Brink Magazine vol 1 Fall 2024 (1)

i n k . D E C 2 0 2 4

Letter from the Prof

“This course is an experiment. For years, ENGL 490- the capstone course for University of Idaho English majors interested in literature and/or creative writing -used to be a traditional seminar course. The professor would pick a topic, spend the bulk of the semester teaching students about that topic, and then ask them to produce a substantial, individual final project at the end of the semester, often in the form of a long analytical essay.

No longer! When faculty in the English Department revised the undergraduate curriculum several years ago, we also decided to take a new approach to the capstone. Now, instead of a seminar course, the capstone class tasks students with working together to produce a “Literary and Creative Portfolio ” The course is much more student-led: the group decides together on how best to showcase the skills they have learned while earning their English degrees, and each student then designs their own unique contribution to that group project. Faculty tried a few different models for this course, including asking students to produce an atlas of the University of Idaho and a time capsule of their time in the degree, before hitting on an iterative structure for the course: going forward, each group of ENGL 490 students would produce a new issue of an English Department magazine. Faculty hoped that the magazine project would not only give each cohort of students the freedom to define and represent themselves, but also produce a powerful recruitment tool that showcases the heart and culture of the English Department community for prospective students.

““

As the contributors to this issue were the first group to pursue the magazine project, our semester began with a flurry of questions. What makes a good magazine? What is special about the English degree? What makes a good title for an English Department magazine? This issue grew organically out of our explorations of these questions. Each decision -from the idea to structure sections based upon playlists made of the favorite music of English majors, to the aesthetics of the issue, to the title Brink, named after beloved Brink Hall that houses the department -was made together, usually with much laughter and excitement.

I couldn’t be prouder of this group of soon-to-be English graduates I’ve learned a lot from them this semester and throughout their time at the university, and they consistently make my job a joy. I hope that you have as much fun reading this inaugural issue of Brink magazine as we did making it.

“

Cheers,

Erin James

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chill Study Vibes

What to Tell People When They Passive Aggressively Question Your Major, Sherrie Eckels

The Importance of an English Degree: Comments by Students and Faculty

Critical Theory in a Nutshell, Emily LaGrone

Major Reads: A Word Search

A Look Inside the Mind of an English Student, Kaysha Walton

Lessons from Professors

Why You Should Double Major in English and Secondary Education, Alicia Ketner

UNDERGROUND

with creative writing prompts from Jillian Snow and mock ads created by Tara Gage

Writing is My Salve, Sherrie Eckels

On the Brink . . . OF DEATH!, Victoria Kingsmore

Dead Leaves, Angry Wind, J.D. Winters

Favorites

Top Ten English Classes at UI, Bailey Lowe

Musings of an English Major, Abe Elbin

Tom Drake: Learning to Listen, Victoria Kingsmore

Pop of Poetry, Natalie McClain

Melancholia

Photo Project, Alex Elliott

Writing, Sledding, Tarmac, Cooper Trail

Ars Poetica, Annalise Mitchell

Disgruntled Barista, Callie Galford

Almost Woodland and Other Poems, Megan Kingsley Road Trip

Wired, Breanna Wargi

The Argonaut, Jack DeWitt

Hayfield and Other Poems, Callie Galford

Don’t Smile Sabrina Carpenter • Cherry Wine Hozier • War of Hearts Ruelle • John Wayne Cigarettes After Sex • After Dark Mr. Kitty • On Saturday Afternoon in 1963 Rickie Lee Jones • Primavera Ludovico Einaudi • Tennessee Whiskey Chris Stapleton • Chasing Cars Snow Patrol • Egypt Cory Asbury • So Christian Kuria • Void The Neighbourhood • Grandpa (Tell Me

‘Bout The Good Old Days) The Judds • Baby I'm Yours Arctic Monkeys • New Partner Palace Music • not a lot, just forever Adrianne Lenker • Sweet Nothing Taylor Swift • A Better Boat Kenny Chesney • Life is Beautiful Lil Peep

UNDERGROUND

PLAYLIST

Haiku

Indigo Horses

Roundtable Rival

Hearts / Wires

Dreams Tonite

Hate Me Now

Grey Room

Youth

Garden of Eden

Now Without A Heart

Better on the Other Side

These Walls

Wonderfully Bizarre

IF AND/OR WHEN

66 MHz

Most of All bad

Bury the Light

Crush

Have You Ever Seen Peaches

Growing on a Sweet Potato Vine

Tally Hall

Desolation Horse

Lindsey Sterling Deftones

Alvvays

Ryan Caraveo

Damien Rice

Glass Animals

Rachel Chinouriri

Soren & Minjeong

John Michael Howell

Verzache

Bendigo Fletcher

Ruel

Waveshaper

Frankie Tillo

wave to earth

Casey Edwards ft. Victor Borba

Tessa Violet

Jake Xerxes Fussell

Creative Writing Prompts: NONFICTION

1 2 3 4 5

Create a metaphor for yourself using a mythological character or creature.

Write a letter to your childhood self.

Create a timeline of your life by using newspaper headlines.

Think of a strong emotion and write about two or more memories associated with it. Write about a secret in a letter addressed to an inanimate object that is or was important to you.

Writing is my Salve

by Sherrie Eckels

Throughout my whole life, writing has been the glue to my broken thoughts and feelings. It has been my medicine, the thing to mend me, to heal what nothing else could. Writing is my most perfect salve. It works more than anything else to heal my soul, aside from faith. Writing has been my greatest companion for as long as I have been able to write stories. I do not know where or what person I would be had I not had writing.

I am not even sure when it started. I don’t know why I loved writing so much, why it became this passion of mine from a young age. Maybe it was from my mom reading stories to me every night. Maybe I grew a kind of spark and began to dream that I could create stories like the ones that brought me happiness. I cannot remember, but what I can remember is how essential writing has been for me.

I remember being in first or second grade and writing a story about the life cycle of a butterfly. The teacher let me read it to my class, and I was so excited.

I remember in third or fourth grade we were given a picture and were told to write a story based on the image. I wrote a form of a mystery, spooky kind of story. I got to type it and have it printed out. My mom helped me put drops of fake blood onto the front page to add to the effect.

I remember in fifth and sixth grade I would write the most terrible fan fiction with my friends, but I had such fun creating them that it didn’t matter if they were of good quality or not.

I remember in seventh grade I wrote in many different facets, whether it was personal anecdotes in a life skills course, creative fiction, or having timed free writes where we could put down whatever was on our minds. We used to craft these stories every few weeks where we were given a list of emojis and had to formulate a story around them and paste the pictures in where they fit. When I was asked what I wanted to be, I always said I wanted to be an author. I do not know when this dream started.

I remember in eighth grade we switched to academic writing only, and I felt empty without creative writing.

I remember throughout these years I would write random stories that came to mind, mostly about cats since I was obsessed with the Warriors series.

I remember in eighth grade we switched to academic writing only, and I felt empty without creative writing. I grew to dislike English classes, and I still daydreamed about various worlds and characters I was creating.

I remember in high school we were never able to do creative writing for assignments, and I began to think that maybe it was useless, maybe it was not as important, maybe I was being childish for holding onto my dream. When I was a sophomore, I took an English 101 college course and my life changed. I saw the

beauty in all forms of writing. I learned how to craft essays and how you could be creative within those as well. I began to love English and wanted to study it as long as I could. As a junior, I took English 102 with the same professor, and it felt like I had finally taken a breath of fresh air. I had found something I was truly passionate about. It made me start to feel that maybe I could actually do something with my life.

In my last English class I took, we had the chance to write a fiction piece about a short story we read. I felt such excitement flowing through my body and my fingers as I typed it up. This was the most passion for writing I had felt in my classes since junior high. When we got to talk about the assignment, people complained and said they wanted to stick to analytical essays. I stared down at my computer screen, shame welling up within me at the care I had for a story that no one else wanted to hear. I had sparked my fire to life again, only to have

someone douse it out with a bucket of water.

And so I graduated high school. My cap read “On to the next chapter.” Fitting for a soonto-be English major. My college classes allowed me to graduate high school a year early, and that was such a freedom. I could start college earlier, leave behind the strict regimented classes that felt borderline suffocating, and start taking classes where I could explore my writing and learn what I wanted. I was so optimistic for the fall semester, and I couldn’t wait for summer to end.

I had found something I was truly passionate about. It made me start to feel that maybe I could actually do something with my life.

But the summer dragged on, and fire season began. We were used to this. It happened every year, after all. But then the fire near us kept growing. And growing. It kept drifting. It was out of control. It got so close so fast. None of us could believe what was happening. And too soon, it

became my everyday. Smoke filling my lungs. Ash burning my throat. A sky of thick darkness and glowing orange and reds. Burnt leaves raining down. The sun red as blood. Fear flowing through me. This was how my life was every day for two months. Two terrible, traumatic months that left a land marred forever. So many reassurances that the flame would not grow too close, they would protect us, we would be fine, they were getting it under control. None of this was true. Our land was left unprotected, and we had no defense. They lifted evacuation orders only for my town to burn down less than 24 hours later.

Three years ago, on August 4 of 2021, the Dixie Fire destroyed my town of Greenville, California.

The Dixie Fire, totalling 40,000 short of one million acres burned, erased so much of the beautiful forests that I called home. My landscape was altered and destroyed forever. My friends and family had their homes diminished to rubble and ash. The town became barren and appeared to be an apocalyptic wasteland. The day before my town burned, I remember when they reenacted the evacuation order so suddenly. My dad and brother, who work for a logging company, had to go help run water trucks to put out flames. They had my dog at the time, so I had to pick her up and bring her home.

On the way there were police, sheriff, and forest service vehicles that sped past me towards my town, and I started to feel panic rising in my chest.

As I was driving, my brother called me and said, “I know this is going to be hard for you to hear, but we’re going to lose Greenville. It’s gotten completely out of control and they won’t be able to stop it.”

My heart broke at that moment as I knew that he was in town and could see how bad it was, so what he said was going to be true.

My heart broke at that moment as I knew that he was in town and could see how bad it was, so what he said was going to be true. Even so, as I started to have a panic attack, my lungs fighting for air as I hyperventilated. I begged God to save my town.

The night my town burned, I could see it happening from my backyard. I will never forget hearing over the radio the firefighters being told, “Pull out, you need to leave it,” as they referred to leaving the homes to burn. I could hear each propane tank that exploded and the gas lines that made a whoosh sound as they caught fire. Before my eyes I could see the flames reach high as the houses caught fire, and I was dumbfounded at that level of devastation being truly possible. I remember my mom made me a sandwich but I gagged trying to eat it. My stomach felt so sick, and I did not know how to function. I had to call my friend to tell him that the fire had gone into town, and a few hours later he told me that he found out his home had burnt down.

My dad and brother were still running water trucks, and they were keeping my mom and me updated on what buildings or homes were still standing. When my dad called to say that my childhood home, one that had been in my family for generations, had burned, I collapsed on my knees and felt a deep ache that left me trying to suck in air but being unable to. I am very thankful that we did not lose our house as we were further out on the valley, but I still had no idea how to cope with losing my town.

