Port City Review 2013 by SCAD District

PORT CITY REVIEW

T HE PR E M I E R E I S S U E

STAFF

Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Copy Editor Creative Director Adviser Creator

Eric Ramirez Danielle Austin Shannon Craig Gabby Manotoc Allison Bennett Dyche Kenneth Rosen

Copyright & Colophon Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights over their material. Any editorial statement, element of design or work composed by the editorial staff is the intellectual property of the SCAD Student Media Center. No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff, and the adviser. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal accepting the work of SCAD students exclusively, via a submissions process. Published content is determined by student editors. Opinions expressed in Port City Review are not necessarily those of the college. The first copy of Port City Review is available free of charge to SCAD students, faculty and staff. Subsequent copies of the journal, and copies for the general public, are available for $10 each. Inquiries should be made to submissions@scaddistrict.com or 912-525-5681. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct. The fonts used in the publication of the Port City Review are Arvo, Ostrich Sans, and Hero. This journal was designed by Gabby Manotoc with the use of Adobe Photoshop CS6 and Adobe InDesign CS6. Digital illustrations and graphics were created by Gabby Manotoc. The paper is 150 gr. UPM Finesse silk text, and the cover is 250 gr. Ensocoat silk cover. You are holding one of 1,500 copies printed. Printed in Iceland by Oddi Printing.

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L E T T E R FR O M T HE E D I TO R S There is more talent at SCAD thaN can be printed on a couple dozen pages. Goodbye District Quarterly, Hello Port City Review.

Sincerely,

the district editorial board

02 04 CONTENTS SEE 05 FEEL 43 EXPERIENCE 77 SUBMIT 96 ABOUT

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

YOU ARE HERE

PHOTOGRAPHS, ILLUSTRATIONS, GRAPHIC DESIGN, ETC.

POETRY, FICTION, NON-FICTION (WITH A FEW PHOTOS MIXED IN)

SCULPTURE, JEWELRY, INDUSTRIAL, INTERIOR, PACKAGING, ETC.

BE PART OF THE NEXT ISSUE

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E E S 5

Eight Arms to Hold You Tori Walls Photography major Port St. Lucie, Fla. Digital Photography

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SEE

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ALL WORK BY: Cleonique Hilsaca Graphic Design & Illustration major Tegucigalpa, Honduras Mixed Media

OPPOSITE PAGE: Roots Digital

ABOVE: Cloudshaper Mixed Media

RIGHT: Regina Spektor Mixed Media

SEE

Identity Design Charles Miller Graphic Design major Cantonment, Fla. Digital

SEE

RIGHT: Instruments Nam Nghiêm Illustration major Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Gouache

BELOW: Gold, Frankincense, and Mercenaries Gloria McAndrew Sequential Art major Oswego, N.Y. Digital Illustration

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I Used to Be Like Ben Ben Tollefson Painting major Long Valley, N.J. Oil on Canvas

SEE

Two Brothers Gazing into Possibility (above); Things were Good (above right); He Has His Father’s Eyes (below right) Timothy Hutto Photography major St. Petersburg, Fla. Digital Inkjet Print

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SEE

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

OPPOSITE PAGE:

ABOVE:

Honey David Silverstein Illustration major Westport, Conn. Digital

Hedonic Hunger Timothy Kaminski Illustration major Mio, Mich. Digital

SEE

Hidden Box of Mysteries Andrea Ramsey Illustration major Johnson City, Tenn. Charcoal and Pastel on Paper

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Hien Portrait Nam Nghiêm Illustration major Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Graphite Pencil

Self Portrait 2 Nam Nghiêm Illustration major Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Charcoal and Soft Pastel

SEE

Captive of Self Alejandra M. Alvergue Illustration major San Salvador, El Salvador Ink

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Old Man on a Boat Alex Rivera Sequential Art major Louisville, Ky. Pen and Ink

SEE

Fish Face Nicole Errico Illustration major Melrose, Mass. Pen, Corel Painter, Photoshop

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The Singer Songwriter Project Piet Aukeman Graphic Design major Hudsonville, Mich. Printmaking 18” x 24”

SEE

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Lacuna, Inc. Website Piet Aukeman Graphic Design major Hudsonville, Mich. Digital

SEE

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OPPOSITE PAGE: Wild Swans Feng Huang Animation major Wuhan, China Ink, Paper, Computer RIGHT: Wilson Andres Del Valle Illustration major Mexico City, Mexico Digital

UH Andres Del Valle Illustration major Mexico City, Mexico Digital

SEE

ABOVE: A Marriage in God’s Hands Nae’Keisha Jones Illustration major Savannah, Ga. Pen and Ink RIGHT: Who are you Jonathan Moody Visual Effects major New Orleans, La. Digital Painting, Photoshop

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ABOVE: Feeling Weak Elizabeth Jean Younce Graphic Design major Newport, R.I. Etching RIGHT: Wizard of Oz Nicky Soh Sequential Art major Singapore Digital Illustration, Photoshop

SEE

ALL WORK BY: Andrew Lawandus Graphic Design major Augusta, Ga.

