The Yahara Journal 2020 edition by Yahara Journal

YAHARA JOURNAL A LITERARY & FINE ARTS JOURNAL

2020 YAHA R A J O U RN A L A L I T E R A RY & F I N E A RTS J O U R N A L

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Calvin Hicklin

EDITORIAL STAFF Rhianna Prine Megan Robinson Griffin Loiselle Tina Matlock Calvin Hicklin

BOOK DESIGN Tina Matlock

COVER ART Megan Klinger

WEB EDITOR Calvin Hicklin

ADVISOR Doug Kirchberg The Yahara Journal consists entirely of Madison College student work. It is made available by the Student Life Office and funded by Student Activities Fees. Opinions expressed in this journal do not represent those of the Madison College administration, faculty, staff, or student body.

TABLE OF CON T E N TS PROSE

POETRY

6 UNFORGETTABLE Pakou Yang 8 BOY IN THE WOODS Christopher Tavarez 9 FIGS AND WASPS Holly Brissette 13 DEATH DAINTILY Daniel Reschke 19 SERIALLY INCLINED Kevin Rault 22 THE PLASTIC KEY Eyob Urban 25 THE ROBOTIC ARTIST: A SLEEP-DEPRIVED MORNING IN THE LAB Sam Breese 28 UNDERNEATH THE NIGHTâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S SKY: A SEASALT BREEZE Victoria Lowery 31 THE HEAVY ARTISANAL MUG: FILLED WITH FAKE PROMISES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS Judith Campos 34 FISHERMAN IN THE VINEYARD Brent Golden

38 REGRETS Raven Fabal 40 SPACE ON A TRAIN Marit K. Bastian 41 THE SPARROW QUEEN Nora-Kathleen Berryhill 42 A WARNING FROM A FELLOW BEAST Andrew Swanson 43 COULD BE ANYWHERE Alice Ripberger 44 ID IS REQUIRED Matt Dippong 45 NEVER STOOD A CHANCE Megan Anderson 47 SACRED DREAM Josie Hernandez 48 THE NECESSITY OF A MAP Jessica Goerling 49 IN MY HOUSE Emily Lutz 50 A TRANSPOSITION IN MARCH Nolyn Gilstrap 51 ROTTEN Hailey Griffin

3 FACEBOOK STATUSES BY MY AUNTIE KAYOKO, POORLY TRANSLATED BY AN ALGORITHM Cameron Schneberger 53 TWENTY SEVEN MILES NORTH Zoe Andrew 54 RESTAURANT CODE SWITCHING IS LIKE Denae Brown 55 UNABLE Katherine Wagner 56 RAW Maleah Riniker

66 INTROVERT Eric Taggart 67 SEPARATION Baotran N. Vo 68 UNDER THE SEA Ellie B. Froelich 69 BRIDE AND HER MOTHER Merle Sternberg 70 SPIDER SHIELD Jamieson Pauls 71 SIREN OF THE DEEP Nikki Johnson 72 SNOOP DOGG Silke Van Der Weide 73 UNDERWATER BLUES Quinn Buckner 74 AWAKEN 58 REAL Ellie B. Froelich Megan Klinger 75 FAMILY AT SHABBAT 59 IF BLIND TOM WERE TABLE ALIVE TODAY Merle Sternberg Merle Sternberg 76 HALLOWEEN 60 TI NV NA DA Hyunmi Park Alyssa Daniels 77 GLASS 61 GEORGE CLINTON Megan Klinger Eric Taggart 78 THE COLLECTIVE 62 FLYING SUCCESS Nick Arnett Hyunmi Park 79 DRIP 63 LORD FORGIVE ME Silke Van Der Weide Steven Andriantsiratahina 80 BLUE 64 WONDERLAND Megan Klinger Tabitha Dahl 65 RUN SISTER Armando Reyes

ARTWORK

MISSION The Yahara Journal supports learning and creativity at Madison College through the publication of a print journal and the sponsorship of events and activities that facilitate growth in writing and visual arts.

S P EC I A L T H A N K S The Yahara Journal would not be possible without the financial assistance provided by the Student Activities Board and Madison College. The Yahara Journal staff is especially grateful to the faculty members who encouraged students to share their work with us. Finally, we would like to thank all Madison College students who took time to create and submit work for consideration in the journal. This book would not exist without your efforts.

PROSE

UNFORGETTABLE Pakou Yang In front of the palace tall doors I stand quietly holding my lute. I hear the faint music echoing from the other side of the doors. I feel my heart start to race like the rustling feathers of a hummingbird. I hear a man announcing my near arrival to the audience. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I am there to entertain. I want to show the world my exciting and moving performance. I want to convey and turn those powerful, emotional, and internal feelings into physical form for all to see. If I can move their hearts as one, then I have done my part as a performer. I will be entertaining the royal court who invited me to the palace to perform as a guest. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why tonight, I will only think of nothing but dancing. All outside thoughts start to subside as the doors slowly start to open widely in front of me. The music and talking stops as I make my way into the elegant and intricately decorated room, filled with the rich color of champagne. In front of me sits the lord on his magnificent throne. His royal clothes dyed with black and the same champagne color that decorate the room. The other royal officials sit on the high balcony observing us from afar. My eyes do not leave his majestyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as I walk straight towards the center of the room where the other female dancers are positioned. In the middle stands a golden, wooden chair that waits for my warmth and presence. Gently I plant myself onto the seat with my face gazing down upon the polished, golden floor and the side of my body facing his majesty. I wait in position, holding the lute in my hands. A moment of stilled quietness fills the room. Then in that moment, the room swells with an echoing stringing of cords coming from my hands and the lutes of the other performers behind me. The single tune from my lute blends well with each of the others. A sweet melody leaves my lips as I keep his majestyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gaze. I move one of my embellished hands to the side of my cheek to acknowledge his majesty. He nods quietly, watching me. My body moves fluidly with a skilled gracefulness as I sway to the rhythm of the other lutes. My soulful, vocal melodies echo and fill the entire room as I continue to string the musical lute along. My body sways mindlessly and continuously on its own, syncing itself to the inviting melody and the rhythm of the song, like a ballerina figure spinning around in its musical box until the end of the tune. The performance soon comes to an end, followed by the striking clapping and approval of many royal officials in the room. They are all impressed with the 6

Pakou Yang exciting and moving performance they watched, especially his majesty. A look of enjoyment and arousal shows on his facial features as he openly praises our performance. Soon, all the performers, including myself, are escorted to our chambers. Upon our arrival, many luxurious gifts decorate the huge room in celebration. Jewels unlike any other I’ve ever seen, long pearly beads, clothes made of silk and rich colors, dozens of soulful foods and bags of gold embellished throughout the room. All the ladies run to their welcoming gifts like bees to honey. I am happy to see them filled with happiness. They earned it. We all did. The performance felt like it went by so quickly. It was fun and I wouldn’t mind performing again for my audience. Not for the gifts, but because it felt enjoyable and rewarding to fill the hearts of many with the art of performing. I want to continue to do that and feel that excitement wherever I go. It is what I live to do. Performing feels like a calling to me. It is like breathing in air. Without it, I wouldn’t be here nor would I feel as much happiness and joy as I do now. I would never give up on it. It is worth the long days of effort and practice. While the ladies play with their gifts with laughter and delight, I walk toward the balcony. A full moon brightens the dark sky as I gaze upon it. A warm smile stretches upon my lips. Today was certainly a day I will never forget in my lifetime.

BOY IN THE WOODS Christopher Tavarez A young boy sits in the candle’s light and gazes beyond at what lurks out of sight. Ravens stand around him, even on his head and shoulder, their wide eyes looking out into the darkness just as the boy’s own do. Poised to spot a threat, perhaps. Some consider the creatures around and on him to be pests or nuisances, but he considers them friends. Family members, even. Goodness knows he’s short on those, these days. His clothes are light, a shirt without sleeves and shorts that offer little protection. Suited for play in the daylight, not cowering in the cold of the night. It’s not the lack of heat that chills his skin, but rather the void in his chest that swallows any urge to bother with shivering or seeking heat. Why bother, at this point? He’s lost so much already tonight. The only desire left in his body is to rest here, let himself become part of the forest floor. Perhaps his bones will be discovered one day, and he’ll be the inspiration for a local legend. The boy in the woods, who’s spirit wanders on and whispers to travelers in the dead of night. Wouldn’t that be someth His thoughts are cut off by a throaty croak. He looks to the culprit, one of the smaller ravens. She pecks at the ground and crows again. Hungry. The boy in the woods sits silently for a moment, watching her search for food. Normally she would fly off, look somewhere else, as there’s clearly nothing here. But she doesn’t. He knows why. She wants to protect him. He doesn’t know why the flock came to be his allies, but after all that’s happened today, it can’t be denied. He stretches his legs, and gets to his feet, slightly jostling the males perched on him. He owes these birds, it’s unfair to sit here and make them hungry while he broods. He lets out a sighing breath, and the all-consuming apathy of moments prior is exhaled along with it. Time to find food for what family he has left.

