“Who knows where inspiration comes from. Perhaps it arises from
desperation. Perhaps it comes from the flukes of the universe, the kindness
of the muses.”
–Amy Tan
I’ve been a part of the Phoenix for two years now, and every semester I’m impressed with the breadth of submissions that we receive. Topics of the fiction and poetry pieces range from birth to death, love to hate, and insecurities to triumphs. The visual artwork encompasses all types of different media, subject matter, and personal expression. As a writer myself, looking at the Phoenix pieces always makes me wonder what people use as the spark to create. Personally, I like to listen to music or sit in the sun and write in a notebook. As an editor, my inspiration is the work that I get to read and appreciate in my capacity as editor for the Phoenix. One of my favorite parts of this job is discussing pieces with writers and artists. As I get closer to graduation, and stepping down as editor, I have been realizing all the things I’ll miss in working on the Phoenix. While I’ll miss seeing the design come to life, putting up submission flyers, and working with the staff on selections, I think what I’ll miss the most is the sense of community that the Phoenix creates. All different types of art and writing are published in the magazine, each coming from their own place of inspiration. But what the pieces have in common is the time and effort put in by each contributor. Each is unique and moving alone, but when they come together in the magazine, they produce something memorable. I hope this magazine continues to inspire our readers, staff, and the university at large. I would like to thank my staff, both official and unofficial, our faculty advisor, the readers and the contributors. Without all of you, we could not have made this magazine. Katherine Christian Editor-in-Chief
Little Scars by Bennet LeMaster 05
Poetry
A Self-Portrait in Watercolors by A. Price Carlisle 21
The Act of Violence by Nicholas Kilano 28
Strawberries by Megan Ulrich 22
“How Are You?” by Olivia Frederick 29
Written on the Back of a Sports Bar Menu by Nicholas Kilano 24
Moving Day by Megan Ulrich
Fiction
31
Bark Your Shins and Stub Your Toes and Bite Your Tongue by A. Price Carlisle 25
Art
Brad by Andy Gordon 04
Breaking Boundries by Olivia Ward 20
Rope by Katherine Wagner
Still by Youn Lee
05
22
Spaceman by Andy Gordon 08
Pink Clouds by Mark Bender 23
Pore People by Lexie Bancroft 08
Hula by Clay Callicott 24
Double Vision by Fern Carpenter 10
Intrigue of the Mind by Alec Persch 25
Fweetie by Katie Franklin 11
Heavy Grooming by Kayla Rumpp 26-27
Biking by Tatiana Potts 14
Old Glory/New Shame by Mark Bender 28
Thinking Out Loud by Ashley Layendecker 15
Shark in Water by Lauren Mayo 29
Alaina by Nicole Carnival 16-17
Translation by Bennet LeMaster 30
Landscapes by Rachel Hankins 18
Hodges by Hannah Brandon 31
John 9:6 by Brandon McBath 19
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Above: Rope Katherine Wagner Mixed Media
Left: Brad Andy Gordon Ink on Paper
Bennet LeMaster Henry folded and unfolded the newspaper nervously with his thin fingers. The waiter, a boy no more than eighteen with a hairdo that stood testament to the incredible capacity of gravity, spoke to the people who had entered the diner before him. They were an elderly couple that held hands tightly and called each other “mi corazón,” one of the few phrases Henry recognized: “my heart.” He had always had a soft spot for old people who still had some sort of a spark. Silently he wished that he could speak Spanish well enough to pay for their morning coffee and pastry in secret, as he ritualistically did for an attractive couple of his choosing on Sundays back in London. When the two had been seated indoors, the young man turned to him, shuffling a stack of menus, not looking up. “Buenos dias.” “Ehm-buenas dios.” Henry fumbled. It was then that the young man peered at him, quickly making the connection. 5
“No hablo ingles, señor.” The young man apologized as slowly as possible, and Henry nodded, giving up on replying and instead motioning to the tables outside lining Santa Fe Boulevard. The waiter nabbed a menu and chuckled, probably marveling at the “stupid American” before him and pushed his way through the glass door to the patio. He held his arm out to a two-person metal table complete with an empty coffee cup and sugar packets, and Henry smiled graciously, sitting down. The day was bloody cold to be outside, but Henry didn’t mind; sitting out along the street reminded him of coffees he’d enjoyed on the streets of Paris. Though Buenos Aires was hardly Paris. The grey skyline loomed over the pedestrians coming and going like a voluminous fog threatening to engulf everything in its wake. The whole city was quite rugged, but not without its own sort of beauty. There was some remarkable architecture—big Europeanstyle buildings often draped