SPRING 2020
NEW LITERATI SPRING 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 and Miki Nguyen 2020 New Literati printed by OneTouchPoint, Austin, Texas
Letter From The Editor-In-Chief Trust and friendship. These two values are crucial to teamwork and, after having worked on this issue, I can certainly say that they are in abundance within New Literati. Though I spent this year’s production time studying abroad in Angers, France, the team continued to coordinate and work on the issue flawlessly. Much of this can be attributed to our president, Kristyn Garza, who valiantly kept the entire publication running smoothly. She arranged countless meetings and deliberations, met deadlines, and did an incredible job keeping everything on track (future employers, watch out!) Of course though, also a huge thanks to the efforts of our team, our talented board of editors, designers, section editors and copywriters, and all those who felt New Literati was a publication worth submitting to. Special thanks to our design team led by Melinda Hurtado, who painstakingly constructed and pored over every font, size, and arrangement in the issue; never underestimate the hours that go into a publication’s design! Also an invaluable thanks to Rebecca Harville and again to Kristyn, who in addition to being fantastic editors, are also great friends. You guys breathed joy into every meeting, and made New Literati feel more like a group of friends than a publication. But you know, I guess that is what New Literati is made of. Friends. As corny as that sounds, we are a student-run publication. We pride ourselves on publishing the unfiltered and unabashed voices of the student body. That includes all the angst, fucks, and brooding poets you can handle. But things were not always like this. “This is the second print publication we have accomplished after New Literati’s however year-long hiatus.” Those words are from two years ago, from our Spring 2018 issue’s Letter from the Editor, Logan Stallings, whose efforts alongside C.J. Shaleesh helped rebuild the publication. They faced the daunting task of funding a first print issue. If it was not for the foundations they built, their contributions for future issues, and C.J.’s extensive binder detailing protocols and deadlines(!), we would not be here today. You guys literally walked so we could run. Thank you.
This year marks our fourth consecutive print publication. And it is with great joy that I, and New Literati present it to the student body’s amusement, detriment, and scrutiny. New Literati is here to stay. And goddamn if that crimson cover ain’t an indicator of our triumphant return. Roses and all. Timothy Nguyen New Literati Editor-in-Chief
Letter From The President Dear Reader, Since joining New Lit three years ago, I’ve had the tremendous pleasure of watching our rinky-dink publication grow its community with passionate staffers dedicated to the uplifting of our beloved journal. Five years ago, our now graduated friends restarted this publication from the ashes of the long-dead journal that used to belong to the New College. With no funding, a handful of members, and zero recognition or support on campus, our predecessors built New Literati into what it is today through hard work, patience, and perseverance. From online issues we grew into our print space four years ago, fundraising enough money to make cheap booklets that we were proud to call our first issues. Looking at us now and seeing where we’ve come from, I genuinely cannot express enough just how awed, grateful, and proud I am of our organization. New Lit has forged its own identity, one in which we are known for publishing the unfiltered voice of the students…something I sincerely hope all readers can gather from reading the contents of this issue and every issue to come. We have never been shy about using our voice to be loud for students. Nor have we ever closed our doors to a student in need of a community to belong to. I myself was saved by New Literati when I had no one to turn to during my freshman year. If our old leaders Amanda, Logan, and C.J. hadn’t taken me into New Lit, I wouldn’t have been able to experience all of the wonderful progress that our publication has gone through. Without them, I would have been friendless, without mentors, and lacking advisors to seek help from. They are the strongest, most kind, and intelligent women I’ve ever met and they are truly what I aspire to as I grow both personally as well as professionally. Thank you to those three women (Amanda, Logan, and C.J.) and to all of the previous members and staffers of New Literati. Thank you to all of our current staffers in New Lit, know that all of what we have accomplished could not have happened without your passionate hard work. Thank you to
Melinda Hurtado (along with our entire design team) for your tireless work for the betterment of this publication. I can never demonstrate my appreciation to you enough for supporting this community with us. Thank you to our faculty advisor, Alan Altimont, for helping us spread our wings. Thanks most of all to my partner in crime, Timothy Nguyen. If not for you, I’d have lost my mind ages ago. Thank you for keeping me calm, for advising me when I’m uncertain, and for being a tremendous friend. We were gifted the responsibility of running this publication together this year, after our friends graduated, and I honestly can’t even imagine what this stressful process would’ve been like without your support. Thanks so much Tim, we’ve all missed you while you’ve been studying abroad. Come back to us safely! And, finally, thanks so much to all of you readers for giving our humble little journal a chance. I sincerely hope that you find enjoyment and, hopefully, something that can resonate with you within the contents of these pages. Most appreciatively and with lots of love, Kristyn Garza New Literati President
Table of Contents 12
20
The Ruins
Ceremony
By Andrea Angeli Gonzales
By Allie Watson Andrews
Visual
Visual
13
21
An Empty Church
Aquatic Flight
By Madeline Middleton
By Kira Klindworth
Poetry
Poetry
15
22
She Speaks Sign Language, But Usually Just Rambles
Tiny Crawlers By Sabrina Macedo Prose
By Sofie Canestaro
18
Poetry
Bug. Bean. Acolyte.
23
By Patrick Behrens
He Asked Me What I Believe In, So I Whispered
Poetry
19
Fly Me to Venus
By Sofie Canestaro
By Taheera Washington
Prose
Poetry
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24
33
El Ciclo de la Hija Prodiga Eng/Span
twilight
By Aleida Lopez
34
By nicco Poetry
Poetry
26
Dear Mother Country By Vicky Ortega
The Unbearable Weight of Feeling Completely Alone
Poetry
By Maia Medel
Latent Aggression
Visual
By Vanessa Lopez-Campos
36
Visual
28
37
and it was all a dream By Calista Robledo
Corpse Flowers
Poetry
By Kat McCollum Prose
30
42
Daughters of Desert By Madeline Middleton
Clean Me
Poetry
By Kristyn Garza Poetry
32
Death Becomes Her By Allie Watson Andrews Visual
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45
55
The Mirror Sees All By Allie Watson Andrews
Danceless Clown Begging for Large Shoes
Visual
By Marcus Delzell Visual
46
56
Cadaver Lover By Kristyn Garza
Func.
Poetry
By Isabella Parra Poetry
47
57
Below the Shallows By Carolynn Dunn
Christmas Lights
Prose
By Jillian Horton Poetry
53
58
Self Portrait in Hermacite
New Year's Day
By Marcus Delzell
By Madeline Middleton
Visual
Poetry
54
60
Forgetting the Stove is On
Across the Plaza
By Marcus Delzell
Visual
Visual
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By Jazmin Velasquez
61
All Your Fears, My Fear
68
By Jessica Enriquez
Things I Learned From Eurydice
Poetry
By Aleida Lopez Poetry
63
69
Stale Sweets By Sofie Canestaro Poetry
Things I Learned From Orpheus By Aleida Lopez
64
Poetry
Duplex-Worth
70
By Aleida Lopez Poetry
65
What Color Are Your Soulmate's Eyes Based On This Quiz?
