Pwatem 2017

(pwa - te m) An Anthology of Literature and Art at VCU

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POICTESME (pwa-tem)

1. A fictitious French province created by James Branch Cabell that serves as a setting of several of his fantasy novels.

2. Virginia Commonwealth University’s anthology of literature and art

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MASTHEAD EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Lauren Chartuk

ILLUSTRATORS

WEBMASTER

Ava Blakeslee-Carter Madeline De Michele Iain Duffus Ellie Erhart Melissa Gitchel Megan Goldfarb Grace Hunsinger Amber Kerrigan Elise Ketch Caroline Meyers Erin Vest India Williams-Valle

SENIOR EDITOR

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

EDITORIAL STAFF

STUDENT MEDIA DIRECTOR

ASSISTANT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Faith Vasko

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Megan Goldfarb SECRETARY

Melissa Gitchel Elise Ketch

Amber Kerrigan

Alexandra Barry Ava Blakeslee-Carter Wyatt Booth Madeline De Michele Ellie Erhart Jordan Grooms Anna Kharko Kate Kharko Caroline Meyers Andrew Salsbury

Uri Hamman

Allison Dyche

PRODUCTION MANAGER

Mark Jeffries

BUSINESS MANAGER

Jacob McFadden

ASST BUSINESS MANAGER

Mikaela Reinard

COVER ART Detail from a drawing by Frank Papé, originally used for the endpapers of the large paper edition of “The Silver Stallion.”

Image courtesy of: John Thorne, http://jamesbranchcabell.org/ The staff at Poictesme would like to thank Ray Bonis, Senior Research Associate in Special Collections and Archives at James Branch Cabell Library, for his tremendous help.

Special thanks to the Student Media Commission Board, the VCU Student Media Center, and Dale Smith. © 2017 Poictesme Literary Journal VCU Student Media Center P.O. Box 842010 Richmond, Va 23284-2010 Everything in this book was created with the blood, sweat and tears of the VCU students and faculty, and funded by student fees. We accept submissions all year round from VCU students only.

All styles are welcome. Send us your submissions, thoughts, questions, concerns, or just say hi at pwatem@gmail.com.

Visit us at pwatem.com.

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EDITOR’S NOTE

E

very 5 o’clock on Friday I excitedly went to Poictesme meetings. When I first started at Poictesme, I stared at the staff members who unironically wore black t-shirts with holes in them, and imagined they used cigarette holders to smoke lackadaisically on Richmond streets. These writers, artists and overall editors taught me the word enjambment and encouraged me until I was pompous enough to use it in my classes. I looked up to them and never imagined I could learn to be so detailoriented and concerned about something called aesthetics. Three years later, I was elected to be Editor-in-Chief of the journal I so admire.

As an undergraduate literary journal, Poictesme’s staff is constantly evolving and taking new shapes. This year I got lucky with a staff full of eager and dedicated people. Their creativity and ideas are endless and inspired. With their direction, Poictesme has sought to connect to our namesake, James Branch Cabell. This year we used inspiration from VCU’s extensive James Branch Cabell archive on the cover and internal pages of the journal. The cover of this year’s journal is the map of Poictesme, the mythical province of France in Cabell’s series of novels, including Jurgen. The map signifies not the stories of Cabell, but the narratives within them. Within the spring journal, Poictesme showcases the writing of the talented student body at Virginia Commonwealth University. The journal is an amalgamation of talented undergraduate writers, artists and editors at VCU. Poictesme is made a possibility by the faces of the Student Media Center. I am eternally grateful for the walking encyclopedia that is Jacob McFadden for his kind problem solving and blunt rejections. Mark Jeffries is an endless source of creativity and inspiration for Poictesme, I know the entire staff thanks him for introducing the concept of paper touching meetings. Allison Dyche is a voice of calm reason during tempestuous panic.

The fellow organizations at the SMC were always a friendly face that lifted my spirits.

I would like to thank Cyrus Nuval of Amendment for his kind and sometimes cryptic encouragement. The past editor-in-chiefs of Poictesme, Carla Dominguez and Lyndon German paved paths and left shoes too big to fill. Their encouragement and guidance supported me in the daunting role of editor-in-chief. Poictesme is a well-oiled machine that is powered by the creativity and imaginations of VCU and supported tirelessly by the SMC. Poictesme has transformed and will continue to transform with the student body of VCU. The students scribbling feverishly outside Hibbs halls and the students with paint on their shoes from countless hours in the studio will always inspire Poictesme. Without the brilliant undergraduates this journal would not be in your hands.

LAUREN CHARTUK

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LITERATURE 6

APPLE PIE ROADKILL

44 EASY THERE, TIGER

Maria Conte

7

CLASH OF CONFABULATION

48 DWARFED

Melissa Gitchel

Editor's Choice

51 LOSS

8 QUILL

Elise Ketch

17 CONFESSION

Elijah Zimmerman

30 NEW MOON RITUAL

Anthony Sudol Jelani Ellis Kenneth Burchett

52 FOUR URNS AND A PHOTO

Lauren Chartuk

76 ‘TIL THE FIREFLIES

WINK OUT

Jensen Wainwright

31

FIRST FLIGHT

77 A CHARRED CROSS IN

JOHNSTON COUNTY,

NORTH CAROLINA

William Landon Minor

35 REFLECTION

Madeline De Michele Editor's Choice

41

MAXCY GREGG

Hallie Chametzky

Nick Farley

Jordan Grooms

78 EDITOR BIOS 80 COLOPHON

42 TENDERING OUT

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Kacey Ingram

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ART 18

FANCY SHRIMP

39 SISTERS

Stefan Scheercook

19

SHRIMPWEARâ„¢ 2017 SPRING COLLECTION

46 RITUALS TO TRY

Stefan Scheercook

Elise Ketch Gabriella Ostini

62 MONOMANIA

20 BINGHAMTON 2

Becca Schwartz

63 CLEAN LINEN

21

CONVENIENT OBJECTS

Caroline Meyers

22 UNTITLED

Weston Clark

24 GREENBLING

Jena Gilmore

25 LIME

Jena Gilmore

26 WHEN I PEEK INTO A NEST

Jiaqi Zhou

27 PUSH

Jena Gilmore

28 AND SO THEY DANCED

Ava Blakeslee-Carter

36 JEALOUSY OF OYA

Mahari Chabwera

Editor's Choice

37 GRACE OF YEMEYAH

Mahari Chabwera

Nia Campbell Nia Campbell

64 CONTEMPORARY OPIUM

AND NO. 606 SHOT

Ji Hyun Blessie Koo

65 THEY FLEE

Dawn Carr

66 SCISSORS

Madison Westgate

68 LOWEST PRICE

Jena Gilmore

70 STICKS AND FOAM

Morgan Honeycutt

71

EXCERPT FROM VENUS SIDE B4

Jana Choi

72

OCEANS: A RETURN

Veronica Blanco

74 LIVING NEEDLE NAVIGATION STATION

Elly Call

38 A JOURNEY

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Eun Chung Oh

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MARIA CONTE

Apple Pie Roadkill There’s a fork in the road Right before Marshall and Murrysville Where the leaves swell up in cyclones Each Fall—when cars speed by headed For Pittsburgh or maybe it's just a strong Wind? They have rumors about that diner In the fork. It's dirty, some say. It’s marvelous, Some say. The ones who eat frozen and Thawed Dutch apple pie from Shop & Save But one thing that we do know is true is One night a gold Oldsmobile was driving down To Pittsburgh, or Cleveland, and the deer Ran out but they missed the deer and hit An oak head on. Did you hear that? Everyone Eating their Dutch apple pies said. Are they okay?

And when they stepped out of the diner they Found a man unconscious with a split in the left Eyebrow. Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap. Well At least the radio is still working they said.

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ILLUSTRATION BY CAROLINE MEYERS

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MELISSA GITCHEL

Clash of the Confabulation AFTER UNTITLED (NO. 25) SCULPTURE BY LEE BONTECOU 1960

I crawl into your unnamed orifices to find darkness with a chill that seems warm beneath palms and wire stitches which prod tender places, while muffled dialogue from passersby retains no humanity and truthfully it’s better that way because this is no place for the public eye, here, with a twist of my neck I can bend from the light and eyes and bury myself among the dust specks and the leather fragrance, where mailbags now tote a more formidable message than the envelopes which came before me when suddenly the air brushes the holes before me and leaves a message of its own.

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ELISE KETCH

Quill The girl’s head shot up, back arched, hissing like a cat.

“Thanks, Chickie.”

The girl wrapped her fingers tight around her fountain pen, nails digging into her palms. Slowly she turned to face the gangly boy twirling a stray strand of long black hair around his pointer finger. The girl rubbed the back of her head and scowled, the sharp prick lingering on her scalp.

“David, you troll.” She took a swipe at the hair. The boy laughed and jumped back, wiggling the strand.

“For the last time, it’s Dianne. And I’m not a chicken. You can’t just pluck my hair out.”

The girl gathered her waist-length tresses in her hands and pulled them over her shoulder.

“At the rate you shed, I’m doing you a favor.” David dangled the glistening strand between the girl’s eyes.

Dianne bit her lip and returned to hunching over a black leather journal. David clucked and squawked, flapping his elbows and strutting around the rows of desks.

“That’s not funny,” Dianne retorted, pink budding across her face as she kept her eyes trained on her scrawl. “Why don’t you just bring a pen from home, or go swipe a few feathers from outside of Mr. Varitek’s coop?”

