Writers Magazine Fall 2021 by Writers Magazine

labor of

love fall

WRITERS

WRITERS Senior Editors Sadie Wuertz Cora Hyatt

Editors

Timur Arifdjanov Mia Tierney Crystal Wallace

Advisor

Prof. John McDonald

Cover Design

Sadie Wuertz & Cora Hyatt

Writers Logo

Fall 2021 University of Portland

Table of Contents Letter from the Editors

iii

Collected Works Ode to the Joshua Tree Shared bodies like wet canyons CHILDREN OF THE SKY Acts of Service Koppelflöte Helping Liam before his date fling To- You From -Earth venus flytrap man in room with mirror Provider Mother Mary's Denial Tierra en Las Manos Biker Ice Cream Call It Whatever You Want do u have a lighter? yeah i have a lighter u have to give it back tho a memorandum for maureen A Knitting Pattern for Grief

Will Mulligan Hazel Stange Kat Motley Hannah Pickens Sadie Wuertz Hannah Pickens Hannah Pickens Caity Briare Jordan Ducree Charles B. Menke Caity Briare Valencya Valdez Isabel Hidalgo-Guerra Riley Eyring Clara Smith Libby Callahan Libby Callahan Soleia Yemaya Quinn Gina DiLisio

1 2 3 4 5 7 8 9 10 11 15 16 17 18 19 21 22

23 26

About the Contributors

About the Editors

Acknowledgments

Letter from the Editors To you, In the past, Writers has sought only to be a soft spot for the work of our student body to land with our annual spring issue shining a light on the oft overlooked artistic talent flowing through our campus. That being said, our magazine’s longest and strongest love affair has and will always be with University of Portland’s body of artists and writers. And in all love affairs, there must be devotion. To prove that devotion to you, we have expanded to include a fall issue—with our campus’ overwhelming talent, this was the only thing that made sense to do. For this issue, we settled on something shorter, completely virtual, and comprehensively curated to our theme of “the labor of love.” Our theme comes to us from the past, from Writers’ very inception. Once upon a time, we were called Daedalus, after the Greek myth of the legendary (and perhaps ill-fated) craftsman, and though those days are behind us, we cannot help but see the influence of the name seeping through every issue. In all art, there is labor without reward, labor we only withstand for the love of it. There is nothing more beautiful than this. But there is always the other side of the coin. Daedalus’ labor of love, manifested in the wax wings made for his son Icarus, led to the greatest tragedy he could ever know (as referenced in the cover design). Sometimes, labor and love cannot escape repercussion. In the wake of the destruction, heartbreak, and grief of the last year and a half, we also hoped our contributors would reflect on these consequences of creation. Attempting to return back to something resembling “normal” has proven to be a labor in and of itself— instead, we do away with normalcy, making space for the creation and connection we have all been longing for. This issue is our labor of love. We entrusted our contributors with this theme, excited to see what they could make of it. And make they did: from odes about nature to comics celebrating the communion of human kindness, our contributors took our theme and spun it into gold. This issue comes to you from a place of toil. This issue comes to you from a place of devotion. This issue comes to you from a place of love. Love always, Cora Hyatt & Sadie Wuertz Senior Editors

iii

"To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have—to want and want—how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!" -Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse

Ode to the Joshua Tree WILL MULLIGAN Between the sun and me plunge the thin spines of the joshua tree. A grove: one equidistant from the next; arms outstretched exploring the empty as if desiring the blue, as if delighted. Evergreen, windswept, gorgeous as they are, what good could I do here? What good but to perish & feed the buzzards, kit foxes, & wet the sand with serum, leaving my warm bones to bleach? These trees taught me that what points to light can’t produce it; that shade is not all that holds me. “Here,” the joshua tree says, “Take my roots for your dye. Take my leaves for your feet and for your woven baskets. Hold my leaves as shadows.” Tell me to breathe the soil but make no well. Tell me to walk only as a consequence of cool nights. Tell me to gather tears in my hands & drink. Tell me to reach for what I can’t hold.

