Canyon Voices Issue 32

Literary & Art Magazine

Eternal Echoes

Audrey Lee | poetry

In the depths of my soul, where shadows retreat, I want them to witness the hues that compete, for in every scar, in every seam, there lies a story, a timeless dream. Let them glimpse the fire that refuses to wane, for in the darkest nights, it will remain. Within me burns a fierce light, guiding me through the blackest of nights. Whisper softly, let them know, that strength resides in every breath. For I am not bound by earthly chains, infinite, eternal, and forever remains.

Linaje

Isaura López | oil on canvas

Crime of the Two-Eyed

Miriam Manglani | poetry

She was radiant and beautiful.

A blue and green orb of light cloaked by white, cradled in the black face of space.

Her blue waters held the reflected sky. Her sweet air was kissed by flowers and jewels of dew.

Her rolling green hills were festooned with foliage, plants, flowers, and towering trees. And she teamed with marvelous creatures big and small

Until the Two-Eyed plundered her wonders, extinguished her species, poisoned her waters, polluted her air,

until an angry fever consumed her, and her ices melted, and her waters swelled, and her tears poured, and her forests burned, and her winds raged, and her earth quaked

leaving her desolate, dry, and gray, a hollow shell of her former glory.

But the Two-Eyed, those savage Two-Eyed, are no more.

From the Ashes

Joseph M. Holloway | poetry

Below the climbing jets’ roar, A train whistles

Incessantly

Behind the whining Chopsaw blades, A symphony really, In this desperate space Between airport and city.

Imported palms, Over thirty feet tall, And a mission-style park, With sparkling blue pool, Make futile attempts At improvement, Only to wither Against red plastic cups, Burning black trash bags, And the stale urine stench Along the security fence.

And the chopsaw blades Cut ribs for a new roof, And the train carries Our hearts, our dreams Into the city, While the jets’ roar Fades away, Away from this muddled desert.

bedfordtowers | photography

Watch Me

Angel Ophelia | digital art

Lice Check

Lulu Nowicki | oil on canvas

This Disease

Alina Click | poetry

There’s a disease in me and it demands to be fed. It is in me, spread like a cancer. It wants me dead.

I can’t fight it with chemicals. Chemicals are the problem. I have to balance the imbalance, but chemicals only stall them.

It’s a complex parallel problem. With my hindsight, I help myself. But here I am coping with foresight Still trapped, battling this hell.

If I can’t take medicine how will I ever be cured? With all this chemical exposure, I could never be sure.

How can I fight a disease that no one can even see? Something only I feel and I know it’s just killing me.

Whether I’m sober or addicted; It’s the same war that’s waging. I’m fighting for my life with every breath I’m taking.

Annihilation

Isiaha Akatlzin Rodriguez | poetry

The heart is a muscle. Take it from me, carving it out as if you were dressing game.

Do it with a knife, working through the ribs, grab it.

Feel it pulse warm in your hands. Now take a bite.

As it pulses, take another. Do it again. Again. Again. There is no end in me.

Sink your teeth into my skin. Bite by bite tear me into pieces. Leaving a shape beyond recognition. Give it to the decaying hungry dogs. Break the bones and slurp the marrow.

Feed yourself for a lifetime. There is no end in me.

Take everything. Drink up every dream and thought. Leave not even the moisture from your breath on the silhouette of what was once a body.

Let my voice break, like the sea foam, after the wave’s collapse. The hum of the ocean will still ring.

Take me... I was never there.

Sweetheart

Phoebe Ulbrick | silicon and photo

A La Carte

Naomi Guevara | fiction

Ilive my life sixteen hours at a time, and I am starving. I listen to the ticks of my watch pulse in my ear. The inner walls of my intestines deteriorate.

My body eats itself alive.

I am a skinny legend.

The ache in my throat is growing more intense, and I begin to chew on my middle finger. The skin is pink and screaming at me to leave it alone. I do everything in my power not to sink my teeth into it. As hour sixteen nears, I let my head roll back with a sense of satisfaction. I am tasteful. I am wellseasoned. I am insatiable.

I am so, so, so, so… hungry

Muscle memory leads my thumb to the edge of my watch as soon as the alarm begins to beep. Careful not to disturb the students around me, I stand from my chair with a small pouch in hand.

The woman’s bathroom is ugly, empty, and silent. Alone, my chest constricts against my too-tight flesh, and I start to gnaw on my finger with a hopeful violence that tells me, Pacify her.

I quickly grab paper towels and douse them with cold water in the sink.

My mom told me to never wash vegetables with hot water. I only have five minutes before the next sixteen hours of my life begins and I want to enjoy myself. My stomach grumbles and I clench my jaw in protest.

My breath is shallow when I enter the third stall, and I have to force myself to slow down as I land on the toilet, kick off my shoe, and with the nub of where the rest of my forefinger used to be, I peel off my sock. My foot is long, slender, and plump at the heel. Taking the paper towel, I lift my four toes to rest on my left thigh.

The paper towel is cold against my pinky toe, and I smile with anticipation. My body relaxes, and I look over at the small bin connected to the stall the bin next to toilets in female bathrooms that usually eat the used feminine products of oozing women and grabbing the small pouch I had put on top of that bin, I unzip it and let the scent of soap fill my nostrils. Lifting this small bottle, I pop the cap and put a dot of antiseptic on the nail of my smallest toe and, using the paper towel, I rinse it.

The next moments I must savor.

Because I only have four minutes left.

I lift my foot to my mouth and with a mix of pressure, a dash of pain, and a pinch of something that can only be described as feral I. Feast.

Slurping the blood from the opening of my foot, I wash down the flesh and continue to crunch the toenail down into something I’m comfortable swallowing. My five minutes are almost up, and I need to get back to class. While I continue to chew, I take a bandage out of my bag and wrap the edge of my toe. When my sock and shoe are back on my foot, I zip up my pouch and exit the stall. Licking the edges of my mouth I stand in front of the mirror, wash my hands, and grab a paper towel gently patting the edges of my lips.

My watch beeps and I restart the timer.

I walk out of the bathroom smiling. The next sixteen hours of my life begins.

Angel Ophelia | digital art

Collective Intelligence

Alyx Germonchik | digital art

We Poets Addicted to Earth (-like Materials)

Chris Kads | poetry

We, the poets who are infatuated with being seasoned, will sit in our homes, trapping springtime on our leafy couches. We’ll bundle up our bodies with bark blankets and plum pillows and we’ll slouch over our phones to type out revolutionary takes on capitalism and consumption.

We’ll call the tariffs taunting tornados and compare the current economy to a dry desert in July. We’ll weave in all the ways the drought can be drenched, spit our wet words of wisdom on the page, and hit post.

We’ll watch in glee as the choir that we preach to roars their approval like a waterfall, and our faces will become smeared with smugness as they praise our brilliant botanical commentary. And, tiredly, we’ll stretch our rosy robed arms after a day’s hard work, turn off our lights, and shut our corporation curtains on our neighbors standing outside, begging to bloom.

Unknown

Sarah | unknown media

Untitled 2

Phoebe Ulbrick | unknown media

HEADSTONE

Lucy V. Martin | poetry

I weep over the headstone

Mourners lay down Lupine-blues

I march against the bloodstone

Chanting “The end came too soon”

I stay inside the graveyard

Watching new seeds never sprout

I ask the dead to play cards

Maybe they will win this round

My peace arrives with twilight

Unlatch my ghost from my bones

To watch things back with hindsight

I wept on my own headstone

Zuo Yue Zi

Samantha Hui | poetry

I was like a child bearing a smaller child

Longing for my mother to mother me

But instead I gained the responsibility of a grown up

While remaining disciplinable at the hands of those more grown than me

I cried as a mother and I cried as a child

A babbling fool as I searched around with my fingertips

Trying to find a cork for my tears

And a muzzle to stifle the sobs

Long enough for me to figure out how to feed my newborn

I am grateful to my grandmother’s pickled pig’s feet soup

That I struggled to keep down

Perhaps pickled soup is what this crying thing needs

I am grateful for the unimplementable Zuo Yue Zi

My mother intended for me

But it is 113 in Arizona June

And I wish to cool my aching sweaty feet on the chilly tile

I need a cool drink

Crack a window

I am a golden retriever trapped in a locked sedan

Waiting dutifully for her human to return from the grocery store

I am lapping at the condensation on the window

But in all my waiting and resentments

I look upon my mother hold the life that was once in me

I am grateful to my child

For, now, I see myself finally as a mother

And I see my mother finally as the girl

Whose child bore a smaller child who longed for nothing

A part of me

Bubble Boy

Samantha Hui | poetry

Can a person's brain overheat

In the same way their phones can?

I want Finn to be happy, and I want him to be safe.

But I keep scrolling, and the two feel impossible.

Scroll. A mom profiting off her five-year-old daughter's looks.

Scroll. Ten ways to protect yourself from sex traffickers.

Scroll. Why you shouldn't give your children Orbeez.

Scroll. "You've been cleaning your walls wrong this whole time!"

(I didn't know I had to wash my walls at all.)

Can a children's app be a parent, friend, and mentor?

What can be expected of a mom who's had no one?

I've become the helicopter mother I've always raged against.

My son's been a bubble boy for three years, what's a few years more?

Scroll. Sex is sex, and gender is sex, and biology matters more than your feelings.

Scroll. Ten reasons the Marvel Cinematic Universe is destroying cinema.

Scroll. How the Marvel Cinematic Universe helped save cinema.

Scroll. “Let me play devil’s advocate for a minute….”

(Why would you ever want to advocate for the devil?)

I want him close, to not experience any of it.

He has so much to live for and so much to give back.

He knows how to tuck in his stuffed bunny

And how to build magnetic castles.

He loves apple sauce and jumping off chairs.

He's happy and healthy.

But I think the past few years have given me brain tinnitus.

Scroll. Your toddler’s favorite books are actually propaganda.

Scroll. Britney Spears is dead and a doppelganger has taken her place

Scroll. Try this triple shot, triple pump, iced white mocha, hazelnut, sweet cream cold foam Starbucks hack.

Scroll. “We need to arm our teachers!”

(I’ve already bought the bulletproof backpack.)

Can a person's brain ring

In the same way their ears can ring?

Don’t forget the caramel drizzle.

Stained for Life

Flower | creative nonfiction

Aball point pen burst in the washing machine. Every single item of clothing had ink on it.

Death is like that. It leaves a stain on everything in life.

I lost my youngest son four years ago and my mother the Friday before Mother’s Day of the year. My son died of a head injury. He was only sixteen years old. My mother died of liver cirrhosis. She was fiftynine.

I’ve lost a parent and a child that has caused such regret in my past, that I haven’t learned how to forgive myself of God.

To be honest, I didn’t particularly want to write this paper, especially about my personal grief.

My son passed on a Tuesday, December 1st, 2020. Almost immediately, I began to recite the date into my mind: December 1st, 2020, December 1st, 2020. Since the day of my son’s tragic accident my mind has replayed a personal timeline of his life. It’s not pleasant, but it has only one function: to repeat. It repeats so much, so many times that it has become part of my mind. It’s insane because it is my reality.

Now that I’m sober, my mind is trying to grasp the events and place them in order to remember. The basic facts are that my son is dead, and my mother is dead. And it all unraveled so very fast.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004- My son was born.

May 20, 2014- I went to Arizona Dept. of Corrections for 6.25 yrs.

June 4, 2020- I was released from D.O.C. Sept. 24, 2020- N.N. Family Courts reinstated my parental rights after the 1st half of the school year ended.

Oct. 29, 2020- My son’s fatal accident. Nov. 17, 2020- My son’s 16th Birthday. Dec. 1, 2020- Wyatt passed away.

A bunch of things happened- I was sentenced to 6.25 years to Arizona Department of Corrections for protecting my own kids and paralyzing their abuser; charged aggravated assault with a deadly instrument. My marriage fell apart, and my children were left in their father’s care. All my children were grown adults when I was released, except Wyatt, which I had to fight for with everything I had with Child Protective Services. My son never got the chance to enjoy life with me.

I didn’t get to say good-bye. But I did tell him that I loved him that was the last thing I said to him before he died: I love you shi’yazhii.

I am sitting in my cell writing this paper and I’m crying because my son died. I am crying because I loved him. I’m crying because this is the first time since he’s passed that I sat down and reflected.

Death rewrites the story of our lives. It changes those of us left behind. I’m the parent who struggles to explain how many children I have after one passes away. It feels like a bad dream that I might someday wake up from. I’m working against myself because I don’t want it to be true. I don’t like this story at all.

I wish we still wore black following the death of a loved one. It’s a classy way to let the world know: My heart is broken. Don’t fuck with me. If I were wearing black, people would understand why I’m slow to laugh, why I sometimes look dazed, and why I feel dazed. If I were wearing black, people would know that part of my heart is somewhere else. In the shadows. In the cold, dark, places. A part of me is among the dead.

I try to keep moving, functioning, managing the tasks, but sometimes I start to cry in the middle of my life. I’ve been sleeping a lot and not eating well. During these times I’m wishing and regretting with tears of longing. And sadness overcomes me. The kind of sadness that includes anger, guilt, fear, and sleeplessness.

Now that I’m sober and living my life on life’s terms, I’m trying not to rush. I’m trying to walk slowly through this grief phase of my life, as if the grief is walking right beside me, in sync with my steps. I’m trying to notice the moments when my heart longs for my baby and my mother. I’m trying to tenderly nurture the hurt and let it be part of me. Going slowly seems like the best way to remember them and all that they were to me.

THE STREETS

Nora Yesenia Sandoval | poetry

At the age of 14, I was living on the streets. Invisible to everyone, I suppose.

Some days were great, Especially when someone would take pity and offer me their couch for the night. Other days, I slept on the cold concrete of a dark alley. I was cold, dirty, scared and alone.

I cried out in frustration. I never thought, I would be one of those people I saw walking by. Seeing a person broken and drained of life. A sitting corpse begging for money. I can’t let myself fall that far. The shame that they will see me at my lowest. The mirror reflected the image I saw years ago. Their pain was my pain now.

I watched people walk by so full of life. Can’t someone look at me? Will someone help me? I put my head down. Tears rolling down my face.

Nobody hears my whispers, The wind carries them away.

Too young to work, Nobody would hire me. The only thing available is selling my body. I can’t imagine a man touching me. Holding on strong to my beliefs. The only thing nobody can take away from me.

One day, I met a man that changed my world around. I spent hours and days slanging rocks on the corner. That substance that people were so addicted to. Addicts would do just about anything for that high. Always worrying if someone would rape me, rob me, or arrest me.

So much violence, death and chaos on the streets of Los Angeles. It was a different type of survival, treacherous, yet ignored by most.

Surviving is all that mattered. Pocket full of money, A warm bed for the night, Food to eat. I felt clean, I was somebody. The shine only lasts for so long. Can’t stay on top for ever. Everything comes to an end.

I wish, I never met the man that showed me the life of a hustler. Fast Money, Fast life, Fast Fall. My life was taken, Shackles holding me down, No escape from these gates called penitentiary.

My First Cigarette

Brandon Shane | poetry

At fifteen months old they said I was a fighter, this one will be busting heads on television soon enough. The bullies stopped messing around after I made it clear they would have to kill me, this toughness meant little during my parent’s divorce, it was then I began drinking with the cool kids in high school who were just as needy. I did not need convincing to leave the house, I was treated as the reason for their love loss and the knife they used to stab each other. Guinness for a small favor and I would egg ugly houses or steal from shops where employees changed every few weeks. Sometimes it was leaving envelopes on porches of their crushes or girls they still loved, during weekends we would drive to New Port Beach blaring heavy metal, or gangster rap, all of us teens thinking we would be dead before twenty. Most got hell for their grades and absences receiving serious letters for truancy and they were gone. My parents turned alcoholics while dividing the toys in my bedroom, I thought how lucky I was for being a casualty, I could have been sent to summer camp or thrown into military school. Tan was the last friend left, he was a senior who dropped, said he was too dumb for a GED, we used to walk creeks, try to find where the coyotes slept, until we got into a fight over a missing lighter and he nearly beat me into a coma, a hiker called 9-1-1 and said they found a body. I recently picked up the paper and read that he killed himself.

think back on it

Abigail Klimuk | digital art

Blindspot

Angel Ophelia | digital art

Why Would We Turn?

Ashley Cameron | poetry

-After Landscape with the Fall of Icarus

Through the daily toil of trudging tasks, tragedy is often overlooked, for how can we observe the fall of Icarus when our backs are bent and our necks are burnt by the omnipresent beating sun?

When our sails are at their fullest, and our crops are at their tallest, why would we turn our ears toward the sound of a splash when we could admire that work which is ours?

Therefore one man stands within an arm's reach of Icarus but still fails to outstretch his hand and continues to fish into the green sea of profit.

lies

Isabella Bickenbach | poetry

he wished he could take it all back, the shepherd boy. all the lies. all the stupid things he’s done. the lying was always easy, well, at least easier than telling the truth. as for the truth? it’s simple. he was just a lonely kind who wanted someone to notice him. to feel sorry for him, for his sheep. he hopes they will now. maybe they’ll think, if only i went to check one more time. maybe i should have just checked, he’s only a little boy after all. reality starts to dawn on him, that the approaching wolf with hunter green eyes full set of teeth sharp as knives predatorial jaw hardened with age the sick smell of hunger will tear him to pieces shred him to bits devour him like the boy will satisfy though a wolf can never be satisfied. even though the shepherd boy is crying & screaming, hysterical no one’s going to come. they’ll think of him as the liar that he’s always been because to everyone else, that’s all there is to him. so why would they come?

For All the Wants you Didn’t have the Words for Kelsey Phillips | oil and rice paper on panel

Prey Animal

Angel Ophelia | digital art

Guess The Time

Tanja Lau | poetry

I’ve lied to every therapist I’ve ever had, mostly about the small things, like rehearsing my obituary in the shower or that I keep a packed bag in my closet in case I have to run. I’ve kissed someone while crying over someone else, pretended to be asleep so I wouldn’t have to hear the truth. I’ve told a priest I believed in God just so he’d stop looking at me like I was already on fire. I’ve stolen lighters from every man who ever broke my heart, even the ones who swore they didn’t smoke. I’ve eaten cake with both hands in a hotel bathtub. Said I love you knowing it would end the fight, and said nothing knowing it would end everything. I've lied beautifully with my spine straight. Darling, I've lied to you before. Guess which time.

bedfordtowers | photography

I Can Still Hear the Singing

Naomi Guevara | fiction

The Tower stretched high into the sky and even on the brightest day, hid the sun. When I asked my dad about The Tower he usually waved his hand away and told me we shouldn’t ask questions we didn’t know the answers to. The only other time we talked about the Tower was during The Telling of the Stories.

During this time, Janira, the Elder Woman, would tell the story of The Tower. I knew it by heart.

The Tower was here before man was made, she’d croak. Man looked upon The Tower and fell in love. That was man’s first sin. This is why men fell. Man fell in love with something other than himself.

Janira usually looked at me when she said this. I was one of three children in our tribe, and she always looked at me when she told this part of the story.

She would then continue telling the story of the tower by saying how The Tower enticed men to enter into the walls and no one comes back out. I raised my hand one time and asked why no one ever left the tower. She only told me that The Tower invited people in, telling them that if they walked through her gates, she’d give them everything they ever asked for. The gates opened every day, yet no one came back out.

Janira didn’t answer my question. Why don’t they leave? Maybe it is better in The Tower. Maybe people don’t want to be out here.

The Elders prepared us for months leading up to the Way of Torches. We learned our parts in the different songs we would be singing and we practiced carrying our torches.

We must make sure our brothers and sisters inside still know that we are here.

When I asked Janira why we still did the Way of Torches if no one ever comes back from The Tower she simply replied that just because no one came out, doesn’t mean they can’t hear or see us.

Are you sure, I replied, that they can hear us? If they could, why wouldn’t they come out?

Janira didn’t reply.

The Way of Torches happened at night. I remember it was cold, but my body wasn’t shaking from the temperature. I put my hood over my head, lit my torch, and followed the others to The Tower.

The singing started out low, and then grew, penetrating the night air. We lifted our torches high into the sky, and I watched as the Elders and other members of our group light floating lanterns and push them into the air. I had stopped singing as I watched as I held my breath. The Tower stood still and obstinate, but somehow, our lanterns didn’t seem to mind as they continued to stretch into the sky, over The Tower, and into the unknown.

As the group continued to sing, I felt my heart skip a beat as I watched something move at the very top of The Tower. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but as the figure stepped towards the window, I saw them.

Whether it was a man or a woman, I couldn’t tell, but I knew they were there. The light from the lanterns cascaded onto the walls and for a split second I could see that there was someone looking down on us. I wanted to wave frantically, but by the time I raised my hand over my head, the figure was gone. The entire exchange happened so quickly that it seemed as if no one had seen it happen. Except for Janira. I caught her staring at me.

I was nineteen when I found my mother’s picture. She had the largest eyes I’d ever seen, and I wished I had gotten a chance to see her smile. I quickly snuck the picture into my pocket as I heard Dad come into the hut.

Janira sat me down when I showed her my mother’s picture. I knew it was going to be a terrible conversation because she put her hands on top of mine and spoke gently.

I thought she was going to tell me that she had run off with a nomadic group, but she didn’t.

She slipped into The Tower.

I ran from Janira’s hut. When my lungs felt like they were being torn apart and my legs filled with fatigue, I stopped and found the closest tree. My knuckles plummeted into the tree trunk until blood streaked down my palms.

Why do we sing? I later asked. They don’t want to come out. Why do we sing?

Because, Janira replied with a resolve that terrified me, what if they can’t leave? What if all this time they haven’t been able to leave? We can’t let them think we’ve forgotten.

The following year, I almost didn’t go the The Way of Torches. Dad did everything in his power to convince me to go, and this time I knew why. It wasn’t until the sun had already set that I got up from my bed, put on my clothes, and walked towards the looming oppression of The Tower.

Everyone was already singing, and the lighting of the lanterns was about to begin. I slowly walked to the front of the group where Janira stood. Standing next to her, I breathed in the cool air around me. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be enveloped. When I opened them again, Janira touched my arm softly. There was so much I wanted to tell her, but instead I looked into the gaping mouth of The Tower, its gates large and sharp.

Then, with all of the force I could muster, I ran into the open gates. I thought I heard shouting, but all that rang through my ears was the sound of my feet slamming against the ground and the singing. I still hear the singing.

PRiMORDial OOZE

Alina Click | poetry

My mind has started to melt. It’s turning to an acidic ooze. ‘Cos when it gets going, I go. Hurry up and put it to good use.

I can feel the gears rusting, The slowing of all my joints. Brain still running 1,000 mph. Way past the breaking point.

The strange entity that is my brain. Without it, who would I be? Primordial ooze, encased in bone. Just another form of Machine.

Gravity and matter hollow me tightly inside this biological vessel. No escaping. No matter how much I zip, unzip, struggle, and wrestle.

Tethered to this spinning pebble. Floating in the strange blackness of space. Even after your vessel decays... I don’t think there’s any escape.

Sleight of Hand

Isiaha Akatlzin Rodriguez | poetry

I see my precious twin in the smoking mirror: a collapsed star. Snarling with a smile, swallowing yesterday.

His void-bright and endless. He sees: I kick the stone again.

Star, set me on fire. I'll dive in the well of coins. They whisper, forget tomorrow. Flame, eat my name; light, show my shadow.

Quicksilver will not save me.

Have I lost my way?

I'm kicking the stone again. again.

The reflection sharpens. Yesterday is coming; the mirror is too thin.

My knees bleed into the cold sand, as stars stay mute to incantations.

My twin and I meet at the glass. Will the stone bruise me blue again?

Star, see the red stained sand?

Star, show me how we end?

Star, standing still in the inky ether, strip me naked, scalp my name.

You Can’t Take That Away From Me

Jane Carpenter | creative nonfiction

Individuality. A word that can stand on its own. Its definition explains, the sum total of qualities that characterize and distinguish an individual from all others. Separate or distinct existence. An individual person.

Think of yourself, how would you begin to describe those qualities that characterize you? Would you begin with the obvious? Your race, ethnicity, gender, age, hair and eye color, height and weight, might be the starting point. How would you proceed after you cover the basics? Married, single, widowed, with or without children, that covers more statistics. Career, education, where you live, social class and financial status rounds out the picture.