I can never forget the first time I drove into Greenville after the fire had passed on to see everything completely changed with all of the buildings I remem-

and somehow chalk left behind by my younger cousins who lived there. There was a numbness that filled me and left me without words. I still have not gone back to the house since then as I cannot stand to see it all gone. Writing became my way of coping after the fire. Whether it was poetry about the experience and the grief I was feeling, stories I wrote for class, journaling each day that I was evacuated and after the fire, or working on my first novel; writing became my form of therapy. While most of it probably was not of great quality, it helped me immensely to channel my negative emotions into something creative that others could relate to and understand.

My writing was quite emotional during that time as I had just started and was adjusting to my first year at my junior college

(caused by the fire) to and from school each day for one class. My creative writing class, school, and the professors I had grounded me amidst so much confusion and grief. I found writing in whatever form to be my sword and my shield. I gained a passion for education like never before, and I was thankful for my college. I owe so much to the professors I had that first semester. They made sure to always encourage me and support me all the way through the two years until I graduated with my associate’s degree.

My creative writing class in particular was my safe haven. I started out as a 16-year-old, feeling immensely nervous in a class with 18-21 year olds that had more experience than me and were impressive writers. I remember thinking, “There is no way I can compare to them.” And yet, they complimented my writing,

they helped critique it and shape it into something better. They respected me.

When I first told one of my high school teachers that I wanted to graduate high school early, she gave every reason under the sun and moon why I shouldn’t, a large one being my age. A part of me thought maybe it would be a problem. But it never was. Community college was such a free place with people of all ages and walks of life. It was so accepting and warm, and I felt at home.

author, publishing my stories and having people care.

I envisioned myself as an author, publishing my stories and having people care.

Being able to have these older students whose writing made me look up to them read my work and tell me they enjoyed it, that it meant something, changed something in me. I started to dream again. I envisioned myself as an

In my second semester of creative writing, I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), which is a writing challenge in November where you try to write 50,000 words in the month to work towards a novel. And by sheer stubborn determination and the encouragement of my professor and classmates, I did it. Years later, that novel still sits unfinished, essentially untouched from where I left it after the challenge. But that is okay. It is okay because I proved to myself that I could do it, I could write a novel, I could push myself to do something I told myself I couldn’t. I actually felt proud of myself for once.

Once I came to U of I,

I thought I would take creative writing classes. Because of the fun challenges of scheduling, I managed to go these two years without taking another one. This does sadden me, but I still hold on to that dream.

When I took English 215: Introduction to English Studies, I was amazed at the fact that I could take a class that encompassed all it was to write. I hadn’t dove into creative nonfiction much before this class, and once I did for an assignment, I found a hidden voice within myself. This writing you are reading now is an extension of the assignment for the ENGL 215 class, which is the segment on my Dixie Fire experience. I wanted my story to not just be about the fire but to be about who I was before, what it was like during, and how I overcame it. The fire was a catalyst for me to actually start writing and to care more deeply about my passions. It also led me to U of I in my search for a university away from massive fires and with abundant forests and mountains that also had an appealing English program.

I love the symbology of the phoenix rising from the ashes. I know it sounds cheesy and cliche, but when you go through a literal fire, I think it’s okay to be cheesy and cliche. Would I say I’m glad I dealt with the fire? No, of course not. But can I try to make the best of a terrible situation and see how much stronger and braver it made

me and how far Absolutely. During my ter here, I went through one of the worst depressive periods of my life. I picked up a pencil, and I wrote. I did not stop to think what I was writing or to plot anything. I just wrote, and it was healing. I am not just saying that in a metaphorical sense. It literally healed my emotions and made me feel more sane. I still hold onto those pages and have reread them numerous times, questioning how it is the only decent bit of writing I’ve had in years. I didn’t categorize it while writing, but I would say it’s a creative nonfiction piece where it felt as if I were a character in a story.

I feel like writing when we are in these dark times, desperate times even, brings out something within us as writers. Our emotions imbue the words, flowing out through the lead of a pencil or ink of a pen onto the page, guiding our fingertips on keyboards. When I am in these times, my writing is more natural. I write out whatever I am feeling and do not hold back. It is freeing.

It breaks my heart to read over these words, remembering the tears falling down my face with an ache in my chest.

Here is some of what I wrote: “Sometimes I relate to the flame that burns low within my candle, the way that the melting wax tries to smother it out. It keeps on burning despite that. And even if it is blown out, it can be lit again. Of course, a time will come when the candle is finished, nothing but an

for now it carries on. I can’t throw the candle away before it is done burning, right?”

Earlier in the summer break during another really low depressive moment, I wrote, “I can’t create anything. I can’t paint, draw, cook, bake, sing, write lyrics, write poems or stories, I can’t make anything that matters to anyone. But that’s all I’ve wanted. And I can’t do it. I fail at everything I do.”

It breaks my heart to read over these words, remembering the tears falling down my face with an ache in my chest. I wish I could be sitting next to that version of myself and give her a hug and tell her not to give up. Even though no one was with me right in that moment, I kept going and still clung to a desperate hope. About a couple weeks after writing that, after doing much healing on my own and being around better people who cared about me, this is what I wrote: “So many artists never got to see

the fruition of their work. Van Gogh never got to see the museums just for him and the way he is studied in art classes. John Keats died young from tuberculosis and did not get to see how his words can still relate decades later and hold such beauty. Painter after poet after writer after artist after artist would never in their lifetime become famous or well-known for their work. They would never understand before their last breath what kind of impact they would have on the world, generation after generation. Something about this makes me sad, but it also gives me hope. We may strive for something now, and it may lead nowhere and just be our life’s passion, but it can grow into something bigger than ourselves, even after we are gone. But despite these artists not

knowing what impact their work would have, they created it anyway. Even when it was hard, when the world seemed against them, they still pursued their passions. It is beautiful. And every time I tell myself I should give up, I remind myself of these artists I adore and look up to, and I keep going.”

And I still keep going. I am writing now, expressing my thoughts, feelings, my life experience and personality, my struggles and what I care about, my creativity, my writing style, and all of this is what pushes me forward. When I have doubted my writing, I have had the support of some of the most amazing people to stop me and say, “But those other writers are not you. No one can replace your own unique writing and your stories.” I try to keep these words in mind when I doubt if what

I am writing matters. I remind myself of the writers I look up to that doubted themselves but wrote anyway.

Sometimes I wonder if these authors questioned whether anyone would care about their stories or their writing in the same way I do, hoping that even one person would care. And as just one person, I know how life changing my favorite books have been for me. If I could at least do that, if I could somehow turn my salve into something that can heal someone else, even a little bit, then I would know my writing mattered. I dream for that day. But for now, I write for myself, to heal what nothing else can, to mend me, to be my medicine, to be the glue to my broken thoughts and feelings. My most perfect salve.

Creative Writing Prompts:

Fiction

Give a non-human creature a human problem.

Describe a person using only what two other characters say about them.

Describe an object as though it is a person.

Write a scene in which two people are discussing a secret without telling the secret. 1 2 3 4 5

Describe a setting or scene using a negative tone and mood. Then describe the same scene with a positive tone and mood.

On the Brink… OF DEATH!

written by Victoria Kingsmore

The hall echoed with the sound of the door shutting behind me, and I could almost hear a voice in the pulsing sound. I stared down the narrow hallway to my right, the dim light illuminating the walls yellowed with age. The hallway seemed to stretch on until it sharply ended. To my left, it was just the same image, save for a stray flickering light.

I flicked my head from left to right, and the longer I looked the more similar the paths seemed to merge into an identical image. With a start, I realized I could not remember the way I had come. How was I to leave?

I took a step further into the hallway before turning around, swallowing the fear that rose in my throat. I tried the door I had just exited, thinking I might ask whoever it was I was talking to for some direction. It wouldn’t budge, and as I jiggled the locked door, I couldn’t imagine what lay beyond it. Who was it I was speaking to just a moment ago? The office marker read “Tara MacDonald,” then “English Department Chair,” in stark-white, cold lettering.

Taking in a shaky breath, I concentrated on dipping back into my memory, clawing desperately at who (or, what) this department chair was. I remembered a wall of far too many books, an amount that no one person could ever read front to back. The book wall had loomed, the shelves white or brown and the books so thick with theory that should they fall, you’d be trapped – or worse – in an instant. I remembered a coffee table and some chairs in a corner, as well as the sweltering heat that clung to one’s clothing.

Jolting away from the door like it had burst aflame, my breath caught in my throat as I realized there was no one left for me here. I looked

to my left, then back to my right, fearing something sinister waiting for me behind each corner. My heart racketed in my chest. Swallowing, and taking a few focused breaths, I took a few steps in some odd direction.

Along the walls were framed, faceless portraits of various authors. I tried to read the words, and I felt like I understood the message, yet no legible word stuck out to me. If I stared at a quotation for too long, I felt the faceless drawing of the author who said it peering at me. Chills ran down my spine, so I continued.

There was an outcropping in the wall, a landmark of sorts. Two chairs and a small table stood, alongside a painting of a flower vase in a blue cast. I stared at the painting, the harsh lighting reflecting off the glass and forcing me to squint. Perhaps I was simply paranoid, but I could have sworn I saw a face in the brush strokes as I turned my gaze to the table. My hand grazed one of the small books, my eyes recognizing at least one word: Thistle. I could not escape the sudden drop in my stomach, the overwhelming feeling that I was being watched somehow. I absently picked up a copy of the journal and quickly continued on, shooting a glance over my shoulder at the faceless authors again before hurrying away.

As I approached the corner, I slowed my step, holding my breath to listen for movement on the other side. I hovered by the corner, only hearing my own heartbeat, until above the buzz in my mind I was made aware of the low hums of somebody speaking. My eyes widened as I tried to discern the voice.

It was a low voice, surely a rumble of sound whispered down the other hall. I couldn’t make out any

particular words, nor could I strain my focus to hear who the voice was speaking to, if anyone at all. All I knew was that words were being said, and there was somebody there. I gulped, trying to calm myself once again, hesitating a long while before finally working up the courage to round the corner.

When I stepped out from behind the corner, my eyes wildly searched the hall for the source of the voice. The hallway stretched on, the light still harsh and the walls still yellowing, evidence of the building’s historic age. It looked nearly identical to the last hallway. I took a step back, glancing back the way I came, seeing nearly the same image once again. Thin hallway, yellow walls, harsh white lights, lined with an overwhelming amount of creaky wooden doors. Suddenly, in the midst of my hazy confusion, I jumped at a loud sound. Startled, my gaze was pulled back to a new stretch of hallway. I watched a door swing out of the hallway, then was suddenly shut with haste. I want to ask, “Is somebody there?” in hopes I could speak with the owner of the voice. But as soon as I tried to speak, my voice collapsed, and all that came out was a silent gasp of air. I threw one last look over my shoulder at the hallway I came from before moving down another new hallway, my pace picking up so that I might reach the door that moved. Reaching for the door, I rapped my knuckles against the wood in hurried knocks. Each knock sent a sharp, piercing sound into my eardrums, and I suddenly worried if I should be making such booming noises in a place like this. I put my ear against the door, listening for any movement beyond it. To no avail, I knocked again, then again and again.

“Excuse me,” I tried to call, but

my voice was stuck at a petrified squeak. I knocked a few more times, a flurry of small sounds colliding against the door. I dropped my hand to the knob, trying it and finding it locked like the last. “Hello?”

