~ Issue 8, December 2020 ~
Editor-in-chief Aya Whitfield (@avolitorial) Literary Editors Kavi Kshiraj (@graharaja) Lianna Schreiber (@ragewrites)
Anatolios Magazine accepts submissions of poetry, prose, and visual art (including photography) during the open submission periods indicated on our site, anatoliosmagazine.wordpress.com. Cover â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Photo by Hao Zhang on â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Unsplash
General Submissions waltz in e minor by T. L. Sullivan …………………………………………………………… 4 Mask of The New Death by Bexar Blum ……….………….………….……….………………. 5 Source in the Sky by Fabrice Poussin …………….………………………….………………. 11 Blue by Elizabeth Spencer Spragins ……………………………………….………………. 12 there’s a bird that lives in Africa… by Kate LaDew ………………………….……………. 13 dulia by T. L. Sullivan …………….……………….……………………….………………. 14 Lined Cemetery by Joe Bisicchia ……….………….………………………….………………. 16 Miss Priss by Gaby Bedetti ……….…….………….………………………….……………. 17 One Desk Along is Going Places by Bradford Watson ….………………….………………. 18 pang by Angelina Martin ….………….………….………………………….………………. 23 Winter Windows by Elizabeth Spencer Spragins …………….………….………….……. 24 ooo .
Members Section january nine by Lianna Schreiber ……….………….………………………………………. 26 Remembrance by Aimi Liu …….………………….………………………….………………. 27 poem in which there are no metaphors by Lianna Schreiber …….………….………….……. 28 ooo
waltz in e minor T. L. Sullivan quietly hanging night, cold light like freshwater pearls, shepherds of dreamland. the worship: pray to almond-trees. organs make children, not music. strange blue floods and reverence for all fawns swallowed, spoonful by spoonful. swallowed fawns, all for reverence, and floods, blue, strange music, not children, make organs almond-trees. to pray, worship the dreamland of shepherdsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; pearls, fresh water like light, cold night hanging quietly.
Mask of Th e New Death Bexar Blum After Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death September 13, 2020 9:00 AM Constantine, Michigan. Nowhere. It’s not even a town. It’s legally classified as a village, and is named after the Roman emperor who once claimed that it was the will of G-d that all of humanity should be joined affectionately in “a mutual embrace.” That does sound divine to me right now. I haven’t touched or been touched by another human being for six months—as long as I’ve been unemployed. I have two degrees and seven years of experience in my field. Leaving my family and friends in Texas might sound unnecessarily risky for the current situation, but I have to find safe work. Every field I passed on the way here was covered, miles and miles, in Monsanto corn. The family I’ll be working for is employed by them. They have their largest facility here, so we’re all employed by them in one way or another. I’m going to be so unimaginably cold and full of grain, like a human silo. But, I can live a normal life up here, at least within the walls of the estate. They’ve had zero deaths here within a thirty-mile radius. My city in the American South has had over four hundred. I hear you die facedown. Some people get a rash. If it kills you, you die alone. No exceptions. I will just wait out T he Ne w Death i n the ornate and lavish home of the family here in Constantine, one corn patch north of this exposed brick loft. They need a governess for their three children and they’ve been strictly self-isolating since March. Same as me. So, we might all be a little out of our minds right now. But, that’s fine. We’ll sort through the psychological damage when this is all over. I’m scheduled to arrive tomorrow. I’ve holed up in this prismatic attic to calm my nerves and wash my traveller’s clothes before meeting the family. There’s a bit of ceremony to this place: a rented loft above the antique shop in the center of what I’m sure the locals call “town.” It has the chin-lifting effect of a cathedral. Must be the non-denominational glass windows, stained for no particular moment or 5
god, transitioning in curved slivers from blue to purple to green to orange to white to violet. Then, black. Why go through the trouble of making black glass? The light coming through doesn’t show up black. If anything, it makes my skin glow red when I put my hand against the window to check the temperature outside. Cold. Blue.
