Sanskrit 2011 by Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine

Sanskrit

Literary-Arts Magazine

2011 2011Volume Volume 4242

Sanskrit

Literary-Arts Magazine

Table of Contents 05

Dreamscape

Who Needs the Grocery Store When the Buffet is Right Here

What the F.B.I. Took, What the Neighbors Left

Haskel (model #167)

New Object Infrastructure

Drugstore Cowboy

Charity Mission Free Will Baptist

The Sorry State of Paper Napkins

Out of Step

Just Routine

Polyphemus

Hanging in Winter

Ignoring the Summons

Impression

Shark Dive

Small Boat Fracturing

Jessica Alford Nicholas Garris

Douglas Collura Ashley York

Amber D. Watts

Daniel Barnhardt Amelia Fletcher Vivian Eyre Ann Ryan

John Danahy Amelia Fletcher Lara Gularte

Helen Wickes

Jordan Samuel Rickard Nicole Hardy Richard Brostoff

The Ascent

Quench

Universally Speaking

Uness

Communion

A Lost Village: Ghost

Her Name is Rice er Roni

The Magnifique

Untitled

The Difference in Front of Me

Unzipped

What I See Looking Back at Me

Forgetting Dreams

Taking Out Last Nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Sorrow

Letter from Alfred Stieglitz to Georgia Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Keefe

Leo

Messenger House

Worn Religions

The New Wilderness

Before the Amen

Bouquet

All the Skinned Knees

Cicada Exoskeleton

Attendant

Read Me

Leda and the Pelican

The Writer Shoots Himself

Musical Tables

Meeting the Reader

Gulf of Mexico

Print Collateral

Cornelius Stomping Ground

The Clinging

Aura

A Kiss Tattooed

Illumination

Lara Gularte Ben Verner

Melissa Chadburn Amber D. Watts Carmen Neely Kirsten Jones Neff Emily McKeage

Barbara Rockman Cherish Rosas

Athena Kashyap Jonathan Stone Amelia Fletcher

Elizabeth Arzani Sean Whitten

Diane Sherman

Michael Noland

Barbara Rockman George Kaperonis

Christine Tierney Jordan Samuel Rickard Cherish Rosas

Art (Arutyun) Arapetyan Adrianne Fincham-Quiros Nicholas Garris Nicholas Garris

Jordan Samuel Rickard Corri Elizabeth Vivian Eyre

Susan R. Williamson Richard Luftig Mykell Gates

Janet Thornburg Jessica Alford

Nicholas Garris

Rachel E. Andrews James Brandon Caudle

A Note from the Editor... Communication Something we overlook and do not think about every living day. Well......... some of us. Communication is a behavior or process, and is transmitted verbally or non-verbally. It can be an image, interpretation, choice of typography, or the words you are reading right now. Some speak with their hands, eyes, voices, emotions, or even through their creative processes. From a Rothko painting to a Robert Frost poem, it can be interpreted very differently from different perspectives. I use the example of a Rothko painting because even a tangible object can communicate to you. An image may be abstract, but the color and how you interact with it can evoke an emotional response or influence you in some sort of way. The relationship between type and image becomes the language of graphic design; a hybrid discipline that combines different elements including symbols, words, or images, all coming together to form a message. As an artist and designer, it is usually easier to just do it rather than try to explain what you have done and why. “Type is magical. It not only communicates a word’s information, but it conveys a subliminal message.” – Erik Spiekermann Enjoy.

Adam Iscrupe Editor in Chief

Jessica Alford

mixed media | 13' x 4'

Art Volume 42

Nicholas Garris

screen print, acrylic, and inkjet prints | 36" x 36"

06 Sanskrit 2011 Art

What the F.B.I. Took, What the Neighbors Left

“Standing on someone, stood onat byevery creeping car. Bobby “Standing on We someone, stood oncreeping by We woke woke at every car. Bobby We’d comesomeone for: blackelse, hands signed x’s. they’re not happy until they’re not happy until spoke about a stray tail chaser in the lot.someone else,spoke The neighbors, more insulted, strung about a stray tailofchaser in the lot. a noose. White handssandwiched fired inenvelope, the close, dark. they’re stuck, shadows The screen window like an seam they’reus,sandwiched stuck, shadows whatdust. about stuck like aclose, rock A top circle of boys clapped toAnd its rising Itofhung aclapped neck sky; itrising strangled A circle boys toofitsthe dust.light. erased; otherwise, they’re naked, ripped open, propped against the shingles. erased; otherwise, they’re naked, afraid.” retreating ice had sunk into the ground? It frozeafraid.” for instructions; they knelt “Savage decorations working class.” And what about us, stuck like a rock And what about us, stuck like a rock It froze for instructions; they knelt Missing: allhad thesunk red poker chips. “Subtle,” “Crippled backs unbend where we touch, baby.” We’d come for: Even black the hands signed x’s. for stones. dog knew to sniff off.into the He whistled ghosts away, cutting it down. retreating ice into the ground? retreating ice had sunk ground? for stones. Even the dog knew to sniff off. We’d come for: black hands signed x’s. And what about us, stuck like a rock Bobby said. Cupboards ajar, whispering. And what about like aunbend rock aswhere He laughed if daring me:White dream, joke Morning, pressed firecrackers into the lawn, White hands firedus, instuck the dark. “Standing oninto someone, stood on by “Crippled backs unbend where wewe touch, baby.” “Crippled touch, baby.” hands fired in the dark. retreating ice had sunk ground? We’d come for: black hands signed x’s.the not I said,as They want ushoping to smell them retreating icewould had sunk into the ground? or belief? We slept awe little, tangled up. small bangs warn usbacks someone else, they’re happy until He laughed if daring me: dream, joke He laughed as if daring me: dream, joke “Crippled backs unbend where we touch, baby.” Morning, we pressed firecrackers into the lawn, White hands fired in the dark. We woke at belief? every creeping car. Bobby in ourmore food. “No,” he said, “in our bed.” backs where weWe touch, baby.” of“Crippled a noose. burning crossunbend or lit bomb. they’re close, The neighbors, insulted, strung acreeping or We slept ainlittle, tangled up.laughed or belief? slept a little, tangled up.He laughed aswarn ifsandwiched daring dream,stuck, joke shadows hoping small bangs would us me:they’re spoke about a astray tail chaser the lot. He asscreen if daring me: dream, joke window like an envelope, topa seam We woke at every car.The Bobby erased; otherwise, naked, afraid.” It hung neck of sky; it strangled light. We woke at every creeping car. Bobby And what about us, stuck like a rock or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. of burning cross or lit bomb. A circle of boys clapped toofitsthe rising belief? slept a little, tangled up.hands ripped open, propped against thesigned shingles. spoke about a dust. strayclass.” tailor chaser in We the lot. The neighbors, more insulted, strung a noose. “Savage decorations working spoke about a stray tail chaser in the lot. retreating ice had sunk into the ground? We’d come for: black x’s. It He froze for instructions; they knelt all the hands red poker chips. Aatcircle of boys clapped toinsulted, its risingMissing: dust. aWhite The neighbors, more strung noose. It hung a neck of sky; it come strangled light. whistled ghosts away, cutting itcar. down. A circle of boys clapped to its risingx’s. dust. We’d black hands signed “Crippled backs unbend wefor: touch, baby.” fired inwhispering. the“Subtle,” dark. We woke every creeping Bobby for stones. Even the dog sniff off. Bobby said. Cupboards Itstray froze for instructions; they knelt Itto hung aAnd neck of sky; it strangled light. “Savage decorations ofwhere the working class.” We woke at every creep Itme: froze foritinstructions; White hands fired in thethey dark.knelt He laughed as iflike daring dream, joke spoke about aknew tail chaser in the lot. And what aboutus us,ajar, like a rock what about stuck likeThey a rock Iretreating said, want tostuck smell them stones. Even therising dog knew to us, sniff off. “Savage decorations of the working class.” He whistled ghosts away, cutting down. And what about us, stuck a rock spoke aboutofa for stray tail chaser for stones. Even the dog knew to sniff off. or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. A circle boys clapped to its dust. ice had sunk into the ground? retreating iceaway, had sunkininto the ground? And what us, stuck like aBobby rock The screen window like anatabout envelope, top seam our food. “No,” heabout said, “in our bed.” He whistled ghosts cutting it down. retreating ice had sunk into the ground? We woke every creeping car. A circle boysfor clapped to its And what about us, stuck like a rock And what about us, stuck like a rock It of froze instructions; they knelt “Crippled backs unbend where we touch, baby.” And what us, stuck like a rock “Crippled backs unbend where we touch, baby.” retreating iceahad sunk into theinground? ripped open, propped against the shingles. “Crippled backs unbend where touch, baby.” We’d come for: black hands x’s. spoke about stray tail chaser the lot. It froze for instructions; they retreating ice had sunk into the ground? retreating icejoke had sunk the ground? for stones. Even the dog knew to sniff He laughed as ifice daring me:laughed dream, joke retreating hadinto sunk into theas ground? He laughed asoff. ifsigned daring me: dream, “Crippled unbend where werising touch, baby.” allwe the redbacks poker chips. “Subtle,” He if Missing: daring me: dream, joke White hands fired in the dark. A circle of boys to its dust. for stones. Evenbacks the dog knew We woke at every creeping car. Bobby “Crippled unbend where weWe touch, baby.” “Crippled backs unbend where we touch, baby.” or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. “Crippled backs unbend we touch, or belief? slept alawn, little, tangled up. He laughed asinstructions; ifclapped daring me: dream, joke Bobby said.tangled Cupboards ajar, whispering. or where belief? We aIbaby.” little, up.usWe It froze for they knelt spoke stray tailas chaser the lot. He laughed as if daring me: dream, joke Healaughed if daring me: dream, jokeslept Morning, we pressed firecrackers into theabout He laughed as in if daring me: dream, joke or stones. belief? slept athem little, tangled up.off. said, They want to smell for Even the dog knew to sniff A circle of boys clapped to its rising dust. or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. hoping small bangs would warn us We’d come for: black hands signed x’s. or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. We woke everyabout creeping car. Bobby Andatwhat us,The stuck like a rock in our food. “No,” he said, “in our bed.” Morning, we pressed firecrackers into the lawn, neighbors, more insulted, strung a noose. And what about us, stuck like a rock It froze for instructions; they knelt of a burning cross or lit bomb. White hands fired in the dark. “Standing onsmall someone, stood onwarn by Bobby spokeretreating about a stray tail sunk chaser in lot. ice had into the ground? hoping bangs would us Itrising hung afor neck of sky; it strangled light.retreating We woke at every car. icewindow had sunklike into the ground? stones. Even the dog knew to sniff off. someone else, they’re notcreeping happy until A“Standing circle of boys clapped towhere its dust. “Crippled backs unbend we touch, baby.” screen anwe envelope, top of a seam burning cross orchaser litshadows bomb. “Savage decorations of thefor: working class.” spoke about aclose, stray tail in the lot. on someone, stood onknelt by We’d come black“Crippled handsThe signed x’s. backs unbend where touch, baby.” they’re sandwiched stuck, It He froze for instructions; they laughed as ifnot daring me: dream, joke ripped open, propped against the shingles. He whistled ghosts away, cutting it down. A circle of boys clapped to its rising dust. someone else, they’re happy until White hands fired in the dark. He laughed as if daring me: dream, joke erased; otherwise, naked, afraid.” for stones. Even We the dog knew to sniff off. up. We’d come or belief? sleptstuck, a little, tangled for: black hands signed x’s. Missing: all the poker chips. “Subtle,” “Standing on someone, stood onslept by red Itabout froze forthey’re instructions; they knelt they’re sandwiched close, shadows orthe belief? We a little, tangled And what us, stuck aknew rock And what about us, stuck like acreeping rock White We woke at retreating every car.sunk Bobby hands fired in Bobby said. Cupboards ajar,creeping whispering. someone they’re notdark. happy until We woke atwhat every car. Bobby forup. stones. thelike dogground? to sniff off. erased; we otherwise, naked, afraid.” Morning, pressedthey’re firecrackers into lawn, ice had into the retreating ice spoke had sunk into the ground? And about us,they’re stuck like aelse, rock about ausby stray tail chaser inEven the lot. Isomeone, said,spoke They want to smell them sandwiched close, stuck, shadows We’d come for: black hands signed x’s. about athe tail chaser in the lot. “Standing on stood on hoping smallbacks bangsunbend would warn usstray backs unbend where we touch, baby.” “Crippled where we baby.” retreating icetouch, had sunk into the ground? A afraid.” circle of“Crippled boys clapped toas its rising dust. inthey’re our food. “No,” heuntil said, “in our bed.” erased; otherwise, they’re naked, White hands fired in the dark. A“Standing circle of boys clapped to its rising dust. someone else, not happy of aHe burning cross or lit bomb. He laughed if daring me: dream, joke on someone, stood on by We’d come for: black hands signed x’s. laughed as if daring me: dream, joke “Crippled backs unbend where we touch, baby.” Itstuck, froze for instructions; they knelt It froze for instructions; they knelt they’re sandwiched close, shadows or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. someone else, they’re not happy until White hands fired in the dark. or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. He laughed asdog if daring me: dream, jokeotherwise, they’re for stones. Even the dog knew to sniff off. for stones. Even the knew to sniff off. erased; naked, afraid.” they’re sandwiched close, stuck, shadows or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. erased; otherwise, they’re naked, afraid.”

Douglas Collura

“I never met a communist before in the flesh.” Birmingham, 1949

The screen window like an envelope, top seam ripped open, propped against the shingles. Missing: all the red poker chips. “Subtle,” Bobby said. Cupboards ajar, whispering. I said, They want us to smell them in our food. “No,” he said, “in our bed.” The neighbors, more insulted, strung a noose. It hung a neck of sky; it strangled light. “Savage decorations of the working class.” He whistled ghosts away, cutting it down. We’d come for: black hands signed x’s. White hands fired in the dark. We woke at every creeping car. Bobby spoke about a stray tail chaser in the lot. A circle of boys clapped to its rising dust. It froze for instructions; they knelt for stones. Even the dog knew to sniff off. “Standing on someone, stood on by someone else, they’re not happy until they’re sandwiched close, stuck, shadows erased; otherwise, they’re naked, afraid.” And what about us, stuck like a rock retreating ice had sunk into the ground? “Crippled backs unbend where we touch, baby.” He laughed as if daring me: dream, joke or belief? We slept a little, tangled up. Morning, we pressed firecrackers into the lawn, hoping small bangs would warn us of a burning cross or lit bomb.

Poetry Volume 42

Ashley York

ceramic | 14.5" x 14" x 15"

08 Sanskrit 2011 Art

Amber D. Watts

mixed media sculpture on panel | 34" x 37" x 13"

Art Volume 42

The blonde is writing The jukebox is howlingThe blonde is writing songs in redand on my windshield The same old country Mom distant, crying lovehymns songs in red on myjukebox windshield Theand H sins keeps me up at night Mom islove distant, crying The blonde is writing Andiswe are committing Lipstick lullaby The is howling Our fathers played in their Mom is distant, crying andrusted trucks Wondering where she went wrong The blonde iswent writing The H keeps mein up at night Lipstick lullaby Like the memories Wondering where she wrong Mom is distant, crying and love songs red onWondering my windshield bathroom stalls Signed with kissmemories The country hymns Driving home JuveeSigned whereus she wentfrom wrong Raising aInboy asinwicked as me Mom distant, crying and love songs in as redwicked on my as windshield Like withsame aplayed kissoldisin OfWondering good girls where she went wrong Raising a boy me athe Lipstick lullaby Poison my veins Our their rusted trucks Memories I’dfathers like Raising a up boy asnight wickedisas me jukebox is howling But the needle helps us relax Wondering where she went wrong Lipstick lullaby goodSigned girls The blonde writing Back inup the belt But the needle helps us relaxOf in Raising aThe boy asold wicked as me with a kiss The boys are smoking The H keeps me at The jukebox is howling The H keeps me atbible night And her breath as onme the back of my neck Driving us home from Juvee Toisforget But the needleinhelps usmy relax The same country hymns Raising a boy as wicked Signed a kiss Back inrestaurant the bible belt love songs red on windshield The jukebox howling But the needle helps relax Back seats of thiswith empty filthy Like the memories The same old country The boys are smoking in The boys are smoking inushymns Like the memories a cold shower orMemories The ingirls Lipstick I’d Thegood jukebox is howling Memories I’d boys like are smoking But theofneedle helpsfilthy usMom relax Thelullaby sameInold country hymns Thewe waitress is yawning with boredom Of And are committing sins is distant, crying andare Our fathers played inattheir rusted trucks Back seats thislike empty restaurant Back seats of we this empty filthy restaurant Of good girls Ain warm itch Back seats of this empty filthy restaurant And committing sins To forget The same old country hymns Todirty forget Signed with a kiss The H keeps me up night Our fathers played their rusted trucks AndThe theH cook is flipping through magazines Memories I’d like Back in the bible belt In bathroom stalls Wondering where she went wrong Driving us home from Juvee The waitress is yawning with boredom The waitress is yawning with boredom Back in the bible belt The waitress isOur yawning with keepsinme up at In night In bathroom stalls In acook coldisshower orthrough Mom isaredistant, crying andboredom fathers played in their rusted trucks aThe cold shower or Like the memories Driving us home from Juvee boys smoking in To forget The jukebox is howling Memories I’d like Poison my veins Raising a boy as wicked as me And the flipping dirty magazines And the cook is flipping through dirty magazines The boys are smoking in And the cook flipping through dirty magazines Like the memories Poison ingirls my veins is howling A warm Wondering where she wentIn wrong Driving us from And we Juvee are sins restaurant A warm is distant, crying and And weMom areitch committing sins the Of good Back of thisisitch empty filthy restaurant ahome cold shower orcommitting The same old country hymns The jukebox To forget And her breath thegirls back ofseats my neck But needle helps us relax Back seats of this empty filthy Of on good And her breath on the back oformy neck Raising a boy as wicked as me Mom is distant, crying and In bathroom stalls Wondering where went wrong In bathroom stallsshe Back inThe the bible beltcountry waitress isthe yawning with boredom A warm itch Our fathers trucks same old hymns In arusted cold shower The waitress yawning withshe boredom Back in theAnd bibleThe belt needle helps us magazines relax where went wrong Poison inismy veins Raising a boy as wicked as me played in their Poison in my veins the cook isBut flipping through dirty Driving warm itch And her the breath cook isWondering flipping through magazines Raising a boy asdirty wicked as me And on the back of my neckher Buton thethe needle relax us home fromAJuvee And breath back helps of myus neck But the needle helps us relax

Drugstore Cowboy Daniel Barnhardt

The blonde is writing love songs in red on my windshield Lipstick lullaby Signed with a kiss And we are committing sins In bathroom stalls Poison in my veins And her breath on the back of my neck The boys are smoking in Back seats of this empty filthy restaurant The waitress is yawning with boredom And the cook is flipping through dirty magazines The jukebox is howling The same old country hymns Our fathers played in their rusted trucks Driving us home from Juvee Mom is distant, crying and Wondering where she went wrong Raising a boy as wicked as me But the needle helps us relax The H keeps me up at night Like the memories Of good girls Back in the bible belt Memories I’d like To forget In a cold shower or A warm itch

10 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Amelia Fletcher

inkjet print | 13" x 19"