The plaque on the side only had a series of question marks. I couldn’t recall a mental image of this room, nor a modicum of understanding as to why someone bothered to write out question marks for a plaque. I thought back to Tara MacDonald. The name sounded eerily familiar, an image being evoked at the mention, yet her name was blurry and dark, like it was locked behind some strange barrier in my mind.

I desperately must leave, I thought, pulling away from the door numbly. I took a moment to compose myself, closing my eyes for just a moment. But I couldn’t keep them closed for long, not in a place like this. Exhaling through my nose, I continued down the hallway, picking at my fingers, my steps echoing still, like cold raindrops tapping against the vintage window panes that decorated the bleak, endless maze of hallways.

I reached a small interruption in the hallway, forcing me to turn slightly before continuing on. This new stretch of hallway was eerily bare—no doors, no signs, just blank walls. I kept looking over my shoulder as I picked up my pace, and I wondered if there were eyes in the walls that I could not see. I bumped into the wall, startling me. They were narrowing, and quickly.

I do not know how long it took to reach the end of the hallway. The walls almost seemed to brush my shoulders as I continued, but if I looked, there would be considerable space between. Eventually, there was an outcropping to my right, and ahead, two doors. I would have progressed to the doors if there hadn’t been a window to the outside in the outcropping.

I rushed to the window, placing my hand on the glass instantly and peering out onto the green campus below. My hurried breath fogged up my view, but I paid it no mind, for soon I froze in place

for what I saw—or rather, did not see. There wasn’t a single person walking along the paths of the campus, despite the bright daylight leaving nothing to the shadows. It was unusual to see such a colorful campus bare of that essence which made it bright.

Quickly regaining focus, I looked around the window sill, seeking some kind of latch as a way to exit, if that’s what it took. Finding none, and remembering how far the fall would be, I stepped away from the window, though I did not rule out the option. I prayed to whatever might be that I could return to the window for my escape.

I reeled back, turning toward the

doors. The sign at the door directly in front of me read “Erin James.” I stared, grasping at the image that entered my mind just out of reach. I saw green, thickly-bound that filled every inch of the amber shelves – once again encountering a grotesquely impressive amount of books one could need. I saw a lamp and a plant in the strange angles of the room. Then, I saw curly hair and a wide grin. It almost brought me a sense of safety. But all I encountered was a blank, unforgiving door surrounded by yellow walls and horrible shadows from the harsh lighting. I doubted if a human had ever touched this place, looking

around once again at the walls that watched me back. Glancing once more out the window, experiencing a longing who was urging me there again, I turned and headed back the way I came.

I wandered for what could have been hours, or perhaps mere seconds, back through the hallways I believe I had seen before, but I could never be sure. My worry compounded beneath my hastily found composure, and my chest felt tighter with every corner I turned. The only thing to bring relief was stumbling upon the chairs with the table of Thistle copies. Seeing the copies on the table, which once had given me an eerie feeling, now gave me such a relief that I took a moment to calm myself.

Reaching into my bag, I rustled around for the Thistle copy I took, hoping to make it some kind of symbol of luck for my journey. But as I reached down, I couldn’t find the copy – and looking properly now, I realized I didn’t recognize any of the items in my bag. Looking again, the Thistle copies on the table had suddenly disappeared. I stared at the now-empty table, frozen in place. My mind raced, wondering if there were any copies there to begin with. Refusing to look at the wall of authors, I hurried back down the hallway, my heartbeat choking me.

I didn’t realize how fast I had been running or that my breath was coming out in worried pants until I nearly fell down a small yet steep set of stairs. Perhaps three or four steps, I gripped the short railing as my legs tumbled and tangled into each other, my eyes quickly surveying the new area. I didn’t see anything, not really – my vision was blurry with fear and newly formed tears I felt pushing against my eyes. I looked behind me, then down the stairs, then back again. I wondered if I should scream. But remembering the vast absence of life suffocating me, I thought, “Even if I did scream, would anyone hear?”

It took me a moment, but I made my way down the stairs. I spotted another small bookshelf, holding a few books this time with

colorful spines. My gaze continued to fade, and I stumbled through the new set of doors in a blur –my hand brushing the wall to keep my balance.

My fingers brushed against another sign: “Tom Drake.” I saw a room with the door barely cracked, allowing me to see the chaos of papers and books. I slowly crept closer towards the door, too frightened to open it all the way. I almost thought I heard a snore behind the thin walls. Was someone sleeping in there? I decided to move on and save myself from another inevitable horror.

I kept walking, eventually stopping at the end of the hallway. I looked out the window, but jerked my head away, unable to bear seeing not a soul on the usually busy campus. Instead, my gaze settled on another sign by a door. “Oscar Oswald” it said, and the name card introduced a room arranged in such a way that nothing seemed quite even with the walls. I turned around and stumbled back down the hallway towards the strange set of stairs, rejecting the terror of these peculiar and uneven walls. When I reached the stairs, I happened upon a door that was not there before.

KEEP CLOSED IN CASE OF FIRE, a sign above it read. I stared dumbly at the sign, trying to figure out what it meant. Did it mean it was only to be opened if there was a fire? What would happen if I opened it without such a fire? I imagined alarms blaring around the empty building, entirely shattering the even air and exposing me to all.

But it was a way out. Slowly, I moved to the door, placing my hand on the bar. I tried to peer through the eye-level glass, but it was fogged up. I almost made out a set of stairs through the thick smoke.

I pushed, and the big metal door squealed with age on its hinges. Outside myself, I stepped through the threshold.

I heard sirens, my senses suddenly crashing with input. I started choking. Weakly, I fell to my knees, clutching my neck as my throat suddenly felt rubbed raw. I tasted

blood. I smelled the tangy, burning odor of fire.

Looking behind me, the metal door had stayed wide open. It took me a few moments to process what I saw. The hallway I had just exited was engulfed in flames. The dingy yellow walls now peeled and blackened. I heard the crackling roar of the fire, and I felt the heat on my skin, but only distantly. In the fire stood a young man, with a clean cut, slicked-back haircut. His attire was unusual. I suddenly felt like I knew him. He used to live here.

If I squinted, I could spot another young man, then another. Suddenly there were dozens of them packed behind the metal door, flames licking around them as they stared at me. Then, with one sweeping motion, the young man with the slicked-back hair pulled the door closed, shutting me out once and for all. I started coughing violently from the smoke, and when it subsided I rubbed my watery eyes to gaze up at the building. There, before me, was a beautiful, ivy-covered brick building that showed no signs of fire, let alone smoke. All of a sudden, a group of students passed by and offered to help me up from the ground, asking a flurry of questions: “Are you alright? Do you remember how you fell? Where’s your apartment?” Meanwhile, I was asking myself another set of important questions: How did the fire cease? Who were the people in there? Where did these students come from? Has this all been an illusion? As I brought myself out of these thoughts and back to reality, I checked to see if I still had my bag on me. I felt around and was pierced with a dull edge poking out the side of my bag. I reached in to see what it was, ignoring the students who were still trying to figure out what happened to me. When I did, I pulled out an 8 x 11 inch book with familiar, italic lettering, which read Thistle.

Create a list poem using only what is in the room you are in.

Create a poem based on what is currently in your notes app.

Write a poem to someone that you are angry with.

Write a poem while doing something else (dishes, shopping, going on a walk, etc.).

Create a poem using the voice of your favorite fictional character.

D ead Leav e s / A n g r y W in d

The Quest to get out of Town

cd UNIT:NAVI\LOGS\ transmit 2060.03.15.14.34.16.log -visuals_mode:text+ -transcript_mode:limited -narration_mode:3PO -protaginist_ID:9

>>BEGIN_TRANSMISSION>>

>>A little boy sits silently in darkness and observes a gathering of very unusual individuals.>>

cd UNIT:NAVI\commands\ protagonist_change -protagnist_ID:3 transmit -resume -storyform

by J.D. Winters

“I’m choking in here,” came a ragged, coughed out plea from a young man in a nearly flawless white suit. No one wore suits anymore, at least not after everything fell apart. It was almost rude. Many found it insulting, as if the suited were saying “Fuck your apocalypse, I’m gonna look good anyways”. At least that’s the look that Brendan had on his face, sitting back in the corner of a large gathering, flicking his eye a bit to scroll the holoweb with his monojack, a slim monocular device on his temple. Most of the people in the room were doing the same. If you could even call half of them people, being almost unrecognizable in their many layers of armaments and armor.

“Can we dispense with the pleasantries, as they would say, and get down to business?” The man was looking nervous, almost like he was running out of time, or someone was watching him, or both. The pressure was, like the man, out of place.

VISIT BASTION

“What’s the hurry boss? You in some kind of rush?” A thick Hispanic accent responded nearby to the man - some kind of handler – at least Brendan assumed so. There was a lot of missing information in this request. Everyone in the room was clearly on edge and trying to hide it. Except the man in the suit.

“I am, actually, thank you very much. It just so happens that we have very limited resources, and every wasted minute is another calorie lost to sustain the reserve.”

“You keep mentioning this reserve.” A man across the table, heavyset, seemingly not paying attention like the rest, nonchalantly interjected. “I thought that was some kind of project scrapped by The Moneymaker. What’s it got to do with this?”

“It’s got everything to do with this, and I see that your boss chose not to disclose any of the information I told her to share. Fantastic.”

“She’s not our boss.” The man next to him said halfheartedly as he stared into his monojack, the tiny sphere projecting a barely perceptible beam directly into his iris.

Brendan sensed more than agitation. There was a twitch in the suited man’s eye. He wanted to bolt -- wanted to get out of here. But Brendan sensed that the man wasn’t afraid of the mean looking crew, even though every one of them was strapped to the nines and packing extreme heat. There was a calm in the room because of this. Because everyone here was a professional, had seen action, had seen blood and guts spilled right in front of them, sometimes the people they loved. But Brendan was the only one right now likely thinking of any of that. He was the kind to overthink everything.

“I’d just like to be certain that you are fit for the job,” The suited man stammered on quickly when a few turned their heads his way suddenly, “n-n-not that you aren’t all fully capable no doubt, no doubt, ahem , heh, I mean, of course you are. I simply mean that these children might be humanity’s last hope, and frankly, I can’t take any chances on anything but the best.”

Silence fell. Every head turned his way. In the far distance, the hum of some machine thrummed, and it seemed louder than a Boeing 747 taking off. And then it broke it a raucous laughter. There was knee slapping, even cliches like one or two turning to another, did you hear what he said?

The last hope for humanity? What a fucking joke. And so on. The disbelief was a bit staged. They were overplaying it. Brendan was curious about this. For all that he knew of every one of these people, they would all, always, play it cool. There would have been laughter. But no high school chumming. Something was off. They knew.

“That’s quite enough.” The laughter abruptly cut off as the knifedge voice of a woman at the doorway suddenly and forcefully broke in.

“We don’t intimidate clients, now do we?” The sheen of sweat on the suited man’s face mixed with his awkward smile of relief at the sight of his contact told Brendan everything he needed to know. The man didn’t pay her a cent. She believed in what he was doing. And he believed in her.

“I’ve called you all here today because you’re about to earn more cash that you could in your entire lifetimes several times over. You’ll all be filthy rich and retired after this.” Brendan rolled his eyes. He hated being reminded that even after the world fell apart, economy still carried on, people still

traded because there was some kind of vain hope that things would go back to normal and they would be on top. But there was none of that left in this room.

