EDITORS’ NOTE
Dear Reader, Once again, the directors of Canvas Creative Arts are excited to share the 24th edition of the CANVAS Magazine. These works best exemplify CANVAS’ core mission: to represent Indiana University’s vast community of creatives and allow them to flourish. After a period of deep uncertainty, we have found the voices of IU’s creatives to be incredibly moving and awe-inspiring. We have found them also to be resilient, unique, and altogether an authentic representation of how we as individuals respond to all of life’s deep uncertainties. Our hope is that with this magazine you, too, will be inspired — to create, learn, and grow! With that hope, and much consideration, we wish to thank our contributors for sharing their works with us, and we invite you to enjoy them in The 2021 CANVAS Magazine Best, Madison Cox & Kat Ellingson
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Every edition, CANVAS selects one written and one visual work for our Editors’ Choice Awards. This award serves to recognize the high level of craft and creativity with which these artists represent their respective fields, and to thank them for sharing their exceptional work. For this issue, we are proud to honor Keena Du’s “go call your grandma right this instant” and Susanna Herrmann’s “No Time” as the Editors’ Choice winners for the 2021 CANVAS Magazine. Thank you for your contribution, Madison Cox & Kat Ellingson
EDITORS’ CHOICE
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STAFF AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Directors and Editorial Staff Madison Cox Kat Ellingson Assistant Director/Marketing Lead Cameron Green Deliberation Committee Madison Cox Kat Ellingson Jing-Yu Lei Chloe Myers
Publisher World Arts Inc. Cover Art “I watched a movie” by Maria Ivancsics Design Staff Madison Cox Kat Ellingson Special Thanks Teresa Weimann The 112th Indiana Memorial Union Board of Directors
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
(alphabetical by contributor’s last name)
Eric Brotheridge Meaning-Making Must Wait....................................23 The End....................................................................55 Madison Cox the liminal space of children’s parks at night............20 hold my bones together............................................47
Keena Du night drive................................................................11 it’s 10:27 p.m............................................................43 ode to the flour i forgot............................................50 go call your grandma right this instant..................53
Jackson Mettler The Fallen Leaf..........................................................6 The Present..............................................................40 Heartbreak Upstairs.................................................44 Dheer Friend............................................................51 Sahil Patel Bliss..............................................4, 12, 22, 25, 42, 56 Savannah Price Notorious Roy G. Biv..............................................33 Sunset Cats..............................................................49
Mollyann Duffner The world fits in a room.............................................2
Emma Richey The Tower................................................................15 Love Note to the Letter “L”.....................................48
Bethany Habegger I could use something to hold onto............................5 Those forever feelings never stay.............................19 I remember your voice and your clothes..................45 Things that were aren’t here today...........................52
Destini Ross 39.7486120, -86.1906211........................................32 Essential Work.........................................................39 Experience Is...........................................................41 39.777557, -85.972714............................................46
Susanna Herrmann Cleanup at the Studio.................................................1 The Construction Zone..............................................3 Caution.................................................................24 No Time...................................................................39
Connor Stacey The Rust Belt...........................................................28
Maria Ivancsics At the Lake...............................................................10 I watched a movie....................................................54
Bryan Welch King of Our Sins......................................................13 The Announcement..................................................35
Madelyn Knight Ambrosia.................................................................9
Emily Yurkevicz 21st Century Altar....................................................26
Aspen Lara Gambit....................................................................14
Contributor Bios................................................................v
Caroline Sultz Bus Stop...................................................................34
Bold Italic: Editors’ Choice
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Cleanup at the Studio | Susanna Herrman
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The world fits in a room | Mollyann Duffner
In the somberness of a quiet room, I laid more dreamless than the walls around me, The lone pink glow of my bedside light, Cast its hue like a lighthouse, Beckoning its lonely sailor from sea. The world beyond turned without me, Indifferent to my yearning heart. Beyond the window is everything. Japan, Switzerland, Spain. Sprawling pastoral towns, Dizzying icy mountain roads, And gothic cathedrals erected in godless cities. My ghostly feet walk through a cool wood, As I breathe the clarifying breeze from a languid ocean, And gaze at the glossy morning dew illuminating a vineyard. All the while, plagued with the haunting notion— It will all persist even when I die without seeing it. I am a lonely sailor, but I have no sea.
Suddenly, the long night ends And the dreadful shadows shrink back into their homes, Shriveling in fear at the first touch of light. In the room, I am no longer alone. We are, at once, two lonely sailors, Giving each other the sea. Suddenly it is clear, The world does not belong to the beyond, It can fit in my room. In hushed whispers and hands clasped softly together, The world is spurred by the flutter of our eyelids, And brought to life by the intent of our gaze. It orbits around our embrace And centers its gravity in the soft beating of our heart, Which pushes and pulls at the waves on the shore, Casting its lonely sailors further into the sea.