in gaudy balconies—reminiscent of a wealthier time in Argentina’s history, though the buildings could not afford to be maintained, leaving them in poor condition and often defaced with graffiti scribblings Henry could never seem to make out. Luscious parks speckled almost every corner, tiny havens in an urban jungle, and storefronts were intricately decorated, marketing knock offs of American products that could not be legally imported. The newspaper was for show, as it was not written in English, but Henry cherished its presence like an old friend. His eyes fell over the black and white printed pictures and he imagined what the stories might be about: education reform, politicians gone awry, taxes increasing, war consuming, top ten restaurants to eat at before you die. He mused over what a good title would be for the picture of a half nude woman in the top right hand corner of the page (perhaps “prostitution ring discovered in foot massage parlor”) when an old woman in an apron carrying a ballpoint pen and some water appeared before him. Clearly the waiter at the front had informed her that Henry was an outsider with no Spanish ability, as she wordlessly dropped the menu and glass before him. Henry felt relief wash over him when he saw that the menu was peppered with photos of some of the dining options, as this allowed him to hold the plastic sheet up to the woman and point at a platter that looked satisfactory. She made note of it on her pad and was about to turn away when he scrambled to stop her: “Oh wait, wait!” With a roll of her eyes she turned back to face him. “Um uh…. Coffee? I mean, café por favor?” He should have brought his dictionary. “Sí,” she managed before disappearing into the mouth of the restaurant. And with that, Henry relaxed, as the hard part was over. The only final piece to the dance would be the check at the end, and luckily money was one thing that translated quite easily between tongues. It was then that Henry began his practice of people watching. Many families milled about on the streets, off to their favorite confeterrias for a cup of coffee and croissant (a media luna they called it, which he found quite clever). A man in a dark coat with a figure so long he seemed animated rather than human shuffled by on the sidewalk, mumbling to himself inaudibly. A mother with her hair piled high on her head and a long cigarette dripping from her lips hustled by, dragging a screaming little boy by the arm as he reached towards the icecream parlor next door. An attractive young couple decided to brave the cold as well and took a seat near him, and he watched them out of the corner of his eye. They traced each other’s hands meditatively as they spoke to one another with loud, carefree gusto, and Henry felt quietly pleased that he could give them the accidental privacy of not being able to listen in on their passionate conversation. 6
Girls too young to be dressed so provocatively sauntered by in a pack of five or so, their platforms and thin legs barely concealed in fishnet casings. One of the girls with dark skin and too much eye makeup winked at Henry as she passed, and he found himself lustful and disgusted by her at the same time, quickly averting his eyes to look at the wholesome family walking on the opposite side of the road. Each one of them was a fixture in this new place, a curve or a line on a blueprint of that which was his new city. His city. The thought made him sit up straighter, as he tried to remind himself that he was a mark on the city too now, and he attempted to adopt a bored look like that of the bloke who was taking his smoking break a few feet away. His wife had once said that looking confident was the secret to success, and he wondered to himself how much confidence one would need to adopt the look of a local. The waitress poured him some coffee, and he smiled at her apologetically before remembering his mission of stoicism. She didn’t return the look, but slid a small croissant on the dainty appetizer plate before him. The strange tightness in Henry’s stomach reminded him with a twinge of wonder that this was his whole day’s plan. There were no designs to be drawn, business associates to converse with, phone calls to be taken, meetings to be arranged. It was a cup of black coffee and a fluffy pastry, and not a single other thing. Breakfast quickly came to his table, and he ate ravenously. The food was delicious— some sort of egg situation with thick slices of freshly baked bread and a side of lentils and tender chunks of beef—and before he knew it he was staring down at an empty platter. He kicked himself internally for eating so fast; this was supposed to be a more lengthy venture than that, so when the waitress took his plate he motioned again to his coffee cup, which she began to refill without direction as the hour passed. Henry had pulled a pen from his pocket and begun to doodle a