September 9, 2020 10:00 AM Blue. Limenitis arthemis is a blue butterfly found all throughout the United States. I find mine in the Mark Twain National Forest, in the mouth of a cold, clear spring that is urgently and gracefully filling a deep basin. I find them in my hair, on my shoulders, hitching rides to the east bank of the river on my ankles and backpack. They are aggressively present. Their name means hunter. Well, hunter of harbours. Just like me these days. I only need a safe place to rest until this all blows over, like he said it would. I shake off my lazuli ornaments one last time and they disperse like pollen, onto an unseen current that takes them to the main river and away from this private, semi-circular coven of pines. I chose this trail because it’s the most secluded. I won’t come within twenty-six feet of another person. This has been the rule since the beginning. Twenty-six because that’s how far it can travel: a distance that is thousands of times its size; we have that in common. I drop my pack on a dry patch of dirt and bright bed of narrow ash leaves. I strip down, and jump in. I stay in the water until it starts to feel warm and my toes turn purple.
September 8, 2020 11:00 AM Purple. The day before the butterflies, I’m in Hot Springs, Arkansas. I could drive more, but the sun is setting and making quick work of painting every nineteen-twenties white-washed bathhouse in town a sudden heliotrope. I should rest. So, I pull into a renovated motel. New sinks, vaguely indigenous weavings—not the real thing. Plastic flamingos. At this rate, the bed is probably made of cardboard. But, it’s just one night. 6
“This room was supposed to be horse themed,” I tell her over video chat. “Am I the manager now?” she asks. “I didn’t choose all of the deer heads you see behind me is all,” I explain and duck down so she can see their dried out busts. “You think they have horse heads in the other room? What does that one say?” she inquires about a minimalist painting encased in glass. “Oh, this one?” I ask and reach behind me to take it off the wall. “Be brave.” I hold the deer silhouette in the frame with me and she screenshots it. I set it on the edge of the desk and it tips, shatters. “Ugh,” I moan and close my eyes. “Call me back. Be courageous,” she says. In the cleanup, I manage to slice my hand and blood blots my palm. I bend at the elbow and hold my forearm upright until I get to the bathroom to rinse. I don’t turn on the light. It’s not worth the risk of touching the switch. Surfaces are dangerous now, especially with an open wound. A streetlight comes through the window, turning my dark blood green.
September 11, 2020 12:00 PM Green. Thick, rolling stretches of wet green. Then, when things dry out, further to the north, weaving semi-trucks into two-hour-long beds of Pioneer corn. And when things really dry out, tinder, orange.
September 11, 2020 1:00 PM Orange. On my way to Saint Louis, I saw smoke coming out of the forest to the west. I noted it. Then, the road bent left and everything went orange: the sky, the road. I could see the flames and feel the heat on my driver’s side door. It only lasted about two miles. By the end of it, my eyes were stinging, the left side of my body was sweating. The car ahead of me, on a single lane stretch of road, was going five under the speed 7
limit, as if we weren’t both experiencing the same reality. Recklessness? Idiocy? Why aren’t you concerned about this? Could you please respond to this actual threat as if both of our lives depended on it? No one thinks you’re brave for endangering others. Emperor Constantine put it to us this way: “Where a right and honorable course lies open to one's choice, surely no one would hesitate to adopt it. I ask then, brethren, why do we so decide as to inflict an injury on others by our choice?” Next week, there will be a fire tornado in Loyalton, California. But, let’s just call it what it is: a pillar of fire, and we know what we’ve done. We’ve ignored our white-cloaked prophets, our scientists telling us about our future if we don’t change. In Saint Louis, I enter a botanical garden and gaze into the eyes of Vittoria, the Roman goddess of success in all things. In the sculptor Consani’s rendition, her sword is to her side and she is focused on the matter at hand: knowledge. She is depicted seated and writing on her shield. The curators of the garden have included an inscription at her feet: “The Victory of Science Over Ignorance. Ignorance is the curse of G-d, knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.” At the opposite end of the garden is Juno, one part of the Roman triad that Emperor Constantine would exchange for a different trinity when the time came. One of the factors of the fall of Rome was its division by Constantine. He split the people and named half of them after himself. But, if one man can cause that, they probably weren’t truly united. We don’t share the same values anymore, anyway. In the east end of the garden, I walk up the steps of the Stephen and Peter Sachs Museum which used to contain sixty thousand herbarium species and a full library. It’s mostly empty now and, according to the sign on the door, closed due to T he Ne w Death. Th e New Death is shapeless, but it’s somehow everywhere. Like white light.
