Writers Magazine 2014

!"#$%"& !ĊēĎĔė ĉĎęĔė Hannah Robinson

ĉĎęĔėĘ Leah Becker Sean Eckhardt Nese Stefania Hajnosz Cerice Keller Morgan Mann Sarah Underwood

ĉěĎĘĔė John McDonald

ĔěĊė ĒĆČĊ Moroccan Kitty

by Nicola Plate Writers đĔČĔ (back cover) designed by Enid Spitz

ĕėĎēČ ͖͔͕͘ ēĎěĊėĘĎęĞ Ĕċ ĔėęđĆēĉ

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1 3 4

Sincerely, A Poem Hands Broken Heroes

15 22 29 30 33 42 46 49 50 56 62 69 72

Santi The Human State Rainy Day Reflection Winter’s Flower Scripps Lily A Common Place Hope Inside and Out Cover Your Tracks Moore Orchard A Lesson in Diversity Brunhilde A World of its Own

Kate Stringer Monica Solano-Molina James Dunbar Monica Solano-Molina AJ Davies K.A. Chung

8 16 23 28 31 32

Philip Ellefson Nathan Seppi Leah Becker

34 39 47

Indelible The List I Spy Socks Winter The Mind, The Heart, The Seoul Lengthening Words Fail Me The Extraction

Leah Becker Karrie Hoag Emily Fitzgerald

ĒĆČĊĘ Sean Eckhardt Nese Leah Walters Dorothy Olszyk Leah Walters Rebecca Larrabee Torin Kubo Emily Fitzgerald Hannah Robinson Calvin Tuhy Karrie Hoag Katelin Stanley Leah Becker Torin Kubo

ĔĊęėĞ

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AJ Davies Nathan Seppi Philip Ellefson Katelin Stanley AJ Davies

57 58 63 70 73

Leaves in the Dark Points Warnings About Pesticides Evolution Upside Down

Jeffrey Kuang Hali Thompson Philip Ellefson Rebecca Parks Cassie Sheridan

9 18 25 35 43

Abby Neirynck Olivia Alsept-Ellis Victoria O’Neill

51 61 64

The Bad Element The Roxy Dirty Dishes Bistro Boy A Quantitative Approach to Love Skipping Trains Sehnsucht Vapor Compression Cycle

74 78 78

About the Contributors Acknowledgments Submission Policy

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3*00*4+54,6+07*+%820,4 Dear Readers, You hold in your hand something ordinary. Just a simple collection of pages and ink like the ones you see every day on your bookshelf or in class. But the people embedded in this magazine, the contributors whose work Writers celebrates, are about to change that.

We never start out with a theme in mind for the magazine, but inevitably, after all the sifting and polishing and arranging, it emerges.

This year, I was struck by the way our contributors took ordinary moments and, with a little creativity and no small measure of talent, made them incredible.

In these pages, events we take for granted—a night on the town (p. 18) or doing the dishes (25)—take on compelling lives of their own. “Hands” (3) holds art and beauty in a calloused palm. A tulip at 3:30 on a Thursday blossoms into a reminder of the power of human connection (5). Even our cover is just an ordinary moment.

Through their creativity, our contributors have distilled an essence of complex humanity from the quotidian actions of our lives.

In a way, it’s not surprising that college students would be attracted to this transformation. After all, the college experience relies on spinning too-small desks and heavy textbooks and caffeine-fueled nights at the library into a meaningful narrative.

I encourage you all to celebrate the ordinary in your own lives the way our contributors have done in this volume for, as American comic book novelist Harvey Pekar once said, “ordinary life is pretty complex stuff.”

Happy reading!

Hannah Robinson

Senior Editor

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&2/:*4*);<+'+=,*6

By Leah Becker I am not your hip-hop.

I am not your rap.

I am not your saggy jeans, desperate screams, broken dreams celebrity.

I am not your television.

I am not your news.

I am not your quick-fix, big-screen-flicks, naked chicks therapy.

I am pen and paper.

I am tears and sweat.

I am the first song, the first opera, the first fiction, the first drama that started it all.

I am your mirror.

I am your soul.

My words reshape in your brain as your passion and pain, they wax and they wane but they follow and haunt you.

I am your mask.

I am your transparency.

You can choose to reject me, protect me, select me, neglect me, but I live on in the sheaves of your books.

I have become your devil.

I have become your God. I lie in your hands as you shake and you quake, for I give, but I take all that you have within you.

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I am not just written; I am lived.

I am not just heard; Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m ingested.

You cannot have song without me.

You cannot have love without me.

You cannot have Austen, Tennyson, Eliot, or Emerson, You can have none of them without me.

Sincerely, a Poem

>

@'/81

By Karrie Hoag

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B4,C*/+@*4,*1

By Emily Fitzgerald They say I’m broken. They say I’ll never be anything but broken. I’m a glass doll that slipped out of the maker’s hands, crashed down to earth and shattered. I’m a million pieces of multicolored glass too scattered to ever be whole. That’s what they tell me, the mighty who weren’t born broken. I beg to differ. I am a question to the world— not an answer that can be made whole with the simple addition of a name. I’m a question and no one knows the answer, so they have to guess. Mom guesses “special,” which I am. Dad guesses “autistic,” and I must be that too. My brother Sam says I was born a hundred years too soon, that the world doesn’t know how to deal with me yet, so I need to be patient and let them figure me out. I like Sam’s guess best, but I don’t like waiting.

When I told Sam he sighed over his Encyclopedia of American Law and whispered, “me neither,” which I didn’t get, because he wasn’t born broken. But that look in his eyes… I can’t describe it and I’m not good at this sort of thing, but that look in his eyes almost tricked me into believing that he was breaking. I knew I must have been wrong again because he can’t break. He’s Sam. He took the encyclopedia from his desk and kicked it under his bed with a bang that made my spine jump. “Don’t move—,” he ordered, “I’ve got an idea.” He rushed past me down the stairs, careful not to touch me. I don’t like being touched. I gingerly sat on Sam’s desk and pressed my face against the cold window—not moving—as Sam flew out the front door with a newborn excitement. I like that word, excitement. Sam didn’t show it very much so I didn’t really know what it looked like, but I always liked the idea: energy bouncing up and down inside the body like a truckload of multicolored bouncy balls released through the ceiling of an empty room. I kept my face to the window until the glass became warm. I was filling with excitement too, bouncy balls of energy jumping up and down inside of me making my heart beat faster, faster, faster.

The car rolled back into the driveway about twenty minutes later. Sam swaggered in with a gigantic bag of multicolored flowers

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and two costume Spiderman masks—one big and one little. “We’re all damaged, Sky,” he explained, “but that isn’t who we are. You are whatever you choose to be, so we’re going to add something to your routine, okay, Sky? From three to four every Thursday you’re going to put on this mask and you’re going to fix somebody’s day. You get to be Spiderman while you decide who to be, and I’ll help.” He slipped the big mask on over his head and tossed me the little one. I looked into its blank eyes then back at Sam. “Three to four every Thursday?”

“Three to four every Thursday. It’s 3:30 now, so we’re already late—c’mon!”

I slipped the cool mask on over my head like a helmet. Sam handed me a bunch of flowers and led me down the stairs. Mom and dad were yelling again in the kitchen. I don’t like yelling. Sam must have noticed I was getting upset because he ushered me out the door without a goodbye. We always said goodbye before going anywhere. Always. I started getting even more upset and fidgety and was about to run back inside and say goodbye when the yelling peaked and seeped like poison through the closed door out onto the porch and rang in my ears and screamed in my brain and I had to get away from the cloud of poison forming around the door but I couldn’t move either to go in and say goodbye or to move away from the yelling so I just stood there shutting my eyes as tight as they would let me and whimpering and fidgeting. It wasn’t very heroic, which was the whole point of the mask, but Sam didn’t seem to mind. He whipped open the door and shouted, “BYE!” into the yelling and slammed the door shut again, ushering me away with a whisper through his mask into my brain, “they’ll be done by the time we get back. C’mon—,” and together we walked over the dead summer grass and slipped into the neighborhood.

We lived in what mom called a “town house,” which was really just a normal house sliced down the middle, forever separated from its other half with a thick slab of crumbling drywall. It wasn’t even a town when the town houses were built—our house was plopped down with at least fifty other clones in the middle of a yellow field just after Sam was born, which evolved into a miniature town with a strip mall and a park and a train station and every-

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thing. It was there in the hazy late summer heat we began the first of many searches for the broken and our quest to answer ourselves.

Sam went first: we hid behind some graffitied ticket machines at the train stations, which wasn’t very heroic, but I tend to draw attention so it was better that we hid. Sam pointed at a frizzy haired mother slouched against the crumbling brick station wall and a sloppily dressed little girl tugging impatiently on her mother’s finger. She couldn’t have been more than four, but she yanked her mother’s finger so ferociously that she would tumble into the tracks if her mother ever let her go. I’m not good at this sort of thing, but even through the tinted eyeholes of the Spiderman mask, the mother looked sad. Like she was waiting for something that would never come. I wanted to take her hand and tell her the train would come—I could see the headlight growing bigger and bigger in the distance. Sam pulled his mask tight over his face, swiftly ran up to the mother and silently presented her with a blue iris. She seemed shocked at first, but the shock quickly melted away to pleasant surprise and finally dissolved into a smile as she unhitched herself from the station wall and delicately took the flower from my brother with her free hand. With the same silent swiftness he unsheathed a yellow carnation from the bouquet and transferred it to the dirty china hands of the eager daughter. I couldn’t hear if either said “thank you” or not, but I did see the mother smile into the center of the flower and the little girl wave her own like a magic wand before Sam ran back up to me whispering, “go—go—go—go.”

