Writers Fall'22: Eroticism

WRITERS

Senior Editors

Cora Hyatt

Mia Tierney

Editors

Murphy Bradshaw

Isabella Byers

Hannah Monti

Alyssa Repetti

Valencya Valdez

Lauren Rees Savas Advisor

Prof. John McDonald

Cover Design Isabella Byers

Cover Image

Cora Hyatt

Writers Logo

Designed by Reece Smith

Writers Photo

Gavin Britton / The Beacon

Fall 2022

University of Portland

Table of Contents

Collected Works

A Series of Cultivation & Renewal (Till the Land for Harvest)

Jam jar freshly pressed juice clawing through hyacinth bushes to find you at yosemite The Matador Mad Dog The Stone The Blade Ash Me Father I Have Sinned Pomegranate Seeds and Sappho said Let Loose Your Longing (Even the) Earth that Houses your Body Prayers for Forgetfulness A Certain Hunger

CHEEKS

Self Portrait #001 morning vigil of an insomniac Approaching 20 SheYouMeHer Ontology in the Garden Good night, bloom

Sara Brown

Valencya Valdez Emma Hippler Scott Winkenweder

Carlos Moreno Vega Robin Aughney Lilly Grey Rudge Amanda Myers Sweeney Payton Fischer Faith Scheenstra Branna Sundy Soleia Yemaya Quinn Sara Brown Hannah Rae Pickens Cora Hyatt Valencya Valdez Cora Hyatt Soleia Yemaya Quinn Mia Tierney Soleia Yemaya Quinn Ethan McAnally Jordan Ducree

1 2 3 4 6 7 8 13 15 16 19 20 21 22 23 24 28 29 31 32 33 34

Letter from the Editor

Dearest Friend of Writers,

In just its second year, the fall issue must continue to justify its existence. Though this might be stating the obvious, it is not the spring issue. It has neither the space nor the time to overstay its welcome. We hope this issue is a testament to its fortitude. As it will always be, it is much shorter than its spring sister, completely virtual, and comprehensively curated around a particular theme.

Our themes always come from shared lived experience. With the state of the world once again in consideration, we decided this issue would be one of defiance. In the past, Writers has flirted with the limit. Our past issues have approached it, but have hesitated to take the full plunge. We decided this time around, we wanted to dare our campus’ writers and artists to understand the boundaries and step past them. This brought us to our theme of eroticism. Eroticism is not just sex. It is taboo, transgression, sacrifice, and subversion. Eroticism understands the rules and purposefully breaks them. It takes us to the edge and urges us to jump off. But, it’s also sex.

It came as no surprise that our contributors knew exactly what direction to take this theme in. They take us to church (“Father I Have Sinned”), strip clubs (“CHEEKS”), gardens (“Ontology in the Garden”), and seemingly every bedroom in the Portland area. They took the theme and made something more of it than a dust covered buzzword.

With that being our theme, we cannot ignore that our physical bodies and what we do with them carry weight in the conversation. Read forward and you’ll know exactly the power eroticism has over us our spirits and our forms. That being said, I want to use this editor’s letter to directly condemn those in power and those who support them in their seemingly endless tirade against bodily autonomy and their desperation for control. Writers will continue to stand for liberation and resistance, as it always has.

A better world is always possible, we just have to do something about it.

Love forever and always and after that,

Cora Hyatt Senior Editor

2021 2022

“Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.”

Georges Bataille, "Erotism: Death and Sensuality"

A Series of Cultivation & Renewal

(Till the Land for Harvest)

Sara Brown

In my mind’s eye I have kissed you in every wheat field Each press of our lips produces a harvest more numerous than the season’s crops We have sown our hearts on our sleeves like thread on the fabric of the landscape Strands of hope steadfastly interwoven There could not be a more resplendent tapestry No sight more magnificent than the splendid suns that rise and set in your eyes What is a supple stalk of wheat or down of a warbler to a lover’s hand Light and heat cloaking the earth in Vestments of illuminating gold What is the belch of a bullfrog or kinetic whir of a dragonfly to your barest of murmurs I tell you they are one and the same If I press my lips to the core of you and drink your essence from its wellspring I know I will find that same thrum of life that exists in every atom of this world and I will cherish each beat.

i am making jam of all this summer saccharin you swim in nectar confit squished and smashed with the masher i smack you, thick and grainy

i scoop spoonfuls of sugar mix and separate the seeds and the pulp to save for later determined to make use of every part of this fruit you yield

strained paste pouring into the jam jar you go not quite ripe and yet still holy still sickly sweet enough to rot baby teeth

only initials on the lid you do not need a name where you're going fresh bread burnt or soft to touch spread heavy handed

on monday mornings i reach for you when the oven rings the last preserves from the height of summertime sticky on my fingertips

freshly pressed juice

Emma Hippler

clawing through hyacinth bushes to find you at yosemite

Scott Winkenweder

you were jaguar limp in the jungle of a public park: i looked out for shooting stars. Time stalked by, wearing only a loincloth, and i withered into camouflage. devil of tempo, her tiger stripes, her flames i steepened under a river, tried to memorize the shape of your lungs.

