editor’s note You cannot have innovation without reflecting on what has been done in the past. From the Renaissance, to Modernism, to the legendary “cliffhanger,” we owe much of our artistic triumph to those who have striven to succeed before us. In this issue of Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine, we tip our hats to our cultural forefathers by looking back at the totally tubular 1980s, where it was all about big hair, shoulder pads, lookin’ bad, and feelin’ good. Our design team has utilized an artfully crafted palette of neon mishmash intended to be painfully nostalgic and perhaps a tad reminiscent of bowling alley carpet. Now strap in tight, because we may not be Marty McFly, but we are about to go on one gnarly ride. Peace Out,
Tierra Holmes, Editor-in-Chief
Pond at twlight Rojane Jesper Ballyvaughan LaDara McKinnon Bodegón Carolina Quintana Ocampo Frozen Instants by Carol Hamilton Bothar Na LaDara McKinnon Fowl City Emmett Thornburg Dark room Desiree Brown Porto, Portugal Elina Sukaryavichute Expectations Melissa Martin Fracture / Facture Kathryn Mccomas Affinity judith grissmer Gabriel Rachel Fussell JOSE CERNAL ALMOST REALIZING WHY HE LOST CUSTODY AND VISITATION Marc Tretin The Cave Rachel L. Austin gOGGLES Aba Hutchison A MUSICAL EVENING AT THE INSECT CAVE Myrthe Biesheuvel in the storm, Those who really care stay Danika Ng A Migrant’s Lay Alessio Zanelli Mini-Mew rachel Fussell The Soup Man Andrew Adams Biography benjamin Harnett Power Struggle melissa Martin Still Life with Fern + Chair Myrthe Biesheuvel A PORTRAIT OF TOMMY DORFMAN Jessica Miller Trail Myrthe Biesheuvel Afterwards David Reuter Twilight Horizon Emmett Thornburg rent-A-Puppy Jessica Miller Meat Market john f. buckley Bishop’s Quarter LaDara McKinnon Visiting hours Sharon Kennedy-Nolle
A Foregone Conclusion Jonah Smith-Bartlett death Zackery Clark transportation mirana comstock Dinner Party II Rachel Fussell Stan’s Donuts + Swiss Watches Elina Sukaryavichute A Poem like a house evalyn lee composition christa forster From the Chaos Comes the Calm Danika NG Lautrec Christa Forster oCEAN sEASHELL eARTHLY wOODHELD vASE Ryan Cook Box SERIES NUMBER 3 Myrthe Biesheuvel Brown Casket in a Yellow Room Edison Angelbello Bread House Rachel Fussel Pathway tO Ballyvaughan LaDara McKinnon State of the Union Kathryn McComas Fade RObbin Farr Stop tryna be neat! Aba Hutchison Take My Photograph Sarah Kinney The Little Koimaid Carolina Quintana Ocampo Until I couldn’t Claire Scott The Land Between the Notes N. Marc Mullin Untitled William Haynes Head Full of space Emmett Thornburg Glances oFf the Sill Alessio Zanelli nEW PAGE, NEW ME! Aba Hutchison NOT PHOTOSHOpPED ALEXZANDRIA EVANS Abuse Cameron Tate PHONECALL Myrthe Biesheuvel Silver Pool Emmett Thornburg The Sentinel Alessio Zanelli Yellowstone sarah Kinney Appendix
Pond at twilight I walk from my house
If they were to paint
Along a narrow pathway
Me into the picture,
To where the night waters
I would be sitting on a bench,
Of a pond stretch
My back toward the viewer,
Before me, dark and metallic.
As I look out across the water.
The far edge of the pond
What the viewer
Is fringed by long, slender trees.
Would not see
From the midst of these trees
(For it is somewhere
There emerges an eastern redbud, The pinkish purple blossoms of which Still appear visible Even at dusk. Beyond the trees The moon rises And casts a sliver of lemon rind Across the magnetic center Of the black waters. From the boat launch Two ducks as white as coconut Glide almost without perception
Beyond the periphery Of the painting) Is the silent movement of wings. For distant in the night, Comes the slow Sweep of a night owl, And seemingly, More distant yet, In that perfect stillness, Comes the haunting sound Of its call.
Across the glass surface Of the pond. If an artist Were to paint this scene, It would be as if one had stepped unbidden Into a solitary haven
Bal l y va ug ha n
Of peace.
LaDara McKinnon acrylic on canvas
4
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2018
By Rojane Jesper 5
frozen instants The deep blue unfurled from its packaged neatness Star Map on my wall, holds tight Onto our whole sky as we saw it then. An Ice Age star chart clings to cave walls to Lascaux. They knew the Bull, the Sisters, the Vernal Groupings. Their handprints declare their findings, and even today, I put my stamp here for a possible future viewer who might find me, who might exclaim How little she knew! And how bold to think she might escape extinction. One grain on sand on one beach in however many universes? I, oxygen-hungry, each scrawl my signature for the cairn at the top of the climb, wonder who might gather up such a proliferation of scribbles, might even give a passing glance to this pile of weather-stained papers.
B ode g รณ n Carolina Quintana Ocampo Charcoal
6
2018
2018
By Carol Hamilton 7
F O WL Ci ty
LaDara McKinnon
Emmett Thornburg
acrylic on canvas
Photography
2018
2018
8
B o tha r Na
9
dark room Clunk, clunk. The Stacy Adams drill through
After years of ear vomiting, I draw a gentle clip,
the thick silence, so thick I can hear the darkness
clip, clip from the clamor. It doesn’t drown out
swell, the beat of these thin closet walls pulsing,
the rest, but it soothes me, petting my sanity on
expanding, the rhythm of sweat raining over my
the neck. As if I’d mumbled it, as if I’d asked
converse collection. Clunk, clunk, clunk. They
for rescue, the clipping increases. The pace,
ramble across the hardwood, the weight of the
the volume, the pitch. Clip, clip, clip. The
wearer creaking the floorboards like a Western
boots press their weight forward, releasing
toad’s mating call. Croak, croak, croooak.
their heels. Clip, clip, clip, clip. The Moccasins
A thin pair of Moccasins enters, sliding against
step on top of each other. Clip, clip, clip.
the panels, scuffing the well-worn wood. Coconuts
The Vans howl on, rebelling against the
on sandpaper make a similar sound. The hippie
rising tone. Shriek, clip, shriek, clip, shriek.
slip-ons only murmur, but it’s still an eerie noise,
A thick blow to the floor breaks the
like a whisper of tobacco breath, coiling around
pattern. Clip becomes clomp, an uproar
them. The Monkstrap boots, brown leather,
only a penny loafer can fashion. The
screech and pivot to face the bohemian slippers.
Vans halt to surrender, to give the floor up
Maybe awaiting a tap dance. Maybe the next arrival.
to the bigger pair, the floor they’ve scraped
The bedroom door grunts open and I pick up
and scratched and chipped and didn’t care
the squeak of week-owned rubber. The delicate hum
about ruining. One of the loafers stomps
of a shoelace crawls across the platform, the purr
twice against the wood, sending the Vans
seeping through the floor crevices and up into this
and Moccasins and Stacy Adams tiptoeing
commercial carpet. It’s distinct. It’s exact.
out the room. I can hear the door gently
Explicit. The Vans squeal with each step, making
close and my ears stop bleeding.
tire-track remarks heavier than the scratchy sighs of the Moccasins, the clunks of the Stacy Adams boots. Now united, like a nightmare, altogether, they dance. The shrieeeek of the sneakers cries the loudest, the piercing sound invading my
By Desiree Brown
memory. The Monkstraps perform by heelticking while the Moccasins’ hushed bass keeps the tempo. The cacophony chokes my ears until they gag, suffocating on the wretched music, retching up wax. The band starts to waltz, to salsa, to foxtrot, to disco, to rock, to twostep, to twist, to jive, to bunny hop, each hoof thudding and thumping and plodding and
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2018
echoing. The noises never cease.
11
E x pec ta tion s
Elina Sukaryavichute
Melissa martin
Photography
colored pencil + watercolor
2018
2018
12
Po r to, P o r tuga l
13
A f f ini ty By judith grissmer You are in the air again, have barely seen the azaleas emblazon the yard in shades of rose and lavender. Your favorite by the road displays full red. An abundance of research ideas draws you back and forth between Santa Monica and Washington, seed projects developing as certainly as spring. I am on the ground knee-deep in perennials, circling plants with bone meal digging wintered compost into soil. I sit on the deck you built two summers ago, tell you by phone
F ra c tur e Fa c tur e
of the rough-legged hawk in the hickory. You talk
Kathryn McComas
of data that indicates why children achieve or fail—
Photography
of funding that will allow you to cultivate next season’s ideas. Soon the day comes to a close— bumblebees linger in bottomless blooms. A 747 passes the rising harvest moon.
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2018
2018
You are on your way home.
15
JOSE CERNAL ALMOST REALIZING WHY HE LOST CUSTODY AND VISITATION: “I testified at trial, that my boy was born at a home birth where I was my wife’s midwife. He wouldn’t crown, but I did not want some doctor’s knife cutting her; I kept her pushing. She got slightly torn. During the year of her postpartum depression, my boy and I would crawl on the kitchen floor and with some old pots, bang outside her bedroom door. Though she wasn’t feeling better when he turned one, I planned his birthday barbecue. Before starting grilling, I defrosted what I had saved, my son’s placenta, still good—but a touch of freezer burn turned it magenta. It’s the only meat you get without killing. Flesh returns to flesh—Eating afterbirth Is how, we, bit by bit, return to the earth.”
Ga b r iel
By Marc Tretin
Rachel Fussell 16
2018
2018
soft pastel 17
snobbery and sanctimonious
in exasperation and continued to
and sneaking off to the frigid back
wore clothing reminiscent of a
against his wife should therefore
the scuffed stone floor and
bullshit. Letting out a heavy sigh,
move along the wall.
porch every hour or so to take
decade earlier. A woman, about
forfeit the luxury of defending
the sound echoed through the
he made his way around the
another quick suck off his one-
the same age, stood stoop-shoulder
himself against the elements.
stairwell. He ascended the steps
room, staring with disinterest
from Shannon and his soon-to-be
hitter. He’d held the marijuana
beside him and fought to calm her
with plodding, notably tired feet
at the artifacts and panels of
in-laws. Shannon was speaking
smoke tight and firm in his chest
hysterics. Brownish, wavy hair
as Shannon and her parents’
information surrounding him.
about the reception’s floral
for as long as he could before
fell over her beet-red face while
arrangement with such excitement
blowing it out in one momentous
the man pointed to what appeared
on their hay-stuffed beds in the
itchell’s heels clicked against
voices reverberated insufferably
He regarded a little cartoon
He tried to gain some distance
“Rough” Mitchell muttered to himself, and he imagined the poor, beaten men sleeping
behind him. He hated dressing up
drawing of the city’s town
and rapidity that he could almost
breath, at once both glorious and
to be a collection of chastity belts.
pouring rain. He felt the breeze
and, particularly, he hated stiff,
square on a typical 15th century
hear her heart beat in her voice.
dismaying, before returning to the
He whispered to the teary-eyed
of a passing body that carried
Italian dress shoes but Shannon
afternoon. A man, apparently the
Janice, her mother, stabbed in
couch for another depressing
woman, looking around the room
the familiar scent of Shannon’s
had nagged him until he’d given
town drunk as evidenced by his
her own trying interjections
inning. He’d woken up late and
every so often to make sure
powdery perfume.
in and pulled on the vice-like
out-stuck tongue and shabby attire,
wherever she could while Hank,
accidentally headed in the wrong
they hadn’t provoked the security
hooves. His right foot landed on
spun in a cage-like contraption
her father, cooed a saccharine
direction, putting him in the heart
guard. Mitchell initial annoyance
immature!” Shannon hissed under
the top stair and he tried to push
at the merciless hands of the
“Oh, yeah?” and “That’s wonderful,
of New Haven right at noon, the
at the disruption dissipated as
her breath as she walked past him,
the thought out of his mind.
town’s children. Another was
sweetheart!” every two minutes
precise time he was due for his
he watched the woman grab her
hinting towards the couple that
splayed apart like a starfish, his
or so. Mitchell grew irritated
interview with John Malcolm, the
partner’s arm for mercy as he
was now standing and chuckling
city of Rothenberg a week prior to
face wrenched in agony; he was
and thought for so-called refined
head of the English department
continued to unleash his hushed
in front of another display. She
begin the final preparations for
being stretched between four
people, they talked awful loudly in
at some poorly-rated community
onslaught of wit. The sight of the
and her parents had caught up and
their wedding. Shannon, a Yale
large horses that pulled his limbs
a museum. He rounded the corner,
college he was trying half-assed to
two laughing grew contagious,
the three continued on past him,
graduate who now worked as an
in opposing directions. Several
inspecting a rusted castration
work for. When he found himself
and a conservative smile rose in
starting up another conversation,
assistant to the curator of a small
other little figures stood around
device that resembled hooked
still circling the little town at
the corner of his lips.