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The Construction Zone | Susanna Herrmann
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Bliss | Sahil Patel
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I could use something to hold onto | Bethany Habegger
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The Fallen Leaf | Jackson Mettler
A man sits alone in the autumn wood Though the wind whips its way through the trees A frustrated jockey Lashing out, relentless, He is still, Shielded from the cold Not by attire But a disembodied concentration A disregard for physical being Concerned, instead, with a force Cutting far deeper than the wind And with much greater intensity A cold no coat can negate Thorn insoluble Illness Debilitating A thief Making off with the hope Of recovery A shattered, ironic existence A life bereft of meaning Pulled to and fro by gusts of wind The buoy moves with each wave No attempt to resist The wind fills his nostrils Tugging at his tightly shut eyelids Seeming as if to say “Wake Up” -UnyieldingA man possessed By single-minded focus Fueled By the hollowing fear Of not finding
Of never finding Salvation from this existence Shrouded in loneliness and futility A cure for this disease Possessing the strange ability To numb the senses And wear away at the soul Leaving only the hollow pang Emptiness. From deep within Primordial bells ring out Filling every moment with their screams Making vague attempts To extend his mind Outside the limits of his skull Reaching out for something Anything Greater than himself Desperately traversing the ether Only to run, face first, Into the walls of his own consciousness Or rather The paradoxical nature Of venturing outside the bounds of the self, The self, one’s only guide How to see what cannot be seen? So limited by the eye Can one ever look to distant planes Or find something more Than what is rightly available? For as is the nature of that which is not It is not
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The wind howls in his ears Lashing out with greater intensity Buoy thrown back and forth Pummeled by successive blows Unable to resist the strength of the waves Until finally, Anchor dislodged, Being cast upon the shore. His eyes open, Silence. The now-quiet woods dissolve into his unfocused gaze Awareness ripped From the plane of abstraction Once believed infinite But clearly Just as limited as the body he now returned to A single leaf catches his eye Falling some ten yards away Or rather, drifting A passenger on the still air Landing directly in front of him Time stands still in the silent wood As the man takes in the fallen leaf Seeing first its shape, Sugar maple Its dark color, Signaling the changing of the seasons, The coming of winter He reaches forward Feeling its rigid edges And with such grace Does the hand close around the leaf
More resistant in death than in life Though far less resilient He studies its fragments The sensation of their genesisCrunch -Still fresh in his mind Wafting up from his hand The smell of cider Reminding of days spent far from here In time as well as space Of Small boots Stomping through the woods Alongside two pairs quite larger And later, Large boots Professing love to a pair Lost to time The man shuts his eyes Hiding from the woods their red hue Staring again at his hand And, perhaps for the first time, He sees. Eyes alight over the surrounding landscape The trees, the grass, The leaves, Once mere symbols for interpretation The world a book Laboriously read for the sole purpose Of extracting some knowledge, Discovering some theme, Now taking life of their own
The Fallen Leaf | Jackson Mettler
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The Fallen Leaf | Jackson Mettler
For perhaps it is not farther outside What is rightly available, But deeper within it That one is to find meaning If the world is a book Then maybe, The act of reading Is not merely a means But the end in itself Maybe, It is within the intricacies of the fallen leaf That one is to find salvation … The man stood to leave Knowing he now held the Truth Walking triumphantly, Though with each step A pang of loss The chilling certainty That it was not his to hold And the wind whistled through the woods once more
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my eyes read your lips which drip of ambrosia that you stole from the garden that one quiet afternoon I didn’t recognize your lonely stare as the ambrosia dripped beyond your care so I’m lost in Elysium dreaming about you and me and how yesterday you were fine and now ambrosia runs up your spine and if you find me there in the garden where ambrosia grows remind me of the way you stole my life—you stole that day all for your ambrosia addiction you don’t care—this isn’t fiction we are lost among the crowds getting drunk on ambrosia now
Ambrosia | Madelyn Knight
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At the Lake | Maria Ivancsics
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you’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and at every red light he turns, cheeks red under the red. he’s inches away, fingertip’s reach, and the necessity of it is a comfort to you. you think to yourself that no one looks as good as they do when it’s dark, and the windows are rolled up to let every word bathe in the quiet mint-breath air, and the greens and yellows and reds of the traffic lights are streaming across the profile, like a piece of stained glass that can’t decide what to do when the sunlight shines through it. i’ll take it all, it says. every technicolor shard. it’s beautiful, really. absolutely breathtaking.
night drive | Keena Du
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Bliss | Sahil Patel
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The destruction of Man The monstrous mushroom cloud shooting a mile high The sonic shockwaves turning homes into holes These horrors front and center, burning in the memories Of witnesses like the fire that burns through wood and flesh. Despite this, it was the arrogance that Created the biggest problem To think they fully understood the true Consequences of being a god From this arrogance, From its horrid and painful mutations I was born. An unwilling phoenix rising from the nuclear ashes. Born too tall, too strong, too heavy, for this world Your people created my torment, and now They use their destruction to solve their arrogance. The bombs and bullets so good at killing one another Nothing but dust in the wind to me And so despite their best efforts, Your people cannot kill me. You’ve seen Hiroshima and Nagasaki Bikini Atoll and Nevada deserts. And so you comprehend the consequences For you know of your people’s destruction And you know of your people’s arrogance And so to you I say, with my final breath Saraba Tomoyo
King of Our Sins | Bryan Welch
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Gambit | Aspen Lara
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Shafts of moonlight pierced the dense tangle of twisting branches. Shriveled corpses of autumn leaves dangled precariously, spiraling to the forest floor. Overhead, thunder crackled and white-hot veins of lightening seared the pitch of night, as glints of white ricocheted off chain mail rustling with faint metallic clinks. Beneath the knobbed fingers of oak, ash, and elm sat a solitary figure clad in sheets of beaten iron. A ululating penetrated the still of the forest. Sides heaving, his mount shifted, prancing nervously. Its teeth were coated in foam, its sides flecked with froth. Beads of sweat trickled from the brows of both rider and steed onto webs of lichen. In the shadows, swift glimpses of contorted figures with glittering beetle-eyes flitted from trunk to trunk, branch to branch. As moans and howls pierced the still of the wood, dusky owls shifted, nervously peering through tangles of briars and branches. Underfoot shriveled branches crackled, spines snapping. The horse whinnied nervously. The tattered remains of trespassers swung in the breeze, impaled on brambles and thorns. Faded strips of scarlet, a solitary scrap of white. A putrid scent rose as hooves crushed velvet-petalled flowers peering from beneath the decay. Shrill screams reverberated, seeming to come from all sides at once. Horse and rider halted abruptly. Ahead lay an arch, an old bent oak, etched with strange symbols. Wreathed with boughs of lichen limply swaying in the icy breeze, the arch loomed over the path. The ground underneath turned to soot. Ragged sighs escaped the stallion, drifting through the haze. Bit and bridle jingled, a soft rhythmic tinkling. Clambering to the ground, he paused, surveying the road ahead. It turned sharply, hedged by a steep embankment of ashen clay on one side and a pool of inky black on the other. Ravens bobbed and leered, chanting raucous cries, glancing at their companions. Leading the trembling, panting horse, he shuffled down the path. With tentative steps, the stallion shifted nervously. “A bit further,” the knight panted, “Just a bit more. Come on. The princess and her captor await. ‘Round the bend. Come now.” Eyes rolling and hooves stamping, the horse planted its hind legs and twisted its head. “Can’t blame you. I suppose witches frighten even the bravest,” he murmured, stroking the beast and lacing the lead around a nearby trunk. Ahead, the embankment melted into a shallow ditch, and the path turned into a quagmire of ashen mud. In the center of the clearing loomed a spindling tower, a patchwork of cobbled stones and rough-hewn timber. Moldering shingles leered through their gap-toothed decay. A soft golden glow permeated the haze of encroaching fog. From a solitary paned window, he glimpsed a figure—a billowing cloud of white, a flash of raven hair. Tilting his head back he swallowed, the night air cool and crisp against his teeth. “Ah, if only His Majesty hadn’t been so foolish as to promise his first-born to a witch.” Memories of his last days at court surfaced, bobbing. The king sitting with glazed eyes, The Tower | Emma Richey