“Hey Birdie, it’s not my fault you’ve got the best quills in town growing right out of your head.”

A dozen boys and girls meandered about the cramped one-room schoolhouse. The younger children drew on the chalkboard at the front of the room, chattering to each other in thick Slovak accents. The older children sat silent and droopy-eyed at the back, their jackets permanently tinged with the smell of coal dust. Dianne sat in the middle by the window, allowing her to gaze at the winding dirt path that led to the center of the small Pennsylvania immigrant town.

“Hey guys! Come take a look at this little birdie,” David called out, smirking. Four other boys scuttled over, casting looming shadows over the desk.

“Excuse me, you’re blocking my li-” “Just look at all that mane! It’s nearly falling out of her head!” David squawked, his eyes twinkling devilishly. “Say, we all forgot our pens at home today, why don’t we just yank a few of those black beauties and dip them in ink instead?” The others rumble in agreement.

Dianne squealed, attempting to cover her head. They plucked at her skull like a goose for its feathers, strands uprooted like weeds in the garden. She could feel each individual snap as they yanked away, little sparks bursting on her scalp.

A child near the small classroom’s door cried out. The sharp tugs stopped, replaced by the scuffling of the boys rushing to their seats. The children scrambled to rearrange the classroom and settle into their chairs.

Timidly, the girl lowered her arms and raised her head.

“Dianne, are you feeling alright?” the teacher asked, her brow crinkled.

The boys all had their notebooks out, studiously copying down the assignment from the chalkboard. Dianne watched as David pinched and twisted a cluster of her hairs, licked it into a point, and delicately dipped the end into his inkwell. He traced out elegant, detailed calligraphy, blue-black droplets glistening on the tapered end. David caught her eye and shot her a threatening side-glance.

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“Yeah, just a headache.” She fired the boy her own seething glance. He smirked and leaned back in his chair, smugly doodling an intricate pattern on his arm.

Dianne retrieved a purple inkwell from her pocket, dipped her fountain pen, and began to copy the assignment. 1943, she dated the margin.

David leaned across the aisle. “Now see, that stick can’t make nearly as neat and crisp a line as this fine writing instrument. Thanks, Quill.”

Dianne bit her lip and raised a trembling hand. “May I go to the water pump for a drink, please?”

Dianne raced to the back of the schoolhouse and sank to the ground, sniveling. She pulled out her journal from under her arm and flipped past the scrawled pages, stopping on a blank sheet near the back. She laid the book open on her lap then retrieved her pen and inkwell from her pocket. A stray tear rushed down her cheek, landing softly on the page. She wiped it away with her sleeve before beginning to write.

Joseph liked to spend time in the woods. I found him there, one time.

The little girl found her older brother sitting quietly on the bank of the brook, legs pulled to his chest, his chin burrowed into his knees, his eyes focused somewhere deep in the trees. A black leather journal sat open on his lap, the pages flipping softly in the breeze.

The little girl sniffled. The brother looked up in surprise. Their red, puffy eyes locked. The brother smiled weakly.

“What’s got you down? Are the neighbors bothering you again?” Joseph asked me.

The little girl shook her head.

“Do you need me to give those kids another talking-to?”

I told him no and sat next to him. Joseph was looking at something far away.

She shrugged and stared at her shoes.

The brother sighed and patted the pebbled ground next to him. The little girl shuffled over and huddled next to him, mimicking his position. The brother wrapped his arm around her, the sleeve of his wool coat smelling faintly of coal dust. They sat in silence, the brook babbling softly. The little girl tried to pick out what her brother was staring so intently at.

I don’t know what it was.

“It’s hard,” Joseph said.

The brother at last spoke, his voice wavering. “It’s so hard, sometimes.”

“Things just got you feeling so trapped,” he said.

“I know it. I feel it too,” the brother told the little girl. She nodded.

“But the brook is our friend,” he said.

“It’s kind. It listens. It’s the one thing that never changes, that always flows. It comes straight and pure from the heart of the mountain, and when we take it into our bodies, I guess we get some of that purity too.”

A soft breeze ruffled their black tresses.

“You are leaving,” I said.

The little girl whimpered.

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I can’t keep doing this. This can’t be my future. I can’t spend another day in the mines…”

“I’m tired…” Joseph said.

“But I need you,” I said.

“I can’t stop... They scare me... You...” the little girl faltered.

“Hey, I made this for you,” Joseph said.

The brother shifted onto his knees to face the little girl, reaching into his coat. “Our neighbor, the blacksmith, showed me how, with his kiln.”

He made me a purple inkwell and gave it to me.

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The brother took the little girl’s small, trembling hands and wrapped them tightly around the small ceramic vessel, cupping them firmly in his own.

“I want you to always remember to write. It’s what I do, when I have a problem,” he said.

“No matter what happens to me… Writing makes you stronger, it clears your head.

It lets you think things through; it keeps you from doing something rash. It helps you find out what’s true, and what’s not. When you have a problem, just step back and take a moment to write.”

“Words... they kind of connect us,” he said.

His hands slid off hers and fell into his lap. The little girl nodded, bringing the smooth parcel closer to her chest.

“It helps,” Joseph said.

Joseph was a good brother.

Dianne set down her pen and wiped her eyes. She scanned over the page and scratched out a few words, scrawling their replacements in the cramped space left over.

Joseph is a good brother.

“I swear it helps,” the brother told the little girl.

Dianne nodded, pressing the cool inkwell to her throat.

As soon as she got home, Dianne ran to the back yard and into her grandfather’s embrace. She sniveled as she followed him through the garden to a small wire pen.

“My, that is a shame,” the old man sympathized. “I’m so sorry, darling. They have no right to do that to you.”

“They won’t stop. I- I don’t know what to do. I can’t do anything about it. I can’t.... I can’t make them stop.”

“Well of course you can do something about it. Why don’t you help me get a chicken ready for dinner and we can talk about it.”

The old man stooped into the dank coop while the girl waited outside. “Now Dianne, how long has this boy been bothering you?” He unlatched the door to the scraggly wire cage in the back and reached in for the hen that they had isolated a week earlier.

“Ever since he came here.” Dianne wrinkled her nose. “That was about a year ago.”

“Fresh off the boat, eh?” The old man appeared from the dark. “Here, you want to hold her? Oop- be careful. This one’s a pecker. Yeah, grab the ankles and the tail, and the wing tips, just like that. Now she can’t getcha.”

“Mmhm. His name is David, GranJack.” The bird fidgeted in her fists as they walked to the rickety shed on the other side of the property.

“Alrighty, David. Well, have you tried telling him to stop?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you asked him to stop, politely?”

“Yeah, I’ve tried.”

“Have you explained to him that it bothers you?”

“Well, I’ve tried that too, but he never lets me finish. He just talks over me... As if he wasn’t already loud enough... He got in trouble for being a chatterbox on Tuesday. The teacher sent him to the corner.”

GranJack heaved down an axe hanging on the wall inside the dark. He picked up a large knife from a table. “Have you told the teacher about this?”

“She wouldn’t believe me. She’s never in the room when he does it. He makes sure of that. She never sees him... he’s never caught.” The girl followed the old man behind the shed. A large, flat concrete block sat stoically in the center of the clearing.

“Well, this boy sounds like nothing but a little wart, now. Have you tried telling him ‘Go to your Grandmother’s and catch flies?’” the old man quipped in an old

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Slovak idiom.

A smile flickered on Dianne’s face. She quickly suppressed it into a grimace.

“How about ‘Up your butt and to the dance?’”

Dianne giggled and passed the chicken to the old man by its legs. “GranJack, I can’t say that! He’d tell on me and I’d be the one in trouble!”

“I’m just playing with you, darling. Say, do me a favor and grab the bucket from the shed.”

Dianne rushed to the front. Grasping it by the handle, Dianne clumsily dragged the large, tin pail around to the block.

“Thank you, darling. Have you asked your friends to help?” The old man grasped the fowl firmly around its tail, legs, and wings with his left hand, the axe handle gripped in his right. He laid the breast on top of the block and pulled the legs over the head, forcing the body into a near-right angle. The befuddled bird reacted by contracting its head and neck so its beak paralleled the flat surface.

“Well”, GranJack sighed, “You could always just avoid him, but that doesn’t solve the problem, now does it?”

“I can’t hide from him forever, he lives right down the road.”

“I can give him a talking-to, if you’d like. Or I can talk to his folks.”

“Thanks GranJack, but I think that’d just make him hate me more.”

The hen stilled, her beady black eyes seeming to gaze straight past Dianne into the field beyond. Her breath became rhythmic, feathers gently inflating and deflating.

“Step over here, darling. You don’t want to get splattered. Maybe you need to beat him at his game.”

With a swift, experienced swipe, the axe split the chicken’s neck. The sharp chop pierced the air and echoed across the property. The head tumbled into the bucket.

Dianne winced, her expression unchanging.

“What do you mean, his game?” Dianne stepped back to avoid the frantically fluttering wings.

GranJack held the body up in the air by a leg until the nerves calmed. “Quick, darling, help me start plucking the feathers before the skin gets cold. Yeah, just toss them in the bucket. Remember, pinch, don’t yank. You might not be able to grab those ones in a bunch, just get them one at a time. You don’t want to pull off the skin. Anyhow— I mean I think you are doing exactly what he wants you to.”