Shared bodies like wet canyons HAZEL STANGE The sky was twisted into watery and dry parts, making judgements like a furrowed brow There wasn’t even a moon, not a hope suggesting that this could end, that I would want it to The stars had fumbled to their knees, scraping skin to get away from me To catch a glimpse of the place you came from, where God had roughly tossed you from The blood pushing against the skin of my neck, veins like rivers on maps, dead and aimless Tears rolling off my tongue, peeking out behind teeth Hair making roots in the soil where my skull was planted, smashing harder in intervals, digging The bottoms of my legs plunging into the cold water of a nameless lake Mixed of stone and fish and ankles and tears and amniotic liquid Maybe I will die in this lake, with life taking breath between my legs Haggard and moaning and shocked to find all of life contained underneath a single willow Like the branches, my eyes were dropping - rolling around like dice in a desperate man's hand Maybe you’ll live, maybe my tongue will still like a dirty knife, maybe, maybe, maybe… Bugs slither into my braids, in the holes my earrings leave, a woman's body always becomes a home Baby, be strong like this Willow, with broken off branches and shrunken leaves - skeleton still standing Love, be merciful like this lake, who hasn’t taken us both greedily between the lips of her current Child, think of the womb that birthed you, latched to the soil who gave us our skin from red silt Mother, inseparable from the Earth who birthed her, her spine made of serpent and corn silks and sage

CHILDREN OF THE SKY Kat Motley I am the sun’s child, raised by her warm beams of love, a love so warm that your bare feet burn on the pavement in the summer. Sun keeps our house plants green and our skin tan but always browns the grass in the summer. In the morning, her rays are soft and gentle, peering through our windows as a reminder that the day is about to begin. The sidewalk glitters as she walks across it, her long legs lighting the gloom in generous beams, for it is her job to awaken the world. In the evening, the skies blush orange and pink as she begins her descent beyond the horizon, and when her shafts have turned severe and the angle of protrusion is just right, we close our curtains to stop her harsh streaks from blinding us while her golden fingers find ways to slip through. Her touch is always warm, even when we do not want it to be. She makes us sticky underneath our t-shirts, itchy on our skin-turned-red, and warm on the coldest days. She makes our leather car seats like fire and the metal of our seatbelts melt our skin, and her warm breath spoils our milk and wilts our flowerbeds. However, when her breath is not searing, baking the city, she is mellow and compassionate, a childhood friend who always understands. She creates beams for our pets to lay under and shafts of light so that we can watch the dust as it meanders through the air. Where I am, we are children of the clouds, raised by cool shafts of love. Colors mute and serenity settles as the clouds come to rest themselves above, drawing blanket shadows and cool breezes over the city. There are whispers of a storm among the flowers and trees, a reminder of the shadows that throw gloom at the earth while we begin to soak color up into our crimson cheeks. The once-vibrant greens of grass are cloaked in gray overtones as moisture cakes every breath, all while this achromatic gloom seduces romantics who long for the soft falling of rain to calm their painful idealism. Poets and readers look for inspiration from the smell of wet soil and wet skies, and the cracked windowpane has a pool of water gathering beneath, but no one dares to pull it closed. Although it rains most days, thunder is scarce here. Children are lured by flashes and drums in the sky to peer out their windows, counting for the seconds passed after each strike of lightning and watching the raindrops race down the glass. Oh, how a thunderstorm can silence a city. The gods that brawl in the sky—stomping around in the thunderhead clouds, tossing bolts of light without a care as to where they land—shout a warning to those below. People run for shelter under trees and awnings and canopies, and they flee to their cars and their homes, afraid of the violence so far above them. Here, rain does not often fall heavily. Gently it comes down. It falls quietly—forgiving and tender in nature—a mist wandering through the air like dust caught in a sunbeam.

