Portraits in Ink, 2018 by Portraits in Ink

t s i a i n r t I r nk o P 4

YEAR OF THE DOG EAT DOG DURHAM SCHOOL OF THE ARTS DURHAM, NORTH CAROLINA VOLUME XIV 2018

About PortrAits in ink Portraits in Ink Literary + Arts Magazine Durham School of the Arts 400 N. Duke Street Durham, North Carolina 27701 p. 919-560-3926 f. 919-560-2217 portraitsinink@gmail.com portraitsinink.weebly.com @portraitsinink on Twitter + Instagram

THE MISSION of Portraits in Ink is to showcase the creative work of the Durham School of the Arts community, to encourage students of all backgrounds to explore their potential as writers and artists, and to give a voice to those who didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know they had one through the publication of a beautifully bound document that we share with the student body and the greater community. We hope to serve as a launchpad that skyrockets ideas into a united universal collection of creativity. DURHAM SCHOOL OF THE ARTS is a public, lottery-based, magnet school, population 1700, with grades 6-12, in the Durham Public Schools district. Portraits in Ink is created by a high school extracurricular club run by a student leadership team who, new this issue, have an independent study during the school day. The editorial and design staff meets year-round to produce this annual, juried publication. The jurying, editing, layout, and design is performed collaboratively by the staff with faculty guidance. The staff is split into four groups: poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and design, each with a leader or leadership team. The editors of this magazine gather submissions through advertising on social media and around the school, hosting contests and submit-a-thons, holding pop-up-submission stations at open mic nights, and soliciting writing and visual art directly from students and their teachers across the school, regardless of enrollment in an arts or writing class. In particular, the staff works closely with the visual arts faculty to have access to a wide range of student artwork. Written pieces are limited to one per student in order to represent the widest variety possible. All edits made by the editorial staff are discussed in a face-to-face conference with the author prior to publication. Writing is juried first, anonymously in serveral stages: the staff reads all submissions to compile a list of top choices, then they come together as a group to discuss and select a final body of work. Afterward, staff and the adviser compare the demographics of the writers selected to those of the school and try to adjust accordingly to reflect the races, genders, and ages of our student body. Visual art is then selected based on the theme and nature of the pieces being published.

EMMA STOOPS f 2018 f Zoey f Watercolor

DeAr reADer, The ancient Romans said, “Homo homini lupus,” which translates to “Man is a wolf to man.” The idea that humans are animals is well-founded; in fact, humans share 84 percent of their DNA with dogs. It is this thin line, the difference between humans and beasts, that we seek to examine in art. It is this hair-thin division, this nearly imperceptible break, which makes us “us.” Without it, we are slavering and hungry hounds. And with it? Well, we may still be slavering and hungry hounds, but we are hounds with a conscience. And yet even with our art and conscience, sometimes we seek to cross the line into brutality for our own purposes, perhaps to reclaim a primal part of ourselves. Once we cross that boundary, we may find ourselves blindly seeking glory, acting as unfeeling conquistadors exploiting others for personal gain. Many times we as Americans lose sight of our consciences and let that innate brutality out. We become a hungry, greedy mass of dogs, begging not to be fired, fighting to be the one on top, gilding trash for profit. We mask futility in fluorescence, hide our fears behind abrasive billboards, searching for something that isn’t there. This year, our staff wanted to feature the idea of the Dog-Eat-Dog World in 2018, the Year of the Dog. In this political climate, it seemed appropriate to explore the consequences of a hunger for profit and power gone too far. The devastating effects of this are already starting to make themselves known in America: disregard for the impact our actions have on others, systematic exploitation of the environment, entire groups of people being thrown nothing more than table scraps from the powerful few. It is through art and the voices of young people that this claustrophobic drudgery, this cycle of gold-plat-

ed power can be broken. We hope this magazine is a balm. We recommend “Blondes: A Taxonomy” by Sara Thompson, a humor catalogue that envisions people as the creatures they are; “16 Tons” by Susanna King, a personal essay on the impact of addiction; “Autopsy” by MXTSE, a poem that gives raw reminder of those who have been pushed aside; and “Little Creatures” by Samas Marshall, a story that imagines the cosmos in spite of capitalism. Throughout the process we’ve tried to show that primal beast within all of us, in fact, as innate as our ability to create and share. This magazine explores a variety of topics from race to lingering history to strange dystopian worlds, culminating to a singular purpose: to show art can conquer the blinding rat race around us. May these commentaries unearth the joyful, primal, frothing mess of humanity buried within us all. We thank you for picking up our magazine, and we hope our lighthearted treatment of these rabid times allow you be inspired to create and share art yourself.

The Editors

Nonfiction

Poetry

Serving Size 600 words Servings Per Container About 11

Serving Size 160 words Servings Per Container About 31 % Daily Value*

The Intersection Emerson Jakes Society’s Standards Tyler Mitchell Stupid Teenagers AoK Neon Sharpies Xia Zipper Roots Jessica Agbemavor Day Laborer AJ Harris Going Home Stella Z. Domec Ya’Aburnee Iris Sixteen Tons Susanna King Porpoise Kira Dear M.D. Joshua Yueh

14% 36% 54% 51% 58% 65% 69% 77% 82% 88% 89%

Fiction Serving Size 800 words Servings Per Container About 16 % Daily Value* Blondes: A Taxonomy Sara Thompson Cassini-Huygens Lena Joan Lovely Ari Final Ignorance Abby Ivey Whole MJ2 Just Shower Thoughts Jessie Foday The Librarian and the World Ripping Andrew Mackin Facts GZU$ The Luna Moth Chloe Williamson Boss’ Son* Ihsana Morning Alez Clarke Miles Away Sana Azhar My Name is Elden Carnfell Hope Fager Dear Yoshi H.F. Home by the Sea Eleanor Cole Little Creatures Samas Marshall

11% 18% 24% 26% 28% 34% 44% 52% 60% 62% 66% 74% 93% 100% 107% 114%

% Daily Value* A Carolina Home Built in 1963 8% Maura Scroggs 9% Exalted and Sanctified Oliver Egger 16% Cold War Cataclysm R.H. 23% Hypnotic (Tokyo) Sara A Home for the Wandering MacKenzie H-G 27% Thoughts and Japanese Food Rohan Kalelkar 31% 32% Lists Orla Simpson 33% Zero Bella Cude 41% A Conversation Katie Rains 11 Signs I Don’t Need You Anymore 42% Lauran Jones 48% Laughter Terri N 53% Thy Dirt NGhit$ 57% Autopsy MXSTE 59% A Southern God E.P. 63% I Almost Remember A Collaboration I Was Thinking About This Before I Fell 64% Asleep Jay Rahim Time Zones in Outer Space Cora Martin 71% 72% Allah Guac the Poet 73% Remend Kelly Copolo 80% Pain Walker Garrett 81% Moss Leo Egger 86% Cicadomorpha Ava Lozuke 90% forth, and forth Hadas Hacohen 91% She Paints the Sky Ian Clark 96% house Zoë 99% Intertwined Blaire Garrett 102% La Llorona Alberto Bufalino 103% The Scottish Cannibal Sylus Fox 104% Rumors Sheikh Faaeq Raza Dilawari 108% Miss’ Placed Isabella Dorfman two trains after the impact 111% (a symphony in red) Emma Hitchings 113% Despite Kate Cross

Music + Film Serving Size 16 millimeters Servings Per Container About 5 % Daily Value* Call Yo Bluff JAMM Seen Zone Gabe Goes to California Gabe Whitnack It Takes Time Aidan Supertramp The ‘95 Lawrence Halpin

22% 27% 53% 71% 110%

Visual Art Serving Size 300 dpi Servings Per Container About 55 % Daily Value* 4% Emma Stoops Zoey 8% Maura Scroggs Tammy 9% Tomas Richmond Paranoia 2% Joe H. Hydrate or Diedrate 35% Morning Cherry Color 41% Light Year 52% Stonehead 53% I Scream! 64% We Cute 89% Pizza and Drinks 98% honey you’re too sweet 10% Taylor McKinney Getting Dressed 33% The Tetons 43% Visions 15% Ava Lozuke Excavator Process 87% Hoilday Chaos 92% Desert Divet 18% Anna Marshall Medusa-Degradation 28% Eve Moskovite Retro 36% Manny Galang Shame of a Ruined Man 60% Blooming Sign

Claude Stikeleather Snakes 17% Lagoonigans 22% Ghosts 49% James Lyons Blinded in Motion 23% Going to the Sun 27% Brain Fire 50% Neon Daze 80% City 71% Verdant 101% Stone and Sea 106% Autumn Russell Lowlight 24% Black Excellence 56% Horror 103% Kiren Pell Upside-Down Town 26% Lean Joan Childhood 55% Daja Harper Wordbrush 63% Model Status 59% Vincent Le Untold 81% Face Features 97% Sunset 112% Ellie Dilworth Rejects Shelf 67% Dry Cleaning 83% Waves 91% Pilot 108% Bella Cude Pumps 45% Snow 73% Franny The Shoes We Walk In 74% Izzy Salazar Frogs 88% The Border Crossed Us 105% Nicole Hanley Fire 46% Kaylee Nguyen Form 68% Sha’re Strachan Portrait 76% Owl in Color 115% Lawrence Halpin Circles 110% Cover Art Claude Stikeleather Cover Doodles Alexa Garvoille, Izzy Salazar, Claude Stikeleather, Sara Thompson, Kira Young * Percent Daily Values are based on a 20,000 word diet. Your daily value may be higher or lower depending on your intellectual needs.

A Carolina Home built in 1963 MAURA SCROGGS, 2018

We love what you have done with the place. Transfixed in the stage of kissinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; cousins. Growing lantanas out of 99 cent styrofoam cups, And covering bare surfaces with the muted strands of crochet handiwork. Last time I visited, You burnt down the guest bedroom To ensure isolation. Rotary dial singing of how to Beware Of the big dog, And ancient guns residing beside floral tupperware. There is no need for redecoration. Your fingerprints of fried okra and S.C. peaches Splayed like cracked paint across the walls. A self-proclaimed ugly woman Who douses her scalp in Aquanet And caresses her aching palms with the grease Of last weekâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pork loin. On the back porch She suns herself Transforming into a dried skink Clip-on earrings sparkling against her leather skin, Slinking over rusted wheelbarrows and discarded gardening tools, Redesigning herself into a 2001 Ford Taurus Once again becoming useful Out of a broken down bitch

MAURA SCROGGS f 2018 f Tammy f Mixed Media

exalted and sanctified ‫אָּבַר ּהֵמְׁש ׁשַּדַקְתִיְו לַּדַּגְתִי‬

There it was Did you see it? It fell across the sky and disappeared Worn-out Untied laces shake and fall on gravel … Bent backs mumble Unshaven beards grip woven faces In our lifetime and in our days Worn-out Crumpled pages with coffee stains … I saw it! A line of light There Beyond any consolations we’ve uttered

TOMAS RICHMOND f 2018 f Paranoia f Acrylic on Canvas

OLIVER EGGER, 2019

blondes: A taxonomy SARA THOMPSON, 2020 FICTION HUMOR CONTEST WINNER

A BLONDE A popular character in song, story, and off-color joke, A Blonde always found itself in a confusing situation. A typical account of this elusive but fondly recollected creature goes this way: “A Blonde went to her doctor. She said, ‘I think I broke every bone in my body.’ She poked her leg and cried. She poked her neck and cried. She poked her back and cried. The doctor said, ‘You broke your finger.’” A Blonde also appeared on the cover of men’s magazines and in men’s comic books, as a totem of great power that could be bought and traded, rather like a Yu-Gi-Oh! card.

ADONIS, BLOND A type of mythical blond of great physical attractiveness, possessing great magnetism to those of the opposite (or same) sex. This is a free-range blond, often seen wandering the pastoral countryside or the halls of a just ruler. Their natural enemy is the Sphinx. They are known to make extremely pleasant vocalizations whilst plucking the lyre, but due to habitat loss, this kind of blond has become rare.

BEAST, BLOND In direct counterpoint to the good and innocent blond, (see: ADONIS, FLAXEN-HAIRED MAIDEN, and GOLDEN CHILD) the Blond Beast is a creature of prey. With closely-cropped, monochrome plumage, the Beast cuts an imposing and intimidating figure. There is an amazing contradiction in the fact that some subspecies of blond are the most pure, heavenly beings ever to grace

TAYLOR MCKINNEY f 2018 f Getting Dressed f Digital Photograph

this sinful Earth, and some subspecies are so depraved and decadent that they would make your hair stand up. The Blond Beast loves wanton cruelty and gratuitous orgies. Wrapped up in five yards of leather, the Beast’s natural habitat is the cold forests of Prussia, the countryside in parts of central Europe, and pockets of the Balkans and Caucasus. No specimen has been recorded in North America, however sightings have been reported in the North Woods. Sometimes confused with lions.

BOMBSHELL, BLONDE Probably the most well-publicized type of blonde, the Bombshell is voluptuous and sensual. The potential of the Bombshell was first realized in the 1930s, when a few particularly impressive specimens were recovered. Soon after, the Bombshell was plastered on posters, planes, advertisements, and magazine covers detailing the anatomy of such a creature. The world went blonde crazy! Then, they stopped for a while in the forties, for reasons entirely unrelated to the creatures. There was a second wave of blonde mania in the fifties, with entire documentary movies like Gentlemen Prefer Blondes being made about the hypnotic charisma of the Bombshell. It became such a phenomenon that some surreptitiously dyed and passed off non-blondes to appear in productions as blondes. In fact, it is a little known fact that the perennial favorite Marilyn Monroe was not really a blonde. It’s true; only after filming did a rookie director realize he’d been given a bleached binturong. The malevolent counterpart of the Bombshell is the SHE-WOLF.

CALLOW YOUNG MAN

FLAXEN-HAIRED MAIDEN

This is almost exclusively a rural blond and one that is often a GOLDEN CHILD grown up. They are almost helpless and constantly get themselves into bad situations due to their unerring faith in the goodness of humanity. In antiquity this species popped up frequently in monasteries only to be led astray by succubus; however, now they are best remembered from their depiction by naturalist Charles Darwin. In modern times this kind of blonde still pops up to fall for mail-order bride scams, but they are being driven to extinction due to the foul-minded depravity of the internet and a lack of parental firewalls.

Originally seen riding the Alps on a white stallion, the Maiden is rarely seen today, but according to novels and early films, was once quite common in both hemispheres. She is known for her virginal beauty, her plaited locks, and her sweet disposition. This kind of blonde often suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune; indeed, she was wont to lose her picnic lunch to bears, her village to angry marauders, her freedom to greedy slave traders, and her honor to a BEAST, BLOND. She would have to ward off this creature with a poisoned dagger and then make a heroic leap into a murky and foreboding moat. Luckily, this blonde is extremely pious, and her unwavering faith in the Great Reward will see her through whatever mortal indignities are suffered. They are like panda bears in that their great charisma is matched only by their delicacy and inability to live in captivity. As it is, this kind of blonde is only sighted in very benighted areas.

ELVEN BLOND

The favorite activity of the Grass-Fed Blond is doing business of some kind, which requires them to put on threepiece suits with lapels the size of 747 wings.

The best remembered specimens of these type were described by J.R.R. Tolkien. These blondes are all tall, thin, and beautiful. They can walk on snow without sinking in, despite their tiny and tapered feet. This kind of blond’s historical range once spanned from Iceland in the west all the way to the Volga River in the east. Now they are very, very rare and only inhabit rural Iceland and the interior of Greenland. They are delicate and even a small puff of smog is enough to cause violent sickness.

FAIRY BLONDE The “Tinkerbell archetype.” They are always very tiny and flighty, and usually have glimmering eyes. They are sometimes friendly and harmless and collect cast-off baby teeth, but sometimes they are capricious and hide in barrows where they eat little furry animals. They are not taken seriously anymore except in Iceland; and they have been superseded in fictional works by the ELVEN BLOND. 12

GIRLS, THOSE Those ones. You know. They are very tall and shapely creatures with high-pitched voices and a pack mentality. On their own they are almost useless, but once in a group, they are cohesive and deadly huntresses capable of bringing down a Beast without a second thought. Their natural habitat includes the mall, the gym, and your class. They are rarely outright mean to you, but god, how you hate them.

GOLDEN CHILD Similar to the FLAXEN-HAIRED MAIDEN, the Child has a heart of, well, pure gold. The Child often makes remarks like “What’s beer?” and “Gosh!” They are adorable and harmless little creatures, but watch out: sometimes they are actually demons in disguise. In older works, this child was 100 percent, no-escaping-it doomed and was certain to die in a horrible way in the last chapter of the book. Nowadays, they are either seen in print advertising or on the pages of children’s storybooks.

GRASS-FED BLOND Once seen frequently in the 1970s, the Grass-Fed Blond is now reduced to enclaves in Texas and the Northeast. They are very tall and beefy, with a round-faced, ruddy complexion. They look like Fabio’s frumpy father. The favorite activity of the Grass-Fed Blond is doing business of some kind, which requires them to put on three-piece suits with lapels the size of 747 wings. They are usually kind and approachable, but if you get on the wrong side of one, they are more litigious than you could possibly imagine.

SAFARI BLOND The Safari Blond is most common in the southern hemisphere, where they range widely and are commonly featured on documentary shows. They have khaki-colored coat patterns and sun-darkened hides that help them blend in with their arid habitat. Vocalizations include whoops, hollers, and shrieks. They are found all across the Australian continent, the South Sea Islands, and into Hawaii and California, where they move around on floating boards honed to a smooth finish.

SHE-WOLF The She-Wolf is a dangerous specimen. Tall, buxom, and predatory, these anthropophagous huntress-

es wreaked terror wherever they went and left trails of bloodied menfolk in their wake. They have very pronounced mammary glands and long, flowing plumage. There is no greater a natural enemy to the She-Wolf than the square-jawed GI Joe with abs you could grate cheese on. In illustrated panels, the mighty battles that would rage between these underdressed predators were forever preserved so that future generations would understand the fear and awe with which observers watched the spectacle.

WHITE KNIGHT Very much knights and very much white, these blonds once populated Europe with alarming frequency. They were smaller in size than a BEAST, BLOND or a SHEWOLF but bore some superficial similarities in coat markings. Males of the species usually stood between 5’6” and 5’9” tall, while females usually were 5’3” to 5’7” tall. Commonly found in their decrepit castle comfortably situated on ancestral grounds, the males started out very wiry and powerfully built, agile and adept hunters, while the females were very good at riding, fencing, and dancing. Extremely territorial, it was this species of blond that saw extensive use in both police and military settings due to their strong bonds of loyalty and their tireless integrity. The last war in which they experienced major use was in World War One. Despite good showings all around, they were extensively over hunted and were displaced in their niche by their more aggressive competitors during the Second World War. They lingered on in small numbers to the 1980s but now are extinct. Males often fought one another in displays that resulted in extensive epidermal scarring. This was intended to impress females, but eventually fell out of favor when less painful rituals like the discoteque emerged.

the intersection EMERSON JAKES, 2019 NONFICTION

y bus screeched and groaned to a halt at the bottom of the exit ramp, waiting for the red light to blink green. I glanced around me, eyes made temporarily alert by the gradual slowing. Slick, navy blue seats full with pulsating teenagers and blaring music surrounded me on three sides. I felt like a peninsula of sanity, pressed up to a window like it was a life vest. The world outside my window, I imagined, was of suspended silence, completely quiet to my limited vision. I directed my eyes outside the window, trying to land them somewhere fixed so my thoughts might follow suit. There is nothing more stable than the ground—barring earthquakes. The coal black road was perfectly dark and light at the same time, interrupted occasionally with bits of rock. New paint had just been applied to the lanes, it was bright against the grey air except for a pair of tire skids already marring its surface. For a few moments, the stability rejuvenated me, until a steel grey minivan with soft curves contradicting its colors came to a stop next to and below me. I peered out of the fingerprint-stained window of the bus and through the passenger seat window of the van. There was a boy in there. He had his hands on a box, his eyes deep into their sockets and his mouth drawn in and down, like it was trying to disappear. A woman with frizzy, yellow hair sat next to him, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, intently focusing on the red-eyed traffic light. The boy glanced at her for a moment as if to ask, Is she watching me, before gingerly opening the box. White, filmy tissue paper was undisturbed and folded loosely around the product inside. I knew it was shoes, the box had a

vaguely familiar silhouetted logo on its oblong surface, even thought it was larger than a normal shoe box. He removed the tissue paper as if it were gold leaf and revealed a pair of shoes. I’m sure he knew that there were shoes in the box as well, but by the distortion of his silhouette, I could tell these weren’t just any shoes. He didn’t smile, but his eyebrows rose, the only semblance of emotion that graced his face for the moment I knew him. His fingers traced the leather, caressing it like the crown of a dead king. He looked over to the woman in the driver’s seat before quickly returning his eyes to the box on his lap. The woman’s eyes remained determinedly focused on the traffic light. The boy closed the box, his hands shaky for reasons unknown. Even I could see their vibration from my far vantage point. Then, the green arrow was illuminated in front of the bus and we accelerated away from the car, the boy, and the woman, who were still standing dutifully in front of their red traffic light. Why had I stared? Why couldn’t I look away? He existed to me only as a sick fish, almost floating, drifting. I wanted only to push him into a deep water cove and let him heal. But not just him. I wanted to gently rest anyone in a deep water cove. Everything seemed so broken. I knew the everything I understood about him would never exist again, the waters around me were too deep. The three pound complexity on the shoulders of the hundreds around me, even the pulsating masses, was overwhelming, like drowning. Water engulfed me through the leak in my head.

