New Literati FALL 2020 Issue by New Literati

Cover (Leave Blank)

New Literati Fall 2020

Copyright © St. Edward’s University ALL RIGHTS RESERVED New Literati is an annual publication of St. Edward’s University. The views expressed in this journal are those of the individual authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors, staff, or the university. St. Edward’s University 3001 South Congress Avenue Austin, Texas 78704 Cover design by Sofie Canestaro Page design by Melinda Hurtado, Sofie Canestaro, Juan Gonzales 2020 New Literati published online by https://submitnewliterati.wixsite.com/newliterati

LETTER FROM THE

PRESIDENT The release of the Fall 2020 Web Issue could not be more timely. Coming off the cusp of what was debatably the most divisive year of my generation, are the collected voices and poetry of the St. Edward’s and New Literati community. These voices are jaded and strong, brimming with character and opinion; all aspects that need to be heard Now. Now – because 2020 was fucking hell. It’s hard to not write about 2020 and how it’s affected our voices. Wildfires, protests, disease, and political strife have taken their toll across the states. Classes were conducted in makeshift offices and bedrooms. Social life ground to a halt with mask and gathering regulations. This year tried its best to tear us down. It tried to extinguish our hopes, dreams and aspirations. But in spite of all the year’s tragedies, I’ve seen our voices remain true and resilient as ever. Voices are strong. Words carry weight. As writers, we are familiar with these tenets and the power they bring. Now, more than ever, we need this power to bring about change. We need to weave our collective voices into a great shout that will reverberate in peoples’ hearts and minds across the world. We must use our voices to inspire change; our poetry to move others; our prose to broadcast experiences; our photography and art to make statements. This year, we saw 17 poetry, 12 prose, and 9 visual submissions. Without a doubt, I can say these submissions were some of the best I’d ever seen. In these submissions, people share their anxieties, fears, and insecurities. They also share their joys and successes. I hope these stories sum up 2020 well. On behalf of the team at New Literati and all those that submitted, we hope this 2020 web issue sends a message. Sincerely, Timothy Nguyen New Literati President

LETTER FROM THE

EDITOR -IN- CHIEF

2020…what a wild time. I won’t go through the list of crap that went wrong this year, I’m sure those of us living in this time are already well informed on that end. Instead, I’d like to bring your attention, dear reader, to the contents of this Fall 2020 Web Issue. In it, I hope you can see the good that came out of this year. I hope you see the glimmers of hope within each piece. I hope you see strength, resilience, defiance, and perseverance since each piece published in this issue are embodiments of the underlying hope that permeated this year, despite all of the shitstorm that was the implosion of the political, the environmental, the social, and the well-being of people around the world. At the beginning of this semester, I was absolutely terrified that us New Lit staffers were working hard for nothing. I had assumed that no one would submit, that no one had had the time to create in all of the chaos, that our publication—for the first time in five years—would not put out an issue in the midst of a global crisis when readers most needed one. However, I was wrong…obviously. We received a total of thirty-eight submissions from extremely talented creatives and I am so proud to say that we are publishing some of their work to share with you all in this issue of New Lit. It’s been difficult with all of our staff working remotely, dealing with the stress of online courses, personal struggles, and trying their best to keep their shit together while the world went up in flames. I’m sincerely thankful and unbelievably proud of our staff members for the dedication they have shown for our New Literati publication-family as well as the passion they have shown for the creative arts. Thank you so so much staffers!!! To everyone who has contributed, everyone who has taken the time to send in a submission, thank you so much for entrusting your wonderful work to us! Thank you so much for sharing your creativity with all of us—obviously, our readers included—during a time when we all need a bit of hope. Thank you so much for simply sharing a part of yourselves, we all know that that is not an easy thing to do and I applaud you for your courage. Congrats on being published! And finally, dear reader, thank you so much for reading these amazing pieces and for appreciating the work of our staff members. We hope that you find a piece in here that speaks to you, that can comfort you, that can help you through this rocky time and beyond. With much love and well wishes for a better future, Kristyn Garza New Literati Editor-in-Chief

A Name Lauren V. Esparza

10 Dust Esther Heymans

11 Trails Madison Sears

12 I Am Not “Hard to Raise” Jillian S. Horton

15 Stormcloud Kristina Koontz

16 On A Tangent Sofie Canestaro

CONT EN TS

Herd Mentality Madison Sears

18 My Fickle Friend, the Summer Wind Lauren V. Esparza

19 Snow Jillian S. Horton

29 Toppers Up Madison Sears

under a cloak

Sofie Canestaro

Clay and Soil

21-26

Sofie Canestaro

Whitespots Walker Nighbert

27 Odie

3 1 -32 Coffee Can’t Be Rushed nicco pelicano

Madison Sears

Hanahaki

The Sugarman Lauren V. Esparza

Jillian S. Horton

48 A Funeral For Perfection

36 Infectious Madison Sears

37-45 And Then Pamela Fojtasek

Esther Heymans

5 1 - 62 The Tower (And What Happened There) Pamela Fojtasek

Stillness of a City

These Days as an Ancient Sonnet

nicco pelicano

Nicole Cacho

When I Think About You Penelope Cordy

Dust

Esther Heymans from dust i am a product of the earth not the majesty but the dust the thing that is brushed out every spring cleaning wiped away with white gloves and lysol disregarded and disdained the swept-away dust fills my bloodstream mediocrity flows through my lungs i wonder what it would be like to be made of stars instead...

i walk in fields late after dark dig my feet into the soil that is my kin i ask the ground if it too feels insignificant as i sit, becoming one with the thing humanity tries to scrub away i watch the ants crawl on my toes i lie back and let the grass grow over my eyes i am absorbed, kissed by the roots of the oak under which i lie i realize that dust is the habitat of life and when i dissolve, i will form roots of my own these roots will stretch out from my toes growing, creeping, until i embrace insignificance and life is formed in my mediocrity to dust, i will return

Trails

Madison Sears

I Am Not “Hard To Raise” Jillian S. Horton

I feel like kids Shouldn’t be “hard to raise” because they’re different. I feel like kids Need to be told learning isn’t a race That it’s okay to take two-minute breaks Sometimes you just need to lie down and do nothing And that sitting alone isn’t such a terrible fate.

I feel like kids Shouldn’t get pushed on the playground While their parents say “boys will be boys” Or cry at movies And get told their emotions aren’t right. I feel like kids Shouldn’t have an inherent right to everything they desire, But I feel like kids Have the right to wear what they want To fall in love with their best friend at the aquarium To pick flowers and give them to classmates To dance in the rain and choose their own names. I feel like kids Deserve to have dreams Of any shape and size And deserve to be able to pursue their dreams Without eying a paywall they can never hope to climb.

I feel like kids Shouldn’t be “hard to raise” because they’re different. I feel like kids Should be “hard to raise” Because they understand that they are important And can teach the world to change.

A Name

Lauren V. Esparza

I was nineteen when I learned to write my first name. The letters “L-o-r-a-l” watched me from the other side of the pencil with crooked lines and an uneven “o.” Momma gifted me the name, the only thing I had left of her. I’ve always understood that this name was more than something to call myself; it’s a cavern I would have to grow into. Mr. James prefers to call me other things, trying to nail hate to my heart with a broken hammer. “Whore, bastard, and Negro” are the first, middle, and last names he gave me. Mrs. James is a different kind of creature, with a kindred heart and mind for teaching. She may look withered and afraid, but she walks with a back that doesn’t bend from a beating. “Ruth” was the second name she taught me to write. Mrs. James says it means “friend;” it’s a robust sound that reminds me I was free in my past life. Sometimes I can almost taste it when I awake from a dream, a lingering flavor of cold lemonade and sugar biscuits. Mrs. James sneaks over sugar treats sometimes during our lessons, smiling through black eyes and purple checks. Lady’s powder doesn’t do too much for a fair complexion discolored by a bad man. She says the last name is the most important because it’s passed down to your children and their children long after you’re gone. Sometimes it’s something forced on you, being fathered by a bad man. Other times it’s chosen when love finds its way into your forever. My last name originated from a wild-tempered man with lustful eyes for young black plumbs. Like a brand, it simmers and burns my skin. I was born with her hair and his eyes, into a world that does nothing but criticizes. —Loral Ruth James

Stormcloud Kristina Koontz

We’ve learned to fear Thunder the raging pound of an angry sky, crackling and snapping with terrible might. We never pause to think that such power stems from fragility a cloud would politely part to your hand, just as it curtsies to the currents of air that form its tumultuous head. A storm is polite, you see. It has no need to warn the fools still out in the open but it does. It could rip and tear through a town in a white-hot flash leaving the unwary stranded, broken, beaten but it doesn’t. It allows you to gauge its threat and consider whether a fight would be wise. I’ve offered such warnings to those brazen enough or foolish enough to challenge my worth. Some have heeded it. Some haven’t. I am no stain, but a Storm.

On a Tangent Sofie Canestaro

A lot of souls’ paths End up looking like parallel lines So close to each other But never meeting Some are perpendicular Meeting once and never again Some are two exponential Getting closer and closer But never brave enough to touch We’re all hoping for that Perfect path That perfect wishbone shape Where two lines finally meet And travel together But for some reason People keep breaking their bones Always wishing for something better Than what they have

Herd Mentality Madison Sears

My Fickle Friend, the Summer Wind Lauren V. Esparza

The leaves turn golden brown and the day breezes become cooler. My mind can’t help but wander back to those hot summer nights, the ones that were filled with endless laughter and flirtatious smiles. Those were the nights that taught us what inexplicable happiness felt like, our little piece of shared heaven. In that summer house where hospitality was a given, and worries were kicked out the door. The long hours spent together feel like distant, fleeting memories of a past life. When I close my eyes, I can still see your tousled hair and interlocked fingers as we shared secrets on Pier 33. We watched strangers walk by, living out their busy lives while sinking our teeth into juicy California peaches.  Fresh snow covers the ground and breaths of air become visible. My mind can’t help to wonder back to summer breezes hundreds of miles away. To a place where you could taste the sea salt in the air and feel the sand in your shoes, sticking between your toes. It was a season of restless nights and secret midnight runs to Taco Bell. We shared champagne kisses watching ocean sunsets dance on the waterfront. Swensen’s Ice Cream became our religion and daily bread, savoring Rocky Road kisses.  The leaves turn green again and the night breezes become warmer. My mind can’t help but wonder about the night we broke up in that cable car between Market & Powell. It was a bittersweet goodbye that lingered like black coffee on morning breath. I savor our San Francisco nights, even when the seasons change and the sun rises on new days.