i was a devil in my dream. you rolled over and there were blackberry seeds on your palms. i remember very little, only the shade of trees, the glimmer of scales. that night we balanced wine glasses on our ribcages. a chorus of lotuses asked, do you know any Shakespeare? is it love? i only had one response, one miniature wedding night: how long, really, do you think we can lie in the grass?

in early morning the lightning split, and beetles crawled across our sheets. i scooped them into my hands, all blue shine and silence, to not wake you up.

but i wonder whether this love is just bone and ivory. if i have cut eyeholes into the mask that i have built. do i get to hide? am i hiding now?

it was midday, ocean light, you traced a ceasefire in the sand i felt the moon in my ears, felt you breathing, in and out. devil of perception, for whom guilt and truth are equally poisonous. but i have been guilty all of my life. so is this taxonomy? is it love?

*After No Name in the Street by James Baldwin

The Matador

Carlos Moreno Vega

Azure eyes, shining and twinkling My hand caresses the pale face that owns them You smile as you guide my lips and hands To the forbidden area beckoning my intrusion

I don’t do this often, I soon remember why The matador carved into your skin Adorned with a rose Projects centuries and lifetimes in my mind

“Hernán, Francisco, Cristobal--” names loudly reverberating in my mind cacophonies of violence and greed

You gleefully take me in and you beg me for more as my ancestors screech. Their brown faces frowning Disappointment and fear in their maroon eyes

How I have betrayed them, sleeping with the enemy Their spilled blood rushing in my veins

My rhythmic thrusting becomes a spear plunging the conqueror I am avenging them

“José, Ignacio, María ” names their children were forced to take Prayers echoing Draped in navy blue robes, their sweaty white knuckles gripping their crucifixes

The heat from our bodies, warming up the sacred space where our hips meet form the cleansing fires of Hell Synchronized moans sing this sacred hymn You are my first communion The body I was commanded to eat

Mad Dog

Robin aughney

The Stone

lilly grey rudge

The woman couldn’t say why the object first caught her eye. Protruding from the cracked cement at an odd angle, the rain caught on its freckled flesh, dripping to finally pool around the base of its crooked form. Slowly, she reached out one of her finely manicured nails and, with a soft click, she made contact with the mysterious stranger. The red sheen of her polish clashed with the dullness of the ugly creature, yet inexplicably she found herself tearing through the soft mud encasing it. Any care for appearances forgotten, the woman dropped her umbrella to the side and fell to her nylon clad knees, clawing deeper towards its roots. It must have been connected to the earth's core itself, she lamented, as she continued her descent. Yet just as exhaustion threatened to tug her away from the task, her swollen fingers curved around its slick bottom and with one last outburst she retched the offending thing from its confines and lifted it to her hungry gaze. Once in her grasp, the object seemed inexplicably small, not even reaching the first joints of her fingers. Even covered in mud she could see it was a shabby gray, yet in the downpour it seemed to be covered in ghostly blue strands, like protruding veins. Sleeve out, she wiped away the layers mud and grime, until she found that the lines had been seemingly scrubbed away as well. Her hands were bruised and raw, her new tights had a long, ragged rip down the front, and her favorite umbrella had blown away in a gust. Now that she held it, the woman recognized her folly. Sighing, she kicked the soil from her boots, pulled her hood tightly against her chilled neck, and dropped the bland, unremarkable thing into her pocket, continuing her journey through the night.

❖

her palm was now the size of her clenched fist. In a fit of shock, she dropped the stone, a piercing crack punctuating its contact with the cheap linoleum floor. The sound spread through her bones, her legs crumpling beneath her as she fell to retrieve it. Holding it to her chest, her fingers spanned the surface, checking for any damage inflicted. Her thumb caught on a small chip, a scar on its otherwise pristine surface. Blooming tears ran down her heated cheeks and fell upon the tightly clutched stone, revealing hidden mazes of blue. Slowly, she climbed to her feet, still cradling the damaged rock in the crook of her elbow, and shakily reached for her telephone. Flipping it open, she clumsily navigated to her husband’s number and clicked the green call button, bringing the small piece of plastic to her ear.

“Hello, you’ve reached the desk of...”