September 12, 2020 2:00 PM 8
White. The pearl-white foam vanishes as soon as the wave crashes on Kemil Beach in northern Indiana, one day before my arrival in Constantine. The shore doesn’t hold the gelatinous, alkaline mass like beaches in Texas. It doesn’t cling, just dissipates back into Lake Michigan. Friction, existence, entropy. It doesn’t struggle. I watch an etiolated seagull scavenge what it can from the sand. We’re the only ones here. I sing us a song that is instantly drowned out by the coastal wind, a dead space between my warm, briny lips and the air: “I have loved you, I have grieved I'm ashamed to admit I no longer believe I have loved you, I received I have traded my life for a picture of the scenery I'm like a fever of light in the land of opportunity” My phone starts to hum along, against my thigh. “Hello?” “Hi, Bexar. We just wanted to let you know that my wife is experiencing symptoms of T he New Death, so you shouldn’t come just yet. It’s probably just a stomach bug. We’re going to have her tested and we’ll call you tomorrow with the result.” “Oh.” “In the meantime, why don’t you go out to Saugatuck? We’ll cover it.” “Yeah. Okay. I’m sure it’s just a bug, but tell Violet I said I hope she feels better.”
September 14, 2020 3:00 PM Violet. Today, I pack my clean clothes and leave the chromatic loft in Constantine. Two hours later, after gliding around the edges of a few lavender farms, I’m under a canopy of ghostly, plum virga at Saugatuck Dunes. The guide at the gate mentions that the water is unseasonably high right now. They don’t know why. The tide corners me and I immediately soak my shoes on the shore, at the base of the dunes, the start of the ascent. I take my shoes in hand and climb to the top barefoot, the earth 9
slipping from under me. I grab onto dark, spongy roots that protrude from the side of the cliff. One pulls straight out and I catch myself on another. I pull my belly close to the sand, catch my breath, and reach for the next hold. On the crest of the tallest dune, I open my mouth and drink the cold air until my chest burns. It’s a relief to breathe without a mask up here, away from everyone, away from Th e New Death. I can taste the water droplets spraying from the mouth of the bay, even from way up here. They travel so far. A seagull floats off the coast and into the firs to rest. I lower a periwinkle towel to the sand and sit. The wind blows in from the Great Lake, salting sweaty strands to my neck and lips. I reach into my pack for water and see that my phone is emitting light. “Hey, Violet’s test was positive. We’re just not in a space to take in someone new right now.” “Oh.” “Yeah, we’re sending the kids to their grandparents. We don’t want you to wait. So, you know, whatever else you had lined up, you should take it.” “Right.” “Okay. Well, I have to get back to Violet. Her fever is spiking again.” I pack my things away and start to descend the dune along the cliffside. Maybe that position in Kailua. The black root comes loose.
Source in the Skyâ&#x20AC;&#x2039;, Fabice Poussin
Blue Elizabeth Spencer Spragins tender limbs tremble as the kiss of cold deepensâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a tattered white shawl drapes the shoulders of blue spruce that droop with weight of winter ~Winchester, Virginia
there's a bird that lives in Africa, the greater honeyguide, Kate LaDew which leads people to the nests of wild bees waiting while the hives are subdued with smoke, and the honey stolen, leaving stray larvae and pupae and wax for the bird sometimes the greater honeyguide trills at a human and leads them to an abrupt precipice, below which a bee-hive lives it's not that they've forgotten people can't fly, they never knew in the first place, and don't mean any harm, because, after all, it's how to get to the honey and, thus far, no person has followed them down, taking the time to look first so it's quite a thing in 2020 to turn on a tv and see crowds of people without wings spreading their arms and jumping, because people who know they can't fly, being people themselves, have asked them to and there's no honey anywhere
dulia T. L. Sullivan Allow this one temptation past your pious nature —just this one time— —just this one favor— A prayer: Here I am. Accept this offering. Allow me to burn in your presence. (Is not vulnerability a gift all its own?) I apologize. I know it’s unfair. I know it’s unearned. —A pause. Now, quietly: But Lord do I need you. The tide turns. The sea starts to creep up the sand. Dip your toe into my shallow depths. Let me lap at your calves grab your ankle and pull you down into me. Take the bait in your mouth the hook thro’ your oyster-flesh cheek an old sailor succumbing to a siren's call a wail of seduction no foolish lust driving him only conscious surrender, acceptance of a reprieve. (Remember this yet?) Does he only know cruelty? they think, at the same time, like twins, limbs tangled. The sea recedes, as it always does. Some stolen things must be returned. Your Ahabian infatuation 14
will not satisfy. A battle between two men results only in misery. Sometimes it is worthwhile to admit defeat. Go home to your wife. When you bring her to the shore and see the foam on the waves promise that you'll think of me. â&#x20AC;&#x192;
Lined Cemetery Joe Bisicchia And the holes here are eventually filled with earth reused. We all shall linger in our own way, but are arranged as seeds to give, to wait, and then to fall into place, break, and reach. See the dead leaf walking as Lazarus across rippled white snow, slow, and then somewhat gallantly, for no one should hide afraid. See belief in lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eternity, and the stone run like morning sun on its sure way. See spring arise from the deep no longer buried underneath. We all shall begin.
