Windhover Volume 48 North Carolina State University 2014
the
a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
I caught this morning’s minion, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin, dappledawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air and striding High there, how he hung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
Table of Contents 06 07 08 09 10 11 12
Charlie Harless
Andalusian Horse
photograph
Daniel Josiah Baucom
A Stranger
poem
Anonymous
Letting Go
poem
I Breath With You
poem
Willow
poem
Arunesh Goswami Ashley Teal Muntazar Monsur Cyrus Homesley Nicky Vaught
13 Heather Starkey 14 Charlie Harless 16 Ashley Teal
19 20 21 22 23 24 26 27 38 32
Audrey Sault
35 36 38 40 41 42
Alex Bonner
Friendly Dragon
illustration
Untitled
illustration
Self-Fulfilling The Tea Cup Sunrise Greets the Sahara
poem poem illustration
I Nothinged You Today
poem
Life is a Mansion with Millions of Doors
poem
Hello Operator
Daniel Josiah Baucom
Subtle Ripples That Break Bones
Rajarshi Das Bhowmik
Stories of My friends
illustration poem poem
Jennifer Vaughn
Untitled
illustration
Charlie Harless
The Hands of PatzĂşn
photograph
Bethany Faulkner Daniel Josiah Baucom
The Nap Not Taken
poem
God Got it Right with Benjamin Button
poem
Mark I - III
poem
Remembering the Truth
poem
Arunesh Goswami
Divinity
poem
Joanna Thompson
Five Confessions of a Bibliophile
poem
Nicky Vaught Anonymous
Austin Evans
Funeral
short story
Kevin deMontbrun
Untitled
illustration
Audrey Sault Daniel Josiah Baucom
WINDHOVER
Closing the Book and Lighting it on Fire
poem
A Dimension Perpendicular
poem
44 45 46 47 48
Jasmine Bamlet
51 56 57 58
Lindsey Schaefer
Devotion 2
photograph
Mallory Short
The Path
photograph
Joanna Thompson Erica Brown
When We Breathe the Winter Air
poem
LGBT
poem
Lines
short story
Mitch Caldwell
Framing the Moment
photograph
Audrey Sault
Car Crash Romance
poem
Erica Brown
Take Me With You
Monica Galletto
poem
Wood Pile
illustration
Elephant Sketch
illustration
Joanna Thompson
Breach
Muntazar Monsur
Bangla Wedding
illustration
Mallory Short
Aurora Collection
fashion design
67 Austin Evans 72 Charlie Harless 79 Allison Press
83 84 85 88 89 90 91
poem
Louis Cherry
Leye Lin
60 61 63 64
Refrain
An End To A Mean Milky Way And The Sahara Desert Untitled
poem
short story photography illustration
Brook Wilner
A Love Poem (Sort of)
Erin Roberts
Untitled
K. O’ Brien
Summer Girl
short story
Untitled
illustration
Contemplation
illustration
Cyrus Homesley Audrey Sault Arunesh Goswami Mallory Short Brook Wilner
92 93 Audrey Sault 94 Jennifer Vaughn Ashley Teal
Lover's Dance Camp Albemarle
poem fashion design
poem photograph
My Heart
poem
I Am the Jester
poem
Constricted Carved Confines
poem
Untitled
illustration
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Andalusian Horse
a photograph by Charlie Harless
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A Stranger
a poem by Daniel Josiah Baucom
I’m dependent on the beck and whim Of a stranger I’m not one to be controlled By those I know Control is the only love I’ve ever known So I waste my devotion on the slightest chance That a hurricane will stop and stand Long enough for me to catch my breath But storms won’t be submissive because of my need Strangers won’t give but they will receive I’m emptying my funds like a charity Soon enough she won’t see value in me
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Letting Go
a poem by Anonymous
Her fingers ache to touch him He looks at her, with tired eyes Wearing the stubble of a few, confusing days While she wears out her welcome At his doorstep The days were long, the nights were longer Her chatter hums in his ears Intoxicating, repulsive He wishes things were as they used to be Then changes his mind Her lips soften with the memory of kissing him She looks perfect at first glance But he looks closely And her hair hangs loosely about her shoulders Her makeup is rushed and smudged Her eyes haunted by telltale rings of sleepless nights He wonders how he failed to see it They sit together Cups of coffee long gone cold littering his tables He sprawls across the couch with the comfort of their old days He specifically wants to test her She’s uncomfortable He notices Her fingers tremble every time they make contact She tries to hold his hand, but keeps letting go Once, he wanted to hold her tight But she kept slipping from his grasp He keeps getting flashes of the past in his mind’s eye Warm skin, sandy shores
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Her hair glistening in the sunlight He wants to recapture it, but she escapes the frame They struggle to find words But the obvious floats between them in electric tension In the separation of once tangled, entwined limbs They sit far apart, rigid, utterly still They can’t touch, can hardly breathe anymore This must be goodbye.
I Breathe With You
a poem by Arunesh Goswami
A million times my beloved I see you A million different faces when you to me are night I hear your lovely songs over and over again Reverberating all over the land and the sky; I behold your rosy cheeks in the clouds And your eyes sparkle in the setting sun I see you unthinkingly dancing in the wind Twirling the earth with your every turn. When you are afar and I cannot see you my dear And I don’t hear the songs you sing When entangled in the storm of pain and hard labour My heart cautiously keeps thy love, lighted deep within. And when the storm is gone, my heart sings your song It dances with your every move, The rhymes then easily flow, thou emotion Happily grows, in the season of love. For night and day long I talk with you Words, many more still are there to be spoken Kisses, million-fold to each other in love we threw Yet thy aroma of you I yearn to breathe in, my pining is amaranth.
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Willow
a poem by Ashley Teal
I gathered pieces of my broken mouth, Realigned them into the spectre of a grin, and Tied them to the weeping willow tree, I wanted one of us to cease our sobbing. Leaves and branches bowed in sorrow, Arched in the ever aching stance of the grief stricken. With threads of well-intended attempt, I stitched a smile right into the fissures of the ashen bark, Took care to loop the thread around several times so that Even the worst pain couldn’t disjoint the smirk, The spark of good. I wrapped both arms around the giant, It wrapped its arms around me, We stood in a never-wavering, ever-swaying Embrace. The clutches of the falling into the fallen, I held on for dear life. The world was spinning so fast and the ribbon I tied my wrists together with Had taken on an odd shade of blue. My shadow withered in the sunlight, Growing exponentially as afternoon showers Grazed our fingertips like Shrapnel, Carving tendrils of hair into my face Like chiseled bone, Etched crystal, Soldered wood, 10
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Each driving gale making more pungent The smell of my own flesh burning. With palms touching and fingers intertwined We went up in flames as a pair Right there in the pouring rain. The man with the afternoon paper said We were a sight to see, And I imagine It was quite beautiful.
Friendly Dragon an illustration by Muntazar Monsur
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Untitled
an illustration by Cyrus Homesley
Self-Fulfilling
a poem by Nicky Vaught
Not sure if I build myself from my reflection, Or if my reflection is built of me. It shouldn’t matter, this matter of looks, But I’m worse than nothing if I can’t see. Even when I smash my skull into the glass, I can’t tell who’s bleeding: My ever-critical reflection, or narcissistic me? Mirror shards are red, but so is my head. No mark I leave is ever my own, My potential essence is everywhere, Bring me to life.
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The Tea Cup
a poem by Heather Starkey
Our friendship was like my favorite tea cup. The one that sits high up on my shelf, unused, from the fear sipping too hard would be the cause of cracked edges splintering off spiking the tea with the bittersweet taste of blood. Mostly, it gathered dust only getting used on lonely nights, hard days, or as a pathetic “pick-me-up.” But here it is, months later, and I’m still cutting my feet on the shattered pieces of an irreplaceable lost. VOLUME 48 |
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Sunrise Greets the Sahara a photograph by Charlie Harless
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I Nothinged You Today a poem by Ashley Teal
I nothinged you today, So hard I thought my tears would come in waves, Deluges, even, For joy of my lack of feeling. I nothinged you today Harder than I ever did when I ignored you or pretended you didn’t exist. I rejoiced in your funerary procession, Regaled and reveled in your wake, Was blind at your viewing, For I was absent. I stranded together remnants of foggy non-memories and forget me always And swathed myself in gossamer Apathy. I’d nothing you to the ends of the earth and back again If I could nothing any more emphatically than I have these past restful nights, Stretching my legs out on the coverlet and Eating the cookies I can’t remember if you hated or tolerated In bed. I nothinged you today And felt more than I have in all of my lifetimes, Past and future, Until nonexistent chains Collapsed into grains of sand, shards of crystalized why-bothers. I nothinged you enough to write this about someone else entirely But if you died tomorrow I’d nothing more.
