SKALD a r t & l i t e r a r y p u b l i c at i o n Villa Maria College
2015
1
SKALD COLOPHON
An ancient Scandinavian poet who memorialized the epic deeds of the Vikings with elaborate recitations at court.
Many processes make demands on the self. Unknown settings, different associations with individuals and groups, excitement or discomfort over learning new things, and original environments all offer opportunities to reshape the familiarity of an existing persona. The same system is endured as a student in pursuit of higher education. The evolution that students experience in their tenure as undergrads finds them transformed from one existence to another. Early coursework introduces knowledge in a variety of disciplines to a fresh audience who absorbs the information and works to relate it to new situations. Over time, concepts are more easily deciphered and assembled to result in new contributions. Eventually, students easily evaluate the additions they’ve offered and widen the benefits of education, not only for themselves, but for others. The guidance once accepted by new students is eventually reciprocated resulting in individuals with an increased skill base and community-focused mindset, prepared to advise others while mentoring advanced ideas and practices. An expansion of identity has occurred and the former self becomes barely recognizable. The concept of expanding identity is represented in this 2015 edition of SKALD Student Art and Literary Publication. Retrospective colors and shapes on the cover signify the tribute to memory, while the dimensionality of the forms activate transformative capacities. Throughout the piece, condensed heading typography recalls a lost heritage in headlines and hand-painted signage coupled with a modern body copy to coax the viewer into the future.
STAFF CONCEPT, DESIGN and PRODUCTION Grace Gruarin Senior Student Lucy Norton Senior Student FACULTY ADVISORS Robert Grizanti Professor, Graphic Design Joyce Kessel Professor, English Julie Zack Professor, Graphic Design SPECIAL THANKS Kevin Donovan Director of Enrollment Management and Marketing Ceil Pawlowski Director of Student Life
All students may submit literary and/or artwork completed while attending courses. Solicitations are made through classes, print and on-line methods. Final selections are made jointly by the advisors.
Columbia Scholastic Press Association has awarded Silver Crowns to the 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010 issues and a Gold Crown in 2006.
CONTENTS
LITERATURE
ARTS 2 3 4 5 6 7 9 10
Jennifer Clapp Gina Oneill Melissa Lembke Emma Storfer Samantha Hevland Angela Sahlem Caryn Barber Caryn Barber Gina Oneill
11 13 15 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26
Christina Cronmiller Caryn Barber Allison Kollander Erika Manns Stephanie Wardrop Griffin Raymond
43 44 47 48
Caryn Barber Ali Casarsa Kaitlin McCabe Stephanie Wardrop Erika Tozzo Angela Sahlem Frederick Vicaretti Emma Balk Gina Oneill Ali Casarsa Rachel Rising Marie Mukandanga Carl Hunley Grace Gruarin Renee Falsken
Griffin Raymond Caryn Barber
Chris Franklin
Travis Springer
Erika Manns
50
Jessica Puskar
Caryn Barber
Lucy Norton
Casey Zangara
Joe Carney
Rachel Gallmeyer Jordan Kowalski Renee Falsken Michelle Sanchez Rene Miller
27 28
31 32 33 34 35 37 38 39 40 41 42
Stephanie Wardrop Dominique Cruz
51 52 53 55 56 59 60 61
3 4 5 7 8 11 12 16 18 23 25 27 29 34 36 39 41 45 52
Romona Harkness Joe Tronolone William Young Jennifer Basinski Romona Harkness Jennifer Basinski Amandalynn Morton Karma Bolden Joe Tronolone Erica Elbers Karma Bolden Cody Tarbox Victoria Cobel Romona Harkness Phillip Lee Karma Bolden Erica Elbers Victoria Cobel Tiffany DeJesus Ana Spanhake
54 55 57 59 60
Megan Smith Romona Harkness Phillip Lee William Young Amber Burkley
Rachel Rising Griffin Raymond Morgan McCutcheon Rachel Gallmeyer Stephanie Wardrop Jillian Taylor Erika Manns Stephanie Wardrop
1
2
I WANT A SPOUSE
Give me someone who’s kind, sweet and sincere. You know, someone who will answer me “Yes, Dear.”
Romona Harkness I’ll take someone who’s clean and strives to stay handsome. I wouldn’t bother with someone who bathes only at ransom. It would be nice to have someone who’s outgoing and courageous. Someone who will fight my battles, Not someone who gets scared at the shake of a rattle. Someone who’s rude and mean wouldn’t be worth my time, I’d rather tell him to “kiss my behind.” I want a spouse who’ll confide in me, someone who will tell me his deepest thoughts and dreams. To be with someone who keeps secrets would be obscene.
DRAWING
Jennifer Clapp (left)
Give me a spouse who’s willing to be Equalitarian. I could care less about a person who acts like a barbarian. I’ll take someone who’ll respect and take care of me emotionally. Not a person would puts I in We. There is no perfect person, I know. An ideal spouse to me
PHOTOGRAPH
Is someone with whom I can grow.
Gina Oneill
3
BE HUMAN Joe Tronolone
It is hard to be human as I watch children using their electronic digits, not the ones God gave them, chords hanging from their lobes like internal earrings It is hard to remain righteous while women and children are sold for cash like candy bars on a shelf some white some dark others small or king size It is hard to stay steadfast since the world revolves so quickly It is a branch ever bending a computer ever changing it is a train that waits for no one’s dreams It is hard to go forward when so much lies behind us Family members pass friends move on time is an endless constant It is hard to be human but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t strive to be There will always be things that test our being If you want something in life go and get it, but be human
PHOTOGRAPH Melissa Lembke
PHOTO COLLAGE Emma Storfer (right)
4
IGNIS FATUUS William Young
Tomorrow is endlessly in the horizon, a mirage in the hot desert sun calling out false promises waiting just ahead. It claims your thirst will be satisfied if you continue to drag your feet drudgingly along the shifting sands until they arrive at the patiently waiting utopia. An image that may become so mesmerizing, the traveler could easily forget the full canteen tied snug around his waist.
5
6
A ROOF UNDER THE STARS Jennifer Basinski
I am the girl you walk right by. The one you look at, Stare at, and call names. I am not deaf.
DRAWING
Angela Sahlem
I can hear you making jokes and fun. This not my fault. The bank took my home after I was cut back at work. I tried to find a job but you need to have an address. So here I sit with a roof under the stars. Wondering if there is a God and what I did to deserve this. You may laugh but anyone can be this way. It just takes one change to make this life yours. A loss of a job. A loss of a house. A life changing illness or a life of hopelessness. I am homeless. I am not hopeless. You could help and make it better. A better life. A better future.
POSTER
Samantha Hevland (left)
7
FABRICATED MOTHERHOOD
Romona Harkness
They can convince you that pregnancy is the most wonderful thing a woman can experience. They’ll fail to mention you’ll be walking around with a hemorrhoid that feels like the size of Africa. Rumors will float around about how childbirth is as natural as breathing air. You’ll find out that birthing a child is like having your uterus ripped out multiple times. They won’t mention the permanent stretch marks that look like a road map on your stomach. You’ll find yourself saying, “Cocoa butter, my ass!” Sure they’ll say babies are sweet and bring joy. The truth is they’ll keep you up all night crying, screaming, and making sure you meet all their needs. They’ll encourage you to breastfeed. However they won’t tell you the baby will grasp your nipple so hard that by the time he’s done, you’ll feel like a flat car tire. Someone will convince you that children are precious little angels. You’ll find out eventually that they’re devils disguised as children, having temper tantrums and throwing themselves on the floor when they don’t get their way. Of course they’ll say preteen and teenage years can be “a bit challenging” for parents. But they won’t prep you for the strain of attitudes, mood swings, body changes and first dates. They’ll pressure you into talking about the birds and bees with your child. They won’t inform you of the mutual stress and embarrassment that comes along with it. Certainly they’ll say, “Make sure they attend a good college.” But they’ll fail to mention you’ll have to work two jobs to ensure their higher education. There’s always someone that will fabricate motherhood as glorious and problem-free. Once you experience it for yourself, you’ll beg to differ.
PHOTOGRAPH
Caryn Barber (right)
8
9
10
THIS IS THE HOUSE I LIVE IN Jennifer Basinkski
It’s the first or last sticking out, depending on where you are coming from. It is split into two. This is the house I live in. It is crowded and big, yellow and broken. If the house could talk, If only, if only. This house I live in has many scars. It is like a mature adult, It is as fragile as a child. This house I live in. This is the house I live in, the one that carries abuse from kids. Drawings on the doorframes and walls. Holes in the floors from wear and tear, from footsteps and pawprints. This house I live in. This is the house I live in that gives shelter to many -three males and eight females, four babies and many pets. This is the house I live in. This house may be used, may be dying, but it will always bring
PAINTING
Christina Cronmiller
tears of happiness. It is not much, we haven’t been here long, We will miss it though. This house that we live in.