“But I’m not doin’ nothing.”

“Exactly. That’s the rules of the game. He bothers you, you do nothing. You need to change the rules, or break them.

“How?” “You said he uses not having anything to write with as an excuse to pull your hair, right?

Why don’t you clean some of these shafts and take them to school tomorrow with you and give them to him? Then he doesn’t have an excuse anymore. You’ve changed the rules.”

“But I already told him to pick up some feathers from around Mr. Varitek’s fence. He refuses to.”

“Ah, I see.” GranJack reached to the ground for the large knife, deftly slicing underneath the tail of the carcass and chopping off the feet. He set down the blade, reaching into the gut with his free hand and pulling out the intestines. The red glop plopped into the pail below. “This boy is jealous of you.”

“Jealous of me? But I ain’t got nothing for him to be jealous about!”

“You see darling, this ‘David’ is fresh off the boat. He’s probably not like our family, with a nice patch of land to earn us an extra dime. His whole family probably works in the mines. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does too, in fact. He probably doesn’t have a nickel to spare, much less to go pick up a fountain pen at the general store.”

“Oh.” The pair walked back around into the shed, the girl dragging the bucket behind

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her. “So he’s jealous that I have a pen?”

“Yes, dear. And he’s probably ashamed too, too proud to use a found quill.” GranJack took a piece of twine and wrapped it several times around the bird’s ankles, knotting them together. “Set the bucket under here, darling.” He looped the twine around a large hook drilled into the rafters and pulled, raising the carcass to dangle at eye level. “Or then again, he may just want your attention. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this boy has taken a liking to you.”

“Ew, GranJack, no!”

The old man chuckled as he cleaned his tools. Blood trickled gently into the pail, each drip causing a soft, metallic ring.

“Maybe I should just get him a pen. Then he’d never have an excuse to bother me, ever again.”

“Now, that’s an idea. Not only would you change the rules, you’d break the game.

Split it right in half.”

“Yeah!” Dianne’s face lit up, then quickly fell. “But... I don’t have any spare change.”

“Why don’t you ask Ms. Tomko a few miles down the road? She’s an artist, she might have a few extra pens.”

“You think she’d let me have one?”

“It never hurts to ask.”

The pair walked outside to the water pump.

“What if he still bothers me, even after I give him the pen?”

“Dear, I’m not worried about you one bit. You’re smart, and you can take care of yourself. You’ll figure something out. I believe in you. You’re not the type to just give up and be pushed around forever. You are strong.” He poked Dianne’s chest. She smiled.

GranJack pumped the handle for Dianne as she scrubbed under the steady stream, clawing at the blood caked under her fingernails. They switched, Dianne puffing with effort as GranJack massaged between the lines etched on his hands.

“GranJack?” Dianne asked, hesitantly.

“Yes, dear?”

“Did Joseph think I was strong?”

The old man gazed at the girl thoughtfully.

“He did, dear. He did.”

Dianne rapped on the frame of the screen door and quickly pulled back. A soft scuffling came from the interior of the house. Dianne clasped her hands together and swayed gently back and forth on the front stoop.

“Ms. Tomko?”

“Yes?” a voice rang from around a corner. “Who is it?”

“Dianne Kremposky!”

There was another scuffle. A woman appeared in the doorway, her apron covered in smears of blue ink.

“Oh, Dianne! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!” She pushed open the door. “Years, even! My, I really do need to get out more. Please, come in!”

Dianne followed the woman down the dim hallway to a cluttered, sunlit studio.

Dianne crinkled her nose at the bitter, overpowering odor of linseed oil. Dried daubs of cracking paint adorned the furniture. Rolls of parchment and canvas rested in bundles on top of stacked crates.

“Please, make yourself at home! My, I don’t get visitors nearly enough.” Ms. Tomko rummaged through some piles of clutter, managing to uncover a kettle and two teabags.

“Dianne, look how you’ve grown! How is your family? Are they well?”

Dianne picked a paintbrush off the seat of a wooden chair. Its bristles were uneven

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ILLUSTRATION BY MADELINE DE MICHELE

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and frayed, stiff with caked, dried paint. She placed the brush on the floor and sat down.

“They’re fine, thank you. M’dad is coming home in a few months. We can’t wait to see him. Grandma Bubba asks every day how much longer ‘till he’s back.”

“Ah, he’s overseas? My husband is as well. Goodness, I miss him. Pray for him every night. By the way, I heard about Joseph. I’m sorry to bring it up, I just never got to send my condolences.”

“It’s okay. It was a while ago.”

“My, I really don’t get out enough.”

Mrs. Tomko clumsily struggled to light a match. Dianne gazed absentmindedly at a half-completed line drawing of a Blue Jay tacked to the wall. Mrs. Tomko shook her head, seeming to magically pull two teacups from the pile next to the stove.

“So I doubt you came all the way over here just to talk to me,” Ms. Tomko intuited, putting on a smile. “Tell me, why are you visiting today?”

Dianne swallowed. “You see, there’s these boys in my class... I just need a few pens, that’s all. Do you have any you could spare?”

“Well...” Mrs. Tomko put down the kettle and opened a drawer, rummaging through its contents. She pulled out an assortment of palette knives, a blackened chamois, a sponge. She sighed.

“I’m so sorry, honey. I’d love to give you some, but with my husband gone overseas money is rather tight. As you probably noticed, all of my brushes have seen better days, and I can’t afford to get new ones. Without brushes, pen-and-ink is the only drawing medium I have. Not to mention with the rationing and whatnot, even nice pens are hard to come by. I’m so sorry, but I need these.”

Dianne deflated. “Oh, it’s okay. Really, I understand.”

Mrs. Tomko leaned against the wall, cocking her head at a funny angle. “Although...”

She seemed to chew on the thought. “If I had more brushes, I could go back to painting and spare some of my drawing tools. I do know how to make nice home-made brushes.”

The woman walked over to Dianne and picked up a lock of her long hair from the back of the chair, examining it. Dianne tensed self-consciously.

“We could make a trade.”

“Best two out of three?” David hoisted a boy from the dusty ground in front of the schoolhouse. The group of boys surrounding them hooted and hollered. One whistled on a weed pressed between his fingers.

The ruddy lad swiped at a smudge of dirt on his cheek. “Sure, but next time there’ll be nothing left of you but slickens.”

David rolled his eyes and grinned, giving the lad a rough handshake. A distant figure coming up the dirt path caught his eye.

“Hey look, it’s Quill!” he jeered. The other boys rushed forward, eagerly joining in.

“Hey Birdie!”

“Hey Chickie!”

“Hey-” David stopped short, his mouth agape.

Dianne shook her head, the ends of her black locks swishing over her jawbone.

“What did you-” “Here.” She shoved a small parcel to his chest. The boy stumbled back. “These are for you all.” She thrust out her fist. The boys hesitated. The girl shook her arm impatiently.

Each boy pulled a wrapped parcel from her clutch.

David delicately pulled the twine and brown paper away.

“It’s... a pen.” He fingered the sharp, forked tip.

Dianne nodded smugly, her hair brushing past her chin. “You don’t need quills anymore, do you?”

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By summer the girl’s locks had begun to tickle her shoulders, so she tied them back while helping around the house. Dianne kicked open the screen door and plopped a chicken carcass on the kitchen counter. “GranJack, this one ain’t bleeding anymore,” she declared with a smile.

The two adults paused mid-conversation, blinking. “Oh, oh yes. Thank you dear.”

Dianne looked from her mother to her grandfather’s troubled visages. Quietly, she left the room. As soon as she turned the corner she stopped, pressing herself against the wall, straining to hear. She stuck her hand in her pocket, nervously rotating the inkwell between her fingers.

Her mother sighed and pulled a jar of spice from the cabinet, sprinkling a pile into her hand and massaging it into the pink flesh. “A beam broke and an entire shaft collapsed,” the woman whispered hoarsely. “The eldest Banik boy was killed. You know, our neighbors? His younger brother, David, goes to Dianne’s school.”

Dianne’s fingers froze.

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of this boy. Oh dear. Oh dear.” GranJack took a seat at the small table. “That’s just awful. How are the parents?”

“His mother is devastated. Absolutely devastated. She can barely move, she’s so stricken. The father is overseas.” The woman sighed, rubbing her hands on her skirt before rubbing her eyes. “They’ll likely have to move to find other work. There’s no one to take care of the family anymore.”

“What about the younger one? Couldn’t he continue mining? He’s safe, right?”

“He’s alive, he’s alright, it’s just- his hands got crushed. Oh, Lord, he’s fortunate it was just his hands.”

The cool wind whipped at the girl’s face as she dashed through the turning forest foliage. At last Dianne found David sitting on the bank of the brook, his arms burrowed in his pockets, his eyes focused somewhere deep in the trees.

“I know what you’re staring at,” she said.

David started, his head whipping around. “Oh. It’s you.”

She sat down next to him on the damp sand of the bank, panting.

“I’ve been running around everywhere looking for you. No one answered at your house.”

“You literally ran everywhere.”

Dianne nodded, tucking her skirt under her rear.

“You’re insane,” David mumbled.

“I know.”

A soft breeze ruffled their tresses.

“I guess you’ve heard about everything.”

“Yeah, I guess so. You weren’t at school today.”

“I’m probably not going back to school.”

“I know, yeah.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Teacher said your family was leaving soon.”

