Metrosphere_02/2015 by Met Media

Connie Mobley Johns How old is your Soul. Chalk pastels on paper

Volume 33 | Issue 2 perspective /pərˈspɛkt ɪv/ noun: The choice of a single angle or point of view from which to sense, categorize, measure, present or codify experience.

Cover Art: Tim Arndt, Franciscopolis Giraffa Camelopardalis. Acrylic on linen Inside Cover: Sierra Schwartz, Be More Than a Social Media Activist. Graphic design Back Cover: Rosie Opp, Mr. Death. Hand-lettered illustration

Photos by Eric Tsao - Metrosphere

Editor-in-Chief Laura De La Cruz Executive Editor Amanda Berg Features Editor Carlos Escamilla Photography Eric Tsao Mackenzie Masson Design Laura De La Cruz Carlos Escamilla Brianna Thorsen Kristen Morrison Illustration Brianna Thorsen Copy Editing Amanda Berg Carlos Escamilla Mario Sanelli Steve Haigh Jennifer Thomé Writers Carlos Escamilla Maureen Bayne Heather Pastorius Marketing Met Media Marketing Team

Met Media Steve Haigh, Director Jennifer Thomé, Assistant Director Kathleen Jewby, Production Manager Elizabeth Norberg, Office Administrator Guest Editor and Consultant J. Eric Miller Met Media P.O. Box 173362, CB57 Denver, CO 80217-3362 Printed by Signature Offset Special Thanks to Erik Hall and Pat Muterspaugh at Signature Offset, Sal Christ and the production, administration, and advertising staff of Met Media.

© 2015. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior permission of Met Media, except in context of reviews.

CONTENTS

Spotlights

Featured Professor

Explicit Morality The World of J. Eric Miller

Featured Work Apology

8 11

Featured Writer Jessica McWhirt Poetry and Politics

Featured Work

Submissions

Featured Artist

A Portrait in Realism with Antonia Fernandez

Elephantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Graveyard Specks in the Sky

51 52

Intersection

Matt McMullen

Kathy Doherty

Katherine Laidlaw

Meredith Wright

Kristin Buck

Pamela Trayser

Matthew Smith

Alyson Lawton

Kevin Norris

Kira Wolfson

Waylon Trostel & Armando Silva 23

Kirsten Vidis

Celine Angerhofer

Edward Ayala

Allison Copeland

Corey Erwin

Alessandra Ragusin

R. N. Sheppard

Alyssa Edmunds

Kelly Mitchell

Kristin Macintyre

Annette Tallo

Laura Hickerson

Leah Crise

Keturah Barchers

Roman Sosa

Kate Oakley

Darlene Thomas

Christopher Eckman

Photo by Eric Tsao - Metrosphere

Spotlight

PORTRAITURE IN REALISM with Antonia Fernandez by Heather Pastorius

CURIOUS GLANCES HIGHLIGHTED by glinting lights, secrets hidden behind coy eyes, wrinkles that attest to trials suffered and triumphs earned – all of these and more are captured in the works of portraitist Antonia Fernandez. Fernandez has created masterful oil paint portraits that allow viewers to step into a moment of time in the subjects’ lives – this from humble beginnings and despite obstacles. Fernandez has many memories of creating art as a child, and many memories of how difficult the pursuit proved to be. “I think I’ve always been an artist. I just feel like it’s always been my passion. I would always draw,” Fernandez said. At the age of 17, due to a disagreement with her teacher, Fernandez dropped out of high school. But she didn’t allow it to stand in her way.

February 2015 |

Photo by Eric Tsao - Metrosphere

Spotlight

At such a crucial time in your life, dropping out of high school would have been a big obstacle. Where did your ambition for art take you from there? I got my GED and started at Front Range Community College. I was in a life drawing class and the teacher called me out in front of everyone. I had to go get a permission slip because there was going to be a nude model and everyone was like, ‘You’re 17?!’ I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. I hadn’t found my style yet. I felt like I was pushed away from realism most of the time. Everyone always kind of had something against realism, so I felt like I needed to get away from it. It wasn’t until [MSU Denver] that I got back into portraiture. Then I was like, Okay, this is what I want to do. I was out of the confinements of the assignments and I could finally do what I wanted to do. I stuck with portraiture. My teacher Carlos Fresquez, director of the painting program, he really helped push me and take my portraits to the next level.

How did Carlos Fresquez do that? I think he believed in my portraiture, but he pushed me, especially colorwise. He kept yelling at me, ‘You need to use more color!’ He let me do some research instead of a painting for one of my projects, and it just completely changed everything. My technique was good, but my color palette wasn’t. It was brown and muddy. I made this new process that is my everything now. I’m very stubborn and he pushed me. I’m grateful to him for that. Without giving away all your trade secrets, can you expand on your research and preparation? I take a lot of pictures of the person, anywhere from 50 to 100. I choose which one I think best represents that person and captures something in their eyes. I want their soul to come through their eyes. When I did that research, I came up with my own underpainting and mapping system for color.

I use lizerine crimson, ultramarine blue, burnt sienna, viridian green, yellow ochre and cobalt violet. I paint really thin layers and let that show through. Since I let some of that dry, the layers don’t muddy up and mix. It gives some depth underneath the skin. I try to get every detail I can. People ask, ‘Can you leave a couple of wrinkles out?’ I say, ‘No. Sorry. Your wrinkles are beautiful.’ In what direction is your art moving? I’ve started working on nudes of fitness competitors. I really want to see where I can go with that. I also want to start on something new that is sort of my self portrait, but not as personal, so that will be coming soon. What led you to painting ﬁtness models? A couple years ago, I competed in a fitness competition. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and I gained so much respect for women who compete in these. I wanted to capture their bodies because it’s their form of art. I feel like a lot of women who are fit get flack for being fit because

Courtesy of Antonia Fernandez

Spotlight

that’s not the norm. I think all bodies are beautiful, but I don’t think it’s right to be upset at women for being fit. I just really want to capture their form of art in my art. I’ve sort of tried to capture the chaos and everything that’s hard in the painting – and then the beautiful result. I haven’t completed the first one yet, so we’ll see what happens with them. Why do you do it? It’s a thank-you to those people who have impacted my life. It gives me a sense of accomplishment when I do it. I need that from my paintings. Anything you want to add? I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I’m proud that I dropped out of high school; I dropped out for a reason. I went to college the next semester, and I got my degree. Keep doing what you want to do. I believe in myself and I think other people should [believe in themselves] too.

February 2015 |

Photo by Mackenzie Masson - Metrosphere

Spotlight

EXPLICIT MORALITY THE WORLD OF J. ERIC MILLER by Carlos Escamilla

WE LIVE IN A MAD WORLD. We’re surrounded by violence and darkness on a daily basis. We say that we’re desensitized to it, yet we constantly shy away from anything that has the potential to force reality into our consciousness. We call it obscene, inappropriate or unnecessary. Enter the writing of J. Eric Miller, Ph.D., whose prose brings readers back to reality – to a place where we must choose the path to actuality or fantasy. His writing is fiction, but is created with a meticulous recognition of human behavior and circumstance.

February 2015 |

Spotlight

“I do hope that if people are disturbed enough about the center of most of what I write – the misuses of power – they would consider their own use of power in the immediate worlds in which they live.”

