Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine Volume 49 by NinerMedia

2018

Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine

SANSKRIT! Vol. 49

editor’s note You cannot have innovation without reflecting on what has been done in the past. From the Renaissance, to Modernism, to the legendary “cliffhanger,” we owe much of our artistic triumph to those who have striven to succeed before us. In this issue of Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine, we tip our hats to our cultural forefathers by looking back at the totally tubular 1980s, where it was all about big hair, shoulder pads, lookin’ bad, and feelin’ good. Our design team has utilized an artfully crafted palette of neon mishmash intended to be painfully nostalgic and perhaps a tad reminiscent of bowling alley carpet. Now strap in tight, because we may not be Marty McFly, but we are about to go on one gnarly ride. Peace Out,

Tierra Holmes, Editor-in-Chief

Pond at twlight Rojane Jesper Ballyvaughan LaDara McKinnon Bodegón Carolina Quintana Ocampo Frozen Instants by Carol Hamilton Bothar Na LaDara McKinnon Fowl City Emmett Thornburg Dark room Desiree Brown Porto, Portugal Elina Sukaryavichute Expectations Melissa Martin Fracture / Facture Kathryn Mccomas Affinity judith grissmer Gabriel Rachel Fussell JOSE CERNAL ALMOST REALIZING WHY HE LOST CUSTODY AND VISITATION Marc Tretin The Cave Rachel L. Austin gOGGLES Aba Hutchison A MUSICAL EVENING AT THE INSECT CAVE Myrthe Biesheuvel in the storm, Those who really care stay Danika Ng A Migrant’s Lay Alessio Zanelli Mini-Mew rachel Fussell The Soup Man Andrew Adams Biography benjamin Harnett Power Struggle melissa Martin Still Life with Fern + Chair Myrthe Biesheuvel A PORTRAIT OF TOMMY DORFMAN Jessica Miller Trail Myrthe Biesheuvel Afterwards David Reuter Twilight Horizon Emmett Thornburg rent-A-Puppy Jessica Miller Meat Market john f. buckley Bishop’s Quarter LaDara McKinnon Visiting hours Sharon Kennedy-Nolle

A Foregone Conclusion Jonah Smith-Bartlett death Zackery Clark transportation mirana comstock Dinner Party II Rachel Fussell Stan’s Donuts + Swiss Watches Elina Sukaryavichute A Poem like a house evalyn lee composition christa forster From the Chaos Comes the Calm Danika NG Lautrec Christa Forster oCEAN sEASHELL eARTHLY wOODHELD vASE Ryan Cook Box SERIES NUMBER 3 Myrthe Biesheuvel Brown Casket in a Yellow Room Edison Angelbello Bread House Rachel Fussel Pathway tO Ballyvaughan LaDara McKinnon State of the Union Kathryn McComas Fade RObbin Farr Stop tryna be neat! Aba Hutchison Take My Photograph Sarah Kinney The Little Koimaid Carolina Quintana Ocampo Until I couldn’t Claire Scott The Land Between the Notes N. Marc Mullin Untitled William Haynes Head Full of space Emmett Thornburg Glances oFf the Sill Alessio Zanelli nEW PAGE, NEW ME! Aba Hutchison NOT PHOTOSHOpPED ALEXZANDRIA EVANS Abuse Cameron Tate PHONECALL Myrthe Biesheuvel Silver Pool Emmett Thornburg The Sentinel Alessio Zanelli Yellowstone sarah Kinney Appendix

Pond at twilight I walk from my house

If they were to paint

Along a narrow pathway

Me into the picture,

To where the night waters

I would be sitting on a bench,

Of a pond stretch

My back toward the viewer,

Before me, dark and metallic.

As I look out across the water.

The far edge of the pond

What the viewer

Is fringed by long, slender trees.

Would not see

From the midst of these trees

(For it is somewhere

There emerges an eastern redbud, The pinkish purple blossoms of which Still appear visible Even at dusk. Beyond the trees The moon rises And casts a sliver of lemon rind Across the magnetic center Of the black waters. From the boat launch Two ducks as white as coconut Glide almost without perception

Beyond the periphery Of the painting) Is the silent movement of wings. For distant in the night, Comes the slow Sweep of a night owl, And seemingly, More distant yet, In that perfect stillness, Comes the haunting sound Of its call.

Across the glass surface Of the pond. If an artist Were to paint this scene, It would be as if one had stepped unbidden Into a solitary haven

Bal l y va ug ha n

Of peace.

LaDara McKinnon acrylic on canvas

2018

By Rojane Jesper 5

frozen instants The deep blue unfurled from its packaged neatness Star Map on my wall, holds tight Onto our whole sky as we saw it then. An Ice Age star chart clings to cave walls to Lascaux. They knew the Bull, the Sisters, the Vernal Groupings. Their handprints declare their findings, and even today, I put my stamp here for a possible future viewer who might find me, who might exclaim How little she knew! And how bold to think she might escape extinction. One grain on sand on one beach in however many universes? I, oxygen-hungry, each scrawl my signature for the cairn at the top of the climb, wonder who might gather up such a proliferation of scribbles, might even give a passing glance to this pile of weather-stained papers.

B ode g ó n Carolina Quintana Ocampo Charcoal

2018

By Carol Hamilton 7

F O WL Ci ty

LaDara McKinnon

Emmett Thornburg

acrylic on canvas

Photography

2018

B o tha r Na

dark room Clunk, clunk. The Stacy Adams drill through

After years of ear vomiting, I draw a gentle clip,

the thick silence, so thick I can hear the darkness

clip, clip from the clamor. It doesn’t drown out

swell, the beat of these thin closet walls pulsing,

the rest, but it soothes me, petting my sanity on

expanding, the rhythm of sweat raining over my

the neck. As if I’d mumbled it, as if I’d asked

converse collection. Clunk, clunk, clunk. They

for rescue, the clipping increases. The pace,

ramble across the hardwood, the weight of the

the volume, the pitch. Clip, clip, clip. The

wearer creaking the floorboards like a Western

boots press their weight forward, releasing

toad’s mating call. Croak, croak, croooak.

their heels. Clip, clip, clip, clip. The Moccasins

A thin pair of Moccasins enters, sliding against

step on top of each other. Clip, clip, clip.

the panels, scuffing the well-worn wood. Coconuts

The Vans howl on, rebelling against the

on sandpaper make a similar sound. The hippie

rising tone. Shriek, clip, shriek, clip, shriek.

slip-ons only murmur, but it’s still an eerie noise,

A thick blow to the floor breaks the

like a whisper of tobacco breath, coiling around

pattern. Clip becomes clomp, an uproar

them. The Monkstrap boots, brown leather,

only a penny loafer can fashion. The

screech and pivot to face the bohemian slippers.

Vans halt to surrender, to give the floor up

Maybe awaiting a tap dance. Maybe the next arrival.

to the bigger pair, the floor they’ve scraped

The bedroom door grunts open and I pick up

and scratched and chipped and didn’t care

the squeak of week-owned rubber. The delicate hum

about ruining. One of the loafers stomps

of a shoelace crawls across the platform, the purr

twice against the wood, sending the Vans

seeping through the floor crevices and up into this

and Moccasins and Stacy Adams tiptoeing

commercial carpet. It’s distinct. It’s exact.

out the room. I can hear the door gently

Explicit. The Vans squeal with each step, making

close and my ears stop bleeding.

tire-track remarks heavier than the scratchy sighs of the Moccasins, the clunks of the Stacy Adams boots. Now united, like a nightmare, altogether, they dance. The shrieeeek of the sneakers cries the loudest, the piercing sound invading my

By Desiree Brown

memory. The Monkstraps perform by heelticking while the Moccasins’ hushed bass keeps the tempo. The cacophony chokes my ears until they gag, suffocating on the wretched music, retching up wax. The band starts to waltz, to salsa, to foxtrot, to disco, to rock, to twostep, to twist, to jive, to bunny hop, each hoof thudding and thumping and plodding and

2018

echoing. The noises never cease.

E x pec ta tion s

Elina Sukaryavichute

Melissa martin

Photography

colored pencil + watercolor

2018

Po r to, P o r tuga l

A f f ini ty By judith grissmer You are in the air again, have barely seen the azaleas emblazon the yard in shades of rose and lavender. Your favorite by the road displays full red. An abundance of research ideas draws you back and forth between Santa Monica and Washington, seed projects developing as certainly as spring. I am on the ground knee-deep in perennials, circling plants with bone meal digging wintered compost into soil. I sit on the deck you built two summers ago, tell you by phone

F ra c tur e Fa c tur e

of the rough-legged hawk in the hickory. You talk

Kathryn McComas

of data that indicates why children achieve or fail—

Photography

of funding that will allow you to cultivate next season’s ideas. Soon the day comes to a close— bumblebees linger in bottomless blooms. A 747 passes the rising harvest moon.

2018

You are on your way home.

JOSE CERNAL ALMOST REALIZING WHY HE LOST CUSTODY AND VISITATION: “I testified at trial, that my boy was born at a home birth where I was my wife’s midwife. He wouldn’t crown, but I did not want some doctor’s knife cutting her; I kept her pushing. She got slightly torn. During the year of her postpartum depression, my boy and I would crawl on the kitchen floor and with some old pots, bang outside her bedroom door. Though she wasn’t feeling better when he turned one, I planned his birthday barbecue. Before starting grilling, I defrosted what I had saved, my son’s placenta, still good—but a touch of freezer burn turned it magenta. It’s the only meat you get without killing. Flesh returns to flesh—Eating afterbirth Is how, we, bit by bit, return to the earth.”

Ga b r iel

By Marc Tretin

Rachel Fussell 16

2018

soft pastel 17

snobbery and sanctimonious

in exasperation and continued to

and sneaking off to the frigid back

wore clothing reminiscent of a

against his wife should therefore

the scuffed stone floor and

bullshit. Letting out a heavy sigh,

move along the wall.

porch every hour or so to take

decade earlier. A woman, about

forfeit the luxury of defending

the sound echoed through the

he made his way around the

another quick suck off his one-

the same age, stood stoop-shoulder

himself against the elements.

stairwell. He ascended the steps

room, staring with disinterest

from Shannon and his soon-to-be

hitter. He’d held the marijuana

beside him and fought to calm her

with plodding, notably tired feet

at the artifacts and panels of

in-laws. Shannon was speaking

smoke tight and firm in his chest

hysterics. Brownish, wavy hair

as Shannon and her parents’

information surrounding him.

about the reception’s floral

for as long as he could before

fell over her beet-red face while

arrangement with such excitement

blowing it out in one momentous

the man pointed to what appeared

on their hay-stuffed beds in the

itchell’s heels clicked against

voices reverberated insufferably

He regarded a little cartoon

He tried to gain some distance

“Rough” Mitchell muttered to himself, and he imagined the poor, beaten men sleeping

behind him. He hated dressing up

drawing of the city’s town

and rapidity that he could almost

breath, at once both glorious and

to be a collection of chastity belts.

pouring rain. He felt the breeze

and, particularly, he hated stiff,

square on a typical 15th century

hear her heart beat in her voice.

dismaying, before returning to the

He whispered to the teary-eyed

of a passing body that carried

Italian dress shoes but Shannon

afternoon. A man, apparently the

Janice, her mother, stabbed in

couch for another depressing

woman, looking around the room

the familiar scent of Shannon’s

had nagged him until he’d given

town drunk as evidenced by his

her own trying interjections

inning. He’d woken up late and

every so often to make sure

powdery perfume.

in and pulled on the vice-like

out-stuck tongue and shabby attire,

wherever she could while Hank,

accidentally headed in the wrong

they hadn’t provoked the security

hooves. His right foot landed on

spun in a cage-like contraption

her father, cooed a saccharine

direction, putting him in the heart

guard. Mitchell initial annoyance

immature!” Shannon hissed under

the top stair and he tried to push

at the merciless hands of the

“Oh, yeah?” and “That’s wonderful,

of New Haven right at noon, the

at the disruption dissipated as

her breath as she walked past him,

the thought out of his mind.

town’s children. Another was

sweetheart!” every two minutes

precise time he was due for his

he watched the woman grab her

hinting towards the couple that

splayed apart like a starfish, his

or so. Mitchell grew irritated

interview with John Malcolm, the

partner’s arm for mercy as he

was now standing and chuckling

city of Rothenberg a week prior to

face wrenched in agony; he was

and thought for so-called refined

head of the English department

continued to unleash his hushed

in front of another display. She

begin the final preparations for

being stretched between four

people, they talked awful loudly in

at some poorly-rated community

onslaught of wit. The sight of the

and her parents had caught up and

their wedding. Shannon, a Yale

large horses that pulled his limbs

a museum. He rounded the corner,

college he was trying half-assed to

two laughing grew contagious,

the three continued on past him,

graduate who now worked as an

in opposing directions. Several

inspecting a rusted castration

work for. When he found himself

and a conservative smile rose in

starting up another conversation,

assistant to the curator of a small

other little figures stood around

device that resembled hooked

still circling the little town at

the corner of his lips.

