NEW LITERATI FALL 2015 ISSUE by New Literati

NEW LITERATI FALL 2015 ISSUE

EXPERIENCE CREATIVE

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR Jasmine here, thanks so much for reading the Fall 2015 issue of New Literati! This semester, New Literati decided to go in a new direction. As our online presence is what distinguishes us from the rest of the literary magazines here at St. Edward's, we wanted to create a edgier, more modern image for the publication. With the help of a brand new staff, Sydney and I were able to build a brand new website. Moving forward, this will be where we update regular content from our staffers, while also accepting and organizing submissions from outside sources for each semester issue. It has definitely been a rollercoaster of a semester, but it has all been worth it. We truly appreciate all the support we have received. Thank you again for reading, submitting work, and contributing to our organization. Keep creating! Jasmine Kim EditorinChief

THANKS TO: contributors Amani Abusoboh Zino Asalor

fall 2015 staff Jasmine Kim Sydney Clarkson

Katinka Barragan Corey Bates

Joanna Ariola

Caley Berg

Oliver Davis

Jana Busby

Sarah Dunavant

Mary Kathryn Cook

Lilli Hime

John Dudasko

Rachel Janney

Bobby Garcia

Sarah Longe

Kelsey Peters

Amanda Markoe

Mathias Safari

Betsy McKinney

Jillee Sexton Natalie Sizemore Kwabena Agyare Yeboah

CJ Shaleesh Logan Stallings Gabrielle Wilkosz

TABLE OF CONTENTS PROSE

ZINO ASALOR | rebecca 11 JANA BUSBY | first date 13 JILLEE SEXTON | the captain reflects 16 ART

CALEY BERG | into the woods 20 JOHN DUDASKO | untitled 25 FEATURED ARTIST

KATINKA BARRAGAN 30 POETRY

46 48 49 50 52 53 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

PROSE

rebecca Rebecca was dressed in a brown skirt and a blue blouse, buttoned up to the top. As of that morning she had worked for Samuel for exactly five months. Twenty weeks of good service, humility, punctuality, cleanliness and most of all respect for his privacy. Unlike the maids before her, she did not invite her lovers into his home and attempt to pass them off as her brothers. Plus, if a situation arose where Samuel needed help locating some item in the house, day or night, in person or on the phone, she was always willing, patient with her description of where the elusive item might be. He d come to trust her, depend on her. And yet, that morning, hearing her speak with so much detail unnerved him somehow, made him shudder. ’

Wait a minute, slow down. What are you saying?

“

”

Sir, what I m saying is that in the midnight, this boy will be putting his finger inside. As if to leave no room for doubt, Rebecca held up her index finger, short, thick, crooked at the tip. “

’

”

Samuel frowned at the offending digit. As a boy, he and his friends had played a game the object of which was to determine whose finger could bend the most at that exact joint where the distal phalanx ended and the intermediate began. Okonte Magnus, a devil of a boy, possessed an inhuman ability to bend his to an angle almost perpendicular to the rest of his finger. He could achieve this feat with all his fingers except the pinkie. Okonte Magnus grew to become a kingpin of a notorious gang that terrorised the city for a time. Samuel wondered if his gift had aided him in some way, in the pulling of triggers, perhaps, or scaling of high walls. Relieved from the pressure of speaking, Rebecca s face fell lax. Her eyes seemed to swell in their sockets as she stared at him, her nostrils flaring in step with her breathing. Her lips became jagged arcs. But it was her eyes that most unsettled Samuel, the naked desire within them, to understand why such a thing should happen to her. A desire to understand it from him. ’

Samuel scarcely understood it himself. Wait, are you saying he touched you privately while you were sleeping, or requested something of a private nature? On his tongue the words were unwieldy, stubborn. “

”

Rebecca simultaneously nodded and shook her head. Then she paused, took a deep breath and told him everything. She had come into the room at night because they all slept in that one room, the two sisters, their brother and herself to find that both sisters were not home. The brother was there. He was lying on the bed sleeping. She went ahead to spread her mat on the floor as she always did, and then lying on it, said her prayers and shut her eyes. Only she wasn t sleeping she was waiting. For weeks, she d been –

