Folio Fall 2024: Anamnesis

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2024 Fall 2024 Semester issue: Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine Volume 25: Anamnesis Folio is intended for free public distribution and is not for sale. The works included in this special 25th anniversary edition, Anamnesis, are published with permission from their respective creators. All rights are reserved by this publication and the creators whose works are published in Anamnesis

Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine gathers art, photography, literary works, and all other creative endeavors from Salt Lake Community College students, staff, and alumni. We encourage and accept these submissions so that all members of the SLCC community can showcase their talent, creativity, and diverse lives in an award-winning magazine. We hope our efforts help you, the reader, find a greater appreciation for these artists and their works.

Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine is curated, edited, formatted, designed, and published by SLCC students and staff. Contact slccfolio@gmail.com for information on enrolling in ENGL 1830: Literary Magazine Studies—the course that produces Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine.

Cover design by Olga Gao. Cover art La Llorona by Jennifer Yebra Alvarez.

Typefaces used are Canto & Times New Roman.

Special Thanks To:

Ƅ Dr. Greg Peterson, President Salt Lake Community College

Ƅ Professor Jerri A. Harwell, Chair of Department of English, Linguistics, and Writing Studies.

Ƅ Dr. Roderic Land, Dean of School of Humanities and Social Sciences.

Ƅ Folio Advisory Board: Brandon Alva, Jeshua Enriquez, Kati Lewis, Cristin Longhurst, Andrea Malouf, Carol Sieverts, Stacey Van Dahm, and Virag White.

Ƅ Theresa Adair and staff at SLCC Printing Services.

Ƅ All of the SLCC students, faculty, and staff who shared their voices and creations with Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine!

Don’t forget to explore more amazing works published online at www.slcc.edu/folio

Salt Lake Community College is located on the Native American shared territory of the Goshute, Navajo, Paiute, Shoshone, and Ute People. We honor the original ancestors of this land and also offer respect to our other tribal communities. We acknowledge this history to cultivate respect for and advocate with our Indigenous students and communities still connected to this land.

ANAMNESIS

Anamnesis is the recalling of events and memories from a supposed previous existence, in a philosophical sense. In honor of the 25th Anniversary of the award winning Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine, we reminisce and grow from the past events of our lives that have shaped us as people today. As the world changes more and more each day, we change along with it and must carry our past lives inside us, continuously growing into ourselves each step of the way.

Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine is produced in ENGL 1830: Literary Magazine Studies. This is the course that markets, curates, edits, designs, publishes, and launches an edition of Folio every fall semester (previously spring semesters as well). The Folio team consists of a faculty advisor, students taking ENGL 1830, and paid part-time staff.

In this course, students learn about the theory, practice, and history of literary and art magazines while producing an issue of Folio. Students gain experience with literary publication software such as Adobe InDesign, digital communication tools, and Publication Center printing equipment while exploring the changing landscape of literary and art publication today.

Folio’s first issue was released in 1999, 25 years ago. Founded by Paul Almonte and David Susman, it started out mainly focusing on academic works from students in English classes. Over time, it started adding more creative pieces including poetry, short stories, fiction, non-fiction, photography, art, and more.

By bringing all these pieces together, the magazine highlights the students of SLCC and dives deep into how the students make the school unique with the diverse perspectives they offer. Looking back on the past 25 years of Folio we can see how the school and the students have developed and grown as writers and artists. We invite you to explore our past issues on our website at www.slcc.edu/folio.

It has been my pleasure to be the faculty advisor since fall of 2021. I took over from Professor Kati Lewis whose help was invaluable as I learned how to teach the course and guide the students in putting together the magazine.

Since 2021 my students have produced five issues, two of which won awards. The Spring 2022 Reverie received Excellent from the annual competition Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary magazines (REALM) and the Spring 2023 issue, Lucidity received a Superior from the same competition (REALM). Students also have won individual awards for pieces such as in the CCHA Southwest Division competition “Grief Once Held” by Daniel Vielstich, which in the Spring 2022 Issue Reverie, won 1st place for best artwork and in the same issue Quinn Hoggan won 1st place for best short story for “Mama: The Girl Who Danced With the Moon.”

The students produced two special issues, Ubuntu (2022 and 2023) featuring pieces from the Black Student Union released in conjunction with the African American Read-In sponsored by SLCC’s Student Writing and Reading Center under the direction of Clint Gardner.

Along the way I have had three excellent design editors, Nash Hutto, Samuel Wilson, and Olga Gao and three awesome literary editors, Amie Schaeffer, Miriam Nicholson and Abraham Smith who have guided the students in designing and editing the awardwinning magazines.

One of the students taking the course in fall of 2021, Risa, designed the Folio logo.

She said this about her design:

“I was inspired by the Hydrangea flower as it symbolizes Togetherness and Unity. Our book is built around our school community; it is a cumulation of the voices of our beloved staff, faculty and students. Without all of you, we wouldn’t have this unique gift to share.”

After twenty-five years of labor, this magazine has become a part of the Salt Lake Community College history. I invite you to read through the statements by the other faculty advisors and enjoy the literary and art pieces throughout this issue.

Finally, with this issue we announce that the magazine has been rebranded as Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine. Filled with a passion for art, and bracing for more changes in the future, we hope to continue supporting the expression of the student body for years to come. Thank you to wonderful students, staff, and faculty that made Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine a possibility. We look forward to another excellent 25 years!

Daniel D. Baird

President and Faculty

•Greg Petersen, President of Salt Lake Community College

From the first moment I saw the job posting for the president position at Salt Lake Community College, I admit that I was intrigued by the institution. One of only two community colleges in Utah, and the only large and urban community college in the State, I found myself impressed again and again by the work done by the college and the diverse students it serves. It’s clear that quality learning experiences are core to SLCC and come in many different forms across our nine locations. So it should be no surprise that when I learned about Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine I continue to be pleasantly intrigued.

A key part of learning is doing, and Folio has provided a platform for “doing” for a quarter of a century at SLCC. While the publication itself is impressive, I am more amazed by the students who create it. Stories, edits, pictures, and formatting provide glimpses into the depth of creativity and discipline our students possess, carving out precious time in each busy day to form meaning and connection in every one of Folio’s pages. Their work captures personal moments and unique perspectives in writing and intertwines them into digital and print design, producing award-winning results. In the many hours spent in this effort, though, the real rewards are learning and confidence as these students are prepared for whatever challenges they will face next, knowing they are capable, adaptable, and resilient.

•••

•Lisa Bickmore, former faculty advisor

I became advisor to Folio in 2009 (according to my records and best recollection!), and served in that role for three years. Dr. Lynn Kilpatrick was the previous advisor—she gave me great transition guidance. I wanted to seek

to get a greater number of submissions, and then to revive the Folio website (at the time—it is a new and better space now). My biggest ambition was to invite and publish multimedia compositions and web-only content. I worked with three different literary editors, and since Lynn had secured commitment to fund a design editor, I also worked with three different design editors. Some of my favorite parts of being the faculty advisor to Folio included working with these wildly talented editors and smart staff members. We held launch events in various places, including the upstairs of the Markosian Library. I feel most proud of initiating multimedia content—to my knowledge, that hadn’t been a part of Folio before, and I loved the way that opened and enhanced the opportunities for student creators.

•••

•Brandon Alva, former faculty advisor

During my time as the Folio faculty advisor, the magazine expanded its online presence. We added a web editor in addition to the literary and design editors. We also won a prize from the Community College Humanities Association’s (CCHA) literary magazine competition, taking 3rd place in the Southwest Division for 2014. I’m grateful to Lisa Bickmore who mentored me into the role and also the amazing students including CJ, Susan, Jamie, Emily, Afton, Marissa, Ryan, Kat, Natalee, Ben, Mark, Londa, Michelle, Brandon, Heather, Michelle and others too numerous to mention here. We worked damn hard and occasionally we made each other laugh as well.

•••

•Benjamin Solomon, former faculty advisor:

I led a team of talented students who produced Folio for a couple years, and it

was one of the most generative and engaging experiences I had as an English Professor at SLCC. College literary journals provide essential outlets for undergraduate artists and writers to gain exposure for their work, but they also create community and build connections through a shared culture of collaboration and love of the arts. There is something magical about working to gather submissions from the community, discussing the body of work at hand, finding a shape, theme, and form for those voices, and then crafting it all into printed form. Few college programs so seamlessly blend academic and creative work with deliberate and consistent community engagement. I hope Folio enjoys another 25 years of inspirational art and writing.

•Kati Lewis, former faculty advisor

Revenants: A Found Folio Reflection

Fall 2019 Edition: Monstrum: Monstera

The monstrum is both revelation and warning. All monsters embody the monstrum. They are revelations and warnings about humanity. The edition before pandemic lockdowns and the remotenearness of Webex and Zoom. My first edition of Folio as the faculty advisor. We curate and publish sublime works exploring humanity’s capacity for cruelty and redemption.

Spring 2020: Osmosis

A constant flow of knowledge and thought, which our semi-permeable barriers inactively allow, which slowly defines and evolves our place and our purpose. Writers and artists share their various states of vulnerability in search of meaning.

Fall 2020: Dehiscence

A partial or total separation or reopening of a wound’s edges. This is due to a failure of proper wound healing. Back in person and then back to remote. Openings, closings, re-openings. The nature of reality open for debate. Writers

and artists interrogate what is means to be human, masked and six feet apart.

Spring 2021: Liminality

In-betweenness. A transitioning. A crossing of a threshold into a new state of being, belonging, understanding. My last edition as Folio advisor. Pandemic isn’t over. Back together reading and experiencing works about despair and respair. We curate and publish endings and beginnings.

Fall 2024: Revenants

Sitting on my porch in this unseasonably warm October. Sipping wine. Thinking about returnings from the undead past. Not like zombies. Like memories. Like stories and art. Things that return to live again every time an edition is remembered and returned to.

Past Staff on Folio

•Miriam

Nicholson - Literary Editor

One of the things that I love about writing is how it brings people together. That is one of the things that I love about Folio; it brought us all here together. I have always wanted to be a writer and am a current student of SLCC working towards my degree in Writing Studies. What I long to be able to accomplish for my writing long term is to come together as a people. There are many factors in the world today that pull us apart; it is my hope to be able to bring even a few of us back together.

•Carly Gooch - Literary Editor

“I enjoy taking in the world around me and putting those complex experiences

and emotions into words. Art and creation allows for growth, ensuring that each day is different than the last.” This is her last semester as a Folio Editor. We wish her the very best in her future endeavors. May you have the best adventures— make sure to share your bold stories with the world!

•Amie Schaeffer - Literary Editor

Folio allows me to tap into my creative self as well as well as collaborate creatively with the staff. I see Folio as an artistic representation of the diverse student body we have at Salt Lake Community College. Being on staff gives the opportunity to help curate this unique collection and that has been a huge

•Sarah Kennedy - Design Editor

“I love Folio because I love the passion and the creation that students put into their work.”

•Nash Hutto - Web/Design Editor

I began working with Folio in Spring of 2021 when I was brought on as the Web Editor. Due to some unexpected staffing changes, my role shifted to include Design Editor responsibilities and I had the opportunity to design three different covers for Liminality. I continued doing both web and publication design the

following semester for Recalibrate. My final semester was the Spring 2022 Issue, Reverie, where I did web design. I also designed the cover artwork for our special issue, Rendezvous. Working with Folio served as an integral part to my career development as it was my first experience working in graphic design and web design. Folio allowed me to explore my interests in art, design, and literature, and was a great introduction to the publishing industry.

•Samuel Wilson - Design Editor

As a lifelong creator, I understand the struggle to get one’s name and work into the public eye and the need to share your creations with others — that’s the main reason I was interested in joining Folio. Everyone’s voice deserves to be heard, and having access to an environment where your creations can be shared with like-minded individuals is important to all artists, so I believe this magazine is a wonderful tool for doing just that. That ability to help other artists make their voices known is my favorite part about working on Folio.

•Mark Stone - Literary Editor

Serving as the Folio Literary Editor was one of the most influential experiences of my undergraduate career. I learned a lot about the editorial process and got to experience the astounding creativity of my peers at the same time! What could’ve been better?

Past Students on Folio

•Dakota Alexander

As an English major, writing is my passion and the key to my future. The art of bringing words together in ways that create entirely new worlds, or create meaning out of random assortments of the same twenty-six letters has always captured my attention. Hopefully one day I can capture others’ attention with words of my own. Working on Folio has shown me the wonders of editing and design, which are arguably much more difficult than writing could ever be. I appreciate the opportunity to get to create something great that is the sum of so many people’s hard work.

•Maddi Flynn

As a Graphic Design major, I constantly seek opportunities to utilize my artistic skills. Joining Folio allowed me to gain a deeper understanding of the design, editing, and publishing process involved in creating SLCC’s award-winning magazine. It’s a pleasure to work alongside my classmates and the rest of the Folio team and to have the chance to contribute my own ideas. If you are majoring in graphic design, I highly recommend taking this course. •••

•Ashley Marlin

As a writer, I’m always searching for inspiration. I look for Art so captivating, whether it’s written on a page, performed, or painted, it consumes every inch of my brain, causing an overwhelming rise of emotion. I search for this feeling whether it’s in my own work or in yours. Working as a Folio editor has given me the opportunity to do exactly this. I explore all forms of art, noting each piece’s individual expression. A view into the artist’s world, and their mind. I have been so lucky this year to work on the Fall Issue 2023: Renaissance and feel this

emotion throughout the authors and artists. Thank you.

•••

•Sienna Stern

Writing has always been the cornerstone of my academic and creative passions. Although I mostly stick to essay writing, I also dabble in writing fiction. Most of my inspiration for writing stems from my experience as an Indigenous person who struggles to navigate the fine line between modernity and tradition. In addition to writing, I also enjoy painting landscapes and taking long walks around the city looking at historical buildings (I have an undying affinity for all things old and crumbling).

Participating in the creation of Folio has been a true labor of love that has allowed me to creatively collaborate in a group setting. In addition, I’ve been able to hone in on my editing and publication skills that I intend to utilize in my professional career. Above all, being in a space with talented and creative people has been one of the most enjoyable experiences that I’ve been a part of during my time at SLCC.

•••

•Finnegan McDonough

Creative writing is an incredibly personal pursuit, as is any form of art. I love writing poetry and short stories, ranging from gruesome horror pieces, to vampire love-making. But at the end of the day, I do it all for one thing: to be a better game keeper for my D&D group.

I’ve found literary magazine classes to be a great resource and safe space. The diversity in art, writing, and students we interact with joyfully helps me broaden my view of the world and my eye for creativity.

•Summer Marriott

As a life-long bibliophile, I have loved anything and everything to do with books since childhood. Folio gave me a wonderful opportunity to explore my passions and get experience working with other students’ work, while also exploring my creative side. I specifically love to create handmade books and to work with independent authors to design their work digitally for publishing. If I am not creating books, then I am most definitely reading one of them!

“There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” —Oscar Wilde in The Picture of Dorian Gray

•Saturn Quinn (they/them)

I’ve been writing since the moment I figured out if I didn’t like what I was reading, I could just write what I wanted to read instead, and as it stands now, it will continue to be a lifelong pursuit as I continue to strive for my childhood dream of becoming an accomplished novelist. That being said, it isn’t the only creative pursuit I’m engaged in. I’m a champion of the fine arts and will absolutely dig my fingers into any chance to create. Whether it be in word medium or in visual medium, I love it all.

Folio has given me to the chance to experience the culture and variety of the student body in an intrapersonal way, allowing me to see into the hearts and minds of others and delve into my own mind in just the same way. It’s been an enlightening experience.

•Benjamin Eisenberg

Ever since I can remember I have been making my own stories. I’ve always loved writing, both fiction and nonfiction. I primarily write horror and science fiction, but I also love doing media analysis and historical or political writings. I also dabble in poetry and ttrpgs like Call of Cthulhu and Pathfinder.

I have found this class to be incredibly enlightening. It really helped me understand publication, which will be helpful in the future. Folio has also helped me appreciate art forms I have struggled with, such as poetry

•••

•Georgia Peterson (she/her)

As a lifelong writer, I knew I wanted to participate in Folio before my time at SLCC ended. So, in my last semester before graduation, I’m so happy to have been a part of the production of Lucidity. I hope to use my newfound (beginner) publishing knowledge to my advantage as I go out to submit my own writing for publication. Beyond writing, I express creativity through tattooing, collaging, and scouring the internet for vintage furniture.

•••

•Samantha Stubbs

My creative endeavors include fashion sewing, painting, and writing. I have always been the crafty-type. I love to read, which of course has inspired my book collection. I treasure all types of books: from mass paperbacks to expensive special editions.

The curation of written words is beautiful to me, no matter how simple or elaborate they may be.

Folio allows creators to be seen and heard by others. It has been a great experience to recognize so many creators in our community. This course has offered an amazing perspective on the work that goes into creating books. Folio is also a great opportunity to explore interest in publication.

•••

•KaylieAnn Brown

As a lover of fantasy and animals, KaylieAnn spends most of her days creating

stories with her service dog Valo. She is crafty, and enjoys making things with her own two hands. Rock and punk music are constantly playing when she writes her stories. KaylieAnn also hopes to start a podcast about living life as a Demisexual girl.“I remember my high school lit mag as fun, and I decided I wanted to join Folio. While it is more work so far, it is more rewarding to see a whole website dedicated to students writing. I have also seen tons of works from other students, and they all inspire me to write about topics I wouldn’t normally write about. It’s education and enjoyable at the same time!” •••

•Jorge Pena Lucero

Nonfiction for breakfast, fantasy for lunch, and the macabre best served at dinner—or perhaps as a midnight snack. Whether it’s books, movies, music, or video games, Ascari likes to treat his mind to things that transcend reality.

As a content writer in the marketing industry, I write, edit, and read some pretty bland stuff 40 hours a week. Folio allows me to take my skills and use them in more creative and exciting ways.

•••

•Isabella Prada

Isabella is an English major with creative writing emphasis and she aspires to become a published author very soon. She spends most of her free time reading or writing poetry and short stories. Also loves fantasy books, literary fiction novels, romance, and creative nonfiction work.

“As a person who enjoys spending all their free time reading and writing, Folio has been an amazing place for me to explore art in all its shapes and forms. I love reading all the work students and staff have published, the passion and artistry of everyone it’s exceptional. I also love all the diverse voices Folio has published, it makes a very inviting and comfortable place for unique stories. The collaborative nature of the magazine it’s something I haven’t experienced before and it will stay with me for a while.”

•Melissa Johnson

I have always had an enormous amount of love of stories across a wide variety of genres. If you have seen my movie wall at my house, you would know this to be true. I believe they can help us share experiences, emotions, or learn of many life’s difficulties. I aspire one day to write creative fiction. But I have much to learn. Until then, you will find me listening to modern alternative music while pondering in a reverie daydream about my next fictional short story.

What I like about Folio, is that it is a way that we can creatively connect to each other as students and as members of a common society. We as students here at SLCC have the wonderful opportunity to share our uniquely cultural outlook and expression on perceiving art or literature. I am excited to see what this semester has in store for me, learning from my fellow students. Most of all, I’m happy to enrich my education about the world of literary editing from a college level perspective.

•••

•Henry Knudson

“Writing is great because it gets its value by [writers] sitting down and being vulnerable on paper. Folio is a collection of those personal snapshots we collectively shared with each other.”

•••

•Risa Green

Hey everyone, nice to meet ya! I’m Risa!

I’m an aspiring animator and storyteller. One day I want to be able to create stories that inspire and help others; I’ve already have a few ideas I’m working on. However, it’ll be a while before I feel comfortable sharing them. So, I’ve got awhile before I hit that goal. In the meantime, I follow other artistic pursuits to motivate myself to be more creative.

Folio has given me the opportunity to do just that and has allowed me to see the creativity of the many artistic minds found here at SLCC. It’s been such a fun

experience that I highly recommend it. •••

•Cass Potter

“Being a creative comes in many forms and, for me, that form is language. Writing is an outlet, like all art, and has created a channel through which I can express myself, educate about and address taboo topics, display my activism, and guide my readers through my story in a beautiful and powerful way.”

