Yahara Journal 2018 by Yahara Journal

2018

YAHAR A JOU RN A L A fine arts and literary journal

Editor-in-Chief Kristin Foglestad

Editorial Staff

Ayelen Bravo Alexandra Christensen Vic Gear Sarah Hamilton Calvin Hicklin Mariana Montgomery Amy Trees

Book Design

Elva Paulina Kababie

Web Editor

Marshall Krueger

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.

PROSE 7 Bryn Mawr

17 Stillwater

11 Wind

18 Liminal Spaces in Wisconsin

15 Maybe Someone Sees God on That White Canvas...

19 The Tragic Reality of Manipulation: The Art of Moving On

Andrew Peterson

Liza LaCrosse

Megan Stellmach

Katherine Storch

Rachel Koehler

POETRY 25 Her Majesty, The Black Widow

38 Death of a Wooh Girl/ Reincarnated Curmudgeon

26 Grey Fire

40 Hurley

Michael Edwards

Luke E. Dennison

27 Fireflies Rhianna Prine

29 The Monster Libby Ruhle

31 Goddess Rhianna Prine

33 I am Prettiest in the Mornings D.H.

36 Where I’m From

Avery Walker

Isabella India Holmes Zoltak

46 The Second Life Danqing Dai

47 Morality

Bridgette O’Brien

Kelly Lee Keel

48 Black People on Jupiter

41 Jadine

Kiara Gray

Megan Stellmach

49 Mr. and Mrs. Hospitality or Visiting the In-Laws

42 Borderland J.A. Frazier

Lena Marx

43 Another Letter I’ll Never Send You

51 In My Therapy

Julia Riehbrandt

44 A Love Letter to Myself Nadia Hassler

Karen Nelson

52 Untitled

Julia Riehbrandt .

45 I AM

J.A. Frazier

Table of Contents ARTWORK 55 Billy Paul

64 Fishing Buddies

72 Home is Where the Heart is

56 Guns Don’t Sharpen Pencils

65 Untitled

73 Roots

Eric Taggart

Armando Anthony Reyes

57 Roses

Mirko Canicoba

58 Hero Aja Gurney

59 Vox the Obliterator Chelsea Clasen

60 Lotus

Akash Pradhan

61 Visions Marit Totten

62 Lucid Dream Katie Sauer

63 Into the Light of Life Marisa Moore-Barbosa

Scott Bloch

Sandra Hoffmann

66 Backpacks Danver Wu

Luca Silvio Costa

Ida Sobotik

74 Tamara Schmook Erica

67 Self Portrait Ida Sobotik

75 Guidance Adam Kolasch

68 Hero

Luca Silvio Costa

69 Nobody is Taking You Seriosuly Ethan Rusch

70 IZ and Blue Bird Mirko Canicoba

71 Baku

Kaylee Winsand

76 Mother Nature’s Accessories Natalie Derr

77 Himalayan Black Lored Tit Anya Melian

78 War

Katie Sauer

79 Life on Mars Kari Helgren

Mission The Yahara Journal will support 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.

Special Thanks 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 out of their busy schedules to create and submit work for consideration in the journal. This book would not exist without your efforts.

Bryn Mawr Andrew Peterson On a late October evening, Ellen left her office and ran up the stairs onto the train platform, trying not to miss it. The twenty-minute train ride would take her away from downtown and north to the old but chic neighborhood where she lived. This evening people walked up and down the streets with their hands in their pockets and faces pressed into their scarves. At the train stations and bus stops people filled the spaces underneath the heat lamps and shivered in spite of them. The weather had been overcast all day with frigid winds blowing off the lake. Every gust of wind felt like needles stabbing and knives cutting the bare skin of anyone it touched. When protected from the wind, the air temperature was still so low that with every breath her throat felt tight and constricted. Tonight, Ellen was meeting her close friend Pam for coffee at a small shop near Ellen’s house. As she approached the coffee shop, a warm but dim yellow light shone through the window and illuminated a segment of sidewalk. A passerby could look inside and see a small room with wooden floors and tables, paintings on the walls, and couples sitting and drinking coffee while sharing conversation. The two friends sat nearest the window. “How have you been holding up?” With a nod of her head and a quiet sigh Ellen said, “Okay.” She took a sip of her coffee, which was still too hot to drink. Then set it back down and looked into it. “It’s been nearly two weeks since we’ve talked. I’m worried.” Pam leaned in close to Ellen. With concern in her voice, Pam said, “So… can you tell me what’s been happening lately?” “Well … he’s still at it.” Ellen lifted her gaze from in the coffee to out the window. “Yeah?” “Yes … you know. It’s the same really. Phone calls, unexpected visits.” “He’s still been trying to talk to you when you see each other in person?” “Sometimes …” Ellen stopped speaking. “Could you tell me more about that?” “A few days ago, I was out to dinner with a couple people from work and he showed up with some friends.” Ellen looked to Pam to speak next, but she didn’t. “He waved and walked towards the table. He acted like it was a coincidence.” “What’d you do?” said Pam, with a troubled look on her face. Ellen sighed, then looked down at her coffee and started stirring it. “Please, you can talk to me.” 7

Bryn Mawr “I got up and ran out, grabbed a taxi, and left. I felt so embarrassed … and scared.” Ellen tried to make eye contact with Pam but had trouble. Instead she looked back out the window. “I can’t believe this is still happening.” Pam waited for a response but, Ellen said nothing. Instead she pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer, looked down at it, squirted some into her palm, and put the bottle back into her purse. As she rubbed her hands together she peered out the window once more. “Do you think you should try calling the police again?” Pam whispered. “They never do anything. They treat me like I’m the crazy one.” “I believe that. One time some idiot backed his car into mine, hard. So, I called the police. The officer told me to calm down and that I was overreacting.” Ellen envisioned herself in this situation, except she pictured the setting to be where she once got a parking ticket on a vacation she had taken a few years ago. She breathed out her nose and mouth at the same time in place of a snicker. “Yeah, I understand. When and where was this?” “Back when I lived in Wisconsin. Five or six years ago.” “Ah…yeah.” “I think you should come stay with Chris and me.” Pam blurted. She sat back and gave Ellen a chance to speak. “That’s nice of you.” Ellen rubbed her eyes for a few seconds, working up the courage to say yes. “Are you sure you have room?” “Absolutely, more than enough.” Pam tried to think of what to say that would convince Ellen to agree. “We want to make sure you’re safe.” “I think I’ll be okay.” Pam shrugged her shoulders. “I can take care of myself for now.” “Are you sure?” “If I change my mind, will the offer still be open?” “Of course it will.” Ellen began tearing up. She was worried about herself, too. “Thank you, Pam. It means a lot.” “I need to know you’ll be all right.” On top of the table, Pam grabbed Ellen’s hand and held it. “This won’t go on much longer. I’ll make sure of it.” Ellen tightened her grip. “I don’t like to be treated this way.” As night drew closer the city began to feel emptier. The streets cleared, and the restaurants became sparsely filled. Residents retreated into their homes to find shelter from the painful cold with the help of the old, strong brick walls that made up most of the apartment buildings in the city. The sun was now setting at about a quarter to six, and on this dreary day it was completely dark by six o’clock. An hour later their conversation wrapped up. It was seven o’clock when they walked out together, passing the tub of dirty dishes and adding theirs to the pile. 8