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Life is a Mansion with Millions of Doors a poem by Audrey Sault
Life is a mansion with millions of doors, Some doors are wide open; some are stuck shut. Half closed are very many of life’s doors, Or half open, depending on how one looks at them. Any door of this mansion you wish can be opened, As soon as you find the door’s key. The keys are not quite hidden, but scattered, Amongst the passages and pathways, you’ll see. When you approach the most exceptional door, With high hopes of it being unlocked and wide open, And see that it is locked and open no more, Do not despair; finding the key will not be a chore. Go and explore; seek the door’s key with all your might, Look at this searching as part of life’s wonderful journey, And do not stop searching until your hair has gone white. Look in every hallway, every closet, until you’re laying on a gurney. And with such determination and such diligence, You surely will find any of this mansion’s doors keys. And you’ll be much more of a being of substance, Than the person that sits waiting by the door for the key. He’s forever waiting for someone else to bring the key, By the locked door he’ll wait and wither for eternity. He’s wasting all his raw potential and ability, Waiting for someone else to bring the key to opportunity.
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Hello Operator
an illustration by Alex Bonner
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Subtle Ripples That Break Bones
a poem by Daniel Josiah Baucom
On a night calm and dark
I cherished them for but a night
Like a shroud of sin and spark
The goods being tainted and not as bright
I requested a part of you Soft and sultry was your reply It would require but a moment to retake What you supplied To one more fit than I You returned with hands black like a thief And submitted your pilfered goods to me
Meaningless amusements to others and to I But a priceless jewel to the one you call mine When the night found the day I found a place to stow your goods away Into a lake I cast That stone forming subtle ripples that break bones
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Stories of My friends
a poem by Rajarshi Das Bhowmik
Part #1 My friend gives music to words, Those were uttered while having tea with cookies They don’t stick anymore. When he is on the stage He sees nothing but another stage, in front of him How inharmonious and hoarse he may sound Words melt within air, often I think we should have a walk through some cemetery, Unable to disturb, Still can see the hissing leaves, sidewinding
Part #2 Harogovindo’s brother holds wrist, says Let’s bring the drums, let’s have stories, of ghosts May be! Do we really need to discuss about jagadish! Our Jagadish is no less in whatever sense, womanizing,Weeds he has conquered the whole fucking world Even, how worse the office is getting, day by day No chanting, yet he is moving
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Untitled
an illustration by Jennifer Vaughn
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ŕ? The Hands of Patzun a photograph by Charlie Harless
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The Nap Not Taken
based on Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” a poem by Bethany Faulkner
Sun’s early rays reached through the window And sorry I had not slept a wink One designer, among many, too slow To discover the necessary creative flow And finish the project, too tired to think. Red eyes, drooped lids, hair a mess I contemplated the coming day The numerous classes to attend, tired, unless I succumbed to sleep and stress, Napped, and accepted the price to pay. What a conundrum, what a question To uphold diligence or to sleep? I could not ask for suggestion For my peers were struggling with similar depression And only wanted to escape to blankets deep. Further consideration envisaged a scene: Me, head on desk, committing the offense Of sleeping during class, in need of caffeine. So I bought a coffee, banked on the Bean And that has made all the difference. 26
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God Got it Right with Benjamin Button a poem by Daniel Josiah Baucom
Blood surge purge the earth of such insolence Hold vital signs, drain oxygen, watch a line horizontal Cleanse every city with a genocide of ignorance Euthanasia turned on the young for their naïve faults They are the cripples, the lepers, the carriers of disease They are the blind; the ones unable to perceive Such debilitating fallacy in how they proceed Casting curses with every breath they breathe How ironic that the most powerful of mind can barely rise While youths waste their resilient strength on chasing empty luxuries Expenditures consisting of the instruments of their demise To carry the dark melodies; the lyric lacking musical eulogies But they hear only exciting blood boiling tones It’s enough to start a fire in their bones Enough to make logic a concern of the old Enough to turn the most timid bold
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Mark I
a poem by Nicky Vaught
I remember when I dreamt abstractions In a borderless world. My peers were me. The colors of my surroundings flowed from Shape to shape. A great outpouring of foggy blue sound: We’re singing. We whistle ultraviolet and hum deep green. Gold-skinned ghosts haunting one another For fun in an eternity we designed, We toasted with glasses full With wine made from fermenting grapes of wrath Into smooth liquid wisdom. We pissed it out as poetry, Written, spoken, illustrated, We pissed it out. What happened to us, dreamers? When did our well of wine wear out? Our skin has paled and faded. We ghosts are coughing phantoms, Screaming banshees. Sounds lost their hue and novelty. Greedy shapes kept color from flowing, Put up borders to keep them in. I used to be a dreamer, Now, I’ll never sleep again. Up all night trying my best To force creativity. My diet of chocolate and melatonin Won’t force creativity. I’m putting stickers on my eyes So they might take me To the world and people I created, That I might create some more. The world is clearing empty, The people getting lonely. Tied myself to my bed, 28
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Thrashed around to exhaustion, Drank the wine for my lullaby, Puked My bile at the light bulb Hoping for some shatter, Hoping I might watch through stickers (Not thick enough to block the light) As all that light retreats. That I did. The room went black. There it was: an instance of sleep, The first of many in a row That’d lead to dreams. There it was! But something stopped me There in bed. It lit the room and cut my ties. It took the stickers off my eyes. Some alarm… Some alarm woke me up. Some alarm… I knew I’d never dream again.
Mark II What was the alarm? Excitable child with mallet and gong Dong! “Wake up, rooster!” Dong! “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” DONG! “Fall in line, dreamer!” “Use your imagination-like this. “Create something new-like this. “Let’s make it better-like this. “Use any color you like, “But keep within the lines “Like this. “Use any color you like, “But keep within this spectrum “Like this. “Use any color you like, “But will it look good in black and white VOLUME 48 |
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“Like this? “Great, great, your dreams look good, “No, no, don’t get out of bed “Bedsores? No, we’ll take care of those. “Just keep dreaming, lose your mind “Like this. “Great, great, just like that! “Now, how about five dreams a week? “Recruit more of your kind, “Lead the tired here to dream “Like you, like this.” DONG! “Get back in bed!” “Great, great, like this! “Great, great, like this! “Great, like this! “Great, like this! “Great, great, like this, like this!” He swings a mallet, leads his march Like all the children before him, Makes his army dull Like him, like her, like him And so on. An army of swords dragged on the floor Dulled into suitable mallets. An army of swords, we’re chanting, “Great, great, like this! “Great, great, like this! “Great, like this! “Great, like this! “Great, great, like this, like this!” A herd of swords, Thinking we lead the hands that swing us, Delusional to think our dull is sharp, Delusional to believe we differ at all, Delusional to believe we own our lives, Delusional to think we walk without strings, Delusional to think, Delusional to believe, So we keep quiet and we hear it’s Delusional to think we have no voice, 30
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And if we speak out, we’re Delusional to think any differently, Delusional to believe in ourselves, Delusional to think our minds are not Delusional for believing anything. We speak, finally, just to see: Are we delusional for wanting to be free?
Mark III Commence the clichés We use but never take seriously! Disguise loneliness, sporting a mask of autonomy, Playing dress-up in a suit of responsibility, Praising mismatched shoes as the paragon of vision. Cliché: the offspring of Imagination and exploitation. Write about that. Photograph that. Document that. In our script, abstract equals dream, Never, ever, abstract equals reality. Delusions exist only in dreams, So the script goes. Invent, create, live - “like this,” Then go laugh at the modern shamans, Ridicule the witch doctors for their advice, Then go blah blah blah, Pretending to understand and empathize Without trying for a moment, Take a sleeping pill of your superiority And rest easy. Tell yourself you forgot your dreams Or you replaced them To cover up you never even had them Oh. I didn’t mean - I got carried away Pick up a newspaper - Enjoy your day.
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Remembering the Truth a poem by Anonymous
You know You can only ask for so much There’s no yes, or no There are only in-betweens After all, I find comfort in crowded streets But only for the spaces You see, He has trouble speeding up to 45 While I have trouble slowing down to 60 Sidewalks of marigolds But only for a time When spring is in the air And it’s the most miserable season you’ve ever known But also the most beautiful He breathes in rain And breathes out sunshine Streams of stars and light Filter through my dreams A space of time, not emotion My colors only wait to be splashed upon your canvas
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Divinity
a poem by Arunesh Goswami
Thou my heart doesn’t know To where thy road may lead The quirky time may retain or forgo; Whose mind thine whim can read? Blissful is thy ambiance of earth My futile thoughts trouble it in vain Though thy universe is with the brave heart Who smiles in deepest pain! Know not thy pedants held in pride The variant will of the Almighty Who can thou my soul guide Let Him thy master of me. May not thy feeble senses tread me on O not this empty mind I should trust, Tonight I may stand on the verge of fortune And behold thy divinity aghast! Bless me, through thy path I proudly move To thine in joy and sorrow And to have a heart that unceasingly love Thine on my way to-morrow. Let me smile seeing His will divine Let not I covet what not belong to me Let my heart dance with the glory of thy time And sing with the tune of thee.
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Five Confessions of a Bibliophile a poem by Joanna Thompson
1.) I seek solace in words.
security, rest or a place to nest hollow out perfect paper-lined nook wrap warm in printed sheets and wile winter away I’ve convinced myself that the answer to every problem is written on the bottom of a novel
2.) Sometimes I worry.
