Writers Magazine Spring 2022 by Writers Magazine

WRITERS Senior Editors Cora Hyatt Sadie Wuertz

Editors

Timur Arifdjanov Hannah Monti Alyssa Repetti M. Trini Sepulveda S. Mia Tierney Valencya Valdez Crystal Wallace

Advisor

Prof. John McDonald

Cover Design Cora Hyatt

Cover Image

Ethan McAnally

Writers Logo

Spring 2022 University of Portland

Table of Contents Letter from the Editors Editors' Choice

Phở của mẹ feast of the fungi

Collected Works

Rainy Day Blues the fall of the wild Peek-A-Fall thawed dawn & dusk Calling Back Blue Eyes lunchtime El lugar que nuestro corazón anhela In Sacred Spaces Combination Drops Above the Kitchen 52 Hz One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, Blue Fish Blue Envelopes and Beige Lineoleum An Ode to My Braids Medusa in The Fields of Elysium a star, exploding For Eve Reverie this end to the next Still Life with a Bowl of 16 Cherries recipe before the summer solstice Snakes and Hands Mad Infrared A Flight Through Time Finally at Rest Texas, Sunday night

iv Bao Huynh Caity Briare

1 2

Will Mulligan London Murray-Schroer M. Trini Sepulveda S. Sadie Wuertz Ezekiel Kavanagh Hannah Rae Pickens Riley Eyring Isabel Hidalgo-Guerra Valencya Valdez Maja Magdalena Elliott Ethan McAnally Faith Scheenstra Claire Carter Sarah Jane James Grace Fortson Soleia Yemaya Quinn Cora Hyatt Lauren Rees Savas Crystal Wallace Cora Hyatt Hannah Monti Jordan Ducree Lauren Banks Kate Cuadrado Kaylin Ingalls Carlos Fuentes Emma Hippler Hannah Rae Pickens

3 4 6 7 8 9 10 11 15 16 17 18 21 22 25 26 27 28 29 30 32 34 35 36 37 38 41 42

senses of my dying breath Warmth in Midwinter A Burning Sky Dinner Party The New California, the Grandchildren Who Live There consequently airhead UFOs Over The Burn Scar nth bruised ribs ; empty stomach Summer Nights Sagebrush Burnout Ode to Dead Pigeons Everywhere Ace of Wands Find Rest, Find Peace LET THE BRIDGES BURN Oregon Revised Statute 527.676

Gabriel Eugenio Hannah Rae Pickens Crystal Wallace Valencya Valdez Hazel Stange

44 45 46 47 48

Melissa Plankey Caity Briare Will Mulligan Charlie Menke Ezekiel Kavanagh M. Trini Sepulveda S. Sadie Wuertz Giuliana Oliver Kaylin Ingalls Alex Silva Crystal Wallace Gina DiLisio Ethan McAnally

50 51 52 53 55 56 57 58 59 61 62 63 67

About the Contributors

About the Editors

Acknowledgments

iii

Letter from the Editors Esteemed Friend of Writers, We find ourselves again this spring in physical print for the first time in two years. Spring in Portland, of course, is like an unpredictable lover. Though the cherry blossoms are blooming, you can’t assume the weather will be kind to you on any given day. Lately, the world seems to have taken after our spring’s volatility. In between issues, we have seen the world light itself on fire, and burn out, just to go back up in flames again. The state of the world has forced Writers to remain in flux, for better or for worse (though we hope it’s the former). So, choosing the theme for the issue that would return us to our prior physical status was not a decision any of us took lightly. We understood that it couldn’t be banal or cliché, because the work of the artists and writers of University of Portland is anything but. In the end, settling on “wildfire season” was an acknowledgment of the year we have lived through. We wanted this issue to reflect the cyclical nature of destruction and rebirth, whether in a literal wildfire itself, or in the trials that we have faced and overcome. At the same time, fire is life. Writers has always been something we feel to be alive, to have a beating heart. So, maybe “wildfire season” also speaks to the fervor and devotion of those who keep Writers going — our dear friends. We told our contributors to keep this theme in mind, but we never gave them any sort of specific direction. This was intentional, as each contributor produced works with a unique perspective on and outside of our theme. What resulted is an amalgamation of little fires in every form: from Will Mulligan’s meditation on syntax and nature to Kaylin Ingalls’ eulogy to precious roadkill. We treasure these creations; we keep them close to our hearts. Our contributors have lit a match, and it’s our responsibility to stoke its flame. There are new beginnings to be found in both spring and ash. Our Spring issue aims to shed the skin of past issues, and we hope every issue thereafter will do the same. We have to say thank you to the artistic community of UP, the English department, and all of our readers for sticking with us through our seemingly constant rebirth and the turmoil that seems to be a normal day on Earth now. We can’t promise we will ever stop reinventing ourselves, but we can promise it’ll always be good. That being said, welcome back. And welcome to the Spring 2022 issue of Writers. Today and tomorrow, Cora Hyatt & Sadie Wuertz Senior Editors 2021-2022

“Eating fire is your ambition: to swallow the flame down take it into your mouth and shoot it forth, a short or an incandescent tongue, a word exploding from you in gold, crimson unrolling in a brilliant scroll To be lit up from within vein by vein To be the sun” -Margaret Atwood, "Eating Fire"

Phở của mẹ BAO HUYNH I cautiously sip the bowl of my childhood, garnished with scallions and pepper. Súp ăn vừa không, my mom asks, as if she has not been making the same bowl for my whole life. An extension of her and a part of me. The bowl of soup reminds me what it is to be Vietnamese, and the broth scalds my mouth in contempt for not knowing how. Hành, thịt bắp bò, gừng gia vị phở, she teaches me over the phone. Come home, she says, mẹ làm cho con. I can’t, I won’t. She tells me to do what feels right, so I do. I taste it, over and over — the soup is bittersweet and reminds me of a home slowly dying. There is a fire that burns for my family somewhere. Somewhere, far off, it smells of incense and smoke. The smoke of Tết fireworks, the incense that rises from ông ngoại’s shrine. It also smells of burnt tangerine peels, to drown out the cá kho. My mom and I, we smell the smoke, follow the fire, and find ourselves home. Or maybe something that feels like it once did. I always find my way back to the fire, back home. It pulls madly at my feet. She pleads for it to pull harder. Ravenous — like its life depends on it. A great and terrible flame, but it is gasping for air. The same bowl is at the table when I finally return. Shimmering fat, ripped leaves of basil and coriander sit atop fragrant broth that warms me, that begs me to come home. I know why my mom doesn’t write down the phở recipe.

feast of the fungi CAITY BRIARE

Rainy Day Blues Will Mulligan The big blue door Among a great grey oath: & I inch, Anchored against an Iron sky of mist bitten cedars. Abandon is a series of choices. —pit, pith, pot— My cell phone screen muddled by refraction, Reset as a window into will. Graceful but airtight. To be seen through, not seen. Less wish you well & more wishing well, right? Thunder rolls, crumpled, through the body. Condensation consumes the lens, Or else it’s thunderous in the stomach. A yellow sun gone Across the steel span & giving From view, a Place to lie shardless. Because the leaden dripping Thoughts sounded like hard rain, —passive pristine puddles— Pelagic, marshy in the mind. Can’t mistake feeling For feeling good. Petrichor on the tongue Parsed apart with invention: If I thunder that I wasn’t Born inside a raindrop, I won’t shatter. I mean, look at the lightning Line patterns on your palm. How the little prisms pool.

the fall of the wild London Murray-Schroer If you ever need advice on how to jump, let me know. I used to do it all the time, back when I was wild. I would climb just for the jump. Or maybe it was for the fall, I’m not quite sure. I love falling for the first second and the last second, but all the ones in the middle blur into panic and doubt. I guess I always give those middle seconds to logic. But the first and the last are mine. My first jump was born from curiosity. What does the top of the bookshelf look like? I can tell you now that it's the perfect place to draw pretty pictures in the dust that settles on top. I can also tell you now that the key to climbing bookshelves is to not get caught by cautious parents. They ruin the fun, filling up each shelf so you don’t have a place to put your foot. The jump from the top of a bookshelf is the most fundamental of jumps. It has an attractive ratio of adrenaline to safety; you’ll only panic for one second, the one right before the last second when you realize the floor is carpeted and the bed is so far away that there’s no possible way for you to accidentally hit that sharp edge of the bedpost. Eventually, though, the bookshelf won’t be enough. Once, twice, three times, and now the adrenaline fades before you jump. It isn’t enough, so you try the tree in the background, which works for a day until it isn’t enough. You move on to play structures, which are boring because they expect you to climb them, so they are not enough. Now, you have to wait years and suffer with the not-enoughness until a change of scenery opens up taller opportunities. That’s what I did. My best jump came after years of waiting. It was born from a bet I couldn’t resist. That’s the problem with putting aside the wild. It builds up until it must break through all at once, on a Wednesday afternoon under the checkered shade cast by the canopy of the trees. It happened back when we would all gather on the other side of the fence after school. That’s where we would pretend at being wild. On the left side of the fence, we were students, properly behaved, clean, and quiet. On the right side, we were pirates, causing chaos, and scraping our knees. But a few of us felt that deeper call of tall buildings and adrenaline rushes, and when there’s more than one of us, trouble is sure to come, because the only thing better than the exhilaration of a jump-then-fall is when it's mixed with a side of competition.

I bet you I can climb up and down that wall faster than you, he said to the glee of our friends. I don’t remember what I said back, but I do remember winning. I climbed up that wall made of stacked stones and concrete so fast that I had a few seconds to contemplate the path back down. I could climb it, or I could jump. Jump is always the answer.