this time about the “tasteful”

Rhode Island museum, always

in clownish metal headpieces

garden shears, and thought back

quarter-after he’d decided to cut

preferred the castles of Germany

resembling roosters and pigs;

to when he first met Shannon.

his losses and resolved to grab a

turned back to the glass display

bodice, as she motioned earnestly

to any of the other wonders the

these were “shame masks,” as the

bite to eat.

before him and looked over a

with her French-manicured hands.

world had to offer, architectural

panel of information attested, and

Haven only by coincidence; he’d

or otherwise. In the beginning,

were locked around the heads of

gotten lost on the way to a job

a display up ahead and was just

one of which dictated that any

Shannon at the downtown coffee

Mitchell had thought it romantic

those who engaged in questionable

interview just outside the old

as quickly snuffed out. Mitchell

man whom allowed himself to be

shop that day in New Haven. They’d

of her to suggest holding the

moral behavior. ‘Why, on Earth,

college town. He’d spent the night

looked over at the two people

beaten by his wife was punished

sat at adjoining tables as the place

ceremony at a castle but by the

would anyone want to get married

prior sitting in front of his father’s

laughing red-faced about ten feet

by having the roof of his domicile

was crowded during lunchtime.

time all was said and done, he’d

in a country with such a morbid

television, taking warm swigs

away, shoulders jiggling and hands

removed. As the placard read,

She had been hunched over what

begun to regard it as one more

a history?’ he thought, snorting

of beer in between superficial

cupped over their mouths. A young

the logic carried that any man

looked like homework; whatever it

indication of her exasperating

to himself as he shook his head

conversation with the old man

man stood about six feet tall and

too cowardly to defend himself

was, she was highlighting roughly

Mitchell had been in New

A cackling laugh erupted from

2018

The two had come to the walled

Not wanting to stare, Mitchell

description of medieval laws,

“Jesus, some people are so

beading of the wedding dress’s

Mitchell remembered seeing

half of it. He’d tried and failed

until the recently engaged couple

her meant she needn’t spare any

in its metallic cavern of certain

several times to take a first bite

found themselves in a shouting

expense. Mitchell tried to stay in

death. He felt briefly panicked,

of his enormous sandwich, piled

match following a Halloween

his corner of the world during

like fleeing from the museum

so high that it was impossible

party. Mitchell was running

this time and interjected only

and taking refuge in a dark pub

to fit into his mouth. He drew a

late and had to meet her there,

complimentary criticisms and

outside of the walled city; one that

giggle from her when he finally

showing up twenty minutes late

appeasements when consulted.

Shannon wouldn’t dare set foot

gave up, dropping the sandwich to

and donning one latex glove and

In all the time that they’d spent

in for fear of common smells and

the plate with comic exasperation,

a lab coat that read “Dr. Seymour

physically together but emotionally

drunks.

and picking up and shoving bare

Butts, Proctologist” on the lapel.

apart over the past year, Shannon

pieces of lunch meat into his

Shannon, who’d come as Betsy

had used the time to spin a

go?” He turned to find Shannon

mouth instead. Striking up a

Ross, had been mortified but

fairytale, and Mitchell had

looking up at him with an

conversation, he’d wooed her from

played it off expertly. Mitchell

learned to accept a compliant

expectant smile. She raised her

her studies and they’d spent

himself hadn’t noticed a single

defeat that he basted from time

eyebrows and gave him a small

the rest of the hour talking and

wrinkle in her demeanor and

to time with memories of their

nod of the head, as if hinting him

laughing.

had in fact enjoyed himself, only

courtship and elbow-poking

towards the right answer. Her eyes

to be ambushed on the car ride

with his buddies about the

glanced down her pert nose in

been impeccable and following

home for his “lack of couth” and

gentle tyranny that is marriage.

front of his chest and her forehead

their hour of flirtatious banter,

his “tasteless” costume. Though

he’d felt exhilarated as he walked

they’d spent that night airing

from across the room, Mitchell

wish you’d worn a tie. I hope the

back to his car with her number

their grievances, which seemed

wondered to himself if it was

restaurant lets you in like that.”

in stow. He felt a quick flood of

to pour out from their respective

possible that he had grown to

comfort from this memory, but

stock-piles in one giant emotional

dislike her, even to hate her, or if

fine.” Mitchell exhaled his words

the feeling fleeted and was quickly

tidal wave, they’d apologized in

he was merely spent on traveling,

in a perfunctory sigh as Shannon

replaced with uneasiness as he

the morning and thus became

planning, and the pomp of the

hooked her tiny hand around his

thought to himself that Shannon

the tainted nature of their

upcoming dog and pony show.

bicep, leading him towards the

hadn’t been the same person in a

relationship.

He wondered if he was just prone

door where her parents waited.

very long time.

exhausted. He stood looking at

Mitchell hadn’t consciously noticed

and denial for Shannon. She threw

an iron maiden. He stared at the

or verbalized his distaste with the

herself into planning a perfect

tall, black apparatus that closed

fact that she’d gradually become

wedding and the repulsively large

around you and impaled you from

a high-strung social-climber

allowance her parents had given

every angle, your body encased

wrinkled just slightly. “I really

“I’m sure everything will be

to irritability and his patience

topic of avoidance, for Mitchell,

2018

The change was subtle and

The wedding became both a

Hearing Shannon’s voice

2018

He remembered her wit had

“Mitchell? Are you ready to

GO G GL E S

A T THE IN S E C T CA VE

Aba Hutchison

Myrthe Biesheuvel

pen + Marker

Diorama

2018

A MU S ICA L E VE NING

A Migrant’s Lay They’d said at least I would have had a chance. It took me endless days, a slave again, and sleepless nights, with past and future ghosts, to save the cash and find the guts for it. I’ll always bless the time at last I quit. No desert, thug or sickness could have me, as long as my beloved child walked by, until this long-awaited water did. Already gone, I only let it win when trawlers neared my girl and pulled her in.

in the s to rm, Tho s e who r eal l y ca r e s ta y

Danika Ng

By Alessio Zanelli

2018

Digital

The sou p ma n By andrew adams Chicken noodle Clam Chowder Tomato It’s all the same to me I’m the soup man, bitch Everyone knows me! Soup in the morning Soup at night I eat so much soup It gives my doctors a fright I bathe in the soup Inject it through an IV People say my soup use is excessive But it’s all the same to me Crab bisque Cream of mushroom Hell, even veggies with rice My soup lust can never be satisfied I’ve had so much soup it makes my mama cry What’s that?

Mini-Me w

Cops are knocking on my door They say my soupin’ days have come to an end I say: “I can’t let that happen officer”

Rachel Fussell

“Because soup is my only friend”

2018

Photography

biography They were unctuously good children:

a secret conspiracy to hide

eager to please, clever at school

whatever formula exists—I mean by what

(as I was), or unprepossessing

application, what chemical concatenation,

and exceptionally dull (this is

how one might take

the insect-like trajectory). She was

the base metal of our bodies

a rare beauty who hid her wit

and transform it

until it cut someone down like a blade.

to gold.

He toiled on in obscurity. She had

and finally drifted

her work stolen. They were admired,

home.

but only by those in the know. Until now. Every moment of their lives followed ordinarily every moment that came before. Some were born rich and we marvel when they make much of having much to begin with. A few rose from the absolute bottom. Every biography ends the same way— death of the main character. Though there is some variety in the means. There were always moments of insight. Voyages or pivotal meetings. But a lot of dull living, churning meat and vegetables into shit, chain smoking, four cups of coffee. Sciatica pain when they sit. So unsatisfying every biography is, as if by design,

P owe r s tr ug gl e Melissa martin mixed media

2018

By Benjamin Harnett 29

A P O R T RA I T O F

S till L if e wi th F e r n + Cha i r

TOMM Y DO R F MA N

Myrthe Biesheuvel

Jessica Miller

oil on canvas

2018

colored pencils on sketch paper 31

a f te r wa r d s By david reuter It’s all a riot of blurred edges

I feel it creep before it comes,

flecked across the frosted world

a skulking, surging force. From deep within,

that twirls on though I’ve become still.

it overtakes without a fight.

The steel skin is warped to a savage shape

The shaking starts from somewhere else,

on the snow scattered fringe

a hidden landscape I can’t detect.

of the glossy street.

The span of this vision

The careless cars grind fine ruts

tars the margins in ragged brushstrokes.

along those blanched lanes

Something travels like curdled vomit

while vapored air cringes

from that secret space in which in spawned.

like fur on a cat’s haunches.

I don’t hear it when it comes,

The scene’s a constant Etch A Sketch

that naked shriek,

curdled under a bloody sky,

but the iron and gray street

covert behind the dreary clouds.

on which I stand

My feet can’t fine the concealed concrete. On jellied legs, I strive to stand beside the battered smashed-in husk. Hands grasp the air in tepid trembles.

tra il

Somehow the warmed air keeps its flow and breaks the naked silence. Remembrance of that skeletal hand

Myrthe Biesheuvel

that brushed my slender shoulder holds me boldly in its grasp.

The world is pitching, keeling about.

2018

oil on canvas

shakes as it frays the space

R e n t-A

- pup p y

Emmett Thornburg

Jessica Miller

Photography

colored pencils on sketch paper

2018

T wil ig h t Ho r iz on

Mea t Ma r ke t By john f. buckley He sidled. He tried to sidle. Is Heaven missing an angel? Because your eight fiery wings and bull’s face fill me with terror. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’m not drunk. I’m just intoxicated by you. I had been sober for five years. God damn you and your spirited breath. Men behind the bar shifted and reached into the dark. If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it for ransom? How many unwashed hands had plucked peanuts from these bowls? Was his fly down again? Was there a skin in his teeth? What’s your sign? I’m a Yield. Let’s take a tour of the dance floor. There is no dance floor. That dress looks good on you, but it would look better in my refrigerator tomorrow morning. Someday, his princess will come. No, the song is wrong. Are your legs tired? Because I’ve been

B i s ho p ’s Q ua r te r

chasing you around my head for months. Love on the rocks. Make it a double.

LaDara McKinnon

Your place or mine? I live with my mother. You remind me of her.

acrylic on canvas

2018

He walks ahead like he already owns it.

visiting hours One client comes carried on a stretcher,

Afterwards, I just lean

with an eye running down his cheek like a bad egg.

against the car. A distant train chugs

Unfazed, Little Terry’s sister wipes her brother’s dribble

on a track I never can see.

as he croons Motown to the mounted TV.

Lean deer prance across parking lots.

Towering, volume max, forever on, it sounds the hours

Sit here long enough

we while away.

and all the wildlife comes out.

Baby love, oh, Baby love…

The date is set to let you loose,

Another mother bible-thumps,

but you don’t want to ever leave.

talking of the current cancer incurables, with a face so creased, it could be ironed. Her bespeckled son, in for murder, mildly nods along. He offers us all chicklets, which I take, afraid to chew.

By Sharon Kennedy-Nolle

Rumble erupts in metal and yell, when the vending machines don’t put out. Enough manhandling and maul dent the lounge wall. Inside the entrance, a small pile of funny-shaped sticks —confiscated slingshots and stolen stones— that stand stacked against all the Goliaths. Playing the tatterdemalion fool, you toss off the nuthouse lingo, bitterly grateful for “three hots and a cot.” You want to forget the door is always locked, swear you never miss the breeze. Autumn comes only in the rustling of drought-driven leaves

2018

you never can hear.

cause for Saint Jude. The exception

by his theological rigidity. He did

large (and I was in this repellant

temptation, I figured, Frederick

humor from tragic global news

attend Saint Joseph’s College in

was wiry Father Anthony, who

occasionally speak quite plainly.

bunch) twiddled thumbs, loosened

William Faber meant vice, if not

stories, and played violin. Those

Rensselaer, Indiana, because it

daily left a new volume of rigid

“Every moment of resistance

belts, said things like, “Smoke ’em

outright sin, and I had successfully

who spoke ill of him would note

was once the school of Gil Hodges,

theology outside my dormitory

to temptation,” he wrote, “is a

if you got ’em,” and “See you in

indulged in my fair share of vices.

with disgust his indiscriminate

his third-favorite ballplayer of

door. The most memorable of

victory.”

the Funnies,” and wrapped pillows

The summation of my years at

licentiousness. Nicholas was glad

all time and his absolute favorite

these, that is, the one that I recall

around their heads so as not to

Saint Joseph’s was one temptation

to have this be the topic of dining

first baseman.

now, twenty-two years later,

year, almost all students at Saint

hear the noise of the alarm clock at

after the next, a series of trials

hall conversation. How much they

By my sophomore year,

was The Precious Blood : or, The

Joseph’s had resigned themselves

their bedside.

down paths of gluttony and lust.

cared made him laugh.

