Nova Literary-Arts Magazine, Vol. 53 by NinerMedia

—GILLES DELEUZE

1 970

Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine is established.

1 9 87

Sanskrit receives its first Gold Crown Award from Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

1990

1 9 97

Sanskrit organizes its first literary festival.

A special issue of Sanskrit celebrating the five senses is published. This issue features an audio CD of poetry and music, scented ink, and a poetic phrase in braille embossed on the cover.

20 09

Sanskrit receives its 15th Gold Crown Award from Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

201 9

2021

Sanskrit celebrates its 50th anniversary.

Centered around divination, this year’s issue of Sanskrit includes a set of three illustrated Tarot cards for an individualized reading.

202 2

Sanskrit is renamed to Nova Literary-Arts Magazine.

Since its initial launch in 1970, Sanskrit has become a nationally recognized and award-winning literary-arts magazine. Our staff annually produces a curated issue of contributions from artists at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte and around the world, putting creative work on the radar for others to interact with and consume; however, our publication’s name was chosen during a time in which the university had a much smaller and less diverse student population. Since then, on many occasions while promoting the magazine on campus, our staff has met a significant number of people who picked up a copy of the magazine, expecting it to relate to Hinduism or South-Asian culture, and were rather confused to discover it is dedicated to literature and the arts. Sanskrit is an ancient Indo-Aryan language used in Hindu texts, including the sacred Vedas. Because of its long historical and religious significance, we feel that it is not appropriate to continue using Sanskrit as a title. As we move into a more socially-conscious era, we must consider the cultural implications of borrowing ideas from other cultures and traditions, including this student publication’s historical name. This is why after extensive survey and discussion with students, professors and alumni, we have decided it is necessary for the magazine to adopt a more culturally-open and intuitive title: Nova. We are thrilled for this next chapter of the magazine and believe Nova will spark excitement among a growing readership and will strive to be more socially aware in its involvement in the arts and literary scene on campus. We give gratitude to our predecessors for the effort and dedication that went into producing each volume of this publication. We intend to honor the legacy that you have worked so hard to establish.

III

In the spirit of creative innovation, we welcome you to Nova.

Letter from the

Editor

DEAR READER

A nova is an astronomical event in which the matter of one star

mingles with a neighboring star, creating a flash of fusion and a dramatic burst of brightness.The interaction of these star bodies births an ethereal luminance, much like how art and literature enlighten us to new ideas. My staff and I chose Nova as our magazine’s title because it carries the significance of ideas being sparked across artists and writers.

Constellations are celestial coordinates—memory aids that help us make sense of the night sky. Individual stars take on new meaning when organized into constellations. The works of art and writing in this magazine, placed in a group context, generate new understandings in relation and opposition to one another. Artists are pulling from the past and regenerating old ideas into new star bodies. Along with the introduction of a new title, our magazine varies in style and form this year, but we nevertheless present this volume with the same intention that has guided our publication for 53 years—to give space for creative impulses to breathe. We received nearly five hundred art and writing submissions this year. This volume is the effort of five hundred stars colliding into one stellar event. Although we were not able to include every submission, the spirit of those works is present within these pages. At the core of Nova is the aim to expose emerging and established artists who are composing new realities within their respective medium and giving a new gravity to existing notions and traditions. These selected works provide a lens through which one can view each artist’s encounter with the empirical world and the greater cosmos. While interweaving simple and complex narratives—with topics ranging from mortality and the human condition to creation itself—the artworks presented here simultaneously eclipse and magnify older traditions, giving birth to new understandings and aspirations toward the sublime. Art and literature have the ability to redefine how we think about events. They are transformative mediums that can open us up to change if we allow them. I hope that within these pages you will discover the heart and soul of our countless artists, and that you can grasp onto those discoveries and take them with you wherever you may venture.

K E L LY G I L B E R T

Table of Constellations 8

POETRY

In the Wake of a Dream MADISON BR ADBURN

Travelers

Frenemies

Pretty Boys//Handsome Girls

One Who Keeps Tearing Around, One Who Can’t Move

Sister

K Dot

MILLICENT READ

SENA LOR

MIGUEL WILSON

KIM HAMBURG

ANNABEL MARSHALL

KENNY SERR ANO ELIZALDE

Goodbye CATHERINE SAW YERS

Self Portrait

Twilight

Untitled Surrealism

Elsewhere

EMMA CATHEY

JOHN WEIL

NIAR A MATTHEWS

LAUR A ALLEN

SHORT STORIES

The Daily Life of a College Student

May You Read These Words

Drops and Thoughts

Hues of Gold

Parallels and Perspectives

Walt

Freckled

Grey

It’s Not a Movie

To the Poems I Never Remember

NANCY LOR

JULIANNA PERES

UMA CHAVALI

ALEXANDER BEETS

UMA CHAVALI

BR ANDON MITCHELL

LISA MIRISOLA

KEELY BR ADY

WOAH

RIVER CASTLE

Untitled

Untitled 2

ASLIN CHAVARRIA AYALA

ARTWORK

A Walk at Dusk ALESSIO ZANELLI

Showered

Stream of Fish

Orange Juice

The A

For the Win

DONDA

Adolescence’s Cusp

51 52 60

ASHLEY CHOI

JOSH MEGSON

MILLICENT READ

ANDREW WALKER WATSON

NOAH ATWOOD

MADISON BR ADBURN

Mormow Row, Moose, WY ETHAN GALLAGHER

Conversations: Star Devourer and Moon Conjurer MADISON BR ADBURN

Separated BRYCE PUCKETT

Melancholia GABRIELLE BRYANT

Breaking Antiquity

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Her

I Saw God Last Night

SYDNEY CARMER

MADISON BR ADBURN

HANNAH PERMENTER

Innocence Lives LAUREN BYRNE

Hush

Sublime

Hold: Breath is Not the Opposite of Suffocation

Too Bright

Suburban Moving Company

Skull Study

ZAINAB ELR AHAL

RHIAN PARKER

MONIQUE DELAGEY

ISABELLA JUSTINIANO

JAZMYN MCCALLUM

Speak Again

PowerPuff Girls - Bubbles

Ants

Lungs Study

MAYA OSAK A

NICK R AMIREZ

MONIQUE DELAGEY

JAZMYN MCCALLUM

Snowdrift Sleep MADISON BAER

Swinging Life Away

Passing Time

Among the Books

Capybara Onsen

The First Breath

Consume Me

JADE SUSZEK

MARNIE K ASTORIAN

NANCY LOR

HANNAH PERMENTER

RHIAN PARKER

BETHANY BATES

Rain Through the Night

Champion

Reasons

Working Class

Frost

Higher Self

Where Bodies Come From

101

BIBHU PADHI

LYSANDER RICHARDSON

LAUREN BYRNE

BETHANY BATES

THOMAS ARENDSHORST

ASIA HANON

REMY LUCIEN

City Study NIAR A MATTHEWS

102

Blood on the Ice

104

Mi Modo: The Test

105

Conviction

ALEXANDER BEETS

CAROLINA QUINTANA OCAMPO

BR AYDEN LEACH

VII

In the Wake of a Dream MADISON BRADBURN

SHORT STORIES

She’d read somewhere, in an old national park brochure, that caves are alive. Like people, caves breathe. They have thoughts. They have dreams. They are whole bodies, existing with all that entails. To go into a cave was to go somewhere she wasn’t wanted. The earth made it abundantly clear. Humans were not meant to be underground, just as they weren’t meant to dive to the bottom of the ocean or to pull out the fish that live in trenches and liquify to jelly upon contact with the open air. That’s what got Catlynn into spelunking. She wanted to be somewhere she wasn’t wanted. She wanted the swell of pride that came from exploring the earth, from surviving when the cave wanted nothing to do with her. Hands tightening around the straps of her canvas bag, she took a deep breath of summer air. The world fell off not twenty feet from where she stood, the mountains giving way to a bowl valley filled with fog so thick you’d think you were looking out over a lake. It would be burned off by mid-morning, the June heat evaporating into the air only for the water to come crashing down in the daily afternoon rainstorm. The Appalachian Mountains were nearly 480 million years old making it one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world. They existed before bones. It was something Catlynn could hardly wrap her head around. It was a place where many of the caves didn’t have fossils simply because nothing was around to die. The cave to her back made its presence known over her shoulders in a tingle that ran claws up the back of her neck, settling at the base of her skull. Ester’s Web. When she’d first begun spelunking, she’d hiked out to Ester. Inexperienced and ill equipped, Catlynn had dove into the cave not far from a small place called Panthertown that was known for its gorgeous hiking trails and the small, sleepy town at the trailhead. Most spelunkers went in teams of four or more, keeping their numbers even so everyone had a buddy, but Catlynn had never worked well in teams. Raised several miles up a rural holler she had what her mom called a sadistic streak, a lack of empathy and a stubborn independence. When she crawled back to the surface triumphant, she wanted the air in her lungs to be her own. The sweat pressing her bangs to her forehead, Catlynn wanted to earn that alone. She smiled, knowing that the grin would only be wider when she came clambering back later in the day, Ester’s Web finally defeated and set decidedly behind her. Ester had beaten Catlynn the first time, frightened her off with a squeeze so tight she’d sworn she’d turn thin as a worm pushing through. Not this time though. Catlynn was far more experienced now. This time, she had dozens of caves under her belt and equipment she knew better than she knew herself.

SHORT STORIES

The entrance to Ester was small, about the size of a coyote’s den, requiring her to get down and slide feet first into the ground. She’d stuck a stick in earlier to check and make sure nothing seemed to be living inside but the first step into a cave always made her nervous. It would be just her luck to piss off a bear or sit on a rattlesnake. The first slide was an easy one, a six foot or so descent at an angle that reminded her of a kiddie slide at a public park, the sort that shocks you with static electricity. About halfway down she flicked her headlamp on, washing the cave in the warm glow of its yellow bulb. Pulling her map from her pocket as she stepped into the starting alcove, Catlynn poured over the details, following thick ink lines down across the page. Ester’s Web was not a fully explored cave system. Her goal was first to move past “The Beak”, the squeeze that had frightened her off years ago then make her way through an area marked “Traveler’s Rest”. From there she would descend through a drop pit and into the deeper system. There was a second squeeze at the bottom of the drop that other spelunkers had boorishly named “The Birth Canal” that no one had managed to push through. Catlynn had rolled her eyes when she’d first seen the name. She couldn’t count how many caves had a section named “The Birth Canal”. A sliver of light passed over the entrance to The Beak an hour later. Looking at it Catlynn wondered why it had ever frightened her. She’d seen far worse now. Stepping up to the long, slender tear in Ester’s belly. Catlynn grinned. She wouldn’t even have to take her pack off to get through. Turning sideways, she stuck both of her arms out straight, side stepping into the squeeze. The cave rose to meet her, wrapping around her body like an old friend, a sensation that twisted its way into her. The walls slid under her fingers, across the rises and falls in her palms in greeting. Catlynn felt her eyes lose focus, the blur of the small cracks and fissures, the changes in mineral composites, all blending a few centimeters from her nose as she shuffled forward. The sounds of her bag scraping against the rock behind her filled her ears, scratching and popping like radio static. Breathing out she let her eyes slip closed, the merging shapes of Ester falling away as she sank into the moment. This was real. Her alone in the cave was real and tangible in a way nothing else could ever dream of being. The Beak let her go.

It stretched open, walls splaying until they no longer embraced her, leaving her at the entrance to the Traveler’s Rest. She felt all at once freed and horridly bare. Looking down at herself she found her pants, shirt, and jacket near drenched from the humidity and small streams of water inside The Beak. As if she stepped from a shower she’d decided to take clothed, Catlynn felt more exposed than she would have had she been naked. Goosebumps crawled up her arms, tensing in her shoulders. Glancing back, she stared at the long hallway she had come from. She had beaten it, had thrown Ester’s efforts to frighten her back in its face and yet, she hadn’t felt scared or rejected while inside. She’d felt at home. The earth was a place that did not want you. The earth chewed you up, said without a doubt that it was not constructed or made with humans in mind. And yet Ester waved at her in reunion. Ester, who had denied her before, who had plagued her dreams with the ache of failure.

SHORT STORIES

Catlynn looked away from the squeeze, another distinct shiver running through her as if she was experiencing an earthquake of her own. All caves were real, but that feeling of presence of true existence came from the danger of the plunge, not from the stone itself. She pressed her feet down into the mud and silt beneath her boots, moving her legs a moment later to see the imprint of the grips on the underside. She’d run away from The Beak years ago so why didn’t she feel defiant having pushed through now? Maybe she’d hyped herself up too much. It wouldn’t be the first time. Standing, Catlynn pulled her map out again to make sure she headed off in the right direction. She had dwelled on The Beak for far too long, both in the years before and while taking a short break. She didn’t owe Ester the time. The next landmark on her map was a drop pit, estimated to stretch nearly three hundred feet downwards. She’d rappelled down further. Hell, she’d scrambled down further, shoes biting into the stone to send bits of sediment raining. It wasn’t a far hike, crystals glittering off the walls as she walked across the sloped floor. Reaching out, she plucked one, pocketing it. They were white, stiff little things, thin and cut at awkward angles. They reminded Catlynn of needle ice sticking up from the ground in clear miniscule towers, dressing the earth up in white hair. They’d glitter on her shelves at home later, a reminder of her success over Ester, gathering sun-soaked window dust. The light in front of her dipped down, the ground below giving way to leave her beam suspended and arcing over the edge of the pit as she arrived at it. She stepped close, wondering how far she could lean until she tumbled end over end. How long would it take to fall to the bottom? Would she be lucid enough through the fear to appreciate the sensation? She kicked a rock over, listening to it ricochet off the walls of the pit, careening downwards until with an echoing splash it landed. The sound rung up around Catlynn as if she were a glass an opera singer was practicing their scales on. The water at the bottom hadn’t been listed on the map. Although, that could have been because Ester’s Web was fairly unexplored. If no one had come this far during the rainy season it was unlikely they would have been met with the pool. She’d be sure to record the information later. For now, she set to pulling out her rappelling equipment. A couple feet from the pit she drove a stake into the ground where it wouldn’t come loose, swinging her hammer down hard to wedge the iron spike into the dirt. Looping her ropes and rings around it, she tugged to make sure it would hold. Satisfied, Catlynn pulled on her harness, tightening the straps around her legs and waist until she was comfortable with the fit clipping into her belay device with a carabiner before slinging her bag over her shoulders. The beginning of a descent was always the hardest part, standing at the edge and looking down, wondering if her spike would hold. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. Catlynn pushed off, fell through the dark in a glide, wind pushing against her back and through the strands of her long hair that peaked out around her helmet. The rope slid through her gloved left hand, around her back, over the belay device, and then through the fingers clenched loosely around it on her right. She fell until the rope above her tightened, the spike catching to send her sailing forward in a half arc. Catlynn bent her knees, legs spread to the size of her shoulders and let the wall of the pit come up to greet her.

