Thread Vol. 11 PDF by Thread Literary Inquiry

2017 Selected and Edited by Ash Alonzo Sandy Bolis Crystal Bonano

Lauren Broadwell Richard Felipe Sarah Harder Lisa Sammoh

Advised by: Ira Sukrungruang Cover Photos by: Michelle Calicchio Design & Layout by: Crystal Bonano Sponsored by: USF速 Student Government USF速 College of Arts & Sciences USF速 Council of Undergraduate Research

thread, Literary Inquiry is an undergraduate literary journal staffed by student editors. We strive to publish the best undergraduate writing and 2-D artwork/photography/comics that the University of South Florida速 has to offer. Submissions are accepted from all genres within these categories: short fiction, nonfiction, flash fiction, micro fiction, literary criticism, poetry, and screenplays. Learn more about thread at: threadusf.jimdo.com facebook.com/threadUSF Copyright thread 2017 All rights reserved and revert to authors and artists on publication.

Contents Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note

The Origins of a Crow Savannah Grooms

The old soul with soft bones Dakota Galvin

Foreign Body Kelly De Curtis

I saw her today Jonathan Valentine

Topography of Absence Janna Doyac

Not Unlike Autumn Andrew Sestokalskus

A list of everything between four walls Victoria Royal

Laetus Pullum Mahu Kamal

They Call it Home, Child Rhonda Donovan

I remember Emma Adamson

To John Berryman Andrea Hardee

Why I Quit Cigarettes Victoria Royal

Don’t Victoria Hoang

The Broken Wall: Ambiguity in the Novels of William Faulkner Emily Brocket

Austin in the Summertime Mahu Kamal

They Call it Home, Cool Rhonda Donovan

Just a Little Something for the Kids Chael Blinya

Writer’s Block Kelly De Curtis

DEATH ON VACATION Jerico Lenk

Henry’s Wedding Reception Served Devil’s Food Cake Mahu Kamal

Immutable Andrea Hardee

The Death of a Tightrope Walker Liberty O’Neill

Bug-Eyed Mahu Kamal

They Call it Home, Warm Rhonda Donovan

Exploring the uncanny valley Dakota Galvin

When Brown Girls Get Lost in Never-land ZenChristian Mott

PERSEPHONE BEFORE THE UNDERWORLD Jerico Lenk

Smothering Butterflies ZenChristian Mott

In sickness and in hell Dakota Galvin

NEW JERSEY, 1999 Jerico Lenk

The Robin Jonathan Valentine

Spare Parts Jessica Thornton

Portrait of My Mother Kelly De Curtis

Yours, the Crow Jonathan Valentine

Contract for the dying star Dakota Galvin

After the Election (2016) Kelly De Curtis

They Burn the Olive Trees Mahu Kamal

Smoke Mahu Kamal

Editor’s Note “Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.” ~Stephen King Like these birds, our writing is also meant to take flight. It is easy as writers to cradle the work we’ve created, afraid of letting unknown eyes evaluate the worth of our words. We stifle our own stories, both written and lived alike, not knowing the exhaling, shoulder-slumping relief that comes after the dreadful click of that “submit” button. In that moment, we lose control and are forced to rely on and believe in the wings we’ve built for ourselves over time while jotting down every word, line, and comma. Yet, for some, what follows the initial, cheek-aching excitement of that first publication is a half-hearted shrug and a “What now?” My advice to empty nesters is to sit and scribble and surround themselves with half-done, crumpled drafts and inkless pens on a disheveled desk until another baby is ready to take flight. Since its first publication in 2007, thread has devoted its efforts to providing a comfortable sanctuary for which USF students can release their creativity to us in hopes of fruitful publication, often their first. As its name implies, this publication was created to be the thread that bridged the gap between creative writing, literary studies, and rhetoric and composition and thereby create a unifying flock of unique but similarly motivated robins to grow together in the long journey to literary success.

What we at thread strive to accomplish beyond all else is a welcoming embrace for our storytellers, whose childhoods are shaping our present and whose stories will be our future. This year, I had the pleasure of expanding thread to include new genres, such as micro-fiction, as well as build upon last yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s introduction of art and photography. I am proud to say that the 11th volume has, by far, accepted more USF student work than previous years and I look forward to the day I, a proud USF alumna and threaditor, return and find thread with a different cover but the same heart as ever. Crystal

The Origins of a Crow Savannah Grooms

Two days after Abe’s wife died, he pulled a small feather from what he thought was a blemish on his back. He stared at it, itching at the puckered skin from where he plucked it. It was a tiny thing, about the size of his pinky finger, with a glossy finish and soft, downy barbs at the end. Abe held the feather up to the light for a moment before dropping it into the toilet beside him. It must have been stuck to him from the sanctuary, even though he hadn’t been there since Marie. Abe watched his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles, dead eyes and awfully chapped lips stared back. He hadn’t been sleeping very well without Marie. He hadn’t been doing anything very well without Marie, truth be told. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d brushed his teeth or changed out of his torn sweatpants. He was sticky with the sweat of nightmares and his hair looked like he’d been conditioning with bacon grease. Abe hadn’t taken any calls since Monday and part of him was hoping the world had stopped in his absence. Abe wondered what Marie would think of his state. Gross, she’d say, skittering away from his greasy affections with a light grin. She’d tell him to take a shower. Comb his hair. Put on some real pants. He just wanted to hear her voice one more time. Thinking about her made his eyes burn. Abe knew he couldn’t stay in his house, his bed, forever. Marie’s scent had disappeared from her pillow yesterday. So, he forced himself into the shower and managed to scrub the fuzz off his yellowed teeth. He thought being clean might make him feel better, but it didn’t. By the time Abe had gotten dressed and grabbed his keys, he was ready to crawl back into bed. He felt at his finger for the wedding ring he knew was missing, sitting somewhere in his office. That’s what he needed, something to give him enough strength to prepare for his wife’s ceremony. Marie beamed from the picture frame sitting by the front door. He could hear her laughing in the kitchen, telling him to have a good day as he turned the handle. He could feel her kiss on his 8

cheek. Abe took a deep breath and opened the door to a world that, in fact, had not stopped. Another feather fell from his shirtsleeve, and Marie told him goodbye. Marie was the one who took Abe to the bird sanctuary for the first time. They met in college, at the tender age of 19, when Abe was just a clumsy sack of bones and wit. He thought Marie hung the moon from the moment he saw her, while she hadn’t even taken notice of him until they were forced into the same group during their Anthropology class. At first, he thought he could impress her with muscles and brawn, committing to the gym and attempting to go at least five times a week. After nearly breaking his clavicle while trying to bench press twice his weight, he decided he needed to take a different route. Abe then tried to learn about cars, thinking that maybe, even though he didn’t have the money for one, he could impress her with his knowledge. “You know I don’t care about any of this,” Marie said one day while Abe was attempting to educate her on the importance of an oil change. Abe stared at her, before asking one of the most important questions of his life, “Well then, what do you care about?’ Later that day, Marie took him to the Duncan Bird Sanctuary, not ten miles from where their university was. Abe only went because Marie wanted him to, but two weeks later and multiple visits to the aviary had him so enthralled that he changed his major and set his sights on becoming an ornithologist. His friends laughed at him, telling him Marie had brainwashed him. The more Abe went to the sanctuary, the more he fell in love with Marie and the birds. The way she looked at them was with a fascination Abe could only aspire to. Even though she had been to visit each of them about a thousand times, her brown eyes always lit up when they spread their wings and flew to the cage door to say hello. She was infatuated with the feathered animals, but her plan was to become a children’s author. Abe was originally surprised by how smart the animals were. Some recognized the couple, chirping happily when they passed 9

by. Even though she wasn’t supposed to, Marie always wiggled her fingers through the bars, letting the birds nip at her fingertips. A crow with a deformed foot was particularly fond of her, rubbing its head against her fingers and cawing forlornly when she left. After six more years of school, Abe managed to get a job at the Duncan Bird Sanctuary, working with endangered animals. Marie, of course, was ecstatic, teasing about how she could finally get into the enclosures now that she was sleeping with one of the guys on the inside. When the time was right, Abe took Marie into the crow’s enclosure, lowered to one knee, and asked her to marry him. Today, Abe parked far away from the sanctuary’s entrance, unsure of whether or not he could look at it just yet. He could feel the material under his arms growing damp and his palms felt like they’d been dipped in water. The beating in his chest seemed too erratic as he attempted to count each pump. He was breathing much too fast. After struggling for several long minutes, Abe finally worked up the courage to open his car door. It was difficult to get to the entryway of his workplace. With each step, his legs filled with more lead, weighing him down and urging him to sink to the asphalt. The Duncan Bird Sanctuary was a beautiful place, with high walls and large, expansive cages integrated into the layout of the building. Abe’s office was beside the Jack Pine Warbler’s habitat. He always left his door open so he could listen to them sing. Sometimes, when Marie would visit, she would whistle with them, creating pretty little songs that never failed to make Abe laugh. He navigated through the offices until he got to his own, making note of the clutter and the notes shoved into his mailbox. People who don’t know a person too well always think that when a time of tragedy hits, a note is a good enough way to express their condolences. Abe threw his in the trash. He began shuffling through his desk, searching in the drawers and underneath the stacks of papers. He finally found his wedding ring in the second drawer down, hiding in the space between his National Geographic magazines and a Kit Kat bar. Marie had 10