What Can I Say That Hasn’t Been Said? 38

–Benny Johnson

Yes, I am an American 44

– Natalie Cabrera Mansilla

Lo Que Mi Alma Escribe 46

– Valeria Méndez Concha

Thread 50

– Heather Graham

Things That Have Kept Me Alive 55

– Lynx Starr

I Am 57

– Kemone Feleti

I Am Haunted by a Blue Elephant 67

– Nell Roberts

Remembering Is My Grief 79 – Lacey Niko

Hiding 81

– Amie Schaeffer

A Tale of Two Sisters 83

– Lacey Niko

Requiem for Robert Burns 86

– Nell Roberts

Gunpowder 96 – Toban Barnes

Sonnet in which it snows on April 3 146

– Lynn Kilpatrick

• Nonfiction •

Staff Pick: To the Woman Who Raised Me, but Never Showed Me What a Mother Should Be 8 – Kayla Stowe

Longing and Legacy 1 – Ben Hartvigsen

One Out of Thousands of Stories 48

– Valeria Méndez Concha

Eulogy for Childhood Cats 52

– Nell Roberts

Night Sky Full of Stars 87

– Daniel D. Baird

I’m Going to Be Okay 101

– Isabelle Allred

Old Boy, Young Man 107 – Ladylarry

The Canyon’s Grip 113

– Roxy Sylvester

Stage 4 140

– Tusi Aiono

To Emerge 37

– Megan Lynne Jensen

Still Life Self Portrait 51

– Catherine Rubsam

Dinosaurs 68

– Riley Nadauld

Zero Knocks on Her Door 78

– Samuel Wilson

On the Rim 106

– Megan Lynne Jensen

Bright Snoot 129

– Aubrey Nadauld

Candied Deer 132

– Axel Polson

Mother’s Journey 145

– Aiden Jones

Photography •

Staff Pick: kick flip! 111

– Peyton Pryor

Stolen Valor 13

– Benny Johnson

All is Like an Ocean 16

– Ben Hartvigsen

Raging Rapid 21

– Megan Lynne Jensen

Two Faced 137 – Megan Lynne Jensen

Longing and Legacy

Ben Hartvigsen

I long to write.

I don’t quite know why, why I long to commit an act so simple and foundational it’s taught to children, yet so complex that few ever approach mastering it. Why do I write? Why long for this?

I am not the first to wonder, many great writers have asked themselves this. Orwell explained that he believed it was his duty, that there was some lie that he wanted to expose. I am not yet that writer, not naive enough to think that many would care what I have to say, not influential enough for my writing to mean much of anything.

Joan Didion writes to discover what she’s thinking. She describes it as an aggressive, hostile act; imposing one’s inner thoughts onto another. This is closer. I too become aware of some unconscious notions as I ink my thoughts onto paper. I too wish for my writing to grab those who may be unfortunate enough to read it, to stick with them long after the words have assaulted their eyes. Yet I am unknown, unproven, untested, unworthy. My writing, my art can reach very few. My art cannot touch others in the ways that I desire it to. My writings ramble on and on, and who would want to read that?

So why then do I write?

My wife comes to me, crying, feeling small, insignificant. She’s afraid, afraid of being forgotten, wanting to leave her mark on the world but not believing that she can. I hold her, whisper to her, console her. We have each other. I could never forget her. She’s fantastic, a light to all around her, loved by her friends and family, disliked by very few, those who don’t know better. After a time, her tears halt and she begins to agree. We have friends and family that mean the world to us. We have each other, and that is enough. I am enough for her. She says so, and I believe she means it. Maybe I don’t believe it myself. She is enough for me. I say

so, and this one I do believe.

It’s a pretty lie. It is true, we are enough for one another, and yet, somehow, it is not enough. I share her fears. We both want to be remembered. We both need to make our mark on the world.

I don’t voice these fears to her, to anyone. I cannot speak, my tongue is fat in my mouth, my words a mess. I know what to say to help her, but how can I say what I need to help me?

Remembrance will be hers, this I know. With time, like most, her name will slip from all consciousness, but there will be those who remember. They will remember her kindness, her warmth, her beauty. She’s a healer, a helper, a doer. There will be those who remember her. Of this I have no doubt

And me? Who will remember me?

My mother loves family history. To be more accurate, the Mormon church loves family history, and thus my mother loves it as well. Because of her, I know of my ancestors. These ancestors who, centuries ago, bestowed to me my name, my history, my life. Their names live on; through her, they are preserved in me.

With children, heritage can be sustained. Children allow a name to live on, even after its owner has departed this earth. Children allow for grandchildren, allow for stories to be carried on, allow for family history to be preserved for generations.

We don’t want kids.

She wants her body to remain her body, to not be transformed and distorted, to not become a mother, the provider of life, to not be intensely obligated to another for eighteen years. She wants to avoid the dangers of pregnancy, of motherhood. She wants to retain her mobility, her autonomy, her identity. She wants our finances to amount to comfortability and not subsistence.

I fear becoming a bad father. I fear messing up the life of another. I fear regretting bringing another life into this world when I myself am a mess, and the world is

messier. I fear dooming a child to a life of hardship, and this outweighs any need for legacy.

So what am I to do?

I long to

write.

I long to share my experiences, my humanity, with others.

But what experiences are there that are worth a damn? My life is simple, there is no shame in that. Yet a simple life is unexciting. Excitement sells. Excitement engages. Excitement is what a reader longs to experience.

My life is not exciting. I read, I escape into worlds besides my own to feel the excitement I long for. I feel like all others, I feel deeply, yet this too I cannot write about. It’s too naked, too vulnerable, too pretentious. Why should anyone care about how I feel?

I long to write a book. Fantasy, perhaps. If my own life is not exciting, I can conjure up a fictional one that is. Yet here also I hesitate. I don’t even admit my desire to others. I’m small. I’m insignificant. My writing may be passable, even good, yet is it really something others would want to read? Why have a dream that is doomed to fail? Why desire what I cannot have? Why try at all?

I long to write, yet my fears oppose my longing. If I don’t try, I don’t fail. Yet if I don’t try, I seal my fate. I ensure that my fears come to fruition. I guarantee that I will be forgotten soon after my death. I make my permanent annihilation a certainty.

My fear too often wins out over my desires. My writing remains captive to me. I lie in bed with these thoughts, these ideas, these plans, words dancing before my closed eyelids, and I do nothing. I let them slip away until they are nothing but the foundation for dreams, forgotten by morning.

And yet, I long to write.

I remain compelled. Ideas, lines, characters, experiences all drift through my mind as I drift off to sleep each night. I long to write. I cannot escape it. The desire to act fights the hesitance of fear. There must be something in that, some greater force than my own trepidation.

Joakim Ferdinand Hartvigsen is the first of my ancestors to immigrate to America. Leaving his family, his world behind, Utah becomes his home. From henceforth, Hartvigsens from his line will be born here. I am here, I am who I am because of his actions over a century ago. Norway is now little more than a destination to which I long to travel. His heritage is upheld, he is known to me due to his children and his children’s children.

No children will be mine; my branch tapers and ends with me. No children shall sing my praises or lament my faults. no grandchildren shall bounce on my knee and tell their children of my life. Nieces and nephews will be abundant, yet their knowledge of me will dwindle and die after they have moved on. Memories of me will be fleeting for a time, then disappear forever.

A blink in the history of mankind. A blink, and I never existed. A blink, and I am gone forever; my name lost to the annals of history, preserved only in stone, yet even stone weathers away to the relentlessness of time.

Why then do I write? Is it really so vain as that? Just to preserve my legacy? For the praise and adoration that I dream may someday accompany my writing? So that my name may be, if not immortalized, recognized by those who I impacted from afar?

This may be so, at least in part. Writing remains my salvation, my path to

immortality. Through writing, I am delivered.

And yet there is something else, something unadulterated by selfishness. There is beauty in the act of it. There is fulfillment in putting words to paper, fulfillment in my self expression. It is an act so sacred that I struggle to express its full importance even now, even in this, even in the naked baring of my soul.

I long to write.

Voices beckon me from all hours of the day. Inevitably they call to me, always thrumming in the back of my mind. I lay down this night, and the thrumming drowns out all other thought, all other sensation. I drag myself out of bed to quiet those voices in my head.

And I write.

On Our Orb of Dreamers

Rylie Nadauld

Water color

Spellbound

Heather Graham

Screaming our hearts out to lyrics well-known

Refrain thumping through your car stereo

Pizza parlor discourse and overtone

Finding a view of the city aglow

We began on a hill, a sleepy mound

The sparkling city sprawling out below Glittered starlit freckles stretching westbound

Valley flickering like candlelight glow

In a starry night sky, twinkling for two Winter constellations became our tune

A melody I’ll sing always for you

Humming with the city and silver moon

Pirouetting like a merry-go-round

Vodka sodden, tipsy, starstruck, spellbound

•Staff Pick•

To the woman who raised me, but never showed me what a mother should be

Kayla Stowe

(Trigger Warning: Child Abuse)

Dear Vaughn,

Thank you. Thank you for showing me the kind of mother I never want to be.

You were a significant figure in my childhood. Not by choice, but by circumstance. You had the opportunity to be a positive influence, a guide, and a nurturer. Instead, you chose a path of physical abuse and neglect, leaving scars that have taken years to begin to heal and many years and work to finally heal.

Do you remember all the abuse? Do you remember dragging me around by my hair? The slaps to the face, the punches to the gut? Sitting on me so I could not fight back? Watching me in the shower to “make sure I used soap and shampoo”? Stabbing me in the buttocks with your insulin needles to get the answers you wanted to hear? Forcing me to keep eating after I said I was full, making me vomit on the plate because I was so full, and then making me continue to eat? Beating me with spoons, spatulas, belts—whatever you could find? Holding my face above a hot burner, threatening to burn me to get a specific answer you wanted? Forcing me to eat soap when you thought I was lying? The names: slut, whore, attention seeker, boy chaser. The injectable birth control you forced me to take because you “could not trust me to take the pill every day.” The fear, the threats, the manipulation.

I remember I was the one who found him. My older brother, whom I idolized, and thought was the strongest person in the world. I walked to his bedroom to check on him like you had asked. There was blood on the floor, and I followed it to the closet. I opened the door and saw him lying on the ground, blood dripping down his arms.

“Mathew, stop playing,” I said, thinking he was playing a prank/joke on me. When he did not move or react, I started freaking out. “Mom!” I yelled in a panic,

“There is something wrong with Mathew!” I was terrified.

You started yelling while slowly getting up from the couch, “Mathew, I will beat you if you are playing.” You finally got to his bedroom, and I remember you said, “Mathew, you dumbshit, what did you do now? Always trying to get attention.”

You had me go get my dad from his bedroom because he was taking a nap. Of course, as soon as he came into the room, you started the waterworks and pretended to be the concerned parent you were supposed to be.

You were so bad to my brother and I, he tried to commit suicide at 13. He wanted to escape you so much, he felt he had no other way out. You turned my own father against me and my brother because you needed his entire world to revolve around you.

I remember one time you dragged me by my hair into the kitchen, the sharp pain shooting through my scalp as I stumbled to keep up with your furious pace.

“Why can’t you do anything right?” you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls. You shoved me towards the sink, and the cold metal of the faucet dug into my ribs. “Wash those dishes again!” you demanded, and I could barely see through the tears as I scrubbed, my hands shaking.

Your actions did break me, in a very fundamental way. I still cannot smell bar soap without getting nauseous. I have severe emotional regulation issues. I break down when someone refuses to listen to my version of what happened regarding any situation. I have severe anger issues. The medication you forced me to take has led to severe health issues, including secondary infertility, weight control issues, and mental health issues. The emotional scars you left are deep.

I remember the ignorance and denial. We were talking once, and I remember it vividly.

“I do not understand why Lyndsay and Cody have cut me off like this!” you said. “They are keeping me away from my grandchildren and I haven’t done anything to them!”

I did not have the guts at that time to tell you “Your behavior, denial and victimization was the reason your children wanted nothing to do with you.”

Instead, I said, “I don’t know” since I was trying to be a people pleaser, like you

taught me.

I had no positive model of what it means to be a mother, no example to follow on how to nurture and care for my children in a loving way until I was sixteen. And that model was not you. It was a woman who could not have any children of her own. A woman so selfless and loving, I was shocked to see the differences. She taught me what real love and support look like. What a mother is supposed to be.

I remember one of our conversations vividly.

“Why can’t you be more like her?” I asked, pointing to a picture of the woman who had become my surrogate mother.

You scoffed, your eyes narrowing. “Because I’m not her and she’s not perfect either,” you snapped, turning away. The bitterness in your voice was palpable, and it only fueled my determination to be different.

You could not have realized at the time, but that woman would come to legally adopt me. She loved me so much, she wanted to make it official in the eyes of the law- something you never cared about.

Your actions have also made me more determined to be a different kind of mother—one who is loving, patient, and supportive. I am committed to breaking the cycle of abuse and neglect. I am unlearning all the negative things you taught me, for my sake and for my children’s sake. My children will know they are loved, valued, and cherished by me.

If I had followed what you taught me, I would have been a very different kind of mother. I remember coloring on the walls when I was little. I was so proud of my work, and I wanted to show you my drawing.

“Mommy!” I shouted happily, “Come look what I made you.” Instead of being happy, you shoved my head into the wall.

“We do not color on walls!” you screamed. “Clean it up you stupid child.”

And I did.

Kira got into my nail polish last year and colored on the wall. Instead of yelling at her and belittling her and physically man-handling her, I talked to her. I got down on her level and said, “Uh-Oh Kira. Is that where we color?” She shook her head

no. I could tell she was afraid she was going to be in trouble.

“Where are we supposed to color?” I asked her. “On paper.” she said quietly.

“And where do we use nail polish?” I asked her. She pointed to her nails.

“That’s right.” I said. I did not make a big deal out of it. I did not punish her. She is three. It is a natural part of growing up. Was I upset that it was nail polish on the wall? Of course. But I cannot fathom treating that beautiful, bright, energetic girl the way you treated me.

Your abuse left me feeling isolated and unworthy, but it also instilled in me a deep sense of resilience. I have worked tirelessly to heal from the trauma you inflicted. Therapy, self-reflection, and the unwavering support of those who genuinely care about me have been instrumental in this journey. I have learned to recognize my worth and to understand that the abuse I endured was a reflection of your issues, not mine.

I remember a situation where you thought I was lying about something. You thought I had lied about this same thing repeatedly. So, you decided the best way to handle it was to hold my face a half inch from a red-hot stove burner. You kept saying “If I press your face on this and it is hot, will you keep touching the burner?” Alexzander lies all the time. I would never even dream of a situation where I would do that to him. The terror I felt is something I would never want to subject to anyone I care about, much less a child under my care.

I have vowed to break the cycle of abuse and to provide my children with the love and stability I never received. They will grow up knowing their value, their strength, and their potential.

Alexzander does not like to wash his hair. Instead of watching him in the shower, like you did to me, to ensure he washes properly, I sit down and talk to him. I tell him, “Alex, if you do not wash properly, that is on you. If you do not know how to wash properly, let us know and your dad will teach you how next time you shower. If you do know how, and you choose not to do it properly, you will stink, and people will not want to be around you. The choice is yours.” I took your example of what you did to me, and I remember the feelings you instilled in me when you did those actions, and I decided I never wanted to make my children feel that same way.

Growing up, like any child, I was desperate for love, acceptance, and guidance. Instead of the warmth and support a child needs, I was given only fear and pain. The memories of those times are still vivid and painful. They shaped my understanding of relationships, trust, and love in ways that have been challenging to overcome.

This letter is not about seeking an apology or understanding why you did what you did. I have accepted that I will never know. As a mother myself, I can never understand what you did. It is about acknowledging the pain, releasing the anger, and taking back my power. I refuse to let the past define my future or the future of my children.

Despite everything, I have found it within myself to forgive—not for your sake, but for mine. Holding on to the anger and resentment only gives you continued power over my life. By letting go, I am reclaiming my peace and my future. Forgiveness does not mean forgetting or excusing your actions; it means refusing to let them control my life any longer.

Your actions, while devastating, have ultimately shaped me into a stronger, more determined person. I will continue to rise above the past, using my experiences as a foundation for a brighter future. My story does not end with your abuse; it begins with my recovery and the love I give to my children.

I am choosing to move forward with my life, to heal, and to be the best mother I can be. I am stronger now, and I will use that strength to ensure my children grow up in a home filled with love and respect. They will know a mother who is compassionate, empathetic, and loving. They will learn from me the values of kindness, respect, and resilience. I will teach them to stand up for themselves and others, to seek help when they need it, and to believe in their own worth.

In closing, I hope you find the strength to face your own demons and seek the help you need. It is never too late to change, to make amends, and to find peace within yourself. I have found my path to healing, and I hope someday you can find yours.

Thank you for showing me the mother I never want to be.

Goodbye and good luck,

Sincerely, the daughter you never wanted nor deserved.

Benny Johnson

Photography

Letter to my younger self

Catherine Rubsam

It seems like your face doesn’t quite fit the rest of you and your eyes don’t match the shape of your smile like a messy patchwork quilt with loose threads and worn away fabric that sticks out in a way that doesn’t seem quite right. But that quilt fits on your shoulders and it will keep you warm and safe. In time you will find others who like the sound of your voice and they’ll smile at the sight of you. Someday you’ll wake up to rain outside your open window and wrap the quilt over your shoulders. Today will be so far away you’ll see how far you’ve come.

The Exquisite Corpse* in the Red Rocks

Anon.

Powdered sugar sprinkle on red buttes

Rough stone through a vale of melting ice

That I open like a velvet blue curtain Into the depths of my soul

Sinking into the abyss of darkness

It felt as if I would be lost forever

Endless red rocks stretching out to the horizon

*An exquisite corpse poem is where each person contributing writes a line on a chosen theme without knowing what the others have written. In this case the theme were the red cliffs found in Arches National Park in Southern Utah.

All is Like an Ocean

Ben Hartvigsen

Photography

Trip to the Everglades

Brooke Blake

“God, this humidity is killing me,” Abigail says as she steps forward in line. Abigail and her friend, Betty, are the last people in line for the airboat tour. The occasional airboat drives by, the motor volume increases before growing quiet after passing.

Betty tries to lighten the mood a bit. “I know, but we are almost to the boat. It’ll be fun, you’ll see!” Abigail shows no sign of lightening up. “Look, I know it’s hard to be away from your animals, but it’s not good for you to be all holed up in there all the time. Your house hasn’t been cleaned in months! There’s no telling what things have died in there. Some fresh air will do you good.”

Abigail shows obvious discomfort, “If you say so.”

Abigail wears big sunglasses and a large sun hat. She carries a large purse with some expensive brand name sewn on the side in gold lettering. Betty carries a small water bottle, and both women’s tickets for their airboat ride. They stand in line, waiting to get on the airboat. The sun shines on a cloudless day, the reflections are blinding on the water. Apart from the occasional airboat, the water looks still and calm.

The line moves forward. They reach the tour guide. Betty hands over the tickets, and Abigail looks into the green water below. The sunlight only reaches so deep, and the bright green surface changes to black, hiding whatever may be lurking below.

“Ready?” Betty’s words shake Abigail out of her trance.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming.” Abigail responds, almost too quick. The tour guide follows the women on board as both women find their seats. Abigail sets her bag down between the two of them.

The motor kicks up, and off they go. The tour guide yells facts and trivia that can’t be heard over the motor. Not an ounce of shade can be found on the airboat, and the tourists are bombarded with light and heat.

“This sun is giving me a migraine,” Betty looks pained and rubs her temples. “Do

you have any ibuprofen?” She yells to be heard over the roar of the motor.

“Sure, it’s in my bag,” Abigail sits, glued to her phone. She makes no effort to be heard, and Betty can hardly hear her. Betty glances at her and reaches toward the bag. She heaves it up and places it on her lap. It feels like it weighs twenty pounds.

“How much stuff do you need to bring to the everglades?” Betty mutters. Abigail can’t hear her. Betty opens the clasp and peers inside. The bag is open for less than a second before Betty gasps and slams it shut. “Abigail!” She tries to yell quietly, so as not to make a scene. Abigail doesn’t hear her.

“Abigail!” She tries again, louder this time. Abigail still doesn’t budge. She nudges her on the shoulder.

“What!?” Abigail exclaims, clearly irritated she was disturbed from whatever social media she had been browsing.

“What is in your purse?”

“Oh, it’s just Princess.” Abigail returns to her phone. “Did you find the ibuprofen?”

“Abigail! No, I didn’t find the ibuprofen!” Betty opens her mouth to say more, but Abigail snatches the purse away before she can say anything else.

“Here,” Abigail reaches in her purse and pulls out a small bottle. “Ibuprofen” is clearly printed on the side. She dumps two small, red pills into her hand and gives them to Betty, before returning to place the bottle back in the bag. Before closing her bag, she peers inside and says, “Hi Princess! You be a good girl.” She closes the bag and turns back to her phone.

Betty looks dumbfounded. She leans over and whisper-shouts, “You can’t just bring your dog to the everglades!”

