1932 Quarterly PREVIEW Spring 2017 Vol. I • No. 2 Based in Indianapolis, IN
Table of Contents Poetry Gregory • Melissa Kirkpatrick Blue Hurricane • Ricky Ray
Memory Thief • Lindley Yarnall
Edelweiβ • Layla Lenhardt
Company • Joe O’Brien
The Terrible Things • Julia Alvarez
stories you’ve told • Guido Castellani
Dysmorphia • Alessandra Jacobs
Underpass Spectacle • Benjamin Rozzi
Corrosion • Lauren Lamm
Magnetism • Ariel Endress
Pray It Away • Matthew Marvel
Egyptian Moon • Angelina Bong
Teeth • Alexa Terrell
Many a Sorrowing Bee Keeper • Stephen Mead
Prose A Child’s Tutorial to Drowning • Annelise Rice
The Revenge of the Forgotten • Katie Campbell
The Pen • Emily Cramer
Judgment • Sonja Laaksonen
With Great Power • Brent Herman
Dear readers, Welcome to our spring issue of 1932 Quarterly and thank you for reading; we can’t wait to share our words with you. 1932 has come so far in such a short time, and it’s truly unbelievable. This issue features pieces written by twenty souls from places all across this darling earth. These pages brought them together—these truly beautiful individuals, sharing their imaginations, heartaches, lives, loves, and so much more. This issue has gotten so many submissions that I almost felt entirely unprepared. I knew 1932 had become a legitimate literary journal when we had to turn away a multitude of truly wonderful work because we had so much of it. We had submissions from Ireland, Italy, Korea, Singapore, Malaysia, the UK, China, and people from fourteen U.S. states. This has far surpassed my initial dream of bringing people from all over the world together, and that’s exactly what you’ll see in this issue. Our editing staff has grown as well, in numbers and in diversity. I still get teary eyed when I see my friends from all over the world liking each other’s social media posts. 1932 has brought them together and built everlasting friendships between people who would have never met without it. I want to thank Rick Lupert of Poetry Super Highway for the great name exposure he has given us. I want to thank my editing staff, all of whom have become some of my truest and best friends; you all are the most optimistic and loving family. Thank you for making me whole and for being the ribbons that tie 1932 Quarterly together. And finally, I’d like to thank Kristen Lucente for being my soul mate, my inspiration, and for holding my soul against her heart between laced fingers. So, please enjoy this issue and see how much we continue to grow, building bridges across oceans and cultures. From our hearts to yours, we thank you.
Layla Lenhardt Editor-in-Chief
Melissa Kirkpatrick orphan at the well, the catacombs, a bell— i’m alone and damp and it’s dark as hell. clear call to aware, i’ll keep you right there in my hands instead of my hair in my mouth instead of my mind in the walls instead of the pine. eight hits, we flip, freed, fritz, itch, pecking each other like preening birds, tweet, pleat, twitch. i am the lost halfunwed bed skirt. you are an epitaphunread dead dirt.
Blue Hurricane Ricky Ray
She was blue and it hurt because she wanted to be whiteâ€” not Caucasian mind you, but any color she pleased. Her lovers were multifarious: cat, cotton, cappuccino, Mr. Cambridge, and Cornell from Georgia who called his mama every Friday like the breeze. She wanted the Middle and Far Easts to settle down in her lower abdomen, but she was blue, and as the jazzman blew his horn, naked from the waist up on the corner of Houston and 1st, her shoulder strap fell, and she wished the rest of her dress, wished desire itself would follow. And the liquor bottles jangled their song of emptiness from the gutters. And the mouse took the moldy bread home.
Memory Thief Lindley Yarnall
You are not who I remember when I see you now. You are soft edges and lost tomorrows, a boy who thought that he could borrow all the time in the world. You are not who I remember when you come drifting through my dreams. You are a gap in the frequency and forgotten yesterdays. You are blurry features that drift away right before I wake. You are not who I remember when I imagine time that we have lost. You are our fatherâ€™s grief and a memory thief; the brightest smile I have known and a void my mind canâ€™t leave alone, even when I sleep.