this time about the “tasteful”
Rhode Island museum, always
in clownish metal headpieces
garden shears, and thought back
quarter-after he’d decided to cut
preferred the castles of Germany
resembling roosters and pigs;
to when he first met Shannon.
his losses and resolved to grab a
turned back to the glass display
bodice, as she motioned earnestly
to any of the other wonders the
these were “shame masks,” as the
bite to eat.
before him and looked over a
with her French-manicured hands.
world had to offer, architectural
panel of information attested, and
Haven only by coincidence; he’d
or otherwise. In the beginning,
were locked around the heads of
gotten lost on the way to a job
a display up ahead and was just
one of which dictated that any
Shannon at the downtown coffee
Mitchell had thought it romantic
those who engaged in questionable
interview just outside the old
as quickly snuffed out. Mitchell
man whom allowed himself to be
shop that day in New Haven. They’d
of her to suggest holding the
moral behavior. ‘Why, on Earth,
college town. He’d spent the night
looked over at the two people
beaten by his wife was punished
sat at adjoining tables as the place
ceremony at a castle but by the
would anyone want to get married
prior sitting in front of his father’s
laughing red-faced about ten feet
by having the roof of his domicile
was crowded during lunchtime.
time all was said and done, he’d
in a country with such a morbid
television, taking warm swigs
away, shoulders jiggling and hands
removed. As the placard read,
She had been hunched over what
begun to regard it as one more
a history?’ he thought, snorting
of beer in between superficial
cupped over their mouths. A young
the logic carried that any man
looked like homework; whatever it
indication of her exasperating
to himself as he shook his head
conversation with the old man
man stood about six feet tall and
too cowardly to defend himself
was, she was highlighting roughly
18
Mitchell had been in New
A cackling laugh erupted from
2018
2018
The two had come to the walled
19
Not wanting to stare, Mitchell
description of medieval laws,
“Jesus, some people are so
beading of the wedding dress’s
Mitchell remembered seeing
half of it. He’d tried and failed
until the recently engaged couple
her meant she needn’t spare any
in its metallic cavern of certain
several times to take a first bite
found themselves in a shouting
expense. Mitchell tried to stay in
death. He felt briefly panicked,
of his enormous sandwich, piled
match following a Halloween
his corner of the world during
like fleeing from the museum
so high that it was impossible
party. Mitchell was running
this time and interjected only
and taking refuge in a dark pub
to fit into his mouth. He drew a
late and had to meet her there,
complimentary criticisms and
outside of the walled city; one that
giggle from her when he finally
showing up twenty minutes late
appeasements when consulted.
Shannon wouldn’t dare set foot
gave up, dropping the sandwich to
and donning one latex glove and
In all the time that they’d spent
in for fear of common smells and
the plate with comic exasperation,
a lab coat that read “Dr. Seymour
physically together but emotionally
drunks.
and picking up and shoving bare
Butts, Proctologist” on the lapel.
apart over the past year, Shannon
pieces of lunch meat into his
Shannon, who’d come as Betsy
had used the time to spin a
go?” He turned to find Shannon
mouth instead. Striking up a
Ross, had been mortified but
fairytale, and Mitchell had
looking up at him with an
conversation, he’d wooed her from
played it off expertly. Mitchell
learned to accept a compliant
expectant smile. She raised her
her studies and they’d spent
himself hadn’t noticed a single
defeat that he basted from time
eyebrows and gave him a small
the rest of the hour talking and
wrinkle in her demeanor and
to time with memories of their
nod of the head, as if hinting him
laughing.
had in fact enjoyed himself, only
courtship and elbow-poking
towards the right answer. Her eyes
to be ambushed on the car ride
with his buddies about the
glanced down her pert nose in
been impeccable and following
home for his “lack of couth” and
gentle tyranny that is marriage.
front of his chest and her forehead
their hour of flirtatious banter,
his “tasteless” costume. Though
he’d felt exhilarated as he walked
they’d spent that night airing
from across the room, Mitchell
wish you’d worn a tie. I hope the
back to his car with her number
their grievances, which seemed
wondered to himself if it was
restaurant lets you in like that.”
in stow. He felt a quick flood of
to pour out from their respective
possible that he had grown to
comfort from this memory, but
stock-piles in one giant emotional
dislike her, even to hate her, or if
fine.” Mitchell exhaled his words
the feeling fleeted and was quickly
tidal wave, they’d apologized in
he was merely spent on traveling,
in a perfunctory sigh as Shannon
replaced with uneasiness as he
the morning and thus became
planning, and the pomp of the
hooked her tiny hand around his
thought to himself that Shannon
the tainted nature of their
upcoming dog and pony show.
bicep, leading him towards the
hadn’t been the same person in a
relationship.
He wondered if he was just prone
door where her parents waited.
very long time.
exhausted. He stood looking at
Mitchell hadn’t consciously noticed
and denial for Shannon. She threw
an iron maiden. He stared at the
or verbalized his distaste with the
herself into planning a perfect
tall, black apparatus that closed
fact that she’d gradually become
wedding and the repulsively large
around you and impaled you from
a high-strung social-climber
allowance her parents had given
every angle, your body encased
20
wrinkled just slightly. “I really
“I’m sure everything will be
to irritability and his patience
topic of avoidance, for Mitchell,
2018
The change was subtle and
The wedding became both a
Hearing Shannon’s voice
2018
He remembered her wit had
“Mitchell? Are you ready to
21
22
GO G GL E S
A T THE IN S E C T CA VE
Aba Hutchison
Myrthe Biesheuvel
pen + Marker
Diorama
2018
2018
A MU S ICA L E VE NING
23
A Migrant’s Lay They’d said at least I would have had a chance. It took me endless days, a slave again, and sleepless nights, with past and future ghosts, to save the cash and find the guts for it. I’ll always bless the time at last I quit. No desert, thug or sickness could have me, as long as my beloved child walked by, until this long-awaited water did. Already gone, I only let it win when trawlers neared my girl and pulled her in.
in the s to rm, Tho s e who r eal l y ca r e s ta y
Danika Ng
By Alessio Zanelli
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2018
2018
Digital
25
The sou p ma n By andrew adams Chicken noodle Clam Chowder Tomato It’s all the same to me I’m the soup man, bitch Everyone knows me! Soup in the morning Soup at night I eat so much soup It gives my doctors a fright I bathe in the soup Inject it through an IV People say my soup use is excessive But it’s all the same to me Crab bisque Cream of mushroom Hell, even veggies with rice My soup lust can never be satisfied I’ve had so much soup it makes my mama cry What’s that?
Mini-Me w
Cops are knocking on my door They say my soupin’ days have come to an end I say: “I can’t let that happen officer”
Rachel Fussell
“Because soup is my only friend”
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2018
Photography
27
biography They were unctuously good children:
a secret conspiracy to hide
eager to please, clever at school
whatever formula exists—I mean by what
(as I was), or unprepossessing
application, what chemical concatenation,
and exceptionally dull (this is
how one might take
the insect-like trajectory). She was
the base metal of our bodies
a rare beauty who hid her wit
and transform it
until it cut someone down like a blade.
to gold.
He toiled on in obscurity. She had
and finally drifted
her work stolen. They were admired,
home.
but only by those in the know. Until now. Every moment of their lives followed ordinarily every moment that came before. Some were born rich and we marvel when they make much of having much to begin with. A few rose from the absolute bottom. Every biography ends the same way— death of the main character. Though there is some variety in the means. There were always moments of insight. Voyages or pivotal meetings. But a lot of dull living, churning meat and vegetables into shit, chain smoking, four cups of coffee. Sciatica pain when they sit. So unsatisfying every biography is, as if by design,
P owe r s tr ug gl e Melissa martin mixed media
28
2018
2018
By Benjamin Harnett 29
A P O R T RA I T O F
S till L if e wi th F e r n + Cha i r
TOMM Y DO R F MA N
Myrthe Biesheuvel
Jessica Miller
oil on canvas
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2018
2018
colored pencils on sketch paper 31
a f te r wa r d s By david reuter It’s all a riot of blurred edges
I feel it creep before it comes,
flecked across the frosted world
a skulking, surging force. From deep within,
that twirls on though I’ve become still.
it overtakes without a fight.
The steel skin is warped to a savage shape
The shaking starts from somewhere else,
on the snow scattered fringe
a hidden landscape I can’t detect.
of the glossy street.
The span of this vision
The careless cars grind fine ruts
tars the margins in ragged brushstrokes.
along those blanched lanes
Something travels like curdled vomit
while vapored air cringes
from that secret space in which in spawned.
like fur on a cat’s haunches.
I don’t hear it when it comes,
The scene’s a constant Etch A Sketch
that naked shriek,
curdled under a bloody sky,
but the iron and gray street
covert behind the dreary clouds.
on which I stand
My feet can’t fine the concealed concrete. On jellied legs, I strive to stand beside the battered smashed-in husk. Hands grasp the air in tepid trembles.
tra il
Somehow the warmed air keeps its flow and breaks the naked silence. Remembrance of that skeletal hand
Myrthe Biesheuvel
that brushed my slender shoulder holds me boldly in its grasp.
32
The world is pitching, keeling about.
2018
2018
oil on canvas
33
shakes as it frays the space
R e n t-A
34
- pup p y
Emmett Thornburg
Jessica Miller
Photography
colored pencils on sketch paper
2018
2018
T wil ig h t Ho r iz on
35
Mea t Ma r ke t By john f. buckley He sidled. He tried to sidle. Is Heaven missing an angel? Because your eight fiery wings and bull’s face fill me with terror. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’m not drunk. I’m just intoxicated by you. I had been sober for five years. God damn you and your spirited breath. Men behind the bar shifted and reached into the dark. If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it for ransom? How many unwashed hands had plucked peanuts from these bowls? Was his fly down again? Was there a skin in his teeth? What’s your sign? I’m a Yield. Let’s take a tour of the dance floor. There is no dance floor. That dress looks good on you, but it would look better in my refrigerator tomorrow morning. Someday, his princess will come. No, the song is wrong. Are your legs tired? Because I’ve been
B i s ho p ’s Q ua r te r
chasing you around my head for months. Love on the rocks. Make it a double.
LaDara McKinnon
Your place or mine? I live with my mother. You remind me of her.
acrylic on canvas
36
2018
2018
He walks ahead like he already owns it.
37
visiting hours One client comes carried on a stretcher,
Afterwards, I just lean
with an eye running down his cheek like a bad egg.
against the car. A distant train chugs
Unfazed, Little Terry’s sister wipes her brother’s dribble
on a track I never can see.
as he croons Motown to the mounted TV.
Lean deer prance across parking lots.
Towering, volume max, forever on, it sounds the hours
Sit here long enough
we while away.
and all the wildlife comes out.
Baby love, oh, Baby love…
The date is set to let you loose,
Another mother bible-thumps,
but you don’t want to ever leave.
talking of the current cancer incurables, with a face so creased, it could be ironed. Her bespeckled son, in for murder, mildly nods along. He offers us all chicklets, which I take, afraid to chew.
By Sharon Kennedy-Nolle
Rumble erupts in metal and yell, when the vending machines don’t put out. Enough manhandling and maul dent the lounge wall. Inside the entrance, a small pile of funny-shaped sticks —confiscated slingshots and stolen stones— that stand stacked against all the Goliaths. Playing the tatterdemalion fool, you toss off the nuthouse lingo, bitterly grateful for “three hots and a cot.” You want to forget the door is always locked, swear you never miss the breeze. Autumn comes only in the rustling of drought-driven leaves
38
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you never can hear.
39
cause for Saint Jude. The exception
by his theological rigidity. He did
large (and I was in this repellant
temptation, I figured, Frederick
humor from tragic global news
attend Saint Joseph’s College in
was wiry Father Anthony, who
occasionally speak quite plainly.
bunch) twiddled thumbs, loosened
William Faber meant vice, if not
stories, and played violin. Those
Rensselaer, Indiana, because it
daily left a new volume of rigid
“Every moment of resistance
belts, said things like, “Smoke ’em
outright sin, and I had successfully
who spoke ill of him would note
was once the school of Gil Hodges,
theology outside my dormitory
to temptation,” he wrote, “is a
if you got ’em,” and “See you in
indulged in my fair share of vices.
with disgust his indiscriminate
his third-favorite ballplayer of
door. The most memorable of
victory.”
the Funnies,” and wrapped pillows
The summation of my years at
licentiousness. Nicholas was glad
all time and his absolute favorite
these, that is, the one that I recall
around their heads so as not to
Saint Joseph’s was one temptation
to have this be the topic of dining
first baseman.
now, twenty-two years later,
year, almost all students at Saint
hear the noise of the alarm clock at
after the next, a series of trials
hall conversation. How much they
By my sophomore year,
was The Precious Blood : or, The
Joseph’s had resigned themselves
their bedside.
down paths of gluttony and lust.
cared made him laugh.