Abigail looks over at her and peers over the top of her sunglasses, “Sure I can.” She fixes her glasses and moves back to her phone. “You wanted me to leave the safety of my home, go to some crazy pond to see dangerous animals that would eat either of us given the chance. I couldn’t leave my baby behind. Besides, she’ll stay in my purse. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“What would happen if she goes overboard? She’ll get eaten!”

“She’s been shaking nonstop since we got on the boat. I think all your yelling is scaring her.”

“OH, it’s MY fault she’s scared? It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the loud motors and being surrounded by water,” Betty is visibly upset and concerned. Her face is flushed and she keeps a constant eye on the bag.

“See? Now you’re just listing every reason we never should’ve come in the first place. On top of it, this place smells like rotting fish! If I get sunburned, that’ll be your fault too!” Betty doesn’t know how to respond.

The motors stop. Before getting on the boat, the women were told it would stop occasionally to give the tourists a chance to see the alligators. The second the waves stop rippling, eyes pop up above the surface of the water. They move so slow they don’t break the surface tension of the water around them. Betty watches, captured by their slow movements. Abigail stays glued to her phone.

“You’re missing it!” Betty whisper-shouts again. She doesn’t want to disturb the alligators.

“Oh please.” Abigail shows no interest in seeing the creatures.

Betty watches as the alligators come closer into view. She can see the full head and back of the one closest to her now. “They are beautiful Abigail! You really don’t wanna see?”

“No.”

Betty focuses on the one closest, and it inches closer and closer to the boat. It comes right next to the boat, before lifting its head and placing it on the edge of the deck.

The tourists back up and take more pictures. The alligator slowly places its front legs onto the deck and hoists the rest of its body up and out of the water. It pulls itself forward until the whole front half of the alligator is firmly resting on the deck. The alligator is laser-focused on Abigail’s bag. This gets Abigail’s attention.

“Hey now,” she says nervously. “Is this part of the tour?” Nobody responds. Everyone is too excited to be this close to an alligator. People take selfies to post

to social media, and kids dare each other to touch it. “Umm ... guys??” Nobody responds. The alligator continues to stare at the bag.

“This again!?” A voice shouts from across the boat. The tour guide comes down from the steering wheel, taking a sandal off in the process. He strides across the boat and stops at the gator.

In three quick swings, he smacks the alligator with his sandal. The alligator opens its mouth and lets out a loud hiss before diving back in the water.

“Alright, who brought the dog?” His gaze falls on Abigail’s bag. Two little ears can be seen peeking out the top of the purse. He watches them carefully as they disappear back inside the bag.

Abigail looks nervous. She tucks her bag behind her legs to hide it from view.

The tour guide looks back to Abigail. “Lady, it’s people like you that make us write stupid rules. Now we have to write out, ‘No pets allowed.’” He points in the air, as if imagining each word floating in space. He sighs and heads back to his post. “The tour is over, hope ya’ll got what you came for.”

The motor starts back up. The tour guide steers the boat back to the dock. Everyone gets out and chatter erupts. Abigail and Betty are silent. It’s time for the long drive back home.

Raging Rapid

Megan Lynne Jensen

Photography

A Young Boy Swims in the Persian Gulf at Midnight

Hana Jabr

The waves frost your limbs face body in salt that stings wounds you never knew you had you glow

like a ghost alone on the beach you race back to shore you fade into waves blinking in and out of existence like the lights in the city beyond your throat burns from the coating of crystals and laughter

sand swallows your feet scorching still

from the sun’s fury it is near midnight and a dark scarf a smattering of stars envelops your world but the scar of the day’s heat remains like a mother’s temper thick and seething from the other room fresh after a stinging reprimand the moon tempts the waves calling them back again

Infinite

Benny Johnson

one day I will die on a silent hill surrounded by tombstones sitting undisturbed until the earth takes me back once again the sun will set and the seasons will change and the years will pass flowers will sprout where I once decomposed I will be free from this vessel of flesh free to float among the stars as my soul scatters into a million pieces but I will return to this world again placed inside a new form repeating a new life experiencing a new death each leaving its mark on my being yet I can only dream of ascension

Five Poems on Looking Back & Looking Ahead

Ygor Noblott

Wonderings

Does the heart make a sound when it breaks? Can tears tear into the skin like stretch marks?

Are we simply meant to keep walking? I only ask to confirm if we indeed are rolling downhill without breaks or seatbelts and a worn-out horn?

If Only

If only evergreens were truly green forever. If only our paper skins were not so delicate. If only night was not the only tunnel we had to pass through to reach dawn. If only time. If only tamed our bloody beasts would not roam like a lion without contenders. If only they would bathe in the river and let the sun dry off a dusty skin and rest beneath a shaded tree to watch the grass turn beige, and brown and green, and green again. If only for a moment.

* Out of many, one

Canción de Cien Mil Voces

América, aquí estoy. Ya pisé tus arenas ya olí tus vientos ya vi las máscaras de tus montañas pulidas con historia ya saboreé tus promesas pero todavía no escucho tu bienvenida.

Hoy me la das todas las noches solitarias todos los ojos como espadas todas las vergüenzas y los sinvergüenzas todos los ríos de sudor y lágrimas todas las vidas escondidas todas, todas, todas, y todos me das porque tienes porque no te doy la oportunidad de decirme “no.”

Me las das porque eres mujer de tu palabra.

Tierra de los libres, hogar de los valientes. Está en tu sangre no! tu piel, tus huesos, tus músculos, —E Pluribus Unum*

De muchos uno. Y uno de los tuyos finalmente soy. Pero sin fin es está danza que tenemos tú y yo. Ya te conozco aunque tú a mi todavía no. Pero, América, aquí estoy con todos mis sentidos y sentimientos cantándote una canción de cien mil voces escondidas.

Escucha, escucha, escucha.

Ascend

Because the exit signs only lead back inside. Because rain is a good listener. Because God sometimes sends people and sometimes sends poems. Because sleep is like Tylenol on steroids. Because sleep is like burnt ointment for the mind. Because sleep is a five-minute break for the soul. Because bike rides.

Because you can always trust the sun to rise. And the night to end. And the fog to clear. And the storm to lift.

Because roots, and legacy, and promises.

From Beginning to End

“There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.”

― Dejan Stojanovic

Another year passes by like a lover, lassos cuts loose and leaves footprints deep-in, the prince enchanted, sheds a tear for his dear garlanded in questions. How could so much in so little a time as such jewel and jackal us knot and fuss left and right more of this kick and bite not to mention a strange series of unfortunates the year is perhaps not what we hoped for

quod periit, periit.* Flowers four raised in a storm smell the roses, caress their thorns touch tomorrow untie yesterday’s sorrow vacuum, vacation, buy what you need to wonder a little, hug a strange point of view x-cavate the ruins of your mind yes, that locked crosswind zero in on it, and smile, as best you can.

* What is gone is gone

Green River

M. Anthony C.

What’s a one hundred eighty-minute drive? I wish that that was all the time that you had spent a continent away. I wish that one year and a half hadn’t given its additional fat to me; time’s strange homunculus, warm and holding my belly, alchemized it seems from the thinning field of head hair that often turns invisible, the cranium rebelling from my constant need to be desired. Is it that we’ve given up?

This body and I, the half-animal bastard that I hope you’re still in love with? I promise I have tried to trim myself to let the energy of fun, and labor even, burn me lean. But Zumba just splints my shins, and dance unravels the crochet of my back, lifting weights seems to cut whatever marionette tethers keep me moving and I never gained more weight than after I met my nutritionist—though my feet, my only flatness, do walk while I appraise the weird world, its imperfections marked by dirt, caking fences, sometimes faces.

In theory, I can see why you might like what I am, packaged in the past. You’d be foolish not to see the immense beauty of my heart; I have closed my eyes to such beauty in eyes fixating themselves on me during dates as we walk in a field and with big sticks

start yo-hoing, swinging up, ducking down pretending to be subject to the wild imaginings of a park. Pretending to be children, but a less sad kind, a kind with choice of direction and expression. Dates look in love as if I’m made of laughter. Before you, Isa, no germ would hold. I had kept myself immune from glances of unrequited hope, though once, convinced of a woman’s compatibility, I stole from Cupid the erotic arrow and plunged it fletching-deep into my ribs without sanction, waited two months for the venom to hook me with her humor, pulchritude, intellect, command of the air. I’ve talked myself into feeling, I’ve lied and been astonished.

I’m trying to love my body. Can you love my soul and not its body? Maybe. I’ve lived in one state for so long that no one face has looked distinct—no face has not been shared by some acquaintance of another school, or an acquaintance of another congregation, city, playhouse, street, parking lot of a movie theater; I’ve approached, braced myself for contact. I’ve called their names loudly behind them with no response, walked away feeling safe. When I knew we shared no memory, they, being distinct, became my new enemies, or friends, or siblings, or warmth, or mystery; though familiar with their familiar masks, they’re cast into new roles. I’ve yearned in different measures over the same face, the same hands, the same smile, even when repulsing,

recycled shapes reassuring after several contacts that the form’s new meaning— the arbitrary body with a new name— connects not with the pre-set movied standard rot projections but with the single beauty of a star evading light’s pollution, a charted astral needle in the sky.

Home. Something worth driving three hours towards. And then, if needs be, continuing on.

Romance or Lust or Toxicity

Anna Schaeffer

I don’t care if it’s fleeting or fatalistic. I’m desperate for anything or anyone.

Wishing the fictitious figment of my fantasies to life, someone to bask with under summer’s sun to take the edge off, a kiss to ease the pain, something more to make me numb. Be it romance or lust or toxicity, I’ll take it cherish it.

Breathe it in until it’s part of me, consume her until she’s gone. God just give me something.

Growing Heart

Aubrey Nadauld Ink on paper

Dear Educators and Tribal Community

Winter Rose

Dear Educators and Tribal Community, Let us group together and heal communally, As our indigenous youth endure adversity, Creating barriers to battle diversity

Children plagued by past generations, They stop dreaming rather than tackle the complications, Their eyes glimmered with hope, Killed dead by those in charge to help them cope

In 2010 a promise was signed by President Obama, Criminals continue to run free while victims have children with trauma, Children are more likely to be victims or survivors, We need to protect our courageous young indigenous fighters

Our indigenous youth face modern genocide, Second leading cause of death in 2019 was suicide, The U.S. is a first world country with 3rd world country equivalents inside her, Our indigenous youth know this well being raised as cogent survivors

Small screens are no good they’re too addicting, Our youth suffer from problems they need help fixing, As they face problems with no solution and in fear, We choose to drown out their sorrows with pleasure and beer

Our youth are looking for opportunity, Their cries and pleads silenced by hypocrisy, As our youth face harsh economic conditions, We are grateful we still have our indigenous traditions

Children at school from morning until night, They look around for any help in sight, Relaying our immature thoughts causing lifelong anxiety, We should be helping them become contributing members to society

Children are more than just a season of school supplies,

Their dreams shattered when chastised or goals criticized, Shot down by those who create no room for improvement, Our youth continue to fight this war with no movement

There is no reason to let their dreams die, Children should be given multiple attempts to try, With the graduation rate higher than in the past, We can help our youth create a great future that could last

Caretakers and educators please don’t be cruel, These children are learning the importance of school, We do not need to lead our youth astray, One day they will be the ones to lead the way,

Our youth have dreams they wish to succeed! They will remember those who helped them exceed, The youth are relying on our seniors, Looking left and right for inspirational leaders

A chance for a brand new path, One where education is not built on wrath, Where educators of all diverse nations are leaders, Perceivers of the lost dreamers

Dear Educators and Tribal Community, Our indigenous youth only seek the truth, Our indigenous youth are fighting for their aspirations, Let’s unify and strengthen using our youth as motivation

Sincerely,

A concerned indigenous teacher

Screens of Freedom

Lacey Niko

We watch them through screens. They beg for help. For a voice. Drowned between stories and jokes, there is a rebellion. A spark ignited by the death of children.

They bomb and bomb and bomb. Somehow, they convince us that violence is the answer. That violence is somehow the solution.

They cannot bury their people because they are already under rubble.

Covered in blood, dust, and tears They have been changed or killed.

How unfortunate it is to be less privileged. Less safe. Less rich.

Horror crawls beneath our skin

With another swipe their struggles are forgotten. We suck in air between our teeth and believe that waiting will do something.

The ones in power side with the violence bringers Speaking words as more bombs are dropped. They beg us through screens to give them something. Because we cannot give them freedom.

Megan Lynne Jensen

Digital Tools

What Can I Say That Hasn’t Been Said?

Benny Johnson

if I sit up for hours at night staring at the whirling stars, I start to become someone else’s fever dream. the changing seasons are relentless, this winter seems so much more barren than the last, the scorching hot summer sun melting my plastic skin until I become unrecognizable. where did the time go? etched into my body, of course, have my dark circles always been this prominent on my face? do my eyes tell stories of love or hate? I think and I think about the past lives this soul has witnessed, hoping I don’t accidentally wither away before making something of myself. a lifetime is so meaningless compared to the unyielding grip of time.

•Staff Pick•

Pilgrimage

Quinn Hoggan

Let me speak to you of my people, the Ever-Wanderers. You might not have heard of them, not being from this country. We are quiet, we keep to ourselves. We tell our tales around campfires to inspire our children. We wander the lands round about the great city Heart. But we are not of the city. We are of the wild places, beyond the fields and flocks of their most distant border towns.

We are nomads, gathered into bands that move with the Ivory Elk along the river that encircles the valley. A circle within a circle, both moving without ceasing. There is much symbolism that is woven into the traditions of my people. Each band has its own spin on these traditions, but they are all mostly similar. Movement, cycles, and eternity are common images. Traditions like the Spiral Dance and the weaving of leaf crowns stretch beyond memory. It is said among my wandering brothers and sisters that the day we stop circling will be the day that someone counts to infinity.

Among our traditions is one where young members of our tribe will depart for a time from the band and travel by themselves. Each band has its own destination in mind for these young people, but these destinations are rarely safe. It is often said that the danger comes not from beasts or terrain, but from isolation. True safety is found only in the tribe.

I will tell you now of my own pilgrimage. It was perilous. Other bands might send their young people to mountain tops, decayed ruins, or even to the sea. These places have significance to the bands that go there, but the tradition is so old that the significance has vanished into the mist of the past. My band sent me to a cave. A dark cave. No one told me what to do once I arrived. Mother only told me that it would be apparent.

I doubted that. I did not believe myself to be so bright. The other children ridiculed me often, picking on me for being slow in learning and speech. But notwithstanding, I departed at dawn, Mother beamed proudly, and Father nodded reassuringly. I had only food, flint and steel, a bedroll, and my walking staff.

I walked in the direction that our band’s elder had pointed me in. His departing words before I left were, “Search for the stones and embrace this trial.” I didn’t know what that meant. But I knew that if I kept walking, I would find out. I walked for days, not knowing how much further I had to go.

My journey was solitary and quiet, familiar, and unfamiliar. Familiar in that I was used to quiet walking. My people walked in somber silence while following the Elk to their next home. Walking the circle of the valley was sacred, and we treated it as such, making conversation and merriment only after settling up for the season. But this journey was unfamiliar as well. I had never travelled alone before this, and I was unused to solitude.

But almost nothing occurred as I travelled alone. It was monotonous. I climbed hills, gathered food, lit small campfires. I wondered if this tedium was meant to be symbolic too. But after several days, my boredom ended. I had come upon the stones which the Elder spoke of.

They were standing stones, erected by my ancestors long ago. It was said that the dead continued to walk with us, as well as those waiting to be born. Ancestors and descendants, walking together forever. “When did all this walking start?” I said aloud to no one.

The stones stood in a circle around a cavemouth in the hill, and they had carvings on them. They were symbols, each representing a word. I was never very good with my letters, and I grew worried trying to understand these ancient glyphs. There could have been any number of reassuring words on these stones, but the only word I recognized among them was “darkness.”

I walked in, deeply worried. I had been told from childhood that I would visit a dark cave. I hated the dark and had always feared this. But I knew that I must. Although it scared me near to death, I stepped into the cave.

It was dark, and it grew darker. I stepped and the hard rock beneath my feet echoed softly back at me. As I descended and left the entrance behind me, it became more and more difficult to place my feet. The rocks were jagged. One wrong step would have spelled the end for me. But I strove onward and downward, the darkness deepening with each step.

After what felt like days of walking in this suffocating darkness, I saw something.

I saw a light. It was dim, small, and seemingly distant. But it was light. It made no sense, there could not possibly have been light in this cave. There was no way I had climbed upward. But there it was, a light.

At first, I was hesitant to keep walking toward it. What if it was some trick? Or a trap hidden by some bully of mine when they were on their pilgrimage? But I took some more steps toward it and the light only grew brighter. So, I hurried my pace. I moved quicker in those few moments than I had in days. What was this light?

I arrived at smooth stone. No jagged or slippery rocks would slow me down after this. I walked faster and faster toward the light until I began running at a full sprint. I saw the source of the light, a great crystal cavern, full of blue-green glowing rock. There was something else there. A statue of some kind and some sort of altar.

But as I was about to step into the crystal cave, a shadow erupted in front of me. I tried to stop but my momentum threw me onto the ground in front of the shadow. It appeared to coalesce into a shape. My own shape. It had my hair, my clothes, even my stick. But it had something else that I didn’t expect of a shadow, eyes. Eyes that glowed the same color as the crystals. The shade stood over me and blocked my path into the cavern.

I scrambled to stand up. I brandished my own stick as best as I could, trying to be menacing. I lunged forward and swung down at the shade and in the same moment, the shadow lunged forward and swung down at me our staves striking each other. It was real. It was corporeal. It was strong. As strong as I was. I swung again, the shade mirroring my movements, and we bounced off each other. I kept swinging, again and again. Each time the sound of our staves meeting exploded into woody echoes that bounced around the cave.

The shade made no move unless I moved. It was as if I was looking in a mirror. I tried swinging in a wide arc to avoid its stick, smacking its leg, the shadow smacking mine in the same move. I fell to my knee and clutched my calf. The shade did the same. Had I caused it pain? I tried to see the extent to which it would copy my movements. I smacked my own arm with the stick. The shadow copied me. But it didn’t wince as I did. It must not have felt any kind of pain.

Breathing heavily, it occurred to me after several minutes of this, that I wasn’t going to win with this brute force approach. I cast my eyes about the cave,

looking for something that I could use to trick the phantom somehow. But there was nothing, not even a loose stone. There was no way around this shadow.

I looked it in the eyes. They were dots of the same soft, blue-green color as the crystals that lit the cavern. Strangely enough, it was the same color as my own eyes. I realized that it had the same slump that I had when I was upset. It had the same begrudging look in its eyes that I felt when the others pushed me around. It looked as awkward as I felt whenever I tried to communicate but fumbled my words. This shade was everything that I hated about myself. But the shadow still looked like me. I could see the strong arms and legs that I had from countless hours of lifting other peoples’ loads on our long journeys. This shadow was me.

In hurting myself, I hurt myself. I did nothing to this shadow before me. I couldn’t do anything to it. It would only continue to stand there and stare at me. Then I remembered the elder’s words: “Embrace this trial.” Taking this advice to heart, I walked up to the shadow of myself, and hugged it.

The shade melted into me as I embraced it. I was left alone once more. But now, I was standing in the midst of light. Before me stood a statue of a woman with her mouth open, a plain altar sat in front of her. I knelt at the altar and stared up at the statue. The woman was carved out of the stone of the cave. She was beautiful. I sat in quiet meditation for a time, pondering the shade and what it meant to accept it.

Looking up at the statue, I saw that it looked to be singing. My people have many songs. But there was always one that I loved. The lyrics and melody have been ingrained in my mind since I was little. “As we wander, we will wonder at what was here and what will be. We will walk with our brothers and sisters for eternity.” A simple song. I sang it to this statue. As I sang alone, I felt a second voice reverberate around the crystal cavern. The statue almost seemed to be singing with me. The rocks glowed brighter, and I could feel strength returning to my legs.

I got up, knowing that if I could accept the shade of myself in this cave, I could accept it above. I turned around and started the ascent back up. It didn’t seem as dark as it once did. It didn’t take nearly as long as it had on the way down. In fact, when I returned to the surface, I found that it was morning and that the embers of the last campfire I had lit were still warm. I wasn’t even tired. So, I quickly

started walking home.

My journey back to where my band was camped was swifter than the journey out. The sounds of the wilderness were music to my ears and the colors of the hills that before had seemed so tedious were vivid and bright to my eyes. As soon as I returned, my parents embraced me, all of us with tears in our eyes.