–

’

—

’

experiencing strange sensations in her dreams sometimes when she woke in the middle of the night to pee she would feel a soreness she could neither understand nor explain. Something was happening. She didn t know what it was, but had her suspicions. That night, as she lay waiting, taking heavy, but carefully measured breaths, snoring sometimes to give a varied performance, she pondered what she would do if indeed he came to her. Reach for a bottle, smash it against his head? She didn t know, which only heightened her terror, for she knew that horrible things often lurked in the shadow of the unknown. ;

’

When she heard him rise she almost stopped breathing. She knew it the instant his feet touched the floor, silence broken by the faintest crack in his toes. She could feel his presence, a dark mass, to her mind, crossing the empty space between them, settling down next to her, not touching, but close enough so that her mind supplied the touch. She wanted to scream right there and then, but somehow managed to keep still, continuing to take the difficult breaths in and out, in and out. How long was she to wait? She felt his cold hand on her shoulder. He gave her a shake. He whispered her name twice. When she failed to stir, he withdrew the hand and ever so slowly slid it under her wrapper. He began at her knees, stroking her thighs, gradually working his way up to her crotch, at which point he must have known something had gone terribly wrong, because that night Rebecca was wearing not panties, but shorts, thick, green, fortified shorts. That s when she screamed. ’

Uzor leaped from the bed, and made a mad dash for the door. He was fumbling with the keys when she jumped on his back, grabbed him by the neck, scratching his face with her nails. She meant to pluck his eyes out, to take his skin with her. So this is what you have been doing? she wanted to say. To me, Uzor, to me? She could only cry out his name over and over. “

”

“

”

Something in her resisted belief. She was more at peace when it remained a mystery. She calculated that if she killed Uzor things might go back that way. But to do that Rebecca needed a weapon, or in any case more strength than she possessed. Uzor pried her fingers away from his face quite easily, and pushed her to the ground. Before she could recover, he had escaped into the night.

BY ZINO ASALOR

Zino Asalor is a writer of fiction and poetry. His work has been featured in Sentinel Nigeria, Saraba, African Writing and other magazines. He lives in Port Harcourt, and is currently working on his first novel. -

FIRST DATE: an excerpt I ll have a Bombay Sapphire martini, extra extra dirty, please.

" '

Rule #1: Order something sexy. That's my go-to drink for first dates. It leads men to thinking of me in a sexy way, right from the start. I lean forward, twirling the ends of my silky brown hair around my index finger. He smirked. Success. Hmmm... That sounded hot. I wonder if she's extradirty in bed? She looks hot in that tight lowcut black dress, her supple natural breasts on a pedestal.

Glenlivet, neat, I say.

The waitress flips her blonde hair from her thin shoulders and flashes me a flirtatious smile. If this date goes to shit, maybe I'll stick around and chat up the waitress. I wonder what time she gets off.

So, Christian, this is a lovely restaurant! Have you been here before?

He's handsome! Dark eyes, perfectly coiffed hair, strong features. I've always been attracted to Italian men, despite my Grandmother’s forewarning. Maybe it's all the mafia movies Dad used to make us watch growing up in Chicago. I almost want to say that this guy is more handsome than his photo. Some guys on Tinder, well, let's say, misrepresent themselves.

Yeah, I ve been here a few times. It has a good vibe and great drinks.

Essex is white table cloth, with dim lighting, and a tightlipped wait staff, a real gem on the Lower East Side. "Did you have any trouble getting here?"

Oh no, not at all. I took the 4 train down from Midtown. So easy!

Rule #2: Show him that I'm not high maintenance. I totally cabbed it down here though, because ugh, I hate the subway! Dirty, nasty, poverty train! I am a New Yorker, but an abovegrounder, that's for sure. A girl that's okay with the subway! Nice. She must be laid back. I smile, interested.

Great! How was your day?

Busy! I wouldn t want it any other way, though. I love my job. Being a careerwoman is just in my blood, I guess. I m a real estate agent for the Corcoran Group. It s what I live and breathe, you know? "

Rule #3: Make it apparent that I can stand on my own two feet, that I don't need a man. But, hopefully he’s the man of my dreams, here to sweep me off my feet and save me from this rat race.