“We are, maybe.”

“Oh.” The wind carried the scent of coal still faintly lingering on the boy.

David’s arms rustled in his pockets. “Here, you can have your pen back.” He pulled his arm from his pocket, cupping the pen loosely in his gloved palm. “It’s not like I have much use for it anymore.”

Dianne gasped in surprise. “Wait, you still have hands?!”

“Yeah, dummy. They were crushed in the rubble, not cut off.” He rested both hands

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limply on his lap. A pair of fitted leather gloves covered them to the wrists.

“Do they hurt real bad?”

“No, not really. I mean, a little. They did, at first, so bad I couldn’t get out of bed. It felt like I was gonna die. But it’s been a few weeks now.” He grimaced.

“I... I just can’t move them. I can’t feel them. I can’t really use them, either. They’re really messed up. It crushed most of the bones, and some other important stuff too. They look really bad. I was lucky they even gave me these gloves to cover them up. The big guys don’t really care about us working folks.”

Dianne reached for a glove. “Can I s—” “NO!” The boy threw his hands to the air, sending the pen splashing into the brook.

Dianne started after it. “Oh no, I’m sorry—” “No, stop. I’m sorry.”

The children stared at each other. Dianne sat back down. They watched the pen as it bobbed on the surface and drifted out of sight.

“That stupid pen saved my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was showing it to my brother right before the cave fell in, but I dropped it and it rolled away. I went chasing it right out of the tunnel. I was reaching for it when the wall... collapsed... and...” David stared at his limp hands, trembling.

“I know.”

David looked up with raw eyes. “What?”

“I know.” Dianne swallowed. “Things just got you feeling so trapped… My brother’s dead, too, you see. He was tired... really tired…”

The children stared into the brook, chins resting upon tucked knees. It babbled softly.

“I just wish I could talk to him... again...” David whispered.

Dianne nodded. “You know, my brother told me to always remember to write, when I have a problem. It connects us.” Her fingers danced over the inkwell resting in her pocket. “Maybe we could write to them, right now.”

“But... I can’t...”

“I’ll write it for you.”

Dianne pulled out the purple inkwell from her pocket and the black leather journal from within her coat. She rummaged through her pocket. “Well, no pen...” Dianne scratched her head and her eyes lit up. “You got a pocket blade?”

“Yeah,” David replied, patting his pocket.

Dianne slipped the blade from the fabric and deftly severed a lock of dark hair from behind her ear. David chuckled as she twisted it into a point. The girl grinned and popped the cork from the inkwell.

“Wait... What should I say?”

“Whatever you want.”

“How do I start?”

“Maybe by saying hello. What’s your brother’s name?”

“Gerald. I always called him Gerry, though. He called me Davey. We liked to mess with each other like that.”The boy grinned. “What about yours, Quill?”

“His name is Joseph.”

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ELIJAH ZIMMERMAN

Confession I

have never broken a bone and have never been to the West Coast and for some reason that makes me sad.

Please

call my parents and ask them for an embarrassing story about me. Their phone number is four three four nine six six seven nine six four

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FANCY SHRIMP (LEFT) SHRIMPWEAR TM 2017 SPRING COLLECTION (RIGHT) STEFAN SCHEERCOOK POICTESME 19

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BINGHAMPTON 2 (LEFT) BECCA SCHWARTZ CONVENIENT OBJECTS (RIGHT) CAROLINE MEYERS

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GREENBLING JENA GILMORE

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LIME JENA GILMORE

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WHEN I PEEK INTO A NEST JIAQI ZHOU 26 POICTESME

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PUSH JENA GILMORE POICTESME 27

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AND SO THEY DANCED AVA BLAKESLEE-CARTER POICTESME 29

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JENSEN WAINWRIGHT

New Moon Ritual My love left this morning, before the sun rose.

He left before the light danced across our faces and his tongue could lick the morning sweat off my skin.

I wake when the sheet holds fast to my cheek-splotched with red.

Foolishly white and ripe with potential, a nest for an unrealized child, laden with wasted DNA and iron.

Last night the moon had triggered something within me.

A red tide from my nose, mouth, and vulva.

A drugged sleep smelling of chemical cherry poured in my raw red mouth to keep me from coughing, to permit me to sleep.

My love doused my mouth with a sugar sweet coat and nestled me to bed.

My head pounds, my nose twitches ill. I feel muscles move deep inside me, my roots unwinding themselves.

The revolution of the body, the violent civil war. Mucus and blood, constant cleansing and eternal.

From throat to root it comes in waves, a reminder that nothing changes.

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WILLIAM LANDON MINOR

First Flight Far atop the barren sand hills of Northern Yemen, Amaal sat impatiently from his solitary vantage point. For days, he’d been ordered by the elders to stand guard on the furthest edges of the tribe’s borderlands. Word from across the northern deserts told that, the great war of the Europeans had begun to push south and the ever encroaching Ottomans continued to rampage through the outlying regions.

Yet, as far as Amaal could tell, the whole war was nothing but a far-off thought.

No army could possibly survive under the cruel sands of southern Arabia; the bitter winds, the freezing nights, and the sheer absence of water. It enveloped the landscape and ensured the well being of his friends and family. Taking a drink from his canteen, he gave silent thanks to the fresh water his mother had packed.

Her gift had given him strength in the blistering heat and this encouragement reinforced his resolve to guard the remote corner of their barren homeland.

With a sigh, he pulled a rag and oil tin from his satchel, and began to polish his flintlock pistol for the third time that day. A weapon of his forefathers, the faded gold engravings still shined in the high midday sun, spelling out the prayers of fallen warriors in old Arabic. Carefully dripping grease onto the single shot barrel, he gently began to clean the never-ending dust that had collected over the hours.

Rubbing the barrel with the faded cloth, he felt a nudge on his left shoulder and looked up. His gaze was met by his camel, who gave a low, deep growl of boredom.

“My ever faithful companion,” Amaal said with a frown. “Hush, I don’t like this anymore than you do. But we can’t return until sundown, so we may as well remain content.” Turning again to polish his pistol, Amaal received another nudge, heavier than the last, causing him to drop the pistol into the sand. “You stupid beast, what’s gotten into you?” He said, jumping to his feet in frustration.

Surely the heat wasn’t enough to harm the creature and it had been fed only hours earlier. Raising its large head, the camel let out another low groan, this time more anxious and aggressive. Amaal began to gently pat its long neck, to assure it of the surroundings, but the beast continued to act in a restless manner. Reaching into its saddle, Amaal pulled out a short spyglass, no longer than his forearm. Blowing the dust from the scope and raising it to his eye, he started to scan his surroundings.

From far in the distance, a low hum began to fill the air. At first, he mistook the sound for the ever-present flies of the desert, yet the space around him was barren.

It was a foreign sound, like a soft roaring beast or an English ship in the southern ports, which only seemed to grow as the seconds passed. Seizing the reins and mounting the camel, Amaal continued to scan the far edges of the horizon but still, nothing came into view. Closing his eyes, he focused hard on listening, his ears were trained by years in the desert landscape. It took a moment for him to realize the origin of the humming. Lifting the scope high above the hills, he scanned the surrounding skies, and out of the bright gaze of the sun. Amaal found the source of the sound.

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They were unlike anything he had ever seen. Long boats flying on crimson wings with fins like a fish and smoke spitting from its face.

Like out of a dream, the five figures continued to roar across the sky towards the south. Looking closer through the spyglass, Amaal could recognize the crest painted boldly onto the underside of the wings.

The red and white of the Ottoman seal sent a cold shiver down his back, while his camel continued to groan nervously. Pulling the reins to ensure control, he continued to watch the boats approach until they passed overhead with the sound of a stampede. Casting shadows across the arid wasteland, Amaal glanced up into the brief moments of shade, catching only the faintest details of strange flying beasts. Within seconds of passing, shots rang out from the wings, as the men on board cast random shots at the lone desert figure far below. Then, in an instant, they were gone.

With a jump, the camel attempted to break away east, but pulling fast on the reins, Amaal steadied his mount. Tucking the scope back into his pouch, he gave the camel a sharp kick and began riding south, trying to keep the machines in sight. But the effort was in vain, as the flying boats started to become shapes on the horizon once again. Just before falling out of sight, he pulled the pistol from his belt and aimed it high at the horizon. Looking down the long, ornate barrel, he caught the last glimpse of the boats as they finally flew out of sight. Once again, he was alone in the desert, surrounded only by the silence of the endless sands. Giving another kick to his steed, he pressed hard south with the sun on his shoulders. As he rode towards home, his mind filled with questions of the newly uncertain future. The desert around him no longer seemed like the natural fortress it once was, and the lives of his family had lost all assurance of protection. Glancing at the pistol tucked in his belt, he could not help but imagine confronting such powerful forces with the limited resources of his people. As he pressed on into the evening, Amaal began to realize the reality of the situation. The Great War had finally touched his desert.

ILLUSTRATION BY ELLIE ERHART

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MADELINE DE MICHELE

Reflection She has three arms bundled loosely in latticed fabric, protected from scissored words and rolling tongues her flesh sits anxiously beneath sagging wings, unable to escape.

All three hands are weakly attached by a wrist as strong as straw but only two are used to touch, and feel the last sits, unfermented, a pedestaled part meant to look at, gaze and observe.

