Metrosphere Volume 34 Issue 3 by Met Media

Volume 34 | Issue 3

PERFORMATIVITY A term for the capacity of speech and communication not simply to communicate but rather to act or consummate an action, or to construct and perform an identity

Volume 34 Issue 3

Features 132

122

112 116 122

Alexander James Romero: Traditional Techniques and Modern Technology Art basics with a modern twist.

Cynthia Kuhn’s Lifelong Love Affair with Writing Writing what you love.

Ariella Asher: Paint, Politics and Perseverance Low art, high impact

126 132 137

Matt Smith’s Brave New World Embracing writing struggles and finding a haven.

Sarah Rockett: Redefining Line and Redirecting Focus Chronicling history and precipitating social change.

Intersection Featuring Melanie Townsend and Travis “Battman” Batt

V34I3

COMMUNICATION

DESIGN

Edward Phillips Hill

Daisy Corso

92 & 93

Yvette Serrano

Rosie Opp

Kenzie Sitterud

Caitlin McGraw

Andrew French

Mandi Quinn

Jessica Sellke

Tim Arndt

Conrad LaPorte

Alexander James Romero

16 & 17

Sampson Leung

Jordann Murphy

Javid Rezvani

20 & 21

Daisy Corso

22 & 23

Jorge PĂŠrez

H. Krypilo

Emerald Boes

Alyssa Edmunds

Pedro Bernal

Ariella Asher

Cedric Chambers

44 & 45

Kristina Spargo

JEWELRY

Cover: NICHOLE ATWOOD, Lightness, digital photo manipulation Back Cover: COLE SAITTA, Supreme Spring/Summer 2016, digital poster

Kristyn Shafer

POETRY

Matt Passant

FICTION

Marisa Winn-Dallmer 32

Gillian K端mm

Natalie Mcanulla

Sean Matoon

Samantha Miller

34 & 36

Taylor Atkinson

Kristin Macintyre

Jacob Mollohan

Gardell Neal Jr.

Taylor Atkinson

40 & 41

Lindsey Lake

NON-FICTION DRAMA Danielle Hicks

100

James Maxwell

106

Samantha Miller

Alyssa Hascall

Ryan Flannigan

Colette Marchesani 77 John Wilhelm

Laura Bareis

V34I3 3

Editor-in-Chief Carlos Escamilla Associate Editor Sean Rhodes

Staff Writers Alysha Prieto Deanna Hirsch Hayes Madsen Keenan McCall

Creative Director Kenzie Sitterud

Copy Editors Deanna Hirsch Edwin Lobach Kelsey Nelson Pacific Obadiah

Photography Director Michael Ortiz

Photographer Matt Gaston

Met Media Steve Haigh, Director Ronan O’Shea, Assistant Director Kathleen Jewby, Production Manager Elizabeth Norberg, Office Manager

Special thanks to Jill Price at Colt Print Services, Inc., Elizabeth Bilotta, Bethany O’Halloran, and the production, administration and advertising staff of Met Media.

Features Editor Heather Pastorius

Met Media P.O. Box 173362, CB57 Denver, CO 80217-3362 Printed by Colt Print Services, Inc.

© 2016. 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 the context of reviews.

Letter from the Editor

elcome to the 34th edition of the juried issue of Metrosphere, aka my pièce de résistance. For the past year, my incredible staff has been working almost nonstop to gather the best of the best that MSU Denver has to offer. What you will see in the following pages is the work that was inspired by our theme, PERFORMATIVITY. Why “performativity”? As an art critic who has been spending the last half of my bachelor’s focusing on the intersections of queer and racialized identities, I am always interested in how various visual artists and writers tell their stories. I wanted to see those stories in order to share them. Performativity relates to specific sets of repetitive actions that can either affirm or oppose cultural norms. Theorist Judith Butler related performativity specifically to the actions of gendered females by examining the affirmation/opposition of the drag queen. Of course all of this comes from literary scholar John Austin’s performative utterances, where a phrase does something through action, such as, “I do,” during a marriage ceremony. These two scholars established how we can view literature and action in relation to a recent phenomenon that I consider to be a crisis of identity. With the emergence of #BlackLivesMatter, the recent vocalization and visibility of trans activism, and the beginnings of a possible fourth wave of feminism, our society is witnessing another awakening akin to civil rights struggles of the ’60s and ’70s. When marginalized groups force themselves into the public consciousness, great change can happen. For that reason, I wanted to give the student and alumni writers and artists the chance to talk about the various ways they view their identities. And I have been blown away by the quality of submissions we received. If I could have, I would have made a 300-page magazine in order to feature even more submissions. Speaking of features, we have been lucky to have found a group of inspiring students and professors to introduce our readers to. I want to thank all of our judges for their time and taking the selection process out of my hands. They made incredible choices for their top prizes. I also want to thank each and every person who submitted work this year. Without your incredible talent and passion, this magazine would not exist.

- Carlos Escamilla

For Issue 3, we assembled a panel of judges who we felt best understood and appreciated the creative works of our many talented contributors. The compiled results of this deliberation are the polished content that now lies before you.

Art Judges

Literary Judges

Leila Armstrong

Dr. Sandra Doe

Peter Bergman

Dr. Cynthia Kuhn

Cecily Cullen

Dr. J. Eric Miller

Carlos FrĂŠsquez

Ronan Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Shea

Natascha Seideneck

Amanda Berg

Kathleen Jewby

Edwin Lobach

Kelly Monico

Kelsey Nelson

Laura De La Cruz

Sean Rhodes

MSU Denver, Visting Faculty Art History, Theory and Criticism MSU Denver, Communication Design Assistant Professor Center for Visual Art, Creative Director MSU Denver, Painting Coordinator and Associate Professor MSU Denver, Visiting Assistant Professor Met Media, Production Manager

MSU Denver, Communication Design Assistant Professor MSU Denver Alumna and Editorin-Chief 2014-15

Scott McKinney

MSU Denver Alumnus and Art Gallery Assistant at Center for Visual Art

MSU Denver, Professor of English MSU Denver, Professor of English

MSU Denver, Associate Professor of English Met Media, Assistant Director

MSU Denver Alumna and Executive Editor 2014-15 MSU Denver, Student and Metrosphere Staff Member MSU Denver, Student and Metrosphere Staff Member MSU Denver, Student and Metrosphere 2015-16 Associate Editor

The CVA has a lot to offer, we can’t wait to see you here!

GET A JOB! Students who work at the CVA are able to see their studies brought to life in a real, fast-paced work environment. If interested in working at the CVA, please email cva@msudenver.edu.

CURATE AN EXHIBITION! The student-run 965 Gallery within the CVA presents exhibitions and events created by student employees.

GET FREE GIFTS! Pick up a frequent visitor card and receive a gift after ﬁve visits!

BE A MEMBER!

(MSU Denver students only)

d r Blv

Santa Fe Dr.

8th Ave

9th Ave

10th Ave

11th Ave

12th Ave

Spee 13 th Ave

Colfax Ave.

MSU Denver Art students are entitled to a membership at CVA through their art program fees and all MSU Denver students can join at a discounted rate.

Congratulations

Artists!

Kalamath Osage

Light Rail

Exhibition dates April 1–8 and April 15–22, 2016

7 Center for Visual Art | 965 Santa Fe Dr., Denver, CO 80204 | 303.294.5207 | msudenver.edu/cva

METROSPHERE

WANTS YOU!!!

WE ACCEPT SUBMISSIONS YEAR ROUND FOR SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

MYMETMEDIA.COM/METROSPHERE

2016 Top Pick

MANDI QUINN, Wish Resign, watercolor and screenprint

ARTIST STATEMENT: I wanted to create a body of work with six different interpretations of the same idea. So many people, including myself, isolate themselves from everything that is happening around them, and in that process we become engulfed in our own lives and all of our obligations. Humans are social creatures at our core, but we isolate ourselves in our own lives in order to achieve our goals.

2016 Top Pick

JESSICA SELLKE, 23, oil on wood panel

ARTIST STATEMENT: The persistence of self is what keeps us going even when we feel like we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t anymore. This painting is the expression of the way life can tear you down, but you have to push on. Sometimes you may feel as if you are falling apart, but it helps to find peace in the beauty of nature around us â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the most natural and pure way to detox from the stresses of life. Along with that you have to bring yourself back to the most raw and deep parts of what makes you who you are.

TIM ARNDT, Octopoid Onslaught, watercolor, gouache, acrylic, colored pencil and ink on paper

CONRAD LaPORTE, from the Digital Identities series, oil on canvas

ALEXANDER JAMES ROMERO, Double Standard, ink, acrylic, pencil

ALEXANDER JAMES ROMERO, Take a Bite, monotype, oil on canvas

SAMPSON LEUNG, In a daze work, photography

JORDANN MURPHY, Merge series, photography

JAVID REZVANI, Buli Makes Tabbouleh, photography

JAVID REZVANI, Congress, photography

DAISY CORSO, Through Unspoken Words, appropriation collage

DAISY CORSO, Too Chicken, appropriation collage

JORGE PĂ&#x2030;REZ, Magic Potion, oil on canvas

EMERALD BOES, What do we gain when we remove?, glitched photography

PEDRO BERNAL, Red Riding Hood, photography

ARIELLA ASHER, .WAV, acrylic and india ink

CEDRIC CHAMBERS, Origami Birds, oil on canvas

POETRY

AFTER THE STORM BY MATT PASSANT

2016 Top Pick

Old Route 66 heading upstream On the fractured road to Tucumcari; Lines and memory blur and comingle faster Than the light through building storm clouds. The road, a hothouse of heat and steam And I think of your kisses. Mushroom clouds of remembered kisses, Radioactive and glowing upstream, Passionate fallout amid the steam. Now forgotten on heat rippled horizon is Tucumcari: A fluttering of miles and gunmetal rain clouds. Sweat on your bare skin beads and trails to secret places faster Than the faint touch of our stomachs, naked in embrace, faster Than the first kiss of our kisses, Hesitant and ethereal, like clouds Stretching and spinning upstream, Disappearing in the current flowing to Tucumcari. Now, nothing but the rising steam. Your body melts with the steam And the sun dissolves it, faster and faster. There are no answers in Tucumcari, Only kisses that are not your kisses, Misplaced fire forced upstream, Engulfed in the languid movement of clouds.

The road, dappled by breaking clouds, Left with the traces of steam And debris of memory floating upstream. Tinged with knowing, the light returns, faster Than the rain stops, than the end of our kisses. A bitter bending of light on the outskirts of Tucumcari. Motor inns and curio shops in disrepair through discarded Tucumcari: Driftwood all, as aimless as the clouds. What once were way-stations, now only harbor the tangles of our last kisses, Of greeting and passion and farewell rising like the steam Lost in the desert winds of Old Route 66, faster Than pictures of moments never seen: a flotsam of remembrances upstream. Tucumcari, vibrant with searchers and their jalopies now vanished like steam After the storm, Faster now, we are only witnessed by clouds After the storm, Imprints of our kisses remain and slowly disappear upstream After the storm.

RECOLLECTIONS WITHIN A SKELETAL FRAME BY MARISA WINN-DALLMER

Puffed up pink flesh is scattered across my body, some decades old and lasting, others new and fighting to make a mark, I leave them untouched, a window into my past, a memory within my skin, and in my drawer thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a bag of bloody teeth, four pieces of wisdom that I wanted to keep, two of them are cracked, resting in fragmented pieces, stained with red from losing the holes they use to sleep in, and somewhere in my closet I have concealed a little box, from many years ago, where surgeries came three in two years, sitting at the bottom are a lot of empty bottles, of percocet and vicodin that took away the day, and a couple dusty casts that kept my hand in itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shape, but what is most prized in that box is what lies tucked in some gauze, three four-inch metal pins who use to live inside my bones, sitting snug inside my marrow for a month they got to stay, then the twisting and the pulling with excruciating pain. So whether it be a scar from a razor or ink filled in my pores, everything is precious, every memory is meaningful, whether recorded on my body or safely tucked away in a box, they are all worth keeping, to recall when I feel lost.

AYAHUASCA/ YAGE/LA PURGA BY NATALIE MCANULLA

Bring me, birth me into your sacral, serpentine and allow this Ayahuascan shaman to guide my mind, â&#x20AC;Śthis Nishi midwife to hold wide the tumultuous middle passage to my Inner space. Vine of the Spirit, bloom me January; pure white and possible. Take my Experience beyond this sensual black soil. Beyond these gnarled Roots. Rooted and writhing, twisting inside, then Inflorescence abounds, spinning Out. La Purga, out of my mouth, So I can settle Inside this frail and fierce physical Self. Alone can be magic; together, mystic. Chacruna leaf so subtle green discreet until Added to the Amazonian brew of detachment. Leaf of Potential Interactions.

NOW I KNOW BY SAMANTHA MILLER

I should have known, when your hand reached to my thigh, shields should have gone up. Ignorance would never keep me safe again. You never wanted what you said you did. I should have known, when it became only us, when a room with one bed, was the only one left. Warning shots came one by one, out of bottle filled with fire. Cinnamon should be sweet but it burned my throat up, making it hard for certain words to travel from brain to mouth. I should have known. I thought you a pauper until I gave you a kiss. You then became king but still more, more more. Satisfaction was not in your vocabulary. I just focused on the screen. I hoped that the box would finally do what mother said it would, turn gray matter into mush. Maybe it would stop the beating too. Easier to stop feeling, and stop thinking. Just a serious of steps, Make the right sounds, keep saying your name to erase mine. Move Faster, because the faster it is over the faster I can disappear. I should have known. Why was the kiss not enough? Why did it turn into green lights? I wish I had red octagons instead, but that four letter white word said now

may have lead to consequences. Because when I learned the ABCâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s I also learned Straps stay hidden, lengths go to the knee,. The letters X and Y have no control. So you must set rules . And trust me, I tried. I built great walls, like the ones in far-off lands that kept nations safe. I kept platonic safe. I should have known that the words next to platonic in the thesaurus are Idealistic, quixotic, transcendent Not attainable, not practical, not realistic. I tried to hold back the Colorado River, but I am not named hoover, things always will fall though my fingers. One crack, one hole, one leak, tsunami breaks though. I thought that dams were stronger than this. I thought the word no was stronger than this. I just wish that when it was over, after the city of perfectly folded sheets was washed away, that you were the same. But instead of friend you became that thief. Smiling after a long con. The worst part. The worst part, is that you not only stole your prize, you stole safe. Because now I know.

OLD SHIRT BY SAMANTHA MILLER

I know that you feel comfortable in this old shirt. It used to be your favorite, it used to be new, it used to make you blush. The mirror tells you that you look good in it, Even though its been stretched since the last time you wore it, making it too big for you, depleting you. How many stretched this shirt out? You know this, but you try it on anyways. It might feel familiar but, it will never feel the way you think it should. Remember why you put it away the first time. Stop letting the shirt feel your skin. It will leave it itchy and raw. This shirt will soak up every stain, and the more you wear it the dirtier you will feel. This shirt will never understand your favorite books, It will ask the wrong questions, laugh you when you cry, and that wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ever change. You already made a mistake. You already put it on, and it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to let go. So take it off before it is too late.

MOON MAN BY KRISTIN MACINTYRE

I see you hollow poets, desperately trying to unhinge from your shapes and become as big as the ocean. As you twist in time’s great loom I hear you tilt your sapling necks and cry, How big does a man’s hand have to be to hold infinity? You wonder why my mouth is petrified in round O– because you let questions into the night that weigh more than sinking ships. Close your eyes, for if a man wants to see eternity he must only look into the darkness that lives in the absence of sight where nothing and everything achingly find that they are exactly same, parading around in masks to make a poet’s work worthwhile.

RUN BY GARDELL NEAL JR.

Running from police. Down avenues and dimly lit streets. No pardon for a dark skin. All the reason they ever needed to hassle me. Running from sentencing, courts, and convictions. Running because I’m pretentious, Pretending to chase missions. Running from financial burdens, Poor excuses for certain. Running to ascertain yet my existence Just seems worthless. Running from disenchantment. Running to find purpose. Running towards a finish, Keep thinking that I deserve it. Running from a perception. Running because I neglect shit. Chasing a reception, I’m nothing without acceptance. Running after a dream because My nightmares are full of rejection. Running after a truth, Only end up at a deception. Running after a next, What I’ve left behind is a mess. Running and can’t breathe. Running because I believe. Running from my failures,

Playing catch up to achieve. Running to stay faithful. Running so she believes. Chasing what I promised her, Hoping she never leaves. Running from a reality where Everything is exactly what it seems. Running the race soloLearned how to running with teams. Running from my father’s shadow, The hole apple that fell from the tree. Running from similarities, Pursuing how individuality is seen. Running from confidence as shaky As my balance on life’s beam. Running from self-esteem That I’ve torn down, That I’ve demeaned. Running to scrub clean. Running from In-between A lost-ness and a hope that carries a gleam. Running from what I meant, What I said, and how it seemed. Hounding a currency that In a pocket I could never keep. Running for urgency because time Never retreats.

Running because I’m scared. There I’ve said it. Though I told myself I wouldn’t dare. Running from empty stares. The letdowns come in pairs. Trailing a better me, While running from what I used to be. Ran down by what I am. Held down by every “I can’t”. Running though out of breath. Winded by every scant. Life is just so uphill most times, Becoming harder to take a step. So I’m running. I keep running. This is all that is left. To run is to move with speed so I’m running hoping to free. To release. Whatever I’m running from that keeps me, Running from me.

CLUTTER BY TAYLOR ATKINSON

The garbage man came today. I stood barefoot on the kitchen tile, placing a bagel in the toaster, my eggs and tea almost ready. I heard the strain of machinery as his truck lifted dumpsters, collecting waste that my neighbors chose not to keep. As I hefted the idea of stanza length and structure, I could hear him methodically Visit each house and take what others deemed no longer good enough. I pondered his task of removing the remains of what once was, and I wondered if I had waste I had not yet passed judgment on. I considered this and began to scribble thoughts on paper as I enjoyed the mountain view from my balcony. A dark smell commanded my attention. I have burnt another bagel. I placed it on the counter and thought I might salvage part of the bagel later as I walked past the trash can, sat down, and ate with the sound of his truck dumping in the distance. - F. Taylor Atkinson

ARENA BY TAYLOR ATKINSON

These men, these women, Perhaps decent in areas of life, Are changed once in the center of this stage. Thunderous applause heralds the beginning of a match. In one hand swords, in the other shields bearing elephants and asses, Two people begin a battle many of us know: The clash of jousting, the whistling of barbed arrows, The advance and retreat of sword play. Each strike either defending or drawing blood. A combat judge moderates blows or, For entertainment, highlights a weakness in a contender. These weaknesses now a target, the match goes on. When the blood has dried, the stage and loser swept clear, We give these gladiators, who performed for our cheers, All the power they need to deliver true blows. All the power they need to deliver true blows.

HEADLINES ON ANY GIVEN FRIDAY BY LINDSEY LAKE

as many as 120 dead in series of paris terror attacks Jamie Dornan watches tv while drinking beer and eating pizza bystander sacrifices life in lebanon suicide bombing, preventing many more deaths John Goodman displays dramatic weight loss on the red carpet why the west stood in solidarity with paris, but not beirut suicide bombing at baghdad service kills 17

Jay Leno just perfectly explained sexting

are Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner living together?

dozens killed in nigeria market bombing gritted teeth, Clenched Fists: Will and Kate get really into a rugby game russia: homemade bomb brought down airliner over egypt

these Pearl Earrings are serious multitaskers

e.u. program to relocate refugees begins in italy Boyfriend accused of duct-taping children to a chair to watch mommie dearest russia joins france striking isis stronghold in syria barack obama offers presidential hopeful Kanye West some political advice the world’s forgotten refugees: children christie on refugees: not even 5-year-old orphans

Rachel Zoe says Son Skyler ‘loves’ his long hair we’re calling this product ‘Botox in a Bottle’”

breaking news: countries launching nuclear bombs Brangelina hunker down in their underground bunker

2016 Top Pick

KRISTYN SHAFER, Flaccid Flowers, porcelain

ARTIST STATEMENT: This work was for a Casting and Moldmaking â&#x20AC;&#x153;multiplesâ&#x20AC;? project. I had found a beautiful glass dildo in the shape of a rose. I made a plaster mold of it and began casting roses. I noticed the way some of them slumped over if they were pulled from the mold too early. They started to take on their own sad and lethargic personalities. This made me think about the constructs that surround male competition and size of penis in contrast with the culture and stigma that dildos insinuate in feminine culture.