always been furious when he came home without it. She’d chastise him about keeping better track of his ring. He’d tell her that he didn’t want to lose it in one of the habitats and that he’d rather search his office for it than in the feces of all the birds. Marie never really had a good response for that one. The small circle burned Abe’s palm. He wanted to put it back on his finger, but the heat of his loss stopped him. He tried not to cry as he placed the ring in his shirt pocket, wishing the lump in his throat would disappear. He pulled a hand through his hair and black feathers fell from his scalp to the ground while Abe walked out of his office. As he locked his office door, Abe decided that he never wanted to be here again. Abe didn’t notice how the birds froze as he walked past each of their habitats to the exit of the building. They cocked their heads at him as he passed, some ruffling their feathers while others fled deeper into their homes to watch him from a distance. The California condor, the last bird on Abe’s way out, stopped its grooming to hop to a closer tree as Abe shuffled past it and out the door. The condor glanced at the ground after Abe left, observing the sparse, fallen feathers that now littered the floor, before letting out a deep, sorrowful cry. The other birds, the Gunnison Sage-grouse, the Blue-throated Macaw, even the Bateluer Eagles, each joined in, wailing their own mourning song until their cries cascaded into one another and everything became still. As Abe walked through the doors of the funeral home to meet with a director about Marie’s ceremony, he wished that he had died instead. He prayed that a train would come through the wall and strike him down where he sat in the home’s lobby. Abe itched at his back, his legs, and his arms distantly. Were he to pull up his shirt cuff just enough to see his forearm, he’d notice feathers beginning to protrude from his skin. “Mr. Carver?” A man in a tasteful black suit walked up to him. With a nod, Abe stood and followed the man to a back room with another woman in a bubble-gum pink blazer. The door clicked shut as the man who escorted him in left, 11

making Abe feel as though he were a mouse trapped with a barn owl. The woman gave him a wide smile as he sat down across from her. Her teeth reminded him of Chiclets. “Hello, Mr. Carver. I’m Delores Haynes. We are so glad you chose our services.” Abe’s face burned as she slid a paper down the table to him. Deluxe deal for ten thousand dollars. The skin on the back of Abe’s neck beaded with sweat. Platinum for fifteen thousand. “Our prices are moderate for the service you’ll be receiving, Mr. Carver.” Delores Haynes would not stop smiling no matter how much Abe frowned. “I suggest the Platinum Plan. We have a beautiful cherry wood casket that I’m sure your wife would look lovely in.” The Bronze basic was seven thousand. It didn’t include a wake. The acid in Abe’s stomach churned and lurched its way up his esophagus, burning the back of his throat. They were putting a price on his wife’s death. He scratched at his back. “If you were thinking about cremation,” Delores Haynes continued, “we have a wide variety of urns for you to choose from. I believe we just had some gorgeous ones imported from France.” She passed him another paper with more prices on it. One thousand dollars to burn his wife to ashes. Abe felt the sweat cooling on his forehead, and he tried not to vomit on the table. He clenched his hands so tight he could feel his fingernails breaking the skin of his palm, even though he had practically bitten them to the quick. Abe looked at his hands, now speckled with blood. His fingertips were sharp and black. Delores Haynes kept talking to him, explaining the processes. You’ll need a priest. Will you prepare a speech? And how large do you think the attendance will be? Anything over thirty people is extra. Abe stared at his black fingertips, at the claws that were forming where his nails should be. “Can I have a moment?” “Mr. Carver, it is of the utmost importance that we get this done as swiftly as possible. If money is an issue, we can always set up a monthly payment for you.” Delores Haynes was nothing if not persistent. Abe felt something building in him. All the pressure of the situation sat in a ball in the hollow of his throat. He wanted to 12

scream. “Mr. Carver?” she urged, “Mr. Carver, we only want your wife to have the best. The platinum plan is truly your best option if you want her to be honored.” Abe snapped. A terrible scraw erupted from his mouth, sharp enough to make even Delores Haynes drop her cotton candy smile. Abe jumped up, feathers falling from his hair, his sleeves, his pant legs. The director screamed when she saw his clawed hands, no longer even remotely human. Abe fled the building, hurtling into his car and moving as quickly as he could. All he needed to do was get home. A beak split Abe’s nose, shiny and black with blood, as he fumbled to get his key in the ignition. He tried to scream but the only sound coming from his mouth was a terrified squawk. His vision began to blur as he looked down at his feet, where talons had sprouted out of his tennis shoes. Abe jammed his key into the ignition, missing several times before he finally got it in and cranked the car. Abe stomped his misshapen foot down on the gas petal and tried to navigate to his house. There he would be safe. Abe made it four blocks before a rigid keel broke from his rib cage. It felt like someone was shattering all of his bones with a hammer. Abe squawked and let go of the steering wheel as his fingers fused together and more feathers grew from his arms. Abe looked out the window, up towards the sky as his bones reformed and a thick plumage covered his body. He was crying as his vision wavered, but when he looked up, Abe saw his wife there, beckoning to him. Practically irresistible. “It’s freezing!” Marie said as she shivered and dove towards the bed. It was nearing midnight and the moon shone through the window opposite to their bed, casting a delicate light on the room. Marie shrugged under the covers and pulled them up to her chin, giggling at Abe as he struggled to pull on some socks before joining her. “I think the heater is broken,” he told her. “Should I go check it out?” “No, no.” Marie pulled away Abe’s side of the covers and gave 13

him a smile. “It’s too late for that. We’re just going to fight through it tonight.” Abe smiled, secretly happy he didn’t have to venture back down to the subterranean basement. He slipped into bed with her and she pressed her cold feet against his calf, which wasn’t much warmer than her toes. His arms wrapped around her and she nuzzled her nose to his throat. “I haven’t told you a story in a long time,” Marie said, drawing circles on Abe’s chest with her finger. “Hmm?” Abe closed his eyes and sunk into Marie’s touch. Her eyelashes tickled his collarbone. “Do you remember my favorite?” She asked. “Don’t you mean my favorite?” Marie laughed and propped herself up on one elbow so Abe could see her face clearly. He wished she would come back down to keep him warm. “According to Brule Sioux legend, the crows used to be a brilliant white, flying through the air with a grace unmatched.” Marie swept her hand in front of Abe’s face and he made a gentle ‘ooo’ sound. “These crows had an agreement with the buffalo. The herd would give them food in exchange for a warning when the hunters came to attack them. The crows kept their promise, always calling out to the buffalo before they were in danger and the buffalo flourished under this agreement, but the hunters starved.” Marie’s voice was soft and mesmerizing. Even after all these years, hearing this story for the millionth time, Abe hung on every word she said. It was honey dripping from her mouth. It made him want to kiss her. Marie took on a dramatic voice that reassured Abe’s understanding of why the children in her class loved her so much. “But one day, the hunters captured the crow’s leader and put him on trial for helping the buffalo and making the people go without food.” “Oh no,” Abe said and Marie put her hand over his mouth. “Shush, you’re ruining it.” She grinned and pulled away her hand, brushing it through his hair. Abe leaned into her touch. “The crow faced the council of hunters bravely, but before a decision could be made, one of the hunters threw the crow into the flames of 14

the hearth. Because of his strength, he managed to escape the fire, but his pearly feathers were turned to a stark black. From then on, all the crows were black as well.” Marie laid her head back down onto Abe’s chest. He stroked her arm and pulled her close. They were quiet for a while, Abe staring out the window and Marie somehow nestling closer to him than they already were. He found that this was a moment he could live in forever. “Sad, huh?” She said, her breath grazing his skin. “Very,” he said. “I think they deserved to be white. They really had no reason to be loyal to the hunters, anyway. People are cruel.” Marie sounded like she was close to falling asleep. He kissed her forehead and before long Marie was lightly snoring. For a long time, Abe didn’t understand. The humans had to have food or they wouldn’t be here. They were only looking out for their own. Honestly, he just liked to hear Marie tell the story. But now, after everything, Abe finally understood. Abe viewed his wife’s funeral from a power line on the west side of the cemetery. It was a bit far from her burial site, but with his eyesight, it wasn’t difficult to see what was going on. Abe ruffled his feathers and watched as they lowered his beloved into the ground, staying long after everyone else had dispersed. Abe stayed even after they had come to put the rest of the dirt back over the fresh casket. Someone must have gone back to the funeral home and sorted everything out. Marie didn’t have a wake, so whoever it was chose the Bronze basic. He hoped they used his money, since he wouldn’t need it anymore. That night, Abe flew to the temporary gravestone that was shoved into the ground, right where his wife’s head would be. He stared at the bronze plate, thankful that he could still read. He had hoped whoever organized the funeral would at least have chosen a nice gravestone, but this one was simple and read only: Marie Carver 1972 - 2016 15

Abe laid down next to his wife for the last time and in that moment, there was peace while he was next to her. He slept for a long time, waiting until late in the morning to rise. Abe was reluctant to leave Marie, to leave the graveyard, but as he heard the caws of the other birds, he knew that he had to go. He gently picked up his wedding band in his beak and dropped it onto her grave marker. One last gift to Marie. The crows called to him and Abe flew away, his wife telling him goodbye.

