Windhover 2018 by NC State Student Media

WINDHOVER Vol. 52 North Carolina State University 2017 - 2018

A Letter From The Editor

Dearest reader, Our job as creators is to reflect what we see in the world, for the lasting impacts of our work to generate positive change in our environments. The writer, artist, and creator are necessary pieces of a culture. Assembling the discrete experiences of each contributor to this publication illustrates the broadest, most encompassing image of our communities. Creating is an act of passion, and with that passion in mind, I am honored to present to you the 52nd volume of Windhover. This book could not have been completed without the unrelenting dedication from my advisor, Martha Collins, who stepped in with kindness and wisdom at every step of the publication process. I further owe my undying gratitude to my staff, especially Kali Fillhart, Clara May, MJ Sanqui, Cas Saroza, Anna Schecterson, and Xenna Smith, an astounding group of folks I thought could only appear in dreams. Finally, a warm thanks is owed to Kenny Shepherd and the staff at Theo Davis Printing who brought this book to life in alluring tangibility. Without the hard work contributed by these remarkable people, as well as our readership and those who submitted, this book would have never come to fruition. Whether you choose to enjoy this book in small pieces or immerse yourself all at once, an exciting journey lies ahead. Warmest regards, C Phillips

Ode to the Sailor The Phoenician galley sailing to Carthage, The Portuguese Caravel bound for Goa, The freighter of steel on a frosty lake, All rest forever in a tomb with no name. -Jonah Breaking waves beneath a dreary sky, Roaring gale and brine that flies, Voices bouncing off the sails, Hulls, wood and steel, worn and frail, From age to age and sea to sea, Polynesia to Galilee, Fisherman and explorer, all the same, Roll the dice and play the game. When the shore fades and surf turns rough, And dawn turns red and rigging snaps, Siren and reef call forth with wrathful song, Fury of storm that gives and takes, Beckons all beneath the spray. -St. Elmo Sailors, tired, salted, worn, Galley and freighter, beat and torn, All may rest beneath the waves, A peaceful sleep, A murky grave. Samuel Deese

An Evening With My Mother Mom sits ahead of me, her face is sweet with evening, she wears a sweater made of wool. I don’t really know if it’s wool, but it makes me think of yarn. It used to belong to aunt Harriett, and is still laced with the smell of perfume and cigarettes, each scent perfectly stitched into the fabric. It’s brown like a walnut, and warm, like a mother’s hug, almost as though Harriett were still in it today. I look beyond her face to the window, soak in as much, as much of the yard as my vision will allow, like a sponge left in a drought. I take it in as a flood, desperate. Snow covers the ground, glistening like diamonds against the light, and I am content. I sway my head with the branches, watch as their silhouettes darken. Griffin James

Desolate Katie Harris Photography

Milk and the Milky Way The floorboards cave under careful tiptoes as I slip to the kitchen to pour a glass of milk and keep company with the stars. Mama always said hot milk was the way to shut eyelids, but I press a chilled glass to my lips instead, hoping for the opposite. I never was allowed to stay up this late, but what Mama didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. Tonight I dream of star tents and kaleidoscope constellations— and the chance to see the real deal—so I shimmy through the darkness to the porch, gentle to keep the screen door from slamming. I tilt my chin up to midnight sky, hoping to greet my galactic friends, but they have not come out to see me yet. Sighing, I sink to the couch and raise my glass in cheers to the Milky Way, and as I keep my eyeballs glued to the sky, my eyelids begin to come unglued.

But through fluttering, I see the star formations start to appear on a blackening canvas. Pegasus and Pisces, Andromeda and Aries, Cancer and Capricorn grow light in my vision as the night darkens. Orion swaggers up to join them, wielding his bow and arrow for the hunt as Ursa Major and Minor beg him not to shoot. I want to speak and ask them questions, but my words slur, sticking and flowing like molasses in my mouth. The stars are conversing though; the Gemini twins seem to bicker, and Leo roars mightily in a jungle of darkness. As the show goes on, my fluttering eyelids slow and then stop. Eyelashes now kissing my cheekbones, I lie quietly tucked in my midnight blanket instead, marveling over the characters who have woken up to meet me and usher me in to the galaxies with them. Abigail Scheper

Rachel Goswell Jules Conlon Photo Manipulation

For my ex-crush and friend, as promised, Or: Thoughts while on expedition in the desert

In sunscreen like war paint, you pointed me in a new direction; one of slow living, quick loving, and long, drawn-out wonder. You notice canyon tears of sand and tell jokes with wrens. These spaces are miraculous, and you seek them all. How you frustrate me most days! Your sure footprints— so much more confident than mine, and your words— God, you use them well. I like how you trust the earth, how you trust yourself. It still annoys me how often you’re right. I remember touching your shoulders as we rode back from town. Our friend drove, and as I sat in the back seat, I tried to pretend that I didn’t care— not about your warm skin, and especially not about your adventure-hungry spirit. It worked for about two minutes. (At least I tried.) We all were quiet as we got out of the car, gazing at bushels of stars.