Andrew Peterson

“Can we meet here again? Same time next week?” asked Ellen. “Yes, I’d love to!” Pam held the door as they left the shop and emerged out onto the sidewalk. They were met with a gust of icy wind. “Ah! I forgot it was so cold outside.” Ellen tightened her scarf. “Oh goodness!” Pam exclaimed. She let out a shiver, looked at Ellen, and said, “Okay, you get home safe. I want you to call me when you get there. Promise?” “Promise.” “Do you want me to walk with you? How about we take a taxi?” Pam lightly grabbed ahold of Ellen’s arm. “No, no, it’s okay. I only live five blocks from here.” “Sure?” “Yeah, I’ll be okay. You have a longer trip home. You get on your way.” They smiled at each other, then hugged, and with that they were both on their way. Ellen was young and dressed fashionably. She wore a necklace with a silver pendant in the shape of a snarling tiger and carried her black Chanel Gabrielle purse almost everywhere she went. The necklace sat on top of her cardigan, mirroring her defining qualities of zeal and strength. She usually carried her purse over her right shoulder, but tonight she clutched it closely to her chest with both hands. The wind made her long hair blow wildly. She would’ve tied it up but had nothing to use. The cold was painful on the skin of her face. Just three blocks from her building a huge gust of wind blew all of her hair into her face. Ellen turned around slightly to use the wind to blow it out of her eyes, and it was then that she noticed the silhouette of a person walking half of a block behind her. Her first thought was that it was him. She told herself there was nothing to worry about, that it probably wasn’t him. She tried to take her mind off her nervousness by thinking about what she might cook for dinner that night, but it was no use. She continued to walk briskly. Ellen quickly turned the corner and hid behind a tall wooden fence, now standing just over a block from her building. She stood there hoping it wasn’t him but planning for if it was. Deciding that if it was him, there was no way she could hide, considering he knew exactly where she lived. Ellen peered out from behind the fence. She looked down both directions of the street and saw no one, then began walking again. Her building was so close. “Just a two-minute walk,” she said to herself. “Get home, take a warm shower, and eat a hot meal. You’ll be okay.” Her purse was no longer being clutched at her chest as she tried to relax. She could now see her building off in the distance. She approached the corner between two old apartment buildings separated by a thin alleyway. As she passed the edge of the closer building, from right behind her, she heard the loud voice of a man say “Ellen!” She was suddenly grabbed by the neck and violently pushed 9

Bryn Mawr into the wall. Her head made a loud, dull thudding noise as it struck the brick. Instantly she could feel blood run from her nose and down into her mouth. She screamed in terror and at the same time began gagging at the taste of her warm blood. The man tightened his grip around her neck, which stopped her from screaming. She clenched her teeth and tried to tear herself free. He threw her to the ground and held her down by her neck and left arm. Ellen looked up at him with narrowed, hard eyes. Frantically, with her right arm she grabbed his face and dug her thumb into his left eye socket. He let out a wail as she continued to dig her finger deeper. Ellen’s nails were painted red and suddenly it appeared as if her whole thumb was painted red. She had pushed the eye out of place and warm blood was spilling from the socket. He screamed out in pain and fell backwards. Ellen got to her feet, but he still had a grip on her sweater. He got to his feet and, while still holding onto her, took a knife out of his pocket. Ellen noticed that he stunk of alcohol. He took a step backward, pulling her back but slipped on a patch of ice, which sent him falling hard onto his head. Ellen fell along with him but was now free from his grip. The man could feel warm blood on the back of his head, soaking his hair. Ellen was teeming with adrenaline. As Ellen tried to stand back up she realized he had dropped the knife. She reached for it frantically, cutting her hand from accidentally grabbing the blade. After a moment she successfully got a hold of the knife. Ellen got her balance and thought to herself, “He deserves this.” With a loud grunt she lunged at him and slashed him across the face. He cried out an ear-splitting shriek. Ellen slashed him across the face over and over until he had nearly a dozen gashes all bleeding profusely. Flaps of skin hung from his face like a carved piece of meat. From a window above a woman looked down at the scene and screamed, “Oh my God! Oh Christ!” Ellen looked up at the woman, and by the time she looked back down at him he had gotten up and was running away. He slammed into the building’s wall, as he was unable to see with blood in his remaining eye, but quickly found his way around the corner. Ellen took a seat as her adrenaline rush began to fade and started to feel her head throb as a result. It was less than a minute until people started to arrive. The woman from upstairs ran to Ellen while wearing pajamas and sandals. “Oh my God! Don’t worry, I called an ambulance.” The woman then used her shirt to wipe the blood off Ellen’s face and neck. Another person held her hand tightly, trying to stop it from bleeding. Ellen sat there with a hint of a smile on her face and realized that her mind was no longer racing with the ambient worry that had plagued her for months. Her thoughts slowed down. Her muscles began to relax. The late October night’s air was crisp and cool, and it was refreshing to breathe in and out.

