The Other Twin, Nostalgia Issue

THE OTHER TWIN LIT REVIEW PRESENTS

Nostalgia

by The Other Twin Lit Review

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The Other Twin Lit Review Commerce Dr Columbia, SC geminiarts.org

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COVER ART Everything Within Me Still, Longs For Play/ Susanna Austin/ cover

POETRY Fairy Tale / T. McCullough / Fairy Tale, Years Later / T. McLawler / Shadows in the Dark / S. Prouse / reprise / A. Kocher / Small Things in a Lion’s Breath / E. Leverton / Photographs That Make ‘Happy’ Easy / E. Leverton / The Memory of Water / E. Leverton / Echoes of Georgia O’Keeffe / J. Bourque / Happy Birthday Larry / A. Black / The Astrophysics Of Mental Health / A. Black / A Poem For Sally Hemmings / A. Black / Dear Siri / A. Black / This Is Not A F-king Sonnet / A. Black / Books / D. Carrier / Winter’s Peak / D. Carrier / Landscape Painting w/Labubu Rotting Long After Humans Have Gone Extinct / E. Berry / Watermelon Seeds / T. Simon / Seashells / T. Simon / Calling Roots / T. Simon / Kate Minola’s Apocryphal Soliloquy / C. Stegelin / What’s a Little Nostalgia Amongst Friends? / S. Rodriguez / Breaking News – Dinosaurs Near Extinction / S. Rodriguez / “What Was the Name of the Movie?” / S. Hendrian / Spirit Halloween / S. Hendrian / Do You Miss the Thrill of My Breasts? / S. Hendrian / A Mystery of a Certain Kind / S. Hendrian / Caring Eyes / S. Hendrian /

PROSE The Warehouse of Souls / K. Strasberg / Pancakes and Ice Cream / S. Hajj / Cho-Chin-Jyaw / K. Win Myat / Nostalgia: Sketches / A. Stewart / Mother Essays / S. Smith / Pigments / K. Hartvigsen / I Come From / L. Baker / The Universal Nostalgia for Passing Summer / K. Harrison / A Note From the Editor / K. Harrison /

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Fairy Tale Tristan McCullough, Age 20 2008 Too much thinking in the middle of the night.

Why can’t it be a fairy tale?

What happened to love at rst sight?

It’s alway great when it’s all new, all happiness and owers and nothing blue.

The conversation is exciting and great, kisses are are blast and he is seldom late.

But the “talk” came early for us two, not bad, not great, I’m unsure of what to do.

Boy likes girl, girl likes boy she just wants to know that she is not a toy.

He says they are dating, so what’s the rush, she says they are not serious, but more than a crush.

So, no ghting has been done, and no one needs to have won, But it’s hard to think ahead, when you don’t know what’s going on in your man’s head.

If he wants to fall in love with you, or if this is just convenient for now and easy to do.

Too much thinking in the middle of the night Why can’t it be a fairy tale?

What happened to love at rst sight?

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Fairy Tale Tristan (McCullough) McLawler, Age 37 2025 Laying next to him- every single night Is this a fairy tale?

Maybe, possibly, not quite?

Nearly years later and things are hardly ever new, there’s happiness, owers…and chaos too.

We've changed and we’ve grown, and tried not to hate, the choices we made- or could it have been fate?

One kid turned to three, and there’s been moves to do, grad schools, deployments, homeschool…we make it through.

He’s almost always late, she’s almost always daydreaming, he gets lost in the muck, she tries to get healing.

The schedules are busy and seemingly in a rush, the kissing snuck in reminds us to crush.

There are times when we could have called it done, and times when togetherness did not feel fun.

When the weight of the world felt like we couldn’t get ahead, and we spent time apart with things being unsaid.

His tenacious desire of integrity- to the letter, and her magical wherewithal to make the world better, It’s now years later and looking at it all, feels nostalgic, captivating, and not at all small.

Too much thinking in the middle of the night Life’s not a fairy taleBut our own extraordinary story to write.

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The Warehouse of Souls Kyra Strasberg There it stood. Empty for years. Once back in the days of Nixon, Carter, etal, it had been a cornerstone of gadgets. The latest in just about anything you could imagine. From Tappen’s new microwave oven, Admiral’s top of the line refrigerator with an ice maker, Texas Instruments pocket sized calculator, and even that iconic police blue light radio from GE. This cinderblock of a building with its linoleum oors and nondescript facade held the toys of the future. Beta Max, Pong, and Sony’s projection TV. Creations only seen at the World’s Fair. As a kid, I used to go with my dad on Saturdays and roller skate through the rows of inventory.

After taking a spin around the rink of racks, I’d settle in for an ice-cold Coca-Cola purchased for a quarter. Remember the vending machine that stacked the bottles in one vertical row?

Insert the coin, open the door and pull. How about the built-in bottle opener? Standing guard ready to be of service. I don’t know if it was the sturdiness or the dependability that intrigued me most. Maybe it just never let me down…

Years passed and we became the nation of disposables and big box stores. This low-lying single story with its hulking membrane roof that had brought freshness and modernity to our sleepy little town, lost its luster. Best Buy and Home Depot bought the newest trends in bulk, out pricing the hard-earned trust of L. Strasburger & Sons. Big contracts were rescinded, and the doors were shuttered. Luckily, state government was looking for space, and the giant structure was roused once again. The nine to ve, and in some cases the eight thirty to four thirty, suited the old place. It was a Monday through Friday kind of thing that allowed ample time and space for football and fair parking. The days were regular, so was the rent. Despite the ’s stand up partition walls and some cheap carpet, the old place had a reason to keep on keeping on.

Then, as is the case, the government found a better, cheaper locale and once again Bluff Road lay fallow for another ten years. In March of it got a mini facelift and became Columbia’s rst hot yoga studio. The old studs and plywood that had separated the state’s best salesmen came down to create a conference room for the soul. The resulting square foot space was lled nightly. There were college students, some of Dawn Staley’s staff, and the USC tennis team for a while. Before the UN called on her, even Governor Haley was known to request her “safe spot” in the back corner. It was a magical mix of love, sweat, and tears. For nine years it held the space for anyone of any background to face off with themselves. There’s a saying that “You haven’t done yoga until you've cried on your mat.” There were many tears shared in the safe and brave space held by all the teachers. Ah the yoga mat. The little piece of rubber that could hold your darkest moments, combine them with the sweat of your soul, and refashion it all into a rich and authentic life. Couples holding hands on Saturday mornings in savasana. Kids building forts and playing games in the big room. Differently abled coming weekly to have a class just for them with dozens of people volunteering to support their yoga journey. It was ever evolving just like life. More paint, new rooms, furniture, showers. Loads

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and loads of lavender cloths. The connections forged over washing sweat soaked yoga mats and folding towels were ones that transcended the stresses of life.

