Montage | Issue #14 by Montage Arts Journal

Montage Arts Journal

2019-2020 Issue

Editor-in-Chief Jordyn Wagner Editorial Assistants Anusha Bansal, Mendy Kong, Sage Larson, Luke Madden, Katherine Majewski, Allison Nichols, Matthew Pettineo, Mehr Purnia, Miranda Sun, Matt Troher, & Eman Zwawi Cover Art “taking flight” by matt_p_photos Logo Design Kate Rosean

Montage Arts Journal is a literary arts magazine created by undergraduate students at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.

24. An Hour | Stanley Lim 25. The Great Pyramids of Giza | Nicole Luna Colon 26. The Weight of a Forgotten Heritage | Abril Salinas 27. Partial Visitation (At the Waterfront Music Festival) | Peyton Blodgett

Woolly Ocean Séadna Natalie Sarris

They wake woolly-eyed and bleating, already breath-wet. A haze— gossamer and grey and ghostly— bundles them closely to graze. Thunder rumbles through the moorlands, and mothers dewy damp. Sheer descent blusters at the cloudline; froths fog—sheep—to coastline piers.

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Ankor Wat | Nicole Luna Colon

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Ophelia

Megi Meocoli Alas, my Love, I am lifted on the Ambling current of my immortal soul A shield stronger than your own. The icy waters no longer feel so, I am warm, I am no longer alone. I have shed tears to make even The willow weep, and her fingers Reach for mine as I am carried From this intransigent land. Three lions bow their heads to the sunset, Lilies and forget-me-nots woven through their fangs. You will find me in the darkness, Beneath a starless sky, And you will demand my truths. You will yearn for my company. You find no peace with beating hearts. Thou prince of phantoms, Forsaken memory, Look at what thy pride has done. Janus of old, your wicked smile is Tainted with poison of all lies lost. The coin in your hand is double-edged, Tainted with blood corrosive, Borne of my love. Madness, you gave me, Eclipsing the light before your eyes. A fortress you became, And you refused to let me in. Ophelia sings now on the river, Idle and melancholic, Flowers make her crown, She has grown weary of the gold. I am free, my Love, of your mad clutches, I am free, my Love, yet sorrow resounds.

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Casserole

Samantha Blanc I had just put the casserole in the oven when the hospital called to tell me that my father had died. Heart attack, I could imagine my mother saying, who knew he had one. The woman on the phone whispered the news to me as if it were a secret. No one could know that people die in the hospital. The effect of her hushed tone was intimate, like the clandestine circulation of middle school gossip. There was something intoxicating about the low simmer of her voice. I clenched my teeth in an attempt to keep the goosebumps down. I didn’t want this perverted satisfaction of being in on the secret. But still I held the phone flat to my face, hands encased in oven mitts, as the woman went over the steps there were to take: what forms I had to gather. - birth and death certificates - copy of the Social Security card - copy of a marriage certificate. But not the divorce papers. - insurance claim forms - bank account information - copy of the last will and testament. I’d seen it once. It left some to me and the rest to his Filippino golf caddy, Gian. - ownership of investment statements and share certificates - copies of property deeds - auto titles or bills of sale - claims for pension plans, credit unions, and union death benefits - final income tax returns - outstanding bills and accounts. There would be a lot of those. The woman’s voice did not harden, even through the bureaucracy. She read the name of each government mandated document like a eulogy. That was the kind of voice she had: like snow melting off the gutter in early spring. A puddle voice. It was only once or twice while she talked that I wondered if I should take the casserole out of the oven. It felt wrong to leave it cooking in the face of mortality. The edges had begun to brown, hardening into a crisp, lacy crust, the best part of the casserole. It’s the best part because it holds its shape, unlike the middle pieces that seep into spindly streams along the edges of the plate. In high school biology, we learned that without oxygen, the cells in most human tissue self-destruct, seeping fluid. The immune system falters and trillions of hungry microbes devour tissues, veins, and arteries. They destroy the liver and gallbladder and bile floods the body, staining it a yellowy-green, then a brownish-black. Then everything, the whole human surface, collapses into watery mush. And in just a year, what’s left of my father will be only bones and the nylon seams in his waistband. But I couldn’t bring myself to move the casserole. Two people die every second. If we took every casserole out of the oven for every father who bit the big one, there would never be a cooked casserole again. Every family dinner, every Friendsgiving, every tepid office potluck would be full of cold potatoes and teeth cracked on frozen peas and mealy slush like brain matter dribbling over serving spoons. He will be presentable by the time you come in tomorrow, the woman on the phone said: covered with proper bedclothes, disconnected from monitors, wiped clean of blood and saliva and the jelly they spread on his chest like toast before the defibrillator. I imagine it a nice, even layer. Spread to the edges. Do you know his wishes as to what he wanted done with his body? I did not. She asked if there was a priest or pastor he would’ve wanted to say grace over the body before it was moved if he had been a man of faith. The only time I heard the word God come from his mouth was when he brought home the painting. He’d bought it cheap off a seedy old friend who traded in “antiques” among other things. Depicted in vibrant 8|Montage

color, Bastet, the Egyptian Goddess of the hearth--with the head of a cat and the body of a woman--stood at the head of a burgeoning fire surrounded by a smiling family. Her pink, naked body was thrust towards the warmth in what self-help gurus nowadays call a power pose. The flames seemed to curl around her thighs, licking the flesh between her spread human legs. Her mouth hung open in an erotic wail. Depending on how the light hit, it could look like pleasure or pain. The rosy-cheeked family passed around a stew, seemingly unaware of the naked cat lady just beside them, the steam from the pot beautifully rendered in thick strokes of oil paint. Mom called it cheap and vulgar. Maybe it was. But I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand why she was so angry. It was not new, his dipping into bank accounts, college savings, piggy banks for his own purchases. Usually, it was to pay off debts or buy rare bottles of whiskey that he drank in his car in the driveway at midnight. How could this painting, no matter how lurid, be worse than that? Maybe it was because the family looked so happy. Because it showed all of them actually on time for dinner. Maybe it was because I loved it so much. I clung to it, sobbing when she forced him to throw it away. I was so distraught that we couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have kept it even if sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d changed her mind. My tears had puckered the cheap canvas. My clawing fingernails had started to peel the paint from the imitation gold frame. The woman continued to talk on the phone, probably assuming I was writing all of this down, but I was not. The oven mitts were still fit snugly over my rigid fingers. I was not even listening anymore; instead, her voice echoed like white noise in the back of my mind, as natural as silence. The casserole was boiling violently now. Bubbles of molten fat burst over the edges of the dish. It was coming to life. It was raging against the heat, or writhing in burning pain, or maybe it was dancing around a bonfire. Black smoke began to form in the oven. It fogged the window completely: rich and thick like burning embers. Like oil paint. Like bile.