Peek-A-Fall M. Trini Sepulveda S.

thawed SAdie Wuertz the thought of you: light and soft. you would rest easy in my head, a cushion around my nerves muffled, mute synapses firing off every minute but I don’t notice. you would have insulated them — cloudy, but not foggy you would rest there. today, I thought of you and the icicles that this long winter has left hanging in my skull began to melt. a pool of frigid water forms around my brain stem thalamus, thawing the space behind my eyes no longer empty all filled with you, the thought of you, and it does not rest easy. tomorrow, I will empty myself of it tipping my head, waiting for the water to spill out of my ear like ten years ago at the swimming pool. it will trickle out and tickle my ear drum a sound like static and by then it will have warmed and I will wonder, first, if it’s blood.

dawn & dusk Ezekiel Kavanagh the sun slowly blinks and smiles at her sleepy lover the moon, pale gray and fading only to us; to the sun she is shining silver dancing across a river of stars through the night; taking her turn watching over us

Calling Back Blue Eyes Hannah Rae Pickens When coffee and oranges and toast are not enough to beat back a hangover, my favorite cure is you. Citrus and caffeine bring life to dim eyes and stiff shoulders but they cannot soften the sun’s light or smooth away my frown. God, tomorrow I will heat water and I will brew bitter leaves I’ll sweeten your cup with honeyed words and bring it to your bedside if you only promise you’ll forget to drink it and instead wrap us in soft, happy chatter. I don’t mean to make threats, but if in nine hours I wake to head splitting silence and an empty room I will consider it a tragedy so unbearable I may be forced to swear off all indulgences in the name of next-day harm reduction. All this to say, will I see you this evening? I’m already stumbling, but I’d still dance with you– the people here won’t cure me tonight, much less tomorrow and I bet they even drink their tea warm without pausing to talk about their thoughts on the morning news.

lunchtime Riley Eyring

El lugar que nuestro corazón anhela Isabel Hidalgo El lugar que nuestro corazón anhela Desde los trabajadoras industriales y ganaderos Desde los niños que caminan millas a sus escuelas Y a sus padres que cuidan los campos y los animales bajo el sol abrasador Desde las cuidades vibrantes y llenas de gente Como el que se hunde lentamente en el lago A los pequeños pueblos en las densas selvas Como la de donde viene mi mama A las lenguas que hablan Español, Náhuatl, Maya Y los cientos de otros idiomas que han resistido la extinción Desde las altas cumbres de la Sierra Madre Hasta los valles y ríos A través de desiertos y selvas De sus islas y sus golfos A los impresionantes cenotes y cañones Esta es nuestra cultura, nuestras vidas Profunda en nuestra piel - morena, negra, y blanca Brillando en nuestros ojos cafés, azules, verdes Tejido en nuestro cabello rizado, encrespado, sedoso, liso y trenzado Vibrando en nuestros huesos Encendiendo nuestros corazones en llamas A las chicas que destrozan las calles patinando A viejas manos arrugadas y jóvenes suaves amasando harina A los ávidos admiradores de fútbol que sacuden la tierra en su alegría A las dedicadas mujeres indígenas que dominan el softbol A las ruinas debajo al amparo de la jungla Ocultando los secretos de una civilización lejana, De un ancestro cercano Desde buena música y mejor comida De los artistas y abogados A los jóvenes que corren por las calles hecha de tierra A los árboles cargados de naranjas y cocos

A los que se fueron Por un futuro mejor Por sus hijos y sus padres Para ellos mismos A los que fueron al norte, sur, este y oeste Que se encuentran tan lejos de casa Con el eterno deseo de volver A aquellas familias separadas por el tiempo, la política y la distancia A los que se sienten fuera de lugar Por su idioma, piel o ocupación Todos anhelamos lo mismo Un lugar para llamar nuestro Todos buscamos lo mismo Y lo encontramos el uno en el otro En nuestras familias bulliciosas Nuestros bailes y deportes locas En las especias y dulces Las que queman y honran nuestras lenguas En nuestros abuelos burlones y padres estrictos Quién nos ama hasta el final Todos nos encontraremos eventualmente En esta vida o en la próxima En el lugar que nuestro corazón anhela Hoy y mañana

Translation: The place our heart yearns for To the industrial workers and cattle ranchers To the children who walk miles to their schools And to their parents who tend the fields and animals under the beating sun To the vibrant and crowded cities Like the one slowly sinking into the lake To the tiny villages in the dense jungles Like the one that my mother is from To the tongues that speak Spanish, Nahuatl, Maya And the hundreds of other languages that have resisted extinction From the high peaks of the Sierra Madre Down to the valleys and rivers Across deserts and jungles From its islands and its gulfs To the stunning cenotes and canyons This is our culture, our lives Deep in our skin - brown, black, and white Shining in our brown, blue, green eyes Woven into our curly, frizzy, silky, straight, braided hair Vibrating in our bones Setting our hearts ablaze To the girls tearing up the streets skating To old wrinkled and young smooth hands kneading out flour To the avid football fans who shake their earth in their joy To the dedicated indigenous women who dominate softball To the ruins that lay under the cover of the jungle Hiding the secrets of a distant civilization, Of a close ancestor From great music and even better food From the artists and lawyers To the young boys running along dirt streets To the trees heavy with oranges and coconuts

To those who left For a better future For their children and their parents For themselves To those who went north, south, east, and west Who find themselves so far from home With the everlasting desire to return To those families separated by time, policy, and distance To those who feel out of place Because of their language, skin, or occupation We all yearn for the same A place to call our own We all look for the same And we find it in each other In our rambunctious families Our wild dances and sports In the spices and sweets The ones that burn and grace our tongues In our teasing grandparents and strict parents Who love us to the end We will all meet eventually In this life or the next In the place our heart yearns for Today and tomorrow

In Sacred Spaces Valencya Valdez We sit on the floor, cross-legged and opposite from each other. Our meeting ground is wine-stained carpet and static distance. In an unfamiliar bedroom with someone I’ve almost met before, taking turns queuing songs in line to the stereo. Mouthing lyrics of foreign languages and shifting ever so carefully as to not touch knees or knuckles. White dyed tongues discussing things and non-things, thumbing through the pages of one another and reading aloud. Annunciating passages sloppily and correcting each other to no avail. And for the first time in the hours passing, I think. In this thought, I sing: “Yes! To be so vulnerable is unbearable, yet what else is there for us to do? What else could echo in the quiet crannies that separate our toes? How else could I feel you without touching you? To taste your tongue without the threat of gnashing jaws is that of a heavenly loophole. I imagine slipping in and out of the gaps of your teeth, twisting around your molars. I fantasize about nestling inside the crook of your bottom lip and whispering affections to the back of your throat where you cannot hear. I bargain a boon with your cavities, begging them a spot for me to fill. Oh, to live in the sacred places, the secret spaces! Oh, to make myself small. To linger in the cracks and chaps of your lips; to never be uttered like a slur. To be so secret is bearable. If I aim to be what I am, in compromise with you, I can endure. Outside of the obscure place where we have found ourselves sitting, legs heavy and intertwined with one another, I could forget your name. Perhaps in here, I am me, a catalyst of the unsaid version of myself that lives out there. But then what of you? What if you are too different? Or what if you are the exact same? I fear I’ve lost track of which is worse. Yet, in here, I feel relief. I love to know you in this room. I would love to be known by you in this room.” My mind settles blank again, pushing the thought backward and squeezing it into a corner cupboard behind the other unknown things. The air between us goes still as the song playing dies off lightly and pokes my sides— an indication that it is now my turn to revive it. I stumble to alleviate the silence quickly to resist the chance of a thought slipping through the quiet. As my chosen track conquers the hush of the bedroom’s four corners, you hum the tune like it was your own. I suppose it is your own. I envy the melody.

Combination Maja Magdalena Elliott

Drops Above the Kitchen Ethan McAnally

There’s rainwater knocking on the ceiling Just above the dusty velvet of the fan blades, Hidden behind the chalky popcorn plaster. The soft poks are almost deniable As they join the groans of the cooling oven Yet they grip with just the friction To hinder my racing mind, Pulling me from the next paragraph And tonight’s soup. I hurdle toward hardware, Leap over landlords and Another offer beckons from the living room. It’s a familiar one: The same convenient silence That clouds the labels of my avocados And flips through to the crossword puzzles. And so I settle for the quieter couch With just the distance, The softest pillows, To swallow the drops in down.