The old soul with soft bones Dakota Galvin There’s a baby in a hospital room somewhere looking up toward the ceiling, thinking,

I’ve seen this before

but being so small and soft and new, she’s unable to articulate familiarity, imagine, being ripped out of the body you called home for eighty-odd years to be shoved into soft bones with no words.

Foreign Body Kelly De Curtis Invading a human body, a virus probes soft cell tissue, injecting its own DNA until the cellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s explosion

An explosion coursing through red rivers with permeable walls, open channels for the fractal thieves with claw-like hands

Hands that choke molecules of oxygen, suffocating from the inside out, turning red to blue, stealing an identity

An identity in a new land overriding native cells, leaving desiccated canals and burning cities in its wake

Wake up. Feel the trespassers under skin, a foreign body that needs to be bled out.

I saw her today Jonathan Valentine

I felt my blood warm like crimson fire, as it rushed away from my heart to the foremost layers of my skin. It raced away, trying to leave its very home as if in effort to cool itself from the burning sensation. My heart was an open furnace, its wood spent like the last days of bitter winter. Glorious, glorious winter, where even man is forced to beg with his limp arms open to the world he thought he conquered. “Give me this day my daily bread,” he asks, pleads. Tears freezing as they fall. Cold and frigid silence returns his cry with bitter needles for him to stick in his ears and fingers. Man knows that winter is only a season, equal in weight to the others. He remembers another winter in which bread was always promised to those who ask. He remembers this. What he’s forgotten is the actual taste of bread. The feeling of a warm and full stomach. “Bread will come,” he tells himself. Bread will come.

Topography of Absence Janna Doyac

i dyed my hair from blue to black i cried in the car as the bottle of color correction fell out of the white plastic bag and rolled under the driverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s seat to join faded movie tickets empty candy wrappers dried grass from our last walk on your motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s front yard i passed by the plaza we used to go to its half-vacant shops staring at me as if searching for you i wonder if your new city has a movie theater that reminds you of my kisses where the mountain tops remind you of my fingers interlaced with 20

yours where the wind howling through red canyon walls reminds you of my laughter when you hug me from behind where the lake with a lone rock patiently waiting for the breeze to return reminds you of me sitting in my car next to an empty passenger seat surrounded by topographies that no longer exist

Not Unlike Autumn Andrew Sestokalskus At midday (although only by checking the time could one make this out, as the sun was hardly discernible behind the immense overcast sky) the children of Golden Springs Elementary School, a purportedly “well-to-do” elementary school, were directed, as does a shepherd coerce its wayward flock into a kennel, underneath the protection of a giant gazebo. Of course, some students, or, most of them, really, were missing. Only those fortunate ones distrusted at home by themselves were forced to endure the nigh panoptic supervision of a dozen or so women anywhere from two to four hours every day after school. There wasn’t a man in the bunch, notably. They, these dozen or so women, were probably picked because they were willing to fill the positions, rather than as a result of their qualifications. Although only a fraction of the students were present, they never failed to make trouble for these dozen or so women. It is not unlike autumn, though, to harden the child, like a chrysalis. Adjacent to the gazebo was a basketball court, around which were enormous trees. The basketball court had not been swept, or if it had, it didn’t give that impression. Covered almost entirely with dry leaves, it looked fuller than had it been covered almost entirely with perambulating children, and had it been sunny. Every so often, on account of a kind of neighborly curiosity, Art and Sybil would voluntarily commit themselves to the dozen or so women on staff, and in so doing confer with their peers, inasmuch as one confers with, say, a book. It was their custom, in any case, to obey these dozen or so women, just as any of their generally disobedient peers were expected to. On this particular day, however, it seemed to our twosome far more preferable a thing to watch the basketball court than to comply. They hadn’t committed themselves out of obligation but voluntarily, and were therefore only nominally obligated to follow suit. Notwithstanding, our twosome couldn’t willy-nilly repudiate themselves from such supervision, or, rather, not without also feeling like they’d done 22

something wrong. Art and Sybil joined the rest of the group in a circle around one of the dozen or so women describing the activity which was to follow her unimpassioned introduction. They had evidently missed both the name of the activity and basically the whole idea of it. The dozen or so women began to unroll what looked like the canopy of a gargantuan tent. By the time each child had spread out, forming a much larger circle under the gazebo, and taken hold the canopy, it was clear to our twosome what exactly was expected of them. The idea, apparently, was for each child to move their arms up and down till the canopy was high enough in the air for approximately half a dozen of them to swap places with each other, lest they be caught under it, which was at any rate a kind of goal, too. The canopy went up. All at once the gazebo was booming. A round or two went by before Sybil gave it a shot, defying her brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s incredulousness. She shrieked girlishly and excitedly as she crossed, arriving in one piece on the opposite side. Art grinned in her direction.They were both really happy, suddenly.

A list of everything between four walls a slack-jaw and temperamental hinge the contemplative ceiling its vulgar vacancy the secret vigil of a room two parents milk cartons damp paper folded lips advertisements for women blue and green the breakfast table the girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ghost half shrine the rest, necrotic cornered filth an obituary no rosemary no lace the only authority left in this city two paperclips and a rubber band and the automatic drip one envelope a filing drawer the burial how the hours bruise more tender as they fade and still again cold by morning 24

Victoria Royal

Laetus Pullum by Mahu Kamal Digital

The Call it Home, Child by Rhonda Donovan Oil and acrylic paint on fabric and wood

I remember the night you died. You were racing your friend and things got out of control. When they pulled you from the car, skin didn’t look like skin anymore. The image is burned into my retina like the pavement is burned into your flesh. It’s all relative.

(For Jay) Emma Adamson

the night I met your relatives. Around your aunt, nephews were racing, and your sister’s kids were drawing on the pavement. I say relatives, not parents. I learned how he lost control when you were young, that night. You can’t lose the image of what your father did to your mother’s skin. the night I finally got to see your skin, all of it, not just the roll of your sleeve relative to the rest of you. I got to see the images you chose to wear on your body, racing stripes and battle scars, from when the control you thought you had was wearing thin, like worn pavement. the night I found you sitting on the pavement outside my house, clutching your skin like it wasn’t nearly a hundred outside. The control I had was slipping away, so I kissed you, relative to the way I felt, the blood in my pulse racing to escape and color in this image. our first “date,” the image taken by the speedometer as you skid on pavement back when I thought your racing was just something you did to scare me out of my skin, or to impress me. I’m not sure. I guess it’s all relative now. Back then I didn’t fear you’d lose control. 27

the night we met. A party at the control tower of the school my friend attended. The images taken by the blinding photo booth, relative to the flashing lights were killing me. The pavement a welcome release for my heated skin. And there you were, out of breath from being late, racing. all of it. The racing heartbeat I felt under my fingers, control spinning away from you, your skin flushed. I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget the images I have of you the night I lost you to the pavement, when it all became relative.

To John Berryman Andrea Hardee

I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t drink, but for you I would. Word-salad confusion, pockmarked with moments of sense, of sobriety. I find drunk men terribly boring except for youâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; ZZ-Topped Al Borland with Kurt Cobain eyes, reflected in the spires of the First United Church of Me. On the alter you lie, waiting to burn, for we ourselves crash and burn. We, ourselves, stare from the depths of some watery expanse, waiting for a greater hand to grasp ours. The fingers beckon, the palms outstretched, but some mistake the fingers for clouds, palms for sun and moon.

Why I Quit Cigarettes Victoria Royal

Better not to buy the altars that need burning than to charge reason of feeling good and breathing.

Don’t

Victoria Hoang Mother told me, don’t lie. So I told Eugene that his face looked like a swollen, blistered marshmallow, and I told Becky that her dress wonderfully accentuated her jiggling rolls of belly fat. Mother told me, don’t say mean things to other people. So I didn’t tell Amanda that her makeup made her look like a demented cat with popping red-blood lips, and let the other girls in the class tease her until tears of inky mascara trickled down her cheeks. Mother told me, don’t stand there and let other people be bullied. So when an ape-like kid with a beefy head shoved my friend onto the ground, I slammed the heel of my foot into his crotch three times before he crumpled to the dirt, squealing. Mother told me, don’t hurt other people. So when Abigail, the meanest girl in the school, snatched a fistful of my hair and dragged me across the schoolyard in front of the ecstatic student body, I let her. Mother told me, don’t let people walk all over you. So I soaked seven muddy earthworms in Clorox bleach and put them in Abigail’s sandwich during lunch. Later that day, she was picked up in a howling white van.