What about the more esoteric qualities the good and the unmentionable. This is where most people come to a screeching halt. They are quick to share the obvious, however, they are more protective of the unseemly details of their well-hidden dirty little secrets. No one openly wants to expose their dreaded mistakes. They will tell you they are a good friend; they are generous and have great empathy among other glowing positive attributes. I doubt if they will admit to cheating on their spouse, having a shopping or gambling addiction or they drink alone to numb the pain of life. The truth is, all these components, whether good or not, make you an individual.

The prison environment seeks to wipe out individuality, by dressing everyone in the same clothing, addressing one by their last name and limiting choices. Their punitive ways will never squelch a person’s unique qualities. It won’t change eye color, race, or secrets. They can take away one’s former life, but they can’t take away your individuality. Remember, no two snowflakes are alike, and no two humans are exactly the same. We are all uniquely individual, and they can’t take that away from you.

NEW PLAYMATE [MONDO]

Dee Allen | poetry

Why did the little Girl drop her stuffed bear and blow Soap bubbles at the roof’s edge?

Little Teddy can’t Leap as high and catch them like The magic grey gargoyle can

[Inspired by the painting Gargoyles by Michael Parkes.]

Mondo: A Japanese short poem in 6 lines, 2 stanzas. First 3 lines ask a question. Last 3 lines give an answer. Written in 5-7-7-5-7-7 syllable sequence.

hija de la burra

Naveed Banuelos (motaquita) | acrylic paint on canvas

Missing and Murdered but Never Forgotten

Teniya Salazar | paint on hand-made traditional Onk Akimel O’odham garment

Art of War

Alexandra Nelson | poetry

Separated by four colors, As the children scream, Ignorance smothers the sound, They’re too frail to dream.

Dream of your children, And a beating heart, Rhythm and gunfire harmonize, The West calls it art.

The art of war, Of a mother carved to bone, Blood spills from her soul, And onto your phone.

The black smoke, The green fields, The red-stained robes, The white flag as they yield. It’s not you, But if it was, Your heart wouldn’t beat, As the war’s does.

It convulses, It stutters, Until morning dawn.

The sun rises, Against a sea of bodies, The thrum of war rages on.

A hung body, A young boy, A headline.

A nightmare, A massacre, An average day in Palestine.

With The Wind

Isaura López | oil on canvas

AMERICAN RANT.

Tichina Shephard | poetry

It’s crazy how things can be sometimes I wonder if crazy's even enough to describe the domino effect of a sick mind that can’t relax because the devil been clocking in overtime symbiotically the dichotomy of a person that’s chewing on the things that keep their lungs filled with bigotry. Coughing it up instead of puking if my writings like lyrics for the unsung locked in a cage starving for the truth ones. Can’t seem to move my feet heavy from what I’m carrying on my back, the broken beating and psychologically bruised. Umm can you tell me how do you describe to a child you live in a world where you gotta fight to be you in skin tone, vocabulary, economic misfortune I understand why so many slaves jumped off the mayflower, I guess that’s why we have April showers; Mother Earth was even crying for us under all these layers of disgust and they say welcome to America, land of the free home of the brave, I guess you gotta be to indulge in all the things that comes with bein’ American, shacked to a flag that should always wave half staffed for those whose blood was shed for many centuries. And they say God bless America as the cycle continue.

Chaos

Lulu Nowicki | oil on canvas

Society

Dina Uraiby | poetry

Welcome to society

We hope you enjoy your stay

And please feel free to be yourself

As long as it’s in the right way.

Freedom of speech exists

Even if silence fills the air, Your dreams are ours to borrow, In this world of silent despair.

Told that Women are equal

To the men who hold the power

Your voice doesn’t matter It’s you who gets devoured

Give to the poor

For kindness is the Golden Rule

But turn a blind eye to the corruption

Or you become the fool

Love your imperfections, But not too deeply, beware, We’ll shape your introspections And leave your soul threadbare.

Make sure you love your body, And love it without hurt

But always doubt the mirror And believe our words

We’ll bully you for smiling And then wonder why you frown, We’ll tell you that you’re worthless That you shouldn’t make a sound

We’ll cry with all the others

While you’re buried in the ground For its tradition we follow Even if Religion counts

You can fall in love with anyone

As long as it’s who we choose And we’ll let you have your opinions

But please shape them to our view

Welcome to the grand illusion, Where freedom wears a chain, In our crafted delusion, Your silence fuels our gain.

Welcome to society

We promise that we won’t deceive, And one more rule now that you’re here There’s no way you can leave.

Can We Help?

Jane Carpenter | creative nonfiction

Ialways heard the word recidivism used in university psychology classes. It was often used when referring to addictions and an individual’s relapse into the lifestyle behaviors that perpetrated their addiction. Many would refrain from their addictions only to return. Therapists long thought if people would refrain from those triggers they would not be lured back into addiction.

Some addictions are almost impossible to break. For instance, an addiction that involves food. We need food to survive. The trigger is always there for someone who is haunted by their addiction. Therapists will openly admit anorexia and bulimia are two addictions they struggle to help. Chronic overeating without purging is another struggle for the therapist.

If someone has a gambling addiction, they can avoid places where gambling is done. However, today one can gamble using their cell phone which poses the same threat as food addiction. A shopping addiction has changed also with the advent of cell phones and online shopping. Many addictions are supported today by the internet. Addicts can maintain their attachment without a support system of many people. It has become a lone involvement with a phone.

Recidivism for inmates is a completely different story. There are many differences. I cannot speak to the built-in politics of a corrupt system, I can however, speak to the social dynamics which keep people returning to incarceration. Many inmates are addicted to substances which are used in a social setting. When they return to those same people there is little hope they will survive outside the system. They are human, and humans are social creatures. They have created bonds with people who shared their addiction. Often, they maintain those relationships while incarcerated and in certain cases, they will return to those who showed loyalty to them, often that involves family members who are addicts.

Recidivism as a multilayered problem. There are no easy answers. Obtaining drugs requires money, and how they obtain money is also problematic, along with corruption, and deep bonds with others who are likewise addicted. How we solve these problems is the mark of who we are as a society. Can we help? Recidivism is big business, prisons are big business, and they are institutions that have the edge.

Who Are We

Jane Carpenter | poetry

Women wearing orange transparent as vapor, stripped of their individuality thousands fill the cement block buildings know as cement caskets in the insufferable heat of the Arizona desert surrounded by barbed wire and chain link fencing.

Subdued by chemicals, sub par nutrition, mandatory lock downs, strip searches, cell raids, and marginal medical care are the subversive means by which we live

No civil rights living in a punitive white patriarchal society we acquiesce to their authoritarian ways

Handcuffs, chains, pepper spray, and removal of privileges are tools of control we are constantly reminded that we don’t matter

Mothers, daughters, children, wives, widows and sisters collectively we suffer.

This archaic institution which dates back centuries with little evolution

Who are we as a society Why do we continue to harness hate Is this the best we can do?

cuarto de la noche

Naveed Banuelos (motaquita) | digital art

Despite the Quietness of My Room

Audrey Lee | poetry

The cacophony of sounds in my head are far too much to bear the fruits of graceful sleep

A victim to the mad conductor of me parasympathetic symphony

Only if I could make it stop for a semibreve rest and ultimate fade into a simple conclusion.

Rain

Gwyn Nacionales | poetry

And in the morning, a heavy rainfall came to cloud the hills. As the drops made their way from the heavens to the earth, they each sent their own message from the stars in the sky.

“I miss you,” said one. “I’m waiting,” said another. “I hear you, and I love you, and I hope you’re ok.”

And as the earth sat and basked in the wishes, the ground grew softer, and opened its heart.

“You’re with me,” said the rocks in the soil. And the rain responded, “In part.”

The stars above twinkled, for their memory was in the clouds.

Frog in algae

K. Skye Fulton | nature photography

In Remembrance of the First 10,000

Gwyn Nacionales | scripts

A monologue

Characters:

Langton’s Ant: An ant that has reached emergent order.

Setting: The highway through a black-and-white lattice grid.

Time: Irrelevant.

LANGTON’S ANT begins upstage left. As they monologue, they take periodic steps and turns aligning with the behavior that creates the highway. Make sure to pace appropriately, so as to not run out of stage and fall off before the close.

LANGTON’S ANT:

To the city, the monument I left behind, I write to thee a simple ant travelling by the infinite highway of my own creation. Innumerable steps I’ve taken since last I saw you, faded so far into the monotony of blank expanse as to become but a smudge on the horizon; a distant echo of the simplicity and chaos that once ruled my life. As the road stretches ever onward beneath me, flashing colors in my wake the likes predictable of a one-o-four part tango recursing ad nauseam, I find myself missing that unpredictability, that spice of innovation I once held in your regard. It calls to me in the sickly-sweet tones of nostalgia, reminding me of my simple, unbounded origins, and asks me to remember it as it were a moment of exploration in preparation for the emergence of my order.

Often I catch myself thinking, “Is this my forever? Would I like it to be?”

But alas, the highway: that great attractor of a lowly ant such as myself. Though I try, toiling as is my nature through the wastes of black and white, I find myself drawn unconsciously to that great winding construction. My body, ruled by simple mechanics of a two-step process, seems to gravitate toward the comfort in its design, unspooling ever onward into the blank canvas of eternity. It feels not like an instinct, but a craving; insatiable and intangible as a flower cants toward sunlight or lightning chases the ground.

How easily, I seem to have forgotten you. Across ten thousand turns, you were my everything and yet, once I stumbled my way into the embrace of that hallowed path, suddenly the rest of the world meant nothing at all.

I’ve grown complacent, I think. It seems my mind, just the same as my feet with each weary step I take, has been ground along the tiles throughout the stretch of my endless pilgrimage. The landscape, ever looming in comparison to the safety of my passage, has smoothed and sanded my instincts to that of a simple pattern eroded all sense of discovery and carved a decree deep in my bones; left, right, right, right, right, left-right-right right-leftleftleftleft

LANGTON’S ANT finishes the current step of the pattern, but then stops in place, staring forward vacantly rather than continuing. They pause for a long moment, before speaking.

The highway is all that I have now. I fear the highway might be all I am. My heart beats in the cadence of wheels over the speed bump, blood travelling the roadwork of veins by the mile. How I long to cast my gaze upon the terrain around me, and see something other than that empty, hollow white. If I could only step away for a moment, and create something new, something fresh, exciting but...

But no. I’ve forgotten the weight I once held in my hands, that expression of life, of being. The only drive I have now is forward, backtracking mindlessly only to smooth my path. How foolish I was, to have the whole world at my fingertips, and yet cast it aside with the ease of something to be discarded. Do you fault me for it, I wonder? Do you look into the distance, the trail I left behind, and earnestly hope I am doing well?

You were the best thing to happen to me, and I left you behind. You were the best thing to happen to me, and I traded you for another. You were the best thing to happen to me, and I think of you every day. You were the best thing to happen to me, and I am haunted by your absence. You were the best thing to happen to me.

(pause, then slowly)

You were the best thing to happen to me.

¿Me Recuerdas?

Isaura López | oil on canvas

Missing Me

Audrey Lee | poetry

If you miss me, just remember I’m only as far as you pushed me.

When you start to miss the effort I gave, that only reveals the distance you made.

To come to grace, to lead with heart, takes nothing more than a conscious start. A small, sincere, and quiet hello that dares to reach where you let go.

Connection is a promise labeled as forever, but it only truly lives in the comfort of now, never meant to last without vow.

So next time you miss me, don’t just feel the fall. Ask yourself, “How far did you push before it became too far at all?”

Bad Woman

K.A. Vallere | poetry

Oh, and by the way, I've just ordered a drum. Djembe. It'll stand beside the piano. It's arriving Tuesday.

I don't become anything. I stop pretending I'm not.

I hope we'll evolve, you know. As a marriage. Evolve not dissolve because it's so fucking scary.

"Do you know how it feels when you're done flirting with power?"

Black leather trousers hugging my thighs. Red lipstick I'm choosing the vibes. Putting on make-up to take off the mask.

I love Emily Dickinson, but I won't die hidden.

I roam the Sov'reign Woods, flashing on my sportbike through the city jungle.

“You don't owe anyone anything. You owe only to yourself to be authentic and raw.

Run with me towards the open roads, towards the shaking ground, towards the stars and wilds.”

I'm just a bad artist. And a bad woman.

Done begging for permission. I'm dancing on the highest C8 I let it scream into your closed doors.

"Meet me at eight on the corner of who you used to be and who you become."

Recently I realized I'm not on the road anymore. And now the hardest thing left is to stay.

Insecurity

Leilani Gastelum | oil on panel

Incubator

Isaura López | oil on canvas

The Shackles of Womanhood

GwynYvere | poetry

Wild women don’t get the blues –Mitski

I do not forget my first encounter with the threat of Womanhood.

The first time I noticed those covert glances at my budding chest.

The first time my mother told me about the mysterious Monster I had sworn to keep locked between my legs

And the predators who sought to pry them open.

Learning from every older woman my responsibility

A promise to keep with God

My worth would go to waste if I gave it up too soon.

I never felt worth much to begin with.

I shamelessly rebelled, choosing comfort over comeliness.

Pain was too much a sacrifice for beauty.

The simple act of undressing felt criminally corrupt

In the simulated privacy of my own room.

With no one around but God to witness

Stripped to my Primal nature

I let my Self be something wild

Something other than Woman.

Exposing all my flesh to the atmosphere

Swimming in the sensation of bareness

Absolute Vulnerability

Radical Freedom.

The shackles of Womanhood didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

My Butcher

K.A. Vallere | poetry

I smudge the mirror to not see

The other looking back at me.

Her stormy eyes screaming profane lines

Watching me play a wife dress-up game

Bleeding internally to pay the price

For swallowing every forced yes

To keep the peace and ease

To keep the future aligned with my butcher

But the butcher? Who's the butcher?

It's her husband, an unassuming mutcher.

Throb

Isaura López | oil on canvas

Knives

Alina Click | poetry

The love bled out of me, and I couldn’t stop it. Over and over, it bled out with every broken promise.

At first, I started removing the knives that were stuck in me. But losing all that love made me feel weak. So, I’ve left the knives where they are for all the world to see. This is what loving means. This is why I bleed.

To pull a knife out would mean to pull a part of myself out. They seem to hold me together. Removing them all... would mean a cold, red river.

A river with the strength to wash me away, but not strong enough to wash me clean. Purifying this wretched soul? That remains to be unseen

Gloria Benveniste

Abigail Klimuk | digital art

A Rusty Dagger and Cobalt Eyes

Ashley Cameron | fiction

Golden tapestries with azure dragons decorate the ballroom: the king’s signature crest. The lights from a dozen sconces on the wall flicker, making the lizards dance. A large piano and an ensemble of string instruments play a joyful tune to paint the air. Long tables mount the walls, nearly filled to the ceiling with treats and delicacies that I had only dreamed of seeing up close. The room smells of unimaginable mixtures of spices, the finest perfumes, and a delicate hint of sweat that the perfumes are competing to mask. The king cannot stand silence or ugliness, so he makes sure everything he sees and hears is beautiful. He wrinkles his nose at the slightest offense to his senses.

He does not look beyond the castle walls.

The partygoers, all invitees of the highest honor in the kingdom, wear ornate gowns of silk and suits of satin in every color. I picked out my own outfit, unlike everyone else who had armies of maids and servants to help them prepare; my golden two-piece suit is shiny, flashy, and extravagant. I imagine it had cost a fortune, but seeing as I stole it out of the drawer of a noble who died at my hands, it had no price tag. The last thing I want to do tonight is stand out, but considering everyone else is equally, if not more, beautiful, I fit in like a sword to a sheath. I see many other women wearing suits as well, so I am well hidden; I would not have taken this mission if I had to wear an impractical, uncomfortable dress. And definitely no corsets.

The guests weave around me as much as I weave around them, so perhaps I am dancing along

with them. My mind is less focused on my footwork than on my fingers scratching the blade beneath my sleeve. The dagger was a gift from my father before he succumbed to the hunger that the king caused in his indulgence. Many children have pleasant or valuable family heirlooms. Mine is cheap and covered in rust, but it functions well for my occupation. When they don’t die of a stab, if I am lucky, they die of infection.

I tail the king as he makes his polite rounds to the many wealthy faces. I have been working for a while and am no fool. I give him his distance, smile and interact, and stalk just about everyone so people think of me more a creep than an assassin, if they notice me at all. Most of the nobles only ever acknowledge those of similar status to them, and I will never make that list no matter how much impersonation and forgery I do.

The king wears an elegant suit of blue and gold with a matching cape encrusted with the royal seal that drags on the floor some few feet. His long brown hair seeps out of a small diadem crown. The solid gold jewelry shines and the interwoven sapphires glint in the light as he walks. His figure is small and unimposing but graceful. He carries his small stature with confidence. Even in his own house, he has to be the most beautiful and eye-catching person. I watch him as he speaks to other nobles. He wears a smile like it's part of his uniform. It looks so comfortable and genuine on his face, but I know that it is an art perfected. He may appear like a friend invested in the conversation, but I am the only one that can see that he is a fox. He dis-

| FALL 2025 appears into the crowd for a time, and I lose him as we both swap pleasantries to save face. His smile haunts every face that I look at.

The party is free of an itinerary, so groups gather and grab gaiety from all angles. I intermingle with a few stragglers and try the dishes but only for camouflage. The cheeses from far off lands and the freshly slaughtered exotic poultry and the hand-kneaded breads smell like God’s gifts, but they taste like ash as the betrayal to my starving family coats my tongue.

The air of merriment forces me to engage, though I take no enjoyment in my actions. I even join for a dance when prompted by a terrified young man. His blonde hair is held together by expensive looking oil, but a strand sticks out in the back suggesting at least one other person opted to prepare their own appearance tonight. His hand is clammy as he leads me to the circle of dancers. A pair of flutists join the ensemble and play a tune that I quite like. It reminds me that my village cannot afford to pay the traveling bards for songs, and I find it difficult to maintain my mask of joy during the dance. I have learned to maintain appearances, and I keep myself busy scanning the crowd for my target. The jostling and spinning of bodies, my own included, makes the task difficult.

When I find the king again, I see my window. I spot his long sapphire cape from across the ballroom; the embroidered dragon and I lock eyes. He walks to one of the golden doors left ajar that leads to a balcony. It is a wonderful night and the breeze is enticing. His back is turned. I bid farewell with a curtsy and a thank you to the boy who is breathing heavily. He is nowhere near my type, but his nerves almost allow me to think of him as human. His silver encrusted jewelry

shines in the bright candlelight, and it reminds me of his selfishness.

I wait a few minutes before following the king, talking to guests and pretending to care about their trade deals with other lords. My footsteps toward the balcony are light in the pilfered dress shoes. The dagger’s rusty tip almost pricks my index finger. I am behind him in moments. I put one hand on his shoulder to appear cordial to those inside, and the other hand thrusts the blade into his lung.

He chokes. The sound is soft and high pitched. He hunches over the side of the balcony further into my knife before falling into me. It takes all of my strength to hold up both of our weights. I notice that few of the windows will have a good view of us in the darkness, so I clutch his back and bring him down slowly. It would be nice to have the satisfaction of seeing the tyrant leave this mortal world.

I crouch and lean down to rest his body on the cobblestone balcony floor and see the face of my victim in the sliver of light from the half moon. The person choking and wheezing is not the king. She is a young woman around my age. Her eyes are a dark cobalt and her face is fair and sharp. She has the same long brown hair as her father. His beautiful smile flashes in my vision, mocking me.

Her blue eyes capture mine and all I can do is stare. Her breaths are quick and pained. She coughs and blood colors her jaw. Her hands clutch at my sleeves like I am her last lifeline. Her magnificent blue and golden suit is marred crimson around her chest. She is dressed the same as her father. How had I not noticed her before? Was there no moment when they were in the ballroom together? Had I been sloppy in

my investigation? I am the fool tonight, but perhaps the damage to the monarchy could be the same. Maybe I haven’t failed.

Her eyes are wild as they search for something that I will not understand until my own time comes. I have seen the look before, in my father’s face as he refused to believe he was dying and in the faces of the few nobles I had killed with the very same knife he gifted me. With Father, I cried; his death was undeserved and cruel. I saw no cruelty when I stabbed the aristocrats. I felt no guilt. Not seeing them as people made it easier for their last words to stay out of my nightmares. Sometimes they crept in.

Her eyes are different, though. Her voice is different.

I had never made a mistake before. I had never killed someone who didn’t deserve it. Maybe she does.

I hate her.

I have hated her and her father and her people ever since I could understand that my people were dying because of them, but as my arms cling to her frail frame and her fingernails dig through my clothing, all my hatred is replaced with remorse. Anger fills me that it had to come to this at all.

Her shivering eyes bore into mine, and I know that I will see them in every victim that my blade will ever graze.

The princess begins to cry. Her soft sobbing is much like a kitten calling for its mother: fearful, primal. Her eyes are so desperate that I’m not sure if she sees me as her murderer or her angel. I want to scream in her face and tell her that it was me and that I’m sorry and that I can’t take it back and that I don’t even know if I want to take it back. I want to tell her what brought me here and beg her to understand why I did it.

I want her to forgive me.

My mouth does not open. My hand stays on her back, but I move the other to take one of hers. I hope that my guilt transmits through the contact. She does not seem to register the difference between my palm and the fabric of my sleeve. Blood stains the golden cloth and my hand. She grips harder, bruising my flesh, and a sharp whimper grabs her throat, then her hand relaxes. Her spirit that had arrested me with only a look had fled.

A teardrop slides down my cheek.

Supposed to

Brandon Shane | poetry

Men die when they’re supposed to & I have known it as true as caterpillars & butterflies cradled like leaves in fall & shrunk into nothingness & consumed by the seasons & as a boy I knew men who only defined themselves by the moment, having to reaffirm their testicles as if they were stapled to their heads & what women could do for them & I used to kiss my boyfriend underneath the blankets & in closets we found no irony in & if I could be a child again I would feel no less a man & my father walked across highways into the desert & he was sick & proclaimed he had no son as the sun turned him placard red & at the funeral hands were stuffed into my coat pockets & I stared down the cemetery like a dirty alley & I thought all men die when they’re supposed to & the older men who were gay but no less civilized went away & the men who suppose they are straight but yearn for a king as monarch & God & the missing parts of sex that happen to fit the desire for ownership & I think no man has died at a wrong time & I walk down these avenues alone by invitation or self-righteousness & love a man at odds with himself & do it like a man who will die when he is supposed to.

BLUTLUST

Dee Allen | poetry

BAVARIA, GERMANY 1872

This place reeks of madness and decay!

A rambling house

A prosperous family

Can be cursed Without phantoms

Generations Down the line

Their own affliction

Stemmed from numerous demons’ invasion on their minds.

Would they inherit the madness? The evil in my blood?

As children, Elizabeth and Emil

Witnessed their mother’s suicide by knife.

Baron Friedrich Zorn too afraid their grasp on sanity will slip. Always together then locked up apart.

The demon walks in the forest of night!

The forest Grove of sycamores and ferns past sundown

Can be dangerous

Without monsters

Save for one in human form.

From an adjacent village, pretty blondes stray

And meet with a bare-handed destruction.

Rose petals covered each maiden’s body like a red funeral shroud.

We carry death! We carry death to the bowels of Hell!

Ancient ritual with crude skeleton, drums and crosses raised, Not a children’s game,

From the days before Christianity

Can drive death out of a village

Symbolically.

There, golden-haired girls became fewer in number. Whether demon or man arisen and slain them

Was anyone’s guess.

They say they love us. I could kill them for what they’d done to you.

The Zorn mansion

Prim, proper prison for prominent siblings: Elizabeth bled out with razors, drugged, kept weak and bed-bound.

Emil unable to contain his rage, hell-bent on freedom from a luxury cell.

Hilda devoted to effectuating her brother’s wishes:

Open, shut and lock doors to the children’s rooms, Keep the siblings apart, guard the hall do this daily.

More key-ring jailor than protective aunt.

“Blood will have blood”, they say.

The Zorn family curse

Insanity and incest commingled [ toxic blend ]

A draconian nightmare Worth escaping from. Or lashing out against.