Snow

Jillian S. Horton Hello My name is Snow I am 14 I am 14? 18? 4? 14? I am a memory Of being dragged across white powdered grass Put in an icy cold bath Washed with the first taste of death I am what killed your friend Why would they do that themselves? Wouldn’t they need a motive? What is the motive? I am the motive Like how I am the most gentle The quietest, the softest The prettiest to look at and carol about I am Snow I am everything I am ligature

under a cloak Sofie Canestaro it’s tricky losing a friend you’ll realize and you’ll realize  and you’ll realize over and over again there’s a white noise where their voice used to be and it hurts your ears not to hear anything

but when all is quiet you can hear the details in each moment and you’ll lie there listening still as the world continues to shift and turn and sigh around you like nothing even happened

Whitespots Walker Nighbert

The CT machine hummed. Meyer slowly retracted inside it, laid down upon a thick plastic bed with a mediocre pillow and a scratchy blanket. The room was dark, and he could only look up. “Stay still for one minute,” a nurse’s voice echoed from a backroom. “Almost done.” Meyer sighed, and breathed as deeply as his lungs allowed, which now, wasn’t as much as he or his doctors would like. “Okay, we’re done,” the nurse opened the door and came in. Meyer sat up, tugging a little on the collar of his hospital gown and taking a deep breath. “We’ll take you back.” Meyer shuffled to the wheelchair on which he had been brought in for the CT scan. Meyer could walk fine on his own; in fact, most everyone on his wing could. It was hospital policy that patients be transported on wheelchairs by the nurses whenever going to an appointed operation or procedure. Meyer’s room, 401, was in the epilepsy ward, a curious placement for a cystic fibrosis patient. They arrived back at the epilepsy ward, which was on the south wing of the fourth floor of the hospital. The electronic doors opened as a nurse scanned his ID card and Meyer could see his attending nurse farther down the wing, three wards down from the entrance. Her name was Diane, and she was his favorite nurse. Every day when he woke up, he would hope that Diane was attending for the day. She was nice and treated Meyer normally and didn’t look down on him with pity, like he was some helpless, hapless child. She waved at him and smiled as he was wheeled back into his room. “Here we are,” the nurse said, and Meyer politely smiled, but not a happy or welcoming smile; it was more like the kind of smile you gave when passing a coworker or a classmate in the hall. “Thanks,” Meyer said, standing up fine on his own and disintegrating onto his bed. “We should have the images soon. You have a breathing treatment in thirty minutes. Let me know if you need anything.” The nurse closed the door, and the bustling noise from outside in the ward stopped, and the room became silent. Today marked Meyer’s third week in this hospital. In this room. In this bed. It was lonely, but not for lack of human interaction; nurses came in at least once every hour, even at night when Meyer was sleeping, to check on his antibiotics or oxygen stats. It was lonely

because while nurses might understand the science of sickness and the desperate plights of the patients, they did not understand the effects of being cooped up in a hospital room for three weeks. Well, they understand it, Meyer thought, but they didn’t get it. But Meyer did not think he was actually sick. According to his pulmonary function tests, something was wrong, but nothing that Meyer could feel. He felt fine most of the time, and the worst he ever felt was after a breathing treatment when a percussion vest had battered his chest a thousand times in fifteen minutes. There was no infection the doctors could find, no pneumonia, no MRSA, no pseudomonas. The last theory his attending Dr. Hayes and a few other doctors who had taken his case had come up with was aspergillus fungus. For that, they put him on a more strict regimen of broad-spectrum antibiotics, but despite that, his lung function did not improve after two weeks, and Dr. Hayes broke the news to Meyer that he would need to remain for a third week. An even stricter regimen of breathing treatments--percussion vest therapy, nebulized sodium chloride, albuterol, pulmozyne--had done nothing to augment his lung function. “We think maybe you have a strong strain of aspergillus in your lungs that is resistant to antibiotics,” was the most recent theory. Dr. Hayes and a few others whom Meyer had never met came in earlier today and stood about, crowding his room as they discussed the next course of action. They discussed mostly amongst themselves, and not entirely involving Meyer, but Meyer was a kid, and there was not anything he could come up with that they had not already. Aspergillus, Meyer thought to himself. I hope they’re right. They weren’t right about pseudomonas or anything else they thought of. At the end of the second week, Dr. Hayes had come in with a great look of disappointment, not only from Meyer’s charted weight but also upon seeing the half-drank calorie shake by his bed. “Your weight’s down. You’re not eating. And your PFT’s were too low for me to let you out of this hospital. We’re going to keep you until they’re higher. And you need to gain weight.” “It’s hard,” Meyer told him. “I know. Yesterday you only ate 400 calories. That’s not enough.” “I know it’s not. I’m trying.” Dr. Hayes pursed his lips and raised a brow. “Alright,” he said. “I know it’s hard, but you need to eat more. I mean--I can’t let you out of this hospital in the state you’re in.” “I am trying,” Meyer bit his lip. “I’m not refusing to eat. I just--I just can’t.” “You’re going to have to.” Dr. Hayes was a tall, muscular middle-aged man with a full beard but no hair on his head. His posture was noble, almost as straight as an arrow, if

his beefy trapezoids didn’t add so much weight to his shoulders. He was a veteran, obvious in the way he carried himself in public and the dismal state of his bedside manners. He was younger than most of these doctors; he was confident, arrogant, no doubt extremely capable, but he wasn’t trusting of patients. Patients lied about the happenings of their life, if they took care of themselves, if they drank too much or smoked too much. Meyer didn’t lie, but patients did. Meyer could tell from the moment Dr. Hayes became his attending that the doctor didn’t trust him. He knew why. He knew the statistics. Boys with cystic fibrosis his age were bound to fall apart at some point because they neglected their treatments, skipped meds, lived too erratically for someone with a chronic illness, and because of that they would become sick and require weeks of hospitalization. That’s why, Meyer thought. He thinks I’ve ignored all my treatments and I’m sick because it’s my fault. He thinks I’ve let myself deteriorate. I haven’t because I’ve done everything right. I do all my treatments every day, make myself eat if I haven’t eaten enough, monitor my blood sugar, take my pills... Dr. Hayes never came outright and said, “I think you’re sick because you’re ignoring your health,” but Meyer could see it in his eyes whenever he came in for the day. The same mistrust and vindictive gaze caged in his blue eyes. Whenever Meyer told him that he had been taking care of himself as best as he could, he’d only say, “Okay,” and back out of the room. He didn’t believe him, but a good doctor knows that it’s almost always useless to argue with a patient. It’s not my fault. I wanna go home, Meyer thought. Maybe I’ll be here for three more weeks. Maybe I can leave AMA, sneak out of my room between treatments, leave a note that says I’ve gone home and call an Uber to take me home. Meyer had looked it up prior and learned the hospital can’t legally force him to stay here. At this point, Meyer didn’t care much about what the doctors had to say. He never had the courage to stand up to Dr. Hayes and tell him, “I want to be discharged. I feel fine,” but he knew even if he did, Dr. Hayes would shake his head and glare at him and say, “You’re sick.” Dr. Hayes sits in the lounge at twelve o’clock on a Monday, the first day of the third week of Meyer’s stay. With him sits Dr. Ranjit, who carves an apple and sets it next to his peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. “The--uh--I ordered a chest CT for 401 earlier today,” Dr, Hayes says, biting into a tuna sandwich. “He’s been here three weeks with no improvement. PFT’s are marginally better but by less than a percent.” “Who’s 401? CF?” Dr. Ranjit asks. “I’ll be his attending later this week.” Dr. Hayes nods. “Yeah, thought maybe he has pseudomonas that was inflaming his

lungs but it didn’t respond to broad-spectrums so we’ve moved on to aspergillus. Ordered a CT because I want to see if there were any inflamed spots.” He taps on a table and looks at the clock. The scan was ordered twenty hours ago, and any moment now he might see it. If he is right, the scan will reveal odd spots on Meyer’s lungs--signs of inflammation caused by an infection. “Boys his age with CF take bad care of themselves. Most of the time when they go off to college, but sometimes younger. I think he skips his treatments at home and that’s why he’s so sick. It’s not unusual but the amount of education these kids receive about it is--well, we need to do better, definitely.” Dr. Hayes finishes his lunch and receives a page. Meyer’s CT scan results are back. Dr. Hayes visits another one of his patients before looking at them. This patient is a seventeen year old neurotic epileptic who caused a fit and began screaming and cursing in the middle of the night last night. “We’re going to move you to a different room,” Dr. Hayes says. “The psych ward was full but space has opened up for you.” “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?” the kid asks. Dr. Hayes just shrugged and glanced around, observing some syringes of sedatives in the trash can that had been used last night. “Yeah, don’t worry. Some nurses will come around to help you move later tonight.” Dr. Hayes leaves the boy’s room and walks to radiology to get Meyer’s results. He opens the door to a dark room with lighted panels covering the wall and various X-ray, CT scan, and MRI photos stuck to the panels. Two of them have Meyer’s in-patient ID on them, the same number that the nurses check on his wristband any time they are due to administer treatment. Around Meyer’s lungs are several other scans, like MRI’s of the brain or X-rays or bone density scans, some of which have an ID number that Dr. Hayes recognizes as Dr. Ranjit’s patient. He glances briefly at them, then at the two nurses who are intensely scrutinizing Meyer’s lungs. “What’s--” Dr. Hayes begins to ask, but stops himself as he considers the lungs. They are peppered with white marks that represent the scar tissue around the lungs, typically expected from a cystic fibrosis patient, but the left lung looks peculiar. Beside the lung is a shadow, a thick, black shadow that threatens to engulf the entire chest like a haunted umbral cloud. It looked like a field of white spots that cried in gloom as a world of light began to turn dark. Dr. Hayes’ heart drops as he studies the pitch black portion, in awe of this vast obscurity. He feels like his own heart is being enveloped by this adumbrage. Dr. Hayes rushes back to room 401 in the epilepsy ward. He feels embarrassed, and his heart is in his stomach and he cannot seem to cough it back up. He cannot believe he missed something like this. He cannot believe he, nor any of the other doctors, did not even

