15 During a Pandemic, I Remember Collect Calls, poetry by Andrea Scarpino
16 Otto and Me, wood carving by Rudolph Reitenbach
17 More Than a Gas Station, prose by Otto Reitenbach
18 Fruit Snacks, ceramic by Rudolph Reitenbach
19 What we’re made of, poetry by John Powers
20 Bound to Montana, poetry by Will Kreuter
21 acrylic by Joe Coovert
22 photograph by Andrew Hunt
23 Sisyphus in Purgatory, fiction by River Simpson, SJ
25 photograph by Sean Cajigal
28 two-touch, poetry by Jake Fitzpatrick
29 paint marker by Leo Hahn
30 watercolor by Max Marnatti
31 Object Permanence, poetry by Jens Istvan
32 The Lost Chick, prose by Madhavan Anbukumar
33 Ajar, photograph by Jens Istvan
34 photograph by Sean Cajigal
35 The Eclipse, poetry by Patrick Byrne
36 Montserrat, photograph by Luke Schall
38 Apokálupsis, poetry by Mike Lally
39 Luke, watercolor by Jerry Frantz
40 The Leaf, poetry by Joe Talleur
40 photograph by Jack Auer
41 The Silent Mockingbird, poetry by Colton Eikermann
42 Canto XII, poetry by Paul Pham
44 watercolor by Holden Frost
46 print & watercolor by Owen Jorgenson
47 pen by Leo Hahn
48 Fruits of St. Valentine, poetry by Patrick Byrne
48 Self-Portrait, acrylic by Leo Hahn
49 The Fence, poetry by Edmund Reske
49 photograph by Tristan Kujawa
50 Lego, poetry by Jake Fitzpatrick
50 pencil by Michael Ewermann
51 A Dreamer’s Demise, poetry by Daniel Neuner
52 Fields, poetry by Jaden Yarbrough
53 photograph by Tristan Kujawa
54 Vinbryo, fiction by River Simpson, SJ
55 photograph by Sean Cajigal
56 digital by Jesse Heater
60 marker by Guhan Anbukumar
61 So Do You, poetry by Frank Kovarik
62 collagraph by Michael Lian
63 On Lifetimes, poetry by Edmund Reske
64 the Desert, poetry by Colton Eikermann
64 acrylic by Max Marnatti
65 That’s where “grenade” comes from, poetry by Paul Thibodeau
66 Stutter, poetry by Jens Istvan
66 photograph by Jack Auer
67 The I-44 Berry Exit Wall, poetry by Andrew Hunt
68 photograph by Andrew Hunt
69 A Lake in the Fog, poetry by Edmund Reske
70 Golden Shovel, poetry by Chuck Hussung
70 acrylic by Leo Hahn
71 watercolor by Holden Frost
72 The Swift, poetry by Edmund Reske
The Persistence of Art
Patrick Byrne
I can smell burning paper from just a block away
A perfume of ideas and dreams turning black
There’s jeers and cheers from the churches and schools
A priest can’t get a word in amid the chanting
A lone nun through a barred window prays a quiet rosary
And from the houses, kids shout triumphantly, unsure of what they’re celebrating
The flames of ignorance grow larger with every page
Through this scene, I see a beautiful painting begin to form in my mind
Because what is creation without destruction?
Leo Hahn
Paint Marker
Between Truth and Trauma
Leo Hahn
Inever knew my great-grandmother Janet Alfs, but everything I’ve heard about her makes me wish I did. She was a lifelong journalist, and in retirement she traveled the world. The photos of her and my great-grandfather Larry Alfs always fascinated me. Whether they were riding camels in Egypt, standing in front of a pagoda in Japan, or holding each other tight in front of the Colosseum, their joy followed them across any border.
Her time as a journalist was also interesting. During the Second World War my great-grandmother was a radio broadcaster for KXOK, quickly becoming famous for starting the first radio war broadcast made for children: News for Young America. Because of my own interest in journalism, I take in news everyday. Most mornings I quickly scroll through The New York Times app looking for the most “interesting” news to read up on. Sometimes I’m disgusted with myself when I realize how bored I’ve gotten of reading about ongoing tragedies like wars and disasters.
Could Janet have felt the same when, week after week, she reported deaths and military front movements to children? It’s the nature of reporting to look at everything neutrally, but sometimes that can stop you from feeling anything. Even after she retired, was my great-grandmother ever able to shake that feeling?
Janet’s greatest souvenirs from her trips were her travel diaries. Like the reporter she was, my great-grandmother would take notes throughout her trip, which then became
scrapbooks detailing everything she and her husband did. Occasionally my dad would bring a diary home from my nana’s, and I would read it.
The diary I read most recently has become infamous in our family. Titled “The Saga of our Trip to the Orient,” it begins on April 5, 1977. The first page starts the morning Larry and Janet left for their two-week vacation in Asia.
When Janet woke up, the bedroom was black and cold winds still slapped against the windows of the house. The watch on her nightstand read 5:30.
The luggage stood in the shadowy front hall, and a fat envelope leaned against the wall on an oak credenza. “Open in an emergency only,” it read in loopy letters. Janet didn’t think any of her children would have to open it, but Larry insisted on leaving the letter. She was sure they would arrive safely.
Janet and Larry had planned their vacation to Asia for months, and today they were finally to leave for their adventure. As Janet got dressed, her smile swelled, her round face shaped by a pale updo, with her keen eyes sitting under a sharp set of brows. In this darkness her head seemed to float atop her inky blouse and traveling pants.She walked downstairs into the dark kitchen.
Soon her husband Larry shuffled in with the morning edition of The St. Louis GlobeDemocrat. He was round but stately, always wearing glasses with thick, coke-bottle lenses. Most days his lips pouted forwards into a constant grin; he loved to ham it up.
But now Larry’s brows clenched with worry behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He never liked traveling by plane, but he was too proud to admit it. Larry tossed his newspaper on the table.
“Jet Crashes in Storm; At Least 66 Are Killed,” read the center headline.
Janet’s eyes darted across the page, picking out information. New Hope, Georgia. Emergency landing. Fire. Engine failure.
The cold in the room became metallic as her eyes finally settled on the large monochrome photo of the wreckage. Burn marks and shattered tree trunks painted shadows onto the right side of a plane cabin. Two workers stood in the middle of the wreck, searching for something or someone.
Janet set the paper aside and smiled at Larry as he eased himself into one of the other spindly kitchen chairs. Planes rarely crash, she assured him, and while the accident was horrible, there was no good in worrying about their flight. He perked up, and as they left the house their conversation drifted to what they would eat in LA that afternoon. Soon they arrived at Lambert Airport, and after checking their bags they sat stationed at their gate. The china blue sign hanging above them said Flight 241: Los Angeles.
A half hour later, uniformed stewards welcomed them onto the eighteen-yearold American Airlines 707. Janet and Larry stepped forward as the thick red seats were veiled with warm light from the windows on each side of the cabin. Snow started falling outside in the cold.
Larry always liked the warmth from the window seat, and after he squeezed into place Janet sat next to him. A balding man with a shiny belt buckle the size of a tea saucer sat next to her. Janet’s investigative instincts took hold, and she extracted the story. He was Do Mosley, an investor from California making his trip home after a quick visit with family.
“I don’t like flying much, makes me nervous,” Mosley said sheepishly. As he talked, she could see his teeth were large like a mule’s. “Always preferred trains, but my little girl’s graduation is tomorrow, so go figure.”
Janet smiled as she offered to hold his hand when they took off. He obliged.
The 707 skidded up off the tarmac, and soon the plane had come to life. Janet watched synchronized stewardesses walk the aisles with carts of refreshments, winking and smiling as they offered their packets of nuts and American Airlines ashtrays. Numerous passengers lit cigarettes, and she was soon surrounded by columns of smoke drifting through the pressurized cabin.
Mosley released his sweaty hand from Janet’s after takeoff, thanking her for the little bit of comfort. She smiled back and promised to pray a decade of the Rosary for him and his daughter. After some time her eyes slowly wandered to the window just beyond Larry, who was thumbing through a magazine.
Janet’s face recoiled in disbelief, but Larry’s eyes were locked on a watch advertisement. Her eyes were locked on the window. She trembled as horror froze her against the seat. This couldn’t be happening to her.
“My God,” Janet whimpered. “The engine just blew off.”
The corner of Larry’s sagging mouth curled as he held his own watch up to the tabloid, admiring its reflection. “Come on,” he chuckled briefly. “You don’t just have an engine blow off.”
At this point in her life, this was the last thing Janet expected. I’ve learned that, as a journalist, the more you see and process tragedy, the more normal that tragedy becomes. It happens to the rest of the world, but never me. How many reporters write about murders and then get murdered? Janet wrote about planes going down in the Pacific, but I don’t think she ever thought it would happen to her.
The news spread through hissing whis -
pers between all forty-five passengers of the cabin. More plumes of cigarette smoke began to rise from the seats.
A young pilot in a navy-blue uniform jogged from the front of the plane and leaned bug-eyed over Larry who, after peeking through the misty glass, was visibly shaking. The engine closest to the cabin was gone, leaving a jagged gap in the wing. Black cables flailed violently from it, whistling loudly as they beat against each other. Murky fuel shot from one of the ripped tubes.
Janet crossed herself as the stewardesses jumped from their cabin. This couldn’t be happening. She saw the headlines, the ledes simple and grim as they always were in those types of articles. St. Louis, Missouri. 45 dead. Fire. Engine failure.
The stewardesses began to rearrange bodies across the plane to account for the changes in weight. Janet and Larry staggered to the front, then back, pinned between equally horrified passengers and the bulky red seats. They were taught the proper posture to take in case of a crash landing. More news trickled from the cockpit.
Something in the landing gear was broken. The crew would have to crank it out manually.
The cabin filled with freezing air as a crew member opened a hatch somewhere.
To Janet the red seats became rows of tombstones, and white light blazed from the windows as they were all instructed to crouch and brace themselves. Janet helped Larry get to the ground, and he was so scared she couldn’t bear to look at him.