building face on the side of his paper, a vague remodel of one of the buildings he’d seen the day prior. He was quietly struggling to get the shading on a column just right when the sound of clicking heels brought him to look up. A woman stood before him, a black scarf draped carelessly over her shoulder. She was exotic, with an air of dignity like that of a foreign princess. While she was not voluptuous, she had an unmistakable sexuality about her. Her chest was partially exposed in the v of her shirt, which was more bone than breast, but the skin there looked soft and glowing. Her dark hair was thick and windswept, foreign to dyes or those straightening irons the women used back in Britain. Henry realized he was staring and tried not to linger on the lines and curves of her elegant, thin frame and instead shifted his focus to her pronounced facial structure. Her lips were veiled in a velvet red hue, but other than that her face betrayed no trails of makeup. Two dark eyes searched him with a glazed look, as though she had been forced to approach him. Henry found himself incapable of forming a Spanish phrase to address her, even more than usual. Finally she spoke, and to his disbelief the word was familiar. “Hello.” Her thick accent added to his native tongue, and he immediately wished her to speak again. “Hello, there.” With that, she sat across from him, gracefully calling for something to the waitress, who appeared soon after with a cup of coffee to match Henry’s. He opened his mouth in surprise, confused by the presumptuous action of taking a seat without invitation, but his confusion was met only with the calm dark of her eyes. He wondered if this was common of Argentine people, being so forward, as she made it look as natural as breathing. 7
Spaceman Andy Gordon Mixed Media
Pore People Lexie Bancroft Painting
8
Without introducing herself, she folded her right leg over her left and whisked a dark
strand of hair behind her ear, watching him. The movement had exposed a band of flesh on her prim neck, and Henry saw a glimpse of what might have been a white tattoo, but before he could make it out the hair strand fell back into place, concealing her neck like a sly accomplice. “Do you have a cigarette?” she asked with no trouble. She was fluent in English. Henry could not have been more pleased. “Um yes, yes.” He shook his head to bring himself out of his staring and searched his trench coat pocket for the box, pulling it out and extending the open front towards her. The cigarette boxes in Argentina depicted horrendous photos to ward off smokers, and this one had a photo of a sunken-looking dead fetus on the front. She slid two fingers into the box and pulled out a fresh cigarette, which Henry quickly offered to light with a gesture towards his lighter. She leaned in and the flame illuminated her jaw line as she eyed him, leaning back and blowing a thin cloud of smoke over her shoulder before speaking again. “You are American. Or you are English. I cannot tell always one from the other.” Her gaze was unabashed, and Henry wondered how she had learned to look that way at someone for so long without blushing and looking down. “So why do you come to Argentina.” she said as she moved the cigarette to her rouge lips. The lack of inflection made it a statement more than a question. Henry leaned back in his chair and folded his paper up as to give her his full attention. “Well, that is sort of a long story, but I suppose you could say I’m investigating.” He wondered if investigating was too large an English word as he said it, but if she had not understood her expression did not betray her. “I like stories. Tell to me, what is it you investigate.” This was the first time anyone had really asked why he was in Buenos Aires since he’d arrived two months prior. Truthfully, it was the first time he had really let himself wonder about his reason for coming, and he chewed the inside of his cheek as he mulled over where to begin. “Well, I suppose I was in need of some change. I’m an architect back home and some things happened and I just needed to be somewhere else doing something else.” She nodded, the cigarette now reaching its end, and wordlessly reached for another. Henry didn’t mind, and quickly lit it for her. “So you are running away from a thing.” Running away from something, she means, he processed after a moment. Even the little grammar mistakes were somehow fitting for her. She dragged her pointer finger over the rim of the coffee cup, and Henry shook his head, still somewhat in shock that this strangely gorgeous creature was before him, asking questions about his pathetic life. “It is perhaps more complex than that. I am not running away but I was without in many ways before I came here. I just needed something different. London, I’ve lived there always, or I suppose until now that is. It was time to see more.” She held the cigarette between her fingers and spun it against the gold ring on her hand, though it could not have been an engagement ring, as it was her right hand. At this thought, Henry scolded himself for even allowing his mind to go there. She had to be ten years younger than him, and he was not a man of incredible looks. “So you decide to come to Argentina of all the places.” Henry chuckled and looked down. “Yes, I know. A bit peculiar. But I’ve always wanted 9