consider this idea and instead supplied far-fetched theories of antibiotic-resistant fungal infections. For two weeks, he has pumped this boy full of antibiotics and other drugs, confident that they will restore him, and when he is healthy again, Dr. Hayes can lecture him on how he must take care of himself or he will soon end up back in this room. But it isn’t like that anymore. Dr. Hayes takes a breath, knocks twice, and enters. Meyer woke up from a power nap, as was usual during this time of day. Sleeping in was not a privilege he could enjoy, even after a fitful and sleepless night. At seven in the morning, a nurse came in and unhooked his antibiotics which ran through the night. Then at nine, he had a breathing treatment and needed to take his other meds. Fortunately, he had the privilege of leaving his bed to take a shower when he wanted so his hair wouldn’t become greasy from neglect. But before that, the nurses asked if he had enough packets of the special sanitizing body wash in his shower, and he would tell them ‘yes’ and not use it anyway, because it quite literally came in packets that he had to tear open, then pour it, which was cold and sticky, on his body and wash with his hands. Then, after a shower, breakfast if he had an appetite, and then a power nap after another breathing treatment and TV time. Meyer blinked and opened his eyes, sitting up quickly and clearing his throat but saying nothing, as Dr. Hayes entered. “We have your scans back,” Dr. Hayes said meekly, shuffling over to the computer station. He said nothing else as he logged into the system and retrieved two files that displayed images of Meyer’s lungs. “You have something called pneumothorax. I… don’t know how often it occurs in patients with cystic fibrosis, but it happens when air leaks out from an open space in the lung or pleural wall and fills up the space between your lungs and ribcage. Basically, it means your lung can’t expand.” Dr. Hayes pulled up the two images on the computer and moved away so that Meyer could see them. “This is why your lung function is low. Your left lung can’t expand to its full capacity. Did you ever notice any sharp pain, shortness of breath, unexplained fatigue?” Meyer shook his head, “No.” “Because of the scar tissue on your lungs,” Dr. Hayes gestured to the field of white marks along the lungs, “your lungs become extremely stiff. Typically pneumothorax is easy to diagnose because the patient will feel it. If you didn’t feel any pain or shortness of breath, that’s why. It’s also why your lung hasn’t completely collapsed; that scar tissue is keeping it rigid enough to stay put.” My lung is collapsed? Meyer thought, incredulous. I have a hole in my lung and I

can’t feel it? He sighed and rubbed his eyes, not entirely sure if he was fully understanding Dr. Hayes. “How do we fix it?” he asked after a moment of contemplation. “It’s possible that if we stop all breathing treatments, it’ll go away on its own; the body will reabsorb the air and it’ll resolve itself as long as we aren’t doing anything that might push more through the hole. If that doesn’t happen, we’ll have to put a tube in your chest that’ll drain the air and excess fluid that’s leaked out. We’ll give it a few days and if it hasn’t gone away on its own, we’ll put in the chest tube. You’ll have to have that for another few days, but once the pneumothorax is gone, I’ll discharge you.” Meyer nodded and said, “Okay,” and spoke nothing more. The resentment he had felt towards Dr. Hayes these weeks seemed to vanish and be replaced by an empty mask of grey ash, darker than even the shadows of his lung. Any tears he might have cried were sapped away and replaced by nothing. Dr. Hayes was silent and left room 401, while his patient sat alone in his bed, staring at the images of his deflated lung: a peaceful field of white spots crying in gloom.

Odie

Madison Sears

The Sugarman Lauren V. Esparza

There is a place in the West that I once called home. It’s quite unlike the rest of Texas, filled with rich flavors and fabulous people. Don’t be deceived by its beauty because there is a hungry power that plagues its sister city across the Southern border. The Sugarman lurks in corners to prey on the weak of spirit, giving them false hopes and highs. He paints pretty pictures for those lost in the dark as he returns colors to their broken dreams. Sugarman is a persona of many faces. He may look like your brother or speak like your mother. Nevertheless, he has one purpose: distributing and collecting. He offers many types of sugars, but they all serve the same end. Some help you remember, but most make you forget. Coke is among his most popular candy, powdered like sugar and made of phosphorane. Tales of the Sugarman are stories that rob all sweet substances from your life. The price of the Sugarman is not a cost many are willing to pay, having to sell their soul away. I once knew a man who dealt with sugar. He told my sister pretty lies that snaked around her skin like poisonous vines. I tried to save her from his falsities, but he paired his secrets with fine Spanish wine. We found her in a deadly slumber beneath the ground with a mouth full of sand. I often think about the untold secrets she packed with her for the next life. Sometimes I sit and wait, wondering when the Sugarman will come for me. He has taken various friends and family; I must be next in line, right? I could hide or try to turn, but he lurks at every corner waiting for me, his lost-and-found enemy. *This story was inspired by the song Sugar Man, by Rodriguez.

Toppers Up Madison Sears

Clay and Soil Sofie Canestaro

We finished a puzzle, my cousin and I, the kind with big, blocky pieces for tiny hands. They fit together so perfectly linked at the elbow, people would ask us, “are you twins?” And we’d giggle in unison because we fit together so perfectly.

I thought people were like that— palms branched into fingers to fit another set between the spaces. Little cardboard mysteries crafted for a specific soul, but souls are not made of pulp from dead trees We are made of something grander— clay and soil and roots that breathe. We are continents, with contours that morph into our own shape. Some pieces break off and drift away, others grow out of nowhere. And yes, we fit so perfectly once, but it would be somewhat naive of me to think that both of our silhouettes would always stay the same.

Coffee Can’t Be Rushed nicco pelicano

Espresso is like the last light of the sun shining through a window. Concentrated, rich, warm, with a creamy softness to it. It lives a short life before it turns bitter and dies, leaving a once vibrant window dull. Unfit to join the milk--what could have been a latte. Art is a latte, with it’s perfect ratio of espresso and steamed milk. The steamer wand tears through the top of the milk for five seconds, then emerges to the bottom to leave a paint-like gloss of perfectly supple foam. Stamped and poured precisely, it can reveal flowers and hearts. An artist’s touch to a daily drink. A cappuccino is a cloud. Milk becomes fluffy and weightless, steamed into an ethereal state that could float up to the heavens and leave its espresso behind. A cup of cloud for five dollars. A barista wakes up at 4am to fulfill their duty as an artist of this meticulous trade, bringing heaven to earth, keeping twilight alive, and sketching art with patience and precision. Before the sun, the sleepless fill the room in search of sunlight before they’ve given it a chance to do its work. Bags under their eyes, only to be lifted by a floating cappuccino. They’ve come to the place where clouds can be pinned down--where days can be brighter. The stinging sound of the steam hitting milk. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Quiet. The smell of espresso falling in two streams. Pouring the milk to meet the sun. Lid, smile, enjoy. Grinding the perfect amount of espresso beans, tamp, brush off, connect to grouphead. Another coffee. Time enough to clean. People come in, one by one. They look tired and the barista usually recognizes them because they come in every day. A girl in her pleated skirt and her white polo; the same every day, comes in with her father. She hides behind him and he orders for her as she blushes. A quiet man from the grocery store next door orders a black coffee every day.. A man who people-watches comes in and orders espresso. He stands by the counter and watches people wait, sometimes telling a joke and exchanging words with the barista. Regulars like him remember the baristas names, and in turn the baristas remember their order. Amongst the crowds who pass through, they are seen, and going through the motions of customer service can be forgotten for a moment. A familiar face brings light to the usual dark circles under the many eyes who plow through the doors, groaning when the wait is longer or when more dark roast needs to be brewed.

It’s eight in the morning. No bubbles in the espresso, and paint-like milk. Pouring slowly. A plethora of customers quickly rush in as if they have all planned to meet. The milk spills off the edge of the cup. Cups on the counter wait to be filled with flowers and clouds and sunlight-dipped sugar. A different combination, a different recipe. Staring eyes from beyond the bar watch the baristas while their shaky hands pin down clouds and paint masterpieces that require less time because of all the pressure. They could be late to work, and full of anger because someone decided to be kind and order fifteen drinks for the office. Focus, steam, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… stamp, pour, lid, slide and call the name. They don’t know the barista’s name. The barista puts blinders on and pretends to be on a cloud, alone and juggling everyone’s morning ritual, just like they want it, but with less wait, with less talk, and no smile. They are asleep and demand the barista to be awake, to paint their day better, to extend their golden hour, and let the warm sun fill their cold dead eyes that walk in and out the door every day. They want to resist the death of the espresso they buy. They want to be brought to life by the milk and sugar. They want to go and buy art, but not know how to appreciate it. They want a glimpse of heaven, while telling the baristas to go to hell when they are late to work.