KRISTYN SHAFER, How does it feel...?, mixed-media installation: embroidered makeup removal wipes, sewing kit, mirror, afghan throw

KRISTINA SPARGO, PolyFlora, polystyrene and wood

JEWELRY

H. KRYPILO, mid century modern, silver-toned nickel, forged copper, semi-precious stones

ALYSSA EDMUNDS, “Protection” Pendant, copper, silver, bone

FICTION

THE SPACE BETWEEN BY GILLIAN KÜMM

2016 Top Pick

ctavia stood in the space between compartments. Her back was turned to the carful of well-dressed, smiling, white women ahead. It was her vantage point. The train’s movement forced her to shift as her eyes focused on the space before her: cramped with women of color sporting downcast stares. She could tell by the capacity of the car ahead that they were nearing downtown. With each stop the already cramped car got fuller and the air thicker. Octavia could feel the breath of each woman: exhausted and overheated. As the train entered the city the sky scrappers shifted from mysterious to daunting as they darkened Octavia’s car. She watched as the doors opened, creating a narrow path of light that crawled up the well-trodden stairs. A small old woman struggled to board. She carried a rustic, metal dolly, filled with bags of varying sizes and states of decay, like the pale brown robes hanging loosely from her bulky, tired frame. Octavia noticed how her silvery white curls bounced against her sweating, brown brow. It reminded her of Grannie. She remembered the many times she’s tried to escape into that silvery mane as a child. Grannie holding Octavia close as she cried. “Mama hurt me!” Octavia sobbed. “Slow down, Octie,” Grannie cooed as she scooped Octavia into her lap, “Now calm yourself and talk so I can understand you. Mama did what?” “She shot me,” Octavia said. She raised her hair so that Grannie could see the fresh, red pinprick on her neck. Grannie shook her head, closing her eyes tight in a way that wrinkled her brow. “So she did it. I’m sorry, child.” “You knew?” Octavia asked. Her tears had waned since Grannie’s request and now her voice steadied. She looked up at the old woman, searching sternly for answers now instead of comfort. “You know this is your mama’s house and what she says goes?” “Yeah, but…” “And she only does what she thinks is best for you,” Grannie said as she stood, forcing Octavia to find her ground. “Yes, ma’am. If you say so.” “Now that’s a sorry excuse to believe anything.” “What?” “Because someone says so. I thought you knew better, Octie,” Grannie

said. She lit one of her hand-rolled cigarettes with a match, a process that perplexed Octavia seeing as how almost everyone used vapor pens now. Even after Mama had saved weeks to buy her a barely used model, Grannie insisted on handling the materials herself. “If it’s going to kill me anyway, I’m going to feel it; every part,” she’d say before licking the edge of her thin white rolling paper, “besides, I like seeing things come together.” Octavia paused to think. “You’re not just someone. You’re my Grannie.” Grannie smiled, exhaling. “Darn straight, honey.” “Why did Mama shoot me with that needle?” Octavia asked, cringing. “She was changing the docs on your microchip.” “Why?” “Because you and I are different, Octie, and that scares a lot of people, including your mama.” “Different? You mean Dilutes?” Grannie took a drag and replied, “Yes. Although I never did like that word: Dilute.” “Why is that scary?” “Because test-tube babies aren’t supposed to be mixed babies.” “Then how did I happen?” “A mistaken keystroke, a molecule out of sequence, a dash of salt, who knows? Whatever it was, I couldn’t be gladder it happened because you’re here,” Grannie said as she pinched Octavia’s cheek and smothered her cigarette in the ashtray. “Is that how you got here?” Grannie cackled in that high-pitched, throaty way that cut through you, “Oh no, honey, I was made the old fashioned way: a man, a woman, and some bottles of beer. It just so happened that one was White and the other Black. Couldn’t tell you

about the beer.” “Grannie!” Octavia whispered through a smile. Blushing, she quickly changed the subject, “But why would mama shoot me for being a Dilute?” “She just doesn’t want the wrong people to know, sweetheart. People can’t always tell by looking at you. She wants you to have options in this world. I wasn’t sure if she’d go through with it. I didn’t know what to tell her. Hell, I cut my damn chip out within a week. I’ll be damned if anyone tries to tell me who I am and so should you, Octie.” “But teacher said removing a chip is illegal. She said people go to jail or even get killed.” Grannie began to chuckle but quickly stopped when she saw Octavia’s big brown eyes start to water with worry. She kneeled to meet her gaze and placed her hands on her grandchild’s shoulders. “Oh, Octie, don’t worry,” she said with sincerity, “I’m already dead.” “What?” “Remember how I told you I used to protest?” Octavia nodded. She’d often begged Grannie to tell her tales of tear-gas, rallies and riots before bed at night. “Well, when things got really bad and it looked like I was going to go away for a long time, some friends helped hide me. We threw my chip in a river. We figured rather than waste resources on a presumably dead black woman, the authorities would just declare me dead and be done with it.” “You lied?” Octavia asked. She’d never heard this story. “Yes, honey. I lied to protect your mother. I’d been inseminated months before and I wasn’t going to have my baby behind bars.” Octavia nodded feebly at Grannie. She wasn’t

sure she completely understood but was too embarrassed to ask more. Grannie stood. She could see the wheels spinning in the child’s head. “Just know your mama loves you and she’d never want to hurt you. Just like I love the both of you. Now help me find some bandages so I can clean you up and get some food in you.” Clank. Clank. The sound of metal on metal brought Octavia back to the woman before her, awkwardly dragging her dolly up the stairs. Octavia picked up her briefcase and helped the old woman. “Thank you… miss.” After making eye contact with Octavia, the woman did a double take to be sure she was boarding the proper car. “Anytime, sister. The next stop was mine anyway,” Octavia popped in her earbud, straightened her blazer and started out. M

“Octavia! Here. Now.” Ms. LeBlanc’s voice bellowed into Octavia’s eardrum, summoning her from the small, cluttered desk to which she’d been assigned. She quickly slipped her heels back on and pulled open the heavy platinum doors to Ms. LeBlanc’s office. “Ma’am?” “What have I told you about calling me that?” Ms. LeBlanc said with an air of annoyance. She stood, crossing the room to Octavia. “I’m not that old, am I? Call me Florence, sweetheart, and come in already. I don’t bite,” she said, winking as she took Octavia’s hand, guiding her to a chair in front of the sleek desk, “although I do take requests on occasion.” Octavia sat stiffly and asked, “You wanted to see me?” “Always so reserved,” Ms. LeBlanc observed. She

leaned against her desk, crossing her legs. “It’s served you well. How long have you been with us now?” “Two years, ma – Ms. LeBlanc.” “And already administrative assistant to a CEO. It’s impressive for someone your age. What are you twenty?” “Twenty-three.” Ms. LeBlanc waved her hand, “Just as well. I always pegged you for a keen player, someone who keeps her cards close. I admit: I was intrigued. I did some digging.” Flames shot up Octavia’s neck. Her thighs started to sweat, clinging to the plastic chair. She said nothing. “Oh, Octie, don’t worry,” Ms. LeBlanc said as she caressed Octavia’s shoulder; Octavia cringed. “Your secret’s safe. So you’re a Dilute and you not only lied but also forged docs to hide it. So what? That’s not even why I called you in, I just wanted to,” her eyes made their way up Octavia’s frame, “put things in perspective.” Octavia breathed deep. “I actually called you in to thank you for bailing me out on that Henderson case last month.” Ms. LeBlanc reached for an envelope on the desk behind her and handed it to Octavia. “Your work is appreciated.” Octavia didn’t have to open the envelope to know what was inside; she’d delivered her share of bonus checks, “Ms. LeBlanc, thank you. I –“ “That’s not all. I want to offer you a promotion. We’d like to make you an official part of our admin team, assuming you keep an open perspective,” she said as she placed a hand on Octavia’s knee, “I don’t want you to answer now. Take the weekend to think about it; especially in

light of this ‘new’ information.” Octavia managed another meek “thank you” before taking her envelope and turning to leave. M

Dilapidated apartment buildings and the warm smell of burning ozone welcomed her home. Octavia paused before putting her key in 3B. She stuffed the white envelope into her bag, inhaled, and opened the door. The comforting scent of cinnamon and baking bread enveloped her. Mama sat near the stove: gazing at a tablet while the timer counted down. “Hey, baby. How was your day?” “Mama we need to talk.” Mama turned off the tablet and rose. “What is it, honey?” she asked. “I’ve been offered a promotion.” Mama squealed and hugged Octavia. “How much?” “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t think I should take it.” “What?” “My boss knows.” “Did she threaten you?” Mama’s face had shifted from jubilance to terror. “No she… she liked my work on the Henderson case.” “Well why won’t you take it?” “I’m tired, Mama.” “I’m scrubbing floors daily for those uptown, yuppie bitches and you’re turning down promotions because you’re tired? Not in my house, child.” “Tired of hiding. I’ve been doing it all my life.” “I know, baby, I know. But don’t you see this is finally our way out? You and me, we could get a two-bedroom downtown. I could be your ‘live-in

maid.’ We’d finally be safe, and comfortable.” “No, Mama, I don’t need a ‘maid.’ I don’t need a loft downtown. That’s not what comfort is to me.” Mama sighed, resigning to her stool. “What is comfort?” “I’m not sure. I think it’s different for everybody. It depends.” “I’ve never known comfort, baby, but I always hoped you would.” “I will, Mama. I’ll find it.” Mama returned to her tablet, “I just wish you’d think about it.” Octavia started putting on her coat. “I will, Mama.” “You’re leaving already? You’re not going to see what’s-his-face, are you? I’m never sure what to call her, er, him, whatever. You don’t need to be around all that, baby, not with everything you’ve got.” “Nalo, Mama. His name is Nalo and he prefers ‘he.’” “There are no more ‘he’s.’” “Nalo’s not a ‘she,’ he’s different. I’m different.” “You’re not different, you’re special. I made dinner. Are you sure you have to go?” “I need to move. It helps me think. Save me a plate?” “Don’t I always?” Octavia crossed the room to kiss Mama on the cheek. “Always. Love you.” Before Octavia left she placed the white envelope on the kitchen table amongst the pile of mail. M

Octavia met Nalo at their usual spot: a room on Zion St. with satin blue sheets. It smelled of sweet cheap perfume and sweat. It was Octavia’s favorite place in the world. Nalo greeted her with a sly smile and open arms.

He wore a leather jacket and black boots, his hair was slicked back and the space below his bottom lip was starting to grow dark fuzz from the hormones he and his crew jacked a few weeks back, Octavia liked the way it tickled her when they kissed. “Did she fire you?” Nalo asked, his tone becoming concerned. “No, she offered to promote me,” Octavia sauntered to the bed, seating herself on the edge. “That’s great!” he turned to the window, “Think of the access you’ll have. We can finally get the dirt on all those yuppie bitches.” Octavia sighed as she took a seat on the flimsy mattress. She’d seen that look in Nalo’s eyes before: glazed over tunnel vision with the glory of revolution at the end. “How many times do we have to go over this? I don’t want to be a part of the No-Chips,” she said with exasperation at Nalo’s continued insistence that she become a part of his guerrilla justice group. “Then what do you want?” Nalo asked as he locked eyes with her. She didn’t answer. “You’re not an activist. You’re not a sell-out. Not white but definitely not black. Just who are you anyway?” Nalo asked in that challenging but patient way Octavia usually loved, except when aimed toward her. She swallowed hard before replying meekly, “An ally. Your girlfriend. A person, for Christ’s sakes.” Nalo’s eyes lit up as he exclaimed, “Is that how those yuppies see you? A person? I bet LeBlanc only offered you the job to get in your pants anyway. You’re just a plaything to her. We all are. That’s the problem, Octavia. You say you’re an ally but how are you supporting? Me and the No-Chips have given

up everything. We forfeit our lives the moment we cut out those damn microchips. I’ve bled and died for change, Octavia. What have you done?” Octavia could feel the hot tears welling in the back of her throat. “I’ve loved you,” she managed in a breaking voice. “Do you? Sometimes I wonder if you love me or the idea of me,” Nalo asked as he turned his back to her. She felt like the wind had just been knocked out of her. She took a deep breath, trying to keep the tears from reaching her eyes. “I knew it when I first saw you,” Nalo said. “I’d seen your type before: passing Dilute who wanted to see how the other half lived so you thought you’d start by dipping your toe in the kiddy-pool of action: a slam poetry reading.” “So why’d you even approach me?” Octavia asked as the first tear rolled like hot rain down her cheek. Nalo turned around. “Something seemed different about you. The way you looked at me… it seemed like you could really see me. That doesn’t happen everyday, you know,” he said. “I know,” Octavia whispered through tears. “Don’t you know I felt the same way? I thought I saw you and I thought you could see me. I guess I was wrong.” Nalo sat beside her on the bed. “So show me, Octavia. Who are you?” he asked with a quiet, almost cracking voice. Octavia’s hand drifted to the back of her neck. The skin was hard where it had calloused over her chip. She remembered Grannie’s scar. It was usually lost under her jungle of silver curls but on occasion she’d banish them beneath the colorful celebratory scarves she’d wear to communal

healing ceremonies and protests. Octavia loved to trace the patterns into the scar with her finger. The scarred skin always felt softer in contrast to the threadbare fabric. Octavia began to cackle with hysteria. Nalo raised a confused but concerned eyebrow. When Octavia noticed the bewilderment on his face she quieted and answered, “That is the question, Nalo, isn’t it?” Her fingers guided his face to hers. She tried to explain with her kiss – long and sorrowful – but she could tell by the twisted look on Nalo’s face when she pulled away that she hadn’t succeeded. She sighed heavily before rising and crossing to the door. “I’ll give you an answer sometime, yeah?” Octavia halfheartedly assured Nalo before closing the door behind her. M

Octavia opened the doors to Ms. LeBlanc’s office with ease. She found the CEO sitting in her usual eased stance behind her imposing desk. “Octavia, did I call for you, sweetie?” “No. We need to talk.” “Shut the door.” Ms. LeBlanc rose, beckoning Octavia to sit. Octavia remained standing. “I have to reject your offer.” Ms. LeBlanc returned to her seat. “I’m sorry to hear it. May I ask why?” “I’m pursuing other opportunities. Ones that don’t involve sexual harassment or black mail.” “Those are strong allegations. I hope these ‘opportunities’ are welcoming to Dilutes. Word could get out.” “Let it. I’ve got nothing to hide and I’ll be damned if I let someone tell me who I am.” Octavia vaguely heard the muffled slurs Ms. LeBlanc spat at her back as she walked out of the office. M

She walked, in a daze, until she found herself back at the train station. She climbed aboard the South line, away from the city, away from home. Octavia looked ahead as the train left the station, pulling her forward. For once, she saw a future on the horizon. 1

ALIEN ABDUCTION BY SEAN MATOON

lay in bed restlessly as the wind beats against the walls and windows of my ranch house. The snow gathering at the base of the window to my room and the light from the barn door washes out the view of the tree outside. Every time I fall asleep, a gust of wind pulverizes the side of the house and I’m startled awake again. It’s probably two in the morning now. The wind settles down. I try to fall asleep. Before I can drift into unconsciousness, something wakes me up again. I hear the sound of metal rubbing against metal. The wind must have shaken something loose. There are footsteps crunching in the snow. An animal might be looking for shelter. The cows are locked in the barn, protected from any predators looking for cover from the storm. I try again to go to sleep, but now I hear the sound of the barn door sliding open. I get out of bed and wipe off the condensation from the glass to see what’s going on. The light over the barn door mixes with the dense snowfall. I can see the shape of a person outside. I stumble around in the dark, looking for my thick work pants and a sweater. The icy wood floor creaks as I stomp on it in my hurry to find warm clothes. The barn door slides open again and the ringing of a cowbell emerges from the barn. I can barely see anything in the low light that bleeds from the barn door into my room. I turn on the lights in the house that can be seen from outside to alert the intruder I am aware of them. Inside the closet by the front door are my boots and Carhartt coat. There’s also a shotgun and a flashlight. I put them on as fast as I can and pocket a few shells and place one into the chamber of the gun. The cowbell rings in the distance, but I can’t see where the sound is coming from. I make a break for the barn in the dense snow. Tracks in the snow trace out the perimeter of the barn and from the direction the intruder came from. The wooden bar was in place to hold the doors shut. I raise the bar, pull open the barn door and shine my flashlight inside while trying to keep my shotgun pointed in the same direction with one hand. My cow, Hannah, is lying next to the hay bale, but the other cow, Lulu, is missing. Nothing else is disturbed. The tracks outside lead me south toward the woods on the south side of my property. As I follow them, I can hear the cowbell’s faint ring again. The falling snow saturates the light from my flashlight. The ground is the only thing I can see. The flashlight’s amber glow becomes overwhelmed by a white light. I

look up and am blinded by the source. I drop the flashlight to get my hand on the shotgun for steady aim. My eyes adjust to the bright light enough to see the shadows cast by the trees moving along the ground. The light source rises from the horizon and launches into the clouds. The wind starts to gust again. I return to the house and sit in the recliner in the living room, my coat and snowcovered boots still on, and my shotgun in my lap. I drift to sleep. M