Miss Priss,â&#x20AC;&#x2039; Gaby Bedetti
One Desk Along is Going Places Bradford Watson One desk along - who is early twenties and skittish, lately with purple-black crescents beneath tortoiseshell rims - signs the leaving cards ‘School’s a bummer, have a bitchin’ summer!’ when the layoffs begin.
One desk along is going places. The bathroom, the vending machines, happy hour at The Sacrifice lasts half the night and he asks to leave early because the booths fill up fast. They serve the tall boy cans half-opened and warm but they’re a buck fifty; good borscht is two dollars and you have to watch out for the zinc white bathrooms that set off migraines. Mostly it’s pretty nice though, yeah mostly it’s alright.
One desk along requests elevator after elevator. They careen towards him from the tip of the building like hail. It’s early. Sheet doors blink open across the lobby, they light up, carnival-ride bright, then darkly re-emerge into the ether when he takes the stairs.
One desk along subscribes to the multiple shooters theory. A scare shot that got out of hand. Gunmen beyond the knoll. Frame 313. Libra by DeLillo. How could a brain go missing, he asks.
One desk along says B12 is for the hangovers and D3 is for the comedowns. 10,000IU is the optimum dose, although he tops up once a week with 60,000. The vials rattle pleasingly most days. Iron is just good sense, he says, and sometimes for the hangovers and the comedowns too.
One desk along is threatened with financial penalties, with dismissal, with violence, via email, but the sender field is always blank so he’s not so worried.
One desk along plunges coffee with the force of a detonation. Our hidden cafetieres are found behind plant pots or up high out of eyeline. They scald his arms when they shatter and I collect cuts on my hands helping tidy up the shards.
One desk along knows my password somehow. In my name he sends respectful messages asking for a pay rise to people who could manifest such a thing. Cowards, liars and miseries are some of the names he’ll throw around if they don’t engage. He signs me up for newsletters and cancels all my meetings. First thing each morning I follow his trails and extinguish whatever harm I can.
One desk along asks if I’m worried about the murder hornets.
One desk along is late. His face is bruised with open wounds and when I ask if everything’s ok, he says he was trying for adventure, to help him feel something through the fugue (he says things like ‘you know the fugue’ and I do know). Instead he found some guys who took it too far, could I cover for him while he lays down. Weeping cuts wiped with shirt cuffs.
One desk along says the difference between bar light and daylight is less harsh than the migraine-bright in the bathrooms at The Sacrifice.
One desk along doesn’t carry hard money. He borrows two bucks for the vending machine, ten bucks for the playoff pool. Forty bucks? I ask and he wipes at his nose and winks. The Lakers won it all and I’m waiting for my cut.
Through the alleyways at lunch, one desk along airily implies all the different restaurants that are fronts.
One desk along is cryptic. There are rumours and counter rumours flying like pellets, he says. You don’t want to know what I heard from a cubicle this morning, you don’t 19
want to know what they’re saying. I ask what they’re saying. He moves his cursor over nothing in particular and drains a Gatorade.
Lo-fi voices creep through the quiet. One desk along is vetting video clips for his presentation. He pulls up Thai ghost sightings, plane hijackings, hydrogen bombs flushing the Siberian sky. I should edit him, but someone has to make the presentation. Since the layoffs, the upper echelons have been awful fidgety and I receive more requests than I can stand to read. I’m working on my novel, where a leitmotif is the slow spatial expansion of a conference room. One desk along gleefully picks up the slack.
One desk along sets limits on how many words he can say aloud on a given day. There have been some avoidable missteps lately, he types.
One desk along calls in sick. He can’t face the metro, and hurtling through dark on hundreds of miles of track. The screaming curves. A woman stood with her hands on the glass waiting for their stop and when the doors wouldn’t open, and bodies couldn't clear a path, she just shrugged. If you’ve seen enough of these kinds of things, it can weigh on you. And isn’t it funny how it’s always the tiny, plain things that break our hearts. The heartbreaks of daily life. He’ll be in tomorrow.