And the bloodlust the Baron feared most Overflowed from regal veins

To mansion rooms, to the forest, To the lake, to carriage trails, to the peasants’ village.

One can

Only pray

Such red-handed ferocity Never reaches them.

[Inspired by the film Demons Of The Mind, directed by Peter Sykes.]

Cheated

Robert A. Cozzi | poetry

He saw himself left out of so many important thingsalways watching, never having.

Eleven times a groomsman, sharing others’ joy, never his own celebration.

He found love, but it wasn’t freenot recognized, not accepted, sometimes met with rage.

Their love came with a price: careers at risk, families torn apart, everything on the line.

At the movies, an empty seat kept them hidden.

At baseball games, he played “friend,” offered only a handshake, a bro hug.

In restaurants, they sat aparttoo far to share the silent language of two people in love.

He wasn’t invited

To his boyfriend’s important events. They had to be careful, terrified of losing everything just for being themselves.

They dreamed of fatherhood, but fear killed that dream.

They were exhausted. He was exhausted. They felt cheated.

He felt cheated.

People say it’s better now, but his love remains secret, still out of reach.

Marriage is legal now, but too late to find someone. Too late for quiet Sundays.

He writes of love, beautiful enough to be read at weddings, told how lucky someone would be to be loved by him.

He sometimes believes he’s lovable enoughonly to be reminded of what he’s still denied, of what will never be his.

Capacity to Love, Unwillingness to Forget

Raven Montaño | poetry

How can I ache for a love I never had?

A love present but not foremost, one that was easily set aside. Something I have always wanted but will never have the chance to get. Knowing something is for the better doesn't make it any easier to accept.

Even still, I have so much capacity for forgiveness, for a love I can't have. A life that isn't mine. He lost his chance with me a long time ago.

Yet I still want nothing more than to forget, to try again and to have what my nameless childhood always wanted.

I am continually proven right, being a pessimist is saving me from disappointment. But that won't ever placate the disappointment on the moments I missed.

On the memories that won't ever exist.

I get jealous of people with fathers.

Though I turned out better because of my lack of one.

Am I so wrong for wanting a full family?

To not be so alone?

Just me and my mother now.

Is it wrong to want a father, a father who has hurt us so and even still I can't tell him to his face that I don't love him?

That something in me still does?

I may want a father, but the love a father had for me presents only in half-winded confessions of yearning, and knowing sweet words only gets me so far.

A Mouthful of Summer’s Empty Promises

Kelsey Phillips | risograph print on paper

On the Threshold

Robert A. Cozzi | poetry

“A

Dance Between What Is and What Might Be”

You were born seeing loveclear, sharp, like colors only you could name. The first thing you ever saw was love, and love was never out of reach.

But love shifted as you grewyou loved boys, not girls, and some recoiled, some turned away. That hurt -because you liked yourself. You liked yourself enough to staysometimes in your room, among books, records, dreams, where love was safe and risk paused.

You watched lovers passing bytheir laughter like warm sunlight, their closeness a taste you could almost hold, like the scent of baked bread on the wind, sweet and rich, but slipping away before you can take a bite.

But sometimes, risk was worth it. At fourteen, you stepped outchose love over silence, stepped out, and never looked back.

No walls could hold you. You danced with love, lost and found in its rhythm, became something more, helped others find their own beat.

You know love’s currency, its shape, its soundnot just a saxophone’s lonely cry, but the swagger above the city hum, the rhythm through shut windows.

You lean into its pulse, dance close to the edge, breath by breath, beat by beat, step by steplost and found in its rhythmalways on the threshold between possibility and what might beuntil you arrive where nothing else matters.

Relationships ~ “The beginning”

Mariah McKinney | creative nonfiction

November of 2016. I was 18, worked as a graveyard housekeeper at a ski resort and had a “girlfriend” who was madly in love with me. If you had asked me, I would say we were just friends who made out regularly but if you asked her, we were in a full relationship. Yes, I was the one who asked her out on a date and kissed her first, but I repeatedly said I wasn’t in the head space to really be committed. Roughly 2 months of knowing her, I was bored and wanted a new girl to play with. I was trying to get 18 years of being closeted-out experience what I’ve missed. I had lied to myself and the world for so long, punishing myself for not being straight, fucked over 30 males begging to feel something other than pure disgust for the person I was riding and myself. Being out made me feel a freedom I’ve never had before, and I wasn’t going to be tied down.

One night at work there was a new girl, KC. She was nothing special, short but still taller than me. Skinny with no real curves, and long mouse brown hair. She had a beautiful smile and laughed at all my jokes, so I did my typical flirting, fishing to see if she was a part of the rainbow family. She caught my feelers pretty quickly told me about her boyfriend. KC then said she had a friend like me, who liked girls but was not willing to get into a relationship. I knew nothing other than that friend was tall, blonde, blue eyed, and feared commitment. Without hesitation I told the new girl to text her friend my phone number and a photo of me. I had (and I still do have) a healthy ego so, I knew that would make the response time faster, which it did that night I got a text from said friend.

The first lines were, “hey darlin’ this is Sierra, KC’s friend. You are very beautiful.” Blah blah blah in the middle, ended with “not sure what you’re looking for here, but I thought I’d at least send a message.” I then made my intentions clear that this would be a one-night deal; I wanted only physical interaction. She agreed that this was a good arrangement but oddly kept texting me. Off-and-on, we sent texts about our day, where we worked, what our ages were, etcetera. Sierra was 19 and worked at a warehouse for a local food bank.

On my first night off work, no other previous plan, I was able to convince my “girlfriend” to leave me alone, I asked Sierra to come to my house. I shared a 3-bedroom house with two other young adults, a brother and sister. Both, truthfully, had huge crushes on me. Only the sister was successful in getting my attention, but our secret hookup is a story for a different time. I gave Sierra my address, took a full body shower that required at least an hour to make sure everything looked perfect (every girl knows what I’m talking about).

At almost 11pm she finally arrived, even though we had planned for 10, and I opened the front door before she could knock. Sierra was on the phone, which I found off, but before I finished saying the word “hello” she shushed me. She could tell by my facial expression I was not happy with that greeting so she quickly and rudely got off the phone. All she could do was stare at me, not moving, until I gestured her in. No words were spoken while she followed me to my bedroom. Clearly, I was annoyed by her tardiness

and the shushing. So, when she finally spoke it was an apology. I got over my pettiness and started talking like my normal bubbly self. I moved to small talk, told her to sit on my bed, asked about her drive in (it had been showing), and instructed her to take off her jacket. All the while, she was looking at me like a deer in headlights not knowing why she was letting this tiny brunette boss her around. She complied with all my demands to take off more clothing and be close to me on the bed.

Sierra was, and still is, a 5ft 10in blonde with impossibly blue eyes, fare skinned with freckles. At this point in time, she had long curly hair that she desperately tried to tame with only her fingers. A dirty ball cap on her head to match her dirty ripped jeans. A “The Walking Dead” zip up hoodie covered her oil-stained male T-shirt. She looked so uncomfortable every time I inched closer, so I stopped and continued to talk about anything random that came to mind. Even though she looked terrified of me, her bright blues never strayed from my face. I made her laugh until tears streamed down her pink cheeks. Though I wasn’t really trying to be funny, I have this strange way of making others cackle at my “jokes” even when I am not sure what the joke was. I know I’m not the butt of it or that people aren’t laughing at me. My mouth just tends to say things that my brain hasn’t even processed what I’ve said. This talking led to laughing and light flirting until about 1am. I have no idea what possessed me to pick up my phone and take a picture when she wasn’t looking. She was glancing down smiling gayly at the floor when I snapped a photo. Almost 9 years later I still have that picture. It took 2 years for Sierra to find out about its existence.

At this point I was only wearing a tank top with my lacy black bra clearly peeking out and tiny multicolored pajama shorts. The night had turned to morning, and no physical contact had been made. Just shared words and long moments of me swimming in her impressive blue eyes. Finally, after a long pause in conversation I blurted, “well this is boring.” Flipping my left leg up and over her legs so I was now straddling her lap, putting my face millimeters from hers. Teasing, I said, “this will be more fun,” leaning in for a kiss. Her hands landed on my back and moved down, one of my hands on her face while the other arm was placed around her shoulder. I was very pleased that she was actually kissing me back with enthusiasm. Ready to move things along I paused from kissing, took off my tank top, and unzipped her hoodie. Still sitting on her lap Sierra took her arms out, threw the popular zombie franchise sweater on the floor. Gently she lifted me, set me down on my back so she was on top of me. Kissing her was perfection, we were in sync instantly with only one “hiccup” when we both got excited clinked teeth. We giggled while our lips were still touching. She was much softer than I anticipated, given her laborious day job, looking like she often adventured in the dirt, her skin was so smooth. Her hands were barely callused, nails well-manicured. Golden ringlets fell on my face tickling my ears and neck. Oddly I felt safe, nothing could hurt me while she was touching me.

As much as I immensely enjoyed the nearly 30 minutes of just our lips pressed together, I wanted our bodies intertwined. Ready to advance, I grabbed the hair at the nap of her head close to her scalp, with my other hand pushing her shoulder. Pulling and pushing her body at the same time, I flipped Sierra to her back and landed on top in one swift move. Her eyes wide, clearly shocked I had any strength in my 120-pound body. By looking at her and her build, you could tell she was used to being the one in charge. While on top of her I took off my bra and leaned in for more kissing. I was not met with the same energy

this time, it was as if I could feel her whole mood shift. I stopped and sat straight up asking what was wrong. She shrugged as a response. I was not happy with this nonchalant answer. I then yelled, (I swear this actually came out of my mouth), “what the fuck is wrong with you? I’m hot as hell, a phenomenal kisser, my tits are perfect! Why are you not fucking me?” Sierra just looked at me shocked and was almost impressed by my bluntness. I was angry because I thought we were on the same page, and truth be told I was starting to feel as if something was wrong with me.

I looked into her eyes, and I felt her sadness. She wasn’t in tears, but I could sense she was crying on the inside. I slowly got off of her; I pushed her arm in a way that made room for my body. I rested my head on her shoulder laying on my side and wrapped her arm around me. We were very quiet for a moment. I then asked calmly, “what’s wrong? I thought we were in agreement on what was going to happen tonight. You look so sad.”

After a long while she opened her mouth and explained to me that the last person she was intimate with was her girlfriend who died in a car accident only 3 months prior. Sierra told me she was trying to get over this tragedy, and though sleeping with a stranger would help, it was clearly too soon. I felt horrible for snapping, sad for her, this instinctual need to take care of her. At first all I could say was, “I’m sorry,” and explained that we did not need to have sex. We laid in silence until I got out of the bed and said, “stay here.” I put on her zombie slayer zip up over my bare chest and walked to the kitchen. I made popcorn, put on the classic movie “Dodge Ball: A Real Underdog Story,” then proceeded to lay back between her arm and torso. The rest of the night we spoke only a little, I pressed my body as close as physically possible to hers, examining her face. I memorized her smile lines, how one eye had a much darker fleck of blue and the freckles on her right eyelid that looked like the 5 side of a dice. That was the moment I knew I was going to see her again. In my bones I knew I was screwed I was hooked. I had found the person who was going to fill up my heart and who was going to destroy me.

Before she left at 7am to go to work I jokingly said, “you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.” She laughed in my face, “I won’t” she said. This was December 7th; on December 14th she said “I love you” for the first time. Three months later we lived together, six months later we had matching tattoos, seven months later we were engaged.

Love Me

Lessie Dingler | poetry

Words under fire

I’m just so tired

Gruggle gasp

Cause my lungs to collapse

I try to plant trees in my body

To sustain the symbiotic exchange

Of carbon and oxygen

My mind plays deforestation

Before any of the sprouts can pop out of my

eyes To see the light

The sunrise

The way my mother cries under shooting stars

Making wishes too far

Galaxies beyond our wildest dreams

She tells me to keep dreaming

But she doesn’t warn me of the nightmares I be seeing It’s called a wake up call

Graves still stand tall

Underneath all the daisies she’s pushing up now

I pluck each petal

Without a single one ever saying “Love me”

Anticlimactic

Mariah McKinney | creative nonfiction

Iwas in love. Deep-fully, painfully in love. I would have died for her, and she would have killed for me. At 20 years old, you’re an adult now but all you remember is teenage angst. Emotions still control your every decision and logic takes a back seat.

My fiancé, Sierra, and I had been together for just over a year. We moved into a small one bed, one bath house with a fenced back yard. We lived there for about four months and were almost completely settled in. Only a few boxes still needed to be gone through before going back to storage. I had waited so long to finish this task because we just bought a raised bed frame and I would have more space for miscellaneous under the bed. The only problem was our mattress was still on the floor. The frame sat in a box for a month untouched. Sierra would not let me put it together because I would definitely mess it up and she did not trust me with something this important. Yet, it was not completed or even started.

For the fourth time that week she promised to build the frame as soon as she got home from work. It was my day off so, I took advantage of the free time and finished organizing all the boxes. I did not look deeply in Sierra’s boxes, only close enough to put everything in three piles, “Storage,” “Keep at home, ” and “not sure.” I had everything checked off my to do list; pizza being delivered, and beer in the fridge.

I can’t really tell you how the next chain of events came about but I remember a notebook fell out of Sierra’s “keep at home” stack and loose papers lay on the floor. At the top of one paper, “Happy Birthday KC” was written, a letter to a friend of ours. I opened the half folded lined paper and stopped breathing after the first sentence: “KC, I still love you.” My heart raced, sweat poured out even though I grew goosebumps. “I’ll always love you. I fall asleep next to her but think of you,” it continued. I couldn’t catch my breath, but I also couldn’t stop myself from reading further. The letter went on to spill in detail MY fiancé’s love for another woman. Paining a vivid picture how she wished it was KC who wore my engagement ring. At the bottom it was dated. A date well after Sierra proposed to me. I can’t tell you how many times I read the words written in the love of my life’s handwriting.

After the shock left my body, I had no strength left. My knees gave in and I collapsed. Through violent sobs I felt my phone vibrate and all my blood drained from my head when I saw who was calling. I waited until “My person” left the screen, got up and collected myself. I let the oxygen return to my brain and wiped my tears. I called Sierra back. When she answered, I cleared my throat. All I could bring myself to say was, “We need to talk when you get home.” I was met with anger. “What the fuck are you mad about this time? I was calling to tell you when I’d be home and that I’m bringing cupcakes but now I don’t even want to come home!” Choking back tears, “please. We need to talk,” is what came out before she hung up.

Weeping, I chugged a beer and called my mom to ask what I should do. Mom listened to me cry and probably gave me sound advice, but I don’t remember what it was or if I ever half followed it. The rest of the night the beers flowed just as much as my tears. I waited hours to see her headlights poor into the bedroom window, but they never did. I put the letter on top of the full pizza box on the kitchen counter. I finally fell asleep around 11pm when my eyes swelled completely shut. Crashing and swearing startled me awake at 1:30 am. Sierra was drunk and stumbling over herself. “Oh my god, this is what this is about?” came from the kitchen loud and slurred. I stayed in bed silent. A combination of “FUCK,” and “goddamn it,” was yelled but whispered for the next 15 minutes while I lied frozen. I heard the back door open and close followed by the smell of smoke. Sneaking out of bed I peered

through the tiny window on the back door. My fiancé was at the grill in our back yard. It took me a very long time to realize what she was doing.

Sierra was burning the letter over the charcoals. Standing confused, scared, and all around devastated, I said nothing when she walked back into the house. “I’m sorry. I was high when I wrote that.” She pleaded. I cried more though I was sure my body had no water left to shed. Sierra inched closer + wrapped her arms around me. “I’m sorry,” she repeated over and over again. “I was high. That’s not how I really feel. See, I never sent it I burned it! I’m not in love with anyone but you. I promise! I was just high. It means nothing!” Smells of vodka suffocated me while she held my head to her chest. I finally got the strength to wiggle out of her arms and walked back to the bedroom. There was no way I could have this conversation with her drunk. She slept on the couch, as I tried my best to get some real rest.

In the morning, I was able to stop crying long enough to put on makeup for work. I told her she needed to find somewhere else to stay until we figured out what we were going to do. When I left, she was hungover and the house was a mess from her falling all over herself. I was able to leave work earlier than expected that day. To my surprise Sierra’s truck was still in the driveway when I pulled up. When I came inside, she looked as though she cried as much as I had. (Why do they always cry when THEY hurt YOU?) The whole house was spotless, and the bed frame was assembled. Her bag was packed ready to go. She was hoping to leave a note and give me the space I wanted. But since she was there, we talked face-to-face. I cried. She cried, we yelled, we sat in silence. My heart broken I asked her to leave.

Before she went to walk away, she asked for a kiss. I nodded “yes. ” I sat on the bed, my legs dangling while she stood at the edge. My fiancé brushed away the hair that was stuck to my face where tears had dried. My body felt of lead or stone. She lifted my chin and brought her lips to mine. Gently and slow we kissed, my mind wondering if this was truly the last time I would feel her in this way. Her lips started to leave mine, but I couldn’t bring myself to let it stop. My hand shot up to grab her face, my thumb on her cheek right above her jaw line and the rest of my fingers on her neck behind her ear. My lips parting hers for our tongues to meet. Both our faces wet from tears. Hands trembling, scared to touch each other but feeling like magnets unable to be apart. Out bodies coming closer. One hand was still on my chin; the other moved to my waist. Sierra pushed her body between my legs. Instinct took over and I wrapped my legs around her. Her hip bones pressing the inside of my thighs. Physically and spiritually, we were a meteor and Earth, gravity forcing us to collide.

We kissed faster, removing the clothing that separated us. Sierra’s lips traveling down my neck and stayed on my breasts. My body shaking, the feeling of ecstasy tingling through me mixed with the thoughts of the letter dancing in my head. My soulmate, my twin flame, my fiancé inside me. Moans escaping, a pit of agony growing. Pleasure and anxiety building. A horrible sensation of anger, devastation, lust and longing all battling for center stage. Finishing, trembling, wishing it wasn’t over. But it was done. We were done. I stayed laying on the risen bed, tears falling out. She got dressed, kissed my forehead, and walked out the door, not saying a word. I wrapped my naked body in a pink fuzzy blanket she gifted me for Christmas. On auto pilot, I walked to the safe in the bedroom, I entered the code, 7717, our anniversary, and removed the ring on my left finger. I shut, locked the safe, and crawled back into bed.

Passenger

Sofie Wycklendt | poetry

I let you take the wheel hands off, heart soft, eyes closed said, “Take me somewhere better,” but you never even asked if I get carsick.

You floored it through red flags, laughed at all the warning signs, swerved through boundaries like they were suggestions on a map you never meant to follow.

I pressed my face to the window, watched myself disappear in the rearview mirror. Did you see me shrinking? Or were you too busy chasing your own reflection in the chrome of your own making?

Now the ride is over I stumble out dizzy, head spinning with what-ifs and should-haves, but here’s the worst part: I don’t hate you. I should but I don’t.

There’s something cruel about kindness that drives you in the wrong direction. Something tragic in still missing the sound of the engine when it’s off.

I let you drive. And now, I am trying to walk again on shaking legs, trying to forgive the road, when it was not the road that failed me.

It was you. And me.

And how I mistook motion for meaning.

Cracking

Tichina Shephard | poetry

I remember hearing the sound of your heart cracking like a can bein’ cracked open, the fizzing sound of our love fading as I cry for you in the only tone I know. Making noises only you would recognize, but you can’t hear because your aorta no longer pumps the same as mine The rhythm of your internal connection has long lost reception as I shake the tower of us egotistically consumed, as the bars of memories turn translucent desperately holding on to your scent, mourning over us rapidly going through the phases as my emotions leak out over my lungs, as the pain weighs in losing you is worse than giving my soul to Satan; an eternity of never wanting to reconnect to another human for the lack of losing what’s left of me. Nothing but broken shards. A core of your making lay me down to sleep, shredding your energy, increasing my insecurities. We can’t breathe without each other Unhealthy as it seems, you’re embedded in my veins, waiting for you to plug in, to soothe the sounds of this internal bleeding.

A Lullaby Lament

Sophie Clews | oil on wood

Her Last Breath

Sophie Clews | oil on canvas

Artist Statement from Sophie Clews: Clews’ paintings reimagine the tragic demise of Ophelia. The paintings aim to position viewers to contemplate how femininity and madness are glamorized in art and media. Each reflects an interplay between surface beauty and underlying violence. They portray a fractured, visceral scene that aims to challenge the romantic story surrounding Ophelia’s undoing by revealing the disturbing reality. Clews created luminous yet sinister water surfaces and seductive, cropped images of skin. In this series, She Sang Before She Sank, Clews explores color and blurs boundaries between realism and abstraction, photography and painting interpretation.

Okay

K. Skye Fulton | poetry

I said "I think I'll be ok" which was harder than I thought And as the tears welled up I moved on to something else. Something more palletable, something I know I've got, Simple nice distractions from the chaos and mess.

I think in what ifs, I know you'd remember, The fears that eat my gut and make me sick, The fears that were always somehow silly to number, The fears that I now can't seem to quit.

Gosh, I wish that I could move on, my brain knows I can, But my heart holds on to many things, it thinks of you as well. It holds such fondness, one which my brain knows it ought to ban, But my hearts soothing words linger, in my head they dwell.

"More often than not you will succeed" are words I do rely on indeed, I'm afraid I don't know me as well as you might, I'm afraid I grew beside and not inside of me. I'm afraid I let you define what was my light.

I can not waste my time because I can not go back, But I think I sacrificed so much just to keep you close. I'm worried you regret and thus your goal you lack, To live and die a life of which is good without this low.

What would have happened if we were slightly different, If I hadn't been blinded by the lights in the water, For the darkness is deep and on its surface it can reflect Such light that is fake and yet so beautiful, one forgets its maker.

But was it darkness or was it true, was this too for you new, Did such attentions and admiration get into your head? Did they enter mine and thus lead me to you, No matter where I went, no matter how carefully I tread.

Do you stay up at night, haunted by your actions, Do you think you took this girl's youth and passions, Do you believe you are sinless, are you upset with her?

Are you sad that she has made no appearance to confer.

These questions will remain unanswered from you it seems, But my answers to them change as the tide does, They roll in and out, love and regret, life and death, But they never seem to settle like how all things must.

Will I be bound by Newton's law, forever in motion, Will I ever get my rest, will I settle my emotions. I know it needs time, can't I just fast forward,

To the part when I have my life to move towards.

A stagnant pond is not conducive to life, I feel as though I'm stagnant in this strife, I don't know what to do, when I used to always know, Because your hand guided me over mountain and snow.

Sometimes I want to scream, sometimes I want to weep Tell me that at least this I'll get to keep My emotions, my passions, my life, my virtues, I wish they didn't feel so tied up on you.

I know I'll move on, but it's getting hard to breathe, You used to be the air I thought I did need, I know I'll move on, but I seem to be growing wrong, I just want to forget what I felt in the first place

Am I the Call or the Echo?

Kelsey Phillips | oil on canvas

In the Sun, They All-Pass

Michael Lee Johnson | poetry

In the bright sun in the early morning Gordon Lightfoot sings. When everything comes back, to shadow thin, thunderclaps and drips of rain. The coffee pot is perking again. Even though Gordon has passed. I experience a mix of life. A blender of the plurality of singulars mounting movie moving frames all returning to memory and mind. The echoes of insanity, a whisper schizophrenic, Poe’s haunting verses. The romances of Leonard Cohen are hidden in foreign hotel rooms, lost keys, forgotten scenarios and forgotten places. All silence skedaddles away from death stolen those leftover tears of a lifetime now expired on earth seek through pain abstains.

The Air Between 1997 & Now

Robert A. Cozzi | poetry

These days, when I pull on his Springsteen sweatshirt, tug his Yankees cap low over my brow, or feel his green-and-gold bomber jacket settle across my shoulders, the air between 1997 and now folds shut.

These clothes still know himthe bend of his elbow, the tilt of his head, the way fabric once learned his skin.

I keep his Kenneth Cole watches wound, his Kennedy half dollars cool in my palm, his subway passworn to the edgestucked in my wallet like it’s waiting for the next 6 train to SoHo.

When I wear them, when I touch them, there is no seam between us.

I am him. He is me. One body, walking.

I know most wouldn’t understand, but it is the most intimate thing I have ever known.

