Sisyphus - Winter 2022-23

Sisyphus Winter ’23

Front cover: Mutt, acrylic by Gavyn McClure; design by Alex Deiters

Inside front cover: print by Oliver Floresca

Masthead: photograph by Joe Stoeckel; design by Alex Deiters and Max Grellner

Inside back cover: print by Leo Smith

Back cover: Garden Lion, digital art by Jesse Heater

3 the song my longing soul sings ever, poetry by Tim Browdy

4 The Girl and Her Puppy, fiction by Alex Preusser

5 photograph by Max Grellner

6 Those who live inside out, poetry by Conner Leahy

6 Young Grasshopper, print by Troy Pugh

7 The Kiss, prose by Isaiah Hinkebein

9 print and mixed media by Keegan Dow

10 acrylic by Max Marnatti

10 My Very Own Little Rom-Com, poetry by Anonymous

13 Gavin’s Day Off, print by Troy Pugh

14 The Wedding at Cana, prose by Luke Duffy

15 Fourth of July, photograph by Joan Bugnitz

16 Tangentially, poetry by Frank Kovarik

17 photograph by Max Grellner

18 The Bicycle, by Madhavan Anbukumar

19 Fixer 1, acrylic by Gavyn McClure

20 Freedom, poetry by Paddy Jones

20 Saxophony, digital art by Jesse Heater

21 Scorched, fiction by Alex Preusser

22 Black Widow, ceramic and wire by Zion Spencer

25 Two Faces, blind contour by Courtney Lucas

26-27 print by Leo Smith

28 The Bicycle, poetry by Madhavan Anbukumar

29 Fixer 1, acrylic by Gavyn McClure

30 print by Keegan Dow

30 Blue Face, poetry by Shaun Carroll

31 May is Pixie, poetry by Cody Cox

31 Morning Stroll, acrylic by Gavyn McClure

32 Candelic Wares, poetry by Will Blaisdell

33 Crescent Moon, photograph by Max Grellner

34 Spiraling, photograph by Max Grellner

35 Self-Inflicted, poetry by Alex Preusser

36 watercolors by Max Marnatti

37 Airship from LAX, poetry by Sean Agniel

37 print by Leo Smith

38 distinct, poetry by Tim Browdy

39 Self Portrait, charcoal by Max Marnatti

40 This Bed We Made, poetry by Alex Preusser

41 Fauve Cabin, acrylic by Alex Deiters

42 Scribble Lady, digital art by Alex Deiters

43 I’m a Liar, poetry by Cody Cox

44 New Sky, poetry by Mark Faulkner

45 Specter, poetry by Conner Leahy

45 photograph by Max Grellner

46 Asian Streetscape, digital art by Jesse Heater

47 Pac-Man, fiction by Thomas Juergens

48 ceramic and wire by Cal Kreuter

48 ceramic and wire by Sarah Rebholz

49 ceramic and wire by Caleb Schellenberg

50 The Old Tamarind Tree, poetry by Madhavan Anbukumar

51 Back in Time, acrylic by Gavyn McClure

52 sunday, october 2, poetry by Cal Kreuter

Special thanks to Joan Bugnitz, Sean Powers, and Sarah Rebholz for their generous help.

the song my longing soul sings ever

Tim Browdy

a spliced, moving measure whisps adrift my life in longing, undaunting noise

croaked, torqued, teetering notes fleeting, rapt between my tamed, proclaimed legatos that fraying, misplaced key construes and slurs my wrought, belting desire

The cadence never ending The pulse always chasing Crescending towards the song my longing soul sings ever.

The Girl and Her Puppy

Alex Preusser

In the dark of night, under the cover of clouds shielding the light of the moon, she crept from her bedroom window. Careful not to wake her mother, the girl slid her window closed and took a few tentative steps into the darkness. Her small backyard bordered a forest, one which her mother had adamantly reminded her never to enter. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

She shifted her backpack on her shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the forest. The flashlight flickered to life in her hand, its weak beam permeating the thick darkness of the trees.

Shadows grew in the light, transforming myriad branches and leaves into menacing creatures. The monsters of her nightmares surrounded her, creeping ever closer in the darkness.

The girl knew not where she was going; her only thought was what she needed. After some amount of time stumbling over roots and dodging branches, the perfectly full moon crept into view overhead. Here, she stopped and pulled the backpack from her shoulders.

She laid it carefully on the ground and the flashlight flickered off. As she was plunged into darkness, she ignored the fear building in the depths of her stomach. Now that she was here, she could handle the rest from memory.

She carefully unzipped her backpack and pulled a bundle from it. It was decently weighty, wrapped in one of her pillowcases. She took her time in uncovering it until she

felt the familiar brush of soft, curly fur. The warmth that usually accompanied the fur was gone now, but if she was successful tonight, it would soon return.

Her finger felt the cool metal of the collar, and she let her fingertips run over the face of the tag, which she knew read Buddy. He was all there—his golden blond fur, the leather collar, the ever-damp nose now dried up, the small paws—but really he wasn’t. He no longer buried his nose in the girl’s arms, no longer relentlessly licked her face, no longer followed her every step on his short little legs.

But now that could all be restored. She pulled the next item from her backpack. Its weight shifted in her hand as it moved. The girl had taken this little cage from her third grade classroom, claiming the hamster as her own.

Finally, from the side pouch she pulled a small paring knife, which she had taken from the drawer in the kitchen, desperately hoping her mother wouldn’t notice. She hadn’t.

As she held the hamster’s cage in one hand and the knife in the other, the first tear fell from her eye. She bit her lip, holding back the rest of the tears. Soon it would all be okay. Soon she would be back in her bed at home with her puppy in her arms.