Art Volume 42

The Sorry State of Paper Napkins

Tonight my sister borrows a pencil from our waitress If only I fight could break open twenty coconuts The night of the Frazier-Clay fightnighttoofdraw I don’t know when my fatherThe learned If ayam. only IIncould break open twenty theSchool, Frazier-Clay draws onaltar. a napkin: circle around a broken square coconuts deliver gold toitan Puni theWe scriptures, father in Artist’s the Emerson, unless I my count the tuned Famous Correspondence twenty gold rings tohow an altar. Puni Iyam. In the scriptures, my father tuned intwenty the Emerson, andrings labels ME. Ten years passed. still light candles at St. forgiveness follows rules. Ideliver walk home remembering his hand too large to shield fit the over dials.our Above radio static, or green plastic television’s small face, twenty coconuts forgiveness follows rules. I could walk home remembering how hand too large to fit the dials. when Above radio static, Agnes’, Iyelling: don’t know my father learned to draw Iftoo only I could breakhis open twenty coconuts Iftoss only break open twenty coconuts Tonight my sister borrows a pencil from our waitress my landed electricitynot of the masses, announcer’s shock. Before the final opaque to trace figures. My mother Puni yam. In thetoss scriptures, If only I could break open twenty coconuts my landed of theyam. masses, announcer’s shock. Before the final still tryof tothe wash down the day. My therings same age as forgiveness Ali unless count the Famous Artist’s Correspondence School, deliver twentyDon’t gold rings toelectricity an altar. Puni In Ithe scriptures, deliver twenty gold to anaround altar. Puni yam. In the scriptures, draws on sister a napkin: a circle a broken square Dad’s napkin I twenty coconuts knockdown bruise the face. After the fight, The night Frazier-Clay fight deliver twenty gold rings to an altar. Puni yam. In the scriptures, Dad’s napkin knockdown was when he won. She wonders I Ten know that. Undecipheror green plastic shield over ourtuned television’s small face, forgiveness rules. I walk home remembering how forgiveness follows rules. I walk home remembering and labels itwhy ME. years passed. We still light candles at how St. squarely over breakfast remains, how many years Puni yam. In the scriptures, curfew for thefollows dutiful daughter. The next morning, any paper napkin was a canvas my father in the Emerson, forgiveness follows rules. I walk home remembering how squarely over breakfast remains, how many years Ihe’d don’t know when my father learned toopaque draw curfew for the dutiful daughter. The next morning, able night not too to trace figures. My mother yelling: myview. toss landed my toss landed Agnes’, I don’t know when my father learned to draw I’d blamed ruin on the grinds. forgiveness a paperunless napkin on the kitchen table: boxing portrait. where draw a portrait of his point of I twenty coconuts his hand too large to fit the dials. Above radio static, my toss landed I’d blamed ruin on the grinds. count theDad’s Famous Artist’s Correspondence School, IWords don’tI know when my father learned tothe draw aand paper napkin on kitchen table: boxing portrait. enters between the window’s reverse gold lettering. After Inapkin tell her Don’t bruise the face. After the fight, napkin Dad’s still try to wash down theArtist’s day. My sister the same age as Ali unless I count the Famous Correspondence School, so imprecise messy, so dependent Puni yam. In the scriptures, I don’t know when my father learned to draw electricity of the masses, announcer’s shock. Before the final Dad’s napkin orother. green plastic shield over our television’s small unless Ithe count theThe Famous Artist’s Correspondence School, what I never told her before, she she forgives me anyface, paper napkin was a canvas squarely over breakfast remains, how many years squarely over breakfast remains, how many years was when he won.says She wonders why I knowforgiveness that. Undecipheror green plastic shield over our television’s small face, on napkin: One boxer flat on his back, unless I count the Famous Artist’s Correspondence School, knockdown squarely over breakfast remains, how many years not opaque to trace figures. My mother yelling: or green plastic shield over our television’s small face, after she says could where he’d draw athe portrait ofdaughter. his sister point of view. I’d blamed ruin on the grinds. I’d blamed ruinMy on mother the grinds. able night not too opaque toyou? figures. yelling: The night of the Frazier-Clay fight The night oftrace the Frazier-Clay fight the reftoo holding up the arm of the other man Ifight, twenty coconuts Tonight my borrows ahow pencil from our waitress or green plastic shield over our television’s small face, for dutiful The next morning, I’dcurfew blamed ruin on the grinds. my sister borrows aface. pencil from our waitress Don’t bruise the After the fight, notTonight too opaque to trace figures. My mother yelling: Words so imprecise and messy, dependent enters between the window’s reverse gold lettering. I tell her Don’t bruise the face. the my father tuned inCLAY. the Emerson, my father tuned in theAfter Emerson, who stood on the word yam. In After the scriptures, draws on a so napkin: ahis circle a broken square notafight, too opaque tostatic, trace figures. My mother a paper napkin onOne the kitchen table: boxing portrait. draws on abruise napkin: aclick circle around square Tonight my Iaround sister borrows athe pencil from our waitress any paper napkin was abroken canvas Don’t the face. After the on the other. The napkin: boxer flatyelling: onhis back, what never told her before, she says she forgives mecoconuts any paper napkin was aPuni canvas his hand too large to fit theaWe dials. Above radio hand too large fitonly dials. radio static, Sometimes events don’t until talked back-to-back, forgiveness it the ME. Ten years passed. We still light candles at St. Tonight myyou? sister borrows a pencil from our Don’t bruise the face. After fight, and labels itplaced ME. Ten years passed. light candles at St.and If Ihow could break open twenty draws on a napkin: a to circle around aAbove broken square where he’d draw a portrait ofstill his point of view. any paper napkin was canvas the ref holding up labels the arm of the other man after she says could where he’d draw a portrait of his point of view. electricity of the masses, announcer’s shock. Before the final electricity of the masses, announcer’s shock. Before the final randomly side by side in a photo album or dream. Dad’s napkin Agnes’, draws on a napkin: a circle around a broken any paper napkin was a canvas If only I could break open twenty coconuts Agnes’, deliver twenty gold rings to an altar. Puni yam. In the scriptures, and labels it ME. Ten years passed. We still light candles attwenty St. Words so imprecise and so where he’d draw a portrait of hismessy, point of dependent view. whoastood ontry the word CLAY. Words so imprecise and messy, so dependent knockdown knockdown squarely over breakfast remains, how many years still to wash down the day. My sister the same age as Ali I coconuts and labels it ME. Ten years passed. where he’d draw portrait of his point of view. I twenty coconuts deliver twenty gold rings to an altar. Puni yam. In the scriptures, still Words tryon tocurfew wash down the day. My sister the same age as Ali forgiveness follows rules. I walk home remembering how Agnes’, the Thedutiful napkin: One flatnext onimprecise his back,don’t soother. imprecise and messy, soboxer dependent Sometimes events click until talked back-to-back, on the other. The napkin: One boxer flat on his back, for the daughter. The morning, curfew for the dutiful daughter. The next morning, Dad’s napkin I’d blamed ruin on the grinds. was when he won. She wonders why I know that. UndecipherPuni yam. In the Words so and messy, so dependent Puni yam. In the scriptures, forgiveness follows rules. I walk home remembering how was when he won. She wonders why I know that. Undecipher myscriptures, toss landed still try to wash down the day. My sister the same age as Ali theThe ref holding up the arm of the other man on the other. napkin: One boxer flat onother. his back, randomly placed side byOne sideboxer in a photo album or dream. the ref holding up the arm of the other man a paper napkin on the kitchen table: boxing portrait. a paper napkin on the kitchen table: boxing portrait. squarely over breakfast remains, how many years able night forgiveness Dad’s napkin on the The napkin: flat on his back, forgiveness my toss landed able night Dad’s napkin was when he won. She wonders why I know that. UndecipherI twenty coconuts who on the word CLAY. the ref holding upstood the arm of the other man Tonight mybreakfast sister borrows agrinds. pencil from our who stood on the word CLAY. I’d blamed ruin on the enters between the window’s reverse gold lettering. After I tell her squarely over remains, how many years the ref holding up the arm of the other man Dad’s napkin enters between the window’s reverse gold lettering. After I tell her squarely over breakfast remains, how many years able night Puni yam. In the scriptures, Sometimes eventsondon’t click CLAY. until talked back-to-back, who stood the word draws on blamed a napkin: a circle around a broken Sometimes don’t click until talked back-to-back, what ICLAY. never told her before, sheevents saysside she forgives me I’d ruin onher the grinds. whoor stood on the word squarely over breakfast remains, how many years what I never told her before, she says she forgives me I’d blamed ruin on the grinds. enters between the window’s reverse gold After tell forgiveness randomly placed side byuntil side inSometimes a photo album dream. Sometimes events don’t click talked back-to-back, and labels it ME. Ten years passed. randomly placed by side alettering. photo album orI dream. after says how could don’t click talked back-to-back, I’duntil blamed ruin on she the grinds. saysinhow could you? orevents I never told heryou? before, shein says she forgives me randomly placedafter side she by side a photo album dream. randomly placed side by side in a photo albumwhat or dream. after she says how could you?

Vivian Eyre

The night of the Frazier-Clay fight my father tuned in the Emerson, his hand too large to fit the dials. Above radio static, electricity of the masses, announcer’s shock. Before the final knockdown curfew for the dutiful daughter. The next morning, a paper napkin on the kitchen table: boxing portrait. I don’t know when my father learned to draw unless I count the Famous Artist’s Correspondence School, or green plastic shield over our television’s small face, not too opaque to trace figures. My mother yelling: Don’t bruise the face. After the fight, any paper napkin was a canvas where he’d draw a portrait of his point of view. Words so imprecise and messy, so dependent on the other. The napkin: One boxer flat on his back, the ref holding up the arm of the other man who stood on the word CLAY. Sometimes events don’t click until talked back-to-back, randomly placed side by side in a photo album or dream. Tonight my sister borrows a pencil from our waitress draws on a napkin: a circle around a broken square and labels it ME. Ten years passed. We still light candles at St. Agnes’, still try to wash down the day. My sister the same age as Ali was when he won. She wonders why I know that. Undecipherable night enters between the window’s reverse gold lettering. After I tell her what I never told her before, she says she forgives me after she says how could you? If only I could break open twenty coconuts deliver twenty gold rings to an altar. Puni yam. In the scriptures, forgiveness follows rules. I walk home remembering how my toss landed Dad’s napkin squarely over breakfast remains, how many years I’d blamed ruin on the grinds.

12 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

It was early morning late How do I learn faith after I was born out of step, in my life and I was restless faltering my whole life on the jagged with myself, leaving when I should have stayed, I saw them, how they were,with my doubts, I saw them, how they were, Itsowas morning edges of doubt? Howthey do Iwere, It after was early morning late How dolate I early learn faith the backwith and forth ofhow them, doubting when I late should have not. how they moved in sync Ilearn saw them, how they moved in sync with in my life and I was restless a new way of being, ineach my life andand I was restless faltering my whole life on thedoubts, jagged the relentless like I am sorry now for the struggle, other absorbed what doubt how they in sync with I was born out of step, Ipresence, saw them, how they were, each other and absorbed what doubt with myself, with my born ofwas a moved desperate need, ifafter with myself, with myenough, doubts, do I perhaps, learn faith edges of doubt? How do Inever so late IHow born out of step, birthdays and funerals, sorry now for the knowing Ilike was born out of step, there was with grace I had I was born out of step, each other and absorbed what doubt leaving when I should have stayed, I saw them, how they were, how they moved inIsync with there was with grace the back and forth of them, not to believe, then at least, the back and forth of them, faltering mywith life on jagged learn athe new way of being, leaving when Iwhole should have stayed, insomnia. ever, to be sure of when anything. Inor have leaving when should haveI had stayed, never learned understood. I leaving I should have stayed, there was grace I had doubting when I should have not. how they moved in sync with each other and absorbed what doubt never learned nor understood. I the relentless presence, like at last, to belong? It was early morning late the relentless presence, like edges of doubt? How do so late born of each aI desperate need, if doubting when I should have not. carried doubt like ahow weight doubting when I should have How do I learn faith after knew only to question, to judge, doubting when I should have not. never learned nor understood. I I am sorry now for the struggle, other and absorbed what doubt How do I learn faith after there was with grace I had knew only how to question, to not. judge, birthdays and funerals, like in my life and I was restless birthdays and funerals, like Ittolearned was morning late How doinsomnia. Idownhill learn after learn atonew ofstruggle, being, not tothe believe, then perhaps, least, am sorry now forway asatsorry other move Ilook amearly sorry now foras the struggle, faltering my whole on the jagged to look at their assorry one might view Ifaith am now for life the struggle, knewInow only how question, to judge, now for the never knowing enough, there was with grace Ifaith had faltering my whole life on the jagged never nor I might at their faith one view with myself, with my doubts, insomnia. in my life and Iunderstood. was restless faltering my whole life on the jagged born of anever desperate need, ifto at last, belong? sorry for the knowing enough, so lightly upward, beyond, away from me. sorry now for the never knowing enough, edges of doubt? How doever, Ibeautiful so late an exotic bird on display, sorry now for the never knowing enough, to look at their faith as one might view to be sure of anything. I have never learned nor understood. I edges of doubt? How do I so late knew only how to question, to judge, an exotic bird on display, beautiful the back and forth of them, with myself, my doubts, edges ofI have doubt? How Ibevibrant sosure late not to believe, then perhaps, at least, be of anything. ever, to sure ofmight anything. learn a new way of being, and loud with life, ever, to ofand I have anever, exotic birdsure on display, beautiful carried like anew weight knew only howofdo to question, toanything. judge, learn abewith way of being, look atdoubt their faith as one view and vibrant and loud withI have life, the relentless like the back and forth ofbeautiful them, learn a new way being, last, to likebelong? a weight carried doubt like a weight born of a desperate need, ifdownhill butfaith then, comment ontothe cage. carried doubt like view aonly weight andcarried vibrantatdoubt and with life, as other move to look atpresence, their asto one might born of desperate need, if the cage. exotic bird ontoadisplay, butrelentless then, comment only on birthdays and funerals, like the presence, like born ofcage. a desperate if asloud other move downhill aswith other move not on toneed, believe, then perhaps, atan least, downhill as other but then, downhill to comment only on thean somove lightly upward, away from me. exotic bird display, beautiful not tobeyond, believe, then perhaps, at least, and vibrant and loud life, insomnia. birthdays and funerals, like not to believe, then perhaps, at so lightly upward, beyond, away from me. so lightly upward, beyond, away from me. atleast, last, tolife, belong? so lightly upward, beyond, away from me. and vibrant and loud with at last, to belong? but then, to comment only on the cage. insomnia. last, to to comment belong? only on the cage. butatthen,

Out of Step

Ann Ryan

It was early morning late in my life and I was restless with myself, with my doubts, the back and forth of them, the relentless presence, like birthdays and funerals, like insomnia. I was born out of step, leaving when I should have stayed, doubting when I should have not. I am sorry now for the struggle, sorry now for the never knowing enough, ever, to be sure of anything. I have carried doubt like a weight downhill as other move so lightly upward, beyond, away from me. I saw them, how they were, how they moved in sync with each other and absorbed what doubt there was with grace I had never learned nor understood. I knew only how to question, to judge, to look at their faith as one might view an exotic bird on display, beautiful and vibrant and loud with life, but then, to comment only on the cage. How do I learn faith after faltering my whole life on the jagged edges of doubt? How do I so late learn a new way of being, born of a desperate need, if not to believe, then perhaps, at least, at last, to belong? Poetry Volume 42

12 Sanskrit 2011 Short Story

Just Routine John Danahy

Cotton and dried blood filled Adam’s mouth, muffling his voice. The admitting nurse didn’t seem to understand him. His throat parched, he had to repeat the answers to many of her endless questions. With his gaunt face, dark-circled eyes, and the wrinkled clothes he had hurriedly put on, he supposed he looked like a street person who hadn’t slept in days. Pungent, ammonia-like odors filled the air. Harsh fluorescent lights dulled the colors, giving the room a look of sterile gray and faded blue. A siren wailed. Swinging doors to the reception area banged open. Two attendants wheeled a gurney into the room, past Adam, and through metal doors that led to the inner hospital. The admitting nurse’s round, lumpy face was devoid of makeup except garish eyebrows painted at sharp angles over her vacant, gray eyes. Her thin lips barely parted when she spoke. Adam felt the urge to touch the large, brown mole on her left cheek to see if it was real. A lone strand of hair hung over her right eye to just above her mouth. She puffed the hair out of her way before asking the next question. Tapping the keys of the computer efficiently, she stared, unfocused, at the screen. The interrogation began to irritate Adam. He wanted to tell her to forget the damn paperwork and take care of him, now. Adam’s wisdom tooth had bothered him for weeks, and he finally made a dentist appointment for Wednesday after work. When Dr. Friedman told him that the tooth should come out, he resisted at first. He’d never had a tooth pulled or had a broken bone or even a stitch. It frightened him to think of his body being invaded, but he dismissed his fear as childish.

He felt only a slight discomfort as the needle was inserted into his gum. When the anesthetic numbed the whole side of his face, he felt detached from his tooth. Dr. Friedman completed the extraction in less than five minutes. “There may be some minor bleeding,” she said, “but it should stop quickly.” Adam woke around four in the morning. The sweet, syrupy taste of blood filled his mouth, and red stains covered his pajamas and the sheets. Unable to clear his throat to speak, he reached for and shook his wife’s shoulder. Stirring, she turned toward him, and sat up quickly. “My God, Adam,” she said. “Has it stopped? Are you okay?” He tried to reassure her, to no avail. She insisted he rinse with warm water and salt, and went with him to the bathroom where he rinsed, washed up, and put on a fresh set of pajamas. Back in bed, his wife quickly returned to sleep. The bleeding continued. Adam considered what might happen if he lost too much blood. He tried to put it out of his mind, but the thought kept creeping back, just as his tongue kept returning to the bloody spot where his tooth had been. Perhaps the worrying might raise his blood pressure and cause him to lose more blood. The normally reassuring beat of his heart became a steady reminder of his loss of blood and his irrational fear. He shifted back and forth, trying to get more comfortable, and his wife woke. “Honey, this is serious,” she said. “I don’t think it’s going to stop. You really need to go to the emergency room.” Hospitals frightened him, but he knew he had to stop the bleeding. “All right,” he said, not wanting her to know he was afraid. “If the kids wake up, tell them I’ll be fine. You go back to bed.” Short Story Volume 42

As Adam drove to the hospital, memories of a movie he had seen came to him. A woman turned on the water for a bath. She adjusted the hot water until steam rose gently, enveloping the tub. After taking off and carefully folding her robe, she removed her slippers and climbed into the bath. Putting her head back on a pillow, she lingered lazily in the hot water. She examined each wrist, then picked up a razor blade and made a deep, horizontal cut into first her left wrist and then her right. Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” played in the background as the woman vacantly watched the water turn bright red. Two men paced nervously in the reception area. A young, black man with long, curly hair and weary, half-closed eyes had a broken arm encased in a filthy, signature-covered cast. The other, a bald, middleaged man with prominent veins in his nose and cheeks, had a patch over his right eye. A man and woman sat

filling out Adam’s paperwork. She ignored him. When he spoke again, she said, “Sit down and wait your turn.” As Adam put another fresh cotton ball in his mouth, the woman winced and groaned loudly. The man with the broken arm asked the nurse when he would see a doctor, but she ignored him and continued her paperwork. Down the hall, the two young nurses and the doctor were sipping coffee. Tearing Adam’s paperwork off the printer, the admitting nurse said, “Follow me.” They went into a stark, white room containing medical equipment and four beds separated by partially closed curtains. Without looking at him, she instructed him to lie on the nearest bed. The sheet felt abrasive against his skin, and he stretched out slowly. At his eye level, a soiled slip protruded slightly where the middle button of her uniform had opened. She said the doctor would see him shortly, and left. Adam felt relieved that he would finally see a doctor, and he was glad to get away

Sit down and wait your turn nearby in red plastic chairs that were crisscrossed with frayed duct tape. The man, with olive skin, short, brown hair, and a wide, flat nose, and the woman, attractive, with jet-black, wavy hair, and long, bright red fingernails, spoke softly to each other in Spanish. Unlike Adam, they seemed content with the endless waiting. Although he hadn’t heard another siren, the doors banged loudly open and two men wheeled a gurney rapidly past him. They passed the admitting nurses’ station and went down the hall where a doctor and two young nurses stood talking. The doctor, tall, smooth-faced, and around the same age as the nurses, appeared to be telling them a joke. Adam wondered if they knew the people here needed help. The attractive woman spoke to her companion in a loud, commanding voice. Although Adam couldn’t understand her words, he could tell that she was in pain. Her friend jumped up and tried to interrupt the nurse

16 Sanskrit 2011 Short Story

from that nurse. Staring at the ceiling, he counted the holes in the tiles and studied the shape of the water stains. A stain directly above his head reminded him of an outline of the Rocky Mountains that he had seen in a beer commercial. The edge of the stain tapered off into a line that led to another stain that resembled the face of an old woman. He thought of a female Mt. Rushmore, a river of beer at its foot. Time passed as slowly as the running of that river. Adam wondered where the hell the doctor was. His bleeding continued. He heard the sounds of another patient being brought into the next bed. After a moment, the admitting nurse began a stream of questions. Adam wondered why she hadn’t done this in the reception room and why the paperwork in this goddamned hospital seemed more important than the patients. The nurse droned her inquiries about insurance coverage, credit references, and next of kin. From the patient’s voice, Adam guessed he was an elderly man.

Adam heard a pattern of labored breathing in the next bed—a low, mournful groan followed by a loud gasp. He envisioned the man panting through tightly clenched teeth. A deep sigh followed the gasp, as if the man was clinging tenaciously to each bit of oxygen. Adam pictured a great weight pressing on the man’s rib cage forcing him to strain for each breath. The man’s plaintive groan signaled the next rhythmic cycle of struggle. As Adam changed another cotton ball, the nurse asked the old man more questions. Adam heard the fear in the old man’s voice as he told the nurse he couldn’t breathe. Anxiety crept over Adam. “Be still,” the nurse said, and then asked again about the old man’s insurance coverage. Fueled by the bleeding that wouldn’t stop and the increasing urgency of the old man’s groaning, Adam’s apprehension deepened. Just when he thought she’d never complete the interrogation, the questions stopped. “Relax,” she said, and left the room. Alarm gripped Adam. The old man could die before a doctor saw him. Adam wished he had asked his wife to come with him. As the oppressive rhythmic groaning continued, he pictured her at home in their bed, peacefully sleeping. A woman with dark, oily hair, sallow skin, and deep brown eyes opened the curtain abruptly and glanced briefly at Adam. She picked up his chart, and with her eyes on the chart said, “I’m Doctor White.” Without asking how he felt or if the bleeding had stopped, she told the nurse to prepare a shot of adrenalin. The groaning from the next bed grew louder, but the doctor and nurse didn’t seem to notice. “The bleeding’s just routine,” the doctor said. “Adrenalin is an effective coagulant in these cases.” She scribbled on his chart and left. Adam grew more furious with the doctors and nurses and everyone in this hospital. They were treating him like a child, but he felt powerless to do anything about it. His bleeding wasn’t just routine—he had a real problem. He imagined the old man struggling for breath and wondering if he would die. Did he have grey hair, or was he bald? Was his face wrinkled with age? Did he stoop from years of abuse to his back? Was he afraid of dying or was it the manner of his death? The man’s fear pressed down on Adam, and it became harder to

breathe. He couldn’t contain the escalating alarm that gripped him like a vise. Adam threw the last of the blood saturated cotton balls in the waste container. Time seemed to have stopped, although he thought he’d been in this room for over an hour. He made up his mind that he wouldn’t accept this treatment anymore. He’d insist his bleeding was serious and that they must take care of him, when and how he wanted. His heart beat faster as his fear raced out of control. An overweight, middle-aged nurse opened the curtain. “Please roll up your left sleeve,” she said. He wanted to scream at her, but fear sucked his voice from his throat. He turned away as she swabbed his arm and administered a needle. The swift prick startled him. She pressed a cotton swab on the punctured spot on his arm. “The adrenalin may increase your heart rate,” she said while looking at her watch. “Lie back and relax.” Adam leaned back and closed his eyes. Almost immediately, his heart began to race. A bitter, copper taste filled his mouth, as if it were stuffed with dirty pennies. Sweat rolled down his forehead and cheeks, and his breathing became more rapid. He thought his heart would leap from his chest. Its loud beating nearly muffled the sounds of the old man’s struggle for breath. The pound, pound, pound of his heart convinced Adam that he would bleed to death, now, in this room. His throat thickened. The nurse said the bleeding would stop in ten minutes or less and he could leave then. The old man groaned loudly and called for help. “Pick up the bill at the desk on the way out,” she said. She pulled his curtain shut, and walked out of the room.