Thank you, I say, as the waitress delivers my scotch.

And perfect timing. What’s with these career-obsessed Manhattan women? What a turn off. If I could meet

a soft-spoken, supportive woman, willing to stay at home and bake chocolate-chip cookies, I might just marry her.

Are we ready to order? the waitress says.

I ll have a small dinner salad with balsamic dressing on the side, please.

" â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

R ule #4: Don't eat. Everyone knows that men prefer women who eat like birds. I always grab something before I go on a date. I stood in front of my fridge an hour ago, scarfing down cold Chinese takeout from a box.

I m just not very hungry, really. I delicately raise my martini glass to my red lips and suck some in.

" '

Did she really just order a salad? I can't stand it when women do this. I wouldn't have invited her to dinner had I known she wouldn't eat. Clearly we should've met for drinks, or for a walk, or paint ball. Oh, well. Now I'm starving.

I ll have the petit filet, medium rare, potatoes au gratin and steamed asparagus.

" '

With a nod, the waitress gathers the menus and leaves us alone again. What about you, Christian? Your profile says you re a stockbroker?

Handsome? Check. Good job? Check.

Yeah, I work for Arena Capital on Wall Street. Living the dream, I guess you could say.

That feels good. She doesn't need to know I'm on as an unpaid intern. Dad says he'll support my lifestyle for another six months. That's all that matters.

Wow, that s great. Good for you!

Good for me. This is the kind of guy I need to marry. Someone who can take care of me, two kids, a life of luxury. I wonder why his business profile didn't come up when I Googled him. But then again, nothing creepy came up either. He has the basic Tinder requirements: good looking, prestigious career, and seeking "a serious relationship." She looks interested in details. I need to change the subject before she starts asking questions.

So... Uhm... Zelda is an interesting name! Is there a story behind it?

Actually, I m named after my Great Great Grandmother, Griselda. She was the first generation of our family to come to America from Germany. "

Please don't bring up the damn Nintendo game.

I didn t know Zelda was short for anything. I must admit that it makes me think of a video game I loved when I "

was a kid.

That's the real reason I was drawn to her profile and asked her out. Despite the mousy selfie, I had to meet the girl named Zelda.

The game was called Zelda. Have you heard of it?

Bleck. Have I heard of it?

Of course! I loved it. That s so funny!

My brother, Chas, was obsessed with it. I loathed the thing. Chas was always playing Zelda when I wanted to play Super Mario Brothers 2. Then for all my life, everyone brings it up when they meet me. Especially guys. So annoying.

They still make Zelda games! Did you know that? I have it for my Nintendo 3DS. You wouldn t believe how much it s changed, though. "

Wow! That s exciting news. How did I not know this?

How did I not know this? Of course, I know about this. And I'm less thrilled about it at age twentyseven than I was at seven. Come on, what is he twentyeight, twentynine? And heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s still playing video games? Ugh. Surely heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll grow out of it by the time he turns thirty.

Yeah, you should check it out! Maybe you could stop by, and I could show it to you.

Yeah, I'll show it to you, alright.

Another round, I mouth to the waitress across the room and motion to our drinks.

What about you, Christian? Is that a family name or are your parents religious?

My parents are Christians. I pretty much grew up in the Catholic Church.

That's the truth. But now I'm an atheist. I have, however, learned that disclosing this on a first date can be a huge mistake.

No way! I m Catholic, too!

Ohmygod. Handsome? Check. Loaded? Check. Catholic? Check. Maybe this guy is my soul mate. BY JANA BUSBY

Jana D. Busby received her BS from Texas State University and is currently a graduate student at St. Edward s, earning a Master of Liberal Arts degree with emphasis in creative writing. First Date is a piece from her book of short stories expected Summer 2016 . Jana lives in Dripping Springs with her husband and their two kids. For more, please visit jdbusby.com. '

)

