inside:
interview with
DANZY SENNA POETRY FICTION & MORE
Letter from the Editors Almost 200 years ago Percy Shelley wrote a defense of poetry where he boldy asserted that “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.” Today this hardly feels true.
As English students, we are constantly re-writing our own defenses of poetry. We are bombarded with loaded questions that insinuate that a humanities degree is useless in the 21st century. It can be quite frustrating. On the afternoon of November 8th, Election Day, we as a class discussed the role of advocacy in the humanities. Are politics a distraction from scholarly work? The conversation had unforeseen relevancy that was made clear by the end of the night. Joe and I felt we had to address the election, but -- still -- we were hesitant. Yet, we decided to approach the topic within the framework of the collection in these pages. The Mill Magazine is not the product of a political science department. We don’t seek to affiliate it with any party or position. We are, first and foremost, students of the humanities. We do, however, believe the arts can elevate, protect, and protest. We are not newspapermen, but we are looking for truths, truths that resonate across boarders and divides. We look to literature to reach out empathetically to many, and what better way to discuss our differences than through amazing writing. We hope that the works chosen here make you feel, make you think, and make you reflect. We cannot stress more how important works like this will be in the times ahead. Keep writing, and keep reading. With Regards, Joe Heidenescher and Marisa Mercurio First Year Graduate Students (English Literature) The Mill Editors 2017
Contents Danzy Senna at UT
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“American Boy” by Kit McBee
pg 9
Photography by Nicholas Gaietto
pg 8
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Graphic by Emily Mowdrowski
The Mill Literary Magazine
Editor-In-Chief: Joe Heidenescher Contributing Editors: Marisa Mercurio, Charity Anderson, Clara Vanenkevort, Savannah Xaver Cover Art by: Marisa Mercurio Graphic Design and Layout: Joe Heidenescher Made possible by the English Department Shapiro Endowment Fund ii
The Girl By the Lighthouse
I turned back to the girl. She rubbed at her small nose with a red hand. “Oh, no. I’m on break from university. I’m visiting my cousin.” It was great fun. Josephine worked most By Abby Filka mornings, so I aimlessly wandered about town until midday, and then returned to her house which she made me rearrange in the evenings. hat are you doing?” She seemed to want to make me “earn my I startled. A small girl peered down at me, her spin- keep.” I was thankful, though. College made dly arms laced across her chest. I sat with my back one dull and singular and when summer came I against the wooden base of a lighthouse. The large was usually lonely and unproductive. At least, sketchbook I so carefully balanced on my knees had this way, I could add “straightened picture a few scribbling lines marring its surface. frames” and “dusted Waterford crystal” to my “I’m drawing.” list of few accomplishments. “It’s not very good.” she said. I nodded. I was in I quickly added, “But I was here once before… agreeance. I drew with the sole purpose of occupywhen I was twelve.” ing my time. I found it quite easy to study the land, “I’m twelve!” the girl smiled. She blinked her large scratch out a few dark marks, and pass the day away. eyes and scratched at her hands. They were flaky; “Can I see the rest of them?” the girl asked; she she must have some sort of skin condition. Didn’t I gestured to the used pages that hung over my knees know someone with a skin condition before? and flapped in the breeze. “Are they bad, too?” “But if you haven’t been her since you were “They’re bad, too,” I replied, “but you can have a twelve, you