52 Hz Faith Scheenstra Our encounter was little more than a fluke but from that very moment I was hooked Obscured in the shadows of the Twilight Zone we were but all alone No other fish in the sea except for the swimming forms of you and me Now clinging to your side like the barnacles which sprout from your skin You and I travel through kelp groves with only bioluminescent ctenophores to be our guiding star north All along accompanied by a melody Of a voice so low; one whose lyrics go unknown Blowing breves and bubbles you call out in your treble tune and wait for a response Always singing silent songs that go unheard; never to be returned A solo with no ensemble Chasing after currents, we attempt to fill the loss within ourselves, we both the mariner and the albatross Always searching and wondering yet never finding amidst our wandering Words lost amongst a faint frequency I can't offer you the thing you want or need But even so, nothing can make myself leave for then who would take me as it is in your big glassy eye all that I am is reflected back inside You who have always been so much more than a Behemoth of the deep As in my eyes you will always be Keeper of all my subnautical dreams

For I will never amount to anything more than a bottom feeder: lowest of the low But with you I have a place to call home Forever at your side; your faithful minnow If only though I could speak in your tongues as it hurts to hear those forsaken notes Timbers and groans, the quiet murmur of a metronome, that reverberates through the empty ocean blue But drowned out is it by the crested crashing waves; White capped in their solitude If it meant you would never be alone then I would let you swallow me whole and merge with the very marrow of your bones Suck the krill from your baleen teeth and feast upon the filth of your underbelly Breathe the oxygen from your lungs all the while licking off the briney crust from your tears besung Consume my entire being and I will burrow through the blubber that keeps me at bay Migrate through the intercoastal space of your pearl cage to nest within your aching arterial walls whose chambers pump a heartbeat; a lub and dub lullaby only I know That is a siren’s call, luring in my soul Wherever you may go, I will follow Forever attached to your side; your faithful minnow So let me bury myself within your rotting flesh till we have become but one Never to be divided until the day eventually come when we are but nothing more than seafoam on the shore A whisper in the wind, a silent hymn in the breeze, together till the end

I your faithful minnow and you my forever echoing Wail

One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, Blue Fish 21

Claire Carter

Blue Envelopes and Beige Lineoleum Sarah Jane James I wrote about you once before, you know. I never told you. Not when I published the story about falling in love with someone else, or when you asked me what I like to write about, or when I sent you my other essays. Not when that someone else was gone, and it was finally, blessedly, just us again. Not even when you pointed out the big words that I like to use in everyday conversation. You didn’t know that I had used those same words to attempt to capture your always fleeting presence in my life, and not even they, in all their grandiosity, could pin you down. But I wrote about you. I wrote about tracing the tattoo on your arm, about the gold-rimmed glasses that you don’t wear anymore, about how your voice sounds, about the fact that you don’t like to save champagne for special occasions. I wrote about missing you after barely getting to know you and how it didn’t make sense that I missed you. And that’s what I’m writing about again. But this time, I think the missing you makes more sense. It makes more sense because now I’ve gotten to share champagne with you on a completely ordinary night. Ordinary except for the fact that we were finally in the same room again after almost two years. Ordinary except for when you turned to me and told me I didn’t have to sit so far away, and my body, already humming with the delight and anticipation of being next to yours, moved closer, our glasses of champagne forgotten. Ordinary except for the fact that you were leaving the next day even though I had just gotten back. Back to Portland, back to you, back to myself. Now, I’ve gotten to hear your voice in the energy-charged, almost electric, darkness of late nights in your bedroom. And your voice in the dulling, cloying early morning fog, telling me that it was too early to be awake. It kept me from going to sleep and made it so much sweeter to wake up. The absence of it from my room occupies my mind in the now empty darkness, constantly trying to replicate the surprising softness with which you always speak, even in moments that aren’t always soft.

I’ve gotten to trace the tattoo on your arm again, this time while you drove us to breakfast. Neither of us were in a rush, in fact I think I was willing time to slow down, to give us more than 48 hours. We only had 48 hours last time too. The whole time my index finger was drawing idle lines over the trail of numbers that mark the path from your wrist to your shoulder, willing myself to remember the comforting, calm, rightness of the moment. I’ve gotten to kiss you without our glasses bumping into each other because you don’t have yours anymore. And I thought I would miss them, that their absence would mark you as changed somehow, but I feel like I can see you better now, like there’s one less thing for you to hide behind. But I already knew I missed those things — the champagne, your voice, the tattoo, your glasses — had already written about them before I knew I would be lucky enough to miss them again. So now, I’ll write about the new things. New things like how when I see one of your blue envelopes come through the mail slot — the forget-me-not color disrupting the unrelenting beige linoleum of the floor where the mail falls — everything around me blurs, and my body starts to hum with that same delight and anticipation. Did you know the creak of the mail slot is my favorite sound? The first letter I ever sent you was a third draft, my actual thoughts and feelings lost in the fear of not sounding too emotionally involved, but not too distant either. Now, four letters later, I’m much less careful with my words. I’ll write about new things like the way I miss you too looks in your handwriting. That it was the first thing you wrote in your response to my letter, and that those four words sent unbridled joy and fear through me. You miss me! I sign my letters yours, and get nervous that you might think it’s more than just a formality, that sometimes, most times, I want it to be more than that. New things like how you told me that you eat oatmeal now too. Every morning while I wait by the stove, the smell of cinnamon warming me from the inside out, I think about how you’re eating the same thing, and how that one shared meal might be one of the only things we have in common. But a shared meal, even from four states away, links me to you, and I think about the days when you’ll come down the stairs to the smell of cinnamon and we’ll both be warm. I’ll write about new things like how you claim you’re not joking when you say you’d be serious about me if given the chance, and that there’s a picture of me in your wallet now, and that all I can think about is how often you look at it, and whether or not it’ll be there the next time we get 48 hours.

New things like how I would be serious about you too (I didn’t tell you that, but it’s true), but who knows if either of us will ever be given the chance to make good on our promises. Our lives seem to be on opposite tracks, intersecting only at brief stops, a fun game for the Fates to play, twisting us together with one breath and apart with the next. December seems too far away but August seems to have only just happened, our letters somehow keeping us tethered together despite the fear that we’ll never get to be more than blue envelopes and champagne-tinted memories that live in the darkness of your bedroom. I’ll write about new things like how you signed your last letter yours too, and how I read it over and over again, not believing you’d want to be mine. Even after all of that, I still don’t think I’ve managed to do it. Capture your presence. The champagne, your voice, your tattoo, your glasses, your envelopes, your handwriting, your declarations- none of it is you. And that’s what I’m chasing, always one step behind. Maybe it makes more sense that I miss you this time than the last time I wrote about you. And I probably won’t tell you that I wrote this either. But I write about you. I’ve always written about you.

An Ode to My Braids Grace Fortson There is something magical about my Braids, many somethings. The hands that wove my hair with the synthetic, wrapping love and protection in each stitch. The hands that taught her hands, a little more harshly, how to section and plait and section and plait until the whole head was adorned. Braids are my crown, my cape, my lifeline to people I’ll never meet. The people whose hands taught the hands that taught the hands that taught my sister’s hands how to braid. And braid she did, for hours on end, not stopping when she was tired but stopping when she was done like the strong Black woman she is: not like the stereotype but like the reality of the Black women who survive. I digress. Her tedious labor produced 53 braids around my scalp. They weren’t perfect — more a reflection of my hair than her skill. Black folks say I’ve got good hair, like Becky: it’s silky. But I’ve always wondered what good my hair is if it’s not good for box braids? The ends of my so-called good hair peak out of the braids boldly. At one point, I would’ve taken offense to this betrayal, assumed my hair was trying to out me. But perhaps the unruly pieces are emblematic of me. Try as I might to fit neatly into a racial category, I do not. I am both Black and white. These identities become something new when plaited together with love and protection. As those who have come before me, I will continue to weave broken, disparate pieces of the world together until there is something messy and beautiful.

Medusa in The Fields of Elysium Soleia Yemaya Quinn

a star, exploding Cora Hyatt collapsing into itself, a dying star desperately wants to be undone, to have fingers push through its binds and be allowed to unravel, like a soul, clear as day, with that very yearning sticking out of it that reassures you undoing is in this hand moving this way down a strawberryfreckled world and watch as it hesitates, like the star before death, before taking its plunge, and so the milky way will waver and quiver and it will threaten to cave into itself the world will sigh a sweet note, curl its toes and move that hand to its mouth when the sun rises and casts a golden ring about the world’s head, things will glow brighter, and the star, with its soul, is done and undone, bound, unbound, and binding, disappearing and leaving a glittering gasp.

For Eve Lauren Rees Savas I am a woman and I lie. Sunflower seeds drip from my lips and burrow deep They grow into roses because they do not want you to feel unloved like they do. To be a woman is to be terrified of becoming your mother And petrified of becoming nothing like her. My womb is withered with the fear of what it should be Another land for a conqueror to claim Plant his boots on my soil, plant the life beneath my skin Let it take root until the only part of myself I could call my own flies his flag. To be a woman is to cut the hair from your skin and the skin from your bones Until you are blood and breath alone. What they didn’t tell you is that Eve ate the apple Not because the snake told her to, but because it was red. What a relief to love something that doesn’t hurt To bite, instead of being bitten into. The juice traced runes along her neck, down her chest, along her thighs What a joy to be touched with the tenderness of a whisper. And as she ran from the garden, Adam’s rough hand pulling and wanting and taking Eve sucked the juice from her teeth and fell into his arms, cursing the day she trusted a snake. To be a woman is to lie.