Acts of Service HANNAH PICKENS

Koppelflöte Sadie Wuertz my feet don’t touch the ground when I sit on the organ bench. I’ve always been tall for my age—the tallest kid in my seventh grade class, 5’9” now but here, my feet dangling inches above the ground on the organ bench, I’m 8 years old again next to my mother as she plays the piano stretching my toes, desperate to reach the pedals the room with the organ is small—it doesn’t fit my ambition but the grateful and ancient hum that the instrument makes when it’s switched on fills the room I don’t dare touch it, I don’t dare step on the pedals My feet dangle off the edge instead and I watch motionless koppelflöte reads one of the switches blockflöte and the pianist next door plays on. my grandfather’s sheet music for a marine’s hymn yellows with time in the piano bench where I sat at 8 years old “Slow down,” my mother would tell me. Again and again, mistake after mistake. Slow down. I never learned how to take my time. The buzz of the organ tickles my ear, and the tickling reaches my feet, still dangling off the ground, beginning to numb. Some mornings I would awake to my mother’s playing, the piano in our home just below my bedroom Some mornings she would explain that my grandfather was a better pianist, that his playing could not be beat But that I was a better musician than her. Philip Glass’s “Opening” challenged us both: “We can play it if we each take a hand.” My left hand tracing the duples, her right hand dancing around triplets.

My piano teachers told me I would get better with practice and to take my time and to be deliberate Maple Leaf Rag when I was 13, Gymnopedie no. 1 I sped through them all. and now, I sit, and I take my time. The organ’s low hum echoes in my ears, my grandfather playing a polonaise, my mother trying to reach him through her own playing, ave maria gratia plena me, 8 years old and tall for my age but feet still dangling.

Helping Liam before his date 7

Hannah Pickens

fling Hannah Pickens it’s a dying star you breathe the air is all dusk and violet sex, and you point towards the nebula at the outermost edge of our galaxy. but it’s not the stars i’m watching, tonight. satellites reflect the sun’s light you remind me and i see them move unblinking across the sky in the glass of your eyes. i think their reflection is almost as good as the first crack of your smile you throw your arms out and stagger back under the magnitude of all that light and remind me that the Milky Way is all around us! and i am drunk on a million shining pieces and your touch. does it matter if it’s authentic? the sky has satellites and stars alike And the artificiality of the International Space Station does not make it any less beautiful on the horizon. so it goes, our displays of love are no less soothing for their lack of sincerity.

To- You From- Earth 9

Caity Briare

venus flytrap Jordan Ducree tiny black teeth bitterly sleep in soft soil, spending the nights promising themselves they’ll never be left at the mercy of fate again before growing into carnivorous plants out of spite. sometimes, i daydream about becoming both the spider and the flytrap that seduces her. at least to be devoured is to be revered, and i’ll allow myself to be swallowed whole as often as it takes for me to be loved forever, and to never have to be known again. until nothing that i grasp spills from between my fingers, until nothing that holds me lets me go.

man in room with mirror Charles B. Menke He bares his teeth in front of the mirror, letting out a whisper of a sigh in the exhibition. Four or five of his ivories are speckled with plaque, others are less grotesque. Luckily his nasal canals are stuffed, having been so for years, and this prevents the fumes which his own dying mouth emits from entering into his olfactory receptors, neurons, and sniggling their way into his brain. Slackening his jaw slightly, the hide of his tongue appears in the mirror, recoiling from the light. It amuses him to contract the muscle and embody different forms, which admittedly are only a few in type. Looking in the mirror now he doesn’t attempt to shape his tongue because he is tired. The job of assessing his own face tires him immensely, but today’s session is particularly tiresome, and he figures it is because of the residual damage of the day’s events on his psyche. If he were to turn his head ninety degrees to the left, or even eighty-ish, he would see that the sunset had finished and black vacuous night now pooled outside him. The room in which he stands, barren but for the mirror and a few trifles such as the mattress askew on the floor, surrenders none of its light to the external; blinding LED tubes lined his ceiling, two long strips evenly spaced in the center and four shorter ones outlining the square parameter, which caused everything within to be visible– it was inhuman, like a hospital. His head does not turn towards the window, however, and he does not notice the night, for he is still transfixed on his own shining face. The four canine teeth have maintained their sharpness over the years, and maybe grown sharper. Most hardened vegetables, like carrots or turnips, are left with pin-prick indents after a solid bite. Where his teeth end his lips begin, and past those it's just the pale, easily burnt epidermis of his lower face. The corners of his mouth have turned downwards so frequently that now a channel remains permanently imprinted. An abrupt cough interrupts his hypnosis. Suddenly he notices the whole of his face, the survey of the bits having been interrupted by the outburst: his mug is unsettling. All the pieces belonged better on their own, he thought, together they’re much too nasty. He places the palm of his right hand on the right side of his face, or the left from the mirror’s perspective. Now as he stares he only has to face half his face, and the other half of his face is hidden under a palm which faces away from his left eye and towards his right. The right side of his face is warmer than the left, now that it has a place under the warm calloused skin of his right hand. The man turns his left eye to the right, trying to get a more direct peek of his right hand without the intermediary of the mirror, but his nose, placed in between the left and the right, blocks his rightward looking glance. So the man