really don’t know much about this place, look if you would like.” do you?” “Oh, good! Seeing bad artwork always makes me “Well, I know couple of things!” I replied archly, feel better about mine!” gesturing to the sketchbook. The last couple weeks I laughed, and shifted the book onto the grass. I had covered a vast majority of the small town of The girl knelt down on her hands and knees and her Cape Blue on foot. The mud had ruined two pairs of mass of ratted auburn hair fell over her shoulders my shoes. and tickled the pages of the sketchbook. She pushed “Oh, yes! But you don’t know the stories,” she the heavy pages closed and then opened the cover to said, voice lowered an alarming octave. She reached study the first drawing. It was a sketch of the board- into the purple butterfly bag that was slung over her walk. shoulder and yanked out a thick volume. It was one “Father and I go there sometimes,” she said, point- of those journals that everyone wishes to keep but ing to a restaurant I had outlined with a few dark never do. Movie tickets, crinkled edges of photosmudges. “It’s really great. I always get the clam graphs, and limp bits of newspaper hung out of the chowder.” sides of the book at uneven angles. The brown cover I liked clam chowder. was stained and shredded along the broken spine. The next few minutes passed slowly as the girl She held it to her chest in a suspicious manner. turned the crackling pages and offered various lack“I’ve been cataloguing the supernatural, extraterluster remarks. I stopped listening to her around page restrial, and generally strange happenings in Cape eight or nine. A fog horn sounded below and I cast Blue the entire summer. Would you like to have a my eyes out over the sea. The water jostled up and look inside?” down in an unsung rhythm and I watched as frothy Something old wobbled in the back of my mind, peaks slapped at the sides of a fishing boat. but I ignored it. “Do you live here?” “Well, yes, of course I would,” I replied. The little 1
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girl’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Good!” she laughed, arching an eyebrow. “That will cost you two dollars. And I only take payment in the form of two dollar bills. The ones with Thomas Jefferson on them.” “What? Why not George Washington?” “He always looks so…stern. I like Thomas Jefferson. He has a nice face.” I laughed. “Can I get a rain check?” “A rain what?” “Can I pay you later?” She expelled a long sigh and rolled up the leg of her purple overalls. “I suppose,” she said, scratching at a scab. She hurt herself falling of her bike, didn’t she? How did I – ? “You’ll just have to go without seeing the baby unicorn horns I have stored in the back pages. Those are for paying customers only,” she continued, distracting me from my odd revelation. “Understood.” The girl ceased picking at her scab and pressed her hair out of her eyes with her palms. Her fingers tripped along the edges of the pages and then finally, she froze and threw the book wide open. A few feathery-light drawings, pieces of ripped notebook pages covered with cramped handwriting, and a thin, shiny stone were taped into place. “This is all the research I’ve collected on mermaids. This is an actual mermaid scale. Father said,” she explained, and gave me a very solemn look. Her sodalite eyes were as serious as a funeral. I quickly nodded in agreement. “Then, I’ve drawn some pictures here. They’re a bit rough because I’ve had to recreate the entire image from one second of memory. The mermaids always seem to be one step in front of me, but sometimes, if I’m really quick, I can catch a look before they disappear into the water.” She wiggled her little chapped fingers in the air for emphasis. “Do you want to know something very secret?” Her teeth were showing now, thin lips turned up at the edges. 2 “Oh yes, very much!”
