Spring 2019

In the words of our 2019 Editor-in-Chief, D'Ayn Sayre, art "opens doors and lights fires in the dark."

Poetry

"An Apology for Failing at Feminism" by Wesley Urbanczyk

Behold the entitled audience,
With fingers that graze
The folds of a coat hem.
Mouths snap at the tang
of satisfaction given by
the beak of a sparrow to her
Nestled young.

The ringmasters of confidence recommend
Performing with the intention
to please just to live up to
An idolized womanhood.
Power is gained by surrendering
To a prescribed pill of sexuality.

I tried to be a goddess,
But I ended up with an exposed stomach,
Surrendering to the pack leader and
Avoiding the knowing eyes of
The empowered woman
Before baring my throat to the bite
For failing at feminism.

Sunflowers meant nothing until
Society declared the brushstrokes genius.
An audience didn't exist in the
Mind of the painter
Smearing a soul upon canvas.
I meant nothing until
Empowerment dictated that
Self-ownership
Needed to strut in heels.

I'm sorry I couldn't be a
Badass.
This whole thing would have been
Easier that way, don't you think?
But I'd rather dance with nothing
But wind as my witness
Than worry I failed at feeling a
Validated kind of
Empowered and Sexy.

In A Certain Kitchen On a Very Ordinary Tuesday Night by Madison Snider

In a certain kitchen on a very ordinary Tuesday night, the tiles confess to me how
     tired they are of being beaten and bruised by bare popcorn toe;
the cracks and crevices of their body have turned gritty, collecting from years of dirty feet
     exploitations;
the big spoons and little spoons crush up next to one another under the dark covers of
     drawers, all-consuming in each other on a very ordinary Tuesday night, while the
forks
     weep, "oh, why can't we/he/I fit like a spoon?"
I have heard the chiming of pots loving pans, sidling up against their partners and shedding
     the rusts of old lives, delighting in each other's metal features and shuffling across the
     cabinet to find the one that they adore
Look-in the pantry, the green beans are sloshing around, keeping their cans symmetrical on
     the shelf so that all the neighbors can see how well-balanced they are
Is there any untouched corner of this kitchen? I wander between shuddering door hinges and
     knock my hip against an island, desperate to know what those stovetops are going on
     about
     what keeps their flame alive even after all the meals they've prepared? they burn at an
even
     pace throughout the entire night, and are ready in the morning to serve
I run away from the stovetops and throw open the refrigerator and all of a sudden the whole
     room is lit up with the artificial
every cranny is out in the open and I freeze in my bruised and goose-bumped
state
the light spreads and now I can see the inside of the refrigerator too
and there's no hiding from the fruit bowl partners, bread-loaf buddies, dish darlings
even the knives line-up next to one another and pose for the onlookers, sharpening
and
     polishing themselves to pristine condition
the perfectly chilled fridge inhabitants glower at my discomfort
and they puff out their drawers to show off the meat and veggies housed inside, the
epitome of
     fresh, refined, airlocked
their used-by dates aren't very soon
and their heads aren't crowned with mold
and their hips aren't flowering purple

     On a very ordinary Tuesday night, I wandered into a certain kitchen
     where there were no lit lamps or steady oven-lights
     (although I knew what hid behind the refrigerator door.)
     there was no one else but me
     and the cold, dirty, bruised tiles beneath my feet.

Inheritance by Andrew Wolfson

I wonder how the bitter winds bit, while you waited

For Alaska to end. The Japanese riding the cresting waves to reach the coast and you.
We hold pieces of your conquest, in patches and medals, your image remaining.

I remember you giving sweet things wrapped in golden foil, hidden in deep pockets, and you,
searching for two boys, crouched beneath a chair.

We were loving grandsons, Ethan and I, willing to see past urine-soaked beds and fading
memories to find you.

I had a benign tumor the year you died, and as our love was, it had been gentle once. But
things are tainted with time, and like a tumor, you have left only a scar.

Dad and Uncle Dede spoke when you died, through tears only men give other men, but I was
not a man so I could not cry.

I wonder how Dad and Uncle Dede knew you, as young sons, doing chores on weekends or
driving their grandparents an hour through snow for groceries. Mom says you broke them,
but you made them men.

Mom says you are the voice that berates Nana Rita when Dad screams at her. She saw it as the
bride-to-be, and knew, when Dad spoke to his mother, that the ghost speaking was you.

She lived, dear Nana Rita, ten good years without you, and I wondered, what became of you,
for her.

I love only traces of you, those I can touch with both hands. But beyond me are memories I
cannot reach, those that fall into my hands only as black, heavy pearls.

My young love had been sweet, like those caramels you loved so, but my old love is bitter, like
the cooked spinach you made that I could never stomach.

How do I swallow the bittersweet and know, that if I do, only sweet things shall remain?

Zach Derella by Morgan Shackelford

maybe it was once meaningful,
crimson ribbons hugging wrists,
spilling over edges and pooling on tiled floor. 

Or in the sweet pressings of violet into tangled limbs
with sharp edges neatly defined,

providing a simple silence to the life's fury. 

Was it once the absolute contrast from life to death,
drawing vibrance into dull, the savior of lost souls,

that made bullies weep for their actions,
and towns silent with remorse?

But David Stock said the kid was weird,
always trying to sit with them at lunch

And the school's moment of silence,
broke with screeches of shoes against tiled hallways,

with whispered laughter.

We know he never sat at those plastic seats,
Eating cheap food and loud voices,
that haven't yet learned to be hushed. 

and never the bus rides, or jokes, or dances,
or parties, or late nights with no plan other than to go.

Never holding the hand of a friend.

Or ordering his crimson robe,
and square hat.

Because, maybe, we know he never planned,
because maybe he knew he never would,
because he never dreamed of being an adult.