AVA LOZUKE f 2018 f Excavator Process f Mixed Media

cold war cataclysm R.H., 2020 FORM POETRY WINNER (PANTOUM)

when the dung beetles crawl forth from blackened exoskeletons i will know that you have ceased to crawl upon gaea’s grassy skin from blackened exoskeletons pink-skinned children will come to crawl upon gaea’s grassy skin to play among rattles shaking with fallout pink-skinned children will come fresh and new and full of life to play among rattles shaking with fallout mama didn’t make it through fresh and new and full of life like pompadoured singers in blue suede shoes mama didn’t make it through caught in jaundiced skies of honey like pompadoured singers in blue suede shoes when the dung beetles crawl forth caught in jaundiced skies of honey i will know that you have ceased

CLAUDE STIKELEATHER f 2018 f Snakes f Mixed Media

Cassini-Huygens LENA JOAN, 2021 FICTION

he day that the Cassini-Huygens spacecraft hurtled into Saturn’s atmosphere, Cassini herself was sitting on the beach, letting water wash over her bare legs. She was most at home there; staring into the distance, watching the sun set, rise; watching no time pass at all. Cassini’s sister, Dione, often asked why she didn’t venture further into the ocean. Cassini always replied with a shrug. It’s not like she cared; she was normal, and Cas-

sini wasn’t. Dione and Tethys, choosing were both fantastic swimmers. They both treasured the family beach trip just as much as Cassini did, but it was different for them. While her sisters dove into the ocean waves, Cassini looked up. The day that the Cassini-Huygens spacecraft hurtled into Saturn’s atmosphere, Cassini watched it happen. Uranus was watching too, but she didn’t say anything to Cassini at that moment. It would be unceremonious

to do so, seeing that she was a planet and Cassini was not. Saturn was choosing not to speak, either. Cassini could tell it was painful for her, losing a friend like Cassini-Huygens in such a way. To be fair, most of Saturn’s friends lived forever, unlike the satellite. “CASS! Tethys says the pizza is here! I hope you can bear to leave the ocean for a moment,” Dione yelled to Cassini, breaking her reverie. Uranus nodded to Cassini before she got up, brushing the sand off her thighs. The sisters’ beach house leaned heavily to the left, and its screen door squealed every time it was touched. Cassini liked the house much more than their house in the city. Venus had told her not to think this way: the world was only one place anyway, separating it like that was bad for Cassini’s health. Cassini couldn’t help it. She was born human, after all. The earth was her plane; her feet rested on this ground. Inside, Tethys and Dione were gorging themselves on pizza. Tethys’s hair was pulled back and she wiped her greasy fingers on Cassini’s green shirt. “That’s my shirt you’re wearing,” Cassini pointed out. “Shut up and eat some pizza. I know you didn’t eat breakfast today.” Tethys shot Cassini a look with her very brown eyes. Cassini sat down on the couch next to her and took a slice. Jupiter had pointed out Tethys’s eyes the first time she saw Cassini’s sisters. Her eyes, Jupiter said. They hold something. “Did the planets have anything to say today?” Dione asked snidely, her mouth full of food. Actually, none of Cassini’s friends really said anything. They just were, and Cassini understood. They spoke, but not in the sense of saying words, which happens to be very hard for regular people to comprehend. Cassini breathed in and took another bite of her pizza slice. Pineapple, her favorite.

“No. We were observing Cassini-Huygens burn up in Saturn’s atmosphere,” Cassini replied honestly, though it came out of her mouth sharply. Dione’s teasing and prying was always worse at the beach. Cassini glanced up from her lap to catch Dione’s eyes. Unlike Tethys’s, Dione’s eyes held nothing; icy pits of blue waste. If Cassini were more human, she would have said she hated Dione, but she talked to the stars. So, she didn’t give herself the right to hate anyone. “Sounds like a grand old time.” Dione leaned back in her seat, putting her feet on the coffee table. “Watching yourself die in space. Seems fitting.” Cassini took another bite of pizza. “Watch it,” said Venus and Tethys at the same time. Dione only heard Tethys. Dione flipped her long dirty yellow hair, took another slice from the box, and proceeded to stalk out of the room. “Whatever.” The door to Dione’s room slammed shut. Tethys and Cassini stayed perfectly still as they heard Dione slide open her window and climb out of it into the dusk. When she was gone Tethys stood up. “Finish your pizza. I’m going out.” She closed the pizza box and headed toward the kitchen. The weight of her bare feet on the floor made the whole house creak. Tethys seemed to hold a lot of weight. “Out where? I thought this was a vacation,” Cassini asked quietly, already knowing the answer. Tethys’s movement in the kitchen stopped for a moment, then started again. “I’ll be back at midnight. If Dione isn’t back by then, call me.” Tethys reappeared in the living room wearing her leather jacket and a grey shirt. Cassini wished she’d kept the green one on. It looked better on her anyways. “No ocean tonight,” Tethys stated.

ANNA MARSHALL f 2018 f Medusa-Degradation f Digital Illustration

At the same time, Saturn said, She’s gone. The spacecraft She could see Gaia a few meters down the beach tois gone. wards the town. Gaia was standing in the line of the tide, For some reason, her friends only spoke over Tethys, which curved around her feet, keeping them from getting never Dione. Sometimes when they did, she wondered wet. Gaia didn’t shift her gaze from the skyline as Cassini if Tethys knew about them. Tethys looked a lot like their approached. mother in those moments when the voices Cassini heard They stood for a moment in Gaia’s dry patch. Cassini overlapped. looked at Gaia, Gaia looked out into the ocean, may“I love you, okay? See you later.” Tethys placed a kiss be past. Cassini always wondered what Gaia could see. on top of Cassini’s head and slouched out of the house. Sometimes, when Gaia looked at her, she felt like Gaia The screen door screamed behind could see her insides. her. “I heard you died today,” Gaia said tepspace was a The beach house was suddenly idly, still unmoving. very dark and empty. Cassini’s part hostile place and “In a way, yes,” Cassini said, glancof the world had turned its face away ing upward toward Saturn. Saturn said so was earth . . . nothing. from the sun. The only light came from the moon’s faint glow. Usually “Is Saturn alright?” Gaia said. this was comforting, but the only feeling Cassini was get“She has no power in the choices made, but she lost a ting was the coldness of her feet. friend all the same.” Saturn still remained silent. Do you want me to bring her back? the Moon asked. “But is she alright?” Cassini shook her head into the blackness of the room. “Ask her yourself.” Cassini hated when Gaia was like When she was younger, Cassini had taken up the this, pretending like her friends didn’t exist. It was like Moon’s offer to bring Tethys back. That was the secGaia wanted to escape them. ond of many hospital visits. Cassini learned her lesson. Gaia finally looked at her. “I’m talking to you, Cassini.” Space was a hostile place and so was Earth; their surfaces “But the planets are listening just the same.” shouldn’t touch. In a way, Cassini was living proof of “You never wish to be alone? Even for a moment without their this. She was the spot where they had touched. hearing?” Cassini looked down at her hands. A deal is a deal, but “I would be lonely.” Cassini couldn’t remember a time how could Cassini ever be ready to take on the responsibeing without her friends’ presence. bility that the planets had? She often wondered how others could be without Gaia is coming down the beach, Neptune droned slowly. them, without a guiding voice. She sounded tired. Cassini wondered if this was why she “What if I was with you?” Gaia asked tensely. hadn’t spoken all day. She wants to talk about the spacecraft. This was a dangerous question. Gaia was always a “I know,” Cassini said. Maybe the beach sand would dangerous being on her own, but this was dangerous bewarm her feet. cause Cassini was considering it. For once, the screen door made no sound as Cassini Cassini could feel the planets pressing in closer. For a exited the house. The whole structure leaned over her in moment, that’s all they were: celestial bodies floating in a silent goodbye. nothing. The universe held its breath for a second. Will you come back? the Moon asked. Gaia’s eyes were making Cassini’s heart jump up and “I’m not sure. You know how Gaia is,” Cassini admitdown. They were brown, like Tethys’s. Tethys, Cassini ted. thought absently. 20

“I’ll miss my sisters.” Cassini looked away from Gaia. The universe exhaled, water washed over Cassini’s feet, ruining Gaia’s once held dry spot. She disrespects her gift. You can’t go. Cassini, think about this. All spoke at the same time, like a dam breaking. Cassini couldn’t discern the voices. She felt like she was at the tipping point of a scale. “How human of you,” Gaia said bitterly. She wore a sour look. Something inside Cassini that had been building up suddenly burst. It felt like it had been building for a long time, maybe since she had met Gaia. She thought about Dione climbing out the window. “No more human than you,” she spat at Gaia, “You’d rather be living in the bottom of the ocean, free of voices, the universe, and spacecrafts burning in the atmosphere just so you could be with me.” Gaia lost her sour look and started grinning. This was bad, really bad. Don’t, Mercury’s large voice warned. Don’t. Gaia’s eyes absolutely glittered. Sand was beginning to shift under their feet; water lapped at Cassini’s ankles. “What can they do to you?” Gaia asked. “It’s not like we’ll be gone forever.” The air hummed with anticipation. All the planets turned toward the two of them standing on the beach. “But they’re––” Cassini pointed upwards. “My friends and sisters need me,” Cassini countered wholeheartedly, even as Gaia’s gaze bore into her. It made her feel warm, warmer than the planets had ever made her feel. Our connection to you will be lost, Venus said to Gaia desperately. Please, you were chosen for this. Cassini felt the planets closer than ever before, and as much as she loved them, it was terrifying. “Friends give one another space,” Gaia said defiantly, ignoring Venus. Then, quieter, she added, “I promise nothing will happen to your sisters while we’re gone.”

There was a single beat of silence. Cassini saw all the choices she was supposed to make, all the things the planets wanted her to do. She saw Tethys, sea air whipping her hair across her face. Dione, making sand castles, determination in every move she made. Cassini saw what she wanted. “Where will we go?” Cassini whispered. The planets roared at this, surging toward them, screaming in deafening voices. Cassini understood their anger. It made her feel wretched, but she couldn’t ignore the tug inside. Cassini clenched her eyes shut as the noise pushed into her brain, but as soon as it started, it was silenced. Gaia was gripping Cassini’s hand tightly, like it was a shield. Waves peaked and crashed higher than before all around them. “Wherever you want,” Gaia whispered back, eyes wide. This was crazy. Ludicrous. Suddenly, the Moon spoke. It will be alright. She stated this as a fact, clear and precise. They need to learn separation. There are times when we must be apart before death. Tradition has crippled them. The Moon is so beautiful tonight, Cassini thought. Then, Maybe I’m dreaming. You are both children, the Moon continued. They ask too much of you. Gaia smiled up the Moon. “You have been a true friend.” Your reign hasn’t ended yet, so I will remain one, the Moon said with finality. She turned, sadly, to Cassini. What shall I say to Tethys? Cassini imagined the Cassini-Huygens spacecraft burning and falling apart. That had never been her, she realized. “Tell Tethys I will come back and rescue her.” The Moon nodded and fell silent. “Well,” Gaia declared to Cassini, “Shall we?” Still clutching Gaia’s hand, she took a step forward, and then another. And for the first time in Cassini’s life, she waded into the ocean. 21

Call Yo bluff JAMM, 2019

“Men and women hate it when you call they bluff.”

bit.ly/2Fl Knf8 Listen to one of DSA’s musical artist’s rhythmic series of thoughts on turmoil in relationships and what others mean when they speak in anger.

CLAUDE STIKELEATHER f 2018 f Lagoonigans f Acrylic and Ink

JAMES LYONS f 2019 f Blinded in Motion f Digital Photograph

Hypnotic (tokyo) SARA, 2021

All his thoughts Like a Hypnotic Tokyo What’s important is silence Whisper, lie Lingering down the hall All doors covered With a red swirl Displaying a worthless entrance That he cannot pass The swirl led to Tokyo But he did not know

He stays In the silence Waiting to be taken by his mind Knowing He won’t be there Again He will run Though never escape Because he can’t move Stuck in his hypnotic state Listening to every lie Like being forced under A green current

Walking back In his own footsteps Tracing Pacing Back to when he knew Tokyo And had a bittersweet Balance (Without the silence) The question answered As he stares Into the sea About to jump Into what he hopes is Escape

Lovely ARI, 2022 FICTION

The rain is beautiful today, isn’t it? “It has been three years, Mr. Smith. You must at least make an effort to bond with other people.” How can rain be beautiful? It seems boring and depressing to me… “You quit the basketball team, you refuse to join any clubs, you say there is no point in making friends––” I think that rain falls to wash away the sorrows of this world, to make it even more warm and lovely than before. “––you have also been avoiding your appointments

with me on Thursday mornings. Look, I hate to pull you out of class to discuss this matter, but––Mr. Smith? MR. SMITH!” My eyes snapped open, immediately meeting the concerned eyes of Nolan Frost, the school guidance counselor. My hood covered my messy, gray hair that I hated so much. My hands snuggled comfortably in the pockets of my gray hoodie. Had I fallen asleep during our meeting? I couldn’t have, I’m a mess but not that much of one . . . “Did you have another flashback?” he asked me. I nodded slowly, knowing that he was probably correct. He was observing me as if I were a pathetic, depressed, little child. Am I? Yes, but I don’t exactly like people reminding me of that fact. Mr. Frost sighed and leaned back against the hallway wall. I could see his eyes wander over to a pack of cigarettes that he had poorly tucked into his pocket. “Smith, you cannot keep reliving the past for the rest of your life. You must look toward the future. I know losing him was hard, but it’s been four years.” “Yes, sir,” I mumbled, stepping back toward the door of my eighth period, Photography. “We are not done yet, Mr. Smith,” Frost said as soon as my fingers were able to touch the door knob. I cursed under my breath but grabbed it anyway. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I don’t enjoy our lovely chats. Mr. Frost is actually one of the nicest adults I have ever met. But he doesn’t understand. I don’t blame him. How can anybody understand a freak like me? Also, his office is really hot and gray. Bad combination. “I heard you mention that everything was gray when I pulled you out of first period yesterday. Care to explain?”

AUTUMN RUSSELL f 2018 f Lowlight f Digital Photograph

I kept silent, and he sighed, crossing his arms. “You can’t hide everything, Mr. Smith.” I can never escape the gray. Everything is gray: people, plants, animals, even the rain that was supposedly beautiful. I haven’t seen a single color since his death. Awful, right? It is quite depressing, but after three years you kind of get used to it. “I’m going to miss Photography.” “Harry––” There we go, he pulled the first name card, “––feel free to call me if you––” “I am going to miss Photography,” I repeated in a monotone voice, turning the doorknob. “Mr. Smi––” Too late. I was already pushing open the office door and escaping back to my eighth period. The entire class went silent and turned toward me. Their cold gray eyes were burrowing into mine. You think you’re a freak just because everybody says you are? My head snapped toward the ground as I staggered to my desk. The teacher shrugged and turned her attention back toward the board, as did the class. I leaned back in my seat as far as I could, pulling my hoodie over my face. They can’t see my face. If they do, they will torture me. My eyes lingered on a girl sitting diagonal from me. She was also not paying attention to what the teacher was saying. Instead, she was staring at her journal, writing at a rapid speed. For some reason, I couldn’t tear my eyes off her. The girl probably noticed me staring because she looked up and stared back at me. My eyes widened. I felt my heart stop. How? How could this be possible? Her eyes are a . . . bright green.

Final ignorance ABBY IVEY, 2018 FICTION KIREN PELL f 2018 f Upside-Down Town f Digital Photograph

To this day, I wonder which would have hurt more: to know them, or to remain ignorant. The last days of any event always seemed the most prominent. The last day of summer camp was the brightest. The last sip of iced tea was the sweetest. Knowing that I was seeing the last few days of someone’s life, though, dripped down my throat and engulfed my vocal chords in the needles of a longleaf pine. I wished I could redo old memories, write down every word they said, illustrate their smiles with crayon, watercolors, and sunlight, so that I could learn. If only I hadn’t been so young, I still curse under my breath; if only they hadn’t been, either. The last memory I have of him is his birthday party. He withered away into the seat of his wheelchair, looking remarkably small for a grown man. He didn’t see me. He just sat there quietly, painting his presence in that cold facility. It seemed strange to me how nobody seemed to notice he was there. I mostly remember her wake. Her doll–like form wasn’t the way a child is meant to be loved or appreciated, but there wasn’t much else left that could have been done. The reporters outside the funeral home did not know of the tension that filled the air as family slipped in to fret what had been and could be done. I hope he’s taught her how to fish. He promised to teach me later.

A Home for the Wandering MACKENZIE HASTY-GROVES, 2019

Lilac soap will cleanse you of exhaustion, its scent overwhelming the air in your lungs, growing gardens in the space between your bones, within flowing heartbeats and blue jean baseball caps from him. Wooden walls are a shelter for the wandering, a home for their known sin. Goodbyes are hubcaps and street signs you wrote for me, ink dripping between asphalt cracks, his hands nothing but their own thin resolution for empty pockets. What is meant by your crown? It keeps you quiet in your good fortune, a picture frame of your sewn grin. Roses will stay in the cracks in the sky, a resting place, your eyes wide open, finally not searching to be alone again.

seen ZONE, 2019 Listen to this quiet meditation on the effect of worldly experience on daily life.

“nothin’ else in this world for me, scotty beam me up.”

goo.gl/pjqfmi

JAMES LYONS f 2019 f Going to the Sun f Digital Photograph

Whole MJ2, 2020 SPECULATIVE FICTION

Jeron “Jake, how much longer until we reach the lake?” my younger sister says. I pull my boot out of some mud, and warn my sister to walk around it. “If we get keep moving at this pace, I would say about

fifteen minutes.” I can tell she is being strong for me. I know she won’t last much longer without water. She hasn’t even shed a tear about her friends who died right in front of her. The iodine is very heavy to carry, but we need it to drink the

EVE MOSKOVITE f 2020 f Retro f Digital Photograph

lake water. Which is still ten klicks away. I stop and look around. I cannot see or hear much other than the leaves and animals. My ears are still ringing from machine gun fire. I lapse when I remember the explosions. Who knew my argument with my parents not to go to summer camp was going to be valid? Though to be fair to my memory of them, I could never have predicted why it would be correct. A bullet ricocheted off a tree trunk to the left of my face. It narrowly missed my ear. My mind snaps back down to Earth. I start moving again. My sister does not ask any questions about why I stopped because she knows I was looking for a faster way to get to the lake. She also knows I was thinking about the massacre. The car we stole from an older dead camp counselor ran out of gas about twenty-five klicks back. Motivated by sheer will and fear, I heft her iodine bottle on my free shoulder. I pick up my pace, forcing my thirteen year old sister to run as fast as she can to keep up. I won’t let anything happen to her. I’ve seen my friends and fellow counselors die by the terrorists. I am not going to surrender to death. At least until I get a shot at revenge.

Sally The bell rings. I snap awake. I know any shown weakness will result in a beating. I get ready fast enough to look like I woke up this way. At attention, I stand in front of my floating bunk bed. I don’t need to look. I know the people around me are staring straight ahead as our supervisor gives us our duties for today. “Sally, you have manufacturing, today. Then, training barracks.” I avoid my supervisors gaze. It is the custom. We are about to invade the place with the most chance of survival for our ever-growing population. I do not show any emotion as I think. I can’t help but wonder how vicious the enemy will fight when they get stormed by our troops. I know we will win, though. We always do.

Dan I am strapped onto a medical bed. I try to think about how to escape and save Sally, but I am only rewarded with pain. I feel like I am being burned by fire. I barely manage to keep my cool. I know Connor drugged me. He was the one who caught me before. The only one who could stop me even with my speed. I act like I am still sleep to see if I can gain any useful information. “Dan, you can open your eyes now. We know you are awake.” Apparently, when I woke up the heart monitor jumped for a split second. I try to obey my instructions as best as I can. The pain is just too much for me to endure. I end up losing control and scream out. “I know it hurts, Dan, but we have to do this. We know you have speed. It is just not enough for what we have in mind. When your bone structure settles and your muscles get used to the workload, it shouldn’t hurt as much.” “I know all about Connor,” I lie. “I want to know what did you do to my friend.” I try to act demanding and important, but, unintentionally, I end up slurring my words together. “She is fine, Dan. You will be taken care of just like her if you would only agree to support our cause. We are not evil, so you can leave if you like. If you do, though, you will most likely never see her again. Even with her jumping ability she would still not know where to find you. She’ll be all alone in this cruel world, with her ability her only defense. Do you really want that on your conscience?” I now can tell the doctor is smart. She knows exactly where to apply the needle. I wince as I think. They did help me improve my speed, which would’ve taken months of intense training on my own. I will need any upgrade I can get if I want to take down Connor. I grit my teeth as I slowly lift up my tender upper body until I am sitting upright. “When do we start?” * 29

Emperor Raesh

Sally I look nervously towards the mirror at my reflection. I know it is a two-way mirror because I just watched the others do their tests from the other side. I already know what to do and how to do it, but the mention of Dan showing up has disrupted any other thoughts. Knowing the team needs me to stop the enemy, I jump. Jumping is what I call the instantaneous transportation of all the molecules in my body, or others in contact with my body, to another place in space, or, as the doctors believe, through time. The doctors and observers even think I may be able to jump through time at will, though I’m a bit skeptical. First, I jump to the A.N.T.I. Extraterrestrial Observer satellite, which the government uses for observing the solar system. Then, I jump back into the room. I can’t stay out too long or my metal collar will shock me. This is their way of containing me. I curl my fists in anger. I didn’t want to be a part of this, but the world needs me. I jump to a few more places in the room and around the observatory, with the small camera recording every location I jump to. Instantly, I’m back in the room. Finally, my test time is up and I leave. On my way out of the door, something brushes my hand. Discreetly, I look down to make sure I am not bleeding from jumping (it happens). I see a little piece of paper stuck between my palm and thumb. The paper is so small I don’t think any English word could actually fit on it, let alone a full message. Somehow, there is a tiny message. I take my seat and lift my hands to chest height to make it look like I am examining my fingers. Squinting, I read what scribbled message says: I’m here. Meet me at the hospital wing. - Dan Before I even excuse myself to use the restroom, I know Dan is here. Man, he is fast. *

“We have traveled to many Earths,” the old man pauses to survey his promising troops. “Successfully uniting the Earths of the multiverse. However, this universe, Universe Omega, cannot be allowed to contain an Earth. Why, you ask? Well, Earth Omega is too dangerous. You saw what Earth’s Alpha, Phi, Chi, Psi, and Omicron were like. Earth Omega is the first Earth, the original Earth. Earth Prime is the first coexisting alternative Earth and, luckily, Earth Prime was happy to ally with us. It will not be the same for Earth Omega. They introduced us to evil. They are people of the original Earth timeline. They will not go down easily. They are smart and they contain the elder phasers. Are you ready for battle?” Emperor Raesh looks around at two billion loyal troops. They are packed into a spacecraft the size of Africa. All from their respective Earths, including Omicron, Zeta, Eta, Iota, Prime, and many more. The highly skilled, war-hungry troops shout in agreement, believing with every fiber of their being what their fearless divine emperor told them: Earth Omega is dangerous and needs to be destroyed.