The Broken Wall: Ambiguity in the Novels of William Faulkner Emily Brocket

During a mass lecture series with literature students at the University of Virginia on May 8, 1957, an unidentified participant raised his hand with a question ready for the author standing in front of the hall. He asked, “In Absalom, Absalom! is any one of the people who talks about Sutpen have the right view, or is it more or less a case of thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird with none of them [getting it] right?” Author William Faulkner paused for a moment, took a breath, and answered: That’s it exactly. I think that—that no one individual can—can look at truth. It—it—it blinds you. You look at it, and—and you—you see one phase of it. Someone else looks at it and sees a slightly awry phase of it, but taken all together, the truth is—is in what they saw, though nobody saw the truth intact…whether any of the people within the text who talk about certain characters have the right or correct view…It was, as you say, thirteen ways looking at a blackbird. But the truth, I would like to think, comes out, that when the reader has read all these thirteen different ways of looking at the blackbird, the reader has his own fourteenth image of that blackbird, which I would like to think is the true one. (Faulkner at Virginia) Perspectival narration has been addressed and experimented within several texts during the modernist era of literature. Unreliable narration, marginalized characters who do not have a place within their own communities, ambiguous endings with no closure, and a jumbled, nonlinear narrative are all standard qualities of modernist literature. The works of William Faulkner are no exception. The intricacy of Faulkner’s narrative style calls for readers to be active and willing participants in the text. The characters within a Faulkner novel are defined by their ambiguity, 32

where central plot points and characteristics are covered in secrecy and never fully explained or revealed to the reader. The ambiguity thus forces the reader, relying upon his or hers own intelligence, experience, and common sense, to evaluate the character’s behavior, attitude, language, moral judgements, and thought patterns according to both their own standards and those which the novel clearly establishes. It also forces a substantial interaction between the reader and the author to take place, for the reader’s perspective becomes embedded in the text. Through the utilization of ambiguous narration and community gossip, Faulkner breaks down the wall between author, text, and audience, and allows for an authentic relationship, which further enhances our understanding and connection to the text.

The Sound and the Fury is a story about the decline of a white Southern family during the turn of the twentieth century. The fall of the Compson family and the complexities of each individual family member were all derived from one key scene the author pictured in his head. Faulkner stressed that The Sound and the Fury “began with the picture of the little girl’s muddy drawers, climbing that tree to look in the parlor window with her brother’s that didn’t have the courage to climb the tree waiting to see what she saw” (The Sound and the Fury 234). Divided into four sections, the stream of conscious narration takes the reader inside the head of each Compson brother. Each brother struggles with his own psychological realities, specifically mental retardation for Benji, suicidal urgency within Quentin, and vengeful anger inside of Jason. Beautiful and doomed, Caddy lives for the us only in the tortured and highly subjective recollection of her three brothers as, despite her central representation in the novel, she is not given a narrative section of her own. She is both an absence and a presence, and she is wholly mediated by four other people: Benjy, Quentin, Jason, and Faulkner himself. She is a heap of broken images and, within their southern world, Caddy is at once the focus of order and the instrument of the Compsons’ destruction. Because she is such an enigma within the text, it can be challenging to piece together who Caddy really is. In the first section of the novel, Benjy sees his sister as a mother figure, and

he associates Caddy with fire, the color red, pear trees, the odor of honeysuckle, the river, and twilight. While the rest of the Compsons want nothing to do with the idiot brother, Caddy cares and nurtures him, even feeds him; “It got down below the mark. Then the bowl was empty. It went away. ‘He’s hungry tonight.’ Caddy said. The bowl came back. I couldn’t see the spot. Then I could” (The Sound and the Fury 45). He loves her unconditionally, and he is so attuned to her physically and emotionally that he knows instantly something is different about Caddy when she comes back after a sexual encounter with a boy. It is Caddy’s newfound sexuality that Benjy senses, and since it is so different, he assumes that Caddy herself is different and not his Caddy anymore. He starts crying and whimpering, and she holds him, saying, “‘I won’t.’ She said. ‘I won’t anymore, ever. Benjy. Benjy.’ Then she was crying, and I cried, and we held each other” (The Sound and the Fury 31). For him, Caddy is the one person he loved, and when she marries and leaves the family home, all Benjy comes to know is the absence of her, exemplified in the torment he feels whenever he is near the golf field, formerly his beautiful pasture. To Quentin Compson, Caddy is a concept of honor that only he can save rather than a person. While Quentin’s narrative section is less fragmented than Benjy’s section, it is by no means easier to understand. Despite this difficulty, there are key images that jump out from his jumbled, chaotic narrative: “Quentin’s narrative takes in a large number of incidents, there are really only a few main subjects—sisters (Caddy and the little immigrant girl), honor, virginity, sexual desire, time—and they are closely interconnected” (Hill, Jr. 89). While at Harvard, Quentin is paralyzed by his memory of Caddy and her sexuality. “do you love him Caddy do I what she looked at me then everything emptied out of her eyes and they looked like the eyes in statues blank and unseeing and serene put your hand against my throat she took my hand and held it flat against her throat now say his name Dalton Ames”( The Sound and the Fury104). When Quentin learns that Caddy had sex with Dalton, he goes to Mr. Compson and tries to clear all of Caddy’s sins by convincing their father that they’ve committed incest. His feeble attempts cannot save his sister, a woman who 34

does not need saving. However, Quentin cannot understand this, despite his intellectual ability. He commits suicide on June 2, 1910 and becomes as lost as Caddy is. At the end of Quentin’s section, a scattered image of Caddy has been established just enough through scenes, scents, colors, and minimal dialogue for the reader to have a somewhat clear, but never real, image of the enigmatic Compson sister. The final section of Th e Sound and the Fury, as told through the eyes and ears of Jason Compson, provides another perspective on the “black bird” that is Caddy Compson (Hill, Jr. 91). Jason “assumed the entire burden of the rotting family in the rotting house” and he blamed all of his misfortunes in life on his sister Caddy (The Sound and the Fury 212). As an adult, he spends his time either stealing Caddy’s daughter’s money, convincing his mother that he’s making large amounts of money, or obsessing over the stock market. He is cruel, vindictive, and unhappy. He is emotionally static—angry from the beginning to the end of the novel, and his anger stems from multiple sources. He is ultimately the end of the Compson family line: Quentin dies, Benjy has no children, and Caddy is a woman so the Compson name cannot extend beyond her. In the Appendix, Faulkner describes Jason as “ the first sane Compson since before Culloden and (a childless bachelor) hence the last” (The Sound and the Fury 212). Jason is the last of this tragic family. Jason see’s the absolute worst parts of human nature reflected in his sister, and he blames Caddy for his unfortunate life. It is Caddy who gives money to her daughter, not Jason. It is Caddy who doesn’t help him get a job at the bank. It is Caddy who brought immorality upon the family name. And it is Caddy who, in his eyes, exhibits true female nature: “Once a bitch, always a bitch” (The Sound and the Fury 113). By the end of the novel and the appendix, the reader is left with much uncertainty. Do we see Caddy the way Quentin sees her, or do we see her as Benjy does, who loves her unconditionally without even knowing what it means to love? This is where the reader’s own perspective becomes essential to the reading and interpretation of the text. One critic writes, “Because no one of the Compson’s has a complete and unbiased view of Caddy, there is an 35

obscurity surrounding her character, but it is not an impenetrable obscurity…a main aim of the novel is to allow the reader to piece together information and derive for himself a true picture of Caddy” (Baum 39). This infuriating obscurity of Faulkner’s narrative is what allows the reader to become connected with Caddy. She becomes the reader’s creation rather than the fictional character that Faulkner has created by the end of the novel. For Benji, Caddy represents loss, an image-less abyss of pure absence. For Quentin, she is the focus of his obsession, a woman who is wild and free and cannot live within the confines of the southern way of life. For Jason, Caddy represents all of the wrongs that have been done to him. By the end of the novel, when all of these views are out in the open and heaped upon the reader, the reader is left with only one question: what does Caddy mean to us? Faulkner purposefully wrote the character of Caddy Compson as she came to him during the writing process. To him, Caddy was a perfect mystery, and Faulkner’s narrative reflects her enigmatic nature. He used the tools he was given to “draw the picture of Caddy,” leaving the rest up to the reader (The Sound and the Fury236). Thus, the truest perspective of the novel becomes our own. The reader is the final set of eyes defining who Caddy is to them, and no two readers will have the same viewpoint, making any observation true yet false at the same time—“The reader can see several distorted ways of looking at Caddy, but through careful reading and discernment, he will be able to derive…the truest picture of Caddy” (Baum 39). It is then the reader, each individual reader who has ever picked up this novel and sat down to read, that has the truest image of Caddy. Not Faulkner, nor Quentin, Benjy, or Jason, but the reader themselves. Unlike Th e Sound and the Fury, communal thought and town gossip truly shape the characters in Faulkner’s L ight in August. Published in 1932, Faulkner takes a significant evolutionary stride beyond the innovations of The Sound and the Fury. For the first time, Faulkner traces the growth and development of a single human character, Joe Christmas, over a period of thirty years (Ruppersburg 30). Joe Christmas is a man who has been branded since birth. His mother was killed for her sexual relations with a man of either Mexican or African American descent, and he is punished for his mother’s “sin” for the rest of his life. His 36