whores himself back out to the mirror, which scoffs at his foolish attempt to transgress homosapien boundaries. The man rues the mirror; The mirror does not have homosapien boundaries: it has no limitation but that ugly mahogany frame upholding it. The mahogany is perhaps oak? The man rues the oak frame. Still with his right hand covering the right side of his face, or the left and left as seen in the mirror, the man nods towards the mahogany/oak frame in attempts to get a whiff of it. A turgid inhalation, the airborne molecules thrust violently past the blockades which are present in the man’s long standing stuffy nose. He had expected to smell something woody, like a pleasant stroll through an enchanted forest, and maybe he would have smelled such a pleasantry had he spent time consistently brushing his teeth all these years– what enters into his nose, and the receptors etc. etc., is fetid. His eyebrows crease and the corners of his mouth take up the all too familiar downward orientation. He pulls away from the mirror while simultaneously dropping his right palm down to hang limp, parallel to the right side of his torso. There’s that stranger in the mirror again. The mirror, which truly could be anything, stands upright in front of the man. It is tall; it is too tall. He remembers the relative dwarfism of his condition when standing there in front of it. Collecting so much space within its stare, the man can raise both his right and left arm above his one head and still fit completely within the reflection. Both arms in the air and the bottom of his t-shirt rises enough for the belly button to be visible. Now his arms float above his head and his hips oscillate side to side rhythmically, slowly, and he closes his eyelids and lets the mirror gently rock the puppet of his frame. Swaying in what could be called a dance, if anyone was around to notice the movement, the man tarries, gaining respite from the crux which awaits him upon gaining sight again. There he is, spinning easily around his central axis, turning from right to left, or left to right, in a circular rotation. Faster, faster he now spins. He is spinning around faster, and the hips which oscillated now shutter uncontrollably, as if he is a bicycle that just ran over a shard of glass. The man continues to gyrate, however, and hands which had served to crown now descend outwards to his sides, and he resembles a plane propeller with a loose bearing. Still the mirror contains his chaotic deteriorating mass, framed in the wood that’s smell is a mystery, inversing the left and right, and undergirding his slow dissolve. He is spinning with his eyes closed, thus the mirrored image remains anonymous. Faster and faster he goes around. The nausea begins to spring itself upon him now, bubbling up from his core and eventually reaching his head. Why is he still spinning? Death encroaches now, he knows it does. He hears her song, feels the marvellous breath. Gravity’s chains drag the man down. No, not like a propeller taking flight but instead of a type similar to a firework which annuls itself in spectacle. Annulling, annulling, the man goes on downwards and– An abrupt cough halts his procession. Bent over with hands on knees, both left and right, the man gasps for air between brutal coughs. He can’t handle this; He thinks about