Miller’s early work includes the collection of stories published in 2004 as “Animal Rights and Pornography.” The collection tends to be controversial due to its graphic nature and unapologetic honesty. Each story confronts the reader with a different display of deeply disturbing behavior, often forcing him or her to put the book down and take a second to resolve the feelings drawn out by the narrative. This is an unconscious effort on the part of Miller. He doesn’t write to any specific audience, preferring instead to use his stories as a way to possibly explore the oft-hidden places of the mind. “I think it’s a pretty important way to think about what separates the people that write from people that just kind of maneuver through life – we’re trying to make sense of things, and sometimes those things are on the other side of the door in the floor and it’s not always the pretty stuff,” he said. As an animal rights activist, his writing also works to dissect the power dynamics that are generally overlooked, whether those are between humans and animals, or among humans. “I do hope that if people are disturbed enough about the center of most of what I write – the misuses of power – they would consider their own use of power in the immediate worlds in which they live,” he said. “I’m a big animal rights person. I would hope that anybody who’s read enough of my stuff might, at some moment or another, pause above a slab of meat. It also goes to human-to-human interactions and to think twice about whether you want to be a part of those ugly scenes.” It’s not difficult to empathize with many of the protagonists as you read Miller’s stories. The characters are stripped of illogical theatrics, leaving the reader with relatable, living beings. This style of writing asks the reader to confront his or her own actions and how power relations are engaged. As Miller explains, “Are we still not guilty of doing something that if we were to see it reflected back to us on the page and exaggerated a little bit, we’d be like, That’s terrible, it’s disgusting, it’s obscene; and I wish not to be a creator of that after all?”

However, intentions and messages are not explicitly found within the stories, since Miller usually writes in a way that compels readers to draw their own conclusions. For example, his story in this issue, “Apology,” doesn’t reveal the motivations of the group of men in the strip club, nor does it divulge what their mission is or where they’re going, keeping the story consistent with his minimalist style. This approach is shaped by his lifelong passion for film. His Masters in screenwriting from the University of Southern California is apparent as you’re reading his work. “I think this gives me such a ‘less is more’ thing - I’ll show you what’s going on.” Miller shows more about his characters through actions and intentions, rather than through explication. This is also an approach by one of his major influences, Cormac McCarthy. “You can find in all of [McCarthy’s] works, about 10 sentences that reference what somebody’s thinking or feeling. Nobody ever says, ‘I feel this way.’ Cormac McCarthy characters don’t talk like that.” “Apology” also follows much of Miller’s recent work, which has been centered on terrorism. It’s not really the act of terrorism itself, however, that seems to fuel Miller’s fascination. “It’s taking things that are going now, but I don’t want to write a story that just kind of reflects that. I want to write a story from a different point of view, which is where you get the strip club story,” he said. “Some of the guys that went to 9/11, they stopped at a strip club, which is kind of ironic since what they think they’re dying for is sort of a purity of world.” The complexities of his terrorist characters add insightful layers to contemporary issues. “Writing about it doesn’t alleviate anything, it’s just a way of saying: ‘This is my best understanding of how the world’s working right now.’” It’s through his writing that Miller understands the world. He doesn’t apologize for it, nor does he try to rationalize or reconcile anything that happens. “This stuff happens. This is the world we live in,” he said. “I’m interested in people not pretending they’re so normal. It’s the people that repress that stuff all inside of themselves that scare me the most, because when they ‘go,’ they go.”

Featured Work

APOLOGY by J. Eric Miller

IT SEEMS ONLY HE IS UNCERTAIN OF THIS DETOUR. Still, of the half dozen men in his group, she has attached herself to him. Even before he began giving to her all the money he will ever have, she was sitting on his thighs, with her face to his face, saying to him that his dark eyes were nice to look at. On her breath is a sweetness that makes him think of tea and the faraway home in which heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d grown up. His mother is there still, with his one living younger brother. What they will make of him after tomorrow, he does not try to know.

February 2015 | 11

Featured Story

They are all drinking liquor. The tiny blond dancer in her pink panties and clear plastic high heels with her belly slightly distended and her small breasts bare straddles him. Zaid leans between them and whispers that it is a trick, like everything you buy in this country. Zaid, who is eating cherries off of a plastic sword, pinches the fabric of his own flower printed shirt and taps his Cartier sunglasses. On the lens remains a sticky looking fingerprint that makes him appear slightly silly, though he is a serious man. Then, she is gone. He looks around at the others, bobbing heads to the music, putting bills down on the stage, drinking from their glasses. He tells himself it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter where she went or why. When he sees her dancing on a distant stage, he thinks of how easily he has been sucked in, which was really what happened to anybody who came to the States. These were necessary adaptations; it was like in the American films about police officers going under-cover: sometimes, to do it properly, one became so awash in the infiltrated world that only some strong part of his intellect remained unchanged and right to direct him at the time when the predetermined action was appropriate. One had to make a vow to that side of himself. Outside are their rented vehicles littered with fast food bags from the long drive across the state. They each have their tickets and their implements, their particular trainings. It means to him not as much as the others have said it means to them. But then again, he speaks about it as they do, so who is to say what any of them really thought? And there is Zaid, who will not go all the way with them, but will remain to prepare others for other missions.

Now she is back. She seems to know that he does not necessarily want her to plump her breasts for him or squat with her wagging bottom close to his face. The bareness of all the women is only slightly shocking; he has seen their near-twins even more fully nude and more carnally involved by the thousands on the internet. She is different, and he does not ask himself why. Nor does he look at what denomination of bills he peels off his small roll. In the morning, he will not want to eatâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;an abstinence that will have nothing to do with purity, which will come only through fire. In this way of understanding the world, it is never complicated. She sits on his lap, and she asks him about his country, and she asks him if he misses his home, and she knows to ask him if he misses his mother. He gives her his frank answers, which are yes. But he has been here for six years, and it is accidentally a home, too. He thinks of the apartment to which he will never return, and the fat man who lives beside him and plays classical music too loudly. He thinks of the older woman with the child that might be her grandson. The little boy would sometime stand on the balcony throwing his tattered toys over the banister and then screaming for them. He considers telling the dancer about this boy, and he considers telling her about the menial job he has endured, but he does not know what any of these details is supposed to mean. The others have had their fill. They are pushing back in their chairs now, their eyes growing focused, even as they finish off their third or fourth drinks. They are already in the future. Though he can see them sweating, and though he can see the smudge on Zaidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sunglasses, though he can smell them, and then dancers, and though the music is loud and he cannot

Featured Story

not hear it, this moment, like almost all others, is already behind them. He stands with them. The girl looks at him puzzled. He shows her his empty hands. She nods, but her expression is perplexed and she does not break her gaze. At the curtain to the corridor, he turns. She has followed them. Her eyes seem to light. She smiles an uncertain smile. Then he knows that it is possible, despite everything—who he is and what he thinks he values and what he imagines she thinks she values—it is truly possible, he being a man, she being a woman, that love, and those acts that people believed constituted love, can pass between them. In theory, he can turn and take her hand. She would, perhaps, pull away, as a lifetime of reaching men had trained her to do. But after a moment, whatever it is that makes things seem they must remain a certain way would simply crack. She would realize she had no set place, no destiny. Then her retreat would abort and she would instead move toward him. She would smile her most real smile. Her grip would grow firm against his. Together, they would walk out of the club, she just as she was, mostly nude, but with the last little bit of her secret funneling back away into her, behind the tiny stretch of fabric she was required to not take off. They would go because she was suddenly ready, just now, and he, unbeknownst to himself or anybody with whom he consorted, would prove to have been likewise prepared. They would find themselves in the heart of the coincidences that by the laws of probability hatched all throughout the world all through time. They would walk out, her away from some yelling man that had been some kind of boss, away from wide eyed other dancers who would never do what she was doing; he would walk away from his solemn voiced companions calling after him like a

voice from within one has learned to ignore. She and he, light and dark, from opposite sides of the world, meeting here and falling together out of what it was they thought they had become. And he would go with her, she with him. Somewhere, not far from here, not long from now, she would take that last bit off, the final barrier between him and the whole human her. He thinks like this, but he is going down the corridor. The curtains fall closed behind him. The men from his group have reached the door at the end of the little corridor. It has all been decided long ago. Zaid pushes the door open. When he turns again, he finds that she is standing halfway through the curtain. Her face is weary in that light. She stands with one hand slightly raised. The night is warm and dark. He turns and steps toward it, and then looks back over his shoulder at her. She is not gone. His feet are directed by some distant thing in his head that has been trained to think of all other changes as degenerations, that pure center that has kept the world simple. He is moving out through the doorway, the voices of his companions steps ahead mumbling now in Arabic again. He thinks, as he turns his eyes to see her face, its beauty now dizzying, that when she remembers him—and she will have cause to never forget their meeting—it will be in a way that is all wrong. So he speaks to her, very quietly, in a language that is not hers, his mouth opening and closing around the words that perhaps will always be a mystery to her. “Ana asif,” he says. Then he speeds up so that he can move along with the others.

