Windhover 2013

WINDHOVER VOLUME 47

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THIS IS WINDHOVER

THE WINDHOVER This is a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung 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-vermillion.

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THESE ARE CONTRIBUTORS 05 08 09 13 14 16 18 19 22

gerard manley hopkins

24 25 26 27 28

monica galletto

The Windhover

zoĂŤ symon jordan taylor

Astronaut

jarrett carr amanda finuccio meghan surra

Beige

john medford courtney nicholson

The Heart Repair Shop

rebekah severs jordan bonner

nicky vaught

Nights and Broken Bones

jasmine bamlet

Getting Coffee and Getting Caught Up

jarrett carr katie yuri kim

Quasar , the Prima Ballerina

monica galletto

32 34 37 38 39 ii iii iv v 43 44

monica galletto monica galletto amanda slater henry barbee

Gender Queer

tobias cannady alex petercuskie

Misery Likes Company

nicky vaught

Temple

vincent bugica

Margot Is Bringing The Drugs (On a Lazy Chicago St.)

meghan surra

O to Be a Child

claire baker monica galletto amaris hames

45 46 47 48 49 50 53 54 55

alex west christina hardison jaime andrews garnet fisher megan hubbard eileen mcdonald

Lost Ashore

rachel bradley erin roberts monica galletto jaime andrews

56 57 58

sean smith brett morris meghan surra

Ode to Tompkins Hall

eric flood

60 6

courtney nicholson

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Pirate Talk

62

john medford emma smith

64 68 69 70 71 72 73 76

zoĂŤ symon bryan paxton alex petercuskie

Untitled

darren lipman

No Ceiling

rebekah severs katie yuri kim trinh le

How Did You Know?

meghan surra

Raleigh, NC 2

marco kawajiri

79

danny unites monica galletto

80

amir sanii

Tidal Wave

jaime andrews

82 85

luisa jaramillo

The Truth That Lies Beneath

erin roberts danny unites

86 87 88 89

sid gandra alex petercuskie

Fire Dream

lisa dickson

A Thank You From The Editor

windhover team

Colophon

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ASTRONAUT This is a short story by Jordan Taylor That is a photograph by Zoë Symon

he would have hated his own funeral. It was one of those solemn, teary, small town affairs, and held in the Spring Hope Baptist Church, the one his mom used to go to and that he hadn’t stepped foot in since sixth grade. The sanctuary was paneled in dark wood broken by stained glass windows showing a very Caucasian Jesus shepherding some fluffy sheep, grimy with age. White lilies, pumped as full of formaldehyde as the body in the casket, glowed in the corners, making the air sweet enough to choke on. The organ was ironically horror-movie perfect for a funeral, groaning and screeching through hymns that he wouldn’t have known the words to.

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¶ They had thought about sitting me with family, but apparently which family would have been too hard to figure out; his dad and his stepmom sat on the front row on the left side of the sanctuary, his mom and older sisters on the right, as divided as ever. His dad had his Harley Davidson jacket on; his mom had on a form-fitting black Christian Dior dress that probably hadn’t been outside of her closet in at least a decade, and shouldn’t have been now. I ended up on the back row with the boys and Kate, all of us squirming on the hard mustard yellow cushions, worn slick by ages of bored attendees. We were the only color in a sea of black and grey adult mourners, all dressed in candy Chuck Taylors and flower print miniskirts, tight jeans and band tee shirts, a row of hipster Gandhis in silent protest. ¶ When the pastor stood up to speak, his young face and expensive grey suit looked oddly incongruous with his setting. I focused on his white hands hanging out of his dark sleeves, gesturing in the thick air above the wooden casket, so I wouldn’t have to let my gaze drop to where he lay in a box, dead. The pastor droned on and on about what a wonderful son he had been, a wonderful friend, a wonderful student, a wonderful boyfriend, this man who had never met him, speaking in the background to the rhythm of Joey’s shoes drumming against the wooden pew, Kate and Dave’s whispers. ¶ There hadn’t been a wake—for that, at least, I was thankful. Of course, it’s hard to have a wake when the body’s been burned and broken almost beyond recognition, as I’m sure his was. The guy in the other car had been drunk, was being prosecuted for manslaughter. I wasn’t sure I cared if he was ever convicted or not—a sentence wouldn’t change the fact that I had spent last night puking into the toilet again, that 10

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there was nothing left of Jude’s car but twisted metal, and nothing really left of Jude at all. Jude had been on his way home from visiting me, and I had waited up all night for a text that never came—a text to say that he was home and going to bed, a text to say that he’d found another science article that he wanted me to read, a text to say that he loved me, anything. Instead, his dad had called my house around 3 a.m., to ask if Jude was spending the night and why he hadn’t called to say so. The police had found him an hour later, dead and smoldering on the asphalt of a back road.

I wondered if Hendrix knew yet, somewhere in his crazy little Cocker Spaniel mind, that Jude was never coming home this time. That he wasn’t off hoboing, or hiking, or holed up somewhere with his telescope. He was gone. ¶ The pastor ended his eulogy by talking about how now Jude was in a better place, until I wanted to stand up on the yellow cushion and yell that he had never believed any of that, that he was a highly evolved being that came from electrons that were created during the Big Bang, that if he was in a better place I hoped it was being reborn in some distant galaxy he’d never heard of and could be the first to explore. When the offering plate came around, I borrowed a pen from Kate’s purse and scribbled a note on the corner of the bulletin—“The Church is a money hungry institution!”—to rip off and drop in among the crinkled dollar bills, just because I knew it was what Jude would do, and so someone had to do it. ¶ We didn’t go with his family to the cemetery, but ran, bright streaks of color in the sudden sunlight, to Joey’s old sedan as soon as the organ finished laboring over the final hymn. Hendrix was hanging his curly black head out of the front window, panting impatiently. The full bottle of

vodka clanked in the back floorboard as Joey blew out of the church parking lot, taking the streets through town at twice the speed limit. Kate held the rocket with the stick between her knees, rolling it back and forth in her palms as she stared out the window. I held the shoebox of photos and mementos, to keep it from sliding around and spilling as we sped around curves. ¶ Jude had never wanted a funeral when he died. He’d wanted to be cremated and shot into space, his particles exploding in the atmosphere to become just another component of the space dust drifting

arms full of alcohol and firework and lighter and shoebox. We made a circle in the red dust around second base, Hendrix straining on his leash as he sniffed the worn white plastic. Joey unscrewed the bottle of vodka, took a swig before passing it around. “Gimme the rocket. Let’s do this before some mom and her kids swing by.”

Kate handed it over, and Joey buried the stick in the dirt with one savage thrust, his face screwed up around the burn left from the alcohol, his eyes already red and watering. I drank deep when it came to me, to give myself an excuse for that fact that my cheeks were wet and my nose was

“Nothing was quite big enough for Jude.” around our universe. Of course, his parents hadn’t even considered that when he actually died. We might couldn’t shoot his ashes into space, now, but we had searched the Internet for the biggest stick rocket we could find, and we could do the next best thing. ¶ Our search had started with Google searches of local suppliers, then the larger companies that supplied the annual Fourth of July fireworks shows. Nothing was quite big enough for Jude. Finally, Dave had found a way to hack Jude’s darknet account, and he found “The Screaming Dragon,” illegal in 48 out of 50 states, and guaranteed to make the biggest bang for your 499.99 bucks. We had pooled all of our birthday money, and I’d even dipped into my college savings in order to buy the rocket and have it express shipped to Jude’s address. It had arrived just in time.

Joey parked in the gravel next to the baseball field on the edge of town, tires crunching in the rock. I clipped on Hendrix’s leash as we swung open the doors,

running. I sat the shoebox down in the dust, pulled out the first photograph – one of the two of us asleep in a nest of blankets in his messy bedroom. I placed it at the bottom of the wooden stick and weighted it down with a rock, to keep it from flying away. Kate sat down in the dirt to help me, as Joey and Dave watched, the bottle of vodka hanging loosely out of Joey’s hand.

More photos joined the first, junior prom and camping trips and backyard parties, along with song lyrics (“Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?”), pages torn out of a book by Carl Sagan (“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love…”), and magazine pictures of places on our list to visit (“Explore the beauty of Norway!”). When we were finished, there seemed to be just as much of me piled around the rocket as there was of Jude. My music that he would never listen to and the prom I made him attend, the party where I met Kate for the first time and we ended up screaming at each other in the front yard because I was VOLUME 47

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jealous and she called me naïve poser. All piled around a stick rocket that was supposed to be handled with extreme caution by “authorized professionals only”. Kate grabbed Hendrix by the collar, stepping away, and handed me the lighter. ¶ I gave the three of them time to back up, remembering to breathe as I turned the smooth red plastic over in my hands, then flicked it open to drop its bright yellow flame into the fluttering pile of paper. I raced back to where they waited, backs against the chain link fence, with just enough time to reach the group and throw my hands over my ears before the world erupted with a woosh. Golden sparks shot into the air, trailing grey smoke and the scent of burning plastic and gunpowder, before erupting into light, white against the blue sky, so far away that we had to crane our necks to see. Bits of burning paper and ash rained down on the field, drifting in the wind to land, burning, in the grass before winking out. Somewhere in the background Hendrix was barking his head off; Joey was rattling the metal fence as he sobbed, cold metal links digging into my back. Everything was shaking. I was shaking. Small fires were dancing in the outfield. My eyes blinked flashes of light and dancing sparks, my ears were still rushing in the sudden silence. Kate pressed the cool bottle of vodka into my trembling hand, bits of paper drifting around her face. “Here. You’d better drink this down before the cops get here.”

That is a poster by Jarrett Carr 12

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This is a photograph by Amanda Finuccio

BEIGE This is a poem by Meghan Surra

It’s sweltering isn’t it, the blandness of it all? their fashion-forward fortification with foundation in shades like

porcelain cream,

honey beige,

natural ivory (Can one cream porcelain?) binding themselves in shades of parched ignorance blinding my brown eyes with a jarring ignorance

as piercing as uv rays from the sun I bet the sun could cream porcelain.

but, honey beige, you can’t.