Hanahaki Jillian S. Horton

I woke up again. A patchwork of warm golden light cast into my room, hitting the white frames of my furniture. At least, that’s what the visitors told me—that it was my furniture, that this was my room, that it was my sunlight. The sky and wind also happened to be mine, according to them, but they were invisible to me from the bed I was lying on. They called me Prinzessin but refused to give me a real name. I sensed one standing to my left, observing how I’d been sleeping, I supposed. I wondered if I should fall back asleep—my eyelids felt so heavy I could barely open them. I had dreamt of something pink and delicate that felt warm in my chest, a low voice had spoken to me in hushed tones… Something about sentiments that left a sour taste in my mouth. It had felt beautiful yet bittersweet, unrequited, or maybe unfinished. Unresolved? Unfurnished. I felt as though I had heard the voice before, had it belonged to a forlorn friend? The idea left me longing. It left me half-empty. Today it was quiet, except for the birdsong. There must have been trees outside the window—my window, under my sunlight, as the visitors told me. I sighed and heard the wind chimes sing through my window. I wished it were open so I could know what it was like to feel a breeze. Maybe I knew before, when I had had a name, but there wasn’t a point in wondering such things. I’d asked before, the visitors wouldn’t open it for me. I heard the one in my room tinkering with something softly. His hooked, black visage and wide-set ovular eyes were turned away from me, just out of sight. I supposed those unblinking spheres stared at the pages of the self-turning book, where a quill was suspended in the air and diligently took notes. I’d asked about this once before too, and the only answer I had received left me unsatisfied. She records our Prinzessin, is what I’d been told. I wondered if this made it my quill, as well. I had only seen it a handful of times when I still had the spirit to turn my head fully. Was everything “mine”? I knew better than to ask about it again, it would make my ears ring and my lips numb—once, trying to speak felt like liquid gold had been poured down my throat, and I didn’t desire that pain again. I had woken so many times since then, I wondered if now I could even speak at all. When I let myself take notice, I realized that the burning gold hadn’t quite stopped flowing down my throat. Every time I woke, something else seemed to burn—it was easier to focus on the room instead. My room. And not this immovable pain.

I looked down to my sheets, where the soft yellow-eyed plants that had begun to sprout still persisted. They grew in clusters, each flower holding five gentle petals that caressed its neighbors. I had noticed them a waking time or two before this one. They continued to creep towards the end of my bed, despite measures to deter their furtherance. I was uncertain why they had begun to creep off of my body— I thought they were merely a part of me, dimensional pink and white freckles. I assumed the visitors probably had them too, under their long robes and black visages. But if that were the case, why were the flowers adventuring past where my body lay? They were beginning to cover the entire bed, at least what I could see of it— sheets and clothing hadn’t deterred them, I could feel them persisting through nail beds and every pore they could find as well. They had recovered quickly from the last visitor’s interference. I had first seen them emerge through my lips. I sputtered them off of my tongue in a desperate attempt to evacuate them from my throat. The coughing and choking had ceased some time before my lips had begun to numb, but I couldn’t place when. It had been long ago— I felt as though I had forgotten some pivotal part of it through all of the time I had spent asleep. The flowers grew and my memories waned, it seemed— yet I was always too tired to let that bother me for long. Perhaps my memories longed to be like the flowers, considered and tended to. Cared for, but without empathetic thought. I heard today’s visitor approach me, although they remained outside of my eyesight. The chirping scchlick of gardening shears opening startled my heart into a tuplet of excess beats, but I found the energy to soothe myself. It will be like before, I thought. The pain will end. I feel your pain, Prinzessin, he said. We will make you better. The trimming would exhaust me, it always did— pulsating throbs sprouted where the budding flowers were clipped, turning my vision to a haze. The mechanical schlip of each cut overwhelmed my ears and sent tremors through my collar bones, but I knew it would end. All I desired was to sleep. After the trimming, I knew the visitor would let me. Maybe this time they would trim enough so I could speak, so I could breathe again with ease, so I could move my fingers without the risk of shattering stems and uprooting what budded from my fingertips. I grew tired of wondering. Wondering was as agonizing as the garden shears—but it was all I could do as I waited to return to my dream. The trimming felt endless. A pitiful few of my flowers seemed to shrivel before the shears even came near them, but it was hard to see. Everything was turning hazy like my dreams were returning to comfort me. I closed my eyes and tried to let them. The warm cream haze of rest engulfed me, the beautiful low voice of dreams coming forth—it drowned me in serenity, stifling the soft snipping of my floral body.

It ceased, and the metal shears clattered to the floor. I did not see, but I heard it, faintly. I let the voice of my dreams elevate me until I felt as though it had consumed my reality, and finally found sleep.

Infectious Madison Sears

And Then Pamela Fojtasek

The first time she saw it was a few days after the funeral. She had called for an Uber, and as the car pulled up, it caught her eye in the reflection of the back-door window. For just a second, she could see the figure behind her, the sunken face, the empty eyes. Something that could have been hair protruded unevenly from its scalp. There was a large gash on its forehead oozing blood, and it was covered in burns. Then the driver rolled down the window and asked if everything was alright, ma’am, and if she was going to be getting in the car. She almost didn’t hear him, eyes locked onto the place where she had seen that thing’s reflection, heart slamming against her chest. Then she nodded, and got in, buckling up with shaky hands, and the driver asked if the music was alright and didn’t mention the tears in her eyes or her horrified facial expression, or try to make any conversation with her at all, really. She gave him five stars.

After she first became aware of its presence, she noticed it was everywhere. Following behind her, just out of sight, or just in the corner of her eye. As she walked past storefronts, she kept her eyes down so that she wouldn’t have to see it in the glass, wouldn’t have to stare at its unnatural, stiff gait as it walked behind her, always following her. She could feel the weighty stares of the people passing her on the sidewalk, people who would steal glances when they thought she wouldn’t notice, and she didn’t miss the few times when people crossed the street so they wouldn’t have to walk near her and that thing. When she went to the coffee shop, she saw the concern on the barista’s face as she ordered, even behind the generic customer service smile. She noticed that some baristas were better than others about it; better at hiding the concern, better at making eye contact and not letting their gaze wander to settle on the creature that stood just behind her. Not that it mattered, because no one would dare to mention it, ask what it was, or where it came from.

Her friends, especially the ones that had known Alice, were the worst about staring at it. Sometimes, when they came over to check in and see how she was doing, they would go whole conversations without looking at her, instead gawking at the creature that loomed behind her. The other day, her friend had come to check in on her. When she opened the door, she saw her friend’s eyes go immediately to the creature, then to the mess in the kitchen, where empty casserole containers littered the counter and dishes piled in the sink. And her friend got that look in her eyes that she hated so much. The pity. “Oh, babe,” her friend had said, but she was looking at the creature as she said it. It had taken everything within her to not slam the door in her friend’s face.

They quickly developed a routine, she and the creature that now invaded her every moment: she would come home from work and eat dinner--probably a reheated casserole from a concerned neighbor--and then maybe sit on the couch with the TV on for a few hours before it was time for bed.

Before everything had happened, Alice would have never allowed that. After dinner they would have suggested that she go on a walk with them, or play a board game, or-okay, maybe some days they would have sat and watched TV together. Not every day can be a romantic adventure, after all. Sometimes all you want is to come home and sit with your partner and watch TV and turn your brain off for a while, and that’s okay. But the two of them certainly didn’t do it every day, because Alice had always said that while TV was well and good, too much would rot their brains, and there were plenty of other fun things to do together. But this was after. Now, she would come home from work, eat dinner, on the days that she ate, and then stare at the TV for hours so she didn’t have to think. So she didn’t have to look around at all of Alice’s souvenir knick-knacks that they’d bought even though she had told them they were a waste of money. Alice had always said some overly sappy thing about how it was about the “memories” or whatever. Now she was paralyzed, surrounded by memories she didn’t want, but couldn’t bring herself to get rid of. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she would get ready for bed, the part of the day she had come to dread the most.

After showering and getting dressed, she would brush her teeth. She had long since covered the mirror in the bathroom with a spare blanket. Then, after a few minutes of deep breaths, she would enter her bedroom. It never followed her from the bathroom, and every night that made her think that maybe tonight would be different. But it never was. She would turn down her half of the covers, careful not to disturb Alice’s side of the bed. On the side Alice used to sleep on, the covers were thrown back and wrinkled. Alice never made the bed, and they hadn’t on that last day, either. It was a strange parting gift, if it could even be called that, but it was one of the few she had. Getting into bed would have been bad enough at night without the creature--the darkness, the silence, the stillness--but hearing its shambling footsteps as it made its way to their side of the bed made her feel sick. She would have rather slept alone. The thought of it laying in the indentation where they used to sleep, using their pillow, almost made her want to do something. But then she might have to look at it. She was on her side facing away from it, but she could feel the bed shift as it laid down next to her. She tensed as it settled down into its spot for the night. It was so still that sometimes she thought that she might be able to pretend it wasn’t there, but just as she was able to push her thoughts away and drift into some sort of rest, she felt its cold arm wrap around her, felt it pull itself nearer to her until she could feel its rancid breath on her neck and it cradled her in a mockery of what she and Alice used to share. That was what usually did it, and she would start to shake and sob and, eventually, cry. All the while the creature would hold her, unmoving, and unmoved by her tears.

It began getting bolder as the weeks went by. Just last week as the barista who was the best about maintaining eye contact asked for her order, she felt its hand rest on her shoulder, and the way the barista’s gaze had flicked away from her eyes to the creature’s hand and then back to her face had put a lump in her throat. She made up some excuse about forgetting something in her apartment and left without ordering anything. A few days after that, she had noticed it no longer walked behind her, at a distance, but now was lumbering by her side. How long had it been slowly creeping towards her like that? How had she not noticed? The way the passersby had stared intently at their phones while stepping out of the way of the two of them had made her miss the open stares.

Then, today, it had sat next to her on the couch as she watched TV. Its body was facing towards the television, but she knew its head was turned to her because she could feel its hollow gaze on her. She sat as still as she could, terrified of what it might do if she moved or looked at it, and almost screamed when, after several hours, she felt its hand reach for her. Its cold fingers intertwined with hers and she felt the gritty texture of its skin. Her heart began to race and she began to shake, uncertain of what to do, if it was safe to move or if this creature was sick of stalking her, or wasn’t having fun toying with her anymore, and if she moved, that would be the end of everything. She sat there for a moment before she couldn’t take it any longer. She ripped her hand from its grasp, screaming as she pushed it away from her. It didn’t move as she ran into the bathroom, shut the door, and began washing her hands, scrubbing furiously to get its touch off of her. It hadn’t left a mark, but she could still feel it no matter how hard she scrubbed. She turned the tap to make the water warm, then warmer, then hot, then scalding. Eventually, hands pink and raw, she turned the faucet off and stood frozen. She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or vomit or scream, but by now her arms were shaking and her legs felt weak.