We ran across the tracks to the strip mall, flowers at the ready. We stopped behind a large black SUV in the parking lot of the strip mall. A bent toothpick of an old man with a limp and glasses that shielded most of his face exited one of the stores, limping towards us across the parking lot. Sam nudged me softly with his bouquet. My turn. My breath was stale and hot in my mask, sweat dripped into my eyes. My hands started to shake. I was ready to commit my third unheroic act of the day and turn and run back to the yelling at home when I saw my reflection in the side of the black SUV… I was surprised at first when I didn’t see my face. Then I was filled with excitement. I saw a hero. Not just a hero… a superhero. And with that, I selected a white tulip from my bouquet and

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bolted out from the safety of the car directly into the old man’s line of fire.

One side of the old man’s mouth curled upward when he saw me, but the smile faded when he saw I was coming for him.

He stopped. I stopped. I just stood there for a minute, staring at the man’s memory-lined wrinkles through Spiderman’s tinted eyes.

The white tulip was still in my hand. “What’re you up to, boy?” His voice was gruff yet sweet. Campfire smoke. I snapped out of my trance and held it up to him; his face froze as though he’d been shot.

I wanted to turn and run but I couldn’t let Sam down so I stood there, holding the white tulip up between us like a shield. A smile crept up his cheeks and tears escaped his eyes as his face melted into the white tulip. He chuckled embers as he took off his glasses and let me place the white tulip into his hand. “My wife used to bring me these—,” he chuckled, holding the flower up to his nose and taking a deep, wholesome sniff. “It’s been years since I’ve held one. Thank you mister Spiderman.” I saluted him and ran back to Sam and the safe shelter of the backside of the Black SUV. “See—that wasn’t so bad,” Sam assured me as I flattened myself against the side of the stove-hot metal. “Oh don’t stop now— we’ve still got whole bouquets left—come on!” And so we ran into the strip mall, the old man’s eyes following us with gentle curiosity as we ran. I dared look back once: the old man tucked his glasses and the white tulip together into his breast pocket, letting both peak over the top to breathe the stale summer air.

A hidden smile exploded onto my face as we hid around a corner to scout for more people and a thought broke into my head: I’m broken. I know I’m broken, and I’m not the only one. My pieces are too scattered to ever be whole. I was born broken; it’s too late for me. But they weren’t, the mother at the train station and the old man in the parking lot. And Sam. It’s not too late for them—they still have a chance—they can still be put back together. And I can help them, just a little. Maybe that’s what Sam was trying to say, and maybe that is enough for now. Yes, I think as I pick a pink lilac out of my bouquet, that is enough for now.

F

#/8*)2()*

By Kate Stringer Her faith in these things was indelible: Health, Him. Two words exonerated belief in both: Cancer, Cheated.

Two damned spots for the lady to out.

Scalpel saved her from the first, Saws and sewing needles sanctified skin.

But how to save her from the second?

Laceration not sealed by suture, Pain not suppressed by pill.

Though both a scar, splintering her spine, Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look back at marks Indelible

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$7*+B'8+%)*6*/0

By Jeffrey Kuang The basketball bounces in front of a mint-green colored house on a late summer day. Without a cloud in the sky, the sun’s rays reflect off the concrete of the suburban neighborhood. The ball clanks and clutters at the rim, eventually rustling in the net. The American son gets his change back from his Chinese father.

He launches another shot and swishes. The boy carries a smirk, as he’s shot there many times before. The Chinese father, who hasn’t seen his boy’s fair share of shots taken here, pauses a moment after collecting another made basket. His son starts dribbling with his left hand, crosses to his right to launch another and crackles it in. His father collects his shot and speaks in broken English.

“You so lucky.”

The boy reflects for only a moment. “No, I practice.”

He inhales after the statement and exhales after the next bucket. They’ve never been out here together. Most of their time together is eating at the table, but all the little things they talk about are school and sports. There’s a strange look on the father’s face.

“Why do you think I’m lucky?” the boy asks.

“Because,” he shrugs. The ball goes in the hoop, but he keeps his son’s change. “You young and you have luck. Your gran-pah not so lucky.” ***** 1939: San Francisco, USA The beautiful-sharp-strong republic’s bay is visible from the giant steamship. Huang Jin Qiu is looking at the new world. He has walked from his village, traveled by train, and waited in this boat in a month’s journey to capture this glimpse. “Mei Guo,” he mutters.

America. A breeze brushes through his hair and he practices his answers.

“Sixteen years old. Born in 1923 in Taishan. I’m the son of

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Huang Zhou. I can read Chinese. I’m going to the Old Gold Mountain.”

He knows he’s very lucky. His father has made a new name for himself in the Gold Mountain. Now he’s Joe. His father wrote many times in the letters that not many Chinese can go to Mei Guo now. Everyone on the boat is making noise. Twenty days on the Pacific has brought them to the bay. The steamship docks and white men gather aboard to examine the papers. One reviews Jin Qiu’s papers, and he transfers to a small ferry that takes him to an island away from the bay.

There are high hopes for Jin Qiu, but high worries too. He waits five days for his immigration interview. Caged in what he thinks is a wooden house, the medical staff instruct Jin Qiu to undergo physical examinations immediately upon arrival. Stripped of his clothes, he becomes nervous because he doesn’t know the Western way of medicine, nor is he able to communicate to father Joe in the process. The procedure is humiliating as the doctors hurry the process searching for indications of parasitic infections in front of dozens of strangers staring.

Bars barricade the doors and windows of the barracks. Jin Qiu is only with Chinese men who were on the steamship. Panicking because he cannot contact father Joe, he practices his answers.

Clinging to the barred window, a guard opens the door. He is finally called.

The guard is in a green uniform and escorts him to a room with another man in a black uniform for inspection. Beside the inspector are another Chinese man and a woman sitting with a typewriter.

The inspector gestures Jin Qiu to be seated and the Chinese man translates for him. Jin Qiu believes to be ready, but he has waited for too long and becomes nervous. Sweat boils down his face as the inspector asks for the papers and begins the interrogation. Jin Qiu starts shaking his right leg as the Chinese interpreter transmits the first question.

“When and where were you born?”

Jin Qiu hands his immigration papers. The woman begins typing.

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“I’m Huang Jin Qiu. I’m sixteen years old and born in 1923 in Taishan, China.”

The interpreter relays what Jin Qiu has spoken to the inspector. The inspector scoffs at the interpreter while the woman waits for the next question. He signals the woman to stop with his hands as if he’s shooing away a bug in the air. Bellowing, the inspector pleads the interpreter to speak again.

“The inspector does not believe you are sixteen years old with the beard you have. You do not look like the person in these papers. We need you to stay until we can get further information of who you really are.”

Jin Qiu feels around his face. He simply forgot to bring his shaving accessories. The interpreter opens the door behind Jin Qiu and calls for aid. Two guards enter and grab Jin Qiu by the shoulders.

“Please!” Jin Qiu wails. “I am sixteen years old. I can read Chinese. I am going to the Old Gold Mountain!” ***** “Wait wait wait wait wait. What?”

The boy is still dribbling the ball. His father chuckles and waits for him to open his mouth again. He stares as his father becomes amused by his reaction. The father has a collared shirt with athletic pants and flip flops on. The son doesn’t take a shot, but instead searches for answers in his father’s smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? What happened after that?”

“You never ask!” The dad searches his left pocket. “I don’ know what happened there. He tell me he stay there six months and go back to China. He never tell me anything.”

“Six months?!” He’s glaring in disbelief. “A lot can happen in six months. You don’t know anything else?”

“Sheeh!” He lets a cigarette dangle from his mouth and lights it with a red lighter. “You don’ un’stan’. Why anyone want to talk again the bad things happen? He never go to America.”

“He never went to America.”

He stops dribbling the ball. He waits for another car to pass

99

by their driveway. The son bounce-passes to his dad, but the dad immediately gives it back.

“What happened there not bad as when he go back to China.”

The son is reading the father’s face, searching for answers again. “What’s worse than being detained for six months?”

The father is muttering to himself. He’s holding the cigarette between his middle and forefinger in his left hand. Smoke is lingering between the two as another car passes by.

“You don’ un’stan’. Your gran-pah, my bà-bà, was e-zi-doi.”

“What does e-zi-doi mean?” ***** 1951: Taishan, China A crowd has gathered in front of Jin Qiu’s brick-layered house. They revolve around the party official who traveled from the North to speak. Armed military guards drag the village’s landlord to the center of the crowd. One peasant places a stool in the circle and the party official steps up to speak. No one is moving. Some choose to stand, while others sit to listen. Jin Qiu sees the crowd gather from the outskirts and hurries toward the village.

The party official adjusts his posture and puts his hands behind his back to address the crowd.

“Our beloved Chairman Mao has promised the peasants justice in this land. For your loyalty, the Republic will grant land to those who rightfully own it—the peasants.”

There is no response from the crowd, but all eyes are attentive on the man who bears their good news.

“What we all know to be true is that the evil landowners have put in your stomach anger and frustration for many generations. You have been victims of suffering and humiliation. Chairman Mao has given you the opportunity to start your life new.

Speak of your bitterness! Vomit out the bitter waters of injustice by these cruel land owners!”

The peasants listen to every delicate word, but refrian from reacting. Jin Qiu has reached the back of the crowd, raising his head to see who is blamed.

9>

“Why do they have land? Why are you poor?” the official continues. “It is because they have exploited you and you should take everything back! All they own is yours. Is there no one to claim evidence against these landlords?”

Everyone at the gathering remains timid. The whole concept is new to them. Lan-Shu, the new leader of the village, steps into the circle and slaps the accused landlord with the back of his hand.

The crowd immediately roars as the fuse has sparked the firecracker. Seeing the people respond, the official rallies for justice and calls for prosecution.

“Peasants! You are your own masters!”

