Issue 01: For Those Wanting to Come Home by Windy Knoll Press

NO.1

June 2022

Windy Knoll

FOR THOSE WANTING TO COME HOME

Digital Zine © 2022 Windy Knoll Press Title © Emerson Craig Cover Photo © Created in the app "dream by WOMBO" with an image by Emerson Craig Illustrations © All credits are either listed under the image or on a separate page included after the contributors' biographies All rights reserved.

FOR THE NOSTALGIC HOMEBODIES Dear reader, I would like to extend a very warm welcome to the digital home of the Windy Knoll zine. The pages you will see ahead are the result of a young man longing for his childhood home, the birds that used to sing to him good morning, and the apple trees that would have been blossoming at the arrival of Spring. I wanted this inaugural issue to tackle the nostalgia that lurks in the shadows of the present and the varying emotions that accompany it: regret, loneliness, flashbacks of scraped or grass-stained knees, fond memories, dreams of a return, you name it! It is my hope that the contributions to this issue evoke a similar nostalgic feeling for our readers, and I encourage you to think back on the moments you cherish the most (or perhaps the ones that haunt you). With love, Emerson Issue 01 / Summer 2022

Pexels / Karolina Grabowska

A NOTE ON THIS ISSUE’S THEME

Contributors to this issue were asked to create a piece of work (be that poetry, non-fiction pieces, short fiction, art, and so on) that evoked a sense of nostalgia. Keywords were given to inspire these artists that I will share with you, our beloved reader: childhood, regret, homesickness, sentimentality, flashbacks, yearning, dreams, escapism, loneliness, cynicism, memories, remorse, etc. Let this issue be an invitation for your own creative endeavors in the months to come. Take a moment to think back on the so-called "good old days" and reflect on how they have influenced the person you are today. The good, the bad, the ugly... all such variations of nostalgia are welcome here. I hope you enjoy what we have to share.

Pexels / антон-жук

Issue 01 / Summer 2022

Image created in the app "dream by WOMBO."

SUMMER ISSUE / JUNE 2022

SOUP

A PAINTING OF SUMMER NIGHTS I DREAM OF HAVING BUT NEVER WILL

OUR PRIDE, THEN

YOUR CHILDHOOD LOVER AS A FATAL CAR CRASH

I GET IT NOW

COHESION

ARTWORK BY KATHERINE BANACH

MAYBE IT'S TIME

IMAGE & BLACKOUT POEM BY HALEY

MAGGIE

MY NURSE

PROGRESSIVE NATURE

I AM PROUDLY MATERIALISTIC

ARTWORK BY BECK SIGMAN

MOMENT

HERS & HIS

SUMMER ISSUE / JUNE 2022

ON CALL

IMAGES BY J R L

SET ME ALIGHT

BLACKOUT POEM BY HALEY

DIGITAL 8: TAPE 3

FOUR MONTHS IN THE MOTHERLAND

COLLAGE BY CAMILA NÚÑEZBERGSNEIDER

ETERNAL

DEAR JACK

YESTERYEAR

FEAST OF ALL SOULS

ARTWORK BY KATHERINE BANACH

FRAGMENTS OF LONGING

POEM BY HUGO

COTTON CANDY

ARTWORK BY KATHERINE BANACH

POEM BY HUGO

IMAGE BY HUGO

SUMMER ISSUE / JUNE 2022

ARTWORK BY KATHERINE BANACH

DEER GOD

SPRING BECKONS

COUNTRY CREEK MEMORIES

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

ILLUSTRATION CREDITS

ABOUT WINDY KNOLL PRESS & CONTACT INFORMATION

FOR THOSE WANTING TO COME HOME

Image created in the app "dream by WOMBO."

SOUP BY JOHN CHAN is love too when she was in the hospital every day we would brew offerings of broth water that had been tended and watched for hours chicken, carrots, onion; snow pear, apple, dried orange; tofu, seared halibut, eggs aged a thousand years bowls my mother boiled for me since childhood and her mother before i love you and i'm sorry and please don't go base emotions liquified in honest broth and me, pushing them away making a face not today when only one can visit each day when the rest on the phone hear the next patient tumble into their grave when it feels like she is slipping away where words fail soup saves

A PAINTING OF SUMMER NIGHTS I DREAM OF HAVING BUT NEVER WILL BY INAAYAH long and endless / grass and august / i am standing at the side of / a pool about to dive in / cheekboned boys and / girls in red-green-blue / primary colors / primary school / kids laughing / lying / in green grass / tall grass / endless august / repetitive repetitive repetitive / summer / i forget who i am / i am thankful for it / i am myself for once / i am thankful for it / fists / close around wildflowers / close around wrists / close around air / grabbing onto wistful dreams / wishful dreams / wishful thinking / thought processes long / provoking / sorry for being who i said i wouldn’t be / being like / flowers painted in watercolors / vases painted in pastels / i am dreaming / dreaming dreaming / repetition lies in the back of / my mind like / the smiles that i store / for only july.