I’m too busy living other lives to spare time with my own each turn of page scatters dreams like diamonds tossed across a sky out cracked door - away I fly just an escape my personal high, leaves me stumbling through the day with red rimmed eyes from reading
3.) I lose my mind at the scent of paper and coffee grounds.
(Libraries are perilous places) 36
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4.) It’s an addiction, really.
lying late in bed I hear graphite scritch-scratch through my brain clacking keys a typewriter pulse pumping ink in veins, it pools in shallow fingertip capillaries beds and itches as a drug; just one more hit reload pen and shoot up these track marks - all iambic listen; whisper close: “I’ve got a nasty paper cut.” “But that haiku was freakin’ sick.” “Have you tried out the latest Joyce?” “Yeah man, that stuff is choice.” We’re all junkies here 5.) I’ve tried to quit (I swear). but books are the cheapest high around legal - in fifty states! no one gets arrested for encyclopedia possession or OD’s on onomatopoeia besides I’m stopping. …after one more chapter… VOLUME 48 |
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Funeral
a short story by Austin Evans
Chink, chink, chink, chink, chink, chink. Sara had been chiseling careful lines into the rough concrete for an hour now. She hadn’t had much problem carving straight lines, but curves demanded closer attention. She craned her neck toward her lap as she finished scratching out a crude ù and paused to wipe sweat from her dust-covered forehead. It was tough to see in the alley but the full moon directly overhead allowed her to work. Rubble was piled in the alleyway, but a small gap between two mounds created a hiding place for her tiny frame. An unattended fire burned across the street where a conflict had occurred, and her olive face faintly reflected the light from the flames. The only wrinkles on her young face belonged to her nose as she squinted at the vague outline of the mountains in the distance. She wondered if anything existed on the other side of them or if that was where the earth dropped off. She swallowed, trying to wet the dusty air in her throat, but the coughs tickled her until she had to let them out. Covering her mouth, she tried to shrink low against the wall of the building her back was leaning against. Paranoia was beginning to get the better of her; the number of 38
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tricks her imagination was playing on her senses was growing rapidly, and being unfamiliar with the neighborhood didn’t help. Her best friend, Adnan, lived here but her mother had never allowed her to visit. “It’s too dangerous there, Sara,” she had been told over and over again. “The men walk around with guns, and fire in their eyes.” Her mother’s words had vibrated in her head from the moment she had noiselessly got out of bed and tiptoed out to the front door, and they had rung increasingly louder with each step away from home. Sara’s neighborhood six blocks north was known to be a calmer place, and the rent reflected the difference. Still, Adnan’s neighborhood seemed poorer than she had imagined; she couldn’t actually see very much of the neighborhood in the darkness, but it smelled like poverty. Everything smelled hot and stale in her nose, much less pleasant than the smell of Jasmine her mother kept in their home, and she felt sorry that Adnan had had to live here and breathe this air. She only ever saw him at school. Every morning she rose before the sun in anticipation of school, and always arrived early to be sure not to miss possible time with him. Adnan constantly made jokes in class,
almost all of which she found funny, and when he made them he would never laugh until she did. Lately she had been thinking he could be her first boyfriend. She had wanted to consult her mother about it but Sara knew her mind would never entertain the idea while there was such chaos in the city. Perhaps she would have asked him next week, Sara thought as she sat in the shadows of the derelict alley.
“The men walk around with guns, and fire in their eyes.” Yesterday when Adnan hadn’t shown up at school Sara figured there had been a legitimate reason. But today the teacher had informed Sara’s class that Adnan wouldn’t be returning. Her mother’s words of warning had become so loud in her mind that she wasn’t sure if they were coming from her memory or somewhere outside her. She was grateful she had found a sufficient piece of concrete in the rubble of the building that had fallen into the alley. She looked up to see how much of the building
remained and noticed the building on the other side of the alley, at which her feet pointed, was leaning as if it were considering collapsing as well. Her eyes returned to the concrete resting on her thighs to critique her work. Adnan Yedi 2005 - 2013 My Best Friend I Could Have She wasn’t yet sure where she would put the headstone. She hadn’t the slightest idea where they had buried him. Only once had she witnessed a Sarin burial, but it had been enough for her to realize the impersonal nature of it. She heard men shouting far away. “I’ll stay just a few more minutes,” she thought. After engraving the final words Sara stood and brushed the dirt from her legs and winced as she remembered the scrapes on her knees. It had only been three days since Adnan tagged her too hard and she fell on the dry schoolyard. He had been awfully sorry about it, and she had actually been glad of it because he had looked down at her his strange hazel eyes and helped her up by her hand. She stepped from the alley onto the deserted street, and after VOLUME 48 |
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Untitled an illustration by Kevin deMontbrun
crossing the street she turned back and stood staring at the two buildings she had been sitting between. The building on the left was leaning significantly toward its fallen neighbor across the alley. Several minutes passed as she analyzed the integrity of the building. She wondered when it would fall too, or if someone would come along and stand it up straight again. She ran back across the street and into the alley between the 40
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buildings and carefully placed her concrete memorial on one of the stacks of earthbound rubble, dropping her improvised metal chisel beside it. She took a step back and smiled without letting her lips part, then walked toward home in silence, looking back every hundred or so yards until the darkness and the rubble and the leaning building blurred together in the dust.
Closing the Book and Lighting it on Fire a poem by Audrey Sault
People are like books and he, was one of those compelling novels that is so intense and so heart-wrenching that you have to put it down for a while. You have to take a break from reading it for your own sanity, to collect your thoughts, Maybe even calm your soul. But what I’ve already read of this book, is renting an immense amount of space inside my head. Haunting me despite having closed it and placed it back on the shelf for a while. I read the darkest chapters of him As well as the brightest and lightest And was equally compelled by both. I never put down the book even upon reading his deepest darkest secrets. Until one day one page of the book Gave me a paper cut, a massive cut But from the heart is where I bled and my bleeding heart was pulled in
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A Dimension Perpendicular a poem by Daniel Josiah Baucom
Down a winding road on a dark evening I found a portal to a dimension perpendicular to my own I stepped through and felt a warm embrace This new world greeted me with an atmosphere boasting a rich supply of oxygen and fragrances wild yet charming Foliage thick and colorful yielding an abundance of odd yet enticing blossoms I must say I was wary and incredulous towards this wonder I beheld But it is quite the occasion to stumble upon such an anomaly so I ventured forth into the unknown realm Notebook in hand I began to walk scrawling notes and drawing figures that I might remember every minor detail I found a lightness in my step of such a degree that I assumed a difference in gravity between my world and this place This baffled me for as I mentioned before oxygen was a plenty In the sky I found two suns set in the center like jewels on a blue ever extending band Their color was of a spectrum unknown to me and I struggled to describe them on paper The skies around them were marred only by the most bold and voluptuous of clouds They towered above me like weightless castles providing relief from the bombardment of the dual suns’ rays when they became too much I travelled for days across valleys and plains At this time I was convinced I had discovered a land beyond compare bursting forth with a beauty excessive yet perfectly adequate Upon a hill I came across a lake of waters clear and still standing in spite of a light breeze which disturbed my own surface At its edge I stood for some time searching for my reflection without much luck 42
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The water was completely translucent like a dense liquid window with seemingly nothing to display But this was the first body of water I had discovered in this dimension perpendicular I felt it deserved scrutiny of the highest degree I scanned its depths diligently in search of something concealed, something worth acknowledgement Much time elapsed before my eyes caught sight of a cave opening in the center of the lake I was unsure how I could have missed it initially It was hidden in plain sight It was as though the lake had needed to test my dedication before allowing me to become aware of its deeply withheld secret I removed my clothes and dipped my feet in slowly one at a time so as not to disturb the tranquility of the lake, not a ripple was made I swam down to the cave entrance and stepped through A fire bright spreading sweet warmth burned casting light on incredible depictions that covered the walls They showed the land in its glory and in its trials, in its abundance and in its drought I traced the lines on the walls my heart swelling out of heightened appreciation for this dimension perpendicular My understanding expanded knowing the path taken and the obstacles presented and overcome This place held a beauty unrelenting and unparalleled I closed my eyes to rest with a gentle smile spread across my face I awoke on the winding road where the portal had appeared Its absence weighed on me, but not as much as its presence had enlightened me
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Refrain
a poem by Jasmine Bamlet
You would bend for me if I asked Stretching like a rubber band Expanding until little parts of you start to crinkle and tear You would fold for me if I wanted Twisting and turning like the bristles of my toothbrush Contradicting yourself and making allowance for all my hard edges And you would adapt to me Breathing in my liberal, if unfounded, opinions And the smoke from that occasional “social� cigarette Reading between my sighs and smiles to learn me so well But you would learn to hate me too. With the slow melting nature of a silica-light magma Like a dog constantly seeking, begging for attention, acknowledgment of any kind, And I would love you, All and yet none of you. I would carry you with me Like a prized photograph, A love letter read and reread a thousand times, Like a favorite nursery rhyme, A piece of home and comfort and sweetness. And soon, You would never again miss me. 44
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Me and the memory of me, We’d fade into the darkness, A black hole of stories like ours. Stories with burning beginnings and messy middles, Stories that hold so much promise And just flutter out As though they were candles near an open window. So don’t change for me, sweet one. I may never love you as much as I could, but you’ll never hate me as much as you should.