As Above So Below
By Patrick Behrens
By Allie Watson Andrews
Poetry
Visual
66
72
Could you be the one
Sweet Black Briar
By Vanessa Lopez-Campos
By Kristyn Garza
Visual
Poetry
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The Ruins Andrea Angeli Gonzales
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An Empty Church Madeline Middleton I was in love. It was an ache behind my eyes A bruise I saw only the colors of rotting fruit Vivid yet dying. I was praying for your attention. Cleansed dust from skin with Linen soaked in alcohol My voice a froth above summer’s ale I spent too many nights pouring wine For you to never hoist and drink. I was in love With what didn’t love me. When someone is more concept than reality When you cannot hold spiritual ghosts You put them in churches. So I made you into a monument Carved the cry of your mouth from granite Roman eyes stitched in chiseled quartz Your altar—a body exuding moonlight -you were the holiest thing I’d known-
When I needed your sermon I lit candles by pricking beneath my nail beds I think I remember the bible colored wax I licked marble ankles Tore the pages out and blended them With snaggled protrusions of spine Made a paste
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Learned to heal my wounds that way. You could’ve had it all. I let your words move this body and mind. I let you drill into my teeth and drink The protests from them Sometimes I’d look in the mirror To the spellings of your name Not mine. I was in love. With the effort in your high-brow face With the delicate touches mechanical Creation unwritten laws With snark and treasure and intellect With a presence that said welcome home I have missed you. But you slaughtered the offerings And answered no prayers. You ate the fruit of which you don’t deserve And I know this is why even nuns Run for the hills. I was in love and now I know Undeniably That I am not.
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Tiny Crawlers Sabrina Macedo
Moonlight slips through the blinds, illuminating and casting shadows across different parts of the room. Everyone else in the house has gone to sleep while you stayed up to watch the most random videos on YouTube, like a video of two men building a primitive swimming pool. Your body is finally ready to call it a night—or so you thought. It is almost one in the morning. If you fall asleep now, you will get about seven hours of sleep. You will not snooze the alarm three times in the morning. Only two. Okay, just close your eyes and, in no time, you will feel like you are wrapped in soft 100% cotton sheets that cost more than your rent; not the twenty-dollar cotton-blend sheets you picked up at Target because you thought they matched your comforter. Clear your mind and falling asleep will become a simple task. Why does it feel like your arrector pili muscles are contracting? You are not cold, and you are definitely not scared. There is nothing in the room with you. No demons standing in the dark corner by the door, no witches clawing their nails on the window, no ghosts sleeping next to you, and surely no Chucky under your queen-sized bed. But, as you look around the room, your mind begins to direct a horror movie where you are the main character being stalked by a demon. This is what happens when you are a horror fanatic who is also afraid of the dark. These are the few thoughts that distract you from the exasperating itch going up and down your legs, like a bunch of lousy, amateur figure skaters constantly messing up their fall and tripping on your leg hairs. You reach over to grab your phone on your nightstand. It is 1:16 am. Maybe, if you remain calm and resist the urge to scratch, the dreadful itchiness will go away forever. Give it a shot. Great, here comes the free acupuncture visit from the witch. No matter how many times you tell her you do not want her services because they do not relax your body and because her long nails make it worse, she does not leave. She stands by the foot of your bed as she carefully lays out the box of needles on top of your comforter. Are 1,000
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needles really required? An acupuncture session almost every night for the past three years is not necessary. You have told your mom, but she thinks it is all in your mind. What does that even mean? Is she saying your mind is weak and not capable of putting an end to this eternal feeling? You believed it was only a phase, like the nasal congestion issue you had years back that surprisingly went away as soon as you started getting a thousand millipedes running sprints on your legs. What if it isn’t only a phase? It has been years. You do not know how much more of this you can take. It could be these cheap Target sheets that cause the itch. Curse Target and their aesthetically cute products at every corner beckoning for your credit card! You have slept at multiple hotels over the years with their questionable sheets, but the acupuncturist witch always seems to book the same room. It even stretches into your day, like when you: are in class, at work helping a customer, or simply shopping at Target. Instead of scratching the itch, you slap the area, creating a ripple effect to cover more skin. In high school, your friend Ashley would have a look of confusion on her face as she’d hear a random slap during your medical assistant course. It has been about half an hour since you put your phone away. Any other night you would have stayed up longer and lost yourself in conspiracy theory threads. But not tonight. The highly acclaimed Dr. Google convinced you that you may have restless leg syndrome…then made you wonder if you have an iron deficiency. You should seriously go to a real doctor. It is difficult to remember a night when you did not struggle to fall asleep. It is not an easy task with that disturbing feeling running down your legs. You lose about an hour or two of sleep every night because of this itch You feel as if your body is no longer your own during this duration of time In a lateral position, you constantly move your legs as if you are riding an invisible stationary bike. This helps alleviate the feeling of ants crawling on your legs. Your thoughts begin to distract your mind and, for a split second, you feel at peace. But, then a sudden spike of electricity shoots through your left leg, causing the stationary bike to begin again. Now the prickling sensation starts to spread to your back, arms, and neck. After what feels like two
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hours, you get up and rinse off your body with cold water. You decide not to dry off completely, as you believe the water droplets on your skin will help your legs remain cool. Some nights you slather on thick layers of lotion to lock in moisture to your body. You quickly hop back into bed, trying to steer away from the witch. Sunlight bursts through the window, revealing a warm spring day. You wake up with no recollection of the night before. You made it through the night.
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Bug. Bean. Acolyte. Patrick Behrens I should have said many things to You, You being multiple people, many of which are not in my life anymore. A lesson in futility: the fleeting notion that I am a good person, that I am good enough. I’ll admit, it was my fault, Your fists flailing against my collar bone in a fit of frustration. That was not nice. I blew it out of proportion, don’t worry. I never knew what You did, hopeless to find the truth throughout jumbled speculation— amidst the deafening calm of a “successful breakup.” Yet another spiral of self-doubt, sobriety hiccups, and Conan O'Brien on YouTube autoplay. “Patrick, You just have to be good enough.” “Hm.” Maybe. What is it to be wanted by You? What is it to seek solace in the nooks of your brain, to breathe your vulnerabilities? To ... “Do not think so hard.” I will not understand jazz until I’m fifty, but it sounds good now. I will not understand us until we are over, but this feels good now. So here we are: a boot on your car tire. Cold clinging to our bones. Bags under my eyes. Secrets lurking, unanswered, but acknowledged, in shadows cast by neon lights.
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Fly Me to Venus Taheera Washington
An aroma of anemone and daffodil allures Men foolish enough to stumble after her Her peach lips peeling apart his sanity Proposing wishes only found far away In a land, green, labelled by her greed Twinkling in the rose of her sky Stinking iris aggravates the senses Steering anyone conscious and coherent away Overwhelmingly, nothingness fills the void My presence lacking in every ounce of my being Want me, I say, to anyone Don’t let me wilt away, I would say, pleading Left to watch as they flew to my sister in solace
So let me fly to Venus So I know the origin of true beauty So I know what it feels to be wanted indefinitely Despite her being galaxies away, always out of your reach
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Ceremony Allie Watson Andrews
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Aquatic Flight Kira Klindworth I am in bed, dimly conscious, where the sea meets the sky (the intersection of x and y, where x equals a vast expanse and y does not compute.) I look up, way up, and there is no sun that I’m aware of, no nothing. Except a few circling figures - birds, as my eyes focus and they look so leisurely up there. One by one, they drop like stones - not dead folding into themselves and shooting into the waves like arrows from gravity’s bow. Slipstream trails extend into the blue, I assume, as their little bodies tunnel deeper into a world they cannot see or understand. Then, I emerge into consciousness as they emerge onto the surface, white blips on white crests that don’t care if they starve, don’t care if they drown, don’t care if the impact kills them. The impersonal nature of reality is a universal truth the birds are brave because they cannot talk themselves out of it.