I surrendered to the fact that I
price of our salvation by Frederick
to the idea that free will, had
would not become a close friend
William Faber. Within this thick
it ever existed at all, was now
even Father Anthony, was ready
deadly sins. To me the ratio was
formality. We shared a couple
to a future Hall of Fame gold
book, Father Anthony underlined
certainly over. Their character
to get rid of me. Yet, despite full
rather admirable. In this game I
classes. I knew the reputation well,
glover, but instead a favorite
a number of paragraphs with
(and the content of this character
academic satiation, I found myself
was hitting .285, just slightly above
but not the boy.
project for the priests that roamed
light pencil marks. An example of
would determine the content of
hungry. My stomach grumbled
the lifetime .270 batting average of
the campus like rabid squirrels,
Faber’s work (and I can’t imagine
their future) was cemented in the
even after a large meal and my
the great Gil Hodges.
ready to bite the underclassmen
that this Frederick William Faber
choices of the previous three years.
mind raced late into the night,
with a stinging shot of holiness.
was a joy to be around in any
The boys with the wire-rimmed
causing a sleeplessness that made
Galloway called to me from
way and here you are. You looked
“Clarence Richards!” they would
social setting) was:
glasses and briefcases who fancied
my whole body ache throughout
the porch of the apartment that
like your head was in the clouds.
themselves the head of the student
the next day. I was sore because,
he shared with two farmer boys
What were you thinking about?”
body politic were on their way to
really unbeknownst to me, I had
from just a few miles up the road.
city halls and state legislatures.
been straining since I first stepped
His hair was slicked back with
a sleeplessness, and a strain.
The philosophy majors, many of
foot onto that campus. I felt like
Vaseline and he wore a short-
None of these was I any more
whom were poetry minors, were
an old horse still forced to pull a
sleeved button-down shirt with a
willing to share with him than
off to compose the elegies of young
carriage— some unjust treachery
thin, light-blue tie. His reputation
with Father Anthony.
hopes of financial success. The
soon to break me in two. I couldn’t
on campus was unrivaled in its
artists would starve by passion,
explain it until I remembered
undergraduate magnitude,
months away,” I said. For seniors
and the writers by the lack of the
Frederick William Faber’s
but the esteem awarded that
this was the most innocuous of
right word. And the education
tamer words: “Every moment
reputation shifted dramatically
conversations. We held in common
and the business majors who had
of resistance to temptation is a
depending on the narrator. For
that sense of impending fear, even
thus far managed to avoid much
victory.” I had resisted for nearly
those who spoke highly of Nicholas
more than the usual commentary
ambition at all would do just fine.
four years.
Galloway, they would note that
on the weather.
call out to me, breaking prayerful silence or psalmic utterances, hoping, I assumed, that this would be the day of penitence for the boy of academic mediocrity but alcoholic exceptionalism. I was just as amazed as they were, if not more, when I noticed exactly how fast my short legs could take me. For those men who had dedicated themselves to lives of celibacy, I was frankly surprised and somewhat disappointed at how soon, certainly by my junior
2018
year, they had deemed me a lost
40
“Alas! We have felt the weightiness of sin, and know that there is nothing like it. Life has brought many sorrows to us, and many fears. Our hearts have ached a thousand times. Tears have flowed. Sleep has fled. Food has been nauseous to us, even when our weakness craved for it. But never have we felt anything like the dead weight of a mortal sin.” Later I would learn that Faber wasn’t wholly isolated
By the beginning of senior
Saint Joseph’s, now including
What it was that I resisted
Those who lacked a vision for their future as graduation loomed
wasn’t immediately clear. By
2018
y father insisted that I
41
These were only two of the seven
“Brother Clarence!” Nicholas
he had a fine taste in expensive bourbon, excavated well-buried
“Hi, Nicholas,” I said with some
“I was watching you walk this way,” he said. “Thought you would be headed home, but you came this
I was thinking about a hunger,
“Graduation is just two
“And the great wide world out there,” Galloway said. “Any idea
what you are going to do when you
the farmer boys would think.
if I had been looking at a simple
was the opposite of liberation. So
growing tomatoes and caring
and a Quiet Boy” by one Mr.
are set loose out there?”
Nicholas encouraged me to take
multiple choice question for my
instead, certainly doomed by that
little for a three-page debate on
Nicholas Galloway.
“No. What about you?”
even the smallest dose of bravery
entire life, and during one of those
word, I threw the rope above those
the best domestically made riding
And here some excerpts:
“No,” he said, running his
and I began to use the front door.
nights with that strange bedfellow,
vowels and hung myself.
lawnmowers, I opted for The New
“The most remarkable quality
fingers down the thin blue tie,
He laughed at my anxiety, what
I finally realized that the answer
trying to rid it of wrinkles that
I considered to be a brave dive
was “all of the above.”
were never there. “But I’ve found
into the deep unknown. Nicholas
that the worry does very little
conjured up memories. Earlier
good. Well, actually no good at all.
Yorker. A cartoon of President
about Stephen was the weakness
the diploma, and shook the hands
Obama made the cover, running in
in his wrists. He couldn’t pull
of unfamiliar administrators.
the direction of the White House
himself up to who he ought to be.
manhood for my own. That’s
Pomp and Circumstance and we
and away from a stampede of red,
He couldn’t lower himself down to
realizations. That boy whose
what it was at the end of the day.
were gone.
zealous Republican elephants.
who he actually was.”
So I’ve given up on worry, not that
assigned seat I always stole in a
I figured him to be my biographer,
I skimmed through the black-
that stranglehold wasn’t a hell of
middle school history class. I
revealing to me short but poignant
and-white cartoons inside the
suppose that I appreciated the
a hard thing to wrestle away. It’s
called it a practical joke. In some
chapters that I never knew were
magazine— talking dogs in offices,
most minor favor of a pseudonym,
been instilled in me by a couple
ways it was, I suppose, though I
there. I fumbled to read them
pondered my choices. Home and
alligators at an airport gate,
that I was Stephen.
of hard-nosed parents who
was the mark. A friend’s older
when he turned off the small lamp
Garden. The New Yorker. Popular
and an elderly couple siting at a
wouldn’t let me near the busy
brother who boasted by using
on the nightstand. I find it trite
Mechanics. For years the door
breakfast table and arguing over
I awoke to find him, this time
streets until I was well past
his broad shoulders and thick
now, but up until the point when
of the bistro that I managed was
a newspaper headline. Something
dressed in a thoroughly wrinkled
ten years old. Well, I don’t know
arms to lift cinder blocks above
I fell into the world of Nicholas
thoroughly stuck. It took all the
about Medicare. Frankly, I didn’t
olive-green suit, crawling through
what’s going to happen, and
his head. A swimming coach.
Galloway, I hadn’t known pleasure,
power I had in both arms to open
understand a single one. One
my window. He tumbled onto the
neither do you. When you accept
A movie star. A Language Arts
just contentment. My bodily pain
it up and get a whiff of what had
article after another written for the
floor and tried to gather together
that, this warm feeling grows in
teacher who tried again and
now, or most of it at least, was a
been voted online as the best
Sunday brunch mimosa-sipping
his dignity before whispering my
your gut. It’s hot chocolate on
again to explain the profound
result of immature ecstasy. And
tomato soup in town. A new and
elites. There was nothing that
name. ‘Nicky!’”
Christmas morning before any of
need of Odysseus to make his
best of all, he played the violin for
overly enthusiastic employee took
interested me enough to distract
I never once called him “Nicky.”
the presents are opened. Or when
way home. Why home, I thought,
me. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto.
oil to the hinges. That morning
me from the pain of the chipped
“Stephen saw a glowing dot on
the bell would ring after gym
when adventure was abounding
Then, drunk on whatever
I pulled again with all my might.
tooth. I ran my tongue across
the horizon, and when squinting,
class. Do you know what I mean?”
outside those cavernous Greek
concoction this was, I asked him,
The door, now good and loose,
it. It was sharp enough to not try
he realized that ever-so-slowly
walls where Penelope wept?
“Do you love me?”
swung widely and caught me
that again, a blade protecting the
it drew closer. It could have been
directly in the face. I chipped a
vulnerable nerve. Then, nearly
the bourbon that he took from my
top right incisor. Now here I was
putting the magazine down to
desk drawer that persuaded him
waiting for a Dr. Prescott, D.D.S.,
instead close my eyes and nap
of a grand illusion. This was the
“Sure,” I said. “The great escape.” “No, not escape,” Nicholas Galloway said. “Liberation.”
This seemed to be it. The hunger beginning, at least, to be satisfied. I must admit that I
I awkwardly searched his
“No,” Nicholas Galloway said. “Not yet.” And that word— yet— could
We walked the stage, took
I sat in the dentist’s office and
It became very clear, and I
“For the third night in a row,
was surprised when the whole
have offered hope. Though I didn’t
who was on the ninetieth minute
until the young assistant behind
judgement of God on its way. None
bed. For a week I crawled through
world didn’t shift. There was
tie myself to it. I wasn’t bound to
of his hour lunch break.
the desk awoke me, I stumbled
of his studies had prepared for
his window, worried about what
nothing dramatic. It was just as
it. What would be the purpose? It
across a short story. “A Coward
him the inevitable end. None of his
42
Knowing nothing about
2018
2018
I spent many nights in his
43
whispers, those few whispers
The author Nicholas Galloway,
Nicholas did not recognize me
of Collins College was thick in
summon up a smile of my own.
affection for the man.
of truth, protected him. The priests
stated a short italicized paragraph
body, hair, and odor, and wore
when he answered the door, but
Given the circumstances I would
didn’t know who he became when
not long after Stephen’s betrayal,
a dark-gray knit cap. It wasn’t
due to what I assume was a sense
settle for sardonic. “I’m a fan.”
he loosened his belt. Neither
was an author-in-residence at
hard to imagine him working
of faint familiarity, he invited
did his parents. Neither did his
Collins College in the Berkshires.
down at the docks in a Baltimore
me inside. A young, long-legged
surprise. It felt good to know that
my hand in both of hers. The tall,
professors, his classmates,
or even a Gulfport, Mississippi. I
woman sat on a leather couch to
this surprised him. “Welcome
blonde, smiling, finally satisfying
or that small handful of misfit
approached with some hesitancy
the right of his desk. Her blonde
then! How can I help?”
wife. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t catch
“Oh,” Nicholas said with
hadn’t time to answer before the wife stood from the couch and took
friends. He had confessed only to
I drove toward the Green
only to find him as friendly as he
hair fit her well, despite being cut
me and refused to confess to Him.
Mountains in a Jeep that was new
could possibly be. His name was
with a sure vision but no real plan
this question and not just the ones
“Clarence Richards,” I said.
Well, He knew what happened
to the Avis Car Rental lot. Two
Benjamin, he was from Bangor,
of execution. She offered a wide
that I had concocted in the Jeep
Very kindly Nicholas asked if
when those spring nights
days before I chipped my tooth
Maine, and he was an American
smile. It was warm as well. She
as I passed one tiny New England
I wanted a cup of coffee, obliged
swallowed Stephen up with their
on the door of the bistro, my Ford
History Major. I hadn’t inquired
was a beauty. Not a leading lady of
clapboard town after another.
me the final contents of a low
steadfast intention to induce sweat
Taurus had blown a gasket near
about any of these and realized,
the silver screen, to be truthful, but
They ranged back decades and
sugar bowl, and invited me to stay
by one way or another. He knew.”
my favorite record store and was
I suppose, that the long hours at
one with a real shot at modeling
they haunted me even now. I
a while. I took him up on both
now locked up until further notice
the Collins College welcome desk
blouses in a JC Penny catalog.
realized in that tiny professorial
offers. He was very apologetic
at Hal’s Auto Shop. Inside the Jeep I
(situated, Benjamin mentioned
office, more times than I would
when he said that he had a dinner
“Have a seat,” Nicholas said
I had a hundred answers to
“Hi, I’m Jennifer Galloway.” I
your name.”
felt bold (as opposed to the Taurus,
as well, at the further point
with such earnestness that I
have liked to admit. How could he
with some trustees in just a half
I de e pl y de s i r e d to know
where I felt safe) and rolled down
on campus from the Student
refrained from clocking him
help? It seemed like the answer
hour. He rolled his eyes when
m y s el f in wha te ve r wa y
the driver’s side window to smell
Center) might make any mighty
immediately. “So, I suppose I
was, in every possible way. And
he mentioned the trustees and
he once kne w me .
all the potent scents of farmland.
longshoreman ready for kind
might have missed it, so please
although he hadn’t helped,
Jennifer half-covered a giggle with
Soon I found myself twenty-
companionship. I saw to use his
remind me. Could you give me
although he had abandoned me
her hand. Just the dull duties,
four miles above the speed limit
kind and certainly loquacious
your name again?”
to a long, lonely, and wicked road
he explained, that came with
with a radio station playing the
nature to my advantage. With no
of self-discovery, although he had
the job of a writer in residence.
