Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine Volume 52

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“ Ta rot be l ongs to t h e wor l d of m agic. Th at is t ru e i f you be l i e v e m agic is r e a l . It is a l so t ru e i f you don ’t.”

—wa l d a m ber ston e

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L i

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DEAR R EADER, A f ter the deconstr uction of societ y, due to t he C OV I D -19 p a nd e m i c , everyone is looking for guidance for t h e f u t u r e . We a l l w a n t a n s w e r s . We all need hope. The theme this year has given us all a chance to find that. The tarot cards included in the magazine, and those that inf luenced us, have given us a chance to explore potentialites for a brighter future.

They have brought us closer through the tradition of art and design, while incorporating the tradition of future telling. Art and literature have the ability to help us process events and explore new potential realities. The art featured in this magazine provided the Sanskrit staff with new hope and l i g h t t h i s y e a r . We h o p e t h a t a l l o f o u r readers will have the same experience.

With all our love, S Y D N E Y WA L L

etter from the Editor SYDNEY WALL | E D I T O R I N C H I E F

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Contents Poetry

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ABIGAIL VINCENT

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ALYSSA DALE

SONG FOR MY GR ANDMOTHER’S OA K TR EE

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THROUGH THE PORCELAIN SKIN

DOI NG YOU R WOR ST

BRITTANY OLSON

4 5 7

ELEPH A NT MEMOR IES

JULIANNA PERES

T H E M E LODY OF T H E W I N D SARAH KEENER

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HAMMER AND NAILS CLAIRE SCOTT

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R . I . P. WA LT E R SHAI

BECOMING SUZY G.H. MOSSON

BOZO’S EXILE G.H. MOSSON

COSMIC NEMESIS ALESSIO ZANELLI

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CLAIRE SCOTT

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ANXIETY

H E SHOW ED U P ON M Y PORCH R A I N SOA K ED A ND STARV ING

MITCHELL WARNKENL

CLAIRE SCOTT

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ICY R IVER UNDER THE BR IDGE

HOW DO YOU U N BELI EV E

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RIVER CASTLE

19 20

OBSIDIAN RIVER CASTLE

SARAH KEENER

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CLAIRE SCOTT

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FACT CH ECK I NG VS .

FA K E N EWS

W H AT I F?

C E DA R WA X W I N G S

SESTINA FOR MY COSMOS ABIGAIL VINCENT

CLAIRE SCOTT

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BA R R I NG M Y FAT H E R , 196 4 ABIGAL VINCENT

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Visual Art

6 8 8 9 11 12 14 15 16 18 22 23

S A LVA D O R ASLIN CHAVARRIA AYALA

GHOSTIN ASLIN CHAVARRIA AYALA

U N D E R WAT E R ASLIN CHAVARRIA AYALA

DESCONDIA ASLIN CHAVARRIA AYALA

LA COBR A RYAN ESSICK “PRINCETON”

GR A N D C A N YON CHRISTIAN PONCE

OSCAR JENNA BATH

COLD SHOULDER KELLY GILBERT

FOR A MOMENT KELLY GILBERT

SM I NO COV ER VISHAL NAIR

VERTIGO ANDREW CEPELNIK

BE AU T Y OF T H E BLUE R IDGE

24 26 27 30 31 32 33 35 37 40 40 42

EDEN INDICOTT

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UNTITLED 4 JULIA MOORE

GR ACE ABA HUTCHINSON

DORYAN JAZMYN MCCALLUM

TEST ME RYAN ESSICK “PRINCETON”

PAU L G E O RG E VISHAL NAIR

KOBE BRYA N T L EG AC Y VISHAL NAIR

JOHNNY VENUS VISHAL NAIR

E AT I NG M EL A NCHOLI A KELLY GILBERT

MOOR E (PE A FOW L) TAYYAB TARIQ

D.C . CHI NATOW N AIDEN WILLIAMS

IN MEMORY CHRISTIAN PONCE

UNTITLED 5 JULIA MOORE

Doing Your Worst Abigail Vincent “ i wok e f rom t h e dr e a m con f usion i n t o t h e com p ou n di ng l os s , i n t o t h e g e n t l e l igh t, bu t i n a wor l d t h at i s a l l l os s t h at ’s l i k e wa k i ng i n t o a i r f rom a i r . w h at c a n a f i sh k now of wat e r ? pl e n t y I gu e s s .”

—pe t e r h e l l e r t h e d o g s t a r s I. Do you dare hold your breath for the dead?

They hold theirs for you.

I hold mine, out of respect or envy.

Why is seeing success so discouraging?

I crumple up—retreat like a dandelion losing its sun, closing up on itself.

A monolithic canon spills itself before me, mocking my efforts, telling me I don’t belong to it; I cannot— will not.

I’m scared the things I make are no good.

II. Something happens. We do not speak of it.

You’ll forget it for fifteen years or so, but believe me it will find you— Who knew children weren’t shatterproof?

III. Anytime my mother leaves the dog sits at the door,

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face smushed against its glass window, pouting, scared she isn’t going to come back for him.

It’s like he loves her so much he forgets she loves him back.

IV. You cannot piece things back together unless you watch them break.

Poets build, suture; work with what they know. Who am I to call myself one?

I am elsewise—exterior and orbiting. Forgetting the truth didn’t change it, only splintered me later.

My body is segmented but will not split from the mosaic self.

Why must we embody the things that hurt us? I am only the things I wish I weren’t. I’m scared I am no good.

V. I awake into soft light, into air.

I fracture my stories into pieces, sew them up incorrectly— to make something.

Trauma is like a dinner plate or a china saucer.

It screams ‘break me.’ (or I’ll break you) Listen to it.

Dare it to do its worst—then damage it right back.

Scream. Take up space.

Whether it tells you or not, (and if it hasn’t yet, it will) this world needs you.

Listen to it.

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SONG FOR MY GRANDMOTHER’S WILLOW OAK TREE BRITTANY OLSON On my way to the funeral

Stepping into the gloom

a garden gnome stands

cast by her leveled canopy,

before a field

shrapnel of her ivory-tinged dermis

of Queen Anne’s lace, and offers me

pierce the pads of my bare toes.

three stone pansies.

I extract one, still pigmented, I pass under the arbor

leafy parcel

my late grandfather

and turn it thrice between my fingertips

painted, cobalt,

to gaze upon the green arteries

to bid farewell to an old friend.

that still throb within.

A ghastly reminder,

The bluebirds fly over

she was alive when she fell.

to mourn with me—she held their wreathed teal babes in her bosom for centuries.

The lightning has splintered

bluebir her bones

into daggers. It has

blacked her core and

the cleave of her corpse has revealed that her innards had begun to rot long ago.

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The Melody of the Wind Sarah Keener

“ Th e w i n d con ta i ns a l l t h e m e mor i e s of t h e se a . B y r e pl aci ng i t w i t h wor ds , w e cr e at e d a n d pa s se d on songs a n d p oe m s . B u t w i t h wor ds you c a n on ly c a p t u r e a t i n y f r ac t ion of t h e w i n d - l i k e s a i l s .” —a quo t e f rom “ Th e C h i l dr e n of t h e S e a” (2 019).

We are all captives to the way the wind moves us, Drawn to the presence of awe-inspiring moments, fearful when we become involved.

We let memories wash over us like the waves of the sea, But they sift through our hands Leaving granules of sand stuck between our fingers.

I cannot remember my younger years, only flashes of bright pictures, Moments where the stars fell to the earth and exploded bright enough for me to see.

The wind carries fragments of smiles and laughter, and as a teenager, I could catch them with a kite to drag them back down to my arms.

rds

But as an adult, I can only hear their song echoing in the wind.

Humans seek the wind, desperately grasping for it, but always returning empty-handed.

We grovel over the birds and their wings, craving to harness the thing that remains invisible to us Building metal birds that in no way mimic the elegant grace of the albatross As it glides smoothly across the top of the sea, twisting and turning as waves crash around it.

And when that doesn’t work, what do we turn to but the creation of our own wind.

I am content to listen to the song from the stream of memories it carries.

I threw out my dreams to become as free as the wind and realized one day I will become it.

It whistles my name through trees and shakes the instruments I hang by my porch, Longing to join its song, chasing after the memories I have forgotten, I write it lyrics for the world to hear, the ones it shares with me.

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HAMMER AND NAILS CLAIRE SCOTT D o e s he k now it c a n’t l a s t as he hammers another two by four into our burning house his mouth full of long silver nails can he see the soot, smell the smoke What if he looked, really looked a t h i s w i f e ’s a s s o r t m e n t o f p i l l s Xana x, Percoset, A mbien empty bottles of scotch barely hidden behind the sofa his wife stuporous in bed dreaming of tall buildings and sharp knives could he bear it easier to hammer nails high up on a ladder But father, we bu rned too tongues tasting of ash our faces blackened, hair singed our charcoal cries unheard

short fiction

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SALVADOR PHOTO BY ASLIN CHAVARIA AYALA

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R . I . P. W A LT E R SHAI Another black man shot down

When you can’t take it

Right before our eyes

Now more your rage

Caught lacking by the cameras

Always becomes blind

We all saw the moment he died

I really don’t mean it

Mama all in distress

Sometimes I just snap

We should’ve never trusted their lies

When I’ve seen

We just want justice

All that I’ve gone through

Human rights

And the rest that

That don’t stand

Says suffering will become me

Loyal to only one side

I need some help

I think a fear a lot of mothers

I was shot down

Have when their child

Right before everyone’s eyes

Is less than typical

I was caught lacking by a camera

We know depression

I saw the very moment

Was topped with many other disorders

They had intent to take my life

Sometimes he just snaps

They all saw the very moment I died

And his rage is blind He a real good boy He just had his problems He was working on them Trust me please I was watching him Along from the lines they coming The neighbors heard A lot of commotion They coming He just snapped Right here in public I would’ve never But then again

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Ghostin Ghostin Ghostin Ghostin

Ghostin Ghostin Ghostin Ghostin

Ghostin A s l i n C h a v a r i a A y a l a

Underwater A s l i n C h a v a r i a A y a l a 8

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Descondia Aslin CHavaria Ayala

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How Do You Unvelieve Claire Scott How do you unbelieve a God who has walked with you your whole life, who was there when you pasted Jesus pictures into your Sunday school scrapbook, who was there when you knelt to Now I lay me, who smiled at your white lace confirmation dress and you ate of His body for the first time, feeling very grown up, although a bit disappointed in the flat taste, hoping for something much sweeter, who gave us His only son in an adorable scene with lambs and wise men and shepherds and you played Mary in the third grade.

Lord knows I have tried, shoved God out the door again and again, yet He keeps coming back and back, even when I know better than to believe in an invisible God, even when I know there is no hereafter with haloes and white robes, no heaven where we sing hallelujahs and jitterbug with lost loved ones. But here I am again writing about God, I can’t stop myself.

When my son was hit by a car, I prayed to a God I no longer believed in. And he got better.

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La Cobra A S O N G BY RYA N E S S I C K “ P R I N C E T O N ”

Listen to this song submission by scanning the code. Or visit us at our website: https://www.sanskritmagazine.com/art/

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Grand Canyon Christian Ponce

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ANXIETY MITC H ELL WARN KEN Heart racing

A wish to live without

drenched in sweat

would be a death sentence

shaking knees,

a desire to acquire more

dry throat.

could be paralyzing.

Something so inevitable and common so, intertwined within the chemistry

So innocuous it can be tamed

of our makeup

with a few mindful inhales

yet so sinister,

so insidious it has caused

and stigmatized.

wars and prejudice shootings, and starvation.

Never contagious except in hysteria yet one who has succumbed to the irrationality of what could be what could happen is more often than not, found alone.

A condition that is as ridiculous as it is vital, quirky as it is evolutionary, terrible and sometimes vomit producing, yet still an unwelcome reminder that despite the odds, we have survived thus far.

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Oscar Jenna Bath

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Cold Shoulder KELLY GILBERT

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For a Moment KELLY GILBERT

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ICY RIVER UNDER THE BRIDGE RIVER CASTLE

Confronted by your wintered impartiality, where the romantic delusion ends And I am faced with those seven layers of bled aquamarine.

I wonder of how the vein currents of teal make your stark water Softer, blueing that flow beneath the elemental porcelain.

I am enraptured by forfeitures. I am cuffed to the iron rail of the ledge And it both saves me and takes from me. I imagine the purpling Of muslin thighs, of tapered, sneaking streams between plates of skull, All perversions of the virginal, bridal homecoming across the genkan.

And yet, I am turned horizontal to the blank page and the metallic lattice rusts.

I am pensive of the break of Springtime green in that white sclera.

And yet, I am forced vertical, a key wedging through an abandoned, broken lock.

The ice breaks too easily into blue. It is rendered hollow, built to be pierced.

I need to villainize you, River. Otherwise, I will have to contend With my own consumptive inadequacy. It scares me, how much I am willing To leave myself for you. I think of all of my female ancestors, Airborne and finally unencumbered, angered at my yearning for your water.

You are so easy to love. You are too easy to love. If only I had Woken up sooner, maybe I could have encountered this bridge In the Summertime, where the ice would not be here, where you would Have been warm, shallow, and absorbed within the moss on the bank.

But, as with the way of ice and the changing seasons, I preserve this name for you, River. Know it is you and only for you.

In your forceful nature, I still want you. I will still wait for you. And, When the season swells, maybe bright koi fish will accompany our reflection.

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Smino Cover Vishal Nair

SM I NO COV ER Vishal Nair

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Obsidian River Castle

I a m o f, w i t h i n , a n d a r o u n d

B u t f r oz e ,

obsidian

In time,

I a m b e t we e n

In countenance,

The notches of the clock

In thought, into

With tiptoes lamenting

obsidian

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On top of hot oil slick, S i l ve r r i ve t s t a r s s h i n e a n d

Just glass,

S e w n i n t o t h e v a n t a s k y,

O n l y c o l o r e d by t h e f r a g m e n t s

Arched dashes of light,

Of other stones

That white sun

Those rounded notches

O s c i l l a t i n g i n my p u p i l .