Now as I stand across the street looking back on that corner of heaven, I see many things. That little girl holding her dad’s hand as they walk into the silent coolness of the showroom. She is bursting with eagerness to skate wild and free with her imagination. I see that same man, tie loose, sleeves rolled, having the hard heart-to-hearts necessary for growth and change. I see a few members of the housing authority team standing out in the cold having a smoke. The wisps rising into the clear December morning mingling with the breath from the yogis. Droves of them sweaty, barefoot, mats in hand heading out into their lives with a little more peace of mind and heart. Most of all, I feel the spirit of all the people who graced its doorways. All the promises of hope it imprinted on their minds. Hope for an easier time cooking dinner with the newest microwave. Hope for a safe, decent and affordable place to call home. Hope for less anxiety and just a little more compassion. The warehouse of souls was, and still is, a big, beautiful dream that touched down on the corner of football and the fair for a brief moment in time. It stood there in all its incarnations holding the aspirations of many generations, by simply being itself. It wasn’t just a building. It was a living breathing storehouse of love.

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Pancakes and Ice Cream Sharon Hajj After stepping out of the car, her comments repeated in my mind, and I rolled my eyes. I took a deep breath and shook my arms to create an appearance of calm even though my blood boiled. The last few days might have brought her to enlightenment.

I can hope.

The threshold with its dark wood took me to a memory of childhood sleepovers with pancakes and ice cream sundaes. The dent in the wood had been there ever since my cousin chased me with his metal toy truck. I had dashed out of the way just in time, but the wood was scarred.

Nellie walked out of her bedroom, the one meant for occasional guests. She uffed her hair and adjusted her scarf. “I can’t believe they want me to move out!”

I cleared my throat. “It’s a shame really, you’ve only lived here rent free for three years, eating their food, taking up space.” I spread a weak smile over my gritted teeth.

“They’re so sel sh, Levi. I’ve helped them out a lot by being here. Parents are supposed to take care of their children too.”

“It’s unbelievable really. They should have done more for you like pay you to live with them.”

“I know the one who gave birth to me stopped caring for me when you know what happened to me as a young girl. They haven’t done nothing for me since.”

Double negative.

Calculating the decades that have passed since that time, I point to a pile of photographs of happier times. “The evidence shows otherwise.”

“Only if you believe their lies.”

“Still stuck in that trauma, huh? You still haven’t found a savior while the rest of us have had to save ourselves. It’s not her fault. She didn’t know.”

“I can’t be expected to take care of myself.”

“You’re forty- ve!”

She startled at the tone of my voice. “You didn’t mean what you said before.” She twisted the ends of the scarf.

“You have dreams of returning to an ideal time that’s long gone. It’s time to move on to better things. Nostalgia keeps you looking backwards, not to a better future.”

Nellie turned and grasped a photograph of her with her parents. She crumpled it up and threw it into the trash bin. “So long.” She grabbed her purse and picked up one last box. “The room needs to be swept. I ain’t doing it.”

My arms tensed and I hesitated. Looking into her eyes to search for a gleam of light, I turned my head away to block whatever darkness she held from sinking into me.

Not enlightened.

The ends of her scarf uncurled and her mood de ated. On the way out the door, Nellie huffed and muttered untruths.

I jingled the keys in my hand. The sunlight lit the guest bedroom with a warm glow. My spine shivered and for the rst time in a long time, the tension ceased to exist in my body. When her parents arrived home later, it would be the start of a new cycle, one of peace, harmony, and happiness. I touched the dent in the doorframe. Even now, I knew they didn’t want to ll it in with spackle. Some memories are meant to last. Some memories bring joy.

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Searching in the usual spot, I grabbed the pancake mix and ice cream toppings. The pancakes wouldn’t take long to make, and if I served them with a bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate sprinkles, the cherished memories would ood their system, and the drain of the last few years would diminish. Familiar treats soothe the soul. This time, instead of being the ones to give, it would be theirs for the taking,

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Cho-Chin-Jyaw, A Sweet and Sour Chicken Recipe Khin Win Myat As Myanmar (Burma) borders ve countries, Burmese people are blessed to enjoy all kinds of food: authentic Burmese and ethnic foods as well as fusion foods. As the saying goes "Where China meets India is Burma,” people in Burma can enjoy both Chinese and Indian foods.

Since Khin has learned about Dr. Thant Myint-U's book named "Where China meets India: Burma and the New Crossroads of Asia," she really likes this title and keeps referencing it whenever she shares about her country with others.

Khin found "sweet and spicy barbecue sauce" very useful when she recently made this Chinese-Burmese cuisine for her son. Reminiscing on her childhood, Khin even wondered whether Cho-Chin-Jyaw is one of the most favorite dishes of children in Myanmar. Cho-ChinJyaw was one of Khin's few favorite dishes during her childhood.

Cho-Chin-Jyaw is a sweet and sour chicken dish made by Chinese Burmese chefs. "Cho" means sweet in Burmese; "Chin" is sour; "Jyaw" is used in any dish that involves a frying method.

It was special - Khin had to say it is special - because Khin's parents bought it from a local small Chinese restaurant in their neighborhood. Khin's mother later learned this recipe and cooked it at home. Khin saw her mom put these ingredients to have sweet and sour taste, thickness and unique color of Cho-Chin-Jyaw: vinegar and sugar for sweet and sour taste; Chinese red chili sauce, which is similar to "Sirachua sauce" in the US, for the orange-red color; and starch powder dissolved in water to thicken the paste. Now, the readers can visualize the color and sticky consistency of Cho-Chin-Jyaw sauce. While studying in the US, Khin uses vinegar (rice wine or apple cider vinegar), sugar and barbecue sauce (with or without adding sweet chili sauce) to mix with corn starch in a small cup of water.

When going to a local Chinese restaurant to buy Cho-Chin-Jyaw, Khin's father used to bring her with him. At the local restaurant named "Shwe Pinku" ("Golden Spider" in Burmese), little Khin enjoyed gazing at the Chinese Burmese chef cooking Chinese dishes one after another. Some people were waiting for their take-away orders while some were dining in. The cooking place was at the left side of the entrance. The eating place with tables and chairs was located after passing the cooking area; one to two tables and chairs were placed at the right side of the entrance where people waiting for their take-out were sitting. After getting their order, her father and Khin walked back home with a packed Cho-Chin-Jyaw. On the way, they had a lovely and cheerful father-daughter conversation which is still in Khin's memory.

At that time, Burma was under the socialist regime as well as a self-isolated country. Because of the limitation in international trade and industry, the restaurants and stores had not started using plastic bags; they used locally available natural products such as big leaves and newspaper for food packaging. Cho-Chin-Jyaw was sold by being packed in fresh banana leaves, and again covered with newspapers tied with bamboo strings. Khin can still recollect the aroma of the banana-leaves-packed Cho-Chin-Jyaw.

Little Khin's footsteps were lighter on the way back home since the aroma kept reminding Khin that she would enjoy her favorite Cho-Chin-Jyaw with warm rice soon after she got back home. While walking holding her dad's hand, Khin sometimes played by walking sideways and

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swift walking. Little Khin said baby words to her dad and her dad enjoyed her cute words.

Khin is reliving and reminiscing on her childhood memory of Cho-Chin-Jyaw. To Khin, delicious Cho-Chin-Jyaw, the aroma of its packing of banana leaves, fun and lovely conversation - all are symbols of her late father's love and care.

Although her dad passed away several years ago, Khin can feel this memory as fresh as if it was happening yesterday. Even though Khin had a chance to have her dad alive for only years in her life, Khin will sometimes revive this sweet memory of her PhayPhay (dad).