You’re so good at being there, at being present. I never like to interrupt your awe. It’s nice to see you in love— perhaps it’s not the most realistic crush, but it’s sweet all the same. Sometimes I wish that she and I were one and the same, but most days, it warms me to see you even sunnier than usual. Your attention to the world intensifies— how badly you crave this planet, these people. I want so much for you, the very least being a steady stream of moments that take your breath away. There are so many joy-aches that come with this.

For some time, I wanted you to take my hand, kiss my forehead, to hold me how you did when we kept our friends from falling. Even more than that, I wanted you to see me how you saw slots in the earth— mysteries to explore, expose. What a gift to be of interest to you. Now, though, I’m simply glad that we’re here together, marveling at the orange-brown waves or underground seas. Have you ever seen a canyon? My heart is full, assured by the ease of your grin, the surprises of each morning, and the sureness of your presence. How lucky I am to love in this desert. Cambray Smith

Astrosphere Caleb Drum Photography

Ode to Hetero you haven’t thought about marriage yet? you’ll never get a man with that attitude you shouldn’t do this when you get a husband you need to wear makeup if you want to keep a man you should wear earrings so you don’t look like a dyke you don’t wear enough make up to have short hair you’re gonna be a heartbreaker you need to start looking for a man in college you know she’s a lesbian, right? you’re slim thick; boys really love that you will get married your future husband won’t be a weak man you will submit you gon’ make a man happy one day [you will be “straight”] Keilah Davis

Oceanum Nosce As I sit here on the beach Early in the morning I am supremely happy I feel so very loved How nice it is to finally write about happiness rather than depression Certainly I have not overcome it However Like the sea I stare at Hitting the rocks My demons are at bay Like the waves wildly tamed Both my sadness and content Splash upon the shore of my consciousness The tide is low So I mustn’t worry about becoming emotional As the waters of my two sides recede submissively back into the ocean that is my soul Dominique Favero

Sunbather Ashley Fleming Photography

First Kiss We walked through her backyard, past the lumber pile, and her dad watering their garden with a red hose. We walked between two boards, blackened with age, worn by last year’s hurricane. We followed a path of beaten down grass to a field beyond the trees. Past the pond where we went fishing last summer, our feet moving in time like dancers. We approached the abandoned silo her neighbor forgot he owned, the ladder squeaked with age, rust stuck to the sides like wallpaper. I watched her climb ahead of me, each foot moved with certainty, climbing higher and higher as if she were sprouting from the ground. The air seemed to tremble slightly, at the top, as if with heat or a breeze, the mid evening light got caught in her hair. We sat up there like gods at the dawn of the world, and our joy was so bright I could see nothing but her storm colored eyes. Come here, she whispered. Her voice went through me like wind in summer wheat. Her lips weren’t crisp like peppermint, they were humid like her breath, dampened with sweat. Her kiss didn’t replenish me, it consumed me, like a fire, set me ablaze. Blood racing through my veins, pounding into my lap. Her lips burnt mine like a twig in brush fire, her eyes crinkled like a leaf to a flame. Griffin James

Phoebe Jules Conlon Photography

Night Life Caleb Drum

Untitled. The quickest evolution of feelings ever known to her soul, yeah she was floating on a cloud filled with air, meaningless air but seeping in love, support, zero uncertainty. Then—poof—it disintegrated, dropping her down, down a slippery slope, onto the desolate, Spanish shore that broke her fall. A storm was coming, but she could not move so the waves took her in. As her body was shoved through their saline water, blood raced within her veins, and her screams for help finally broke the surface. To her rescue, a net fished her out but now, she is alone. Still to this day sometimes she wishes that on July 16th the net never found her. Marissa Simone Petri

Because of the Wind Because of the wind My leaves crunch under the feet of passersby Their colorful collage, symbols of my demise, as admired as they are ignored Because of the wind, Colluding with the earth and its gravity, My branches wreck havoc No windshield is safe Light posts and power cables and even homes fear me And yet in spite of the wind My roots have grown deep Breaking barren soil and taking in all the nutrients I need and leaving enough behind for others to prosper as well In spite of the wind I have bloomed I have bloomed In spite of In spite of Keilah Davis