Jeron It has been weeks since I found civilization. I look up at the sky. I see Earth’s troops going down one by one, not standing a chance against the enemy. Suddenly, I feel like jelly. Instinctively, I grab my younger sister and look up at the inevitable. I know Emperor Raesh has unleashed the most destructive weapon to be produced so far. I hug my sister tight even as she cries and whispers into my ear, “I love you, Jake.” I know she calls me my real name instead of Jeron because she thinks we are about to be killed. I hold her even tighter as I reply sadly with tears of my own, “I accept this ending. I love you too, May.” I don’t let go, even as we are sucked up into the black hole with the rest of the solar system. The terrorists have finally been defeated.

thoughts and Japanese Food ROHAN KALELKAR, 2021

I grab chopsticks and pick them up, with blood on my hands for company, You say you’ll stay close, yet you’re far, like a Sapporo Bar, a thousand-meter stick couldn’t get it. You’re disgusting, just like the scent of the unfortunate fish caught on the hooks of mankind. But you’re tasty like Odom noodles at a Sapporo Bar, where children dance and make trouble. To be as dead as a fish devoured with the gnawing of bloodthirsty jaws.

Lists ORLA SIMPSON, 2019

I like to make lists That never get done Tricking myself into feeling Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done all I can But ink and paper Wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wash my clothes So I sit very still Taking small breaths hoping to differentiate Between denial and duty Poisonous plans Created from doing absolutely nothing About the problems I promised to procure Into oblivion

TAYLOR MCKINNEY f 2018 f The Tetons f Digital Photograph

Zero BELLA CUDE, 2019

the trick is to remind yourself what it feels like in a bucket of glue. staring at something that holds oblivion in its jaw eyeball pinned to wall, true blank, true zero like standing so still in your summer dress the moths eat it off and your hair grows long milky skies and intermediate afternoons spent pen to paper making nothing but a dot.

Just shower thoughts JESSIE FODAY, 2021

FICTION

he compact digital alarm beeped at exactly 8:00 AM, not a millisecond later. I let it ring once, then twice, and hit the button labeled STOP which was so worn from touch that only the S and P were still legible. Feet shuffling, I stumbled into the bathroom, blinding light hitting my eyes like a sunrise when I flipped the switch. The cold shower handle squeaked as I turned it 45 degrees to the left like I did every morning. It’s funny, I thought, stepping into the bathtub, when someone skateboards down a hill and you see them picking up speed. The warm water came beating onto my head and rushed down my spine like hot chocolate burning your throat as you sip from a paper cup on a frigid night. You can see the determination leaking out of their eyes. Windswept hair lashing like tails attached to their scalp. I reached with my right hand for the Watermelon Burst shampoo that I had been using since before I could remember. And there’s a single second suspended in time where they seem to fly. I dumped a hefty amount of product into my palm and began lathering my head. But all too soon they hit a pebble on the road. My hands slowed. And you witness a great force careen into the unknown. I stood in the shower, water pounding against my temple, soap dripping down my face, and swirling into the metal drain. All because of the most insignificant factor. A breath escaped my lips and the sharp tang of soap collided with taste buds as water leaked into my mouth. I’ve lived a fourth of my life, and I’ve barely even reached a crawl. Not bitter or sour or salty. What if I’m just slowly inching forward and can’t see the crest of the hill? But sharp and violently tingling as I swallowed a mouthful of the foamy liquid. Who’s to say I’m not already there, teetering on the brink? I brought a pruned hand to my lips and felt the parched, peeling roughness. So different

from my soft skin. So different from my gravely legs. And all I need is a push . . . It all happened in an instant. One moment standing frozen, the next crashing to the tub bottom. It wasn’t a hard fall. No, not the kind that leaves you beached like a whale, immobile and vulnerable. A bruise would be left behind on the hip, yes, mixed yellow and brown, but superficial overall. The fall was enough, however, to jar me from the daze, and quickly thereafter I cut off the shower and wrapped myself in a thin towel that was once bright and cotton soft, but was now damp from water vapor that clouded the small room. Quickly also the thoughts that had plagued me just minutes before faded, and soon enough escaped from my mind into the realm of forgotten. But why would I even want to remember? After all, they were just shower thoughts . . . The compact digital alarm beeped at exactly 8:00 AM, not a millisecond later. I let it ring once, then twice, and hit the shiny button labeled STOP which was smooth and cool under my warm fingertips. Feet shuffling, I stumbled into the bathroom, soft light caressing my eyes like a sunrise when I flipped the switch. The shower handle gilded easily as I turned it 45 degrees to the left like I did every morning. It’s funny, I thought, stepping into the bathtub, when someone skateboards down a hill and you see them picking up speed. The warm water came pouring onto my head and rushed down my spine like hot chocolate tickling your insides on a frigid night. You can see the determination leaking out of their eyes. Windswept hair lashing like tails attached to their scalp. I reached with my right hand for the Watermelon Burst shampoo that I had been using since before I can remember. And there’s a single second suspended in time where they seem to fly. I dumped a hefty amount of

product into my palm and began lathering my head. But all too soon they hit a pebble on the road. My hands slowed. And you witness a great force careen into the unknown. I stood in the shower, water splashing against my temple, soap dripping down my face and swirling into the metal drain. All because of the most insignificant factor. A breath escaped my lips and a sweetness collided with my taste buds as soap leaked into my mouth. I’ve lived a fourth of my life and I’ve barely even reached a crawl. Not bitter or sour or salty. What if I’m just slowly inching forward and can’t see the crest of the hill? Just sugary and surprisingly thick as I swallowed a mouthful of the foamy liquid. Who’s to say I’m not already there, teetering on the brink? I brought a pruned hand to my lips and felt the smoothness. So different from my coarse hair. So different from my bruised skin. And all I need is a push . . . no. It all happened in an instant. One moment standing there frozen, the next leaping through the air in a surprising

JOE H f 2018 f Morning Cherry Color f Digital Art

agile feat. I landed with my feet on the hard floor and immediately felt the change in state. No, it wasn’t just the transition from comforting warm water to being fully exposed and dripping in the misty air. It was as if a barrier had been crossed, a sting cut, a cycle broken, and an unknown burden lifted. I reveled in this feeling of new purpose, new freedom, and waited for it to fade in pieces and evaporate like the water swirling around the isolated bathroom. However, this time the memories stayed. Even after I turned off the shower and wrapped myself in the cotton towel, the thoughts didn’t cloud, but stayed vivid like someone painted them in my mind. A movie of my own thoughts replaying . . . The compact digital alarm beeped at exactly 8:00 AM, not a millisecond later.

society’s standards: ‘the Man in the Moon’

TYLER MITCHELL, 2022 ESSAY

o you remember being a kid? The age of innocence. Remember not knowing the troubles of the world? Not having a care for anyone, not having a care for anything but yourself ? You may have just run around the playground with a juice box and a granola bar. Perhaps you loved goldfish, or crackers, or Pop Tarts. Remember being that age? As a matter a fact, you might not have even strayed too

far from that age. But, no matter. Remember everything and everyone before you were exposed to what life was actually like? Do you remember having puppet shows? Your parents would sit in front of your kitchen table and, even though they know you were right under there controlling the puppets, you had a blast with the story you oh-so-cleverly made up. Do you remember having small fights with your

MANNY GALANG f 2018 f Shame of a Ruined Man f Mixed Media

friends? Perhaps it was that ‘Molly wasn’t sharing the toy,’ or ‘Jackson won’t stop teasing me.’ Or maybe you wanted to stay up late but your parents restricted you from staying up any later than eight p.m. Maybe it was just me. The thing is, you didn’t know any better about what your future would be. You had dreams of being a fashion model, or the most beautiful person on the planet. You wanted to be a doctor, a farmer, a firefighter. As a kid, you couldn’t lay out your future. What you could lay out was what you wanted to drink at a restaurant, what you wanted to do with your parents this weekend. Basic things. But could you control the future? It may have felt like it. You possibly had a Magic 8 Ball that you thought held all the deepest and darkest answers to such questions. In reality, it was rigged. It would randomly select an answer, telling you that you weren’t friends with so and so. Telling you that you were going to have to take a bath that night. Telling you that you might get in trouble. You thought as a kid, possibly, that you had the whole world in your hands. I remember thinking the moon followed me while I was in the car. I thought the moon specifically had chosen me to follow, and nobody else. Sure, sometimes it would fall behind, but the moon never let me down. I thought I could control the moon, control where it was going, all because it was going to follow me. The world used to be all to yourself, and everything was perfect. Nobody was yelling, not much sadness was to be had. As a kid, everything wasn’t going to last forever. You saw your parents, and your parents’ friends. You possibly had older siblings. You could not imagine how they got that tall, or how you would grow up. It felt impossible, and you were positive you would stay a kid forever. Even your parents made you believe that. They may have even said, “I wish you could stay a kid forever!” or,

“When you get older...” You sometimes had the matter of growing up on your mind. Most of the time it wasn’t. Unless you were in a situation where you couldn’t decide what you wanted, you sometimes said to yourself, “Oh, I wish I was older so I could do whatever I want!” Is that really the truth? When you get older, you can do whatever you want, you told yourself. This is when you start to go into your first year of school. If you had daycare, you knew some of the basics. Other people take care of you for a few hours, then you go home to your parents. Simple, right? Kindergarten may have been a bit strange, or fun. You honestly didn’t know what in the world was happening. Maybe your school was just a kindergarten, or it had grades K through five. You might have looked up to bigger kids, being restless and crazy. But otherwise, all it was about was that oh no, somebody cried in class. Or, oh no, somebody peed their pants. That’s all that really mattered. There may have been a bully, but not for long because somebody ‘told’ on them. Of course, the bully stopped because they didn’t want to walk any laps at recess. And of course, that is all that mattered. Nothing else was on your mind. You carried a book bag with all of your artwork to take home to your parents, and show them your crazy rainbow hand on a paper. All you have to do is paint your hand the colors of Roy G. Biv and you can find eternal laughter and joy. And even better—when it’s Thanksgiving, you can make that same rainbow hand a turkey. All that mattered was your art, and getting a good sandwich for lunch. You didn’t have too high of standards, so there wasn’t much problem with anything. A sandwich with some baloney, lettuce, and cheese would suffice, along with your amazing apple juice. Maybe every Friday you got a brownie that everybody was jealous of. People may have

tried stealing it, but because you ‘told,’ they stopped. That may have continued for a while. About up until third grade. Third grade? “You are growing up so fast now, aren’t you?” your parents would have said, smiling as you went on the bus to get to school. But now it was time to get serious. Third grade was no joke, and this time you got really long tests at the middle and end of the year. Three hours just sitting in a room. Where did kindergarten go? The thing is, kindergarten was gone forever. Now you had more troubles, and about now was when they became visible. “Have fun at school! I hope you have a good first day.” You don’t question how your day will be because there hadn’t been any troubles in the past, now had there? Everything may have started on the bus. You found your best friend that you loved to hang out with each and every year and went off talking to one another. Or not. What if they ditched you? What if they thought you weren’t good enough? Third grade was when everyone started. A few cliques might have popped up. There would have been the popular group, the ‘nerds,’ maybe some sporty people, and the social outcasts. You may not even have fit any of the categories, but that’s all there was. It was only you that didn’t fit into any of the categories. Or at least that’s how it felt. You, especially, felt . . . different. You might have cut your hair very short if it was long, or you might have tried growing it out if it was short. Whatever your choice, it would have been socially acceptable. Socially acceptable in kindergarten, that is. In third grade, it was serious. People didn’t take you for who you were now, and you wondered where your special rainbow hand went. Lucky for you, I know the place it went. It’s torn into pieces at a garbage disposal.

Just like where all of your expectations for school went. You thought everything was fun, and third grade wouldn’t be worse but better because there was more freedom. But is there really freedom when you are locked in by cliques who weren’t accepting? Was there really freedom when people passed by you without saying a word, bumped into you on purpose, or teased you just for being yourself ? Is that what the word freedom is all about? If you ever tried to join the popular group, they would shove you away and tell you to dress more like whatever gender you are, to wear on-brand clothing, to wear makeup or else you wouldn’t be beautiful. And it hurt. And if you ever tried tagging along with the sport kids, just based on your height, they may not have even let you talk to them. You could have been too girly, or not enough like them. You just don’t fit in. Could you even throw a football? Dribble? Hit a baseball? Run super fast? Talk about girls? No. They declined you as well, and it hurt. You would have loved to join the nerds and geeks because they seemed to be into all of the things you were interested in. But the nerds definitely wouldn’t even consider you with a B average. The geeks questioned what you’d seen, and if it was everything but Doctor Who and Supernatural, they pushed you away. And it hurt. The social outcasts didn’t even know who you are. They wouldn’t bother to learn who you are, and even if you invested all the time in the world with them, they could care less about you and your problems. Go in another group. But is this called freedom? Where that rainbow hand went, nobody can say for sure, unless it’s a dumpster. You’d eventually find a friend or two and make your own group, but that rainbow will never be as bright as it seemed when you were in kindergarten.

Remember that sandwich? Or that brownie every octrust, or anything anymore. Were you even breathing? casional Friday? At lunch, you would be judged for it. Sometimes, you cried, and you cried for hours. Tears “Is that seriously all you’re going to eat? Just a sandstreamed down your face and you had no idea what to wich?” And even if that sandwich was enough and you think of the world anymore. knew it, they would tell you to eat more or else you would The rest of elementary school passed right on by. be too skinny. You would’ve gotten rejected thousands of times, “Are you actually going to eat that brownie? Isn’t that a failed so many quizzes and papers you hadn’t turned in lot of calories?” And even if it wasn’t may never be completed, but your full calorie diet for the day, they god help your soul that you You thought as a kid, oh would tell you to eat less or else you may even find a reason to even possibly, that you had want to grow up, to even want would be overweight. You wouldn’t know what to think to wake yourself in the morning. the whole world in of any of this. And nowadays, if you You couldn’t grow up, you had your hands. ‘told’ on somebody, you were considto man up, you didn’t want to be ered a snitch. There was even a horrid rhyme for snitches. called a sissy, and the worst thing you could be called was The kids would chant it at recess and bully the other kids. a girly girl or gay. Snitches get stitches, Middle school. And thrown in ditches. “Define society,” a teacher may say, and the only thing It didn’t help that you had more things to study for, more that comes to everyone in the room’s mind is hate. Socithings to do at home, and the fact that you were growing ety is a horrible thing, and society believes you need to up. You didn’t know how to handle it. Had you ever grown be a certain way. Girls, curl your hair, make sure you are up before? This type of growing up? I think not. blonde and your hair is down to your waist. Show your You apologized a lot more, and the teachers had no curves, love yourself ! But wait, don’t show too much idea that anything had happened. Do you really want to skin. It’s too much for the boys’ eyes, and boys will be grow up? boys—not able to control themselves. Also, make sure Is the world still in your hands? you don’t eat too much or else you are fat and ugly. But Heck, sometimes your only friend was the man in the don’t eat too little, or else you are too skinny and probmoon. Even he would go away, too, at times, and when it ably fast during meals. Boys, don’t wear makeup or else just wasn’t your day, or you felt horrible, there wasn’t anyyou are gay, man up and stop acting like a girl, don’t body. wear skirts or dresses or else you are hideous. You need You weren’t comfortable telling your parents anything to play football, you need to play soccer in order to fit because you were afraid they would tell you to go back society’s standards. Make sure you are six feet tall, and to your homework, or that happiness is a choice, or they then you are perfect. But if you touch a girl—oh well, would tell you that you are absolutely insane. it’s her fault. They might shout at you for not getting straight A’s, but Is society really something we want to go by? you weren’t even sure if you yourself were set straight. Apparently throughout the school year it is. All the girls You didn’t know who and what to like, who and what to go by the standards society creates for them and all the

boys go by the standards society creates for them. The girls eat a normal amount of food but nobody knows what they do so they can stay at 105 pounds. The boys think that if another guy is acting girly they are gay, or deserve to be punched for being more feminine and being a disgrace. At home, there isn’t any peace. Your parents have started fighting, and for what reason? You may never know, but you stayed in your room for hours on end, not able to do any homework or any of your hobbies without hearing yelling, screaming, and crying from downstairs. All coming from your parents. And one day, in middle school, your mom would pick you up from school early. She claimed it was a family emergency, and you and her talked while on the way back home. You couldn’t handle anything anymore, and she was at her last straw as well. You were eager to hear what she had to say though, right? Your mom comforted you, and you cared for her. The word divorce would shoot out of her mouth like a gunshot. There was no hearing anything else logical after that, and you would bust out into tears. Was all the yelling for a divorce? Did Dad hate Mom? Did Mom hate Dad? What the heck was going on? You were only in middle school. Growing up wasn’t your priority. Getting through the day was. If there even was day to be found, that is. Your mom would maybe try to get your attention, but she could understand why you had no words. Dad was moving out right that moment, and you had not the slightest idea as to what could happen. You would go back to school the next day, trying to focus on your work. There may not be much of who you actually were left. Society had standards for you at school. When you told your best friend about the divorce, they left you because you were wrong or unusual. They had higher standards for what your life would be like, and couldn’t handle such a depressed person. It’s unnatural, right?

Everybody in class wasn’t concerned about anything else, and all because they followed the standards society had set up for them, they lived free and happily. But you didn’t want to live that way, and that rainbow hand you had as a kid made sure of it. It wanted to make sure you were different from everyone else, stood out from the crowd, and were unique. But when society is crushing you, and peer pressure is in excess, there is no more rainbow hand. For the first time in years, you cried in class. Isn’t that what kindergarteners do? Cry in the middle of class? What are you, a sissy? Man up, stop crying! Awww, you’re such a girl! Shut up and stop being depressed. You start to shake in the middle of class, tears rolling down your face. Everyone stares at you, and finally a kid interrupts class to point you out, “Hey, they’re crying!” But isn’t that what kindergarteners do? If the teacher tells you to go to the bathroom to wash up, you know they are trying to not get you any more embarrassed than you already were. Nobody knew what was happening at home, nobody knew how bad you were. Some would say others have it worse and that you should be happier, but that doesn’t help. Society made it so that you could’ve had the choice of standing out from the crowd or blending in. You didn’t have the choice of standing out, but you clearly didn’t want to be another copy of a human. None of this was a choice. You didn’t want any of this. Why couldn’t it just go away? But how you would make it go away, you didn’t know. When you were a little kid, you thought the whole world was in your hands. You had the rainbow hand that made you oh-so-special. You went home in joy, telling your mom and dad the unique stories from school you learned about, and you were happy. But if society, with all its horrible standards, tells you that you should love yourself, is society really loving you?

A Conversation KATIE RAINS, 2018

I say there is a difference between broken and shattered. You say they mean the same thing when the glass hits the ground. I say I am broken and you are shattered. I say that you are shattered because your eyes are empty windows in the dim light and your fingers look like church steeples. Naked bone under stars. You ask why I am broken and not shattered. I say I am broken because my windows melted. The light behind was too bright, not too dim. You say without glass there is no difference. You say broken is shattered. I say broken, not shattered. You say it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter. There isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough to fix either one.

JOE H f 2018 f Light Year f Digital Photograph

11 signs i Don’t need You Anymore LAURAN JONES, 2018

1. I can cross the street by myself: All a child knows is her mother’s warmth, at first. Then, it’s the calloused hands of her father. No wonder I’m always cold.

There is a smell of salt in the air, bananas on the ground, a lot of fathers with their children, and me.

2. My grades are higher than you could ever count: You taught me to count by twos in grandma’s kitchen. There is the smell of something . . . off—something that I will later know to be cannabis, a hint of marshmallows, and hot chocolate. It’s winter in Ohio. We are wet from snow, we don’t care. Now, I need to prove trig functions and you’re still dividing.

6. I no longer feel pangs when I see other families: A normal family is four people, if not four, then three, some even have five, but never two. Apparently, I’m not normal, but I’ve grown to be okay with that.

3. You’ve taught me the one thing you are confident in: Without thinking, a lie will leave my mouth. Something my mother thanks you for every day. Lying seems to be the only thing we share.