ABOVE: Grizzly Bear Silkscreen BELOW: Veronica Falls Silkscreen OPPOSITE PAGE: The Evolution of Cellphones Silkscreen

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SEE

Disabled Dirty Angel Muktan Fashion major Kathmandu, Nepal Acrylic and Gouache on Canvas

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Soil Mirage [bleed] August Northcut Illustration major Louisville, Ky. Intaglio

SEE

Infected White Olivia Ramsden Visual Effects major Savannah, Ga. Maya, Photoshop CS4

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Need to Breathe Timothy Kaminski Illustration major Mio, Mich. Digital

SEE

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OPPOSITE PAGE:

THIS PAGE:

Jean and Dinah Lyrics Poster Nicholas Huggins Graphic Design major Maraval, Trinidad and Tobago Adobe Illustrator

Georgia Typeface Promotional Poster & Mailer Cleonique Hilsaca Graphic Design & Illustration major Tegucigalpa, Honduras Digital

SEE

21st Century Carmen Miranda Katherine Norsk Photography major Copenhagen, Denmark Photography

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Veronica Andrew Greenwood Photography major Tallahassee, Fla. Digital Photography 16” x 20”

SEE

Puppeteer Nicky Soh Sequential Art major Singapore Digital Illustration, Photoshop

Daddy Go Round Nicky Soh Sequential Art major Singapore Digital Illustration, Photoshop

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Untitled 1 Marcus Newton Photography major Northport, N.Y. Photography

SEE

Chemicals #10 Emma Debany Photography major Ridgefield, Conn. Digital Photography

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L E E F 43

Feel

SOUTHERN HUM Non-FICTION

Alexa Boehringer Writing Major Savannah, Ga.

They came with May — or at least their awakening did. They’d actually been in Georgia since I was nine. That’s when their parents died, leaving them behind — buried, even, in holes. Left to wait. Then, I was a third-grader in Ms. Barnett’s class. But when I heard them, I was double that age, and more. I was a senior in college and I was waiting. Waiting to graduate, waiting to leave — pining, really. For thirteen years they’d slept waiting for their turn, their time. Damn, they were patient. But it’s no wonder they were so loud. After thirteen years, who wouldn’t be? It wasn’t that we minded them, no, that wasn’t it. They just surprised us, arriving all at once, and without warning. We woke up to them, in fact. Does anyone like waking up to unexpected guests? Unexpected, noisy guests? They were loud and demanding, and for a moment, we were scared. Unsure, all of us in Macon living so close to the woods. Bewildered by that low droning, that incessant thrum. What is that, we Wesleyan women asked each other, pausing mid-step. We stopped, listening, heads held to the side. Frowning, our brows wrinkled with worry. The sound was foreign, unlike anything, yet still, somehow familiar. Like something we’d heard before — in a past life perhaps. Or in a different language. We couldn’t name it, couldn’t quite put our finger on it. What is it? That noise? That strange sound? Hear it? Do you? What in the …

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We liked making ado about it. Was it the whirring of a tornado? A distant siren’s blare? Was it only in our heads? It was too loud, too powerful and too constant. It stopped, we learned, at nightfall, and started up again at dawn. It was … something else. It sounded most like bees buzzing, swarming over a hive, and like we were right up next to it. Like we were in it, with the bees, surrounded. Like bees, yes, but without any inflections, no intonations. No change in pitch or pattern. No deviation from that one, almighty hum. To me, that’s what it was — a hum, hymn-like and holy. It sounded like singing, like one long, unending song. __________________________________________

THOSE MYSTERIOUS LITTLE CREATURES DEMANDED MY ATTENTION. __________________________________________ Communal, even sacred. If it was music, it was gospel. I remember sitting in the white rocker, rocking and listening. Staring into the woods. From Banks’ front porch, they sounded so loud, so fascinating, so … magnetic. There on the porch I was close, just feet away. I was intrigued, even after I knew what they were, why they were singing. How could I not be? Those mysterious little creatures demanded my attention. I felt like they called — to me. I didn’t mind it. I secretly liked the distraction. I felt trapped and frustrated, so close to graduating and leaving Wesleyan and moving to Savannah and finally marrying my love yet still so far away. I needed an escape, and I had a feeling it was in the woods. I got up out of the rocker and walked past the lake toward the thick tree line. The empty chair continued to rock on the porch, taking its time to stop. The woods were a spiritual place for me. Quiet trails gave me time to think and pray. I’d sought solace in them, walking and running by myself but never truly alone. They held a Presence, hushed yet felt. Among those trees, by the stream, I prayed to God for my love. We were getting married in the summer.

Feel

Now, I returned. I’d heard they were ugly, all wings and legs. Prehistoric. Somebody said they stared through bright orange eyes, stalklike and reaching. Seeing. But word of mouth and the occasional corpse eventually revealed all. They called them, those cacophonous 13 year-olds, the Great Southern Brood. And their song? Well, I named it the Great Southern Hum. The closer I got to the woods, the louder the hum reverberated. Just outside the edge, I paused. I looked up, into the treetops and above. I expected to see something, some busyness, some flit or flutter. But there was nothing at all. The source, I knew, was deeper within. I entered the woods. The warm air smelled green, like rain and dirt. Once inside, I’d expected the Hum to engulf me. I’d anticipated a thunderous, deafening roar. But inside the trees, the hum mellowed. It tuned. It was like stepping into a warp, or a bubble. The sound rose up around me, shooting up tree trunks. Branches diffused it, while leaves, like blankets, simply absorbed. __________________________________________

There was nothing to fear, thank god.