Plaster on the mold in hues bold and banal— like the dots of a Lichtenstein comic— that blend themselves to a viscous cocktail of beige,

(ephemeral passions) vicious like the schmoozy chitchat gabfests

(impersonal expressions) the monochromatic boldness of black offset perfectly by the blood-red ruby cocktail sauce served on fancy plates

(refined fashion) Something like ecru re-do: It sounds fancy because it’s French, but it’s just that banal, dull hue of mulled office walls and over-processed parchment, of creamed lard and Virgin Mary candles. it’s just that off-putting putty pudding,

that off-setting matte mat,

that off-white Caucasian, colorful cacophony as phony as Salinger’s lingering words, Anything but ecru That’s French.

It’s beige.

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This is America—

call it Freedom Toast— and when you spill that horrible, sticky-sweet sap onto your dry-cleaned, starch-white blouse, and the amber beads, glowing like small droplets of infected, pus-blood, gushing from a crusting, yellowing, scraped knee and exposed bones, start trickling down the sheen and sheer of the silky, synthetic fabric and into the hard, smooth edges of your mother-of-pearl buttons, coating its pristine, virgin elegance in sordid russet syrupy schmaltz—

(someone once called me Syrup), and you purse your impeccable lips in distaste, as though sipping on a cruel wine, acidic and sour, Just remember that in pursing your lips you’re thieving the color away from your flappers into a blanched nothingness behind your lip stains in shades like

sweet cranberry

saucy plum

sassy mauve (Can mauve be sassy?)

And remember that you’ll never have to face that unpleasant shade of umber in places where only white should thrive, and you’ll burn off the calories anyways; your ass will stay firm.

So get your ivory, well-ironed napkins, folded this morning, leaving the lingering scent of spring rain, and continue your Freedom feast.

Let the irresistible aroma of imported sweets fill your delicate nostril with savory decadence and delectable fats.

Your gluttony can be forgiven by your laundry detergent Indulge yourself in the forbidden fruits,

sweet cranberries and saucy plums, After all, it will all mellow out into that comforting shade of beige—

excuse me—ecru by the end of your laborious workday, and you won’t be able to tell your sins from the Jones’. that kind of security is what you’re paying for, right?

It comes with the cost of whiteness.

And all I see is beige.

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THE HEART REPAIR SHOP This is a short story by Courtney Nicholson That is mixed media by John Medford

in between this universe and the next, there’s a repair shop—my repair shop—that fixes broken hearts. It’s not easy to find—a hole-in-thewall type of place with an oak door for an entrance. The In Between’s full of places like ours. Whole streets lined with endless shops for endless needs. There aren’t any windows, just doors with decorative signs advertising the products and services inside. Ours simply reads “Heart Repair Shop—We Take All Kinds” in raspberry-red paint. Somehow, this is enough to stop people. Whether they barge right in or linger outside, I can hear them before they come in. ¶ I’m in the back room taking inventory with Chewy when I hear her. Human, one heart—or at least what’s left of it. She’s standing just outside the door. Her heart’s fluttering sporadically like a bird that isn’t sure whether to fly or not. ¶ The bell rings as the door opens and promptly slams shut. Chewy stiffens at the sound, his reptilian claws still closed around the freezer door’s handle as he holds it open. I look up from my clipboard that contains our stock of hearts and parts. Fly it is. ¶ Chewy cocks his head, listening for her. He shuts the freezer door and moves to greet her, but I motion for him to stay. He’s an impressive cutter, given that he has claws not hands, and he’s terrific when it comes to disposing of old hearts, but he tends to freak the humans out. To them, he looks like a 10-foot lizard. To me, he looks more like a drakón three parallel universes from here, but he’s from the In Between, same as me. Only I look human. I set the clipboard on our second freezer and tell Chewy to finish up. ¶ The shop is deceptively large. Most people, usually the ones who just need a quick fix after a break-up, are amazed by its size, like they expected it to be an actual hole in the wall. But the girl is too far-gone to notice the shop’s size. She barely takes in its details: the waiting area in the corner, the diagrams of hearts that decorate half the shop, the photographs that decorate the other half, the counter in the back corner, or the faded blue curtain between the shop’s main area and the backroom. She doesn’t notice me either. ¶ When I open the curtain, she is standing in the middle of the shop, staring at the photographs that line the only wall without diagrams.

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Crude, red painted letters sort the photographs into before and after sections. The photos are of humans mostly, black and white shots of customers past who opted to take a couple before they left. Right now, she’s looking at the before section, probably trying to find someone who looks the way she feels. I’ve seen many customers do it. When I finally asked a customer why, he told me he did it so he knew he wasn’t alone in heartbreak. Makes sense if you go by the old human saying that “misery loves company.” ¶ I close the curtain behind me and walk to the counter as quietly as possible, careful not to startle her. She notices me and turns her head, then her body to face me. She’s small—a young one, probably in her second decade. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and long pajama pants, no shoes. One hand’s over her heart, as if to keep the thing from bursting out of her body. The other hangs limp at her side. Her eyes are bright green and huge, nervous, scared, and hurt. Her dark brown hair is long and messy from sleep. Like most of her kind, she found the In Between in her dreams, when her mind left the universe for the night and her soul followed.

I smile as politely as I can. “How can I help you?” ¶ Her lips tremble before she speaks. I notice the tear stains on her cheeks, the bags under her eyes. Her heart is fluttering like a hummingbird and she has to take two shallow breaths before she can speak. “My heart—” Her voice catches and her face wrinkles. The wells in her eyes have been drained of their tears.

“It’s broken,” I say, finishing for her. She nods weakly. She looks like she’s about to cry again, but quickly rubs her eyes. Customers usually aren’t this bad, but I act like this is normal.

“How did it break?” I ask. “What happened?”

There’s a long pause before she answers. “He left.”

“Oh.”

That’s all I really need, but she winces and starts again.

“I loved him.”

“I know.”

Another wince. “He didn’t—“

I hold up a hand and she stops. “Doesn’t matter,” I tell her.

“What’s done is done.” ¶ There’s relief in her broken eyes, like she’s glad she doesn’t have to relive the breakup again. Still, it takes a couple of deep breaths before she speaks again. “This shop’s supposed to repair broken hearts, right?” she says. “Can you…fix it?” ¶ There’s a glint of hope in her eyes and I don’t intend to crush it. I search for my spectacles and ask her to sit down on a stool on the before side of the wall. I put the glasses on, stride to the stool, and crouch down to examine her heart. With the spectacles on, I can see through the layers of her skin and muscle, right to her heart. “Stare straight ahead,” I tell her, 20

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“and try to keep calm. Take deep breaths, it’ll help.” ¶ She doesn’t say anything, but takes my suggestions all the same. Her heart slows for a few moments and I see the damage. Damn. Both atriums, the aorta, and the left ventricle are gone. She’s still got a fragment of her right ventricle, but it’s beating out of control, hammering against her rib cage like it wants to break free and find the rest. This isn’t good. I’ve seen bad cases and this is one of the worst. He took her, most of her, and now she’s lost and confused. No wonder she had her hand over her heart. ¶ Her hands fly to her chest like she’s scared to lose it. “Is everything okay?” she asks, nervous. “Can you fix it?” ¶ I stand up and take off my spectacles to look at her. Her eyes search my face for answers. I have one, but I can already tell a “maybe” just won’t do for her. I have the parts, but they’ll have to be fused together and then fused to her heart. It’ll be a complicated procedure, but I don’t say this.

“Yes,” I say. I can almost taste the relief that washes over her.

“I’ll be okay?” she asks, standing up now. “I’ll be me again?”

“You’ll be okay,” I say, putting on a fake smile. I go back to the

“Even unconscious, she’s thinking of him.” counter and put the glasses back.

She follows me timidly, unsure of what to do next. “So…when can you fix my heart?”

I take out a vial of ruby red liquid. I hold up for her to see. “This will knock you unconscious for surgery,” I say. “Take this and we will start the repairs now,” I say, handing her the vial.

Her mouth falls open. “Really?”

“The sooner we fix it, the better.”

She accepts this and removes the cork. Her frown cracks. A small smile appears as her lips close around the vial and she drains it.

“Thank you…” ¶ I catch her before she falls. “Chewy!” The lizard’s head pokes out of the curtain. “Get the tools—quick!” His head disappears as I throw the girl over my shoulder and carry her to the back room. Chewy is waiting by our primary freezer, filled with every part in any size we could ever need.

The table is in front of him. I set her down on that and wrench open the freezer, scanning it for the parts I need. Chewy doesn’t wait for me to start cutting. He slices her chest and the air suddenly reeks of heartbreak.

It stings my nose and lips so I can almost taste it, a mix of acerbic and sweet. ¶ I pinch my nose with one hand and glance back at the girl for another look at her heart, but her face catches my eye first. Her forehead is creased in concentration. Her lips are tight and twisted. Tears have begun VOLUME 47

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This is an illustration by Rebekah Severs

This is an illustration by Jordan Bonner

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to leak from her eyes. Even unconscious, she’s thinking of him. ¶ Chewy gives a guttural screech, jarring me from my thoughts. I close the freezer door and stand beside him. The girl’s heart is beating out of control. Tiny pieces of it are fracturing, disintegrating slowly. He’s not taking her heart; she’s giving it up. All of it, just for him, and he probably doesn’t even want it. Fixing her heart is no longer an option; it has to be replaced. ¶ I open the second freezer and search until I find the smallest heart available. It’s the one we don’t stock often because we rarely use it, but it’s the strongest we have. Most people want their hearts repaired or replaced, but there are some who simply need a change no matter their preference. I take out the small heart’s jar and close the freezer. Unlike the others, this heart is too small to break and too valuable to lose. She won’t be able to just give it to some guy any time she chooses. ¶ I stand by Chewy and stare down at her. She is small, weak, and fragile.