Eyes flitting back and forth across each line her head bent towards the rolling paths of her palm she forgets about the other hands the two that are meant to touch, and feel because they are too heavy they wilt like flowers onto the marble, forgotten until rumination falls to impatient expectation.

Burdened hands, weighted by persistent pageanting, rise heavy fingers hang like bloated fruit on weak limbs shaking, her shoulders roll, flopping digits onto familiar forms.

The genial truss recognizes, she is told.

She is told and yet she cannot use her third hand it is tied behind her back pulled taut and severe like the bun of a ballerina, trussed, not to be seen until later when she looks into the mirror.

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JEALOUSY OF OYA MAHARI CHABWERA

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GRACE OF YEMEYAH MAHARI CHABWERA

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SISTERS ELISE KETCH POICTESME 39

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HALLIE CHAMETZKY

Maxcy Gregg They play make believe among the rocks translucent jagged edges catching light and throwing it back as if to say “we didn’t choose this.”

I know their story, whose palms let loose an empty bottle, a washed-up plate and left the carcass disembodied, flung open nestled on a creek bed.

Did I build a grave or a shrine?

The wet sand turned to molding clay and I needed to make home for something without song.

Maybe the current will pull them away maybe the barrier will fall first.

But Jews lay stones, not flowers, on the graves of their loved ones knowing Nature’s purpose is not to grieve for us.

What will be here to be found when I am gone?

These pieces of mine are too fragile for the keeping.

The Earth assures me a quiet inevitability her fingers sweeping away flowers and stone.

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KACEY INGRAM

Tendering Out Six months ago he had kissed her in the walk-in over a crate of cabbages and neither of them had spoken about it since.

“I wish there was a faster way to do this,” he said.

Twenty-six more orders flashed on computer one. William opened another ticket, selected the big, blue button in the top right labeled TENDER, and then tapped CASH. While the system worked through a glitch, he rolled his neck back, then from left to right and back again.

He sighed.

“Not a bad night,” he said.

“Nope, pretty steady for a Monday,” Malinda replied. She was next to him, leaning against the restaurant’s marble counter, waiting for him to cash out her tips. She loved closing, the way the restaurant felt like new territory completely empty with all the lights off. And there was something about being next to William in the darkened silence that got her head spinning. She was still hoping he would bring up what had happened and would explain. Maybe he would say he was sorry he hadn’t had the nerve to bring it up before. And he’d have an explanation, a plan for how they could be together. And he’d be sorry for making her wait. Yes, in her mind he would kiss her and say, “I’m so sorry, Malinda.”

TENDER. CASH. TENDER. CASH. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

Malinda hopped up on the counter, removed her little, black apron and scooped the loose change from its pockets.

“How’s Shannon?” she asked.

“Just fine. Well, as fine as she could be a week past her due date. She’s more than ready for…ahh, last ticket,” he celebrated.

TENDER. CASH. “Wow. I bet she is ready. Are you?” she asked.

“I guess, I guess I’m ready. I know I’m tired of waiting, so I guess that means I’m ready, right?” he laughed nervously.

“How much did I make tonight?” she asked.

“Damn,” he said, “I accidentally closed out the drawer. Can you wait until tomorrow? I’m sorry,” he crooned.

Well, it wasn’t exactly the apology she was looking for.

ILLUSTRATION BY MELISSA GITCHEL

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ANTHONY SUDOL

Easy There, Tiger Good morning sunshine!

Wake up in the morning without gum-crusted eyes, O’ glorious day.

Eyes clear now, the frame has righted itself cropped tighter than before I think oh tiger I look at you, you have many forms Part house-cat part man part alien invader oh tiger You look at me, my form has gathered meaning from the moment we occupy in history (some may call it the present day) but it is also carved from the looks of others, some eyes like pickaxes and others like chisels.

We look at each other and learn our identities together, an impromptu study session under the stars.

Oh tiger!

Chloe Sevigny interrupts our tryst and she is looking at me, oh!

With so much disgust.

We share many of the same ideals but she looks this way because I vomited on her crisp white pantsuit at the 2006 Whitney biennial lol.

Easy! Easy.

You don’t have to brawl, to battle, don’t be brash, you beast!

Defending my honor is OUT, looking is IN Oh tiger...

Reach inside your magic bag and pull out a magnifying glass so we can see who she really is.

Or maybe it is better to point it back at ourselves because when u look into that glass your eye becomes too big and heavy on the other side, So much so that you might not be able to lift it again.

Felix, my tiger, buried in carts under mountains of thrift store opulence glistening like moon dew pebbles we drink and we have drunk plenty in preparation but we won’t feel right until the hems of our satin ball gowns become tattered from all the dancing.

“Straight guy holding platinum Bud Light asks weed friend if he has his scale on him.”

Chill out my bro. Take it easy my dude. easy easy easy Smuggling a pair of bedazzled jeans out of a Goodwill dressing room will not alleviate the pain of paying 2 exist, and existing in pain — god these pants are too tight— but it might make us feel a bit better about our complacencies in this system.

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We are not politically active but we pretend to be on Facebook.

Oh tiger, I am upending no systems, inciting no revolutions tonight.

“Kiss Me” by Sixpence None The Richer plays as queer girls embrace across the room By day they act as covert operatives, secret spies who are no good at camouflage they stick out like sore thumbs beaten by long hammers.

“This is a sordid little ‘burg, isn’t it?” they say as they disappear down Hell Block only to realize its name too, too late.

TAP TAP of too-cool platform shoes on ravaged pavement and overturned bricks TAP TAP of middle finger on bright yellow and black screen TAP TAP of your leaky faucet its been this way ever since the night we showered together TAP TAP of little white kitty paw on the window begging to be let out TAP TAP Oh Felix, can we protect them? I love them all surely. Turn your magic bag into a great big shield and we’ll huddle behind it in a great big mound.

Until the day of course that we will ride around again in a 1996 Jeep Wrangler with the top off and the frame exposed.

(Tho in the end Chloe still looks on, this time from my shoulder.

She whispers in my ear over the noise of the engine wearing a plastic halo hot glued to shiny metal horns.)

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Rituals to Try Through various prompts, individuals were asked to perform different elements of alternative rituals; breaking a beer bottle to express their current feelings, taking a sealed letter to send out, using a beach comber to search with shells, and other simple movements.

The artist’s costuming began as accoutrements; gear shedded to reveal clothing, and then, the bare body, offering different levels of confrontation to the audience. The piece ended when all of the letters and bottles were gone, and the artist had stripped themselves nude.

A PERFORMANCE BY GABRIELLA OSTINI

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MAIL THIS LETTER PLEASE DON’T MALE MY LETTER Learist, My mother and I attended the same high school and she saved all of her clothes for me. Growing up shows you that your doctor will hit on you because you look enough like your mom to make him still feel young. And he’ll let you pass your drug test if you look at pictures of him when he was still good-looking. My mom always knew he had a thing for her. I thought his son was hot and that we would talk about him in the examination room; no luck.

This past summer was hot as hell but I’ve been dryer. I call my mom when I’m walking so I’ll look busy but I just end up crying and looking too busy for my own good.

Sometimes my sweat feels like tears. I just can’t seem to save water. I told her to call me everyday when I dropped her off at the airport. I told her to call me everyday, in front of my boyfriend.

My mother was what I am not. But sometimes we dance and cry in kind of the same way.

Sincerely, Someone Who Wanted You To Know

p.s. I’m talking about my mom, she’s in California nowhere near you.

(10/7/16 5:20 pm) This letter is a PDF and therefore cannot be edited so keep your hands off it’s mine.

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JELANI ELLIS

DWARFED I’ve always been small.

I spent my early years looking up, on tiptoes, struggling to see over windowsills and high tabletops.

When my mother sat, I would cry to be lifted onto her lap so I could stand on her knees and see over it all.

I remember our vacation to Sears Tower— to the glass ledge.

The entire world was there one hundred thirty floors beneath my feet.

I towered above traffic -stood higher than skyscrapers.

I saw where Chicago met the lake.

Had I raised myself on my toes, I would’ve seen over the horizon -but I was taken by the shoulder and dragged back to the ground before I had the chance.

Years passed.

I became concerned with more practical problems.

My dreams of stepping over stars were dwarfed until they all but disappeared.

I took the first chance to move to the city In hopes of achieving the astronomical.

I work as a park custodian sweeping up cigarette butts and plastic bags while I apply for loftier jobs.

Rejection after rejection, the city looms over me higher and higher.

At night, when I come across beer bottles in the park, I crush them beneath my feet.

In the light of street lamps, the shards glimmer sort of like stars.

That night, I dreamt of walking over the Milky Way. Each step sent clouds of cosmic dust swirling into galaxies around my feet.

I cried when I woke on Earth, stuck to the ground.

I could never escape it -no matter how many jungle gyms or ladders or fences or treetops I climbed.

They were hardly high enough.

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KENNETH BURCHETT

Loss Blood-kin gathered around Grandma, gasping, bone-thin in bed. Bored, I sat afar, though curious at Uncle’s tears, and silence of sassy aunts. Grandma moaned, beckoned me.

I leapt for liver splotched arms, delighted, like times past, before Father cursed often.

Stoic and calm, Uncle whispered – “Gentle.”

Obedient, I kissed cold hands. Grandma wept wet rage. Confused, I rose for the den, watched cartoons, and never saw her again.

I stand now, stoic, siblings gathered ‘round our green Father. My Nephew sits afar.