February 2015 | 13

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Submissions

Matt McMullen Moxa. Oil on spray paint on canvas

Submissions

Matt McMullen Brahman. Oil on spray paint on canvas February 2015 | 17

Submissions

Cursed by Katherine Laidlaw

The room was not what I was expecting. The walls were not the stark white I had imagined, but a muted beige. I wasn’t lying on some steel operating table, but in a standard hospital bed. There was no screaming, no moaning, no mindless shuffling through the halls, only a gentle hum of the constant fluorescents. There were no dark colors

He looked around the room in silence. There hadn’t been time to clean up until now. If he wasn’t talking to doctors at the hospital, he was on the phone with one or the other while at home. Between phone calls he would try to scarf down the cold fries he had forgotten about when he came home to his wife crumpled on the bed sobbing. Occasionally

to be found, everything was just… neutral. It seems to stay a constant sixty-six degrees in the room. The only hint that I wasn’t at a typical hospital was the absence of doors. There was a translucent curtain that hung in the bathroom doorway.

they would find time to close their eyes together throughout the day to calm the searing pain in their drowsy eyes. He was averaging about three hours of sleep a night, but it had calmed down enough at this point that he could open the door again, finally.

The time is 7:36 a.m. We are woken up every day at 7:30, and must be in morning group session by 8:00. Vitals are taken and general well-being questions are asked during this time. “How are you feeling today, Arthur?” You shouldn’t ask me in the morning. “I don’t know,” is all I can ever say.

He looked around at all the clothes strewn about the room, occasionally catching a shining glimpse of the clouded glass poking through the folds. His worn Birkenstock sandals were not practical for wading through the debris, even with the accompanying socks. The shards slowly moved from the floor to his hand to the trash bag. The bed couldn’t be ignored, though he wanted to so badly. The foot of it was the first thing you come across when entering the room. That is exactly where Arthur sat just three nights ago, clutching the glass with his right hand while his left arm lay dead upon his lap. The now brownish-colored stains were marbled with various shades of red and pink, diluted by tears and drool. Unsure of whether to try to wash the sheets and bedspread or simply throw them away, he decided to leave it till the end. He kept the same sunken face throughout the whole process.

Mornings are the worst. That’s when I can tell it’s getting bad. I don’t even find solace in my sleep; I wake up with the dread, the pain, the fear. My eyes haven’t even opened and already it’s the worst day of my life, just like yesterday, just like tomorrow. I scratch at the scabs on my shoulders. It has been three days since the incident. My body is painted with wounds like a Pollock. The superficial scrapes are now broken up by scarring skin, leaving only speckles of pink behind, while deep ones are outlined by scarlet, darkening towards the center. I can attribute each gash to a different tool. They hid the knives, scissors, razors – typical sharp household objects, but a person’s pain will always overcome the obstacles. I tried pens, pencils, guitar strings; eventually I came to breaking light bulbs. While I watched the river of red flow out of my chest, my arms, my thighs… I didn’t see blood. All I saw was the anguish, despair, sleeplessness, hatred. I could let it out of my soul and onto the bedsheets. The nurse removed the stethoscope from my back. “Go ahead and get dressed now. Group starts in fifteen minutes.”

Perhaps he was numb from the sleeplessness, or perhaps he had just overloaded his emotional capacity. The sound of a skipping CD made its way across the room. Wading through the sea of garbage and stiff clothing, he eventually stumbled to the player. The thought to take the CD out didn’t even cross his mind, just to simply press the “next” button. “Why Does it Always Rain on Me?” by Travis began playing. They would listen to this song together when Arthur was younger. Oh, how he loved watching that music video. Arthur took up his mom’s interest and love of her Scottish heritage. He would wear kilts to school everyday, and attempt a butchered accent with his friends. Arthur was so different back then, so happy, so carefree, but then again, he supposed that they all were. He wanted to finish cleaning while his wife was asleep. She blamed herself. The depression came from her genes; she felt she had doomed her children from the start. It didn’t matter how good of a mother she

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was, because it would never be good enough. There was no reasoning with her. He felt like not only was he losing his youngest son, but also his wife. His children had never seen him cry until yesterday. Watching his bandaged son disappear behind the clank of the metal door was the single hardest thing he had ever done, because he finally realized that he couldn’t help him anymore.

III She was only twelve years old, but she had a greater understanding of suicide and depression than most adults. These things seemed to curse her whole family. Her uncle had killed himself when she was nine. She had only ever seen him on holidays, so she never felt incredibly close to him, but he was always who she sought out at gatherings. He was very funny, and loved to coax out her delicate giggle. She was the only girl in the family, so this was a quality only she possessed, and he seemed to be the only one who appreciated that. This was not Arthur’s first incident, but this was the first time he had been in the hospital. Uncle didn’t get the chance to be in the hospital. This part was new to her. She felt very alone at this time. Her oldest brother, Marcus, had moved out, and she was only seeing her parents for the forty-five minutes they would sit at the table with her while she ate the various fast foods they had brought her. Even when they were not at the hospital, they were shut away in the bedroom, discussing various issues that presented themselves with each phone call or visit. Every now and then she would prod, “What happened? What’s wrong now?” She would always get the same oversimplified and unsatisfactory answer, “Arthur just had a bad day.” They were simply trying not to involve her too deeply and upset her. Though what she really needed during this time was just some basic acknowledgment. Desperately, she would leave the beautiful pottery she made at school on the kitchen table, hoping, not even for praise. They could tell her it was shit, and it wouldn’t matter. They saw it, they saw her. They noticed her so little now. She would get vague updates about Arthur everyday. He seemed better today, the doctors are hopeful, he was more withdrawn today, etc., but these updates did not console her in the least bit. They simply reminded her of how fucked up her family was. She didn’t want to hear about it anymore.

IV These group meetings just made me feel like an even bigger piece of shit. Almost everyone else here has been impoverished, molested, beaten, raped, orphaned, you name it. What the fuck so bad has happened to me? I don’t have a reason to hate my parents, but I just do. I don’t have a reason to be terrified to wake up every morning, but I just do. I don’t have a reason to want to kill myself, but I just do. I retreated into myself and sat silently as the therapists and staff tried to deal with an outburst from the patient missing half of his left ear. What would be happening right now if I wasn’t here? If I hadn’t gone through with the attempt, I know nothing would have changed. I would still be stuck in my zombified state, a hollow creature, disgusting, unpurposeful. I know some people believe teenagers only try to kill themselves for attention. I wonder if those people have ever been a teenager, but then again, I wonder if I really am just this special. Am I so special that unlike most I don’t want attention? I seem to crave isolation, somehow I always retreat back into the abyss solitude. I always do this, yet I cry of loneliness. I don’t understand. Am I the only one that feels this way? Maybe this is how Uncle Reade felt when he held that shotgun to his chest. But what if I had ended up like Uncle Reade? What if I had succeeded? What would be happening in this moment if I had died? Would they have had the funeral at this point? There would be no need for an autopsy. For the first time in days, I am really thinking about Mom; she must be in pieces. She lost her brother not even five years ago, and now her son is slowly being taken by the same disease. You know those families where everyone dies from a heart attack or leukemia or diabetes? We’re one of those families, except we’re haunted by depression; we’re all affected by it. Some of us are hit directly by the storm, and some of us are just knocked down by the flying debris.