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stripes on stripes | Lindsey Jennings

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Sitting by a River Newly Thawed Peyton Blodgett

It’s been a long winter Of unusually bitter wind Like a cold exacto-knife Trying to gash the skin Making shallow cuts A manifesto to the barren Dragonfly wings and egg-shell blues Bring the first signs of life this year Where the rain had fallen so heavily That it drowned the lovely painted ladies Instead sending grey messengers ahead To sweep away my ramshakled daydreams The foundation of a life ended before it could begin Sitting by a river newly thawed Ambient noise two cents sharp Blankets toothy rocks eroded That have lost their bite It is all that can be mustered Forth from that muddy calyx The place of quiet within myself A painful azure throb of pumping Varicose veins etched deep into impenetrable crust Leaves an afterthought of slight familiars Peccadillos once upon a time Clicking Stag beetles with dirty pink pincers  Arizona winds transmuting the Great Plains Whirling blind bats errantly into the night And echoing a young whip-poor-will’s song off canyon walls Asking for his forgotten name It is of the dark fertile sediment That writhes underneath the silent depths Never ceasing to crush bones Crying out to God in fabulous tectonic flashes It runs deeper than can be known Longing to be comforted intimately and secretly I wish to come back to you I can make out someone stifling a laugh with their

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The Clown John Megow

I. The clown is proudest standing On one leg juggling his trilogy of rubber, Dancing through the air and spinning Stories of samurai with stories of British royalty with Stories of prophets. A golden hand directs his writing, stunning Calligraphy swirls from his heart to his script, but As the golden hand relaxes its pen, the clown Rambles and rambles and rambles and rambles, Rhyming histories with fantasies with myths with civics, And the spool he spins is his own, And the spool he spins is garbage. II. Thread spun at wheels of iron crowns are thick As cable, safe as the bed of a farmboy, yet Lack that farmboyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heart, lack his smugness. Give me dumpster-dived fools of fools, Mythopoeic disasters of puzzling choices. I used to mock the clown with his contemporaries, saw him Only as an ant, never the spider that he was, Spinning a golden thread on his own. And now I sit with my gray, gray strings And yearn for that disgusting gold.

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Koi | Cathy Liao 13|Montage

an open letter to my parents Daniela Martinez

Some memories might make you two uncomfortable but they wrap themselves around me. So when i tell you stories about Sunday nights when God wasn’t watching from above the trees, please listen to the tears i’ve held back. i know, Papá, it isn’t healthy to look back, like rewearing the itchy blue sweater that made you uncomfortable but please listen to the words tumbling from me like leaves falling from end-of-november trees. All i have left are stories, sweet-sour stories i can’t keep holding back. They take root in my chest like gnarled trees. The branches spring from my throat; it’s uncomfortable, i must remove them from me, so please listen. We’ve grown distant, Mamá, so please listen. These aren’t the stories you wanted to shape me but i’m back on the brink of being uncomfortable in my own skin. My confidence is peeling like bark from sickly trees. Do you remember our backyard? Adorned by dancing trees that sung in the wind if you’d listen? The melody made you uncomfortable. It was a reminder of unwanted stories you folded neatly in the back of your closet. You cooked and wrapped warm scents around me to keep the hurt out so forgive me for crying over skinned knees from falling down trees– even if these wounds healed a while back; Listen to these stories even if they make you uncomfortable. The faded kisses on my back make me uncomfortable, so does the trail that his unwelcomed hands traced, so do the bitter stories slipping from my tongue–I sound like the trees in our backyard, but you have to listen.

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Virgin Teeth David Lopez

“The doctor will see you two now Mrs. Luna,” said the old secretary as she twiddled her mother of the year pencil in her receding red hair. My mother did not notice that her name had been called. She was too busy staring at the grey clay statue of Jesus herding two baby lambs in mid-air. I hate it when my mother doesn’t pay attention to her surroundings. It makes me feel like I’m lugging around a three-year-old. Except that three-year-olds are at least funny. I hooked her arm from under her armpit. It was wet and stinky, like a piece of wheat bread dipped in water. Once I managed to get her into Dr. Noheer’s office, my mother quivered as she moved the pillows around the leather couch to get comfy. She rearranged the couch until there were only two throw pillows to her left and Dr. Noheer’s blonde American Girl doll to her right. I sat to the right of the doll as we waited for the doctor to get her old computer buzzing. Dr. Noheer peered over at my mom and gave her a soft smile. My mother’s eyes fixated on the doctor’s lips but did not return the smile. My mother was too embarrassed to smile or laugh. She did not like to let others see her two front teeth made of metal. Five seconds passed. I counted five loud ticks on the jail-cell clock in the corner of the room. The next five seconds passed. I couldn’t help but notice how the shape of the baby blue-colored gum changed shapes with every chew Dr. Noheer gave it. The final five silent seconds passed, and I heard Dr. Noheer’s squeaky voice. “So, how are you sleeping now Eva? Any better?” My mother could tell that she was being spoken to, and I could see the shame in her eyes. “Mal, duermo con terror,” my mom whimpered, staring at me. She could understand English, she just had no confidence to speak it. Ever since their first appointment, when Dr. Noheer had made fun of her English, my mother told me I would have to come and translate for her. So now, every first Thursday of the month, I had to miss school to take my mom to her psychiatrist. I took what my mom said, while she stared at my shoes, and said to Dr. Noheer, “She says bad, and that she sleeps with terror.” “Well, are you taking your medicine as I prescribed it?” Dr. Noheer said as she pressed her open palm over her right breast. “Si, pero todavía siento miedo.” “She said, yes I take my medicine, but I am still scared.” “What are you scared of ?” “Mis sueños.” “She’s scared of her dreams.” “Tell me what happens in your dreams,” said Dr. Noheer. “Dile que es una larga historia.” “She says it’s a long story.” “Can she do it in thirty minutes?” she said, smacking on her gooey gum. “Si.” As my mother opened her mouth to begin telling us about her dreams, I noticed that she couldn’t help but dig 15|Montage

