los Angeles. The same day that Kristina sent Bill a postcard of the Hollywood sign, she had her first orgasm as a woman with a short, androgynous Latino she’d picked up at a gin bar on Cienega Boulevard. They continued drinking. Had sex twice more, though she thought it was because the excess of alcohol dulled her concentration. Afterwards, she told him she’d transitioned a full month after her twentieth birthday— almost a year before—and was young 18 | SANSKRIT

enough that, with care to detail, she passed for female even before the hormones began. She was taller than most women, but at five feet seven, she was not a giantess. Still, she told him, she felt self-conscious buying shoes. He told her her eyes were “Disney eyes;” exaggerated, like picture windows; he said he could see her soul. She thought it was a stupid thing to say, but she opened up to him; bared her soul over rum and gin. She told him that before she had undergone the reassignment surgery, she was given an instruction manual for her vagina: how to clean, care for, and to visit an OB/GYN; she didn’t tell him that it also talked about sex, about how she could learn to orgasm. She’d had sex casually in the past few months leading up to her trip, but had not been able to cum until that night. When the smooth-skinned youth with a phrase tattooed in Latin gathered up his clothes to leave her room at the Super 8, she asked him what the phrase meant. He said, “The soul is dyed with the color of thought.” She laid on the bed, wondered if it was being away from home that had allowed her to orgasm. On the way out of town, the seventh of August, Kristina visited the La Brea Tar Pits and Museum. The pits themselves presented an irony

to her, given the surrounding urban environment. Tar was asphalt and everything she’d seen in Southern California was coated in it. She hated using the term concrete jungle to describe it, but at least she understood how the phrase came to be. She sat on a bench across from one of the pits wondering about how many secrets the dark sludge still held and what wonderful knowledge would come from its stygian slime. Once in the museum, Kristina was even more struck by a mural on one of the museum walls. The mural towered over her. Along its top row were scenes of volcanic c ataclysm and from left-toright she saw: the primordial stew, the single-celled organisms giving way to complex cellular clusters, then below that in this paragraph written of the history of the world, she made out the millions of years of complex organisms. In the next line, she viewed other organisms, and millions of years later more complex sea ones, until the mural showed the change between those and a new age of life in the sea that was both alien and recognizable. Then the row of dinosaurs, then finally—so out of place it was jarring—an astronaut stepping off to the right into a black unknown that could have just as soon been the tar pits standing in for space. In high

school, Kristina remembered a history teacher telling her class that if the history of the world were twenty-four hours, homo sapiens only arrived at two minutes to midnight. She thought, Wasn’t the Doomsday Clock hovering around the same spot? She pulled the silver Marcus Aurelius denarius out of her pocket, held it to the wall next to the astronaut. It might as well have been him in the suit, for all the newness humans were in this world.

“Wasn’t the Doomsday Clock Kristina found the hovering around the postcard of the mural in the gift shop, bought same spot?” two of those and one

postcard of the pits with the city of Los Angeles behind. She sent one of the mural postcards to Bill. This time, she didn’t write her own words exactly. She quoted something she’d heard in school: Time is the great physician, and then added: but deep time doesn’t heal, only creates. Kristina sped through Troias, saw a county sheriff parked at the pizzeria, but he did not pull his cruiser out after her. She rounded the bend by the St. Tom River and wondered how it could have been hotter in Limbo than in Texas. She pulled the Trailblazer into her dad’s driveway a little after four in the afternoon. Her dad wouldn’t be home for a few more LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 19

hours, depending on whether he hit the Pop Fly! Bar and Grill on the way home. She was tired, but showered, changed, and took a walk through the woods around her house to stretch her legs. The tract of land outside Troias people called Limbo wasn’t on a map. But everyone around St. Tom County knew what it was; they said that Al Capone had a safehouse there; that The Brown Bomber Joe Louis had a cottage on the lake in the middle of Limbo. Her dad had told her and Ruby and Dennis spooky stories about seeing the ghost of Al Capone near the ruins of the old safehouse as well as stories about kids getting lost and disappearing in the woods—which gave Limbo its name. Kristina wondered what to do next. Ruby had invited her to come out to San Francisco and stay there with her, but Kristina wasn’t sure about it yet. She actually liked the desert—so much more than she thought she would. She liked how when she drove through west Texas, she could squint and imagine roving the surface of Mars. When she stopped to take pictures of the road signs she encountered, she noticed the absence of wildlife. Now, back in Limbo, she was coming to realize how much she hated the summer sounds of horseflies and katydids that wormed into her ears and roosted even while indoors; how much she hated the pollen and blooms that 20 | SANSKRIT

made her sneeze and itch. She’d been working at her grandpa’s old law firm in Middletown, just as her mom had done before she’d gotten sick. Her grandpa retired and handed over the practice to a younger, lazier attorney—with greasy hair who always wore shirts a size or two too small—and her mom stayed on to smooth over the transition. Kristina took over part-time, but had to quit in order to care for her mom at the end. She thought about asking Paul for her old job back. She stepped over a log and around the stack of firewood that marked the end of the yard and the forest beyond. She heard her dad coughing, turned the corner of the ranch-style house and saw Bill sitting under the maple, on top of the picnic table. Bill held a cigarette between his knuckles, coughed, and turned the page of a paperback book he was reading, edges frayed, pages folded behind the back. “Jimmy Radio said you’d be home today,” he said, the first words he’d said to her in months. “Jimmy Radio? Didn’t know you two hung out,” she said. Jimmy Radio was an elderly man with a bulbous nose and liver spots who walked—her dad used to say

taking the shoestring express around— the streets of River Junction selling St. Thomas Tribune newspapers he stole by the stack from the paper machines. No one knew his real last name, but for as long as Kristina had been alive, people there called him Jimmy Radio because he walked around talking like he was a radio station DJ or calling Detroit Tigers games with an index finger in one ear, speaking into an imaginary microphone.

was tall, but avian—putting him into his Suburban and taking him to the River Junction ER. Jimmy was the town beggar, but also strange and, she admitted, entertaining in short doses. “So, you guys are friends now?” she asked.

“Yeah. Found him passed out on the sidewalk in front of Pop Fly! a few nights ago. Took him to the hospital. Stayed with him a bit, till he came around. Last night, I took him home. We sat on his porch and listened to a ball game on the radio.”

“Nah. Weird dude.” Bill stood up from the picnic table, planted his feet on the worn patch of dirt around the table. “Let me be straight with you. In the hospital, Jimmy told me things. He knew things. He said you were a girl and that God had somehow fucked up. He didn’t say fuck. I’m saying fuck. Now, that got me. It’s the same thing your mom used to say, even going back to when you was a kid. I didn’t even think he knew you, but then he started talking about your mom like he knew her. He paused. He’d never been a verbose man, but he was always a good storyteller. Kristina was transported to a time when she was younger and sat listening to her dad tell ghost stories about Limbo.

Bill wasn’t a tall man or strong by the look of him, but he’d been a millwright at the auto plant all these years and Kristina knew by experience his vice-grip hands had worn down a few steering wheels over the years. She imagined him picking up Jimmy Radio—who

“So, I get him to his house and Jimmy is sitting there on his porch and he’s talking about the ball game and beer and who knows-what-else, but he keeps interrupting himself like he’s jumping the rails, new trains of thought or whatever. Then out of nowhere, he

Bill pulled his rainbowspackled short-brim cap—his United Auto Workers solidarity cap— over his woolly eyebrows, put one of Kristina’s postcards in his book to mark his place. It was James Clavell’s Shōgun, and she was pretty sure the postcard was Wyoming, with its barren landscape, mountains far in the background.

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tells me, he says, ‘Your daughter’s coming home tomorrow.’ He tells me, ‘Regret’s a bitch and it’s time to move on.’” “So, you must have mentioned something about me traveling in the hospital or something?” Kristina asked. She leaned back, watched her father crunch dead leaves under the maple tree. “No. I didn’t even talk to him in the hospital. Just sat there with the TV on the couple times I checked in on him. And here you are. So, to hell with regret and all the other bullshit. I’m sorry for being an asshole. Even before your mom died, I was an asshole and that’s my fault. I get it. Dennis and I already talked, but I been less of an asshole to him. Been more an asshole to you and Ruby. You. I had my own shit, sure, and I want to tell you.” “Okay. Tell me what you need. Regret’s a bitch and all that.” Kristina could feel herself settling into her home. Bill was talking to her for the first time in months; what felt like years, really. And she felt like a rock who’d become wedged after settling in after an avalanche. She felt I-80 and I-5 and I-40 and I-65 drifting, crumbling away.