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The Tower | Emma Richey
his face hollowed by grief, muttering in his ear at the banquet: “Smiles… so many smiles when heard story… defeating a wyvern… ‘noble Sir Gwydion’… cared not that ‘twer but a page at time….” Images flitted across his mind. The princess’ handmaiden with eyes wide, wringing her hands as ashen faces gaped at her words. Echoing, ricocheting off every wall. Every ear. “Her ladyship has been taken by… by the Witch.” The plan had failed. The Witch had recognized the true princess. His wavering voice breaking the silence, sword clattering as he knelt. A knight. A knight promised a princess. One so lovely, so merry, gentle, and poised promised to a mere page. No. Knight now. Sir Gwydion. He clenched his fist, eyes narrowed. “Famine or no famine. No lady should be bartered as though she were mere currency,” he spat. “What kind of father- what kind of king would make such a promise? He knew the tales, the cost.” A dull ringing reverberated as he drew his sword. He glanced at the trees skirting the clearing, their skeletal forms stretching and contorting. Wisps of frizzed hair caked with mud brushed his brow. Perspiration blended with sweat. On the eaves of the tower carrion crows perched, joining the ravens hunched figures. The birds pivoted, eyes rooted to a far corner of the clearing. Raising his visor, the knight turned and peered through the haze of descending fog. In the distance near a lightning charred tree crouched a figure, hunched and robed in black. With lumbering steps, he edged closer. Over the figure’s drooping shoulders and knobbed spine, hoary-white hair billowed. Threadbare wrappings shifted revealing a skeletal frame. Her ashen skin was exposed in flashes. An elbow. A knee. Overhead, thunder crackled and white-hot veins of lightening seared the pitch of night, as yellowed nails, cracked and serrated, lunged out of the folds, clutching the billowing sheets to the skeletal frame. Stumbling, faltering steps snapped shriveled branches. Beneath matted snarls of hair peered eyes opaque and unseeing. Dusted with mildew ,the faint aromas of death permeated. The coppery scent of blood. The hesitant aroma of rotting earth. Staggering on bare feet, toenails chipped and trickles of inky black peppered the mossy ground. Bloodless lips muttered soundlessly. Aged joints popped and creaked. White-hot veins of lightening seared the pitch sky, illumining gaunt features. Faint impressions of eyebrows threadbare with age stood crowned by wispy strands. Ashen skin stretched taut as a fissure revealed straining teeth and ears lying flat against a shriveled skull. He gasped in horror, stepping backwards. The creature’s arms dangled limply as though forgotten one moment, only to be clenched in frenzied convulsions the next. Hissing clouds of steam poured from the figure’s mouth, nose, and ears. A ululating wail penetrated the night. Bristling, with trembling hands and feet, she scaled the scabbed branches of the oak. Clambering above the embers faintly glowing around the charred trunk, the creature perched on a swooping branch. Stiffening, she arched her spine and shrieked, head lolling. The knight shuddered. The
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figure paused, pivoting slowly, fixing unseeing orbs on him. With a flash of jagged yellow fangs, the creature lunged. The knight swung, decapitating the monster. The head rolled, coming to a rest among a clump of grasses several feet away. For several moments he stood silent, staring at the blade. Between smears and droplets of inky blood peered a face, peppered with blue stubble and faint grey eyes, wide with fear. Wisps of curling hair brushed his brow, just visible beneath the edge of the mail. Wordlessly, he plodded back to the tower, pulling the ringed knob. The door swung open without a sound. Skeletal frames lurked in the shadows. A broom. A mop. A coat rack. Silver smoke seeped from a brewing kettle, entwining around the rough-hewn rafters, ebbing in seas of spidery scrolls, drifting through concoctions, bottled and corked. Aromas of yarrow and frankincense permeated the air, drenching the moth-eaten velvet and sparse furs draped across the cobbled floors. The carpet formed an undulating sea with rich hues of turquoise, ebony, vermilion—a shore rising in cliffs, mountain ranges of mahogany stained with age, hinges decaying with rust. In the light of the glowing embers sat a cauldron, burnt and flaking with age. Torrents of steam seeped under the lid. Perched on the shelves above sat trinkets, instruments, and amulets of various sizes and natures. A crystal ball, a serrated dagger. A faded drawing of a mountain lion overlaid with lists of ingredients. The cauldron crackled, bubbling onto a cat, which awoke with a hiss. With slitted eyes narrowed, it arched its spine and yawned. Webbed toes splayed, it stretched before darting up a curving stair. Following it, the knight ascended. The plaster walls were caked with dirt and dust. Festoons of cobwebs lined the rough-hewn rafters. Dust swirled in the light of golden haze filtering beneath a door. The faint humming and murmur of some sweet mellifluous voice floated down the stairs. Reaching for the knob, he paused, sheathing his sword, removing his mail cap, and smoothing his hair. Faint aromas of jasmine, elderberry, and yarrow seeped beneath the door. The stairs groaned, protesting his weight. The humming paused. Stilled. He rapped a soft staccato. “Hello?” “Your highness?” Turning the knob, he swung the door open. Inside on a bench sat the princess wearing a robe of battered white silk. Cascades of ebony framed her face and golden slanted eyes. Constellations of freckles dusted her skin. In her arms perched the cat purring with almost aggressive contentment. “Who are you? Is this another spell meant to torment my broken spirit?” she whispered, rising and slowly crossing the room. Gwydion blinked. How could she have forgotten? True, it was just one banquet. However, the light in her eyes—the way she had shined when they praised his defeat of the wyvern. The Tower | Emma Richey
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The Tower | Emma Richey
Perhaps through some terrible spell of the Witch. Perhaps some lucky twist of fate, sparing her the worst of her memories. He steadied himself. “No… no, Your Highness. I have killed the Witch. I am here for you. Your father has sent me to rescue you and to end the curse upon your family.” He said, kneeling as best as he could with his armor. He could not reveal the whole truth. How could he expect her to marry a complete stranger, especially given the circumstances? Blood-red lips parted, revealing round white teeth. “Oh, we need fear her no longer then? My father need never pay for trying to escape his debt? For trying to keep me with my family? I can go home?” She clasped her hands, eyes feverish with delight. “Yes,” the knight said slowly. “You and your family are freed from that promise. My horse waits a mile from here.” “Thank you, Sir Knight. Let us leave this place at once then,” She darted past him down the stairs, clutching the cat. Stumbling to his feet, Gwydion plodded after her. “Your Highness- please. There is nothing to fear. She is dead,” he called. After descending the stairs and nearly tripping over the cat. He found her waiting. “Please, I beg you. We have already tarried too long,” she whispered, her expression fixed in a frightened smile. “As you will of course,” he nodded, glancing around. “I am sure this place must hold unpleasant memories. “Yes,” she murmured, again darting forward so that he had to race to keep up with her. After several long minutes of tromping through the mud, the two reached the edge of the wood. Through the haze of fog, a charred tree materialized. At its base lay a body, clothed in robes of billowing white. Elongated, tapering hands peered from beneath embroidered silk sleeves. Rosy skin, dusted with constellations of freckles. Nearby rested a head crowned with flowing ebony hair resting on a pillow of withered grass. The knight and the woman turned, eyes fixed on each other. Images flashed through his mind- The kettle. Bubbling, Brewing. Hissing smoke. The drawing of the mountain lion. A potion. “Well,” the woman drawled, stroking the cat. “There is nothing to fear now. She is dead!” She tilted back her head, with a ululating wail piercing the night.