OUR PRIDE, THEN BY ALLISON FRISKE

The lake and the frog bellies— color of milk. They exist in a then. Small beach not yet swallowed we carried our nets, waded in the weeds slime lotioning prune toes. They poked their heads up just enough for careless smack and swipe— net to water and limbs frenzied. Now it feels wrong to have carried bodies not our own so triumphantly to convince our parents that yes we are capable: we have mastered the lake evaded the largemouth bass lured blue gills swam to the other side and back. In the end, they made us release the frogs and the creatures scurried under the dock or back to their lilypad posts. As quickly as pride filled our lungs it bubbled last breath in the water.

YOUR CHILDHOOD LOVER AS A FATAL CAR CRASH BY E.B. you never met her -it's a shame, really& writing her letters never does shit. your love is ashes, red light burning. the parking lot: concrete blood. with a wound stabbing through your gut & that fucking song you used to sing for her. your home is ashes, concrete ghost, & you won't ache as you did, & it hurts to know that it's all gone. it will hurt. love means blindness, which means she'll cover your eyes before you hit the brakes. you'll die, of course, but you're in love, so you'll die together hand in hand. the funeral will cry. you're so young. no one will know all you wanted was for her to stop singing.

I GET IT NOW BY JOHN CHAN

Before I left to get on the R train My uncle grabbed my arm “Look around you. Don’t use your phone. There are a lot of crazy people.” These days Below I see women crowded in pairs Lined up between subway pillars Eyes alert Ready for trouble Others Keep their backs against the girders Or adopt a fencers stance One leg outstretched Weight on the back foot I realize I too am standing Bracing myself for violence Someone to push me in Right before the train And in that moment I realize what a privilege it was To live each day without the fear of death

COHESION BY COLE CRUSCIEL I am the empty space before the novel starts I am the silence after the audience dispenses The time between the space of sizzling skillets and school buses I am the dark before a winter morning’s dawn I am the short life between birth and deconstruction I am the permanence preceding incarnation The laboring last thoughts of a newly lucid convict I am the safety on a talkative M9 I am the supercomputer between the nickel mine and the landfill I am the Latin stuck between Hebrew and German The understanding man, empathetic, but no plan I am patient, I am present, I am poised.

BY KATHERINE BANACH

I tried finding myself and ended up running back to same succubus We still talk daily And you speak to me like you need me But you don’t really I’m a distraction and you know it But the love we had is still potent And the remnants of all the previous intimacies rain deep they hold me hostage They make me feel like a constant They feed my ego and I start to come off pompous Peppered flakes and sweet honey I’m still making the same mistakes and not learning from them I’m too busy trying to appease you and not trying to better me The best of me is yet to be The best you is to cut ties with me and I know that Let’s learn to live apart I’m just waiting for you to join me at the start

MAYBE IT'S TIME BY KEVIN MARELETSE

BY HALEY

MAGGIE BY BEN HERRINGTON I think loving you is the easiest thing I've ever had to do Cause when I think of the future I think of me and you But I understand that is very dangerous Because that's how hard loving a stranger is. You are my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations. My closest friend and favorite elation. I hope one day to hold you close. You are the one I've loved the most. I must admit I'm afraid to speak my mind The man you need is not of my kind Through and through you've been my friend And I don't want to be the reason this ends. So just know in my heart I want you to call me yours. Even though I'll always love you more. You've always been the love for me And some day maybe that dream may be.

MY NURSE BY BRIAN CRAIG My Nurse Battles She fights her best fight For the unknown Regardless of outcome She fights for those who cannot fight She brings them back home… She feels pain Like most but won’t yield Her body hurts Her heart hurts She knows their need and rises above She puts others’ pain above hers. She passionately advocates Fiercely defending her patients’ rights She does more She wants more She trumpets to her peers with ferocity My nurse will never rest.