“Your mom ran around on me a few times and even though I said I forgave her, I never did. And she knew that. She did. But I couldn’t live without her and O Christ that just pissed me off more. Add in what was going on with you and the guys at work poking fun of me about it, just made it worse. Felt like I’ve been stuck in a cave for years. Jimmy Radio was there telling me how to get the hell out. I think.

“What do you mean? I don’t see mom ever doing that to you.”

“Okay. Tell me what you need. Regret’s a bitch and all that.”

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“I know you worshipped her, kid, but, yeah. Started when you were a kid. Remember that church we used to go to? The one on Garron Lake?”

“Can’t forget. One of my very first memories is of that one guy with the nasty skin on his hands praying over some sick girl. What about it?” “Pastor Charlie. Yeah. He left. Then this other pastor came, Dick Barton. Well, your mom slept with that piece of shit.” “No, Dad…” Yet Kristina could see it. What she remembered of Pastor Barton was that he was an exuberant, mirthful man;

middle-aged, but attractive; altogether it seemed like people really liked him. He was charismatic. And she could see how her mother might find that alluring.

there and listen to the wind on the plains there and imagine the sounds of Indians and cowboys and soldiers and rustlers, and just listen and be all right.”

“She did. And she was sleeping with that lawyer that took over for your grandpa,” Bill said. He flipped the pages of Shōgun between his thumb and index finger, making a gentle whoosh over the sounds of the katydids loitering in the trees around them.

“I could see you there. I think you should plan a visit. Go see the bison, the bears in Yellowstone,” Kristina said.

Kristina thought about it. She knew Paul well enough to know he probably cheated on his wife. To think he’d cheated with her own mother though? “She never came out and admitted it like she had with Dick Barton, but it got to be obvious. And if I’d have asked, I know—I know—she would have admitted it. Then she got sick.” All she could manage in reply though, was, “I understand.” Bill took the postcard of Wyoming out of Shōgun and read the lines she had written on it: “Keep your dreams harmonious, but hold your assonant tongue in your pocket like a pack of cigarettes. This one was my favorite, I think,” he said and stuck the postcard back into the book. “Plus, Wyoming reminds me of what the Old West used to be. I think I could go out

“I put in my paperwork today. I’m retiring at the end of the month,” he held up the postcard, “I’m moving there, to Wyoming. I just called an agency. A realtor’s coming by in the morning to put the house on the market. What I make, I’ll buy a place out there. Then give you and Ruby and Dennis some money we get from the acreage. The realtor says she’s going to play up the Al Capone ruins-thing, maybe drive up the price.” Kristina stood up from the table. Her arms and buttocks were sore from the table and the driving and she massaged her biceps and elbows. “Wow. I don’t know what to say, Dad. Why? Because I sent you the postcards, because Jimmy Radio told you to?” He laughed. It was breathy and wheezy and full of mucous in a way she’d only heard smokers laugh. “Jimmy Radio didn’t tell me to do nothing. I’m telling me to. You can stay here until a deal closes, look after it. LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 23

We can sell what we can for moving money. For the both of us. Ruby said you were thinking of going out there with her. I think you should.” “I don’t know. I might stay,” she said, though she knew there was no chance of it. “I liked Texas. Seemed like a cool place. Maybe if we make enough, I can go back to school there.” Bill shambled to the table and sat back down, though this time on the worn wood bench of their family picnic table. Kristina thought her father seemed enervated. “Let me tell you something,” Bill said. “I don’t care about you being gay or trans or whatever. What Jimmy said about God’s mess-up got me to thinking about what we learned in that church way back when, what I learned even going back my ma’s Catholic church. Pastor Charlie used to talk about Limbo—Catholic Limbo—and Purgatory, where the okay people go before they’re allowed to get into heaven. He said all that wasn’t in the Bible. But when I was a kid I heard about that stuff all the time. Anyway, I think this place, this world, is God’s own Limbo for making so many fuck-ups and if he is real, he’s got to work harder at making things right than anybody else.” Bill Monahan reached inside the breast pocket of his green-brown 24 | SANSKRIT

flannel shirt, pulled out his pack of Vantage cigarettes. Kristina reached in the pocket of her denim shorts for the coin in its vinyl pouch. She palmed it, clasped the vinyl between both hands and remembered the astronaut. She smirked, thinking of Marcus Aurelius inside the suit. She wondered what he’d have said about humans walking the heavens. Kristina inhaled the smoke of her father’s cigarette and where it usually would’ve bothered her, this time she savored it and wondered where the astronaut on the wall was going.

Before the Service Malik Norman

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Madi’s Double Life

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Carolina Quintana Ocampo

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Figure Study with Rug Myrthe Biesheuvel

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Urban Light Melody Songer

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Native Echoes by Michél Claudio Sometimes I read things on social media and think there’s really no reason at all that I should be writing. All my people are supposed to be extinct anyway. Who really wants to hear what a Taino descendant has to say? We are Guanina—rare and unwanted in a literary world. We come speaking a dead language for which there is no Rosetta Stone; a language no one wants to decipher. Our words tremble on fingertips attached to bodies they couldn’t burn or bury or completely breed out— words that are sucked into the vacuum of space, edging its way into a black hole threaded together by all the invisible ones. I wish I had a ship or a statement that could sail through these uncharted pages, over scrolls of broken tongues back to the place where we were once whole— the place where we could speak again.

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ALZheImeR'S by Claire Scott Waves roll all night sweeping the shore swirling back and back frothy like ruffled collars or ruffled sleeves white and soundless under a gibbous moon taking words out to sea names and nouns that close their eyes and drown deep down the thing you dry dishes with the name of the next door neighbor erasing one by one all the pages that have come before washing them clean

Still Life (SelfPortrait) Malik Norman

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Click “Remember to stay close where I can see you and if you see something interesting, that’s fine, but don’t go into the woods without me, okay? We’ll meet here in twenty minutes with ten shots. Ready, set… go!” Click click click. Delia glanced behind her and caught a glimpse of her father watching her from behind the swing set. With a tight grip on her new purple camera, Delia filled her lungs with the warm air and the scent of fresh-cut grass and looked for potential in the objects and people around her. The bright blue canopy that always kept the rain that threatened to drizzle the fun out, the orange slide where she learned to take turns and to be patient, the green monkey bars where she conquered her fear of heights with her daddy, and a carpet of mulch that had caught her many times before--the mulch, a warm pecan color that reminded her of her favorite Christmas treat and her mother’s arms waiting for hugs before bed. Delia told her mom she was too old for bedtime stories, but she secretly wished she would never stop telling her the complicated adventures she made up on the spot because they always managed to 32 | SANSKRIT

by Alexsis Luciano make her life feel safe and filled with just the right amount of adventure for a seven-year-old girl. Delia smiled and bent down close to take a picture. After winding through the familiar tunnels and swaying swings, she snapped a few shots of her friends laughing and chasing each other. Delia paused as she came to edge of the playground’s border, looking out across the open field that led to the woods. Her and her daddy had only been a couple of times and they never went further than a few feet. They gathered leaves and sometimes, if they were lucky, different flowers for the nature journal she had been keeping up with. The last time they were searching for new plants, Delia came across a clearing with bunches of charming purple flowers that were shaped like a band of tiny horns with speckles inside their mouths. In wonder of how much they looked like a marching band with chicken pox, she had reached for them and her daddy stopped her hand right before it grazed the closest horn’s lips. “That’s Foxglove. I know it’s very pretty, but it’s poisonous, so I want you to stay away from it.” “It’s poisonous? But it’s so pretty. The speckles are so bright,

they almost look painted on.” Delia looked longingly at the bodies of blossoms embracing each other. “I know what you mean, Dill. Sometimes things that can hurt you try to trick you by looking nice and pretty. They may even have something you really love, like the color purple. You have to be careful.” Delia looked around the picnic tables where her dad usually sat, and when she didn’t see him, she decided going a little ways into the field wouldn’t hurt anything. She wanted to practice using her camera’s zoom to look for animals along the edge of the woods; there were almost always squirrels rummaging around. Delia zoomed in and out-click- she found a rabbit running into a bush. In and out-click- there was a red bird heading back to her nest to feed her babies. In and out, there was her daddy; he must be taking pictures of the animals too. He thought he was slick, leaving her to take shots of the slides while he found something good like the turtle she caught a few weeks ago. Before she started toward him to declare she was on to him, she wanted to take a picture of him to show her mama when she got home. Mama loved her candid shots and if they were really good, she’d