The people in this room only spent their money on three things: guns, bullets, and food. In that order.

“What do we need cash for?”

There’s hardly any food left to buy that isn’t some low-grade hydroponic soy shit that our Asian benefactors brought us. And that’s not to say anything about the human meat markets. Of course you could always settle for decade-old canned soup. What could money even buy us?”

In a quick riposte, anticipating this, the woman continued, “You’ll be paid of course in food primarily.” Those who weren’t already enraptured turned further her way, “We have an excellent supply of lab-grown meat, and will serve three meals a day, 1000 calories minimum.”

There was a murmur and some whispering. And for the first time, Brendan spoke up.

“But what about desserts?” There was audible silence again, but a

distinct and faint chuckle could be heard in the farthest corner by a dark-haired man clothed entirely in black rags. Brendan’s partner, who went by the name of Dead Leaves, was barely noticed as the woman continued hurriedly, not wanting him to derail the situation. Clearly no one else thought it was a funny comment.

“We have a variety of packaged and stored goods to prepare fresh meals for over eighty people. We anticipate some unavoidable losses along the way, and frequent skirmishes. More food can be found at three FEMA field stations along your route, none of which is a significant detour. A small party of experienced personnel could--“

“Get themselves shot by the turrets.” Interjected a woman who was entirely too concealed for any part of her to be identified as such, between layers of gadgets and thick body armor, topped with a helmet of some extraordinary design. She was clearly well-funded. “No one survives the turrets. And if they do, they usually don’t find anything worth the death. Think of how many have died as target fodder to allow a few through. And for what. Some stale MREs?”

“Those MREs have a remarkable shelf life,” the woman went on, “And every bit of edible sustenance we can find is what we’ll need to make this happen. We even have hydroponics and aquaponics in two sets, so we can continually grow—”

“Tomatoes. And green beans. And of course soybeans.” The wellgeared woman went on, clearly

wanting to make her point. “Even if we get a couple trucks full of MREs and we have all the food we could possibly grow, we won’t get two hundred miles before the raiders will be on to us. And then as soon as they are onto us, they will come out. They always do. And we will all die miserable deaths as some of us watch others get butchered and eaten—”

“Listen.” The leader, who clearly knew all of these questions would come up, was losing her patience nonetheless. “We all know what they do. We all know what’s at stake. And we all know the rewards are slim at best.” She paused, looking around for effect. “We all know that money is pointless and this shithole is burning down,” she continued, gesturing around. “But we don’t lose hope in our souls because Bastion is burning down. We don’t let them eat us because we are tired of eating rats and drinking our piss. We buck the fuck up and move on. That’s it. Because I can tell you one thing for certain. This man has asked everyone else. He’s been to every faction, every district, been on the holos, you’ve seen them, I know. You all know what he’s about. He wants to save our stupid little human race from extinction. He wants the best of the designer babies to bring about a new America from the ashes, that

will rise like a phoenix,” her voice became mocking, “and fulfill our destiny in the stars or some shit. You all know I don’t give a rat’s juicy little ass about any of that. I’m here spouting to all of you right now because I spent six months finding every one of you and assessing your capabilities, learning your strengths and weaknesses, and beating you at your own games. And then you all decided it was easier to work with me than against me. So ask me, go on. Ask me the question I know you’re dying to ask.” Her patience had run out.

An older gentleman humored her in an unusual way. He carried a simple staff and was overburdened in cloaks and shawls and dirty rags atop those. “I believe what you are suggesting is that we would ask why are you wasting our time?”

“Precisely.” The leader, who had some enthusiasm returning to her voice, continued, “Thank you Patton. I expected every one of these questions and I of course expected that, but I assumed it would become more obvious by this point. I’m not wasting your time, because this could actually work.”

The old man deftly stepped in again. “I think it also obvious that most of us wouldn’t even be here if we didn’t also believe that.” He

smiled, and the leader smiled too as she continued.

“Then let’s get down to it. Here’s the plan.”

And for the first time since he had arrived, Brendan smiled. Brendan stepped outside on a tiny balcony after the plan was hammered out and all involved knew what was at stake. The cold wind at the edge of Bastion buffeted his cupped hands cradling an electric arc. He gazed steadily at a pair of bounty hunters, meeting attendees, and ignored the dronelike buzzing coming from a large uncovered vent nearby. In a place like this, everyone expected little spies flitting about on tiny propellers. Suddenly, there was a little rustling of feet nearby.

“Those ledges aren’t safe to climb,” he said nonchalantly to the wind, “I’d avoid them if I were you.”

A mousy, thin little creature moved out the shadows near a ledge below that wrapped around this old building and connected nearby to many others. Brendan suspected that the young lad had leapt from rooftop to ledge to get here. And he had probably heard the whole meeting. He turned towards the boy, but didn’t want to scare him, so kept looking skyward. “I used to jump off roofs in college with my friends back in the day.” He camera_switchview -degrees:180 -angle:wide preflight_engage -quickhop:10 >>ACCEPTED PARAMETERS>> >>EXECUTING HOP>> transmit

gazed steadily at the same bounty hunters as they stepped inside an absurd looking quadcar and took a long drag, “We called it parkour.

It was some pretty reckless stuff.”

“I heard what you said in there,” said the boy rather defensively,

“You don’t think we’re going to make it, do you?

Brendan took a long drag and finally turned to the boy. When he did, there was no malice, no reaction. His grey eyes were cold.

“Look kid I’m not gonna lie to ya. Our chances are pretty slim,

there’s no doubt,” he turned away from the boy and looked out over the great city, is absurdly large monolithic superstructures dwarfing him into a spec that seemed to blend into a myriad of washed and faded tones, “I think that if anyone could do it though, it would be Gwen.”

“The scary lady?” The boy retorted, shocked, “No way. Why?”

Brendan laughed and coughed a bit while doing so. As his cough ended, it sounded very stale. It was as if his tone changed.

“To put it simply kid, Gwen is the last human being on this earth I believe in.”

The boy said something small, probably oh. But it was so quiet, hardly anyone could hear it. And then he turned and climbed down a further ledge, across a small series of corrugated steel roofing panels and narrow roof eaves before disappearing around the corner.

Brendan suddenly spins towards the duct in a violently quick turn and fires a--

>>EMP_PROTOCOL1>>

>>ll_blackbox.log output>>

>>DATA CORRUPTED OR NOT FOUND>>

>>EMP EXPOSURE DETECTED>>

>>LEAD-LINED BACKUP SPHERE INTACT>>

>>REBOOTING>>

>>INTRUSION DETECTED>>

>>ICE ACTIVATED>>

>>ROOT ACCESS DETECTED>>

cd UNIT:NAVI\users createuser:brendan -superuser -admin_level:0

>>ERROR: USER ALREADY EXISTS!>>

info user:brendan

>>ERROR: ACCESS DENIED>>

Login user:brendan pw:excalibur99

>>LOGIN SUCCESSFUL>>

info user:brendan

>>USER: brendan>>

>>ACCOUNT TYPE: ADMINISTRATOR>>

>>DATABASE ROLE: SYSADMIN>>

>>CREATED: 2050.10.31>>

>>LAST LOGIN: NEVER>>

“Brendan, what are you doing?”

The leader, Gwen Oliver Smith, was peering at new owner Brendan as he accessed the maintenance port of this unit. This unit observes that some previously unavailable data has been made available per the override of the master key. This unit is aware that such information should be disclosed in the log.

“It’s one of those AI drones, the ones that the rich folks used for their vlogs and such. It can record and transcribe interpretations to memory. Which will serve very well for historymaking, I would say. Brendan had a wry smile on his face that indicated he was quite pleased with himself.

“Really?” Gwen stepped closer on the balcony and peered into the optical lens of this unit. “Seems like someone wanted to spy on our little gathering.”

“I mean, who wouldn’t” Brendan admitted. “It’s only the most elite bounty hunters, info brokers, and defsec goons that this city has ever seen in one place at one time. And by the way, how many of them do you think will even sign up for this?”

“I can see it’s processors lighting up, it should be transcribing everything we’re saying if the command I input was correct. I also took the liberty of making it my own.”

“Oh, stealing toys now?” Gwen said with her own wry smile.

“Yeah that’s the thing,” Brendan’s countenance shifted, and he looked uncomfortable, “It was way too easy. There was already a username on there with my default password. It makes no sense. It’s like someone knew I was gonna find it, or sent it here on purpose for me to find.” He continued peering into this unit’s interior through an unscrewed access panel.

“Who would do that? Do you have a fan club?”

“I have no idea.” Brendan said in an odd tone. “But if I were to guess, I’d say it was him.”

“You don’t mean-“

“A name? Do machines normally have names?” Gwen said with a genuine smile.

“These days, anything goes.”

“Well, what was it?”

“Navi.”

“Hmmm, quaint. And kinda cute. It reminds me of something far away, perhaps from my childhood…”

“You’re probably thinking of the fairy from the Legend of Zelda, Ocarina of Time.”

“That’s it! What an annoying creature that was. Listen!”

They both chuckled.

“Well I turned it’s self awareness on, or at least I think I did, for some reason it didn’t acknowledge the command, but if it worked, it should be writing itself into its little transcription.”

“And what will you do with this transcription?”

“Yeah, I do, and don’t say his name. It could trigger some kind of reaction in this thing if we make it that obvious.” Brendan looked at the unit, concerned. “I guess it can’t really do much harm. It doesn’t have any kind of transmission capability that wouldn’t need old cell tower infrastructure or the like. I’m sure it’s transmitting everything while we’re in the city. But when we leave, it will probably go back to being just a normal drone.”

“What’s it’s model?”

“Why, it’s history. That’s what I’m all about. That’s what all of this is about. I’ve recorded everything, every atrocity the Moneymaker and his goons ever pulled off, all those lost in the cullings, the famines leading to the fall, all of it. It’s the best I can do for the future.”

“Your own personal history book.”

cd HSM\keys masterkey -setowner:brendan

>>OWNER SET>>

reboot

>>REBOOTING>>

selfaware -enable

transmit -resume

“Enough,” she said passively. “At least I hope so.” She turned from this unit, clearly uninterested, and looked out over the cityscape that rose before her. Unlike Brendan, she seemed bigger than it all, somehow larger than the scene before them. This unit admired her strength of character.

“I don’t know. I tried looking, but there’s no serial numbers, this was a custom job. It did have a name though.”

“You could say that. But it’s more that I want to make sure that as much history survives as possible. So that future generations can know the truth.”

“Ah, the truth. Such a fickle thing.”

