Port City Review 2018

P O RT C I T Y R E VIE W issue six

THE LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL OF SCAD

PORT CIT Y REVIEW issue six

PORT CIT Y REVIEW issue six

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

COP YRIGHT & COLO PHO N Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights to their material. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct.

No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff and the advisor. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal showcasing the work of SCAD students exclusively via a submission process. Published content is determined by student editors.

O U R M ISSIO N Port City Review exists as a forum for students to share their very best work. Curated and produced by students, the journal seeks to provide an intimate look at art from every angle.

The journal was designed by Iman Sinnokrot, B.F.A. graphic design, Chicago, Illinois, using Adobe Creative Suite.

COVER ART BY MAGGIE ROTH B.F.A. ILLUSTRATION, DOWNINGTOWN, PA

STAFF 4

CR E AT I V E DI R E CT O R I m a n S i n n o k ro t

E D I TO R -I N-CH I E F E mil ie Kef a la s 5

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

COP YRIGHT & COLO PHO N Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights to their material. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct.

No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff and the advisor. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal showcasing the work of SCAD students exclusively via a submission process. Published content is determined by student editors.

O U R M ISSIO N Port City Review exists as a forum for students to share their very best work. Curated and produced by students, the journal seeks to provide an intimate look at art from every angle.

The journal was designed by Iman Sinnokrot, B.F.A. graphic design, Chicago, Illinois, using Adobe Creative Suite.

COVER ART BY MAGGIE ROTH B.F.A. ILLUSTRATION, DOWNINGTOWN, PA

STAFF 4

CR E AT I V E DI R E CT O R I m a n S i n n o k ro t

E D I TO R -I N-CH I E F E mil ie Kef a la s 5

“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.”

EDGAR DEGAS

“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.”

EDGAR DEGAS

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Cliffside

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Nia Smalls Montgomery, NY B.F.A. Painting

Yellow Jacket

Illustration and Drawing Oki Honda Tokyo, Japan B.F.A. Illustration

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Cliffside

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Nia Smalls Montgomery, NY B.F.A. Painting

Yellow Jacket

Illustration and Drawing Oki Honda Tokyo, Japan B.F.A. Illustration

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Jungle, Ahoy!

Illustration and Drawing Elena Sanchez Dallas, TX B.F.A. Illustration

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Jungle, Ahoy!

Illustration and Drawing Elena Sanchez Dallas, TX B.F.A. Illustration

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F ICT IO N

IF P HONE B O O T HS C O UL D TAL K they’d tell you to dial 9-11 because your mother’s a snake and Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

Love is a myth but then again so is your father And don’t even get me started on the middle east.

Ring ring to the caller on line 1 Who swears that they paid last month’s bill So screw you Mother Nature I can no longer hear a heartbeat And does anyone have any more quarters?

Hold on to the knife that’s still Hanging from your back I bet it was his Delilah that put it there But who knows maybe it was just me.

Alissa Malhoit Stonington, CT B.F.A. Writing

SoulFood

Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration 12

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ISSUE SIX

F ICT IO N

IF P HONE B O O T HS C O UL D TAL K they’d tell you to dial 9-11 because your mother’s a snake and Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

Love is a myth but then again so is your father And don’t even get me started on the middle east.

Ring ring to the caller on line 1 Who swears that they paid last month’s bill So screw you Mother Nature I can no longer hear a heartbeat And does anyone have any more quarters?

Hold on to the knife that’s still Hanging from your back I bet it was his Delilah that put it there But who knows maybe it was just me.

Alissa Malhoit Stonington, CT B.F.A. Writing

SoulFood

Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration 12

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PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

The Perfect Pinecone Illustration and Drawing Mariyka Auber Greensboro, NC B.F.A. Illustration

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The Perfect Pinecone Illustration and Drawing Mariyka Auber Greensboro, NC B.F.A. Illustration

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PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

POETRY

W H AT I CAN’T SH AKE for Terik

snowfall yellow streetlight only before dawn soft groan of snowplow to state road low moan of furnace clucking on: Terik, it’s five and you need to get up. there is ice all over the oil tank outside, snowfall fallen down from rooftop in the Siberia of an Ohio winter’s storm or Michigan or somewhere east of Chicago. Rustbelt. NBA & NHL territory all the way. but that’s all we have: we wouldn’t be lovers otherwise, we wouldn’t even have eye contact otherwise. we’re off-season and following Sabres or Red Wings scores and we’ve been this way since the days when Dainius Zubrus was the Justin Bieber of every state around the Great Lakes. and we love Eminem, new Jordan 8s, the Bulls, Mustangs, and our cousins in the Marines. none of it matters when the alarm rings: not that kiss, not the wounds, not the cold and everything frozen outside. either you’re a sprinter about to hit that off-season grind or you’re not: it’s only new Nike spikes and black ice.

Fueling the Flame

Illustration and Drawing Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration 16

Mike Walker Gainesville, FL M.F.A. Writing

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PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

POETRY

W H AT I CAN’T SH AKE for Terik

snowfall yellow streetlight only before dawn soft groan of snowplow to state road low moan of furnace clucking on: Terik, it’s five and you need to get up. there is ice all over the oil tank outside, snowfall fallen down from rooftop in the Siberia of an Ohio winter’s storm or Michigan or somewhere east of Chicago. Rustbelt. NBA & NHL territory all the way. but that’s all we have: we wouldn’t be lovers otherwise, we wouldn’t even have eye contact otherwise. we’re off-season and following Sabres or Red Wings scores and we’ve been this way since the days when Dainius Zubrus was the Justin Bieber of every state around the Great Lakes. and we love Eminem, new Jordan 8s, the Bulls, Mustangs, and our cousins in the Marines. none of it matters when the alarm rings: not that kiss, not the wounds, not the cold and everything frozen outside. either you’re a sprinter about to hit that off-season grind or you’re not: it’s only new Nike spikes and black ice.

Fueling the Flame

Illustration and Drawing Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration 16

Mike Walker Gainesville, FL M.F.A. Writing

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PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Landscape

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Lulu LaFortune Boulder, CO B.F.A. Furniture Design

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Growing up in the Mafia Illustration and Drawing Ryan Whiteley Cary, NC B.F.A. Illustration

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Landscape

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Lulu LaFortune Boulder, CO B.F.A. Furniture Design

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Growing up in the Mafia Illustration and Drawing Ryan Whiteley Cary, NC B.F.A. Illustration

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PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Vanity

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Rachael Tarravechia Charlotte, NC B.F.A. Painting

The Little Prince

Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellin, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

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ISSUE SIX

Vanity

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Rachael Tarravechia Charlotte, NC B.F.A. Painting

The Little Prince

Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellin, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

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Frog Station

Illustration and Drawing Shishuang Tu Beijing, China M.F.A. Illustration 22

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Frog Station

Illustration and Drawing Shishuang Tu Beijing, China M.F.A. Illustration 22

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Anything You Can Do...

Illustration and Drawing Brooke Strukel Grand Ledge, MI B.F.A. Illustration

Modern Human Instinct

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Jeffery Lawson Thomasville, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design

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Anything You Can Do...

Illustration and Drawing Brooke Strukel Grand Ledge, MI B.F.A. Illustration

Modern Human Instinct

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Jeffery Lawson Thomasville, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design

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F ICT IO N

T H E MON ST ER U N D ER Y O UR B E D I. A girl makes you nervous and it takes you years to figure out why; months and months filled with childish laughter and shaky hands pushing away what scares you. She reminds you of the monster that used to live under your bed, her touch on your skin making you want to hide beneath the covers, her smile making your heart race. There’s a moment when your eyes finally meet and your breathing stops.

No one ever told you that monsters could be beautiful.

II. You can’t rationalize it. You know her hands on your shoulders shouldn’t make your palms sweat, but they do. And her eyes on your lips shouldn’t make your mouth dry, but they do. It takes time before you learn to live with her; call her out from beneath the bed and invite her into your sheets. She lays beside you and you wonder when you started wanting to put your hands on her waist.

Monsters aren’t so scary when they’re snoring softly in their sleep.

III. Growing up is understanding that monsters aren’t real. They are shadows on your bedroom wall or the rustling of leaves outside your window. And sometimes, like now, they are just a girl. It’s easy to mistake girls for monsters, but disguises fade when they can no longer scare you. She leans into your chest and you let her settle her head onto your shoulder; let her relax into your arms, slow and simple.

This is not a fairytale, but you realize it has all the signs of one.

8:37 at Baja's

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Morgan Sullivan Foxborough, MA B.F.A. Advertising

You kissed the monster under your bed, and you made her human.

Christin Campbell Pensacola, FL B.F.A. Dramatic Writing

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ISSUE SIX

F ICT IO N

T H E MON ST ER U N D ER Y O UR B E D I. A girl makes you nervous and it takes you years to figure out why; months and months filled with childish laughter and shaky hands pushing away what scares you. She reminds you of the monster that used to live under your bed, her touch on your skin making you want to hide beneath the covers, her smile making your heart race. There’s a moment when your eyes finally meet and your breathing stops.

No one ever told you that monsters could be beautiful.

II. You can’t rationalize it. You know her hands on your shoulders shouldn’t make your palms sweat, but they do. And her eyes on your lips shouldn’t make your mouth dry, but they do. It takes time before you learn to live with her; call her out from beneath the bed and invite her into your sheets. She lays beside you and you wonder when you started wanting to put your hands on her waist.

Monsters aren’t so scary when they’re snoring softly in their sleep.

III. Growing up is understanding that monsters aren’t real. They are shadows on your bedroom wall or the rustling of leaves outside your window. And sometimes, like now, they are just a girl. It’s easy to mistake girls for monsters, but disguises fade when they can no longer scare you. She leans into your chest and you let her settle her head onto your shoulder; let her relax into your arms, slow and simple.

This is not a fairytale, but you realize it has all the signs of one.

8:37 at Baja's

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Morgan Sullivan Foxborough, MA B.F.A. Advertising

You kissed the monster under your bed, and you made her human.

Christin Campbell Pensacola, FL B.F.A. Dramatic Writing

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27

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Flower Girl

Illustration and Drawing

Linecoste

Illustration and Drawing

Vanya Liang Savannah, GA B.F.A. Illustration

Maggie Roth Downingtown, PA B.F.A. Illustration

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ISSUE SIX

Flower Girl

Illustration and Drawing

Linecoste

Illustration and Drawing

Vanya Liang Savannah, GA B.F.A. Illustration

Maggie Roth Downingtown, PA B.F.A. Illustration

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ISSUE SIX

Winter

Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

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Winter

Illustration and Drawing Amalia Restrepo Medellín, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

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ISSUE SIX

F ICT IO N

PA RAD IS E When they came to his village, Youssef purchased a dream that he couldn’t afford.