The bonding and connection of a loving father and a happy daughter will always be imprinted in Khin's memory. Khin hopes that her son will likewise live in his version of this Cho-ChinJyaw memory with his MayMay (mom) as Khin does.

Recipe for Cho-Chin-Jyaw ( ) Meat preparation: Season grounded meat (chicken or pork) or meat strip with garlic salt, pepper powder, soy sauce, and optionally with ve spices and sesame oil. Optionally, seasoned meat can be coated with corn starch or our powder, and then deep-fried.

Instead of fresh meat, breaded popcorn chicken can be used for convenience. (Note: In Myanmar, there is a Chinese spice mixture called Chinese Masala which is similar to Five Spices available in the US. Now, the exact same "Five spices" is available in Myanmar.) ( ) Cho-Chin-Jyaw Sauce Preparation (Preparing sweet and sour sauce): Place barbecue sauce, soy sauce, vinegar, sugar, lime or lemon juice in a bowl or a small pot, and mix them together.

Instead of barbecue sauce, you can use tomato ketchup and Thai Sweet Chili sauce. Chinese Orange Sauce or Duck Sauce can also be added if you like a fruitier avor.

For a jelly-like or sticky texture, cornstarch and water are added and stirred until thickened. ( ) Cooking phase: Sauté the chopped onions and garlic in any cooking oil till a nice aroma comes out or both onions and garlic turns dark yellow. Put in the aforementioned seasoned meat or popcorn chicken. Put in vegetables such as carrot(s), cabbage, cauli ower, tomato, and onion. These vegetables are normally used in the Cho-Chin-Jyaw recipe that Khin makes and had bought from the local restaurants in Burma; cucumber and pineapple are also good to add. Put in the above-mentioned Cho-Chin-Jyaw sauce: orange-red sticky sweet and sour sauce. Put in soy sauce to taste. When everything is almost cooked, put in onion spring or garlic spring.

Websites for More Information: "Where China Meets India: Burma and the New Crossroads of Asia" https://www.barnesandnoble.com/.../where-china.../1111398479 https://www.nytimes.com/.../where-china-meets-india-by...

"Dr. Thant Myint-U" https://www.thantmyintu.com Resources for Cho-Chin-Jyaw Recipe https://tasteasianfood.com/sweet-and-sour-chicken/

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Shadows in the Dark Steven Prouse The shadows are moving.

In the dark.

Against the crack in the door.

That lets in the light from the nightlight wall switch.

The shadows are whispering.

In the dark.

Deep inside my ears.

Back where the drum connects to the brain and the calls from the limitless can best be heard.

The shadows are scratching.

In the dark.

Between the rafters.

Above the ceiling where crawl spaces hide insects and arachnids and rodents a plenty.

The shadows are souring.

In the dark.

On the back of my tongue.

Where the sick residue of a post-brushing snack sparks memories of the taste of sin.

The shadows are rotting.

In the dark.

Wafting in the air The putrid stink of decaying things circulated by ceiling fans.

The shadows are remembering.

In the dark.

Across the land.

Toxic memories of days that never were and of mental cotton candy divisions.

The shadows are eternal.

In the dark.

Forever was and forever will be.

Taunting and torturing, cowardice magni ed, failed yesterdays destroying tomorrow.

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reprise Anna Kocher Someone is singing, far-off and full-throated, outside, beyond the chain link fence or - is it? - upstairs above the creak of oorboards a ock of birds accompanying the moody fourth We danced around the living room you in your cap, I in my frayed jeans your hand rm on my back my feet clumsy, still I know how the fear slipped in, smoke through the slats solidi ed in the television glow breath after mechanical breath the clank and rasp of it de ant until it is de ed a wisp, a breeze, an absence a subtraction, a long rest, measure upon measure that one must count, and count and count, then, poised, inhale, the baton, the entrance the coda, the reprise the distant song

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Nostalgia: Sketches Alyssa Stewart I crave Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes this time of year. While I don’t think the ethos of eating in season applies to shelf-stable foods, I still like to tell myself that seasonal treats are fresher, and therefore (maybe) better. I rationalize my desire. But what I really want is the context in which I rst ate Christmas Tree Cakes - I want the feeling of three-a-day Singing Christmas Tree performances. I want to be surrounded by all sorts of people in all sorts of out ts. I want to tiptoe between sleeping bags strewn all over Shandon Baptist’s gym oor. I want to be united to others by a clear, beautiful purpose. I want to not worry about doing enough. I want to be adored and curious and unselfconscious and full of energy. I want to be unaware of the fact that gas and milk used to cost less than a dollar per gallon, that a dollar was once considered pricey. I want instant wassail in styrofoam cups and for my brother to have been dead only a few years instead of most of my adult life. So I eat my nostalgia.

Nostalgia is a haunting: longing made manifest in the present. It’s a comforting ritual. Rosy time travel. A side effect of memory, maybe a feature. Since pattern recognition is key to survival, and memory is a collection of stored patterns, it might not be a stretch to say that all life forms with the capacity for recall have the capacity for nostalgia. Great apes, elephants, and cetaceans can grieve. Maybe deer reminisce about paths that have been paved over. Maybe North American earthworms craved sweet chestnut leaf litter for a few generations. It could be true. I’m not a scientist, but I’m looking at the same data points. What is true is that we all just want to understand.

Nostalgia is play. Instead of exploratory, additive play - a safe way to engage with knowledge, power, and responsibility - nostalgia is a return to a time when you didn’t know as much, didn’t have to know as much, and/or there wasn’t as much to know about. The Good Old Days are so good partially because they are over, freeing you to engage with them as you please. I had no idea that my magical childhood was spent below the poverty line. My parents kept the magic safe. They played make-believe with me, for me and my siblings. They still do. Nostalgia is a privilege. I; black, femme, subject to mental health concerns (etc etc etc), do not want to return to some peoples’ Good Old Days. Safety is a prerequisite for play.

Nostalgia fuels the thirty year fashion cycle. It asks if we can try again, do better. It challenges the idea that worthwhile things have to be perfect. It asks us to value the process over the product. To slow down and appreciate. Nostalgia binds those who feel time passing.

“Remember when” is a story we tell to bring each other close.

I remember. Come close.

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Small Things in a Lion’s Breath Elizabeth Leverton Excess of sorrow laughs.

Excess of joy weeps.

—William Blake, from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (

)

I. There are these things that build homes, these bricks of riverbed clay and shale: and moments that build families, passed in blinks of eyes— pages downturned, dog-eared hours celebrated in sixtieths, solar-re ected calendar pages ying by, the speed of lives colored by laughter.

What threatens to be forgotten?

The small things, the moment, what is good for us.

II. Memories, tell your Muse: Look back!

Home is made of bones, its heart that beats dependent on winks of life just as these hours depend upon the ticking of clocks.

Build a home, in happiness, in loss.

Stack these bricks of clay and shale.

Remember: sea glass, paint spatters, raindrops, uncertainty, bad dance moves, laughter, crooked teeth, smiles that look downturned.

The small things.

Remember the way the Muse shrugs toward us, The moment: today, fast memory. .

III. Remember What is good for us, love, and belief, and laughter and kind company, strawberries and cups of tea, sorrow, contentment, and tears.

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Photographs That Make ‘Happy’ Easy Elizabeth Leverton I. I catch my life in a camera lens, and quick to regret, cast down regret.