Devotion 2
a photograph by Louis Cherry
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The Path
a photograph by Mallory Short
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When We Breathe The Winter Air a poem by Joanna Thompson
And in that first breath of Winter the ice-drenched air cuts, quick to the core, so cold, crisp, and concise to shock the lungs and fill them up with clarity dagger-sharp and precise. The subtle spell cast, Winter’s grasp sinks deep into the chest, spreads its tremulous shudder a quavering, frost-filled and faint, the harsh season’s sole gift: its fragile frozen kiss. And slowly exhale softly, silken words which freeze on lips a soundless whisper, a promise, hanging in that brittle chill but never disturbing the delicate silence of the sleeping earth.
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LGBT
a poem by Erica Brown
I’ve come home with blood on my face again. It drips from my bruised up nose, dribbling down past the edge of my sour-faced grimace, as I try and sop it up with the cheap paper towels in the public bathroom. They do no good, as per usual. The water in the sink is pink, and I can feel a tiny wet spot forming on my shirt just below my chin. I’ve taken to wearing darker colors now. Blues, blacks, and browns… They show the blood a little less than my normal cheery yellows and whimsical pinks. “The stains are more ‘hide-able’ in dark colors.” That’s the phrase my mom always used to use when trying to scrub the barbeque sauce from my father’s good polos. Sometimes I wonder if dark shirts make people more ‘hide-able’ too. Based on the crimson splatter on my face, I’d wager the answer to be ‘no’. I’ll never be invisible. Hell, I might as well be painted rainbow. “Well, I’ve got the red taken care of,” I think glibly “only six more colors to go.” “Christ gave blood out of love.” So say the men in the pulpits and robes. And I find myself absently staring at my reflection in the mirror and wondering… ‘How is this any different?’
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Lines
a short story by Lindsey Schaefer
Benjamin sat in the blue chair facing the kitchen, counting the lines that ran along the floor and reminded him of the highways on the map in his dad’s office. The water was dripping from the faucet every 3 seconds, causing him to start over in his count. He could never get past 12 lines. He ran his fingers along the frayed fabric of his pants, wishing that he could be rolling around in the grass. The grass was his favorite place on earth. Any grass, as long as it was green. His dad used to take him to fields. Passing a field once when Benjamin was seven, he started to scream so loudly that his dad dropped his coffee in his lap and said those words that people say on TV after 10 p.m. when Benjamin was supposed to be in bed. His dad stopped the car, looking back at him with a blank expression on his face. He asked slowly, “What is it, Benjamin?” He talked gently to him when he was trying to be patient. “Let me touch the grass,” Benjamin said, opening the door. As he walked to the field, his fingers twitched like they do before he opens a birthday present or counts the lines on the kitchen floor. The vast field was majestic to Benjamin
as he stared at it with amazement. He lifted up his hands and turned towards his dad, his eyes wide with excitement. “Look at all that grass,” he said, pulling at his shirt. “Can we touch it?” His dad crouched down and smirked at him. “Race you to the mi - ” he began to say but Benjamin had already started running. The water continued to drip in the kitchen as Benjamin’s mom folded his clothes in the living room. He was impatient and ready to leave the house. Today was the first day of his first year in high school. To anyone else, this was just another first day of school but to Benjamin, today was the first day he was not going to be homeschooled. To Benjamin, today was the biggest moment of his life. “Redo that one, Ma,” he said, looking nervously at the giant crease running along the entire left side of his blue sweater. He couldn’t stand creases in his folded clothes. Seeing one made his hands start to shake uncontrollably, making it impossible for him to refold the shirt. When he tried to, he ended up screaming for his mom until she came running into the room, usually holding something that she was in the middle of, like a half eaten sandwich or a dusting rag. VOLUME 48 |
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She looked at his shirt, his hands, the open drawer in his dresser, set down what she was holding and walked over to the drawer. “It’s okay, Ben. It’s alright,” she said and he put his hands in between his legs as he watched her fold the shirt again. Then, she kissed his forehead and half-smiled at him, the left side of her mouth tilted high above the right, before she grabbed whatever it was she had put down and walked out of his room. “Go get your things ready. You can’t be late to your first day of high school,” she said as she was refolding the blue sweater. He rolled his
“Go get your things ready. You can’t be late to your first day of high school” eyes, looking down at the watch on his wrist. “It takes eight minutes to arrive at school once we leave our house. We have fourty-four minutes until the first tardy bell rings.” “What about traffic?” she asked as she stacked the shirts from light to dark in the laundry basket. She lifted her eyebrow at him, knowing already what would happen if they were late to his first day of school. He paused to consider this, his
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face scrunched as he calculated the possible accidents and hazards. He heard the faucet drip again and raced up the stairs to put his shoes on. “We need to leave in sixteen minutes, Ma!” He heard her giggle as he rounded the corner and ran into his room. He picked up all his folders, starting with the yellow and ending with the purple, placing them gently in his bag. He took a sprig of grass from his drawer and placed it in his sock for good luck. His mom stood at the door, holding his lunch in one hand and her car keys in the other. “Ben, are you nervous?” Her left foot was turned towards her right; the bright orange sandals adorning her feet were too flashy and made him want to squint his eyes. Her all black attire made him think of black widow spiders. Only the adult females are poisonous. “I called the school. They told me that three thousand and seventeen students will attend class today. Eight-hundred and seventy four freshman, like me, will all be new,” He told her, putting his hands between his legs and spinning in a circle. “How will I know where to go?” He added. She walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. She knew that this was the most affection that he felt comfortable with and any attempt to give him a hug resulted in shaking hands and twitching fingers.
“Go to the office and ask for a map. You can do it, Ben.” He ran downstairs, jumped over the lines in the kitchen and opened the door to his dad’s office. He pulled the old, tattered map down from the bookshelves where he always stored it. His dad is a traveling pharmacist. He used to use the map all the time but now he left it here for Benjamin to have. It has lines all over it that he traced his fingers along. The bumps on the map were his second favorite thing in the world besides grass. “Can I take it to school? For luck?” He asked his mom as she stood in the doorway. She never came in the office. “Sure, dear. Let me put it in your backpack for you.” “I can do it, Ma,” He snapped at her as they both started for the door. “We better go, we are four minutes behind schedule now.” She nodded her head slowly while closing the office door. At nights, when Benjamin was younger, as he was wrapped in his comforter like a caterpillar in its’ cocoon, he listened to his breathing, the steady hum of the air conditioner and the dialogue of his house through its many creaks and moans. “What’d you say?” He whispered to the house. His voice broke the silence and made him jump. He held his body really still, waiting for a response. One night, a couple of days before his ninth birthday, he heard
mumbling coming from the living room. He sat up, hoping that the house was finally answering him. “He’s your son!” He heard his mom say. He heard the footsteps of his father, loud and slow as he walked across the hardwood in their living room. His mother’s quicker, lighter pace followed behind. There was a slam at the front door, a hand against the wall or a foot, Benjamin couldn’t tell. “Don’t do this, Dan. Please.” His mom sounded scared like the time his dad made her get on a roller coaster at Busch Gardens. Benjamin inched out of his blankets and crawled across the floor, sticking his head out of the cracked door. He saw his dad, holding an empty bottle, his bags over his shoulders as his mom stood in front of the door, her legs spread out like they were when she was doing yoga in the living room. “Dad?” Benjamin called. They both stopped moving, stopped talking, stopped everything and just looked at him. His mom’s frizzy hair framed her red, wet face, her chest rising and falling so rapidly, he was sure she was going to pass out any second. His dad walked slowly towards him, looking to his left the whole time as he set down his traveling luggage. When Benjamin was a child, he hid inside his fathers bags, hoping it would take so long to find him that he would miss his flight.
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“I’m going on a trip for a while,” his father said to him. Benjamin tugged at his Power Ranger pajamas nervously. He always showed him where he was going on the map in advance so Benjamin could always find him. He always told him. He ran down the stairs, hopped over the lines in the kitchen and ran into his office. He heard his mom gasping for air in the living room as she whispered, “Oh god...oh god.” She always hated when he left for his trips, she didn’t like to say goodbye. He could hear his dad following him to his office while Benjamin reached for the map. His hands were starting to shake. He unfolded the map and handed it to his dad. His dad set the bottle down on the desk and held the map out. Benjamin noticed that his breath smelled like it does when he has been out late. “Show me where you’re going, Dad.” He looked up at his dad and noticed that his face was wet too. “I can’t yet, Ben. Work hasn’t told me,” he replied, putting the map down again. He heard his mom race into the office before he could look up and react. She reached for the bottle, throwing her arm back as she let it fly across the room. “Bullshit!” She screamed as the bottle collided with the wall. She was hysterical now, her fists balled up and her body swaying back and forth. Benjamin covered his ears with his hands and fell to the floor as
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the sound of shattering glass sent tiny shockwaves down his spine and caused his head to buzz. He began to rock back and forth. His hands shook violently against his ears, sounding like the wind beating against his bedroom window during a thunderstorm. “Now, calm down Kathy. I’ll be back before you know it,” his dad said, looking towards the floor.
