T h e W i t t e n b e r g R e v i e w o f L i t e r a t u r e a n d A r t

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W i t t R e v i e w s t a f f

Alison Bewley

Alina Carpenter

Cali Clayton

David Johnson

Samantha Reynolds

Adrienne Stout

Leslie Hacker

Lexy Barkdoll

Caitlin Green

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Carpenter, Alina carpentera2 5558613

Clayton, Cali claytonc 5183461

Johnson, David s14.djohnson 4525591

Reynolds, Samantha s14.sreynolds 4717048

Stout, Adrienne s14.astout 5077713

ART

Samantha Reynolds

Leslie Hacker

David Johnson

Lexy Barkdoll

Caitlin Green

Cover:Lake at Kassjoinkjet print (2013)

Kate Causbie

E d i t o rB i o s

Rebecca L. Petrilli is a senior English/Art History major, Business/Studio Art minor. She enjoys rap music, but also classical arias. “Art is cool” is a standing life motto, especially the Rococo, after two semesters were devoted to studying it for an Honors Thesis. Other hobbies include Pokemon, drinking excessive amounts of coffee, reading books, naps, photography, and exploring big cities. She plans to move to New York or Chicago to establish a career in Marketing/Advertising and continue being fabulous.

Madison M. Law is a junior English major and a Communication and History double minor who has an overwhelming fondness for hot beverages, woolen socks and bad puns. She sometimes likes get-ting caught in the rain, but doesn’t identify with the popular Rupert Holmes song “Escape.” After graduation, Maddie has grand plans that involve getting lost in remote places, collecting post-cards, and relishing the beauty of the world and the people who inhabit it.

Lauren “Mama” Campbell is a psychology major with a minor in studio art. Lauren lives by the words, “can I live?” and enjoys Game of Thrones, indie music, and complex carbohydrates. She will be attending graduate school at The George Washington University for art therapy in the fall, and hopes that DC will bring her to her first Renaissance Fair. She likes photography, pop art, and the Rococo style (because of the putti).

Megan B. Conkle is a senior English and Communication double major, Creative Writing Minor with a passion for looking at shelter dogs on the internet and watching Everybody Loves Raymond. She has spent the majority of her senior year tending to her potted plants. In the future she would like to get her MA in Public Policy, pursuing a career in environmental advocacy. Her spirit animal is a combination of Gary Snyder, Wendell Berry, and Margaret Atwood.

Rebecca PetrilliEditor-in-Chief

Madison LawAssistant Editor

Lauren CampbellArt Editor

Megan Conkledesign Editor

T a b l e O f C o n t e n t s

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b. 1982 in St. Paul, MinnesotaBecause Coffee is a Nighttime DrinkStellaUnmovable AgnesSelf-Portrait as a Six Hundred Degree ScarAn Ode to CerealNostalgiaSpilled InkOn Temples and Nervosa IIWhat if the Storm EndsWinning is Everything (But I Always Lose)Elegy to a City StreetImprovised Tea SetPorcelain CupsNowhere Left to GoSplit Second: A Short StoryWanda’s Favorite ThingsWe Chose an Empty PewWhirling DervishNYC 9If I Could Speak Kling-onThroatsongMidnight Hours at the Writing CenterA Forest in WinterReflectiveMound Teapot, Cup, and TrayBat-TholomewSenior Thesis: part oneSelf-portraitHomeBluebirds and SuperheroesSelf-Portrait with Brain Surgery at Age 12Self-portraitCutting CornersS.22 | S.1501

You’d like for me to title thisRook Ewer and Bishop EwerSelf-ReflectionInto the Bottom of a Cognac GlassGoTo My Long Distance Lover on the Anniversary of Our Separation

Claryssa Haugrud Cali Clayton

Hannah FournierLauren Campbell

Julie CascinoMegan Conkle

Kate CausbieRebecca PetrilliChebrya JefferyHannah HuntVictoria Nave

Taylor BurmeisterKathryn Scudier

Anna StreckerElizabeth Boyer

Cameron MackintoshJulie Cascino

Claryssa HaugrudAngela Chen

Lindsay JanmeyCali ClaytonJulia Devine

David JohnsonVictoria NaveAustin RiggleJacob Kuntz

Brandon PytelAnna StreckerCaitlin Green

Elizabeth BoyerTaylor Burmeister

Cali ClaytonLauren Campbell

Rebecca PetrilliMegan Conkle

Julia DevineJacob Kuntz

Rachel SteinerClaryssa Haugrud

Amanda WamplerJulie Cascino

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1990 – A little boy at Groveland Park Elementary ties two blades of grass that he picked at recess into a heart, and sneaks it into a Scooby-Doo backpack in the cubbies.

1992 – A young boy and his best friend wrestle on the banks of Lake Harriet. He picks up an agate and studies the rock’s script.

1999 – A teenager, for the first time, kisses his date goodnight on a path made of eggshells. His smile would have made you believe the sun was shining.

2000 – A casket lowers into the hollow earth. A boy on the cusp of manhood picks two blades of grass and twists them into a heart. He lets it fall, swallowed by the grave.

2002 – A hazy sky rages with indifference. A northern pine moth blasts its wings and is lost in the current. I want to be in that, I want to be lost, the young man says.

2005 – A man sets two highball glasses on top of a headstone and pours whiskey in both. He picks up one glass, and takes a drink. Where have you been? he whispers.

b. 1982 in St. Paul, MinnesotaClaryssa Haugrud

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I want to crawl into bed with you at night, the last one asleeponly to wake up before you in the morning, when the sun is not sure if it should be dreaming—the air is still asleep and smells of parties andsweat and stale beer mixed with midnight McDonald’s.Alarm clocks are silent, and I canwrap your arm around me to keep warm.Women have poor circulation, haven’t you heard?I want to press your sleeping hand against my hip, fallasleep for a few moments andwake up to see I’ve still won the morning.I want a salad, and some wine, and a chocolate dessert. A candlelit dinner, anda bar with friends. I want you to driveand talk abouthow many horses your car is equivalent to while mymind wanders thinking about how weird your mouth lookswhen forming o’s and howif you say a word, like fork, too many timesit sounds silly.I want to hold your shirt in my fists, press it up against my facehave it feel like spring, or summer—winter at night, or maybe the fabric softener you stole off my washer.

I want to look at each other in the dark, watch bad moviesgiggle about the word “poop” and how fatwalruses are, and then we’ll talk about what people wouldthink, what people would sayif they saw us.

Because Coffee is a Nightime DrinkCali Clayton

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I’ll turn on the electric heater—maybe make some weird noises in your ear until you laugh first. I want to ask you what people would sayif they saw us right now, under the coversmaking up insults for each other. So I do.

And you say, They’d say we’re in love.