Of dug nail touch, Conchoidal car vings

N o s i g n o f p r o s p e r i t y,

And no fucking facets.

I emerged in this place,

So translucent,

T h a t o i l s l i c k r e a c h i n g t o my c a l ve s ,

N o t h i n g o f i t s ow n ,

C l i m b i n g u p my s k i n

No catalog of

And solidif ying,

Metamorphosis.

obsidian

Pe r p e t u a l ,

,

All to crack,

Re p e t i t i ve ,

To s h a t t e r,

O b s t r u c t i ve ,

To e r o d e b a c k Into that black

obsidian

.

And recede, I a m o f, w i t h i n , a n d a r o u n d

N i g h t w a t e r.

Had no chance I n t h i s i m p u r i t y, Not a single one.

Fr a g i l e , r o c k b o d y, Had no chance Fo r c r y s t a l l i z a t i o n .

Wa s b o r n e o f t h e m o l t e n , Of the white hot optimism, p o et r y

19. obsidian

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Fa c t C h e c king vs.

Fa k e Ne w s Claire Scott S o g l a d y o u ’r e b a c k , m y l o v e . I w a s g e t t i n g a b i t w o r r i e d w h a t with it getting dark and all. And you seem so happy to see me, such a bright smile as you reach for my hand. Susie was afraid you w o u l d n ’t b e h o m e i n t i m e t o r e a d F r o g a n d To a d o r F r o g a n d To a d a r e F r i e n d s . O r F r o g a n d To a d H a v e a B i g F i g h t a n d O n l y O n e S u r v ives. I made you r favor ite d in ner, boeu f tetra zzin i a nd w i l l open a b ot t le (t he f ou r t h) of D om Pe r i g non . P OP! T he Fact Checker hu n kers in the corner, f ingers f ly ing across h is MacBook Air. Dark rings under sun ken eyes. His coat looser by t he s e cond . A we t-bl a n ke t- s ou r pu s s w ho won’t e ve r t a ke a bre a k .

He hands me his notes: #1 . H e r f a c e w a s r a g e - r e d w h e n s h e s w o o p e d t h r o u g h t h e d o o r . Yo u h a d n’t s e en he r s i nc e s he s tor me d of f we e k s a go, s ay i n g you we re a lazy-laggard alcoholic who gambled on sports, on horses, on cards, on roosters. # 2 . She d id n’t re a c h out he r h a nd , you id iot , s he p oi nt e d a g u n . At you . A st ubby pi n k Glock 19 pu l led f rom her pu rse. # 3 . Yo u d o n ’t h a v e k i d s . Yo u n e v e r w a n t e d a n y. S n o t t y - n o s e d - s e l f centered brats that eat into your hard-earned cash. Or would if y o u e v e r g o t a j o b . Yo u r w o r d s , p a l , n o t m i n e . # 4 . W h a t a r e y o u t h i n k i n g , y o u b l o c k h e a d . Yo u d o n ’t h a v e a c l u e how to cook. She was the one who made soups and stews, dusted the chairs, scrubbed the ceilings, washed your stinky socks, collec ted you r t h ree-pa ck- a- d ay ci g a ret te but t s f rom t he c a r pet , t he cou nter, the cof fee cups. # 5 . Yo u a r e a l a m e - l i v e r e d a l c o h o l i c w i t h f i v e D U I s a n d s e v e n s e r i o u s f a l l s . Yo u p r o m i s e d t o q u i t . M a d e a d o c u d r a m a o u t o f d u m ping scotch and bourbon down the drain. No booze in the house.

Ever. As you stashed bottles under the couch, in the closet, behind the curtains. As you made endless trips to the garage for slugs of t e q u i l a . A s y o u m e t y o u r s p o n s o r a t R u d y ’s Ta v e r n f o r a r o u n d o r two or five. p o et r y

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barring my father, 1964 Abigail Vincent

i’ve heard how

it makes me

fathers are never

want to scream &

around. i’ve seen it

tear away at the

to be true in the eyes

stiffness

of so many phantoms, & it

which taught men

shatters me a little

to abandon

because i’ve finally

their daughters. it makes me

grown up enough

wish i were able

to know how

to give my friends,

lucky i am that

sisters, an extended

my father is loving,

hand which might

present, here.

provide

what i’m saying is

the warmth that was

fuck you & your life

always denied them,

that was more important

left them

than the women

cold & in the dark.

you left behind &

i want to shelter you,

any goddamn thing

sister. i want you to know

you gave

you belong.

your heart to

what i’m saying is

instead.

i love you & i’m sorry.

**Note: The epigraph is a proverb which translates literally as: “Whoever has a head wound keeps feeling it,” and it is akin to, “A guilty person will give himself away.”

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Vertigo Andrew Cepelnik

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Beauty of the Blue Ridge Eden Indicott

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Unitlted 4 Julia Moore

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ELEPHANT MEMORIES A LYSSA DA LE

nana was an elephant stampeding the house into earthquake shakes on wide bare feet. nana’s elephant-trunk arms wrapped me in a honeyed grip of bourbon-sticky breath marching our four feet in a circus act. nana

Cosmo

Cosm sat me on her woolen dress covered lap

to tell billowing stories

like she was a rainstorm

unleashing upon the barren savannah floor. i

soaked in her ghoulish face the wide wet eyes

long nose, thin lips

large drooping ears

the face of someone meant to be dumb meant to be full

of smoke and cobwebs but my nana

held the cosmos

behind her elephant face.

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Grace Aba Hutchinson

mos

mos 26

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Doryan JAZMYN MCCALLUM

Yesterday I racked Yesterday I cracked

Yesterday I cracked

Yesterday I cracked

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Through the Porcelain Skin JULIANNA PERES Ye s t e r day I cr ack e d. It was nothing major, but I keep feeling the spiderweb of brokenness on my cheek. A single curl of grey fell from the top of my head and lodged itself in my face. Not wanting to irritate it any further, I left it alone. That night, Molly and I were sitting together, her with a small cup of tea and me with my rubbery biscuits, as usual. Creatures of habit and ritual, our only adventures were those either in the back garden, amongst the pots of tomatoes, basil, and mint, and of course, those found between book-ends.

That night though, Molly put down her empty cup and touched the splinters on my skin. Her voice was soft; she was afraid, “who did this to you?” I tried to explain, tried to tell her that I’d just fallen down, that it

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was me who was clumsy and had tripped down the stairs. She heard none of it. I knew then that I couldn’t protect him. Molly rushed from the living room and up to the second floor. From where I sat against the

soft sofa cushions, I could hear Molly’s father exclaim. Always an early riser, he hated being woken up. But

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he hated more his daughter’s tears. She was his sunshine, in her pinafore, in her braids, in her toothy-gapped grin, he saw his late wife. Molly almost made up for Sam. Almost.

As much as I loved Molly, I loved Sam just the same. Though not, of course, in the same way. Pining

for him year after year, I knew there was no way that his sister would ever approve. That morning, as Molly was kissing her father goodbye, he’d snuck into my room. His fingers ran over the curls on my head, the lace on my dress. Then, before I’d even known what happened, my eyes were pressed, unblinkingly, against the carpet. He left me there with promises to return. Now here I was; no Molly, no Sam. Alone and cracking.

As Molly’s father stomped around upstairs in search of his son, I felt the bruise give way. I tried keeping

the pieces from hitting the ground, but I knew they would never hold. “He broke her!” Molly accused, sobbing as only an eight-year-old can.

Through the blows of his father’s belt, I heard Sam cry out, “it’s not my fault! She’s just a stupid

porcelain doll.”

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Becoming Suzy G.H. MOSSON Never YOU, Ma said, not US, in a city with a sweet breeze as people skip through the June sunshine of Pioneer Square. “Just ten bucks a bunch,” for happiness or longing, either way, and never would get shucked of our ways, Sue Ann, you swore from the porch, but I’ll mail you a postcard from this City of Roses as they call it, for here my life might be like this: selling bouquets outdoors for rent, and tonight dancing with my roommates at the bar once waitressing ebbs, while these smiling people stride by with brisk purpose toward some kinda life and that garbage man again glances at me. Who knows what name I might give myself tonight with the lights low, dancing raw, and someone who opens us both like a revolving door which I step through into my— I feel it—coming self.

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Test Me A S O N G BY RYA N E S S I C K “ P R I N C E T O N ”

Listen to this song submission by scanning the code. Or visit us at our website: https://www.sanskritmagazine.com/art/

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Paul George VISHAL NAIR

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Kobe Bryant Legacy VISHAL NAIR

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Johnny Venus Vishal Nair

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Bozo’s Exile G.H. MOSSON Choosing just laughter, I still spy on your jungle gyms through kaleidoscopes from our volcanic shore where sagas and battles lap our toes and belch books—not for us— having monkey-wrenched language with giggles.

Forget the rumored after-party, you can sup on our isle until puffed as oversized shoes. I tried to flee once with a midnight visitor, holding hands in hunger, but our grip slipped, we lost touch. I miss us, like I miss you. We parted like a sky full of birthday balloons.

Call me Clown Hamlet, for I am speaking into a mirror about that infant far off, wailing through the wheeling lens who too could grow up into this locked costume, yadda yadda yadda.

Questions lap ashore, and morph to rodent. Again! What if we blow them sloppy kisses?

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Eating Melancholia KELLY GILBERT

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Cosmic Nemesis ALESSIO ZANELLI

Somewhere amid the eons, a micro black hole

And not even when it came to be its turn

peeped at the edge of the solar system,

the sun, aglow from time immemorial,

probably overlooked, certainly ignored.

worried about the minuscule orb,

The sun continued shining, unperturbed,

reducing quickly, inexorably,

tirelessly fusing hydrogen into helium,

eventually disappearing

as it had been used to doing for billions of years.

annihilated inside it.

The tiny visitor advanced,

One less point of light

slow but unswayed by any gravitational pull

now dots the stupendous galaxy,

along the plane of the ecliptic,

its absence unnoticed,

heading straight to the fulgent center,

as the sight-escaping devourer of worlds

invisibly majestic, totally undisturbed,

proceeds on its endless path

not the slightest wake behind it.

to where it all began.

Without even realizing it, from first to last all the planets were swallowed, just like every minor body, silently, one by one, as if with a snap of spacetime.

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Moore (Peafowl) Tayyab Tariq

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HE SHOWE D UP ON MY PORC H R AIN SOAKE D AND STARVING CL AIRE SCOT T

I really don’t like dogs—too demanding, too sheddy, too fur filled with leaves and muck and sticks and grime.

But I loved Jastin who happened to be a dog.

A golden retriever who lost his tail chasing cars, broke a leg leaping off a wall, had mange and fleas and ticks and ringworm.

The vet said he had the thickest file ever. But his coat was soft, he smiled a lot, he looked just fine without a tail and most of all he adored me, followed me around, sat under my desk, slept on the floor by my bed, although by morning he was curled up under the comforter. Snoring by my side.

Jastin, a part time philosopher who pondered butterflies on spring mornings, watched robins wrestle worms, studied the stars, especially Sirius and read Sartre late at night.

Jastin, a master thief, sneaking up to the local elementary school, grabbing turkey sandwiches, ski caps, wool mittens and scarves, stuffed bears and Barbie dolls.

Principal Lee paid regular visits, scowling and lecturing, both of us knowing full well it would happen again.

Then Jastin got sick, refused dog food, collapsed on his bed.

I made him scrambled eggs, fed him vanilla ice cream, more for me than for him. To let me pretend a little longer.

His legs wobbled, he couldn’t stand and peed all over himself.

I wrapped him in a soft green blanket and took him to the vet for one last shot. I held him long after he was still, my shoulders shaking. The vet handed me a card.

Moving Past Pet Loss. Call Cindy I handed it back. I imagine Cindy is a good counselor, but I needed to get home to put out a bowl of Kibble.

And look for Sirius in the night sky.

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poet ry

WHAT IF? SARAH KEENER What if the world stopped And everyone locked themselves away?

What if…

The trees could grow to the heavens Without the fear of being cut down The wild stallions could whinny And gallop through hillsides of rye, Dark green tendrils splattered with rainbow-colored flowers?

What if...

Instead of dark grey billows of smoke Bright cotton pictures danced across the sky And when it rained, the tears that fell from the atmosphere, Would have nothing to wash away, Because all was clean.

Could we learn to love a world that we have not sickened?

Could we…

Respect the forests and keep them safe Or would we have to take one breath of nicotine Setting fire to it all?

Could we…

Peer into the liquescent soul of the ocean, Basking in brilliant blues, Or would we dare to ink out its beauty With the oil we crave?

If our lives slowed down, would we appreciate our earth?

Would we…

Turn off all the city lights To gaze into the bedazzled sky And could we pause to watch the deer How it grazes and eats only what it needs Not what it desires.

Would we...

Realize that we are all imperfect All shattered like broken glass? And would we try to hide our scars Or could we flaunt our fractured hearts?

What if we did what we said we would? Would the earth be sick? poet ry

39

D.C. Chinatown A i d e n W i l l i a m s

In Memory C h r i s t i a n P o n c e 40

art wor k

Cedar Waxwings Claire Scott Once a year they arrive, hundreds of them alighting on our backyard Privet tree, gorging on the purple berries.

I hear the high pitched trills, the thin lispy whistles

tseee, tseee

and I know they have landed.

Silky grey-brown body, black-masked eyes pale blond belly, red tipped feathers with a bold yellow band on the tail.

I watch the show from the window, a kaleidoscope of colors, sound and motion.

They stay for an hour or more, until they have devoured every last berry. Sometimes one or two seem stoned, flying into walls or windows before finding their way back to the flock.

Once I found a dead waxwing outside the kitchen door: still life on early morning walkway.