Jin Qiu is on the left side of the crowd facing the kneeling landlord. The crowd has watched the demonstration like a staged drama, but it has transformed into the People’s Court. A peasant woman walks out of the crowd. Short in stature, she takes the reins and directs her pain towards the woman on her knees.

“Huang Xi Chao, your husband was in Mei Guo giving your family money, and now he lives as a coward in Hong Kong. Under his absence, you take his place as oppressor to our village. You’ve done nothing but remain greedy to your fellow villagers and take everything from us.”

The peasant woman is pointing to the grounded woman out of shame. She pushes Xi Chao’s head and draws closer. “When my family couldn’t pay, you wouldn’t lower the rent and took our harvest in exchange! Those times were horrible. We had no food to survive and you showed us no mercy.”

Silence stirs the crowd. The peasant woman begins weeping. Jin Qiu takes a sharp glimpse at the center of the attention. The party official addresses the crowd once more.

“What is the verdict of this wicked landlord?”

Someone behind Jin Qiu shrieks, “Death!”

An uproar of cheering starts as the peasants begin speaking their minds. Chants for blood synchronize with fists rising into the air out of sympathy for the oppressed. The verdict has been reached. The peasants have denounced the evil landlord.

One of the guards gives a blow to Xi Chao’s head with the butt of his rifle. An uproar of cheering meshes with the chants for

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blood. Jin Qiu pushes through the crowd into the open circle.

“Mā-mā!”

Jin Qiu sprints towards the tribunal and the crowd shoves him to the ground. Peasants surround him as they point and shout.

“E-zi-doi! Son of the landlord! You are one of the bad elements!”

The e-zi-doi curls into a ball as peasants give their own blows. Kicks, insults, shouts, and spit land on Jin Qiu’s body. Jin Qiu wraps his arms around his face. The bitterness comes from all directions, but he hears the bullet fire in the People’s Court. ***** The dad walks up to his son holding the ball in his left hand and the cigarette between his fingers. Patting his son’s shoulder, he looks up into his eyes.

“What you want? Be in small cage and can get out, oh be in big cage and nevah get out?”

Backing away, the cigarette goes back in his mouth and the dad starts dribbling. He lifts his right foot up and launches a direct hit into the hoop. His son grabs the ball and gives it back. Another shot goes up and banks off the backboard. The quiet boy can’t help but stare at his dad grinning at the next made shot. Before the next attempt, the dad exhales smoke and points at his son.

“See? Lucky.”

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&'/02

By Sean Eckhardt Nese

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$7*+3210

By Monica Solano-Molina 1. Martin I grew up the year That you knocked on my window, But wish I hadn’t.

2. Andre In your mom’s white car, behind the big football field, knees hit steering wheels.

3. Taylor You and I were friends, And mistook laughter for love.

I’m sorry I lied.

4. Donald A real young adult, Who made mediocre toast.

Thanks for saying no.

5. Edward You broke my young hope.

But I guess I forgot that, And let you back in.

6. David Basement homework lies.

“Love you, keep in touch” good byes.

I still miss your light.

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7 . Henderson Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember it, But I loved your morning bed.

You made the best eggs.

8. Emerson We drank beer, watched stars, and stared at the old palace.

It was a bad date.

9. Donal I cut my thick hair and put on a red sweater.

You left without me.

10. Ernest There was alcohol, But you held my hand that night.

It was a nice lie.

11. Andrew Off limits, House Rule.

Power Hour Idiots, Worth the risk, I think.

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$7*+",J;

By Hali Thompson “What the hell,” he exclaimed, before very eagerly launching his mouth onto mine. I’m not sure whether we were still holding hands or not. Probably not, because I remember wiping my mouth very quickly after, trying to not make too much of a commotion of awkwardly untangling fingers. I felt slightly bad doing that, dodging my tongue away from his cold one, fighting back the urge to vomit on his shoes from the noxious scent of rum and something else on his breath. I suppose my breath must have smelt about the same, though. It must have because I remember having poured some of the same poison back earlier. But my tongue didn’t taste that way to me. It didn’t smell that way to me. I wonder if it did to him—made him want to vomit on my shoes. Funny how you can’t quite notice those kinds of things about yourself—how you smell, how you sound to other people. You only know when you play back a recording and clamp your hands over your ears, mouth ajar in horror, wondering how anyone puts up with the disharmonious melody of it everyday. Even worse seeing your own mannerisms—watching how your face is fixed a certain way when you discuss something, how your hands can’t help but talk when you do. It’s a very interesting thing.

I hate thinking about it too much though.

I wiped my mouth. “I need to make sure my friends didn’t leave me.”

He blinked back at me. “What should I do?”

“I’ll come back for you. I’ll go find them and come back for you.”

He blinked back at me.

I nodded and ran a hand through my hair, the hand I used to wipe my mouth with.

He blinked back at me.

I turned around and made my way through the madness, partially detached while somehow also being acutely aware of having to bump against bodies to make my way out of the masses.

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I didn’t want to go home yet. But I also didn’t want to find his tongue against mine again. While I waited in line for my coat, I tried to go over everything, wondering if his advances were as unwarranted as I had considered.

He had bought me a drink. I should’ve never accepted the drink I suppose, in retrospect. Perhaps most people would say I deserved it—deserved a part of him shoved into a part of me. I accepted the drink after all. But the thought of that began to make my blood boil and thicken, turn from magma to igneous rock.

A drink is a drink.

I ran a hand through my hair with that same hand I wiped my mouth with, while the man behind the counter searched for my coat.

Rubbing my hands over my upper arms, trying to find a bus or somewhere warm to hang out for a while until one arrived, I wondered if I had been shallow. I felt goose bumps prominently marking up my skin like braille, rising up with the light hairs on my arms. I considered whether I could read back my own identity if I took time to learn the language of my skin. He had great taste in music from what I gathered. He was able to make me laugh in that gap of time before he put his mouth over mine. He filled all the pauses, did all the conversational work. I had to do nothing. I just had to stand there. I guess that part kept nagging me. It would’ve been a one-sided relationship, if a shadowy club encounter even constitutes the beginning of anything real, anyway. But then there it was again—had I been shallow?

I took a bite into a Veggie Delite sandwich and stared curiously at the wall in front of me; a mural of sorts of things that have to do with New York was splattered across it, even though I wasn’t in New York. Subway must be a New York company. I guess that should’ve occurred to me years ago but it just really hit me right in that moment like a while back when I had finally noticed the patterns embellishing the decrepit seats on the bus. I guess I never gave bus seats much thought but when you really look at something you notice those types of things and they pull you back into a vacuum of time separate from anything that is going on around you—it transports you and makes you so in awe of your own existence. If

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I couldn’t have noticed the patterns on the bus seats for all those years of sitting on them, how could I notice anything of actual, severe importance? I remember thinking what an odd thing those patterns—I wondered who’d decided them, why they were simply three repetitive lines of color. Why those colors, why that particular thickness of lines—I kept staring and thinking all these things and I guess I’d never thought so much about anything in my life more than those patterns because they pulled me so far back and I guess things that have that ability bring about the most thoughts regarding the beyond. Anyway, the mural of New York activities didn’t quite do as much for me as the patterns on the bus seats did.

Had I been shallow?

A couple of drunk girls huddled together outside while I waited for my bus.

“I gotta pee. You don’t understand,” the tall blonde whined.

“Hold it, bitch,” the short brunette explained, carelessly spitting on the man in front of her due to the sheer pressure of tongue that she had put on that last word. He turned around and gave her an unkind look but she didn’t seem to notice from behind the mellow haze of her drunkenness, much like the streetlamp up above—a mellow haze of soft light on the dark pavement.

The tall blonde started pissing herself. I only really noticed because a group of guys started laughing. I turned to see what it was all about. There was this steady line of deep yellow urine dribbling down her leg. She had her head tossed back in relief, which was a catalyst to quite the uproar of laughter. The short brunette scolded her, lightly, with a slurry tongue.

The bus pulled up. I showed the driver my ticket and plopped down in the first embellished, decrepit seat I could find. I tried to remember his face, now, while I toyed with the loose end at the hem of my generic clubbing dress. There were freckles. I was fond of freckles. But I couldn’t bring myself to be fond of the owner of them—not in the way that made me want his mouth pressed against my mouth like had been done. His freckles overpowered the memory of the rest of his features the way that sometimes happens.

I couldn’t think of what his face looked like altogether. It was fragmented in my mind. It reminded me of when I had looked really

>I

closely at my own mother’s face. How it changed with such a prolonged stare. Certain features grew before my eyes, others diminished. She entirely transformed, right there. A woman I had known all of my twenty years, whose portrait I thought I had memorized, suddenly became something else entirely.

Had I been shallow?

I crawled into my bed, still clad in my generic clubbing dress.

The taste still clung to my tongue.

I fell asleep with it.

I fell asleep with that question encompassing a larger portion of my thoughts, resounding in them like the whoosh of cars trekking through the tunnels of Kanan Road every summer when I would go to the beach.

I fell asleep nearly holding my breath like I would those summers, until we reached the end of the tunnel.

I fell asleep with freckles in my eyes and that “What the hell” as a lullaby.

The words repeated enough that they were no longer words, no longer anything but some sort of hypnotic, melding of sounds. I made it my own humming mantra, lulling me to sleep.

>9

$7*+@K6'/+&0'0*

By Leah Walters

>>

#+&L;

By James Dunbar The late night hour Bears witness to adversity.

A soundless glide Through a bitter tunnel A sour panorama rolling past Handle bars greased-silent chain captivation Rapture A twisted amusement park ride And I gripped tightly by fascination Revealing Wispy streetlamp onâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Spotlight onâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Wooden benches contain Scraggly features Long features Huddled for comfort; A sluggish countenance Tempered by a concession resignation A thick load of misfortune upon eyelids.