__________________________________________ Where were they? My eyes shot around — nervously, curiously. I’d imagined a thick horde of scary eyes and scratchy legs and black, buzzing swarms — an intense fear of mine. But for some reason, I’d risked it. I’d wanted to see them that much. Their coming felt mythical — not too be missed. After all, they wouldn’t be back until 2024. But even then, it wouldn’t be them. My eyes continued to search, to hunt. Nowhere, though, did I see hordes or swarms. There was nothing to fear, thank God. The woods, like a haven, were peaceful. I scoured the trees, my neck craned up to the sky. Every now and then, I heard something whiz by, above and away. It would land in a cluster of leaves, hidden from view. Despite their loud singing, the Brood, it turned out, was shy. Their taste for unrestraint showed up only in their song. The only orange-eyed specimens I spotted were a few of the fallen. Their tiny winged

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bodies decorated the otherwise only leaf-covered floor. Asleep, so soon again, their toothpick-like legs tucked beneath them. Other than this final embrace, they still looked alive. They still stared. What I did see plenty of were molts. Thousands upon thousands of transparent skins — all a tinged yellow, like antiques. They hung from leaves and twigs, and some stuck to bark. Each one looked exactly the same, a perfect casing of a past life. But what would happen to all these shells? And later, all the silent, orange-eyed bodies? The Great Southern Brood was on a timeline — they’d only sing until July. Then, like their parents thirteen years earlier, they’d die. They’d fall from the trees, joining the growing piles as tokens of change, cycle, and metamorphosis. I was gone by then, and for the better. I didn’t want to see them die. I didn’t want to one day wake up and notice, instead of humming, a new stillness, a silence. That Southern Hum — that’s what I wanted to remember, to hear in my rememberings. Not the quiet. I wanted the music, that gospel, nature’s low, pulsing hymn. Driving away after graduation, a few tears slipped from my eyes. I was leaving — free — and saying goodbye to a metamorphosis of my own. The Brood, though, left with a promise to come back. See, all that time they were humming, they were really preparing. Their short life, in truth, wasn’t for them. It was for the next thirteen years — the next Great Southern Brood. Their humming was for each other. For love. It’s been a year since the sound. The eggs laid by this Brood have already hatched. Little Brooders are in the ground, buried safely, secretly. For thirteen years, they’ll sip on tree root juice. They’ll grow. They’ll wait. Then they’ll wake up and get to work. This time we’re expecting them. Some of us can’t wait.

Feel

Untitled (Witches #2) Emma Debany Photography major Ridgefield, Conn. 120 film, Digital Photo

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#1 POETRY

SARA UHLIG

Dramatic writing Major Durham, N.C.

Skin to skin Up in flame upon contact. The hum of electrical current running through veins and nervous shudders. Your laughter pulls rabbits out of hats and I am drunk with impression. Our existence reveals hidden acres, and we believe that we are the greatest act that ever lived. Let me live in the depths of your lapping waves and I will let you settle somewhere between my heart and my mind. Together we will hold hands and be aware of the spaces in-between. You are the first and the last. The inhale and the exhale. The build up and release. The all and the nothing. From the dark to the light we move forward And find there is nothing to look back upon.

Feel

THE STORY O F WA N T AND NEED POETRY

Jamie GREENHUT

Dramatic writing Major Delray Beach, Fla.

This is the story of Want and Need. Two very different, yet similar creatures. Quite hard to explain, but I’ll do my best.

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You see, Want was energetic. Extroverted, and enthusiastic. And many more “E” words. Yet, despite Want’s many acquaintances, throughout all of the excitement, Want didn’t feel complete. People liked Want, enjoyed Want’s company — yet, nobody seemed to stay as long as Want would have liked. Friends and lovers came and went, leaving Want confused and lonely. Want couldn’t understand this feeling, until one day … Want looked in the mirror, and had an epiphany. Slowly speaking aloud: “I want to be needed.” Need wasn’t like Want. Need was more complex. Need enjoyed groups, yet thrived in the more than occasional solitude of a book or a drawing pad. Need moved slower than Want — more calculating and logical, but animatedly so. Need had friends, lovers, and yet, Need felt something missing. Though Need was happy, there was a void. And voids are no fun, for anyone. Why was this happening, when Need felt things were all right as they were? It wasn’t until one day … Need sat down, hugging knees to chest, and had an epiphany. Slowly speaking aloud: “I need to be wanted.” And so, life went on for Need and Want. They had friends, they had lovers. They had trials, tribulations; good days, and bad days. They grew and they broke and they lost and they flew. And then, they met.

Want was skeptical and Need was hesitant. They began spending time together. They ate, they talked; they worked, and played, and laughed, and shared. On one strange and fateful day: They kissed.

Feel

And kissed again. And again. And maybe once more? Just once more. Want began to hope, and Need began to think. Need began to break, and Want patched up the pieces. Want began to melt, and Need mopped up the mess. It was oddly comfortable, indescribably so. And they liked it that way. So, it continued. And they continued. Until one day… Want and Need looked straight at each other, and had a shared epiphany. Want looked at Need. Thought about how much they thought about them. How much they liked, and laughed, and marveled at the creature that was Need; the magnificently wonky and interlocking gears that made them up. And Want said, “I need you.” And, it all made sense. Need looked at Want. At the misshapen, broken pieces that made up such an enigmatic puzzle. How they enjoyed Want’s presence and warmth and care; the compliments Need didn’t think they deserved (which they most certainly did). And Need said, “I want you.” And, it all made sense.