PHOTOGRAPHS
Caryn Barber (left top) Gina Oneill (left bottom)
11
HIDDEN
Amandalynn Morton
“Here are the keys to the house.” The elderly man holds up a single key
to it. Throwing on his jacket, he pauses once more to look back into
on a small, silver ring. “And the keys to the shop. There is one for the
the house, gaze settling on the basement door once again. Realizing
back door, which you can use to enter the shop through the house, and
he’s staring at nothing, Lyam frowns. Turning, he pulls the front door
one for the outer front door.” He hands over the ring with the single key
closed behind him, jacket quickly pulled on over bare arms as he
and then a similar ring containing two keys. “Now, you will be in charge
hurries off down the street.
of the shop from opening until close, Monday through Fridays. Shop opens at 8:00 am and closes at 5:00 pm. Remember that. Feel free to take a break when needed. I’m not going to hound you on your time as
“So, he’s letting you live in the house for free, as long as you run the
long as the shop is well looked after.”
pawn shop for him, and you have full power to the house? That sounds
“I understand, Mr. Binx. That won’t be a problem at all.” The young man takes the sets of keys offered him.
almost too good to be true.” Callie cups a worn, chipped mug in her hands, watching as steam curls up into the evening air. The pair sits on a curb outside a small coffee shop, their usual place. After the
“I knew I could count on you, Lyam. Oh, there is one more thing. The
bombings, the only places that were able to spring back up are those
basement. It’s off limits. There is no need for you to go down there.
small Mom and Pop kinds of places. Very few big businesses remain. It
It should always remain locked.” The elderly man lifts his left hand,
became too hard for them, what with communication nearly destroyed
adjusting the half moon spectacles perched lightly upon the bridge of
and all the crazy lootings that happened.
his nose, a nervous tick. “Right. You don’t have to worry about a thing, Mr. Binx.” “Good, good. I’ll leave you to get settled, then. Store opens tomorrow. Don’t forget.” Mr. Binx calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to
“And I am not allowed to go down into the basement.” Lyam adds. He lifts his own mug to softly puckered lips, taking an audible slurp from the too hot beverage. It smells pleasantly of ground beans and creamer, even if it scalds his tongue.
the front door. Lyam gives the elderly man a gentle wave in parting.
“The basement? Why not? What’s down in the basement the old man
The door closes with a soft click behind him, leaving Lyam to stand in
doesn’t want you to see?”
the small entry hallway alone. Absently, a hand rises to brush the dark strands of his bangs back from his eyes, gaze shifting to rest upon the door that leads to the basement. It sits in the wall to his right. It looks ordinary enough. A simple wooden door with a brass colored handle, like every other door in the house. The only thing different about this
“I don’t know. The door’s always locked. Besides, I told Mr. Binx I wouldn’t go down there. I am not going to risk losing the house and a decent paycheck for something as ridiculous as going into the basement.”
door is the padlock, clearly added on well after the house was built,
“But what if he’s some kind of crazy serial killer and he keeps his
and high enough that only an adult can reach it.
victims’ severed heads in the basement!” Callie exclaims, lifting
With a shrug, Lyam turns his attention to the small cluster of cardboard boxes in which he has brought all his things. Not having access to the basement isn’t a problem. He hardly has any reason to go down there. His things are sparse and he has no need to store any of them.
12
***
her head so quickly to look up at Lyam that the beads at the ends of her braids click. “Or maybe he even keeps his victims down there themselves. You know, a lot of weirdos have come out of the apocalypse.”
Opening the first box, the one labeled kitchen, Lyam sets to work
Liam rolls his eyes, their strange yellow tint reflecting the setting sun.
putting everything in its place. Despite his rather small collection of
“Callie, you’re being paranoid. I think I would smell decapitated heads
items, it takes the rest of the afternoon to finish placing everything.
or hear someone if they were down there.”
“I’m supposed to meet Callie for coffee at four,” he mutters to himself,
“Okay, okay. I’m just saying. You can’t be too careful now-a-days,” She
turning to glance over his shoulder at the round clock hanging in the
pauses to take a sip of her own coffee. “Aside from the whole creepy
hall. “Three forty-five? I better get going.” Liam grabs a denim jacket
basement thing, though, the deal sounds pretty good to me. How’s
hanging on a hook just inside the front door and the keys hanging next
the old man on letting you have a crasher?”
be one solid room. There are shelves mounted along the walls filled with knick-knacks and various items. Boxes make walking through a bit hazardous, as they litter the floor. Tables take up most of the room, aligned in rows. They are also overflowing with the same odd variety of items. “I guess the best kind of shop to own right now would be a pawn shop.” Callie picks up an old teakettle sitting on one of the tables. “So, what do we do?” “We just open,” Lyam replies, demonstrating as he flips the closed sign to open. “And wait.” *** “That was a pretty good day, I’d say. We bought and sold a ton!” “I don’t know if I’d call it a ton, but yeah, we did a pretty good job, for our first day.” Lyam sets down his spoon, in the middle of eating the
PHOTOGRAPH Caryn Barber
lukewarm soup he had heated up for them on the small stove in the kitchen. Lifting his hand, he silences Callie as she goes to open her mouth to speak. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” She frowns, shoveling another spoonful of soup into her own mouth. “It sounded like...footsteps. On wooden stairs.”
“He’s all right with it. He even says I can keep my cats.”
“But this place only has one floor. Except -”
“Great. So, can I crash at your place tonight?”
“Except for the basement.” Lyam interrupts her once more. The
“I knew that was coming. All right, but I have to get up to open the shop
pair stares across the small, round table at each other, both intently
tomorrow, so if you’re staying you’re helping.”
listening to the silence of the house.
“Deal.”
Callie finally breaks the silence, leaning back in her chair. “Well, I don’t
*** “Did you get up last night?” Lyam asks, sticking the key into the lock of the door that leads from the house into the shop. It, at first, refuses to give, making him wiggle it a few times before the old lock finally clicks open. “No. I slept like a baby. Why?” “It’s nothing, really. I just thought I heard someone moving around. Must have been just the house. It was only my first night here, after all.” Lyam takes a step down into the shop, Callie close behind. He flicks on the light, filling the place with a dull yellow glow. The place appears to
hear anything now.” “Right. Forget I said anything. Help me with the dishes.” *** “Hey, Callie. Have you seen the cat?” “What are you worried about that mangy thing for? It’s time to open the shop.” “I know, but she hasn’t touched the food I left out for her last night. It’s unlike her, and she’s not mangy. No more than you.” “Yeah, yeah. Hey, Lyam. Did you go down into the basement?”
13
“What? Why would you even ask me that?” Callie extends a hand, pointing silently back down the hall. The basement door sits slightly ajar. Just a black sliver along the edge of the old wooden frame. “Callie, how did you get that door open?” Lyam scowls, marching down the hall to the door. “I told you, Mr. Binx said we are not to go down there.” “Me? I didn’t open it! How could I? It was locked!”
flashlight, which Lyam has pointed up towards the exposed beams over their heads. The beams are covered in spider’s webs. Thick, sticky strands caked to the wood. Here and there are bundles, well wrapped. Some large, some small. Callie lets out a sound like a groan and a muffled sob all at once. “God, how many spiders do you think it took to make all this, and how in the world did they wrap things so...big?” “I think it only took one.” “What? One? How could it have taken one ” Callie turns to Lyam, once more following the beam from the plastic flashlight as it cuts through
“Well, someone opened it.” Taking hold of the handle, worn smooth
the inky darkness. The pair stands face to face with a spider, though it
from years of use, Lyam pulls the door back, peering down into the
is far more than that. Its lower half is clearly that of a spider’s, if a spider
pitch-black nothingness. Standing at the top of the stairs, the door
were ever the size of an average car. Its eight, spindly legs cling to
opened before them, they knew they could no longer resist temptation.
the rafters so that it can hang upside down. Where the spider ended,
“Callie, go get the flashlight in the kitchen.”
though, was at its waist. Its human waist. From the waist up it was
Callie casts a quick glance down into the darkness herself before hurrying off, returning a few moments later with a large, yellow flashlight. She pushes the black switch, the small nub sliding forwards.
clearly a young man, with hair like black silk, inky and pin straight. It falls around a human face, though its eyes are just as black. Its skin as white as the silken threads it used to create its web.