The girl had done her research, memorized the instructions she found. All of the sites she found agreed on one thing—blood. So she gripped the knife tighter, took a deep breath, and plunged into her opposite palm. She bit her lip harder, stifling a cry. The tears flowed freely now.

With the punctured hand, she reached into the cage and grabbed the hamster. It squirmed in her gory grasp, but she held on tight. With her eyes tightly shut, she once again dug the knife into flesh, twisting it into the hamster’s chest.

Using the fingers of her uninjured hand, she dug into the carnage, searching for the telltale feel of its organs. By some divine sense, she found its heart and pulled it free with a sickening squelch of blood.

The girl dropped the still-writhing hamster to the ground and held its heart in her hand, its blood mingling with her own. She tenderly reached toward her puppy, wriggling its mouth open to place the heart on his

tongue. Next, she began to rub the mixture of human and animal blood onto the fur between his eyes, the back of his head, and the place where she guessed his heart lay.

Under the light of the full moon, she finally opened her eyes, pulled her bloody puppy close to her chest, and cried out, “Please, come back to me, Buddy.”

In an instant, the puppy shifted in her grasp. His tail twitched, his eyes slowly fluttered open. To her morbid delight, he spat, sending the hamster’s heart flying into the dirt. She laughed and held her puppy closer, cooing as his bloody tongue licked her cheek. The girl and her puppy, together again.

Max Grellner

Photograph

Those who live inside out Connor Leahy

I don’t sympathize with the rocks that crumble and erode, I grant no heed to the fires of the sun or orbits of the planets, Nor do I care for the well-being of the wind or the leaves it carries: They have never felt the longing of life.

Clouds know when they weep for the verdant, The grass knows when it finds relief in the cool twilight, And all the animals know when they persevere in the face of pain and reality: All that find themselves vulnerable in the face of this world deserve to live in peace.

Troy Pugh

Young grasshopper

The Kiss

Isaiah Hinkebein

Despitethe mild midsummer morning, my hands and armpits were drenched with sweat. That would be because of the girl walking next to us. True, walking next to girls will have that effect, though I would have thought that knowing someone so long, even if she’s a girl, would fix that. Yeah, but we’ve never been on a date before, and besides, this girl is special, isn’t she? Definitely. Wait…have we spoken to her yet? We forgot to compliment her outfit, we didn’t even notice her outfit, oh god, I wonder if she can tell how nervous we are.

We were set up to watch the movie in my basement because my grandpa always watched his shows in the living room. My basement is a sea of brown: partially finished with brown seventies-style faux-wood paneling and thin brown indoor-outdoor carpet. We both sat heavily on the futon, glad to be in the cool house. It wasn’t too warm outside, but I must’ve been setting the pace pretty high because we were both sweaty. As we cooled off for a moment, I finally took the chance to glance at her outfit. Her green socks disappeared into the folds of her white and green paisley skirt. Tucked into the waistband of her skirt, her shirt was an olive drab decorated with cactuses. Her hair was up in a ponytail. Mae was almost geishapale, a lovely onion-white with dark, auburn hair. It was redder when we were younger, but her hair is still lovely. Her slightly round face featured no makeup but almost-but-not-quitealmond-shaped eyes.

“What movie were you thinking of watching,” she asked.

“Uhh, I thought of a few options: Scott

Pilgrim, Transformers, or maybe Alien if you wanna watch something intense.”

“I haven’t seen Transformers,” she offered.

“Transformers it is then.”

I inserted the movie and sat down on the far end of the futon. Why did you sit so far away, you idiot?! You’ve known this girl how long? She’s not gonna bite you! I didn’t look at Mae. I kept my eyes glued to the movie. I had told her a few weeks earlier that I hadn’t ever kissed a girl, and she told me that she wanted to fix that. I knew I should probably try to kiss her today, and I felt the perfect time would be right now. Not “oh maybe sometime later,” but right now. If you let this chance slip away, if you don’t kiss this girl right now, you never will. I wanted to, I did, but no matter how hard I tried to pluck up the nerve, I couldn’t pull my eyes from the movie. I even started telling trivia about the movie.

“Did you know that…” If you keep talking about this stupid movie and don’t move your ass right next to her, this whole thing is gonna flop. You want to kiss her, and she said she wanted you to kiss her, so what are you doing?! As Optimus Prime made his first appearance on screen, I felt I was reaching to grab a ledge, but instead of holding on I let it slip out of my hands. As I started falling, plummeting, all I could see was the ledge.

“Isaiah…”

I turned my head and there she was; she had moved closer to me on the futon without my noticing, and now I was pinned between the bar at the end of the futon and her. Her face was inches from mine; I could feel her breath on my face as her eyes made piercing

contact with my own. OHMYGOD OHMYGOD, WHY IS SHE SO CLOSE TO ME, HOW COME I NEVER NOTICED HER EYES WERE SO AMAZING, they’re like bluegreen with gold streaks in them, what should I…

“Wha…?” is all I could manage.

I don’t remember the kiss, I just remember after. It was like a papercut: I’m not quite sure when I was cut, but I definitely was. Her face was still so close to mine, and I could tell her eyes were searching my face, trying to judge…something. I think I watch too many movies; I was expecting a huge swell of music or… or some romantic dialogue or something, not for her to just… Well, what should I do now? Oh my God, I’ve liked this girl for years! And she just… and she’s so pretty… but HOLY SHIT I’m still so nervous… should I?... Should we?

“Was that…all right?” she asked.

“Yeah I…you just surprised me is all.”

“Oh…”

“Could I…?”