His family sold their farmland and payed the remainder on credit because he had no future in Bakai. He and his brothers were workers, but too often the land was unfruitful and the river destroyed their shabby wooden homes. As the youngest and only unwed brother, Youssef got his family’ blessing to work and send money until someone else could join him in Dubai.

The agent promised him paradise: a steady job with good wages. In six months, he would pay off the worker’s visa. Then, everything he earned could be sent to his family in Bangladesh. It was a small price to pay for a slice of heaven, the man said.

Youssef had never even been on a plane before. If he were alive, his father would’ve scorned him for admiring an iron bird when there were so many real ones around his home.

“Remember, son, a duck will feed your family. A piece of metal won’t,” Baba would say when he gazed at the planes that flew over the village.

Baba was right. The metal frame that he and the other workers molded for the towering skyscrapers didn’t feed his family. Sometimes, the Company remembered that animals still had to eat, but the meager was barely enough to keep them alive.

Dubai was a desert—there was no water for them. But the Company wanted to seem accommodating by providing them with large, water-filled canisters at the end of the night. The septic water made everyone sick, but they had nothing

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else to drink. Because of this, Youssef couldn’t even take a proper piss. The sun scorched his skin and the dry heat absorbed all the water in his system, leaving him with little to urinate, even after days. The smell of sweat permanently stained his clothes, his hair, his skin.

He was trapped here for two more years. The man who picked him up at the airport took his visa so that he couldn’t leave without re-paying the money he had borrowed, the small price for heaven. But he was luckier than most. Without him, his family would survive, unlike some of the men whose wives and children depended on them for money that never came.

Today, on a particularly hot day, the men found a body splattered on the ground.

The worker had only been there for a week. He was a quiet Indian whose language no one spoke. No one even knew the boy’s name. Scraping his remains off the concrete was brutal. The heat had already begun to cook his body onto the ground. It was messier than most accidents. The others just swallowed razor blades.

But things weren’t that bad. Because of the accident, the Company showed them mercy. After the workers discarded the body, they shuttled everyone back to the little town. The driver, who never spoke, even offered them a bottle. The men took turns with the liquor. To Youssef, things were already starting to get better.

Brenda Julian Yanez Iguala, Guerrero, Mexico B.F.A. Writing

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PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

F ICT IO N

PA RAD IS E When they came to his village, Youssef purchased a dream that he couldn’t afford.

His family sold their farmland and payed the remainder on credit because he had no future in Bakai. He and his brothers were workers, but too often the land was unfruitful and the river destroyed their shabby wooden homes. As the youngest and only unwed brother, Youssef got his family’ blessing to work and send money until someone else could join him in Dubai.

The agent promised him paradise: a steady job with good wages. In six months, he would pay off the worker’s visa. Then, everything he earned could be sent to his family in Bangladesh. It was a small price to pay for a slice of heaven, the man said.

Youssef had never even been on a plane before. If he were alive, his father would’ve scorned him for admiring an iron bird when there were so many real ones around his home.

“Remember, son, a duck will feed your family. A piece of metal won’t,” Baba would say when he gazed at the planes that flew over the village.

Baba was right. The metal frame that he and the other workers molded for the towering skyscrapers didn’t feed his family. Sometimes, the Company remembered that animals still had to eat, but the meager was barely enough to keep them alive.

Dubai was a desert—there was no water for them. But the Company wanted to seem accommodating by providing them with large, water-filled canisters at the end of the night. The septic water made everyone sick, but they had nothing

32

else to drink. Because of this, Youssef couldn’t even take a proper piss. The sun scorched his skin and the dry heat absorbed all the water in his system, leaving him with little to urinate, even after days. The smell of sweat permanently stained his clothes, his hair, his skin.

He was trapped here for two more years. The man who picked him up at the airport took his visa so that he couldn’t leave without re-paying the money he had borrowed, the small price for heaven. But he was luckier than most. Without him, his family would survive, unlike some of the men whose wives and children depended on them for money that never came.

Today, on a particularly hot day, the men found a body splattered on the ground.

The worker had only been there for a week. He was a quiet Indian whose language no one spoke. No one even knew the boy’s name. Scraping his remains off the concrete was brutal. The heat had already begun to cook his body onto the ground. It was messier than most accidents. The others just swallowed razor blades.

But things weren’t that bad. Because of the accident, the Company showed them mercy. After the workers discarded the body, they shuttled everyone back to the little town. The driver, who never spoke, even offered them a bottle. The men took turns with the liquor. To Youssef, things were already starting to get better.

Brenda Julian Yanez Iguala, Guerrero, Mexico B.F.A. Writing

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PORT CITY REVIEW

Tyson and Pigeons

Le Peril Bleu

Roger Lugo Iowa Falls, IA M.F.A. Illustration

Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration

Illustration and Drawing

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Illustration and Drawing

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PORT CITY REVIEW

Tyson and Pigeons

Le Peril Bleu

Roger Lugo Iowa Falls, IA M.F.A. Illustration

Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration

Illustration and Drawing

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Illustration and Drawing

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ISSUE SIX

S'élever Postcard Series

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Vada Ortiz Moapa, NV B.F.A. Graphic Design

The Snail Racer

Illustration and Drawing Nicolas Henderson Strafford, MO B.F.A. Illustration

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Retrofuturism

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design

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PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

S'élever Postcard Series

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Vada Ortiz Moapa, NV B.F.A. Graphic Design

The Snail Racer

Illustration and Drawing Nicolas Henderson Strafford, MO B.F.A. Illustration

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Retrofuturism

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design

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Atelophobia

Illustration and Drawing Jessica Craig Sparta, NJ B.F.A. Illustration

Koala in Desert

Illustration and Drawing Xiaoyu Li (Remy Li) Zhongshan, China M.F.A. Illustration

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Atelophobia

Illustration and Drawing Jessica Craig Sparta, NJ B.F.A. Illustration

Koala in Desert

Illustration and Drawing Xiaoyu Li (Remy Li) Zhongshan, China M.F.A. Illustration

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ISSUE SIX

Beautifully in Over my Head

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Trisstah Wagstaff Waco, TX M.F.A. Painting

Goth Chicken

Illustration and Drawing Samantha Greene Wake Forest, NC B.F.A. Illustration

Custom Knives Industrial Design

Charlotta Zeiler Reichertsheim, Germany B.F.A. Industrial Design

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Beautifully in Over my Head

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Trisstah Wagstaff Waco, TX M.F.A. Painting

Goth Chicken

Illustration and Drawing Samantha Greene Wake Forest, NC B.F.A. Illustration

Custom Knives Industrial Design

Charlotta Zeiler Reichertsheim, Germany B.F.A. Industrial Design

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Medieval Round Chandelier Industrial Design

Nicolas Pellegrino Austin, TX B.F.A. User Experience Design

Kelly Tote Bag

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Vivian Sredni Barranquilla, Atlantico, Colombia B.F.A. Accessory Design 42

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Medieval Round Chandelier Industrial Design

Nicolas Pellegrino Austin, TX B.F.A. User Experience Design

Kelly Tote Bag

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Vivian Sredni Barranquilla, Atlantico, Colombia B.F.A. Accessory Design 42

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The Garden, Spread 1 Illustration and Drawing Ananya Kala Savannah, GA B.F.A. Illustration

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The Garden, Spread 1 Illustration and Drawing Ananya Kala Savannah, GA B.F.A. Illustration

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PORT CITY REVIEW

Good vs Evil

Spring

Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

Amalia Restrepo Medellin, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

Illustration and Drawing

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Illustration and Drawing

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PORT CITY REVIEW

Good vs Evil

Spring

Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

Amalia Restrepo Medellin, Antioquia, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

Illustration and Drawing

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Illustration and Drawing

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POETRY

L AME NT O F TH E FO RMLE SS Within and without is no match for The doubt that Claws at my heart and beats through The veins and weights on the soles Of my feet that pound over the Dirt and shape into Valleys a small place for me to Sleep and hide all my Worries My shame And regrets That have no place in My head but exist to serve The devil That lives there instead.

Please show me that happiness Can bloom without Food and sorrow can Exorcise itself without asking To die or vye for Greater real estate that Cannot be bought Or sold Or rented Or given without the Cry of a woman Without a vessel to call her own.

Hybrid Tea Rose

Illustration and Drawing Kin Lok Ching Hong Kong, China B.F.A. Illustration

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Sarah Soltan Atlanta, GA B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development

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ISSUE SIX

POETRY

L AME NT O F TH E FO RMLE SS Within and without is no match for The doubt that Claws at my heart and beats through The veins and weights on the soles Of my feet that pound over the Dirt and shape into Valleys a small place for me to Sleep and hide all my Worries My shame And regrets That have no place in My head but exist to serve The devil That lives there instead.

Please show me that happiness Can bloom without Food and sorrow can Exorcise itself without asking To die or vye for Greater real estate that Cannot be bought Or sold Or rented Or given without the Cry of a woman Without a vessel to call her own.

Hybrid Tea Rose

Illustration and Drawing Kin Lok Ching Hong Kong, China B.F.A. Illustration

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Sarah Soltan Atlanta, GA B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development

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ISSUE SIX

Wildflowers 1 and 2

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting

Emboldened Kiss

Illustration and Drawing Maggie Roth Downingtown, PA B.F.A. Illustration

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Wildflowers 1 and 2

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting

Emboldened Kiss

Illustration and Drawing Maggie Roth Downingtown, PA B.F.A. Illustration

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Māyā

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Carolina Diaz Barrientos Medellín, Colombia M.F.A. Fibers

(pg. 52-53)

Night In

Illustration and Drawing Cole Meehan Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration 54

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Māyā

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Carolina Diaz Barrientos Medellín, Colombia M.F.A. Fibers

(pg. 52-53)

Night In

Illustration and Drawing Cole Meehan Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration 54

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F ICT IO N

DR AG Lee itched for a smoke. The unopened pack of Marlboros lay across the table where he had slid it out of reach. If he asked Sonny for a light at home he’d lean over close and give it to him, but not here. He contented himself with the burn of hot, black coffee.

Sonny coughed hoarsely and took out a cigarette. He held up his lighterantique, solid silver, passed down three generations- took a long, slow drag and then exhaled a puff. The bite of tobacco smoke always made Lee’s itch worse.