Short Story Volume 42

Amelia Fletcher

inkjet print | 13" x 19"

18 Sanskrit 2011 Art

Hanging in Winter

In the attic InIn thethe attic In the attic Uncertain sunlight Uncertain sunlight my history. Uncertain sunlight Uncertain sunlight UncertainUncertain sunlight mymy history. Inattic the attic mysunlight history.sunlight Insunlight the attic Inthe the attic Insunlight sunlight Uncertain Uncertain sunlight InNight thesunlight attic Uncertain sunlight Uncertain In the attic past history. things awake In In the attic thethe attic thethe past the pastare the past In the attic In attic Uncertain sunlight Uncertain Uncertain the past my Night are awake Inattic theattic attic my history. Uncertain In things the attic Night things are awake my history. my history. Uncertain sunlight Uncertain sunlight Uncertain sunlight Uncertain sunlight the Uncertain sunlight thehistory. past the past themy past history. past past aUncertain hidden place. Night things are awake watching. In the attic my Uncertain history. In the attic Inmy the my history. Inare the attic mymy history. a hidden place. a hidden place. a hidden place. my history. history. sunlight the past the past the past a hidden place. watching. history. Night things are awake the past sunlight my history. In the attic watching. Night things awake In the attic Night things are awake the past the past the past the past the past a hidden place. a hidden place. a hidden place. Night things are awake a hidden place. a hidden place. Night things are awake Uncertain sunlightmy history. This heart watching. I hang outside myself Uncertain sunlight Night things are awake my history. my history. Night things areplace. awake myheart history. Night things areare awake This heart This heart This heart Night things are awake Night things awake the past a hidden place. a hidden place. a hidden place. This heart I hang outside myself Night things are awake watching. a hidden place. the past Night things are awake Uncertain sunlight my history. I hang outside myself watching. my history. watching. a hidden place. a hidden place. a hidden place. a hidden a hidden place. This heart This This heart watching. This heart This heart watching. the pastNight things a afloating eye I hang outside myselfmyself like a eye batwatching. theeye past are awake watching. Night things are awake Night things are awake watching. Night things are awake watching. a floating eye a floating a floating eye watching. hidden place. This heart This heart This heart a floating like a bat watching. Ilike hang outside This heart a hidden place. watching. the past Night things are awake like a bat I hang outside myself Night things are awake I hang outside myself This heart This heart This heart This heart This heart a floating eye a floating eye a floating eye I hang outside myself a floating eye a floating eye I hang place. outside myself a hiddenmyself place. watching. drifts amyself batIahang under my head adrifts hidden I hang outside myself watching. watching. outside watching. Ifloating hang outside myself drifts drifts drifts I hang outside myself I hang outside myself This heart a floating eye a floating eye a floating eye my head I hang outside myself like bat a eye This heart I hangunder outside a hidden place. watching. under my head like a bat watching. like a bat a floating eye a floating eye a floating eye a floating eye a floating eye drifts drifts drifts like a bat drifts drifts like a bat drifts from room to room. under my head the drop. This heart I hang outside myself like aoutside bat I hang outside myself I room hang myself likeThis adrifts batheart I hang outside myself likelike afrom bat to room. from room to room. from room to room. like a bat a bat a floating eye drifts drifts from room to room. thethe like a bat under my head drifts a floating eye like a drop. bat This heart I hang outside myself the drop. under my head I hang outside myself under my head drifts drifts drifts drifts from room to room. from room to room. from room to room. under my head from room to room. from room to room. undereye my head a my floating eye like drop. a floating a bat under my like a bat likehead amy bathead under head like under mymy head under my head under head drifts room toa bat room. from room to room. to room. under the drop. room to room. drifts under my room head a floating eye like a bat drop. likefrom athe bat thefrom drop. from room to room. driftsthefrom from room to from to room. from to room. from room room. the drop. drop.room drifts under head drop. under my head under my head thetoroom drop. under my head the drop. theroom. drop. the drop.the from room to room. theroom drop. from to room. the drop. drifts under my head under mymy head from room to room. from room to room. drop. the drop. the drop. the from room todrop. room. the drop. thethe drop.

Lara Gularte

Uncertain sunlight the past a hidden place. This heart a floating eye drifts from room to room. In the attic my history. Night things are awake watching. I hang outside myself like a bat under my head the drop.

Poetry Volume 42

Ignoring the Summons

writing,a time, a sternI’m voice a adisgrace, There comes a time, I’myou’re told there comes a day, writing, aday, stern voice says, a disgrace, There and comes toldsays, thereyou’re comes says to take amaybe last shot, cast myself I don’t know when, it’s happened, and says to anew take last shot,maybe castSeems myself anew I don’t know when, it’s happened, as the dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, no one tellsasenior me anything. I’ll have to asI’ll thehave old dame, thing, old-timer lines, no one tellsold medown, anything. Seems to writing, a stern voice says, blowing— you’re a disgrace, slowed patient, humble doing not answer the summons—a horn slowed down, patient, humble doing not answer the summons—a horn blowing— and says toa take last shot, cast myself anewa day, There comes a atime, I’m there writing, a stern voicehenceforth says, joy—carve you’re awrite disgrace, what I’veknow done with out this place writing, stern voice says, you’re a comes disgrace, that lets me know henceforth totold write only I’ve done joy—carve outthing, this place that lets me towhat only ashere. the old dame, senior old-timer lines, Iwith don’t know when, maybe it’s happened, and says to take a last shot, cast myself anew while still alive, still full of words, still and says to take a last shot, cast myself anewto old lady poems. About whatever I’ve been writing, a senior stern voice says, you’re astill disgrace, while alive, still full of words, still here. old lady poems. About whatever I’ve been slowed down, patient, humble doing no one me anything. Seems I’ll not have as the old dame, old-timer lines, as the oldadone dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, There comes a time, I’m told there comes atells day, anddown, says to take athing, last shot, cast myself anew what I’ve joy—carve outdoing this place answer thewith summons—a horn blowing— writing, awhen, stern voice says, you’re disgrace, slowed patient, humble doing not There comes a time, I’m told there comes a day, slowed down, patient, humble not I don’t know maybe it’s happened, as the oldno dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, while still alive, still afull of words, here. thatI’ve letsdone mecomes know henceforth tostill write only and says to take a last shot, cast myself anew There time, I’m told there comes a day, what I’ve done with joy—carve out this place I don’t know when, maybe it’s happened, what with joy—carve out this place one tells me anything. Seems I’ll have to slowed down, patient, humble doing not writing, a Istern voice says, you’re a adisgrace, writing, stern voice says, a disgrace, old lady poems. About whatever I’ve been asfull the old dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, don’t know when, maybe it’s happened, whilewhat still alive, still of words, still here. noyou’re one myself tells meanew anything. Seems I’ll have to while still alive, still full of words, still here. answer the summons—a horn blowing— I’veathat done with joy—carve out thishumble place and saysdoing to take atells lastme shot, castsays myself anew and to take a last shot, cast writing, stern voice says, you’re a disgrace, slowed down, patient, not no one anything. Seems I’ll have to answer the summons—a horn blowing— lets me know henceforth to write only while alive, full ofcast words, stillas here. writing, stern voice says, you’re a disgrace, the old dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, as the oldhorn dame, seniorathing, old-timer lines, and saysstill to take astill last shot, myself anew what I’ve done with joy—carve out this place answer the summons—a blowing— that lets me know henceforth to write only old lady poems. About whatever I’ve been writing, aknow stern voicedoing says, you’re adisgrace, disgrace, There comes a time, I’m told there comes a day, and says to takelady a last shot, cast myself anew slowed down, patient, humble not slowed down, patient, humble doing not as the old dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, while still alive, still full of words, still here. that lets me henceforth to write only writing, a stern voice says, you’re a old poems. About whatever I’ve been writing,down, a stern voiceasays, you’re a disgrace, and says totake take alast last shot, cast myself anew I don’t know when, maybe it’s happened, aswith the old dame, thing, old-timer lines, writing, asenior stern voice says, you’re a disgrace, what I’ve done with joy—carve out this place what I’ve done joy—carve out this place slowed patient, humble doing not old lady poems. About whatever I’ve been and says to a shot, cast myself anew There comes time, I’m told there comes a day, andI’ve saysdone toItake a know last shot, cast myself anew asthe thestill oldfull dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, no one anything. Seems I’llanew have to slowed down, patient, doing not and says to tells take ahumble last shot, cast myself while still alive, ofwhile words, still here. still alive, still full of words, stillme here. what with joy—carve out this place as old dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, don’t when, maybe it’s happened, as thestill oldalive, dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, slowed down,patient, patient,humble humble doing not answer thesenior summons—a horn blowing— whatdoing I’ve with joy—carve out this place as done the old dame, thing, old-timer lines, while still full of words, still here. slowed down, not no one tells me anything. Seems I’ll have to slowed down, patient, humble doing notblowing— whatI’ve I’vedone donewith withjoy—carve joy—carve outthis this place that lets me know henceforth to write while still alive, still fullpatient, of words, still here. slowed down, humble doing notonly what out place answer the summons—a horn what I’ve done withme joy—carve out this place whilestill stillalive, alive,still stillfull fullofofwords, words, still here. old poems. About whatever been what I’velady done with joy—carve out thisI’ve place still here. lets know henceforth to write while only while stillthat alive, still full ofAbout words, still here. while still alive, still full of words, still here. old lady poems. whatever I’ve been

Helen Wickes

There comes a time, I’m told there comes a day, I don’t know when, maybe it’s happened, no one tells me anything. Seems I’ll have to answer the summons—a horn blowing— that lets me know henceforth to write only old lady poems. About whatever I’ve been writing, a stern voice says, you’re a disgrace, and says to take a last shot, cast myself anew as the old dame, senior thing, old-timer lines, slowed down, patient, humble doing not what I’ve done with joy—carve out this place while still alive, still full of words, still here.

20 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Jordan Samuel Rickard

inkjet print | 44" x 55"

Art Volume 42

Spellbound by instinct, Spellbound by instinct, they slice upward through black water, deckhand, anddissolves baredraws me closer, like the prey thatThe taunts theybrown slice upward through black water, Fear as the shiver scent chested, balances on the the corners of theirand mouths, invites deckhand, brown bareFear dissolves as the shiver draws fin mefollowing closer, like theThe prey that taunts finprecipice followingpossessed scent advances, to shallows rich withofthe entrails of fish— draws like the preyofthat the taunts bow. Backlit the spontaneous grip chested, balances onme thecloser, precipice advances, possessed the corners their mouths, invites to shallows rich with theheentrails fish— draws me closer, like the prey that taunts of electric vibration theofbetter candy for the conditioned response. the corners of in their the blinding mouths, invites sun, hands outstretched, isall and thrash— of the bow.move Backlit electric vibration all thegorgeous better the in spontaneous grip candy for the conditioned response. the corners of their mouths, invites to seduce me with There, the blue draws me closer, like the prey that taunts the spontaneous grip the eclipse, how a fish must before the inthrash— the blinding sun, hands outstretched, he is tothat seduce me with and me closer, like the prey taunts There, in the blue the spontaneous grip each elegant stroke of body and tail void, Idraws hover, anticipating theof corners ofdraws their mouths, invites thrash— the shadow-self—a and deadly turn the head the eclipse, me closer, like theshaman prey that taunts each elegant stroke ofand body and tail how fish must move before the gorgeous the corners of their mouths, invites void, I hover, anticipating and thrash— whispers aa seismic premonition the spontaneous grip how a fish must move before casting the bait gorgeous in the form of blood: the shadow-self—a shaman turn the ofincantation, theiramouths, invites memory whispers andmust deadly turn ofheave the head the spontaneous grip and seismic premonition how a fish move before the gorgeous angrip embryonic of panic, the clutch and andofthrash— thecorners ancient head casting bait in formadeadly of thethe spontaneous anthe embryonic memory ofthrash— the the clutch andand heave deadly turnsilver-skinned ofand thethrash— head of deep. gills, cradle lull terror like and riptide how fishblood: must move before that summons topanic, the ancient incantation, andgorgeous of gills, the cradle and lull how chasing a fishwobble must move before the gorgeous terror like riptide chasing of athe warm andsilver-skinned sweet globes of breath that and rise, andsweet deadly of the head that summons to the and deep. howturn a fish must move before gorgeous a warm andcoral deadly turn of theofhead globes of breath that wobble amniotic sea and rise, newly born of soft lungs. and deadlynewly turn ofborn the head amniotic sea of soft coral lungs.

Shark Dive Nicole Hardy

The deckhand, brown and barechested, balances on the precipice of the bow. Backlit in the blinding sun, hands outstretched, he is the eclipse, the shadow-self—a shaman casting bait in the form of blood: ancient incantation, that summons to the deep. Spellbound by instinct, they slice upward through black water, fin following scent to shallows rich with the entrails of fish— candy for the conditioned response. There, in the blue void, I hover, anticipating a seismic premonition of panic, the clutch and heave terror like riptide chasing silver-skinned globes of breath that wobble and rise, newly born of soft coral lungs. Fear dissolves as the shiver advances, possessed of electric vibration all the better to seduce me with each elegant stroke of body and tail whispers an embryonic memory of gills, the cradle and lull of a warm and sweet amniotic sea draws me closer, like the prey that taunts the corners of their mouths, invites the spontaneous grip and thrash— how a fish must move before the gorgeous and deadly turn of the head.

22 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Small Boat Fracturing

Again into my life Carvedreturns in the The memory returns Again into my life The memory The memory Again into my life crashing crevices returns Again into mycrashing life unchanged, Again my lifereturns Again into the my unlit life Theinto memory unchanged, pilings of columned wood unchanged, Again into my Again into my life Carved in the crashing The memory returns Again my lifecrashing still torrid inlife the water’s swell, crashing into unlit pilings still torrid incrashing thenight water’s swell, unchanged, Again into mythe life the unlit pilings the and the harbor looming up Carved in the paints this thick still torrid in the water’s swell, crashing Carved in the The memory returns crashing crevices unlit pilings unchanged, crashing unlit pilings the harbor looming the unlit pilings and up stilland torrid in the water’s swell, crashing the the harbor looming up unseen crevices and tarry sheen— the unlit pilings crevices unchanged, the unlit pilings of columned wood The memory returns and the harbor looming up still torrid in the water’s swell, the unlit pilings stilled inside the turbulence. and the looming up shame— and the harbor looming up up unseen stilled inside the harbor unlit pilings unseen where there were distances; The memory returns of columned wood stilled inside the turbulence. where and the harbor looming up ofturbulence. ofstill columned torrid inwood the water’s swell, the and theonly harbor looming my night paints this thick unseen and the harbor looming upfather’s unseen unseen there were only distances; stilledpaints inside the turbulence. only and the harbor looming up wherenight there were distances; The memory returns unchanged, this thick flashback my unseen night paints this thick unseen and tarry sheen— still torrid in the water’s swell, where there were only distances; stilled inside the turbulence. unseen where there were distances; where there were onlyonly distances; unseen nowdistances; compassless, unchanged, still torrid in only the water’s swell, and tarry sheen— boat wewhere The memory returns there werewhere only and stilled inside the turbulence. there were distances; my shame— where there were only distances; now compassless, Thecompassless, memory returns where there were onlytarry distances; now the dark lit corridor stillsheen— torrid inmemory the water’s swell, my shame— wrecked: unchanged, my shame— The memory returns flashback of my father’s stilled inside the turbulence. The returns now compassless, now compassless, now compassless, dark lit corridor unchanged, theof dark lit corridor beneath the pier, stilled inside the turbulence. flashback my father’s trapped beneath thethe wreckage still torrid in the water’s swell, nowof compassless, flashback my father’s unchanged, now compassless, boat we unchanged, the litbeneath corridor thenow dark lit water’s corridor thememory dark litturbulence. corridor the pier, still torrid in compassless, the swell, now compassless, beneath the pier, dark the swollen tide stilled inside the boat we my brother drowned. the dark lit corridor The memory returns boat we still torrid in the water’s swell, the dark lit corridor The returns wrecked: still torrid in the water’s swell, beneath the pier, the dark lit corridor beneath the pier, beneath the pier, swollen the swollen tide the dark lit corridor the tide closed in wrecked: inside the turbulence. The memory returns beneath thewhere pier,beneath unchanged, wrecked: thewind pier, unchanged, The memory trapped beneath the wreckage beneath thebeneath swollen tide the pier,stilled the swollen tide returns the swollen tide closed in stilled inside the turbulence. the pier, closed in spiraling trapped beneath the wreckage Later, along the shore, I stood unchanged, the swollen tide still torrid in the water’s swell, trapped beneath the wreckage stilled inside the turbulence. the swollen tide still torrid the water’s swell, unchanged, my brother drowned. stilled inside the turbulence. closed in the swollen tide closed in closed in in where wind where the swollen tidetorrid spiraling wind sweeps inexorably drowned. still in the water’s closed inswell, myspiraling brother drowned. closed still torrid in the water’s swell, where spiraling wind my brother closed inThe where spiraling wind where spiraling windwind memory sweeps inexorably closed ininside The returns sweeps inexorably by stanchions mute, memory returns The memory returns where spiraling wind stilled inside the turbulence. where spiraling stilled the turbulence. Later, along the shore, I stood sweeps inexorably where spiraling wind sweeps inexorably memory sweeps inexorably The returns by stanchions where spiraling wind unchanged, by stanchions poised like penitents, Later, along the shore, I stood The memory returns some silenced part of methe swept unchanged, unchanged, stilled inside the turbulence. inside sweeps inexorably Later, along the shore, Iunchanged, stood underground. sweeps inexorably stilled turbulence. by stanchions sweeps inexorably The memory returns by stanchions stanchions poised like penitents, the sweeps inexorably still torrid in water’s swell, poised like penitents, unforgiven. unchanged, still torrid the water’s swell, still torrid in thestanchions water’s by swell, by by stanchions mute, poised like bywater’s stanchions unchanged, poised like penitents, poised like penitents, still in torrid in the penitents, water’s swell, unforgiven. by stanchions unforgiven. mute, still torrid in the swell, poised like penitents, mute, poised like silenced partthe of mepenitents, swept unforgiven. poised like still some torrid in the water’s swell, unforgiven. unforgiven. poised like penitents, the turbulence. some silencedstilled part ofinside me penitents, swept stilled inside the turbulence. stilled inside turbulence. unforgiven. some silenced part of me swept unforgiven. underground. unforgiven. stilled inside the turbulence. unforgiven.underground. stilled inside underground. the turbulence. stilled inside the turbulence.

Richard Brostoff

Again into my life crashing the unlit pilings and the harbor looming up unseen where there were only distances; now compassless, the dark lit corridor beneath the pier, the swollen tide closed in where spiraling wind sweeps inexorably by stanchions poised like penitents, unforgiven. Carved in the crevices of columned wood night paints this thick and tarry sheen— my shame— flashback of my father’s boat we wrecked: trapped beneath the wreckage my brother drowned. Later, along the shore, I stood mute, some silenced part of me swept underground. The memory returns unchanged, still torrid in the water’s swell, stilled inside the turbulence. Poetry Volume 42

The Ascent

At the center of her brain, She watches July’s light show ThunderClap tumbles into a gorge. Clap of thunder the fizzle of sparks.Thunder tumbles Clap of thunder intoofathunder gorge. shimmering from earth and the choked cry of the loon.At the center ofand Clap of thunder herShe brain, She watches July’s light watches July’s light show the choked cry and of the the loon. choked cry ofrain the loon. Sheofthe watches light showImpossible sky,of Thunder into a gorge. to think under clatter, and the chokedtotumbles cry the loon. fizzle July’s oftosparks. Her life theshow reflection shadows shimmering from earth shimmering from earth Impossible think under rain clatter, shimmering from earth luminous with broken promises. her synapses vibrate, Between conifers a new soul rises. sticking to At tree the shade, center of her brain, tumbles into gorge. At the center into of her brain, sky, Thunder sky, Thunder tumbles atoclatter, gorge. Atathe center of shadows her brain,toaBetween Between conifers new soul rises. conifers a new soul rises. her synapses vibrate, to sky, Impossible to think under rain a snake of lightning strikes. Between conifers athe new soulofrises. Herblack. life the reflection of black into the fizzle ofsnake sparks. fizzle sparks. She watches July’s light show luminous with broken promises. luminous with broken promises. the fizzle of sparks. She watches July’s light show a of lightning strikes. luminous with broken promises. her synapses vibrate, Near the smoking boulder sticking to tree shade, Impossible to think under shimmering from earthrain clatter, Impossible think under clatter, Near the smoking boulder Near thefrom smoking shimmering earthboulder athe snake oftosynapses lightning strikes. a rain midden of ashes, Near smoking boulder black intoreflection life the reflection ofblack. shadows herHer synapses vibrate, Her life the reflection of shadows to sky, her vibrate, Her life the of shadows a midden of ashes, to a midden sky, of ashes, the rattle ofawings. a midden of ashes, sticking to tree shade, snake lightning strikes. sticking to tree shade, luminous withofbroken promises. a snake lightning strikes. sticking tree shade, the rattle of wings. thebroken rattle of wings. luminous with promises. the rattle of of wings. black into black.to black into black. black into black.

Lara Gularte

She watches July’s light show shimmering from earth to sky, luminous with broken promises. Thunder tumbles into a gorge. Impossible to think under rain clatter, her synapses vibrate, a snake of lightning strikes. At the center of her brain, the fizzle of sparks. Her life the reflection of shadows sticking to tree shade, black into black. Clap of thunder and the choked cry of the loon. Between conifers a new soul rises. Near the smoking boulder a midden of ashes, the rattle of wings.

24 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Ben Verner

mixed media on panel | 16" x 20"

Art Volume 42

Communion Melissa Chadburn

I smiled nervously and thought, This is strange and funny but sort of sexy… I thought of my new lover and how this could make a great kinky scene. I knew he was waiting. I never did well with silences. I heard the priest place his palm on his wooden shelf. I had to say something. What constitutes a sin anyway?

It was early evening at St. Augustin’s church in Boyle Heights, California. I was at a rehearsal for my secretary’s wedding. The jacaranda trees outside the church had left a light purple trail on the maroon carpeting that adorned the entrance. The wedding party sat in pews awaiting their turn to confess. Little glints of light

bounced on the stained-glass windows. I sat outside the yellow pine door staring at the crucified image of Jesus at the altar. When I was a child, I would trace the blood over the arcs of his feet in my mind. When that game ended, I would imagine I lived in the church with all my friends. Now, as a grown-up, I found myself inside a small, dark room where there was only enough space for me to kneel. It smelled like burning coal, and the seats were lined with blood-colored velvet, the smoothness of forgiveness. I was here to earn my turn for that dull wafer and sip of wine. There was a long, fat, leather kickstand on the floor to cushion my knees, and a smooth, light pine bar to hook my feet around. It was the stuff fetishes are made of. The thin bar, with just the right amount of room for you to strike prayer position, it

for several hours after school. I was sent away frequently to some sort of principal’s office for doodling in my gold book. I would doodle devil’s horns on Jesus’ head. I would update the sketches of myself to look more punk rock. I remembered the woman who drove me home every day. She was a cat woman, the kind who owned so many cats she didn’t even bother to name them all. Her car reeked of animals and cigarettes; she was overweight and her arms and elbows would leak onto my side of the little white Volkswagen bug every time she shifted gears. That’s when I stopped trusting the whole thing. I thought it was just another ride home for my mother, another free after-school program. “I don’t know. I was about six or eight.” By now I had slunked out of my prayer position and nodded my head to the side.