She leaned in close and brushed my hair aside. When she spoke, her breath was hot against my ear. She smelled like mothballs. She smelled like my past. “Father says my mother was a mermaid.” Another fog horn sounded and she collapsed back onto the grass as a flock of seagulls flapped and screamed above us. I stared at the girl. Hadn’t I seen her somewhere before? In the glass of a mirror? In the reflection of a passing store window? She was lying on the grass, clutching at the stems of a few tall white clovers. She giggled. “Isn’t that neat?” “Yes,” I replied, but my heart gave a jolt. What was her father thinking? Filling her head with lies and fantasies? She was twelve and still believed her mother was a mermaid? She was twelve and… “Do I know you?” I suddenly asked. She worried her bottom lip. There was a long pause and then she finally spoke. “You’ve grown up different that I expected, Lindsey,” she said. * I opened my eyes. It was evening. The lighthouse’s large shadow stretched over me. Richard sat next to me. His knees were drawn up to his chin like he was a little boy. I was lying on the grass, a pencil cradled in my red, flaky hand. “You’re awake.” He smiled shyly at me. I nodded. “You looked happy. I didn’t want to wake you.” I ignored him. Something was building inside me. Something strong. In one swift movement I jumped to my feet and scrambled over to the edge of the cliff. The water below me was still. I had missed her. Of course I would not be fast enough to catch the slightest splash of a mermaid tail now. “W-what is it? What’s wrong?” Richard asked, clearly surprised by my sudden movements. “Nothing at all,” I replied. “I just remembered… how magical…things used to be…”
3 PHOTO: University of Toledo English Department
DANZY SENNA
Bestselling author of Caucasia and Symptomatic shares wisdom on writing
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Award winning author, Danzy Senna, views and was like ‘oh, wait I still want to read from her latest memoir, Where Did be a writer’ and I’m still writing what I’m You Sleep Last Night? A Personal History, doing next, I wasn’t just writing because on Thursday, Nov. 3 as the 27th annual of the praise, and now I know that. And B, Richard M. Summers Memorial Lecturer I really like this book and so what I think presented by the English Department. Fol- is separate from what critics think, which lowing her lecture in the Student Union, was a big moment, it was like I felt where Ms. Senna held a smaller Q and A event my second book was where I became with UToledo English students. an artist because I wrote something that During this informal Q and A Senna wasn’t just that sort of overwhelming level answered personal questions and talked of praise and it didn’t appeal to everyone.” about navigating the publishing world and Senna said she struggled with the vulhype. nerability of sharing a novel to such a Senna said the hype after publishing wide audience. Caucasia in 1998 was “like hitting the “Art is there to be judged,” she said. “I lottery.” think part of it is that you have offered up “It was very overwhelming and exciting, this text and readers can do with it what and just a whirlwind,” Senna said. “It was they want, and it’s not yours anymore. that experience that was like everything They love it or hate it, as long as they are you’d ever dreamed of, but it was kind of having some reaction to it.” a nightmare too.” Reaction is part of the writing game, and She said that the success was amazing, whether it is good or bad, reaction is part but also an insane amount of pressure for of the goal for Senna, but protecting her her future as a novelist. next novel in the whirlwind of reviews is “It’s the type of success that’s hard to important too. She compares writing to a complain about,” Senna said. However, dream-like space. her next focus was not all about the hype Senna said that she has to “psychically of the good reviews, she would also spend do whatever you can to get into that dream the next years on book tours and readings, space.” She said she has to remove herself hailing Caucasia as a part of a “biracial from distractions and perhaps even move movement.” “Also, just you don’t ever want to become a spokesperson for any kind of movement as a novelist and that book [Caucasia] being picked up as Also, just you don’t ever want to become like a treatise for this multiracial a spokesperson for any kind of movement movement,” Senna said. “I found as a novelist and that book [Caucasia] very uncomfortable and there was a lot of conversations I was in where being picked up as like a treatise for this people were talking about how I had multiracial movement written against the ‘Tragic Mullato’ archetype and that I had written this positive, strong heroine of mixed race that they had never read before. And I was like, ‘I really want to write cities. She said the atmosphere of Los fucked up characters because I’m a fiction Angles provides her more discretion for writer.’ I want to be free to write damaged writing. characters and often they will be biracial.” But Senna said, “I have kids and there is It was when she began writing Sympendless waking from the dream.” So, she tomatic that she encountered some of the said much of the learning curve has been more negative reviews. about growing as an author, but also de“Then I published my second book and veloping time management and navigating it was like the most horrible reviews,” Senna said. “Well, two things hapcontinued on page 18 pened, one was, I read the horrible re-