Light appears from the larger end, a dull yellowish glow. She hands
“Hi.” The spider slowly lifts a hand in a timid sort of greeting. Callie
the lit flashlight over to Lyam, who swings the beam down into the
lets out a terrible shriek. She turns, bolting back up the stairs. Her foot
darkness. Hesitantly, he steps onto the first of the old, wooden stairs.
slips momentarily on one of the worn wooden slabs, causing her to
There is no handle, free hand groping blindly at the wall instead. The
stumble. She is back up the stairs, Lyam a few steps behind her. They
beam of their single flashlight barely breaks the inky darkness as they
slam the basement door shut, like it was meant to be all along, Lyam
descend, stairs creaking noisily beneath their feet. Callie grips the back
slipping the padlock back in place with a hurried fumbling.
of Lyam’s shirt as they reach the bottom, standing on cold, hard packed dirt. Still gripping the flashlight, now so tightly he thinks he might break it, Lyam sweeps its yellowish beam across the floor in front of them. The beam settles on a bundle laying crumpled on the floor. A bundle of matted fur. “L-Lyam, is that-?” Callie doesn’t finish her sentence, knowing quite well what the matted fur on the floor is. The remains of Lyam’s missing cat. “But how did she get down here and where...where is her head, Lyam?” Lyam only replies with a brief shake of his own head, moving the beam
“I knew he was hiding something down there! I knew it. Still think the house and the job are worth it, Lyam? ‘Cause I sure don’t. It could be eating people! Maybe Mr. Binx has been feeding all his tenants to that monster!” Callie turns sharply, hurrying down the hall. She wrenches open the front door, Lyam close on her heels. Jacket in hand, he closes the front door behind him, locking it with a click. “While I still think you’re overreacting, I’ll tell Mr. Binx that I have changed my mind. First thing tomorrow.”
away from the remains. Stepping forwards, deeper into the darkness, the pair inch across the dirt floor. “Oh, yuck.” Callie whines. She releases her white-knuckled grasp on Lyam’s shirt, flailing her arms in the darkness. “I just walked into a spider’s web. God, this has to be the biggest spider’s web I’ve ever seen. Ugh. I can’t get it out of my hair.” “If that bothers you, I wouldn’t look up.” “Why?” Tilting back her head, Callie follows the yellow beam of the
14
DRAWING
Erika Manns (right)
15
I REMEMBER Karma Bolden
I remember the moment when I first
another few hundred to my shoebox full of shame.
understood what it meant to remember.
Of course that was after I’d d stop to pay my “taxes”
I mean remember.
to my “boss,” who hadn’t even bothered to learn my
Long before I figured out that every year
name. (He just called me Shorty).
Christmas is at the end of December. I remember… In my favorite place to run and escape, I stood in the mirror at age 7 or 8
The rest is a blur of cocktails, jail cells, females,
and stared myself in the eyes.
and fast living. Tattoo tears from me and my peers
Staring back at me was the horror, the pain,
when my homeboy Duck caught 2 in the chest on
and the frustration
Thanksgiving (our Black Friday).
that I had far too soon learned to disguise. After that, something in me awakened and I knew I I remember.
had to find a way out, So I ran back to that place and examined my face and all I saw was self-doubt.
My cousin and I sitting on the top step in the
But somewhere behind all the chaos and insanity
projects with Kool-aid stains on our fingers.
that had taken residence in my eyes, I saw a light
Playing in hallways where the smell of alcohol,
gleaming and I pondered its meaning And what I
piss, gunpowder and cocaine still lingers.
now know was hope took me by surprise.
The once pretty girl from down the street, now
And as I think back, the moment I met ME becomes
with a lifelong scar down her cheek
clearer, molded by a lifetime of memories collected
because someone who will remain nameless
and stored on a journey that began with a mirror.
took away her right to choose. Just outside the bloodstained basketball court from when the one who will also remain nameless killed another guy because he refused to lose. I remember. On every corner on every block, lost flocks invest in illegal exchanges of goods, hopelessness behind their smiles, exposing that they really would change if they could. Just like them, the streets made me believe my goal in life was to get my eternal shine on. Plus crack was easier to get than a job so I spent my teenaged years getting my grind on. At the end of every night I’d go home and add
PAINTING
Allison Kollander (right)
16
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RED VELVET Joe Tronolone
Something new has started in a time once marked with loss. They share his name, two people have become one, but what boggles my mind is what this could do to his son. The day began with the rise of the sun. I was prepared for a fresh start yet images of him kept flashing through my mind. I know I will never forget this loss, but of course he hasn’t been the only one. The casualties seem too many to name. I gaze at the pictures, the cake, and the names. I look at them standing in the sun, their lips interlocking as one. I see the cutting of the cake start, their faces, covered in red velvet, are lost. I replay the photos over and over in my mind. What she has done cannot leave my mind – so far she’s made three attempts I can name. The reasons why have slowly been lost, and now she wants a second son. How can someone wish for new life to start when they can’t even value one? Maybe I’m wrong; maybe she’s won. Has that deathly desire been driven from her mind? Perhaps she too is prepared for a fresh start, but are those tendencies gone, namely the pills and the blades, replaced by his son? I have no answers, no words; I sit at a loss.
DRAWING Erika Manns
But I’m done knowing loss; she will not be the next one. Lord I pray, for the sake of their son, cleanse her spirit; ease her mind. There’s love for her here that cannot be named She’s one of us; a new family has started.
PHOTOGRAPH As we start to eat the leftover cake, all the questions are lost. My name is called, the slices are passed, and we’re each given one. In my mind the red velvet tastes fresh, like the sun.
18
Stephanie Wardrop (right)
19
20
PHOTOGRAPHS Griffin Raymond
21
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JUDGE TENDERLY OF ME Erica Elbers
Judge tenderly of me but tell me the truth. Shine a light on my scars, nurse them anew. Judge tenderly of me not the look of my face or my polite quietness, my compliance or my grace. Judge tenderly of me crack me open and circle within my ribs, pass my heart, and find the strength in my spine. Judge tenderly of me open my skull swirl around my brain for something meaningful, something raw. Judge tenderly of me my dreams of careers,
PHOTOGRAPHS Caryn Barber (top and left)
ask for my thoughts, opinions, fears. Judge tenderly of me look long and hard. Find I am eternally me never defined by my scars.
23
PHOTOGRAPHS Casey Zangara
24
PHOTOGRAPH Rachel Gallmeyer
THE AWAKENING Karma Bolden
Today I awakened.... Sitting on stairs over looking the desolate and barren weather- beaten streets of this harsh reality. Lost in a sea of uncertainty, I struggle to remain afloat. I raise my head and watch a bird soar high above this cage to freedom. I imagine I am its copilot. With wings. Wings that give me freedom to escape the shackles this sad place has tried to lock me into. It is a place where dreams stare back at you in the distance, seeming a world away. Bad decisions and wrongdoing push those dreams ever further. Everyday is a promise to myself and the universe that I will be better. My soul searches for the answer as I wonder what “better” really means. Here is where my spirit lives in desperation longing for a place where I fit. I stare out into oblivion and a voice echoes in my ear. Its goal to convince me of what life has proven. I don’t belong here. Here not being these steps, nor this street, nor this city, nor this state, nor this country, nor this earth. Memories of a past far greater and full of purity and understanding seem to glow in my consciousness. I don’t belong here. It is as if I am a visitor from another dimension, time and place. Longing to go back turns into frustration as I wander in search of what my mission is in this place. For once I have completed that mission, my journey here will end and I will either go in peace back to where I belong, or set out for the next destination on my path. What does that mean? My mind is complex, but my spirit is the only part of me that is brilliant enough to decipher that language. My existence understands my existence. My existence. My humanity. The two seem to go hand and hand. For it seems to me that my acknowledgement of my existence is the core of my humanity. Not unlike the other souls that surround me, my existence wonders what the truth is to ALL humanity. I know deep down that one day I will know. A part of me feels like I already do. After all, the truth is within me. So, to keep a grasp on my sanity I exist through all the things my soul recognizes as truth, love, music, words, laughter and art. It is in these things that I find serenity. So, into these things is where I escape reality. If only for beautiful moments at a time. Like this one.
25
WATERCOLOR
(clockwise from top left) Jordan Kowalski Renee Falsken Michelle Sanchez Rene Miller
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DEAR EMILY Cody Tarbox
I’m just a writer with no pen. A story with no end. A lover in disguise with nowhere else to hide. A soldier with no fight with no enemies in sight, A priest without his chapel, but a reason to be followed. A fish without his gills, the more you breathe, the more it kills.
But you’re a heart without a beat. A vein that doesn’t bleed. Some body without a soul filled with a dark black hole. You’re the nighttime with no stars when the moon gets carved. You’re a child without laughter, so pretend it doesn’t matter. Say you’d rather be dead than start your life again.
But me, I’ll make amends. At least then I’ll be forgiven.