One desk along changes perspective, trying out the gutted desks. In drawers he finds a book of short stories inscribed from a sorry lover. ‘Please forgive me. This book is the only thing that makes sense. The second from last story is my favourite.’ He reads the second from last story and says it’s only ok.
One desk along cracks his knuckles, balls up paper, he costs the workings of pre-made lunches. His methods are unclear and anyway I’ve never seen him eat. One desk along calculates he’d save two thousand dollars or two hundred or ten thousand. It’s not 20
important, he says. Forest fires will swallow the city, or we’ll disappear through the fault lines; and lunches or 401Ks won’t be so important.
We switch bodies when management descend. One desk along introduces himself with my name and before I can stop him, he’s telling them he’s writing a novel, carelessly listing corners of my personality that I keep hidden, retracing the beats of my corporate routine. They’re attentive, fists unclasping and slapping his shoulder. Someone has to schmooze, That’s how I reason it. That’s how I reason introducing myself as one desk along.
One desk along visualises the data. His work comes to me earlier, on time. He presents the data in clouds, with vertical bars, on a winding line, overlapping circles with shaded cuticles. He can do it all.
One desk along cosplays as middle management. His shirts are ironed, shoes tidied, and ties hang around his neck, the way he wears them they look more like holsters. I offer new responsibilities but nothing material should change, he says, except the clothes. Later I find a nest of ties knotted tight and crammed between air con vents.
When the halogens shimmy and fade, we lose the ambient constant of humming lights. One desk along is at war with maintenance to get replacements. I’m not sure anyone even checks their email any more, he says, swivelling his chair, backlit by a monitor.
One desk along misses work again, this time to season a new pan.
One desk along lights incense. I make sure to hide the sticks and the matches. Still, he conjures wisps of smoke from a secret stash, lit with lighters I miss. The fire alarm sounds and we are evacuated from the building three times in one week.
One desk along says lunches aren’t what they were, yeah they’re shorter and accelerated all at once now that no one’s here. Lunch time, man, he says sombrely.
One desk along, like a rat from a sinking ship. His avatar neatly slides off charts and an Out of Office rebounds. It lists my name as his survivor, and his projects and deadlines seep my way. I cross-reference bland email chains that drain the life from me and rummage through the husks of empty desks for others’ leftovers. I sign the leaving cards until I find my own propped between the teeth grooves of my keyboard on a morning when bare rows of monitors taper to a static-stunned horizon.
pang Angelina Martin I need kindness like I need a protective hand on the small of my back: urgently. I can feel my own capacity for growth shrivelling up and that scares me shitless. I don’t want to be like this forever. I want to be more loving and helpful and I want to learn how to play the banjo. I think I can do it if I put my mind to it. instead of reading, I rest my eyes on the train while dreaming about the woman I could be if I tried. one day when I’m even older, I’ll have whiter teeth and a more impressive vocabulary and I won’t just sleep to pass the time.
Winter Windows Elizabeth Spencer Spragins a thick velvet snow softens corners of the coldâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; ivory curtains in a solitary house close across another day ~Fredericksburg, Virginia
january nine Lianna Schreiber Sunflowers in snow and the fog rolling in, making them turn to each other, to your burning hands at the edge of the field o How impossibly I love you o how incandescent you turn the surf of my blood It’s a wrong world out here, you say, but you’re smiling the way prophets do when God has them witness an end to the world And I’d like to unbutton your shirt, to cast it off, a little like peeling fruit at the navel — but it’s death this far south, it’s morning and in these many eyes I’m shy-blooded It’s wrong everywhere, I tell you instead, and your hands, those green flames angel a nest of my spine