FIGS AND WASPS Holly Brissette The world moves like the hands of a clock, rotating slightly in a darkened room, abandoned. Of course it wasn’t always like this, and that is to say the world was not an empty vessel of lava stretching under its crust. No the world was busy and bustling, but the world in its room was still forgotten and avoided. Long ago, when the world was the center of the universe and the center of gods’ attention, there was a man. A man I call him, when he was more than such. A beast, perhaps, the essence of life. Yes once something painfully human and achingly not. Doomed by his own kin to live, to love, to suffer, to live, then die, over and over again. The man who was not, who is not a man in the moment I speak of. His body shook and ached, his fingers danced shakily reaching needily for a bottle or two that lay abandoned after a sort of abuse. His fingers brushed the bottle before the comprehension that the cold smooth surface was just the medicine he had been looking for. His hand came alight and wrapped around the bottle bringing it to his lips, only to revel in the bitterness not of tongue but the taste most foul of the disappointment of finding his bottle emptier than him. Aeris, for that was his name, carelessly let the bottle drop onto the wood floors beneath him and his bed where it slipped just underneath, glittering in the light of the fire like the eyes of a cat waiting for feet to appear in view. Aeris found himself completely purposeless, he was alone, helpless, and most importantly alone. An uncomfortable awareness to be surrounded by nothing but yourself, its own underneath in the world above. And above him he couldn’t help but see something, two somethings, in the rafters glittering like rubies. Aeris almost cared enough to investigate it further, but he needed a drink, he needed it like oil needs water. He strapped on his boots and shuffled outside, pausing at the door. His hair stood on end, and before he could stop himself he turned and glanced into his empty abode. The warm fire flickered welcomingly, and the inside of the hutch seemed much less foreboding than the moist, foggy and cold air outside. Before Aeris blinked he found something amiss. A sense of foreboding wrapped over his shoulders like a thin cape fighting to stay against the wind. Then his door slammed shut and he let the thought close with it, he didn’t want to remind himself of the 9

FIGS AND WASPS ghosts that haunted his life and his home; for that’s all it had to be, just one of the ghosts that he could not purge through the bottom of his bottles. He instead focused on how he found himself consistently not inebriated enough for these shameful journeys. The pitying gazes lining up one by one behind windows on top of faces, followed by those old friends asking him if he would like to stay behind their closed walls for the Banishment of Pestilence, or those less familiar looking away at pieces of made up muck stuck nowhere on their shoes. Thankfully lost in his musings, he failed to notice those glances and the thoughts that hounded at his heels, insistent on what little scraps he had. He was in fact almost happy, a lost moment of nostalgia, a moment of time hung up and forgotten, the moment unattainable for even the gods. The memory filtered about in his nearby atmosphere, the sky’s gray gloominess of the day became a summers eve, the environment heavy with anticipation, with gazes up rapt toward the night sky unable to tear away. But Aeris was an exception and so was she, in a moment of magic held bound within the golden strings of destiny, in that lovely night their gazes met, the spaces previously laying in occupancy near them soon shifted as they sat beneath the stars and awaited the annual miracle. As he made his way over, her enchanting lips curled ever so slightly into a smile. His heart shot up to his chest and he sat down. They didn’t say anything, each waiting for the other to make their move like two beasts on a plane of battle, they circled one another until the silence became much too unbearable to wait another moment. She spoke first, and Aeris felt like he should beat his ears for being so cowardly. He flustered as she spoke. Then Aeris opened the door to the tavern, slamming it open unthinkingly. The barkeeper looked at him with a slight glare. “Brother, don’t be so cold.” Aeris tried to sound cheerful, the facade barely convincing behind his disheveled appearance. “Brother close the door, lest you let in the cold,” the barkeeper shot back. “My bad, my bad.” Aeris closed the door and walked to the bar. “Usual please, Myrmre.” “Aha, your tab is a bit high. I’d recommend paying it off before you rack it up again.” Aeris patted himself down before, by some miracle, stumbling upon a pouch. He set it on the table. “For now and later.” Mymre looked at it and turned away. “So much drink can only do so much, and much of that is bad.” His brow furrowed as he counted out the money. “As your brother in this hard time, we mourn my sister together; we are brothers in mourning.” Aeris stiffened, “ I don’t think I need a reminder…” 10

Holly Brissette Mymre looked at him. “And neither do I brother. You, my friend, are a walking reminder, for me, for yourself, the people of this town. Your nature is a precarious one; while you mourn you think of her, and you think of her because you mourn. It has to stop eventually brother. As dear as my sister was to me, I have to live.” Aeris stared unblinkingly into Mymre’s eyes. “And at some point you have to as well. I beg you, do it for her, do it for me, and do it for yourself. We don’t need a second tragedy, brother.” Mymre broke his gaze first. “None more than I would be happier to see you become an old man, with bride, perhaps even little ones.” Aeris didn’t respond. Mymre’s shoulders slunk and the look of hope in his eyes smouldered out. “Brother, please think on my words today.” Aeris’ face screwed up, but he swallowed bitterly and made Mymre content with his answer. It was a promise he would one day have kept, if not for what would happen moments after his feet stopped being ground upon the wooden boards of his brother-in-law’s tavern. His eyes glazed over as he was swallowed up by his memories like a drowning man, yet content to his fate. Her lips, her mouth, opened, made to speak something courageous, those words something that Aeris had yet to find. At the first utterance of her words, Aeris found himself rapt with attention. He startled when the sky blew up. Aeris came back to himself and realized he had fallen off trail and into the mud. He scoffed himself, falling like a tot. At first he felt annoyed enough to get up out of the earth, but let himself relax into it. It felt unpleasant and it was cold, but dear gods if that wasn’t what Aeris wanted. The dim awareness sunk in that someone was laughing at him, at first it began as a low chuckle but evolving into hysterics, thick and supple such as chunky butter that had sat for a long time and the mist was certainly just as thick. “Mymre is it you? You are who?” Aeris snarled confused upon the tune. “I am me,” said a voice as sweet as boysenberry jam. “Mother of bee, of wasp, creation it’s cusp.” Aeris set fit to burst, an overflowing dam.“Speak not rhyme, only reason.” “I will one season, but now is no such time.” The voice circled Aeris like a hawk upon the breeze on a summer day. Yes, he decided, such a voice circling in may should certainly sound as a bray. But neat and tidy unsuiting of her he would pray. Sweet she seemed to no one, while voices hit like the saccharin sweet notes of bells, she had her tells. The stranger spoke wrong in her little song. But the game was long. Yes the unease prickled and the maw trickled as the star of the game decided to reveal frontstage. The tidings of rage began to fade yet Aeris swelled. 11

FIGS AND WASPS From her curtains of fog she poked her head out into the bog. Aeris upon the sight paled, but was stuck merely gawking, and the strangeness stepped frontward stalking. But finally with reniued rebellious vigor his body railed. “Do you not recognize me father?” The voice that belonged to the face that did Aeris bother. But could something so out of place be considered a face? “I bare no line,” Aeris snarled. “You bare a father resemblance to some foul swine.” “I was the first, one of only.” She gestured wide, and she ignored the insult, let it simmer as her beady eyes glimmer through mist. “You are none, you are lonely.” Aeris made to move retrograde. “I am none! And I am lonely!” Her cheery tone didn’t delay and Aeris felt the ground he could spray. “A monster you are lowly.” “A man, a meal, a lamb, those are things you are, not am I.” The cannibal’s damnable mandibles clicked in tangible hunger. He couldn’t take away, even as his legs began to break and shake. The stranger’s black eyes shone upon a shiny golden head. “Father, come closer – please, a hug?” The bug, her head twisted to side and she spied his revulsion. “No, no.” Aeris, poor thing, his heart finally shriveled and died, tugged by two different compulsions. His skull began to ring. “Nonsense! It’s been so long!” She jumped forward and embraced him. He shook, it was so wrong. Her hands bony, yet strong, circled him as she hummed her song. Her hands began to sink in. Aeris squirmed recognizing the sin. In the strangeness with barely contained haste they drew closer to lay to waste. The strangeness, her body acting simply as bolster. Aeris began to scream as he felt a slight nibble upon his neck. “Hush.” Then there was a crunch, his body bunched. Something hit the ground as for a moment his temple was beheld until she dropped harshly without soothing (with the love and care of any farmer with a pained back and bags of grain to move). Blood pooling by the pound hitting the ground with sound. It all faded away like a dream as she began to preen. Blood dripped off obsidian mandibles, just as black and just as sharp. She had done her part. All she needed now was Derlix to pull through on his end. Just for a moment time was spent, to stare upon the bloody visceral meat there upon the clay. It would be such a shame to leave as such without moment to stay lest it decay. Her eyes glimmered and she began to start as her jaws began to part.

DEATH DAINTILY Daniel Reschke It rained last night, and by the look of the sky, it wasn’t over yet. The dark clouds covered the stars and blotted out the moon, leaving the night to be lit only by the streetlights that dotted the roads and reflected in the large puddles of water that covered the ground. I could hear that the wind was calm though, leaving the puddles to be disturbed only by the occasional vehicle or streetwalker that splashed through them. The sounds of the streets that night resonated through the thin walls of my office. The blaring of car horns, the cat calls of hookers on the prowl, and the roaring of the train as it pulled into the nearby railyard all added to the background noise of life in this city. But even with such loud noises coming at me from all sides, it still seemed oddly quiet. A strange hush had fallen over the wind despite the obviously brewing storm. Storms were drawn to me it seemed. Even as one gathered outside, another stood in my office, staring holes in my back as I looked out the window. I could see her reflection in the glass. She was a pretty little storm in a long, tight dress. One whom I knew well. With a last puff on my cigarette, I ground the butt into the windowsill. “I’m afraid I’m closed for the night madam, or did the locked door not tip you off?” “Come now Ace, since when have I ever let a mere lock stand in my way?” the woman cooed. I prefer thunderstorms. I can avoid a thunderstorm. I can bar my windows and seal my doors from the wind and rain. No window or door or lock could keep this storm of a lady out. If you put a solid wall between her and her goal, she’d figure out a way to walk through it. “Such a waste of talent when the hardest thing you need to get into is another person’s pants,” I remarked, looking over my shoulder at the woman. “It’s my girls that get into their pants,” she corrected, “I get into their heads, their hearts, and their wallets.” Her words were getting snappier, not with irritation, but impatience. I couldn’t put this off forever. I flipped my collar up against the oncoming storm and turned around. “So what can I do for you, Antimony?” I asked. This girl, Antimony King, was the 13