her dry nails into her forearm until her skin turned red and white. ◊

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I’m walking through the dry Mexico forest in the mountains leading from the dirt path behind our little wooden house to the river of “Los Cajones.” I’m walking in my angel white first-communion dress I wore when I first tasted the blood of Christ. There is still a stain just under the chin from when the priest raised the cup too early. I’m walking through the faintly green pine trees covered in dew as the fog hovers under my skirt. I stop walking when I see a man ahead of me. There is a man in a tuxedo crouched underneath a Blackthorn tree in the center of a dirt circle. He is hunched over and pulls his elbow backward, then lunges it forwards. There is a loud click! Then clack! The red marbles in the dirt disperse like fire ants fleeing from under a smushed anthill. The single ivy-green marble he launched lands just inside the circle. I yell out with my raspy seven-year-old voice, “Hey mister can I hit the marbles, pleeeaaassseee?” The Man In The Tuxedo turns his neck but hardly twists his torso. That is the first time I think I see his face. He is a clean man. With powder-white skin. Eyes as black as his tuxedo. But I begin to laugh once I see his face. “You don’t have any eyebrows! Where did they go?” I yell in between gasps of laughter. The man did not say anything he just crouches back over and continues to click and clack his marbles. What a freak, I think to myself. I don’t want to play marbles with him anyway. I skip away to the river so that I can go wash my mother’s pink dress for the party that night. Once I make it to the river, I kneel beside a rock and dip my mother’s dress in the water as I watch the sun come up. I wring out the cotton of the pink dress and rub it, and rub it hard on my mother’s washboard, still staring at the sun. My mother, Maria, would always say that Mexican girls were better at washing clothes than any washing machine ever could. “We get the stains out right,” she would say to me. As the white rays of the sun hit my eyes, I see that my mother’s dress is covered in black sludge. The dress looks like a melted strawberry fudge sundae. Then I notice that the entire river is filling and rushing with sludge. Waves of coffee-colored sludge beginning to rush back and forth. The current beginning to flow faster. The wind beginning to cry. The bottoms of my feet feel a sting go through them which always happens when I see mice run through our kitchen at night. I look up across the river and see The Man In The Tuxedo standing there. Without eyebrows, I can’t tell what he is thinking. What does he want? What was I going to do with my mom’s dress now? I look down at the washboard with the dress sprawled over it. “Shit. She will kill me.” I say softly under my breath. When I let out these words, I can see my breath take shape in the air. I feel the sting in the arch of my feet again. I look behind me. There he is standing ten feet away in a dirt circle. I’m frozen. No screams come out. No tears form. All I feel is stinging in my feet. The Man In The Tuxedo stares at me and begins to creep towards me. Even though we are on dirt, his glossy tap-dance shoes still make clicks and clacks with the dust he kicks up. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Clickity. Clackity. Four more clicks and he will be on top of me. 16|Montage

Click. Clack. Click. His dead black eyes hold a steady glare into the greens of my eyes. He frowns. I think? Then, bending over, grabs the sludge dress from my clenched fists pressed against my chest. He licks the shoulder straps of the dress like they’re licorice and then seizes my shoulders. I’m screeching inside. The sounds in my mind are as loud as keys against a car. But outside my mind, no sound comes out. His hairy, bony hands clench my shoulders and thrust me into the river. I’m falling headfirst just hoping my dress doesn’t get dirty. Falling fast into the sludge, my two front teeth hit the tip of a bulky rock in the trench of the river. Clack. The sharp pain of needles pierces through the enamel and gums of my mouth and I feel my lips vibrating from the hit. I’m nauseous as I desperately kick and grab to get to the surface. My head barely makes it above the sludge when I grasp a branch by the side of the river. With my eyes closed and face covered in sludge, I take the tips of my fingers and feel for my two front teeth. I feel the air. Nothing but space and air; where my two front teeth should be. ◊

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I finished telling my mother’s story but Dr. Noheer did not seem to notice that I had finished. I watched the long red ticker on the clock rotate past the twelve twice before the doctor said something. “So, that’s all? Anything else bothering you?” she snickered. My mother then mentioned that there was one more dream that scared her. “Okay, but she only has ten minutes, tell her she’s only got ten minutes.” ◊

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I’m lying in my bed the night of my Quinceañera. The bed is in the middle of the room. The room is dark except for the dim beams of light coming from the old-fashioned wooden square box television. I’m sitting watching the crackling of static on the screen. The more I listen, the more the crackling sounds like pop rocks inside my head. The more I listen, the more I can’t help but hear my thoughts as if someone was speaking them to me. The television shuts off. Then I can’t hear. I try to move my body out of bed. But my legs won’t move. Both legs feel numb as if the static from the television is vibrating back and forth inside of me. I get frustrated with myself and shut my eyes to fall back asleep. I try to calm myself by thinking about going to the store tomorrow to buy the biggest bar of dark chocolate I can find. Then just as my mind is one last thought from falling asleep, I hear a scurrying up the side of the concrete wall. I turn my head to the right and notice a baby black scorpion climbing up the wall. These little guys were always coming around during the hottest months in Mexico. My mother always told me they wouldn’t notice me if I stayed completely still, just like the bees. Just like the men. So that’s what I do. I lie in bed without breathing more than I need to and do not move. I am calm and cool. After a few minutes, I turn my head to look at the wall again, and the baby scorpion is gone. A sigh of relief escapes my mouth. I close my eyes to sleep once again. 17|Montage

While I’m sleeping, I wake up because I feel something running up the skin on my cold thigh. I lift the blanket to see the baby scorpion in between my legs. I blink. Look up. The Man In The Tuxedo is above my--“Is she done yet?” Dr. Noheer butted in. “Her ten minutes are up and the city doesn’t pay me overtime. Here, take some Lorazepam and come back in a month.” She quickly scribbled on her piss-colored prescription notepad and handed me the slip of paper. ◊