“When I’m dead,” Sonny said, setting the finished cigarette in its tray, “slip some smokes in the casket, alright?”

“You’re not dying.”

“Yet.” “You’re not.”

“I could be.” Sonny shook out another cigarette.

“You should stop smoking,” Lee said. “I stopped, and I feel great. It’s not so hard.”

“Been a smoker my whole life. What’s another pack?”

“It turns your lungs black. That’s why you cough like that.”

Sonny was on his third when the waitress came by again. She poured another cup of coffee for Lee. In the dimly-lit diner, Sonny looked thinner than he had the last time Lee had passed through town, this time last summer. Every July hundreds from the city flocked to the coast and the white sands of its beach. Lee was a stranger in town, hidden among them, except to Sonny.

“Don’t get Marlboros,” Sonny said. “When I go for good I want a pack of Camels, the unfiltered kind.”

“You’re not dying.”

“Everyone I know’s got it. There’s no signs, you just get it and you know.”

Lee set down his mug. The coffee was cold now, but the waitress didn’t come around again until the cigarettes were half gone. Watching Sonny blow rings made him itch for one, too.

“What makes you think I’m coming to any funeral?”

“No one else will be left.”

“I can’t even be in the waiting room, Sonny.”

Sonny coughed again. “When I’m dead, who else will give a shit?”

“Here, give me a light,” Lee said. “I haven’t had one in months.”

Sonny passed him the carton. Lee took the last cigarette and held it on his lip as Sonny leaned in with the lighter.

“You know what the fellas in England call their cigs?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

Sonny pulled out a new carton; he lit up another cigarette. Lee was done with his before the waitress came back with the pot of coffee.

“Here.” Sonny set the lighter down before Lee. “Keep it. Just don’t forget the Camels.”

Lee held the lighter in his palm, feeling the cool metal. Fine, he thought, let Sonny have his smokes.

Nat Brownlee Jesup, GA B.F.A. Sequential Art 56

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F ICT IO N

DR AG Lee itched for a smoke. The unopened pack of Marlboros lay across the table where he had slid it out of reach. If he asked Sonny for a light at home he’d lean over close and give it to him, but not here. He contented himself with the burn of hot, black coffee.

Sonny coughed hoarsely and took out a cigarette. He held up his lighterantique, solid silver, passed down three generations- took a long, slow drag and then exhaled a puff. The bite of tobacco smoke always made Lee’s itch worse.

“When I’m dead,” Sonny said, setting the finished cigarette in its tray, “slip some smokes in the casket, alright?”

“You’re not dying.”

“Yet.” “You’re not.”

“I could be.” Sonny shook out another cigarette.

“You should stop smoking,” Lee said. “I stopped, and I feel great. It’s not so hard.”

“Been a smoker my whole life. What’s another pack?”

“It turns your lungs black. That’s why you cough like that.”

Sonny was on his third when the waitress came by again. She poured another cup of coffee for Lee. In the dimly-lit diner, Sonny looked thinner than he had the last time Lee had passed through town, this time last summer. Every July hundreds from the city flocked to the coast and the white sands of its beach. Lee was a stranger in town, hidden among them, except to Sonny.

“Don’t get Marlboros,” Sonny said. “When I go for good I want a pack of Camels, the unfiltered kind.”

“You’re not dying.”

“Everyone I know’s got it. There’s no signs, you just get it and you know.”

Lee set down his mug. The coffee was cold now, but the waitress didn’t come around again until the cigarettes were half gone. Watching Sonny blow rings made him itch for one, too.

“What makes you think I’m coming to any funeral?”

“No one else will be left.”

“I can’t even be in the waiting room, Sonny.”

Sonny coughed again. “When I’m dead, who else will give a shit?”

“Here, give me a light,” Lee said. “I haven’t had one in months.”

Sonny passed him the carton. Lee took the last cigarette and held it on his lip as Sonny leaned in with the lighter.

“You know what the fellas in England call their cigs?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

Sonny pulled out a new carton; he lit up another cigarette. Lee was done with his before the waitress came back with the pot of coffee.

“Here.” Sonny set the lighter down before Lee. “Keep it. Just don’t forget the Camels.”

Lee held the lighter in his palm, feeling the cool metal. Fine, he thought, let Sonny have his smokes.

Nat Brownlee Jesup, GA B.F.A. Sequential Art 56

57

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Truth is Nothing but a Lie

Graphic Design, Advertising, Typography Jeffery Lawson Thomasville, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design

58

59

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Truth is Nothing but a Lie

Graphic Design, Advertising, Typography Jeffery Lawson Thomasville, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design

58

59

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Amalgamation

Architecture and Interior Design Ricardo Chiuz and Eli Lurie Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Upton, MA M.A. Architecture

60

61

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Amalgamation

Architecture and Interior Design Ricardo Chiuz and Eli Lurie Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Upton, MA M.A. Architecture

60

61

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

The Geode Collection Illustration and Drawing

Gwendolyn "Wynne" Gettelfinger Sellersburg, IN B.F.A. Animation

Handle with Repair

Illustration and Drawing Lina Garay Germantown, MD B.F.A. Illustration 62

63

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

The Geode Collection Illustration and Drawing

Gwendolyn "Wynne" Gettelfinger Sellersburg, IN B.F.A. Animation

Handle with Repair

Illustration and Drawing Lina Garay Germantown, MD B.F.A. Illustration 62

63

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Dead for a Day

Illustration and Drawing Irena Freitas Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil M.A. Illustration

Prophetic Funeral Flowers

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings

Tybee

Illustration and Drawing

Shayla Wigand Columbus, OH B.F.A. Painting

Irena Freitas Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil M.A. Illustration 64

65

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Dead for a Day

Illustration and Drawing Irena Freitas Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil M.A. Illustration

Prophetic Funeral Flowers

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings

Tybee

Illustration and Drawing

Shayla Wigand Columbus, OH B.F.A. Painting

Irena Freitas Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil M.A. Illustration 64

65

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Colin and Alicia

Illustration and Drawing Alexandria O’Hall Fayetteville, TN B.F.A. Illustration

66

67

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Colin and Alicia

Illustration and Drawing Alexandria O’Hall Fayetteville, TN B.F.A. Illustration

66

67

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Beard Flowers

Illustration and Drawing Jessica Harkey Summerfield, NC B.F.A. Illustration

68

69

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Beard Flowers

Illustration and Drawing Jessica Harkey Summerfield, NC B.F.A. Illustration

68

69

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

NON-FI CT I O N

“S O RRY ” Apparently the airplane didn’t want to leave Charlotte, because technical delays kept it grounded at the gate with its passengers readied. I sat in my aisle seat, row 12D. A woman with a nice vegan-leather bag walked down the aisle, and her purse strap got caught in my arm rest.

I saw her torso jerk back after she took two steps. “Whoops,” she said involuntarily, as though it had happened more than once.

It took me a moment to realize her bag attached itself near my elbow, and I didn’t notice until she came back to my seat.

“Sorry about that,” she said, unlacing the brown shoulder strap.

I helped her unravel it, because I’m well-experienced in getting my clothes and bag straps caught in unassuming crannies. “I’m sorry.”

As soon as I finished that last syllable, I cringed. Mom’s voice entered on cue: “Why are you apologizing? It was her bag. If you were a man you wouldn’t apologize for that.”

I kept hearing her in my head the rest of the trip, so I raised the volume of the Red Hot Chili Peppers on my phone to ear canal-pumping levels.

other is grey-ish. Jessica was at the checkout counter, and we made eye contact.

“Hi Jessica! How have you been?”

I don’t think she really remembered me. “Hiii. . .” She had that look I get when I see someone, know their face, but can’t place their name.

But I was happy to see her. “Love the new setup. Sorry I didn’t make it in sooner to say hi.”

That was as awkward to say as it was to process.

She looked at me like Okay, what? A customer required her attention, so she escaped with a, “Uh one sec.” My face got warm. I promptly showed Mom my favorite section, “Classics,” the hot spot for John Donne, Anne Carson, and Tennessee Williams.

“This is where I got my book of Dylan Thomas poems, remember? The one I bought before my birthday?”

Mom lowered her voice. “Em, why did you apologize to her? I think that made her uncomfortable.”

I already knew it was a dumb move. “I know, I know, I realize that.”

This was two weeks ago.

Why did I say sorry for a fucking piece of airline furniture? *** I wanted to show Mom and Dad one of my favorite local bookshops, because we did not want to drive out to a Barnes & Noble in the middle of the day. It was Saturday, and they were visiting with my baby sister to show her my school.

The shop owner, Jessica, was the subject of a blog post I wrote last year, and I hadn’t really seen or talked to her since. I wanted to say “Hi” and “How’s it going” to show them how poshly local I had become.

We went in and I immediately started looking for her shop cats, Bartleby and Eliot, named for Herman Melville’s “Bartleby, the Scrivener” and writer T. S. Eliot. I know their names, but I still confuse them, because one’s orange and the

“You’re a smart girl. Why do you do that?”

“I don’t know. I think I was just excited. . .” No I just didn’t think.

She used her Em don’t be stupid voice. “You really need to stop doing that. Nobody’s going to take you seriously if you keeping doing it.”

All I said was, “I know. I know.” What else was I supposed to say? Sorry? Did I dishonor Jessica’s family, vandalize her store, or kill her front porch flowers? No. I literally had not been to the store in months.

Emilie Kefalas Decatur, IL B.F.A. Writing 70

***

Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 71

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

NON-FI CT I O N

“S O RRY ” Apparently the airplane didn’t want to leave Charlotte, because technical delays kept it grounded at the gate with its passengers readied. I sat in my aisle seat, row 12D. A woman with a nice vegan-leather bag walked down the aisle, and her purse strap got caught in my arm rest.

I saw her torso jerk back after she took two steps. “Whoops,” she said involuntarily, as though it had happened more than once.

It took me a moment to realize her bag attached itself near my elbow, and I didn’t notice until she came back to my seat.

“Sorry about that,” she said, unlacing the brown shoulder strap.

I helped her unravel it, because I’m well-experienced in getting my clothes and bag straps caught in unassuming crannies. “I’m sorry.”

As soon as I finished that last syllable, I cringed. Mom’s voice entered on cue: “Why are you apologizing? It was her bag. If you were a man you wouldn’t apologize for that.”