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Those forever feelings never stay | Bethany Habegger
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the liminal space of children’s parks at night | Madison Cox
The park is quiet with a new energy, one she didn’t know even existed before now. Different from the usual sound of little kids with their playthings as leaves rustled in the trees. She remembers sitting on the green plastic tire swing with her friends, back when they were all small enough to fit together. Things change so easily, she thinks. Everyone’s a little bit taller, a little bit wider, a little bit older. They leave the tire swings and bloodied knees behind. Adults don’t cry when they scrape their knees—they hardly even scrape them at all. Everything feels different when illuminated by street lights rather than sunlight. Like the lights are ready to hold every secret known to man. Not a single word spoken here would ever see the light of day. The thought comforts her, and she lets her shoulders sink a little with loosened breath. She doesn’t want to see the look on his face, so she keeps her eyes down. “It’s weird, thinking about all the different people I’ve been.” She kicks her legs idly as she sits on the swing set, letting the toes of her shoes catch on the pebbles beneath her. “I’m not the same person I was six months ago, but six-months-ago me is still inside right-now me, making right-now me complicated in her own ways. I become complicated,” she watches her own feet on the ground. “People become complicated.” “People are always complicated,” he says. “And I always wonder what makes them,” she explains. Her toes are swallowed as she stills. “Lots of things,” he begins, “but you don’t have to know all of it.” “I like understanding other people.” “No one owes you explanations for who they are. People are just people.” “Yeah,” she sighs, “I know they don’t.” Silence swallows them whole, surrounded by cricket chirps and rustles of leaves. Neither of them really know what they’re talking about anymore. A little bit of nothing and everything all at once. She keeps her eyes down for fear that she’ll meet his if she looks up. It was much easier to admit things to people when she couldn’t see how they looked at her—when she couldn’t see how their faces changed after. His car is parked in front of them, a reminder that he still has to take her home. She wonders what time it is and checks her phone—nearly one in the morning now. Neither of them had meant to stay out this long, but it was easy to get carried away in each other’s words. “We can leave, if you want,” she says to the silence, an almost ashamed mumble. He stands and walks away wordlessly in the direction of his car, and she knows to follow. She watches his feet as they leave and return to the ground. Soon, she will be at home, sitting alone in her room and regretting every word she said tonight.
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Soon, she reminds herself. Not right now. Right now, she rolls the windows down without asking for permission, and he lets her. He lets her play her own music and makes no attempts to hide the way his fingers tap at the steering wheel with it. Right now, the wind tangles her hair and makes her skin feel grubby, and she lets it. She revels in the feeling of it between her fingertips, making waves with her arm as it hangs from the door. The time feels like it goes on forever, but it was easy to be misled. It was better not to worry about the forever, anyway. Things get complicated that way. She’s beginning to wonder if things themselves are what can be so complicated, or if it’s people who make things that way. Her favorite song comes on and she glances at him, his eyes still to the road. Good, she thinks. She allows herself to stop thinking about all the complicated parts for a moment, settling herself into the passenger seat and falling in love with the song all over again, the same way she does every time it plays. In this moment, it’s much easier to just make room for the simple things; it helps her breathe that way. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. She opens them again when the lyrics begin, the words easily shaping themselves at her mouth without a sound. The good simple feeling swallows her in its warmth. This stays between her and the streetlights.
the liminal space of children’s parks at night | Madison Cox
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Bliss | Sahil Patel
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Official agencies have fifteen days to issue implementation guidelines, though, tonight, there is little interest in augmenting the music by committee. No one counts the number of times they, like Pilate, have washed their hands; being more comfortable creating community connection from the comfort of the couch. The seamless flow of setting boundaries creates the embrace of imperfection, a chance for one of those mornings spent on the wonderful edge of darkness. For there is a peace brought on by a sense of inadequacy to perfection when typical coping methods and resources are overwhelmed. The loss at the heart of disaster makes lament valuable and meaning-making must wait as we habituate to survive.
Meaning-Making Must Wait | Eric Brotheridge
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Caution | Susanna Herrmann
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Bliss | Sahil Patel
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21st Century Altar | Emily Yurkevicz
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21st Century Altar | Emily Yurkevicz
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The Rust Belt | Connor Stacey
Allie liked the rain. Her yellow jacket fell just above her knees and had four petal flower patterns at the end of the sleeves where she would often crimp her fingers. Streetlights flickered as she walked to work. Allie saw new faces most days at the general store where she was a clerk. Dozens of young men—who were practically boys—often stopped in. They regaled her with their fantasies of what their lives will be like in the big city, when they arrived. Barrett was different; he seemed to blend in with the city. Allie could tell he had grown up there like she had. His words were quick and deliberate. He had dark skin and short, curly black hair. Today, he wore a gray button-down shirt. Allie liked that shirt. He’d bought it a few weeks prior at the store where she worked. Tonight, Barrett waited outside Joe’s Coffeehouse. He was on his way to work the night shift at one of the auto parts factories in town. On Thursdays, he would take his “morning” coffee with Allie on her walk home from work. Allie smiled and waved, splashing her way across the puddle that had formed along the crosswalk. Barrett knocked open the door with his elbow. “From the sounds of it, something in the paper’s got them all riled up today.” He pointed at a group crowded around a table. “No worries. Won’t stop you or me from enjoying a nice spring evening.” Allie went over to the counter where the waitress was already putting a pot on for them. “The usual?” she asked casually. Barrett nodded, “Of course! Bring me one of those cakes too. It’s gonna be a busy one today. I can feel it.” Settling in, Allie recounted the week’s events at the store. Its owners, the Coopers, were going out of town. Mr. Cooper’s brother was getting married. Mrs. Cooper was unhappy with the event’s sudden arrangement as she would have to leave the shop for a few days. Allie reassured Mrs. Cooper that the store would be fine in her absence. Barrett was no less busy. He rattled off the happenings at the factory, how everyone on the line was rife with work. Allie enjoyed hearing what Barrie was up to each week. As she paid for her coffee, she already longed for the following Thursday. Another few weeks came and went with the passing storms, Allie began to see folks on their porches reading the paper as they sipped their morning coffee. Storefronts cleaned their windows and put up the latest summer fashions. Before long, the first birds of the season could be heard from the tops of trees and buildings alike. Barrett had moved during that time as well. Allie had offered to help, but he insisted it was no big trouble. He lived alone, and his brother drove in from out of state to help with the process. This time when they met, Barrett had a tired look to him. Allie knew that things around town had been all in a tizzy lately with the closing of one of the larger factories after the company had gone bankrupt. Layoffs had spread to others in the area and the industry, and that included