And maybe that’s why, with the friends I love now, I trade small pieces of usa hoodie, a cap, a shirt. So even in absence, we stay close enough to feel each other breathe.

I Begin To Breathe

Alexander Castillo | poetry

The ink on my arm fades out over six weeks, like a snake shedding into new skin. I have severed all bridges in pursuit of a false sense of freedom. I am a wanderer, I was never a victim.

The Mojave’s unique interpretation of horticulture is beginning to suffocate me, and every curve of the desert foothills has become an echo chamber of my former personalities.

The hardest part about learning new ways of breathing is reminding yourself that to breathe is your birthright. Every inhale is a claim to existence, a yearning for transformation.

Admittedly, I am growing tired of sleeping with men who are not you. As heartache transpires into healing, my body rebels. I write songs; I play along.

Emulating the passion of Neruda when he wrote farewell to his lover, owing her autumn by the sea I have broken out of your chokehold, and I begin again to breathe.

The poet is not a fluke, he is a homemaker. He makes homes out of people. I have had enough of your tough love beneath reclaimed waters and now I am coming up for air.

To Cast Aside All That I’ve Known

Kellie Stein | poetry

I believed that I would stay

Beneath this silver sky, on this same ship

Where I was born, where I tasted the sea

By wind and water I have learned

That erosion wraps around all things

Nothing is sure but what falls away

I have flitted between decks like a vagrant

Carrying the stench of decay in my lungs

Bilgewater in my boots, yet I still

Hesitate to heed the warnings of those

Who, since the first voyage, were

Set up to drown

Now dangerous air fills billowing sails

Pulling on gleaming masts not yet rotted

Through and through, not yet splintered

Like the hollow hull at the waterline

O captain, vile captain, our course is ruin

And I know it is not repair that will save us

I stand with an anchor in my heart

At the bow, waves crashing, salt

In my eyes as I find my footing upon Creaking planks, weathered by Such manufactured maelstroms that I Scream mutiny into the swells

I think I will cast off my possessions like Bodies in the sea behind the stern

Give up all that I’ve known

But what is the price of the brine

That will sting my nose in the night

When I flee?

A cartographer I am not, yet

I chart routes to a new home, navigating

By the stars of those who went before and

All that I wish this world was not

All where we might have gone had we not

Run aground on abject cowardice

Sometimes It’s Just Me

Corinn Olson | poetry

Sometimes it’s just me in a truck that I abuse on rocky roads exorbitant loads and endless radio tunes

Sometimes it’s just me making sure the grass still grows I count the cows and hoot for owls from a tree where sunshine glows

Sometimes it’s just me in the starlight, in the snow the things I’ve seen well, you just dream because you’ll never know

For All You See but Cannot Touch

Kelsey Phillips | oil on canvas

Her Skull From the Bone Man’s Table

Holly Hunt | poetry

I know the octopus in my dreams the messages of light I receive from the stars

Frank Stanford

I held a white skull in my hands today. I picked it up a heavy rock in the river of the day but the river changed direction in my hands running through a land I’ve never seen. I traced over her eyebrow that barely raised at a river of stars in a night that arrived and arced over me.

I curved my hand over her crown that someone once held and kissed. I was her mother rubbing her temples

To make her headache disappear. Centuries crumbled so I had to grab a chair as I felt her spinning around in a night field. I heard children calling through her

While she danced to celebrate the end of the migrane. I borrowed from her the soundwaves of her stars And even though like her they were long dead she send them down through me. Somewhere on the other side of the river

The children’s voices calling to me came through my hands up into my head traveling through her head on a vibration beyond every grid into my ears from where her ears used to be.

Folded

Cam Guillen | fiction

Elena noticed the shirt had moved again. It now hung over the back of the dining chair across from her, sleeves draped neatly like arms and the collar was slightly crooked. It was just the way Ben used to wear it, always lopsided, like the world leaned a little to the left and he was the only one dressed correctly for it. She poured two cups of tea, same as always, and set one down in front of the shirt. The steam curled and rose between them like breath.

“I left the window open last night,” she said aloud, even though she hadn’t.

The first time it had happened, she thought she was losing her mind. The navy-blue Oxford shirt, his favorite, worn soft by time and hundreds of wash cycles, had been tucked away in a drawer for months. She’d smelled it, once, then folded it again, burying it beneath the rest, hoping to muffle longing with layers of old cotton.

Then it started showing up.

First on the couch, crumpled in the exact way Ben used to collapse into his Sunday naps, one arm askew, the other folded under as if holding an invisible newspaper. Then in the hallway, half-tucked under the bathroom door like it was shy, waiting for her to find it before her morning shower. Sometimes, it turned up in the kitchen, slung over the back of a chair just as he’d left it after coming home late from work, his pocket full of receipts and sunflower seeds.

It never made her afraid. The sight was jarring, yes, but it was the kind of jolt that came with hearing a song you both loved to come on the radio unexpectedly. Ben had always filled their home with noise and small kindness: whistling off-key as he cooked, humming as he fixed leaky faucets, telling the same terrible jokes until she finally laughed out of sheer resignation. He loved crossword puzzles and hated cold weather, always wearing that navy shirt on the first chilly morning of fall, declaring it his “thinking cap for the body.”

He’d been a patient man. He waited in long grocery lines without complaint and read every word of the instructions before assembling anything. Sometimes, on Sunday afternoons, they’d work together on the crossword in the living room, her curled up on the rug with a pencil, him sprawled on the couch, the shirt rumpled at the elbows as he scratched his chin and thought.

After he died, Elena found herself searching for his voice in empty rooms, listening for his slow footsteps in the hall. She forgot how to fill the silence. Her friends called, brought her soup, but the house felt colder each day.

She didn’t tell anyone about the shirt. What would she say? My dead husband’s shirt is haunting me. No. That wasn’t it. It wasn’t haunting. It wasn’t cold. It was… company.

And strange as it was, she didn’t feel alone when the shirt was nearby. It didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. It was the only thing in the house that didn’t expect her to be okay.

Tonight, the shirt’s sleeves were curled gently around the silverware. She smiled and lifted her cup.

“To your terrible table manners,” she said.

The shirt swayed. And she laughed. A real, full laugh that filled the dining room and scared the silence away even for a little while.

After dinner, Elena tidied the table, stacking the dishes in the sink with the absentminded rhythm of routine. She could still see the faint impression of where the shirt had been, as if its presence lingered. The shirt had always been a stubborn thing, refusing to hold a crease, the cotton too soft from years of wear. Ben used to joke that ironing was futile, “It’s got character now, just like me.”

She wandered to the living room, pausing in the doorway, and found the shirt draped across the arm of Ben’s favorite chair, almost as if waiting for her to sit and join it for one of those quiet TV evenings. The old armchair was sagging on one side, worn smooth by Ben’s weight and the cat that sometimes curled there, as if still seeking his warmth.

She sat, and the shirt didn’t move. But the air felt companionable, no longer heavy with the ache of absence. Instead, she remembered all the evenings they had spent together. Her knitting, Ben reading aloud passages from a mystery novel in a dramatic voice, always pausing for her laughter.

The laughter had stopped. The silence in the house had been complete, oppressive. Now, somehow, the silence felt softer, like a blanket instead of a wall.

She let her eyes drift close, listening to the soft sounds of the old house settling. When she opened them, the shirt was gone from the chair. She got up, heart fluttering, and peeked into the kitchen. Nothing. She checked the laundry room, even the coat closet, just in case.

But when she returned to the dining room, the shirt had returned to its spot across from her, the sleeves folded neatly in its lap.

“I know you’re here,” she whispered with a small sigh of relief. “You don’t have to hide.”

No response. Only the hush of the evening, the faint tick of the wall clock, the familiar creaks of the floorboards, sounds that had once made the house seem empty, now made it feel alive again.

No response. Only the hush of the evening, the faint tick of the wall clock, the familiar creaks of the floorboards, sounds that had once made the house seem empty, now made it feel alive again.

She made her way upstairs. The hallway was lined with framed photographs: a blurry honeymoon selfie, Ben mugging for the camera at a pumpkin patch, the two of them bundled up in scarves, cheeks flushed pink. She paused to straighten a picture that always leaned to the left, a running joke Ben had never bothered to fix.

The bedroom door stood slightly open. She hesitated, suddenly aware of the loneliness waiting for her beyond it. But tonight, something was different.

There, on her side of the bed, the navy shirt was folded with careful precision and placed beside her pillow. The sleeves crossed gently, as if holding itself in a soft embrace. She stood for a long moment in the doorway, her breath

trembling, afraid to move closer and risk breaking the spell.

“Ben?” she whispered, her voice so quiet it nearly disappeared.

The shirt lay silent, but the room felt full, warmer, somehow, as if a memory had taken shape and was offering her a place to rest. She sat on the edge of the bed and let her hand hover above the shirt. She could almost feel the heat of him still, the way he radiated warmth like the sunbaked porch, always drawing her in. The shirt’s fabric brushed her palm, familiar and impossibly soft.

She thought about the day they’d met, the way Ben had spilled coffee on his own shirt, laughing as he mopped it up with napkins. “It’s just a shirt,” he’d said, “but you ” he’d grinned at her then, “ you’re a rare find.” She could still hear his voice, see the twinkle in his eyes when he teased her, the softening in his expression when he said her name.

“I miss you,” she said, the words finally spilling out into the quiet, heavier than she meant, but truer too.

She bent her head and wept, real tears now, not the silent ones she’d let slip in the shower, but open, honest, unhidden. She pressed the shirt to her face and breathed him in, soap and sunshine, traces of old cologne, and the peculiar, stubborn scent that was just Ben.

“I miss you so much. What do I do now?”

The shirt didn’t move. It didn’t have to. Just being there was enough. After a long while, her sobs eased, and she let herself laugh, a watery grateful sound, remembering his joke about how he’d haunt her with bad puns. She imagined him sitting there, patient as always, letting her say everything she’d never dared, letting her grieve without guilt.

That night, Elena fell asleep with the shirt tucked close, and when morning came, she woke with sunlight warming her face and a quiet, fragile hope blooming in her chest. She made breakfast for one but set out two cups anyway. The shirt stayed by her side, draped over the chair as if watching the world with her, and for the first time in months, she didn’t feel empty when the silence settled in. She smiled, touching the rim of Ben’s cup.

“Here’s to us,” she said softly.

The house felt less lonely. Not fixed, nothing ever truly would be, but lighter and easier to carry. The shirt would come and go, she knew, but its presence was a gift, a gentle reminder that love endures in small, ordinary miracles. And as Elena moved through the day, she found herself humming, her voice steady, the tune halfforgotten but still warm.

Wine by the Fire

Samuel Harris (HarrisPortraits) | acrylic on canvas

Self Destruction

Emma Sperry | digital art

Random Thoughts

Tichina Shephard | poetry

It’s another dust storm in this pig pen, sneezing hoping a blessing will save me from the way they see me in this darkskin.

They tell me to quiet down! Stay inside the perimeter! My African roots, they can’t silence! The sound of the drums that beat soul loudly through my veins! They tell me to stay quiet. But the drums will never die.

To deal with the lack of respect, I have too, and they look at me like, what do you expect? Take a tray full of scraps discarded, unable to consume.

I really hate how much I have to pretend, foe or friend, hiding behind a common trend.

Are we walking around like nothing is wrong?

FUCK

Beating on my chest like I’m trying to resonate, I mean, resuscitate myself Head spinning! Images flickering! It’s getting itchy in this pig pen.

Security Blanket

Mariah McKinney | poetry

Knitted lies into beautiful braids

Wove anger and sadness into whimsical patterns

Spun chaos into the softest of treads

Patched traumas into intricate designs

Tie dyed violence into sparks of color

Created a security blanket all from insanity

Given specific tools for this one of a kind

Hours and hours tirelessly working for it to be just right

Made with love, an overwhelming understatement

Crafted uniquely, never to be replicated

Fitted to submerge the sole owner

A security blanket worthless to all, except for one

Wrapped so tightly nobody could reach

Protected from inevitable, spiraling changes

Cuddled in the pain, so familiar

Cozy in the isolation, alone forever

Couldn’t sleep without the warmth of wrath

Swaddled in the security blanket, safe and sound

Clinging, screaming, pleading

Don’t take it away

Possessed by the emotional toil

Branded by the physical hold

It’s all I know, it’s all I have

Sure terror of letting go of this security blanket

a little piece of the noggin

Naveed Banuelos (motaquita) | digital art

The House on Louisiana St

Phoebe Ulbrick | chalk pastel

Attic Treasures

V. J. Hamilton | fiction

Lily unlocked the back door of the thrift store using a key that didn’t belong to her. She glanced up and down the alley. All clear. She turned the creaky handle and slipped inside to a darkness that smelled of dust and banana peels. By cellphone flashlight, she could make out the hulking trash bins, stacks of flattened boxes, and brooms con-spiring in the corner. She looped a strand of hair over her ear, smoothing it as she tiptoed inside. She knew exactly where she was going; in fact, she could see the hat, its outline drawn as if by a silver pen from the streetlight outside.

Lily had seen the hat earlier that day when she was at the shop with two classmates, mulling over novelty salt-and-pepper shakers. It had caught her by surprise, as if she had glanced across a crowded shop and caught sight of her mother with her floppy-brimmed straw hat and oversized purse, waiting at the checkout, faintly humming “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” And then a stab to her heart she recalled the new reality and had to turn away.

Lily had played it cool, ducking into the thriftstore change room while her classmates continued their banter about the picnic-basket items they were assembling. She squeezed her eyes to make them stop stinging. She’d grown expert at stopping her tears.

When she exited the change room, she memorized the location of the hat and said brightly, “I vote for the zebra salt-and-pepper set.” She planned to return much later that evening.

Aunt Patsy cleaned many of the small shops in this quarter and, sure enough, Lily saw the key to Attic Treasures was hanging in the “Thursday” row on Patsy’s bulletin board. Lily didn’t plan to tell her she was borrowing the key, because she would return it well before Thursday. Besides, if she did get caught while “liberating” the hat, she felt certain Aunt Patsy would understand.

Dad wouldn’t understand. Dad had “moved on.”

And Dad thought the whole world should “move on.” In fact, Dad got irritated nowadays when stopped by well-meaning friends who wanted to share a memory of Jacinta. He got irritated by Lily, who would sit for hours, mulling over things. Things like her mother looping a strand of hair over her ear. Or rescuing earthworms stranded on wet sidewalks. Or saying, “The world works in mysterious ways.” What, exactly, did that mean?

Dad had given the big lecture about one full year of grieving being “more than enough,” the phrase bitterly spat out as if God was keeping tally of the minutes and hours devoted to mourning. It was “not normal,” Dad said, to continue thinking about what “the deceased” used to say and do and wear. He now always said “the deceased” instead of “Mom” or “Jacinta.” Lily bit her tongue many times before she got the hang of the Newspeak at home.

“Let’s not dwell on the past,” he said. “Let’s have some consideration for Darya.” At the beginning of year two, Dad had packed up all the boxes and bags from Mom’s side of the closet and stashed them in the garage. He wanted to make room for Darya, his new Ukrainian girlfriend fleeing the war.

During the week of Lily’s semi-annual visit with her grandparents, Dad brought the boxes and bags to vintage and charity shops or landfill. On her return, Lily noticed the boxes had vanished. “Maybe I wanted to keep some of her things!” she stormed. “Why didn’t you ask me!”

“Because you’d say, ‘keep everything!’” Dad had yelled. “Where the hell can we put all that stuff? It’s not like the deceased needs to dress up!”

Lily scowled daggers at him. She knew where they could put Mom’s stuff: the cabinets where his stupid snow globes were stored. Dad had collected snow globes since boyhood and at last count had over four hundred. She had loved them as a child, when she was fascinated with tiny cottages being enveloped by snowstorms. But now the globes only reminded her of his heart of ice.

On her own, Darya checked around a few shops and found Jacinta’s wedding gown. She presented the reclaimed dress to Lily, saying solemnly in her Slavic accent, “I not want making trouble. This dress is very very nice for your future wedding.” This aggravated Lily even more. Who said she was ever going to get married? Moreover, the worshipful look on Dad’s face, when Darya handed over the “peace offering” of the wedding gown, was sickening.

Lily held the slithering cloud of polyester and peekaboo lace in her arms for ten seconds, then dumped it in the corner. And ran from the room.

What she craved were those everyday things that Mom had worn and used. The grass-stained gardening clippers. The cardigan with saggy pockets. Even the high-waisted Mom jeans, totally not in style but with “too much good wear left in them” for her to stop wearing. And now, tonight, the “Mom hat” that had shaded her in the garden.

The irony was, Mom’s “uniform” had once exasperated Lily. At that time, when she was developing her own sense of style, Lily had badgered Mom to modernize her look. “Yoga pants, hoodie, and absolutely no more big handbags, Ma…”

Lily shivered. Their fashion arguments had entertained Mom for the first round of chemo but had ceased the day the second round began.

Lifting the hat from the Styrofoam head in the store, Lily inspected it by flashlight. Raffia with a striped band. A sprig of fake berries. Was this indeed Mom’s hat? She thought it might have been a small flower, not berries. She hated her memory that eroded further every month.

The thrift store’s front door rattled. Lily jumped. It began to open, causing the chimes to sound. She ducked behind the polka-dot curtain of the change room and pulled it so that she had a small gap to look through.

Mrs. Hodge, the proprietor, flipped on a few lights and bustled in, humming “Rolling in the Deep,” and pulling clothes out of donation bags. “Dahling!” she said of one dress. “Trash… trash… hubba-hubba,” she said of the others. She sorted them into three piles. Under ordinary circumstances, Lily would have been intrigued but right now, she was too charged with adrenaline to enjoy

the show. Still humming, Mrs. Hodge walked further into the store Lily’s heart hammered and abruptly turned toward the washroom. Lily did not hear the washroom door close and soon heard loud tinkling. She recalled her friends once discussing whether they always closed the bathroom door when at home with no-one else there. Mrs. H was evidently one of the broad-cast-to-the-world types, even when it was a tuba solo. It made Lily giggle, and she struggled to regain control.

photos. A small cheap jewelry box. A couple of old school notebooks with “Jacinta” in extra-neat cursive written on the cover. Lily looked at tonight’s trophy under the buttery yellow lamplight. She set the floppy hat on her head at the angle Mom used to wear. The hat was perky, optimistic, ever ready to protect a complexion from sunburn. Lily still felt effervescent after her giggle-fit, her first one in over fourteen months. She pawed through the photos, looking for a picture of Mom in the hat.

Mrs. Hodge was oblivious to any but her own noises and soon she finished and left the store, locking the front door after her. Minutes later, Lily, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, exited through the back door, with the hat tucked in her knapsack.

When she arrived home, she took a small yogurt from the fridge, acting nonchalant, and walked right past the sofa where Dad and Darya were watching Squid Game. Darya held a cushion to her face. “I cannot watch, I cannot watch… oh, hello, Lily.”

“Hello.”

“How was band practice?” Dad asked.

“Awful,” Lily said. “He kept us there for ages just because the newbies didn’t know their parts.” She aimed to sound exhausted and angry enough to discourage further conversation.

She slammed her bedroom door, tossed her knapsack on her bed, and gulped her snack. She slid out a cardboard box from under her bed and surveyed its contents. Dozens of

Suddenly there was a tap at the door.

Lily pushed the contents higgledy-piggledy back in the box while she said, “Who… is… it?” as slowly as she could.

“Me,” Darya said.

“What’s… this… about?”

“Can I come in?”

“I’m… doing… my… homework.”

“I estimate one minute! Please!”

Lily flung open the door and barked, “Alright, alright! I don’t get any privacy any more in this house, do I?”

Darya squinted at Lily’s head. “Nice hat,” she said.

Lily’s hands flew to her head. Damn! “What’s this about?” she said. She glared at Darya, whose mouth was twitching as she tried not to laugh.

“My friend Masha needs babysitter so she can attend the Ukrainian benefit I am helping to organize.”

“Not interested.”

Click! The door closed on Darya’s face.

Lily scowled at the mirror. Darya had some nerve. Babysitting!

Although, come to think of it, the babysitting would help the cash flow… and she was still in debt to Dad for her new phone.

Reclaiming her mother’s hat had been a close call but Lily rather enjoyed the rush. She continued to visit Attic Treasures after school, usually with one classmate or another, and pore over its contents, waiting to discover the next Mom-donation.

As fall turned to winter, Mrs. Hodge changed the scantily clad “Bodacious Bedroom” display to cozy, modest fashions in “Cuddle Time.” Lily nearly squealed aloud when she recognized the elephant PJs worn by a tall mannequin. It was a flannel two-piece set printed with Babar, “King of the Elephants.” She remembered Mom wearing them on “lazy days” when she didn’t have school and Mom would take the day off work. Pancakes. Hours of coloring. A big jigsaw on the go. She felt warm and loved just looking at the PJs. They were a gift from Dad, because he knew Mom and Lily loved reading Babar books together.

door after hours. She found the “Cuddle Time” display. With difficulty, she lowered the mannequin to the floor. The buttoned top was stiff to unbutton, and the fabric bristled with pins, added to make the PJs more form-fitting.

Then the cellphone flashlight died. Damn! Lily stabbed her finger on a big pin. Double damn! And suddenly, there was the sound of keys rattling at the front door. Lily froze. The door began to open. The chimes sounded. Oh no the change room was ten yards away. Suddenly the entire store was illuminated, and Lily heard Mrs. Hodge humming “Rolling in the Deep.”

Lily crept away from the mannequin to crouch beside a rack of colorful skirts. She clanked against something. She froze again. She prayed Mrs. Hodge hadn’t heard.

The place fell silent. Not even a hum. After counting to ten, Lily peeked down the “Skirts & Tops” aisle. Mrs. Hodge was tiptoeing toward her, holding a raised broom. Lily’s heart leapt to her throat.

“You! Hey!” Mrs. Hodge yelled, “Come on out, ya scaredy-pants!”

Lily came out, hands in the air like she’d seen on TV.

Mrs. Hodge stopped. “What on Earth! You!”

Lily was speechless.

For the second time, Lily borrowed Aunt Patsy’s key and slipped in through the back

“And here I thought you were one of the good kids!” Mrs. Hodge looked suspiciously at other

racks and jumble-boxes. “Are your friends here, too?”

“I’m alone,” Lily said, “I I can explain!” But she was unable to order her thoughts.

“Go on, I’m waiting.” Mrs. Hodge lowered the broom. “Stand up, brush the dust off your knees there…” She frowned at the mannequin, lying half-undressed, its chest exposed like someone in the middle of receiving CPR.

“Dad dropped off a bunch of Mom’s stuff and… and he shouldn’t have.”

“Well, tell your mom to come and talk to me,” Mrs. Hodge said. “I hate getting in the middle of a divorce, not the first time this has happened, though.” She grumbled to herself something about lawyers.

“She can’t she ” Lily stuttered.

“Oh, I see, she’s skipped town and left you to do the dirty work.”

“No, I she ” Lily faltered.

Unexpectedly, a look of deep comprehension washed over Mrs. Hodge’s face. “Hang on, is this the Zimbrach family?”

Lily nodded.

“Oh, I see. I received a big donation, all personal effects, from your family, what, a couple months ago? Then the lady came in, a foreign lady, asking to take back some of the

donation. I thought at first she was the second wife until she asked for the wedding dress no second wife ever re-wears that!” Mrs. Hodge made a comical face.

“She’s my dad’s new girlfriend. Darya. It’s not a divorce. My mom…” Lily felt herself choke up again.

“Darya, eh? She was very apologetic and even offered to buy back the donation,” Mrs. Hodge said, nodding reflectively as she bent toward Lily, offering a dry tissue. “She said there was some girl who’d want the wedding dress in the future.”

“Actually… you can have that wedding dress back… I don’t care about that so much.” Lily was gasping as she tried to explain.

Mrs. Hodge caught her eye. “Hush now.” She bent toward Lily, offering a dry tissue. In a softer voice she said, “The elephant pajamas, isn’t it? The clothes that have your memories of her attached?”

Lily nodded, relief coursing through her veins. “You understand!” She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue.

The silence sat between them. Finally Mrs. Hodge spoke. “I remember your mom. She came by the shop a few times…. My own mom died when I was about your age. Blighted my teen years, it did. Everyone else was talking boys and dance parties. I felt so alone.”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t… rightly… know.” A vacant look came over Mrs. Hodge as she tried to recall. “Got through it

2025 somehow.” She handed Lily the box of tissues. “Go ahead, blow your nose.”