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The night came. I usually never thought about the meetings with Dr. Noheer too much. But I couldn’t help and think about my mother’s dreams as I brushed my teeth before bed. The sludge, the pink dress, and the scorpion. When I walked into my room, I felt like someone was in there. I flicked on the light switch next to my shoulder and saw my mom sitting pretzel style next to my bed rocking back and forth. Her face was white and wet from the tears bubbling in her eyes. Next to her was a spilled bottle of Lorazepam pills. The bottle was half-empty. “Can I sleep with you tonight mijo? I’m scared. All I want is one night of sleep,” she whimpered. “Lie down,” I said. Picking her up gently, I laid her down on the left side of the bed. I lied down next to her and pressed my back against hers in the twin-sized bed. There was something about how my mother’s stomach inflated and deflated with every breath she took that made me depressed. It was like lying next to a dead person that could still inhale and exhale. I wanted to know if this was really my mother, Eva Luna. “Mom, were your dreams real? Did they happen?” I said, facing the wall. No response. “Is that how you lost your teeth? You said you fell off your Uncle Gabriel’s horse when you were ten.” I began to hear sniffles coming from her. She turned her curled up body and faced me, my back still towards her. She did not say anything but began to shiver. Her cold fingers wrapped around my ribs and began to shake me like maracas. Her hands were ice burning on my skin. Then my mom gasped in her raspy voice, “I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m so scared. Can’t you hear him? He s-s-s-says my name over and over again. He says my name from the fire alarms in the corners. He says my name from the television. He says Eva, Eva come to the television.” She took heaving breaths that sounded like a goldfish gasping for water. Then continued, “The world is going to end tonight. You are doomed. I am doomed. There is no way to escape what God wants. God said that the world ends today. He told me. He told me in the television. He told me in my dreams.” I didn’t know what to do. What are you supposed to say to your mom when she says she’s talking to God and that God is ready for us to die? I wish I knew more about my mom but I’m scared to. Why does she think what she thinks? Why does she hear what she hears? And her dreams–what the fuck are those dreams! 18|Montage

Still not looking her way I said, “Mom, stop it, stop it, stop it. There’s no one else home. Take a deep breath and relax, think about the chocolate you will get tomorrow after we go to the store.” “You don’t understand! Nobody understands. Not you, not the doctor, not even God. God could never understand my dreams!” This is when my mother’s voice began to get raspier and deeper. It wasn’t her voice. It couldn’t have been. The tips of her fingers were icicles against my stomach, but I couldn’t move. My legs and arms were filled with numbing static. “For years people have wondered where dreams come from and what they mean. But you don’t have to wonder anymore, my boy, because I have seen how dreams are made. Dreams are made by the little mice in your brain. The mice hide in the corners of your brain in the daytime, afraid of being seen by your conscience. Then at night -when they are free to play- they bite out bits and pieces of your pink fleshy brain and begin to create your dreams. The mice gather the pieces of your brain and mush them together in your mind so that you can begin to feel and remember what it is like to dream. One mouse plucks a piece of your brain filled with a memory. Another mouse plucks a piece containing a feeling. Then they begin to fuck with the brain and dream, making you feel things you never felt before. Your dreams are made up of the subconscious beliefs and feelings you have but are too afraid to acknowledge. I just want to sleep through the night and not dream. But the mice won’t let me. The question that rattles my mind though is, who creates the mice’s dreams?” This is not my mom, this is not my mom, I thought to myself as I was glaring at the wall with my eyes wide open. My mom doesn’t sound like this. My mom doesn’t feel like this. I forced my body to rotate onto my back so I could see her. Her fingers on my ribs, cracked like ice-cubes. I looked and saw my mother’s glittering green eyes, but they were sucked into her pale face and she was smiling. And I could see her two metal front teeth glaring back at me, silver as knives. I blinked. When I opened my eyes, my mom was gone. I blinked. When I opened my eyes, The Man In The Tuxedo was lying with me. I blinked. I felt his bony and hairy hand between my legs. I closed my eyes and he lowered his chin to my forehead and said to me, “All your mom ever wanted for Christmas were her two front teeth.” I wanted the static in my bones to go away. I wanted to scream. I wanted to move. But I was stuck. I opened my eyes. ◊

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I woke up. I saw a tiny light reflection bouncing off the wall of my room. I turned over and traced the sunlight to the glass of water on the drawer next to my bed. In the water were two front teeth. Floating slowly up and then slowly down as the blood floating in the water wrapped around the teeth like candy canes on Christmas.

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how do we know this ever happened | Lindsey Jennings

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A Mammoth in Five Parts John Megow

I. Huhmalgus strukchures what they call ‘em, We all got ribs, legs, toes, and skulls. The diff ’rince is that skull is one big fuckin’ bone. II. Mammuthus primigenius They wandered Siberia and Alaska until 10,000 BCE. We kind of want to bring them back. III. “I painted this the other day, what do you think?” “It’s good! How long have you been doing fantasy realism?” “I don’t think this counts as fantasy realism.” “You don’t think a mammoth counts?” “I mean, they weren’t a fantasy.” IV. I was very small when I walked with the mammoth. When we stopped, we turned to look each other in the eye. How corporeal he was--my tears fell down from my face Making the black soil damp. V. My mother asks me if I pray anymore. “Not really,” I say, but I know full well that it is a lie. Sometimes I pray to that mammoth skull in Davenport. I pray to what can’t be met and to how small I really am.

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Glory Days Jaime Watts

I am covered: white collar, green plaid skirt. I am too much of a distraction for the holy trinity even at thirteen. Hair in ponytail, skirt reaches the knee, socks cannot show any ankle. Do not dare show a collarbone or shoulder blade. It is called damnation. I am Mary, I am Jezebel. Injustice under God. Uniformity, conformity, perfect in the eyes of God. Call me out, write my name, take the thread. I covered entirely until the cross split me in two, then I became visible. I am everlasting, you are endless. The altar servers walk down the stainless tile, slowly, in song. Do you see me dreaming from the flatness? My body is a sanctuary, and I only live there.