Lantern and Window Samah Hasan Wood Sculpture

The Canny Narcissist

….And another thing to consider, when dealing with such a shady assortment. Possessing boundless ego and rampant self absorption, The Narcissist will begin a conversation in a way that tilts the table in their favor. After exchanging the usual pleasantries with The Narcissist, the question of “what did you do this weekend?” will inevitably come up. You will be the one asking it, due in no small part to The Narcissist’s practiced ability to ensure your half of the dialogue. Upon receiving this question, The Narcissist will smugly answer “I went to see a movie.” By leaving it on this precipitous note, The Narcissist has ensnared you. Proper manners beg you follow with “Oh! And what movie did you see?” at which point The Narcissist is free to ramble on until the end of time. Do not play this silly game. Reject social conduct and leave The Narcissist adrift, their viewing choice trapped in Schrödinger’s Box. A polite smile and

nod is enough to disentangle yourself from their trap, but does not cross the threshold of rudeness. Thrown off their game, The Narcissist will have no choice but to leave the direction of the conversation in your able hands. Be warned, however, that this technique will only work on novices and dunces. The more adept narcissist, also known as the Canny Narcissist, will pick up early on that their opponent is keen enough to sidestep elementary baiting. Instead, they will say “I went to see a movie. Do you want to know which one?” Chilling indeed. The Canny Narcissist is not to be taken lightly. When engaged with The Canny Narcissist, be aware that you are no longer navigating trifle conversation, but engaged in a battle of wits and subterfuge. To win, you’ll need skills introduced in the next chapter. Wil Mulligan

Untitled Amanda Speer Photography

Breakfast with Lude A man slid into the diner booth across from Lude and placed his hands on the table, a folded-over trench coat concealing them. “Hello,” said the man. His voice was sonorous, with a southern drawl like it had been casked in bourbon. Lude looked up from his plate, and the slight wince of his eyes and his minor recoil evinced his surprise. The man’s face was long, gaunt with wrinkled and sagging jowls. He was older, grey hair battling a recess into white. He wore a black bolo tie that hung limp against his pressed white shirt. What struck Lude most were the man’s eyes. They were large, the irises massive and brown. His lips were parted, forming the barest smile, yet showing no teeth. For a moment, Lude, who had just been served his breakfast and coffee and had taken nary a bite, could only watch the man and endure his leering. Lude’s brow furrowed in confusion and irritation. “Um, hello. Can I help you with something?”

Between Lude and the man, coffee smoke curled and vanished as it rose from the white ceramic mug, wafting off the black liquid and dancing among itself before fading in the air. The diner was quiet this morning, not too crowded or too busy, but full enough that there was an element of life to the place. Outside, visible through the large window beside Lude’s booth, the sun shone with its morning earnest, the dew on sidewalk grass dripping and evaporating. Across the street, a lobby receptionist was unlocking the doors to a building. The man’s lips closed, but the slight smile remained. He hummed softly. “Hmmmm.” The sound dripped with a cavernous tremor. “I’m sorry, but if there’s nothing I can help you with, I’m going to have to ask you to leave my booth. I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast in peace,” said Lude with annoyance-tinged diplomacy. “How do you think you’d react,” said the man, slow and deliberate, “if I told you that beneath this trench coat I had a gun, pointed right at your chest?” Lude’s mouth dropped as if to respond with a question, but no sound came out. He looked down at the trench coat covering the man’s hands, then back at the man. “What?” The man nodded. “You heard me. How do you think you’d react if I had a gun

pointed at you, hidden by my trench coat here?” Words again failed Lude. “Are…are you joking right now?” he said. The man just stared at Lude. The sharp, creasing crack of cheap leather followed Lude’s move to leave the booth. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the man. He shifted the trench coat in Lude’s direction. Lude froze halfway out the booth, staring directly at the coat. He locked eyes with the man. “You can’t be serious.” The man leaned back, pressing into the booth cushion. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Leave the booth and we can both find out.” Lude looked at the trench coat for a moment, feeling the waves of sheer presence that throbbed from the space it occupied. He turned to look around the rest of the diner, where the patrons and waitresses and cooks in the back all milled about, tending to their tasks. Lude sighed and slid back into his seat. He placed his hands flat on the table and remained very still. He looked the man square in his large, brown eyes. “What do you want?” The man ignored Lude’s question. “I’m glad you decided to stay and chat.” He let out a small laugh. “Good man.” Lude kept his hands pressed down on the table, trying not to break eye contact