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Barrett’s brother, Marcus, who had worked at a steel mill near the state line. “Things are certainly looking worse for wear around here,” Barrett remarked. He sipped at his coffee again with a furrowed brow. “I couldn’t just stand aside and let things be, you know?” Setting the mug down, he continued, “So, I told Marcus I’d send his family what I could. It’s part of why I changed up the scenery. The new place is gonna give me a fresh take; plus, I’ll be saving a little cash to make it easier to help where I can.” He pushed up a half smile as he laid down a few cents to pay for the coffee. Allie had seen that look all too frequently lately. Regulars at the general store had given her the same look as they purchased half or sometimes even less of their usual groceries. As summer pressed on, regulars stopped coming as frequently, and on many days, Allie was left alone with her thoughts in the rising heat in the store. This summer’s heat was different, crawling across the city like a plague, and it was starting to take people with it. Apparently, some of the other workers were complaining about recent pay cuts, and the union workers had gone so far as to suggest a strike. Barrett chalked the whole ordeal up to those wicked temperatures and reassured her that nothing would become of it. That was the Barrie she had always known though, a tireless young man doing a thankless job. After all, “any job that pays is better than nothing at all.” Allie had also seen a cut to her pay, but she knew the words weren’t for her. By early July, things seemed to be settling into place. The papers had been eerily silent, and the gossip between the shelves of the general store was shifting back toward its usual, familiar pleasantries. The sun held high in the sky as Allie walked out the front door and down the city streets. A cup of coffee marked a calming end to her Thursday. Barrie would be waiting for her. She’d picked out a pale orange sundress for the occasion, something light and free-flowing to work against the heat. A single cloud rolled overhead, providing a moment of shade as Allie crossed the street to the coffee shop. Barrett was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, she walked inside and scanned the room. She found him waving her down from a table with his usual smile. His shoulders were hunched, and his bedhead made his face look askew. The waitress came around with their usual order. Allie thanked her, moving her along to the next table, and began gingerly describing her day at the store. As she spoke, he smiled and nodded, his left hand tracing the cracked edges of the table. Allie stopped mid-sentence, “Is everything alright, Barrie?” He took a long sip from the mug in front of him before his eyes met hers again. “Well, things could be better you know, and I’m sure I can, uh, find something soon, but with the recent cuts at the factory…” He trailed off with a soft, sorry smile. This must be some sort of sad joke, Allie thought, but the more she looked over her companion, the more she believed him. He carried on. He had a little money saved up to keep his own place, but without the extra cash Barrett had been sending, Marcus and his family might run dry within the week. With things the way they The Rust Belt | Connor Stacey
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The Rust Belt | Connor Stacey
were, that spelled eviction. His face was tight with concern as he told the story. Tears welled up in Allie’s eyes, but she held them back; Barrie would find a way. He always found a way. That night, after their coffee, Barrett walked her home. The conversation had been sparse on the short stroll, and for all his confidence and pleasantries, Barrett seemed out of place amidst the evening lights. As she wished him good night and shut the door, Allie wondered what he would do. Perhaps, he would wander down by the riverside. It was a fitting place to go when one had time to pass with their thoughts. Doubtless, he would still be awake until the sun broke on the horizon. She drifted off with reassurances still floating around from her evening’s coffee: Barrie was a working man, and he always would be. He’d find a way. Over the next week, Allie spent her free time scrubbing the papers for any “Help Wanted” postings and speaking with anyone who might know of a listing to no avail. She had even pleaded with Mr. Cooper that the store might hire another clerk, but it just wasn’t possible. Business was down, and tensions were high. Allie kept on at her job, and each day stretched longer than the last. Each passing moment sat at the empty counter began to unnerve her to the point where she could barely focus, and the occasional customer was such an interruption to her boredom that she might shoo them off just so she could return to it. But with each passing day, she came closer to Thursday, and with each evening, she restored her hope as she thought of new places to stop in and ask—for a friend—if they were looking to hire anytime soon, and in every case, the answer was, “We’re terribly sorry, but no.” That Thursday, the sun rivaled the city’s own misery in its intensity. Heat rose up from the pavement, and sweat clung to skin. Allie paid no mind to it as she made her way to the coffeehouse. She was determined to know the plan Barrie had concocted, and she was delighted to find him waiting outside. In the shade, he reminded her of the same man she met here on a rainy day before everything began to change for the worse. As they began their tales from the week, she started to feel as if something wasn’t right. He sounded fine, almost excited, as he talked about this great new opportunity he was going to check out the next day; it had to be the one for him, but Barrett had a hollow look to his eyes and his skin looked shallow and pallid. Even in the cool interior, the sweat trickled down his arms and onto the table. No matter how much he smiled, Allie felt as if he himself didn’t believe it. He is here with me, she thought, but he’s not here. “Well, I’d better get going, don’t want to keep you all night.” Barrett drew his wallet, and as Allie opened her purse, he gave that soft, easygoing look once again: “It’s on me today.” He pulled out three quarters and a nickel and gingerly set them atop the tray. “You take care of yourself, Miss Allison.” He said gently as he strode for the door. “I’ll see you here next Thursday, right?” She called after.
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He looked back and flashed a smile, “Of course.” The next week, the city lost itself in the greatest rainstorm it had seen in a long time. Leaving for work, Allie pulled on her rainboots and slipped into the yellow raincoat. Humming, she entered the general store, wiped the mud from her shoes, and hung the coat on the rack, all to the calming sound of rain on the rooftop. Mrs. Cooper came into the store that afternoon, rushing over to Allie with good news: a man who had stopped in yesterday was starting up his ferry service again and would need good men to crew the old boat up and down the river. He left a name and a phone number on a small sheet of paper which Mrs. Cooper pulled from her purse. Allie tucked it into the pocket of the raincoat where it hung. That evening, she left early and started the long walk home. The street lights flickered on against the dark clouds, and she made her way down the city streets toward the center of town. Breathing the fresh air, she smiled and turned the corner, crossed the street, and headed for the coffeehouse. Pulling down her hood, she stepped inside, the slip of paper held tightly in her fist. Barrie wasn’t there. Had she arrived that early? She sat at the booth they had met at so many times before and checked the clock on the far wall. It was nearly six, only a few minutes before she usually arrived. Alone, Allie sipped at her coffee, watching the door as the minutes slipped by. Each Thursday, she returned. And each Thursday she waited. For Barrie.