to go to South America. It’s a bit different, you know? Instead of being the average bloke that takes off for Italy or Germany or whatever.” “Are you alone?” At this, he hesitated, suddenly feeling the weight of the silver ring on his left hand as though it were a steel trap cuffed around his finger. “Yes,” he managed before taking a cigarette for himself and cupping his hand around it to light it. He thought he saw a faint smile on her full lips as he spoke, and to his chagrin his heart withered in his chest. “But you are married.” She must have seen the ring. “Yes. Or, was. She, well, I came home from work one day a little earlier than usual and I found her with…A friend, actually. Bit of a surprise as he and I, really, we’d been planning to go see a film that night. Can you imagine that? Seeing a film with someone like that when you’ve...Well you know.” Her facial expression remained hard to read, unchanged to one of pity or surprise, which he was quietly grateful for. The last thing he was in the mood for was pity. A moment of silence pursued as Henry sought words to proceed with, but the woman did not seem to mind. She blew a puff of pale smoke over her shoulder, eyeing something— though he did not follow her gaze to see what—and in this moment he caught a glimpse of the concealed markings on her neck. To his surprise, it was not a tattoo, but what looked like a pale grid of white scars, masterfully carved across the porcelain flesh that framed her jaw. It reminded him of a map he’d seen once of lower Manhattan: an organized mess of streets that suddenly met their end at the waterfront. Electricity in his fingertips craved to touch the stray scars that met her scarf. The thought made him clench his fist, and he took in a deep breath, regaining composure before she turned back to face him. “Did she leave you?” The question was pointed and stung without pity. Double Vision Fern Carpenter Photograph
10
“Yes, actually. I said we could work through it, we’d been married for enough bloody years you’d think it would have been ideal, but she wouldn’t have it. I suppose she’s still with him, but I’m not sure. Don’t care, really.” Though the final point was a lie and she knew it as well as he. “Do you have children?” she asked. “No.” “So you decide to start again in Buenos Aires.” “I suppose, yes. You could say that, though I prefer to say I’m on a sort of madcap adventure. Margaret, my wife, always said I should be more spontaneous. So I took her advice, moved here as soon as the divorce papers were filed and done with. I figure now’s as good a time as any to adventure, seeing everything’s gone to shit.” He blushed a little at his language, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was smoking his second to last cigarette and he willed it to burn slowly, fearful that with the pack’s end would come the termination of their chat.
Fweetie Katie Franklin Mixed Media
11
“I’m sorry,” she replied, her gaze strangely distant despite their proximity. “No, don’t be. I mean, it wasn’t you, so you have no reason to be. What about you?” She smiled for the first time, though it was only slightly, exposing a freckle beneath her left eye. “What about me.” “You’re alone?” “Yes.” “Out for coffee?” “I was going for matté. The green, how you say this…tea. The green tea you have seen I am sure. But your coffee looked good as well.” “Do you frequently sit with strangers?” He regretted the question immediately. “On occasion. Only the ones that is interesting.” Henry gulped, suddenly fascinated by the crumbs on the tablecloth. “What do you do?” he asked finally. She laughed a short breathy laugh, and he longed for her to laugh again. “Your questions, they are boring.” “Really? I mean, yeah I suppose business is rather a bore to talk about, but it seems a normal thing to ask.” “Ask me another thing.” “Ok.” He thought for a moment, pursing his lips. “What did you find interesting about me?” She puffed out a long stream of smoke and folded her arms on the table. “The way you were watching people.” Henry was disappointed, hoping the answer would be his looks or something about his person, something attractive about him, but he pressed on. “I enjoy watching people.” “So do I.” “Perhaps you take it a bit further than me, going and sitting with them.” “Perhaps I do,” she mused, the freckled smile appearing again. He had the urge to kiss her then, and he slid back deeper into his seat at the image, running his hand over the