(

THE CAPTAIN REFLECTS Boy! Come out now and face me like a man! The words are drawn out in a civilized drawl with an emphasis on the first and final. He speaks them every night as he sleeps. They are born of fitful dreams that could be traced back to the incident, that which had set him on his life s most noteworthy pursuit, fruitless as it may have been. He recalled that the pain was nearly unbearable. It s an amazing thing, however, in reflection, how easily pain is overshadowed by anger and anger even further dominated by vengeance. “

”

’

The hand was the first to be taken by the creature, along with the timepiece. He could always hear it now, coming for him. Some say the beasts are unintelligent, but he couldn t believe it. Bloodlust was a thing born of intent, and intent was not for the faint hearted, he knew. His eyes too were tinged red with hatred and retribution. ’

There was telling of an item that could help him. The stuff of fairy tales pixie dust. Believe in it and supposedly you could fly away, higher than the clouds, where such sights might be seen as to make a man with an adventurer s heart weep. The fragility of such things frightened him. —

’

There is a misconception that adults may not fly because their minds are heavy with knowledge and their bodies weighted with experience, but he had learned the truth of the matter long ago: hearts carrying vengeance never fly. Atlas burden seemed enviable by comparison. There was a finality to this truth that seemed to close like a vise around his heart, an impenetrable seal. ’

From the other side, the water looks peaceful, a calm blue that reflects the billions of stars laid out like a blanket cradling the world. It feels like one could sail for miles and miles and never come to an end. The edge of the world may not exist, but one could still find its center, and perhaps understanding would follow. The great irony of the universe is that no one has all the answers, not even after decades of endeavor. He would walk the plank if it meant his enemy too would drop into the calm waters spread them like a stone skipping across the surface. His complicated history with the boy known as Peter Pan had been caused by a ripple effect. Things had been manageable in the beginning. He didn t like the boy, but he was no more than an annoyance, a minor irritation. It was cutting off his hand that sealed the boy s fate from that day on, the boy was Captain Hook s sworn enemy. ;

’

;

’

Every third night he had one of the deckhands set out the plank. He would stand on it for an hour, staring out at the vast ocean covered in a sea of stars. He would squint at the line where the atmosphere met the ocean, which seemed so seamless, like one could disappear inside it if they truly desired. Gazing at that tiny sliver of space, it was the only time he felt truly alive. The world seemed beautiful again in that miniscule place for that brief second in time. Sometimes he would look down into the depths beneath

him, think about what was inside those still waters, and he would attempt to control the urge to step off the plank and back onto the safety of the ship. It was his way of mastering the fear. In his mind s deepest wandering, he would imagine what he would say to the boy if things were different, if they had not becomes the bitterest of enemies and were simply who they were: a boy and a man, both destined for different things, but essentially the same at their core the heart, the only place which should count, but which life and circumstance often overlook. ’

—

You don t understand, he would say. And here there would be real tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, trailing a stream of crystal clear down his sun kissed cheeks. The boy was unnatural. He didn t know what it meant to suffer, what it meant to truly love something, what it meant to be weighed down by burdens of your own creation. The fact that he was so loved, so celebrated, so revered, only made it that much more unbearable. No one sees the truth of things when they only touch the surface. Like water, it reflects a figment of reality until probed more deeply, creating chasms within the image. Reality turned into absolute truth. It occurred to him that we are mirrors of ourselves, complex projections of ideas, thoughts, and desires. The boy was his desire to live forever, but the price of eternal youth perhaps…perhaps it meant the loss of certainty. “

’

”

’

And in his vision the boy would say: I didn t think grown ups cried. By those words, he would be free of his vengeance for a moment, caught back in the net of childhood. He would remember what it meant to be truly young, carefree, innocent, and he would recall that extraordinary perceptiveness which was so elusive to adults. It made his heart feel light and if he d had even the tiniest handful of pixie dust, he felt certain he could ve flown, flown so high he could touch a star. “

’

”

;

’

It s a rare thing. He would swipe a finger across each cheek. Forgive me. That was terribly bad form. He hefts his cutlass. Let s get on with it, then. “

’

”

“

’

”

And they would to death, the last and, perhaps, greatest adventure, that which is perchance the only thing truly born of both fantasy and reality and in which everything else disappears, fading to naught. —

BY JILLEE SEXTON

Jillee Sexton is a junior, studying Creative Writing and History, and claims that she may or may not have an unhealthy obsession with pirates.