Witness to an Acrid angry smell That must be weed.

Wheezing coughing Billowing into light beams engulfs a spotlight That must be tobacco.

Another one Heavier thicker Oiling through the wind like a tanker spill.

Coors Pabst Budweiser The crunch of the can Clatter, clatter misses the bin.

>?

Scents blend a cocktail of Frustration desperation A bid for control.

Burn bury drink smoke -ing Worries away.

Strange how I had never before noticed; Only at night are they in the light.

How strange: The late night hour and I Bearing witness to adversity.

>A

M240;+M217*1

By Philip Ellefson Anne’s in bed early. she made sure before she got up off the couch to tell me that “you haven’t done the dishes all week” which now that i think about it is true, but i swear half the time i’m home my hands are in a bowl or a pan or holding a sponge and the handle of a knife. and when she poked her head out the door after i started running the water to tell me “don’t be too loud. remember i have to get up early for my meeting with Nancy and Grace and and and” – i didn’t remember but Christ, i’ve been scrubbing this same wooden spoon for five minutes now. i like the way the suds look sitting on the spoon. i don’t want to wash them off. i don’t like the way the water comes out of the faucet and just kind of runs clumsy all over the bubbles, not really working to get them clean, just sweeping them away generally. it’s ugly. what was it Anne had to get up for again? oh right, i don’t actually know what it is she does with those ladies when they get together. she calls them meetings and that’s probably accurate because she doesn’t actually seem to think of them as friends, though i guess they’re all she’s got right now except me, and i’m not too much good most of the time anyway, though i guess i’m pretty good for getting the sauce out of this saucepan. Anne didn’t say a word tonight during Jeopardy, not like six years ago just after we got married when we’d watch and she’d be on the edge of the couch leaning forward with her chin on her fists, looking pretty with gold hair hanging down on her cheeks and she’d shout out every answer she knew and smile at me when she was right, making me feel pretty dumb, and when she was wrong she’d make excuses for why. tonight, well, every night for a while now she just sits there and watches, and i know for a fact she knew the answer to the daily double about Herbert Hoover but she didn’t say anything or even wince when the lady said Coolidge, no, she just sat back a foot or so away from me and hmm, how’d that happen? the sponge is out of my hand, has been for a few minutes maybe and it floats on the water in the bubbles, and why am i holding this old casserole dish with both hands, the one her sister’s friend Clara gave us as a

>D

wedding present with its sort of curly handles on the sides. it looks even better covered in suds than it does with scalloped potatoes in it. like the time her parents came to visit for a weekend last August, though i guess that was lasagna not scalloped potatoes, and her mother said to her and not really to me “you two positively must move closer to Jersey. it’s such a long trek out here. i will admit the hills do look lovely in summer, though. very – rustic” and i sat there not knowing what to say and looking into my lasagna every time her father looked over at me. the salad dressing started to roll into the bubbly cheese when he said to Anne that “i’m sure Jake could find work in Jersey. after all, those of us who live in the city need our cars to run well just as much as folks out here.” i thought about the texture of cooked spinach and he said “or even better, he could get work on the business side of things. i’ve got an old buddy, used to live in the fraternity with him, who owns a chain of lube and oil change places. maybe he could get you into the managerial side of things in his company. they need people like you, you know, Jake, real workers with first-hand knowledge.” i stared down at red, red tomato sauce bubbling up through the bubbly white cheese with some name i can’t pronounce and oh, what’s that red in the water, coming up into the suds? shit my fingers why i thought i already washed that knife i didn’t think it was under the suds and anyway why did i grab onto it Jesus, why is it so sharp and soap stinging cut bloody fingers under the faucet, generally pushing the suds and the blood off my hands, that’s – yep, four fingers cut pretty deep it looks like and pouring red, and bandaids in the cupboard but no we ran out of bandaids last week, Anne told me, shit, so i’ll just hang onto this towel until the bleeding stops and then i’ll go to bed after that. i wonder if Anne’s asleep yet, i think sometimes she goes to bed early and doesn’t sleep. i’m not sure but sometimes i think i see her shut her eyes real fast right when i open the door like she was looking at the wall, not that there’s anything to see there, but i guess sometimes you just need to take it easy and lay in bed for a while, though she doesn’t have to pretend to be sleeping, it’d be fine if she just said she wanted to lay in bed for a while. but i can’t go to bed just yet ‘cause i haven’t finished these dishes, though i can’t finish the dishes ‘cause my fingers are still bleeding and anyway, i

>E

do the dishes all the time, though Anne will get onto to me about it if i don’t do them, though i think she’d understand if my hand was all cut up, though then she would ask “what happened?” and i don’t know what kind of a lie i’d tell because cuts like this don’t happen from the quick, accidental slip of a knife and i can’t tell the truth because the truth is i was thinking about her father and didn’t know i was grabbing onto that big-ass chef ’s knife and i think she already thinks i’m going crazy so i couldn’t tell her that and i wonder – nope, my fingers are still bleeding and we’re still out of bandaids and i still have a sink full of dishes to wash.

>F

&,:C1

By Monica Solano-Molina These ones are thick and belong to my brother, There is a stripe at the top that reminds me Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m young.

On my 5th birthday they were different They made me perfect, They matched my bow and the beads on my wrist.

When I was the baby, And thought dad had the whitest teeth.

I remember those fleeting thoughts And my brand new socks.

Last night my socks were your socks, And I feel guilty.

Your hair is thick and when I touch it, I wish I could keep it.

I should stop wearing socks that donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t belong to me.

>G

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By Dorothy Olszyk

>H

!2/0*4N1+5),O*4

By Leah Walters

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!2/0*4

By AJ Davies I am looking at her through star dusted eyes Clouded as if dew were collecting on winter’s window Panes fog-edged from warm breath and steaming mugs Clear night after season’s first snow Silence for table talk to ponder the chaos of white Comparing snowflakes as they land on an open mouth’s tongue Shooting stars light up these entranced eyes as she smiles Fire dancing for her amusement while I lay mesmerized Flickering glow and popping cracks warm in their embrace Bring me closer to my lady winter Crisp pine in contrast with cool cedar Standing alone in her presence as steamed breath wafts upwards The smoke to my signal fire That I am home again in her presence.

?9

$7*+P2/8<+$7*+@*'40<+$7*+&*,K)

By K.A. Chung The Mind Moonlight’s aura in the midnight ocean: whales’ hymns veil the chilling wind; diamonds swimming in the light, chatoyant and radiating; the light full of hopes and fantasies, then dive deep: colder, the light begins to fade; blinded by the dark, deeper, unable to breath. Secret pleasures of the dark past—the condemned memories.

The Heart Candles shine a dim sanctuary: love is Aphrodite’s wine, drunk from night till dawn, warm rose-berry tongue with vanilla kisses, passion like a wildfire, each breath yearning to escape, blood-roses slowly blooming as the sun rises, volcanic fever overwhelming, robust eruption-lovers linger in euphoric paradise.

The Seoul Ancestors in Exotic Asia: dancing in a heirloom silk hanbok; blue velvet fabric swathing the soul, for eternity after earth is no longer a home. Perhaps the ancestors perform in the summer: the sweet benevolent breeze and the rays of serenity, or perhaps the ancestors are shivering in the winter: life frozen, cold, dark, and silent.

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By Rebecca Larrabee

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By Philip Ellefson my love, my love, i long for thee – that is to say, i lengthen toward you. as Michael Jordan’s arm in a film unhumanly, outrageously lengthened, stretched across the court because he longed to defeat cartoon mutant aliens – so my heart to yours. of course, between you and me is not just a court, but a thousand miles, several state lines, mountain ranges and rivers, and also waves and wires, which i try to use to send my love to you, but which jumble the messages every time: my face in shifting squares of color choppy on your little screen. of all the wretched lies i learned in chemistry, the wretchedest is that no two bodies can ever truly touch. despite what your nerves say, the electrons on the edges of atoms on the edges of molecules on the edges of cells on the edges of your body resist, spurn the electrons that belong to me, always leaving a little length between us, a little space where neither of us is. so even if i cross the thousand miles, we will never touch. the pianist fingering and pressing the keys, the priest clutching rosary beads, the mother cradling her newborn child – always there is length between. and everything is held together only by the electric longing of the electron for the proton.

?A

B2104,+B,;

By Rebecca Parks In my senior year of high school, my AP Literature teacher asked us to write our own personal essays that we would eventually have to read aloud in front of the class. Likely inspired by my idol at that time, David Sedaris, I set out to write a humorous essay poking fun at my own embarrassing experience of being hopelessly in “love” for the very first time just a few months earlier that very school year. When I presented it, the story had my classmates laughing out loud, and, best of all, had our teacher—a notoriously tough one who, for sound reasons, didn’t like me all that much—in tears she laughed so hard. Needless to say, I was pretty proud of that moment, and my brooding, too-cool-for-school self was floored at having channeled my idol and impressed my classmates and my usually unimpressed teacher. The story went a little something like this: I was seventeen when I fell in love for the very first time. I was a cashier at Ikea, the Swedish home furnishings store. I sold coat hangers and cheap furniture while he sold cinnamon rolls and jumbo-sized hot dogs at the bistro just across the way from the registers. His name was Chad. I met him on a Saturday.

It all started when I walked over to the bistro for a coffee which, in my attempts to be more what I referred to as “collegiate,” I drank black. I noticed the cute guy behind the counter and immediately regretted having woken up late that morning, quickly pulling my hair up in a curly, messy ponytail, and looking sloppier than ever in my oversized, bright-yellow work polo (of course, Chad wore the same one, but he made it look charming, even trendy, perhaps vintage). So I quickly ordered my black coffee and, as he handed it to me, went to turn away in hopes of being forgotten only to be stopped in my tracks when he called out, “Hey, I like your hair.”