grey hairs of his slightly balding head. “So what do you see out there?” He gestured with his hand to the people milling about. She looked, the white city on her neck peaking out from under her scarf, glittering under the light as if with the movement of her throat as she strained. “See the man in the yellow shirt?” she finally replied. “The one with the women in the white coat?” “Yes.” “Yes?” “They are not happy.” She said it as though it were obvious. Henry’s brow furrowed as he tried to see the anger in the seemingly calm couple. But he saw nothing; in fact they were holding hands. If they were at odds Henry did not find it obvious. “They don’t look like they’re fighting,” he admitted, rather than pretending to see the same. “I did not say fight. It is a thing more dangerous than that. See how his eyes, they are on the other woman? And they don’t speak with one another. She did not dress nice for him.” She took a drag of her cigarette. “I bet they do not slept together in months.” Henry blushed and took another sip of his coffee. Wordlessly, he followed her gaze and saw that the man’s eyes did in fact graze over figures of women that passed. His girlfriend was at his side, looking off at the passing cars, not noticing her lover’s wandering eye. 12
In that moment, he felt a pang of jealousy at this gorgeous stranger’s ability to see the unseen in the very people he had been studying before she arrived. Often times he wished that reading people’s thoughts would come as easily to him as creating buildings out of nothing; he could see endless possibilities in a vacant lot, but from his wife’s signals he had been able to create nothing, no understanding of what was possibly in her head until it was too late. “Now that you say it, I do see it.” Henry laughed a bit too sadly. “You know this look.” Henry was taken aback by the boldness of the statement, but her unfaltering honesty was once again on point. And in the couple’s place he now saw himself, linking arms with Margaret, looking at cabbies as they drove by, ignoring her quiet distaste for him. Henry, why don’t you ever do anything out of the ordinary? If only she could see him now. He imagined her watching the scene of him with this exotic stranger on super 8 film, her exhusband, on an adventure that was entirely spur of the moment, not even knowing Spanish, packing up and taking off. The film would open with a scene of him, next to a vixen half his age, who found him of all people enticing. Margaret’s eyes would be wide, and she would get that pout on her face that he once found cute and now found immensely irritating in memories. She would wish him with her, wish she had not created such a royal mess. Something in the Argentine women’s eyes told him she read his thoughts like the morning newspaper. “Tell me. Why do you wear this ring?” she asked. Her gaze was intense. Henry looked down at his hand and clenched his fingers. “Good question.” He laughed after a moment. “You ask far more interesting questions than me.” “This is not an answer.” This woman was not one for small talk it seemed, despite the casual nature of their meeting. Henry cleared his throat. “I guess you could say I haven’t put it all to rest yet. I shouldn’t wear it, it’s misleading.” “You do not want other women,” she stated again. But she could not be further from correct, as he strained to keep himself from reaching out to her cigarette, to feel her soft-looking skin, to kiss the red of her lips. “No, it isn’t that. I don’t know why I wear it.” He slid it off and in to his pocket. “You do not need to take it off,” she coolly replied. “No, no. You’re right. It is rather odd. I shouldn’t be deceiving people.” Especially myself, he mused. “You have a photo of her, no?” Henry felt his heart plummet. He did, in the front pocket of his wallet. He hesitated, but he could not seem to keep secrets from this woman. He pulled out the thick wallet and placed it on the table, thumbing the flap to pull out a small photo. It was of himself and Margaret on a vacation together in Sweden. She was younger, happier. (Continued on page 20) 13
Above: Biking Tatiana Potts Print
14
Left: Thinking Out Loud Ashley Layendecker Painting
Page 16-17: Alaina Nicole Carnival Photograph
15
16
17
18
Left: Landscapes Rachel Hankins Painting
Above: John 9:6 Brandon McBath Mixed Media
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He once told his then-wife that he wished he was not in the photo himself, that he thought his appearance in the picture was as a stain on the beauty of the captured moment, that his wife had deserved every bit of the plastic frame to herself. Though no photograph could hold everything about her in it. He felt himself tearing up at the sight of it, and the woman gently pulled the picture from his hands, softer somehow, but her gaze was still surface-level, as though she was not focused on what was before her at all.