DEATH DAINTILY madam and owner of a brothel here in town by the name of “The Love Well.” She’d always had a sweet spot for me. From what I’d heard from the girls, I’m the only client she sees to personally. I’d had various connections to The Love Well over the years. I had watched it grow from a small rundown shack with a few gutter rat employees, to a few nice, rented apartments with several decent girls, to the popular bordello with dozens of ladies of the night that it was now. I had watched as her dresses, jewelry, and makeup had improved with each step up the ladder, even as my own office fell into disrepair and disorder and my shoes and coat lost their sheen and collected scuff marks. The silk dress and silver bracelet that the woman wore didn’t belong in a place like this. My office was not a place of opulence and brilliance. The flickering light bulb overhead and the damp creeping up the walls showed exactly what this place was. But Antimony was not expecting luxury or class. No matter how many dresses of silk and lace she imported from Milan, or how many pearls weighed down her neck and wrists, it could not change the fact that she had dwelt in this world for long enough to know how little to expect of the light and how much to respect and utilize the darkness we both lived in. “You can offer a lady a drink,” she sighed, sitting down. “I’m afraid I’m all out of champagne,” I told her as I wandered over to the rack where several bottles filled with varying amounts of liquid stood side by side. “Champagne is for happy occasions. Get me something heavy that burns on the way down,” she stated solemnly. I looked back at her and grabbed two shot glasses but left all the bottles on the shelf. I set a glass in front of each of us and took my flask from my hip. “Nothing burns more,” I assured her as I poured two shots out. She downed the drink immediately and closed her eyes as the burn quickly set in. I refilled her glass and looked at her as I drank my own shot. Slowly her eyes opened and turned down towards the glass. She lazily circled the rim with her finger as she gradually began to speak, “you can be a bit of a bore at times but you’ve always known how to treat a lady. Unlike some people...” I shook my head and sighed at Antimony’s bluntness. “If you’re just here to whine about how things have been going at the brothel then we could’ve just met at the bar and you could’ve picked up the tab.” “My girls have been going missing, and one of them’s just turned up dead,” the woman summarized, and as if on cue the shutters banged against the window as a strong gust of wind blew. My eyes narrowed. “You know I don’t do bodies anymore Antimony. Let the police handle it.” 14

Daniel Reschke “And you know how the police handle prostitutes. They’ll throw the body and the folder in the incinerator and forget about the whole thing. If Riley hadn’t been the one on the scene, I doubt I ever would have heard about this,” she countered. “Who knows how many of the other girls have wound up dead only to be tossed aside by the coroner in favor of more important people. I doubt this is the only one who has died after going missing.” “If Riley’s already there, let her investigate it.” “She’s still just a beat cop, she can’t do anything on her own.” “Look, Antimony,” I began, drumming my fingers on the desk as I looked back up at her, “it’s been a long day and I want to go home. So unless you have a really good offer for me, I’m going to have to say no.” One of Antimony’s hands moved to her shoulder before sliding the strap of her dress down her arm. Then she leaned forward, an intensity burning in her eyes that I was well familiar with. She plucked my fedora from my head and plopped it upon her own long, curly locks. “You know exactly what I have to offer,” she purred. A hand moved to my chest. It was a really good offer. I stuck the cigarette into my mouth, holding it between my lips as I fumbled for my lighter inside the pockets of my pants which had been tossed over the end of the desk. I flicked it open and struck it twice before it caught flame. I brought it to my mouth and lit my cigarette before snapping the light closed and taking a deep drag, inhaling the acrid smoke. Dainty, feminine fingers plucked the roll of paper and tobacco from my mouth. Though my eyes were still somewhat unfocused and my mind still a little hazy, I followed the fingers with my eyes. Watched as they moved and deposited the cigarette in Antimony’s mouth. The woman was sprawled out behind me, her fancy dress and expensive jewelry discarded, leaving her in only my hat and the two leather belts high up on her thighs that held a pair of knives. The knives were the girl’s preferred weapon when a weapon was necessary for self defense. She took a long drag and a slow exhale before smirking. “Think all of those yes, yes, yesses canceled out that one little no?” she asked teasingly. I huffed and snatched my cigarette back, taking another deep inhale before holding up two fingers. “I want double my usual rate and free drinks at The Love Well’s bar until this is over.” It was hard to say no to Antimony, she always seemed to persuade me in the end. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t ensure it was worth the inevitable mental turmoil. “One and a half times your usual rate, free drinks until you finish, and I’ll do that thing you like next time you come around,” Antimony haggled. “One and three quarters my usual rate, and I’ll do the thing you like the time after that.” 15

DEATH DAINTILY â&#x20AC;&#x153;Deal,â&#x20AC;? Antimony hastily accepted. She had an even harder time saying no to me it seemed. I ground out the cigarette and began to put my clothes back on. It seemed that my bed would have to wait. I had a dead girl to see. I turned my eyes towards the stairwell, descending to the bottom floor and stepping out in the cold night. The streetlamps all around me casting everything in long shadows that seemed to swallow the street. A chilly wind blew and I turned up my collar at it before beginning my journey to the place where I was needed, the place where the body of a young woman lay. I followed the streets as far as they would take me, but the streets were only a small part of the city, and not one where this sort of thing would happen. I turned and went between two buildings, warehouses of no particular note or merit. The only reason they mattered to me was that they formed the alley that I now walked down. The alleys of a city were not pleasant places to be. Even at high noon on the brightest day, alleys were swamped with shadow and sin. On a moonless night like this, where only the light that poured in from the adjacent streetlights could hope to provide any illumination, it made everything darker still. The buildings to either side loomed as if to warn me that nothing good could be found here, that I should be scared of this place. In a place like this, a dead body did not seem out of place. In fact, I could argue that it completed the picture. Alleys were where the sins of a city bubbled up, reminding those who strayed from the main path what lies in store for them in the shadows. Here the corpse served as sin and warning both. With a swig of bourbon and a deep inhale that burned up half my cigarette, I prepared for the sight I knew to be inevitable as I turned into the alley. They say you never get used to seeing death. The truly frightening thing is that you do. I did. The first time I saw a corpse, the cold dead eyes had haunted my dreams for weeks. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even look at the eyes of the dolls and stuffed toys I saw in the toy store window without being reminded of those lifeless orbs. Now I looked at them and just noted that this woman had gone a little heavy on the mascara. It was not the pallor of the flesh, the lifeless eyes, or the spilled blood that disturbed me now. It was the memories of what they meant. And against the ghosts of my past, the flask dangling from my left hip did a lot more good than the gun dangling from my right. But not all memories of the past were tinged with sorrow, and not every person who found themselves in these dark, narrow straits was painted in sin. Sometimes a flower managed to pierce the concrete and bloom in the most unlikely places. Standing near the body was the flower rooted in the pavement, a small 16

Daniel Reschke bastion of purity in this world of sin. Her police woman’s outfit was the only thing here not coated in dirt and blood, including myself. The wreath of flowers adorning her cap were the only things of beauty in this dark place. “Riley,” I called out to her. Those pure eyes turned up to look at me. The hope that sparkled within them made me itch. Her sorrowful frown turned upwards into a happy smile that I knew my presence should not warrant. Still I felt my lips twitching in return as she nodded to me and said, “Ace, what a pleasure to see you. What are you doing here?” Once upon a time this girl and I had been colleagues. It had not been for long but I still remember the kindness and innocence of this little girl, new to the force. Though others were quick to take advantage of her good will and naivety, I had endeavored to treat her with respect, rewarding her kindness with my own. Under circumstances like those, it was not surprising that we had become fast friends. She admired my skill and diligence. She looked up to me. She wanted to be just like me one day and was always asking for advice on how to do it. For my part, I admired her intelligence and resolve. I could see her potential and did what I could to help her unlock it. I hadn’t gotten very far before we had parted ways, and of all the things I miss, of all the things I regret, she was among the biggest. It was nice to see her again, a breath of fresh air amongst the cigarette smoke and scent of blood. “Antimony asked me to help her with this. So I decided to come to the scene of the crime and see what I can figure out. I didn’t expect you to still be here,” I explained to her. “Oh... uhm, right. This was one of her...” the cop flushed, hesitant to say the word. She was so innocent, in every sense of the word. “One of her employees, wasn’t it,” she finished, unable to say the word in the end. “I found her a few hours ago. I was just at the station filing the report on it but... something was bugging me, so I came back.” I nodded along with her words. I could feel it too, a niggling little doubt that told me that not all was as it seemed. It was weird that Riley had felt the same, though her intuition was not nearly as strong as mine. Was the little inconsistency not so little after all? Or perhaps it was Riley’s logical side that was telling her that something was wrong, rather than any sort of intuition. The police woman couldn’t feel things in her gut like I could, but she was good at looking at things rationally and figuring out the problem that way. “At first I thought it was probably a... umm, you know. A client who had gotten angry at her for not doing... something that he wanted,” her eyes were glued to the ground in embarrassment as she talked. “But I don’t think that’s it. Her dress isn’t ripped and there aren’t any other apparent injuries. Plus the shot was too precise, too professional. It hit her exactly in the back of the head, killed her in an instant like someone was trying to. It can’t have been an accident.” 17

DEATH DAINTIILY “So who do you think did this?” I asked, looking down at the body and confirming her words at a glance. “You know the Perizioute family?” She began, speaking in the hushed whispers that everyone did when speaking about them. I nodded. They were, after all, one of the bigger mafia groups in the area. Though few people dared to speak of them, everyone seemed to have heard of them, as was common for those types. “What about them?” “I’ve been seeing one of their capos around an awful lot lately. From what I hear, they’re into pr-pr-pro-prost...” the police woman’s eyes darted back to the ground. “Prostitution,” I provided for her, knowing I’d be here all night if I let her do this in her own time. And I wanted to be far away from this body as soon as possible. Riley nodded, “so I figure maybe they did this because territorial issues or something. I don’t know.” I nodded. It was certainly possible. If it was true then there wasn’t much the police could do about it. But at least I could advise Antimony to make some sort of deal with them so it didn’t happen again. “So which of their capos have you been seeing?” “Pierce Caine is his name, he only recently became a made man so I don’t know much about him. Only that I see him way too often for him not to be up to something, and that he looks like a troublemaker,” the woman frowned, “he wears a daisy in his hat so that should help you know it’s him, but I have no idea where he might be at the moment.” I nodded. If he was Perizioute I had an idea where I could find him. “Thank you for your help,” I said, nodding with gratitude as I turned to leave. She looked at me, I could feel the slightly lonely gaze drilling into my back before she spoke. “Maybe when I’m not busy we could go for a coffee and doughnut sometime, just like the old days.” “I’d like that,” I said to her before leaving.