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She Speaks Sign Language, But Usually Just Rambles Sofie Canestaro The universe always seems to be Giving you these clues About where you should go, What path you should take, Nudging your gaze to see a faded sign, Tugging on your veins so that Your heart tips and falls one way or another— But she hasn’t shown a thing to me Maybe it’s because I’m looking For the wrong kind of hint, Maybe I have to make my own map first And let her peer over my shoulder, And then tentatively, I’ll wander along a path Covered in clay and moss and river rocks And hope that the universe supports me As I limp along the trail I’ll let her point out her favorite flowers And fossils and what animal-like shapes The clouds might be taking, And I’ll try to find some sort of Mild direction In her sweet ramblings
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He Asked Me What I Believe In, So I Whispered: Sofie Canestaro I believe in the fragileness of our souls. I believe in the most vulnerable, delicate corners of ourselves that reside in even the most calloused of people. As an outsider for most of my time on Earth, a silent being with no voice and a skittish heart, I always assumed that I was the only one with this kind of secret fear and insecurity inside of me. The kind that gnaws at your thoughts, replaying situations in your head that you could have done better. The kind that stares at you through narrowed eyes, picking at your flaws… It’s as if, well...have you ever caught your reflection in the window, and for a moment, you study yourself in this bitter curiosity, immediately fussing over your gray hairs or the bags under your eyes or the lines on your face that you thought wouldn’t catch up to you quite yet? Once, while I was trying to rub off a freckle, I happened to actually look through the glass in the window. And, through the washed-out colors of my reflection, I saw an entire world of people looking at their own distorted versions of themselves in their windows. I saw my neighbors, my friends, my familiar strangers—the quiet ones, the wise ones, even the ones with the loud, bold voices or furrowed- browed stare that’ll put you on edge. I saw them through the glass and found that they were just as critical of themselves, just as scared, just as fragile as me. And, in some twisted way, I felt less alone. Because there’s something comforting in seeing all the people you idolize and all the people you’re mildly afraid of, or even the people you don’t know, share a common trait—the secret, porcelain wish of wanting to be accepted for who we are. The thing about fear and the thing about fragileness is that nobody wants to admit that it’s even there. We try to hide it behind masks adorned with sparkling, nonchalant “whatever”s and gleaming “I’m good, and you?”s because it’s what we deem to be beautiful. But when we lift our masks and reveal, even if just for a moment, our not so appealing selves—the truths that make our words quiver and our voices break and our eyes dart to avoid contact—I think there is the most indescribable beauty in sharing those strange and broken parts of ourselves... and feeling safe. I look for the soft fragments of people’s hearts and, in turn, I try to reveal mine as well, whether it be through art or manner or a collection of words I link together to form an indirect hug. Because we’re all just people, confused and delicate, and we all deserve to open our windows to each other.
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El Ciclo de la Hija Prodiga Aleida Lopez Un espacio seguro Un espacio que temo Un espacio al que regreso Mi juventud estaba llena de imágenes de hombres heridos y montados en cruces Madres de luto con cabezas inclinadas y manos extendidas Bancos de madera con tela desgastada de color vino Llegué a un punto en el que no solo sabía mis oraciones y respuestas, conocía toda la liturgia del sacerdote de corazón y llena de adoración. En algún lugar a lo largo de la línea, Dios me probó demasiadas veces y colapsé. Mi corazón se volvió amargo, el perdón siguió siendo un concepto que mi lengua se negó a murmurar. Mis oraciones se desvanecieron en el fondo de mi mente. Capillas, iglesias, sacerdotes, túnicas y cruces, y vírgenes me hicieron encogerme y apartar la mirada (avergonzada). Ahora aquí estoy parada, temblando, mi mundo sigue deteriorándose, y mis hombros se sienten desgastados y doloridos por llevar las cargas y los pecados de los años. Pero en un punto de quiebre, me arrodillo e inclino la cabeza llena de luto Por mi corazón roto y mi alma abandonada Mis labios murmuran las palabras que jamás había olvidado, simplemente tartamudean Las oraciones regresan como una canción en mi lengua La hija pródiga tratando de encontrar su camino De regreso a un lugar de certeza Y cuando mis ojos se cierran, las lágrimas comienzan con las súplicas de misericordia Cada parte de mi se siente agotada, estirada hasta su límite. Esta oración es mi último recurso: Sin merecerlo, pero desesperada Sollozos atormentando mi cuerpo mientras ruego por fuerza Por consuelo por amor por las cosas que hace mucho dejé de ofrecer Excusas, disculpas, súplicas, tratos y dolor Alcanzan los cielos en las raras ocasiones en que Entro en una iglesia. Qué Dios tan indulgente que me concede misericordia cada vez que repito los mismos pasos.
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The Cycle of the Prodigal Daughter Aleida Lopez A safe space A space I A space I return to
fear
My youth was filled with images of battered men on crosses Mourning mothers with bowed heads and extended hands Wooden pews with worn, velvet fabric I reached a point where not only did I know my prayers and responses, I knew the priest’s entire liturgy by my worshipping heart. Somewhere along the line, God Tested me one too many times and I Collapsed. My heart turned bitter, Forgiveness remained a concept my tongue refused to mutter My prayers faded to the back of my mind Chapels and churches and priests robes and crosses and Virgins Made me cringe and look away (in shame). Now here I stand, I shake, My world keeps deteriorating, and my shoulders feel Worn and sore from carrying the burdens and sins of the years But at a breaking point, I kneel and bow my head in mourning For my broken heart and abandoned soul My lips mutter the words never forgotten, simply stuttered The prayers return like a song on my tongue The prodigal daughter trying to find her way Back to a place of certainty And as my eyes shut, the tears start with the Pleas for mercy Every part of me feels exhausted, stretched to its limit This prayer stands as my last resortUndeserving, but desperate Sobs racking my body as I beg for strength For comfort for love for the things I long ago stopped Offering Excuses, apologies, supplications, bargains, and pain Reach the heavens on the rare occasion I step into a church. What a forgiving God to grant me mercy each time I repeat the same steps.
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The Unbearable Weight of Feeling Completely Alone Maia Medel
I
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II
IV e27f
and it was all a dream Calista Robledo we sit on a comfy couch my mother and i it is a little old a little cozy but we enjoy the movie and the company our eyes lock on the medium screen as a gaggle of white men dance to claim their territory the jets i know all of their steps perhaps i too was a jet? as these thoughts crossed my mind my mom seemed confused she does not know their story after the prologue a man in a truck drives past the white men a shark he wears a hat similar to that of brando the sharks do not dance but they look much older is this the correct film? “The Godfather!” my mom shouts “We are watching The Godfather!”
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but it’s supposed to be west side story? then my mom starts singing “Para bailar la bamba!” and now we’re dancing “Para bailar la bamba se necesita una poca de gracia” una poca de gracia only a little bit of grace to do this dance you need grace to dance like the jets and to swiftly kill your enemies and to dance la bamba three films that make up the facets of my childhood and adolescence the jazzy prologue of west side story the devotion of the godfather and the heart in la bamba three films two people in one dream
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Daughters of Desert Madeline Middleton I have known fire since birth. My eyes never closed to lay lashes to rest, the openness shall never cease, I am spending my life on more than earth, I am trying to swallow the sun. When I grew legs and nature’s deep valleys, high rivers, smooth bends, the crow led me into the desert. He told me they wanted to speak to the girl whose chest is cavernous enough to cradle heavenly bodies. The dirt is red and towering like spindles of a clay baked crown. I walk the dry creek beds and burn from the scalp, ingesting it, hoping the warmth will last forever, hoping I may carry it into death. My soul your torch. We go on into the undying day. He leads me to the edge of the world where the souls of my mothers are sitting. Lines of them— every matriarch, Mother, Maiden, Crone waiting for me at the precipice. Their chairs are bigger than god’s throne, bigger than my body, my knowing and all her wishes for life.
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They speak to me with murmurs that thunder the clouds from their perch, that beckon the sun closer, that read my eyes for beautiful cards and crack apart my ribs. They open me—unending. The crow watches, shining from the rocks. My mothers know I can rip stars from any dark sky, persuade the moon to love me, I’ll kill the false mortal until her back grows golden wings. The crow took me to my mothers and now I’m set loose upon the earth.