Fangelse
By Samantha Arbogast
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Fiction Winner
here has only ever been one explanation for my losing heavily at cards: someone was cheating harder than I was. The storm outside the tavern raged on, the windows rattling from the force of the wind, as I eyed each of my fellow players to see who was besting me at my own tricks. The drooling, slack jawed orc to my right was immediately crossed of off my list of potential suspects. The elf on my left was a far more likely suspect, every one of his kind I’d ever met had sticky fingers, but he seemed more preoccupied with trying to bed me than cheat me. That left the obvious werewolf and the human next to him. Well, obvious to anyone who had a heightened sense of smell and a history with his kind. I took a closer look at my final suspect, the man sitting directly across from me, the human. I wondered where he had come from. His clothing marked his as fellow adventurer. He was not handsome, by any means. His face matched his build, slender and aggressive. Long, unkempt black locks curled around his collar. A long, purple scar ran through his right eye. Another ran along the side of his jaw. His skin was dark from sun and dirt acquired from traveling. What could have been a well sculpted nose was marred by an unhealed break. His thin lips were pressed in a tight line, a scowl he had worn since the game had started. The man seemed to feel my gaze on him. His shifty, algae colored eyes met mine. For a moment, the scowl disappeared. It was replaced by a knowing smirk. The bastard knew he was besting me. Were my talismans not low on magic, I’d have sprung across the table and wrung his overly confident neck. In a cesspool like this, such an act would not have been out of the norm. But if in the struggle my cloak were to be removed and the other patrons were to see my true appearance, I doubt I would make it out alive. The talisman which disguised the real colors of my eyes was the only one I had on at the moment, the ones that hid my wolf ears and tail were too weak to use. People like myself and the half dog across the table had to be careful, our kind were the stuff lynch mobs are caused by. I looked over the human’s attire once again for a talisman he might be wearing to help him cheat. Being raised by a league of thieves had made my tricks at cards infallible. The only way someone could ever hope to beat me was through magic. His wrists were bare, and he wore nothing around his neck. Nothing he was wearing seemed to have any magical properties. The card game and my inspection of him began to wear well into the night. By the time the game had ended, I owed the strange man 5,000 pieces of gold. Considering I had joined the game hoping to cheat the other players out of enough to afford a room for the night, there was no way I
could hope to pay him. He waited, still sitting in the same seat he had been all night, while I tried to think of a way to stall. We were the only people still awake, the rest of the patrons having either left or passed out in a drunken stupor. The windows rattled loudly as the wind pummeled them, and the sound of the rain on the roof produced a dull roar. “As pleasant as your company is, wanderess, I’d like to be paid now.” His pleasant tone irked me. “You cheated. You used magic.” He fixed his steely gaze on me and said flatly, “Prove it.” “Because there is no better card player in all of Fangelse than I, you filthy cur. The only way you could ever have hoped to beat me was through magic.” I dropped my right arm to my side, where I kept a dagger hidden under my cloak. If the stranger couldn’t be persuaded, I may have to resort to violence, and such violence would be best perpetrated silently. “Well, considering I beat you fair and square, perhaps you aren’t the best card player in Fangelse after all.” “I refuse to pay for a game unfairly lost. You should be glad the other players were stupid enough to pay you for your ill-gotten wins.” “Something tells me you couldn’t pay me even if you wanted to. I’d wager you were hoping to make enough off of the fools in this tavern to last you to the next town. Of course, it’s not as though you could bet on the wager with me, destitute as you are.” I liked to think of myself as a reasonable woman. I may be a thief, but I’d always followed a strict moral code. No stealing from those who couldn’t afford it, no harming those who didn’t deserve it, and no killing unless absolutely necessary. The more time I spent with this man the more I reconsidered those rules. Even though the worst crime I could attribute to him at the moment was cheating at cards, something in my gut told me that was the least of his crimes. “I’m not someone you want to make an enemy. I sincerely suggest you wave my debt and consider yourself thankful I’ll be leaving you with