Suddenly they fly off, answering some invisible call. The sky fills with the whirr of wings.

My flightless self stares at the empty Privet.

I pour a solitary glass of sherry and sit sit in feathered silence

poet ry

41

Untitled 5 Julia Moore

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art wor k

Sestina for My Cosmos Abigail Vincent you f i n d on e s ta r a n d s u dde n ly you ’r e i n t h e i r cons t e l l at ion.

—bi a nc a br a s w e l l I wonder if you can stomach another heartache: a story of death fog filling in the gaps of a brain orbiting constellations, everchanging, white-hot on my tongue. Those stars, they are my anthology; my maker. Lifeblood pouring through an hourglass, pulsing; I retaliate with ink smudged fingers, defying what is certain.

You see, I worry predestination is certain.

Perhaps my Hell will always live in heartache, the kind from love so thick it clogs the pulsing aorta and breaks the synapses, stalling the brain when that love shrivels; that maker of fate. Sealed in copper, white-hot.

I think our stories must fall short, white-hot as they are. Endings are poetry, I am certain.

Every cement imprint, coffee stain, soap bubble; all become my maker. I am built on the things that ignited heartache, on the sandpaper scratching at my brain begging the sun to continue on pulsing.

The intimacy of pulped juice, inkblots, dripping hair, all pulsing like the roots of an oak, or the squirrel we found gutted that white-hot Sunday afternoon which lies forever heavy atop my brain. You say your god is real. Are you certain?

poet ry

43

If we are gods, why do we condemn our children to heartache. Don’t you know the poet’s cosmos is their maker?

Don’t you know I am gaping at the sternum, my makers filling the space with their soil, packing archaic words to pulse through my pen, rippling the same mythology of heartache I share with Phaëthon, Sappho, bloodline enders with white-hot vendettas aimed at a world that wanted to forget them, wrongly certain we would someday lose the mourning that wires our brains.

That mourning of the brain is hereditary—is Human. It is our maker.

What can we do with it? What can we do? I am certain I’ll never know, and the question will forever pulse in my veins, dark with stories that stain; white-hot and inspiring the quiet nature of human heartache.

I am certain I wish to live in your brain, lest I be forgotten to heartache or your everchanging makers, your stars. May your cosmos pulse light, neverending and white-hot.

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poet ry

Ju dge Biog ra phie s

{

ART

KAREN SHINN Karen Shinn is an alum of UNC Charlotte with a BFA in Graphic Design & Photography and minor in Art History. She is a former Editor of Sanskrit LiteraryArts Magazine, through which she met her husband, Adam. Her passions include all things art, travel (when there’s not a pandemic), and food (eating it, cooking it, photographing it —you name it).

TINA ALBERNI Alberni is a full-time artist. Present works react to current events and her relationship with them. She has been a gallery owner, art educator, and department chair.

She has served on multiple boards and jury panels, and is the recipient of multiple grants and awards. Her art has been featured, sold across the U.S and abroad, and been published in both print and online.www.tinaalberni.com

LIT

{

AUSTIN DEMEGLIO Austin DeMeglio is currently pursuing his masters in English at UNCC. He is still trying to be a fiction writer, but poetry has consumed him. He thinks this is a bad thing.

CHRISTOPHER DAVIS Christopher Davis is a professor of creative writing in the English Department at UNC Charlotte. He is the author of four collections of poetry. His most recent book is titled Oath.

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“

“A book re a d by a t housan d dif f eren t peopl e is a t housan d dif eren t books” —A N D REI TA RKOV SK Y

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artwork contributors a ba h u t ch i nson

Aba Hutchison is a portrait artist who allows her work to transcend into the realms of pottery, digital art, traditional art, and even apparel. WEBSITE: AKHPrints.com INSTAGRAM: @AKH.Prints a i de n w i l l i a m s Aiden is a Senior in the Architecture program who dabbles in a number of mediums - photography, painting, videography, and drawing (with a preference for Acrylic markers). a n dr e w c e pe l n i k I was born in Concord, North Carolina on June 16, 1995. I graduated from Northwest Cabarrus High School and graduated from Rowan Cabarrus Community College with an associates degree in Arts. I am currently a student at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte and I am currently in my senior year. My major is Communications with a minor in Film Studies. For as long as I can remember I’ve been passionate about photography and film and I hope to have a career in film production in the future. a sl i n ch ava r i a aya l a Aslin Chavarria Ayala is a junior at UNCC pursuing a BFA in Photography. She likes to work in film and document her experiences and moments she comes across. She has started to move into digital and is enjoying the switch into color and working with narratives. ch r i s t i a n p onc e Cristian Ponce is a sophomore studying under the Early College program. His interests include photography, computer science, and exploring new fields. e de n i n dico t t Eden grew up in Boone, North Carolina and loves the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She has enjoyed learning robotics, percussion, string bass, and violin. She is currently a freshman at UNC Charlotte and is a mechanical engineering major. ja z m y n mcc a l lu m Jazmyn McCallum is a senior majoring in Digital Media. She has explored several mediums in order to broaden her artistic skill set. Her main passion for her artwork is to express the beauty of the black community in creative, colorful ways. She also desires to convey the different social issues that come up within the community in illustrative manners to grasp the attention of her audience.

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j e n n a bat h I am a Junior Computer Science student, but I originally wanted to be a Graphic Design major. So, I like to showcase my work to still feel the fulfillment of making art. That’s why I entered. j u l i a mo or e My name is Julia Anna Moorebut friends call me Jules; Polish-American, Chicago-born, storytelling, reckless loving, didn’t grow up in one place, down to adventure type of gal. I’ll jump off of cliffs on my skis behind you if you need that type of shot. My biggest value as a photographer & filmmaker is representing true emotion. Emotion evokes feelings in the audience, effectively telling a story in its own unique way. k e l ly gi l be rt Kelly Gilbert is a multidisciplinary artist whose practice comprises painting, drawing, and sculpture.

Her work investigates self-expression and identity, often juxtaposing robust figures with thoughtful, gazing subjects. She draws inspiration ranging from classical sculpture to contemporary influences like Kehinde Wiley to conduct a nuanced exploration into authenticity, emotion, and vulnerability. She is currently pursuing a B.F.A. in Graphic Design with a minor in Art History at UNC Charlotte. v i sh a l n a i r Vishal Nair is currently a junior studying Graphic Design at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. When not in class, he likes to spend his time drawing or creating artwork on photoshop.

Vishal first got his foot into digital art in the 6th grade by making Youtube banners and forum signatures for YouTubers. He now spends most of his time making cover art and sports designs for artists and athletes. r ya n e s sick “ pr i nc t e on ” Ryan is an alumnus of UNC Charlotte. A recording artist, he goes by the stage name Princeton.

Having made his earliest recordings in 2013, Princeton has released one album in 2017 along with a myriad of singles throughout the years. Princeton believes music is his way of giving his take on his life and what goes on around him. tay ya b ta r iq Tayyab Tariq b. 1988 in Lahore. He is the recipient of several awards; recently Solo Exhibition “Truck Art” at “Shahi Hammam” (The 16th Century Royal Bath Lahore) was admired by the most respected art schools in the world. In 2019 University of Porto awarded him 1st Rank Artist of the Year award.

In 2018 “Germany” Bauhaus University published his work called “Intimacy”. In 2016 Sarah Lawrence College New York published in the yearly Journal.

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literary contributors a big a l v i nc e n t Abigail Vincent is an Honors English student at UNC Charlotte who graduated with her Bachelor’s in December 2020 and started her MA in English at UNC Charlotte in January 2021. She loves her dogs, sunflowers, and Mary Oliver. a l e s sio z a n e l l i 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. a ly s s a da l e: Alyssa is a writer who loves the way writing is like creating and putting a puzzle together. Loves that the writer has to carve out the pieces, smooth the edges, make sure the pieces aren’t too flimsy as to fold over themselves, paint the face of them, and then place them together into one cohesive picture. To Alyssa, writing is more than just telling a story, it’s creating a world. br i t ta n y ol son Brittany Olson resides in rural Charlotte. She will graduate from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte in the summer of 2021 with her bachelors’ in English and Psychology. She appreciates reading and writing poetry, the unconditional love of dogs, birds that fly, Mary Shelley, and her own, seemingly unmatched, ability to eat precisely 12 medium-sized chocolate chip pancakes in one sitting.

And the color yellow. cl a i r e sco t t Claire Scott is an award winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.

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g. h . mos son G. H. Mosson is the author of five books and chapbooks of poetry, including Family Snapshot as a Poem in Time (Finishing Line Press 2019) and Simultaneous Revolutions (PM Press, forthcoming 2021). A lawyer, father, and writer, Mosson lives in Maryland. For more, see www.ghmosson.com. j u l i a n n a pe r e s 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. m i t ch e l l wa r n k e n Mitchell Warnken is a current English major at The University of North Carolina-Charlotte. When not writing poetry, he devours Stephen King and Donna Tart novels, enjoys hiking and exercise and using writing as a platform to document and express the injustice and complexity of current American culture.Literary Yard, The Reflex Press, and The Galway Review . r i v er 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. sar a h k eener Sarah Keener is a Senior at UNC Charlotte. She loves writing poetry and stories to share with her friends. When she graduates, Sarah is going to attend graduate school to become an English Professor so she can share her passion with others. sh a i Hi, my name is Shai and as you can guess, I’m an artist. I work in my many mediums, but for you, today, we have poetry. The poem I wrote today was triggered in response to a young man named Walter Wallace Jr., who was wrongly murdered at the hands of police.

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1

“ Ta rot be longs to t h e wor l d of m agic. Th at is t ru e i f you be l i e v e m agic is r e a l . It is a l so t ru e i f you don ’t.”

—wa l d a m ber ston e

1

L i

L

DEAR R EADER, A f ter the deconstr uction of societ y, due to t he C OV I D -19 p a nd e m i c , everyone is looking for guidance for t h e f u t u r e . We a l l w a n t a n s w e r s . We all need hope. The theme this year has given us all a chance to find that. The tarot cards included in the magazine, and those that inf luenced us, have given us a chance to explore potentialites for a brighter future.

They have brought us closer through the tradition of art and design, while incorporating the tradition of future telling. Art and literature have the ability to help us process events and explore new potential realities. The art featured in this magazine provided the Sanskrit staff with new hope and l i g h t t h i s y e a r . We h o p e t h a t a l l o f o u r readers will have the same experience.

With all our love, S Y D N E Y WA L L

etter from the Editor SYDNEY WALL | E D I T O R I N C H I E F

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Contents Short Fiction

2 8 15 21 28 29 34 43

VOICE OF A N A NGEL DANIEL DESINGER

A R ED APPLE EMILY KOTTAK

A GA R DEN GROWS A W ITCH ALYYSA DALE

THE BUR IAL OF THE DEAD: R ITE II ANDREW WALKER WATSON

ROOTS ALYSSA DALE

T H E FA LL OF C A E SA R LIAM CALDWELL

MOR E GUITAR ROBERT MITCHELL

L AT E N IGHT LIAM CALDWELL

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Visual Art

1 6 7 12 12 13 14 17 18 18 19 20 24

UNTITLED JULIA MOORE

24

M AC M I L L ER CIRCLE A LBU M COV ER VISHAL NAIR

U N FA ZED VISHAL NAIR

25

T R AV E L E D S I Z E CAROLINA QUINTANA OCAMPO

UNTITLED 2

ISAIAH THOMAS “ICE IN MY VEINS” VISHAL NAIR

26

UNTITLED ZACHARY WILSON

JULIA MOORE

HIDDEN

27

KELLY GILBERT

CHRISTIAN PONCE WITH TANNER ARTER

CHICK EN DA D VANNAH MOBLEY

MARTIN’S CAR CAROLINA QUINTANA OCAMPO

UNTITLED 3 JULIA MOORE

OPHELI A CHRISTIAN PONCE WITH TANNER ARTER

BLOSSOMING CHRISTIAN PONCE WITH TANNER ARTER

UNTITLED MIKAYLA WELLS

APOLLO MIKAYLA WELLS

SPIT OU T YOU R LI E S AND CHEWING GUM

29

KARI-DANIELLE DAVIS

29

KARI-DANIELLE DAVIS

33

VANNAH MOBLEY

33

VANNAH MOBLEY

40

ARIK MIGUEL

41

CAROLINA QUINTANA OCAMPO

42

PORTR AIT OF WINNIE H A R LOW

FEAR

FEAR 2

N O T A WA S T E D T E A R

GR A PHITE

S QU I R R E L S T U DY #51

GILLZ

MEGAN HOLT

FACE I T ZORIAH WHITE

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SLEEPOV ER CAROLINA QUINTANA OCAMPO

Untitled Julia Moore

art wor k

1

Voice of an Angel Daniel Deisinger

T

he band warmed up. Timpani laughed over confused violins. Tubas rolled. The flutes played like children. After a few minutes, the conductor tapped his baton and brought the orchestra’s eyes to

him. They began the overture.

Nalani leaned over the edge of a box fifty feet in the air as they shook the ceiling with the first notes.

She smiled and swayed as the tune’s sudden beginning became upbeat and energetic. She spun, skirt flaring behind her, and half-skipped, half-danced down the stairs, watching each foot to make sure she didn’t fall.

Her heels snapped on the gold steps. She whistled with the violas, reaching the staircase’s bottom and bowing to an invisible crowd—they applauded her angelic voice.

The music faltered, her fantasy ended; one person clapped still. Yosef came closer as the band resumed with the next segment of the overture. They clasped hands, passing each other, and he looked over his shoulder as she departed. She ducked backstage. She crept forward through the dark hallway, candlelight flashing off her mischievous smile as the overture shifted to tritones and frantic cello sweeps.She entered the lit backstage area and the music halted; she spun toward Piotr. The overture’s portion from the climax, powerful and overwhelming, roared to life when she landed in front of him. He jumped, spilling script fragments everywhere; she danced away as the song fell, like an angel into hell, and became a destructive force. Among the set pieces, the thrown-wide curtains, the bright lights onstage, she twisted her body one way and then another, flowing like a wave, torso and arms exploding as the beats of the song filled her, liable to burst.