Reverie 29

Crystal Wallace

this end to the next Cora Hyatt I walk from this end of the house to the next. Today I am wearing wool socks and regretting it - the uneven nails in the floorboards snag and deteriorate the fibers. It is a sunny day but the curtains are drawn and I have no intention to open them. Sometimes I will stretch a hand into the light, just to pull it back. Someone once said to me that sunlight is good for you and I think it must be in the way truth is - only when you can take it, and ever so sparingly. I think maybe I might like to write today, but I know I won’t get to it; the paper repulses me and a pen feels foreign in my left hand. Besides, I don’t have anything to write about. Nothing besides the holes in my socks and the receding rays of sunlight. Instead, I’ll check the locks on all 3 doors, and on each window. I toy at one on the bay window, but it’s stuck in place and I cannot remember the last time it was unlocked anyway. The tall mirror in the hall’s corner shows a woman I do not know but something in her stare frightens me. I pull at her face and watch the skin snap back around hollow cheeks. Her nose is too long, her eyes too pale. She looks like she hasn’t slept. She angles herself this way and I notice how bony she is - I could count each distinct rib bone. The first task of the day is to cover the mirror with a sheet so I can save myself from her gaze. All of her disappears save her old wool socks. With that done, I run my hand down the picture frames lining the wall. Faces smile back at me that I thought maybe I had seen in a dream once. How they got on my wall, I’ll never know. Today there was a knock on the door that I did not answer. I didn’t even think to. I stood in the hall, where I thought there might’ve been a foyer once, and listened to the rapping. It is the middle of the week and perhaps I am just another bullet point on that person’s long list of things to do. Maybe it was just mail. I’ll never know. I check the lock and it is just as I left it. Do you hear the church bell ringing in the distance? Do you know how far it is? It rings twelve times so it must be noon or midnight, I don’t know which. It reminds me to pray, but prostrated on the kitchen’s linoleum, I find I’ve forgotten the words. God will have to forgive me, just this time. The hallway feels shorter and the bathroom smaller and the bathwater colder than I remember. I look into the water and see the woman I will never meet. She looks back at me, unblinking, unsmiling, lying beneath the surface. I wonder if she wants to say something but I dash away the reflection before she has the chance to. I’m starting to hate her, I think. Her hands, her arms, her legs haunt my dreams. I don’t sleep much at all anymore, I can’t stand to see her dull eyes boring into me without so much as another room to escape into.

I think of her long fingers and brittle nails prying open a window. I picture her letting herself in and making herself at home. I imagine the way she’d sprawl out on the chaise. The dark circles around her eyes might be darker in the mid-afternoon shadows, her skin would be just as pale. Maybe she’d look for me in reflections, maybe she’s scared of me too. I check the locks on every window and find that my house has two doors instead of three. I could’ve sworn there were three. The church bell rings twelve times and God - it tolls, it tolls, it tolls. Now it sounds louder than before and every piece of glassware shakes. The pictures on the walls of the smiling faces rattle and threaten to fall. For a moment, I think their joyous expression fades. I worry about the windows. It feels like I am always worried about the windows. I pass the mirror in the hall and watch her wool socks go by. I tear mine off in response and leave the hall and I think maybe some tea for the incessant throbbing in my skull but I see her face in the kettle’s shine and I push it back into the cupboard. I leave the kitchen and I lock the door behind me. I do not sleep and I do not eat because I know she is waiting for me. I hide in shadows and cut my bare feet on the nails protruding from the floor and I let myself bleed and bleed and bleed. I feel myself starve and even if I could brave the kettle, the spoons, or the glass cups, I can no longer find the door to the kitchen. I must’ve forgotten where it was. The knocking came again, this time more feverishly and I am backed into the corner of the hall. This was a hiding spot once but now the door seems so much closer and sunlight inches dangerously close. She wants me to enter the light, I know, but I must continue to defy her, if only to avoid giving her a form to move in. I see her bloodied feet in the sliver of revealed mirror and in a rage, I pull down the sheet and smash the mirror into pieces. In the moments just before death, we lock eyes. Her’s tell of horror, of fear, of anguish, and of need. There I see her desire to survive. She wears my face and vanishes as the image shatters. Shards of her impale my hand and her reflection surrounds me by the hundreds like dying stars in the night sky. I want to scream but the noise gets lost in my throat. The bell is ringing again and I am covered in her blood. The bell is ringing again and the sunlight scatters her fragmented image into hundreds of dazzling beams. The bell is ringing again and the sun vanishes; I am allowed to flee only to collapse in a heaving mess on the floor of the next room. I stay there bleeding, eyes closed, and I do not allow myself to sleep. The bell keeps ringing. I lay there for hours, maybe days. I watch the shadows creep up and down the walls and I know if they could reach me, they’d absorb me. My body tenses with every creak and I worry that it’s her. I only find the will to get up for the sake of checking the locks. In the hall, I turn and the room and its floor stained with a blood and sweat silhouette disappear. The hall has no remaining doors besides the one out. Stepping over the sparkling mosaic of her, I do not dare look down. The walls are so much closer now. I walk from this end of the house to the next.

Still Life with a Bowl of 16 Cherries Hannah monti 1. Appearance is temporary and subject to change. 2. When I was young, I liked to lie on my back and look at my bedroom from up-side-down. No one will ever see my body from the angles I do. I will never see it right-side-up. 3. It looked like she’d taken a scalpel to the peanut butter sandwich. Removed the crust from all four sides and cleaved it in half, leaving two perfect white triangles. I choked on the smell of rubbing alcohol before it reached my lips. 4. I’ve come to consider self-portraiture an exercise in cartography. A map is never an exact replica of the territory it represents. 5. Conifer forests look their best in winter, ground bare between the trees save for a blanket of moss. 6. The man in the moon leaned down to whisper can you show me a permanent state of the self? 7. I knew a girl with a mouthful of eyes. No, really. When we spoke, she saw everything. The crown of my head. The wire running across the backs of my teeth. The candle I left burning on the second floor. I didn’t ask her many questions. 8. What are doing here anyway? Metaphor isn’t logical. The resemblance born between an abstraction and a concretion is purely coincidental. I am that I am not that that I am like, which is to say, unintelligible. 9. “Time as a Ferris wheel. Time as a masquerade ball. Time as a desperate attempt at continuity. Does it fail? More on that in the new year.” 10. The sun rises with the ultimate immanence. The world wakes to greet the inescapable rhythm of inhalations and exhalations; firsts and finals; todays, tomorrows, todays again. 11. There’s not a man alive that knows how to lie. Every me is me, every you is you. Each is the mask, each is the wearer.

12. With soft June sun settling in my limbs like cheap wine, I lie face up in the garden bed. One thousand uncelebrated births and one thousand unmourned deaths ripple through my body, and yet, come harvest season, I will bear so little fruit. 13. This cherry is latent with unseen existences. Someday, I think I’ll get hungry enough to eat it. To swallow it stem and all. 14. I think I’d like to live somewhere warm. Somewhere the heat sits in my hands like a fat yellow tomato—heavy and wet and stagnant and sure. I don’t think I can stomach another spring; don’t think I can hold the hummingbird-small hand of another year in infancy. 15. Sometimes it’s hard to look you square in the face knowing each day is a garden I won’t see through to harvest, and in all likelihood, you are too. 16. FOR FUCK’S SAKE, STOP STARING AT ME!!

recipe before the summer solstice Jordan Ducree sunbeam fingers skirt the edges of your empty countertops. the afternoon’s embrace holds all but a specter of chill. the season signals you to feast. linger still. then, if your heart is docile, become feral. walk down the hill to the market in your bad shoes. refuse help for the journey. cruciferous shares root with crucifixion. make sacrifice. refuse stillness. do so even if the weight of bulging plastic film strains your shoulders on the journey home, or the momentum of relief threatens to collapse you like your release of burden onto the kitchen table. you’ve returned with harvest to unfurl into a tangle in the sink. anesthetize your hands and what feeds you with frigid faucet water. engage in combat. sever broccoli trunks from their tails. cleave the scalps of brussels sprouts. in the lobes of shallot bulbs is the memory of self defense. cut them silently. cry for them secretly. if your hunger is desperate, become fecund. get caught in the slick of olive oil, and in the sting of salt. bury your progeny in incalescence. unearth them, sweltering and blackened at their fringes. make wishes upon the beans you scatter into an expanse of cooling greens. combine until inky rainbow carrot knuckles leave the sclera of your cannellini bloodshot. the brood you’ve exhumed stares back at you, anew and sighing steam. teach your spawn the art of delicious resistance, or how to resurrect oneself in a swallow. endow them with balsamic venom. with feta teeth. garnish with dill and cilantro flurries like so many eyelashes, shuttering in prayer. feed body with bodies. say grace.

Snakes and Hands 35

Lauren Banks

Mad Kate Cuadrado I want to go mad Just so I can breathe a little. In shackles in attics in wards in prisons In arms in hand and hand in marriage in sickness and in death, I want to go mad. Maybe I am young and therefore tragic, A writer at her wits end and an end at its crossroad. And maybe I am dying anyways and crave that break to tell me who I am. And maybe when I do it I’ll finally be real And maybe I won't be real at all. Melancholy magic menace and madness and carrying flowers while I sing songs And lying in the river and letting it move my hair like hands. And sweet Antoinetta in the attic, Her eyes like a tiger and heart like a beast. Because Dido was curling from the fleeting ships, And Camille vying in the shadows of her lover. And when you talk of Zelda and all her glamor, No one has anything to say of her dancing.

Infrared Kaylin Ingalls We glow in the dark, you know. When you’re alone at night, surrounded by a blank slate, and your eyes are starved, left empty wells waiting to be filled the world is not so black as it may seem. The very atoms of your being, caught in the cosmic dance, sing as they spin seemingly stuck still by bonds, but still celebrating—and their song travels, undulating through the air and into your unhearing eyes, tuned to the pitch of the sun, unable to recognize the sound of your bodies’ own ballad. But it is there nonetheless, as real as you or me. It mingles, with the high pitched humming from supernovae far away, with the song of stars, hot and cold, with the earth sighing heat into the cold sky, with the long low cries of clouds of gas throughout our galaxy, with millions of waves, close and far-all together, cocooning your blind body in a virtual cacophony of light.