“‘Bullshit!’ She screamed as the bottle collided with the wall. She was hysterical now, her fists balled up and her body swaying back and forth.” His mother laughed and walked out of the office. His dad picked up his bags, knelt down to the floor and pulled Benjamin to his chest. He pushed his dad away quickly and began to rock back and forth more rapidly, rubbing his hand against the texture of the rug to calm himself down. “Stop, stop, stop,” he repeated as he continued to rock. “I love you, son,” he said as he walked out of the office. Benjamin stopped rocking and called for him. “When will you be back, Dad?” he asked.
His dad paused, as if he was going to turn around and respond, before opening the front door and leaving. As soon as the door shut, Benjamin heard his mother from the living room. “How could he do this?” She asked as she lay curled on the couch, holding a pillow to her chest. “Do what, Ma?” He asked her, walking towards her. “Benjamin, it is way past your bedtime. Your big nine year old birthday party is tomorrow,” she said, instantly smiling at him as she wiped the water from her face. He smiled back at her and took her hand as she walked him back up to bed. Benjamin and his mother passed the field of grass on the way to the high school and he made her stop the car. Over the years, wildflowers bloomed and died against the bright green palette of the infinite field. He jumped out of the car, stopping short in surprise. His book bag fell from one shoulder as he put his hands in front of my eyes. “Who would do this?” He screamed to his mom, who was still sitting in the car looking at him. He waved for her to come as she lifted her wrist and tapped her watch. “Someone killed my field,” He said as he started to stamp his feet violently. The dirt lay flat and ugly, the foundation to a house just beginning to peak out of the brown land. A gravel stone path led to the front
step. A mailbox, labeled Smith, stood at the side of the road. “Smith,” he said to himself, “Smith, the field killer.” “Honey, this land was purchased to build a home on. They didn’t see the field like you did. They wanted a home, not a place to play in the grass.” He looked at her, watching her stare at the house. She seemed content with what was in front of her. This brown, barren land with this gravel walkway and this mailbox. It was death. It was his field, dead, right before his eyes. The breeze blew her hair into her face as she looked at him and smiled. “No one understands but Dad,” he said, turning away from her, rolling his eyes and kicking the dirt with the front of his shoe. She shook her head and followed him back to the car. He got inside and slammed the door, covering his eyes so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. “I can’t go to school today, Ma. I’m not ready,” he mumbled. She turned the music on very quietly because loud music made his hands shake. As she was turning the car around, he looked in the mirror and noticed that her face was wet with tears. Why is she crying? he thought to himself. She didn’t even like the field.
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Framing the Moment a photograph by Mitch Caldwell
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Car Crash Romance a poem by Audrey Sault
I’ve got that post car accident feeling My stomachs churning; it’s sending me reeling. You, my darling, are a Mac truck And oh how unexpectedly you struck. I’ve always lived life flying in the fast lane, And things were much the same in your bewildering brain. You and I are two of a kind: mercurial, messy, and mischievous Just joining hands with you, my darling, is bound to cause chaos. One night on the windy country road, As you became distracted by your worries and woes, You swerved into my side of the road And well I was speeding, and a calamity arose. Just like that, there was a capricious crash, Both of us became one mass in a flash. You said you loved me, and crashed into my world at full speed, And neither of us thought once to slam on the brakes, So unexpectedly and rapidly you crashed into my heart and my head, And I’m shackled to the wreckage, this romance I cannot forsake. But alas I must, for no mechanic can fix my heart which you turned to dust.
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Take Me With You a poem by Erica Brown
I just want things to be the way they used to. I want my head on your lap, a smile on your lips, and your hands in my hair. I want to blather on about stupid shit that would make you laugh… things that had no consequence or purpose, things that didn’t matter. Like your different colored socks, or the shifting stars. And we’d chatter like that forever. About nothing. But I didn’t care.
Wood Pile
an illustration by Leye Lin
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Because they were little things we could share together. I still smell your favorite detergent on my old jackets sometimes, and no matter how hard I scrub, it never seems to wash out. I still see your freckles. I remember counting each one. I remember drawing little invisible lines between ‘em with the tip of my fingers because I knew it would tickle. I remember the time we laid on our backs, hand in hand, and watched a ceiling fan…doing nothing, saying only the things that burbled up from the depths of our minds, and enjoying each others company. Just…being. Together. I know that little slice of green in your eyes. I miss how it flashed when you laughed. I know the scar on my eyebrow. The little circular one you always used to kiss. I remember when you first told me you were leaving. How you did it in front of all those people. How I had to smile, nod, and say ‘good luck’ when really I just wanted to fall into your arms and cry. I remember gibbering on about anything - an endless babble of whatever my desperate mind could concoct - just to keep my tears from falling into your old black dufflebag. I even remember the feel of your t-shirts as I helped you pack. By the end, your room was empty. All traces of you, gone. The place seemed bigger with nothing in it, but somehow my chest felt far too small. I remember the look you gave me when you got on the bus to leave. I remember how you didn’t look back. It’s the little things that hurt the most, isn’t it? I want you here. But I can’t have that. Because, you see, things will never be as they used to.
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Elephant Sketch
an illustration by Monica Galletto
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Breach
a poem by Joanna Thompson
Leaning forward her world she waits for forever…and a day big toe pressed to thin white line every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring plucked and the waiting is agony Bang! sharp snap of a gun’s glassy shatter shoots adrenaline through her bloodstream unseen levees breach, floods unleashed veins crackle - lightning replaces plasma, and she launches her body into space breath. in hale ex hale it tears in tatters first then steadies even, sweet and burns her lungs radiant she sinks into pervasive rhythm, pulled by the pounding around her, fragmented snatches of a universal code she heard once in the drumming of a million raindrops on sheet metal, twice in a thousand insects’ synchronized thrumming, now in dozens of feet thumping beat against red synthetic rubber in the beginning (the pace was with her and the pace was her) VOLUME 48 |
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heart shudder stutter step don’t break stride. tempo turn left, left, left ten laps to home other bodies hold her trajectory elliptical orbit, velocities vary they are only obstacles; she watches the glint of their quicksilver feet and slingshots momentum in passing five. four. stars descend, closing in drifting and darting before her eyes, like the play of light in a dreamscape only she knows she isn’t dreaming because sleeping air doesn’t scorch blister lungs when you pull it in or tingle in your teeth, your fingertips like laughing gas static cling clanging bell chime cuts clear through gray haze and stops time: in her head: a phrase: this is it. Go. mind churns legs turning over and over as fast, no, faster, than a speeding locomotive over a tall building in a single bound around the final turn and hard straight to the line powered by pure guts and desire Oh, anguish! she does not feel deaf blind dumb,
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there is only her and the finish and the finish and her until - breach! crash the broken levee gate and return to welcome darkness embrace back from the valley of death staggering glory, glory hallelujah
Bangla Wedding
an illustration by Muntazar Monsur
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Aurora Collection a fashion design by Mallory Short
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An End To A Mean
a short story by Austin Evans
Bernard sat on the bed analyzing his infected, multi-colored legs that stuck out from beneath the white hospital sheets. A nurse had just informed him he was in the Intensive Care Unit, saying he had been admitted at 3 a.m. by a stranger who saw him jump from the roof of a building. His fragments of memory pieced together well enough to validate the nurse’s story, and now, leaning against one of the room’s bare white walls, he cursed himself for not having picked a taller building. What guy jumps from a two-story building when he’s surrounded by skyscrapers? It’s lower Manhattan! If he had done it right he would be done with everything already. But something in his gut knew what his brain refused to accept; he wasn’t supposed to die. But what else was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like he had given anything to the world being alive. He had decided that life should find someone else to torture if all it was going to give him was a lifetime of futility and a bad infection. “Hello, Mr. - ” Bernard’s eyes turned to the door and found a young male nurse. He let him suffer in silence for an uncomfortable five seconds before responding. “Mendenhall,” Bernard finally said. “Mr. Mendenhall, okay great. I’m going to have to ask you a few quick questions for our records.”He paused for a moment as he pulled a chair up next to the bed, and Bernard noticed him eyeing his horribly infected legs. “I would normally have you fill out these forms yourself, but I’ll do the writing for you since you probably don’t feel up to it. We’ll start with your full name, please.” “Bernard Mendenhall” “Okay, and your date of birth?” “January 22, 1937.” “All right, and your address?” VOLUME 48 |