And at graduation, the sister's hair looked flat and fizzy,
and her heels sunk into the wet grass

and her wad of pink bubblegum
smacked the microphone,

thanking the school,
for remembering her brother

while we all wondered how he did it,
where the crimsons, violets and blues pooled,
for how long,

because he was just one suicide
in the repetition of suicide, suicide, suicide

and we had to buy our robes, and we had to plan
and laugh, and go places with no other goal then to go

because maybe then we had to be adults

and his honorary diploma shuddered in the wind,
maybe we remembered, maybe we sat numbed indifferent. 

Leave Her For Me by Madison Snider

meet me in an alleyway i don't know and make me tingle under my fingernails
take me to a room and seal the barrier between us and the outside, unchain the barrier
between you and me
and tell me i'm not crazy
stand close enough to my body in public to make my stomach flip upside down on the
monkey bars and shake her hair out
look me directly in my eyes, with that knowingness you always do, and tell me
i'm not crazy 

listen to the songs - Sam Smith, Ed Sheeran, Tori Kelly - that remind me of you
the ones that wring my eyes out like washcloths at the end of a long work day
and scoop my gut out like ice cream and put it on a platter for you because god, i hear you in
every word
read this poem to me on your wedding day while she stands in the back wondering where it
went wrong 

tell me i'm not crazy
or tell me i am, but tell it to me in that alleyway, so secluded that i know you mean it for me
and with that cello tone, slowly, so that i can clench my jaw and roll my eyes, bracing myself to
hear the blackest of sins thrown into the thick, oxymoron of space between you and me
it is this sin, this cheap, convoluted delusion that i wish was two-sided and ugly
at least take my stanzas and release them into the open so everyone can see
because at the end of it all, you will have a bride
and i will have too many poems that no one will read

Pruning by D'Ayn Sayre

My father's boots click to a halt over my mother's bent form
Replanting a rose bush in the front yard.
He ignores me amongst the mulch as he stalks past,
Fists balling, blood pressure rising.
He slurs in my direction to
Get my ass over here but I shear my motion.
Swing high, swing low,
Which one would be a more devastating blow?
He shouts at my mother's back,
If you weren't so fat,
Maybe you'd be done faster.
He doesn't like it slow and steady,
So how about fast and ready? 

I stealth behind him, seething, and when he puts the flask to his lips
His long white neck tilts up so high,
His artery dancing for me like a diamond in the sky.
I squeeze the shears, thrust them, his blood paints the dirt.
Mother moves as his tall body
Drops to the ground, his head lands to cover the
Hole she just dug.
He went down without a gurgle and I'm disappointed.
Mother is silent, staring at her dead husband lying limp in the dirt.
I drop the shears and take the spare shovel from the shed.
It's done quick.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead.
Mom removes her bloody gloves.
The front garden is weeded, replanted, and fertilized.

The Guardian by Madison Snider

The mirth-filled, jovial guardian stands the entrance;
His mask a forest, climbing generous down the chestplate armor;
With an arm like cedar, wrapped and ribbed in the deep coloring of endless
Impressions storying his lifetime. No harm or
Lofty act emanates from the Herculean man,
Though they who enter the guardian's gate,
Grinning, meet with a banter sweeter than
A psalm, pinker than a palm, and intimate.
Loyalty knows no bounds, trial after trial,
Deliberate and hearty and true,
The guardians are here, they are worthwhile,
They are right beside you.

There is a guardian who stands at the threshold
And for all who ask, they find his gift: great-hearted, gold.

Colorblind by Hannah Cone

What does it matter?
Aren't we all the same underneath the skin we wear?
Love should be love
without seeing colors.
"You can't love him. He can't love you."
Why?
Because I am the moon,
pale, void of color like the walls of a new house not yet painted.
And he is midnight,
dark, glorious like the silk coat of a panther prowling in the moonlight.

I am Desdemona.
He is my Othello.
Dark, forbidden love.
Torn apart by galaxies of color,
just because I am from one world and he is from another.

Black and white do not mix, they say.
Then why is there the color gray?

Love is love.
When he presses me to his chest he smells of fresh washed laundry
mingled with the faint smell of sweat and must.
His lips taste like caffeine, addictive, craving more.
When his hands-rough like an elephant's hide
and his chiseled arms fold over me, gently,
I know I have found my home.

September 7, 1980 by Aaron DeCicco

The woman crushes her Capri in the metal ashtray
And taps the lacquered bar with her fingertips.
She whispers something to a man beside her who is aging badly,
Who inhales her youth and her sex.
The barkeep slides the check toward the woman but
Frank intercedes, his thick digits brushing hers of violet satin.
She insists, she says.
She lies.
He tosses three bills down and leads
Linda to the exit.

Frank opens door two thirty seven at the Ramada Inn from the inside,
And I push my way into the room.
Linda's breasts shake as she scrambles toward the back wall.
I hadn't planned for her, but "Qué Sera Sera"
My mother's voice sings in my head.
Frank snarls, bares his yellowed teeth rabidly, and charges me as
I pull the blade from its sheath.
My right arm slices through the heavy air
And his carotid artery sprays into the bathroom,
Spatters the plastic shower curtain.
Frank's body falls.
Linda's cries cease, reminding me she's still here
And I circle back around to finish.
She's easy work.
Easy money.
Frank for the money,
Linda for the show.
And I'm just the dragon, Sadie's son.
I'm chasing something flying fast
Until it runs me down.
I wash my hands, pull a Capri from
Linda's pack on the table.
Grab a towel. Walk out of door 237.
And you won't see me.
I'm already gone.

The Gardener by Madison Snider

Presently cultivating a sprouty garden,
Wield it well and markedly: tally who strive
After you and bud into new creatures, don't harden
But manifestly display their new casings and thrive.
Rest easy in that garden, caretaker-easy-like
The mind in the presence of a quiet
Companion-easy-like a hike
That you've mastered, encouraged by it.
May your good old days and good old ways
Comfort you and follow close;
Aha! You see! The crop you raise
They who support you the most.