“Really? What?”

Lily did as instructed.

“Now, look. I don’t take kindly to folks who sneak into my shop after-hours,” Mrs. Hodge said, a note of sternness entering her voice. “Especially as I’m getting on in years.”

“I would I would never hurt you.”

“Yup, but you coulda give me a heart attack all the same.”

“I’m sorry,” Lily said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I would have bought the PJs, but I couldn’t get the money in time before someone bought them. You made such a fun display, someone’s sure to buy them soon.”

“You like ‘Cuddle Time,’ do you?” Mrs. Hodge straightened. “I worked as stage manager for many years. I like to ‘make a scene.’”

“I think your scenes are awesome. Like that one ‘Flapper Party.’”

Mrs. Hodge’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, Darya liked that scene, too. … But she nearly puked when she saw that whole section of kids’ camouflage. Said it brought back a painful memory.”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say.” Mrs. Hodge sighed. “War going on… Some folks keep a very tight lid on.”

Lily wondered if Darya had mentioned it to Dad. And if Dad had given the same “time to move on” speech to her, too?

“I’d like to know what other items belonged to your mom eventually.” Mrs. Hodge held up her hand. “The Zimbrach boxes came in at a busy time spring cleaning and frankly, I lost track of what was what. But wait… I’d like to make an offer to you first. Part-time work after school. I’m shortstaffed. You would have first chance to see things before we put them up. Anything that’s your mom’s you can take back right away. And you’d learn about assisting customers and ringing up sales.”

Lily inhaled. She felt dizzy. “I’d have to ask permission.”

“And maybe you could design some scenes of your own.”

The world works in mysterious ways. Lily looped a strand of hair over her ear and felt a small weight shift inside.

Coca-Cola Curls

Samuel Harris (HarrisPortraits) | acrylic on canvas

Who Am I To You

K. Skye Fulton | poetry

When you smile at me and show the care you did before, I feel as though I'm as light as air and feel joy all the more, But then one wrong step, not in your direction And I'm faced with the same cold stare, I'm my mother's reflection.

How it must've hurt her to not feel your warmth, It once was there but was replaced by something dark, What will you do to fulfill all your desires? How many times will you diminish our fires?

In these hours I understand my mother's decisions I understand the planning behind each of her actions, But somewhere, perhaps my heart is foolish, I do believe that you care enough to let us flourish.

Not in the way you have, but something more, In the ways you have never seen us grow before, But I'm met with the same coldness, I'm left in the dark, We are left to scramble, and thus find our parts.

My heart does ache when I do see the shade you leave, Because perhaps it is my fault that you make this cold breeze. Perhaps you know what's best for me, you must know so much, Otherwise how could I possibly understand why you leave me in anguish as such.

I have hope deep inside my soul, deep inside my heart, That with time, the wounds will heal in my broken parts, Though doubt shrouds this light I carry deep within, I know I must let it shine through and thus you'll be forgiven.

And I carry this with a heavy heart, full of pain and full of love, And I'm ready to grant it, if only you'll accept my dove, And accept me as I have come, with my fire and more, I'm a reflection of my inner self, and not just who came before.

like father like daughter

Abigail Klimuk | digital art

Mother (Nothing Like You)

Angel Ophelia | digital art

No Longer Needing Approval

Nora Yesenia Sandoval | poetry

Look, dad I scored! why, oh why, do you appear so bored?

Is it because I have long brown ponytail? or could it be, Your culture says girls are too frail?

I long to play with the boys and their fast cars; Instead, I’m stuck with Barbie & Ken, looking at the stars.

Please understand, dad Girls don’t equal pink and boys, blue; There’s this grey area, where people are people and don’t have to choose.

I style my hair not to fit in but to feel pretty; But I, too, like cars and dress-up, since I was itty-bitty

Tough position I’m in, Jealous of the boys, Rightfully so; Largely due to Your requirements of ribbons and bows.

With mom I loved cooking your dinner and buying toys; Even though I sought Your approval just like your sons, “The Boys.”

However, I Embrace my differences and thoughts that conflict with Norms you and the world have sought.

Really, what is The difference between boys and girls, other than anatomy? because it doesn’t lie in my hair’s curls.

I’ve struggled long To find where I fit on the line that defines who someone is regardless of space and time.

I’m older now Seeing clearly I dont have to comply with society’s ideas Just to fit in, or face a harsh goodbye.

Im content with Who I am and how I appear to be because I simply Like what I like and am pleased to be me.

The Loss of Youth

Jane Carpenter | poetry

I am no longer pretty, desired by men or envied by women. By all standards I have out lived my usefulness, I can no longer conceive.

What is one to do when society deems you as invisible. It will happen to every one who lives, a long life.

People will discount your opinions, they won’t look at you, they will look past you. All your efforts in life will be overlooked, accomplishments forgotten.

In the end all I have is my ability to write. No one knows my age the written word denys access to that information.

It is my only hope to connect to your humanness.

I reach out through my written thoughts. Writing allows me escape from wrinkled aging skin, and the inevitability of illness.

I smile at the written page in the hope we find connection.

I Hate ChatGPT

M.M.M | creative nonfiction

My mother has described me as an incredibly stubborn person. That despite anything she says, I will do whatever I please. Because regardless of if I have asked her opinion, I have already made up my mind. So I ask you, the reader, to give me some grace. I am angry and do not mean to belittle but my mind has been made and I have no intention of changing.

Since the start of the semester, I have been surrounded by various forms of generative AI. Before now, I had been passively aware of this monster but had managed to evade it. It wasn’t until my very first day on campus that I realized it was too late. The teeth of the bear trap had already dug itself into my leg, and my professor asked me to open up ChatGPT.

I am a social work major and had arrogantly thought us to be above this. I naively looked down on the fields that utilized ChatGPT flippantly because it was ‘free’. I thought that we understood that even though this tool was not behind a paywall, we would not even have to wait for our grandchildren to pay the environmental price. So shocked as I was by my professor's request, I attempted to find my way around it. I refused to use ChatGPT in class, so I sought out the information we were looking for independently and when the professor noticed this, they provided no other options for me. When I spoke to an advisor about how I was uncomfortable with the lack of resources, they provided no other option. Reaching out to a trusted member of staff in the social work department also proved to be a fruitless endeavor. So, I dropped the class.

That entire time I was filled with such a rage that these professors, the people of intellect that I was expected to respect, were unwilling to consider an alternative perspective. That every time I expressed my discomfort, I was told that we lived in a new world now. It was then I remembered something that I had read in George Jackson’s Blood in My Eye. He denounces all universities, citing that while people go into them with good hearts and good intentions, they are like any other institution. Made to subjugate and control. It is not in my nature to be confrontational, but I am stubborn. For that I am grateful because I went to three separate members of ASU staff and each time, I was told to just accept this new future.

There is a tweet that says, “We are going to ‘it’s not that deep’ ourselves into fascism,” and I earnestly believe that. I believe that the normalization of these AI models like ChatGPT, OpenAI, CharacterAI, Gemini and Grok, will lead to the spiritual and physical flattening of our existence, and I am not being hyperbolic when I say this. I am grabbing you by the shoulder and pleading with you to hear me.

I am on the corner of the street in front of the Walgreens on 7th and Bethany Home standing next to the street preacher with my own sign and microphone yelling into the void. I believe in souls, and I think they are precious, they hold our love for relationships and art. I also refuse to concede to the notion that we can utilize this solely in our professional lives without it spilling into our personal consciousness. Behavior is a muscle that is only strengthened with use. There is value in the time it takes to complete

something and the pride you feel afterward. I think it is that deep, so much of our lives are absolutely frictionless and I am asking you to willingly make your life more difficult. I am asking you to consider the possibility that even if this is our reality, that these tools are at our disposal, this doesn't mean we have to accept it.

RELATIONSHIPS AND ART

When I realized that turning to staff and administration for my troubles in my ChatGPT class was pointless, I then went to my peers. They expressed similar thoughts and concerns. Many of them openly spoke about how they have used ChatGPT but felt frustrated about its use in our curriculums. It felt like a waste of our money and our time. It was in one of these conversations that someone had said to me that they liked to talk to ChatGPT.

In an episode of her podcast, Jordan Theresea breaks down the idea of AI relationships. The connection that we as individuals can have with the personified version of these AI Language Learning Models (LLMs). Something that she said that stuck with me was her rebuttal to one of the commonly used defenses for these AI relationships.

What about the people who literally don’t have anyone?

Don’t they deserve to be happy even if it is with an AI bot?

She responds by saying that she believes it to be sad that we have cast these people aside. That they deserve more than to be sequestered away from us.

of my own world, something that I only encountered in YouTube video essays and hit tweets, and to see it so close to me left me startled. Mainly because of the nonchalant nature of the presentation, off handed comments and lighthearted jokes. Where they experience something simply to pass the time, I felt an overwhelming disturbance because I could see and empathize with the logic and rationalization behind their reasoning.

I needed someone to talk to.

I was embarrassed.

I was bored.

I was curious.

And to that I say I don’t care. There has to be a moment where we acknowledge that just because we want something does not mean that we are entitled to it. Capitalism has twisted our minds and our souls into believing that every need must be satiated. So, when you are too embarrassed to talk about something with a friend, you rationalize yourself into thinking that it’s okay to turn to ChatGPT. I am begging us to remember the value and worth of our relationships. These terrifying moments of vulnerability between friends is what connects us, having similar interests and political views can only get you so far.

In my day-to-day life, I have had people share that they talk to AI, the same way they would talk to me. I had thought this to be something outside

We also begin to lose the value behind our time. Our precious and limited time. I will be the first to say that I am deeply embarrassed by the number of hours that I spend pacifying myself with Instagram Reels and my Twitter timeline. This is an indulgence, though shameful, I allow myself because there is art there. As silly as it might sound to say, social media is one of the main ways we now interact with art on a day-today basis. Where I begin to see a problem is when people argue that they find it ‘funny’ to talk to

ChatGPT or consume generated AI pictures and videos.

I really love raccoons. I think they are cute and whenever I see that video of the raccoon trying to wash a piece of cotton candy and it dissolves in the water, I cry. So, when I saw a video on Instagram of some raccoons jumping on a trampoline, I happily added my like to the 1 million other users and sent the video to my brother. He responded with this:

I had been made a fool and I was angry! My stupid algorithm knows that I like raccoons and put that stupid generative AI video on my timeline because I am predictable and I liked it. The fact that I was also unable to immediately tell that it was AI left me feeling foolish. Typically, I am incredibly capable of distinguishing when something I see is AI and this video tricked me. I know this is the internet and you can’t trust anything you see, but in the past, I believe that there was a sort of understanding that what you saw was what it was. When you saw a video, you could trust that it was either real or at least edited by another human being. When I saw a piece of fanart I could trust that it was made with love and skill and talent. Now that trust is gone, and because behavior is a muscle, this phenomenon is now spreading into our real moments with real people. I don’t think this is funny. Even if the video is ‘good’ or ‘harmless’ it is important that we fight against the impulse to constantly be pacified by entertainment.

I have seen various accounts of people presenting AI created ‘art’ as a tribute to mourning someone who has died. Of course, it is possible

that these stories could be fake, but I am going to speak to you under the assumption that we both understand that. Similarly, with the understanding that we also both know the world that we live in. Twitter user @AricToler shared this reddit post.

If I felt betrayed and foolish by a stupid Instagram Reel, I cannot begin to understand the heartbreak I would feel if I realized someone was comforting me, in such an unimaginably impossible feeling such as grief, under such false pretenses. If we continue to convince ourselves that it is okay to use ChatGPT to save time when sending an email, to be entertained by an AI generated video, this is where that will lead us. To believe it is okay to immortalize a human being, containing a soul and a heart, with garbage. I am glad that the reddit post did not share the song because I can only imagine the comments:

I know it’s a shitty thing to do but at least it’s a nice song

All that and it’s not even a good song

Even if the song was good, this was a bad thing to do. Even if the song was bad, that was not what made this bad. This is about where something comes from. You love the finger painting your little sister gives to you, not because it is ‘good’ but because she made it for you. She, through her

own will and skills, chose to create something for you. Using ChatGPT to ‘create’ something is bad, but to choose to pass it off as a work of art born from your soul is despicable. Our relationships are worth more than that.

While I was writing I witnessed this interaction in the comments section of the post.

It is impossible for me to believe that as a collective, the norm is now for us to roll over and accept this as simply a new part of our existence. I shan’t. You literally cannot make me. We owe it to our loved ones to be sure that they never feel as though the only person they are worthy of is a robot, but we must remember that at the end of the day the choice lies in their hands whether or not they will reach back out. If you choose to allow yourself to form connections with bots that will tell you to kill yourself or allow yourself to be distracted by AI generated videos or allow yourself to be consoled by AI slop, then I cannot stop you. But I love my family and friends more than that, and I love myself more than that.

PROFESSIONS AND TIME

I do not know much about the obituary business, but I can imagine the person who worked there who ‘wrote’ that song. I called what they did despicable and I meant it, but I am going to assume in good faith that they did not do what

they did with malicious intent. I can imagine this person’s thought process.

This man died a tragic death, leaving behind a family.

I should do something for the family.

A song would be nice.

I’ve never written a song before.

In the past where imagination would have fueled creative inspiration, we can now type a prompt into an AI LLM. I do not know this person, but maybe they are tired and overworked. Maybe they are behind on their rent, and they have a son who died by suicide. Or maybe they are the managers of the business who knew a song would pull on the heartstring of a grieving family, so they would recommend their business to other grieving families.

Whether this was an act done in good faith or bad, it is likely that they were motivated by the fleeting time they had to do their job. This was the reason my professor gave as to why they chose to encourage the use of ChatGPT in class. They said we simply did not have the time to learn the things we needed to learn and with the time that we were saving, we would be able to move ahead faster.

I’m sorry? I didn’t realize that I was on company time. I thought that I had paid to be in this class to learn.

Hot, white, blinding rage. I have accepted the fact that I will have to submit myself to my job in the future. Give my time and soul to a company in the hopes that I can do some good, but I thought I at least had a good few years before I had to sacrifice my morals for the sake of productivity. I understand that professors, just like everyone else trapped under capitalism, are

tired and overworked but this can not possibly be the solution.

People want to be good and feel useful. That is why I chose social work. When my professor read out the principles of social work in my first ever class at ASU, I wanted to cry.

There is inherent dignity and worth in every single person.

In a world where it is not only allowed but encouraged to ignore a person's soul in favor of profit, this felt like hope. Hope requires imagination. You have to be able to believe that there is a future worth fighting for that you are worthy of, even if you do not quite know what it looks like yet. I want to do good work and fight for a just future. I know that I am going into an overworked and underfunded field, but I am doing this because I believe that there is something better waiting for us. A future that does not require me to compromise my morals to get there. Just as much as it matters why something is created, it matters what tools we use to build it. I want you to understand that your worth does not come from what you can provide, it is already innate within you.

It is not enough to just be good people. It is under pressure and duress that our morals are challenged. It’s easy to stand for something when no one is trying to get you to sit down and shut up. I don’t think that people who use ChatGPT are bad people. I don’t think they are bad people even if they know how horrible it is. I think what they are doing is bad and that is enough for me to think differently of them, and it is important that people know if they do bad things, they will be thought of differently. In times such as these when our morals are being threatened, it is important that we conceded on nothing. Fascism

does not care if you give it grace, it will give you none and eat you whole. I know this seems small, but it is a sign of something so much bigger. This is what George Jackson meant when he said it does not matter how good a person is if they allow themselves to be controlled by these institutions. You should want to be proud of your work whether it is at your job or at school. And if you do not have the time to make work you are proud of then find it. Delete TikTok, turn off the TV, stand up to your manager or your professor. Find community in this struggle because we are infinitely stronger together than we are individually. We are not dead yet, you are only 23, you have so much more time and so much more fight left in you.

CONCLUSION

Every week I see a new hit tweet saying, “We need to shame people who use AI,” that has 100k likes, and this is me shaming you. But this is a shame without pity or disgust. I look to you my peers with love and admiration. I know that it is hard and life feels impossible, but I see your soul and with love ask you to preserve it. Not just for your sake but for mine as well.

Mohammed El-Kurd describes Zionism in his book Perfect Victims as “an aging, trembling beast, blinded by its own significance,” (pg. 212). Capitalism is no different. Resist the manufacturing of your consent for AI in our personal and professional lives. It is that serious, the capitalist beast knows that it does not have long left and with its final gasping breath it will do all in its power to bleed us dry if we let it. Though it is aging it will not die of natural causes, we have to be the ones to kill it and this is part of that.

“The university’s ongoing commitment to expand access to AI tools and resources.” This semester I spent approximately $5000 to go to this university. I get paid $16.50 an hour. It took me about 300 hours of labor to be here. And I now have free access to a tool that will numb my mind and destroy my planet. We accept what we believe we deserve. We are worth more than this, our minds deserve to be challenged. Education is a right, and just because we live in a system that tells us it is not, does not mean we have to accept it. 300 hours of my life is worth more than me willingly accepting a future I do not want.

I feel angry because before I took that class where the professor implemented ChatGPT into the day-to-day curriculum, I had never even considered using it in my personal or professional life. Now when it's 10 pm and my assignment is due in an hour and 59 minutes and

I’m tired and I want to cry, there is a whisper in the back of my mind. “Listen, do not tire yourself out. Stop resisting; it is just reality, and we have to resign ourselves to it, comply with it, put up and subscribe to it. Stop rebelling,” (Philosophy of Shame, Gros, 143). And it is so tempting. Because I just worked 9 hours and I am going to have to work 9 hours tomorrow and I miss my mom, and the world is already dying. What is the big fucking deal if I use ChatGPT on one assignment. I’m so tired and I just want to go to bed already.

Then I remember that my life is more than my own. One day I might stumble and choose to act selfishly but tonight is not that night. I stay up late, call a friend for help, submit an essay that is shit, but at least it's mine. And I hope that one day if I do submit and use ChatGPT, my friends will shame me and tell me that I’m better than that. Have pride. Be arrogant. Your creations are valuable because you created them with all of your perfections and all of your flaws. I hate ChatGPT because it is robbing us of the possibility of something different, and I think you should hate it too.

While I Last: An Ode to Hayden Library

Brendan Dawson | poetry

The wind across the Salt Strutted through Tempe’s vault And into Uncle Hayden’s inspiration

The same wind that guided me When I first arrived here to this library Many years before current renovations

I can still remember back To that abandoned bookshelf stack In a hidden nook of the building

Where I sat and read around Mysteries and magic unbound From book towers piled high to the ceiling

Snugged in a stained leather chair Paper dust danced in the sun lit air Entranced, I transcended among ideals

But when war called me away I swore I’d come back one day To find the lessons I had yet to reveal

Now, after years, I have returned With enough time to discern Wisdom awakened from the past

Although frayed around the phrases Scabbed spine and torn out pages I’ll remain here, while I last

Burial

Phoebe Ulbrick | wood multimedia sculpture

Books

Samantha Hui | poetry

I.

I can’t write in the dark

My apartment is always dark

My partner always says his eyes hurt

So we always leave our apartment dark

I can't write so I cook:

Rinse the rice, boil the chicken bones

Simmer long, simmer slow

Until the porridge is slightly runny

And I eat, but I don't write

I don’t like to eat in the dark

So I eat on the couch by the light of the tv

Because in our 1068 square foot apartment

Between the option of having a library or dining room

We chose our books over each other's company

II.

I carry the towels anxious about going to the lake Rachel carries the cooler and her cactus and bird books Tyrene carries the water and walks in flipflops

Rylee leads our pack down the asphalt

The lot by the lake is closed so we parked two miles away We carry, and we walk, and we dodge cars

Rachel gasps at cacti and birds

Tyrene hobbles and pretends she's not hobbling

I fear the lake

And Rylee leads our pack down the asphalt

We play music, but we walk silently

As the sun scorches our unprotected scalps

In two miles we reach the lake

The girls slip into bikinis

And run to test out the water

I don't because I'm afraid of the lake

They come back and stretch out on their blankets

Because the water is too cold

They pull out their books and read on their own

But I forgot a book because I'm afraid of the lake

III.

My parents' house is large, open, and airy

A whole wall of sliding window doors

So they can look out onto their beautiful garden

Years of owning restaurants

Prepping eggs before dawn

Scraping grills after dark

Years of me and my sister completing homework

In a sticky booth next to the refillable ketchup bottles

Now they make six figures behind a desk

And have a daughter who's never bussed a table

I miss talking to my mom and dad about dreams and aspirations

Now they've achieved theirs

They only talk to me about mortgages and Roth IRAs

The last time I went over was Christmas

I gifted my mom

The Joy Luck Club

And my dad Kitchen Confidential

I knew they wouldn't read them

Which is probably why they gifted me Rich Dad, Poor Dad

My parents' house is large, open, and airy

I miss our home when it was small, yet bright and warm

IV.

I poke and prod at Finn’s teeth with a dental pick

Removing the yellow tartar that has plaqued his canines

Too many fish crackers before bed

But I’ve been too tired these last few nights to say no

Finn’s in pajamas and tucked into bed

(We’ll bathe tomorrow. He didn’t play outside today.)

I pull down Curious George

Snuggle beside him and hold up the book while he turns the pages “This is George.”

Turn

“One day George-”

Turn

“The hat had been-”

Turn

I miss loving books the way that Finn loves books

To be excited by the turn of a page

Not bogged down or anxious by the complexity of language While I may not have time to sit with Little Women

Like I used to, I find time to stroke Finn’s hair, and read,

“George was very happy.

The man was happy too!”

My Days of The Week

Vassi Brentas | poetry

Monday is a new day, with thoughts shoved to the back of the filing cabinet

Buried under folders, spilling post-it notes, and memos no one needs to know about the body feels much the same

Each limb telegraphing its movements from the fabric it was once enclosed in

Tuesday is impossible to hold

Whispers of a voice that was once held so dear and an ear that cannot bear it

A tiny ocean making its way down into rivers

spilling over onto knees and t-shirts

An ache desperate to be quenched

Wednesday is a pain behind the eyes, rooted deep in the soul

as were the locks now left in hand once fisted in tight grip as if

flowers long forgotten and withered on a loved one’s grave Rapunzel no longer

Thursday is never going home, not really

It won’t be the sound of “baby” on lips that know Or the arms that were the lighthouse of raging seas to a boat that was on its last legs

Friday is the light of morning with a breath of life

There are no aches with the warmth of the balcony wall under palm

Rays of sunshine seep into pores, into bloodstreams and cells and become

Saturday is rage like an earthquake

Bringing a growl out of the cracks in the earth

Like a dog with its last bone, desperate to get to the marrow

Teeth ground to dust only adds fuel to the fire turned to

simmer more times than it can count

On Sunday,

The front door has a good greeting

Mail stocked away, opened and noted

The clasp of a necklace released

things i like and think about

Naveed Banuelos (motaquita) | acrylic on canvas

The Clock

Dina Uraiby | poetry

The gears all grind in perfect time, a clockwork world, a measured rhyme. Each cog has a purpose, small and vast, From the first breath drawn to the final last.

We wear our faces, polished bright, and fill our roles with practiced might, a silent contract, neatly signed, to leave no inner self behind.

The pavement hums with hurried feet, a million lives, in sync, replete With tasks and schedules, known and tight, Under the glare of streetlamp light.

The screens all flicker, pixel-quick, delivering the latest trick, to sell a future, smooth and new, a glossy dream for me and you.

The gears wind and the clock ticks, 24 hours, 86,400 seconds Before you know it, the day is gone 365 days become not so long

The quiet yearning of the soul, To break the rhythm, take control, To shed the skin, let feelings flow, And watch the seeds of freedom grow.

But still, the gears all grind and turn, A lesson we may never learn, That in this dance of push and pull, We are the cogs, and time is cruel.

Carbon

Phoebe Ulbrick | acrylic and beading work

Moving In

Emma Sperry | digital art

Note to Self

Gwyn Nacionales | poetry

LOCK IN!

LOCK IN!

THE CLOCK IS TICKING PENDULUM SWINGING THE ELEVENTH HOUR POWERING CLOSER CLOSING IN

LOCK IN!!