The Rust Belt | Connor Stacey
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39.7486120, -86.1906211 | Destini Ross
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Notorious Roy G. Biv (knitwork modeled by Madison Rose) | Savannah Price
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Bus Stop | Caroline Sultz
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May 13th, 2020 Day of The Message “Hello, people of Earth. We’ll keep this short. In one year from now, we will return here and eliminate all but ten million of you. However, worry not, as this will not be done randomly, instead all 7,594,367,489 people will be ranked by a variety of factors that sum up into who are the best 100 million humans. See you in a year!” That was the announcement that played in the sky at 7:18 p.m. for Robert Harrison. It played everywhere on Earth, in every single language. Robert was at dinner with his wife Sharon, the two having their first romantic date together in what seemed like ages, what with three kids at home. The two paid for the meal and quickly left. Their date cut short. They needed to be with their kids. June 25th, 2020 322 days until The Elimination Some aspects of life went on normally. Governments of the world attempted to calm people down, so everything wouldn’t go straight to shit. Suicides shot up to an all-time high, people who knew they wouldn’t make it gave up before meeting whatever fate was coming. But hey, there was still running water and electricity. Robert and his family were playing Uno when their neighbor, Tim Goldberg, knocked on the door. Robert had always disliked Tim. Robert loved his family, make no mistake, but Tim’s life just seemed better. While Robert was old and in his 50s, Tim was an energetic man in his 30s with his more attractive wife in his more attractive home and no kids tying them down. “Hey ol’ Robby, how the wife and kids holdin’ up? Bet those rascals must be raising Hell right now I assume, hehe,” Tim chuckled when the door opened. That’s the type of shit Robert was talking about; Tim always had to say some shit about Robert’s kids. ‘Oh they must be difficult,’ ‘get any sleep there eh, neighbor?’ Shut the fuck up Tim, no one asked. “Uhh, neighbor?” Tim questioned, and Robert snapped back after being lost in thought. “Right! Wife and kids are good, how’s Ariana?” Robert asked, though he didn’t care at all. “Shoot, she’s just as beautiful as ever, thanks fer askin’.” ‘Fuck you fuck you fuck you,’ Robert internally screamed. “So ol’ buddy, the reason I’m here is well, I like ya, and I’d hate to see you and yer family get eradicated, so I brought over some healthy food and a workout routine for ya, cause I’m guessin’ this whole rankin’ system has some health com-po-nents and whatnot. The Announcement | Bryan Welch
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The Announcement | Bryan Welch
Anyways, I’ll see ya around buddy, stay safe, there’s a lot of crazies around,” Tim finished. Robert stood with a smile, desperately wanting to tell him off and say his family would be just fine, though he only said: “Thanks for your concern, Tim, that’s real kind of you.” December 25th, 2020 139 days until The End It was hard celebrating Christmas when things were getting worse and worse outside. Grocery stores were running out of food (because people dying in five months needed to stock up?). Robert tore his knee trying that damn workout Tim gave him. Cost of surgery made it difficult to get the kids presents. Civil unrest in countries was increasing. The EU dissolved, Russia was pushing troops closer to China. Suicides were still increasing. Murders, too. Hell, maybe enough people would die in the next few months that the extermination wouldn’t even be necessary. Bad joke, but Robert needed to make light of it somehow. January 1st, 2021 132 days until The End Sharon got laid off. On New Year’s. People finally started wondering what the point of having insurance was. What the point of a lot of things were. At least Robert still had his job. Government was giving less of a shit every day, and why would they? Meanwhile, Tim ran outside every day with his hot wife, the two of them smiling and talking as they ran down the street with their perfectly healthy bodies. February 14th, 2021 88 days until The End Valentine’s was soulless; stores didn’t even bother with decorations. Ads ran on TV persuading people to buy their safety come May 13th. It was bullshit of course. Kid at school told Jessica, Robert’s oldest, that their family should just kill themselves, as they weren’t good enough to make it. Robert had to restrain himself from finding and strangling the kid when he heard the news. What little hair Robert had left fell out. Tim still popped in to say hello. May 12th, 2021 One Day until The End
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Robert needed to do something. The day of reckoning was tomorrow, he needed to improve his family’s chances. He thought and thought and realized. He needed to get rid of the competition. Tim and his wife were surely in front of them on the rankings. That needed to change. Not like the police remnants would do anything. May 13th, 2021 Five Minutes until The End Robert walked into his house. His family was huddled in the living room, waiting in silence for the end to come. A bat was in his hands. Sharon’s eyes widened, and the two moved to the kitchen away from the kids and grandparents. “What did you do? Where the hell have you been?” Sharon demanded, staring at the bat. Robert went to find a towel to wipe off the bat, ignoring her. She looked at him in terrified silence, unable to speak. The blood still dripped from the bat. “What the fuck did you do?” she shouted, this time getting the attention of the others in the living room. She looked sick. “I got our family two spots closer to making it, that’s what I did. I was being a good father and husband,” Robert said soulessly. The clock ticked, but he didn’t look at it or his wife. The End could happen any second now. With horror, Sharon realized what her husband had done and quickly went out the front door, throwing up when she got outside. When Robert went to get her, she ran further from the home, screaming for him to get away as he began to chase her. The kids watched their parents ran out the door. Suddenly the two froze. An announcement was playing in the sky. This was it. “Hello again, people of Earth, we’d like to thank you all for taking part in this social experiment. No one will be killed. Have a nice rest of your planet’s existence. Goodbye.”
The Announcement | Bryan Welch
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Essential Work | Destini Ross
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No Time | Susanna Herrmann
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The Present | Jackson Mettler
Life, so like a dream Not because it doesn’t feel real But because it is afterwards so easily forgotten And impossible to recreate And regardless of whether or not You know what or why It haunts you From the moment your head leaves the pillow To long after it makes contact once more Where every dream exists inside of another Consciousness abstracted Caught between The past we choose to remember And the hypothetical future that We can’t stop thinking about The present, our only reality Lasting just a moment But somehow, eternal Our island in an ocean of ambiguity Our flashlight in a graveyard filled With the ghosts we invite into our own minds
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Experience Is | Destini Ross
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Bliss | Sahil Patel
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we’re sitting in my bedroom getting ready for the night, not caring what it has in store for us but knowing to be ready for anything. cross-legged and crouched by the mirror, you dust your eyelids in shimmery champagne and warm cinnamon gold. i fumble and have to reapply my eyeliner; when the wing slopes up to a perfect sharp point i smile with deep satisfaction and we give each other approving nods and sing-songy gorgeouss!s. the vodka is cheap and acrid but the orange juice is cool and sweet — they both do their job and we couldn’t get anything else soon enough, so who are we to complain? we take big happy gulps, let our knees wobble and our legs shiver as we wait outside for the uber. our chests warm and my face red and the brisk winds nipping at our arms until we pile into the car. we learn that our driver has 2 kids and knows all the words to Rap God by eminem, and we make him rap it as fast as he can before we say goodbye, tumbling out his toyota camry and flung into loudness and music and lights and so so many people people people, who dance and smile and take selfies and spill drinks and sling their arms around us even though we’ve never met. just like that, strangers-turned-friends over shared white claws and you are SO prettys as we fix our makeup in the bathroom. when the night dies down, we stumble into our apartment and moan between bites of hot, greasy cheesy bread, dripping ranch and marinara over the cardboard box and a little on the couch, but that’s ok. we don’t wake up until noon, and as we grumble over wasted time and aching heads, we grin, sheepishly, watching the day pass by and looking forward to doing it all over again.