As the era settles, well-nestled, unchanging but still beckoning, unwind
And watch the ones you've grown with peace of mind.

conversations with my demon by Hannah Cone

I buried you ten feet under, nailed the lid of your black coffin with tears and a broken spirit
shut!
I burned you, cast you out with weak fury, buried you among the permanent residence of
skeletons and lost dreams
nailed shut...
Without you, I touch the stars, I am enveloped into the warm embrace of unbridled dreams.
Without your death grip clutching my cape, I am Superman
shut!
Until my reflection laughs at me, taunts the cursive of my body, reminds me I am nothing
without you and your murmurings of death crawling down the flesh of my neck
nailed shut...
I nailed the lid of your black coffin shut. But now, again, I peer back in and lift the lid just
enough, just enough for you to reach out. And I soon remember your seductive whispers of
sweet, poisonous nothings
shut?
And once again, I am back into your embrace. Your sweet, suffocating clutch
open.

The Champion by Madison Snider

Two chucklers, sidestepping til the sidewalk ends-
"He has a superpower; a champion unparalleled, and
A bringer of smiles!" Floating between two grins-
That champion, trouncing on the No Man's Land
Of fear and formalities and silence;
Reaching out and taking hold without hesitation
The hands amidst the lions.
Bringer of smiles! Bring a jubilation!
Guiding the reigns of his chariot,
The champion's intent:
To fight and free with strength and Wit!
Ensure the minds of all: content.

Two old chucklers, sidestepping til the sidewalk's gone,
A partner in crime, the Champion to count on.

2D Art

3D Art

Photography

Prose

Golden Valley by Morgan Shackelford

I.     Our yard could only be called such because a thin chicken-wire fence sectioned it off from the rest of the land. Real grass could never grow there, and picket fences could never not fade and peel the moment you pounded them in the dirt. Large bumps and holes and little things in-between scattered across the yard. Masses of weeds would creep in through the chicken-wire and become small groves over the acres, leaving just dirt and weeds.
       But, if you waited long enough, tiny yellow flowers would stem from the weeds. Thousands of them across the Valley, like golden waves in the middle of the driest desert. And just then, the yard always smelt of fresh rain, no matter how hot the day seemed. And as the days ended, sunsets performed every night over the wrinkled mountains, dancing them pink then purple then blue. Or other nights the most perfect yellow to orange that you swore must be a painting. Then every single star came and the world could never be so big as to fit so many stars.

II.     Our Suburban had eight seats. The grey leather cracked long ago after the endless kicks of light up sneakers and buttons of blue jeans. Eight seats for the seven of us. Ashley and Kati crawled into the back row to whisper. Andrew, the only boy, always got the left window seat of the second row because of his "long legs". And Chelsey took the opposite window seat because she was the oldest. Then I got squeezed between them because I had the shortest legs and was the youngest. But, if you were to look under that tiny middle seat, I think you would find thousands of Polly Pocket shoes and Crayola markers hidden by long roadtrips. The driver's seat rarely moved, only when dad leaned back to take naps on runs to the grocery store. My mom always rode in the passenger seat, their hands sometimes meeting across the middle and she, always looking out the window, smiling. 

III.     The land beyond our fence looked untamed. Houses stood miles away from each other. Most homes looked small and dusty as if they stood during the big boom of the twenties. Each had odd tins dangling from sagging porches and rusting cars littered throughout their yard. The entire valley seemed like a time capsule, trapping in some dusty part of history. 

IV.     Living where we lived, you hauled your own water. Three massive containers of plastic and metal bars sat on the trailer my dad hooked to the Suburban. We all hated it. Once a week, one of us would be pulled from childhood laziness and forced to drive six minutes to the pumphouse up the road. The pumphouse looked like a peeling blister with bubbling installation crackled over a long single pipe hung thirty feet into the air. Once a week, we would climb in and out of the Suburban to the on and off button at the base of the pipe, pressing again and again to turn on the water as dad moved the pipe from each container. We hated it. But sometimes, if you timed it right, dad would get a little wet somehow and the six minutes back home would be laughter and dripping work clothes. He always said then, "Someday you are going to look back and think about how you got water with your Daddy."

V.     The next town over, only thirty minutes away from our home, laughed at our dusty Valley. Whispers contrived the underlying joke that "dirtballs" lived there. But that town had the nearest grocery store, and eventually the nearest high school. The houses in town were neat rows of clean lawns and matching mailboxes. Nice houses that as children, we wished to live in. But you could not see the stars quite as well, and the smell of rain seemed to disappear on the paved roads. 

VI.     A squirrel once wiggled into the backseat of the car. Each one of us went screaming from the car as its little claws scratched around the floor. Dad will tell that story a thousand times over, always swearing that Andrew was the first one out.

VII.     The Suburban looks old, like the yard, from a different time. Dad jokes he could get eighty dollars for it someday. Yet, he never would. Moving from the yard meant leaving the stars and the dancing mountains and waves of golden flowers. Selling the Suburban would mean to sell the cracked seats hiding Polly Pocket shoes, and dog hair, and dust, and scrapes and everything squished in the middle. But even as the car gets older, and maybe the rust gets a little too much, each of us remembers the Valley. Remembers getting water with Daddy. 

VIII.     My dad had five children with my mom. The skin of his hands grew paper thin after sixty years of hauling water, raking weeds, and gripping the wide wheel of the Suburban. He loved the Valley. The smell of the air and the tiniest yellow flowers. The sound of his five children chasing through weeds and barking dogs and endless endless time in a time capsule. Time makes things and people grow old. Time breeds in the thin skin on my father's hands, and in crinkles around his eyes, and in the Suburban with cracked seats, and in the Valley with sagging porches. Sadness when it is all gone into nothing but dust. But memories are time capsules that savor the beauty of each moment. The beauty of bumping down a dusty road to get water with my Daddy. Beauty in the land where people built their lives from nothing but hard dirt and weeds. Beauty and sadness in the fear of a rusting car, an old man, and dusty land. But, our rusty 1998 Suburban, and my dad, will always have eight seats for the seven of us even as the engine stops and wrinkles grow too deep. Time cannot age the capacity for love.