The creature was behind her again. She hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t heard any footsteps, but she could feel it staring at her. Holding onto the countertop, leaning over the sink, she looked up at the blanket covering the mirror, at the point where she could tell it was standing, even though she couldn’t see it.

“What… what do you want from me?” she asked.

There was no response.

“Please,” her voice was shaking and she hated it. “Please, just…answer me.”

It remained silent.

“Answer me… fucking answer me!”

Again, the creature said nothing.

She let out a sob. She knew there was only one way to resolve this. She couldn’t look at it, she couldn’t face it directly. Reluctantly, her hand reached up to grab the fabric in front of her, and she pulled it down with a slight whoosh as it fell to the floor.

She refused to look at her own reflection. She didn’t need the mirror to know how tired she looked. She didn’t want to see the new scars from the accident. Instead her eyes went right to the creature. It was standing behind her, right where she knew it would be. She hadn’t examined it, not directly, at least, since that first day in the reflection of the car window. It looked much the same. The gash on its forehead was still slowly oozing blood, and the burns across its pale flesh still looked fresh and new. It was staring at her, its black eyes unblinking, and now, for a moment, at least, she was staring back at it. “I can’t do this anymore. Please. Tell me what you want.” And then, when it didn’t answer, she said, “Tell me what you want.” Slower this time.

Again, the creature said nothing, but she saw it tilt its head as if confused.

“Fuck you!” She slammed her hand against the counter so hard it hurt. “Is that all you can do? Stare at me like an idiot? It’s been months! Say something, or get the fuck out!” She let out another sob, and then another. What would Alice say in this situation? They always knew just what to say to calm her down, but right now she couldn’t remember the words. It wouldn’t have been the same anyway. She wanted to hear their voice again. It blinked at her, and for a moment she thought she saw Alice’s eyes looking back at her. But then the moment passed and the eyes were as blank as ever. She didn’t know which made her angrier. “Don’t!” She grabbed the nearest object she could find, a hairbrush, and turned around, flinging it at the creature. It hit its chest with a wet squelching sound before clattering to the ground. The creature looked down at the hairbrush, then back at her, its expression as blank as ever. It was then that she realized that this was the first time she actually looked directly at it, and suddenly she felt more powerful. She’d looked at it, hell, she’d attacked it, and nothing bad had happened. It didn’t even have anything to say to her, apparently.

“What are you gonna do, asshole?”

Again it just stared at her, and for a moment, she thought that was all it would do. Then, it bent down and picked up the hairbrush with one of its claw-like hands. As it stood

up to its full height again, she noticed for the first time that its arms were just a little too long for its body and its fingernails were long and sharp. She felt herself shrink back a little bit, suddenly wishing that she hadn’t called it an asshole. It took a step towards her. She stepped back, but now she was up against the counter, and it was between her and the bathroom door. It took another step towards her. One more and it would be right against her. She could already smell the familiar scent of decomposing flesh. “H-hey, I…” she trailed off as it took another step towards her, and now it was right in front of her. It lifted up the hand that held the hairbrush, and she flinched, turning away, waiting for it to strike her. The hit didn’t come, and after a moment, she glanced at it. It was holding the hairbrush out for her to take.

After another heartbeat of stillness, it bent down so its head was level with hers. She could smell its foul breath, and again she began to wonder if she might throw up. It tilted its head at her, and gently prodded her arm with the brush head. She was still too stunned to move, and after a moment, it reached around, dropping the hairbrush onto the counter from high enough that it clattered a bit. Then, clumsily, it straightened up to its full height and shambled to the door, opened it, and left her in the bathroom. Once it was out of sight, she turned around and vomited into the sink. As she stood there after, shaking weakly and wiping her face with the back of her hand. She looked at herself in the mirror. The shadows under her eyes were deep and her eyes were red from crying. She barely glanced at the scar peeking out from her collarbone, and which trailed over her chest underneath her shirt. She didn’t want to think about it. Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud crashing sound from the bedroom and she stumbled out of the bathroom to find the creature, standing on Alice’s side of the bed, holding Alice’s covers in its hand. It had pulled them up and because of its awkward limbs it had pulled too much and knocked over Alice’s lamp. It didn’t seem to notice the mess it had made, and continued, folding the top of the duvet the way she did when she was making the bed. It dropped the covers and just stood there, looking at them.

It made the bed. The thought felt like it came from someone else, entering her head unbidden. “No!” the scream ripped out of her throat without her even noticing. She ran over, trying to push the creature out of the way. She barely noticed the way her hands sunk into the rotten flesh. The creature hardly budged from her pushing, but after a moment it stepped aside so she could get to the bed. She just stared at it, sobbing, her hands hovering over the covers, wanting to arrange them the way they had been before the creature had ruined them, but unable to do so. It wouldn’t have been the same, anyway. It wouldn’t be Alice. She was interrupted by another horrible clattering noise, this time coming from the living room. She hadn’t even noticed that the creature had walked away, and she didn’t know if she had the strength to go see what the creature was doing this time. Her breathing was picking up and she was pretty sure she was about to have a panic attack. What did Alice used to say whenever she started to feel like this? She closed her eyes and tried to picture their face, tried to hear their voice, but she hadn’t had a panic attack in several years, not in front of Alice, at least, and she couldn’t remember. She heard the unmistakable sound of the garbage disposal and she couldn’t stay there any longer. It took all of her strength to stand up and stumble out of the bedroom. She walked out just in time to see it drop one of Alice’s knick-knacks in the sink. The horrible sound of plastic in the garbage disposal filled the whole apartment, and as she stared at the creature, whose arms were full of Alice’s things, it gave her the strength to speak again. “Please, stop!” She had to yell over the clamor. The creature either didn’t notice or ignored her, dropping another item into the sink. “Is… is that what you want? To destroy all that I have left of them?” At this, the creature paused, hand hovering over the sink. It looked up at her, and tilted its head again.

“If… if I do that, will you finally leave?”

It stayed still.

“Fine. Fine! You win!” She walked over to the creature, which stepped to the side, and grabbed another one of Alice’s items. It was an ugly fridge magnet shaped like an ice cream cone, from the boardwalk where they’d had their first date together. She hesitated a moment before she threw the magnet in the disposal. The disposal screamed louder in protest, while the creature stood by her impassively. She grabbed the following item from the creature. Next was a blank postcard from the resort where they took their honeymoon. She tossed it in. One by one she took Alice’s items from the creature and put them in the disposal. The disposal finally broke and grew mercifully silent, but she kept dropping the memories in. Once she had taken everything the creature had gathered, she began walking around the apartment, grabbing more. Alice’s favorite magazine. Cheap novelty pens. Playbills from when they’d gone to see shows together. All of them went into the sink, and the creature stood, watching her all the while. She’d stopped crying about thirty minutes in, she didn’t have the energy to do anything but doggedly finish her task and finally rid herself of the creature.

At last, she knew there was only one thing left to put in the sink. She walked up to the sink, and looked at the creature, then at the gold band on her finger. Alice had been buried with their ring, and she knew she’d finally be rid of the creature once she got rid of the ring. Hands shaking, she slipped it off. The creature finally moved, startling her. Its hand took hers, and it was much more human now than it had been before, less claw like. It was gentle, and she watched as it took the ring from her fingers and pressed it into her palm, closed her fingers around it, and moved her closed fist to her chest. Then, it wrapped its arms around her, enveloping her in a hug. She looked into its eyes, and there were Alice’s eyes.

“I miss you so much. I don’t know how I’m going to do this without you.”

Alice didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on this, on one last embrace with them.

When she pulled away, Alice was gone, and so was the creature.

She sighed, looking at the mess she had created in her kitchen. She knew she was going to need a new garbage disposal, and there was a lot of mess to clean. Several of Alice’s souvenirs had been fragile, and shards now littered the ground. The glass and water from one of Alice’s snow globes created a glittering minefield that she knew she was going to have to sort through. She really had made a mess of things, but at least the creature was gone. For now, she was too tired to do anything but to go to bed. The mess would be there in the morning, and she could start picking up the pieces then.

These Days as an Ancient Sonnet Sofie Canestaro

A woman cries in the bathroom And both of us stand awkwardly outside Not knowing whether to comfort her Or let her be A woman stands in the greenhouse With blue eyes and smile creases Looking like me in fifteen years

A mocking bird in the honeybee bush Stares at me a foot from where I stand And our eyes lock for a full five seconds Before she flies away A stranger at the station With a blanket on his lap Tells me to never leave my friend And my friend tries to keep a shy grin hidden As we wait for the bus in silence Each a symbol but some more obvious than others If my life were an ancient sonnet Printed in a standardized test For high school juniors I wonder what they would make of it I wonder what details would be Picked out and analyzed What does it mean? What does it mean?