“I love you, Larry,” yelled Janet over the mechanical screeching. “Thank you for the most wonderful life.” The plane was plummeting quickly. They kissed.
“Three… two… one… BRACE,” a crew member bellowed.
Sometimes when I’m out in the world I ask myself what would happen if I died at a specific moment. As a new driver, for me sudden death is more likely now than any other point in my life. It’s an intrusive thought, and I have no intention of dying anytime soon, but I wonder if I’d be satisfied with my life if it suddenly ended. Part of me takes comfort that, despite my grandma Janet’s situation, she could at least find some peace in her
Sean Cajigal
Photograph
love of my great-grandpa. She didn’t go numb with fear in the middle of that tragedy. She simply found a more powerful feeling: love.
The plane was silent as a church in those final moments. Were they able to crank out the wheels in time? Was that smoke they smelled? Questions filled tear-stained cheeks, but nobody had the time to ask them. They waited for a crash, something, anything to end the silence.
But the crash never came. The tires squealed as they made contact with the asphalt of the Lambert airstrip, and the plane came to a stop like any other landing. Janet let out a ragged breath as she let go of Larry’s arm. They were safe; they wouldn’t be just a number in an article.
Janet and Larry rushed to the emergency exits and slid down the lemon-yellow slides which had exploded out of the plane doors. Janet gasped as she was caught by four sets of hands and catapulted onto her feet. One of the firemen barked a command to run. Streams of people followed behind them.
As she slipped through puddles of frigid water and oil, Janet turned behind and saw a worrying scene. The airport was shut down, and countless fire trucks surrounded the (mostly) intact plane. It was obvious they were expecting the worst.
Janet could hear the reporters behind the closed steel door of the American Airlines VIP lounge. Hugging her husband tightly, she wondered how excited the reporters must have been now that there were survivors to interview. Janet realized how strange her line of work really was.
Everyone wants to read a good story, and every writer wants to create one; it’s just a matter of how far you’re willing to go. When I first started writing news pieces, I always wanted to find an angle, something exciting and outlandish amid boring details. I feel both my great-grandma Janet and I sometimes became jaded because of this work. It took a plane engine falling off to wake her up. What will my plane engine be?
Sean Cajigal
Photograph
Alone
Jaden Yarbrough
New friends through screens Connecting through sites yet I find myself confused as to what it all means.
Our phones have given us more friends than we’ve ever known.
We talk, text, like, and heart, yet it all just seems to tear us apart.
“On the phone,” he said three hours ago while his family went out and he hid in his room, lights dimmed, all alone.
See those who’ve grown to be slaves to scrolling, rage-induced retweeters, never to be free.
You know the little boy who can’t live without constant, gratifying scrolling. Try taking him outside for soccer or a bike ride on a warm spring afternoon, and he doesn’t give.
Never to be free.
A paradox, it seems: all this connection through screens as we put on our best masks to boost our self-esteem.
A paradox, it seems: more connection than ever before, yet we’re cynical and dreary as we’ve never been before.
Perhaps it’s not connection but merely a facade that paints the picture of humankind taking the blazing torch of our ancestors and running with it.
Technology is evolving, I know that much is true, but would it not be better if humans were evolving, too?
Charles Hugo Collagraph
Letter to a House
Andrew Hunt
Ihave lived in this house nearly my whole life. For about seventeen years I have crawled, walked, run, and marched through its confines. For all that time, never have I left it for more than three weeks—but this fall, I’ll leave it forever, I guess. I’ll go to college and will no longer measure how much time I spend away from this house, but only the brief times I visit. It deserves a proper goodbye.
I’ve liked this house much less in recent years—a series of frenzied decoration and renovation projects have diminished its tender warmth to me. But its intrigue still creeps about—in the big wooden computer desk, the creaking basement stairs, the rusty cupboard drawer. I find myself drawn to its fractious state: my ear leans to this house to hear its whispers and cries.
I’ve given it my own fair share of secrets. Climbing those stone countertops to steal a cookie as a toddler. Shaking its walls with belting karaoke, home alone. Piling drawing upon drawing in the baby-blue drawers of my room. Listening to “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong with my brother each night after the lights turned off, while we still shared a room. Staying up until 3 a.m. watching movies in teenage rebellion. Tucking away the drawings, lights, and Beatles posters that once made a messy mosaic out of my middle school bedroom. Aiding and abetting my older brother as he hosted a party one summer night while my parents were out of town. Bringing my first girlfriend up to my yellow-lit room and kissing her tenderly to the vinyl crackle of a twirling record. Shifting along the creaking wood in the pitch-black twilight of one spring morning before a road trip with friends. My brother and I heaving open that stubborn window in his room to
stumble onto that sloping roof for the first and only time, with the billowing trees opening their majestic breasts before us. Sitting out on that tucked-away, barren balcony with my dad in hushed wonder at the thrilling cascade and flow of a windy thunderstorm engulfing the green world around us.
But I wonder what other secrets these walls hold. The hushed voices of my parents expecting my newborn baby brother. The creaking of toddler feet on those rickety steps. The jubilant cheers of birthdays that have faded in my memory, replaced by deep voices and old smiles and shrinking circles of relatives. The hearty man-to-man talks between my grandfather Popo and each one of his four sons-in-law, arms around their shoulders, glasses clinking. Perhaps dinner parties and Sunday night football and bottles of wine and booming laughter and college stories and pasta … and all the things my parents must’ve dreamed of so fervently when they first stepped slowly through these unfamiliar halls and said, “Hey, this is a pretty nice place.”
These walls know anger and screams and scornful glares under stark white light. They’ve been licked by flames. But once I’ve left my home forever and I stop on by, I’ll say, “Hey, this place has some good bones.”
Because the flames die away. These walls will forget them. These walls will remember
The laughter
And piano notes
Bouncy balls
New friends meeting parents
Singing “Thanks to God” before dinner every night
Socks sliding on slick wood
…and all those other things we lovingly carved into them.
October
Paul Thibodeau
I’ve been sleeping in my swimsuit for weeks now, desperate to dream of that buoyant feeling that clung to me after twilights in lake water. The mirror shows darkness creeping up my sun-bleached roots. The window shows amber coaxing its way around green. Everything is disappearing into a smoky haze that only the eye in the nighttime sky can see through.
The wind is picking up, beaten into motion by flurries of bat wings. If I stand too close to the door, I can feel it hissing through the frame. Those gales shiver through chimes and rap against the wall, and I wonder when I will be taken with them.
Max Marnatti
Pencil
During a Pandemic, I Remember Collect Calls
Andrea Scarpino
My father said at the end of each call, You can always reverse the charge. And I did, dialed zero from a rest stop pay phone, from my mother’s house, from an airport and said, I’d like to make a collect call. The operator asked for the number, my name, asked my father if he’d accept the charge. I miss his yes. I miss how he always said yes even when I called in peak hours, long distance, from another continent, even if he’d been sleeping, grading papers, making breakfast, he always said yes and there would be a pause while the operator connected us.
Rudolph Reitenbach
Wood Carving
OttO And Me
More Than a Gas Station
Otto Reitenbach
Living in South St. Louis city, I find myself driving down Kingshighway frequently, passing along on my way to Highway 40 or on my daily commute to school and back. As I drive, I pass not one, not two, but three tall red signs proudly proclaiming “More Than a Gas Station,” the motto of QuikTrip. Synonymous with long road trips filled with calls of “Are we there yet?”, bustling afternoons following a busy day of youth sports, and the late-night pitstop before finally returning home, QuikTrips often fail their mantra, being used solely as the break between the hurried activities of America’s proletariat. But deep in the back, tucked away behind shelves crammed with neon Sour Patch Kids and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, past heated rollers long-resigned to turning the same forlorn hot dog, and directly across from the refrigerators housing rows upon rows of Mountain Dew Kickstart and Red Bull Energy, lies the crown jewel: the slushie machine.
Slushies will forever open a portal to my childhood. If you yearn for memories of the crisp sting of sunburn, simply turn your eyes to the nearest street corner where you’ll likely find a cathedral to this treat, marked pungently with greeters of gasoline pump and cigarette smoke. Like that smoke, my childhood began to drift away, taking with it the slushie. Those moments of sweet
bliss before the chilling hit of a brain freeze melted away, now often lost to the memories of youth.
As two brothers in a set of triplets, my brother and I have always been paired. When our sisters got their own rooms, my brother and I remained together, still in the same bunk beds we slept in as toddlers. We received matching birthday gifts for much of our childhood, from identical shirts to a pair of blue Razor scooters for our rides to school. Despite this, we have never shared much in common. The long runs and hours I spent with the crumbling basketball hoop my dad and I affixed to our garage always contrasted the intricate wood carvings and vast Minecraft worlds he created. These divides only widened in high school. As I spent my time out embracing my newfound freedom, coming home late into the night, he retreated to his art, his close friends, and his games. As much as I love my brother, it became increasingly hard to relate to him as our interests diverged so sharply.
Enter the slushie. On days when grueling runs had stripped us of hydration, when our tongues would crave that refreshing chill and overpowering sweetness, we would stop at the corner of McRee and Kingshighway. Our slushies are as different as we are. He opts for a garish neon combination of banana cream and white cherry, a syrupy fusion
of artificial fruit that, while emitting a faint radioactive light, still manages to be edible and enjoyable for those who consume it. My taste has remained constant, always a combination of Coca-Cola and orange cream. Yes, my brother and I are different, often in ways seeming insurmountable to my seventeen year-old mind, but we find each other in these moments. Our hands slick with the condensation from a cold plastic cup, our tongues stained yellow and orange, I see myself in him.
I love my brother. Nothing will ever take that away, but my personal failure to know him as deeply as I should seeks redress, a way to grow with him. These moments with him may be simple, but they are beautiful. Forged in the ubiquitous enjoyment of that syrupy treat is the opportunity to spend time with someone I care about, to take a break from the overwhelming cacophony of life to simply exist. QuikTrip will always mean “More Than a Gas Station” to me, if only for those unadorned moments shared within.
Rudolph Reitenbach
Ceramic
Fruit snAcks
What we’re made of John Powers
Burning, dancing flames leap up the Rungs of frigid air. Then the eyes above blink twice and Drop their drippy pair. The Earth below licks up the gift; the Dancers give a bow.