Yes, I am an American

Natalie Cabrera Mansilla

I never imagined how meaningful a word could be

Defining what or who is an American is complicated

I grew up learning that an American is someone who was born in the USA

Later, I discovered that America was a continent, not a country

Which made me realize that being an American has a much broader meaning

Being an American comes with some rules

Being an American means being a citizen

Being an American means being able to speak English

Being an American means living in the American territory

But being an American has a much broader meaning

An American is Damien, born and raised in Utah, whose GermanScottish ancestors settled in the country many years ago

An American is Monica, born and raised in Peru, but she has lived in the US for more than 20 years

An American is Diego, born in Jalisco and came to the US when he was only 3 and has not left the country since then

An American is Luis, born in Guerrero and raised in Mexicali, who came to the US when he was 18, but could not learn English

An American is Julie, born and raised in Peru as Julissa, who came to the US when she was 21 and found herself in the country

Also, an American was Takao Ozawa, who was excluded from naturalization by the laws in 1914

An American was Bhagat Singh Thind, even before he fought in court to achieve that right

Americans were all the people who were denied nationality because of the color of their skin

Americans were the people who were forced to leave their lands and then called foreigners

Americans were all Black people, women, and natives who were not even considered complete people before

Americans are all the people who were once told that no son de aquí ni de allá Americans are all the people who have ever been told to go back to their country Americans are all those who identify as such An American is me. I am an American Even though it took me a while to identify myself as such.

Lo Que Mi Alma Escribe

Valeria Méndez Concha

En la tierra de sueños, la voz se levanta, Venezolana de sangre, con alma que canta. Imigrante de ríos, montañas y mares, mis letras son puentes, son ecos, son ares.

Con el sol en la piel y el viento en el pecho, tejo historias de mi vida, en papel, o en lecho. Cada verso un latido, cada rima un destino, soy eco de mi gente, su fuerza, y su camino.

Mi pluma, un refugio; mi vida, una a ventura, que cada día sigo.

Soy latina, soy fuego, soy danza y soy rio, Por mi, Por mi familia, y por todos a los que e querido. Siempre sere yo mismo y por eso es que sigo mi propio camino.

Benny Johnson

Photography

One Out of Thousands of Stories

Valeria Méndez Concha

Denied, Not Qualify, Only for U.S Citizens, only for undocumented students, only for permanent residents and U.S citizens. I already lost count on how many scholarships I do not qualify for, just because of my pending status. Isn’t senior year supposed to be the best year of our lives? Then why has it been just 3 months of school, and I am feeling more stress than in all my high school years? Desperate to change scenarios I looked out the window, the moon had just come out and heavy snow started covering the mountains behind the houses.

The room that only a minute ago was radiating with the light of the descending sun had once again fallen into darkness. I looked around my room and saw those white walls as white as snow, and then with the corner of my eye I looked back at my desk. “What a mess” I said to myself as I looked at how the books and papers cover the table and on top of that mess was my iPad and my laptop. The only light that was left in the room was the open laptop that held many tabs open but all of them were useless. I rested my head on the messy desk and closed my eyes for a moment.

The next thing I see is myself once again in my advisor’s offices. I had fallen asleep. My eyes start wandering once again on those walls cover in pamphlets of university, paper full of scholarship websites information, university flags, and the worse part of all those ridiculous catch phrases of “You got this,” “Think positive” and “Higher education is only one step away.” Lies. My eyes then were directed to my advisor who keeps checking on both monitors for ways to help me, but as she keeps entering all those scholarship websites that I have already checked she gets even more confused on how to help me. So she looks at me and says “V, I might not have an answer for you right now but I will look more into this” She put a smile on her face but I could see that tick on her eye and how the sweat of her faces started rolling down her faces and her eyes keep moving around instead of looking me to my eyes. Another lie. I just smiled at her and said, “Is ok Mrs. Smith I know this is a topic that might be new to you.” After I finished that sentence, she put a hand on her head and nodded as her smile vanished from her face. I knew it.

I opened my eyes, and I was back in my room. I raised my head from my desk to

look again at my messy desk full of paper and notes. My laptop was already dark, and I just laid back on my chair. My breath is heavy, and my body is tense. “I can’t” I said to myself as I rested my left arm over my eyes for a moment at that point I realize that I was exhausted of being in this situation, but it wasn’t my parent’s fault they went to hell to give us all of the opportunities we have now. I couldn’t give up on that now, but I couldn’t help thinking, “If this country built by immigrants why has no one seen this problem before?” And why does no one talk about it? I look up at the ceiling again, then turned on my computer again. I know what to look for now. Maybe it is time to do my part in this world, not just sit here and wait for everything to come to me. The least I can do is try.

To Be Continued ...

Thread

Heather Graham

In inside jokes, Sunday meals and coffee We were looking for here and for after For an unseen thread binding you to me Searching through every perfect disaster

With “love yous” and “favorties”: “we” by design Learning habits and laughs nobody knows Your song and dance became entwined with mine From esoteric to common prose

Creating space and worlds for us to be Again about stars in steady refrain And masterful dance through the galaxy Our forever is “never so mundane.”

Strangers to friends to laughter and rapport Musings of thyme and time in time before

Still Life Self Portrait

Catherine Rubsam

Graphite

Eulogy for Childhood Cats

Nell Roberts

I think losing the two of you was the first “hardest moment of my life.” My parents had gotten you both well before I really entered the picture. You were both mainstays, companions, you showed my child self so much love even when I was grappling with the feeling of lovelessness for the very first time.

I’ll never forget how it felt to feel your soft fur in my small, unblemished hands. My innocence was being taken from me faster than I could have possibly realized, but within you it remained. When I was with you, nothing else about the world mattered. I got such very few moments in those years to truly be a child, and yet I couldn’t help but act my age gazing into your vertically slit pupils as you gently purred back to me.

You two were my first teachers on the subject of true, unconditional love. We couldn’t talk to each other, our minds operated on entirely different levels of sentience, even our nomenclatures were far cries from each other. And yet, I felt that you both loved me. I loved you back all the same.

I still remember when they came to take you both away. In those days, my age hadn’t reached the double digits yet and already I had to persistently reconcile the loss of everything I knew. For some reason which I fail to understand even to this day, losing you might have been the most impactful.

I remember holding you both so desperately, begging and pleading to anyone and anything that would listen not to take you two away from me. My infantile mind was just beginning to grasp the concept of eternity, and what a rude awakening it was to be told that I would never see my best friends again.

At this point, I have missed you for multiple decades. There is no chance that both of you are not long gone by now. But I will never forget the lessons you taught me. In its own way, the love you two showed me will always exist in my heart. I’m never going to lose it. I will always be thankful for it.

I know that in this life, in this world, I’m never going to see either of you again. But if there truly is such a thing as a life-after-death, and we end up in the same place, I think the two of you are some of the souls I’ll be most excited to meet

again. You can sit on my lap again. You can feel my soft hands, bereft of pain, glide across your fur. You can purr with a frequency and generosity which tells my brain that love is real and beautiful even across the lines of species. Just like we used to.

Rest easy, you two. Thank you.

Moving Forward

Chantel Scartozzi

Photography

Things That Have Kept Me Alive

Lynx Starr

Apple juice

A rabbit with pitch black fur

Chocolate and ibuprofen

A piece of fanfiction about block men and not falling unless you want to Late nights with sisters and outings with parents

The fact I can’t just leave something unexplored and unknown

A crowded stairwell where I was the only one sober

Hidden Figures

A group chat named after an inside joke I still don’t know the context behind Sonic Oreo Blast milkshakes

The staff for my junior and senior years of high school

The smallest Great Pyrenees I have ever seen

A ballerino shining a light too bright for the cruel eyes of the island he was born on

Most of these probably mean nothing to you

No one but me will ever know why each entry is there

But that’s okay

Because it works for me

And looking out, I see people guarding lists of their own And maybe sharing mine will make someone add another entry

After tracking down their favorite pen

Defiance

Ben Hartvigsen

Photography

I am

Kemone Feleti

Sometimes, I sit in my office and think to myself. I want to run away—My life is overwhelming, being black and a woman is so trying. But my mom did not raise a quitter.

Sometimes, I look at the sky and wonder what it would be like to fly—Man! if I could fly Vacays would be super cheap. I could go anywhere, the sky’s the limit!

Sometimes, I wish I had a fairy godmother, You know to magically take all my struggles away, Get me through the tough times. Then maybe, just maybe I could live the sweet life—like a famous celeb My rags to riches story.

But you see, life has taught me That there is no one without struggles. The poor, the middle, the rich—they struggle We do not always notice.

The hardships I face and overcome— They make me stronger, Because of them I am resilient. Do not get me wrong, I get sad, I get stressed, and I do get tired—oh so tired.

Sometimes, I want to fold and let failure win. But like I said, my momma did not raise a quitter! I am existing and I am doing it. Because I am strong; I am smart, I am resilient and so are all of you!

There’s a Circus in Town

Chantel Scartozzi

Nothing was amiss the day it all started. I’m not even sure what triggered it. I was simply trying to recount the incident and then bam, there it was.

It only felt like a day had passed since I’d shown up to work and noticed Walter didn’t come in.

“Have you seen Walter?” I’d asked Tom, the copier guy.

He shook his head, not even glancing my way.

Continuing on with my search, I asked a few more guys, some of which didn’t even know Walter’s name. I gave a brief description of, “He’s the short, old guy that works in processing,” receiving a blank stare I continued, “wears glasses, always smiling?”

Nothing. Deciding to take my search to the next level up, I walked over to Calvin’s department.

Calvin was the supervisor of shipping, but had assigned Walter to be my trainer when I started. He should know more about what was going on.

Walter was no longer my trainer, but rather my working companion. We worked side by side every day at the only two computers on the production floor, and I had never seen him miss a day in the 8 months I’d been there.

Spotting Calvin, I rushed through the bustling workers to catch up to him.

“Calvin,” my voice was too much like a mouse to be heard in the busy environment, so I got closer and tried again. “Calvin, have you seen Walter today? He’s never late.”

Calvin glanced my direction, but continued on carrying the almost too large box he held in his hands and shouted back at me as I scurried behind him. “He’s not here yet?”

I followed him from the concrete floor of the warehouse, onto the loading dock and stopped at the metal edge of the trailer, waiting for him to be free of his load.

Once he had set the box down, he let out a deep sigh and leaned on the trailer wall to catch his breath. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a denim sleeve of his jacket as he looked at my waiting face. “I haven’t gotten any messages. Have you tried to call him?”

Reaching in my pocket, I pulled out my phone and pulled up my call log. “Twice,” I replied showing him the history. “Went straight to voicemail.” I swiped out and opened up my messages. “Tried texting too—no response.” I looked at Calvin for instructions.

“Just get to work and I’ll try him from the office.” Calvin decided.

I worked through till lunch, all the while worrying about why Walter wasn’t there.

Lunch was only 4 minutes away when Calvin approached to check up on things. “Did you get ahold of him?” I asked before he could say anything.

Calvin stopped walking and cocked his head to the side. “He’s not here yet?”

“Did he say he was coming?” his response had me assuming that Calvin had spoken to Walter.

“No, I…” he pulled off his beige work glove and ran his fingers through his silver sprinkled hair. “I forgot to call.”

“Shit,” jumping up from my seat, I paced for a few steps to think. I knew it was a bit of an overreaction, but I cared about the old man.

I stopped in front of Calvin and reasoned with him. “He lives just down the street. I’m gonna go check in on him, if you’re cool with it.”

Calvin thought about it for a second. We weren’t supposed to leave during lunch since we only got 30 minutes and the closest food joint was about 20 minutes away.

Nodding, he said, “Okay, just take the rest of the day. I think we’ve got it handled. Make sure he’s alright.”

I turned to my computer, clocked out, thanked Calvin and left.

Walter lived about a mile down the road from the warehouse. Since he was usually my ride home, I’d stopped in after work with him a couple times to have a cup of joe before going home. Also, since he was my usual wheels, I had to walk.

The clipping of my work boots on the pavement was loud to my ears, which kept my mind busy along the way. I watched the blacktop blur into streaks of grey and black under my feet, and as I slowed approaching the house, I started to see the bigger pebbles that were more prominent in the mixture of the asphalt.

Looking up, I noticed Walter’s old, rusty, golden Buick in the driveway. My heart was racing with anticipation, or maybe it was just from walking so briskly.

I jogged the last few yards through his grass and knocked, maybe a little too firmly, on the door. When no one answered, I remembered the key Walter kept tucked up behind the porch light.

I grabbed it and unlocked the knob, but just as I finished unlocking the deadbolt, the door opened.

“Jimmy!” Walter’s beaming smile greeted me, shaking my hand and patting me on the back with his other hand as he usually did. “Come on in! How’s your day?” he said with exuberance as he turned toward the couch.

I stood there confused for a moment then stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The air, usually musky with a scent of stale cigarettes, bit my sinuses with another strange smell I couldn’t quite place. “Heya Walt.” I said as I walked around the coffee table and took a seat next to him. “Where were you today?”

“What do you mean? Its Saturday.” Walter looked at me and laughed like I was the silliest person to have mixed up my days, then moved on to another subject. “Did you see the news Jim? There’s a circus in town and I’m gonna try out!” he held his thumb to his chest which he puffed out with pride.

His smile was contagious, I couldn’t help but smile back. “Is that so?” I challenged. “What do you think you have to offer them?”

I knew I should’ve been informing him that it was, in fact Friday, and he’d missed work, but at that point it didn’t matter. I continued to play his game. “You’ve gotta have some mad skills to impress those goons.”

His smile became mischievous as he said , “Watch.” He stood up from his seated position, turned to face the couch then placed his head on the cushion. Then, without using a hand to hold him, he pulled his body above his head until it was completely straight and in a no-handed head stand.

I felt my jaw drop as he slowly lowered his feet behind him, turned his body around and ended seated just as he had been before he started.

“Holy shit, Walter!”

“It’s okay Jimmy-boy. It happens to the best of us.” Walter responded then jumped up and somersaulted into the kitchen with an energy I’d never seen in him before.

I started to stand and follow him, but he saw me through the island of the counter and stopped me. “Oh no, you stay there. You’re the guest. I’ll grab the coffee.”

“You sure you even need coffee?” I laughed, referring to his energy level.

A woman walked into the living room then, from the direction opposite of the kitchen, and smiled at me as she walked by toward Walter.

“Hello there,” I greeted her as I picked a Marlboro from the open pack Walter had left on the coffee table.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance Jim,” she responded, already knowing my name.

My expression must have given away my confusion because, as Walter walked back in with a hot cup of coffee, he told me, “I’d like you to meet the Mrs., Jimmy. This is my wife of 47 years, Betsy.”

“You must be starved, Jim, you look so thin.” She expressed with concern.

As if she had conjured my hunger, my stomach released an audible gargle. “I suppose I am,” I responded and picked up the tiny quiche she set before me on the coffee table.

“It’s okay Jimmy-boy. It happens to the best of us,” Walter repeated his earlier phrase. He nodded toward the quiche—an invitation.

Snuffing out my cigarette in the round crystal ashtray, I took a bite. “Mmh,” I let out a sound of pleasure, “that’s amazing.” I told Betsy with a smile.

She smiled back in return and began doing dishes.

Walter watched me eat the bite size treat saying, “Best damn cook in all the land, my Betsy. 47 years and I still never found a better cook.” He sat back and took a deep drag off the cigarette he had lit.

Walter sat up quickly and pointed toward the bedroom door Betsy had come out of just as two Dobermans walked out. “These are my boys, Jimmy.” He pointed at one saying, “That there’s Skipper, and that one, “he pointed at the other, “that’s Buck.”

“Well hello there,” I greeted the pair.

The dogs sat side by side between the coffee table and the television. They were extremely well behaved. The dogs didn’t growl or bark, they didn’t sniff at me or approach me. They sat quietly and waited for a command.

I put my hand out inviting them to come to me, and they did as I asked. They walked in sync, both sitting in front of me in unison as I started to pet them.

“Are they allowed on the couch?” I looked to Walter, but he was sleeping. The old man must have gotten tired from all the acrobatics. I grabbed the coffee he had made and sipped it down as the dogs started to nuzzle me.

They were comforting and I found myself getting tired. I set the cup down and lied back against the couch. Soon, I found myself drifting off to dreamland.

When I awoke, Walter was sitting up. The dogs and Betsy were gone, and the news was still on. “Good morning Jimmy. You slept hard.”

I sat up and he handed me the coffee from the table. “Thanks Walt,” I obliged, grabbing the cup.

He lit me a cigarette and handed it over asking, “Have you seen the news, Jim? The circus is coming and I’m gonna be in it!”

A knock sounded at the door then, but Walter didn’t move. I looked at him and asked, “Aren’t you gonna get that?”

“Nah,” he responded waving a dismissive hand at the door. “Damn telemarketers don’t deserve my time.”

I ignored the next few knocks, just as Walter did, until they stopped.

“Betsy made some muffins, if you’d like. They’re in the kitchen. Freshly baked,” he told me once the knocking stopped.

Without hesitation, I stood and made my way into the yellow stained kitchen. Finding the muffins by the sink, I picked one up and took a bite as I walked back to the couch. Again, I released a moan of delight as the muffin hit my tongue. “Mmh, poppy seed, my favorite.”

“It’s okay Jimmy-boy. It happens to the best of us.” Walter said with a wink.

I took another gulp of the coffee to wash down the muffin and asked, “Where’s Betsy?”

Walter was zoned out on the TV again and shrugged saying, “Oh probably gone to practice her contortion skills. You’ll find her all over the place—in the cupboards, the coat closet ... hell, I once spotted her in the medicine cabinet,” he smiled.

“She’s a tricky one, my Betsy. 47 years and I still ain’t found another like her.”

I smiled at the love the old man held for his wife. “Will she be in the circus too?”

“Oh, we’ll all be there! Just you wait and see!” Walter still held his relentless excitement about the endeavor.

We both zoned out into TV land for a while. I didn’t pay attention to how long we stared at the bulky box screen with the wooden paneling while characters big and small showed off their unbelievable talents.

The human pyramid I found the most fascinating; some people standing on shoulders with their hands, others holding on to heads. A woman with a white and grey husky who could sing the alphabet, an unusually tall man who danced in a tutu like a ballerina, a shorter woman with 3 arms juggling 9 torches that blazed with flames at the end of each, a woman who swallowed swords and then pulled them out of her nose; the list went on.

Walter never even blinked an eye, he was so fascinated with the images before us.

The ashtray was overly full when I looked away from the television. I picked up the coffee, took a sip, and stood to go in search of more food.

“Just check the fridge,” Walter shouted from the couch, knowing what I was looking for.

I opened the fridge and immediately started to salivate. Delicious meals were prepped and waiting to be eaten. I reached in and grabbed out a plate that held bacon wrapped filet mignon, roasted asparagus, and some cheesy potatoes.

I don’t know what kind of upgraded fridge he had, but as soon as I pulled the meal from the fridge, it was steaming with heat as if it had just been cooked.

My eyes widened at the anomaly, “Amazing,” I said to myself.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Walter’s eyes were still on the TV as he spoke to me.

“Wish mine did that,” I told him as I grabbed a fork that was sitting, ready for me, and sat back down in my spot on the couch.

I ate the meal, savoring each bite, then set the empty plate aside and lit another smoke.

Walter yawned after more excited conversation about how he was teaching his dogs to juggle for the circus. “I’m tired Jimmy. I think it’s time.”

I looked at the window off to the left of the television. It was dark out. “But I’m having so much fun.” I told Walter.

Walter just smiled and gave me a little nod. He knew I didn’t want to go. “I’ll see you at the circus Jim.”

I hung my head as I stood and walked toward the door. Before I exited, I looked at him and said, “Thanks Walt, for everything.”

Walter gave me one last beaming smile and said, “It’s okay Jimmy-boy. It happens to the best of us.”

The walk home felt like a blur. I didn’t watch the asphalt beneath my feet. I didn’t notice the group of people standing around a barrel fire. I didn’t see when I walked passed industrial buildings or along the freeway; and I didn’t notice the blisters that formed on my toes, ankles, and the bottom of my feet by the time I walked up my driveway.

I felt like I walked home from school through the neighborhood as I did

throughout grade school. I saw the familiar bridal paths between houses lined with wild growth of green grapes and honeysuckles. I felt the curves and turns of each corner that signified I was that much closer to home.

When I walked inside my home, my brother was there. “Jim?” his head perked up with his body, jumping into action. “Jim!” he approached me and grabbed my arm pulling me to the kitchen table and sat me down gently.

“Hey Bill, what are you doing here?” I asked him.

His brows creased and he looked me up and down without a word. “Stay here and don’t move,” he told me.

“Okay,” I agreed. Something must have been wrong for him to be acting so urgently.

“Promise. Promise you won’t go anywhere,” he pleaded.

“I promise, Bill,” I assured him.