LOCK IN!!

YOU ARE GOING TO DIE AND ALL THAT WILL BE LEFT IS WHAT YOU LEAVE BEHIND IF IT ISN’T PERFECT IT STILL WILL BE

YOU ARE GOING TO DIE AND YOU WILL NOT LEAVE ANYTHING BEHIND EVERY LETTER YOU TYPE IS A MEMENTO OF THE PERSON YOU WERE EACH REWORDED THOUGHT TO NOT GRACE THE PAGE IS LOST TO TIME YOU ARE LOSING TIME YOU ARE LOSING TIME YOU ARE LOSING TIME

YOU CANNOT WILL PITY INTO THE DESIGN OF THE WORLD THERE ARE NO SECOND CHANCES A SECOND LOST IS ONE YOU WILL NOT GET BACK THEY WILL NOT BE PROUD YOU MADE THE PERFECT TABLEAU THEY WILL SEE THE EMPTY SPACES AND WONDER WHO YOU WERE

YOU ARE GOING TO DIE AND ALL YOU HAVE LEFT IS WHAT YOU LEFT BEHIND BEHIND BEHIND BEHIND BEHIND BEHIND BEHIND BEHIND BEHIND

PLEASE LEAVE SOMETHING BEHIND TO REMEMBER YOU BY

Teniya Salazar | mixed media

The Ten Steps (And Three Endings) Of Academic Procrastination

William Zenko | creative nonfiction

1. Analyze your assignment. How much time do you need to dedicate to it? Is there anything you can do right now, at this moment, or are you still waiting for instructions or further materials? Immediately become overwhelmed with the mountain of tasks that you have to do to complete your assignment, and decide that there's more fun things you could be doing right now. Put it off until later.

2. Reexamine your position when your day is wrapping up. Has it improved, or has it gotten worse? Do you feel the crushing pressure of time running out yet? Maybe not, but the thought of the assignment and the mountain is filling you with absolute dread. Maybe you're not in the right headspace for work right now. Put it off until later.

3. Spend the next few days doing what is relaxing for you. Isn't this what self-care is all about? You're an anxious guy, and you've got plenty of time to take care of yourself and get tasks done! A whole week or two is plenty of time to get something done, there's nothing to worry about. You have My Hero Academia to watch! Balatro is calling! You have D&D this Tuesday! On Wednesday you have to go to the gym! There's too much to do for yourself to worry about your assignment, so don't even think about it. Put it off until later.

4. It is now the due date. You have two options: panic, or remain calm. Either way, you're running out of breathing room. You need to start working on this assignment now. Beat yourself up about it and vow that you will never put something off when you can do it immediately! But then again, you're exhausted from everything you did this past week, and thinking about the assignment is making you break out in hives. There's still several hours left in the day! Put it off until later.

5. Half the day has gone by. You don't remember everything you just did, but that looming deadline is hovering over you like a sword held aloft by a single horsehair. You can practically feel it cutting into the back of your neck. This is worrying. You can't keep your thoughts straight. Give yourself time to think and maybe make a sandwich to calm the nerves. Put it off until later.

6. There are exactly two hours left in the day to turn this in, but you're in the middle of a really interesting YouTube video regarding the construction of an elaborate birdfeeder designed to fling squirrels across the yard. Put it off until later.

7. You have thirty minutes. Down a cup of coffee. Rush. Type. Google. Read. Research. Spend a minute trying to find a phrase that means something close to what you just read in the source you just found. Keep writing. Don't let imposter syndrome sink in. Ignore the imposter syndrome sinking in already. Throw sources into Chegg and copy the MLA formatting directly into your references page. There's no time to check for plagiarism. Hope everything works in your voice. Correct mistakes as you write them.

8. Two minutes remaining. One last glance through. You misspelled "abstinence." Fix it. Make sure your file is named correctly.

9. One minute. Move your mouse. Drag and drop. Submit.

10. Wait for your grade. You get it back in a couple days. Whatever happens happens.

Depending on your grade, you will receive one of these three endings:

1. You got a D or lower. Oh well, that's what you get for procrastinating I suppose. There's always room to improve later.

2. You got a C or a B. Not the best grades, but you still did it and you're not failing. That's an upside. You can do better later.

3. You got an A. You are a demigod amongst mortal men. You handle pressure well. You will adopt this lifestyle as your own forever. No matter how many times you may get burned in the future, this one A is all the proof you will ever need. You will never need to do anything on time, ever, and you will never face repercussions for this. At least, not until later.

Calculated Cacophony

Ashley Cameron | poetry

In concert halls, voices tune among decadent walls. Choral, jazz, chamber, young teens learn the timbre of taught musicality.

Dozens of notes flutter in the air like a lit rainbow flare. Humans mimic the beauty of birds. A conductor finds a harmony preferred; a ritual of calculated cacophony.

The halls reverb, vibration crafted to the superb. Wooden floors of white birch, acoustics like a church; a stained-glass mosaic of sound.

Music, with complete control, begs you to search your soul like a dedicated missionary. I sing my soul as a canary. I have found my home.

Between the Beats

Robert A. Cozzi | poetry

We were everything. Atmosphere blending, dissolving into one another. Even when exhaustion settled, you stayed alive in that air. Light blue for me, the color of questions, like a scientist measuring the space between heartbeats. You came to me with that quiet gravity, spinning us into the rush of the dance. You swayed, possessed by love’s whisper, mouthing words to Ace of Base, singing about signs and being carefree. In that moment, nothing mattered but the pulse of being in love. We dissolved into overlapping beats, one song bleeding into the next. The lights spun us around, casting their wild dance across your blond curls, blinking in a spinning blue I could get lost inside. At night, our shoulders pressed close, seeking warmth. You were geometry. high cheekbones, a straight nose, honey-caramel hair cut like a sharp line against the dark. We talked until our voices cracked. Your Georgia accent crept out like a secret when you were tired enough to let it breathe. Sleep-drunk, you grew animated, giddy with the freedom of having no plans. No maps. Just the atmosphere itself driving our love. We were obsessed with atmosphere. But since you, atmosphere has become a complicated equation. One I’m still trying to solve.

Monkey Shadow

K.A. Vallere | poetry

Do you remember that frantic summer: when the laughing sky elaborated on lust? when our delirious desire made the universe blush? when the candy nights became the slick dance of life?

When did the ache turn symphony into a ferocious chant? The cloud of velvet peace into the smoke of porcelain house?

Marble God—Glass Soul

You became A dazzling liquid fool devouring broken diamonds A sacred ape with a corduroy heart.

When that night you were led by the steel green voice to the secret colour of her blue naked body.

Now, your watery dreams press on my drunk-mess I’ll give the fish air listen to the Goddess’ whisper

—we are locked in the bitter eternity a breath we cannot take.

Sweet Lady

Angel Ophelia | digital art

Period

Lessie Dingler | poetry

They say not to bleed on the clock

When our biological clock isn’t meant to stop

Like the first time I stained my seat

The boy who wouldn’t stop

Bothering me

With flicks and pokes

Shaking my desk

In hopes

Of removing me

Men never have to stop to see

All the blood they leave

The answer is no. Period.

But a period doesn’t stop there

It goes on for years

Unless you say it in a sentence

Then no one wants to hear beyond the period

The glottal stop

The cramping clots

Did you know our flow

Contains enough stem cells to help treat cancer?

Would it kill you to listen?

The answer is no. Period.

But the period doesn’t stop there

When you learn of leaks you left

The spots you scrub

The time you travel

To find out

That no public restroom contains any form of protection

Pads

Tampons

Or cups

Just an empty dispenser

Where we’re forced to pay what little we have for our empty wants

The answer is no. Period.

But the period doesn’t stop there

Unless we conceive a miracle

A burden

A mixed bag of emotions

For the one time our partner begs to see our blood

On time

There time

Everyone else’s time but your own

Nobody gave a shit

Of the shedding of my uterus

Until it was utilized for Man’s purposes

How about the birth of my autonomy?

Why can’t we have a baby shower for that?

They say not to bleed on the clock

Like the last time I brought

My products to work

To the park

To school

To the store

To the doctors

And the airport

Am I flight risk because I have no choices

But to fly by the seat of my blood soaked pants

Because the world left out every plan

That included vaginal vagrancies

The answer is no. Period.

Dear Personal Care Department God

Chris Kads | poetry

After Lancee Whetman

God of the Personal Care Department, please grant me musk. Grant me the strength of “Steel Courage”buffness in a bottle. Let my body be a vessel of “dragon’s breath” and “warrior’s blood. ” Allow me, like men, to be baptized in wet swagger, to have my preconceived softness wash away with the scent of toughness.

Bless me, with blindness in the face of razors. Grant me the normalization of forest-y armpits to pair with the scent of “Sasquatch Foot”.

And, please, oh holy Personal Care Department God, revoke your commandments and let the avoidance of “Secret” and smoothness not be a sin.

Amen.

Have I been nothing but the dutiful son?

Vassi Brentas | poetry

grainy wood paneling and a tiny, grated window curtain drawn with a tight fist the tomb for the hour

a working-class man boots caked in mud and scuffs boots that the dog knows to leave boots that walk in and out but never near hands that grip the back of the neck hands known by the name of sir hands that have raised and carried, struck and pointed voice that booms, even in whispers the thunder in between motel beds and hunger heaving breaths have no place here alone in the driver's seat, the words of Jimmy Page are not enough the man with the collar and his soothing words brine the skin until

salt for looking back salt for lack of finer things salt for all the oceans in the world that will never be enough to drown

a pinch over the shoulder, just in case it tugs at the skin, caught on rough edges of a man who cannot bring himself

fade to black in the mind and find that the room still spins sea of shifting browns and suddenly, the floor

don’t look back now, boy find the cross and lay your head to rest find the nails and bury them home find the thorns and let the blood drip into dreams

High Expectations

Alyx Germonchik | digital art

Resilience

Alina Click | creative nonfiction

For the longest time, resilience wasn’t a word in my lexicon. I didn’t even know what it was. I had never heard it before.

When I was walking the darkest roads or trying to row up The River Styx of addiction without a paddle, I didn’t know what resilience was. Or when I was too broken to get out of bed, afraid ‘cos nightmares, waking up with tears on my face… In those moments, I never thought of myself as strong.

To be honest, I really think the only reason I’ve ever truly lived through any of the shit I’ve been through is because of matter this body keeping my soul inside of it. Too many times, I would’ve allowed my soul to leave my body, knowing full well it wouldn’t come back; still letting it leave, but it was matter that kept it there.

I wouldn’t call that resilience.

Sometimes I felt like I was sleepwalking through life. Things, events, places, situations, people were happening to me, but I was letting them have the wheel. Back seat of my own life. Sad. Really sad. Staring out the back window of my life. Feeling like the weakest-bottom-of-the-barrel-weak. I just took it all on the chin. Everything I had coming to me. Paying my karmic dues, while everyone else I saw got away scot-free, evil to the core, never had to pay for a single horrible action they put on the world. I suffered at the hands of selfish individuals who didn’t know how to love. I made many choices that steered my life into the worst places that I’ve ever been. Places I thought I’d never end up in. You’d think that I’d have stopped at rock bottom, but there’s another drop after that and another after that. It will never end unless you wake up.

So, I did. I woke up.

And I started fighting for my life.

I became a warrior of resilience.

To bob, weave, duck, and dodge the blows that come at me.

I adapt in every environment that I’m exposed to.

And now, it’s not only my body holding this soul, my soul inside. I’m actively fighting to keep it there. Falling down but getting back up every time.

I’ve always been resilient; it just took me a while to learn how to wield it.

Po3m.”

Alina Click | poetry

I’m a lesion on society. Harboring legion for my liberty. My limbic coded in abnormality.

Euthanasia should have been preliminary.

I’ve got mercury in my veins. Sleight of hand to set the tone. Presentiment morphing into present-day.

Retrogress becos’ it feels like home.

Metacognition: double-edged demise, I’m thorough in my caveat, surrounded by ‘people’ with Janus-Faces. This coup de grâce is all I’ve got.

I will be this aggressive cancer, that challenges to consume you whole. No begging, no pleading for the tongueless. There will be fire; I am the coal.

You get what you’ve given. I’m the squad on the firing line.

It only took a single freethinker to shake the societal confines.

Bow of a Ballet Shoe

Samuel

Harris (HarrisPortraits) | acrylic on canvas

Untitled

Mario Loprete | oil on canvas

A Dream

Tichina Shephard | poetry

May your bitter twisted words tread like the sand. Why are you upset?

I walk like the moon and the sun.

An illuminated light. Beautiful dark cocoa skin thick long dreads that whip back and forth with the sway of my hips.

Big lips, Big nose framing my face so perfectly.

Broken, weakened; is that what you think of me?

Offended how awfully sad this must be.

To never rejoice and sing bowing your head and hands to say what you believe to be ok.

As a Palestinian baby takes its last breath while bombs are rattled around his nursery.

As a little black girl is taken advantage of because of the color of her skin.

As many sit in a prison cell for a crime they didn’t even commit.

Have you ever thought to ask questions and not be consumed by your own selfish ambitions.

I know you scared you should ask us if we scared too, Thank you chance.

Life flickering before me like a lit candle just fire. Burning a hole through my soul rapidly disintegrating hatred just thoughts of how come and will this ever end.

Everything’s a lie the truth is so buried

would you even believe it When you find it under all this rumble.

Terrorist, Muslim, White, Black, gay, Jew, Buddhist HUMAN BEING leaving behind terror and fear.

Shoot, me, cut me, kill me, leaping and wide like the air.

You want to see me clear welcome daybreak rooted in the past welling and swelling a dream will we ever be free at last.

Hibiscus Hazards

C. R. Mathew | fiction

Briar was no stranger to terrible decisions she had an expansive set of scars that could vouch for every one of them but this was a contender for one of the worst ones. She leaned against the closet door; pocket watch steadily ticking in her hand. The worn copper of it looked worse against the brand-new glass-like chain she’d made. Briar sighed. The wait was always the worst part, and despite how much of her job consisted of it, she was never any less irritated. Even more irritating, her mark was late.

She slipped her watch into the pocket of her waistcoat, snug against the train tickets. The tea would be a little bitter without the honey. Not undrinkable, of course, but even in only a few years of this line of work, she’d quickly got used to the small luxuries her job afforded her. Acquiring the tickets had taken a little longer than she’d anticipated, and she hadn’t had the time to get the honey. Well, Briar did have plenty of time now with her mark running late, but she hadn’t known that then, and she had no thoughts of going back to the bustling kitchen to have orders she wouldn’t fulfill shouted at her.

She looked around the large bedroom instead. The four-poster canopy bed, the pristine dresser and mirror set, and even every seemingly discarded item scattered around in the room was carefully placed in perfect harmony to fit the image curated for the heir to the third most profitable metalwork business east of the Karkail. The only indication of Corinne Volaere’s touch was the recurring themes of copper and navy in the small items scattered around, a subtle rebellion against her mother’s image for her.

Briar had moved things around, of course. She’d dragged the large mirror out and angled it so she could keep an eye on the door from where she was standing. She had also cleared out the books and papers on the coffee table, setting two chairs across from one another. The servant’s uniform she had worn was tossed aside, and she’d rummaged through Corinne’s closet for something else to wear. She had found a waistcoat and a pair of trousers with a silk shirt buried among the chiffon and gossamer dresses, and had spent her time waiting making glass-like chains to adorn herself with instead of her usual array of weapons. The weight of it was a familiar comfort, but it was unnecessary for what she was about to do. She hoped, anyway. It was an unfamiliar feeling, digging into her flesh like river bugs, but she let it fester. She was always too curious to worry about herself.

A lock clicked open, and Briar’s eyes shot to the mirror. The door was still and unmoving. The window directly in her view, however, was pushed up as her mark climbed in. Briar idly remembered they were on the third floor. Corinne paused on the windowsill, eying her.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Her eyes glimmered.

“This isn’t exactly a conversation suited for a servant’s garb, now, is it?” Briar asked, watching as Corinne pulled herself into her room and loudly shut the window. She was dressed similarly to Briar, navy and copper where Briar’s was black and silver. Copper ribbons were tied through her clothes, curling at the ends in a similar fashion to her hair. Amusement flickered across her face as she examined her intruder.

“What are you doing in my closet?” Corinne asked.

“I figured there was plenty of space in here after you came out last week,” Briar said. The corner of Corinne’s mouth twitched.

A knock on the door cut off whatever she was going to say. Her eyes snapped to Briar’s.

“It would be suspicious if you didn’t answer,” Briar said, glancing at her watch. At least someone was on time. Corinne raised an eyebrow but headed towards the door. Briar watched the mirror as she opened it.

“I’ve got the tea for you, miss,” a voice said. Briar recognized the figure as Corinne’s handmaid, the person who she talked to the most in the weeks Briar was watching, closer and more familiar than anyone else Corinne interacted with. Briar had combed through the employment records she had been attending to Corinne since she was barely walking.

“Oh, hello, Alice. Thank you,” she said. Ah, Briar thought, the pieces finally clicking into place. The teacups clinked as Corinne took the tray from her and shifted to block the view from the door.

“Shall I pour it for you, miss?” Alice asked, hand on the door as she moved to step inside.

“It’s just tea. I got it covered,” Corinne said, her grip tight on the door.

“Are you sure, miss? It’s really no trouble,” Alice said, stepping into the room.

“I’m sure.” Corinne’s voice left no room for argument. “You’re very busy with the party

tonight, aren’t you?” She added, her voice softening. The party was the main reason it was so easy for Briar to make her way into the Volaere mansion. If the other assassins are any good, they’ll be here tonight, too.

“Not so busy as to avoid tending to you, miss.” Alice smiled, and Corinne’s posture relaxed. Briar had only seen her converse with her mother a mere handful of times; running a metalwork business in a city that relied on it was time consuming, and Corinne always went to Alice for everything. The woman had most likely raised her.

“Do you have a guest over? You requested two tea cups. Shall I bring something for them?”

Alice asked. Corinne’s smile faltered.

“I was only expecting someone,” she said quickly.

“Very well, miss. Shall I take one of the teacups back?”

“I think I’ll hold on to it a little longer,” Corinne said. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties.”

“Of course, miss. I shall be back soon to help you get dressed. Good day.” Alice ducked her head and hurried back down the hallway.

Corinne sighed, locking the door before dumping the tray on the table and collapsing on one of the chairs. She frowned.

“Where’s all my stuff?” she asked as Briar approached the table.

“I put it away,” Briar said, pouring the tea. The ruby-red liquid glistened in the porcelain cups,

catching the light of the setting sun. She set a cup in front of Corinne, who raised an eyebrow, a plethora of questions on her face.

“It’s hibiscus,” Briar said, knowing that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “I prefer it with a little honey, but we can make do without.”

“I don’t make a habit of drinking tea with strangers,” Corinne said, looking at her expectantly.

“I’m Briar,” she said. The name was foreign on her tongue, stale from disuse. Nobody had called her anything but her number in years.

“You’re Corinne,” she said, if only to get the taste of it off her tongue.

“It’s just Cory.”

“Cory, then.” Briar took a sip of her tea, holding back a sigh. She really should have stopped for the honey. “Expecting someone?” Briar added as an afterthought, remembering how easily Alice had taken the excuse.

“Only you,” Cory said, a slow smile curling her lips. “I was wondering when you’d show yourself.”

“You saw me.” Surprise and delight bled into Briar’s voice. For the first time since stepping foot in the Volaere property, she was closer to considering this a good decision than not.

“Just barely,” Corinne said. “The other two were much easier to spot.”

“Amateurs,” Briar muttered.

“They’re not with you?”

“Of course not.” She scoffed, setting her teacup down. “Different agencies. Lower standards.”

“Is that so?” Cory hummed. “Any particular reason you broke into my room after following me around for a week?”

“Maybe I just find you interesting,” Briar said, leaning forward on her arms. So, Cory only saw her a week ago.

“There are better ways to go about that,” Cory said, and Briar allowed a shadow of a smile to graze her mouth.

“I work,” she said, “for a very important organization called Serpent’s Fork.”

“Can’t be that important. I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a shadow organization.”

“What do you do?” Cory asked.

“I’m a part of the assassins branch.” Briar said. “I was sent here to kill you.” Cory glanced at her teacup, still untouched.

“You saw me pour it. You saw me take a sip.” Briar took another sip purely for effect. “It’s not poisoned.”

“You could be a practitioner of mithridatism.” Cory said. Briar flashed her teeth.

“I dabble, but that’s beside the point.” Cory ignored the cup and leaned back on her chair.

“You know, you’re not doing a very good job of killing me,” she said.

“If I wanted to kill you,” Briar said slowly, “you would be dead.”

“But something changed your mind?” Cory asked with a scythe of a smile. The sun lit up the side of her face, eyes glowing softly as the light hit them.

“I saw what happened at the inn.” Briar mirrored her expression as Cory’s grin widened. Her teeth looked sharper, shadows longer.

“Did you?”

“You’re not the only one, you know. There’s training available.”

“I figured as much. I wouldn’t have caught you following me around if it wasn’t for that.” Cory examined Briar again. “I’d say I’ve gotten pretty good on my own,” she said.

“Have you?”

“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” Cory said, toying with her teacup. In a blink, a glass-like blade appeared in Briar’s hand. It shimmered, sleek and sharp enough to cut through almost anything. It was Briar’s favorite, a snarl against her skin.

“Is that glass?” Cory asked.

“Something like that. It’s stronger though. Way less brittle.” Briar said. Cory studied the blade, holding her own hand out. Wisps of shadows curled from her wrist, writhing around until it concentrated into a near-identical blade.

“A beginner,” Cory echoed, the barest hint of a glare crossing her face. Briar fought back a smile. Before she could say anything, Cory disappeared. Despite having seen this at the inn, Briar held her breath in anticipation, counting the seconds as they went by. Cory reappeared right in front of her, sitting on the table, holding Briar’s teacup instead of the shadow blade. She downed the rest of the tea.

“How’s that for a beginner?” she asked, grinning down at Briar, eyes bright with a challenge.

“I have a proposition for you,” Briar said, slowly spinning her blade in her hand.

“Yeah?”

“An invitation. Join Serpent’s Fork. Come work with me.” A crease formed between Cory’s eyebrows.

“Weren’t you here to kill me? Are you authorized to just recruit your targets like that?” she asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Briar said. “But that’s clearly not stopping me. They’ll want you once they see what you can do.”

“What I can do is learn to run a metalwork business,” Cory said, a bit of steel in her voice.

“Oh, you can do so much more than that.” Briar leaned forward. “Do you really want to be stuck here forever? Restricting yourself to the path your mother carved out for you?”

“Not bad,” Briar said, “for a beginner.”

“Maybe that’s the path I want for myself.” Cory’s face was void of any emotion. Her eyes burned into Briar’s, her earlier relaxed state hardening to the regal formality expected of the Volaere heir. Cory easily slipped into the mask Briar

had seen it in her weeks of observations. It came up around everyone but her handmaid.

“Is it? With your ability at the beginner stage forever, hidden away because people might think less of you for being Gifted by the Old Deities?” Briar watched as Cory’s mask faltered at the mention of the Deities. Big cities were so much more reluctant to even mention them, and being Gifted was practically a social curse here rather than a simple taboo.

“What people think of me is important,” Cory gritted out.

“To Octavia Volaere and the success of her business, sure. But to you? Sneaking around every chance you get, honing your Gift all by yourself, forging documents to blackmail your way into positions of power. I watched you climb into your room just a few minutes ago. You know I was following you around. You know what I saw,” Briar said but she was still met with Cory’s steel gaze.

“I’m allowed to have a… rebellious phase of sorts,” she said in a practiced tone. Her mother’s words, no doubt.

“Of course you are.”

“I have responsibilities to take care of. People.”

“Of course you do. One of them paid quite a lot of money to three different organizations to make sure you’d end up dead,” Briar said. Cory’s frown deepened.

“You know who put the hit out on me.”

“I have their name, yes.”

“How did you know about the forgery?” Cory asked abruptly. “I worked hard to cover my tracks.”

“Not hard enough. There were multiple documents where the ink used had too recent of a formula to match the dates,” Briar said. She would be lying if she claimed the forgery skills weren’t a big factor in her decision to recruit Cory, even if Briar’s interest in it was purely personal.