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Just Look Down | Halee Pratcher

An Hour

Stanley Lim Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sweet to debate like children- to get to know you. Imagining ourselves as fairies or the dream captains of peach trees. Or to be space travelers, like those who go to war do. But in our differences, the world split in two. The future of objects in a country as rich as grits, and black and white as bees. So we sail to a blissful emptiness, to a town with yarn and playgrounds for silos. Speak of snail shells, and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like scribbles for the cosmos. Your mouth is a quarter full. Time passes like the pages of an empty notebook. But I will want for nothing more. A hummingbird. A lullaby. A thimble.

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The Great Pyramids of Giza | Nicole Luna Colon

The Weight of a Forgotten Heritage Abril Salinas

A cluster of incomprehensible jargon spews out of my mouth. Indecipherable in both languages I speak, my word vomit continues. In the midst of my jumbling nonsense, a “Sorry’’ is uttered. My mother tongue and it’s colonized counterparts blend together and my brain goes numb. There’s a ringing in my head as I try again. “Sorry” shoots through my body and leaves it shaking. Soon, “Sorry” is the only thing that seems to fill my vocabulary. The Spanish learned from my parents sometimes feels like a torturous reminder of all I have forgotten. While the breath of my ancestors is still in my veins, kissing my bloodline, their language feels more and more like a distant dream. It is easy to see my heritage. It’s written all over my face in big bold letters. Often times, I can feel the weight of my pigmented skin. Burning. Yet, I still feel a disconnect. I feel the weight of them in my blood, in my skin. Screaming to be heard. Every mistake is a slap in their face. So, I try again. And again. And again. And again. But my tongue refuses to curve, my mouth too small to hold all the melodies of their language. An “I’m sorry” doesn’t seem to be good enough. How do you explain this isolated feeling to your family? I can’t. So once again, a cluster of incomprehensible jargon spews out of my mouth. Indecipherable in both languages I speak, my word vomit continues. In the midst of my jumbling nonsense, an “I’m sorry’’ is uttered. Weighed down by the weight of my ancestor’s disappointment. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Lo siento.

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Partial Visitation (At the Waterfront Music Festival) Peyton Blodgett

Styx is playing down the block, old and inauthentic sounding. We hear DeYoung singing wordless meanings, a name I couldn’t’ve known, “Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto,” that’s what he said. A tired head bang lolling downward, a screech for good measure, as all great rock stars should; he looks afraid, I think. My childish fantasies get the better of me, looping me around the bend of fingers pulling strings. I kick my feet, dragging them along, the split still resonating between us. Drifting into the warm sunny pebbles flying off the trampled gravel road, I settle to watch the big naked monkeys do their thing. Hypnotic jerk: My father, newly single, grips my arm so tightly that I am now the red fire hydrant sitting quietly across the street. I am stuffed into its body, contorted, over-heating, looking out with one hexagonal eye as he quickly pulls his boy back against the flow of traffic; the happy family is passing by. The handprint is in his signature of rage, of a man now divorced. His eyes are narrowed concentric circles, black cupped by a soft loving hazel brown, trying to squeeze every minute out of the day. “Kilroy, Kilroy” Kilroy, that’s what they said. Isn’t killing forever? Of course it is. Now hurry up. Can you please let go; it’s starting to hurt.

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What it Was Bobby Matzuka

Driving Route 9. Takes me through the Appalachian Mountains, always makes me nervous. Remember the night, think it’s been two years now. Lost control in the rain and swerved off the road. Killed my truck, almost killed me too. Truck needed a new transmission. I needed physical therapy. Whiplash, concussion, post-concussion syndrome. Still have headaches to this day. Got one right now. Driving, pain at the base of my skull, and I see a shape up ahead. Looks like a truck, hauling a horse trailer on the back. Truck is on the side of the road. Fat guy is out there, examining a tire like he’s trying to pick the ripest watermelon at the grocery store. I’d shake my head if it wouldn’t make my headache worse. Guy doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s late. I yawn. Head’s starting to split. I want to go to bed. Early morning tomorrow. Most of them are. But I see the fat guy. Lost in the woods like a deer is lost in the street. Starts to get me thinking about my accident. Nice lady pulled up and helped me out that night. Might not have had the wherewithal with my head hurting like it was. Wonder if this guy has a concussion too. Looks confused, reminds me of myself. My little girl has been going through her pony phase, and I keep thinking about that as I look at the horse trailer. I pull over. Sigh and wait for that “ah shit, what am I doing this for?” feeling to pass. Unbuckle, open the door. Fat guy notices me, looks nervous. I try to remember what signs my doctors told me to look for in myself. Are his pupils dilated? I wave and say hello. He stammers some sort of greeting as I get closer and take a look at the car. Everything seems okay. Shouldn’t have stopped. Tired. He’s confrontational or flustered or something. Wants me to step away from the car. His frantic behavior sends swear words into my aching head, and I resist the urge to spill them out of my mouth. Something bangs against the trailer door. Real heavy. Horses are heavy I think. Makes a noise. More of a grunt than a neigh. Guy tells me not to open the door. I can’t stop looking at it though. That’s not a horse in there. “I saw it, shot it, thought the fucker was dead. Put him in the trailer. Then he started movin’ back there, so I pulled over.” Headlights flicker past. I suspect they’re the last we’ll see for a while. Pretty desolate this time of night. Didn’t notice the guy get a rifle from the truck. I put my hands up as he comes closer with it. Shouldn’t have stopped. No, he’s handing it to me. “I’ll open the door, you shoot Him.” I don’t want to agree, but I do. I have to see what’s in the trailer. Guy goes by the handle of the door. Asks me if I’m ready. I don’t answer. Guy closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. I hold up the gun. Think my hands are shaking. He grabs the handle. All he’s gotta do is pull it down now. He does. Door opens. First thing I see is a dead horse on the floor of the trailer. Lots of blood. Want to puke. Then the darkness begins to move, and I figure this thing is black, whatever it is. Black as the inky water you can’t swim through in your dreams, dark as soulless eyes. I hear a humming growl and I see a claw and I drop the gun and I run to my truck. Guy screams at me and I don’t want to hear him stop screaming because I know what that’ll mean so I stop listening. Start the car. Headlights on. In drive. Speed off. I know I could look through the rearview mirror but I don’t. I missed my chance to look the devil in his eyes. Don’t deserve another. Don’t want it anymore. Guy should’ve let that fucker stay in the woods. No reason to shoot him, bring him into the truck. Shouldn’t have stopped. Head is about to explode. Shouldn’t have stopped. I keep wondering what it looked like though. Can’t help it. Yellow eyes? Sharp teeth? Black fur? Have 28|Montage