your limbs intact.” There were many methods I’d used in the past to get out of situations like this. Unfortunately, magic, shapeshifting, and bribery were out of the question. And the idea of seducing the man to leave me alone made my skin crawl. Intimidation was my only option. “What terrifying words, wanderess. Unluckily for you, that is all they are. I’m not a simple peasant easily frighten by idle threats. I am not letting you leave without paying me what you owe.” The annoying smirk plastered on his face widened “But if you are devoid of gold, perhaps you can pay me in…another way.” I growled, the meaning behind his words obvious, “I’m not selling myself to a loathsome stranger for a night to repay perceived debts. If you lay a hand on me I swear to the gods I will rip your goddamned continContinued on page 17
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Forgotten Tank
By Nicholas Gaietto
Rainbow flakes tumble from the surface, I dash to eat them, Before they find the gaps between pebbles on the floor. Ned hovers far off in the corner, Doused in detachment, Shrouded by a tame volcano, People on the couch can’t see him. Two kids are transfixed by the TV, Their mom stares straight through. Their dad arranged a neighborhood of castles and corals, And often gave us hearty morsels. We’d nibble his salty fingers for dessert, His rough palms tickled my lips, His muffled laughs kept us company. He melted away the barriers, That were sure to reappear when he left. The littlest kid taps the glass, I flee to the safety of a shipwreck, Pulses fade and the swill relaxes. Ned is completely serene amongst the vegetation. He sheds his golden scales, They mingle with leftovers, Forming a brilliant spectrum on the rocky canvas. A shrine born of neglect but beautiful nonetheless. Green walls gently ascend, Dressed in black and trembling, She leads them out the door. LED’s flicker and fight the fog, The filter hums to a halt. I join Ned in the corner, And wait for him to come back.
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OdeKovacs to Dad
By Morgan
Poetry Finalist
Four years old, tucked into your elbow, head resting on your chest. My blonde strands hair tickle your shoulder like tiny kisses. The smell of booze hovers in the air between your chin and my cheeks. The empty can of Heineken on the floor, football on the TV, but your golden eyes are slits as you doze. Your heartbeat soothes me like a lullaby I wish I memorized. When I was five, you thought you killed me. Felt the slice of blades from your old lazy-boy cut through my forehead. You wrapped me in a comforter held me in strong arms, thinking you would need forgiveness. Twenty stitches in my head for school pictures. Dried blood matching my overalls. Somehow I think that made me trust you more. You’re still the only one I will ride a Harley with. I asked if we were rich. Rich in the way that matters. My eight-year-old self thought that was the wisest god-damn thing. Every time I talk to you, I’m ready to learn something. At seventeen I cried to you. The only time I did. I cried six hours straight. No questions asked. I was glad for that.
I think you must have been there, too. All you said, It’s okay to cry. I drank Guinness the first time in Dublin. Freshly 19. wanting so badly to like it, imagining us on the back porch, bonding over dark beer, comfortable silence watching over us, as I attempt mimicking your stoicism in a world that will scare me without you. Mom calls me stubborn like dad once a week She means pain-in-the-ass. At least I am compared to you. I hope your strength falls upon me, too. Like the day your dad died and somehow you were the one comforting me. I feel set up for failure. No one will be able to love me as much as you. An attempt would be like bringing Costco vodka, while the host serves French chardonnay. My greatest fear is forgetting these details. when my memories run together mucking up my childhood souvenirs the way waters displaces mud. I did not let mom put Mederma on my forehead. At five I wanted to look tough. twenty now, I carry a piece of you three inches across my head.
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PHOTO: Nicholas Gaietto
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PHOTO: Nicholas Gaietto Photography Winner
American Boy
By Kit McBee
Poetry Finalist
“Write a poem about smoke going out my car window” he poses impossibly, the sun sets behind the clock tower, behind his golden hair, skin and bones. We smoke like firemen.
We skip town, we’re out of pot and the night is a big, black car coasting on the highway, connecting two dreams, two travelers with too much time on the horizon and not enough space. We are on the run, pioneers with nowhere to settle.
9 PHOTO: Joe Heidenescher
Ebstein’s Anomaly
By Luke Skowronek
Poetry Winner
InByFebruary of ‘97, My mother’s split chest burst. My mother, with eyes of Earth, flattened by the weight of cloth sterile white. Her ribs dried like teeth, defined by red absences of prodigal affection. That muscle bleeding, pooling in crooked chambers. But sculpted now by elastic, divine hands, surgical hands, churning flesh ventricles, tricuspid, atria in the center of a glass room.