February 2015 | 19

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Kristin Buck Family Home. Archival pigment print

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Solomon

by Matthew Smith

When he was five, Solomon was molested by a friend of his mother. Solomon’s little mind couldn’t deal with what had happened, so the memory of the molestation was repressed until later. Solomon went on to have a pretty normal childhood. His mother, Ruth, had always been reluctant to let go of her friend, Theirry. She had known him since high school, but was never very specific when her husband asked about their relationship. Her husband, Samuel, figured Theirry

Solomon’s suicide note laid on the table inside its unopened envelope for eight days after Samuel received it. All he could do was stare at it and cry…and drink. His hands shook when he took hold of the small envelope; gently, he ran his hunting knife under the lip, trying not to stab what was inside. Samuel pulled three folded sheets of notebook paper out of the envelope; the letter had been written by hand. He stared at the lines and circles and angles with tears in his eyes; they

was an old boyfriend she couldn’t quite stop stringing along; Samuel hated Theirry. In reality, it was Theirry who had been stringing Ruth along; she once told a friend that Samuel was just a “place holder” while she waited for Theirry to settle down.

were the most beautiful things he had seen. Until his eyed fixated on one sentence in the middle of the second page: He raped me.

At nine, Solomon’s parents split up; he blamed himself. If only he had been a better son–asked for less, helped out more around the house, or even just did better in school. They wouldn’t have stayed together though; his father had been fucking around on his mother for a year and a half. When Samuel came clean and tried to apologize, Ruth told him he would never see his son again. She was true to her word. Solomon was eleven when his mother remarried; she had finally caught Theirry. The first year of their marriage was as good as any other marriage. In the second year, the molestation began anew. By the third year, Theirry was with Solomon more than Ruth; she chose to turn a blind eye. At fifteen, Solomon shot himself with the .44 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver Theirry kept for home protection. Solomon had sent a letter to his father four days before committing suicide. The address Solomon had for Samuel was from just after the divorce. Eight and a half weeks of being forwarded brought the letter to Samuel. He had not been sober since his mother had called and told him his son was dead. Samuel hadn’t even been allowed in the funeral. Theirry had been the one to tell him he couldn’t come in, a firm hand on Samuel’s chest with “Ruth said,” for good measure. The policemen, waiting to escort the hearse, looked on.

Three months later, Samuel had everything he thought he needed. He had never owned a gun before, but now he had two: a 9mm Glock handgun and a 12 gauge, Mossberg pump-action shotgun. He sawed off the barrel of the shotgun with a carbon-steel hacksaw he had bought from a hardware store. While at the hardware store, he also bought a roll of duct tape, a pair of high-quality gardening shears, a blow torch, and a twenty-foot length of rope. Samuel rented a black sedan, and told his sister she could have his beat up truck if she wanted it. He told her he was trying this model before he bought it; he didn’t want her to worry too much. Samuel arrived at the address on his son’s suicide note just after dark. He saw Ruth pouring herself a drink in the kitchen and Theirry watching TV in the living room. Samuel drove his car a mile down the road and parked it on the shoulder. He took his duffle bag of supplies out of the trunk and slid into the trees. Samuel sat outside of the house waiting for Ruth to leave. The next morning, she finally walked out to her car and went to work. Eight seconds after Ruth pulled out of the driveway, Samuel removed his shotgun from the bag and walked through the front door. Theirry was having his morning coffee when he heard Samuel chamber the first shell. Samuel stepped around the corner and shot, aiming at Theirry’s ankles. The spray caught Theirry in his legs and genitals, dropping him to the ground. Samuel walked over to the screaming man and put the end of the barrel to his foot; he had to make the best of what little time he had.

February 2015 | 21

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Kevin Norris Gazed. Colored pencil and chalk pastel on paper

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Waylon Trostel and Armando Silva The Process. Video. Photos courtesy of Kurt Stevens February 2015 | 23

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Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Box Yourself In by Alessandra Ragusin

Life is fiercely and forever In fluxexpanding contracting folding forming flying into realms of mystery realms of comfort of knowledge of instability of insatiability Is it not the obligation of humanity-of you and Ito take life up on this challenge? To expand contract fold form and fly to whatever wonder or terror that might wait -with snare or surprise behind each corner we come upon? Where does life happen but in these intersections these junctions these round-abouts and these corners? What opportunities we are given! The nervous excitement the explosive bravery that it takes to turn that corner

Too often feet stick stuck in mental mud cemented in history nailed to habits bound by the sheer terror of upsetting the routine But change beckons pushing promises and enticements and lures around that corner hoping to hook us and release us into the wilderness of living where we suckle on the Mother until her full-bodied milk builds in us muscles that adapt flex expand contract and persevere When change adventure growth and vision become memories in our muscles -memories our muscles gladly rememberthen life becomes a partner a guide and friend; no longer a terrifying enigma, some boring abstraction to be mindlessly wandered through Allow yourself to be drawn around corners or corners may be drawn around you

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You Can’t Have Everything by R. N. Sheppard

You can’t have everything, I told her And It hollowed her out.

So she sits, naked, nose pressed to cold glass,

Waiting for you to come. Her mind’s sun is setting,

Pulling its cold fingers over her eyes.

Her blue-eyed moon Sings sweet hymns in her ears as she stares down the distance between you.

It’s miles for it to travel, but you hear It, she says.

It sounds like

Don’t go

Don’t give up

Please stay

Stay Stay. But she goes. She leaves the moon ringing lonely in the sky.

It pours and drips in the night. She wanders out Naked Looking for you. Her mind’s sun has set and she wallows in the darkness; The songs are weird and warped

They shake the maddened stars from the sky in torrents.

She laughs. I hear her say, oh god, how great to be lost out here with you, Only miles between us, I can feel It burning!

When you find her,

Nose pressed to the pavement,

Her mind is starless night— Her body burns. February 2015 | 25

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Alyssa Edmunds Samantha. Acrylic on canvas

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Kelly Mitchell Tentacle. Scanography February 2015 | 27

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Fisheye by Kristin Macintyre

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my own car. My boyfriend is driving with a cigarette stuck to his lip, puffing compulsively on it. His lips are dry and cracked and white. Miserable, metallic cold sweats glisten on his pale skin. When I met him he had a beautiful olive complexion. He doesn’t anymore. He’s wearing a white undershirt that clings to his skin like wet paper. It’s soaked and stained and nearly worn through. He has one hand on the shifter and one hand on the wheel and he keeps checking the rearview. His unblinking eyes dart in all directions, unaffected by the smoke lingering around them. Paranoid. We weave in and out of traffic on the Belt Parkway. I have one hand dangling lifeless out of the open window. My head is lolling back and forth, limp at the neck like a scarecrow without enough straw to keep him upright. I am wearing an old gray sweatshirt with dirty, frayed drawstrings from my panicked chewing. It’s warm outside, but I layer up anyway. I don’t like to show my track marks. Adam does. They parade up and down his arms like rotten mushroom-bruises. They are his badge of honor. But they are my scarlet letter. My hair is oily and hangs in thin strings around my wide, myopic eyes. I reach for sunglasses to drown the morning. Sunlight is too harsh. It’s too happy. There’s nothing happy about my life. Just get me to my medicine. Please.

We pull over and I have the shots all ready to go. He grabs his. We both feel like we are about to go raving mad. Insanity is blooming. I need this. He, of course, boosts his right away. The advantage of being a six-foot-two ex-Marine is that your veins are enormous. I struggle and struggle and I can’t hit a mark. My needle is cloudy with spots of blood and muddy brown heroin mixture. I want to scream. I can’t get it right. I spit and cry and sweat and open the door to vomit. I am losing control. I can’t focus. I try everywhere. Wrists, arms, hands, feet. Adam has entered The Deep Beyond. He sits back in his seat, eyes closed, mouth open. He has reached salvation and he has left me behind. I shake him awake and yell and curse and beg him to help me. He tries to look at me straight, but I know he is far away. His eyes are ice-blue with microscopic pupils. I stare into those terrible fish eyes. I am jealous. He tells me, Don’t worry, baby. Come here, I’ll do it for you. I knew I loved him. My savior that will administer my savior. I hand him my left forearm and wait for him to harpoon my insides. I start shivering with sweats and I’m hot and cold and tired and anxious all at one time. I will only relax when I see the blood fill the register. He hits. I exhale.