PROGRESSIVE NATURE BY KEVIN MARELETSE There’s an open ridge in time Where the plane is nonexistent Where we can be together And talks of your wrongs are dismissive By virtue of the laws of this moment Maybe we can be cohesive And seen as secretive Whatever you desire In the one place I can speak to you In conscious mind with spirit They say the universe was made for me That’s the rumors floating around But between you and I From me to you So there is absolutely no confusion I offer you mind if you will have it Please excuse my youthful exterior And dazed sense of adolescence But in light of your presence There are truths you made me confront Truths about myself Facts of existence And what death really means At least what it means for everyone else We’re at the point where the dead meet the departed And we’re at an equinox I feel Hopefully you feel it too And as long as the sky is blue And at times purple with streaks of grey My hope that you will choose me Will never fade away

PROGRESSIVE NATURE (CONTINUED) So here we are in the plane of nonexistence Where sense of man is in parlay And everyone in my life is part of a plan Pawn, soldier and pauper So whether you exist to contradict just that And going through these feelings Is crucial to my design I just know in the term of my reality I don’t feel I need you, I have an over encompassing drive to have you While the conscious being give me life I give the same to you in mine

I AM PROUDLY MATERIALISTIC BY BHARTI

I have started to wonder If little things really matter unlike the grand scheme Where I know I have failed miserably If it is the song of the bird at five in the evening that is saving me Rather than the need to fulfill a dream I think growing up is same as forgetting Like the magic of your second kiss Or the first time you topped in your school Like the casual pat on the back by your father Or reminding him again and again that he could be proud despite I like to believe I am somehow alive Because I still have many sundresses in my wish list that I need to wear Many destinations that I need to visit before forgetting my name completely I surmise this is how you go about the day every time you think about killing yourself By blindly believing there is a future By completely yielding to the fact that nothing will bring more happiness than wearing your first Jimmy Choo heels

BY BECK SIGMAN 15

MOMENT BY EMILY PERINA I was the Daughter of Wands Head held high, future unknown How presumptuous to assume we are not like the tiny plastic toys from quarter machines outside our favorite bodegas We get what we get But don’t we always get upset? Rubber Halloween rats make me nostalgic Swirling down the bathtub drain It’s the sharp ring of metal, screeching, soothing Uncompromising My bounty of the forest has been revealed Muskrat skull, stuffed with leaves Hollow eyes If I could just go back to that moment to take better note of the how the light shined off the water How my Father carried the dirt covered creature home Instructing me to save this fragile reminder Things do end I’ve spent countless hours picking cat whiskers out of every carpet I’ve had Did I really think I would notice the beginning of mourning my youth? I am just a moment A bodies memory of another time Another home A dead hermit crab with a shell perfectly spiraled I am the Daughter of Bones

HERS & HIS

BY EMILY PERINA

ON CALL BY JOHN CHAN We cast lots tonight To see who will watch the phone For any sign of life It is me. Tonight I will brew my pot of tea And sit on the stool in the kitchen Amid faded chocolates older than me My grandmother may call tonight Screeching is good, I will talk with her about small things Silence is not, I will scream for everyone to wake up I pour some milk into the tea And sit down. Await the night.

L E D IT / J R PHOTO CR

SET ME ALIGHT BY SYED UMAR BUKHARI

Time, I thought it would rush to a stop when you left me, alone in the wild unknown, knowing Hold me down, I forget our first argument —it fades— what else is out of bounds? Seconds have cascaded into minutes flooding into hours, years; hundreds of days and countless moments — a forever without you. My heart is desperate evermore to steal a glance of you but nay! My bloodshot eyes find you not, I am woebegone except in every person I see you: a tic that reminds me of something you once did; a feature that reminds me of a moment with you — do you still? I wish I knew. I want to be the reason you laugh, once again.

SET ME ALIGHT (CONTINUED)

Always waiting for you to turn around, always hoping for your hands in mine, a ring to shine eternally, clothes to rainbow fine, a love that sets us burning alive. The candles above us flickered, flicker, flickering. Your eyes reflect the blazing sun of the melted wax. Miracles, miracles, I want miracles in my life. The first would be you. The next would be you. The last would be us. Maybe we could still be a symphony of broken hearts; maybe we could learn to play, learning the concinnity of our bodies. The stars out on a stricken night light up once I mention you. I wonder if all our fingers can still trace our hands, if my eyes still flutter. If my heart skips a beat or two. If your skin senses a pulse of electricity on a touch, just one, mon chéri, only one to revive me.