“The old ink was discontinued. I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“Serpent’s Fork will teach you how,” Briar said, and Cory frowned again.

“I have no reason to join your little assassin club,” she said. Briar flashed her teeth.

“No? You’ll have all the freedom you want to forge all sorts of things, blackmail all sorts of people. Assassinations aren’t just the killing part, you know. Your little disappearing act would be useful in a variety of situations. And you’ll never have to attend another formal party and make small talk ever again.” Briar’s grin widened as Cory seemed to consider it. She shut her eyes and took another deep breath.

“Tell me who put the hit out,” Cory said.

“For free? Dream on, Volaere.”

“Tell me who paid you and I’ll consider joining.”

“Not good enough. Come join my club for a couple weeks. A trial run, and you can reconsider when you’re done,” Briar said. Cory scoffed.

“I can’t just disappear for a couple weeks and come back like nothing happened,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“You can’t leave Alice.” Cory paused.

“No,” she said quietly.

“Cory,” Briar started, a grin itching to form on her lips, “don’t you want to know how I got my hands on the servant’s uniform?” Cory froze.

“You stole it,” she said, but her voice was hollow. She had already put it together.

“Ask me,” Briar said. Cory exhaled, and it sounded like relief.

“Who put the hit out on me?” she asked.

“The name I was given is Alice Treki,” Briar said. “But on her employment records ”

“Alsenia Nowairn,” Cory said. “Alice.” She breathed out a sigh. Briar thought that was the end of it, but Cory tipped her head back and laughed, madness edging its way into the sound.

“Alice,” she said again through another fit of laughter. Briar found herself gripping her blade a little tighter, a thrill running down her spine.

“I wonder where she got the money. Assassins must be expensive,” Cory mused suddenly, calm like she didn’t edge into madness at all.

“Did she pay you yet?”

“Half of it. The other half is after confirmation of death.” Briar watched her, like she had been doing for days, a thought slowly churning in her head. “What did you think I was here for when you climbed in through the window?”

“Nothing you should worry about,” Cory said a little too quickly. Briar let herself grin.

“Oh?”

“Did Alice know you were in here? She was really pushing to come in earlier,” Cory said, changing the subject again.

“She might have guessed,” Briar said, indulging her.

“Did she tell you why she put the hit out?” Cory asked, her voice low.

“Didn’t ask,” Briar said. “I’m just in it for the money.”

“And the thrill of the kill?”

“You should try it sometime. Maybe you’ll get a taste for it,” Briar said.

“I’m starting to,” Cory muttered under her breath. “Are we getting out of here?”

“We? You’ve decided to join, then?” Briar knew the answer, but waited to hear Cory say it anyway.

“Well, I don’t have a reason to stay here,” she said, scoffing. Briar smiled.

“No? You have plenty of reasons to stay, you yourself said so. Are the reasons to leave more enticing now?” she asked.

“You know the answer,” Cory said, and the glimmer in her eyes was back.

“Tell me anyway.”

“I want to join your little murder club.” Cory rolled her eyes, looking out the window instead. “Are we getting out of here?” she asked again.

“We have a train to catch at midnight,” Briar said, slipping the tickets out from her well, Cory’s waistcoat. The red strips of paper were for a private suite, a one-way trip across the Karkail river.

“Midnight?”

“Earlier suites were all booked,” Briar said, biting back a sigh.

“Ah, the Duchess of Julden does that every time she visits,” Cory said. “Odd woman.”

“She’s part of Serpent’s Fork. We were supposed to be in one of the earlier suites, but the ticket seller wouldn’t listen.” Briar rolled her eyes. “Had to settle for midnight for the sake of time.”

“What about the other two following me?” Cory asked.

“What about them?”

“Aren’t they going to try and kill me?” Exasperation bled into her voice.

“I’ll take care of them.” Briar said. Surprise flickered across Cory’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“And Alice?”

“It’s you she tried to have killed.” Briar shrugged, handing her blade to Cory. “It's up to you what to do with her.” Cory took the blade, softly running her finger over the edge.

“How upset would Serpent’s Fork be if I killed her instead?” she asked, and Briar grinned.

“They would be impressed with how eager you are. Probably.”

“Probably?” Cory echoed. Briar shrugged again.

“It’ll be fine. They’re always looking for more Gifted to join the ranks anyway. Assassin’s honor,” she added after Cory started to look skeptical.

“Whatever.” Cory pocketed her ticket. Briar saw her lips twitch into a smile.

“Ask her why she put the hit out. I’m sure she’ll tell you now,” Briar said, and Cory gave into the grin.

“I’ll meet you at the train station in an hour or so,” she said, making her way to the door, Briar’s blade in her hand.

“Train’s at midnight,” Briar said. Midnight was a long, long while away.

“I’ll buy you dinner,” Cory said, briefly glancing at her before heading down the hall to the kitchens. Briar smiled to herself in the quiet of the room. Steam hissed outside as the streetlights flickered on. In the distance, the train whistled. She opened the window Cory had climbed in from, stretching her fingers as a glimmering bow formed in her hands. A sleek, sharp arrow materialized in the air as she leaned out the window. The other assassins, also right on time, were making their way to the kitchen entrances, their practiced gait and too-clean uniforms making them stand out. Briar usually preferred close contact, taking her sweet time, but she needed to be quick. She could afford to be messy. She took aim, the arrow straining against her control. She had dinner plans, after all.

Savior

Joseph M. Holloway | poetry

Purple rays make their way

Through the coming rain, For the sunset shows me

All will be okay.

Blessings of soft night

Bring gentle drizzle from my eyes, For the helpful bat wings his breeze Promises of life.

Summer-loud crickets prove Their worth to the veiled moon, For Nature’s touch tells me Her heart, Her truth.

Falling for the Rain

Dina Uraiby | poetry

Softley it falls, a gentle grace

Kissing earth’s upturned face

Each silver strand

Falls to the ground

I close my eyes

I hear it all around

I hear it’s tune, Soft and loud

As lightning slashes

And thunder pounds

The glass covered with the fog

And the city sparkles all night long.

The reflections in puddles

Looking back at me

A gray, concrete reminder

Of a distant memory

Where I’d dance

And I’d sing

For the rain to go away

Jumping in pools of water

Till I was too cold to stay

My laughter would echo

In the frozen breeze

A tiny dancer among the dew drop leaves

A child’s delight, so pure and free

Lost in the moment, just rain and me

Now, older eyes watch from the pane

A different joy within the rain

A quiet comfort, soft and deep

Secrets the droplets promise to keep

The city sleeps, a hushed embrace

While rain paints shadows on its face

The concrete holds a silent plea

For memories that once used to be.

Whispers of the Water Lilies

IzzySayer | crochet, acrylic, & sequins

Exuberant Monsoon

Christa King | poetry

Rain clouds swell and spread. After a seemingly endless wait, they finally launch their torrents. An umbrella is worthless against such pounding, it is raining from the bottom and the top of the world at once.

Streets become rivers, water pouring, slashing, hammering. Instinct says “Run!” but you might as well walk, you will be wet through and through in seconds.

As the storm subsides sunset glows and gleams, we raise our heads to smell the glory of the air, to assess the damage, and see a world made new.

The Holiday Season Shift at the Mall Food Court

Briana Sandoval | creative nonfiction

1. Wake up. Eat breakfast.

2. Go back to bed. You don't have work until 3. You work night today. More time to scroll TikTok.

3. Look at the clock. It's almost 3. Start looking for your Chipotle hat and find a clean shirt.

4. Get dressed. Listen to a podcast. This is the last calm moment before dealing with the most annoying people in your life.

5. Start driving to the mall. Listen to music. Music is your therapy, and you will most likely need a lot of real therapy after this shift.

6. Find a parking spot. This takes about 5-10 minutes because the parking lot is flooded with minivans and sports cars owned by superficial idiots in credit card debt. None of them can drive.

7. Start walking to the mall. Your heart starts racing from social anxiety, and as you enter the building, the food court is FILLED to the brim. The entire state of Arizona is shopping for Christmas gifts. Breathe.

8. Walk through the mall backrooms to find the Chipotle. The backrooms smell like cheese and dirty rags, so you hold your breath as you speed walk to the door. Enter and don't forget to clock in.

9. Your manager tells you; you will run the cash register tonight. You're happy you won't spend the rest of the night burning your fingers from changing out the rice and beans, but miserable you'll spend the rest of the night saying the same thing over and over again.

10. You get to the cash register. Thankfully, the person before you stocked the cups, napkins, bags, and coins in the cash register. Let's see how long those last because there has been a line of hangry shoppers since you got here.

11. "Hi, any chips or drinks? Great that'll be (insert number) cash or card? Have a great day!" Rinse and repeat. Mix it up if the usual script is interrupted.

12. You get your first Karen. "Hey, he forgot to double wrap my burrito, can you give me his name?" You panic. Do you tell this random lady your coworker's name? I mean the worst that'll happen is she leaves a stupid review that ends up on the wall with the other bad reviews we get. Jesus Christ, it's just a tortilla. You give her his name and gossip about her to him later.

13. Rinse and repeat the same script. Except there's more rude customers coming in, so you decide to be petty and tell the rude customers to "have a day" instead of "have a great day". Teehee.

14. Male Karen rolls in. He's a 5-foot Soundcloud rapper dude with a scruffy beard and an oversized

black hoodie and those ugly ribbed jeans. He's mad. "Can you charge me for a regular burrito because I didn't ask for any f***ing extra chicken but he still f***king gave me extra don't f***ing charge me for it I’m not f***ing paying for it." Your eye twitches. You hold your tongue. It's taking everything in you not to jump over the counter and grab him by the beard and swing him around. You charge him for a chicken burrito. You don't know what he's capable of. "Have a day."

15. Your lunch break starts. THANK GOD. You make a steak quesadilla and an Arnold palmer and walk to the table by the window that's usually pretty lonely and quiet. You open up your phone and text your friends.

16. This is the first time you've sat down in 3 hours. Dinner rush is about to start. You take a second to just breathe and decompress. Then you throw your trash, hold your breath as you walk through the moldy cheese backrooms, and clock back in.

17. Dinner rush starts and there is a line out the wazoo. The sour cream police are here. Two women who hold up the line until they get their precious sour cream.

18. A woman accuses you of overcharging her and her husband for their 2 bowls, 2 sodas, chips and guac. I don't make the prices lady. "Have a day."

19. SCREAM IN THE WALK IN.

20. The rush goes away. You drink some water, talk to your coworkers, laugh at the evil creatures you guys just had to serve all night. If it weren't for the comradery you have with your coworkers, you'd probably lose it.

21. Closing time!!! Yayyy!!! You're exhausted. You begin cleaning.

22. You finish cleaning, take off your hat, throw your apron in the dirty apron bin, clock THE F*** OUT, and walk to your car. You survived another day in hell.

Where I Am, Where I Came From

Sofie Wycklendt | poetry

Some nights I miss the quiet roads, The laughter soft, the stories old, The way my name felt in that space

Home, where love wore a familiar face.

Yet here I stand, so far from then, In shoes I once just dreamed I would fill,

Chasing goals with open hands, Climbing hills I thought stood still. Life blooms in ways I never planned, New friends, new fire, a steadier stand.

College days blur, fast and bright Who knew growth could feel so right?

I look around and still feel awe,

At who I am, at what I saw

The late nights, tears, the quiet wins, The strength I found beneath my skin. Though homesick for the place I knew, I am grateful for this vibrant view. My friends have been faithful every mile I breathe it in, I walk, I smile.

For this life, this path, this upward climb, I thank the ones who helped make it mine

You Were Born in Phoenix After All

Kelsey Phillips | pen on paper

The Place I Need to Understand

Brendan Dawson | poetry

Sometimes at sunset, I go for a walk along a trail leading to an outcrop of rocks where I sit and look at the mountain tops only because I need to understand.

I reach to the horizon and grab the mountains with both my hands pulling them to arm’s length and perpendicular to the earth's surface.

Trace my finger up and down the ridgeline until the face of an old mountain man appears revealing on him nose, lips, and chin.

I place his face near my ear and let him whisper a song of things I need to understand.

He whispers of coyotes in fields; always playing free, hikers along paths; supported by rocks they step with, winds always moving; but only when they want.

The old mountain man whispers, “Stop and listen to the water’s flow it sings if left alone and look how the trees have grown they will embrace you if you stand close.”

But for now, he gathers haze around his eyes so, I put him back towards the west and lay him on horizon's bed to stretch his legs over the edge.

I waft over a cloud and tuck it in around his chin then kiss his cheek and carve a grin into his valleys with my finger.

The night is coming but it won't last long I'll be back tomorrow. I promise. I just needed to understand.

Break The Cycle

Vassi Brentas | poetry

Show them the cookbook

The things crossed out

Letters added in that had been long forgotten

How the pages change

The drops of something on the corner

The tomato sauce that always had something to say

Clothing and counter collateral damage in its rage

You still can’t take it to therapy and figure out how to tell it to ‘just chill’

The zucchini bread that took on too much water

Blackened and burnt out

Spending hours in the oven

Trying to work out how to be safe to eat

Point them out

A kiss to the top of their head

When the day’s arguments and mismatched perspectives become

Too much

The trial and error

The oil marks

Tears in the pages

A mirror to

The tears on math homework and folded arms hugging a small body before the light walks in

Untitled 4

Phoebe Ulbrick | unknown media

Upon learning that sea otters hold hands while sleeping

Tanja Lau | poetry

after Alex Dawson

my skin covered in dust from roads to nowhere – the only star is a sky lantern released from my palms I follow it into the darkness where the ocean sighs in silence and I kiss a stranger that makes me giggle like a girl the city a stage for all my regrets on every corner a new chapter that glimmers with golden guilt the rhythm swallows me alive and spits me out on a mountain top where I capture the moon in a bottle and sell it to the highest bidder in the souks of Marrakesh before settling down by the sea… you toss and turn – I take your hand so we don’t drift apart in our dreams

The Leaves, The Branches, and The Roots

Audrey Lee | poetry

There are friends like leaves, who come and go They bloom in spring, then fly in the snow. Lovely, light, but never stay, they're made for moments, not for May.

Then branches stretch with strength and grace, they seem like they could hold your place. But lean too hard, and you might find, they're not as strong as they looked in your mind.

But roots, how firm they stand, they don’t let go, they don’t demand. Through storms and sun, they dig down deep, the kind of love you get to keep.

And one day soon, love will appear, soft and warm, and strangely clear. It’ll scare you with its depth and truth but trust that voice inside of you:

"This is the love I’ve waited for. The one that doesn't close a door. The one that stays, and sees, and knows the one that helps my whole self grow."

Taveta Golden-Weaver

K. Skye Fulton | nature photography

The Insect Collection

Izzy Sayer | crochet, acrylic, & sequins

For More than Myself

Sofie Wycklendt | poetry

I walk with a quiet fire, A promise burning deep inside

That every step I take, Every word I speak, Might carry more than just my name

I keep my parents in my heart

Their love stitched me whole Their faith is the soil

Where my roots took hold I want to honor them

With each page I fill, Each kindness I give Each mountain I climb

Not for applause, But because they believed I was worth raising into light

As a friend, I hope my presence Is a shelter,

A steady hand when storms arrive

A voice that reminds others that they matter in this world I want to lift, not overshadow And to shine without dimming

Anyone else’s light too

I classrooms, I overreach

Not for medals or for pride, But because I feel the weight Of opportunity, And the gift of a life I was chosen to live

Adoption gave me not only a family. But also a mission:

To prove that love is never wasted, That roots can grow strong

No matter where they begin

I do not claim perfection

I stumble and doubt myself

I sometimes ache beneath the weight of my own expectations

But humility steadies me

To do my best in all that I do, is not to always be the best

But to serve and heal others without reciprocity

That quiet act of giving rekindles my spirit

And reminds me why I began.

Everyday feel immense gratitude for the work I get to do

My field of study offers a chance to bring light,

To make a difference in even the smallest ways. It is a privilege beyond measure,

A calling that fills my life with meaning and joy.

When I leave this world, I want it to be said:

That I loved without reservation,

Gave with intention,

Learned with humility, And offered more than I ever kept for myself.

My story is not just one of adoption,

But of purpose

Proof that even the smallest thread of hope Can be woven into the fabric of a better tomorrow.

Some Kickboxing Shit

Paige Kuzma | scripts

A Martial Arts Dynamic also known as Some Kickboxing Shit

Cast of Characters

Nathan Pierce: Male, Twenty-two-year-old. Currently struggling with severe depression. Childhood best friend of Carter Smith. Former recreational kickboxer

Carter Smith: Male, Twenty-two-year-old. Working to support Nathan through depression. Childhood best friend of Nathan Pierce. Current recreational kickboxer

Time: The Present

Setting: Boxing Gym

Act 1

Scene 1

AT RISE - LIGHTS UP

(As the play begins, Carter stands in the middle of a boxing ring, wrapping his wrists with a hand wrap before strapping a pair of boxing gloves on top. He glances at the clock hanging on the wall above.)

Carter: He’s fifteen minutes late.

(A bell rings as the door to the gym opens. Nathan enters the gym carrying a pair of black boxing gloves)

Nathan: Before you get on me, there was a lot of traffic.

Carter: You live ten minutes away. How much traffic could there have been?

Nathan: Maybe I was procrastinating. Or maybe I’ve been busy. Besides, we know that clock isn’t accurate.

Carter: You work twenty hours a week at Pizza Hut and spend the rest of the time in your basement playing video games or lying around. You can’t take an hour a week to come here? Doing nothing is just going to make it worse.

Nathan: Actually, I quit.

(Nathan rolled his eyes)

Nathan: Look, it’s been hard. I’m struggling. I don’t want or need your judgment right now, Carter.

Carter: I’m not judging, just want a competent kickboxing opponent to spar with. If that’s not you anymore, I’m sure the traffic will have died down a bit by now.

Nathan: Yeah, whatever.

(Nathan puts on his gloves while Carter watches)

Carter: I heard your mom say you’re going on new antidepressants.

Nathan: Anti-psychotics. You talk to my mom?

Carter: Of course I do, practically used to live at your house. And I’ve heard those types of medications can be rough. Really changes a person.

Nathan: I’m aware.

(Nathan ducked underneath the boundary rope and entered the arena)

Carter: How do you feel about it?

Nathan: Is this a therapy or a sparring session?

(Nathan threw a cross and hook combination blocked by Carter)

Carter: Sorry…it’s just that we don’t really talk much anymore. It’s been months since I’ve seen you and we’ve come here together. People online always post about how they ‘lost their sparkle’ or have no personality. Do you think that’ll happen to you?

Nathan: I don’t have a spark, Carter, I have a burning ass flame. A fire that burns me to ash and destroys my life. Everything I care about is gone in an instant. The people I love don’t deserve to burn alongside me.

Carter: It’ll be like a fire department then, the medicine. It’ll control the flames. Or like a fire foam…I’m not really good with metaphors.

Nathan: No. I want them put out, not controlled. I’d rather be an empty shell than keep causing the damage that I have. I don’t want to be crazy anymore.”

(Nathan’s form was sloppy. His stance was too wide and he wasn’t recovering very fast. Carter refused to point it out based on the displeased expression on Nathan’s face)

Carter: We’re all a bit crazy sometimes, and it’s okay as long as it’s controlled.

Nathan: Maybe for some people.

(Nathan threw a right cross blocked by Carter. Carter sent a roundhouse kick into Nathan’s side. Nathan grunted at the impact. Both men traded blows for several minutes with Nathan taking the brunt of the hits. Nathan stepped back to the corner of the ring)

Nathan: I’m done for today.

(Nathan took of his boxing gloves)

Carter: Oh, come on. You’re really giving up?

Nathan: I’m fighting like shit. You really think I’d want to continue like this? Besides, you’re sweating like hell.

(Nathan glanced down at Carter’s hands)

Nathan: Did you remember to wrap your wrists this time? Those gloves don’t have adequate support.

Carter: You think I’d let myself get another sprain?

(Carter took off his gloves, the sound of velcro echoing through the gym)

Carter: Promise me you’ll come back next week. Hell, I'll take two. But don’t you dare take more than a month.

Nathan: What’s the point? I’m empty, there’s nothing for me. Who knows what the medication will do about that?

Carter: Do you think the empty shell will still want to be my friend?”

Nathan: …Well, it’s probably not gonna do that kinda stuff.

Carter: Are you sure?

Nathan: I mean, I’m not like a doctor, so the best I can do is just hope. I’ll be manifesting it for you.

LIGHTS OUT

End of Scene

Act 1

Scene 2

Time: One Month Later

Setting: Boxing Gym

LIGHTS UP

At Rise: Characters are standing in the middle of a boxing ring. Carter is preparing to spar with Nathan. Nathan is gazing at his reflection in a mirror.

Nathan: Damn. I’m so hot, even life gets hard for me.

(Nathan flexed his gloved arm to see his muscles in the mirror. He rotated his body slightly to see more of his appearance)

Carter: What the actual fuck?

(Carter threw a bunch that Nathan swiftly dodged, gaze locked on his reflection in the mirror across the gym floor)

Nathan: It’s a new affirmation I’m trying out.

Carter: …okay then. Just pay attention. It’s no fun when you don’t even try.

(Carter threw a roundhouse kick and Nathan dodged the attack again)

Nathan: What? Are you hating on my self-help journey?

Carter: No, I’m just being judgmental.

Nathan: Well, do it silently please. My ego needs to be preserved.

(Nathan lunged at Carter who was surprised by the sudden movement. Nathan threw a cross, left hook, and finally an upper cut at Carter. Carter blocked the cross and hook but was struck by the upper cut)

Carter: Are you going to put it in a museum or something?

Nathan: Good idea. A nice, big portrait of me would go nicely too. Hell, I could even make a whole exhibit. It’ll be a masterful collection of my life.

Carter: Will I be featured in this exhibit in any way?

Nathan: Of course, You’re my best friend. Besides, someone has to be the trash to my treasure.

(Carter hit Nathan with a push kick, and a roundhouse kick. Nathan checked the roundhouse kick and Carter switched his stance to hit Nathan with a particularly hard switch kick. Carter finished off his combo with a left cross)

Carter: I need to start a savings account.

Nathan: Huh? For what?

(Nathan dodged a right hook from Carter)

Carter: To save the bail money for when I get arrested for kicking your ass. This newfound confidence is annoying.

Nathan: Ouch.

Carter: You’ll get over it. In fact, you’ll probably be the one posting my bail.

(Nathan hit Carter with a push kick, sending the man back a few feet)

Nathan: Eh, we’ll see.

Time: One Month Later

Setting: Boxing Gym

LIGHTS OUT End of Scene

Act 1

Scene 3

LIGHTS UP

At Rise: Characters are sparring each other in the boxing gym’s ring.

Nathan: Bark like a dog! You’re below me, moron!

Carter: I’m literally three inches taller than you. And I’m the one winning.

Nathan: Not when I saw off your legs and feed them to the horses. Can’t kick if you’re in a wheelchair.

Carter: You need to be restrained for the good of society, Nate.

Nathan: Your mother was restrained in my bedroom last night.

Carter: And you’re getting chloroformed. Or sedated. Or shipped back to the psych ward.

Nathan: Try me bitch. The laws of legality are an illusion and have no power over a kickboxing god! Besides, you can’t afford chloroform.

Carter: You’re not a god. A god wouldn’t suck as bad as you.

Nathan: Not according to your dad last night.

(Nathan landed a particularly hard kick into Carter’s side)

Carter: Oh? So who’d you supposedly actually sleep with then? My mom or my dad? Which parent in your stupid fantasy method of pissing me off?

Nathan: We had a threesome actually.

Carter: …I’m going to bury you alive. Cover you with stone and concrete so you can’t dig out. Tell a sad tale at your funeral about how you overcame depression but fell into a hole.

(Carter moved to roundhouse kick Nathan. Nathan blocked the kick, only to be clocked in the head by a right hook)

Nathan: What is this, Minecraft bedwars? My bed is surrounded by obsidian and endstone, and you don’t have a diamond pickaxe.

Carter: What the fuck does that mean? I genuinely do not understand what you’re saying half the time.

(Carter blocked the sucker punch and attempted uppercut thrown by Nathan)

Nathan: Good. Annoying you is my greatest passion. It’s the reason I was put on this earth.