it’s 10:27 p.m. | Keena Du
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Heartbreak Upstairs | Jackson Mettler
While high on the peaks of love, Lend your ear To the doorstep tears Of those Once in the same, Who thought forever meant time And time meant something More than the long legs Or strong arms Of someone unfamiliar The knowing, That what is now your world May all at once Be the very force Which stops its spinning, Adds weight to each step Into the sweet, thin air But brings too The subtle cry Of gratitude
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I remember your voice and your clothes | Bethany Habegger
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39.777557, -85.972714 | Destini Ross
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i am tired of unrequited love i am tired of watching people fade as they leave me i am tired of being a secondary character in my own motion picture i am tired of every love i’ve ever known becoming a sandcastle that falls through my fingers when i try to hold it please let me hold it just a little bit longer let me cradle you in my hands a delicate porcelain artifact i cannot risk the pain of letting break again i am tired of picking glass out of my hands i am tired of sweeping you up and running out of tears to glue you back together i am tired of waiting for phone calls that will never come i am tired of inviting people into homes and letting them become ghosts to haunt me
hold my bones together | Madison Cox
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Love Note to the Letter “L” | Emma Richey
The letter “L.” Lovely, lilting, lulling. So many splendid things begin with its delicate loops. Love letters. Lace. Lullabies. In it I can trace my childhood. Ladles of simmering frothy soups, with bobbing legumes. Lackadaisical old dogs, too worn to pursue taunting squirrels. Lavender, lily, and lilac beds bowing in the shade. Labyrinths of blocks, dolls, and dress up clothes wound over foot-trodden carpets. Lakes glinting pale in the sun, legs swinging off the dock. Ladybirds crooked toes scampering up my bedposts. Lavish feasts around tables lined with loved ones. Latitudes, longitudes, and Latin from half-remembered lessons. Lyrics of radio songs from long ago. Lores and legends stacked high, the products of hours spent at the library. Lightheaded with laughter, lisping through gapped teeth. Letters filled with “L”: “Love you,” “later,” and “last year.” Lines scrawled and penned in haste or with care, declaring love and loyalty. Lulls in conversations. In them I can glimpse the heart of a friend: look, listen, learn. Simple gestures laden with meaning. So many moments introduced by this lifelong companion. Lovely. Lilting. Lulling. Lasting.
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Sunset Cats | Savannah Price
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ode to the flour i forgot | Keena Du
pale vanilla batter drips wet milky tears down the wiry sloped arms of the unimpressed whisk pools in the cake pan like a puddle unwanted rain tired, sidewalk lagoon sits with a slosh in the oven. waits —burns. crisp-lipped golden face sunken in thin-skin unleavened despair we peer, hair catching in our jigsaw-puzzled open mouths. turn to the fat, jolly fullness of the flour bag.
snow in the kitchen plumes like cumulus at the counters. sifts and settles a white bouquet in the batter fold the flowers till they flow, like silk thick and rich and ready to rise to the occasion a winter love a tender love so warm and true and swirling inside us all we swell we bloom our round gold cake faces beaming from under the dim oven lightbulb, we rise.
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Stolen from its slumber by the whispers of the world A lone deer wonders through the wood The whining wind a summons Willing the beast forward To some place without name Past the tree line’s edge. No longer muffled by foliage The methodical click of hoof on blacktop Reverberates through the night. The ticking of a clock Counting down Until the night fills with light Wide eyes Still body And the wind dies down The night is silent once more. How is one to know When hooves will sprout fingers Antlers into hair Eyes, which if open, Could convey a million meanings. A multitude of memories Splattered on cement.
The room is filled Bursting With emptiness. The people’s tears fall behind their masks. The delicate petals of a rose, Better left un-plucked, Burn through their hands. The whispers of the world Find them in the night. And thus, they gather Singing songs to drown them out Holding one another If not just to be held Wondering If we had only held the Dheer This very way Would he still have listened to the wind?
Dheer Friend | Jackson Mettler
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Things that were aren’t here today | Bethany Habegger
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my palms press into the bluebird mug fingers seep in tingly warmth the green tea lifts steams soft swirls, summoning memories who surface like undead ghosts my four-year-old nose nuzzled into grandma’s woolly cardigan every inhale lifts the crushed dust of loose leaves settled safely in the threads. it is medicine for my gasping lungs and red-faced toddler tears. it is
warm like melting
sugar on the stove stirred with walnuts as winter treats. it is
solid
heat of weathered hands her wrinkles trace worn melodies my solace in the cradled crook of arms embrace. it is a lullaby palms press into bluebird mug sip by sip the ghosts slip in bloom in me a garden for an unmade grave. go call your grandma right this instant | Keena Du
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I watched a movie | Maria Ivancsics
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“The end is where we start from.” — T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding” I am a teleologist of circumstance. Call it a gift, a gift to see endings. For example, I know the fate of Fate. (Clotho runs out of fiber. Lachesis breaks her measuring rod. Atropos loses her scissors.) I could tell you how Death dies. (If I did, though, the knowledge would kill you.) Just kidding. His scythe rusts to nothing. The odor of the trash heap of History fills my nose. The tides of Destiny evaporate in the expanding sun. Apocalyptic visions offered by those in slick suits don’t move me. The horses of the four horsemen become dog food. All the mints made on Wall Street are eventually eaten. Just rewards, though, don’t amount to too much. When all is said and done, all will be said and done. The inevitable finally gives way to evitability. The child of Necessity invents a new mother. Gazing into a crystal ball becomes a high school history lesson. END statements never end while the heaven of Neverland ever ends. The anticipation that asks the question, “What happens next?” eludes me. Mystery always remaining a mystery remains a mystery. Don’t tell Alpha: Omega brings the show to a close. To conclude, I don’t know how it all ends, other than with the excuse the ends justify the means and there is no ribbon at the last finish line.
The End | Eric Brotheridge
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Bliss | Sahil Patel
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CONTRIBUTOR BIOS Originally from the south side of Chicago, Eric Brotheridge came to Indiana in 1990 and now considers himself a Hoosier. Eric finished up his time at IU this past Spring Semester. He will continue to reside in Bloomington working at Morgenstern’s Bookstore. Eric is thrilled to have curated the Poetry section and Religion section at Morgenstern’s. He also serves as the Sunday Minister at First Christian Church in Bedford. Peace, piece by piece.
Madison Cox is a junior double-majoring in English and Journalism at Indiana University, originally from the swamplands of Mississippi. She can most often be found in the Indiana Memorial Union, where she currently serves as Co-Director of Union Board’s Canvas Creative Arts Committee. Other artistic endeavors include serving as President of Writers Talk, a student creative writing organization at IU. In her humble opinion, capital letters are overrated. She really wants to write books someday.