ART

INTO THE WOODS

BY CALEY BERG "Into the Woods" is inspired by the German fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel. A young girl curiously enters the woods before a storm and may not return. Leading lines, shadows, and selective focus emphasize the harshness of nature during winter months and create a grim aesthetic. Caley Berg is a junior English Writing and Rhetoric major at St. Edward's University. She writes for Hilltop Views and Fool's Gold. A lifelong Austinite, Caley enjoys hiking with her dog, collecting Blues records, playing trivia, and reading modern poetry.

UNTITLED

BY JOHN DUDASKO

FEATURED ARTIST

KATINKA BARRAGAN Where are you from?

I m from Houston, Texas. My dad is from Monterrey, Mexico and my mom is from a small town in Norway, so I am the first generation American. ’

When did you realize that photography was your strong passion?

I think I realized that photography was my passion the first day I went into Photo I. I had chosen Photocommunications as my major because I went to a performing visual arts high school where I did classical voice for four years, and I realized that that wasn t my passion. Being surrounded by all these people that were really passionate about it, you can understand if you really have the passion or not. I had always been interested in photography, and I had started a blog, so I said why not do photography as my major. I was really excited about it, but it didn t click until I stepped into the classroom for Photo I, on my first day during my first semester of freshman year. We started talking about photography and I said to myself This is it, I made the right decision. ’

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‘

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What is the concept of your images?

My images are based around the theme of dark femininity. I think it started my freshman year when I was thinking of subjects to take pictures of and I asked myself, What am I interested in? You do all this research and try to find inspiration and then you see a common theme. I think the theme that I was really fascinated by was just death in general. Although it s morbid, I think I saw a beauty in it. I really found it very fascinating, this juxtaposition of beauty and morbidity. The whole topic is very interesting to photograph because you re capturing something very personal. With the concept of dark femininity, I m inspired by photographers like Francesca Woodman, who isn t scared to not be feminine and explore her own thoughts which weren t necessarily happy. They were emotional and thought provoking, and she in turn wanted to make her images reflect that. ‘

’

That actually leads to my next question, which is, what photographers or artists inspire your work?

Some photographers that inspire me are Francesca Woodman, Duane Michaels, Joel Peter Witkin, and Anselm Kiefer, who is actually a painter and a photographer. They are probably the main people that inspire me, but there are also contemporary photographers that inspire me, such as Brittany Markert. She is very inspiring in her story in that she was a math major and she didn t start photography until she was around 24, and she was actually a contestant on America s Next Top Model. Her work is just stunning, and also conveys the same themes as Francesca Woodman. ’

’

How do you come up with the idea for an image or photo essay?

It depends. Sometimes I see an object and I find it fascinating and then I look for objects that are similar. For example, I m working on a series now in my Digital Color class based around fake blood, and I find that very interesting to incorporate, not just for the subject matter, but I like incorporating things that will reflect my personal thoughts. I base a lot on what I m feeling and thinking, so personal events. If there s a strong enough personal event that I m going through, I ll base it off of that, or if there isn t anything going on I ll base it on places or things I find fascinating. ’

’

What inspires your aesthetic?

I d say that I m very very fascinated by cemeteries because it is the physical representation of death, and it s so beautiful and so full of people. People who walk into a cemetery most likely won t know who the people are that they re walking by, and it s interesting that all these people have these lives and the lives that they were living to them were so important and now they aren t here anymore and we re the ones walking around trying to do the same thing as them. For a cemetery to be so beautiful and yet so scary, it s so taboo. People don t want to talk about death and yet it s imminent. I don t want to say that I m so open about talking about it because I m also really scared of it, so it s like opening up a conversation in aesthetic, it s about not making it scary, it s about making it beautiful. I think people do that already, and I want to be part of it. ’

’

What motivates you to continue your passion?