“If…if you want.”

That was it, that was your first kiss. What does this mean? I mean, we’re now a part of the larger society, the group who has kissed someone. But does that change anything? I mean, I don’t feel any different, except for being antsy because I’m the closest I’ve ever been to a girl, but…is anything different? At all? For me? For her? For us as a unit? Are we a unit? What are we? Maybe it means…?

The kiss was like having a conversation

with a crazy person at a bus stop; I think I know what I was talking about with them, but there’s some key detail missing that would make the conversation make a whole lot more sense. However, it wasn’t a conversation. It was like playing cards: I don’t know what the other person has in her hand; but it isn’t a competition. Calling the kiss a tango would be clichéd, but it wouldn’t be inaccurate; there’s a level of mystery between the partners, and cooperation is necessary for it to work, but that metaphor would better describe a kiss between a couple, not a first kiss. This first kiss was like a tango during a spacewalk, foreign and exploratory.

As for me, I was almost confused; I didn’t feel like Tony from West Side Story, running around singing about kissing a girl; or like Singin’ in the Rain, or any number of other movies where people are elated from a kiss. I was caught off guard, not because I wasn’t expecting a kiss but because I wasn’t paying attention to what Mae was doing. It was like something I had always believed would or could happen had come to pass, and while that is exciting, it’s like the final chord being plucked in a symphony; it rings of truth and completion without being totally unexpected. I think that’s why it was so strange: because the kiss felt like something good had been completed, but I knew that it was only the beginning of something else.

My Very Own Little Rom-Com Anonymous

Unanimous studio crowds create the show; choreographed bulbs command them: “LAUGHTER” “PITY” “DISGUST” “LAUGHTER”

Knowing what to feel makes art so easy.

And so with each planned break, Your magnets pull me closer. First, the mirror to remedy my filth, then through the spiral stairs, my breath slows, till into the room with excuse in hand.

Max Marnatti

Acrylic

Mounds of damp, piney hair, chemicals smoldered on my face, favorite sweatshirt pilling only on the back, while on cracked leather sofas designed for two, you live your life. Unaware of the beauty my five stares take away. But slowly my plan falters. For I remember that conversations reveal vulnerability, chance, and embarrassment.

Books don’t. So my eyes drop their stare while a Bokonon convert hides the uninterrupted leer of my other four.

I love these moments, At least my actions can be laughed at, treated as childish. Being next to you holds any vice back.

But the commercial break will always come, When the scene changes to my cozy room in a little house on Ashford.

Unopened Plato, forgotten Marx, scattered garments, propped mirror slanted like the final book on a shelf, that doesn’t annoy enough to bother fixing,

My room shouldn’t feel cozy. Nothing to stop my sins, no longer confined to your humanity. Liking you, loving him.

Objectification empowers my courage. I romanticize a smile or see kindness as foreplay. He is waiting for me, begging I initiate, and hoping I make a story our duprass will look back on in warmth. And so

I text him. You respond. Two words, nine characters.

Rejection always hurts. The slow realization contrary to such a simple answer. All I can do is laugh. “LAUGHTER”

Looking back over at my propped mirror, It’s an almost perfect rendition of the man staring back. No, not the reflection, the mirror. The grimy fingerprints that brought it home six months ago, or its inability to show what I want, or how I choose pleasure over anchoring its back to the bumpy gray interior of my cozy room in this little house on Ashford. Almost too perfect, almost too reflective.

It causes me to remember the camera inside this prop.

That no matter my emotions, I cannot go off script. It would bring down the show’s ratings, and the poem’s.

So with a smile at my propped mirror, I give the audience a shrug, “Tomorrow will be different, better.” And the credits are free to cover my portrait, with the help of an upbeat tune.

The Wedding at Cana Luke

Duffy

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples were also invited to the wedding. When the wine ran short, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” Jesus said to her, “Woman, how does your concern affect me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servers, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now there were six stone water jars there for Jewish ceremonial washings, each holding twenty to thirty gallons. Jesus told them, “Fill the jars with water.” So they filled them to the brim. Then he told them, “Draw some out now and take it to the headwaiter.” So they took it. And when the headwaiter tasted the water that had become wine, without knowing where it came from (although the servers who had drawn the water knew), the headwaiter called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves good wine first, and then when people have drunk freely, an inferior one; but you have kept the good wine until now.” Jesus did this as the beginning of his signs in Cana in Galilee and so revealed his glory, and his disciples began to believe in him. After this, he and his mother, brothers, and his disciples went down to Capernaum and stayed there only a few days.

—John 2:1-12

The unconditional faith of the mother of Jesus in the word of her son initiated a series of events that led to the revelation of the glory of God. What Jesus said was done, and his glory was manifested as a conse-

quence of an unconditioned acceptance of his word. But there will be an “hour” in the future when this revelation will come to a final consummation.

—Daniel J. Harrington, SJ, Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of John

No justice, no peace! This demand echoed through the streets of downtown St. Louis on a hot summer day. Thousands of demonstrators marched down Tucker Boulevard. They were sick and tired. Eight years earlier, after Michael Brown’s death in Ferguson, they thought they would be marching for the last time. They couldn’t understand why senseless acts of police brutality happened over and over again.

I was among them that day. The pandemic had taken a toll on me, so I had been wary to leave my house and endanger myself in such a crowd. Still, I couldn’t help it; I needed to do something. So I marched. I marched for the names I kept seeing in the headlines: George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery. I spent my whole life with so much privilege that these people were denied. The least I could do was brave the elements for a few hours.