Piotr neared, arranging notes. “Don’t get too excited,” he said. “You’ll hurt yourself. What if you strain your voice? We’d have to go to our third leading lady.”

“I can’t help it!” Nalani skipped away from the orchestra, now fallen to silence. “All these years, all that work...now! Here!” She twirled to face the immense, empty auditorium—her mind placed men and women in the plush red seats; they leaned forward, waiting for her to sing. She whispered just loud enough.

“I get my chance.”

She stood in the center of the stage. “Are you ready?” Piotr asked. Her shoulders slumped and her hands dangled at her sides. She looked out, chin angling up at the highest level of private boxes. “Will I ever? All I have ever wanted to do is sing. I’ve worked hard.” Her hands became fists. “I have improved more and more.”

The orchestra began one of the songs near the beginning of the play. Nalani nodded her head in time, eyes growing wider, smile growing on her lips. “Isn’t it right to want to succeed? Shouldn’t I get what I’m

2

short fiction

hoping for?” She turned to Piotr. “Shouldn’t it be simple—easy, and pure? Go through the paces, step by step, until I’m here?” She brought her hands to her heart. “Years of work have passed me by, and now is my time in the spotlight!”

“The spotlight has been known to burn, miss Nalani,” Piotr said. He stepped closer and circled her, shuffling the paper in his hands. “And starring, staring straight into it has been known to blind, my dear.

Be careful, be careful, be sure to return to the darkness and cool down.”

“I have wanted their eyes on me,” Nalani said, taking her script from Piotr. “Only wanted their ears to listen well. There is no harm, there is no fright in such a thing! I’ve only wanted to stand and ring!”

“You’re ready!” Nalani and Piotr turned to stage left. Yosef, dressed in his character’s coat and tails, strode forward, spinning his hat, spinning his cane. “You’re prepared, my dear, I know it. Your heart yearns to show it! You are full of song, and you stand ready. Your feet are planted, your head is high! Your hands are open, your legs are steady!”

“Yes!” Nalani ran and caught his hands with hers; they spun. She disconnected and twirled. “How long has it been since I first watched them here? On this very stage? They set my mind afire with music —and she!

The one in the center, dressed like an angel, a devil! If the world had ended then, who would have noticed?

If the sea had swallowed us, who would have swam away?”

“My darling, my girl,” Piotr took her hand and led her away from the hot lights, backstage. “See your own star does not dazzle. Your voice makes the harp seem harsh —but you are no angel! No one begins as a singer from legend; no one sings like heaven from the start. Be careful. Be honest. For instance!” He placed the rest of the scripts on a table, and spread them out with sharp motions. Nalani and Yosef went to either side of him. “Can you be a little boy?”

“Yes!” “Can you play the evil witch?”

“My cackle stands hairs up straight!”

Yosef cupped her shoulder. “What about the alluring madam, the one with voice dusky and low, the one men will dream of?”

“Simply tell me your dreams,” Nalani said, taking Yosef ’s hand in her own. “And I will bend them around my smallest finger, paint them the color of my eyes. I will speak through your sleep.”

The orchestra stopped with a gentle cascade of strings and horns. “Well, that’s all very good,” Piotr said. “But you still shouldn’t let yourself get too complacent.”

“I know.” Nalani took her hand out of Yosef ’s. He looked at the empty hand for a few seconds, memorizing how his fingers curled around hers. “I won’t, I promise. But really, what else could I possibly learn?”

“Oh, there’s plenty,” Piotr said. He stepped away from the table as cast members swarmed for their scripts. “You can always improve range, volume, toughness. And that’s just the normal stuff.”

“There’s nothing abnormal about singing,” Nalani said, trailing the director. “It’s just breath.”

“Indeed, but what about vocal trills? What about sprechgesang? What about multiphonics?”

Nalani tilted her head, and an eyebrow. “Multiphonics?”

short fiction

3

“Singing with two voices. An unearthly ability —sing your own duet, create a choir from within.”

“Singing with two voices?” Nalani said, pacing Piotr down the hallway backstage. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Piotr tore through the veil separating the hall and her dressing room, entering into the dim fragrance ahead of her. “But it can’t be possible.”

“Can’t it? Have you tried?” He brought his face to hers. “Imagine being able to do something like that.

Imagine what they would say.” He stepped back, hands on his hips. “I’ll leave you to get ready.”

The orchestra resumed. Muffled, distant. One of the songs from the second act.

Her smile grew. “To sing with two voices,” she said, sotto voce. Then, louder, “If one voice is good, aren’t two better? If one brings tears to their eyes, won’t two bring cheers to their lips?

“Always singing better...isn’t that the goal? Shouldn’t I look forward, and try to be more? Is there someone out there, better than me?” She went to her wardrobe. Her character’s outfit hung ready to wear. “Always.”

“Never stop learning...the greatest lesson of all. Shouldn’t I try everything, even if I fail? Shouldn’t I try everything —what if I succeed?” She pulled off her clothing. The white dress came down from the hanger.

She wrapped it around herself. “Always.”

“To sing with two voices.” Her mirror showed her beauty. “As the angels do. I can sing with one voice; what about two?” She sat and did her makeup, transforming herself.

Outside her room, Yosef listened to her speak. He could not bring himself to tear aside the curtain between them—white like her dress. “Sing like the angels do. As if the angels dare to sing like her. God could cast them down until they join a hellish choir; all their voices together could not compete, I’m sure.”

He returned to his path. “But she would not listen to me if I said so. Until my dreams collapse I would, until my ears lose strength I could, until she sends me away I will listen to her.”

“To sing with two voices,” Nalani said to her mirror. “You and I, together.”

“A mother and child; a duet of simple love,” her mirror whispered back.

A husband and wife; a song of bliss.”

“A killer and victim,” her mirror smiled, “screaming together.”

“Shall I try it? Why not? Even if I fail, even if such a skill is beyond my reach, what have I lost? Moments.”

“It surely can’t hurt.”

“I will make my fantasy real. They will cheer for me.”

“You can start right now.”

“But how?”

“One step at a time.” Her mirror winked. “First sing high. Become the angel; roar of heaven—part the sea, burn the bush, speak of Powers, Aeons, Thrones. You are Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Gabriel. Remember to cover your face, cover your feet, as you fly.”

“And then?”

“Scream your sin! Imagine the fire, the smoke! Unleash fury against he who has wronged you! Unleash monsters against those who have doubted you! You are the man, the ox, the lion, the eagle! Chew your enemies and spit them out!”

4

short fiction

Nalani gasped. “This pain! Like an axe splitting wood!” She placed a hand upon her breast. “I am my own choir! I shatter my own wineglass, I stir my own stomach!”

Her mirror stayed silent as she pushed away. She stood in her dark room, surrounded by nothing, and began to sing, cutting the silence. The building stopped to listen; the orchestra changed its tune. Instead of adventure, they played a song to introduce tyrants.

She sang with herself, and left her room. She ignored the pain building in her throat, passing Piotr and Yosef; they covered their shocked ears. She entered backstage, closer to the orchestra.

The musicians concentrated on their music. Beating, sawing, shrieking. The eyes of the other actors leapt to Nalani as she advanced out of the darkness. The stage lights stretched shadows out behind her, burned her flesh, ignited her dress. She kept singing, soaring higher and digging deeper than the instruments themselves.

Arranged behind her, hands over their ears and mouths, the others of the production kept their eyes on her. They shook their heads, tried not to breathe.

“It’s like she’s singing with two voices.” Piotr turned, eyes shut, “One of them is the Devil’s.”

“No.” Yosef did not, could not look away. “Both.”

She needed to scream, and if she didn’t she would cry, or perhaps laugh, and explode, and cover the stage with scraps of white dress, of shredded flesh, of hot blood and muscle, and let her final moment of glorious agony sear into all of their eyes and ears. The orchestra reached the loudest point of the song.

Blood erupted from between her lips, catching the lights, filling the air with glittering fire, staining her dress. end

short fiction

5

Unfazed fazed Vishal Nair

6

art wor k

Traveled Size Carolina Quintana Ocampo

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7

A Red Apple Emily Kottak

E

verything was ready: the calendar up to date, name tags on desks, a message on the white board and a shiny red apple on my desk. I don’t even like apples, but I felt inclined to set one on my desk as a fin-

ishing touch. Teachers and apples have always gone hand in hand and I’m not sure why. But it’s my first year of teaching and I’m not risking any bad luck, so if that means an unfavorablefruit on my desk then I’ll do it.

I was ready for the first day of school. A college degree in teaching should have made me feel at ease but you can never fully prepare for every situation. Nonetheless I felt optimistic for the year ahead and was looking forward to meeting my second grade students.

The bell chimed and I immediately rose from my desk, my heart starting to beat faster. I straightened my dress, adjusted my jean jacket and walked to the classroom door. The nerves quickly disappeared and turned into pure excitement as I saw the children saunter towards my door. Their faces were lit up with beaming smiles which made my face light up the same way. One by one they filed in and I greeted each one of them. They found their names on their desks and took their seats (such good second graders). The second bell rang indicating that school had begun.

All of my students were sitting excitedly at their seats, their gaze fixed upon me waiting to see what was next. All but one student. I noticed that the desk with the name tag Danny was empty. I checked my clipboard to make sure that there was indeed a Danny in my class; there was. Skeptical, I realized that the first day of school can be a hectic day for families. Maybe his family is still on vacation for the summer I thought, or maybe his mom is running late from her yoga class to get him to school. I noticed I was giving this too much thought and stopped my worrying. We started with a first day of school song and continued from there. Today was going to be a good day.

Half an hour later as I was reading a book to my students who were gathered on the carpet, my door slowly opened. I gazed up from the book to see a small boy. He entered the room cautiously and nervously.

He was much smaller than the other children in my classroom. He wore a pair of jeans that looked like they had been run over by a bulldozer a few times as they were caked with mud and rugged looking (not the trendy rugged you buy from the store). He wore a long-sleeved blue and red striped shirt. His brown hair had a slight but gentle edge to it and cut across his forehead, further exhibiting his shyness. Just like his

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jeans, his shoes had been through a bunch of wear and tear. They were ripped and littered with holes. I was startled by this boy’s appearance but then our eyes met. I can’t even describe everything I saw just through his eyes. I saw hurt, brokenness, gentleness, warmth and a beautiful soul.

My admiration for this child was abruptly cut off by one of my students, Molly, who snickered, “What happened to your jeans?” The boy blushed and looked down. I gave Molly a sharp look and turned my gaze to the boy.

“Hello there,” I said gently. “You must be Danny, right?”

He nodded his head without looking up.

“Welcome to second grade, Danny,” I said smiling. “My name is Miss Clare. Why don’t you come sit down and join us for the rest of our story?”

He nodded, still not looking up and perched himself down in the back of the carpet. I continued reading the story but couldn’t help thinking about this shy, small boy. He looked so scared and almost sickly. I put on a cheery face though and finished the story.

Soon enough, lunch time rolled around. At this school, students ate lunch in their classroom because the school doesn’t have a cafeteria. My students grabbed their lunchboxes and began to pull out their goodies: turkey and cheese sandwiches, peanut butter crackers, strawberries, cookies, chips, pretzels, carrot sticks and so on. The students dug into their lunches, stuffing their faces with their goodies. I made my way to each desk, making sure nobody needed help opening wrappers when I noticed Danny. Sitting at his desk surrounded by his classmates who were enjoying their feasts he had nothing. No lunchbox. No lunch. No food. I was skeptical.

Maybe he just forgot his lunch I thought. I approached him gently and knelt down next to his desk.

“Danny,” I said softly. “Where is your lunch?”

He looked at me. Those eyes pierced my soul. His warm, gentle, innocent eyes that seemed clouded by something broken and dark.

“Um,” he stuttered, “I uh… well I…” I knew he didn’t just forget his lunch. He didn’t have any food.

“Come with me,” I said warmly.

The other students were too distracted by seeing who could fit the most pretzel sticks in their mouths to notice Danny and I heading towards my desk. Then I saw it. My eyes were fixated on something red and shiny illuminated in my desk from the sun shining through the window. The red apple.

The fruit I thought was useless and just a gimmick for good luck for a new teacher was going to have an important purpose. I rinsed off the apple, cut it into slices and took it over to Danny.

I placed it on his desk and motioned for him to take a seat. I headed back to my desk but kept my gaze on the sweet boy. He picked up the red apple and took a big bite. Within a few minutes, only a white apple core was left. As weird as it may seem, this warmed my heart.

That night, I did some digging. By consulting the internet and a coworker I found out more about Danny’s background and his family. Danny was an only child. His father was in prison for possession of

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drugs, leaving his unemployed mother alone raising a young boy.

The next day at school Danny did not show. I was very concerned. After school, I found Danny’s address in the school directory. I packed up my bag and headed to the parking lot. About 11 minutes later I found myself in a quaint, old neighborhood. Most students at the school came from high-income families and homes with white-picket fences and rose bushes. In Danny’s neighborhood, however, this was not the case. The road itself was cracking and significantly needed paving. After driving around the block, I finally saw Danny’s house. It was very small but not as much of a wreck as I had imagined it would be. There was a small walkway leading to the front door, which was a pale, blue color. Though the paint was chipping away, the blue door added something warm to the home. There were flowers on the front porch, but it looked like they hadn’t been watered in a long time. I rang the doorbell and anxiously waited.

A moment later, the blue door slowly opened revealing a small woman. She wore ratty overalls with a blue shirt underneath. She had eyes like Danny— warm but scared and tired looking. The woman looked up at me meekly.

“Hello,” I said with a smile, “You must be Danny’s mother.”

She simply nodded and then looked down just like Danny had.