Nicky left Stephen to endure his
anarchic chords of the MC5. Collins
hesitancy or ask for identification,
revealed a naked chapter of
He asked where I was from and
unsympathetic self-affliction.
College was only an hour further
he personally walked me up
that self-discovery (and a chapter,
with no desire to be truthful I
Nicky moved east, and Stephen,
north. My anger felt playful in a
two sets of stairs and down two
to the woman on the couch who
mind you, better left in the past)
answered with an obtuse “down
in that allusion to tragedy, limped
strange way, in the same manner,
hallways until we both stood
then smiled at him as widely and
in The New Yorker that I found at
South.” That seemed to satisfy
westward. Very precise adjectives
I assumed, as it would set upon a
outside the office door of Professor
warmly as she smiled at me. “Well
the office of Dr. Prescott, D.D.S., as
him and no follow-up questions
and verbs generous to the author,
fueled-up boxer in his corner just
Galloway. His task completed,
then, might I impose upon you my
I looked across that desk to faint
came. He asked if I read a couple
if not authentic, made Nicholas
before the bell rings.
Benjamin gave me a hearty pat
own introduction? My name is
familiarity beneath fatty cheeks
writers who had been especially
on the back and returned to his
Nicholas Galloway.”
and thinning hair, I couldn’t help
influential upon him, and when I
but feel after all of this a fond
responded that I had not, he didn’t
Galloway’s choice in that final
2018
paragraph to be inarguably valiant.
44
The student behind the welcome desk in the main hall
“I never gave it,” I said. I was tempted to say “Stephen”. “Oh,” Nicholas said, turning
“I know,” I replied, trying to
lonely, ground-level watchtower.
2018
The conclusion came when
45
seem particularly disappointed.
Nicholas Galloway did not
He said, now chewing on the
remember me. Not long after I
end of a pen, that his favorite
had last seen that boy who played
protagonist was still small-
violin for me in no clothing at all,
town America and his favorite
we both became men. And at some
antagonist was the foil of
point when he became a man, no
conformity to an outdated
longer hiding behind any facade of
American dream. He noted,
either wit or depravity, he forgot
and here is the obvious, that
me. His elusiveness in my life
occasionally what reviewers
drew me closer in bludgeoning
refer to as a “slice of life” was
longing to him than I had ever
occasionally a slice of his own life.
been when we slept side by side. I
He sprinkled autobiography. He
deeply desired to know myself in
rubbed his cheeks in amusement
whatever way he once knew me.
and feigned embarrassment. “I
Yet I became useful in a way that
think I have a few copies of my
I would never have wanted, but
latest novel left,” he said. Then he
have come to accept, as one must
pulled a book called A Long Winter
accept things when there is no one
at Wendell’s Farm from a stack
to blame. With the whole of
beneath his desk and signed it.
me fading, the smallest bit
“Dear Clarence, Here’s something
lasted. And nameless to him
for a slow summer weekend.
he called me a plot, a theme, a
Yours, Nicholas Galloway.” I
conflict, and finally, thanks be
thanked him and he thanked
to God, a conclusion.
me as well. So as not to be left
dea th
out, Jennifer thanked no one in particular. She blushed, which I found charming, and I left. As
zACKERY cLARK
I left, I felt the air turn to a mild irritation. They would be spending
Digital
the night with the trustees when
46
2018
2018
they should be spending it together.
47
tra n s por ta tion By mirana comstock I dream about transportation:
only to find
trains and stations
someone else already in mine
climb skeletal metal stairs
I dream about transportation:
to empty, open-air platforms
trains and stations
elbow my way through crowded underground passageways looking for the right track study displayed maps ask for directions but always seem to get the incorrect information
wait under an electronic board where arrivals and departures are called men’s faces half-hidden by fedoras women’s wavy hair falling forward red lips, heels click ALL ABOARD…ALL ABOARD as they race across the marble floors
I dream about transportation:
occasional birds fly about
trains and stations
I wonder if they know the way out
Dinne r Pa r ty II
search for my seat up and down the aisles
Rachel Fussell
while miles of night hurtle by outside the windows
Photography
past passengers haloed by reading lights in the shadows and those sleeping
48
2018
2018
on folded jacket pillows
49
A Poem l ike a hou s e By evalyn lee
S ta n ’s Do nu t s + S wi s s Wa tche s Elina Sukaryavichute Photography
Chester, I want to build
I see your body, on the ground,
A poem, like a house
An up-ended cabinet
For your wife and daughter.
In desperate need of help.
To make the windows
Chester, I am no carpenter,
Wide, like your smile,
Your work was beautiful,
And the front door, big,
But I want to join your life
Hinged perfectly for a lifetime,
To the moment you were lifted,
No— generations—
Up, by friends who want
Of openings and closing:
Eternity to hold you close, who
Instead, four men pat
Hope a carpenter, who lived
A shoulder to indicate where
And died, to build a resurrected world,
The weight of your coffin will fall.
Can both call you home and comfort
Daffodils shiver in the rain,
Your daughter who looks so like you.
Best shoes stomp; spring begins,
She strokes your wife’s
In the English cold, cigarettes smoke,
Tears, as they count the flowers,
People weep unsaid goodbyes,
I stand and struggle
As your coffin is carried
To understand the tender
Into Mortlake Crematorium.
Mercy of wood, nail and flesh:
The men of your village, far
If we are not at home, in Christ,
From home, mourn you
In this our life, where do
Like mountains,
We go in death?
Your daughter smiles, your wife,
I live in one language:
Too, then they both cry,
But God lives within them all,
There is confusion.
So, when it comes time to go home,
At forty, you ran into death,
I will close the door that you hung,
200-meters from a finish line.
Walk the floor that you laid,
The service is in Polish,
And build this poem over your grave.
I think in English: did you leave Your hammer, upside down,
50
2018
2018
Balanced on its head, against a wall?
51
com po si tion By christa forster That he was my father
I remember nothing good about my life.
makes no difference now
I remember long, silent dinners
although I recognize the brown
with him staring at me, my mother
suit with the elbows worn
staring at her plate, the restless
slightly and the silk scarf
nights when a woman’s collar bone
given by my mother one holiday
hung in the air alongside my mother’s
stuffed into the left pocket.
perfume. How I hated the uneasy
The woman found lying
hours of late afternoon entering
next to him is not my mother,
our home. When dinner was late.
though I have seen her face
When my mother’s dress wrinkled
in a black-and-white photo,
From sitting. It makes no difference
her name signed across
that the woman in the picture
her nape, a smooth chalk palette.
wore her hair high on her head
Many days I sat with that book
and that her pliant mouth
across my child-legs
always remains half open.
and tried to guess who the woman was who was not my mother, and I remember how her eyes were small
f R O M THE cHA O S
and slanted like the streams of light that hit my bed
cOME S THE cA L M
when the moon was out (the capital of my girlhood).
Danika Ng
52
2018
2018
Digital
53
lautrec A fluid day, a noon shut down, you loved the shade
the reflection of a stranger caught between the teeth
in everything. Boulevard queens, Jane, the wash, the nude
of a quiet nightmare, so quiet it belied the possibility–
back of the laundress. What was it you said? They give
that you might be just a man with stunted legs, black beard,
good heart. This was, it seemed, enough for you.
heavy cheeks, with nothing much to say? 1897 came
At your best you lived against the lie of the completed
and Death began to sew his stones into the lining of your
thing. You cultivated vanity, said I’d love to see a woman
overcoats. The more you reached your hand toward life,
have a lover uglier than me. October came,
the more life slipped away. Friends witnessed how you drank
the Moulin Rouge hung on every Paris wall. Critics raved:
your cane. And after Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, men barred you
“Regarde! the senile pigs, how they sit at tables in
from the world you loved: the syphilitic prostitutes, your
the company of little whores who lick their faces, make them
alcoholic enemy, your mother living in Albi, your father’s
hot…there will never be another painter shameless as
work on falconry. You begged, Papa, you have the chance
Lautrec.” You couldn’t care less, you cared for love–
to act in humane ways. You know how something locked up dies.
Suzanne (Maurice Utrillo’s mother, who also posed for Jean
But there he let you stay. Inside the mental hospital, you asked
Renoir and then became a painter too), the dancer Jane
for stones and chalk, watercolors, paintbrushes, a little
Avril, whose nighttime solitary walk you froze on cardboard
light, then painted several circus scenes to prove you were
with oil and gouache. Her hair swept up you dreamed
all right: swarms of dilettantes swarming into canvas tents
unpinned, cascading down her spine. Time and time again
craning necks to see the spectacle –horses’ heaving flesh,
you left your heart behind in darkened rooms, then panting
the riders’ thighs snug against the horses’ silken flanks,
slid into the street and trudged the hard walk home. Within
agile in their skill and pride as they ride around
the smallest pencil stroke you spoke about how hard it was
the outside of the ring. And this painting matters too:
to be alone. You said you’d always been a pencil, though
A girl flush on a horse’s back, the horse connected to a man
you knew the nature of the brush. In Bed: The Kiss, The Two
by leather strap, the girl in green and leaning forward
Girlfriends reveal this knowing tenderness. But love eluded
but looking toward the man and smiling, perhaps in love,
you. You sacrificed your heart for art and reinvented hues
while in the background an awkward clown appears about to fall
of blue. You were a prophet of desire in a cruel milieu. It
out of the frame.
seems you understood that living itself within this world was the hardest thing the strong of soul could do. When you
54
By Christa Forster 2018
2018
looked in the mirror, did you see yourself? Or was it
55
56
wOODHEL D vA S E
B O X S E R IE S NUM B E R 3
rYAN cOOK
Myrthe Biesheuvel
soft pastel On pastel Paper
mixed media
2018
2018
o CEA N s EA S HEL L eA R THL Y
57
time it finally stopped working,
and some aunt who remembered
midway through freshman year,
she said, apparently noticing my
bouncing off of them, illuminating
like a law office— brick walls and
and a slightly smaller indent just
seeing me at one of their
when people started to notice that
quick glance. “Sara wouldn’t want
the black leather couch and the
a white roof and a sign out front
beside that one, from the days
Thanksgiving dinners decided
I tended to walk incredibly fast to
me to kill my feet like that.”
white carpet, the IKEA light fixture
that looked like it should have said,
when Sara wanted to talk longer,
I should get a call, and some
class. I stopped doing it after a few
Dixon and Dixon: Attorneys at Law.
from the days when she realized
woman I’ve been living with for
semesters, because Sara was in
looked back toward the door. It
two bookcases on the far side of
I sat out in the parking lot, waiting
Dillon was a dick and needed
ten years rubbed my back as I
most of my classes, and Sara liked
didn’t look like a lawyer’s office
the room, one filled with law books
for a few people to arrive for the
to vent about it. I wouldn’t say
screamed and cried into one of
to walk slow, but the nickname
anymore. This many people
and the other with my fiction,
wake. Getting there early was
anything, just put my arm around
the pillows she likes, the kind that
stuck. Sara never called me Jet,
would never come see a lawyer.
the only part of the picture that
irrational. I don’t know, maybe
her. Later she married him and
make my neck cramp.
though. Always Jackie.
I thought about my wife, scribbling
belonged to me. I felt nothing else
I had hoped for a little alone time
moved to Colorado and got a house
on her legal pad all day about this
did— not the carpet or the blinds
with Sara, but the whole idea of
and a job and a kid and some
thing all day,” came a voice from
my arms to look down at my gut
case and that case, sorting out
or the couch or the woman sitting
that was a bit complicated now,
bruises, and when the bruises
right beside me. I jumped up,
the way my father used to. It was
everybody’s lives right there on
on it. I turned and closed the door
her being in a casket and all.
got bad she called me, and then I
startled at how close the blonde-
just big enough to be noticeable
paper. She was a great lawyer.
on my lie, wondering if my wife
Once I got there, I realized going
told her.
haired figure to my right had gotten
underneath my suit.
he funeral home looked more
in would mean being the first to
“Sara, Dillon is a dick,” I said.