7. Talking to you is a chore required by the state: They’ve finally realized I can think for myself. That I have a sense of character as to who you are. That maybe, just maybe, we fled 500 miles away because I was unsafe.

4. I no longer think what could’ve been, only what is: I’m seven. I come to consciousness to find you’ve locked me in the car. I try to climb out but those signature Jones hips get stuck. I scream for help, but people keep walking, not wanting to get involved. Much later, tears burning my throat, I manage to escape. I find you. We haven’t talked about it since. 5. I’m no longer bothered that you don’t complete things, no matter how important they are: I’m eight. We climbed the tallest building. Well, I did. You stopped halfway and let me go by myself. 42

8. You don’t need to sign for my passport: I’m old enough to disappear without your concern. 9. I don’t react when we are compared: My nose is mine. My mouth is mine. My tooth gap is mine. My hips are mine. And I will do with them what I please. 10. I don’t know what to call you: Emily has a Dad

who yells at her for burping at the dinner table, Klaus Bryant has a Papa who taught him how to play baseball in the backyard, Nia has a Daddy who brings her the forgotten lunch, from hitting snooze too much, off the table, and I have a Gerald who— 11.

bit.ly/2JW7y2d Listen to Lauran perform “11 Signs I Don’t Need You Anymore” with original guitar accompaniment by Paloma Martinez Ubaldo. This track was created in a collaboration between Coach Davis’ guitar class and Ms. Garvoille’s Advanced Creative Writing class entitled Synesthesia: The Color Album. Produced by JAMM.

TAYLOR MCKINNEY f 2018 f Visions f Digital Photograph

the Librarian and the World ripping ANDREW MACKIN, 2019 FICTION

SCI-FI CONTEST WINNER

n the onset of twilight, the lake shimmered down below me with the color of fire as the sun shrank beneath the imposing gaze of the surrounding mountains. The ravens called through the trees with a greater frequency than ever before, and the air smelled and felt like ash. I sat on my favorite cliff overlooking New York City, which had spread all the way up to the Catskills. Since the beginning of human history (around seven thousand years ago), the world noticed individual beauty but did not revolve around it. After the second civil war ended a century ago, the world tried to forget about the differences of others and focused on making all individuals equally beautiful. The National Board of Beauty met every four years. They made decisions on all clothing, skin, and bodily structures that were to be met in order for people to accept you as a member of society. They would then report to the governments of countries across the world so that these requirements could become law. This year, all males were required to have unblemished skin; a completely toned upper body; a tattoo on one shoulder, which could be any size; the same messy hairstyle; and no freckles, acne, or birthmarks. They were also required to wear jeans that were a size too big, a plaid collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the button at the collar unbuttoned, Nike shoes, an earring in one ear, and a metallic digital watch. I preferred soft sweatpants and had short, flattened, dark hair. I didn’t want to cover several miniature freckles that dotted my cheeks, but I was fine with picking at any acne that sprang up; my scarred nose was there to

prove it. I didn’t shave and sported a neatly groomed beard. Nobody really talked to me, but I didn’t mind. I struggled to understand people’s hidden social cues and body language, anyway. I was always content to be by myself. Science now focused on the advancement of medicine, technology, and plastic surgery. Giving people the features that they needed to fit into society, these fields improved by leaps and bounds. Scientific fields that looked out for our effects on the natural world were neglected. I spent my time in the library reading up on these forgotten subjects and looking at the constellations. There were no electronics, cables, or even librarians in the library when I first walked into the building. That posed problems for reading at night, since I had no apartment or job. So I took the liberty of learning how the library worked and became the new librarian, sleeping behind the front desk and ruining the plans of the plastic surgery contractors to put a clinic in its place. I made money through tutoring. I offered education that some people still considered necessary in this day and age. I wished it wasn’t true, but who actually used astrology or environmental science in the crafting of medicine or plastic surgery? The government didn’t bother arresting me because I paid my taxes despite my nonconformity. I scrounged a living off of what remained of my money, only eating breakfast and dinner for meals and entertaining myself with books. I made daily trips up the mountain to blow off steam and extra energy. I climbed trees and rocks, swam in the river, and then sat calmly on a cliff watching the sun dis-

BELLA CUDE f 2019 f Pumps f Digital Photograph

appeared for the night, looking at the natural world that had been left behind by mankind. I often convinced the local animals to come out into the open nearby, sometimes even coming directly to me to investigate the sweaty outcast in their territory. I never approached them because of the unpredictable nature of wild animals. The wrens were my favorite. They first appeared drab with brown and black feathers, but their smooth pattern was interesting to look at. The ravens allowed the tiny birds to emit their songs across the forest. Something about today was off, though. The sun was never so intensely fiery. The animals and plants did not always act with dread like they did now. It was as if they could sense something humans couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. I got up and headed down the mountain. I needed to buy dinner and get to sleep. I ate chicken nuggets and fries with ketchup that night, ensuring that every piece was just how I liked it. I sat down in the reading room when I was done with my food, picked up my latest book on astrophysics, and began to read by candlelight. It was about midnight when great booms and screams sounded out across the city. I dropped my book and rushed to the window. In the distance, several massive explosions could be seen. Power was going out across the city. People were streaming into the streets, out of burning houses, as buildings collapsed all around. I looked up and saw red. I knew more about space than anybody in town, but I could not say what was happening. The screams continued for hours outside, but my

own building, there were no fires or explosions. I decided that somehow, the presence of electronic devices were triggering this violent destruction. People began to stumble up the road that led to the library; some burnt beyond recognition; some lacerated by broken glass and covered in blood; and others with broken limbs, knots, and bruises from falling chunks of steel and brick. I let the refugees into my safe haven and allowed them to clean themselves up and spend the night. While they were able to clean their wounds, I had nothing that could help the deeper injuries in my first aid supplies. The many chairs that had lacked occupants for years were suddenly all crammed with people trying to get sleep. The wounded moaned in pain as their injuries rubbed those who surrounded them throughout the night. I was the only one willing to sleep on the floor, giving up my favorite chair to a woman with third degree burns across her back and bruises and bumps on her head and shoulders. The next day, we left the library and headed to town to assess the situation. Corpses lay throughout the streets, crushed by fallen monuments or burned in the fires. Many survivors met us as we trudged slowly through. A busted water tower had fallen and leaked nearby, resulting in a murky pond. It became a mirror for the people, who were so used to looking into one every morning to check that they could legally remain a part of society for the day. I had no mirror in the library. This was the first time any of us could see ourselves after the disaster. I looked

NICOLE HANLEY f 2018 f Fire f Digital Photograph

into the water to see a face made up of an unkempt beard, circular glasses, and acne scars. As the other survivors looked into the water, they shrieked and clutched their faces, shock and grief. They needed to replace the great results of their plastic surgery with the best replacements at their disposal. Even though there were no doctors or equipment for surgery, the refugees decided to improvise. Everyone, besides me, grabbed torn chunks of steel and began to saw off bumps and burns from their bodies, looking at the water. Drops of blood pierced the puddle, causing the water to produce blurry reflections. The self-surgeries began to go horribly wrong. Scars were created by slipping blades and extra pieces of flesh were torn off by accident. When they were done removing the undesirable parts of their bodies, the patients decided to search for replacements. Where better to look than the corposes strewn in the rumble? Chunks of concrete, glass, and steel were tossed aside. Bodies were uncovered and removed of their remaining dignity. The good of society must be preserved. After all, how could we live with scars and imperfections? We needed to fit in, and how better to fit in than to look good? With such sentiments in mind, the corpses were stripped of unmarked skin. That skin was plastered over the uncovered muscle of the survivors with saliva being used as glue. Yet, there was not enough good skin to go around, so the remaining people turned on each other. Allies quickly formed, turning on people with the least affected skin, messily spraying blood across the ground. Their victims tried to flee the scene but were caught by the predators, shrieking as they were torn apart. Ragged layers of skin were torn off and stuck on the bare flesh. Still alive, the skinless victims crawled across the ground, moaning in pain as they continued their self-surgeries. They would certainly die slowly from infection, dehydration, or hunger.

I was looked over several times. My skin was acne-ridden and didn’t uphold the standards of society, so I could watch unharmed. Finally, only a few scraps of good skin remained. The once clear bands of allies dissolved into an all-out brawl. The screams doubled in pitch. Beastly tug-of-wars began throughout the crowd. Chunks of iron and steel were used to crack the bones of any opponents. Some individual battles worked their way over to where I was standing as people who were about to lose attempted to flee. I was sprayed with blood as the prey was caught and incapacitated with makeshift weapons. As the fighting drew to a close, remaining corpses were looted. Still not satisfied, the remaining barbarians began to look for any small scraps for perfection’s sake. Yet, some seemed to be losing their edges, as their wounds and blood loss began to take a toll on movement and thought. Soon the violence would subside as each victim, predator, and prey alike would fall to the force of nature. I couldn’t bare to watch. I started walking and I passed the library on the way back up the road, but continued to the river to bathe myself in the river. I noted how no birds called anymore, not even the ravens, who were known for their attraction to death. Perhaps they had made their way to the city for a feast, or maybe the screams and the brutality drove them away. I didn’t care about that though, because the wrens were gone. I sat on the cliffside in lamentation and looked out over the town. It was as red as yesterday’s sunset. After a while, I grew tired of the shrieks and shouts down below and went back to the library. I picked up my book. It was on the same page it was when I left it, and I proceeded to read up on the astronomical event known as a solar flare as the sun set on the world of men.

Laughter TERRI N, 2020

Help me when I'm down and out Our bodies are separate individual things Lost in the Earth's strange turnings Four walls can hold so much I want to do something for you and you alone I am a teller of tales I've had great opportunities in the world around When I die I hope nobody who wronged me will cry Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll go into the sky with nothing Knowing it was not perfect But it was To be buried Alone Deep within the ground Stuck I'll wish to look upon the earth and all the hatred I laughed when I wrote it For he gave his heart and lost

CLAUDE STIKELEATHER f 2018 f Ghost f Screenprint on Ink Drawing

neon sharpies XIA ZIPPER, 2021

NONFICTION // AN EXCERPT

he smell of Sharpie has become a close friend of mine. The whole process of popping the cap, feeling the coolness of the pen, and brushing the soft felt tip to my skin is practically family. I draw on myself. A lot. Doodles, reminders, toolkits, ideas, and sketches to help explain what my words couldn’t. I can’t tell you how many times people have told me, “You should stop writing on yourself, you’re going to get ink poisoning,” or, “You know that Sharpies are permanent, right?” I’ve looked it up. According to the CDC, Sharpie cannot give you ink poisoning unless you draw on an open wound and by permanent, Sharpie means it’ll last a while on most surfaces, so Ha! According to my parents, I was an artist before I could even walk properly. I would spend countless hours “standing” at my soft wooden easel in our lofty, sun-filled house in Vallejo, California as I mushed and sprayed brilliant colors on paper practically the size of me. When I began to talk and understand that I am me, you are you, I can be us, you can be them, and being “I” is amazing, I would walk up to anyone who looked like they could be my friend and state: “Hi! I’m Xia Raburn, and I’m an artist!” Luckily, I never grew out of my love for art or my extreme extrovertedness. As I got older (one never really “grows up,” they just pretend they do) I developed into an overall easy-to-get-along-with, unusually happy, super optimistic, and a general “open book” person. Because of this, it’s been relatively easy for me to have and make

JAMES LYONS f 2019 f Brain Fire f Digital Photograph

“friends” and maintain general niceness with practically everyone (which I love quite a lot.) Even though I may be an open book, I’m an open book with thousands of pages, tons of chapters, way too many author’s notes, and a ridiculously complicated index that no one wants to read. Which makes sense: everyone has their own complicated stories, novels, and tales that they need to focus on. This presents the problem of comparing your book to other books. Your normal may be someone else’s crazy, and their simple could be your complicated. One may have an interesting life, but that interesting life is just regular. Here is something I consider interesting: I had an obsession with blond-haired people in elementary school. Every day at recess I would bring with me my twelve pack of neon Sharpies in my blue rubber pencil case, sit by the old oak tree near the “ring of fire,” pop the cap, and color the hair of every blonde friend of mine. Every day. For two solid years. I apologize now to all the parents who I’m sure hated me for staining all their children’s pillows, walls, faces, hands, and hair with electric blue and zesty orange Sharpie. I was practically running a business: a huge line of kids loitering around the oak’s thick roots, anxiously waiting for their turn to become colorful. Ms. Roach had grown so tired of little me coming in every single day with a spew of colors covering my hands and the head of my most recent victim. Luckily, I never grew out of this habit either, and I still bring a little splash of neon green or blue into my life.

Facts GZU$, 2019 HUMOR

• The oldest piece of literature is the Terms and Conditions. It was written in 1273 BC by an unknown old guy. Thousands of years later, we’re still trying to decode its complex and mysterious language. The only reason why we keep it around is because we think it’s important. • Bad breath is caused by the amount of lies you tell. The more honest you are, the more likely you are to have good breath. Which is how I always stay minty fresh. • If you ever see shoe strings over a telephone wire, that is a sign left by quantum physicists to let regular people like you and me know that there is a glitch in the matrix. • Snakes do not have legs because in 1936, Albert Einstein cut them off—he thought it would be funny. Apparently to him, it was so funny that he told everyone in town and the word spread. • Penguins do, in fact, have knees. They keep them folded like lawn chairs inside of them and when they’re alone and comfortable they’ll whip ‘em out. And because their legs make them taller, you’d be lucky to even reach their knees. • Vegans and vegetarians are the least productive humans on the planet. They migrated to Earth after they ate all of the grass on the moon. They even somehow managed to eat the dirt on the moon, too. Like, man, how do you eat the ground? 52

JOE H f 2018 f Stonehead f Collage

thy Dirt NGHIT$, 2021

JOE H f 2018 f I Scream! f Digital Art

Thy dirt cannot be helped much by thee, hand sanitizer, For thou only movest the dust around.

Gabe Goes to California GABE WHITNACK, 2020

“I wanted to come to California prepared, so I brought this bad boy [holds up The Communist Manifesto].”

bit.ly/2rl iYFS

Watch this screwball, vlog-style comedy compilation of nonsequitoirs from—you guessed it—Gabe’s trip to California.

stupid teenagers AoK, 2019 NONFICTION

I watch the cobblestones beneath my feet as I walk since I have no companion to satisfy my urge to share observations on quirky idiosyncrasies. Each stone has its own personality, its own story. A few different flecks of white here; a multicolored mosaic of minerals; a jagged edge and a smooth surface; a forlorn painting, its edges chipping away as the years passed and its painter went with them. Watch. Here the floor dips, so take a step. Move for the people. The bell has rung. The door swings open to send a wave of chill air washing over me. My expression static, my mind in motion. My mind moves in every possible direction of contemplation, mostly comparison. How much more curvaceous she was now than I would ever be, how my cowardly decision to refrain from taking A.P. US History would hurt me more than those who hadn’t, how much longer it takes me to walk to the bus than all the people around me. Geez, I need to hurry up. I don’t know what it is that stops me, perhaps the faint voice of yearning. But I find myself glancing over to those pillars supporting that horrid Academy Building and every confused Chemistry and Calculus student within its walls. Right then, I see it; two people, hands all over each other, interlocked as if there aren’t hundreds of kids spanning over seven years in age rushing past them. Stupid teenagers. That’s all it is: clueless, lustful, hopelessly naïve teenagers. I justify my hatred with criticism. “Ugh, why out in the open, why in public, get a room,” I think, imagining how I will later repeat the thought to my

friends and fake vomit at the recollection of their public display of intimacy. Just stupid teenagers. What, I fail to ask out of fear or denial, is the honest source of my perceived loathing? Now, I approach adulthood; my eighteenth birthday looms over my head a solid year and a half into the future. Suddenly, wide-eyed sixth grade style embarrassment no longer graces my gaze as I come across underage PDA. It’s been replaced with this foreign sense of mourning that somehow mimics honest, innocent curiosity. What is it actually like? How does it feel to want someone who would want you back, to have such great respect for someone’s mind and be returned the same connection? I never wanted an answer to that question, but now, frozen beneath the breezeway, with the freakish fascination of a childish audience member, I want it more than anything. The combined weight of ignorance and longing settles upon me as I reach an arm into the cavern of the unknown. Is this true bliss? Of course, I don’t want him. I don’t want any of them, as those who I actually admire would never return my feelings, and the same goes for any of my own admirers. I have stuck myself in this box of isolation. Trapped. Frozen, under the breezeway, watching the lovers enjoy the frivolous, butterflies-in-your-stomach, carefree way of teenage love. All the same, I run down the list of people who I know have dated, who the world only knows because of who they’ve dated, who nobody would’ve guessed had dated, and the categorization of my own

i find that love integrates itself into every artistic aspect of my life.

friends whose heartbroken tears have fallen upon my shoulders. I scramble to justify my lonesomeness. I call them “stupid teenagers.” “I focus on my grades.” Which is no longer an excuse since many of my classmates, including Mr. Number One in the class himself, have proved these types of success are not mutually exclusive. “I focus on more important stuff. I’m a deeper thinker than that.” Certainly, as a developing human being with hormones that want control of the boat, my mind drifts toward desire. Even as I dive into technicalities and denounce it as a trivial use of my brain cells, I still find myself calculating the probability that I even stand a chance at trying. And, once again, many of my classmates, including Mr. Number One himself, have disproved this fallacy. “I focus on developing my arts.”

I find that love integrates itself into every artistic aspect of my life. Serenades surround me, love poems taunt me, and idealistic portraits by infatuated artists haunt me. And, being a student attending an arts school, nearly every one of my classmates, especially Mr. Number One himself, have proven love fuels art more often than it extinguishes art. “I’ll focus on it later.” Love has no age (as long as it’s legal, of course). I have convinced myself for years, as I watch pair after pair of teenage lovers in the halls, that I will have plenty of time for butterflies, heartache, and eventually love. I recall looking around, age eleven or twelve, and deducing that, Oh my God, I don’t like any of these people. I’m gonna be alone until college. Later, I recall laughing and saying that wasn’t true. Now, as eighteen stares down on me from around the dark corner of less than two years, I fear my prediction was correct. I may never get to experience stupid teenage love.

LENA JOAN f 2021 f Childhood f Digital Illustration

bit.ly/2qORØkz Listen to slam poet MXSTE perform “Autopsy.”

Autopsy MXSTE, 2019

Bullets Gone in faster than hammer and nail Done post-mortem Body received in position With open arms Legs aligned foot to shoulder Height: 6 feet under Knowledge diminished to the grave Offspring not expected to gain much growth Eyes rolled back The soul absent No aging Third eye cracked From the overwhelming delusions Of the world being able to adhere to change No signs of struggle or strangulation For the gentrified air left no trace Like the fingerprints of who pulled the trigger Only to be blamed on the person with Skin darker than the body bag That covers it Time of death was determined to be at birth Mother Africa the claminer of the body Father America nowhere for commenting

Where souls are sold for for stamps, tramps, and dimebags Women and men raped by their protectors and professors Who still will never confess Only in prayer Thanking God their lives are spared another day from prison Unlike their victims, sentenced to a life of silence Such as the victim’s brain Mute to disease Starved of true nutrition Anorexia made intracranial nervosa Millions in contributions to the blood loss National Anthem shoved down the esophagus Stripes peeking through where the heart should be red thread sewn to the flag Representing a nation where businesses are the power Lips kissed with sweet battery Body last intake Was a hand-me-down prayer and McDonald’s cheeseburger It all seems more like just a Bland suicide Than a Zimmerman . . . I have came to the conclusion that The death of the black man is Accidental

Race of the victim: Target, Correction: Black Species of origin: being the ‘ghettos’

AUTUMN RUSSELL f 2018 f Black Excellence f Digital Photograph

roots JESSICA AGBEMAVOR, 2018 ESSAY

“Will Jessica...Ag-bee-maa-vore..please come to the front office? ” the intercom booms. I cringe at the horrible execution of my last name as the snickers and whispers of my fellow classmates penetrate my eardrums. Trying not to embarrass myself any further, I slip quietly out of my desk out the back of the hostile language arts class. Upon completing my promenade of shame across the exposed campus to the office, the sandy-haired receptionist glances at me through her glasses and exclaims through her thick Southern drawl: “Sorry if I got your name wrong.” Agbemavor is a unique name, laying claim to only one family in the entire world. It originates from the tiny country of Togo, sandwiched between Ghana and Benin. My father immigrated from his hometown, the capital of Togo, to the United States over twenty years ago. After a few years of living in Harlem, he moved to North Carolina, met my mother, and the rest is history. Throughout my childhood, my African heritage has defined my self-esteem. When teachers would tell us to share what we ate the night before, I would say spaghetti, fearing the confused faces that would bear into me if I said that I really ate fufu. When my dad would speak in Ewe in public, I would veer away from his direction, scared of the judgment I might face if I was seen next to him. “She’s foreign,” they would whisper. “She’s not like us.” As the hands of time ticked on, and the ignorant bliss of childhood faded away, these imagined whispers turned into overwhelming shouts. I felt like an outsider; therefore, I was an outsider. Freshman year, I joined my school’s creative writing pathway. At first, I was shy, being in a classroom with people whom I didn’t know. In an attempt to fit in, I only 58

wrote about topics that I thought people would want to hear, like the mean girls at the private school I attended for four years, or stories that had really no connection to me at all. But the pain and anguish that came with feeling alone for so many years still lingered, and even though I was doing something that I loved, the Band-Aids to my wounds were only superficial. It wasn’t until junior year that I decided that it was time for me to stop being afraid. I had suffered long enough, and this pain was going to carry over to my adult life if I let it. It started with one little poem titled Someday I’ll Love Jessica Agbemavor (an adaption of “Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong”), and from there, a window was opened that would never be shut again. I didn’t only write about how it felt to be African, but how it felt to be black. I no longer had to hide my inner rage about having to correct people when they mispronounced my last name, or annoyance when people would ask if I spoke ‘African’; the paper did not judge, nor did it accuse or criticize, it simply took it in. I began to study poetry by great black and African poets, such as Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes, and Nikki Giovanni. Their ability to make words sway and flow like rivers while still writing about race enticed me. I began to realize the beauty being African held, and slowly, but surely, I started to love my race even more. Being African-American is not easy, but being African and American is harder. Thankfully, through poetry, I no longer have to be ashamed of my roots, but I can embrace them and be proud of who I am. Through writing, I have learned that the greatest gift of all is to lo dokui wo. Love yourself.