I collage myself in blues and greens and like the Earth, in reddish dirt.

Like the Earth—you’re vast & wild— you are hills & seas— you are “you” and you are “me”: and never caveat refuse, nor melancholy be— for memory: is holy.

II. My lens sneaks up and whispers to your skin, while like the wind, I paint your face; but unlike wind, whose voice is loud, my brush is photography.

I hear echoes of the singing birds above the streams that slowly trickle down.

Birds y from still-frame photographs, that bring the water back to life— and memory: is holy.

III. How through these glossy black-and-whites, I see the ripples exercise: moments then, refusing to be lost; and here we are again (so lost, in annals of mortality): Wandering slowly up the stream, arm in arm, around the bend… walking by the riverbank.

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The Memory of Water Elizabeth Leverton I. The canyons of our lives are memories, vast gulches smoothed by time & the well-worn paths we dare to look back upon.

Ferry across even if you are tentative; even if you distrust the strength of the water: Talk to the boatman.

The water is simply remembering.

Perhaps she is made of laughter, her bonded atoms, happiness.

II. We seek the sky above, common over terra rma, we picture clouds in our minds, or gaze at the pink cocoonlike puffs of orange-streaked sunsets, thick, aimless clouds drifting over ivy-riddled backyards & trampolines.

It is easy to imagine the waxing full moon, its darkness: full of light.

We paint a circle.

III. Add a little white, a touch of grey, a funny face, indigo, and a spray of stars like a sweet bouquet of baby’s breath.

For water, shaded blues and greens, outlined by the memories that bubble to edges of canvas painted by children who sail, swim, dig moats, & surf on boards and backs.

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Color that old path.

Be timid.

Be strong.

Every muddy path takes us back IV. where waterfalls of messy tears plummet from another place, shifting our location, shifting process— altering and deferring dreams— crashing here: the turning of the tide churning its cauldron secrets, living loud, with memory of truer times, lingering: and longing us, to begin again.

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Mother Essays Shirley Smith Mothering is a word that evokes a range of emotions-some sweet, others not so much. It can especially trigger you if you're a daughter. Daughters have complex histories, lives, and relationships with their mothers, with literal traces of our collective mothers woven through our hearts and minds.

Some say that the mother-daughter relationship is the most intricate among family bonds.

The era in which we were born contributes to this complexity due to the world events of that time, as well as the family structure in which we grew up. Women of my Baby Boomer generation were in uenced by our mothers' experiences, who lived in a time without birth control pills, limited options for nancial independence outside of marriage, and no negative words against motherhood. Creating the perfect nuclear family was the accepted norm, as shown by the Cleavers or the Nelsons, which motivated most of our mothers— sometimes reluctantly—to have children, seeing it as the ful llment of all their dreams.

My mother’s early life shaped my relationship with her. She was German and met my father, an American soldier, during World War II in Germany. They married and moved to South Carolina soon after. She had a six-year-old daughter from a previous relationship with another American soldier who had abandoned them, and my father adopted her. However, I didn’t learn this from my mother. I discovered it when I was a young teenager after nding papers with my sister’s birth dates—she was ten years older than me—that didn’t match my parents’ anniversary dates. I felt that my childhood innocence in believing in my parents’ infallibility was shattered by this new information about my family’s past. My mother wanted me to believe that my father was my sister’s biological father. She became angry when I questioned the dates and did the math based on my ndings. My story didn't match the fantasy she had created to escape her war memories and the shame of being ostracized for having an “illegitimate” daughter in her Catholic community. It turns out that was the rst of many secrets my mother kept, but it was a signi cant one, and it changed how I saw her, making me wary of anything she may have told me.

One of my earliest memories is walking along a road between the kindergarten I attended and the nursery where I stayed after school, both on the grounds of Ft. Jackson, a military base in Columbia, SC. I am alone, walking on the side of the road, stopping occasionally to swing on tree branches over small hills. This was an everyday adventure, and I don't remember feeling afraid or worried about not reaching my destination. In today’s world, some might be horri ed to think of a ve-year-old walking alone for at least a quarter of a mile. What if she gets lost? What if someone tries to lure her into a van? From my mother’s perspective— though I am just guessing—she was a German woman who had lived through a war and experienced hardship in her life. She believed I could go from here to there without supervision. Whether my mother worried about those things or not, I see now that it was a lesson in independence, the start of building trust and con dence in myself. I’m sure that wasn’t her main intention, though. She probably saw it as a necessary childcare decision made out of necessity.

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However, that memory con icts with others from my childhood—memories of a dominant mother who didn't want me to make my own choices, or at least ones she disagreed with. Was she trying to protect me from poor decisions—perhaps mistakes she had already made? By creating a close-minded environment like hers, was she attempting to keep me safe from outside in uences I would face as an adult? I thought about this when I was younger, especially as someone who learned to be complacent and subservient at an early age. I eventually shed those self-destructive traits, but it took a lot of soul-searching.

It takes re ection and openness to realize that unresolved feelings from the past can still in uence us, even over time. If your mother, like mine, was often critical and believed her way was the only right way, it becomes ingrained in your subconscious. Even when we think we’ve moved past the idea that we're not enough, that belief can still quietly affect how we see ourselves and interact with the world as we seek peace of mind over time. But it isn't instant; it’s a gradual journey that encourages us to re ect more on who we are as individuals, separate from who we are as daughters. How will our stories evolve and mirror the complex in uence of our mothers as we pass them on to our daughters and granddaughters? My own answers are just speculation since my mother has been gone for nearly forty years. The meaning of mothering has changed for me over the years, yet it remains something I keep returning to, still longing to understand, to analyze as is my habit, to piece together a story about my mother and where her spirit may reside.

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Echoes of Georgia O'Keeffe Jeanee Bourque Georgia, so many have sang your song and sent you praises You inspired many people, your iconic owers with multiple layered glazes Paintings so large and bright Many read things into your work, Much to your delight.

An elegant woman, dressed in black With so much ambition and talent, witty quotes you did not lack.

We look in awe at what you did, a century ago and more, your eyes where never to the oor.

They said "women can not show here" You showed them my dear, you could show, without fear!

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Pigments Kristine Hartvigsen The curious stare of Alejandro’s cat lulled Gabriela awake, and she opened her heart to the creature’s calico sweetness. The feline purred as she stroked it, much as Gabriela had done hours earlier at Alejandro’s touch. The chill of his studio felt good on her skin as she lay alone against a cushion, savoring the stillness.

To her left on the oor lay an overturned coffee tin, its cargo of unwashed paintbrushes tumbled on their sides. She combed ngers through her loose hair, noting the tart essence of lime juice from the tequila they shared late into the night.

Alejandro had posed her — draped at rst — seeking the light’s kindest appraisal.

Everything from their soft banter to the casual shifting of Alejandro’s bare feet on the heart pine oor stirred her senses. As the time serenely passed, he offered soothing words and occasional sips of tequila until she threw off the coverlet. Segovia’s classical guitar enticed them from the turntable on the oor. The scent of oils butter ied on the palette completed the intoxication.

As the time passed, they made easy conversation. She wondered at his intense deliberation, the way his eyes shifted from her to his brush on the canvas. She regarded his warm Mediterranean skin and graceful movements, those petulant black curls spilling over his forehead.