The remaining piece of heart is slowly disintegrating. Chewy looks at me as if to ask if I’m sure about what I’m doing. I nod and he wraps his claws around her heart, rips it out before devouring it. The girl jerks during the rip, but is still afterward. Her face relaxes and she’s no longer crying in her sleep. No longer thinking of him. She’s cold now, but stronger. She’ll be a little better with her new heart. Personality shifts are natural after replacement, but most aren’t as drastic as this. She had a big heart before. ¶ She’ll be happier, I tell myself. Next time she gives her heart away; she’ll get one in return. ¶ This knowledge moves me to action and I install her new heart. It only takes a few minutes. The heart takes to her new body easily. It beats slowly, but steadily. I wait then, watching her to see an effect. A couple of minutes pass and her lips twist into a sleepy smile. I sew her chest up to finish.

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NIGHTS AND BROKEN BONES This is a poem by Nicky Vaught That is an illustration by Monica Galletto

“When I learned it wasn’t written, In stone or stars, And there’s no such thing as chemistry, She’d made an impact— Didn’t last, Bruises faded, we left no scars Where we thought we would.

When we’d marked each other All we could with sticks and stones, We learned the stars were only good For nights and broken bones.”

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GETTING COFFEE AND GETTING CAUGHT UP This is a poem by Jasmine Bamlet That is a poster by Jarrett Carr

Here at the beginning.

Be patient with me.

This experience is more than you think it is.

It’s college.

You fall in love, it’s good weather. Things happen.

It’s like a street fight;

there’s no rules.

One thing you can do…

…is to be honest.

Your heart is going to be right there;

it’s going to be hopping out of your throat.

It’s human to feel that way.

But remember this Where we are is important.

And words matter.

You may have questions And, and that’s perfectly fine.

I just need a little more time.

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QUASAR, THE PRIMA BALLERINA That is a short story by Katie Yuri Kim

This is an illustration by Monica Galletto

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# LIFE, LOVE AND/OR SEX Six a.m. A long night had passed by, and the morning sunlight was peeking into the window. This was not an ordinary day of life. A choice had to be made among three options: life, love or sex. The idealistic conclusion is to somehow assemble all three together, but in your case, that is not an option. ¶ You grab a book beside you and open it to page three. You start to read the lines again. Every morning starts with the chapter one of this book.

The book kindly provides suggestions on how you should read, and you debate in your head whether to accept or deny the kindness. ¶ You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, “If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler.” Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought, but can you dispel every other thought? You ask yourself and close the book as if you want to show a sign of rejection. ¶ It’s impossible to simply focus on your life. What are you going to do with the other two things—Sex and Love? Well, sex won’t be happening anytime soon but the love already has occurred, so now the remaining question is if you are strong enough to crush the blooming love or not.

You are going to kill your Juliet, aren’t you? Are you Romeo? What kind of love story do you wish to have—something tragic or naughty perhaps?

These don’t matter though because if you choose love, you automatically lose at your life. Love wouldn’t exist without life, but life would exist without love. Life, love and sex…these are the three different things that somehow got tangled up to your piece of life. ¶ You start to reveal the layers of thoughts one by one, and you get to the layer entitled Italo Calvino. “Did Calvino ever make any suggestion about making a decision among life, love and sex?” Your mirror stares at you without its words. Only thing you are surely aware of is the fact that your life is designed just like her. You are a photocopied version of her.

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# HE Six-thirty a.m. Breakfast was being prepared. As usual, breakfast was done in a simple way with simple ingredients like tofu, egg, water and a tiny amount of salt. Calories were kept as low as possible, yet there needed to be enough protein to maintain strength and flexibility. Once all the ingredients were mixed into a bowl, they were microwaved for about two minutes. The microwave was not being used because of laziness, but for the purpose of efficiently using time. The morning routine, like always, was precisely done.

By the time two minutes were up, water was poured into a glass and brought to the table. The glass hit the table just as the bell rang from the microwave. ¶ As usual, no one else was home. It had been about two years now. There were no feelings of loneliness or sadness. Both for past and for present, and probably in the future too, those feelings would never exist. Tasteless food started disappearing from the table as thoughts of the past slowly slipped away. It was about seven o’clock. Before nine o’clock came, a pair of pointe-shoes needed to be replaced. It was getting old. ¶ Eventually, all the values and the knowledge of this world will decompose and rot away. No matter how hard one tried to make it last at some point, they reached the final scene, disgusting and smelling terrible. No condition allowed eternity in life though things left to him were the fact that life is full of dreamers believing in eternity. So we cheat. Sex happens between a male and a female and a new, yet similar form of life enters, creating another loop of illusion in regard to the eternal world. ¶ An unspecified life. It was ready to open

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the door with a purse worn across the breast. Inside the purse was a key that would lock the door that was about to be opened. No one lived in this house besides this creature which meant it was up to its action—not only must it open this door but must lock it as well. ¶ The door opened. The key went into the lock. With a simple click, the door had finally been locked. The key went back into the purse and became invisible. This creature, life, something, however you’d wish to call was scared. Not because the door was locked, but because the key might not be able to be grasped again.

# SHE She decides not ring the doorbell. The tune is sharper than it’s supposed to be. Instead, she knocks on the door gently. There is no sound on the other side of the door. She expected Taylor to be home at this time, but then, she realized that whenever she came to the house, Taylor would always accompany her there from the school. She waits. She must wait. ¶ She puts her back against the wall beside the door and closes her eyes. Slowly, a song starts to play in her head. It is Nocturne eminor, Opus 72 by Frédéric Chopin. The soft melody whispers in her ears, drawing her into the house. As she floats farther into the house, the sad melody gets louder. ¶ She had met Taylor in a ballet class at the finest school of the arts in Moscow.

The ballet class always started with ten minutes of warm-up. The professor had also studied at this school and was a prima ballerina for the New York City Ballet Company. She had played numerous roles including Giselle from Giselle ou les Wilis and Petrushka from Petrushka, and had also danced in the center in La Sacre du Printemps. ¶ Giselle is the role every ballerina desires to have. Petrushka is Igor Stravinsky’s most well-known ballet piece. Playing Petrushka means that the ballerina has achieved excellence in ballet. La Sacre du Printemps, however, is a little bit different. As the title implies, it is neither a sad love story nor the story of a doll wanting to become a human, but perhaps a rite of spring. It is about a spring where everything starts to bloom, even love. It is the perfect time for a man and a woman to bond. Not many ballet companies will choose to present this particular piece, and the original choreographer even died

because she was unable to handle all of the criticism. ¶ Of course, many people will not accept this and refuse to celebrate sex on the stage. But the teacher did, and that’s probably why Taylor chose this school.

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This is a photograph by Monica Galletto

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# TAYLOR

# CARMEN

As he was walking down the street, he had a flashback to when he first met Carmen.

Carmen was stretching in front of him.

Carmen was extremely skinny. Although most ballerinas are skinny, she seemed even skinnier. Her height seemed about 5’7”, and he was pretty sure she weighed less than 100 pounds. Along that slender back, he noticed a tiny tattoo on her neck.

Her hair was pulled up like most of the others in the class, yet the tattoo seemed almost invisible since it was right underneath a few strands of hair that escaped her ponytail. The tattoo said “quasar.” Taylor barely remembered it from an article he read a long time ago. Quasar was the most distant active galactic nucleus that had been discovered. If he remembered correctly, the significant thing was a quasar’s extreme amount of radiant energy. ¶ Ballerinas usually do not get tattoos. It’s an unstated rule. To Taylor, it was very shocking to see a girl with a tattoo on her neck. And after a while, that shock transformed into fascination. Taylor discovered a possibility and a freedom he had always desired but could never have.

That freedom, which he longed for was suddenly and clearly visible. Nevertheless, he could not tell whether he could obtain that freedom or not. That taste might be a trick like the apple that Adam and Eve ate.

Regardless, he had to bite into the apple and experience it for himself. ¶ Far away in Quasar, he imagined an apple tree growing lonely.

Carmen is now singing the melody in solfège. Carmen has a unique ability. She has perfect pitch, yet she likes singing everything in C major. “ti-sol-fa-mi-re-fa-mi; do-ti-sol-do-ti-la-fa-mi...” ¶ “Nocturne E-minor Opus 72, Number 1” starts with repetitive bass notes as the melody builds from a soft, mezzo piano to forte. After a handful of measures, the melody comes back to the start finally climaxing in fortissimo. After all those dynamics, the song ends in pianissimo with an inversion of the e-minor chord. In a span of less than five minutes, the melody develops, makes variations, repeats, and dies as if disappearing into thin air.

“Disappearing…”she thinks. ¶ She starts to wonder if this piece of music really disappears, will it evaporate and start to rain, making the ground wet, will it burst, illuminating the sky like fireworks, or will it just disintegrate and become invisible? She doesn’t know. As she thinks about all the possible outcomes of this simple nocturne, she tries to pinpoint where the sadness is coming from. The song is so simple, so why is she breaking it into pieces and imagining all these different endings that might not be suitable at all? Again, she does not know. She simply knows that ever since she and Taylor met for the first time and heard this song, this song symbolized the irony. It’s such an easy puzzle, but somehow, the pieces were impossible for her to put together. ¶ 7 p.m. Taylor is still not here. Carmen is still waiting.

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This is a photograph by Monica Galletto

# TAYLOR

# CARMEN

Taylor stopped by at the local ballet store to buy a new pair of pointe-shoes. He probably should have bought them sooner, so that he could break them in, but he decided to trust his luck. He was so close to becoming Giselle. He had never thought that becoming Giselle would be possible until he actually started imagining himself as Giselle, the pretty, innocent dancer in Giselle ou les Wilis. Taylor, regardless of his feminine look, never completely became a woman, but he would if he could dance as Giselle on the stage. ¶ Taylor kept walking. It was an uphill road, but he refused to pause even for a moment. The stage was waiting. He walked. Not fast nor slow, at just the right tempo.

Eight p.m., Taylor is not here.

Nine p.m., Taylor is not here.