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Bernard paused yet again, this time long enough to make the nurse check his wrist for the time, clear his throat, squirm in his chair, and look down in his lap to examine the two pieces of information he had just recorded. “Chambers Street,” said Bernard. He tasted blood on his breath as he spoke. “Okay, and what’s your apartment number?” Another pause. “Sir, what’s the number of your apartment on Chambers?” Bernard figured the nurse would probably never find out that he does not, in fact, live on Chambers Street, nor any other street, and quickly produced a random number from his brain. “440,” he lied. “ Alrighty, 440 Chambers Street. Great,” he said as he smiled up at Bernard and continued the interview. Bernard sat answering questions for him for half an hour, and when he finally exited the room Bernard was exhausted. A television in the corner of the room caught his eye and he turned it on and began surfing channels with the bedside remote. He couldn’t remember the last time he had watched television other than looking at one through a restaurant window. He flipped to ESPN and they were showing footage of Yankee Stadium from the night before, and the grounds crew unrolling the huge tarp across the field. It had been raining last night, he remembered. The curtains had been pulled away from the window to the left of his bed, and he saw that he was on the ground floor and the grass was drenched but the rain had stopped falling. He had been reading about the Yankees in the Times, and as division leaders in September they seemed poised for a run at a second straight World Series. “All right, Mr. Mendenhall,” the young nurse was in the room again. “Now that we’ve got your information squared away we’re gonna do a few preliminary scans of some areas of concern within your body, just to see where we need to go from here, okay?” Bernard grunted and nodded his head. “A nurse will be in to get things started in just a second.” On cue, a husky female nurse came in and wheeled Bernard to a room where she placed him inside a large machine and turned it on. Bernard hated tight spaces, and as he lay within the narrow whirring cylinder he closed his eyes and tried to focus on something else. James flashed across his memory, haunting him. James had approached Bernard on Chambers Street three months ago, 68
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in June, and given his pitch that his parents had died and, having no family to support him or take him in, he didn’t know what to do besides try to make some money on the streets. He was eighteen and hadn’t graduated high school, his parents had left behind nothing but a small amount of credit card debt, and he wanted Bernard to at least help him find a safe place to sleep at night. Bernard had agreed to help, and some afternoons he taught him how to beg money off of tourists. Over the summer the two had spent time talking nearly every day, and one day Bernard gathered the boldness to ask him exactly how his parents had both died. “My mom had just gotten home from her waitressing job, around midnight, and my dad was already in bed because he always worked opening shifts. She hadn’t been home but maybe a couple of minutes, we were just talking ‘bout her day at work in the living room, and someone knocked on our apartment door. I looked through the peephole and saw these two guys I didn’t know, and I asked mom to come see if she recognized ‘em. She said no and told me to not answer it, but the guys started yelling, saying they followed her here and they were gonna kill her if they didn’t open the door. So they started kicking the door and she went to the back of our apartment to wake dad up, but by the time they had called the police both guys were in the apartment with their guns pulled. They told my mom to give them her jewelry, but all she could do was cry and ask them why they had followed her home, so they shot her in the head, just like that. I was standing between them and the door - they had walked straight past me - and my dad was between them and my parents’
"Bernard figured the nurse would probably never find out that he does not, in fact, live on Chambers Street, nor any other street, and quickly produced a random number from his brain." bedroom. He actually held it together really well, I guess the shock of the whole thing didn’t let the reality sink in right away, and he led them into his bedroom to let them take what they wanted. I heard them pulling all the drawers out of the dressers, and I could hear their voices and my dad’s, but not enough to hear what they were saying. I walked to the back of the apartment and saw that they had closed the bedroom door, so I ran back VOLUME 48 |
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to the living room to call the police. But when I picked up the phone I heard another gun shot, and I knew it wasn’t dad that had shot; he didn’t even own a gun. I dropped the phone and ran out of the apartment. I ran like seventy blocks that night; I didn’t know what else to do ‘cause I knew if I stopped I’d just think about them shooting mom, or how I should have tried to save dad myself instead of going to call the cops. I still ain’t talked to any cops about it ‘cause, honestly, I feel like I’m the guilty one, standing there doing nothing while both my parents got shot, then just running away like that.” Bernard began to think that he should tell James the story of how his own parents died. He felt a connection to him he had never felt with anyone else; James seemed like a son he never had, or better yet, a younger iteration of himself. “What’s goin’ on, old man?” “All right, all right, there’s my boy,” said Bernard from his seat on his nylon sleeping bag. “You’ll never guess who I just talked to,” said James. “One of my uncles I ain’t seen in years. I just saw ‘em trying to call a taxi and we started talking and, well, he asked me what I been doin’ out here and I told ‘em and he said I can come live with ‘em in Queens for a while!” James’s smile turned into a full-out laugh. “I told ‘em I’d meet ‘em at six, when he gets off work, and we’ll head over to his place. But I had to come say bye to you first.” Bernard sat, staring up at James, and felt his heart working double. “Isn’t it great?” asked James.
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Bernard’s blood ran hot in his veins. “I’m happy for you, man.” Bernard gave him the best smile he could manage, showing the few yellow teeth remaining in his mouth. His dying legs throbbed mercilessly with every heart thump. He suddenly became annoyed. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around.” James looked at him with a confused smile. “Sure - guess I’ll see you around, old man.” And with that James backpedaled away, still facing Bernard until he was well down the street, when he finally turned and disappeared into a flurry of faces. Bernard lay on his sleeping bag in the warm afternoon daylight, trying to imagine a life other than his own. He woke up eight hours later feeling no less annoyed than before. Should he not be annoyed? He had spent the whole summer focusing on James, helping James, and what now? Who would he focus on now? Himself ? He took a moment to do it. His legs were green and red and white and black, a darker black than his skin, and glistened with a sticky ooze. His mouth ached from gum disease and decaying teeth. His face itched under unshaven hair. He loathed the way he smelled, and he hated his nose for not yet desensitizing to it. He sat up and saw his grotesque reflection in a street-level window. He stared at his reflection for several minutes, then stood and, seeing the streets were fairly empty, limped toward a two-story building, leaving behind his sleeping bag and other few belongings. To Bernard’s relief, the nurse pushed a button that slid him out of the jaws of the machine feet-first, and he could open his eyes once again. The nurse called for help lift him back into his bed, then rolled him through the
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Milky Way And The Sahara Desert a photograph by Charlie Harless
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hallway to his room. A middle-aged doctor entered the room around eight a.m. to update Bernard. “Hi, Mr. Mendenhall, we’ve got you’re scans back and I’ve had a chance to look over them to see what direction we need to move from here.” Like the male nurse, the doctor had to suffer in Bernard’s silence before continuing. “You’ve broken a few ribs and punctured your right lung, but the good news is there’s no trauma to the head. No swelling or anything like that. You fared very well from your fall; I can’t figure how you managed not to break any limbs, at the least. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Mendenhall.” Bernard sighed and shut his eyes. “The only bad news I have doesn’t come from your scans; it’s your legs. They’re severely infected; so badly that most of the tissue below the
"To Bernard’s relief, the nurse pushed a button that slid him out of the jaws of the machine feet-first, and he could open his eyes once again." knees has died. I’m surprised you’ve been able to walk with such extreme necrosis. You must be in great pain?” Bernard didn’t speak. He figured his grimace communicated his answer well enough. “Mr. Mendenhall, we try to let the patient have as much control as possible over decisions, and we usually only recommend next steps, but in your case I’m afraid there’s not much of a decision to be made. If we don’t remove your legs you’ll be lucky to survive another week. Of course, we won’t have to remove all of the legs - only from the knees down. With your consent I’ll assemble our team and have you in surgery as soon as possible. We can operate as early as ten o’clock.” Bernard remained motionless, but flames erupted inside him and he burned with shock. “So, do I have your consent, Mr. Mendenhall?” Bernard’s eyes remained closed as he let his head nod slowly up and down. “Great, I’ll meet with the team and be back within an hour to get things started. A nurse should be in about every twenty minutes to check on you.”