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Stellawire and spray paint (2012)Hannah Fournier

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Unmovable Agnes mixed media on woodblock (2013)

Lauren Campbell

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My mother has one ovary. She lost the other one in a fight, her body and her baby clawing at each other until the doctors decided enough was enough and blew her children back into her imagination. And so they called me the miracle baby when I was born. My house was flooded with well-wishers, floral arrangements and candy that I wish I could have eaten. And I was their favorite Christmas present, which I would soon like to hear rolling off my mother’s tongue, as we rolled cookie dough into the Christmas shapes that convinced me I was just as good as Jesus Christ, the someone they kept telling me to believe in. But in between my asthma and my atypical athleticism I just keptforgetting to believe in anyone but the metal tubes that lingered in my mouth. And I never remembered not to fall down – tripping backwards off of snow piles in starlit November air could be a highlight on my resume. I bet I would get hired, if only by doctors who need patients and bosses who need patience to share. And my scars will tell a story of how I learned to projectile puke on command and that running up a mountain is sometimes easier than tumbling down. And one time I burnt myself so bad my mother had to tell me that placing plastic on a burn will only melt and when your skin smells like the natural disasters that Americans ignore, it might be best to put a towel in between the fire and your scar. And then she told me that she’s proud that the baby who was born out of a silly broken scar could lose so much skin without losing all her spirit. And though I look like Frankenstein after years of plastic surgery,I think perhaps I was born out of the best egg anyway.

Self-Portrait as a Six Hundred Degree ScarJulie Cascino

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I’ve dabbled in English muffins and toast. I like pancakes if I’m in the right mood; even waffles can satisfy a starchy, buttery lust. I’ve been known to turn to Greek yogurt or granola in times of serious drifting. If I’m on the go, I can always manage to find a banana or an orange to snack on. But as far as breakfast foods go, I am forever committed to cereal. My love is not a monogamous one, at least on cereal’s part. Ninety three per-cent of American households report that they buy at least a box of cereal a year. I read once that the average American eats 160 bowls of cereal a year. I take pride knowing that, by my own calculations, my average is nearly fifty percent higher. Still, with this many people also partaking in my passion, you’d think that there wouldn’t be much to go around. Luckily, there are so many kinds of cereal that there is really no need to share; every rabbit will get his Trix. The cereal aisle of the grocery store is my amusement park. There are no scary rides, but there are bright colors, enticing prizes, and characters you grow to know and love. It spans the whole aisle, top to bottom. The bottom shelves were usually reserved for the off-brand bags, which dad always got, but the rest of the shelves housed boxes of the good stuff. I was ensnared by those larger-than-life spoons coming off the front of the boxes to grab my attention. Dracula stood over a bowl of spooky, chocolaty shapes; Snap, Crackle, and Pop gazed at me with animated, lipless smiles; Tony the Tiger convinced me that he was not a ferocious predator, but rather a cool, fun-loving guy, and that his cereal was “Grrreat.” I recognize now that it was a trap that enticed me at a young age and never let me go. Thankfully.

It was love at first bite. To this day, the pitter-patter in your heart still beats for cereal!

—General Mills Cereal Blog

My Grandma Tagliente, on my mom’s side, was always making breakfasts. In between her two cups of coffee (“No we can’t play yet, I’m still only on my first

An Ode To CerealMegan Conkle

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cup”), she would make pancakes in the shape of those beloved dinosaurs or would twist and spoon the batter into the letters of our names; she would make toast in her fancy toaster oven (mom only ever made toast in a regular toaster); and would make us chocolate milk with 1% milk. Sometimes my Grandpa would be there and would convince us to eat some of the prunes he kept hid-den in the door of the refrigerator. I remember it as a treat. It was different every time I went. It was decadent. But decadence can’t sustain you. Sometimes you need something familiar to ground you. My Grandma Conkle’s breakfast consisted of a very different meal. I was always welcome to my grandma’s cereal: Honeycombs. They were blonde, wheel-shaped pieces that were glazed with a golden layer of honey. My mom never liked them, so we never had them in my house, but Grandma Conkle seemed to stock them exclusively. I can see my cousin Ben across the table from me, probably around age three, with a white-blonde head of hair and pale, chunky limbs. He fumbles with a spoon and tries to hoist himself higher in his booster seat. He occasionally gets one on his spoon and chews it carefully. The image is so clear in my mind that I have no doubt it must have happened. My grandma has long since moved from the house that surrounds this memory, but cereal brings me back. It’s as if Ben and I are still small. I can say with con-fidence that my grandma never expected to be revered for her boxed breakfast of choice, but I looked forward to it every time I went to visit. It was not that I didn’t like my Grandma Tag’s culinary creations—I did, and I still do—I simply craved the simplicity of cereal. Cereal is actually just a grass. What could be simpler than grass? It’s not as if our Kix box is filled with green leafy lawn trimmings, but the Monocot grass is harvested for its edible grains, which are then processed and made into the hundreds of breakfast cereals that we embrace in our kitchens. These humble roots speak to the initial minimalism of cereal. From grass to gourmet, if you will. Not to mistake minimalism with ordinary, of course: remember that there is a noble vein that runs through my favorite breakfast. The word cereal comes from the Roman goddess of Harvest and Agriculture: Ceres. Cereal is a word with history and with dignity. Cereal is a food of the same qualities.

The most important thing for me is to have my cereal…. I have a lot of cereals that I eat all day long, and I have a big appetite. All over the planet I carry my cereals!

—Sebastiao Salgado

When I was little I used to climb up on the counter and stand with my feet

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against the granite. I would teeter on tiptoes until I could reach the very top shelf of my kitchen cupboard. There in the back was where my mom kept a set of green, porcelain bowls. They were heavy in your hand, sturdy, ready to be filled, and when cold items were put inside, the bottom of the bowl chilled against your eager fingers. I would fill it to the brim with Cocoa Pebbles—a Con-kle favorite— then gently fold them into a stream of cold skim milk. Cereal is greatest like this, filled to the brim. Then I would get out my mom’s big spoons, meant for serving. I’d take huge shovels full of the small, chocolaty tidbits, packing my mouth until there was hardly room to chew. They felt best that way, crushed against the top of my mouth. I look back on those heaping bowls of ce-real and wish I could eat them the same way, with a childish delight in quantity and quality. But I guess it’s also worth wondering: who’s stopping me? I enjoy cereal just as much now. I always have one or two kinds in my pantry. The genre, however, has changed significantly. Rather than the sugary, chil-dren’s variety that I used to favor, I find myself opting for the boxes that don’t have any cartoons on the front or puzzles on the back. I enjoy the nutty crunch of Honey Bunches of Oats (It’s four cereals in one, how couldn’t you love it?), and the lingering chalkiness of Fiber One. I’ve changed, but my cereal has adapted to my modifications. Cereal is a faithful friend, but is not without its faults. If you leave it sitting out and don’t appreciate it, it wilts. It can grow soggy—like people can. It dis-integrates and falls apart and gets stale. The sugary cereals can cut the top of your mouth, punishing you for your gluttony. Sometimes I even come across a box that doesn’t quite fit my fancy: Wheaties, Grape Nuts, Corn Snaps. Cereal, unlike Ceres, is not immortal, after all. For these faults, I forgive it. Because it stays true to itself and has never tried to be anything but wet, puffed oats. But most importantly, through it all, through the flings with breakfast meats and the disastrous courting of oatmeal, cereal has always been right there in my pantry. And I have always been reaching for it.