I think what motivates me to continue is this feeling that I ve found something that I finally like because I think I ve gone through my life feeling that I ve liked lots of different things. Going through four years of classical voice taught me what it is to really love something and what it is to feel like you don t love something. I m also motivated by the inspiration from photographs that I see everyday and looking for new artists, and seeing what they do and how much they produce and how creative their ideas are. Just the way that you can convey all your thoughts into an image is kind of like a diary, and sometimes you will only know what it means and sometimes you make it so that it s a message that you can understand. It s a different way of making art, it s like a painting but a different form. ’

’

How does black and white vs. color play into your photographs?

I think a major aspect to my photography is that it is black and white and it is to convey this theme of darkness and morbidity. There are also things that you can t convey in black and white, which is something that I ve been working on. I was talking earlier about my project with the fake blood, that wouldn t look the same in black and white. Although there are classic examples like Hitchcock s Psycho, where there is blood and you know it s blood, but I think it s interesting to see the red in color because it brings up the whole question if blood should be beautiful or not, or whether murder should be beautiful and colorful and playful, so it s interesting to bring it to life in color. I recently just started working with colored film, and I m working on developing, but I usually work in black and white. ’

’

What advice would you give to anyone who is struggling with photography?

Find inspiration, go on the internet and look up artists, find their favorite artists, look up people who inspire them, music that inspires them, books that inspire them. In the end you ll be able to understand what inspires you and that will drive you farther than you would without research. I think it s very important to read and look at artists and their pieces, any form of art, not just photography. â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

INTERVIEW BY AMANDA MARKOE

KATINKA BARRAGAN

My work is largely an expression of dark femininity influenced by my interest in graveyards and nostalgia. I photograph in black and white and occasionally experiment with images to make them look distressed by using painted and scratched transparencies to then scan them onto images. My interest in graveyards and the overall theme of death came from my fascination of the juxtaposition of beauty and darkness. Death is a feared and emotional topic though it is a reminder of the life that is lived or was once lived. There is a nostalgic sentiment in death as death means there is an end and with an end brings reminiscence of what has happened or could have happened.

POETRY

A GRIEVANCE LETTER TO GOD Many are the tales children ascending to you, O God, will tell They ll tell you about their horrified looks chasing their little mutilated bodies soaring mid air about the voices stuck in their ears of their bereaved moms under the rubble calling on you for help about the tears of their dads washing the little maimed corpses they buried about young girls whose shy little smiles were snatched away by death before love could find its way to their soul paths aching for joy They ll tell you about the sick mankind you gave your Trust which they about the blood that has become a stage for this sick mute world They will tell you about all this pain And thou wilt cry O God For nothing calls for crying more than this ’

’

Oh God Why did you give us, women, wombs to bear therein a bleeding ache All embryos in our wombs are deferred projects of death Our cards bear addresses that have become widowed and bereaved Oh God We don t want you to take away our children by death Grant our bleeding wounds a break It s time that you respond to all this oppression, O God ’

’

I m wife to all those carried on shoulders to the graveyards I am the lover still waiting for love at the absentees balconies I m the bereaved mother who gave away her children to feed all this death I am the bleeding ache in the waste of songs I m Palestine O God ’

’

Like a she wolf I squeeze my heart I bite it and my pulse howls in pain I stand before God and cry asking, O God, why does death take the ones we love?! -

BY AMANI ABUSOBOH

Amani Abusoboh, MA, MCP is a mental health care researcher who has been writing poetry since she was 15. Born in Jerusalem. Ms. Abusoboh focuses on educating the world about the plight of the Palestinian people. She is currently teaching English to native Arab speaking students.

LET GO I wish you would let me go Like a Whisper in the wind Or a Grenade sans the pin 1 2 3 4 Throw me far While I explode

BY COREY BATES

THERAPEUTIC THUNDERSTORM Rain, rain never leave Wash away the things I see Wash away the ache inside Mend my heart Light my eyes Rain, rain help me see What I want and what I need Bring me to the open door Let me in Let it pour

BY COREY BATES

A LETTER FROM A FRIEND He does not love you You do not love him. You are obsessed with him. And he s using you. ;

â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

He has made your name a whistle, and you come when you are called. He has made your heart a leash, and you come when it is pulled. He has made you his bitch, and you accept the scraps he throws to you. He does not love you he is using you.