The Vizhim Explained by Aaron DeCicco

     Hiatachewaea snuggled closer to her mother in their small bed. "Mama," she whispered. "Can I ask you a question?" Her light brown hair was softly illuminated by the light of the two setting suns creeping through the drapes.
     Aiwi hugged the little girl tightly and responded, "Of course, Hia. Ask!"
     "Mama, where was I when I wasn't here yet?"
     Aiwi thought for a minute. She knew this moment would come, but hadn't known when to expect it. Hia was four; old enough to hear some truth about The Vizhim past what she was fed in the form of simple nursery rhymes she learned at Temple.
     "What do you know about The Vizhim, Hia?"
     "Well," Hia began, "The Lord of The Forest is the leader of them. And the Lady of The Sky is so beautiful, Mama!"
     Aiwi laughed. "She is, Hia! What else?"
     "The Lord of The River is married to The Earth Lady. But he loves the Sky Lady, too."
     The girl's mother was impressed. "Well done! But there's a bit more to it. Let's start at the top and see how far we can get tonight." Aiwi sat up a bit in bed. "The Lord of The Forest is the master of all creation, Hia. To him we all owe our lives! His earliest memory is the moment of creation. You know Mama's tattoo, the one on my wrist right here?" She showed Hia as a reminder. The little girl nodded. "Can you tell me what that is?"
     "It's the Eaa seed, right?"
     "That's correct. Do you know why we call it that?"
     Hia thought for a moment. "I don't know, Mama. How do we call it that?"
     "'Why'," Aiwi corrected. "Say, 'Why do we call it that?'"
     "Oh," Hia giggled. "I mean, why do we call that...that?"
     Aiwi gave a short chuckle. "All in a day's learning, my love. We call it The Seed of Eaa because that was the sound the seed made when it opened and He --The Lord of The Forest, Arbent-- emerged. As He sprung forth from the hull, many things happened. When Arbent took his very first breath, he created the atmosphere. All the air that has ever been breathed and that ever will be breathed was created in that second."
     Hia wrinkled her nose at the thought of this. "Gross!"
     Aiwi playfully tickled Hia and laughed, "It's not gross! It's one of the beautiful gifts he gave to us that day! You want to know what else happened in that very second? The Lady of The Sky was born from that same breath."
     Hia sighed and looked away dreamily. "What does she look like, Mama? Does she have green eyes like me or blue eyes like you?"
     "The story goes that Ariah's eyes are the color of the sky on the night of a Harvest Moon. Purple, with golden overtones. No one has ever seen them though, baby. Only Arbent. He doesn't allow anyone to look into Ariah's eyes but himself."
     "Why, Mama?" Hia asked incredulously. "I want to see her eyes, too! You don't want to? Purple is your favorite color, Mama!"
     "I'll get to that part. He has a reason. When Arbent saw how beautiful Ariah was, he was overcome with emotions. He wept uncontrollably, and his tears created all the waters on the land. The Lord of The River, Agwi, was conceived in this action as well.
     "Arbent clamored to escape the seed and get to Ariah, who hovered above the waters. As he took his first steps, the shell of the seed spread beneath his feet and became the earth for Him to walk upon. And that's also how The Lady of The Earth, Tarah, came to be. She was very beautiful as well, but Arbent wanted only Ariah.
     "As He moved toward Her, Agwi looked up and saw Her too. Agwi was struck by Her beauty as well and also began to make his way toward Her. His movement caught her eye, and she turned her glance from Arbent for a split-second, allowing Agwi a glimpse of those lovely eyes and it was all over from there."
     Hiatachewaea's eyes were wide. "What? What was all over what?" Aiwi laughed. "Oh," she answered the youngster. "That's just a turn-of-phrase. What I mean by that is, Arbent got angry. He was angry with Agwi for desiring what He also desired, and angry at Ariah for turning Her gaze to Him. For even though Agwi only saw Ariah's eyes for a short fraction of time, it was enough for Agwi to fall deeply and forever in love with Her. Arbent struck Agwi down and banished him to the waters. When the river crests or floods, or when the waves of the ocean overtake land, we know Agwi is angry and thinking of a new way to take Ariah.
     "Once, Hia, Agwi succeeded. Arbent kept Ariah hidden in the Kingdom of Theaters for many eons so that no other person, Lord or otherwise, could see her eyes. Well, during this time, Agwi and Tarah--"
     "She's the Earth Lady?" Hia interrupted.
     "Yes, baby, The Lady of The Earth. She and Agwi partnered up and they had a little boy: Envias."
     "Oh, I know him! I see him sometimes! And what's the 'Kinndom of ...Feer-tahs'?"
     "Yes, he was presented to us a few years ago. And the Kingdom of Theaters is the dimension of time and space that Arbent keeps for himself. Only the priestesses may go there, and they cared for Ariah while she was there. Well, Agwi used Envias in a pretty mean way. He sent Envias to Temple one day [he goes to a different one than you do, Hia, before you ask] under the pretense of manipulating a priestess. Envias is very persuasive --they say there's something about his eyes-- and she allowed him to enter the Sacred Space with her at Temple. He joined in her in meditation, and soon Envias slipped in to the Kingdom and away from the priestess. He found Ariah and lured her out of her hiding place by singing sweetly, for Ariah so loves singing and children and has what is said to be the sweetest voice there is. She offered her hand to the boy, and when she did, with a loud BANG she and Envias were transported to Agwi's lair. Tarah was away, and Envias was sent to be with her." Aiwi paused. How would she explain the next bit to Hia? Rape wasn't a subject to speak about with a child, but she deserved to know the story. Aiwi thought carefully about her words and said, "Agwi took Ariah and...together, they made the Princess of Storms. We call her Tempest, and she was born as an adult."
     Hia was looking sleepy. "She makes all the bad night-time storms, Mama," she yawned.
     "Yes, and the day-time storms, too. Tempest is very temperamental--no pun intended," Aiwi laughed to herself, realizing the joke would go over Hia's head. "Agwi kept Ariah hidden from Arbent for months as Her belly grew. When Tempest emerged from the womb as a grown woman, She saw Her mother's suffering, and attacked Agwi. She rescued Ariah and brought her back to the Kingdom of Theaters, hoping for Arbent's blessing and acceptance. Instead, he refused to recognize her as Ariah's child and banished her from there for eternity. She roams the Lands alone, yearning to be with her mother. When she is upset or unwell, the rains fall and the winds blow. Are you still awake, honey?" Aiwi brushed the hair from her young daughter's brow and Hia answered in a muffled voice, "Yes, Mama."
     "Okay, sweet girl. We're almost at a good stopping place for tonight. Where...oh, yes. So, although Ariah was back at the Kingdom, Arbent was still very angry at Agwi. But He was also angry at Himself for not making His plan fool-proof."
     "But Mama," Hia interrupted, "Why doesn't Arbent like Tempest if She hurt the bad guy for him?"
     "Baby, we don't know why The Vizhim do what they do. They are proud and jealous Gods and we cannot hope to know all they know, so we cannot question their actions. But remember, Tempest didn't do that for Arbent. She did it for Herself and Her Mother.
     "Arbent decided there was only one way to make sure Ariah could never make eye contact with anyone ever again: He removed her eyes." She paused for a reaction but didn't get one, so she continued. "He always keeps them with Him. When He is alone with Her, He returns them to Her and allows Her to see. The story goes that Arbent wants Ariah to look only at Him, but She will only look down on the Lands, searching for a glimpse of Tempest." Aiwi's heart swelled and ached for Ariah with deep feya for the Sky Queen. This intense, sentimental patchwork of sadness, love, and empathy overtook Aiwi, and for a moment she imagined being apart from Hia and how terrible it must feel to not know where your only child was.
     She realized she had completely failed to answer Hia's question. It was a fault of hers, she knew. Tell the big story, fall short in delivering the actual news. The truth was that Aiwi wasn't yet ready to tell Hia where she had been before she was there with herself and Eridiyon. How does someone tell their child that her very being began as a geiaam, or ideal soul, in the mind of Ariah? All geiaams became priestesses when they came of age. Hia's fate was set before she ever existed. On her 13th birthday, Temple guards would come take Hia away and begin her meditation training, and she would be separated from her parents for many years. Ariah's devastating, vengeful gift to all mothers of geiaam children was the heartbreaking estrangement she endured from her own daughter, a Goddess in her own right forever barred from her rightful kingdom.
     The suns had completely set, and broad strokes of a deep sapphire hue had spread across the sky. The little girl was asleep. Aiwi rested her cheek next to Hia's for a few moments and then rose from the bed. Eridiyon would be home soon, and there were preparations to be made for the next day. She dimmed the lights in the room and closed the door, stealing one last peek at the beautiful young girl in her precious slumber. She would learn of her place in all of this soon.
     But that story was for another night.