SERIALLY INCLINED Kevin Rault Well, it’s Friday evening. No miracles this week, and the two tablets of cyanide sit eerily calm on my bedside table. I glance out the window of her one-bedroom apartment onto rain-glistened streets, watching cars plow through untainted turn lanes and fishtail into hazy oblivion. The floor vibrates under our feet as a subway train speeds through the bowels of the city. “I ask myself every day why I subject myself to your burdensome love, you absolute son of a bitch.” She turns to me from the bed and calmly raises her middle finger, playing with a switchblade in her other hand. The blade used to be a stainless silver, but now she’s carving words into her arm. “I ask myself the same thing, you insufferable whore.” Her expressionless face continues to stare at her oozing forearm. “So,” I try, “who’s going first?” She sighs, lowers the knife, and raises her apathetic eyes to meet mine. “Whoever feels like it.” I stare out the window again, intending to remove her psyche from mine and become one with the outside as she mopes on the crimson-stained bedsheets. Traffic moves the same, the bus stop in front of her place is desolate apart from a single woman holding a large coat tight to her body as unrelenting wind shreds the autumn air to pieces. She steps back and forth impatiently and fidgets with the edge of her collar; her hope in waiting in pummeling rain for a bus that may never come is oddly endearing to me. So I keep watching. The cars grumble on, splashing immeasurable amounts of water onto sidewalks. The entire city looks like a macabre, acid rain wave pool. Across the street, a man in a brilliantly colored smock exits a paint mixing warehouse, and trips over the curb. The ensuing splash jostles loose the two buckets he’s holding, their contents blooming into the grotesque offspring of mustard yellow and navy blue that flows quickly down the street and into the mouths of nearby sewer grates. I can’t help but laugh, hitting my forehead against the windowpane with each silent curse the dark green man lets off as he manages to retrieve the empty buckets and continue to his ride. “What can possibly be so funny?” Torn back to reality. She is glaring at me with a capsule in her palm. “Oh, nothing, you wouldn’t get it.” 19

SERIALLY INCLINED Her face doesn’t falter an inch. “You’re probably right. Well, I guess I’ll be waiting for you. Down there.” She points impatiently to the ground, and I know where she means. I turn back to the window. The woman outside is unremarkable, yes, but something has changed. Her hand is up to her ear and a tiny glow emanates from the space in between. Another quaint feeling comes over me that maybe, just maybe, there’s another way out. I slowly crack the window a few inches, allowing the woman’s soft voice to flow into the cramped room. “...on my way home. The god damned bus is late again, and you know how long it takes anyway. I hate to say it, but can we rain check for another night? I was really hoping to see you.” I couldn’t hear it, but I knew what the man on the other end said back. Yeah, that’s okay, I understand. I really want to see you too, but maybe it’s best that we see each other on a brighter and warmer day. Pretty uncharacteristic to have this much drizzle in late September. “That’s very true. Let’s chalk it up to bad circumstances and see each other again, maybe tomorrow? I’m off work at seven and a coworker invited me to her place for a wine night, so if your evening is open...” The girl is dead and convulsing on the bed behind me. Now, you have to do it now. I mindlessly slide my phone out of my pocket and hold it up to my ear. “Actually, where are you right now?” I speak into the microphone as calmly and cooly as her real male counterpart. “I-I’m,” she stammered. The interruption was jarring, but effective. Hook. “It’s just that I made a great big dinner for the both of us that I’d rather not refrigerate if I don’t have to.” “Well, um, I’m at the bus stop on the corner Parkstone and 7th, right across from that express paint shop with the funny name.” “Every Brushstroke for Every Rushed Folk? That’s funny, that really is quite funny. I live at the Obelisk.” “Oh, the building right b-behind me?” She turns to look at the weary, malformed bricks that make up the second-rate complex. Line. “That’s right. The elevator man, Greg, real nice guy, he’ll let you right up to the fifth floor. I’m in 544, should be unlocked, you can let yourself right in. Just finishing up the saute.” I place the phone up against the dead girl’s mouth as it bubbles and foams. Sinker. 20

Kevin Rault “Wow, uh, sounds amazing! You’re right, I’d hate to miss. I’ll be right up!” Quite an interesting turn this time, I muse as I grab my last pack of smokes and twirl one cig between my fingers. When you love your job, you’ll never work a day in your life. I pocket the bloodstained knife and the remaining cyanide tablet; I’ll have to order a second one again soon if my facade is to be kept up. Seduce, kill, frame, seduce again. The elevator doors creak open on the first floor and I head through the lobby to the bus stop, intent on hopping a few cities and names. Of course, the position of perpetual deceiver includes an eye-catching travel package. I exchange a curt smile with the woman in the long black coat through the revolving door, the shimmering glass ushering her into the dry and myself into the wet. I keep smiling as she crosses the lobby to ask Greg to take her to the fifth floor, where her new lover is making an extravagant dinner for two.

THE PLASTIC KEY Eyob Urban Today marks his third month in the United States, and it was only getting worse for the six-year-old boy. He thought to himself, “What am I supposed to do? When do I go back home?” His adopted family tried to help him understand that he has a new family that loved him desperately and wanted him to enjoy his new home. They presented to him an array of things to do, from reading mystery books, getting dirty in the sandbox, to watching his favorite television show, “Wishbone.” They tried anything that would help him move forward. To the boy, nothing would be better than going back 7,584 miles across the world to his little house on a hot, unpaved, road. All he had were the memories that slowly slipped his brain, turning to distorted dreams. On a day that seemed to be another boring, agonizing day, the little boy woke up not knowing this day hid the secret to joy. While the boy was roaming aimlessly around this palace-like home, he stumbled on his siblings playing with odd-looking toys. These toys were rod-like with grooves running along the sides of them with special tips that allowed for a connector to link multiple rods together. They came in sizes big, medium, small, and tiny and each in grey, blue, yellow, and white respectively. The connectors were strange objects to glance at, but were simple in functionality. Some looked like snowflakes; others looked like ladders. The boy’s bored soul found something that reminded him of home. It reminded him of when he and his brother took their makeshift cars through the hot desert sand of Ethiopia or when they took a sword made of wires to the head of whoever was the antagonist. Except these toys weren’t made of recycled wires, they were made of hard, durable plastic. Oh, how he missed when he and his brother roamed around, not bound by an invisible fence that went around the perimeter of their green, suburban yard. They missed the freedom they had to run wild in unknown villages, forests with swamps, or the bustling city of Addis, Ababa. But as for the boy, the discovery of K’nex replaced his longing to do something with a key to unlocking his imagination. With this new skill to imagine, he could roam free to new places and remain inside the parameters of his new home. He no longer knew what boredom was. He would play for hours. Playing with these odd toys late into the night, sometimes two hours past his bedtime, until he would finally fall asleep at 10:00 p.m. after being exhausted from the best drum solo with 22

Eyob Urban drumsticks made of K’nex, or from driving in the Indy 500 with his K’nex steering wheel. He started being able to make distinctive objects out of them. “Look, Mama and Papa, look what I made!” exclaimed the boy. Gleaming down, his father laughed at the sight of the boy so proud of his one-dimensional house, shouting, “Oh, wow cool!” His mother followed along in the steps of her husband and said, “Good job Ian,” with a slightly unmoved face. The boy knew they weren’t sincere, but understood they were trying to be kind. However, this sparked an intense fire and will to create something more soothing to the eye, like the Empire State Building or the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Whatever it was going to be, to the boy this creation had to be perfect. The young boy hurried to his room, slamming the door shut, not out of anger but of an urgency to finish before the last stroke of midnight. His mind raced, so excited the boy didn’t know what to make or even where to start. After about ten minutes, he concluded he needed to start with destroying his other projects. It was sad, but he knew this project required as many pieces as he could scavenge. The moment after demolition, an idea came to him. A smirk, like that of an evil villain plotting his revenge, appeared at the corner of his mouth. Piece by piece his hands connected rods to connecters, connecters to rods. They moved so fast you would think his lineage must have had the sharpest, fastest shot in the West. It felt like with every connection an hour passed, as if time forgot its laws of the space-time continuum. He started with the base and slowly moved up, careful not to use the wrong colors. The project finally met its ending. The boy stood back and gazed at the work he had done. His mother walked in astonished at what her son had created. A job well done thought the boy as he saw his mother gawking at the accurate model of the Eiffel Tower. She yelled for the boy’s dad, “Daniel! Come and look at this.” “Woah! That’s impressive.” The boy saw only sincere admiration from his parents and felt a sense of accomplishment and joy. K’nex, and its “Connecting Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Math with Imagination,” led the boy to grow up knowing his passion for building and creating was worth chasing. Like all of us, the boy faced a dreaded decision of giving up a childhood toys due to the clock never ceasing to tick. He knew he had to get rid of the toys or play with them. He felt that they were going to waste collecting dust in his mother’s basement closet. To him these toys were more

THE PLASTIC KEY than plastic. They were keys that opened a world of creativity. He finally made the decision to give that old measly, dusty box of Kâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;nex to a juvenile detention center near Dubuque, Iowa, where his brother worked. He did it in hopes that some other kid lost in the land of boredom can experience the joys of lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s creativity.