Ten p.m., Taylor is still not here, even though it’s time. ¶ Carmen opens her bag. There are two letters: one from the school and one from Taylor. As Taylor told her, Carmen opens the letter from the school first. This letter was in regards to the result of the audition: ¶ [Congratulations Miss Carmen Duncan Aileen, You have been selected to play Giselle for the graduation performance of the Moscow School of the Arts this fall. We will inform you about the practice schedule and provide a list of the documents you need to fill out via your school email. The Moscow School of the Arts is honored to have you as a prima ballerina for the graduation program.] ¶ Carmen has earned the role as Giselle.

Now, she can open the letter from Taylor.

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# LETTER FROM TAYLOR Dear Carmen, It is now time. Congrats. I know you will be the most beautiful Giselle on the stage. You were such a phenomenal ballerina on the stage. I admire you. Ever since I moved to Moscow, I had stopped talking because I was afraid, but you let me talk. I did not think that I could ever talk again after I became a woman. Nevertheless, I never truly felt like a woman. It was impossible for me. I thought that transforming into a female would allow me to shine on the stage, but my body did not allow me to do that.

I noticed how my body functioned differently once the procedure was done. The more those hormones were injected into my body, the more difficult situations I had to face. After all, I experienced myself that becoming transgendered significantly speeds up the process of aging. If I knew I was going to meet you here in Moscow, I would not have made the decision to become a woman. If I had remained a man, I could have played Albert or Hilarion, whoever you want me to be to love you on the stage. The time I spent with you will always remain in my heart. I want you to be my first and my last love. I cannot get rid of the feeling that if I were a man, our love story could probably have only had a sad ending on the stage. Instead I chose reality. This is my reality. I love you but I can’t be your man. I also failed at becoming a woman. I am heading to Quasar now. I always wanted to take a bite of an apple from that tree that I saw when I first met you. I am neither a woman nor a man, but there is no regret. I am nothing, but you are the perfect Giselle, so don’t be sad. Live.

Live your dream as a prima ballerina. You are the perfect prima ballerina who I always dreamed of becoming, and I am truly satisfied that someone I really love achieved our dream. I cannot wait to see you from the beautiful Quasar that you have showed me. Congratulations.

With love, Taylor # QUASAR There is a hidden place called Quasar.

No one ever has been there but some have seen it.

Will we ever be able to reach this place?

Who knows...

But at least we know, It’s always there.

There is an apple tree growing lonely, Without its Adam or Eve.

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This is an illustration by Amanda Slater

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GENDER QUEER This is a poem by Henry Barbee

She’s like me, I’m like him, He’s like her, But somehow I’m “fem.”

She’s not gay, And nor is he.

Don’t call me a girl, and preferably not a “he.”

I am me, You don’t have to stare.

I’m just like her.

Unequal treatment? That’s not fair.

I have a voice; just like him, her and you.

What, you’re afraid?

If only you knew.

I’m not so different; there’s no need to hate.

Rejection is so old school.

Your mindset is out of date.

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This is a photograph by Tobias Cannady

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This is my body, of no relation to my soul.

So what, I have a dick.

This my life, I’ll choose my own role.

They say we got to decide.

Well, I have; And, I refuse to hide.

You don’t know how I feel.

So stop judging. Get real!

Haven’t you ever felt pain?

Out of touch? Unwanted? Unloved?

Ever been bullied?

Pushed or shoved?

It’s not a good feeling; but they say it’s just a phase.

Well I’m calling bs!

Your mind is in a haze.

This culture is out of whack.

Murders, suicides?

Are we fucking insane?

There’s no taking that shit back!

Innocent kids.

Just a tad bit lost.

Where’s their support?

Well, according to some, their cause is lost.

They say, “do this,” “do that” “don’t act this way,” “act that way!”

But what about my way?

Yeah, I fuck men; as if no one already knew.

But that’s not the secret.

The truth? Way overdue.

Been a boy all of my life, now supposedly a man.

Well, I don’t like that title.

I’m something so much more than…

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The way I dress, speak The way I feel.

All these limitations…

I don’t accept them as real!

So, this is me: Naked, bare, for all to see.

Can you accept that?

Well, that’s up to you.

Not everyone will.

Maybe only a few.

But, nevertheless, The truth is out.

And it feels so liberating!

Like water in a drought!

Now, I look to you.

Check your hands, the facts are there.

What do you think?

Will you ever care?

Eventually you’ll have to Because we’re not going away.

If only in the shadows, we’re forever here to stay.

Oh, you’re confused…

Gotcha, that’s my bad, let me be clear: I suppose I am a bit different after all.

But hey, I’m just gender queer.

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This is a photograph by Monica Galletto

This is a photograph by Amaris Hames That is a photograph by Alex West

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This is a poster by Christina Hardison

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This is an illustration by Jaime Andrews

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These are illustrations by Megan Hubbard That is a typeface by Garnet Fisher

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LOST ASHORE This is a short story by Eileen McDonald

she was dying and when she had finished dying she'd just be dead. Gone. Forty years, then she disappears. But he still saw the girl he'd met fifty-one years ago when he looked at her face. Her twin blonde braids had framed her winsome smile and the sunlight that got tangled in unruly strands of hair made her glow like an angel. He had loved her immediately. She was sitting on the ground picking buttercups to make into bracelets; her slender fingers entwined the stems together and arranged each blossom just so.

He asked her what she was doing, but she only smiled. When he turned to walk away, she caught him in a long chain of the flowers. She rubbed the velvet petals on his skin and called the yellow pollen stains a “fairy kiss.” He had been twenty-two at the time and hadn’t known how it felt to be whole until she’d claimed him as her own. But she looks so different now. Her hair is flat and grey; her knuckles swollen, fingers clumsy. Her grassstained clothing and whimsical flower jewelry are instead white, shapeless gowns and professionally-arranged flower bouquets. The body that once burst with vibrant life lies deflated like a slow-leaking balloon. He watches her as she slips away from him. “What am I going to do without you?” he whispers to the room. ¶ Her eyes flutter open. They are full of vibrant passion and are the dark blue of the nighttime sky. They are the same as on the day he met her. “Miss me.” He slowly crumples into a chair beside the bed and presses his face to hers. The tears that fall from his eyes are lost in those leaking from hers. He clasps her clammy hands in his own. Her fingers grasp his and reluctantly let go. She would have held on longer if she could. “I’m the lucky one, you know.” She does not move as she speaks. ¶ He nods in response. He knows. She wouldn’t have to bear the loss. His is the short straw. Her eyes close again, and he holds her as she sleeps. The room is empty except for the flowers, the bed, chair, and a small window that looks out into nothing. The air is 50

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colder than is comfortable and has a certain stagnant sterility to it that prevents the formation of hope. She stirs again, and he gently releases her so that she may rest undisturbed. As he pulls away, he caresses her with the tips of his fingers, his skin is unwilling to relinquish her touch so quickly. He walks to the display of flowers on the table at the foot of her bed. He realizes the flowers are lovely and probably cost someone a great deal of money. He finds them completely lacking joy. At the back of the arrangement there is a single small, bright flower that must have made its way in by mistake. He plucks it from the vase and tucks it into his pocket, then raises his eyes to her. The tubes that connect her to the machines and the room are clear, but the light that filters through them has a sickly yellow cast. He rises to his feet and contemplates the window before looking through it. ¶ He is not prepared to accept a world without her. Outside appears bright, but it is not welcoming. Except for an occasional bird, the view is of smog rising from the city. He has nothing out there. They hadn’t had any children. He’d never wanted anyone but her and she never wanted to settle down long enough to think about a family.

Even their house is a rental. They’d had nothing but each other—everything they’d wanted. He walks into the lobby, which is only occupied by a nurse scribbling on a clipboard. The television flashes images of dissension and death in the corner with subtitles on and sound off. He is uninterested. He cares about only one death, and it has not happened yet. He balls up his fist until his knuckles are bloodless and his palms ache. An urgent beeping sounds from her room and he races the nurse back to her side. Her hand is outstretched towards him but as soon as he touches her, her fingers fall limp in his grasp. Goodbye.

¶ Someone is talking to him in a voice that doesn’t hold meaning. He looks around. He is on a couch. It may belong to the person speaking to him. His seat is a deep prune color like all the other the furniture; the carpeting is short pile and dark. Pictures of her are scattered around. People stand in tight groups and discuss all of her good attributes without saying her name. These people didn’t know her. Their words: empty. Some of the people in the room hadn’t seen her in twenty years. Some saw her everyday, but didn't see her. No one knew who she really was. They chat about how kind, spontaneous, and fun she was, about how the world is poorer for her passing.

The stories they tell him are uninteresting.

How can they tell him something about her that he doesn’t already know? He is her. No one talks about beautiful imperfections. No words describe her quirks, her real mystique. He knows them. Her smile was crooked. Her socks never matched.

She was passionate, never apologised, never had to. She was a creature unto herself. She had left him. She would never leave him. ¶ In his hands, he holds the small flower he took from her hospital room. It has withered, but his hands are careful. It is his last token of her. He shrugs off the hands that rest on his shoulders, the words that fall from ignorant lips, and walks towards the door. She wasn't here, he needn't be. Her sister stops him on his way out and confirms his convictions. “Don’t you want to stay for the service? She would have wanted you to stay,” from a woman who hadn’t visited her at the hospital, hadn’t spoken to her for two years. ¶ “She would have wanted nothing of the sort. She hated funerals.” He shuts the door before he hears a response. ¶ Sunset catches him as he sits on the end of a forgotten wharf, dangling his VOLUME 47

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toes towards the sea. His gaze follows as waves relentlessly wash ashore. The swells scatter families of fish and tear seaweed asunder. Some rocks jut raggedly from the swirling foam like demon teeth and the sunlight that filters through them paints a stark silhouette against the sky.

He shakes his head to clear his vision; the light from the sunset glares off the water, into his eyes. He has been out there for nearly three hours. Nothing compels him to stay, but neither does anything compel him to leave, so he stays. He listens to the harsh cries of the gulls that fly overhead and tries to not think. His funeral shirt

with eyes that also beheld her. Nothing is safe from her memory or loss. The scant grass that grows on the dunes is flaxen in the evening sun. Gold like her hair, her laughter, and the delicate flower chain that she’d used to bind his heart to hers.