I kept hearing her in my head the rest of the trip, so I raised the volume of the Red Hot Chili Peppers on my phone to ear canal-pumping levels.

other is grey-ish. Jessica was at the checkout counter, and we made eye contact.

“Hi Jessica! How have you been?”

I don’t think she really remembered me. “Hiii. . .” She had that look I get when I see someone, know their face, but can’t place their name.

But I was happy to see her. “Love the new setup. Sorry I didn’t make it in sooner to say hi.”

That was as awkward to say as it was to process.

She looked at me like Okay, what? A customer required her attention, so she escaped with a, “Uh one sec.” My face got warm. I promptly showed Mom my favorite section, “Classics,” the hot spot for John Donne, Anne Carson, and Tennessee Williams.

“This is where I got my book of Dylan Thomas poems, remember? The one I bought before my birthday?”

Mom lowered her voice. “Em, why did you apologize to her? I think that made her uncomfortable.”

I already knew it was a dumb move. “I know, I know, I realize that.”

This was two weeks ago.

Why did I say sorry for a fucking piece of airline furniture? *** I wanted to show Mom and Dad one of my favorite local bookshops, because we did not want to drive out to a Barnes & Noble in the middle of the day. It was Saturday, and they were visiting with my baby sister to show her my school.

The shop owner, Jessica, was the subject of a blog post I wrote last year, and I hadn’t really seen or talked to her since. I wanted to say “Hi” and “How’s it going” to show them how poshly local I had become.

We went in and I immediately started looking for her shop cats, Bartleby and Eliot, named for Herman Melville’s “Bartleby, the Scrivener” and writer T. S. Eliot. I know their names, but I still confuse them, because one’s orange and the

“You’re a smart girl. Why do you do that?”

“I don’t know. I think I was just excited. . .” No I just didn’t think.

She used her Em don’t be stupid voice. “You really need to stop doing that. Nobody’s going to take you seriously if you keeping doing it.”

All I said was, “I know. I know.” What else was I supposed to say? Sorry? Did I dishonor Jessica’s family, vandalize her store, or kill her front porch flowers? No. I literally had not been to the store in months.

Emilie Kefalas Decatur, IL B.F.A. Writing 70

***

Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 71

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Contour, The Cabaret Architecture and Interior Design

Here She Is

Katelyn Olsen Farmingdale, NY B.F.A. Interior Design

Illustration and Drawing Cole Sprout Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration

72

73

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Contour, The Cabaret Architecture and Interior Design

Here She Is

Katelyn Olsen Farmingdale, NY B.F.A. Interior Design

Illustration and Drawing Cole Sprout Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration

72

73

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

The Theory of Everything

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Luxme Patel Greensboro, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design

Amalgamation

Architecture and Interior Design Ricardo Chiuz and Eli Lurie Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Upton, MA M.A. Architecture

74

75

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

The Theory of Everything

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Luxme Patel Greensboro, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design

Amalgamation

Architecture and Interior Design Ricardo Chiuz and Eli Lurie Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Upton, MA M.A. Architecture

74

75

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

"Alone"

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Eliza G. Cardwell North Granby, CT B.F.A. Illustration

Equus Ephemeral

Illustration and Drawing Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design

76

Nettle

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Morgan Sullivan Foxborough, MA B.F.A. Advertising

77

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

"Alone"

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Eliza G. Cardwell North Granby, CT B.F.A. Illustration

Equus Ephemeral

Illustration and Drawing Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design

76

Nettle

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Morgan Sullivan Foxborough, MA B.F.A. Advertising

77

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Frida la Sufrida

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design

Indian Tea Stall

Animation and Motion Media Dheeraj Varandani Jaipur, India B.F.A. Visual Effects

The Cosmo

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design 78

Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design

Ancient Roman Crypt Interactive Design

Colin Rudd Raleigh, NC B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development 79

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Frida la Sufrida

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design

Indian Tea Stall

Animation and Motion Media Dheeraj Varandani Jaipur, India B.F.A. Visual Effects

The Cosmo

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design 78

Valentina Angulo Gomez Medellín, Colombia B.F.A. Jewelry Design

Ancient Roman Crypt Interactive Design

Colin Rudd Raleigh, NC B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development 79

PORT CITY REVIEW

NON- F I CT I O N

G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART O N E O F T HR E E : GR A N D FATH ERS I can still hear the clanking of his belt and rip of his zipper. He snakes out of his pants to barely reveal a furry gray tuft of hair. He is Manolo, my father’s father. We are in the car on the way to Shop-Rite for eggs and milk. I am strapped into the front passenger’s seat before car seats were required for children. He says, “Look here, Boy. This is what a woman looks like. Touch it.” I was six years old.

We are a family of Chino-Cubanos descended from “Coolies,” Chinese men abducted into indentured servitude by European plantation owners and shipped to Cuba to work railroads and sugar cane fields in the 1890s. My great-great grandfather and my great-grandfather were among the slaves who laid rails and cut cane across the Hades heat of La Habana, long before another form of oppression raped the island paradise and its people.

Mami died last year. After ten months imprisoned in a cell of silent sorrow in the same 1400 square foot apartment, father and son are ready to talk. In the next to last day of a punishing 2016, my father shares, for the first time in my life, that I am three generations separated from slavery.

I feel beautiful and punch drunk with culture.

My great-great grandfather was born in the Guangdong Province of southeastern China. He was named Tun Kong Hong and was farmed like a pig from China to La Habana as the slave of a Frenchman by the name of Madam. Given that slaves were assigned the last name of their owners, his new Cuban identity became Tun Kong Hong-Madam. Despite Tun Kong Hong’s eventual freedom, my grandfather, Manuel de Jesus Perez-Madam, born free in Jovellanos, Cuba, took the slave name, Madam, due to the proximity of the family to our French owners.

“It was just customary and everyone accepted it,” Papi assures me, perhaps sensing my sudden pride descending into disgust. He continues his cuento.

My questions are firing off faster than we can eat our eggs. I am starving for a genealogy that Mami never shared for reasons she took to Christ. The family business was dry cleaning garments for the wealthy in our newfound freedom. My father was born to a working-class family in La Purisima Concepción Salón of the historic Asociación de Dependentientes Del Comercio de La Habana.

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ISSUE SIX

Papi drifts from my interrogation and journeys with me to a street in downtown 1957 La Habana. He recounts the story of a wreck in which Tío Pepe attempted to avoid collision while driving the family dry cleaning van. Tío Pepe, ejected from the vehicle, is beaten, battered, bruised, befuddled and blamed, but his little nephew is never again allowed to ride in the van with loco Tío Pepe.

His eyes squinch together and disappear as they do when he laughs hard. His body convulses retelling el cuento, as if he has not recalled this story in many many years. We digress. Stories of other strains of disasters, tragedies, and triumphs that befell our family will come later. Dad becomes tired after breakfast and retreats to his man cave for a nap.

Fucking diabetes. My writing will have to wait. Time to prepare his insulin shot.

“Papi, why do you always cook your omelets on the back burner?” Seems like a stretch for a man with shoulders so eroded he cannot even wash his own armpits.

His face reddens. The words spit forth from his mouth full of eggs and onions.

“JEEZUZ, do you realize the amount of electricity the front burner uses? The heat is so much that you cannot even stand in front of it!” He scratches his head and wipes his face with his hands, so exasperated by my question that he breaks a sweat.

“Dad, you know that if you put the front burner on the low setting, it will not heat up as hot. It’s the same as the back burner. Just bigger.”

“I don’t care.”

He eats with a string of melted Swiss cheese hanging off his face like he just took a bite of Sal’s pizza from West New York. I return to making my omelet on the front burner. Back at the breakfast table, I push the plunger on my French press and it breathes out a gentle sigh of relief. The sweet aroma of pressed caffeine and fried onions fills the breakfast space. We ingest our huevitos in silence, the air conditioning vent humming a dirge behind us. Coffee talk will soon be over. Papi’s breakfast routine brings me comfort.

Papi tries to hide in his man cave, as he often does in the morning, when insulin is imminent and he knows we will make him eat. He is much more in favor of skulking into the kitchen when no one is looking, whipping up a quickie onion eggy bell pepper mixture and skulking back to the cave. A phantom. Today, I need to write and I trick him. Seductive siren, I prepare his favorite sunny side up and my good Italian blend in the fancy French press he does not understand.

Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing

Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 81

PORT CITY REVIEW

NON- F I CT I O N

G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART O N E O F T HR E E : GR A N D FATH ERS I can still hear the clanking of his belt and rip of his zipper. He snakes out of his pants to barely reveal a furry gray tuft of hair. He is Manolo, my father’s father. We are in the car on the way to Shop-Rite for eggs and milk. I am strapped into the front passenger’s seat before car seats were required for children. He says, “Look here, Boy. This is what a woman looks like. Touch it.” I was six years old.

We are a family of Chino-Cubanos descended from “Coolies,” Chinese men abducted into indentured servitude by European plantation owners and shipped to Cuba to work railroads and sugar cane fields in the 1890s. My great-great grandfather and my great-grandfather were among the slaves who laid rails and cut cane across the Hades heat of La Habana, long before another form of oppression raped the island paradise and its people.

Mami died last year. After ten months imprisoned in a cell of silent sorrow in the same 1400 square foot apartment, father and son are ready to talk. In the next to last day of a punishing 2016, my father shares, for the first time in my life, that I am three generations separated from slavery.

I feel beautiful and punch drunk with culture.

My great-great grandfather was born in the Guangdong Province of southeastern China. He was named Tun Kong Hong and was farmed like a pig from China to La Habana as the slave of a Frenchman by the name of Madam. Given that slaves were assigned the last name of their owners, his new Cuban identity became Tun Kong Hong-Madam. Despite Tun Kong Hong’s eventual freedom, my grandfather, Manuel de Jesus Perez-Madam, born free in Jovellanos, Cuba, took the slave name, Madam, due to the proximity of the family to our French owners.

“It was just customary and everyone accepted it,” Papi assures me, perhaps sensing my sudden pride descending into disgust. He continues his cuento.

My questions are firing off faster than we can eat our eggs. I am starving for a genealogy that Mami never shared for reasons she took to Christ. The family business was dry cleaning garments for the wealthy in our newfound freedom. My father was born to a working-class family in La Purisima Concepción Salón of the historic Asociación de Dependentientes Del Comercio de La Habana.