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The Death of a Brother
By Ben Berry
The stuff is shredded and strewn across the ditch. From the road it looks like dark confetti. Rain and wind and time will wash it all away, I suppose
Window tint is legal as long as they can see a license through it, he had told me. But I don’t like the color, he had said, so I may have it removed some day.
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Oil Painting by Michelle Coleman
Lone Star State
By Luke Skowronek
Poetry Winner
The tobacco crushed under a I walk in the city far from snow and euchre. stranger’s hard heel Far from pear blossom pungency, into the city’s epidermis. and mayflies’ infinite temper. I could smell the night. Far from home. The anxious Lone Star air like strings jumping and pulling In front of the mart on Stuebner Road I count one cigarette butt or tearing at the parked cars on the broken Texas pavement and the neighborhood lamps and wrinkled in the evening heat. my skin.
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The Queen and Me
By Emily Mowdrowski
When Queen Anne Pricked her finger While making lace It became an angelic flower But when the blood Drips down my arm There is no allure And unlike Queen Anne My prick has no beauty Because it came from the ugliest part Of my mind
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Zenith
By Kit McBee
Poetry Finalist
To X: We never went out, we danced in the living room, sharing space but never touching, and when it was time to draw swords we retreated to the ends of our universe and waited in the silence. The sky may fall and the stars may too circle the drain like your Neptune the night I decided to clear our sailor scout scepters from the shelf. The moon sat untouched, there was no more evil to fight, and no more love to win.
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If a different choice was made in your offering to me, I could have been Venus, the amorous body double. Who would you have been? The zealot in red, the champion in green, or the alchemist in blue? The answer lies in another life and nothing lives this far out. I am Pluto-the lonely mistress. Confide in me, Neptune; I am tired of meeting like this at a portal to the underworld, hot as it may be-trading smokes and sharing words but never touching.
PHOTO: Aubrey Thompson
Smiles
By Philip Zaborowski
That smile Hides rows of razor sharp fangs, Honed to deadly points by gnawing Upon the bones of my hopes And dreams. That smile Is a looming leviathan; That swallowed Me whole, And shat out this perverse abomination Called us. That smile Forms fulsome furrows Upon my forehead, and courses through My veins like Hemlock whenever It appears.
But. This smile Leaves me wonderingly wobbling— Like a toddler learning to walk, All over again, every single time It appears. This smile Is the unsinkable ship; I want to stow me away in, And embark on a new journey Called Us. This smile Hides nothing from me. A placid pond’s transparent waters, Filled with life and laughter and hope And dreams. 15 15
I am From
By Devon Ertle
I am from the blossoming Crabapple tree the Dogwood, the Pine and thorns in my feet. I am from broken bones in the backyard and a castle's stone wall. I'm from periwinkle and wicker wood from gun oil and Chanel No. 5 I am from hide and seek and TIPS on the trampoline from seaweed dancing in the lake and a pool shaped like a jellybean. I am from early morning woods and "Hush, you'll scare the deer." I am from pressing Papa's bullets. I am from Catholic school fear. I am from magic circle, magic keys, from a race around the world and a knobby wooden Shillelagh. I am from Irish lullabies and strong German pride. I am from "Ishkabibble" and "Biscuit," from three brothers raised by wolves and a string of names called before my own.