get them developed and hang them on the fridge. Click. In and out and in. Delia wondered what her daddy was smiling at behind the tree. She wanted to see what he was so perky about. Through the lens, Delia saw a bright purple fluttering in and out from behind the tree’s wide trunk. Click. Daddy leans in as if he’s going to smell the flower and rub her petals in between his fingers. Delia runs across the vacant field, she has to remind Daddy of what he warned her about. Sometimes pretty things trick you with their bright colors and bright designs. Delia began to slow to a stop just outside the woods, surprised that instead of the flower’s long green stem in her father’s hand, she saw a thick thighed leg stretching around her father, wrapping him against the tree’s trunk. As she stood frozen, watching her father kiss the woman hidden behind the tree, she was shocked by how tight he was gripping the woman’s leg. When she watched him kiss Mama, he was never so rough with her. Their kisses had always been sweet and soft. The difference almost made Delia feel a pang of concern for the woman. Almost. She stood there, continuing to study the leg as it pulled in and out of view. Instead of the hearty rich tone of her mother’s skin, this leg reminded her of the dull oyster the

“You have to be careful."

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sand in her sandbox turned when her cat, Chloe, mistook her sandbox for a litter box and peed in it. The sand puddled into that dull oyster and filled her play area with a stench. It rained endlessly for the next week and still that reek lasted for almost a month. Mama didn’t understand why the terrible smell wouldn’t go away. Now Delia wondered if it was because the smell had seeped into the wood of her sandbox’s walls or if her cat couldn’t resist revisiting the newfound freedom of this massive litter box. The thud of Delia’s camera on the oak’s giant root startled her father into releasing the leg, and after a profound moment of silence, Eric forced a smile and squatted down to look Delia in her stunned face. “Cordelia. How long have you been standing there?” She couldn’t remember ever having seen her father so frazzled. He looked like the boy from school who tried to give her flowers at recess, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt. “This is Daddy’s friend…” All she could hear was the

ringing in her ears as she watched Eric stand up and wave over the woman who had been hidden in the foliage. Maybe if she stood still enough, it would be like none of this was happening and her Daddy would be pushing her on the swings instead. As she started out of hiding, the first thing that caught Delia’s eye was the woman’s bright purple skirt, speckled with blue dots, opening into a bell shape. Delia felt herself instinctively backing up. “I’ll be waiting in the car.” Delia walked off after carefully picking up her camera from the pile of rotting leaves it had rolled into. She kept walking, her father’s calls getting further and further away. Her father slowly approached the car long after the last kid left the playground. Delia opened the car door and stared at him. She brought the camera to her face, her father’s slumped figure in her viewfinder. Click. Tears in her eyes, she looked up at her father and hurled the camera into the pavement. Hundreds of deconstructed pieces flew only to fall deserted on the asphalt. Click.

“Cordelia. How long have you been standing there?”

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Home April Lin

The Shop Ice Young

Meteozar Mirelys Colon

I go running to combat emptiness by Madison Traina Sunlight glitters on the tips of the tall grass weeds and Queen Anne’s lace. A lonesome foreground to a backdrop of towering red-yellow-violet elms and oaks. Wind moves in a rushing gust, bending their tops. The sun casts a glow of gold against the pavement, soft heat kisses my cheeks, my lips. I’m breathless.

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Seashells

by Amanda Leigh

They say that nothing is stronger than a Mother’s love,

but what if Mother has no love to give?

What if Mother is a shell so empty

that you could put her up to your ear and hear nothing

but the sounds of the ocean?

Flying Above Yesika Sorto Andino

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Chaos AlexZandria Evans

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A Cockro ach Story by Andrew Adams Can I borrow your attention for a moment or two? To lend you a piece of advice. I only wish to offer your ear a brief proverb so absurd You would have thought that I had just made it up. It all began one fateful night When I went to the kitchen for a snack. I flicked on the light, And was given one hell of a fright When I was faced with a room coated with clicking cockroaches Numbering twenty-two thousand or more. They were all milling about Paying me no mind. Some thumbed through magazines, Others played cards at the counter, While most helped themselves to the beer in my fridge. One of the bunch locked eyes with me, And I with it. It turned to the rest and with a chirp and a hiss It told the others to split. They all skittered off under my fridge. Leaving me there alone With my face frozen in a bug-eyed stare. I made my own retreat Thinking to myself for a solution. Should I lure them out with cockroach prostitution? Burn this place down and start again? Offer them a human sacrifice of my neighbor Ken? No. No, those methods would have been too easy. I decided upon tactics that were far less sleazy. I took the diplomatic route, And wrote them a note. It read: “I mean no harm to your cockroach kind

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And wish you all the best. I write to you in search of a nonviolent end to our impasse. For you see, I think it can’t be where we are living side by side in this house. So, I present to you a challenge, Of wit and skill Rather than one of might. A challenge for the whole house. My next question is this: Can you play chess? Simply circle no or yes.” I left the note on the floor with the pen by its side. Later that day I found it with a response. A yes was circled, With instructions below saying to set the board low And that we shall only make our moves at night. I agreed to their terms by setting the board on the kitchen floor. Lining two rows on each end with tiny towers, horse heads, and pawns And leaving four empty, fit for a battlefield. I made my first move. Pawn to C4. An explosive entry to the game. I went to sleep that night planning out my strategy. The next morning, from the opposition Knight to C6. Not too cunning so far. I made my second that night with a Knight to C3. In the morning the battle raged on. And on. And on. And on… And on it raged for several more ons Until one evening when it was starting to get late. I was preparing for my next move when I suddenly realized The cockroaches had secured a checkmate. Now here I sit. Atop a bar stool With nowhere to go but here. My friend, do try and listen to my advice Stick to fire, Or chemical warfare, Because when it comes to cockroaches, They never play nice.

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Autumn Breeze Carolina Quintana Ocampo

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Glowing Misty Morin

Charismatic Cactus Clarke Armstrong

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Laundry Day by Jarrett Moseley Millie, O Millie, do you remember me? The man who traveled with cloth napkins and loved you in the great storm. -James Tate, “At The Clothesline” The keys were already dangling from the door (The morning our breakfast caught fire.) Our children pulled down the delicates from the clothesline. In that scene we were all yellow-orange or Egyptian blue I suppose. It was only a week later that you tore apart the dresses. I remember you draped them around your shoulders one by one, adrift in a world of fabric and non-resolution. :: In this version of the story you never left the house. The dogs found the dishes beneath the couch. Porcelain heads, flattened mouths painted on and a nail through the middle. When I heard you, I was still clipping your blouse on the line. There were damp green eyes in the grass beneath me. I hung there, then, too.

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Hittin the Waves Dominic DiNardi

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Reaching AlexZandria Evans

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The Observatory on a Partly Cloudy Night by Edison Angelbello I came to see Saturn’s rings, but that is, apparently, the clouded part the weatherman mentioned. So I am standing here watching this cluster of stars the resident astronomer says are thousands of light years away. I’m looking not at present but at past— at a two, three, four thousand-year old dusty film reel developed diligently over the millennia it took to get from another galaxy to the lens on this telescope and into my eye. That cluster could already be dead, one man says, the stars could have exploded hundreds of years ago and we might not know for a few hundred more. I remember how we agreed one night as your boat cut through the waves on the Intracoastal that maybe we’d end up together and that maybe we wouldn’t. And I wonder how long I will wait, one eye pressed to the telescope, for some kind of proof— either that they were lost centuries ago or that they are still there, that this image of two stars pulsing next to one another isn’t fiction or mythology or history quite yet.

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A Warm Place Ethan Marano

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Were We Always Monolingual? (After Martha Kapos, with a line from T.S. Eliot) by Samantha Holt Full span of keys, eighty-eight exactly. A treble clef to indicate soprano notes. Strings too aged to vibrate, your chords ghost my ears. No rhythms clunked out on ivories smeared with fingerprints. For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. When did your vocabulary become so vast? Grace in your timbre without trying, words pouring in answer to unasked questions. Let’s have this conversation,

letters on your tongue notes from my fingers snatches of stillness too loud between us.