He loved her so completely, so mindlessly, that he did not realize he might someday have to live without her; that there might be a time when they were separated. How unfair that he can’t touch her but can see her in everything. The wind that blows from the sea smelt tangy and moist and made his skin sticky. His hair is tousled and unruly. She would have smiled to have

“He is not prepared to accept a world without her.” hangs from a broken nail on the dock and it flutters carelessly in the breeze. He hopes it blows away. The sun is hot and the sweat that he doesn't bother to wipe from his face streams unhindered from temple to chin. His shoulders bake in the sun, salt crusts his lips. He stands and walks slowly down the rickety wooden path to the beach. The sand is coarse-grained and grayish; he picks up a handful and watches as the particles fall from his fist. Whether his grip is relaxed or desperately tight makes no difference in the end, the sand escapes either way. He opens his palm.

The meager grains are caught by the wind before they reach the ground and he's left without any sand—without her. ¶ A flock of pelicans fly past, towards the sea, away from him. His eyes, speckled brown pools of hazel and heartbreak, listlessly follow the birds. The tide laps at his feet. He sighs. Every time he has a thought, it is one that he’d thought with her. Every piece of himself reminds him of her. All of the things he sees, he does so 52

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seen him then, shirtless on the beach. She would have looked at his wavy curls and used the word “akimbo.” He would have laughed at her, caught her up in his arms and told her that he loved her. ¶ The waves roar loudly and crash against the rocks. He can hear her voice in the murmur of the surf. “Miss me? Miss you.”

She always said that while she was away.

He takes out her flower again and compares it to the blossoms in his memories.

They are far more vibrant. He lets it slip from his fingers and be lost in the foam. ¶ It starts out as a tickle in the back of his brain but begins to develop a shape as he lets his thoughts wander. She was his wife, his friend, his soul mate. She wouldn’t have left him with nothing. He thought of how happy he’d been for half a century.

So gloriously happy it hadn’t occurred to him that it was possible to be otherwise. It is fair, he decides, that tragedy befall him after he had been happy for so long. It is fair and was worth it. Shadows start crawling out longer than the structures that cast

them, reaching to each other until a dusky shade hangs over the dunes. He draws words into the sand and watches the dark water erase them. “Good-bye” is eaten by the waves. “Miss you” is gone almost before he finishes writing it. He laughs to himself. The ocean knows he won’t miss her forever, that good-bye is only for a while. He’ll be with her again. He can feel the edges of his heart reaching out to her matching half. The wind throws sand in the air and he knows she is teasing him.

He can see her in everything because she is there.

This is a photograph by Rachel Bradley

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This is an illustration by Monica Galleto

This is an illustration by Jaime Andrews That is a painting by Erin Roberts

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This is a scarf by Brett Morris That is a poster by Sean Smith

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ODE TO TOMPKINS HALL That is a poem by Meghan Surra This is a poster by Eric Flood

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Tompkins Hall, on the court of North Carolina, where young people smoke cigarettes amongst all the trees from the colony of 1653. Where teachers teach, loud preachers preach, and bank robbers find refuge on red brick roads, winding through campus trying to evade the police who’d followed them from home.

Tompkins Hall, the third prize building off of Hillsborough, where spinsters spiral to class catching wind on fixed gears and commuter bikes. Where girls gulp green tea or hot toddies in between afternoon classes, admiring the art outside of Mitch’s Tavern that came to overnight.

Tompkins Hall, where hardwood floors hear hard-headed echoes from the classroom of Dora Dinker and John Keats is downplayed as only a fantastic rapist. Where Frances finds front row seats for everyone at the literary snob matinee in Caldwell Lounge and good ole hard head Dinker argues with Germans, a cynic of classical critic concoctions other than her own.

Tompkins Hall, where junkies sit in the front, pen in hand, taking notes next to a guy with a joint in his pocket and a beer in his bag, searching for the next breakthrough in substance abuse and philology. Where closet romantics write love poems on bathroom stalls and mark the doors with a squatter’s tag, occupy toilets.

Tompkins Hall, where I lost my virginity to Ernest Hemingway for the fourth time, but only after flirting with Fitzgerald and a martini with Anne Sexton and Frank O’Hara.

Where I stole some coffee and a copy of Native Son, payback for the classes I didn’t have with Charles or Auerbach or Brenton.

Where I lost my cool, almost dropped out of school, and fought my way through depression and drool, coming out on top with an endless conscious and confessed, you know I really do love everybody.

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PIRATE TALK This is a short story by Courtney Nicholson

“to be,” uncle leonard begins, his voice booming over our heads and through the rest of our yard. He’s standing on the family picnic table, his bare feet planted apart, one by the potato salad, the other beside the quiche Mom bought the day before the Reunion. Uncle Leonard sucks in a deep breath and places a hand over his heart. He’s staring off behind me, at my house. For a moment, I want to turn around and see what he sees, but I know that if I look, I’ll only see the baby clothes stashed under my mattress. Uncle Leonard’s eyes grow large and sad, like he’s lost behind them. “Or…not to be,” he exhales. ¶ Dad once told me that Uncle Leonard used to act. I don’t remember very well, but I think Uncle Leonard used to act in some theatre down in Charlotte when he wasn’t teaching Shakespeare courses at the university there. All that was years ago, before my uncle “cracked.” Now Uncle Leonard does as he pleases, which today, includes dressing like a shipwrecked captain for International Talk Like a Pirate Day and spontaneously reciting Shakespeare on the dinner table. ¶ Uncle Leonard’s clay crusted toes wiggle a little, but those are the only moves he makes. The rest of his body is frozen, a statue of an actor on stage, and we’re his captive audience left waiting for the next part. ¶ A hushed silence falls over the table. We all know the next part, but no one says a word. My rambunctious cousins exchange looks that say, “Do you see what I see,” and elbow each other until Uncle Shawn scowls at them. Great Aunt Edna glowers at my uncle from the head of the table and her cold, black-brown eyes say it all: she’s far from amused. Mom facepalms and doesn’t look up. Grandma and Dad just stare. Uncle Charles rescues the rolls, piling the basket into his lap and passing it to 60

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Dad before grabbing another dish. Lindsay, my cousin and Uncle Charles’s daughter, snags the butter before Uncle Leonard comes out of his frozen state. They’ve been living with Uncle Leonard far too long. ¶ I’m the only one who laughs. ¶ The sound breaks the silence, but leaves the tension. Mom looks up and scowls.

Uncle Leonard melts and he rocks forward, planting his foot in the apple pie.

“Aye, Matey,” he says, “There’s the point!”

He points to me and suddenly all eyes are on me. I cross my arms to cover the bump, hoping Great Aunt Edna’s disapproving eyes don’t bore a hole there. Uncle Leonard pulls an eye patch from his pocket. The eye patch is simple paper and string, but he swings it in front of me like it’s a medal instead of paper with a skull and crossbones printed on it. “What say you, Matey,” he says. “Care to join me on the bow?” ¶ I don’t know what to say, but Mom does.

“Sidney!” she snaps, her voice going all high and pitchy like it does when she’s desperate. She’s standing, her arm on the table. Standing gives her power and when she speaks again, her voice doesn’t waver.

“Kitchen. Now.” ¶ It’s an order I’m not allowed to argue with. As I stand, she tells Dad and Uncle Charles to get Uncle Leonard off the table before he steps in the barbecue and knocks over the crystal vase. Then she shifts into hostess-mode to smooth things over with the rest of the family. Between that and Uncle Leonard’s cries for parley, no one notices me shuffle into the house and slam the screen door. ¶ Our kitchen is bright and white and lonely. The shrubs Mom had planted a few years ago block the only window.

The kitchen doesn’t have any pictures either, just a row of crows painted above the white-gray granite countertop, white shelf boxes along the white walls, and a

checkerboard tile floor. Everything’s black and white here. ¶ There’s a white clock with black numerals that ticks away the time I’ve been waiting. I sit on a stool at the island counter, counting the minutes and staring at the empty white cat bowl. Twenty minutes so far. The food’s gone, the people are outside, and our cat’s at the Vet because Great Aunt Edna has allergies. I miss Buttons and skinny jeans and riding the bus to school. I miss five months ago when I was fifteen and trustworthy. I miss not being eagle-eyed by Mom or whispered about at school. I miss seeing Jeff without stressing about the future. I hardly see him anymore since I told my parents about the bump. I miss the way things used to be, when we could watch Iron Man in my room without having my parents tell us to keep the door open and then “check in” on us every other minute. ¶ I miss all of these things, but mostly I miss not having the rest of the family around. My younger cousins screech every other word and they have no concept of privacy. Uncle Shawn snores loudly enough to cut down a forest and complains too much, though he’s the least of my problems. Great Aunt Edna’s face is forever sour and her eyes are forever cold.

She speaks only about the “proper way” to do things and, when she thinks I’m not listening, I hear her politely tell Mom that I’m starting to get fat. Grandma hears Great Aunt Edna, but smiles it all away.

Uncle Leonard, Uncle Charles, and Lindsay are all right, but I wish the rest would leave already so I can take the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” books out of the attic before I pop. ¶ That’s the worst part, I think. I had actually gotten used to the bump. I had gotten used to the stares and the whispers and not seeing Jeff as much as I’d like and getVOLUME 47

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This is an illustration by John Medford

This is textiles by Emma Smith

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ting eagle-eyed by Mom. And when it all bothered me, I could retreat home where my room was my own and it didn’t matter that I had the bump. Then the Reunion date came around and Mom remembered this was our year to host it and that Great Aunt Edna didn’t think it proper to let babies have babies. Great Aunt Edna has never missed a family reunion or the opportunity to blame the parents for everything that went wrong in their child’s life. ¶ “Didn’t raise them properly,” she would say. “It was only a matter of time before they got themselves in trouble.” ¶ Trouble. The thought makes the air hot and my head woozy. Everyone thinks I’m in trouble.