I surrendered to the fact that I

price of our salvation by Frederick

to the idea that free will, had

would not become a close friend

William Faber. Within this thick

it ever existed at all, was now

even Father Anthony, was ready

deadly sins. To me the ratio was

formality. We shared a couple

to a future Hall of Fame gold

book, Father Anthony underlined

certainly over. Their character

to get rid of me. Yet, despite full

rather admirable. In this game I

classes. I knew the reputation well,

glover, but instead a favorite

a number of paragraphs with

(and the content of this character

academic satiation, I found myself

was hitting .285, just slightly above

but not the boy.

project for the priests that roamed

light pencil marks. An example of

would determine the content of

hungry. My stomach grumbled

the lifetime .270 batting average of

the campus like rabid squirrels,

Faber’s work (and I can’t imagine

their future) was cemented in the

even after a large meal and my

the great Gil Hodges.

ready to bite the underclassmen

that this Frederick William Faber

choices of the previous three years.

mind raced late into the night,

with a stinging shot of holiness.

was a joy to be around in any

The boys with the wire-rimmed

causing a sleeplessness that made

Galloway called to me from

way and here you are. You looked

“Clarence Richards!” they would

social setting) was:

glasses and briefcases who fancied

my whole body ache throughout

the porch of the apartment that

like your head was in the clouds.

themselves the head of the student

the next day. I was sore because,

he shared with two farmer boys

What were you thinking about?”

body politic were on their way to

really unbeknownst to me, I had

from just a few miles up the road.

city halls and state legislatures.

been straining since I first stepped

His hair was slicked back with

a sleeplessness, and a strain.

The philosophy majors, many of

foot onto that campus. I felt like

Vaseline and he wore a short-

None of these was I any more

whom were poetry minors, were

an old horse still forced to pull a

sleeved button-down shirt with a

willing to share with him than

off to compose the elegies of young

carriage— some unjust treachery

thin, light-blue tie. His reputation

with Father Anthony.

hopes of financial success. The

soon to break me in two. I couldn’t

on campus was unrivaled in its

artists would starve by passion,

explain it until I remembered

undergraduate magnitude,

months away,” I said. For seniors

and the writers by the lack of the

Frederick William Faber’s

but the esteem awarded that

this was the most innocuous of

right word. And the education

tamer words: “Every moment

reputation shifted dramatically

conversations. We held in common

and the business majors who had

of resistance to temptation is a

depending on the narrator. For

that sense of impending fear, even

thus far managed to avoid much

victory.” I had resisted for nearly

those who spoke highly of Nicholas

more than the usual commentary

ambition at all would do just fine.

four years.

Galloway, they would note that

on the weather.

call out to me, breaking prayerful silence or psalmic utterances, hoping, I assumed, that this would be the day of penitence for the boy of academic mediocrity but alcoholic exceptionalism. I was just as amazed as they were, if not more, when I noticed exactly how fast my short legs could take me. For those men who had dedicated themselves to lives of celibacy, I was frankly surprised and somewhat disappointed at how soon, certainly by my junior

2018

year, they had deemed me a lost

“Alas! We have felt the weightiness of sin, and know that there is nothing like it. Life has brought many sorrows to us, and many fears. Our hearts have ached a thousand times. Tears have flowed. Sleep has fled. Food has been nauseous to us, even when our weakness craved for it. But never have we felt anything like the dead weight of a mortal sin.” Later I would learn that Faber wasn’t wholly isolated

By the beginning of senior

Saint Joseph’s, now including

What it was that I resisted

Those who lacked a vision for their future as graduation loomed

wasn’t immediately clear. By

2018

y father insisted that I

These were only two of the seven

“Brother Clarence!” Nicholas

he had a fine taste in expensive bourbon, excavated well-buried

“Hi, Nicholas,” I said with some

“I was watching you walk this way,” he said. “Thought you would be headed home, but you came this

I was thinking about a hunger,

“Graduation is just two

“And the great wide world out there,” Galloway said. “Any idea

what you are going to do when you

the farmer boys would think.

if I had been looking at a simple

was the opposite of liberation. So

growing tomatoes and caring

and a Quiet Boy” by one Mr.

are set loose out there?”

Nicholas encouraged me to take

multiple choice question for my

instead, certainly doomed by that

little for a three-page debate on

Nicholas Galloway.

“No. What about you?”

even the smallest dose of bravery

entire life, and during one of those

word, I threw the rope above those

the best domestically made riding

And here some excerpts:

“No,” he said, running his

and I began to use the front door.

nights with that strange bedfellow,

vowels and hung myself.

lawnmowers, I opted for The New

“The most remarkable quality

fingers down the thin blue tie,

He laughed at my anxiety, what

I finally realized that the answer

trying to rid it of wrinkles that

I considered to be a brave dive

was “all of the above.”

were never there. “But I’ve found

into the deep unknown. Nicholas

that the worry does very little

conjured up memories. Earlier

good. Well, actually no good at all.

Yorker. A cartoon of President

about Stephen was the weakness

the diploma, and shook the hands

Obama made the cover, running in

in his wrists. He couldn’t pull

of unfamiliar administrators.

the direction of the White House

himself up to who he ought to be.

manhood for my own. That’s

Pomp and Circumstance and we

and away from a stampede of red,

He couldn’t lower himself down to

realizations. That boy whose

what it was at the end of the day.

were gone.

zealous Republican elephants.

who he actually was.”

So I’ve given up on worry, not that

assigned seat I always stole in a

I figured him to be my biographer,

I skimmed through the black-

that stranglehold wasn’t a hell of

middle school history class. I

revealing to me short but poignant

and-white cartoons inside the

suppose that I appreciated the

a hard thing to wrestle away. It’s

called it a practical joke. In some

chapters that I never knew were

magazine— talking dogs in offices,

most minor favor of a pseudonym,

been instilled in me by a couple

ways it was, I suppose, though I

there. I fumbled to read them

pondered my choices. Home and

alligators at an airport gate,

that I was Stephen.

of hard-nosed parents who

was the mark. A friend’s older

when he turned off the small lamp

Garden. The New Yorker. Popular

and an elderly couple siting at a

wouldn’t let me near the busy

brother who boasted by using

on the nightstand. I find it trite

Mechanics. For years the door

breakfast table and arguing over

I awoke to find him, this time

streets until I was well past

his broad shoulders and thick

now, but up until the point when

of the bistro that I managed was

a newspaper headline. Something

dressed in a thoroughly wrinkled

ten years old. Well, I don’t know

arms to lift cinder blocks above

I fell into the world of Nicholas

thoroughly stuck. It took all the

about Medicare. Frankly, I didn’t

olive-green suit, crawling through

what’s going to happen, and

his head. A swimming coach.

Galloway, I hadn’t known pleasure,

power I had in both arms to open

understand a single one. One

my window. He tumbled onto the

neither do you. When you accept

A movie star. A Language Arts

just contentment. My bodily pain

it up and get a whiff of what had

article after another written for the

floor and tried to gather together

that, this warm feeling grows in

teacher who tried again and

now, or most of it at least, was a

been voted online as the best

Sunday brunch mimosa-sipping

his dignity before whispering my

your gut. It’s hot chocolate on

again to explain the profound

result of immature ecstasy. And

tomato soup in town. A new and

elites. There was nothing that

name. ‘Nicky!’”

Christmas morning before any of

need of Odysseus to make his

best of all, he played the violin for

overly enthusiastic employee took

interested me enough to distract

I never once called him “Nicky.”

the presents are opened. Or when

way home. Why home, I thought,

me. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto.

oil to the hinges. That morning

me from the pain of the chipped

“Stephen saw a glowing dot on

the bell would ring after gym

when adventure was abounding

Then, drunk on whatever

I pulled again with all my might.

tooth. I ran my tongue across

the horizon, and when squinting,

class. Do you know what I mean?”

outside those cavernous Greek

concoction this was, I asked him,

The door, now good and loose,

it. It was sharp enough to not try

he realized that ever-so-slowly

walls where Penelope wept?

“Do you love me?”

swung widely and caught me

that again, a blade protecting the

it drew closer. It could have been

directly in the face. I chipped a

vulnerable nerve. Then, nearly

the bourbon that he took from my

top right incisor. Now here I was

putting the magazine down to

desk drawer that persuaded him

waiting for a Dr. Prescott, D.D.S.,

instead close my eyes and nap

of a grand illusion. This was the

“Sure,” I said. “The great escape.” “No, not escape,” Nicholas Galloway said. “Liberation.”

This seemed to be it. The hunger beginning, at least, to be satisfied. I must admit that I

I awkwardly searched his

“No,” Nicholas Galloway said. “Not yet.” And that word— yet— could

We walked the stage, took

I sat in the dentist’s office and

It became very clear, and I

“For the third night in a row,

was surprised when the whole

have offered hope. Though I didn’t

who was on the ninetieth minute

until the young assistant behind

judgement of God on its way. None

bed. For a week I crawled through

world didn’t shift. There was

tie myself to it. I wasn’t bound to

of his hour lunch break.

the desk awoke me, I stumbled

of his studies had prepared for

his window, worried about what

nothing dramatic. It was just as

it. What would be the purpose? It

across a short story. “A Coward

him the inevitable end. None of his

Knowing nothing about

2018

I spent many nights in his

whispers, those few whispers

The author Nicholas Galloway,

Nicholas did not recognize me

of Collins College was thick in

summon up a smile of my own.

affection for the man.

of truth, protected him. The priests

stated a short italicized paragraph

body, hair, and odor, and wore

when he answered the door, but

Given the circumstances I would

didn’t know who he became when

not long after Stephen’s betrayal,

a dark-gray knit cap. It wasn’t

due to what I assume was a sense

settle for sardonic. “I’m a fan.”

he loosened his belt. Neither

was an author-in-residence at

hard to imagine him working

of faint familiarity, he invited

did his parents. Neither did his

Collins College in the Berkshires.

down at the docks in a Baltimore

me inside. A young, long-legged

surprise. It felt good to know that

my hand in both of hers. The tall,

professors, his classmates,

or even a Gulfport, Mississippi. I

woman sat on a leather couch to

this surprised him. “Welcome

blonde, smiling, finally satisfying

or that small handful of misfit

approached with some hesitancy

the right of his desk. Her blonde

then! How can I help?”

wife. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t catch

“Oh,” Nicholas said with

hadn’t time to answer before the wife stood from the couch and took

friends. He had confessed only to

I drove toward the Green

only to find him as friendly as he

hair fit her well, despite being cut

me and refused to confess to Him.

Mountains in a Jeep that was new

could possibly be. His name was

with a sure vision but no real plan

this question and not just the ones

“Clarence Richards,” I said.

Well, He knew what happened

to the Avis Car Rental lot. Two

Benjamin, he was from Bangor,

of execution. She offered a wide

that I had concocted in the Jeep

Very kindly Nicholas asked if

when those spring nights

days before I chipped my tooth

Maine, and he was an American

smile. It was warm as well. She

as I passed one tiny New England

I wanted a cup of coffee, obliged

swallowed Stephen up with their

on the door of the bistro, my Ford

History Major. I hadn’t inquired

was a beauty. Not a leading lady of

clapboard town after another.

me the final contents of a low

steadfast intention to induce sweat

Taurus had blown a gasket near

about any of these and realized,

the silver screen, to be truthful, but

They ranged back decades and

sugar bowl, and invited me to stay

by one way or another. He knew.”

my favorite record store and was

I suppose, that the long hours at

one with a real shot at modeling

they haunted me even now. I

a while. I took him up on both

now locked up until further notice

the Collins College welcome desk

blouses in a JC Penny catalog.

realized in that tiny professorial

offers. He was very apologetic

at Hal’s Auto Shop. Inside the Jeep I

(situated, Benjamin mentioned

office, more times than I would

when he said that he had a dinner

felt bold (as opposed to the Taurus,

as well, at the further point

with such earnestness that I

have liked to admit. How could he

with some trustees in just a half

I de e pl y de s i r e d to know

where I felt safe) and rolled down

on campus from the Student

refrained from clocking him

help? It seemed like the answer

hour. He rolled his eyes when

m y s el f in wha te ve r wa y

the driver’s side window to smell

Center) might make any mighty

immediately. “So, I suppose I

was, in every possible way. And

he mentioned the trustees and

he once kne w me .

all the potent scents of farmland.

longshoreman ready for kind

might have missed it, so please

although he hadn’t helped,

Jennifer half-covered a giggle with

Soon I found myself twenty-

companionship. I saw to use his

remind me. Could you give me

although he had abandoned me

her hand. Just the dull duties,

four miles above the speed limit

kind and certainly loquacious

your name again?”

to a long, lonely, and wicked road

he explained, that came with

with a radio station playing the

nature to my advantage. With no

of self-discovery, although he had

the job of a writer in residence.