“I’m Clare,” I said gently, hoping to gain her trust. “I’m Danny’s second grade teacher. I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m Lucy.”

“I noticed Danny wasn’t at school today,” I said, hoping to keep the practically one-sided conversation going. “I just wanted to check that he is doing okay.”

“Oh, yes, he’s fine,” she said nervously. “I uh, I…” She looked down again and a tear rolled down her cheek. Her eyes just like Danny’s had that brokenness but also warmth and gentleness.

I gently touched her arm, “Let’s sit down,” I said.

We sat down on the front steps of the porch and she began telling me everything. How her husband got caught up with drugs and became abusive to both her and Danny. How she lost her job and hasn’t been able to find work since then. How she has no money and can’t even afford to buy Danny new clothes or an adequate lunch. How her car broke down and she doesn’t have enough money to get it fixed so she couldn’t drive Danny to school.

The more she told me, the more tears began running down her cheeks until it just became sobs. Lucy sobbed and sobbed. I felt so much empathy towards her and dear Danny.

“I’m sorry,” she said sniffling and trying to collect herself, “I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about this and I’m at the point where I don’t even know what to do.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and I truly meant it. “You and Danny deserve better than this and I am going to help you.”

“How?” She asked looking up at me with tear-soaked eyes.

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* * * 3 mon t h s l at e r* * * “Alright, friends, head to the carpet for story time,” I chirped.

My second graders eagerly placed themselves criss cross applesauce on the carpet awaiting the story.

“Who is going to lead us today?” I asked looking at my students.

“I will,” said a boy’s voice followed by a proud hand raise.

I smiled, “Come on up.”

The boy led us through the story, conquering every punctuation mark and long word. I watched with admiration and beamed at him. When he finished, the class clapped and cheered him on. His smile was so genuine and sincere.

“Okay friends,” called my teacher assistant from the back of the classroom, “Come get your snacks.”

Chitter chatter ensued as the students raced to the back of the room excited for their treat.

The boy that had just read approached me, “Well, Miss Clare, how did I do?”

“Absolutely excellent,” I said, giving him a head bow and a big smile. “Now go get your snack.”

He waddled to the back of the classroom to join his classmates. My teacher assistant greeted each child so happily and excitedly. She was so cheerful and jovial to be around. When she got to the boy, she gave him a hug and ruffled his hair.

Everyone sat at their desk and dug into their snack of, you guessed it, red apples.

So, who is my new teacher assistant you ask? Well, it is Lucy, Danny’s mom. It turns out that my school had a teacher assistant opening for my second grade class since we have the maximum number of students we could have. Lucy now has a job and is also doing something that makes her happy.

The boy who read to the class so wonderfully was Danny. He has new clothes as well as a new aurora surrounding him. What used to be shyness and despair is now jolliness and brightness. He is one of the best readers in the class and never hesitates to help another student out or talk to the quiet kid playing alone on the playground.

Not only have Lucy and Danny’s life changed for the better but so has mine. They have touched my soul with their kindness and gentleness.

It sounds silly but I never thought that a red apple could change lives. A fruit that I was never fond of created the biggest impact on some of my now favorite friends. * * * 10 y e a r s l at e r * * * Danny is now getting ready to graduate and will be attending an Ivy League college hoping to pursue a degree in English. Lucy still helps me run my second grade classroom which I have continued teaching for all these years. Though Danny is a success story and has a bright future ahead there may be more children I encounter in the future who are facing a similar situation that Danny came from.

I always want to make sure I am equipped to help these students and provide them with all the love and care they need and deserve. And so, for this, I always have a red apple perched on my desk.

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Chicken Dad Vannah Mobley

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Martin’s Car Carolina Quintana Ocampo

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A Garden Grows a Witch Alyssa Dale

T

he air is sharp and cool against my face, the beginnings of autumn setting in, but I pay no heed to that. My focus rests solely on the diary in my hand, on the passage I found on a page stuck between two others.

“For atypical heart rhythms,” it says in the saving grace of Mam’s hand, “mix the yellow, heart-shaped

petals from the Linden tree with the flowering tops of Broom and Hawthorn. Steep into tea.”

I murmur the words like a benediction, feel the pouch holding those very ingredients tug from around my wrist. The weight of it deceptively light as I hasten my steps up to the Godkin’s manor. This. This is the first hint in weeks of anything that might save Edie’s life, and the distance to that house with the room of sick and death is incomprehensible.

I need to try this now, I think. Now, now, now, until there is no other thought in my head, no space for anything else but the anxious need.

Ahead, a carriage trundles down the path towards me. The heavy clomping of the horse-hooves, the squeaking of the reins and chains and wood and a yell from the driver are the only warnings I get to jump off the path.

“Move!” the burly, harsh-looking man says, though I only catch a glimpse of him in my hurry to move out of his way. In fact, I move so swiftly that I stumble and fall into the tall, dying grass and wildflowers along the side of the path, and still I have to jerk my feet out of the way so they don’t get crushed.

Just as the carriage begins to pass me by, I tilt my head up, intent on giving the driver a dirty look, but my eyes don’t find his. In a moment that seems to last a lifetime and no time at all, my eyes lock onto the passenger of the carriage through the window shrouded in black curtains. Father Roderick stares back at me. His small, dark eyes standing out starkly on his pale, wide, bare face. Something like fire jolts through my chest at the blankness I find there, both of emotion and expression. I’ve never liked Father Roderick, and the churchman has never liked me whether for the brownness of my skin, the unorthodox way I live my life, or for something entirely of his own perceiving. But this look, I can tell, is not that. Not that normal short fiction

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disdain. This is something else entirely.

And then the moment passes, and the carriage continues down the path.

Before I even realize it, I am on my feet, running, running, running. Up the path, cresting the hill, and then the manor is in sight. The burnt cream colored, flat-faced monstrosity that I’ve always felt was unnecessarily set back feels even more so now that I need to get there. Now, now, now.

And I do get there. I dodge off the path once I get near, sprint around the side and to the low door of the servant’s entrance that leads into the storeroom. Then into a hallway, up the stairs. And up. And up. To the third floor and through a door that looks like part of the wall. And then I am in front of Edie’s room, and only then do I realize that the house has been silent all the way.

The one point of redemption for the giantness of the manor is that it is never silent. Always, always there is Emese playing the piano, or Almos tinkering, or servants bustling, or, most recently, Edie coughing like there’s a bird trying to escape from her chest via her mouth. But there is none of that now. Just unbroken stillness.

I step into Edie’s room, and to my relief Edie is laying there on her bed as she always is, and her eyes are closed so she must be sleeping.

Must, must, must, I think even as the evidence proves she is not. Not with the stillness of her body, of her chest. Not with the way her arms lay flat at her sides and her sheet is pulled up to her neck as if someone pulled it that far but could not cover her face. Not with the slackness of her face, eyelids drooped, lips parted. Not with the way her dark, short hair, normally a tangled mess from laying so long, is smoothed off her forehead, against the sides of her face. All the evidence is there, but still…

“No. No, I can save you,” I say though there is no one to hear me. Still I keep up a steady stream of denial as I cross the room to the table I was granted when the Godkin’s set me to save their daughter. I pull the strap from my wrist and lay the pouch attached into a cup, grab the half-full water pitcher as well as the lid of the tea kettle, pour the water carefully into the kettle, replace the lid, set a flame to the lamp beneath the kettle, and wait. And wait. After more time than I’d like, the water boils, and I pull the kettle from its stand, turn it over the cup, and wait again as the mixture steeps. Replacing the kettle, and after long moments, I grab the cup and finally turn to Edie on her bed in the middle of the room.

“Alright,” I say to fortify myself as I approach her. “This is going to work.”

Once I get to the bed, I reach a hand to the side of Edie’s head, feel the coolness there before shifting around to grip the back of her neck and lift gently. I tip the cup against her slack lips, watch the tea fill her mouth, overflow across the sides of her face.

“No, no, you have to…” I start to say, but think better of it. I hastily put the cup down and use my free hand to tilt Edie’s chin up and to close her mouth. Then I lay her head back down against her pillow, and wait. And wait.

Minutes pass and nothing. I try the tea again, and then again moments later when that yields no results.

Soon the cup is empty, the supplies gone, and Edie is still dead.

In a moment of wordless frustration, I throw the cup across the room and against a wall and, without

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satisfaction, watch it shatter into a rain of porcelain shards. Then I let my hand fall onto Edie’s chest.

The stillness there was condemning as anything.

I know the Godkin’s, if they are still somewhere in their forsaken manor, must have heard my tantrum, are probably coming to investigate already, but I can’t force myself to move.

I accept whatever punishment they deem necessary for my failure, I concede, remembering the deal we had struck, or rather, the deal I had been given no choice but to comply with.

It is only in that moment of acceptance that I feel something stirring inside of me, like a pull, like a magnetic force reaching for its opposite charge. Confused, I close my eyes and try to trace the feeling, remembering everything I’ve ever learned about my mother, everything everyone’s ever whispered behind my back about how Bira Aditi could feel when someone was ill, knew it often before they did. And could heal them with a thought. So I follow the pull, and in my mind’s eye, like a string of light, I can see it reaching out to where I know Edie is laying.

Flashing my eyes open, I don’t see anything, but that doesn’t dissuade me because the pull is still there, at home in my chest. So I settle my hand more firmly against Edie, right over her heart, and I focus on that feeling. And I search for a joining force, something to connect to that string of light coming from me. And it’s small, miniscule really, but I find it. A small spark coming from Edie, like a light far into an abyss. I focus all of my attention on it. Place my unattended hand on my own chest as if I could physically connect the two forces. And slowly, so slowly, I feel that spark getting brighter, getting closer, until…

A g a s pi ng. A s pu t t e r i ng.

Untitled 3 pho t o by j u l i a mo or e

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Ophelia ch r i s t i a n p onc e w i t h ta n n e r a r t e r

Blossoming ch r i s t i a n p onc e w i t h ta n n e r a r t e r

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Apollo Mikayla Wells

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The Burial of the Dead: Rite II Andrew Walker Watson

I

’ve done funerals a million times before, but this one hurts differently. I’ve helped hundreds of families bury their loved ones before, but the idea of casting dirt on this casket tugs on my heart strings. When you become a priest, you know that emotional moments will

come: the baptism of a newborn, the reconciliation of prodigal children, the marriage of two love-

birds, the blessing of the sick. However, seeing the face of my boyfriend on the cover of the bulletin is the most heart-wrenching thing I have ever experienced on the job. The funeral home had picked my favorite picture of him with a scruffy beard that he loved to nuzzle against my neck. His name, Lazarus Scott, had been printed in the signature cursive font that I only see on occasions like these.

All the way to the back doors, people were packed into each of the worn wooden pews. Hundreds dressed in black came to remember a life unfairly taken away. The chanting that had filled the streets for weeks has this morning been replaced by a pipe organ. Cameras from TV stations lined up to broadcast the service to the world along the stained glass windows. I can still see Lazarus and I sitting in the colorful glow of those windows, talking away an afternoon. I can see the two of us on those oak benches, napping after services were over. So many Black people had deaths like Lazarus, I had even done some of their funerals.

However, the world had taken exception to his death. Today, the eyes of millions were focused on me and every action I took. This would be harder than I expected.

I knew I wasn’t the only one who was having a hard time right now. The front row was occupied by a family that had to be stronger than most. When a death becomes breaking news, so does your mourning.

They had made TV and public appearances all of last week, instead of spending nights laughing and telling stories in their living room. They never got to share about the one time Lazarus tried to turn their basement into a club with his friends. There was never a chance to recount how they took his high school girlfriend to the family reunion even after they broke up. Instead, they choked back their weeping with calls to action.

Even Lazarus’ mom’s new hat couldn’t hide the tears that filled her eyes as she gazed at the covered casket.

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The Scotts were wonderful people, but they had been apprehensive about my relationship with Lazarus.

It had been hard enough for them to accept that their son was gay, but dating and “corrupting” a priest was a serious challenge. It didn’t help that the two of us had met in the young adults group, cleaning up the parish hall after a meeting. Lazarus had been a faithful member of our church just like generations of his family before him. He laid out romantic spreads for me at the church picnic, he sat up with me on late nights while I wrote my sermons, he made sure that we shared a room when he planned trips for the youth group. However, the family had taken exception to having their son expose the sinful nature of their priest.

All of that had been healed following the events of Lazarus’ last night on Earth.

It had been a beautiful spring night with the scent of blooming flowers distracting us from the gritty streets. The bright light of the moon was shining on our joyous brown faces. We were walking home from our date when we decided to pick up a little dessert at the corner store. His aromatic cologne mixed with the stale air of the store. Lazarus ran through the store like a hyper little kid, ripping packs of cookies off the shelves with a wide smile. The only thing I grabbed was an extra long Rice Krispies treat. I stuffed the receipt and the bag filled with cheap snacks into the jacket I told Lazarus he was never getting back.

The two of us walked out the store in the direction of my house, hand in hand. We barely make it out of the parking lot when we hear a man yell: “What are you two ni—rs think you’re doing stealing from that store?”

“We didn’t steal anything.” Lazarus yelled back in a stern voice.

“Why are you engaging? I’m not trying to get in any trouble tonight.” I warned him.

“We don’t have anything to hide. Let’s just get this over with so we can go home.” Lazarus explained to me. The man started to run over to us. Two other guys were running behind him.

“Laz, I don’t think these guys come in peace.” I said, shaking his arm. “We need to get out of here.”

We started to run away. My heartbeat began to pound in my ears within seconds. Try as we might, we only made it across the street before they caught up to us. The three of them surrounded us. “You two aren’t getting away that easily.”

“I’m telling you we didn’t steal anything.” Lazarus said. His eyebrows were narrowed, his chest puffed out. A punch came flying into his face no sooner than the words come out of his mouth.

“We saw you two take stuff off the shelves. I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me the truth.”