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Fangelse continued from page 5 throat out.” In a flash, I stood and whipped my dagger out, holding it defensively in front of me. His gaze flicked to it for a moment, unimpressed, then returned to me. “Someone has quite the opinion of herself. You truly think one night with you is worth 5,000 gold? I was thinking our affair would last quite a period longer than that. You would be working off your debt for a few months at least, princess.” He spoke the last word condescendingly. “Unless your prowess is truly as mind-blowing as you think.” “Pity you’ll never find out for yourself, you son of a jackass!” I aimed my dagger at his throat and threw it in one precise motion. Instead of silencing my opponent, it was caught between two fingers of his left hand. In a seamless motion similar to mine he threw my dagger back at me, though his aim was not at my throat, rather my right hand, which had moved to grab my bow and quiver. The recently sharpened blade hit my hand almost dead center, slicing through flesh and bone with ease. I hissed at the pain, though a dagger in the hand was one of the lesser injuries I’d acquired throughout my life. Hell, as a child on a slaver ship, I would have been grateful for just a dagger in the hand. There was no time to assess my wound, the stranger had stood up and was coming towards me. I clumsily reached down with my left hand to retrieve my bow and arrows. When I straightened with my bow held awkwardly with my left hand, the stranger was upon me. He grasped my shoulders painfully. I froze when I met his gaze. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. Without warning, he brought his head down, making forceful contact with the bridge of my nose. I registered the pain for a second, then blacked out. When I regained consciousness I found myself slumped against a wall in one of the tavern’s guest rooms. Pain radiated from my nose to the back of my skull. The stranger had just finished tending to my wounded hand. His gaze met mine as he finished tying the bandage. I jerked my hand away from him and held it against my chest. “What kind of sick son of a bitch head-butts a lady?” “What kind of lady throws a dagger at an unarmed man’s throat?” I refused to respond to his foolishness. I turned my attention to my surroundings. The furniture was as threadbare and dirty as the main room of the tavern had been. On the tattered bed I spotted my bear belt knapsack and all of its contents spread out. A violated outrage immediately hit me. “You! You rummaged through my things! How dare you! You flea-bitten, low down, savage-” “As much as I’d like to continue listening to you flaunt your extensive vocabulary,” his voice practically dripped with sarcasm “there is no need for you to get so upset. I was simply trying to ascertain if there was something in your possession that could help repay your debt to me. Aside from a few worn out talismans, your bow, and the dagger you threw at me, there wasn’t anything of value. Although I must say you
have excellent taste in weapons.” I ignored his taunt, grateful he hadn’t searched my bag too thoroughly. I had hidden my most important possession within it, my golden ticket out of Fangelse. “Though upon a more in-depth inspection, I found something rather curious hidden inside the lining of your pack. What looks to be a map. Care to elaborate on my findings?” My stomach dropped. It looked like I had to finally turn to my last resort. I was wounded, unarmed, and in the presence of who I now realized was a very dangerous man. “It’s a treasure map, ok? A map to the biggest treasure this rock has. And it’s my ticket out of here, you understand?” “The lost treasure of the first Fangelisians. Always thought that was just a bedtime story.” “Well. It’s not. When the Fangelse was first created, and all the worst criminals of the free world were sent here, the mages took their riches from them and hid them here. A final insult to those they banished. Stranded on an island prison with the riches they could never recover. I’m going to follow that map, find it, and leave this hellhole for good.” The stranger raised an eyebrow at me “The value of even a little of the treasure will be ten times what I owe you, so if you’d like… we can be partners.” “What if I just kill you here and take the map for myself?” The stranger smirked down at me. “Then you’d be a fool, and out 5,000 gold. The chamber to the treasure can only be opened with a specific spell, and I’m the only one still breathing who knows it.” I matched his steely gaze with my own. I was lying. This man had beaten me at my best skill, cheating, and I had to pray he could best me at my second best: lying. “Well it seems teaming up would be our only option then. Split the treasure 50/50?” “50/50! I only owe you 5,000! That’s flat out robbery!” “With interest, and the fact that you tried to kill me earlier, it only seems fair. Not to mention I assume I will be the one funding this adventure.” He had me dead to rights and we both knew it. I gritted my teeth and shrugged. “I guess you’re right.” “Since we’ll be traveling together, I should probably know your name, princess.” His smirk widened “Unless you like being called princess.” “Go fuck yourself. That’s my name, asshole.” “Growing up with a name like that must have been tough, Go fuck yourself. Mine’s Dante. Dante Thorne.” He held out his hand to me. Something told me if I didn’t give him my name he would keep calling me go fuck yourself, just to be irritating. “Sita. And no I won’t give you my last name.” I accepted his hand. He shook it with the formality of closing a formal business arrangement. Though the grin on his face was anything but formal. “Sita, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership.”