THE ROBOTIC ARTIST: A SLEEP-DEPRIVED MORNING IN THE LAB Sam Breese The young man pulled his badge from the retractable lanyard and swiped it in front of the electronic door lock. The little LED on the front changed from red to green, and the black box let out a small buzz. The young man let go of the badge and it zipped back to its home on his hip. Stepping through the door and taking a sip of bitter, black coffee from his metal Contigo thermos, he scanned the shadow-cast lab. Light poured in from the tall windows of the second-floor hallway above. Sometimes, when tour groups would pass by and peer in through those windows, he felt like a goldfish swimming around in a little glass jar, there only for peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s amusement. He let out a yawn, took another big swig of coffee from his thermos, and flicked on the light switch beside him. The fluorescent lights flickered momentarily, then suddenly burst to life, dispelling the darkness draped about the room. The floor was a dull gray color with a shiny gloss coating that brightly reflected the overhead lights. Scattered throughout the room were large, sturdy workbenches with thick wooden tops, each of which had an aggressively fluorescent green vice bolted to the corner and heavy metal drawers that opened to reveal wrenches, screwdrivers, hammers, tape measures, calipers, pliers, and any other tool a young aspiring engineer could dream of. Walking to his bench, he hefted the back-breaking textbooks inside his backpack onto the wooden top with a dull thud. As usual, he was the first person in the lab and had been the last one to leave the night before. Pulling his laptop from his bag, he let out another yawn, took another sip of coffee, and wiped the sleep from his baggy eyes. He lazily drifted his head from side to side, examining all the half-finished projects in the room, as his old brick of a computer took its time starting up. Between each workbench were large aluminum tables. The tables were an aesthetically pleasing shade of burnished silver and the tabletops were enclosed with rigid, transparent, plastic panels. Trapped inside the see-through cages were small electric conveyors, laser sensors with long black wires, and red pneumatic tubing hooked up to air cylinders. Each tabletop cell had something unique. In one, there was a large round table designed to rotate, indexing parts to precise positions. Another had a hand-built metal tower with deburring tools strapped to the top. One was filled with Starburst candy and a vacuum sealer that packaged them into small plastic baggies. Each cell had one thing in common though, the centerpiece of it all â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the robot. All the other equip25

THE ROBOTIC ARTIST: A SLEEP-DEPRIVED MORNING IN THE LAB ment in the cell circled around the robot arm, like servants bowing to their king. Even two years later, the young man was still in awe of the machine. The LR Mate 200iD painted in classic FANUC yellow was the most magnificent piece of human ingenuity he had ever seen. He still remembers his first day with one. He felt amazed that such a powerful piece of equipment was so easily tamed. He remembered feeling slightly creeped out, but intrigued, by the robot’s movements. He had believed that a robot would be clunky and move awkwardly, in a manner so eloquently demonstrated by the famous dance move. However, this did not look anything like his inebriated father cutting a rug at his cousin’s wedding. Instead, the robot was fast and fluid in its movements, but also slow and calculated when it reached to pick its prey. It reminded the young man of a heron craning its long neck around above the water before suddenly piercing deep into the depths to snag its prey. He was snapped from his flashback by his goatee-faced, thick glasses wearing professor, Peter, entering the room and giving him an enthusiastic good morning in his thick German accent while removing his coat. Peter approached the young man and, feigning a sincere tone, sarcastically asked him if he had spent the night there. “These benches don’t have much lumbar support,” the young man said in a snarky tone. Peter let out a deep, hearty laugh and smacked his hand on the bench. “Good man,” he said and walked away still giggling to himself. The clock dragged forward as his classmates gradually shuffled in around him. The young man leaned on his bench staring towards his laptop screen, but not really looking at it, as his mind stepped through his process for the ten-thousandth time that week. Sometimes, his ideas flowed perfectly into each other, like a coordinated team of athletes passing the baton in a relay race. Other days, his ideas ricocheted around his head uncontrollably, like his brain was a kid hopped up on sugar ramming into people on the bumper cars at the carnival. If today was a day at the carnival, he was the strung-out mother desperately scavenging the bottom of her purse for a stray Advil to relieve her pounding migraine. Before his schooling, he could never have believed so much preparation could go into creating a robot program. He first had to spend a Friday afternoon driving to the massive automotive factory in Pewaukee, before he could even think about writing a single line of code. Someone’s entire job was to stand in one spot and assemble four plastic pieces into a tiny valve. He watched the worker diligently, recording every detail of the seven-second process in his little red Mead notebook, like a reporter who had just discovered the story of a lifetime. He turned those notes into task lists, flowcharts, and layouts, which he then spread out across his whiteboard; that really made him feel like a professional. He pulled himself from his thousand-yard stare daydreaming and looked 26

Sam Breese around the room to see if his classmates’ brains were operating at a higher efficiency than his that day. Phil and Travis were arguing again about what type of gripper they should use for their gas cap assembly. Brandon had a huge grin on his face as he made a pun to David about their rotary table being a real pain in the “ro-butt.” David said nothing in response to the atrocious pun, but made a face that was a mixture of disgust and disappointment. The young man turned from his workbench and cranked the large red power lever on his cell into the “ON” position with a deep clunk. Various asynchronous beeps chirped from inside the power cabinet as each electrical device slowly woke from its slumber. He picked up the handheld teach pendant used to control the robot. The screen flashed white, then went dark, then came back to life; this time scrolling long lines of black text across a white background at a rate that was far too fast for any human to read. The screen faded black once more, showing the reflection of a physically exhausted, mental battered, and emotionally drained young man, before finally loading the home screen. He opened his program and jogged the robot through its positions; finding the spot where he was forced to resign at the night before when his rebellious body refused to continue operating on chicken-flavored Maruchan ramen, half a pot of cold coffee, and the sheer willpower of a desperate college student feeling the deadline of his senior project crashing down on him. The robot moved slowly and cautiously as it picked up a small plastic ring, then with its prize held, rapidly accelerated to its next position. A smile slowly stretched across the young man’s face as he watched his robot swing across the cell with extreme precision. Suddenly, the dam had broken, ideas began overflowing from his mind like a waterfall into a shot glass. He knew most people probably found the idea odd, but this robot was his outlet of creativity; he felt like an artist with it in his control. He felt a sense of limitless potential when he controlled this robot-no different than a painter with a blank canvas laid out before them or a writer staring down an empty sheet of white paper. There was an infinite number of programs to be created, but more importantly, an infinite number of ways to create them. Others would only see the end result; however, the artist sees the process. The finesse of a brushstroke or the precision of a perfect robot pick, these are the unseen moments of creativity, a relationship meant only for an artist and their medium. He saw the culmination of each individual brushstroke blending together. He was Dali, and this was his masterpiece.

UNDERNEATH THE NIGHT’S SKY: A SEA-SALT BREEZE Victoria Lowery “Chick,” the sound of a lighter sparks up a Newport 100 cigarette. The dense smoke slowly creeps out, filling the bright-red Toyota Prius. “Ugh, crack a window,” Victoria mutters under her breath, gagging at the burnt stench that’s enveloped in her mouth. Her best friend, Roy, turns his head and laughs. Roy was a peculiar man, caught up in the throes of youth and rebellion. The top layer of his hair is dyed jet black, lazily swooping it all on the top of his head, and the complete underneath was shaved. He is slightly overweight from his lack of exercise and love of beer, and always wears loud-colored clothing, flaunting his unique style. No matter how strange his look progresses, Victoria loves him anyways. Her love grows more and more as he learns to express himself. When he was a child, the only thing he did was make other people happy, at the expense of his own happiness. He never stood up for himself or expressed himself the way he wanted to, but Victoria got to watch him grow into a man who deserved to put himself first, to scream his personality from the top of his lungs. His uniqueness is the epitome of strength – a man not hiding himself from the world but becoming the embodiment of his resolves. In a world like this, expressing himself, is the mightiest feat. Roy’s soft-green eyes peak out through his thick framed glasses at Victoria, “When are you going to get over me smoking,” he asks jokingly. Victoria shakes her head and laughs. “Don’t smoke yourself to death,” she says mockingly, wagging her finger at him. Fourteen hours deep into this car ride from Wisconsin to Galveston, Texas, and Roy’s almost smoked a whole a pack, cigarette after cigarette. “I’m going to go crazy if I hear that damn lighter flick again,” Victoria thinks, tension building in her shoulders. They pull up to a Valero gas station, a gas station they’ve never seen nor heard of before. The gas station had a soft-blue sign out front with Valero spelled chaotically on it in white, and the lettering looked like it had been stolen from a ‘90s dance-exercise VHS tape. Victoria jumps out of the cramped Prius, stretching her entire body, feet to the ground and hands touching the sky. Her body sings out in relief as every vertebra in her back cracks, and her legs un-cramp. The cement blocks on her shoulder’s dissipate as she rolls her shoulders back. As they enter the retro gas station, they notice blue streaks of color are painted on the white walls, and electric hot-pink jagged lines shoot through them. 28