When I wake up, my neck is sore from sleeping upright and my head has a dull pain. My shirt is damp from drooling on it in my sleep. The clock on the wall shows noon. I rise from my chair and look at the barn from the kitchen window. The tracks outside were erased by the snowfall. The sky is cloudless and bright. I wash my face at the kitchen sink and change my shirt. Last night was all just a bad dream. I always feel bad about not feeding the cows at sunrise, even when there is a bad storm and I’ve left food for them to eat in the barn. I take a snow shovel outside with me and dig a path to the barn. There had to be a foot of snow on the ground. I dig out enough snow to open the barn door just wide enough to let one of the cows out. After my eyes adapt to the low level of light that shined into the opening near the ceiling, I can only see Hannah in the barn. Lulu is still missing. I dig another path to the garage and put more hay and water in the barn for Hannah and go back in to the house. The power is still working in the house. I call the sheriff ’s office and the receptionist puts me

through to the deputy. There is nothing they can do to investigate the livestock theft. The roads are buried in snow and it will be at least a couple of days before the snow will be cleared from the highways. I don’t tell him about the strange light that I saw. I try to call my nearest neighbors, Daniel and Leah, but there is no answer. I go back outside and start plowing the road from my house to the highway and around the barn. At sunset, I go outside to make sure that the barn door is shut and secured. I don’t have a pad lock for the barn, just the wooden bar that would fit into the latches. It was enough to keep any predators from getting into the barn in the night or when there was a bad storm. I was never worried about someone stealing one of the animals. The garage did have a lock and I secured the door. If it was a person that took Lulu, then they would not be able to get into the garage to steal anything if they came back. The only people I ever saw in these parts were my neighbors that live six miles away and the occasional lost traveler. I look south where the tracks had gone last night. I can still see the trees in the twilight. I look at the stars that are shining in the darker half of the sky. A bright light is crawling between them. I place some wood in the stove and start a fire to keep the house warm. I lay sleepless during the night. The fire from the stove has stopped. With no hot air coming through the vent, I smother myself in quilts, trying to stay warm. The thought of losing one of my cows to thieves haunts me. I’m scared Hannah might be taken. The wind blows again late in the night. The windows rattle and the house’s walls shake with every gust that tramples over the house. Between bursts in the wind, I hear noises in the house. It

sounds like objects being moved around. A squeak from the bedroom door’s hinge scratches at my ears. The faint sound of something breathing is over me. I’m too cold and too afraid to move and see what it is. I stay in place all night, unable to sleep. The presence in my room lingers. I fall asleep shortly after dawn. When I wake up, I feel like I did not sleep at all. My head burns from exhaustion. I can’t even muster the strength to rise from my bed, but the need to use the toilet forces me. After I finish peeing, I look in the living room to see what time it is. Ten in the morning. Before I go back to the bathroom to take an aspirin to sooth my headache, I see that the picture on the wall next to the bathroom door is missing. After taking the pills, I look around the house to see what else is missing or disturbed. Forks from the drawer in the kitchen were placed neatly side-by-side on the counter. The missing picture is on the coffee table in the living room, next to a stack of old magazines that should have been in the rack next to the recliner. As soon as I get dressed, I go outside to the barn to see if Hannah is still there. She is. Whoever was in the house last night stayed out of the barn. I let her out to walk around where the snow was removed the day before. After doing my morning chores, I get my digital camera out of the house and a shovel from the garage and walk south toward the woods. The cold from the snow pierces through my boots in the half-mile walk to the trees. A cold breeze pushes against me as I trek to the trees where I saw the strange light two nights ago. If Lulu was chased by some kind of predator, her carcass might be in the woods. If it wasn’t an animal that chased her into the woods, then

whoever took her out there may have left some kind of evidence. The wind deleted whatever could have prowled in the woods since I saw that light. There were no tracks or impressions in the snow. It was as if nothing was ever here. I continue deeper into the woods. There is a clearing in the trees just big enough to fit a tool shed in, but there is nothing here either but deeper snow that is more than knee deep. I keep searching for any kind of trace of Lulu or the intruders for about an hour, but still nothing. Frustrated, I turn around to go back to the house. My feet are freezing and my head is full of wet snot. I retrace my steps around the empty space in the trees where the snow isn’t so deep. Before I can reach the northern edge, I trip over something in the snow. When I get up, I kneel back down and push the snow off of what I tripped over. It’s black and hairy. I move more snow out of the way and find the rounded edge of the mass. It’s a cow’s leg. I pick up my shovel and dig. I don’t know how much time I spent digging out Lulu’s remains from the snow. Long enough that the sun was about to set. Lulu’s body had been dismembered. Her legs were cut off and arranged in a row like the forks were in the house. One of them had been cut open and pieces of it were removed. Her torso was buried under the deeper snow in the clearing. It was turned over when I uncovered it. The underside was split open in two cuts. The skin was neatly folded away from the center of where the two cuts intersected. Some of the organs were missing. I photograph everything that I can find. I resume digging to find Lulu’s head and any of the missing organs, but it’s getting too dark to see. I try to pick up one of the severed legs, but it is still

frozen to the debris and the ground. When I return to the house, I call the sheriff ’s office right away. I tell the deputy about everything I saw and found. I still don’t tell them about the strange light from two nights ago. They say a detective will be dispatched tomorrow morning since the roads are now safe to drive. They’d give me a call when they were on their way. The phone at Daniel and Leah’s still goes unanswered. I sit in the living room silent all night long. I don’t try to turn on the satellite or the radio. I can’t focus enough to read a magazine. I can’t bring myself to eat anything. I don’t even put the forks back in the drawer or the picture back on the wall. I lay in bed sleepless again. I am too scared to sleep. Whatever took Lulu and chopped her up is coming for me. I grip my shotgun tightly in both of my hands as I lay facing the ceiling. I am still dressed with my boots on. In my pockets are as many extra shotgun shells as I have in the house and the keys to the garage and my truck. The air is still outside. The only sound I can hear is my pulse between my ears. The faint glow from the light above the barn door illuminates the bedroom just enough that I can make out the shadows of the dresser and my body. The glow from outside becomes brighter and brighter in a clean, white luminescence. A loud and deep humming noise grows from the stillness outside. Footsteps crunch in the snow toward the house. They’re here. My grip tightens on the shotgun. A whirring noise like a drill cuts through the wood and insulation of the front door. While they breach the house, I barricade myself in the bedroom by pushing the dresser in front of the door. Before I

can start to move the bed against the dresser, I hear the front door swing open on its squeaky hinges. The sound of boots pace around the house. I try to count how many of them are inside the house. Three, maybe four. I stand in a corner of the room with my finger on the trigger of my gun. Doors in the house swing open and the rooms are rummaged through. When one gets to my door, it tries the knob and tries to budge the door open. It pounds on the door several times trying to force it open. One of the others approaches. The whirring noise starts again and drills into the wall I am leaning against. A long blade penetrates the wall near me. I run to the other side of the room and watch the blade cut out a new entrance in the drywall. I probably could get a shot through the drywall, but I want a clear shot at the things trying to get me. They cut a line near the floor last. The piece of the wall falls over onto the wood floor of the room with a loud bang. The hole is just big enough for one of them to walk in at a time. The light from outside reveals their suited forms. They’re humanoid in shape, encased in bulky, white pressurized suits. The texture of the suit looks like stacked tires, kind of like the Michelin Man. They have a black rectangle they can view their surroundings from. As the first one starts to approach me, I let out a roar and unleash my shotgun’s fury into the thing. The first shot goes into its chest and knocks it back against the perpendicular wall. The second goes right through its arm. The third and final shot pierces the inside of its visor and the head explodes like a fruit. It stumbles over dead. Another being enters through the hole in the wall. It gets a few feet from me before I can load

another three shells into the shotgun. It reaches for me, but I shove the stock of the shotgun into its body and get away from it. The third being walks into the room. It holds the large electric saw that cut open the wall. It activates the saw and lunges at me. I step aside and barely dodge the blade. I knock the thing in the back of the head with my gun and squeeze through the hole. I flee outside and finish reloading the shotgun. A fourth being that was backlit by the strong light starts walking toward me. I discharge a shot at it, but I miss. I scramble for my keys to open the lock to the garage. Before I can open the door, the thing grabs me from behind. I drop my shotgun while trying to free myself from the beingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grip. I get loose and start to run away as fast as I can into the darkness. Another one of the intruders intercepts me like a football player and put its shoulder right in my gut and knocks me down. The shadows of the three suited beings stand over me and lift me off the ground by the arms. I try to shake out of their grip, but they hold on tightly. They pull me toward the light while I struggle, yell and swear at them. We stop directly under the warm, white light. I look up but am blinded by the intensity of the source. I stop struggling from my captors as we start to rise from the snow toward the light above. 1

SHAKEDOWN BY TAYLOR ATKINSON

li had already been through the kitchen and the master bedroom, using only use his phone’s flashlight to illuminate his search; he didn’t want any of the neighbors to know someone was home. The house phone rang. Eli ignored the ringing and continued to rummage through desk drawers in the study. He found exactly what he expected; utilitarian objects, bills, even some correspondence. No cash or credit cards. His hands trembled as he put items back on the desk and set his phone down. He looked at his hands against the street-lit window. His cell phone rang. Eli slammed his hand down and answered his phone as he moved to the book cases, his shoes leaving slight imprints in the plush carpet. “Hi Mom. How’s your trip?” “Eli, sweetie, what are you doing in our house?” “You know I have a personal PIN for the security system,” Eli said. “No you don’t, Eli. Your father and I deactivated your PIN three months ago. That’s also when we set the system to alert us whenever it is deactivated.” Eli could hear his father in the background, “Didn’t know he knew my PIN. Just changed it online, Ellen.” “Thanks a million, Dad. Great to know I’m welcome home whenever I need,” said Eli. As he talked, ran his fingers along the leather-bound books, pulling out selections at random, flipping through, shutting and replacing them in rapid succession. “Eli, you know you’re welcome to whatever help we can offer. But there are conditions,” said his mom. Eli laughed, “So there are conditions on your love for me now. Brilliant.” His hands shook more as he tried to go through the books faster. A book slipped from his hand. He continued his search without pause, not bothering to replace books now, each empty book making a small thump as it landed on the carpet. “Eli, you know that’s not true. We want to help, but we have to be careful what we do for you.” “Great. Thanks so much for the conditional support. Speaking of, what happened to my allowance?” “Why did you stop going to your therapy appointments?” “You’re not even supposed to know that I am a patient!” Eli retorted.

“Doctor Manning has been our family’s psychiatrist for years. Of course we’d know.” “So much for the privacy of HIPAA.” He placed his parents on speaker phone and continued his search. “Eli, son, you are welcome to our monthly allowance for you as long as you’re making progress on your issues,” said his dad. “My issues are none of your concern” “Of course they’re our concern! Why do you think we’ve been so strict lately?” his mom asked. “Besides, any way you choose to spend our money is our concern,” added his dad. Eli paused his search of the book shelves. “Look, I just need enough to get through this week. That’s when my new temp job starts.” For a moment, there was nothing from the phone. Eli scratched red pinprick marks along his forearm. “You know the new rules. No therapy or treatment, no--” “I can’t live without it!” Eli cut his dad off. “I won’t be able to afford rent without that allowance. Please. Why aren’t you helping me?!” “We know you need our help, but we can’t help you unless you prove first that you’re trying and spending your money on the right things,” said his mom. Eli contorted his face and threw books from the shelf in front of him. “Damn it you’re killing me!” “No, son, your friends are,” his dad said. “We’re trying to keep you alive,” added his mom. Eli darted across window-lit carpet back to the desk. He put his phone down and began to rummage through the desk again using both hands. “Where do you keep your credit cards? They’re not where they used to be,” asked Eli.

“We don’t have cards anymore. The nice man at the bank said we can store all our card information on our smartphones, now.” Eli wiped the sweat from his forehead, removed drawers from the desk and took them to the table, emptying everything out in his search. “Better not misplace those phones,” said Eli. “You never know what someone might do with that kind of information.” “We have a pretty good idea,” responded his dad. At the bottom of the second drawer, Eli found an envelope labeled Emergency Cash. Inside was a note with only four words: Sorry, Eli. Not here. Eli screamed and smashed the drawer against the table. “Eli? What was that noise? Eli?” Eli’s phone fell to the carpet as he dashed from the room. “Honey, do you think we should call the cops?” asked his mom. “No. That would draw too much attention.” “But if he’s out again, who knows what he’ll do. Remember last time?” said his mom. His dad paused. “All right. I’ll call Frank down at the station in the morning.” “Thanks, dear. Oh, and make sure you reset the security system and light timers. I don’t want any of the neighbors to know something’s wrong.” 1

THE ASCENT BY JACOB MOLLOHAN

“Y

ou know this is going to hurt,” she said. She wore deep red robes that scraped the floor. The frayed cloth was stiff with dried blood. I couldn’t see her face through the shadows, but I could hear her smile lingering there. I was in a cell. It was roughly circular, although the deep shadows made it difficult to know for sure. The smell of dried blood and other bodily fluids assaulted my nose. My lips were dry and cracked. In some strange way I felt detached from my body. I could feel pain in so many places that it coalesced into a distant throbbing. I could hear the thrum of engines. I could taste stale, recycled air. The life support had been failing for as long as I had been alive. Eventually it would die, and us with it. I had been there in that cell a long time. I can’t be sure how long. Maybe years, or decades. All I knew is that I would likely die there. There was nothing for me to do. I was strapped to some arcane device. The metal cold against my skin, the leather bindings chaffed, but I had stopped bleeding a long time ago. “Tell me,” she said. I think she thought to change subjects, to confuse me. “Are you afraid?” She stepped into a shaft of light. The right half of her face was burnished bronze fused to bone and skin. It had a skeletal quality. Her eye whirred and clicked as she focused on me. There was no pity in that red lens. There was no beauty there. I heard a blade slide free from somewhere in her robe. A metal sheathe arm unfolded from the heavy fabric and the dull gleam of the cell’s lamps reflected from the dagger. A racking cough seized me and I spit blood. “I shall know no fear,” I said before I coughed again. It was our mantra. Fear was weakness that must be purged. No matter how many times we said it, most of us forgot when the pain began. My heart started to beat faster as she stepped closer. She moved with mechanical grace, as though her body hovered just off the ground. I could feel her hot breath against my neck. She moved around behind me and rested the blade against my cheek. Even the cursed dagger held unnatural heat. “We’ll see about that,” she said. Then she summoned her assistants. Half-man, half-robot monstrosities trundled from the deep shadows of the cell. Their grinding gears and rusted tracks grated at my ears as they

approached. In my peripheral I could just make out the closest drone. His slack face was sallow in a pool of dirty light. His eyes rheumy and useless, he didn’t even recognize me in his near catatonic state. Blood mingled with oil unguents staining his pallid skin. It is unlikely that much of his brain remained after the process. But his body had been recycled, forever in service to the machine gods. As was all our fate. A new tinge of pain was added to the layers that I wore like another skin. This cut deep. I could feel loss inside of me for the first time in a long time. His name had been Josiah, and he had been my friend. Or perhaps that is the wrong term. There are no friends where I was created. Sorry, born. He had been born in the same cycle, though. And we were assigned hab-units near each other. Now he was a mindless servitor. A perfect tool for the god machines. And reflecting from the plate of bronze that covered his ruined chest I could see myself. I was probably going to join him soon. “Prepare the ascendance,” she said. I wrenched my eyes shut and began to mumble the litany of fear. The sharp scent of incense cut through the odor of the room. A blinding beam of light turned on above me, stabbing through my closed eyes and drawing tears. I wanted to squirm and scream and try to break free, I wanted that more than I have ever wanted anything. But if I gave in then I would join Josiah and the other failures. I gritted my teeth as the tears streamed down my cheeks. Slowly she began a song. The words seemed distant and distorted. The servitor failures

began to sing with her and the song grew in power. I knew what was coming next. But I didn’t know if I could survive again. Her song reached a terrible, discordant crescendo and then a surge of new pain swept through me. Agony spiked through my head as the mind impulse unit at the base of my skull connected directly to the spirit of the machine gods. I tried not to scream out. I doubt it worked though. In the wash of power and pain I felt my conciseness slide away as a feeling like ice water poured through my mind and the dim world turned to pure blackness. There was a long moment of sickening dislocation. Waves buffeted against me in the infernal darkness. Without anything to latch onto my psyche struggled to make sense of the madness. Like being lost at sea I flailed for anything concrete to hold on to. Colors swam before me in dazzling arrays, but they were wrong. They were distorted and subtly different. As if those colors did not belong anywhere in reality. My body became light as I floated through the layers of this strange realm. Then the floating sensation stopped. I grasped the air around me as I fell. Time had little meaning in that place. I fell for a very long time. My eyes snapped open and the connection was complete. I was no longer strapped to the machine. I lifted my hand and flexed my fingers in front of my face. They were rough, strong. No longer pale and deformed. I rolled my shoulders and felt no jarring stabs of pain, no grind of misplaced bones. Crisp air, the scent of dried grass blew around me in a gentle breeze. I shaded my eyes from the

sun as it bathed me in warmth. “This is new,” I said aloud. Even my voice had changed. It felt firm, no more rasp or wheeze of fractured lungs. I took a step. The earth beneath my feet was rich and black. I could hear the trickle of a stream nearby. A powerful oak tree stood like a sentinel in the valley ringed by mountains where I had awoken. I wish I could have stayed in that place forever. For a brief moment in my life I knew peace like I never thought I would. I’m not sure if it was a curse or a blessing to know what peace felt like, to know what happiness was like. Was I better off ignorant, stuck in a world of perpetual pain? I can’t say for sure. But none of those things exist anymore. There are no warm sunny days; the atmosphere was irradiated away in the wars. There are no trees, they withered and died. There are no streams, they all boiled away under the cancerous sun. Peace was a lie, a fabrication from the ancient texts that had been banned by the god machines. She appeared beside me. She still wore robes, but her hood was thrown back. Lightning crackled around her, dissipating into nothing as she smiled at me. Her dark eyes seemed to see through me. Her smile held none of the malicious anger that drove her in life. Perhaps even she felt peace there. “You made it,” she said. I nodded. Still unsure what to say. I had never made it to this place. If this was the place I was meant to be, I couldn’t be sure. “It used to be something worth fighting for, wouldn’t you agree?” I nodded again. I looked away from her. Even though she was beautiful there, I didn’t want to see her. I wanted to enjoy the sun because all I could see in her was the one who hurt me. I wonder if that hurt her. Part of me wanted to hurt her. “I’m sorry it has to be this way,” she said. “All the pain, all the suffering, I wish I could take it away from you,” her voice faltered. She had never been vulnerable like this before. Never weak. “But there is no other way. I’m a priestess of the god machines and pain is their message. Pain opens the synapses in our minds. It makes us receptive,” she said and it sounded like her own mantra. She paused for a long moment, watching me. This was the first time she had ever offered a reason for all the pain. It

was the truth. I could feel it in her words. In our world life and pain were mingled like wine and vinegar. But the truth did little to wash away the sour taste of reality. “There is no way of knowing for sure,” she finally said. Her voice was soft. It carried across the wind like a song. “But old earth might have been like this. At least this is what the god machines give us.” “Oh,” I said. I took a few steps so I could be next to the tree. The bark was rough against my skin. “It is just a recreation, you know. The deeper you go into the machine the closer to it you can get. Back before we ruined…” I raised my hand to interrupt her. I knew well the stories of the ancient men and how they had destroyed old earth. How it was lost to us in the dark ages as planets and colonies were cut off from one another. I did not need to hear it again. “Anyways,” she shook her head, “if we can go deep enough, maybe we can figure out where old earth is.” Ah, finally it dawned on me—why I was always pushed to go deeper into the machine. I didn’t know what limited them from finding it themselves, but they must have a use for me or they would have left me a broken husk like so many others. Like Josiah. “We need you,” she said as she grabbed my hand. Her skin was warm and soft against mine. I felt a tingle of anticipation and a stirring like nothing I had ever known at her touch. I think I wanted to fight her, or touch her, or run from her, I cannot be sure. But this was bigger than her or me. We were dying. Eventually our life support would give out and the decrepit remains of our colony would disappear in the constantly shifting grey sands of our temporary home planet. I looked away from her sad, wonderful eyes. I took in the waving grass and bright sun. “OK,” I said. “Show me how.” 1

NON-FICTION

RAKED. BY SAMANTHA MILLER

2016 Top Pick

August 1999 Every morning my mommy wakes us up and it is still dark outside. My brother and I then get to sit on her and daddy’s bed and eat chocolate pop tarts, and watch blues clues before we have to get dressed. Sometimes Mommy lets me watch her do her makeup. She is very pretty. We then go to Melissa’s. She watches us before we got to pre-school. No other kids are ever there when we first get there, so we get to play with the dogs first. Last week Melissa let my brother and I help her feed the chickens and the geese, just like the big kids. I wish I were a big kid, they get to do special things like walk to the park by themselves. Today, Melissa said that there will be two new kids today; I hope they are nice. September 2009 Every morning I get up before the sunrise for school. I remember my first week of freshman year, I had a meltdown the first time I woke up and the moon was still out. My mother let me stay home from school that day. She said it was because I “needed a day off before I officially grew up.” My mom didn’t really know that I never sleep well. Today for the first time a boy asked me out on a date. Me. I was so excited. He held my hand in the movie. He just grabbed it without warning, and I’m not sure if I really wanted that to happen, but I thought to myself ‘this is just like the movies.’ He walked me to my front door, and asked me if I had ever been kissed. I said no, but that was a lie. September 1999 The geese here are meanest the animals, and last week one jumped on a boys back and wouldn’t stop biting his head. I laughed. The rooster is also mean. I picked up my favorite hen and he came and clawed at my leg. I cried. The big kids didn’t see, so no one laughed. The newest animals are the baby ducks. They live in a box in the garage because they have to stay under this special lamp to stay warm. They are really soft. Melissa let them all out today so the little kids and I are playing with them. The big kids are playing basketball in front of us, but they are usually in the basement. The new girl is over there; she’s a teenager like Melissa’s son. She only stays here because of her little brother. She comes up to the little kids and says something I don’t know, and all the big kids laugh.