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Nostalgiainkjet print (2010)Kate Causbie

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Spilled Ink silver gelatin print with mordançage process (2012)

Rebecca petrilli

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I eat like I fear starvation or famine or abandonment.

I eat after satiation to remind myself of abundance—that it exists.

Writing, I crouch to make myself smaller.

Reading, I draw myself in.

I press my love handles back in the mirror.

I eat like I love—a phantom between two moments— the chew and the swallow,

The here and then gone.

I eat to understand the two.

To eat is to lose. To eat is to gain so fasting seems the best option.

On Temples and Nervosa IIChebrya Jeffrey

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A wind blew through the open window, scattering the stack of drawing pa-per on the desk. The artist stood, crumpling a sheet as he strode into the hall, slamming the door shut behind him. Nothing seemed to be working today. He simply wished he could put as much life onto the paper as his images had in his head, but something kept getting lost in translation. Papers fluttered, hovering for an instant on the desk, shifting sideways, draw-ings restless in their pages as the scent of summer rain filled the room. An im-age of a young girl with a strong face blinked, the ebony work smudging as her eyes clicked shut and open again. She rocked her head from side to side, rolled her shoulders, and pushed her palms down hard against the sheet. Slowly, she rose from the page and the ebony and graphite fell away from her porcelain skin as she took her first few steps in the real world, the wind howling at her back. No taller than a new pencil, she stood on the desk and surveyed her com-rades. She readjusted the sling holding her two large blades across her armored back and motioned the others out of their pieces. One by one they climbed or fell from the sheets speared into the wall. A large warrior dropped to the desktop with a hole in his forehead from the pushpin, but he seemed intact and battle-ready nonetheless. She lent a hand to her Captain as the rain pounded with the sound of war drums. As the army congregated around her, another gust blew through the room, and there was a distinct rumbling from the waste bin. Maiden twisted, her hair whipping out behind her as she watched the blackened, scrawled creatures clamor out of the wire-basket, bulky and ready for war as a mountain of dark charcoal erupted from the center of the bin, the creatures’ fortress. The girl twisted back to her soldiers and drew her sword as lightning flared outside the bedroom window, turning the room a brilliant white for just an instant. A twist of her arm and the point of her sword sent her soldiers flying. They raced for the horses and the twisted cords of dragons and boars that were still learning to step out of their portraits and into the night. Maiden ran for her own mount, a dark and slender dragon, as the plans of her castle started to grow out of the parchment on the back corner of the desk,

What if the Storm EndsHannah hunt

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the stone fortress teetering on the edge. A silent cry sent her army forward as the dark Scraps lumbered their way across the room. One by one Maiden and her warriors, bathed in the golden glow of life, surged forward, leaping from the desktop and into battle across the artist’s hardwood floor. They fought the grotesque creatures from the waste bin as they did every night, the monsters unworthy of the daylight. Maiden and her brigade charged forward, horse hooves pounding across the sleek wood floor. Archers mounted the bedposts and crawled over the messy sheets until they reached a clear vantage point to fire. Warriors scaled to the top of the filing cabinet, and swordsmen dueled on the high shelves that circled the ceiling, hop-ping from one fallen book to another, leaping over knickknacks and old Lego constructions. The Scraps roared in response to the sketches’ attack. They lumbered for-ward and dragged their misshapen and jagged arms across the bodies of several soldiers in the first line. Maiden and her team advanced, hacking off whatever dark limbs they could as the battle raged on. Rain pounded against the floor, some droplets sailing through the open window. A skirmish ensued on the navy curtains, Captain and his swordsmen slashing with their feet looped into the stitching of the fabric. Maiden rode her dragon high, heading toward the ceiling where the leader of the Scraps watched her with slit eyes. He sneered as she vaulted from her steed, and the dragon dove back to aid the soldiers in the battle below. The bulbs on the lamp in the fan flickered as the Maiden drew her own sword, hair whipping wildly behind her as the wind sent the blades turning. They dueled like it was their last battle. The scribbled leader lunged, and she parried back. They danced on the blades, lights flaring and the fan blades turning slowly beneath them as the war dragged on. Silent screams and the soft thuds of the fallen echoed from the floor. Bowmen’s arrows whizzed through the air, and there was a soft prick every time they hit a target. There were slashes of the dark claws created by harsh and hasty lines on the beasts, and the ever constant ringing of swordplay. The maiden fought as best she could, wincing only when the beast caught her side with his sharp forearm. She dove; striking back as best she could as the blood started to pool against her palm, nailing three or four hits on the creature in turn. The Scrap howled and bucked, knocking her blade from her hand. She backed away, still clutching her wound as he reared his dark and twisted head before charging forward for a final blow. A gust of wind sent the blades of the fan turning faster, and there came a whoosh across the air as the captain of the guard came soaring toward her. Maiden saw the sleek body of the dragon coming and ran, leaping over the

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scribbled creature to catch hold of Captain’s outstretched hand. They landed safely on the desk again as the thunder of lumbering footsteps echoed from the hall. The battle ceased as sound boomed through the room and members of each side raced to return to their respectable places. The knob on the door handle started to turn. Captain and Maiden stood side by side on their sheets of parchment, the maiden still clutching her side as she stared up into the boy’s face. He stroked her cheek and pulled her closer to his own page as the members of their army dissolved again into dustings of graphite and ebony and ink across the sheets. The castle crumbled at their backs, bits of stone and glass returning to their rightful place on the stack of paper as the wind shushed the world. Captain leaned down, running his fingers through the maiden’s corn silk hair. They closed their eyes and leaned into each other as they felt the pull to return to their own pages as the door cracked open, light spilling across them. And with a breath they dissolved. The captain returned to his sheet with a stern expression and a longing in his eye, and the maiden to hers, the same determination etched across her features. The artist strode into the room, hands tucked into his pockets. Things looked different, and he noticed the sheening puddle on the floor and slammed the window shut. He collected the few sheets of paper that had scattered across the floor with the wind, setting them on his desk. Rolling a pencil between his fingers he regarded his work on the maiden and her captain. He erased a few smudged lines across their cheeks, fixed the bruising on their hands, and cleared the blood from the maiden’s side, thinking it was only a mere graphite smear.

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Every now and then I make you cryjust to know it is possible.In new times and Old Times she who speaks last wins.

Labor Day weekend is a Sale they sold the Nine-to-Fivers a day off and the rest of us got nothing.