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One hour. A clock started ticking in Bernard’s head. If he went through with the operation, ten o’clock would be the end of his life– worse than the end of his life, it would prolong an already meaningless life. He had messed around and lost his chance; he had had the Chrysler Building, Rockefeller, the World Trade Center, the Brooklyn Bridge, and he had settled for a twostory building on Chambers Street. Now, even if he conjured the guts to kill himself, how would he do it? How does a double amputee kill himself ? Everything would be ruined. No purpose, but no death. Without legs he would be an even greater waste of life than he had been with four limbs. Disgusting. Dependent. Useless. He weighed all the possibilities and decided that the doctor was right, there was not much of a decision to be made: he had to get out of the hospital before ten o’clock. His eyes rolled around the room as he looked for a possible means of escape. He noticed his wallet had been put on the windowsill. He was thankful for that; he remembered his metro card still had a few dollars on it. The window seemed to be his best option, and he decided he should take advantage of his good fortune of being placed on the ground floor. The only hang-up was a lock attached to the window where the top and bottom halves came together. Bernard pushed the red button on the frame of his bed and a nurse responded. “Yes, Mr. Mendenhall?” “Could I have some water, please?” “Sure,” she said with a hospitable smile. “And one more thing,” he said quickly. “Could you open the window for me? I’d like a little fresh air.” “Sure thing, I’ll get a key on my way back with your water. I’ll be right back.” As soon as she returned with his water she unlocked the window and left, and Bernard knew that no one should check on him for at least another twenty minutes. In twenty minutes he could be on a subway headed across the city. He flung the bed sheets off his legs and rose from the bed, leaning side-to-side to test each of his legs. One more chance and that’s it. One last try before no legs. The window opened smoothly and quietly, and he put one leg through and then the other and he was out. Only a four feet drop and he was off across the hospital lawn and on a subway car headed for Chambers Street. The ride lasted about ten minutes, which he spent trying to formulate a plan better suited for his goal - minimal suffering, quickest death - than the impulsive thing he had done the night before. He rode with his elbows on his knees and his hands holding his cheekbones, which made him think VOLUME 48 |
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of the way he used to sleep during prayers as a kid when his mother made him go to church. He had never taken praying seriously (how can you, when you don’t know what you’re praying to?) but now as he rode the subway he asked God, any God, to help him out. Suicide’s a tough decision. Not whether or not I should do it, but how to do it. I obviously don’t have much expertise in the whole suicide thing, but, God, I know you seen these things every day. You gotta know the best way to do it. Maybe he should go to a church. Bernard sifted the names of churches through his mind. St. Paul’s! Right on Church Street, only five blocks from the terminal. That’s where he’d go. He had been there only once, a couple of summers ago, just to look at the graves in the churchyard. He remembered one strange headstone he had seen there. What was it? The guy’s name was Cooke something. Jeffrey? Gregory? George, that was it. George Frederick Cooke. He only remembered it because on the guy’s memorial it said when he died someone robbed his grave and used the skull for Yorick’s in productions of Hamlet. Bernard surprised himself by remembering such a random piece of information. Anyway, St. Paul’s is where he would go when he got off the subway. This time he would go inside the chapel, and pray and listen for an answer about how to get it all over with as painlessly as possible. When the doors of his subway car opened, he noticed an unusual excitement in the chatter of people on the platform. He heard sirens echoing down into the tunnel, and everyone was so excited that no one paid any attention to the grotesque old man in a hospital gown as he made his way up to the street. Smoke. Louder sirens. Policemen’s arms flapping in the streets, ordering people this way, this way, not that way. Lots of smoke rising from the top halves of - the World Trade Center? Yeah, the World Trade Center. The twin towers. They looked like a sort of sacrilegious statues of liberty burning above the other buildings. That reminded him - religion, St. Paul’s, praying. If this wasn’t an answer! Fire. Death by fire. He began walking, at a pace bordering a walk and a run, toward the towers while his mind went reeling off into a distant memory that had now been brought far too close again. Bernard’s eyes guided him without perceiving, as he watched the flames in his mind engulf his parents’ home, nearly a lifetime ago. Bernard had woken up to the flames roaring through his house and he had climbed out his window to safety, like his parents had always instructed him to if the situation occurred. His German Shepherd puppy, Cisco, came running beside him and followed him to the front 76
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lawn. His parents weren’t outside. He had tried to find a way back into the house to help them but every door burned his hand, every window showed him the flames were too large, and he sat on the wet grass and cried beside his dog barking uncontrollably at the flames.
"They looked like a sort of sacrilegious statues of liberty burning above the other buildings. That reminded him religion, St. Paul’s, praying. If this wasn’t an answer! Fire. Death by fire." That night had been the moment he realized he was, as his dad had always told him, good for nothing. Good for absolutely nothing. Social services had sent him to an orphanage for other unfortunate children, and even the kids there didn’t help his guilt. They had lost their parents to car accidents, heart attacks, cancer, but nothing they could have helped. In the few years he lived at the orphanage he had never told any of the kids how his parents had died. He began to run toward the tower closest to him, the South tower, his broken body screaming at him louder than the emergency responders. He ignored both and ran; he ran as hard as he had run from the orphanage so many times in his youth, from the alcohol that had welcomed him to adulthood, from the women who had given him happiness as long as he could afford it, from the Bible-beating preachers on the streets who always asked if he knew where he was going when he died. He had never known the answer to their questions, but it somehow didn’t concern him because he knew where he wouldn’t be when he died; he wouldn’t be here in Manhattan with broken ribs and legs that were doing a better job of dying than the rest of him. When he entered the tower he made his way through the hysteria of people running out of the building to a small clearing near a row of elevators on a far wall. He watched a constant flow of people enter the ground floor from the stairwells, and he knew there would be no chance of getting up to the flames with everyone running away from them. Every elevator door was open, and he stepped in each one and pressed their VOLUME 48 |
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buttons but they wouldn’t move. As he stepped into the last elevator he made eye contact with a firefighter, who screamed at him to evacuate the building. “Sir, get out of the building! Those elevators aren’t operating anyway.” Bernard didn’t move, repeatedly pushing the button for the highest floor the elevator would take him, the 44th. The fireman had almost made his way through the crowd, and he already had his right arm extended, ready to yank Bernard from the car. But the mass of people slowed him just enough, and before he could reach the car its doors closed and Bernard was carried up the shaft. On the way up he noticed a strong smell but he couldn’t decide what it was. He tried to figure it out but his mind distracted him and began tormenting him with the same cruel game it had played with him the previous night. You really want to commit suicide, huh? Death by fire isn’t instant, you know - and the pain! He wished the elevator would hurry and open and let him out. Even elevator cars reminded him of his claustrophobia. Fire isn’t the way to go, if you ask me. Just think of how long your parents suffered in their house before they actually died. Slow, slow burning, screaming for your help but you never came. You just sat out on the lawn while they died a slow, horrible death. You don’t want to go like that, do you? “Stop it, dammit!” Bernard beat the sides of his head with his fists. You aren’t going to do it. You don’t have it in you. You’re not even good for that. “I’m going to, wait and see! If this elevator will ever open I’m finally going to finish - ” The elevator dinged and its doors opened, but he had no chance of stepping out of it. Above the hysterical screams of everyone outside the elevator, Bernard heard a man shout, “Hey, one just opened up over here! We’ve got an elevator over here!” A huge roar of excitement erupted on the floor, and as everyone pushed and shoved their way into the elevator, Bernard fought to escape it. “I’m tryin’ to get out of this thing! Hey, I’m going up, not down! Let me out!” The flood of people drove him backward into a corner of the car, where one man finally acknowledged that he had spoken. “I know this thing’s gotten everyone crazy, but no one’s going up. We’ve been trying to get down for almost an hour now but the stairwells are full and we couldn’t find a working elevator. Down is the only way to go if you wanna get out of this place alive,” the man yelled over all the noise in the car. 78
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Collage
an illustration by Allison Press
“But that’s the thing, I don’t wanna - ” The man ignored Bernard and shouted to the entire car, “What’s that smell?” “Jet fuel,” someone shouted back. “Smells like the whole building’s soaked in jet fuel.” That’s what the smell was. Bernard might would have been more interested in figuring out why jet fuel was flowing through the tower, had he not been so cramped in the corner of the elevator. His claustrophobia was getting the better of him, and he was trying to figure how so many people had managed to squeeze into such a small elevator. He began to fight his way through the mass of bodies to the front of the car, with protests from each person he passed. “Hey, what’s going on?” “Where you think you’re going?” VOLUME 48 |
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“You think I’m not just as ready to get out of here as you, bud?” Bernard found himself being pushed from all directions, but he had somehow bounced his way to the second row back from the front by the time the doors opened onto the bottom floor. He ran out of the elevator to avoid being trampled by the stampede behind him, and he couldn’t turn around until he was outside the tower. On his way out a fireman passed him, going into the building with a German Shepherd barking fiercely at his side. Bernard replayed the image of the dog in his mind, trying to think what it reminded him of until it finally clicked. “Get ‘em, Cisco.” He bolted back into the building after the dog and returned to the same elevator he had just exited. He pressed the button for 44th floor excitedly, and while the car rose in the shaft he smiled, knowing that one of his wishes had already been granted. He didn’t notice the smell of fuel, nor did he think of his claustrophobia, and when the elevator dinged and opened onto the 44th floor lobby he shouted and gestured wildly for everyone to get in. This time when the elevator reached the bottom floor he remained in the back corner of the car as he watched the people in front of him pour out onto the ground floor lobby and dash toward the front doors. As he extended his arm to press the 44th floor button once again, he saw that the time on his plastic wristwatch was 9:59, and he laughed, thinking how much different his life would be if he had stayed at the hospital.