PHOTOGRAPH
Stephanie Wardrop
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THE SILENT WOMAN’S PORTRAIT Victoria Cobel
Clarissa Forest was an expert in art restoration who was
But as much as she disliked us, she loved her job. Anyone
often thought to love art more than anything, even more
could see it in how she lovingly repainted grumpy old men
than people. That was pretty much a fact. But she was our
upon their canvases and smiled at the jewels her buxom
expert, so the company was reluctant to let her go. The
beauties wore, jewels she had spent hours brightening
staff were always uncomfortable with the woman, and I
under the light of a magnifier. With so much love for her
can’t really say I blame them. They didn’t know how to
work, I doubt she would have left like this without a word.
deal with her or how to talk to her. I didn’t know how to talk
Well, a written scribble or a warning of some sort. There
to her. It wasn’t like I didn’t try, but she was clearly past the
were so many unanswered questions, and as unfriendly as
point of trying when it came to her co-workers. And in all
she was, Clarissa was a mystery on her own without adding
fairness, we were all beyond the point of trying to decipher
her sudden disappearance to the mix.
her chicken scratch and hand gestures that involved more than her middle finger. No wonder she wasn’t the
As I stared at the last portrait she had worked on before
friendliest person around.
vanishing, I couldn’t help remembering the uncomfortable few times I’d seen her late at night, when she worked
Still, we all noticed when she went missing a couple of
best. Half the time I’d be on my way out the door from the
weeks ago. How could we not? She was the best among
photo lab and happen upon her open door. She would be
us. She could take a painting ripped beyond repair, the
painting in her normal work wear, stiff and hunched over
paint scratched and dulled by age and dust, and restore
the canvas looking like a painting herself from how little
it to a time where the archaic paint had just dried and the
she moved. Much less often I’d happen across more…
long deceased artist could sit back and look at his work
unusual behaviors. One time I saw her working late into
and beam. Without her, a good portion of the pieces in
the night in a sports bra and bandana, her arms and face
our gallery would be in a dusty basement somewhere
smeared with paint as if she had rubbed her face into the
or locked up as a ruined treasure worth keeping only
pallet. The woman forgot to close her door a lot, and I’d
because of its age and birthplace. Without her, a teacher
always end up seeing more than the others on my way
would point at a piece on a field trip and say “This used to
out of the building. Accidental voyeurism at its finest. I’ve
be a beautiful work of art from the past” and his students
always had that problem. It’s how I met my boyfriend,
would be completely uninterested in the smudgy canvas,
Duke.
running instead to the vibrant, abstract gallery down the
DRAWING
Dominique Cruz (left)
hall. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t speak a word to save
But sometimes it could be a blessing. Her open door and
her life -being mute from birth - or couldn’t write in a script
my lack of discretion gave me the chance to watch her
that didn’t resemble a child’s first strokes in Japanese. The
work her magic on everything from hand-sized canvases
woman was a genius when it came to art and restoration.
to massive full sized works of art. I’ve seen more of this
Give her a paint brush, and she could make canvases say
woman than she would ever reveal herself, including her
what she herself never could.
dedication to the portrait.
So why’d she leave? If she did, she left on her own…
This portrait… it was the love of her life, and a complete
or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she got kidnapped? But
anomaly to all of us. It was shipped to us without a return
the room was relatively clean, aside from her usual
label or an invoice of any sort. We had no idea where it
artistic mess. No sign of a struggle, the police had said
came from, but when we opened it, we didn’t care. Inside
so. Unsurprisingly, few believed them. She didn’t seem
was a large, full sized portrait of a man in Victorian clothing
like a fighter, even if push came to shove. I thought
staring proudly and beautifully out at his onlookers, even
maybe she’d quit; I thought she’d gotten tired of all our
through the fade and scratch of time. And let me tell you,
misunderstandings and effortless attempts to get along
he was gorgeous; it was an incarnation of beauty that
with her and just left.
somehow had withstood the passage of time.
29
Someone teased me for drooling over the portrait when Clarissa
hadn’t snuck that peek, because it still lives in my memory and turns
volunteered to restore it with a raised hand and her eyes firmly locked
me on to this day.
on the man inside. She loved Victorian paintings, so of course she would want to repair it. It was moved to her studio space and she set to
What I peered in on was something of a surprising erotica scene
work immediately, closing her door and leaving herself with Mr. Long,
playing out on our genius’s table, a normally cluttered desk which had
Pale and Handsome’s Portrait. The lucky bitch.
been swept clean in a spur of passion by a pale arm. Paintbrushes were scattered everywhere along with assorted clothes across all surfaces,
Her door opened days later and, through three days of sleepless work,
and the sound of breathing and the pleasant smack of flesh grabbing
she rediscovered his golden blonde hair, his lush lips, and pale skin
had filled the room. Not a single voice was heard.
that looked smooth to the touch. I walked into her studio space to get a closer look at the portrait, but didn’t get very far before she chased
Clarissa was on her back beneath her man, the light turned away from
me out and locked herself back in to work. She was possessed by this
her face, but casting a glow enough on her white skin with the natural
thing. Obsessed. She didn’t allow anyone inside to see her progress
shadows that would have made a gallery perfect piece. I quivered at
until she was forced home by the boss and we all snuck in to take a
the thought of the perfect arches of shadow and light between the two
closer look. If the man was handsome before she got her hands on him,
on an actual piece, or a photo even. Clarissa was in silent rapture. Her
he was godly now. Once again, I was teased for drooling, but I could
mouth was open though no sweet moan came from her. Just a breath
hardly be blamed. Even Duke wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away
she tried to make soft, to replicate what she couldn’t voice.
from this if he saw it. Tall, pale, and handsome was his type, even if he picked me in the end.
The broad-backed man taking her understood her intention, and reconnected their lips to silence what wasn’t there. He made no
But Clarissa, that genius, had done well again. She always did. But
indication that he was aware of my presence, and only leaned down
something seemed off about the painting. I remember thinking that a
more when her slender fingers wove into his blonde hair. Every move
break might be a good idea for me as well, because for a few seconds
they made sent my blood thundering through me, sent my body
when it was just me and the painting in the room, I thought I saw the
responding to cues that weren’t appropriate to respond to in public.
figure inside it moving, stretching. Looking. Very slight, but not nonexistent. I thought I saw the play of muscles beneath his coat and by
I looked longer than decency allowed. Much longer, and by the time I
his neck. The slight lift of the cravat as the lungs beneath it filled. The
hurried away from the doorframe, I was left in the awkward situation of
beginning of a blink of long eyelashes.
driving home with an erection urging me twenty or thirty miles over the speed limit. I tried hard to forget about it, for Clarissa’s sake, but I just
A break, I thought. Definitely a break…and a double shot of the nearest
couldn’t get the scene out of my head. By the time Duke came home,
alcoholic drink I could get.
I practically attacked him. When I explained what I saw, he laughed at my luck and told me blackmail her for the painting as a joke. Even if it
The portrait wasn’t moving now as it hung in our gallery with an auction
was a joke, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be the snitch on her, not after all she’d
tag on it, but it seemed more alive than before. In a bad way. A detail
done in covering for Duke and me in the photo lab—a cover I’ll never be
caught my eye as I stared at the portrait and I started looking in the
able to repay her for— but walking in on her and her man was almost a
background more, trying to see what was off about it. A woman was
surreal experience. A hot one, but surreal.
in the background of the scene, a standard painter’s beauty with uncannily sharp eyes by the door in her corset nearly at the edge of
So why did I think of it as I looked at the portrait and the mysterious
the canvas. A headache started forming when another memory of my
woman in the background? I couldn’t say. She kind of looked like
accidental voyeuristic tendencies arose at the thought of Clarissa. This
Clarissa, stood like her. Maybe to my own surprise I missed the mute
one was weeks after the initial start of the portrait and it was nearly
genius who never said a word but spoke through her art. I didn’t know
completed. It just needed to be put back into its frame, which had
why I kept thinking about that man and Clarissa even as I wheeled the
been restored well.
painting to the auction and watched it get sold off to a wealthy looking man and his wife who probably had a nice big mantel to hang it above.
I was leaving the office, same as usual, when I noticed the door open
It was sad that we couldn’t keep it. Clarissa would have had a fit if she
to Clarissa’s workspace and decided to try to sneak a peek at the
knew we’d auctioned it off so easily.
painting. I couldn’t help myself. That thing was irresistible. I wish I
30
I took the job in packaging it for the ride to its new home, wrapping
I pulled the packaging over the woman with loose brown hair, holding
it up to make sure Clarissa’s restoration wasn’t damaged just after
a plain knife above an apple ready to cut it. Her eyes were trained
completion. I spent a lot of time looking at the distant woman near the
forward at the man posing, sharp and intelligent. Very unlike how
edge of the frame, trying to remember if she’d been there before or
women were painted in this style, but I didn’t think anything of it. We
not. It wouldn’t be like our genius to tamper with a painting.
had no idea where the painting came from, so it might have been a quirk associated with the artist. An imitation of Victorian rather than an
I stared at the woman and had something of a waking daydream,
actual Victorian? But how would that explain the age? I stretched the
where in quick succession I saw Clarissa kissing the man in the
packaging over the man’s face nearing the opposite corner, and his
painting, looking happy then…confused. Then unsettled. I saw her
mouth was curled upwards as if in a triumphant smirk.
pushing him away and running for the knife she used to cut her apples with at lunchtime. I saw it in stills, where she’d reached for the knife but
That, I didn’t remember originally being there, and with a pang in my
been grabbed from behind by the man in the portrait and dragged
gut, I finished packaging the portrait in a trance. I remembered the day
backwards. I didn’t hear it, but I felt a sort of silent scream, as if it were
I thought I saw the man in the portrait shifting and flexing even if he
rattling my vocal chords. It was disturbing, and I shook my head to
wasn’t moving. The portrait was taken away and I went outside to watch
clear the images from my head, startle the feeling away. As strange
it get packed away into a truck and transported to the wealthy man’s
as the timing of that was, it was probably just a weird daydream and
home.
nothing more. I still felt the same silent scream vibrating in my ear.