The thing I love about English Is that there are no wrong answers Says my English teacher Absentmindedly As she stands in front of a blank projector That’s why I can’t stand it Murmurs John in the corner While I only half listen Drawing in my notebook instead

A Funeral for Perfection

Esther Heymans I have always said I can’t write poetry That creativity is not for me I don’t draw or paint or craft or sing So why would I think poetry was the exception A friend once wrote a poem they said described me When they read it I tried not to laugh I accepted the words, a mouth full of false accolades  And never mentioned it again

It isn’t that I think poetry is awful  Or that people who write poetry are weird It’s simply that creativity lacks rules I’ve never led a life without rules I was the kid who read every rule at the pool I was scared that the lifeguards would put me in jail If I ran by the pool or looked at them wrong Following the rules superseded fun In school everything seemed too freeform I was bad at drawing houses or trees I didn’t want to sing in the kindergarten choir Nor did writing about my feelings appeal to me I played pirates on the playground I thought about the stories I did want to tell I dreamed of letting these thoughts and ideas out of my head I wanted to let them out onto paper But fear blocked the way

When I learned about the five-paragraph essay A basic formula for my thoughts I thought I could write I told stories to escape via the formula I installed Grammarly to guide their way I wheezed words into life I sputtered pages and paragraphs I followed every rule given to me  By every mark of a red pen  By every grammar primer By every criticism that lived in my head I don’t know what life without a Grammarly plugin looks like What does truly free writing look like Is it a release Is it creation God didn’t use a computer program to create us. He didn’t have an editor  proofreading for “mistakes.” His creations don’t have an introduction, body, and conclusion. God created me without a template. My eyes aren’t colons, my feet aren’t periods, yet I am  words personified. When I dance, I am off-beat. When I sing, my voice cracks. When I  speak, I can’t breathe. But God didn’t  hit the backspace button. He never flipped  the pencil over on the rough draft of Esther and used the pink rubber to scrub me away. I  exist, bow-legged with crooked teeth, standing strong as what could be a monument to the greatest cosmic mistake. But I exist. Just like God breathed life into existence  I breathe ink into sentences  I am the creator of a new consciousness on a page  Do I do it the disservice of expecting perfection Do I harm the new life I have  created by demanding it follow a form  Once these words have left my  mouth they should  fly, free as a bird with lopsided wings  They should be safe to take shelter on the page free from the ravaging and revising of an insecure maker

So maybe I can’t write poetry I don’t understand meter or rhyme But I know that I also follow no template  In this life of mine So I will push bravely forward Uninstalling the voice in my head And I will write and write and write...

...until the word “perfect” is dead to me

The Tower (And What Happened There) Pamela Fojtasek

Once, there was a Seer in a tower. She had not always been in the tower, of course, nor did she want to be there. But she had always known that she would be there one day and that after she left the tower she would meet her End. The Seer had grown up in the tower’s shadow, in a nearby village where adults spoke of the tower in hushed tones, and children spoke of it in excited whispers. Even in her childhood, the tower had long been abandoned, by some evil warlord or tyrant who lost their power and wealth in a war, or perhaps a witch who was vanquished by a brave knight. The Seer and her friend, like many children who came before them, and many who would come after them, used to look up at the tower in fear and wonder, hoping that one day they would be brave enough to enter and find whatever riches its previous occupant had managed to hide away. Later, when she was older and ready to leave the town where she had grown up, the Seer had returned to the tower in the dead of night to look up at its great height, silhouetted by the moon. She had remembered her friend and the adventures they had planned to have together. Then she had left, alone, knowing that one day she would return, again alone. And so she had returned. And now, as she sat in the tower overlooking the valley where she had spent much of her life, she reflected on her experiences, as many do when they can see their life drawing to a close, and can do nothing but wait for their End to come meet them.

You see, The Seer had once been a Priestess of Great Renown, as she was gifted with The Sight. People came from far and wide to visit her, that she might counsel them concerning their troubles, and give them words of advice. One day, a young widow arrived seeking such help.

“Oh Priestess,” implored the young widow, “my husband died last winter and now my land has gone fallow. What crops do grow are small and yellow and sickly. My children are hungry. The king has raised the taxes yet again, and if I cannot pay them we will lose our home, and we will surely die. Tell me, what can I do? How can I provide for my children?” The Priestess paused, and then replied, “Dear Widow, please listen to me. Your husband’s death has hardened your heart and silenced your lips. Your children are hungry, and their mouths hang open, but yours remains closed. They miss their father, and you never speak of him because you fear it will hurt too much. Do as I say now. Go home and uproot your crops. Take this gold and buy new seeds. Ask your children to help you plant them, and for each seed you plant, remember something about your husband. Say it out loud, let your children hear. Water your plants with your tears. Let your grief fertilize the land. This autumn will be difficult. You will barely be able to get by. But you will get by. And next year, your crops will yield twice as much as normal. Your husband is still with you, and he will help you provide for your children. He will help you heal.”

The young widow bowed her head. “Thank you, Priestess. I am in your debt.”

“Dear Widow, lift up your face. Do not hide your tears. Go forth proudly, and know that you are loved.” Hearing this, the Widow lifted her head and let her tears fall freely. Her eyes met with those of the Priestess and, to her surprise, she saw not only kindness but also a sadness in them, a strange familiarity she could not place. The pouch of gold was taken from the Priestess’ own coffers, and while this seemed unusual, the Widow did not pretend to understand the ways of Priestesses. She merely accepted the gold, thanked the Priestess, and went home. That night, the Widow and her children grieved, and the family began to heal. And, very slowly, the plants began to grow. The Priestess grew more famous as she continued to help those who sought her advice, and one day a young man approached the Priestess for help. “Revered Priestess,” implored the man, “ I need your help, but I do not know how to ask for it. I have a problem, but I am too scared to tell my friends and family about it. They would laugh and call me womanly if they knew my secret. Please, if there is anything you can do to help me, I would rather die than continue living like this.” The Priestess examined the man. His black eye, the bruises on his arms. The way he hunched his shoulders and favored his left leg. She paused, thinking, and swallowed the

lump in her throat before she replied. “Dear Friend, you need not speak the horrid truth. Listen and heed my advice. Return now to your home, and gather your possessions. Take only what you can carry. Travel to the city, and go to the first inn you can find. Tell the innkeeper that the Priestess has sent you. She will know what to do. Trust in her and trust in me. Your wife will never hurt you again.”

The man’s eyes widened. “How could you know the cause of my troubles?”

“Before I was a Priestess, I was Engaged To Be Wed. I never knew a kind touch from the man I was to marry. But he can no longer hurt me, and soon you too shall be safe.” There was a pause. His eyes met hers, terrified, before he dared to voice his lingering fear. “What if my wife sees me and discovers my plans?” The Priestess smiled kindly. “Do not be afraid, Friend. Your wife’s journey home will be delayed. The wheel on her cart will break, and she will not return from the market until the morrow.”  As the Man turned to leave, she spoke again. “Do as I say: Before you leave your home, take the front door off of its hinges. Then find your wife’s favorite shirt, launder it, and hang it up to dry. Tomorrow, the town will see your wife as she truly is.” Tears welled up in the Man’s eyes and he knelt before the Priestess. “Thank you, Priestess. I owe you a great debt.”

“Think nothing of it, Friend. I wish you the best of luck.”

After a final thank you the man took his leave. The next afternoon, the town was abuzz with the latest news. The town’s Seamstress was a villainess who garnished wages from her workers and mistreated her husband. People refused to patronize her place of business and ceased talking to her. Soon, the Seamstress was forced to close shop and move out of town. As for her husband, he had disappeared in the night and was never seen again. In time, the Priestess gained even greater prestige. News of her abilities soon reached the city, and eventually the King.

“Bring her to me,” declared the King, who was troubled by discontent in his kingdom.

The Priestess packed her bags and told her household that she would not be returning. She had no parting gifts to offer those around her except warm wishes and good fortune. Then, she set off to meet the King in his royal court. “Greetings, Priestess,” the King said, “I am greatly troubled by a grave matter. My people are unhappy, and The Kingdom To The North threatens our state. My ministers are wise, but they are at their wits’ end. What must I do? How can I appease my people and protect my kingdom? If you help me, you will be rewarded handsomely, and never want for another thing in your life.”

The Priestess paused to think for a moment.

“See, sire? She does not know what to say. She is only a fraud, and her lies are what have gotten her this far,” whispered one minster. “No, no!” murmured the other. “She is a witch! Be careful, she is scheming to put a hex on you.”

The King furrowed his brow as the Priestess began to speak.

“Honored King, listen to my words. You are a kind man and an honest ruler. But your ministers’ greed and lust for power has poisoned your land. They raise the taxes exorbitantly to fill their coffers and your subjects grow discontented. Your ministers sow the seeds of discord with The Kingdom To The North in the hopes that a war will make you seem unfit to rule. Even now, they plot your downfall.” “Lies!” exclaimed one minister. “How dare you come into the throne room of the king and insult his intelligence!”

“How dare you question his judgment!”

“Silence, ministers,” said the King. “Priestess, do you have any evidence to support your accusations?”

The Priestess tilted her head in thought.

“See?” hissed one minister. “She lies! She tries to trick you! She cannot substantiate her claims!”

“You must lock her away,” urged the other, “before she casts a spell on you!”

It was then that the Priestess spoke.

“Listen to my words. I am not a Witch. I am simply a Priestess. I see things as they truly are. But I know you will not believe me. I do not blame you. Those vultures on your shoulders have dug their talons in too deeply.” “Witch!” “Liar!” “Enough!” the King shouted. “How dare you come into my court and try to beguile me! How dare you accuse my most trusted advisors of treason! I am no fool. It is I who sees things as they are. Guards, take her away. Tomorrow she will be burned at the stake for practicing witchcraft.” The Priestess bowed her head and did not struggle as she was led away. She was stripped of her title and left in the dungeon for the evening. In the darkness she wept. She knew that this was not The End. The tower still awaited her. Somehow, she would make it out of this predicament. But it was dark in the dungeon and cold. She could not help but be afraid and feel alone. Sometime after midnight, she was roused from her restless sleep by the voice of a guard.

“Priestess, is that you?” the Guard asked.

“Yesterday I was a Priestess, tomorrow I will be a Witch. Tonight I am simply a Prisoner,” she replied. “Well then, listen to my story, Prisoner.” Hearing this, the Prisoner sat up and prepared to listen. She could not see the face of the man speaking to her. Although he held a torch, he peered into the darkness at her and shadows obscured his vision. “I came to the dungeon tonight because I once sought the counsel of a Priestess and heard a tale that one was arrested by his majesty, the King. I needed to know if this Priestess was the one I met some time ago. I am a Guard. But before that, I was just a man who was married to a Seamstress. I had a problem, one which plagued me night and day and seemed to have

no resolution, no end. I considered killing myself. Finally, at my wits’ end, I visited the local Priestess who was famous for her advice. I feared she would be cold and uncaring. I feared that she would not help and I would be alone with my misery, or worse, that the Priestess might tell my wife what I had said. Instead, the Priestess was kind and called me ‘Friend.’ She told me what I needed to do and I…” his voice broke and there was a pause. While the Guard collected himself, the Prisoner waited with bated breath. Finally, the Guard cleared his throat. “I owe the Priestess a great debt.” The Prisoner heard the mechanism of the lock as the Guard turned the key, and the cell door opened. “I am here to repay that debt, Dear Friend, if you will allow me.”