80

ISSUE SIX

Papi drifts from my interrogation and journeys with me to a street in downtown 1957 La Habana. He recounts the story of a wreck in which Tío Pepe attempted to avoid collision while driving the family dry cleaning van. Tío Pepe, ejected from the vehicle, is beaten, battered, bruised, befuddled and blamed, but his little nephew is never again allowed to ride in the van with loco Tío Pepe.

His eyes squinch together and disappear as they do when he laughs hard. His body convulses retelling el cuento, as if he has not recalled this story in many many years. We digress. Stories of other strains of disasters, tragedies, and triumphs that befell our family will come later. Dad becomes tired after breakfast and retreats to his man cave for a nap.

Fucking diabetes. My writing will have to wait. Time to prepare his insulin shot.

“Papi, why do you always cook your omelets on the back burner?” Seems like a stretch for a man with shoulders so eroded he cannot even wash his own armpits.

His face reddens. The words spit forth from his mouth full of eggs and onions.

“JEEZUZ, do you realize the amount of electricity the front burner uses? The heat is so much that you cannot even stand in front of it!” He scratches his head and wipes his face with his hands, so exasperated by my question that he breaks a sweat.

“Dad, you know that if you put the front burner on the low setting, it will not heat up as hot. It’s the same as the back burner. Just bigger.”

“I don’t care.”

He eats with a string of melted Swiss cheese hanging off his face like he just took a bite of Sal’s pizza from West New York. I return to making my omelet on the front burner. Back at the breakfast table, I push the plunger on my French press and it breathes out a gentle sigh of relief. The sweet aroma of pressed caffeine and fried onions fills the breakfast space. We ingest our huevitos in silence, the air conditioning vent humming a dirge behind us. Coffee talk will soon be over. Papi’s breakfast routine brings me comfort.

Papi tries to hide in his man cave, as he often does in the morning, when insulin is imminent and he knows we will make him eat. He is much more in favor of skulking into the kitchen when no one is looking, whipping up a quickie onion eggy bell pepper mixture and skulking back to the cave. A phantom. Today, I need to write and I trick him. Seductive siren, I prepare his favorite sunny side up and my good Italian blend in the fancy French press he does not understand.

Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing

Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 81

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Modern Love

Eternity is Forever

Jinny Udompolvanich Bangkok, Thailand B.F.A. Graphic Design

Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design

Illustration and Drawing

82

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography

83

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Modern Love

Eternity is Forever

Jinny Udompolvanich Bangkok, Thailand B.F.A. Graphic Design

Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design

Illustration and Drawing

82

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography

83

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Untitled

Illustration and Drawing Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration

Aries

Illustration and Drawing Kayla Catanzaro Manasquan, NJ B.F.A. Sequential Art

84

Lyre of Tyre

Illustration and Drawing Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration

85

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Untitled

Illustration and Drawing Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration

Aries

Illustration and Drawing Kayla Catanzaro Manasquan, NJ B.F.A. Sequential Art

84

Lyre of Tyre

Illustration and Drawing Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration

85

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

White Mouse Whiskey Packaging

Art Theft Headquarters

Gabby Guenther Apex, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design

Colin Rudd Raleigh, NC B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography

Interactive Design

White Chair

86

6-Pack

Industrial Design

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design

Emma Sersich Warren, OH B.F.A. Fibers

Craig Matola Lake Orion, MI B.F.A. Industrial Design

87

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

White Mouse Whiskey Packaging

Art Theft Headquarters

Gabby Guenther Apex, NC B.F.A. Graphic Design

Colin Rudd Raleigh, NC B.F.A. Interactive Design and Game Development

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography

Interactive Design

White Chair

86

6-Pack

Industrial Design

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design

Emma Sersich Warren, OH B.F.A. Fibers

Craig Matola Lake Orion, MI B.F.A. Industrial Design

87

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Aura

Illustration and Drawing Jessica Watson Schaumburg, IL B.F.A. Illustration

Transitions 2

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting 88

La Planete Des Singes Illustration and Drawing Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration

89

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Aura

Illustration and Drawing Jessica Watson Schaumburg, IL B.F.A. Illustration

Transitions 2

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting 88

La Planete Des Singes Illustration and Drawing Daniel Creel Miami, FL B.F.A. Illustration

89

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

A Blaze

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings CoCo Ree Lemery Chicago, IL M.F.A. Furniture and Industrial Design

Painted Beetle Relief

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Erik Poppen Fort Collins, CO B.F.A. Photography

90

91

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

A Blaze

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings CoCo Ree Lemery Chicago, IL M.F.A. Furniture and Industrial Design

Painted Beetle Relief

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Erik Poppen Fort Collins, CO B.F.A. Photography

90

91

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Summer Story Time

Illustration and Drawing Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

SaltLick

Interactive Design Garrett Albury Savannah, GA B.F.A. User Experience Design

Femininity

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Ana Guraieb México City, México M.F.A. Fibers 92

Pot De Fleur

Industrial Design Charu Sharma Jaipur, India B.F.A. Industrial Design

93

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Summer Story Time

Illustration and Drawing Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Atlántico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration

SaltLick

Interactive Design Garrett Albury Savannah, GA B.F.A. User Experience Design

Femininity

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Ana Guraieb México City, México M.F.A. Fibers 92

Pot De Fleur

Industrial Design Charu Sharma Jaipur, India B.F.A. Industrial Design

93

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

What Big Teeth You Have Illustration and Drawing Will Cordell McKinney, TX B.F.A. Illustration

The Witch Hut

Illustration and Drawing Shishuang Tu Beijing, China M.F.A. Illustration

94

Figure Study

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration

95

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

What Big Teeth You Have Illustration and Drawing Will Cordell McKinney, TX B.F.A. Illustration

The Witch Hut

Illustration and Drawing Shishuang Tu Beijing, China M.F.A. Illustration

94

Figure Study

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration

95

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Watch

Industrial Design Charu Sharma Jaipur, India B.F.A. Industrial Design

Tummy

Illustration and Drawing Cole Sprout Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration

Flower Teapot

Sculpture and Ceramics

96

Emily Ann Rozar Wichita, KS B.F.A. Fibers

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ISSUE SIX

Watch

Industrial Design Charu Sharma Jaipur, India B.F.A. Industrial Design

Tummy

Illustration and Drawing Cole Sprout Scotch Plains, NJ B.F.A. Illustration

Flower Teapot

Sculpture and Ceramics

96

Emily Ann Rozar Wichita, KS B.F.A. Fibers

97

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ISSUE SIX

Brooch #3

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Spencer Kohl St. John's, FL B.F.A. Jewelry & B.F.A. Painting

After Work

Illustration and Drawing Xiaoyu Li (Remy Li) Zhongshan, China M.F.A. Illustration

Liquid Outer Space Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kirsten Groff Rockville Centre, NY B.F.A. Painting 98

99

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Brooch #3

Fashion, Fibers, Jewelry, and Accessory Design Spencer Kohl St. John's, FL B.F.A. Jewelry & B.F.A. Painting

After Work

Illustration and Drawing Xiaoyu Li (Remy Li) Zhongshan, China M.F.A. Illustration

Liquid Outer Space Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kirsten Groff Rockville Centre, NY B.F.A. Painting 98

99

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Wild Ginger

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kirsten Groff Rockville Centre, NY B.F.A. Painting

You Make the Darkness Tremble Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Shayla Wigand Columbus, OH B.F.A. Painting

Encounter

Illustration and Drawing

Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration 100

101

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Wild Ginger

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Kirsten Groff Rockville Centre, NY B.F.A. Painting

You Make the Darkness Tremble Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings Shayla Wigand Columbus, OH B.F.A. Painting

Encounter

Illustration and Drawing

Lachlan Herrick Philadelphia, PA B.F.A. Illustration 100

101

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NON- F I CT I O N

M Y TURN My family used to think I was mute. I’m not sure if it was a personal choice or if everyone else was just so loud I could never get a word in. Either way, I didn’t speak. I hardly made a sound for the first few years of my life. When they took me to the doctor, he said I didn’t speak because someone else was always speaking for me. But that no, I was not mute.

Often, my mother spoke for me (and by that I mean, she never stopped talking). She talked to co workers, to grocery store clerks, to a friend of a friend of a friend, as if they were just another person she’d known her entire life. I guess in a way they were. She knew all kinds of people and talked to them all the same; she never knew a stranger.

Naturally, as I got older (those desperate teenage years) my lack of verbal communication led to somewhat of a road block between my mother and me.

She couldn’t understand how when I met someone new, say an old friend of hers from high school, my shoes became more interesting than eye contact. I distinctly remember sitting in the passenger seat of her black SUV peering out the window as she scolded me for being so irrevocably shy.

“You have to speak up,” she’d tell me. “We’ve been over this and over this. It’s rude and people probably think you’re a bitch. It’s not acceptable anymore.”

I couldn’t argue with her. Partly because maybe she was right, maybe people did think I was a bitch. But also because if I responded I was almost positive she’d give me some terrifying glare, followed by a spew of loud curse words and then I’d burst into flames. Besides that, I knew she meant it in a loving kind of way. She was always afraid that I’d never find my voice, that I was too tender and therefore would end up broken and taken advantage of. She wasn’t alone.

I’m pretty sure everyone in my family thought I was too mousy a human-being to ever stick up for myself. My mother was just the only one to ever tell me off for being that way. She never would’ve survived the upbringing she’d had (one of racist remarks, poverty, and a broken family) if she was as shy as I was.

But still I remained unspoken. When my mother and I went to the grocery store I’d shuffle behind her sheepishly and when she spoke to the clerk checking us out, I’d hide behind her broad shoulders as she made conversation about the food she’d just bought and how her two sons ate groceries like the plague of locusts in the book of Exodus. When we went to the mall she’d walk (my mother’s version of walking being a very strategic, tornado path) through

102

stores with me barely at her heels. And when she’d stop to speak with a sales associate, it’d turn into me pretending to search through racks of sweater dresses while she defended the long life of her only pair of jeans, which, if those jeans could be transformed into a tree, would have more rings than Elizabeth Taylor had husbands. Safe to say, as much as my mother wanted me to speak up, she made it all too easy for me to say absolutely nothing.

Until she lost her voice.

My mother had to have a tumor surgically removed from her thyroid. The tumor ended up being larger than expected and so the only way to remove it was by cutting her vocal cord. She didn’t say a word about it. It was probably the first time she ever even somewhat understood how it felt to be the silent one. Safe to say she didn’t like the feeling.