“We didn’t do it.” Lazarus said again. Blood and saliva was dripping out the side of his mouth. Every muscle in his face was tense. The attacker’s fist went flying. I tried grabbing his arm to stop him from throwing another punch. It didn’t work. He squinted his eyes at me and then kicked me square in the stomach.

“If you think I’m going to let a couple of fa—ts stop me, you’ve got another thing coming. Lance, hold him back!” The man yelled at his friends. Two muscular white arms slithered around me. The left around my waist, the right around my throat. He pressed his arm into my clerical collar and began to strangle me.

I squirmed and struggled to get his arms from around me. I tried to croak out:

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“You’re choking me! I can’t breathe.” As my vision began to fade, I took a look at Lazarus. I watched them beat him senselessly into the pavement. The last thing I saw was his slender body bathed in the bright fluorescent lights of the corner store.

I woke up a while later to a man with tan skin waking me up. When my eyes opened, he said: “Thank goodness, you are alive! First responders coming for you and your friend. I haven’t been able to wake him up though.” I looked over at Lazarus, slumped over on his side. I scurried over and placed my glasses under his nose. They wouldn’t fog up. He wasn’t breathing. My heart felt like lead in my chest.

“Wait,” I shot up and turned to the guy who woke me up. “You said you called first responders?”

“Yeah, they should be here any minute.” “No, no, no. They’re going to frame me for murder if I stay here. They’ll blame me for my own boyfriend’s murder.”

“No, they won’t. I called for you both in case you didn’t wake up. It’s going to be okay.”

I should have known from that moment that things wouldn’t be. They pronounced him dead in the ambulance. Told me that I was fine, apart from the mental trauma. However, I was given the honors of telling the Scotts that Lazarus had been killed. At first, his sister blamed me; she said if I had protected him, her brother would not have died. I blamed myself a little too. I had been right there and I could have done something. However, his parents reminded us that I was just as much a victim. In time, they welcomed me in to their family as a son.

However today, I wasn’t their son-in-law Max, I was Father Bethany. When we were making funeral arrangements, we came to the consensus that there was no other priest that should bury him. In life, he loved me, yet even in death, I am still his priest. I worked hard to play the part. I eulogized my closest friend: inspiring the protestors who paid respects to the man who sparked a movement and comforting those who grieved a terrible loss. I told the congregation that our Church, over hundreds of years, had fine-tuned these rites for us, the mourners. They’re meant to point us to the wonders of Lazarus’ life. They’re supposed to remind us of how bright the future is and how much we still have to live for. Every act I do is intended to bring solace. I just needed to do my job.

I administered communion to the people in the building and everyone gathered across the street. I looked in the faces of almost every person who was here, seeing the pain and sorrow on their faces.

I maintained strong and comforting until the end, the commendation. The congregation recited the final prayers. As I censed the body with incense, the dam broke. My throat tightened. My eyes started to sting from the saltwater. I began to sob. The church was silent, save for my cries and the sound of the incense pot hitting its chain. With every click, a new memory of Lazarus flashed in my mind. The plumes of sweet smoke that rose to the rafters failed to conceal how tears dripped down my chin onto the coffin. When I finish, I hand the pot to an acolyte and the pipe organ drowns out my weeping with the final hymn. I watch the body process out into the bright sunlight of the day.

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Mac Miller Circle Album Cover VISHAL NAIR

Face IT ZORIAH WHITE

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Isaiah Thomas “Ice in My Veins” Vishal Nair

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Spit Out Your Lies and Chewing Gum Kelly Gilbert

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Roots Alyysa Dale

H

er finding the house was a coincidence. A coincidence she’d been in the park with her retirement-home group when she decided she couldn’t stand one more minute of respirator hisses or old-men-grumblings. Grumbling to herself that wandering off was only a matter of time, she

began taking notice of when the young aid checked her phone for just long enough.

Enough, she eventually decided and escaped the other old bats, feeling the weight of condescending stares lift from her shoulders. The shoulders of one weathered woman walking alone were nothing to gawk at, but a mob of terminal cases and everyone watched with hawk eyes to try catching the exact moment one dropped. Tension dropping away, her spine uncurled in a way she hadn’t thought it could anymore.

Could I wander? she wondered—first through the park, then into the woods around it? It was more interesting than anything she’d perceived in years. Long years had passed slowly for her, edging her into old age, but, finally, she felt invigorated. Invigorated enough to stroll happily into the deepest parts of the woods while gazing wondrously at all the creatures and colours around her.

Her expression coming up on the house though turned to surprise. Surprised that, surrounded by so much life and vibrance, the structure stood deathly still, covered in moss and stretching pale and muted three stories tall. Standing tall herself, she didn’t feel scared; instead, she felt only curiosity. …

A curiosity: in another world, the old woman would’ve entered the house, spent some time there,

feeling as rebellious as a young girl. A girl who, hours after unknowingly causing distress to her caretakers, would wander back to the park like a cat with its curiosity satisfied, and all would be well. …

Well, in this world, the house was both tomb and grave-marker. A grave-marker for a history longpast, telling a story of tragedy and death. Death of a family falling asleep one night and never waking again— skeletons that were still resting in their beds waiting to shock the old woman. The old woman, reeling from the discovery — of seeing those bones — felt herself quake. Her quaking unbalanced her from her spot at the topmost step where she’d climbed. Climbed so far only to fall down and down and down. Down the long staircase, three stories tall—down the weathered and rotting wood until she crash-landed. Landed, but she fell again through the floor into a cellar meant for storing jams and wines but now home to the roots of trees and to her.

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Fear

k a r i-da n i e l l e dav i s

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k a r i-da n i e l l e dav i s

The Fall of Caesar Liam Caldwell ROT H A D A L R E A DY I N F E ST E D T H E PL ACE A N D H E ISN ’ T E V E N D E A D Y E T. You cover your nose and cough. Distant cheery urban life chitters in through the open door as afternoon light pours through. You stand alone in the familiar estrangement of your home. These three bedrooms hold more than any of your unsuspecting neighbors could have dreamed. Suspicion is a stranger and loves only a newspaper: expendable and cheap. Avarice scuffs the cheap wallpaper, booze and broads saturate the upholstery.

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Dozens of men had lived at his feet and died by his hand. Now, he lays at your feet as if begging for a last chance he never provided to anyone else—least of all his own blood. You find him in this sticky silence of his home office. Lifetimes of words claw at your throat just to dissolve by your tongue. Your brow twitches, lips curl, bile curdles. Heat sticks to the thick cotton of your shirt. You loosen your tie and wave a hand.

Better continue on with your life than pore over his death. But death is mesmerizing. Aside from dolls and booze, wasn’t that his trade? He knew how to live but forgot how to die.

Make sure not to repeat that mistake.

Enough of this, you think. But you still stand there as if waiting for something to happen, but it’s almost over.

The soft babble of his gurgling blood turns your head.

“Yes sir?” you inquire, still chained to his paternal command.

His coated hand twitches, as if beckoning. Your feet shift closer to his limp body. You stop, the scuffed toes of your oxfords are inches from his nose. His hand allots another obscure motion.

“I can’t understand you,” you elevate his head, offering an ear to his sanguine lips.

Words slowly surface between the Red Sea dribbling down his chin. “Lucky.” comes wetly down his ruined suit.

“Oh shit,” you whisper. You loop your bony arms around his hefty middle and drag him to the sturdy side of his desk. You stare at his dulling eyes. “Where?” you slap him, blood caking your palm. “Where?!”

The creak of a floorboard stiffens your shoulders and hair. Crisp aftershave wafts over the salty oxidation of iron and perspiration. Another footstep. You release your father’s lapels; he slumps uselessly against the desk.

“Rayner, The Prodigal Son,” eases into the office over the hum of lights. “I see you caught me in the middle of business. Didn’t your father ever teach you to knock?” Luciano teases smoothly.

Charles Luciano was never absent from your memory. No man taught you more than he, the one and only, Lucky Luciano. Today, he might teach you how to die. You tremble out of rage and fear.

“Let me walk,” you plea.

“Walk?” He takes another step in the room. “Isn’t that all you’ve been doing? Walking around with the Maranzano name like it’s something to wear; just to repetitively make a cafone out of yourself and this Family.”

“Burning my father won’t make a difference,” you turn, Luciano’s tweed suit is immaculately clean despite the bloodshed. A knife relaxes in his controlled grip. So much for family.

“Why’s that, Rayner? Are you planning to take his place?” he cackles. “I know you, boy. You’re a runner.

That’s all you’ve ever done, too scared to look ol’ Caesar in the eye,” he waves the blade weakly at your father.

“Well now you can look at him. Go on.”

Your lip trembles, and you borrow a shaky breath.

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“Look at him,” Luciano says with an edge.

“I have no plans to join him,” you scowl. “I never did, and I won’t now.”

Luciano offers a charming state-of-the-art smile. “I’ve always liked you Rayner, you know that?”

You stand up, returning a weak smile. “Flattery always got you everywhere, Lucky.”

“I prefer persuasion,” he muses, twisting the knife in the air.

“I don’t think I have anything you’d want.”

Luciano smiles wider, “Fortunately, you’re wrong. You have your father.”

You step aside, presenting his body like a talk-show prize. “He’s all yours.”

“I got that much,” he replies with disinterest; “but he’s inside you. Always has been. That’s what I want.”

“Quit with the rhymes, this is a safe place,” you grin.

“Not for a Maranzano. Remember Isa, or have you already forgotten? More importantly, has she forgotten you?”

Fire begins to flare in your cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Quite a nasty bump she got on her head, right? That night Masseria’s boys came in for dinner.”

The pops of a machine gun echo in your head. Broken porcelain and a flipped table lie soiled at your feet.

“Big Papa, wasn’t it? You couldn’t have your doll of a sister get broken, eh?”

You begin to tremble. The lights seem to flicker. Summer light seems to fade into that opaque evening.

“Shut up!” you quiver.

“Big brother Rayner off to save her from the bad man’s bullets. Couldn’t take one himself like a real man,” he spits. “Not even for her.”

Blood pulsates into your head. The ebb and flow of your heart rattles your very skin. You aren’t Rayner.

He’s a million miles away, driving the Rolls Royce he stole as fast as he could. Isa is in the passenger seat, screaming with life and recklessness.

“S-stop…”

“Instead of working it out, you pushed her out of the way. Sure, heroic—if you weren’t trying to clear the way for yourself.”

“How do you know—?!”

He strikes your face, shoving you into a bookshelf. “Look,” he grips your jaw, forcing your head toward your own sin. The sun overlaps the flat fireplace by the dining room. There is a decent gash in the brick. You wince, the flash of her blood crawling to the grate.

Hardback spines bite into your cheekbones. Your eyes begin to blur with tears. His breath dances over your unshaven face and sweltering skin. “You think that Lucky’s so immoral, that the Family is just something you’re too good for...Look at that Rayner and tell me. Tell me you’re not like your bastard father.”

“Stopitstopitstopit,” you sputter, fresh tears gush down your face.

He grips your hair, edging your head further into the wall. He stares at you with a grim smile. “You’re the reason she lost her brains. Blunt force trauma doesn’t go down well—especially when it comes with a side of abandonment.”

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“I’M NOT MY FATHER!” you scream, lunging at him with agony. The sting of a fresh cut tears through your sleeve. In Luciano’s confusion, you run behind the desk, producing a revolver.

Luciano straightens himself, slouching in your father’s blood with the knife under a leaden grip. He looks up with a swelling eye.

You release the safety. The barrel wavers, your smoky eyes roll out lingering regrets that sparkles in the sunlight. “I don’t need the Family I was never part of,” you hiss lividly.

“Never part of…” he snickers. “What do you call this?” He gestures at the scene.

“The fall of Caesar…” you let a smile germinate, “never thought I’d see it.”

“You’re welcome,” he looks at the gun, raising an expectant eyebrow.

You inhale the air, the decay mingling with the life left.

If Lucky was going to kill you, he would’ve had you on the floor already. But you do have him on the ground...the thought tempts you like the lure of a new cigarette.

Stop. Hold. Count… you frown, finger twitching. He’s not going to wait forever; and eternity isn’t something you have time for.

Finally: “I think we’re done here.”

Luciano grins, “I’ve always liked you, kid. I want you to know that.”

“The knife, Salvatore,” you hold out your hand. He nods like a gentleman and forfeits it. You put the safety on and kick the gun out of anyone’s reach. Luciano rises with the tug of your bloody hand. He tips his chin and leaves, his work complete.

When you’re alone, you kneel and close your father’s eyes. Before forging with the rest of society, you linger at the front door. The living room is collected and classic. You glance at the fireplace. That’ll leave a mark, but marks can be healed.

You came back here to recompense with this place. To sever ties that curl around your noose. Here in the silence you finally understand your father’s allure with death—death is life’s only freedom. You shut the door, squinting at the waning sun. The Rolls Royce waits patiently in the driveway. You key the ignition and start to drive.

Perhaps now, you can live.

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Not a Wasted Tear va n n a h mobl e y

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va n n a h mobl e y

More Guitar Robert Mitchell In 7th grade there was an English teacher all the boys had a crush on. Miss May was so cute, they managed to ignore her little mustache and never mention it. At the end of class one day she asked if anybody played guitar or wrote poetry. Seeing the number of girls who raised their adolescent hands, Derek Lee and Jake agreed that they played guitar and wrote poetry. Miss May announced that all poets and guitar players were to meet up after school the next day and share their work. Folk music and time with girls was on the proposed playlist but only two people showed up. Jake Martin and Derek Lee both brought their guitars. Derek had Bob Dylan song books. Eureka, the maps! The way in. There were no girls at the poetry get together but Martin & Lee formed that day, without their knowing it.

Does like attract like? Is it a universal law?