In what may have been the seventh hour, Alejandro stopped, lit a cigarette, and sat beside her on the dais. Her eyes traced the contours of his jaw and brow. He leaned in and softly kissed her left eyelid.

To the seductive notes of Sevilla, he celebrated the whole of her. His tongue on her breast, his skin against hers, the languid rhythm of their bliss.

She put her face to the cushion and breathed in musk, turpentine, and the damp avowal of their lovemaking.

Hearing the door open, she rolled over to watch Alejandro emerge from the bathroom. He crossed the room, oblivious to his naked perfection in the slanted morning light. He stopped at the easel, his eyes meeting hers, inquiring. She nodded.

Alejandro turned the easel around. Gabriela gasped, her eyes slowly brimming with tears.

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Happy Birthday Larry Al Black On Ferlinghetti's birthday, I want a cutting-edge independent bookstore in my hometown.

I want to see the eccentrics among us celebrated, I want to see Kerouac, Bukowski, Chomsky and Sheehan in my favorite coffee shop.

I want to drop acid and watch Leary and Ginsburg stand naked arguing the cosmos while a drunken Burroughs moderates.

I want Ezra Pound to become a communist.

I want Heminingway's gun to mis re.

I want Martin Luther King, Jr to stay in a Hilton with interior halls.

I want Marilyn to know it's okay to grow old.

I want to see Jeanie's navel on TV. I want to see Annette Funicello with high beams.

I want her to tell Frankie Avelaon to get lost, because she is rocking Jimi Hendrix alone tonight at his pad.

I want Polly Anna to call her aunt a bitch.

I want the big bad wolf to eat bacon...lots of bacon.

I want to know if an aroused Smurfette tastes like blueberry jam.

I want to lm a remake of Giant and Elizabeth Taylor to catch Rock Hudson and James Dean alone in a eld.

I want Ayn Rand and L. Ron Hubbard to tell their insipid followers that they are ction writers and Atlas Shrugged and Dianetics ain't real.

I want to relive junior high school in a kinder, gentler way.

I want to pay attention in English class.

I want the BeeGees to quit singing disco and go back to ballads.

I want Lois Lane to nd her man of steel.

I want to feed Zoloft to the Hulk.

I want to know why the Swamp Thing does not have a penis.

I want Beauty to turn out the lights so the Beast isn't so self-conscious.

I want them to show us that love is not about looks, class, race or gender and it's beautiful to be alive and to love whomever you want to love.

I want you to be kind to yourself, because how can you be kind to others unless you know how to be kind to yourself.

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The Astrophysics Of Mental Health Al Black You read that in the darkness between stars galaxies exist.

Their brilliance obscured by bodies of light spinning closer to your perch in space and somehow this lifted your depression - if only for a moment In a coffee shop two lovers touched hands. An arm wrapped around a shoulder hip tight against a leg unable to sway in the sunlight and somehow this lifted your depression - if only for a moment A sh rose up out of the water, ashed in the sun, water dripped from its scales before splashing back into the re ected sky of a windless day and somehow this lifted your depression - if only for a moment And so your life goes on, ricocheting through the distance journeys from darkness to light convinced that content resides in the emptiness between and somehow this lifts your depression - if only for a moment

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A Poem For Sally Hemmings Al Black In the middle of the night well before dawn a mockingbird performs outside your window.

You lie awake and remember a story that Thomas Jefferson took a trained caged mockingbird to France to remind him of home.

Visitors said it would perch on his shoulder, took food from his mouth and sang as he'd play his violin.

You never understood why a caged bird did not y away; was it love, or comfort, or fear, or the jumbling of all three.

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Dear Siri Al Black Because there is no how-to manual or GPS to chart a route through the wilderness of relationships.

Because my mother was a perfectionist, I don’t know when good Is good enough.

And because I’m a soul having a bodily experience for my rst and only time.

I wake up in the middle of the night lost and worried that I’m not doing this thing called life right.

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This Is Not A Fucking Sonnet Al Black Because I refuse to count my beats And play with rhyming schemes These fourteen lines will never be a sonnet About love lost or found and maybe lost, again.

Carolina wren song song ascends Clear notes welcome in the day Dew sparkles during morning prayer Soon it may become ice-crystal frosting Spring's promise in the melting Trees mark time with their sway Frogs burrow in for winter Yuletide begs me light a re in our yard Carolina wren song ascends My chilly soul begins to soar

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Books1 Deb Carrier There are heaps of books on my bedside table That I promised to read and never did I tried; the nostalgia of you kept me busy Photographs jumbled in the back of my mind Sticky notes, pressed into my membrane My head still wrapped in holiday cellophane.

There are so many books in dresser drawers On shelves, no longer neat and tidy The dust accumulating mighty You could wipe it with a nger or a rag Leave a hashtag; It’s steep the dust, and all the memories Journals scribbled In fallen lint and indentured thieves Come to steal the qualities Of a younger me.

I faint at the sight of what it would take to get it right To catch up with All my might; exhausted in the ght.

I breathe, and look, beyond my casket of bedsheets and years invested In holding onto a former ame I could, but will not tell the name I might; no —i shant Let novelty and nostalgia dance Among the mighty terrors of night That satisfy and set you right So cavalier then, to converse The story of the books Before the hearse.

1 copyright ©

Deep Blue River Poetry Debbie Carrier- all rights reserved- used by permission only.

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But I will be quiet and I will be still Let nostalgia climb the wooded hill The paper-mill The paper stacks The unread books In crannies And in nooks.

There are heaps of books on my bedside table. I would read them, if I was able.

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Winter’s Peak2 Deb Carrier I sat on Winter’s Peak.

It was a brave afternoon.

The leaves coagulated with my shoelaces. The tempest, tossed the hood of my hoodie, like a sailboat anchored at sea in a gale-storm.

Wood on the re made bright sparks from the splinters. A chunk roared like iridescent coals.

My brave boots arched against the brownstones, lining the re pit.

It’s always harsh on Winter’s Peak, where snow comes like frothing foam, lapping the roots of the aging pine trees. And still, we celebrate the nostalgic moments of sugarplum fairies dancing in our heads, the dreams of Neverland that came while we gobbled those candy canes in front of American Bandstand.

It’s slow and strange on Winter’s Peak, watching from above as helmeted soldiers slay innocent unicorns.

But, I remember my youthful day, like it was yesterday!

Popcorn balls and rich divinity candies On grandma’s silver serving tray.

Squirrels making a pitter-patter on the patio While we carved turkeys and said Grace.

It didn’t last. It went really fast!

They try to warn you.

As a child, we don’t understand that everything passes. That not all fairytales come true. We believe in the existence of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny; and we believe, that just like Brer’ Rabbit we will escape the briar-patch. Just like Bossy the Cow, we will eventually pull our foot out of the mud-hole.

Until we wake up one morning— on Winter’s Peak.

A storm raging in the political highlands.

A Barn-door continually slamming like an escalator goes up-and-down.

And we see the looping patterns on the lattice slats, of the matrix—and we realize the Ferris Wheel is always spinning round, And not everyone gets to be a rockstar.

2 copyright ©

Deep Blue River Poetry Debbie Carrier- all rights reserved- used by permission only.