Wind Liza LaCrosse I stood at the till, casually tapping a pen against the countertop glass of the cashier desk as I watched a customer outside filling his gas tank. He had an inquisitive expression that suggested he couldn’t quite decide whether or not he should come inside for something more than fuel. The wind picked up again, whipping leaves and other bits of planted remnants around, rattling the exterior door, and driving the customer back into his car. I heard the splash of water and a breathed curse remark meant to stay quieter than it actually had. I turned, facing the interior of the gas station and directed my attention to the middle-aged lady approaching with an armful of items, who huffed at the explicative as she passed a pool of mop water extending out from an aisle. “Have a good night.” I called out warmly as she took her things to the car, the last one parked near the storefront, before addressing the guy shaking a wet pant leg, in an attempt to remove some of the soapy water from it to make it less uncomfortably clingy than it already was. Besides being soaked, he had bags under his eyes, a pale look to his skin and in general, looked quite worn down. “I know finals can keep you up late, but I didn’t think you’d be this out of it.” His expression became even more sullen before he responded from his slump against the endcap, “It’s not finals.” My curiosity peaked as I walked over from the barren storefront to offer him a cleaning towel as he started mopping up the spilt water. “What could possibly be ruining your usual happy-go-lucky mood?” He looked as though he was fighting internally as to whether he should tell, and I took this as a key to drop the inquiry. “Okay Jay, I’ll let it go, but I’m sure it’s not as bad as you thi-“ “I’m not crazy okay?” I stared up at him, confused as to why my friend, and coworker, who was usually so laid back, chill, and in general a positive guy was suddenly so concerned about me worrying that he might be losing his mind and being so – intense. He pinched his brows and gazed back at me, with an expressionless look and a quieter tone. “If I tell you something – something crazy – will you believe me? No matter how bizarre it sounds?” I paused for a moment to think before answering with a smile and a nod. “Sure thing Jay.” He still looked doubtful, with a frown on his face, having returned to staring at his soaking wet sneakers. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Jason, hey it’s okay. We’re friends and besides, you know I won’t judge. Let’s go fill the coolers and you can fill me in.” He started the tale as he rested a bottle of soda on the dispense tray. “I left the campus late last Friday after a full day of classes and studying. The library was closing along with any of the other common areas, and I was the last student to walk out before the attendants locked up and headed out as well. 11

Wind I had almost left the building, but I realized I had left some of my notes in my locker located on the top floor all the way to the rear of the building. The ride up was uneventful but during the ride down, the elevator began to make this weird hissing, groaning, thumping sound only to shake to a halt. I was scared, thinking of how at any moment I could plummet to my demise. As my hand was about to reach out for the emergency button, the lights went off. The disturbing sounds of the elevator died down, though still as creepy, while I tried to find my phone to light up the panel but before I could the thing started back up like nothing had happened and the lights flickered back on,” he said. “By the time I returned to the main floor and started heading for the entrance, most of students were gone and every classroom door was locked up and dark inside, giving the campus an eerie vibe. The whole experience had me on edge as I walked down the corridor, when I noticed the sound of an additional step of steps coming from behind me. I didn’t know why someone else being in the hall was so nerve wracking, but I guess the elevator incident had me on full alert as I found myself walking a bit faster. “When I sped up so did the steps following me, and I could hear them closing in. The next thing I knew the footfalls were right behind me, and before I could even think I was running. I jumped the few steps down into the main hall and rushed to the entry, feeling safe under the bright lights only to realize they had stopped. As my hand held the door I paused, feeling this inexplicable need to turn around and see who had been following me.” He hesitated; yet, I pressed on. “So, who was it?” He grimaced and for a minute I began to think story time was over. “It wasn’t… a who.” I looked at him confused but he went on to clarify. “It was an it.” He refused to look over, just staring forward blankly as he recounted what exactly happened. “When I turned around, I noticed one of the lights near the hall went out, making the room darker, but I could still make out the figure that held still in the entrance of the narrow section of the hallway. It was slightly bent over, but then took a silent step forward and stood erect as though it was… preparing for something. What had been behind me was thin – too thin – with translucent, white skin that seemed stretched all over its skeletal body. It … it didn’t look like it had any hair, not to mention clothes, or if it did they blended into the ragged looking flesh of its body. The appendages looked stretched out, with long, dark fingers and even longer, curved, ink-black nails that ended in a point, but its eyes, oh man it’s eyes, were so tiny that they looked like hollow black beads. I didn’t even think it had a mouth until I saw the tissue spread part into a smile, with red gums and pointed needle like teeth that jutted out in every direction imaginable,” he recalled. “As its lips parted, I could hear the same sounds of the steps that had been approaching me. They were emanating from the thing along with another sound I didn’t quite recognize in my building state of terror before, I turned to bolt out of the building. I exited into the empty lot running faster than I ever have, and I almost dropped my car keys from the shaking of my hands trying 12

Liza LaCrosse

to pull them from my pocket. Once I got in the car, I refused to look back at the building until it was in my rearview mirror, only catching the interior lights turning off while the illumination of the outside signs remained.” Jason paused to take a heavy breath and sigh before moving on with the story. “Yesterday was my first day back, and it took me twenty minutes before I could even get out of my car and walk into the building. Even then, I took a side door and refused to set foot in an elevator. I didn’t stay after class to do homework either.” I rubbed my arm trying to brush off the nerves and added, “That must’ve been terrifying but it was over, right? I mean it was a one-time thing and was maybe just a prank or – ” “I didn’t finish.” He added with a deep tone. “When I was walking home from a friend’s after class I heard that sound again as I walked up the driveway. I finally recognized the noise. You know that sound when wind picks up between buildings or a narrow space like a tunnel? Like a whistling sound? It was like that, but it had a second quieter tone … When I paused and turned to the bushes lining the side of the driveway, I could see it hidden deep inside, the tiniest glint of lights from deep within two pitch-black orbs and the leaves just below them twirling where the sound was coming from. It kept getting louder and seemed to be getting closer and closer until it resonated from right next to my ear, when I could make out the underlying tone from somewhere deep down in its throat… of screaming. Like someone screaming for their life and it didn’t sound like there was only one voice,” he said. “My flight reflex kicked in and I ran into the house where my family was waiting for me to return. I couldn’t sleep all night. I felt like at any moment the door or window would open, and it would be in there and I would end up where the voices were. I had a hard-enough time sleeping since Friday but that killed any hope of rest for me since.” I just stared for what felt like forever until Jay swore he shouldn’t have told anyone since now I must think he’s nuts, or at the very least that I thought he was making the whole thing up. “No Jay, no. I believe you, but why didn’t you tell anyone else? Your family?” “I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t want them to think I was crazy. I thought I was crazy. I tried to look it up to see if something like it exists, but I couldn’t find anything. When I went to school, I asked about the elevators. No one had heard of anything. The maintenance crew even checked it; perfectly fine. I didn’t want anyone to think I was losing it by telling them anything more. I couldn’t risk anything keeping me from passing these classes or scaring anyone else out of completing finals. If I said something to my family, well, could you imagine? My little sister would never go to bed unless we moved, and mom would kill me for scaring her like that.” “But you have to sleep too! What can you do?” I cried out. We heard the toll of the door chime and I stood to return to the till. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll figure out something.” Jason added solemnly. The rest of the evening shift was uneventful. When Jay’s replacement arrived, I 13

Wind took my break to walk him out to the car, not only for his sake but to ask him what he planned to do. “I’m not going home tonight. I already called Vanessa. She said I could stay at her place and that she’ll stay up while I get some rest.” I waved goodbye as he pulled away, glancing up one last time with a dim smile and gesture of his hand before turning onto the barren country road. I watched as his headlights faded away before I returned inside, suddenly fearing to have my back to anything while his story replayed in my head. When my shift ended at 11 p.m., the wind had picked up even more. I tried to call Jay numerous times, and finally tried Vanessa who said he must’ve changed his mind about coming over because he never showed up. Why would I be writing this you ask? Because, as I finish typing, the sounds of leaves rustling and trees shifting can be heard outside. And I swear, just beyond my window, I can hear the noises of wind and the fainted cries of people screaming ... and Jay’s voice emanates from somewhere deep along with them.