Keena Du is a senior at Indiana University, majoring in Marketing and minoring in Creative Writing. She grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, but is excited to study abroad in London in Fall 2021. Her writing is often inspired by passing observations — a dizzy smile, a lonely hand — blown up and projected into poetry.
Mollyann Duffner is a junior at Indiana University from Fort Wayne, Indiana. She is majoring in Spanish, minoring in Psychology, and planning to apply to a Physician’s Assistant graduate program this spring. She currently works as a writing tutor at Well’s Library, a patient care technician at Parkview hospital, and is an undergraduate teaching assistant for an anatomy laboratory. She has an expansive variety of interests, but loves most to be outside reading, running, or hanging out with her friends.
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Bethany Habegger recently completed her BFA in Painting at Indiana University Bloomington. She was born in Indianapolis, Indiana in 1999 to a family of artists. Raised by two painters, Bethany has been creating work from a very young age. Her current work focuses on abandoned spaces and how they represent our collective cultural past. She mainly works with thick, textural oil paint on canvas as well as watercolor and graphite. More of her work can be found at her website, bethanyhabegger.com.
Susanna Herrmann is a third year MFA student from Bloomington. She left Indiana to study philosophy and German and came back to switch into the arts after graduating with an undergraduate degree. Before coming to IU, she worked at the National Portrait Gallery in DC and then for a printmaker and a photographer in California. Susanna is focusing on graphic design at IU but is also passionate about painting, letterpress, and photography. She also really enjoys teaching. Her thesis work is about disorientation and imagination in art, and her final thesis show will take place in the spring of 2022. Maria Ivancsics was born and raised in South Bend, Indiana. She is currently a junior at Indiana University Bloomington. She is a Studio Art Major with a concentration in Painting. After graduating with a Bachelor of Fine Arts, she hopes to pursue a Master of Fine Arts.
Madelyn Knight is from Indianapolis, IN, going into her final year at IU. She is majoring in Media with specializations in Narrative Filmmaking, Screenwriting, and Editing and Post-Production. She also has a minor in German Language. After graduation, she plans to attend law school in preparation for working in the film and television industry.
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vii Aspen Lara is a traditional artist whose favorite mediums are colored pencils and acrylic paint. She enjoys creating still lifes and finding beauty in the mundane through her work. Currently, she is a junior in the Luddy School of Informatics, Computing, and Engineering, and plans on going into a technology-focused field after college.
Jackson Mettler is a junior at IU studying Economic Consulting, International Business, and Psychology. From Fort Wayne, Indiana, Jackson hopes to work as a strategy consultant following graduation. After spending the summer of ’21 healing from a head injury, he’s excited to be back on the tennis courts this fall with friends. Jackson would like to dedicate his pieces “The Fallen Leaf” and “The Present” to his late grandfather, Michael Mettler, their first reader.
Sahil Patel is a senior at Indiana University majoring in Economic Consulting, Public Policy Analysis, and Business Analytics with a minor in Political Science. Originally hailing from Green Brook, NJ, he can often be found in the heart of campus at the Indiana Memorial Union helping around the Union Board office, or in the Kelley School advising his mentors and younger peers. His interest in photography stemmed from inspiration by his uncle at the age of 12, and he has not been able to put a camera down since. From Bloomington to San Francisco to Washington DC, Sahil’s camera accompanies him wherever he goes and helps him feel more at home in any city. Savannah Price is a fiber artist from Shepherdsville, Kentucky. As a sophomore at IU Bloomington, she double majors in History and Gender Studies. In her craft, Savannah primarily works with acrylic yarn to create functional art, most frequently in the form of sweaters and blankets that she can gift to those she loves.
Emma Richey is an undergraduate student at Indiana University Bloomington where she is currently pursuing a Bachelors of Arts in both English and Psychology with the ultimate goal of becoming a clinical psychologist and published author. She is a devourer of books who is notoriously passionate about animals of every sort, plants that can survive any catastrophe, and the intricacies of the human mind. In her writing, she seeks to portray the beauty and meaning inherent in even the most transient of life’s moments. (Photo not available) Destini Ross’s (b.1998) photographic work and archival research serves as an embodiment of queer identity, mental health, and grief. In May 2021, Ross earned a BA in Art History and a BFA in Studio Art from Indiana University Bloomington as a first-generation student. Ross currently works at Sheafer + King Modern in Indianapolis while preparing to apply to graduate school to pursue her PhD.
Connor Stacey is going to be a fifth-year senior at Indiana University Bloomington in the Fall of 2021. In December, he will graduate with his bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Computer Science with minors in English and Informatics. Originally from Canton, Michigan, Connor plans to work as a Software Developer for Charles Schwab at their Austin, Texas office after graduation.
Caroline Sultz is a sophomore from Glenview, Illinois majoring in Marketing and minoring in Interior Design. Photography has been a hobby of hers for her whole life, from digital to film. She loves capturing candid moments, such as a donkey walking past an abandoned bus stop. She is thrilled to be a part of the CANVAS magazine!
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ix Bryan Welch is a recent graduate from Indiana University. Originally, he is from Ann Arbor Michigan, and he plans to move to Kenosha, Wisconsin to work in the Business Development Program at Uline. As a Marketing major, he has always had a love for creative outlets such as writing, and in his junior year of college he decided to take a creative writing course that both gave him the opportunity to write short stories, as well as provide places to share them. He hasn’t looked back since!
Emily Yurkevicz is an interdisciplinary artist from Brattleboro, Vermont whose work has been exhibited and published both domestically and internationally. In 2020, her work was shown in SPOR | TRACES at the Icelandic Textile Museum, as well as in the San Jose Museum of Quilts. In Fall 2020, she was the recipient of the Innovation in Technique award for her work included in the Surface Design Association Journal’s International Exhibition in Print, Devotion: Sewing the Sacred. She is currently the Future Faculty Teaching Fellow in Sculpture at Herron School of Art and Design in Indianapolis, IN.
For almost three decades, Canvas has served as the Indiana Memorial Union Board’s standing creative arts committee and a platform for up-and-coming creatives at Indiana University Bloomington. Through diverse programming focused on creativity and unique perspectives, Canvas aims to educate, entertain, and foster an artistic community on campus. CANVAS Magazine is published annually by Union Board. Each published work is the property of the author or artist and may not be reproduced without their permission. The views represented in CANVAS Magazine are not necessarily those of Canvas, Union Board, the Indiana Memorial Union, Indiana University, or the Board of Trustees. For more information about Union Board and the Canvas Creative Arts Committee, visit unionboard.iu.edu, email canvas@indiana.edu, or follow us on Instagram @ubcanvas to stay up to date with our events. Submissions for the CANVAS Magazine are open year-round to all students attending Indiana University Bloomington.
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