These elements are all we have, so thought we for a time. Though Aristotle, right on many things Got this part wrong
For ununoctium we’re on and many more to come, yet in our average lives we seldom Ever pay them mind Though long ago the Greeks may seem Their thoughts have not lost steam.
Bound to Montana
Will Kreuter
Memories melt down my face like thawing glaciers in July. The wildlife runs around my head into plains enclosed by trees. Scents of conifers cleanse my nose as I inhale the morning breeze As ranges of towering rocky giants shade me from the sky.
I find solace in the soft beds left from snow that had blown by, The pure perfection of powder which replaces the forest’s leaves, Decorative mountains dotted with bear tracks and lined with skis, Concealing the saturated haze which signals night to arrive.
My admiration poisons every parting with regret. I become a prisoner to a dry, urban home where I can’t let myself out
To the mountains, lakes, and valleys, whose beauty won’t let me forget That her grandeur is something I cannot live without.
The city’s lights and noise and smell allow my senses to reset, But I number the days till I escape this drought.
Joe Coovert
Acrylic
Andrew Hunt
Photograph
Sisyphus in Purgatory
River Simpson, SJ
Ishall not open my eyes. Well, I shall not open my eyes—just yet. Each moment I deny myself the delight of my senses saves me one more moment from the depths of a new torment. The climbs have been far too arduous to waste this repose so hastily; however, that sight, so beautiful to behold even with the faintest of peeps, entices my impoverished soul once more to peer out upon its loveliness. With an insatiable desire, I long to feel that joy again.
I gaze up.
I glimpse Him, arms outstretched. His light pierces my eyes, its warmth enlivens my limbs, and a bliss pervades my psyche. Yet, this ephemeral ecstasy, a mere taste of what is to come, shall not last. Already, the ground trembles beneath me. I have cleansed much, but not enough. As the rocks fall into nothingness, I plunge once more into the void with a terrifying momentum. With a long-accustomed acceptance, I am left alone in my descent with only my screams to accompany me into obscurity. After an eternity lasting a moment, I arrive in shambles onto an abyssal plain that stretches forth into infinity. I look around me in vain. All forms elude my anticipative scrutiny.
Yet, high above my head, I perceive the palest glimmer of my earlier joy, my light and my salvation. In this dreary place, only His faintest rays deign to greet me. They are enough. Fatigued but determined, I rise with eyes fixed upon them. I blunder upon uneven ground to reach their source. Ruts and stumbling blocks mire my every step, but I press
on. Meandering through this desolate darkness, I reflect upon my journey since leaving Tartarus. While each fall is different now, His lesson remains the same—each new one just intensifies its meaning.
When He first burst forth into Hades like Dawn, fresh and rosy-fingered, He cast aside the once impregnable iron gates into mangled heaps of scrap metal with merely a word. Rallying against the assault, our dominion’s namesake called upon his dreadful Cerberus to dispatch the interloper. Charging, fanged and rabid, he only bowed down and fawned before this Son of Man as playful as a puppy upon meeting His gaze. Smiling, He scratched his scruff and caressed his three heads without a second thought. At this display, our torturers, the Furies, dropped all manner of pretensions. They fled into the deepest pits and dove into the foulest waters to avoid His sight, yet such efforts proved futile. His purifying light penetrated even the blackest depths of Tartarus where I labored unceasingly upon my hill of despair. Soon our cries of crisis morphed into elations of euphoria at these strange signs until all of Hades rang with the triumph of His arrival. Whoever this Man was, He was not to be trifled with, and I heard later that even Charon, that drachma-pincher, paid for the privilege of ferrying Him across the River Styx.
For days this Man who shone brighter than Helios and yet softer than Selene proclaimed His message to each soul in Hades. Asking many questions, Plato and Aristotle latched onto His sides like starving piglets
whilst Socrates, oblivious, continued to lock horns against Gorgias and Protagoras upon the true nature of logos even as the Word Itself passed by right in front of them. Great heroes of renown, such as Ajax and Theseus, similarly could not be bothered to stir from their repose, but at their hearing Nestor, Antigone, and others of true Achaian arete flung away their chalices of ambrosia and ran like stags from feted Elysium towards the busted gates. The prophets Tiresias and Cassandra, once forlorn and unheeded, lifted up cymbals of victory and led Him joyfully into the meadows of Asphodel whence untold myriads of nameless, forgotten souls of no account soon streamed out at His words. These confounding moments I witnessed from near the summit of my unreachable goal, and I, yet too far to hear anything for certain, yearned to hear what freed so many others from their revelry and drudgery alike. I feared that He would not deign to enter into my forsaken realm as even fair Persephone did not dare to travel in this place during her seasonal sojourn. For untold centuries, I have fruitlessly pushed my burden here to the point where it had eroded to half its size, and yet I still strained as if it weighed as much as that obese golden ram of Aeëtes. I craved relief—the relief so clearly made manifest in all those faces freed by His words.
As He neared the umbral entrance to Tartarus, I stumbled by virtue of that erstwhile hope and tumbled down that damnable hill with my boulder battering me along the whole way. At the bottom, the great stone mischievously pinioned me face down beneath its jagged surface, and I cursed the Fates who plucked my strand to throw me down and blind me just as that Man neared our threshold. I had to see Him up close; I had to hear what He spoke. In my anguish, I shouted aloud to cloud-gathering Zeus, to unwavering Athena, even to somber Ha-
des who comes for us all, the least and great alike, to free me, to save me, to give me the barest respite for my soul, but they did not answer me. Why would anyone, let alone those fickle gods, answer the prayers of a wicked man? They were as mute to me now as I was to them. For the gods do not treat kindly in death those who showed no kindness in life.
Verily, they did not answer me because I deserved this fate assigned to me.… I was doomed in the purest sense of the term. That truth weighed more heavily upon me than my old stone. For those men that I killed under my protection, those gods that I tricked to lengthen my mortal thread for a few stadia more, were all for what? … For this? A bare patch of earth stained burnt sienna with my wayward and fruitless toil? I wretched and squirmed to try and dig myself further into the earth. I wanted to be swallowed up and forgotten by her, but Gaia refused my entreaty as much as Penelope did her suitors. I lay still in submission to my plight, and my tears poured out until I risked drowning in the puddles forming beneath me in the rut. I mouthed silently Forgive me! to whom I do not know. When I first arrived, my victims long jeered my eternal rebuke until even they were bored of my fate and returned to their ashen fields, and the gods made clear they would never trust a word I swore again and closed their ears to me.
At that exact moment, though, I felt the rock shifting above me. The weight flew off me as fast as Hermes with his winged sandals traverses the cosmos. I curled up in a ball and waited for some fresh punishment to descend upon me. Rest never came there without a greater torment later. I felt a meek tap upon my shoulder. Biding my breath, I wound my neck as slowly as a millstone to peer up at whom I assumed was my old fury, Tisiphone. I was cut to the quick in an in-
Sean Cajigal
stant. My soul was agitated, but with a sight I have never beheld before and which I strive every kronos of every kairos to behold again. The ineffable beauty of Him whom I sought to see pierced my psyche and captivated my heart. He looked no different than any other Timon, Diokles, or Hieronymus, but peered deeper into the truth of me than the Pythia of Delphi.
What do you want? His words did not so much sound as echo within my psyche.
“Relief,” I stammered after a loss for words.
That was not what you said under the rock.
“I did not say anything.”
I heard you nonetheless. Even before the Word was on your tongue, I knew it. Even in darkest Sheol, there is only light to Me. Tell Me, what do you want?
“Begone, for You are mighty indeed to perceive such things. I am a wicked man. I have betrayed men on a whim and even gods
to save my own skin… I will betray You too.”
True, that is what you have done, but that is not what you want… Tell Me, what do you want?
“... Forgive me. I want… You. To never be separated from You. Hold me. Save me. Just do not abandon me. I cannot endure my eternity as it is anymore.”
Leaning down into my muck and mire, He held me in an embrace, and I cried upon His shoulder more tears than Poseidon could muster with his great trident from the depths of the Aegean.
My forgiveness you have. Saved you, I have done already. But, I cannot grant that we will never be separated, at least not yet. Like many of your companions down here, you have one more climb left to make before I may fulfill your greatest desire.
“Please, anything but climbing. I climbed too many times already. I cannot do it alone.”
Alone? True, you cannot do it alone.… No one can. But I shall be with you through it always,
Photograph
from the highest peak to the deepest trench. Come, you have far to go, but merely call upon My Name, and I will be with you.
“But, Lord, who are You? What is Your Name?”
I saved you. That is enough for who I AM. As for My Name, it is Yehoshua in My own tongue, but you may call Me Iēsoūs.
At that very instance, the foundations of the world shook, and I trembled at the Name that rattled even Atlas from his constant duty.
Now, arise, Sisyphus, son of Aeolus. Sin no more, and follow the path I have set before you. You see your true brothers and sisters have already begun the journey from here. I must go My own way; I have many waiting upon My return, and the dawn draws near. No matter what, have faith, for you will be with Me in Paradise.
Enlivened with a hope I had not felt in many moons, I danced out of Tartarus that very moment. I lamented, though, amidst my joy at how so few of my fellow prisoners there listened to His words and how even fewer heeded them. Midas could not weigh the value of His true presence properly against the shackles of his fool’s gold; Odysseus in all his many wiles could not fathom there not being at least some devious trick at play in His words; and Narcissus’ faded blossom still held his own attention more than the simple evergreen beauty of the One who was, who is, and who ever shall be. In the lackluster prisons of their own making, they and others remained bound to their malformed wills whilst the free paradise of which He spoke grows ever closer to me through my trials. With each fall, I leave ever more of me behind, and with each rise, I find ever more of myself in Him.