The Birth Canal opened about seventy feet away, Catlynn spotting it at the edge of the pool, water slipping down into it in a rush of motion. Shifting her bag to the front of her body Catlynn carefully approached the opening where the current swept at her legs, beckoning her closer still. She stared at the canal, entranced. The water frothing at the edges amplified in her vision, eating it up to static and a sound that rang louder with each moment in her ears. Didn’t the earth hate her? Didn’t Ester want to chew her up and spit her out like it had before? Catlynn shook her head, breath catching for a moment before her ribs expanded graciously. She’d forgotten to breathe. Shocked back to reality, she unzipped her bag, rummaging her shaking fingers through the folds until she found a second stake and her hammer. A squeeze like this would be impossible to get back through on her own. Once her stake was secure, she tied off new set of rope, fixing it to her belay and harness before tossing the extra length down the canal. Sitting down in the water, Catlynn held her rope tight, giving it a tug to make sure it would hold as she used it to guide herself down the rushing river. With a deep breath she set off, sliding over the lip and into the dark. The world blurred around her, shifting with the current before she was able to slow. Her rope clinked against her belay and carabiners, the sound of the metal jingling assuring her that safe. The water shoved at her back, insistent that she lose her hold. Catlynn dug her feet into the floor. She was in control. The canal grew tighter the further she went, wrapping in around her as The Beak had, and the water, funneled through the diminishing space, pushed harder and faster still. Catlynn braced herself on the walls, pushed up against the current and strained. Could she climb back up this? Shouldn’t she retreat while there was still a chance to? She shook off the thoughts. She had her rope and her wits.

SHORT STORIES

The rush of satisfaction swelled through her and she laughed, her happiness circling around her in an echo, distorted and older than when it had left. She listened to it rise from below, sounding different on its way back and inviting as if to ask what she was waiting for. Around her, stalactites dripped down the walls. Long, sharp outcroppings of rocks taking shape to let water run down their sides and spiral to the pool below. As she looked around, it seemed as if she were caught in a rainstorm. When Catlynn landed she found the pool to be deeper than expected, rising midway up her thighs. It was a light blue where here headlamp caught it, different in hue than the water she was used to seeing outside and far clearer. Out on the Nantahala, river jocks liked to pass sayings between each other and one lesson that Catlynn had picked up over the years was that it was best to get things over with. She crouched down. Letting the water rise quickly over her body until she dunked her head under. Rafters did the same. They let their bodies adjust to the cold all at once so they didn’t have to worry about the chill as they made their way down river. Catlynn wondered if there were any fish in the pool. If this one was only here during the rainy season, then she doubted it. Although, she had seen quite a few oddities on her adventures. She’d seen salamanders the size of toddlers and catfish the size of cars. Not far from here there was a cascade that sunk so far into the earth scientists could not find the bottom and a set of twin circles carved from nothing in a nearby stream, round pools catching the full moon perfectly between their lines.

She didn’t need anything else. This was nothing. This was child’s play. Ester wasn’t about to win this. Not again. She’d gotten too far to give up and turn around, to get scared. Catlynn was better than that. Moving further, Catlynn let the rope through her fingers at an increasing pace. Traversing the canal was simple. It was as easy as slipping down a waterslide on a hot summer’s day, as thoughtless as sinking into a hug. Ester was embracing her again, as Catlynn sank lower, as the canal grew steeper and smaller by the second. Convinced that she would win, Catlynn let the rope out faster still. She allowed herself to enjoy the fall. The wind and water rushed past as she hurtled forward.

SHORT STORIES

A bump in the ceiling, a stalactite half formed, smacked against her helmet cracking the headlamp there and plunging her into darkness. Catlynn gasped. The shock of the sudden darkness caused the rope to fly through her fingers uncontrolled until, with a painful jolt, she stopped herself. Her wrists, elbows, and shoulders screamed with the jerk. She shouldn’t have gotten careless. Control, or the illusion of it, tore itself from her grasp as she realized how far she’d let herself spiral downwards. She pressed her face into her balled up hands, teeth gritting so hard she thought they might shatter under the pressure. “Calm down, calm down,” she repeated in a quiet mantra to herself, eyes closed tightly. A deep, slow breath pressed its way into her lungs as she forced herself to take stock of the situation. She needed to leave. She had to. Somehow. Her equipment had been damaged, and the current was stronger than ever as the canal shrank until it was just her in the tiny squeeze. Water pushed her so hard her spine cracked with the force and with her next ragged breath, she lost her footing. She was shoved downwards, rope rushing through her fingertips and belay until it was gone but that hardly mattered, she couldn’t have climbed back up the current if she’d tried and she knew that. Stupid pride sending her down here! Stupid adrenaline rush addiction, hubris, whatever you wanted to call it. What did she have to show for it? The walls of The Birth Canal scraped against her legs, her sides, her arms, but she didn’t slow. The water behind her urged her through, letting the walls shred the sides of her pants and push her shirt up to expose her skin. Catlynn screamed, the first true scream she’d ever given. Pain and terror filled her as the walls ate at her skin, scrapes turning to cuts and crimson skid marks that were swallowed down by the water. Back in high school, she’d seen pictures of motorcyclists thrown onto the road like lake skipping stones. In those gruesome scare tactic photographs the road had torn their leather pants and jackets down to the flesh. In one particularly horrid instance the teacher had shown a man whose skull looked as if it had been held to a grindstone, bone and brain polished to a flat angle. Even without seeing, Catlynn knew her legs weren’t much better. The earth was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. She knew that. That was why she liked spelunking. She craved that feeling of trespassing, of invading a body and walking away.

Catlynn would let her! She would let her chew her up spit her up; would let Ester scare her off. She didn’t care why Ester hated her. Catlynn couldn’t even remember now why it had mattered in the first place. Thoughts twisted in on themselves, rapidly losing coherency the longer time hurled itself through her aching body, down with the torrent of water. She wanted to go back. Catlynn wanted her rope in her hands and for the pain to go away. She wanted to stand on the ridge and watch it rain so why…why was the earth taking her in? Why was the water pushing so hard? Why had it allowed her to slip against the cave walls? Why had it insisted she lose her rope, her lamp? Her control? She couldn’t go back. She knew that. Ester knew that. Ester had taken the ability to leave from her and was now pulling her closer into her embrace with every passing moment. For as long as Catlynn had spent thinking the earth hated her, for as much pain as Catlynn could feel in her shrinking body she could also feel Ester curling around her with a covetousness that squeezed across her form and held her in a way nothing ever had. The Beak had waved to her fingers and palms like an old friend. Now, further in, more acquainted with Ester, her hands smearing blood across the walls, Catlynn waved back. Ester was here around her and her arms were open. Tears bubbled up, catching in her throat and she smiled and laughed in a hitching mess of a voice because Ester didn’t hate her, and she never had. Ester loved her. Ester had waited for her. She hadn’t let anyone this far in. She had scared everyone else off, had made sure no one came to where she was leading Catlynn, where she wanted Catlynn, where she needed her.

SHORT STORIES

The earth hated her; Ester hated her. Ester wanted to vomit her up.

Ester had missed her. Catlynn could feel it. She could feel the whole wide scope of Ester. She was the bottomless cascade and the pools that caught the full moon in their round eyes. Ester was old. Ester was as old as these mountains, older than humans, older than bones. Her spine was the ridge line, her fingers the root of every tree and flower, every ivy and blade of grass, her organs the caves. They were her heart, her lungs, her stomach, and here in her birth canal, Catlynn laid back. They weren’t friends. Catlynn had misinterpreted Ester’s waves, her soft, quiet, loving gestures. No. As Catlynn felt the wall above her press against her nose and drag the skin and cartilage away to polish her down, she closed her eyes and came home to her mother.

Travelers MILLICENT READ

ARTWORK

Frenemies SENA LOR

Pretty Boys//Handsome Girls MIGUEL WILSON i walk home with keys in one hand something half empty in the other and my heart trailing behind me yes, nowhere near my sleeve. you see my incompleteness as you rip up the seeds i’ve planted and flood my nascent garden i know there’s power in what has not been done. i’m thinking of folds still waiting to be creased honey still forming in hives and me finding you at my feet

POETRY

from the look in your eyes

with one sneaky invisible dotted line i make sure i stand on both sides. and like clockwork your hand seeks what you won’t find. now nothing is everywhere because you wish for a sliver a portion of what i don’t possess. what a marvel for you how it can be here today

and gone tomorrow.

what language exists for life lived outside these bounds? there are no words, but still i have a story to tell. has anyone earned this? does anyone want this? what i so willingly aim to share out on empty rooftops or cracked sidewalks and those spaces i don’t belong but still go to feel alone so if you catch a glimpse, one of me tiptoeing away from your gaze with my once valuable contents lost along the way collect what you wish to carry

POETRY

but know there is one thing you cannot ever take something that doesn’t yet have a name and i assure you, that is the one thing yes, up my sleeve.

One Who Keeps Tearing Around, One Who Can’t Move

ARTWORK

KIM HAMBURG

Sister ANNABEL MARSHALL In the morning I sit beside myself And think of you We will not speak for months

In the tongue of my mother I ask you to jump over your own shadow You cannot abide

After all, You are shorter than me

POETRY

Your roots more firmly in the earth Mine have always grown above ground

I can neither stay nor go now A bird with a string tied to its claw I am flown like a kite

Moons waned hang over us Our ages have grown closer and further again I could almost laugh at how

My hair curls nearly the same as yours Although yours was raised on barbershop compliments And mine on spite and bleach And hoping I would not grow into my mother

I miss the cold of the other country (I need not bare her name) In the summer here we bay like caged dogs

I wonder if you still remember it as I do Growing up on days in the field Plucking wheat between forefinger and thumb

I remember wandering home in the wet dark Lost and unafraid Up stone paths and down dirt roads Here no rain falls until your birthday

I miss the days when Church was ninety-four steps from the front door (One hundred and ten for you)

Everything is louder here Except the clang of monastery bells

On Sundays we’d pull on our least favorite clothes And listen to the choir sing solemn You never quite learned the words Though I held the book open for you

POETRY

So I wear a watch and think of where to run next

We will not speak again for months Until I hover over you name And think, with agitation

Maybe the sins of the past are forgotten Only when there is plenty future to shroud them When days ahead eclipse those bygone

I’ll shovel my tomorrows on the pile Like sand against the tide Speak my name as a question

And I’ll answer with yours

K Dot KENNY SERRANO ELIZALDE

ARTWORK

Goodbye C AT H E R I N E S AW Y E R S We ate Krispy Kreme on her death bed smacked our lips after swallowing sugary glazed and chocolate drizzled and chased it down with too dark coffee to douse the pain.

of the always-on television and the pale sun pouring into the white lifeless room leaving the bitter drags and sweet crumbs

POETRY

We ignored the droning

to tang the air.

Self Portrait E M M A C AT H E Y

ARTWORK

Twilight

Through the window, my mom and I could see the spreading twilight. Blended pink shadows cloaked the neighborhood until within minutes, lit fireflies appeared above the front lawn as if wayward stars. On a breezy evening, the fireflies would float. We could watch them drift a hundred feet before righting themselves. But this evening, humidity dampened the air. As we walked outside the fireflies were close enough to touch. That was how I got the gleam in my eye, Mom insisted. From fireflies that came too close. We sat on the stoop to watch the changing colors. The morning had begun as just another day on rural Staten Island. Then it folded back languidly as other days had—like the pages of a library book laid flat to the left before closing the cover as if a setting sun. Soon I would return the book. Life was too short to read a library book twice when there were so many to read. Mom taught me to always look ahead. The past isn’t worth dwelling on, she said. On this night, Praying Mantises were several inches long on the lush green leaves of the bushes. Their legs seemed as thin as pins. Yet they were sturdy legs, always moving, kneading, touching and crossing over one another as each one picked at unseen things on the surface of the leaves. It was the time before the DDT trucks sprayed plumes of gray fog. Then the trucks rolled in on schedule. They were half the size of gasoline trucks. Every few hundred feet in the middle of the road, a driver opened the vents to release DDT. The gray chemical blanketed the road until the homes across the street disappeared from view. Mosquitoes—the intended target —died, but so did most everything else. But this night there were no trucks, no dead bugs, only the twilight, the fireflies, my mom and I, and the battered envelope that had arrived five nights before, still unopened. I imagined the envelope carried by square postal trucks, perhaps through mountain passes, perhaps not, until it reached the little post office in the village not five miles away. There it sat for two weeks until delivered to our home by the same postman with the little mustache who had for the past thirty years delivered mail to our house. He had placed it in our mailbox face up. So the moment my mom opened the box, her eyes settled uncomfortably on the handwriting. It was from my father. The man I hardly knew who had abandoned us five years ago when I was just seven years old. His father had abandoned him, too. Mom told me it was during the Great Depression. Apparently, many men overwhelmed by job loss and the inability to feed their families abandoned them during the depression. But unbeknownst to my dad, his father had only moved nine miles away to the other side of Brooklyn. He had found a lifelong factory job. Never sent a dime home. Never contacted his wife or his son. My dad only found this out when the cemetery called to ask his mom if she wanted to pay for a headstone.

SHORT STORIES

JOHN WEIL

SHORT STORIES

My dad’s letter was now in the center of our kitchen table, propped up against the saltshaker. Dad had not included a return address. He had simply written his name so mom would know it was not junk mail. On the way out the door to walk to elementary school I always touched the envelope. It made me feel as if I was touching his hand. I barely remembered what it was like to hold his hand or to be hugged by him. I barely remembered the good times. Mom and dad argued often. He had spent very little time with me. But I knew he was there. He was a tall, impossibly lean guy with spindly arms that never stilled, yet to me as a child he was a big man with a big presence. I’d seen pictures of his dad and they looked pretty similar. For two weeks, mom ignored my pleas to open the envelope. Finally, with a hand on my shoulder, she said, you must learn to forget. It’s the only way to get by. Believe me when I tell you that. For me, this letter was way different. Every waking moment I wondered what was inside the envelope. Was it a letter of apology? Did he want to see me? Did he want to come home? I glanced at the penmanship on the envelope. His hand was not steady. Especially the ‘y’, wavy like his hair had been. Was he sick? Or did he always have poor penmanship? My mind came up with all kinds of questions. For two weeks, I was absorbed in the possible content of the envelope, most of it wishful thinking. Mom stared blankly at me when I begged her again to open it. It was clear that she was afraid that whatever dad had written would not be what she wanted to hear. And truthfully, I didn’t know what she wanted to hear. Then it happened. I came home from a friend’s house at twilight. I sped up the walk on my bicycle and skidded to a stop at the stoop. The DDT trucks must have come. Dead fireflies lay like plump ants on the walk. Those that survived flew weakly around my hair as if it were a nest. On the outside surface of our picture window a Praying Mantis was immobilized like a statue. As I watched, it began to slide down the glass, legs flailing, bright green head and long back slipping out of sight. Through a window to the kitchen I saw mom standing above the sink. In that brief moment, I thought I saw a surviving firefly in her hand. I was fascinated as I entered the house. But in her hand was a small flame. A match lay in the sink. The lit envelope appeared to have not been opened. Yet I couldn’t be absolutely certain.

Untitled Surrealism

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N I A R A M AT T H E W S

Elsewhere LAURA ALLEN Memories dance as the film flickers through bringing a warmth—an excitement—to their chests Their family of sorts watches as the years slip away Perhaps misplaced, but not forgotten

Warm restful sunshine stirs linens on a line A young girl and her mother plucking flowers for vases while the boys tower mud as a man watches on Hands in pockets, his chest reverberating with a lyric

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Heat prickles behind their necks, forcing them to swimsuits and to lounge by the creek catching minnows, frogs, polished stones Here he hums at the rim of the shore, knees aching as they bend Pocketing smooth pebbles, though why he does not know

Crisp air dusts the tops of trees and the backdrop of mountains A girl and her mother sweep leaves and twigs in silence while the boys line up smooth pebbles Somewhere he lays, cold beneath the earth and wilted flowers

Bitter winds blow shutters against brick, roots ripped from the earth A girl draws blankets and quilts while the boys boil water and spark a fire Their mother pulls his frock over her shoulders

But then pours his sweet honied voice through the crackle and static The dim room seems to fill and seep with light The spring flowers are back and the summer pebbles shine As if he had never been laid below the earth

Though the excitement dulls to ache as his voice retreats The film spins and sputters to an end delivering the room back to its dingy walls and their family of sorts misplaces, but does not forget

NANCY LOR

POETRY + ART

The Daily Life of a College Student

May You Read These Words JULIANNA PERES I wrote a love letter for the moon I realized the childishness of it Crumpled the notebook paper and Threw it up in the air, As high as I could and As far as I could. And a little tiny piece of me Crossed her fingers and Hoped that Somehow

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It would reach the moon.