grandfather, Doc Hines, sets out to make Joe’s life miserable and brands him as a Negro child before he can even walk. In the orphanage, he is shown little love from the people around him and is then adopted by a strict, abusive father and a passive mother. As he grows older, he is marginalized and isolated from the world around him. He has no home and no true place to be, traveling the same road he has travelled for several years—“From that night the thousand streets ran as one street, with imperceptible corners and changes of scene, broken by intervals of begged and stolen rides, on trains and trucks, and on country wagons with he at twenty and twenty-five and thirty sitting on the seat with his still, hard face and the clothes…of a city man” (Light in August 224). His marginalization is caused by gossip and speculation, started by his grandfather and perpetuated in Jefferson, Mississippi. Community gossip takes the form of a character within the text, weaving in and out of Joe’s narrative. Byron Bunch’s first sight of Joe Christmas, the stranger, opens chapter two of Light in August. They didn’t know who he was. None of them had ever seen him before. “Except that’s a pretty risky look for a man to wear on his face in public,” one said: “He might forget and use it somewhere where somebody won’t like it.” Then they dismissed him, from the talk, anyway. They went back to their work among the whirring and grating belts and shafts. (32) In this passage, the community becomes a unified “they” evaluating and assessing the newcomer. Their talk and gossip becomes one voice spoken from one character as the town tries to find out who Joe really is. This novel also utilizes an external narrator, who acts as a storyteller or an overseer for all the action occurring. The narrator is not Joe Christmas, showing that even Faulkner could not get inside Joe’s head and write from his perspective. This distance between Joe and the reader is accomplished through the town gossip and narration. Structurally, Light in August is a merging of traditional and experimental forms. While the narration appears more linear and straightforward, the time jumps and subject matter are extremely modern. Faulkner’s narrative structure acts as a fusion of new and old and “[in] this novel, which pits one 37

man’s agonizing struggle to fathom his identity against an entire community’s efforts to understand him, such a narrative mode proves quite appropriate” (Ruppersburg 33). The community never fully accepts Joe and, as the author reveals during another interview at the University of Virginia, Joe never really accepts himself. Joe…didn’t know what he was, and so he was nothing. He—he deliberately evicted himself from the human race because he didn’t know which he was. That was his tragedy. That to me was the—the tragic, central idea of the story, that he didn’t know what he was, and there was no way possible in life for him to find out, which to me is the most tragic condition a man could find himself in, not to know what he is and to know that he will never know. (Faulkner at Virginia) Faulkner gives the reader the job of sifting through the information given to construct their own reality of who Joe really is. Joe’s inability to know becomes our own responsibility. Characterization through contrasting perspectives bequeaths the final judgement of a character to the reader (Ruppersburg 33). The ambiguity and various perspectives do not reveal what the truth is. Instead, they show what each individual reader believes is the truth. The work of an author becomes something entirely unique and special to us on an individual level. The relationship between the text, author, and reader becomes an organic creation that is beyond the words on paper.

The Sound and the Fury and Light in August grow and evolve with each generation as each generation of readers evolve and change. Young adults who read the works of William Faulkner in 1952 compared to young adults who pick up their first Faulkner novel in 1994 are going to interpret the story of Joe Christmas differently and have different relationships with the text. And this is not just due to cultural shifts as times evolve. Readers’ socioeconomic status, their gender, their age, life experiences, and their geography all affect how these books are read. The narrative tools discussed in this paper, such as communal thought 38

and open-ended characters, are purposefully used by the author. Faulkner creates this world and these characters so that readers from different levels of life can interpret the novel in such a way that a relationship is formed between author, text, and reader. In Faulkner’s writing, the broken wall is the purposeful exclusion of definitive answers. We are left with thousands of questions at the end of The Sound and the Fury and Light in August. How a reader internalizes characters like Caddy Compson and Joe Christmas, along with all our questions, confusions, and concerns, is based not on how Faulkner see’s them in his head, but how the reader individually interprets them. Therefore, what an author writes and the story they create is not the absolute truth; the absolute truth comes from the reader’s individual perspective, interpretation, and relationship with the novel.

Works Cited Baum, Catherine B. “The Beautiful One.” Caddy Compson. edited by Harold Bloom. Chelsea House, 1990. 39-49. Print. Faulkner, William. Light in August: The Corrected Text. Vintage Books, 1990. Faulkner, William. The Sound and The Fury: An Authoritative Text, Backgrounds and Contexts, Criticism. Norton, 1994. Hill, Jr., Douglas B. “Faulkner’s Caddy.” Canadian Review of American Studies,vol 7, no. 1, Mar. 1976, pp. 26-38. Kinney, Arthur F. Faulkner’s Narrative Poetics: Style as Vision. U of Massachusetts Press, 1978. Railton, Stephen. “Faulkner at Virginia.” Faulkner at Virginia. U of Virginia Press, 2010. http://faulkner.lib.virginia.edu/ Ruppersburg, Hugh. Voice and Eye in Faulkner’s Fiction. U of Georgia Press, 1983.

Austin in the Summertime by Mahu Kamal Acylic paint and ink on brown paper bag

They Call it Home, Cool by Rhonda Donovan Oil and acrylic paint on fabric and wood

Just a Little Something for the Kids Chael Blinya

Kool-Aid sweet JUICE been bitter Saturated sugar making diabetics quiver But don’t drink it Don’t drink it I was asking for truth about the Warriors But they were lying saying we were never glorious Through broken promises synonymous with boring bliss These stories remained notorious In the forest is Jaguar Paw He studied hunting He fell asleep faced defeat Now he’s steady running With Kunta Kinte In the white man’s land But neither can speak the English needed for representation And three-fifths isn’t enough for the tough Ruffs Searching for perfect purpose as they keep fighting Until stride is worth it Tarzan was anatomically the enemy But even he trusted his instincts ‘til he became head of the family And helped out Hercules who used all his energy Teaching the hopeless how to focus on their identity Because these natural processes encourage subordinates to keep forcing it Samson said

In order to be victorious Forget the hair But don’t dare forget about the Warriors

Kool-Aid sweet JUICE been bitter Filled it up with liquor trying to shrivel every liver But don’t drink it Don’t drink it Certain notions were placed So I traced them back to the leaders who made self-awareness the key To unlocking every secret mistake of Julius Caesar He mixed loyalty with leisure Broke bread with Romans Satisfied with their positions in life and never questioning why Moses float on to royalty Because in their eyes a modest mouse can never die When you reclaim poverty cordially and lose your pride While letting efficacy rise Higher than the ego of Napoleon When his complexes took a hold of him Insecure about self-development and couldn’t hold it in Was it his height? Pawns question design Why let appearance interfere when it’s all in the eyes? Beauty from the viewpoint of a beholder holding on desperately to all the pros Even though these surroundings are full of nothing but cons Until left as confused as an unconscious Kong Fuzi holding an uzi Directly aimed at the roots of his family tree Only to prove that life is concept, contest, and conquest Lacking context as content becomes a condemned message Condensed into nonsense milk without a single consequence As each viewer adds vice to lessons hidden behind enemy lines Extending the struggle to pay attention Or pay dues for more tuition rather than intuition Even though No Child Left Behind Left my mind back in shambles As we walked under trees In hopes of branching out only to never leaf And end up beating around Bush Reducing his pressure Providing more pleasure for him to squeeze

Kool-Aid sweet JUICE been bitter But don’t drink it I’ll never drink it

Writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Block Kelly De Curtis

But you are unable to type a single word. Your hands tremble above the worn keyboard, and you sit and wonder.