Nicky left Stephen to endure his

anarchic chords of the MC5. Collins

hesitancy or ask for identification,

revealed a naked chapter of

He asked where I was from and

unsympathetic self-affliction.

College was only an hour further

he personally walked me up

that self-discovery (and a chapter,

with no desire to be truthful I

Nicky moved east, and Stephen,

north. My anger felt playful in a

two sets of stairs and down two

to the woman on the couch who

mind you, better left in the past)

answered with an obtuse “down

in that allusion to tragedy, limped

strange way, in the same manner,

hallways until we both stood

then smiled at him as widely and

in The New Yorker that I found at

South.” That seemed to satisfy

westward. Very precise adjectives

I assumed, as it would set upon a

outside the office door of Professor

warmly as she smiled at me. “Well

the office of Dr. Prescott, D.D.S., as

him and no follow-up questions

and verbs generous to the author,

fueled-up boxer in his corner just

Galloway. His task completed,

then, might I impose upon you my

I looked across that desk to faint

came. He asked if I read a couple

if not authentic, made Nicholas

before the bell rings.

Benjamin gave me a hearty pat

own introduction? My name is

familiarity beneath fatty cheeks

writers who had been especially

on the back and returned to his

Nicholas Galloway.”

and thinning hair, I couldn’t help

influential upon him, and when I

but feel after all of this a fond

responded that I had not, he didn’t

Galloway’s choice in that final

2018

paragraph to be inarguably valiant.

The student behind the welcome desk in the main hall

“I never gave it,” I said. I was tempted to say “Stephen”. “Oh,” Nicholas said, turning

“I know,” I replied, trying to

lonely, ground-level watchtower.

2018

The conclusion came when

“Have a seat,” Nicholas said

I had a hundred answers to

“Hi, I’m Jennifer Galloway.” I

your name.”

seem particularly disappointed.

Nicholas Galloway did not

He said, now chewing on the

remember me. Not long after I

end of a pen, that his favorite

had last seen that boy who played

protagonist was still small-

violin for me in no clothing at all,

town America and his favorite

we both became men. And at some

antagonist was the foil of

point when he became a man, no

conformity to an outdated

longer hiding behind any facade of

American dream. He noted,

either wit or depravity, he forgot

and here is the obvious, that

me. His elusiveness in my life

occasionally what reviewers

drew me closer in bludgeoning

refer to as a “slice of life” was

longing to him than I had ever

occasionally a slice of his own life.

been when we slept side by side. I

He sprinkled autobiography. He

deeply desired to know myself in

rubbed his cheeks in amusement

whatever way he once knew me.

and feigned embarrassment. “I

Yet I became useful in a way that

think I have a few copies of my

I would never have wanted, but

latest novel left,” he said. Then he

have come to accept, as one must

pulled a book called A Long Winter

accept things when there is no one

at Wendell’s Farm from a stack

to blame. With the whole of

beneath his desk and signed it.

me fading, the smallest bit

“Dear Clarence, Here’s something

lasted. And nameless to him

for a slow summer weekend.

he called me a plot, a theme, a

Yours, Nicholas Galloway.” I

conflict, and finally, thanks be

thanked him and he thanked

to God, a conclusion.

me as well. So as not to be left

dea th

out, Jennifer thanked no one in particular. She blushed, which I found charming, and I left. As

zACKERY cLARK

I left, I felt the air turn to a mild irritation. They would be spending

Digital

the night with the trustees when

2018

they should be spending it together.

tra n s por ta tion By mirana comstock I dream about transportation:

only to find

trains and stations

someone else already in mine

climb skeletal metal stairs

I dream about transportation:

to empty, open-air platforms

trains and stations

elbow my way through crowded underground passageways looking for the right track study displayed maps ask for directions but always seem to get the incorrect information

wait under an electronic board where arrivals and departures are called men’s faces half-hidden by fedoras women’s wavy hair falling forward red lips, heels click ALL ABOARD…ALL ABOARD as they race across the marble floors

I dream about transportation:

occasional birds fly about

trains and stations

I wonder if they know the way out

Dinne r Pa r ty II

search for my seat up and down the aisles

Rachel Fussell

while miles of night hurtle by outside the windows

Photography

past passengers haloed by reading lights in the shadows and those sleeping

2018

on folded jacket pillows

A Poem l ike a hou s e By evalyn lee

S ta n ’s Do nu t s + S wi s s Wa tche s Elina Sukaryavichute Photography

Chester, I want to build

I see your body, on the ground,

A poem, like a house

An up-ended cabinet

For your wife and daughter.

In desperate need of help.

To make the windows

Chester, I am no carpenter,

Wide, like your smile,

Your work was beautiful,

And the front door, big,

But I want to join your life

Hinged perfectly for a lifetime,

To the moment you were lifted,

No— generations—

Up, by friends who want

Of openings and closing:

Eternity to hold you close, who

Instead, four men pat

Hope a carpenter, who lived

A shoulder to indicate where

And died, to build a resurrected world,

The weight of your coffin will fall.

Can both call you home and comfort

Daffodils shiver in the rain,

Your daughter who looks so like you.

Best shoes stomp; spring begins,

She strokes your wife’s

In the English cold, cigarettes smoke,

Tears, as they count the flowers,

People weep unsaid goodbyes,

I stand and struggle

As your coffin is carried

To understand the tender

Into Mortlake Crematorium.

Mercy of wood, nail and flesh:

The men of your village, far

If we are not at home, in Christ,

From home, mourn you

In this our life, where do

Like mountains,

We go in death?

Your daughter smiles, your wife,

I live in one language:

Too, then they both cry,

But God lives within them all,

There is confusion.

So, when it comes time to go home,

At forty, you ran into death,

I will close the door that you hung,

200-meters from a finish line.

Walk the floor that you laid,

The service is in Polish,

And build this poem over your grave.

I think in English: did you leave Your hammer, upside down,

2018

Balanced on its head, against a wall?

com po si tion By christa forster That he was my father

I remember nothing good about my life.

makes no difference now

I remember long, silent dinners

although I recognize the brown

with him staring at me, my mother

suit with the elbows worn

staring at her plate, the restless

slightly and the silk scarf

nights when a woman’s collar bone

given by my mother one holiday

hung in the air alongside my mother’s

stuffed into the left pocket.

perfume. How I hated the uneasy

The woman found lying

hours of late afternoon entering

next to him is not my mother,

our home. When dinner was late.

though I have seen her face

When my mother’s dress wrinkled

in a black-and-white photo,

From sitting. It makes no difference

her name signed across

that the woman in the picture

her nape, a smooth chalk palette.

wore her hair high on her head

Many days I sat with that book

and that her pliant mouth

across my child-legs

always remains half open.

and tried to guess who the woman was who was not my mother, and I remember how her eyes were small

f R O M THE cHA O S

and slanted like the streams of light that hit my bed

cOME S THE cA L M

when the moon was out (the capital of my girlhood).

Danika Ng

2018

Digital

lautrec A fluid day, a noon shut down, you loved the shade

the reflection of a stranger caught between the teeth

in everything. Boulevard queens, Jane, the wash, the nude

of a quiet nightmare, so quiet it belied the possibility–

back of the laundress. What was it you said? They give

that you might be just a man with stunted legs, black beard,

good heart. This was, it seemed, enough for you.

heavy cheeks, with nothing much to say? 1897 came

At your best you lived against the lie of the completed

and Death began to sew his stones into the lining of your

thing. You cultivated vanity, said I’d love to see a woman

overcoats. The more you reached your hand toward life,

have a lover uglier than me. October came,

the more life slipped away. Friends witnessed how you drank

the Moulin Rouge hung on every Paris wall. Critics raved:

your cane. And after Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, men barred you

“Regarde! the senile pigs, how they sit at tables in

from the world you loved: the syphilitic prostitutes, your

the company of little whores who lick their faces, make them

alcoholic enemy, your mother living in Albi, your father’s

hot…there will never be another painter shameless as

work on falconry. You begged, Papa, you have the chance

Lautrec.” You couldn’t care less, you cared for love–

to act in humane ways. You know how something locked up dies.

Suzanne (Maurice Utrillo’s mother, who also posed for Jean

But there he let you stay. Inside the mental hospital, you asked

Renoir and then became a painter too), the dancer Jane

for stones and chalk, watercolors, paintbrushes, a little

Avril, whose nighttime solitary walk you froze on cardboard

light, then painted several circus scenes to prove you were

with oil and gouache. Her hair swept up you dreamed

all right: swarms of dilettantes swarming into canvas tents

unpinned, cascading down her spine. Time and time again

craning necks to see the spectacle –horses’ heaving flesh,

you left your heart behind in darkened rooms, then panting

the riders’ thighs snug against the horses’ silken flanks,

slid into the street and trudged the hard walk home. Within

agile in their skill and pride as they ride around

the smallest pencil stroke you spoke about how hard it was

the outside of the ring. And this painting matters too:

to be alone. You said you’d always been a pencil, though

A girl flush on a horse’s back, the horse connected to a man

you knew the nature of the brush. In Bed: The Kiss, The Two

by leather strap, the girl in green and leaning forward

Girlfriends reveal this knowing tenderness. But love eluded

but looking toward the man and smiling, perhaps in love,

you. You sacrificed your heart for art and reinvented hues

while in the background an awkward clown appears about to fall

of blue. You were a prophet of desire in a cruel milieu. It

out of the frame.

seems you understood that living itself within this world was the hardest thing the strong of soul could do. When you

By Christa Forster 2018

2018

looked in the mirror, did you see yourself? Or was it

wOODHEL D vA S E

B O X S E R IE S NUM B E R 3

rYAN cOOK

Myrthe Biesheuvel

soft pastel On pastel Paper

mixed media

2018

o CEA N s EA S HEL L eA R THL Y

time it finally stopped working,

and some aunt who remembered

midway through freshman year,

she said, apparently noticing my

bouncing off of them, illuminating

like a law office— brick walls and

and a slightly smaller indent just

seeing me at one of their

when people started to notice that

quick glance. “Sara wouldn’t want

the black leather couch and the

a white roof and a sign out front

beside that one, from the days

Thanksgiving dinners decided

I tended to walk incredibly fast to

me to kill my feet like that.”

white carpet, the IKEA light fixture

that looked like it should have said,

when Sara wanted to talk longer,

I should get a call, and some

class. I stopped doing it after a few

Dixon and Dixon: Attorneys at Law.

from the days when she realized

woman I’ve been living with for

semesters, because Sara was in

looked back toward the door. It

two bookcases on the far side of

I sat out in the parking lot, waiting

Dillon was a dick and needed

ten years rubbed my back as I

most of my classes, and Sara liked

didn’t look like a lawyer’s office

the room, one filled with law books

for a few people to arrive for the

to vent about it. I wouldn’t say

screamed and cried into one of

to walk slow, but the nickname

anymore. This many people

and the other with my fiction,

wake. Getting there early was

anything, just put my arm around

the pillows she likes, the kind that

stuck. Sara never called me Jet,

would never come see a lawyer.

the only part of the picture that

irrational. I don’t know, maybe

her. Later she married him and

make my neck cramp.

though. Always Jackie.

I thought about my wife, scribbling

belonged to me. I felt nothing else

I had hoped for a little alone time

moved to Colorado and got a house

on her legal pad all day about this

did— not the carpet or the blinds

with Sara, but the whole idea of

and a job and a kid and some

thing all day,” came a voice from

my arms to look down at my gut

case and that case, sorting out

or the couch or the woman sitting

that was a bit complicated now,

bruises, and when the bruises

right beside me. I jumped up,

the way my father used to. It was

everybody’s lives right there on

on it. I turned and closed the door

her being in a casket and all.

got bad she called me, and then I

startled at how close the blonde-

just big enough to be noticeable

paper. She was a great lawyer.

on my lie, wondering if my wife

Once I got there, I realized going

told her.

haired figure to my right had gotten

underneath my suit.

he funeral home looked more

in would mean being the first to

“Sara, Dillon is a dick,” I said.