The ducks start quaking. They are scared. I hold the littlest one closer as the new girl walks towards me. Smack. One less quack. November 2009 My mother is not a bad person she just doesn’t like to be disappointed, and loves tradition. I overslept and missed the bus today. I had to walk back home, up the stairs into my mother’s bedroom. She was finishing her makeup. I told her what happened. She gave me one of those looks the “I know you can do better than this.” After grunting and complaining about how I was making her late, and a rushed getting ready process, we made it into the car. She started going on and on about how I needed to grow up and get up on time. Red light. I look out the window. Don’t you ever listen to me? Did you? November 1999 The new girl told me that I was her friend. She asked me to go into the basement with the other big kids. She makes me walk around with her, and now I don’t have to be scared. I like being looked at all the time. I get to laugh at all the jokes even though I don’t know what they mean. I don’t have to ask Melissa to play a different game; I don’t have to take naps. I am an official big kid. They like to play air hockey in the basement, that’s the only thing I can’t do, because I’m too short to see the table. I do get to help build the fort everyday. The fort is always made in the same way: we put the

big black blanket over the air hockey table then connect it the couch. Under the air hockey table we all play Spoons. It’s a game where you try to match four cards and when you do you grab a spoon in the middle. I have to move really fast or the other kids will yell at me. I come home with scratches on my hands from fighting over the spoons, but if I loose I know that the other kids will make fun of me, or make me go back to being a little kid. M

November 2009 The teacher calls my name for attendance and I stutter my way through my name. I only feel comfortable in the back of classroom. I do not want to be looked at or noticed. Class would be better without people there. Teachers always call on the students that don’t raise their hand, it isn’t that I don’t know the answer; I just hate hearing the sound of my voice. I know that I will never be the girl that everyone looks at, but that’s okay, it feels good to blend in. December 1999 I feel like I will never understand the big kids. The new girl took me away from the others to tell me a secret. She said that she got “raked.” She told me a big man did it to her and that it was really painful. I wanted to ask her why someone would take a rake, like the one we used to pick up leaves with and use it to hurt someone, but I didn’t. She said she wasn’t wearing a shirt either. That doesn’t make any sense. I told her I was sorry, and she said it was okay, and that she needed me to keep it a secret. I wanted to tell my mom, but the new girl was my friend now, and I didn’t want her to be

mad at me. I got really good at keeping her secrets. December 2009 I was never an angry child, my mother always told me I rarely threw tantrums or caused problems. I have always been quiet. She said I was never needy, I wanted to be left alone a lot of the time, and when I had nightmares I dealt with them by myself. I know that, that is still true today. I keep having nightmares about Melissa’s. About being under the air hockey table. I don’t really understand why, but I feel scared. I want to talk to my mom but I know that if I want to grow up that I’ll need to be able to do things by myself. January 2000 I know that you’re not supposed to lie. I know that hitting my brother is wrong. I know that I have to eat all my vegetables to get dessert. I know that when Mommy is on the phone you are not allowed to speak. All of these are called sins. They are like a stain that will never go away, but this guy forgives you. Mommy says he is our Father. He loves you, and He protects you. After daycare today, Mommy was talking to Melissa and all of the big kids were daring me to kiss one of my best friends. Mommy ran over to stop it. I know now that girls are not supposed to kiss.

No. I could feel the tears start to well up. Those socks don’t match pay attention. I asked her if she remembered the baby duck. No. I asked her if Melissa said anything. No. I got angry, I was scared, no one had known. I asked if I could tell her something. Of course sweetie. I told her all I could remember. Sweetie, I don’t understand. Mom please try to listen, I told her what happened again. Honey, are you sure you aren’t just making this up? January 2000 We are in the basement; and we’re alone again. I’m scared when she turns off all the lights. I was a big girl I wasn’t supposed to be scared. For some reason I was. Her eyes are scary though, different than before, like the geese’s before they attacked that boy. Come into the fort now, it’ll be our little secret. 1

February 2010 We were in my parent’s bedroom, folding laundry. My brother left, so I decided to ask her about it. I kept shaking; I hoped that she of all people could help me. I needed help. I needed answers, even ten years later. I asked her if she remembered the girl. No. I told my mother her name, and asked her if she remembered now.

HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE HORROR BY ALYSSA HASCALL

he first horror film I ever watched was The Ring. I was seven years old. That night I ran up to my room, grabbed all my blankets and crafted a nest next to my parents’ bed where everything was safe and no monsters could get me. I slept through two weeks of nightmares on that hard floor before reluctantly moving back to my own bed where I spent my nights peeking out from under my sheets, expecting to see some terror in my closet. That was the first time I truly understood what it was like to fear the monsters under your bed or the boogeyman in your closet. From that day forward, I refused to go anywhere near things that would scare me. Horror movies, haunted houses, ghost stories… I didn’t want to have to be afraid of the shadows in my bedroom anymore. Yet somehow, despite all of that, I was drawn to that primal fear. I remember being young and watching Ghost Hunters with my friends. I loved it. Even though every Wednesday night I would end up curled up on the floor of my parents’ bedroom, replaying images of ghostly apparitions in my head over and over, I always found myself coming back. It was that addiction that comes with loving horror. The need to feel the fear creeping through your bones. It was something I didn’t even know I wanted. I don’t remember what the first real horror movie I intentionally watched was. Something that came out while I was in middle school. I did a lot of things back then even if they were frightening, for the sake of not being left out of the crowd. It was at a friend’s house, curled up under a blanket in the aftermath. I was afraid—so afraid—but I was also so thrilled. The adrenaline coursing through my veins, the rush of it all. That warm feeling you get when something jumps out at you and your heart races a thousand miles an hour lulled me to sleep that night. Like so many things in my life, it became an addiction. It was so laughable that I’d spent so many years of my life afraid to watch an entire genre of film. I began to actively seek out as many horror movies as I could find, consuming them, lusting after that thrill that came with being temporarily terrified. I watched the movies that scared you with cheap tricks. I watched the movies that scared you because they were genuinely frightening. I even watched the movies that were just plain bad. I spent countless nights browsing Netflix’s horror section, drinking it all in. I’ve numbed myself by now. Jump scares don’t give me the same heartpounding rush they once did. I’m not terrified by the creepy, stereotypical

terrors that plague the genre. I rarely find myself fighting with an uneasy feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach as I go off to bed, to the dark unknown. These days, I seek out a different kind of horror. The kind that sinks deep into my bones, the kind that is rich and full of darkness. The kind that made me stop calling them “scary movies,” as that was far too domestic and generic. I think I am incapable of being truly afraid of a movie anymore, so I long to feel uneasy, uncomfortable, thrown into a place with an evil that preys on my innermost thoughts. The kind of film that turns terror into beauty. I was once terrified of horror films. Now they are a love, a hobby, a lifestyle, and a passion. I watch them. I write them. I all but worship them. We are taught that a horror film is used to teach us what we should fear, and in turn, alleviate those fears. My fear is, that one day, I will not feel the same about horror as I do now. That I won’t be able to write horror films with the same passion that fills me today. If I’ve learned anything from those lessons, then I suppose the only way to soothe that fear is to keep moving forward, further into the darkness of my horror-marred heart. 1

A HOLY PLACE BY RYAN FLANNIGAN

here are certain activities that put far too much strain on the kneecaps—the most prevalent is praying. When I was young I had no idea of the detrimental side effects it had on me. My father, a staunch atheist, never touched the stuff. On the other side was my mother, a Catholic. As parents do, both tried to reinforce their belief (or lackthere-of ) in their children. For a time, I was one of the prayin’ folk. Then everything changed. One night I plopped down on my knees and asked for all the goodies I could. One thing topped the list: Heaven. From what I’d heard, it’s a pretty nice place. Me in Heaven… and my family too… “God, could I go to Heaven? I really wanna.” “God, could I bring a brother with me?” “Well… could I perhaps bring both brothers? You know… if it’s not too much trouble; just make sure to keep an eye on them.” “Oh! And don’t forget my mom. And my dad, he … oh.” That moment I realized that the heaven parade would be one short. Since then my knee health has improved dramatically. I didn’t notice any gaping soul-hole after becoming a little heathen. There were plenty of saviors to look up to: Poppy the field mouse, who braved Dimwood Forest in order to save her family from the tyranny of the great horned owl, Mr. Ocax; Matilda, a wily girl who happened to be a telepathic super-reader; and The Littles, a family as tall as a teacup, who still manage to be rather productive. In books, there was no want for worship. However, it wasn’t until later that I became a devout believer. It happened while in class, circled around with fellow students on plush beanbag chairs, our attention rapt as the teacher read Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets. After class I learned it was the second book in the series. Captivated, I acquired the first book and gobbled it up. Hooked, I read what had been written, and then went back and read them again. I continued this cycle until the last had been published. Kneel and stand. Stand and kneel. During this period of literary leanings I would seek solitude in my room, under the trees in parks and playgrounds. All of these became a sanctuary. But they were only a way to retreat to the real place of solace: the projector in my mind’s eye where the exploits of Harry and his friends would play in full relief. That was my place of worship, a cathedral where I could pay homage to these heroes. They became tangible forms of the ideals of courage, loyalty, intelligence and love. Each book, page, paragraph became a portal

to a lovely place of possibility that both author and I collaborated in forging. Divinity. I found God in the space between first word and final punctuation. I wanted to join in on the fun. I wanted to be a writer. However, my apathy and laziness pushed this into the background. I wasn’t a good student. In high school I daydreamed. After I graduated, I drank. I sipped shooters, shot fireball and belched bourbon, sneaking pints of vodka in my belt line and through water bottles into clubs and bars, twisting life into a slideshow of fuzzy screen shots of anecdotal misery. I read little and wrote nothing. And unlike when I had stopped praying, this time there was a hole in me. A vast sucking black that was never full. This didn’t last forever, because paradise is a place that once visited, calls for a return. I got back to reading, and started writing, and eventually stopped the drinking, carousing, and a fair amount of the other things that fall under the category of “this is really bad for you; you should stop.” The reading was wonderful. Having branched out from my earlier preferences I found new worlds and greater complexity. Steinbeck enthralled me; Rand challenged me; Twain told of cannibals and Heinlein of Martian cults, then Millman, Dickenson, Lewis and Tolkien… then Rowling and Rowling and Rowling again… then Whitman and Jordan and Baldwin; and with each subsequent writer I found something new for them to tell me, and as for the ones I have yet to read they whisper the promise of endless discovery. In their worlds there wasn’t just one answer to the big questions but thousands of them. Everything was placed into a larger context, not an ultimate truth, but an ongoing conversation. How wonderful.

Writing proved to be a challenge. Having not paid attention to grammar, nor made any previous efforts to write, I felt lost and inadequate. I didn’t stop trying. The first attempts were plebian and pathetic, but I kept at it. I had to, because with each word, sentence and paragraph, I found that the God of Imagination was not something that came only from outside sources; it was there, in my center, waiting for an outstretched hand. As I began to stretch myself as a writer, I naturally started to look for advice on writing. There was one thing that I found in almost every place I looked: qualifiers. It turns out that there’s a boatload of opinions on the proper way of becoming a writer. Here are a few. You must: read 70 books a year; write 1500 words a day; know from an early age, preferably five or six, that your life is to be devoted to writing; you should be deranged, mildly or severely, with chemical or sexual or narcissistic dependency; find a genre to write in and stick with it; wake up writing, go to sleep writing, and while sleeping, you should probably get at least a few pages done. All of this was underlining the big theme: get published. If you weren’t published, you weren’t a writer. And in the pursuit of this literary nirvana, each person had his or her own bit of very crucial advice, all given under the title of suggestion but with the force of sermon. It got to a point where I half expected that in order to be classified as a writer I would have to slit a goat’s throat on a papier-mâché shrine made from the pages of Pulitzer Prize winning novels. It gave me a familiar feeling. The same hopeless despair that I had as a child when I realized that not everyone could go to heaven. For the most part, I found a rather simple

solution to other’s opinions: ignore them. In order to do this I had to keep to my own truth. For me, writing isn’t a means or ends; it’s a continuum stretching into the vastness of human and universal divinity. It’s a way for me to further discover the God of Imagination. Therefore, it doesn’t have to be anything. It can be poorly written, well written, with or without a technical grace; it can be done as often or seldom as one wishes, and most importantly, anyone can do it. Books are the place where one goes to pay homage to whimsy. To sail in ships of gold. To fly through ribbons of silver light. To illuminate your passage like a hallway of ghostly fireflies. Everyone should write; that they may discover their own Cathedral of the Mind. And despite what some snooty people may say, there is no entrance fee. You need not write a certain word count each day, or read Crime and Punishment on your way out of the womb, and you most certainly can ignore all qualifiers given. Read. Write. Forget about prestige and publication. Then, discover that there exists a Heaven with no Pearly Gate. 1

THE DRESS BY COLETTE MARCHESANI

he first time I saw my future school was on visitor’s day, August 1972. I would be entering primary one in the autumn as a five-yearold joining my cousin Jacqueline who was already well ensconced as a mature ten-year-old entering primary five. I’d like to remember that August day as being sunny and fresh, but knowing Glasgow as I do, the reality was probably dreich (drizzly and depressing) and uncomfortably clammy. I walked between my parents from the bus stop up the mammoth hill which led to the school’s private road, past looming Victorian structures well beyond their glory days and now typically subdivided into grim little bedsits. The houses on the school’s circle however were intact free-standing Georgians, impossibly grand and intimidating, contrasting vividly with nearby streets where women still rested wobbly bingo arms on tenement “windie” sills and screeched gossip and laughter back and forth. No curtains twitched on Craigpark Circle, where the residents were too dignified to proffer more than a curt nod should they be spotted tending their front gardens. It was an idyllic, verdant little enclave: oaks, elms and rowan trees were abundant and seemed to absorb the grime and grind from nearby factories in a city that was still very much a product of the industrial age: soot-stained, noisy, sometimes violent and often malodorous. The school comprised of two buildings, the two story post-war edifice which housed primaries one through five, and the old converted manse next door which contained primaries six and seven, the nun’s quarters, kitchen and dining room, and sundry administrative offices. The parish chapel was a short walk away for pupils through a muddy, bramble-thick shortcut (of which I’m sure each generation had claimed discovery) and was officially off-limits. The official path added a costly three minutes for some little miscreant running late for mass. The interior of the “new school” on my first day was frenzied with drama, fear, and excitement. I didn’t know what mesmerized me more, the familiar life-sized statue of The Holy Virgin Mary Mother of God, gazing benevolently over her curled toes on the plinth, or the astonishing blue of the linoleum floor on which I stood. It was cobalt on P.C.P. and your feet glommed to it like crayon on construction paper. I still don’t know how they managed to make it gleam so on that first day, but I later discovered that runners were laid down after the parents had left and all students had to

change from outdoor shoes to thick rubber soled sannies when inside the building. I wore the summer uniform which consisted of: a white poplin dress with either blue or pink pinstripes, a straw Panama hat with a sky blue ribbon, and either navy or brown Jesus sandals (natch). The winter uniform was infinitely more weather appropriate, no nonsense Clarks brown leather shoes, a chocolate brown bowler hat, a brown pinafore, and a thick, brown felt blazer all covered by a beige, poplin overcoat. We were very brown. Our leather satchels were the size of bay windows, and also brown. The odor of the school’s classrooms was not particularly unpleasant: layers of furniture polish, disinfectant, and a faint hint of incense. Later on that first day however, ammonia was added to the mix as one after another the newbie five-yearolds piddled their pants. Like communist domino theory, one fell, the others soon followed. The two-tiered playground for the infant class comprised of gravel, grass, and treacherous steps. Thankfully we were monitored by novice sisters who ensured our band–box uniforms were not sullied by riotous play. Sister Mary Rose was one of those poor white-veiled nuns, bless ‘er. Lunch was served in the old manse, to which we all marched along an old backyard path, one hand clutching the student in front in case we got lost in the wilderness. The magnificent dining room, with mahogany paneling and over-starched tablecloths introduced us to a formal atmosphere that most of us had never experienced. Following Grace, we ate tomato soup with fragrant bread and orange juice, all served by the kindly women of the Church. The majority of us were unfamiliar with such luxury, a

gift from our parents to provide us with a better start in life than their own. I relished every minute of this magical new environment: the gentle discipline of the lay teachers, the whispery fabric of the nuns’ habits, all the new friends to be made. In addition to our elementary education, we were instructed in religious doctrine in preparation for the sacrament of First Holy Confession rapidly followed by First Holy Communion when we were seven. I had anticipated my First Holy Communion for as long as I could remember. It was particularly important for us girls as we got to be little brides for the day (the boys got to wear a blue sash over their everyday school uniform, poor boys). The perfect dress overshadowed any theological or spiritual introspection as we twittered like blue jays in discussions surrounding the dress. The First Holy Confession was a different bag of buns altogether. There was simply nothing remotely enticing about confessing; frankly, I’d rather have hulahooped with the crown of thorns than reveal my discrepancies to the old Irish git of a holy man seated behind a grille in the claustrophobic confessional. “Bless me father for I have sinned, this is my first confession,” I intoned when my hour of despair arrived. “Go ahead my child,” came the phlegmy reply. “I stole two strawberries from a basket in the fruit shop when I was four, and I have, occasionally, dishonored my parents.” Another phlegmy expulsion from beyond the grille followed this shocking litany of heinous crimes. After a significant pause, the priest dispensed my penance: Five million Our Fathers, three Hail Mary’s (‘cos she’s not as important as God), a couple of Acts of Contrition, and the promise to

make a substantial contribution to the poverty-stricken Vatican Bank. The devil raised his ratty head inside my seven-year-old mind as I murmured to myself, “Sure, I’ll be a bride of Christ,” just so I can wear the dress. The Eighteenth of May dawned bright and pregnant with simmering drama. My mother wore an outfit of navy and emerald, my father wore a scowl. We had been forbidden by the Mother Superior to carry anything in our hands with the exception of our rosary beads and my dad had been uncharacteristically miffed when he discovered that I couldn’t hold his dead mother’s crucifix between my prayer-clenched palms. Thank God the nuns were accustomed to overzealous parents. We could have resembled a Mardi Gras troupe trundling down the aisle festooned with all sorts of relics (thankfully we were too young to have read Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, else there may have been an unfortunate incident involving Jesus’ foreskin). My mother dressed me with the fastidiousness of a lady-in-waiting. She had decided on an up do hairstyle for my big day which doesn’t sound too excruciating for someone with normal hair. I, however, sported wisps of maddeningly fine threads which my mother proceeded to glue and braid… glue and braid ad infinitum. I still bear patches of scalp like an alopecia victim. In desperation, she stuck everything together with a can of Wella hairspray, thousands of Kirby grips, and a number of strategically placed ribbons. It was not a good hair day, especially when we spotted my classmate Jacqueline McDade maniacally tossing nineteenth century ringlets. Nothing was as disconcerting as my first taste of the Holy Eucharist. It was shockingly bland and sticky. I’d expected something like buttery Wonderbread. The Body of Christ (unlevened bread cut into round wafers) was the first of many disappointments; perhaps it lost its flavor during transubstantiation? If I’d been allowed to wash down this tasteless disc of cardboard with the celebrated Blood of Christ it might have been more palatable. As it stood, the altar wine had probably already been quaffed by the holier-than-thou altar boys and the ruddy-faced, purple-nosed priest. I attempted to re-visit the site many years after the school closed down through lack of funds. It was impossible; the elms were gone due to Dutch elm disease, the manse had been refurbished back into a single family home, and the “new school” was now a lumber yard. I’m sure I caught a glimpse of a little girl with scabby knees racing to mass, but it was probably just wistful thinking. 1