Drops and Thoughts

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U M A C H AVA L I

Hues of Gold ALEXANDER BEETS I’ve recently fallen in love with the Sun, as I do most things of its nature. Radiant, brilliant, fleeting. One of the coldest days in November, I found myself mesmerized by it, glaring its radiance outwards to the infinite. I remember its warmth on my cheek as I laid against a brick wall, begging for the sun to stay, praying to a God I didn’t know. A beautiful sunset, hues of gold and a blazing orange, led into a beautiful night. The sun has not risen since.

I remember walking back that night, hopes shattered

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—splintering into an ornately intricate spider web, across cracked porcelain, trying desperately to suture the gaping chasm that’s taken hold in my chest.

There was a streetlight that I took shelter under that night, Hoping its illuminance could shelter me from the shades of black, blues, and weary… hungry greys —that were ever so closely lurking, with their ravenous mouths agape. Praying to gods they didn’t know, in hopes that I would fall prey. I took shelter under that streetlight many a day afterwards, on the days where I would wander until the calluses of my feet would crack —splintering from the miles I had walked for respite from thought.

Time inched on, eventually I learned to appreciate the streetlight’s glow. Casting divinity in place of a forsaken God… A forgotten God. Protecting me from the night and from perhaps… Myself.

There was another streetlight, much taller than the others. Striking its mightiest pose amidst the iced over road and its Pine trees. All of which were reaching out, stretching as high as possible, in their best effort to escape the frost’s chilling grasp. I remember driving down that road, gas pedal to the floor, heels hoping to die whilst my feet prayed to live. There it stood, this streetlight. A sole witness to this hypocritical conflict.

Now here I stand, in a place all too foreign to me. Under another streetlight, intricate lines and edges paving their way upwards —towards the crest that shines divinely over a road that’s not so desolate anymore. Though the night is always lurking… Always encroaching, in certain instances when the streetlight flickers, far out on the horizon over this vast expanse, through squints and slowly batting eyes, sometimes I can spot glistening rays of gold, orange, and purple.

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Ever mystifying… Ever illusive… Always radiant.

Parallels and Perspectives U M A C H AVA L I

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Walt

I grew up on a farm. Our house sat on the crest of a hill. A long, bumpy dirt road connected my family to the rest of civilization. Our pasture descended down the back side of our hill and was split into three sections. The first two were for grazing cattle. The third section, farthest from the house, was uneven and wooded. It was too dangerous for our animals but a place of adventure for my friends and me. We’d often wander down there to chase monsters or stage epic battles. Even after centuries of domestication, cows still try to hide themselves while giving birth. This is typically just a mild inconvenience. We drove across the fenced-off perimeter until we found the bit of shade that the mother deemed secure. Then, we kept an eye on her to make sure the process went smoothly. In a few hours, we’d have a new cow. One day, my dad noticed that Esther, our heifer, had gone missing. She had been plump for a while so we knew what was happening. We hopped in the truck and started our search. On our first drive through we saw nothing, but that wasn’t unusual. Cows can be surprisingly good at camouflage. Second time, still nothing. Concerns started rising, but it was too early to panic. My dad noticed something on the third round: the gate to the third section was unlatched. It wasn’t open wide enough for the average cow to notice, but Esther was an opportunist. We hopped out of the truck and started exploring the woods on foot. I can’t remember who found them first, but I remember what I saw. Esther had fallen down an embankment. Her legs were shattered, and she was barely clinging to life. She had spent almost all of her energy in a final effort to keep her lineage alive. The calf was lying beside her, covered in the fluids of life, unmoving. Death had won this time. My dad looked me right in the eyes. Without saying a single word, he made it clear that he wasn’t mad, but this was my fault. He walked back to the truck and grabbed his .22 from the back seat. My dad was never kind in the traditional sense. He was never one to say “I love you,” and I don’t think I ever received a hug from him that wasn’t heavily encouraged by my mother. But, out of everyone in my family, he was the one who spent the most time with me in adolescence. Even with his health issues and the work of running a farm, he found ways to connect with me. He always tried to encourage my curiosity and support my hobbies. My elementary school was pretty small. We maybe had 50 students total. Because of that, we didn’t have many clubs. Sports weren’t my thing, so that eliminated most of my options I did have. I remember being so excited when my school decided to start a 4-H gardening club. My dad was the only male parent there, and he showed up to every meeting with me. He even donated plants and passed on his agricultural knowledge when he could. One of my father’s many odd talents was his ability to find four-leaf clovers. I’ve found maybe two over the course of my entire life, but he would find them wherever he went. He would just stare down silently, and less than a minute later, he’d reach down and pluck one from patch. He wasn’t superstitious, and he never did it to brag. It was just something he did.

SHORT STORIES

BRANDON MITCHELL

SHORT STORIES

Every dad seems to have some secluded space where they pursue their interests away from their spouses. There’s many different names for this place, but my dad’s was “the shop.” He liked keeping things simple. It was a long building made of two-by-fours and red sheet metal. Half of the building became storage for my mother’s hoarding, but the rest of it was my father’s play area. Every night, my father would go to the shop and work. In the summer, we’d use a large air compressor as a fan. Its big, orange spinning belt would get just fast enough to create a nice breeze for the two of us. In winter, he’d heat up the place with a small wood-burning stove. Sometimes his friends would bring small game, like rabbits and turtles, and we’d use the top of the stove as a grill. It probably would have tasted better if we made the short trek up to our actual kitchen, but that would have been less memorable. I rarely knew what he was working on. I sometimes didn’t think he did either. He was rarely trying to accomplish anything. It’s just good to have something to do. Sometimes he’d buy broken appliances and scrap them for profit, although money was never much of an issue for us. Sometimes he’d build things, random things. One time he made a fancy table leg and stopped there. The rest of the table just wasn’t part of his plan. My dad always tried to include me in his little projects. By the age of seven, I could take apart any appliance, down to its smallest parts, and separate it by its metals; I could tell most kinds of wood by their look and smell. Although a simple-going man, he had picked up many little wisdoms along the way. These wisdoms seemingly came at a cost. It was just a bandage at first, an affair kept quiet and relatively harmless. But over time, his projects became less about curiosity and amusement. They were more an excuse to get to the bottle that he kept in his toolbox. He’d drink from it when he thought I wasn’t looking, but his swigs were less and less secretive; my dad started deteriorating. One night, after a few clumsy sips, he turned to me and said that he didn’t believe in a god. There was nothing after death, and that’s it. He offered no explanation for those words. He just went back to that night’s project. I was overcome with a mix of emotions. My childhood self saw this as blasphemy. Hell was real, and my dad was headed that direction. But this event also chipped the first crack in my indoctrination. My dad wasn’t a bad person, and he wasn’t stupid either. If he could live without God, maybe I could too. I don’t know much about my father’s life. He grew up poor in the rural mountains of West Virginia. He had a few siblings, but I’m not exactly sure how many. At a young age, he joined the Air Force. From the few stories he told me, he saw little action and served most of his time behind a computer. After the Air Force, he worked for IBM for years to save up for the farm, a return to his roots. Although he told me very little, there was much more to him than these broad strokes. I learned a lot about him through others: it seemed like he always had a friend anywhere, and every friend of his showed off a different side of him. Many saw him as a helping hand. Some saw him as a mentor, and a few saw him as a stubborn asshole. To me, a mix of all three. Everybody saw a slightly different side of my dad, but no one ever got to see the whole him. One of those friends was Gramma Eileen, an elderly woman who lived a few miles from our house. She lived by herself in a tiny two-room house without heating or air conditioning. I don’t even remember there being a fan. I’m not sure how my dad and Gramma Eileen met. They weren’t actually related, and we didn’t live close enough to be considered neighbors. I just know that we would check up on her weekly and help with little tasks, like chopping firewood or raking leaves. In return, she’d give us fresh-baked pies and pickled vegetables.

SHORT STORIES

Over time, my father and I grew apart. He could’ve been a better father. I could have been a better son. Fault and blame seem irrelevant now. He was a dying man, and I was a troubled kid trying to find my place in life. I remember seeing my father sink lower and lower into depression. I couldn’t really process what that was at the time. Looking back though, the signs were there. I didn’t understand addiction back then. All I saw was some force making him a husk of the dad I knew. Sympathy, and eventually resentment, kicked in. By the time I was ten, we were essentially strangers living in the same house. If we did interact it was because my mom demanded it or I was being punished. I’m sure there were some happy memories, but I can’t seem to recall any. I do remember praying to God for Walter to die. It was a plea of exhaustion more than anger. The dad who had been running a farm singlehandedly for decades, was now a bitter, sadistic parasite who only left bed for another sip. Almost every night, my mom would send me to the shop to retrieve my booze-filled father. Each time I would mentally prepare myself to find him dead down there, slumped over his bench and unmoving. Most of these nights crescendoed into nothing. He would stumble to his truck, drive the short trek to our house, and collapse into bed. One night, I was awakened by the familiar sound of my parents fighting. Usually, I’d try my best to fall back asleep, but that night, things sounded more intense than usual. Curiosity got the better of me and I got out of bed. I reached the hallway just in time to see my mother pleading with my father to just go to bed. For some reason, that broke some straw with him. He hit her. My next memory is of him on the floor. I was standing on his legs, and I was angry, angrier than I’ve ever been before or after. “I’ll fucking kill you,” he repeated in a barely legible voice. I stood on his legs, harder than I needed to keep him down. I don’t remember what I said, but it was visceral. I unloaded years of pent-up trauma into that pathetic shadow of my father. I stood on him while my mother called the cops. He was back by the next day. My mom didn’t press charges, and the cops were only able to hold him overnight. Things were different after that. Things were quieter. There were still arguments, and the drinking didn’t stop. But, we were all tired. The family was moving through our regular motions, but we had nothing to fight for. My father seemed especially different after that. Something new hung over him. The parasite had drained him of everything. He was a puppet being dragged by some sad strings. He was old and tired from more trauma than I’ll ever know. His mind started to decompose before his body, and he knew it. He didn’t have the time, energy or resources to get better. A few weeks later, I saw my father again for the first time. It was my real dad, not the ghost that haunted us. A part of my flooring had been broken for months and needed to be replaced. I sat across the room from him as he worked. His body was weak, but he was determined. Halfway through the project, he paused and looked right at me. Again, there was a clear message in his eyes. He was tired and ashamed. This project was the only way he knew to make amends. I responded with a familiar nonverbal message: I wasn’t mad, but this was his fault. Later that week, death won again.

Freckled LISA MIRISOLA

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Grey K E E LY B R A D Y The atmosphere is soft and slate winding smoke tendrils flare beneath my eyes, charcoal and vanilla wisps of regret.

Pewter rocks dance across the now sleeping pond thrown from wool covered blue-tinged fingers, stones echoing bird chirps from a long awaited spring.

Memories exist in twinkling silver linings crumpled by time like a compressed tin foil ball.

Quandaries and compromises are its function creating a dichotomy of bliss and despondency,

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and foreboding thunderous shadows,

an iconic concoction drunk by deep thinkers and well-wishers alike.

It’s Not a Movie A MUSIC VIDEO BY

WOAH

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To the Poems I Never Remember RIVER CASTLE Reeds stitch through heavy, white cloth and weave Between hair that shines as the richest whisky On the rocks, warmed in the rays of early dawn. Mouth agape, she swallows the calls of the jays, Holds gentle arms open to catch the other strays, Each a native brushstroke on the canvas of solitude. She flows just above the riverbed as a pale flame Above the hearth, embers in her eyes as she looks To an imagined sky. She carries my forgotten words

The water, stoppers the calls within her throat. Now she is a casket along the water, eyes of amber, A chest full of stones. A stream of consciousness poured Back into the decanter, waiting for the next dream.

Purple. A hand of god pushes her face beneath

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On the petals in her palms. I see them; red, blue, and

Untitled A S L I N C H AVA R R I A AYA L A

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Untitled 2 A S L I N C H AVA R R I A AYA L A

A Walk at Dusk ALESSIO ZANELLI Some say the twilight’s best enjoyed by rocking on the porch. Until it’s dark. I think it is no time to rest. Its hues can be much brighter than the day’s. Then who recalls the dawn’s? I’m going to shake off the blues, put on my shoes,

I’m in no rush, and yet I have to mind each pace. The dusk, you know, that’s earned.

and meet the setting sun.

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step out towards the west

Showered ASHLEY CHOI

ARTWORK

Stream of Fish

His frail body shuddered at the touch of the stream as it grazed his ankles en route to a village far beyond. He inhaled the sweet air of an autumn morning and closed his eyes in meditation as schools of fish rushed past his body, acknowledging his existence before saying their goodbye. “All they know is that they are underwater,” he thought. Was all he knew being above it? He ate and drank and breathed as fish did. Despite his efforts for comfort, his life was survival. So he greeted the fish as if they were his brothers. As if they shared consciousness, the subtle touch they shared affirming their familial ties. The bare earth reached for his backside and pulled his body to the muddy creekside. He felt the mud begin to stain his pants and he sunk deeper, reassuring the Earth that he enjoyed its imprint. He thought of the hut that held his sleeping mat. The rolling hills of thick forest that ascended behind it, masquerading his place of residence with the enormity of the Earth. He let the thought go. He glanced at his village in the distance. The faint sound of busy noisiness tickled his eardrums and he smiled. They had occupied this valley region long before even his mother and father were born. His connection was far deeper than man and place. His heart tied to all who entered the village, all who kept its existence intact. The muddy roads and bamboo huts affirmed the roots that grounded their souls together, suffering through years of drought and decay. He let the thought go. He sent a prayer into the universe and allowed his shoulders to rise and his spine to leave its curl and stand at attention as a military man would. He felt the rumblings in his stomach cease, as his body was filled with different nutrition. He inhaled the misty air, pausing to appreciate its serenity as it rushed through his skin like a virus. It tingled his fingertips as it left his body and re-entered the space before him with an exhale. His mind lost its need to reason in the tranquility of the air and the stickiness of the mud. It dragged him into the Earth, allowing him to rest for a moment beneath the man-ruled world that never stopped turning— frozen in space. The famine that plagued his village, the loss of his parents, his inability to grow food, his inability to start a family; they reached the walls of his hippocampus and dared not enter a war with the sleeping, powerful mind. Then his ears resisted, only for a moment, as they pricked up as a rabbit’s does. He felt sweat perspire on his forehead as he hurried to forgive the Earth for his ungrateful resistance to this Nirvana he was offered. His ears began to ring and soon it occupied his skull, pulsating down his neck and causing his eyes to throb and wobble within their lids. The sound of an unnatural thunder crashing within the main road of his village. “Please forgive me, dear Earth. Please allow me to come again. I will not betray you once more.” But the ground became stickier, and the stream panicked, rushing its water with an abrasive force. The fish did not seem to swim anymore, but instead tossed and wriggled with the current that pulled them.