some foreign idea which is supposed to ease his mind, but the difficulty in conjuring the idea with such pervasive nausea and dizziness only aggravates his state further. The seconds wherein his coughing breaks his eyes open to see shrapnel littered across the cement floor around him– he must have knocked over some of his mother’s old porcelain dolls. There is a fragment of some poor baby’s scalp; Poor baby, the man’s conscience manages to offer. Before he has time to fully ruminate, the aching cough strikes him again. It feels as though his ribs are forcefully prodding the lungs which he has treated so poorly. Beads of sweat fall from his forehead down to the floor, a few drops landing on the dismembered doll pieces. Finally, his forearms can no longer bear his weight right as his knees begin to buckle, and he spills onto the floor ass first. Sprawled out on the cold hard floor the dolls jab at him and his chest quakes, and his pores cry then freeze. His right eye has been stained by the salt of the surrounding perspirations and consequently squeezes shut in wincing pain. Contradistinct to this, the left eye pleads with the ceiling up above– a futile prayer. A body has been consumed in the cement, overtaken by its ravaging solidity. Bereft of hope, the whole man lays in sorrow. A sorrow which burnt into his spirit and left nothing but charred rubble. The coughs cease, and the room is now quiet. That is, quiet everywhere but the mirror: towering above him now and berating him with sardonic laughter. What does he tell himself, lying so miserably on the floor? Violently, his arms begin to thrash and pound against the ground. Rising and throwing themselves downwards, they continuously beat and beat. His legs begin too, and despite the revived pain caused by the baby shards piercing deeper, all appendages are now convulsing. Spasming, convulsing, and orgasming, minus the last– Eros firmament in place, swelling fast. Steadfast beating, chaotically trouncing, and clobbering the cement. The cement was not flexing. The man’s limbs were, and bits of skin had begun to separate from his branches. Still he thrashed more vigorously. Without being aware of the process, a yell creeped out from the man’s gut. He roared viciously as his denunciation continued. For he had been a sinner ever since his will took on this flesh, and no longer was he willing to continue on in bondage. What he thought now was, more, more, and he fulfilled his wishes. Until he heard a snap, like he had just broken a carrot in two, and the pain in his left hand blossomed from stabbing into agony. Now he’s crying, and the guttural scream gives way to a wail. He turns onto his right side and clutches his left wrist in a prone position. Salty tears combine with salted puddles of sweat which surround him. Yet still he moves, the left shoulder leading a pulsating rocking motion forwards and back. The outward appearance of his hand is tidy, but he feels a shocking source of pain inside. With the settling, too, the man recognizes aching bruises all around his body, and is concerned about the gashes from the few particularly sharp ends of porcelain. In all this

pain he now surrenders, and ceases making noise and rocking. Having dried enough, his eyes open only to see the diabolical mirror. He knows that thing is him, lying there on the ground, but he does not want to believe it. It really is just like this. She left him, she left. He reached out to her, told her to stay, and she kept going. There he was and there she was, infinity, and then she was no more– no more, no more. I can’t take it anymore. No more no more no more. Just this light, and this blinding cement, and not her, not me with her. No more. Not him either, where did he go? Not not either, not did not go? Mo nore, mo nore. Stupid little man, you little crumb. You little little man. It's you! You… no more, no more.

Provider 15

Caity Briare

Mother Mary's Denial Valencya Valdez i reach my hand out to her, yet she rejects my affections. slapped raw are my battered wrists; the measure to be taken is a hot pinch. Mary, how you condemn me, is it not sinful? i reach my hand out to her, and she spits ferment in my eyes. my eyes burn and blur like the vinification of galilee’s sea. Mother, please do not deny me, do we not bleed the same blood? i reach my hand out to her, but she only turns away. the rooster belts the heartbreaking tune signifying another child betrayed by the image of Him. Mary, i was abandoned by the hands that sculpted me from mud; why was i the one damned to stones? i reach my hand out to her. i kneel and beg you at my sinners hour, and again i am the unsalvaged. Mother, do you not love what you created me to be? i reach my hand out to her. my heart seemingly beats different than the vessel she made for it to inhabit. Mary, tell me, is He still coming to get me? Mother, He promised He would.

Tierra En Las Manos Isabel Hidalgo-Guerra La suciedad profunda en las grietas de mis manos ¿Por qué te da asco? Mis uñas rotas, palmas callosas ¿Por qué te alejas? Mis ojos caídos escogen los mejores tesoros Mi lengua reseca conoce la dulzura Mis dientes astillados han memorizado la textura Sabes que estoy aquí, pero ¿por qué te niegas a verme? Lo recoges de las repisas, yo de los árboles Tu desde las filas, yo desde el suelo El fruto de mi trabajo Tu comes sin remordimientos Dejas que se pudra en tus hogares Mis manos han tocado las tuyas Soy parte de tu vida ¿No ves? Sin embargo, seguiré trabajando duro Durante el día y la noche Porque mi familia me espera Con corazones abiertos Es por ellos que hago esto No confundas mis intenciones Porque mi amor no conoce límites Sin restricciones Sin fronteras Romperá todo el odio Como mis manos hacen con la tierra Para traer felicidad y vida Así que no mires hacia otro lado Porque yo soy tu y tu eres yo Ven a trabajar conmigo Y arraiga la tierra en tus manos