to know. Turn around. Empty road, u-turn won’t hurt anybody. Driving back to the horse trailer. Just another minute ahead maybe. Come up on the truck, I don’t see him, don’t see the fat guy either. Pull over, look around. Just blood. Nothing else. Only the sound of locusts in the trees. I dial 911. Rings a few times and then I cancel the call. I start laughing. My heart pumps faster than it ever has in my life. I’ve got something now, I realize. I’ve got something remarkable and grotesque and beautiful, a blessing masqueraded as a massacre. It’s mine. This whole ordeal only belongs to me now. Get back in my car and drive towards home. I’ll wake up with a smile tomorrow. Nobody else in the world has what I have now, nobody living saw what I saw. No one will ever believe me because I won’t dare share this with another soul. Head isn’t hurting anymore.

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Leading Lines |Linda Obobaifo

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Marlboro Memories Allison Connelly

My backbone pushed off the creaky hardwood; 34, 35, 36 – only 64 more. Bruises lined my spinal cord, like skipping rocks on frozen Maple Lake. Our refrigerator light was broken for two months. It took me five weeks to notice. You’re not very observant, are you? My mother laughed. I grinned. What’s on the menu? Sleep. I once googled “Calories In A Postage Stamp”. The answer is eleven plus a minute of jumping jacks. Math was never my strong suit. 130 minus 40 equals weekly dietician check-ups. You weren’t allowed to be a vegetarian. Bathrooms were to remain Unlocked, and shoelaces were replaced with Velcro. Three weeks of misery. Three years of battling. Mom, the fridge light is out again.

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The Girl Hugging The 40oz | Halee Pratcher 32|Montage

Singing to the Moon Megi Mecolli

My mother sings love songs to the moon, Whitney Houston and Aurela Gaçe As she washes tonight’s dishes. Her words are those of a Siren of old, half-warbling Through the waters of time. “We sing to the moon For good luck,” she says, Teardrops silver in her brown eyes. For weddings and birthdays, For graduations and first days of school, For Nena, for Gjyshi, for viti i ri. We sing to the moon, Blessings and wishes, For easier days to come.

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Oll Shot an Angel L.N. Loch

The whole forest rattled with the gunshot. Over the ringing in his ears and the pounding of his heartbeat, Oliver heard a heavy splash followed by the much closer sound of his brother crashing into the thicket where he was crouched. “The hell did you do?” Gary appeared in a shower of pine needles, a few of them sticking in his hair gel. He had only started doing his hair like that this year. For the first few weeks of last summer, Oliver hadn’t been able to get a turn on the family computer because Gary’d been too busy watching videos on how to shape his hair with a comb. It seemed like kind of a prissy habit, but for some reason, it didn’t bother Mom. Maybe because she was a girl. A pang went through Oliver when his brother pulled the rifle away. “Gimme another shot,” Oliver whined. His head hurt. Gary, his face red, looked down at Oliver in a way that made him shiver, even in his puffy jacket. He’d have to be careful not to be annoying; Oliver was only here, after all, because of sheer luck. Gary was supposed to be at school right now—if Oliver’s classes hadn’t been canceled that day for a district staff meeting, his brother would have come out to Blue Creek alone and unnoticed. Only because he’d been home had Oliver seen Gary take one of Dad’s guns down from the wall. He’d known for a while that his brother still brought them out here (he always heard the unused shells rattling in Gary’s pockets when he got home from the “movies,” and no one took bullets to the movies), but this had been the kind of proof that could get Gary in serious trouble with Mom, so it was enough to convince Gary to bring him with. Now a part of Oliver wished today had been a normal school day. He knew from the turning of his stomach that he hadn’t been as prepared to encounter a big animal, let alone shoot it, as he’d thought he was. He wanted to go home. Blue Creek was cool because it went through the backcountry, and it attracted drug-dealers, devil-worshippers, and people Oliver’s mom called “fast women,” but it was scary for the same reasons. The magpie Oliver had intended to shoot snickered in the canopy, its song escaping it in little white puffs. A drop of something warm ran down Oliver’s face. He thought it was tree sap until it reached his lips and he tasted iron. Suddenly, he was aware of a blurry crack running across his right field of vision. Oliver’s stomach sunk. Mom would definitely be mad now; the recoil had smashed his glasses. What’s more, Gary definitely knew Oliver had lied about practicing shooting with Dad the week Gary’d been away at church camp. Gary was fine with lying to Mom or Dad himself, but not with Oliver lying to him. He’d started talking a lot lately about the problems certain people caused, and the last thing Oliver wanted was to be like the hypocrites, terrorists, and liberals. Oliver didn’t know what the last two meant and didn’t want to look stupid, but from what Gary said about them, he knew it couldn’t be anything good. Gary’s sneakers blocked Oliver’s view. Why wasn’t he saying anything? “I’m sorry,” Oliver said, deciding to start his apology early. All the birds had stopped singing at once. The stench of iron was heavy and sharp. Coupled with the tang of pine, it burned the inside of Oliver’s nose with every breath he took. “What is it?” As he said it, Gary’s eyes looked like those of the rabbits he shot. No one ever surprised Gary, but today, Oliver had done it twice. Although admittedly, the look on his face now didn’t compare to earlier, when he’d turned to see Oliver and nearly dropped the rifle in his arms. Oliver wiped his forehead with his hand, and it came away dark red. He pushed himself to his feet, using a nearby sapling for support. Although it wobbled and bent under his weight, it got the job done, and he felt a little steadier after he took some deep breaths. He almost started to feel relieved, until he caught sight of the body lying in the creek. When he’d squeezed the trigger, Oliver had thought it was a bear, but honestly, this was probably even bigger. Bigger, and shining like the sun hadn’t shone in two months. He couldn’t look at it unless his eyes were narrowed to slits. It was the very opposite of a silhouette, seeming to exist more than the creek, the ground littered with cigarette butts. Looking directly at it amplified the ringing in his ears so much that it filled his 34|Montage