SHORT STORIES

JOSH MEGSON

SHORT STORIES

He wanted to hold them and steady their balance. They were all he had to save. He rose to the dark bodies moving through his village. It was a pack of them, all armed with long black sticks firing thunder, standing atop his neighbors. The neighbors he rarely spoke to. He wondered if he had betrayed them in his isolation and preference for the company of the fish in the stream. “We have nothing to offer,” he wanted to shout, but his teeth chattered a hole into his lip. The bodies continued to run and shout, setting the huts ablaze and laying bodies down. The river became ice, holding him there, refusing his urges to run to his people’s aid. They were just ahead, but as was his life, he was unable to join them, to assimilate to the village he was born into. He lived in a man’s world, and he knew this is what men did. He knew it because he saw men fight during famine. He knew it because he remembered his father yelling his mother back into their home. He knew it because he refused beggar’s hands when there was rice in his bowl. He knew it because he kept his spot at the river for himself. He kept his place within the Earth to himself. He knew it because he saw the long black stick of thunder pointed at his body. He knew it because he lay face down in the stream, a pool of blood staining the sacred water. He watched as the fish avoided his toxic insides, swimming by his exposed kidneys and rope of intestines, closing their gills as they passed so as not to be tainted by the horrors of man. He watched the fish in hopes that one would brush past him, but they continued to swim by, speeding away from his broken body. “We are not brothers,” he thought and shut his eyes.

Orange Juice

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MILLICENT READ

The A A N D R E W WA L K E R WAT S O N Every summer we can find my mother journey with my sister and I visiting her twin and their family

We would head to a city where trees shaded gangsters and little girls the same. A canopy of leaves watched over us all the same way parents and neighbors did offering a cool drink once our muscles were sore

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from biking across the neighborhood to a friend’s house.

The fresh air was dotted by boiled peanuts in a gas station parking lot by Usher blasting from somebody’s speakers by the allure of lemon pepper wings by the seering sensation of the sun sitting on your skin a second too long which could only be soothed by a freezie pop and a trip to the Browns Mill water park

Friday afternoons brought me into interfaith dialogue My uncle would take me to stand foot to foot shoulder to shoulder with packed rows of people at the masjid, making prayer Outside we could find treats like the light, earthy sweetness of a bean pie

When your parents are teachers, adventures are field trips watching the world’s largest aquarium with wonder in the reflection of Coca-Cola bottles running through Centennial Park’s ice-cold fountains Dr. King’s house one day Stone Mountain the next night maybe even skating at Golden Glide ignoring the crowds of teenagers

There were many perfect endings to the day watermelon after a Wii competition freestyles in the backseat at Panola Park slumber parties after a trip to Six Flags or choreographed productions on the living room carpet. We would blast the soundtrack, snack on ice cream backstage

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until it all devolved into laughter and applause…

For the Win N OA H AT W O O D

ARTWORK

DONDA

ARTWORK

N OA H AT W O O D

Adolescence’s Cusp MADISON BRADBURN I put a wasp in a jar and shook it all up: the way you shake a bottle of medicine before you drink it. It twisted and turned around in the criss-cross decorated glass, sad brown body spinning all about.

It’s the sort of wasp that makes paper you can’t write on, its fat worm-eyed babies wriggle in their socketed homes.

They build their nests under stoops, windows, porch lattices, and other similarly neglected spaces.

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They buzz angry in the June afternoon, darting the summer rains to coil and curl in their burrows. Twisting and turning. Tumbling through the glass.

I heard somewhere that they are useful. They eat other nuisance bugs as if trying to convince us they weren’t nuisances themselves.

I opened the lid of the jar, but the wasp didn’t fly out. Its brains were too mangled for that. Or maybe I’d smashed its wings all to hell.

It skittered about on guitar string legs, one thin, brown leg in front of the other, crawling disjointedly, head tilting this way and that. It tried to skitter up the glass, but the guitar strings wouldn’t grip.

Its frantic, failing body jittering about it shook like a caterpillar spinning a chrysalis to form a new, perfect body, wishing to jump moments,

ETHAN GALL AGHER

Mormow Row, Moose, WY

POETRY + ART

from one instance to the next.

Conversations: Star Devourer and Moon Conjurer MADISON BRADBURN PART ONE: TO STAR DEVOURER And oh, we are so odd, you and I Whose blood has long since been redded Whose hearts have long since anguished in their beating In the neon night of things the half dimensions painfully bred

You who will know Has known Me in my entirety and my without The eidolon of me and the truth

POETRY

Whose hands could turn back in that forgotten space In these moments repeatable and precious In the dip of an upturned dive In the curved spine’s fallings

For running because it’s all you ever learned to do Through the lands of needled eyes and needed things The silver splits the sky in outward slits Triangles in a kaleidoscopic momentum

Star devourer, tell me Do your bones glow Is there a chasm of the wide, wild untamed thing you could be inside you Or does the harrowing knowledge of your own hunger haunt you

I know what loss will make me I know the piranesian halls of your properties The hiding spots in the walls The winding states of these eternities, constant and inconsistent

Star devourer Hold me until the universe burns its heat death song Against the hearth of my core Until these desires are too burdensome to ignore

Star devourer Show me through the hours and days How far you would go For one more second of our heaven

Our god is one more moment The pain of messing up before we knew There was anything there to ruin

Star devourer, tell me

POETRY

Our damnation is the contrition of our voices

Do your bones glow Is there a chasm of the wide, wild untamed thing you could be inside you Or does the harrowing knowledge of your own hunger haunt you

Tell me If I’ve had one go around too many One sour reincarnation of the flesh to ruin the batch One more clockwork mechanism encounter than needed

Tell me On nights and in the days I’ll spend alone and abandoned waiting for you

That it was worth it

Star devourer If we could die proper, I’d say Let’s die now and be reborn together, live a simpler life this time around But we must lay the cards we’ve been dealt on the table

Fall in love with me again If you could, and you can And you’ve done it I know, and I remember Could you fall in love with me again?

And again Over and over Until there was nothing left to over and over into Until you’d unwound the timeline far too much to string back

We could bury each other, you and I We could manifest new bodies and leave them to rot

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In sun soaked, sea salt soil Run away until no one remembered us

Star devourer, tell me. Do our bones glow? Is there a chasm of the wide, wild untamed we could be inside us? Or does the harrowing knowledge of our own hunger haunt us?

PART TWO: TO MOON CONJURER You and I, we are normal.

Our remains have just now settled, Our hearts take up fresh joys in their stillness in the drenched daylight of the worlds the full universe carefully ordained.

I who won’t imagine, hasn’t imagined, you in your pieces and your whole, the apocryphal falsities of you.

Whose face couldn’t turn forward in that known space.

in the rise of an overturned ascension in the ramrod body’s climbing—

For stilling because you taught yourself to

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In these hours singular and discarded,

around the seas of blunt eyes and ideals The gold joins the earth in inward stitches, ladders in a simplistic rhythm.

Moon conjurer, show me. Is my blood glowing? Is there a sign of the small, tamed person I could be inside me? Or does the comforting ignorance of your words soothe me?

How could you know what fortune would make you? You cannot guess the imagined prisons of my debts, the innumerable holes in the floors, the straight forward states of these mortals

irregular and consistent.

Moon conjurer, let go of me now as the world reforms far from the doorstep of your hands, until these fears are light enough to look upon.

Moon conjurer, ask yourself now in the seconds that follow, when will you give up this piranesian endeavor?

Our god is an abundance of nothing. Our damnation the contradiction of our silences; the pleasures of succeeding before we knew there was anything to gain.

Moon conjurer, show me. Is my blood glowing?

POETRY

Is there a sign of the small, tamed person I could be inside me? Or does the comforting ignorance of your words soothe me?

Show me, if you haven’t had enough of these sweet deaths that cure the flesh, endless brushes with the outside avoidances long since discarded

Show me, in the seasons between us that we will spend together and migrating that it was useless.

Moon conjurer if we could live incorrectly, you’d say: Let’s live now and be buried apart, die a complicated death this time.

I want to learn to hate you again. But I can’t and I won’t. I’ve done it before, and I’ve forgotten how it felt to hate you.

Just once I’d like to hate you again. Under and under, when there was everything left to spill myself into when I’d wound up space so tightly in my hands that it could no longer unravel.

We should excavate one another, you and I. We should build new souls and take them to flourish in moon drenched, earth-soaked waters, walking, clasping our hands until we could remember our faces.

Moon conjurer, show me.

or does the comforting ignorance of our words sooth us?

Is there a sign of the small, tamed people we could be inside us?

POETRY

Is our blood glowing?

Separated B RYCE PUCKET T

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Melancholia Takao Hyobe spent too much time staring out of his window. One side of his room was all clear, ten stories high in an empty mansion. The city just below was in front of him, the skyline a blur on the horizon. It was like looking through a glass of water, distorted by distance. But the cars, the little dots that were its citizens, and the massive chrome structures towering above them were at Takao’s fingertips. How he admired the uptown wholly, its trees and art like its lungs; the thrumming of music, its heartbeat. Here he stood. Alone. Empty. He did not know the last time his mother told him he couldn’t go out there. He just knew he would never be able to leave home again if he wasn’t in his room studying as soon as school let out. She shoved a viola, homework, and a laptop in his hands and demanded him to be the best at it all, or he was not her son. He didn’t know how his father was connected to the most dangerous gang in the Southeast, or why he wanted Takao to be heir to his position as co-ruler. Takao was beaten until he couldn’t breathe, and when Mom asked what had happened, Dad told her he’d caught Takao trying to skateboard down a hill. A lie. It’s what the Hyobe family’s life had always been. Mom wanted him perfect. Dad wanted him unbreakable. Takao couldn’t fit either mold. So here he waited, one hand pressed into the glass, the other at his side. Today’s fall afternoon was especially stunning. The sky was an exceptional baby blue tint, and the only cloud was east of him, puffy and seafoam. The gardeners in the yard below were digging holes, replanting the fall ornaments Mom demanded be flawless. They were preparing for the annual autumn party his parents’ company had every year. He had to perform there, which meant one trouble: Mom was going to make him practice the second she realized he’d gotten home early. If only he had been rehearsing what he was told to.

SHORT STORIES

G A B R I E L L E B R YA N T

***

“Takao! Get over here!” The night’s coastal air was balmy, the tangy salt of the ocean on his tongue. Cigarette smoke wafted in clouds. The voice calling out his name belonged to Neki, the closest friend he’d had since his initiation. He was the first kid that chatted him up after he was beaten, offered him a pack of ice and his sleeve to wipe his sweat and blood on. They’d been inseparable ever since. Neki split from the gang crowd, too big for comfort, and was padding off toward the shoreline with a drink in one hand. Takao followed him there when he was sure no one was watching. The crew did a lot of talking. He was sure they already knew. Everyone but Dad.

SHORT STORIES

The two of them met far away from the party scene, concealed behind a cluster of rocks, facing the dark ocean. The cold stone against Takao’s back was made tolerable because of the warmth of Neki’s arm around him. The dark horizon loomed over them. It made Takao’s stomach even more knotted. Or maybe it was because of something else. “I snuck us some sparklers,” Neki said, holding them up. The full moon made it just bright enough to see the shiny box. Takao loved sparklers. They were illegal in the Southeast, which made them fun. “C’mon. Let’s light ‘em while the wind isn’t so bad,” Neki tore the package open and drew a lighter from his sweatshirt pocket. Man, he kept everything in there. The wicks were quick to flash into an explosive light. Takao’s face lit up. They spent a while just looking at them before Takao stood and slipped off his leather dress shoes. He made shapes in the air, laughing and dancing in the sand, as if nothing had ever given them a reason to be melancholy. “Let’s take a picture!” Neki grinned. “You can’t have your phone, right? Here, let’s use mine.” That photo became Takao’s lock screen. He didn’t care who saw - it wasn’t like Mom or Dad would. They did everything except check his phone (most likely a decision Dad made to keep mom from knowing about their activities outside of the home.) Neki wrapped an arm around Takao’s shoulders, a sparkler in the other hand. His curly hair was ruffled from the wind and damp from the sweat of celebration. A smile tugged at Takao’s lips. Neki, the will of rebellion. Neki, free of pressure. Neki, his best friend. He was like no one Takao had ever met before. There was always something about him Takao could never see in himself. Something about him that Takao would never reach. *** “On your knees.” Takao obeyed, kneecaps bracing for the impact. Next to him, a pair of legs slammed onto the hardwood. Rice and beads lay scattered, like a summer camp’s craft room. Except no child had been in here, and no fun and games were being played. The grains dug into his skin. They hit every nerve, lit up every pain receptor. That didn’t hurt as bad as hearing the boy next to him stifle a scream. Neki. In a panic, Takao pulled his hands free and felt for him. They should’ve known this was coming. The second they decided to rebel, to disobey, to fail, they should have foreseen it. Takao’s arms were pulled back behind him with a swift yank of his wrists. He bit his tongue and groaned when the joint of his left hand popped. Neki. His heart pounded. The blindfold around him was tightened. Then came a crack at his skull. “Go ahead,” sneered the man above, “Cry. Scream. Yell. Fight me!” That was the last he heard from the voice above. Not long after, sweat and blood’s stench filled the silence between the screams. When he was finally able to see, Takao had awoken to his face untouched. The rest of him was throbbing. Neki wasn’t there. Dad was. ***

SHORT STORIES

“Stop. Stop. Stop playing!” Takao threw his bow to his side and lowered the viola from his chin. This had to have been the hundredth time tonight. His professor, a stout and mighty woman who wore her square glasses at the tip of her nose, never gave him a chance at ceasing his playing before screaming at him. She told him the first day they’d met to call her Professor Ma. He’d been used to her antics by now, but not today. Neki was here. He’d snuck in to watch. He was planted in the balcony right above the stage in the little theatre built into his home. Man, this was embarrassing. “I told you to stop crunching your sixteenth notes. Haven’t you been practicing with a metronome?” Not this song. Takao had been working on something else, but his teacher could never know that. Neki was unaware of it, too. “I’ll keep at it,” said Takao, like a machine. It was the usual response that pissed his instructor off every time. As usual, she sighed and messed with her glasses. “I can’t do this right now,” she snapped. “Your mother will have a fit when she hears this. You have to perform at your family gala in six days, and the day after that is nationals.” She threw her hands to her music stand, and the metal echoed through the silent room. Takao jumped. “What do you have to say for yourself? An excuse? Well, it’d better be a good one.” “I don’t have an excuse,” Takao mumbled, his head down. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry. Be better.” Instructor Ma barged away right after that, throwing the theatre door shut. She acted so much like Mom, they may as well have been related. Neki emerged from the shadows a minute later. He had both hands tucked into his sweatshirt pocket, a grimace hiding under a head of curls. “That’s kinda lame of her to say, don’t you think?” Neki said. He hid the anger beneath the folds of his eyes, but anyone could tell by his pepperred face that he was vehement. Takao could not help but smile, a sheepish one at that. His cheeks were hotter than the rest of him. It had always been this way with Neki. Going to meetups with the gang, sneaking onto the train tracks, buying ice cream in the middle of the night, it didn’t matter. As long as Neki was there with him, he felt he could take on his life. “It’s like this all the time, man. You get used to it,” said Takao. “Still, dude. No one should treat you like that.” Neki would never understand. His mom, brother, and sister got along better than anyone. They lived in a shack on the far west side, and Neki paid the bills selling fireworks and edibles. He had his secrets. Even so, they were as close as the fibers of a knit sweater. Takao sometimes found himself imagining what it would be like if his family didn’t own half the town, didn’t have an entire building named after him, and wasn’t the heir to the Hyobe architectural firm. “Is it true you haven’t been practicing?” Neki asked, and tilted his head to the side. He came around to read the music on the stand. “I’m glad you finally let me see you do this,” he said after a puzzling study of the sheet. “It takes a lot of talent to be that good. Don’t really know what your instructor was talking about.” Takao’s heart skipped a beat and fell back into rhythm. The panic that phrase ignited, and yet… His instructor rushed back in, leaving Neki to flee and Takao to throw his viola to his chin.