“She is pretty,” was all she said. Henry nodded. This time he did not search for words to fill the silence. The woman
reached for the final cigarette and lit it herself this time. “You are beautiful,” Henry said, the feelings welling up inside him suddenly replaced with a matching fearlessness. He looked off down the road as he said it, feeling her focused eyes on his person. “You are not so attractive.” She smiled. He couldn’t help but laugh and when he looked back at her, he thought he caught something in her cold stare, but it was too hard to make
Breaking Boundaries Olivia Ward Painting
20
out in the dark brown of her eyes, and it disappeared at the same rate it had come. “But I do like you.” Minutes passed in silence and the final cigarette quickly became a stub, and she tapped it into the tray at the center of the table. If there was more to be said, Henry could not find the words, and the woman seemed content in the quiet. Finally, she stood. “Good bye,” she said. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, she stooped to give him a soft kiss on the lips. Static roared through the fibers of Henry’s body, and he craved the quick kiss be replaced by a longer one, but by the time he opened his eyes, she was already stepping back onto the sidewalk, disappearing back to the streets from which she came. He allowed himself to watch her until she had disappeared, and even then he watched on for a while, willing her to come back though he knew it was futile. Henry sat in silence for a long time. The people on the street no longer caught his attention; none were his stranger. Finally, he waved and motioned for a check, which the old waitress slapped on the table immediately, no doubt glad to be rid of him. Henry picked up the photo and let himself linger on it for a long moment before opening up his wallet. As he pushed it gingerly into its place, he noticed that the leather binding felt rather light. Snapping open the money pocket towards the back, he whisked his ring finger through the compartment that only a moment ago had been stuffed with pesos and euros to find it empty. His money was gone, his wallet serving only as a casing for the photo of a woman and man, happily in love, that he no longer recognized.
■
I saved in a vial all the tears from exes
A. Price Carlisle
gasping, begging me to stay, from my father the last words I said to him twisting like a knife, and from my own crocodile self pity. I mixed in rich pigments of hazel, whiskey brown and crushed ice blue and with a brush of hair gathered from around my apartment, cleaned out of the shower and the couch cushions and the pillows on the empty bed and a handle made of cruel stoic heart-of-oak I made the perfect reflection of my heart and I framed it, hanged it under hot lamps. I hope they burn it black I’ll use the greasy smoke and ash to paint something honest called “contrition, at last” 21
Megan Ulrich
It’s freezing outside. I want it to be spring so badly but I refuse to turn on the heat for fear it might scare away the sun.
I couldn’t help but stare at the stretch marks she proudly bore on her stomach, public reminders of the pain and resentment and piercing joy permanently etched into her skin.
It’s only been three hours since you left, but it feels much longer than that. You’ll be back in seven and then we’ll eat and talk and sleep and do it all over again tomorrow.
I’m tired of wearing these clothes that don’t ever seem to fit and the feeling of shame I have when you slowly take them piece by piece off my body.
I keep trying to fill these moments between the times you come and go from our bed that keeps getting smaller and smaller as our family grows larger and larger. Last summer while picking strawberries I met a tired beautiful woman who was just fine placing her freshly picked berries in a basket she fashioned with the bottom of her t-shirt.
Still Youn Lee Painting
22
And then she kicks me hard in the gut and for a moment this silence is filled with laughter and everything is still hard, but it’s bearable. Maybe that will be me one day, picking the last batch of strawberries for our tiny wooden kitchen table, using an old t-shirt to make sure I’ve gotten every last one.
Pink Clouds Mark Bender Photograph
23
Nicholas Kilano They’re singing karaoke with Jack on their tongues— The neon sign glows that he lives here, But he’s found a bed in everyone’s stomach tonight.
Some accident like the broken glass in the sink Left over from three weeks of, There’s Frederick! When everyone is Frederick here, and names
The short brunette dominates the pool table, while Josh Consoles Kitty with the stench of ulterior motives And Bud Light on his breath.