A southern God E.P., 2019

god showed up at my house last night. she wore a yellow windbreaker and green rainboots. she entered my kitchen without knocking, and took a sip of sweet tea on the counter. when i called her name, she wrapped her firm black hands around mine and kissed the little white scars on my knuckles. she stayed a while, and we watched the fireflies dance in the subdued evening. she pulled me to her chest, and i felt her warm heart beating slow, like the molasses color of her cheeks, the beats steady and unchanging. she stretched out her limbs with a silent yawn and tucked me in. we wished together in the silence, that the night would never end.

DAJA HARPER f 2018 f Model Status f Digital Photograph

the Luna Moth CHLOE WILLIAMSON, 2021 FICTION

boy I knew once told me I had been a luna moth in another life. I was eager to believe him. One night, edging on morning, when rain was tapping on the bay window opposite my bed, I awoke. The room was aglow with powdery moonlight, allowing sharp, long shadows to cut through it. There was something so alluring about the window opposite my bed, something so other-worldly, that some higher conscience compelled me to slide from the sheets onto the cold, hardwood floor, and moved my feet to tiptoe across to the cushioned bench before the window. The moon

kissed my toes as I did so, bathing me in the pale light. I slowly lowered myself onto the cushion, resting on my knees and hanging my feet off the end. My fingertips found their way to the glass as I stared out into the dark nothingness of nighttime. My nose pressed itself against the window, creating a small fog every time I exhaled. I traced the raindrops drizzling down the pane. I could feel something out there, outside my small bay window in the pitch black. I felt the only right thing to do was to slowly raise the middle window, and out into the night, in the roar of the rain, quietly call out a single word: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hello?â&#x20AC;? Just then, as if waiting for the invitation, a winged

creature floated right up to me. It cast the same glow as the moon, as if it were carved from the soft light itself. Its wings were a vibrant green, and it made no hesitation as it gently flew from the outside into my dark room. The creature’s wings opened and closed, mesmerizing green glass doors. It landed on my finger with such ease that I was afraid to move and disturb it. The moth’s antennae twitched slightly as I stepped off the bench to admire its full beauty. As I did so, a similar glint appeared at the window. Another luna moth as beautiful as the first floated in with the storm’s breeze. It landed on my shoulder, opening and closing its wings slowly. The other moth responded with the same motion. I glanced back to the window to see dozens of moths bobbing in, covering my room with their fluorescence. They all opened and closed their wings in mutual greeting, and the moths I had left joined their comrades. All the moths turned to me, suspended in the air. Simultaneously, their translucent wings slowly opened and closed, as if unsheathing a moonbeam sword from their cocoons. There seemed no other logical thing to do but respond with slowly raising and lowering my arms in response to their call. As I did, my eyelids grew heavy and shut. When I reopened them, a newfound warmth surrounded my body. I radiated the lunar light that seemed to be everywhere now. Suddenly, all the creatures rushed out the window into the lulling storm. I hurried after them, not wanting to say goodbye. As I got through to the bay window, I realized that the moths hadn’t gone but were hovering just outside the sill. I knelt on the cushion and stuck my head out into the rain, no more than a sprinkle now, and stared at them. Jump. A voice in my head spoke to me. It was more like a thought than anything else, a small idea planted in my mind. I knew that it was the moths, even if there was no way to determine where the voice came from. “Are you crazy?!” I yelled out into the night. The creatures gave no reply, but I knew that I should

MANNY GALANG f 2018 f Blooming Sign f Acrylic

do what they had told me. Carefully, I set one of my bare feet on the window sill. It was slick with rainwater, so my foot slid, and I was sent sliding down the roof. The gutter was slowly getting closer. I could see the end of the roof and the grass far, far below. I flew off the gutter and started hurtling toward the ground. However, as I got to be about a foot away from the ground and what seemed like certain death, I felt myself rise. I rose higher and higher until my small house was just a small square within a grid of other small squares. My new friends and I were shooting through the air, breezing through clouds and flicking the stars in the night sky. We were going by the river now; I could see the bridge in the distance. Slowly I flew lower and lower until my nose almost hit the glistening surface of the water. I skimmed it with my fingers, making ripples in the water and bathing its reflection in blue moonlight. We flew over the city, watching towncars and people hurrying from one place to another in the darkness. I saw smoke rising from the factories and heard dogs barking in the distance. A small girl came out from an apartment building to frantically wave at us. I waved back, and a newfound warmth filled my insides. By the time we returned to my cramped house, the sun was just beyond the horizon, blushing the sky with bits of pink and orange. The rain had long settled, but my window had been left open. I was slowly guided through by the moths and lowered into my bed. As I lay there, each of them turned to me and slowly opened and closed their wings in a farewell. I sat up, a small tear welling in my right eye, and repeated the motion. I was no longer glowing. All the winged creatures filed out of my bay window. It slowly shut behind them as they left. After they were merely green specs in the distance, I lowered my head and willed myself to sleep. I dreamt I had bright green wings, feathery antennae, and was carved out of the radiant, pale light of the moon.

TRIGGER WARNING // SEXUAL ASSAULT

boss’s son IHSANA, 2019

FICTION

hat would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?” I saw this quote every time I went past the water fountain near my boss’s office. I never knew, honestly, it meant, although I was determined to find out. “How’s your morning?” I jumped a little as I turned around to give him a half-hearted smile. He did this every morning. I don’t know why I wasn’t used to it. He made me uncomfortable, but what could I say? He was my boss’s son. “I brought you coffee, Sunshine.” He handed me a cup from Starbucks. I don’t like coffee or being called sunshine. He placed both hands on my shoulders and began to massage them. He leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “I heard about the presentation you’re giving in the meeting today. I hope it kicks ass.” He patted my head and left my cubicle. What would I do if I knew I couldn’t fail? Report him. Within a few minutes he returned with a smile.“Hey, I just went into the break room and I saw there were muffins I figured I would just bring you one back.” “That’s very nice of you.” Finally, something right. He kneeled down. No one could see him and whispered, “Of course you have to return the favor. In about two minutes, meet me in the downstairs bathroom.” My hands shook as I walked slowly down the stairs and entered the bathroom. “Come on, cupcake, don’t act shy. We’ve done this hundreds of times, and of course I’ll make sure my mom knows how good of an employee you are.” He unbuckled his belt. Ten minutes went by and he left the bathroom. I felt disgusted with myself, like I was nothing. I had allowed this to happen to myself. Maybe if I’d worn a longer skirt

today he would have looked the other way. On my way back to my cubicle my boss called me into her office for a quick chat. “Miranda, come sit down.” Slowly, I sat down. I was very sore. “Yes ma’am.” “Kevin has been telling me about your impressive work. I am always fascinated with you, Miranda. I’m going to give you another promotion. You deserve it.” “Thank you.” I got up and headed for the door. “Keep up the good work, honey.” I walked with my eyes down back to my cubicle. I laid my head down until it was time for my presentation. Most of the employees were on break when it was time, except Kevin, who was sitting front and center, smiling every time I opened my mouth. After the presentation, I tired to avoid him. He caught up to me anyway. “Loved your presentation. You just continue to surprise me, Miranda.” “I actually have to get back to work.” “Wait, wait.” He began to touch me on my thigh. I walked quickly away from him, back to my cubicle. There was no doubt in my mind that he had followed me back, so I attempted to look busy. “Come on, Miranda. Don’t act shy. How’s about after work you swing by my place for a few drinks?” “No thanks, Kevin. I’ve got work to do—” “No, you don’t. I’ll make sure you can leave early today.” “I’m just not for it today-” He grabbed ahold of my shoulders, squeezing them harder than normal “It’s not an offer, it’s an order, Miranda . . . see you then.”

i Almost remember, Cento KATE CROSS 2020, CHRISTIAN SALINAS, 2019, NAUDIA STEELE 2019, JAY RAHIM 2021, JYVIERE WILLIAMS 2020

Welcome to the past. Here is my private self to greet you. Lemon Meringue Yellow, Faintly Pink, Navajo White, a five-gallon bucket of Semigloss White. The dijon sky a little hot on the tongue. I have walked into my motherland’s bedroom, her body is indistinguishable from the fatherland who is “loving her” from behind. Everyone is watching. Around here, that’s almost the same as getting married. Wherever you were headed was not this stream. I want to write about God and suffering and how the trees endure what we don’t want.

Lines from Marie Howe, Patricia Lockwood, Minnie Bruce Pratt, and D. A. Powell

DAJA HARPER f 2018 f Wordbrush f Digital Art

i Was thinking About this before i Fell Asleep JAY RAHIM, 2021 JOE H f 2018 f We Cute f Digital Photograph

My heart racing Running away from mistakes It’s just one picture No one will find out. Please don’t hurt me For I am just a fish looking for someone to f— wake up next to, then say “The fish drowned belly down” And leave the door halfway closed.

Day Laborer AJ HARRIS, 2018

NONFICTION

omo estas, Gringo? Hoy nosotros cavamos todo.” “Que? No comprendo.” “Cava!” “Que?” He pulled out a shovel from the truck. “Cava!” I didn’t start out being the official hole digger, but quickly the crew realized I had no other talents, and their backs hurt from laboring for the last five years, so that became my role. I took the shovel and started digging out the designated area where we would lay a pipe to run from the house, across the yard, and into the wild area. I dug until lunch. I wasn’t even a fourth of the way done with the trench. And I forgot my lunch. During my first day of work that summer, I met people who were only a little older than me but were in horrible situations. They were dirt poor, living in unsafe houses, had unhappy or failed marriages. They told me stories about how they started their downward spiral in high school and this is where they ended up: doing construction in the hot sun for twelve hours a day. I worked with Jesus a lot because we were much younger than the rest of the crew. He had followed a girl, who he was no longer with, to Durham after dropping out of high school. He told me all about his life and living conditions. We even stopped by his house on the way to a job one time so that he could talk to the policemen and firefighters who were there to look into a sudden fire in

his basement. Although it looked like a pretty bad fire, he didn’t stay long. We had to go finish the job because Jesus was at the mercy of the system. He couldn’t stop working even to take care of his house and his wife, who had been in the house when the fire ignited. Jesus was a relatively short man with a black ponytail and and a long beard. He had a bit of a belly, and after working with him for a week, I could see why. Everyday for lunch, he went by the McDonalds drive-thru to get three burgers and a large drink. Each burger was only a dollar, and the drink came free if you had three burgers. I asked Jesus how he could eat so many burgers without getting tired of them, and he just looked at me as he finished chewing his food. Then he swallowed, and responded with a sharp, “Do you think I have a choice?” This job was part of my punishment. I had gotten in trouble that year. When I do get in trouble, I am shunned for weeks by my family. They always try to blame someone or something else for my screw ups, even though I am the only one to blame. As a young white male, I should not know trouble. I have had a lot of chances because of how I was born, and I realized that people who have messed up less than me are still punished more severely. Just because someone is living in poverty or overweight or plagued with other attributes that are frowned upon by society does not mean they are bad people or lazy or worse than anyone else. Let alone me, the hole digger.

Morning ALEZ CLARKE, 2018

FICTION

hen Jaspar Whitehouse woke up, he found that it was the sun flaring in his face through the weak and pitiful faĂ§ade of a glass window that stood before his grimy bed, and not, as he had hoped, the light at the end of the tunnel from which he would pass from this wretched world into the sweet embrace of death, forever to be freed from the shallow materialism of the living Earth. Alas, this was only a fantasy, for even Jaspar knew that in reality, the light at the end of the tunnel is more often than not the light from a train running through the tunnel with a path that is set to run one over and flatten oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s physical form. However, this did not deter Jaspar from fantasizing. As long as he was alive and breathing, he was allowed to dream, and if anybody told him otherwise, well, they could go choke on their own big fat ego because he was not planning on dealing with any of this reality nonsense anytime soon. Of course, time waits for no man, as it never has, and so Jaspar figured he might as well get up and deal with the real world for yet another day. He first tried to move himself out of his bed by slowly but surely applying force to his pelvis through his muscles so that his torso would move in the direction against gravity in a lever-like manner, thereby preparing himself for the process of exiting bed on his own two feet. This

effort, however, was to no avail, and his exhausted torso maintained its status quo of lying flat on the bare mattress below him. Next, Jaspar attempted to move laterally, rolling his corporeal existence outwards over the mattress like a stone rolling down the faint incline of a grassy hill. This was a much more successful maneuver, but nonetheless it ended in abject pain when Jaspar found himself rolling the entire way off of his bed and falling facefirst onto the wooden floorboards. The agony flashed through his body with all the suddenness and force of a steel hammer descending onto an unsuspecting plastic nail. The pain flashed on and off for the next few seconds, before finally dying off and fossilizing itself in the form of a dreadfully existential soreness and a sheet of red skin on his front from his face to his pelvis. But it was nothing that Jaspar was not used to feeling on a regular basis within the confines of his soul, and so he managed to conjure up some magical force within his limbs and forced his bruised, red existence upwards onto his feet. He hobbled around for a bit, trying desperately to leave his eyes sheltered beneath his eyelids so that they would not have to endure the fascist force of the sunlight, but the resulting lack of vision left him with no choice but to open them and leave them unabashedly open to persecution from the illuminated bedroom.

As an alcoholic, an atheist, and a poet . . . he was almost certainly bound for Hell.

ELLIE DILWORTH f 2018 f Rejects Shelf f Digital Photograph

He strutted across the floorboards with all the grace and style of a pregnant giraffe with a serious OxyContin overdose. His brutish feet shuffled across the various papers and bottles strewn across the floor, his toes repeatedly scraping themselves on random paper clips and overused pencils that had somehow found their way to the floor of his apartment. However, these struggles proved to be temporary, and soon Jaspar had found his way to his washroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. His frizzled facial hair showed itself to be a truly anarchic mess, with follicles and threads spreading themselves this way and that without any real care for natural order or for the hygiene of their host. Sighing, Jaspar fumbled around for his razor and shaving cream. Having located both on the very edge of his highly corroded sink, he took them up towards his face and got down to work. This was how every day of Jaspar Whitehouse’s life began. He would wake up. He would struggle needlessly to get out of bed. He would lumber in the general direction of his washroom, which was easily identifiable by the incredibly noxious smell that emanated from it, and he would stare in his mirror. He would stare at his image and hate it for a few melancholy seconds, and then he would get to work shaving his image so as to make it less sordi besmirched by reality. This was Jaspar’s life. He never attempted to improve it, as he saw no physical need to do so. He was surviving, and so he figured that it was best to be content. And if he

ever felt the need or the desire to build something more emotionally satisfying with his existence, then he would just leave his apartment and go somewhere else until the time came for him to come back to his half-made bed. He had entertained the possibility of trying to improve his lifestyle by improving himself, restructuring his personality and his morality as a means of maintaining some degree of tangible control over exactly how miserable his life was. However, he always figured that he would not be able to accomplish such a feat, as it would be too much of an exertion for him in his current form. In all honesty, he was beyond salvation. As an alcoholic, an atheist, and a poet, he was already guilty of several cardinal sins, such as alcoholism, atheism, and poetry, and so he was almost certainly bound for Hell. If he was to be beyond the point of no return for deliverance, then he saw no point in trying to improve himself or his lifestyle. But these musings did nothing to reprieve himself of his duty to the real world. With a crippling sense of reality clouding his thoughts, he finished up with shaving. His thoughts remained clouded and disfigured as per usual. He looked around his apartment for a bit more before finally deciding to move towards his closet. He tiptoed over the rough physical features of his floor while planning in his mind’s eye what sort of bleak clothes he should adorn today. It didn’t take long to decide.

KAYLEE NGUYEN f 2021 f Form f Digital Photograph

Going Home STELLA Z. DOMEC, 2021

NONFICTION

was born into rain. Oregon—the notoriously rainy state. I only lived there for a year, but the memory of rain still lingers, and I’ve learned to love the scent of the air right before a big storm. I went back to Oregon a few years ago, armed with my raincoat, my umbrella, and my love for rain. When I got there, it was warm and sunny, almost as if the state had sensed my presence and morphed into a mirror of my Southern home. My parents and I stayed with old friends—friends my parents knew before I even existed— and their three children. They joked about how I must have brought the dry weather with me to their typically wet town of Corvallis, Oregon, and I laughed along, but I was full of disappointment. I had been ready for endless days of fresh rain, without the sticky humidity of the South. Though the streets had changed, I walked them with ease. I walked as if I had been walking them for centuries, and each step reminded me that I was home. A few days after we arrived, my dad and I borrowed his friend’s orange VW van, and we drove to my dad’s favorite coffee shop from when he was a graduate student. Later that day, my parents and I went for a walk at Ore-

gon State University campus, where my parents had met. We wandered around where my dad had played soccer and where my mom went to study. We went to the place where my mom and dad had their first date and their first kiss. We went to Squirrels, a local tavern and bar where my parents frequently went. They were showing me a part of their life I had never seen, never experienced. They showed me their younger selves, just making do as they studied and worked, as poor struggling grad students in love. That Saturday we went to the local farmers market. I remember the big red tomatoes and the rows of lettuce, each leaf a different shade of green, the bakery stand, with a cool breeze wafting the scent of fresh bread and muffins over to me. The kids of my parents’ friends, Hannah, Daphne, and Skylar, went with me to the fountains in the park where we played for hours, the cool water splashing over us as we laughed and danced in the sun. We ended up sprawled on the grass, panting contentedly. Then Daphne jumped on me, deciding I was her horse. I laughed and let the kids take turns riding on my back, sometimes doubling up, and then all three of them climbed on me and together we all tumbled down into a squirming pile of giggles. I distinctly remember that

though the streets had changed, i walked them with ease. i walked as if i had been walking them for centuries, and each step reminded me that i was home.

moment. I was truly happy. I realized that it wasn’t just the energetic kids or the sweet fruit at the market, or the delicious mocha from the coffee shop. It was this town, this state that had brought me to this moment. It was the people in this place, who had loved me since the very moment I was born, and the coffee shops, the bars that never changed. It was the abundance of rain, and the lack of it when I came to visit. It was the green leaves and vibrant flowers, the rough bark of the trees on the university campus. I was in love, and I still am. The day before we left Corvallis to drive to the Portland airport, we stopped at a little house on Allen Street, an old two-story with huge trees and bushes surrounding it. “This is where we lived,” my mom said, and my dad smiled. “Je me souviens de changer ta couche ici,” he said, and my mom laughed. A strange sadness filled us and we sat in the car for a while, taking in the blackberry bushes and the pear tree, the fence that separated our house from the neighbor’s. We took in everything: the old porch, the small window in the attic. The pink plastic rocking horse on the front lawn told us that the new owners had a child. I hoped they were as happy as we had been when we lived there. My mom and I began to cry, my dad looked on, and words from stories my mom used to tell came flooding into my mind. I used to pick blackberries, a little met-

al pail in my hand. I could barely walk, but I’d stumble to pick the sweet berries off of the hedge, and my dad would stand over me, making sure I didn’t prick my finger on the thorns. My mom told me about the chickens we had, and the raccoons that snuck in and ate them, causing a symphony of squawking at 3 a.m. We sat in that rental car, staring at that old house and, just like that, our silent reflecting was over. We drove on, past the park with the train caboose parked in the middle of the grass, past the food co-op, past all the places we’d gone to before as regulars, but now, as we drove away, we were strangers. As we boarded the plane to go back home, I looked back, taking in the bustling airport with all the people rushing to and fro, all the newcomers, the tourists, and the weathered locals returning home to their city. I was both, and neither. I am an Oregon native, just a screaming baby, but a local nonetheless. Now, to the outside eye, I am a newcomer, a tourist. Physically I don’t belong here; it’s been years since I lived in that rainy state, but mentally, emotionally, every time I step into the Portland airport, I’m home. I might live across the country, 2,637.8 miles away, to be exact, but it’s home. I know everything and nothing about the cold breezes off of the Pacific. I belong up there, up in the rain, up on Mount Hood, above the heat and the humidity of the South. That state, that glorious state calls to me and I wish I could call back.

time Zones in outer space CORA MARTIN, 2019

Good morning— You sit down next to me, you are all legs, you exist so certainly, you spill apple juice in my hair. Good afternoon— I tell you that ‘bad girl’ is a diminutive phrase, that I’d like to study music, that I feel lucky to get to be alive. Good night— You fall out of a black hole and onto the hood of my car, and you carry the weight of never shutting up. It doesn’t leave a dent.

it takes time AIDAN SUPERTRAMP, 2018

Aidan says of his song, “I wrote this about one of my favorite poems and how long it took me to get it, and how I hope everyone gets a chance to have a favorite poem.” Took a walk on the sunset / You told me you couldn’t read / Submarines written in 1962 / I said baby, it takes time.

bit.ly/2K1d8jS

JAMES LYONS f 2019 f City

Digital Photograph

Allah GUAC THE POET, 2020

On days like this, I can’t help but thank Allah for his wonderful creations. Someone so powerful. so mighty. Who can shift the skies to conceal light because even the sun needs rest. When raging storms within my chest become unbearably heavy, you always send a downpour of rain, a reminder to cry, because clouds, too, need relief. Teaching me that every creature has a place in this world of yours. Teaching me to appreciate each tree, every shape and size. every branch, bare even. All ground, fertile and barren. I must go through seasons wilted before I can be renewed. On days like this, I can’t help but thank you for my many blessings.