Returning to my present, I notice that the ground gradually begins to incline as it had always done before into a now definite hill. I moan to myself, “Why must it al-
ways be hills? Surely, in the grand order of the celestial spheres there must be another way for me to learn my lesson?” They oblige. Just steps after my remark bristling with pride, the terrain takes on after my own character—it becomes prickly… The sensation, barely noticeable at first, increments with impunity. Within ten strides, my bare feet feel an unrelenting stabbing of needles as if I had stepped on thousand-pronged sea urchins. This fiery sensation insidiously spreads up my legs until nearly every nerve shrieks like the Harpies in their malevolent cackles. I press on, though, knowing that to sit and nurse my battered body would only prolong the vicious agony.
As I trudge upwards, it begins to mellow into a bearable incentive to finish the climb at a swifter pace until a malcontent rock sends me sprawling and revives the pulsating pricks with a vengeance. Crippled, I lay in writhing contortions as the blaze consumes my flesh. Driven to hysterics by the sensation, I howl into the abyss. No response, not even a friendly echo greets my ears. The void is endless. The silence, more maddening than the pain, terrifies me, but I recall the last words of my savior. Despite the pain, I rise upon my battered feet and cry out to the whole One to fill the empty nothingness. As a mother hen takes her chicks under her sheltering wing, the Word at once comforts my psyche and quells the pain of my flesh. Murmuring His Name in solemn devotion, I continue faithfully upwards to the celestial light above me.
As the incline increases, I grab onto the chalk-like earth for support. The dirt crumbles at my touch, so I must dig into the barren soil so as to not slide back down into the gorge from which I rose. Each pous gained is an exacting calculation. Concentrating on my ascent, I cease to speak. I hear only the tumbling of dislodged rocks as they thud odi-
ously out of earshot. I know I must be close now; I smell the perfumes of paradise wafting down to greet me. Frankincense and roses caress my nose and draw my attention upward as if to a grand temple banquet. Above me, boundless light cascades in unremitting streams of loveliness into the barren world below. Weary, I lift my hand to feel a fraction of the rays’ earnest affection and beauty. The austere cliff face, though, ends this hasty tryst as soon as it began; I fall. In contempt of me, my limps dredge themselves deeply into the unforgiving earth to save me. They have brought me too far to surrender now. I screech to a halt in a paroxysm of pain.
Racked by guilt, I breathe heavily with downcast eyes. I try to restrain myself from twitching even a single muscle to forestall another fall. To regain my bearings, I grip the cliff in perfect silence. At first, I sense only the blood rushing through my veins and the pounding of my heart aflush with memories of past debacles. I breathe in and out, and slowly it falls into a trochaic rhythm I know not from where. I glance around in confusion, but then my ears pick up the faint notes of a melody to which my body has attuned itself. From on high, a chorus joyfully chants, “Sanctus.” Within their tight harmonies, I detect the familiar voices of my fellow forerunners from Hades. Every moment a new one joins the choir. They’ve made it, each and every one who deigned to begin the journey. I hear them fervently praying, encourag -
ing me onward, to join them in extolling the virtues of the lamb who was slain.
The melodic respite invigorates my spirit and emboldens me to redouble my efforts to reach the precipice and embrace my Lord. Undeterred by my tattered flesh squealing for relief, I lunge in bounds up the cliff to obtain the love of my senses—the hope of my hopes. Soon, the celestial light pours over me in the radiant glow for which my limbs once paid so dear a price.
Scrambling blindly, my hands at last triumphantly feel an edge.… I pause. Near the top of this mound rising up from the deepest center of the earth to the highest heaven, I restrain my expectant eyes in a singular moment of doubt, lest I plummet once more. I delay the outcome, whatever it may be, by envisioning what I have often glimpsed before: the frolicking light shimmering out beyond the gossamer gates of pearled joy behind which my Beloved waits beckoning. I exhale in the delight of that pure thought; however, my eyes beg to look upon the genuine bliss behind that phantasmal fantasy.
In that moment, I let myself feel the loving light enveloping me. Truly, the rays feel closer now than ever before. I am too near. He will not let me down at the final moment. He is not like faithless Orpheus, but faithful Eurydice. In hope and in truth, I shake off my reticence. Lifting myself, I stand tall on top of the precipice and breathe. I gaze up.
two-touch
Jake Fitzpatrick
reclining on my truck bed whining ’bout the time that ran way come on why can’t you just stay sitting here on my steel sleigh reminiscing about the trip down south with you running your mouth about dancing in the back of the bus in love with the approaching dusk ’bout tossing on our gloves after gnawing on ribs and a plateful of wings about watching march madness while taking in this country’s sadness wish we could do it all over again play football out back me at qb you at rb we’ve still got so much to do but all i want to do is play two-touch football with you
Paint Marker
Leo Hahn
Max Marnatti Watercolor
Object Permanence
Jens Istvan
I held a ball in front of a child Covered in hands, his face goes wild He doesn’t know where it’s gone. His hands and young mind can’t quite hold on He sees what his eyes behold But you and I have grown so old We’d never fall for this same trick: We can sense time’s every tick
“Silly child!” I would play Until the sun vanished from the day. “Where’d the time go?” I’d exclaim Foolish child I became Time my plaything, mine no longer I didn’t quite know what to ponder. I wept like an infant, skies gone gray. I nearly missed the break of day.
We become older but then Things seem impermanent again.
Gavin McClure Painting
The Lost Chick
Madhavan Anbukumar
It was Kirathur where my parents would send me to in India every summer. One would take us, drop us off at our grandparents’ yellow house, and leave within a week, only for the other to pick us up again after two months. Kirathur differed so much from my family’s apartment in the States. Kirathur whose summer days would begin with a rice-based meal and end with a ricebased meal, whether that be idli, dosa, or even just rice with sambar or rasam. Kirathur, where I could meander about the village, stopping at relatives’ houses to talk over a cool thamalar of clay pot water or a mango. Kirathur, where I could go outside and watch the peahens walk their chicks around, the cowherds their cows, and my Chithappa his kids. Kirathur, where my Appa, Ayya, Thatha, Mamas, Chittappa, and Ethais grew up. It was Kirathur which I dread leaving every summer.
I was treading on the muddy walls in between the rice paddies to my grandparents’ yellow house near the end of my summer vacation before third grade. The rice plants were still green, just a few inches off the ground. I enjoyed walking by myself in the fields, the sound of the peacocks in the distance, meowing as if to mimic the domestic cats that ate their chicks. I enjoyed seeing the rice plants swaying in the wind as if they were dancing to the songs that I used to hum to myself. I enjoyed the feel of the mud on my bare feet, cedar against umber, squelching with every step. I enjoyed the summer sun glowing on my back, warming me from the cool morning air.
“MADHAVA,” I heard a voice yell from
about four paddies away, “HURRY UP!”
I was confused. Why did I need to hurry up? Did I do something wrong? I squinted to see who it was, but from far away I could see only a blurry blob of teal. I didn’t have my glasses on me, so I jogged forward. As I got closer, the teal blob turned into my Athan, Sambath.
He was the eldest of the eleven grandchildren of my paternal grandparents, always having to be the role model being sixteen years older than me. His hair was sculpted like Vijay’s with the perfect mixture of coconut oil and water, and his teal polo was wrinkled from being hung on the drying line for too long. His forehead, like mine, had been brushed lovingly with vibhuti and kumkum.
“Madhava, the driver is here to pick you up. Why are you still out here?” said Sambath Athan, running his hand through his jet-black hair. “You’ve gotta get back. Your dad is going to be so pissed at you.”
I followed Athan back, trudging, my feet squelching with displeasure.
I reached my grandparents’ house a few moments later and, after washing my feet off, stepped into the yellow house, Athan following behind me.
My Ayya, who like the rest of my family is one for superstitions, was wearing her blue sari, the one with the peacock feathers embroidered on it. Her wrinkled brown skin was as dark as the ashes from the wood pit that she used to cook in. She was my grounding rod in Kirathur. I would galavant all day throughout the village, running from house to house, climbing my Ethai’s guava tree, or scaring the neighbors’ goats with my impres-
sion of them. But when the storm of Madhavan was over, I would always come home to Ayya. She would help me carry the bucket of water from the big blue drum for my bath and tell me Tamil proverbs and stories from when she and Thatha, my grandfather, were young.
My Thatha had his white veshti and short-sleeve button down on, a sign that something important was happening. He was the thunder to my lightning, always booming with laughter after everything I did, even laughing after I dropped the motorcycle keys into the snake holes in the rice paddies (sure, I got punished by Ayya, but so did my Thatha for laughing so much at it). He would help me set traps for my Ayya, like a fried appalam on her chair before she sat down as a mimic whoopee cushion.
Both my grandparents were sitting in blue plastic chairs, the backs of which fanned out, accommodating my Ayya’s small frame and, most importantly, the giant build of my Thatha.
“I was walking,” I murmured, lowering my eyes to not meet his gaze.
“Well, we’ve gotta go, the plane’ll leave in ten hours. Go pray to sami, and then we’ll have to leave.”
Athan put his hand on my shoulder and turned me around into his arms for a hug. He knew me well enough to know that I would cry. I let my tears turn his teal shirt wet, and he led me to the back room where the shrine for the household gods was. I prayed to sami that I wouldn’t have to leave my grandparents and wouldn’t have to leave Kirathur. I ran over to my grandparents, hugging them tightly, as a newborn would its mother, and listening to their blessings.
Jens Istvan Photograph AjAr
My Appa sat on the kattil in the corner of the room, wearing the same thing as his father.
“Yinge da irindhe!?!”—the Tamil equivalent of “Where the heck have you been!?!”— he asked, standing up, glowering.
My Appa, having packed all the luggage into the trunk of the white Ambassador, motioned for me to follow him as he climbed into the car. My stomach clenched, the sounds of the peacocks’ meowing lost to the memory of the airport announcer’s voice, the feel of mud lost to the moist inside of a sock. With tears streaming down my face again, I climbed into the musty interior of the car, the gray plastic seats seemingly melting in the humid heat. As the Ambassador drove away from the yellow house that day, a little bit of the child in me was lost.
Sean Cajigal
Photograph
The Eclipse
Patrick Byrne
Two men witness an act of nature.