Remembrance Aimi Liu mama, do you remember when i was sixteen & you once said that i was capricious as a hummingbird & spiteful as a crow-hearted weaver? i was born some artless legacy from a half-thoughtless sculptor. a reckless, inelegant by-product of quickness, first to draw breath but eternally tainted by incongruous fingers clutching at an elusive guilt. always second to the innocence & wistfulness molded after by your scarred hands. every gleaming, sharp point of mine that threatened to wound you took note of & smoothed the new into concordance & uniformity. mama, remember when i was six when the summer heat sang our names & echoed with bird-songs? promising all the things safe in the world? remember how i laughed despite my broken finger & skinned knees, despite the blood on the steaming asphalt? sometimes i think the song twined itself into my bones that day. some days i tried to inject hope into our family until we flew like helium balloons into the sky, reaching higher than we’ve ever dreamed. sometimes, i hummed the song into our home if only to smooth over the cracks we left with the weight of our melancholy. mama, you'll never remember this; the night edged with grey, a halo of blue-bitten clouds arched over an iron bridge. the world still as siltstone in my head. a half-muddied mind with moonlight in girl-form reflected in the lazy gloom of the freezing river. an ocean away from a heartbeat, continents apart from an anchor. you’ll never remember the red-rimmed eyes, the pocket full of pills, or the trembling hope of better things waiting below. a wish hovered between icy, shaking fingers & slipped through like sand. the murky waters beneath sung like dying sirens, brimming with prayers. mama, can you remember this for me? sometimes under the moonlight i say all the apologies you don’t need to hear. i press my ear against the window pane & hide in the half-darkness until it shadows enough that i can say the words & pretend every i’m sorry is to myself & not you. pretend that the choked apologies mean exactly that & i’m not taping another layer of gauze over the wound left by salt-stained rage passed down from you to me to no one. pretend everything means nothing if only to slake the hunger of anger deep in my unsettled stomach, aching for something more than placatation. mama, you need to remember—i’m sorry i wasn’t the daughter you wanted. but i understand you now; i never wanted myself either.
poem in which there are no metaphors Lianna Schreiber Here the body is only a body, neither spirit nor spirit-house but sinews, strong tendons in the calves that hold me up despite my daily terrors And the heart (though wayward still) is neither hive for wasps nor country road for drunks stelled with wild flowers, dark canals and dark waters merely dark blood, dark venous garnet alchemical without a higher magic Yes, here the way weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re lying on the bed invites no coffins, no trees entwined in half-forgotten valleys, Only A pulse by turns as slow as fernâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s quiet aeons and nightwords hushed in snow
Author Biographies T. L. SULLIVAN is a poet, artist, and film lover. He lives in Nevada. BEXAR BLUM is the author of Alone Together: Cuddling Strangers, a memoir that will be released in the autumn of 2021. They studied English and Spanish at Texas State University where they were a Robert W. and Gloria D. Walts scholarship recipient. You can find Bexar swimming in a spring or at email@example.com if you're in a hurry. FABRICE POUSSIN teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications. ELIZABETH SPENCER SPRAGINS taught in American community colleges for more than a decade. Her work has been published extensively in Europe, Asia, and North America. She is the author of With No Bridle for the Breeze (Shanti Arts) and The Language of Bones (Kelsay Books). Website: www.authorsden.com/elizabethspragins. KATE LADEW is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art. She resides in Graham, NC with her cats Charlie Chaplin and Janis Joplin. JOE BISICCHIA writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in numerous publications. His website is www.JoeBisicchia.com. GABY BEDETTI was born in Schaffhausen, Switzerland and raised in Brookline, Massachusetts. She is a Professor of English at Eastern Kentucky University. Art has a large place in her life and heart, and she continues to photograph daily. Her photos have appeared in Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Front Porch Review, Aji Magazine, Borrowed Solace, Gravel, The Ekphrastic Review, Ground Fresh Thursday, The Light Ekphrastic, and Montana Mouthful. Others are forthcoming in Typehouse. Visit her at https://gabriellabedetti.wordpress.com/. BRADFORD WATSON is a writer from London. His work has appeared in From Glasgow to Saturn. Follow him @plsclap_. ANGELINA MARTIN is a poet, comedian, and waitress living in Austin, Texas. She has been published in Sea Foam Mag, Be About It Press, and Okay Donkey Mag. Most days, you can find her oversharing on Twitter under her government name (@angelinaJmartin) or napping next to a body of water. LIANNA SCHREIBER is a Romanian author. A self-described “Neoromantic”, her work mostly concerns itself with human nature, mythological and folkloric truth as well as 29
tradition, and the most defiant of emotions â&#x20AC;&#x201D; love. She can be found @ ragewrites on tumblr. AIMI LIU is a Chinese & Vietnamese Canadian university student, poet, podcaster, & aspiring novelist. She loves bubble tea, caffeine, & Studio Ghibli to an obsessive extent. If you can't find her enjoying the night air at three in the morning, she can be found on most social media under her handle @tuyetanliu.