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Cool Story Jamie Ku

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WCS Anna Johnson LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 53

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Drunken Dreams A Short Film Mirelys Colon

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My hellcat Heather Scharding

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Dr. Cao, the G.O.A.T. Jessica Miller

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colorful glass Natalie Flinchum

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caught and executed Jenny Dao

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Self-Love 2 Sheree Davidson

Self-Love 3 Sheree Davidson

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Self-Love by Danielle Walden

I’m only capable of self-love’s demo But someday I’ll graduate to the full trial. So tired of My bad habits being a burden Hell-bent on hindering my already-heavy heart. Every day I’ll Brush the pixels off my shoulders In order to meet my resolutions Comb my tangled thoughts Strand by strand ‘Til they’re pressed and neat Pull forward the encouraging ones Until they’re in the corner of my vision, The peripheral of my psyche, Letting off steam To construct a self-esteemPowered train delivering me right into A mind palace where I can be Confident, finally.

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fingers crossed Erica Fox 62| SANSKRIT

“I have set before you life and death...” Deuteronomy 30:19

by Samantha Holt Stopping—this is what the dead do. And you, roaring as the stitches are ripped out of not-quite healed skin, tearing your flesh

deeper, to the bone

wail with the lusty cry of a newborn. Your chest heaves, greedily drawing breath. The dying—theirs only rattle, a soul that shakes the bars of the rib cage. You taste the bitterness of ashes where your dreams have burned, but still

you stoke the embers.

I see you living, fighting, with the unmistakable vigor of one

who hung

on the edge of a choice, and refused to let go.

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Fruit Studies 64 | SANSKRIT

Teresa Lopez

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The end Nancy Christine McGuire

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Summer’s end Mekayla Johnson

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Soft Colors Justin Hicks

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pay your dues, dirceo! Alessio Zanelli

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"Moore" America by Car Heather Scharding

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Snails Stephen Garza

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A Portrait of Montse Capel Rodríguez Jessica Miller

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Contemplates self Malik Norman 62 | SANSKRIT

Gold Like Skin Philip Cherry

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Bowl Michael Kasey

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The boot, the fox, and the jug Mirelys Colon

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The Butcher’s Arm crash, it wasn’t as if you’d hear it over a pint or the

garden wall.

He had only the one arm, you

see—that we all knew. It wasn’t as if

Drogheda were a big place—even then with the shipyards full of steel and

flash. Now, you could spit from the

tower at noon and n’er dampen a brow in the yards or even the cement plant, though the streets are full of motorcars.

Even in a place small as that, no

one knew how he’d lost it—the arm,

don’t you know? He’d a tale or two for us now and again, of where he’d been and what he’d seen, but not even the grannies knew about the arm.

He’d been there,

Been gone. Back with one.

with two arms.

Two years he’d been gone. Two

years back. Much

could happen, even in this

misbegotten crater on the back of

beyond. But with his mother dead and his father away for the drink-driving 78 | SANSKRIT

It never helped to ask

neither. Not right out when he was

hanging meat in his father’s butcher shop or taking his pint. Not

subtle-like either, if any Irish—man or lad—could manage subtle.

Until that Wednesday years

back when—for no reason one could

fathom, other than it being a fine day,

warm for the season and clear—he felt inclined to share the tale

of his arm. The losing of it, don’t you know.

Was Brian started it. A fine lad

to be sure. Ruddy and tall, a true Derry man he was—from his

mother’s side. His father was born,

raised, and buried in County Louth

without so much as a visit to the relatives in America.

Brian had traveled. Off to Dub-

lin first, then to London, though he

didn’t like that much. Once to Manchester. Being as he had

traveled, Brian felt he could expound

on the missing arm. One world view to another, as it were.

He leans back against the wall.

We’re having a bit and a smoke, there behind the old school. I had been

in that school when a single master

taught every lad, with the girls away

down to St. Margaret’s, but now it is a bingo hall three nights a week and nothing the rest.

The wall hid us well enough so

the old biddies in the houses ’round the square would have nothing to

cluck about. If they noticed us at all,

gathering one at a time, they’d have a hard time

explaining why they’d nothing

better to do than watch the wall of the old school and who was lighting up

behind it and what he carried in his hand. Jesus.

Brian had the story, so he said,

as if you could believe the likes of

him, with his florid tales and raucous

laughter. No, says Brian, the real story. About the arm. And how he came to lose it.

Can’t be, we says. Why

Didn’t, says Bri. I found out.

would he tell you?

On my own.

Then Bri tells us a tale, full—as they say—of the sound and fury, oceans

and boats, a great grinding machine for the loading of cargo, storming

nights and the smashing down of the

machine arm on the flesh and tearing through bone and cartilage and no

doctor but the rummy signed on with the crew, not that even a great

surgeon, not Christian Barnard could have saved it—

Was Joe that snorts:

Christian Barnard was a feckin’ heart

surgeon then, wasn’t he? And famous. Why would he be after signin’ on a boat?

I’m just sayin’, says Bri, the wind

was knocked out of him, so

as to make the story fall away at an end.

Anyway, says Joe, was a car

crash. In France, I hear, that took the

arm. He was riding—shotgun, like the Americans say—at night, in the Pyrenees—

The Pyrenees are in Spain,

You’re an eejit, says Brian, glad

pipes up Matt.

for his chance to muddle Joe’s tale.

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The Pyrenees are French.

chest like flesh itself. He stares at us,

was France, not that it is the least bit

the pack with his lips, flaring the

Am I telling the story? says Joe. It

important, and the mountains were the Pyrenees, just as I said. I’ve the story straight from my cousin, and isn’t he after being friends with the man?

Am I telling the story? says Joe.

It was France, not that it is the least bit important, and the moun-

then reaches for a fag, plucking it from lighter, easy as if he had two hands for the job, though there was still only the one.

lads like you, standin’ by a wall, making a grand tale of a

stranger’s misfortune.

tains were the Pyrenees, just as I said. I’ve the story straight from

my cousin, and isn’t

he after being friends with the man?

I could hold my

Fine thing, he says at last. Great

“Shamed, are you? You should be”

tongue no longer: ’Twas

a knife fight. In a pub, sure, in

That was something

of a lie, being as we

had known him and his people since we

was wee, except for

the time he went

away. No matter, we

scuffed the ground, look-

ing down.

Africa. Kenya, I think.

Shamed, are you? You should

I was Orange, the one

Brilliant.

Brian and Matt turns on me like

shouting over the other, and me standing my ground.

Then we notice the shadow, and

the butcher himself stands, arm folded, as if the other would be there if it could.

He’s quiet, like he was all the

time, silence sunken into his face and 80 | SANSKRIT

be. Car crashes, boats, knife fights.

Brian said later he didn’t know

what prompted him, possibly the devil himself. He asks, straight out, What was it then?

The butcher drags a bit,

into gray dust.

flicks an ash, gray

I’m not inclined to share

private things. Not at all.

the ceiling of the church, topped with

of the martyr, was half again as tall as

Bri mumbles: Sorry.

Still and all, it might be good for

you to know. A lesson, like.

It takes him three more drags to

finish his smoke, then he rolls out the tobacco, all careful,

crumbling the paper to a tiny ball.

A lesson, he says again. You lads

Sure. Fat Father Michael’s been

know Father Michael, at St. Peter’s?

pastor since Cromwell soiled the holy ground—for a long time.

Father Michael’s a hard man

now, even more than when I was a lad.

Always after us to come to Mass during the week, trying to catch us smoking in the church. We’d hide behind the

reliquary, behind old Oliver Plunkett’s head. The incense is thick there most days, so you can’t smell the

cigarette smoke ten feet away.

The butcher glares at Joe, who’s

making a bruit trying to hide the bottle under his legs, before he goes on.

It’s hollow, don’t you know, the

reliquary. A small lad, like

myself at the time, can fit in it.

Not so! We had all heard such

things: the great gold box, hung from

the tiny glass case that held the head a man. Swing like a lantern, it did—

the old crows claimed the saint’s heart beat

inside, moving the reliquary like a wind.