“Thanks,” I joked, holding out
“Hey, you gonna be on that
“Shall we,” she said, holding
without me noticing. I realized I
I nodded in agreement and
I told my wife I couldn’t come to the wake. I’m still not sure why.
knew as well as I did that the only woman I’d ever truly loved
greet her family. I don’t hate
The next day she told him she
had somehow deleted every single
out her hand and gesturing toward
Sara’s family. I dislike them,
wanted a divorce. I should have
one of my emails, and I shoved
the line accumulating at the front
the funeral,” I had told her in the
and they dislike me, so I decided
told her sophomore year. There
my phone nervously back into my
of the building.
morning. “Emergency meeting got
the funeral home, and I stepped
not to do them the disservice of
wouldn’t have been as much
jacket. She must have been sitting
called today. Be ready to go at ten
inside after Jen. Sara’s family had
being first through the door. I got
paperwork.
on the hood of my Audi for a few
the car with my other. And as we
o’clock tomorrow for the service.”
placed a table right in front of the
minutes, smiling, waiting for me to
walked toward the line she let her
out of my car and walked around
They hadn’t finalized anything,
I took Jen’s hand, pushing off
“I’ll only be able to make it to
hanging from the ceiling, and the
I had waited for her to
was dead. We finally reached the door to
door with a white table cloth and a
to the front, leaning on the grille
but Sara decided to move back
notice her, and then waiting for
hand slip out of mine. I glanced
protest. Honey, it’s your best friend,
brown basket and a pile of purple
with my butt on the polished,
here. I was away at a conference
me realize who she was.
over at her and saw her for the
we should go to the wake, I
note cards and a sign that read:
white hood. I pretended to check
when she moved into her new
first time. Blond hair and grey eyes
thought she’d say. She just gave
my email, and thought about how
place just last week. I told her we
awkwardly open as if I didn’t
and a black dress with a slit down
me a thumbs up.
I used to sit like that out in the
would get coffee soon, but the
expect to see Sara’s old friends
the back most of the older women
parking lot of our high school,
night I got back from listening
there.
in this place would whisper
turning around, then she reached
waiting to waste at least twenty
to a bunch of old guys talk about
about. She wore black flats that
over to the coffee table and
minutes joking around with
Marketing Analytics, Sara went
said, golden hair bouncing as she
scratched the cracking asphalt as
grabbed another magazine to read
Sara before I could bring myself
out to pick up a pizza, and some
spoke, the same way it used to.
we shuffled forward in line.
as I watched her from the doorway,
stop myself from laughing, so I just
examining things for a moment
started to fake cough instead. It
Saturn had a slight indent by the
Marina Mile didn’t see a red light,
58
“You gained weight, Jet,” she
“You’d be surprised at how
No one had called me that in years. It was a name I earned
many girls wear heels to funerals,”
2018
guy driving his Tacoma down
2018
to leave. The hood of my blue
“Jen!?” I said, my mouth
59
“Okay, Jack,” she said without
— the wooden shades with light
Please tell Sarah how much she meant to you. It would help her loved ones to know just how much you cared. I had to cover my mouth to
was funny. There were only two
arrangement of flowers that sat
brown, but not a nice mahogany
pray to something because that’s
she could get used to waking up
was something different about
things Sara hated in this world:
to the right of the table, and as we
brown— a brown kind of like the
what I thought you did with your
like that. We never mentioned it
Jen’s sadness. All the other people
compliments and the color purple,
entered the room with the casket,
color of vomit. The walls were
hand on a casket, but there was
again. She got married and moved
in the funeral home stood out
and this shrine contained both.
I wondered what sort of artificial
two different shades of yellow
nothing else to pray to. There was
to Colorado and had a kid and a
starkly against the yellow walls.
Once during calculus, I told her
white her skin must be now, and if
separated by a white line of
only the casket, and my hand, and
divorce and bought a pizza and
For them, Sara’s death was only a
I liked her outfit, and I smiled as
people’s freckles went away when
molding that ran horizontally all
my shoulder, and Jen’s hand on
went to pick it up and found her
fraction of their pain, like a drop of
I watched her face go from that
they died. I hoped they didn’t,
around the room, boxing us in. The
my shoulder. The casket and my
way into a casket. The casket, my
red food coloring in a cup already
Irish-white to a red that somehow
but I would never know, because
bottom of the walls was painted a
hand and my wedding ring and my
hand, the wedding ring, my
overflowing with blood. I could see
made her freckles stand out even
when the man was speeding down
deep gold, and the top a sunshine
shoulder and Jen’s hand holding it
shoulder, and Jen’s hand, and
it in their eyes. But Jen, Jen seemed
more. After that, I made it an
Marina Mile, preparing to run a
yellow. Who the hell paints a
a little more firmly. Casket, hand,
it’s time to let the next person go.
to exist somewhere high enough
everyday thing, and I thought I’d
red light in his black Tacoma, Sara
funeral home yellow, I thought.
wedding ring, shoulder, and some
I thought I heard the voice in my
that a funeral could actually drag
run out of things to compliment
had just finished getting the pizza
guy in a black Tacoma, and all
head.
her down. For the rest of us, we
her on, but I never did. I started
situated in the passenger seat
Jen’s voice from behind me.
I wanted was a white pillow to
small. I told her that her hair
and was still fumbling with her
Somehow, she had let me slip in
scream into.
looked good one day, and that her
seatbelt. At least that’s what I told
front of her so that the only thing
eyes were brighter than usual the
myself, because it was somehow
between me and the casket was
Somehow, I knew it. Once, we
next, and, before long, I was telling
comforting to think that she had
the ten feet of red carpet. Red
tried to count them at a party
her how much I loved her take on
been moments away from still
carpet!?, I would think later. It was
when we were both drunk— her
Nietzsche’s philosophy or that the
being alive. She seemed closer that
true, someone had decided to put
a little more so than me. I got up
novel she had recommended was
way. The point is, the casket was
red carpet in a yellow chapel in a
to 192, and then she couldn’t sit
one of the rooms for the rest of the
fantastic. I lived for that moment
closed, because her family had
funeral home, and still that wasn’t
up any longer, and her head fell
time, while Jen moseyed around
when her cheeks would bud like
decided that we should remember
as poor a decision as the purple
into my lap while I tried to finish
and looked at all the posters they
the roses in my backyard, when
her as she was before she wanted
notecards. None of that mattered
counting, trying to get the ones
had put up with images of Sara in
her foot would tap nervously,
pizza, before some guy missed a
now, though. The colors faded
that almost seemed to blend into
various stages of her life. I
and her leg, not immune to the
red light, and some aunt made a
to dull blacks and whites and
her blue eyes, brushing back her
watched her move from gravestone
blushing that spread throughout
call, and some woman rubbed my
greys, and the lines of the stained-
brown hair to count the spots at
to gravestone and look at all the
She walked to me from across the
her whole body when anyone
back as I wept into a pillow.
glass window sitting above the
the very top of her forehead. But I
pictures, like little epitaphs all
room, leaned over, and whispered
casket became blurred and then
couldn’t stay awake either, and I
stringed together. I watched
in my ear.
shuffling forward between the two
nonexistent. All that was there was
slumped sideways onto the couch
Jen smile at seeing Sara in her
sections of pews on either side of
the heavy, wooden casket, and
at 324. We woke up on the couch
blue soccer uniform and in her
said, as if we were in a bar, not
Jen finished her little letter to Sara,
the chapel they had stuffed inside
my hand on it, and Jen’s hand
in the morning, still holding each
pink tutu and in her homecoming
a funeral home or a law office or
and we moved on past the large
that law office. The pews were
on my shoulder. And I tried to
other, and she smiled at me as if
dresses and her prom dress. There
whatever that place was.
accidentally rub against mine.
2018
I didn’t take a purple notecard.
60
We inched closer to the casket,
Her freckles were gone.
2018
complimented her, would
“I think it’s our turn,” came
61
“It’s time to let the next person
were already there on the ground,
go,” Jen said a second time, and I
some of us leaning over the edge
was as startled as I was when she
of our graves, and I felt ready to
snuck up on me in the parking lot.
fall in with Sara.
“Right,” I said, and staggered away from the altar. I sat in a chair in a corner of
Who the hel l pa in ts a f une ra l home yel low ?
Jen saw me looking at her.
“Let’s get out of here,” she
it and placed herself on my lap
a darn thing in God knows how
more electric than her skin, and as
wanted to catch up and have a
with her hands back on the wheel.
long.”
I kissed her back, I hoped to catch
few drinks. So, I followed behind
I reached both of my arms around
her red jeep to her home in a
her and put my hands over hers,
the feeling of my arms on top of
neighborhood across town. She
because I felt that was what she
hers, of the sensation of her
lived on the water. I said I liked the
wanted me to do.
skin. It was different than when I
after a few minutes of listening to
embraced my wife or hugged any
the motor create a wake behind us.
She invited me over. She
water. She poured me a drink or
“So, Jet, how has your life
I was suddenly aware of
whatever sickness made your skin feel like that. “Why did you kiss me?” I asked
“Because you are a good
two. She said she had a boat. I said
been?” She asked, turning slightly
of my friends. It was, somehow,
I liked boats. And then, we were
to the left.
electric— a sort of electricity I
person,” she said, “and good
on the Intracoastal, her holding
“Unimpressive,” I said.
had never felt with reading,
people should be kissed every
the wheel and I a beer. Her hair
“I doubt that,” she said. “What
writing, even making love. The
once in a while.”
looked like sunshine out there on the water, so light and wonderful. As I sat with my hand over the side of the boat to feel the white spray, I thought about why I had told my
do you do?” “I work in Marketing Analytics for a big firm.” “No, I mean what do you do?” she said.
She made a joke and I laughed
color was starting to come back into the world, the alcohol helping
and I said I should go home and
me recover from that feeling of
she agreed and all the lights were
being alone with the casket, and I
green on the way back to my
could see the lights on the sides
house. But when I turned onto
of the waterway shining on
Marina Mile, I wondered what
wife I had a meeting to attend. I
“I figure out how well a
held up my hand, and examined
company’s marketing campaigns
the blue water, and the green
would happen if some guy
my wedding ring. Perhaps it was
are…”
mangroves dancing in the wind.
ran a red light, and I was afraid.
that, as sad as it was, if that were to have been her wake, her pale, white body in a wooden box, I
“Really?” she said, “that’s all you do?” I was silent for a few moments, thinking.
“Married?” Jen asked, her pointer finger tapping my silver ring. “Yes,” I said.
would not have been as destroyed,
“I guess I read,” I decided to say.
“Happily?” she asked.
as lifeless, as void of hope as I was
“You guess you read? Reading
It was a strange thing to ask so
at that altar with the casket and
can be a very noble thing to do,”
directly. But the water looked a lot
my hand on the casket and my
she said, “that is if you don’t guess
bluer than it had, for me, in years,
shoulder and Jen’s hand squeezing
at it.”
and the mangroves a lot greener,
my shoulder. I was still looking at my hand when Jen grabbed
“I read,” I corrected myself, “and write sometimes too.” “See,” she said, “that is
to the chair. She sat me down in
impressive. I haven’t written
2018
a hold of it and pulled me over
62
I was afraid, and it felt good.
and I felt I should tell the truth. “No,” I said. She turned and kissed me, not slowing the boat, and her lips felt
2018
because I might have realized
63
B R EA D HOU S E Rachel Fussell
Pa th wa y tO Bal l y va ug ha n
Hand-Made miniatures + found objects
LaDara McKinnon
64
2018
2018
acrylic on canvas
65
fa de By robbin farr Your kitchen, in grey hesitant light – coffee, French bread, goat cheese served on mostly blue unmatched china. Breakfast is simple. We eat quietly. The hiss of the espresso pot intersects careful conversation. The local radio station plays a rebroadcast of energetic klezmer music which you heard Tuesday night in an auditorium of mostly older Jews, a warming feeling of community, you say. A stack of New Yorker magazines, months of them piled up on the bench next to me and you wonder whether to read the poems, at least. We almost touch across the table, both of us reaching for the knife. I can feel the heat of your arm. The moment waits, wanting
S ta te o f the Unio n
something more, but it passes like the morning sun – all potential,
Kathryn McComas
it blooms into the day, becomes cloudy and uncertain.
66
2018
2018
Digital Print
67
Ta ke M y P ho to g ra p h
Aba Hutchison
Sarah Kinney
colored pencil, pen + Marker
Ink + Watercolor on paper
2018
2018
68
S to p t r yna b e nea t !
69
Un til I coul dn ’t By Claire Scott I sang to you my son you loved Burl Ives way up yonder above the moon you smiled & sailed past Aquarius in your Batman suit, pointed ears, blue cape I loosened as you slept now no lullabies can ease your nights no songs can untangle your body torqued & twisted no way up yonder to transport you to a place without crutches and opiates a place without a texting driver a sudden thud, your body sailing through space, smacking the street as sirens slash the night I want to sing back time to the child you once were asleep in your batman suit but only a moonless night
The L i t tl e Koima id
an empty voice a blue cape lost long ago
Carolina Quintana Ocampo
70
2018
2018
Watercolor
71
I F YO U E AT A ME ATBA L L
drapes over the kitchen sink
crammed into his wife’s lambskin
kitchen table, an iTunes statement
a little typing, maybe. You’re thirty,
and gaunt from grief, lost his
YOU MUST BUY A MEATBALL
glow with moonlight. Buraq, his
slippers. Apparently, though, the
showing Julien had received only a
Julien. Time for a real job. Music is
words. He choked up and left
mother’s white fluffball of a cat,
governor’s rant against public
few dollars in royalties from sales
over.”
the room. They’d been married
her sleepmate for years, snakes
employees woke him. Hopefully,
of his songs. “Look at me, Julien.
message, on drawing paper, is
around Julien’s ankles, nudging
he’ll nod off. He gave Julien’s day
You’ve got to deal with me now.
know about the hard work of art?
where they taught. He ran the
taped to the refrigerator door
for food. Julien kneels to touch
a rough start, and the son needs a
You understand? You get a job. You
Recording night and day in a dank
English department, and she led
and hand-printed in red until the
his nose to the cat’s as his mother
soft finish.
pay for food and gas and clothes.”
basement. Playing guitar until
vocational fashion design, a trade
crayon must have skidded and
used to do. Buraq. When he was
He slapped the tabletop so hard,
your hands cramp. Prying the
she’d chosen as a girl from the
snapped in an angry grip. His
young, his mother’s rolled Rs and
you’re home — Julien untapes
Julien, seated, felt the sting up his
frets out of an old guitar to turn
hills of Tizi Rached, watching the
father finished the diktat in
palatal Ts, the traces of her first
the note, balls it up, and bounces
arms. “You get your own place to
it into an oud. Singing yourself
colonials, the pied noirs, strut the
baby blue.
language, embarrassed him before
it off a Formica counter into the
live.” This was not the father who’d
hoarse. Hawking your CDs. Pulling
boulevards of Oran and Algiers in
his friends. But he wrote and
sink. Walking over, he pulls out a
bought him guitars and paid for a
midnight gigs in shitty bars.