“Thanks,” I joked, holding out

“Hey, you gonna be on that

“Shall we,” she said, holding

without me noticing. I realized I

I nodded in agreement and

I told my wife I couldn’t come to the wake. I’m still not sure why.

knew as well as I did that the only woman I’d ever truly loved

greet her family. I don’t hate

The next day she told him she

had somehow deleted every single

out her hand and gesturing toward

Sara’s family. I dislike them,

wanted a divorce. I should have

one of my emails, and I shoved

the line accumulating at the front

the funeral,” I had told her in the

and they dislike me, so I decided

told her sophomore year. There

my phone nervously back into my

of the building.

morning. “Emergency meeting got

the funeral home, and I stepped

not to do them the disservice of

wouldn’t have been as much

jacket. She must have been sitting

called today. Be ready to go at ten

inside after Jen. Sara’s family had

being first through the door. I got

paperwork.

on the hood of my Audi for a few

the car with my other. And as we

o’clock tomorrow for the service.”

placed a table right in front of the

minutes, smiling, waiting for me to

walked toward the line she let her

out of my car and walked around

They hadn’t finalized anything,

I took Jen’s hand, pushing off

“I’ll only be able to make it to

hanging from the ceiling, and the

I had waited for her to

was dead. We finally reached the door to

door with a white table cloth and a

but Sara decided to move back

notice her, and then waiting for

hand slip out of mine. I glanced

protest. Honey, it’s your best friend,

brown basket and a pile of purple

with my butt on the polished,

here. I was away at a conference

me realize who she was.

over at her and saw her for the

we should go to the wake, I

note cards and a sign that read:

white hood. I pretended to check

when she moved into her new

first time. Blond hair and grey eyes

thought she’d say. She just gave

my email, and thought about how

place just last week. I told her we

awkwardly open as if I didn’t

and a black dress with a slit down

me a thumbs up.

I used to sit like that out in the

would get coffee soon, but the

expect to see Sara’s old friends

the back most of the older women

parking lot of our high school,

night I got back from listening

there.

in this place would whisper

turning around, then she reached

waiting to waste at least twenty

to a bunch of old guys talk about

about. She wore black flats that

over to the coffee table and

minutes joking around with

Marketing Analytics, Sara went

said, golden hair bouncing as she

scratched the cracking asphalt as

grabbed another magazine to read

Sara before I could bring myself

out to pick up a pizza, and some

spoke, the same way it used to.

we shuffled forward in line.

as I watched her from the doorway,

stop myself from laughing, so I just

to leave. The hood of my blue

guy driving his Tacoma down

examining things for a moment

started to fake cough instead. It

Saturn had a slight indent by the

Marina Mile didn’t see a red light,

“Jen!?” I said, my mouth

“You gained weight, Jet,” she

“You’d be surprised at how

No one had called me that in years. It was a name I earned

many girls wear heels to funerals,”

2018

to the front, leaning on the grille

“Okay, Jack,” she said without

— the wooden shades with light

Please tell Sarah how much she meant to you. It would help her loved ones to know just how much you cared. I had to cover my mouth to

was funny. There were only two

arrangement of flowers that sat

brown, but not a nice mahogany

pray to something because that’s

she could get used to waking up

was something different about

things Sara hated in this world:

to the right of the table, and as we

brown— a brown kind of like the

what I thought you did with your

like that. We never mentioned it

Jen’s sadness. All the other people

compliments and the color purple,

entered the room with the casket,

color of vomit. The walls were

hand on a casket, but there was

again. She got married and moved

in the funeral home stood out

and this shrine contained both.

I wondered what sort of artificial

two different shades of yellow

nothing else to pray to. There was

to Colorado and had a kid and a

starkly against the yellow walls.

Once during calculus, I told her

white her skin must be now, and if

separated by a white line of

only the casket, and my hand, and

divorce and bought a pizza and

For them, Sara’s death was only a

I liked her outfit, and I smiled as

people’s freckles went away when

molding that ran horizontally all

my shoulder, and Jen’s hand on

went to pick it up and found her

fraction of their pain, like a drop of

I watched her face go from that

they died. I hoped they didn’t,

around the room, boxing us in. The

my shoulder. The casket and my

way into a casket. The casket, my

red food coloring in a cup already

Irish-white to a red that somehow

but I would never know, because

bottom of the walls was painted a

hand and my wedding ring and my

hand, the wedding ring, my

overflowing with blood. I could see

made her freckles stand out even

when the man was speeding down

deep gold, and the top a sunshine

shoulder and Jen’s hand holding it

shoulder, and Jen’s hand, and

it in their eyes. But Jen, Jen seemed

more. After that, I made it an

Marina Mile, preparing to run a

yellow. Who the hell paints a

a little more firmly. Casket, hand,

it’s time to let the next person go.

to exist somewhere high enough

everyday thing, and I thought I’d

red light in his black Tacoma, Sara

funeral home yellow, I thought.

wedding ring, shoulder, and some

I thought I heard the voice in my

that a funeral could actually drag

run out of things to compliment

had just finished getting the pizza

guy in a black Tacoma, and all

head.

her down. For the rest of us, we

her on, but I never did. I started

situated in the passenger seat

Jen’s voice from behind me.

I wanted was a white pillow to

small. I told her that her hair

and was still fumbling with her

Somehow, she had let me slip in

scream into.

looked good one day, and that her

seatbelt. At least that’s what I told

front of her so that the only thing

eyes were brighter than usual the

myself, because it was somehow

between me and the casket was

Somehow, I knew it. Once, we

next, and, before long, I was telling

comforting to think that she had

the ten feet of red carpet. Red

tried to count them at a party

her how much I loved her take on

been moments away from still

carpet!?, I would think later. It was

when we were both drunk— her

Nietzsche’s philosophy or that the

being alive. She seemed closer that

true, someone had decided to put

a little more so than me. I got up

novel she had recommended was

way. The point is, the casket was

red carpet in a yellow chapel in a

to 192, and then she couldn’t sit

one of the rooms for the rest of the

fantastic. I lived for that moment

closed, because her family had

funeral home, and still that wasn’t

up any longer, and her head fell

time, while Jen moseyed around

when her cheeks would bud like

decided that we should remember

as poor a decision as the purple

into my lap while I tried to finish

and looked at all the posters they

the roses in my backyard, when

her as she was before she wanted

notecards. None of that mattered

counting, trying to get the ones

had put up with images of Sara in

her foot would tap nervously,

pizza, before some guy missed a

now, though. The colors faded

that almost seemed to blend into

various stages of her life. I

and her leg, not immune to the

red light, and some aunt made a

to dull blacks and whites and

her blue eyes, brushing back her

watched her move from gravestone

blushing that spread throughout

call, and some woman rubbed my

greys, and the lines of the stained-

brown hair to count the spots at

to gravestone and look at all the

She walked to me from across the

her whole body when anyone

back as I wept into a pillow.

glass window sitting above the

the very top of her forehead. But I

pictures, like little epitaphs all

room, leaned over, and whispered

casket became blurred and then

couldn’t stay awake either, and I

stringed together. I watched

in my ear.

shuffling forward between the two

nonexistent. All that was there was

slumped sideways onto the couch

Jen smile at seeing Sara in her

sections of pews on either side of

the heavy, wooden casket, and

at 324. We woke up on the couch

blue soccer uniform and in her

said, as if we were in a bar, not

Jen finished her little letter to Sara,

the chapel they had stuffed inside

my hand on it, and Jen’s hand

in the morning, still holding each

pink tutu and in her homecoming

a funeral home or a law office or

and we moved on past the large

that law office. The pews were

on my shoulder. And I tried to

other, and she smiled at me as if

dresses and her prom dress. There

whatever that place was.

accidentally rub against mine.

2018

I didn’t take a purple notecard.

We inched closer to the casket,

Her freckles were gone.

2018

complimented her, would

“I think it’s our turn,” came

“It’s time to let the next person

were already there on the ground,

go,” Jen said a second time, and I

some of us leaning over the edge

was as startled as I was when she

of our graves, and I felt ready to

snuck up on me in the parking lot.

fall in with Sara.

“Right,” I said, and staggered away from the altar. I sat in a chair in a corner of

Who the hel l pa in ts a f une ra l home yel low ?

Jen saw me looking at her.

“Let’s get out of here,” she

it and placed herself on my lap

a darn thing in God knows how

more electric than her skin, and as

wanted to catch up and have a

with her hands back on the wheel.

long.”

I kissed her back, I hoped to catch

few drinks. So, I followed behind

I reached both of my arms around

her red jeep to her home in a

her and put my hands over hers,

the feeling of my arms on top of

neighborhood across town. She

because I felt that was what she

hers, of the sensation of her

lived on the water. I said I liked the

wanted me to do.

skin. It was different than when I

after a few minutes of listening to

embraced my wife or hugged any

the motor create a wake behind us.

She invited me over. She

water. She poured me a drink or

“So, Jet, how has your life

I was suddenly aware of

whatever sickness made your skin feel like that. “Why did you kiss me?” I asked

“Because you are a good

two. She said she had a boat. I said

been?” She asked, turning slightly

of my friends. It was, somehow,

I liked boats. And then, we were

to the left.

electric— a sort of electricity I

person,” she said, “and good

on the Intracoastal, her holding

“Unimpressive,” I said.

had never felt with reading,

people should be kissed every

the wheel and I a beer. Her hair

“I doubt that,” she said. “What

writing, even making love. The

once in a while.”

looked like sunshine out there on the water, so light and wonderful. As I sat with my hand over the side of the boat to feel the white spray, I thought about why I had told my

do you do?” “I work in Marketing Analytics for a big firm.” “No, I mean what do you do?” she said.

She made a joke and I laughed

color was starting to come back into the world, the alcohol helping

and I said I should go home and

me recover from that feeling of

she agreed and all the lights were

being alone with the casket, and I

green on the way back to my

could see the lights on the sides

house. But when I turned onto

of the waterway shining on

Marina Mile, I wondered what

wife I had a meeting to attend. I

“I figure out how well a

held up my hand, and examined

company’s marketing campaigns

the blue water, and the green

would happen if some guy

my wedding ring. Perhaps it was

are…”

mangroves dancing in the wind.

ran a red light, and I was afraid.

that, as sad as it was, if that were to have been her wake, her pale, white body in a wooden box, I

“Really?” she said, “that’s all you do?” I was silent for a few moments, thinking.

“Married?” Jen asked, her pointer finger tapping my silver ring. “Yes,” I said.

would not have been as destroyed,

“I guess I read,” I decided to say.

“Happily?” she asked.

as lifeless, as void of hope as I was

“You guess you read? Reading

It was a strange thing to ask so

at that altar with the casket and

can be a very noble thing to do,”

directly. But the water looked a lot

my hand on the casket and my

she said, “that is if you don’t guess

bluer than it had, for me, in years,

shoulder and Jen’s hand squeezing

at it.”

and the mangroves a lot greener,

my shoulder. I was still looking at my hand when Jen grabbed

“I read,” I corrected myself, “and write sometimes too.” “See,” she said, “that is

to the chair. She sat me down in

impressive. I haven’t written

2018

a hold of it and pulled me over

I was afraid, and it felt good.

and I felt I should tell the truth. “No,” I said. She turned and kissed me, not slowing the boat, and her lips felt

2018

because I might have realized

B R EA D HOU S E Rachel Fussell

Pa th wa y tO Bal l y va ug ha n

Hand-Made miniatures + found objects

LaDara McKinnon

2018

acrylic on canvas

fa de By robbin farr Your kitchen, in grey hesitant light – coffee, French bread, goat cheese served on mostly blue unmatched china. Breakfast is simple. We eat quietly. The hiss of the espresso pot intersects careful conversation. The local radio station plays a rebroadcast of energetic klezmer music which you heard Tuesday night in an auditorium of mostly older Jews, a warming feeling of community, you say. A stack of New Yorker magazines, months of them piled up on the bench next to me and you wonder whether to read the poems, at least. We almost touch across the table, both of us reaching for the knife. I can feel the heat of your arm. The moment waits, wanting

S ta te o f the Unio n

something more, but it passes like the morning sun – all potential,

Kathryn McComas

it blooms into the day, becomes cloudy and uncertain.

2018

Digital Print

Ta ke M y P ho to g ra p h

Aba Hutchison

Sarah Kinney

colored pencil, pen + Marker

Ink + Watercolor on paper

2018

S to p t r yna b e nea t !

Un til I coul dn ’t By Claire Scott I sang to you my son you loved Burl Ives way up yonder above the moon you smiled & sailed past Aquarius in your Batman suit, pointed ears, blue cape I loosened as you slept now no lullabies can ease your nights no songs can untangle your body torqued & twisted no way up yonder to transport you to a place without crutches and opiates a place without a texting driver a sudden thud, your body sailing through space, smacking the street as sirens slash the night I want to sing back time to the child you once were asleep in your batman suit but only a moonless night

The L i t tl e Koima id

an empty voice a blue cape lost long ago

Carolina Quintana Ocampo

2018

Watercolor

I F YO U E AT A ME ATBA L L

drapes over the kitchen sink

crammed into his wife’s lambskin

kitchen table, an iTunes statement

a little typing, maybe. You’re thirty,

and gaunt from grief, lost his

YOU MUST BUY A MEATBALL

glow with moonlight. Buraq, his

slippers. Apparently, though, the

showing Julien had received only a

Julien. Time for a real job. Music is

words. He choked up and left

mother’s white fluffball of a cat,

governor’s rant against public

few dollars in royalties from sales

over.”

the room. They’d been married

her sleepmate for years, snakes

employees woke him. Hopefully,

of his songs. “Look at me, Julien.

message, on drawing paper, is

around Julien’s ankles, nudging

he’ll nod off. He gave Julien’s day

You’ve got to deal with me now.

know about the hard work of art?

where they taught. He ran the

taped to the refrigerator door

for food. Julien kneels to touch

a rough start, and the son needs a

You understand? You get a job. You

Recording night and day in a dank

English department, and she led

and hand-printed in red until the

his nose to the cat’s as his mother

soft finish.

pay for food and gas and clothes.”

basement. Playing guitar until

vocational fashion design, a trade

crayon must have skidded and

used to do. Buraq. When he was

He slapped the tabletop so hard,

your hands cramp. Prying the

she’d chosen as a girl from the

snapped in an angry grip. His

young, his mother’s rolled Rs and

you’re home — Julien untapes

Julien, seated, felt the sting up his

frets out of an old guitar to turn

hills of Tizi Rached, watching the

father finished the diktat in

palatal Ts, the traces of her first

the note, balls it up, and bounces

arms. “You get your own place to

it into an oud. Singing yourself

colonials, the pied noirs, strut the

baby blue.

language, embarrassed him before

it off a Formica counter into the

live.” This was not the father who’d

hoarse. Hawking your CDs. Pulling

boulevards of Oran and Algiers in

his friends. But he wrote and

sink. Walking over, he pulls out a

bought him guitars and paid for a

midnight gigs in shitty bars.