No one knew what was in it,

save for the little glass case with the blackened skull. We wondered, of

course, poking each other in Mass, giggling, guessing.

Joe manages: It’s locked,

Now, yes. Because… He

then, isn’t it?

stops. I shouldn’t be sayin’. ’Tis a terrible tale.

I croak: The lesson, right?

His dark eyes have a bit of a

We’re after needing a lesson. glint. Right. A lesson.

There was four of us there, just

lads, not big as you lot. I was twelve, the youngest, but bold. I hear from

the head altar boy the reliquary had a door, solid gold, as was the whole piece, with a

genuine ruby—big as your eye— for a knob.

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He also told me that inside,

away from the women and the young ones, was the saint’s own pecker.

His words suck the air from our

lungs. We think: A saint’s pecker? Did saints even have peckers?

He nods as if we had actually

He leans into us and us to him:

asked the question.

The pecker was kept in secret, only brought out on the saint’s birthday

and then only for the best men of the parish. No need to lock the reliquary, altar boy told me.

Angels would knock you senseless for even thinking of touching the Holy Member.

That’s what he called it. “The

Us lads nod, like every

Holy Member.”

day we think about the Holy

Member.

The butcher went on: Being

the brazen one, I told the others

I would see for myself. Just to be

sure, I thought about the pecker for

a full hour. When no angels so much as tapped my skull, I stared and squirmed, tryin’ to see into the 82 | SANSKRIT

reliquary, dark as Guinness in an earthen cup. Alas. No joy.

Then I come up with a plan. My

lads would watch the church as I did

the deed, signalin’ if anyone came in. We’d do it on a

Wednesday, as the novena was Tuesday and living rosary Monday. Wednesday, there’d be nothing.

Wednesday next was a

funeral, everyone giving out with

bawling and such. Wednesday fort-

night was perfect. It was a fine day—

no old gentlemen sleeping off the pub

and the rain. There were two girls who made a show of stopping every day

after school to light a candle apiece. Emily and Charlotte McLoughlin,

who work in the bakery now, they bein’ only wee ones then. They’d not be long.

I ducked into the corner of the

church where the reliquary hung and stuck my nose into the books that

talked about the martyr being drawn and quartered by the English. Emily

and Charlotte were frightened of the martyr’s head, the hollow eyes filled

with pitch: they did their business and left.

I waited for the church’s great

inner door to close, then the larger one outside. Counted ten to be sure, came

up to the reliquary. I touched the sides, testin’.

No angels.

I felt around for the door. The

flames. Shite! I thought. Emily and

Charlotte had dropped sixpence for

those candles, and now they’ve gone

to waste. At least no one would find it on me.

Clear skatin’.

reliquary was bigger around than

clanked me, back of the leg. Down I

go, a sack of mealy potatoes. It swung back again, smashin’ me in the

I could reach, with a pointed bottom and

the glass box with the saint’s head on top. I

couldn’t touch the top if I had a stool. One

thing for certain: there

The reliquary swung and

head as I was trying to rise, drawin’ blood. Argh, I

“I cried, and cried, and kicked it a shot. kicked it in a good good In the glass top Oliver shot”

Plunkett’s head rattled

was no ruby big as your

eye—or a sparrow’s eye. There

around, and for a minute

I thought the glass would break

was a little dab of a red stone set in

and the pitched old thing drop out. I

minute.

held it still, I felt the door. It opened

the gold, and I twisted on that for a

The stone wasn’t any kind of

knob or latch and it wouldn’t turn.

Instead it fell into my hand. I don’t mind sayin’, when I felt it let go, I

thought I’d piss my pants. I shoved the stone into my pocket, then thought

better and chucked it into the bank of

candles. It splashed into one of the big

ones; the wax jumped and snuffed two

reached to steady the reliquary. As I

with a bit of a pry, fingers only, revealing the black inside.

He stops at this point, reaching

for a fag. Joe hands him one quick as a shot, and Brian has a match to it in an instant.

Well? asks Matt. Well?

What? Oh. Yes. The church was

dark and the door was on the side

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without any candles or windows, so

black thing, no bigger than a child’s

on its chain. By the candlelight I could

I thought, I’ll take a sinner’s any day.

I had to turn the whole thing around

see nothing but a sack, strung up by a golden chain itself, only small.

The sack was out of my reach,

so I had to step into the reliquary. It

swung again and I lost my balance and tumbled into it, the door slamming

behind me. I almost panicked then,

kicked the door open, but I stopped. I was in. Nothing to be done.

The bottom wasn’t flat, like a

floor, but pointed down, and I

had to balance a foot on either side to stand.

Even straight up I could hardly

reach the sack. I shimmied up the sides like a crab, see,

until I grabbed it and worked it off its hook.

By then my eyes were used

to the dark, and a bit of light came

through the holes pierced through the sides, making a design, like.

The cloth on the sack was old

and crumbled a bit. For a minute I held it. Then I opened the sack and looked inside.

It was nothing but a wee, hard,

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finger. If this was a saint’s pecker,

The thought nagged at me, though.

I couldn’t help myself, see, wanting to see if… Well, to compare, don’t you

know? I reached into my own pants there, just for the size of it.

All this time my head was

bleeding from where the reliquary hit me. Not gushing floods or

nothing, but some now and again. And the blood, you see, was

dripping through the holes of the reliquary.

So when Mary Tracey came into

the altar area, from back where my

lads couldn’t see her, what does she see but the reliquary of the head of

Oliver Plunkett—dripping blood. She

falls to her knees in a faint, sure she’s seen a holy miracle.

Father Michael comes upon her

in that state, sees the blood. It’s not a

miracle he’s thinkin’, though. He pulls open the reliquary door: there I be,

one hand in my pants and the pecker

of Blessed Oliver Plunkett in the other.

He stops again for a long drag.

What happened? Matt asks, only

because he was quicker than the rest

Nah, he says. It’s all shite.

And none of your affair,

of us, Mary Tracey of the story being

besides.

now the five years.

his father’s second cousin, though dead

Which was all that was

that day to this.

The father grabbed me by

the neck, says the butcher, and threw

me to the floor, roaring that I’d violated

ever said on the subject,

THE END

the sanctity of the church and shamed myself besides. In a terrible voice he

told me that the next time I abused— that’s what he called it, abused—

myself, Oliver Plunkett himself would strike off my arm.

That put a fear in me such that I

by D. Ferrara

resolved then and there never to tempt fate. I didn’t either. Until… He stops.

We look, then, one to the

Three years back I was having

other. The butcher sighs.

a scratch, bit of an itch, innocent as a lamb. I went a little too far to the

left, and damned if a flash of lightning didn’t take my arm at the shoulder. So quick, I never felt a thing.

He finishes his cigarette,

stubbing it out on the wall, then takes it apart in his fingers until there was naught but a bit of paper.

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The Car Counter Standing, a walking stick in one hand, a leash in the other. Still, he watches the rapid comings and goings of clouds in front of the sun. Only, the collar is empty— Lucky was a goner years ago— and the dangling cord just functions as a second prop. Every day the hours pass by quickly, until the shade arrives to stay. Resolute, he then turns his gaze to the cars up and down the hill road in the distance, starts counting— one every two minutes or so— without batting an eyelash, stops thinking. Yet steady and assured— fatigue is not a problem— waiting composedly. As if stuck on the pull-off of life.

by Alessio Zanelli

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Music in a Square Myrthe Biesheuvel

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The Lonely Island Stephen Garza

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Out of Kansas These elevated ships won’t save the lowlands. The place water gathers is, by agreement, dangerous. Sails will darken with monstrous ice, as the rhythm of oars vibrates through our arms. The water speaks your name across its skin to someone you loved. This, after all, is Kansas—more in the sky than out. Farmers still find footprints from the sea as they till for wheat. From far away we watch anthracite Herefords smolder in the sunset. Surely the fields will remember the bodies meant only to form memory, imprinting igneous stone with our shapes, and like grass carp or lungfish that persist in drought or shallow water, we make ourselves smaller, dreaming of escape if only the moon were made of water.

by George Rawlins

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Nature Finds AlexZandria Evans

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Matheson Bridge Skyline Melody Songer

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The Squirrel Olympics by Kiera Haberberger Yesterday I saw a squirrel jump from the side walk on to the top of a stop sign, And although that - to me - would have been too far from the ground The squirrel didn’t stop