SET ME ALIGHT (CONTINUED)

Set me a l i g h t . W O N T Y O U ?

BY HALEY

DIGITAL 8: TAPE 3 BY ALLISON FRISKE

Your body skipping around time stamps of home videos cries an echo I feel in crevasses of marrow— Child, I will find you my nesting doll body/your body not lost but sheltering safely our spinal cords braiding into vows that say we will hold each other new videotape showing us cupping our hearts and breathing in

out

FOUR MONTHS IN THE MOTHERLAND BY JENNIFER PATINO

The last time I was in this room, I was a mere shadow. A halfling losing a battle. I was welcomed by piercing sunshine. It flooded through windows differently here. It didn’t sting like the southern rays. It didn’t burn like longing for another time, another place. Nostalgia is an addiction. Apples simmer in the kitchen, match the rashes on my body that I gained from being born against the world. I recognize voices here. I haven’t heard them since childhood, but they’re screeching the same stories like red-tailed hawks. The sunrise still means that it’s bedtime. Seasons change more gradually so they don’t hurt when they abandon you.

The last time I was in this room, I was in a dream. It looked exactly like I imagined it would. We were silhouettes beneath fluorescent lighting. The ceiling fan cast us in dangerous strobes. You said that nothing is ever how you think it will be, and you were right. I painted this scene on my ceiling and we sat closer than this. I kissed a boy on a rusted glider and you remind me of him. Swinging away. Swinging away.

FOUR MONTHS IN THE MOTHERLAND (CONTINUED)

Tricky memory, teasing me into believing things are shinier than they seem. A death smile flashes like a beacon in the darkness, forcing me to follow it to whichever hell you dared to walk through. Your footsteps are bigger than mine and they smolder. I will never fill them. I will never regret the scars that the claw marks of the past dug into my flesh. I savor them. You are a manifestation of prophecy. A dead end road. The last time I drove down this street, it was snowing. Now the leaves drop like my blood pressure at my debut big game. My mother nearly took my head off with a tennis ball and now every thud I hear rings with an “I told you so”. The trees we used as bases still stand. The bee that stung me on my leg still haunts me. How many skies will be imprinted on me? Watching twilight swallow everything is my vice. When I come to, will your eyes have aged? Will they be yours? The same cavernous pools that house nebulas from another lifetime, the gaze of wonderment from across a cold classroom. The poisoned dagger in my young girl’s heart. 26

BY CAMILA NÚÑEZ-BERGSNEIDER

ETERNAL BY J R L

What is it like? / It’s like this — / green fields long grass you get lost in but always get found, kids running and laughing and playing cause they know how to be alive the best of us, when someone tells a story and then a hundred or two hundred years later someone tells the same story but slightly different so it fits them better, holding hands with your parents and holding hands with your loved ones and holding hands with your friends and holding hands with your lovers, finding a tiny stream somewhere you weren’t looking for one, someone nearby loudly playing a song you like, standing in downpouring rain just because you can, wandering through the woods and looking, really looking, someone inviting you in, and me, telling you this so you won’t forget.

DEAR JACK BY EMERSON CRAIG

in a near-empty bedroom, dimly lit from the streetlamps just outside the shaded windows, I hear the distant whistle of an oncoming train and imagine our sunsets over the orchard. I never told you that the thunderstorms back home pale in comparison to the dark, heavy clouds and the rain that tears across this strange horizon; whether you knew of them or not, you would have cowered all the same. I think of your spot on the stairwell in the hallway, worn and weary from the days spent waiting for the familiar sound of a garage door, a neighbor passing by, or a delivery truck dropping packages at the edge of the driveway with a fear they would never confess to. some nights I close my eyes and picture the last hug shared, goodbye said, or the final wave through a car window; flip through the albums kept of laughs had and moments immortalized, wishing only to press myself against the screen until flesh became pixels and I was with you again. how is it that five months devolved into a split second between breaths? how is it that I can still imagine my arm around your shoulders or my head on your chest? and while I have a few of your things scattered throughout the apartment I share with a man who you never met (and who I had hoped you would have been able to), I still find myself longing for one more hug, one more gallop down the hill to wrap you in my arms. just one more. please, please just one more.