The Prisoner looked up at the Guard.

“Come,” he said, with a wry smile. “Forget the title of ‘Witch.’ If you must change titles, I think ‘Fugitive’ suits you much better.”

The Fugitive smiled and stood, following the Guard out. Carefully the pair made their way out of the castle, the moon as their only witness. They weaved their way through the city streets, ducking past patrols and slinking in shadows when necessary. Finally, the Guard and the Fugitive made it to an inn on the edge of town.

At the door of the inn, the Fugitive turned to the Guard.

“Dear Friend,” she started, “thank you for everything, but you should take your leave now.” She waved a hand to silence the Guard’s protests. “You have done more than enough, and pushing any further would be too dangerous. The kingdom needs you. You have a bigger part to play. You must stay here. And you must stay brave.” “Before I leave, I must ask. Tell me, why did you come here if you knew the King would not accept your advice?”

In the darkness, the Guard heard the Fugitive give a sad sigh.

“There was a chance he might listen to my warning, and by doing so save his life.” The Guard nodded, though he knew the Fugitive could not see him, and then a silence stretched between the two.

“How did you become so brave? To walk into the den of a lion in the hopes he might decide not to eat you?” the Guard asked.

The Fugitive paused for so long that he thought she was not going to reply after all.

“Before I was Engaged To Be Wed, I was just a girl. The first time I fell in love, it was with my best friend. I was terrified. I knew that we could never be together, that I could never have my best friend as my lover. I thought that all would be well as long as we were still in each other’s lives. Then, one day, my best friend was betrothed to another. I was heartbroken. The two of them married and moved away. I never got the chance to tell my friend the truth, and I never would. I knew that I could never let myself be paralyzed by fear again.” The two friends sat in silence for a while, until the sun began to rise and the first rooster crowed. The Guard wanted to ask if he would ever see the Fugitive again but, fearing the answer, he held his tongue and stayed silent. And so, they wiped the tears from their eyes, embraced one last time, and parted ways. From there the Fugitive traveled south, where she knew that the Tower would be waiting for her, just as it always had. When she arrived, the door was off its hinges and the dust and dirt had piled up in the corners; no one had lived there for many years. Slowly, the Fugitive cleaned up the tower and made it a home once more. Occasionally she would travel to the nearby village, but for the most part she kept to herself. The townspeople avoided her gaze, fearing strangers, and so she remained a stranger to them. Over time, word came that a war with the Kingdom To The North was inevitable, and people became even more distrusting of strangers as tensions arose everywhere. From her tower, the Fugitive still saw things As They Were. She could not stop herself. Her own future was unknown to her, and she could not bear to sit still and wonder about The End that was to come for her. It was much easier to watch the futures of those around her. And so, slowly she stopped being a Fugitive and became a Seer. She saw the villagers in the valley below her struggling with themselves, and each other, and their circumstances. As the years passed, she could not stand seeing so much, without being able to help them for fear of being discovered. Being around the others, she could not help but see, so the Seer went out less and less until, eventually, she did not go out at all.

The Seer finally closed her eyes to the future, by turning them to the past. She had grown up in the valley below her, and played in the shadow of the tower as a child, long before she knew its significance. As she sat at her window, sometimes she thought she heard the shriek of a child or saw the forms of two best friends running down the hill to marvel at the tower’s height, and wonder what adventure may lie inside. The End could come and find her. She certainly wasn’t going to go out and find it herself. She was in the Tower, and she did not want to be there. But she did not have anywhere else to go, either. All she could do was remember less lonely times, and wait for the End.

It was a grey morning when a voice called out from down below. When she went to the window, the Seer saw a knight in gleaming armor looking up at her, their shield emblazoned with the crest of an unknown kingdom. She felt the pit of dread in her stomach and she knew that The End had finally come.

“Excuse me,” called the Knight. “I am looking for someone. She used to be a priestess who saw things As They Were, but now she is a fugitive who hides from a wrongful execution.”

The Seer thought for a moment.

“My apologies, good Knight, but I am not the person you seek. I am a Seer.”

The knight seemed to think for a second before she replied.

“How did you become a Seer?”

The Seer paused before speaking again. “That is a long story. Or, it is a short story.”

“Go on then, I’m quite comfortable. Take your pick of either one.”

“Before I was a Seer, I was a Child. One day I was playing in the river, and I lost my footing. I slipped and fell and hit my head. That day I almost drowned. While I was unconscious, I heard a voice calling out to me. It told me that I would be a Seer and I would see things As They Truly Were. It told me this was a blessing and a curse. It told me of all the

hardships I would have to endure in my life and the good things I would do because of this Gift. It told me that one day I would live in a tower and that The End would come soon after, though it did not tell me how or when.”

“So then, you have been a Seer since you were a child?” asked the Knight.

The Seer paused, then sighed, knowing she could not stop the inevitable. “If you must know, I have not. You see, before I was a Seer, I was a Fugitive.”  At these words, the Knight dismounted her horse and removed her helmet so she could see the woman in the tower better.

“And tell me, before you were a Fugitive, were you a Priestess?”

“Well... yes. I was. And before that-”

“Before that you were A Woman Engaged To Be Wed! And before that, you were just a girl!” Again the Seer paused, wondering how this Knight could know so much about her. Although she could not see much of the Knight, she could tell from the tone of her voice that, somehow, the Knight knew something she didn’t. “Tell me, Knight. What brings you here to my tower? Do you want a prophecy to guide you on your quest?” “Let me explain, my lady. I have not always been a Knight, you see. Before I was a Knight, I was a Farmer. And before I was a Farmer, I was a Widow. Before that, I was a wife.” The Knight paused for a moment to catch her breath, and at the Knight’s words, the Seer’s heart began to race as she peered down closely at the Knight, hoping to get a better look. “But long before all of that, I was just a little girl who grew up in a village, nearby the very tower you now reside in. I met my best friend when we were both very young. We used to play in the shadow of this tower, and wonder what might lay inside.” The Seer’s hands were shaking now and she let out a gasp as tears filled her eyes. “My friend was very kind, and she always Saw Things As They Were. She was the first person I fell in love with. I planned to tell her at the Summer Festival. I did not know what we would do, but I knew that I would be happy if she loved me too, no matter what

the circumstances were. But then on my sixteenth birthday my parents told me I was to be betrothed, and I knew I did not have a say in the matter. I met the man they wanted me to marry. He was kind and never treated me poorly. We wed and I moved to his farmhouse to the west of here. Over time, I fell in love with him. We had children together, and we were comfortable and happy. One winter, he grew ill and died. That year, the crops failed. I did not know what to do and had nothing but my children, who were starving. I was at my wits’ end when I heard the tale of a Priestess from a nearby town who was said to be wise and helpful and whose advice never failed as long as it was followed to the letter. And so I took my last copper piece, traveled there, and met her. The Priestess saved my farm, my life, and the lives of my children. My heart began to heal from my loss, and though money was tight, all was well until the proclamation of war came. They demanded one adult from every house in the kingdom should fight for the King. While I was still in training, the King was assassinated by none other than his own ministers.

The coup threw the kingdom into disarray for weeks, for the King did not have an heir. Finally, a ruler emerged from the chaos. A man who used to be a guard found his way to the seat of the throne. One of the first things he did was pardon a Fugitive, who had once been a Priestess. He claimed that she was a friend, that she saw things As They Were and that she had predicted the King’s demise. He said there was a reward for any information leading to the safe discovery of her location. Having met this Priestess myself, I was granted an audience with him, though I had to wait several months. As we spoke, I began to feel an old love rekindle in my heart again, love for my best friend. I wondered what had become of her since we last saw each other, if she was safe. If she had found somebody to love her like I had wanted to. If she was happy. The New King told me of his encounters with his Friend, the Priestess, the Prisoner, the Fugitive. And I--” here the Knight shook her head, laughing, “I was so foolish. How did I not recognize her, when I sought her advice as a Widow? The Priestess and my first love were one and the same. I must admit, Seer, I am a touch fearful of finding this Priestess.” At this the Knight smiled wryly at the Seer, as though they were about to share a joke, but the Seer could tell from the way the Knight wrung her hands and crossed one of her feet behind her other leg—a gesture she had seen many times before—that the Knight was truly nervous about what she was about to say.

“Surely she recognized me when I visited her. After all, she sees things As They Are. Yet she did not call me by name, or even call me ‘Friend.’” Here the Knight’s voice shook. “I do not know if she failed to recognize me, or if she loved another at the time, or if she resented me for leaving her. But—” “But,” the Seer interrupted, her own voice trembling, “the gold she gave you came from her own coffers.”

There was a pause.

“Yes. I suppose it did.” The two smiled at each other, each thinking how for the first time in a long while, the only thing separating them was the tower’s height. “My friend, my love,” the Knight called again. “I have traveled so far to find you, and now, to see you looking down at me from the very tower we spent our childhood looking up at in wonder, I wish—I wish I had told you that you are more wonderful than a thousand empty towers when I had the chance.” “There’s still time.” The Seer had given up on holding back her tears and now they flowed freely.  “I love you with all of my heart. I loved you then and I love you now. If you will have me, I am yours.” The Seer nodded, her heart full. She had wished for this moment for so long but had never thought she would see it.  “My heart has always been yours. Always.” As she finished speaking, she stood and crossed away from the window, ready to leave the Tower for the last time. As she raced down the stairs, she remembered her foot slipping on the slick rocks by the creek’s edge as a child, the moment of terror as her foot gave way from under her and she fell into the creek below. She remembered the words she heard in her unconsciousness, the voice that told her all the good and bad things she would experience because she was a Seer. The promise the voice made all those years ago was still clear in her head, as was the apology it had offered her. The ability to see the fates of others, to help guide them. She had known that she would help many people. She would never know where her Path was leading her, only that she would walk alone to her final destination.