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LAUREN CHARTUK

Chapter One: Four Urns and a Photo EXCERPT FROM A NOVEL

June Marlow was born in January, the year the Challenger space shuttle exploded.

Every year on June’s birthday, her mother, Ilka, reminded her of the nine-hour labor during which she watched the explosion on an old box Panasonic T.V over and over again. June imagined her mother in the hospital bed, red-faced and sweaty but otherwise unaffected by both the disaster and birth. Ilka, widowed at 56, was a Great Depression-hardened woman, even though she was too young to have seen it. Ilka and June Marlow hadn’t spoken in seven months.

June felt that by 30 years-old she was beyond her childhood, she had one memento remaining: a photo of the Marlow family. She was in the center of the frame, thin as a rake with frizzy hair, her mother had pulled tight against June’s scalp. Next to her stood Ilka, with a muddy brown shawl hugging her broad shoulders. On the right her father stood, his round spectacles overwhelmed his sunken cheeks. His hand engulfed June’s shoulder.

The photo was taken on a Saturday morning in spring, after one of June’s soccer games on the team “The Pink Puppies” her bleach-spotted pink soccer sock slipped to reveal her shin guard. The photo’s black frame was always dusty.

The frame sat next to four urns, ranging in size. The one closest to the edge, in front of a drafty bay window, was the smallest, a light-green jar circled with small paw prints, a photo of a raggedy orange tabby pasted to the front. The next two were larger and blue, with photos of golden retrievers on the front. The dog on the right had a few more eye boogers than the other. The fourth was a more somber grey, with “Matt the mutt” scrawled under the photo of a wire-haired dog.

June kept the photo and urns on the mantle of her home in the small town of Ivoryton, Connecticut. The home sat modestly between Blake Street and Comstock Avenue; the wood creaked at her feet when she walked but it held, and the house stayed warm in the winter so she was content. On Christmas 2014, two years back, June, feeling lonely, had decided to go to the pound to find a companion. About a mile off from the pound June turned off her GPS that guided her in hushed tones, feeling more confident in her bearings. She pulled into a parking lot, .3 miles away from the pound, a pet hospital. The vet, a large, friendly man, probably with photos of each kid and grandkid in his wallet, greeted June wearily, probably expecting another poinsettia poisoning. June smiled, not realizing her mistake.

“Can I look at the dogs, sir?” The office was ripe with the smell of pet urine and the piss poor attempt at cleaning it.

The man, not realizing her mistake, took her back to the animals sleeping in cages.

“Um, they look a bit sad, don’t they?”

June nodded her head but was taken aback by the liveliness of the room, the snuffles and whimpers of the animals animated her surroundings. “Are they all sick because of the pound or…” Her fingers lingered on the cold steel bars of the cages.

“This is an animal hospital. These animals were surrendered because families or pounds couldn’t take the medical expenses.” The vet looked down the row of cages; the tables across from them were sterile and looked unused.

“I can pay for it,” June said sheepishly. She chose Chester, an orange tabby.

The vet took him out of the cage and handed him to June. She gathered Chester into her arms where he laid limply like a placid rag doll. “He has feline panleukopenia, I honestly don’t think he will live much longer.”

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June stroked the cat clutched to her belly, it gurgled a purr as best it could muster.

“That’s okay,” she said, happy to have a thing to hold. “Just tell me what to do for him.”

He died four months after he came home with June. Every time her pet would die she would return for another. There were always pets waiting in cages and the vet was always eager to see them leave with June. Dogs or cats, it didn’t matter, the scatter of claws on the wood and muffled snuggles made the house on Blake and Comstock alive.

Two years and four animals later, June sat on the floor with Jessie Pup, a mangy mutt with Lyme disease. Jessie was dealing with another flare in the symptoms. His long golden fur was slick; there was something about the greasiness that indicated disease. June’s own hair within hours of a flu or cold would become oily and matted. Jessie panted with pain; June watched and hoped the medicine that she gave the dog would work soon and Jessie would rest before June had to leave for the office.

June worked in an office that took archives from other firms and offices and digitize them. On her first day, her boss, Henry Gunther, told her that she could use her prerogative on what should be scanned and what should be shredded. She left work promptly at 5:30 p.m. and when her coworkers asked her to come out for drinks, she would tell them she had a sick animal at home alone and she really had to get back as soon as she could. They all thought she was admirable for what she did for the poor beasts.

She drove her 2002 Subaru Forester home, the roof liner sagged in bubbles across the car, and brushed her brown bun. A passenger would have smelled the musk of hundreds of trips to the vet, but June hadn’t noticed that in a long time. The blue and rust car sped past the abandoned piano factory in the center of Ivoryton when she received a phone call.

Her hand dug blindly in her purse wading through the tissue packets, tic-tac boxes and business cards until it reached her Samsung. “Hello,” she answered coolly, not checking the caller I.D. “June, it’s your mother,” Ilka croaked into the phone.

“Mom, uh,” June paused. She hasn’t heard from her mom in months. After her father died six years ago, Ilka Marlow stopped feeling obligated to be motherly. “Mom, do you need anything? How are you?”

“Fine. I need you to come get me.” Ilka said.

“From where?”

“The doctor’s. They said I can’t drive.” Ilka sounded annoyed.

June looked at the sickly green clock in her car, 5:45 P.M. “Yeah matka, I’m coming. I’ll make the 6 o’clock ferry. Wait inside.” Her mother hung up.

Ilka Marlow’s family immigrated from Poland. Ilka was born in America but grew up in the isolated Polish household of four brothers and five sisters. Her family spoke Polish with each other. June knew, from her birth certificate, that Ilka was 32 when she had June and her father was 35. They were old for first-time parents. Her father, John Marlow, told June how he met Ilka, in Greenport, New York, the sliver of Long Island that housed fisheries and a single famous carousel. John Marlow came from a line of fishermen, but allowed his brother to inherit the boat so that John could get the house in Greenport and a job that paid for his tradesman’s education.

When June was 24 years old, John Marlow died from lung disease, a latent effect from

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his heavy smoking during the Vietnam War. June lived with her parents at the time, caring for her father, changing oxygen tanks and monitoring his breathing at night.

After his funeral, Ilka told June, “You don’t need to live here anymore. I have less laundry to do now.” June remembered her mother that day, frail, with nerves as frayed as her hair, Ilka was dry eyed.

After yanking the parking brake on her car, June left to walk around the ferry for the short trip across the Long Island Sound. June sat in the cabin for warmth as the boat picked up speed. She wondered what Jessie Pup was doing in the house. She imagined the dog puttering to the water bowl and back, hoping he was strong enough to make it outside to pee. By measure of this morning, he probably didn’t. The smell of stale water and unused lifejackets invaded the cabin. The commuter three rows away reached for the discarded newspaper and crinkled it until his torso was hidden by the daily news. She exited the cabin, and leaned against the guardrail. The bar pressed into her belly and her hands were whipped with sea spray. In the dusk, she could barely make out Plum Island.

June’s mother hadn’t called again, it was only 6:20. Her matka was stubborn, probably sitting outside on a bench, her shawl not enough in this weather. June, smelling the unmistakable scent of fish gruel, knew she was approaching Greenport. She got back into her Forester awaiting the docking process. She prepared her speech to matka, Mama, stay with me a night or two while you get better, prosze. June used her limited Polish to persuade Ilka to do things. Whenever, Ilka got sick June came back to Greenport, to her childhood home. No matter how sick Ilka was she refused to let June take care of her.

June drove off the ferry and continued down the two-way road toward the one doctor in Greenport, New York. The 55-mph speed limit slowed to 35 then 25 when June hit the first light in the town. She sat at a stoplight; the Connecticut radio station fizzled as she danced on the edge of its reach. Her lengthy finger tapped the wheel while she glanced away from the dazzling red glow and saw Ilka shuffling down the street. She pulled the car to the side and put on her hazards.

“Mom!”she called out the window, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Mom.” Ilka stopped and looked around. June got out of the car and called again.

“June. What are you doing here?” Ilka looked at June in the final orange glow of the sun.

“You told me to come pick you up from the doctor.” June looked at her mother. Ilka was shivering under her shawl, her eyes were scanning the town feverishly. “Mom, you’re cold.

Come, get in the car.”

June led her mother toward the door and guided her into the passenger seat. “You know I told you to wait at the doctor's. Why were you walking?”

“I called you to get me?” Ilka’s voice was shaky from the cold or confusion.

“Yes, listen, I would like you to stay with me for a few days, we’ll get you some clothes, whatever you need. prosze matka.” June held her breath.

Her mother paused, reached into her handbag and read from a note. “I have to go back to the doctor tomorrow.”

June nodded. She stole a glance at her mom, the wrinkles had begun to swallow her beady blue eyes magnified by her glasses. Her nose protruded from her face in a manner

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that challenged typical beauty standards. Her father saw Ilka as the apple of his eye; June thought he was disappointed when she ended up looking more like him. June continued straight toward her childhood home. The road curved sharply around bends, accommodating factories and tidal changes. The Subaru trembled across the gravel driveway before coming to a halt.

The driver’s door flew open as June hurried to help her mother, who was already trying to plant her feet onto the driveway. “Wait. Mom wait. I’m coming,” June said.

Ilka grunted in reply. They entered the house together. There was a faint smell of fish that haunted the whole town and her childhood. The house was older than the fisheries with a smell of thousand-year-old dirt and the ghost of a wood fireplace. June was home.