It sat there for what I imagined to be a third of a second before it then jumped to the stop light,

I found it ironic that the squirrel jumped to the stop light just as it turned red Kind of like how I ignore any warning signs that show up in my life But unlike the squirrel I don’t know how to jump From conclusion to conclusion Instead I overthink

I started to think about what squirrels would be like If they competed in the Olympics

Cause they don’t seem to have any hesitation or fear They can jump without thinking twice

Without even a purpose And I can’t even stand up without worrying that I might lose balance Or that I will get dizzy

Or that my knees will give out Because lately my knees hurt, I remember at my first Winterfest I didn’t eat

I started crying while others were dancing because I couldn’t dance

I meant it like I did a month ago when I didn’t want to get out of bed When I found out that getting out of bed too quickly would make me

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forget how to stand,

so when I said that I couldn’t dance -

It was for far more than just saving me from embarrassment It was for saving me from having to eat again

And that was when I started to ignore the stop signs just like those dumb squirrels. So I didn’t stop at the stop sign either

In fact I jumped right into carrying a bottle of Advil in my backpack I remember hating the fucking coating on those pills, The red dust that felt like sandpaper as it went down my throat The Stop - Sign Ibuprofen For the headaches I no longer got Because your body forgets about its normal functions when you start to ignore how it normally should

And for those of you who don’t know what I am talking about

What I am talking about is when your body forgets to make you warm, Because you forgot to eat for the fourth day in a row

The Olympics are built around people idolizing others for their bodies

In Greek tradition those men were considered the closest things to gods These days, the men and women take pills - steroids And I was just a squirrel that took Advil

And a dude on the bus smelled like cough syrup the other day So maybe life is just forgetting the stop signs Like when my body forgot that it was supposed to be warm

Maybe life is just forgetting that it’s supposed to be good for some people

LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 93

Marsha Myrthe Biesheuvel

94 | SANSKRIT

87 Sierra Miles

LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 95

Guardian Angel Cats Teresa Lopez

96 | SANSKRIT

A Trick for Finding What You’ve Lost

There is something wrong with me. Today I read a poem.

At the top it said

For Trish and automatically, I assumed

that Trish was somewhere below

exactly six feet of dirt. Either that or in an urn,

or perhaps scattered over some mountain or the Pacific Ocean

or the corner of Broward and Andrews. I assumed Trish was dead, because I write poems for dead people.

I write poems about dead things. And there has to be something

wrong with me. Because it didn’t occur to me that Trish might be alive.

Because it didn’t cross my mind that you could write a poem

about something with a heartbeat.

LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 97

I used to lose a lot of things. My dad told me that if I tied a red bandana to the bottom of his desk chair

and spun around three times, Saint Anthony would help me find what I was looking for. I found toys, an iPod, car keys.

It stopped working when I started losing friends.

But here I am, still

spinning—still writing

as if my pen were strong enough to carve an epitaph into a gravestone.

I want to write a poem about that man who stands on the corner

with the Jimmie Johnson hat and the ripped blue jeans

and the shirt that smells of tobacco and roses. I want to write a poem

about life—not about bringing dead things to life, but about life itself.

I want to write a poem about me, plunging my hands into the soil

as far as they can go and feeling around for seeds or roots or a pulse

or God knows what.

and maybe finding it.

by Edison Angelbello

98 | SANSKRIT

Appendix

Contributors Literature

work. Aaron has a four-feet-square painting of David Bowie in his living room and loves that his kids think it’s completely normal.

Andrew Adams is a real human

Claire Scott is an award winning poet

being and an English major at UNC Charlotte who writes poems and stories.

Alessio Zanelli is an Italian poet who

writes in English and whose work has appeared in over 150 literary journals from 13 countries. His fifth original collection, titled The Secret of Archery, will be published in 2019 by Greenwich Exchange (London). For more information please visit www.alessiozanelli.it.

When Alexsis Luciano is not hanging

out with her husband and two kids, she is a senior at UNC Charlotte with a concentration in Creative Writing. Her passion for writing and reading stems from a very young age and is something she is excited to share with not only her children, but also other children in the classroom. Much of her work explores the beauty within the challenges and joys of different family dynamics and childhood experiences.

Amanda Liegh is a recent

graduate from UNCC with a BA in English. She is currently working on her MA in library sciences. She has been published in literary journals such as Tipton, Askew, and Cultured Vultures.

Aaron Buchanan is a writer who teaches philosophy and Latin in Tampa to pay his bills. He is a Michigan native—an incongruous land that he features in his

who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry. Now in her seventies, she finds she is drawn to writing about the final chapter of life, which includes writing about memory, nostalgia, regret, death, joy and pleasure.

D Ferrara’s work has appeared in many

journals. His screenplay, Arvin Lindemeyer Takes Canarsie, won the Oil Valley Film Festival Outstanding Screenplay; and his play, Favor, won the New Jersey ACT Award for Outstanding Production Of An Original Play. Three additional screenplays have been optioned, and several other short plays produced. Many of his articles have been published in legal, technology, and other business publications.

Danielle Renee Walden is a freshman

studying Illustration. Danielle, an avid anime lover, enjoys creative writing, reading webcomics, doing yoga, and studying French. Her main goal is to create amazing stories to share with people in the hopes that they can be as inspired as she is when viewing others’ artworks.

Edison Angelbello is a writer,

filmmaker, and student at UNC Charlotte whose work often circles around topics of both childhood and mortality. He has worked with non-profits making

marketing media content, and he enjoys the process of telling stories—both real and imagined.

George Rawlins has been

published in Mudfish and in Spinning Jenny. Rawlins has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of California, Irvine, where he studied with Charles Wright. He also attended the Honors Tutorial College at Ohio University, working with Wayne Dodd and Jon Anderson, specializing in English literature and earning a BA in English/Creative Writing. He attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop for a year and is currently working on a poetry manuscript with the help of Roger Weingarten.

Jarrett Moseley will graduate from the

University of North Carolina at Charlotte in May, 2019, where he studies Creative Writing. His poetry is influenced by surrealist and experimental poetry. He plans to begin a Creative Writing MFA program in the fall of 2019. He has compiled one chapbook of poems entitled Autumn Wants Dying and is currently working on a series of poems which addresses bisexuality as a misunderstood identity.

Kiera Haberberger, having just

turned eighteen, is someone who finds any which way to express herself. She writes poetry and short pieces, paints and sketches - willing to destroy any canvas in the hopes of finding that elusive ‘something’.

Madison Traina is twenty-two and a

student at University of North Carolina

– Charlotte. She is completing her junior year and is pursuing a degree in English with a minor in Biology. Her poems focus on compression of language and the use of line breaks for emphasis. In addition, her poems explore themes of heritage, interpersonal relationships, violence, and rejecting perceived perceptions.

Michél Claudio is a Latin

American poet and author. After attending UNCC, she completed the MFA in Creative Writing at Queens University. The author of several fiction titles, she spends the majority of her days entertaining imaginary friends in the suburbs of North Carolina.

Olaf Kroneman’s work has

appeared or is forthcoming in Broad River Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Forge, Hawaii Pacific Review, inscape, Oracle Fine Arts Review, paperplates, riverSedge, and Gemini Magazine. www.olafkroneman.com

Samantha Holt is a graduate student in

the Children’s Literature program at UNC Charlotte. She loves poetry and can typically be found amidst a pile of books. She plans to become a professor of English and hopes to one day open an independent bookstore.

William Walker is a writer from Mem-

phis, TN. He currently studies Creative Writing at UNCC, where he plans to graduate in December of 2018.

Dominic DiNardi- a New Jersey

Art Aba Hutchison is a UNCC

Computer Science alumni who does art when inspired. Aba draws faces that she knows will feel good to draw. Some faces just look very “drawable” and are invoking so she begins doing the lines. She sometimes finds herself drawing people who make a statement to or inspire her. AlexZandria Evans is currently pursuing art, in all forms, at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She has been drawn to art since a young age, inspired by her mother who would often come up with new projects to do together. She hopes her work can positively influence people.

Anna Johnson is studying to become a special

education teacher at UNC Charlotte. She draws portraits of different celebrities and athletes in her free time. When not drawing, Anna can be found watching Kentucky basketball or the Chicago Cubs.