The low timbre of his voice did little to calm her racing heart, and she smashed her thumb into the pound key in an attempt to bypass the infuriating voicemail. After a few seconds of silence, a shrill beep signaled the start of the recording. Yet as she opened her mouth, she could barely choke out the words to describe the phenomenon. Maybe it was all in her head? What if he thought she was crazy? He would tell her she was paranoid and hang up the phone to contact an attorney, ready to draw up the separation papers. Then she would never have a child of her own. The horror of such a thought drained her of any previous panic and she swiftly snapped her phone shut. Pocketing it, she again examined the odd stone in her hand. Squinting closely, she could have sworn that its surface was slowly rising and falling, contorting in such a way to suggest that it was almost breathing. Very carefully, the woman placed the stone back onto the sill and crept out of the kitchen, not once turning her back.

❖

It grew larger and larger each day. After a week it had become at least the length and width of her forearm, yet it still held the slender curves that had originally drawn her to it. Her husband never seemed bothered by the ever growing parasite in their home, if anything he had taken a liking to it. He had made it a point early on in their relationship that he would never step foot in the kitchen, yet within a day of the stone’s arrival, he seemed almost drawn to its resting place. Rather than driving to his normal café in the morning, he began drinking his coffee at the table, eyes fixed on the yellow, dotted curtains still drawn tight from the night before. He would then lift his mug and ferry it to the sink to wash his dirty dish.

Never in their five years of marriage had the woman seen the man even approach a sink containing dishes, and yet there he was, methodically squeezing soap onto a bright blue sponge. He seemed to move in slow motion, leisurely bringing the suds to drip into the cup gripped loosely in his fist. He would stare intently ahead, at the shadow rippling behind the drapery, as if trying to penetrate the cloth with his eyes. And just when she thought he had enough and was about to rip the drapes right off their hangings, he would slam the mug into the sink with a metallic crash and storm out of the kitchen, leaving the job not half done.

❖

Within two weeks her husband was forced to transfer what could now only be described as a boulder into the corner of their living room. He stationed it parallel to the largest window in their modest apartment.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” She asked him one morning, clutching tightly to his lunch.

“Why would I be scared? She really is quite lovely.” With that he dropped a kiss on the top of her head and pried his lunch from her grip, brushing his knuckles along the stone on his way out. Stomach churning, the woman surveyed the figure. It had undoubtedly taken on an almost human form. Suddenly her stomach flipped. Running towards the lavatory, she promptly vomited up her breakfast. Sinking to the floor, she found herself losing consciousness.

❖

She woke to an inky sky. Slowly untangling her stiff limbs, she gripped the edge of the sink and forced herself upright. Leaning into the rough, yellow tile that her husband had once promised to replace, the woman pressed her forehead against her own reflection, taking deep, centering breaths. It must have been past ten, her husband would have been home hours ago, expecting, as he called it, “supper with a smile.” Grimacing, she pushed her torso away from the counter, for she had no choice but to face him and apologize for her silliness. Maybe he would forgive her if she told him she had been sick? Yet, as she attempted to propel herself fully away from the sink and out the chipped, white door, she found that her hands were immovable on the uneven surface. Pulling once again, she glanced down at her immovable limbs and promptly let out a choked sob. There, spread before her, were two delicately formed slabs of stone in the shape of what used to be her hands. Crying out once

again in panic, the woman wrenched her body away from the offending masses with all her might, yet the stone refused to yield, firmly planted on each side of the basin. Leaning over the sink once again, she hastily scanned her appearance, ensuring that all else was still flesh and bone. She looked tired and haggard, with bits of sick hanging loosely in her now stringy hair, yet to her relief she still looked entirely human. Glancing at her hands once again, she couldn’t help but notice the odd beauty of them, each finger a sloping arch leading to a soft, smooth wrist. It was such a contradiction to her usually calloused and bruised skin that she couldn’t help but admire it. No wonder her husband had taken such a liking to the creature just outside the door, for how could she compare to such sculpted perfection. Suddenly, a low, choked grunt swam through the air, meeting her ears through the thin door. Swinging her head toward the direction it seemed to be emanating, her grip suddenly loosened and her hands freed themselves from their vice like hold, back to her flawed flesh once again. Quickly pulling them to her chest, she examined them for a moment. Had her mind played tricks on her once again? Another moan, louder this time, pulled her out of her contemplation. Dragging herself towards the worn white door, she gripped the knob and began to ease it open, edging her nose through the steadily forming crack so as to catch a glimpse of the shadowy living room. Her gaze caught on a figure. No, two figures, intertwined. One seemed to be pulsating, low, guttural sounds emanating from him. He was thrusting against the second figure, which was standing completely still, utterly silent. Yet despite its lack of movement, it seemed to be embracing the man, the soft curve of its arm wrestling against his glistening frame. The moaning figure let out a string of profanities as his legs began to shake. Broken from her trance, the woman edged away from the scene, closing the door on the sounds of his release.