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And we warm our boots on the hot rocks And the tinders snap and the coals glow bright, and we have ourself some oatmeal With cranberries, and we set our back aright to the wind and the snow— And we smile, a sort of sideways smile Under our uffy hand-made hat And think of Frosty And Rudolph And his bright red nose.

And we sip our cider And bask in the higher elevations As the snow akes dot our nose Up here on the peak Of Winter Mountain.

It was a brave afternoon.

The leaves coagulated with my shoelaces.

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Landscape Painting with Labubu Rotting Long After Humans Have Gone Extinct Evelyn Berry Already bored of impossible landscapes, I draw the horizon beyond the horizon.

I light up matchsticks along the windowsill and call it sunrise.

I remake the remake and name nostalgia the only home I’ve ever known.

I’m already missing the days I’m forgetting to notice.

I water the garden with sustenance meant for the AI processing centers. Forgive my disobedience!

My kool-aid stained mouth, a crimson halo– dripping blood!

Suffering on Earth? Everything to do with me!

I’m as entangled with the world’s pain as a crow in the cloud!

I don’t mean to y through this, but blink, and I’ll miss you.

I miss you, beautiful world!

Call me a fool if you want, I know, I’m one Labubu short of a land ll.

I’m as cynical as a clown’s funeral hearse.

Get in, baby! Plenty of space for everyone you’ve ever known!

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Watermelon Seeds Tayler Simon I sit at my grandmother’s feet, bowl of watermelon beside me lightly salted, like she likes it Sweet, southern heat-grown from the Carolina soil in her backyard garden I am afraid of the seeds, swallowing them whole, my belly growing big and round, for no one loves a Black girl grown big by unwanted seeds My grandmother taught me and my mother this lesson through her own mother and now it’s a wonder why I no longer enjoy eating sweet watermelon

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Seashells Tayler Simon Hold your ear to the seashell, and imagine the place where you have not been Let that silence whisper sweet nothings and promises you won’t keep to yourself There is the salt on your face reminding you that you are made from the same thing that the ocean is Inside of you, me all of us You realize that your cupped hand held to your ear does the same trick

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Calling Roots Tayler Simon What are the roots that are calling you home?

How do they whisper the name given to you by your ancestors, and not by your oppressors?

How do they open their arms for you to fall into trusting that you will have a soft place to land?

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Kate Minola’s Apocryphal Soliloquy after William Shakespeare Corazon Stegelin He attended to me there, with spirits to encourage delirium.

Encouraged by the delirium, I’ll admit I was wooed when he likened me to a nightingale where others had seen a shrew.

I believed him when he saw my beauty “clear as morning roses newly wash’d with dew.”

I was unaccustomed to being wanted, and I became intoxicated by his wanting and by his spirits.

My delirium - and his poisoning of me went initially unnoticed.

I noticed not my muting of myself in and for his favor, but rather his praising of my increasingly limited volubility and eloquence.

When at last I rediscovered my voice and remembered my tongue so oft described as razor-sharp I gave him a tongue-lashing, intentionally cruel and wicked so as to drive him away.

Nevertheless, he persisted, steadfast and headstrong, on maintaining his presence bedside and fueled by spirit.

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He insisted we be wedded or at least bedded our union consecrated in the delirium of spirits when he imbued me with his spirit.

And our union consecrated our story as a comedy, as if his taming of me was something of jest rather than something tragic.

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I Come From Linda Baker I come from longing and less than. From coal miners, sherman, Old clothes and dirt for grass. I come from Mary and her exquisite needle point... never completed.

I come from Motown, Aretha, rap and tap dancing. I come from Detroit and fear. World War II, food stamps, Army surplus and margarine.

Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, England.

Edward James Baker....a gambler ne dresser, womanizer, wheeler-dealer, with a big heart.

From the Acadians the Mi'kmac native peoples of Prince Edward Island. Mom Mary Julia Berke.

I come from the seeds of soul, The chicken-jitter bug-swing-boogaloo-Cha-cha-cha-The bump the monkey and Strauss waltzes. The great Caruso oating through our living room Busby Berkeley, Ginger Rogers and Fred.

I come from poverty and abundance, hand me downs and hands in prayer.

I come from the holy Roman Church of darkness. I come from lust and love and a woman who suffered.

I come from the Midwest where we called a stream acre ditch, soda pop, oh with a nasal twang.

I come from non-readers with little schooling and lots of skill.

I come from a fat woman. Her fear of losing her beloved Eddie, her grief at loose thing her mother, Her fatigue and early death. I come from abandonment, loss and found.

Redford Township Michigan. No town no center little culture and a lot of baseball!

I come from humor, laughter starched white blouse, tiight panty girdles, and the relief of taking them off.

I come from Faith, Hope and too much charity.

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What’s a Little Nostalgia Amongst Friends?

Steve Rodriguez Let me remind you of a school day promise made years ago. Occurring on a crisp, clear November morning, when snow capped the San Gabriel peaks – product of a fast moving overnight storm that made everyone resort to jackets and cups of hot chocolate, as we anticipated the chilly fun awaiting us in the bleachers of Friday night’s football game.

While traversing the shaded pathways of north quad heading toward the next class and swirls of orange and black spirit colors mixed with brilliant SoCal sunlight to decorate our small, vibrant world you vowed long into the future to help me rekindle any fading campus memories, burnish them with slight exaggeration, and add colorful, potent details incapable of ever being proven entirely false.

My end of the deal called for your stories to always be relished by this audience of one – to con rm your every recollection like a wonderous exhibit, as if you were a heralded paleontologist showcasing a well preserved structure of ancient bones.

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Don’t ever forget your responsibility.

Simple stories, slightly contoured.

Told time and again whenever we meet to recount days like those experienced when the sun was perhaps not as brilliant as we remember.

Tales re ned over the years, crafted and shaped to accommodate my yearning for reassurance – the idea that perfected episodes of our past, no matter the actual reality, both soothe and reinvigorate the present.

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Breaking News – Dinosaurs Near Extinction Steve Rodriguez We submit to changing routines in such an insidious manner.

One day the customary third page of editorial content goes missing from the local newspaper. Then, at some later or earlier point in time – I’m unable to recall exactly when – my favorite sports columnist disappears, along with several sheets of the sports section.

One subsequent morning I pick up the paper from my driveway and realize it now possesses the heft of a baby bird, no longer boasting the heavyweight journalistic mass that once greeted me each morning.

I effortlessly accept the changes, establishing new routines, willing to rely more and more, of course, on digital media’s easy access and timeliness.

It’s come to this…the daily rag, once the in uential voice of the city, now nothing more than a starved beast, bloodily butchered, by its billionaire owners, sharp nancial blades wielded while the victim still draws a faint breath.

One Thursday I realize the newspaper’s morning delivery to my address (one of the few on the block still belonging to the driver’s route) has over the course of fty previous delivery drivers, been incrementally extended to sometime between eight and nine o’clock.

Far too late in the day, I suddenly complain, aware of how this tardy drive-by toss has changed my a.m. routine, now too easily dominated by obsessively scrolling the news feeds on my smart phone, thus relegating the newspaper to an afterthought.

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Then, one Monday I wake before dawn – as if mystically summoned by the ancient ink gods – and nd a newspaper already lobbed onto the darkened driveway. An eager substitute, or perhaps the fty- rst delivery driver has boldly upended the established routine.