with the man. “What do you want to talk about?” The man sniffed, frowning. “We don’t need to get into the weeds right away, do we? Go on, eat your meal, drink your “Do you think I’ve got one? A gun? Or coffee. I’m sure you’re hungry.” The do you think I’m just fucking with you?” man’s slight, toothless smile returned, said the man. A woman in heels clickand the sirens of fight or flight alarms clacked by the booth, typing at her phone. rang inside Lude. Neither Lude nor the man shifted their “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather-” gazes from one another. “I said,” the man interrupted rather “I’m not positive one way or the other, sternly, “eat. Go on now. I’ll wait.” but I’m working off the assumption that The man sat like a stone while Lude you do. That seems to be the safer option,” ate, the only sign of animation the way said Lude. his long jowls rippled under the breath “How pragmatic of you,” said the of his nostrils. Lude ate with a careful man, speaking with a slow luxury. He deliberation, trying not to appear rushed leaned in. “So in your mind, either I’m a or harried, taking painstaking efforts crazy man with no gun, enacting a mad to avoid sudden movements. He was scheme to strike the fear of god into an conscious of every chew and swallow, unfortunate innocent, or I’m a crazy man conscious of the way the coffee gulped with a gun, testing you, and weighing in down his gullet, conscious of the man’s his insane metric whether you’re worth eyes on him, eyes which Lude had not sparing. Either way, humph” the man seen blink once. gave a laugh like a hiccup, “looks like Lude drained the rest of his coffee and you’re dealing with crazy.” returned to his hands to the table, placed “You don’t have to be crazy. Not with care beside his knife and fork. necessarily,” said Lude. “There,” Lude said, “I’m done.” One of the man’s eyebrows raised. The man nodded. “What’s your name?” They were full and grey and Lude noted The words drawled out. how, much like everything else on this “Lude. What’s yours?” man’s face, they possessed a reserved “You don’t seem very afraid Lude.” expressiveness. “No?” the man said. Lude coughed to clear his throat. “I “No. I imagine you could have a haven’t figured out yet if I should be.” perfectly sane reason for doing this, one that I’m simply not privy to.” As he said the words, Lude felt his heart beat flutter a little more. The man regarded Lude and then

turned to look out the window beside them. The sun caught his face, deepening the shadows of his wrinkles. His voice came from his throat. “Can’t imagine many others would be so cavalier in the face of a man like me.” Looking at the coat on the table, Lude pursed his lips. “No, I guess they wouldn’t. But for my own caution, I have to act like you have a gun. And for my own mental health, I have to act under the assumption you’re sane. Because if you’re sane, you can be reasoned with, and I’ll be able to leave this booth.” The man turned to look back at Lude in a way Lude could only relate to contemplation. “What do you, under all your assumptions, think I want? What do you have to say to me, to end our little situation here?” Shifting in his seat, Lude turned the empty coffee mug on the table, his fingertips spinning the rim. It made a soft scratching sound on the table’s cheap plastic as its base slowly rotated. “I’ve heard you’re supposed to humanize yourself in the eyes of a gunman. Tell them about your life, your family, where you’re from. It’s supposed to make them less likely to shoot you. You’re not a target then, you’re a person.” The sun shining through the window cast shadows from the salt and pepper shakers, and the napkin dispenser, and

the shadows were as implacable as Lude and the man. “You gonna tell me your life story then?” said the man. “Would it work?” asked Lude. “No,” said the man. Lude’s fingertips pressed into the mug’s rim. His throat hurt, and Lude realized he was holding back tears. “Then no, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you want to hear.” The man nodded, as if he had heard something expected. “I appreciate your candor. Always nice to talk to a man of candor.” He returned to staring out the window, turning his neck while seemingly nothing else. “I’ll tell you what. You answer this question to my satisfaction, and we’re done here. So tell me Lude…” When the man turned back to him, Lude noticed the toothless grin had grown in size, emphasizing the grinch-like lines on his face. “…Tell me, do you deserve to live?” An exhale escaped Lude’s chest, and within that tuft of air the notes of panic and fear rang out. “What do you mean?” said Lude. The man shrugged. “Do you deserve to live? Past this moment. Do you deserve the opportunity to get up from this table and go on with the rest of your life? To make mistakes and learn from them. To continue your relationships with friends

and family. Do you deserve that?” The slackening of his breath grounded Lude in the moment. His palms, which had grown slick with sweat over the course of the conversation, threatened to slide against the table and betray Lude’s facade of stillness. His heart thudded against his chest, agitated and heavy, while his saliva glands worked frantically to wet his mouth. But it was his breath, which was now brief and shallow, that gave Lude a totem of focus and prevented him from being lost to the sensations. He began to return himself to a state of rest, and he sought to distill a response from the turmoil. All the while, the man watched him. “When you say that you want me to answer the question to your satisfaction, do you mean that there’s a right answer, or just one that will appease you?” said Lude. “What do you think?” said the man. “I think,” Lude started slowly, “that just like everything else you’ve said, there’s no way of knowing. I think,” Lude took a deep breath, “that my only recourse is to be honest. I don’t trust myself to trick you with what you just want to hear. I don’t even see how that could be figured out. So, I’m just going to have to trust the honesty of my answer to see me through.” The man nodded expectantly. Lude clenched his jaw. “No. No I don’t deserve to live.”