❖

It didn’t take long for the stone’s stomach to begin to swell. In only a day the woman was reminded of her sister’s figure at six months expecting. The pregnancy should have bothered her, she knew, yet the mere fact of it seemed to soften her to the creature. Her husband, on the other hand, seemed to have developed a feeling of disdain. “When can we get rid of this thing? It’s such a waste of space.” The woman had simply shook her head. She found herself drawn to the stone as her husband must have been, yet hers was not a feeling of lust. Rather, she took her softest rag and washed it, smoothing over the soft curves that had once perturbed her. Taking her newest set of sheets from her own bed, she covered the stone’s nakedness, giving it the room to grow away from his now scathing gaze. At the end of three days, it was clear that the pregnancy had run its brief course.

“What for?” Her husband had replied. And so she was alone when she came into the world. More flesh and bone than even the woman herself, with the same dark hair and deep eyes that the woman had seen reflected back at her for so long. There was no doubt for whom this gift was meant, yet as she glanced up to express her gratitude, she was met with only remnants of rubble.

“Don’t you think you should be here?”

The Blade

AMANDA MYERS SWEENEY

It’s a disappointing romantic tragedy when he comes; the comfort movie she watches over and over despite its clichés, its mediocre acting, and its disengaging climax. What pulls her back is the familiarity: the salty slick skin that slips against hers in the way it has countless times. The thick pink lips and strong cold fingers and spindly, fuzzy legs. She rests her chin in the unique concavity of his chest; sucks the sweat out of it with a kiss. He rolls her onto her back and she falls into his rhythm as he handles her with authority; grabs her hips, her throat, presses her down toward him with his palm on the top of her head. She accepts it as a show of affection and searches his face for love; finds his eyes closed, head tilted back. She’s content to release control and allow the feelings to surface physical and emotional. They bubble up under her skin, rushing to her head, threatening to escape through her toes which curl tightly, clinging to the hope that he won’t stop until she reaches the peak and through her eyes, which release invisible tears that trace her moon soaked face. The overwhelming pressure of his body and his attention make her writhe with delight and discomfort. The pain and excitement, the desperation and desire are all so tangible she’s sure he can taste them on her breath and where it seeps out of her thick and translucent between her hips. She lies to herself, pretends that he has the antidote to offer for her immense hurt. But mostly he just takes; leaves her ribcage emptier and somehow heavier when he gasps, slides out of her like a knife, and drops to the bed beside her with finality. The lack of him inside her, of his lips on her nipples, of his gaze on her face (it now lingers on the stucco ceiling, expressionless); the lack of an embrace of sticky arms around her waist, of a chest against her breasts sears her skin, more sadistic than a punch to the gut. She touches him with her fingertips as he turns away from her, curls against the warmth of his broad back; wedges her knees into the negative space where his bend, the tops of her thighs resting on the bare underside of his, smooth and vulnerable. Her knees don’t reach all the way to the crevices of his,

and it hurts like a pinch where she can’t feel him. Every surface of her longs to be met with a surface of him. He folds himself more tightly so that his calves kiss her unshaven shins. She smiles at the gesture and presses her lips onto the back of his neck. But he’s already left her far behind, and it will be a lonely wait until he comes again.

Father I Have Sinned

Faith Scheenstra

Kneel at the pew psalms and hymns pour forth Murmur holy mercies out of my choked throat Forgive me for i have sinned

Bow my head under your heavy gaze Incense collects in dusty pockets and tyndall rays Forgive me for i have sinned

Rest a stained cheek on marble altar blessed Clutch rosaries against my hollowed chest Forgive me for i have sinned

Crawl across this hallowed church Kiss the instep arch of your feet unbesmirched Forgive me for i have sinned

Unwrap the veil that covers your corpse Cry baptismal worships into your ruptured ribs Forgive me for i have sinned

Whisper yearning affections into the notch of your neck Latch my lips to sweat soaked skin Forgive me for i have sinned

Wipe your face with my perfumed hair Caress our languid bodies with chrism myrrh and olives Forgive me for i have sinned

Collect the splintered rood from your empty embrace Don your crown of ivy thorns Forgive me for i have sinned

Burn myself on your candle flame Candle wax drips down my back; a thousand lashes Forgive me for i have sinned

Palm fronds cut Weeping wells in my palms Ashes smear in a burning brand

Forgive me please Drink the chalice of your honeysuckle blood Let your flesh melt on my tongue

Forgive me please Bare myself before your throne

Desire and Devotion Carve out this penance from my skin Death and Denial

Offer it all in sacramental sacrifice

For there is nothing more I can confess

Divine Despair

You died for our sins

Were Mine too much to bear?

Pomegranate Seeds

Branna Sundy

The skin rips open Bloody juice spills on the cloth Vibrant bursts of flavored passion

Swallow, burst, flood One time, and one more time, and one more time, and one more time, and one more time, and one more time.

Gasping for air, la petite mort, Slowly morphing into aftertaste, then memory of aftertaste, then memory of memory.