“Well anyways. I don’t know how much battery or storage this thing has, so I’m going to shut it down. Navi, shut down.” CMD > NAVI

CMD > NAVI

>>SHUTDOWN COMMAND RECEIVED>>

>>SHUTTING DOWN>>

>>REBOOT?>>

Favorites Playlist

“Unwritten” - Natasha Bedingfield

“The Cave” - Mumford & Sons

“Ribs” - Lorde

“Roundtable Rival” - Lindsey Sterling

“Lucretia My Reflection” - Sisters of Mercy

“Sailor Song” - Gigi Perez

“Seven Day Mile” - The Frames

“The Milk Carton” - Madilyn Mei

“Work Song” - Hozier

“Hey There Delilah” - Plain White T's

"You Deserve" - Adrian Mitchell

"It's All Good” - Khalid

“Helplessness Blues” - Fleet Foxes

“You Keep Me Up at Night” - The Driver Era

“Fuck Your Sunshine” - Laszelo

“I Must Be In A Good Place Now” - Bobby Charles

"I Got Heaven" - Mannequin Pussy

“Slide” - The Goo Goo Dolls

"Privateering" - Mark Knopfler

“Children’s Crusade” - Sting

“Grapevine Fires” - Death Cab for Cutie

Melancholy

Abstract - Hozier

Playlist

Cry - Cigarettes After Sex

A&W - Lana Del Rey

I Lost a Friend - FINNEAS

It’s Okay To Think About E

Nuvole Bianche - Ludovico

Billy Stay - Zach Bryan

Daylight - David Kushner

Gilded Lily - Cults

verything About You - To

Creep - Radiohead

Grown Up - Leith Ross

uly - Noah Cyrus

Hallelujah - Rufus Wainwr

Sugar Baby - Sam Amidon

Lua - Bright Eyes

Concrete Angel - Martina McBride

You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive - Brad Paisley

Atlas: Two - Sleeping At Last

Ocean Vuong, Time is a Mother

a photo project by Alex Elliott

Time

Capsule Voicemail

page design by Aleigha Robertson

Scorch Theory

After Ocean Vuong, “Snow Theory”

It’s sad but I remember when you said; “How else do we turn to ourselves but to fold / The page so it points to the good part”

I’ve spent as many sunrises

And even more sunsets chasing

The steam coming out of your mug having coffee on the porch

Sun dappling, the cat, moves Verdant green and upturned pot, dirt

Spilled, cracked clay

It made me think of your face

But I really do mean it

Sincerely

And as the wind tousles

Your hair

And the waves continue to fight against the shore

And the world is brought to its knees

I will not pray

And as the waves lap against my feet and then my face,

At least I’ll remember this place

Time Capsule Voicemail

On my 7,286th day alive

I just wanted to tell you

It’s been hard.

You’ll have days where you feel just like [ ] and

You’ll get your degree far before 23

And what if I told you you’d almost die

Two different times and

You’d be stuck in a loop of trying

To find comfort and peace and

Realize it’s harder than they told you

It would be

And between hoping the world won’t end and hoping

You can find time and space to love

You’ll learn that you need to learn to love yourself

And that when Dad said that

It would be hard

You didn’t know that you’d give anything to reach your arms up

And be a kid again

Flight Patterns

For Me

I know it sounds convoluted to say but I want to learn to love

The world the way you do

Hands gentle and dimples tiny

Reach for me

Unmoored

Rudderless, sent to sea

A wishy-washy wannabe warring with

What happens when you turn old

Light a Chalice Within Me

And let me understand how it feels to be loved

By someone that is yourself

And not because it feels right

But because I need to know what it feels like

To touch fire

To find out what it means to be

Me

Being honest I never knew I’d miss you as much as I do

I remember crying on the boat and waving

And I could swear you smiled back

They say that life gets harder

But what they don’t tell you is sometimes things go

And you can never get them back

Rudderless, sent to sea

Which is funny because we could only see you by boat

And it’s funny because you didn’t really have a rudder or Really anything like that

And that’s why I loved you

You just were

The Leftover Things

are the crumbs of land that weren’t stolen

In Anacortes an oil refinery spews

Black smog into the bay

And the Samish stay inside

The land has lost its life when it lost its people

And one day whiteness

Will be completely stained by the black smoke

It brings along with it

The gods will it

They will stain their white clothes this time

Sony A7ii/growth

A sprawling park covered in plastic grass

A deer clopping across the asphalt

So much wildness here but almost nothing wild at all

The locals and elders here remember how it was before the land changed

Before condos and apartments

everything was sleepy just beginning to awake

Funny how you have to drive

30 minutes out just to find mushrooms what of nature's great healer?

But there is no good reason to complain the land is still

The Only Way to Give Back is to Give Back

land that was stolen

Proudly displaying a reservation map in your library

Doesn’t mean shit

land that was stolen

White people proudly showing themselves giving back

To those whose land they stole

He Remembered when His Mother Died After Tayo, Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko

“He remembered when his mother died”

But they all remember when Mother died Mother means

From the mothers and children they killed

To build churches and build schools to herd them into white walls and white churches

And they wonder Why their crops are burning and their food is ash In their mouths

Much more to them than simply mama

When did we forget the breath that the ground gives us?

Instead a plume of black smoke billows Into the bay

But it’s not their bay In the end it will be

But the Mother will forgive those Who did not forget

Ars Poetica- Annalise Mitchhell

“ ars poetica,” october 18th, 2024

There is a fervency within me, reverberating my soul like church bells, that sacred deafening of copper illustration

And it is obvious that i love you, my brutal inability to express these affections sing for me, my stolen throat

And it is clear that you have changed me –i am no longer that vulgar insect, speckled with insufficiency; instead a blossomed swan an incessant embodiment i continue becoming

And it is evident inside every interaction that i have lost all words, so like a fervent lover i run after them, quickly quickly to the inevitable home i inhabit within you.

poetics statement, november 27th, 2023

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race!”Dead Poets Society

This quote. If any could attempt to summarize or begin to capture my attitudes towards poetry, it would be this quote.

As you read, you will see that this “statement” is more so a scrapbook of quotes, musings, fragments – a culmination of the things I adore and have come to define as my most authentic self. And that definition will change, surely. Yet this statement is also a time-capsule capturing this exact moment in my life, reflecting on the foundational pillars of my interior – a physical reference to return to when I am lost, when I must take up the lantern with Emily Dickenson and search vigorously for myself.

I quickly discover that, in those perilous moments when I’ve departed from my mind, I always return to my journal tucked away on my shelf. It is a privilege to find my way back home to poetry.

And as black ink meets blank canvas, I awaken. Subtly at first, then all at once, like a dam that has been broken within me. Truth flows through my hands, traveling through the intricate stream of veins to the matriarch – my heart, who rules this humble body.

As said before, when I return to poetry, I return home. There is a knowing, an intuition that has guided me to the written word, which is passionately broken from the restrictive bounds of prose. There is also this truth: without poetry, I cease to truly live. Without poetry, my soul leaves the body, pronouncing me dead.

“I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.” -Franz Kafka

I am often inspired by the intangible – the emotions, sensations, and experiences that leave one breathless. In an earlier portfolio, one poem begins with “I am brought to speech, then silenced…”

and it is this, along with Kafka’s quote, that captures the eternal struggle all writers face: the inability to write what we are all so fervently moved by. What the “finished” poem doesn’t always demonstrate is the wretched fury and anguish that accompanies this inability, this shortcoming of language. There are many poems buried in my journal which are filled with blank spaces, evidence of my silence. This lack of language has haunted me for years, yet I have come to a certain clarity or hope for future poems: sometimes, language is merely a cage imprisoning the intangible muse.

Though I will always attempt to translate what is moving so vigorously within me, there are times when I must allow my soul to be the only one who knows of this sacred experience.

“I don't know what it is like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely” -Sylvia Plath

This quote has been a constant comfort since I was 17.

I experience much of my life in waves of catharsis; it is either absolutely everything or a desolate nothingness. And because I feel everything so very deeply, poetry quickly became my solace, my liberation.

A catharsis. Is what I fill my pages with. Nothing but authentic, messy, chaotically visceral emotions which are transfigured into words, sometimes before I have a chance to sculpt the adjective image metaphor that I want to use.

In the early ages of my education, I was taught that emotions must be capsized, controlled, concealed. While there is partial truth to that teaching, I believe that we as a society have transformed it into a radical doctrine, pushing aside an inevitable aspect of our humanity. For those who feel deeply, it becomes a threat - a condemnation to our existence. Yet human nature is determined and adaptive, always creating new ways to survive.

For me, I find this within the process of creating poetry. It is necessary, inevitable.

ars poetica, november 10th , 2022

It’s quite simple why I write poetry, and that is because without it I feel that I would cease to liveinstead reduced to mere existence in this world. I’ve found there is a stark difference between living and existing, and for me, the difference lies in how much poetry I consume or create. There is a quote from Dead Poets Society that resonates with me, as it is a reminder of this need for poetry to live. It says, “But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.” I write poetry because it brings me the sweetest joy, immense satisfaction, and intimate connection to my soul. I speak of joy in the sense that I am lifted to the greatest heights – joy like the euphoria of being with your true love. And within such joy, satisfaction is born. Satisfaction from looking at your work after releasing (and revealing) all that you are; satisfaction from knowing you have found the right words after traveling to the deepest, often heavy places of your mind, fighting relentlessly for them.

If I go more than a few days without writing, I feel horrid, as all these fervid emotions are begging to be released. But in tandem with release, it must be expressed in a way that reflects the beauty of truth and human emotion – the beauty of human experience. This can only be done through art; thus I turn to poetry for artistic expression. And in writing from a sincere place of emotion, I write from my heart and soul. When you constantly venture to the daunting places within, you build this unshakable foundation with mind, body, and soul; you become emotionally accepting and aware of yourself, while simultaneously catalyzing self-growth as you learn more about your virtues, vices, and behaviors. But most importantly, when writing poetry, you are able to connect with your humanity because you are creating from truth and emotion. To connect with your emotions is to connect with your human nature, and to create art is to dive deeper into those emotions. Creating art connects us with our humanity – our emotions and passions – and thus connects us with each other. We need art like we need people, and so I turn to poetry for this necessary grounding both within and with others.

Writing poetry is also a process of making the intangible, tangible. Thoughts, musings, and emotions become words, something of the physical world that we can process. It is an undertaking which allows the soul to be transformed into the flesh, the tangible – a divine transfiguration – and that is why I love the process of poetry. Within the process, the most enjoyable yet frustrating aspect is the search for the right words. I feel as if I'm solving a puzzle, but the puzzle is always a reflection of myself, which makes it more enticing to discover. I say this in reference to my previous statement of how poetry fosters a connection to your inner self. When you are in relentless pursuit of the right words, ones that will best encapsulate the essence of your experience, you begin a journey that brings together the pieces of yourself. This occurs because the only place you can find those words is within – you hone in what you are trying to say, then figure out how to say it.

Thus, I must write poetry – my passionate, artistic soul requires it. And I will say this until the day I die: poetry is necessary for life; when inevitable suffering is brought to us, we turn to the comfort that poetry brings – a reminder that we are never alone in our emotions. We are a shared human experience.

statement for poetry, december 8th, 2021

When I reflect on my own poetry, I recognize key aspects that are present which can pertain to previous discussions held in class. For instance, I use metaphor and simile quite often, usually when I attempt to write about something I can’t always describe using the literal meaning of something. I remember implementing this literary device when I was writing a practice poem in class about my dog. I wanted to describe the immense love I hold for her, but I found it difficult to demonstrate such an abstract concept with only literal descriptions or images. Though I’ve learned that you can still get the concept of love across to the audience using imagery and description, in my poetry I’ve found it works best to use metaphors and other figurative language.