Maybe Someone Sees God on That White Canvas. I Don’t Know, It Isn’t My Place to Judge. Megan Stellmach Somewhere between 3 and 5 in the morning, he notices he’s starving. There’s this ache high and deep in his gut that makes him question how he’s laid there for several hours in what he now considers a falsely peaceful repose. He gets up slowly and wraps himself two blankets deep, head to toe. Like an overstuffed burrito, he thinks, a fat waddling penguin. At least he’s warm. Three bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in and he feels insatiable. There are frozen sliced strawberries in the freezer, the kind you put in your smoothies. They’re harshly cold on his palm, so he takes a bite. Perhaps it would be best to let them thaw. There’s this Vox video about minimalism he can’t shake. The narrator said a canvas covered with white paint had sold for 20.6 million dollars. God, if he could just paint something so subjectively beautiful he wouldn’t be eating bitter, red, squish at this hour. Maybe he would. Maybe he’s pregnant. Maybe it’s not even morning anymore. Maybe he’s had his eyes closed so it’s all just looked dark. I’m as calm as a baby lamb that is being led I’m as blue as blood before the blood goes red That is not helping. He rips the vinyl off the player as gently as you can rip something from something else. Somewhere between 4 and 6 in the morning he notices a phone number written neatly on the inside of his left palm. At least it was written neatly; it’s unreadable now because of the strawberry mush stains. It’s just for me, he thinks as he presses his index finger to the digits, all black and weeping for me. It’d been put there by a kind girl with brown eyes. They’d talked and laughed and she jotted it down at 1:27, before he left the bar. He misses the way her small hands struggled to wrap around her drink, like she was a child.

Maybe Someone Sees God on That White Canvas... I just want to be something greater, he thinks, something people look at, like art, and do not need to question. I am a blank canvas: white, empty, collecting dust. I didn’t want her to, during our lovely conversation, glare at me until she found meaning. Let it rise to the surface in purples and blues. I must be something of Van Gogh. I must be externally there. The strawberries are all over thawed now, so he puts them back in the freezer. By the time he’s safely back in bed, he’s lost a blanket and his eyelids feel like tiny, horrible weighted things. There’s a bitter taste lingering around his gums, and he makes a mental note to stick with only Cinnamon Toast Crunch when the next 4 a.m. rolls around. He forgets this by the time he’s cozy again. He falls asleep ravenous.

Stillwater Megan Stellmach It seems, here, you simply cannot die alone. You come as a kid and you leave as an adult. You come as an adult and, well, you never leave. The streets are empty. They are always watched. It’s comforting. The men you sleep with ask you your opinion on Nietzsche and the women… They press fingers between yours until they become you. The grass is always reaching upwards, always wet from the river. Like the women you sleep with. Like their palms. In Stillwater you create and breathe and make love softly. You press down your throat so tenderly it’s spring again, when you finally throw it all up in blues and greys. Like the river. Like the women. Stillwater is the birthplace of Minnesota: its favorite small town. Packed with forgotten antique stores and butchers and grandfathers that refuse to collect dust. Like the river. Like Teddy Bear Park. Have you heard of Teddy Bear Park? You haven’t heard of Teddy Bear Park? You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Teddy Bear Park. It has more teddy bears than any other park in Stillwater. They sit and somehow collect less dust than the river. High school hills lead to steps that lead downtown. Bustling downtown Stillwater. Where antique stores and butchers and grandfathers remember yesterday’s yesterday like it was only yesterday. There’s a man at the bar that says nothing other than eile mit weile as he sips his beer. His daughter is never embarrassed. She takes her children to Teddy Bear Park where they collect dust. Unlike the river. Until they grow and become adults and leave.

Liminal Spaces in Wisconsin Katherine Storch Conventionally, to have a liminal space is just to have a space between two destinations. In a more complex comprehension, to have a liminal space is to have a space where you are alone but watched, by eyes that take to long to blink, and sometimes that space isn’t there when you look for it again. To have a liminal space is to have a space where you remember what it feels like to be prey. But you will always ache for the feelings you had while in that space, and once you leave, life will feel grey and fake. You will do anything to go back. Anything. In Wisconsin, at around three in the morning, something upsets the dogs. It is rarely your dog that is upset, but the howling bark of a dog announcing the presence of an intruder is unmistakable. But if you ask your neighbors, it’s never their dogs barking. On the stretches of road between farms and small towns, the roads that should be paved but have so many potholes that there is more gravel at this point, you see people. People walking but somehow keeping pace with your car, their eyes reflect back at you in the high-beams, and when you glance away and look back – because you must look back, it is a physical need, pulling at your very bones – all you see is a pair of reflective eyes, glinting from the corn fields. And if you stop, and if for some reason get out of your car, you will see disturbances in the gravel, and hear breathing getting closer. You should get back in your car. Coyotes will be reported in the paper the next day. Worse, some nights you will see a farmer’s field, the backs of his cattle shining silver in the moonlight, and wonder why they are still out to pasture, before you remember. You remember the fields of soy or corn you have seen day after day, month after month, and you know that these fields- this farmer – hasn’t had dairy cows for years. And you watch the silvery backs of these things in the fields and notice the way their skin shifts, like something – or hoards of somethings – are writhing under their skin. You look away and can taste the wrongness on your tongue. You will spend hours brushing phantom worms from your skin, and then days trying to convince yourself that they were indeed phantoms. Nothing will be reported in the papers.