DEATH ON VACATION Jerico Lenk

“So do you come here often?” Sarah asked, teasing, leaning over shoulder to shoulder and speaking from the corner of her mouth. It flattened her burnt velvet voice so no one else in the funeral parlor heard. Rhys slid her a glance without actually turning his head, the two of them in the back row of unfortunate folding chairs. They were unfortunate because they were the upholstered kind, which was like false advertisement and an unfair boost of self-image. “Sort of,” he whispered back. Sarah knew attending the funerals of people he didn’t know was sort of his Thing. Everybody had a Thing. The funeral parlor was a handful of rooms in an old Victorian house overlooking the bay, smelled like the first time the heat ran again in the autumn and felt like an antique store. Dusty. Yellowed. Mothballed. Up near the front row of the first viewing room’s unfortunate chairs, a small flock of the bereaved hovered and slouched, collectively congested from crying God knew how much before the wake. Someone’s dad, up there in the closed casket. They didn’t want it open yet. Said they were waiting for the grandkids. Sarah dug around in her oversized handbag with a rustle of her thick felt pea coat, knees pressed together and the toes of her Oxfords pressed to the ugly carpet. “Is that a coloring book?” Rhys asked. Sarah nodded, slapping the thing to her lap and turning a dimpled smile to him, brows raised. He couldn’t tell what decade she was from, which was kind of an attractive quality. Beyond the pea coat, she practically disappeared into an open granny sweater pulled over a pullover sweater, collared blouse and loose dark mid-calf skirt. She reminded him of Helena Bonham Carter pretending to be Emma Watson pretending to be Hermione pretending to be Bellatrix Lestrange pretending to be 1988 Winona Ryder. Or a homeless girl. Or one of the Olsen twins snapped by paparazzi on the streets of New York, because haute couture quite often resembled homeless people, Rhys thought. He 47

kept waiting for a bird to peek out of her fashionably messy nest of hair. Long, a puff of strawberry blonde with a smaller puff of a bun, like a new age chignon, or just a bun that she had slept in for three years. “Yes,” she replied. “For my anxiety.” “Just get some Xanax.” He smirked, a silent chuckle. Sarah squinted at him, head tipped. Maybe she didn’t know what Xanax was or maybe she’d been homeless from a Xanax addiction before. Nemo wandered around up at the front of the viewing room, circling the casket, running his fingers along the polished Cherrywood. Disappearing behind a jungle of display flowers and reappearing again around display board: ROGER M. CAULFIELD, LOVED AND LOVING SON, BROTHER, FATHER, UNCLE, GRANDFATHER, 1923 – 2016. Nemo was the XY copy of Sarah, except far less homelesslooking. He even had a little dirty blond bun, too, the sloppy kind that was the new Look for guys. An article Rhys scrolled past online said man braids were next. Nemo and Sarah were twins. Rhys thought. Or they weren’t, and wanted to be, or were and didn’t want to be. Or they wanted him to think they were twins. Or they wanted him to not think they were twins. Sarah sighed. “You know what I hate about the Republican agenda?” She didn’t wait for Rhys to express interest. “The Biblethumpers.” She frowned, with sincere concern for the universe. “They’re anti-gay marriage, anti-abortion, anti-Muslim, then turn around and wail about transgressions upon religious freedom when Starbucks doesn’t say ‘Merry Christmas.’ I don’t understand how they simply don’t understand that marriage equality and women having agency over their own bodies and people worshipping in different ways does nothing to them. Nothing. So why are they so upset?” Up front, Nemo stopped to lift the casket a few inches and peek in at the dead old man. Rhys kissed Nemo in the garage a few weeks ago. It was just a really confusing moment. Nemo had been painting, that Goya sort of painting he did. Nemo in a pair of overalls, not redneck overalls, but faded overalls like the 48

nineties made cool and those Korean pop stars were bringing back with their Timberland boots, black-and-white striped T-shirt underneath. Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice. Ruddy reds and browns had flaked off his thin wrists and knuckles where he’d accidentally brushed wet oil paint. And for just about five minutes, warm lips like cat-killing Easter lilies, graze of tongue along the ridge of his teeth, Rhys had understood the history of pedophilia. No, wait, not pedophilia; that was prepubescent kids. Pederasty. Though technically those were prepubescent kids, too, sometimes. What was it called, then, the indiscriminate sex appeal of new adults, strung somewhere between soft and supple childhood and the grizzle of grown-ups? “Climate change,” Rhys replied, regarding political agenda. “And arrests for protesting the fossil fuel rape of sacred Native American land’s water.” “Here, here!” Sarah said. “We should do that again some time.” Rhys shifted around in the lying chair, shoving his hands in the pockets of his Carhartt and feeling too old for how old he actually was. Still trying to figure out whether one was admitted to the 27 Club of their own volition or by cruel tricks of fate. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said, finally looking Sarah in the eye. “Are you a feminist?” Sarah inclined her chin. “I’m a New Woman.” “So you’re a feminist.” “I’m a member of the Commintern.” Sarah smiled, narrowing her eyes at the funeral parlor’s scuffed woodwork and depressing red walls. Was that what they called grim reapers nowadays? Communists. Across the room, Nemo tripped on the thick parlor speaker wires, which were taped very poorly to the carpet where they snaked along the floor up at the first row of chairs. With a loud shout of “Shit cricket!” he tried to catch himself on the casket. But the casket didn’t catch him, just skidded right off its stand and thudded slow but violent to the floor. The impact threw open the cover on a pale, papery dead man’s face, jostled liver-spotted arthritic hands — slammed back against the wall as the foot of the casket hit the display flowers and they hit Roger Caulfield’s display board and Nemo hit the floor on his elbows. 49

The small flock of family members erupted in shrieks and gasps, a flurry of hand gestures, a mosh pit of banshees rushing for the fallen casket somehow without stepping on Nemo. Sarah grinned. “I love the way he swears,” she said on a dreamy sigh, and Rhys wanted to kiss her. But she was mad at him because she saw him kiss Nemo in the garage. “I don’t blame you,” she’d said back then, face screwed up like those Warhead candies Rhys and his middle school friends used to suck in a cul-de-sac full of industrial staples and halffinished manufactured homes. “It’s what he does best. Fucking siren.” An older lady, hair like a dandelion just before it was blown to the wind, sat a row up and three chairs down, gawking in subdued horror at the commotion up front. Maybe the widow. Maybe the dead man’s sister. Whoever she was, she’d apparently used up all her grief already and couldn’t even feel anything about the man’s casket suddenly falling to the floor. “Nemo!” Sarah called in censure from the seat beside Rhys. “Jesus, I’m sorry!” Nemo shot back with a pout. Rhys leaned with a hand curled on the chair in front of him, smiling in pinched sympathy — pity — trying very hard to keep the dandelion woman from seeing him swallow the uncomfortable laugh. “My condolences,” he said. The woman veered a twisted look of dismay his way. Him, and only him, and Rhys wished she could see Death sitting beside him and the other Death on the floor up there by the poorly taped wires, like he could. It was a real shame; no one would be afraid of Death if they knew reapers came in the form of annoying little sprites like Commintern Sarah and hipster siren Nemo, who were pretty friendly all things considered, especially after almost killing Rhys too early last year, a clerical life after death error for which they were apparently bent on repaying with their company and from which Rhys was apparently stuck with the ability to see them. The dandelion woman’s lashes fluttered as she looked Rhys up and down, coldly. “Who the fuck are you?” she sneered.

Henry’s Wedding Reception Served Devil’s Food Cake Mahu Kamal

“What imbecile named this cake?” I asked the waiter. “I don’t know, but he must have been a real imbecile. Why should the devil be given the satisfaction of having opulent cake with its airy nakedness and cream coat named after him? He doesn’t deserve it.” “Let’s be friends,” I said. He helped me climb up on the dessert table. He handed me a megaphone. “Ladies and gentleman. This cake is wrongly named. Angel Food cake should be named after the devil! There is nothing angelic about bland, crumby, vanilla existence,” I said. “I’d rather have a salad,” added the waiter. “I protest this!” I said. “Give Lucifer the white crumbs to nibble off the cobble streets along with the birds, forcing him to bow down! Let him see how foolish he is to have an ego in front of God. To not apologize and say ‘Adam is a great man. I was wrong.’ What a fool! And you God-fearing people name your best cake after him, leaving Wonderbread for angels! Servants of God Almighty! Betty Crocker, have some respect! Give the angels a better cake!” I’d never been escorted out of a wedding before. I saw the waiter sitting on the sidewalk after. “You got me fired,” he said. “It was for a noble cause.” He agreed and walked with me. We went to a café and ordered ourselves some apple pie.

Immutable Andrea Hardee

is who You are. It means unchanging, I’m told, but everything around me changes. Bliss congeals to curdled truths, dusty records remind me of time before my brother drowned and resurfaced as a shell, but I can’t think of that now— of all the images called back to me by music, separated by years, still able to take me somewhere I can’t hurt. Reminds me of my brother and how he left. One of those old songs begins, “fare thee well.” I sit and listen, transported back to Star Wars posters and figures that my brother never opened. Packaging discarded now, lightsabers lost, limbs chewed off by dogs. Moths eat time like long-forgotten clothes, yet You remain whole as ever. The music fades and You gently pry my fingers loose from the dead of the past, strengthening me to run toward a future unmoving, more wonderful, I’m told, than my innocence and my assurance that my brother, and music, would never leave me.

The Death of a Tightrope Walker Liberty O’Neill It was a black, blustery October night during the performance in which The Tightrope Walker was blown off the wire by swirling leaves and furious wind. The sinewy strongman stooped under the weight of the lifeless cripple as he lifted him from the floor, meters from where the safety net was strung. The girl on stilts stood at only five-foot-four and the fearless lion tamer shook as he stroked the golden mane of his partner who lowered his face into his paws. The eldest clown smiled as he always does while blue tracks washed away white powder. The show continued on, without pause. Although the fuse on the cannon wouldn’t light and the motorcycles were out of gas—usually The Tightrope Walker volunteered to refill those as well since the motorcyclists were always wrapping and unwrapping themselves with bandages. In September, The Tightrope Walker had turned twenty-two. That was younger than the Siamese twins but older than the youngest clown. The Ringmaster held a party in our tent so divine and full of life that even the emerald-eyed snake-man from a freak show in the neighboring town dropped by. But tonight, the plate spinners’ plates crashed acrimoniously, the smallest contortionist pulled a muscle, and the batons of the flamboyant fire twirlers would not and could not hold a flame. The seasoned juggler only found one of his several pins, every single unicycle had a flat tire, and the mime had plenty to say for once—he had tried to lasso The Tightrope Walker to safety, you see.