***

SHORT STORIES

The banquet arrived. That was the most humiliating day of Takao’s life. It began after the practice Neki observed. His instructor ended practice early and apparently went straight to Mom. She was already inside the theatre before Takao could even pack his viola away. Eventually, after a torturous investigation inside his bedroom, Mom found the sheet music he’d been composing and tore it to shreds. Neki saw it all. That was another source of conflict, one that ended in a screaming match between him and Mom. The only way she calmed down was through the butler’s plea to stop creating a scene in front of a guest. Mom told Neki he should become a servant to them if he wanted to keep coming over. She left when Takao declared that he hated her. Neki stayed the rest of the night, and they stared out of the window together. “I get it now,” Neki said after a long while; they’d slowly come closer together over the next few moments, shoulders touching, “Why you’re so melancholy.” The word came like a stab in his heart. “Melancholy?” Takao echoed. He knew it’d been true, at least for the past year now. But what made it even more strange was… “That was the name of the song you were writing, wasn’t it?” Neki made himself at home on the white couch, propping his feet onto the glass table. “Melancholia.” Takao came down and sat next to him. Neki was here all the time, visiting and playing games with the television on in the background. He stayed the night at least once a week. “You saw it?” Takao asked. Neki was distant, a poignant gloss over his eyes. “Yeah. It looked tough. I don’t know a lot about music. But it also seems beautiful.” “It’s gone now,” Takao said bitterly. Gone. And the heavyweight of sorrow he’d pressed into it had crashed back down into his chest. Neki straightened. “But you’re not gone.” *** Takao smoothed his plum turtleneck in front of the rustic mirror backstage. It choked him, the sleeves too tight around his arms. Pulling it over him had been a pain. The gash on his back didn’t help, and his wrist still ached. Today was the day. The banquet yesterday was a blur. Takao played for the crowd of snoots clothed in gold and gowns. They spoke highly of him, giving him pleasant nods as they sipped expensive wine. Some even danced in front of the stage he was to stay put at for hours. For the night’s entirety, the memory of Melancholia being torn to shreds was burned inside his brain. That morning, Professor Ma awoke him at dawn for practice. They repped measure after measure until Takao could no longer hold his viola. A few hours later, he was backstage studying his reflection. Bags hung under his eyelids. His shoulders were slumped. His wrist hurt. And he had five minutes to go until he would compete to be the best in the nation. “Takao Hyobe?” The voice’s source came like an echo in the valley of Takao’s mind.

*** “There’s something about not listening that’s so freeing. At least when you have a good reason not to. You’re your own person. Make it that way.” ***

SHORT STORIES

He gave a start and turned. There was the backstage usher, black hair slicked back into a bun. His dour look reminded Takao that he was supposed to have been waiting at the front near the curtains. It did not take an answer for Takao to snatch his viola from its case. Soon, he was near the curtains. He pulled them back a diminutive and caught a glimpse of the audience. Wow. Every seat was filled. Spectators who had no chair covered the back wall, most of them with arms crossed. Was he really about to do this? Deafening applause exploded through the dome. The musician before him, a girl in a lilypad dress, had just finished. Takao gulped. It was not that he was worried about winning, or even messing up. He was confident every note that escaped his bow would be exactly as it should. “Our next representative comes from the District of Kojapore. Please welcome Takao Hyobe, performing Andante e Rondo Ungarese.” The audience applauded wildly. They knew his name. Takao heard the clicks of his heels against the wooden stage, but he felt like time was standing still. To his left was the piano accompanist. Man, he’d forgotten about that. The gentleman was eying him, and Andante was above the grand keys. Takao paused. Breathed in. He opened his eyes right onto Neki. He’d come, and Takao had no idea he would be there until his eyes landed on him, elbows on his knees. He watched Takao like he was gazing at a star. Then he smiled and gave Takao a thumbs up. Mom and Dad and their posse of CEOs had a section roped off on the right side. They bore prideful, judgmental grins. Oh, how disappointed they were about to be.

Takao could be free. It was his fault Neki was beaten by Dad. Takao had chosen to love him. He’d never let his father treat him - them - that way again. So he played. The piano accompanist began but stopped, realizing the song was not the same. That happy, bouncy tune that was to be his piece, donned in popularity and perfect for a variety of higher point values, could be ripped to shreds for all Takao cared. He gave the pianist a glance and saw his mouth gaped open. Takao smirked at him, then fell into a trance as he crescendoed. Takao spent too much time staring out of his bedroom window. But as he did, each and every night, his fingers danced to the melody of his melancholy. Until one day, his pen filled in the last gap of the sheet music he’d hidden under his pillow. He didn’t really need it on paper. It was always in his heart. So Takao ripped his bow across the strings, letting his heart scream out for thousands to hear. For the one who was trapped beneath layers of self-loathing, carved into their skin by those they let rule above them. For the boy who, despite it all, was beaten until he ‘manned up.’ For the one who longed to love themself as they cut her hair off in the broken mirror. For the kid in the audience who wanted to be him and knew nothing

of what it took to be this way. For the sake of mocking his mother. For Neki. For himself. He played, and sweat pooled inside the crevice of his eye. It made him look as if he was crying. Or maybe the droplets were tears. If his father saw it, Takao would be better off dead. But he’d rather be a pile of ashes thrown into the ocean than live with this melancholy forever. Melancholia was his rebellion. Sadness was who he was. Too long had he fought it. This ended now.

Breaking Antiquity SYDNEY CARMER

SHORT STORIES + ART

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Her MADISON BRADBURN Imitation of “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens

I Bunched up in white hotel sheets, The only awake thing Staring out onto uncanny streets.

She writes a poem on the last page, As if to best Homer.

III

POETRY

In a restaurant where the check comes in a copy of the Odyssey

She dances out into the summer night sidewalks. And thinks she’s not supposed to be there.

IV The honey and the vinegar Are one. The honey and the vinegar and her Are one.

V She knows what she prefers, The water full of lights spilling over And the touch of heels against tile, The buildings seen through a neck’s crane,

And jazz.

VI Wind filled the small building With iced breath. That home of her’s Shook with it, shuddered and rolled. The ache Sunk in the home A permanent resident.

VII In the thin of winter, She always imagines the full glass. Can you see how she Takes to dressing her feet And pinning her hair?

POETRY

VIII I know rough accents And farfetched, immovable mountains; Yet I see, too, The way she shaves away the callouses That decorate her hands.

IX When she took the hand of the higher class, It severed an edge Inside her.

X Catching her up in them Smiling across the candle lights, They laugh and place their palm Side up on the table.

XI She flies to the Midwest In a first-class seat. Once, she road tripped in an beaten van, Beside her shoeless brother Where he held out a can of beans For her.

XII The road is flying by. She must be aching again.

XIII It was summer and last week. It was the restaurant tables

In her little black heels.

Where she sat

POETRY

And the ice bucket of champagne.

I Saw God Last Night HANNAH PERMENTER

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Innocence Lives LAUREN BYRNE Innocence lives And by it’s nature does not know How it will be missed It is lost Losing the goal By trying to forever hold Nostalgia’s wish It is the nature of moving time It is past And moving forward Losing control By trying to forever hold

POETRY

As clouds drifting through the sky

Deliverance’s gift Is here now still A door to open at thy will In a instance sought To become whole

Forever hold thy wounded soul

Hush ZAINAB ELRAHAL

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Sublime ZAINAB ELRAHAL

Hold: Breath is Not the Opposite of Suffocation R H IAN PAR KE R caught off guard or caught in the moment caught graduation capped off at the highest exhalation

expelling everything that is needed expelling something deep, unearthed and nasty, gathering up dirt and grit and junk — muddy at the time of surfacing. gasping at straws the short one inevitably finding its purpose in a hand gasping into the night gasping at the concept gasping, gasping, gasping

POETRY

drawn out ragged and nearly drowned drawn out dumbstruck, awestruck, babbling at the close, so close curvature of the Earth. drawn out limbs, quartered, ready, waiting

to need air is to need force. to need breath is to acknowledge that something is working on you. to need release. O’ how I long for release.

and knock at the front gate. sigh in unsurprised-surprise sigh the day in through the nose and the evening out through the mouth sigh like its the only sigh allocated for the week sigh and savor it sigh and mean it sigh and sigh and hold hold hold then sigh again.

taken in something expansive. taken in the moment of it all. taken for the Fool and the Queen of Wands. taken off guard, off duty, down the wall, over the moat

Too Bright MONIQUE DEL AGEY

ARTWORK

Suburban Moving Company A western suburb about an hour out from the city. Prime location for any family looking for a place to settle down. Surrounded by great schools, parks, and the metra. There is plenty to do in this town. 33 Pine, a ranch house with red brick and gray siding. One car garage, with a beige cement driveway, leading to a white door with a welcoming window. Three bedrooms, two and half bathrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a dining room, a laundry room, a workout room, and a basement. The small feel of the house gives you an unexplainable feeling of comfort and belonging. Planned Moving Date: October 15, 2021 Brief description of the items needed to be moved to the new location: Boxes of branded cardboard filled to the brim with items that are junk to some, but not to the owners. Years of children’s artwork beg to be admired, even with their tattered edges and water stains. Books and books and more books. Three cases to be exact, weighing about 400 pounds. Specially packed in clear cases to avoid water damage and to keep their crisp edges refined and their sweet-page scent intact for their next shelves. American Girl dolls wrapped in blankets to keep them warm. Their clothes folded and neatly tucked to cushion their lavish furniture. The most notable box, and the heaviest, nearly rips open on the side uncovering countless family photos. Picturing the daughter’s unkempt and frayed pigtails that rest upon her pink and white polka-dot dress, with a stuffed animal in her grasp. The son and his blue button up and jeans in a boat scene. Their preschool, middle school, and high school graduations. Every occasion, every hope, and every candid moment captured lies inside the cardboard. Four pink walls covered in glitter. White wooden trundle bed wrapped in plastic—where many sleepovers took place. A passed down wooden dresser-desk stripped of clothes and school supplies. A room undressed of any personal memoranda, but the years of life stain the walls and will forever be owned in thought. The backyard—a beautiful little enchanted getaway. Although the house is cramped next to its neighbors, there is just enough space to store belongings and relax. The cemented porch that really isn’t a porch, supports a bistro set, grill, and a cozy fire pit, overlooking a 6 foot wooden fence, draped with fairy lights. The lights illuminating the past and the future, traveling from one yard to another. Due to the house containing three times as much weight as normal ranch houses, the expected packing dates are from October 12 to October 14. Wrapped furniture and labeled boxes, filled with contents of the house ready to depart anew. Each trip to and from the house, it widened like an open field. The truck packed tightly waiting for the final mementos to be added. As the last box closed and the truck door descended, the memories of 33 Pine migrate to their new city, to be unpacked and filled once more with the old and new.

SHORT STORIES

ISABELLA JUSTINIANO

Customer Signature: Isabella Justiniano

Skull Study JAZMYN MCCALLUM

ARTWORK

Speak Again M AYA O S A K A Speak again of Summer Of split lips tangy, bitter, and sweet Of bloodied hands and azure skies, sticky, thick, and full

Speak again of Summer Of caramelized memories and collar bones glossy, willowy, and tart perfumed, heavy, and fractured

Speak again of Summer Of the night we met on a bridge of stars and burnt moss

POETRY

Of curved eyebrows and tainted words

Speak again

Of You

PowerPuff Girls - Bubbles NICK RAMIREZ

ARTWORK

Ants

Waves of heat roll over the interminable and disjointed campus grounds. Esme walks. Her walk echoes through the emptiness. Through the silence. The birds are quieter today, the sun is more unbearable, and no noise can be heard from the students. There are no students. There is only Esme. One thought encircled her mind, and this thought crowded the silence: The class is at 1 pm. If she got there before her friend Tamara, she would save her a seat. Esme plans to be early and the class is at 1 pm. But now looking at her phone it was 1:05 and the class is at 1 pm. The class was at 1 pm. She begins to run, but stumbles. Esme catches her footing only to turn and see a trail of ants. She stands over a fresh loaf of bread, still in its packaging. Through a small opening, the ants transport the bread, each carrying a small crumb. They vanish into the tall grass one by one. She towers over them as more and more move towards the bread and she almost begins to forget. Esme makes her way towards the classroom and finds the door, but it does not move. Peering through the window, a dark abyss stares back at her disheveled reflection. She could hear books shuffling, students talking; but they were nowhere to be seen. The windows, corners, walls, stairs. She passes them all. Then, there is a clearing and in the middle of the field, sits the oak tree. There, sitting under the tree were the students, the professor, and Tamara, now silent. “Hey, what’s going on?” Esme sits down next to Tamara. “You’re early. Class hasn’t started yet,” says Tamara. “Really? But isn’t it past 1:00 now…?” Tamara takes out a dark blue textbook from her bag. “Could I share the textbook with you?” Esme whispers. “I think I forgot mine.” “Yeah, of course.” Tamara opens the textbook, slightly brushing hands with Esme. A sudden shiver, Esme feels, crawls through her spine. Tamara’s hands. “Your hands. They are freezing…” “Freezing?” Tamara’s lifeless gaze meets hers. Her eyes, Esme notices, are faded, no longer a bright brown. Where did she go? This was not the friend she knew. This girl had the voice of Tamara, looked like Tamara, but this was not Tamara. Esme spoke to explain, but her words failed her. There was only silence. “Esme.” A voice booms. There stood the professor, unmoved. She watches her with those eyes, and the students stare as well, with the same. Breathing is something Esme forgets. It escapes her. “Why are you here, Esme?” “I- I’m sure this is the right class. It’s only been a month, but I know…” “A month?” The professor mocks her. “Esme, try 238 days.” 238 days. Two hundred thirty-eight.

POETRY

MONIQUE DEL AGEY

The students crowd around her. 238. She pushes them away. 238 days. Through the field, down the stairs, past the walls, around the corner, by the windows. Esme stops to catch her breath, her hands on her knees. Utterly and completely alone, she shuts her eyes to the darkness she knows, the only comfort she has. She sits down, terrified to see the reality. It couldn’t be real. Esme must keep going, the heat is becoming more and more unbearable, but something is in her path. In a blur, she opens her eyes. There was the path she had walked countless times before. This time it was different. The bread that was neatly packaged was no longer there. It had vanished, into nothing but ants. The only thing left was a tall hill of ants. Ants everywhere.

Lungs Study JAZMYN MCCALLUM

POETRY + ART

Snowdrift Sleep MADISON BAER The streets of Auckland, abandoned empty as a chest of dreams that has been unpacked and scattered across the floor to be marveled at and gazed upon. The streets are bare, silent and still

The air is brisk and icy, but I don’t feel the cold my skin is balmy and content. Turn a corner and walk down the

POETRY

like a snow globe, yet to be shaken.

cobblestone street. A family scurries away back to their hiding spot and again the town is my own. The coral-colored church steeple gazes down upon me, watching over me, keeping me safe. On the sidewalk outside of the movie theater sits a pristine

white, bed.