A Flight Through Time Carlos Fuentes The old man felt no pain on his bare feet as he walked through the hardened red clay leaving his tent. Perhaps today would mark the end of the hot season, he thought to himself, as he let his mind wake up in tune with the new day. The sun was still low in the sky, although the heat had remained through the night, and now the golden rays peeking over the horizon brought out the deep red of the Earth. The richly-textured desert floor was no stranger to the heat, as cracks in its facade widened and split into their separate fault lines, small crevices awaiting an ounce of water. While the sun hovered close to the earth, the old man left his tent on the outskirts of the village and headed towards the river, which in this season resembled little more than a stream one body width across. The river was an anomaly in this part of the desert, where red and brown sand and dirt mixed together and stretched for hundreds of miles in any direction, disturbed only by the occasional cactus or brush protruding into the dry air. The stream zig-zagged through the crust of the earth, dividing the wide desert into two symmetrical halves. Flowing slowly away from the direction of the sunrise, the murky water kept a constant velocity throughout the year, carrying sediment and brush for miles in its journey. Small leaves and sharp thorns littered the bank of the stream as far as the eye could see. The desert sand pressed warmly against the soles of the old man’s feet, and the bits of rock and earth were compressed together as the man’s steady pace continued in a straight line. Step by step, the old man walked westward for several miles, guided only by his instincts through the homogeneous landscape. High up in the skies, the movement of birds drifting through the dry air was reflected in the small shadows on the earth. Arriving at the water, the old man was surprised to see that the water levels remained the same as the week prior, fighting against the will of the beating sun. He stooped down, taking one knee, then two, until he was low on the ground and he could bow his head completely under the water. He kept his head submerged, counted to twenty, and lifted his head out. He paused, then repeated the ritual. The water was warmer than it had been seven mornings ago, the old man noticed as he sat down on the wet brown clay on the bank of the stream. He began stripping off his clothes, pulling his long white tunic over his head and setting it down gently next to him. In one fluid movement, the old man stepped up towards the water and laid down in the middle of the stream, facing the deep blue sky with his feet pointed towards the sun. He leaned back and closed his eyes as the water began to flow over his body, and he was soon deep in meditation.

The old man felt the warm water pressing inwards on his worn out skin, which had aged like paper left out in the sun over the years. He felt the wet cool clay underneath his back and legs giving way to the weight of his bare body. He felt the water washing his face, reviving the energy of life and washing away the tears of the past. The old man’s long, deep breaths displaced small amounts of water around his chest, forcing the opaque fluid to wane in the old man’s presence before continuing on its journey. As the old man’s breaths became one with the flow of the water, his mind wandered along the desert floor and into the sky above. While his physical body remained alive in the water, a shadow arose from his body and floated into the sky into a mighty red-tailed hawk circling patiently. He flew in a spiral away from his body, up towards the bright sun and the stark blue sky deeply contrasting the red ground below. As his wide brown and white wings propelled him forward and upward, his vision suddenly became clearer and he was able to see details from afar. Looking back on his body from a hundred yards in the sky, the old man paused. He wondered what would happen if he never returned. He put the thought aside and continued forward. His sense of smell slowly faded, and the hawk left the old man’s body behind, with its short red tail arcing through the sky. The further the old man went, the more the desert below seemed to expand, as his powerful wings effortlessly carried him high up above the water and glided on the slightest of gusts. The crimson and mahogany landscape expanded endlessly in all directions, but the old man chose to follow the water. He always knew where the water was. His sharp eyes easily located the thin line of water below as he flew underneath the sun, which now was directly overhead. The narrow stream, seemingly carved into the dry soil at the beginning of time, continued to flow at its steady pace underneath the old man. He flew at a steady pace, eager to continue but in no rush, for the world behind contains as much knowledge as the world ahead, the old man had long ago learned, and to rush to either is to escape the other. He reached the end of the desert and continued, as the red and tan soil pressed flat into the ground transitioned to gently sloping hills dotted with rich green trees reaching far into the sky. Still, the river meandered through shallow canyons and alongside dense riverbanks, weaving and winding, all the while moving between bushes eager to dip their extremities into the source of life. With the winds on my side and the skies this clear, I’m sure I’m almost there, the old man thought to himself. Glancing up towards the sun, he deduced that he was early, as always. No, he thought, only humans can be early or late. I am simply here. Who is to tell me that time is always right, when the setting sun and the fading of the stars are nature’s only measurements of time?

The stream down below now widened, and the old man knew he had arrived. He began descending towards the pond, taking in the new smells of the pine trees and tall grasses, small flitting bugs and lowsquatting ferns. As he flew lower, he noticed the small markers of age that nature used to measure time: a rotting log covered in moss and filled with insects, on its way towards decomposition and restarting life anew; the dam that had been constructed further upstream since his last visit, built in the hopes of establishing a permanent home, though this one turned out to be temporary. Spotting an old, proud tree in the middle of the meadow, the old man held in his wings and extended his talons, quickly landing on a familiar branch high up on the tree. He waited patiently, suddenly aware that his attitude had changed since leaving his body in the desert. This was to be expected, he reminded himself, as he calmly rested, waiting. From the opposite direction that the old man had flown in from, another hawk, this one with a smaller build and longer feathers, flew down towards the meadow in a graceful manner, descending in a smooth semi-circle before elegantly slowing down and landing on the branch next to the old man. I’m so glad you made it, the old man said in his mind, before quickly realizing his mistake. Human relationships are too fickle, he thought to himself.

Finally at Rest 41

Emma Hippler

Texas, Sunday night Hannah Rae Pickens Mile marker 18. The drive home tonight is quiet, but if I turned on the classical station, I’d hear Carnival of the Animals swimming indigo and green in the blast of the air conditioner, written before the turn of the century with shining orange accents. The evening is blue with thunderheads, but the sun crowned cedar trees all the way home and this music suits the hill country. I see birds on the power lines. I see wildflowers in the runoff ditches. Classical is for landscapes with windmills and yellow coreopsis, for friends who lack words but don’t need them anyways. Classical went on for a long time before you turned the channel and will go on for a long time after you shut it off. For now, though, it’s quiet like the night and the music starts to fall away, muffled like a bathtub too full of water, muffled like a dead man’s float in the lake. Mile marker 19. The drive home tonight is quiet, but if I turned on the 80’s rock station, I’d hear the songs my mother danced to at her homecoming. Mums in red and white and blue, gaudy ribbon flowers that hold no meaning outside the Lone Star State but scream STATUS to the sixteen-year-old drum major in puffy polyester sleeves. Love songs sound better with an electric guitar and 40 years later, she still dances to them in the kitchen with her youngest child, and we laugh and laugh while the cookies burn in the oven and our aprons get dusty with flour. At mile marker 20, light settles on the bones of our face and she sees herself shining out of me, I see myself shining out of her. Mile marker 21. The drive home tonight is quiet, but if I turned on the gospel station, I’d hear them promise to take me home. If I listened long enough, I’d believe them. I’d pull over at the Baptist church by the Exxon station- you know the one, with the same missing letters since ‘97? G O D L V S J E U S A V E S on a marquis put up by a congregation with younger bones. The structure is old and the wood is soft with use and god and old love, love that cans homemade jam and presses lips to your sticky hands. Mile marker 22. I’d pull into the gravel lot and turn the car off. I think they’re all still in there, the 40-strong crowd of believers before cancer and COPD and diabetes took off. I think they’d recognize me if I walked in — Mary Anne’s granddaughter — and incline their heads before the worship songs start up. Mile marker 23. I think I could sit among them and smell the kidneywood blooms, feel the sweat on my neck and the ceiling fan stir hot air around and the drone of a pastor and the hitching breath of the dead lady on my right while she sifts through her good purse for the mints she knows she left in there last week for her grandson — or was that two weeks ago?

I think he was there two months ago, just for a few days to spend some time with her before he started school again and he fished in the tank out back with his grandpa and said grace perfectly that night, better than any of his cousins (scrawny legs, dotted with bites and dried blood and swinging madly under the seat of his chair)— Mile marker 24. The drive home tonight is quiet, but if I leave it quiet, I’ll hear something from you in the crash and roar of backroad static. If I heard your laugh, I’d drive off the bridge. If I heard your voice, I’d slam on the brakes and pull over at the next out on the highway. Mile marker 25. I’d tear out of my seatbelt in my rush to get away from pure high tones and cool grey eyes and scramble towards the wood’s edge, smear wet clay on my legs with too-big feet and push through brush. I’d trip and fall down the bank and crawl to the river’s edge, hands and knees in the red dirt, chest heaving in bottle green air, pregnant with mosquitoes. The vines would have ripped my skin on the way down, so by the time I reached the water I’d be bleeding and bleeding and bleeding, bleeding crushed fruit and sticky intent into water so stagnant the last time it’d seen movement was June and now it’s August and you still haven’t called. Mile marker 26. All the cicadas and frogs and birds are screaming their summer song, and I can’t HEAR YOU ANY MORE, when all they do is scream and scream, and the tires on the highway above me (Mile marker 27) are louder than sin and the static blares through my speakers back on the road and I thought the distance would do me good (Mile marker 28), I thought the silence would do me good. Mile marker 29. The drive home tonight is quiet, but every single whisper is deafening. The future drags me on, the past rips my nails into my skin— Mile marker 30. Do you remember your childhood best friend’s name? Mile marker 31. I can’t come home this summer, I need to stay up North. Mile marker 32. You still haven’t picked a radio station, and I think you’re getting worse and everyone else can tell. Mile marker 33. Slow down. Mile marker 34. Take a breath. Mile marker 35 36 37 38 I’m moving too fast and I can’t reach the brakes, I’m a kid at the dining room table and my legs are too short and I think I messed up grace MILE MARKER 39. You can’t mess up grace, kid. Take a deep breath— Mile marker 40. Your head’s still above water. Your mom’s still in the kitchen. The music’s still on. No one’s talking through the static, and that church is long gone. Go home safe on this nice quiet night, with the colors and the noise from all that love in your life.

senses of my dying breath Gabriel Eugenio My socks dampen as I step outside for a morning cigarette. It rained last night, the thunder pierced my final dream. Although the weather sustained into the morning, it now waned into a drizzle, the repetitive droning fogging up the day. The room is unassuming — beige paint peels off the walls and cedar floors creak under my feet. A twin bed sits in one corner, a secretary desk in the other. A few books on an open window sill, the morning chill letting petrichor parade around the room in ozone. The smell of coffee gives some reprieve. I used to drink it neat but a splash of oat milk has recently entertained my fancy — I sip and listen to the bitter notes playing staccato to the symphony of a dimming world. A trumpet in the distance as little Louis practices his scales. A bleat from my goats below, they’ll need to be sold once I’m gone. A blue jay takes a break in my space, dripping wet. With a cock of his head, he judges my final descent. “Just a little longer,” he says. “I know little jay, just wait. Yours is still a ways away.” He doesn’t acknowledge my response, no reason to listen to the already dead.