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Death Becomes Her Allie Watson Andrews
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twilight nicco from the dying light lowering into its grave golden hands caress the clouds a lover in his decay becomes brave touching and reaching crowds casting a sheet of sheer scintillation a kiss after a long deprivation the glow of street lamps; a mere imitation only a moment to live until abdication haunting him near death she hovers touching him tenderly and creating a fire reaching out to him; forbidden lovers making love just to cure the desire
a melody with only one measure even if they never meet again they will remember the pleasure
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Dear Mother Country, Vicky Ortega
How could I ever forget?
You once took me apart, a memory deep inside the soil, and put me Back together, without my hands or feet, Burying my forever in another country. You wore what was left of me down, the ghost of your fingers chained my neck Into a river deep, deep inside your land’s blood, an Irony of thorns, you my mother, were a religion. You made me forget my name, a treasure hidden inside the folds of my Chest, sacrificed in order to prevent you from Creating me into another womb for your body.
How could I ever forget?
You once tried digging up my bones, with the womb that once cupped My heartbeats, but the land of your body’s pelvic prayers May never serve to birth me from this soil ever again. You tried to weave my hands and feet back into me instead, hoping your blood would Still run through my bones thick, a testament to all the Streams of land, parts of me can never crawl back into. You know I rejected those bones, like any good child would when their Mother tells them to pray with their eyes open, but beneath them, My voice was still bleeding inside you, running up to the surface.
How could I ever forget?
If I could, I’d break your pubic bone, bone by bone by bone, till you could never Birth no more bones to litter in between the Brown warmth of your curved planted legs.
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You thought you could forget, but the land of your body still hears me. So, Mother, I dare you to put your ear down into the Soil, and listen. I live in your chest, your pelvis, your legs, your toes, I’ve still got a heartbeat, Mother, listen to me beating, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
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Latent Aggression Vanessa Lopez-Campos
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Corpse Flowers Kat McCollum Elizabeth had never looked more beautiful than on the day of her funeral. Something about death just fit her so becomingly. She laid in the open casket, dressed in white as if for a wedding, a single rose placed between her still fingers. Her dark hair framed her pallid face like a death shroud and her lips glimmered as red as cherries. Her husband sat in the first row, almost as still as Elizabeth herself. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, but he had no more tears left to shed. A priest in black robes stepped from nowhere onto the altar. The low hum of conversation died down as he began to speak. “For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, in my flesh I shall see God. Welcome my brothers and sisters, today we have gathered to celebrate the life and mourn the death of Elizabeth Winters…” Her husband’s eyes glazed over as the priest spoke and, suddenly, he was in the car with his sister Alice, taking him far away from Elizabeth. They rode in silence through the garden of graves and stone angels. “Will?” She said his name softly. He said nothing. “Are you ok?” she asked from somewhere far removed. “She’s so far away,” he almost whispered. Still staring out the window, he watched as his wife’s grave disappeared into the distance. “What?” Alice asked. Will turned to look at her. “Nothing,” he said. The rest of the car ride passed in silence. — Mourners milled around the kitchen and living room, eating cheese and crackers and speaking softly of the dead. Will stood in the middle of the crowd, talking to no one. Several women approached him to place manicured hands on his arm as comfort, whispering meaningless apologies close to his ear. Will moved away from the kitchen and sat on the couch. His other sister, Jessica, came and sat next to him, holding a plate of slimy looking potato salad. “How are you?” she asked.
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“I’ve been better.” “Yeah. I’m really sorry, Will.” She apologized as if it were her fault. He sighed. “Thanks Jess,” he said. Jessica stabbed at the potato salad with her fork. She glanced over at her brother. “Want some?” she offered. Will looked at her plate. The potato salad crawled across it. “No thanks, Jess.” She shrugged and continued to stab at her food. “I just miss being close to her, you know?” Will said. Jessica nodded as if she understood. “I just want her near me again.” “Yeah, I miss her too. I know how you feel,” said Jessica. Will turned to look at her. “I don’t really think you do, Jess.” “Ok. I’m sorry.” She stood up and walked back into the kitchen. — When all of the mourners had gone, Will stood alone in his kitchen, surrounded by flowers. A living dead garden. Like corpses standing grotesquely upright in coffins of glass and water. Will regarded them carefully. Without warning, he knocked the nearest vase of flowers to the floor. For a moment, he stood still, staring at the mess of shattered glass, white flowers and water spilling across the tile. Then he picked up another vase. He tossed the second vase on the ground then reached for another, knocking it off the counter. He tossed vase after vase to the ground and watched them shatter until he stood in a graveyard of flowers and water. His breath as ragged as the broken glass, he sunk down onto the floor with his back against the kitchen counter. He put his head in his hands, but still the tears wouldn’t come. — In the morning, the harsh light of day illuminated the scene of the crime. Alice and Jessica entered through the side door, carrying Chinese takeout and calling for Will. They stopped when they saw the mess. “Will?” Alice called out. In his room Will laid in bed, listening to his sisters call his name from miles away. He rubbed his eyes, stood up, and entered the kitchen. “What are you guys doing here?” he asked. “Jess and I brought you lunch. Although, I guess it’s almost dinner now.” “What time is it?” Day and night had blurred into one seamless,
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horrible entity. “It’s 4:30.” Alice said the numbers, but they didn’t make sense. Will groaned. “Come get some food,” she commanded. Jessica sat at the kitchen counter, already digging into the fried rice. Alice glared at her. “You couldn’t have cleaned up first?” Alice said. Jessica only shrugged. Will half smiled as Jessica patted the seat next to her, motioning for him to join her. “We got you orange chicken, your favorite,” Jessica said. “Elizabeth’s favorite,” Will said, sitting next to her. Alice stared at Will expectantly. “Well?” “Well what?” Will asked. Alice gestured to the mess all around them. “Aren’t you going to explain?” she demanded. “There’s no beauty in them,” he said. Alice sighed in exasperation. “Where’s your broom?” she huffed. Will gestured to the closet. “Then make your own,” Jessica said suddenly. “What do you mean?” Will asked, turning to look at his other sister. “I don’t know, it’s something my English teacher said. It’s something about growing your own flowers and finding your own beauty. Do you want the last egg roll?” she offered. Will nodded. — The sign outside of the cemetery read: Visiting hours 7 AM to 7 PM. The radio clock in Will’s car read 3:13 AM. He sat in his car, dressed in dark clothes. Getting out of the car, Will walked around to the trunk and pulled out a shovel. He wandered down the winding path with the shovel slung over his shoulder, navigating through the headstones. Will stopped in front of the grave marked with his wife’s name. Pausing briefly to take in a breath, he began digging. Clouds passed over the moon like gray ghosts. Seconds, or maybe days, passed and Will stood in a six-foot-deep hole, his wife’s casket at his feet. He opened the lid and gazed at his wife’s corpse. Her porcelain skin had begun to chip and the rose across her chest was wilted and brown. She was lovelier than ever. He traced a finger across her cheek. Overcome with emotion, Will reached into the coffin to embrace his wife’s lifeless body. He held her hand to his face, feeling her skin.