I always work during midterm elections and I look just young enoughto get static from the poll worker

You gave up when they misspelled your name on your license. Our polling place is a church;the static in my hair feels like lightning.

Winning Is Everything (But I always Lose)

Victoria Nave

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The father of a newborn person is planting a tree for their future. It is a symbol of life, of hard work,and perseverance, he will tell the baby.

A mother tells her family that when she dies, she’d like to be buried under a tree, so that she can restin the shade forever. It seems futile to tell her that six feet under earth is plenty shady, so they begin to scour local wooded cemeteries.

A well-paid city worker knocks down a tavern, the tavern, actually, where another father carved a phallus on the back wall before he had children.

I am beginning to understand the language of the bricks,which are porous and trap in dirt from passing trains, cigarettes, and secrets.

The newborn will grow up alongside the tree, until it grows too close to a telephone wire, and is cutdown by the same well-paid city worker.The tree will be cut down, not the no-longer-newborn, although he will feel like his roots were coveredby the same cheap mulch and indifference.

A man passes me on the street, and thanks me for saying hi to him. If only the bricks could shout.

Elegy to a City StreetTaylor Burmeister

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Improvised Tea Setceramic (2013)Kathryn Scudier

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Porcelain Cups porcelain and earthenware (2013)

Anna Strecker

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They never made it to the channel—couldn’t see where the humble streams meetthe greatest of lakes—the point of convergenceunsure where the small stops and the big beginsbut they knew it was there.

Lost without the bed that stabilizes a sense of home.Stark white sheets and heavy blankets fall limp on thefloor, while bodies meet up elsewhere.

He didn’t always stay awake when she was awake.But he welcomed the day for herand prepared the ambush after an innocent shower.He poured the wine so she could keep the bottle.But not before they poured themselves into the waves,creating their own when midnight’s calm breathcould not even stir the minnows.

His heart was too cold to be tender.And hers, too mangled to be reshaped.

The sand next summer will have no trace of thefootprints that were left behind.The ones that assumed a returning to the path that waswalked too many times with no reward.

They never finished that very last walk.

Nowhere Left To GoElizabeth Boyer

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The first thing he noticed about her were her shoes. Crisp white sneakers, probably brand-new, or at least they were until paint was dripped over them. Violent splashes interspersed with melancholy dribbles of red, yellow, blue and green applied with a chaotic, yet deliberate flow of energy. They looked like something out of a Jackson Pollock painting. He was in a music store, squatting in front of a shelf of CDs, absent-mind-edly flicking through the albums with his fingers, just killing time. A bell over the store’s front door chimed delicately as she came in. A momentary breath of wind and the faint rush of traffic briefly drowned the song playing in the back-ground. He looked over from his position near the floor, and saw the shoes, still gleaming brilliantly from the summer sunshine outside. They were appalling and garish. They were lively and unique. They enthralled him. The rest of her outfit was far less remarkable, but he felt drawn to her none-theless. Dark blue jeans rolled up an inch or two above the ankle. An ordinary white V-neck shirt hugged her slender figure perfectly. A large pair of sunglasses rested on top of her head, keeping her long jet-black hair out of her face. Eyes the color of bluest flame. He felt the most peculiar sensation growing slowly within. An overpowering compulsion to talk to her, to say something, anything. He became aware of the heavy pounding of his heart, an incessant thudding against the back of his ribs. It was madness. It was maddening. “I haven’t been able to find it anywhere,” she spoke to a cellphone pressed between her ear and her shoulder as she rummaged through her bag with both hands. “I think it was called Bleach… Yeah, it was like their first album but I guess it wasn’t too popular. That’s why I can’t find it anywhere.” Already he found his mind drifting to a realm of unlikely opportunities and infinite possibilities. One by one, the scenarios began to play out in his subcon-scious like clockwork, each one more idyllic than the last. He imagined a conversation where he said all the right things. He imagined her coy but enthusiastic responses. He imagined her phone number scrawled on his hand.

Split Second: A Short StoryCameron Mackintosh

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He imagined a kiss… And just before he was lost entirely in his deepest contemplations, she sud-denly looked up from her bag and noticed him staring. Their eyes met so brief-ly, they may not have met at all. And yet, the heat of that fleeting stare burned with all the fury of the stars themselves. Averting his gaze, he stood up and went back to flipping through the albums on the higher shelves, looking at them but seeing none of them. “I’ll call you back,” she said and promptly hung up. She approached the same shelf and stood next to him as she too began to search through the albums. Her sudden proximity made him nervous. A mere twelve inches now separated them and for a second he thought she might chal-lenge him about his impolite staring. Much to his relief however, she merely sighed to herself and devoted her attention exclusively to the CDs. He tried to do the same as his thoughts and emotions raged. Should he say something? No, he would just humiliate himself. She would laugh at him and reject him and he would castigate himself for the rest of the day. But maybe it was worth the risk. Maybe. Maybe not… He wished she would leave. Her presence was agony. But he felt rooted to the spot, entranced by her presence and the aura that seemed to emanate from her. “Oh!” she gasped suddenly. She was staring at the album he had unknow-ingly picked up. Jolted by her abrupt exclamation, he focused on the dusty plastic covered square he was holding. There it was in both his hands. Bleach. Nirvana’s first studio album from 1989. Kurt Cobain regarded him with an almost quizzical look from the cover. “Oh,” he stuttered stupidly, “were you looking for this?” He offered her the album. Gently, she took it from him. “Yeah,” she said, “thanks.” She looked at him expectantly. There was a slight pause as his golden opportunity melted painfully away. With a smooth and confident smile, she turned on her heels and went to the cash register to pay. The desire to talk to her became more overwhelming than ever. But he felt paralyzed, as though he was trapped in a shell of inaction and indecisiveness. And fear. The cashier scanned the album. She offered him cash. The cashier provided her change, which she threw in a plastic bag with the album and the receipt. And then turning around, she walked out the store. Gone forever. The mo-notonous drone of traffic outside marked the finality of her departure just as it

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had marked her arrival not a few minutes ago. He felt relief. He felt bitter disappointment. “Oh Ma’am,” the cashier yelled from behind the counter as the doors swung closed, “You left your phone here!” It was too late. She had already made her way across the sidewalk and was out of earshot. Before the cashier could react, he ran up and, snatching the phone, tore off after her. Bursting out the glass doors into the summer heat, he saw that she was about to cross the street. He opened his mouth to call out, but before the first syllable could even form in his throat, the world became engulfed in the horrid sound of screeching tires, filling his ears like the accursed screaming of a harpy. A pickup truck appeared out of nowhere and slammed into her side with tremendous force as she crossed the street. The impact produced a thick tor-rent of crimson blood that glimmered momentarily in the sunlight before it splattered over the truck’s windshield. She flew several feet through the air and then rag-dolled several more on the tarmac before finally coming to an abrupt halt. Her spine was shattered in five places. Her spleen burst open inside her body like a balloon. When the whole thing was finally over, all that remained of her body was a twisted and gory heap. A dark pool of blood began to spread underneath her, tainting the whiteness of her painted sneakers. She twitched momentarily, and died. The reactions of other pedestrians echoed in the distance. He heard scream-ing and crying, the far out wail of a siren. But it was all indistinct and blurry. He found himself wondering what he would now do with the phone he still clutched tightly in his sweating fist. If only he had done something. Talked to her. Any small distraction. A mere second was all it would have taken.