Warmth in Midwinter 45

Hannah Rae Pickens

A Burning Sky Crystal Wallace The Romans referred to it as the Nocturnal Sun As if Nox herself, descendant of Khaos and creator of darkness, cast the night sky with a blue-green hue, sickly and garish and bright and and— And it is no wonder that they tremored beneath moonshine, When the ghastly glow lit all their conveyed secrets usually hidden by nightfall. The stars kept quiet, and the moon turned its face, but the Nocturnal Sun prayed: On this open canvas of Earth, what do you have to bear? Nox thought she could smite the sky with burning flames, making darkness an ethereal light, thinking she could outdo the shining helium and hydrogen clustered into a ball—Grant me the power to yield what Sol graces. Why do I not have the power to yield what Sol graces? So when the green light turns into a warm yellow, And the moon lays down to rest, And the people’s goosebumps disappear as they bask in sunshine— She realizes, with a heavy weight in her lungs, darkness will never be seen as light. The Romans referred to it as the Nocturnal Sun, But now we call it Nox’s fall

Dinner Party Valencya Valdez I place an orange on the mantle — plump and perfect and close to the edge. I ring the dinner bell. My guests of honor enter, pulling their seats into a perfect row of six. Like clockwork, they take their seats at the table as footstools and allow their eyes to close. I set decorated plates of china to sit balanced on their laps. They have been starved for days, awaiting a taste of something sweet; some will settle for a sour scent. I take a knife to the citrus and pass out what are fair but uneven slices onto the platters. Half of the guests rip into their due with eyes still closed, dripping the orange juice onto their collared shirts and allowing it to soak into their slacks. I instruct those that devour their slices without my count to hold out their hands for more. They stretch their arms out as far as they can reach; convincing their gluttonous hands that with a little more strain they might encounter something sweeter than citrus. I saw off their fingers with the knife and let their pulp stain the carpet. They bite their tongues to hold their protests, as to not lose another cherished limb. I collect their phalanges in a jar to marinate in bile and blood, then place my collection on the shelf pushed against the wall. I ring the bell once more, signaling permission for my guests to look upon me. I hold one hand above my head and the other below my belly. I lower each of my fingers one by one until both arms end in fists. The remaining half of my guests suck their orange slices dry. I watch as they scrape their teeth against the rinds, pulling any flavor left in its stippled skin to the back of their chops, swishing tart against their inner cheeks and letting it settle sour at their stomachs bottom. The patient ones stand from their seats, allow their eyes to close, and extend their arms in search of ghosts or a reward for obedience. I kneel before each, touching my forehead to their hands. I hold their fingers in my mouth like a secret, tender and amorous. With the tip of my tongue, I clean their sticky thumbs. Without missing a beat, I dig my bottom teeth under their nail-bed and secure my two front teeth atop the nail. Then I yank my head back, tearing each and every fingernail off their two hands. There’s pulp and rind built up under each nail like mud under a child’s. I rise to my feet, then whisper their name into each ear like a European kiss. Each of their ten nails is collected onto a platter and placed adjacent to the jar on the mantle. I don’t let them open their eyes. I let each think they were so lucky as to keep the length of their hands and lose only what they could use to peel the orange themselves. My guests sit politely back in their perfect row of six, ignorant to their neighbors or the state of their hands. I ring the dinner bell once more to dismiss the group of six. They rise, eyes open but distracted by their toes as they leave in uniform. In seventeen minutes, I’ll ring the bell again. The next group will arrive with ravenous hunger. We’ll feed each other what we deserve, what our hands and bellies crave. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and clean my hands with a handkerchief. I place another orange on the mantle— close to the edge — and await my guests.

The New California, the Grandchildren Who Live There Hazel Stange Red capers scattered across ivory carpet Rivers of oil filling between fibers Like the neon vests on volunteers looking for missing women or veins on the back of a pale hand Chaotic like the strings that pull wooden limbs on puppets Sag here, stretch there, don’t let anyone know the difference between movement and manipulation It’s like the trails of bone that line Jade Cove Fish and bird and bear and child Young and old, though that’s unimportant now maybe it always was Trails of open graves marking scattered bodies, leading to nowhere but important anyways A flag in beloved territory, I was here and so were you, I kissed you over there don't you remember? Not so long ago women would drench skirt hems gathering those bones Scarred and jagged fingers placing them in woven baskets made of husks they couldn’t afford to dye Making those bones into instruments or jewelry or playthings or knives Keeping them around because it felt good to own something It’s an honor to repurpose something dead into something living It’s like being God, deciding who gets to come back and for what on your terms Now, my jeans stay dry, I hang onto a tote bag not a basket My aunt does not ask me to gather that fish tooth, my aunt is dead The skin on my cheekbones turn pink, weak dull things that shame my mothers My mother has cheekbones like the leather the men slide daggers into Handmade, darkened, perfect, like the moon had trailed eyelashes over them to gift her beauty My nails have no dirt or skin underneath them, no sign of sacrifice or culture I don’t need bones to repurpose the dead, today the dead walk alongside me

Women who throw away precious gifts like umbilical cords, medical waste instead of ropes from one world to the other Men who create chaos in women’s life just to say they did, never understanding the difference between a spark and a wildfire Not knowing how narrow the space between wild and cruel is People who have carpets to damage with goods in glass jars Instead of dirt floors so thick you can hear your pulse through the soles of your naked feet

consequently Melissa Plankey turning inward hand on my chest reaching for the heart within it beats, it pounds, it roars, it’s mine. and yet, somehow, i cannot make it stay leaping from my throat out goes this wayward soul to dance where it rains ash and flame the sun, peeking through nebulous sky, glares red-eyed and radiant scorching all who dare to witness burn, she whispers for all you have done and all you have yet to do burn. and when she leaves dipping below the horizon line my heart, blazing crimson, follows

airhead Caity Briare

UFOs Over The Burn Scar Will Mulligan An opening, spewing water. No pink hole here, just a tongue fire cannot translate. & flames spread like rumors w/ their own language of (destruction//restoration) . Born in the summer when the trees were refugees spread w/ a breeze to find suitable soil. . In an instance of &, high intensity wildfires destroy both objects of the sentence. Both the period before & the . after. . In their scorched grief, lodgepole cones open themselves, scattering a generation to prevailing winds. . Too much is a wound. Like W.C.W said, “so much depends” There was room here, &/ /or there’s too much now. Too much burnt ink black room silent as a period, monochromatic in the shaved grove. Dry as ignite. .

In this version, a forest suffers the fire & is filled back in w/ words. It’s horrible, I know, but I can’t stop thinking: now that the fire is a reminder, how will we warm our hands w/o crying? . Under film negative soil: Dependent on desolate, little commas of green.

nth Charlie Menke

bruised ribs ; empty stomach Ezekiel Kavanagh I SHOULD HAVE BEEN NAMED ADAM. MY THROAT HAS BEEN DRY FOR A MONTH NOW, CLOGGED UP WITH PHLEGM OR TENDER TISSUE BURNING. A FRIEND YELLED AT ME WHEN I PUT MY TEETH ON AN ORANGE. UNPEELED. ONLY JOKING, OF COURSE. I WOULD NEVER TAKE A BITE OF SOMETHING I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN NAMED ADAM. MY CHEST HURTS. IS IT FROM THE DEFECTIVE HEART RATTLING MY RIBCAGE OR THE LUNGS THAT CANNOT TAKE IN AIR OR THE FUTILE ATTEMPTS TO MAKE MY BODY FIT A DIFFERENT MOLD? CASTS HAVE FAILED AND FALLEN APART. DOCTOR, DOCTOR, IRON ME FLAT. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN NAMED ADAM. WHAT’S IN A NAME? ROSES ARE NOT PLANTED IN ORCHARDS YET TREES STAND TALL IN GARDENS. WITH THIS STUFFED UP NOSE I CANNOT SMELL THE SWEETNESS. CITRUS POLLEN STILL STICKS TO MY LIPS. TEETH ARE BARED. MINE? I WEAR NO COLLAR TO TELL WHO I AM OR WHERE I BELONG. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN NAMED ADAM. I AM MY OWN BEST FRIEND AND I AM DIGGING. I GNAW ON MY OWN BONES. I COUGH WHEN I LAUGH. SOMEDAY I WILL SINK MY TEETH INTO FORBIDDEN FRUIT AND BE FORGIVEN. CALL ME SICK. CALL ME BROKEN FOR I HAVE BROKEN EVERY RULE SET LIKE CHEAP PLASTER. CALL ME ANYTHING BUT MY NAME. I DON’T HAVE TO WANT IT JUST BECAUSE IT’S GOD-GIVEN.