April Lin is a junior at UNC

Charlotte pursuing a BFA in Graphic Design. In her free time she enjoys watching Netflix and begging her friends for food which has earned her the title “foodsnatcher.” One day she hopes to earn enough money and change her title to “foodgiver.”

Carolina Quintana Ocampo is a

Sophomore studying Illustration, digital media, and Japanese. When not at the studio working on awesome projects, Carolina indulges in one of her favorite hobbies: watching cartoons like Star vs the Forces of Evil and Voltron. One day she wishes to create a show that’ll make an impact just like the ones she loves to watch.

Clarke Armstrong is a painter who is inspired

by nature and faith, as well as color and balance. She loves meeting new people, taking care of animals, and doing mission work while taking on all of the curveballs that art school has to offer.

native- is a freshman at UNCC. A D1 student-athlete, Dominic is part of the XC and Track team at Charlotte. He enjoys photography and videography and hopes his art bring joy, happiness, or even an “oh that looks really cool” to peoples’ day.

Ethan Marano is a quiet student that keeps his

head down and tries not to be noticed in daily life. His infatuation with the fantasy genre in media serves as inspiration for nearly all his pieces. Almost all of his work is done digitally, taking efforts to imitate traditional media while cutting corners to allow work to be done in a cramped dorm room.

Erica Fox is a second year art student at UNCC, and is just super happy to be here honestly. Originally from the Midwest and rural portions of NC, she currently inhabits the Charlotte area. As an illustrator, she attempts to explore elements of comic art, horror, humor, and text as a means of understanding the world at large. When she isn’t drawing, Erica enjoys cardio and (attempting) guitar.

Heather Scharding is a senior working on the

last part of her junior year in her program, studying Graphic Design. She is a returning adult student seeking a degree after 25 years of working in the financial services industry. She loves to learn and has thoroughly enjoyed her program. Ultimately, she’s considering seeking a masters in industrial design with the intent to potentially design car interiors or do branding for car companies.

Ice Young is from Charlotte, NC, and is

currently studying communications at UNCC. She wants to go into marketing to create work that has the ability to influence people and start conversations. She loves artwork because it gives an audience the opportunity to view a different perspective. She has practiced dance for 13 years and hopes to be a dance teacher one day for little kids. She works at Forever 21 and is also a musician.

Jamie Ku is a Korean American artist and stu-

dent from Charlotte, North Carolina. She grew up in a Christian household. Because of this, she gets most of her inspiration from morals she learned from the bible and her own personal life. Her aim is mainly to reach the hearts of people in a more intimate way whether it be to

bring people joy or give people a voice.

Jenny Dao is a senior art student

double concentrating in Painting and Illustration at UNCC. Jenny enjoys working in traditional media and finding a good balance between intuitive abstraction and illustrative style. She is very drawn to exploration in art, discovering new techniques, and exploring foreign media.

Jessica Miller is pursuing a B.S. in Biology and

a B.A. in Anthropology at UNC Charlotte. She loves everything to do with science, learning, spending time with family and friends—and of course her passion— art. She often finds that her friends stop listening to her when she talks about science. Jessica learned to play piano at a young age, the same time she went to her first rodeo. At her second rodeo, she told everyone it was not her first rodeo.

Justin Hicks is currently a junior in the UNCC

Bachelor of Fine Arts program with a concentration in llustration. Justin loves comic books and is a huge advocate for sequential storytelling. He believes there is much power in being an artist, claiming, “it’s like we are superheroes depicting the world, different stories, and conceptual thoughts in a way no one else can.”

Karina McMillan is a sophomore

Art major concentrating in Illustration. Even as a young child, Karina was always very fond of drawing and art in general. She has since won a variety of different art awards and continues to create art everyday.

Malik J. Norman is from Mineral Springs, North Carolina. A sophomore at UNCC, he is pursuing a BFA with a concentration in Photography. His work is derived from selfreflection. He finds himself contemplating art in a conceptual manner which gives his work a clear direction on how he wants to approach and develop a series. He has the backing of ethos, pathos, and logos that drives his work.

Mekayla Johnson was born in

Jacksonville, NC. Mekayla enjoys all mediums, but is most knowledgeable about photography. When not in class, she is obsessing over all things Marvel. Along with art, Mekayla is passionate about sustainability, fitness, and reading.

Melody Songer is a senior studying Graphic

Design, Photography & Journalism at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Melody believes that a positive and tenacious mindset as well as a kind and empathetic heart can create a strong foundation for opportunity spreading change and empowerment. Melody also enjoys immersing herself in others’ cultures, truly getting to know individuals and helping them embrace their diversity, beauty and talents.

Michael Kasey is a current junior

at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Majoring in Photography, he mainly focuses on fashion photography and portraiture.

Mirelys Colon is a senior Illustration BFA

student at UNCC. She works digitally and traditionally to pursue her interest in narrative illustration and sequential art. With a forte in watercolor and gouache, she also dabbles with markers, acrylics, and paper craft. Indie comics, cartoons, and video games inspire her while a focus on complex characters drive the sci-fi and fantasy narratives she crafts.

Misty Morin is a fourth year English and

Spanish student at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Born and in raised in Western North Carolina, she chose to leave her closed-minded hometown (Hayesville population 432) and set her sights on something bigger. Misty is fond of travelling, photography, and of course, writing.

Myrthe Biesheuvel is an art

student born in The Netherlands. In 2016, she was offered the chance to spend an extended period of time in the USA. Wanting to take full advantage of this exciting opportunity, she applied and was accepted at UNCC. Here, she has been pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts with a concentration in Painting for the last two years. Wanting to take full advantage of this exciting opportunity, she applied and was accepted at UNCC.

Nancy Christine McGuire loves to experiment with a variety of mediums but has a strong passion for illustration. She finds inspiration

from clothes, travel, and fellow artists around herself. She also hopes to inspire young artists in the classroom in the future to explore and develop a good sense in aesthetic and creativity.

Natalie Flinchum is currently a freshman at

UNC Charlotte majoring in Art, Digital Media and minoring in Music Performance on flute. Most of her time is spent drawing, playing flute or ukulele, watching cartoons, and wishing she was getting more sleep. In the future, she plans to pursue a career in the animation industry and compose short songs to go along with her animations. INSTAGRAM:@natalieflinchum.art

Natasha Morehouse is a Junior at UNC

Charlotte. She is a BFA major with a double concentration in Graphic Design and Digital Media. She enjoys photography as well and mainly focuses on living creatures as her subject. Born in Charlotte, NC and raised in Durham, Philip Cherry is an artist who works to combine the playfulness of imagination and the importance of culture through his work while hiding subliminal statements on social issues using complex imagery and symbolism.

Sheree Davidson is a confident, highly creative

artist who is self-motivated and takes great pride in creating visually stunning designs. Sheree’s passion for art and design began when she was young, and she’s continued to develop her skills since. She is also currently a student at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte pursuing a Bachelor of Art.

Sierra Miles is a freshman at UNCC

majoring in Art Education and intends to minor in Mathematics. She works with a range of mediums and most enjoys creating installation pieces. Sierra enjoys spending time soaking up the world and watching interactions among people. She often spends her afternoons outside placed upon her pink and orange tie-dye cloth letting the time fly and the people pass around her.

Stephen Garza is a student attending the

University of North Carolina at Charlotte. He is currently interested greatly in photography, specifically large format film. Traveling and capturing people and their experiences is one of his favorite topics, as well as remarkable landscapes showing simple and poetic nature. He was recently published in Photographer’s Forum - Best of College & High School 2018 as a finalist.

Teresa Lopez is a senior at UNCC

pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Illustration and a minor in Art History. She enjoys illustrating animals and nature as well as doing fun, stylized work aimed towards younger audiences. She is currently trying to learn how to play the banjo.

Yesika Sorto Andino is a junior

studying political science, public health, children’s literature and childhood studies. An aspiring United Nations diplomat, Yesika hopes to one day work in Geneva to combat injustices occurring throughout the world. When she is not contemplating the complexities of life, she is watching The West Wing while eating chocolate and drinking sweet tea.

Literature Judges Amy Bagwell is a poet and mixed-media artist. Her poems are recently/ forthcoming

in the following publications: storySouth, The Eyewear Review, where is the river, Terminus Magazine, and Vallum: Contemporary Poetry. She co-directs the nonprofit Wall Poems mural project and Goodyear Arts residency program in Charlotte, where she also teaches English at Central Piedmont Community College.