“John,” Ilka called. She halted on the vowel ‘o’ carefully pronouncing it. June felt the cold house freeze.

“Mom, that’s not funny.”

Ilka moved down the hall with her hand on the textured wallpaper. She opened the door on the right, June’s old bedroom, and then kept moving opening the next door, to the bathroom. June went into the kitchen; the poorly painted yellow cabinets was

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evident as June’s attempt at brightening the wood paneling that plagued the house. The kitchen counters were covered with half-finished meals, a partially eaten microwave meal that had started to grow mold, and peeled but not chopped carrots that awaited a long-dried stew. On the kitchen table with three chairs around it, the New York Times was laid open. Her mother’s scrawl filled the crossword puzzle with Polish and English words, none answering the clue. She heard her mother, run the water to wash her hands then call out for her father, again.

June went into the hallway to wait for her mother. “I’m here if you need me.” Ilka cracked open the door and walked to June. June led her to the couch and turned on the L.G. T.V. June excused herself and called her neighbor who lived on Comstock Avenue, she took care of her pets when June left, which was rare. Suzy Golibac was a lovely neighbor and always said hello to June’s pet, tapping its head as though it had leprosy.

She commended June for her compassion and said she could only hope to be as good of a neighbor and Christian. June imagined she prayed while she walked or fed the animals.

In the morning June would have to call her boss, Henry, to call out of office for a family emergency. She imagined Henry scratching his kinked beard, wondering at her family.

“Mom, wake up.” June rubbed her mom’s arm in attempt to wake her up gently. Ilka startled.

“Kto tam?”

“It’s just me. June is here.” She met her mother’s groping hands with her glasses, thick glassed and goggle like. She felt her mother’s body relax.

“We have to go to the doctor today, matka.”

She dropped a heavy cotton gown over Ilka’s head. Her arms wavered above her like a wiggly toddler. She shuffled over to her shawl, a purple wool knit that she made years prior.

The shawl smelled like deep winter and the hospital. June was still in her blouse and slacks from work the previous day; she felt stale and hoped that the spot of ink on her left pant leg would wash out.

The note in Ilka’s purse was to remind Ilka to go to the doctor’s appointment at 12 p.m., not at the family practice in Greenport, but to Eastern Long Island hospital to see Dr. Caroline Mattuck, a neurologist.

Jane put the note down and took them to the oppressive hospital with a harbor-side view. In the waiting room June looked out at the dock. At 12 p.m. on a Tuesday, all the fishing boats were out in hopes to bring in today’s catch. Beside her Ilka leaned forward, adjusted her shawl then leaned back, only to lean forward and move the fabric across her shoulders again, slightly to the left this time. They had already put Ilka through a brain scan, they were told to wait for Dr. Mattuck and her results. The woman, a short, terse blonde shook June’s hand sharply then held Ilka’s.

“After reviewing the brain scan, I am sorry to inform you that your mother has Alzheimer’s Disease.” Dr. Mattuck looked at June, leaving Ilka out of the conversation.

Ilka stared at June as though to say, see I told you. June felt aware of the warmth radiating from the seat into her. The drab green upholstery was darkened with age and grime at the tip of the chair arms.

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"JUNE LOOKED AT THE DROP CEILING AND FLUORESCENT LIGHTING, SEARCHING FOR WHAT THE DOCTOR SEEMED TO HAVE FOUND." June sat forward and cleared her throat. “So, what does that mean for us?” She held the final syllable to hint to Dr. Mattuck that Ilka Marlow still had agency.

“It is the early moderate stage. She will need help. Has she gotten disoriented recently?”

The doctor paused and scanned the drop ceiling and fluorescent lighting. “What were the symptoms that made you bring her to the hospital?”

June looked at the drop ceiling and fluorescent lighting, searching for what the doctor seemed to have found. “I’m not sure. It seems like she can’t finish what she has started in the house,” June said.

Ilka said, “I came here.”

The doctor looked between them and nodded as though she now understood something. “I can only tell you the level of the disease by what I saw in the brain scan. You,” she said looking at June, “need to watch the symptoms and their progression. This part of the year, disorientation is very dangerous.” June thought of her mother walking through town in the setting December sun.

After the doctor, June and Ilka returned to the house. June grabbed the green suitcase with sewn flowers and packed it full of woolen gowns, indiscernible from sleep or daily wear. She stashed the suitcase at the front door. Looking around, she decided the mess in the kitchen and the disarray of the living room could wait.

“Mom, let’s get in the car. You’re going to stay with me a while.” June ushered her mother into the car and thought about Jessie Pup at home. By 3 p.m. his medicine should be wearing thin.

The door to her home creaked open. Jessie lifted his head toward the door; realizing it wasn’t Suzy Golibac, he tried to heave his body up onto weak legs. June met him halfway, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. She felt his labored breaths hit her arm. Jessie sat slowly, leaning against June in the hallway.

Ilka looked at the dog then at her daughter before disappearing to the kitchen. Ilka knew of her daughter’s habit of taking in animals but never seemed interested in seeing the animals. June never had a pet as a child. Her mother claimed that she was afraid of them,

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but she would easily confront a stray dog or alley cat with a broom. June thought her father would have been happier with a dog, something that’s excited you’re home.

“Don’t you work?” Ilka called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, you know I do.”

Ilka huffed in reply. June could hear her opening and shutting cabinets in search of a tea kettle. June didn’t keep one, preferring to microwave her water. Her urge for tea was instantaneous and couldn’t be bothered waiting for a kettle to scream.

“I don’t have one.” June sat at the eat in kitchen table with two chairs. Ilka stared at her, then sat too. They sat in silence, June was particularly aware of the medical and primal scent of her house. The clock on the microwave blinked 3:44 p.m. but June knew it was 6 minutes fast. She left it that way thinking it would help her be on time, it doesn’t.

“I should walk Jessie; it’ll just be around the block.” June said.

“Yes.” June watched Ilka sadly. They hadn’t spoken of the doctor's since Ilka moved in. Ilka’s suitcase remained closed in the spare bedroom. Jessie swung his tail while June grabbed his leash. He nuzzled the door to open it and took a deep breath when June cracked the door. She watched his body limp down the sidewalk. June saw Suzy Golibac sitting on her porch with a blanket and tea.

“Thank you for watching him.” June nodded toward Jessie.

“Anytime!” Suzy said. “You’re so good to him.”

June looked down at Jessie who was looking at her for approval as the piss leaked from his body onto Suzy Golibac’s lawn. She bent her knees and rubbed his back, then stepped over the pee that now dribbled onto the sidewalk.

June smiled at the dog, and may have laughed if she had the energy. Jessie, probably feeling relieved and loved, joked around, barked at a car and even attempted a lunge at a squirrel. June laughed. Halfway down Comstock Avenue, Jessie began to limp. June turned around and hoped they didn’t go too far like last time which led to June carrying the 38-pound dog home. They made it home and Jessie, not knowing who Ilka was, sauntered up to her, begging for a vitamin enriched, gluten free dog treat.

“A kysz!” Ilka yelled at the dog. Jessie scrambled, losing traction on the tile in the kitchen.

“Mom. Don’t do that to him.” June was stern. Ilka looked out the small square window that was level with the kitchen table. The backyard of the small New England house was a patch of mud with piles of isolated, melting snow. The past summer June tried to cultivate it into some sort of yard for the dogs, but Jessie made her particularly afraid of the ticks and worms that infect and poison.

As the spring sun came and melted the snow from the backyard, Ilka Marlow moved in with her daughter. The old fisherman’s house back in Greenport was cleaned out and became a place for excess furniture and dust. June and Ilka were not attached to the house, but they both knew John was so they agreed to keep it. Jessie Pup’s symptoms subsided and he was a normal dog, and June regretted not creating the backyard for him. Ilka’s routine was solid; she would have tea in the morning, toast for lunch at 12 p.m. and tea again and again until dinner. She brought her own 1970's orange and green tea kettle to

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June’s home. June attempted to replace it with a stainless-steel pot which now sat in the back of the cupboard.

In the summer of 2016, June took up gardening again, sowing the seeds of her mudcaked yard. Ilka’s shadow blotted out June on her knees tending to her recently planted grass seeds. “I want to go for a walk” Ilka said.

“Yeah, okay matka. Give me a second.” June pulled off her gardening gloves and contemplated whether or not to bring Jessie with them. She went into the house to get her keys and sandals, then left to meet Ilka outside of the fence that June recently painted.

June latched the gate and looked down Blake Street. Ilka wasn’t there. She walked a few paces to her left to look down Comstock Avenue, Ilka still wasn’t there. She continued down Comstock, stopping at Suzy Golibac’s yard; Suzy lazily rocked in her chair.

“Have you seen my mother? She is wearing a light pink shawl, short, uh-” June trailed off.

Suzy shook her head in response with her eyebrows raised high, too relaxed to notice June’s concern. June continued to walk toward the piano factory in the center of Ivoryton.

The summer was good in Connecticut. The trees shaded the sidewalks from real heat and the water sent a breeze that wicked away sweat. She felt her mother would be okay, someone would find her and send her the right direction. June thought about calling out, like looking for a dog. She imagined her mother swatting her when she returned, embarrassed at her child.

She passed the piano factory and stopped. She was half a mile away from her house.