For life itself. My limbs which I use to walk and stand, And grab hold of every opportunity you give to me. My tongue which I use to speak and proclaim prosperity upon life. My eyes which I use to see your many wonders. My ears which I use to hear The roaring of waters. The rustling of leaves, crunching of gravel beneath my feet. Your voice, carried by the whisper of winds, telling me to keep going. On days like this, I can’t help but thank you for the wind. For rain. For dark skies. For quiet evenings. On days like this, I can’t help but thank you, for you have taught me that before I can enjoy the light I must learn to love the rain and the darkness that comes with it.

remend KELLY COPOLO, 2018

From a winter chaos is born a cleanliness I scatter my things on beige carpets with the dust To re-assemble them better than before I mend my cracked porcelain body with gold I am eternally running in Mess and realization The snowstorm and the thaw.

BELLA CUDE f 2019 f Snow f Digital Photograph

Miles Away SANA AZHAR, 2020 FICTION // AN EXCERPT

think this is it,” Abby said. She and Miller had been walking for about two and a half days to get to where they were. Broad Street in Richmond, exactly where her father told them to go. Thinking of him sent a pang of sadness through her chest. She prepared herself and took another look at the map. “I think you’re right,” Miller said, looking up from his own map. “So, where’s the bar?” “It should be right . . . here.” He pointed to a large building on their left attached to a chain of other buildings.

They couldn`t read the sign, so they followed the maps they had found at her house. They wove their way through the mass of people that were wandering through a market. Stalls were set up selling all kinds of things. Vendors were yelling and beckoning at them to come closer, promising false deals and absurd prices. As they approached the building, its sign became clear. In bold, faded maroon letters read the words “Rock Bottom.” All of a sudden the doors looked extremely daunting. If her uncle wasn’t inside, she had no other options.

FRANNY f 2018 f The Shoes We Walk In f Digital Photograph

Glancing at Miller, she met his eyes and he sent her a reassuring smile, gesturing for her to go first. “Let’s do this,” she muttered under her breath. She swiftly opened the doors. She was greeted by the sweet smell of cigarettes and the bitter scent of sweat. The door swung shut, leaving them in partial darkness. After the blackout over forty years ago, electricity had ceased to exist. Their eyes soon adjusted to the dark as they walked further. They could see small cracks of light shining through boarded-up windows. Torches scattered across the walls. The sound of people talking had filled the room, but their entrance caused a hush to spread before the noise started up again. The area was large, with plush couches leaking white stuffing, tattered tapestries draped over the walls, and a loose chandelier hanging haphazardly from the tall ceiling. A large staircase that spread in both directions sat at the end of the long hall but there was no one near it. “It looks like more of a hotel than a bar,” Miller said. “Hotel?” Abby asked. “Places that people used to live in when they were traveling and didn’t have a place to stay. They were usually pretty lavish in this area of Richmond. My father used to tell me stories about what the world was like before the blackout.” “People must have had good lives.” “They must have,” he sighed wistfully. “Alright, what now?” “We find Miles.” She walked up to the bar and leaned against the counter. Miller followed her lead.“Excuse me,” she said to the bartender, whose back was to them. At the sound of her voice, he turned, revealing disheveled brown hair, light stubble, and hard, dark eyes. He was around her father’s age with slight creases appearing

on his forehead and crow’s feet around his eyes. “You two look a little young to be drinking,” he commented, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You want to see our IDs?” she asked, playing along. “Nah, it’s fine. The world’s gone to shit, so grab a seat.” “We’re not here to drink.” Her voice turned harsh. Time to be serious. “Then why are you here?” he asked cautiously, his expression hardening. “We’re looking for a Miles Matheson. Do you know who he is?” Desperation laced her voice. This man was her last lead. Her last hope. She thought she saw a flicker of an expression on his face the second she said the name, but maybe she had imagined it. He took a while to reply, and though a while was merely seconds, it seemed like years in her mind. “Nope, never heard that name in my life,” he answered nonchalantly. “Are you sure?” asked Miller, reading the expression on Abby’s face “Very,” he answered. “Okay then, thank you for your time,” Miller replied, pulling Abby’s arm gently and leading her off the stool. “No problem.” “If you meet him, tell him that his niece is looking for him,” Abby said, speaking up.“And also, tell him his brother is dead.” “Excuse me?” “Tell him that his brother was murdered by militia, alright?” she repeated and turned away. Not hearing a reply, she turned around. “Matt’s dead?” he asked. He was staring at her with an expression of shock mixed with anger. “How do you know my father’s name?” “I’m Miles. You found me, kid.”

Shaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re Strachan f 2018 f Portrait f Colored Pencil

Ya’aburnee (You bury Me) IRIS, 2022

CREATIVE NONFICTION

espite all the years that have passed, I love my human still. Time has only pulled us closer instead of slowly tearing us apart. I remember peaceful nights lying by their side as the cicadas sang their songs. We sheltered from the sweltering summer heat in my human’s cool, clean den. It has been eons since I stepped a paw outside. A long time ago, when I was a kit, I was born outside underneath a human’s den. My littermates were all adopted before me, and I feared I would be the only one without a home. Until my human came. They had black fur on their head, just like mine, and brown eyes. I just remember being scooped up in my human’s arms, pressed against their chest as we got into the belly of a steel beast that rumbled every minute, and then arriving home in my human’s small, quaint den. It has been many years since then, and we have aged. I have grown bigger, leaner, and stronger, my limbs agile and strong as I leap across marble countertops to snatch fillets of salmon or to nibble at a bright red tomato. I do not understand what my human says to me, but I can tell from their voice how they feel. Humans move dens quite a bit; it is natural for them. My favorite was the home in the countryside, where grass grew tall, where bluebells flooded the plains and twinkled every sunrise to signal the morning. There were small, wood platforms that overlooked these fields. I remember

Ya’aburnee translates roughly from Arbaic to “you bury me,” a statement professing hope of death before a beloved, as life without them would be impossible.

thinking, My love for this human is greater than the sun—warmer, more loving, more beautiful. My human would rub my head gently as they grabbed a little stick with hairs at the end, dipping it in a puddle of color, and creating pictures of things I had never seen before. I would stare at my human and wonder if they had seen these strange things, or had they been born from their lovely mind? Humans, despite not knowing how to hunt, despite not knowing how to ambush prey properly, despite not knowing where to get the cleanest water or how to show other cats that this is their territory, are inventive and clever creatures. Love can do many strange things to a person, much less a cat, but it is warm, it is soft. Humans grasped love in many strange ways, such as pressing their pink lips together or holding their lanky long paws, but my human was never interested in such things. My human would stay up through the evening and sleep in the morning, and then wake up late afternoon to make more paintings or go onto their strange technology. I would spend my days running around the house to burn off energy or going outside to talk to the neighborhood cats. You know, it has been years since I have ventured outside—my youth has long forgotten me, some of my fur has gone grey, and my limbs are no longer as agile as they used to be. I can’t crawl up to my human on my own anymore—not without effort. They look a bit more tired than they did in their earlier years, too. Sometimes, they spend nights in a little ball in the darkness of their room, tears ebbing from their warm, brown eyes. It reminds me of when I was a young kit, too dumb

to understand my human’s sadness. I would slowly crawl over to my human and pur for them. They hugged me close as if I would be gone if they didn’t. That didn’t happen then, but it would soon. One spring evening, we sat on the porch, my human drinking a plum-colored drink and I nibbling on some dry chicken. The field of bluebells rustled, revealing a skinny-looking tabby. At once, I recognized it as Fumi, a friend who I had not seen in years. Fumi’s tail was nothing more than a stick covered in fur as she padded over, withered with age. My human leaned down to pick her up and put her onto the porch. “Fumi!” I called out to her as her ears flickered. “Juju, it’s you. My, how long has it been since we last met? About ten seasons?” she asked as my human ducked back inside to grab another bowl of fish or chicken. It depended on what we had in the ice box. “Yes, it has been a long time since we last talked. Fumi, do tell what has happened since we last met,” I meowed, curling around the cat as elderly as I was. I sadly realized my time on this planet was adding up, but Fumi seemed to be closer to the finish line than me. I groomed her bedraggled ginger pelt as Fumi sighed, her voice devoid of the playful grumpiness she had in her youth. “Mizu . . two seasons before, she died.” I paused, but kept licking. “A season after we talked, she started feeling very sickly. She was having trouble breathing, vomiting, diarrhea, all of that,” Fumi continued, and her pale green eyes glossed over with sadness. “The humans took her to many different healers, but it was futile. She passed away under the persimmon tree on the hill. She begged me to take her out there one last time.” There was silence, perhaps it was mourning for the clever Mizu who had energy in every paw step she took,

who made jokes left and right yet knew more about humans than all of us cats together. Fumi spoke again. “Juju, it won’t be long before I die, too. I can feel it.” I felt the need to hush her. “Don’t talk like that. You have plenty of seasons.” “We must not deny the truth, my friend. Death will come and take our breaths soon. I expect this to be my last season—and you? I bet you to have one last season before Death comes for us.” I let silence envelop the scene as I slinked away from her, looking over the bluebells. I would miss them so dearly once my life had slipped away from my paws. But I knew they would be the last thing to occupy my mind as my human stepped out with two bowls of chopped tuna. Fumi dug in gratefully, wolfing down the food as if she had not eaten in days. Perhaps she hadn’t. As she licked her chops and straightened out her whiskers, I remember looking at my human staring fondly at Fumi’s ginger head before turning their head away. Fumi stared at my glazed eyes, and meowed, “Do not live your life waiting for the day you die. Live your life for your human, as you’ve always done.” Perhaps those were wise words, but I didn’t reply. I merely looked out over our backyard as my human rubbed my spine and brushed Fumi’s bedraggled fur. In Fumi’s last season, we spent time with each other, even when my human stepped out. Fumi would quietly tell me stories as I groom and the fur she slowly forgot to pay attention to. In the winter, we hid under the table with the warm blanket and heater underneath it, seeping up the warmth and occasionally biting my human’s toes playfully whenever they stuck their limbs under the blanket. Within the last days of winter and the budding days of spring, Fumi could not move any longer. My human set out a soft, plush bed and laid Fumi,

who seemed as light as air, only a bag of fur and hollow bones at the time, on the bed, and stroked their hand down her side. I knew she was dying, and a childish part of me wanted to beg her to stay just a little longer. I would miss her wise and hoarse meows. Life was unfair to both cats and humans. Fumi beckoned me forward with her skinny ginger tail, and I stepped up to her muzzle, pausing to groom her cheek fur. “Your human,” her throat rumbled softly, as she forced herself to purr in her last moments, “Is a special one. Don’t take them for granted, you hear?” Fumi forced the words out of her jaws, as her body slowly relaxed. I nodded mutely. I’d like to think Fumi died content, living her last season with old friends after she lost her own. My human closed Fumi’s once brilliant green eyes, which gleamed as bright as jade in her younger years and buried her in a hole in the soils of our bluebell fields. They put a little stone engraved with her name on her grave, and we both stood in silence before returning home. A new season began, and I realized it was my last, just as Fumi had said. Whenever I yearned to see the bluebell fields again, my human would have to carry me out and set me down on the back porch. I would watch the blue flowers bounce in the winds, tinkling like bells. My ears became withered with age. I barely heard the song of the birds every morning. I almost panicked when I could barely hear my human’s voice, which I thought was so beautiful. I always paused and turned my head to listen. I got softer food for my weaker and chipped teeth. My human often carried me into their bed, and we slept together in comfort. Death would come for me, but not for my human. Even if so much time has passed, my human still walks with their agile and nimble limbs, even if they lower their head with a gaze of sadness, they will still stand

strong and tall. They always took their time to love and take care of me. Summer finally came. I could make out the bright colors of the summer blue skies, the green blades of grass, and the dark brown of soil. I could still feel the beating of the bright sun in the sky on my pelt whenever I was carried out to the porch. I felt like I was a kit all over again, my memories of my mother and my littermates flooded past me. I wondered if my littermates were still alive, or if they would soon pass like me. I wondered what had happened to my mother, who must be long gone by now. I felt neither sadness or longing, for I had left them too long ago. I could feel my human’s hand grooming my pelt, warm and soft like a kitten’s paw pads as my chest began to rumble, and I purred. I felt nostalgic. Remembering when I first got adopted by my human and we lived together in a small little room in a quaint little house. Nights when my human would curl up in the corner, and I would always help build them up again. When we would play, chasing and pouncing on each other like we were littermates, batting around bright red toys and fuzzy mice. I knew this evening would be my last, and my human knew it, too. I was carried out to the back porch where I could faintly hear the shimmer of bluebells. I was laid out on a cool bed with plush fabric and my human lay beside me. I could just faintly make out my human’s features; my human was beautiful, strong, perhaps even immortal. My human stifled a sob as I drowned out the sadness with soft, quiet purrs that I hoped were enough. There, I let my eyes close, falling asleep to a warm hand rubbing my head. You bury me.

Pain WALKER GARRET, 2019

we are slow dancing. music calls out softly from above, i barely notice, entranced by the moment. swinging together with ease, two halves of a greater mind. iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so glad to be restored

but then you step on my foot the music swells. suddenly my fists are beating on your chest. they pound on and on but do no damage. with each strike your resolve only builds. the space between our bodies nears inferno. the room burns red. ash rains down in glowing heaps, charring my skin but missing you altogether. chaos has found my sanctuary. i cry out to you: make it stop! just let me be! but the flames still boil. i look into your eyes, searching for humanity behind that steely gaze. but there is nothing. i struggle to keep dancing, to keep thinking, caring, breathing! i have forgotten then there is quiet. the fire dies, the music slows. we are slow dancing.

JAMES LYONS f 2019 f Neon Daze f Digital Photograph

Moss LEO EGGER, 2019

In fluorescents we are frozen To wandering bitter beaches Valleys of street lights Of grey salt and moss Homebound seamen set sail Upon black tides and glazed mountains Bobbing masts like crosses Oh, crushing steam Oh, bleeding night Beckon me to dive

VINCENT LE f 2018 f Untold f Digital Photograph

sixteen tons SUSANNA KING, 2021 NONFICTION

MEMOIR CONTEST WINNER

f you were to see a picture of my brother a year ago today, then look at a picture of him now, you would never know it was the same person. He’s tall now, filled out for football, tan, blond, and growing wonky stubble which he doesn’t care to shave. He walks with a forwards-backwards bounce, his shoulders back, and smiles with his teeth showing. His hands are huge when you see them skin a cutthroat trout or wrap around the shoulders of a friend in the universal gesture of fraternity. His hugs are warm, his breath smells like too much instant coffee, beef jerky, and sunflower spits when he talks excitedly about Apache helicopters or Johnny Cash’s “Sixteen Tons,” which he will tell you he listened to on repeat as he sailed down the Clark Fork River on a Zodiac raft this summer. He’ll sing it for you in his scruffy baritone: “You load sixteen tons, what do you get / Another day older and deeper in debt / Saint Peter don’t you call me, cause I can’t go / I owe my soul to the company store.” Hearing him so robust and happy and full of hale and vigor, it’s hard to remember that he was ever anything different—but he was, and I can’t let myself forget it: only a year ago my brother was nothing more than a husk, a hollowed-out sliver, sallow and pale and greasy and sweaty, pupils dilated until his eyes were black and swollen pink around the edges, voice hoarse not from 82

cheering on the varsity football team but from inhaling pungent depressants on the roof or in the stuffy back of my mom’s old minivan. There was a time when we got the same voicemail every night: “We would like to inform you that your child did not attend school today.” And where was he, then? Slumped in the back of an Uber, rocketing across the city at midnight, high as a kite, deliriously happy about something and nothing at all. Sometimes, I’ll be sitting in a restaurant in the Idaho panhandle or Montana or somewhere, playing rummy with my family, and I’ll think, How the heck did we get here? How the heck did he not kill himself ? How the heck are we happy and laughing like a normal family? But when I think about it, it’s really not that complicated. We worked. We didn’t pity ourselves. And we learned how to forgive. “Trust the process,” the pamphlets preach. While I used to scoff at it, it’s true. Trust the process. Just look where it got my brother. One night of many, I locked myself in my room as my parents and my brother fought an impossible fight in the living room. I could hear the hush in their voices and nothing else. My brother was silent. Though I didn’t want to hear them, I crept silently through the darkness of the hollow upper second story of our house and climbed halfway down the stairs to listen. My parents were crying in the way parents

ELLIE DILWORTH f 2018 f Dry Cleaning f Digital Photograph

aren’t supposed to cry. “The phone rang tonight,” my mom said, hushed. “I thought you were dead.” The air was so tense it could be plucked like an off-tune guitar string. “I know. Just leave me alone,” my brother growled. But they couldn’t, and they didn’t. I was done. I walked back up to my room and sat quietly. I listened to their voices rise until my brother was screaming his root-deep hate for us. I closed my door to shut out the sound but it bottlenecked in, still dreadful but now just a little more meek and muffled and tinged with the offbeat smell of his breath. They moved towards the stairs from the living room. Soon the door across the hall from me slammed and I knew the loud part was over. I did what I always did on nights like these. When things got really bad, I would listen to songs on YouTube and sit numbly in the solitude of my room. “Bright Eyes” by Art Garfunkel was one. It’s from the soundtrack of the movie version of Watership Down. It sounds like a lullaby: Is it a kind of a shadow / Reaching into the night / Wandering over the hills unseen / Or is it a dream? / There’s a high wind in the trees / A cold sound in the air / And nobody ever knows when you go / And where do you start? / Oh, into the dark. The next day, the car smelled like pot. We said nothing on the way to school, but it was there. It was there on the way back from school, too, this time tinged with air freshener. Two months later, it had gotten bad enough that we took home drug tests with us on our Christmas vacation to Utah and my parents locked my brother’s shoes in a closet so he couldn’t go mooch off the homeless people who smoked on the street corner underneath our AirBnB apartment. He did anyway.

Less than a month later, on that one weekend just before MLK Day where school was closed for two snow days, my brother seriously overdosed at his friend’s house. The problem was, the roads were too icy for my parents to go get him and take him to the hospital, so they had to wait for the thaw. And when they finally got him, they took him home so he could shower first, because he was at least functioning a bit at that point. That was the last time I saw him until the spring. He was completely delirious, like he was on laughing gas. As I sat at the kitchen bar doing homework, he ducked into grab an oatmeal cookie my dad had made earlier in the day. He stared at me for a while. “I love you,” he slurred. Then my dad swooped in. He shooed me up to my room and told me to lock my door. I think he was trying to protect me—like there was any use anymore. I sat on the end of my bed and heard my brother draw a bath for himself. “Be careful, buddy,” my dad called up the stairs, like he was talking to a toddler. By the evening my brother was in the psychiatric ward of Duke Hospital, and sometime while I was at school that Wednesday he was escorted by the police to a psychological hospital for troubled youths. It was called Holly Hill, but everyone called it Holly Hell. The patients weren’t allowed to have shoelaces or underwire bras lest they try to hang or stab themselves. About a week later my parents stuffed him, brooding, into the back seat of the family car. They shot off down the freeway to the Charlotte airport. Soon enough, he was set up at a rehab facility in Montana, adrift in miles upon miles of emotional devastation, barren boreal forest, and the dredges of the January snow. We got to visit him for the first time on Super Bowl weekend. He had his long greasy mop shaved down to a

“the phone rang tonight,” my mom said, hushed. “i thought you were dead.”

buzz cut, which embarrassed him to no end. I remember him wearing a grimy, Duke-merchandise- brand winter hat with a pom pom on top to hide his haircut, and how weird it looked, the only part of him visible as he bobbed away to his cabin through the snowdrifts. Each day that week, we got to sit in a conference room and talk about our feelings. Once, when there was a parents-only seminar about program costs and moving forward, the two siblings, a sixteen-year-old girl named Mary and I, were told to go with our brothers to help prepare lunch in the Mess Cabin. Not even five minutes had passed before the brothers started joking about sneaking into the pantry to snort Kool-Aid powdered drink mix. Nothing had changed. I couldn’t bring myself to hug him as we left on that Friday. Then, after sixty days at that one program, he moved to another, more long-term rehab facility, located in Thompson Falls, a few hours south. When we visited him there in June, he was different. He had hair. He wasn’t failing school. He knew how to properly prepare Kool-Aid. It was a bit more normal; the most normal I had ever felt before in my life. But at the end, I still couldn’t hug him. I vividly remember driving back down the road after we dropped him off. The murky trees, foggy with wildfire smoke and evening light, towered up in the cradle of the mountains above us. Across the river, a lone trailer laced with Christmas lights on an embankment peppered with lawn chairs peeked through the firs to the highway. Two elderly people in trucker caps waved their beer bottles amiably, at us, sailing down the highway in a rental sedan with the wrong state license plate. My parents sat in the front like the farmer and his wife from the painting American Gothic: mouths drawn down at the corners, eyes aged twenty years older than their faces. We said nothing. I watched the mileage tick up. I imagined us sailing further and further and faster and faster away from a complete family. I wanted nothing more than to make them turn

the car around. I wanted to say goodbye for real. It never happened, though, because by the next morning we were back in Spokane, Washington, one thousand feet above the Rocky Mountains, and moving irreparable distances back to the East. It’s been a year since I found the first cigarettes. Ten months since my brother came down from his last high. Nine months since he gave himself a stick-and- poke tattoo reading “DUM,” which got infected. Eight months since he last relapsed by chewing cigarette butts from the ground, and one month since I last saw him. The hardest part isn’t missing him, or the memories, or seeing my brother break down in tears over his own depression in therapy. The hardest part is explaining to people where he is. “How’s your brother?” a teacher asked me one time at my old school. It took me about six seconds to think of an appropropriate answer, which was “I don’t even know how to answer that.” Sometimes I tell people he’s at boarding school. If they’re my age, they’ll usually chuckle and dispose of my self-protecting euphemism with a quick: “So what did he do to get that?” If they’re an adult, they’ll just look at me for a second, because it’s pretty clear that he’s not at Choate or Exeter. Other things bother me too—Al-Anon jokes in movies and TV, siblings who bicker, idiots who think drugs are cool, etc.—but it doesn’t really matter. Because going through the depths of despair has taught me how to cope and how to deal with immaturity. Even better, my brother has improved drastically-of his own doing. He’s happy now. He smiles because he’s happy. When we hug now, it’s a real hug it’s a bittersweet hug. It’s the way all goodbye hugs should be. Of course, nothing’s completely over: relapses are a ubiquitous and soul-sucking part of our realities now. . . but I know that one day, he might have a chance of being normal again.