PAINTING
Chris Franklin
31
PHOTOGRAPH Caryn Barber
32
TYPOGRAPHY Ali Casarsa
33
PHOTOGRAPH Stephanie Wardrop (right)
PARADISE
Romona Harkness
Close your eyes. Imagine living in a perfect world. Where you are not considered fat because you are a little larger than average. Where you are not considered ugly because of your flaws. Where homosexuality is accepted and not viewed as a disease. Where you’re not singled out because you’re black, white, Puerto Rican or Jamaican. Where equal rights include everyone. Where you don’t have to fight to prove anything because it’s already there. Where success is not based on money or fame, but happiness alone. Where everyone gets along out of respect and not because they’re forced to. Where perfection is not a chore, but a choice. Imagine living in a world so full of love it’s as natural as breathing air.
PHOTOGRAPH Kaitlin McCabe
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35
THE STREETS WE WALK, WE KNOW WE’VE WALKED BEFORE Phillip Lee Amherst Street crosses with Delaware Avenue here in North Buffalo. Twenty years ago, at the age of ten, I remember this avenue before the department stores, the Target, the Kohl’s. I remember walking home from school, passing the old Video Factory, now a Fitness 360. The old Tunmore Olds that spread itself all over Villa Road, Sanders Road, and Delaware, has now been replaced by a Starbucks, Subway, and a Basil Resale. I now walk this avenue today, a different place, but still the same. I walk as April soon turns into May. Eight-hour day with no cut in pay! The law is framed for your enslavers! Early in May, Haymarket Square became ablaze. Some accounts say there was a bomb. Some accounts say different. Two shots were fired off. Two workers died. Their blood ran red, ran down the streets; there had arisen a red scare. More shots had fired. Officers lost their lives. More workers had lost their lives. All the workers wanted was “An eight hour day with no cut in pay.” It was in these days, workers worked in excess of 60 hours a week. They labored in sickness and labored until death. A monument now stands where men then laid slain. Throttle it! Kill it! Do everything you can to impede its progress! War has been declared on us! People have been shot! Detroit Avenue in the heartland of America. How one side of the Avenue could lay in flames while the other stood placid and still, I do not know. I imagine Detroit to have resembled Amherst Street. Not so much the appearance of the houses. Actually, simply in just the flora and the fauna. The same maple and oak, once majestic and at peace, now engulfed in savage flames. The small squirrel and hares that scamper about, then knew what true terror was, how it looked, and how it smelt. The car loads of pick-up trucks with men in their beds, assault weapons in hand. It could have been me, running perilously down this street, as May transitioned into June. This street is a street I have walked down before. Defend Yourselves! Any animal, however loathsome, will resist when stepped upon! June. Christopher Street. A sanctuary to those made most vulnerable. A bed of Heaven, surrounded by Hades, run by the purveyors of crude immorality. They established this haven, not by any sense equity, but by sense of selfishness and of greed. The angels who dwelled in this heaven could not count on the Devil for their protection. Screams, shouts, and yells littered Christopher and ran through this Village, running the same path as the blood of angels does. These angels fought. The souls lost in June of 69’ will forever live on. They will live on in the blessed, hollowed month of June. Are Men Less Than Snails or Worms? I stand in April. I look toward May. I look toward June. I look out onto where Delaware and Amherst meet. A corner I knew in my youth and my innocence. I corner I know today. It is different than how I remember. The concrete, the asphalt however, is still as it was at Haymarket, on Detroit, and on Christopher. This sameness found in this difference does indeed evince the power of resistance. Concrete and asphalt remains concrete and asphalt. A street remains a street, whether walked upon or not. A struggle is still a struggle, whether resistance is had or not. But just as it takes footsteps to render a street a path of cause, it takes a fight had in a struggle to render conviction, resolution, and resolve.
36
POSTER
Erika Tozzo
37
POSTER
Angela Sahlem
38
MY MOON Karma Bolden As far back as I can remember whenever a day seemed chaotic
the phase I remember calling “The Man in the Moon” as a
someone would always ask, “Is there a full moon tonight?” I never
child. I’ve also noticed that on days when I feel inexplicable
understood the depth of that question. As I grew older in mind,
and overwhelming emotion, I check the moon phase and it is
body and spirit it occurred to me that the phases of the moon
always in the New Moon phase. I was surprised the first time
really can (and do in my case) have an effect on human emotion
when I realized that a New Moon isn’t visible. I was intrigued
and consciousness, as well as nature itself.
to know there was a part of me (mostly subconsciously) that actually felt sad when I didn’t see the moon. This made me
While the “science” of the moon’s effects is bit much for me to
feel more in tune with the universe.
explain, I can definitely say in my personal experience, different things happen in my life consistently during certain phases of the
The days when I am filled with serenity and everything makes
moon.
me smile are days when the moon is in its Third Quarter phase. This phase is also called the Half Moon phase, halfway
There are nights when my sleep is sounder and my dreams are
to the end of a full cycle. I call this phase My Moon; it’s when I
extremely vivid. Whenever I remember to check the phase of the
feel like Mother Nature is paying me special attention. It is the
moon after having one of these “night films” (as I’ve come to call
day she seems to say, “you’ve earned this day.” So on these
them), the moon is always in its Waning Crescent phase. This is
days the same way people question if there’s a full moon on a crazy day, I wake up feeling rejuvenated and immediately want to know if there’s going to be My Moon.
PHOTOGRAPH Frederick Vicaretti
39
40
THINGS I KNOW FOR SURE Erica Elbers
Little dreams become visions with purpose and the proper builder can create a whole world. Having love gives you might, giving love gives you nerve. A head full of fears can make or break you, shatter you or build you. Don’t confuse malice with ignorance for ignorance can be reconstructed. Butterflies aren’t the only creatures born anew; one should learn from their way of life, Ripping a page from a novel doesn’t mean it was never there, so pin your story to your chest with pride, celebration and honor. And finally, yes, it’s true – everything will be all right in the end.
PHOTOGRAPH Gina Oneill
PAINTING
Emma Balk (left)
41
PACKAGE DESIGN Ali Casarsa
PRINT AD
Travis Springer
42
CAMPAIGN Rachel Rising
43
44
SEED THIEF Victoria Cobel
Writers are thieves. Writers have always been thieves of the most cunning sort; plucking seeds from wherever they can and helping them grow to blossoms. Very rarely are these writers ashamed of their theft when they become prizewinning blooms. They only sometimes feel shame if, and when, their sticky fingers at last get caught tending their stolen sprouts to maturity. This writer was a thief of the truest kind, padding along the rubble and the trees in soft black boots and touching the bark and the walls for support only when she was sure her gloves were secure. Her hair and face were wrapped in a scarf, a niqab, worn for the sole purpose of hiding her face
have masked her gender if her scanty day-fibers didn’t already give her away. She was comfortable in her fibers and wearing much more in this heat was practically considered suicide. Her hand was extended and tilted slightly left in respectful greeting. The man did not move, but continued staring at the wall intently. “Uh…Peace?” she tried again, repeating her hand gesture. Once again, the man did not move his gaze from the wall. She growled quietly, frustrated by his lack of attention. “Hey, Geezer, at least look at me once before you ignore
to voice her location save for the soft, barely-there tap-tap-
me.” She dropped the respect from her tone and sharpened
tap of the toes of her boots on the concrete and the brush
it to a point at the man. He may not have been older than his
of their point through the grass. She had no shame over her
late twenties, but what else does a stubborn reformer call an
actions, never any shame about her goal, only the natural
Old Guard who’s well on his way to losing his mind?
Hours of walking later, she was back in the city. It was still a concrete jungle, even four hundred years after its destruction, but now nature was taking over the corpse and
“The clock…” “Yeah, what about it?” her impatience would be obvious to a less addled mind.
making life out of death. Buildings that stood as monuments
“The clock…it makes me nervous.” She looked at said clock
of height and power now were burned with soot and
on the wall, rolling her eyes at the Geezer’s mistrust of it. It
covered with creeping vines and buds of flowers she had
was modern at the time it was built, all sharp strokes of lines
no time to name. She did remember learning about them
making thin numbers and two silver rectangles of metal for
previously though it seemed unimportant at the time.
hands. It had long since stopped, locked on the time when
The streets were cracked from the bomb drops and the
Marie Mukandanga (left)
“Peace, friend.” she said cordially, with a low voice that could
from enemies and chemicals. She made no noise, no sound
fear of getting caught by the Old Guard.