We started walking at City Hall around 11 o’clock with energy and fervor. Wielding colorfully decorated signs, we shouted chants and marched with a passion. There was a clear sadness in the crowd: many had grieved after Ferguson and felt these feelings resurface with recent killings. Marchers were visibly emotional—some quietly weeping, others wailing. Still, I couldn’t help but feel empowerment that so many people had

gathered together behind a common cause.

Time slipped away as we marched down block after block letting the city know how we felt. But as the day rolled into the afternoon, the heat began to take its toll. More and more protestors sat down at the side of the road, and the pace of the crowd slowed. There was still a long way to go before we would reach the police headquarters, the final destination of the march. The sweltering heat made marching increasingly strenuous, but we persisted.

The march slowed to a halt. Leaders were no longer shouting chants through their megaphones, and there was more panting than cheering. People were exhausted, and it was unclear whether we would proceed.

Then, suddenly, he appeared. A young

man, probably only a few years older than me, weaved through the crowd on a tottering old bike. He was handing out bottled water from a milk crate haphazardly affixed to the back. A smile on his face, he was apparently determined that the march should go on. He handed me a bottle of water, and I frantically poured it into my mouth. It was cold and refreshing, the small push I needed to fight my exhaustion. Slowly, other protestors rose to their feet. Worn out but determined, we continued the march.

I didn’t know his name, I have since forgotten his face, but that day, one man made it possible for one small demonstration to continue. He didn’t end police brutality. He didn’t solve racism. But with a little bit of kindness, he motivated people to keep going.

Joan Bugnitz Photograph

Frank Kovarik

It’s easy to ignore That every shoe I ever wore Still exists. In a pile at the dump Or sported by some other chump, Yes, it persists.

Some lonely evenings I recall The faces, names, and fates of all The girls I’ve kissed.

It’s strange to think of all the lives, Of all the mothers and the wives On that list.

This old house I own the deed to, From which, I know, one day I’ll need to Step aside: New residents will renovate it, Sleep and eat and procreate and Live inside.

Life seems so stable, but it isn’t so. It all seems permanent, but everything must go. You think you own, but you just rent; It happens without your consent. The world goes on, and time will never cease to flow. All that you touched, those whom you knew, may not recall Your laugh, your fingerprints, or anything of you at all.

And if by now you haven’t learned What Ozymandias discerned Out in the dust, Well, here’s the truth: it’s that, essentially, We connect only tangentially With all that is. It’s hard to swallow, but we must.

Max Grellner

Photograph

Jesse Heater

Freedom Paddy

Jones

After “Battle Hymn of the Republic”

Summer sun beats him as The shovel digs and scrapes; he Thinks of those who’ve died. That’s better than life now, to Be free is to make A better life, to be seen as men. He thinks of his grandmother: holy As she was she made sure to let Him know “They can’t control us.” His love of liberty would never die, So he made his way north, to A new life, one where he could make The decisions granted to all women and men: Where he could be free.

Nick Sanders

Photograph

Scorched

Alex Preusser

A sequel to “Scorned,” a short story published in Sisyphus, Spring ’22. Scan the QR code to read “Scorned.”

Her stomach was still empty. The thought of food threatened to dredge up what little remained within her.

Ernest Mann was a draining force. His constant demands, both secretarial and otherwise, were often difficult to satisfy. A man with such power was unused to being left unsatisfied, and Delia found that it was often her responsibility to do as he pleased. Long hours in his office had given her much more insight into the wonders of industrial America than she had ever wished for.

Delia Clark had stared at the puddle of her own vomit. Tendrils of blood seeped out of the severed finger, mingling with the remnants of her regurgitated sweet potatoes. All the sweetness of her lunch had long ago abandoned her mouth, leaving only the pungent, sour flavor of vomit. She knew that droplets of his blood had splattered across her front, leaving crimson stains on her new pink dress and droplets scattered on her face. She had stood frozen in place, unable to lift her eyes from the puke as she barely registered the hysterical screams of her boss.

These screams echoed in her mind even hours later, as she plunged her hands into lukewarm water, desperately trying to scrub the gory stains from her dress. If she could rid the fabric of crimson, perhaps her mind would be free of the echoes. Richard had offered to help her, to let her lie down while he tried to clean her dress for her, but she had staunchly refused. It was better to give her hands something to do, lest her mind descend further into memories of the morning.

But Delia, like Ernest’s vindictive wife, was fueled by the steady flames of revenge. Her older brother Richard had worked in Ernest’s service for years, an occupation with little reward, but fewer options beside. He had been stuck in the great machine of industry, a replaceable cog in an unforgiving system. That is, until an accident that now seemed oddly karmic tore Richard’s hand at the wrist, taking with it any possibility of remunerative labor. It was for him that Delia tolerated her work.

Now Richard stayed at home, cooped up in the single-bedroom flat shared with his sister. While Delia carried out her duties at Mann Meat, Richard single-handedly managed their household.

The building was crumbling around them, the windows cracked, the floors disintegrated in places, the walls thin enough to hear their neighbors whisper. The wash basin that Delia stood at was rusting; her dress would likely end up with a ruddy tinge, a result of the blood and rust.

Her hands were starting to wrinkle in the water as it turned cold. Still, she thumbed

the bloodstains, desperately trying to push the images of her boss’s disembodied finger from her mind. Sure, she had been wishing, partly scheming, for his downfall. Here it was, potentially.

Delia was thinking of her boss’s wife and her sickly sweet smile when she was startled from her thoughts by the sound of knuckles on wood.

Someone was at the door.

Wordlessly, Richard stood from their small table and approached the door.

“Hello, Mr. Clark,” said a woman’s voice. “Is Miss Clark here?” Delia’s stomach dropped.