He rushed away and my body started to crawl with anxiety. What felt like hours, was probably only minutes before he rushed back into the kitchen with my Mother in tow.

“Jimmy!” she gasped and ran to me, embracing me in a hug.

“Mom?” I was so confused. Why was everyone acting so odd?

“Where have you been?” she demanded of me in a way she hadn’t done for 40plus years—like she did when I was a teenager and had gone to a friend’s place after school without asking.

“I was at Walter’s, Mom,” I tried to assure her that I had been safe. “I was fine. He just didn’t show up to work, so I went over to check on him.”

Bill and my Mother both looked at each other and then back at me.

“Jim, we checked Walter’s. No one was home.” Bill told me.

Realization struck and I said, “Oh, the knocking. That was you?” As a grown man I had to ask, “Why were you so concerned, you came all the way across town to look for me? Is everything alright?”

“Jim, what’s the last thing you remember?” my mom asked.

“What do you mean?” confusion. That was the only way to explain what I felt. I was so full of confusion.

“Jim,” my brother looked me directly in the eyes. “You’ve been gone for 2 weeks.”

“What? No, I was just, I was with Walter, and we ... ” my voice drifted off as my mind took in the information.

That’s when the flashbacks started; drinking a cup of stale coffee rimmed with forming mold, eating hardened food that had been left out and a half-eaten TV dinner from the fridge, petting the arm of a couch I fell asleep on, smoking a pack of cigarettes that weren’t mine, but were left behind by a dead Walter I had walked in to see. A dead Walter whom I had shared laughs with. A dead Walter whom I had visions of doing acrobatics. A dead Walter who’s eyes were fixed on the television which displayed a program: a documentary about 19th century circuses. A couple pictures on the walls; one of a pair of Dobermans, the other a picture of Walter and his bride whom Walter had told me had died a few years back after 47 years of marriage. And myself, every time my mind began to question reality, using my Grandpa’s nick-name for me, reassuring my own crazy mind, “It’s okay Jimmy-boy. It happens to the best of us.”

“Jimmy, Honey, it’s going to be okay,” my Mother brought me back to reality.

I must have been speechless, because I couldn’t respond.

I looked down at myself. I was filthy. Smears of old food, cigarette burns, and proof of my self-soilage covered the work clothes that I still wore. Reaching up, I felt the formation of a two-week-old beard. I let my hand run up higher. A think layer of grease and dried sweat filled my fingers once they reached my hair.

Tears began pouring out of my eyes uncontrollably, and all my muscles gave out as I collapsed out of my chair onto the floor.

Walter Eugine Cliffton passed away of a massive heart attack one early Friday morning. He was 78 years old and could not do acrobatics.

I am Haunted by a Blue Elephant

Nell Roberts

I dreamt of you today.

When people ask me if I believe in ghosts, I say “Yes” because you’ve been gone so much longer than you were ever here. And yet, you still stalk the tucked-away hallways of my mind which you made empty so long ago.

I say “Yes” because the shreds you tore in the pieces of your heart you gave me still add up to the shape of your poltergeist. I say “Yes” because you still won’t leave me, no matter how much I begged you to mean it when you said, “Goodbye.”

Dinosaurs

Rylie Nadauld

Chalk Pastel

Excerpt: The Neon Sunset

Samuel Wilson

The night sky hanging over her house is a mosquito net, trapping the stars in suspension over them like bugs; so bright they look like they could just chew through the barrier at any moment and crash down upon them. Friday sits in her bed tonight, hugging her knees and staring out at the wall across from her at nothing. Her ears occupy themselves with a tape playing quietly from the stereo her parents bought for her last Christmas while her eyes drift from the walls to the clutter on her vanity, to her best friend sitting across from her on the bed, feet planted on the ground and eyes seeing even less than hers.

Just a few short months ago, she remembers how they would talk all night about anything that was on their minds. These days, Friday’s best friend doesn’t talk much about anything at all.

The tape clicks and ends.

“Who was I?” He asks, voice barely above a mutter. If it wasn’t dead quiet in the room now, she wouldn’t have heard him at all. “Before that night, I mean.”

She studies him; watches the smoke from his cigarette billow through the hole in his cheek and the sutures holding his head onto its shoulders. The second day she found him, she stopped calling him Justin in her brain. He had become something else.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Zero stares at the floor and sifts through his memories. The last thing he remembers…

In his mind’s eye, he sees her in the passenger seat of his car, window down and wind in her hair, sucking on a strawberry bon-bon. The memory is so clear it scares him a little.

He looks up at Friday. His eyes are barely present and foggy from death.

“ ... Waking up.”

Friday can tell he’s not telling the truth. She doesn’t push it. She’s too tired.

She doesn’t see him during the day. Every night without fail, no matter how hard she tries, she falls asleep and when she wakes up he’s nowhere to be found. Once she asked him where he runs off to when she doesn’t see him, and he just stared at her for a long time, saying nothing.

One night Friday opens the door for him and he seems different - more than after he woke up in the morgue, half-embalmed and barely able to see, skin blue like the sky at sunset. He doesn’t talk much these days, but it’s worse than usual tonight. In the dim light, it’s almost like his eyes are glowing.

“Wanna go for a drive?” He asks. It’s after a silence that stretches so long Friday thinks she’s gone deaf for a moment.

“Are you sure?”

Zero nods.

“Please.”

A key in the ignition. The car purrs like it misses him. Friday never let him drive her car before the accident.

She studies him while they pull out of the driveway and head out onto the main road. His half-burnt cigarette glows in the darkness of the witching hour, the cherry lighting up his face in a dim orange. He almost looks the way he did before the crash. If you ignore the holes in his face, that is.

“Where are we going?”

Zero says nothing. He knows that she knows exactly where they’re headed.

They drive off to the cliffside overlooking downtown—it’s pretty close to where they got in the crash, actually—and park close enough to be able to see the city lights from the front seat. Zero kills the engine with some reluctance. It’s a little ironic—the only place where that look of lost forlorn melts off his face seems to be behind the wheel.

“Is something eating you?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” Zero replies, then goes silent for a long time. Then, while looking out of the horizon, beyond town and the mountains and the lake, past the earth

and stars and forever into the great beyond—

“I just feel like I’m running on borrowed time.”

Zero remembers red. The light permeating the inside of his eyelids, the hair over his face when he opens them for the first time, then black. When he opens them again, he sees white.

His vision is far too blurry to make out anything beyond the vague shape of the mortician cutting into his chest and filling his veins with cold fluid. He can’t feel anything. He’s certain he’s supposed to feel pain. He feels stitches being pulled taut around his neck.

The next time he wakes up, he sees red again. There’s no living person to be found. He can hear the harsh beat of an alarm pulsing through his ears like the chemicals in his bloodstream. He’s covered in a thin, white sheet. He wraps it around himself, and runs.

He doesn’t remember how he gets out, or how he meets the girl, or how she recognizes him. He can barely see her face, but her bright red hair is easy enough to spot. He followers her into her car. She doesn’t let him drive.

He doesn’t speak for two whole weeks. It’s like he’s relearning language by listening to the girl. He vomits up embalming fluid for hours. Sometimes she feeds him her favorite candies—also red—but it doesn’t seem like he needs to eat anymore. And sometimes she reads to him under the dull glimmer of a reading light.

They make tents out of the covers like kids and she follows the words with her fingers, urging him to watch as she does so. Sometimes Zero catches the ghost of something like grief behind her eyes.

When he finally finds the words he’s looking for, brain sluggishly pouring over the sentences silently until he’s finally got it down, it’s a question:

“Can I have a cigarette?”

Friday seems to startle a bit, hearing his grainy, barely audible voice for the first time in weeks. She remembers Justin’s horrible nicotine habit she’d always nag him to kick. “It’ll kill you someday,” she hears herself say to him one balmy

spring evening, long before all of this.

“Why d’you want one?” She asks.

Zero shrugs and looks at the floor, taking a long time to reply.

“I’ve wanted one. Since I woke up.”

She sets the book in his lap and tells him to stay put and do not leave this room Justin, while she racewalks to the corner store.

Dead on his feet seems like a silly phrase to use to describe this, but when Friday opens the door to a man literally holding his severed arm in one hand, that’s the only thing she can think of.

Quickly, she pulls Zero in and makes him sit out on the patio in the front terrace to avoid tracking ichor around the house. His blood doesn’t look the same as a living person’s — it’s thin, yellowish, and slightly pulpy with something brown — but that doesn’t make her any more comfortable with him walking around with a corpse’s arm, for god’s sake.

She runs in the house — do not move from this spot Zero — and returns with a paltry first aid kit, two cans of beer, and a roll of her dad’s fishing line he left in the garage last month.

“I don’t know if this is going to work, but I’m hoping we can do the same thing as whatever is going on with your head right now.”

Left arm resting on his lap, Zero raises his connected right hand up to let his fingers ghost over the stitches across his neck. Friday tells him a pole went through the windshield and took his head clean off. It’s like he took twice as much damage so she could come out unscathed, she says.

Then Friday tells him to take off his jacket, to hold his arm up to the stump so she doesn’t have to touch it, and to hold it steady as she takes a couple gulps of the beer. Then, with shaky hands, she begins slowly and as carefully as she can, to sew his arm back onto its shoulder. Zero remembers the odd pulling sensation

from his time in the morgue. It feels almost unpleasant.

“I’m kind of relieved I can touch you,” Friday mumbles after a few beats of silence, “Like, I knew you were real and all before, but this feels different. It’s like I can put you back together.”

Like I can keep you here.

She doesn’t expect him to respond. And he doesn’t.

“This is so fucked up ... what even happened to you?”

She’s about halfway through the sewing process, rattling off insane concepts for how one could possibly lose an arm (ignoring the way the fingers start to twitch with every new stitch added), when she finally gets a response.

“Hunters.”

“Hunters!?”

She’s taken so aback that she accidentally pokes herself with the needle. Zero moves to check on her.

“Don’t move! I’m fine ... Just stay still.”

He does, and she continues.

“Zero ... what the hell do you mean ‘hunters?’ Are there some weird zombiemonster-vigilante hunters out there looking for creatures in the woods? Is that where you go during the day? The forest? Oh god, has someone seen you?”

“No. No one knows.”

A shiver runs up Friday’s spine when she wonders just how he knows that.

“There was ... ” he begins. She’s used to him taking time to find the exact words he’s looking for by now. “There are deer out right now. I was ... at the crash, and I saw a dead one, so I went to go look at it. Then I heard a sound and ... I got stuck.” He looks down at his arm quietly, rolling his wrist shakily as she finishes up the stitches and cuts the line. “I had to get out.”

Friday tries to imagine the scenario in her head. Perhaps his arm got stuck between two rocks or something, and in his panic he pulled the thing off trying

to escape. After all, she’s seen animals do crazier things in desperation, and Zero sometimes acts just like a spooked wild animal around her. She thinks she hides her pity well enough, but she still sees a glimmer of recognition in his eyes when their gazes meet.

“ ... do you want to come inside and watch a movie?” She asks after finishing her beer and standing up.

“Okay.”

They sit at the couch, him stock still like he’s not sure what to do, and she pretends not to notice the way the TV. fritzes out every time he so much as looks at it too hard.

In the morning, after her best friend’s disappeared to wherever he goes during the day, Friday turns on the TV to see a breaking news segment: two hunters found dead in the woods from unexplained causes, with both rifles completely empty of ammunition. The coroner notes that their brains seemed to have been cooked in their skulls.

On Monday, Friday’s professor stops her after class.

“You don’t look so good right now, Fri, and your grades have been dipping a little lower than I’m used to with you. Are you sleeping okay?”

Wednesday morning, she wakes up to the sound of her doorbell. When she opens the door, still in her clothes from yesterday and marks on her face from sleeping on a notebook, she’s greeted by a tall man in a pressed black suit.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” the man begins, speaking as if it’s a mere formality to him. He stands heads taller than her even as he’s slouching slightly. “My name is agent McDermott—I work for the government. Do you mind if I come in for a spell and ask you a few questions?”

Friday doesn’t move from her spot, even as the man pokes his head over her and studies the living room as much as he can from the confines of the front porch.

“Questions about what?” she asks.

The man seems almost surprised that she’s even the least bit suspicious. Which, honestly, looking like that, what did he expect if not squinted eyes and sweaty palms? His icy blue, almost transparent eyes stare into her in a way that is too familiar.

When he doesn’t answer immediately Friday grows impatient. “Look. Can I just like, see some I.D. or something? Is this about those hunters?”

It seems as though the gears start turning in the agent’s head at those words, and a cold, emotionless smile arrives on his lips. Like he learned how to do it an hour ago. Showing off stained, yellow teeth. Friday tries not to stare.

“Of course. Yes. I’m investigating the murders.”

He shoves a laminated card in her face, dwarfed in his giant hands, and stuffs it back in his coat pocket just as she can read the big blue letters: FBI. Then, without another word, McDermott shuffles past her matter-of-factly and begins to prowl about her house. She watches him nervously, hugging herself out of a childish habit. It’s when he’s halted staring at an old picture of her and Justin that her skin begins to crawl. She squirms a bit and tries to fill the silence:

“So, like, I didn’t know either of them well ... I just moved here recently—”

“How recently?” He asks, staring unblinkingly at the photo.

Friday shifts uncomfortably on her feet.

“Probably a year and a half ago ... I’m in town for college.”

McDermott hums absently. “Awfully nice house to be living in all by yourself. You don’t have any roommates, do you?”

“Yeah, well, my dad knows the landlord. Why are you staring at that photo?” She tries to ignore the implication of the latter question.

The man continues to study the picture, eyes turning over every aspect of it. Friday can’t help but feel a sudden prickle of fear rise up from her stomach, slowly

bubbling up to the back of her throat. Her hands clench until McDermott suddenly turns his head like a lizard’s to meet her eyes.

“Who’s the boy in this photo? Is he your boyfriend?”

It’s almost a funny question. She and Justin got that question almost daily — sometimes it was easier to just say yes to avoid the reason why they weren’t. Just months ago, she would have rolled her eyes and smiled. She doesn’t have that luxury staring down a predator like this.

“No,” She says, “we were just friends.”

He hums, a monotone, discordant sound. Looks at a different photo of them.

“Were? Did some kind of falling out occur?”

There’s that silence she’s grown used to. What ever happened to Justin? Weren’t you two attached at the hip?

Did you hear about that crash last month?

“No. There was a car accident. He died.”

Still without looking away, as if it’s an afterthought, the man replies, “Oh. My condolences.”

“It’s fine,” She mumbles, “they told me he died instantly.”

That grabs the agent’s attention. His head whips to meet her gaze, eyes widened like a cat once it catches sight of a piece of string. She’s a deer in the headlights. It feels like time stops once that lump of fear nestled stiffly in her throat threatens to come all the way up. She feels like she could throw up if she could move.

“If it’s alright with my asking,” again, with absolutely no empathy, “how exactly did he die?”

She only saw him after he was stripped of bloody clothes and cleaned of sinew and glass, bone shards and blood. They hadn’t even attached his head before she was sent in to identify the body.

“Actually ... ” Friday’s voice shakes as she gulps down breath, unable to look away. “I think ... I think you should go. I’m not comfortable with you being here.”

“Ma’am, I understand—”

“No! No, you don’t. Look, can—” She feels her palms clam up and shuts her eyes tight for a second. But, she reminds herself, this agent is like a spider, and she has to keep him in her line of sight. “Just. Please leave.”

“Do you understand you are forcing a federal agent out of your—”

“Just get the hell out of my house!”

The words are thrust out of her mouth with more fervor than she expected, and it seems to knock some sense into the man, which isn’t saying much. He seems to have a knack for making silence stretch on forever.

It’s only after giving her one more once-over that the agent finally straightens his back—he looks like he could touch the ceiling—rubs his suit down, and gives another fake almost-smile. Friday nearly quivers at the sight of it. She doesn’t know how she manages to keep herself together.

“Fine. I never meant to intrude. I’ll see myself out.”

She follows him on shaky legs to the door and flinches when he turns his leg on a swivel to look at her. It feels like he’s reading her mind. Suddenly, one of those gigantic pale hands is shuffling around in his pants pocket and, like before with his badge, a professionally dull looking business card is pushed inches in front of her face. Agent Christopher McDermott: Federal Bureau of Investigation. A phone number.

“I’ll be around the area for a few days. If you see anything strange, and I mean anything at all—please don’t hesitate to call.”

She takes the card, and the man’s gone as quick as he came.

While Friday watches him round the corner, gait so quiet she can barely hear his footsteps, the ink on the business card bleeds from how much her hand is sweating.

Zero Knocks on Her Door

Samuel Wilson Pen and Ink

Remembering is My Grief

Lacey Niko

Whenever I am reminded of your absence it feels like violence

You had not talked to me in weeks

I am dragged back to the day that I stood in front of you as you forgot me you forgot me years ago

Dragged to that day you left us in this world

I still came and sat beside you for hours knowing this was the last time

My grief is unmanageable

I cut watermelon. Your watermelon. As I have done for years now.

And when I am reminded of it, I am inconsolable

I don’t know if I can eat it anymore

One last kiss Grandma

Does the watermelon taste the same?

La Llorona

Jennifer Yebra Alvarez Relief Print

Hiding

Amie Schaeffer

I have been hiding from you

Hiding in post-pandemic spaces

Hiding in the folds of mundane tasks

In the pockets of work and illness

And life

Not saying out loud the words— “Jesse died”

That way I can pretend you are hiding there, too

Dappled Light

Megan Lynne Jensen

Photography

A Tale of Two Sisters

Lacey Niko

The two of them have grown together

I know them as I know myself

I know they’re the only bloomed flowers in this brush

I know they’ve twisted around each other Their white petals floating with the green leaves

I think they must be sisters

Grown from the same seed surviving

Supporting each other no matter their choices

They love each other no matter how they’ve grown

They share the same trauma

Have grown the same height

So, I think they must be sisters

Only my sisters would know me Twisted Unbound

Hidden

Only my sisters know me

They must be sisters, They are two sisters twisted around each other

In hopes of surviving with strangers

A simple reality

A tale of two sisters

Aerouant

Heather Graham

Photography

Benny Johnson

Photography

Requiem for Robert Burns

Nell Roberts

And how it comes, that coming train, the more it comes, it takes.

our Father Time is heading now to finalize our break.

With every step, the more you fly, fleeting from My Arms. and I am left, to ponder on your every whit and charm.

If ever back, you come to me don’t worry how i’ll feel. i’ll have a home prepared for you

and all the wounds we heal. It’s no mistake, just peace and craic.

It’s just the way things go. i’m grateful for what once we’ve had, and this you need to know.

A place for you was carved into my heart, which beats anew

I’ll love you always, evermore just as I’m meant to do.

Night Sky Full of Stars

Daniel D. Baird

I miss seeing the night sky full of stars.

Before grandpa passed the boys used to take his horses up in the Grand Teton National Forest for a week to camp, fish, and bond.

The first year we rode long days going up over the continental divide. At the end of the day the horses would just hang their heads too tired to move. No need to even use the hobbles. And my butt was sore from being all day in the saddle.

That first year everyone was cowboy tough, well except me, I was only eight or so and wore a baseball cap—how could I be so thoughtless as to not wear a cowboy hat? I still remember my dad’s funny looking tan cowboy hat, I think he sat on it once and that is why it was crooked.

Why were they tough? They slept out under the sky and me? I had a newfangled invention called a pop-up tent with flexible poles that set up in a matter of minutes unlike those old canvas tents with their metal tube poles. My older brothers laughed at me for bringing such a ridiculous tent.

“Sleeping out is the best,” they said.

Then it rained. A lot. I was nice and dry and they were not. The next year we rode less, fished more, and generally relaxed. No need to rush the great outdoor experience. Oh, and there were more of those silly pop-up tents.

Usually the trees clumped where we stopped to camp; each then picked out a clump to park their tent, tie up their horse. But sometimes we would camp in a meadow and I would lie out and look at the Milky Way flowing across the sky. I was into astronomy then too, learning to find the constellations. I loved Sagittarius, probably because I was born in December. But I also liked to trace out Ursa Major, Minor. Draco danced before me, his eyes twinkling, scales shimmering. Orion hunted what? The rabbit on the moon that makes the Chinese elixir of life? Or perhaps he wants the bragging rights of shooting down Sirius, the brightest star in the sky.

Then the warmth of the sun and the snorting of horses would wake me for another

adventure. Up to rekindle the fire, stir the mix with water from the crick for pancakes for everyone. Oh, I thought looking around, someone is missing. My brother sauntered back with a bowl of fresh picked wild raspberries, his smile stained red with berry juice. We all grabbed a handful for our breakfast and the delightful taste lingered long after the berries vanished.