Victoria Lowery The aisles are littered with burst of colors from the snacks and drinks alike. Victoria and Roy’s eyes meet and with a head nod, they both know what they want – a Monster. They make their way through the maze of aisles and approach the energy drinks. There was a plethora of options: coffee, fruity, or tea-flavored. Victoria is quick to decide, practical in nature. She doesn’t care much for “extra.” She is fine with the original and doesn’t like to waste time deciding which flavor would complement her mood. Roy, on the other hand, flamboyant as always, sifted through the flavors. Will it be pineapple this time, or coffee, berry, or lemon tea? What flavor will complement his day or bolster his spirit? As he picks one up, he sets it down, indecisive as ever. His thick pointed finger jumps between so many, as if he is singing eeney-meeny-miney-moe in his head. Finally, the finger lands on an off-white can, with a frosted layer on it. The monster symbol is ice blue as if to make the entire can look like it was dug out of an iceberg. Pineapple flavored it is, a smile of relief now on his face. As they approach the registers to get in line, they notice an older man standing in front of them. “What a strange appearance he has,” Victoria thinks. The man is maybe 50 to 60 and is wearing an off-white, long-sleeved, button-up shirt, with small striped peach lines intersecting on it. It is tightly tucked into his bootcut jeans over his beer belly. His dark-tan belt is holding up his soft-blue Levi jeans with light-white lines cracking through the fabric. The jean pant legs are stuffed into tight boots that nearly reach to his knees. The boots come to a round point, and fine-tan thread outline the sides and creates an intricate pattern where his calf is. Alligator-skin patterns appear on the boots, soft-orange and dark-brown. When you hear a stereotype about an area, you usually chalk it up to myth, legend, or a rude analysis on a certain type of person, but not here! This man is a stereotypical Texan, his grey-handlebar mustache hangs over his staunch-pinched lips, and his skin is weather-and-worn from the beating sun. Does this man own a farm or have cattle? How Texan is he? A slight chuckle emerges from Victoria. The Texan approaches the register and checks out, buying a cigar from behind the counter and gas for his older beat-up Ford pick-up truck. Victoria and Roy approach the register next, hastily paying to leave. They both jump back into the car to endure the last bit of this long drive, excitement building within their chests. Roy looks over at Victoria, a full grin adorning his face. “Thirty more minutes, and we’re there!” he says. Victoria rolls her window down and the thick 90-degree weather blows in, making her long mahogany-brown hair flutter in the breeze. As the breeze blows in, the slightest hint of sea-salt is carried on the wind. The city starts to break apart, and there it is – the ocean. Once the Prius is parked, they jet out of the car, running towards the beach. The moment Victoria hits the sand, her feet sink in, and a chilled breeze 29

UNDERNEATH THE NIGHT’S SKY: A SEA-SALT BREEZE carried off the ocean blows her hair back as the sun beats down warming her cool air-conditioned skin. She approaches the water and sits down where the tide meets the shore. As the waves come in, her body rocks with the motion of the water, getting pulled in and pushed away. When the tide recedes, it exposes a treasure trove of bright-colored shells and rocks that bedazzle the soft-tan colored sand. Victoria scouts the land around her – the beach is empty. It is just her and Roy. How could this be? On such a lovely warm day, why would no one be here with them? Maybe in Texas, people are so used to being by the water that it doesn’t excite them anymore, doesn’t give them cause to go out. If Victoria and Roy lived there, they would visit the ocean almost everyday if they could. Victoria rolls her head back and closes her eyes, absorbing the sun shining down. The breeze softly wraps around her body, and the water washes up and down her legs. She feels little particles of sand swirling in the water, tracing along her skin, and a seagull flies by overheard, squawking as it goes. Victoria stands up and decides to walk along the shore, admiring the beauty of the setting. The sky is a soft baby-blue with clouds smeared across it, like cotton balls that have been pulled apart. White-sea foam dances on top of the ocean, connected like an intricate spider’s web and ripples of waves roll in, leaving smooth indents on the beaten sand. The sand swiftly morphs to the tide’s shape, dancing a romantic waltz. Their bodies are pressed together moving in perfect synchronicity, slowly matching each other’s steps. As one steps forward, the other steps back. This is the unison of the land and sea, the meeting point of two star-crossed lovers. This beauty is what painters capture in their artwork, what poets write about. Beauty like this is why people believe heaven is a place, something like this could only be created by the gods. As the sun slowly sets, the soft-white moon peaks out and the stars start sparkling. Victoria sits down on her beach towel, gazing at the setting sun, while Roy’s off in the distance, standing in the ocean, cigarette in hand. She lays down, happy it’s night. No matter how much she loves the day, she loves the night more. There’s something so exotic about the quietness of the sleeping world, covered in darkness, while the cool-white light of the moon shines down. She closes her eyes and listens to the melodic sound of the ocean. To Victoria, there’s nothing more perfect then being by the sea, laying underneath the night’s sky, as sea-salt hangs in the breeze.

THE HEAVY ARTISANAL MUG: FILLED WITH FAKE PROMISES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS Judith Campos It was a day during Holy Week, one of the most celebrated weeks in Hispanic and Latin American countries. The sky in San Gabriel had whirls of pinks, mixed with purples, making the yellow radiance from the sun stand out. If the world was ending, the sight of the sky would make it peaceful. The lectures of the priest and the responses of prayers from the church crowd was inevitable to hear, yet it did not take away the noise from the artisanal marketers. You could find close to any product – piggy banks, unicorns with sparkly horns in any shade you could imagine, three-feet high “El Chavo” cartoon characters, red, green and purple dinosaurs, all with slits large enough for your money; pots with heart shaped stands; mini, small, medium and large clay pitchers; bowls for posole and menudo and plates all made by hand and sold on the plaza outside of the church. The amused girl savored the scene of colors, wishing to buy everything, but she realized she neither had the money or space. She strolled beside Abraham who was a whole head taller than she was and much skinnier. Sometimes, she would look up at Abraham hoping to see him as amused as herself, but his slight frown always made him look bored. His lack of amusement had the ability to make you feel guilty. She ignored his indifference thinking maybe he was tired or had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed and continued enjoying the scene. It is tradition to buy loved ones ceramic pieces so, as they turned the corner searching for a gift, he saw them. The round, six-inch wide by four-inch high mugs. She observed the smooth crimson-colored mug that could pass as a cereal bowl with a handle. Realistically, they all could pass as cereal bowls. The mugs were like the ones held gloriously by Instagram influencers or pinned on snazzy Pinterest boards. They would be perfect mugs for rich, Swiss Miss hot chocolate and mini floating marshmallows in January and on days when you contemplate the pleasurable furnace heat. The unique cereal mugs shined of glossy colors — crimson, black, green and blue. The smoothness of the mugs was soothing, like brand new bowls from Target that you would not likely buy, but the smooth and delicate ceramic made them feel special. The artisanal mug was somewhat heavy, and holding it from the handle felt like a risk. The couple was shocked and surprised by the size and the price, yet they still purchased them. She chose the crimson-colored mug, the color of her wine-colored Honda Accord, the same color her mom had always 31

THE HEAVY ARTISANAL MUG: FILLED WITH FAKE PROMISES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS been fond of. If wine was to be poured in the mug, it would blend in. When the mug was turned upside down, the white ridge of the base was visible. The bottom circular ridge of the mug felt like dry rough edges of a clay pot made by a kindergartener who purposely missed a spot to glaze. If the mug were broken, the colors of the particles would be dried blood with white bone, it was perfect. The couple had always wanted to “twin,” and not be cringy, so he chose the blue mug that reminded both of them of Pocoyo’s hat. The thought of them walking home once again with mugs full of fresh milk and newly bought Corn Puffs elated her soul. She remembered how he had told her before, with a smile, that he had never eaten cereal while walking a girlfriend home. Would they be bonded by a couple of mugs? What about the checkered Vans they both wanted? Was he feeling the same happiness she did when holding the mug? Had the spark between them been lit again? They could have chosen any mug, but the abnormal size of the mug fulfilled their desires of ownership. As she and Abraham arrived at his house, the bitter aroma of coffee filled the air. His mom was standing by the counter astonished by the size of the mugs. Whenever the girl was alone with Abraham, she was affectionate, but he would attempt to distance himself. She would try to share happenings with him, but he would be oblivious, floating in his thoughts. Maybe one day they will click as they did before. Abraham would seldom share his feelings, the girl would have to guess the reason of his frustrations. Most of the time, Abraham’s frustrations were due to his lack of confidence, his thought of her cheating, playing with his feelings would conquer his emotions. Unknowingly, they were both deeply unhappy. At least if the relationship ended, the euphoria from smashing the mug would be immense. Not even ripping or tearing a couple of shoes could compare to breaking a fragile mug. Day by day the girl looked at the mug and its shiny paint. She did not only love the size, she also loved the simplicity of the mug and the fact that he gave it to her. She cherished how she and Abraham owned similar mugs; in her mind it was a simple way to say I love you. She saw the mug as a pledge to keep trying and give full effort into the dying relationship. When leaving the house, she would glimpse at the empty mug’s shine, but the girl would return to her grandparent’s house, disheartened, gazing confusedly at the mug. How could she let an object symbolize the love he had for her? This was the first, only, and the last gift he would ever give her. Her new favorite cereal bowl, filled with fake promises and disappointments, made her realize that it was time to let go

Judith Campos of Abraham. When she went back home to the United States, the mug went too. Holding the delicate ceramic six-feet above the ground, she thought about smashing it and watching all the little pieces become useless, but she could not break it. The mug held memories and strong emotions, so there was no need for it to hold Corn Puffs, too.