PAINTING
might use to catch her in her crime.
the sun would normally rise.
earthquakes, but still intact enough that a few good leaps
“Why would a clock—hey!” she snapped twice in front of his
and a flexible body would get you across from Deimer to
face. “I told you to stop staring at it and focus.” She lowered
Cristin without plummeting into one of the crevices. The
her voice, and continued. “Tell me where the seeds are.”
night was dark and clear, and the stars watched curiously overhead at the sneaking girl who had finally found her target and peered inside the window hole. Inside the remains of what must have been an art gallery, she saw a man in average civilian fibers sitting against one wall while he glared at the one across from him, focusing intently on something she couldn’t see from outside. The thief used the vines covering the base of the window to climb up into the gallery and landed quietly on her toes. The man didn’t notice her, and she walked towards him after scanning the shabby room for anything that the government
“The seeds?” he seemed puzzled. “I thought I told you…” “No, you didn’t. You got recalled the last time you offered to tell me.” “Oh.” “Yes, ‘oh’, you never told me.” Her eyes grew serious. “You need to tell me now.” “Why?” he asked, child-like, as his gaze wandered back to the wall and the clock.
45
“Because I need it.” The thief said, scratching at her head with a finger through the niqab. “It’s…it’s just like you said, Guard. No stories, no culture. And we’ve got such a weak way now, with the government
“Ah, yes! I do.”
holding up all the story seeds just so they can stay smarter and stay on
“Flowers like those, except they sing stories and poems and the like.
top of us. We deserve new stories, new legends, and new things to build
Almost makes me think the guy who wrote it knew about the seeds
on.”
before anyone else…. They start out as seeds and grow while they sing.
“What’s wrong with stories now?” he asked. “Dammit, Geezer, you told me about it.” “My mind’s a…little foggy.” He turned his brown eyes and handsome face to her. “Remind me what I told you?” “We don’t have time…” she saw the look on his face, and she scowled.
At the end of their song, so you’ve told me, they wither and die, but not a second before. Anyone can use them to create literature and enrich the lives of us in the grass, but the government keeps them locked up tight and gives them only to those who can pay, making them richer than they already need to be.” She huffed. “Sodding bastards.” “And you want one, right?”
She couldn’t say no to him, not now that his brain was finally going to rot
“Yes, but I don’t know where they are, and I know you know where they’re
from the government’s technology, and he was still risking everything by
going to be tonight even if you’ve already been discharged. They move
helping her with her goal. She could stand to show a little pity.
them tomorrow morning and I need—oh, leave the damn clock alone!”
“Ugh. Fine.” She sat down on a bench beside him. Now why wouldn’t he
“But it’s staring…” the Guard squinted harder at the wall.
just sit on the— “Shit!” The bench collapsed under her and she fell, bum first, onto the hard ground. The Guard didn’t even notice her fall when, months earlier, he’d be laughing himself silly at her blunder. She pushed herself up with a few choice cusses and sat on the other side of him, on the floor. Much safer. “You said a few centuries back, when everyone was killing each other for land and bragging rights over which country had the biggest dicks—”
“Guard.” She tried to bring his focus back, unsuccessfully. “It’s. Staring.” She grabbed his shoulders and turned him to face her. “Come on, man. Focus.” She looked him straight in the eye and spoke slowly and deliberately. “Where are the seeds?” After a full minute of hard thinking, he replied, “…private repository number six.” “You’re sure?”
she was on the receiving end of a scolding, single-raised-eyebrow stare
“Yes.” His eyes cleared for the first time in the whole conversation. For this
and she rolled her eyes again. “That’s what you made it sound like! Ugh,
one moment, this one response, he was completely aware.
whatever their reasons, when the fighting started, they hit each others’ libraries first. Blew up all the books and burnt them to bits. No one batted an eyelash. Then the clouds and the intranets went down…intranets, right?” she looked at him. “I think so.” “Yeah, once those went down, it was like the end of the world. And now no one but the government has things like that, and they aren’t nearly as powerful as they used to be. So now our culture is based on stories that the doomsayers saved and the ones we make now- which are heavily monitored by the government and you freak Geezers, right?” “Uh…yes. And remind me about the story seeds?”
46
rotting process continued in the familiar Guard.
“And they won’t move them until the morning, right?” “Mmhmm.” Aaaand she’d lost him. She deadpanned, “And the clock is going to come to life and devour us all?” “Yes!” he grabbed her as she had grabbed him and kissed her full on the mouth. “Finally you understand.” The sudden smooch threw her off her guard, but she reacted almost instantly. The thief shoved him off her and stood up, posture tense. “Shit, you Geezer! I don’t have time for this mind-rot. I have to…” She
“Please tell me you remember telling me about that girl who went
looked down his face, his brown eyes pushing into puppy-dog territory
underground and found some sort of Wonderland.” The thief mumbled,
and she shook her head with another sad sigh. “That shit-metal thing
thoroughly impatient and unhappy to witness how quickly the mind-
in your ear really addled your brain, didn’t it? You poor sod.” She bent
down and touched the ear encompassed in repurposed brown metal.
least four times in three different places, the last of which being an old
“In another world…” She shook her head again. “I need to get going. You
air vent. She used the air vent as her means of escape, grateful for being
should go home.”
taught how to steal and evade capture so well, and fled through the
She got up and moved towards the window vines again.
remainder of the night with the chirping seed in between her gloves. She couldn’t take it back to the village, or else the Guards would come down
“In that other world, you’d be mine,” the Guard said quietly.
hard on her family and everyone else.
She heard him, but the thief said nothing, casting her eyes downward.
The thief found a desolate part of the decrepit city and started looking
She clambered over the windowsill and slid down the vines. The faster
around for somewhere she could grow the seed. A large building full of
tep-tep-tep of her soft boot toes had her running down the grey, away
tiny houses seemingly stacked together looked to be the best option at
from the thoughts of the next life and towards the one she had now.
the time, so she went inside and tried to find the room with as few holes
Getting into the sixth private repository, which was really just a repurposed warehouse, was easy for a woman like her who sometimes doubled as a sticky newt on the walls of the big guys running culture into the ground. Just climb in through one of the busted window holes and climb down on the vines there. In the shadows, with her black fibers and dark skin, she was nearly undetectable by the sleepy night Guards. She had grabbed a seed easily enough, a large, bulbous thing that looked more like a seamless sports ball than a plant seed, but there was no mistake about it- this palm-sized orb was the seed she was looking for. The moment she picked it up, it trembled with untold stories and the sprout inside, almost sentient, gave a trill of delight at being held after so long being kept dormant. This squeal alerted the metal ears of the Guards all throughout the facility and the thief found herself trapped at
as possible and the one with the best working door. The one she found appeared to have belonged to a child, for some toys and vague shapes remained around the room that looked kid-friendly. It was a room where a young boy or girl might have dreamed and made their own stories. She locked the door marked 124 in familiar numerals and jammed a chair under the knob. There were no holes to speak of, but the walls seemed thin. She didn’t have much time to work, and she only hoped the song the seed would sing would be short and sweet. She unpacked her back bag, pouring the fresh soil onto the mossy rug, finishing by sprinkling the red petal fertilizer on top of it. Placing her water skin on the desk beside the pile of dirt, she carefully removed the seed from her gloves and stroked it. She very faintly heard the trill it gave earlier and couldn’t help but smile at the happy noise. It seemed as overjoyed to be creating its way to death, as she was to finally bring some culture back to human existence.
PAINTING Carl Hunley
She made a hole in the dirt pile with her fist and placed the seed inside, covering it and patting the dirt lightly. Reaching for the water skin, she checked the door, staring at it for a few seconds before looking above it, seeing a clock, amazingly, ticking in its correct time. It had big numbers, maybe colorful once, and arms that looked like hands with big white gloves on them. It had eyes and a big, goofy smile. She turned back and poured. “I don’t have much time, sprout.” She whispered. “Give me something to lift the hearts of the people.” She replaced the skin in her bag and waited, watching the wet dirt. Once the water soaked through to the seed, it grew, and broke through the soil in a soft, child-like hum. She readied her graphite and paper and began writing immediately when the bud shifted and tiny petals split into the shape of a mouth. When it began to
47
PACKAGING Grace Gruarin
WATERCOLOR Renee Falsken
48
sing, she almost hadn’t been ready for the experience of it. The sprout sang, and she felt her mind rush upwards as if in flight on the wind, as if her consciousness fled her body and lived the story in the air as it danced. She mindlessly wrote down everything she heard. She’d
“Damn. That clock makes me nervous,” she muttered to herself. She heard something off in the distance and froze. Footsteps? “They’re… coming.” She looked at the clock again before turning back to the flower. “Come on, baby, hurry up.”
heard stories all her life, but never had she been told one by a flower, by
Her focus on the flower was fractured, and she was distracted between
the earth itself. The experience was bizarre, as if she were experiencing a
the clock and the footsteps she swore she kept hearing. But the story was
waking dream. The sprout sang about a little boy who chased bees from
almost over and, as broken as her hand felt, she was going to finish it if it
frightened girls, and a little girl who sang to flowers in the sixth month
killed her. The thief tried so hard not to look at the door, not to look up at
until her voice would crack and waver. Her hand moved fast, cramping
the clock. She was rewarded when the story came to its climax. She was
already around the graphite from her speed, but the thief herself barely
writing so hard and so fast, she didn’t hear the drumming return, hasten,
felt it.
and crescendo.