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A Love Poem (Sort of) a poem by Brook Wilner
You've never loved me like that you've never loved my flaws You've never looked at me and seen me differently You see me exactly as everyone does And you've never loved me like that You love me like a pillow, like a blanket Something to bring into bed at night when it's cold But of no value when the world is sunny and warm And you can love a blanket You can treasure it, and prize it But you can't love a blanket like that And you've never loved me like that I am an asylum, I am a sanctuary But I am not a god, not something to worship I am only a mirror, something to reflect yourself on You have never seen me And you've never loved me like that but I have I have looked at you and seen a future I have felt heaven in your arms The warmth and wonder of something so close I have seen the best of you in the worst of times And I have loved you like that
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Untitled
a fashion design by Erin Roberts photography by Tammy Wingo modeling by Elisa Huber
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Summer Girl
a short story by K. O’Brien
In December my skin turns to leather and the dust on my windowsill accumulates as quickly as my will to do anything more than necessary dissipates. When I press my fingers into my elbows, they burn. In novels and movies and memories of long ago, winter is snow, wool, and a yearning for hot cocoa. My body tells me otherwise; it would like nothing more than a tall glass of water, extra ice. I stare at the dial on my air conditioner; already it says 70 degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature outside is 45, give or take. I turn around and look at the other person in the room, a gypsy wrapped in blankets on the floor. She is summer, lying topless in the sand from dawn until dusk. Her name is Lottie, because “Charlotte” doesn’t sound cutesy enough alongside picnics and lightning bugs. We met in the fall and have been inseparable since. “Go on with it,” she says. I turn around and meticulously move the dial to 65 degrees. “Do you need another blanket?” I ask. She hums. I reach for the quilt on my bed. Some of its patches have thinned to the point of transparency. She takes it anyway, cantaloupe-colored fingernails clamping onto the tattered fabric. I lie down next to her and her tent of fleece and patchwork. Once the temperature settles and the buzz of the air conditioner is nearly inaudible, she speaks. I still close my eyes to make out each syllable. VOLUME 48 |
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“I’m so tired,” she says flatly, without a yawn, without any strain whatsoever. “You could go,” I say softly. “You always tell me that - ” “I mean it. It’s getting late.” “Can we just go to bed?” I open my eyes just as her knee knocks on my shoulder. I think about her pajama pants, the ones she’s wearing underneath her blankets. They’re covered in tulips, orange and yellow and pink little things. “Whatever,” I say. She stays anyway. Together, we sleep through January and February. She wraps herself in all she can find, layers of clothing and fleece throws and my limbs. Regularly, I struggle with just the top sheet; the presence of another is like one too many hours spent in the sun. By the first day of March, the dial on my air conditioner says 60 degrees Fahrenheit. "What are you going to do in the spring?" she asks me one afternoon as I swap my t-shirt for a sports bra. A mug of hot tea sits frothing in her hands, wisps of steam hissing. I shake my head. “It only gets hotter,” I say. “And in the summer?” “You could go.” “Why do you always say that?” “I mean it. If you’re uncomfortable, I mean it.” I buy a fan in April. It’s one of those square-shaped models that is aesthetically revolting, but it gets the job done. I put it a yard away from my bed, and it lowers the temperature another five degrees. One month shy of summer’s eve, I wake up to blankets folded neatly and not strewn about my bed. She even leaves me a note. Don’t be uncomfortable, it says in big, loopy print. When I put on a sweatshirt later that day, I gently tuck it in my pocket.
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Untitled
an illustration by Cyrus Homesley
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Contemplation an illustration by Audrey Sault
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Lover’s Dance
a poem by Arunesh Goswami
The more wild thy love is The more madly the lovers dance Then more sweet the kiss would be By the magic touch of chance; The heavens, the stars, the sunshine would fade away On seeing the mad-lovers’ dance, All the glories of the brightest day Vanish; the lovers in romance! The mountain plays the runic lute And it resounds with thy echo The birds then start twittering, It’s the beginning of the show: The rock thwarts the mellifluous rill Emanating a pounding voice The breeze blows on its sweet will And the trees, whisper in rejoice. The waves clap on and on the shore Reverberate like some colossal drums, And soon the thunder strikes with a roar The brisky wind then makes all calm. O the music weaves to the endless horizon Creaking thy celestial symphony That undulates with the incipient song And it is the destiny. The more wild, ‘o thy love is so strong; The more recluse is their heart Stealthily they evanesce like the clouds begone In the autumnal sky over earth. Thou the sun cannot behold them dancing, But in the night the moon doth glance Two beautiful lovers holding and kissing In disguise of dance.
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Camp Albemarle
a photograph by Mallory Short
My Heart
a poem by Brook Wilner
It is shivering, my heart Having got off the bus one stop past his destination Because my heart could not bear to get off any earlier It is lost, my love Like a compass next to a magnet And the twisting and turning of the Narrow urges the same motion in my guts So now we walk, my heart and I In a long coat and leather boots Underneath makeup and hairspray and perfume Trying to dodge the raindrops That will wash it all away So now we walk, my love and I farther and farther away from home VOLUME 48 |
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I Am the Jester
a poem by Ashley Teal
Myself, I live with a tyrannical king, And I am the finest court jester I look to his rule to nod quickly and follow While my innards, they render and fester The foulest concoction most putrid of stagnates Its black and its ochres reflect An insurgence emerges that slowly converges My inner sanctum to malfect I dance to the clapping the sound of him tapping An impatient foot on the ground The pound of a scepter, roused her as she slept, her Bejeweled tears spilled oér the ground Greedily he consumed the soul he had exhumed Haphazardly from feet below He’d raised her up high, dropped her from the sky Tears as raindrops to soon overflow She took off her bell-hat, thoroughly compelled Toward something she’d not as yet thought Bashed his skull in with jagged ends of a crown ragged Gossamer web, mangled fly caught She found it so funny, his blood oozed like honey Congealed as she licked off her fingers Wrapped herself in his clothing, to his throne betrothing Solidarity found then malingers It all was so novel, the idea to grovel As the king did so willingly there Glint in her eye dazzled, her nerves frayed and frazzled Tucked his soul back, flower in her hair She could not help laughing at her current trapping Tiptoed on the rungs of a thrown She laughed while she danced, painted up and entranced At a freedom she’d not as yet known This kind of upheaval some just would think evil But they’d have missed something she caught The importance of laughter here and the hereafter Morbid beauty justice had wrought 92
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Constricted Carved Confines a poem by Audrey Sault
At what point in one’s existence do they become hollow? Set aside their passion, goals and dreams. When does a person’s dead end job become all they know? Yet inside them remains a little voice that screams. It’s the voice that’s always told them, To go against the grain; to break the square frame. It’s the voice that’s always told them, To take the road less traveled; there’s no shame. They first tried to silence that little voice When one by one other vicious voices came to play And told them that their absolute best choice Was surely to take the road most traveled, it pays. They’d say to go to the college where your parents went, They’d advise you to get a job behind a stable and sturdy desk. They say you’ll definitely never struggle to pay your rent, If you put down your paint brush, and lay your dreams to rest. “Never stray from punctual plan A,” oh how they love to say, And don’t you dare color outside the lines, For your life will most certainly be easiest this way, If you stay within the constricted carved confines.
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Untitled
an illustration by Jennifer Vaughn
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A Thank You from the Editor I would like to thank Frank Pulley and Theo Davis for their encouragement and generosity. Your continued support throughout the years is truly appreciated and is a large part of what makes this beautiful publication possible. Your kindness and valued advice gave us guidance. Thank you to Martha Collins. I admire your dedication to the publication, and I couldn’t have done it without your support. Your understanding and willingness to help was remarkable, and I was truly lucky to have you as an adviser. Thank you, Douglas Flowers, for your incredible ability to help in all things technical, and for making time in your schedule for our publication. Thank you, Patrick Neal and Krystal Baker, for showing me the ropes when I first entered Student Media. Special thanks to Technician for your immense help in publicity, and also to WKNC 88.1 FM for gladly allowing us the use of your equipment during our events. The entire Student Media staff has proved to be a tremendous support, and working as a team is what gives us all the ability to go above and beyond. A special thank you to George Thomas at the Crafts Center. I’m grateful that you have always gone out of your way to help us, and the venue you provided us was perfect for our events. Thank you for your enthusiasm, and for providing us flexibility when we needed it the most. A huge thanks to my design team. Your commitment to the magazine was inspiring. Thank you for giving so much of your time and putting so much effort into the making of this publication. I loved working with each and every one of you, and really appreciate the talent and beauty you brought to Windhover. Without my design team, this publication would not have been possible. Thank you to my committee heads for their input and for sticking to it through the entire year. I really enjoyed getting to know all of you. I’d like to thank my friends and family for supporting me in every decision I made, and for being there for me whenever the going got tough. Thank you for believing in me, and making these wonderful experiences possible. And finally, thanks to you, the reader. The entire process of creating Windhover leads up to you. We hope you enjoy it! Thank you for being who we work for. Ajita Banerjea VOLUME 48 |
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Team
the Editor
Adviser
Short Story Editor
Printing
Ajita Banerjea
Austin Mathews
Committee Members
Daniel Baucom Nicole Simeonsson
Audio Editor
Jonathon Dees
Visual Editor
Julie Smitka
Committee Members Jonathan Dees Ash Gray
Poetry/Prose Editor Lana Chiad
Committee Member Faith Barnes
Design Editor
Monica Galletto
Design Team
Leye Lin Mitch Caldwell Alex Bonner
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Martha Collins
Theo Davis Printing
Typefaces
Baskerville Oriya Sangam MN