YESTERYEAR BY ELIZABETH GILBERT

When the world was big and smelled of dirt and strawberries And my mother would sit me on the counter while she cooked And I would watch her hands remove the stem from the fruit From all the bright red sun-kissed berries we picked together And she would boil them down and save them as jam We would eat all through wintertime

FEAST OF ALL SOULS BY JENNIFER PATINO

We're Novembering. It means we're remembering to say goodbye & not feeling too ashamed to cry. At last, a nice chill to light a fire for. A plaque to hang on a spirit house door. We speak your names with heavy hearts. Memories flow, flood the wake. Mourning never really stops once it starts. I miss you, sleeping ones. Memento mori. My own life will one day be done. The last of the funeral bells have rung. We walk on, a procession of shadow. I can't let go. Every song sung pierces a wellspring. To me, you're everything. I see ghosts everywhere. I see them when I look in the mirror. I hear those blessed voices of the dearly dead in every thought from my grief-doused head. 31

FEAST OF ALL SOULS (CONTINUED)

In the whispers of rivers, on those playful winds. I keep them all close even after they’ve blown away. I hold the best & the worst deep within. I hope I see you all again. Someday.

BY KATHERINE BANACH

FRAGMENTS OF LONGING BY BHARTI

I am just a touch away from dissolving A little nudge, a little tug at the hem of my shirt, perhaps a handshake that turns into a hug, or just a small confession at the altar of my heart. There are not enough gods who aren't hungry, So carry me in your frail arms and feed me to them, like an offering/apology I, for once, want to be desired even if it means death. Look at my eyes, see for yourself that there aren't enough traces left by memorable laughter that can convince me into staying But here I am, Still surviving like a Beatles' song, or perhaps a school prayer Where the voices of other save you from your own. I want to be saved like a flower on the sidewalk But these fragments of longing, worn fibers of an old blanket which smells like past, are too visible to hide So I pull them apart, one by one Until the cold eats me, winter never ends for people who know burning as love And there aren't enough rivers to carry the ashes, Not enough people who know that the only thing separating water and us is the ability to come back home.

I see you in my hometown diner/it’s a jarring sight to see/you never knew me before 18/now you’re here/sipping coffee like your feet are rooted down/like you promised you’d never do/your ghost is haunting me/in places that you’d never be

I love you I love you I love you we might but I love

when you don’t love me back masked, unmasked, crack open, spinning out never make it to the lighthouse you

BY HUGO

COTTON CANDY BY DAVID BANACH

I saw cotton candy being made today miraculous streaming swirls of heated sugar, fine filaments blowing in the hot air shooting from a hole in the center and it reminded me of the angel hair that my grandfather would put on the christmas tree, the same diaphanous fine flowing strands of primordial white in shapeless strands flowing, and he would wrap them around the lights til they glowed the way you were sure that fairies did above misted marshes. That was what the cotton candy looked like emerging in dancing strings and collecting in a cloud. The don’t sell angel hair any more, but I knew even then that the beautiful and the dangerous were connected, as he wore thick gloves to shape the clouds of woven glass. And I guess sugar is pretty toxic too, but it was beautiful flowing and growing wavering, woven globule expanding, moving like a living tremulous soul until the thin paper cone supporting it drooped and it fell. But he took it in his two cupped hands cradling the miracle little puff of almost nothing trembling and shimmering in their hands like a baby angel bird.

TWILIGHT ZONE

BY KATHERINE BANACH

blue jeans and bare chest kneeling hands bleeding in supplication I am the worst thing created when god says you are made in my image which is to say neither, and sometimes both, and sometimes all. which is to say stronger and fragile which is to say sinner or angel forgiven always forgiven

BY HUGO

ILREZ

BY KATHERINE BANACH

DEER GOD BY GINA ZUCCARO

This was mine before The land, the people, their adulation I walked the forests here Now torn down by industry And buried beneath the illusion of civilization This was mine before When the priests and warriors came, Clad in white and gold And red with the blood of millions of pagan peoples That stained their robes and drenched the paths behind them in crimson This was mine before that too Before the Romans and their Coliseum Before the Gauls Before the Celts and their druids Before the first monolith was raised When humans first saw me in the misty glade of the morning, And thought, "that creature there is no normal stag" And thought me worthy of their worship When the wilds of the world were yet unconquered, Unthreatened This was mine before. And it yet will be once again.