This is my first confession was a whisper from God or a priest or a master, the tight caress of the wooden room. “Good girl,” it said. When I closed the door behind me the sounds outside stopped. I knelt. My bag sagged beside my crossed ankles, a bottle of Coke inside made a clinking noise against the metal kickstand on the footrest. “Uh hello… I’ve never done this before.” “When did you go to your last confession?” It was a firm, fatherly voice, starchy and raspy. I could hear the window screen open. There was a dark grate between us. It was a farce. We both knew who the other person was. I knew he was the priest who was speaking to me outside, and he must have known who I was because I was the only English-speaking person there. I clasped my hands together and bent my head down before the grated window. “This is my first confession.” “Have you had your First Communion?” “Yes.” “Well, you must have confessed before that. When was that?” I searched my memory for hints. I knew there were classes for that. Catechism classes I had to endure

“How old are you now?” We were looking straight on then. “Thirty-two.” “So how long was that?” “I dunno.” I paused, looking down at my hands. I made math noises. “I guess about twenty-six years. Something around there.” “Okay.” He took a moment. “I want you to lean in and whisper all of your sins to me.” You see what I mean by kinky scene? I tried to think of the absolute worst thing I’d ever done. An image of my brother’s large dark hand holding a gun came to my mind. I saw only the butt of the gun, his hands between a woman’s legs, the skirt of her dress up against the wall. I tried to remember but I couldn’t see the woman, I couldn’t look, I was watching out for people in the parking lot. I was looking for people coming but I was crying. “Give me your money!” B said. He was just acting; he wasn’t really that bad. But he loved it. He loved this acting. He’d tell me later he thought his character had reached new heights. He had the woman pinned up against the Short Story Volume 42

wall, and with her sad white dress with brown flowers crumpled up around her waist, B pushed a gun up her. He’s huge, six-five, black, onyx black, muscular. It just looked so awful. I thought he’d gone too far. It was real; he was sticking a gun up some woman’s pussy for money. That’s what I thought. He didn’t have to do that. The woman pissed herself, the gun. She was a grown woman, she was shaking, she had money. My hands were resting on the window in front of me, slightly moist. “Omissions to act. I think my sins aren’t so much things I did but things I failed to do,” I whispered. “You have not confessed in twenty-six years and that is the only sin you can think of?” “Uh, yes, Father. Except maybe honesty. There are times when I have been dishonest.” “What about sex? Do you have sex?” I smiled to myself. Oh naughty priest, I thought. “Yes, I have sex, Father.” I was in my element now. I smirked at the priest. Is this what he wanted? “About how often? Once a day? Once a week? Once a month? Once a year?” I thought, There’s a lot of math involved in this. I looked down at my hands. Let’s see, I’ve been around thirty-two years. I started having sex pretty young, but maybe regularly around twenty-three. “Father, is this an average?” He sighed. “Yes.” “Once a week.” “Are you married?” “No.” “Living with someone?” I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know how to answer. Maybe I should say that my boyfriend left a toothbrush at my house, and that has recently elevated the level of our relationship. But I wasn’t quite sure what to call him. I had been living like a lesbian for the last ten years, and now I was dating a trans guy, and I just wasn’t used to using the words boy and friend together in a sentence. When I was searching for a gender-neutral term that I could use to describe him, he suggested I call him toothbrush-leaver. I started to say, “Father, I have a toothbrush-leaver” but thought better of it. I settled on

28 Sanskrit 2011 Short Story

“Father, I’m gay.” “I don’t care if you are homosexual, bisexual, transsexual, cisexual. But you have drifted from your faith. I cannot let you take Communion tomorrow because it would be sacrilegious.” I slumped in my kneel. No longer feeling the good girl caress, no longer caring. Well, no longer caring completely I suppose. You see, there’s more to the story about the brother. It’s true he was an asshole and that’s probably what sticks out about him. But his madness was driven by a need to satiate his heroin addiction. I used to take him to pick up his methadone. All the junkies sat around with little waxed Dixie cups, the Easteresque pastel flowers ridiculing their addiction. They used to sit around with those cups, the dope fiends. They would take them apart, unravel them into one long piece of waxed paper, unfold the curled edges, and lick it clean. My brother seemed to hunker down in the chairs, making the plastic chairs disappear, like a parent at back-to-school night. He would look angry, then sheepish; he’d take his Communion in his mouth (that’s what we called it, “Communion”) and finally he would look relieved for a moment like an exhale. The last time I took him, he stood up to leave and I noticed his hands were still clenched in fists. Not a good sign for him. When he reached the door he smacked some guy on the head with one hand while delicately removing the Dixie cup with his other. He was always so coordinated, never got the BZZZZ in Operation. “Punk ass biotch!” he sneered and ran outside before anyone could move. They were in slow motion in there. Time stopped in there. My brother eventually died. I always quote his last words as being “Fuck it.” This sounds apathetic but really it wasn’t. It was his faith. You see, despite his grungy, crass lifestyle he was deeply religious and he wore a gold crucifix around his neck. When he said those words they came out more like a slur, “Fuuuuuckittt.” At the same time he paternally stroked the miniature golden figure of Jesus on his crucifix. I got comfort in this. Regardless of all the horrible, mean, desperate things we did, there would always be a place for salvation. This priest was taking away my last hope for salvation. I say I do not believe in it but I want to. I wanted to think that the thing that kept me out of this small closet my whole life was not complete lack

of disbelief but that this fell somewhere on Plan B and I was currently still working on Plan A. “I don’t feel I have drifted from my faith. God is with me in everything I do, Father.” I pulled my feet and knees out from the holster and crossed my legs in the chair. I raised my hands so my silhouette would cast a deep shadow across his face. If shadows were felt it would have been a slap. “But this is your church and I will respect your wishes.”

the confessional. I knew my secretary was waiting for a verdict. I knew I had been in there a long time. I passed the procession of expectant faces, not able to tell them, and walked out of the church. I was ripped into the brightness of reality, like when you exit a movie theater. The church exit led right onto the dark asphalt of the parking lot. There were three cars, my Jeep, a tan Buick, and right next to the door in a parking spot designated with a sign that said “Reserved

Wait, did I just get rejected from taking the Eucharist? The thing that people have been hounding me about for so long? “Okay, if you promise me not to take Communion tomorrow, I will absolve you of all your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.” He slammed the door of the window shut. The room grew dark. I sat there sad, like I had lost something. Confused. I looked at the floor, at the stupid leather log designed to cushion knees. I could not leave the room, so I put my head down on the little wooden shelf. My dark curls splayed along my shoulder, my designer jeans falling low on my ass, I pushed my sneakered feet into the floor to try to get centered. Wait, did I just get rejected from taking the Eucharist? The thing that people have been hounding me about for so long? I mean don’t they recruit for this thing? I became overwhelmed with the guilt and shame of somebody else’s judgment of my spirit. I felt unlovable. And this is where I get stuck. I find it very difficult to write my way out of this because that phrase is so painful. To feel unworthy of love is like having your body hollowed out so your spirit becomes separate from the vehicle that is your body. You’re untethered, insatiable, every movement you’ve made up till now is completely worthless. “Unlovable,” it leaves an echo…and my heart feels like a jumbled mass. I pulled myself together, got up, and left

for Father…” there stood the man with the voice. He was tall, bald, doughy. The type of white man you would be surprised to know was fluent in Spanish. A Phil Donahue, Santa Claus variety of white man. He was bent over struggling with his car. He drove an old navy blue Cutlass Ciera, with dark blue leather seats. I knew the car because I used to have one and my friends and I used to joke that it would be my stripper name. “Having trouble, Father?” I’d like to say that he appeared jolted by my voice but he did not stop tinkering with his car. His face was red. I got closer and peered under the hood. “Just think I need a jump.” His battery was covered in corrosion. “You might need help getting to those battery plugs. Mind if I help you out?” This finally jolted him. He looked up at me, his starched white priest’s collar smudged with grease. I looked at him as long as I could. Held his gaze, showed him my wet eyes. They were glassy from rejection. I remembered my bottle of Coca-Cola. I walked around the old priest and poured it over the top, watching years of buildup and breakdown instantly get eaten away. I hugged the priest good-bye and whispered, “This is what Jesus must have felt like.”

Short Story Volume 42

Amber D. Watts

mixed media on panel | 34" x 36"

30 Sanskrit 2011 Art

Carmen Neely

silver gelatin print | 6.5" x 9"

Art Volume 42

At 3am I woke warm, in stale air At 3amthundering down onto the screaming people. INext wokecame warm, in stale air still thundering down pulled onto the screaming people. to find myself opened, wide, guns. I held as hundreds, find opened, pulled wide, thundering down onto the screaming came guns. Ifrom held still3am astohundreds, down onto themyself screaming people. unzippedNext down thethundering center, inside. no thousands, of machine gunspeople. thundering down the screaming people. At 3am Iair woke warm, in air At I woke warm, incenter, stale unzipped down the from inside. Next came guns. Iofheld still as stale hundreds, no onto thousands, of machine guns Next guns. I held still as hundreds, At 3am I guns. woke warm, incame stale air ANext country people poured out of me, tumbled out the center of me, cameof I held still as hundreds, to find myself opened, pulled wide, towide, findAmyself opened, pulled wide, country of people poured out me, no thousands, ofofmachine guns out of the center of me, no thousands, of machine guns to find pulled writhing on tumbled theopened, floor beside my bed. a cracking avalanche of munitions, no myself thousands, of machine guns unzipped down the center, from unzipped down the from inside. writhing oncenter, the floor beside my tumbled out ofbutts thebed. center of me,inside. a cracking avalanche of munitions, tumbled out of the center of me, unzipped down theofcenter, from inside. Then trees, sequoias and pines, barrels and and triggers, tumbled out the center of me, A country of poured out of me, Aand country of people poured out ofpeople me, Then trees, and pines, a sequoias cracking avalanche of munitions, barrels and butts and triggers, cracking avalanche of munitions, A country of people poured out of me, oaks, clusters ofaearth grass magazines spilling out, piling onto auprooted, cracking avalanche of munitions, writhing on the floor beside my trees, bed. writhing on the floor beside my bed. oaks,butts uprooted, clusters ofand earth and grass barrels butts and triggers, magazines spilling out, piling onto trees, barrels and and triggers, writhing on the floor beside my bed. quivering from the onto the people, whose grew remote, barrels and butts androots. triggers, Then sequoias andonto pines, Then trees, sequoias and from the roots. magazines spilling out,screams piling trees, onto the people, whose screams grew remote, magazines spilling out,quivering piling onto trees, trees, sequoias andoaks, pines, A rushmagazines ofThen broken limbs, then rocks, fell out of aspines, I trees, lay there, unzipped, spilling piling onto trees, oaks, uprooted, clusters ofofearth grass uprooted, clusters of people, earth and grass A rush of me, broken limbs, then rocks, fell out me, onto the whose screams grewand remote, asonto Iout, lay there, unzipped, people, whose screams grew remote, oaks, uprooted, ofthe earth and grass doing nothing. onto the people,clusters whose screams grew remote, from the roots. quivering from the roots. asquivering I lay there, unzipped, nothing. asofI lay there, unzipped, quivering from doing the as I lay there, unzipped, A rush broken limbs, A roots. rush limbs, thenofrocks, fell out nothing. ofthen me, rocks, fell out of me, doing doing A rush of broken limbs, rocks, fell broken out of nothing. me, doingthen nothing.

Unzipped Kirsten Jones Neff

At 3am I woke warm, in stale air to find myself opened, pulled wide, unzipped down the center, from inside. A country of people poured out of me, writhing on the floor beside my bed. Then trees, sequoias and pines, oaks, uprooted, clusters of earth and grass quivering from the roots. A rush of broken limbs, then rocks, fell out of me, thundering down onto the screaming people. Next came guns. I held still as hundreds, no thousands, of machine guns tumbled out of the center of me, a cracking avalanche of munitions, barrels and butts and triggers, magazines spilling out, piling onto trees, onto the people, whose screams grew remote, as I lay there, unzipped, doing nothing.

32 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

I woke up blank to a dream’s dark antic, and didn’t care, blinking at brightness, white linens I woke up blank to a dream’s dark antic, peerbut through doorways and your giggle, bear extinguished candles, but the sundidn’t won’t leave your bottom half alone. the sun leave bottom half alone. out from meleave like your simple solutions; but thespreading sun won’t leave your bottom half alone. and blinking atleave brightness, white half linens butcare, the sun won’t your alone. in white robes. thewon’t full account is not neat. history accumulates, but thewindow’s sun won’t bottom half Ithis. imagine a smell deep within myself which nobottom evasion Ialone. imagine a smell deep withinhalf myself which no evasion but soon in the boxed flood ofno sun the frantic I imagine aI imagine smell deep within myself which evasion spreading out from me like simple solutions; Iavoids. imagine a smell deep within which no evasion blunt, fecal, something should grow from but dark the but the sun won’tstatistical. leave your bottom alone. a smell deep within myself which no evasion forgives orglut within hisflood boxmyself home forgives orall, avoids. enacted within his box home play ofordust brought me back: how things accumulate forgives avoids. enacted within his box home I woke up blank to a dream’s antic, but soon inforgives theenacted window’s boxed of sunhis thebox frantic orand avoids. enacted within home of particle dreams is scattered. urine—days, weeks old. fury. brokenness. I imagine a smell deep within myself which no evasion forgives or avoids. enacted within his box home but the sunsomeone won’t yourludic. bottom halfand alone. isatthe sameplay ludic. violations inclusions, sturdy, inane, isleave theavoids. same violations and inclusions, sturdy, inane, in time. to the laundry. down the block sleeps is the sameislinens ludic. violations and inclusions, sturdy, inane, didn’t care, blinking brightness, white linens of dust brought me back: how things accumulate is the same ludic. violations and inclusions, sturdy, inane, forgives or enacted within his box home the same ludic. violations and inclusions, sturdy, inane, imagine a smell deep within myself which nocraft evasion assurance of flight: and transformation never azure assurance of flight: and transformation never in aassurance church doorway, theI gothic arch’s skyward sweep: azure of flight:under craft and transformation never spreading outinane, from meazure like simple in time. solutions; linens to thecraft laundry. down theand block someone sleeps azure assurance of flight: craft transformation never is the ludic. violations and sturdy, azure assurance ofbehind flight: craft and transformation never forgives or same avoids. enacted within his inclusions, box home to be—including, possibly, an answer to the hardness of concrete. toconcrete. be—including, possibly, an answer to the hardness of concrete. abe—including, dreaming life,an safe a cardboard barricade. to be—including, possibly, answer to the hardness of but soon in the window’s boxed flood of sun the frantic peer through doorways and giggle, bear extinguished candles, in a church doorway, under the gothic arch’s skyward sweep: to be—including, possibly, an answer to the hardness of concrete. azure assurance flight: craft and transformation never to possibly, an answer to the hardness of concrete. is and the same ludic. violations andcandles, inclusions, sturdy, inane, Ihow hope you remember. evasions, death accumulate I hope you remember. evasions, death accumulate peer through doorways giggle, bear extinguished I hope you remember. evasions, death accumulate play of dust brought me back: things accumulate in white robes. the full account is not neat. history accumulates, a dreaming life, safe behind a cardboard barricade. I hope you remember. evasions, death accumulate to be—including, possibly, an answer to the hardness of concrete. I hope you remember. evasions, death accumulate azure ofunder flight: craft and transformation never thehover, carved arch. called thecalled silly acolytes the carved arch. delay called life. thelaundry. sillyunder acolytes in white robes. the full account islife. notacolytes neat. history accumulates, under the under carved arch. delayarch. called life. theassurance silly hover, in time. linens to the down the block someone sleeps blunt, fecal, statistical. something should grow from this. the glut under thedelay carved arch.life. delay life. thehover, silly but acolytes hover, Ipossibly, hope you evasions, death carved called the silly acolytes hover, todelay be—including, anremember. answer tothe theglut hardness of accumulate concrete. blunt, the fecal, statistical. something should grow from this.delay but inaccumulate a church doorway, under of theparticle gothic arch’s sweep: urine—days, weeks old. fury. brokenness. dreamsskyward is all, scattered. under carved arch. called life. the silly acolytes I hope youthe remember. evasions, death of particle dreams is all, scattered. fury. brokenness. dreaming life, safehover, behind a cardboard barricade. under theurine—days, carved arch.weeks delayold. called life. the silly aacolytes hover,

Forgetting Dreams Emily McKeage

I woke up blank to a dream’s dark antic, and didn’t care, blinking at brightness, white linens spreading out from me like simple solutions; but soon in the window’s boxed flood of sun the frantic play of dust brought me back: how things accumulate in time. linens to the laundry. down the block someone sleeps in a church doorway, under the gothic arch’s skyward sweep: a dreaming life, safe behind a cardboard barricade. but the sun won’t leave your bottom half alone. I imagine a smell deep within myself which no evasion forgives or avoids. enacted within his box home is the same ludic. violations and inclusions, sturdy, inane, azure assurance of flight: craft and transformation never to be—including, possibly, an answer to the hardness of concrete. I hope you remember. evasions, death accumulate under the carved arch. delay called life. the silly acolytes hover, peer through doorways and giggle, bear extinguished candles, in white robes. the full account is not neat. history accumulates, blunt, fecal, statistical. something should grow from this. but the glut of particle dreams is all, scattered. urine—days, weeks old. fury. brokenness.

Poetry Volume 42

Letter from Alfred Stieglitz to Georgia O’Keefe

draped around the skull of a horse. are thehands arms of heat. Yours Yourahands, soft-tipped and palm callused, After 1931 photograph by Alfred Stieglitz of Georgia O’Keeffe’s imaging a rough tongue. arebyhands of Stieglitz my absence. are madearound to fill cavities draped around theswept. skull of a horse. draped the skullthe oftongue a horse. After a 1931 photograph Alfred of Georgia O’Keeffe’s Alfred, I want hands nothing of death. Letter from Georgia O’Keeffe toofAlfred Stieglitz Headlamps inYour caverns. arced wrists hands, soft-tipped and palm callused, Your hands, soft-tipped andYour palm callused, draped around the skull a horse. These (I admit, elegant) hands decipher sky. With these hands Be calm, Alfred. No, easy with blanched bone. Look how are made to fill cavities the tongue swept. are made to fill cavities the tongue swept. Your hands, soft-tipped and palm callused, decipher sky. With these hands cup seeds, cut back echinacea, I scratch my head at the improbable. I am a plain woman. I rinse dishes, you forgive the flayed flesh, love Headlamps in caverns. Your arced wrists Headlamps in caverns. Your arced wrists are madeand to fill cavities the tongue swept. I breasts scratch mysleep. head improbable. snip herbs for at thethe sauce. They tug I twist them under my in pull weeds unleash the dogs on dirt trails. what was stolen by heat. Yours easy with blanched bone. Look how easy with blanched bone. Look howdecipher sky. With Headlamps caverns. Your arced wrists I twist them under my breasts sleep.into light, these hands shirts from a basket, shakeinthem against my stomach they flythe Ieasy sleep in Fisted ain narrow bed. I knotted rise early. you forgive theI flayed love at the you forgive the flayed flesh, love with blanched bone. Look howthem Fisted against myline stomach they flythepins. scratchflesh, my head improbable. clamp to with bleached from my body in dream. Hands These are hands that mix paint, draped around skull of a horse. draped around the skull of a horse. are the arms of heat. Yours what was stolen by heat. Yours what was stolen by heat. Yours you forgive the flayed flesh, love from myabody in dream. Hands I twist them under my breasts in sleep. What can man know of woman’s hands? at the tips of wings, Alfred. Your hands, soft-tipped palm callused, Your hands, soft-tipped and palm callused, are hands of my absence. are the arms Fisted of heat.against Yours my stomach are the arms of heat.and Yours whatthey wasfly stolenyou by splayed heat. Yours at the tips ofare wings, Alfred. decipher sky. With these hands How my fingers, made to fill cavities the tongue swept. are made to fill cavities the tongue swept. Letter from Georgia O’Keeffe to Alfred Stieglitz are hands of my absence. are of my absence. How you splayed myhands fingers, from my decipher body in dream. Hands sky. With these hands I arced scratch my head at the improbable. insisted I caress the absent forelock, decipher sky. With these hands Headlamps in caverns. wrists Headlamps in caverns. Your arced wrists Be calm, Alfred. No, Letter O’Keeffe toI scratch Alfred Stieglitz from Georgia O’Keeffe bone. toYour Alfred Stieglitz insisted ILetter caress theeasy absent forelock, at the tips of wings, Alfred. my head atHeadlamps theempty improbable. I twist them under my breasts in sleep. in caverns. Your arced wrists sockets, each stone molar, I scratch myfrom headGeorgia atBe thecalm, improbable. with blanched Look how easy with blanched bone. Look how I am a plain woman. I rinse dishes, Alfred. Beforgive calm, Alfred. No,flesh, empty sockets, eachyou stone molar, How you splayed my fingers, INo, twist them under my breasts in sleep. Fisted against my stomach they fly easy with blanched bone. Look how After a 1931 photograph by Alfred Stieglitz of Georgia hands imaging a rough tongue. I you twistforgive them under my breasts in sleep. the flayed love the flayed flesh, love pull weeds and unleash the dogs on dirt trails. I am a stomach plain woman. I rinse dishes, I am awhat plaindraped woman. I rinse dishes, insisted I Fisted caress the absent against myforelock, stomach they fly nothing fromofmy body in O’Keeffe’s dream. Hands around the skull horse. Alfred, I want death. Fistedsky. against my they fly was stolen by heat. Yours what was stolen by heat. Yours I sleepofinhands a pull narrow bed.and I rise early. pull weeds unleash the dogs on dirt trails. weeds unleash the dogs onsky. dirt trails. empty sockets, each stone from my body in molar, dream. Hands decipher these hands atWith theatips ofhands wings, Alfred. Your hands, soft-tipped and palm callused, These (Iin admit, elegant) myWith body inand dream. Hands decipher these These are hands that mix Iatsleep in a narrow bed. I rise at early. I sleep in a paint, narrow bed. I rise early. Headlamps caverns. Your arced wrists imaging a the rough tipstongue. of wings, Alfred. I scratchfrom my head the improbable. How you splayed my fingers, are made to fill cavities the tongue swept. cup seeds, cut back echinacea, at the tips of wings, Alfred. I scratch my head at the improbable. decipher sky. With these hands These are that mixI want paint, are hands that mix easy with blanched bone.They Looktug howThese Headlamps of death. Hownothing you splayed my fingers, I twist themHow under my breasts inhands sleep.Alfred, insisted I caress the forelock, in caverns. Yourmy arced wrists snip herbs for thea sauce. splayed my I twist thempaint, under breasts inabsent sleep. I scratch my head at theeasy improbable. knotted shirts from basket, shake Theseinsisted (I admit,I elegant) caress thehands absent forelock, Fistedinsisted againstIyou my stomach theyfingers, fly empty sockets, each stone molar, with blanched bone. Look howthey knotted shirts from a basket, shake them light, caress the absent forelock, Fisted against my stomach fly I twist theminto under my breasts in sleep. clamp them the with line with imaging a rough cup seeds, cuttongue. back echinacea, empty sockets, each stone molar, from my body in dream. Hands youthey forgive the flesh, love Hands clamp them to With thetoline bleached pins. empty sockets, each stone molar, imaging aflayed rough tongue. from my body in dream. Fisted against my stomach fly Alfred, I want of death. decipher sky. these hands snip herbsnothing for the sauce. They tug at the tips of wings, Alfred. what was stolen by heat. Yours What can a man know of woman’s hands? imaging a rough tongue. Alfred, I want nothing of death. at the tips of wings, Alfred. imaging a rough tongue. from my body in dream. Hands These (I admit, I scratch my head knotted shirts from aelegant) basket, hands shake them into light, at the improbable. I want nothing of death. How you splayed my fingers, Ithe want nothing of death. TheseHow (I admit, elegant)my hands you splayed fingers, at the(Itips of wings, Alfred. cup seeds, echinacea, twist them under my breasts inAlfred, sleep. clamp themcut to back the line withI bleached pins. insisted Alfred, IThese caress(I absent forelock, admit, elegant) hands cup seeds, Icut backthe echinacea, insisted caress absent forelock, These elegant) hands How youadmit, splayed my fingers, snip herbs the sauce. tug Fistedhands? against my stomach they flyseeds, What canfora man knowThey of woman’s empty sockets, each cup seeds, cutstone backmolar, echinacea, snip herbs forsockets, the sauce. empty eachThey stonetug molar, cup cutthe back echinacea, insisted I caress absent forelock, shirts from a into basket, shake them from into light, my body in dream. Hands knotted shirts from athe basket, shake them light, snip herbs for knotted sauce. They tug knotted shirts from a basket, shake them into light, snip herbs for the sauce. They tug empty sockets, each stone molar, clamp them to into the pins. line with bleached pins. at the tips of wings, Alfred. clamp the line with bleached knotted shirtsthem fromtoa basket, shake them light, clampthem theminto to the line with bleached pins. knotted shirts from a basket, shake light, knotted shirts from a basket, shake them into light, What can a man know ofthe woman’s hands? How you splayed myclamp fingers, What cantoa the manline know of woman’s hands? clamp them to line with bleached pins. clamp them with bleached pins. What can a man know of woman’s hands? them to the line with bleached pins. clampWhat them to the line with bleached pins. insisted I caress the absent forelock, can a man know of woman’s hands? What can a man know of woman’s hands? What can a man know of woman’s hands? What can a man know of woman’s hands? empty sockets, each stone molar,