The sky opened up, and light shone through the clouds, illuminating the room. “I need you.” “I want you.”

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And, it all made sense. Their fears, their hopes, their dreams Their passions and fantasies and urges. Their happiness and sorrow; their beauty and their courage. All made sense.

And so, Want and Need realized that they had been missing exactly what they desired. They held hands, linked their fingers. Smiled, and became Have.

Want is needed Need is wanted.

Two halves, who now have What they needed, What they wanted.

And, all was well.

Feel

The Farm Taylor Matthews Photography major Birmingham, Ala. Digital Photography

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THERE IS NO REST HERE NON-FICTION

TimOTHY HUTTO Photography Major St. Petersburg, Fla.

Cold March air tingles my face, reassuring me that the heat has been off for a long time. I’m awakened by the tell-tale stumbling of my host from the hallway. Brianna stamps on the warped planks like she wants me to be conscious for her arrival. The boots that signaled her return catch my eye. Black leather entwines her netted legs, as if the pale calves and torn stockings needed more restraint. Shiny spikes glitter in the early morning light, threatening to puncture more than the apartment’s air. Her unsure steps make the floor moan noises too harsh to be intended. The bedroom door joins an uncomfortable duet as she turns her back to me. It’s early morning in Chicago. A greasy hour that reminds me I’m up too early or awake too late. She’s glistening with old makeup and the early stages of a hangover. Blankets of whiskey and cigarettes from last night’s shift at the bar settle in the room. I can smell sweat wringing the poison out of her blood. A Saharan thirst rises in my throat for the powerful drink beading on her skin. My tongue wants to lick the poison off of her skin. Coat my lips with the filth of the night one more time.

Feel

Lethargically she peels off a skirt that is much too short for winter. Careless fingers tear the worn stockings into drunken rags. Her eyes lock to mine in last call desperation. She’s drunk again and looking to score. Dressed only in a pair of faded lace panties, she climbs under the tattered blankets to join me. Her body is Antarctica against my night spent under covers. Laying her shaved head on my chest, I feel a pang of lust. It startles me. I know what time it is. No one sleeps for free in this world. She loves playing the coquette as I watch her tattoos roll away from me. I follow like I have a choice in the matter. We kiss hard like anvil sparks, cascading into another foolish lovers’ dance. Lying on top of her my thoughts run away to another lover in another city. My face slackens, lost in a world of fantasy. __________________________________________

my thoughts run away to another lover in another city.

__________________________________________ Her chipped nails shove me off as the venomous words “you’ve changed,” ring in my ears. I’m afraid of what it means to stay in this place for another day. Fearfully, I cradle her until she drifts to sleep. She begins to snore and I plan my escape. The stakes feel higher than they actually are. My mouth clenches as the frozen floor forces a sharp breath. I feel a criminal thrill in every move. Down the hall, a hot shower cleanses my skin but the dirty feelings remain. Watching the water rush down the drain, I notice it’s been stained by hair dye. It doesn’t wash off, it never washes off.

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Without a word, I gather my bags and move them to the car. She dozes in and out of her drunken slumber while I scribble a note attempting to apologize. I fold it in half and place it in a coffee cup I bought but never intended to leave behind. On the road, city traffic pumps like heart-attacked veins. I pride myself on moving forward but I’m so very tired. I’ll be fine, lying to myself again and again. From the confusion of America’s slaughterhouse, a clear spring morning glows across vast plains of flat vegetation. The weather degenerates into a television channel tuned to a dead station. Music floats in time with the flurries that begin to stick to the road. __________________________________________

A cacophony of ripping metal and breaking plastic is pierced by my screams.

__________________________________________ Recklessly hurling eastward at 20 over the speed limit, my hands are pressed white around the steering wheel. Factory tinted rain punches from the steel sky. The road freezes into a nightmare of uncertainty. My life stretches before me during a heavy blink. A happy memory is over too quick. Time is pulled too far and it snaps back with a SLAM! A cacophony of ripping metal and breaking plastic is pierced by my screams. Shock and fear bring me back to reality. At 80 miles per hour, violence awakens me behind the wheel. The windshield an opaque pile of sliver strands. The stone guardrail punches my front bumper. Flat rocky hands claw through the metal toward my throat. It’s pebbled fingers twisting my wheels to a stop. Adrenalin pumps in an attempt to keep me alive. My thoughts are still muddy in the chemical haze that plunged me into sleep.

Feel

Am I bleeding? Is anything broken? Who the f*** do I call? How do I? Where’s my phone? My hands scramble through the interior of my car. Bright interior lights fill the cracks on my windshield. In my glove compartment, my right hand discovers a red envelope: “We hope you never have to open this,” the number for roadside assistance next to a tiny pencil and paper scraps. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to dial the number. An admission of defeat. As if this were a problem I should solve alone. My whole life I’ve wanted to fix my own problems and never ask for help. __________________________________________

Yellowed teeth And Stained Fingertips Beckon Me into the cab.