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The dead don’t always walk; sometimes they roll slowly into the room in their power-chairs.

Which is funny, because the word power evokes an image of speed. Usually.

My favorite dying woman likes autumn leaves. A lot.

She rolls in, in her losing-power-chair, staring at a leaf like itcontains the secrets to all of the questions she’s ever been refused an answer to. She doesn't reply when I call; I have to repeat myself a few times:

What can I get you?What can I get you? Complete with my too perky smile.

Oh, she says. Ice cream. Butter pecan. Two Dips.

Because the dying don't believe in scoops. (Too much has been taken out of them already.)

My smile feels like it’s wavering. I pasted it on with glue but itdoesn't age well.

But I get herher ice cream and try not to watch as she wheels over to the counter, where she sits alone every Saturday and I’d presume every other day.

And I go sit in my corner and read, until she’s ready to leave. And then I stand up, because my mother taught me more than justmanners.

Have a nice day!

She doesn't notice. And then she’s gone. And I go back to reading.

She comes back a few minutes later. I forgot my leaf, she says. Her treasure is safe again.She picks it up and rolls away.And the glue in my lips melts as I forget to smile.

Wanda’s Favorite ThingsJulie Cascino

30

We chose an empty pew and stuffed ourselves in the corner because we thought we didn’t belong there, a lesbian and her faithless daughter. For years we did this, and it became our ritual. While Pastor Anita read the Holy Gos-pel, I slipped a book between the pages of my bulletin and tried to decode the secrets of “The Gold Bug” before the narrator ruined the ending. During the sermon, I would lay my head on my mother’s breasts, where I had found solace during my first real breakup, and after my brother and I fought, by listening to her slow and steady beat.

May the Lord be with you.And also with you.

After, we rushed past the cracker ladies in the Narthex to avoid the cordialities of strangers. For years we did this and it became our ritual, until one Sunday when we were eating supper with Rebecca (who had the excuse of being Jew-ish) and Momma fell to the floor clawing at her heart, screaming it’s wrapped in thorns.

Lift up your hearts.We lift them to the Lord.

I looked for you everywhere. In the Bible, the graveyard up the road, Mom-ma’s heartbeat while she lay sedated in the hospital. I even tried to pray a couple of times. Did I pray hard enough? Did I do it right? We have been doing this by ourselves for years, but now I need the sound of your heartbeat to find you.

Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.It is right to give him thanks and praise.

“We Chose an empty Pew”Claryssa Haugrud

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Whirling Dervishoil on canvas (2013)Angela Chen

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NYC 9 digital print (2014)

Lindsay Janmey

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If you asked, I’d talk nerdy to you all night long.I’m capable of being unique:despite being blonde-haired, blue eyed, and middle class. I ate lunch with you on a Monday, listening to you talk about loveand life, and how you can turn a beer bottleinto a wine glass. I was thrust into your imaginationthinking how great it must be to pull from an endless list of lower-class experiences, and Oregon,the color of drugs and the texture of a woman’s hips.

I wish I could ask how you say “shit”in a poem, and not worry about if your mom asks to read it, and she’ll thinkyou’re too vulgar, as your little sister continues toinvent different ways of flicking you offfrom the corner of the room.

You can talk to me about magic, stocks, bonds, covalent energy, and I will nodwith the best of them. I can recite poems and cartoons, and though I’m neither skinnyor brunette, I have the aforementioned sisterand a Mathlete shirt, with Albert Einstein on my chest.

If I could Speak Kling-onCali Clayton

34

Maybe it could have been me that you wrote aboutwanting to work string theory with—did I mentionmy pinky is permanently stuck out in Kling-on?

I could have been that girl, but lunch was overand I never asked my question.But that’s how life is sometimes:you invest time & money & blood and hope, waiting for the right moment

and then it ends—

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Still the sway of your legs enchanted by the off-beat;

Still your time-keeper,cease your rocket heart’srhythmic journey to the center of the thump;

Still the fire bird nesting in your chest,flapping, clawing,begging through your ribbed-middle–

still it claws.

Still your urge to tongue-pluck melodies dry;

Moisten sweet lyricswith the soft syllables of your lips:don’t dare dip themin the molten lava of yourgut;

Still your burning song,your warm respite from the drag of beat-less breathsthrough crumbling, ugly,choke-spoken moments.

Still the organic fill of your lungs.

ThroatsongJulia Devine

36

Yes,barely breathe,just stand stilland let your throatwhisper wobbly notes,feathered with mucus,cold as peppermintsswallowed whole.

And still it claws.

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I am most certainly not mad, even though it may appear so; I would not be able to relate this story if I was mad. It was very late at night, and I’m not entirely sure what was happening, but I walked into an overwhelmingly chaotic atmosphere. I was appalled. I didn’t know what to do. A mass of employees stared at me as I strolled into the space. Laughing and smiling uncontrolla-bly, they yelled my name with frenetic energy. Belief was suspended. Disbelief crept in. I ran to the back room, scared for my life. Maniacal cackling soared through the air; my skin crawled. I gazed at the Subway sandwiches, and I was, momentarily, okay with it all. I turned, and festive cookies leapt into my visual field. The cackling, however, seeped into my brain. Terrified, and, apparently, not thinking, I left the back room and sat amongst my peers. Everyone seemed to have settled down, and I was able to pinpoint the mania-induced screaming: Sean. I was told that he had already consumed several cups of coffee, and I was taken aback by how extremely energetic he was. Over the next few hours, he continued to drink this undeniably strong beverage. I tried to persuade him to set the coffee mug down multiple times, but to no avail. His energy and enthu-siasm was terrifyingly grotesque. My monomania commenced and I knew that, for the sake everyone, he must be done away with. So, I concocted a plan to rid us all of Sean, which, I believe, is entirely imperative. It would be a ghastly deed, no doubt about that, one that I would never see myself accomplishing, but it had to be done for the betterment of all. Through a creative distraction of my own devising, I spiked his coffee as he left the room. Perhaps, friend, you saw this; perhaps not. In any case, Sean’s next sip became his last. I will not tell you the additional ingredient to his coffee, or how, or where to, I smuggled the body out of the Writing Center, as I would never want to give away my secrets. His breath slowed, becoming congealed in his lungs, and his blood thinned, dissipating into near nothingness. His beating heart, instead of stalling, rapidly increased its pace, making it easier and easier to hear from a far distance. His body convulsed pugnaciously, refusing to still as quickly as was desired (and expected). Impatiently, I waited. I waited for death to take a hold. At last, with