SPRING BECKONS BY J R L

as the days grow longer and the birds get louder and the sun feels warmer even on colder days. Spring beckons. as the trees wake and stretch their roots and limbs, sap rushing faster like water as rivers run deeper and stronger, and the damp earth is speckled with green like raindrops, or clouds. There are a million different versions of this poem, because spring is a miraculous thing, even though we know it’s coming. Spring always comes, even among the breaking, even among the fighting, even among the loss. Even though it doesn’t feel quite like it used to, sitting in a classroom, anticipating the outside, the moment when you’re free to run wild, alive like the trees and the grass and the dirt you can smell from the open window, alive with all of the possibilities in your young body. Still, spring beckons. musically loudly 42

SPRING BECKONS (CONTINUED)

gently hopefully Spring beckons, even when we’re not sure it will.

? Photo Credit / J R L

COUNTRY CREEK MEMORIES BY BREYDEN STANGER

As my bare feet touch the summer grass, I look down the endless plains that lie before me. I remember a young boy traveling the long forgotten trails, ones once paved by others. Paths winding left and right, up and down. As the water runs in the back of my mind, the thought of fish and insects flood my memories. The smell of burning wood and the feeling of a warm breeze. The past echoes and I remember the things my old man taught me: driving stick shift, taking care of the earth, catching minnows and hunting morels. Moments like these, spent with the man who I figured knew everything, pass by like sparks flying in the breeze, like those wriggling minnows. And I make my way back to those forgotten trails, hoping to relive the memory.

YOU ARE HOME

Image created in the app "dream by WOMBO."

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I want to give a million thanks to my friends and family who have supported me in all of my wacky endeavours, particularly that of wanting to put together a digital zine in the midst of pursuing a Ph.D. I specifically want to thank my partner for supporting me through all of the ups and downs that went on in the background while putting this zine together and for always encouraging me to be creative and my most authentic self. A huge thanks as well to all of the contributors to this first issue. I could

not be more thankful and honored to be sharing the work that you all have sent to be included in this zine. Without you all, there would have been nothing to publish! It's been a wonderful thing to be a part of this experience with you all. And thank you, reader, for supporting the work of either dear friends or total strangers. One can only hope that you, too, have found a way to come home. Sincerely, Emerson

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS (A-Z) Allison Friske [she/her] @poeticwanderings Allison Friske wrote her first poem in 3rd grade about her family cat who was fat (you can guess how this poem went) and has been writing ever since. Her work has been published in Zany Mag and in the anthology War Crimes Against the Uterus published by Wide Eyes Publishing. When she isn't writing, she's working as a therapist, caring for her dog and plants, and daydreaming about being barefoot in a forest.

Beck Sigman [they/them] Beck Sigman lives in Washington DC and is studying to become a public defender. They find inspiration from nature, the human form, and their cat, Stanley!

Ben Herrington Poetry is gay. So am I.

Bharti [she/her] @bharti_b42 Bharti is a 24 year old student pursuing data science from India. She loves poetry and cats.

Breyden Stanger [he/him] When he's not being a cat dad, Breyden enjoys comics, video games, and playing D&D with his friends.

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS (A-Z) Brian Craig [he/him] A self-professed Jeopardy aficionado, "What is... Brian, a proud father of an Iowa Ph.D. student, a brewing writer, and a floppy-eared chocolate lab." He enjoys spending time with his amazing wife and putting his feet up and laughing with the people he loves most.

Camila Núñez-Bergsneider [she/her/hers] @loscomicssonbuenos Bumanguesa who loves comic books, dinosaurs and Pokemon.

Cole Crusciel [he/him] Cole Crusciel is a theology teacher in Central Massachusetts. He intends to pursue graduate studies in Philosophy in the near future. When he is not pretending to be a poet, he is pretending to be a musician. That particular facade can be found at thecrucialdetail.com.

David Banach [he/him] @zbandban David Banach is a philosopher and poet based in New Hampshire. He has published poetry in Symmetry Pebbles, Hare’s Paw, Please See Me, the Poets' Touchstone, and other places. He also is part of a poetry podcast for Passengers Journal.

E.B. [she/her, he/him] @a.bsenthium E.B. is a queer poet hailing from Rome, where she currently lives with her two cats. He's immune to caffeine, always carries a lighter to light other people's cigarettes, & enjoys writing arson metaphors way too much.

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS (A-Z) Elizabeth Gilbert [she/her] Elizabeth is a 25 year old with a Masters in Library and Information Science, a baby on the way, and Type 1 Diabetes. She currently works at an elementary school and enjoys origami, playing ukulele, and eating fruit.