__________________________________________

The phone rings and a woman’s voice begins — polite banter as if we’re estranged friends. I wish she would just shut up and give me what I need. After minutes that stretch like hours, I’m given the number for highway patrol. A wrong number. Tractor-trailers tear the air next to my car. I shake as they pass. Quaking on the steering wheel, thinking they will crumple what’s left of me. Cold sweat prickles the back of my neck awaiting another impact at killer speed. Every set of headlights in my mirror freshly squeezes panic out of my hands. My eyes barricaded from the light. I begin asking the empty air “Will I get hit again?” “Please don’t hit me,” I beg silently. A state trooper taps on my window, all of the terror and confusion transform to excitement. One step closer to finishing the

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race. One step closer to the next city, the next woman, the next tragedy. They ask what happened. I tell them what I remember. “Think I fell asleep at the wheel,” I tell them with my eyes lowered. “You’re lucky to be alive!” the trooper lectures me. A tow truck arrives full of jovial vultures. They scrape my broken car off the road with steel claws driven by pneumatic blood. Yellowed teeth and stained fingertips beckon me into the cab. We drive through mile after indistinguishable mile of countryside. I watch the gray horizon for a sign that everything is right with the universe. My mind wanders the farmland in search of a warm, dry place to sleep for a thousand years. I’m forced back into the cold when we stop for a tollbooth. I assume they come through often from the friendly cackling between the windows. I wonder about the payment when the driver looks in my direction. “What?,” I think in amazement. You have to pay for the passage of your car, broken or not. At the wrecker shop I pace cartoonish ruts in to the floor waiting on a replacement car. There is so much confusion in the air about what is going on. I can sort it out. I’ll fix this, like I do everything else. Champagne-colored and a few years old, the rental car is bitter like my grandfather’s chewing tobacco. It’s got a back seat so big that I could take a nap if I wanted to. The thought passes as my bags fill the empty space and remind me that there is no rest here.

Feel

Untitled Joseph Jacob Photography major Severna Park, Md. Photography

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LACING IN THE CITY Poetry

Taylor Kigar Writing Major South Bend, Ind.

Lacing in the city passing freckles on the lips A young black couple sat in the corner of the subway decoding lisps and flecking freshly pierced tongues. They mumble through words, mouths clumsy with metal. They’ll teach each other how to talk again. To eat. To kiss. Did you really love me so much that you scrawled our names in the stall of the subway station bathroom? Is that a proclamation? Declaring your devotion to the rats and the damp toilet paper dissolving in streaks of urine on the floor? Feel the fermented heat well up from the bowels of the city. Feel the street above you, sutured with hot tar veins. They offer me broken pieces of old jewelry, a gun in my back. I sit and listen to the air conditioning rain, the howls of the drunk men across the street. “Talk to me please,” he said. “About anything. I just need some conversation. We could escape to a place where skyscrapers don’t block the sunrise and lie in broken fields of weeds that still need pollination.” But the rain only washes clean those who aren’t already in the dirt, and darling we are filthy.

Feel

#2 POETRY

SARA UHLIG

Dramatic Writing Major Durham, N.C.

We are all magnificent creatures we are porcelain and ivory red clay and brown earth We are all enormous typhoons and tiny ants for we both run and ruin We are all tree rings stacked on top of our own roots that plunge growth into past, present, and future Let us blossom perish and renew

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BOX GHOST AND MR. QUIN

(WEARY LADY)

Fiction

ALIYAH CURRY

Dramatic writing Major Enterprise, Ala, Thank you for coming home after a long night of being up in the moon clouds; they melted away with the reds of the daybreak, and so you decided to come home. You, still blitzed, with your eyelashes buzzing like bees’ wings, in your brain you’re still burning, want me to tuck you into bed, put soul music on the radio, and make Ramen noodles, beef. Yesterday afternoon I had a dream that Box Ghost was in charge of dinner and we had candy everywhere. Mr. Quin, valuing my nutritional needs, asked me to dinner, and we walked 10 streets, and never ate. We walked, and, in a way, my belly became full just by talking to him. His menthol breath was mist, dust in twilight. I imagined it never ending, filling up the street, and eventually, us all breathing in the stray ends of his poems. His lengthy shadow molded with fading light as up Broughton we strolled, past bus benches, women ready to go home, just off work. Perverse old man stepping out to me, then stepping back as Mr. Quin’s arm covers my shoulder. I am safe. His same fingers that guide ink with steady grace could kill with a snap. Guided by his arm, I am led to waltz in museums, late viewings in hallways and atriums. The waltz music got heavy, then cello strings split, and my belly felt empty, and a jealous man with hateful eyes somehow managed to break that strong arm, and That’s the last thing I remember from the dream, and when I woke up, the streetlight was casting the desk’s shadow on the wall and you were still gone. I hope that sufficed as your morning bedtime story. Now sleep, and sober up.

Feel

The Beast Simon Cooper Illustration major Charleston, S.C. Pen and Ink, Photoshop

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MR. NUGGLES Fiction

ABIGAIL GLASER Writing Major Lothian, MD.