June tried to think as a senile old woman would. She decided her mother would probably walk to the sea. Ivoryton’s downtown had three shops, two delis, and one post office that stopped abruptly when it hits the sea. There were always cars with out-of-state license plates making slow, methodical k-turns next to the sound. She walked quickly toward the town.

June found her mother in front of a bait shop; the smell probably reminded her of Greenport. She sat next to her mother and put her hand on top of the woman’s wrinkled skin, puckered around the wedding band she still wore.

“Oh June,” Ilka said, sounding excited to see her daughter.

June looked at her beady, goggled eyes. “Mom, do you want to go for a walk?”

“Yes, that sounds cudowny.”

“It is wonderful.” June stood and took the woman by the arm, leading her toward the water.

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MONOMANIA NIA CAMPBELL 62 POICTESME

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CLEAN LINEN NIA CAMPBELL POICTESME 63

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64 POICTESME CONTEMPORARY OPIUM AND NO. 606 SHOT JI HYUN BLESSIE KOO

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POICTESME 65 THEY FLEE DAWN CARR

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SCISSORS (PREVIOUS) MADISON WESTGATE LOWEST PRICE JENA GILMORE POICTESME 69

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STICKS AND FOAM MORGAN HONEYCUTT 70 POICTESME

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EXCERPTS FROM VENUS SIDE B 4 JANA CHOI POICTESME 71

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A RETURN VERONICA BLANCO 72OCEANS: POICTESME

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LIVING NEEDLE NAVIGATION STATION ELLY CALL POICTESME 75

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NICK FARLEY

‘Til the Fireflies Wink Out AFTER “THE ROCKET MAN” BY RAY BRADBURY, PUBLISHED 1951.

The last I remembered was the clasp of his goodbye, so delicate, behind my back.

An invisible impression left on my nightgown by moonlit hands.

The Captain of my dreams now blasting off a thousand leagues above the sea.

His ship still fighting gravity against the shields of Earth’s atmosphere.

When you go, I go to the Meteor Crater outside Flagstaff, just to feel close.

As I know by now you’ve landed in one of your own.

Will you name it after me this time?

Bound by his return I become a new fossil, yet to be discovered again.

Seen only by a swarm of fireflies, an errant constellation fluttering just out of reach.

All dusted over, I remain hidden behind the screen door, as a messenger arrives informing our son of dad’s final destination among the stars.

I knew the day would come when the sun ceased to exist and all I cared for was the forecast of rain.

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JORDAN GROOMS

A Charred Cross In Johnston County, North Carolina I didn’t enjoy the sun until I was older, days needed to be stark, wet or fading light where the wind cuts and the air bleeds.

I wanted a storm that day for the terror it brought.

I wept to thunder and lightning but yearned to control fear.

The afternoon was too sunny on the Sunday’s drive.

The backseat was blown in the taste of wind blended in parental cigarette smoke being sucked out the window between each shout.

I watched the forest dance in the distance I didn’t know the illusion but the impossible is entertaining.

They followed the car until it was required to surf powerlines the forests still were fewer then.

I didn’t care about this fight or the frame of regret nailed inside hollow years of what’s thought harmony I didn’t understand what I heard from the front and what I saw from the left crusted black and erect amid weathered stalks and running trees frowning dead in another place of worship.

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Editor Bios ALEXANDRA BARRY

Alexandra Barry is a member of the Poictesme editorial staff. She will graduate in 2019 with a BS in Biology and Psychology and a minor in Chemistry. This is her first year on staff with Poictesme. Alley writes fiction and takes pictures of her dogs in her spare time.

AVA BLAKESLEE-CARTER

Ava Blakeslee-Carter is a staff editor and illustrator on Poictesme. She is currently working towards a double major in Kinetic Imaging and Art Education. This is her first year on staff. In her free time she enjoys cooking, sewing and watching endless amounts of YouTube videos.

WYATT BOOTH

Wyatt Booth serves as an editor for Poictesme literary journal. He will graduate in 2019 with a BA in English and a minor in Creative Writing. In his free time, Wyatt writes realistic fiction, though is particularly interested in developing his passion of script writing.

LAUREN CHARTUK

Lauren Chartuk is the 2016 – 2017 Editorin-Chief of Poictesme. She will graduate in December 2017 with a BA in English and a minor in French, British Studies and Creative Writing. She has been on staff of Poictesme for 3 years. Lauren was a copyeditor for the online literary journal Blackbird. Lauren writes nonfiction and reads 18th century novels in her free time.

MADELINE DE MICHELE

Madeline De Michele is a staff editor and illustrator for Poictesme. She is currently a Psychology major and is hoping to incorporate art and literature into her future occupation. This is her first year on staff.

Madeline enjoys bookbinding, analyzing literature, and watching The X-Files.

IAIN MCLENNAN DUFFUS

Iain McLennan Duffus is diligently hustling for a BFA in Communication Arts with a focus on Editorial Illustration.

Guest illustrating for Poictesme and The Commonwealth Times in 2017, he will be on the newspaper staff in the Fall, meticulously adding mundane portfolio pieces to his website: www.iainduffus.com ELLIE ERHART

Ellie Erhart is a staff editor and illustrator for Poictesme. She is working towards a BFA in Communication Arts with a minor in English, and also futilely hopes to someday befriend every dog in the world, especially the corgis, who have potential to be harnessed into a small but powerful corgi-army. This is her first year on staff.

MEGAN GOLDFARB

Megan Goldfarb is the Artistic Director of Poictesme for 2017, and has worked in artistic co-direction since the fall of 2015. She will graduate as a super-senior in May 2018 with a BFA in Painting and Printmaking and a minor in English. She has been on staff of Poictesme for four years. Megan maintains a multimedia studio practice outside of Poictesme, and has shown at the Anderson and the Depot galleries.

MELISSA GITCHEL

Melissa Gitchel is a junior in the VCU Arts Crafts and Materials program where she focuses on textiles and ceramics. She has been a member of the Poictesme staff since Spring 2016, and has served as secretary since Fall 2016. Melissa is the proud mom to a shelter dog named Barker, whom she reads the Poictesme Literary Art journal to.

He loves it.

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JORDAN GROOMS

Jordan Grooms is a staff editor for Poictesme. He is the Vice- President of the English Honor Society. He will graduate in December of 2017 with a BA in English and minor in creative writing. Jordan enjoys film, writing fiction and poetry, along with reading 20th century novels in his spare time.

GRACE HUNSINGER

KATE KHARKO

Kate Kharko is a staff editor for Poictesme.

This is her first year on staff. She is currently majoring in Political Science, set to graduate in 2020. She spends her free time reading Russian poets, annoying her friends, watching comedians, and planning to check out the Branch Museum of Architecture & Design without ever actually going.

Grace Hunsinger is a contributing illustrator for Poictesme. With a love for illustration and design, she will be graduating in December of 2017 with a BFA in Communication Arts. This is her first time illustrating for Poictesme. See more of her work on her instagram at http://instagram. com/gehcreatives and her website at http:// gracehunsinger.com.

CAROLINE MEYERS

AMBER KERRIGAN

Andrew Salsbury is a Staff Writer on Poictesme. He received his Associate’s Degree from Tidewater Community College in 2016 and will graduate with a Bachelor’s Degree in English in 2018. When Andrew is not studying for classes, he writes short stories and reads postmodern fiction.

Amber Kerrigan is a staff editor and illustrator for Poictesme and has been a member for three years. She will be graduating in December 2017 with a BFA in Fashion Design. She enjoys collecting uniquely colored lipsticks, taking walks around Richmond and watching anime on Netflix.

ELISE KETCH

Elise Ketch is the 2016-17 Web Gremlin of Poictesme. She will graduate in 2018 with a BFA in Communication Arts and a certificate in Product Innovation. This is her third year on the staff of Poictesme.

Elise’s favorite alley to spend time exploring is between Marshall and Clay, crossing Hancock and Goshen.

ANNA KHARKO

Anna Kharko is a staff editor for Poictesme.

She has not decided on a major yet, but definitely will by 2020. This is her first year on staff. Her hobbies include watching House MD and sketching.

Caroline Meyers is a staff editor and illustrator for Poictesme. She is a rising sophomore in Sculpture & Extended Media and is looking forward to working in many different mediums. This is her first year on staff. She enjoys daydreaming and writing in notebooks in her free time.

ANDREW SALSBURY

FAITH VASKO

Faith Vasko has been with Poictesme for four years, serving her last year as Assistant Editor-in-Chief. She will complete her degree in English, with a minor in Business and certificate in Product Innovation in May 2017. She likes big books and she cannot lie. “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” - Joan Didion ERIN VEST

Erin Vest is a first time guest illustrator for Poictesme. She will be graduating in spring of 2018 with a BFA in Communication Arts, and often spends her day doodling and reading cheesy sci-fi.

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THIS PAGE WILL BE REPLACED

COLOPHON Printed by Allegra Printing in Richmond, Virginia.

PAPER TYPES

Cover: 100# Titan Dull Cover.

Internal: 80# Soperset Offset Opaque COVER INK

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FONT TYPES

Title: Gotham HTF Body: Adobe Garamond Pro

JAMES BRANCH CABELL DESIGNED THE IMAGE ON THE INSIDE BACK COVER. HE PASTED THIS IMAGE WITHIN HIS FAVORITE BOOKS IN HIS PERSONAL LIBRARY NOW HELD AT VCU LIBRARY’S SPECIAL COLLECTIONS AND ARCHIVES.

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