Emerson Craig [he/him] @ghostofaboy_ Emerson is a first- (soon to be second-) year PhD student at the University of Iowa, studying Spanish literature. When he's not trying to cobble together a digital zine, he's spending time with his cat and boyfriend, whom he adores quite a bit.

Emily Perina [she/her] @esp_sculpture Emily Perina (aka ESP) is a New York artist. Her crafts range from mixed media sculpture, to poetry, to welding, and most recently, taxidermy. She often centers her work around attempting to accept her anxieties while pushing herself to adopt new practices to portray these feelings in her work.

Gina Zuccaro [whatever] @ginathethundergoddess I've been writing poetry since high-school. It's a great outlet.

Haley Haley enjoys walking through life with a head full of poetry fragments and a stomach full of ice cream. She loves writing blackout poetry and thinks plane tickets should be less expensive.

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS (A-Z) hugo [he/they] Hugo is a U.S.-based poet trying to figure out what he wants to do in life. He’s been using poetry as a way to try to process their gender & send some authenticity out into the world :)

inaayah [any pronouns] @crudeandoffputting Inaayah is a high schooler with a passion for writing, reading, and Queer liberation. If they’re not studying for their classes, you’ll find them advocating for marginalized groups and fighting, loudly, for representation within academia.

Jennifer Patino @thistle_thoughts Jennifer Patino is an Ojibwe poet from Detroit, Michigan currently residing in Las Vegas, Nevada. She lives for books and film. She has had work published in Door is A Jar, Punk Noir Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, A Cornered Gurl, Free Verse Revolution Lit, Fevers of the Mind, and elsewhere. She blogs at www.thistlethoughts.com.

John Chan [he/him] @john.chan.acts John Chan is an artist focused on capturing and sharing the Asian American experience. A software engineer by trade, he quit his job to be an actor. He is a native of Austin, Texas and now lives in Brooklyn with three cats.

J R L [she/her] @jennnalions Jenna has no idea what she's doing. That's okay though. Most people don't. Just hang around with people that you love and that's close enough.

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS (A-Z) Katherine Banach [any pronouns] @k_itajara I am a lover of art and animals, as well as creating fantasy worlds and making characters for them!

Kevin Mareletse @moonlight.kevin I make poor quality YouTube videos. Search up Kevin Moonman to support if you want. I write about my emotions. Passionate about all types of media and music, especially if it's experimental, send it my way. An absolute cutie pie whose skills are all self-taught so hopefully I'm not too bad at what I do.

Syed Umar Bukhari [he/him] @essentiallydonut Syed Umar Bukhari lives south of the ocean. He is a published author, writer, and poet. He loves to explore mental health—depression, anxiety and ocd— and hopeless romance through his alliterative writings. He is inspired by writers like John Keats and Pablo Neruda with their affinity for love and semantics. His first two books were previously published on Amazon: Six Times Forever and Avaricious Alphabets. You can follow Umar on Instagram and Twitter using the handle @esentiallydonut.

Image created in the app "dream by WOMBO."

CREDITS / IMAGES FROM CANVA.COM*

CANVA CREATIVE STUDIO

RIBBON: DWIPUSART / SCISSORS: OPENCLIPART-VECTORS FROM PIXABAY

OPENCLIPART-VECTORS FROM PIXABAYBEAANDBLOOM.COM

SKETCHIFY

BEAANDBLOOM.COM

CLKER-FREE-VECTOR-IMAGES FROM PIXABAY

STATEMENT GOODS

SKETCHIFY

SKETCHIFY EDUCATION

*THE IMAGE CREDITED TO THEIR CREATORS ABOVE WERE TAKEN FROM THE CANVA GRAPHICS LIBRARY. IMAGES WERE FREE TO USE.

ABOUT WINDY KNOLL PRESS Windy Knoll Press is a budding indie publisher of poetry, artwork,

photography, and the like—based in Iowa and founded in Spring 2022—with the mission of providing a platform for creators of all types to share their experiences and have their voices heard. For the moment, Windy Knoll Press is a free publication that hopes to expand in the near future. If you have any inquiries, feel free to email us at windyknollzine@gmail.com. Feel free to visit our website for more information about current and upcoming publications, as well as how to get involved. Windy Knoll Press and its digital zine are run by poet and UI graduate student Emerson Craig (he/him).

Web: windyknollzine.wixsite.com/windyknollpress IG: @windyknollzine Editor: @ghostofaboy_