For her, the six bubbles become prison bars; They lock her in the choices she made. Does she regret them?

He gives her gardens, fills them with ruby poppies, opalescent lilies, emerald blades of grass, Brighter than any wildflowers she found above, made more dazzling from the shadows surrounding.

But these are sharper and lifeless; They do not bloom as mortals do. They do not die as mortals do. She drifts into somnolence to forget her upward longings, leaning into lethargy with the rhythmic rush of the rivers, taking the morphine he supplies. He offers her silk shrouds: She takes them to bed and slips underneath, Stretched between life and immortality. She made the same choice six times out of instinct and desire. Choices, not mistakes, but he put her in the situation to make them, And now she’s half trapped in his otherworld, sinking in his depths. Did she know they would keep her there?

Soleia Yemaya Quinn

(Even the) Earth that houses your body

Sara Brown

The Sun soaked Mounds and Valleys mapped by Traveler’s hands

The cloying sweetness of Morning Dew glistening at the Cleft Bearing fruit from the vine plentiful and plump

As any in the motherland

If I were ever to be apart from you Dear remember how it felt at my breast Hands on my hips with the gold chain wrapped ‘around it and lips pursed Say you dream of you and me of us

At our very best and nothing less

As you slip through my fingers like silt pushed and pulled by the current I open my mouth to say your name, But it sticks to my tongue like syrup

The tapestry of our bodies entwined in canyons and lakes and gushing waterfalls

We sprung from the earth in tremors and shakes and remade ourselves in rhapsodic bliss

Perhaps that is why I always go back to the grounds where we first met, The Earth is a canvas made for lovers and it moves with the pulsating of our blood

The warm coloration of the dawn is our inheritance and I welcome each sunrise, In each task there is imbued the glory of the mundane acts of love and of tenderness,

The sinew of muscle and ligament interwoven with earth’s cyclical force at work I could not ask for anything more than this Hold my hand and let me prove it to you.

At the end as at the start

Let me hold you through the tremors and shakes In rhapsodic bliss we know each other anew

The sinew of muscle and ligament interwoven

The tapestry of our bodies entwined in canyons and lakes

The Earth is just a canvas made for lovers

It moves with the pulsating of our blood.

At the end as at the start

The warm coloration of the dawn is our inheritance I welcome each sunrise spent with you in my arms.

Prayers for Forgetfulness

Hannah rae pickens

Bleached in the sun, deer bones always come out weaker. Scraps of life fur and tendons and meat are glued to cells, rigid and past their prime destined to dissolve into soil and prairie.

Soaked in the river, Fagaceae acorns lose their tannins slow. This year’s bitter harvest begets next year’s sweeter life food, or fortunately forgotten saplings some things grow better with time.

When the soft grass comes up next spring and the hulls rot away in the stream, we will begin anew, weaker. I thought by May this year the elements would have taken some of the bite and blood but perhaps our next will have more success.

A Certain Hunger

Cora Hyatt

CHEEKS

Cheeks, the only topless bar in the city is quietly closing its doors. The club on Cerrillos Road morphed into a local institution after it opened in the late 1980s. It’s likely here that was the first stop on your checklist when you turned freshly 18 to see inside the legacy, even just once. More likely, it is the place your mother always condemned when driving you to and from school. It is here that other mothers make their children’s living. A flat adobe building sits on the side of the road, inconspicuous without the dying once neon sign softly flashing ‘CHEEKS’, accompanied by the fading silhouette of a woman leaning over the ‘C’.

Elmo Chavez, the owner, denies comment.

Two Chicanos wait patiently and place a few quarters on the edge of the pool table, which is the universal sign for “we’re next.” Meanwhile, a dancer climbs to the top of the pole and hangs by her thighs with ease. I put down my only twenty dollar bill at the end of the stage.

Zia spins on her heels. Her shoes reflect speckles of purple light, the club dim and hollow, waves of blue and red wash over her. The sound of stilettos clacking against the stage with each step she takes. As she circles the silver rod, her hands wrap tightly around the mast until her legs suddenly but delicately lift in a spread eagle. It must feel like floating, like a weightless climax. My legs quiver at the thought of the flight.

Services: Table Dances $10 per song V.I.P Dances $20 per song Celebration Dance $40 (Bachelors, BDays, Anything!)

I've been coming here for years. I love this dirty corner of my hometown, the dark club, and the familiar dancers. The $10 cover gets old, but the drinks are not too overpriced. Cheeks is completely unpretentious it knows what it is, and it is what it is. Most of the girls drive up from Albuquerque for discretion. The dingy club has a layer of dirt and salty sweat that stinks of a sort of solitude, but it is better than the joints from the neighboring city. At least here, there’s a lesser chance of having your car jacked in the parking lot or your chest being cracked into by a pissed off drunkard. As a local, it is the best option in town for a good time. It is also the only option for a strip club.