The sprout grew fast and was then up to her waist if she was she standing.
When the door burst open, and the chair splintered toward her, she
Its story changed from one genre of adventure to another, and found
jumped out of her skin before her spirit completely returned to it. Old
the characters engaged in a fight of passion and politics. The boy went
Guards rushed into the room and the flower, frightened from the loud
off to protect, the girl stayed home to sing to flowers. The story sounded
intrusion, wailed. The thief looked hurriedly for a way out, but found no
familiar to the thief, but she was swept up in the song and paid the
exit that she didn’t check for when she stationed herself in the room. She
nagging sensation in her head no mind. Her hand moved freely, her
was trapped and surrounded by flamethrowers.
writing became sloppy and barely legible. She didn’t fret over it- she was sure she could figure it out when it became necessary. The flower spread its petals and stood tall and proud, grown and gorgeous to its listeners. Its voice was equal to that of an operatic aria, and brought fat, emotional tears to the thief’s eyes. The boy and the girl reunite, but things have changed for both, and going back is impossible. The boy, now a man, weakens while the girl has become a strong woman, fierce and unafraid. An agent of change. They face an enemy they cannot possibly defeat. It seemed a typical story, but something kept the thief
She put her hands up on her head as a well-fibered man walked into the room between two Guards and stepped towards her. He was fat too, the rich bastard. “You culture reformers are really getting to be a pain in my behind,” he drawled, leering down at the thief. “Though, if you are any indication, those reformers are getting prettier by the day. I suppose I shouldn’t complain about that.” His gaze was clearly going down the line between her breasts.
completely captivated by it. She wanted nothing more than to find
“Jackass.” The thief growled, still not moving her hands from her head. He
out what happened, and then she started worrying how long she had
chortled at her crass speech.
been there, listening to the flower sing. It…had to have been hours. She glanced at the clock. It was still smiling at her. “Just before sunrise. I’ve got time.” She turned back to the flower that kept singing. But her mind was returning from flight, sinking down into her body and making her turn her head back to the clock. “I’ve got time.” She repeated, trying to reassure herself. The grin looked curled, more wicked. The story the flower was telling picked up again, and now a grand fight was taking place. Every few moments her head would twitch back to the clock to check the time, to make sure it was still ticking (and it was still ticking). She didn’t even realize how often she was looking at the clock
“You can fight all you want, little thief, but your consequences are still the same.” He moved forwards and pulled her niqab off her head, revealing her soil-smeared face, a short Chelsea hawk, and those defiant eyes ringed with heavy black paste. “For stealing a seed and planting it yourself, you will be executed by slow poison.” “Even if you kill me, there’ll be others,” she said. “And soon, you won’t have any seeds to sell left.” “Or if I kill you, morale will drop,” he said. “And if I kill enough of you, your little rebellion will die out before you can even take another seed.” She snarled and hunched as if for an attack. The flamethrowers clicked warningly and the flower wailed again. She began to feel the pressure and the hopelessness of her situation. “Why do you have to do this?”
until she found herself staring at it instead of her paper. Its friendly smile
“Simple.” He leaned down to speak into her face. She was angry enough
looked downright menacing now as it stared her down.
not to care about his bad breath. “As Darwin said, it’s survival of the
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fittest. And you and your plant-hugging commoners clearly are not the fittest.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an Old Guard torching all her hard written work with a single puff of his flamethrower. “Not only that, but unmoderated culture, as we’ve seen in the past, has sprouted nothing but chaos. So, that unmoderated culture needs to be destroyed before we destroy ourselves again. Or, I suppose before you and your people destroy us again. It doesn’t matter what you lot try. I am going to see this world returned to the one we had before our ancestors destroyed it. Our technology, our ease, it must all be rebuilt.” The thief was quiet for a long time before glaring up at the man, and his overdone fibers. “And just what is Darwin again?” “If I have my way, you and your poor compatriots will never know.” The man gestured to the Guards to his left. They moved forward at once and grabbed the thief. She did not struggle; she didn’t fight to get out. She let them carry her out, but she got one final quip in on the conversation. A warning and a promise. “We will know.” As the left group carried the thief out, the right group stepped in front of the fine-fibered man and raised their flamethrowers. Simultaneously, they flicked their triggers on and set the shrieking flower on fire. None of them left the room until each and every petal was ash that matched the grey and black of the walls.
PACKAGE DESIGN Lucy Norton (below) Joe Carney (right)
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BROCHURE Jessica Puskar
PRINT AD Rachel Rising
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WHY I WRITE Tiffany DeJesus
I can’t even begin to express the many reasons why I write. It all started as a child. I write to keep myself calm, To bring peace when I feel like chaos is all around. I write to express things I cannot say, To release my heart from all the pain. I write to take myself to another world So I won’t think about all the darkness that unfolds. I write to express how I’m feeling; For me it’s my way of healing, To help me forget About all the things that were left unsaid. Yet I live with no regrets I write in passion, in fear, in silence, in tears I write for all to hear.
THERE USED TO BE SOMETHING WRITTEN HERE ABOUT... Ana Spanhake A girl who couldn’t say no someone who was stupid and naive who held her heart in her hand for anyone to take A girl with no reservations and too much pain who hid in a closet with a razor Now it’s about someone who was saved by a facade It’s a new girl who hides away her heart and has learned from past mistakes someone that knows how to put up a good front A girl who keeps her emotions under lock and key Keeping them from seeing daylight but if you look closer, late at night it’s the same girl with too much pain
PHOTOGRAPH Griffin Raymond
DRAWING
Morgan McCutcheon (right)
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FILM CRITIQUE: THE BOOK OF LIFE Megan Smith This past weekend I saw the movie The Book of Life. I
Another moment in the movie that completely
was very intrigued to see it after I saw the first trailer.
stereotypes females is when one of the men is trying
The bright colors, and focus on Dias de los Muertos
to woo Maria at the dining table. He clearly mentions
piqued my interest. I loved learning about The Day of
things that degrade her intelligence and play off her
the Dead in Spanish class and I have seen decorations
beauty. She makes a point to make him regret saying
with sugar skulls and the bright festive colors become
those things; however the storyline in the movie is
more and more popular. However, other than the
still not proving anything. It is about a girl who goes
amazing designs and animation, I was not overly
away to school, then comes home to be married off
impressed with this movie.
to save the city. There is even a King-Kong moment where she is being held at the waist by the “bad guy”
The storyline is based on three children, two boys and
and needs the men to save her. The lame moments of
one girl, who grow up and create a famous love triangle
female strength just did not seem to make up for the
in the city. It is pretty predictable who the city wants
stereotypes.
the young Maria to marry, and who Maria’s heart really longs for. The fates of the post-death worlds rely on
Finally, the last stereotype that hit me in the face was
who Maria chooses to marry because of the bet that
that of the Latino culture. I am not sure if someone
the leaders of the underworld made. The people who
who has this background would feel stereotyped, but
celebrate The Day of the Dead think of the post-death
I felt like it seemed cliché. At one point in the movie,
afterlife as a celebration of the life they have lived. On
the Mariachi band trio was hungry and ran into a small
this day people go to the gravesites of their relatives,
taco restaurant for a late night snack. Maybe it is my
light candles, bring food and lots of sweets to send with
ignorance of the culture, but I would probably feel
their relatives into their next life. People often dress up
offended if I had Latino heritage. I think the idea of
as skeletons or do their make-up as decorative skulls.
the movie was beautiful, and although there were a
The film took this happy idea of death and created
lot of funny moments, it was usually at the expense of
two different “after-life’s”; in one the dead celebrate
some cultural stab. The music in the movie was very
being with their relatives and are remembered by their
different; the changes they made were fun, but why go
loved ones in life, in the second underworld, people
through the effort of making the movie so attached to
are considered forgotten and are left in a wasteland.
its culture, if the music was modern pop music? I didn’t
The rulers of these two realms are in a very interesting
seem to fit at all. And to think, this movie was made by
relationship. I thought this relationship wasn’t exactly
two Latino filmmakers!
an appropriate message to send to children. They constantly argue and promote a male dominance
This film reminded me of the documentary we watched
that I believed to be going away as well as the female
on Disney and its themes. There are things I noticed
using her sexuality to get what she wants. It’s always
now that as a child I would not have been aware of.
unfortunate to see new movies promoting old values.
I think children would like this movie, however it doesn’t really resonate with the entire family. Adding hidden adult humor, sticking to music by Latino artists, and bringing a new storyline that is different while following changing moral values, especially of women, would be beneficial changes/upgrades.