“I’m starting to get fat.” ¶ I remove my sweatshirt and swing my legs to pass the time, watching as my feet smack the middle rung of the stool beside mine. My legs are short and thin.

Right now, the bump fills my t-shirt. It’s not exactly small, but it’s manageable.

In a few months, though, my legs will look like toothpicks trying to hold up a jumbo marshmallow. It’ll be weird when I won’t be able to see my feet whenever I’m standing up. Keeping secrets from the rest of the family will be even harder then.

And when the next family reunion rolls around, it’ll be game over. We’ll have to tell then, unless Mom and Dad act like they adopted a kid or something and we could just pile lie on top of lie until we’ve got enough lies to build a Jenga tower. ¶ I was never very good at Jenga. ¶ When the hot spell ends, the air cools, and I put on my sweatshirt again. Two minutes elapse and the door opens and Mom comes in with Dad and Uncle

Charles in tow. There’s a folded white tablecloth with black scribbles all over it in her hands and fury in her eyes. Judging by her expression and the quick, mechanical steps she takes, she’s less-than thrilled with Uncle Leonard’s latest antics—and that’s putting it mildly. I jump off the stool and pretend to be fascinated by the crows on the wall. Mom’s like a bulldozer when she’s like this: get in her way and she’ll run you over. It’s safer to avoid eye contact.

There’s a disquieting slap as the tablecloth hits the counter. Behind me, I hear Mom suck in a breath to calm herself. “He has to go,” she exhales. “The reunion’s stressful enough without him ruining our dinner and tablecloths. Edna’s going to have a proper fit if he stays any longer.” ¶ I turn around. Dad is standing by the refrigerator—a safe distance away from Mom. There are stress lines on his forehead and he looks paler. I’m not sure if it’s the reunion or our secret that’s taking its toll on him. ¶ Uncle Charles is leaning against the door, his hands tucked into the pockets of his red sweatshirt, and an easy smile on his face. “He just wanted to make a pirate flag,” Uncle Charles says. ¶ Mom’s back is to them. Her palms are flat against the island counter and she’s staring into the granite like it’s got the solution to all her problems. “That’s not funny. He really thinks he’s a pirate, you know.” ¶ “I know,” Uncle Charles says. “Who do you think got him the costume? It was Lindsay’s idea to give him eye patches in case he wanted a crew.” ¶ Dad guffaws. “You should’ve gotten him a flag,” he says between laughs. “Then he wouldn’t have to try and make one out of our tablecloth.” ¶ Uncle Charles rolls his eyes. “I’m not made of money, Gerard,” he says. “It’s not VOLUME 47

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This is a cyanotype by Zoë Symon 64

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like Leonard’s making money to help pay the bills. I’ve got to do it all on my own and I’ve still got Lindsay’s college to save for.

Kids aren’t cheap, you know.” ¶ “I know,” Dad replies. ¶ Mom looks up and zeroes in on me. She mouths the words: “Kids aren’t cheap.

See?” It’s another reminder that I’ve got a hard row to hoe. Another silent “I told you so.” She’s been doing that a lot lately.

I told you going out with that boy was a mistake.

I told you I knew morning sickness when I saw it.

I told you, people talk.

I told you kids aren’t cheap. (As if I didn’t think about it every day).

I told you this wasn’t going to be easy on any of us. ¶ I mouth the words: “I know” and hope she leaves it at that. ¶ Mom picks up the ruined tablecloth and motions for me to take it. When I do, she

¶ “Aye,” I say as the door swings shut behind me. “Consider it done.” ¶ The second the door closes, I hear Mom’s voice and stop. “Don’t encourage her,” she says, her voice low but clear, and I realize she’s talking to Uncle Charles. ¶ “What?” Uncle Charles says back. “Leonard still needs a crew…and a ship, come to think of it.” He mumbles the last part, but since he’s standing at the door, I can still hear every word he says. ¶ There’s a pause and I imagine Mom giving Uncle Charles one of Great Aunt Edna’s icy glares. “You know, Charles, I sometimes wonder if Leonard’s really better off living with you.” The words are rushed, stressed, and cold. I jump when I hear them. My head gets fuzzy as she continues. The air gets considerably warmer around me. “You probably don’t have him on any medication.” ¶ “Sarah,” Dad says, shocked. But Mom serves him a quick, “it’s true,” and Dad

“Hardly anyone’s paid attention to me and that’s just what she wants.” tells me to give it to Uncle Leonard. That he’s probably out back with Lindsay and that I should have some fun tonight. She doesn’t tell me the real reason why I can leave the kitchen and I don’t ask. Uncle Leonard’s been the center of attention this entire weekend. Hardly anyone’s paid attention to me and that’s just what she wants. If they don’t notice me, they can’t notice the bump. All I really had to do was wait it out in the kitchen until Uncle Leonard did something else crazy. ¶ Uncle Charles holds the door open for me as I leave. “Tell the good captain I still want an eye patch,” he says, putting on his best pirate voice.

doesn’t say anything else. ¶ Uncle Charles has never been one to get into a fight. He’d rather shrug off nasty comments than dole out his own. “He doesn’t need any,” he says coolly, and I can see him shrugging as he replies. “He’s just eccentric. The doctor even said so.” ¶ “Well, he wouldn’t have made that diagnosis if he’d seen Leonard’s ‘little’ performance today. Face it, Charles, Leonard’s crazy. Going along with his insanity isn’t doing him any good. He needs professional help, Charles.” ¶ “I am helping him,” Uncle Charles says.

“You’re just annoyed because Sidney thinks he’s funny.”

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¶ “She’s young,” Mom exclaims. “She doesn’t understand the situation. She doesn’t realize he’s being serious, so she laughs. She doesn’t know the ‘proper’ way to act around him.” ¶ I feel the tablecloth slip through my hands, watch it wilt on the floor. I’m so tired of hearing about the “proper way” to do things. I’m tired of people staring at Uncle Leonard because he decides to say what’s on his mind—even if what’s on his mind is reciting Shakespeare on the dinner table or acting like a pirate for a weird holiday. I’m tired of feeling ashamed,

“Sidney,” he says. He’s got his hands up in defense, like he’s afraid I’ll bulldoze him like Mom does. “That’s not necessary.” ¶ “It’s true,” I say. “She’s as bad as Great Aunt Edna.” ¶ Mom stops laughing. “You’re naïve,” she says. “And you’re too stubborn to admit when you’ve made a mistake. Or ask for help when you need it,” she says, shifting her eyes to the bump. The look makes me want to vomit and I have to back up to the door in case I actually do. ¶ “It wasn’t my mistake,” I say, because she’s right about one thing; I can be pretty

“I’m pregnant,” I say, my hand closing around the brass doorknob. “You should’ve raised me properly.” and I’m tired of keeping secrets. I know I shouldn’t open the door. I know it probably isn’t good for me or for the bump, but the room is hot with fighting and after the weekend I’ve had, I’m ready to fight. ¶ “I understand the situation perfectly,” I shout as soon as I open the door. “I just don’t see anything wrong with it.” ¶ For a moment, Mom stares at me like I have five heads, but she recovers quickly.

“No you don’t,” she says. “You think you do, but you don’t. Because if you did, then you wouldn’t laugh, you’d pity him.” ¶ “You don’t pity him,” I fire back. “You’ve never pitied him. You just act like he’s crazy and try to send him off so you won’t have to deal with him anymore.” ¶ Mom laughs at this, like it’s absurd, even though I know I’m right. She’s in denial.

Like he’s just read my mind, Uncle Charles nods. ¶ Stress lines reappear on Dad’s forehead.

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stubborn. My back hits the door. “I’m pregnant,” I say, my hand closing around the brass doorknob. “You should’ve raised me properly.” ¶ I turn the doorknob, disappear through the door, ignoring Mom’s shouts to come back, and run right into Uncle Leonard.

“Matey!” he exclaims, but I don’t want to talk. I steady myself, turn on my heel, and keep walking before he can say anything else. ¶ I walk until I’ve reached the top of the hill at the end of our neighborhood. My legs and back are aching so I find a grassy spot near the sidewalk and stretch out. The moon is out and the stars are shining so brightly, I think I may even be able to see some constellations. I search the stars, but I can’t find anything that I recognize as actual constellations. Not even the Dippers are out tonight. So I play “connect the stars” and find diapers, baby bottles, paci-

fiers, strollers, and cribs. Like my future as a mom is somehow written in the stars. As though being a mom is inevitable, which is perfect, because it’s not something I think I’ll end up regretting. I stare at the stars until my mind wanders and suddenly I’m thinking of Uncle Leonard’s Shakespearean performance on the table. ¶ To be or not to be. The words run laps through my mind. I used to think they formed a question, but now I can only think of one statement. ¶ I am going to be a teenage mother, but I’m not going to be ashamed of it. It’s not a question. It’s a point, like a star in the sky.

I think of other points I want to be or not be in my life until I hear footsteps and my uncle’s voice, “Ahoy, Matey.” ¶ “Ahoy.” ¶ Uncle Leonard sits beside me. He’s still in his pirate costume, but he’s wearing tennis shoes and socks. It’s an odd combination, but it works. “Charting stars, are you?” he asks. I nod. His footwear isn’t the only thing that’s changed. I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s different now, calmer and less eccentric somehow. He even sounds more serious, though he’s still speaking like a pirate. “What’s the voyage?” ¶ “My future,” I say, “but I need a crew.” ¶ Uncle Leonard grins. “Sounds like you’ve already got a little skipper,” he says, gesturing towards my stomach. “How many months?” ¶ “Five, so far. Were we that loud?” ¶ He shrugs. “Was right outside the door, Matey.” He reminds me. “And you were shouting. It wasn’t a real challenge.” ¶ Wonderful. “Does the rest of the family know?” He shakes his head “no” and the relief is like a cool breeze. ¶ There’s silence as we stare at the stars and then he stops the pirate talk and says, “I’m not crazy, by the way. You can ask— the doctor diagnosed me as weird beyond

all reason—but he never diagnosed me as insane.” ¶ “You don’t have to convince me, Uncle Leonard,” I say. “You’re family, so you’re part of my crew either way.” ¶ “Good,” he says. “That’s the way it should be.” ¶ I nod. I squint at the stars and try to find the brightest to pick, but there are too many to choose from. “I’m not sure where to go next.” ¶ “I know a place down there,” he says, and jerks his thumb down the street. “I heard it comes with a large crew. Some are even good.” He came to get me. The realization hits me like an oncoming storm and I sit up. He was being responsible—that’s why he was acting so strange. “What say you, Matey?” he asks, getting to his feet. ¶ I look down the road and imagine my house. It’s nothing fancy, just another cookie-cutter brick house in the suburbs.