Linens that are fresh pressed and smell of clean laundry. Metal bedposts that look ancient, fragile, and inviting. It is morning and the sky is bright and clear and I am tired, so tired I crawl in, snuggle in to take a nap. I have just enough time to rest. Just enough time to stop, wait, take a break and lie still in the cocoon of crisp, cool white sheets. As dainty snow flurries begin to fall

POETRY

they tickle the parts of my face that stick out of the covers. White snowflakes on my eyelashes and in the crown of my curly hair. Delicate snow crystals blanket me with a pure sleep, one that softens my restless spirit. I drift to dream swaddled by snow warm, safe, happy, content.

Swinging Life Away

ARTWORK

JADE SUSZEK

Passing Time MARNIE KASTORIAN

SHORT STORIES

The die clatters across the tabletop with the force of an uppercut. It rolls with purpose before skidding to a halt, and the group of us huddle together to watch as it stops. One of the twenty smooth black faces peers back up at us. Alexander grins, scooping the die into his palm. “Seventeen! And I have a plus two.” “Nineteen then.” Chrissy yawns, sinking further into the couch cushions. Outside, the storm rages, a reality so overwhelming that we are near painfully aware of it. When it started, the headlines called it the end times. I’ve stopped holding out hope that they were exaggerating. Right now, though, our minds aren’t on the storm. Alexander rolls the die between his hands, and from her spot beside him Chrissy pulls the edge of her blanket up to her chin as Anna continues to speak. “Okay, you make it past the guards, and then you—” Her voice is drowned out by a thunder clap, and the rumble shakes my chest. Through the gaps in the boarded-up windows, I watch the wind sweep over the treetops, pulling off leaves and branches. For a moment, I lose focus on the game, and when my attention returns, it has moved forward without me. Alexander is chewing a thumbnail, staring intently at the tokens spread over the board. “So that’s a sleight of hand roll, right?” he asks. Anna nods. “Roll it.” We play by the soft gray light of the clouded sky. Rain pelts the window, and absently, I raise a hand to meet it, kissing my palm to the chilled glass. The storm steals the warmth from my skin, condensation forming foggy outlines around my fingertips. The rain warps our reflections in the glass. From the other room, the radio buzzes. Lightning cuts the signal every so often, but I catch a few words of the broadcast felt on. The broadcaster calls the storm by name. Just the name. No one calls it a hurricane anymore. “I’m low on HP,” Chrissy says, sitting up and gesturing at her sheet. Her voice brings me back. “Do you guys want to take a rest?” Anna asks, sweeping her gaze across us each in turn. I agree when she turns to me, but my eyes are tracking the clock hanging above the fireplace. Chrissy shakes a couple of the dice in her hand. The sound is like teeth chattering. It is 1 AM and I cannot sleep. The covers feel too hot, but throwing them off makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. The constant onslaught of rain pounds against my window, and when I turn to face it, the sky is still bright enough that tendrils of light reach in through the curtains. My bedside clock ticks to 1:01 AM, the 7-bit display burning an intense red. I refuse to believe it.

We decide to pass time with the game. “Nat twenty on deception!” Alexander slams his hand against the couch, slapping the cushion with a joyous fervor. Anna, with her eyes smiling, shakes her head slightly. “Alright, yeah, he believes that you work there. What next?” Chrissy reaches out from under her blanket and moves her token a few squares away from Alexander’s. “I wanna go talk to the boss lady.” “The Captain?” “Yeah, her.” Anna nods, turning to me. “Do you want to do something?” My palms are sweating, cold and clammy. I wipe them on my pants. “I want to sneak out after Chrissy.” She smiles before handing me the die. Our fingers touch, and her skin is like glass, stealing heat from my body. “Roll for me?” She asks. I roll the die. Outside, the storm refuses to end.

My parents asked if one of us left a window open, but I didn’t have an answer. All I know is that I awoke one morning, stepped out of bed onto slick, puffy wood flooring, and found that there was no longer a dry spot in the house. It’s just a film of rainwater that coats the floor in every room, not dramatic enough to call a flood. We put down towels in the hallways but can’t do much more than that. My parents simply resign us to having to deal with the humidity and faint odor of mildew until the water dries up. Although, we do all stop wearing socks around the house While on my way into the shower, I nearly slip, and even after catching myself against the wall, I find that I can’t help but keep staring down at that rain-slicked floor. Unbidden, my mind informs me how I would have looked with my head cracked against the tile, how my blood would have spread through the water and turned the white stone red. I can’t seem to banish the thought, even as I slather shampoo in my hair, the hot water beating my back. I move one hand over my scalp, intact from brow to nape. The image doesn’t leave. Without any warning, the water cuts off. Another crack of thunder echoes, and I think I feel the walls shake. Droplets trickle off me and I shiver, unsure if the tremors are from cold or fear.

SHORT STORIES

I turn over again to face the wall, kicking my feet out from under the covers. The storm howls, and the light is at my back, tracing down my spine. I wonder if the others are asleep, or if they too, like me, are lying awake, huddled together in their single bed, staring at their lying clock and feeling the storm breathing against their cheeks. I wonder if they are clutching at each other, like the first night when we had all crept to bed together, fearful of the noises coming from the sky. Their bodies may tremble, limbs bumping and clattering together. Like dice shaking in the palm of a hand. The wind moans. I resign myself to sleeplessness. Our floors are wet.

Among the Books NANCY LOR

ARTWORK

Capybara Onsen HAN NAH PAR M E NTE R

The First Breath R H IAN PAR KE R Every year it feels like I am waking up more and more. As if my face is breaking above water and I am inhaling air while surf rappels from my cheeks. Do you know the feeling of waking up when you didn’t know that you were asleep? still in jeans. Maybe you don’t play that outside clothes on the bed shit. (So maybe you’re awaking naked.)

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You left the lights on and maybe you’re

I know the feeling of the first breath — coming in so hard that each alveolus cracks like glass. The first breath is the most important to orient yourself in the new world. Your eyes aren’t open yet so you must rely on smell alone. . . . . . . One year I had a breakthrough on an island so magical they say that ferries take you there. My whole life sloughed off me as I was a frog to be boiled. And its remnants around me —

circling, bright things.

Had you not jumped in, night naked, would you have regretted it in the morning?

Would you not have been grateful for the fire after?

. . . . . . I wake up brave. Changed in an instant by the first breath came crashing over me. Ephiphany is not strong or viscose enough. Something was broken out broken fee dead broke and come back to life after the last breath left out the mouth, no promise of the next

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jagged cliff-hanging intake of air.

Do you know if the next breath will come?

No. But I will try to inhale anyway.

Consume Me

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B E T H A N Y B AT E S

Rain Through the Night B I B H U PADH I This is the time for sleep, to rest like an unread book.

The hours slip by, making us remember last year’s rain.

This night’s rain has chosen to enter my erratic sleep.

Its fall has something

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quiet about it, walking

the streets of Bhubaneswar for lengthy hours, appearing

from behind the glass doors, watching us, our tendency

to recapture the lean moments of speech, sounding like the wind

that wakes up those in sleep. I am aware of what takes place

outside, what keeps this moment’s pain, what lets it go.

And suddenly the sound of footsteps is heard

on the veranda that encircles my home. Then the high sound

of water falling in the gardens, like pearls or tears.

I remember a time when another rain raised the rivers,

making me lonely and afraid of the night’s waters.

beyond all that I need.

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It is well beyond my sleep,

Champion LY S A N D E R R I C H A R D S O N

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Reasons LAUREN BYRNE All the poisons we ingest Willingly, unwittingly, and half-consciously We’ll all work ourselves to death Kindergartener going on thirty You’ll be put to the test No time for patience No room for mercy These are the reasons I attest So when my soul is laid to rest It rests in peace and stays for good What does it mean to do your best? Conform to society

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To the power of the good

Suffer silently Wear a mask to disguise your pain And act sinfully Those with more power would rather not have your voice heard The murder of an innocent girl The impending suicide of the whole world To the power of the good These are the reasons I attest So when I get laid down for good My soul can be in peace and rest Can you even trust yourself? The seeds of self-doubt Planted at a young age in us all

The crippling shame and fear

These are the reasons for our fall We are all separated, yet together we fall Each one, every one, everyone and all These are the reasons I confess To the power of the good So that I don’t have regrets And think I did it like I should Don’t forget about the love you have to give Don’t forget what it was like to be a little kid All the time you’re fighting Don’t forget to live And don’t forget about the power of the good It doesn’t get as much credit as it should

POETRY + ART

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B E T H A N Y B AT E S

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Frost

She’d turned and faced him, one balled fist pressing hard on the Corian counter, and said, “Honey, life goes on. We’re just tired of waiting for you to show up.” He’d set his face and said, “What I do I’m doing for all of us.” Without looking at him she’d backhanded his claim with a wave and walked away saying, “Just drop it, David. Talk is cheap. You either care or you don’t. You control your own choices.” Since then Jason had frozen him out, and Sandy’s shoulder had been cold, too. I do the best I can, he thought. He gave them all a good life. He did care, wanted to be there for everything. Every damned thing. This time he had tobe there in plenty of time, no last-minute dramatics. Five o’clock was his target. He’d set his alarm for six AM and had been on the road by seven. He was a puggish-looking man, short nose over a square jaw, heavy beetling brows over squinty eyes. He hunched forward in the car seat, wiggled his back end to get his spine comfortable, and fixed his cruise at 78. All lanes of Highway 401 had been plowed, the weather had cleared except for a few careless snowflakes, and he’d made good time past Toronto and along the shore of Lake Ontario to Kingston, sliding through traffic while his Team of Rivals book-on-CD narrated the exploding drama of Lincoln’s relationships with his powderkeg wartime Cabinet. Lincoln somehow understood how to handle gigantic personalities and ambitions, how to make them feel powerful while emerging in control himself. I’m like that, he thought. That’s what I do. I’m a Lincoln.

If he was going to make it home to Vermont in time, he needed to keep on schedule. He’d left Traverse City, inside the pinky tip of Michigan’s lower peninsula, as soon as his all-day regional meeting of Stanley Black and Decker vendors at the Hampton Inn had wrapped up at five o’clock. Driving southeast he’d passed Saginaw and Flint in thickening snow, crossed the border bridge into Ontario at Port Huron, and checked into the London Holiday Inn, just off 401, at 10:58 pm. He knew his driving parameters, how fast and how far he should go, and had his routine, his schedule, his accountant’s travel regimen. He loved his Subaru’s efficiency and enjoyed driving instead of flying, cashing in on his SBD travel allowances and especially avoiding the damnable winter airline schedule chaos. Snow was no surprise in January, but last night had been a mess, the fat, heavy snow that grabbed tires and sprayed a syrup of mist behind every vehicle. He needed to be up and on the road early to cover the ten hours to Plainfield in time to take Jason to his high school swim meet. Last time he hadn’t made it. He’d rolled in at seven and Sandy and Jason were gone. He’d poured himself a glass of scotch over ice, taken a shower, and relaxed in front of the TV until they came home. When he asked Jason how the meet had gone, his son had glared at him and said, “Who cares? You don’t,” and gone to his room. He had stood mute behind Sandy while she hung up her coat, then followed her into the kitchen and said, “But you knew I wanted to be there.” Damn, like he was begging.

SHORT STORIES

THOMAS ARENDSHORST

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Trying to conserve every second he could, he filled his tank outside Kingston and grabbed a bagel and latte for the road, hustled back to the car, poured the latte into his mug, and merged back onto 401. Lincoln in a Subaru with a bagel on his lap, that’s me, he mused. Left hand atop the wheel, he bit off a cinnamon-raisin mouthful and promised himself tonight would be the new start he and his family needed. Together, focused on Jason. It was so weird that he couldn’t read Jason. Reading people and leading them into agreement with targeted SBD solutions was his unique expertise. He wasn’t a big talker, and he knew others often felt they were in control of discussions with him, but, like a card sharp, he read people’s faces. Not their eyes, but their mouths. Long ago, watching mouths talk, he’d learned to lip-read, and usually entered dinner conferences with a spy’s advance intel. As conversation moved into negotiation, he detected the firm set of lips that announced an argued position, knew the difference between the relaxed pause to find the right word or idea and the more muscular pause for dramatic effect, and was wise to the gap-mouthed doubt or insecurity that was his opening to strike for agreement. Why couldn’t he handle conflict at home with this same skill? He saw the answer: dispassion was a necessary key in negotiation, and he didn’t have it at home. He cared about Jason, wanted to help assure Jason‘s future, and wanted Jason to love him. Jason could handle and even play him for the same reasons he could handle and play others. He could reverse that by not caring. Damn. He thumped a fist against the steering wheel. He needed to keep making time, but conditions were getting treacherous. His Subaru’s thermometer showed 32 degrees. Pelting BBs of snow melted into greasy scum on the macadam and stuck as a thick sheen of frost to the windshield. He turned the intermittent windshield wiper and defroster on and sipped latte from his mug. A line of trucks lumbered ahead, so he swung into the passing lane to get around them before one got uppity and tried to pass another. Each semi threw up a cloud of slushy rain. He switched off the cruise control, backed his speed down, and turned up the wiper speed. Every swipe left a slimy blur. He quickly sprayed wiper fluid to clear his view, and kept spraying as he overtook each truck. When had he last filled the washer fluid reservoir? He turned the CD player off, leaving him cocooned in quiet but for the grunting labor of the wipers and the wash of ice and water and air over the car. Now a crystalline haze appeared along the left margin of the windshield. His wipers scratched over the frost. In the light of oncoming cars he noted the contour of the icy film’s map, its white peninsulas and bays, one the shape of Cape Cod. Were they growing, or receding? Each wiper spray dissolved and eroded the advancing edge, but the veil persistently grew. Cape Cod became Argentina lying on its side. He turned the defroster fan up to max, reasoning that the ice would recede as the defroster warmed the windshield. He cleared the queue of eighteen-wheelers and their infernal sprays, but a mist of tiny snowdrops still dotted the windshield after each wiper sweep. The temp read 29 degrees; freezing rain. He dotted his brakes; no slippage, so he sped back up to 78. The defroster roared. 401’s pavement wasn’t bad, but ridges of slush streaked ahead on its midline and verges. His wipers slapped across his view. The frosty peninsulas and bays were sliding away: technology over nature. He eased the defroster fan back, and squirted another wave of blue fluid over the glass. The highway stretched empty before him. The sleet would clear soon to snow as the temp dropped. He turned Lincoln and his rivals back on. Miles scrolled behind him. But an hour later the sleety snow, a damned mist of raining ice, was getting thicker, a cascade of fat flakes, and the road slush was deepening. Thirty-one degrees; he must be driving east at the same speed the storm

SHORT STORIES

The wiper juice had to be running low. He was trying now to conserve what was left. When he got off QC-35 south of St. Jean-sur-Richelieu he’d find a gas station and take the time to refill the reservoir. One hundred miles, an hour and a half more. Probably 1:40 in this slop— 1:503 if he stopped for washer fluid. But it was four o’clock. Hell. He could make it by a whisker. If he was lucky. Inside, he wasn’t feeling lucky at all. The storm was betraying, ruining his intentions. The blizzard and the windshield frost were both worsening. He triggered another splash of fluid, but nothing came. Dry. Not a drop. The wiper blades scraped across his map of expanding icy continents, momentarily clearing a bit of ocean, but then seemed to re-spread the icy film. He turned the wipers off. The snowy maelstrom enveloped him in his car. Where was a gas station? Or a grocery, a hardware? A bubble of nausea rose inside, and he hunched forward to see and his suddenly alarmed hands squeezed the wheel. He could pull over and scrape the windshield clean. But there was no shoulder, and if he just stopped someone would plow into him from behind— they couldn’t see anything but his rear lights. God, he pleaded, where can I turn off? Heavy, swirling snow filled the air, and the road itself was hard to see, white on white. He scrunched tighter over the wheel, peering through his diminishing view-hole of the frostless window, following the red lights of a truck. He hoped he could see the road. Where was a gas station? He drove on. In steadfast, patient greed, the glaze advanced, consuming the windshield. He squinted through his clear space, now barely wider than a swimmer’s goggle lens.

was advancing, riding its lead edge of freezing rain up the St. Lawrence Valley, inside its weather front of sleet. Nothing for it but to keep on. He checked his GPS and watch: 141 miles to go; nine minutes to three, eleven minutes behind schedule. He didn’t want to call Sandy. “Talk is cheap,” she’d said. He needed to show up, and in plenty of time. A little after five wouldn’t hurt. Sandy and Jason would leave for the meet at six, not before. He had to keep pushing. His foot pressed the accelerator. The Subaru wanted to fishtail, then arrowed toward home. After switching from one freeway to another around Montreal, QC-20 to QC-30 to QC-15, straining to decipher the French highway signs, he steered the car across the icy midline mush and past a van, and triggered another jet of blue wash into his windshield sludge. He wished he’d refilled his wiper fluid back at Kingston. Stupid, not taking that time. False efficiency. He hoped they’d be happy to see him, happy he’d made it in time, there to see Jason swim. He’s so moody. Why so negative all the time? Seems he’s never there when I am. Sandy, too, really. Damn. Maybe I need to— He flashed the wiper wash to clear the windshield again. Argentina was back, looking more like India now, pushing into the Indian Ocean. His windshield, a tropical ocean. He wondered what he could invite Jason to do with him. Jason would just sneer, tell him to give it a rest. He needed to read him better. He was south of Montreal now, heading toward the Vermont border, almost to where the QC-35 freeway shrank to two lanes. He was driving through a blizzard now, a curtain of frothing beer in his headlights. Walls of snow guarded both sides of the highway, making the road a deep channel. His wiper blades looked fatigued. He remembered Jason had called them “Windslappers” when he was little, and he smiled.