FISHERMAN IN THE VINEYARD Brent Golden The trip to the shore, like many before has left only anticipation for peace and quiet. The ferry boat and bicycle rental services are your ticket to a private spot on this island, Martha’s Vineyard. Whether the morning sunrise or evening dusk, the sun seems indistinguishable from the two times. The salt air brings summer closer to the senses as the saw grass grows larger in view. I was standing atop dunes of sand colored like organic sugar, speckled with pebbles much like rogue coffee grounds in the sugar bowl. A hand-me-down tackle box – rusted around the edges and disorganized with years of collected lures and other fishing items – tends to sway as I walk toward the small pathway through the dunes, outlined only by small pieces of driftwood acting as planks. I always reach out to touch the saw grass as I set up a makeshift camp by the rocks. The serrated edge of the grass dances across my fingertip, reminding me its tendency to cut into my skin. I pull my hand back to re-arrange my belongings, which have been falling loosely as I walk uphill over the soft sand. The waves dance along the shore with rhythmic sounds soothing to the soul. The sun is already shining bright, but the clouds provide me with a little relief once in a while – a welcome interloper on this exposed coastline. Going downhill, now the real beauty of the beach settles in. This beach is not like every beach; it is secluded and untouched. I stand to witness that which many explorers before me have seen, nature in its most comfortable form – feels almost timeless as I descend into a world that could have easily been left the same way from two hundred years ago. Making my way closer to the ocean, the memory of my grandfather slowly sips into my young mind. I still remember clearly how we used to go fishing on the island every summer weekend. It feels just like yesterday, as if I can still hear his voice echoing from a distance. He is the one who taught me not only how to fish, but also how to enjoy the experience of fishing. His old habit of using squid as bait, then getting extremely optimistic about having a good catch, but finally facing disappointment of going home empty-handed still resonates with me as the smell of the ocean is getting stronger and stronger. Braving the breakers is the next step, climbing down a steep soft hill and across blazing sands, then the slick, pointy rocks must be properly navigated. With gear in arm the process is anything but quick, and the perfect spot is here some34

Brent Golden where – a rock flat enough to sleep on, large enough to host your getaway, all while getting as close to the water as possible so not to tangle the line. It does not take long to find a place where I will begin to setup my spot of solitude, far over the point of land into the ocean’s surf with nothing under my feet but these man-placed rocks. The ocean mist sprays each time a wave hits a rock; trapped pockets of air spew forth much like a man who drank from a soda can that someone had put their cigarette out in. With my eyes set out to the water like Captain Ahab looking for the great white whale over the endless ocean, I open my travel bag which holds my disassembled fishing pole. Piece by piece I take it out in a set of three that snaps together perfectly and strongly. My last piece to fit onto the rod, the PENN reel, a brand that makes a great name amongst fishermen, the star player on my team of instruments. The line from the reel is carefully fed through the five rings along the pole, measured slightly as not to make it too long to avoid needing to cut the line and starting the process over again. The red metal tackle box is noisy as I open it and the hinges are rustier than the Titanic sitting on the ocean floor. “It is what the box holds that is important,” I would say to myself. The weights, which also are known as sinkers to fishermen, are the first thing to attach higher up on the line. I always feed the line through the loop of the weight until it is nearly to the top of the poles. Next, it is important to tie the hook off at the end as securely as possible, as it will be challenged soon by many hungry sea critters for the delicious yet nauseating squid meat I have chosen to use as bait. After skewering the bait onto the hook, I say to myself halfheartedly and out loud: “The fish are going to love it.” Now I am prepared to cast. Standing up straight, I bring the fishing pole over my dominant shoulder and always watch carefully in order not to accidentally hook something that may not fare so well in the sea. I wait a moment in this pose to look for the perfect spot in my mind, ideally, a spot cleared from any rocks that may interfere with me reeling in my catch. I bring my pole down overhead with the force of a medieval executioner and release the line as the familiar sound of the reel, rapidly letting the line out, is a success to my ears. The sinker and bait hit the water nearly simultaneously with a small splash that seems to be but a nonexistent ripple in the vastness of the ocean. Now the fun really begins. For hours, I play a game of cat and mouse with Poseidon. I slowly reel in the brass colored PENN reel. A nibble was felt, I thought, although it often feels that way with the current pulling on the line. I cast my line for the last time, hungry, relaxed, eager to pack up the disheveled tackle box, watching the tide rise as it is almost time to get back to the ferry boat before dark. No fish had bitten. It is an unfortunate side of fishing, but the adventure isn’t really about the fish, unless you are trying to survive. In fact, in some ways, I am a little relieved I did not need to maim an innocent fish just to carry it three 35

FISHERMAN IN THE VINEYARD hours home to be eaten. No, today I came for the outdoors, the peace, and the quietness which I have ultimately experienced. With everything packed away in the same order in which it came out, I begin to make my way back to the bike in order to return it to the rightful owner. The ferry is making its last call back to the mainland as I look back at the now shrinking island in the distance. “Next time, maybe I will bring lunch and a friend...” I think to myself “but probably not.”

P O E T RY

REGRETS Raven Fabal I’m on my way to somewhere else, From where I might have been. My memory’s full of pictures, Of things I’ve never seen. I see that love surrounds me, But still, I yearn for what was lost. And no matter how dear the memories, I cannot pay the cost. A turn of phrase, a few notes of a song, A certain shade of blue, Bring back moments I regret, Things I did or did not do. In silent dreams I’m haunted, And my wounds, as raw as before. Whilst every day, to just fit in, I don my mask once more. No use to bare my soul and tell, My melancholic tale of woe, For few can even hear me, From where I’ve sunk so low. But I send my voice now, in poems and prose, To all of you, my spirit kin Who feel forsaken, bruised and battered Alone and bleak within.

Raven Fabal Don’t follow my path, it’s paved with shards, Of broken dreams and blood. Fight for your own life, starting today, I’d go back and save mine if I could. Give yourself this gift, just save yourself, And find a way not to drown. Hold your breath and fight your way up, To the surface, as I sink down. The only thing that can redeem, The horrors I have seen, Is knowing my words might save even one Of you from what my life has been.

SPACE ON A TRAIN Marit K. Bastian Marylin Monroe Rolls Over in her golden grave like cold models roll cigarettes. Anorexia and Fatfullbreastedrenaissancegoddesseslaugh arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Bodies just vessels That transport the soul So I want to know How we care most about The Amount Of Space We Take Up On A Train

THE SPARROW QUEEN Nora-Kathleen Berryhill Remember the black-and-gold feathered wings slipping softly through chilled morning air. Remember the spritely shadow she leaves flitting over wet patches of Earth as she flies, beak pointing north, glass eyes dark and depthless. Remember those brief seconds when the world is weightless, and her grey underbelly bristles in the wind, each tiny feather waging a formidable war against gravity. Remember how she soars with the practiced grace of a trapeze artist, how she hears the silent symphony of freedom with every lithe movement, how she reigns over infinite stretches of cloud and sky â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I was the Sparrow Queen. Transformed from the flickering embers of urban life, I rose out of the smog and flew, unfettered, until my ephemeral joy was greeted by a window pane and yet another muffled surrender.

A WARNING FROM A FELLOW BEAST Andrew Swanson Oh sirens shall weep, into the darkness they seep, lost in the void of a shadowed hand, as fires burn out across the promised land. As planets shatter, into the origin matter, lowly creatures lost what was given, to be sent to another creature clan. To consume the earth, to destroy the hearth, to fall out of the hands of nirvana, to fall into the chopping grounds of the apocrypha. When the darkness can no longer be slain, risen from the charcoaled remain, as her magicy declares war once more, to return her mystic home. This the fate of all who stand in the way, of gods that wish no delay, of apocalypse never to miss, as results of incorporated bliss. In darkness they fall, in solace to the final water wall, to take bases near the hall, in sign of the corrupted thrall. For a savior to never suffer the ordain, forever trapped in the hellscaped remain, for the end of the tale has come, as all creatures enter the ending fight to survive. And the angels will do their joyous dance, of a new world to come into place, starting with a beautiful trace of before, to rid the current composer. All good comes after bad, no matter what has been planned, so never fear the inevitable recovery, but fear questions if us mammals remain after this century.

COULD BE ANYWHERE Alice Ripberger COULDBEANYWHERE seeps from every seam of siding along with Comfort Food and Help with Homework. I heard Nothing about it before I moved there – an accurate description for what I’ve seen: a whole town sweetly humming under silence.

Coyotes call along the periphery of town lines: both thin and tangled as mama’s hair which is box-dyed the color of the pavement seeped in streetlight: yellowed.

The teacher placed a clear sheet over the other on the projector – coloring the contours and illuminating the answers.

Flicking away the silence that has settled onto my fingertips like snow, I peer at the yellowed transparency pulled over these streets each night, the same one that is pulled over mama’s head to hide her roots, pulled over the elderly books in the public library, pulled over the leaves in autumn before the first frost whisks it away.

ID IS REQUIRED Matt Dippong That’s when the cannibalism started. We changed your name while you were sleeping – Here’s to the momentum of our lives that brings us all together. When she sleeps is when they panic. I feel like I know her, but sometimes my arms bend back. I like to remember things my own way. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness – So it goes. The spring breeze cut off in a flash of lightning. I stand on my head and watch it all go away. Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together. (Any other use constitutes fraud) The cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet – You get in close and the textures are wonderful. The way the sunlight plays upon her hair… Walking around in those questions is fun. All I ever wanted help with was you. No hay banda. Try to never get drunk outside yr own house. Look for weaknesses in the rock It may be the wrong decision, but fuck it, it’s mine..