Biker Ice Cream Riley Eyring

Call It Whatever You Want Clara Smith A body part I wish to dismember An illness I wish to rid My aching bones of By the time I’m 22 You were spitting blood But still, you managed to stand up Seeing your wide toothed grimace Made me imagine not waking up the next morning Spread out on my own sheets I had to remind myself I belonged to a star above me If you called me pretty I might have cringed at the word With regret foaming out of my mouth I wished I could sew my lips together Maybe I could ask you to do it for me My family and my hands are permanently apart of me Walking into your bedroom And gagging at the rotten smell Of the corpse that came before me But you just told me to watch my step and excuse the mess Some spiral maze I was never supposed to get out of With barbed wire around my wrists and ankles I chastised you and spoke my mind You were amused by my big mouth Call it resilience, or honesty, or love I picked up my phone and called it whatever I wanted Depending on the day And who I was finding solace in Someone asked me if it was nice being back home; I told them about how I held my breath while driving past your house

Scrubbing off the footprints Your shoes left on my floor Made me realize I needed a manicure If I was going out to lunch with my friends the next day I brushed my hair For the first time in a while And my stomach churned At the feeling of my hand making a fist around the hairbrush You made me scared of my own anger As I got used to yours I had bad habits and unhealed wounds You told me that didn’t change how you felt about me So I dug us parallel graves and put flowers in both Some devious means to exploit any emotion left in me Took over you I would’ve compiled evidence If I knew I was being plotted against I wake up with cold sweats some nights Wondering if I could have prevented what you did to me My mom once told me Regret is redundant And I would really grow up when I gained the ability to move on I only thought about it then; How this might be hereditary This urge to grasp onto something that might fix me The wanting to be made new Call it an epiphany Call it knowing Call me over and over Until I am able to send you straight to voicemail Call it rehabilitation or call it being clean Just know that my bones no longer ache

do u have a lighter? 21

Libby Callahan

yea i have a lighter u have to give it back tho Libby Callahan

a memorandum for maureen Soleia Yemaya Quinn grandma, frightened that only in my dreams you will visit me, I went to the mountain you can see me better from here I hope is this where you reside now? all air and vapor high heat and sunlight sojourning in glory eternal hereafter can you taste my tears in the clouds? today I am near those lofty heights you’ve prayed towards all while your breath was still hot and your paper skin sat soft and limp in my calloused hands I've never confessed but forgive me nonetheless forgive my unfulfilled intentions forgive my sacrilege my faith had always lain within your clear pious heart grandma, how did you manage to visit both of us last night? thousands of miles between our heaving chests Brother and Sister we slept as the veil thinned into a blanket of mist five perfect stars kissed my wet skin and the shred of moon it decorated me in your dark clever features 5:36 in a small humid home nestled in the bosom of a valley as the glowing sun flushed bittersweet out of the sable blue depths I dreamt you laughed life into me younger than ever brother said you knew it would end is that a privilege granted to the faithful?

the Knowing I mean I would hail mary for such knowledge I would relent just to see your shining irish eyes once more sea foam on a pure day tell me what does salvation smell of? i am tired again does it smell of absoluteness? or your little bottled perfumes? or your dry red tubes of lipstick? each, that I carefully selected when you lacked the power of dignity we readied ourselves for your parting so often that we began to believe in immortality like Him you rose from the sentence of death your fortitude never failed only once did it your son, my father, tied you loose maureen a holy spirit forevermore cleanliness is closer than godliness I think so in the rain I let my hot tears become brackish a mosaic of grief and nourishment on the wing of love rising like smoke from the pyre towards you my dearest I immortalize you in lead If you exist at all It must be here In my hands I wonder do atheists make better artists I think the only way to see you again Is by reading this poem Is by rendering you in paint and pen

I try to search the church pews to pry a loose memory from my father but the only solid proof of you is created and when I too am potted and planted or burning like my namesake you will live in this poem in this drawing in that tomb I force you into memoriam fading from this page never