A Child’s Tutorial to Drowning Annelise Rice
A forceful hiss of air expanded his lungs, pushing out the chlorinated water residing there. Blood-shot eyes burst open as spurts of pool water escaped from his lips, making him cough and choke. Wheezing breaths became easier through clenched teeth as he was rolled onto his side. His body shook from shock and cold, goosebumps making fine baby hairs stand to attention. Sounds rushed in one ear and out the other, words not being comprehended but still thrown repeatedly into his face, beating overwhelmingly against his pounding head. “Did someone call an ambulance?” “Are you ok? Can you hear me? What’s your name, son?” “Bring those towels over here! Can’t you see how bad he’s shaking?” “Step back! The paramedics are trying to come through.” Gentle, callused hands gripped his shoulders and knees to lift him onto the stretcher. His head lolled to the side, catching sight of cornflower blue eyes. Those eyes had such an intense look of concentration to them that he didn’t look away until they were too far to be distinctive any longer. The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance, carefully rushing to get the child to the hospital. As the vehicle took off, lights and sirens blaring, a heart-faced woman administered an IV line and began talking. “Hi there, do you know what’s happening?” When she received a small nod, she continued. “Can you tell me your name?” The boy opened his mouth and replied hoarsely, “Vincent Baker.” “How old are you, Vincent?” “Twelve,” was another hoarse reply. “Vincent, we’re taking you to Mercy West Hospital to make sure you’re fine after that accident, ok?” Vincent nodded again. “Can you tell me your mom or dad’s name so we can have them meet us at the hospital?” Vincent gave the woman the information needed and waited until she was finished on the phone with his parents. “Ok Vincent, your parents will be at the hospital when we get there. Just hold on for a couple more minutes until we get there.” Three weeks later, Vincent was sitting on the edge of the pool, toes skimming the surface of the water and watching other kids play and swim. His nanny was relaxing in the shade, a soccer-mom romance novel encompassing her attention. A shadow swept across Vincent’s lap as a girl sat beside him, dipping her fingers in the pool. She didn’t look more than seven years old. Cornflower blue eyes curiously stared at him, head tilted to the side. “What was it like?” “What was what like?” Vincent asked, brows furrowed. “Drowning,” chestnut bangs blew into her eyes, breaking her stare.
“Horrible,” he replied flatly. “But what made it horrible?” she inquired, catching his gaze as he tried to shift away. “Everything. The water. How much it hurt,” Vincent couldn’t have been blunter if he tried. “Then you didn’t do it right,” the girl retorted. Vincent was tempted to either hit the girl, get up and leave, or do both in that order. How did she think the right way to drown was? Vincent had pulled his feet out of the water and was beginning to stand when the girl grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down, declaring, “Here, I’ll show you,” before slipping into the water herself. With wide eyes and sinking stomach, Vincent watched the girl wade into the middle of the crowded pool. She looked over at Vincent to make sure he was watching, and when she noticed he was, sunk underwater. Seconds ticked by as if in slow motion. Seconds turned into a minute, which turned into two minutes. He wasn’t sure what to do. What was she doing? Why wasn’t she coming back up? Searching all of the pool, Vincent found that the girl had still not emerged from the water’s depths. Vincent stayed rooted to his spot on the poolside, eyes transfixed and starting to tear from the lack of blinking. A sharp whistle blew from the lifeguard on duty when a woman screamed about someone being face down in the water. The lifeguard dove into the pool hastening to the drowned girl and securing an arm around her pliant body, swimming them both back to solid ground. Vincent staggered to his feet and ran to where the lifeguard was performing CPR on the girl. There was a man on the phone with an emergency dispatcher. A middle-aged woman was collapsed beside the girl’s body, sobbing loudly and screaming for her to wake up. Vincent observed the rise and fall of the girl’s chest as the lifeguard forced air into her lungs after every tenth chest compression. Her once fleshy and tan complexion now held a grey, clammy pallor, lips and fingernails tinted blue. Suddenly, the girl’s mouth gushed water. A sharp inhalation from the girl brought exclamations of excitement and relief from the surrounding crowd. Someone had actually started clapping. Vincent looked on as the girl’s eyes squinted open, the cornflower blue scanning the faces around her until they clashed with his own hazel ones. The girl smiled at him, mouthing the words “You didn’t let the water in.”
Contributors Julia Alvarez
is originally from Monongahela, PA, but spends most of her days on the Washington & Jefferson College campus where she studies English. She enjoys reading books and jamming out big time.
is a Malaysian poet and visual artist. Her poetic performances have travelled to South Korea, South Africa, Botswana, Australia, UK, India and Egypt. She has poems translated into Malayalam, Japanese and Arabic. Catch her on Instagram at @swakgel.
is a junior English major and Chinese minor at Washington & Jefferson College. Katie enjoys reading and writing poetry and fiction and plans to one day become a professor of English.
is a songwriter/poet based in the Catskill Mountains. He is fascinated by feelings of joy, loss, solitude, disgust, cheap beer, bus stations, etc.
is a 2017 graduate of Duquesne University with a Public Relations major and an English Literature minor. Her favorite works can be found in British literature, from the 15th century to the 19th century.
is a traveler, engineer, shark-lover, dog foster mom and writer. Writing and traveling are her two favorite hobbies, and she tries to make a difference while doing both. She writes because she feels herself needing an outlet to express her empathetic emotions for others.
is a 23 year old journalism student at IUPUI in Indianapolis. Brent is an associate editor for 1932 Quarterly and enjoys spending time with his family, friends, and his girlfriend, Claire.
is a poet, event planner, and free hugger relocated to Los Angeles, California from Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. She’s an aspiring singer and actress currently working as a producer on a feature film by Chris Haas titled “Kill The Detectives”.