Barbara Rockman After a 1931 photograph by Alfred Stieglitz of Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands draped around the skull of a horse. Your hands, soft-tipped and palm callused, are made to fill cavities the tongue swept. Headlamps in caverns. Your arced wrists easy with blanched bone. Look how you forgive the flayed flesh, love what was stolen by heat. Yours are the arms of heat. Yours are hands of my absence. Letter from Georgia O’Keeffe to Alfred Stieglitz Be calm, Alfred. No, I am a plain woman. I rinse dishes, pull weeds and unleash the dogs on dirt trails. I sleep in a narrow bed. I rise early. These are hands that mix paint, decipher sky. With these hands I scratch my head at the improbable. I twist them under my breasts in sleep. Fisted against my stomach they fly from my body in dream. Hands at the tips of wings, Alfred. How you splayed my fingers, insisted I caress the absent forelock, empty sockets, each stone molar, imaging a rough tongue. Alfred, I want nothing of death. These (I admit, elegant) hands cup seeds, cut back echinacea, snip herbs for the sauce. They tug knotted shirts from a basket, shake them into light, clamp them to the line with bleached pins. What can a man know of woman’s hands?

34 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Cherish Rosas

inkjet print | 4" x 6"

Art Volume 42

Books are all that remain of trees, No need for jungles, the new wilderness Books are all that remain of trees, the wind from turning pages procuring Noallneed jungles, the newspreads within us as bodiesBooks are all that remain of trees, the wind from turning pages procuring that for remain of trees, a murmur in the mind as wordsBooks jostle,are reset, No forfrom jungles, the pages new No wilderness spreads within us as transform into thought, thewilderness only worlds a need murmur in the mind as words reset, the wind from turning pages procuring theneed wind turning procuring for jungles, the new Books arejostle, all that remain of trees, put down rootsare tothe spawn forests and woods. No need forinhabit jungles, the new spreads within us as bodies transform into thought, the No need forThe jungles, new wilderness Books all that remain of trees, we within our minds… put down roots tous spawn forests and woods.pages procuring a murmur in the mind as words jostle, reset, a murmur in the mind as words jostle, reset,within spreads as wind the from turning lastfrom remaining bison float spreads withinfor us something as bodies transform intoto thought, the only worlds spreads within us turning as our bodies the like wind pages procuring we scour streets towe kill The remaining put down roots tofor spawn forests woods. put down roots spawnour forests and woods. Books are allas that remain of trees, No need jungles, theand new wilderness transform intolast thought, the bison a murmur in thefloat mind words jostle, reset, clouds in dreams. transform into thought, the only worlds inhabit within minds… transform into thought, the only worlds a murmur in the mind as words jostle, reset, or else gouge the page to feel alive. like clouds in our dreams. The last remaining bison float The last remaining bison float the wind from turning pages spreads within us as bodies put down roots to spawn forests andprocuring woods. Books are all that remain of trees, No forroots jungles, the new wilderness No forwithin jungles, newwe wilderness we need inhabit ourthe minds… scour streets for something to kill putneed down to spawn forests and woods. No need for jungles, the new wilderness like clouds in our dreams. like clouds in our dreams. a murmur in the mind as words transform into thought, the only worlds The last remaining bison floatjostle, reset, the wind from turning pages procuring spreads within us as bodies within usNo as bodies we scour spreads streets for something toorkill else gouge the page to feel alive. need for jungles, the new wilderness The last remaining bison float spreads within us as bodies put down roots to spawn forests and woods. we inhabit within our minds… like clouds in the our new dreams. a murmur inusthe mind as words jostle, reset, No need transform intoclouds thought, thethe only worlds the alive. only worlds ortransform else gougeinto the thought, page to feel for jungles, wilderness spreads within as bodies like in our dreams. No need for jungles, new transform into thought, the only worlds The last remaining bison float we scour streets for something to kill put down roots to spawn forests and woods. we inhabit within ourusminds… we inhabit within our minds… spreads asour bodies needthe forpage jungles, the new wilderness transform only worlds spreads within as to or we inhabit within our minds… likewithin cloudsusinthe dreams. gouge to feel alive. The lastthe remaining bison float we scour streetsinto for something killelseNo we streets for something tointo kill thought, into thought, only worlds spreads within us asscour bodies transform thought, we scour streetstransform for something to kill like clouds in our dreams. or else gouge the page to feelthe alive. transform else gouge the page to feel alive. into thought,orthe only worlds or else gouge the page to feel alive.

The New Wilderness

Athena Kashyap

Books are all that remain of trees, the wind from turning pages procuring a murmur in the mind as words jostle, reset, put down roots to spawn forests and woods. The last remaining bison float like clouds in our dreams. No need for jungles, the new wilderness spreads within us as bodies transform into thought, the only worlds we inhabit within our minds… we scour streets for something to kill or else gouge the page to feel alive.

36 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Bouquet

Bursting anemones fed with nitrogen and dung; She brought them homehave toShe brighten up the kitchen; Simon andglaucous Garfunkel should written you a song. brought them home to brighten upand thedung; kitchen; Stiff, sucks through thirsty veins; Bursting anemones fed with I watchsleep theirstem petals fall water onto the counter, wilting. I watch their petals fall ontonitrogen thewritten counter, wilting. Theythey neither nor dream, nor fuck, nor grow; Plump globules ofsleep oranges, reds, whites, lay as dormant amoebas waiting toyellows, dehydrate. Simon andtheir a song. They neither norshould dream, nor noryou grow; they simply drinkglobules moisture from bowl. hundreds ofGarfunkel leafy fingers bendhave infrom allfuck, directions. Darkness descends atthe thetheir flipofof a switch; Plump yellows, oranges, reds, whites, they simply drink the moisture their bowl. their fingerless palms are tossed into compost. They neither sleep nor dream, nor fuck, nor grow; They neither sleep norofdream, nor fuck, noringrow; their hundreds leafythe fingers bend all directions. they simply drink the moisture from their bowl. simply drink thewater moisture from their bowl. Stiff,they glaucous stem sucks through thirsty veins; Darkness descends at the flip ofthirsty a switch; Stiff, glaucous stem sucks water through veins; they as dormant amoebas waiting to dehydrate. Shelay brought them home to brighten up the kitchen; their palms are waiting tossed into the compost. they layglobules asfingerless dormant amoebas to dehydrate. Plump ofwilting. yellows, reds, whites, I watch their petals fall onto the counter, Bursting fedoranges, with nitrogen and dung; theirSimon hundreds ofanemones leafy fingers bend in all directions. and Garfunkel should have written you a song.

Jonathan Stone

Plump globules of yellows, oranges, reds, whites, their hundreds of leafy fingers bend in all directions. Stiff, glaucous stem sucks water through thirsty veins; they lay as dormant amoebas waiting to dehydrate. They neither sleep nor dream, nor fuck, nor grow; they simply drink the moisture from their bowl. She brought them home to brighten up the kitchen; I watch their petals fall onto the counter, wilting. Bursting anemones fed with nitrogen and dung; Simon and Garfunkel should have written you a song. Darkness descends at the flip of a switch; their fingerless palms are tossed into the compost.

Poetry Volume 42

Amelia Fletcher

inkjet print | 13" x 13"

38 Sanskrit 2011 Art

Elizabeth Arzani

mixed media | 32" x 48"

Art Volume 42

The Writer Shoots Himself Sean Whitten

“What do I write about?” I asked. This isn’t a thing people are born to know how to do, and we are never taught it. A lot like parking. Anything. Make your own world. Write what you know. “None of those three things are the same thing, and most of their definitions do not overlap.” Excuses. “Yes, they are, because I don’t know what I’m doing or how to do it.” What’s wrong with what you have written already? Oh wait, you haven’t written anything yet. “You are such a bitch.” My muse does not help. He just makes fun of me until I do enough work to get him to stop. I do not have any idea how to begin, and I have no idea how to begin beginning. I am motivated by little, and I am driven by this terrible muted passion, like a thing from a recurring dream I can’t remember. The tools are all there – flow, syntax, unusual grammar to slow down the reader, interesting storytelling gimmicks, separated dialogue; my parents bought me the nice set from the literature hardware store. How, then, do I go about building my own house?

left and not right. The flag doesn’t go left, the flag goes right. The pumpkin head doesn’t look any less pissed than last I saw. The woman and girl leave and my semiautistic preservation of normalcy… That isn’t right. Gotta check my psych notes – normalcy? No. Sanity? Saneness, that’s right. It sounds awkward enough that people will know it’s a legitimate term. …preservation of saneness enjoys a brief respite of the environments that it has come to know as the status quo until an ice grinder kicks on to make a woman an icy mocha, rather than an iced mocha. The brick walls are actually brick, as the whole downtown area is. Can I end a sentence with a linking verb? I mean, I can do anything, but is it allowed? Will my reader pick up on it and start to see the words? I don’t want that. I don’t want this to turn into a stupid existential thing. Whatever, this is round one anywho. Somebody will complain in the notes about it I’m sure – then I won’t feel so crazy. Moving on moving on moving on keep writing for the love of God don’t stop you will not start again Four girls walk in through the door, and do not shut up, no matter how much I hate them and their noise. They are louder than what I think is Lady Gaga on the radio

I do not have any idea how to begin, and I have no idea how to begin beginning I’m staring down a jack-o-lantern at the foot of a flagpole. A silver sedan gets in the way, stops, backs up, parks, and throws up a little girl with what must be her mom. Justin Timberlake is singing about a river, and how someone should cry him one. Interesting enough first line, flat but detailed follow-up, this start has the start of a good detailed description of where I am and how I got here and how that is vaguely a metaphor for some shit about chaos and order or maybe how the world is unfair and somebody dies who shouldn’t have and everyone is sad but there is some good at the end. Or someone gets raped. That seems to be on the front table of Borders a lot now. ...Odd enough that the flag today would blow

overhead – I can only come to this conclusion, however, because the girls start talking about how much they like Lady Gaga. Not for lack of pop-culture awareness, but rather, I honestly can’t set my ears to a sensitivity that can understand the speaker without fuzzing in and out at their collective volume. They order, sit, and now operate in harmonics instead of in tormenting shrieks. They quiet when one talks, then louden as they agree or disagree with each other. I have a few chances to steal glances: two are brunette, one is black, one is blonder but still probably listed on their license as “Hair color: brown.” Is that racist? Can I notice people are black without being racist now? Or is it even worse now to notice—you know, my character is noticing. Not me, so Short Story Volume 42

it’s okay or something. I’ll leave it in the middle so if it’s read too fast it just looks like I’m still talking about hair color. They are talking about colleges. It sounds like all of them are high school seniors – there are certainly better coffee shops in Cary than this one, they must go to Apex High down the street. I remember that excitement. Shuffling through applications, feeling a sense of overwhelming freedom tied permanently to this impending dread. The dread is the hard thing to explain, then. When the adults asked, I would talk about how the process of going out on my own was “kind of scary,” but I think it would have been safe to say that none of my peers would have thought that an apt description of the sort of gut-wrenching soul-binding snap of the umbilical cord we all felt coming.

driving incident. An Asian student, surrounded by the lazy example of his mostly white peers, would crumble under parental pressure and kill himself. These things happen everywhere. But those were not clues to the oddness. Every once in a while, something insane would happen – a kid was caught with homemade pipe bombs under his passenger seat, saying he was planning on blowing up some trees out front of the school. A church retreat that made the students unwilling to look their same-churched peers in the eye. An Insane Clown Posse-inspired murder actually carried out on a student by classmates that did not know what the real world looked like. Okay, a setting of the speaker has been painted, he has had a minor conflict of irritation to keep the reader amused, it solved itself, and time has not clearly shifted so I can return to the coffee shop itself if I wanna

You could kill everyone

Shit just got real. It was hell, for a lot of us. We grew up in the suburbs and had no life experience. Many of us had seen our first homeless person when we went abroad during a Spring Break. We couldn’t imagine even the prospect of handling our own schedule, let alone wrapping our irresponsible angst-ridden minds around the concepts of “moderation” and “future.” Apex was called a “great place to raise kids” and Cary was, and may still be, on the “safest places to live in America” list. But as soon as those lists are populated, the facts they mean to preserve disintegrate. The safest place to live is not a great place to raise kids – it’s a great place to raise dogs and sociopaths. Dogs, because no suburban white family is complete without an animal the size of a seven year old, so it will have plenty of company. Sociopaths, because they already have the psychopathology of inclusion and seclusion, and nothing foments seclusion like the suburbs. McMansions on quarter acres, castles of the white and rich, all feet from their neighboring castles. There were the traditional issues of the area and its school, sure. There was the occasional death from a drunk

42 Sanskrit 2011 Short Story

keep the whole story there. The town has been painted as serene to the adults but chaotic and ungrounded to the children. I guess this isn’t so hard, but the primary conflict doesn’t exist. I spent this long putting together a town, but the speaker has impliedly been to college and has been disconnected from the town, so fighting to escape isn’t an option. The parents are still there though, so there is a connection, but it might not be strong enough, but man versus society seems to be where it’s at. Something big and crazy. Something in the water. The town drank the Kool-Aid. “What are my options…” You could kill everyone. “You know, for someone who is supposed to be inspiring me to complete a story, you aren’t helping me to provide a very satisfying ending.” What is more satisfying than everything being dead? “Can I not agree with you if you live in my head?” You’re the one talking to your imaginary friend; I think you make the rules. “Sure. How abouts we stay in the coffee shop and maybe pull a man versus himself in the society or something?”

Existential much? “Shut your make believe face.” The window immediately to my left halts at about two feet from the ground, and I move my empty cup to the brick sill. The girls have since left, and time doesn’t seem to pass so much as jump from song to song. It is Michael Jackson o’clock. A boy is tutoring another boy on what I believe is Psychology – I hear passing references to differences and trends – and I sneak a few glances. The tutor has well-kept black hair and too long socks. The tutee has a backwards giants cap. They are both seniors, likely in Mr. Malki’s class. I was in that class once, and respected the man as an educator, until my friend Alex’s girlfriend backed into his car on the way out of the parking lot. Mr. Malki stretched his arm over her shoulder, smiled, and in a most-disturbing-as-possible fashion asked, “Well well, what are we gonna do about this?” After this story, I paid more attention in AP psychology – he consoled girls about their bad grades this way. He told them to come into after-school tutoring more often than boys. His face lit up when a girl came to his desk to ask a question during labs. I once overheard him discussing how he insisted on keeping his daughter in gymnastics while she was growing up because “it kept her in great shape.” It’s the little things to watch for, I suppose. Wow, this place has become terrifying. Juxtapose that against the serenity and then undercut the serenity with something particular and odd, react to it, and scene. “I’m gonna get some more water. You write some.” About what? “Just finish the story.” What story? You haven’t written any story yet to finish. “I just invented a location and pedophile, you can do some.” You didn’t invent anything. You wrote about your own high school experience. Your parents live in

Apex and you are in a coffee shop downtown. You are across from the fire station with an angry pumpkin and a now-limp flag. The girl who handed you your coffee has a tattoo on her right arm, and she has refilled your water twice. “No, my character lives in Apex. I live in… in…” Apex was an odd sort of place. Odd things happened, but sparingly enough that they could be called odd. Two happy looking dogs, both black, both labs, passed by the window. I couldn’t help but wonder if today would be an odd day for any other reason than myself. Would Fox News say the scary brown people were planning something again? Would that headline over what was about to happen? I pulled out a 7mm black pistol, small like a spy gun, and set it on the table. It was an odd sight, a gun on a tall coffee-shop table. My feet sort of dangled there, and kicked lightly in a nervous excitement. There was an odd sort of giddiness to the whole scene, like a play about to begin. I clicked the camera function on my netbook – I was mostly happy with my hair that day. The mocha I had finished had stained my lips a thin black, like I was wearing a cosmetic. I didn’t wholly dislike the effect, and it seemed even enough to be intentional, so I left the stain where it was. None of the other patrons had noticed the firearm on the table yet – likely because of the deep low chairs most people read papers from and the height of the platform my things were on. I scanned what I imagined would be the bullet path. There was a lot of historic valuable old glass in downtown Apex, the kind with the ripples in the bottom as a result of years of gravity’s tug, but the window was clearly new. I was not too familiar with guns, but I did know the shot would be loud. There were not too many angles the bullet could fly and not hit glass – not very many places are designed for the patrons who want a bullet in their ear with their coffees. The time, after that thought, seemed right. The coffee was good enough.

Short Story Volume 42

Meeting the Reader

Once found they must bedon’t tumbled, Once found they must be tumbled, Theyrin don’t allalone, spill or outnext liketo foamy cream Theynatural all spill out like foamy cream don’t all spill out like foamyrolled, creampolished so their shine bed,the a lover. Once found theycream mustThey be tumbled, Once found must be tumbled, rolled, polished so their natural shine They don’t all spill out like foamy from top of a milk bottle. from the top like of a foamy milk bottle. from the top of athey milkThey bottle. don’t allonshine spill like cream glows the out page andfoamy they are ready. Listen to this, they will say,from and thecream other rolled, polished so their natural shine They don’t all spill out rolled, polished so their natural glows on the pagealland the top of a on milk bottle. Some in caves orlisten. secret Some are stuck in caves orcream secretThey are stuck in caves or secret don’t spillthey outare likeready. foamy cream They don’t allstuck spill out like from theready. of atheir milk reader, bottle. Ready totop meet willare close his andfoamy glows theor page and theySome are ready. from thethe topone, of afound—fool’s milk bottle. glows on the page and they are Ready to meet reader, the one, Some are stuck in caves secret what you’ve found—fool’s gold what you’ve gold what you’ve found—fool’s gold from their the top of a milk bottle. from the top ofeyes a milk bottle. Some two, are stuck in caves or secret or perhaps thousands who Ready to meet reader, theyou one, Some aredon’t stuck inspill caves secret to meet reader, theroll one, outorlike foamy cream two, orSome perhaps thousands whoor secret crevices, need a pick and dig up, their andthousands even then wonder thestuck real thing. Gems or theallreal thing. Gems orReady the real thing.their Gems are stuck in caves Someoryou are in caves or shovel secret to will them againThey on their lips, two,them or perhaps who two, or perhaps thousands who from the top of a milk bottle. will roll them again on their lips, what you’ve found—fool’s gold take years of hard labor, extensive take years of hard labor, extensive take years of hard labor, extensive what you’ve found—fool’s gold in their ears, while on the couch, will rollGems them again on their lips, will roll them again on their lips, Some are stuck in caves or secret in their ears, while on the couch, They don’t all spill out like foamy cream or the real thing. time travel, mashing and mar. time travel, mashing and mar. time travel, mashing and mar. rin bed, alone, or next to a lover. or the real thing. Gems rinyou’ve bed, alone, or next to lover. They don’ttoall spill outwill liketake foamy cream bed,top alone, or next towhat a lover. in labor, their ears, while on the couch,in their ears, while onfrom theincouch, found—fool’s inabed, alone, tolabor, a lover. the of a milk bottle. years ofother hard extensive Listen this, they say, and the take yearsorofnext hard extensive rin or next to aalone, lover. or next Listen to this, they willGems say, gold and the other from the top of aeyes milk bottle. Listen to stuck this, they will say, and the other in bed,and alone, or bed, next alone, to a lover. in bed, to a lover. or the real thing. Listen to this, they will say, and the other Some are in caves or secret time travel, mashing mar. will close his and listen. time travel, mashing and mar. to this, willother say, and the willofclose eyesextensive and listen. Some are stuck in caves or secret Listen to this,Listen listen. they will say, they and Listen the to this, theyother will say, andwill theclose otherhis eyes and take years hardhis labor, will close his eyes and listen. his eyes will and listen. will close his will eyesclose and listen. close his eyes and listen. time travel, mashing and mar.

Diane Sherman

They don’t all spill out like foamy cream from the top of a milk bottle. Some are stuck in caves or secret crevices, you need a pick and shovel to dig them up, and even then you wonder what you’ve found—fool’s gold or the real thing. Gems take years of hard labor, extensive time travel, mashing and mar. Once found they must be tumbled, rolled, polished so their natural shine glows on the page and they are ready. Ready to meet their reader, the one, two, or perhaps thousands who will roll them again on their lips, in their ears, while on the couch, in bed, alone, or next to a lover. Listen to this, they will say, and the other will close his eyes and listen.