Summer Nights M. Trini Sepulveda S.

Sagebrush Sadie Wuertz

In Colorado, you get used to chapped lips quickly. The dry air is obnoxious, permeating your throat with dust, I cough up moths, they disintegrate in my lungs and My skin is cracked like the desert ground, Like the buckled sidewalk. In Colorado, my lips are always chapped. And I lick them hungrily, anxiously; They await your return Impatient. I wonder, when you kiss them, Will you think of the sagebrush, Nestled in crowds, napping under the languid July sun? Will you kiss me like the sagebrush? The heat of late summer swells and bursts Greedily into thunderstorms And powerlines down, flashlights on, I sit, wondering how the heavy hailstones pelting my cracked desert spine Could have been formed in something so delicate as our Sunset-streaked sky. Sweat trickles down my back when Lightning interrupts the starless sky, striking down Where, I imagine, I might have stood seconds before With a little bit less luck. And when I smile at the thought My lips crack open in the corners And my tongue is tinged with sour blood As the desert grass erupts in flames. When you kiss me, if you kiss me, will you taste it? Will you smell the summer on my skin Or will your nostrils be choked instead with Mountain spring perfume, sulfur, a late summer’s swim, Smoke of heat, campfire, forest fire, The candle alight in my childhood bedroom.

Burnout Giuliana Oliver Your world was filled with a heavy, gray calmness and the people danced in synchronicity flamed by dead routine, though the coals below your feet grew cold months ago. That grey spread everywhere, suffocating as it crawled down the throat, but there used to be a sort of comfort in that familiar choke. Then it came, the cloud of black rain and ember hail that stopped you in your tracks, begging for your awed gaze, before the sodden ash that trails behind it reminded you to run. But for an instance the urge may be to run to the fire instead of flea, just to kiss the flame with a finger and be set free. Then if only for a moment you too could be alight, a flame growing and growing, a spark in the sky, fanning up to sit with the stars as if to say, “see how I burn, burn just like you.” But in their eyes, you hear them say how you will never be the same, so gravity grabs you again, victim to the earth’s claim. Then as you burn the thought, the question possesses your mind, “What if...” What if that fatal glow did not consume your soul? What if you were satiated by your birth right, by the dull? What if, what if, what if... What if nothing.

Ace of Wands 59

Alex Silva

Find Rest, Find Peace Crystal Wallace I lay beside your grave, but you’re not even dead. My hand trails across the grass the tips beginning to yellow and feel like pinpricking needles against my thighs, my fingertips—sharp, familiar. I lay beside your grave, but you tell me it’s mine You dug this yourself. Yes, but I dug it for you. The ground was hard, yet somehow my shovel was sharper, so Let me bury what we had— Let me bury what I need to grieve— the chill of your leather seats against my back the shape of your hand as it curls around a book the slope of your nose casting against the wall, your silhouette the lingering aftertaste of sweet pomegranate and the of it all. hollowness I lay beside your grave to see our bodies parallel once again, laying down, shadows casting, touching, it’s familiar. But you’re just 6 feet deeper.

Ode to Dead Pigeons Everywhere Kaylin Ingalls

There you lie, silent, still on your back, claws clutching the rain gray wings half-folded, tail askew, silver belly contrasting the dark pavement as the cars pass by, inches from your frozen form not one sparing you a glance, a care tires splashing muddy water onto your feathers where it sits, and seeps, and coats you in the ways of the world. — I wish you knew I saw— I mourned.

LET THE BRIDGES BURN Gina DiLisio Miles away The Dalles were on fire. I drove across state lines into more fire. Legs cramped, shoes slipped off and pushed to the corner, knuckles ice-cold from the AC running. There is no sign welcoming me to Oregon, but I can tell from the trees and the mountains that the states changed hands some miles ago and I’m not home anymore. Miles away The Dalles are on fire. The air is thick and it crawls on me. I am beyond annoyed. I can’t think straight. Everything happens all at once. I am sick, I want to be home. I carried myself across state lines, like buckets of water, running back and forth, over and over, trying to reach a fire and accidentally spilling every drop. I carried myself with the coarse speed of a woman scorned. How often do you see scorched earth? I see it all the time. The flames dance in quiet eyes. The pupils are a dark room the flames spin around. You, you are a pyromaniac. Scared eyes paired with a smiling mouth. They always laugh but I know they are afraid. Take my hand, it’ll be fine. Deep down I feel burning, burning. I want to reach and touch it, press my palm flat to that feeling like a hot stove. Burning, burning, burning. There is an image of you that burns in my mind, hovering over me with mouth parted, eyes glazed. I see nothing in them. Empty, empty, empty. If this room were on fire would your pupils become that dark room I stayed in with you? I couldn’t sleep, I just stared at the wall. It’s easier to imagine you when you’re on fire. How often do you see scorched earth? The grass is the same yellow as the fire warning sign outside the fire station. I burn bridges when I cross them.

Something inside me is burning. It burns like the side of your face when too close to a campfire. Uncomfortably hot, but I don’t pull away. I want to touch it. I carried myself across state lines in buckets, sloshing water, drip... drip. Droplets evaporating. Dragging my feet sends sparks, little fires sent off to grow, they race off with tiny legs and greedy hands, grabbing anything they can. What does fire taste like? Like when you drink too fast and you feel the bumps of your taste buds raised. Dry and hot and wet. The fire runs closer. It has legs and arms and teeth. It has eyes like yours, empty. What happens when they get me? I burn bridges to keep me safe, crackling wood that falls into dry riverbeds. You got too close, and I let you. You got too close and you reached that part of me that’s ash gray and red and orange. Don’t you know not to do that? Don’t you know not to? not to? not to? An open palm burns the same hurt. There is something vacant within me that grows larger when I see the flame. It is like a desert, the horizon is endless in the day, but it expands at night. The day is endless but the nights grow longer. The stars burnt out long ago. Little sparks in dried grass, bare feet hopping back and forth to step them out. Miles away, The Dalles are on fire and I am unaware. I will carry myself, hoping for safety, praying for rain in the middle of summer. I see your face and there is something vacant that grows larger. You are easier to picture on fire. My throat is dry as I gasp and I writhe and I try to perform how you want to see me. I am the mirage, I am the image you couldn’t grasp out there in the smoke and the dry earth where the grass grows yellow and brown, where the roots spread in clumps like hair falling out, tearing out, fistfuls fistfuls, digging, grasping, holding. I open my mouth and it’s dry, the sounds crumble in heaps. I am the smoke and mirrors, I am the image you hold in your mind and you throw onto the screen. I am convenient. I am only yours when you want me, I am only yours when you decide to see me. I am only yours. I burn but the flame is not enough. I am unsustainable. Miles away a fire burns and white oaks blaze. The dark is filled with you. I close my eyes. I imagine that hell feels this hot, that hell is this stuffy room I am in alone, that hell is keeping both windows fully open and still the night air cannot reach me. The halls are silent. In the bathroom I hunch over myself and cry. The room is dark but it is too hot. I will be ablaze. I am hunted. I am scared. I am scared. You’re wrong you’re wrong you’re wrong. It wasn’t like that. I tell no one but myself, I am the harshest audience. I am a mass of wailing voices and

bodies, I am a sea of crying women who all share the same face, the same voice, the same body. I am me but I am me from that day, I am me standing in the pharmacy, I am me clutching my stomach, I am me crying in a room. In the bathroom alone I hunch over and cry. The stall door slams shut. Miles away the fires still burn. A fire has arms and legs and teeth. Its smoke crawls through my windows. The night air won’t touch me, but the smoke feels no shame. Stop crying. How often do you see scorched earth? I feel it all the time. I imagine a dark room where flames dance. I am the mirage, I am the dancer, I am. Do your eyes fill with fear when you see the gasoline poured on the wood? Does your throat go dry as the match is struck? It’s your turn to gasp and writhe and scream. Does the flame burn high enough to consume you, or can you still see my eyes, the dark rooms I crawl away to, the vacant spot. There is something burning inside me, a small fire in the middle of a dry grass field. Sparks fly and bare feet dance as they try to stomp them out. Dry grass cuts bare skin. The sun is a magnifying glass, the heat invades the skin. The only sounds are the crackling of flames and creaking of bones. My breath is the drum beat, ha… ha… ha… ha… The pire rises, I imagine burning alive. The flames lap at my feet, they kiss and touch and burn and recoil. They desire me only when it is convenient. You only want me when I’m yours. I imagine hell feels like this, a hot car in a heatwave, the AC does not work fast enough. Hold the wheel tight, hunch over and cry, use the windshield wipers to smudge the ash and smoke. It stings. It is only the smoke, you think. It stings. There is something within me, hidden away in a dark room. Fear makes me recoil, shame makes me wonder, curiosity kills. Is this pain in my stomach…no…it can’t, no it won’t, no I can’t… Something sharp, something hot, something dangerous. My fingertips are cold but my face burns bright. I am no beacon of purity. I am not a beacon, but moths drawn to flames get holes burned in their wings. Eyes large and empty like dark rooms. Don’t you know not to do that? Don’t you know not to? What happens when I lose. What happens when the oxygen is cut and