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“I missed you Liz,” he whispered to her. With tears in his eyes, he lifted her up from the coffin and dragged her out of the earth. Carrying his wife’s body back through the graveyard and to the car, Will propped her up in the passenger’s seat beside him and carefully buckled the seatbelt around her. Her head lolled to the side, her milky eyes open and staring into nothing. A fly buzzed in the air near her face. Will swatted the fly away, gently closed her eyes with his fingers, then started the car. — Will sped down the road, which was completely devoid of cars other than his own. Out of nowhere, police lights appear in the review mirror, the red and blue lights dancing together to form violet. He sighed heavily and pulled over. The cop pulled up behind him and got out of the car. The cop’s head appeared outside of his window. “License and registration?” said the head. Will reached into the glove compartment, pulled out his information and handed it over. Two hairy arms emerged from the darkness to take it. The head glanced at his license, then handed it back. “Kind of a strange time of night to be driving around don’t you think?” “I guess so,” Will said The head looked over at the china doll. “Who’s this?” It asked. “My wife,” Will replied. “Is she alright?” “She’s asleep.” The head sniffed the air and made a terrible face. “What’s that smell?” It asked from the other end of a long, long tunnel. “I don’t smell anything. I really need to be on my way,” Will said. He glanced at the shovel in the backseat. “Why the rush?” The head asked. “I want to tuck my wife into bed,” he replied, reaching for the shovel. — Will dug the shovel into the earth, flinging up dirt into the still night air. He had laid Elizabeth’s body delicately on the ground beside him. He worked quickly, as if in a trance. Will dug until he stood in a deep hole in the ground, holding his lovely china doll in his arms. He laid her down
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gently. As he covered up the hole with dirt, he began to plant the seeds. A bed of roses, a bed for a beautiful china doll. — Alice, Jessica, and Will all sat at the kitchen counter eating pizza. “I’m so glad to see how much better you’ve been doing, Will. And your garden looks amazing,” Alice said “Yeah, it’s really pretty,” Jessica agreed. She gazed out the window at the blooming bed of roses. “Thanks, Jess. I took your advice.” “Yeah?” Jessica said. “Yeah. I grew my own flowers. I found my own beauty,” Will said. Jessica nodded encouragingly. “And?” she prompted. “And she’s closer than ever.”
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Clean Me Kristyn Garza digging from underneath my skin it oozes it------oozes seeping up through my layered cells in which i remain cast aside forgotten while imprisoned clamped shut within the confines of this body
Pry me open and. Lick Me/clean
searching inside the jagged white walls stained with red drowned in fluid housing the center the deity it pounds it------pounds at the ivory bars keeping (in)sanity contained
Crack me open and.Suck Me / clean
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straining against iron chains my heart weighed down ------drowned in a pool of shadows where i have no choice but to sink Choke me out and. Drown Me /clean fish me out from that pool put my body back ------behind bars imprisoned in your cell lay me out on a cold slab where i lay still for you to hold me down Slice me open and. Drain Me/ clean blue veined clammy limbs you violating me making me your own perpetually locked inside to be taken out only by you you only------you
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and.
Bite me open Eat Me // clean
i’m no longer there though i leave my body behind i’ve been dirtied ------dirtied and. no longer me/ no longer clean
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The Mirror Sees All Allie Watson Andrews
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Cadaver Lover Kristyn Garza Take your scalpel your surgical forceps • your angle probe and enter me to pry me open Peel my wrapping back skintight • packaged and ready to be exposed Rib by rib uncage • me and flush me out Wash me from the inside • out with formaldehyde Embalm me in your desire • show me off and tear pieces of my body to pass around and judge and study and toxify me from glass scrutinizing eyes that burn me with lust roiling in my corroded loins within the chalice of my pelvis filled with cum • phenol-steeped uterine tissue, though I lay still on your cold table, in your hands yours—myself waiting for decay but frozen by your gaze
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Below the Shallows Carolynn Dunn Like Em, the August heat sought refuge in the rafters of the old house. Light filtered in from the cracked circular window facing the yard, illuminating the thick layers of dust floating in the air. She looked wistfully down at the uncut grass waving in the wind below. Beyond the trees surrounding the house she could just barely make out the twinkling surface of the lake, but the dock was hidden from view. She scratched at the fresh scab on her knee. The attic didn’t have the same draw to Em as the forest that surrounded it, but Em was trying to make the best of her punishment. The attic was one of the few places in the house still untouched by their move and it still felt foreign, daring even, to hide in the cobweb infected corners. Her knees were beginning to cramp though, and her scab was burning for all the absentminded scratching. But if she were downstairs, her mother would hound her to go rest her leg and click her tongue at Em’s carelessness the night before. Em didn’t want to think about last night too hard, or the wide white eyes would keep floating to the top of her memory. They were deep and drowning, staring out of their murky water. But it hadn’t been her fault that she had nearly drowned in the lake. She had discovered everything imaginable everywhere else, and the lake was the only thing left. Her mother had been suspicious of the murky water immediately when they moved in, so Em had tried to contain her curiosity for as long as possible. “Absolutely not.” Was her mother’s answer when Em had asked to go swimming a month prior. “Because I said so.” Her mother had said three weeks ago when Em had asked to go fishing. “But why?” Em had whined on the third rejection. She had already taken to pacing the shoreline when her mother wasn’t looking, gazing hopefully out into the water. She wanted to see more than just the little minnows that swirled in the sandy water. “Sweetheart,” her mother’s voice softened, “it’s too dangerous. Go see what Bubba’s doing, maybe he’ll let you help. Besides, there’s something off about that water. It doesn’t smell right.”
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She snuck into the shop and found Bubba hunched over a long sheet of paper, his brow furrowed in concentration. Bubba was only seventeen, but sometimes Em thought he was much, much older. A short pencil stuck out from behind his ear like her father always had. Her father was always working. “Not now Em, I’m busy,” he had said without looking up. He didn’t spare so much as a glance towards Em. He was busy later too, and the next day. After a couple of days, she stopped trying. Instead, she would sit on the railing of the porch, swinging her legs through the air and wishing that being alone didn’t have to feel so lonely. She had finally gathered the courage to brave the rickety dock last night. She pressed her bare feet on each board, arms held out to balance herself. One step, two, five, ten. The eleventh board gave way. Her knee slammed into the dock as she plunged into the water, icier than she thought possible. She scrambled to get back to the surface. The water above her was dark. She kicked until she could finally take quick, shallow breaths. The dock was just inches above. The water lapped against her chin, causing a sickening gurgling noise in her throat as she tried to scream, but had the water enter her instead. She was pushed down again, and that’s when she saw it. Eyes. There were eyes in the water. Watching her. A burst of bubbles came out of her mouth and the murky water started to blur… Fingers latched onto her shoulders and suddenly she could breathe again. Bubba’s wet hair and fearful eyes became clearer. He was saying something, but Em couldn’t hear. Those eyes, staring at her. They weren’t his— She was jolted back into the dark attic as the tall, gangly figure of Bubba emerged through the floor. He turned, scanning the room until he saw Em. “Thought I might find you up here.” He smiled tiredly, “Dinner’s ready downstairs.” “Is Dad home?” Em asked sulkily. “He’s working again. He just called mom and said to eat without him.” Dinner was a glum event. Em let her mind roam as she chewed her dry chicken. She thought about the two boys from down the street she used to play with and the dog she had wanted to get at the shelter before they moved. But suddenly she felt very lonely, though she was surrounded by her