Now the massive elephants in their state of empathy refused to march while the once dazzling dancers were out of sync. The steely knives that the thrower threw were dull and knocked the apple off of my head by force instead of piercing it. I cried as if Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been pinned through the throat. With red ringed eyes the Ringmaster took a final bow when our show was over, but the crowd watched with baited breaths, waiting for their beloved Tightrope Walker to rise from his makeshift grave. They waited. And waited. And only we, who had carried the body into a vampireâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s coffin, breathed. No body ever rose, as bodies never do. The scripture lied to its audience, a circus always tells the truth. It was a black, blustery October night on which an entire circus audience suffocated themselves.

Bug-Eyed by Mahu Kamal Photography

They Call it Home, Warm by Rhonda Donovan Oil and acrylic paint on fabric and wood

Exploring the uncanny valley Dakota Galvin

Yellow light leaks past the blinds reflecting off white walls full of flowers and we’re

its

shifting sheets over bent knees while heavy eyelids learn how to see just it’s too early to wake up & it’s raining.

again

When Brown Girls Get Lost in Never-land ZenChristian Mott

Boys cloaked in animal carcasses, lost in shadows of bodies high strung in the willow branches, wait for us, the Brown girls stripped of our innocence by the hands of men we trusted then shipped to a land that will never claim us as its own but bare its teeth if we try to leave, where fields of orange tiger lilies rest underneath the nooses that hang for us, the Brown girls before the boys offer their twigs and berries in exchange for fairy dust that coats the inside of our untouched wombs. We are always running here us Brown girls, searching for a second chance, towards the right way to exist in this place, where animals lost in our shadows, cloaked in the skins of young boys, salivate at the slits in our skirts and the flutter in our chests like a bird ramming its head against the bars of its cage: trying to go somewhere. And tonight, flutes up high whistle against the leavesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; spines as they exhale in sync with the windâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hums. We lay on backs of tiger lilies counting the empty nooses hanging above, one of them belongs 58

to each of us, the Brown girls who never sleep anymore, too afraid to fly away, to leave them, the boys that wait to hang usâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; but we will to get out of here (someday) become birds and just go.

PERSEPHONE BEFORE THE UNDERWORLD Jerico Lenk

persephone misses her long hair. she has kerchiefs now and albatross scarves to keep her warm. her hands shake. she drops her cigarette twice, so i drive. three hours across tennessee through early spring. idling behind a semi in a pilot parking lot, nectar and ambrosia, crushed in the fold of a dollar bill. last month, the needle port got lost beneath her skin and the thrush tilled her mouth, teeth gone like pomegranate seeds. soon she’ll be in the underworld and i won’t even see her in the spring. just the tulips she left and the necromanteion hand-built of heart-shaped rocks she hand-picked from gas station landscaping while i waited in the driver’s seat, couldn’t stop smiling, lit a cigarette and listened to her hum and forget about her rape.

Smothering Butterflies ZenChristian Mott “you pulled ink out of me /when all I thought left were stems/ from flowers I had given away you fought for this/for these words” -Anis Mojgani I want to dismantle this body for parts lay them out across your sheets, watch the room fall silent, lean in close and listen as they tell you stories of every man who has ruined me. Made me a porcelain egg so pretty but so hollow. Of the poet who turned me into a loved poem, that only my body made an appearance in labeled himself the author and wrote without restrictions. Of the California wildfire and San Antonio windstorm who raised such a ship-wrecked child. I swore divorce would be the end of all the bruises on my mother’s self-esteem, of rage always walking around in my father’s skin. I’ve never feared becoming the people my parents used to be until their mistakes started to resurface in me, borrowed parts of their wreckage burrowed into these bones a reminder of who I came from: I inherited my mother’s intuition, her sand-storm tongue and gift for listening, to forgive the undeserving and always pick herself up when the pieces are so small, they’re unrecognizable. And I’ve adopted my father’s bad habits like putting salt on everything or tuning people out when they talk for too long or creating temporary homes inside of already occupied bodies. He fears spending the rest of his days in his own company but tell me, is it lonelier to be alone or to have a different lover every night, always relearning 61

yet another strangers’ body? You know, I was so lonely when I met you. Was searching for some beautiful boys to crawl inside of and be happy, be simple. But instead I became a butterfly smothered every day between their palms, trying to keep breathing— but here with you I want to lay out across your sheets, you lean in close as I tell you every story about me until there’s nothing left to tell or find except pieces I’ve written inside of myself like poems, all about you every word, about you.

In sickness and in hell Dakota Galvin

Dear father, forgive me for the false wedding vows: â&#x20AC;&#x153;in sickness and in hellâ&#x20AC;? & meaning it dearly beloved, we gather today for the stillness of the ribcage, bruised by birdsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; wings. We gather for the buildup, bleeding from the inside above the left lung where questions corrode on the tip of my tongue, splintering words into whispers whispering still: dear father, for give me the peace I think I deserve

NEW JERSEY, 1999 Jerico Lenk

my father is a rock star, a distant figure bobbing with the jellyfish in the waves off jersey shore, a looming blur of goofy grins and clumsy hands, beachfront showers, talking with seagulls and snapping turtles. and my mother is charged with effexor, a tightly-wound conductor rod of what if … what if … the image is seared into my mind: her, clutching my sisters to her side and me, wondering now if she never wanted me alone with him, if she worried about me alone with him, if there was a reason i, the son, always ended up alone with him. i dreamed the little fourth of july parachute men were alive, drifting down on the wind like dandelion fuzz, and when i caught one, he sobbed please, don’t do it! but i squished him between my fingers like a house gnat, anyway and then dream me just wailed there in the shimmer of dream sunlight for the kinds of regretful things i was capable of.

The Robin

Jonathan Valentine What is beauty but perilous? Some say it lies in silent lines between the lashes of eyes. Others say beauty lies in goofy smiles, of little ones, five. I say it is perilous. The Robin plays a sweet tune. The Crow stifles it with his incessant CAW. CAW. CAW. The Robin knows that to sing is to bring attention. To gain attention is to bring danger. To be in danger is perilous. Yet the Robin continues to sing, every line equally loud and silent. She paints a canvas this way, subtle lines, often stifled. Hope is what she sings when she paints, and paints when she sings. Hope is reserved for those, those who will beauty forward. Those who dig their spur, dig it into the side of life. And they say with gritted teeth, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Give me more, 65

I cannot live off bread alone.” These are the people who move mountains. There is fire in their eyes. It leaps outward with libidinous flares. It wanes and strengthens, its constant movement casting shadows, shadows that would consume the world and with it, peril. You are the Robin who paints subtle lines, the one who sees beauty in little ones, five. Whose strength would move mountains, whose fire would consume the world. Never let yourself be stifled. No, sing openly, paint your canvas however and wherever you like, argue not about what is wrong, only do what you think to be right, give with open arms, and worry not about returns. Love, for you are loved. And finally, dismiss any grievance that comes against your soul. And as Whitman said, “Your very flesh shall be a great poem.”1

1. Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass. Eds. Harold William Blodgett and Sculley Bradley. New York University Press, 1965. 66

Spare Parts Jessica Thornton Maribel and Henry stood on either side of their kitchen table, looking at the disassembled parts of their newborn child laid out before them. The golden afternoon light was flirting with the blind slats and spilling across the otherwise monotonous room. Henry, who was beginning to bald on the back of his head, scratched his forehead while his wife crossed her arms in front of her chest. The birth had been unexpectedly quick— simple, even. Henry held Maribel’s hand next to her hospital bed, marveling at the way she glowed, and together they anticipated meeting their first child. Their eyes shone with love as they silently imagined taking their child home to the pale yellow nursery they had painted the month prior. It was the only room with color on the walls in their small suburban home, just as the pregnancy had colored their lives for the past nine months. But when the doctor came into the room, he did not hold the baby; he only delivered the news and a large sterilized bag. “It’s certainly uncommon, yes, but it’s not unheard of,” he had said, as aloof as if it had only been a strange birthmark their child possessed. “We have no reason to believe that if you assemble the parts correctly, you won’t have a healthy, happy baby.” So they did what any eager new parents would do: they took their disassembled infant home, grabbing the instruction manual at the front desk of the hospital on the way out. Now as they faced the enigma strewn across the table, they both felt uneasy. “I suppose we ought to get started,” Maribel said, brushing her hands together. Henry nodded, but neither of them moved, unsure of where to begin. They unfolded the instruction manual and decided to start there. From the bag, they identified the parts and laid them out in the order they were in the manual. They divided the work between the two of them. Maribel would sew the limbs to the body and Henry would assemble the baby’s face, Mr. Potato 67