The Guy gives us two bundles on loan since we are reliable white kids that come from decent families. He wants our business. I don’t even speak. Why try to be friendly? This is cold-blooded misery. We use The Guy and The Guy uses us and we all know it. We hop back into the car and get out of Bushwick. We don’t belong there and will be arrested like last time if we stay. So we speed into a neighboring residential area. While my beloved is expertly maneuvering the car through city blocks, I am already on task. We have a rhythmic system. He looks out for police while I balance an old CD book on my lap and concoct our poison. So many ingredients. I have them all down to a bubbling science.

We hold hands and hook our ring fingers together. We recline our seats. There it is. I can cry, I am so happy. We sit in that car, smoking cigarettes, staring out opposite windows, delivered from the madness. Normal again. We sit together. Each floating in a world of our own.

Pulse. Ecstasy. Requiem. Paralyzing Greatness. Radiating Joy. Stars.

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Annette Tallo The Emotional Winter. Digital photography

February 2015 | 29

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Laura Hickerson Man and Woman. Oil on canvas

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Leah Crise The Elephant. Acrylic and spray paint on wood panel

February 2015 | 31

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Stormy Bridge by Keturah Barchers

Those clouds, the dark ones over there, I’m afraid they might swallow me. They creep. They know something I don’t. The river in front of me is moving, sluggish at the surface and swift underneath. I sit down in the dirt; might as well wait for the clouds. A slight breeze tickles at my skin and I look down at the dead grass. “Why is everything dead here, but over there, on the other side of the river, green?” I mumble to the breeze. I look across the water. There is someone over there looking at me, a man with sandy blonde hair and hands in his pockets. Desire moves me; I must get to him. Standing, I dust myself off and look around for a place to cross. There is an old falling-apart grain tower settled next to the wide river. It has a rickety platform just above the grain spout. The platform is long with a rope at the end, dangling over the water. I walk over to the blonde-bricked building, looking for a place to get in. A wooden door that is halfway secured to the brick comes into view. I try to open it, dragging its heavy bulk in the dirt behind the door that doesn’t want it to move. Determined, I push and kick. The door comes out a little more from its hinge, making a space big enough for me to squeeze through. I stop, feeling like I am being watched. I glance over my shoulder and look around. There is nothing; just brown death as far as the eye can see. Something is wrong. The feeling grows in my chest. Am I trespassing? Looking around once again for the unseen presence watching, I squeeze through the door. Rays of sunlight stream through the dust and cracks in the tower. I look up to where a large chunk of the wall is missing and see light blue sky above. In the semi-darkness there is a wooden, worm-eaten staircase, dangerous to climb. Excitement tingles my body as I start to climb the creaky, twisting staircase toward the opening above the hole in the wall. Looking down, I see the dirt floor farther down than I would like it. Images of crashing down with dust and wood following me makes me sweaty. No one knows I’m here, except the watcher I cannot see. I emerge from the darkness of the tower. The dark clouds are looming closer. I don’t want them to

come, despite being ready for them earlier. The rope at the end of the wooden platform is moving above the water. The wind plays with my hair, and fear starts to creep in. What am I doing? But there he is. Somehow the man knew I would emerge from this hole. His gaze is intent on me. I walk out to the rope and get down on my hands and knees to look at its frayed top. The river’s small rapids beneath me show places where there are rocks winking out from the water. My courage drains; there is no way I can do this. I look down the stream and see a small wooden bridge with small arches. Why I didn’t see that before? As I look over the river, the man hunches his back, thwarting the ever-growing breeze, and turns toward the bridge. I scramble up; I don’t want him to give up on me. Racing down the stairs, dust explodes from where I step and then floats down behind me. I squeeze back out of the broken door and stop. There is a blackhaired man off in the distance, surrounded by the bleakness of the landscape, coming toward me. There is something familiar about him, and I do not want him near me. Filth follows him and dread is before him with each step he takes. I run toward the bridge. The storm that is following me is loud, and the massive river is racing me to my destination. The dark man behind is pursing my steps. Am I standing still? In front of me, the serene sun’s setting light is stark against the dark above me. I reach the bridge, its planks filled with water. The man on the other side is running toward the bridge. I pause, looking at the water and the clouds and feeling dread coming toward me. I know the dark man is reaching for me.

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Love Poem to S.L.U.T. by Roman Sosa

We marvel at those free avian beauties

What could it mean to be your mate?

their world reflected

To be without fleeting time

in the dazzling Walden below.

Or fearful sense of logic?

Why couldn’t we be birds?

The privilege of an answer is mine. Let the answer compliment you

If we were

Let it soar beyond our white wings to the heavens above

bright sapphire skies would invite us

Let ring like thunder across the hills with a primitive yawp

to swoop beside their elevated shapes.

Let it not breathe from any other lover’s lips

Our shadows would elope in silence

For the answer, is mine.

as we’d cheerfully dance, around, above, and below one another. Our movements in rhythm with our soulful metronome.

But instead we watch from below sitting at the bank of this angelic lake

Early starlight

running our hands through its sunken emerald hair.

brings a cooling wind

Splashing our feet against the water

as we dip into the lake’s rejuvenating water.

while those birds in their illuminated elegance

Purity would never seem so elevated

Twirl in love.

than in the moments when we were closest to the ground.

Later I, perched on a solitary branch, watch you waltz with the moon serenading the air with my song,

February 2015 | 33

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Kate Oakley Wanagi. Photography

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Darlene Thomas Vital Space. Watercolor

February 2015 | 35

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Heiwa by Christopher Eckman

There is an image somewhere, on some hard drive, or in some forgotten pile of photographs, that I have never seen. It depicts me, two years ago, standing in front of the Genbaku Dome in Hiroshima making the peace sign with a stranger, his arm around my shoulder.

asking me something about taking a picture. I did not know he was asking if he could take a picture with me, and I did not understand what was happening until afterwards.

There is no obvious evidence in this picture that identifies the building behind us. It just looks like an old building that is in the process of being decommissioned. There is only rough wire where the dome should be, atop a cylinder surrounded by a rectangular structure. Chunks of broken building adorn the ground and we stand in front of a black gate, my eyes teary in the warm afternoon sunlight.

I had been staring at the dome behind us, reading the plaque on the ground with a heavy heart. As a historical witness that conveys the tragedy of suﬀering the first atomic bomb in human history and as a symbol that vows to faithfully seek the abolition of nuclear weapons and everlasting world peace… “I’m sorry we did this,” was all I could think. I looked about paranoiacally for scornful glances in my direction from locals or surviving granddaughters or sons, but found none. The looks I got were friendly, even warm.

Before this picture was taken, I knew that on August 6, 1945 the city was hit by the first atomic bomb. I did not know that there was a structure (and only one structure) left standing in the area where the first nuclear attack in human history had occurred. I knew that the city would be filled with memorials and there would be mourners remembering and paying their respects to the people who died there. I did not know that these people saw the city and the attack as a call for world peace. I knew that the Japanese stranger who came up to me was about my age and he was

So when the stranger approached me and asked something about taking a picture, I enthusiastically said, “Yes.” I was confused when he then gave his camera to his friend, put his arm around my shoulder, and held up the peace sign. “Heiwa!” he cried out. That must mean ‘smile.’ I smiled and automatically made the sign too – as if in some strange dream where I had been mistaken for someone else. The picture snapped, he turned to me and said, “We are like brothers. We have peace now,” and left. As I turned around and looked down again at the plaque, the tears overpowered me. All of the guilt I had been feeling, thinking I had been a part of something that was unforgivable, had blinded me from seeing that this place wasn’t about pinning atrocities of World War II on the US; it was about peace and the decommission of nuclear weapons for everyone, everywhere. Later, I read that “Heiwa” was the Japanese word for peace, but when I hear it, I will be reminded of an image somewhere, on some hard drive, or in some forgotten pile of photographs, that I have never seen, but carry with me everyday.