NEVER STOOD A CHANCE Megan Anderson Stepped upon a new place, but burdens of my own personality break my back. Ready to crack Ready to snap Ready to break my own back. If acceptance is what we search for, why search so long for it in one place? When it was there all along. We just didn’t take the time to stay. Please stay a bit longer time, and analyze the lie. Why must we tell ourselves so many lies? Lies of the unknown. Lies told to us by our own eyes. Not good lies. Transparent when paired with a mind and a bleeding heart. When I decide to sit and take time, another voice inside my head takes the words that are said.

“Hey kid, don’t die just yet. Look around hear the sound of your own mind, and find the time, enjoy the time. Live in the moment, seize the moment, don’t look back at your opponents, They didn’t care enough to have your back.” They didn’t care enough to have your back. They didn’t have the time to care enough to have your back.

NEVER STOOD A CHANCE Love is never far away, some people have it tough and have to search. Search mad, and you will find it, Lad. You know you never stood a chance.

SACRED DREAM Josie Hernandez A dream with constellations in a soul Bound by ruins Full of depth and sorrow Where darkness forces light to stay dim Where petals droop and crumble to ash Ash to cover scars That never die In spite, constellations of stars radiate much so Radiate the night Radiate dark sorrows Raise me so high, forget not Forever bloom, that sacred dream

THE NECESSITY OF A MAP Jessica Goerling i wish that i had learned when i was younger how to direct the sinuous wanderings of my mind back to where they need to go i have been chased off the path by those creatures called “expectations” and “disappointment” and their heavy shadows follow me my legs are strong and my hands are quick and i can see lovely patterns in the world and if only i could get back on the path, if only i could even remember what it looked like in the first place i could read a map, if i had been taught, had been given one i only need a map, and a little more time to catch up

IN MY HOUSE Emily Lutz In my house you must not ring the doorbell. Ringing the doorbell is Very Upsetting and I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like it. I will scream at you if you ring it. I will probably scream at you anyway, but you must endure this patiently, as well as endure me trying to tackle you in my excitement when you come in the door and punching you in the face with my face. It is a Gesture of Affection. In my house, when you sit down to talk with my roommates and have cookies and tea you must drop some crumbs for me, (no really, you must, no matter what my roommates tell you it will do to my digestive system). If you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t, I will sit in front of you and stare accusingly, you who do so trifle with my tender and easily-bruised heart by eating in front of me without sharing. In my house if you should need the bathroom you shall patiently submit to being followed and are not allowed to close the door. I must be in the bathroom with you and I must be allowed to rudely shove my head under your bottom as you do your necessary so I may smell your pee and form my own opinion on its unique bouquet (garnering insights upon which I shall remain forever mum). In my house when you depart, I will follow you to the door, trying to shove my whole body through the opening to follow you. I shall watch you go and cry pathetically as if my heart has been Irrevocably Broken, only to be mended when I glimpse the saucy flick of a tail outside and forget my terrible sense of loss in order to scream at the uninvited guest until he leaves.

A TRANSPOSITION IN MARCH Nolyn Gilstrap A package masked in chaos and despair. The time that left me wanting everything I did not have and nothing that I did. Brain dead. Chest heavy. Limbs stiff. Future gone, gone, gone. Encompass me in layers of calluses, Waking up to show the universe that: I am strong. I am steady. I am brave. I am crying on the floor in the shower, Heat pouring down my cheeks, choking on steam deep within my lungs. I felt you grow inside my womb. The first movements building until I could no longer Feel comfortable in my own skin. I named you “Peace”: As a hope. As a foreshadowing. As a desperate prayer. As a declaration of the feeling of your being inside of me, Your entrance into our atmosphere, Your tiny body on my bare chest. “Peace, peace!” I begged. Peace was given to me, And I am transposed.

ROTTEN Hailey Griffin You are a piece of meat. To dangle over the dog when he is hungry for flesh from the outside, they cannot tell that you are rancid your disguise rots as the wounds from their fangs cause infection and the pus runs freely. You let it lick her clean! Taste her fury, her pain, her salt. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re surrounded, but you will allow it. What a waste it would be to not consume every morsel.

3 FACEBOOK STATUSES BY MY AUNTIE KAYOKO, POORLY TRANSLATED BY AN ALGORITHM Cameron Schneberger 1. I don’t want to go to school… even though I’m off for another school. A child who is depressed and walks. (Our town is not temporarily closed by a virus.) Your grandma is still feeling disgusted when the sound of a plane is coming. Let’s get that story to grandma. I don’t want to go to school. Other schools are closed. (But our mayor decided not to close schools. This is big news.) Today is 75th anniversary of the Tokyo firebombing. You are lucky you can go to school. Your grandma is still nervous when she hears an airplane sound. Play with friends, learn. Let’s ask grandma. 2. As every night there was an object that shines in the sea. Town officials went to the sea at a night. This amaranth appeared. Looked like a mermaid, but the mouth was a beak and from the neck to the bottom was covered in scales, and it was a three-legged leg. It says to officials I am the flax living in the sea! The last 6 years the harvest continues, but if the plague is trending, I will draw my appearance, show the picture to people early, and it went back to the sea. 3. We are not lucky to love each other. But if we do, let’s speak it. 52

TWENTY SEVEN MILES NORTH Zoe Andrew Each night like clockwork I sit in the middle of the purple bed. Putting my arms around my knees. Tonight three bowls of ice cream lie melted and gooey. My tears sting my red hot cheeks. As I wonder where has the time gone. The ceiling flakes off as my father laughs with his wife upstairs. She was a fine woman but never the same. As my mother paces in her house twentyseven miles north. To smile, I thought of the bright red roses my mother bought me when I had my first soccer game. In my heart and ears I listen to a raucous melody. Almost loud enough for my brother to hear. He smashes buttons against his enemy on his controller in the next room.

RESTAURANT CODE SWITCHING IS LIKE Denae Brown “oh, absolutely!” it’s my line when politely agreeing to a white man’s demands, lemon water, hot! “of course!” suffocating my aints wannas and gonnas “this dish is more delicate” also known as this dish is small as fuck don’t get it welcome! to you what’s good? to them hiding my tattoos while my hoodie that says “I love my blackness and yours” is in my backpack in the back toning down my blackness to not offend we scream: pro-black is not anti-white we scream: black lives matter we scream: listen to my words we scream: stop killing us PLEASE at work we fake laugh at dad jokes we’ve heard a thousand times, we pretend your ancestors didn’t own mine we pretend like your “where are you from?” isn’t laced with “what’s your race?” and “do you belong here?” yes. yes, sir I do. do you?

UNABLE Katherine Wagner Too much caffeine? Is it what you ate? The stress of things? Five consonants, Four vowels, Three variations, Two eyes, One noun. Too many blankets or not enough? Is it an empty stomach? The nothingness of night? Five pillows thrown, Four electronics off, Three books gleam in shadow, Two lids heavy, One night light for fears. Enough medication? Is it the mind versus body? Everything at once? Five days, Four hours left, Three faces tick, Two windows defog, One being collapses away.

RAW Maleah Riniker My tears fall as if they are meteorites, breaking through the atmosphere. So abruptly. All at once, leaving me bare. And once the shower stops I conform akin to a nova.

A RT WO R K

REAL

Megan Klinger Colored Pencil

IF BLIND TOM WERE ALIVE TODAY

Merle Sternberg Oil on Canvas

TI NV NA DA

Alyssa Daniels Ink

GEORGE CLINTON

Eric Taggart Acrylic on Canvas

FLYING SUCCESS

Hyunmi Park Oil on Canvas

LORD FORGIVE ME

Steven Andriantsiratahina India Ink

WONDERLAND Tabitha Dahl

Acrylic and Resin on Canvas

RUN SISTER

Armando Reyes Acrylic on Canvas

INTROVERT Eric Taggart Graphite Pencil

SEPARATION Baotran N. Vo Oil on Canvas

UNDER THE SEA Ellie B. Froelich

Ceramic, Acrylic Paint, Ewe Root

BRIDE AND HER MOTHER Merle Sternberg Ink

SPIDER SHIELD Jamieson Pauls

Metal, Wood

SIREN OF THE DEEP Nikki Johnson Acrylic on Canvas

SNOOP DOGG

Silke Van Der Weide Oil on Canvas

UNDERWATER BLUES

Quinn Buckner Ceramic

AWAKEN

Ellie B. Froelich Ceramic, Acrylic Paint

FAMILY AT SHABBAT TABLE Merle Sternberg Oil on Canvas

HALLOWEEN

Hyunmi Park Oil on Canvas

GLASS

Megan Klinger Charcoal

THE COLLECTIVE

Nick Arnett Ink, Charcoal

DRIP

Silke Van Der Weide Oil and Acrylic

BLUE

Megan Klinger Colored Pencil, Photography

The Yahara Journal 2020 edition

Articles inside

Katherine Wagner

RESTAURANT CODE

3 FACEBOOK STATUSES

IN MY HOUSE

IN MARCH

SACRED DREAM

THE NECESSITY OF

A TRANSPOSITION

NEVER STOOD A

ID IS REQUIRED

SPACE ON A TRAIN

COULD BE ANYWHERE

MUG: FILLED WITH FAKE PROMISES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS

A WARNING FROM A

REGRETS

THE SPARROW QUEEN

THE HEAVY ARTISANAL

UNDERNEATH THE

DEATH DAINTILY

BOY IN THE WOODS

UNFORGETTABLE

FIGS AND WASPS

THE ROBOTIC ARTIST: A

THE PLASTIC KEY

SERIALLY INCLINED