Parisian designs, showing more

before, Julien — son, songwriter,

recorded his music for her, with

matchbook and carefully takes a

singing coach. This was the son of

Scrimping for gas money. Fighting

skin than she thought proper for

guitarist, and oudist — came home

her in mind. When she became ill

joint tucked inside.

a Bronx butcher he’d heard about

with bookers for a slice of the gate.

a woman, but so graceful, elegant,

shivering and famished from yet

and began her long descent into

as a child, carrying great sides

And how exactly do you stop being

and free. Her charcoals of gowns,

another nonpaying gig. And he

cancer, he added an oud for her,

to blow out smoke, and winter

of beef into a meat locker. The

a musician when you think and

coats, hijabs, burnooses, and

wolfed down two — two! — of six

to capture the semitones he heard

air wafts in. Staring through

infantryman from Nam. Had he

dream music? When your art flows

feathered hats — more fine art,

meatballs the old man bought for

when, as she drew on her oversize

the parted curtains into moonlit

been loving, Julien wondered, only

from your mother’s blood?

thought Julien, than mere fashion

himself at Rosario’s deli.

pad, she hummed childhood tunes.

snowfall, he reruns his father’s

for show, to please a wife?

The notes between the notes, she

lecture that morning: “Nobody

sees that his dad, Ralph Paetz, has

called them. She was the audience

wants to buy such sad music. I

scrawled MINE in black marker

that mattered. He would succeed

on a jar of Del Monte grapefruit

o now this bullshit. The

And for what crime? The night

Quietly — don’t let him know

He cracks the window open

Uncle Alan, Ralph’s brother,

thirty-five years, having met

sketches—still littered the den of

had said, “He’s mourning badly is

the family’s cramped split-level in

fade, piled dark curls that, like his

all. When he looks at you, he sees

Linden, New Jersey.

mean, c’mon, Julien, that oud

mother’s, bore a touch of Berber

her — eyelashes, cheekbones, nose.

and she’d be proud. But then she

sounds like crying. It’s crap.” Here,

red. A haircut, his father once

Even the color of her skin, Julien. I

his lips, Julien lights a match. He

slices, on vanilla yogurt containers,

was gone and he hadn’t succeeded.

Ralph, standing over him, bit into

commented, like the black kids

think it drives him a little nuts. You

sets fire to the balled paper in the

and across a Ziploc bag of sliced

Not even close.

an apple core, finished the thing,

wear. Like the brown kids wear

should forgive and forget.”

sink. Idiot note — idiot man. And

and spit the stem onto the floor. He

too, Julien thought but did not say.

Opening the fridge, Julien

cheddar cheese. He’s buried the

The upstairs TV blasts about

Ralph patted Julien’s hi-top

What did Ralph Fucking Paetz

good turkey burgers in the bottom

Chris Christie and Bridgegate, and

seemed increasingly ogreish since

The father peeled a twenty off a

freezer drawer, leaving Julien the

his father answers, “No, you’re the

Yasmine, mother and wife, died.

wad of bills. “Now go get a real

cheap, frost-burned ones — more

fucking drug mule.”

Again, Julien’s home late.

2018

The lights are out, but cotton

haircut and see Uncle Alan at his

to stop this crap. “Mom would never ask me to quit— ”

sweet incense fanned by cold air, brings Julien a moment’s peace. He lights the joint on his little bonfire

law office in Metuchen. Interesting

teacher, would normally be asleep

wanted. Ghosts, witches, jesters.”

stuff, he has. A lady crushed by

what Yasmine would never— ”

An ember floats to the drapes.

by now in his recliner, his feet

With that, he spread a letter on the

runaway shopping carts. You’ll do

And there Ralph, pale-faced

They catch fire.

“You don’t get to tell me

the flicker of the burning ball, its

went on, “sold people what they

Ralph, a high school English

2018

roof shingle than poultry.

“Even Shakespeare,” his father

Easy for Alan to say. But time

Now, with the joint clamped in

and inhales deeply.

A smoke detector shrieks.

drummer or bassist. Occasionally,

“A what?”

Julien is on the kitchen counter

he plays guitar after work near

“A Biju Misra. She says your

earn a little money.” This makes no sense. Who

“No. My son Ravi bought your album at Club Z.”

“I borrowed the CD from my son and brought it into the apartment

pounding out flames with his

his uncle’s old Honda, with a

father sent her over.” She hangs up

would think this? Who would

“In Red Bank?”

where my job was that day. A

hands when his father, wielding

foot on the bumper and his lyrics

before he can answer.

say this? Is this a prank by his

“Exactly. And then he had it

young woman was near her end,

an extinguisher, blasts him more

notepad on the hood. But he can’t

than the curtains, as if to put Julien

seem to finish a song or find a

out. The pressured spray stings

bandmates? Is he being filmed or

playing while he drove me

on morphine patches already, but

a bill collector or process server.

taped? Whatever, he doesn’t need

to a job.”

still agitated, restless, you know.”

clean melodic line. Grief troubles

He owes more than a hundred

this to play out within earshot of

“What kind of job?”

Biju closes her eyes and shakes

and freezes and cuts off his breath.

his sleep and numbs him during

to the guy who printed his last

Maggie. He leads her back and

“I’m a hospice nurse.”

her head, as if remembering the

Julien gasps and pukes over the

the day.

album. His father would give out

apologizes for his tight quarters.

“I see.” He leaned back in

sounds and sights of the woman’s

sink while Ralph Paetz throws

Alan and his wife, Marie,

the fire extinguisher to the floor,

have tried to break through,

storms out, and pounds up the stairs.

inviting him up for breakfast or

This can’t be good. It’s got to be

“My husband, may he rest in

the work address — to embarrass him before his coworkers. He grabs his coat and makes

peace, was a solicitor in New Delhi.

his seat. “Sometimes people become

pain. “At my request, her husband brought in a boom box, and I

His cubicle was smaller than this.”

afraid of me when I tell them

played your music for her as she

dinner. But, best not to go. Their

for the stairwell. Even if they pass

She sits opposite him, as if he were

what I do for a living. I spend my

lay there. For him too. He sat on

daughter, Betsy, a recent graduate

in the hallway, this Misra won’t

the lawyer and she the client.

days with dying. People think they

the floor with his back against

He and his father haven’t

of Stanford Law, lurks upstairs. A

know him from Adam.

She wears silver hoop earrings

might catch that from me. Do you

a wall. And your songs, Julien,

exchanged a word since the fire.

damning contrast. After all, what is

and a gray overcoat buttoned

think that, Julien?”

brought them peace and took her

These past three months, Julien’s

he? A crazed arsonist to his father

to her throat. As she speaks, she

lived in Uncle Alan’s basement

and perhaps to his aunt and uncle

“Julien?”

keeps her hands folded politely

and it’s easy to look directly into

husband left your music on even

room, little more than a closet that

as well. An all-out loser in the

She’s in his path, on the

on her lap.

them. He feels himself relax, and

after his wife left us. And I had to

opens to the family garage. The

music market. A guy who never

landing, her hand gently on his

the two allow an easy silence to

find you after that. You wouldn’t

nearby toilet gurgles and burps

finished college and who now,

sleeve. Her face is round and dark

pass. This woman is about his

believe the maze I went through,

through the night. He has no car

in a back room at Alan’s office,

with a maroon bindi between her

Her eyes are wide and black,

mother’s age, with jet-black

calling up one Mr. Paetz after

hair. She wears a lavender scent

another, knocking on this door and that.”

and rides to work with his uncle

hacks through piles of deposition

eyebrows. She opens her arms,

He s e ts f i r e to the ba l l e d

or takes an old bike. When he

transcripts, summarizing witness

palms up, and smiles softly. “Look

pa pe r in the sink. Idio t no te

that seemed harsh at first but has

fled his father’s house, he brought

testimony about deadly shopping

at you. More handsome than your

— Idio t ma n.

softened.

bare necessities: a garbage bag

carts, failing septic systems, a rat’s

album cover.” Her voice, Indian-

full of clothes, a framed photo of

head in a child’s frozen yogurt.

accented, and her eyes are too

One Monday, he’s at his desk at

and his acoustic guitar. The oud, he

Alan’s office when the downstairs

left behind.

receptionist buzzes.

Julien’s given up on gigs and

2018

rarely returns calls from his band’s

“Hey — you know a Misra?” Maggie always seems pissed at him.

“No. I think you must have a kind heart,” he says.

senses Julien’s effort to maintain composure. He’s cried more than

“You saw my father?”

they can speak for a moment.

“At your house.”

loved a piece from your album

that in front of a stranger,

“You know him?” She must

Yasmine: the song by the same

however warm.

“About?” “What else? Your beautiful music. And a way, Julien, to maybe

“I hope so. I particularly

She pauses again, as if she

warm to bring harm. She asks if

work at his high school. God knows

name.” She unbuttons her coat and

what he said to her.

pulls her chair closer to his desk.

2018

his mother as a teenager in hijab,

through the last moments. The

enough, and he isn’t going to do

“Did you tell my father about any of this?” He does his best to

make the question seem casual,

accepting my money, your father

lately, says that the man seemed

embarrassed at his hunger for

asked me personally to bring you

lonely. “As we say in my country,

approval.

the check for your CDs. He told me

Julien, one has to do the needful.”

me in. Though it was evening, the lights were off inside, and I got the feeling he needed to

where you worked.” Julien reaches for it, but stops himself. Biju continues that she’d like

“My father,” Julien says, “didn’t come from a country like yours.” Nor, he thinks, did he come from Yasmine’s land. And he remembers

be alone. I had a nice chat with

to buy more of the CDs, that she

his father patting his head, his

him at the front door. He went

imagines many other hospice

mother’s curls, telling him to get a

down to the basement and got me

nurses would love to play his

real haircut.

ten of your CDs, and I tried giving

music for patients. She asks if

him a check for them, though he

he’d be willing to play live at the

wanted me to take them for free. I

bedside of terminal patients.

told him I intended to give Yasmine

He’s touched by her sincerity,

Biju’s scent lingers, sours and fades as he sits and stares at the

but as she speaks, he loses the

patients. At that point, he did ask

thread of her conversation,

me to come inside, and he even

repeating to himself, “He told

The one his father mocked. It is

made me tea with milk, the British

me where you worked.” So. Isn’t

obscene — no, impossible — that

way. He explained how you made

this woman, sweet-hearted and

the instrument he so painstakingly

that oud, heating the frets with a

innocent and motherly as she is,

made for his mother’s final days

torch so you could pull them

his father’s living joke? How much

remains in his father’s house. He

out, filling in the slots with plastic

does your music suck, Julien? It

knows where he left it, in a corner

wood, sanding the guitar neck,

sucks so bad, only the dead will buy

of his old room.

restringing the instrument, and so

it. Julien, his voice on automatic

Without asking permission,

on. He was so proud of your work

pilot now, tells Biju he’ll have to

Julien walks out of the office. He

and music. He told me about your

think about live performances,

gets on his bike, a rusty Schwinn.

late mother and showed me her

that really, he is out of the music

He’ll smash that oud before his

sketches. He said she, too, loved

business, but he’ll get back to her.

father’s eyes if not over the man’s

She takes a folded envelope

“Are you all right, Julien?” She stands and buttons her coat. “No, I’m fine,” he says.

it on his desk. “Finally, instead of

She asks if he’s seen his father

2018

out of her coat pocket and places

miles from his uncle’s office to the little split-level on Locust Road. It was winter when he left his childhood home for his uncle’s place, but now he passes full, leafy sycamores and oaks as well as manicured lawns. His mother, he recalls as he rides, meticulously tended tea roses on a backyard

to other hospice nurses and their

your music, Julien.”