One sits next to a bed, holding his dying wife’s hand. The other looks up at the sky to witness a marriage. The sky grows dark and the street lamps light. Her grip grows weaker and her vitals spike. One puts on glasses to shield himself from the light. The other puts hands over his eyes to hide from the dark. The moon grows closer, her eyes grow faint. Finally, a union is formed.
At once a beginning and ending.
Both cry from powerlessness and awe. For one singular moment there is life and death. But, eventually, the night returns to day, And both go on with their lives
Knowing something truly can block out the sun.
Luke Schall Photograph MOntserrAt
Apokálupsis
Mike Lally
A fly is a pest, An annoyance, A carrier of dirt and filth, A lover of shit, And ugly.
Who transforms the sedate into a wrathful demiurge, Handing down death
To the insignificant For their ignorant crime of existing When they should not, In a place they never belonged. Until
A baby sees a fly for the first time. And sheer joy illuminates her very being.
A gasp becomes a laugh, An inimitable innovation of sound, And she waves at it with not one but two hands, Assuming that this living being, like all others recently met, wishes to be greeted.
She gestures with a recently learned “point,” “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?” She is transfixed by its movement, By the translucent wings that shine with the sun, the legs that miraculously cling and climb on sheer glass.
For reasons her father could never explain, She watches, watches, watches, discovering that this being too has intellect and purpose beyond its own knowing.
And all that baby can do is revel in the glory of a fly. The “wisdom of the wise” is destroyed yet again, The “learning of the learned” is thrown aside, Bowled over by inbreaking, indefinable grace.
And the lesson learned has always been present: “Only one such as these will inherit the Kingdom,” But ignored, cast aside, thrown away, Into the dark,
Like a crushed fly, under the hand of a man, who, of course, knew better, who no longer remembered the first time he too had seen a fly.
Jerry Frantz
The Leaf
Joe Talleur
A lone withered leaf clings fast to a limb. A sudden gale swiftly sweeps through the great tree. The leaf thrashes wildly then settles, now prim. A sight of resilience for no one to see.
A lone, withered leaf clings fast to a twig. Its fellows, all fallen, lay strewn on the ground. They are the many. Although they dreamt big, When real challenge struck, they could not hang around.
Jack Auer
Photograph
The Silent Mockingbird
Colton Eikermann
You locked up mocker Tuneless rocker
Like a broken clock or Keyless locker
Feel worthless.
Your broken beak
Has nabbed your natural creak
Even those meek-feathered birds can leak thousands of shrill tunes a week
Nevertheless, To me do you sing
With your lingering wing
Your bleary black eyes are a special thing More potent than the storm clouds awakening
Aimless,
You seem, but times a many A monk-like epiphany
Is brought on by your silent symphony And my fondness is bought by your mute litany
Lifeless,
Is your beak, but your presence makes me ponder
Drawing my eye yonder, Get away from me, my mute mocker Take up again your inner lyre
In your prowess,
Jailbreak
From your stupefied state and awake
This is no way to forsake The sweet shrill tunes you were born to make
Canto XII Paul
Pham
Paul Pham’s Canto XII reimagines the seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno, where sinners who did violence against others are forced to boil in a river of blood. Dante’s contrapasso gives way to one focussed on genocidal barbarians, especially those in Asia. There, Paul is led by Confucius, the great Chinese philosopher whose philosophy is based on virtues such as humaneness and natural order. The poet uses Confucius not only as a guide for Paul as he traverses the open field but also as a voice to criticize the atrocities that Shiro Ishii committed—mainly his inhumane experiments on live prisoners. Shiro Ishii’s whole body is swarmed by butterflies that feast on his body, just as he mutilated the bodies of his subjects. Next on his encounters, Paul is met with Pol Pot, the former Prime Minister of Cambodia and a dictator. There, Pol Pot tries to defend and rationalize his crimes against humanity, but Paul sees through his artificial remorse.
1 My teacher’s unwavering breath beckons me
As we push onward across the roots and vines. And so we escape the twists and turns of the
Jungle, moving to the seventh ring of this abyss.
5 As we climb down the buttress roots
Of the tualang tree, a broad clearing is revealed
Through the thickets. O reader! To describe this Eldritch horror, there are too few words that can Do it justice! Though this image I will attempt
10
To paint to explain my fear. There lies a field, Its distance too far for my eyes to comprehend. No grass lies on its ground, but in its place are
The crowns and bones that can match the tolls of the Middle Kingdom’s Great Famine and even the 15 Present plague that is rampant in the mortal
World, destroying our way of living. “Oh, Master Kong, What acts constitute such a tragic fate?” I ask.
“Do not be fooled by the sea of remains,”
My master scolds me, “for they are not the
20 Ones punished. Seek farther ahead and you will Greet the tyrants who stripped the lives of these poor souls.”
And so my wise mentor kindly gestures to Follow him. As we further tread on the remnants Of mankind, I notice the air become denser
25 With the tattered grey wings of butterflies, Swarming around a shade, tearing his flesh apart. “For this soul, you shall have no pity,” commands
My master, “as the atrocities he acted On deserve no retelling. However,
30 Let it be known why this surgeon falls into this
Pit. Though in the mortal realm his life was shielded And his experiments hidden, his eternal Soul is left vulnerable in this
Open plain for all to mock and ridicule.
35 He does not deserve the title of a doctor Nor the recognition, as his patients were
Not treated with care, but treated as if they Were variables for a savage test.”
Compelled to spare my remorse for the spirit,
40 I stand by my teacher’s side and continue The harrowing path. The silence of our trek Is broken by the roars of a nearby shade
Who lies on his side, swatting away the pests
That gnaw on his eyes and lips. “Though my vision blurred,
45 I can sense you are not from this realm. Tell me,
Where does my party stand?” demands the tortured soul, “To be deceived by Brother Number Five has Left my heart distraught!” Hesitant to
Answer, I look at my guide. “Respond. He has
50 No control over you, for we are on the Journey to the skies and therefore are protected,”
My master says, consoling me. Granted the courage, I speak to the shade: “I will grant your wish, but Speak your fate. Let us know how your tragedy
55 Came to be.” “O the boldness in your words I Wish not to respond to,” the soul growls, “but if That is what it takes, then so be it. I will
Tell my tale. I was a man of great prowess, And soon took power in my broken country. 60 It was through my leadership that my country
Prospered. Though my actions may be perceived as cruel, I question you this: How much are you willing To give for your state? A price had to be paid
In order to save my beloved country, 65 And I chose sacrifice for the sheer love I Had for it. You must understand that my heart shatters
With every slain civilian of my state. For such a war-torn land, a renewal Had to be set to bring it back to its former
Holden Frost Watercolor
70 Glory. My Khmer Rouge brought back the order, Moving those who loitered in the city to the Countryside where I gave them a purpose. Through
My regime, I could sense those who became restless To stab the back of our precious homeland. To 75 Protect my people, I ordered the removal
Of those who dared to fight against me, all in The name of defending my state. O it pains Me to remember the start of my downfall!
To be forced to retreat by the Yuan causes 80 Me to grieve for my country, guilty that I Was unable to stop the invasion due
To treachery from my own party!” Hearing His story, I become disgusted by the Ego displayed by the ignorant soul. I
85 Choose not to gift him his desire, and I walk away. My guide, pleased by my actions, motions me to Follow him once more, as we descend to the eighth abyss.
Notes
Lines 2 - 4: “… As we push onward across the roots and vines. / And so we escape the twists and turns of the / Jungle, moving to the seventh ring of this abyss.” Paul uses the jungle as a way to not only describe his spiritual journey but also to add to the theme of East / South East Asian culture, since jungles are a common environment in South East Asia. Just as Paul traverses through the dark, unapologetic jungle, he too has to make a similar path in his spiritual journey where the roads aren’t always paved, especially during the year of 2021. With the rise of Covid-19, the world entered a state of hysteria and disorganization, no one knowing what the future would hold.
Line 5: “Tualang tree” Tualang trees are a common tropical rainforest tree seen in several jungles across Asia.
Lines 10-11: “To paint to explain my fear. There lies a field, / Its distance too far for my eyes to comprehend.” The broad opening that Paul and Confucius arrive at after the jungle is a boundless empty field. In the plain, there is nothing but the souls associated with mass genocide. Here, the souls are punished to be tormented in the open, where everyone can witness.
Lines 13 - 21: “The crowns and bones that could match the tolls of the / Middle Kingdom’s Great Famine and even the / Present plague that is rampant in the mortal / World, destroying our way of living. ‘Oh, Master Kong, / What acts constitute such a tragic fate?’ I ask. / ‘Do not be fooled by the sea of remains,”’/ My master scolds me, ‘for they are not the / Ones punished. Seek farther ahead and you will / Greet the tyrants who stripped the lives of these poor souls.’” The floor that makes up the seventh ring of hell consists of the skeletal remains of the people slain in the mass genocides of humanity.
Line 13: The crowns that the poet refers to are the skulls of those killed by the sinners of this ring.
Lines 14-15: The Middle Kingdom’s Great Famine refers to China’s infamous famine from 1959 to 1961. Middle Kingdom is a common name for China and the actual characters for China (Zhonggu) literally mean “middle country.” The “Present Plague” that the poet refers to was the uprising of Covid-19 in 2021 and the casualties that came with it. Paul refers to this, as his life greatly changed during this time with his rampant fears for the safety of his family.
Line 16: “Master Kong” was the common Chinese name used for Confucius.
Lines 25-26: “With the tattered grey wings of butterflies, / Swarming around a shade, tearing his flesh apart.” In many East and Southeast Asian cultures, butterflies are often associated with the recently departed spirits, eternal life, and beauty, as well as a symbol of change. The poet uses butterflies as the instrument for their torture not only as it relates to the departed spirits of those who were wronged by the sinners, but also as an ironic take on eternal life—how sinners are gifted eternal life, however, along with it comes eternal suffering. The symbol of change for the butterfly is later used when talking about the second sinner.