Delia let the dress sink to the bottom of the basin and took her time drying her hands on a rag. She was not ready to face this woman.

The woman spoke again, not waiting for Richard’s response. “I would love to speak with her.”

Clara Mann was still dressed for mourning. Her multilayered bustle dress had been replaced with a simpler piece: a high-necked crepe dress, ruffled down her front and at her feet. She had ditched the lace gloves, but still wore the large black hat, which shielded the upper portion of her face. Only when she lifted her head and peered past Richard could Delia see more than her plump, pursed lips.

Their eyes met, and Delia could feel the bile rise in her throat. She bent over the wash basin, emptying any remnants of her stomach into the tepid water. There would be no saving that dress.

Black WiDoW

Ceramic and Wire Zion Spencer

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and faced Clara.

“What do you want,” Delia asked, “Mrs. Mann?”

Clara smiled, her eyes glinting as they had when Ernest screamed in agony just hours before.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Delia had never visited Ernest’s estate before. Their clandestine rendezvous had been limited to his office. Ernest Mann owned a sprawling property just outside of the city, one equipped with groundskeepers, maids, butlers, everything that Delia dreamed of but could never hope for. A smile crept to Delia’s lips as she thought of what Richard had called it: the Mannsion —silly and meaningless, but entertaining because it had made Clara scrunch her face up in disgust.

Now, nearly a week after Clara Mann had shown up at Delia’s home unannounced, Delia was welcomed onto the property, ushered inside by a butler in a crisp black suit. They had counted on Ernest’s tendencies toward pleasure-seeking in times of high stress. Though down a finger, Ernest retained his more important extremities.

“You will find Mr. Mann in his quarters,” said the butler. “He has been alerted of your visit and will be prepared.”

Clara had predicted this, too. She had informed Delia that Ernest preferred the most absolute privacy in his quarters. And the need for Ernest to maintain his secrecy would be doubled in the presence of a presumed paramour.

As she climbed the stairs and roamed the winding halls of the Mannsion, Delia considered the situation that she found herself in.

She had never thought of herself as a thief, but the nauseating allure of Clara Mann had drawn her in. When Clara had

proposed the idea, she couldn’t help but admit it sounded exciting.

Clara had every detail lined up before she had even stepped foot in Delia’s home; that much was clear. She had ordered Richard out, waiting in silence as he reluctantly grabbed his coat and left the women alone. Upon the sound of his footsteps descending the stairwell, she had turned to Delia and explained her plan.

It was immediately evident to Delia that this was a woman with no other options. Clara had to have been desperate in order to stoop so low as to bring her husband’s mistress into her plot. Or perhaps, Delia thought, that was the mastery of it; Delia was the one that would take the fall if the plan failed. But she could not resist the opportunity to orchestrate the downfall of one of the most powerful men in America, and her cut of the profit would be the coup de grâce.

The papers had published a detailed piece on the revolting practices of Mann Meat, written by none other than famed muckraker Ida Beatty. The article’s claims were bolstered by the accident suffered by Ernest in his factory; the prevalence of such dismemberment in the packaging of meat meant that Ernest was ruined. Throughout the week, Beatty was able to gather a collection of testimonials from his workers, including one Richard Clark, whose hand had been cut off and churned into the processed meat.

Now, as Delia combed through the myriad drawers, shelves, and nooks of the Mannsion, excitement grew.

Delia had amassed a small bag’s worth of various gold and silver by the time she reached Clara’s quarters, separate from those of her husband. She was not surprised in the slightest at the extravagance of the woman’s salon, bedroom, and bathroom. It felt oddly intimate to be alone in Clara’s space, an invasion of privacy even if she had instructed

Delia to do exactly this. The thought of Clara sleeping in the bed in front of her was slightly disconcerting, and she found her heart racing.

In the closet she found the real wealth. Delia opened up the double doors to find a room as large as her entire flat. Dozens of fine dresses and gowns and drawers filled with lavish jewelry lined the walls. Delia spared no time; she simply grabbed everything she could, shoving dozens of shiny rings and bracelets, glittering earrings and necklaces into her bag.

Despite her urge to flee as quickly as she could, she decided to give into temptation.

She admired the collection of dresses, taking in the variety of styles, colors, and fabrics. Eventually she came upon one that made her lips curl into a smile that she knew was reminiscent of Clara’s.

When Delia finally departed from Clara’s quarters, she looked very different. Her curly brown hair was now at her shoulders, the ribbon that once held it up discarded somewhere on the floor. Her old dress, too, was discarded, traded in for one more fit for the occasion. Delia had taken a page out of Clara’s book, and a dress out of her closet. The shorter black velvet dress was exactly what she thought Clara would have chosen—the color of mourning, but the short length, ruffles, and ribbon around her neck conveyed the excited and vengeful energy that Delia felt.

She was careful not to let the excitement of her outfit change and the thousands of dollars worth of stolen goods cloud her mind. She took a moment and paused in the hallway, gathering her thoughts. A few more steps and she would be directly in front of Ernest’s office. Delia wiped her sweating hands on the velvet of the dress, smoothing any wrinkles, and proceeded forward.

The rhythm of her pounding heart and footsteps was broken by the sound of his voice.

“Delia, is that you?”

She was right outside of Ernest’s office, the thick polished wooden doors cracked open.

“I’ve been wondering where you were, darling. The butler alerted me of your arrival ages ago.”

She left the bag of stolen finery by the door before entering the room. Ernest sat at his desk. Her eyes immediately went to the bandage around his hand. Delia’s stomach turned.

“Sorry, Ernie,” she said, willing her voice to stay cool and even. “I wasn’t quite sure where I could find you.”