On high idle, he peddles the

unopened envelope on his desk. His thoughts turn to the oud.

ugly head.

trellis and nurtured hydrangeas and lilacs. She filled the house with cuttings in short, tinted vases. With ease, she sketched perfect irises and sunflowers in india ink. Julien finds himself at the end of the driveway. His father’s Jeep is parked curbside, and there’s a pile of mulch on a tarp at the front lawn. His father must be working in the backyard and using a wheelbarrow. So the rear door will be open. He’ll enter the house while his Ralph Fucking Paetz has his back turned. He’ll grab the oud, come outside, and do what needs to be done. But as Julien comes to the end of the driveway, nears his mother’s old trellises, music brings him to

2018

“I did. At first he didn’t invite

a cold stop. One of the songs he

wrote, one that playfully echoes her accent — “Water, Whistle, Word” — is coming from an outdoor speaker that he and father rigged years ago. And there, in afternoon sun, at a wrought iron patio table, sits the man. Julien watches, motionless. His father uses a sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow and then takes a sip of a Corona. The man puts down the beer bottle. Now, he taps his fingers to Julien’s song, and almost imperceptibly, he sways with the beat, forward and back. Rage bleeds out. Slowly, silently, Julien backs away.

Un ti tl e d

HEA D F UL L O F S PA CE

William Haynes

Emmett Thornburg

Photography

2018

acrylic

Glances ofF the sill All those dogged hours adding up to years. The bulk of life before the very same window, defying the rule of time. Watching people walk by, seasons change, birds fly. Unseeing anything indeed. It used to be like a job, and it used to be fun— a visual rocking chair of sorts. The chair’s still there, but the rocking’s gone, and also either kind of words, the spoken and the untold, appear to have dissolved. All is absence now, but murky remnants vaguely shifting in the distance whither they will yet be lost. Out of mind’s control, above emotions, beyond physical boundaries,

NE W PA G E, NE W ME !

even past belief. Just within awareness. Pupils drained from staring vainly,

Aba Hutchison

a messy mass of emptied eyefuls. Loose would-be recollections.

pen + Marker

Glances off the sill.

2018

By Alessio Zanelli 81

A b us e By cameron tate On your nightstand, in your half-awake stupor you turned off my song you told me to play, but you still refuse to leave your bed. I go back to sleep as well, it’s too early for me. “Roll your ass out of bed, Sir.” I wanted to say.

with your cheese dust covered fingers. They leave imprints on my screen that smear when you try to clean it off. You’re co-workers point at me in my new case, the only nice thing I have, as you brag I’m indestructible.

yelling that it was my fault you were late.

It feels nice…

I keep my composure and suggest your quickest route.

You then throw me on the ground,

You furiously press my screen, hurting me, as you respond

over, and

to your boss’s messages before shoving me into your pocket.

over, and

Filled with dust that gets in my ports,

over again to prove the point.

pens that scrap against my case,

I feel a fracture on my screen,

and the humidity of your thigh

you say it’s a hair.

fogging up my screen.

Give me some damn respect, Sir. We retreat to our respective chargers to end the day.

I’m placed next to your keyboard at your job,

After the abuse I dealt with today,

you fill spreadsheets and forms with data you don’t understand.

I needed the rest because we’ll repeat it again tomorrow.

You ask me every minute to do the math for you,

I dreaded it, but that’s all I can do.

while playing your music,

You reach over again, and open the browser.

finding local restaurants that serve breakfast at 3:00,

You type in the search engine, P-O-R…

the capital of Utah,

I shut off for a “scheduled” update.

saving your score in Fruit Ninjas from 3 days ago,

Leave me alone tonight, Sir.

and a dozen other tasks that make me exhausted.

NO T P HO TO S HO p P E D ALEXZANDRIA EVANS

2018

Photography

2018

I’m always in your hand as you tap my screen

You wake me hours later,

You’re a disgusting pig, Sir.

Close some damn apps, Sir.

S IL VE R P OOL Emmett Thornburg P HO NE CA L L

Photography

Myrthe Biesheuvel

2018

oil on canvas

TH E S E N TINeL ALESSIO ZANELLI acrylic on board

YEL LO WS TO NE SARAH KINNEY

2018

oil on canvas

contributors:

Thank you for choosing us to showcase your amazing work. Without you, this magazine would not be possible. way n e m a i k r a n z :

Thank you for all of the work you put in to support us, and the helpful advice you have given us along the way. danny huffman:

Thank you for your patience in answering our constant stream of questions and for always having such a positive attitude. joshua wood:

Thank you for always having your door open and offering us your design expertise.

kelly merges:

Thank you for your help with circulation and for encouraging us to showcase Sanskrit to the world. art

l i t e r at u r e j u r y :

Thank you for dedicating your time to helping us pick the very best work

to feature in Sanskrit. laurie cuddy:

Thank you for being a wonderful Business Manager and an important part of Student Niner Media. pi marketing:

Thank you for taking our idea and turning it into a reality. Without your team, there would be no printed version of the magazine. jeff allio:

Thank you for being patient with us while we worked out all the kinks for this year’s issue. Your dedication to Sanskrit is much appreciated. student union art gallery:

Thank for for coordinating with us to display this year’s art and literature and for creating an amazing exhibit. janitors of the student union:

Thank you for always keeping the office clean and pristine.

students of unc charlotte, shfc

readers:

Thank you for all of your support and interest

in our work. We hope you enjoyed this issue! fa m i l y , f r i e n d s

loved ones:

Thank you for being there to support our hard work and encouraging us to follow our passions. We love you! of our incredible and dedicated staff members and volunteers, thank you! We have all worked very hard to put forth another beautifully-made publication of Sanskrit. We have come a long way from our initial literature read-throughs and our calls for submissions. We should all be proud. Congratulations on an awesome job well done!

2018

to all

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.

Journalism and Art History. When she’s not designing, you can catch her at the movies with goodies in her purse or lost in nature’s beauty with a DSLR in hand. She looks forward to her future in design as an Art Director, creating alongside passionate, empathetic and hardworking peers like herself.

at UNCC with majors in Mathematics, Pre-Economics, and Philosophy. He enjoys playing soccer, tennis, sleeping, and listening to music. Music, visual art, and theatre are interests of his, but he really enjoys writing poetry and listening to spoken word. His enjoyment of the arts drew him towards volunteering with Sanskrit and being a part in assembling the great conglomerate of work that caught his eye during his very first week on campus.

Volunteer

Designer

d a n i e l j o h n s o n is from Laurinburg, NC. He currently a freshman here

track at UNC Charlotte. To her, poetry and literature are safe havens in the times when chemistry and biology are just a little unforgiving. Chiamaka enjoys spending her free time reading, exploring, and storing poetry on stray scrap paper and in random Word documents.

and plans to concentrate in Graphic Design. He enjoys music, comics, watching movies, sleeping, and a bunch of other stuff he can’t fit in a short bio.

Designer

s i e r r a b e e l e r is a junior English major at UNC Charlotte who was declared

y e s i k a s o r t o a n d i n o is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte studying Political

Science and Public Health. An aspiring United Nations diplomat, she hopes to oneday grant world peace. While she is not contemplating the complexities of life, she is watching the West Wing while eating chocolate.

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Content Editor

a feminist by her peers. A pantomath of T.V. and film, she aspires to create a super awesome, diverse, magic girl cartoon/show/movie/book series reminiscent of Sailor Moon. When not obsessing over Steven Universe or Star vs the Forces of Evil, Sierra enjoys playing butterfly videogames and daydreaming about nonsense. She also spends A LOT of time panicking over nothing.

2018

and Environmental Science. With creativity embodying her every essence she enjoys creating art concepts that will remain in her head forever and being around people who actually put the pen to paper. If you ever want to spark up a conversation, bring up her favorites Chance the Rapper and/or Steven Universe!

c h i a m a k a o k o n k w o is a freshman Biology major on the pre-medical

g r e y s o n n a n c e is probably a sophomore pursuing a Bachelor of Art

Political Science. When she is off campus you can find her speculating Star Wars fan theories or hanging out with her cats. If she ever graduates, Nancy would like to join a publishing house and see the world.

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Promotions

Coordinator

h e at h e r s c h a r d i n g is a senior at UNCC but a junior in her program and

is pursuing a BFA in Graphic Design. When she is not working on school work, she enjoys biographical movies and watching baseball (Go Yankees!). She also enjoys the company of her family ad close friends. She is a TV and movie addict. With a variety of shows that suck up her time she is slow to break the addiction and feels that it adds something interesting to her personality. Too bad that can’t be put in her portfolio!

n a n c y c a r r o l l is a senior at UNCC double majoring in English and

j o n e s e p i p k i n is a sophomore here at UNC-Charlotte studying Earth

a s h l e y j u n g is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte pursuing a BFA in Illustration

and a minor in Art History. As an inspiring Illustrator, she hopes to one day work in film as a storyboard artist or any job that has to do with illustration. When she’s not working on art projects or doing some other school-related thing, you can catch her reading bizarre mangas, heading to the gym, or watching movies with friends.

Content Editor

Lead Designer

m e l o d y s o n g e r is a senior at UNC Charlotte studying Graphic Design,

Content Editor

a n d r e w wa l k e r - wat s o n is a freshman International Studies Major. He

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Psychology and English and dual minors in Linguistics and Cognitive Science. Her talents include eating multiple Cosmic Brownies a day without tiring of them and slipping the word “incredible” into every conversation. She adores her friends, family, and reading.

2018

m e l i s s a m a r t i n is a sophomore at UNCC pursuing dual degrees in

e l i s s a m i l l e r is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte studying Communications

and Political Science. When she isn’t reviewing theater for Niner Times, she is working on bringing new programming to Sex Week UNCC and forcing her friends to binge watch television with her. In the future, she would like to be an investigative journalist, a lawyer, or the second female President of the United States (because if there isn’t one before the time she gets there, that’s just sad).

Associate Editor

When she isn’t chained to her computer working on research projects, she enjoys marathoning Korean dramas and spending money she doesn’t have. After graduation, she hopes to curate a museum or gallery and possibly guest-star on Mysteries at the Museum.

Content Editor

Editor-in-Chief

t i e r r a h o l m e s is a senior studying Art History and History at UNCC.

IN ART Netherlands, where she completed a year of intense classical drawing at the Wackers Academy in Amsterdam. Recently, she was offered the great opportunity to relocate to Charlotte and study arts at the UNCC. Myrthe has a deep love for painting and gets inspired by animals and mystery. zackery clark is a gamer with a wide variety of

interests. His is an artist who uses computers as his medium and is currently working with his girlfriend and her sister to write what he hopes will become a book or series of books. ryan cook is an illustrator, painter, and all-around

avid visual artist, who primarily does surreal landscapes, reptilian creatures, and atmospheric, otherworldly environments even conceptually. Some of his works also involve depictions of still-life, abstract aesthetics, and humanoid creature designs as well as impressionist techniques. Will Ryan’s artworks are best seen in the realm of 2D in both digital art and traditional handmade artworks, he has also created some pieces that are 3D, from crafts to paper mâchés and from sculpture to ceramic. Ryan Cook plans on becoming a videogame concept artist and illustrator. a l e x z a n d r i a e va n s has had a passion for

art her entire life. She spent the first 18 years of her life confused about where she was headed, but the support of her loved ones led her to pursue her dreams of becoming an artist. She loves working with almost any medium, and is inspired to spread awareness on suicide, because her best friend, Erica, committed suicide in 2012.