Lines 28 - 38: “ ‘For this soul, you shall have no pity,’ commands / My master, ‘as the atrocities he acted / On deserve no retelling. However, / Let it be known why this surgeon falls into this / Pit. Though in his mortal realm, his life shielded / And his experiments hidden, his eternal / Soul is left to be vulnerable
in this / Open plain, for all to mock and ridicule. / He does not deserve the title of a doctor / Nor the recognition, as his patients were / Not treated with care, but treated as if they / Were variables for a savage test.’” Here Confucius refers to Shiro Ishii and his crimes against human nature. Shiro Ishii was an infamous medical general for the Imperial Japanese Army who led the development of biological weapons in Unit 731. Confucius is critical of Shiro Ishii not only because his experiments went against Confucian philosophy, but also because Unit 731 was located in China.
Lines 31-32: Shiro Ishii was granted immunity from war crimes in exchange for sharing the details of Unit 731. Prior to this, Unit 731 was kept a secret, disguised as a water-purification facility.
Lines 42-44: “Is broken by the roars of a nearby shade / Who lies on his side, swatting away the pests / That gnaw on his eyes and lips.” The shade is Pol Pot. The butterflies gnaw on his eyes both because of his clouded judgment and his ignorance that killed millions, but also because he and his Khmer Rouge decided to eliminate anyone with glasses in the fear that they were too intelligent. The butterflies bite on his lips because Pol Pot was a charismatic leader who could move and manipulate people with his words.
Lines 45 - 82: “I can sense you are not from this realm. Tell me…” While under house arrest, Pol Pot died before the Khmer Rouge fully ended. Here, Pol Pot is crazed in his own ego and truly believes that what he did was justified. He does not think that what he did was wrong, only that his actions were sacrifices that had to be made for the good of his country.
Line 47: Brother Number Five was Ta Mok, a Cambodian military chief who was a senior figure in the Khmer Rouge. In 1998, Ta Mok placed Pol Pot under house arrest, and shortly afterward, Pol Pot died.
Line 79: Yuon means Vietnam or Vietnamese in Khmer language.
Leo Hahn Pen
Fruits of St. Valentine
Patrick Bryne
It’s February 14th, and I find myself standing in an arid Persian market.
Fish are half off, tobacco is even cheaper, for a dime you can hear a child recite an old hymn.
And I walk through it all with empty pockets.
In a place like this, nothing comes for free.
But suddenly I see him resting against a sandstone wall.
The Old Guitarist, only not saturated in blues but glorified in orange desert light.
And when he sees me staring he begins to play.
He plays for the whole world, yet only I listen.
In this entire market, it is the one thing that is free.
It is then that I realize this man is a ghost.
The spirit of fire and lightning within all of us.
And as I watch him play his eternal tune, I finally understand what St. Valentine died for.
Leo Hahn
The Fence
Edmund Reske
Some metal chains upon a rusted bar
With twisted points that grasp and tear and mar The clothes of all who pass, who still ignore The fence. It guards a flowered field no more.
But look! Amid the dark, dull concrete gloom A living vine, and on it flowers bloom. Encircling links, entwining twixt the post, The vine upholds some buds, a purple host
Of stars, which burn among the heavy shade, And flaunt a color unknown to the gray Of lifeless structures, uniformly made. These blooms, for all the summer they shall stay.
In autumn, they will die—with frost’s first sting, But only so to bloom again next spring.
Tristan Kujawa
Photograph
Lego
Jake Fitzpatrick
How marvelous it would be to be a Lego, for Legos don’t discriminate Legos just have one expression on their face
Legos don’t lie
Legos don’t pull and pry at your heart Legos are hard to pull apart They come in many forms of art, Death Star
Eiffel Tower
Mustang
Accompanied by a manual
For how to piece your life together, O
if life could fit perfectly together
Brick by Brick
Year by Year
Day by Day
Michael Ewersmann
Pencil
A Dreamer’s Demise
Daniel Neuner
Branches ruffle in the tickling breeze. An ox’s hooves cluck along stones Battered by generations. Ships slice across a tender, gentle sea As a shepherd gazes out to a setting sun.
Below, a soul soaks in helplessness. One last grasp at survival, One last wiggle of hope. His boundless ambition crumbles Into a dreamer’s demise.
Tides douse the wooden masts While bleats of sheep echo across the shoreline. The shipmen grin as they inch toward sand, Their wish for wheat and wine soon granted. His thrashing slows As the light of his life dims. A young boy’s dream Drowned by reality.
Based on Pieter Bruegel’s painting “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”
Fields
Jaden Yarbrough
Thin blades of green bunched up over countless acres Gentle brushes on my bare feet as I wandered through the sea of purple orchids and dandelions. The rush as I let my body sink into its prickling yet tender grasp.
I close my eyes letting the sun’s rays envelop my corpse. Their warmth and embrace, gentle yet firm, push me deeper into the earth.
The light still pierces my eyelids.
I imagine those dearly departed who were here who saw the golden gates and heard the blare of trumpets as they lay down on the bed of grass one last time.
How peaceful it must have felt! No.
Not yet. How scared they must have been! As faith alone they clung to, life drifting from their fingertips
I open my eyes an angel hovering over my body his brilliant halo and dazzling white robe overpowering the sun. He picks me up off the grass
as I notice the warm glow over the horizon.
“I know you tire,” he whispers, “but ’tis not yet your time.”
I look around at the lush green. I feel the cool breeze on my skin, taste the freedom of roaming here for eternity, and begin to weep.
“Your faith will sustain you,” he says softly. The words pierce my soul like someone who keeps a secret and lets everything loose on you at once.
At that moment he departs and I close my eyes once more only to open them a moment later, surrounded by my weeping wife, dumbstruck children, my red-eyed brother, as a white sheet envelops my body on a metal-framed hospital bed.
Tristan Kujawa
Photograph
Vinbryo
River Simpson, SJ
Inside a sterile examination room 1,776 feet underground, Mrs. Grace ParnellBlake sat in an equally sterile hospital gown thumbing through the latest Vinbryo catalog. Its diamond cover garishly reflected the fluorescent lighting about the room. My turn has finally come. Betsy Jackson won’t be the only “Mater” on Pembroke Lane anymore. Dr. Cigogne better hurry back soon. The leading fertility specialist in the United Subterranean States of America had been extraordinarily helpful to her that morning in pointing out only the best, most expensive vintages. Vinbryo Labs guaranteed offspring from only the most august and finest of human pedigrees. Doctors, athletes, chemists, politicians, academics, and celebrities filled every page with their white teeth, toned bodies, and tanned skin. Well, you might not have my eyes, but the Ludwigs’ aren’t so bad, or maybe the Jonsons’? Either way, you’ll be beautiful just like them. Grace’s hand rubbed her belly in restless anticipation. You won’t let me down today, not again. I’ve taken all the pills, had all the shots, done all the exercises they recommended.
She beheld the sheeny catalog covetously. A slender red dress worn by one of the women on its thick cardstock caught her eye. Her mind, a confluence of socialite prattling and traumatic memories, could not help but stray from the matter at hand. I haven’t bought my dress for the Federal Nexus Ball yet… Everyone will be there. I’ll need something new to wear… the latest Veritas Couture line just came out... but they’re all just so spindly and green. I’m an autumn, not a spring. I think I saw Betsy wearing one of their new jackets… She just had to pull it off so well just like everything else. Why must
everyone love Betsy so much? What does she have that I don’t? My pearls are just as white as hers from the Fabergé Factorini – “providing only the finest synthetics available since the Great Reckoning.” No one could escape Fabergé Factorini’s new holographic jingle even in their innermost thoughts. Everyone knows she’s wearing a wig now… even if the blonde hair is real, mine are my own strands! Few can say that nowadays. She still has her Jimmy, though… but soon I will have my own Jimmy or maybe a Jenny.... Percy’s oblivious. Too busy with the Bureau of Reproduction to even help me pick out our own child. Ridiculous! I know he’s just sitting in his lab sucking on one of those lemon drop candies. As usual, she had awoken this morning to an empty bed as her house’s subterranean garage door groaned shut with Percy’s personal personnel tram silently motoring off. A white sticky note had been laid on Grace’s black marble night stand. It read, “Dear Grace, Couldn’t sleep. Had to pick up a few things before work. ~Percy.” How typical. For the past few weeks, whether Percy stayed late at the office or hunkered down in his own private study when he happened to come home at a normal hour, Grace was left to pass her evening hours alone circling the latest trends and necessities in the growing number of baby magazines on her living room coffee table. Numerous red pens with delicate bite marks notching their ends filled a nearby waste basket. Well, at least he managed to get me to the top of the waiting list…
Frowning, her eyes glanced back down to the catalog depicting cheerful family portraits of each embryo’s parents with short little vignettes about their lives before the
Great Reckoning ended theirs and everyone else’s dream of having a normal family, a normal life. Wringing the glossy catalog in her hands, Grace’s mind whirled back to her childhood. I was always getting sunburnt. Father came home one day, smiling. The brown grass crunched beneath my feet as me and my sister ran to hug him for the first time in months. Mother was happy too, for once, but the next day she wouldn’t stop crying. She never stopped crying. The catalog tore slightly within her grip. It listed the relevant information of each embryo: gender, eye color, hair color, predicted I.Q., probable occupation, talents, life expectancy, pathological prevalence rates, familial fertility rates, and so on and so forth. Most importantly, though, for Grace, it listed the date of conception and batch number of each embryo that had been held in cold storage for decades just waiting for life. The older it was the better protected both she and her culture believed its genetic material to be from the accursed heavens.