He stood, stepping around the desk to come to her.

“You could have waited in the bedroom,” he said softly. “I would have made it there eventually.”

He approached her, padding slowly across the room. She stayed frozen in place, even as his hands found her hips, his face nearing hers. Before their lips met, however, he stopped.

“Delia,” he said. “Is this Clara’s dress?”

She was caught.

“I lied,” she said slowly, desperately trying to think of the best excuse. “I thought it could be fun—dressing up for the first time in your house. I didn’t think any of my dresses were quite right.”

The lie seemed to satisfy him, because he leaned in toward her, this time letting his lips touch hers. As they kissed, she led him back toward his desk.

As long as they avoided the door, he wouldn’t notice the heap of stolen jewelry.

Delia found herself sitting on the desk, her lips still on Ernest’s. Her hands roamed the contents of the desk, feeling anywhere but him. His lips and hands left hers, and she was momentarily relieved, until she noticed it was only for him to begin to undo his tie and unbutton his shirt.

She looked away from him, her eyes on his desk. A copy of the newspaper sat off to the side, Ernest’s face smiling up at her. She remembered the moment clearly, the camera flashing just as the blade had reached his finger. Beside the paper was a pair of keys, and as Ernest fumbled with his buttons, she reached for them.

Delia felt a hand on her waist and she jumped, her wrist bumping a candle on his desk. It fell, meeting the newspaper. It ignited, the flames quickly consuming Ida Beatty’s words and Ernest’s smug smile.

Ernest cursed, his hand leaving Delia. She climbed off the desk, the pair of keys clutched in her palm. She retreated toward the door, feigning fear of the fire.

“Go get help,” Ernest said. The fire had spread quickly, igniting the papers across his desk. He stood behind his desk, his shirt and pants unbuttoned still, as he desperately tried to smother the flames with a folder. He succeeded only in further spreading the flames.

tWo faces

Blind Contour

Courtney Lucas

Clara and Delia had counted on the fact that there were no servants near his quarters. They had not accounted for the lack of help available in case of a fire.

Delia knew she couldn’t call for help. Any servant would notice the jewelry. She hadn’t any other choice.

“Ernest,” Delia said, her hand on the door. “I hope you burn in Hell.”

Delia slammed the door shut, but simply locking the door would have little effect on Ernest. She pulled a pin from her hair and pushed in the keyhole, jamming the key in with it. She could only hope that would do the job. Delia picked up the bag of jewelry and ignored Ernest’s cries for help as she descended the stairway.

As she made her way out, Delia thanked the butler for his hospitality and climbed into the carriage that waited outside for her.

Delia wondered if her name would end up in the newspaper.

The Bicycle

Madhavan Anbukumar

It sat in in my grandfather’s shed, Old And rusted. The shed was for cows, Not your ordinary white with black splotches. Cows of different colors, Black, white, brown, orange, blonde, A palette of colors. The cows were long gone, As my grandfather Was in his old age. He still had this bicycle.

It was as tall as the cows That once lived in its home, Hard-as-rock seats, One of metal, One of leather, Two which carried everything he had in this world, Two wheels which Had spun to the moon And back.

Even when my grandfather Was in his old age, He still had this bicycle.

The shed used to contain Rices and other grains. It held the smallest of mice, Which fed upon the grain. On the loneliest of nights They used to sit underneath, Just like us.

On those long summer nights When we sat under the stars, Gazing at the twinkling eyes of our ancestors, Who watched over us,

As we looked up at them. This was all under The watchful wheels Of the old bicycle. As my grandfather Was in his old age, He still had this bicycle, The one which had seen The childhood of my father And his siblings, Of my cousins And me: The old rusted bicycle In my grandfather’s shed.

Gavyn McClure

Acrylic fixer 1

Blue Face

Shaun Carroll

Color me bad when you call me blue face

Things always get bad when it’s for my sake

People all around me

Sick of delay

You seen me frowning

Yesterday is on replay

Stuck on my actions

Be better for the next day

Colors all around me

When you call me blue face

Print Keegan Dow

May Is Pixie

Cody Cox

Elegant is when the pixie Wearing an autumn colored sweater in May Glides on the cobblestoned earth, Making her way through shadowed trees and dappled light, Her heart swelling with the courage of the dutiful. Anointed with the oil of curiosity, She walks the long road to the fountain of knowledge, Behind a large, heavy wooden door. She grasps the long doorknob, Twisting the handle with vintage silver rings, And slips into class With a mind that reaches for the twinkling stars.

Morning stroll

Candelic Wares

Will Blaisdell

The snow falls only in the cone of the streetlight, yet the world seems—still—in the ruination of fall. The flecks of white were accompanied by the frigidity of the morrow season, and those that flew beyond the cone swirled in void of perceiving. But as the Moon’s full amber glow bounced from each lonely flake to the next in beautiful silence, a salvation was born of a yellow silent hive that chokes the ever-terrific amethyst of dusk. The gentle curses of winter and light brought swiftness to this bleak apparition, but yellow brilliance was brought to their winds, and soon the Weres would come to roam in Her candela.

Yet, unlike its kin, the mist finds harmony in the grave of night and the halo of that streetlamp. The mist may occupy that rhythmic pulsating glow but needs no Moon to revel in its existence. No, it thrives in the lush grove of twilight, with no grief in its vanishing, its concealment, knowing it still exists in the green of dusk. It finds the light to be a grim vessel, one that provides but cannot commune with those that await it. So the mist takes up a duty of its own, obscuring and comforting the lost and betrayed. As the winds gust through the shrouded willow, branches swaying in a hazy, tranquil solitude, the mist gives home to the Wraiths that have waited beyond.

crescent Moon

Photograph

Max Grellner

spiraling Photograph Max Grellner

Self-Inflicted

Alex Preusser

The metallic tang of blood coats my tongue and fills my nostrils

Blows raining down on me crushing in on every side without mercy or respite

I can’t help but think of how I look as I’m painted black and blue When I get through this If I get through this will people notice the remnants of this one-sided battle?