The Tragic Reality of Manipulation: The Art of Moving On Rachel Koehler The grandfather clock tolls 11 p.m. from the hallway. It’s barely audible over the Kesha song humming on the radio. She sits at the desk in her bedroom staring at the piece of jewelry impassively. It’s been sitting in a box for 4 years. The box was to enclose the pain, never to be revisited. Although in her thoughts, she relives it all the time. She glances at the dark window across from her. In her mind, the memories are projected onto the glass to see – the familiar sting of a knife re-opening a scar. She sits in a poorly padded green arm chair in a thin, brown carpeted office. The kind, middle-aged officer is taking down notes as she stares at the teeth shaped bruises on her thigh. Her father sits a few feet away looking like a cauldron of emotions. Disappointed, relieved, livid. As the officer continues his questionnaire, she struggles to vocalize the thoughts in her head. He said he missed me and just wanted to talk. I’m such a fool. She pulls her gaze from the window to stare at the gold charm cut in the shape of a heart resting in the box. Small pieces of cubic zirconia are embedded in the perimeter. What was once sparkly and new is now dull and chipped. Bits of the cubic zirconia lost in rage. It brings back memories of her childhood bedroom. She’s aware that her body is red hot and pulsing. The edges of her vision blur and darken as she screams. The last thing she sees in the soft light of her bedside lamp, is the charm smashing against the hard wood of her bedroom window frame. She moves from her desk to her bed. Her bed frame creaks as she throws herself down onto the mattress. As tears well up in her eyes, she hides her sorrows in her pillow. She can almost feel the refreshing cool feeling of the pillow on her damp cheek – the soft satin of the pillow case her grandmother had made for her childhood bedding set. She quickly shakes her head back to the present. “Completely stupid,” she whispers. As the small details start to slip away, the memories creep in the shadows like a stranger in an alley. She can no longer remember the color of his eyes… black or red like the Devil’s? Maybe. She looks back at the tormented heart charm. It’s tied onto a friendship bracelet on her wrist that now has no meaning. She traces her finger in circles on the desk, the charm dragging with her. She can hear the small tormented scrape of metal against the wooden desk. The bracelet is made up of multi-colored 19

The Tragic Reality of Manipulation: The Art of Moving On string and is soft to the touch. Long ago, each color stood for a positive facet of their friendship. Now all she sees is shades of grey. He gave it to her the Christmas after their relationship had ended. What a joke. He handed her a square ivory colored box and told her not to open it until she got home. He didn’t have time for her emotions face-to-face. As she walked home to write in her diary, and tell her best friend how happy she was, he would go to bed with another thing on his mind. She tells herself different stories all the time. It wasn’t even that nice of a gift. I should have given it right back to him. Maybe then I would have less pain to carry. She tries not to focus on the “What ifs.” She wonders why he even gave it to her. She cared for him very much at the time. While she once felt like a character in a fairy tale, she now feels like a pawn in a sick game. She knows now that he manipulated her day in and day out. He made her feel special with his deceitful words. A sad smile touches her lips as she thinks about how happy she was to receive the gift. She loved him. But, can you really love your abuser? The sight of him and his charming smile use to make her heart skip a beat. Now it is the reason there is a wall up around it. She knows now that he never truly cared for her. His words dripped with vile control. Now just the thought of him makes her sick to her stomach. For months, after she was petrified to go to school or work – the sight of him would make her stomach flip and terror fill her throat. Staring at the once prized jewelry brings it all back. She can still feel the ache of her hair being ripped out, his hands around her throat, and her fingers bending back further than they can go. She tries to forget by putting all the memories and pain in the box. She thinks about throwing the box and its contents away. She could throw it away and never think of it again, or she can keep it as a reminder of the painfully twisted and tainted happiness. For some unknown reason, she doesn’t feel ready. Anger etches her vulnerable face. Her fingers massage tiny circles around her eyes as she mentally scolds herself. After a moment, her expression softens, and she places the now broken heart back in its box. It’s 3 a.m. She awakens with a jolt. “Ugh,” she groans. She slowly runs her hand down her face and sits up. She had the dream again. “That stupid, stupid dream,” she whispers. He’s there and he’s nice and he acts like he cares. Bullshit. She has the same dream over and over. Each time with the apology that will never touch his lips. Never. She remembers every word. She wants to hate him. She hates that she wants to hate him, and she hates that she can’t. It goes on and on. She gets out of bed and pulls the box from its safe spot on the closet floor. “This has to end,” she says. She digs out her heart and stares at it in the dim light from the hall. She walks over to the garbage and holds the bracelet above it. The tightness restricts her chest and knots her throat, but she ignores it. As the bracelet drops, her stomach drops with it. She quickly ties up the bag and runs it out to the curb before she has 20

Rachel Koehler

a change of heart. When she gets back into the house, the click of the front door latching reveals the serene silence of the early morning. She leans against the front door and slides down until she’s sitting on the cold wood floor. Tears run down her face, but she feels no remorse as she stares down the hallway. She dozes off against the front door. She blinks her eyes and stretches as the early morning lights breaks through the shades, leaving shadows on the ceiling. She hadn’t slept that well in a long time. She had the odd feeling of a dream she couldn’t remember. She walked to the closet and found herself staring at the bare space where the box had been. In her busy closet, the small rectangle remained vacant. She no longer felt the touch of his abuse or heard the whisper of his manipulation. The pain she once carried is in a box on the top of a shelf in her mental attic – to be forgotten and thrown out long from now. She smiles at her weightlessness and embarks on a happier, healthier day.

Her Majesty, The Black Widow Michael Edwards Oh, beguiling seductress, mother of nations Paramount in wickedness and terrifying beauty I surrender to the completeness of her embrace Delicate lips, rose red and dripping moist Scrutinize delectable flesh Bewilder and torment ascending bliss Amplify the war drums in my chest A glint of pain, and the heavens sway beneath my feet The enticing perfume of her web, envelopes me in evening shrouds Tiny hairs from course skin protrude and stand on end Imperial eyes like celestial stones, glow with primeval desire And tenderly she hisses as tensions crest and muscles clench Abruptly and deliberately a slobbering crunch as meat is freed from tortured frame Weightlessness and visions fade into warm, wet oblivion And all that remained was the red of her lips and a feast for a thousand hatchlings

Grey Fire Luke E. Dennison Fire burns flat in a notebook Grey flames licking at blue lines Graphite flint striking white steel Subtle heat engraved within signs Love can flare bright in this manner A pencil can draw a star No energy is out of reach No destination too far Grey fire is my medium A pyro to impart The hope these words can keep you warm Stokes grey fire in my heart

Fireflies Rhianna Prine Some nights I watch the world through my rearview mirror. It’s quiet, no noise in a reflection. Nothing to vocalize the quiet screaming of the world. Everyone hurts. Everyone releases some bloodcurdling cry to the moon only to be drowned out in traffic lights. I don’t understand why it’s called a crescent moon. It’s still full. There’s still a life in this body even if you can’t see it. The night is my friend. It’s where the quiet and I go to hide somewhere in a dark room, curled up with my laptop and some sort of food. It feels good to eat again. It feels good to be part of the living again … Sort of. I catch fireflies in the dark like the depressed pin down happiness. I don’t. Their light is too bright for the inside of my palms. It burns my fingers, a little ember floating through the air. The world needs it, not me. We are too big to be kept in a glass jar, so we live in a spherical bowl instead, trapped by society’s expectations and weighted down by our own emotions. Let go of those lead balloons. I promise you won’t fly away. You’ll only be able to stand up straight, hold your head up, see the world without slouching over. But sometimes I want to fly away. Like the fireflies. They can reach the sun within themselves. They do not have to go far to be a million miles away. I want to be a firefly. I want to have a fire in my belly so bright that it draws others close to me. I want to form a streetlight that’s always yellow, that warns to proceed with caution. Because at night, we tend to lose ourselves in the dark. We lose ourselves in the daylight too, though. When do we ever find ourselves?