It was just pure coincidence that the decision to hold on to unused and unwanted embryos now kept humanity alive. Mis -
categorizing them as an animal byproduct, U.S.S.A. administrators stored the embryos deep within the subterranean vaults before the habitation chambers became operational. Nestled between millions of stockpiled chicken and cattle carcasses, they were unaffected from the earlier-than-predicted solar storms that irradiated Grace’s and every other living thing’s reproductive organs beyond what was deemed “safe” operational usage. Only by happenstance were the embryos even discovered for what they truly were by a vigilant cook who thought the caviar stock had gone bad. That night, several casks of the government’s secret wine cache ran empty while the cook received a modest increase in his rationings for the week. We spent hours packing. Father said it would be a long trip, a trip to a whole new world, but we had to be fast. He didn’t pack any of his things. The “red rainbows” as father called them shone everyday back then. Each day they got brighter and brighter until they forced me, already a spinster at the age of eight, into this asylum. Mother wailed as the men in shimmering white sunsuits separated us from father at the gates, from the world above,
Sean Cajigal
Photograph
the red sunshine, the howls and curses of those left to die in the impending chromostorms…
The examination room door clicked open and ended her quotidian reminiscence. The grinning face of Dr. Vincent Cigogne popped into view. A rubber ducky tie swayed from his grizzled, scaly neck. “Your final reproductive fitness results will be back shortly…” Her eyebrows knitted instinctively. I will not end up like Penelope…divorced, shunned, unloved.… The fertility technicians rejected her sister for “uterodysplasia.” The U.S.S.A. would never risk humanity’s most precious resource in a malformed woman; the couple thousand embryos left could only be entrusted to the most fit and privileged of U.S.S.A. families. Luckily, she was one of them.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Parnell-Blake; truly, it’s only a formality given your preliminary results. Have you made your selection yet? We wouldn’t want our Director of Embryonic
Maintenance’s beautiful wife kept waiting for her own little bundle of joy, now would we?” Marry young and marry well, mother told us. At least I did that right… Her lipped curled at the only advice she successfully employed from her mother whilst her vanity gorged itself on the sycophantic milk that dripped from Dr. Cigogne’s mouth. “No, we wouldn’t,” she purred, “I’m leaning toward Mr. and Dr. Brzezinski, 2007: Batch 4, number 6.”
“Aw, you have exquisite taste, Madame; the Brzezinskis boast an impeccable pedigree, and Batch 4 is unquestionably their finest vintage. As you must know, our very own Commandant Jackson chose this exact batch…”
“I’ve changed my mind.” There’s no way my own little child’s going to be a blood brother with any of Betsy Jackson’s brood. That two-faced husband of hers is just an administrative jarhead
Jesse Heater
with both the smile and hunger of a crocodile. He’s always pestering Percy for those “special favors.” Her stomach curdled with contempt as Betsy’ sickeningly pale face flashed before her eyes.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Parnell-Blake? Each child is guaranteed an I.Q. of over 130…”
With a deft flick of her wrist, Grace ended his spiel on the merits of the Brzezinski pedigree. Pointing dexterously to the catalog, she directed, “Mr. and Mrs. Kogami, 2015: Batch 1 also appeals to me.” If I can’t have my baby, I’ll have one that’s all my own. Not mother’s, not Betsy’s, not the Kogamis’, but mine.
“Hmm… a rare vintage, Madame. What a hommelier we have here. Very few Asiatics made it into the national registry; whichever one you choose of theirs will be a testament to your civic duty to save all of humanity. Does any one in particular stand out to you? Number 5’s bound to be a renowned cellist.”
“No, Number 3; she’s going to be a scientist just like Percy,” Grace dictated.
“A wonderful choice, I’ll see to it right aw…” The examination room’s phone rang shrilly. It demanded an answer. Dr. Cigogne lifted the receiver, “Hello? … Yes, this is Dr. Cigogne. … Aw, yes.” Covering the mouth piece, he whispered charmingly to Grace, “It’s your official results.” Refocusing his attention to the phone, “Aw, are you sure he said that? … I understand.” His tone muted. “Hmm… Well, thank you. … Goodbye.” Hanging up brusquely, he turned to Grace, “Mrs. Parnell-Blake, you have breached our contract of care. All services present and future are terminated. You may see our receptionist at the front desk about your final billing.”
“Dr. Cigogne, what do you mean?”
“You have uterodysplasia. Goodbye.”
“Wait, is this some kind of sick joke?”
“Goodbye.”
“I don’t understand. I passed all the tests.”
“I said goodbye. Our time together is over. I must see my next patient.”
“What about my child?!”
“Your wretched womb deserves no child.”
Grace stood defiantly. “My womb is pristine. Percy told me hi…”
Dr. Cignoge pinned her to the wall— his withered limbs fearfully spry for a man of his age. He slithered into her ear, “I told you that your malformed kind isn’t welcome here. Isn’t welcomed anywhere. What good are you if you cannot reliably conceive and carry a child? Now, goodbye. Or I’ll contact Subpolis District Commandant Jackson himself and have you barred from even the most disreputable fertility clinics allowed by our most gracious government.” He released her and spat, “One minute,” before leaving the room.
Redressing silently, she tightly held her belly as his words reverberated across her mind. Wretched womb. … Why did you have to fail me? You’re worthless… you’ve made me worthless. She picked up her ostrich-skin purse and ermine-bordered jacket, heirlooms from a time of real animals, and issued out into the hallway. Her red-bottom stilettos clacked cacophonously down the hallway into a grand atrium. They’re all staring at me. Why must they stare at me? Betsy will know. Everyone will know soon… I won’t be like my sister. Alone. Mother promised me I wouldn’t… I won’t. Grace slowed her pace. Let them stare. Entering the tram garage, she threaded between shadows cast by the overhanging halogen lamps to her personal personnel tram, number 6740, and lowered herself into its somber tinted interior. Away from prying eyes, she allowed herself to cry. She has let no one see her cry since she was eight.
Recognizing its owner’s presence, her tram started up of its own accord. In a tenor staccato, it greeted her with a humanity once uncommon to machines, “Good afternoon,
Mrs. Grace Parnell-Blake. Shall I drive us home to 1963 Pembroke Lane?” With facial recognition scanners reading a yes from her contorted face, tram 6740 accelerated and followed the road’s inlaid rails to its destination, redirecting the roadrail switches when necessary. Glimpsing a fountain of cherubs pirouetting around a woman cradling a newborn outside the clinic, she darted her eyes away. With finely-filed nails, she clenched her belly and drew spots of blood.
Leaving the Reproductive Medical Chamber, the tram traveled soundlessly into Tunnel A16 on route to Northeast Habitation Chamber #2. The blur of interweaving light and darkness intermittently illuminated the haggardness of her face. Detached, her mind slowed and counted the cracks in the tunnel ceiling. They’re as numerous and yet as insignificant as the cells in my womb—my worthless, uninhabitable womb. How Betsy’s womb passed, I’ll never know. Her mind wandered in this vein for some time. After entering NHC2, her tram slowed to residential pace and passed aesthetically pleasing after aesthetically pleasing empty house. The U.S.S.A. government, anticipating the inhabitability of the surface for the foreseeable future, purposefully underpopulated each habilitation chamber to allow for sustained, manageable growth.
Noticing that her tram turned onto Pembroke Lane, Grace’s ears perked up at the sound of children playing. She raised her head and peered out the blackened windows of her automated sepulcher upon a green and sprawling field. Pembrokeshire Park. The lone seventeen fertile children in all of NHC2 frolicked there on the playground every day after school. She had hoped that one day her reproductive offspring would join their slowly increasing ranks. To lead a new generation of humanity. To live. To simply be mine.…
“6740, Halt!”
Obeying, tram 6740 decelerated and
parked itself in one of the designated spots near the park. Exiting her vehicle, Mrs. Parnell-Blake strode over to the playground filled with doppelganger children—many conceived by the same parents but born to different ones—monkeying around the jungle gyms and sandboxes beneath a simulated sun. No adults monitored their play; the punishment for “interfering” with children was death. Technically, as for most laws broken in the U.S.S.A., the punishment was exile to the real sun above that had become, via its unrelenting radiation, a swift and unforgiving executioner.
Sitting down on a faux oak bench, she twiddled her thumbs and waited, waited for the right moment. Playing in their own imaginary worlds where the sky and the wind were real, the seventeen children took no notice of this newcomer for quite some time. Eventually, though, a friendly and adventurous child around the age of eight detected her presence and approached her. Watching his footsteps furtively, she felt time ripening as the sweetness of motherhood drifted closer to her in the artificial wind. Greeting the boy, she introduced herself as “Gracie,” her own name from an innocent time when she knew his age intimately. Philippe, which was his name, replied in kind and asked if she wanted to play.
She most certainly did want to play. To play the part of the good mother. To spit in Mrs. Betsy Jackson’s scrunched up face with her maternal abilities. To have the eyes of all NHC2 upon her as the good mother she knew she could be… would be. Is. Snatching hold of Philippe’s wrist, she dragged him to her tram. He cried out with a howl peculiar to children for his mother, his birth mother. Oblivious, she pressed on. Her heels broke as they dug into the manicured synthetic turf. Unused to the struggle for life, the other children just stared at them. Resorting to animalistic desperation, Philippe bit Mrs.
they dug into the manicured synthetic turf. Unused to the struggle for life, the other children just stared at them. Resorting to animalistic desperation, Philippe bit Mrs. Parnell-Blake’s wrist.
Grace let go. He fled.
She was doomed. She fled.
Grace ran to her tram and dove into its welcoming darkness. “6740, Home!”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Parnell-Blake. Right away,” it replied in computerized ignorance of the trials that awaited its owner. It moved at the legal residential pace set by the Subpolis District Council of Northeast Habitation Chamber #2. Grace sat rigidly in her pleather seat, masterfully upholstered by Fabergé Factorini. Why did I do that?!? Why did I do that!?! That was so stupid; mother always said I was stupid…
“Is everything alright, Mrs. ParnellBlake. I detect elevated levels of cortisol.” Its facial recognition scanners identifying a faint yes from the petrified face of Mrs. Parnell-Blake, tram 6740 drove on quietly until reaching its destination, the garage of 1963 Pembroke Lane.
Grace climbed the basement stairs into her living room, fashionably styled in the classic motifs of the early 2000s. Her eyes noticed a white sticky note stuck to the otherwise spotless, blue granite countertop adjoining the kitchen and living room. She read and reread it in a monomaniacal furor. “Dear Grace, I’m sorry I didn’t join you for the appointment; I just wanted to surprise you with something nice and this was the only way. Check the baby room… I love you. ~Percy.” The Parnell-Blakes did not have a baby room, at least not until that morning.