Parisian designs, showing more
before, Julien — son, songwriter,
recorded his music for her, with
matchbook and carefully takes a
singing coach. This was the son of
Scrimping for gas money. Fighting
skin than she thought proper for
guitarist, and oudist — came home
her in mind. When she became ill
joint tucked inside.
a Bronx butcher he’d heard about
with bookers for a slice of the gate.
a woman, but so graceful, elegant,
shivering and famished from yet
and began her long descent into
as a child, carrying great sides
And how exactly do you stop being
and free. Her charcoals of gowns,
another nonpaying gig. And he
cancer, he added an oud for her,
to blow out smoke, and winter
of beef into a meat locker. The
a musician when you think and
coats, hijabs, burnooses, and
wolfed down two — two! — of six
to capture the semitones he heard
air wafts in. Staring through
infantryman from Nam. Had he
dream music? When your art flows
feathered hats — more fine art,
meatballs the old man bought for
when, as she drew on her oversize
the parted curtains into moonlit
been loving, Julien wondered, only
from your mother’s blood?
thought Julien, than mere fashion
himself at Rosario’s deli.
pad, she hummed childhood tunes.
snowfall, he reruns his father’s
for show, to please a wife?
The notes between the notes, she
lecture that morning: “Nobody
sees that his dad, Ralph Paetz, has
called them. She was the audience
wants to buy such sad music. I
scrawled MINE in black marker
that mattered. He would succeed
on a jar of Del Monte grapefruit
o now this bullshit. The
And for what crime? The night
Quietly — don’t let him know
He cracks the window open
Uncle Alan, Ralph’s brother,
thirty-five years, having met
sketches—still littered the den of
had said, “He’s mourning badly is
the family’s cramped split-level in
fade, piled dark curls that, like his
all. When he looks at you, he sees
Linden, New Jersey.
mean, c’mon, Julien, that oud
mother’s, bore a touch of Berber
her — eyelashes, cheekbones, nose.
and she’d be proud. But then she
sounds like crying. It’s crap.” Here,
red. A haircut, his father once
Even the color of her skin, Julien. I
his lips, Julien lights a match. He
slices, on vanilla yogurt containers,
was gone and he hadn’t succeeded.
Ralph, standing over him, bit into
commented, like the black kids
think it drives him a little nuts. You
sets fire to the balled paper in the
and across a Ziploc bag of sliced
Not even close.
an apple core, finished the thing,
wear. Like the brown kids wear
should forgive and forget.”
sink. Idiot note — idiot man. And
and spit the stem onto the floor. He
too, Julien thought but did not say.
Opening the fridge, Julien
cheddar cheese. He’s buried the
The upstairs TV blasts about
Ralph patted Julien’s hi-top
What did Ralph Fucking Paetz
good turkey burgers in the bottom
Chris Christie and Bridgegate, and
seemed increasingly ogreish since
The father peeled a twenty off a
freezer drawer, leaving Julien the
his father answers, “No, you’re the
Yasmine, mother and wife, died.
wad of bills. “Now go get a real
cheap, frost-burned ones — more
fucking drug mule.”
Again, Julien’s home late.
2018
The lights are out, but cotton
72
haircut and see Uncle Alan at his
to stop this crap. “Mom would never ask me to quit— ”
sweet incense fanned by cold air, brings Julien a moment’s peace. He lights the joint on his little bonfire
law office in Metuchen. Interesting
teacher, would normally be asleep
wanted. Ghosts, witches, jesters.”
stuff, he has. A lady crushed by
what Yasmine would never— ”
An ember floats to the drapes.
by now in his recliner, his feet
With that, he spread a letter on the
runaway shopping carts. You’ll do
And there Ralph, pale-faced
They catch fire.
73
“You don’t get to tell me
the flicker of the burning ball, its
went on, “sold people what they
Ralph, a high school English
2018
roof shingle than poultry.
“Even Shakespeare,” his father
Easy for Alan to say. But time
Now, with the joint clamped in
and inhales deeply.
A smoke detector shrieks.
drummer or bassist. Occasionally,
“A what?”
Julien is on the kitchen counter
he plays guitar after work near
“A Biju Misra. She says your
earn a little money.” This makes no sense. Who
“No. My son Ravi bought your album at Club Z.”
“I borrowed the CD from my son and brought it into the apartment
pounding out flames with his
his uncle’s old Honda, with a
father sent her over.” She hangs up
would think this? Who would
“In Red Bank?”
where my job was that day. A
hands when his father, wielding
foot on the bumper and his lyrics
before he can answer.
say this? Is this a prank by his
“Exactly. And then he had it
young woman was near her end,
an extinguisher, blasts him more
notepad on the hood. But he can’t
than the curtains, as if to put Julien
seem to finish a song or find a
out. The pressured spray stings
bandmates? Is he being filmed or
playing while he drove me
on morphine patches already, but
a bill collector or process server.
taped? Whatever, he doesn’t need
to a job.”
still agitated, restless, you know.”
clean melodic line. Grief troubles
He owes more than a hundred
this to play out within earshot of
“What kind of job?”
Biju closes her eyes and shakes
and freezes and cuts off his breath.
his sleep and numbs him during
to the guy who printed his last
Maggie. He leads her back and
“I’m a hospice nurse.”
her head, as if remembering the
Julien gasps and pukes over the
the day.
album. His father would give out
apologizes for his tight quarters.
“I see.” He leaned back in
sounds and sights of the woman’s
sink while Ralph Paetz throws
Alan and his wife, Marie,
the fire extinguisher to the floor,
have tried to break through,
storms out, and pounds up the stairs.
inviting him up for breakfast or
This can’t be good. It’s got to be
“My husband, may he rest in
the work address — to embarrass him before his coworkers. He grabs his coat and makes
peace, was a solicitor in New Delhi.
his seat. “Sometimes people become
pain. “At my request, her husband brought in a boom box, and I
His cubicle was smaller than this.”
afraid of me when I tell them
played your music for her as she
dinner. But, best not to go. Their
for the stairwell. Even if they pass
She sits opposite him, as if he were
what I do for a living. I spend my
lay there. For him too. He sat on
daughter, Betsy, a recent graduate
in the hallway, this Misra won’t
the lawyer and she the client.
days with dying. People think they
the floor with his back against
He and his father haven’t
of Stanford Law, lurks upstairs. A
know him from Adam.
She wears silver hoop earrings
might catch that from me. Do you
a wall. And your songs, Julien,
exchanged a word since the fire.
damning contrast. After all, what is
and a gray overcoat buttoned
think that, Julien?”
brought them peace and took her
These past three months, Julien’s
he? A crazed arsonist to his father
to her throat. As she speaks, she
lived in Uncle Alan’s basement
and perhaps to his aunt and uncle
“Julien?”
keeps her hands folded politely
and it’s easy to look directly into
husband left your music on even
room, little more than a closet that
as well. An all-out loser in the
She’s in his path, on the
on her lap.
them. He feels himself relax, and
after his wife left us. And I had to
opens to the family garage. The
music market. A guy who never
landing, her hand gently on his
the two allow an easy silence to
find you after that. You wouldn’t
nearby toilet gurgles and burps
finished college and who now,
sleeve. Her face is round and dark
pass. This woman is about his
believe the maze I went through,
through the night. He has no car
in a back room at Alan’s office,
with a maroon bindi between her
and rides to work with his uncle
hacks through piles of deposition
mother’s age, with jet-black
calling up one Mr. Paetz after
eyebrows. She opens her arms,
hair. She wears a lavender scent
another, knocking on this door
that seemed harsh at first but has
and that.”
softened.
or takes an old bike. When he
transcripts, summarizing witness
palms up, and smiles softly. “Look
fled his father’s house, he brought
testimony about deadly shopping
at you. More handsome than your
— Idio t ma n.
bare necessities: a garbage bag
carts, failing septic systems, a rat’s
album cover.” Her voice, Indian-
full of clothes, a framed photo of
head in a child’s frozen yogurt.
accented, and her eyes are too
and his acoustic guitar. The oud, he
Alan’s office when the downstairs
left behind.
receptionist buzzes.
Julien’s given up on gigs and
2018
rarely returns calls from his band’s
74
“Hey — you know a Misra?” Maggie always seems pissed at him.
“No. I think you must have a kind heart,” he says.
senses Julien’s effort to maintain composure. He’s cried more than
“You saw my father?”
they can speak for a moment.
“At your house.”
loved a piece from your album
that in front of a stranger,
“You know him?” She must
Yasmine: the song by the same
however warm.
“About?” “What else? Your beautiful music. And a way, Julien, to maybe
“I hope so. I particularly
She pauses again, as if she
warm to bring harm. She asks if
work at his high school. God knows
name.” She unbuttons her coat and
what he said to her.
pulls her chair closer to his desk.
2018
One Monday, he’s at his desk at
through the last moments. The
He s e ts f i r e to the ba l l e d pa pe r in the sink. Idio t no te
his mother as a teenager in hijab,
Her eyes are wide and black,
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enough, and he isn’t going to do
“Did you tell my father about any of this?” He does his best to
make the question seem casual,
accepting my money, your father
lately, says that the man seemed
embarrassed at his hunger for
asked me personally to bring you
lonely. “As we say in my country,
approval.
the check for your CDs. He told me
Julien, one has to do the needful.”
me in. Though it was evening, the lights were off inside, and I got the feeling he needed to
where you worked.” Julien reaches for it, but stops himself. Biju continues that she’d like
“My father,” Julien says, “didn’t come from a country like yours.” Nor, he thinks, did he come from Yasmine’s land. And he remembers
be alone. I had a nice chat with
to buy more of the CDs, that she
his father patting his head, his
him at the front door. He went
imagines many other hospice
mother’s curls, telling him to get a
down to the basement and got me
nurses would love to play his
real haircut.
ten of your CDs, and I tried giving
music for patients. She asks if
him a check for them, though he
he’d be willing to play live at the
wanted me to take them for free. I
bedside of terminal patients.
told him I intended to give Yasmine
He’s touched by her sincerity,
Biju’s scent lingers, sours and fades as he sits and stares at the
but as she speaks, he loses the
patients. At that point, he did ask
thread of her conversation,
me to come inside, and he even
repeating to himself, “He told
The one his father mocked. It is
made me tea with milk, the British
me where you worked.” So. Isn’t
obscene — no, impossible — that
way. He explained how you made
this woman, sweet-hearted and
the instrument he so painstakingly
that oud, heating the frets with a
innocent and motherly as she is,
made for his mother’s final days
torch so you could pull them
his father’s living joke? How much
remains in his father’s house. He
out, filling in the slots with plastic
does your music suck, Julien? It
knows where he left it, in a corner
wood, sanding the guitar neck,
sucks so bad, only the dead will buy
of his old room.
restringing the instrument, and so
it. Julien, his voice on automatic
Without asking permission,
on. He was so proud of your work
pilot now, tells Biju he’ll have to
Julien walks out of the office. He
and music. He told me about your
think about live performances,
gets on his bike, a rusty Schwinn.
late mother and showed me her
that really, he is out of the music
He’ll smash that oud before his
sketches. He said she, too, loved
business, but he’ll get back to her.
father’s eyes if not over the man’s
She takes a folded envelope
“Are you all right, Julien?” She stands and buttons her coat. “No, I’m fine,” he says.
it on his desk. “Finally, instead of
She asks if he’s seen his father
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out of her coat pocket and places
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miles from his uncle’s office to the little split-level on Locust Road. It was winter when he left his childhood home for his uncle’s place, but now he passes full, leafy sycamores and oaks as well as manicured lawns. His mother, he recalls as he rides, meticulously tended tea roses on a backyard
to other hospice nurses and their
your music, Julien.”