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family, and returned to the dimly lit dining room. The silence was becoming oppressive. She watched Bubba eat, wondering if he would start missing dinners too. He looked up, and for a second his eyes were white and glassy. “May I be excused?” Em picked up her dishes, not waiting for a response. She had tried not to think about the eyes too much, but suddenly her thoughts overwhelmed her. One minute she was walking to her room and the next she was outside. The sun was setting on the horizon and the sky was scattered with deep reds and purples which looked like paint across the rippling surface of the lake. The temperature was beginning to drop, and a breeze picked up. The wild grass was growing high and uncut, and a sweet smell permeated the air. The dock waited for her. She retraced her steps: one, two, five, ten—she skipped the eleventh—twelve, fifteen, twenty. Balancing on one foot, she landed on the last step. She had made it. She stared out at the lake in wonder. Looking down, she could only see a few feet into the water. Sitting on the edge, she dipped her toes into the water. It was cold, but she didn’t mind. She relaxed, and out of the corner of her eye she saw something. “Hello?” She whispered to the water, and it was as if her voice stirred something below. Two eyes seemed to float up from the depths. They were wide and questioning. Em held her breath, a sudden blossom of longing grew in her chest. “I’m Em,” she said, more clearly. But the eyes just watched, and Em felt like they looked slightly curious. “Do you live in the lake?” She asked, and from around the eyes emerged a woman’s face, pale with soft edges, strands of red hair floating around her. Em wasn’t sure if it was a ripple in the water or if she blinked. “You’re pretty quiet,” she said, “are you the only one in there?” She thought she saw a nod! “I’m not, but sometimes I think I am,” she said sincerely, looking down at her grimy feet. She glanced back at the house, the windows were beginning to glow in the darkness. “I haven’t really talked to anyone in a long time. Not really.” The moon was rising above the lake, and it was becoming harder to see. A knot twisted in her stomach thinking about how her mother’s face might appear in the window behind her. “I can’t really stay any longer. Is it ok if I come back tomorrow?” She waited for a response, but the eyes just watched. “I will come back, I
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promise.” She smiled at the face and stood. She almost sat back down, seeing the sad eyes stare up at her, but knew she would be caught if she stayed. By the time she could sneak away the next day it was nearly noon. Bleary-eyed and yawning, she trudged across the lawn. She had stayed awake most of the night, wondering what kind of creature the woman was. Her mother had always said fairytales were just stories people made up, but she hadn’t seen like Em had seen. She couldn’t be anything else, Em had decided. “I know you’re a mermaid.” She told the woman with eager secrecy. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.” She could have sworn her mermaid smiled. She listened too, to everything. Em told her about how serious Bubba had become since they started moving around, and how overbearing her mom was. She told her mermaid about how she wanted a dog to explore the forest with her, or a friend. About how grateful she was to have someone to talk to. All the while, her mermaid just listened, the faint smile remaining on her lips. She told her mermaid how she had wandered the forest after they had first moved, finding easily climbable trees. And how, after a couple of late nights, the woods weren’t as fun to explore by herself, and when dusk came the forest turned unfriendly and dark. “I wish I could explore the lake with you,” she said, dipping her fingers into the water and dragging them along the edge of the dock. “It wouldn’t seem so dark with you to show me. And then maybe… can you talk under the water?” But the mermaid just watched with a cryptic smile. Em returned to her as much as she dared over the following weeks, often sneaking through the long way, through the trees, to keep out of sight. Her mermaid always waited for her, listening patiently. Em relished re-telling her greatest adventures as the sweet smell of summer flowers wafted over the lake. One afternoon, she stretched out on the last wide plank, closing her eyes against the sun as she told one of her stories. It was of home, or at least a home, she had once. One where Bubba would play with her out in the yard until the sun set, and her mother and father sat watching on the porch. It seemed so far away now Suddenly her story was left forgotten, and she dropped into a dreamless sleep. “Em!” Bubba’s shout woke her. “Mom! I found her!” She sat up sleepily, turning her head from her mermaid and looking back towards the house. Bubba was charging toward her, her mother only steps behind. She looked livid. “What have I told you about sneaking out
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like this!” Her mother’s lips were tight with anger. “And to the lake no less!” The three of them stopped at the edge of the dock. Bubba sniffed the air and frowned. “How in heaven’s name did you get out there?” Her mother looked at the splintering dock. “It’s just the eleventh plank,” Em muttered. “All the rest are ok.” She looked back at the water for a moment. Her mermaid was still there. Go, she mouthed, go! But it was too late. They were already stepping gingerly over the problem plank, and they were going to see. She scrambled to stand, to hide her mermaid from them, but it was too late. Her mother’s furious expression dropped from her face and she screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed. Bubba saw her next, and with a shout, he jumped into the water, diving straight for her mermaid— “NO!” Em screeched. “LEAVE HER ALONE! LEAVE HER ALONE!” Panicking, she ran at her mother. “Lord have mercy…” Her mother whispered, wrapping her arms around Em, trying to keep her from turning around. Em kicked wildly and pulled free, turning back. Bubba was already pulling her mermaid from the water. But she was no mermaid. Out of the water, her red hair was plastered to her bloated face. Her eyes were coated in a thick white film. Her feet were a tangle of weeds and her nails were black and had begun to detach from her skin. The mouth that had smiled at Em for weeks was slack and emotionless. A putrid, sweet smell sucked the air out of Em’s lungs. She ran forward, kneeling as Bubba heaved her body onto the dock. Her head was bent at an unnatural angle, staring blankly into the sky above. She ran her hand though the woman’s hair, and a few fragile strands broke off in her palm. The husk of a dead beetle dropped out, falling through the cracks in the dock. Sparkling drops of water remained on the woman’s face. Em thought they looked like tears. She suddenly wondered if the woman was happy. Was she waiting for someone to find her? Bubba climbed onto the dock and pulled the body farther out of the water. The woman’s head lolled, and then came to rest on its side, wide eyes burning into Em’s. Her mouth bent in a sad little smile.
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Em smiled back as her mother’s trembling hand wrapped around her forearm. The woman knew somehow. Em wasn’t really alone all that time! She could have laughed with excitement but her mother was pulling her arm hard now, and she stumbled back. I’ll come back tonight! She mouthed. She felt the hollow eyes follow her back to the house.
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Self Portrait in Hermacite Marcus Delzell
Made with a mixture of blood and sawdust
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Forgetting the Stove is On Marcus Delzell
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Danceless Clown Begging for Large Shoes Marcus Delzell
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Func. Isabella Parra The poison spills from the circuit, The streams of confusion for a system made to run, And it’s ever flowing, Still required to function, has a problem, can be fixed. Its overheating User can’t keep functioning at 50-70%. The days of 100% long gone, What is the user to do? “Dog eat dog world” Survival of the fittest, “Grasping at straws” Maintaining 9-5, 9-10, Closing, Opening, Exiting. Maintaining a healthy amount of activity, What is excess? What is not a necessity? Maintaining functionality amongst duties. Bill, Reminder, Payment, Reminder, Fine, Reminder, Contract, Obligation. The wires are crossed, They’re frayed and burnt out, Too much time from last checkup.
The wires crossed, the wires that keep it functioning Are crossed, The wires still work, They’re still going, Unrelenting to give up, A curse or a blessing, Damage has been done, Never 100%, lagging, networking error, The system is in overdrive, What has plagued the hard drive, Has plagued the circuit board It can’t keep going, Logs off after 8 hours. Try again Restart Networking error Connection not found Ill-functioning, Virus detected Hacker intrusion System not working.
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Christmas Lights Jillian Horton I don’t want to put up the tree. I don’t want to ever touch it again. The lights spell out your name. Music boxes. The dancing twirling ballerinas that Mom purchases once a year, with me in mind She sets them in my hand To hang Up on the tree They’re just ornaments. They don’t sway and spin like you They’re stagnant, frozen pirouettes with drying tutus Flaking glitter, forbidden sprinkles that also adorn the gingerbread men My brother’s singing pigeons Mom’s Santas and picture frames And whatever Dad sneakily decides is his this year They’re just other ornaments. But I absolutely will not, ever ever ever want To hang To touch To look To glance at how they glisten in the lights. How they shimmer alongside Jingle Bells and Santa Baby and O Holy Night Pulsating glimmering heartbeats marching 4/4 at Andante The painted glass shards are staring at my hands. Wondering if they’ll be drenched this year as well, when ice seeps through my eyes Remembering how you dangled, Dancing, Hanging, Like a turned off Christmas light.