2018

rachel russell is an Illustration senior at UNC

Charlotte. She enjoys working with the human form and depicts it in any medium possible. w i l l i a m h ay n e s is a young man, born in Japan

and growing up most of his life in the Bay Area of California. For almost ten years, he has been in a period of focus on the human hand. With his medium usually being ink, recently he has changed direction towards acrylic, a medium unfamiliar to him. a b a h u t c h i s o n is a freelance artist who

appreciates the beauty of diverse faces, enjoys the feeling of drawing them into existence, and then seeing them depicted in the likeness of her own style. OFFICIAL INSTAGRAM: @akh.prints sarah kinney is a recent UNC Charlotte graduate

and artist who spends too much time reading and not enough time sleeping. k at h r y n m c c o m a s is a graphic designer

working in Charlotte. When not working she can be found practicing martial arts, taking photos, and making stuff with clay. ladara mckinnon is a published multimedia

artist focusing in Ceramics and Painting. She grew up in Japan and Hawaii, where her love for art began. LaDara uses abstract, texture, mark-making as tool’s, purpose, and meaning in her practice. Her work is influenced by the rawness of landscapes and human body. In 2017, LaDara studied abroad at Burren School of Art in Ireland and will graduate with a BA in Fine Art. jessica miller is pursuing a B.S. in Biology

and a minor in Biotechnology. She loves everything to do with science, learning, spending time with family and friends, and of course her passion: art. She enjoys different forms of art whether it’s playing

piano, origami, listening to music, watching movies, or drawing. She has been heavily influenced by Caravaggio, Michelangelo, Picasso, Dalí, Chopin, and Debussy. danika ng is just another human being, flawed

yet created in perfectness. As a college student at UNC Charlotte, she is still growing and still learning as she takes on the world one step at a time with her friends and family. c a r o l i n a q u i n ta n a o c a m p o is a freshman

at UNCC who wants to double major in both Illustration and Digital Media and possibly minor in Japanese. She loves to involve different worlds and cultures into her cartoon style artwork. In the future it would be a dream come true if she could be a story board artist for an animation company. melissa martin is a Sophomore at UNC Charlotte

pursuing a degree in English. She enjoys having philosophical debates with her friends and examining complex topics including purpose and existence. e l i n a s u ka ryav i c h u t e was born in Russia

(Moscow) and is a PhD student in Geography and in the Urban Regional Analysis program at UNCC. Keen explorer and life lover. Loves big cities, solo traveling, hiking, hot tea, and winter. One of most favorite places in the world is Barcelona. em m ett tho r n bu rg is a Charlotte high

school student that plans on attending UNCC. He is an aspiring photographer that is passionate about pursuing a career in visual arts. He is also a fan of music and fashion and one day hopes to produce music videos.

2018

m y r t h e b i e s h e u v e l was born in the

alessio zanelli , an Italian poet who writes in

English, a photographer and formerly a painter, has published 4 collections to date. His work has appeared in over 150 literary journals from 13 countries. For more information please visit www.alessiozanelli.it.

IN Literature his undergrad at UNC Charlotte. He aspires to write for film or television in the future and currently writes stories and poems as a hobby because “there’s nothing else to really do here in Charlotte besides drink.”

exhibited extensively and are in the collections of the 9/11 Memorial Museum and the NY Historical Society. A Juilliard-trained musician, she is currently mixing new music as singer/songwriter/keyboardist for alt dance duo Theory of Tides.

rachel l . austin is a college lecturer and

ro bbin far r , writer, poet, and photographer of

andrew adams is an English Major working on

an M.F.A. from the University of Southern Maine Stonecoast. She is presently retired from her career as a creative writing teacher at a public magnet arts high school in Willimantic, CT. In addition to teaching, she is also involved in land conservation. She writes using the pen name B.P. Greenbaum.

blighted buildings, lives in Doylestown, PA where she is actively involved in a community of poets. She holds

j u d ith g r iss m er worked as a Marriage and

Charlotte), a M.A. in Psychology (UND at Grand Forks), and completed undergraduate work at USC Upstate. Rachel’s research concentrations include counterculture, social movements, and deviance. She has received grants and presented research at conferences through the U.S. and abroad and has lived in Western North Carolina since 2004.

an MFA from the University of Queens in Charlotte and currently teaches writing at Rider University. She is currently working on a series of poems and photographs depicting the plight of abandoned buildings as social commentary on the impact of deindustrialization on society and culture.

Homeschooled grades kindergarten through twelfth, d esir ee brown enrolled at Central Piedmont Community College at fifteen to study English and American Literature. She published her first poetry collection, “Roses are Read”, at eighteen. Currently, Desiree is working toward her degree in English at UNC Charlotte and plans to pursue a Ph.D. Her works have been featured in Hedge Apple Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and The Woven Tale Press.

from the University of Houston’s Creative Writing Program, where she studied with Edward Hirsch and Adam Zagajewski and served as poetry editor of Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts. She has won multiple Individual Artist Grants in Literature, attended the Tin House and Naropa Summer Writing workshops, and written for and performed in live bands and theater productions, including several original one-woman shows.

25 years, receiving an M.S. from Purdue University and a post-master’s certificate in marriage and family therapy from Virginia Tech. She lives with her husband in Charlottesville, Virginia. She enjoys gardening, meditating, living near her daughters and their families, and beach walks on the Outer Banks of North Carolina where she manages their vacation rental home.

j o hn f . buckley lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan

ba r ba ra g r e e n ba u m has studied with

with his wife. His website is http://johnfbuckley. net/. One of these days, he’s going to be older than he already is. He’s undecided whether he’s aging like milk or like cheese. Maybe he’s becoming tangy butter. m irana co m sto ck is an award-winning

2018

copywriter, screenwriter, photographer, and musician. She has also won Best of Fest screenwriting awards from, among others, the Burbank International Film Festival and Worldfest. Her photographs have been

c hr ista f o r ster earned an MFA in poetry

Michael White, Suzanne Strempek Shea, Brad Barkley, and Jack Driscoll. In 2011, Barbara was awarded a Teaching Arts Fellowship from Surdna, now known as the National Artist Teacher Fellowship (NATF), to develop a memoir. In addition, her work won second place in the 2006 Fiction CT Authors and Publishers Association (CAPA) contest. Barbara has a B.A. in English from the University of Hartford, an M.A. in secondary education from St. Joseph College, and

Family Therapist and Professional Counselor for

c aro l ham ilto n taught in Connecticut, Indiana

and Oklahoma, the last twelve years in an elementary school for gifted children. She taught in the graduate writing program at the University of Central Oklahoma. She was a volunteer pediatric translator for 21 years. As a writer, she won a Southwest Book Award, Oklahoma Book Award, Cherubim Award, Chiron Review Chapbook Award, David Ray Poetry Prize, Byline Literary Awards for short story and poetry, and the Warren Keith Poetry Prize. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma. b e n ja m i n h a r n e t t is a historian, fiction writer,

poet, and digital engineer. His works have appeared recently in Pithead Chapel, Brooklyn Quarterly, Moon City Review, and Tahoma Literary Review. His story “Delivery” was chosen as Longform’s “Story of the Week.” He holds an MA in Classics from Columbia University and in 2005 co-founded the fashion brand

2018

independent researcher who teaches sociology for UNC Charlotte. Rachel has a M.A. in Sociology (UNC

Hayden-Harnett. He lives in Beacon, NY with his wife Toni and their pets. He can be found most days on Twitter.com: @benharnett. He works for The New York Times. ro jan e j esp er was born in Italy and spent most

of her childhood years in Scotland. She completed training as a registered nurse in London. She is currently living in the Midwest. She has traveled extensively working with a peace organization. Her travels have taken her to Europe, Asia, Israel, and South America. Recently, she has trained as a black belt in martial arts. She has long held an interest in the history of art, and she enjoys going to jazz concerts. She runs youth summer and winter camps. A graduate of Vassar College, sharon kennedy nolle holds an MFA and doctoral degree from the University of Iowa. In addition to attending the Sarah Lawrence Summer Writing Institute for several years, Sharon was accepted to the Bread Loaf Conferences in both Middlebury and Sicily in 2016. This year marks the third that she has been honored to be a scholarship participant at the Frost Place Summer Writing Program. evalyn lee is a former CBS News producer. She

has produced television segments for 60 Minutes in New York and the BBC in London. She has studied English literature both in the U.S. and in England and had the opportunity to interview writers, including Joseph Brodsky, Seamus Heaney, and Margaret Atwood, about their work. Most recently she has worked with American novelist Joyce Maynard and the English novelist Louise Doughty.

art Jury m ic ah c ash is a visual artist and educator with over ten years of experience working in non-profit visual

kate m cco rkle ’s stories and essays have

j o n a h s m i t h - b a r t l e t t is an ordained

appeared in several publications, including Adelaide Magazine, Barely South Review, r.kv.r.y Quarterly, Marathon Literary Review, and Penmen Review. A Pushcart nominee, she writes with the Greater Philadelphia Workshop Studio. Kate is currently working on a book-length thing about her time as a 9/11 infantry wife. A mother of four young children,

American Baptist minister and received his master of arts and theology at Union Presbyterian Seminary. He received his master of divinity from Yale Divinity School. He loves to write about small-city America and examines how deceptively simple moments in the nation’s history can shatter lives, embolden relationships, and transform the face of a community

she swims to keep insanity at bay.

forever. In his spare time, he sings in an Irish band.

A native of the Bronx, n eil m u llin drove a taxi and spent years as a sheet metal worker before he became an attorney specializing in civil rights and employment law. He has studied one-on-one with Alice Eliot Dark and Kate Pullinger. He currently has his own firm, Smith Mullin, P.C., and has successfully argued cases in front of the United States Supreme Court and the New Jersey Supreme Court. Neil writes write under the name N. Marc Mullin.

m arc tr etin was the second runner-up for the

based writer who has been a member of the Montville Writer’s Groups since its inception in 2007. He is an experienced fiction writer who was the runner up in the Garden State Horror Writers Short Story contest in 2012 for his short story, “The Facsimile.” He also dabbles in poetry and theatre writing. He continues to work on becoming a published author. c lair e sco tt is an award winning poet who

2018

has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.

A lifelong artist, an n e n eilso n began painting in 2003 and quickly became nationally renowned for her ethereal Angel series. A favorite among individuals and private art collectors, Neilson’s paintings are inspiring reflections of her faith and recognized for their innate color and flare. In 2012, Neilson self-published Angels in Our Midst which has sold over 30,000 copies. Following its success, and the demand for more access to her acclaimed Angels, Neilson released a follow up book, Strokes of Compassion, and launched Anne Neilson Home, a growing collection of luxury home products which includes candles, notecards, scripture cards, prints, and journals. Most recently, Neilson released Angels: The Collector’s Edition, her largest coffee table book to-date, showcasing the most-loved content from Angels in Our Midst as well as brand new stories of faith from renowned musical artists like Steven Curtis Chapman and Amy Grant. A Portion of the new proceeds from the sale of The Collector’s Edition benefit organizations championing those fighting homelessness and poverty. A wife, a mother of four, and an artist, Neilson paints with both passion and purpose, giving back to those less fortunate through the sales of her products and original paintings. In su san g ro ssm a n 's work, images and landscapes in motion initially suggest photography; however, her luminous, shimmering drawings are rendered in charcoal and pastel. Her drawings of urban and rural scenes juxtapose the human with the natural. The images, autobiographical in the sense that they are culled from the artist’s own travels and experiences, are deliberately unspecific and allow for the viewer’s own interpretation.

literature Jury

c am ero n tate is a graduate from the University

of North Carolina at Charlotte. He is an aspiring writer of poetry and short stories. His writing includes themes of mental illness and social commentary. He currently resides in Charlotte, North Carolina.

c h r i st o p h e r dav i s is a professor of creative writing (poetry) at UNC Charlotte. He holds an MFA from the

alessio zanelli see Contributors in Art for bio

winner of Roanoke-Chowan Award; Fiddledeedee (reissue, Press 53); Family Matters: Homage to July, the Slave Girl (Bellday Books), the Bellday Prize. Recipient of the Distinguished Alumnus Achievement Award, Department of English Department, University of Wisconsin-Madison, he is Professor Emeritus, University of North CarolinaPembroke, serving as editor of Pembroke Magazine from 1979 until 2010.

Iowa Writer's Workshop. He is the author of three collections of poetry: The Tyrant of the Past and the Slave of the Future, The Patriot, and A History of the Only War. s h e l by st e p h e n s o n is Poet Laureate of North Carolina. Recent books: Elegies for Small Game (Press 53),

lara v etter is Associate Professor of English at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, where she

teaches modernism, poetry, and American literature. She is the author of A Curious Peril: H.D.’s Late Modernist Prose and Modernist Writings and Religio-scientific Discourse: H.D., Loy, and Toomer; editor of H.D.’s By Avon River; and co-editor of Approaches to Teaching H.D.’s Poetry and Prose and Emily Dickinson’s Correspondences. Her articles on H.D. and Mina Loy have appeared in the Journal of Modern Literature, Review of English Studies, and Genre.

2018

dav id r eu ter is a Lincoln Park, New Jersey

Solstice literary magazine poetry prize in 2013. He is the 2015 winner of the Audrey Wasson and Carol Leseure Scholarship in Poetry. His poetry collection, Pink Mattress, has been published by New York Quarterly Press in 2016. Conferences he has attended include 92nd Street Y, Colrain, and the West Chester Poetry Conference. He has studied with David Yezzi, Molly Peacock, Rachel Zucker, William Packard, and Emily Fragos. He was an attorney in private practice and is now retired.

arts organizations. His work investigates how land use, landscapes, and their social histories influence cultural geography. Micah holds an MFA from the University of Connecticut and a Bachelor's Degree in Painting and Art History from the University of South Carolina. His first monograph, Dangerous Waters: A Photo Essay on the Tennessee Valley Authority, was published by University of Tennessee Press in 2017. He currently teaches courses in drawing, 2-D design, and photography at Wingate University and serves as the Director of Community Engagement at The Light Factory in Charlotte, North Carolina.

c o p y r i g h t 2 0 17 :

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