He’d honk when he reached the driveway, and hurry to the door, and she’d answer the bell and he’d hold out his arms and she’d step to him and they’d kiss, her lips soft and seeking, and Jason would call, “Just in time! Let’s go!” Now a finger’s tip. He could still see the red lights through the frost. How would he see a gas station? How would he see to turn off? He was in a tunnel of white now, flying like a bobsledder into this night’s destiny, and his mind saw Sandy the afternoon they met on the library lawn, her eyes alive and eager, her smile, the sun lighting her hair, her shape in that brilliant red sweater filling his vision.

Higher Self ASIA HANON

SHORT STORIES + ART

Where Bodies Come From REMY LUCIEN PART I It’s Saturday morning. My mother is making a smoothie with the blackberries from the thornless bush outside our kitchen window. The voice of the blender cuts through the house, whirring and clunking and scraping. She was

a vegetarian before she got pregnant the first time. But that child craved meat, it craved milk, it poked needles into her joints and kicked at her bladder,

My mother has always dieted in some manner. She lost a lot of weight when she began eating meat again, but not as much as she would have liked.

POETRY

and grew until its body carved its way out of her womb.

She spent fifteen years as a vegetarian, before me.

Now, as moisture clouds the plastic of the blender, I imagine I can remember her before I was, on the cusp of unfathomable change, the cliff-face of motherhood. She licks the blade. She never used to do that.

PART II My body has never been reactive. I eat. It doesn’t mind. I starve. It doesn’t notice. In highschool I didn’t pack a lunch. My medication

curbed my appetite and we couldn’t afford to waste the food.

For seven years I was one-hundred and twenty-seven pounds. I worked out. It didn’t matter. I vomited. It didn’t care. It was never something I had control over, something I could touch, but couldn’t feel.

Where did it come from? XX, XY, XO

For years I knew something was wrong when I’d pass by a mirror and see a glimpse of a hollow staring out, into my own eyes, out of my own body, a vessel that I can not understand, that I can not relate to in the way it begs of me.

PART III

POETRY

I don’t know how I got here lying on this table, resting my twin petal faces, diametrically opposed like Janus. Wax-like, clipped, crisp; I am thin, I am brittle now,

but once I might have been beautiful, once I might have flourished. Now, I spoil. Now

I am dry, and delicate, alive but shedding dead parts all the time. My edges curl inwards like the corners of a burning page transforming slowly, then all at once, into ash, and I wonder how I am still alive at all.

Am I alive? Or have I been dead for some time?

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City Study

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Blood on the Ice ALEXANDER BEETS Snow and ashes fell from the sky drifting softly to the frozen ground; hyacinths about with burnt holes in their violet petals. Smoke poured out of his mouth billowing into the heavens, trying to catch the ashes of the burning town behind him. The crunch of hooves in the snow; crackling cinders was all I could hear, as this white, glistening horse

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pale as snow, peered through the smoke, drawing near. He drew closer, atop his horse Amidst the smoke and ash he sat perfectly; unscathed. A clean shaven face, partly shrouded by the rim of his hat. The crunch of boots in the snow; spurs cracking ice was all I could hear as this figure, bringing hell at his back, strode through the smoke, a glistening iron at his hip. Under the falling ashes time came to a screeching halt. The only things I could hear were his steady breaths, too far apart... and my own rapidly beating heart. There was a hope in me, that maybe if he stared hard enough he would see all the hate, rage, and vengeance that ate away at me that he would see that I had come to end him. There was also a fear that resided within me, that he saw all that drove my conquest and his necessary end— and reveled in it.

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Yet here we were, hands resting only inches above our irons bearing witness with bated breath, as the last flake of ash cascaded down the plumes of campfire smoke. Lightning struck with a crackling roar of thunder. He was faster — I heard the splintering of ice As this shock and lightning reached the tips of my fingers. I felt my anathema reach down and crack open the sky between us again. The pounding of a hammer against iron. Gabriel’s trumpet sounding off. A single spark... sent straight through his chest. His body fell to the ground... Blood staining the Ice. I stepped to this dying man, choking on his own blood. A dying grimace, all too familiar to my own.

lands on violet petals violently ripped in two… Seared at the edges.

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to a falling ember dancing in the wind—

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A dying hand outstretched, reaching past me

Mi Modo: The Test C A R O L I N A Q U I N TA N A O C A M P O

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Conviction B R AY D E N L E A C H We ask the seas to seek redemption, but they only cackle in callous divinity. They quake and rupture against vengeful heresy, burning our ships, setting flame to our sails.Fish wash ashore, drowned by fruitless ambition, so we feast upon their rotten flesh.

We march upon our stomach because they’re filled with nothing of use. The sun set claim to all things in righteous domain, now we make sin to sprinkle upon the earth. The soldiers claim to not miss the light of day, but their boots speak

say that the campaign won’t last until the first Nightingale blooms, and I falter when my tongue refuses to denounce the distinction. Instead, I cut skin from my hands and feed it to the dirt. Others follow suit with storming response. By nightfall we can see the sprouts.

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louder than their lies. Whispers

Cities sing songs of salvation as they mar our company’s entrance. The bridge’s tolls are heftier than our steel, so we pay the price in watchmen’s flesh. I wished to remind the ranks of limericks about being free, but we preach silence for the rest of the night.

We give the beggars rusted medals in return for prophetic recommendations. An armless woman speaks of a time of brazen dragons born from molten blades; the skinless hermit of insatiable lusts born of flesh and strength.

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The captain demands we return their gifts.

Artwork Contributors Noah Atwood Noah Atwood is a junior Graphic Design major at UNCC. His work consists of photo manipulation, photography, video editing, and motion graphics. Noah will pursue a career in sports design and album cover design after graduating. Bethany Bates I am a senior in the Graphic Design Program at Charlotte who is interested in exploration, creativity, and the evolution of oneself. Emma Cathey Emma Cathey is a freshman at UNC Charlotte. The work submitted comes from her AP 2-D Design course from 2020-2021. The work focuses on self portraits that dive into the different ways she perceives herself. Sydney Carmer Sydney Carmer is currently a second-year Art student at UNC Charlotte. They hope to double concentrate in Digital Media and Illustration, minor in Psychology, and are a part of the Arts + Architecture Honors Program. Sydney enjoys a wide range of mediums and loves twisting expectations in her artwork, often in dark or humorous ways. She plans to work in animation/video art, inspired by the cartoons of her childhood. Uma Chavali Uma Chavali is a student here at UNCC majoring in Business Human Resources with a minor in Biotechnology. She is an art lover and is passionate about different forms of art like photography, Kuchipudi dance, painting and music. She wishes to perform her best by improving herself every single day. Tiny Steps! Do follow her on her Instagram page: @umc.photoart Aslin Chavarria Ayala I am a senior at UNCC pursuing a BFA in Photography. I like to work in film and document different experiences and narratives I come across. I’ve been moving into more digital work and trying out alternative processes. Ashley Choi Hello I’m Ashley Choi, I’m 18 using she/her/hers pronouns in Cary, NC. I live with my two parents, an older brother and my grandparents. I’m a freshman at UNCC as a Biology major on the pre-med track with the idea to pursue minors in biotechnology and chemistry. I enjoy different types of art and mainly use it for stress relief. Monique Delagey Monique is a freshman attending full-time at UNCC. She is originally from High Point, North Carolina. Monique is fluent in Afrikaans, a language native to South Africa, and a first generation American. These are a collection of black and white images ranging from still-life to portrait, with an emphasis on shadow. Zainab Elrahal Zainab Elrahal is a senior at UNC Charlotte pursuing her Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Ceramics. While her focus lies in figurative ceramic sculpture, she uses other mediums such as printmaking to further her exploration of the physical manifestation of human emotions. Zainab distorts the body by using different techniques such as indexical mark-making, abstraction and disfiguration to convey these themes. Ethan Gallagher Ethan Gallagher is an avid traveler who enjoys photographing the many beautiful sceneries around the country. He is focused on attention to detail and showcasing various landscapes and landmarks across the United States in a way that emphasizes natural details.

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Kim Hamburg I am a self taught artist who only started making collages a year ago. I try to make a collage a day. I do not have a studio, I just work in my home wherever there is a surface. Up until recently I just sat on the edge of my bed and made collage. I really enjoy making art as it is a great way to express myself artistically. Asia Hanon Asia is an oil painter based in North Carolina. She specializes in portraiture in which she reflects on her idea of self and family. In her practice, she references family photographs to further explore how her family connects to who she is becoming. Nancy Lor Nancy Lor is a second-generation Hmong American with a great passion for storytelling. She is studying graphic design and illustration in hopes of pursuing a career in the creative work field. When she is not busy creating, she enjoys gaming, reading and singing. Sena Lor Sena Lor is an aspiring artist with a passion for creating worlds and characters. On social media, she goes by “shinobisena” where she often shares her work. She was born and raised in North Carolina and is an alumna of Catawba Valley Community College. Niara Matthews Niara is a first-time contributor to Nova. You can find Niara’s work at @nmatthe216 on Instagram. Jazmyn McCallum Jazmyn McCallum is a senior majoring in Digital Media and Mathematics. It has been her dream ever since childhood to become an animator in the future because of her genuine appreciation for animations of all kinds. Jazmyn hopes to use animation not only as a hobby but as a form of education for children across the globe to visually represent different lessons life brings us. Lisa Mirisola Lisa Mirisola is from Charlotte and is a recent transfer student here from Western Carolina University. Her work is mostly inspired by editorial fashion as well as her own interest in studying figurative work. Lisa enjoys all media of art but her primary passion is painting and drawing. She also studies art history and business to maybe one day work in a museum or gallery. Hannah Permenter Hannah Permenter is an aspiring Illustrator honing her craft as an art major at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Her overall goal when sitting down to create is to make something that can improve the lives of her viewers; whether that be by showing them a new point of view or by making them smile. Her favorite mediums include watercolor, ink, and digital painting. Bryce Puckett Bryce Puckett is a sixth-year college student who completed an associate in arts at Mayland Community College. Now attends UNC Charlotte University for BFA in Art Art Education. During her first semester back on campus, she took a foundation course in 3D Design. The artwork featured in this issue stemmed from the third project in the class. Carolina Quintana Ocampo I am an Illustrator and a UNC Charlotte alumni. My work focuses on capturing different life stories and adding my own spice to it by using fantasy and other fictional seasonings. I am currently working towards becoming a storyboard artist for an animation company. When I’m not creating artwork, I’m making masterpieces in the kitchen. My favorite thing to make is chocolate chip pancakes. Nick Ramirez My name’s Nick Ramirez and I work both digitally and traditionally. I’ve done a lot of fan art over the years but these days I want to focus on more personal illustrations and a comic book I’ve been working on for the past three or four years. I’m nearing the end of my time at UNCC and can’t wait to have the time to work on personal projects and commissions!

Millicent Read Millicent is a senior pursuing a BFA in Illustration and a minor in Art History here at UNCC. When not working on art, Millicent spends most of her free time watching terrible movies and losing her keys. Kenny Serrano Elizalde Kenny is a first generation Mexican-American born in Durham, NC. He does art in his free time as a way to relieve stress. Jade Suszek I am from Alpharetta, Georgia. I have always been passionate about creating photography projects to bring joy to myself and others. It has become a safe space for myself and I will never stop creating. WOAH Residing from the city of Charlotte, North Carolina, Woah is a four piece group made up of the Gomez brothers (Mikey and Ruben), Zac Tice and Jackson Martin. Forming and debuting mid-pandemic, the band found their niche sound with ease. Simply recording their entire catalog on GarageBand, Woah has been able to accumulate thousands of streams with zero editorial help. Their infectious indie pop is like a leech that grasps onto you for dear life. From the hooks, to the catchy drive of the guitar, their writing abilities develop tracks that become instantaneous earworms. It’s not very often that a band can project a cinematic reel in your head.

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Literature Contributors

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Laura Allen Laura Allen studies graphic design at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, spending her free time writing poetry, short stories, and other fictional pieces. Especially drawn to nature and emotion, Laura enjoys exploring emotion through descriptive imagery of the natural world. Thomas Arendshorst Thomas Arendshorst is a retired ophthalmic surgeon and professor in peace studies, small-time wilderness adventurer, community volunteer, indiscriminate sports enthusiast, hopeful justice advocate, husband, father, and grandfather. Dr. Arendshorst has no previous history of fiction publication. Madison Baer Madison Baer is an author, poet, and fantasy fiction writer based in Charlotte, NC. Madison is a second-year English graduate student at UNCC. She is the mother to a Great Dane named Roscoe who is her constant writing companion. Madison is also the owner of a wellness company, Lavender Mat Yoga, and has published Meditate: A Simple and Straightforward Guide under her maiden name, Madison Rosenberger. Alexander Beets Alexander Beets is a sophomore English major at UNC Charlotte. He has found words to be the most effective way to get to the hearts of himself and others around him. Alexander hopes to maybe one day make it as an author, and this magazine might be his first big step. Madison Bradburn Madison Bradburn is a first time contributor to Nova. Having graduated with her Bachelor’s in December 2021, Madison is currently pursuing a Master’s in English here at UNC Charlotte. Originally from the Great Smoky Mountains, Madison intends to continue her education with the goal of teaching English and publishing novels. Keely Brady Keely Brady was born and raised in the city of Waxhaw, in the beautiful state of North Carolina. Writing has always been a consistent part of her life, and she shares this passion with her father who is always there to guide her work. When Keely is not writing, you can probably find her in the kitchen cooking and sharing scraps with her dog, Toby. Gabrielle Bryant Gabrielle Bryant is an emerging author who began a career in writing when she was sixteen. As a teen author, it is her duty to inspire younger writers to pursue their dreams. She has been featured in multiple local news articles and interviews for her debut novel, Her Prince of Dreams. Along with her writing career, she is a full-time student studying English, Film, and Japanese. Lauren Byrne Lauren Byrne is a student at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte majoring in psychology with a minor in public health. In her spare time she plays piano, paints, writes poetry, and works in stained glass. Art is her favorite outlet and hobby because it is a realm of freedom for her to express her ideas and emotions. River Castle River Castle is a 20-year-old English major at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She has only recently discovered that she is a poet. She has lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, her entire life. She will not live in Charlotte, North Carolina, her entire life. Hopefully.