Now my mother had absolutely no shield, no way of interacting with others or protecting herself. She was vulnerable and so I became her voice. I was the one ordering take out on the phone, telling the cashier that we’d be paying with debit, and that yes we’d like our receipt in the bag. Looking back, I realize how much fun I could’ve had acting as her voice; it was a feeding ground for a child with no money, her mother’s debit card and a voice barrier.

Sadly, I was young and pure and didn’t quite understand the meaning of “seizing an opportunity,” so apart from being the middleman during arid transactions, I still held no power over the situation.

After a time, though, my mother did begin to regain her voice, or at least a whisper (although it was over a year before she stopped needing me to translate her thoughts into sentences). I can’t say I loved talking for her. But there were a few times where, although I never admitted it, I enjoyed being the one to make small talk. On a trip to the mall, we had stopped in The Loft to look around. I was trying to convince my mom to try on a pair of jeans because she was in desperate need of a new pair, preferably ones made for women, when an associate came over.

“Can I help you ladies find anything?” she asked.

I looked at my mother. Normally she would have responded with a polite “no thank you, we’re just perusing,” and continued to argue with me about the pants until I walked out of the store with her, defeated. This time, though, I

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NON- F I CT I O N

M Y TURN My family used to think I was mute. I’m not sure if it was a personal choice or if everyone else was just so loud I could never get a word in. Either way, I didn’t speak. I hardly made a sound for the first few years of my life. When they took me to the doctor, he said I didn’t speak because someone else was always speaking for me. But that no, I was not mute.

Often, my mother spoke for me (and by that I mean, she never stopped talking). She talked to co workers, to grocery store clerks, to a friend of a friend of a friend, as if they were just another person she’d known her entire life. I guess in a way they were. She knew all kinds of people and talked to them all the same; she never knew a stranger.

Naturally, as I got older (those desperate teenage years) my lack of verbal communication led to somewhat of a road block between my mother and me.

She couldn’t understand how when I met someone new, say an old friend of hers from high school, my shoes became more interesting than eye contact. I distinctly remember sitting in the passenger seat of her black SUV peering out the window as she scolded me for being so irrevocably shy.

“You have to speak up,” she’d tell me. “We’ve been over this and over this. It’s rude and people probably think you’re a bitch. It’s not acceptable anymore.”

I couldn’t argue with her. Partly because maybe she was right, maybe people did think I was a bitch. But also because if I responded I was almost positive she’d give me some terrifying glare, followed by a spew of loud curse words and then I’d burst into flames. Besides that, I knew she meant it in a loving kind of way. She was always afraid that I’d never find my voice, that I was too tender and therefore would end up broken and taken advantage of. She wasn’t alone.

I’m pretty sure everyone in my family thought I was too mousy a human-being to ever stick up for myself. My mother was just the only one to ever tell me off for being that way. She never would’ve survived the upbringing she’d had (one of racist remarks, poverty, and a broken family) if she was as shy as I was.

But still I remained unspoken. When my mother and I went to the grocery store I’d shuffle behind her sheepishly and when she spoke to the clerk checking us out, I’d hide behind her broad shoulders as she made conversation about the food she’d just bought and how her two sons ate groceries like the plague of locusts in the book of Exodus. When we went to the mall she’d walk (my mother’s version of walking being a very strategic, tornado path) through

102

stores with me barely at her heels. And when she’d stop to speak with a sales associate, it’d turn into me pretending to search through racks of sweater dresses while she defended the long life of her only pair of jeans, which, if those jeans could be transformed into a tree, would have more rings than Elizabeth Taylor had husbands. Safe to say, as much as my mother wanted me to speak up, she made it all too easy for me to say absolutely nothing.

Until she lost her voice.

My mother had to have a tumor surgically removed from her thyroid. The tumor ended up being larger than expected and so the only way to remove it was by cutting her vocal cord. She didn’t say a word about it. It was probably the first time she ever even somewhat understood how it felt to be the silent one. Safe to say she didn’t like the feeling.

Now my mother had absolutely no shield, no way of interacting with others or protecting herself. She was vulnerable and so I became her voice. I was the one ordering take out on the phone, telling the cashier that we’d be paying with debit, and that yes we’d like our receipt in the bag. Looking back, I realize how much fun I could’ve had acting as her voice; it was a feeding ground for a child with no money, her mother’s debit card and a voice barrier.

Sadly, I was young and pure and didn’t quite understand the meaning of “seizing an opportunity,” so apart from being the middleman during arid transactions, I still held no power over the situation.

After a time, though, my mother did begin to regain her voice, or at least a whisper (although it was over a year before she stopped needing me to translate her thoughts into sentences). I can’t say I loved talking for her. But there were a few times where, although I never admitted it, I enjoyed being the one to make small talk. On a trip to the mall, we had stopped in The Loft to look around. I was trying to convince my mom to try on a pair of jeans because she was in desperate need of a new pair, preferably ones made for women, when an associate came over.

“Can I help you ladies find anything?” she asked.

I looked at my mother. Normally she would have responded with a polite “no thank you, we’re just perusing,” and continued to argue with me about the pants until I walked out of the store with her, defeated. This time, though, I

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ISSUE SIX

was the one who had to speak up. I grinned slightly before looking back at the woman.

“Actually,” I said, “Yes you could.”

I continued to explain to the woman about how I was trying to find a pair of jeans for my mother, about how the only pair she owned were older than me, had holes in places that jeans should not have holes, and that every woman needs a good pair of jeans. I ignored the daggers my mother’s eyes were throwing at my every word.

Now, it was my turn to speak.

Alissa Malhoit Stonington, CT B.F.A. Writing

Grace

Illustration and Drawing Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration 104

105

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ISSUE SIX

was the one who had to speak up. I grinned slightly before looking back at the woman.

“Actually,” I said, “Yes you could.”

I continued to explain to the woman about how I was trying to find a pair of jeans for my mother, about how the only pair she owned were older than me, had holes in places that jeans should not have holes, and that every woman needs a good pair of jeans. I ignored the daggers my mother’s eyes were throwing at my every word.

Now, it was my turn to speak.

Alissa Malhoit Stonington, CT B.F.A. Writing

Grace

Illustration and Drawing Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration 104

105

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Lost in Forest

Animation and Motion Media Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation

Memory House

Animation and Motion Media

Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation

Flower Sky

Animation and Motion Media Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation 106

107

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ISSUE SIX

Lost in Forest

Animation and Motion Media Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation

Memory House

Animation and Motion Media

Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation

Flower Sky

Animation and Motion Media Di Xiao Beijing, China M.A. Animation 106

107

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

NON- F I CT I O N

S LOW BU R N The first time I saw her with a cigarette, she was so far gone she could barely hold on to it. It kept slipping lazily backwards until someone finally took it out of her hands to keep her from burning herself. Her skin was so papery by that point, I imagined her whole body would instantly be engulfed in flame if the sagging embers reached the back of her hand.

She lived maybe a month after that; a month where the world was put on pause and everyone who knew Edie Mae Fath simply waited. No one in my family was there when she died, but I imagine she was slumped in the highbacked armchair in the foyer and she just slid away, like she had slid to sleep so many times in the past month. Once upon a time she sat there righteously, her back straight and her legs crossed, ruling Val-Hi Farm and all of Ripley, Ohio with a quirk of her thin lips and a wave of her wrist.

Edie was the first person my parents met after they moved the 60 miles from Cincinnati to Ripley, and by no accident. She worked for 30 years in a cubicle across from my grandfather. Their lives were completely different, but they were both industrious and sarcastic, so it seemed natural for them to be friends.

When Papa told Edie that his third daughter and her new husband had purchased 100 acres in Brown County she said, “I live in Brown County.”

“Well, they’re headed out to Ripley!”

“I live in Ripley.” And that was how my family came to live across the street from her, with exactly ten minutes of time between piling into our Chevy and knocking on her front door every night.

There was a massive forsythia bush at the bottom of the Fath driveway, and every year when it bloomed buttery yellow, my mom and I would both shout “Spring!” but then when it became unruly enough to scratch at her car, my mother would put on her work overalls and cut it back, practically to a stub. Her determination was never enough to kill it.

Edie was a short, thin woman, but never let it stop her from getting the things she wanted. She had dusty brown skin and short, tightly curled, dusty brown hair that she got dyed and permed on the same day every other week. She had been a travelling line dancer in the 50s before marrying her husband, a weak willed tobacco farmer who began drinking himself to death early on and wrapped it up just before the first anniversary of her death.

By the time I was old enough to really get to know her, Edie had retired from P&G and the farm had significantly downsized. Never idle, Edie turned her efforts to the town instead. On Sundays and Wednesdays, I helped her cook for the Ripley Lion’s Club’s Bingo Night. She would stir soup on the stove and I would bake while she listed out the ingredients of each cake from memory. Each time she would laugh and say, “Your mom uses box cakes and makes her own icing and I make cakes from scratch and use icing from a can, so you’re going to be the best baker of all of us.”

My mom was Edie’s opposite in every other way, too. She was tall and square, with a long, pointed nose she called her beak. She was just as much of a control freak, but where Edie controlled with her cool demeanor and quick tongue, my mother controlled with a raised voice and wild gestures that made her look even more like a bird. Every emotion showed on her face, and if you asked her why she was so expressive, I’m sure she would look disgusted and say, “I’m just an honest person. I don’t have time for bullshit.”

In the fourteen years I knew Edie, the most dogs she had at any one point was also fourteen. I could probably name them all if I tried; Teddy was the Spitz who bit my dad, Cissy was the Dachshund that used to run in weiner dog races, Waldo the Beagle was possibly the fattest dog of all time, etc. They all had bizarre rescue stories and an encyclopedia’s worth of medical issues. When Edie and Ed were out of town, it was my family’s duty to feed and care for her menagerie. No matter how many times we did it, she would always leave a diagram of where each dog belonged during feeding time, to keep them from acting on personal grudges and stealing each other’s food.

Casper was one of her later acquisitions. He had a deep bellowing grow and rightfully terrified everyone who tried to approach him. Not Edie. She took him in and called him Casper, after the friendly ghost, of course. My mom was the second person to befriend him because once, when Edie was out of town, he growled at her and she responded by bending in half to put her face near to his and bellowing, “You shut up!”

I thought at the time that meant my mother was fearless, but really I think she was more afraid of Edie’s disapproval than any dog’s teeth. Because, despite their differences, Mom was the one Edie chose to refer to as her adopted daughter when she described her relationship with my family.