But right now, it’s stuffed to the gills with family and hidden baby supplies. And I know that secret isn’t meant to last. So, I say “Aye. There’s the point.’”

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UNTITLED This is a poem by Alex Petercuskie That is a series of drawings by Bryan Paxton

Your hands clear my head of throbbing thoughts To ease my mind again Like bread soothes the stomach Just as thunder shakes this earthly world Your warm lips seize the breath of my chest I stop, you stop We continue to kiss And our hectic movements Like the busy ceiling fan Leave us motionless As we are made insensible again

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NO CEILING This is a poem by Darren Lipman That is an illustration by Rebekah Severs

There is nothing more beautiful than

walking with your eyes closed into the wind

feeling the ground beneath your feet and the life within There is nothing more precious than

where we begin

and where we end Nothing softer than

the heartbeat I hear

with your chest against my ear There is nothing as amazing

as lightning enlightening

touching others with our actions

seeding their reactions and there is nothing incomplete

when you speak

or broken

when left unspoken only this feeling

of no floor

no ceiling

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HOW DID YOU KNOW? This is a short story by Trinh Le That is a photograph by Katie Yuri Kim

as soon as i took a seat on that Ferris wheel, somehow you jumped right on, knowing that I needed some company that night. At first I frowned and said I wanted to be alone and I don’t ride with strangers. But then you laughed at me and took a seat anyway. We ended up talking and I was glad we rode together. How did you know that was just what I needed? When we got off the Ferris wheel you asked if I wanted some cotton candy and I said, “Sure.” We ended up eating two big ones. How did you know? How did you know that I love cotton candy?

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¶ When you got the nerve to ask me out on a date for the first time, instead of picking the traditional classic ‘dinner and a movie,’ you took me on a walk around the lake and we both got to feed the ducks.

That was the first time you held my hand.

When your fingers touched mine, my heart beat a thousand times faster. I felt a rush running up and down my spine and chills all over my body. My hands were shaky, I think you noticed that because you smiled—that smile that you give when you know something, a secret. It took me about thirty seconds to realize I had that big stupid grin spread across my face. I remember your hands under mine and bread in the center of my palms, you whispered in my ear, “It’s alright, they won’t bite.” I giggled because I thought it tickled when the baby duck ate out of my hand. You simply shook your head and smiled at me.

That smile that I have to keep on telling myself to breathe every time I see it. ¶ I remember when I didn’t make the cast list for the play I auditioned for, you were there for me. You held me close as I cried, and you told me that everything was going to be okay, and I would get another chance soon. Then you took me out to get some ice cream. You made me get vanilla instead of chocolate because you thought I needed to try something new. After about twenty minutes of convincing, I finally gave in. I smiled and without a doubt, admitted that I loved it. You smiled, kissed my forehead, and said “I knew you would.” How did you

know that? How did you always know what to do to make me smile? ¶ That one time when I had to cancel our date two hours in advance. Something important came up and I had to babysit.

I was ready for you to be mad at me—But no. You were so understanding, and it was almost unreal to me. You showed up at my doorstep with some mac ‘n cheese and two Disney classics, “Peter Pan” and “The Aristocats.” You wanted to help me babysit, and we watched the movies together with the kids. You didn’t mind at all. Why were you so understanding? ¶ That Saturday, we were going home from the art museum you had taken me to. You stopped in the middle of nowhere, took my hand and told me to follow you.

We stopped at this huge apple tree, and as I reached for the apple within my reach, you stopped my hand. You climbed as high as you could and got me the apple from way up there. You told me that apples within reach weren’t always good. You said apples at the top were hard to get but were worth it, and that they were always the best, and that I deserved the best. You were right about the apple tasting better.

It was the best apple I’ve ever had. And in that apple, I realized I tasted love, and that I was in love with you. I was teary, and you laughed at me for being such a girl. Then you pulled me to your chest, lifted my chin, and kissed me. ¶ Our first fight was over something silly.

I don’t even remember what it was about.

“How did you always know what to do to make me smile?”

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But what I do remember is that it was mostly my fault. I remember hanging up on you, slamming the door in your face, and yelling over the phone. How were you always so calm and never yelled at me? I remember crying. And when I got home, I opened the door, and the words ‘I’m Sorry’ were written out with candles on the floor.

You came up from behind me with two boxes of cotton candy. How did you always manage to win my heart? ¶ It was track season again, and you had to get in shape. I remember begging you to come and wake me up to go on a morning run with you. You told me that I wouldn’t be able to handle a three-mile run, but I begged and begged and did my best to convince you. Then the next morning you were at my house at 4:30 am. I was so excited, but I complained that I had no makeup on. You kissed my eyelids, messed my hair up a little, and told me I looked beautiful anyway. I was so excited, I told you that this three-mile run was no pressure and that I was sure I could keep up with your all-star, long-distance running legs. But then to my disappointment, after one mile I was so out of breath. You laughed, and we found a bench. I sat and waited for you to finish the rest of your run. After that, I refused to go running with you, but sometimes you convinced me to walk with you the first mile, and that I was always willing to do. ¶ But you’re not here anymore. I heard somewhere that sometimes when something too painful happens, we force ourselves to forget and trick ourselves into believing it never happened. I guess whoever said that was right, because I don’t even remember what happened. The only thing I can recall was riding in the ambulance holding your hand and…and everything else was a blur. I’m sorry that sometimes I could be a real pain and that

I hurt you—I didn’t mean to. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. Every day I spent with you was my new favorite day. You taught me love. You believed in me when no one else did. You had faith in me when I didn’t even have faith in myself.

I can still hear your soft whisper ringing in my ear, “Don’t be afraid to dream, and live. You have a big heart that will take you further than the Himalayas.” How did you know that?

We have so many memories, and I promise I’ll never forget them. You are a part of me now. I love you, always and forever. Rest in peace my angel.

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RALEIGH, NC 2 This is a poem by Meghan Surra That is a photograph by Marco Kawajiri

Today I must speak with you again.

Raleigh, when did the red brick surround me? I go home at night and fall asleep on a pile of your bricks. Sometimes I think my head is one of your bricks, and I’m sure my feet are, they’re heavy and I haven’t moved in a year.

Raleigh, how could you treat me so badly? You’ve always been abusive, hiding me in my room, kidnapping me, breaking my arm, bruising my brain and shooting toxins through my nerves. to highlight a little hurt…

Raleigh, you should take my bike. You know how much I love her.

You did? Well here, Raleigh, steal my shoes and cut my hair, maybe I’ll learn this time.

Damn.

Raleigh, you should drug me and lock me in a box of your bricks so I’ll never touch another human being in my life, clear the air from my lungs and kill me, lock me up, do something you coward.

Oh, did you?

Raleigh, I understand, and I’m really sorry—I used to have more pride than this.

Raleigh, I almost thought I had deserved this. But now I can’t stop hoping for you to shake me to death, to slip in the cracks of an earthquake and fall asleep under S Hargett St, a lump of compost in this red brick box.

Raleigh, I used to take better care of myself, I promise I’ll start today—but if you strike again, send the lightning through my spine and make this quick.

Raleigh, I’ve become so tired and I’ve always blamed it on you, but you never meant me harm, it was so much more than that.

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Raleigh, when I was locked in that room, surrounded by bricks, friendless and the whole psychological wheelchair.

You carried me to the hospital, straightened my bones and gave me all the morphine a man could want.

You saw me through loneliness and stayed up through long hours of the night with my waning spirit, smoking and bleeding through the eyes, so much the townsfolk couldn’t see our tears.

Raleigh, you’re a heavy drug, I’ve just begun to realize that I’m still high. Do I ever come down when you’re always there to pick me out of a crowd and find some good for me?

Raleigh, I’ve been blindsided and I demand justice. You can’t leave me on the cross alone, I’m not granted three days after life, this is it for me.

Raleigh, I don’t want to face this alone, but if I must—I’m sorry I called you a coward, I’m trying not to be one.

And that’s why I called on you today to say I’m sorry and that I’m ready.

I’m not afraid of lonesomeness, I’ll find out who my friends are, I’ll eat some fungus again and I’ve been meaning to find a rabbit for supper— I’ll dance in gasoline boots and spit in the eyes of demons and when my conflagration reaches the shores of Lethe, I’ll stare at the flames in the water and watch the old traveler fold into the sheets of my bed again and I’ll watch him hold his breath, stoic on the fringe of lunacy, and I’ll cut his throat and clear the air from these lungs.

Raleigh, I need a favor. But I’ve got my future to think of and a thousand memories to erase and the traveler follows me though the eyes are dry of acid.

Raleigh, stow this man with your bricks and bury him under S Hargett St. I’m getting down from here, I look silly.

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This is an illustration by Danny Unites

This is an illustration by Monica Galletto

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TIDAL WAVE This is an illustration by Jaime Andrews That is a poem by Amir Sanii

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Your presence surrounds me, as if I’m in the middle of the ocean; covering me head to toe.

Strengths vast and unmeasured, moving me at will.

I try to fight the current; to no avail.

Scissors cannot cut steel.

Kids cannot beat gravity.

I cannot fight this tide.

It is too much to swim withLosing all control, like ship swallowed by the sea, the water takes me.