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Danzy Senna continued from page 4 the reactionary world. To the English students in the room, she did give some advice. She said that college is a special place where you are still protected from the tumultuous world outside. “This is a space that is really precious,” Senna said, “before you are out there in the marketplace, where a lot of your aesthetics are evolving, and you have all these smart readers and critics around you and you should use them because after school it gets further and further from that space of purity as an artist.” Not only did Senna urge to use time in school wisely, but she also said it is fundamental to stay up to date on reading. “Reading could never get in your way if you are reading as a writer,… never think reading will get in your way, it’s the way that you read. Sometimes theory can mess you up. They [theorists] are doing a different job than you are. I would say you have to kick Bell Hooks and Judith Butler out of the room if you’re writing fiction. I love both of them, but they have no space in a fiction writer’s office. And you’re not going to try to take their theory and put it into practice. You’d be much better served going to your memory bank than to their works. Danzy Senna is the author of the national bestselling novel Caucasia, winner of the Book of the Month Award for First Fiction and the American Library Association’s Alex Award. Caucasia was a finalist for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, was named a Los Angeles Times Best Book of the Year and has been translated into eight languages. A recipient of the Whiting Writers Award, Ms. Senna is also the author of the novel Symptomatic, and the memoir, Where Did You Sleep Last Night? A Personal History, which she researched and wrote as a fellow at the New York Public Library’s Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers, and the story collection, You Are Free. Her latest work, a novel, New People, is being published by Riverhead Books in August 2017. 18
About the Winners Luke Skowronek Poetry Winner
My name is Luke Skowronek, and I am a 20 year old sophomore. I entered the University undecided, but I discovered my passion for reading and writing after taking a several interesting classes. I am now an English Literature major, and I hope to one day teach literature and composition to my own students.
Morgan Kovacs Poetry Finalist
I am a junior in the English department at UT with a focus in Creative Writing. I enjoy writing poetry the most, but non-fiction is a strong second. Upon graduating next spring, I plan to either attend graduate school or teach English abroad.
Kit McBee Poetry Finalist
Kit McBee, 22, of Sylvania, Ohio, is a third year student at the University of Toledo. Kit studies history, creative writing and psychology and hopes to attend graduate school for either literature or creative writing. Kit would like to thank his professors for their guidance, his friends for their love and encouragement, and his mother for raising him to be this way. Special thanks go out to Dustin Nichols and Tim Aumiller.
Nicholas Gaietto Photography Winner
I am a junior majoring in Film and minoring in Music Technology. I was born in Tiffin and moved to Toledo to attend UT. I love writing music and making short films whenever I can. I hope to compose soundtracks for films and produce music videos in the future.
Samantha Arbogast Fiction Winner
Samantha Arbogast is a science fiction/fantasy writer finishing her third year at the University of Toledo. Her hobbies include writing and procrastinating from writing through video games. She is currently in the process of getting her first novel published.
The Mill Literary Magazine is now accepting submissions for Fall 2017! You can submit your poetry, prose, non-fiction, photography and graphic artwork to themillmagazine@gmail.com Deadline: August 20, 2017
Contributing Authors and Artists Morgan Kovacs Emily Mowdrowski Marisa Mercurio Luke Skowronek Devon Ertle Kit McBee Nicholas Gaietto Philip Zaborowski Ben Berry Joe Heidenescher Samantha Arbogast Abby Filka Michelle Coleman Aubrey Thompson Special thanks to Danzy Senna
The Mill Literary Magazine Spring 2017