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Advance Crew by Kathy Doherty

The Hoarder by Meredith Wright

Last night the rain came

When

stampeding to the earth

he was

after the advance crew of thunder and lightning crowding remnants of nature

younger it didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem like that much. But now that he is older, the bur-

into the gaping mouths of storm sewers.

den of remembering each and every embarrassment has cramped his container. It once fit neat-

I looked to the lone streetlight;

ly in the recesses of his mind. Like

wisps of mist rose along its pole

a crab outgrowing its shell, so have the jabs,

abandoning the pavement.

criticisms, teases, recalled mistakes grown large.

Larger and heavier drops of rain lit up by the light like pinpricks of stars continued their campaign downward.

Instead of maybe cleaning house, he moved them to a new place. A place where he could count them more, and feel them more. To catalog, and keep close each denunciation, scolding, rebuke and mock. He did not take care of this collection of his. He let mold grow and cobwebs amassed. His assortment of pain, kept.

February 2015 | 37

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Serial Killer by Pamela Trayser

Four murders in the past week. This time the Captain was dead; bludgeoned in the head with a purple horseshoe. The Captain’s blood everywhere, the room full of that coppery scent, set off something inside of me. Cool, calm, and collected Investigator Tony was gone, and in his place an animal with the instinct to hunt the Captain’s killer down and tear him apart. It took Sergeant Lucky an hour to talk me into leaving the Captain’s body, and only because he promised to let me take lead on the case did I step off of the Captain’s houseboat. Back in the squad room, and three cups of coffee later, the sun is setting on a day that will haunt my dreams. The case files I asked for are still sprawled across my desk. I pore over them again. Sergeant Lucky stands close by my desk, tells me to take a break, but something about the Captain’s death keeps me in this cardboard box of a building. Not just the need to find a killer, but a nagging notion in the back of my mind. Four murders in one week. I tune out the shrill ringring of the phones and the high-pitched sound of my partner’s voice as he complains that someone has taken the last of the milk again. Something is not right. “You’re cuckoo if you think there’s a link, Tony.” This from my partner, Sonny. I swallow a growl. There had to be a connection; I just wasn’t seeing it. First the twins, Frank and Barry something, bodies chopped into bits and stuffed into the basket of a bright red hot air balloon. The Captain today, the same man I could always count on when I was in a crunch – skull smashed in until his face was barely recognizable.

Three days ago, Fred, my lodge mate and bowling buddy, found in a field of green clovers with his throat slashed, no fingerprints, nothing. Maybe Sonny is right. Maybe I am cuckoo. “How’s it going, Tony?” Sergeant Lucky asks. He is playing with the yellow stars on his uniform, something I know he does when he is upset. My subconscious wiggles. “I think we may have a serial killer on our hands, Sarge.” “Really?” The yellow stars twirl faster and faster. Yellow stars, red balloon, green clover. I pull out the file with the photos from this morning’s crime scene. A purple horseshoe; the Captain was killed with a purple horseshoe. The answer is right in front of me, has been all morning. I look at the sergeant, and he smiles. I see evil in that grin, see that I am right. “But why, Sarge? Why did you do it?” “I had to kill them, Tony.” Sergeant Lucky shrugs, as if we are discussing the weather or last night’s game. “They were after me lucky charms.”

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Labor

by Alyson Lawton

PUSH Wrenching Screaming Searing breathe PUSH Endless Breathless Limitless breathe PUSH Exhaustion Contraction Pulsation breathe PUSH Desired Focused Deed breathe PUSH Primary Crying Perfection breathe

February 2015 | 39

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Kira Wolfson Swan Book. Cut paper

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Kirsten Vidis Watered Suitcase. Oil on canvas

February 2015 | 41

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Celine Angerhofer Loveland Ski Area. Photography

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Edward Ayala Nooks. Photography February 2015 | 43

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Allison Copeland Faces of Change. Stoneware ceramic

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Separation and Persistence by Corey Erwin

We used to have seizures. We tried every medication we could but none of it worked. What were we supposed to do? We couldn’t control ourselves, so we had to be separated.

It’s so good to be home. Every wall gives me such ideas, such energy. The whitewashed wall of the living room, barely concealing the colors underneath; the smile on my face barely reflects the deep well of ideas springing to mind. A painting; it’s finished but needs finishing, veil it, in white. She sees my smile. She’s beautiful, stirring. Everything is inspiration, all is my inspiration. Six days and fourteen hours since I left through the door I just came back in. I’m no different. This place is no different. I can still see the tint of red under the coat of white we added. I knew one coat wouldn’t be enough. She’s smiling. I should smile. I need to get things in order. I need to get ready to go back to work, or get back to life. Have we gotten any bills in the last six days?

He stops just inside the door. She pulls the door shut as quietly as she can, and squeezes behind him, careful not to startle him. She likes him better without his shaggy mane, if that’s even possible. More than anything, she’s just happy she got him home again. He looks around the room, pausing at the wall they just painted over. I bet he remembers the paint fight we got into that night, she thinks. His scanning turns to her. She smiles, her eyes pushed up slightly, almost forcing tears out; as if they needed the help. He smiles back. “Here, give me your coat, James.” He nods and begins to take off his coat. His right hand pulls the zipper straight down, and his left meanders slowly up to the wrist and pulls the sleeve off. “Thank you.” He smiles again toward her. This time she nods, takes the coat in her hands, and pulls his hands ever so slightly to bring him in to her. They kiss for a moment, then she hugs him, not too tightly. Then another small peck before slowly unlocking her fingers, releasing him. “Aren’t you glad to be home, honey?” she asks as she walks away, afraid to look at him for the answer. A slow nod of agreement that she doesn’t see. He lifts his foot up

and steps on the heel of his other shoe and steps out. He catches the lip of the heel and loses his balance for a second before stabilizing himself on the wall with a small thud. “Are you okay?” she shouts from another room. “I’m fine,” he says. He repeats the same procedure with his other shoe, this time with no stumble, and makes his way over to their kitchen table. The fixture she flicks on bathes the bleached white envelopes in a softer yellow glow. He sorts through several pieces of mail; some important, some junk, some marked for him, most marked for her, Isabel Cerno. He was glad she took his name when they married, “She’s too strong to be anyone but her. She’s her own woman, and only her own,” one of Bel’s friends once told James. He was glad that as she took the ring on her finger she was also taking his name. It wasn’t that he owned her now. James always thought it was like her friend had said; she’s her own woman and she takes what she wants. So she took his name, and he thought it meant he was hers. He didn’t mind the idea. He liked being able to depend on her, and that he did. “Don’t worry about that stuff, I’ll take care of it,” she lectures him with a wry smile. “Let’s go lie down. I’ve missed sleeping next to you.” She pulls him by his hands to their bedroom. They make their way by her touch. She leaves the lights off, and he closes his eyes and just feels the tightness of her grip, his fingers whitening. “Here,” she pulls his hand and places it on the bedding, lingering a moment before pulling away. “Take off your shirt and pants. I’m sure you’re tired. We’ll worry about everything tomorrow.” He turns and sits on the bed, feet still firmly on the ground. He starts slowly – not on purpose, but as you do when first remembering how to do something – and pulls his shirt off. He unbuttons his fly and then stands to pull his jeans off. Before he can sit down, Bel has pulled back the comforter and he feels the cool sheets. He turns around. In the faint light leaking through the blinds he sees her lying on her side in her underwear. She’s looking at him, into his eyes. First the left – impossibly observing every minute detail in the peaks, valleys, and freckles of the iris – then the right, as if recalling the color it was in the light of the front room. He slides in next to her and rests his head on his pillow. He raises his arm and she pulls herself up next to him. Her face on his chest, rising and falling with each breath; his arm around her shoulders, pulling tighter than he has before, part of her relaxes. She holds her breath, listening to his, holding out to see if anything is

February 2015 | 45

Submissions

going to happen. James stretches his left hand and drizzles it across the skin on her shoulder, neck, and back. Bel smiles, begins to breathe again, and closes her eyes. James closes his eyes too, and drifts off to sleep with thoughts circling.