But now she would be lonely no longer. The Knight was here for her and finally, they could be together. She remembered coming to after she had almost drowned, the girl who would become her Knight leaning over her, still dripping wet from pulling the both of them out of the creek. She remembered what her beloved had told her, that she should watch her step, that she’d nearly met her End that day. And as she ran down the staircase, she remembered how near she was now to her End just a second too late, as her foot once more slipped and she fell, hitting her head on the stone.

All was black.

Thank you for your service, Seer. The voice was just as she remembered it, clear, and not unkind, in her head. May the rest of your life be lived in peace and joy.

When the woman who used to be the Seer came to, her knight was crouched down over her prone body, looking at her with worry. “My love, are you alright?”

The woman who used to be the Seer smiled at the one who she had waited her whole life to be with. With a shaky laugh, she wiped the tears away from her Knight’s eyes. For the first time in her memory, she felt the thrill of uncertainty, and her answer came without hesitation.

“Yes. Whatever is coming, I can bear it as long as I’m with you.”

Stillness of a City Nicole Cacho

When I Think About You Penelope Cordy

pt. 1 You were the one who ended this two-month exchange with a short text on Sunday at 8:36 a.m. I pictured you nestled in your blue paisley, polyester sheets, fully comforted by your new pillows and your decision to never see me again. I hate paisley. But you didn’t know that. I hadn’t yet allowed you to get to know me like that. You told me you had expensive taste, but that low thread count made me think otherwise. I have expensive taste.

I  sat with you in your Subaru a handful of times. A child’s handful, small and grasping for everything in sight Your soft eyes and ironed pants were easy to love were easy to think I could love… I think about how you are something  I could have had. How I am something you could have wanted Something I might have wanted.  Honestly, I don’t hate your love for paisley or, more importantly, that you don’t know that I hate paisley. What I hate is that lingering pain of thinking I could have been loved by you, or someone like you.

pt. 2 I was thinking about you yesterday, your soft eyes, ironed pants. I saw your picture, you had a forehead bigger than I remembered. You sent another text today, this time at 11:18 p.m. For a second time I pictured you in those horrible paisley sheets but wrapped in something other than the comfort of never seeing me again. This time maybe you were sad, guilty, manipulative. I don’t know. I was confused about what you were feeling and how I was feeling. You know me even less now. I’ve cut my hair. Aged two months and changed in the process. I know what I want now. Or… I think I do. I thought I did until you said something. Not this exactly, but along the lines of “You are someone I could have loved.” I love your Subaru, I love your waxed canvas jacket. I love your vacuumed carpet. I love your soft eyes and ironed pants. I think that I could love you, but perhaps I could be wrong. pt.3 You texted me again, God damn you. Manipulative in your lousy repetition of words. Addressing me as if you didn’t just

dispose of me for a second time a few weeks earlier. Addressing me after I addressed you about how you (and this) are a lousy waste of time. Addressing me as if I don’t know that I am good. Your polyester blue paisley sheets have burned along with your supposed regard for my wellbeing. You “hope life’s treating me well?” Yeah... I’d hoped you would have treated me well. I’m sure you do too.

You tried crawling back from another failed situationship back into my arms, the arms of a woman who is “a good person,” as you said it, in her prime. A good person, woman, who is doing quite well for herself. Please, next time, spare us all, and keep your pathetic woes to yourself. I have a list of therapists in your area that might be of use to you. xoxo *blocked*

STAF STAFF F B IIOS OS Timothy Nguyen President

Timothy Nguyen is a senior Creative Writing major. He serves as the president of New Literati and is immensely passionate about art and graphic design. He is most often found playing games alongside his cat Nori; he hopes to graduate May 2021.

Kristyn Garza Editor-in-Chief

Kristyn is a soon-to-be English Literature graduate. Her impending graduation has become a terrifying cloud over her head but she still finds time to write poetry and run New Lit in a semi-efficient fashion.

Melinda Hurtado

Head of Design Department Melinda is a junior Graphic Design major who is also minoring in photography media arts. When they are not completely stressing about course work or personal projects, you can find them cuddling with their two mini poodles, Dakota and Peanut. They enjoy singing, watching the sunset, and spending time with friends--preferably all at once. They hope to graduate May 2022.

Sofie Canestaro Assistant Designer

Sofie Canestaro is a graphic design student and a writer, but mostly she’s a kid with half her marbles missing. If you can’t find her hunched in front of a laptop or a messy notebook, she’s probably somewhere on the moon, looking for good skipping stones.

Miki Nguyen Assistant Designer

Miki is a junior at St. Edward’s University who is majoring in Forensic Science and is minoring in Psychology! She acts like she knows what she is doing, but in actuality, she is very lost and is confused like 24/7. She spends most of her time watching anime and listening to BTS, while simultaneously contemplating life and aggressively sobbing.

Juan Gonzalez Apprentice Designer

Juan Gonzalez is a junior studying Graphic Design at St. Ed’s. His interest is mainly on layout design, and his aspirations are to work in the fields of publication, advertising, or entertainment. Aside from this, he also enjoys going out for walks, watching scary movies, and playing loud music.

Calista Robledo

Poetry Head Editor and Social Media Manager Calista is double majoring in Catholic studies and writing and rhetoric with a concentration in creative writing. This is her first year as New Literati’s head poetry editor, and her second year on staff. Calista is a self-proclaimed pocket full of sunshine who enjoys movies, tv shows and google calendar.

Vicky Ortega Poetry Head Editor

Vicky Ortega’s fickle imagination knows the dangers, but she’s been in love with poetry for so long. The whimsical, the haunting, the morbidness of life calls to her with hunger and, like all human beings before her, she answers in kind.

Carolynn Dunn Poetry Copyeditor

Carolynn Dunn is a senior studying Writing and Rhetoric. She would like to be known for her love of thunderstorms and her penchant for writing horror.

Kira Klindworth Poetry Copyeditor

Maddie Middleton Poetry Copyeditor

Maddie Middleton is a junior majoring in Writing and Rhetoric at St Edwards. She is so thankful to be working on New Literati for another semester, especially during such a stressful time.

Vanessa Lopez-Campos

Prose and Poetry Editing Board Leader Vanessa is a senior Forensic Science major who liked being a Writing minor a lot more than her actual major. She spends her time watching the X-Files, bingeing anime, being a bad drawer, and falling asleep to the NoSleep Podcast.

Patrick Behrens Prose Head Editor

Patrick Behrens is a junior Writing and Rhetoric major (with a concentration in Professional Writing) with a minor in Catholic Studies. Patrick Behrens spends most of his time creating music and rock climbing.

Logan Robichaud Prose Head Editor

Logan Robichaud is a senior studying political science with a minor in writing and rhetoric. His work has appeared in New Literati, Sorin Oak Review, Arete, Pulp Adventures, and Fincham Press. In his free time, he enjoys working on his Honors thesis…that’s it.

nicco pelicano Prose Copyeditor

nicco is a writing & rhetoric major with a creative writing focus and a journalism minor. she is a prose copy editor for the new literati literary magazine on campus, and an aspiring journalist and writer. her favorite author is Ray Bradbury, and she loves cats and the color black.

Juan Ortega Prose Copyeditor

Juan is a student at St. Edward’s University majoring in English Literature and Minoring in Chicanx and Latinx Studies. He also is a copy editor for the New Literati publication and enjoys writing his own works as well.

Gimena Perez Prose Copyeditor

Gimena is a Freshman at St. Edwards, where she is pursuing a BA in Writing and Rhetoric with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Teacher Education. Gimena enjoys reading, writing, and watching too much Netflix.

A ART RTIST IST BI B IOS OS Esther Heymans Esther is a freshman at St. Edwards where she is studying Communication and Business. She has always wanted to write creatively but has never pursued that dream prior to college. She is excited to step out of her comfort zone and start writing more!

Sofie Canestaro Sofie comes from the forest with too many bottles and boxes of unorganized words. In her spare time she tries to string them together into something that almost makes sense.

Jillian S. Horton Jillian is a current student at SEU, and is studying Creative Writing. In 2013, they started writing poetry to help better understand their mental health and gender identity. Poems have since expanded into short stories, and Jillian continues to write in the hopes that someday their work can help others better understand themselves.

Kristina Koontz Kristina is very new to poetry and writing in general (only 5-ish years of prose writing, and 3 of poetry) but she loves to write about seemingly simple things in complex ways. If she can give a new perspective on something, even something mundane like a thundercloud being powerful but polite and delicate, too, then she’s succeeded.

Penelope Cordy Penelope is a Junior at St. Edward’s who enjoys poetry, long walks on the beach, and remembering the big foreheads of her ex-lovers. She plans on teaching high school ELA but hopes you enjoy this three-part love poem in the meantime. Xoxo

Lauren V. Esparza Born and raised in El Paso, Lauren Victoria Esparza aspires to write her way into a better world. Although she has legal aspirations, literature and creative creation will always prove to be a passionate pastime. To her, writing is a means for self-exploration.

Pamela Fojtasek Pamela is a senior psych major from The Woodlands, TX. She lives with her dog, Czar, and writes because she doesn’t know what she would do with herself if she didn’t.

nicco pelicano nicco is a writing & rhetoric major with a creative writing focus and a journalism minor. she is a prose copy editor for the new literati literary magazine on campus, and an aspiring journalist and writer. her favorite author is Ray Bradbury, and she loves cats and the color black.

Walker Nighbert Walker is a 20 year-old, second-year creative writing student from San Marcos. Their literary interests include horror, poetry, and music.

Madison Sears Madison Sears is a freshman majoring in Environmental Science & Policy with a minor in Photography. Madison hopes to one day use photography to bring awareness to climate change and endangered species, using it alongside their work in the environmental science field. They love to travel to take photos, but because of quarantine they haven’t been able to. However, Madison has been able to capture some images at home. Quarantine has really encouraged them to be in nature and appreciate the beauty in little things around them.

Nicole Cacho Nicole Cacho is an alumna of St. Edward’s University. Her photo, “Stillness of a City,” was taken in Downtown Austin during the calm before the storm that became the pandemic, shutdowns, and 2020 as a whole.