Fireflies Where does the hollow shell that is my soul reside? Where can I slip it on like a second skin and finally fill it up? I think itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a colander. The more I fill, the more that pours out.

The Monster Libby Ruhle Faster and faster, my heart keeps beating. Faster and faster, the moments keep fleeting. The cramps in my side and the pains in my feet Are far from what you’d call a special treat. Why am I running? I’m being pursued. I’m scared and I’m tired and slightly bemused. Whatever is chasing me from the back Will surely devour me if it does attack. The thorns scratch my shins, And the branches my face, And then a cabin finds me In a rather odd place. As much as I want to seek its shelter, I feel it is best that I do not enter. So I continue my trek And pray I don’t die From exhaustion or the something That grows closer by and by. I duck in some cover, Just hoping for a rest And that’s when I felt it, A hot, fiery breath. I wanted to scream, But my voice was all gone. Why was it me This beast happened upon? In a last futile shot, I darted out of my hole And stepped in a pond. The water was cold. I drew in some air And swam with my might To get away from there. As I dove in to leave My pursuer behind, It followed after

The Monster And grabbed my ankle In a manner unkind. But try as I would To shake myself free, The strong grip it had Would not let me be. I surfaced for oxygen For my lungs almost burst, And thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when I heard it, The sound was the worst. It was almost a laugh But the voice wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bad And I found out my monster Was really my dad.

Goddess Rhianna Prine When I look at my feminine curves, I see my father. Because heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the one who gave them to me. My mother gave me many things, but my body was not one of them. Because when I look in the mirror, I see my big-breasted aunts with their short statures and weight carried at their core. But it is okay to be short, for I am closer to the ground. I am closer to the earthy grit of dirt and silk blades of grass and velvet petals of flowers. I am closer to where I will lay rest. But it is okay to be round, for I am here to be orbited and have pull. I am a universe in one body. I go to the world and the world comes to me. We were born to take up space. We did not come out of the womb a vacuum. We came out screaming and fighting, announcing our existence to anyone who would listen. Where did that fury go? What person, what world, told you to put yourself away, tear yourself apart, shed away the unwanted? Because I know who told my mother. I heard the story, lying in bed. Sickness was my lullaby. Society was the composer. So as my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body was built. With sickness as the sculptor. And society as the critic. And in all her glory, I bowed down to my mother, kissed her feet, and begged to become that goddess of femininity. Because in the shrine of my home, in the altar of womanhood, the only deity was her. But I am not my mother. I could not force my body with any diet nor exercise to conform to hers, but even when I would arrive close, it would all be a mirage. Every pound I lost would be another pound I would have to lose in order to reach an unreachable place. Living in her body would never make me happy. So as I burned down my temple, I took hers with me. 31

Goddess And from those ashes, I watched her construct the same coffin she had always buried herself in. And for once, I allowed myself to lower her into the ground. With what was left, I finally built a shrine to myself. For that goddess, I surrendered myself. I gave her blood sacrifices, shed countless tears, and read many scriptures from her previous life. Yet all she wanted from me was to be happy. I owed myself nothing but that. Nothing is unwanted. The shape of your print on the Earth is not wrong if it is you. Your body does not need validation to be. You are here. Take advantage of that. Take up all the space you want. Your body is holy. Treat it as such.

I am Prettiest in the Mornings D. H . I am prettiest in the mornings; Moments after I’ve woken up, when my colors are still exposed and I am still vulnerable. When my hair is tangled from the night before, and I am confused as to if the untamed mane belongs on a human or lion. When my cheeks are flushed from rolling around in my bed, my skin traced with the pattern of my sheets, and I am rosy and temporarily tattooed. When breakfast is responsible for the cherry stains on my lips, and I have deep shades of burgundy painting both corners of my mouth. When my eyes amplify at the sight of my beautiful mother, and I am reminded that any beauty I may bear, is accredited to her. When I step outside on the porch, feeling so big, yet so small, amongst the greenery surrounding me. When I go inside to bathe, and I witness steaming water turn my olive complexion into light patches of scarlet, sweat-beads mixing with water-droplets, my skin glowing and I become the level of dewy I’d earlier admired on the leaves. I am prettiest in these moments, Every morning, shortly after I’ve woken up. When my colors are most prominent, and I am still vulnerable. I am prettiest in the mornings... and maybe that’s why you never found me pretty: You never saw me in the mornings. 33

I am Prettiest in the Mornings You never saw me untamed traced and stained. You only saw me at night, in dimmed lighting with generic hair, and seemingly pale skin through your blacked-out, unappreciative eyes. Maybe you never saw me as beautiful because you never witnessed me change from shades of gold Never saw my eyes light up at the sight of ethereal beauty. Or maybe, just maybe,

to shades of red;

you were jealous.

Jealous of the plants in my backyard, how they’d inflict a sense of vulnerability in me one that you thought you never could. Jealous of the cherries that stained my lips every single how I never get tired of them, how I always went back for more. Jealous of the bed I’d scrummage in, how you wished it was your chest that I’d bury my face in. Jealous of my mother, whom I’d worshipped,

whom I’d adored.

morning,

D. H .

Maybe now you’re jealous of all the things I love because they remind you: You were once one of them. How it was once you who’d made me feel untamed, confused, flushed, and tattooed. How it was you whom I’d once admired. How you had once possessed the power to turn me from innocent shades of gold, to tempting shades of red… How no matter how many times you’d deny it, it was once you who had made me feel vulnerable. Maybe you never found me pretty then because you were colorblind. Maybe now you’ve come back in attempts to haunt me due to jealousy, and the only color you see is green. Maybe you never found me as pretty then because you never saw me in the mornings, Maybe now you wake up every dawn in hopes of redemption… Yet, it isn’t my fault you’re bitter for never realizing I have always been prettiest in the mornings,

But you only wanted me at night.