Jake grew up in the drive-in movie era. He and his brother, Tim, wondered why they had to hide under a blanket in the back seat. They knew it was in order to save a couple bucks, but the Martin family were not poor. Regardless, it was exciting and beautiful to see that giant outdoor screen. Forgiving the sonic quality of the small, pewter, metal ribbed speaker box attached to the rolled down car window, he loved the exotic sounds of far away. Modern movies and movie trailers projected ‘60s rock ’n roll, changing hormones, exotic faraway adventures, and romance.

Jake learned about life by listening and observing. No one was telling him much. Occasionally, his father played country music on the radio. When he drove the fire-engine red pick-up truck with the full length black roof rack, John Martin would sing. He had a clear and big voice with a high range, and his own version of the Robert Kenny hillbilly classic, Hillbilly Brew: Those summer days, that winter chill, they keep me climbin’ up the hill to find that old country elixir.

Stirrin’ up his stew, right into the wind it blew and he pours me my Hillbilly Brew.

His father sang in tune but Jake didn’t yet know that that was a good thing, it just seemed natural, like how you’re supposed to sing. John was also a confident accordion player. From his repertoire, Jake picked up

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some lyrics and a melody that came in handy one vibrant autumn afternoon. Jake had been invited to a birthday party. Other than him, only girls had been invited. Jake’s mother simply informed him, on a Saturday morning, that he was going to a party.

“What? Me and all just girls? Hell no!”

He rarely said anything due to fear, shyness, and habit. The party was such an awkward scene, Jake with all the girls. He wished he had the coolness to say, “Hey, hi,” but he stayed quiet and tried to seem like he was fine being there. Suddenly, near the end of the party, there was an announcement for a talent show prize. It was a singing contest, which came as more brand new news to Jake. There had been no mention of singing, or a prize, when just as suddenly, a miniature pool table was presented as the grand prize. It was lust for a material object that Jake had never known. That pool table had to be his. A few girls sang and everyone clapped as Jake’s eyes owned the world of potential miniature billiard mastery.

Without thinking he stepped forward and belted out: “Stirrin’ up his stew, right into the wind it blew and he pours me my Hillbilly Brew.”

It seemed like things were going pretty well. All of the girls were wide eyed and surprised with their mouths open. They smiled and pointed as Jake launched into some made up country style dance, singing the song again, modulating a whole step higher without knowing that modulation was a savvy move. “… and he pours me my Hillbilly Brew .”

Not really thinking about what had just happened, the pool table was his when Mary came to pick him up in the Oldsmobile.

Across the street on Cedar Lane was a confident and blossoming fifteen-year-old, Margot Blum. Margot barely gave Jake any notice other than to be annoyed by him because he was her little brother’s friend. She really needed to see the brand new film, To Sir with Love, and Jake happened to be in her home with Walt, her little brother, when Margot pleaded with her parents to take her to the movie. No one would go. Margot stomped her foot and then spun on her bare heel to face Jake and ask, almost in a dare, “How about you Jake, do you want to go to the movies with me?”

Staring, incredulous, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, he offered a quiet, “Ok.” The bus ride into the city revealed a strange and foreign place with brand new energy coming from all directions.

It was a noticeable contrast from their little town of apple orchards, streams, and rolling fields, a mere fourteen miles away. Margot was glad to be in the city and as a traveling companion, Jake would do. Sitting next to her and her luminous scent, he was hyper aware of her femaleness, the ridges of her bra poking through her pale blue sweater, her silver chain and cross securely resting, but moving slightly between gentle slopes when she breathed, and her fearless green eyes. Jake was mostly silent as she led him around Hartford.

“Here’s our bus. Watch the light … let’s cross. It’s over here.”

Her eyes were alert, and Jake felt like a spy, aware that he was noticing for the first time, the color of a woman’s eyes in the daylight. Brilliant green.

“I’ll get the tickets … C’mon, Jakey.”

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To Sir with Love was mind expanding on so many cultural and biological levels. Transformed, Jake wanted to talk to his mother about the movie. There was no opportunity for sentiment with his frightening, fighting father, but seeing the film lubricated Jake’s inner workings. His love for movies, great characters and great storytelling, all had to do with humanity, desire, and truth. Jake’s young spirit was hungry and in that few hours with Margo, seeds were planted. He knew that he would leave Small Town, USA one day, one way or another.

In 1967 there was music in Jake’s home. His mother enjoyed radio and the popular music of the 60’s. She also had records, 33rpm albums and 45s, that were played on their very large Magnavox console stereo. It had a big sound and Jake loved how the bass filled the room. On Sunday mornings, John Martin blasted Polka music. It seemed out of character but he loved Sophie and Victor Zembrusky’s, Polish Eagle Radio Hour, which was a four-hour program.

“I don’t want her you can have her she’s too fat for me” Why write that? Jake wondered.

At twelve years old, he was writing lyrics. He loved the typewriter in the finished room, in the basement.

The mechanical freedom from penmanship gave him a writers’ anonymity and freedom to say anything, from any perspective. The mechanical certainty of Jake’s typewriter contrasted the peace and stillness of his forest. Comfortable in the great outdoors, all seasons were great. In the warm weather, boys from the neighborhood would hike out into the woods and camp. They would gather wood and haul large stones to make a fireplace. Someone had permission to bring a large radio from home, and they would carry on loudly, acting out their crazy juvenile energy. Eventually, they would settle into sleeping bags.

Looking up into the night sky, clouds blended with campfire smoke, and Jake heard, for the first time, Nights in White Satin. His imagination soared beyond the intermingling vapors of night. The moon became a thing of attainable detail and he was listening deeply. The moment seemed to bring the past to the present with a beautiful peace and timelessness. His creativity was in full, fertile bloom, and that music locked into something that locked into something else. Jake was pregnant with the need to write and play music, but he wasn’t ready. Writing songs for his hopeful dream unfolding, he wrote beyond his age, Always: As I tried to sleep, my head upon a pillow my knees were scraping on a quilt.

Somehow I’ve found somebody else’s blues I have no reason to feel any guilt.

I’m waiting for a telephone to rip apart the air are those bells ever gonna ring?

Listen to the silence of the night time, the night time offers me nothing.

Well, I know this feeling, yeah I’ve had it before and it’s bad.

One thing that’s always been good to say ...

Sadness always goes away.

Yes, it always goes away.

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Part of camping included the midnight illegal swim. The guys would get pretty dirty and hot while messing around in the woods, building fires, and breaking branches. The Lions Club public pool was an easy hike from their wooded hide-away, and the hop over the wire linked fence was nothing at all for young lads. They tried to stay silent but that’s a tall order for buoyant boys. To cool off from summer, they would slide into the cold water, being careful not to splash in loudly. Eventually Jimmy Deloy would mount the diving board and spring off, deliberately making as much noise as humanly possible, causing everyone to scramble for dear life. Angry at Jimmy, the fugitives were back in the woods before the closest neighbor could call the police. Poor Jimmy. He was gay, and in those days, people got beat up for being gay. It wasn’t easy for him and he never talked about it. Everyone knew something was up but no one really cared because Jimmy was their buddy. So what if he really liked flowers? Flowers were cool. Over the next few years Jimmy would take the bus into the city, but would return with black eyes and bruises after being beaten up. Jake felt the same “why?” that he felt about the race riots. Being on the receiving end of his own father’s fists, he understood fear, but so far, Jake was free of hatred.

On another camping adventure, Walt, Margot’s brother, brought along a portable TV that ran on batteries. Knowing that the battery life would be limited, the boys agreed to wait until dark, just before midnight, so they could watch the Tonight Show, starring Johnny Carson. It was surreal enough having a TV in the woods, but when Johnny introduced Richard Harris to sing MacArthur Park, all was silent other than the Jimmy Webb song pouring out of the portable TV. The other guys had fallen asleep but Jake was transfixed by the emotional voice, the strange lyrics, and the many turns of melody and orchestration.

The unpredictable turbulence of drunken violence kept Jake alert. When tensions escalated at home, he spent more time in the woods. Alone was fine. By the time the Woodstock generation took over, Jake was alienated, beaten, and in need of repair. Laying below tall branches swaying from quiet winds, he could stretch out on the dirt floor and listen to FM radio. Hearing Whispering Winds, and Black Magic Women,

by Santana, he was transported.

When Jake became a freshman in high school he tried weed for the first time. He was at a Battle of the Bands, at school, when his friend, Marc, asked if he wanted to take a hike to Camp Happy Hill. Marc said that Karen was going. Jake had a crush on Karen but didn’t know how to talk to her, so, yes. They all went together. The camp was a Girl Scout camp in the summer. For the other nine months it was uninhabited, except by local kids who might pass by and spend time in one of the lean-tos. Marc pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and started fussing with leaves, sticks, and seeds. When he rolled and lit the thing, Jake assumed he had rolled a cigarette, but the smell was new. It was new like a changing season that you never noticed.

Mark passed the J to Karen who instructed Jake, “Now take a deep drag and hold it in.”

Ok, he did what she said. He was ready to do whatever she said. She wore a scent of strawberry and Jake was excited by being close to her. She had gorgeous, electric eyes and a sweet confidence. He smoked but felt nothing. Marc and Karin started speaking suddenly, in a weird accent and kept saying, “Happy Who Day!!,” with much laughing and silliness. ‘Overrated’, Jake thought. He had heard about

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pot but had no interest at all … until he stood up. Whoa, “Happy Fuckin’ Who Day!” Jake’s voice bellowed out into the night, illuminating the darkness. He was high but the thing that really caught his attention came as a surprise. For some inexplicable reason he felt immediately free from his father. His rage, his standards of behavior, his fat beer belly and long ass side-burns could finally just shut the hell up and be out of Jake’s head. Just like that, Jake became his own man. Within a couple of minutes, he was taller and his hair was longer.

Eventually he did win some time with Karen. Karen Ferini was popular, an athlete, a cheerleader, she sang in the choir, and was very pretty. She was also noticeably short but Jake was short too. His winter growth spurt was about to stretch him six inches taller. Jake didn’t know how to advance their time together, or how to be a boyfriend, but for a short while he was that. Jake was momentarily elevated in school popularity by the rumor of his romance with Karen.

The telephone used to be a thing that was affixed. With enough wire, you could walk several feet, or maybe fifteen feet from the base of the phone. Point being, it was tough to have a private chat while mom was cooking or doing dishes. When the phone rang, Karen Ferini’s voice had an urgency. Jake shyly and adolescently cracked his voice, while commanding his mother, “Let me go downstairs to the other phone!”

Karen Ferini never let Jake see her bikini, but she dove right in with, “Hi, hey, I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to go out with Hank Morgan. He has a car and we’re going to the basketball game tonight. Just wanted to tell you that we’re breaking up. OK, bye.”

Click. Bzzzzzzzzzz dial tone. That was that. Jake found his way to the basement and felt sorry for himself for a long while. He was in 9th grade. She was in 11th. Hank was in 12th, had a Mustang, and was a giant man on the football team who stunk up the locker room with giant man smells. Jake was too young to legally drive a John Martin & Sons fire engine red pick-up truck with the black metal rack over the back.

He would have a choice between two or three of those trucks next year, as soon as he turned sixteen. But Hank, right at that moment in the present, was captain of the football team, the Farmington Indians. Jake was recognizing how the world turned.

Thank goodness he had his knucklehead buddies. As goofy as they all were, stumbling together, they fumbled forward and found confidence. Jake found ways to come out of his shell even though doing so was often accompanied by an embarrassing stutter, or cracked voice. Joining the soccer team was a great idea. Jake was not a star athlete, but he discovered that he could out run almost everyone. He made solid friendships and felt like he was part of something strong. Some of the guys were very cool and he tried to blend in with their sense of style and speech.

Silent life was unbearable when the monster was present. Out in the free world, Jake could embody whatever voice popped from his teenage larynx. At the fresh water spring, with the parsley green leaves on long cheerful stems, Jake set up a large canvas tent and claimed his campsite. He needed his own scene.

Other friends had campsites not far away, and that was good too. Jake’s camp was sunlit and secluded. There

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was plenty of firewood and it was easy to wash up at the spring. Next to the lightly gurgling water, with the sound of leaves moving in the wind, sleeping was peaceful, although it was easy to notice an outside sound, or something compulsory from within. No Need to Roam.

The quiet night was disturbed by the sound of me kicking leaves by the curb.

The silence pounded louder by a call, the sound of an acorn fall being used by the earth good and old, the warm air slowly turns to cold.

I’m going back to the old ways.

Maybe tonight will show me that it’s all right.

A walk away from the city to the leaves I know so well Ahh, but I could stay, could stay till my dying day.

No need to roam when you have a comfortable home.

I’m going back to the old ways.

Maybe tonight will show me that it’s all right.

Jake was comfortable enough, set up there and away from angry dominance. When the monster was gone, Jake would stay with his mother, but if his infuriated father was in town, Jake would stay in the tent, at least until one mortal autumn night of rain. Jake arrived at the soggy scene only to find his cheap thrift store Stella guitar floating, warped and unplayable. Jake was with his friend, Max Royce, the rock climber.

Jake would have to return to clean up the destroyed campsite, but for tonight, in the moment, it was raining hard. They hiked to another campsite a few miles away. It was close to the river but much higher above ground.

They would be fine and they would be much higher. Max had pre-rolled a super fat joint to share, and they had one giant bottle of Schlitz beer. It was easy to buy beer in Farmington in 1970. Hippies all looked the same and no one cared. Keeping the fat J safe and dry, they walked in the rain. They talked very little but when they did, it was either referencing Lord of the Rings, or spontaneously belting out some Led Zeppelin.

Eager for dryness and highness, they finally made it to the other tent. They were so patient and now it was finally time to light that thing up, that fat J. By candle light, Jake held the J between his lips and struck a wooden match. Sloppily, he let the joint fall from his face and … what are the odds? … the thing dropped directly into the small opening of the 20 ounce Schlitz bottle.

“Oh fuck! FUCK!” Another fuck!