Midnight Hours at the Writing Center

David Johnson

38

an excruciatingly long wait, the body became rigid. I shrieked purposefully. I checked to see if any breath persisted, but there was nothing. I left the body momentarily to retrieve my car; when I returned, the body seemed slightly off, slightly odd, slightly strange. It seemed as if the body had shifted, but that was impossible. The hands looked as if they had moved, but surely that was prepos-terous. I had previously checked to see if there was breath and there was not. I checked again, and nothing. This instance was gravely mysterious, and any kind of pure elation was absent. The hands appeared to shift now and again; my eyes must have been deceiving me! It was ungainly! I ran to the Writing Center, retrieved the enormous red mug, carefully unwrapped all of the mints, placed them back into the red mug, and stormed back to the place where the body remained. The hands had modified themselves again. I disposed of the mints, eating one in my course of action, and threw the red mug down upon the hands, smashing the bones in my path of destruction. I proceeded to pick up the multitude of mints, and I sanitized my hands afterward. I dragged the body to my car, and placed it in the trunk. You, friend, certainly saw this. I made you swear that nothing egregious was occurring, but I am unaware of how that made you feel. You clearly saw who the body used to belong to. Your protestations were meaningless, and I convinced you to ac-company me. I drove you and myself to Buck Creek; the wild snow blinded me, but I continued in my pursuit. I stopped my car, got out of it, and opened the trunk. The previously heard beating of the heart began again; it was only annoying at first, but then it intensely increased once more. It became nearly unbearable. You claimed to hear nothing. I removed the body from the car and threw it into the creek, intending never to see it again. I drove us back; you did not ask any questions of me, though your eyes said everything: suspi-cion, anger, disgust, confusion. We returned to the Writing Center. You made coffee in the attempt to refresh your mind after this wondrously curious and harrowing event. I decided to drink nothing. The clock ticked furiously as if it had mischief or vengeance on its mind. It beckoned me as if with veracity. You became anxious, irately tapping your fingers until blood began to seep from its comfortable surroundings. Snow continued to slowly drift outside. You took a sip of coffee. The lights, usually benevolent, flickered in and out of conscious-ness, creating a drastically energetic atmosphere. You turned around to face the door of the Writing Center. The lights continued to flash on and off, on and off, doomed to repeat itself in this insane compulsion. Electricity sounded from

39

the door: it became unlocked. A dark figure emerged from the hallway, damp with an unsatisfyingly disgusting water smell. The lights flickered on again, and—gasp!—it was the body that had just recently been thrown into the creek. Turning in horror, shock ran upon your face. Your heart began to quicken in pace; you grabbed your left arm and trembled to the ground. Your body convulsed, you said, “Help,” and then shriveled into a ball of pale nothingness. Sean moved forward and said, “I’ll never know why this always works, but I’m okay with that.” We lifted your body and placed it into the hallway, leaving it to wait until the body would be found by an unexpected passerby. It may seem that I—poor, lonely, insignificant me—was the root cause of your downfall. That is not en-tirely the case. Your noncompliance in giving me a Writing Center T-shirt was your demise. You are to blame for all of this. Just think on it.

Inspiration for this story brought to you by:Mr. Edgar Allan Poe and Clouzot’s Diabolique (1955)

40

The blue ash dropped a branch. The city stilled.The sidewalks gone. Ice crystals gathered on the inside of our window like a mat in a frame and we were alone in the world.

Your eyes looked like a darkling beetle, dark and shining, like the second bestdanseuse in a Tchaikovsky ballet. All the life in the worldwas there in our battered couches.

Dawdle again with me this winter under the blankets. Tilt forward, sending warmth from your body into mine.

A Forest in WinterVictoria Nave

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Reflectivesilver gelatin print (2007)Austin riggle

42

Mound Teapot, Cup, and Traythrown and altered black stoneware (2013)

Jacob Kuntz

43

Lights up on JOE alone Center Stage. Stage is setwith a worn couch, maybe a coffee table. Nothing

too elaborate.

JOE On phone: Yeah, just get here as fast as possible. Perfect.

Hangs up.

COLIN enters wearing a hockey mask, pillows, and equipped with a tennis racket.

COLIN How are we doing this?

JOE What? What are you wearing, Colin?

COLIN Well, we’re gonna kill this thing, right?

JOE NO!! What are you saying? We can’t kill Bat-tholomew! He’s part of the house! Just like you and me.

COLIN What do you mean we can’t kill him? We gotta do something, Joe. He’s in the kitchen and we’re having a party tonight.

Bat-tholomewBrandon Pytel

44

JOE Yes, yes I know. Dammit Bat-tholomew! Why’d you have to go flying out of the attic?

COLIN Well…what are we gonna do about it?

JOE You were so perfect up there… my own little pet keeping me com- pany. Just me, you, and my bowl. When I first saw your hairy little self in the corner of the attic, I knew we’d hit it off. Something was funny–special–about a flying rat keeping me company up there. Made the weed better somehow.

COLIN You smoked with him?

JOE Yes. He kept me company.

COLIN … Alone in the attic?

JOE It’s not alone if Bat-tholomew is there.

COLIN How often do you smoke alone up there?

JOE It’s not alone! It’s with Bat-tholomew. The smoke soothes him.

COLIN That’s weird, man.

JOE There’s nothing weird about hanging out with a pet. You have a dog. It’s the same thing.

45

COLIN I don’t smoke with my dog.

JOE Maybe you should try. It’s really an experience.

COLIN I don’t know… anyways, it was your high ass that must’ve left the attic door open. It’s your own fault.

JOE Yes, I know, I know. Dammit.

COLIN Did you call him?

JOE The pledge? Yeah, he’s on his way.

COLIN What the hell is Steve going to do that I can’t?

JOE Well, for one thing, he’s not gonna kill him. We’ll just wait till he gets here and go from there.

COLIN Just let me do it and get it over with.

JOE No!

Two knocks. Enter STEVE.

STEVE Hey, Joe. Hey, Colin. Why are you dressed like that…? What’s so urgent?

46

JOE It’s Bat-tholomew. He’s escaped.

COLIN I’m in assassin mode.

STEVE … Bat-tholomew?

JOE Our pet bat!

COLIN Your pet bat.

JOE The house’s pet bat. Anyways, you know Bat-tholomew. Remem ber, I made him a Facebook account and had your entire pledge class friend request him?

STEVE Ohhhh. Bat-tholomew. Of course. How could I forget? How’d he escape?

JOE I was smoking and I left the door open…

STEVE Sarcastically: Right. I forgot. He’s your smoking buddy.

JOE Why do you say it like that?

STEVE Like what? Never mind.

COLIN Because it’s weird! A pet bat by itself is weird. Let alone the fact that you smoke with it.

47

JOE With him. And it’s soothing. For both of us!

STEVE Where is he now?