Mrs. Vigosa was a nasty sort of woman. She looked to be about the size of a full-grown walrus. She had a mole on her upper lip with four black hairs that would tickle her nose when she talked. She was the sort of woman that chewed with her mouth open, lips smacking, saliva oozing, mashed food churning. She never washed her hands and believed in picking your nose in broad daylight, but her greatest offense was Mr. Nuggles, the fat Siamese cat that she brought to work with her. Franny was raised to be a polite, contained sort of woman. She believed in manners and a firm sense of time — that meant having a schedule and keeping to it. It also meant saying please and thank you and nothing at all, if you had no nice thoughts. This was why Mrs. Vigosa thought Franny quite incompetent. Franny rarely spoke a word in the presence of Mrs. Vigosa and her despicable cat, for all she could think to say were words promoting proper hygiene or a balanced diet — lectures on the former directed solely at Mrs. Vigosa because, while Mr. Nuggles was the size of a baby dolphin, he was nothing if not clean. Therefore, it was quite normal that Franny found herself brooding in a ladylike manner as Mrs. Vigosa sat behind her desk spoon-feeding Mr. Nuggles his canned tuna. It was 9:15 in the morning, which made this the second feeding Franny had been forced to watch today. Three to go.

Feel

After Mr. Nuggles was tucked into his white baby carriage — he had lost the ability to walk on his own four legs after his first year living in the care of Mrs. Vigosa — Franny was able to resume her filing without distraction. Several hours passed, in the expected manner, when Mrs. Vigosa began digging around in Mr. Nuggles’ care bag. Oh dear. Mr. Nuggles is out of food. The poor dear will starve. A chair toppling startled Franny. She looked up to see Mrs. Vigosa thrusting her fat arm through her purse strap. “Franny, dear, I have to go. Mr. Nuggles is out of food. Be a dear and watch him for me,” she said trotting her wide frame out the door. Lovely. The workday dwindled on until the clock chimed five, closing time. Franny stopped working and looked up, only to realize Mrs. Vigosa had not yet returned. Odd. __________________________________________

Oh dear. Mr. Nuggles is out of food.

__________________________________________

“I’m afraid she’s unavailable at the moment,” said the man. “Well, do you know when she will be available?” Franny questioned. “Never,I’m afraid. Mrs. Vigosa’s dead. Died this mornin’.” “What?” “She was crushed to death by a display of canned cat food. I was standing next to her when it happened.” How tragic. “Ma’am … ma’am, did you hear me? She told me to tell you she wanted you to have Mr. Nuggles, handed me her phone, and took her last breath. Have you any idea what —” Franny slammed the receiver down.

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STONING, BONING, ATO N I N G Poetry

J.S. Perez

WRITING MAJOR Savannah, Ga.

I remind you Of cigarette smoke tricks in a chipped-counter kitchen Mosquitoes swarming bare dusty bulbs Of hackneyed homemade anodynes We blended herb and flower bud and root — A bitch’s brew of ill-conceived carnal larceny We swallowed libel whole and s*** indifference on the razor-split tongues of snakes in the den Of the stench and the din of stale, stained-carpet rebellion Trip after trip, the gags and the moans and the swell of cunnilingus-cut tongues Of damaged goods and the broken bonds of stacked pseudo-sex empty nights But even more, the reams of well-rehearsed rhetoric When hardly breathing, we force-fed consolations for empty lechery Keeping penitent hours when the beds had gone cold and of the wanton war story swaps on waking We cigarette-burned bastards We heartfelt blasphemers hushed and laughed over eggs and coffee We offered cynical supplication to Croce’s Holy Ghost and I rubbed one out and went back to sleep

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ELLA Poetry

Brianna Howarth Writing Major Cinnaminson, N.j.

September shadows sway in the moonlight Pick apart the pieces of the puzzle Wretched whiskey calling your name As your heart echoes the sweet syllables Of a lady so sophisticated, Ella Those long eyelashes reeling you in Hands crafted to hold and to care Silk skin, fingertips to flesh Thinking about her makes you ache Vodka glass sparkles under the light Just like her eyes did that one summer night Sadness lingers by your barstool Suddenly the loneliness slithers in too Ella, my dear, you’re beyond beautiful

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

Leave a tip and disappear down the alley Streetlights shine, unmasking Earth Autumn breeze whisks you away To a sweet space in your discouraged mind Amazing could not even describe her The thought of her lying on your bed Is driving you completely mad Lips all ladies envy, curves so slender Quiet kisses, so enticing, so persuasive Rumbling rain clouds decorate the scene Softly, the crickets serenade the town Her voice was so gentle, so calming The sky cries just as your tears glide Ella, you meant everything to me Stumble through the wooden front door Fiddle with those frolicking keys An alcoholic beverage whispers your name Temptation trying you out again Faded memories hang on your walls Her delicate features lighting up the room Her items still remain on all your tables Beaded bracelets, perfume bottles, and loose change It was as if she still lived there, and as if She still slept close to you every single night The way her hand fit perfectly clasped with yours The way her body molded just right to you Thoughts of her are screaming at you now Ella, I can’t speak of how much I miss you Brandy calls; will you answer the bitter taste? No thank you, as you waltz into your bedroom Unmade bed, broken lampshade, dirty laundry A need to clean and wash away what it once was The closed window, you’re suffocating, where’s a rescue Analog clock announces half past midnight You and her used to stay up until the morning Discussing absolutely nothing that seemed like it mattered Her lightheartedness and liveliness, you could never forget What a woman, if you could only see her again The smell of her cologne, the taste of her tongue on yours The stars peek through the glass, desiring to be seen Like how you desire to see that female one more time Ella, love is tricky, but I know I still love you, Ella

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Not with Haste Kelia McCluskey Photography major Denver, Colo. Photography

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

PL AYING HOUSE Poetry

Chase Wilkinson Writing Major Austin, Texas

I dream of the family dinners I never had growing up. Tuna salad sandwiches. Extras wrapped in foil for my parents who came home late. Scrambled eggs made in the microwave. Cereal and milk. Single servings. I want to cook for my daughters. The kitchen window set with sunlight where my lovely wife and I work in tandem. The air hums with activity. The crunch and thud of chopping vegetables. A chorus of sizzling meat. The stop and start of a young girl learning the piano. Barks and squeals of another chasing a chubby old bulldog. My arms wrap around the waist of my wife quickly doing dishes. We steal a kiss lingering and soft before calling the girls into the dining room.