That’s all it took. Right then I fell madly, deeply in love. His name was Chad, he sold ice cream and cinnamon rolls, and he liked

?D

my unshowered, ponytailed hair; I figured that this must be the man of my dreams.

My next encounter with Chad was on a Thursday. I was sitting on the floor reading a book (probably Hemingway), waiting until it was time to clock in for the afternoon shift. Like any charming prince would, Chad swooped in out of nowhere and sat down right next to me, “Whatcha’ reading?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer his question because I was too distracted by my palpitating heart that had me choking on what felt like a coming heart attack, while simultaneously formulating a knowledgeable and “literary” (whatever that meant) reply, while, on top of it all, taking advantage of this up-close and personal view of Chad who was, it was now plain to see, truly the perfect man. He wore a navy-blue baseball cap that matched the rest of his uniform, and though his hair was short the back was shaggy and stuck out fiery red around the edges. I guess it was a mullet, but I swear it was a cute mullet. He was athletic, with the most gloriously toned thighs and arms which, I later learned, was due to the fact that he traveled only by bicycle.

“Hemingway,” I finally gathered, having both evaded the heart attack and pulled myself out of the Chad-induced trance.

“Oh rad,” he said, “I love Hemingway. Are you an English major then?”

“Oh, no I’m still in high school,” I replied, baffled that anyone so cute could think that I was in college. “Um, what about you though?” I asked, suddenly realizing that I’d so thoughtlessly revealed my lowly status as a high-schooler, as if my question could, somehow, distract him from the fact that I was practically a child.

“I’m in grad school, but hey I think it’s time for us to go to work.”

Chad and I talked quite a lot after that Thursday, mostly thanks to my not so accidental ways of accidentally running into him. I experienced my first caffeine addiction that year only because buying a coffee from him also bought me a conversation wherein we’d gush over our mutual loves of vegetarianism, indie rock (“Have you heard of Joy Division?!”), and, most of all, litera-

?E

ture. Apparently, the fact that I was a high-schooler didn’t matter much to him, or, at least, I convinced myself that it didn’t because my “sophisticated” tastes—in Hemingway, old 80s hits (I’d heard one Joy Division song, right?), and, of course, black coffee—more than made up for the eight years that separated us. In the course of these conversations I fell in love with everything Chad said, clinging onto and committing to memory every detail of his superior graduate school insights no matter how ridiculous they may have been.

“William Carlos Williams,” he said one night, “is so damn punk rock. You know?”

My little seventeen year old heart was torn up over this twenty-five year old man who understood literature in terms of punk rock and punk rock in terms of literature; whose glorious biker body taunted me every time he emerged from his post at the bistro to refill the ice-machine; whose adorable voice drifted over to the registers along with that sweet smell of cinnamon while I sold mugs and toothbrush holders, futons and coffee tables, to cute couples who, I imagined, went home to enjoy it all together over conversations of literature, and, likely, with Joy Division playing in the background. For a while it came to be that I couldn’t avoid Chad, and as long as I was around him I couldn’t help loving him.

As the months wore on, though, I grew less and less infatuated with Chad. For whatever reason I never again felt the same way about him as I had in those first months on the job. Yes, he still had the greatest body I had ever seen, but I was no longer entertained by those good looks nor his grad school philosophies. I’m still not sure what it was, what happened that I fell out of love with Chad. Maybe I’d come to accept that grade school and grad school don’t mix. Maybe it was the mullet. Maybe I’d grown tired of that sickeningly sweet smell of Ikea cinnamon. Or, maybe I was just growing up.

Looking back on this story today, I guess it’s still pretty funny. But the ending—I have to agree with my AP Literature teacher’s only criticism—felt unsatisfying, and just completely unresolved.

Because, when I first wrote the story, I didn’t know the ending like I

?F

know it today. It’s funny how stories, even our own—or, rather, especially our own—so easily change over time when told from a new perspective. I often wonder what Chad’s version of this story would be; a story about a seventeen year old co-worker with an elementary taste in literature and a crush so painfully obvious, it’d probably be a story much funnier than my own. As it stands, my version should’ve been more Sedaris-inspired than I could’ve known, and it would’ve gone a little something like this: As the months wore on, I grew less and less infatuated with Chad’s good looks and grad school philosophies. It wasn’t the age difference, nor the mullet. It wasn’t the smell of Ikea cinnamon rolls, because, let’s face it, those things are damn good. And I certainly wasn’t growing up.

It all started on a Wednesday. My caffeine addiction, all thanks to Chad, had finally escalated to the point where the local coffee shop near my high school needed to be my first stop before heading to class every morning. There was a girl behind the counter who I noticed straightaway, because she wore a punk rock T-shirt and clipped her keys on her belt loop so that she jingled everywhere she went. She was tall and fit, which I later learned was due to the fact that she rode her bike to work. Her name was Bridget. Pretty soon she knew me well enough to have my sixteen-ounce black coffee ready to go for me every morning just as I walked in the door, but our interactions never really stemmed beyond this typical barista-addict relationship; that is, until one day, as she handed me my coffee and I went to turn away, I was stopped in my tracks when she called out, “Hey, curls, I like your hair.”

?G

!,481+5'2)+P*

By Nathan Seppi Words and I are going through a rough patch in our relationship because words are failing me, you see, in my chest, I have this feeling I can’t express.

It’s been persistently bubbling up, a cup about to abruptly erupt and if it does I’m going belly up.

My heart is a boiling pot so hot it’s about to burst over its lip, so my lips thirst to be equipped to provide a small sip, just a notion of this emotion but right now I’m about to flip Because I’m searching the dictionary, leafing through the pages like it’s fall, I feel like I’ve seen it all and on my third time around I’m about to make a call, to see how exactly I can invent a word Grabbing letters out of my scrabble bag, trying to make 1000 points at once I’m playing with my alphabet soup like Picasso, but it’s no longer hot so I’m heading to the department store buying vowels with cash making sure I got enough to last because I’m not giving up.

Welding letter to letter, sound to sound, my tongue is working the graveyard. Hammer and tong at my furnace. Pumping the billows trying to breathe life into this feeling.

Trying to give meaning to this seemingly inexpressible expression of my heart.

?H

I swing the hammer hard, see sparks propelled by the yard, but my attempts come out black and charred Try to put music to my creations, somewhat of a bard, I let this voice gargle through a song but it’s just fragmented shards, failing like a falling house of cards Batch after batch I survey my results and all they do is exalt this resentment towards words so I halt This feeling is pressing inside me, I’m about to burst. It’s inflating inside my heart.

I feel fickle walls stretching thin about to pop and I’m about to drop from all this work but I saddle up again, back on the hunt.

Head out on a safari searching the jungles of foreign language First the languages of romance, starting in Italy ending in France.

Hunting through the rain like the horses of Spain But on this hunt I can’t find enough bullets made of platinum, All my attempts to capture this feeling, these languages of Latin are sure to flatten them.

So I move to the Germanic and here I’m made manic with panic because these guttural sounds sound too harsh, My feelings coated with the mist of frustration A tiger snarling becomes my overtone, so I move on to David’s home Start stalking through Hebrew seeing if Abraham’s crew can give me a clue on what I need to do to say these feelings true. But, from me to you, not even in these words can I find a few that will do, oh if only I knew how to get this feeling out.

Next I venture to the East, the land of inner peace and try to piece together enough symbols to speak my heart. But

AI

unfortunately I couldn’t find the part where I cease to be perplexed on how to express this feeling in my chest.

In these jungles I’m hunting my prey, and I pray I’ll find it someday, but first back to the forge like a V8 Ford, I temper these feelings in the fire Until finally I stumble upon something, the best I can do Pull it out with insulated gloves, Hold it delicately above.

Prop up my mask and look at it curiously, examine what it is made of.

“It’ll do for now” I say and then I put it down Walk away letting my tongue get acquainted with my new creation.

My ears politely inviting it in, my teeth crystalize in it.

I walk from the forge moving to her to give her a glimpse of what my heart has been beating all along I take her hand and whisper my word to her ear The word I made just for her to hear And now to you I ask Do you know what that word was?

It was a simple word, one I call love.

A9

R+.,66,/+=)':*

By Torin Kubo

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R+SK'/020'02T*+RLL4,':7+0,+3,T*

By Cassie Sheridan Jeremy Wood is 31. He has two golden retrievers who look strikingly similar to the beloved childhood film Airbud. He is a bartender at a trendy hangout in the Pearl District.

Mike Allen is 29. He has an adorable 6-year-old blonde son who is missing a front tooth. He is an accountant.

Kelly Olson is 28. He has three roommates and a dog that he runs illegally with in Forest Park. He is a high school math teacher.

All three are single.

Portland speed dating shifts venues and themes, but the clientele stays the same. Successful individuals, bridging the awkward gap in age where they are no longer categorically young but are far from middle aged, fill the available seats, looking simultaneously nervous and nonchalant; a sign of maturity. They are tired of the superficial bar scene and have exhausted all other potential matches. These millennials have flocked to these events in an effort to connect with someone, prove the existence of love outside of the social constructs that have limited them. What does it mean that these events often have waiting lists?

The phenomenon of organized speed dating began around the same time as the technology revolution, the first instance occurring in Beverly Hills, California 1998. No longer did people have time to wait around for love; instead they would spend five minutes with 20 people once a month and find a partner systematically. This quantitative approach to love costs 40 dollars for each event, which is on the low side, with more â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;eliteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; speed dating events costing upwards of 200 dollars. Malcolm Gladwellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bestselling novel Blink, which studies the concept of split-second decision making, compiled data from leading psychologists on the practice of speed dating. Most individuals will make a yes or no decision about the potential with a significant other in 30 seconds.

A?