A Knitting Pattern for Grief Gina DiLisio Cast on, K1 P1 K1, P3, rpt. Her apartment is now empty, and one day, very soon, it will look nothing like it did before. The small, 2-bedroom (if they could be called bedrooms) apartment that had not changed since the ‘80s: an old, greenish shag rug, a kitchen of turquoise counters and broken stove, wooden cabinets, dust everywhere, large windows that faced a real estate school and KFC. When the front door was kept open her bedroom door kept opening and closing, opening and closing. I kept peeking in, as though she’d be there. Poof! I’m not dead! An amazing slight of the eye, magic. I opened my mouth to call out to her: “can you stop that? Just close the door, already!” My mouth is dry. How silly of me. The apartment that will always be hers will change. They’ll take out the shag carpet and the peeling linoleum and the turquoise counters. They’ll scrub the place clean and put on new paint. They’ll try and take the scent out that sticks to it like glue. One day very soon someone else will move into the little apartment tucked away in the corner, up those uneven steps. And I will have to forget this place from my mental map, erase it from my contact book. Every now and again I go to enter something into my calendar, and her name pops up, reminding me: “don’t forget to pick her up!” Mom told me over the phone that everything’s been cleared out now. Over 100 boxes of stuff that HOPE services hauled out! Someone recently remarked to me how thankful they were for people who held onto things, since when they died it’d be passed out, all those wonderfully collected things for cheap in nearby stores, all because someone carefully picked them out over the years. I think they meant well. I told the apartment manager that we’d like to see it when they remodel. The grief bubbles in me, it boils like a pot with a lid kept on the stove too long, a frothing and foaming grief that pools out and threatens to dampen the flame. It feels like I had only just got to the good part of a book, and I found the last pages were torn out. We just got to the good part. I sat in the backyard, not that long ago on a bench with her. I silently knitted away on my sweater while she focused on a word game in the New York Times. The only sound was of quiet summer and my needles click-click-clack-ing away. Mom told me once that I knit so tightly it looks like felting, like a machine made it. It’s like the stitches were always together, where I cannot imagine them being apart. Things do not feel or even look the same. My sweater now is a holder of memories, of everything that has happened over the summer: my birthday, my aunt, the museum, the garden, the nights I want to forget. Somehow, in the middle of all these moments, I had managed to stitch them in. Did they get stuck in the fabric, stained the yarn? Each stitch is a date, a time, K1, P1, K1, P3. How easy it would be to unravel it all, try and release every second. It will, unfortunately, not unravel time with it. I cannot get back the hours I spent. I cannot go back. And now it hangs in my closet, hundreds of miles away from home, hundreds of miles

away from where I made it, and hours, weeks, soon months away from that time I spent. Making a sweater in summer is like looking ahead to when you think the weather is going to be right. You invite time to speed up, the seasons to change on you, the sun to rise and set and rise and set again. But when it is done, the last stitch is cast off, the seams are tucked in, you step back and examine it. Under scrutinous eyes you hold the pounds of wool, that somehow, without you knowing, has become a piece of clothing. I see only mistakes. I see time spent. I see countless hours. Who even makes a sweater in summer, anyway? How quickly the excitement fades. How quickly that time you looked forward to catches up with you. How soon is too soon to regret? I always told myself, one day, if or when it came, I’d bring someone to you. I’d probably look like an idiot, all smiling and excited, fumbling over stories and introductions. I told myself, if I like them enough, and if you liked them, and they liked you, respected you, cared the same way I did and saw all that wonderful, then that was it. I cannot bear that I have to erase you from my silly daydreams. I couldn’t even if I tried. I want to pack my heart and head away for a while, wrap it carefully in newspaper and put it in a box, hide it in the closet. I have given up for now. This is the project that will never be finished. I don’t think I can wash out my memories and hang them to dry. I’m afraid they might shrink in the wash. But one day I’ll clean out the closet, I’ll forget I packed everything away, and like Pandora’s Box, I will remember why I wanted to forget. And all that was left was hope. And all that was left was taken by HOPE, so maybe it comes full circle. At the final stitch, I cast off. Tie a knot (2 for good luck), and then it is done. Pounds of wool, weeks of time, nights of frustration and measuring and remeasuring, making the pattern, that still doesn’t feel right. But that’s grief, and that’s it. Cast off.