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B I B L E - B E LT I N G Fiction

Bradford Hill Writing Major Tulsa, OKla.

October 12, 2012 ... it’s 3:42 a.m., and I’m barreling down US-78 in a late model Japanese compact, eastbound at speeds in excess of 75 miles an hour through a God forsaken wasteland known as Dixie. I haven’t slept in more than 36 hours, and am operating solely off sheer willpower, alongside 80 milligrams of Lisdexamfetamine, coupled with a small amount of cannabis just to help fend off the shakes. I don’t regularly abuse drugs, but when I do, I find it best to swing for the fences. On this particular night, the combination of uppers and late-night driving are born out of sheer necessity. I need to make it back to Georgia before sunrise, should the operations support company that I consult for need me in their morning conference. It’s an overwhelming disdain that lives inside of me — working for a corporation that I know ultimately assists in making an already dappled government, more easily corrupted. But I’ve also grown very accustomed to the idea of being able to purchase groceries. So I, like so many other Americans, sacrifice. None of that matters now though. I’m on the highway, windows down and entertaining the idea that at any point during this haphazard trip, my life could easily be robbed away. Possibly from another motorist, but even more likely from my own indiscretions. Yes indeed, when you are high and behaving fast and irresponsible, all sorts of thoughts and opinions on mortality will inevitably spring to mind.

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

I allow myself to become lost in the road, not inattentive though, mind you, quite the contrary. All I am able to focus on in fact, is staying at a perfect distance between the median to my left, and the dotted discoursed white lines to my right. Speed locked in perfectly, hands positioned at ten and two, streamlining along the asphalt curves of a lonely and desolate highway. Mile markers pass me by in instances: 118, 119, 120, 123, 130 and so on and so on and so on. I am finally broken out of the trance when I notice a disturbing abnormality in the dashboard. The gas meter, which looks best when it is reaching up and up toward the full line — was sadly pointing toward “E,” leaving me directly facing the potential of one of my all-time greatest fears ... being stranded, alone, and in the backwoods of Alabama. Fortunately, at a moment when I had just begun to feel as if all hope was lost, I see a sign spring up from the distance. It reads:

GAS - 2 MI. I say a prayer for whatever God might be listening, and after covering just a bit more ground, am able to make a slight right onto a nameless country road that holds a single shimmering light dancing in the distance. I head towards the light, and as it draws closer, I can just barely distinguish the words CITGO emblazoned on the fluorescent sign stand, which in turn offers the only illumination for this solemn little backcountry shop. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief as I make a left-hand turn into the parking lot of the fueling station, which holds only two other automobiles: a mid-1980s blue Cutlass Supreme, and an old, rust bucket brown station wagon, parked on the far side of the building with a child seat in the rear. I slam the pump’s nozzle into my gas tank, set the automatic latch to a medium pace, and make my way inside the station to grab a cup of coffee. “Good morning,” I say to the young Indian looking fellow behind the counter. He has a Bluetooth earwig hanging lopsidedly off one side of his head, along with a pair of glazed over eyes, and says nothing in return to my salutations. I move briskly toward the smell of burnt black coffee grounds and pour myself a syrupy cup of joe, the pot of which I am most certain has been baking thick on the burner for at least a full day’s time.

Feel

At the counter I begin to dig out change, when I see a statue of the Virgin Mary. Unlike other statues you’d see of her, the hands on this one were twisted upwards and down, in contradictory directions, the way you often see the Hindu deity Shiva portrayed, “Hah,” I bellow out, “This virgin looks a bit out of sorts, doesn’t she?” I look quickly to the attendant, who simply continues to stare at me in silence with his dead, fish-like eyes. I slap a few dollars in change down on the counter, and slowly exit the station while still maintaining a sort of half-locked eye contact with the awkward and creepy little man. I don’t quite know what it was, but I got the distinct feeling as if he would have taken great pleasure out of stabbing me in the back with a homemade shank, should I be so foolish as to let my guard slip. Pecuiliar, I thought. __________________________________________

I GOT THE DISTINCT FEELING AS IF HE WOULD TAKEN GREAT PLEASURE OUT OF STABBING ME ...