Breaking camp consisted of taking down the tents, cleaning the dishes, making sure the fire was out and saddling up. Usually either Dad or Grandpa checked my cinch strap make sure it was tight enough. Nothing funnier than watching someone starting to lean as the saddle slid sideways ‘cause it weren’t cinched tight enough. My horse Sal liked to suck in air and hold her breath while I cinched the saddle, so I usually came back after a minute or two to tighten it. If I forgot, I guess I was the one leaning.

At eight years old I was small and Sal, well she wasn’t. That meant the stirrups had to be hiked all the way up so I could use them while riding. No ladder to climb up (sigh) so I always had to find a stump or fallen log I could guide Sal next to in order to hop up and swing in the saddle.

One time I was cinching up Sal and she stepped back onto my foot. I pushed, even beat on Sal’s side but it was a while before she made up her mind to move. Dad saw my predicament and came over.

“Don’t you cry,” was all he said. So I didn’t.

I don’t remember if it was the 2nd or 3rd year we finally wised up and started renting a pack mule. It was sure nice to have better cooking equipment and a few other odds and ends for the trip. Dad bought a knot-tying book and we all got the chuckles watching him trying to tie a diamond hitch on top that loaded mule. He might’ve said a few words I won’t repeat here. That mule would start kicking or bucking and everything would come crashing down. By the next year, though, we had the diamond hitch figured.

Oh that mule was a headache! My brothers traded off pulling it with the lead rope either in hand or wrapped around their saddle horn. I rode behind and if I got too close that mule would kick at my horse, but if I didn’t ride close enough it started dragging on the lead rope and my brothers would get mad at me. Then they had the bright idea I could ride the mule.

“NO WAY!” I set my lips hard and my eyes harder against the idea. I would rather walk. My dad got mad and I did walk for a few miles. Then he decided I was more stubborn than the mule so he put me back on Sal.

As I rode I smelled the mixture of saddle leather and horse lather, perfumed with pine. Somewhere in the distance the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker drew my attention away from the soft cloppity-clop of the horses’ hooves on the trail. As I swayed in the saddle the words from Grandpa’s old eight-track cassette of cowboy songs came to mind:

“Whoopi-ty-aye-oh Rockin’ to and fro

Back in the saddle again

Whoopi-ty-aye-yay

I go my way

Back in the saddle again” (Gene Autry, 1939)

We came to a crick with fairly steep banks, maybe more like an irrigation ditch. “Give her the reins, let her have her way,” says my dad; so I loosened my grip on the reins. Sal, shuffling, turned this way and that. I grabbed the saddle horn hard knowing what’s coming. Then thud, clang, thud. She jumped over the crick. The gear tied to my saddle rattled a bit but I was still on the saddle, safe.

We often would see deer and elk despite the noise we made; once a bear and although grandpa wore a six shooter on his belt it was only a .22 so I didn’t feel much safer, but it turned out to be just a little black bear. We got all excited, it just ignored us. We occasionally saw moose as well, hip deep in the river eating away at whatever pleased them.

Can’t forget the mosquitos. They started whining for blood in the early evening during the last of fishing and chased around us all night despite whatever we sprayed on us to keep them away. That was another good thing about having a tent, unless you left the door open too long.

At the end of the week we loaded the weary horses back into the trailer and eased our tender backsides into the pickup seat. Then it was back to Grandpa’s little

ranch for a brief stop before heading back home. I turned and looked though the back window of the pickup at the horses turned to pasture, before settling in for the long drive to the city, away from the night sky full of stars.

Aubrey Nadauld

Photography

•Staff Pick• Fire Yielded Peace

Liberdee Ostler

I called her an inferno. A blaze of fire, out of control, destructive, and devastating. She was pretty, in the way you describe the aftermath of a forest fire. Charred ground, new growth, thinned earth.

She was so close to the end that the world stopped touching her. Fire burns up all the oxygen, suffocating everything around it. When you feel yourself getting that close to leaving the earth, it becomes scary. And that fear is enough to keep you going, make you change. Make you drown the fire, plunge it 6 feet below the surface so it doesn’t burn you alive.

It’s hard for burning pain to be peaceful. I wanted the peace that comes from caring for others. And I knew if I stayed the way I was, I’d hurt them first. A lighter laid out in the sun bursting into flames, melting the plastic around it and searching for more to eat up.

To feed itself, cause all it knew was hunger.

There were two sides to me.

One reaping destruction on everything I touched Cruelty beyond belief.

All under a guise of care and ain’t that something. To care so much that it turns violent. To reach out hands, wanting to remove the chill from someone’s bones but scorching them instead.

And the other one side, exactly the same but it sounds a lot nicer to give myself two chances. As if fire doesn’t burn the first time you touch it and ash doesn’t hurt to inhale. And when I breathe I hate the rise and fall of her chest. Knowing that she’s still here, inside me.

And I wonder if she’s staying around to learn to be anything else than what she is.

Anything other than Fire, brimstone, and ash.

To learn to be what we are now.

To spark a match but dunk it underwater.

To Reach out and not leave charcoal fingerprints embedded into everything. To smolder out before casualty and find relief in the new growth crawling through.

She wasn’t at peace, peace isn’t flames trying to burn with no fuel. Peace is her grave, buried six feet deep in this chest.

A closed casket with a metal chain over it.

I am at peace, even with a part of me locked away, Laid to rest before it burned everything to nothing.

And don’t worry. I was gentle with her.

Told her I loved her and I’d remember her always but she was done burning the edges of everything.

Let her know that she is me and I am her but there is no we anymore.

Let her know that the fire has burned, the rain has fallen, the plants are growing, and all is well.

There is no need for fire to protect, when all it had ever done, is burn.

Gunpowder

Toban Barnes

We crossed the cracked sea in a car, Where wagon wheels cut the turf. To the mound under metal star, Where dust powder scorched the earth. The blood of pilgrims blotted our birth, And up towered thistle and weed. Under the streams of stolen worth, They dipped webs of golden beads.

The neighbor was of western creed, A man carved from desert sand. He sold explosives for the freed, And held iron in his hand. Paper rolled from powder and sand, A fire bound in my palm. A gun forged from golden grand, Spitting sparks out in the calm.

Into the pool, crashed popping bombs, The smooth pebbles blown to mash. The wrath of rot in every psalm, As sulfur sank and splashed. The woman died, her lips a gash, Spider silk stuck on her tongue. In the pond, they poured her ash, Where fireworks had been slung.

The golden beads were dug and hung, And ghosts swam upon a gust.

From the earth, dead pilgrims sprung, Their blood soaking the dust.

The webs, once gold, caked in rust, And butterflies turned to bees. God’s good gospel left the dust,

And fanged flies flew on the breeze.

Thistle twisted as tortured trees, Choaked wheat with purple brier. A bolt blew our house to debris, and sprouts grew into fire. The flames fought the pond’s mire, Waiting at the water’s bay, Forming fields to flaming pyre, And coating the clouds in gray.

But divine dust cannot decay. Divine dust cannot be hurt. Dirt stains the knees of those who pray, And God made Adam from the dirt. Among the waves, the woman rests, In the earth’s muddy chowder. Tears of paper fill her chest, Her soul swirling in gunpowder.

War

Megan Jensen

It seemed all this happened in a single moment. I thought maybe this war was something we could prevent. But the war created divides between our own bloodlines. Everywhere I step I’m now scared of landmines.

War has created unrealistic perceptions of the people we never met. There is no changing them now that they are already set.

It has created a darkness we never knew. It has made our united country divide into two.

In the land I see all its impurities. But a new day brings new possibilities.

The sun shines down on us with a promise of tomorrow. Maybe it will not all end with great sorrow

So even with all this hate and uncertainty. I hope one day we will find our happiness for eternity

Stars

Amie Schaeffer

I was thinking About stars And constellations

Which took my mind to the Perseids

Which brought me to you It is said we are made from the dust of stars What a romantic thought But—

When it is time for our star to burn out How do we find our way home

Greatest Creation

Valeria Méndez Concha

Photography

I’m going to be okay

Isabelle Allred

The day was quiet and peaceful. It could have been ordinary. The sun was about to set, glowing a rosy color. My father had been missing all day. He had written his phone password on an empty envelope on the table. I curled up in my bed and buried my face in my pillow, worried sick. I hoped wherever he was, he would come back soon. My father had usually left unannounced for a little while whenever he was upset, so I figured that happened. I wanted to make things right whenever he came home.

I had texted my mom about having my friends help look for him, but she told me to wait until she came home. I figured she had found him.

“Could you come down for a second please?” My mom had called out from downstairs. I figured he had come home and needed to talk to us. I opened the door and innocently asked, “Did you find Dad?” I ran downstairs and my mom ushered my sister and I to the living room couch.

It was like I knew what was coming next in my mind, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Dad has passed away,” My mom had finally uttered, her voice shaky. Everything around me turned black for a moment and I started to feel lightheaded. We couldn’t hold it together and started bursting into tears. It had felt like a bad dream. My sister hugged my mom, wailing in her arms. I slumped on the couch, staring at the floor and so desperately begging the cruelty of the universe to make it stop. Just make everything stop.

“He died peacefully, you know,” My mom stated softly. “In the car they found him in. There were a lot of trees nearby. He had hooked laughing gas to the car and fell asleep. He died around 6:30 this morning.”

It was comforting to know he had finally found peace from years of chronic pain. My father had struggled for years with back pain. His pain at the doctor’s was always rated an 8 or a 9. Even then, it still hurt knowing he was truly gone. It hurt even more knowing I could have seen him if I hadn’t stayed up late.

I felt like I might have been able to stop him. However, I knew nothing could have stopped this.

I couldn’t stop sobbing. It was impossible to hold it back. It felt so nauseating, numbing, and painful. My mind kept spiraling with worries about what my future would hold, and knowing I would have to spend my adult life entirely without my father. My anxieties were quickly interrupted as I jumped from hearing a loud knock at the door.

I was in denial. For a moment I had hope that it was him at the door; that he was finally coming home. My brain didn’t believe that he was really gone. I quickly opened the door.

I was met by a police officer, politely asking to speak with my mom about my dad’s death. That’s when I knew reality had sunk in.

I ran up to my room. All I wanted to do was rot in my bed, hoping that I would wake up from this awful nightmare. I had lost one of the most important people in my life. Someone who was kind to me. Someone who knew how to make me smile when I was sad. I needed him at that very moment, and I felt a mixture of rage and despair. I felt sad about the loss of my father, but I also felt anger toward my father’s cowardice. He was supposed to be a part of my life. There was a chance that they could have found out what was wrong with his upcoming MRI appointment. He purposefully took himself out of my life. I had felt remorse and extreme anger toward my father.

My phone buzzed. Normally I didn’t have the energy to respond to notifications, but I desperately needed to distract myself.

It was from my cousin. She had heard about it. Her mom had told her not to bother us since we needed privacy, but she knew me better than anyone. She was my best friend after all.

“Do you need a friend right now? You don’t have to talk about it, but if you’d like we can hang out and watch something.”

It was like my dad had helped me in that moment. He was no longer able to comfort me, so he sent someone who could.

I could hear the soft revving of her worn-out corolla and the soft pitter-patter

of the rain outside. When I got into the car, she asked me if I was alright, and I immediately broke down. She gently held my hand while she drove, and I stared out the window. She spoke softly and comfortingly.

I don’t remember much of the conversation while we drove. We mostly talked about what had happened and shared memories about my father. Memories about the time he pranked us with jalapeño chocolate. Memories of how he would always pick the best movies. Memories of how he would teach me how to dance. Memories of how the dogs would always snuggle him because he snuck them food. Memories of our last ever drive through Dog Canyon together through the heavy rain, and seeing a giant rainbow when the storm had passed.

I gazed outside at the gray, rainy clouds. Through the somber pockets of dullness and gray, there was a glorious rainbow. It was one of the clearest, biggest rainbows I had ever seen.

I knew it was his way of telling me things were going to be okay. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do without him, but whatever it was, I would be okay.

I’m going to be okay.

Gilded Oasis

Ben Hartvigsen

Photography

Flying Coach One Tuesday Afternoon

M. Anthony C.

There is so much economy in flight: the way a plane can skip over the lanes that cars clog on the ground; the way they, through shaking, loft themselves from earth; how they swallow us in small convenient rows, our limbs barely spilling on the crew. Pity, I didn’t conjure once in my thoughts the miracle of Icarus, just staring at my neighbor boomer, his wide-eyed grinning at tiny cars grown larger. Not once did I, with his coughing on me, think, as we flew arm by arm in giant wings feathered in aluminum and carbon fiber, at least we’re not too cozy with the sun.

On the Rim

Megan Lynne Jensen

Digital Art

Old Boy, Young Man

By Ladylarry

It’s hard to believe that someone could go through most of their life never coming into full contact with themselves, but Arnie Jenson has made a pretty good case for himself. After sustaining a traumatic brain injury in his early twenties that left him dependent on his wife, and in a state of having to relearn foundational skills like walking and talking, he didn’t waste much time with a clear head. When he recovered most of his losses, he picked up a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey in search of a familiar place. He has been searching ever since.

In his old age, he wakes up every morning and throws on his sweatpants, t-shirt, and sneakers. He might brush his teeth with a bar of soap and comb what is left of his hair with a toothbrush. His sweatpants are always twisted too far to one side and it’s not uncommon for his shoes to be on the wrong feet. He has a round bald spot on the top of his head that he covers with his CAT ballcap, if he’s able to find it. He would still be stumbling around with the smell of liquor on his breath and a large mug filled with three-fourths water and one-fourth whiskey if it weren’t for the series of seizures and strokes that were ascribed to his drinking. After his most recent stroke, he started leaning too far to the right and his left leg started dragging behind the right, always falling about a foot behind.

Arnie reached over the arm of his chair for the landline. He dialed his little brother’s number and started speaking before the first ring.

“Heya, ‘Ol’ Jim, I’ve been looking everywhere for you, wandering up and down these empty hallways ... Ya know my legs ain’t what they used to be. I feel just as unsteady today as I did when I was a sailor. It seems like just yesterday I only had one hand glued to a cane and now every limb I have is dependent on these handles and wheels. Hell, even the support this walker offers won’t get me around much longer.

“Gawh, Jim, everything changes. You used to stop by my place for your morning cup of coffee and bullshit with me a while, and it feels like ages since we stopped by to visit our parents with ol’ Claudia and Grace. Remember when the four of us would saddle up our horses and ride ‘em all the way from Riverton to visit our parents in West Jordan? We would show up for dinner, and after cleaning up we

would sit around the table playin’ poker, drinkin’ beer, and spittin’ a good line of bullshit. We oughta do that again sometime. ...

“Well, anyway Jim, I better get lookin’ around for ol’ Claudia, see if she’s ready to start up that old red truck of mine and head on down to West Jordan to visit the parents. Hell, maybe I’ll see you there, Jim.”

As Arnie hung up the phone, he heard Claudia sternly shout his name from across the room.

“Arnie!”

“Hey, there ya are ol’ dear! —”

“Arnie! Who are you talking to?”

“I just called up my brother. I was thinkin’ we could head down to West Jordan, visit the parents.”

“Arn, it is 3 in the morning. You need to come to bed.”

Arnie scratched his head and let out a nervous laugh, “I think I’ll find the keys to that old truck of mine and head to West Jordan. Are you comin’ with me?”

“No, Arn!” She said, tired and frustrated, “We are not going anywhere tonight. Take your shoes off and come to bed!”

“Are you mad at me?” Arnie asked, confused by the irritation in her voice.

Claudia didn’t answer immediately. She had every right to be angry with the man who had spent the majority of their marriage in a drunken stupor, destroying himself, but she chose to care for him through those years and she wouldn’t back out now. Her value and identity were tied to caring for her husband.

Claudia managed to compose herself, as she walked over to her rocking chair. She sat down and said, “I’m not mad at you, honey. Let’s just sit here a while, okay? We can’t go anywhere tonight.”

“Alright, Claud ... ” Arnie reached over to his side table for a pair of reading glasses and the red-bound phone book Claudia had made him. He began looking through the pages, “I better ring ol’ dad before we head over ... I can’t find his number. Could you dial him for me, Claud?”

“Honey, we can’t call them ... ” Claudia sighed, preparing to explain the reality once again, “or go over to their place. Your parents are in heaven.”

There was a short pause while Arnie tried to make sense of what she said, “You said they’re in heaven?”

“Yes, Arnie. They passed away years ago ... ”

“Hm.” Arnie went quiet for a moment, “Does my brother know? I should give him a call.”

“Jim had a heart attack, honey. He is with your parents and his wife, Grace. We can’t call him.”

The more she explained, the less he understood. He paused and stared into the distance for a moment, then said, “Gawh Claudia, I don’t know what’s goin’ on.

The phone don’t ring, my truck won’t start, and my brother doesn’t come by anymore ... ”

“I’m sorry, honey ... ” Claudia paused, and with a glazed look in her eyes, she said dispassionately, “This isn’t how I thought we would spend our retirement together.”

They were silent for a few moments. Claudia forced the fantasy of her ideal retirement aside, and decided to make an attempt at getting Arnie back to bed for the third time that night. “How about we head to bed now, honey?”

“Good idea, Claud. It’s that bedroom at the end of the hall?”

“Yes, on the left. Take your shoes off and I’ll help you to bed.”

Arnie smiled, blowing a kiss to his wife, “I sure love you, Claudia.”

“I love you too, Arnie.”

Wonders of nature

Valeria Méndez Concha

Photography

•Staff Pick• kick flip!

Peyton Pryor

Photography

Weeping Rock

Lalo Lemus

Dripping and dripping through this rusted rock Lay cool crystalline water harbored in a stone well. Green algae clinging to the fertile cliffs.

I thought She may be weeping because of us, as Eve wept when she cradled Abel’s corpse. Or that the tears fell because of the scars we had left Her.

But She has been weeping much much longer than us, and when the droplets struck my forehead, as I sat nestled in the crooked crevice of wet rock

I knew that these tears were not of disappointment, but like those that my mother shed on my first day of school.

The Canyon’s Grip

Roxy Sylvester

The water rushed over Lina’s face again. Her foot wedged in the rocks deep below the water and too murky to even see what held her down. The group had left her leaning against two logs so she wouldn’t drown as she waited in the cold pool. The sun was setting, and her dread and fear turned into acceptance that she would not survive the night. Birds fluttered by startling her out of the daze she was drifting into. Lina turned her head upwards to the sky and saw the bright blue sky turn darker. Tears streamed down her face as she grieved her short life and sudden downfall. A seemingly perfect day had gone horribly wrong and would tarnish her group forever. How could she give up after seeing the haunted look in her father’s eyes? The water was so cold.

The day was bright and the group bumbled through the canyon with little worry. Everyone was experienced and well-equipped. A narrow slot full of winding pools was not a concern or something she ever thought might kill her. She followed her group as they tentatively slid into the pools and swam across, never touching their feet against the ground below the deep water. She asked, “how deep is it?” and jumped before the answer returned to her.

Jolts like lightning sprung up from her toes into her ankle and she cried out. Her face hadn’t emerged from the water yet, so water filled her mouth. Terror and pain shrieked through her as her face bobbed up at the surface. Her father looked back with worried terror in his eyes. Little did he know that his worst nightmare was happening. She was certain her ankle had just broken and the icy water was the only thing keeping her awake. She gingerly pulled her leg upwards. Nothing. Her foot was stuck under something, and the pain was intense.

The group seemed to know that something was seriously wrong. The tension in the air caused one girl to burst into tears. She had a bad feeling earlier and had fought the anxiety back all day. The leader, Greg, gathered the group together to make a plan as Lina’s father desperately dove under the water, hoping he would find and move the obstacle trapping his daughter. Every time he surfaced, he gasped for air and sobbed, hyperventilating harder and harder. Lina cried to him, “Please, you have to stop, you’re going to kill yourself!” Greg pulled him through the pool to the sandy rock the rest of the group resided upon. Lina

couldn’t hear anything, but she knew what she wanted. To be left there. “If I am going to die here, I need to do it alone,” she morbidly thought to herself. Greg swam back to Lina, “we’re going to finish the canyon as fast as possible and get you help. We will make you comfortable until then,” Greg reassured her. Lina knew this wasn’t true, but she didn’t need to sour the spirit of the group any more than her accident already had. Two of the men, she barely even knew them, wedged two logs in front of, and behind her. She leaned against them and was relieved to not need to doggy-paddle to stay upright. Lina looked at her father, and gave him a weak smile. “This will be a hell of a story when we get home, right Dad?” He grabbed her hand and squeezed as hard as she ever felt. He said nothing as he turned around. Lina knew he was fighting every inch of his being to not stay with her, but she had protested him staying.