Cicadomorpha AVA LOZUKE, 2018

“After 13 or 17 years, mature cicada nymphs emerge in the springtime at any given locality, synchronously and in tremendous numbers.” Buried smeared smudged unidentifiable, likely to be held liable, a name lost meaning. I like the dirt concealing my body in a soaked soft quiet darkness, loose but embracive, where grass shoots sprouted and shouted out raw ideas, then gradually the trees grew out from the dark of the dirt, provided shade and sheltered small cocoons and chrysali while I continued to wait. The thing about a Nymph that makes it unique relative to other stages of metamorphosis is that it already resembles its final stage of life, it already looks like an adult even if its body is pale soft and still growing. If you touch baby bird eggs before they are hatched while they reside in the nest, they are still growing. I identify as still growing, I identify as small, I identify as loud regardless if you call me a pest, ranting, upset. I reach decibels louder than machines you have man-made, I identify as beautiful. I climbed the tree you said was too high for me, I shed the shell. What’s scary for you now is I’m undoubtedly loudly myself. I was unavoidable, painful Magicada. For 17 years I’ve been told that I’m still a child. I was told that the loose soil around me amounted to loose morals, but reality informed me I was ready to grow again from the decomposed fertilizer of rot. Underground with a groaning voice splitting the stale crust and anxiety bursting from the earth, the magma from the core of your guilt, the depth of terra washing off the scuzzy developments you left on her surface, taking a deep breath ready to start again, happy to be a woman, angry, taking your own voice as I change the oxygen and spoken words to life I’d much rather see on earth. I don’t need teeth or stingers or toxins to arm me when my arms are linked in chains of golden unity like my grandmother’s necklace. My voice is enough. The butterflies I was told would be enemies turned out to be my sisters and, more than that, whispered they were angels. Not the innocent dead but rather the grace awakened. Their silence doesn’t welcome your violence. Hyper-exposed, but not desensitized. Smarter. Braver. More patient for good in growth. Fed up. 17 years later. Louder in a swarm.

AVA LOZUKE f 2018 f Holiday Chaos f Mixed Media

Porpoise KIRA YOUNG, 2018 NONFICTION // AN EXCERPT

round the age of eleven, I started my search for purpose. After learning at an outdoor summer camp that feeding bread to ducks was detrimental to their health, I immediately found a cause. I never cared for ducks; in fact, I found them untrustworthy. However, I was eager to begin some kind of campaign. And so, around my neighborhood signs were hung on doors, stapled to telephone poles, and thrust toward obligated strangers: “DON’T FEED THE DUCKS.” Underneath was a hand-drawn picture of a duck, resem-

bling a banana more than anything else. The campaign lasted that evening—no further. However, the memory of my crusade is preserved in a song my father wrote on his guitar entitled, “Fat Ducks on the Pond.” The ongoing search for a cause buffered in my brain. On my thirteenth birthday, as my family surrounded me at the dining table, I unwrapped a gift from my sister—a small, brown box covered with polka-dotted paper. I lifted the lid to reveal a pair of sterling silver earrings. They were porpoises. For my birthday, my sister had given me porpoise.

IZZY SALAZAR f 2018 f Frogs f Mixed Media

JOSHUA YUEH, 2018 NONFICTION COLLEGE ESSAY CONTEST WINNER

Dear M.D.,

You’ve helped me through my darkest hours. When school and work commitments kept me from socializing with friends, you were so sweet to keep me company. When adversity struck my family right before the holidays, you comforted me and kept the Christmas spirit alive. You were there for me during the good times, too. You’ve been by my side for every birthday and holiday. You give me a rush when we set off fireworks or go rock climbing together. You help me to unwind as we relax in my hammock by the river. I see you when I first wake up, and you’re the last thing I see before I fall asleep. We’ve been together for so long. Remember when I was six and my parents made me join the summer swim team? I hated it, but after each practice you would watch me do flips off the diving boards and you would cheer me on. Last year, when the one meter board at the summer pool broke, you and I sat on the pool’s edge, mourning our loss. My freshman year of high school, you inspired me to start the diving team. It was just me, you, and some older kids from other schools taught by a Duke coach. I felt so alone, but I would always visit you after practice and your effervescence kept my spirits up. The next year I recruited more students to join the team. They happened to be all girls, so I still got to brag that I was the top male diver in the whole school. Now I’m a captain for the swim and dive team. I went from being a lone pioneer to a leader of men in tight Speedos, and it’s all thanks to your sparkling support. We both dare to be different. You push me to be the best I can be and to try new things. Sometimes at my liberal school, I’ve been afraid to voice my centrist opinions. You JOE H f 2018 f Pizza and Drinks f Digital Art

gave me the courage to talk and listen, to discuss rather than argue. We stayed up late together to watch the election results. You stimulated my interests in politics, economics, and statistics. When I ran for National Honor Society Vice President, you gave me the energy to campaign and walk students to the voting booth. Most importantly, you taught me to be myself. It doesn’t matter that I like to wear sweatpants because true friends love me for what’s underneath my clothes. I could have worded that differently, but even then you don’t judge. You keep me from caring if my jokes are funny, if my hair looks okay, if people still remember that time I ate a whole lemon for a dollar, if everybody loves Raymond and everybody hates Chris, how people feel about Seinfeld, or if this sentence is too long. You are consistent and love me unconditionally. I can listen to Christmas carols in mid-July and let my adventurous spirit get me stuck in trees. You let me be my witty, comical, and daring self. With all that being said, I love you, but I think we should go our separate ways. Despite all the things you have done for me, this is not a healthy relationship. I will always cherish the memories and the lessons that you taught me, like how to stop caring what people think and that signs that say “no shoes, no shirt, no service” neglect to mention pants also are required. But, I’m too dependent on you. It’s not you, it’s me. My liver and teeth will deteriorate if I stay with you any longer. I will remember you fondly. I will miss your bubbly personality and your sleek build. You have led me down a good path, but now I must continue without you. Thank you, Mountain Dew, I will always love you. 89

forth, and forth HADAS HACOHEN, 2020

I fought the sunset ‘til it burned blood red, and found the night a dying threat, lying yellow on my bed. from thirst I bled, from others, let. I fought the sunset ‘til it turned blood red. when there they lay, for I had not fled, doe-like eyes were naked met, lying yellow on my bed. down to hip bones I was led, caught myself in false-made net I fought the sunset ‘til it turned blood red. then forth, and forth, our legs were spread we found ourselves in broken debt, lying—yellow on my bed. though mend I the sky with feathered thread to carry gloaming in its stead— I fight the sunset; it turns blood red, lying yellow on my bed.

she Paints the sky IAN CLARK, 2018

god is in a paintbrush. i know because i have seen her at the end of picasso’s hand and in monet’s eyes and when da vinci picked her up she drew works of art that had not been imagined yet. god is in a paintbrush because i see the way she brushes against the rolling hills, the trees, and the cities back and forth, adding another coat because the green is not deep enough. god is in a paintbrush because i see the sun, a bright splotch in the middle of a robin’s egg sky. god is in a paintbrush because i see the curve on the wings of birds playing among the trees, and i know, no human could create that. that is art. the feathers align so perfectly with the horizon, the tops of the hills lull the world to sleep. god is in a paintbrush because i see her, i see the work she has done, i see people critique her, and she goes back to work again.

ELLIE DILWORTH f 2018 f Waves f Photography

AVA LOZUKE f 2018 fDesert Divet f Pen

My name is elden Carnfell HOPE FAGER, 2019 FICTION

y name is Elden Carnfell. I once had a family. I once was happy. But I’m not anymore, and I suppose that’s my fault. * Brighton was not sure what to make of the prisoner he was tasked with bringing food to every morning. She never said a word to him, and he knew she had a secret. She was always looking at one star and whispering. Brighton never caught more than a few words at a time. “Duller . . . ink . . . memories . . . dying.” He was the silent type who followed orders and did a lot of thinking. He had too much time on his hands. Thought he dismissed many of the other prisoners, she was different. Starting with the fact that she was, in fact, a she. “Who . . . Who are you?” The girl looked up at Brighton slowly, only bothering to answer after she was sure he had asked her and it was not another imaginary plea from the island she had made up. “A lost memory.” * “Why are you suddenly so fascinated by this?” Felix asked, reaching for the dusty book and squinting from the piercing sunlight. Brighton shrugged, tracing the toe of his boot through the thin layer of dirt on the bottom of the floor left by careless footsteps. Felix scoffed. “I forgot, you still want to find out where you came from, don’t you?” Brighton nodded. “I don’t know why. You’re here because your life off

the island was miserable.” “I don’t remember that.” “Is that why you want to look through its memory? What, you think the island remembers?” Brighton shrugged. It was as good an excuse as any. “You’re wasting your time. Most of the book is blank. There’s only one paragraph in the middle.” “Why?” Felix shot him a look. “Do you expect me to know? This book is as old as the island.” “Doesn’t look like it. Seems more like the book only started aging recently.” “Look, I don’t know, nor do I particularly care. Here’s the book, the story is right here, go ahead and read it if you’re so interested.” Felix shoved the book into Brighton’s hands and began walking away. Brighton hung his head. He had been afraid of this. “I can’t read,” he mumbled. Felix turned around and looked at Brighton, shocked. “What?” “I can’t read.” Felix recoiled and was silent for a few moments. “Why not?” “I . . . don’t know.” Felix squinted, sat down, took the book back, and began to read: “Elden followed the crying child’s voice across the island, the wind spitting rain into her face, drenching her lashes turning them dark as the light she was using to see. Elden had long ago forgotten where the caverns were or what time of day it was; she only knew she had to find the voice, that child left alone to wake up in the nightmare of this storm. Elden knew she could not go back. She had a mis-

sion and she couldn’t bear to not see it through. Elden remembered knowing the feeling of the forgotten, the lost. And Elden knew that scream: her sister. Elden was to think straight, Elden only saw what was right in front of her.” * “Elden Carnfell?” Elden looked up through her thick lashes and whispered, “The star is dying. . . you don’t remember . . . why does it matter?” * Elden held the book in her hands and rifled through the brittle, blank pages before tossing it. “Even the island doesn’t remember the whole story. It’ll never be told correctly again. No one knows the whole thing.” “But you do?” Brighton whispered. Elden shook her head. “I’m falling prey to whatever is robbing memories and killing the island. Whatever came in that storm.” “Could you try?” Elden sighed. “Everyone knows if one wishes on a star enough, they will create one to take them to their dreams. That’s what I did. But he couldn’t toss me away like the others. Not that he would’ve—the Island wouldn’t let him. ‘She needs what you have,’ it chided. This place was unlike the world on the other side of the star. The island knew I would be important. He didn’t know why the island was working so hard to keep me safe, neither was he incredibly pleased when I was carried on vines to rest in his tent. Time grew, and the island channeled our dead love, making the force its lifesource. Because our love was ageless, as long as the island was given life by our love, it never aged, and neither anyone living on it. So we protected each other, the island and I. But I should never have been so foolish as to believe that my new life would last forever. The strange energy

in the air was unwelcome. The rain hit first, slicking hair into eyes as it swept across in a wheel. Peter gathered our mismatched family together, leading them down to the caves, stockpiling whatever they could find from the ruins of the camp. “Soon all the blades and arrows were on someone’s waist or back. Sparks of killers light opened upon the camp, splitting trees, tents, treehouses, and groups of people. He gripped my shoulders with one hand, a long blade in the other to move brush away. The rest of the camp followed behind us, to the caves where we would be safe. “The whisper came to the ending reaches of the cave, feathering from the far reaches of the island. A scream, too high pitched to be all that old. I had not anticipated finding myself back at camp, or have it roll under a log as it fell to nearly crush me. The wind became increasingly frustrated as the island’s vines brought me safely away from the danger. Whistling only increased in my ears and the screams gasped for help from the wreckage be created around us. “When I heard Peter’s voice, I realized what I was following was an illusion. I was too weak to call back, I knew I would never be heard. I whispered against the ground, pleading the island to bring Peter back to the caves, back to people he could save. But the island was already dying. Its lifesource was being shredded, thrown into the liquid wind. I didn’t see the black ink the storm had brought to the island, and I didn’t see Peter getting drenched in it. That ink knocked me out of everyone’s mind, destroying the life source for the island. I was trapped.” Brighton was silent for a moment. “There’s more isn’t there?” “Darkness, I decided, only barely outweighed silence when it came to denying forgiveness. Desperation only barely out weighed fear. Hunger outweighed exhaustion. Loss outweighed lack. And being forgotten outweighed

them all.” “Forgotten?” I was lucky. I got to keep my memories. I wasn’t exposed for nearly as long as Peter was. But as long as he doesn’t love me, the island comes closer to death, as does everyone living on it.” * Elden panted hard, she had not run so much in almost longer than she could remember. She had gone to the only place she knew—the cave she had been obliviously trapped in, back when she thought Peter was still looking for her. She fell over, kissing the ground between deep fire and ice-sharded breaths, grateful to be in her old gray nightmare instead of the pitch black one awaiting her if she dared to take a step in any direction. * “You saw what that single kiss did. You know what it restored!” Brighton waved the book around, showing the new inky memories the Island had reacquired. Elden took the book from him and threw it in the back of the cave. “And you know why that won’t work on him. He hates me, the island is dying, and there is nothing I can do about that.” “Can you at least tell me where Peter is? Maybe he can help us some other way!” Elden shook her head. “I don’t know where he is. He’s probably dead if you haven’t heard from him.” “It’s impossible to die here. Why do you think you’re still alive after being trapped for so many years? Can we at least go looking for him? Do you think the book knows where he is?” Brighton took a step towards the book to run into Elden’s hand pressing on his chest. “No. I will not be kissing him.” “Just imagine what power it would have!” “Would,” she laughed once. “What a useless word. You can never say what would happen. Just as I never would

have guessed how dead this place is now.” The book’s new words were stripped from their pages, leaving dusty, forgotten fragments in their wake. “What I can do is temporary, as is what family I had, as is the island, as is paradise . . . as is time.” “Together, the two of you could make it per-” “Two temporary beings cannot create something permanent. With or without each other.” “But don’t you love him?” Elden flinched and for the first time couldn’t meet his gaze “ . . . More than I was careful of.” “I thought true love conquered all.” “If true love was going to work it already would have by now.” “I thought would was useless.” They’re different, she chided herself. And it would have to be the truth for now. * Elden’s breath puffed in the cold ashes of her home for the past two years. The home she had tried to rebuild. The home she destroyed. Elden dropped to her knees, her hand falling onto Brighton’s already stone cold one as smoke bellowed up and into the air. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” * My name is Elden Carnfell. I once had a family. I once was happy. But I’m not anymore, and I suppose that’s my fault. My fault for giving up on myself. For shunning the truth, and thinking reality and fears are the same. That reality wasn’t a balance of fears and courage. That time was how long you made it last. Reality wasn’t such a huge revelation, like everyone said it would be. Nothing’s changed. The fact that I made up Peter Pan to bury Brighton’s knowledge of himself is still stinging in what dusty soul I have left. The fact that I drowned my possibilities in my own disbelief doesn’t shake the sight of the dead bodies from my field of vision. In fact, it only makes them more real.

house ZOË, 2018

my mind hasn’t been the same since we parted ways, i’ve been watching these days and nights pass by like the lights were being flicked on and off. this body hasn’t been my own, i’m just living in it. my body has become my passed grandmother’s house; everything is familiar and fragile and irreplaceable. please don’t touch anything when you come in, i promise everything is in its place. you walk around slowly, the core creaks with every step, but they are rhythmic. i get used to your beat. you absorb everything with your eyes; you find newness in the house’s seniority and the aged youth is so admirable to you. i find that enchanting. you pick up a picture and ask who it is, and you take offense when i tell you i’d rather not talk about it. you ask more and more questions; you asked me who was in the picture, you asked me why i didn’t want to talk about it, you asked me if i loved you. the house rattles at the sound of your raising voice, you are not reminded of its fragility until i tell you that this house has a heart and it will shatter if you’re not gentle with it. the light stopped flicking and started flickering, you proved to me our electricity was strong, but your power was stronger, had always been stronger, and i soon learned that your hands are no good for gentleness.

everything was in its place, but you moved and threw things anyway; your steps became stomps and i watched my grandmother’s floorboards snap under your forcefulness. i asked you not to touch anything, everything is in its place. you pick up the picture and smash it, glass shattered and so did the little girl inside that picture, the little girl inside me. your eyes become bloodshot, inflamed, and fixated on this home; i asked you not to touch anything, everything is in its place. i asked you not to touch anything, everything is in its place. i asked you not to touch me, but you violated my space anyway. your hands invaded my body and just because i am familiar to you does not mean i am yours whenever you like; i am still fragile and i am still a person. you grabbed me too tight and squeezed me too hard, and after, you realized my heart shattered because you weren’t gentle with it. i asked you not to touch anything, everything is in its place. your misty eyes mean nothing to me now, the shards of myself were in your hands, and i’m sorry about the wounds i have made in your palms, but what would you do if you couldn’t make sense of yourself ? what would you do if the same thing that broke you apart is holding you together?

bit.ly/2r3jzMc Listen to slam poet Zoë perform “house.” VINCENT LE f 2018 f Face Features f Digital Photograph

JOE H f 2018 f honey, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re too sweet f Digital Photograph

intertwined BLAIRE GARRETT, 2021

Gold bands twisted unto each other Deep sienna flowers And royal red, too Crystalline Reflecting off the mid-morning sun Her bracelet had eleven rings, I counted (from afar) With pearls and beads and memories And smears of bronze where the gold coloring was falling apart Her bracelet glistened when she waved it past her smudged mascara; The light of the gold and sharp reflections Distracting from the dark in her eyes It was the hour of Sapphire And all things were blue She was just a stranger, With a bracelet And as she walked away I stared at the eleven rings intertwined, Supine on the cement.

Dear Yoshi HANNAH FOGLE, 2019

FICTION

ear Ms. Takahashi, It is with deep regret that I am writing to confirm the recent telegram informing you of the death of your son, First Lieutenant Yoshi Takahashi, killed in action on August 19, 2005. I understand your desire to know as much as possible regarding the circumstances leading to his death. Unfortunately, the report received does not contain any further details, but you can be assured that in the event that additional information is received about Lieutenant Takahashi’s death, it will be promptly communicated to you. We hope the knowledge of his honorable and heroic service to our country will bring you some comfort. His body will be returned to you promptly. More information will be provided soon. I extend to you my deepest sympathy. Sincerely, E.L. SIERRA MAJOR GENERAL ADJUTANT GENERAL 1 Enclosure Aiko looked up at the letter that was pinned to the old corkboard above the fridge and sighed. While it had only been two months since the letter had arrived, she had already moved on. Five sons went into war, none of them returned. Each of the letters was pinned to the board in the sequence in which they arrived. Hiroji’s letter came first on a rainy day in mid-April. Aiko remembered falling to her knees in the mud and crying before finding the strength to go inside. Kento’s letter was next. It arrived only a couple of weeks following Hiroji’s, while Aiko was still mourning. Aiko’s friend, Mayumi, had been taking Aiko’s mail and groceries to her house. One day, Mayumi came to Aiko’s 100

front door in tears. She pleaded with Aiko to not be cross with her, for she had kept Kento’s letter for two weeks before delivering it. They cried together on the living room floor over dozens of cups of tea. Two of the letters, Ryu’s and Tomoki’s, arrived together. Both sons had apparently died in the same bomb explosion, and it had taken a month to identify both of their bodies before letters could be delivered. When they arrived, Aiko cried her eyes dry and simply sat in silence for days on end, only moving to cry out to the sky, asking why her sons had to be taken. Yoshi’s letter was the one Aiko remembered the most. When the letters about her other four sons tore Aiko’s heart, Yoshi had been there to comfort her, help her work, help Mayumi gather groceries, and mourn with his mother. Aiko had no choice but to send Yoshi to war. The government made her. She remembered that the day before he left, he promised to come home. “Don’t worry, Mother,” Yoshi had said, hugging his mother one final time. “I’ll be back when the war is over with medals to hang on your corkboard and stories that you and I can tell all of our friends.” When Yoshi’s letter arrived, Aiko didn’t mourn. She didn’t try to cry or yell up at the sky. She simply hung the letter up on her board and went on with her life. After so many letters, so many years of crying for and mourning her other sons, Aiko was numb. She kept telling herself that she had known Yoshi was lying, that she knew she would get a letter announcing his death. But, in reality, she had thought Yoshi would be the exception. That he would return home, run to her, pick her up, and twirl her around as they celebrated his return. JAMES LYONS f 2019 f Verdant f Digital Photograph

For months, Aiko continued to send letters to his branch, talking about local news, or how Mayumi got smart with her and ran off before coming back an hour later with tears streaming down her face and a box of mochi spelling out “I’m Sorry” on each treat. She sent him letters about life in the house. How the old lady down the street showed up at her door with her granddaughter, who said she would clean Aiko’s house for free. She sent him letters saying how much she missed him. Those letters were the hardest to write because she was reminded each time how Yoshi would never know how much she missed him. These kinds of letters never made it to the mailbox. Aiko kept these letters in a small box under her bed. Whenever she felt like crying, she would walk the box downstairs and sit on the counter, look at the corkboard, read the letters, and let the memories flood back.