Dominant rain became the only song for the rest of the night and they listened well. Max was kind not to say anything but his face revealed bleak anticlimax. In damp, squinty silence, with paper and weed floating, they took their time and drank from the giant Schlitz bottle.

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Squirrel Study #51 Arik Miguel

Vi e w t h i s com pl e t e f i l m s u b m i s sion by sc a n n i ng t h e code . O r v i si t us at ou r w e b si t e: h t t ps://w w w. s a nsk r i t m ag a z i n e .com /f i l m /

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Gillz Carolina Quintana Ocampo

art wor k

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Portrait of Winnie Harlow M EG A N H O LT

Sleepover C AROLINA QUINTANA OC A MPO

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Late Night Liam Caldwell HE BRINE OF HIS OWN DRUNKENNESS WAS MAKING HIM SICK. IT WAS A DODGY PUB, BUT HE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. ALL OF HIS RESPONSIBILITY LIVED THERE. AMRIT WAS EXHAUSTED. HE NEEDED TONIGHT. JUST A FEW HOURS.

T

It’d been three. Three hours, six shots, no problems.

The door tickled out a jingle from the bell above it. Amrit turned his glass, staring at the liquid amber. He tapped his ring against it. It was heavier these days.

Damn it, he told Sebastian not to go on that trip. Every channel was talking about the civil wars and unrest...

Sebastian was rarely stubborn, but something about this business call stuck. He departed a husband and returned a stranger.

Trauma had held his tongue, shook his hands and stolen Sebastian’s love. Amrit could never forget the day he was able to see him—or at least, what was left.

How many times had their nights been ruined or their happiness robbed by Sebastian’s chemical imbalance?

How could Amrit carry the weight of husband, father and counselor?

Since Sebastian could remember everything, Amrit thought it time to do some forgetting.

His arse was starting to hurt from the rickety stool. Right as he was about to tip off, a man creaked into the stool beside him.

“Late night, isn’t it?”

Amrit looked up with a smirk, “You could say that again…”

The man was larger than Amrit and about twice his age. He had a peppered beard. Sebastian always had a clean face. Everything. Always so clean...

“What’re you havin’?

Amrit looked down at his drink and guwaffed. “Hell, I don’t even know. Whatever can go down my throat, I guess.” He emptied his glass.

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“I know how you feel.” The man knocked on the bar, “Two mind erasers.” he told the bartender.

“You just order drinks for strangers?”

His eyes sparkled. “At this hour, there are no strangers.”

He hesitated. Older men weren’t usually his style. Sebastian’s youth was more contagious. Still, with age comes a sense of reliability. Amrit couldn’t seem to provide that anymore.

They toasted. Shot number seven.

His name was Emmet. He was...just visiting this little town. His glances got longer and harder as the night went on.

Even in the haze of booze and night, Amrit knew.

You always know.

Sooner than he’d care to admit, Amrit let Emmet’s hands onto his shoulder, in his hair and on his leg. His lips weren’t soft like Sebastian’s. They’d been on other mouths. His dependence was weaker than Sebastian’s.

He was hungrier, knew what he wanted.

Amrit’s ring loosened its grip on his finger with every reciprocated touch. He felt watery and alone, even with kisses on his lips and a hand in his pants.

Amrit coughed and bowed his head. “I can’t. I can’t.”

Emmet’s breath fogged the space between them. “No?” Amrit’s throat tightened, thinking about the 3 month old asleep in her crib. “No.” It took them five minutes to compose themselves and say goodbye.

Ten shots. Three and a half hours. One man.

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Ju dge Biog ra phie s

{

ART

KAREN SHINN Karen Shinn is an alum of UNC Charlotte with a BFA in Graphic Design & Photography and minor in Art History. She is a former Editor of Sanskrit LiteraryArts Magazine, through which she met her husband, Adam. Her passions include all things art, travel (when there’s not a pandemic), and food (eating it, cooking it, photographing it —you name it).

TINA ALBERNI Alberni is a full-time artist. Present works react to current events and her relationship with them. She has been a gallery owner, art educator, and department chair.

She has served on multiple boards and jury panels, and is the recipient of multiple grants and awards. Her art has been featured, sold across the U.S and abroad, and been published in both print and online.www.tinaalberni.com

LIT

{

AUSTIN DEMEGLIO Austin DeMeglio is currently pursuing his masters in English at UNCC. He is still trying to be a fiction writer, but poetry has consumed him. He thinks this is a bad thing.

CHRISTOPHER DAVIS Christopher Davis is a professor of creative writing in the English Department at UNC Charlotte. He is the author of four collections of poetry. His most recent book is titled Oath.

v v

“A book re a d by a t housan d dif f eren t peopl e is a t housan d dif eren t books”

…

—A N D REI TA RKOV SK Y vi

artwork contributors a r i k m igu e l Arik Miguel is a senior at UNCC studying architecture. He is a first generation American of both Indian and Filipino descent. He enjoys painting, drawing, and collaging using images of animals and humorous political messages. c a rol i n a qu i n ta n a o c a m p o I am a senior Illustrator at UNC Charlotte. My work focuses on memories and fun moments in our lives. I express these feelings through themes of fantasy, sci-fi, and other made up narratives. In the future, I want to work in a story department for an animation company. I want to be where the story is made and where I’ll make mine too. ch r i s t i a n p onc e Cristian Ponce is a sophomore studying under the Early College program. His interests include photography, computer science, and exploring new fields. j u l i a mo or e My name is Julia Anna Moorebut friends call me Jules; Polish-American, Chicago-born, storytelling, reckless loving, didn’t grow up in one place, down to adventure type of gal. I’ll jump off of cliffs on my skis behind you if you need that type of shot. My biggest value as a photographer & filmmaker is representing true emotion. Emotion evokes feelings in the audience, effectively telling a story in its own unique way. k a r i-da n i e l l e dav i s Kari-Danielle Davis is a senior here at UNCC. She is pursuing a BA in Art and minor in Art History. She has an interest in Digital art and mini sculptures. She hopes to one day be working in an Art Museum as a curator. k e l ly gi l be r t Kelly Gilbert is a multidisciplinary artist whose practice comprises painting, drawing, and sculpture. Her work investigates self-expression and identity, often

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juxtaposing robust figures with thoughtful, gazing subjects. She draws inspiration ranging from classical sculpture to contemporary influences like Kehinde Wiley to conduct a nuanced exploration into authenticity, emotion, and vulnerability. She is currently pursuing a B.F.A. in Graphic Design with a minor in Art History at UNC Charlotte. m e g a n holt Megan Holt is getting her BFA in Illustration and enjoys drawing and creating compelling, colorful portraits. m i k ay l a w e l l s Mikayla Wells is a student at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte majoring in Art with a concentration in Digital Media. She primarily works in the digital medium with her art and has been drawing since childhood. She has an interest in the gaming, comics, animation, and film industry. va n n a h mobl e y I commonly refer to two themes in my artwork: family and faith. The abundance of unity and comfort found in these two elements offers me all the direction I need in creating a cohesive piece. I find such ecstatic joy in getting to share these subjects with whomever views my colorful illustrations. v i sh a l n a i r Vishal Nair is currently a junior studying Graphic Design at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. When not in class, he likes to spend his time drawing or creating artwork on photoshop. Vishal first got his foot into digital art in the 6th grade by making Youtube banners and forum signatures for YouTubers. He now spends most of his time making cover art and sports designs for artists and athletes. z ach a r y w i l son I am a Photographer and Computer Science major from Durham North Carolina. I shoot my photos mainly on film and develop them myself. Whether intentional or not, my photos always depict how I feel at the moment I take them. z or i a h w h i t e Zoriah White is a mixed-media artist with a range of experience including paintings, sketching, digital illustrations, and apparel design. Her work is used as a voice to express the complexities of feelings and emotions using complex colors and lines that compliment bold shapes and patterns.

She graduated from North Carolina State University in May of 2019 and is currently doing freelance artwork while starting up her own apparel business.

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literary contributors A ly s s a Da l e: Alyssa is a writer who loves the way writing is like creating and putting a puzzle together. Loves that the writer has to carve out the pieces, smooth the edges, make sure the pieces aren’t too flimsy as to fold over themselves, paint the face of them, and then place them together into one cohesive picture. To Alyssa, writing is more than just telling a story, it’s creating a world. a n dr e w wa l k e r wat son Andrew Walker Watson is a senior International Studies Major with a minor in Chinese. He loves Brazilian rap music, discovering useless facts, and, naturally, writing. If he could ever stop staring out into space, he would like to start a global movement to change the world and guest host Saturday Night Live.

E m i ly Ko t ta k Emily Kottak is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte majoring in Elementary Education and minoring in Journalism. She has loved to write and create stories since she was a child. Emily was inspired to write this story because she is a future teacher and is passionate about making sure each child feels safe and loved.

L i a m C a l dw e l l Liam is a fiend who happens to attend UNC Charlotte. COVID has thrown off their writing vibes, but it could always be worse. They have hands and occasionally uses them to write stories.

R obe r t M i t ch e l l Robert Mitchell is a working, published musician, film editor and songwriter, living in NYC. Due to the pandemic, Mitchell has redirected his story telling focus towards the adventurousness of short form fiction. Robert’s stories have very recently been published in: Rejected Manuscripts, The Literary Yard, The Reflex Press, and The Galway Review .

Da n i e l D e i si ng e r Daniel lives in Minnesota and writes for work and fun. His work has appeared in nearly twenty publications, including ‘Havik,’ ‘White Wall Review,’ ‘Castabout Literature,’ ‘Defenestration Magazine,’ and ‘Ripples in Space.’ His book “The Woman Who Walked Among the Stars” is available on Kindle. His twitter is @Danny_Deisinger, and his website is saturdaystory-Time. weebly.com.

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“

“ Tarot is an ins t r um en t t ha t re ve a l s t he hidden t hing s of t he worl d an d m a k e s sense of t he visibl e on e s.”

—WA L D A M B ERS TO N E Y

…

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St a f f Biog ra phie s

SYDNEY WALL EDITOR IN CHIEF Sydney Wall is a senior majoring in Art History and English with a concentration in creative writing.

When she is not writing papers, she is reading, playing with her dog Woody, and baking.

ANDREW WALKER WATSON ASSOCIATE EDITOR Andrew Walker Watson is a senior International Studies Major with a minor in Chinese. He loves Brazilian rap music, discovering useless facts, and, naturally, writing. If he could ever stop staring out into space, he would like to start a global movement to change the world and guest host Saturday Night Live.

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JESSICA KENNICOTT LEAD DESIGNER Jessica Kennicott is a senior at UNC Charlotte who is following her passion of drawing to be presented with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Illustration. Her focus is on creating art that pertains to personal appreciations and her dog, Nala. Her goal is to find joy in the small things in life and create Children’s Books with her mother who is a creative writer.

KELLY GILBERT DESIGNER Kelly Gilbert is a senior pursuing a B.F.A. in Graphic Design with a double minor in Spanish and Art History at UNC Charlotte. When she’s not designing, she spends her time painting, reading about theology and Latin American history and eating sweets.

ZACHARY FOX DESIGNER Zachary Fox is a junior majoring in Elementary Education and maintaining a minor in Children’s Literature. Whenever he finds himself not clocked out for several hours at a time (sleep is important) he is almost always looking to improve himself in creative areas. This includes his craft in art, animation and refining his literacy as an author.

TOMMY TIGHE CONTENT/COPY-EDITOR Tommy Tighe is a senior majoring in English literature and culture for a BA. He has an interest in ambient music and retrieving archived recordings and turning them into musical compositions. He wants to double major at another school for archival sciences because he has a fascination with retrieving and preserving recordings. He also has a fascination for film, literature and specifically philosophy.

DANIEL JOHNSON CONTENT/COPY-EDITOR Daniel Johnson is a Philosophy major with a double minor in Mathematics and Public Health. His time is split between music, mycology and philosophizing on all things consciously and with love.

CARLYLE MILFORD PROMOTIONS COORDINATOR Carlyle Milford is a senior majoring in English with a focus in literature and culture. Carlyle is part of the greek organization, Zeta Tau Alpha. Carlyle spends her free time hanging out with her roommates and playing with her dog Athena.

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Thank you CONTRIBUTORS: Thank you for choosing Sanskrit 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 all of your support, helpful advice, and encouraging us to showcase Sanskrit to the world.

JOSHUA WOOD: Thank you for your consistent guidance, encouragement, and words of wisdom.

LAURIE CUDDY: Thank you for being an amazing Business Manager and everything you do for Niner Media.

ART AND LITERATURE JURY: Thank you for volunteering your time to help us pick the very best work to feature in Sanskrit.

GRAPHIC IMPRESSIONS: Thank you for helping us turn our idea into a reality. Without your continued support, there would be no printed version of this year’s magazine.

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 encouraging us to follow our passions. We love you!

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!

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Colophon COPYRIGHT 2021 Sanskrit 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.

GRAPHIC IMPRESSIONS, INC., CHARLOTTE NC 2,500 copies of Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine were printed on 100# Athens Silk Text. The cover was printed on 100lb Athens Silk Cover. This magazine contains 60 pages, with a trim size of 6x9 inches.

TYPOGRAPHY Old English Text MT Garamond Font Family Futura PT Font Family Futura PT Condensed Font Family

APPROPRIATED iMac computer Adobe Creative Cloud 2020 20 microwavable enchiladas

CREDITS Book Cover Designs: Jessica Kennicott Case Design: Jessica Kennicott, Kelly Gilbert, Mikayla Wells and Zachary Fox Tarot Card Designs: Jessica Kennicott, Kelly Gilbert, Mikayla Wells and Zachary Fox Type Setting: Kelly Gilbert Layout: Kelly Gilbert Copy Editing: Andrew Walker Watson, Daniel Johnson, Tommy Tighe and Susana Couch

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES Please visit sanskritmagazine.com to view past issues, submission forms, and general requirements.

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