The sun was nearly down. Lina was in shock and had been isolated for hours now, no one else had come down the canyon behind her. They had been the last group through the canyon for the day. The itching thought that the next group tomorrow morning was going to find her body made her skin crawl and her stomach nauseous. She had no appetite despite being left with food and water. The canyon was so quiet. The pool she stood in was barely moving now that it was just her. Even the birds that had brought her back to reality earlier that day had all disappeared as the sunlight dissipated behind the canyon walls. Lina felt a sort of relief as the night washed over. She was so tired and it felt like the earth was coaxing her to her final sleep. She traced her finger across the surface of the water causing it to ripple outwards. The temptation to sleep was creeping to the forefront of her mind, “go under, don’t worry, you need to rest.” Lina gently tipped her hair backward into the water again. Goosebumps coated her body as the icy water kissed the back of her head.

Lina remembered the first time she swam through cold water like this. It was a day just like this, and the cool water was refreshing after hiking in the heat. The heat of the day was just a memory now, and the cold was sucking her in. The foot that throbbed below the surface had gone numb. She had completely forgotten why she was there. She wiggled her legs and the water around her splashed high, wetting her face. The log she had been leaning against was wet, and cold, and scraped her chin as she attempted to rest against it. She rocked against it trying to rotate the sharpened creases in the wood away. As suddenly as her first plunge, she felt her full body smash into the water. The log had slipped.

Lina wildly swung her arms, attempting to paddle upwards to the surface. Her eyes were wide open but everything was black beneath the water. In her hypothermic, shocked state her mind convinced her that there were other bodies below the surface. Cold, swollen, drifting bodies stained her mind’s eye. Lina was so terrified now that she cried out as she broke through the water’s surface to the cold night air. She yanked on her foot harder than she had before. The pain blinded her vision, ripping the horrifying images of the dead from her mind, and she slipped below the surface again. Lina knew she needed to calm down if she was going to survive, but the drowning and claustrophobic feelings were overpowering.

She stopped struggling. She held her breath and bobbed back up. With her final breaths, she sang. Her cries in the wind echoed through the slot canyon. She didn’t sing any words, just howls of pain and anguish. Every heartbreak, every scraped knee, every tear she cried, all belted from the depths of the canyon, as well as her soul. As she finished the last note of her somber song, she retreated under the water. The cold black water blanketed her. Lina had closed her eyes but opened them up and looked up through the water. The moon was grazing the edge of the canyon wall. She watched the moon rise completely as her vision faded to black.

Waterfall

Claire Nicholas Photography

La Poesía

Lalo Lemus

Con solo una pluma

Se he creado un pajaro

Que vuela en el papel

Como un cielo blanco puro

Freefall

Gabriel Zavala

(Trigger Warning: Strong Language)

Have you ever fallen from the roof of a skyscraper? I have. Well, I mean I’m falling right now. The city lights are shooting upward like fireworks. My hands are reaching toward the sky hoping I’ll grab on to a roaring airplane passing nearby.

But it’s a pipe dream, really.

Reality is, I’m plunging directly on Second Avenue on some unlucky bystander. I can already imagine the years of therapy they’ll have to attend after watching some falling fucker splattering on the street like a broken egg.

“It all happened so fast!” they’ll say.

I’d tell them it’s the slowest moment of your goddamn life. When people told me your life flashes in your eyes before you die, I thought it was just a bunch of hippie bullshit. But these last few seconds feel longer than the last 30-something years of my life. Don’t ask me for a specific age, I’m falling out of the sky for God’s sake! Ungrateful bitch.

The wind is blowing me around like a rag doll. I hate to say but it feels great, well I mean I feel alive. Feels like I’m shooting the greatest heroin on earth in these last seconds. Feels like I’m motherfuckin’ Superman.

I know I sound like a jackass right now, but if you knew the full story, you’d understand why I’m about to die.

It’s not my fault. You think a guy like me just climbs a skyscraper and falls off like some tourist idiot, give me a break.

Here’s the truth.

I was pushed.

My mother pushed me off the roof of “her” precious pot of gold, Weiner Corporations. I mean you’ve probably heard of us. Who hasn’t? Unless you’ve

been living under a rock in Manhattan.

Second Avenue is inching closer to my demise. But no matter, this is important.

I’ll spare you the boring details about myself. Never married, no kids, no future, and in a second, no life. Just a man with a business degree from NYU who’s been murdered by his mother.

You ever heard of the Jocasta Complex? When a mother is so in love with her son she wants to sleep with him? We’re the complete opposite of that, she’s always hated me. I guess you could say we’ve always cared more about the profits of Weiner Corporations than each other. Thanksgiving is just fucking wonderful.

The only reason Elizabeth Weiner had a son was to have an heir for the family business. “Purebloods,” she called it, like I’m a goddamn poodle or something.

I’m still replaying the last moments we exchanged just now. She said she needed to talk, somewhere free from the disarray of secretaries and corporate asskissers.

“Roof. Now,” she told me. It was urgent, it always was.

I trudged up the building stairs, biting my lip already to whatever she’d berate me for.

On the roof, she stood arms crossed facing the city we–she owned. A breeze gracefully combed her thick black locks. That impeccable gold dress she wore was just another reminder of how she held herself higher than me or anyone else.

She turned, and I was shocked to see her makeup wet with tears.

Now, this is a woman I’ve never seen cry, so I didn’t know what to say. But she did all the talking, and I did all the disregarding.

“Do you know what it means to run an empire, Sam? It means knowing what’s happening at all times. Even the tiniest crack in the system can erode the entire business. It takes a true empress to sacrifice what she loves most to protect the people around her. The city watches, Sam. I watch. You must take me for some foolish old woman to not think I know what’s happening on every street in this city of gold. And I know you know when there’s a flaw in the system, it must be corrected,” she spat.

I studied her sobbing face, confused. I admit it was satisfying seeing her in pain, not like it ever amounted to half the shit she said to me. My personal favorite being: “stop slouching, you premature neonate!”

Elizabeth caressed my face. She’d always hated the idea of me. My mother couldn’t wrap her stubborn head around someone else running her company after her. How dare someone else make a buck postmortem that wasn’t for her?

“My own son has betrayed me,” she started. “I know what you’ve done, you petulant little snake.”

She’s referring to me leaking a tip to the FBI about her insider trading. It would’ve been perfect. Get her arrested, so I can step up as CEO.

I took a few steps back as she stomped toward me, fury swelling her wrinkled face. Her veins on her face bulged greater than before.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied. I don’t even feel guilty for what I did. In fact, I’m still upset I didn’t get away with it.

She prowled toward me, her lips twitching.

My heel hit the edge of the roof, and my heart leapt with a cold sweat. I couldn’t show her my fear though.

My blood is about to splash on the street like a goddamn Picasso painting. I wish I could watch myself break into a million little pieces.

My mother’s last words are colder than the hard cement my face now grazes. Her face pale and close to mine, I smell her breath. Cheap tobacco, I know those goddamn Seneca cigarettes. “You’ve always been falling, Sam. I’m just giving you that extra push.”

A piercing swarm of screams erupts. Maybe it’s voices, screeching tires, or an ambulance. In New York, you never really know what’s happening around here, do you—?

My body explodes.

Holly and Carnations

Geas Rua

Holly sat in her favorite spot, calmly sipping her morning coffee in her rocking chair on the worn wood porch. She felt the warm rays from the far off red dwarf on her skin. It sat low on the man-made horizon just a bit smaller than the Earth’s sun would be. The star’s rise made everything more red and orange than it would on other planets. The color complimented the large stretches of green fields that made up her section of the biosphere.

The space station’s rotation created an early morning for her work.

She looked up through the massive dome of the biosphere. The minerals and gases of the nearby nebula barely moved from her vantage point. Gravity pulled them together into a dance, birthing stars and planets.

The rocking chair made a small creak as Holly leaned forward and stood. Holly drank the last of the now lukewarm coffee from her favorite carnation print mug. Her eyes caught the empty rocking chair next to hers. She quickly looked away and stepped into the kitsch. The synthetic wood floor let out its own creak as she cleaned the coffee pot and mug. Synthetic wood felt and looked similar, but Holly found it creaked a lot more. She had never quite trusted the manufactured planks.

The sound of washing her dishes filled the otherwise lonely kitchen.

She placed the pot and mug into their home in the cupboard. Holly stretched her back with a small groan. Her spine had never been the same since a nasty fall while climbing on planet Crander… or was it the battle on Olmeron? She had lost track.

She straightened, strolling past the faded pictures on the walls. She stopped to look at a picture of Ana climbing the ladder into her scouting ship. A cocky grin on her face, ready to explore the universe.

A sigh escaped her as she moved to grab her gardening gloves and tools from their place by the door. Her worn straw hat went on her head as she stepped out the door. Its wide brim sheltered her face from the star’s friendly rays. She gazed over her garden, a wave of pride and nostalgia passing over her. Long rows of flowers made a vivid procession. She stepped through the rows checking for

weeds or any bugs that may have found their way from the forest enclosure on the other side of the dome. She stopped by her vegetables. Holly found a couple of determined weeds had made the journey to her parsnips. She stooped to clear out the pesky invaders.

“Sorry my friends, I admire your candor, but this is not your place to grow.” She placed the weeds in her box to be disposed of on the compost pile. With a nod she grabbed her watering can from the box. She marched through the rows, making sure all her plants awoke to a healthy drink. As she was tending to the carnations, noting the tops had opened and were ready for harvest, a small cart robot pulled up. It was one of the smaller models, made up of a set of wheels, small antenna on its front, and a storage bin on its back.

It spoke in its tinny electric voice. “Good morning, Captain Martinez. Do you have any plants to donate today?”

“Please do not call me Captain. I gave up command three years ago. I have told the system admin to log my request. I am just Holly Martinez now.”

“Protocol states you must be honored for your contributions to human exploration. It is respectful.”

The bot swiveled on its wheels to emphasize the point.

Holly sighed. The new captain loved his protocol. “Fine, I have some carnations ready, and the carrots should be grown as well. Give me one moment.”

“Yes, Captain Martinez!”

The cart bot rolled behind Holly as she began carefully snipping the carnations and pulling the carrots. It ran into her leg as it zipped about–she waved it back with a pained look. The cart bot zipped back with a small whiny beep. Holly could have sworn its antenna sagged. Holly rolled her eyes as she gathered the harvest and placed it gently into a tray on the back of the cart bot.

“That should be all for now. Thank you for the help, little bot.” The bot zipped around again, the flowers and carrots shifting as it moved.

“One more thing, what is the date today? The date on Earth, I mean.”

“The date is March 21st, 2741. Is there anything else I can assist you with,

Captain?”

Holly’s breath caught as she heard the date. She’d almost forgotten. Holly’s voice wavered as she looked down at the bot.

“Let me have one of those carnations back please.” Holly selected a bright red carnation from the cart and stepped back.

The cart bot zipped away as it said farewell. Holly winced as it called her captain again.

Holly strode back to the house, tossing the weeds in the compost on the way. The bitter, earthy smell of the compost filled her nose as she went back inside. She set her hat and gardening box in their proper place. The house seemed dimmer–more forlorn now. She placed a hand on one of the hanging pictures. It was a photo of her and Ana swimming at the beach on Planet Viniri. Flowers adorned their hair, Ana’s tan skin shined in the sun. She shifted her gaze to the next picture. Ana stood in her uniform during her promotion ceremony. Holly closed her eyes for a moment then went to her desk, setting the carnation down as she did. She opened the lowest drawer and pulled out a stack of postcards. She looked at each and ran her hand over the writing. The aged cardstock felt comforting in her hand.

She traced each letter slowly and intentionally, as if she could pull the memories from the words and into her veins.

After a time, she set the postcards aside and grabbed a fresh one from the drawer. On the card sat a woman wearing a dark dress on the beach. She sat in the wake, her dress clinging to her as she enjoyed the water. At the top was printed: “Summer Greetings.” The message was simple and beautiful. There was no “Wish you were here.” No silly “Greetings from Nowheresville.” Ana would love this one.

Holly settled back with a slow breath. She picked up a pen from a small cup full of pens and pencils. She began to write, carefully choosing each word. Some time

passed before she finished, the red dwarf was high on the dome as she left her house, postcard in hand.

The transport ready with its doors open, she sat inside and spoke her destination.

“Biosphere section 3 please.”

The transport confirmed her destination and slowly lifted off. She looked out the window as the many farms and gardens of the biosphere blurred underneath her. The green fields below here shifted into evenly spaced forests. Finally, the transport landed with a small thud.

“Will you require a return trip, Captain Martinez?”

“Yes, please wait for me. I should not be long.”

“Confirmed. I will wait for you, Captain.”

Holly stepped out of the transport, the red dwarf making her squint. The rows of memorials stretched out before her. Her knees felt weak. She walked the familiar path, the rows seeming identical, but she knew the way. She stopped in front of a small grave. The white synthetic marble gleamed in the fading light. She knelt in front of the memorial. Holly’s vision clouded as tears began to spill down her cheeks. She laid the carnation gently on the stone. Next to the flower she placed the postcard. Her fingers traced the engraving on the headstone:

In loving memory of

First Lieutenant Ana Martinez.

Beloved Wife, Explorer, Hero, and Friend.

Lost but never forgotten.

Sobbing overtook Holly as she wrapped her arms around herself.

After some time, she heard the transport’s engines whir to life. It was waiting for her. She stood silently, wiped her eyes, and left the grave. As she turned, the postcard she had placed so carefully against the stone fell, covering the red carnation, revealing her letter to the fading sun and stars.

My dearest, Ana,

It’s hard to believe it’s already been three years.

I miss you every day.

The carnations in your garden are blooming today, so I donated them.

I know you would have wanted everyone to enjoy them.

But it felt right to bring you at least one.

I hope wherever you are, there are flowers and sun and the stars you love.

I know wherever it is, you’ll be finding amazing things and meeting extraordinary people.

I hope when I get there, you can show them all to me.

I can’t say it enough how much I miss you.

I searched for so long and couldn’t find you.

I am sorry I lost you, sorry that I failed to find you back then.

You are the greatest thing to happen to me.

I love you so, so much.

Happy Anniversary.

Your wife, Holly.

Natural Grow

Valeria Méndez Concha

Photography

My Mental Health Today Be Like ...

Daniel D. Baird

Adventure 1: While singing and dancing to “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor

A single raptor soared high above as the feather capped knight emerged from the scented trees onto the flowered meadow. His golden armor glinted in the radiant sunlight as he posed for a moment, taking in the gorgeous view of snow-capped mountains towering above and the gingerbread village far below before drawing his mighty sword. Its mirrored surface flashed his smile back at him as he turned the glistening sword back and forth admiring himself. He drew a deep breath then with a hearty battle cry, he plunged into the massive cave before him. His footsteps thundered as he swirled his extravagant sword above his plumed helm and charged at the imposing dragon.

Hiss and fire against gleaming steel. Again and again, the mighty sword whirled around and struck at the looming dragon. Roaring and rearing, the mighty beast blasted at the stalwart knight with fiery breath. Again and again, the shining knight lunged with his massive sword, pummeling the snarling dragon. Whack! Whack!

The burly knight gave two mighty strokes with his brilliant sword and the evil dragon crashed to the ground, twitching, then silent. The heroic knight placed one shiny sabaton on the dark dragon’s maw and raising his lustrous sword high let out his victory yell. His pose was awesome! He was dazzling! He had won!

Adventure 2: While listening in my dark room to the lyrics of hello darkness my old friend ... (“Sound of Silence” cover by Pentatonix)

Stench and steam twisted upwards from the scorched ground, and dirty sweat trickled down the weary knight’s face. He stumbled suddenly, the mind-numbing weariness playing tricks on his eyes—shadows seemed fiendish. He wrenched at his heavy sword, again and again then falling sidewise as it resisted his grip. The ghoulish light seemed to exhale over him from the jagged mouth of the putrid cave. For a moment he thought he was going to be swallowed, but no! With a curdling scream he jerked the cumbersome sword free and floundered to his feet.

He heard it then, a raspy hissing, a slimy slither scraping on the scummy ground. Dull echoes resounded through the murky cave as something came closer. Smoke seared his eyes, and with a sluggish clunk he lowered the barred visor. He held the wavering sword out in front of him with both hands as he tried to peer through the burning heat to find the hulking basilisk.

Bam!

Something slammed into him sending him spinning. Pain. He only knew pain. Again, something rammed into him, but now it was piercing, sharp, agonizing. He screamed until his lungs burned. He tried to crawl away from the thing that caused him torture. Again, he tried. Searing, ragged breaths. The descent of darkness. All is black, all is silent, again.

Bright Snoot

Aubrey Nadauld

Acrylic Paint

Origins of Philosophy

Lalo Lemus

In a park, on those gray January days, I saw a group of ten-year-old intellectuals in a haze of smoke hold their empty fingers to their mouths, inhale, and flick invisible ashes into the dirty snow while they discussed if it was categorical imperatives that prevented them from buying cigarettes.

Sour grapes

Lynx Starr

It’s the end of school

The time at the end of spring that we still call summer

Four children at home,

Caring for each other as their parents work through the day

My sister just got home

I haven’t seen her in a few weeks

My parents said she was “sick”

In the mental health unit of my first health class I realized what they meant

She complained about the quesadillas

Dry and crunchy, without enough cheese

The beds weren’t soft, the blankets were all scratchy I ask her about the people there

She changes the subject.

Krystina’s finally home

My sisters know something I don’t

She’s crying in her room

I’m not allowed inside

A kind lady comes to our house to talk to her

Her name is Michelle

My sister’s drinking water packets and nibbling on sour grapes

I haven’t seen her eat anything else.

I sit at the computer and watch YouTube to pass summer break

I run and find her to show her a funny clip

I hope it will cheer her up

It’s the first time she’s smiled at me in months

I’m seven years old and grinning back at her

Even if I can tell it is just as forced as Mom’s when I first asked her where Krystina went.

I don’t know what made my sister’s head sick

But I’m not going to stop until I find the Advil for her fever

Candied Deer

Axel Polson

Zine, digital

Indecisive

Chantel Scartozzi

I’m sure of what I want until it’s handed to me. It gives me a surge of insanity. Am I the crazy one or is this blasphemy? What can a girl do with just a fantasy? The struggle is real and the need is more. Standing in the middle of my own front door. Clasping onto safety but I wanna explore. Silver platters being offered but I’m still not sure. Do I chose me and move on with my life, Or do I sit down and be a good wife? The options all feel like a double edged knife, But if I don’t choose soon I won’t get to decide. The clock is ticking as time stands still. I know my heart’s pounding but I just can’t feel. Is this called “shock”? It doesn’t feel real. If time travel is a thing I’d be down for that thrill.

Reflection.

Mackenzie Oligario

This reflection, Looked back at me today. It was, My reflection. I blinded myself just To avoid these hollow eyes. When they looked back, I saw a twinkle of light shine through. As I fully, truly, and graciously gave My reflection the chance To look back, and see me, To see me now, My heart sang. She cried out,

I care!

And I love!

So goddamn much, Even my body knows! I felt it in my soul, The first unravel in this messy ball of year. A breath of fresh air, After our enmeshment In this raggedy, Hateful net.

I felt the sun hit my skin, Air flows through my lungs, As I finally accept The reflection in the mirror.

I am not you, I couldn’t be you.

For I care, And I love, For too much

To ever resemble you.

Two Faced

Megan Lynne Jensen

Photography

He Liked Her. Not Me.

Megan Jensen

He liked her long hair

So, I cut it

I cut off the hair that held the memories of us together He liked her soft hands

So, I made them rough I buried the soft skin underneath calluses that can hold me up He liked her music

So, I listen to different songs I listen to songs that let me feel more alive than she ever did I change the things he liked about her I change.

I realize he always liked her I realized he never loved me They say to be loved is to be known And he never got to know her I realize.

I realize he was holding her back I changed into who I was all along.

Sitting in My Silence

Benny Johnson

the sands of time are so sticky how did we fall right through them? i don’t listen to the aching in my bones i can’t remember the last time I heard you speak it’s a memory that I play over and over in my mind until I can no longer remember what you looked like either it’s an old tape that finally gives in after what seems like its millionth play what did we do to lose those long and simple summer days?