I try to take a breath between blows but my throat fills with metal I’m drowning in my own blood

My fists dripping from my work I am the artist of my own brutal destruction

Watercolors

Max Marnatti

Airship from LAX

On the Feast of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus or

Sean Agniel

Invincibility isolates, Impugns aortic veins, and Excises circuits into impasses of entitlement.

But hues of His heart Harrow the inner hearth, Scattering hubris like hoar-frost.

His Sacred Heart sends salutary signals, Suturing the fissures of severance, and Syncopates the soul’s estuary for solidarity…

Convincibly.

Leo Smith

distinct Tim Browdy

i float adrift a place of beings alike as snowflakes distinct among snowflakes only cautioned for the dangered unlike imbued distinction keeps the world turning round! a lie just as sour as the “truth” that’s baked about the tramp whose feet don’t ever touch the ground. here, I slide behind the fallacy of variance, not a cog serving greater purposes beyond me, but still remain in a lie i can’t keep distanced.

nuanced in confusion, i believe we live. we’re neither imprisoned nor free judged only by how much or how little we give.

solution lacking, i drift despondent. when i find one, i’ll let you know, i’ll write you, then, my moot respondent.

Charcoal self portrait

Max Marnatti

This Bed We Made

Alex Preusser

Lying in this bed we made, the waning incandescence of your heart aches deep in the hollow of my bones.

My heart once burned with the passion of our love, but you have set our home ablaze from within.

I chose to ignore the telltale signs of wilting sage and shattered mirrors, splintering my perspective into a million sharpened shards.

As I clutch these shards close to my chest, holding the remnants of our love beside my heart, I hope this bed we made burns with you.

When wispy tendrils of smothered flame fade into the mercurial hues of dusk, all that remains is the memory of what we once had and lost.

Alex Deiters

Acrylic fauve caBin

I’m a Liar

Cody Cox

My flannel still carries the lingering scent of Old Spice

I still feel your fingers brushing my tender sites

My mind is scattered into fragments

Your eyes were the first to really see mine

Our lips tasted like weed and blue raspberry nicotine

The brushing of the warm blankets made my cheeks burn

And my heart nearly began to stir

But I’m just good at impersonating someone who cares

I guess that’s probably why I’m lying to the therapist

I keep saying that I never saw you and we never kissed Wasted and screaming at some poor cashier

I’m still trying to forget the way you looked at me

New Sky Mark Faulkner

I want a refund I want a redo Told me it’d be fun Told me it’d be cool

Just on the run Got lost in the sun A story had came to That’s when I’d seen true

Wait till I see you Things that we been through Emotionally into… Entanglements in the truth

Lemme cut on this Feathers off a tree From a bird, left Flying free Daydreams that we see Making our own reality Content and at peace

I wonder what’s in store for me A new heart I have found Never knowing a love so profound

Being shocked by the sound A New Sky has come around Leaving me a smile, so astound

Specter

Conner Leahy

A ghost appeared to me last night

One of simple curiosity

One of far-gone camaraderie

One of pleasant joy

He has long since faded No more of his wonder and intrigue

No more of his friendship and company No more his grin persists

But I hope when I die After I endeavor to fly Whether I be cruel or kind That I will haunt like him

Max Grellner

Photograph

Pac-Man

Thomas Juergens

Pac-Man looked around to find himself in a dark hallway. Flanking him on either side were blue walls that glowed slightly. Their faint light spilled ominously onto the floor and lit the way forward. Pac-Man looked down to find that he had no legs. He was simply a ball floating in the air. Suddenly, he began floating forward. Surprised, he turned sharply to the right, only to ram into the wall. He felt a sharp pain in his front, and he turned away from the wall to drift down the hallway. As he floated across the hall, he discovered himself automatically moving in whichever direction he was facing. Pac-Man looked ahead and saw that those glowing blue walls took a sharp turn to the right. Pac-Man prepared to make the turn, and as the wall on his right opened up, he executed the turn, this time without hitting the wall. Pac-Man then looked forward and saw a glowing white ball, much brighter than the faint glow of the walls, and Pac-Man was temporarily blinded as he gazed upon the orb. However, Pac-Man continued to float towards the ball, almost mesmerized. When he got close, he felt his mouth—he assumed it was his mouth—open wide and gulp down the orb in a single bite. A sudden pop noise sounded from…maybe his mouth, as he gulped down the ball. It tasted sweet, and it seemed to dissolve in his mouth. Soon, that sweet taste was gone, and he felt hungry for more. Pac-Man looked forward and saw an entire line of tantalizing orbs going down the rest of the hallway until it turned again. Pac-Man floated excitedly down the hallway. Pop! Pop! Pop! Each orb he ingested tasted better than the last and only

increased his craving for more. Pac-Man continued throughout the hallways, eating more delicious glowing orbs, and soon realized he was in a maze of some sort. He noticed hallways diverging from his own and perhaps connecting back up later. Pac-Man continued around the maze until he turned one corner and came face to face with… something. He thought it looked like a ghost of some kind. It was semi-transparent, with a light-blue tinge and four tentacles extending from the bottom and two bright blue eyes. Pac-Man tried to swerve around but was too slow. One of the ghost’s tentacles latched onto him and pulled him in. The ghost enveloped him and he felt himself being torn apart and suffocated by the tentacles. Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, everything again went black.