On high idle, he peddles the
unopened envelope on his desk. His thoughts turn to the oud.
ugly head.
trellis and nurtured hydrangeas and lilacs. She filled the house with cuttings in short, tinted vases. With ease, she sketched perfect irises and sunflowers in india ink. Julien finds himself at the end of the driveway. His father’s Jeep is parked curbside, and there’s a pile of mulch on a tarp at the front lawn. His father must be working in the backyard and using a wheelbarrow. So the rear door will be open. He’ll enter the house while his Ralph Fucking Paetz has his back turned. He’ll grab the oud, come outside, and do what needs to be done. But as Julien comes to the end of the driveway, nears his mother’s old trellises, music brings him to
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“I did. At first he didn’t invite
a cold stop. One of the songs he
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wrote, one that playfully echoes her accent — “Water, Whistle, Word” — is coming from an outdoor speaker that he and father rigged years ago. And there, in afternoon sun, at a wrought iron patio table, sits the man. Julien watches, motionless. His father uses a sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow and then takes a sip of a Corona. The man puts down the beer bottle. Now, he taps his fingers to Julien’s song, and almost imperceptibly, he sways with the beat, forward and back. Rage bleeds out. Slowly, silently, Julien backs away.
Un ti tl e d
HEA D F UL L O F S PA CE
William Haynes
Emmett Thornburg
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Photography
2018
2018
acrylic
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Glances ofF the sill All those dogged hours adding up to years. The bulk of life before the very same window, defying the rule of time. Watching people walk by, seasons change, birds fly. Unseeing anything indeed. It used to be like a job, and it used to be fun— a visual rocking chair of sorts. The chair’s still there, but the rocking’s gone, and also either kind of words, the spoken and the untold, appear to have dissolved. All is absence now, but murky remnants vaguely shifting in the distance whither they will yet be lost. Out of mind’s control, above emotions, beyond physical boundaries,
NE W PA G E, NE W ME !
even past belief. Just within awareness. Pupils drained from staring vainly,
Aba Hutchison
a messy mass of emptied eyefuls. Loose would-be recollections.
pen + Marker
Glances off the sill.
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2018
2018
By Alessio Zanelli 81
A b us e By cameron tate On your nightstand, in your half-awake stupor you turned off my song you told me to play, but you still refuse to leave your bed. I go back to sleep as well, it’s too early for me. “Roll your ass out of bed, Sir.” I wanted to say.
with your cheese dust covered fingers. They leave imprints on my screen that smear when you try to clean it off. You’re co-workers point at me in my new case, the only nice thing I have, as you brag I’m indestructible.
yelling that it was my fault you were late.
It feels nice…
I keep my composure and suggest your quickest route.
You then throw me on the ground,
You furiously press my screen, hurting me, as you respond
over, and
to your boss’s messages before shoving me into your pocket.
over, and
Filled with dust that gets in my ports,
over again to prove the point.
pens that scrap against my case,
I feel a fracture on my screen,
and the humidity of your thigh
you say it’s a hair.
fogging up my screen.
Give me some damn respect, Sir. We retreat to our respective chargers to end the day.
I’m placed next to your keyboard at your job,
After the abuse I dealt with today,
you fill spreadsheets and forms with data you don’t understand.
I needed the rest because we’ll repeat it again tomorrow.
You ask me every minute to do the math for you,
I dreaded it, but that’s all I can do.
while playing your music,
You reach over again, and open the browser.
finding local restaurants that serve breakfast at 3:00,
You type in the search engine, P-O-R…
the capital of Utah,
I shut off for a “scheduled” update.
saving your score in Fruit Ninjas from 3 days ago,
Leave me alone tonight, Sir.
and a dozen other tasks that make me exhausted.
NO T P HO TO S HO p P E D ALEXZANDRIA EVANS
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Photography
2018
I’m always in your hand as you tap my screen
You wake me hours later,
You’re a disgusting pig, Sir.
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Close some damn apps, Sir.
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S IL VE R P OOL Emmett Thornburg P HO NE CA L L
Photography
Myrthe Biesheuvel
84
2018
2018
oil on canvas
85
THE S E N TINeL ALESSIO ZANELLI acrylic on board
YEL LO WS TO NE SARAH KINNEY
86
2018
2018
oil on canvas
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contributors:
Thank you for choosing us to showcase your amazing work. Without you, this magazine would not be possible. way n e m a i k r a n z :
Thank you for all of the work you put in to support us, and the helpful advice you have given us along the way. danny huffman:
Thank you for your patience in answering our constant stream of questions and for always having such a positive attitude. joshua wood:
Thank you for always having your door open and offering us your design expertise.
kelly merges:
Thank you for your help with circulation and for encouraging us to showcase Sanskrit to the world. art
+
l i t e r at u r e j u r y :
Thank you for dedicating your time to helping us pick the very best work
to feature in Sanskrit. laurie cuddy:
Thank you for being a wonderful Business Manager and an important part of Student Niner Media. pi marketing:
Thank you for taking our idea and turning it into a reality. Without your team, there would be no printed version of the magazine. jeff allio:
Thank you for being patient with us while we worked out all the kinks for this year’s issue. Your dedication to Sanskrit is much appreciated. student union art gallery:
Thank for for coordinating with us to display this year’s art and literature and for creating an amazing exhibit. janitors of the student union:
Thank you for always keeping the office clean and pristine.
students of unc charlotte, shfc
+
readers:
Thank you for all of your support and interest
in our work. We hope you enjoyed this issue! fa m i l y , f r i e n d s
+
loved ones:
Thank you for being there to support our hard work and encouraging us to follow our passions. We love you! of our incredible and dedicated staff members and volunteers, thank you! We have all worked very hard to put forth another beautifully-made publication of Sanskrit. We have come a long way from our initial literature read-throughs and our calls for submissions. We should all be proud. Congratulations on an awesome job well done!
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to all
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loves Brazilian rap music, discovering useless facts, and, naturally, writing. If he could ever stop staring out into space, he would like to start a global movement to change the world and guest-host Saturday Night Live.
Journalism and Art History. When she’s not designing, you can catch her at the movies with goodies in her purse or lost in nature’s beauty with a DSLR in hand. She looks forward to her future in design as an Art Director, creating alongside passionate, empathetic and hardworking peers like herself.
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Coordinator
Political Science. When she is off campus you can find her speculating Star Wars fan theories or hanging out with her cats. If she ever graduates, Nancy would like to join a publishing house and see the world.
and Environmental Science. With creativity embodying her every essence she enjoys creating art concepts that will remain in her head forever and being around people who actually put the pen to paper. If you ever want to spark up a conversation, bring up her favorites Chance the Rapper and/or Steven Universe! d a n i e l j o h n s o n is from Laurinburg, NC. He currently a freshman here
at UNCC with majors in Mathematics, Pre-Economics, and Philosophy. He enjoys playing soccer, tennis, sleeping, and listening to music. Music, visual art, and theatre are interests of his, but he really enjoys writing poetry and listening to spoken word. His enjoyment of the arts drew him towards volunteering with Sanskrit and being a part in assembling the great conglomerate of work that caught his eye during his very first week on campus.
Volunteer
Designer
h e at h e r s c h a r d i n g is a senior at UNCC but a junior in her program and
is pursuing a BFA in Graphic Design. When she is not working on school work, she enjoys biographical movies and watching baseball (Go Yankees!). She also enjoys the company of her family ad close friends. She is a TV and movie addict. With a variety of shows that suck up her time she is slow to break the addiction and feels that it adds something interesting to her personality. Too bad that can’t be put in her portfolio!
n a n c y c a r r o l l is a senior at UNCC double majoring in English and
j o n e s e p i p k i n is a sophomore here at UNC-Charlotte studying Earth
a s h l e y j u n g is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte pursuing a BFA in Illustration
and a minor in Art History. As an inspiring Illustrator, she hopes to one day work in film as a storyboard artist or any job that has to do with illustration. When she’s not working on art projects or doing some other school-related thing, you can catch her reading bizarre mangas, heading to the gym, or watching movies with friends.
Content Editor
Lead Designer
m e l o d y s o n g e r is a senior at UNC Charlotte studying Graphic Design,
Content Editor
a n d r e w wa l k e r - wat s o n is a freshman International Studies Major. He
Volunteer
Psychology and English and dual minors in Linguistics and Cognitive Science. Her talents include eating multiple Cosmic Brownies a day without tiring of them and slipping the word “incredible” into every conversation. She adores her friends, family, and reading.
c h i a m a k a o k o n k w o is a freshman Biology major on the pre-medical
track at UNC Charlotte. To her, poetry and literature are safe havens in the times when chemistry and biology are just a little unforgiving. Chiamaka enjoys spending her free time reading, exploring, and storing poetry on stray scrap paper and in random Word documents.
g r e y s o n n a n c e is probably a sophomore pursuing a Bachelor of Art
and plans to concentrate in Graphic Design. He enjoys music, comics, watching movies, sleeping, and a bunch of other stuff he can’t fit in a short bio.
Designer
s i e r r a b e e l e r is a junior English major at UNC Charlotte who was declared
a feminist by her peers. A pantomath of T.V. and film, she aspires to create a super awesome, diverse, magic girl cartoon/show/movie/book series reminiscent of Sailor Moon. When not obsessing over Steven Universe or Star vs the Forces
y e s i k a s o r t o a n d i n o is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte studying Political
Science and Public Health. An aspiring United Nations diplomat, she hopes to oneday grant world peace. While she is not contemplating the complexities of life, she is watching the West Wing while eating chocolate.
Volunteer
m e l i s s a m a r t i n is a sophomore at UNCC pursuing dual degrees in
e l i s s a m i l l e r is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte studying Communications
and Political Science. When she isn’t reviewing theater for Niner Times, she is working on bringing new programming to Sex Week UNCC and forcing her friends to binge watch television with her. In the future, she would like to be an investigative journalist, a lawyer, or the second female President of the United States (because if there isn’t one before the time she gets there, that’s just sad).
Associate Editor
When she isn’t chained to her computer working on research projects, she enjoys marathoning Korean dramas and spending money she doesn’t have. After graduation, she hopes to curate a museum or gallery and possibly guest-star on Mysteries at the Museum.
Content Editor
Editor-in-Chief
t i e r r a h o l m e s is a senior studying Art History and History at UNCC.
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Content Editor
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Volunteer
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of Evil, Sierra enjoys playing butterfly videogames and daydreaming about nonsense. She also spends A LOT of time panicking over nothing.
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IN ART Netherlands, where she completed a year of intense classical drawing at the Wackers Academy in Amsterdam. Recently, she was offered the great opportunity to relocate to Charlotte and study arts at the UNCC. Myrthe has a deep love for painting and gets inspired by animals and mystery. zackery clark is a gamer with a wide variety of
interests. His is an artist who uses computers as his medium and is currently working with his girlfriend and her sister to write what he hopes will become a book or series of books. ryan cook is an illustrator, painter, and all-around
avid visual artist, who primarily does surreal landscapes, reptilian creatures, and atmospheric, otherworldly environments even conceptually. Some of his works also involve depictions of still-life, abstract aesthetics, and humanoid creature designs as well as impressionist techniques. Will Ryan’s artworks are best seen in the realm of 2D in both digital art and traditional handmade artworks, he has also created some pieces that are 3D, from crafts to paper mâchés and from sculpture to ceramic. Ryan Cook plans on becoming a videogame concept artist and illustrator. a l e x z a n d r i a e va n s has had a passion for
art her entire life. She spent the first 18 years of her life confused about where she was headed, but the support of her loved ones led her to pursue her dreams of becoming an artist. She loves working with almost any medium, and is inspired to spread awareness on suicide, because her best friend, Erica, committed suicide in 2012.