COLIN The kitchen.

JOE So here’s the plan, Steve: you go in there and take this broom and just kind of swat him out the back door. Deal?

STEVE Um… I don’t really have a choice, do I?

JOE Not at all.

STEVE Thought so.

JOE And one more thing. Under no condition can you kill him. That’s why you’re doing it and not fucking Jason over here.

STEVE Okay, got it. No killing.

JOE Preaching: Just swat it out to the open and free skies of Springfield, Ohio. Where dreams go to prosper and bats can fly free amongst the many crows of wonder. Free for the rest of your life. Oh Bat-tholomew! How I envy your bright future!

COLIN You need to stop this.

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STEVE Um…yeah.

JOE Just get him outside.

STEVE Fine. Beat. Um.

JOE What?

STEVE Do I just go in there like this?

JOE How else are you supposed to do it?

STEVE Points to COLIN: Like that.

JOE Oh god. Stop being a baby. I’ve been smoking with Bat-tholomew every day for the past month. He’s harmless.

STEVE Well, just give me something I can use in case he flies at me. Like a shield or something.

JOE Fine. To COLIN: Give him your pillow.

COLIN gives STEVE the pillow.

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There. Happy?

STEVE No, but you don’t care.

JOE You’re right. Now go set Bat-tholomew free!

STEVE exits. Beat. Then, crashing noises. Panic. A yell from STEVE. Bat enters.** Then, enter STEVE.

STEVE He’s flying! Coming your way!

JOE Bat-tholomew!

COLIN I got him!

JOE NOOOOO!!

COLIN Come here you little bastard!

COLIN swings racket and hits the bat downwards. Then, once it is on the ground, he hits the bat repeatedly.

JOE Oh, god!

STEVE Uh oh.

COLIN Um…

JOE Broken and standing over the bat:

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Bat-tholomew…boy…

COLIN I’m sorry, Joe. I didn’t mean to.

STEVE He might just be unconscious.

JOE Kneeling: It’ll be okay, boy.

COLIN Yeah, I’m sure he’s just knocked out or something. He’ll come back to it.

JOE Almost in tears, and holding bat: You’ll be okay, right boy? We’ll both be okay. I know it.

STEVE Yeah, see, everything is fine.

JOE You’ll be okay. Just don’t stop breathing, boy. Boy…? Bat-tholomew? Hang in there, buddy. Hang in there, bud. Don’t leave. You gave weed a whole new meaning to me, boy. I’m not ready to say good- bye. I just bought another eighth yesterday. We have all weekend to smoke together. Won’t that be fun? Boy? Bat? Don’t leave me… I’m not ready to say good-bye… no… no…

Bat dies.

Bat-tholomew? Bat-tholomew?

Calling to heavens: BAT-THOLOMEWWWWWWW!!!

Beat.

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COLIN I’m really sorry, Joe. I didn’t think I swung it that hard.

STEVE I really tried to get him outside. He was just too fast.

COLIN I’m sorry, man.

STEVE Me too.

JOE It’s… it’s okay. I just need some time I think.

COLIN That’ll be good for you. Time will cure all. Until then, how about we go get a beer?

JOE Bat-tholomew would’ve wanted that, I guess.

COLIN Um… yeah. Come on, pledge. You’re driving.

STEVE Dammit. COLIN It’ll be okay, Joe. I’ll smoke with you tonight.

JOE It won’t be the same.

COLIN I know… I’m sorry.

Beat.

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STEVE I’ll smoke with you too.JOE You don’t smoke.

STEVE Just this once. In honor of Bat-tholomew.

JOE Well… okay. Thanks, guys.

COLIN It’s the least we can do.

Beat.

Now let’s go get those beers.

STEVE Yeah. Come on, Joe.

JOE I’ll be out there in a minute.

Exit STEVE and COLIN. “Dust in the Wind” is cued. JOE picks up bat with a handkerchief from his pocket.

Good-bye, boy. I’ll miss you. But now you have a home greater than our attic. You have a home greater than all of Springfield. You have all the skies and weed a bat could ask for. I hope you find a new smoking buddy up there in bat heaven.

Closes eyes. Holds bat up to heart.

I know you will.

JOE exits with bat in hand. “Dust in the Wind” plays out a bit. Then, music fades and

BLACKOUT.

*The bat can be as simple as a beanie baby, or a beanbag. Requires someone from off stage to throw it center stage for COLIN to hit it down.

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Senior Thesis: part Oneearthenware: wall installation (2013)

Anna strecker

54

Self-portrait egg tempera and gilded leaf on panel (2013)

Caitlin Green

55

Even the strongest steel must show some flexibilityand filthy dollars can only support those that crawl to find themtucked away in the most unspeakable places

While stains on the most luxurious fabrics—the wools and the satinsmake themselves permanent on the ones that can onlypass as polyester

Two different sizesfor only one Godthat triumphs amongst sinnersand boasts amongst saints

Empty bottles but overwhelmed heartsappearing only in remnantsmaybe in needles on the floor

But skyward comes more often then we’re readydouble or nothing but three time’s the charm

Desperate souls on the dance flooreventually move to overpasses or even underneathwhere purity flows and nothing can compare

to lackadaisical days transformed to formimpressionable truthsand no love is lost.

HomeElizabeth Boyer

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Come with me into the rusted out Mercury Villager to drive to the apartment complex at the edge of town, between the train tracks and the town of fuzzyhalf remembered ideas;

We’ll take the long way to the party;I, in a cape, with underwear worn above my pants and you, a ghost, a white sheet secured by a belt

Late by the time we arrive, caughtby a freight train we see through the spacesbetween the cars the guests leaving,monsters of our past and future.

The complex is empty when we arrive, I leave you in the car and enter the familiar room, trashed, to discoverone of those vintage birdcages

In the cage is a massive, iridescent blue bird;standing pensively with its back to meI reach into the cage and pluck a feather to giveto you before sending you on your way.

Bluebirds and SuperherosTaylor Burmeister

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Hydrocephalus—known as “water on the brain,” is a medical condition in which there is an abnormal accumulation of fluid in the cavities of the brain. This may cause increased intracranial pressure and progressive enlargement of the head, convulsion, tunnel vision, and mental disability. Hydrocephalus can also cause death

Your brain is too big, is what you tell people—maybe it’s your skull, too small. That’s whyyour spine bends, makes its own path. Too weak to carry its fellow brain’s weight. Don’t worry. Be calm. Too much to see your mom cry. Let her knoweverything is going to be okay.

It doesn’t hurt like you think—though it hurts a lot. You have to be careful. You have to be slow. All things children are not.Don’t cry, others cry too. Don’t forget to change your gauze. Don’t wince, she’ll see. Don’t forget to change the gauze again, after you shower(When you get to shower.)Don’t be infected, you can’t start all over.