THERE IS MORE THAN ONE WAY TO LOSE THESE WALKING BLUES BY JOHN WILHELM

“She said ‘Honey, take me dancing!’/But they ended up sleeping in a doorway.” -Paul Simon, “Diamonds on the Souls of Her Shoes”

understand gibberish, and so do you. I invite you to listen to Paul Simon’s song, “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” if you are not already familiar with it. After you have listened to it, ask yourself, can you decipher what he means when he says, “ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo?” I believe that I can. Further, it is a much easier task than deciphering the Zulu language lyrics at the beginning of the song, which prove surprisingly difficult to translate. Translating “ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo.” is effortless. The first time I heard the song was at a place in Deer Creek Canyon that my friends and I called the Mountain Spot. We spent many afternoons up there drinking beer and wine that we had liberated from local middle class people who were unfortunate enough to forget to close their garage doors on Friday or Saturday night, leaving themselves vulnerable to our favorite pastime, which we called “garage-hopping.” The Mountain Spot was basically just a little ten foot by ten foot landing perched on the edge of what I now estimate is a seventy-five foot, straight down drop, onto Deer Creek Canyon Road. I know it sounds dangerous, but we went there daily for months, and only one injury was ever sustained. It was when a forty-ounce bottle of Budweiser broke and made a deep incision in the calf of my childhood friend. It looked like it needed stitches, but we were not about to go to the hospital in our condition. My childhood friend would have to settle for a butterfly

Band-Aid, which we also stole because we spent all of our money on the provisions (Mostly weed. We would have stolen that too, but if suburban families were keeping it in their garages back then, they were hiding it well). Perhaps miraculously, no one ever got twisted enough to fall off the cliff. On one of these afternoons my friend, The Driver, his older brother, The Passenger, and I were up at the Mountain Spot, imbibing, when The Passenger burst into an A Capella rendition of “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.” I thought nothing of it, but this was the first time I had ever heard the song. The second time, I ever heard it was less than an hour later when we were winding down the canyon road, and watching the sun sink behind the mountain tops and surrounding hills, the peaks glazed with alpenglow like the coral frosting that cap Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. Suddenly over the radio came the sounds “awa awa,” followed by the Zulu lyrics. As soon as they heard these sounds the Driver and Passenger both yawped. They felt that the Passenger singing the song atop the cliff had somehow conjured the song on the radio. And with the alcohol mixing with my blood and the sun setting, I was ready to believe it as well. They both hollered every English word of the song with an enthusiasm that only half-crocked high-school kids, with youth and potential to burn, can truly summon. When the song had concluded, I blurted, “I knew exactly what he was talking about.” I did not have to say more. They knew which part of the song I was referencing. As evidenced by The Passenger, turning around in his seat, shaking his head and laughing quietly, slightly winded from just having belted the entire song, and then facing back towards the serpentine road. If you

did not listen to the song at the beginning of the essay, that’s okay, but you should. The full line that the Driver and the Passenger so easily perceived that I was broaching is the following: “And I could say ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo/ As if everybody knows what I’m talking about/ As if everybody here would know exactly what I was talking about/ Talking about diamonds on the soles of her shoes.” Simon doesn’t think this is possible as is apparent by his conditional language. For Simon, it is a hypothetical world where decoding these sounds is possible. I am less skeptical than Simon on this point. As I have said, I think that everybody does know what he is talking about. When I said that I knew exactly what he was talking about that day over ten years ago, it came as no shock to my friends who knew this song well. The way the Passenger smiled and shook his head at me, showed that he had had the same thought before. In that moment he looked like some auger or oracle or Sangoma who was watching a naïve representative of the hoi polloi discover some cosmic and ancient secret of the universe. He seemed to get to relive, in a diminished way, the moment he had this realization, vicariously through me, like a parent when their child experiences a new kind of beauty. So, you may be wondering, what does “ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo” mean then? If you know exactly what this string of notes means, then tell us. This is why I asked you readers to listen to the song. The oohs, make the listener feel something. They provide an emotional experience. Because experiences and feelings are notoriously difficult to capture with language, we will have to rely on the rest of the lyrics for

some context. And at the risk of cheapening the cherished feeling that I felt that day and continue to feel every time I hear this song, I will now try to translate, as promised, what Simon means. There are two characters in the song, a rich girl and a poor boy. For the rich girl, “ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo” means, I don’t care about my money. My material possessions do not satisfy me emotionally. Give me passion, love, hope, give me something to care about, give me something to risk and something even better to risk it for. Maybe I am putting some words in her mouth and if that is your objection that is fair. But, if I am right, and the rich girl is looking for some passion, and emotional experience, and if I am right that language is often inadequate to describe feelings like the one that I have tried to describe above (and if it sounds flat and empty and juvenile to your ear, that is okay. That is part of what I am getting at) then, doesn’t “ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo” get closer to what is going on in this character’s psyche? The poor boy is no different. For him, “ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo” is a whimper. It says, I don’t have any of the things that society seems to value so much, but I am still worth plenty. I am passionate and capable of having all of the human experiences anybody else has, no matter how rich. I wish I could be with that pretty girl; it is so interesting that she has diamonds on the soles of her shoes. She probably wouldn’t want me because I am poor, but I have to try anyway. I have nothing to lose. But don’t we get that when we hear the song? Without even thinking? Doesn’t the fact that Simon included the lines “And I could say ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo/

As if everybody knows what I’m talking about/ As if everybody here would know exactly what I was talking about,” itself make my point? Isn’t that so much better than how I was able to describe it? Upon first listen, it can seem strange to include a line about a hypothetical situation or world where people would understand this specific string of sonic vibrations to have an exact meaning. It seems that Simon is sympathetic to the problem of converting emotions into language, but in broaching the subject, either knowingly or unknowingly (I tend to think he knew, and I think that including a few lines in Zulu, which in 1986 would have been even harder for an English speaker to translate, and would have meant, at a minimum a trip to the library, assuming that you were able to get a Zulu to English dictionary at your local branch) he does exactly what he seemed skeptical about. The Zulu lyrics that begin “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” loosely translate to the following: “It's not usual but in our days we see those things happen. They are women, they can take care of themselves." Once I found that out, I realized that I liked it better when I didn’t know the English translation. The possibilities of what it could mean were endless, and the mood that it invoked felt more like truth than the cold English words across the page. I said earlier that I understand gibberish. You might argue that “ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo” is not even gibberish. It is just sounds. A specific melodic pattern of oohs. I do not wish to contest this point. Although really, what’s the difference? In my mind the only thing standing between Simon’s ooh ooh … being

a word or a sentence, is enough people getting together and agreeing upon a specific meaning, which really could be anything. It could mean, “we are having cinnamon rolls for breakfast.” Even then, the meaning of it could change eventually, as many words and some phrases do. “We are having cinnamon rolls for breakfast,” could become a euphemism for “we are going to watch the sunset in the canyon.” I do not wish to discuss any of this further here, and if you object to my argument thus far I will gladly grant that ooh does not even count as gibberish. But that is part of my point as well, call it whatever you want, it doesn’t matter. Maybe you prefer babble, drivel, balderdash, gobbledygook, nonsense, jibber jabber, or scat. Say any old word, it’s poetry to me. M

It’s interesting to think of what having diamonds on the soles of your shoes would mean. Maybe this woman has so much money that she can just afford to trash them, and she does so just because she can, the way a rock star might throw a TV off of a hotel room balcony. (Fun exercise: picture 1968 Simon and Garfunkel trashing a Midtown hotel room in their turtlenecks.) I don’t think that is what she is doing though. She is taking something, which is valuable to most people, and putting it on the bottom of her shoes, because she just doesn’t value it the way many people do. I know exactly what that feels like, and no I am not now, never have been, nor am ever likely to be rich. I know what that feels like, because during the time that I first heard Simon’s song, I had something even better than money: potential.

Money is good because it affords you buying power, or choice. Potential gives you many more choices. If you have potential, you can choose to go to school for finance or business or something and get really rich. Or you can choose to be a missionary or a relief worker and have a rich and rewarding life. What did I do with my precious potential in the early 2000’s? The same thing that the rich girl did with her diamonds. I walked all over it. I wasn’t exactly doing my homework at the Mountain Spot five days a week after school. No, I was getting wasted with my buddies. Not because of some sort of label that it might be tempting to tag me with either, (Peer pressure, no adult-supervision, ADHD, oh my!) No, it was because I did not value that potential. I was like the girl in the song. I did not care about the future. I wanted to feel something, to have an emotional experience in that moment. In short, to have fun, and it was worth it. It was worth it because I was able to understand the experiences I had on that cliff, and with those friends effortlessly (which I refuse to try to explain because as we have seen, it is belittling to the experience and ultimately not very informative). I did not have to work at it like I would have, had I been doing my homework up there, like trying to translate Zulu. When scientists do their studies to see what actually makes people happy, it is never all that surprising when they find it isn’t money. The Zulus have known this for centuries. Ask any Sangoma. Ubuntu is like the bind that connects us all, even poor boys and rich girls. It is humanity, respect, and generosity towards everyone. (I’m thinking garage-hopping might be a violation). Ubuntu is what the Zulus value most. Ubuntu was what the poor boy and the rich girl had for each other. Ubuntu is what my friends and I were searching for. What we felt, but could not articulate was lacking. Ubuntu is the precise definition of “ooh ooh ooh ohh ooh ooh ooh oohwooooh oohwoo,” and everybody knows it. 1

WINTER BY LAURA BAREIS

hough my clothes are already damp and my exposed skin is starting to sting, I lay in the snow to cool myself off. The bed that I left inside my house is even colder than this, but it is harder, too, and inside it I am frozen solid. The fossil of my familiar shape never leaves the safety of my covers anymore; not for the light of day anyway, not for the morning. But I can breathe out here in the woods, now that everything is turning to shadow and there is no risk of anyone seeing me cry. With the sun fading swiftly it is my mission to keep from spinning out of control, as the fish-eye sky begins to cave in on me and the silhouetted branches fold together. In time the snowflakes break the madness for me, holding me down steady as they pile on my pale face. Their abrupt descents from the darkness cause me to close my eyes and their cold, deliberate landings keep me from drifting away. I feel like I’m barely holding on to my sanity but here it is; in my grasp, just as if it never left. Inconspicuous. For a time, I can be still. My restless body tenses in anticipation but I don’t stir. It is my wandering mind that breaks the boundaries of this tired, quiet town, where the neighborhood is already sleeping and the stars are still too soft to see. Above me the snowflakes twinkle anyway, mixing with the deep indigo of the ever-darkening sky, the blue eyes of crisp November. Winter looks down at me and I can’t help it; I am thinking about my love again. I see her light, frosty eyes even when mine are closed, and trying to escape them out here was a mistake that I almost anticipated making. She is above me and I am trapped beneath her; trapped beneath her gaze and yet I feel so free. M

What is left of my mind after a day of seclusion collects like ice crystals in this frigid atmosphere, the same shallow blue of those perfect irises. It buds up out of nowhere, forming intricate shapes out of near nothingness. As if casually returning from drifts of memories that I have suppressed, familiar images spread out in all directions, covering the uneven ground of my past and concealing the chaos I leave in my wake. Everything is lost beneath

them; all of my rationality, all of my reason. These thoughts drift into my mind one by one, each one a symmetrical masterpiece all different from the rest. Yet they are the same in composition; Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. She’s on her way home from Maryland, where she was learning how to be a soldier. I was the one left behind, and now all of my anxiety has reached a paramount, and I can hardly stand it. I don’t think I’m ready for her, in fact, a small part of me almost wishes I had more time. Fortunately, that part is dwarfed by my all-consuming anticipation to be with her again. Though she may not be the same person I said goodbye to in the spring, I can’t wait to see her. I can’t wait to hold her. I’m not the only one who’s ready to keep her to myself when she comes home, I’ll have to negotiate for time with her. Her parents have missed their only daughter, too, and their best friend. I hope that they catch up all at once so that Jenny and I can have the time we need to pick up where we left off. Our entire relationship lies in the past, and it feels risky to jump into the future of it before we even acknowledge what we’ve lost. Everything is so fragile, and I don’t want to admit that I am at the point of breaking. But I am; anyone could see it. When hiding from the heaviness of your own home means distancing yourself not only from its inhabitants but its warmth, breaking is not the last resort. I broke long before I decided to lay down in the snow; it’s what drove me out here. This is my process of falling apart.

It feels particularly cold for the middle of November though, and sometimes I wish I were anywhere but here. There is heat so close to me, in the comfort of my dimly lit bedroom by the edge of the forest, or the warm body of my red-haired dog on the back porch, as she melts away a patch of snow in the shape of her. She is watching me intently, her head gently tilted to the side in an expression of intrigue. “Do I look funny, Mabel?” I say, my voice cracking as I try not to shiver. M

She jumps at the sound of her name, and comes to the fence to get a closer look at me. It’s after dark, and she wants to play. If there is any use for snowfall this early in the season, besides the dramatic impact it has on my creative process, it’s for Mabel, who’s soul is two shades whiter. She is a snow dog after all, pure and simple. Her breath puffs through the chain link fence, and after a few whines she lays down again, used to her proposals of late night games of fetch being rejected. Her auburn coat was made for the frost, and it creates white flecks on her curly fur for mere seconds, before they melt into water droplets that only make her hair curl faster. God, did I miss her too; every inch of her soft, warm body. For over two years I have clung to it at times like this, when she is the only witness to my loneliness; at least until she wiggles away from my grasp. Of all the

constants in my life she has been the most reliable, albeit the most predictable. But that’s because she is a dog; which is, in my opinion, the best thing for anyone to be. Right now it’s a different kind of warmth that I crave, and it is that which I am farthest away from. The heat of the tropics lies fresh in my mind, and sometimes I feel like I left the other half of myself back in Florida. The strong half, the half that could take on the world. I’m trying to imagine that the sharp wind on my face is actually the salty ocean breeze, softened by the humidity of the deep South. I see myself moving through space, staying in new places every night, and the only part of my being that feels trapped is my brain; trapped in an eternal state of elation. But eternity never lasts forever in my life. It turns out the happiness that I was so addicted to was short-lived, and South Dakota was just waiting to envelop me in its cold embrace. But the reality of my transition back home was disguised by the comfort of many warmer embraces, like my mother’s and my father’s. They were so proud of me when I made it to the coast. I wonder what they would think if they saw me now. Everything has changed. Whatever evidence the Southeastern sun left on my skin is already beginning to fade with my stark tan lines, and I feel tired and weak again. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I might ride my bike through the snow just to get that familiar feeling of motion back. But where would I go, 10 miles up the road? The kind of relief I’m seeking takes 3,000 miles’ worth of pedaling to accomplish, and even then the feeling doesn’t last. I cycled from one ocean to the other and it

feels like all I got was this huge, all-consuming let down. Everything else is exactly the same. My parents still don’t know about Jenny and I either. I haven’t gotten the courage to tell them yet; even though I came out to her parents over the summer. As empowering as it was to prove to myself that I was capable of riding my bike so far, I guess I expected to gain more from it than just that, like confidence or something. Unfortunately, that’s all riding across the country gets you; the knowledge that you are capable of riding across the country. Besides the opportunity to provide exciting dinner conversation during the Thanksgiving feast, doing something like what I did doesn’t get you very far in life. I don’t know why I thought riding my bike would somehow make me less susceptible to denial of my relationship, but who was I kidding? The two are not related. Riding your bike is recreational any way you look at it, and who can relate to someone who devotes two months of their life to recreation? Nobody even has the means to try. People just seem to leave me alone, and as a result of that, I am lonely. In truth, I suppose saying I wanted to gain confidence is a grave understatement. What I was really after was enlightenment, and I fought until the point that I thought I had found it. I considered myself an authentic knower of the meaning of life, back when things were simple and all I had to do every day was ride my bike and consume enough calories to make up for it. But now I have to be a normal person again, whatever that means, and it is one of the hardest things I have ever done. Everything around me here acts

like a mirror, reflecting my image back at me as if to say “See? You’re just a girl.” Don’t I know it, too. I am just a girl; it’s the broadest descriptor of who I am. Girl first, and human second. What if someone saw me out here, just a girl lying in her backyard at night? How dramatic would they think I am? I bet they’d think I’m crazy. I bet they’d think I’ve lost control. The reality is that I can feel my depression creeping up on me, pulling at the edges of me. M

I can feel it growing and growing in my chest, widening a gaping hole that will be irreparable when it all explodes. Maybe I am a little bit dramatic and a little bit crazy, who could say? All I know is that the sun is completely gone now, and the moon is reflecting off the snow enough for me to see deep into the woods. I’m just waiting for something to scare me back inside; a twig to snap or a pinecone to fall. I’m just waiting for some ghostly apparition to make its way around my motionless body. Instead all I see is the serenity of my forest under the gentleness of the emerging moon, and I am not afraid. I don’t think I’ve lost control yet. Maybe it’s because my body is encased in the snow around me, and the hairs on the back of my neck couldn’t stand up if they wanted too. In a sense I feel like I can’t stand up either, as if retreating back into my waiting bed would be some kind of betrayal to this fleeting moment. This is where I get it together; this is where I make my next move. Inside the house my family is sleeping, undisturbed by the noise I made as I pried open the nearly frozen screen door. Another dog, Pinecone, sleeps by that same door, afraid to get his paws wet by the snow. They aren’t going to find me; nobody is going to see me like this, and that is a relief. By morning the snow will have covered the tracks I made and it will be as if nothing happened; I might have been asleep the whole time. I might have been asleep the whole time, who could say. M

I sit up abruptly, with the discomfort of my bare skin against the ground suddenly becoming too much to bear. Retreating to the fetal position puts an instant lump in my throat, as if the muscle memory of putting my head between my knees induces pain. God I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know why my sadness works this way; itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inevitable. There is something wrong with me, I know it. I can feel it. Mabel has gone inside now; it seems to be getting colder out here. This is the safest place for me to fall apart, in my own back yard, where nobody can get hurt. I lay back down again, convinced that this is all just a dream. Convinced that I am in some sort of winter wonderland. Surely enough, the snowflakes continue to fall softly upon me, and I lie undisturbed. Until, like all else that gently smothers me, they surround me with euphoria, lulling me to sleep. 1

COMMUNICATION

DESIGN

2016 Top Pick

EDWARD PHILLIPS HILL, Vinyl, digital art

ARTIST STATEMENT: I designed this poster to be screen printed and have since made a short run of it as such. I decided to submit the digital design, as it is more true to my initial design. The concept is simple: to make a statement about the grammatically correct wording for the plural of vinyl. It is also a comment on the present dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s society and their inability to fully embrace and research the correct grammar. But really, this poster is just meant to be a simple and straightforward design to convey the beauty of vinyl.