Lude closed his eyes, squinting them shut and unsure of what came next, but the man laughed, his baritone rumbling startling Lude. When he opened his eyes, Lude found the man hunched forward with conspiratorial glee. “Why?” The man’s eyes seemed to widen briefly with the word, a movement so small and quick Lude was unsure it hadn’t been imagined. Moving them at a languid pace, Lude clenched his hands into fists, and relaxed them flat on the table, rubbing them against its surface. Over and over, he repeated this action. “I don’t know your religion, your morals. I don’t know where I would have to go, what level I would have to pander to, to justify why I ‘deserve’ anything, even something as fundamental as my life. You could be a nihilist for all I know, and nothing I say would prove how deserving I am. So all I can tell you is that I might not deserve to live, but I want to. I truly, truly want to. And there you have it. There’s my answer.” The space in the diner felt stretched, pulled taut like a plastic sheet. The man’s eyes narrowed, and Lude watched him inhale, a deep breath expanding him so that he dominated the opposite side of the booth. His smile was gone, his lips drooping down. A cloud passed over the sun, and the implacable shadows vanished. The man’s brown eyes,

deepened by the disappearing sun, bore into Lude’s. Lude waited. And then, the man exhaled. The cloud passed the sun, bringing the shadows back to form and the man’s smile with them. “A man of candor,” he said, more to himself than Lude. He moved out of the booth and stood up. “Goodbye Lude, enjoy the rest of your day.” Trench coat still covering his hands, the man turned and walked out of the diner. A waitress came over to Lude, looking at her note pad. “You ready for the check, hon?” When Lude offered no answer, the waitress looked up to see his colordrained face staring blankly at the space across from him. “Hon, are you alright?” Outside, the dew finished drying and the lobby receptionist greeted the first visitors of the day. Wil Mulligan

Untitled Alanna Hart Embroidery

New Life Sugandha Singh Photography

Hallowed Be Thy Name O Fall Hallowed be thy name O fall, When the sun’s warmth recedes, Emerald to auburn, serene, sublime, A call to robin and chickadee, Green leaves that were the sky, Blown upon knoll and low by northern winds, Ice be thy name coming on the gale, A southern home prepared for gander and crow, Fall, thy palisade of crimson, soon brown and grey, Snow on the horizon, A hurried spring I pray, Mercy beneath December’s dark, Clear virile streams with reborn life, Another year, To pursue so gay a summer as was had, And now exists with the crimson leaves, Now dead and brown, And buried with fleeting memories, As each day grows colder still, So is the machination of the untouched world, When the hallowed name of fall is called againe. Samuel Deese

No Mirrors Marcus Reefer Photo Illustration

I Don’t Know What to Call This Feeling I Marcus Reefer Photo Illustration

Waiting It’s peaceful. I go about my day and eat the greasy food that my friends and I share and I talk about my hair and my shoes. It is peaceful. I listen to music and I talk to my mom about my day and I see a dog and I go to sleep at an unholy hour. It wakes me up. I rise before the sky even has time to think of sunshine. I go about my day and I am linear and I sleep. It wakes me up. I make a beeline for the bathroom and don’t have time for breakfast and get ready in a hurry and I itch. It follows. There are eyes tattooed to my neck and fingerprints on my forearm and the wind makes my eyes water and people think I’m crying. It talks to me. I itch and I scratch and it bleeds. I wash it off in the shower and the water drowns out the noise. It mirrors me. I mess up my eyeliner and it fixes it for me and brushes my hair before I put it in a bun and it walks me down the stairs. It mirrors me.

I make motions that aren’t mine and I can see it in my face and I go about my day and I am linear and I sleep. It wakes me up. It follows me. It talks to me. It mirrors me. It talks to me. It follows me. It talks to me and I listen. I go about my day and I am ashamed and I make a beeline for the bathroom and my eyes are wet and I tell people it’s the wind. It’s a bittersweet reunion as our conversation lingers and it enters my veins and it stays and it itches and I scratch and I bleed and my arms burn. I go about my day and it talks to me and I wear headphones to drown out the noise and I take a shower to drown out the noise and I sleep to drown out the noise. It suffocates me with pressure and I mirror it and it’s quiet. It dies. I killed it. It’s dead. It’s peaceful. I go about my day and eat the greasy food that my friends and I share and I talk about my hair and my music and my mom says I sleep at an unholy hour. It wakes me up. Alexis Riddick

Patiently Waiting Kayla Watson Photography

Vast Katie Harris Photography

Where I Found You I remember your body stretched out on the lawn Humid evening air and waning rays of sun fill in the dusk It smells like dad cut the grass this afternoon and the Murphys are having a cookout across the street Under the reaching green arms of our oak tree Is where I found you Unexpected yet welcome Like a conch shell on a mountaintop Ryan Ezell

Awake I don’t sleep like the stars won’t sleep while the moon rocks above fields of the bone dust you left after you buried yourself in my flesh, in all my openings, like portals to the heaven you’ve been craving but can’t seem to reach with the tips of your fingers— suck on them and clean them with your tongue, gnaw on them with splintering teeth. Do you know what you did when you cut ties? I split in half. Now it’s all pouring out— and you fucking love it Reily Fay