Are about as useless as Five Drink Steve, Who is vomiting victory by the billiards. God Dammit! an upset at 8–Ball, or maybe at tomorrow’s
The Long Islands are heavy with rum and bitter faces, And the Fireball Devil radiates over the bar, Blessing patrons for Jesus who’s playing darts by the door,
Nine a.m. alarm. Can’t say I blame their ire, The real world rings two minutes after Last Call. And maybe that’s the God Damn:
With his holier than holy fire-water, Burning throats and smearing thoughts across stall doors, For a good time call: does it matter? Probably
A sense of the impending Sunday brunch with Jesus, who will do His best to ignore your hangover, While slurring sermons, three sheets to the wind.
24
Above: Intrigue of the Mind Alec Persch Photograph
Left: Hula Clay Callicott Photograph
I hissed at the corner of the coffee table that had jumped out at me from the darkness of my midnight-lit room and bit my shin for the burning moments while pain ran up my leg I had a chance to pause and breathe deep the night-sounds of cicadas the furniture in my room saying slow down and dance awhile
A. Price Carlisle
but hatred is a sweeter fruit sweet as blood from the tip of my tongue dribbling over my chin as I spit out curses chewing on seeds like hot coals damning the darkness as if it had an ear to listen
25
26
Heavy Grooming Kayla Rumpp Print
27
Old Glory/New Shame Mark Bender Photograph
Nicholas Kilano
I admit,
and turn, let me kiss your neck
I’m desperate for the curve
from behind, your back
between hip and thigh
your ass, your thighs,
where I can just see your navel—
and once more, inside.
below–a clean patch of blush,
I come second, and fall
above–your belly dips in want
with your lips against mine,
holding for a maybe
tranced, in that awkward after,
a please, a breath of now—
that moment glow—
along the spread of your knees,
when lust cauterizes to love.
your tender, your more—please— and beg for my tongue, for me and my name whispered mid mount, mid pierce Lip lock, lock eyes, hair locks in sweat, trust, and fuck. Breathe, sweetheart,
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Olivia Frederick I am happy.
I can still taste the cigs that he hates,
My jeans between the sheets
And old beer is sticky between my fingers.
Feel like strangers on my legs.
I can’t remember getting this bruise.
All six of my dollars,
Or this one. Or this one.
Wadded and shoved in the front pockets,
I bruise like a peach.
Smell like last night’s soiree. I do remember sloppy kisses I get up,
With my roommate,
It’s 2 P.M.,
How her lips were always softer than mine.
And glare at my half-naked body
And I remember feeling full
In the blurry mirror.
Of love and of booze.
I like myself when I don’t eat, But I swallow a handful of cereal from their kitchen.
I am happy.
For Mom.
Shark in Water Lauren Mayo Ink on Paper
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Megan Ulrich I’ve been up for thirty minutes, but I can’t detach myself from the negative space I’ve burrowed into your body. It took me all night to find just the right spot. Our life is piled around us in eight cardboard boxes that can’t contain the last two hundred and fifty-five days of our life: That first night, getting used to the way your body felt next to mine, when I vomited twelve times in two days and you built me a fort out of gas station Mexican blankets and fed me off-brand pedialyte that tasted like absolute shit, the day I proudly held a pee stick in the air and we kissed and danced in the most beautiful silence. Do you remember when our life could fit in a single bedroom and our problems
Left: Translation Bennet LeMaster Painting
Above: Hodges Hannah Brandon Photograph
were contained to three hundred and fifty square feet of sex and tears and yelling and soft kisses I could barely feel with my eyes?
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Editorial Staff
Katherine Christian Editor-in-Chief
Support Staff
Bryanne Brewer
Tanner Biederman Fiction Editor
Macie Hatmaker
Stephen Johnson Poetry Editor
Abe Youssif
Conner Bradshaw Art Editor
Jesselyn Voysey
Faculty Advisor
Samuel Bendriem Graphic Designer
Content Š Copyright 2015 by the University of Tennessee. Rights retained by the individual contributors. Send submissions to: Phoenix Room 11 Communications Building 1340 Circle Park Dr., Knoxville, TN 37996 email: phoenix@utk.edu
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Grant Barbour
Rachel Wedding McClelland