Grazie, Sorrento by Kristin McIntyre

     The excitement that I was returning to Italy had been building for weeks; I had my bags packed a week in advance. Ironically, my suitcase was mostly full of novels, because I assumed I would be alone during most of this trip with ample time to read. This was still my first year of college and I did not know anyone who would be attending this study abroad well enough to consider them a friend. But I was still eager to go to Sorrento to "self-reflect". I planned to find myself, but instead, I found a family. I cannot think of a better definition of Serendipity.
     The trip to Sorrento was relatively easy, despite being a 5'10" human giraffe in economy airplane seating. I will always remember the private transfer ride into the town. It was the first time most of us were together. Immediately, I felt the bond that we would soon tightly form. Most of us dozed off during the hour and a half drive from Naples to Sorrento. But when we first laid eyes on our home for the next few weeks, it was love at first sight. Lauren sat next to me and we shared mutual awe for the sheer beauty of Sorrento. Lauren was the first person I felt would become a close friend, and I'm happy to say she did just that.
     Then there was my roommate. We were able to request each other for roommates for the dorms at Sant'Anna Institute in Sorrento before we left. However, since I did not know anyone who was going I decided to "do as the Romans do" and leave my fate in the hands of the gods. Well, remind me to sacrifice a calf in their honor because Maggie was the greatest roommate I could have asked for. Her carefree and adventurous personality was exactly what I needed to push me out of my comfort zone on this trip. Celebrating Maggie's twentieth birthday with her and our other friends at the English Inn is one of my favorite memories from Sorrento.
     Three weeks does not seem like much time, but we still managed to tour the Amalfi Coast, celebrate birthdays, ride a chairlift to the top of Capri, visit Pompeii, go cliff-diving, ride horses up Mt. Vesuvius, sunbathe by Marina Grande, have too many "apretivos", eat our weight in Nutella, dance in the English's Inn's garden bar, bond with waiters and bartenders, and drink MANY cappuccinos; all while taking six credit hours. The experiences and adventures we had made this trip one of a lifetime. However, it is the people I met while studying abroad are who made the trip truly unforgettable. How could I ever forget Stephen being our "Hawkeye Dad"? And pushing a grocery cart through Sorrento's cobblestone streets with Maggie is painfully, yet gleefully, stuck in my memory. D'Ayn and I bonding over white wine and our "Rodneys" made for some deeply heartfelt emotions. Emily and Marissa are the only two people I would ever want to get kidnapped with (and we nearly were). Lauren and I bonded over our first look, and never looked back. Sorrento gave me a family, and in doing so it also gave me a whole life and a whole new me. Grazie mille, Sorrento.

Martial Therapy by Sheldon Larmond

The sound of my fists hitting the bag has become therapy to me now. It creates a rhythm of strikes that echo through my bones and into my head, competing with angry thoughts with no direction other than at myself. The loud, fast-paced rock music in my ears drowns out the rest.

I threw punch after punch, alternating between quick jabs and powerful strikes that make the entire exercise stand shake. I threw a pair of kicks in for good measure; the impact feels good on my bare feet.