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ALBERTO BUFALINO, 2018

La Llorona

The river is deep and plentiful— the waves of it crash against my skin. My sister yells and in return I cry toward my mother. My mother is burdened with her own fears. We delve further into the river. My narrow eye peeks past the rush, seeing onto the shore of silt and sand and footprints of animals. She is burdened by the way the world ended up— single mother, tediously working day in and day out with only a minor breath in between, becoming wasted by the screams of me and my sister. My mother twirls the white dress, it flowers over the rush of the river— I peer outward as the water engulfs me further. My mother looked fondly at the photos - ones back in her old country Where she claimed she was a step away from fame, the flash manifesting a permanent sparkle in the corner of her coffee-colored eyes.

“La Llorona,” “The Scottish Cannibal,” and “Rumors” were written during a dual choruscreative writing residency with Alsarah and the Nubatones as part of the Duke University Building Bridges Grant focused on promoting artists with cultural roots in Muslim regions. These writers thank Alsarah and Nahid for their inspiration.

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My mother placed the photos back as if she had left the memories, as she did when her hands were holding nothing. My arms push against the weight of the air. The river overruns my breath, my sister grips me as we entrench deeper— my mother’s eyes emitting a yellow light of menace— weeping in a white gown. She wipes the incoming tears from the base of her eyes, removes the white gown, viciously, then hurls it into the rush of the river. She grips our arms and drags us atop the mossy ground. The white gown dissipates into the river; we emerge from the cool breath with a shiver.

the scottish Cannibal SYLUS FOX, 2019

They said I’ve fed off people since I was young. Let them talk; it’ll tenderize their tongue Call me a man-eater, attention-seeker. I don’t know where I’m going or where I’m from, So I take up every space, leave pieces of me Hidden in each passing shadow. I am a cave, filled with human bones, The mountains of Scotland. But my skin is not pale enough, My lips are not thin enough, My nose too small, Slanted shoulders and slender frame Standing out from those who raised me I feed off people, eat your heart out, The experience of a lifetime, Miss me before I am even gone. I am a rolling hill of “love me” and “hate me” And nothing in between. So they call me a cannibal-It all tastes the same in a rush. The hurry to find where I belong, Swishing skirts around the ancestral skin of my ankles, always unfamiliar. Convince myself the only home I need Is in the rising grass of the highlands And I am just roaming until I get back there. Roaming. Home doesn’t belong to me. It never has.

AUTUMN RUSSELL f 2018 f Horror f Digital Photograph

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rumors SHEIKH FAAEQ RAZA DILAWARI, 2019

I am from where I am from, Not where I was placed. - Safia Elhillo, “Alien Suite” I stand up for what’s right though blamed for doing wrong. Just because I am a Muslim, they spread rumors about me and the Twin Towers. If I had not supported America, you wouldn’t see a single shadow of me. Rumors these days, talking about how Muslims are from Middle Eastern and Arab countries when they can be from Nigeria, Sudan, Egypt, Turkey, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Qatar, Somalia, United Arab Emirates, or the United States. Rumors these days, talking about how Islam is a violent region when they can’t even read the Quran or interpret it correctly. I got bullied in middle school because of my religion. Just why are these fake rumors spreading throughout the world? Blamed for doing wrong, I stand up for what’s right.

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IZZY SALAZAR f 2018 f The Border Crossed Us f Scratchboard

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Home by the sea

ELEANOR COLE, 2021 FICTION

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he sea was calmer than usual today—he could still hear the muffled roar of waves crashing against the cliffs below, but just barely. The breeze ruffled his hair, bringing with it the scent of salt, sky, and warm stone. It must be sunny out; he felt the warmth on his face. The view from here, he was sure, must be spectacular, and his chest tightened with longing. Days like these, full of familiar sounds and sensations so entwined with once-familiar sights, were the days he still felt it wasn’t quite real, as he had just after the mud and chaos of the trenches. As if it were a dream and if he stretched, if he opened his eyes wide enough, he would wake up and see the rolling waves and the swooping pale gulls far off, and the clouds on the horizon, wispy, white, and tinged with gold, and if he just reached far enough he could catch them in his outstretched hands and get a closer look— “Edward?” He started. He had been so caught up in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard Thomas approach. They were probably several feet away from one another, judging by the sound. How far had he gone from the path? “It’s nearly time for lunch—Hungry?” “Not really.” He could probably manage lunch if he tried, but it all seemed so distant. The pressing need was simply not there. This, he knew, was the beginning of what he made light of as a mood. They were less severe and less frequent now than they had been years ago, but they hadn’t stopped, and likely never would. When he was caught up in the throes, he could easily sit vacantly in the same spot for hours, for days, in a blank sort of despair until it abated, or Thomas pulled him out of it. Horrible, but sometimes there was no holding it back. It rushed on like the tide until it ebbed and he was wrung dry. “You ought to eat something.” The note of worry in Thomas’s voice squeezed his

JAMES LYONS f 2019 f Stone and Sea f Digital Photograph

heart: shame, concern, and affection mingling into one strange, bittersweet emotion. Thomas, as broken and bitter and vulnerable as Edward himself. Thomas, who named the stars with him and read out loud the books they couldn’t find in Braille, who cooked for them both to the best of his abilities and never gave up hope in a way that made him hopeful too, Thomas, who loved few, but loved fierce. He turned away from the cliffs and the sea, walking back toward where he heard the other’s voice. Feeling pebbles crunch under his feet after many steps of grass, he realized he had been quite far off the path, indeed; probably close to the edge. No wonder Thomas had sounded worried—he had every right to be, just as he been that dark night in the field hospital. “What do we have for food?” There was almost a palpable air of relief. “Tomato soup,” Thomas said. “That little old lady from down the road brought it over and I only heated it up, so you needn’t worry about my cooking.” “I’m sure yours would have been fine.” “I did make the toast.” “And I know you’re not half bad at toast,” Edward laughed. He felt a little warmer in a way that had nothing to do with the sunshine on his face. Standing on the path again, he felt more grounded, as if his feet were steadier under him. In that moment, he was unreasonably happy. What did the peers of the realm have that he didn’t? Certainty was a falsehood, he knew that much, but standing here with Thomas, he was absurdly, foolishly certain that he would never be alone again. “To lunch, then?” Edward inquired. “That’s the spirit.” He held out his hand, and Thomas took it. Together, they made their way down the winding path through the field, the sound of waves growing distant in their ears. 107

Miss’ Placed ISABELLA DORFMAN, 2018

Do you stack colophons into vast palaces Glass spires reaching toward the sky? Do you lay on your, back on a soft spring day Trailing your, hand through rippling waters Synecdoches singing in your, ear like birdsong? Did someone squeeze lemon and honey into a cup of tea And leave it outside your, bedroom door? (aphorisms rising to the surface like fragrant steam and tart seeds) When I was last a little girl…. Rocky cliffs like the face of a sleeping giant and scraping my knee on the caesuras, Jutting out from the moss and mud Cormorants tearing at my hands and face as I fell Always never enough time Sitting on the waterfront The buildings lining the Boardwalk like as day Clauses collected in my hands Spilling out of my mouth, flowing from my fingers

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ELLIE DILWORTH f 2018 f Pilot f Digital Photograph

Even as I tried to catch them Oh please oh please oh please I prayed To any maxim that would listen That my god but You are the autumn leaves And the asyndetons that float down when the trees turn Will the lights wash color from your, lips? Precious, (like a mourning turned on its head) Ottava Rima The woman with the green eyes and the clinking bag of oyster shells They say she made ,her home inside the head of Nero When they toppled his statue outside the colosseum Life on Earth, she titled her page Pushing the paradox into her mouth to sharpen the tip It is like this She explained, this is What It’s Like “When it rains ,it pours

and you don’t have a choice, you get in a rowboat just to stay above water” ….I climbed them And promised you long ago That I’ll let you change my name in teal/silver And curly brown hair sticking to the radiator If your, eyes want to glaze over (since the rain is flowing up the glass, blurring the apostrophes) Then I promise I won’t let the verisimilitudes haunt me for long But you can’t help but insist on Chilly winds blowing through the valley Right where it meets the mountains And running races on the football field Flat ,grey light and low buildings (like— This, this I don’t dare breathe Because this (and the pine trees that are much too green, tower-

ing against the hospital and the marble sky) Is the closest I have gotten to stretching my hands towards the chink and feeling it brush against my fingers

Your, body She said sharply Is 96% sorrow But most of it isn’t yours And your, dad swore he would force your, eyes open and hold you against the storm No matter what they tell you Delaney just know (please no) The dashing green waves and the sweat on a winter’s day were never meant to hurt us I AM they will never say The one who swallowed your, coasts and swept aside your, islands Your, mother was named Miriam But she left you with the syllogisms that bloomed in May And the weeds that choked the wintercress

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the ‘95 LAWRENCE HALPIN, 2018

bit.ly/2I0n5gK Watch Lawrence Halpin’s video documentary love letter to his '95 Isuzu Rodeo S. "It's full of skateboards and tools and cameras and computers and books of poetry and friends and smoke and haze. It gets me to where I need to go."

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LAWRENCE HALPIN f 2018 f Circles f Digital Art

two trains after the impact (a symphony in red) EMMA HITCHINGS, 2020

two trains collide metal and skin fused together leaving nothing behind just ashes and hopes for better days sitting like promises on the horizon till they are within the flames burning alongside those who dreamed them two girls collide skin and metal fused together trying to leave behind no trace just stolen glances and slips of paper promises that hang in the air like mist we are not the remnants of a collision we are not a wreckage we are not two girls on fire metal and skin fused together weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll claim to be condensation but we are in the constellations and our stars wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go out

20XX f NINE f PHOTOGRAPHY

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Despite KATE CROSS, 2020

How can someone be The grit of sand between my toes, And the sweet seaside air? She knows with every scathing remark She grinds rock to burn my heels. And every unexpected compliment Is a whisper of ocean spray. Despite all the scars, I run into the ocean, Euphorically, Every time.

VINCENT LE f 2018 f Sunset f Digital Photograph

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Little Creatures SAMAS MARSHALL, 2019

A FICTION

n old friend told me a long time ago, “There’s a hole in the center of everything, and it’s always growing.” Actually, I can’t remember if they were a friend or not; if I’m to be completely honest, I can’t remember who said it at all. Perhaps it was spoken to me by a stoic but apathetic cat. Perhaps I heard it from a wise brown bear who lives in the tree outside my kitchen window. The point is, it was told to me by some little creature. Little creatures are everywhere, and it was right: there is a hole in the center of everything. It will continue to grow because the beginning was moments ago and the end is moments away. In the end, there will be the hole. The hole in the center of everything will become the hole that is everything, and the little creatures will be forgotten, and the hole will weep. When the hole weeps, it cries solid rock. The tears of solid rock will create the suns and the planets, and solar systems will form. On some of those planets, life will flourish. Creatures will develop, and intelligent things will bloom like flowers. These little creatures will create so much, but as inevitable as water flowing down a stream, this race of little creatures will die off. And the hole will grow and swallow the dead planets. And the hole will weep. And the cycle will continue. And everything will be forgotten by the hole in time because the hole is just that, a hole. *

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An old friend told me a long time ago, “There’s a train in the sky, and it holds a town.” They were right. It runs through the night sky every day. The train spans thirty-eight cars long and holds seventy-five buildings, but houses only four: a violinist, an accordionist, a tubist, and a saxophonist. They perform for the stars as the train passes by. When the hole cries, the train visits the tears. From the exhaust system flows oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, methane, argon, neon, krypton, helium, xenon, radon, etcetera. From the wheels rain seeds. These seeds grow into little creatures who rule among the rock planetoids. These creatures grow into bigger little creatures. They are taught music and kindness by the musicians of the train; they learn things like survival and agriculture by themselves. As the creatures continue to grow, they begin to discover fratricide, cruelty, genocide, and slavery. These little creatures have failed and are left to be swallowed by the hole as they destroy themselves. And the hole will swallow. And the failed creatures will be forgotten. And the hole will weep. And the cycle will continue. Because nothing is ever different in the universe: something fails and dies, or something succeeds and dies. Then the hole will eat the creatures and the planets, then it will weep. I’ve only ever seen the hole once, and I’ve never seen it since. I passed by and played it a song. It did nothing but cry. I learned that day that I didn’t much like the hole.

SHA'RE STRACHAN f 2018 f Owl in Color f Acrylic

It was dark . . . very dark. The only thing I can describe it as is dark. Have you ever been in a dark room for a while? As in, 10 minutes or longer? Your eyes adjust to be able to see vague shapes that make out features of the room. You can’t see everything, and the shapes are blurry, but you can tell something is there. The hole didn’t have shapes. You couldn’t see anything, just a huge dark sphere that looked like some force had punched a perfectly round hole in space. No light, no shapes, no color, just black. My family and I were swallowed by the hole a long time ago. I can’t remember how long ago, but my three friends and I will keep playing our songs for the stars on our astral train until even the hole itself dies. Because when the hole dies, so does the endless rotation of the black coin that is life and death. And the hole will be forgotten. And the apathy of the universe will carry on. And the hole will not weep anymore.

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stAFF Leadership: top Dogs

editorial staff

ISABELLA DORFMAN (Editor-in-Chief, Nonfiction Editor, Layout, ‘18) is in her third year on the Portraits in Ink staff and her second as Editor-in-Chief. She leaves Durham School of the Arts this year to begin the rest of her life. It has been her honor and pleasure to contribute everything she had to offer to this magazine.

ELLEN BERGENHAUSEN (Fiction, ‘21) is a new freshman at DSA, and this is her first year in lit mag. In her free time she enjoys biking and spending time with friends and her cats.

LAURAN JONES (Editor-in-Chief, Fiction Editor, Layout, ‘18) is a senior and is in her fourth and final year with Portraits in Ink. She’s going on to a better place: UNC Wilmington for Creative Writing. Her spoken word career has taken off with flyin’ colors (something she never thought would happen). She currently resides in the Atlantic Ocean, for she is a mermaid (moving to UNCW will be easy). She hopes to see the lit mag expand (much like the universe) in years to come. LEO EGGER (Poetry Editor, Layout, ‘19) is a theater student who loves the poetry of Elizabeth Bishop, snow cones, and Michael Cera. He’s the co-lead poetry editor with his twin Oliver. This is his first year with Portraits in Ink. OLIVER EGGER (Poetry Editor, Layout, ‘19) loves squids, Jeff Goldblum, and cookie dough ice cream. He is in eleventh grade and is the co-lead poetry editor. This is his first year in Portraits in Ink. IZZY SALAZAR (Copyeditor, Nonfiction, Layout, ‘18) is enjoying her first year of lit mag and her seventh year at DSA. Being copyeditor has only encouraged her love of the Oxford comma and the red pen.

Faculty ALEXA GARVOILLE (Adviser) teaches Creative Writing and English I. This is her fourth and final year producing the DSA lit mag. Next year she will be pursuing an MFA in poetry at Virginia Tech.

IAN CLARK (Poetry, ‘18) is in his fourth and final year at DSA. Aside from working on the literary magazine, he maintains an arsenal of alter egos and is a connoisseur of light snacks. He hopes to one day be the gay Oprah. KELLY COPOLO (Fiction, ‘18) is in the Creative Writing Pathway. She loves to read and write. She lives on a horse farm and is totally obsessed with sweaters and anything with caffeine. She will be attending UNC -Chapel Hill in the fall. STELLA DOMEC (Poetry, ‘21) is an avid reader whose favorite thing to do is read while listening to show tunes, and procrastinate homework by binge-watching Netflix. This is her first year with Portraits in Ink. JESSIE FODAY (Fiction, Factchecker, ‘21) is a ninth grader and new to Portraits in Ink. When she’s not being totally dope, she’s being pretty swag. HANNAH FOGLE (Fiction, ‘19) is an eleventh grader with a passion for music and writing to help her escape from the reality of high school. EMERSON JAKES (Fiction, ‘19) can be found art-making, scooping horse poop, or laying on their carpet wailing when they are not embarrassing their friends. MICHAEL JOHNSON (Nonfiction, Factchecker, ‘20) has enjoyed his two years in the lit mag. He enjoys playing sports, reading comics, and relaxing. He is a sophomore at DSA and can’t wait for the next year’s edition. ELLA NUÑEZ (Nonfiction, ‘21) is a freshman in the Writing Pathway. This is her first year with Portraits in Ink.

XIA RABURN (Fiction, ‘21) is “the girl with the tail” and super colorful, crazy outfits. She loves visual arts, books, marine biology, and blob fish. She’s a freshman, and this is her first year doing lit mag. JAY RAHIM (Poetry, Factchecker, ‘21) is a freshman who doesn’t look like a freshman. In her spare time, she really likes watching underrated movies and writing personal poems that make people uncomfortable. She doesn’t do much else because her life doesn’t have much spare time in the equation. KATI REDMAN (Poetry, ‘18) is a senior in her seventh year at Durham School of the Arts. Her pathways are Dance and Writing, and she enjoys being around animals and volunteering. She plans to go to vet school after getting a degree in either biology, animal sciences, or pre-veterinary medicine. This is her first year in Portraits in Ink and she is excited to help create something as meaningful as the literary magazine. ORLA SIMPSON (Poetry, ‘19) ’s favorite color is pink. She loves playing ultimate frisbee and wishes she would sleep more. SARA THOMPSON (Illustration, Layout, ‘20) was born in UNC hospital. She has been a Tar Heel ever since. She draws, writes, and reads most of the time. When not plotting evil, she can be found with her friends or family or alone.

Design staff CLAUDE STIKELEATHER (Lead Designer, ‘18) is in their first year with Portraits in Ink. They’re an artist who thinks about opossums every day. JOE HUSK (Design, ‘18) is a poodle who has spent most of his life studying voodoo magic. This is his last year with Portraits in Ink.

Top left to bottom right: Jessie Foday, Orla SImpson, Emerson Jakes, Stella Domec, Jay Rahim, Michael Johnson, Xia Raburn, Sara Thompson, Lauran Jones, Isabella Dorfman, Ian Clark, Ellen Bergenhausen, Leo Egger, Oliver Egger.

KIRA YOUNG (Design, ‘18) is a senior and has attended DSA since freshman year. She wants to be a superhero one day and enjoys kiwis. ELLIE DILWORTH (Freelance Design, ‘18) is a senior headed to the University of Virginia next year. She loves green beans and matchbox cars. LAWRENCE HALPIN (Freelance Design, ‘18) is a Durham, NC native heading off to VCU for design. Not proud, just hangin’ around, ready to get his curly head outta this town. VINCENT LE (Freelance Design, ‘18) is a Yearbook editor and photography student. Heading to Parsons in New York, he is ready for the big city!

ACknoWLeDGeMents First of all, we would like to thank our principal David Hawks for his continued support and encouragement and allowing us the freedom of uncensored expression in our magazine. A special thank you to our bookkeeper Trisha Tant for doing the impossible. Thank you to our incredible Visual Arts Department for being amazing mentors to the talented students featured throughout this magazine. In particular we’d like to thank Darrell Thompson, Jack Watson, and Val Martinez. Without your help this magazine wouldn’t be possible. We thank the English department in advance for carrying on the magazine in the future. Thank you to the families of the entire editorial and design staff for supporting us. Your dedication is invaluable. Finally, we would like to thank our dogs for their undying love and ability to keep us human. The staff owes so much to the following furry companions who helped make this magazine great again: Bryon Lord Beagle, Tornado “Torrey,” Angel Savage, Hero, Oreo, Gingersnap, Snickerdoodle, Rocket (Little John), Magnolia, Macdougle, Ella, Valrona, Finn, Buckeroo, Diablo, Coop, Gina, Sabrina, Jasper, Gabbie, Gizmo, and honorary dog-like cat, Prada.

CoLoPHon The editorial staff and adviser at Durham School of the Arts, 400 N. Duke St., Durham, NC, 27701 created this 14th volume of Portraits in Ink. CreateSpace printed 150 copies in May 2018. They were sold to the student body, faculty, and families for $10, with a 50% discount for writers, authors, and editors made possible by a departmental budget line item. Lubalin Graph Bold was used for titles, Poetsen One for subheadings and the folio, Arial Black and Helvetica for the table of contents and artist credits, Baskerville for copy, and Zapf Dingbats and Corsiva Hebrew for glyphs. This volume is printed on 60# white paper. The cover is laminated 10 point stock with a matte finish. We used Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CS6 to produce this issue on the 2012 (and older) Mac desktops in the Publications room. © 2018 by Portraits in Ink, 400 N. Duke St., Durham, NC, 27701. All rights revert to the authors and artists upon publication.

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