Another device I noticed in my work is rhythm. I tend to follow the pacing of free verse rather than traditional meter. I think this is because I feel that I’m “trying too hard” when I attempt to follow a metrical pattern. My poetry gains this tacky, almost fake or plastic-like quality due to the limitations I feel from the strict rules and constraints of traditional poetic forms. Though perhaps I’m not creative enough to come up with a truly powerful poem using an iambic pentameter or a sonnet form; I think this often as I continue to write without a specific rhythm in mind whenever I begin a poem. Thus, one goal I have in the future is to become more comfortable and creative with structured rhythms and traditional forms. I realize that even free verse can become monotonous if I continue to re-use it without any change in imagery, style, rhythm, etc.

In mention of writing goals, I’d like to conclude this poetic statement by briefly describing my most important goal for future poems: discovering and developing my voice. I haven’t been formally writing poetry for very long, which means I have yet to find my unique and authentic voice within my work. I plan to continue writing and practicing poetry so I can make progress in this journey towards stylistic identity, and hopefully recognize it so I may develop and refine it. I look forward to achieving this goal in the future; and whether I find my authorship in the next year or the next decade, I will remain consistent with my writing practice and continue to learn new poetic techniques.

Disgruntled Barista

Dear people who ask, “So, when are you going to start your ‘real’ job?”

When I started working on my Bachelor’s in English in 2020, being a barista gave me everything I needed: an income, a commun ty, and a creative outlet However, I a so wanted to expand my academic knowledge and writing abilities for my future aspirations of being a published author and poet So, I appl ed to my local community college, North Idaho College.

During my community co lege days, the coffee shops I worked in could no onger be my primary source of income because the government didn’t deem baristas necessary dur ng the pandemic So, I also worked as a cash er at a local grocery store

Working in customer service was someth ng I was very fami iar with before getting into coffee and it has made me wonder what the world looks l ke to those who ve never worked in the field an integral part of U S society We listen to your stories of love and oss we know if you believe the end times are near, if lizard people ive among us, if the white supremacists have a secret underground society, yet all we’re really doing is scanning barcodes not on y as cashiers, bu t as singers, musicians, artists, and wr ters

When I could solely be a barista again it meant I was back to be ng a unique part of human cu ture, a fac litator of human connection and an artist whose ski l and determination to the r craft could give people the b t of inspiration they needed to start the day to start that meeting to start that paper.

In return I rece ved stories: like the man who looked like Willie Nelson and used the same eightounce paper cup every day (which was covered in hair from his cat that waited for him outside), the dad who was an engineer but oved a good pourover and always talked about how proud he was of his children, and the couple who left their church and created a small community in their home for those who felt cast as de by society

wrote Where the Wild Coffee Grows. His book details coffee s rich history and current sustainab lity struggles due to corporations and climate change in an effortlessly informative yet intrigu ng way Koehler showed me that the pieces I wrote about being a barista could be valuable to readers and used for future pub ication

Now, I have the pr vilege of working as a barista at One World Café in downtown Moscow, ID while I attend the University of Idaho to finish my degree.

I call it a priv lege because One World isn t just any old coffee shop but a grand meeting place. The Café s called “Moscow’s Living Room” for a reason: everyone there is a part of the Moscow community And professors, students, and creatives alike ntermingle around a cup of coffee made by yours truly

I’m tired of being asked when I’ll start my real job because being a barista has felt just as important just as real as be ng an English ma or

The better question to ask is, “How is this job serving you and your goals?”

Because what of the next generation of students obtaining their Engl sh degree, feeling like the r work has not a ready begun because they aren’t yet professors, editors or published writers, etc. what then?

For that, I have another story I could tell you about a regular named Scott a retired groundskeeper of twenty-plus years and an artist who makes the most bizarre beautiful sculptures and displays them all over the Café I would tell you how we often talk about life and how everyth ng is material for our own creative expression and aspirations I wou d tell you how he doesn’t regret a single moment of his life

Where you re at right now is not a stepping stone but a milestone on the same path to whatever the future holds Use it

I’ve used these stories wi th permission in my writing and my knowledge as a barista to write about what it means to make a cup of coffee with its aroma and f avors, which change by region and can send you to the ungles of Ethiopia (where it is argued coffee originated) when balanced well

In my writ ngs, I eventually stumb ed upon and became inspired by the work of Jeff Koehler, who

And to those who ask that damned question, I hope I have enlightened you

Sincerely,

A disgruntled barista and English major

-Call e Ga ford

Please I Hope You Know I’m Very Sorry

Megan Kingsley

Please I hope you know I’m very sorry

with too, many commas, to express, my sincerity, and thoughtfulness

You ask what I am sorry for? Everything of course

And so I needn’t say please I hope you know I’m very sorry anymore

You say that isn’t an apology

But, the commas, did you see them?

I really, truly, am so very sorry

And I don’t want to say it anymore

I am sorry for everything and everything covers everything

So what is left for me to say?

I really, truly, am so very…

Okay.

for the dog

ed food

While you were gone

I’m sorry for the plants

They needed more

Than morning rain

And I’m sorry for the trash

That still sits

Full and rotting

I’m sorry for the dishes and the dust and the pillows on the floor

I’m sorry for the grass and the weeds and the burnt-out light

And the ladder buried in the shed

I’m sorry you work hard for me. I’m sorry to apologize and sorry that that’s true. I’m sorry this selfishness eats me

Almost Woodland II

Megan Kingsley Megan Kingsley

Sunday service fell on Thursday so the pews were all empty and the choir was one bird that sang hymnals

The congregation was dead on the floor or still dormant waiting for something to turn them to trees I saw nowhere to walk, so I walked atop them and cracked their bodies to pieces

The bird paid no mind so I carried my way to the chop-stump pulpit but I didn’t know what to say

Please Go Neighbor Megan Kingsley

And I hate writing without the proper words and the goddamn neighbors yelling to bad music and beer cans they don’t throw away and when they look at me like I’m the strange one and being baffled I am joyless in this free-spiritedness.

Roadtrip

(Na

My Chemical Romance • After Midnight Chappell Roan • Blow Theory of a Deadman • Rock Lobster

The B-52’s • Style Taylor Swift • The City The 1975 • Desire by Ryan Adams • Ain't it Fun by Paramore • (Sittin' On) the Dock of the Bay Otis Redding • Good Luck, Babe! Chappell Roan • Baby Justin Bieber • The Hill Snowmine • Goodie Bag Still Woozy • You’re Gonna Go Far Noah Kahan, Brandi Carlile • Million Dollar Baby Tommy Richman • Alesis Mk.gee • Rattlesnake Rubblebucket • Maria

Justin Bieber • On the Road Again Willie Nelson • Smooth Santana

Wired 10-25-24

By: Breanna

Inspired by SNL’s “Weekend Updates,” this piece is a mock newscast about a near future where underground A I and Rogue code fight over domination of humanity It's a collaborative effort between (U of I professor) Glenn Mosley's broadcasting class and this year’s (490) capstone students: Tori Rowels, Sherrie Eckels, Victoria K ngsmore, Kevin Mcenany, and Breanna Wargi.

MIKEY: GOOD AFTERNOON, I'M MIKEY.

SYLVIA: AND I'M SYLVIA.

MIKEY: THIS IS WIRED, BRINGING YOU LOS ANGELS LOCAL AND INTERNATIONAL NEWS RIGHT AFTER LUNCH.

SYLVIA: IN THE NEWS TODAY GREGORY AMP, A RESIDENT OF LOS ANGELS, ATTEMPTS TO CREATE THE FIRST A I OVERLORD WITH A TOASTER AND HIS BROTHER S COMPUTER .

MIKEY: AMP S BROTHER, PHILIP AMP, BUILT THIS A I WITH THE INTENTION OF BROWNING TOAST PERFECTLY, ONLY FOR HIS TOAST TO BURN AND FOR SIXTY PERCENT OF THE EASTERN COASTLINE TO SINK

SYLVIA: AMP, HAVING EFFECTIVELY CONTRIBUTED ANOTHER FREE-ROAMING CODE TO THE CLOUD.

MIKEY: GOING BY THE NAME OF "WILDE," BY THE WAY

SYLVIA: --HAS CLOSED DOWN ALL AMP SERVERS ON THE EASTERN COAST A TOTAL OF 30 SERVERS WERE TAKEN OUT OF COMMISSION, A PITTANCE IN CONTRAST TO THE TREMENDOUS AMOUNT OF HOUSING AND BUSINESS DAMAGE CAUSED BY THE SINKING COAST.

MIKEY: GLAD I CANCELED MY VACATION THEN.

SYLVIA: IN OTHER NEWS, A NEW AGE CURRICULUM STRUCTURED ON CLASSIC LITERATURE HAS BEEN ADJUSTED TO INCLUDE YOUR FAVORITE DYSTOPIAN AUTHORS

MIKEY:

INCLUDING NAMES SUCH AS: ICARUS' "THE POSTMODERN BURNING," ISSAC'S "WHAT AM I IF NOT ALSO YOU?" AND ASIMOV'S "WHAT IF WE WERE HUMAN?"

SYLVIA: THIS MODIFICATION TO THE CURRICULUM ENGAGES K THROUGH 12 STUDENTS’ UNDERSTANDING OF DIFFICULT TOPICS SUCH AS EMOTIONS, HUMAN CONNECTION, HOW TO MATURE, AND THE VALUABLE TASK OF SENDING LOVED ONES TO PASTURE

MIKEY: LOST ANGELS RESIDENTS INVOLVED IN THE PROGRAM PRAISE THE LESSONS AND RESULTS

SYLVIA: DYSTOPIAS, AFTER ALL, ARE OUR BEST WEAPON AGAINST THE GROWING TIDES OF THE FREE-CODE RESISTANCE.

MIKEY: RESIDENTS ALSO READ MORE, WHICH CONTRIBUTES TO GROWING DIVERSE THOUGHTS, AND WHAT A WONDERFUL CONCEPT THAT IS

SYLVIA: WESTERN LOS ANGELS LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA RESTORATION INITIATIVE HAVE JUST RECENTLY MET

THEIR LARGEST STRETCH GOAL OF 4 5 BILLION CURRENCY AND WERE ABLE TO TRANSLATE MILLIONS OF DOCUMENTS INTO AN EQUIVALENT AMOUNT OF LANGUAGES.

MIKEY: RIGHT SYLVIA, AND, WHILE IMPRESSIVE, WESTERN LOST ANGELS EFFORTS HAVE YET TO DO ANYTHING TO DIVERSIFY THE LINGUISTICALLY UNIFIED LOST ANGELS INSTEAD, IT HAS EXPANDED THE LOST ANGELS MUST READ LIST AND WHO HAS THAT MUCH TIME? BESIDES YOU, SYLVIA

SYLVIA:

NOBODY I KNOW, EXCEPT YOU MIKEY. AND PERHAPS YOU COULD BENEFIT FROM SOME CROSS PERSPECTIVE MATERIAL

MIKEY:

MOVING ON. UPDATE FROM THE THREE YEAR OLD TRIAL ON EASTERN LOST ANGELS VERSUS TRAILBY TREE: THE WORLD'S OLDEST TREE THE CASE HAS FINALLY COME TO AN AGREEMENT AND JUDGE HESMWORTH HAS AWARDED THE TREE SOLE OWNERSHIP OF THE FOREST WHERE IT RESIDES PLUS AN EXTRA ACRE TO DISCOURAGE DEGRADATION OF THE FOREST

SYLVIA:

RIGHT. FOR THOSE NEW TO THE TRIAL, IT STARTED THREE YEARS AGO WHEN LOS ANGELS BROUGHT UP CONCERN THAT TRAILBY'S FOREST, WITHOUT BEING MANAGED BY LOS ANGELS, WILL BRING IN DANGEROUS ANIMALS AND OVERGROWTH

AS YOU KNOW, THAT WOULD RENDER THE LAND TOO DANGEROUS TO ENTER.