Where I’m From Avery Walker I’m from squishy bean toes and whiskers, Nuzzling neatly near me nightly. I’m from the morning that blends with a dark sky, Meeting my father’s pride at the sea. I’m from burger stacked bed frames. I’m from starlight swimming pools on my bedroom floor, My mother often caught me lying in it and, Sometimes she would lay with me. I’m from hats worn like iron chest plates. Only trying to protect me from myself. I’m from blank loose leaf, torn corners of impatience, ideas written but finished like lost relationships. I’m from a full dinner table, sat like chess pieces. Mother insisted for every meal there is conversation. But father always saw my input as a complication, I guess you could say I’m from a bad reputation. I have crisp clean laughter, sprinkled with handwritten notes. I’m from honest trees and they have the longest roots. My dad said, “Never take an axe into those woods. Your tree will grow back worse than it ever stood.” I’m from the backspace key, Pressing it more than breaths I’ve taken. I feel obligated to redo what I can because I’m from mistakes, unmistaken. I won’t end this sadly, I’m from much more. Creative by nature, truck tire battlefields. Lava pits where the leaves had fallen, I was king of the world.

Avery Walker

Now I’m shot glasses and rent money I find the term “broken adult” kinda funny. I slapped maturity in its big dumb face Sporting my childhood like a trophy with no case.

Death of a Wooh Girl / Reincarnated Curmudgeon Isabella India Holmes Zoltak That girl was a dandelion,

perked up by the sun, and blown away with the wind. She leaves the taste of copper in your mouth, when she kisses you all over, all over everywhere, but your mouth. We all adored her, until it was implored upon her, she must stop this exigency of being eternally black out drunk. Wasted, all of her “time” was being wasted. I impressed this upon her, she was not impressed with my pleas, even as I dropped to my knees, she just sauntered past. Ostracized, in a daze of smoky haze, filled with druggy dudes, and Wookie women. Kiss my hand, before you smack my ass, or elbow my face. All greetings are in vogue. She rest her spinning head on a velvet cushion, gushing out gooey, gallons of Franzia. She passed away when I killed her. I killed her, cold blood, in the mud, we rolled and laughed, all fun and games, Burst into flames… Ashes to Ashes Dust to Dust Your games, love, are done, fucking bust. 38

Isabella India Holmes Zoltak

Privately, I have always craved her demise. -tears -lies -addiction -craving -raving until I became mad and we felt our heart beats sky rocket crash Now, that is not to say I regret a single day, on the contrary, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m rarely never not thinking about the time we shared. Just think, if I had let you conquer, how deep the abyss would be

Post Hoc Rationalization. This is all a fabrication created after the fact. Confabulations. The facts are -you are dead, but clinging.

the abyss would be that was dug mostly by you, partially by me?

If you all would look down, look down and bear witness to this Ball and chain Lose and gain Fear and pain The peaches no longer taste as sweet. The grass came out browner on the other side. Would you rather wish on a shooting star Or a dandelion? It would seem I have snorted too many articles of particles off broken mirrors for any of my wishes to last.

Hurley Kelly Lee Keel Be careful what you call them – they Each have a preference for the ways in which They are beckoned and courted and coerced. Whisper here kitty, kitty Do a trick for me Show her the money Watch her tease and preen. Keep your hands to yourself, unless she tells you so In the back room where secrets go to die. Some graceful, her moves flowing A 10 from the neck down. Some brash, her crass confidence Hits you in the face like a wall of cheap perfume Stomping her foot, saying tell me I’m pretty All are exotic – each curve tells a story Stripped like a screw that won’t turn anymore Worn and weathered, and in it together. Her empty stare tells you – tired eyes glassed over. One main rule? You can’t do this job sober. In this world, it’s kill or be killed One strike, and you’re out. A popularity contest you don’t want to win. From the top of the food chain, To the bottom of the barrel This underworld is filled with Territorial cats – they will comfort you Defend and protect you and piss on your clothes when they’re mad. These human treasures, selling their wares on the grimy, gold lined floors of Silver Street. You may get chewed up and spit out but if you play your cards right, poker face until you crack at dawn you can make a killing. Just make sure it’s not your soul that’s died. 40

Jadine Megan Stellmach I am watching her as she dances in front of the projector I am projecting images of lovers she poses so their faces cover hers I am envious that she can become love when the light lands on her just right I am smog, what you must breathe at night the ash that coats his lungs I stick there too I am liberated: nothing matters not when weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re trying to be something new I am covered in party tattoos, sallow paintings of last nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s abuse I am looking for blue whales swimming amongst the stars I am making my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mistakes, piggy back rides at bars that end on the concrete in laughter I am in desperate need of something a person to hold maybe maybe I always knew I am an underwhelming thing to her the whales that morning, they ceased to be blue

Borderland J. A . F r a z i e r I want to feel again. Beyond this numbness a heart still beats But I can’t sense outside of myself Out of touch – they say dwelling makes it worse Dwelling amongst my thoughts Provoking thoughts of thoughts Cycling, recycling, processing To make sense of nothing Am I where I started? I can’t backtrack because I never moved The sign is blank The landscape littered with my abandoned beginnings Less than average middle ground Where there aren’t any hills of triumph They say quit dwelling in the borderland of failure Just take the step to the other side Where the grass is greener And the void grows bigger To hold the materialistic gains success can buy It’s better to pretty-up the emptiness Than let it become a wasteland I didn’t need to be full of it all I wanted to feel again But I guess I’m not the only one consumed by an ever-growing pit decorated with items symbolizing what was once there – a soul.

Another Letter I’ll Never Send You Julia Riehbrandt When you take her to watch the sunset, let her stand beneath the oak tree and catch helicopters in her hair. Where her feet stand, mine once did. Let her matte down the grass with her bare feet just as I did. Tell her how beautiful she looks, that you have never seen anything so beautiful. Take your hands and run your fingers through her hair; pick the dandelion puffs that have tangled themselves into her wind-blown, falling-out braid. Let your fingertips trace the back of her sun-tanned arm, erupting her skin into a million goosebumps and awakening a soft giggle from her lips. As she turns, in the midst of her laugh, lace your fingers through hers. Remember how her eyes have turned bronze from the golden, disappearing sunlight, and her lips have formed the words “I love you.” Take her back here often, to watch the sunset and relinquish our memories to the shifting breeze carried in by the lake. When the horizon claims the sun’s girth as its groom and they fall into each other, let the words spill from your mouth: “I love you.” When your hands abandon each other’s, and you climb the hill into the darkness of dusk, know that I could have never loved you how you needed to be loved. And let the breeze carry away the last thought of me, just as the sun has gone away and left us with the remainder of this day.