Lost In Thought Minh Pham Photography

Friday, Februrary 24th This is what happened last night: Three hangry friends reluctantly entered the homophobic café (it was the only one open in town), and we ate three giant cinnamon rolls. They were ordered and consumed one at a time; the waiter raised his eyebrows when we asked for the third. Our forks wrestled over the gooey, sweet dough, and with full mouths, we spoke about our days in a sugar-fueled cascade of gossip swirled with truth. After our stomachs were temporarily pacified, we wandered into the bar and requested some beer. (“Sir, may I please have your finest IPA?” was how she ordered. Her fake British accent was an absurd touch in rural Wyoming.) We discussed who we liked, who we loathed, and who we loved. I said your name, grinning as it passed through my lips; Have you felt the real weight of speaking aloud? The boys came to fetch us, and we met more friends upstairs. I leaned against one guy in the corner, partly because I didn’t want to sit next to

the sick girl, but mostly because it’s nice to be close to people, even if they’re not the one you love most. I decided to drink my dinner (damn those cinnamon rolls!), and my eyes became droopy and my smile became easy. I swayed and cherished how warm I felt— how good it is to be together, pressed near friends, alive. When we left, the air was chilled and the wind slipped down my spine. Our faces stung as we searched for the car. Do you know how I love to laugh in dark parking lots? The snow crept into our boots, but we didn’t let it bother us; the night was too crisp and sweet for anything to be worthy of complaint, even if—for just a quick moment—I wished you were there with us. After we got back, I promised I’d play cards, but then promptly fell asleep on our friends’ couch as soon as we arrived. It was the kind of sleep that was real, even if I could still hear everything. After waking up (sometimes you can’t stop yourself from doze-giggling at a joke), I drank someone’s orange (Mango?!) Gatorade and choked down a lemon Luna Bar for a late-night meal.

We finished one round before I sauntered off to bed, but I first bowed at the door and acted just a little bit ridiculous upon my departure. I thought of your face as I fell asleep. Your eyes were kind, and I mirrored your smirk as I stared at the ceiling. It is nice to have you around (in my head) even when you’re away. It is even better to be with so many laughing people, swept away from the dangerous zone of over-thinking how our existences might intermingle tomorrow, next week, or in a year. I’m not sure what this upcoming night holds, if we will be together or not. But the deep-veined joy of good company from last night endures, and I am sure that it must be enough. Cambray Smith

Onlookers Caleb Drum Photography

Troy Ben Henson Ceramics

Cindy and Sally Cindy dances like starlight on the waves Sand crusted blonde hair A cowrie shell belt circling her thin waist Shallow blue lobotomy eyes Multicolored disco hues reflecting off her smiling nicotine-stained teeth Inside a seedy, emptying bar Somewhere in central Florida Outside now for a cigarette And a sip from the bottom of a stranger’s drink. Sally sits alone in her suburban dream of a house on the West side of Miami Forgotten sexual fantasies of Cindy fill her empty bottle of wine Memories of fleeing central Florida for a more realistic lifestyle Away from her romantic bender Finding herself feeling more empty than Cindy’s late night promises Tears stain Sally’s blouse from Saks Fifth The shine from her diamond-studded belt fades, And Cindy’s seashells sparkle one hundred miles away Ryan Ezell

Sour, Plump and Freckled The kid is horrifyingly annoying. She keeps asking about the accident. The event has obviously evoked her excitement. I tell her that if not for the accident, mom couldn’t have imposed her on me. I am holding her hand as I stroll through the aisles of the store, lazily and uninterested. I see a rectangular space with white curtains drawn around it. The label on it says “Rest Room.” I stuff a bunch of balloons into the kid’s hand and go in. I take off all my clothes. I am standing naked. The air flows on my skin. The extremely sour spectacled lady with the tight up-do draws the curtain aside and yells at me. She demands to know what the fuck I am doing. I tell her that I am resting, and since she appears to be a little dumb I point to the label on the curtain. Then go her claws digging into my arm as she throws me out. I take hold of the kid’s hand and stroll through the aisles of the store, lazily and uninterested. The plump kind man says that I should ignore the extremely sour spectacled lady with the tight up-do and not bother myself. I tell him that anyway it would be impossible to ignore the plump kind man who says I can ignore the extremely sour spectacled lady with the tight up-do. The plump kind man lets