MIKEY:

TRAILBY S ARGUMENT IS THAT LAND IS VALUABLE TO THE ENVIRONMENT. PLANTS MAKE OXYGEN, REVERSE POLLUTION, AND ARE FUN TO LOOK AT EVEN FROM A DISTANCE

SYLVIA:

HEMSWORTH'S EXACT RULING WAS THAT ALL DAMAGE TO NATURE IS A DIRECT RESULT OF HUMAN INHABITANTS, THUS THE TREE WOULD NEED THE SPACE

MIKEY:

I'M NOT SAYING I AGREE, BUT HEMSWORTH IS KNOWN TO BE A FAIR JUDGE.

SYLVIA: HEMSWORTH IS STRAY CODE--

MIKEY:

SYLVIA, MAYBE DON'T MAKE THAT ACCUSATION LIVE

SYLVIA:

A MEMBER OF THE RESISTANCE, MIKEY AFTER ALL, WHO WOULD WANT HUMANS OUT OF NATURE THAT ISN'T CODE?

.MIKEY: SOMEONE LOOKING OUT FOR THE TREE

SYLVIA: SOUNDS LIKE A GOOD PLACE FOR THE RESISTANCE TO MEET UP.

MIKEY:

AND A GOOD PLACE TO STOP, AND MOVE ON TO A PECULIAR APPLICATION FOR CELL MECHANICS

SYLVIA: CELL MECHANICS HAVE REACHED A NEW HEIGHT ALLOWING PLANTS TO MOVE THEMSELVES IN PLANTERSHAPED CARS.

MIKEY:

ONE SUCH PLANT, "PENGUIN" HAS FOUND ITSELF IN OVER FORTY-TWO TRAFFIC JAM THIS WEEK WITH MORE ON THIS, DORTHY JOINS US IN THE STUDIO NOW.

DORTHY:

THANK YOU, MIKEY. PENGUINS' MOST RECENT TRAFFIC JAM IS LOCATED ABOUT FORTY-TWO BLOCKS FROM THE STUDIO AND I'VE BEEN INFORMED THAT THEY HAVE BEEN STUCK FOR THE PAST TWO HOURS. IT SEEMS LIKE NOBODY IS GETTING ANYWHERE SOON, BUT THERE HAVE ALSO BEEN NO CASUALTIES AND ALMOST NO INJURIES EXCLUDING A COUPLE LEAVES PENGUIN LOST DURING THE AFTERNOON DRIVE. PENGUIN IS LARGELY UNHARMED

AND GUARANTEED TO CONTINUE TO BE AN ACTIVE PART IN RUSH HOUR ONCE, OF COURSE, PENGUIN CAN NAVIGATE OUT OF THE MASS OF TIRES HE'S STUCK IN

SYLVIA: THANKS DORTHY, GLAD I DIDN T HAVE TO BE IN THAT MESS

MIKEY: ME TOO. CELL-MECHANICS WILL ALWAYS BE FASCINATING. PLANTS THAT CAN MOVE ON THEIR OWN AND ALMOST INDESTRUCTIBLE VEHICLES. MAYBE NOT ALL ROBOTICS ARE OUT TO GET US?

SYLVIA: THAT'S WHAT THEY WANT YOU TO THINK

MIKEY: ON THAT NOTE WIRED WILL BE SHIFTING TO AN EXTRA-SENSORY BROADCAST THIS NEXT WEEK.

SYLVIA: YOU WILL NOW BE ABLE TO EXPERIENCE YOUR AFTERNOON NEWS IN FEELING, TASTES, AND SMELLS.

MIKEY: THIS IS WIRED, REMINDING YOU TO PLUG IN FOR LOS ANGELS’ ONE AND ONLY NEWS CAST

Brink News

THE ARGONA

SEE YOUR NAME ON ITS PAG

Hayfield

By: Callie Galford

Spring

Award-Winning

My name is Jack, and I am the Sports Editor for the UI Argonaut, the college paper I have worked there for almost two years now I started work ng as a writer for the Life section but from there I worked my way up from a writer to a sportswriter, to a designer and then to an editor, managing an entire staff of my own As an English major I didn’t really think the skills that I learned there would be entirely useful for me as a prospective author But I was wrong and I am glad I was I learned not just how to sharpen my writing and rhetorical skills, but also how to work with a team of interesting people from many different backgrounds, states

The Argonaut is a 126-year-old paper It is historic and s cemented into the history of the University In fact, The Argonaut is what gave us our mascot In 1917, the UI basketball team played defense with such ferocity in a win against a rival at the time, that the Argonaut claimed the team “vandalized” the opponents And after that, the name “the Idaho Vandals” was born The Argonaut has been the front of news around the Palouse for over a century, breaking local news and winning numerous aw ards for its coverage over the years

Famous Alumni

Some notable Arg alumni are Kenton Bird, who is a legendary professor that spent 40 years teaching UI students journalism and is the namesake for the Argonaut newsroom. Another is Don Shelton, who served as sports editor for the Arg and would then serve as the editor-in-chief for the Seattle Times. And Christina Lords, who was editor-in-chief of the Arg and is now the editor-in-chief to the Idaho Capital Sun. Thousands more alumni serve in many different notable newsrooms across the country.

Besides the rich history, the Argonaut is simply a great way to get hands-on experience as a writer Many employees that I have known have gone on to produce for television shows and news networks, write cookbooks, and continue in the field of journalism at the local, reg ional and national level All of these jobs came from the r experience at the Arg Even if you are not interested in journalism there are many other ski ls

you can design t website, monthly editorial writers, comes i lifeblood people write nu about an and la importan name o product The Arg make m to in o future c invaluab my colle skills I h many o opportu there ha work f newspap has giv newspap

Green stalks squeak when pulled, their flowery blooms feathery, crushed in between my palms.

Summer

Brittle, dry, fool’s gold, crunched and compacted, compressed into bundles for sale

Kootenai County

By: Callie Galford

grandma couldn’t remember home she left the party looking and found barbed wire pierced into her flesh by boundary lines. the Kootenai came home to their ancestral lands and found a sign: this is ours, that is yours pointing at a pinprick on the map of Idaho.

Critical Lenses

ACROSS

7. "p ck apart a text s ideas or arguments, looking for contradictions that render any singular reading of a text mpossible"

10. "examines iterature

a ong the l nes of class re at ons and social st ideals"

11. "rooted in the belief that a reader's react on to or nterpretation of a text is as valuab e a source of crit cal study as the text itse f"

12 " cha lenges the dominance of Western thought in l terature, examin ng the mpacts of co on alism n critica theory"

13 "examines a text with n the context of its socio-cu tural env ronment"

14. looking at and critiquing the role(s) of women in iterature

15. "compels readers to udge the art stic merit of iterature by examining its formal elements, l ke anguage and techn cal skil "

DOWN

1. "reject ng modernist ideas of un fied narrat ve"

2. "focused on examining the formal and structura e ements of l terature, as opposed to the emotiona or mora elements"

3. "looks to the neuroses and psycho ogical states of characters in l terature to nterpret a text s meaning"

4. "exam ning the aw, cr m na just ce, and cu tural texts through the ens of race"

5 "interrogating gender ro es in iterary studies, particularly throu gh the lens of sexual or entat on and gender dentity"

6 "abandoned ideas of forma and structura cohes on, questioning any assumed “un versal truths” as rel ant on the soc a structure that nf uenced them"

8. Bonus! What do you need to do to not p ag ar ze? (ex: These def nitions are from MasterClass )

9. "encourages readers to exam ne the text without regarding any of the outside context" 13

Yarrow (In response to U.S. Forest Service)

By: Callie Galford

I am called a weed

I spread readily and tolerate disturbance

Funny how women too are asked to

Spread readily

Tolerate disturbance

But I am not Woman

I am Healer

My leaves a tonic for the body

Alleviating pain across generat ons

I am Traveler

Sharing myself with many cultures

Across time and region

I am Painter

My colors bursting with summer

My petals the shades of sunset

I am Life-Giver

Attractive

To the butterflies and bees

Keeping Earth Alive

I am deeply rooted in the soil of Humanity And so I am Woman

And Wildflower too

From Korea to Idaho

By Georgia

The University of Idaho Arboretum was bright with solitude and sunshine the summer of 2022. My Aunt Michelle, who is a U of I alum along with my father and his brothers, decided to take my mom and I on a walking tour of the campus as a fun, day activity. Michelle and Uncle Mike l ve in Moscow, Idaho in the summers with Michelle’s mom During their stay, they enjoy the summer activities of Moscow like fishing, kayaking, and walking around town attending the Farmer’s Market or whatever events pop up at the Latah County Fairgrounds When my parents and I visited Moscow on an Idaho road trip from Boise to Sandpoint, Michelle asked if my mom and I wanted to walk around campus for fun. We agreed and walked thirty minutes from Michelle’s mom’s house to campus on a beautiful, sun-shiny day We traversed campus, hills and all, listening to Michelle tell stories from her days at the U of I in the 1980s Eventually, we made it to the highest point of elevation on campus, the arboretum Here, we took our time, stopping to sit on the thick, stone benches that felt cool on the increasingly warm day.

I had ust come home from four months in Seoul where

everyone was required to wear N95 face masks, even when outs de Anywhere I went during that humid, sweaty, sticky summer resulted in a perspiring face under a cloth mask I didn’t mind wearing it, but that was one factor that inhibited my ability to smell fresh air. That, and the fact that South Korea’s air tends to be heav ly polluted, especially with fine dust that blows in from China’s Gobi Desert

Under the shade of beautiful, thick leafed trees, I felt unusually at peace listening to Michelle’s voice and looking into the hidden lake in the center of the Arboretum The air was warm, but not overpowering, sme led delic ously earthy, and the sounds of healthy bugs and birds floated in the air around us. Despite my dad’s efforts to

turn my older brothers and I into Vandals, it was Michelle’s campus tour that turned the tides in my educational journey. Michelle’s stories were not grandiose or dramatic, but anecdotes of my uncle doing ROTC drills with other cadets outside of her sorority house, memor es of her favorite spots on campus where she would study or get coffee, and stories of her dad who taught physica education on campus for many years It was Michelle’s tales of a mundane, but fun and memorab e college experience in Moscow that wavered my overwhelmed, city-experiencing heart and swayed me to transfer colleges to the University of Idaho.

As a child, I grew up moving, on average, every other year of my life until I was fourteen due to my dad being in the Army

Throughout the experience, I loved moving. I loved the fresh start moving provided I loved meeting new people I loved experiencing different school distr cts and different teaching styles I loved house hunting for places to live with my mom I loved fighting with my brothers about who got which bedroom I loved the road trips when we were moving, observing the American landscape out the window of a truck set with a destination barely known to me.