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New Year's Day Madeline Middleton Not every gilded face is hollow. Not every heavy coffin is full. Stone hands cupped shallow pool, the frost, and ice blossoming under a white heaven and the valley channels between two scrawny arms, swaying. The number eighteen read in the fog of my breath, his breath, her breath, his breath. Step upon step upon step upon step. We watched smooth pebble skip and slide sisters to the rocks big as softballs, thrown in haste, in need, carnage splintering out and deafening the echoes of our fishbowl. I write about birds. The heron flew from me, cresting boulder and storm front on slate blue wings lanky and pulsing from water to sky. The crow takes his place. She wails to me — that smoky voice — she lights the river with the brass of her people. The skinny arms of San Saba valley cannot close on a river bred from snowmelt, carrying my birds and souvenirs downstream. Dirt roads weave an intricate portrait. This bland landscape is given human breath out of filler gravel and my romance to the
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obsolete. Gilded or not, I will take this road to the end—he will, she will, he will. I buried the thought in the Colorado river. It was a frozen stalk of grass. A coffin, not full, but heavy, and bobbing down the curve to be lost forever, amen.
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Across the Plaza Jazmin Velasquez
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All Your Fears, My Fear Jessica Enriquez I’m afraid of You You, and the man who lingers in the highway, the hands that reach to tear and scrape skin and flesh with nails like claws, not buds sprouting from the grass barely wet in morning rain I’m afraid of You You, and the worms that climb the bed their bodies thick and viscid their breathing invisible within their tiny hairs, receptors that detect the movement of legs dangling, alive I’m afraid of You You, and the neighbor who spies from the bathroom window, the starving eyes that strip and bare breasts and thighs exposed not to natural light but to unfamiliar air, humidity seeping in I’m afraid of You You, and the wide-open doors carrying in the voices of streets plagued by a congestion of indifference cold distant, fluttering birds, the eternal movement of the homeless
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I’m afraid of You You, and the long golden legs that emerge and extend at will, wild coriander stems unveiling little, white buds to the early burning sun I’m afraid of You You, and the late september rain that infiltrates the nose and reaches the lungs, accentuating, blooming like fungi putrid and malignant I’m afraid of You Mami, and your cicadas that dig inside innards and intestines distending cells, cytoplasm, a chronic inflammation of the body
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Stale Sweets Sofie Canestaro Cookie crumbs of another conversation Stick to the corners of your mouth And I can almost tell what kind it was But I’m too afraid to ask So I’ll chew on the words in my mouth So long until they lose their flavor Because neither of us are willing to share
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Duplex-Worth
(after Jericho Brown) Aleida Lopez Heartache was created for strong souls To carry as a test of resilience My father’s leaving tested my resilience He preferred the bliss of alcohol Alcohol and music made blissful nights Soothed my mother’s agony with my blessing
My blessing made my mother’s agony Into my own I became invisible I became invisible on my own To survive in the wake of carelessness Survival must be done carefully Life knows it wasn’t convenient for me It’s convenient for life I don’t know if I have a soul strong enough for heartache
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As Above So Below Allie Watson Andrews
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Sweet Black Briar Kristyn Garza Jagged sharp edges cut deeply into glass the surface of my red red heart sown apart dug out with my black black blood oozing out as my body drowns from the inside out semez mon cœur. Lungs cough up the spatter sputter spittle red black ichor that floods my innards thrusting against my tiny porcelain shards my dull doll eyes begging to burst from within fertile hollows faire pousser des épines et des bruyères.
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Lips stained with black red rose petals poisoned chlorophyll dripping like dew smearing onto the cracked surface of my porcelain mask je suis cassĂŠ je flĂŠtris et meurs.
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Things I Learned From Eurydice Aleida Lopez I. It takes strength to love someone In the face of hardships With a smile on your lips II. Tucking away my joys and sorrows To the guarded spaces of my heart Can keep me from falling apart III. Being a realist makes love feel Like a dream in which I thrive But sleeping is no way to survive IV. Love yields vulnerability which The immortals seem to lack So I shouldn’t want to take it back V. F or my own sake I can’t Trust anyone else To save Me
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Things I Learned From Orpheus Aleida Lopez I. It’s okay to love someone To the corners of the earth To the final seconds of time To the depths of the Underworld II. I must give my heart to my passion Tuck away the far away fear Place in it my joys and sorrows Until I can move the gods to tears III. Being a dreamer is the best way To make the world I dream of A reality and the only way I could open up to the idea of love IV. Love yields courage capable Of defying the most unlikely odds And awakens a strength which is No match even for the gods V. F or the love of all I’ve fought for I need to stop Looking Back.
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What Color Are Your Soulmate's Eyes Based On This Quiz? Patrick Behrens Day or night? It might as well be night. I already forgot what color eyes you have. It’s easier to ignore my shortcomings when I cannot see them, when I cannot see their physical manifestation in front of me. What’s your favorite color? I see myself bathing in consumer blue. A blue bottle to down day-old blue water. A blue backpack to carry a blue notebook I’ll never write in. Routine, splitting my soul from my body. Blue, feigning tranquility despite a bubbling lack of control. What’s your favorite breakfast food? Eggs. Toast. Scrambled. Burnt. Dealer’s choice. Whatever gets me out of the door without being an inconvenience. I don’t think you mind the sight of me in the morning. How would your friends describe you? How bold to say weird. How brash to say fun. The audacity to assume I have any knowledge of my physical likeness. The audacity to assume I have any knowledge of my next hour’s fate. “Why can’t we be irresponsible?”
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What do you like to do on weekends? Clear my schedule out for aforementioned friends, but never tell said friends that I have cleared my schedule for them. For you. So I work. Relax. Think. It varies. Pick a music genre: The unsaid hovers in this moment alone, perched on my windpipe, talons not yet cutting skin, reminding by whose mercy I abide. Graced, to be by your side another night. Blessed, to take a deep breath before spilling my guts: The jagged razor throats of Jangle pop. The luminescent shrieks of Bebop. The death throe wallows of Sadcore. The breathing undulation of CCM. The uncertain grumbling of Aarhus indie. 432 Hz. Diazepam Springtime. Mix. Clawing: Get out of your head. Assurance: You’re right here. Weakness: I miss you. Resolution: I don’t think you have brown eyes.
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Could you be the one Vanessa Lopez-Campos
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About the Authors and Artists Jessica Enriquez Jessica Enriquez is a senior at St. Edward’s University majoring in English Literature and minoring in Spanish. Aside from writing poetry and fiction, she enjoys gardening and cycling.
Madeline Middleton Madeline K. Middleton has been writing for what feels like eons, maybe more. She hopes that people will realize that their voices are just as artful and valid as the great poets, novelists, and screenwriters they look up to.
Calista Robledo Calista Robledo is a freshman at St. Ed’s, and she is also happy to be a part of New Lit’s editing team as a Poetry Copy-Editor. Calista is double majoring in Writing and Rhetoric with a concentration in Creative Writing and Catholic Studies. She enjoys all forms of art, and her favorite color is green.
Kira Klindworth Kira is currently a sophomore and is majoring in Writing & Rhetoric.
Patrick Behrens Patrick Behrens is a sophomore Writing and Rhetoric major at St. Edward's. He enjoys climbing, playing music, and praising the Lord.
Kristyn Garza Kristyn is a junior English Lit major, Writing & Rhetoric minor, who loves reading and writing....when she isn't dying over the
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stresses of school life. She currently works as Editor-in-Chief of the Sorin Oak Review, President of New Literati, and Copyeditor for Arete. She is clearly very dedicated and passionate about promoting student oriented publications on campus as well as increasing the reach of creative writing to an ever growing readership.