THE SINGULAR OF VINYL IS VINYL

THE PLURAL OF VINYL IS VINYL

DAISY CORSO, LASCA â&#x20AC;&#x201D; A Collection of Poems, silkscreened fabric and hand-sewn book cover

DAISY CORSO, Twenty-five Typographic Rules, print

YVETTE SERRANO, Inner-City Youth, digital poster

â&#x20AC;&#x153; I t h i n k w e a re a l w a y s s ea rc h i n g f o r s o m e t h i n g h i d d e n o r m e re l y potential or hypothetical, following i t s t ra c e s w h e n e v e r t h e y a p p ea r o n t h e s u r f a c e . Th e w o rd c o n n e c t s t h e v i s i b l e t ra c e w i t h t h e i n v i s i b l e t h i n g , the absent thing, the thing that is d e s i re d o r f ea re d â&#x20AC;?. - I t a l o Ca l v i n o

ROSIE OPP, Self-Portrait, mixed media: photos, drawing, digital

KENZIE SITTERUD, The Funeral, vector print

CAITLIN McGRAW, Life is Love, digital art

ANDREW FRENCH, LGBTQ Student Resource Center Logo Redesign, identity design, vector illustration

DRAMA

STAINED BY DANIELLE HICKS

TIME: The Present SETTING: A poorly lit conference room in Denver, Colorado CHARACTERS: (2f/2n) WHITE ROSE, f, 21 — a young woman who just lost her father BLACK ROSE, f, 21 — WHITE ROSES sister GUARD, n, 30 — a hired guard, no speaking lines GUARD, n, 28 — a hired guard, no speaking lines White Rose and Black Rose sit in a conference room. White, a young woman of 24, wears a black shirt and skirt with a single white rose in her hair. Black, a young woman of the same age, is her opposite, a white skirt and shirt with a black rose in her hair. WHITE ROSE: I have something that I need to tell you, Black. Something important. BLACK ROSE: I’m listening. WHITE ROSE: Dad’s death wasn’t an accident. He was killed. BLACK ROSE: How do you know that? WHITE ROSE: Because it was me. I was the one that killed him. BLACK ROSE: What? No. No, no, no, no. I think I misheard you. Did you just say that you killed dad? You didn’t right? I’m just hearing things. WHITE ROSE (shakes head): No, you heard me. I killed dad. I had to. He wasn’t listening to me. He wouldn’t listen to me. BLACK ROSE: What does that mean? What wouldn’t he listen to? White, what aren’t you telling me? WHITE ROSE: I wanted to change the Society of Roses. I wanted us to have a new goal. A better goal. Something worth doing. BLACK ROSE: What do you mean? Saving people is something worth doing. That’s what dad taught us. WHITE ROSE: I mean that the Society needs to grow up. Helping people is a fantasy. World peace is a fantasy. It’s time for us to develop our thorns and make the world better by force. Nothing will change if we don’t make it change. BLACK ROSE: Dad didn’t think it was a fantasy. Or if he did he was making it a reality. Why do you want all of his work to go to waste? What would be the use of that?

100

WHITE ROSE: It wouldn’t be wasted. It would be solidified in the new rule of the Society of Roses. We would control the world. We would make it peaceful. BLACK ROSE: White, calm down. I think you’re overreacting. Let me just call your doctor and we can get you the help you need.(reaches for cell phone) WHITE ROSE: Don’t you dare touch your phone! I don’t need a doctor. I’m feeling fine. Dad didn’t understand my vision. But you do, you’re my sister. You understand me better than anyone else. BLACK ROSE: (puts hands on table) Of course I understand you. I just don’t want you to freak out. We can work this out together. You just need to let me call the police so that you can explain what you did. You need to tell them, you need to confess. That is the only way to make things better. WHITE ROSE: No. (Hysterical) Why aren’t you listening? Things are better now that he isn’t lording over us. We can make the society into anything that we want it to be. We can do it together. You and I are the perfect team for the job, Black. BLACK ROSE: We are a good team, White. But why did you have to kill dad? Was that necessary? Please just let me get you some help. I just want you to be okay. WHITE ROSE: I don’t need help. I have a vision and I am going to make it come true. I would never hurt you, Black. You know that right? Dad was in my way, I didn’t have any choice, but you are my sister. You would never try to get in the way of progress. BLACK ROSE: No I wouldn’t, White. Just calm

down a little bit. Take this one step at a time. WHITE ROSE: Are you saying you don’t want to help me? Are you trying to get in the way of my vision for the Society of Roses? BLACK ROSE: Of course not, but the time isn’t right. We just need to calm down a little bit. We need to take some time to talk through what has happened. Then after that we can discuss growing the Roses to something bigger. But right now is too soon. Do you understand? WHITE ROSE: I understand that you are hesitant. You think I’m incapable of making my own decisions. I’m not though. I’m thinking clearly, clearer than I have before, and I know that growing is the right way to go for us. BLACK ROSE: How do you suggest we do that? WHITE ROSE: Are you going to help? Are you going to be my right hand? BLACK ROSE: Yes, of course I am. WHITE ROSE: Well, Dad had already thought about growing the Society of Roses. He had members lined up for us to interview. I, however, want to make sure that you understand that his vision is not my vision. What he wanted is not what I want this Society to be. I am going to make us better than he could have ever dreamed. BLACK ROSE: How do you plan to do that? WHITE ROSE: By interviewing our first new member. Today. I invited him here so that we could talk. He knows about the Society of Roses and our new mission statement. He is going to help us find more. BLACK ROSE: You set up an interview for today? Why? WHITE ROSE: Because the world isn’t going to wait for us. It isn’t going to wait until we decide

101

to put all of this behind us. You think I’m crazy because I killed Dad, but I’m not. BLACK ROSE: Okay, but why today? Is it really necessary that we talk to him today? WHITE ROSE: Yes. I can’t reschedule now. He might not want to come back if we cancel on him. He’s supposed to be a pretty nice guy, very smart and welcoming. BLACK ROSE: What does that have to do with anything? WHITE ROSE: He would be our welcome wagon of sorts. He would bring others into the fold, after we approved them of course. We would be the invisible rulers behind the kingdom. BLACK ROSE: I thought we were going to still help people. Why do you want to rule over them? WHITE ROSE: Does it matter why? Do I need to justify myself to you and everyone as to why we should take over the world? It is easier. We could help anyone we wanted, because they are under our control. People would live better lives under us. They would be happier under us. BLACK ROSE: Why would you think that I would be okay with that? White, sister, please. Just come with me, we can go to the hospital and tell them what you’ve done and get you the help you need. I have sat through this charade long enough, I’m not going to play your game any longer. WHITE ROSE: You. Won’t. Play. My. Game? Do you think this is just a game? This is the future of the world, not some stupid child’s play of “save starving children in Africa for one dollar a day”. This is work. Will you or won’t you work with me? BLACK ROSE: I’m not going to help you take

102

over the world. WHITE ROSE: So that’s a “no” then? You really won’t help your own sister get what she clearly deserves? How about that time when I helped you get an “A” on your physics exam? I did so much for you, little sister, so much and you won’t help me with this one little thing? BLACK ROSE: First of all, this isn’t little. Taking over the world is far from little. You want the world to bow to you and that isn’t something I want. Second, you didn’t have to do what you did so that I would pass that class. I was content with taking it again. And third, I’m younger by two minutes. WHITE ROSE: Are you saying you are going to leave? (BLACK ROSE NODS) WHITE ROSE: If you walk out now then you will never be able to return to the Roses. Black Rose will cease to be seen as my opposite and will be seen as my enemy. If you leave, your color will not be passed on, it will be used as a tool of exile. One final chance, Black. Don’t leave me, don’t leave the Roses. We can’t grow without your help. You and I both know just how hard it was to get this far. Stay with me. BLACK ROSE: No. I can’t do that. I can’t force people to worship me. I will not help you. I cannot help you. WHITE ROSE (Yells): Don’t go out that door, Black! Don’t you dare leave me alone! Sisters have to stick together. (Lowers voice) Look, he should be here any minute. At least meet him and then make your judgement. BLACK ROSE: You are insane if you think I care about meeting some guy who is coming in to

take over the world. I’m leaving. You can keep my color. Hell, use it as whatever you want, I don’t want to be a part of this…this disaster. (False exit) WHITE ROSE: Black, wait. Just wait for one minute. Please, I take back what I said. I don’t want to lose you. I won’t make you do anything. Just stay with me. You and I are the core of this Society. If we break the whole system collapses. BLACK ROSE: Do you want my passwords? I can give you those. How can I even trust you anymore? You threaten me and then say that you take it back. Dad told me once that you can never take back words so you should always be careful about what you say. You can’t take that back, White. Not now, not ever. I’m not going to stay with you through this, I just can’t. WHITE ROSE: Then you leave me no choice. (Looks down at table) Guards! BLACK ROSE: What kind of nonsense is this? What guards could you possibly be talking to? We don’t have any guar Two muscled people walk in and grab one of BLACK ROSE’s arms each. Then they hold her still while WHITE ROSE talks to her. WHITE ROSE: I thought there might be some resistance to my ideas. So I hired them to keep people in line. I just never thought it would have to be you, Black. My own sister has turned against me. BLACK ROSE: So you hire these goons to make sure any nay-sayers are taken care of ? White, you’re sick. Tell them to put me down and let me take you to the doctor. WHITE ROSE: I’m not sick! I keep telling you that I feel fine. You are the one that keeps saying

that I’m sick. I never thought that I would have to fight against you to get to my goal. But I guess, sometimes, we have to sacrifice those we love to reach the stars that we seek. BLACK ROSE: You think you have the right to quote dad now? You killed him. Let me go! You killed him and now what? Are you going to kill me too? Then do it. Do it right here, right now. At least have the decency to face me, to stand in front of me and pull the proverbial trigger. Come on! Do it! WHITE ROSE: I told you, Black. I would never kill you. BLACK ROSE: Then what do you want from me? WHITE ROSE: Well, I thought that was clear. I want your help. But you keep refusing. You keep saying that it wouldn’t be right. What we are doing wouldn’t be right. BLACK ROSE: Because it wouldn’t be. So. What do you want from me? WHITE ROSE: Well, you were always the voice of reason, Black. You always help your head up high and saw both opinions before making a decision. So I want you to sit down in a chair, look nice, look happy and hold this interview with me so that we can choose if he is a good candidate or not. BLACK ROSE: You think it’s that easy? You think I’m just going to let you get away with it? WHITE ROSE: I already got away with Dad’s murder. They don’t suspect a thing. You didn’t either until I told you. What makes you think you could change that? BLACK ROSE: You confessed to my face, White. Everyone in the family knows that I was born with an eidetic memory. You couldn’t have even

103

forgotten that. WHITE ROSE: Of course not. I’m not stupid. I know you can remember everything that is why I don’t expect you to leave. You are going to stay with me for as long as I need you. BLACK ROSE: Excuse me? No. I am not willingly going to stay in a psychopath’s dungeon until the end of my days. That is not going to happen. Let me go, White. Let me go right now and I promise not to tell anyone what you told me today. WHITE ROSE: I can’t do that, Black. It’s too late. You threatened to tell the cops and now I can’t trust you not to. So are you going to cooperate or am I going to have to make an excuse for your untimely absence from the interview? BLACK ROSE: So, if I refuse to help you in this moment you are going to kill me, and if I do help you I will be stuck in your “custody” for the rest of my known days? Those are my options. WHITE ROSE: I am not going to kill you. I already told you that. You simply will not be able to take part in the interview. I don’t have anything against you disagreeing with me. That is why I’m making sure you stick around. But I can’t have you bad-mouthing the boss in front of potential employees. That wouldn’t look good for us and would probably get rid of our chances to snatch him up before someone else meets him and snatches him up. BLACK ROSE: How do you intend to make me stay here without these two hulking around me? WHITE ROSE: They wouldn’t be here. In my ideal situation you would sit by my side and conduct the interview in a civil manner without making too many huge disruptions. BLACK ROSE: Will you consider seeing a doctor

104

about killing dad if I stay? I can make sure it stays confidential, just between the doctor and you. WHITE ROSE: Of course I will. If that will make you feel better then I will see a doctor. I’m telling you though, I don’t want to kill anyone else. Dad was just in my way and he wouldn’t budge on his idea’s. BLACK ROSE: Okay. As long as you promise then I promise to be civil and meet this guy you think is perfect for the job. WHITE ROSE (giddy): Oh, I’m so happy you said yes. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Oh, Black. This is going to be amazing, just like old times. BLACK ROSE: Yeah, just like old times. Can you have these two let me go please? I need to freshen up if I am going to meet someone and potentially offer them a job. WHITE ROSE: Of course, but I would prefer if you stay in here. Security stuff and all. I don’t know if I can trust you not to run away and tell the cops or something like that. BLACK ROSE (her plan has been foiled): Then I need a mirror, a hair brush, a new set of clothes and my makeup bag from the car. Do you think these two monkeys can handle a few things like that? WHITE ROSE I’m sure they can. (Addressing the guards) Go and get what she asked for. Out guest will be arriving soon. BLACK ROSE: Okay. If this is going to work then we need to set up an appointment for you right after we are done here. Okay? Is that going to work for you? WHITE ROSE: I will call a good psychiatrist right after we get home. Does that sound acceptable? BLACK ROSE: Works for me. Now, what time are we expecting this man to show up?

WHITE ROSE (Looks at phone): He is supposed to be here by one thirty. It is currently one. Don’t worry you have plenty of time to get ready. BLACK ROSE: Good. Good. WHITE ROSE: Take a seat until then. Guards re-appear with items asked for. WHITE ROSE: I told you they were fast. BLACK ROSE: Good. Alright, you two can leave. I prefer to have a little bit of privacy while I’m getting dressed. They exit. BLACK ROSE: I just hope I look presentable. WHITE ROSE: You look fine. There is a knock at the door and the lights fade to black. 1

105

SUNDAE SCHOOL A 10-MINUTE PLAY BY JAMES MAXWELL

Setting: A coffee shop. A table and three chairs are down. A counter is up. Time: March 1st, 2016. Twenty minutes prior to the registration deadline in Boulder for the Colorado Democratic Caucus Characters: GERTIE: f, 25 — a naÏve waitress DOREEN: f, 35 — a cynical waitress CONNOR: m, 18 — a high school student and first time voter CORY: m, 18 — a high school student and first time voter EMELYE: f, 18 — a high school student and first time voter Notes on Staging: At lights up, Gertie is behind the counter as Doreen enters. When Cory enters, he should sit in the middle chair with his back to the counter. Lights up. GERTIE (As Doreen enters): What did he say? Can we get off to go Caucus? DOREEN: What do you think he said? He said no. GERTIE: But, we don’t even have any customers! What’s he afraid of, that we’ll caucus for Bernie, and then he’ll have to start paying us fifteen dollars an hour? DOREEN: Bingo! (Cory and Connor enter and sit) CORY: It looks like we’re early. I suppose it’s a good thing. The deadline for Caucus registration is in less than thirty minutes and we don’t want to be late. CONNOR: More like twenty minutes, but quit being so obsessive, we’re never late for anything. What time did Emelye say she’d meet us here? CORY: At six. She’ll probably be late. We shouldn’t wait for her. CONNOR: The only reason you don’t want to wait for her is that she supports Sanders and you’re hoping she’ll be late. (A short pause) I’ll bet you five bucks she’s on time. CORY: It’s a bet. (Looks at the menu) Did you see these prices? CONNOR: Why do you keep accepting my bets? You always lose. Just like your bet that Clinton will win. You’ll lose that bet too. You’ve got a gambling problem, my friend. (A beat) What’s wrong with the prices? CORY: Four bucks for a scoop of ice cream? CONNOR: What’s wrong with that? It comes with your choice of syrup.

106

CORY: I hate syrup. I prefer whipping cream with my ice cream. CONNOR: Just ask to substitute. CORY: It says they don’t substitute. But I’ll bet you I can talk the waitress into it. CONNOR: How much? CORY: Another five? CONNOR: It’s a bet. (Gertie approaches) GERTIE: You guys ready to order? CORY: I’m ready. I’d like vanilla ice cream in a bowl—not a cone—and with a little bit of whipping cream on top, please. GERTIE: Oh! You’d like one of our worldfamous sundaes! CORY: Sort of, but without any syrup, so no, it’s not really a sundae is it? GERTIE: You want whipped cream on it, though? CORY: Please. GERTIE: Then you’re ordering a sundae, but hold the syrup. Got it. CORY: No. Just vanilla ice cream with a little bit of whipping cream on top. The whipping cream is in substitution for the syrup. GERTIE: My boss says we don’t do substitutions. If you want whipped cream, I’ll have to charge you for a sundae. It’s two bucks extra. (A short pause) Do you still want it? CORY: I guess. (Changing tactics) You look kind of familiar. I’m Cory. Have we met before? GERTIE: Gertie. No, but I’ve got a half-sister, lives in Denver. CORY: Where’s the other half live? GERTIE: What? CORY: Sorry. Just a little joke. Where were you born? GERTIE: Here, in Boulder. CORY: Really, which part?

GERTIE (A beat): All of me. CORY: No, I meant which part of town? (A short pause) Oh, never mind. GERTIE: Oh, I get it. Doreen says I’m a thinker, but sometimes I think too deeply and I miss the funnier side of things. CORY: A thinker? GERTIE: Yeah, I think all the time, day or night. For example, last night I was wrapped in thought, literally wrapped in it. CORY:You must have been cold. GERTIE:No, I had a blanket. CORY:Was it a snug fit? GERTIE: What? CORY: Just wondering if the blanket was wrapped tightly around you? GERTIE: I thought you were a nice guy, but I guess I’m changing my mind. CORY: Why? Do you think the new one will work better? GERTIE (To Connor): What’s wrong with your friend? Why is he being mean? CONNOR: He’s a Clinton supporter — and she’s trailing in the polls. GERTIE: That pretty much explains it all. You want a sundae, too? CONNOR: No thank you. Just a Diet Coke, please. GERTIE: Got it. (Gertie writes on her pad and then exits) CONNOR: Smooth move, jerk-face. CORY: What? Was I too hard on her? CONNOR: Are you ready to pay up? There’s not much chance you’ll get your ice cream at a cheaper price now, especially since you’ve agreed to pay for a sundae. And, after your behavior, she’ll probably spit on it, as well.

107

CORY: It was a calculated risk. It didn’t work out, but I’m not giving up just yet. Here comes Emelye, maybe she can help. (Emelye enters) CONNOR:(To Cory): She’s here early. Pay-up. (Cory pays off ) CONNOR: Hi, here’s your Bernie button. EMELYE: You found them! Thanks. I came early hoping you’d have one. CORY: I’m also glad to see you, but I need your help. EMELYE: What’s up? CORY: When she comes back, I’d like you to order an ice cream. EMELYE: You know I don’t eat ice cream. I told you that when you asked to meet us here. You said it was close to the caucus and convenient— and that I wouldn’t have to buy anything. And I’m not switching my vote to Clinton, either. I’ve had about enough of your lame arguments that Clinton can get things done. The kind of shit she can get done isn’t the kind of shit we need done. CORY: Don’t worry, this has nothing to do with politics, and I’ll pay for it, and you won’t have to eat any of it. I just need you to order it in a very specific way. It’s a kind of experiment. EMELYE: What do you want me to do? CORY: Order an ice cream, vanilla, but without any syrup on it. EMELYE: That’s it? CORY: Yes, but after the waitress takes your order and puts away her pad and pen, and then only after she starts to walk away, ask her if she might throw a little whipping cream on it. Ask her very casually—and nicely—as though it were just an after thought. Can you do that? EMELYE: That’s it?