Pac-Man woke up in the same hallway. Adrenaline still rushing through him, PacMan jumped up and looked around trying to spot the ghost. But no, there was no one around him, just the faintly glowing blue walls. Pac-Man calmed himself and moved cautiously towards the end of the hallway and peeked around the corner. There was neither a ghost nor glowing orbs. Pac-Man continued through the maze, more cautiously this time. He came across more ghosts as he went, but he calmly turned around and floated the other direction whenever he came face to face with one. Pac-Man noticed four ghosts: red, blue, pink, and orange. The orange one didn’t chase him as much. In fact, it always seemed to run away from him.

Pac-Man continued through the halls, eating the glowing orbs, and eventually

Cal Kreuter

came across a larger orb. He approached the orb and gulped it down. It was almost big enough for two bites, but Pac-Man managed to get it down in one. Suddenly, two ghosts appeared around the corner but quickly turned and began running away from PacMan. These ghosts were different though. They were still semi-transparent but tinted dark blue. Their eyes were off-white and they had a sort of zig-zag frown. Pac-Man chased them and soon caught up to them. As Pac-Man approached them, he felt the urge to open his mouth for some reason. He got closer, and suddenly ate one of the ghosts. It tasted better than any orb he had tasted so far, but his happiness faded as the other ghost began flashing between white and blue. Suddenly, the ghost reverted to its original state—the red ghost. Pac-Man attempted to turn around, but was already caught in the tentacular grasp of the ghost. Pac-Man felt that familiar sensation of suffocation again, and everything turned black once more.

When he woke up for the third time, Pac-Man felt a dropping sensation in his gut. This was his last chance to do it. But do what? he thought. Nevertheless, he set out through the maze once more. Time sped by as Pac-Man flew through the hall-

ways, evading ghosts and eating orbs. PacMan realized that the ghost he had eaten before must have come back to life, because all four ghosts were accounted for. Pac-Man eventually couldn’t find any more orbs, but he knew his mission wasn’t done yet. He must have missed some orbs. Pac-Man scoured the hallways, searching. He looked for so long that he was able to map out the maze in his head. After analyzing his mental map, he realized that, all this time, he had cruised past a short stretch of hallway. PacMan dashed across the maze to that hallway. Pac-Man arrived at one end of the hallway, and observed the pair of glowing orbs close to the center of the hallway. However, out from a doorway in the middle of the hallway emerged all four ghosts in their terrifying semi-transparent glory. Pac-Man realized they must have come from their home base. All the ghosts drifted towards Pac-Man—besides the orange one, which proceeded to flee in the opposite direction. Pac-Man flew towards the last orbs. Time seemed to slow down. It was impossible to say who would reach the orbs first, the ghosts or Pac-Man. But Pac-Man knew it was either he or the ghosts, and he would

Ceramic and Wire

Sarah Rebholz

Ceramic and Wire

not let them win. Not after all he’d been through. Pac-Man reached the beginning of the line of orbs and gulped them down quickly. The ghosts realized how close he was to succeeding and sped up, but it was already too late. Pac-Man devoured the last orb, and everything went dark again. It wasn’t the suffocating kind of darkness, though. In fact, when Pac-Man woke up again, he was in a totally different place. Everything was pitch dark, except for the ghost behind him, which began chasing him. Pac-Man moved forward and saw something else being chased by another ghost. He and

the other thing almost slammed into each other before they both turned upwards. As they moved upwards together, the two ghosts beneath them crashed into each other and ran away. Pac-Man turned and looked at the other thing. It looked just like him, but with red lipstick around its mouth and on its head a big red bow with white polka dots.

Pac-Man now knew he had accomplished his mission, at least for now, when Ms. Pac-Man smiled with both relief and amusement and said, “Well, honey, it sure looks like you’ve had plenty to eat since yesterday.”

Caleb Schellenberg

Ceramic and Wire

The Old Tamarind Tree

Madhavan Anbukumar

When the day is over, When the sun leaves, It is time to talk.

We sat in the shade Of the old tamarind tree, Whose bark is like the skin of an old man, Whose skin is rough and wrinkly, Veins popping out of That leather like skin Which sweats profusely, Small orange fruits, Curved as if to mimic The wings of the birds Who used to sit upon it. Hard orange shells, When cracked open, Let out the most wondrous smells, Seeds like teeth inside.

Old plastic chairs, Dirt on the legs, Parts of the back missing, Held up our weight in this world, Made us feel bigger Than we actually were, Under the shade of the old tamarind tree.

The conversations we had, Both grandeur And sadness.

Stories from my grandfather, Who was very much like

The old tamarind tree, Of games during childhood, Of ancient warriors, All underneath The old tamarind tree.

Later that year, After time flew away, Life was again reminded Of the impermanence it held.

The old tamarind tree, Whose shadow stood over three generations, Who provided a livelihood

To my family and friends, Whose shade we sat underneath, Was cut down, Only a stump remaining. Now, Whenever I think Of the old tamarind tree, Under whom I can no longer sit, By whom I always lingered, Memories

Will never go away Because

In my mind, I still sit Underneath the old tamarind tree.

Gavyn McClure

Acrylic

Back in tiMe

sunday, october

Cal Kreuter

2

crisp but pleasant in the early afternoon

Crunching and crumbling, golden elm leaves crackle beneath my soles— their perfect symmetry ruined. Seeping through the cracked sidewalk, a yellow dandelion limply wilts, pitifully begging for attention, hoping to see another day. I step aside.