The early hour’s quiet solitude encourages me to focus reading attention on those still too few pages – as if they actually contain the latest news, unaffected by a globe’s worth of developments occurring since their recent departure from the printing press – the same digital developments rapidly being revised, refreshed and restacked while I sit and enjoy this latest edition.

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“What Was the Name of the Movie?”3 Sam Hendrian Two semi-novices elbow to elbow At the New Beverly Cinema Inspired by Clark Gable Not to give a damn about the rest of the audience.

What was the name of the movie?

Haha, of course I remember But it didn’t seem to matter then And it sure as hell doesn’t matter now.

The weightless weight of your head on my chest Followed by the mapless route of our popcorn-salted lips Brie y convinced me that happiness Was the only truth in existence.

As we giggled our way to the street corner To call a st century carriage We were so lost in each other That we didn’t expect to nd our way out.

No one’s lost forever though – A blessing and the worst of curses – Dooming our euphoric forgetfulness To become a sloppily detailed memory.

Yet if I cut out the start and the nish And keep the middle unedited I’m left with eternal proof Of temporary transcendence.

3 For Stephanie

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Spirit Halloween Sam Hendrian We both knew that business was suffering But were waiting for the other to admit it And when this didn’t happen We feigned surprise at the sign that said “Everything Must Go.” Most of my friends are now Spirit Halloweens, Barely-there reminders of a once-abundant store Riding out a seasonal lease agreement Before vanishing altogether.

It’s tempting to walk inside And take a look around Just to see if there are any Easter Eggs From what used to be sold there.

Wouldn’t do any good though Especially since Amazon.com exists And you can nd replacement gifts With a swipe of the thumb.

Although every gift is different, Invigorating and disappointing in unique ways So I’ll save my dough And content myself with staring at the faded storefront lettering.

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Do You Miss the Thrill of My Breasts?

Sam Hendrian Promises of in sickness and in health Are usually made in health When everything seems possible Except the bad things.

But they weren’t so philosophical As they stepped onto the altar And rushed through the sacred words While thinking about the bedroom later.

First time was only as good as the second, Second was never as good as the rst, Third was a segway from special to routine, Fourth was a greatest hits collection.

Then came a regular checkup Which exposed an illness that wouldn’t let up, Rapidly robbing the bath tub Of its erotic allure.

He bathed and dressed her daily With the gentle rmness of a nursing home nurse, Beholding every patch of skin In its unglamorous grandeur.

Feeling for granted and ugly, she asked, “Do you miss the thrill of my breasts?”

To which he smiled and said: “I can’t miss something that never went away.”

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A Mystery of a Certain Kind Sam Hendrian Passed by the pizzeria yesterday Where we mixed saliva with sauce While convincing the dad two tables over We had already planned our future together.

I’m not sure if we were in love, We might have just wanted to be Which looks the same Despite the intellectual effort.

Because we were always thinking about how great it was, Not forgetting to think at all Nor losing track of time Like real lovers are known to do.

Our adventures looked like a must-see list On TripAdvisor.com Grif th Park and Disneyland And best movie theaters to hold someone’s hand.

Although whether we were play-acting Or actually reacting Is a mystery of a certain kind With answers I don’t wish to nd.

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Caring Eyes Sam Hendrian Slept hours and still felt tired Which was a bit embarrassing But she’d long accepted her heart Couldn’t keep up with her body.

She hadn’t felt loved a day in her life Except when she was loving someone else Which gave her faint hope It had to come from somewhere.

Although people to love were in short supply At least in her current state Missing the blind days of childhood When sadness was considered a pathology.

Well, someone invented success stories To distract from our shared destiny Of failing and bailing out On those who give us reason to carry on.

Intrusive thoughts and the fear of her worst impulses Continued to paralyze her caring eyes Yet she dragged herself out of bed anyway Finding the smallest dragon to slay.

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The Universal Nostalgia for Passing Summer Katy Harrison Give me eternal sunshine. Let me bake in vitamin D. Count new freckles. Explore tan lines.

Give me ocean waves that rock me and know me and let me be a singular being within their magni cent power. Give me long days and short nights and coyotes and red birds and toads in the grass. Give me sun tea and bright neon colors and cicada songs and the sweet plunge rush of chill and chlorine. Give me tomatoes straight from the vine and watermelon juice running down my arm. Give me distraction from loss and grief and the growing pains of one damn thing after another. Give me full moons to receive my howl and new moons that give way to boundless stars so I may wish for you a thousand times and a thousand times more. Give me nights on the lake after the bats have eaten their ll and the sh have burrowed down for the night. Give me the peace that comes within the rain still days and give me the before the storm crackle that back of the neck prickle that restlessness of heat, sticky sweat, and fanning on front porches. Give me the universal tug of awareness. The knowledge that death comes next. That season when our side of planet becomes a ery awesome heartbreaking creature who ushers in a time when it is okay to die because it is okay to rest so Mother Earth can rise renewed and restored and then Summer will come again.

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Contributors Linda Baker is a dancer, a writer, and a teacher. A lover of Gardens, she spends a lot of time out doors weeding and enjoying the fragrance of nature. She has been holding writing circles for over years. Individual stories that transform into memoir, poetry, ction, essay or dreamy journaling have all lled her with Awe. She turned recently. Feels old yet new every day.

Evelyn Berry (she/her) is the trans, Southern author of Grief Slut (Sundress Publications, ) and the chapbooks T4T (Small Harbor Press, ) and Buggery (Bateau Press, ). She lives in Columbia, SC with her partners.

Al Black writes poetry, hosts workshops and since has hosted over , poetry/music events in the midlands of South Carolina. He is author of two books of poetry, I Only Left for Tea ( Muddy Ford Press), Man with Two Shadows ( Muddy Ford Press); co-editor Hand in Hand: Poets Respond to Race ( ) and edited Tall Women ( ); was the Jasper Literary Artist of the Year; co-founded the Poets Respond to Race Initiative, co-hosts the Chewing the Gristle, a poetry chat Youtube series and has a weekly byline in jasperproject.org – Poet of the People.

Jeanee Bourque has been a published writer since she was a teenager. She was an art blog writer with artsails online for years. She was published by AveNews and Carolina Arts papers in the early 's. She wrote this poem to honor O'keeffe as part of an upcoming art show to be held in March at Gemini Arts. She read this poem live at Mind Gravy in Columbia, SC, in August . She is better known as a visual artist and live music painter.

She has painted live on stage with numerous local and regional bands over times. She is currently a studio and teaching artist at Gemini Arts, a teaching artist at Camden Art Shoppes, and a member of South Carolina Artists. She teaches abstract workshops, kids vacation art classes, altered books, and neoro divergent art techniques. She earned her BFA from USC in Dec. .

Deb Carrier is a powerful Spoken Word Artist, who has been performing, under the pen name, “deep blue river musings,” from . She performed at Af nity CoLab Poetry and Story Slam open mics. She’s been featured at Steel City Coffee House, for Thursday night, Musician’s open Mics, in Phoenixville, PA. This is her th year performing at Vitamin D Production’s Womynsfest in Philadelphia. She was awarded Third prize for her short story “My Dandy” at the Dallas Women’s Museum Festival, in Dallas, TX in . Her written work has been published in Af nity Co-lab’s E-zine, in “This Zine is a Matchstick,” a “Not-for-Pro t” Zine, produced by Rae Theodore, Author, and earlier in Harding University publications. She currently resides in Malvern, PA. and is working on her rst Children’s book.