108

CORY: That’s it. EMELYE: All right, but this better not be one of your tricks, buster! CORY: No trick, just a little social experiment. (Enter Doreen) DOREEN: Who gets the soda? (Connor raises his hand) And, which one of you ordered this? CORY: Is that my ice cream with a little whipping cream on it? DOREEN: No. (A beat) It’s a Sundae, hold the syrup. (A beat) And it’s called whipped cream. CORY: It’s mine. (Doreen serves it) What happened to Gertie? DOREEN: Somebody upset her, so she took a break. (A beat) (To Emelye) What about you, you want anything? EMELYE: Thank you. I’d like vanilla ice cream, please. DOREEN: What kind of syrup? EMELYE: No syrup. Thanks. DOREEN: Anything else? EMELYE: No, thank you. DOREEN (To Cory): Here’s your check — for the Sundae and Soda. (Doreen puts away her pad and pencil and starts to exit) EMELYE: Ma’am? DOREEN: Yes? EMELYE: It just occured to me, could you please add just a little bit of whipped cream on it? I’d be ever so grateful. DOREEN: No problem. (Crosses out the order and starts writing) One ice cream sundae, hold the syrup. (She exits) CONNOR: Pay-up. (Cory pays off ) Just a twenty? I’ll need to get change. Excuse me, will you? (Connor leaves the table) EMELYE: You’d better eat up, buster. We don’t

want to be late for caucus registration. (Cory eats quicker) Can I have a taste? CORY: Why? While at the counter, Connor hands the twenty to Doreen, then takes something else from his wallet and also hands it to Doreen. EMELYE: Ice cream’s not on my diet, so I haven’t tasted any in months. CORY: Don’t worry, it still tastes the same. (Connor returns and gives Cory fifteen dollars in change) CONNOR: What’s with him? EMELYE: He doesn’t want to waste any of his precious ice cream — so he’s wolfing it down. He wouldn’t even let me taste it. CONNOR: He’s gonna be sorry. EMELYE: Why’s that? CONNOR: He’s lactose intolerant. He’s not supposed to be eating any dairy, much less ice cream. He can’t help himself. It’s another one of his addictions. (A short pause. They watch him eat) Oh, I gave the waitresses a couple of my extra Bernie buttons. EMELYE: That was nice of you. I think what he admires about Clinton is her skill at bullying others. He thinks he should be just like her. (To Cory) You look so sad, like a cow that’s been milked with chapped hands. CONNOR: That’s what I told the waitresses. They agreed. (Cory finishes his ice cream) CORY:Laugh all you want, but I’ll bet you can’t do any better. CONNOR: How big a bet? CORY: What? CONNOR: I’ll bet I can do better. CORY: What makes you think she’ll give it to you when she wouldn’t give it to me? CONNOR: Couple of reasons: I’m nicer than you — and I’m better looking. What’s it worth to you if I’m successful? CORY: Twenty bucks. Oh, is that bet too steep for you? CONNOR: It’s a bet. But there’s a couple of other conditions. CORY: Like what? CONNOR: If I win, you’ll have to pay for it all — including the tip — and you’ll have to promise to eat every last spoonful of the ice cream — all

109

three bowls — before you leave here. CORY: Is that all? Piece-o-cake! It’s a bet! (They shake on it) (Doreen returns with Emelye’s order and leaves the check) EMELYE:Eat up or we’ll be late. (Cory starts digging in) CONNOR: Miss, Before you go, I’d like to place my order. DOREEN: Sure, anything for a friend of Bernie’s. What can I get you? CONNOR: I’d like a bowl of ice cream with a little bit of whipped cream on it instead of chocolate syrup. Would that be okay? DOREEN: No problem (Speaking as she writes) One small ice cream, hold the syrup — but with a little whipped cream. Right away, sir! (She leaves the table) CONNOR: I win again, or rather, you lose again. Pay-up. CORY(His mouth full): I’ll believe it when I see the check — and not before. EMELYE: I think we’re going to be late, we’d better hurry. CORY: But I’m not done. CONNOR: After you eat — and pay for all that ice cream — you can join us at the caucus. We’ll save you a seat — on Bernie’s side. You can pay-off your lost bet then, as well. (Connor and Emelye exit. Gertie returns with Connor’s order) GERTIE: Who gets this? CORY: I’ll take it. GERTIE: Boy, you must really like ice cream. I’ll clear off all this other stuff and give you a little more room. CORY: Thanks. (While Cory eats, Gertie clears the table, then leaves) (Cory finishes the second ice cream and then begins inhaling the third) DOREEN (At the counter. Aside to Gertie) Does he suspect anything? GERTIE: No, not a clue. But I feel sorry for him. DOREEN: How can you feel sorry for him after the way he treated you? GERTIE: His friend says he’s gonna be sick from all that ice cream. DOREEN: He deserves worse than a little constipation. Besides, his friend asked us to keep him here for another 10 minutes. GERTIE: Why? DOREEN: So he’ll miss the registration deadline, I’m guessing. (Cory finishes his ice cream and rises to pay the check) DOREEN: How was everything? CORY: Fine, except now I’ve got a terrible headache — and my stomach

110

hurts. (He pays) Where’s your restroom? DOREEN: Right down the hall there, sonny, you can’t miss it. GERTIE (They watch him exit): Poor guy! DOREEN: But not us. Look at this crisp twenty dollar bill his friend gave us to play that little trick on him! GERTIE: But was it right of us to do it? He wasn’t that mean to me. DOREEN: We’ve got a right to make a living too, don’t we? GERTIE: I suppose. (They hear Cory moaning from the offstage restroom) But how are we going to keep him here for another 10 minutes? DOREEN: I don’t think that’ll be a problem. (They again stare down the hall where Cory continues to moan) Lights out. 1

111

{FEATURES}

ALEXANDER

JAMES

ROMERO Traditional Techniques and Modern Technology

BY HAYES MADSEN

rt allows us to digest things from different perspectives. There are many avenues that we can take when examining culture, history and society. For Alexander Romero, one way of using art is by taking traditional techniques and inspiration from other artists, then applying that into a contemporary setting. Romero is an art student at MSU Denver currently in his junior year. He is pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts and printmaking. He didn’t start out sure of what his major would be until he had taken a class in printmaking. All he knew going in was that he wanted to make art. “I took my first drawing class when I was 16,

112

sophomore year and from there my teacher saw something in me I guess,” Romero said. “Then he also encouraged me to keep working, and the more I started working the more I enjoyed it. The more I enjoyed it, the more I studied it, and the more I studied it the more I wanted to do it.” One of Romero’s first pieces of work happened when he was still in high school. He took his favorite rappers and drew them

doing different things. “Now looking back it’s like, ‘What is this?’ But it was pretty fun, that’s when I first really got into it,” Romero said. A lot of Romero’s inspiration stems from artists who have come before him and their contributions. His mentor Michael Gadlan’s abstract expressionist art has had a big impact on Romero, as well as the work of German painter George Baselitz. Romero has studied multiple artists

over the course of their careers, noting trends that he’s seen. “The older artists get, the cooler they become,” Romero said. Romero cycles through different inspirations at times. One of his past ideas was published in Denver’s Birdy magazine. The concept revolved around spaceships being buildings. “I would see things and think, that’s what our spaceships should look like. I took a pointillist approach to it, so it’s where you

113

fundamentals and the basics, while trying out different styles. Throughout his college career, one of the most difficult things has been understanding what his work is about. “A lot of it is very intuitive. Sometimes it’s hard to explain your ideas,” Romero said. “Making the work is the most important, and most fun part to me.” Luckily, marketing has been something fairly easy for Romero as everyone has access to the internet now. Although finding galleries to display his work in can be difficult, he’s had good opportunities to display things at MSU Denver.

have a dot and then the closer the dot is, the darker the value becomes,” Romero said. Romero’s been working on his current body of work for almost a year, drawing his inspiration from the way his generation communicates. “I take a lot of inspiration from my generation’s cold communication and how that

114

has been affecting our social life,” Romero said. “I want to juxtapose that with something really traditional and something really old.” Romero feels like because of his age he tends to jump around between different ideas. Much of what he’s doing at the moment consists of understanding the

One of the reasons Romero originally started at MSU Denver is something that a lot of students can identify with, the tuition prices. “As people probably know, art school is something that is very expensive. But the way I see it especially as an undergrad, an education is what you make of it and art is the same way,” Romero said. Romero also feels that the diverse student body at MSU Denver does a lot for its students. “I think it’s beneficial to art students, because it helps them open up their mind to different people,” Romero said. “It would be strange being an art student going to a school where the demographic is the same. You kind of need weird things to help stimulate your mind sometimes.” Even though he’s still in college, Romero has thought about what to tell other art students who are about to start. He recommends taking one of every kind of art class. This can help students figure out what they really want to do, and gives them access to different equipment and supplies they can use. After graduation, Romero is

considering taking time off of school to look into residencies. These can provide artists with time away from their normal environments for reflection, research and production. His first residency is this summer in Japan. Romero also hopes to go to graduate school if he can find a school that will help him study

what he wants. Romero likes to show people his work and takes criticism with a grain of salt. “You kind of have to work with it, but at the same time you can’t let that stop you or make you do anything different,” Romero said.

115

CYNTHIA KUHN’S LIFELONG

LOVE AFFAIR

WITH WRITING

BY HAYES MADSEN

ince the first day she could hold a pen, Cynthia Kuhn has been writing. Kuhn has been writing for practically her entire life, taking after her grandmother who was also a writer, long before her current position at MSU Denver. “When I was in fifth grade, I wrote the school newspaper by hand on a mimeograph,” Kuhn said. “So I drew a school newspaper in fifth grade all by myself, I think because my teacher was tired of me saying, ‘When are we going to do more writing?’”

116

Since that ambitious start, Kuhn has moved onto many other works of fiction, literature and poetry. Her focus shifts between many styles of writing. Kuhn spent years on the education track receiving her master’s in “Rhetoric and the Teaching of Writing” at the University of Colorado at Boulder, and then her Ph.D. in Literary Studies at the University of Denver. During her time at CU-Boulder, she taught Composition and occasionally courses for writing about literature. One of these was Gothic Literature.

some of the elements. I think it’s interesting to go backward and say, ‘Let’s look at the beginning of how this started’,” Kuhn said. During Kuhn’s time getting her Ph.D., she taught at MSU Denver as affiliate faculty for a semester and later became an Assistant Professor of English. Kuhn finds her inspiration in day-to-day life events, which frequently come from experiences within her classroom. “I’ve written a lot of poems after having read a story or talked about it in class where suddenly I’m like, ‘Oh, I have this idea for a poem where I want to write it from the point of view of Addie Bundren or one of William Faulkner’s characters.’ Because I’d just heard their voice in my head,” she said. Not only has Kuhn written a variety of poems and literary criticism, she’s also written multiple novels. The process for each is quite different. “Literary criticism is different because first you do the research, and then figure out something meaningful to say that hasn’t been said already. Then you start to write chapters and have to go back and do more research. I think it’s a very intricate process,” she said. Conversely, novel writing, for Kuhn, focuses around getting the idea out there, writing everything and then going back to see where she can segment it. “I’m going to write a whole first draft and see if it holds together, then go back and reorganize and revise painfully a thousand times,” she said. Kuhn is always thinking of new ideas for novels and

“I think it’s interesting to go backward and say, ‘Let’s look at the beginning of how this started.’” “Traditionally, Gothic Literature comes out of the British Romantic Period and it has largely supernatural elements. There’s sort of a list of conventions,” Kuhn said. “You’ll find maybe an isolated mansion out in the moors with secret passageways or supernatural figures. That’s Gothic in the golden age, and then it kind of filters as we get into later centuries into horror and ghost stories.” Gothic has always been one of Kuhn’s many interests, in part because it can push boundaries and deal with contemporary issues by using tropes and the unexplainable to explain things. Plot devices and archetypes like darkness, isolation and nightmares are frequently seen in Gothic Horror. “People have an idea of what they think it (Gothic Literature) is already, because they watch horror movies and things like that where it has

117

other works, she even has a new book coming out called “The Semester of Our Discontent.” Mystery and Gothic Literature have always been interesting to Kuhn, and this new novel is no exception. “It ’s set in a fictional u n i v e r s i t y, where a new professor finds a dead body of one of her colleagues and comes under suspicion and has to clear her name. Other professors are attacked and she kind of figures out that they’re all connected by this weird symbol that appears at all the crime scenes,” Kuhn said. “So she’s trying to use her scholarly skills to figure out, ‘how do these symbols connect, what do they mean and where do they lead?’” The book is being released on April 5, and the theme of the novel rotates around learning who to trust when you’re new in town. Kuhn’s idea for the book happened 15 years ago. “I thought of it when I was in graduate school writing a term paper and I said, ‘I really have to write a mystery about this,’”

Kuhn said. “It’s been brewing, but I had to write a dissertation and then I had to get a job, then I did a couple of scholarly books, then had two kids, then knee surgery, and then one day I figured out I had to do it or

She wants them to say what they want with their writing, always. “Once you find your voice, that’s your voice and it doesn’t have to be like anybody else. I think that’s key,” Kuhn said. Finding a group of writers or like minded individuals can also go a long way, and Kuhn speaks from experience on the subject. For years she’s been part of groups like Rocky Mountain Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, where writers and anyone with an appreciation for the mystery genre can come together. Kuhn is part of three different chapters for Sisters in Crime; the national chapter, the great unpublished (GUPPIES) chapter and she even started the Colorado chapter for the organization. This group has provided a community for writers, readers, bloggers and more. “We’ve done a bunch of events and it’s been amazing – very supportive and inspiring,” she said. “There are daily digests everyday on my phone – people will be having conversations

“In all my classes I think I’m always encouraging exploration beyond the topic, and what we’re doing in there.”

118

never speak of it again.” Kuhn’s big hope for her classes, is that what’s covered will encourage students to read beyond the course. She also hopes that her enthusiasm for literature will rub off on her students and help them feel more comfortable to show their own enthusiasm. To her, education can trigger the need to learn even more. “In all my classes I think I’m always encouraging exploration beyond the topic, and what we’re doing in there.” Even for beginning writers Kuhn has valuable advice to give, noting that every writer is different. She doesn’t want her students to let anyone stop them.

about writing or about marketing and it’s wonderful. You feel connected. Then if you go to a mystery conference you already know all these people from online. It’s an incredible community.” These groups have been astoundingly beneficial for Kuhn and she encourages everyone to find writers and readers interested in the same things they are, including in the classes taught at MSU Denver. She always learns something from every interaction in her classroom and loves to see others learn as well. “One of the things that’s really exciting about MSU is the diversity. The different perspectives that people bring to texts come from their life experiences, and so that gives us a more diverse way of discussing a text as well,” Kuhn said. “We have this sort of vibrant meeting of the minds that happens when you have people that come in with different life experiences and situations.” All of Kuhn’s projects are labors of love, no matter what the style. Between writing a novel, teaching at MSU Denver and contributing to the community blog she started named “Mysteristas,” Kuhn’s hands are full. “Mysteristas” is another example of how she and others have come together to create a community of support. Cynthia Kuhn will never stop writing. She hopes to initiate new classes and experiences at MSU Denver that can bring students together. Her passion about writing and literature is palpable, and that’s something she’ll always strive to share with her students.

119

EXCERPT FROM THE SEMESTER OF OUR DISCONTENT BY CYNTHIA KUHN

“T

ruth be told, I’m not in a hurry to return to the departmental agenda,” said Judith as we walked. “At the last meeting of spring term, we spent two hours arguing over the font on our letterhead. Can you believe it? Then the deadlock over Arial and Helvetica went on for another week in an email battle.” “Which font won?” I asked. “That’s the whole point. It was tabled to be revisited this fall.” She smiled. “You may be the tiebreaker, Lila.” “No thanks,” I said. The last thing I wanted to do was antagonize half of the department. “Don’t worry. It will be a blind vote. We don’t want to put you in any uncomfortable situations.” “That’s nice of you.” “Not at first, anyway,” she added, with a wink. We arrived at the arched entrance to the department library. The intricately carved wooden door swung open slowly when I pushed on it, though the hinges protested loudly. At the sight of the lifeless form sprawled across the conference table, I shrieked and Judith gasped. One of the fiery dragons on Roland’s elegant tie had been slashed in half by the knife embedded in his chest. 1

120

THE LOST POEM OF ADDIE BUNDREN BY CYNTHIA KUHN

I would be I; I would let him be the shape and echo of his word. â&#x20AC;&#x201C; As I Lay Dying You, there. I am speaking through wood. He does not rule this house with such spaces for emptying. I can see in both directions at once. It disturbs. How to say: I feel my bones rot as I watch the work? Nouns like vow are fierce. Verbs flow and flame. I have no more words. And you have too many. So I give you this to negative me. You know that you are. Whether I am or not.

121

122

photo by Michael Ortiz

ARIELLA ASHER PAINT, POLITICS AND

PERSEVERANCE BY DEANNA HIRSCH

riella Jasmin Asher, a selfproclaimed triple threat, is thriving in the midst of her second act. Disillusioned by the music business back in 2012, Asher walked away from early success as an emcee in Atlanta, even after being named Underground Rapper of the Year by XXL magazine. Needing to come up for air, Asher relocated to the mile high with her paintbrush in hand to pursue other art forms and a degree. “I decided to go back to school and finish. I’ve always been an artist,” Asher said. “I’m on a vacation that never ended.”

Asher, now “about a junior” at MSU Denver majoring in art and communication design, draws deeply from her experiences in hip-hop culture, as well as her family’s roots, to connect history with current events in her creations. A first generation American, Asher’s aesthetic has been greatly influenced by her father, a Jewish immigrant from Baghdad, and her uncle, world renowned, Israelibased artist Yossi Asher. “I grew up hearing about the tyrannies of war,” Asher said. “The way I see politics is to encourage people to have a choice.” The Jean-Michel Basquiat-influenced artist said she likes to challenge fine art with “low” art by mixing graffiti and fine art techniques to flesh out themes of power, wealth and politics. “I can do photo realism but I choose not to,” Asher said. Not one to shy away from controversy, Asher’s most eye catching piece is a wheatpaste print that uses acrylic and a spray paint stencil, titled “Trump.” The print depicts the presidential candidate with

123

a Hitler-esque, black rectangular mustache. While proud of the piece and the conversation it sparks, Asher is aware of the risk involved in taking on Trump this way, but it’s a risk she seems willing to take. “Trump stuff has me the most inspired.” And she said there’s more to come. Inspiration for some of her other pieces include more hot button issues like income inequality and gun reform. Asher said she likes to take snapshots of urban decay, an idea reflected in two other pieces from her street art collection. “Idied Broketryna Lookrich” is a campaign-style sign with the words 1874-present along the bottom, and “Think Before You Shoot” is a series of public service announcement infographic posters with graffiti tags. “I try to break boundaries with everything I’ve ever done,” Asher said. That goal comes through loud and clear in much of her work, including “48 Laws of Power,” a 36’ x 36’ graphic collage done in ink that confronts historic images of power one by one, including, #32: Jesus. “The law associated with this one is, ‘Play to People’s Fantasies.’ I suppose the fantasy that I was referring to is religion,” Asher said. Number #37: Napoleon Crossing the Alps, by Jacques-Louis David is the law of, “Create Compelling Spectacles,” and echoes her theme in “Trump” as well. “I thought this one was appropriate for Napoleon in how he was depicted in this work. Furthermore, the law states, ‘Striking imagery and grand symbolic gestures create the aura of power—everyone responds to them. Stage the spectacles for those around you, full of arresting visuals and radiant symbols that heighten your presence. Dazzled by appearances, no one will

124

notice what you are really doing,’” Asher said. She’s had some success sharing her work in solo exhibitions in Denver at 3 Little Birds and X-Bar, and a street art showcase the past July through Sol Shine. Asher’s also exhibited pieces on Auraria Campus during the World Aids Day Art Exhibit last May and recently at the Emmanuel Gallery. Asher’s happy for the exposure, but said she’s not interested in aggressively selling her stuff. “I almost want, like, a word of mouth thing,” Asher said. “I want to do what I do and let it organically come.” As for her plans after graduation, she’s happy to let those unfold organically as well. She’s open to an artist residency and wants to travel to New York to do more large scale pieces and gallery shows. For now, she’s enjoying the process of going against the grain at school and is even interested in making music again. “I feel like I let people down when I stopped making music,” Asher said. “I may do a short four

to five song EP of some vintage rap.” While that EP may be an apology as much as an homage to the fans she left behind, Asher isn’t saying sorry at school, or in her art studio. “Women tend to apologize for what they do,” Asher said. “At art school they try to teach you how to be an artist. But I already feel like one.”