Head-style. For a while, they worked in silence, the only sounds in the room being needle and thread meeting human flesh, until Henry said, “We don’t have a name picked out yet.” Maribel met his gray eyes and seemed to consider it for a moment in the air above his head before turning her gaze back to the stitches at her fingertips. The skin she held in her hands was soft but cold, and paler than either of the two parents’. Still lifeless. “Hm. It seems we haven’t,” she said. “Well?” Henry prompted. Maribel was quiet. Henry began throwing out names, but she turned her nose up at each suggestion. Alfred was an old man’s name and Charlie sounded like a troublesome kid and Patrick reminded her of a mischievous boy from the preschool class she taught before her maternity leave. “How about we give it a few weeks, then? We’ll get to know the baby’s personality and name him that way,” Henry said when they had exhausted all his name suggestions. Maribel did not like the plan but had no alternative solutions so she complied. They both went back to their work. Before long, Maribel had sewn both arms, which could move as freely as her own, and was setting in the left leg. Henry had affixed the eyes and mouth, but was running into trouble perfecting the placement of the nose. In his frustration, he poked himself in the finger with the needle, cursed, and sucked the congealing drop of blood. Looking at where he had poked himself, Henry grew nervous about the gravity of the task at hand. Henry knew he had to be more careful. Prior to getting to work, Henry had Googled their situation, wondering about its success rate. Surely enough, he fell down the rabbit hole of horror stories and cases gone wrong. He exited out of the page and deleted it from the search history so Maribel wouldn’t find it. He didn’t want her to sense his hesitation. The afternoon slipped away from them as the parts on the table began to resemble a child. The thought of it blossomed in Henry’s chest, right behind his ribcage. Maribel had been pregnant twice before and miscarried each time. The disassembled baby was the closest the couple had come so far to having a healthy child. When 68

the doctor told them the circumstances, Maribel was disappointed but not without hope. Henry knew how much this meant to her, even more than it meant to him, which seemed impossible. “Maribel,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re going to be parents.” They smiled at each other, things they could not verbalize passing between them. “I like the name Allen,” Maribel said then. If he was being honest, Henry hated the name, but Maribel’s eyes lit up when she suggested it and he knew it was right. He would grow to love it. And after all, it isn’t a name that makes a person. He nodded at her and she nodded in return. It was decided. Soon enough, Maribel finished sewing the limbs onto the body and Henry finished the face. He had arranged each individual eyelash with precision and a pair of tweezers. Each toe was perfectly sewn onto the foot at just the right angle for walking. Maribel sewed the head to the neck as the finishing touch. Henry retrieved the jar of O negative blood and the syringe. He injected the blood in the place the manual instructed, in the middle of the baby’s lower back. Then the two of them stood back from the table to watch their child come alive. Henry grabbed Maribel’s hand, their warmth and nerves mingling to generate two clammy palms. Henry could sense Maribel was smiling at him for a second, but he could not take his eyes off the baby. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the baby opened his eyes. Through the thin skin covering his chest, the parents could see his heart begin pumping. Empty veins flowed with blood and life. The nose that had given Henry so much trouble inhaled oxygen deep into the baby-sized lungs. Maribel gasped ever so softly. Henry began to smile, but it was short-lived. Something was wrong. Newborn babies cried, didn’t they? He carefully released Maribel’s hand and closed the distance between himself and his son in a single stride. He waved his right hand over the baby’s face, expecting—no, praying the baby’s eyes would follow the movement of his hand. “What are you doing?” Maribel asked. Blink, Henry willed him. Move, scream, anything. Do anything. Nothing. 69

Maribel stepped up beside Henry. Silent tears were already streaming down her cheeks. In a broken voice, she asked, “Well, is it alive or…?” Henry shook his head. They had assembled a collection of parts, but not quite a human being. “There has to be something more,” she said. “A part we left out, something in the manual.” She began tearing the instruction manual apart, frantic. She ducked under the kitchen table, as if it could be possible they had dropped a part. In her panic, she bumped her head on the way back up, shaking the whole table. The baby did not react. Maribel stared at it there on the table, shaking her head and furrowing her brow like she couldn’t quite understand the punchline of the joke. Henry reached out a hand to touch the small of her back, but she repelled him. She wanted to scream and fall to the ground and curse the unfairness of it all, but she did not say a word. She left the kitchen for their bedroom. Henry knew to let her. He stared down at the child and reviewed the manual in his mind. They had followed all the steps carefully. All of the parts were there and in the right places, too. Before he could consider the ethicality of it, he picked up one of Maribel’s needles and poked the baby on the wrist. Only a pinprick, but enough to draw blood. Just as he feared, the baby was bleeding, but it did not react to the pain. Outside, the world had fallen dark. The only light outside came from a flickering streetlamp. Henry sat alone at the table for a while. He whispered an apology to the baby. After a while, Henry left it there, certain it wasn’t in danger of falling off the table (and uncertain if it mattered anyway), and snuck into the master bedroom. He could make out Maribel’s figure in a heap in the dark, still on top of the covers. He curled himself around her and held her tightly. He could always tell by her breathing when she was deepest asleep. He felt her breaths go from choppy and inconsistent to steady and deep. When he was sure Maribel was asleep, Henry snuck back out to the kitchen. In the upcoming weeks, when their family and friends asked to meet their new child, the couple would tearfully report that the baby had died during childbirth. They would paint over the 70

yellow in the nursery with gray to turn it back into an office. They would hold each other and grieve their loss together and when it was time, they would rebuild. Without another thought, Henry carefully began undoing the stitches.

Portrait of My Mother Kelly De Curtis Your front teeth overlap just slightly, lending support like you give me, the freckles I inherited spatter your face and outline your fire mane; Your laugh is belly deep and stair-like, a distant memory I can barely hear but your whispered words in the dark night still ring clear like a bell; Your discipline comes from a wooden spoon, a flying sandal, and a red hand, just as it comes with suffocating kisses and warm cocoon embraces; Your likeness is drawn on the rocky streets of an Italian city with the waves in the distance, the sun glinting in your eye which hides your too thin smile and a fire that has dulled. You are now a memory on a white background set on a plain wall above eternal flowers dedicated to you, a pencil sketch that tries to contain the life in your green irises, stamped with a signature and sealed in glass.

Yours, the Crow Jonathan Valentine I look at my wings today, the feathers worn. I wonder—all the branches I’ve been to and don’t remember, every tune the robin played and I forgot. The places I do recall were perfection in their own time and place. Today they seem so fraught. The owl once said of my favorite oak in autumn, “It was an intense scarlet or red mist, or fire, which finds fuel for itself in the very atmosphere.”1 Well, I saw a fire that burned a deeper shade of scarlet, as it ripped through the forest I called my own. Must the crow begin a new journey? What if he liked the old forest? Could God at least give a bird new wings beforehand, and a new spirit if he asks? No, just restore his old one. What is a bird without his spirit, his will to fly? Take away a bird’s nest, and he will find somewhere new to roost. A bird will have many nests, but he will only ever have one spirit. I had a friend, another crow, Icarus. Icarus flew too close to the sun due to folly, but it was his spirit, his very wings that burned. The spirit is like Iduna’s apples— even the gods eat of it in order to sustain their lives. Yet, a spirit is a gift that can only be accepted once. To compromise that gift is to compromise the basis of self. And I, a humble bird, ask, give me back what is mine not to take.

1. Thoreau, Henry David. Autumnal Tints. 1862. Applewood Books, 1996. 73

Contract for the dying star Contract for the dying star

Dakota Galvin

for the Helix Nebula

When she dies she’ll tear and eye in the sky so her god could watch how she’ll refuse to fade quietly,1 she strips her ether – -eal threads until her celestial body chasms into a mist so stellar – 2

like the lonely silhouettes on brick walls after the a-bomb dropped on Hiroshima. 1

we’ll change your name, & we’ll change your role as soon as you know what is 2

inevitable.

After the Election (2016)

Kelly De Curtis

Standing on the outsides of my nation how easy is it to burn a foundation made of wood could someone please tell me how do I breathe through oppressive black shrouds and how long must I yell at rock for this wall to crumble because I am crumbling under the weight of seeing a world on fire and the next time I have a chance will I continue to stand on the outside of these walls, too high for me to climb? â&#x20AC;&#x2039;

They Burn the Olive Trees Mahu Kamal You are the olive tree, rooted into my carpet, limbs vein in the arabesque of the thread count the days before you can grow into the fields, laced with barbed wire and mines, where the man picking carrots lost his hand to the mined soil. You call your grandfather sedo, and sedo weeps in two languages, for that land only wants to kiss your callouses. So plant your fingers into the soil and grow! grow darling growâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; twist over the wall, and through the barbed wire, where they will burn you for growing. Let the fire lick your cheeksâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; but do not stop blooming when they throw the dirty water on the women who whisper prayers onto the dirt your sedo weeps for. Shade them with your olive bark. The same bark that is still woven in my arabesque carpet. You are my olive tree. God speaks of you.

Smoke by Mahu Kamal Photography

Thanks for reading!