they tire of me, when they take every bit when they take it all when I’m only yours when you want me when I’m only wanted when it’s convenient. I am unsustainable. I am only someone else’s. Hell is a tiled bathroom, hell is a hot car, hell is a room with the windows open that the air won’t reach. I carry a fire with me everyone, but what happens when it goes out. Will the room continue to be dark? It is easier to picture you on fire. It is easier to imagine you clutching your stomach, fingers digging in the ground, grasping, clutching, holding, begging, gasping, writhing. Do you feel the pain now? Picture it. Don’t touch me. Hold me. Kiss me. Want me. Desire me. Don’t. Don’t Don’t Don’t. Stop, no, you’re wrong, shut up, you’re wrong, stop it stop it stop it. Beg me. I am a pyromaniac. The air is hot even at night. The moon hangs by a thread. I cannot see it. I am back in that little room with dirty floors, where I struggle to wipe my feet clean. I am back in that room, so so small, that little dark room, that little house. Kiss me, hold me, want me, desire me. Don’t, don’t, don’t. Please. No. Yes. Stop. Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes. Look at me, look away, close your eyes. Empty eyes, small room, I cannot escape. There is nowhere else. My knife is in my breast pocket. My knife is in my chest, I am wounded, I am bleeding, I am empty. There is something in me. Quick, take it out! Cut it out, kill it, take it, take it. Miles away they are on fire. Miles away a fire unknown to me rages on. A fire has arms and legs and teeth. A fire has a body, it carries itself across state lines. It drags its feet and sends sparks running off with greedy hands and mouths, consuming all. I will not evacuate. I will not stand in that parking lot surrounded by hundreds of others, wondering what I left behind. I will get in the car and drive, drive a highway without a welcome sign, drive with cramped legs and cold knuckles gripping a steering wheel. Let the bridges burn themselves.

Oregon Revised Statute 527.676 67

Ethan McAnally

About the Contributors Lauren Banks (she/her), lau·ren banks, proper noun: 1. biology; 2. fungi-loving; 3. 5ft 3inches. Caity Briare (she/her),kay·tee bree·are, proper noun: 1. draws on everything; 2.always forgets where the car is parked; 3.first pick in dodgeball and last pick in basketball. Claire Carter (they/them), kl·air car·ter, proper noun: 1. aspiring zoologist and ecologist; 2. enjoyer of speculative science fiction; 3. frequent hiker. Kate Cuadrado (she/her), kaat quaw·draw·doh, proper noun: 1. one who speaks in reality TV quotes; 2. the world’s leading diet coke consumer; 3. a cat. Jordan Ducree (she/her), jor·dan doo·cree, proper noun: 1. Taco Bell regular; 2. ardent email checker; 3. part-time goth. Gina DiLisio (she/her), gee·na dee·lee·see·oh, proper noun: 1. Made in California; 2. Color theory enthusiast; 3. Extremely indecisive. Maja Elliott (they/them), my·uh ell·ee·it, proper noun: 1. computer science major; 2. enjoyer of TTRPGSr; 3. just a silly little guy. Gabriel Eugenio (he/him), gabe·real u·genie·yo, proper noun: 1. aka gabe, gahbayy, glob, dat’s my point guard!, mb I was sleeping, absolute menace; 2. knack for zoning out; 3. wait what’d you say? I swear I was listening. Riley Eyring (he/him), rye·lee eye·ring, proper noun: 1. mammal; 2. crustacean; 3. reptile. Grace Fortson (she/her), grais fort·suhn, proper noun: 1. biracial woman; 2. creative that forgets to be creative; 3. a living practice in patience. Carlos Fuentes (he/him), car·los fwen·tes, proper noun: 1. caffeinated; 2. self-proclaimed sudoku expert; 3. experienced marriage officiant.

Isabel Hidalgo-Guerra (she/her/ella), is·a·bell hee·dal·go gue·rra, proper noun: 1. refuses to drink anything carbonated; 2. eternally freezing; 3. producto de unas mujeres fuertes. Emma Hippler (she/they), em·uh hip·lur, proper noun: 1. coffee fanatic; 2. the proud wearer of a frog tattoo fondly named Frank; 3. the crazy plant lady. Bao Huynh (he/him), bow hwin, proper noun: 1. mad chemist; 2. unhinged baker of bread, as prophesized by own name; 3. confused about how to accurately phonetically spell Viet names. Cora Hyatt (she/they), cor·uh high·it, proper noun: See definition for 'senior editor.' Kaylin Ingalls (she/her), kay·lin ing·galls, proper noun: 1. now researching: quantum mechanics and poetry conceiving a child; 2. proud owner of multiple birding hats; 3. comes bearing chaos and hugs. Sarah Jane James (she/her), sair·uh jane james, proper noun: 1. letter writer; 2. avid oatmeal advocate; 3. turtleneck model. Ezekiel Kavanagh (he/they), e·zee·kee·yul kah·vuh·nuh, proper noun: 1. professional hoodie thief; 2. oil paint enthusiast; 3. personification of the duality of man. Ethan McAnally (he/him), ee·thun mac·uh·nal·ee, proper noun: 1. aspiring scientist and amateur poet; 2. easily distracted by bees; 3. backup dancer for soup. Charlie Menke (he/him), char·lee men·key, proper noun: 1. tired of describing himself; 2. not very buoyant; 3. deceptively big-hearted. Hannah Monti (she/her), han·nuh mon·tee, proper noun: See definition for 'editor.' Will AC Mulligan (he/him), will mull·again, proper noun: 1. appendix-less; 2. banjo player; 3. aspiring forest hermit. London Murray-Schroer (she/her), lon·don mur·ray-sch·rare, proper noun: 1. an avid reader; 2. supporter of red pandas; 3. coffee lover.

Giuliana Oliver (she/her), joo·lee·aw·nuh aw·luh·ver, proper noun: 1. avid people watcher; 2. lover of cats; 3. middle child. Hannah Pickens (she/her), han·uh ray pick·ins, proper noun: 1. garden variety texas transplant; 2. likes breakfast best. Melissa Plankey (she/her), muh·liss·a plank·ie, proper noun: 1. perpetually sleepy; 2. equal parts stubborn and affectionate; 3. full of laughter (and possibly fruit). Soleia Yemaya Quinn (she/her) so·lee·ah ye·my·ah kwa·inn, proper noun: 1. vikingesque athlete; 2. painter by day, insomniac by night; 3. box hair dye enthusiast. M. Trini Sepulveda S. (she/her), tree·knee se·pool·veh·duh, proper noun: See definition for 'editor.' Lauren Rees Savas (she/her), lo·ren ree·suh sah·vah·suh, proper noun: 1. PNW born and bred, scared to leave but scared to stay; 2. lover of night walks, dogs, and wind; 3. strong believer that chai is magic in a mug. Faith Scheenstra (she/her), fae·th skeen·stra, proper noun: 1. claims to be 6’3; 2. Frankenstein fanatic with general morbid curiosity about death; 3. Prolific user of computerized sticky notes. Alex Silva (he/him), al·icks sil·vuh, proper noun: 1. sexy; 2. earth lover; 3. hopeless romantic. Hazel Stange (she/her), hay·zel stay·ng, proper noun: 1. Seminole native; 2. daughter and sister. Valencya Valdez (she/they), val·en·see·uh val·dez, proper noun: See definition for 'editor.' Crystal Wallace (she/her), kris·tal wol·us, proper noun: See definition for 'editor.' Sadie Wuertz (she/they), say·dee werts, proper noun: See definition for 'senior editor.'

About the Editors Tim Arifdjanov (he/him), tim ar·if·jan·off, proper noun: 1. serially forgets his things; 2. walking enthusiast; 3. likes books. Cora Hyatt (she/they), core·uh high·it, proper noun: 1. #1 senior editor, alphabetically speaking; 2. does not want war with Russia; 3. accumulating parking tickets. Hannah Monti (she/her), han·nuh mon·tee, proper noun: 1. cancer moon; 2. part-time worm chaperone; 3. moss, sauce, and Frost enthusiast. Alyssa Repetti (she/her), a·lyss·a rah·peh·tea, proper noun: 1. sophomore english major; 2. house plant doctor (in training); 3. Mexican food connoisseur. M. Trini Sepulveda S. (she/her), tree·knee se·pool·veh·duh, proper noun: 1. overachiever extraordinaire; 2. hoarder of words; 3. scatterbrain™. Mia Tierney (she/her), mi·uh tier·knee, proper noun: 1. avid hiker; 2. collector (not hoarder); 3. proud Apple Music user. Valencya Valdez (she/they), val·en·see·uh val·dez, proper noun: 1. Twitter celebrity; 2. avid hair dye fiend; 3. self-proclaimed Thumb Wrestling Champion. Crystal Wallace (she/her), kris·tal wol·us, proper noun: 1. reigns over the Galactic Empire as a side hustle; 2. lavender matcha connoisseur; 3. triple Gemini, triple Aquarius, triple Taurus – see definition for ‘chaotic.’ Sadie Wuertz (she/they), say·dee werts, proper noun: 1. #1 senior editor, age-wise; 2. controversial; 3. famous.

Acknowledgments Writers is never a singular effort, and we are immensely grateful for the support of the following people: Professor John McDonald, our trusty faculty advisor, for giving us constant encouragement while simultaneously allowing us the space to make and fix our own mistakes. Our contributors, for their amazing poems, writings, and art pieces. Writers simply would not exist without you. And, most emphatically, the 2022 Writers Editorial Board, for their adaptability, creativity, passion, and patience.

Submission Policy Writers Magazine accepts submissions of original creative work by current students of the University of Portland. These works include but are not limited to short prose, poetry, short plays, photography, visual arts, and cartoons. All submissions are evaluated by the editorial board. Submissions are kept anonymous throughout the evaluation process.

University of Portland Department of English 5000 N. Willamette Blvd. Portland, OR 97203