44 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Michael Noland

inkjet print | 24" x 36"

Art Volume 42

Now. mold fingers to her I want to press my hands around I want to press my hands aroundNow how sudden whole-feathered body. How she has suffered— the robin’s flanks the robin’s throbbing flanks whip and flapping, How she hasI her suffered— want to press mydeparture— handsNow. around how sudden How glad Ihow am to have her. throbbing How she has suffered— sudden split claw,her shattered wing, paused on thesplit path. paused on the path. how sudden hershattered befuddled, urgent claw, wing, the robin’s throbbing Now moldflanks fingers to her whip andhow flapping, Heldher breath split claw, shattered wing, whipand andsongless, flapping, stolen egg, ice— sudden how suddentwitchstolen My hands My hands twitch her whip flapping, egg,and ice— paused on the path. whole-feathered body. hercurls befuddled, urgent departure— breath and tremble— stolenher egg, ice— how sudden befuddled, urgent departure— now she her exhausted, her whip and flapping, her whip and flapping, and beat their ten-fingered and beat their ten-fingered her befuddled, urgent departure— now she curls her exhausted, My hands twitch How glad I am to have her. now she curlsheart her herexhausted, whip and flapping, beaked face beneath her wing, how sudden her befuddled, urgent departure— her befuddled, urgent departure— trembling hearts. I want the bird’s heart trembling hearts. I want the bird’s beaked face beneath wing, andher beat their ten-fingered Held breath and songless, beaked face her wing, herbeneath befuddled, urgent departure— and herinpulse becomes Now. howitsudden her whip and flapping, in mine to protect it from departure— mine to protect from departure— and her pulse becomes trembling hearts. I want the bird’s heart breath and tremble— how sudden how andsudden her pulse becomes lifted oars, drift Now mold fingers to her her whip and flapping, how sudden her befuddled, urgent departure— no, to stall my loneliness. no, to stall my loneliness. liftedin oars, drift howwhip sudden how sudden mine to protect it from departure— her andIflapping, her whip and flapping, lifted oars, drift and noand rowing. whole-feathered body. her befuddled, urgent her whip sudden can inviteand theflapping, wild thing I can invite the wild departure— thing and no rowing. her whip and her flapping, her whip no, tohow stalland myflapping, loneliness. how sudden her befuddled, urgent departure— her befuddled, departure— and no rowing. How glad I am toher have her. befuddled, departure— into my openurgent palms. I cannot intoflapping, my open palms. Iurgent cannot her befuddled, urgent departure— Isongless, canwhip invite theflapping, wild thing her whip and Held breath and her befuddled, urgent departure— expect willingness. expect willingness. her befuddled, urgent departure— into my open palms. I cannot her befuddled, urgent departure— breath and tremble— expect willingness.

The Clinging Barbara Rockman

I want to press my hands around the robin’s throbbing flanks paused on the path. My hands twitch and beat their ten-fingered trembling hearts. I want the bird’s heart in mine to protect it from departure— no, to stall my loneliness. I can invite the wild thing into my open palms. I cannot expect willingness. How she has suffered— split claw, shattered wing, stolen egg, ice— now she curls her exhausted, beaked face beneath her wing, and her pulse becomes lifted oars, drift and no rowing. Now. Now mold fingers to her whole-feathered body. How glad I am to have her. Held breath and songless, breath and tremble— how sudden her whip and flapping, her befuddled, urgent departure—

46 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

A Kiss Tattooed

This debateAm without argument A kiss tattooed deserving ofThis selfish concerns is no French film The word “unfortunately” AmIIknow deserving of selfish concerns I know I know on my left cheek Give Iand share verses prattling solipsistic of denunciation This is no Frenchconcerns film Give and share I knowThis Iwritten know but is what and isI know down prattling Action without recourse A iskiss tattooed mysolipsistic friend verses of denunciation A kiss sour-blue Am I deserving of selfish met with is noconcerns French film Givenursery and share This debate without argument Am I deserving ofbut selfish with grand tunes but is French what isofand iskiss mettattooed withI What my friend A kiss tattooed myon skin crossed out with nursery tunesI know and share know I know my left cheek good isgrand all Ithat on a face so The word “unfortunately” This is meek no film prattling solipsistic verses denunciation prove and take Am deserving ofGive selfish concerns is what is and is Aprove met with Give and share prattling solipsistic verses of denunciation This debate without argument my skin and take What good is all that I know I Spin know I know on written my left down cheek The word “unfortunately” again met with my friend A kiss sour-blue written down but is what is and is with grand nursery tunes prattling solipsistic verses of denunciation my skin on my left cheek prove and take met with Give and share Action without recourse with grand nursery tunes A kiss tattooed myFrench friendfilm A kiss sour-blue The wordwith “unfortunately” written provewithout and take What good is all that ondown atattooed face so meek crossed out my skinwith grand nursery tunes A kiss sour-blue word “unfortunately” take met This is no on my Ileft cheek A The kiss Action recourse What is that Give and on ashare face soprove meekand This debate without argument written down crossed out Give and share Give and share Igood know Iall know know written down again The word “unfortunately” on a face so meek A kiss tattooed written down The word “unfortunately” prove and take but is what is and is Spin A kiss sour-blue on my left cheek I know I know I know metdown withAm I deserving ofmet know I know Icrossed knowconcerns written down again Am deserving of concerns metdown with with This is no French filmrecourse written onout my left cheek crossed out Am II deserving of selfish selfish concerns written myWhat skinImy onfriend aisface so selfish meek Spin A sour-blue my friend prove and take solipsistic my friend written down again prattling solipsistic ofakiss denunciation prove and take prove and take good all verses that but isAction what iswithout and is crossed out A kiss sour-blue written down again prattling solipsistic verses of denunciation prattling verses of denunciation crossed out on face so meek What good is all that Whatgrand goodnursery is all that with grand nursery tunes on a face sowritten meek down again with tunes written down again with grand nursery tunesmy skin Spin

George Kaperonis

A kiss tattooed on my left cheek A kiss sour-blue on a face so meek Give and share met with prove and take I know I know I know my friend What good is all that This is no French film but is what is and is my skin The word “unfortunately” written down crossed out written down again Am I deserving of selfish concerns prattling solipsistic verses of denunciation with grand nursery tunes This debate without argument Action without recourse Spin

Poetry Volume 42

succumbs (she always succumbs) deflate meticulously exfoliates beaming arches over the bowl succumbs (she she always she likes what seessuccumbs) beaming she unlocks breaks the crusted loofah inshe she stands in the center like ahalf saggy mushroom arches over the bowl theknife Alice-shrivel beaming stands in the center her abalone andalways pares down herand face of the aluminum waits for aluminum the tingle like a saggy she mushroom the infinitesimal stands in the center of the succumbs (she succumbs) meticulously and slices hunks almond freckles trash barrel of synapses to tremble and waits for the brilliance of small of tingle the aluminum trash barrel arches overlike thesunflower bowl she unlocks of dead skin plink seeds and indulges in echo exfoliates through the rose of herin cheeks. beaming ofher synapses to tremble trash barrel and indulges echo like aher saggy mushroom abalone knife from the balls of feet into the ringed basin exfoliates You are dwindle exfoliates breaks the crusted loofah in half she stands inso, thegood center through the the rosecrusted of her cheeks. succumbs (she always succumbs) and indulges in You are dwindle and waits for thebreaks tingle and slices hunks the crusted inso,half You are aluminum so, loofah in echo half and pares down her face of the arches overalmond thebreaks bowl You are dwindle meticulously Youloofah are good of synapses to(she tremble of dead skin deflate and pares down her so, face and pares down facegood freckles meticulously succumbs always succumbs) trash barrel like a saggy mushroom exfoliates You areher so, so, she unlocks through thethe rose of of her cheeks. from balls her feet deflate she likes what she sees almond freckles freckles plink seeds deflatealmond she unlocks arches over the bowl and indulges in echo and waits forlike the tingle breaks theknife crusted loofah insunflower half her abalone she likes what she sees the Alice-shrivel plink like sunflower seeds plink like sunflower seeds into the ringed basin she likes what she sees herthe abalone knife likethe a saggy mushroom You are dwindle of synapses tremble and basin pares down herto face and slices hunks the Alice-shrivel infinitesimal into the ringed into ringed basin Alice-shrivel and slices hunks and waits for the You aretingle so,of so,dead good through rose the of her cheeks. almond freckles skin the the infinitesimal brilliance of the infinitesimal of dead skin of to small tremble like sunflower seeds the plink balls of her feet brilliance ofsynapses small brilliance of small from the balls of her feet through the rose offrom her cheeks. into the ringed basin

Quench

Christine Tierney

â&#x20AC;&#x153;What size do you want to be?â&#x20AC;? the Caterpillar asked. meticulously she unlocks her abalone knife and slices hunks of dead skin from the balls of her feet exfoliates breaks the crusted loofah in half and pares down her face almond freckles plink like sunflower seeds into the ringed basin succumbs (she always succumbs) arches over the bowl like a saggy mushroom and waits for the tingle of synapses to tremble through the rose of her cheeks deflate she likes what she sees the Alice-shrivel the infinitesimal brilliance of small beaming she stands in the center of the aluminum trash barrel and indulges in echo You are dwindle You are so, so, good

48 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Jordan Samuel Rickard

inkjet print | 44" x 55"

Art Volume 42

Cherish Rosas

inkjet print | 4" x 6"

50 Sanskrit 2011 Art

Art (Arutyun) Ayrapetyan

black ink on bristol board | 11" x 14"

Art Volume 42

THE DIFFERENCE IN FRONT OF ME ADRIANNE FINCHAM-QUIROS

Russell roped the deer because he was out of bullets. He swung off his horse, ran down the rope, tipped the deer’s head back and slit its throat. I don’t think he meant for me to see it, but that’s how it happened. It was late afternoon as lean as they come in November, every bit of summer pared off the bone. The sun offered a pale warmth you wanted to believe in; otherwise you had to accept winter was about here. So you believed in the sun, thin and weak as it

52 Sanskrit 2011 Short Story

was, leaving earlier and earlier each day, like some dissolving love. We had ridden out of the barnyard leading four pack horses, on our way to retrieve elk carcasses strung up in trees on Boney Mountain. Two elk were a lot of meat and bone. Even for four pack horses. It was late enough in the day that it meant chores done in the dark when we got back - the cow bawling for milking, horses rattling the gate, the sheep moaning like women. Russell planned to quarter the elk and load the meat while it was still light. Coming back in the dark wouldn’t be a problem, because horses know their way home.

There was a bunch wrong with this plan that I didn’t know until later. The first being Russell and Charles spent the afternoon drinking. When Charles climbed off to open the wire gate to the hayfield, he got tangled up in this reins and the lead line to his pack horse, I realized maybe the bota bag he’d been sucking on had something besides water in it. Russell grinned and said, “Schnapps, peppermint schnapps, it makes his breath smell good to the women.” I don’t know why drinking peppermint schnapps is worse than drinking beer or tequila but it is. It makes your mind sticky and Charles wasn’t that quick in the first place.

At the top of the hill, Russell raised his hand for Charles and me to stop. A heard of deer picked their delicate way down the opposite hill. Russell threw the pack lines to Charles, pulled his rifle out of the scabbard, jumped off his horse and fired into the herd, twice, Then he swung back up. “Stay put,” he yelled and charged down the hill after the fleeing deer. Charles wanted to shoot something, anything, so bad he was wiggling like a dog and when we heard “Bullets... I’m out of bullets...” he dropped the pack lines and took off. I tied the pack horses to the trees and galloped after Charles. My horse was barrel race fast, she loved to run. I trusted her, she trusted me. I let her do her job negotiating the terrain and I did mine, keeping an

So why did I refuse to see the difference between men and women, as if I was afraid different meant not as good? The second thing wrong: I didn’t like Charles much. He was one of Russell’s clients from some broad flat state east of the Rocky Mountains who wanted to play hunter for a week. “Leave the gate, we’ll be coming back this way.” Russell told him. Charles climbed back on his horse and we kept going across the field, the dead stalks of hay cracking loud and sharp with each step. We hadn’t gotten snow yet. Snow would lay it down, mat the world into something quiet. Something respectful. And the third thing wrong: I was on edge. I wasn’t dressed warm enough, but there is never warm enough when you end up outside three hours past sunset in November. And you have to pee so bad but the thought of the girl squat with the men waiting on you, and knowing you won’t be able to button your jeans back up because you hands are so cold - it was better to hold it. Thinking about it now, Russell probably had to wait until dark to bring the elk in. It wasn’t rifle season.

eye on Charles. Charles couldn’t ride for shit. He was bouncing all over the saddle, shouting, “Let me... let me shoot them.” And as he pulled the rifle from the scabbard he lost his balance and rolled off the horse’s rump in a somersault that laid him out on the frozen ground. Then I saw Russell rope the doe stumbling ahead of us, its shattered leg dangling. I rode up to Russell just in time to hear the doe bleat, see the blood gush, soaking Russell to his elbow, splashing his jeans. The sudden thick warm smell of the blood made my horse snort; Russell looked up at me and smiled. It was the same smile he had when we made love. And I realized his smile was for the act itself, not for me, but for the warm explosion of blood, or semen. The facts of life. The acts of death. For a long time I refused to think men and women were different: yet I never treated a stallion the same as a mare, or a bull the same as a cow. So why did I refuse to see the difference between men and women, as if I was afraid different meant not as good? Here was the difference in front of me. It would be wise to recognize it. Short Story Volume 42

Nicholas Garris

screen print and acrylic | 36" x 36"

54 Sanskrit 2011 Art

Nicholas Garris

screen print and acrylic | 40" x 30"

Art Volume 42

Jordan Samuel Rickard

inkjet print | 20" x 30"

56 Sanskrit 2011 Art

Worn Religions

people wear their religion swaddles devils; some arereligion devils;Some others Some people their swaddles Some their people wear their religion swaddles around their skull like aSome bandage people wear their religion swaddles growwear religion fromadrape their chin; some drape it across faces toskull deceive some their faces to deceive Some wear their religion swaddles around skull like bandage around a bandage on it the human condition; others let it hover, around theirpeople skull like a bandage sometheir tattoo it on their skin; aacross few devils; are devils; others like thetheir shadow oflike aothers halo, above devils; others around their skull like asome bandage devils; are devils; others on the human condition; others let itsome hover, ona the human condition; let it hover, likeare thedevils; shadow of a halo, above onsome the human condition; others let it hover, embroider it in their underwear grow religion their chin; balding crown; some itabove streaking grow from their chin; on the human others let itfrom hover, grow religion their chin; Some people wear religion swaddles likeand the hide shadow oftheir a halo, above like the shadow ofparts awear halo, areligion balding crown; some wear it streaking likefrom the shadow of acondition; halo, above it under business suits. some tattoo it on their skin; a few up their calves to unseen; devils; some are devils; others some tattoo it it, on their skin;some few likesome the shadow of afrom halo,their above tattoo it on their skin; agrow few around their skull like bandage a balding crown; some wear itayou streaking a balding crown; some wear it streaking up their calves toaparts unseen; a balding crown; wear itembroider streaking Some believe, however wear it in their underwear some drape it across their faces to deceive religion chin; ithover, incrown; their underwear asome balding sometheir wearfaces it streaking a balding some wear itskin; streaking embroider itup in underwear on up thetheir human condition; others let itdrape calves to partsembroider unseen; up their calves toofparts unseen; it across to deceive their calves tocrown; parts unseen; it’s a cover-up. and hide it under business suits. like the shadow a halo, above some tattoo it on their a few and hide it under business suits. up their calves to and parts unseen; up their unseen; hide it under suits. like itthe shadow a halo, some drape across theiroffaces to above deceive some drapecrown; it across their faces to deceive some drapebusiness it across theircalves facesittotoinparts deceive however you wear it, wear atobalding some it streaking embroider their underwear Some believe, however you wear it, to deceive some drape it across their faces someabove drape across theirbelieve, faces deceive Some believe, however you wear it, Some a balding crown; wear it streaking devils; some aresome devils; others like the shadow of a halo, devils; some others it’s a cover-up. up their calvesare todevils; parts unseen; anditsome hide itare under business suits. it’s a cover-up. devils; some are devils; others devils; devils; others it’s a cover-up. up their calves partschin; unseen; grow religion fromtotheir a balding crown; some wear it streaking grow drape it acrossfrom theirtheir faceschin; to deceive Some believe, however you wear it,religion religionup from their chin; grow religion from theirsome chin; some drape it across their faces togrow deceive their calves to parts unseen; it’s a cover-up. some drape it across their faces to deceive

Corri Elizabeth

Some people wear their religion swaddles around their skull like a bandage on the human condition; others let it hover, like the shadow of a halo, above a balding crown; some wear it streaking up their calves to parts unseen; some drape it across their faces to deceive devils; some are devils; others grow religion from their chin; some tattoo it on their skin; a few embroider it in their underwear and hide it under business suits. Some believe, however you wear it, it’s a cover-up.

Poetry Volume 42

Before the Amen

Imperfect hands, fingertips listing in different directions Imperfect hands, fingertips listing in different directions clutching a locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside piecesdirections of rose, clutching aIlocket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces of rose, Imperfect hands, in in different In the where she once knelt to ask. Well-lined thumb Before the ibex climbs mountains, heard her say, Imperfect hands, fingertips different directions petals that afell fromfingertips the altar listing of listing St. Therese in Rome. petals that fell from the ofgrotto St. Therese Rome. Inrose, the grotto where sheit: once knelt to altar ask. Well-lined Imperfect hands, fingertips listing inthumb different directions locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces of rose, made theinsign—forehead, chest— I heard her say, heRome. must cross rivers. Or was Why clutching aImperfect locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces of Before the ibex mountains, Before theclutching ibex climbs mountains, I heard her say, Imperfect hands, fingertips listing different directions made the sign—forehead, lips, chest— clutching a in locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces ofclimbs rose, lips, hands, fingertips listing in different directions petals that fell from the altar of St. Therese in gazing into the saint’s oval-shaped face, must I forgive the same crowd over fellOr from the of St. Therese in Rome. he must cross rivers. Or ewe was eyes, it: Why he mustpetals crossthat rivers. was it: altar Why clutching apieces locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces of rose, gazing into the saint’s oval-shaped face, ewe eyes, petals that fell from the altar of St. Therese in Rome. clutching a locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside of rose, and over? Imperfect hands, fingertips in different mustlisting I forgive the same directions crowd over must I forgive the same crowd over petals that fell from the altar of St. Therese in Rome. petals that fell from the altar of St. Therese in Rome. Imperfect hands, fingertips listing in different directions Imperfect hands, fingertips listing in different directions Imperfect hands, fingertips listing in different directions In the grotto where she once knelt to ask. Well-lined thumb Imperfect hands, fingertips listing in different directions Imperfect hands, fingertips listing in different directions clutching a locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside of rose, and over? and over? In the grotto where she once knelt to ask. Well-lined thumb clutching a locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces of rose, clutching a locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces of rose, In the grotto where sheelliptical-shaped. once knelt to ask.Inside Well-lined thumb In the grotto where she altar onceof knelt toInside ask.pieces Well-lined thumb clutching a locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces of rose, made the sign—forehead, lips, chest— clutching a locket, pieces of rose, clutching a locket, elliptical-shaped. pieces of rose, petals that fell from the St. Therese in Rome. made the sign—forehead, lips, chest— petals that fell from the altar of St. Therese in Rome. petals that fell from the altar of St. Therese in Rome. the sign—forehead, chest— made the sign—forehead, chest— that fellinto from the altaroval-shaped offace, St. Therese inewe Rome. gazing the saint’s oval-shaped ewe eyes, petalsmade thatthe fellsaint’s from the altar oflips, St.face, Therese ininto Rome. petals that fell the from the altar of St. lips, Therese in Rome. gazing the saint’s face, eyes, gazing into oval-shaped ewe petals eyes, gazing into saint’s oval-shaped face, ewe eyes,

Vivian Eyre

Imperfect hands, fingertips listing in different directions clutching a locket, elliptical-shaped. Inside pieces of rose, petals that fell from the altar of St. Therese in Rome. In the grotto where she once knelt to ask. Well-lined thumb made the sign—forehead, lips, chest— gazing into the saint’s oval-shaped face, ewe eyes, Before the ibex climbs mountains, I heard her say, he must cross rivers. Or was it: Why must I forgive the same crowd over and over?

58 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

All the Skinned Knees

memory passes through, a freight train, leaves memory passes through, a freight train, leaves healed, All thea skinned knees,leaves passengers in my room. knees,All the knees passengers in my room.healed,elbows and shins seem Allliving the skinned memory passes through, freight train, All thethat knees healed, Allliving the knees and rules that change. elbows shinsapassengers seem bruised elbows, twisted shins seem All the knees healed, memory passes and through, freight train, leaves All theand knees healed, bruised elbows, twisted memory through, freight train, leaves and rules change. in my living room. normal passes now. But in my ahead elbows and shins seem elbows and shins Stories I tell elbows myself memory passes through, a freight train, leavesseem normal now. But in my head memory passes through, a freight leaves androom. rules that train, change. ankles. All thehealed, scissors inin mythe right and shins seem passengers in my living room. Allthe thescissors knees healed, passengers in my living ankles. All in my right Stories Ielbows tellBut myself All the knees I discover evidence normal now. in my head now. But in my head center of town, near passengers inmemory mynormal living room. and shins seem I discover evidence passengers inStories my living hand, pencils inthe the left.seem All the broken scissors Ielbows tellroom. myself normal now. Butin inthe myleft. head Allscissors the knees healed, All knees healed, elbows and shins hand, pencils All theseem broken All leaves the knees healed, in the Icenter of town, near All the knees healed, elbows and shins passes through, a freight train, discover evidence I discover evidence the brain’s switch station, All the knees healed, elbows and shins seem the knees healed, inseem the center of town, I discover evidence elbows and shins seemnow. and rules that change. elbows and shinsnear seem elbows shins seem normal now. But in my head Allbrain’s the knees healed, elbows andAll shins the switch station, elbows and shins seem normal Butand in my head passengers in my living room. All the skinned knees, All the knees healed, elbows and shins seem All the knees healed, and rules that change. All the knees healed, All the knees healed, elbows and shins seem station, of a crack, long agoIindiscover the train lights.normal now. But in myIshins headrules Stories tell myself normal now. But innormal my Ihead evidence elbows and made shins seem normal now. But twisted inthe mybrain’s head switch now. But in head discover evidence Allelbows the knees healed, elbows shins seem bruised elbows, All themy knees healed, and that change. elbows and normal now. But in my head and shins seem Stories myself and shins seem elbows shinsand seem normal now. elbows But elbows in my head I discover evidence in the of town, near All theand skinned knees, Iseem discover evidence normal now. ButI tell inofmy head I discover evidence discover evidence of a crack, made ago inmyself the center trainI lights. and shins seem elbows and shins seem elbows Stories I tell normal now. inlong my head I discover evidence and shins now. Butseem in my head the center town, near normal now. But in my head normal now.elbows, But my head I knees, discover evidence of ain crack, made long ago in But the train lights. the brain’s switch station, bruised twisted Iin discover amy crack, made long ago innormal thenormal train lights. normal now. Butof inevidence head normal now. But in my head in the center of town, near All the skinned I discover evidence of a crack, made long ago in the train lights. now. But in my I discover evidence the brain’sevidence switch station, I discover I discover evidence of a crack, made long ago in the train lights. ankles. All the scissors in my right I discover evidencebruised elbows, twisted I discover evidencehead I discover evidence hand, pencils in the left. All the broken scissors the brain’s switch station, of a crack, made long ago in the train lights.