After minutes of that short note playing fermata in her mind, Grace dashed upstairs. She tripped on a landing and bruised her elbow on the banister. Bursting into every room that had been her home, Grace at last alighted
upon Percy’s private study that overlooked the electronic maple trees in the backyard. Usually locked, its door rested ajar. Peering in, she gasped. Devoid of all his books, notes, and research equipment, the once blue room now overflowed with all the toys, clothes, and other baby minutia she had been circling in her magazines. Signifying Percy’s personal involvement, lemon drop-colored wallpaper plastered the walls in his childlike taste.
One doll sat in a crib. She stared daggers at it. “I was supposed to be a mother. Your mother! I waited so long to be your mother. Every day, everyone told me the joys of what it’s like to be a mother… Now, look at me! LOOK AT ME!” She approached its glossy, black-button eyes. With motion-activated sensors, it cheered, “Mama!” Grace reared back but then caught her face in the mirror behind the diaper changing station. She twittered and quietly composed herself by gently threading her hand through her disheveled, real brunette hair. Betsy will die in a year of cancer. How did she get a child when all I have is… you? How they’ll all look at her with such care and love when she dies...
“The same way Betsy will look at me when I’m forced to die like my father! The way she always does with that smug smile as her child suckles peacefully from her artificial, milk producing breasts.… I’ll never know that smugness, that peace. I’ll never know the pain of birth or watching you sleep or fail a test… of… of… ANYTHING!” Grasping a rainbow-colored rattle that lay by her side, she smashed the mirror. Large shards of silvered-glass fell onto the table with a clash. She seized one particularly jagged fragment and began repeatedly stabbing the doll in the crib until she indignantly flung its eviscerated carcass to the floor.
She proceeded to destroy all the pediatric pleasures her never child would never enjoy. Mollycoddled blues and smothered pinks pitched and rolled about the room in her fury. Drawn and quartered toys and
clothesof every imaginable shape, size, and pattern accumulated into butchered pastel heaps. Smashing a play piccolo through the bay window, Grace heard the banshee wail of the Subpolis District Police of NHC2 swiftly approaching her model dollhouse turned hellhouse. She then stepped back inadvertently upon the button-eyed doll.
“Mama!”
Overcome by a pang of remorse, Grace lay down and clutched the innocent doll
bleeding stuffing. She gently cradled it in her arms amongst the piles of infantile debris and whispered sweet nothings into its ears. Her tears stopped the moment she heard the adamant knocks on her front door. Rising to her feet, she tucked the doll into the crib, kissed it goodbye, and silently exited the room. She dried her tears on her jacketsleeve and took a solitary deep breath. With a smile gracing her face, she gilded down the stairs to greet her fate.
Guhan Anbukumar Marker
So Do You
Frank Kovarik
How come my shirt won’t stay tucked in?
How come my hair is getting thin?
How come my knees feel stiff when I get out of bed?
How come my pants keep getting tighter?
How come my hearing and my sight are Getting worse? I guess that it’s just like they said:
You’re getting older. Time has passed. You can’t control Or make it last. The days go by And things break down; That’s what they do. And so do you.
Full of cracks that won’t be healing?
How come my windows rattle like that in the wind?
Why does the honeysuckle vine Seem to choke out the other kinds Of plants in this garden that I tend?
I’m getting older. Time has passed. I can’t control Or make it last. The days go by And things break down; That’s what they do. And I do too.
The universe just keeps expanding Far beyond our understanding. How we got here is a mystery for sure. It’s getting colder, maybe hotter; Maybe someplace else there’s water Giving birth to creatures like we’ve got on Earth.
We’re getting older. Time has passed. We can’t control Or make it last. The days go by And things break down; That’s what they do. And so do I, And so do they, And so do you.
Michael Lian Collagraph
On Lifetimes
Edmund Reske
Beginning with a pleasing, mellow chord
In deep, low notes upon the piano’s keys. Near silence, it is all but left ignored, But from it blows a dancing theme, a breeze
That bounces up the octaves, gaining speed And meeting other melodies, they twist As one, in glorious counterpoint, are freed To sing in royal harmony. But bold
Among these ringing pitches sneaks a note That speaks in minor; fear has entered in. There’s beauty still, but of a diff’rent kind— Now dissonance pervades the music’s din.
The song returns and too the first refrain, That dances down the keys to go and rest Among the pitches low, a whisper yet That with a mellow chord is lastly blest.
the Desert
Colton Eikermann
with brown sugar skin green spiked arms for whom time is a grain and change is the
Max Marnatti
Acrylic
That’s where “grenade” comes from Paul Thibodeau
Vicious abundance, this land is overripe, too fluorescent a shade to see past the horizon.
I sit here at a kitchen table, spooning seeds from this store-bought pomegranate into my mouth, waiting for heaven.
In another life I’d steal one hanging over the garden wall, break it open with my heel, and let the red dye underfoot wash off in salt water. My days, the sea. Copious waves, enough prosperity.
Sometimes, I go past dreaming and wake up in other beds, tang shimmering across my tongue like sweat.
There I take to pillaging, overturning dresser drawers in search for more lovely, vile fruit.
I cup my palms around rubies bleeding sweetness, gemstones leaving hues deep under my skin. Some day, I’ll remember that seeds are for growing, but now my fingernails are jagged from scratching.
The husk, at least, I’ll compost, not ignoring how its now barren face is a mirror of my own.
Stutter
Jens Istvan
Tripping over falling words Bounce off my head until it hurts
And though you know that I love speaking A world with no words just seems freeing
I envy the artist with his brushes No words to form into odd clusters
Though he speaks through his own signs Colors mix more neatly than rhymes
Jack Auer
Photograph
The I-44 Berry Exit Wall
Andrew Hunt
Location: the wall to the left of the exit ramp coming off of westbound I-44 at Berry Road in Glendale, Missouri.
A “pre-cast retaining wall,” the Missouri Department of Transportation calls it.
Reinforced in 2015, holding up its part of Interstate 44.
Forty-four feet of cold stone, sitting tall.
Do you notice its silent vigil?
The weeping under its hard burden of the traffic above.
Vines and water lines seep down the parapet’s aging concrete—
Up there at sixty miles per hour, there’s not much to say for faces and names and stories. There’s no time for that kind of stuff when automobiles tear down slick pavement. Where the wind clamors, muffling the grinding whir of a thousand metal hearts.
Do you hear their cry?
Don’t miss your exit, my friend!
Yes, you! Atop that wall of stone!
Don’t you notice the world below?
Slink down exit 279, dip below that blur of trees lining the highway, and down there
You’ll find names.
You’ll find faces.
Drive down Berry Road and I’ll tell you about double-buckling, windows down, slushies at dusk. Walk down Adams and I’ll tell you about the fireflies we’d catch near that big pine tree in my backyard, and clumpy snowflakes, and the wrinkled leather of David’s minivan, and dinner on the patio, and Mia’s dog named Langhorn.
Bike down Argonne and I’ll tell you the jokes we would share as little kids in the woods behind the Custard Station, what those screeching freight trains sound like up close, and what it feels like to drive fast down that big hill on Robyn Road with the warm gusts of summer blowing in your face.
Roll down Geyer and I’ll tell you about friends laughing in my basement and fervent pickup basketball games.
Stop by Woodlawn Avenue and I’ll tell you about the girls I’ve loved and the family I’ll miss and the quiet confessions of close friends.
I’ll talk and talk, and I’d tell you more, but I’m not so well-spoken and It’s all still unfolding, anyway.
So stay, for a while—nestle in, hug the warm lights of my little corner of the universe
And you’ll know what home means to me.
You’ll straddle the back of that weeping wall once more And throttle onto life’s course.
But I hope you’ll remember There’s a world hidden below every inch of that highway you’re rolling on. I hope you’ll remember to look Just forty-four feet below.
Andrew Hunt
Photograph
A Lake in the Fog
Edmund Reske
That day in the forest the crickets tried to sing and the light got stuck in the fog Coming off the lake in the early morning chill while the heron strutted on his bog. He knew he was king of his little patch of mud ’cause any other beast would fall through Except for the mink—his little paws light, and his fur a watertight shoe.
The deer were up at the early morning cry, the fawns prancing off to play, The hummingbirds zipped down to drink the cold dew that fell with the sun every day. And an agèd old snapper pulled up onto a rock, so majestically and royally alone, But the dew never fell and dawn never broke and the sun never warmed up the stone.
A fat old fish with golden sides and eyes milky white, like the moon
Swam up from the depths where the lake never warmed and splashed right next to a loon, Who heard the splash and squawked away, not knowing who had given him the fright, And flapped up away through the fog and the mist to find a new lake that had light.
A bear in the woods emerged from the hollow where every night he liked to stay. He would sit at the threshold and wait for sunrise with the bright new glorious day. Confused, he returned to the comfort of his den to ponder on this extraordinary fact, But soon he slept, and he only, all told, from the loss of the light never lacked.
In time night came and the stars appeared and told the creatures it was night, But the owls kept hooting and the crickets kept chirping and the fireflies turned on their lights. And the squirrels still slept, like they had all day, not knowing of the sun’s mistake, But when morning came, the fog was gone and the sun sent light to the lake.
Golden Shovel
Chuck Hussung
after T. S. Eliot’s “Burnt Norton”
I spend each day in time and contemplation and yearn to revisit the old life to ring again the bell of each joy to have sorrow buried and reborn until the old day fuses with this new day
Leo Hahn
Acrylic
The Swift
Edmund Reske
I am the swift I have flown for miles and years, adrift On the air. I am the quickest of all The birds. But better: none have flown as long As me. Yet still, my wings stay rigid, strong.
My wings are like scythes that cut through the sky, Slicing through rain, storm. With lightning I fly. When the clouds reign heavy above, I fill My wings with their dew, washing in the chill Of the heavens. When sun strews and shreds The billows to pieces, my wings are spread To dry in the thick shafts of sunlight. Yes, I have flown a lifetime, without true rest. Yet I sleep on the wind. A softer bed Than any. I have seen continents, shed My feathers on lions and beetles, and I cannot ever return to the land.
I am the swift I have flown for miles and years, adrift. On the wind, rising, falling, yet I fly. I have made my home in the empty sky, And tomorrow, next year, when you wake up, I will still be flying.