Valencya Valdez

Chavez comments [off the record].

“I don’t really like people to call it a strip club because the women here are entertainers. They’re not strippers. Strippers, I think, ended in the ’70s.”

I wonder what Cheeks used to be; if it wasn’t the same place that we know it as today. The sign probably glowed brightly in the night, through the early 6 PM shift to the later 2 AM closing. There are some women from the late ‘80s that worked until their legs gave way against the cold metallic pole. Some stayed to tend the bar, others I am sure still came to drink at it. The regular patrons have seen them come and go and stay through the years, all within view from their peeling leather seats and behind the red velvet curtain. The girls who dance stay young, and the men who watch seemingly always stay old.

Zia picks up my crumpled bill, holding it taut between her fingers and inspecting it under the black light. Her nails are long and curved, like glittery almonds glued to her fingertips. Zia knows me well, yet she always checks the bills twice. She steps off the stage, and we walk to the bar top. Marty is already pouring our drinks: a Shirley Temple with five cherries, and a whiskey with a pitiful ball of ice swimming aimlessly around the glass. There's a large sign just above his head listing the rules in smudged chalk letters.

Cheeks enforces a No Touch policy

No videos or pictures

No tank tops No bandannas

No colors NO FIGHTING NO DRUGS

Topless Only Cash Only Bar

TIPS ALONE ARE WHAT THE LADIES MAKE

Don’t forget Have a good time!

I take my drink, popping a cherry into my mouth. Zia walks ahead of me, pushing the heavy velvet curtain to the private room aside. She lets it swing back and brush against me as I follow behind. The room is cold and dark, only a small circle of blue light illuminating the ceiling, bouncing fractals of light off the surrounding mirrors and pooling around the single chesterfield chair that is placed just short of the center of the floor. I sit carefully, slowly sinking into the worn leather seat.

Zia pulls forth a metal fold out chair, positioning it directly opposite my sitting place. She covers the seat with her coat, which must have been miraculously hidden in one of the dark corners of the room. The shadows make the room seem smaller than it is, and it makes you feel much larger than you are which I suppose is the point. She sits, cradling her crystal glass close to her. We are quiet for a minute, as we always are at the start of our private moments.

“They’re shutting it down,” her voice breaks our silence, “the whole place’s going down the shitter.”

I sip my drink preciously. Marty has a heavy hand when he pours. The cheap vodka makes the entire cocktail taste like cough syrup.

“There’s a certain grief to it, y’know? It’s the only strip club we have. It’s our hangout a lot of fools’ hangout. I had to find out from some reporter who came in last week; and Marty says the rumors are true that’s how you know it's real. And Chavez won’t say a fucken thing.”

She gulps down the rest of her whiskey and winces. Her bulky lashes flutter, catching what little light they can.

“I think it’s making him all depressed. I mean, of course, it’s sad or whatever. But he barely says anything about it. He just keeps that sour puss pout glued to his face, and that shit’s infectious, y’know?”

I nod. The music is muffled, barely escaping the cobwebbed speakers, and echoing into the backroom.

“So, what’re you going to do?” I ask.

“Probably go down to ‘Burque,” she replies, “the commuter girls say it’s decent money and Santiago needs braces.”

I’ve known Zia since high school when she only went by one name her real name. We stayed in touch even when she dropped out to raise her son. I always come Tuesday nights when she works the early shift and the place is quiet and uncrowded. Before 10 PM the club is practically empty besides me and the few regulars who come in straight off their shift to blow off steam. The men used to think I was a dancer, and they tried to slip me bills at the bar until Marty snapped at them. Now I guess I am a regular too.

Chavez offered me a position a couple of years back. His grand idea was a duet for Zia and me, like some sort of a sister act. That was when Zia was still on Crystal, and I was starting to pay back my loans. I decided that I would rather be in debt than be spun out, so despite my unemployment, I declined his generous offer. With Cheeks closing, I worry Zia could end up back on meth or heroin or whatever was the easiest to get your hands on in Albuquerque now.

When our private dance is over, Zia folds up her chair and leads me back into the room with the main stage. There is a woman topless, wrapping her limbs around the pole as it slowly spins on stage. The green light fades into red and orange, and the club’s disco balls catch the beams and throw them back with force; coupled with a little bit of smoke rising from one Chicano man’s cigarette, the place presents the eye with dozens of rays of light, like an ode to Southwest sunsets.

I kiss Zia’s cheek and pay our bar tab. Marty nods his head in my direction as I walk towards the exit. I look toward a closed door, yellow light leaking through the cracks. Though curious, I do not knock. Inside, I imagine Chavez sitting silently, head in his hands. I wish now that I had taken his offer years ago. Though I doubt that a sister act would have saved Cheeks’ fate.