Things you can do in 30 seconds: get a glass of water, take out the trash, floss your teeth, or fall in love.

The venue for this particular speed date is quiet, a cozy bar in the Pearl District. I am not seated at a table but instead in a booth. The ambience is a bit seedy, which seems bizarre for an event committed to finding matches for loveless individuals. However, I find the mood appropriate for what these people are searching for. I sit in my booth filling out a pre-event questionnaire. The questions involve a quantitative personality assessment. I scribble hobbies, heroes, etc. The last question stumps me, “why are you here?” Why are any of us here? Did we fail at something? Is the appropriate response to admit you have been defeated in your former approaches to finding love? Everyone here is just like everyone else; all they want is something meaningful.

Kelly Olson is my first date. His slightly grown-out hair and 3-day shadow give me the impression he has been stressed or perhaps nursing a heartbreak. Kelly stares at me a little too long before running his fingers through his hair and finally saying, “I can’t decide if this is normal.” Before I can respond, Kelly launches into a lecture on normalcy one could only deliver as both a Type A personality and as a high school math teacher. It is logical, precise; ultimately it is safe. He reveals little in the five minutes we have together. I learn he doesn’t read much, adores his job, and is only here because his roommates made him. He has three sisters. He has never been in love.

Love: (n.) an intense feeling of deep affection.

Mike Allen is my fourth date. He starts by showing me a photo of his son, a beaming miniature version of himself. The boy’s name is Henri. I label him adorable. Mike has a lot to say. His father left when he was 7 and he has not seen him since. His ex-girlfriend, Henri’s mother, left Mike 4 years ago. He talks about the concept of desertion; he asks if anyone has ever left me. The conversation gets

AA

heavy, beyond the superficial banter I have been having for the past 15 minutes. Mike informs me his biggest fears are feeling alone and spiders. He asks me if I believe in love at first sight. I tell him Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not sure. He nods and says he knew it was possible when he saw his son. Mike has only been in love with his son.

Lonely: (adj.) an unpleasant feeling resulting from being without company; alone.

Jeremy Wood is my thirteenth date. His natural charisma makes the conversation easy. He propositions me to leave the event early and get a drink together away from here. He has an earnest smile with little follow through. He is a walking one-night stand.

Our conversation is light and funny. He is the first date that has made me laugh. Jeremy has been in love once. He was 19 and she was 22. They kissed at a party once but never said a word to one another. Jeremy still thinks of her often.

Love Affair: (n.) an intimate sexual relationship or episode between lovers I leave having matched with 8 people based on both the preevent questionnaire and our conversation rankings.

Things that cost 40 dollars: ten pumpkin spice lattes, a pair of headphones, or 8 potential soul mates.

AD

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By Emily Fitzgerald

AE

$7*+%J04':02,/

By Leah Becker It was not simply a shedding of her skin, but a peeling, pushing, pulsing process in which her heart was violently wrenched from its resting place, pulled out from beneath her ribs, and wrestled away from its tenuous strings.

It started with a ripple of unease rolling up and down her forearms, the need to scratch her very muscles, to scratch her very bones, all trapped within her epidermis, the fine hairs rising upwards.

She felt as though there were kinks in her arms that needed to be ironed, to be firmly encircled by fingers and thumb and then smoothed, smoothed by pushing and kneading.

The itch moved to her back where the weight of her responsibility, the weight of her pain spread itself from her neck and shoulders inwards, nuzzling the crevices of her spine swarming in the dips between her muscles.

Next it was in her legs, her thighs ringing like gongs knees aching at the joints after meandering through faรงade after faรงade and mucking through mires of deception and guilt.

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It would thump in her ears, grate on her nerves, pulse through the vessels in her eyes, pool in the joints of her fingers, and seep through the cracks between the cuticles and nails.

Angst flooded her body until her lungs were full, her senses streaming with its putrid pulp, its electric hum, its plastic touch, and its simpering condescension.

And so the process started, with a push here and a peel there and a pulsing, throbbing, beating.

And with great effort she would shed her skin and save her heart for last, dissecting it from her cavernous chest, looking at it in her skeleton hand, bloody and beating.

And with relief and exhaustion she would let it fall and start clean and empty, walking away with the strumming steps that only a soul-girl can take.

AG

#/128*+'/8+UK0

By Hannah Robinson

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By Calvin Tuhy

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&C2LL2/Q+$4'2/1

By Abby Neirynck “Peter?” I asked, after a moment. “Why did you hop all those trains?”

“Because I liked the rush.”

“If you just liked the rush, then how come you came all the way to Boston?”

“Because I could.”

“Just because you can do something…”

“Why did you come to Boston?” he asked. “Why a big city?

Why such a big paper? Working for the Boston Globe is pretty ambitious.”

“Because. I have dreams, and goals, and aspirations.”

“Maybe I have dreams and goals and aspirations too.”

I shook my head. “Sometimes you just have to get away.”

“From what?”

“Everything.”

He stared up at me. “Example?”

“Yourself. Like you have to find yourself. You don’t like the way you are.”

“Go on.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I shook my head, starting to get frustrated. “I’ve spent so much time wishing I was different. All that wishing and dreaming got ahold of me and blinded me. I began to see myself in imaginary terms. I had to leave; I had to make a reality of something. I couldn’t just live in my fantasies anymore. It was crippling. Dreams, they can do things, you know.”

“Ya,” Peter said slowly, “I know.”

“How do you know?” I asked, still in my venting mood.

“People always say they know how you feel and…”

“Most of the time they don’t,” he finished. He smiled sadly, recalling some past memory I could not see.

“What?” I asked, sensing there was something on his mind.

He stared at the floor. When he started, it was only a whisper, no louder than the beat of a moth’s wing. “I used to think my

D9

parents would get back together.”

I didn’t know what to say. I listened, waited, wondered if there was more.

“I made plans,” he choked out, “plans where they’d have to meet for lunch or they’d see each other and remember how much they loved one another. My mom—she’d come running into his arms…” he paused. “Dad would look at her like she was the entire globe. Even though Dad met Chelsea, and Mom had all her other boyfriends, I never really thought they would be apart. I was sure they were made for each other.” He looked up slowly, sadly.

“Then Dad got married. Ma never did. Heck, Chelsea’s nice and wonderful and all. She just isn’t my mom, you know? And we’re all still a big family and everyone still talks—but we never get to have Thanksgiving together anymore. Can you imagine?” He mimicked his dad’s voice, “‘Pass the turkey.’ Awkward silence. ‘Can I have some more cranberry sauce?’ ‘What’s the weather like on your street?’ ‘Do you want to watch some football?’”

He sighed. “I used to go outside and cry when I was little; no matter how cold it was. I used to go outside where no one could see me and beat against the fence and wonder why it couldn’t all just work out. I thought it was my fault. I blamed all my siblings too. Then I realized it didn’t have anything to do with us. I was so angry. I realize—I realize it’s not that bad. It could be worse. At least they still talk. But… I always had this fantasy. I had this vision where one day—one day—they’d just be going about their ordinary lives and it would just hit them. They would realize how much they needed one another—how the family needed to be stitched back up again. Mom would call Dad or he would randomly drive over in a wave of passion—offer her flowers maybe… They’d get re-married and the wedding would be this happy green festive thing in the backyard or at an orchard or someplace. It would be just us—the family I mean—something small. Mom would look all pretty, and Dad would wear something along the lines of a Hawaiian vacation shirt. Funny how you imagine things when you’re a kid,” he grinned.

“It never happened,” he continued, “obviously. But it took me a while to realize it never would. I think that’s when I started

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to go a little crazy,” he confessed. “I recognized there were other people in the world. Dad married Chelsea and I was shocked— and then they had a kid. That’s when it got a little weird. But that was my senior year. I was almost out by then. I had wanted out so bad…”

“But you dropped out of college,” I said. “Why? Wasn’t school your ticket out?”

“College,” he snorted. “I was too broken to take full advantage of that. All I did was smoke. I smoked, I drank, I did drugs— boy I had some wild nights.” He laughed. “Can’t even remember half of it, actually. But that was just it. Life passed by in a blur. It was all substance and pills and people I knew, people I didn’t know. I woke up lots of mornings not knowing where I was, not knowing what I’d done the night before. The only thing I could seem to think about was how bad my head hurt… I was a monster, Jane, a monster. I would find myself on a street corner and not consider how I got there. I skipped most of my classes. Who had time to study anyway? I was so busy being…wasted, high. I didn’t want to come back down. I did some crazy things. The funny thing is I don’t think I’ve ever done something as crazy as I’m doing right now. And I haven’t smoked or taken anything. This is the most outlandish and daring part of my life, and I haven’t needed any of that stuff.”

“But Peter—when did you get away? When did you realize…”

He half-pity laughed. “I failed all my classes. Not surprising. Didn’t even show up for any of my finals. It was finals week though… most people had just finished. Everyone was celebrating.

I was about to go down to the river—it was this fast-flowing little thing that led into the Rio Grande—and for some odd reason I caught my reflection in the mirror on the way out. I hadn’t looked in a mirror for a long time—weeks—months. A very long time. Do you remember how I looked when you saw me for the first time on the train?”

I nodded.

“It was worse than that. I looked...dead. Dead. There was this little half-skeleton figure looking back at me—thin as a stick, sullen cheeks, huge, goggled eyes popping out of my skull. My face

D?

had all these scars on it, my hair was long and scraggly and looked like it had never been washed. My chin was full of beard-in-patches, and small knick marks where I’d cut myself shaving. My skin looked like paper about to peel off my face. I was a walking zombie!” He stopped to take a breath. “Still, it was those eyes—that face.