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rachel russell is an Illustration senior at UNC
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Charlotte. She enjoys working with the human form and depicts it in any medium possible. w i l l i a m h ay n e s is a young man, born in Japan
and growing up most of his life in the Bay Area of California. For almost ten years, he has been in a period of focus on the human hand. With his medium usually being ink, recently he has changed direction towards acrylic, a medium unfamiliar to him. a b a h u t c h i s o n is a freelance artist who
appreciates the beauty of diverse faces, enjoys the feeling of drawing them into existence, and then seeing them depicted in the likeness of her own style. OFFICIAL INSTAGRAM: @akh.prints sarah kinney is a recent UNC Charlotte graduate
and artist who spends too much time reading and not enough time sleeping. k at h r y n m c c o m a s is a graphic designer
working in Charlotte. When not working she can be found practicing martial arts, taking photos, and making stuff with clay. ladara mckinnon is a published multimedia
artist focusing in Ceramics and Painting. She grew up in Japan and Hawaii, where her love for art began. LaDara uses abstract, texture, mark-making as tool’s, purpose, and meaning in her practice. Her work is influenced by the rawness of landscapes and human body. In 2017, LaDara studied abroad at Burren School of Art in Ireland and will graduate with a BA in Fine Art. jessica miller is pursuing a B.S. in Biology
and a minor in Biotechnology. She loves everything to do with science, learning, spending time with family and friends, and of course her passion: art. She enjoys different forms of art whether it’s playing
piano, origami, listening to music, watching movies, or drawing. She has been heavily influenced by Caravaggio, Michelangelo, Picasso, Dalí, Chopin, and Debussy. danika ng is just another human being, flawed
yet created in perfectness. As a college student at UNC Charlotte, she is still growing and still learning as she takes on the world one step at a time with her friends and family. c a r o l i n a q u i n ta n a o c a m p o is a freshman
at UNCC who wants to double major in both Illustration and Digital Media and possibly minor in Japanese. She loves to involve different worlds and cultures into her cartoon style artwork. In the future it would be a dream come true if she could be a story board artist for an animation company. melissa martin is a Sophomore at UNC Charlotte
pursuing a degree in English. She enjoys having philosophical debates with her friends and examining complex topics including purpose and existence. e l i n a s u ka ryav i c h u t e was born in Russia
(Moscow) and is a PhD student in Geography and in the Urban Regional Analysis program at UNCC. Keen explorer and life lover. Loves big cities, solo traveling, hiking, hot tea, and winter. One of most favorite places in the world is Barcelona. em m ett tho r n bu rg is a Charlotte high
school student that plans on attending UNCC. He is an aspiring photographer that is passionate about pursuing a career in visual arts. He is also a fan of music and fashion and one day hopes to produce music videos.
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m y r t h e b i e s h e u v e l was born in the
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alessio zanelli , an Italian poet who writes in English, a photographer and formerly a painter, has published 4 collections to date. His work has appeared in over 150 literary journals from 13 countries. For more information please visit www.alessiozanelli.it.
IN Literature
rachel l . austin is a college lecturer and
ro bbin far r , writer, poet, and photographer of
independent researcher who teaches sociology for UNC Charlotte. Rachel has a M.A. in Sociology (UNC Charlotte), a M.A. in Psychology (UND at Grand Forks), and completed undergraduate work at USC Upstate. Rachel’s research concentrations include counterculture, social movements, and deviance. She has received grants and presented research at conferences through the U.S. and abroad and has lived in Western North Carolina since 2004.
blighted buildings, lives in Doylestown, PA where she is actively involved in a community of poets. She holds an MFA from the University of Queens in Charlotte and currently teaches writing at Rider University. She is currently working on a series of poems and photographs depicting the plight of abandoned buildings as social commentary on the impact of deindustrialization on society and culture.
Homeschooled grades kindergarten through twelfth, d esir ee brown enrolled at Central Piedmont Community College at fifteen to study English and American Literature. She published her first poetry collection, “Roses are Read”, at eighteen. Currently, Desiree is working toward her degree in English at UNC Charlotte and plans to pursue a Ph.D. Her works have been featured in Hedge Apple Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and The Woven Tale Press.
from the University of Houston’s Creative Writing Program, where she studied with Edward Hirsch and Adam Zagajewski and served as poetry editor of Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts. She has won multiple Individual Artist Grants in Literature, attended the Tin House and Naropa Summer Writing workshops, and written for and performed in live bands and theater productions, including several original one-woman shows.
j ohn f . bu c kley lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan
ba r ba ra g r e e n ba u m has studied with
with his wife. His website is http://johnfbuckley. net/. One of these days, he’s going to be older than he already is. He’s undecided whether he’s aging like milk or like cheese. Maybe he’s becoming tangy butter. m irana co m sto ck is an award-winning
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copywriter, screenwriter, photographer, and musician. She has also won Best of Fest screenwriting awards from, among others, the Burbank International Film Festival and Worldfest. Her photographs have been
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c hr ista f o r ster earned an MFA in poetry
Michael White, Suzanne Strempek Shea, Brad Barkley, and Jack Driscoll. In 2011, Barbara was awarded a Teaching Arts Fellowship from Surdna, now known as the National Artist Teacher Fellowship (NATF), to develop a memoir. In addition, her work won second place in the 2006 Fiction CT Authors and Publishers Association (CAPA) contest. Barbara has a B.A. in English from the University of Hartford, an M.A. in secondary education from St. Joseph College, and
an M.F.A. from the University of Southern Maine Stonecoast. She is presently retired from her career as a creative writing teacher at a public magnet arts high school in Willimantic, CT. In addition to teaching, she is also involved in land conservation. She writes using the pen name B.P. Greenbaum.
Hayden-Harnett. He lives in Beacon, NY with his wife Toni and their pets. He can be found most days on Twitter.com: @benharnett. He works for The New York Times.
j u d ith g r iss m er worked as a Marriage and
training as a registered nurse in London. She is currently living in the Midwest. She has traveled extensively working with a peace organization. Her travels have taken her to Europe, Asia, Israel, and South America. Recently, she has trained as a black belt in martial arts. She has long held an interest in the history of art, and she enjoys going to jazz concerts. She runs youth summer and winter camps.
Family Therapist and Professional Counselor for 25 years, receiving an M.S. from Purdue University and a post-master’s certificate in marriage and family therapy from Virginia Tech. She lives with her husband in Charlottesville, Virginia. She enjoys gardening, meditating, living near her daughters and their families, and beach walks on the Outer Banks of North Carolina where she manages their vacation rental home. c aro l ham ilto n taught in Connecticut, Indiana
and Oklahoma, the last twelve years in an elementary school for gifted children. She taught in the graduate writing program at the University of Central Oklahoma. She was a volunteer pediatric translator for 21 years. As a writer, she won a Southwest Book Award, Oklahoma Book Award, Cherubim Award, Chiron Review Chapbook Award, David Ray Poetry Prize, Byline Literary Awards for short story and poetry, and the Warren Keith Poetry Prize. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma. b e n ja m i n h a r n e t t is a historian, fiction writer,
poet, and digital engineer. His works have appeared recently in Pithead Chapel, Brooklyn Quarterly, Moon City Review, and Tahoma Literary Review. His story “Delivery” was chosen as Longform’s “Story of the Week.” He holds an MA in Classics from Columbia University and in 2005 co-founded the fashion brand
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his undergrad at UNC Charlotte. He aspires to write for film or television in the future and currently writes stories and poems as a hobby because “there’s nothing else to really do here in Charlotte besides drink.”
exhibited extensively and are in the collections of the 9/11 Memorial Museum and the NY Historical Society. A Juilliard-trained musician, she is currently mixing new music as singer/songwriter/keyboardist for alt dance duo Theory of Tides.
andrew adams is an English Major working on
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ro jan e j esp er was born in Italy and spent most
of her childhood years in Scotland. She completed
A graduate of Vassar College, sharon kennedy nolle holds an MFA and doctoral degree from the University of Iowa. In addition to attending the Sarah Lawrence Summer Writing Institute for several years, Sharon was accepted to the Bread Loaf Conferences in both Middlebury and Sicily in 2016. This year marks the third that she has been honored to be a scholarship participant at the Frost Place Summer Writing Program. evalyn lee is a former CBS News producer. She
has produced television segments for 60 Minutes in New York and the BBC in London. She has studied English literature both in the U.S. and in England and had the opportunity to interview writers, including Joseph Brodsky, Seamus Heaney, and Margaret Atwood, about their work. Most recently she has worked with American novelist Joyce Maynard and the English novelist Louise Doughty.
art Jury m ic ah c ash is a visual artist and educator with over ten years of experience working in non-profit visual
kate m cco r kle ’s stories and essays have
j o n a h s m i t h - b a r t l e t t is an ordained
appeared in several publications, including Adelaide Magazine, Barely South Review, r.kv.r.y Quarterly, Marathon Literary Review, and Penmen Review. A Pushcart nominee, she writes with the Greater Philadelphia Workshop Studio. Kate is currently
American Baptist minister and received his master of arts and theology at Union Presbyterian Seminary. He received his master of divinity from Yale Divinity School. He loves to write about small-city America and examines how deceptively simple moments
working on a book-length thing about her time as a 9/11 infantry wife. A mother of four young children, she swims to keep insanity at bay.
in the nation’s history can shatter lives, embolden relationships, and transform the face of a community forever. In his spare time, he sings in an Irish band.
A native of the Bronx, n eil m u llin drove a taxi and spent years as a sheet metal worker before he became an attorney specializing in civil rights and employment law. He has studied one-on-one with Alice Eliot Dark and Kate Pullinger. He currently has his own firm, Smith Mullin, P.C., and has successfully argued cases in front of the United States Supreme Court and the New Jersey Supreme Court. Neil writes write under the name N. Marc Mullin.
m arc tr etin was the second runner-up for the
based writer who has been a member of the Montville Writer’s Groups since its inception in 2007. He is an experienced fiction writer who was the runner up in the Garden State Horror Writers Short Story contest in 2012 for his short story, “The Facsimile.” He also dabbles in poetry and theatre writing. He continues to work on becoming a published author. clair e sco tt is an award winning poet who
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has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.
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A lifelong artist, an n e n eilso n began painting in 2003 and quickly became nationally renowned for her ethereal Angel series. A favorite among individuals and private art collectors, Neilson’s paintings are inspiring reflections of her faith and recognized for their innate color and flare. In 2012, Neilson self-published Angels in Our Midst which has sold over 30,000 copies. Following its success, and the demand for more access to her acclaimed Angels, Neilson released a follow up book, Strokes of Compassion, and launched Anne Neilson Home, a growing collection of luxury home products which includes candles, notecards, scripture cards, prints, and journals. Most recently, Neilson released Angels: The Collector’s Edition, her largest coffee table book to-date, showcasing the most-loved content from Angels in Our Midst as well as brand new stories of faith from renowned musical artists like Steven Curtis Chapman and Amy Grant. A Portion of the new proceeds from the sale of The Collector’s Edition benefit organizations championing those fighting homelessness and poverty. A wife, a mother of four, and an artist, Neilson paints with both passion and purpose, giving back to those less fortunate through the sales of her products and original paintings. In su san g ro ssm a n 's work, images and landscapes in motion initially suggest photography; however, her luminous, shimmering drawings are rendered in charcoal and pastel. Her drawings of urban and rural scenes juxtapose the human with the natural. The images, autobiographical in the sense that they are culled from the artist’s own travels and experiences, are deliberately unspecific and allow for the viewer’s own interpretation.
literature Jury
c am ero n tate is a graduate from the University
of North Carolina at Charlotte. He is an aspiring writer of poetry and short stories. His writing includes themes of mental illness and social commentary. He currently resides in Charlotte, North Carolina.
c h r i st o p h e r dav i s is a professor of creative writing (poetry) at UNC Charlotte. He holds an MFA from the
alessio zanelli see Contributors in Art for bio
winner of Roanoke-Chowan Award; Fiddledeedee (reissue, Press 53); Family Matters: Homage to July, the Slave Girl (Bellday Books), the Bellday Prize. Recipient of the Distinguished Alumnus Achievement Award, Department of English Department, University of Wisconsin-Madison, he is Professor Emeritus, University of North CarolinaPembroke, serving as editor of Pembroke Magazine from 1979 until 2010.
Iowa Writer's Workshop. He is the author of three collections of poetry: The Tyrant of the Past and the Slave of the Future, The Patriot, and A History of the Only War. s h e l by st e p h e n s o n is Poet Laureate of North Carolina. Recent books: Elegies for Small Game (Press 53),
lara v etter is Associate Professor of English at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, where she
teaches modernism, poetry, and American literature. She is the author of A Curious Peril: H.D.’s Late Modernist Prose and Modernist Writings and Religio-scientific Discourse: H.D., Loy, and Toomer; editor of H.D.’s By Avon River; and co-editor of Approaches to Teaching H.D.’s Poetry and Prose and Emily Dickinson’s Correspondences. Her articles on H.D. and Mina Loy have appeared in the Journal of Modern Literature, Review of English Studies, and Genre.
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dav id r eu ter is a Lincoln Park, New Jersey
Solstice literary magazine poetry prize in 2013. He is the 2015 winner of the Audrey Wasson and Carol Leseure Scholarship in Poetry. His poetry collection, Pink Mattress, has been published by New York Quarterly Press in 2016. Conferences he has attended include 92nd Street Y, Colrain, and the West Chester Poetry Conference. He has studied with David Yezzi, Molly Peacock, Rachel Zucker, William Packard, and Emily Fragos. He was an attorney in private practice and is now retired.
arts organizations. His work investigates how land use, landscapes, and their social histories influence cultural geography. Micah holds an MFA from the University of Connecticut and a Bachelor's Degree in Painting and Art History from the University of South Carolina. His first monograph, Dangerous Waters: A Photo Essay on the Tennessee Valley Authority, was published by University of Tennessee Press in 2017. He currently teaches courses in drawing, 2-D design, and photography at Wingate University and serves as the Director of Community Engagement at The Light Factory in Charlotte, North Carolina.
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co py r i g h t 2017:
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