The music changes to a faster, more energetic beat; my fists start flying to keep up. I narrowly missed my mark; the punch skids off the side of the bag as my arm travels at full speed along the side. I pulled back after noticing a red stain on the bag; there's a new gash on my arm. Second one this week. I don't even like to think what kind of shape my knuckles are in right now. The joints of my index and middle fingers ached for rest.

The driving melody of Collapsing by Demon Hunter sent me back into my combinations with little regard for the shape of my hands. That song gets me in a mood when I'm working out; the words "I don't know why I try" being repeated every chorus burns me harder and harder. I threw a punch that I knew I shouldn't-the sharp impact traveled through my arm as the bag flew backward, colliding with the stand. I take a moment, relax, and realize I can hear the humming of the air conditioner and the arrhythmic thumping of feet on the treadmills behind me. My thumb had gotten caught on the wire for my earphones, and I had yanked the jack out of my phone with that last punch. I checked my phone; I've already been at this for almost 40 minutes.

A sinking feeling takes my chest as I remember what's been eating at me.

Of course, I have. I ran into her again today.

I tried in vain to rid my head of the events of last semester as I plugged my earphones back in. A slower song starts playing; one of the few I listen to. A sad melody that harmonizes with my state of mind. I know in my head I shouldn't be listening to this one. But I do it anyway. 

Part of me tries to stop the song, but instead, I start going to the bag again, letting my emotions get the better of me. I can't tell if hitting the bag is making me feel better or worse-I want to say something to her. Bring it back up. Tell her how I feel. But instead, I'm here. Trying to let my emotions out with my hands rather than with words. The punching bag accepts whatever I tell it.

What a hypocrite.

I always tell my friends to talk to each other, to work out their issues, to not keep them bottled up. And yet here I am, doing just that-doing everything I can to get over the issue but actually talking to the person who I have an issue with. The irony stings like the sweat in my eyes.

I let my emotions drive my fists, heavy swings colliding with the bag. I'm almost out of energy; my timing's getting off, and my breathing is getting uneven. With a final shout, I dug my fist into the bag with the last beat, the final note ringing in my ears as the bag loosely swung back and forth. I took deep breaths as I unwrapped my hands, noticed the bloodstains on my fingers. I sat down by the bag, taking a minute to catch my breath and calm down before leaving.

One day I won't have to do this anymore. I'll be over it. I'll be fine.

Until then, I thought as I started to leave, same time next week.