Almost before the sound leave his lips, he’s back asleep.

The sutures feel everything… the thousand threads of the sheets immaculately woven together, but each stitch grits against them as if they were strings on a harp being plucked. It’s not painful, that stage has passed, but it is uncomfortable, unpleasing, and serves as a reminder of what has been lost. My other half. But Bel, she’s so beautiful. Her warmth next to me, my hand feeling her softness. She’s as close as she can be, but it’s almost not enough for me. She is me. There’s no me without her, or at least there wouldn’t be. The light dripping in from the street, it’s bathing us; cleaning us; renewing us. This is our place, this is how it was always supposed to be. My hand can’t leave her; it won’t, it needs her form. She makes me complete. She is my all.

I can feel the pulsating. I can count every one of the twenty-five stitches they used. I can feel each one: which ones are closest to falling out, which ones will have to be removed, the tightness the stubborn ones exert. The bed feels different now. Or am I different? We’ve never done this before. Are we different? Nothing has been removed or replaced, but everything has changed. She’s here for me. I can be here for her. She needs a break. Six days down, six weeks until work again. She needs a break. She deserves a break. It only makes sense. It’s only fair. We need $900 a month to live with the essentials. I can earn that; she doesn’t have to work. We need only the barest minimums. Half of what we used to have. The bare minimum, half, that’s about right. There’s only half that I need, or is the other half that important?

“Hungry, huh?” She laughs.

She rolls over, and tries to get the blanket to follow her, but it doesn’t. She remembers that he’s finally back in their bed. She rolls back toward the morning light, but more importantly, toward him. He’s turned away, and she can see the square seam where they went in. It’s neatly done, very clean, but still she doesn’t like looking at it. It’s not that it disgusts her; it’s that she is worried. Not that they’ll come back, though that’s a worry too, but because she may be different after all this. What if, just as likely, he’s different? Not because of the time, but because of what they did. Because of what they had to do. It’s a magic trick. They cut him in half right before her very eyes, putting him back together before she knew it. But they didn’t put the halves together; it was just that, a separation.

“I told you not to fall asleep,” she admonishes him with a smile. “Sorry, sorry,” he says as he pulls himself out of bed, and she pulls him into her arms. They hug a moment, then go out to the table.

That softening light again, it mixes so well with the morning. She cleaned up. The bills and mail are all gone now.

“Here you go. I made you an omelet, just the way you like it.” She places it down in front of a chair where he should sit, before placing hers in the seat across him. He begins eating, and before she’s half through he’s finished.

“Guess so.” He smiles back at her, baring his teeth in an honest gesture. “Here, have some of mine. I won’t finish it all anyway.” She gives him the half she hasn’t made it to yet. “Okay, thank you.” “I’m sure you didn’t love the food in the hospital. I take it as a compliment.” “You should,” he agrees, before devouring the newly placed food and then sitting back as she finishes her quarter of their meal. As she does, his eyebrows pull together and his mouth goes agape. She flushes and shoots up. “James, are you okay?” He says nothing, but moves quickly to the bathroom where the food, in all its deliciousness, is upheaved. She rushes in behind him and repeats the question. “Yes. Just too much food.” “You didn’t have to eat it all.” She laughs out of relief. “I know, I didn’t know why not though.”

James rouses and she is snapped away from her thoughts.

“What do you mean?” she asks, the worry back in her voice.

“Morning,” she says to him before he can even open his eyes.

“I mean I knew I didn’t have to eat it all, but I didn’t know why not to.”

“Morning.”

“Because of what just happened?”

“I’ll go make breakfast. Stay here. Don’t fall back asleep, okay?” she asks with more playful demand than request.

“I know that now. But I couldn’t think of why before. I only thought, ‘it’s delicious, and I can eat more.’”

“Okay.”

Bel leans against the doorframe for a moment while James cleans

Submissions

himself up. She doesn’t say anything, but as he looks to her face in the mirror, he can see the dendrites in her brain connecting.

“James?” She takes a breath. “Do you love me? What did you used to say to me?”

“James, go sit at the table.” This time a serious demand. He follows her orders and places himself behind his dish. She clears it away, and hers, before sitting across from him.

“James, don’t do it, but should you put your finger in that wall socket?” She points it out to him.

Of course I love you. We’ve been inseparable for years.

Of course I love you. You’re my soulmate.

“Of course I love you,” he answers. God, no. It would hurt, it could kill me. No, I shouldn’t.

“And?” “You’re my soulmate.”

“No, of course I shouldn’t.”

“James, you used to tell me that we were inseparable for years before you knew I was your soulmate.”

“Why not?”

“I know. I know that now that you say that.”

“Because,” he answers. “But why not, James?”

“Now? You remember now?” She was heaving each word out, like his words had collapsed her lungs and each syllable was a tremendous strain on her diaphragm.

“I don’t know?”

“Don’t, Bel. I love you. I’m trying.”

“You don’t know?” Her head drops a few degrees as she repeats his words. “James, it could kill you!”

“I know, but how will it work, James? Do I have to tell you everything about our relationship, about everything?” A quiet fear in her voice.

“I know!” he agrees, and then perks up. “I know it could kill me!”

“I don’t know, Bel. They didn’t say this was a side effect. Maybe we should call them?”

“So now you know?” “Yes!” “But you didn’t a second ago?” “I know, but now I do. All I could think was that I shouldn’t until you said it could kill me. Then I could think that.” “Is that what it was with the food?” He said nothing, but seemed to be thinking, trying to get to both sides, she thought. “Yes. I wanted more, and then once I had too much I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that much.” A few tears built at the corners of her eyes. “What?” he asked. “What’s the matter?” “You can’t think, James.” “Of course I can. I just showed you that.”

“If they didn’t say it means they didn’t know it was one. What are they going to do?” “Maybe they’ll have suggestions. It’s better than nothing.” “James, I can’t keep on…” She stops what she’s saying. “I’ll be back, James. I need to get some air.” Where is she going? Is she coming back? Don’t leave me, Bel. Okay. I can’t do this without her though.

“Okay,” James gets out. She gathers a few things and closes the door behind her. She doesn’t slam the door, but instead carefully places the door in its frame as if the house would shatter if she were more forceful. James sits for a moment before moving to her side of the table, trying to see things from her perspective.

“Not completely, not wholly.” “I don’t understand what the problem is.” February 2015 | 47

Submissions

She’s already given so much to us. For us. She’s worried the surgery changed me. She’s worried about me, she thinks part of me is missing, that my love for her is gone, that we have to start again because of me. But my love is still there. What if I have changed? It’s not like I got my appendix cut out; it was brain surgery. It’s stupid to think I wouldn’t change. But it’s also stupid to think I wouldn’t love her anymore. My love is still there for her. It’s incomplete is all, missing it’s other half. Of course I love her still, my brain wasn’t removed. It’s just all about communication. The other half may be missing, but I love her. I do. I love her. What happened didn’t change me. It didn’t. But we have to change something.