Brother brings your homework from school—you teach yourself algebra, geography, are still not sure if y = the capital of Djiboutior mx plus b. He brings home your card from the class.At least now you’re the weird girl whose head was cut open

Self-Portrait with Brain Surgery at Age 12

Cali Clayton

58

a tube thrust intoinstead of the girl with books in her pockets, who reads too much because the real world is boring. Don’t worry. It is not boring anymore.

Get a lot of gifts, pity—write lots of thank-you cards, just like mom taught you. Get cookies, get flowers and McDonald’s hash-browns.Get the sad look off your mother’s face.Slowly, gently get the stitches out of your stomach. only later, in secret, once a few have fallen out.

Being tugged—It’s a weird sensation, like a string of life. The only thing holding you together.Don’t force it, or it bleeds.

Learn how to sleep on your left side—forget you’re a right side sleeper. Learn about school again, howto tell people what happened to you. Learn how to tell everyoneDon’t worry. Everything is ok.

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Self-portraitmixed media on woodblock (2013)Lauren Campbell

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Cutting Corners Silver gelatin print (2012)

Rebecca petrilli

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S.22 | S.1501

1 Gun Show Background Check Act of 2013 | Assault Weapons Ban of 2013

I still feel steel.When They fire,I am only flesh and a wound.Lead sprouting through skinlike a flower blossoming into the bloodstream: redand wilting—I feel it.Veins crisp and stickylike our stems—suddenly broken.Lead and steel through pores.

Even through screens, I feel it.Tiny faces flashed like mugshots, commemorating a miniscule life.And still schools will catch fire.But we are gushing and growing;we are a field mowed down, but ready to grow:this time more wild and more fierce.You have pierced us.

Some want the steel to keep them safe;some want the steel to give them power;but They want the steel because the steel sets Them free. I can’t feel the way you feel;Because there are holes in my sides made with budding flowersAnd my parents make their livingWith tiny faces, and my brother still has a tiny face.But as long as you’re free, you assure me—as petals falland drift to the ground—Even their blood can be beautiful.

Megan Conkle

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For three years, I’ve said,“Next year for my mom’s birthday,I’m going to get her one of thosefruit arrangements with the fruitthat’s in the shape of flowers.”I see people get those arrangementsfor their moms all the time, butI always decide not to do it, because my mom is the kind of parental ATMthat gives you cash and porcelain dollsmade in Taiwan by Asians she doesn’t knowon your birthday,but only accepts homemade stuffon her birthday.The thing is, though, that other peopleget their moms the fruit flowers,and moms are pretty standardwhen it comes to homemade, right?so maybe other people just decidetheir moms are bluffing.

When I’m your mom andwe live right next to a store for arts and crafts,I’d like for you to go over thereand figure out how to make mesomething sloppy and lopsided,because I won’t be bluffing about homemade,or even if I am, it’s becauseI could easily add “fruit flower arrangement”to the grocery list.

Sometimes I think about how old peoples’ wrinkly faces and

You’d like for me to title thisJulia Devine

63

crusty lips could be considered a mask,and how, underneath, they’re wearing the faces of themselvesat age 21,so that me and them are the same and so,when we make eye contact in coffee shops,they’re comparing me to their friends instead of their granddaughters.They already have granddaughters,but I’d bet you anything except my collection of green teasthat they’re still inventing plans,and they need young friends like meto tell them whether or nottheir idea to build a rubber aquariumsucks.

When I’m old people,I’d like for you to tell me to revise, too, and if I start to get a ton of frogs in my throat,hand me a glass of water but do not give me any crap about it.

Finally, I’d like to get somethingoff my chest, which isthe apparent inappropriateness of ordering simple flavors and not toppingsat complicated ice cream shops becauseit shows that I do not like new experiencesor taking a chance once in a while.The issue here is that I like both of those things,but I am overwhelmingly curiousabout what plain old French Vanillatastes like at a place thatdoes ice cream right.When I posed the question of“How can it not be amazing?”they had already switchedfrom thinking brain to eating brainand had decided to load up on

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M&Ms, Reese’s cups, and peanut butter saucein the cake batter ice cream that tastes too much like cake not to be cake.

When you go to places like those ice cream shops,I’d like for you to survey your own taste buds,even if they lead to results that remind you of French Vanillaand one scoop instead of two,God forbid.

Post Script,God strongly forbid you ever get me to title this,because that would mean thatyou’ve figured me out,and it would be the sign that, after years of chasing,I’ve also realized my tail is attached to my ass.

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Rook Ewer and Bishop Ewerthrown and altered porcelain (2013)Jacob Kuntz

66

Self-reflection oil on canvas (2012)

Rachel Steiner

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In the evening, he poured out every ounce of his heart into the bottom of a cognac glass. Those eyes! The color of stone, they shone. They shone.

He lost his sense of gravity over a round of Oliveto’s, a drink she turned her petite nose up at because of the egg whites—which he would get past. Her tastes would refine over time. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

In the morning, they met over espressos threaded with cream and faint recol-lections of the previous evening. They exchanged the cordial greetings of strangers. He longed to graze her lips with his and tug on her bottom lip... Af-ter some time of talking in circles she rose, excused herself to the bathroom.

Time passed slowly.

He stared at the empty booth seat across from him until the waitress ap-proached with a check. “Could we have another minute, miss?” The waitress looked down at him with the sad eyes of one who has known abandonment. He withered into the cavernous diner booth and observed his feast of losses, for the third time that month.

Into the Bottom of a Cognac GlassClaryssa Haugrud

68

You crossed every line I let you breakand plundered all the treasure I let you take-so go and conquer someone else.

Go honey, climbanother silver towerbreak down the doors and tear up the towers-Tarnish the stairs with each starlit stepand leave the place ragged, alone, windswept.

Go baby, bewitchsome other poor doe-eyed saintwith an innocent face-go dig up that diamond below her waist- oh honey, just go.

Go, for who could slow your advance-your armies, your hands-under shirts and skirtsyour acquired lands?Who could resist your ranksof sexy servitude?Who could escape your graspby your sweet power subdued?

So go, seduce me first- my sister next-my best friend, my cousin,the whole damn sexall hunted, one herd in this primitive quest-

GoAmanda Wampler

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for one gameto be tamed.In your hungry eyeswe’re all the same.

My love, all of mecouldn’t fill you up. Whose conquest, whose chase will ever be enough?

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Do you ever wonder about outer space? About how everythingis attracted to everythingelse, so that, even if we tried,we could never escape the inevitable tug of the sun, pulling us in, in, in?

I do.

And I wonder if that means that the thousand miles between us is always getting smaller, so that if we hold out long enough, we will one day wake up together in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean smiling likebeautiful idiots while we drown.

And you know, I think maybe that’s why God put you there and left me, here. He knows that the space between two people is only as big as the magnitude of their polar attraction and the gravity of the situation they find themselves in.

And I think he probably made gravity for love.

To My Long Distance Lover on the Anniversary of Our Separation

Julie Cascino