I stood there in that dark, gray room, hearing the sound of guys I didn’t know down the hall, feeling the spring breeze as it floated through the open window. I don’t know how long I stared at my reflection. Probably wasn’t as long as I thought it was.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Well, given the point in time, and how fried my brain was, there wasn’t too much to be thought. At that point, I basically knew I had two choices. What do they say? I had ‘come to a crossroads’ or whatever. I stared into that mirror until I had made my decision.

I could either go on the way I was living: I could walk out the door and go down to the river. I would come back and look into the mirror sometime in the future—laugh at my appearance, make jokes about the scars on my cheeks. Or I could leave. I could leave right then—never look back—I could get away; I could save myself while I still had the chance. I realized that each road was endlessly long.

Plus, I knew I couldn’t stay in school. My parents would be mad I had failed all my classes. I would have to go home. I couldn’t go home, couldn’t see my parents. I had changed so much that no one would know who I was. I didn’t know who I was.”

“And so you left,” I said.

“I left. I threw some clothes, a bit of money, my hat, a bottle of vodka, and some crackers in my backpack for the trip. And then I was off.”

“And you went to California,” I said.

“Figured ‘the happiest place on earth’ was worth visiting.”

“Wow. And then you happened upon that stream…”

He nodded. “The rest is history. I had enough money in my bag for some time in Cali. Didn’t have any by the time I headed out.

And yet…I think that was the best part of it. I had to rely on other people. God’s providence, if you will. I was so afraid. Never been more afraid in my life. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to do anything—but for some odd reason I would have rather died trying. I

DA

was so alone. And I had relapses of course. If anyone ever gave me too much money… And then I met you.”

“Me?” “And you remembered me. I didn’t even know that anyone knew who I was anymore. Far as I knew I was dead to the world.

And then you showed up.”

“Why did you stay?”

“I don’t know. I think it was because I realized for the first time that I wasn’t completely alone.”

DD

P,,4*+U4:7'48

By Karrie Hoag

DE

3*'T*1+2/+07*+M'4C

By AJ Davies Her voice called to me through the night Carried on rustling leavesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; breeze Echoing in my head, footsteps in empty streets She stood there dressed in waves of white Cascading across silken black ripples In the distance flashed red and green Counting time under a cacophony of pearls Sparkling bright in a moonless sky Her voice slipped through my clothes and caressed my skin So I sat with her, alone Her breath wrapped around me and sent my soul skittering Another leaf in the dark She reached for me Her frothy grasp falling short to the sound of sand Wrestling in her presence She danced for me that night as she kissed me goodbye Leaves spun â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;round my feet with no breeze to push them Lost souls loving a journey with no destination Whispering me home My soul stayed with her that night to roam Another leaf in the dark Dancing through streets and sea foam.

DF

=,2/01

By Nathan Seppi Maybe love is just a game Filled with points Played in that mysterious arena of the subconscious.

Let’s try to play First question: Is she A. Pretty B. Steal-your-breathe-away-gorgeous C. Burning with a beauty that brings life to the world around Final Answer?

D. All of the above 1 Point

I’ll take chemistry for 400: We have ________ What is shared interests?

2 Points I’m going through some rough times, tough times, need a shoulder to lean on times, so count that as a daily double 3 points Can I buy a vowel? “ I” Her eyes dancing with the morning light Sprinkled with soft sweet dew 4 points Same socio-economic background looks like The Price is Right!

5 points Come on down! Let’s make a deal!

Another point if she’s really “real” 6 points Looks like she’s Smarter than a 12th Grader

DG

7 points Speaking with her, can’t help but smile She can even Make Me Laugh awhile 8 points Meet the family, no feuds to be seen 9 points Listen to her music, I can Name Those Tunes, even like those tunes, tune in with another point 10 points Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Whose line was that anyway?

Wait Wait, don’t tell me… Ah never mind Add another point and that’s enough, Jackpot, Triple 7, the game is won A dam bursts and chemicals come pouring through the mind Rushing like coins from the overflowing slot, The rewards of a game well played Endorphins swim through the blood from the jugular to the aorta We call that love Science calls it dopamine Those butterflies in the stomach are best categorized as oxytocin True, Love feels intangible, untouchable, residing beyond us in the soul Where it can find safe refuge from the cold demeaning fingers of science We want to think that love is more than some silly chemical reaction But I’m told by some white coats in a million dollar lab: Love is just an evolutionary solution, a biological reaction

DH

to make sure we get some traction and eventually procreate.

Yeah, I guess that explains a lot Love being this subconscious game but if you ask me I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think it matter what we think love is Because Love is still Love.

Love will still make the poets write, the drunks fight the old stay up through the night.

Love will make the songbirds sing, take the poor and bring them into debt all to buy a ring It will make the crooners croon, the stout-hearted swoon, the phone call always end too soon Make us rewrite letters we will never send Drive across the country from end to end.

Find flowers to pick petals one by one Not move from the rising to the setting sun Love will make us lasso the moon and pull it down and will make the Kings abdicate their crowns Love will make the stoic cry, the broken fly, the sleepless dream, the hopeless dance, the silent scream, And Paris what it is for France.

Love will make loversâ&#x20AC;Ś do those things that lovers do Because Love is still Love and that will always be true.

EI

&*7/1K:70

By Olivia Alsept-Ellis You don’t speak German but the girl across the table from you does.

There is a German song playing on the radio and she is translating for you. She’s telling you it’s about love, that the German man is singing about loving someone. But even though, as I just mentioned, you don’t speak German, you are pretty sure that she is wrong.

So you say, But what if you’re wrong?

And she’s like, No I’m right I speak German I lived in Frankfurt.

She takes out her iPhone which can access the internet. She shows you that she’s right. It is a love song about a woman named Heidi.

And he loved her very much.

She was right and she lived in Frankfurt and speaks German and you don’t.

But when the song ends, you swear you can hear the singer weep.

It’s just a feeling you get from the tone. You think it’s a big joke. It’s all a big joke.

Like maybe she hears the German but she can’t hear the irony.

E9

R+3*11,/+2/+M2T*4120;

By Katelin Stanley “Annelida”

“Nematoda”

“Mollusca”

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By Philip Ellefson i sometimes tell my friends i was not born, i just climbed out one day from a little tin pail stained purple-gray by three generations of sturdy women gathering huckleberries from heavy twigs on August mornings in the mountains. i go on to say that the pail is now buried in dense tumbleweeds next to a forgotten dirt road leading to the bowed remains of a barn built in 1890 where young couples used to steal away for sugary hours of learning how their bodies worked. some are convinced of my mythos, but then they learn my name is Martin, not Jesse. i guess itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be more accurate to say i crawled out of a white plastic five-gallon bucket, warnings about pesticides printed in neon green, all-caps. and more likely, the bucket got tossed into some oily bay. and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s probably killing a turtle three thousand miles away.

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By Victoria O’Neill May 1961 I found it at some antique store in a box full of old pictures.

You laughed at me when I bought it.

A picture of two people I did not know. I would never know. A man kissing his wife in a kitchen full of dirty pots and pans and half eaten jars of jam and empty coffee cups and Wonder Bread. She is sitting in a chair and he is crouching beside her and the door is half ajar and the carcass of a meal is strewn about the table and he has a cigarette in one hand and his arm draped around her shoulders.

And they are kissing—in the middle of all this mess.

I like these people I do not know. I like that in this moment they are so in love with one another. Who cares?—if they were never actually in love? Who cares?—if he was an asshole all the time?

Who cares?—if she cheated on him with his best friend? Who cares about all that?—if, for the duration of a discharge of an electron flash unit they were in love, they were illuminated? It’s such an honest expression of love. Messy and awkward and simple and chaotic.

They have their eyes closed. Despite the dirty pots and pans, and despite the half eaten jars of jam, and despite the empty coffee cups, and despite the Wonder Bread, and despite the cigarettes. They are lost in their own sort of chaos. The chaos of lips and tongue and spit and cheek, and nose bumping nose, and trying not to breathe too much.

I like to imagine that I know them. I like to imagine that they were

EA

happy and that they danced around the kitchen and sang Buddy Holly in the morning and that he was kind and respectful and that she was strong and independent.

I like to imagine that they were always as perfect as they are in this moment.

Her hair is cut like Jacqueline Kennedy’s. I can almost hear her at the salon saying, “Give me the Jackie.” I wonder if she was waiting for him to buy her pearls. I wonder if he ever did. Part of me likes to think that she wouldn’t have waited for someone else to bring her pearls, but would have gone out and found her own oysters instead.

Pearls and a pillbox hat, and she’d look just like Jackie. Except for those glasses. Those glasses were all her own. They must have been cat-eye frames, you can’t really tell in the picture though. And her wrap dress, it’s black and white on the page, but I know it must have been green. It had to have been green with blue and turquoise flowers. When she first bought it, he probably told her it made her eyes look pretty.

I like to imagine that they were always as perfect as they are in this moment.

But I know that is probably not the case. I know that after they got married, she probably started to let herself go and he probably stopped hearing her when she talked. And they both probably stopped noticing each other, in the same way no one notices the path home after having walked it so many times. And pretty soon they probably drifted into a routine where the only time they would really touch was after they fell asleep when first their limbs and then their bodies would sink in towards the middle of the mattress and in towards one another like light and gravity sinking and being sucked into a black hole.

And they would wake up and think it had all been a dream.

And I wonder what it felt like when they finally woke up. *****

ED

Winter 1941 Exposed in black and white and sepia. The essence of war and love and why men fight, it’s a still; filtered, burned and fading.

Here is a man with his infant son.