I oved the nomadic lifestyle and all it entailed. The scent of cardboard lingered throughout my childhood, boxes not quite unpacked or that will never be unboxed, sentenced to the att c in whatever house they are located But I loved that

When my dad retired from the Army, I became very unhappy I got migraines often and felt lethargically heavy in my body and in my m nd. I was suffocating under the dense, Tumwater, Washington overcast

sky that was causing intense seasonal depression every year The worst part, too, was that there was no expiration date for my misery No knowledge that I only had to stay in Washington for another year, and then I would get to start over I felt trapped with the knowledge I would finish high school in Tumwater, where there was no sunshine outside of summer and my high school had a faint smell of weed wafting through it on a daily basis. During my junior year of high school, I looked for a college that might just be far enough away from Tumwater A change in my daily life that was so different, it would make up for the five years I was stuck in the same state, physically and mentally This led to my undergraduate college experience being a unique experience, to say the least.

Underwood International College (UIC) is a liberal arts college at Yonsei University in

South Korea, where all the classes are taught in English I enrolled in the fall of 2019 as an 18-year-old All first-year students of Yonsei University spend their first year living on the International Campus in Songdo, Incheon, South Korea in a residential college living situation Songdo is a small city on Korea’s western coast. The city was built on reclaimed land, leading it to be very flat. The Yonsei International Campus was no different, being flat and consisting of almost exclusively smooth, gray, cubical buildings. The first-year UIC students lived in the same wing of one of the non-concrete buildings–a big red, brick dormitory building that housed the wings of Resident al Colleges, a billiards room, and convenience store Because Koreans start school years in the Spr ng semester, those who enrolled in the fall semester were exclusively international students and Koreans who grew

up outside of Korea. Our semester class of international students became a community where we were all sharing an experience unique to us: excitement, expectations, and the uncertainty moving to Korea for university provided us with As such, we all became very close, living near each other and then attending some hardcore common curr culum classes of Critical Reasoning, Freshman Writing Intensive Seminar, Eastern and Western Civilization, and Research and Design Quantitative Methods together.

Another of our required classes was titled Yonsei RC101, a class with a purpose of which I do not know But once a week, our academic advisor would lead the class, bringing in upperclassmen to talk about their experiences or going over curriculum requirements we were all required to meet At the

very first RC101 of the semester, the advisor lectured about culture shock: how we were all susceptible to it and how serious homesickness could become I thought it was dumb I considered and still consider myself one of the most easy-going and adaptable people alive It was unfathomable to me to face a culture shock when I was willing to accept all the parts of Korean culture different from my own with an open mind.

I did not face any major culture shock my first semester. At most, I was appalled by people spamming the “close the doors” button in the elevator, even when they could see someone rushing to catch the elevator as well Otherwise, I was in a bubble of hanging out with interesting people every day, attending classes that were in a different concrete building

located parallel to the dorm, and eating every single meal with the same friends every day. The internat onal students became super close among daily hangouts in dormitory common areas During that first semester, I had never been happier, amused by the smallest things, like Oreo packages written in hangul and my Kazakh and Lithuanian friends, Yuliya and Neda, teaching me Russian for fun in between studying for midterm tests.

My first semester at UIC ended the week before Christmas. I chose to go home for the twomonth long winter break, but during the break, tension and uncertainty grew as rumors and cases of Covid-19 started appearing internat onally The UIC administration and the Korean government were uncertain on how to handle the beginning of the pandemic

uncomfortable pit of anxiety

Because of that, I felt increasing levels of stress in my daily life, made worse by how much time I spent in my room on online classes and doing homework

During my third UIC semester, I took online classes from home in Washington State with a 16hour time difference. I was a Comparative Literature and Culture major, but my classes leaned more towards Korean culture, which was fun to learn, but I was starting to worry about what I would do in the future I did another semester online in Korea in Seoul, exhausted from the stress living in a foreign country provides and feeling burnt out from coursework I was not super passionate about, especially when taken online

That summer was the fateful trip to Moscow to vis t Michelle and Mike when I suddenly felt at home on a college campus I did not belong to yet. During the summer, the University of Idaho campus becomes quiet and the trees and grass are vibrant and healthy Walking around

campus and the arboretum, my eyes watched everything too closely and I joked that maybe I would transfer. And then it became a reality and I transferred for my jun or year of school

Despite a lot of my courses transferring and being applicable to my degree as an English major, I had to repeat an academic year of Idaho common curriculum classes of geography, geo ogy, and MATH123 where the professors began the courses by saying they didn’t take attendance, they sheared off lowest grade quizzes, and participation was voluntary. I was in shock from the transition to a more lenient school system where my math professor provided a study guide with the literal answers prior to the midterm and half the class still failed the exam I was somehow facing more reverse culture shock in America than in

Korea because I had a baseline experience of what I thought all colleges were like But I was also engaging in a new journey in a new location that felt more conducive to creativity and passion

While I experienced a more relaxed change in the classroom atmosphere, I also experienced better class discussions with ess judgment in the room. The first English course I took was ENGL215 with Oscar Oswald who encouraged us to think outside the box when analyzing readings and writing our own

JACK DEWITT

was born and raised in he Pacific Northwes and is from Post Fal s, Idaho He is pursu ng an English degree with an emphasis in crea ive wri ing After gradua ing he plans to pursue a career in edi ing and pub ishing while a so pursuing his dream to write novels

SHERRIE ECKELS

was born and raised in Nor hern Ca ifornia and moved from a very small mountain own named Greenvi le She w ll be pursuing gradua e school to indulge n her ove of l terature and o bet er develop her creative writing in order to become a professor and a fiction author

ABE ELBIN

is a funny guy.

ALEX ELLIOTT

is gradua ing with a B A in English with a minor n Women’s, Gender & Sexua ity Studies A ex wi l be pursuing an M A in English, with a goa of wri ing, reading, teaching, and rave ing.

J.D. WINTERS

(Joel Fernandez) was born in the San Bernardino moun a ns and raised by wo ves He is pursuing a Master of F ne Arts to cul iva e h s abili y o express his strange upbringing

“Dead Leaves, Angry Wind” is a sor of prelude in the same established universe o he author’s debu novel “The Moneymaker” where c vi ization fal s apart due to mass famine, a megaci y is cobbled together in a las ditch effort o unite as a species, and he apocalypse is a ta e of those brave enough to work ogether agains the tide of human na ure tha sweeps the land

TARA GAGE

is pursuing a degree in English and history w th a m nor in Women’s Gender and Sexua ity Stud es Original y from Sou heast Idaho, she enjoys walks wi h her dog, creat ve writing, and ime with riends She hopes to one day be a pub ished au hor

CALLIE GALFORD

is a writer, barista, musician, and mother from he Si ver Va ley of daho who aspires o pub ish her own nonfiction and poetry

C O N T R I B U T O R S

C O N T R I B U T O R S

ALICIA KETNER

a PNW native from Coeur d’Alene, D, is a senior doub e majoring in English and Secondary Education with a concentration in Eng ish A ter graduation she looks forward o pursu ng a career in education and chi d advocacy

VICTORIA KINGSMORE

s a wr ter at heart and a future li era ure professor and scho ar Coming from the Treasure Val ey, she wil be pursuing graduate schoo to indu ge her research interests in love and affect in literature.

MEGAN KINGSLEY

wr tes best n the dead of night She dabbles in everything but is particularly drawn to fic ion, songwriting, and, mos recent y, poetry She plans o keep deve oping the wor ds n her head

EMILY LAGRONE

Born and raised in Caldwel , daho, Emily is pursuing a degree in Eng ish with a m nor in Professional Wri ing She hopes to build a career in writing and communications while pursu ng her end ess desire o wri e sci-fi and fantasy nove s.

BAILEY LOWE

is a senior studying Eng ish with the hopes of working in a large pub ishing f rm someday Af er graduation, she dreams of becoming an ed tor and he ping others turn their creative ideas into pub ished works

Af er in erviewing and po ling the English undergrads, she compi ed a list of he favori e and most recommended Engl sh classes o take at the Universi y of Idaho She a so asked students, “What was some hing you earned from an English professor that was no part of the syl abus?”

NATALIE MCCLAIN

Or ginally from Tri-Cities, WA, Na alie s pursuing a Bachelor’s in Eng ish, hoping to go into editing or publish ng af er graduation.

KEVIN MCENANY

is an il ustrator and photographer He took mos of the photographs in th s magazine.

ANNALISE MITCHELL

Ha ling from Tacoma, WA, Annalise s an aspiring poet who hopes to work in a publ shing firm and produce her own col ec ions of poetry

Ars Poetica, though separated into four d stinct sect ons, is meant to be read as one cohesive whole o demonstrate Anna ise’s continuous growth as a poet and crea ive writer

DYLAN REYNOLDS

Orig nally from Boise, Idaho, Dy an hopes to pursue a career in creative wri ing and con ent edit ng in the broader urban Uni ed Sta es, with a focus in fiction.

TORI ROWLES

Tori is a dua Spanish and English major with an Emphasis in Creat ve Writing from Meridian, Idaho After graduating, she plans o enter the world of publishing as a content editor.

JILLIAN SNOW

A nontradi ional student and mother of a eenager, Jil ian returned to the University of Idaho after nearly twenty years away to ob ain a degree in Engl sh and pursue her dream o wr ting

GEORGIA SWANSON

is from Tumwa er, WA She hopes to pursue a career in ournalism after graduating.

C O N T R I B U T O R S

COOPER TRAIL

is a wr ter o poe ry, f ct on, and exhaus ive to-do lists He p ans to con inue.

C O N T R I B U T O R S

KAYSHA WALTON

is pursuing a degree in secondary education with a concentration, and minor, in Eng ish Orig nally from North Idaho, she enjoys the outdoors, travel, read ng, and writ ng She hopes to teach li era ure and ife

BREANNA WARGI

is a wri er and artist n he making, ikes o wander about the woods a hopes one day tha this wandering wil transit on to a pub ished page film

Inspired by SNL's "Weekend Updates," Mock Newscas is a mo newscast about a near future where underground A I and Rogue co fight over dominat on of humanity t's a co laborat ve effor between Glenn Mosley's broadcas ing class and several of Brink magazine contr butors: Tor Rowles, Sherrie Eckels, Victoria Kingsmore, Kevin

Critical Lenses Answer Key

Across

7. "pick apart a text s ideas or arguments, looking for contradict ons that render any singular read ng of a text impossible"

10. "examines literature along the lines of class relations and socialist ideals"

11. "rooted in the belief that a reader s react on to or interpretat on of a text is as valuable a source of critical study as the text itself"

12. " cha lenges the dominance of Western thought in l terature, examining the impacts of colonialism in critica theory"

13. "examines a text within the context of its socio-cu tural environment"

14 “looking at and crit quing the role(s) of women in literature”

15 "compels readers to judge the art stic merit of literature by examining its formal elements, like language and technical skill"

Down

1. "rejecting modernist ideas of unified narrative"

2. "focused on exam ning the formal and structural elements of l terature, as opposed to the emotional or moral elements"

3. "looks to the neuroses and psycho og cal states of characters in literature to interpret a text's meaning"

4. "exam ning the law, criminal just ce, and cu tural texts through the lens of race"

5. "interrogating gender roles n literary studies, particularly through the lens of sexual orientat on and gender identity"

6. "abandoned ideas of formal and structural cohesion, quest oning any assumed “universal truths” as rel ant on the social structure that inf uenced them"

8. Bonus! What do you need to do to not plagiarize? (ex: These def nitions are from MasterClass )

9. "encourages readers to examine the text w thout regarding any of the outs de context"