Pizza and Swords by Aaron DeCicco

     Her boyfriend had come up for a visit. That's how it started.
     The week after dad pulled me out of high school for good, he met a dancer - that's what he called her. Starr wasn't a ballet dancer like my best friend Chelsea is, she was a dancer... you know, THAT kind. She had probably never even put on pointe shoes. And dad couldn't have Starr, because she already had a boyfriend. So naturally, she was the only thing he thought about.
     Starr lived down the street from us, in the Hammock on A1A between Marineland and Ormond Beach where the forest meets in the middle over the road and looks like a big green tunnel of leaves. She had a "chill room" full of blacklight posters and glass water pipes and was the first hippie I had ever met. She smelled like cocoa butter and patchouli oil and had the brownest caucasian skin I'd ever laid eyes upon. Her own father founded the Washington D.C. chapter of NORML. She was 4 years older than me.
     They began an intense, clandestine relationship. He'd steal off to her house at 3 am when she got home from the nude bar in Jax and leave me, his 16-year-old daughter at home alone in the middle of the night. She would come home with him the next morning and lay out on the beach with me all day, quickly becoming one of my favorite people because of her extensive knowledge of The Beatles and pot. All of my friends had been viciously ripped from me and I clung to Starr like she was the only buoy in the ocean that laid in front of us every morning. And she was; aside from a girl who worked at the pizza joint up the street, I had no friends in a 50-mile radius.
     One night, her boyfriend came up for a visit from Deltona, a small town past Deland and Daytona which I guess no one thought to use any creativity in the naming of. Dad played it off like no big deal. He took me to eat at Tony's Pizza where my friend Shannon worked with the Muslim family there. She was in love with the 20-year-old son of the owner and was secretly converting to Islam under the nose of her Venezuelan mother who owned the hair salon next door. Her mother, incidentally, was head over heels infatuated with my dad. He had already plowed through her like a freight train and broken her heart a few months back, and Shannon and I decided it was best if we just didn't talk about it.
     Shannon was all excited that night because I had agreed to go with her to the Adult Education Center the next day to try to salvage my schooling for whatever that was worth. I knew it would be unbearably different from MY school...my school, where there was no gym class and no jocks and no cheerleaders, where we did choreo on the lunchroom tables and the only fighting happened between the disenfranchised lunch ladies. This new place was dropout school, where the kids two counties South went when their parents threatened to kick them out if they didn't straighten up and fly right, where the kids would just be learning about things I'd known about for eons. Where there were no music or theatre classes. Where was no Chelsea.
     I already hated dropout school.
     We ate pizza topped with canned mushrooms and drank flat Coke, then drove home in our borrowed, unregistered car full and (I thought) tired. Dad started to seem...I don't know, bothered, maybe, during the ten-minute ride. We pulled in the driveway of the pink stilted house that sat on top of the small space we rented, and I hoped we wouldn't see Ms. Roberta, our landlord. Since Dad didn't work much and when he did it was bullshit labor or cover gigs which pay about the same for a day's work, we were never caught up on rent. Plus he lost his wallet more than the average person probably should and whenever it turned up, all the money was always stolen. Seeing her meant being reminded that the roof over my head didn't matter much to Dad, and I wasn't ready to think of that as reality just yet. No sign of Ms. Roberta, though, thankfully. We settled in and Dad went straight to his room and slammed the door, so I went into my room, grabbed my smokes, and stepped out back.
     The reason we moved to The Hammock was a necessity. Dad and Mom both got hooked on crack the year before, completely coincidentally since they'd been divorced for almost 10 years. Dad got reeled in through his job as a bail bondsman (he would tell you it was because he went undercover with the Secret Service or some shit like this but I know it's because he bailed out a bunch of dudes from the "'hood" as he would say and made a series of bad decisions) and Mom through her work as a bartender (but she says she would've been fine if that Mark Weaver hadn't come into the bar and fucked her up on that freebasing stuff first). Dad made Mom talk to the DEA (which I guess he was involved with through the whole Secret Service thing?) and snitch on her dealer because apparently her dealer found out about me and might've made a threatening comment...I don't know. Dad lied a lot and Mom will never forgive him for moving me to The Hammock, pulling me out of school, and making her move to Maine after narcing on her hook-up and essentially going into hiding. Putting Mom through all of that heat took the spotlight off of Dad, and he was able to quietly continue with his own bad habits.
     I walked across the small covered patio and over the grassy sand dune that separated the backyard from the coquina beach. The tide was high, and the wind whipped hard as I lit my cigarette, protectively cupping the flame in my palm. After walking for a bit, I sat on the sand and looked up at the moon. I wondered if any of my friends back home were outside looking at the moon too. All of their parents had probably already sent them to bed though. They had school tomorrow. I guessed I did too, but it didn't really matter. It was just dropout school. After a while, I got bored with nature. I trudged down the beach, looking for the right sand dune. I could faintly hear Steve Perry's screlty voice, meaning Ms. Roberta's 45-year-old son Bruce was home and enjoying his night. "If he ever hurts you, true love won't desert you. You know I still love you." I caught a glimpse of Bruce's doughy naked body through the glass door as I hiked up the dune, a glass of some dark liquid in his hand as he caterwauled and sloppily danced along. I slid the glass door open and saw that Dad's door was still closed. I didn't really think one way or the other about it and flopped down on my bed, army crawled to the other side to get my Walkman, and put my headphones on. Led Zeppelin 3. Jimmy Page's opening notes to "Since I've Been Loving You" streamed into my ears and started fighting with Bruce's Journey record blasting upstairs. An alarm was set to wake me up at 7 in the morning for the first time in months and I closed my eyes. 
     The blaring sound of the alarm clock roused me from a deep sleep. What was that in my stomach? Butterflies? Was I excited about going to fucking dropout school? Probably. I enjoyed school and learning but these kids weren't gonna like what I liked; I liked The Beatles and Led Zeppelin and musical theatre songs and had approximately zero knowledge of anything remotely relating to popular culture. My quasi-excitement motivated me enough to take off the now-silent headphones and get out of bed. The clothes I picked out were hanging on the door of my closet, taunting me: blue sailor bellbottoms and a burgundy men's polo shirt that read "Beach Café" in seafoam green cursive, a small palm tree not swaying in a non-existent breeze above the letters. Jonathan had worn it almost every day last year, and he passed it onto me when he graduated. That had made enough sense since he had taken it from me, to begin with. Now I was gonna wear this shirt with the checkered past at a school other than ours.
     That part made no sense.
     I screamed when I opened my bedroom door. At least, I think I did; Naked Bruce said it woke him up. I just don't remember doing it. The living room was a disaster: couch cushions were upended, the TV was pushed over, our display of cheap Asian-inspired decorations was destroyed and the Samurai sword we had bought at the Flea Market was gone. In the middle of all of it was Dad, face down on the carpet, shirtless, a bottle of Crown Royal a few inches from his left hand. It was face down too, and empty.
     I don't know how long I stood there. I want to say I ran right over and tried to wake him up, but I swear to God I can't remember. I tried to gently wake him. Dad was a beast if you woke him up wrong, so it was best to proceed with caution. He didn't move. The fear that he had thrown up and choked on his puke like Jimi Hendrix had when he died washed over me, and I attempted to turn him a bit to get him on his side. His eyes were closed and he didn't respond to my voice. "Dad? Dad, let's go to your bed. I'll help you. Dad. you have to wake up. It's morning. Go to your bed. I have to go to school, dad. Dad! DAD!!" I shook his shoulders as I yelled his name, louder and louder, more forcefully, more scared than I've ever been in my life, I yelled his name. My name for him. "Dad, if you don't wake up, I'm going to have to call 911." Pause. "DAD, I'M CALLING 911!" Still no answer.
     Someone was knocking at the door. When I opened the door and saw it was Bruce from upstairs, I fell into his arms sobbing. I told him what was happening, and he ran upstairs to call an ambulance. I returned to Dad's side, frantically trying to get some kind of response. He started making low, guttural sounds and opening his eyes, but only the whites were showing. This kinda reminded me of when I was little and Dad used to put fake blood caplets in his mouth, roll his eyes back into his head, and chase me around like a monster. He thought it was hilarious, and I thought it was horrifying. If he had been conscious at that moment, I thought to myself while looking at his body on the ground, he would probably think this was funny, too. Meanwhile, I'd never been so fucking terrified in all of my life.
     Bruce came back down from upstairs, and he joined me at Dad's side. He started to slowly come about and was gaining some sort of consciousness by the time the paramedics showed up. Dad saw the EMTs approaching and instantly flew into a rage. He started screaming at me. Why the fuck had I called 911? I was scared, I said. I was worried about him! I yelled at him defiantly. "Don't worry about me," he spat. "Don't ever fucking worry about me!"
     My heart sank. I had been so afraid he was dead that I hadn't stopped to think about what his reaction would be to all this if he was actually alive. Dad was a proud guy; his feelings were easily hurt and he was even more easily embarrassed. This was a double-whammy. He was mortified by the attention from the EMTs and was apparently crushed that I thought he could ever be so weak as to just up and die from a drinking binge. Speechless, I walked out the front door.
     About this time, Shannon showed up in front of the house. Her eyes were as wide as the rims on her car as she took in the scene around her. A police car, an ambulance. Me crying in the front yard. Our eyes met. One second, I mouthed.
     I went back into the apartment and grabbed my bag. "I'm going to school," I choked to my father.
     "Good, fine, go, whatever." I slammed the door behind me when I left.
     When we got to school, I spent a few minutes in the office going over paperwork, placement, and all of that with someone. They led me to the classroom where Shannon sat, and I took a seat near the back behind a tall blond guy and a long-haired surfer whose eyes I couldn't quite make out because of how evidently high he was. I opened the obsolete textbook and tried to pick up where the class was, completely distracted by the insanity of the morning's events.
     Blond Guy leaned over to Surfer Guy and said, "Dude, you won't believe the shit I heard on the scanner last night." Surfer Guy looked unimpressed, but my interests were piqued so I leaned forward a bit, as nonchalantly as possible.
     "Fuckin', I was listening to it with my pops or whatever, and the cops got called to the middle of A1A right out here, dude. Like, right out here in front of the center or whatever."
     Surfer Guy was hooked now, and Blondie continued, "So two guys met on the road right out here to fight in the street, man, like crazy old-school shit! And one of the guys went totally fuckin' nuts and grabbed a goddamn SAMURAI SWORD" -- at this point, I went completely numb -- "and proceeds to fuckin' rip his shirt open with it, like Axl Rose or Ric Flair-style or some shit, I don't even know!" He erupted into a little fit of giggles and Surfer Guy was, finally, slightly amused. I began shutting down right behind them. This was my real life, reduced to a funny story some asshole heard on his dad's police scanner. The Samurai sword he was talking about was the one I missed that morning. The shirt he was talking about was the one my dad wasn't wearing anymore. 
     Everything started falling into place. My dad had gotten shitfaced and started a fight with Starr's boyfriend, grabbed the most viable weapon he could find in our house (and thankfully it was a dull, Flea Market Samurai sword meant to hang on the walls of people who have no business owning sharpened, ACTUAL Samurai swords), met him in the middle of a rather important interstate, and rationalized in his head somehow that the best way to go about the situation was to show this man who was boss by destroying his shirt like a C-Level wrestler. The boys kept talking about what happened, how the cops had de-escalated the conflict and escorted each of the men home, but I sorta stopped listening. I knew the ending.
     And that was just the beginning.