Susan R. Williamson

All the skinned knees, bruised elbows, twisted ankles. All the scissors in my right hand, pencils in the left. All the broken scissors and rules that change. Stories I tell myself in the center of town, near the brain’s switch station, memory passes through, a freight train, leaves passengers in my living room. All the knees healed, elbows and shins seem normal now. But in my head I discover evidence of a crack, made long ago in the train lights.

Poetry Volume 42

Attendant

He has spent so many years it have no porcelain, no white tile, have no porcelain, tile, no sinks ofithis lifenoinporcelain, this fancyit hotel or pine potpourri. No Old Spice, have no white tile, He has spentno sowhite many sinks orOld pine potpourri. Oldyears Spice, washroom handing outno paper towels, no porcelain, no white tile, ittile, have noVelva, porcelain, no white tile, Aqua hand sanitizer, nothing no itsinks or pine potpourri. No Spice, of his life in thisNo fancy hotel Aqua Velva, hand sanitizer, He has spent so many itguests have no porcelain, nonothing white sprays ofhave cologne well-heeled sinks orVelva, pine to potpourri. No Old Spice, no sinks orhis pine potpourri. Noyears Old Spice, but the loveliness of real wildflowers, Aqua hand sanitizer, nothing washroom handing out paper towels, but the loveliness of real wildflowers, of life in this fancy hotel no sinks or pine potpourri. No Old Spice, fornodimes, quarters, the occasional one, Aqua Velva, handaof sanitizer, nothing Aqua Velva, hand sanitizer, nothing soft breezes and the cool, cool jazz but the loveliness real wildflowers, sprays of and cologne tosanitizer, well-heeled guests soft breezes the cool, cool jazz washroom handing out towels, Aqua Velva, hand nothing butbut usually not even nod of thanks thebreezes loveliness real wildflowers, but the loveliness ofwell-heeled realpaper wildflowers, ofofMiles, Birdman, Yardman, Monk soft andofthe cool, jazz forcool dimes, quarters, the occasional one, of Miles, Birdman, Yardman, Monk sprays cologne to guests but the loveliness of real wildflowers, to show for it. At home, each late night, soft breezes andif the cool, cool jazzdreams, soft breezes the cool, to attend to and his dreams, tocool helpjazz him oftoMiles, Birdman, Yardman, Monk but usually not even a nod offor thanks to attend to his to help him count dimes, quarters, the occasional one,count soft breezes and the cool, cool jazz he prays Jesus that there be a heaven Miles,toBirdman, Yardman, Monk of Miles, Birdman, Yardman, Monk the time until the resurrection. toof attend his dreams, to help him count toofshow for it. sweet At home, each late night, the time until the but usually not even atosweet nod thanks Miles, Birdman, Yardman, Monk to attend to his dreams, to help him count tobe attend to his dreams, helpoflate him count the time until the sweet resurrection. he prays tohis Jesus thatresurrection. iftothere ashow heaven to for it. At home, each night, to attend to dreams, help him count the time until the sweet resurrection. time resurrection. hethe prays tountil Jesusthe thatsweet if there be a heaven the time until the sweet resurrection.

Richard Luftig

He has spent so many years of his life in this fancy hotel washroom handing out paper towels, sprays of cologne to well-heeled guests for dimes, quarters, the occasional one, but usually not even a nod of thanks to show for it. At home, each late night, he prays to Jesus that if there be a heaven it have no porcelain, no white tile, no sinks or pine potpourri. No Old Spice, Aqua Velva, hand sanitizer, nothing but the loveliness of real wildflowers, soft breezes and the cool, cool jazz of Miles, Birdman, Yardman, Monk to attend to his dreams, to help him count the time until the sweet resurrection.

60 Sanskrit 2011 Poetry

Mykell Gates

mixed media on canvas | 53" x 46"

Art Volume 42

Musical Tables Janet Thornburg “Jeanine? Is that you?” The voice that called out my name was as smooth as a radio announcer’s, and it sent me sliding backward through time. I looked to the left and right, and then I turned around. There stood Dirk, right behind me in the checkout line at Walmart.

“You came!” He shrugged. “As if you gave me a choice.” Dirk had been waffling ever since I tracked him down and e-mailed him an invitation to our fortieth high school reunion. His first response was, “Love to come but too busy.” I wrote back and put the screws to him. Numerous times. I told him we were holding it at the brand new Holiday Inn Express and a third of the class had already sent in their forty dollars. I thought I had him, but last week he called me on the phone after midnight, slurring his words and rambling all over the map. When I told him to get to the point, he took a deep breath and announced that he definitely wasn’t coming. Of course I pressed him to tell me why, and he hemmed and hawed and finally said he couldn’t come because he was losing his hair. “So you think the rest of us haven’t lost anything?” I asked him. “I had a double mastectomy last year, for starters.” “I’m sorry, Jeanine.” It sounded like he really meant it, so I simmered down a little. I heard ice cubes clinking in a glass, and then he started up again. “I’m sure all of us have suffered losses, but this isn’t a hidden scar that nobody knows about if you don’t tell them. Hair is the first thing people see.” I had to laugh. Same old Dirk. I told him I was sorry to hear about his hair, and I was. He had a fine head of hair in high school—thick and blonde and wavy. He was voted best-looking for the favorites section of our yearbook. Under the fluorescent Walmart lights, I could see that his hair was thinner, but he could still win bestlooking, hands down. His haircut made the most of what hair he had left, and he was wearing a sky-blue polo shirt that matched his eyes and made him look like Paul Newman on Newman’s Own Salad Dressing. I was kicking myself for dashing over there in a stretched-out gray T-shirt and orange sweatpants. I hadn’t even combed my hair. Thank goodness I at least snatched the curlers out. I stopped myself from making excuses for how I looked and just said, “I’m glad you made it.” He pulled me in for a hug. It felt strange. First off, he was so tall my nose was pressed against his collarbone.

64 Sanskrit 2011 Short Story

Second, he didn’t have a paunch like my husband Jack and every other guy in town. I wondered what kind of life gives you a body like that. He must not have biscuits and gravy for breakfast every morning. After I paid for the trophies for the reunion and he paid for a bottle of Listerine mouthwash, he offered to walk me to my car. As we crossed the parking lot, I saw Butch Anders smoking a cigarette in front of the tire center and yelled, “Hey, Butch, look who showed up for the reunion!” When Butch waved half-heartedly and Dirk barely nodded, I remembered there was bad blood between them. Our junior year Dirk tried to rip the “M” off Butch’s letter jacket right outside of study hall. He said Butch didn’t have a right to wear it because he’d been kicked off the football team for showing up drunk at the Homecoming game. Butch maintained he’d also earned a letter in wrestling, and he said he’d kill Dirk if he ever came near him again. Butch wasn’t the only one who wasn’t crazy about Dirk. Lots of people didn’t care much for him. Instead of winning best-looking, Dirk could easily have been voted most intelligent or most athletic or most likely to succeed, but not friendliest. People thought he was full of himself, which he was, but even so, we elected him class president every year of high school. I was class secretary when we were seniors, and that’s when I got to see past the front he put up. Before that, I couldn’t stand him either. After we graduated, he went to a famous school back East, and when he finished there, he went on to some big-deal law school. I didn’t hear anything more about him for a long time. Then somebody said he’d been on the campaign staff of some Democrat running for the Senate and that he was planning to run for office himself. I watched for his name, but it never showed up in the Maple Grove Daily Press. At the opening of the reunion that evening, Pastor Vince thanked God that fifty of us had made it back to Maple Grove and asked His blessing on our fellowship. If he’d stopped there, everything would have been fine, but like a lot of preachers and lawyers, he couldn’t seem to shut up. He swerved off onto a patriotic

track and made us stand up and pledge allegiance to the flag. It was a stupid idea, but I went along with it, and so did everybody else except for Dirk. Dirk remained seated, his arms folded, but he was far from silent. He recited the pledge louder than anyone else, making certain phrases into questions, like “Under God?” and “With liberty and justice for all?” People were turning around to look at him. It was the first time they’d seen him in forty years, since he’d skipped the ten, twenty, and thirty-year reunions. After we finished the pledge and sat down, Vince’s next move was to ask everybody who had served

a poll. If you feel good about what you did in the service—Vietnam or anywhere else—keep standing up. If you came back really fucked up, sit down.” Earl, the maintenance man, froze. His twin grandsons had just shipped out to Afghanistan the week before. A flush moved up his face, and he touched the hammer in his tool belt. Jack—my husband—is a good friend of Earl’s, and when he saw what was going on, he was ready to jump up and take the mike away from Dirk, but I stopped him. I felt like it wasn’t really his business since he wasn’t a draft dodger or a veteran.

just that feeling of deciding to go ahead no matter what in the military to stand up again, and then he asked the Lord to bless them for preserving our freedom. Dirk fidgeted in his seat, glaring at Vince. I wondered if he was worried that people would think he was draft dodger. He probably was, but so what? A lot of other guys were still sitting down, including my husband, Jack, who was 4-F because of his bad hearing. I wanted to tell Dirk to get over it. All that was a long time ago, and we’re fiftyeight years old, old enough to let bygones be bygones. Pastor Vince said, “Amen.” Before the veterans could sit down, Dirk stepped to the front, took the microphone from Vince, and said, “Hold on for just a moment please.” I wondered what was going on. Dirk wasn’t on the program. I had just stood up myself to go up and give the awards for least changed and most changed. The prizes were nice—fifteen-dollar gift certificates for the Backwoods Grill. People drive all the way from Olathe just to get a piece of their mud pie for dessert. It was getting hot in the Kachina room. The air conditioning had stopped, and it was 88 degrees outside. I could see Earl, the maintenance chief of the Holiday Inn Express, standing on a ladder and holding his hand up under a vent to see if it was working. “Just for the record,” Dirk said, “I’d like to take

The veterans were sitting down and standing back up and getting mad as hell as they tried to remember which action meant you were proud and which one meant you were fucked up. Butch Anders shouted at Dirk, “So where were you while we were defending your ass?” “Hiding out in school, Butch, laying low.” “There you have it,” Butch said, and lots of people said, “Boo.” Dirk ignored them and nodded to the veterans. “Thank you,” he said. “Who’s that, Jeanine?” Jack asked me. “One of your old boyfriends?” “No,” I told him. “I never dated him.” That was true, but something did happen between us. One night a bunch of us went out to Orville’s Hot Springs and climbed over the fence. The mineral pool was crusted over with green, and there was a wooden door from one of the changing rooms floating in the middle. Everybody was saying we ought to leave, but Dirk said we ought to go in anyway. I don’t know what came over me. I said I’d go in if he would. He said, “You’re on,” and we both stripped off our clothes and dived into the scummy pool. It’s the wildest I’ve ever felt. I scraped my knee getting out, and Short Story Volume 42

it got infected, but it was all worth it, just that feeling of deciding to go ahead no matter what. Afterward Dirk gave me a ride home. He parked in front of my house and put his arm around my shoulders. It felt good—I was still chilly from our swim, and the night air was cool. I didn’t know what would happen next, and I didn’t care. I was full of myself, like Dirk seemed to be all the time. He tousled my hair and said, “Good going, sport.” He walked me to the door, and when I went inside, I felt better than if he’d kissed me. I felt like I used to feel when my dad would tell me to flex my arm and show my muscle. He’d squeeze it and whistle through his teeth, and I’d feel tough enough to stand up to my mean sisters and whatever else the world served up. “That’s good you never dated him,” Jack said. “The guy is trouble.” “Yeah,” I said, but I was glad Dirk did what he did. Funny. I’d spent three months trying to make sure

this a reunion to remember.” People clapped. “And while I have your attention, get ready for our icebreaker. Everybody has just eaten dinner with their same old friends. For dessert, we’re going to mix it up. Lick off your forks and stand up.” To my surprise, everybody obeyed. Maybe it was because he’d been class president and bossed us around all those years. “Musical tables,” he said. “This table,”—he pointed to the table where I’d been sitting—“is for people who said they were going to lose twenty pounds before they came here, but never quite got around to it.” There was good-natured laughter, and Jack and I sat back down along with several classmates who joined us. “This table is for people who want to brag about their grandchildren. Come on over here and get out your photos.” Several women giggled and went to that table, digging in their purses for pictures as they walked.

“This table,”—he pointed to the table where I’d been sitting— “is for people who said they were going to lose twenty pounds before they came here, but never quite got around to it.” the reunion would come off without a hitch, and there I was, doing my best to let Dirk mess it up. Maybe it’s because I don’t like Butch or Vince either, but I can’t show it because we need their business at Jack’s hardware store. Dirk handed me the microphone and sat down. I went ahead and announced that Skippy Pettingill had won the award for being the least changed, and she skipped up to get it. She’s fifty-eight like the rest of us, but unlike the rest of us, Skippy is still peppy. I was getting ready to give the award for most changed to Ron Hinkel, who was the class runt but now manages a Gold’s gym in Tucson. His neck is bigger than Skippy’s waist. Before I could announce Ron as the winner, however, Dirk was back, refreshed, taking back the microphone and clinking a knife against a glass. “Hear, hear,” he said. “Everybody join me in giving Jeanine a big hand for all her hard work to make

66 Sanskrit 2011 Short Story

“This table is for people who are on their second marriage. Or wait…let’s say for people who have been married two or more times.” There was an awkward silence, but then a handful of couples grinned and drifted over to the table. “This table is for people for whom high school was the best time of their lives. We’d better make that two tables—there are probably a whole lot of you.” Butch Anders and his wife, Kathy, headed toward one of those tables. “Don’t sit down too soon,” Dirk said to Kathy. “This table over here is for everybody who was pregnant at graduation.” Skippy tittered and then quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Butch stepped between Kathy and Dirk and jutted his jaw out. Dirk ignored them and continued. “Ladies only at the pregnancy table. This table over here is for the boys who did the right thing and married the girls

they knocked up. That table in the corner is for the cads who ran away.” “Shut him up,” Pastor Vince said. “The man is sick.” “Sick,” Dirk said, stroking his chin. “Seems like we all like to talk about our health problems as we get older. Joe here just told me about having a heart attack while removing barbecued chickens from the rotisserie at Thrifty Foods. Let’s make this our major health problems table. Major problems only, please— constipation doesn’t qualify. Tumors or better to open. “This table,” Dirk said, talking faster, “is the homo table. I believe it will remain empty tonight since our gay brothers and sisters no doubt know you’d tar and feather them if they set foot in Maple Grove.” Dirk backed toward the door and gestured toward the last two tables. He pointed to one and said, “This table is for people who left here with big dreams and found what they were looking for. “And this last one,” he said, caressing the white linen tablecloth, “is for those who went chasing big dreams and found—” The clang of metal against metal rang out from across the room. Up on the ladder, Earl steadily pounded on the air-conditioning vent, his eyes fixed on Dirk. Dirk paused until the racket stopped and then continued: “… for those who went chasing big dreams and found nothing.” “So sit down, loser,” Butch said, standing up. “There’s plenty of nothing for you right here at home.” A lot of people started yelling at Dirk to sit down, but he just stood there. Butch went over and grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around, and shoved him toward the last table. Dirk’s head cracked against the edge of the table as he went down. There was a long moment of silence. “Leave him be,” Jack said when I got up, but I went over and helped Dirk get to his feet. His head was bleeding, so I gave him a napkin and told him to press it against the cut.

When I asked him where he was staying, it took him a long time to come up with the name of his motel. He said he’d be able to walk there as soon as his head cleared, but I told him no, I’d drive him. His face was green in the neon light from the sign in front of the Lone Pine Motel. The blood on his scalp looked black. “Thanks, Jeanine,” he said and touched my shoulder. He got out of the car, and I waited while he fumbled in his pocket for his room key. I was glad he found it fast because I was in a hurry to get back to the Holiday Inn before I got into any more trouble than I was already in. “I’ve got to help clean up,” I told Jack when I got to the Kachina Room. Jack nodded, his lips white from being stretched so tight. At the back of the room, a group of guys were standing around Butch, talking tough and drinking beer. Jack didn’t join them. He went to the bar to get himself a beer and stayed there, and I joined Skippy, who was clearing the centerpieces and trash off the tables. “Look,” she said, holding up Dirk’s nametag. We’d copied our senior pictures onto the nametags, and Dirk’s picture looked like a young god. There was something a little off, though, a curl to his upper lip that made it look almost like he was sneering. “How badly was he hurt?” Skippy asked. “He could walk,” I told her. “Remember that night at Orville’s Hot Springs?” she asked. “Did anything happen between you two afterward?” “Yes,” I said. I held out my hand, and Skippy gave me Dirk’s nametag. She signaled me with her eyes to put it away quick, so I slid it into my purse and clicked it shut just as Jack came up and draped his arm around me. It felt heavy, but it felt all right, and I beat him to it and said, “Let’s go home.”

Short Story Volume 42

Jessica Alford

intaglio print | 15" x 24"

68 Sanskrit 2011 Art

Nicholas Garris

lithograph | 30" x 20"

Art Volume 42

Rachel E. Andrews

silver gelatin print | 6.5" x 9.5"

70 Sanskrit 2011 Art

A quick flick of the wrist, a few minutes time, and soon the whole Amoan quickwith flickdelight of theThe wrist, a few minutes whole the land of dust cabin is alight. Aged timbers creak and as the dancers gaily go time, aboutand theirsoon job,the purifying The dancers gaily goshot about their job, purifying the land ofbefore. dust cabin isfrom alight. Aged timbers creak and moan with delight waves orange and redlong shake memories free years too long sitting still.as the Aofsharp crack through thestill. night as the splits inred two. The sitting waves ofatroof orange and shake memories free from years before.tale from a distance. Ghosts of time pasttoo snapdown and fizz withthe anger havingmiddle been callous beams come across table in with itsof An audience trees watches this cautionary Ghosts ofthe time past snap and fizz with anger at having been awoken by the reverie of licking dancers clearing away the brush. If only he had lived to see what light I have shedago. here,They whatknew I have cold splinters. Their scars are still there in my stomach, but that’s were here whenclearing it happened those years If Shedding only he lived to seenow. what light give I have shed here, what IThey have awoken by the reverie ofago licking dancers away the brush. their pretense, theWhat walls way, illuminating the hidtaken from him. allhad that remains he took from metheir those years canthe cathartic release coming. He ripped asunder theirinbrethA sharp crack shotwas through the night as the roof splits two. The from him. Shedding pretense, the give way, illuminating the hidden darkness inside, a black hole unwashed not betaken given back, Iof have come tofilth learnwaiting that. renwalls tohole build the cabin. He took what heinwanted. callous beams come down across the table the middle with its den darkness inside, a black of unwashed filth waiting to An be cleansed. Plumes of billowing stardust escape into the It’s not our secret anymore. audience of trees watches this cautionary tale from acold distance. splinters. Their scarsescape are stillinto there my stomach, but that’s our secret anymore. to be years cleansed. Plumes of billowing stardust theinme night sky. They were It’s herenot when it happened those ago. They all knew that remains now. What he took from those years ago cannight sky. the cathartic release was coming. He ripped asunder their breth- not be given back, I have come to learn that. ren to build the cabin. He took what he wanted.

Illumination

James Brandon Caudle

Easy Strike matches, light anywhere, even here. A quick flick of the wrist, a few minutes time, and soon the whole cabin is alight. Aged timbers creak and moan with delight as the waves of orange and red shake memories free from years before. Ghosts of time past snap and fizz with anger at having been awoken by the reverie of licking dancers clearing away the brush. Shedding their pretense, the walls give way, illuminating the hidden darkness inside, a black hole of unwashed filth waiting to be cleansed. Plumes of billowing stardust escape into the night sky. An audience of trees watches this cautionary tale from a distance. They were here when it happened those years ago. They knew the cathartic release was coming. He ripped asunder their brethren to build the cabin. He took what he wanted. A sharp crack shot through the night as the roof splits in two. The callous beams come down across the table in the middle with its cold splinters. Their scars are still there in my stomach, but that’s all that remains now. What he took from me those years ago cannot be given back, I have come to learn that. The dancers gaily go about their job, purifying the land of dust too long sitting still. If only he had lived to see what light I have shed here, what I have taken from him. It’s not our secret anymore.

Poetry Volume 42

Contributors’ Biographies Literature Daniel Barnhardt

Daniel Barnhardt lives in a small bedroom reminiscent of the cabin in a ship. He drinks his coffee black. He has spent the better part of two hours listening to music and trying to determine what he could possbily say about himself that would be capable of explaining his complex personality.

Richard Brostoff

After receiving a B.A. in Literature from Bennington College, Richard Brostoff studied Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania and went on to advanced training at Duke and Harvard. Apart from his work with poetry, he has also performed post-modern and improvisionational dance works at the NYC Improvisation Festival and throughout New England.

James Brandon Caudle

James Brandon Caudle is a 2009 UNC Charlotte graduate with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English with minors in American Studies, Technical Writing, and Film. Apart from poetry, he also enjoys creating lies and masking them as short stories. Brandon lives in Monroe, NC, and is engaged to the most beautiful woman in the world.

Melissa Chadburn

After formly studying Law, Melissa Chadburn obtained an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Antioch University. She is of African, Asian, Hispanic, Filipina, and Irish descent, and was raised by Dutch/Indosian and Bristish foster parents. Her mixed background has made her aware of racial and cultural differences and similarites which influence her writing.

Douglas Collura

Douglas Collura is a Manhattan-based poet who has recited at open mics in and around Manhattan for the last thirty years. He makes his living as a technical writer. He is the author of the book, Things I Can Fit My Whole Head Into, which was a finalist for the 2007 Paterson Poetry Prize. He was also the 2008 First Prize Winner of the Missouri Review Audio/Video Competition in Poetry.