Stage 4

Tusi Aiono

My heart began to race. The feelings of twists and turns took over my stomach as if I was on the downward drop of a rollercoaster. My breathing staggered as I hesitantly read the words of my mother’s text confirming that the results were in from her oncologist: “I have stage four metastatic stomach cancer.” I immediately felt the sensation of tears flowing down my face. I sat there in utter disbelief reading over the text again and again to ensure I read it correctly. Every possible emotion raced through my mind. My chest became heavier with every scenario played across my inner mind’s stage until eventually my heart sank. I was completely broken and speechless. There were no words I could utter or thought I could create to reduce the impact. A world without a Nanah for my daughters had never before crossed my mind. The tears began to stream down more rapidly as my mind raced through so many emotions, thoughts, what-ifs, and whys. My fear of the worst possible outcome has now become the reality. It was as if, for a small moment in time, there was no color in the world. Everything had lost its beauty.

As my mind finally stopped spinning, I sat down on the couch with my wife. My sadness and confusion quickly turned to anger.

“Why the hell wasn’t this caught sooner?! I mean, its not like she hasn’t been to three or four different specialists in the last year!”

“I don’t know, love.”

“What the hell were those doctors looking at this whole time?! My mom goes to the ER for the who-knows-how-many times and they just now find something?! This is bullshit!”

“It is.”

“All those CT scans and X-rays! All the diet recommendations and prescription pills when this whole time it was cancer?! What the hell does that even mean!”

My wife struggled to answer my seemingly impossible questions. She knew my questions didn’t make sense. She understood that I was trying to grasp the reality of what just happened and that my lashing out was my poor attempt in coping. After not getting much of any answers, I began to ask questions to myself. What

does someone do with this news? How else am I supposed to react? What happens now? Do I need to call my siblings? The room that was once filled with sounds of weeping and the grunts of anger now fell silent. I collapsed into my wife’s chest. She wrapped her arms around as best she could and just held me. I could hear her rapid heartbeat and feel every deep breath. Her outward composure did not reflect what was going on inside. She did that for me. One of us needed to be strong in that moment and it certainly wasn’t going to be me.

My exposure to cancer in general had been very limited. Other than my grandmother who passed away five years ago at the age of 79, I had not been close to someone who had undergone extensive treatment and radiation. This felt surreal and impossible to be true. This was my mother. My children’s grandmother. This couldn’t be real. I knew cancer was a real thing and affected millions of people, but it could never happen to my mom. She was perfect. There was no one sweeter and more kind than my mom. No way this real.

I quickly decided to round up my belongings and be with my mother. I could only imagine how she was feeling and wanted her to know I was there to support her with whatever she needed. While she was waiting on more results from all the tests that were done, the day turned gloomy and dark. I looked out the window to see a snow storm starting to brew, which only made my heart heavier and my body more anxious to get to my mother in the hospital.

The thermometer in my car read 16 degrees but I was unaffected. I knew it was freezing from the visibility of every deep breath but I couldn’t bother to turn on the heater. Nothing on the radio seemed to fit my mood so I drove in silence. The passing billboards seemed to be without text. Every other car on the road was driving too slow for me. I fought back tears as I weaved through traffic until I finally arrived.

As I walked into the hospital, the smell of hand sanitizer and stale air filled my lungs. Sweet music could be heard from the man playing on the grand piano purposely placed in the center of the entrance. I walked around aimlessly trying to find my way to the elevators to and get to the 6th floor. The tears kept trying to fill my eyes but I forced myself to stop. My mom didn’t need to see her son crying. She needed someone to be strong, and that was the least I could be for her. I finally reached the correct floor and spoke to the nurses to check in. I was greeted well and felt a small sense of peace knowing that my mother was

finally getting the help she so desperately needed by these nurses. The halls felt enormous and were unusually quiet. B603. Found my mom’s room. I closed my eyes, took deep breath and quietly whispered to myself “be strong”.

I softly knocked on the door and slowly pushed it open. There she was. My angel of a mother. I looked around the room and after seeing all of the machines and tubes that strong presence I aimed to be slowly started to melt away. My mom looked at me with those same eyes I had known my entire life and, with the little bit of strength she had, lifted up her arms and beckoned me to come. My knees instantly lost their strength and I collapsed onto the hospital bed. Through the sobbing and wailing, I said the only words I could mutter, “we are going to fight and we are going to win.”

Imaginary friend.

Mackenzie Oligario

Resides in my conscience, I call him “dad.” The quiet hum, To continue on, Buries my uneasy mind. I grab my bedazzled, pink journal, And do exactly that. Write down every moment, every thought. Every glimpse of hope, Every agonizing despair. Until I scratch the itch, I cannot see clear. I cannot continue on.

The reflection of you, In every mirror, my hazel eyes lay a gaze. The solemn throb in this beating heart, A sigh of comfort. Maybe, I was young, Maybe, I was naive, Maybe, I was fascinated with inspiration. Yet that familiar face engraved in my memory wasn’t so scary, I know you. Or so, I could have recalled. Then you turned grey, Lost your glasses, And we buried you. Suddenly disfigured. Now, I can’t seem to remember your name. The unbearable ache of unfamiliarity settled in the pit of my stomach, Exactly as you.

Now,

My greatest companion inhabits my long-term memory.

Unfamiliar to me, Like a stranger in the grocery store. I no longer know your story, I no longer know your pain. I befriended the heroic, youthful, and imaginative version of the man I plead you to be. When true colors are shown, My face falls pale, Mirrors turn grey. Then you become A distant, imaginary friend.

Mother’s Journey

Aiden Jones

Mixed Media

Sonnet in which it snows on April 3

Lynn Kilpatrick

How is this Spring? The sloggy snow, the slow creep of traffic, the students drifting in, one by one, their faces windows that show my feelings: fatigue, pain, dread. They ask, Lynn, when will this endless snow, deep and gray, end? I want to tell them, look, winter is long, spring too short. A life unspools this way. The trick is to look beyond, go wrong, Distract yourself with flowers, coffee, light. Adopt the Danish ritual of hygge. Embrace the dark, revel in what might Go wrong or right. No need to choose. Hug a Dog or friend, anyone will do. Then do What you have to do to make it through.

Nostalgia: Collective Writing of Student & Staff of Anamnesis

Nostalgia is a feeling of how things used to be in your life. We all know the feeling. It’s reminiscing on old times, like the people, places, and things. Certain triggers can bring on this feeling. Just by smelling, seeing, feeling, tasting, or hearing something you can be transported to your past. Longing for how things used to be.

Nostalgia is a very relevant word this year for Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine. This is because it’s our 25th anniversary! We had the opportunity to look over our past issues and see how this literary and art magazine of SLCC has grown. It has become so much more than it started out to be. Some might look at previous issues and see a time capsule of some sort. I think our collective pieces give you insight into how we might have felt about this edition. And it might let you see how we feel and see Nostalgia too.

Nostalgia

Valeria Méndez Concha

20 years ago, I was born 15 years ago, my little brother was born 10 years ago, I broke my hand, and the side effects would last for a lifetime 5 years ago, I started to doubt what I was waiting to do for the rest of my life

Growing is a process we all go through As well as the choices we all must choose

We learn to appreciate what we have And the importances of leaving our mark

On a world that changed all the time

To be remember or to be forgotten

Is something we all must think about And Folio gives you that chance. 25 years have passed, and Folio is still around Allowing students to leave their mark

On a world that changes all the time Folio has change and that is not a lie As everything changes for good or bad Transition is always hard but there are always better results when tried Folio has showed that as they transition from essays to art 25 years have passed, and Folio is still around, improving every year so you can leave your mark So, what are you waiting for? Come and enjoy us now.

Nostalgia for 1999?!

Daniel D. Baird

Folio published its first issue, volume 1, issue 1 in spring of 1999. It was introduced as “A Journal of Essays by Students at Salt Lake Community College, South City Campus.” At that time, I was in graduate school at the University of Oregon.

It was a big year for me academically. I had just completed my coursework and next up were the qualifying examinations.

Oh, those qualifying examinations. They were three tests administered over a three week period, each take-home test lasting the duration of 24 hours. Each examination consisted of a question concerning a national literature that I had studied: Chinese, Japanese, or French.

I took the Japanese examination last, having not yet read all of the required Japanese texts by the time the examination period started!

The weekend before my first examination my computer froze. After several unsuccessful hours at trying to fix the [insert some not so nice words] Windows 95 operating system, I decided in order to preserve my sanity I simply needed to purchase a new computer, which I did by draining my bank account and maxing out my credit card (and probably borrowing some money from my parents as well). I managed to get the computer up and running before the first examination

started. By the end of the third and final examination I was a wreck and had insomnia, which lasted many months after that nightmare was over.

Ugh. But I passed!

Then there were to two language examinations. I was able to waive the Chinese examination since I already held a master’s degree in Chinese; I barely squeaked by on my French examination! Now don’t expect me to understand French today—1999 was a long time ago.

In the fall of 1999, I created my dissertation committee, the four professors who gleefully would oversee my dissertation and who would determine whether or not I would get my doctorate. (By the way, at this time a friend of mine shared with me how he had failed his dissertation oral defense. Very inspiring.)

By Christmas they had approved of my dissertation topic (the first of several before I settled on my final topic) and I embarked on the final leg of my journey to becoming Doctor Baird. At least that is what I thought. After writing 100 pages on my dissertation I gave it to my advisor to look over. She said, “That’s nice. Now start over.” Oh my. I went into a depression that took several months to recover from. I couldn’t even look at a book or the computer. But eventually I dragged myself back to it and six years later, yep it took me another six years, I finished my dissertation and graduated with a PhD in Comparative Literature.

I am sure that publishing their essays in the inaugural issue of Folio was exciting for those SLCC students. They even may have nostalgic memories of 1999. For me it was a very different experience.

Nostalgia

Benny Johnson

The past feels like a fuzzy blur Made of a million small moments Seeming so meaningless but all coming together in the end

Shaping you, Your outlook, Your world

The common mindset of a generation

Represented through everything we do

Everything we create

Everything we dream

A collective community built up of fleeting thoughts and shared ideas

Support and relation

Important now more than ever

A freeze-frame preservation of our thoughts, Hopes,

Aspirations

A stand-still snapshot in the ever-swirling waters of time

Nostalgia of Folio

Megan Jensen

Novelties created

Obscure artists we savor

Seeing how words are dictated

Adhering to dreams for later

Lingering to ideas that are translated

Glimpses taper

I nner thoughts being dilated

Aging paper

Occasion that’s deliberated

Foundations are celebrated

Flipping through pages of memories

Observing details

Lines creating art with ease

I maginative ideas prevail

Oriented perfectly for coming centuries

Do You Remember?

Gabriel Zavala

Do you remember our voices?

We played with words like toys

Our pens burned paper like wildfires Pitch black ink coated our tongues

Do you remember our faces? They hid us in dark silent pages We kept our likeness secret Our stories live in forgotten cases

Do you remember our names?

Frozen behind forlorn frames, “Oh Romeo, oh Romeo”

Do you remember Folio? If you cannot hear us, Read what we have said

Thinking About Work

Abraham Smith

My work bestows to me a shared office To gather notes is my regular task

That gum-stain’d desk permits my mood: listless Often, I bear on my face bleak a mask It is not true; my task is most precious!

I must get to work. No room for delay Manage each mark with care fastidious! I cannot bear silent, broken dismay For on each note, you find again a dream Whose author paid all skill, their entire time To make that thought a beautiful seam In this the lively tapestry sublime I gather these notes, think not my mood low These dreams are worth our work in Folio

Nostalgia

Ben Hartvigsen

“I have realized that the past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is.” —Alan Watts

It’s an odd thing to wake up every morning in what was your childhood house. For the first eight years of my life, along with the last two, this small duplex has been my home. I sleep now in the room that was previously my parents’, sharing it with my wife, our bed placed on the wall opposite to where theirs was. The kitchen cabinets haven’t been changed, their yellow facades having faded to the shade of piss I see in the same toilet I first threw up in.

The apartment is just different enough that the home of my childhood is now hidden behind the veneer of the new, but I can still see it if I squint. I see it early in the morning and late at night, when the light can’t illuminate the rooms so clearly. I see it when my parents or siblings come to visit, sitting in the same rooms as they did in the past. I see it when I get scared, when I feel as small as I was as a child. Things may look different in layout, in color, in relative size, but it is still the same house.

I walk the streets I used to bike as a kid. The streetlights seemed brighter then, the days longer, the heat not so violent. I cut through the alleys I would race my friends down before skidding to a stop just before they connected to the street, cars cutting short our runway, stopping us before we took off into the sky.

I pass by the house where I fell down and badly skinned my knees, the kind old woman who lived there taking me in and helping me wash and bandage the bloody joints. She doesn’t live there anymore, it’s now occupied by a couple with two Teslas sitting in the driveway, gray bodies reflecting harsh sunlight into my eyes.

My dog now sniffs the tree in front of my neighbors that I would get yelled at for climbing, told it was dangerous to go so high. “Come down,” they’d shout. “You’re going to break your neck.”

I never fell. I was invincible, skinned knees notwithstanding.

Twenty five years of life. Twenty five years bookended by the same location.

Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine also turned twenty five this year. By some stroke of fate, I chose this past year to return to my higher education after years of being little more than a cog in the work force. Fate led me to have this, my final semester, align perfectly with the publishing of this anniversary edition. Fate led me to sign up to take this class on a whim, making it fit perfectly into my schedule, allowing me to become aware of this magazine and publish my work within its pages.

Folio has undergone dramatic shifts in its lifespan, changing its shape, its content, its purpose, its identity. What once started as a journal of essays meant simply to “highlight … the diverse and continuing choices writers make as they interpret readings and assignments” has since evolved into much more. Now, Folio is expression, it is creativity, it is art. Those academic essays that were featured so prominently in the first edition are now nothing more than distant memories to these pages, confined to the English 1010 classes they originate from.

I have changed as well. I stand confident now, knowing myself and who I am. I have made mistakes, refusing to learn lessons from some, growing from others.

Nostalgia whispers sweet nothings into my ear, telling me things were better then,

that we need to return, need to chase the high of those ephemeral memories.

I long for those summer days of my childhood. The heat that is so unbearable now was sweet then, making me sticky with sweat, flushed with elation.

I long for my friends who have moved on, their voices reduced to texts on a screen that are too infrequent, too impersonal.

I long to still see my parents as perfect, to believe that they always know what to do and how perfectly to help me. That notion has long since been shattered.

I long for the innocence of my youth. Yet that innocence was fed by ignorance, and, blissful as it was, it is not something to return to.

Just as Folio has become more, I have as well. There is no returning to the past, no changing what has come to pass. I doubt there is any who would want the magazine to return to what it was in the past, and for good reason. I am less confident that there is no one would want me to return to how I was as a child, but they would be wrong for desiring so.

Nostalgia doesn’t lie, but it omits. It omits the bad, the ugly, the tedium, the uncertainty. It omits the guilt of the past, the benefits of the present, the potential of the future.

Nostalgia drives me today, but not the nostalgia of the past. No, today, I try to do all I can to make my present nostalgic in the future. Today, I stand taller, proud of who I am, hopeful for who I can become.

Simultaneous Growth

Chantel Scartozzi

25 years ago, I was 10 Rollerblades and knee pads were my best friend Aloof to the life I was about to begin

There was something brewing uncannily akin. I was learning to skate and mastering the art Little did I know SLCC also had a new start As I worked my way through bumps in the road, A literary magazine was discovering it’s á la mode.

At 15 I gave up skates and learned to drive As Folio’s pages were starting to thrive It was 2004 when I almost ran into a garage And literacy invited art creating a collage I’m a whole adult now and I still fall sometimes But my favorite coincidence was stumbling into the Folio lines Now look at where we are after 25 years Together creating a masterpiece and working with peers

Nostalgia Unveiled

Olga Gao

My Heartfelt Tribute to Memphis Design: as a graphic designer, nostalgia ignites a thrilling journey back to iconic art movements, and one that captivates me is the Memphis Design Movement. Named after Bob Dylan’s evocative song “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again,” this movement bursts with bold colors and playful geometric shapes that leap off the page. The Memphis Group revolutionized the aesthetic of Postmodern design in the 1980s, and their daring creations resonate deeply with me. Every time I explore this vibrant era, I’m filled with an exhilarating sense of nostalgia that fuels my passion as a designer!

STAFF

•Daniel D. Baird, Faculty Advisor

Professor Baird has a PhD in Comparative Literature and a background in editing creative and academic writing. He has published creative nonfiction, short stories, and poetry.

“What I love about Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine is that students see the result of the hard work they have put in through the semester. Soliciting, reviewing, and editing submissions along with designing, marketing, and learning about publishing are all part of the course. Folio is a great showcase for the creativity of the students, staff, and faculty at Salt Lake Community College.”

•Olga Gao,

Design Editor

As a passionate graphic designer, I’ve always been interested in creating cool content for my audiences. The chance here to join the Folio team makes me feel more freely to create something that can make more people dive into the design area.

•••

•Abraham Smith,

Literary Editor

I am a student of English studies. As a child, I found reading to be informative and writing to be expressive beyond what my confusing speech and disjointed thoughts normally allowed. I believe Folio, as a collection of literature and art, is a bastion of culture. As a member of this staff, I have a wonderful opportunity to display, appreciate, and perhaps uplift the art of my peers.

•Gabriel Zevala

STUDENTS

As an English major here at SLCC and the author of a novel, I’m passionate about bringing stories to life. I firmly believe in the power of storytelling as it tells us about humanities’ past and where we’re going. One of the reasons I enjoy Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine is our dedication to help students and faculty publish their creative works and immortalize them in our college’s literary history.

•Benny Johnson

As an English major I’ve always had a deep passion for writing as well as other creative endeavors, most notable of which being photography. I had previously been a part of my high school’s literary magazine staff and I wanted to continue that interest during my college career, which led me to join the Folio staff. It is an amazing opportunity to be able to explore all different kinds of creativity present throughout SLCC’s student body, and this course has taught me so much about literary and artistic elements as well as graphic design.

•Megan Jensen

I came to SLCC with the intention of becoming an English major. As my classes went on I realized how I love to opportunity to read and write. This is my last semester before I graduate with my associates in English. Most of my life I have been planning on different career paths and now I am excited to see where this English degree will take me. I am so grateful that I get the opportunity to help create this special 25th anniversary edition of Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine! I highly encourage everyone to read and write as much as they can. It can enrich your life and perspectives more than you know!

“I think everything in life is art. What you do. How you dress. The way you love someone, and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in, and all your dreams”-Helena Bonham Carter •••

•Ben Hartvigsen

Throughout my life, I’ve always had a love for reading and writing, and this passion has pushed me to become an English major here at SLCC. Over the past semester, I have come to greatly appreciate Folio and the work we do here. I love that students are able to showcase their works and their talents, and I’m grateful I can be a part of that process and also publish works of my own.

•Valeria Méndez Concha

As an immigrant born and raised in Venezuela, I am following my family’s advice to seek further education that we couldn’t access in our home country. I’m unsure about what I want to study, so I enrolled in Folio to help clarify my path. For many years, I aspired to be a writer, but the pressures of classes, grades, and finances have stifled my creativity and imagination. I’m uncertain about my next steps, but I deeply admire the work done at Folio, and I want to be part of something that helps students preserve their creativity. As well as to help all the communities to express themselves and represent who they are in artistic ways.

•••

•Chantel Scartozzi

As an aspiring author, song writer, and poet, I thoroughly enjoy bringing my creative thoughts to life with words. Being a part of Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine is a new and unique experience in which I have gained and look forward to continuing gaining more knowledge of the “behind-thescenes” aspects of publishing. I can’t wait to see where this journey takes me!

L WS @SLCC

English, Linguistics & Writing Studies

We would like to invite you to celebrate

Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine’s 25th anniversary.

Wednesday, December 4th, 6 pm in the Oak Room, Student Center, Taylorsville Redwood Campus

There will be remarks by SLCC President, Greg Peterson, presentation of awards, readings, and a chance to view original art and photography. Light refreshments will be served.

Play an instrument?

Join the Salt Lake Community College

Taylorsville Community Symphony Orchestra

Rehearsals are Thursday evenings from 7-9 pm at Bennion Jr. High School, 6055 South 2700 West, Taylorsville, UT 84129 All students of SLCC as well as members of the community welcome to join. Students can register for credit by signing up for MUSC 1460 Symphony Orchestra. Accepting string, woodwind, brass, and percussion players.

For more information contact: Lauren Tian Machado, Music Director taylorsvillesymphony@gmail.com

Follow us on Facebook: Taylorsville-SLCC Symphony Orchestra

Website:

See our website: www.slcc.edu/english

Follow us on social media:

https://www.facebook.com/slccELWS https://www.instagram.com/slcc_elws/

The Creative Writing Group

+Writing Community + Discussion + Workshops + Feedback + More

Remember to visit https://slcc.edu/folio/ to view the web edition!

Thank you to all past and current Folio artists, writers, musicians, dancers, photographers, activists, and more for trusting Folio with your creations!

Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Art Magazine