With his feet twitching, James decides to get up and do something, anything. His eyes, left and right, fall on the wall. The barely audible orange that once defined the wall was muted, or at least turned down. His right foot started him walking toward the garage. There he grabbed a roller, tray, sheet, and the remains of what was surely a largely congealed tin bucket of white paint. He lays the sheet, shakes the bucket, pours the paint, lathers the brush, and begins. The flattened, opaque, orange-white color is slathered over with a wet, clean white. The vertical lines of new paint squeeze out what little orange there was. It’s less like painting, the color change so minimal, and is more like scrubbing the dirt of color from the wall. Scrubbing, concealing, correcting; all in perfectly vertical stripes, side by side, carefully laid with inch wide overlaps. James goes on in this way; thinking of Isabel until his right arm grows weak and pale, the blood struggling to make its way to each muscle. He switches the brush to his left hand, and returns to his thoughts of Isabel. After a while, his left hand grows tired and he places the roller into the tray and shakes out his arms. As he does, he surveys his work. To his right: rigid lines, methodical, articulate; as much as white lines on

white can be. To his left: dabs, swipes, dots of purposeful creation, in the shape of an abstract branching tree turned on its side, with one big roll of glossy paint stretching from the tree to the lines, but stopping short. “That’s it!” James yells. Isabel bulls through the door, she’s been sitting on the stoop thinking and listening for James. Immediately she asks, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong, that’s what the problem is!” He says, pointing to the wall. “James, it’s all white.” He laughs and Isabel notes that it was the first time he had done that in a long time. “I know, but look at the wet parts.” “I can’t see them, James.” “Ah!” He fakes anger before taking her by the hand and leading her down the hallway to the office where he pulls out a pen and paper. “Here, ask me something. Anything I should know.” She looks confused, but indulges him, and asks, “Should we get a dog?” He doesn’t answer, but instead picks up the pen in his right hand and looks in her eyes as he writes: “No, I’m allergic to dogs.” Then switches the pen to his left, looks again into her eyes, as he writes, “No, you hate dogs. We shouldn’t get a dog” in scribbled letters. Isabel doesn’t say anything. She reads the first piece of paper, glances toward James, and then reads the second with some difficulty. As she does, a smile comes to her face and she looks to James. Her shoulders fall as a breath releases through her nose.

We’re one thing, separated, but still one thing. We used to have seizures. But not anymore. We used to have seizures, now we need each other’s help.

JESSICA MCWHIRT

Spotlight

POETRY AND

POLITICS by Maureen Bayne

THEREâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S NO QUESTION that being a woman and a writer in this world requires a thick hide. For MSU Denver alumna and poet Jessica McWhirt, the journey toward success began at a very young age.

Photo by Eric Tsao - Metrosphere

February 2015 | 49

Spotlight

“If my writing helps someone realize they’re not alone, then that’s good enough for me.”

“My parents got divorced when I was 9,” McWhirt said. “I think because [my parents] just really couldn’t handle the divorce, I had to be the adult.” Shortly after her parents’ messy split, McWhirt won a small poetry contest in the 5th grade, which gave her the confidence to become a more active writer. Since then, she has grown in her writing and considers it a place for unrestrained expression. McWhirt draws much stylistic influence from novelist and poet Charles Bukowski. They certainly share a similar stanza structure and a bleak outlook on the human experience. Like Bukowski, McWhirt also uses intense imagery to express complex ideas. In “Elephant Graveyard,” she explores the idea of the world as a mechanism beyond human control, run by an army of gargantuan beasts. Some of McWhirt’s poetry ventures into the anguished area of women’s rights vis-à-vis broken hearts, experiences of unfair treatment, and body insecurities. McWhirt’s perspective on womanhood, however, didn’t really become what it is today until she discovered a book with a “dirty” word in the title – “The Vagina Monologues.” “At the time I couldn’t even say the word. I think I called it ‘cooter’ or something,” McWhirt said. “It was like seven separate times I would pick up the book and read a page and put it back down. And finally I was like, This is ridiculous. I read this book every time I come in the store. I should just buy it. I think it totally changed my life.” After reading this iconic feminist novel, she started to hunt for anything she could find about women’s rights. Today, she participates in local productions of “The Vagina Monologues” and isn’t afraid to speak out on the subject when she feels it’s necessary. “I don’t think I can identify as something other than a feminist,” McWhirt said. “Obviously, I’m a woman [and] I’m a liberal. But the one thing that I most identify with would be a feminist.”

Feminism today can be broadly defined and normally varies from person to person. It’s because of this that the word often conjures up images of women who desire the end of all masculinity, don’t shave their legs and burn their bras in a ritualistic bonfire. For McWhirt, it is quite the opposite. To her, being a feminist means having the desire to be equal to a man – not better or worse. “To be afraid of calling yourself a feminist – I think it’s really just an injustice,” McWhirt said. “It’s not a bad word and I’m so sick of people thinking it is. Just because you’re [given] more rights or more equality, doesn’t mean it’s [being] taken away from a man.” This concept is clear in some of her poems, such as “Specks in the Sky,” where she eloquently describes the love and companionship of the opposite gender, and the loneliness that takes over when it is absent. Besides being an activist for women’s rights, McWhirt also actively expresses her own emotional voyage as a human being. To her, that means a touch of anger mixed with a bit of sadness – reflecting the memories of a complicated childhood and love life. The struggles of her past are what have shaped her writing, often into a pessimistic point of view. “I’d say most of [my poems] are just a negative outlook on the world,” she said. “I don’t know… that’s what comes out most natural. I never really have a main, core message. I try not to be like, ‘the world sucks.’ It just has that tone though.” For the future, McWhirt plans to participate in some local slam poetry competitions, to write daily and pursue publishing more of her works. As for her poetry, she continues to use it as a method of catharsis. “It’s a really good outlet to get all those feelings out. I think that’s why so many of my poems are really negative because you have these negative feelings and you don’t want to project them on people. So, instead of projecting on a person, I’m projecting on a piece of paper where it doesn’t hurt anyone. I write to stop myself from going crazy,” she said. “If my writing helps someone realize they’re not alone, then that’s good enough for me.”

Featured Work

Elephant’s Graveyard I’ve arrived at the elephant’s graveyard,

The dying elephants travel alone

alone,

to perish –

standing at the ledge, where rocks and broken branches

The Elephant’s Graveyard –

meet wispy clouds,

I’m on an unknown path

whispering wishes

and it’s terrifying.

within the wind –

I want to control it all –

and I can’t hear anything;

to direct and silence the wind;

I can feel the great strength

tell the elephants where to take me –

of their bodies below me;

charge into the void

their trunks sniffing the path

tusks in hand,

through the black abyss,

fighting the resistance –

tusks fighting the way

refusing to let my earth balance

through nothing and everything

on the backs and heads of elephants

because it’s all or nothing.

as they step through dead light.

we’re empty,

My stomach twists itself into a figure eight,

maybe a little pathetic –

knotting through my veins

my legs tremble with the thud

beneath my thinning skin.

of their legs

I peer over the edge

as they guide this sinking bed of rock,

and see elephant trunks

kneeling down,

shaking with exhaustion

I gather balance,

and trembling from the weight

fearful of tumbling off the edge

of the earth

into nothing

and I realize

and everything –

I have no control.

arriving at some unknown.

I never did.

February 2015 | 51

Featured Work

Specks in the Sky Leading me to the bench

And when I had to scoot

in the pitch black,

even closer to follow

the only thing lighting our way

your index finger to the

were the stars,

constellations in the sky,

and all I wanted

I wanted you to turn your cheek

was to hold your hand.

just a little bit farther

I told you my biggest fear

so I could kiss you.

is going blind

I wanted our worries

and yours seemed to be

to sway above the trees,

losing the woods.

fall in the dark corners

I scooted closer to you

I couldn’t see;

because I knew I was safe;

I wanted to feel your arms

that you’d sweep away spiders

wrap around me

daring to crawl closer to me;

like moss to a tree

you’d fight any stray dog or bear

I wanted to sink in the sky,

that sniffed its way to us;

puncture holes in the black

that if a comet came crashing

just like the stars,

through the atmosphere,

just like the specks in your eyes.

you, with your scout knowledge, would know what to do.

Photos by Eric Tsao

February 2015 | 53

â&#x20AC;&#x153;

I like to pair sweet, girly things with spiked necklaces or an unusual print. I also like to be comfortable, which for me means avoiding pants as much as possible.

â&#x20AC;?

Sara Bredengerd

Darion Hammond

“

In my opinion, there aren’t any rules when it comes to fashion; all it comes down to is placement and conﬁdence. I am constantly experimenting, and getting ideas from everyday experiences and people that catch my eye.

”

February 2015 | 55

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