John Danahy

John Danahy resides in New Hampshire. He enjoys writing, reading, photography, and travel with his wife, dog, 4 children and 9 grandchildren. His work has been published in The Alembic, The Broome Review, The Coe Review, Dislocate, The Dos Passos Review, Eclipse, The Evansville Review, Paterson Literary Review, Sierra Nevada College Review and 2Bridges Review.

Corri Elizabeth

Corri Elizabeth, short for Cornelia “Corri” Elizabeth Vander Hoek Wells, credits her long name for her interest in language. She publishes poetry as Corri Elizabeth, sans patronymic, and prose as Cornelia Wells. She teaches at Arizona State University.

Vivian Eyre

Vivian Eyre’s chapbook, Late Interiors, is currently being submitted for publication. In addition to being a selfemployed consultant and leadership coach, her time is spent in service at Maureen’s Haven soup kitchen, as a docent at Parrish Art Museum in Southampton, New York, and studying Chinese brushstroke painting.

Lara Gularte

Lara Gularte earned her M.F.A. from San Jose State University, where she received several Phelan Awards and the Anne Lillis Award for Creative Writing. In July of 2008, she was a resident poet at the Footpaths to Creativity Writer’s Residency and Retreat on Flores Island in the Azores. She is an assistant poetry editor for Narrative Magazine.

Nicole Hardy

Nicole Hardy is the author of This Blonde and Mud Flap Girl’s XX Guide to Facial Profiling, published in Main Street Rag’s 2006 Editor’s Choice chapbook series. She earned her M.F.A. at the Bennington College Writing Seminars and was nominated for a 2007 Pushcart Prize. One of her essays recently appeared in the New York Times “Modern Love” column, and she has poems forthcoming in NIMROD and ellipsis.

George Kaperonis

George Kaperonis is a writer with plays produced in the U.S. and Europe, and screenplays produced in the U.S., Sri Lanka, and Iceland. His work as a filmmaker has been screened from CA to NY. He has been a professional actor in theater, film, and television; co-founded a theater company in D.C.; and lived nearly 20 years in NYC where his poetry and films were funded by the NY State Council on the Arts. He is with the Department of Art + Art History at UNC Charlotte.

Athena Kashyap

Athena Kashyap’s book, Crossing Black Waters will be published later this year by Stephen F. Austin State University Press. Her work has been widely anthologized in the U.S. and U.K., and has appeared in numerous journals in the U.S. She is an Adjunct Professor of English at City College of San Francisco, but is taking time off in Bangalore, India where she leads creative writing workshops. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and a play.

Richard Luftig

Richard Luftig is a retired professor of Educational Psychology and Special Education at Miami University in Ohio. He is a recipient of the Cincinnati PostCorbett Foundation Award for Literature and a semi-finalist for the Emily Dickinson Society Award. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States and internationally in Japan, Canada, Australia, Finland, Bulgaria, Thailand, England and Hong Kong. His third chapbook was published by Dos Madres Press.

Emily McKeage

Emily McKeage was born and raised in NYC. She attended Harvard University where she concentrated in Literature and graduated magna cum laude with Phi Beta Kappa honors. She went on to receive a Master’s degree from the Department of Comparative Literature at Harvard and taught English at Harvard and later at NYU. A writer and educator, Emily has served as both a private writing and Latin tutor to middle and high school students as well as a volunteer writing tutor to middle schoolers at the East Harlem School. She lives with her husband Jonathan in New York, where they have raised their two daughters.

Kirsten Jones Neff

Kirsten Jones Neff is a gardening teacher and poet who lives in Northern California. She has worked professionally as a journalist, travel and food writer, and documentary filmmaker. One of her favorite writing projects was a blog about her family’s experience living in Chennai, India. Currently, she teaches K-8 students about organic gardening, farming and nutrition. Her website can be found at KirstenJonesNeff.com

Adrianne Fincham-Quiros

Adrianne Fincham-Quiros’ first solo screenwriting project, Winter Kill, won second place in UCLA’s Diane Thomas Screenwriting Awards; the project was also optioned by Universal Studios. Her second script, Amelia, was optioned by Farrell/Minoff Productions. A member of the Writer’s Guild of America, she’s attended many writing conferences, including the Los Angeles Writers Conference, The San Francisco Writer’s Conference, and The Twin Bridges Writers Salon. When not helping her husband at his land surveying company, she can be found working on her first novel entitled The Summer of My Italian Suicide.

Barbara Rockman

Barbara Rockman teaches Poetry at Santa Fe Community College, Renesan Institute for Lifelong Learning, and in private workshops. She is the founder of “A Community of Voices,” a music, poetry, and prose performance series devoted to the work of emerging artists. Her collaborations with artists and poets have resulted in numerous installations and readings at galleries and venues across New Mexico. She is also co-editor of the anthology Women Becoming Poems, a recipient of the New Mexico Discovery Award, the Southwest Writers’ Award, and a winner of The MacGuffin National Poetry Hunt.

Ann Ryan

Ann Ryan holds a Master’s degree in Public Policy from Georgetown University and has worked in human services and public policy for over 25 years. Her poem, “Angry Mother’s Son,” is included in the Wartime Issue of Beltway Quarterly (2006). She has also exhibited her poetry in two galleries as part of a show called InterReactions, where she as the poet, a watercolorist, and a photographer, took turns creating and responding to each other’s work. She studied at Bethesda Writer’s Center and Skidmore College and has participated in Writer’s groups for over three years.

Diane Sherman

Diane Sherman received a B.A. in Art History from UCLA and a M.A. in Arts and Consciousness from JFK University. Before becoming a yoga instructor, she owned a graphic design consulting business for eight years. Her passion for poetry is often expressed through her website www.lotusofferings.com She has studied with Ellen Bass, Liz Rosner, Joe Millar, and Dorianne Laux.

Jonathan Stone

Jonathan Stone has been writing poetry since he was about fourteen, before he even really knew what poetry was. He graduated from Portland State University with a B.A. in English Literature and is currently applying to various M.F.A. programs. His most recent publication appeared in Ship of Fools, a literary journal out of the University of Rio Grande. He currently lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and son.

Janet Thornburg

In addition to writing fiction, Janet Thornburg writes and performs one-woman shows. She earned an M.F.A. in Playwriting from San Francisco State University and an M.F.A. in Fiction from Warren Wilson College. She has studied with Antonya Nelson, Pam Houston, David Ford, Anne Galjour, and Ann Randolph. Rhubarb Pie, a collection of her short stories, was published by Thunderegg Press in 2005. She lives with her two children in San Francisco, where she teaches at City College.

Christine Tierney

An M.F.A. recipient from the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast Writing Program, Christine Tierney is employed as an after-school director. In 2004, she attended a poetry workshop in Prague, sponsored by Western Michigan University where she was a John Woods scholar. She has studied with Kazim Ali, Jeanne Marie Beaumont, Annie Finch, Frannie Lindsay, and Patricia Smith. She was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2009.

Sean Whitten

Sean Whitten is a writer, because he isn’t good at very much else. Well, he also might be able to fly (citation needed). He also enjoys a good sword-fight, having placed in numerous local and national level fencing tournaments. In his off-time, he enjoys Merlot and StarCraft, both simultaneously and non-simultaneously. Currently in his senior year, Sean is planning on seeking a Master’s degree, because “that’s what smart people do or something.”

Helen Wickes

Helen Wickes lives in Oakland, California and has worked for many years as a psychotherapist. In 2002, she received an M.F.A. from Bennington College. Her first book of poems, In Search of Landscape, was published in 2007 by Sixteen Rivers Press. Her poems can be read and heard online at From the Fishouse. Other works of Helen Wickes have appeared or is forthcoming in over thirty-five literary journals and magazines.

Susan R. Williamson

A poet and arts administrator, Susan R. Williamson divides her time between Charlottesville, where she serves on the advisory board o Streetlight Magazine and Boca Raton, where she is Assistant Director of The Palm Beach Poetry Festival. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and more recently anthologized in Letters to the World (Red Hen Press, 2007). She has attended the Sewanee Writers Conference, Nimrod Summer Writers Workshop, and won the University of Virginia Medical LINK Poetry Award, judged by Kate Daniels. A finalist for the VaBook On-In-Ten Competition, she received a fellowship in New England College’s M.F.A. poetry program.

Art Jessica Alford

Jessica Alford is a contemporary artist pushing the limits on process and materials. Her work is about connecting with her audience and teaching. She uses personal experiences to create an understanding of others in their environment. Her concept is that humans have complete control over decisions, aesthetics, and what we do in situations. Jessica has been featured in galleries around Charlotte, and has sold to small collectors. She is in the process of completing a B.F.A. in Print Media at UNC Charlotte. She juggles going to school and being Co-President of the Intergraphica student organization.

Elizabeth Arzani

Elizabeth Arzani is currently working on her B.F.A. with a concentration in Painting. Her work is about compilations of findings. She collects objects, ideas, stories and layers and then stitches them into her work.

Rachel E. Andrews

Rachel E. Andrews has always been a part of the arts. Since age five, she has been a ballet dancer, training in Delaware and Philadelphia and then dancing professionally with Colorado Ballet. After a change of heart, Rachel moved to Charlotte and has been attending UNC Charlotte since 2009, pursuing a B.A. in Art History and a B.A. in Art with a concentration in Photography.

Art (Arutyun) Ayrapetyan

Art (Arutyun) Ayrapetyan is an Art major at UNC Charlotte. Outside of school, he enjoys doing graphic, web, and print design. He is a talented artist in many areas from oil painting to ink drawings to graphic illustrations. Art was born in Armenia, later moved to Russia, and eventually moved back to the U.S. Art’s diverse cultural background makes him a stronger artist with a large variety of original ideas.

Amelia Fletcher

Jordan Samuel Rickard

Nicholas Garris

Cherish Rosas

Amelia Fletcher was raised in Fairview, NC. She is currently attending UNC Charlotte working on her B.F.A. and plans on achieving an M.F.A. She is primarily influenced by personal histories and the environment around her. She enjoys many different mediums; but photography is her passion, whether it is film, digital, or alternative processes. Nicholas Garris is currently obtaining his B.F.A. in Printmaking and is in his senior year. His work is primarily in the realm of screen-printing in painting, but some say his work has bridged that gap. His work focuses on a relationship between private and public persona and typically has a comedic twist. The creation of his character and alter ego, Cornelius Rampage, has made his work well known around the university. This BFA student is also co-president of the university’s Print Media organization, Intergraphica. As of Fall 2010, Nicholas is the feature artist on the College of Arts and Architecture webpage.

Mykell Gates

Mykell Gates’ work explores the nature of the complex relationship between humans and animals. As a result of her degree in Psychology and Fine Art, she is very interested in the interworking of the human mind and how the environment we live in influences us. Her paintings create imaginary environments where humans and animals can interact. The imagery intends to cause the viewer to ask questions, and discover answers along the way.

Carmen Neely

Carmen Neely is currently pursuing a B.F.A. in Photography at UNC Charlotte. Born and raised in the South, she has developed a strong interest in dissecting racial constructs and considers visual imagery a powerful tool for social commentary.

Michael Noland

Michael Noland is a senior completing his B.F.A. with a concentration in Graphic Design. He enjoys collage and typography working together to form an image.

Jordan Samuel Rickard is a photographer, artist, and a student of life. He currently attends the University of North Carolina at Charlotte and will be graduating on May 13, 2011. For over a year and a half, he has been developing his portrait photography while obtaining an education in photography. For it is the balance of these two loves that life emulates off of. Cherish Rosas is a fourth year architecture student at UNC Charlotte’s School of Architecture, pursuing a fifth year Bachelor of Architecture degree. In June 2010, she attended Ghost, a two-week international design/build program in Upper Kingsburg, Nova Scotia headed by architect Brian MacKay-Lyons. Photographic and written documentation are her choice media and the focus of her design process in her architectural representation.

Ben Verner

Ben Verner is graduating in the Spring of 2011, earning a B.F.A. with a concentration in Painting from UNC Charlotte. “This is propaganda. You know, you know.”

Amber D. Watts

Both the context of Amber D. Watts’ work and the mediums she uses, aim at a literal and metaphorical synthesis of things. She attempts to create harmony between the mediums, so that they fuse into one. Her paintings are closely related to shrines, in that they are made with love and respect in honor of great people. Each piece functions as a sacred place for the figure to be viewed and admired; and a place for the viewer to have a spiritual experience.

Ashley York

Ashley York recently graduated from UNC Charlotte with a B.F.A. Her work deals with our unbalanced dependence on technology, which leads to an emotional attachment to our gadgets. In turn, allowing our worth and identities to be determined by our possession of these things, which become obsolete within months.

Juryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Biographies Literature Christopher Davis

Christopher Davis is a Professor of Creative Writing in the English Department at UNC Charlotte. His three books of poetry are titled, The Tyrant of the Past and the Slave of the Future, The Patriot, and A History of the Only War. His fouth collection will be titled Rite.

Aimee Parkinson

Aimee Parkinson has recieved a Christopher Isherwood Fellowship, a Writers at Work Fellowship, and a Kurt Vonnegut Fiction Prize. Her new story collection, The Innocent Party, is forthcoming from BOA Editions. She has an M.F.A. from Cornell University and is an Associate Professor of English at UNC Charlotte. Her story collection, Woman with Dark Horses, won the first annual Starcherone Fiction Prize.

Julie E. Townsend

Julie E. Townsend is a published short story author. Main Street Rag is getting ready to release her novel Seafood Jesus. She is a full-time Writing Lecturer in the Department of English at UNC Charlotte.

Art Dr. Jae Emerling

Dr. Jae Emerling is an Assistant Professor of Modern and Contemporary Art. He holds a PhD in Art History from the University of California, Los Angeles and a B.A. from Wesleyan University, CT. His research focuses on the intersection between modern/contemporary art and critical theory. Issues of historiography, memory, and ethics color all aspects of his work. He recently finished a book about the history of photography entitled Photography: History and Theory, which will be published by Routledge in 2011. His other publications include Theory for Art History (Routledge, 2005).

Aspen Hochhalter

Aspen Hochhalter is an Assistant Professor of Art and Photography Area Coordinator in the Department of Art and Art History at UNC Charlotte. Her work has been exhibited nationally, and has most recently been featured in the Points of View Photography Gallery in Raleigh, NC, the Castell Photography Gallery in Asheville, NC and will be featured in the Third Juried Annuale at the Light Factory Contemporary Museum of Photography and Film.

Michael Simpson

Before UNC Charlotte, Professor Simpson, who teaches Foundations and Drawing, taught at Winthrop University, Eastern Michigan University, and Auburn University. His paintings have been included in over 120 exhibits, shown in galleries in New York, Chicago, and Atlanta, and collected by such corporations as Merck, McGraw Hill, and IBM. Simpsonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s honors include an Alabama Artist Fellowship and residencies at the Millay Colony for the Arts and the McColl Center for the Visual Arts.

Editor in Chief

Associate Editor

Adam Iscrupe is finishing up his B.F.A. in Graphic Design, with just one more semester till he graduates. Over the past year, his relationship with typography has grown tremendously. He is now quite the type snob and his friends often find him quizzing them randomly, usually asking: “What typeface is that?” or “Is it Arial or Helvetica?”

Lauren Faw is a Psychology major and English minor still deciding what path she wants to take with her future. In addition to working with the Sanskrit crew and attending class, Lauren also works as a research assistant with the Engineering department. In her spare time, she can be found writing short fiction, listening to cheesy 80’s music, and putting in a few hours at the gym.

Chas Burnette is currently a Pre-Art major and when not in class enjoys doing yoga, writing on any writable space random lines of poems or prose that pops into her mind. Chas also loves singing loudly along with the radio, TV, and her mp3 player, whether she knows the words or sounds bad or good is of no matter to her. Who knows, maybe she’ll decide to be a singing, writing, artist…who teaches yoga?

Alan Johnson is an English major and rising poet who was glad to intern at Sanskrit, and plans to help again in coming years. Never found without headphones, Alan listens to music 98.325% of the time, and believes that if it wasn’t for Rock, Jazz, and Christian Hip-Hop, he would have never bought a single mp3 player in his life.

Content Coordinator

Intern

Lead Designer

Designer

Karen Pierce has decided she’s never going to leave school, still cannot define Art, regained a newfound love for life and everyone around her, hasn’t changed her taste in music since she was 13, lived in Charlotte, NC since birth (minus a two-year hiatus in the Philippines), and her height is not up for discussion.

Patrick Ryan is currently finishing his B.F.A. in Graphic Design and graduating in May. He thoroughly enjoys reading blogs and finding new and exciting inspiration. Patrick prides himself on being the resident Canadian and brings spirits up when times get tough. O Canada...

Andrew Lichtenhan is a graduate of UNC Charlotte with a B.F.A. in Graphic Design. He considers himself a true “Jack-of-All-Trades” in many creative and technological fields. He’s always tinkering with gadgets and exploring the world with a new eye. If he isn’t breaking rules or getting in trouble when photographing, he isn’t shooting at his best. He hopes to found his own design studio with a digital media and technological focus.

Shane Timm is a pretty simple guy. He’ll often be seen with a camera in one hand and a coffee in the other. Photography is what he lives for and has a Canon AE-1 tattoo to prove it. Shane’s willingness to shoot any theme or idea without hesitation has allowed him to intensify his love for this unpredictable and ever-growing art form, more than he ever expected.

Volunteer

Thank You Contributors’: Without your work and thousands of entries we get from you, this magazine would be nothing. Your work creates this magazine, you are the life of it! Wayne Maikranz: You allowed us the opportunity to express ourselves, and for the years of support you have given to Sanskrit and Student Media. Mark Haire: You always seem to have the right answer to our continuous questions. Oh, and thanks for getting that money in our pockets! Pete Hurdle: Whether it is asking for your advice on something or just catching up on what is new, you allow us to chill in your office to escape our own. Kelly Lusco Merges: You are always willing to help us out and show us the easy way to do it when we make it so hard on ourselves! Ginny Jones: You let us borrow your LED flashlight when we desperately needed it, and we hope you stay at Student Media for the years to come! Michael Teague: We cannot even count how many times we have turned to you for help. You’re always there and willing to help us out when we have technical problems. We need to get lunch more often! Jury: Even around the time of putting together final grades, you still set aside the time to review and judge the contributor’s work. Everyone at Wallace Printing: You took our vision and applied the ink to the paper. Dr. Jae Emerling: Everyday you still make some of us question what the hell is art, and we now know to never challenge you at a cupcake-eating contest! David Rousmaniere and Constance Herron: You allowed us to use the facilities at the Student Health Center and we are forever grateful.

David Brodeur, Kimberly Hoover, Giulio Turturro, and Bobby Campbell: Our design professors. Without you and the rules you have taught us, this magazine would be a mess. Andrew Lichtenhan: You took time out of your busy schedule and your new job to come back to Sanskrit and volunteer yourself at photo shoots and as a photographer. Shane Timm: Your expertise came at the right time! Thanks for setting up such a great set and your assistance in other photo shoots. Amelia Fletcher, Sean Whitten, Ronnie Howard, Justin Nasrallah, Kourtney Bentley, Andrea Howard, Adam Peter Shinn, and Jesse James, the horse: Our models, thank you for taking your time with us and enduring our never ending photo shoots, all to just use one shot! And thank you Carly James, for letting us use your horse Jesse James and keeping him calm throughout the shoot. Rusty Barnhill, Jessica Alford, Shelby Olivera, and Avery Glenn: Thank you for all of your help in the first semester, it was a lot of reading and we couldn’t have done it without you. Eddie: Not just for keeping our office clean, but also for keeping us sane and striking up a conversation with every visit each day. Our boyfriends and girlfriends: You understood our dedication to Sanskrit and tolerating that we spent more time with it than you, during crunch time. The staff of University Times, Niner Online, Radio Free Charlotte, and Media Marketing: You put up with our loud music, banging on the walls, and - most of all stopping in and keeping us company and awake! Finally, to all the students of UNC Charlotte, SAFC, and our readers: For your continued interest in our passion. …Oh, and coffee.

Typography

Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine and the Student Media Board of The University of North Carolina at Charlotte.

Liberation Serif, Liberation Bold, Liberation Serif Italic, Fanwood, Fanwood Italic, Univers LT 85 Extra Black, 232MKSD RoundMedium, 232MKSD RoundLight, Trajan Pro, Goudy Old Style, St Marie Thin, ChunkFive, Lobster, Webdi n gs

Wallace Printing in Newton, NC

Credits

3500 copies of Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine were printed on 100# White Gusto Gloss Text with a 12 point Carolina C2S Cover stock, treated with a Soft Touch Aqueous Coating. This magazine is 82 pages, plus cover, with a trim size of 7'' x 8.5''.

Layout, Type Setting, Table of Contents: Adam Iscrupe Art Titles: Adam Iscrupe and Patrick Ryan Poetry Titles, Contributors’ and Jury’s Biographies, Thank You, Staff, and Colophon: Karen Pierce and Adam Iscrupe Cover and Title Page photographs: Patrick Ryan Just Routine photograph: Karen Pierce Model: Adam Peter Shinn Communion photograph: Andrew Lichtenhan with the assistance of Adam Iscrupe, Karen Pierce, and Patrick Ryan Model: Amelia Fletcher The Writer Shoots Himself photograph: Karen Pierce Model: Sean Whitten The Difference in Front of Me photograph: Shane Timm Models: Ronnie Howard, Justin Nasrallah, Kourtney Bently, Andrea Howard, Jesse James the horse Musical Tables photograph: Andrew Lichtenhan Staff photographs: Andrew Lichtenhan and Shane Timm

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form electronic, mechanic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the permission of the copy holder.

Equipment iMac computers running Mac OS X version 10.6.5 Adobe Creative Suite 5 Font Agent Pro 4 Canon 50D Canon Digital Rebel T1i Nikon D60 Canon 17-55 f/2.8 IS Nikkor DX AF-S 18-55mm 1:3.5-5.6G VR Tokina AT-X 116 Pro DX AF 11-16mm F2.8 Canon EF 50mm f/1.8 II Canon EF-S 60mm f/2.8 Macro USM Canon 17-85mm f/4-5.6 IS USM (2x)Canon Speedlight 430ex II Speedotron Force10 Strobes Chimera Softbox 18" Beauty Dish Joby Gorillapod SLR-Zoom Tripod wireless flash transmitter and receivers Military survival knife two Remington 770’s taxidermy deer head 12oz fake blood

Submission Guidelines Please visit sanskrit.uncc.edu to download submission forms, obtain contact information, browse archived issues, and view a map of where all of this year’s submissions came from – all over the world.

Have a nice day J