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He wants your cunt, the extent of his care for you is four inches. He wants your kink, but he ll scorn everything else about you. He wants his pleasure, he could care less about yours. â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

He does not love you he is using you.

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He likes when he chases another girl, and your legs are still open to him. He likes that he has very little work to do at all, because you delude yourself for him. He likes when his bed is cold, that you will freeze yourself to warm him. He does not love you he is using you.

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He is a well and you are a cup You desperately hope you are enough, but you can never fill it with your little cup. It is never enough, you will never be enough. -------

He does not love you he is using you.

;

BY MARY KATHRYN COOK

Mary Kathryn Cook is from Dripping Springs, TX. She is a senior majoring in English Literature and Catholic Studies. She enjoys reading poets such as Anna Castillo, Toni Ciampa, and Anne Sexton. Her dog Lucy is a loyal supporter of all her poetry pieces.

DUMPSTER DIVING Come on Tis the season For someone s reason To throw away their life s work Piles and piles of cut down dreams Shining like moon beams Mix n match with the girl down the hall Who s had a ball Till the pee stick gave a thumbs up To a life turned upside down And inside out Make you want to shout for glory Someone else s story here for the taking What s shaking shall we see What nobody wants including me I m just here for the mystery Unwritten history A baby s name weak as his heartbeat Break it down Throw it up Keep searching Bound to find Someone bound for mine In all this garbage we call a universe You and i And this verse Just a curse Till we find meaning In all this striving What you call life Aint nothin but strife We just dumpster diving. '

BY BOBBY GARCIA

Bobby is a public safety management student at SEU. He occasionally turns to poetry when his soul is in need of a little blood letting. New Literati and the Sorin Oak Review have been his domain for years. He remains ever grateful. -

LAUNDRY DAY I stripped the bed as fast as I could pulled the pillows from their cases two were mine and two were yours but they all belong to me again I didn t want to be in that room without you yet I tried not to breathe in too many times â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

You always said I could never smell could never smell the cat box could never smell when the milk went bad But I knew your scent so well warm and woody sweet and nutty, like the cereal I loved as a child familiar and safe home I could never describe it quite right I tried not to bury my face in the fabric The way I always did on laundry day for a breath that would fill my lungs one last time Some habits are hard to break

I filled the machine with extra detergent And softener too Cold water for colors like my mama always says I saw my linens turning spinning spinning And I was clean

BY KELSEY PETERS

Kelsey Peters graduated from the English Writing and Rhetoric program at St. Edward s University. She spends her free time volunteering with cats and children and she is a proponent of the Oxford comma. '

BORN TO SUFFER Soon after promising to spit in the face of the first angel on her way to heaven, she uttered her last wail and became still. Her life was rushing to its cruel destiny: The pot bellied doctor had lost the key to the surgical room, while enjoying a rendezvous with one of the females he had saved from the jaws of death. In pain like a deer shot with an arrow, she summoned the remaining dregs of her energy and started coaching her unborn baby, she wanted it strong: You will survive these corrupt kleptokrats. They are selling and looting this country, but survive them because you are mine. Suffer chilly winds, the cruel sunrays. I won t be there to help you sweetheart. I m gone far away and won t return soon. "

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And she closed her heavy eyes and slept, right after popping a bouncing baby boy. BY TOYOTA MATHIAS SAFARI

NOTHING BUT PRAYERS Their hearts are beating, their blood is boiling is to uproot what is sown. We carry our babies for nine months but their bullets slay them in minutes. We build our temples and our hospitals but their sons raze and demolish them with guns, with tanks with their Jets. Those are the neighbours we have, in this land of nothing but prayers. They have started fencing off our roads, They are now patrolling our bedrooms. Let them desecrate our earthly bodies. We keep building we keep patching up because they are the neighbours. They want to own more of our own land and we cry but can t even point a finger. Those are the neighbours we have, in this land of nothing but prayer. We are living on nothing but prayer. '