Shelby Loebker Cincinnati, OH B.F.A. Writing 108

Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 109

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

NON- F I CT I O N

S LOW BU R N The first time I saw her with a cigarette, she was so far gone she could barely hold on to it. It kept slipping lazily backwards until someone finally took it out of her hands to keep her from burning herself. Her skin was so papery by that point, I imagined her whole body would instantly be engulfed in flame if the sagging embers reached the back of her hand.

She lived maybe a month after that; a month where the world was put on pause and everyone who knew Edie Mae Fath simply waited. No one in my family was there when she died, but I imagine she was slumped in the highbacked armchair in the foyer and she just slid away, like she had slid to sleep so many times in the past month. Once upon a time she sat there righteously, her back straight and her legs crossed, ruling Val-Hi Farm and all of Ripley, Ohio with a quirk of her thin lips and a wave of her wrist.

Edie was the first person my parents met after they moved the 60 miles from Cincinnati to Ripley, and by no accident. She worked for 30 years in a cubicle across from my grandfather. Their lives were completely different, but they were both industrious and sarcastic, so it seemed natural for them to be friends.

When Papa told Edie that his third daughter and her new husband had purchased 100 acres in Brown County she said, “I live in Brown County.”

“Well, they’re headed out to Ripley!”

“I live in Ripley.” And that was how my family came to live across the street from her, with exactly ten minutes of time between piling into our Chevy and knocking on her front door every night.

There was a massive forsythia bush at the bottom of the Fath driveway, and every year when it bloomed buttery yellow, my mom and I would both shout “Spring!” but then when it became unruly enough to scratch at her car, my mother would put on her work overalls and cut it back, practically to a stub. Her determination was never enough to kill it.

Edie was a short, thin woman, but never let it stop her from getting the things she wanted. She had dusty brown skin and short, tightly curled, dusty brown hair that she got dyed and permed on the same day every other week. She had been a travelling line dancer in the 50s before marrying her husband, a weak willed tobacco farmer who began drinking himself to death early on and wrapped it up just before the first anniversary of her death.

By the time I was old enough to really get to know her, Edie had retired from P&G and the farm had significantly downsized. Never idle, Edie turned her efforts to the town instead. On Sundays and Wednesdays, I helped her cook for the Ripley Lion’s Club’s Bingo Night. She would stir soup on the stove and I would bake while she listed out the ingredients of each cake from memory. Each time she would laugh and say, “Your mom uses box cakes and makes her own icing and I make cakes from scratch and use icing from a can, so you’re going to be the best baker of all of us.”

My mom was Edie’s opposite in every other way, too. She was tall and square, with a long, pointed nose she called her beak. She was just as much of a control freak, but where Edie controlled with her cool demeanor and quick tongue, my mother controlled with a raised voice and wild gestures that made her look even more like a bird. Every emotion showed on her face, and if you asked her why she was so expressive, I’m sure she would look disgusted and say, “I’m just an honest person. I don’t have time for bullshit.”

In the fourteen years I knew Edie, the most dogs she had at any one point was also fourteen. I could probably name them all if I tried; Teddy was the Spitz who bit my dad, Cissy was the Dachshund that used to run in weiner dog races, Waldo the Beagle was possibly the fattest dog of all time, etc. They all had bizarre rescue stories and an encyclopedia’s worth of medical issues. When Edie and Ed were out of town, it was my family’s duty to feed and care for her menagerie. No matter how many times we did it, she would always leave a diagram of where each dog belonged during feeding time, to keep them from acting on personal grudges and stealing each other’s food.

Casper was one of her later acquisitions. He had a deep bellowing grow and rightfully terrified everyone who tried to approach him. Not Edie. She took him in and called him Casper, after the friendly ghost, of course. My mom was the second person to befriend him because once, when Edie was out of town, he growled at her and she responded by bending in half to put her face near to his and bellowing, “You shut up!”

I thought at the time that meant my mother was fearless, but really I think she was more afraid of Edie’s disapproval than any dog’s teeth. Because, despite their differences, Mom was the one Edie chose to refer to as her adopted daughter when she described her relationship with my family.

Shelby Loebker Cincinnati, OH B.F.A. Writing 108

Read the full version of this story at theportcityreview.com 109

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

Winter Blue Landscape

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings

Landscape 1, 2, and 3

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings

Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting

Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting

110

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Winter Blue Landscape

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings

Landscape 1, 2, and 3

Painting, Printmaking, and Etchings

Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting

Kathleen Varadi Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting

110

111

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Julia

Ryan

Angie Stong Hamden, CT B.F.A. Photography

Jonathan Vasata New York, NY M.F.A. Photography

Photography

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Photography

113

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Julia

Ryan

Angie Stong Hamden, CT B.F.A. Photography

Jonathan Vasata New York, NY M.F.A. Photography

Photography

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Photography

113

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ISSUE SIX

Einstein's Dreams

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Shruti Shyam New Delhi, India M.F.A. Graphic Design and Visual Experience

114

115

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Einstein's Dreams

Graphic Design, Advertising, and Typography Shruti Shyam New Delhi, India M.F.A. Graphic Design and Visual Experience

114

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NON- F I CT I O N

G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART T WO O F T HR E E : M A M I’ S U RN Her fluffy lamb with a mechanical implant sings “Jesus Loves You.” I bought it at the Family Christian Store hours before her death.

One final gift from a son to his mother.

Her mechanical implant did not sing “Jesus Loves You.” Perhaps it did perhaps it does and I cannot will not hear.

She cannot be wound up for more beautiful music.

Perhaps she can in another realm and I cannot will not hear.

Her glossy bone China tea cups from Anthropologie.

Another gift from a son fully aware its time was limited on her warm credenza.

Her mini crystal Christmas tree with tiny swirly ornaments I keep there all year.

The tiny periwinkle bottle of Holy Water Jeanette brought her trip to St. Patrick’s.

A wooden carving of an angel on her knees.

Praying.

I cannot will not hear her pray again.

Her tiny ceramic Mary and Joseph cradling an even tinier Baby Jesus.

She cannot will not cradle me anymore.

Perhaps she can and I cannot will not feel it.

The tick-tock of her implant cannot comfort us anymore.

Perhaps it can and I cannot will not hear it.

She cannot hug the three of us anymore. That I think I know for sure.

A Mother’s Day whittling of a mother comforting her son.

Her crystal Christmas bells that fit inside one another like Matroyshka nesting dolls.

She will not decorate a tree again.

Perhaps she can I cannot will not see it.

A soft Precious Moments mechanical boy plays “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.”

A gift from a mother to a son hospitalized with a sinister kidney stone.

Just before embarking on her Caribbean cruise.

Her ceramic angel with a mechanical implant sings “Silent Night.”

Her mechanical implant did not sing “Silent Night” Perhaps it did and I could not would not hear.

She cannot be wound up for more “Silent Night.”

Perhaps she can and I do not will not hear.

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A tiny eggshell, bone, off-white, ivory prayer card I hastily printed at Staples.

La Oración de San Luiz Beltran printed on one side.

The dates of her birth and death without a hyphen.

Her life was not a hyphen.

My mother died, I told the cashier.

I spit those words at anyone who would listen in those first weeks.

To the tailor who altered my suit.

To Jeanette’s pastor performing the service.

To the flower shop lady who had so joyfully arranged our wedding bouquets.

To the creepy crematory troll.

To my students.

To my bosses.

To my Facebook Friends.

To my real friends.

To my colleagues.

To her landlord.

To her mailman.

To her bank card.

To the guy on the phone at Medicare.

To her doctor.

I said it yesterday to a lady on the phone.

I wrote it in an email on Wednesday.

A year will pass in 5 days and I cannot say it and mean it.

Saying it a lot does not make it so.

The wishbone from the first Cuban Chinese Thanksgiving turkey I made alone.

It leans against the particles of her dust that remain in a small ceramic rose.

Would she want a poultry wishbone to lean against her?

“Deja de ser tan dramatico y bota esa mierda pal carajo,” she would scream.

Throw that shit out. I am not in there.

Do I would I hear her if she screamed to me again?

Please scream at me again, Mami.

Give me a smack on the head because I just said “shit.”

God, what I would give.

She was a tiny warrior Santera Cubana, Hija de Oya, with a giant machete and a valve too mangled to sustain her powers.

She lives on my shelf.

Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing 117

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NON- F I CT I O N

G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART T WO O F T HR E E : M A M I’ S U RN Her fluffy lamb with a mechanical implant sings “Jesus Loves You.” I bought it at the Family Christian Store hours before her death.

One final gift from a son to his mother.

Her mechanical implant did not sing “Jesus Loves You.” Perhaps it did perhaps it does and I cannot will not hear.

She cannot be wound up for more beautiful music.

Perhaps she can in another realm and I cannot will not hear.

Her glossy bone China tea cups from Anthropologie.

Another gift from a son fully aware its time was limited on her warm credenza.

Her mini crystal Christmas tree with tiny swirly ornaments I keep there all year.

The tiny periwinkle bottle of Holy Water Jeanette brought her trip to St. Patrick’s.

A wooden carving of an angel on her knees.

Praying.

I cannot will not hear her pray again.

Her tiny ceramic Mary and Joseph cradling an even tinier Baby Jesus.

She cannot will not cradle me anymore.

Perhaps she can and I cannot will not feel it.

The tick-tock of her implant cannot comfort us anymore.

Perhaps it can and I cannot will not hear it.

She cannot hug the three of us anymore. That I think I know for sure.

A Mother’s Day whittling of a mother comforting her son.

Her crystal Christmas bells that fit inside one another like Matroyshka nesting dolls.

She will not decorate a tree again.

Perhaps she can I cannot will not see it.

A soft Precious Moments mechanical boy plays “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.”

A gift from a mother to a son hospitalized with a sinister kidney stone.

Just before embarking on her Caribbean cruise.

Her ceramic angel with a mechanical implant sings “Silent Night.”

Her mechanical implant did not sing “Silent Night” Perhaps it did and I could not would not hear.

She cannot be wound up for more “Silent Night.”

Perhaps she can and I do not will not hear.

116

A tiny eggshell, bone, off-white, ivory prayer card I hastily printed at Staples.

La Oración de San Luiz Beltran printed on one side.

The dates of her birth and death without a hyphen.

Her life was not a hyphen.

My mother died, I told the cashier.

I spit those words at anyone who would listen in those first weeks.

To the tailor who altered my suit.

To Jeanette’s pastor performing the service.

To the flower shop lady who had so joyfully arranged our wedding bouquets.

To the creepy crematory troll.

To my students.

To my bosses.

To my Facebook Friends.