On the sidewalk. Outside in the snow. It’s the half melted, twice frozen kind of snow. The insidious sort that worms its way up along the legs of pants and invades the confines of boots and socks, gelid-ly thieving warmth from toes and feet. The sort that chills the marrow and freezes the bronchi. But they are well protected from this demon snow. Bundled, both, in wool peacoats and trouser pants. The baby boy has mitten hands; one he waves at the camera. A white scarf is tucked into his coat and wrapped around his head and tied beneath his chin; he is a little Balkan babushka with rosy cheeks and an angelic face. And like an angel’s halo, his father’s Cracker Jack hat—the standard issue, dress blues cover worn by all midshipmen in the US Navy during World War Two—adorns his scarf swathed head.

A father kneels beside his infant son.

There is an old barn, erect behind them. It’s the kind of barn that looks as though at any moment it might fall down beneath its own weight, the door hangs crooked on its hinges and the boards are shabby and ramshackle. It’s a building that is resolute in its own dilapidation. It will probably stand for eternity.

And this man’s face is eternal.

And this man’s face is resolute in its own dilapidation.

The face of a man marching into battle, marching off to war in rank

EE

and file. The face of a man mustering the courage to fight an enemy with a foreign face on foreign shores. An enemy, an enemy with whom he shares no bonds, no brotherly affection, but with whom he has one thing in common: a fear of what is foreign. A fear so strong it makes each man believe, against logic and decency and forms of common sense, that the destruction of the other is the only means through which he can destroy it. And because he and Man have neither the will to fight nor the desire to surrender, they and he look to their sons and his son, to the things they love and he loves, to bolster their shields and sharpen their swords. The face of a man, of men who will endure the blistering burn of mustard gas within their lungs and the molten metallic pressure of machine gun bullets riddling their skin, so long as love survives intact. The face of a man and of many men trooping toward death.

But they are smiling, though.

And he is smiling.

Holding his hat on his childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head.

I wonder what he thinks he is fighting for. Is it for the safety of his infant son or is it for the safety of the abstract nothings politicians shout: Vengeance and Liberty and Freedom and Justice and the American Ideal that he thinks he will die for? I wonder what he thinks he is fighting against. Is it communists and Nazis and Japs that he pictures shooting bullets at or is it men who, like himself, have sons and wives and daughters and abstract nothings for whom they will willingly die?

I wonder if he is thinking of the bitter irony of war.

I wonder if he knows that all men carry love as a reason to fight, as something to fight lovelessly for.

But war is nothing more than lover fighting lover; we fight ourselves but in different forms.

A man who loves his son slays another man who loves a son.

EF

But no one ever thinks of that before they go to war. They think that what theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re fighting are the things which make them fear the night and the shadows of dark alleyways, the things that send ghost-like chills of loneliness pulsing through their veins and pumping from their hearts.

But really weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re just fighting love that wears a different face.

EG

B4K/72)8*

By Leah Becker

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By Katelin Stanley Act One Four bright eyes Two wary smiles A spirit of adventure Treading unfamiliar streets A side alley Dusty concrete Disorientation Quick flight back Chicks return to nest Act Two Single pair of new sneakers A map, a coat A jaw firmly set Well-planned route Destination Inner awe Sights unimaginable Triumphant return Act Three Patterns in the cobbled streets Gravel in shoe treads Bell tolling Bicycle chime Recognition Dome, spire, bus stop Gardens, benches, cigarettes Errands and a friendly nod Entryway receives its master

FI

Act Four Mud-smeared boots Forest path Outstretched boughs Falconâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s perch Holy, tranquil solitude Winding labyrinth Familiar birdsong in the air Sneak through back gate And reabsorb

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By Torin Kubo

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XL128*+M,O/

By AJ Davies I dreamed upside down last night My roots grew to the sky While my mind dove downward into fertile soils Planting seeds like clouds, wisps of idea To grow and rain on parched flesh Soak my soul with passion and fruit Ripe to ferment so that thoughts may grow Downside up dreams, seeds to sew Amongst fields of grain and untethered minds Amber waves on open plains of unbridled time Plain as nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cacophony of twinkling miles Room to grow, upside down and wild.

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R(,K0+07*+.,/042(K0,41 Olivia (Louise) Alsept-Ellis Senior, English Literature major is pretty into pigeons. thinks that she writes and reads more than she does. been known to go through Nietzsche, Vonnegut, and raw-veganism phases. can’t tell what phase she is in right now but is sure it will be funny in a month or two. it’s probably pigeons. (61) Leah Becker (noun): an oddly introverted creature that can be found hiding out in small reading nooks and rooms with food.

Prone to clumsiness and inadvertant naps. (1, 47, 69) K.A. Chung is a humanities child and his favorite poet is Percy Shelley; he would like to make a dedication to Wesley Heck, Danielle Childs, Ian Baynes, Jenna Sitenga, and Alexa Pettinari for inspiring him and supporting him with all his work. (32) AJ Davies is a junior biology major who loves sarcasm and playing guitar. He enjoys all forms of physical activity, with his favorite being winking. He hopes one day to be one of the first competitors in Olympic winking. (31, 57, 73) James Dunbar is a sophomore civil-environmental engineering major and really likes concrete and planting bushes. He still isn’t quite sure how he went about appearing in a magazine with writers—people that work good with words!—but he decided not to question such things. (23) Sean Eckhardt Nese is a sophomore communication studies major and multimedia junkie who is in intense need of rehab. (15) Philip Ellefson is a junior English major and a downright scoundrel. He prefers molehils to mountains, mountains to praries, and praries to people. (25, 34, 63)

FA

Emily Fitzgerald, from Hillsboro, Oregon awaits an invitation to join King Arthurâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Knights of Camelot, but until then she is an English major content with reading, writing, and photographing adventures with her family and small gang of friends. (4, 46) Karrie Hoag is a junior nursing and Spanish double major who has had an interest in photography since she was kid. She enjoys taking candid photos of friends and family and loves taking photos of the places she travels. (3, 56) Jeffrey Kuang is an American-born Chinese senior psychology and English major with a minor in Spanish from Clackamas, Oregon. The doctor suggested an American name, and his parents all of a sudden liked it. Thanks Weifang and Wo Ping! (9) Torin Kubo, a sophomore civil engineer from the 808 state.

(42, 72) Rebecca Larrabee is a senior working toward degrees in global business and German. She enjoys art and likes painting with oil on canvas. Her projects incorporate equal parts nature, imagination, and memory. (33) Abby Neirynck is a freshman English and theater major who loves to read, write, and run. In her spare time (if she ever has any) she can be found daydreaming or walking to nowhere in particular.

(51) Dorothy Olszyk is a senior communication major and writer for Her Campus Portland. She loves to express her creativity through photography, writing, and art. (29) Victoria Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill, a coinsure of music, fine chocolate, and garden gnomes, was born and raised in Lawrenceville, Georgia.

In addition to writing about herself in the third person, she enjoys hiking, biking, travel, sunrises, books, and looking at stuff. (64)

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Rebecca Parks is a radical queer feminist who devotes her life’s work to bra-burning and man-hating. With all the time that she saves by not shaving, she is able to hold down a part-time job as an English major who self-identifies as a nineteenth-century Americanist. (35) Nicola Plate is a junior Spanish and communication studies major from the beautiful island of Guam. Her dream job would be traveling to a different country every couple of months, taking pictures, and writing about her experiences. If you know someone hiring for that position, please let her know. (cover) Hannah Robinson is sipping sangria somewhere in sunny southern Spain. However, according to recent reality checks, she is a senior English and Spanish major. (49) Nathan Seppi is a poet who writes for the mic and so encourages you to read his work out loud. His overall aim is to be genuine, making his pen an extension of himself so you can see that in the end, you and him aren’t really that different. (39, 58) Cassie Sheridan utilizes punctuation rules as mere suggestions and has a deep love affair with commas, as she deeply dislikes ending sentences. She studies English and political science semi-formally while devoting most of her time (85%) to Twitter reading, Netflix binging, Kardashian gossip searching, and Salt & Straw eating. She is drinking coffee as you skim this. (43) Monica Solano-Molina is a senior business student. The first book she read was The Foot Book by Dr. Seuss and she never memorized her student ID number while at UP. (16, 28) Katelin Stanley is an observer and thinker, a student of biology and of the world. She firmly believes that art and science are not mutually exclusive—that both provide a glimpse of nature’s true beauty. (62, 70)

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Kate Stringer is a senior English major whose only serious life ambition is to be the international J.K. Rowling correspondent.

However, taking up residency in an English cupboard-under-thestairs would take a close second. (8) Hali Thompson nearly always has a hankering for Taco Bell in the wee hours of the night and will briskly trek towards the illuminated purple and pink, arriving miraculously before lobby closing time. She casually observes the way the treesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; limbs cast skeletal shadows in the dark around eleven thirty-eight p.m., while her stomach murmurs secret, semi-poetic somethings about her midnight lover, the Crunchwrap Supreme. (18) Calvin Tuhy is a man. He sometimes takes photographs. He is graduating this year. That is all. (50) Leah Walters started her photography career by taking her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brand new camera (under the guidance of her grandfather) and photographing anything that would stand still for her. She is sophomore English major, still enjoying photography on campus as a photography editor with the yearbook, and the occasional photo shoots for friends. (22, 30)

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#$%&'()*+,-*&./ This magazine would not be possible without the many hands who work tirelessly to bring it to life each year.

To our faculty advisor, Professor John McDonald, for his support, thoughtful advice, and a willingness to try new things.

To Kassie Hansen from the University of Portland Print Shop for your fathomless patience and printing wisdom.

To Erin Bright and the University of Portland Bookstore, for generously hosting our launch party.

To the editorial board, whose dedication, flexibility, and ingenuity never ceases to amaze.

And, of course, to all the talented students who contributed their work to this magazine. You are the inspiration and life force of what we do and it is a privilege to share your creativity with our campus.

012-3//3'&45')3$6 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, black and white photography, visual arts, cartoons, and graphic novels.

All submissions are evaluated by the editorial board. Submissions are kept anonymous throughout the evalutation process.

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