A Love Letter to Myself Nadia Hassler There was a time when love was all I needed. I held it in my hands, I lived it, breathed it. My soul became merged, and in this entanglement I found not only comfort, but profound, glowing joy. A fullness that I had never known, like a balloon about to burst. There is beauty in connection... And in letting yourself be caught up in another. There was a time when love was no longer enough. I needed freedom, independence, child-like spontaneity. I had rules to break, limits to test, and places I wanted to see. I had doubts to overcome, and I needed to find my own strength. I needed to trust myself. Even if it meant breaking my own heart. There is beauty in this freedom... And in giving up something you love There was a time when I looked back at love like it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t worth it (it was always worth it). When the bursting balloon left me hollow and empty, and I drowned from the withdrawal. I denied the full moon her promise of renewal by refusing to let go of what I no longer had. I clung to the past and to what might have been, and in doing so lost part of my present. There is beauty in this sadnessâ&#x20AC;Ś But there is danger in nostalgia There came a time when I learned to love without losing myself. I learned to listen inwardly in order to love outwardly. I found my own resilient strength and allowed myself to let go of what no longer served me. I learned to quiet my doubts and listen instead to the wisdom of silence. And in doing so found clarity. In doing so, found peace. There is beauty in this silence... And in granting yourself permission to be whole.

I AM J. A . F r a z i e r The skin on my back is brown Too dark for privilege The sex between my legs Expels my womanly demons in bloody red spillage An object of obsession An excuse for His falter No strength or knowledge in a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind Will have greater power to a manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s length of measure I am the weak I am the stupid I am the foreigner Born to be suppressed A pedestal for the fragility of overrated men I am strong I am smart I am worldly Alive to awaken the oppressed A little piece of the foundation of our humanity connecting us all

The Second Life Danqing Dai Days and days, Staring at the same line on the half-blank page Screen looking back at me, tired of the lifeless face Edit, delete, edit, delete And the fingers that were running on the keyboard Were those of a broken robot Nights and nights, Standing in the middle of the tub like a dead tree Water above pounding on my head, and my toes that I seemed to be gazing It slipped through my forehead, my nose, my mouth, my cheeks, And into my senseless tongue, that couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t taste if it was salty Till the room filled with misty air A foot trembled out on the carpet Slowly dragging to the sink The girl in the mirror asked me What have I eaten? What was I doing? Where have I been? But I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t answer, Clueless Possessed Weeping Wishing somebody could save me. And the girl saved me.

Morality Bridgette Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien You will find more faith in the fallen, Than in the vacuous words of pious saints. A beggar stretched his hand to me, And within his clouded eyes, a million questions followed me. Each plea, a prayer devoid of formality, Thoughts scattered like yarrow reeds, But hope. Hope, rolling from those fingers like mala beads, Leaving me with nothing more than questions about these ideas of morality.

Black People on Jupiter Kiara Gray Why don’t we all move to Jupiter? Far from the feeling of flesh rotting from the bones of the living Where we can’t be reached by society’s weapons It has a knack for killing us Creatively in many ways The trip will be long But it’s nothing we haven’t experienced before Generations of slavery, fighting for rights Being alive As targets, we have to ensure our security Being alive and black has become a competition A constant paranoia on our subconscious We’re trying to outlive the friends we have People say it’s inhabitable But so is everywhere else in the world for a black person Yet we’ve still had the bravery to start families There’s no air Something we’ve all became accustomed to Constantly drowning in the terms and conditions Skipped over by our parents When they decided to give us a black life The pressure could kill us We’ve become immune to this sleep paralysis on Earth We see and hear what is happening And as our bodies try to match, we are pulled down by the chains of our ancestors We have no way of changing or waiting any longer Let’s move to Jupiter Where we can get our rightful status And love ourselves because Earth Couldn’t Alienated from the human race Maybe we’ll be accepted by the rest of space Why don’t we move to Jupiter?

Mr. and Mrs. Hospitality or Visiting the In-Laws Lena Marx Please, come in And feel at home. We haven’t seen you in so long! Please, sit down anywhere. But not here. And not there. Perhaps in this chair, that’s shaped like a pear. Won’t you relax? Put your feet up… But mind the leather, It’s pricey stuff! White leather stains are really tough… Let’s grab a drink and see the view! Grab any glass that isn’t blue. No… this one’s too old. And that one’s too new… Here’s a glass I got just for you! And in the fridge there is a beer. Oh, I won’t drink, my silly dear. You are the only drunkard here! Just kidding. That’s your cousin Claire, Who’s been to rehab twice this year. It’s quite a dreadful situation – She now lives at BP gas station. It’s just so sad, Wish we could help… but we are going on vacation. Well, we just love that you came by It’s funny how an hour flies…

Mr. and Mrs. Hospitality... It’s getting late, we’re getting tired, It’s time that we said our good-byes. What charming evening have we had! Come any time! Just call ahead.

In My Therapy Karen Nelson In my therapy, the pillows must be fluffed and placed in the other chair. Once therapy begins you may grab one to protect yourself from what you are saying. In my therapy you must sing me a song and tell me what is wrong with me. (All performances are recorded on DVD’s for posterity, like MTV.) Here we never talk about him, because he is evil. You are expected to hold my hand when I rise to follow me to the mirror to see our souls. In my therapy the most solemn rite is the great good-bye that takes place when therapy is done: we hold hands sing the Barney “I Love You” song; reiterate our words then move to the lobby where I turn then I am gone until next week.

Untitled Julia Riehbrandt I do not want a forced love. I do not want a frightened, Kept-in-a-box-under-the-bed love. I do not want a slippery, Sly, Deceptive, Middle-of-the-night love. I want a hungry love. I want a love hungry for passion, Challenge, Happiness. I want a living, breathing love, One to make my sides ache with laughter, One to help me push open the umbrella when the rain pours down.

Eric Taggart Billy Paul

Acrylic on Canvas

Armando Anthony Reyes Guns Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Sharpen Pencils Vinyl on Canvas

Mirko Canicoba

Roses

Pencil and Ink

Aja Gurney

Hero

Scratchboard

Chelsea Clasen

Vox the Obliterator

Digital Painting

Akash Pradhan

Lotus

Pen and Ink

Marit Totten Visions

Marker, Gel Pen

Katie Sauer Lucid Dream

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Marisa Moore-Barbosa

Into the Light of Life Ceramic

Scott Bloch

Fishing Buddies

Copper, Wood and Solder

Sandra Hoffmann Untitled

Metal Work

Danver Wu Backpacks

Digital Illustration

Ida Sobotik Self Portrait

Collage-National Geographic Clippings 67

Luca Silvio Costa Hero

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Ethan Rusch

Nobody is Taking You Seriously Pencil and Ink

Mirko Canicoba

IZ and Blue Bird

Pencil and Ink

Kaylee Winsand Baku

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Luca Silvio Costa

Home is Where the Heart is Photography

Ida Sobotik Roots

Intaglio Print

Tamara Schmook Erica

Charcoal

Adam Kolasch Guidance

Digital Painting

Natalie Derr

Mother Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Accessories Mixed Media

Anya Melian

Himalayan Black Lored Tit Woodburning

Katie Sauer War

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Kari Helgren

Life on Mars Colored Pencil