Elizabeth R. Miller (Ph.D., University of Wisconsin-Madison) is an associate professor

in the Department of English at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Her research has explored the intersecting influences of identity, agency, power relations, and language ideologies on adult immigrant learners of English as well as issues related to identity, agency and emotions among language teachers. She has published a research monograph, numerous journal articles and chapters, and co-edited several edited volumes and special issues.

Christopher Davis is a professor of creative writing in the English Department at UNC

Charlotte. He is the author of three books of poetry, The Tyrant of the Past and the Slave of the Future, The Patriot, and A History of the Only War. His poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies.

Art Judges Lauren Harkey, as owner and director of Hodges Taylor, an art gallery founded in 1980, Lauren is committed to building appreciation for contemporary art and artists. A Charlotte-native, Harkey serves on the board of several community organizations including the Mint Museum of Craft and Design. Lauren earned her master’s in contemporary art from the University of Glasgow and her undergraduate and law degrees from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

Mark I. West is a Professor of English and Chair of the Department of

English at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, where he has taught since 1984. He has also served as the Acting Chair of the Department of Art and Art History. In addition to performing administrative duties, he regularly teaches courses on children’s and young adult literature. He has written or edited sixteen books, the most recent of which is Shapers of American Childhood: Essays on Visionaries from L. Frank Baum to Dr. Spock to J. K. Rowling, which he co-edited with Kathy Merlock Jackson. His articles have appeared in various national publications, such as the New York Times Book Review, Publishers Weekly, Americana, and British Heritage, as well as many academic journals. Before entering academia, he worked as an early childhood educator and professional puppeteer.

Ashley York was born in Lincolnton, North Carolina where the rural landscape in which

she was raised has continued to inspire and inform concepts in her work. She received her MFA in Ceramics from Tyler School of Art and earned her BFA in Sculpture from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She returned for an exhibition entitled Verve and a lecture of her work. York has been exhibited nationally in venues including Katzen Art Center in DC, The Clay Studio of Philadelphia and the annual National Council on Education for the Ceramic Arts conference. For two years she served as the Ceramics Emerging Artist in Residence at Millersville University of Pennsylvania. Her work, research, and writings have been featured in several publications, including Photography: History and Theory by Jae Emerling. In 2018, York began teaching Introductory and Advanced Ceramics at Rutgers University of New Jersey. York currently lives and works in Philadelphia, PA where she teaches Digital Fabrication at Moore College of Art and Design and manages the development, curriculum and integration of Digital Technology.

Staff Biographies Editor-in-Chief: Melissa Martin Junior.

English, psychology, linguistics, and cognitive Science. When not reading books for class, Melissa can be found reading books for fun. She aims to work for Sesame Workshop, the nonprofit behind Sesame Street, researching bestpractices for educating children through media.

Lead Designer: Ashley Jung Junior.

Illustration and painting. If not in her studio painting, then you can find her running around, drinking copious amounts of coffee. One day in the distant future, she would like to become some kind of artist.

Content-Editor: Austin Demeglio

Junior. English and diverse literatures and cultures. Austin hopes to one day be a published novelist; until then, he spends a lot of time reading, playing video games, and being in tune with the universe.

Associate Editor: Sierra Beeler Senior.

English, film, and women’s and gender studies. Sierra aspires to one day monopolize an entire weeknight with her own slew of TV shows more popular than anything Shonda Rhimes could ever make. They will most likely be cartoons similar to Steven Universe.

Designer: Carolina Quintana Ocampo

Sophomore. Illustration, digital media, and Japanese. When not at the studio working on awesome projects, Carolina indulges in one of her favorite hobbies: watching cartoons like Star vs the Forces of Evil and Voltron. One day she wishes to create a show that’ll make an impact just like the ones she loves to watch.

Designer: Danielle Renee Walden Freshman.

Illustration. Danielle, an avid anime lover, enjoys creative writing, reading webcomics, doing yoga, and studying French. Her main goal is to create amazing stories to share with people in the hopes that they can be as inspired as she is when viewing others’ artworks.

Content-Editor: Andrew Walker Watson

Sophomore. International studies. Andrew loves Brazilian rap music, discovering useless facts, and, naturally, writing. If he could ever stop staring out into space, he would like to start a global movement to change the world and guest host Saturday Night Live.

Content-Editor: Meenakshi Sathish

Sophomore. English and women’s and gender studies. She is pretty much your neighborhood Gilmore girl with the amounts of coffee and books she imbibes on a daily basis. She aspires to be a hot-shot lawyering it up like Amal Clooney or working for a publishing company.

Promotions Coordinator: Sydney Wall

Sophomore. Art history and French. Sydney loves binge watching Friends, traveling around the world, and talking about art for hours. She aspires to own an art gallery in New York City that is known for their specialty hot chocolates.

Intern: Daviana Fraser Senior. Communications,

Africana studies, and journalism. Daviana is a North Carolina native and spends her free time binge watching Netflix series, surrounding herself with friends, and painting. Yellow is her favorite color to look at, but not to wear.

Intern: Patrick Ryan Bowman Junior.

Illustration and art history. Patrick has a passion for drawing and making deals. Although he is only a pizza delivery-man, or “Delivery Expert,” he spends his spare time making money on the side. If he is criticizing an art piece, it will likely be his own. We’d also like to give a special shout-out to our amazing volunteers: Yesika, Elissa, Daniel, Meghana, and Liam. The office and this issue would not have been the same without your hard work and dedication.

Thank You CONTRIBUTORS: Thank you all for choosing us to showcase your amazing work. Without you all, this magazine would not be possible. VOLUNTEERS: Thank you all for all your help putting this magazine together. We wouldn’t be here without any of you. WAYNE MAIKRANZ: Thank you for your support and the helpful advice you gave us along the way. KELLY DUDDEN: Thank you for your patience in answering our constant stream of questions and for always having such a positive attitude. JOSHUA WOOD: Thank you for always coming to us in our time of need and not judging us for tainting your magazine. KELLY MERGES: Thank you for your help with circulation and for encouraging us to showcase Sanskrit to the world. LAURIE CUDDY: Thank you for being a wonderful Business Manager and an important part of Student Niner Media. ART + LITERATURE JURY: Thank you for dedicating your time to helping us pick the very best work to feature in Sanskrit. WALLACE PRINTING: Thank you for taking our idea and turning it into a reality. Without your team, there would be no printed verison of this magazine. STUDENT UNION ART GALLERY: Thank for coordinating with us to display this year’s art and literature and for creating an amazing exhibit. JANITORS OF THE STUDEN UNION: Thank you for always keeping the office clean and pristine. STUDENTS OF UNC CHARLOTTE, SHFC + READERS: Thank you for all of your support and interest in our work. We hope you enjoyed this issue. FAMILY, FRIENDS + LOVED ONES: Thank you for supporting our hard work and encouraging us to follow our passions. We love you! TO ALL of our incredible and dedicated staff members and volunteers, thank you! We have all worked very hard to put forth another beautifully-made publication of Sanskrit. We have come a long way from our inital literature read-throughs and our calls for submissions. We should all be proud. Congratulations on an awesome job well done!

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Literary-Arts Magazine were printed on 100# McCoy Silk text. The cover was printed on

100# Solar White Linen Cover. This magazine contains 110 pages, with a trim size of 6 x 9 inches.

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CREDITS: Packaging Design: Carolina Quintana Ocampo Cover Design: Danielle Renee Walden Artwork Design: All Designers

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University of North Carolina Charlotte

Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine Volume 50

Articles inside

Appendix

A Trick for Finding What You’ve Lost by Edison Angelbello

The Squirrel Olympics by Kiera Haberberger

Out of Kansas by George Rawlins

The Car Counter by Alessio Zanelli

The Butcher’s Arm by D. Ferrara

“I have set before you life and death...” by Samantha Holt

Self-Love by Danielle Walden

A Cockroach Story by Andrew Adams

The Obseveratory on a Partly Cloudy Night by Edison Angelbello

Postcard from Limbo by Aaron Buchanan

Native Echoes by Michél Claudio

Laundry Day by Jarrett Moseley

Click by Alexsis Luciano

Mother’s Edge by Claire Scott

Cinderella in Ashes by Samantha Holt