You can check out all three of Asher’s “threats”: visual artist, songwriter and emcee, at www.the3threat.com photo by Michael Ortiz

125

MATT SMITH’S

BRAVE NEW

WORLD BY KEENAN McCALL

idden behind his cool demeanor, Matt Smith houses a mind ripe with creativity and imagination. Open to new ideas and trying new genres, his potential as a storyteller is like an untapped oil vein set to rain black gold. A writer at heart, Smith writes in most any genre. “I’ve been writing a lot of shorter works, like short stories,” says Smith. “You can get in, get out and you can get a pretty good sense of catharsis from writing a short story. That can get some stuff out that I didn’t even know that I’m dealing with. Same with poetry, but poetry’s a little harder to control for me.” This wasn’t always the case, however. Originally from Dalton, Georgia, Smith had a hard time finding support for honing his passion in an industry-focused town. “It was the carpet capital of the world at one point,” says Smith. “Everything was focused on getting a job. So if you couldn’t, if it wasn’t really practical as far as going into the workforce or as a technician of some sort working on motors or cars or working on machinery in a carpet plant, something that was very much like math or engineering based, then it was just kinda looked over.”

126

photo by Michael Ortiz

127

Even in school, Smith found himself hampered and held back by the curriculum. “I didn’t write at all. It was just literature-based stuff,” says Smith. “So we would read whatever, you know, ‘To Kill a Mockingbird,’ spend the class talking about it and that kind of thing, and I would enjoy the literature. It just wasn’t what I was really passionate about.” He did find an outlet through a childhood friend. Whenever they hung out together, they would practice making up stories about any number of topics, helping Smith stretch his creativity. “We would just make up stories kids make up about dinosaurs, monkeys or whatever, but it was making up stories for each other, entertaining each other and that kind of thing– instead of talking about TV we’d watched or talking about how school was. We were always creating things.” The two grew apart for a time, though, putting Smith’s love for storytelling on the back burner until he decided to move out to Colorado. Once here, he enrolled at MSU Denver and started trying to rediscover his passions. “I was very conflicted about what I wanted to do and I ended

128

up taking a class, an English class, an Introduction to Fiction class because I’ve always liked to read. I’ve always liked stories,” says Smith. “I was just going to take it as a general elective at first.” Before long, the course and its professor had his talent for storytelling refocused toward writing. He eventually was doing so well the professor even recommended he pursue writing further in any capacity he could. “The things I was writing were really good for freshman type of stuff,” says Smith. “She advised me to at least consider doing, like, a minor in English.” Smith took this advice to heart, taking more writing classes and continuing to hone his focus. “With every subsequent writing class I took, I just kind of fell in love with it more and more,” he says. What truly brought it all together for him was connecting with other writing students and being able to help each other grow. “I got into a writing group with a couple of friends from campus and we would meet once a week, go to Starbucks or something and bring in a few pieces we had written,” says

Smith. “It was encouraging me to bring in more [material] and get other eyes on it.” Smith also notes that the difference in environment helped him to give honest effort towards pursuing writing. Back home, even in more artistically minded areas, artists shy away from sharing their passions. “It’s looked down on by a lot of people so they don’t want to open up to everybody because then you get a lot of ridicule and that kind of thing. It’s a very strange atmosphere,” says Smith. “But then, out here, you go into really anywhere and if it’s like a place where people get together, there’s always someone singing or doing something. There’s street performers all over the place, there’s the Metrosphere magazine at school. There are a lot of things out here that are just a little bit more in tune with trying to nourish people’s creativity.” Smith is currently looking at several areas of writing to find the ones he is most passionate about; one of them being graphic novels. Looking at works from people like Alan Moore, Alison Bechdel and Art Spiegelman, Smith sees the potential for graphic novels to provide serious content through a more relaxed

and accessible style. “They’re all done in the comic medium, but they’re not by any means your traditional comic books. You’re talking about really heavy issues in the comic medium, and I believe that lets them do more than anyone could do in written form or even visual.” Smith points to Bechdel’s “Fun House” as a good example. “With Fun Home, it’s basically about her dysfunctional family relationship, and that really struck a chord with me and hit home. Her father either walks into traffic accidentally or commits suicide in the end. And the way the whole story goes, it’s not like your typical comic book by any means. It’s like a graphic novel,” he says. Smith has also found inspiration in traditional authors and their approach to writing. “Kurt Vonnegut has got to be the author that has jumped out at me the most. A lot of what he’s said in his novels, or the way he writes or what he’s said about writing in general, has just resonated with me,,” says Smith. “I like Flannery O’Connor as far as the short story is concerned. She gets right at the heart of some issues, gets in plays with

it and then gets out, and that’s one of the things that has really drawn me to the shorter fiction.” In the future, Smith hopes to pursue writing in some form, though the idea of pursuing long form novels professionally is intimidating. “Career-wise, I would like to write long form, fiction-like novel ideas, but at this point the idea of writing a novel is just daunting,” says Smith. “So far I’ve been a little bit scared to take that step, but I’ve been thinking about a few larger works that I would like to write and a few graphic works that I would like to work on; possibly even like some video game storyline kind of stuff.” To those looking to improve their own writing or better pursue writing, Smith has a few pieces of advice. The first is to believe in your own work. “Don’t let anyone get you down on yourself because you think that your story might be too sad, too depressing, too angry or too violent or whatever. Someone’s going to want to read your story. Granted, some people want to read some stories more than others, but I believe everything needs to be read,” says Smith.

The next is to let others see your work and be open to criticism. “Once you get your first draft down, let someone read that first draft. Let someone read the second draft. Let someone read anything you do before you send it out or before you do anything,” says Smith. He also notes that a bad edit isn’t always a bad thing. “Even if someone rips it apart you’re pretty lucky. Some people will kind of spoon feed you like, ‘Ah, that’s so great. That’s awesome. Now go away.’ But if someone rips it apart you can change things and tweak things on your own sort of personal vision or your own personal voice.” Finally, Smith encourages reading and writing every genre possible to expand your knowledge base as much as possible. “All the tools you can get under your belt will help you in the end,” he says.

129

TIED BY MATT SMITH

hen my grandmother passed the tie to me was the happiest I had ever been. It was worn by all the men on my mother’s side for as long as anyone could remember. Someone always had the tie. My grandmother kept a picture of her uncle on her living room bookshelf. A grainy, tan-colored picture of a wiry man wearing a black suit and bright tie; the purple of the tie was the only color in the picture. He had worn it proudly his entire life and became a somewhat famous writer; winning one of the first Guggenheim Fellowships. I could now share in the family’s heritage and fame. I had always been bland, even for nine, and my thrift store hand-medowns did little to spice up my appearance. Far too shy to talk to the other kids, I would mostly just read or look out the window and imagine exploring my backyard forest after school. My only friend was a fragile boy who had failed the fourth grade and wore a bicycle helmet all the time. Most of the kids at school said Jerry was mentally retarded, why else would he wear a helmet and fail the fourth grade? Actually, Jerry suffered from Wiskott-Aldrich syndrome and was held back because he missed 97 days of school for treatments; his mother insisted he wear his bicycle helmet to reduce his risk of severe brain bleeding. I could adorn myself and people could see me for who I really am. I would be able to carry on a conversation with God and not just Jerry. I wore it only at home for the first few weeks as I got used to how it felt. It felt marvelous, like I was finally part of something more than just me. Every day when the bus dropped me off, I would run to my room to start practicing. I had to be able to tie it perfectly before I would be ready. What if something happened and I needed a re-tie while at school? Daddy wouldn’t be there to tie it back for me. After weeks of practice, I had mastered the Half-Windsor knot. I decided it was time for my debut. My mother helped me pick out the perfect outfit; even my sister approved. My finest white button-up and black blazer with a new pair of shiny black loafers my mom had managed to buy me. The bright purple tie was the centerpiece. I couldn’t wait for everyone at school to see me. When they saw my tie they called me a queer and a pussy. I suppose the silk must have been too soft, and boys are supposed to be hard. Or maybe little boys down south are only supposed to dress up for church.

130

At any rate, they continued to fling insults and jokes my way while we waited for classes to start. “Words only hurt if you let them,” Jerry squeaked. Before the first bell, I had already whipped it off and stuffed it into the bottom of my backpack. I ripped it off so quick it burnt my neck as it uncoiled. The rest of the day, the tie was a carton of rotten eggs in my bag. When I got home, I shoved the tie in an empty 12-pack box and pushed it down into the bottom of the trash can. I couldn’t let anyone else ever see it. I ran to the shower to wash away the ridicule; the hot water stung my neck. 1

131

SARAH ROCKETT

REDEFINING LINE AND REDIRECTING FOCUS

photo by Matt Gaston

BY HEATHER PASTORIUS

132

ike a mirror, art reflects society and Sarah Rockett redefines the line to echo the duality of a world constantly in flux and struggling to maintain commonality among humanity. Almost immediately after earning her Master of Fine Arts in drawing from Colorado State University in 2011, Rockett began teaching at MSU Denver. She was drawn to work in a modern curriculum that suited her notions. Reconstructing the idea of line provided the option to teach concept and content in introductory art classes. Her MFA was not traditional. Although focused on drawing, it was drawing in the most expanded sense, completely devoid of paper and pencil. “I became really interested in how you take line that is traditionally seen on a flat paper and start to work with that in space,” Rockett said. “I started working with a lot of wire sculpture thinking about that drawn line in activated space.” Likewise, her teaching style doesn’t lean on lecturing and note taking but rather jumping right into concept and content development-generally reserved for advanced level art classes. MSU Denver’s Art Department is leading the way in working with these ideas early on in the degree program. According to Rockett this is crucial to the success of students, having watched it play out among them for the past 5 years. “For me the most exciting part of making work, is that it is work about something,” Rockett said “The student might love charcoal or hate charcoal but if they are getting to make a drawing about something they really care about, they become more invested.” This manner of conceptualizing and hands-on teaching becomes symbiotic. The students are

equal parts excited and invested in the work they create. The resulting electric fervor and abundant enthusiasm is then shared with Rockett. “Being around students, who are often viewing these processes, materials and ideas for the first time, gives me a fresh perspective as well,” Rockett said. Her fresh perspective spills beyond the boundaries of MSU Denver’s campus. As part of the artist residency at RedLine, thanks in part to the Andy Warhol Foundation, Rockett also participates in the Educational Partnership Initiative for the Creative, or EPIC, Arts program. She and other resident artists collaborate with K-12 educators in the Denver area to help students create a body of artwork through the lens of a contemporary social justice issue. Rockett is currently working with a group of high school students at Bruce Randolph School. “There are 12 students in the class and I work with them all on this project over the course of the semester,” Rockett said. RedLine hosts an exhibition of EPIC Arts projects from all the different schools, which in turn brings new attention to these issues. To Rockett, this exhibition speaks to the crux of her beliefs about art’s true purpose in society and the focus of her own work: Art serving as both watchdog and accountant. “Art reflects society onto itself – the good, the bad, and the ugly – so it really does keep society in check.” Rockett said. “I also think that artists become the chroniclers of history through images and through objects. When we look back at history, we’re looking at art.” These are the two most vital functions of art in Rockett’s perspective, but should not overshadow one equally important purpose: as a catalyst to

133

Heebie Jeebies, fabric, stuffing, box spring

134

conversation and to change. “It presents issues in a certain way that makes it more accessible to talk about uncomfortable things,” Rockett said. Rockett has a menagerie of exhibitions under her artist’s belt including series with titles like “Phobic Meditation,” “Intentacles,” and “Heebie Jeebies,” that draw attention to some of the uncomfortable and frequently avoided topics in our society. Following her non-traditional line art, “Phobic Meditation” is a 90-second video of woven line forms drifting eerily across the screen, pushing and pulling one another to a soundtrack of sloshing, slurping and reverberating hushed whispers, perhaps imitating the pushing and pulling of people against one another, powerless to escape. “Intentacles” and “Heebie Jeebies” are sculpture series featuring the repurposed limbs of mannequins stitched together and stitched to other intertwining and slithering free-form fabric and metal extensions. These limbs, all similar in shape and size but different in appearance and construction, speak to a specific issue central to Rockett’s art, xenophobia, the irrational dislike or fear of people from other countries. Her work is presently focused on income and inequality springing from this context, combined with the idea of the self juxtaposed with the stranger. “That is what is propelling me into more specific social justice issues, because the idea of it is based on how we choose or don’t choose to treat one another,” Rockett said. Her current sculpture on display at Redline is the perfect example of these ideologies. Designed on a bed of bright green astroturf, it’s a bit of an ode to “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” Central to

the piece are a pile of gold spray-painted sneakers, surrounded by large black and white striped alien forms quaffed with fuzzy fuchsia hair. These forms have tubular extensions to the shoes. A cornucopia of line exploded into the third dimension. It is a statement about income inequality and how the wealthy feed off of the poor. In order to gain exposure for these issues, Rockett is striving to work on projects that would publically appear within communities in the Denver-Metro area, allowing her to reach people who don’t normally go into galleries and letting her show them art is functional within society and is culturally viable.

Hide and seek, sculpture and drawing installation Perhaps one of Rockett’s most poignant pieces in this regard is a collaborative piece, “The Nkisi Project,” that she started with fellow artists Tammi Brazee and Peter Yumi, presently on display at The Ice Cube Gallery. It uses African Nkisi Nkondi Statues to record actions and resolutions according to the artist’s website. The idea is to record community involvement and manifest change. Thirty different artists created ritual objects meant to represent their perspective communities and included a single sentence describing the resolution, action, or manifestation that they want

136

the object to affect in their community. It will be showing at the Center for Visual Art on Santa Fe this summer. Rockett admits these goals can sometimes be lofty and hard to reach. The most important lesson she has learned from teaching is not to take herself too seriously. Yet she expounds to her students to work hard on their art and to work hard on themselves. “Being an art student is hard. Following the path of the working artist is even harder,” Rockett said. “It’s not just about making art, it’s actually running a business and selling yourself as a commodity. I really try to

encourage my students to put a lot of attention into their professional development.” No matter the tools of your trade–be it pastel or oil paint, crayon or watercolor, marble or steel–master the medium and, like a mirror, expertly reflect and impact society.

Photos by Michael Ortiz

137

MELANIE Words by Alysha Prieto Photos by Michael Ortiz It can be hard to find the balance between trendiness and professionalism when dressing for any occasion, but especially when it involves school and the workplace. Melanie Townsend, Entertainment Producer for the Met Report, has seemingly mastered this mystery both on and off screen. For a speech communications major with a broadcast journalism emphasis, it makes sense that she has two years with MSU Denver’s news station under her belt. Her experience with the Met Report includes time in front of the camera as well as behind the scenes. Not only is she is charge of presenting herself as engaging and appropriate for the show, she also makes sure her co-workers do the same. “With entertainment you get room to have fun with it and dress it up and be really cute but you still need to maintain the professionalism on the newscast,” Townsend says. “I tell people, especially girls, if you are going to be on camera dress it up but don’t dress like you are about to go to the club. That is our main rule. I don’t want to see your tits out. I don’t want to see your butt, but keep it sexy and cool.” You can say that Townsend’s desire for a cohesive look comes from the same place she

138

TOWNSEND gets her inspiration for fashion in general— her mother. “I really appreciate her being a woman who put herself together and always looked on point despite what was going on,” Townsend says. The put-together rather than thrown-together sense of style that Townsend’s mom passed down is vital to getting dressed in the morning. Just because she enjoys an outfit that makes sense doesn’t mean she is afraid of experimenting. Classic jeans and boots make up her campus uniform but she adds interesting tops and accessories to shake things up. Speaking of jeans, she is currently in the market for a really good pair of overalls because, face it people, they’re back with a vengeance and from the looks of it they’re here to stay. Townsend’s favorite part about fashion is along the same lines. “I think fashion is a good representation of who you are as a person. It definitely reflects on the time period that we are in,” Townsend says. “It’s interesting how fashion repeats itself so a lot of the old styles that were in in the sixties or something like that are coming back today but they are transformed.”

139

TRAVIS Words by Alysha Prieto Photos by Michael Ortiz You wouldn’t guess that the sweat pant and sweater clad guy sitting in front of me is the same man he is pointing to on the screen of his iPhone. To be fair, today Travis Batt has been sitting in class, while in the photo he was ready to walk the catwalk. Aside from the noticeable wardrobe change—he’s swapped a collared shirt, fur jacket and shorts for gray sweats and a Fox zip-up sweater—he is also missing a face full of makeup and bleach-blonde dreadlock extensions arranged into a beehive on top of his head. Batt’s unusual getup was for the 2015 Denver Fashion Week Hair Show. His initial interest in the fashion world came from his relationship with Masha Pichugina, who also participated in the show, and whose style he admires. He has continued walking in shows because he enjoys meeting and connecting with new people as well as continuing to support Pichugina. Off the catwalk, Batt’s preferred dress is all about comfort. His everyday style consists of sweats, shorts, hoodies and the occasional pair of jeans. He shies away from denim because

140

‘BATTMAN’ BATT he doesn’t understand the popularity of styles like skinny jeans and sagging pants that are popular right now. He does understand certain accessories. As a former track runner, Batt’s really into socks. If you don’t have good socks you’ll have blisters and that would be—you guessed it— uncomfortable. He also enjoys jewelry. The rings he has chosen for the day are a mash-up of items found in small shops and gifts. Two of which have bats on them. “My last name is Batt, I live on Robin Road and my neighbor’s name is Robin. So, I’m Battman,” he said. In an alternative cartoon universe, where one is given the option of only one outfit forever, Batt wouldn’t mind raiding the Caped Crusader’s closet and donning the Batsuit. In real life he is lusting for a new suit to add to his growing collection, in either navy or dark blue. A speedy graduation date is on Batt’s wish list, too. With less than a year to go and plenty of experience on the catwalk, the biology major is well on his way to strutting his stuff across the graduation stage.

141

142

143

THE

METROSPHERE’S FIRST ONLINE PUBLICATION

ISSUE TWO

VOLUME 34

WWW.MYMETROSPHERE.COM 144

Met Media, here to save your day!

Weekly TV news broadcast TheMetReport 24/7 Internet Radio

@TheMetReport @The_Met_Report

MetRadio Las Ăşltimas noticias en tu idioma

@KMetRadioDenver @KMetRadioDenver

Noticiero TVMET @NTvMET @NoticieroTVMET

Tri-annual arts and literary magazine Metrosphere Weekly newspaper TheMetropolitan

@MetrosphereMag @Metrosphere

@TheMetOnline

MyMetMedia.com

MetMedia

@MyMetMedia

145

AXCELL

soundcloud.com/gauje twitter.com/OfficialAxcell

DJ & PRODUCER

facebook.com/The-Official-Axcell

ALSO FEATURING DJ DÉNOUEMENT

METROSPHERE RELEASE PARTY CENTER FOR VISUAL ART 965 SANTA FE DR. APRIL 22, 2016 6—9 P.M. WWW.MYMETMEDIA.COM/DEEPFREQUENCIEZ

WEDNESDAYS 7—9 P.M.

with

DEEP FREQUENCIEZ DJ DÉNOUEMENT SPRING 2016 FEATURING: DJ Psycho

Drivetrain aka Derrick Thompson SantonioEcholsDetroit SANDMAN 333

Detroit Techno Militia and New World Electro Order | DETROIT Soiree Records International | DETROIT USA D Records and Chapter 2 Recordings | DETROIT Soiree Records International, Moehouse Records, Bang Tech 12, and Breakbeat Paradise | TOLEDO Primary, MAYA Recordings NYC (Formerly the UK), KIMTAMA, and Dark and Sonorous Recordings | BROOKLYN, NY and other special guests.

146

djdenouement

Dénouement

u S

e e

Spring/Summer 2016 for the soul.

Student Housing Designed for You! All inclusive Studio Rates starting at $750/month!

RegencyStudentHousing.com