Alessandra “Ali” Jacobs
writes to keep herself sane in this nearly-dystopian world. She works as a real estate agent, an administrator of a medical facility, a vintage clothing purveyor, and manages a sports complex. Needless to say, she’s busy.
is a native to the Philadelphia area and attends Washington and Jefferson college where she studies philosophy and English. She loves writing, nightlife and has a fascination with the morbid, occult and unknown.
is a graduate of Washington and Jefferson College (class of 2016). She plans on continuing her education with a Master’s in publishing.
does not use a pillow when she sleeps. Her poetry has been published in The Wooden Tooth Review, Third Wednesday, Right Hand Pointing, 1932 Quarterly and she has been featured as Poetry Super Highway’s Poet of the Week. She is the founder of 1932 Quarterly.
started writing at a young age. He began writing short stories and movie scripts that one day he saw himself starring in. Over the years his work evolved into poetry that is inspired by his life experiences.
as a resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. If you are interested, please put his name in any search engine in conjunction with any of these genres to explore his various links and merchandise available on the World Wide Web.
was once told by the best psychiatrist that Joe O’Brien ever saw that ‘Everyone you meet in a dream is an aspect of yourself.’ He struggles to recall this in the waking world.
Born in Florida, educated at Columbia University, Ricky Ray’s poetry appears in Matador Review, Fugue, Lodestone and Sixfold. Recipient of the Ron McFarland Poetry Prize, he shares a bed with his wife, cats and dog; it’s known to be overcrowded.
is an English major at Washington & Jefferson College, currently a sophomore. She enjoys writing and reading fiction the most, but is open to any genre and challenge. It took multiple people to inform her that this piece was good enough to submit, which she hesitantly--and now proudly--did.
is a Slytherin, truly, and enjoys living life dangerously (just ask his friends). After graduating from Washington and Jefferson College with a degree in English, he plans to attend Johns Hopkins and teach in the Baltimore area.
will always fight for women’s rights and pickles. She works as managing editor of poetry for 1932 Quarterly and also as managing editor of her college’s literary journal, The Wooden Tooth Review.
Lindley Rose Yarnall
has spent her twenty-nine years as a walking contradiction. Hopelessly romantic and perpetually realistic, she uses her writing to reinterpret life experiences and examine the what-ifs pinballing around in her brain.
Staff Layla Lenhardt • Editor-in-Chief
Rosie Corey • General Managing Editor
Benjamin Rozzi • Managing Editor of Prose & Social Media Coordinator
Alexa Terrell • Co-Managing Editor of Poetry
Kori Williams • Co-Managing Editor of Poetry
Julia Nadovich • Managing Editor of Design
Lauryn Halahurich • Website Coordinator & Digital Publications Manager
Nicholas Chiesa • Partial Financier
Design Team Lauryn Halahurich Lauren Markish Kristen Lucente
Associate Editors Shannon Adams
Christina Kosch Lauren Lamm
Information Interested in submitting to the next issue?
We are accepting any and all creative fiction. The guidelines are as follows: 1. You can submit up to 10 pieces of poetry and 3 short prose pieces, no more than 10 pages each. 2. Email each piece in an individual word document, please do not include your name in the word document. In your email, tell us which attachments are prose and which are poems. 3. Email your submissions to the following account: firstname.lastname@example.org In order for your submission(s) to be considered, you must follow these guidelines. Our team of editors will be going through a lot of pieces, so your assistance in adhering to these three points is greatly appreciated.
Interested in editing for 1932 Quarterly?
If you have an interest in joining this wonderful project as an associate editor, please contact Layla Lenhardt. The position can be used as an internship, as a resume builder, and we hear, Layla writes an amazing letter of recommendation. So if you have any interest in editing, learning about the literary journal process, or just a general love of reading, please contact us at Lenhardt.email@example.com! It will be a such a rewarding experience, we promise!
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The Spring 2017 issue is 1932 Quarterly's first publication containing 20 pieces of creative work from people all around the globe. Based...
Published on Jul 17, 2017
The Spring 2017 issue is 1932 Quarterly's first publication containing 20 pieces of creative work from people all around the globe. Based...