__________________________________________ As soon as my foot hits the pavement outside, a voice calls out to me from the direction of the old rusty station wagon, “Hey there long hair, whatcha doing tonight?” I turn my head to see a haggard-looking woman with dark hair and leathery skin. Short, squatty and mostly toothless, she steadily advances toward my position. I place her somewhere in her forties, but don’t plan on asking. “Morning. And, uh, I suppose I’m refueling before continuing my drive.” I look around the empty space about me, just a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. “Well, you should think about staying around here for a bit and spendin’ some time with me.” “I’m sorry?” “You know,” she said, now just a few feet in front of me and using her oil stained fingers to run up and down her tattered bra strap, a nauseating attempt at seduction. Now that she was closer, I could also clearly see that the few teeth she had left were in poor shape and badly stained, and if I were a betting man

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

(which I am), I’d conclude that methamphetamines were the likely culprit of her advanced tooth decay. “It doesn’t cost much,” she adds at the end with a wry smile. “I’m afraid I’m in quite a hurry to get home, but, I wish you the best of luck, and please do be safe out here,” I say. She immediately waddles back over to the station wagon without response, and positions herself by the window of the automobile where the child seat is. She stares intently inside, while leaning against the dilapidated doorframe with her meaty little forearms. Every part of me wants to drive closely by on my way out, just to confirm or deny the presence of a child, or infant in that car seat ... but I don’t. I suppose I know deep down that my heart probably couldn’t take learning the truth. Back on US-78, 3:53 a.m ... It’s amazing how much life can happen in a matter of 11 minutes. The highway remains empty while I’m digesting the multitudes of what just occurred. I try to laugh about it, make light of the pain and ignorance that we face each day, but it’s a laughter that I know is only a breath away from an uncontrollable fit of rage. The American dream, now a callous haze; its personification, a torn-down ragged mother, turning late night tricks at empty truck stops along the American highways and byways which continually lead the rest of us to places that we no longer want to be.

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I WILL LOVE YOU IN SEPIA Poetry

Taylor Kigar Writing Major South Bend, Ind.

I will love you in sepia. I will soak my sentiments in Colombian coffee and ring your eyes with every cup. I will love you in thin rinds of tangerines. I will linger on your fingertips hours after I pass through your mouth, and everyone will know that you are mine. I will love you in violin strings. I will leave harmonies hidden across your forearms, and trail rosin at the tips of your hair. I will love you like the skyline. I will scratch your skin with skyscrapers, drop traffic lights on your tongue, and pave your spine with speedways. I will ride this light rail through pearl shores of cold whiskeywater, and I will love every inch of you like it’s the last night we will ever inhabit our bones.

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

R E P X E

e c n ie 77

EXPERIENCE

SCAD Shades Nick Baker Industrial Design major Gastonia, N.C. 1/4 Plywood

Gretchen Chair Nick Baker Industrial Design major Gastonia, N.C. Cedar and Red Oak Wood 2’ x 2’ x 3’

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

Small Man Toy Packaging Nicholas Huggins Graphic Design major Maraval, Trinidad and Tobago Adobe Illustrator

EXPERIENCE The module design has work, sleep, bathe and entrance zones to acwith many storage spaces. They individually have custom furniture to into each bed base. This helps to create options to suit each person’s work preferences. A cupboard is also available for storing clothes and luggage. Included are many areas for personalization, such as bulletin boards and space for hanging art or personal items. These are located at the foot of each bed. Additionally multiple shelves and wall space allow for storage and display.

Module Floor Plan

The Module Bedroom Perspective

Module

Community Space Floor Plan

Community Space 80

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

Maison Basse Graduate Student Module and Community Space Aimee Sabga Interior Design major Pt. Cumana, Trinidad and Tobago Mixed Medium

The Kitchenette and Dining/Seating Area Perspective

The Billiards and Entertainment Area Perspective

EXPERIENCE

Skateboard Designs I & II Jessica Laird Animation major Palm City, Fla. Digital Media, Photoshop and Illustrator

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

RETHINK Coffee Table Yulia Graham Graphic Design major Washington, D.C. Plexiglass, Toilet Paper and Paper Towel Rolls 47.25” x 22.75” x 16.5”

EXPERIENCE

Courier Gear Roscoe Peacock Graphic Design major Port Orange, Fla. Specialty Paper

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

EXPERIENCE

Fashion Sketches Gloria McAndrew Sequential Art major Oswego, N.Y. Ink and Marker

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

Noir Chelsey Corgan Photography major Deland, Fla. Digital Photography Model: Janelle M MUA: Elena Frickman Hairstylist: Pasqualle Caselle Stylist: Azaria La Mode

Spores Lauren Heydinger Jewelry and Objects major Bellafontaine, Ohio Brass, Bronze, Resin

EXPERIENCE

Stacks Jessica Dycus Sequential Art major Crossville, Tenn. Ceramic 24” x 30”

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

The Metal Bird and Worm Dongyeon Suh Animation major Seoul, Korea Maya 2012

EXPERIENCE

Isagus Extroversions Yulia Graham Graphic Design major Washington, D.C. Photography

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

EXPERIENCE

Statement Necklace Aimee Petkus Jewelry and Objects major Florissant, Colo. CAD Rendering

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

A Piece of Me Jacqueline Rose Garrity Jewelry and Objects major Palm Beach Gardens, Fla. Bronze, Sterling Silver, Afghanistan Malachite Stone

EXPERIENCE

Roots Audrey Dakin Painting major San Antonio, Texas Steel and Wood 57.6” x 69.6” x 42” Photo by Dennis Burnett, courtesy of SCAD

PORT CITY REVIEW | 2012 - 2013

SUBMIT Port City Review SCAD Student Media Center D at The Hive 121 W. Boundary St. Savannah, GA 31401

Office: 912-525-4713 Email: submissions@scaddistrict.com Web: www.theportcityreview.com

Port City Review 2013

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