     Passing the outside dining area of Emilia's, set on the water with wooden tables covered in blue and white checkered table cloths, we make our way to our favorite spot in Sorrento: Bagni Sant'Anna.
     Our paradise, painted white, stands out over the sparkling water. The thick, brightly painted wood stands firm under my feet as we make our way up the dock, to the deck of the restaurant. We're greeted by the son of the owner, who walks us past the restaurant with great windows displaying four cooks, preparing fresh seafood, pastas, and other staples of the region.
     Brought past the many tables on the T shaped deck, I look at the table of four to my left and remember having lunch with Dr. Willette and the two Emily's. An afternoon of talking, eating, laughing and finger painting, yes - finger painting our feelings, with plenty of stares and whispers in Italian from the surrounding tables.
     As I look to my left at the table for 7, I remember having dinner with my six closest friends and our "Dad", Steve. A strange group really, people you would never expect to pair so harmoniously. We joked, ate cheap food, drank cheaper wine, yelled, laughed, and received venomous stares from those around, but there was not a seat for cares at this table. The extra space was for quality time, laughter, and friendship.
     We're left at loungers on the right side of the deck. As I sit down and readjust my hat, the sun behind me, I take in the incredible Marina Grande. The Basilica's bells are chiming, yachts are brought home to their moorings, tourists and locals alike are eating at the restaurants that scatter the alcove, and Sant'Anna sits on the high rise, my home for three weeks. The terrace full of my fellow students doing homework in the sun.
     I sit with two girls whom I was acquainted with before the trip, but by the end consider close friends. We sip cocktails, soak up the sun and observe the most authentic and exquisite scenery I have come to know in all my travels.
     And as the sweet memory begins to fade, and the reality that is my life returns, I'm sitting at Wurn pool on JU's campus, alone, with thunder in the distance, sweat on my brow, no cocktail in hand, and an overjoyed, but clenched heart.

Voice by Morgan Shackelford

     I left dishes in the sink. Laundry still damp in the dryer. Missed text messages and unmade phone calls. Not a word is written. Far too much yet, seemingly never enough sleep. Never enough time. I need to crawl deeper, deeper into the earth. Beneath the sheets, the mattress, into the threads of the carpeted floor. To let my nails turn a crisp crumpled crimson as dirt scrapes and consumes. To move, to breathe, but unable to lift a heartbeat. I am glued to this bed. There is too much to be done, but never enough time, never enough sleep. Steven needs more, more than remains inside. I try. I could drag just one leg over the bed frame (but would I feel it move too, then?) The dishes are so dirty, and the laundry so damp. The nouns, verbs, and adjectives lost, not a single word written. My limbs, impossibly heavy. Who are you? That is not enough. (Twenty-eight weeks was not enough.) So much to be done, I sit like this unfinished statue, now hollowed. The apartment smells of clammy dishes, and mold has begun to spore. The laundry too, damp, turning back from the flowering meadows of detergent. It is all molding, decaying, falling to soft fuzzy clumps. Maybe I could squish one between my thumb and forefinger. Squeeze the moist fur with purulent guts.
     But what did I forget?
     The phone, the phone is buzzing. You are meant to be somewhere. Was it work? Where is your schedule? He asked you to clean, he made you a list. Maybe it was class? The library, the car lot, the hospital? No, not them. You are an adult now, you must get up. Please get up. But how could I move from the bed, my legs are made of marble, and I-- I would feel it move too. The mold, growing and growing. It must be cleaned, it grew too large, I cannot breathe. It grows into my stomach. Twenty-eight weeks was not enough. The phone! Oh, never a word is written. You only laid down, like the statue, unfinished, cracks spreading from its empty womb. The cracks! They must be covered. There is no time, the phone is ringing! Where are you meant to be? He needed you. But I have no time, no time for it to end, no time for it to continue. We are all so tired. Maybe if we could lay there, lay for one more moment. Just one more moment, and pretend.
     But, how could I pretend forever? I must pull my legs from stone, answer the phone, escape the bed. Maybe twenty-eight weeks could be enough, maybe enough time for cracks to heal. I feel my left foot, it slides across the mattress, beginning.