Isabella Justiniano Isabella Justiniano is a first-year student at UNC Charlotte. Her passion for creative writing only began recently, but she now incorporates it into her daily life. With a fondness in other forms of mediums, such as film and artwork, her passion for writing complements her various other interests. She values learning opportunities, especially when it comes to her writing. Marnie Kastorian Marnie Kastorian is a Computer Science student at UNC Charlotte. She spends a great deal of her time thinking about the bizarre and fantastical, and she has been writing as a hobby for nearly her entire life. Her favorite genres include surreal fiction and mystery. Brayden Leach Brayden reflects upon the creation of all things and the hubris that comes with such power. Brayden shows a glimpse into the world of pious Gods, heretical defectors, and tangible legends. A world where even the Sun and Sea make enemies with those wishing to be truly free from their curse of Uncontrollable Existence. Remy Lucien Remy Lucien is a non-binary poet and fiction writer studying English and Linguistics at UNC Charlotte. They are passionate about many mediums of creative self expression, including visual art, music, and especially writing in all of its forms. They also work as a freelance graphic designer and part-time delivery driver. Annabel Marshall Annabel Marshall is a student from California majoring in French and minoring in French hypnosis. She enjoys hiking, paint-bynumbers, and pop music. When she’s not at a coffee shop drinking coffee, she is planning to move to Staten Island. Josh Megson Josh Megson is an English major and Philosophy minor from Albemarle, North Carolina. He specializes in dystopian and historical short fiction. Stream of Fish is a flash fiction story that follows many tropes involved in other stories of his collection. Maya Osaka Maya is a first-year student from Charlotte, North Carolina. She first started writing on notebook paper found in her mother’s desk, and has since moved to sticky notes, skin, and scrap paper. She prefers to write about tangled memories, but really, will write about anything. Bibhu Padhi Bibhu Padhi, a Pushcart nominee, has published fourteen books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, America Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poet Lore, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, and Queen’s Quarterly. Rhian Parker Rhian Parker (they/he/she) is a Southern black dyke poet. They are currently a graduate student in UNCC’s dual-degree M.A./M.F.A in creative writing. The following poems are a part of their “Breath Series”. When reading them, be mindful of the breath in your lungs and where you feel the poem in your body.

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Julianna Peres Majoring in Japanese and Religious Studies, minoring in Psychology, Women’s and Gender Studies, and International Studies, Julianna has always had a love of learning. She enjoys reading comic books, fiction, nonfiction, spell books, how-to manuals, and junk mail. Most of her time is spent with friends and family going on various adventures; including bungee-jumping, volunteering at local shelters and nonprofits, and watching every possible summer blockbuster. Her love of Marvel superheroes and the Percy Jackson series are only rivaled by her love of Disney princesses and queer characters. Her greatest hope has been to inspire people to pursue their interests and to be who they are; unapologetically and fantastically. Catherine Sawyers C.S. is a junior at UNC Charlotte studying English and Creative Writing. Her poem, “Goodbye” details the final moments of the speaker with an elderly relative. C.S. processes the emotions connected with their favorite meal together that is shared before the loved one’s death, and the poem has a word count of 59 words. Andrew Walker Watson Andrew Walker Watson is a graduate of UNC Charlotte with a degree in International Studies. He currently works in Costa Rica with the Episcopal Church’s Young Adult Service Corps. His greatest achievement is being back in the publication where he used to work. John Weil John C. Weil graduated from San Diego State University with a Masters in Literature and Creative Writing. He has been the Managing Editor of two newspapers and a Chief of Staff for a U.S. Congressman and a County Supervisor. Since focusing on writing he has written two scripts, both optioned, and placed as a finalist in several major writing contests. His short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines throughout the United States and abroad. Miguel Wilson Though Miguel has worn many hats, the one that has fit most recently is that of a storyteller, especially when thinking of traveling and exploring one’s identity. Their belief is that life is meant to be lived and our words become a timeless pathway to the translation of those experiences. Check out more of their writing on their Instagram: @lilmigsbigworld and their website: https://lilmigsbigworld.com/ Alessio Zanelli Alessio Zanelli is an Italian poet who writes in English and whose work has appeared in over 170 literary journals from 16 countries. His fifth original collection, titled The Secret Of Archery, was published in 2019 by Greenwich Exchange (London). For more information please visit www.alessiozanelli.it.

Staff Biographies Kelly Gilbert EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kelly Gilbert is a senior pursuing a B.F.A. in Graphic Design and a double minor in Spanish and Art History at UNC Charlotte. She worked as a designer for last year’s edition of Sanskrit. When she’s not designing, her time is spent painting and checking out live music and local art exhibitions. View her work at www.kellygilbert.art.

Tommy Tighe ASSOCIATE EDITOR Tommy Tighe is a senior and is pursuing a BA in English with a concentration in Literature and Culture, and a minor in Philosophy at UNC Charlotte. His free time is spent writing and reading, and enjoying and appreciating many forms of art, music and film.

Chandu Changalvala CONTENT EDITOR Chandu Changalvala is a freshman at UNC Charlotte double majoring in Biology and Psychology and a minor in Chemistry but her hobbies align with writing and editing. You’ll find her trying to keep up with her STEM education in the study room, exploring uptown Charlotte with her friends, at the local Taco Bell getting the #6 combo, or in her bed expressing herself through poetry.

Isabella Justiniano CONTENT EDITOR Isabella is a first-year student pursuing a B.A. in English with a minor in Technical/ Professional Writing. She plans to use her passion for the English field to pursue a career where she is able to use her skills and knowledge to the fullest. If she is not busy reading or writing, she is most likely listening to music, playing rugby or golf, or learning new languages.

Jessica Burgos PROMOTIONS COORDINATOR Jessica Burgos is a junior at UNC Charlotte and is a Marketing major. Many of her interests include watching films, reading and writing poetry. Outside of college, you can find her working on her next self-published poetry book and marketing herself on social media. You can also find her in NoDa trying some new food and spending unnecessary money shopping.

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Alexander Beets WEBSITE MANAGER Alexander Beets is a sophomore English major at UNC Charlotte. He has found words to be the most effective way to get to the hearts of himself and others around him. Alexander hopes to maybe one day make it as an author, and this magazine might be his first big step.

Skyler Parrow-Strong LEAD DESIGNER Skyler Parrow-Strong is a senior majoring in a B.F.A. in Graphic Design and will be graduating in Spring ‘22. In her free time, she enjoys photography, hiking, and beachin’ it. Check out her work at www.designsbysky.studio

Noah Atwood DESIGNER Noah Atwood is a junior Graphic Design major at UNCC. His work consists of photo manipulation, photography, video editing, and motion graphics. Noah will pursue a career in sports design and album cover design after graduating. Find him on Instagram and Twitter @noahgraphics.

Vishal Nair DESIGNER Vishal Nair is a senior graphic design student hoping to work in the sports industry. When not on his computer, Vishal spends his time playing soccer and taking photos around campus.

Grace Yochem VOLUNTEER Grace Yochem is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte and is studying Communications and English. Besides studying or goofing off in Atkins at all hours of the day, you can find her planning, preparing for, or playing in one of her many games of Dungeons and Dragons. Her hot DnD takes include Bards and Rogues being broken because of Expertise and Fighters not being basic.

Cameryn Lytton

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VOLUNTEER I am a graphic design major with minors in interactive programming and women and gender studies! I love non-profit arts work and currently work at the McColl center as an artist apprentice, studio manager, and workshop facilitator! 3D digital fabrication is my favorite medium to use and im happy to be apart of the team with Nova

Judge Biographies ART Jeff Murphy Jeff Murphy is a Charlotte based artist working primarily with digital media. His creative career began while taking photography, film and animation courses as an undergraduate at the Ohio State University. Jeff is currently an Associate Professor of Art at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte where he teaches digital imaging, interactive design, photography, video, and animation. He received his MFA from the University of Florida. Shelley Sloan Ellis Shelley Sloan Ellis is a native Charlottean, graduate of Central Piedmont Community College, graduate of UNC Charlotte, earning a Bachelor of Fine Arts in both Ceramics and Painting, and graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, earning a MFA in Ceramic Sculpture concurred with honors. She is currently an adjunct professor at UNC Charlotte, where she has been teaching art foundations, ceramics and liberal studies classes since 2010. Bobby Campbell Bobby Campbell is an Associate Professor of Graphic Design at UNC Charlotte. He teaches courses such as UX/UI Design Strategies and Communications Design. Bobby completed an MFA in Studio Art & Design at the University of Michigan in 2006. He then traveled to Dublin, Ireland for a year-long Fulbright Fellowship. Bobby exhibits artwork, produces commissioned graphic design, and writes about design and illustration for his creative and scholarly work. Thomas Schmidt Thomas Schmidt is an artist and Associate Professor of Interdisciplinary 3D Studio at Charlotte. He received his BA at Loyola University Chicago, Post-Baccalaureate Certificate at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and MFA in Ceramic Art at Alfred University. Thereafter, Schmidt moved to Beijing where he taught for four years at the Alfred/CAFA Ceramic Design for Industry Program. Schmidt’s sculptural work integrates ceramic processes with digital fabrication.

LITERATURE Christine Arvidson Christine Arvidson is a writer, artist, and adjunct instructor in the English Department at UNC Charlotte. She has co-edited three anthologies (“Mountain Memoirs: An Ashe County Anthology,” Main Street Rag Press; “Reflections on the New River,” McFarland & Co.; and “The Love of Baseball: Essays by Lifelong Fans,” McFarland & Co.). Her poetry chapbook “The House Inside Your Head” from Finishing Line Press will be published in May 2022. Bert Wray Bert Wray is a Lecturer and the current Undergraduate Coordinator of the Department of Writing, Rhetoric, and Digital Studies at University of North Carolina at Charlotte. A native Charlottean, Bert holds a MA in English from UNCC. Outside of school, he enjoys songwriting and nature walks.

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Tiffany Morin Tiffany Morin is a lecturer in the English Department at UNC Charlotte and the coordinator of their English Learning Community. She has taught several courses over the years, including courses on vampires, monsters, and villains. When not teaching, she enjoys traveling, reading, and playing with her dog.

This edition of Nova is dedicated to the memories of

Adé Hogue & Sam Webster Two former employees at Sanskrit and friends to many

Adé and Sam were vital forces both in

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the UNCC community and in the magazine. We are grateful for their magnetic spirit and essential contribution to this magazine.

Adé Hogue

Y E AR S AT SAN S K R IT: 2011 -2012 CO-DESIGNER “As a designer, Adé was intellectually curious and exceptionally talented, while his magnetic personality and limitless energy made him a natural collaborator. As a professional, he took career risks, taught himself hand lettering, and distinguished himself in the field. As a person, he always remained modest, fiercely independent, and wielded his typography as a voice against injustice. As a friend, his generosity, warmth, and infectious laugh will be missed.” —Professor David Brodeur

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Sam Webster

Y E AR S AT SAN S K R IT: 20 05 -201 0 A S S O C I AT E E D I T O R E D ITO R C O N T E N T C O O R D I N AT O R LEAD DESIGNER VO LU NTEER “Sam was the spirit of Sanskrit in my eyes, always colorful and optimistic. She loved everything about arts and writing. She had a strong work ethic—many days I remember where she and Mel would spend most of their time in the Sanskrit’s office going through each page, editing and editing again till late at night. She loved Sanskrit, that’s for sure.”

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—Ervisa Martino, Sanskrit ‘08

CONTRIBUTORS: Thank you for choosing Nova to showcase your artwork. Without all of you, this magazine would not be possible. VOLUNTEERS: Thank you for all of your help and contributions to the magazine. We wouldn’t be here without you. KELLY MERGES: Thank you for your steadfast guidance and ideas; and for always hunting down answers to our questions. JOSHUA WOOD: Thank you for all the work you put in to guide us, your thoughtful advice and your encouragement. LAURIE CUDDY: Thank you for being an amazing Business Manager and everything you do for Niner Media. TO OUR PROFESSORS, LISA HOMANN, DAVID BRODEUR, BOBBY CAMPBELL, CYNTHIA FRANK: Thank you for helping shape our ideas and providing indispensable guidance with our transition from Sanskrit to Nova. ART AND LITERATURE JURY: Thank you for putting your full thought and effort into helping us pick the very best work to feature in Nova. GRAPHIC IMPRESSIONS: Thank you for patiently adapting to our changing ideas; and for helping us turn all those rough drafts into a final printed magazine. We appreciate your continued support. STUDENT UNION ART GALLERY: Thank you for coordinating with us to display this year’s art and literature and offering us a place to showcase our amazing artists. JANITORS OF THE STUDENT UNION: Thank you for always keeping the office clean and pristine. STUDENTS OF THE UNC CHARLOTTE, SAFC & READERS: Thank you for your continued support and interest in this work. We hope you enjoy this issue. FAMILY, FRIENDS, AND LOVED ONES: Thank you for being there to support our hard work and passions. We are grateful for you.

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To all of our incredible and dedicated staff members and volunteers, thank you! We have come a long way from our first meetings and calls for submissions. We should all be proud.

Colophon CO PY R I G HT 2 02 2 Nova Literary-Arts Magazine and the Student Media Board of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the permission of the copy holder.

G R AP H I C I M P R E S S I O N S , I N C . , CHAR LOT TE N C 2,000 copies for Nova Literary-Arts Magazine were printed on 100lb No. 2 Silk text. The cover was printed on 100lb No. 2 Silk Cover with a holographic foil stamp. This magazine contains 120 pages, with a trim size of 6 x 9 inches. The poster was printed on 100lb Athens Silk Text with a size of 17 x 21 inches.

T Y P O G R AP H Y Footlight MT Light Gotham Family

AP P RO P R IATE D iMac computer Adobe Creative Cloud 2022 Microsoft Office Canon 5D Mark ii Lord Nermal Halloween Candy (somewhat expired) Yosemite Green Tea Lots of Christmas Lights The Galaxy

CR E D IT S Poem on the cover: Hues of Gold by Alexander Beets Book Cover Design: Skyler Parrow-Strong and Noah Atwood Layout Design: Skyler Parrow-Strong, Noah Atwood, and Vishal Nair Centerfold Design: Noah Atwood Poster Design: Vishal Nair Staff Biography Pages’ Photography: Vishal Nair Copy Editing: Kelly Gilbert, Tommy Tighe, Isabella Justiniano, and Chandu Changalvala

S U B M I S S I O N G U I D E LI N E S

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Please visit novamagazine.com to view past issues submission forms and view general requirements.

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Nova Literary-Arts Magazine, Vol. 53

Articles inside

Stream of Fish JOSH MEGSON

Lungs Study

A Walk at Dusk

In the Wake of a Dream MADISON BRADBURN

Ants