BY TOYOTA MATHIAS SAFARI

OUT OF LOVE After you ve slept with me endless times, ballooned my flat stomach and implanted the seeds and seeds of your babies. My body will be out of proportion then: birth marks, stretch marks age marks. My pointed breasts will fall and sag like a soldier s army green stockings, and then you will fall in love again. '

You will be reasoning again, out of love. Your eyes will be open to my ugly face, my feelings for you will no longer matter, because you will be out of love with me and madly in love with someone else. Your phone will be busy, my calls will disrupt and interrupt your work. You will forget my birthday promises vacations like this one will be out. Because you will be out of love with me and in love again with a young new catch, I will be an off layer behind the latch, I am not ready to be treated as such. ;

BY TOYOTA MATHIAS SAFARI

Toyota M.Safari is a teacher and performer of dub poetry.He lives in Kigali, in East Africa. He writes protest poetry, especially against the evils of capitalism and is working on his first collection.

A PRAYER Forgive me father for I have sinned. That s the prayer I was taught back in a time  when my hands were clean. ’

The blood not yet  a badge of honor, But a manifestation of the things I was not supposed to be. Not supposed to think Not supposed to want. I stopped believing in any sort of father long ago When I learned that the blood between my fingers will vanish with a dab of soap and perhaps of splash of water, but there exists no solution that allows me to scrub you from My mind My thoughts My being Your blood My blood Father Forgive me Amen BY NATALIE SIZEMORE

I WISH I DIDN'T TEXT YOU FIRST I used to love Dev Hynes. And I still do kind of I guess. (

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At 8PM in the suburbs the road turns a shade of blue that makes me want to tell you I love you. I was happier in October, but I try not to think of that. I still sleep with the pillow that I won at the fifth grade Carnival I wear my Christmas nightgown in July. I ve washed my hands 3 times, but my car still smells like you â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

BY NATALIE SIZEMORE

ON MONDAYS IN NOVEMBER I look at the grass and see worlds within my own. Moving Existing Operating /

The colony of ants that I notice on accident are alive and so am I. I look up and follow how the sunlight spills through the leaves of my favorite oak tree and dances on to my skin. I remove my shoes and stand in the grass. I feel its wetness as my toes begin to sink into the earth. Air feels like a gift. But more so, that I can feel it. It s nothingness a reminder, that we are Lovers Strangers Nothing at All â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

BY NATALIE SIZEMORE

TO WIND I always hear you whisper. Your soft tone barely touches my skin, and pages turn, or at least that s what it sounds like. Not versed in your language, I attach my own meaning. â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

Thank you. It will be OK. I love you.

You run your hand through my hair and for a moment I think I might understand.

BY NATALIE SIZEMORE

Natalie Sizemore is a Junior at St. Edward s University. '

DEDICATION, 2015 I i find you missing from my gallery of great African smiles i have come to purchase yours, sun here s a cheque of thank you for being beautiful allow me to be a merchant of honour '

II i have learnt a long experiment where poetry is only a metaphor of cowardice i have seen the count of the pain of those who should have been and of those who buried love with their lives III sun, if this should be life, it should be us i watch the trail of footsteps that carried you away and they pierce my viscera murdering me everyday IV taboo is a love well spent i remember you from my life once upon a moment, twice a mistake dilemma i bow now, I am tossed like cowries on a priest s mat relying on the mercy of divination -

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V i am a fishing net on the sea shore may life cast me again so I find you, my fish i hope you come again to punctuate this auto biography remember me, oo remember my love, sun -

BY KWABENA AGYARE YEBOAH

WE REMEMBER YOU, BANGUI is it true that we live in death, Bangui* ? there are stars in the sky we miss your stare at us like abiku* you come and go leaving the resounding voices of the guns and the wishes that wash us anew we stand forlorn, dream within dreams, snuggling with hope, that thing like a grain of sand reading memory from the walls taxed by destiny we over look the oceans, counting time like natural numbers -

we await the day Bangui will be Bangui a home like Bangui *Bangui: Capital of the Central African Republic *Abiku: an African word derived from Yoruba predestined to death ; â&#x20AC;&#x153;

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BY KWABENA AGYARE YEBOAH

Kwabena Agyare Yeboah lives and writes from Kumasi, Ghana.