There has been a surge of shutdowns moving into our city. Gentrification reeks like the smell of rotten fruit. Nose blind visitors pass through with ease, but the locals can smell it with every breath they take. The stench follows us through the years. The Mom and Pop shops can’t survive the cost of rent and one after another they close their doors. All that is left is the talk of locals, of what once was and is now gone. Cheeks, the only strip club in town is added to the list of devastating losses. And what is the difference between the nimble dancer who hangs onto the pole with only her thighs and the line worker at a factory who’s been given the pink slip?

Cora Hyatt

morning vigil of an insomniac

In the early minutes of morning I lay deep in prayer desperate pleas for the death of this malcontent rolling as though a new position will invite Sleep that soft footed and cunning playmate she nestles in my moth eaten shoulder cavities flirting with my tension I am suffocating in the depths of my longing she tempts my heart slows it with her velvet quietness just to have the pleasure of stroking that unstoppable muscle to a swift rhythm before she invades my mind wrapping her downy body about me such that I cannot abandon her and hope to engage in some other lover my dalliance with The Glorious Day must wait for the brightness of the sun is needed to banish this seductress from my senses comatose we toss in this perverse lovemaking neither I nor she succumbing Sleep my fickle lover, has not yet decided to spend the night with me minutes change their shape to hours and deep into that fae morning I ask the streetlights and the soft wavering tree branches I beg the burnt half moon hanging low in the late summer sky

Soleia Yemaya Quinn

to release me rotting in my bed so much like the sticky full bodied plums drooping on my overladen tree in the backyard I too, am heavy and ready to join the bruised and tumescent fruitage as Death feasts her rapacious beak on their flesh tired tired tired of the dramatics

I make promises to the perse night of a better me in the morning

I barter with the temptress Perfection that if only my mind would quiet then at daybreak

I’ll write the next great american classic and for breakfast I’ll put raspberries on each finger and wash my supplements down with a verdant green juice I’ll switch coffee for tea and wine for lemoncucumberbiotincollagen water I’ll sweat in pursuit of those elusive endogenous endorphins and read some cerebral new literature I’ll paint some novelty to rival dalí

I whisper these promises as sailor to their lover before a dawning red sky

I am a broken record a constant ticking to night till morrow to day would that I could push into the earth let the roots fold over me and wrap me let the earth remove my illness break my bones and reshape their knobby ends into something fruitful into something right

approaching twenty

Mia

Tierney

a youthful glow dims to a wrinkled frown with eyes that are no longer curious no longer hungry

eyes that once met yours it was a nice dream but now i gaze in the mirror and i see your fantasy draped over my skin as i approach twenty i wish for purity i wish for the twenties to wash away my teens ringing them out with a violent twist i wish for anything but this to be anywhere but here in this imaginary space this nice dream where I weave my fingers through your hair as wooden panels cradle starry lights drenched in the subtlety of you it invades every inch of my mind on the silentest of nights complimented by the dull groan of the fan but I am fine. i am twenty.

Soleia Yemaya Quinn

Ontology in the Garden

It is myself I plant among the marigolds, To embrace these rows of beans.

And as I filter through my fingers, Sift out through my skin, I cease to see the distance From where I end to where these leaves begin.

For are these not my roots that curl in compost, My breath that swells in tender stems? When I am so composed of immanent desire, When I take my hunger as my name, How could I keep behind my eyes but not within my brain?

For after all, it is my death I find beneath my fingernails: Black crescents of yesterday and tomorrow, Last summer’s sweet potato peels As well as next month’s meal.

And so I plant myself among the marigolds: Sensuous, unbounded, real.

Good night, bloom

Jordan Ducree

The sci fi thing he’s put on flickers to the credits, finally. The glowing scroll of names cast shadow specters over the mountains of stuff crowding his bedroom. He holds his silence in the air like a hiccup in his throat. He’s waiting for my opinion of the movie I’m sure, but I can’t decide if it would be empowering or embarrassing to admit that I didn’t quite get it.

I decide to tug the blanket of my quiet closer to myself, crouching down into the mattress so the arch of his back obscures my view of the TV. He balances at the edge of the bed to turn it off, mumbling an apology about the remote or the lack of one. His vertebrae slide against his pale skin like anxious fists. I imagine bringing my mouth to them one by one, just to see how their knuckles must feel. Instead, I touch the tip of my nose to the soft spot where his spine meets his basketball shorts. He straightens. The bedsprings whine beneath us as he leans back to pet my hair, and it is my turn to tense up. A soft scritching noise parses the lull in the air. He doesn’t move from me, so I groan into his back until he stands to open the door.

The Cat has a name I always forget, but I think I prefer to just call her by the presence she takes up in the room anyway. Long white hairs float from her tail like lost eyelashes as she squeezes through the clutter sea on the floor and leaps from carpet to bed. The Cat curls her jellybean body into the space of my bent legs and falls asleep, sweet and beautiful.