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IT’S OK TO BE ME Romona Harkness
I may not have hair down my ass Or a be shaped like an hourglass My complexion may not be light brown And my face will surely win me no crown. I’m a person, a human Who will never be a size two because I have better things to do Like enjoy a slice of pizza from Leonardi’s Or a strawberry shake from Micky D’s. Me stress out over my full figure, child please. I’d rather put my energy into how to help the homeless And promote world peace. Not sit in some salon seat. A music group once sang, beauty is only skin deep I do agree. Society has a picture of a perfect woman But she’s not me. I’m ok with being the “other” I’m ok with being me.
PHOTOGRAPH Rachel Gallmeyer
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PHOTOGRAPH
Stephanie Wardrop
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SEEING WITH FRESH EYES Phillip Lee
West Redoubt Avenue was long and wide. Though the snow on both sides of it stretched upward to the sky, its pavement was sable and clear, free from erosion or holes. Aside from the snow, the avenue was lined little else. It was a great departure from what I formerly knew as home. What I knew were look-alike houses that lined a choked narrow street, driveways laid between each, with little room for the homes to breathe. Yes, West Redoubt was different, and ironically, it was one of the town’s busiest streets. I remember walking home from school and looking up from across the street at the apartment building where my father and I slept. It was quite easily one of the bigger buildings in town. Hidden behind the unimaginative pine trees that were the only trees I had ever seen in the state, was our building, our apartment. It loomed over the parking lot standing four floors high, maybe more. It looked as if it had been constructed of giant Lincoln Logs. It was built like the developers compromised with nature. True, there was an ugly parking lot, I have yet to see a pretty one. True, behind that lot stood an apartment building, but it was swallowed by an endless sea of alike pine trees and inhabitants like moose and eagles who had never received a notice of eviction. Inside the wooden edifice, through its huge pine doors, the stairs, the floors of the lobby, even the furniture, were all of light wood. I would come to loathe the day I no longer noticed the sweet alpine smell of the lobby that came to greet me, every time I came home from school. I remember a few of our neighbors. There was the dude with the orange beard and what I would assume to be orange hair atop his head. I would assume because he went nowhere without his black Budweiser cap. He was wed to a woman, larger than he was, with black hair, round glasses, and a sweetness that was sweeter than the brownies she would sometimes make for my father and me. I remember I once saw two other kids, a little older than me. They were sitting on those light wood stairs playing with a ferret, an animal I had never seen. “Wow, his face looks like a teddy bear’s!” I screamed. “He’s a she” the girl replied, still smiling, surprised I had never seen one before. As I was from New York, nothing should have been new to me, she thought. I remember walking to school. Fortunate for me, my school was across the street. Yellow school busses used to line the avenue that was silent at any other time. Those busses came from far, far away. Some kids traveled over an hour from towns I had never heard of, and if I had, I would never have been able to pronounce them, places like Soldovia, Nakiski, Kenai, and Homer. Home to me had been an old underfunded Catholic school. Now I attended a school that may have been younger than me. I was amazed at how white and perfect the floors were, how comfortable the classrooms were, their computers were newer and the gym was nicer. And the lunches! How about those lunches? We were served personal pizzas and kiwi. And there was recess! I thought that was just something had only in the movies, until halfway through the day they released us from the building! Kids played soccer, wearing shorts and sweatshirts, shorts and t-shirts, the temperature was no more than forty, maybe fifty. There was what I would come to know as “The Big Toy.” It was this wooden apparatus made for no other purpose than to delight and entertain those of us who had yet to lose the innocence an unhindered youth had afforded us. It seemed everything was made of wood here, in my new home. At recess, moose would greet us. At my second floor window, moose would great us and I would drop raw potatoes from my bedroom and kneel in front of my screen less window in wonder. First at how I was feeding this mammoth animal from my bedroom window, second, that I had never seen a screen absent from a bedroom window before! Oh, those moose. Going to the Safeway for some food, the moose would stand there, a few of them in a group, just chilling in the lot, with no fear, no thought that they should not have been there. I remember when I had first moved to town, I would journey down West Redoubt, the town’s main thoroughfare. I would go to the Blockbuster to return rented video games, I would go to the card and comics store to look around, hang, or trade. One day I came across a group of moose and my
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dad was not there with me. I feel this was one of the many moments this place, once so foreign, had finally begun to be made my home. I was scared and prayed to the God I had come to know in the Catholic school I attended, back when things were normal. I looked at the massive brown, hairy, antlered sources of my despair, thinking they should be locked away in a zoo somewhere. I looked at them while trying with all of my might not to stare. I came to find out they did not care. And after that day, that moment, neither did I. We both had a right to be there. I remember the tall, imposing, snow-covered volcano at the end of the avenue. I looked down the Avenue, with my apartment on one side and my school on the other, and down it sat this beautiful monument of what was and what will continue to be covered in white, pressed against the pale blue sky. Mount Redoubt sat across the Inlet, but looked to be just down the street named for her. I saw her every day from my school that was named for her too, Redoubt Elementary. The single floored brown and black school built that had existed for just a few years, with a picture of the road runner posted on its front, from the old Wile E. Coyote cartoons. I remember the handful of other brown kids at Redoubt Elementary School. Though none of them had been the type of brown I had ever recognized before. I had a best friend Paul Charlombos, I spelled his last named as it sounded. He was a brown kid just like me with hair that was raven black, straight, and in abundance. I think he may have been Indian. And on the subject, of Indian. To round out that handful, there were a couple other kids who were brown too, with hair just as straight and raven, though the shape of their eyes were almost almond-like. “You’re an Eskimo?” I would come ask one once, and only once. I learned then, from my friend John, Eskimo was a bad word. An enlightened person says Native Alaskan, Native perhaps, but never Eskimo. Since having been back in the Lower 48, I ensure I correct those I meet who make that same mistake I had, and I do so as politely as John had, back when I called that new place home. Though I lived there for a couple years, it was this place I once called home, I never truly, intimately got to know. I remember long stretched roads on the passenger’s side of my dad’s red Ford. Of those different roads travelled on, I cannot discern one between the other. There was Sterling Highway that was not a highway at all! Most memorable of all these thoroughfares that all looked the same was Kalifornsky Drive. Kalifornsky Drive. The name of the road was the embodiment of the locals’ approach toward life. The street was wide like no drive I had ever seen. And the name Kalifornsky. The adults there, I remember, paid no attention to societal norms, and seemed to do whatever they wanted to do and live however they wished to live. And they did so with humor stemmed in irony pungent with the scent of a stale domestic brew that was equal parts noxious and endearing. The people of Alaska were just as wild as their environment and shared the same attitude as their sky. They both did whatever they wanted to do. The sun would sleep most of the day some parts of the year and party all night, recklessly, other parts. It would take turns with the moon. The sky paid no regard to how its actions would affect others, it simply lived as it wanted to. Sometimes the sun and moon could not decide who would sleep and who would not, so they would often compromise and occupy the sky at the same time. No one would think anything of it, they were too busy living the lives they wanted. I remember the sky, much like the people, was down to earth. I mean really, down to earth. The sky and its clouds often seemed so close I could reach out and touch it. Sometimes I lifted my arms up in the air and tried to. I have seen adults try too, but they were drunk off on domestic beer, the King of beers perhaps. The smell and their behavior still kind of noxious, kind of endearing. An unwitting compromise the likes of the moon and sun sharing the same sky, at the same time. And if you think that’s something, what the sky did with its moon and its sky, I leave you with just two words. The Northern Lights. When I was ten, Soldotna, Alaska was the place I called home. I see it now, with fresher eyes.
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MOTION MAKES PROGRESS William Young
Every time I place my hands upon the ivory, when I let them dream between the black and white, I’m reminded of every grain of sand in their time as sediment before the formation of picturesque beaches, waiting to be swallowed by an endless ocean, knowing the beauty which comes from a journey without the light of certainty. Quartz, Chalcedony, Tourmaline, Corundum, these crystals maintain one mantra on a path which may span millennia, “Let me keep moving and I will find the shore.”
PAINTING Jillian Taylor
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VIOLIN VS. LION Amber Burkley
It starts off with the knowledge, the knowledge of how something so big can turn into so precious. Here I stand talking about my violin. Looking back to when I was a little girl, about 8 to be exact. My mom brought home a violin one day. I took it out of her hands and set myself on a mission, one that I always imagined I wasn’t going to give up on. I feel like a lion, playing freely with music written so precisely on paper. I feel my wrist move freely like my hair in the breeze. I stand and look at my prey and attack it head on in full strength. My fingers hammer away almost as if I am running at the speed of light. I feel the bow sway as if it’s my tail swaying freely. My heart starts to beat along with the rhythm almost as if I am dreaming. And finally I am finished the first run through of a piece that will one day be played in front of my family and friends.
PHOTOGRAPH
Stephanie Wardrop (right)
DRAWINGS Erika Manns
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Photographs Gina Oneill top Caryn Barber front