Already flooding the whole of my mind, drowning my rampant thoughts, You fill the rest of me.

Swimming through my being, like you was pursued there.

Anticipation has churned my stomach before—not like This. New level. Stronger than before. The butterflies stand no chance. Every thought of You fills me further full.

Every drop overtakes me, brings me deeper below the surface. And as I sink closer and closer to the bottom, the depths of which I cannot fathom, my only thought is you.

Falling endlessly, the waves flowing over me throughout me my systems collapse.

Its over.

Troubles washed away.

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THE TRUTH THAT LIES BENEATH This is a short story by Luisa Jaramillo

it was steve’s mug that oscar was drinking coffee from and yet there were red lipstick marks around the rim. Like unexpected kisses. Unwelcome really since we were paying for the coffee and don’t know Steve or the woman who’s printed lips joined us for breakfast. I was the first to notice the red and was surprised by my own irritation because I knew how my father would react. I pointed to the pressed lips from across the table.

Oscar looked at the marks and used his thumb to scrub them off. “No es mayor cosa.” he replied, which is Spanish for eh…not a big deal. Then my brother pointed to other lipstick remnants on a spot that was out of my sight. My father reacted in the same way…rubbed it off and continued to drink from Steve’s mug. ¶ I have inherited so many of his wonderful traits. Like the one illustrated here to ignore the little inconveniences and focus on the moments and surroundings that have every capacity to make us happy. Others may view this particular scenario as filthy and simply unpleasant. It is both really. As much as I admire this man and the majority of his qualities I don’t know that I would have continued to drink from that mug. And so it wasn’t so much our differing reactions to the situation, but I felt, perhaps unreasonably, that this red kiss was tainting what this breakfast was supposed to be—the first of a series of goodbyes for yet another new beginning for all of us. ¶ In less than a month both my brother and I will be leaving the nest that our parents have created and enriched. For my father, at 70 years of age, this will be the third big chapter of his life that will be coming to some sort of a close. He will continue to be our father regardless of how far we go but to deny the changes before us would be extremely idealist. I will 82

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be departing for my Peace Corps placement to Guatemala—a 27-month commitment—and Lucas is joining the Marine Corps. He departs nine days before I do. ¶ To an outside observer my father is a 70 year-old man with all but two teeth missing, unable to communicate in English and his occupation is in maintenance. It would be easy to make assumptions about the choices that led Oscar to where he stands today, but the truth that lies beneath is the very measure of success. ¶ What if success is not measured by the career ladder you climb, the money you accumulate, the privileges you are able to enjoy, or the power you attain, but rather by the lives you have favorably impacted and by the number of people that hold you in the highest regard? ¶ My father was 46 when I was born and 51 when my brother was born.

Before we became the very purpose of his existence, he had already experienced a very eventful and fulfilling life. ¶ His big first life chapter was as the oldest of nine children growing up in the small town of Girardota, Colombia. Because he was the oldest he shared many of the household responsibilities with his parents. He was an advocate for his younger siblings—the voice of reason. From a young age he was interested in the study of religion and as soon as he was eligible he started seminary school. He knew early on that it was the right path for him because of his interest in theology and the captivated audience promised for this role as a priest. It was an honor to have a minister in the family. This is especially true in the Catholic culture of Latin America in which the priest is the gateway to a religious, and thus holy, life. And as he embarked on this new journey he drew a close to the first significant chapter of his life. ¶ He served as a priest for 15 years in three different towns. He engaged the community through youth and adult collaboration teams. In Fredonia (where he first served), over 200 houses were built for families in need.

Raffles were the main source of funding. A particular cow was raffled off at least a dozen times because each succeeding winner—recognizing the cause—would be unwilling to accept it and thus the cow raffle would continue. Oscar was in Fredonia for seven years, until tensions between him and Alfonso Lopez Trujillo, the cardinal, rose to a breaking point. It was expected that a tithe be met by the small congregation of Fredonia, and to this Oscar was largely opposed. He refused to send the amount demanded by the stipulations set forth by the Church, if any at all. There were needs to be met and if the town was raising the money, then it should remain there to benefit those in most need. ¶ As a result Oscar received his first relocation assignment. He was to move to Titiribi. Trujillo presumably had hoped that a town with less poverty would compel Oscar to abide by the demands set before him. Yet there was work to do here too, and thus the fundraising efforts continued and more houses were built. Accordingly, Oscar was then moved to the VOLUME 47

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city. In Envigado the church community expressed concern for a muchneeded bridge in a poorer area of town and so the fundraising efforts continued (although not for houses this time, but that didn’t make a difference). The mounting strains with Trujillo were coupled with another occurrence—the emerging relationship with the woman that would become my mother, Claudia Maria Diez. ¶ At the time, Claudia was part of Oscar’s youth group (she is 20 years younger) and his arrival to Envigado triggered an unprecedented interest for mass and church-related affairs in Claudia. Her parents were thrilled.

As the oldest of three daughters, her parents hoped that her new found affinity for the church would set an example for her two younger sisters.

Little did they know, she wanted to get in the priest’s pants. ¶ His career as a priest had reached a decisive end and the third big chapter of his life was before him…as a husband and father. ¶ My father never thought of living in another country. His language, culture and work had all been crafted in Colombia. It was his life as he knew it…the very best of it. His heaven on Earth. Moving to the United States was more of an escape than a decision as we were persecuted. Our lives were in immediate danger and so we fled into the very essence of the unknown.

“Moving to the United States was more of an escape than a decision as we were persecuted.” ¶ In his younger years, my father had tried (and miserably failed) to learn both Latin and English and this was one of his biggest fears…the intellectual isolation he would have to accept if he was to move to the States.

Yet, it was never a question of whether to go or not. Nor has it ever been a path that he communicates disappointment with. There is only what is, not what could have been. He is the most content man that I know— without resentments towards God, or life, more generally. ¶ As a young child he worked hard to support his family, keep the farm running and help raise his younger siblings. As a priest he brought people to collaborate in the benefit of both individuals and the greater community. During his years in Fredonia, he even taught religion and psychology at the local high school. When he left priesthood he went back to school and pursued a degree in business administration. He has made endless sacrifices for his family—moving to the United States when he was 55, leaving behind every part of the past that had shaped him. ¶ Since we first moved to the States, both my parents have worked numerous jobs simultaneously. My father used to walk an hour to and from work each day because we only had one car and my mother (work84

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ing further away) took priority use of it. When we lived in Florida, my father worked the night shift at various gas stations. In North Carolina he has worked in maintenance; first at rdu airport and more recently at St. Michael’s The Archangel, a catholic church in Cary. Sort of ironic really.

A few decades ago he stood before the altar of a gathering much like the one at St. Michael’s. Today he cleans the bathrooms and collects the trash. ¶ And what has led him here? His unwillingness to compromise on the simple truths that he held within. His internal compass for compassion and love. And I have the immense privilege of having this man as my father. Inevitably he carries every choice he has ever made, and consequently so do I. Every one of my accomplishments and future successes are as much mine as they are his. And this is his success—the seeds that will carry forth his love for people into the big chapters of our very own lives.

This is a painting by Erin Roberts That is a design by Danny Unites

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FIRE DREAM This is a poem by Alex Petercuskie That is a photograph by Sid Gandra

To be reduced to the size of a minuscule human being Weaving through the fire inside of baby trees The short, heavy logs burn shapes like those of lions Masks of fierceness, masks of delight As embers engrave their wooden face I want to pick and roll through the gleaming flames To feel the thrill with no burn Bursting orange, lipstick red Their smoldering walls border my head Though I stay free; unfettered like a bird As I race through a trail of continual flames I sing a song of friendless cries Of flushed inquiries and a casual pain But, a pain so grand like my feral green eyes In the skies and of my mind The single time I deflect the cries

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A THANK YOU FROM THE EDITOR I would like to thank Frank Pulley and Theo Davis Printing for their guidance, patience and generosity in helping us make and print this book.

Frank has been a fantastic resource for us over the years and has proved his loyalty many a time by continuing to be such a big part in making this publication possible. Thank you for everything that you do and the kindness with which you do it. ¶ Thank you to George Thomas at the Crafts Center for your help in creating a fantastic venue for our events and for being so flexible and helpful in the process. Your eagerness to help out and consistent availability has been a great help and resource. ¶ A special thank you to Martha Collins. You have been a fantastic advisor, and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to be on my team. Thank you for always being there, being prepared, and keeping calm; couldn’t have done it without my Student Media Mom. Thanks are also extended to Krystal Baker, Patrick Neal, Doug Flowers and the rest of the Student Media Staff. You all are an immeasurable source for all of us at Student Media and without your assistance, knowledge and willingness to help, none of us would have these tremendous opportunities. ¶ I would like to thank my incredible design team. You all have put so much time and effort into the making of this book, and that cannot go without massive thanks. You have all worked very hard to share your own inspirations through design, and in doing so showed your devotion to this publication. Thank you for sharing your talent in order to allow others to do the same and thank you for being such fantastic people to work with in the process. ¶ Thank you to my family and friends who have supported me throughout this process and have helped me become the person that I am today.

This has been a fantastic experience and that is due to all of you who helped make this possible. ¶ Finally, thanks to all of you for reading Windhover. This book would not be possible without the incredibly talented students, faculty and alumni at N.C. State who share their passions and visions with us. You are what has made and kept this book possible and we hope you enjoy it!

Lisa Dickson

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THIS IS WINDHOVER

WINDHOVER TEAM editor Lisa Dickson

printing Theo Davis Printing

short story editor Alayna Veasey

typefaces Elena, Process Type Foundry Milo Pro, Font Shop

poetry & prose editor Ajita Banerjea visual editor Erin Holloway

papers Classic Crest Eggshell, Cover Stock Cougar, Text Stock

publication designers Ian Thomas Allison Hale Kelley Rathod Morgan Moore visual Victoria Yauch Darren Lipman literary Lana Chiad Rachel Bobyak Amanda Wilkins Rebecca Locklin Robert Sweet

Š Copyright Student Media 2013

VOLUME 47

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