About the Contributors Caity Briare (she/her), kay·tee bree·are, proper noun: 1. wakes up too early to make baked oats every morning; 2. always forgets where the car is parked; 3. conditioned self to like black coffee to save money. Libby Callahan (she/her), lyb·bee kal·uh·han, proper noun: 1. freckle face; 2. lover of rocks; 3. old dog advocate. Gina DiLisio (she/her), gee·na dee·lee·see·oh, proper noun: 1. collector of mugs and cow-related trinkets; 2. acts like her mom, talks like her dad. See definition for ‘homesick.’ Jordan Ducree (she/her), jor·dan du·cree, proper noun: 1. aspiring niche internet micro-celebrity; 2. neurotic miniaturist; 3. the loudest to gasp over seeing a cat while out and about. Riley Eyring (he/him), rye·lee eye·ring, proper noun: 1. slightly baffled; 2. Elliott Gould stan. Isabel Hidalgo-Guerra (she/her/ella), is·a·bell hee·dal·go gue·rra, proper noun: 1. binge watches Octonauts; 2. perpetual book hoarder; 3. intentando aprender noruego. Charles B. Menke (he/him/they), char·ells bee men·key, proper noun: 1. loves being confusing in conspicuous ways; 2. can shake his booty while dancing; 3. composed of multiple limbs, organs and insecurities. Kat Motley (she/her), kat mot·lee, proper noun: 1. unperceivable (do not perceive); 2. casual ranch enjoyer; 3. a pisces who is exactly as a pisces should be. Will Mulligan (he/him), will mull·igan, proper noun: 1. mediocre banjo player; 2. fan of rocks; 3. hairy.

Hannah Rae Pickens (she/her), ha·nuh ray pick·ins, proper noun: 1. painfully long road trip taker (see: Texas); 2. gab hour participant; 3. someone who is waiting for you to get home safe. Soleia Yemaya Quinn (she/her), so·ley·uh yeh·my·uh kuh·winn, proper noun: 1. would have been a fearsome viking but since that’s “not a valid career choice” settled for rowing d1; 2. part of the midwesterner to west coaster pipeline; 3. Artemisia Gentileschi worshipper. Clara Smith (she/her), clare·uh smith, proper noun: 1. lover of the Twilight saga; 2. Cancer sun, Libra moon, Cancer rising. Hazel Stange (she/her), hay·zel stay·ng, proper noun: 1. Seminole Native; 2. daughter and sister. Valencya Valdez (she/her), val·en·s·ee·uh, proper noun: 1. advocate for crows; 2. may be seen with multiple changing hair colors; 3. Aries sun, Scorpio moon, Sagittarius rising. Sadie Wuertz (she/they), say·dee werts, proper noun: See definition for 'senior editor.'

About the Editors Sadie Wuertz (she/they), say·dee werts, proper noun: 1. aspiring mysterious woman; 2. reincarnated medieval plague rat; 3. hater of golf. Cora Hyatt (she/they), cor·uh high·it, proper noun: 1. has a Bukowski tattoo and doesn't regret it; 2. retired from twitter fame; 3. only a little bit evil; 4. finally a senior editor. Timur Arifdjanov (he/him), tim·ur are·if·djuh·noff, proper noun: 1. junior English major; 2. walking enthusiast; 3. likes books. Mia Tierney (she/her), me·uh tier·nee, proper noun: 1. loves spaghetti; 2. professional hiker; 3. historical note: Taylor Swift's "Red" album got re-released today. Crystal Wallace (she/her), kri·stal·wol·us, proper noun: 1. self-proclaimed mario kart hall-of-famer 2. listens to nickelback unironically 3 . lover of all things sandalwood and patchouli

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 the freedom and encouragement to experiment with a fall issue, and for his support through it all. Our contributors, for their poems, writings, and art pieces. Writers simply would not exist without you. And, most emphatically, the 2021-2022 Writers Editorial Board, for their adaptability, creativity, passion, and patience necessary to work through the bumps of an unprecedentedly quick process and offer their always helpful insights.

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.

Believe it or not, Writers is a twice a year occasion! Submissions for our Spring 2022 anthology open on Monday, Nov. 15th and will remain open until Friday, February 18th. You can find further details and our submissions page, as always, on our website https://writerslitmag.wordpress.com/

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