entire skull like a brain freeze. “Gary?” he squeaked, clinging to the sapling. Its bark was papery and brittle. There was no response. Gary was squinting, tapping his Transitions lenses with a frown. In the dim forest, they were completely clear, despite the apparent incandescence of the dead thing. Oliver realized, after carefully raising his gaze again, that the body’s unbearable shine didn’t actually cast any kind of light on its surroundings. If he wanted to look at the water flowing around it and flooding the muddy banks of the creek, he could. If he’d shot it into a lake or a pond, he would have been able to see its reflection. Every hair on his body was standing on end. His eyes flooded with tears, but he was not ashamed. He was, however, worried about the blood. His blood. The creature had none that he could see. Maybe the water had washed it all away already. “Gary?” He reached for his brother’s arm, which held the rifle like a flagstaff. Gary whirled around, his pupils tiny as pinpricks. When his eyes flicked up to Oliver’s forehead again, his face twisted into something ugly. “Did you lie about shooting with Dad, or were you just too stupid to do it like he showed you?” “I’m sorry.” Now Oliver was ashamed. He blinked, but he couldn’t stop the tears from coming. “Oh my God.” Gary shook his head. “You’re so useless! How the hell am I going to explain this?” Oliver covered his wound. “It doesn’t hurt,” he lied. “We could say I fell—” Gary pinched the bridge of his nose, another thing he’d started doing recently. “I mean your glasses, dipshit.” “I can still see—” “Mom’ll still see you broke them! Jesus, you’re so goddamn clueless. You think money grows on trees?” Oliver must have shrunk back at all the Jesuses and Gods his brother was throwing around, because Gary gave him a sideways glance before scoffing in a way that made him feel both stupider and more afraid than ever. “I’m sorry,” Oliver sobbed like a baby, sitting down in the needles again. He was tired and bleeding and Gary’s cologne was so strong it was giving him an even worse headache. He shouldn’t have put some on before they’d left. Gary would smell it on him and be even angrier; he hated when Oliver copied him. When Oliver raised his head, Gary was looking at the thing in the creek again. The carcass was a little easier to see now. Oliver’s heart dropped when Gary approached it, gun in hand, stepping on muddy rocks with legs not much thicker than the barrel. Oliver sniffed, and when he blinked the last of his tears away, Gary was right next to the carcass, reaching an arm towards one of the massive, golden appendages stretched across the creek. When Gary’s fingers grazed its skin, he quickly retracted them with a curse. Oliver’s eyes flooded with tears. He had shot a monster, and he’d used the gun wrong, and he would cost the family extra money, and even Gary didn’t know what to do with the body. From this day forward, when Gary was out at Blue Creek, doing adult things with guns and friends and maybe even girls, he would see the rotting consequence of Oliver’s mistake. The lump in Oliver’s throat was so large he couldn’t say he was sorry anymore, only blink the blood and tears away while Gary continued to prod at the thing with the gun’s barrel. The titter of the spared magpie echoed around them. Oliver sniffed, and when he opened his eyes, Gary was plucking something thin and triangular from the body. He rolled it between his fingers, then held it out towards Oliver and continued to examine the kill. Though Oliver was still woozy and weak, his vision was crystal clear, as if a fog had been wiped from his cracked lenses, and he started to see what Gary was so fascinated by. The creature had the body of a man, but massive wings twice as long as Oliver’s bed sprouted from its back, stretching out like a golden bridge over the creek. The thing Gary held was a beautiful, gilded feather, one of thousands, and it swayed in the air even without any wind. A princely crown sat on the creature’s head, a detail that made it look even more like something out of the stained-glass windows their Aunt Marge had photographed on her trip to Italy a few years ago. Oliver’s knees nearly buckled at its beauty, but by the second the creature’s image shifted. The longer Oliver stared at it, the more the feather in Gary’s hand looked like something off a turkey, the cheaper the golden crown looked, the more aware he was of the hairs and cellulite on the naked body and the sickly bluish tinge the freezing water gave it. He (and Oliver knew when Gary poked the gun between its legs that it was, in fact, a he) looked like something out of the weird magazines Gary hid under his bed. Oliver wished he’d shot the magpie. 35|Montage