Jillian Horton Jillian S. Horton is a current student at SEU, and is studying Creative Writing. To help understand their mental illnesses and gender identity, they began writing poems in 2013. Poems have since expanded into short stories, and Jillian continues to write in the hopes that someday, their work can help others who struggle to better understand themselves.
Vicky Ortega Vicky is currently a junior at St. Edward's studying how to put the "lit" in English Literature. She likes conversing with the moon in her sleep and planting gardens of words on paper in her wake.
Aleida Lopez Aleida, also known as Gaby, can often be found reading, binge watching romcoms, or frantically trying to brainstorm a new chapter. One of her favorite things are cuddles from her dog, Leah.
Taheera Washington Taheera Washington is currently a sophomore from Dallas, Texas, majoring in Writing and Rhetoric with a course emphasis in Creative Writing as well as a minor in Digital Marketing. She participates in several organizations across campus, such as the Black Student Alliance and Hilltop Views. If Taheera isn't reading or writing in her spare time, she can be found eating around Austin.
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Isabella Parra Isabella found poetry to be very fun in regard to how she can control language and speed for a reader. It is the perfect amount of revealing while also being able to be interpreted in multiple ways.
Sofie Canestaro Sofie Canestaro is a lost little word collector from the forest. One day she'll learn what to do with all of her favorite words, but until then, she'll share the small arrangements she's put together with her fellow creatives in this corner of the world.
nicco nicco is a writing & rhetoric major with a creative writing focus. 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.
Carolynn Dunn Carolynn is a sophomore at St. Edward's majoring in Writing and Rhetoric. She likes thunderstorms and a spooky book.
Kat McCollum Kat McCollum is a senior at St. Ed's majoring in English. She enjoys thrifting and collects haunted baby dolls. She has two pet rats named Simon and Kirby.
Sabrina Macedo Sabrina Macedo hopes to become a first-grade teacher in the future. As for writing, she does it for fun.
Jazmin Velasquez Jazmin Velasquez is a junior Writing and Rhetoric major from El Paso, Texas. She loves exploring the creativity of both words and photography.
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Allie Watson Andrews As a visual artist, Allie explores the manifestation of hallucinations caused by extreme physical suffering. She creates multifaceted paintings, sculptures, installations and photos based on her lifelong experience with chronic migraine pain. After many years, this relentless fiery experience has illuminated her own imagination.
Vanessa Lopez-Campos Vanessa is a Forensic Science major with a Writing minor. She draws to help cope.
Marcus Delzell Marcus has always enjoyed faces (his friend's faces, his dog's face, even his own face) and attempts to hold a mirror up to reality—capturing these unique biological commodities. In this collection, he has several drawings of faces and many plaster casts of the faces of people whom he's familiar with. He even has a cast of his own face—made with sawdust and pig's blood.
Andrea Angeli Gonzales Andrea is a third culture kid from Cebu, Philippines. She loves baking, photography, traveling, and exploring the outdoors. You’ll find her reading a book or planning her next big adventure.
Maia Medel Maia is a twenty-one year old Austin native.
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Staff Bio Statements Timothy Nguyen Editor-in-Chief Timothy is a junior Creative Writing major from Houston, Texas. Though he loves writing and editing, he also possesses a fiery passion for illustration and design. He can usually be found people-watching with an espresso shot and a battered sketchbook. Hoping to work as a Graphic Designer, he plans to graduate May 2021.
Kristyn Garza President Kristyn is a junior English Lit major from McAllen, TX. Her passion for literature has led her to become a writer of poetry, short stories, and novels. By working for the Sorin Oak Review, New Literati, and Arete, she hopes to gain essential experiences for her future aspiring career as an editor for a publishing house.
Melinda Hurtado Head of Design Department Melinda Hurtado is a Graphic Design major from Austin, Texas. When she is not in the Design Lab working on her next big project, you can find her in the Carriage House practicing with the St. Edward’s Choir. After she graduates in May 2022, she hopes to work as a Graphic Designer and travel the world, capturing her adventures through photography.
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Sofie Canestaro Assistant Designer Sofie Canestaro is a lost little word collector from the forest. One day she'll learn what to do with all of her favorite words, but until then, she'll share the small arrangements she's put together with her fellow creatives in this corner of the world.
Miki Nguyen Assistant Designer Miki Nguyen is a sophomore majoring in Forensic Science (dead bodies, yay!). She spends most of her time on Twitter or TikTok, and vibing to BTS 24/7. Other than that, she's usually slouched over her desk slaving away at work that she's procrastinated a little too long on, but everything's fine... :D
Rebecca Harville Head Prose Editor Rebecca is a senior St. Edward’s Writing & Rhetoric major. She believes True Crime shows should only be watched at nighttime in order to get the strive for REM sleep. She would like everyone to have the best possible day by holding back The Urge. Nobody knows what The Urge is, but it’s there—in the back of everyone’s mind.
Patrick Behrens Head Prose Editor Patrick Behrens is a sophomore Writing and Rhetoric major with a concentration in Professional Writing and a minor in Catholic Studies. Patrick enjoys playing music, climbing, and going to church.
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Aleida Lopez Head Poetry Editor Aleida, also known as Gaby, can often be found reading, binge watching romcoms, or frantically trying to brainstorm a new chapter. One of her favorite things are cuddles from her dog, Leah.
Vicky Ortega Head Poetry Editor Vicky Ortega is a junior English major and Art History minor. She likes boxing up her heart in poetry and playlists till she finds a better way of getting rid of it.Â
Alana Auber Social Media Manager Alana Auber is a graduating senior and the Prose Copy Editor Leader along with the Social Media Manager for New Literati. They are a Writing & Rhetoric major who enjoys crafting short stories and novels. They hope to either publish books or join an editing firm in the publishing industry.
Carolynn Dunn Prose Copy Editor Carolynn is a sophomore at St. Edward's majoring in Writing and Rhetoric. She likes thunderstorms and a spooky book.
Magdalene Matzen Poetry Copy Editor
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Megan Hess Prose Copy Editor Megan is a senior at SEU majoring in Political Science and minoring in Writing and Rhetoric. She works on this publication because she loves to help writers express themselves and get their work published.
nicco prose copy editor nicco is a writing & rhetoric major with a creative writing focus. she is a prose copy editor for the New Literati literary magazine on campus, and she is an aspiring journalist and writer. her favorite author is Ray Bradbury, and she loves cats and the color black.
Kira Klindworth Poetry Copy Editor Kira is currently a sophomore and is majoring in Writing & Rhetoric.
Madeline Middleton Poetry Copy Editor Madeline Middleton greatly enjoyed working on this issue, and cannot wait for next year.
Calista Robledo Poetry Copy Editor She’s just happy to be here :)
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New Literati is a St. Edward’s University creative arts journal that once belonged to the, now disbanded, New College. In 2015, New Literati was restarted by a handful of dedicated and passionate students. With no funding and zero recognition or support on campus, New Literati began as an online journal. In the Spring of 2017, New Literati had finally raised enough money to venture into the realm of print publication. Ever since, it has become a tradition for New Literati to have an online issue every Fall and a print issue every Spring. Though there have been three previous issues printed since its restart, New Literati only began using a volume system in Spring 2020, making it the first volume of New Literati. As a whole, New Literati will always represent passion, determination, and perseverance for all artists and creative minds. Despite all of the trials and obstacles that it has faced, New Literati will always remain a home for imaginative minds to experiment and create. https://submitnewliterati.wixsite.com/newliterati 2020 New Literati was printed by OneTouchPoint Austin, Texas 78754 Typeset in Opeus Pro, Park Lane, LCT Caslon and Wingdings 2 Stock: 60# Offset White Cover Stock: Neenah Paper, Classic Linen, Red Pepper Traditional Finish