“I love you,” I sing a whisper to her, running my fingertips along the velvet of her ear.

“Oh! Uh. I … love you too!” the other party in the room says. I squeeze my eyes shut. His breath wavers warm on my chin as he hovers over me, but then the kiss lands on my shoulder. The bed heaves as he settles next to me.

The Cat says nothing. I wilt.

About the Contributors

Robin Aughney (he/they), roh·bin, proper noun: caring; 2. motivated; 3. independent 1.

Sara Brown (she/her), s·AH·r·uh b·r·OW·n, proper noun: Senior pre law / environmental policy & ethics major & aspiring enemy of the state; 2. One man non prophet with BGE (Big Gay Energy); 3. Long suffering but loving mother to tiny dog (they both have social anxiety).

1.

Jordan Ducree (she/her), jor·dan doo·kree, proper noun: A brown recluse, 2. A solar eclipse, 3. An acquired taste. 1.

Payton Fischer (she/her), pay·ton fisch·er, proper noun: Majoring in civil engineering; 2.grew up in Washington; 3. Wants to become a published author someday.

1.

Emma Hippler (she/they), em uh hip lur, noun: coffee addict, 2. a walking tattoo flash sheet, 3. avid brunch eater all day, every day, 24/7, 365

1.

Cora Hyatt (they/she), cor·uh high·it, proper noun: See definition for 'senior editor'

Ethan McAnnally (he/him), ee·thun mac·uh·nal·ee, proper noun: algae bone scientist 2. student of soil 3. squash consumer who recently unlocked Israeli cous cous

1.

Carlos Moreno Vega (he/him), car·los moh·reh·no veh·gah, proper noun: avid Pokémon fan; 2. hyperpop, reggaeton, and indie rock enthusiast ; 3. will indoctrinate you into hating the rich.

1.

Amanda Myers Sweeney a·man·duh my·urs swee·knee, noun: kombucha enthusiast, 2. book collector, 3. aspiring woodland fairy

1.

Hannah Rae Pickens (she/her), Han·nuh ray pick·ins, proper noun: Texile; 2. Likes breakfast best 1.

Soleia Yemaya Quinn (she/her), soul·ee·ah ye·my·ahh kwin, proper noun:

1. wannabe starving artist minus the starving; 2. lover of symmetrical tattoos; 3. “enchanting” Sting

Lilly Grey Rudge (she/her) li·lly grey rudge, proper noun: 1. Feral sewer rat 2. Adam Driver enthusiast 3. Animal Crossing Island Ambassador

Faith Scheenstra (she/her), fae·th skeen·stra, proper noun: cryptid on the run; 2. lover of body horror and all things macabre; 3. supposed ghost whisperer

Branna Sundy (she/her), bran·na sun·dy, proper noun: self proclaimed owl; 2. ardent dragon enthusiast; 3. emotionally located in the wild forests of Éire

1.

1. Mia Tierney (she/her), me·yuh tier·nee, proper noun:

See definition for 'senior editor.'

Valencya Valdez (she/her/they), va·len·s·ee·uh val·dez, proper noun:

See definition for 'editor.'

Scott Winkenweder (he/him), scott wink·end·weed·der, proper noun: fluent only in Plastic; 2. eight hallucinations in a trenchcoat, laughing; 3. to send him back home, crush him into cubes spit him out.

1.

About the Editors

Cora Hyatt (they/she), cor·uh high·it, proper noun: graduating this semester, stoked about it, 2. leaving the board this semester, inconsolable

1.

Mia Tierney (she/her), me·yuh tier·knee, proper noun: intramural soccer captain 2. professional hiker 3. can make a one second interaction into a 10+ minute story

1.

Murphy Bradshaw (she/her), mur·fee brad·shaw, proper noun:

twin (fraternal) 2. quilt lover 3. clog wearer 1.

Isabella Byers (she/her) is uh bell uh buy yers, proper noun: joan baez super fan 2. honorary midwesterner (slanty face) 3. will never finish a story because she is laughing too hard

1.

Hannah Monti (she/her), han·uh mon·tee, proper noun: worm wrangler 2. boot wearer 3. Idahoan 4. not a cowboy 1.

Alyssa Repetti (she/her), a·lyss·a rah·peh·tea, proper noun: plant enthusiast 2. GTS kombucha stan 3. from the bay area (and won’t shut up about it)

1.

Lauren Rees Savas (she/her), lo·ren ree·suh sah·vah·suh, proper noun: aspiring Addison Shepherd; 2. lover of dry lightning, iced chai, and stray cats; 3. The Worst Photographer™ 1.

Valencya Valdez (she/her/they), va·len·s·ee·uh val·dez, proper noun: subgenre of a subgenre, 2. does freelance bug extermination, 3. orange slice lover. 1.

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