Gary rose and stuck the feather in his back pocket. He gave Oliver a strange grin. “Oll,” he said, “this is epic.” Oliver did his best to agree, but the trees were going in and out of focus, and he swayed on his feet. Blood was still running down from his brow into his eyes. He probably needed stitches, which he hated, but maybe he wouldn’t be afraid of them this time. Oliver knew it was babyish, but Gary almost never called him Oll anymore, and it made him feel safe. He zeroed in on a gum wrapper by his feet, steadying himself before he returned the grin. And the more he grinned, the more he felt like grinning. He joined Gary in an autopsy. At first, he was afraid the body would burn him like it initially had Gary, but eventually he decided it was fine and kicked it without fear of melting his gym shoes. They laughed at its nakedness, called it names, filled the bullet hole in its back with dark mud. They had such fun that it almost made up for the fact that the angel didn’t really look that cool anymore. Oliver suggested they take a picture anyway, but when Gary slid his phone open, the screen stayed black. If the brothers’ spirits were lowered at this revelation, they were brought all the way down to the waterline when Gary used the barrel to lift the angel’s face out of the creek, subjecting them to the unyielding, fiery gaze of hundreds of eyes, wide open and emitting an unspeakable chorus of screams. Gary let it fall back into the water, and the forest was silent again. Though his brother didn’t verbally acknowledge what had just happened, he’d gone noticeably pale. A part of Oliver wanted to ask if they were going to get in trouble with God for this, but he was afraid of getting laughed at again, so instead he asked if Dad would mount it in the living room with the bucks. Gary was no longer smiling. His bespectacled eyes stared out into the trees. “Maybe.” He said it in a way Oliver took to mean probably not. Gary saw the look on Oliver’s face and clarified, “I mean, we can’t exactly tell them you were using Dad’s gun, can we?” That was true, but Gary wasn’t supposed to touch the guns either. “So it’ll be a secret?” “We’ll just tell him I shot it.” A drop of blood rolled off Oliver’s face. It landed on his gym shoe. “But it was me.” “Look,” Gary said, holding a hand out like he was one of Oliver’s teachers, “Dad takes me shooting all the time. They won’t be mad if I say it was me.” Oliver realized that he didn’t just doubt that, he didn’t believe it. Dad hadn’t taken Gary shooting since Mom had started to worry about what Gary might do. Heat rose to Oliver’s face, and it made his wound throb. “He doesn’t take you shooting.” “Well of course he wouldn’t mention it to you.” He was right. Tears welled up in Oliver’s eyes, and before he could apologize, Gary turned his attention to the angel, hooking his arms under its shoulders and lifting it with a grunt. The weight of it looked like it would snap him in two, but he managed to drag its corpse, sodden and defiled, out of the water and onto a fallen bough. “Gary?” Oliver’s voice sounded outside of himself. His body felt hot, but he couldn’t stop shivering. In the midst of his vertigo, he felt a stab of possessiveness towards the kill and tried to follow Gary, but it was too much. He swayed and grabbed for support, but his hands found only open air. The last thing he saw clearly before the ringing in his ears reached a crescendo was the feather in his brother’s back pocket. It was a beautiful black and greenish-blue, with an oval of white in the center. “Gary?” Oliver collapsed, and his brother’s voice cracked back at him like a branch pulled back and released. Shut up, retard. He heard the terrible, heavy sound of the angel being dragged across the frozen ground, carving a path to the dirt beneath the needles, snapping twigs like gunfire, and in the last, quiet moments, showering the forest floor with droplets of water, falling in a series of nearly inaudible thumps. Above Oliver, the canopy spun, and an indifferent grey sky watched him through the black branches of the pines. A tiny flutter of wings signaled the magpie’s departure, leaving him alone by the water. He had to get up, he had to get up. That angel wasn’t Gary’s. Maybe Dad would mount it with the bucks. Maybe Mom wouldn’t be mad. 36|Montage

Dark | Cathy Liao

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Indigo John Megow Jolly Ranchers leak Printer ink on your fingers Like abandoned toys.

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The Folly of Man Roger Sanstrom

The earth beneath them began to crumble, the elements of the natural world left unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed. Two hundred and fifty-three Trojan warriors stare in awe at the enormity of the flash of light brought by their own unpreparedness, their own ignorance, their own misunderstanding of the possible, and of the impossible-but who could blame them? They could never have foreseen such a catastrophe. In an instant, the blinding brilliance of history diverts reality from its true course, and the two hundred and fifty-three greatest Trojan warriors, having just defied the abilities of man, spitting in the face of their Creator, vanish off the face of the Earth, never to be seen, heard, or thought of again, thanks to the folly of man.

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I Can’t Go Back Shekinah Steen

Bullets fly with no clear aim taking lives like it’s a game. Children and women drop as their blood leaves a big red stain. Loved ones cry out in pain. Another young angel has fallen and it’s driving me insane. Black on Black crime is as high as it can be. My city has become unsafe for you and me. No age is safe from these cold streets. Children can’t play outside. Now they need bulletproof vests before they walk out the door, too many children are catching bullets with their bodies, and we say no more. When nighttime hits, we all go home. Avoiding crowds and staring at our phones. Playing the tunes in one ear only. Staying alert at every turn. Praying that we make it before something goes down. We text our family letting them know we are on our way home. We watch our back just in case we have to run while wondering if our city is ever going to learn. The violence needs to end, and we need to come back together again. Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream that we will be free and live the life we deserve, shooting and killing each other is not the freedom that he wanted us to earn. The good die young, and the bad live on free. Cops don’t seem to care at all. They show up when we don’t need them. Knocking down doors and ripping sons out of screaming mother’s arms guns drawn preparing to leave a mother childless at any moment. When we need them, they are never there. The phone rings for eternity as we lay there gasping for air. They finally show up but we are gone A cold body covering the pavement. They said they did everything they could to save us, but we died before they made it because they took their time. Our lives don’t matter to them, they only matters to us. 40|Montage

BLACK LIVES MATTER is what we yell throughout the streets Hoping to one day be heard. We are not safe because we not only fight with our race, but we fight with the cops as well. What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? NOW! Southside of Chicago is where I am from but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not who I am. My environment does not define me, but it pushes me to thrive. Developing dreams so big that they reach past the sky. I will succeed because being a failure is not an option for me. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave college and go back to the life I used to see. I plan to escape my environment and take my family with me. Give us a life where we can be safe and free. No more gunshots ringing in our ears. No more falling tears from fears. No more blood painting our sidewalk. The hood. The danger zone. The war zone is my home, but hopefully not for long.

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Acknowledgements Montage Arts Journal would like to thank all the authors and artists who submitted to the journal for our 2019-2020 edition. This edition of Montage would not be possible without you taking an interest in us. We would also like to thank the University of Ilinois Urbana-Champaign English Department and Creative Writing program for their support and help in advertising during submission periods. Thank you to all our wonderful editors who helped make this edition the best it could be and for your dedication throughout the past year and a half. Thank you to you, the one who is reading this journal right now. Without an audience Montage wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be worth anything at all. We do it to share these amazing pieces of writing and art with people just like you. And lastly, thank you to everyone for all your patience with us this past year and a half. This journal is typically published in the spring but with Covid-19 changing our lives within the span on weeks, we found ourselves in a whole new world. We worked hard to get these pieces to you and even though it is a bit later than promised, we hope that you enjoy these peices as much as we did and hope it was worth your wait. We wish everyone a safe and healthy rest of 2020! If you enjoyed this volume of Montage and would like information on how to submit for our next volume or information on how you could get involved in the creation process, please contact us at montagejournal@gmail.com, or follow us on social media: @montageartsjournal on Facebook and Instagram , or @MontageJournal on Twitter

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Montage | Issue #14

Articles inside

Virgin Teeth David Lopez

an open letter to my parents Daniela Martinez