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Sharon Hajj is the author of a middle-grade fantasy series, The Gates of Proska, set to be released in . Her work has been published in two anthologies as well as online at Literally Stories, Literary Heist, and other online magazines. For links to her other work go to sharonhajj.com.

Katy Harrison is a current resident poet and writer at Gemini Arts Collective in Columbia, SC. She enjoys hosting write-ins and bon res and working in the collaborative arts whether it be on stage, lm, or page. Her ash ction and poetry can be found in Dreamers Creative Writing; Studio B’s Wabi Sabi Anthology, This Zine is a Matchstick, Paragon Press’ Lagom Journal; Meat for Tea Literary Review, Af nity CoLab Presents, WILDsound Writing Festival, as well as three previously staged plays, and a collection of poems: Portraits of a Family. Her current play Rita and Sam, is in the workshop process along with her sophomore poetry collection: Seven Magpies.

Kristine Hartvigsen’s writing has appeared in numerous magazines and literary collections.

Muddy Ford Press published her rst poetry collection, To the Wren Nesting, in . Her newest collection — The Soul Mate Poems — was published last year by Finishing Line Press.

This is one of her rst attempts at ash ction. Kristine lives in Columbia, South Carolina.

Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based lmmaker, poet, and playwright striving to foster empathy through art. From writing personalized poems for passersby outside of LA's oldest independent bookstore every Sunday, to making Chaplin-esque silent lms about loneliness and human connection once a month, Sam lives to make other people feel seen and validated.

More poems and lms can be found on Instagram at @samhendrian Anna Kocher is a painter, poet, mother, teacher, and frequently melancholic yearner. Her study of art has led her from Philadelphia to Italy and back. She has exhibited work in many venues throughout the mid-Atlantic region and beyond, and has created countless commissions for private collections and murals for public enjoyment. Her current work, both visual and written, explores themes of memory and longing, and the way the sublime nds its way into the mundane and de led.

Elizabeth Leverton is a poet, sewist, mixed media artist, painter, graphic designer, and musician. She earned master’s degrees in English and Elementary Education, and returned to school in , graduating in with an associate degree in commercial graphics from Midlands Technical College. A resident artist at Gemini Arts (Studio ), Elizabeth is continually teaching herself to sew without patterns, and calls her functional creations CrookedBags. Her rst collection of poetry, Peace, Rhododendron, was published by Mind Harvest Press in in Columbia, SC. A more recent, home-printed chapbook, A Mad Dash to Tell You, circulated in . A new book of poetry, In Lithe Hours, is in progress.

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Tristan McLawler is the granddaughter of a poet, the daughter of a poet, and actively a… potter, who loves poetry. Her younger self wrote often while full of angst and rhyme, and when the Nostalgia themed The Other Twin Lit Review came about, she saw it as an opportunity to respond to her former self. Thank you to those that make sharing possible. Thank you to young Tristan for writing down what she thought the “fairy tale” should be.

Khin Win Myat, born and raised in Burma, has met many of life’s challenges with resilience and curiosity. A scholarship brought her to the United States for graduate study, where academic writing posed early obstacles. To grow, she began recording her daily experiences in English—small re ections that evolved into a meaningful creative practice. Through this habit, Khin discovered her love for writing. After later facing an academic setback, she also found comfort and expression in painting, both of which now shape her ongoing creative path.

Steven Prouse loves stories. Writing them. Reading them. Watching them. They are our doorway to understanding what it is to be human. He is a social hedonist, a leftist atheist living in the Bible Belt, and an unhealthy consumer of pastries. More information about Prouse’s work can be found at stevenprouse.com.

Steve Rodriguez resides in San Diego, CA. He is a retired U.S. Marine Corps of cer and a retired high school English teacher.

Tayler Simon is a writer, book lover turned bookseller, social worker, and seeker of liberation for all. She is the owner of Liberation is Lit, a bookstore that aims to spark collective action for liberation and community building among readers and book lovers by promoting stories from intersectional experiences. Tayler has been contributing to numerous online publications on anti-oppression since . She has self-published four books: Phases, Writing Our Truths: A Guide to Self-Publishing for BIPOC Writers, Love and Other Forms of Heartbreak, and Black Madonna. Through her books, she has made a commitment to radical vulnerability, curiosity, and connection.

Shirley Smith has worked as an elementary and middle school teacher, as well as an undergraduate and graduate instructor at the university level. She has led curriculum reform initiatives at both the state and national levels, creating and producing digital resources that include online courses, STEM materials for remote learning, video modules, and virtual eld trips, which are used around the world. Before her recent retirement, she was an independent contractor advising schools on improving teaching and learning through brain-based research.

She holds a Ph.D. in Education from the University of South Carolina and is the author of Navigating the Labyrinth: Teacher Empowerment Through Instructional Leadership (Rowman & Little eld, ).

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Alyssa Stewart is a writer, poet, and musician from Columbia, SC. Kyra Strasberg: As a child Kyra dreamed of being a ballerina. At the age of seventeen she began her journey with Boston Ballet, where she became a principal dancer. She has spent most of her life passionately pursuing art in all its forms. Cooking, painting, interior design, writing, even the art of yoga. She opened Yoga masala, Columbia’s rst hot yoga studio, in . Unfortunately, it was a casualty of the pandemic. During that time, she experienced a seismic shift in her life that led her back to her lifelong dream of writing. Tune in on Substack for her latest musings on life, and of course sensible and easy tips on how to better physically embody your “one wild and precious life.”

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Corazon Stegelin (they/them) is a queer and nonbinary poet, thespian, and community organizer living in Charleston, SC. They were the rst place winner in the Voices for Mental Health writing contest, they are the recipient of the Community Pride Award with Charleston Pride, they are a managing editor of the literary magazine The Writing Fae, and their work has previously been published by Dreams in Hiding, Pumpernickel House Press, Radical Catalyst, and Persephone Literary Magazine. In their free time, they enjoy immersing themself in their local theatre scene, thrifting, and enjoying quiet nights in with their cat.

A Note From the Editor It’s not lost on me that the first issue’s theme is Nostalgia. Whether you want to call it a happy accident, kismet, or serendipitous to have the rst issue I have published in years be a companion piece to the fantastic curation of Tabitha Ott’s Nostalgia . , this issue brought me into a state of re ection and gratitude for the past and helped me address some of my ghosts. The life before meeting my Life now.

To the contributors of this inaugural issue and to the artists of the Gemini Arts Collective who encouraged this project, thank you. When I rst stepped foot into what eventually became my studio, I knew I wanted to bring a platform that honored the literary arts within a community of the visual. The name Gemini, the sign of The Twins, gave the perfect analogy of visual and literary arts coming together in celebration of human creation. The Other Twin Lit Review was founded. Here, the literary arts and artists within these pages will have a companion exhibit to address the themes shown in the halls of the Gemini Arts Collective in Columbia, SC. I hope y’all meet us here and there and enjoy all the worlds in between.

With Love, Joy, and Words, Katy Harrison, editer

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