out a loud chuckle and pats me on the back. I am holding the kid’s hand as I stroll through the aisles of the store, lazily and uninterested. It occurs to me to go look for where they keep the clocks. Mom said I have to watch the kid until four, and I Keana was going nuts. She said I was am not wearing a watch. I never have. nuts. But I knew she didn’t mind. We It was amazingly mean of mom, only because of the damn accident that could were having fun. Shopping excursions have happened to anyone really, at least were the mortar of our sisterly bond. to anyone who is as young as I am. Surely I suppose store aisles were more interesting at the time. their moms wouldn’t have made them The loud bang took us by surprise. babysit until four. I told her so too. But Keana’s head shot back as if she had she asked how I knew they wouldn’t have been slapped and I twisted my arms to and I didn’t really. take control of the straying wheel. But it The hideously freckled boy with a was already out of hand. There came the big nose plants his gangly legs in our grey concrete pole and there went the way to ask why the poor kid has a hole crimson metallic hood folding upon itself in her head. It is such an ugly thing he says. I kindly direct him to the aisle of the as if it had been a sheet of newsprint. “Crap!” I grunted, and my eyes rolled back mirrors. The kid grins at me gratefully into my head before I could hear Keana’s and the hole stares at me so bluntly response. that I have to agree with the hideously freckled boy. So I just pull the kid’s hand relentlessly and keep strolling Fate Malek through the aisles of the store, lazily and uninterested. *** The day Keana and I drove to the shopping mall was a satisfyingly breezy Sunday. I was hooked on yet another song that I kept replaying on the stereo.

Warp Ben Henson Ceramics

Elect life on breezes rests as winter warmth diverts us towers we built burn Joe Bruno

Luring Tide I heard the ocean calling sweetly. These midnight hours I spent in wake, And followed sounds of curling, drifting To the edge of cooing wake. I lay with it, in subtle crashing Until there was a moon upon us. Ebbed with tides, the steaming torrent Still felt the salt and ageless chorus. Generations come and pass! These same waters burn and boil. How does one become immune To aging, growing, as the ocean? There is no hope, as one could see. For years will pass and save no man. Yet growing older, as I must, I’d rather die on sea than land! I’d set adrift on peaceful tide And clench my teeth as I depart, For never ‘fore my feet endured Such moving force from in my heart. Leo Kerner

The Graveyard Garden She clicked the key and swiveled the knob, introducing me to her tiny realm of ghosting flora. Here she had gathered every flower— every hydrangea, bluebell, chrysanthemum and gardenia— that had once lingered, lively, in her home She skated in behind me, and were now crisp shells of former Galway crystal vase cradled in the crook blooms. of her elbow. She curtsied in front of me as she bent It was an eccentric little place, to store the vase, and she lifted with that diminutive closet tucked under the stairs. exuberance It was filled with ribbon snips and petals to behold her store. tagged with dates and occasions, No longer was she confined in the closet, but I had to admit that once inside, the but the Château de Versailles stretched room flourished. out before her The mirror-lined walls multiplied the as she cooed to her daffodils and promised flowers the forget-me-nots their namesake. and echoed the light, impersonating the playful hues I realized then, in the midst of those of vivacious gardens where long-dead flowers, she first nurtured each cherished bud. that there was still life in the graveyard garden, and I watched her effloresce amongst the bouquets. Abigail Scheper

Rose Garden Will Skinner Photography

Origin Matthew Serencsics Digital Illustration

Blue Téa Blumer Collage

Flowers Grow In Rain Little flowers base their roots at my toes stem through my veins. They grow out of my mouth birth themselves by the light in my eyes. Azure and yellow poppies sprout and I thank God I am a woman or I would not hold these fertile grounds. My father forgot my mother while she was planting him gardens on our little front porch. They rotted with her. Flowers grow in rain she thought, but, tell me, Mom, what happens during a flood?

Rain will fall when you forget the way my terrain feels I will dance and rejoice while you cry down on my blooming body. Womanhood is just a concept to you I am its afterthought. We go hand in hand— you forget womanhood if you forget me. You won’t remember womanhood— I will laugh the clouds will clap with thunder so loud even your orgasmic heavens will tremble. Reily Fay

Music Teacher Her naked toes touch the water, and she begins to sing a somber song I slip off my shoes, following suit, timidly humming a simpler tune She turns, and I recognize her eyes. Green, like mine. I’m in love.

Now I’m singing, sinking deeper into the sea.