To my real friends.

To my colleagues.

To her landlord.

To her mailman.

To her bank card.

To the guy on the phone at Medicare.

To her doctor.

I said it yesterday to a lady on the phone.

I wrote it in an email on Wednesday.

A year will pass in 5 days and I cannot say it and mean it.

Saying it a lot does not make it so.

The wishbone from the first Cuban Chinese Thanksgiving turkey I made alone.

It leans against the particles of her dust that remain in a small ceramic rose.

Would she want a poultry wishbone to lean against her?

“Deja de ser tan dramatico y bota esa mierda pal carajo,” she would scream.

Throw that shit out. I am not in there.

Do I would I hear her if she screamed to me again?

Please scream at me again, Mami.

Give me a smack on the head because I just said “shit.”

God, what I would give.

She was a tiny warrior Santera Cubana, Hija de Oya, with a giant machete and a valve too mangled to sustain her powers.

She lives on my shelf.

Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing 117

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ISSUE SIX

A Day at the Luxembourg Gardens, in Paris Painting, Printmaking and Etchings Katelyn Olsen Farmingdale, NY B.F.A. Interior Design

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ISSUE SIX

A Day at the Luxembourg Gardens, in Paris Painting, Printmaking and Etchings Katelyn Olsen Farmingdale, NY B.F.A. Interior Design

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ISSUE SIX

Portraits

Illustration and Drawing Brian Nathaniel Lesiangi Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia M.F.A. Animation

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ISSUE SIX

Portraits

Illustration and Drawing Brian Nathaniel Lesiangi Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia M.F.A. Animation

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ISSUE SIX

NON- F I CT I O N

G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART T HR E E O F T HR E E : PA P I’ S B REA KFA ST He does not speak.

He births his omelet every morning in exactly the same way.

He slivers onions and green bell peppers with cardiothoracic precision.

He slides the pan across our glass top stove to the back burner.

He stretches for the gourd-shaped oil dispenser we bought him for Christmas.

He drips the same round puddle every time.

He cracks two eggs.

He stings my eye-tears with fried onions.

He scrapes the metal spoon on our formerly nonstick fry pan.

He sizzles four ham slices in the mix.

He evacuates the eggy contents onto a plate he cannot reach.

He eats.

He abandons the empty plate greasy fork stained towel paper shred.

He sleeps off his diabetic coma in Mary’s gliding chair.

He breathes to televangelists vomiting shit about Jesus through his eyelids.

I suffocate at my keyboard sheathed in a comforting cloak of fried onion stank.

His routine fills my heart.

Completely.

Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing

Untitled

Photography

122

Calvin Scott Tampa, FL B.F.A. Photography

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PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

NON- F I CT I O N

G ro w i ng U p C ool i e: M e m o r i e s o f my Ch i no -C ub a no D i as p o r a PART T HR E E O F T HR E E : PA P I’ S B REA KFA ST He does not speak.

He births his omelet every morning in exactly the same way.

He slivers onions and green bell peppers with cardiothoracic precision.

He slides the pan across our glass top stove to the back burner.

He stretches for the gourd-shaped oil dispenser we bought him for Christmas.

He drips the same round puddle every time.

He cracks two eggs.

He stings my eye-tears with fried onions.

He scrapes the metal spoon on our formerly nonstick fry pan.

He sizzles four ham slices in the mix.

He evacuates the eggy contents onto a plate he cannot reach.

He eats.

He abandons the empty plate greasy fork stained towel paper shred.

He sleeps off his diabetic coma in Mary’s gliding chair.

He breathes to televangelists vomiting shit about Jesus through his eyelids.

I suffocate at my keyboard sheathed in a comforting cloak of fried onion stank.

His routine fills my heart.

Completely.

Alex Manuel Pérez-Barry West New York, NJ M.F.A. Writing

Untitled

Photography

122

Calvin Scott Tampa, FL B.F.A. Photography

123

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ISSUE SIX

ARTIST INDEX see online works at theportcityreview.com

Albury, Garrett

93

Guraieb, Ana

92

Mannaa, Ruaida

46, 92

Soltan, Sarah

49

Auber, Mariyka

14-15

Harkey, Jessica

68-69

Matola, Craig

87

Sprout, Cole

72, 96

Barrientos, Carolina Diaz

54-55

Henderson, Nicolas

36

Meehan, Cole

52-53

Sredni, Vivian

43

Brownlee, Nat

56-57

Herrick, Lachlan

85, 101

O’Hall, Alexandria

66-67

Stong, Angie

112

Campbell, Christin

26

Honda, Oki

9

Olsen, Katelyn

73, 118-119

Strukel, Brooke

25

Cardwell, Eliza G.

77

Yanez, Brenda Julian

32-33

Ortiz, Vada

36

Sullivan, Morgan

27, 77

Catanzaro, Kayla

84

Kala, Ananya

44-45

Patel, Luxme

74

Tarravechia, Rachel

20

Ching, Kin Lok

48

Kefalas, Emilie

70-71

Pellegrino, Nicolas

42

Tu, Shishuang

22-23, 94

Chiuz, Ricardo

60-61, 75

Kohl, Spencer

99

Pérez-Barry, Alex Manuel

80-81, 116-117, 122 Udompolvanich, Jinny

82

Cordell, Will

94

LaFortune, Lulu

18

Poppen, Erik

91

Varadi, Kathleen

50, 88, 110, 111

Craig, Jessica

38

Laituri, Calvin

76, 83

Restrepo, Amalia

13, 21, 30-31, 47

Varandani, Dheeraj

78

Creel, Daniel

16, 35, 89

Lawson, Jeffery

24, 58-59

Roth, Maggie

28, 51

Vasata, Jonathan

113

Escobar, Alex

95, 104

Lemery, CoCo Ree

90

Rozar, Emily Ann

97

Wagstaff, Trisstah

40

Freitas, Irena

64

Lesiangi, Brian Nathaniel

120-121

Rudd, Colin

79, 87

Walker, Mike

17

Garay, Lina

62

Li, Xiaoyu (Remy Li)

39, 98

Sanchez, Elena

10-11

Watson, Jessica

88

Gettelfinger, Gwendolyn

63

Liang, Vanya

29

Scott, Calvin

123

Whiteley, Ryan

19

Groff, Kirsten

98, 101

Loebker, Shelby

108-109

Sersich, Emma

86

Wigand, Shayla

65, 100

Gomez, Valentina Angulo

37, 78, 79

Lugo, Roger

34

Sharma, Charu

93, 97

Xiao, Di

106-107

Greene, Samantha

41

Lurie, Eli

60-61, 75

Shyam, Shruti

114-115

Zeiler, Charlotta

40

Guenther, Gabby

86

Malhoit, Alissa

12, 102-104

Smalls, Nia

8

124

125

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

ARTIST INDEX see online works at theportcityreview.com

Albury, Garrett

93

Guraieb, Ana

92

Mannaa, Ruaida

46, 92

Soltan, Sarah

49

Auber, Mariyka

14-15

Harkey, Jessica

68-69

Matola, Craig

87

Sprout, Cole

72, 96

Barrientos, Carolina Diaz

54-55

Henderson, Nicolas

36

Meehan, Cole

52-53

Sredni, Vivian

43

Brownlee, Nat

56-57

Herrick, Lachlan

85, 101

O’Hall, Alexandria

66-67

Stong, Angie

112

Campbell, Christin

26

Honda, Oki

9

Olsen, Katelyn

73, 118-119

Strukel, Brooke

25

Cardwell, Eliza G.

77

Yanez, Brenda Julian

32-33

Ortiz, Vada

36

Sullivan, Morgan

27, 77

Catanzaro, Kayla

84

Kala, Ananya

44-45

Patel, Luxme

74

Tarravechia, Rachel

20

Ching, Kin Lok

48

Kefalas, Emilie

70-71

Pellegrino, Nicolas

42

Tu, Shishuang

22-23, 94

Chiuz, Ricardo

60-61, 75

Kohl, Spencer

99

Pérez-Barry, Alex Manuel

80-81, 116-117, 122 Udompolvanich, Jinny

82

Cordell, Will

94

LaFortune, Lulu

18

Poppen, Erik

91

Varadi, Kathleen

50, 88, 110, 111

Craig, Jessica

38

Laituri, Calvin

76, 83

Restrepo, Amalia

13, 21, 30-31, 47

Varandani, Dheeraj

78

Creel, Daniel

16, 35, 89

Lawson, Jeffery

24, 58-59

Roth, Maggie

28, 51

Vasata, Jonathan

113

Escobar, Alex

95, 104

Lemery, CoCo Ree

90

Rozar, Emily Ann

97

Wagstaff, Trisstah

40

Freitas, Irena

64

Lesiangi, Brian Nathaniel

120-121

Rudd, Colin

79, 87

Walker, Mike

17

Garay, Lina

62

Li, Xiaoyu (Remy Li)

39, 98

Sanchez, Elena

10-11

Watson, Jessica

88

Gettelfinger, Gwendolyn

63

Liang, Vanya

29

Scott, Calvin

123

Whiteley, Ryan

19

Groff, Kirsten

98, 101

Loebker, Shelby

108-109

Sersich, Emma

86

Wigand, Shayla

65, 100

Gomez, Valentina Angulo

37, 78, 79

Lugo, Roger

34

Sharma, Charu

93, 97

Xiao, Di

106-107

Greene, Samantha

41

Lurie, Eli

60-61, 75

Shyam, Shruti

114-115

Zeiler, Charlotta

40

Guenther, Gabby

86

Malhoit, Alissa

12, 102-104

Smalls, Nia

8

124

125

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

To fully enjoy the digitial submissions of...

Sam Button Yingchuan Du Corey Householder Louisa Lawler Omid Seraj Giulia Jimenez Tani

The Savannah College of Art and Design exists to prepare talented students for professional careers, emphasizing learning through individual attention in a positvely oriented university environment.

... and read more of the stories, please visit:

theportcityreview.com

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127

PORT CITY REVIEW

ISSUE SIX

To fully enjoy the digitial submissions of...

Sam Button Yingchuan Du Corey Householder Louisa Lawler Omid Seraj Giulia Jimenez Tani

The Savannah College of Art and Design exists to prepare talented students for professional careers, emphasizing learning through individual attention in a positvely oriented university environment.

... and read more of the stories, please visit:

theportcityreview.com

126

127

P RO D UCE D B Y D ISTRI C T SAVAN N AH CO L L E G E O F ART A N D D ES I G N