I watch her wade waist-deep into the water, singing, I swim until we’re spinning. face to face. She beckons, The song I sing and her brown bangs, seeks embrace. covered in sand, We lock lips for a moment, fall over her eyes. melodies in harmony, Her skin ripples with the waves until her teeth sink into my face. as she twists away. With saltwater I wash the blood away. It stings each time I sing again. She is the part of my heart I never wish to reclaim. Thomas Simpson

Circle of ‘Em Connor Regan Digital Illustration

Butt Ca$h Grace Bilbao Textiles

Illogical Rational, as in based in facts, reason, and logic, as in the number 100 (which is not only rational, but also even, whole, and real), as in labelling each dresser drawer by the article of clothing it contains, as in deciding to split up the drive from New York to Florida into two days to keep from sitting in the car for an ungodly long time. That’s how I liked things: calculable, clear-cut, easy to see and easy to choose. Not spontaneous, daring, unorganized and without reason, not like how you chose to live. I cringed when you insisted on driving me home along the “scenic route,” when in reality all it offered was a few more trees along an inefficient roadway, and when you aimlessly put DVDs back on my shelf, I huffed, loathing your disregard for my alphabetical organization system. But what bothered me most of all were these feelings that were so Irrational, as in deviating from clarity and common sense, as in my heart pounding at 79 beats per minute even though I hadn’t been exercising, 78

as in goosebumps emerging on my skin at your touch despite my heat set at the even seventy degrees that I maintained year-round, as in my words suddenly turning into maple syrup, moving slowly and sticking in my larynx whenever I tried to talk to you. There had to be an explanation for why these feelings of attachment were tactical. Maybe it fit Darwin’s theory of evolution: we love so we can mate and reproduce, or perhaps Maslow’s theory on need fulfillment: we must feel like we belong before we can meet higher need classes. But the physical symptoms were so seemingly unnecessary for day-to-day functioning. I craved it though— your presence and the feelings that accompanied it. I hated prime numbers, how they fit nothing but themselves, but with you, I felt in my prime, and though I lost control with you, the anxiety and chaos I felt was enthralling, and I felt that irrationality, like a non-terminating decimal, would continue forever through us Abigail Scheper

MashAllah Samah Hasan Wood Sculpture

My Stone The rock face had been battered, Chips of granite strewn about. Perhaps it had once been a piece Of a mountain that stood During the Jurassic age. It lumbered over feathered lizards, Watched as a savage sky Had drowned the beasts, In the mud they were forced to eat And as the glacier pushed north. The fertile grasses had sprung up And maybe long forgotten species Had delicately pulled them from the earth. Mountain eroding into stray rocks here and there. Up had grown the woods behind the building.

The woods you could not stray into Trying to escape the math The VHS tapes on Mozart Or just the feeling of confinement. So we stood on the rock The rock that had seemed So enormous, three of us Could sit on it. I returned years later, To let the dog run about And yet as we sat on it Letting him drink cold bottled water It felt far too small. The fertile grasses I had recalled Nothing but plains of dust Speckled with pastel playgrounds It felt unnatural and tragic, and I longed for a new mountain. Alexandra Gaines

Breakfast Abigail Scheper Mixed Media

Impossible Chair Ariana Ehuan Metal Sculpture

Hyperreal first thing i noticed when i came out naked was my sense of smell aroused by every object that found itself emitting odor tickling my nose and packing my lungs like tar i saw sound too curly-cues grazing gracefully through the air with every word she spoke and every vibration they played a different wavelength my eyes melted colors turned towards me and embraced my sight with

vibrancy to awaken every part of my body like my whole body was standing on its tip-toes so i grew taller to meet the shadows tapping on my shoulder and the lifeless speaking to me through their graves because my senses could scream to them like a mating call for death then my toes touched Earth’s teething mulch and brushed against dying footprints left by others walking the same journey i had been running towards Reily Fay

Courtside Kayla Watson Photography

Generational I wonder who taught you how to endure I wonder who taught you how to suffer silently I wonder who taught you [how] to fear or maybe someone punished your trust I bet he had no idea that you’d pass his burdens, his shame, on to me. Keilah Davis

Down The Rabbit Hole Fate Malek Illustration

windhover2018.bandcamp.com

Windhover Staff Editor in Chief

C Phillips

Managing Editor

Cas Saroza

Design Editor

Clara May

Junior Design Editor

Anna Schecterson

Publication Adviser

Martha Collins

Literary Editor

Kali Fillhart

Visual Editor

MJ Sanqui

Audio Editor

Xenna Smith

LIterary Committee

Emily Gales June Park Clarissa Rainear Cate Rivers

Abby Chapman

Visual Committee

Casey Johnson

Gray Mills

Audio Committee

Alyssa Stoltz

Jules Conlon

Volunteers

Haley McCay Christian Okoth

Mission Statement Windhover provides a public avenue for the expression of the creative community of North Carolina State University students, faculty, staff, and alumnae. Windhover publishes once a year and includes prose, poetry, essays, art, design, and a music compilation published onto bandcamp.com.

Colophon Printed By Theo Davis Printing 1415 W. Gannon Ave, Zebulon, NC 27597 Typefaces used are Univers 65 Bold, Univers 65 Bold Oblique, Univers 55 Oblique, and Utopia Regular Printed on 100# MacGregor Dull Text and on 130# MacGregor Dull Cover with clear foil Created with Adobe InDesign CC 2018 1,200 copies printed.

100