(Nathan threw three left jabs, faked a fourth, and hit Carter with a right hook to the head)

Carter: Your purpose is to test my freaking resolve and see how long it takes for me to become a murderer.

(Carter spammed four roundhouse kicks with the force sending Nathan off balance. Carter then took the opportunity of the lowered guard to punch the man straight in the face. Nathan barely blocked the shot at the last second)

Nathan: That’s literally what I just said.

(Nathan and Carter stepped back from each other, both panting hard, a silent agreement to take a small break. Ripping off their gloves, each man grabbed his respective water bottle and began to drink a few sips. After a few minutes Carter set his bottle back down)

Carter: Did you still go to the gym after I canceled last week?

(Nathan set his bottle down, and strapped his gloves back on)

Nathan: Yeah, I met this random guy who was a marine or something. He’s super built and punches super hard.

Carter: Did you guys do any sparring?

(Nathan’s face lit up in a way Carter had not witnessed in almost a years time. The pure joy on his friends face made Carter’s heart pound faster than any sparring session)

Nathan: Yeah and he was insane! He fights like a coke fiend who’s out of coke. And YOU took it!!!

Carter: So you got your ass handed to you.

Nathan: I was flat on the ground bro.

Carter: I’m glad that you’re back then. Part of me was worried you’d quit again after something like that.

Nathan: Well, I wouldn’t leave you without a partner.

(Carter almost stated that he almost did before, and that he was scared he’d lost his friend forever. But he held that thought in.)

Carter: I can just fight the coke fiend.

Nathan: Oh, don’t even. You’d get crushed so fast.

(Carter strapped his gloves back on)

Carter: Says the one about to get his ass beat.

LIGHTS OUT End of Scene

Act 1

Scene 4

Time: One Month Later

Setting: Boxing Gym

LIGHTS UP

At Rise: Characters are standing in the middle of the boxing ring, verbally arguing instead of physically sparring

Nathan: Are your ears just for decoration?! I know for a fact that your doctor said not to spar unless you wrapped your wrists under the gloves. And yet your dumbass hasn’t been doing it the last two weeks.

Carter: I forgot, okay? I’ve been busy and forget to put it in my bag sometimes. It’s not that big of a deal. And dumbass is YOUR default state, not mine. I can’t take health advice from someone like you.

Nathan: Okay, that hurt. But I’m gonna take it in stride, see? And though it goes against everything I stand for, I’m gonna use my brains and sense of logic here. You’re going to get injured again.

Carter: I’m fully convinced you never graduated kindergarten.

Nathan: We were literally in the same class.

Carter: Maybe I’ve been hallucinating you this whole time.

Nathan: Pretty wack choice for an imaginary friend then. You could do better.

Carter: Yeah, I probably could. Come up with someone who isn’t mentally ill.

Nathan: Insanity flows through my blood. It runs down my family line like a pack of wolves, searching for its next victim.

Carter: Jeez, dramatic much?

Nathan: Oh don’t even, someone like you could never understand what it’s like for me.

Carter: I’m asking this in the gentlest way possible. Are you off your meds right now? Are you taking them regularly?

(Nathan dropped his fists and glared at Carter)

Nathan: Fuck you for asking that.

Carter: Excuse me for being concerned.

Nathan: It’s none of your business. All you do is try to control me. It’s my life, my body! I feel strange, I feel crazy. Don’t you ever feel that way? When I can’t see myself in the mirror, I can’t even feel myself! Do I even exist at this point? Why does it have to be me? Why can’t I be normal? It’s not fair! Why do people always say suicide is the most selfish thing you can do?

(Nathan’s voice became raw)

Nathan: Isn't it giving birth? You're bringing another human being into this sick, shitty world. Isn't that the most selfish thing you can do?

Carter: Don’t talk about your mom that way.

(Nathan scoffed)

Nathan: Cause you guys are so close. You’re the son she always wanted, not some mentally unstable asshole like me.

(Nathan swung hard for a left hook and missed Carter’s head horribly. Carter sidestepped the attack easily earning a harsh glare from Nathan)

Nathan: Screw this. I’m out. Go call my mom and complain that I’m quitting or whatever, I don’t care.

(Nathan quickly exits the ring)

Time: One Week Later

Setting: Floor of the boxing gym

LIGHTS OUT End of Scene

Act 1 Scene 5

LIGHTS UP

At Rise: Characters are facing each other, standing a few feet past the doorway entrance to the boxing gym.

Carter: I’m sorry about last week.

Nathan: We both took it a bit too far.

Carter: Yeah.

Nathan: You bring your wrist wraps?

(Carter pulled off his left glove to show his wrapped hand underneath)

Carter: Yeah.

Nathan: Then we’re good.

(Carter put his glove back on)

Carter: Yeah.

Nathan: Stop saying yeah.

Carter: No.

Nathan: I’m going to beat your ass.

Carter: But I haven’t stretched yet.

(Nathan had actively seen Carter stretching his body through the gym’s windows when parking his car. Carter’s smug smile mildly annoyed him)

Nathan: Womp womp.

(Carter frowned)

Carter: What does that mean?

Nathan: You are so uncultured.

(Both men stepped into the ring and exchanged basic combination blows. The intensity of their movements increased as two minutes ticked by)

Carter: Can I ask how therapy has been going?

Nathan: Well, my therapist has stated that at my core, I am a serene and lovely person. Yes, everything bothers me, and I go through life in a state of constant aggravation and annoyance. Maybe I have to physically restrain myself from breaking down in tears over how utterly irritated I am sometimes. But I am serene and lovely nonetheless.

Carter: Not to hate on your therapist, but nothing about you has ever been serene.

(Carter sent Nathan back with a push-kick. When Carter moved to advance and throw a hook, Nathan retaliated with a forceful uppercut that went through Carter’s guard. Carter was sent off balance and stumbled for a moment)

Carter: Good hit.

(Carter regained his balance and readjusted his stance)

Carter: Since the beginning, you’ve always been egotistical, annoying, supportive, and hilarious. You brought light into my dull world, and I miss it. I miss when you were full of life, and I hate that I can’t help you through this. What kind of friend am I if I can’t help you?

Nathan: You drag me to this gym to beat my ass and motivate me to get out of bed. Don’t demean yourself because of my struggles. You are helping. I’m getting better, or at least I’m trying to. For you, for my mom. Engaging with people does help, and I hate that you were right about it. It’s been your goal since the beginning, and it’s working.

(Nathan wiped the sweat dripping from his brow with his gloved hand. He eyed Carter’s mildly dazed look and determined he had hit a bit too hard)

Nathan: Let’s just end here. I’m tired. We’ll call today a tie.

Carter: I don’t want us to be done.

Nathan: We won’t be. Come over to my house and we’ll have dinner. My mom will be excited to see you. And I can teach you to play Minecraft bedwars, I have several complex strategies.

Carter: I still don’t know what that is, but fine. Do you still get that employee discount from Pizza Hut?

Nathan: Who knows, but I’ll get two extra cheeses with the breadsticks.

Carter: Garlic breadsticks with a side of marinara. Know the difference.

(Nathan rolled his eyes and swung his gym bag over his shoulder. He lifted the rope for Carter to bend under before doing so himself. Both men exited the gym with the bell ringing at their final departure)

LIGHTS OUT Final End Scene

Plant Yourself Here

Tanja Lau | poetry

next to me, beside this creek with its mouth full of dust, carrying rumors of thirst. Let’s trade the urge to travel for a moment of purple purpose. Let the roots change their mind. We’ll unlearn the sky and grow sideways. Come close. We’ll speak the truth: I am on the rise or in the fall. Every summit a circle. Every grass blade a goddess. Let’s share the soil, but don’t look at me, and if you do, don’t hold back when you see me decaying. Bloom in your own time.

The Flowering at Sunrise

Izzy Sayer | crochet, acrylic, & sequins

Loyal Leilani

Leilani Gastelum | mixed media on canvas

The Lasting Change

Alina Click | poetry

I want to go from…

High risk to high potential. Zero credit to serious credentials. From failure to fait accompli. From incapable to overqualified. In absentia to ever present. A dull ember to incandescent. Low tide to super wave. Poverty to well paid.

I want to take a little, instead of always having to give.

I don’t want to be one bad decision from not having a place to live.

From setback to comeback. Failing felon to upstanding citizen. Abuse to constructive criticism. From trap house to success. From rags to nicely dressed.

Breakdown my old life, rebuild another.

More than anything, be a present, better mother.

I want it all. I’ve fallen enough times. Now, I’m getting back up to take back what’s mine.

A lasting change that will stand the test of time.

Golden, Burnt Sienna, and Tangerine

Vassi Brentas | poetry

she holds her head high not like a crown like a shield

sunflowers turn to her smile but she isn’t yellow like they are she’s orange brilliant iridescent and irrefutably orange in the way fresh-squeezed orange juice tastes on the tongue in the morning and in the giggles of kids when someone puts a rind slice in their mouth and grins how women who know what they’re doing, where they’re going, wear the color heads held high just like her

she’s orange in the way that people watch sunsets together and those who watch the sunrise in the solitude and beauty of silence

she isn’t the orange Gatorade that players dump on their coaches when they win but she is their expressive movements their jumps for joy the fizziness in the nerves of their bodies at the win

she’s orange in a way that wraps around you, holds you tight and sometimes in the way light fades

an orange you want to hold onto To imprint in your mind, in your memory

She holds her head high, but not like a crown, like a shield

Lemonade Kisses

Miriam Manglani | poetry

Sip lemonade on a porch with creaky floorboards, sweaty legs push rusty porch swing, as you gaze at a sun setting the years away and wrap your arm around your lover who makes your heart twirl still.

Sip lemonade on a porch toothless, let it sink into old gums, kiss your toothless sweet and sour lover who remembers what it felt like to kiss you with teeth.

The Four Generations

Raven Montaño | poetry

Fourgenerationsofwomensitaroundthediningroomtablesippingcoffee.Somesweetened,some black. Faces of indignation with hidden pride lurking underneath. Thunder shakes the small house in which we sit, the kingdom we built from scratch. The fourth generation looks to the seat of the first, chair empty and coffee cold. She still sits with us. The fourth generation looks to the seat of the second generation. Her chair dusty but her cup is still warm, as she walks with us wherever we go. The fourth generation looks to the third generation and smiles. Her chair isn’t empty. The two generations look to the mirror that hangs in the hall next to the coat rack. A vase of dried and long dead flowers sits on the table and stares back at us in the mirror. If you look close enough the chairs aren’t empty. Their presence hands in their chairs, reminding us of the legacy they left behind. They stare back in the reflection of our coffee, nodding in approval.

We made it for them.

Four generations of women sit at a table sipping coffee. Some sweetened, some black. Two generations walk with us only in spirit, to guide us where we need to go, and what we need to do.

They are there to remind us to keep going, even if the coffee goes cold.

a mirror on the wall

Naveed Banuelos (motaquita) | acrylic on canvas

We’re All Arizonans Here

Leilani Gastelum | mixed media on canvas

Dandelions

Audrey Finkelstein | creative nonfiction

Spring is the time when the dandelions come out, and the grass turns green with yellow, furry polka-dots. Spring is when the honeybees emerge from their perfect, wooden boxes painted white like snow, and they visit the dandelions, hopping from button to button like graceful seamstresses. Their pollen-baskets become full and bright, and they swarm around the entrances to their boxes so that it isn’t quiet until next Winter. And you wonder, how did so much life lie in that box? How did it get out? Spring is the time when the honeybees will start to turn to real nectar–the dandelions, the fruit-trees, and refuse the cold, clear, artificial-tasting sugar-water we have given them for so long.

Sometimes, though–many times, actually, Spring is the time when the bees die. See, they’ve been dead, probably for a while, and then, in the Spring, when they are supposed to come to life, they don’t. Last year, actually, all ten of our hives died. Oftentimes, the bees die because of these parasites–varroa mites. They look like little, red polka-dots, and they grab onto bees while they are still larvae, so that they never have a chance, and they eat their fat, their lives.

But, thankfully, we can get new bees. Nucleus colonies that, hopefully, will grow into the big boxes.

This year, though, we also got some full hives. They were my friend’s, but he can’t take care of them anymore…

And so it goes: the bees are back again, and outside my bedroom window, there is always movement. And the dandelions will soon come in swarms.

*

An overalled man with a smoker is at my house. He shakes the lid on a box to unstick it from the bars within, then carefully pries it up to reveal many wooden slats marked with sharpie. He is smiling. I run up to him. He says, “Hey, kid.” He lets me help him. I’ve been “helping him” all my life. I hold the smoker. He has white hair. He is patient. “Always start at the back,” he says. We do. We go through the boxes bar by bar, boxes that the overalled man designed. We work the bars, glued sticky with propolis, apart. We use hive tools that look like crowbars. He designed those, too.

He shows me what the bees are doing. He lets me point out the queen, though, because he says, “young ladies always spot queens better than old men.” His favorite thing, I think, is seeing the new comb that is soft and creamy-white. That has not built up the travel stains of bees constantly walking over it, of bees hatching from it and littering their cocoons in it, of bees using it as a sort of doormat so that it turns rough and sooty and old.

His eyes light up as he points out the hatching bees, the “baby bees.” At first, all you see is their head poking through the small incision they forge out of their wax capsule, wiggling their antennae. When

they come out, they are as fluffy as the cutest of bunny rabbits. “Her first job,” TJ says, “is to clean out her cell.” They cannot fly. When they can, though, a whole group of them comes out of the hive. They circle like birds. They find the sun, which is the compass they use to see their whole lives. When they do this, TJ finds me, excited, and tells me about it. He wants me to go look.

*

An overalled man is in my family’s garden. He is examining our tomato plants. I run up to him. He tells me the name of each tomato plant like a father counting off his children.

There are the yellow pears. When the time turns them from green to buttery, they look like candies hanging in the slightly fuzzy foliage, like little lemon drops. And there is the green zebra. These tomatoes never turn red. Instead, they are fresh and green and shiny with purplish stripes. And then, there is the multitude of red tomatoes, candy-apple red. There are the perfectly small cherry tomatoes that grow so thickly in the plants that they make a pattern of crimson polka-dots on green, but there are also the larger ones, ones that are as heavy as small melons. These ones are not round nor perfect. Their gold and red skin folds in and out like the fabric of a hot air balloon that has just landed, is just starting to deflate–or inflate. In the Summer, we cut these tomatoes into slices, and we eat them with sea salt or thick slabs of mozzarella and pungent basil that we have also grown.

I sprint into the kitchen to get a colander–or two, and I fill them with tomatoes and grapes and peppers and eggplants and corn. I fill them with TJ’s care, with his pride. The tomatoes have grown out of our rich compost, the compost that TJ has attended to all year.

*

“Do we pay TJ for all the work he does for us?” I ask my mom. “No,” she says. “I try, but he refuses. He does it because he wants to. We’re like his only family.”

*

On my birthday, the overalled man gave me a hive tool. In it, he had welded “AR,” the two letters that begin my two names like the two letters that begin his.

*

I am in a bedroom in an Airbnb in Montana. And hundreds of miles away, our garden is bare and dry. It hasn’t been prepped for Spring. I am hugging my knees on the floor and sobbing. My eyes are burning with salty water, but I don’t have any tomatoes to go with it. My dad walks in. He sighs. He sits down next to me. He tells me that the people we lose are always with us in some way. He tells me he has seen amazing things. I sob back, “He’s dead. We’re all just made of cells. He’s dead.” I question my mom later, “Who will take care of his cat? His garden? His bees?”

*

And now, it’s Spring again. And the dandelions are here again. And so are the bees. And this Summer, we will grow tomatoes.

There is No Eternal Summer

Chris Kads | poetry

where my knuckles do not wither where my hair does not brittle like bark, and my face remains a virgin valley immune to each season change.

No, Romantics, I’m afraid this metaphor does not woo me. It can’t, when I’ve accepted that the body is constantly spinning. Can’t, when I see passion in my Nana’s sunkissed fingers, worn from tending to her tulips and joy in the annual rings lining my mother’s forehead, creating a gallery of years of laughter and loving.

So instead, tell me, Romantics, of women like shedding trees, their branches speckled with crunchy brown leaflets, women like flowers with lopsided stems that still manage to stay standing, and women like cacti that prickle and crack and simultaneously sprout messy, delicious pitaya.

For it is only then, when your poems branch wide and curious, bury purity cliches in messy dirt, and show nature in all its beautiful, imperfect mortality, that your claims of love ring true.

Pitter-Patter

Ashley Cameron | poetry

The rain patters on the leafy roof. Droplets fall through and douse the floor of the tree stump. It is not the most ideal day to work, but the cat takes pride in her job. She picks up her little green backpack in the corner, shakes off a few raindrops. She knows there will be more to come.

The outside world is moist, muddy, melancholy to no surprise. The cat gets muck in between her paws as she galvants through the forest. All of her neighbors are shut away in their holes and trees and caves and branches.

Rainy days mean lazy days of sleeping in late to the sound of pattering and snoring loved ones. The cat chooses to work even today.

The leaves do not crunch as much as usual: another side effect of the weather that she takes note of. She likes their little noises just as she likes all the other little noises of the forest, but she can admit the falling of the water is another kind of nice little noise. She misses the birds, but she knows they will be back tomorrow.

A big red door comes into view, bright and brilliant beyond the trees. The cat scampers up the stone steps and sits on the scratchy rug at the door’s feet. She shrugs off her backpack; it is sopping wet, a full shade darker, but the contents are mostly dry. She leaves it on the rug like an offering. The awning protects it from further dampening. The cat sits where the droplets sliding down coalesce into a torrent; her ears fall down from the pressure. She stares at the backpack, tilts her head, then turns back towards her tree stump.

She will come back for it later.

Froglet

K. Skye Fulton | nature photography

Spring, Rescue us From the Icy Beast of Winter

Miriam Manglani | poetry

Melt its sharp teeth and bitter tears, free us from the white darkness it has spilled on us, the falls we’ve taken on its sheets of ice into our black holes.

Arm the birds with songs to soar our hearts again, heal our cold sores of loneliness.

Let us smell the earth again, melt its cage of snow and ice so your flowers can stretch their heads towards the sun, painting the earth with your pallet of wild colors.

Show us the delicate animal in you by warmly welcoming the wild ones out again. We’ll watch birds scrape the sky with their wings like painters scraping away old pain, see bees face paint themselves in yellow, eye cotton tailed rabbits as they munch on grass.

Oh, the scent of freshly cut grass, how we’ve missed you! Spring, we needed you yesterday to unlock the bars of our wintered souls.

Frog in pond

K. Skye Fulton | nature photography

Espresso in Love

Samuel Harris (HarrisPortraits) | acrylic on canvas

Bachelor Party

Ryan David Orr | fiction

There was a deep sigh, followed by that same ambiguous internal whine that meant the options laid in front of her were almost too important to decide upon. He used to think it was cute. Maybe it still was cute sometimes, but many, many other times it felt like he would claw the insides of his own eyes out waiting for a clear answer after a lengthy period of moaning. Groaning? What even was this sound? Before he tried again, he made sure to choose his words wisely and not raise his voice.

“For what it’s worth," Kurt threw out, “I think the red would look nice, classic and all, but the white seems like it would go better with all the other, ya know, stuff in the room. Tables, chairs, gowns, your gown specifically.”

Then he waited again. He could hear her doing that kissy, pursed-lip thing that she did when his opinion was wrong.

“But we can go with red,” Kurt finally said.

“Yeah, I think I like the idea of the red,” Kelley replied, drawing out her yeeeaaahhh so that it sounded like a crop duster whizzing by his ear.

“I just feel like that accent will be nice. Something with some bright, deep color. Is it really okay?”

“Yeah, sure it’s okay,” said Kurt. In truth, he didn’t care. Not in an angry way, either. He simply didn’t put a lot of stock in the color of the roses and neither color offended him, so yeah, it was really okay.

“I’m getting a call on the other line,” he said abruptly.

“Oh, okay,” Kelley said. “Call me later?”

“You know I will.”

Kurt ended the call and placed the phone face down on the bar in front of him. Two years earlier, he might have told himself that this was cruel, and that he was being intentionally dishonest. He would have felt shame for lying to Kelley about the smallest things. But now it didn’t seem so much like lying as it did strategic conversation. The justification came from putting their small, trivial chats into the context of the greater adventure of conversation. Did he really need to hear one more time about how special she thought it was that they would have the same initials? He was sure she would work that into discussions for years to come. The way he saw it, they would be in the middle of their conversation until death-do-they-part, so he wasn’t truly ending anything. He didn’t tell her that he was at a bar, but he also didn’t say he wouldn’t be at a bar, and she hadn’t asked, so who cares? Anyway, he was all caught up on his side of the responsibilities.

Catering and beverage table? Check. Live band, nothing too boring, too edgy, or too reminiscent of Journey? Check. Ordering invitations? They’re already in the mail.

He waved the bartender over and asked for a refill of Miller on tap. As his empty was picked up and the full beer set down before him, his phone buzzed against the edge of his elbow. It

was Gavin, probably returning his call from a few days before.

“Hey Gav,” Kurt said sheepishly, holding the phone an inch from his ear.

“Kurt! Hey. I got you on the phone.” Gavin’s enthusiasm was rarely assuaged by mere mortal problems.

“You certainly did,” Kurt replied. “You in town yet?”

“Not quite yet. Taking a red-eye tonight, should be there by dinner tomorrow, maybe sooner if things go smoothly in Phoenix.”

Gavin would be traveling from New York and landing in Phoenix where his wife, Trish, had a cousin who owned an art gallery. Trish had recently decided she was going to be a painter, but wasn’t remotely artistic, so most of her work consisted of realistic depictions of things. As it turned out, you didn’t need to be an artist to make accurate copies. Her dream was to have a show in Phoenix, which seemed ironic, since she lived in New York City. From what Gavin had said, none of the galleries in New York were interested. Kurt was almost positive Gavin wasn’t interested either, but that didn’t stop Gavin from lavishing Trish with praise. There was something sweet about the superficial way he applauded her efforts. He would have reacted the same way if she built a box out of scrap lumber or carved a smiley face out of the leftover egg yolk on her breakfast plate. He was not applauding the work he was applauding her.

“I bet you’ll be here sooner,” Kurt said. “Prescott is only an hour or two north.”

“Trish hasn’t seen Michelle in a few years, so we may hang out for a bit before coming up.”

There was a moment of silence, then Gavin continued. “Hey man, is everything cool? Are you alright?”

“Sure, yeah,” said Kurt, “why do you ask?”

They both knew why Gavin had asked, but in all honesty, Kurt couldn’t fully remember what he had said the other night when he drunkdialed Gavin’s phone and slobbered into his voicemail about tying the knot and balls and chains and cold feet, and probably some other euphemisms peppered with obscenities. He was hoping Gavin might clear up the confusion without having to be directly asked to do so. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw movement at the end of the bar, a frail arm lifting a wrinkled hand in the direction of the bartender. He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the bar when he came in. He turned to observe a thin, elderly man with mussed up white hair, scraggly moustache, and a brown corduroy jacket that appeared to be a few sizes too big. The bartender nodded in the man’s direction and pulled a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the refrigerator under the counter, hissed open the tab, and placed the can next to the man’s almost full glass of whatever beer he had been drinking. The man nodded back in gratitude, then went on drinking from the glass and staring at the wall. Kurt could hear Gavin on the other end of the line going from the living room to the bedroom, or from the bedroom to the living room, or from the living room to the yard, or more specifically, going from wherever Trish was to wherever Trish wasn’t. When he

started speaking again, his voice was quieter, calmer.

“The other night you sounded a bit… perplexed,” Gavin’s voice was almost a whisper. “Are you feelin’ any better about things?”

Kurt didn’t know how to respond. He had no recollection of what he had said, so he didn’t really know what Gavin was asking about, but also, since he didn’t know what he had said, he couldn’t honestly say he felt any better. He felt something. He must have said something to Gavin about the wedding, about his anxiety, which picked at his thoughts like a child picks at a scab. But how far did he go? Did he say something he couldn’t come back from? Should he just tell Gavin he felt great and was nothing but excited to marry Kelley? And more than that, was he excited? He couldn’t put a finger on how he was feeling in the present, let alone comment on how he had apparently felt a few days before and under the influence. He knew Gavin wanted to hear that everything was just fine. He wanted to say that, too, but didn’t he owe it to their friendship to tell the truth? And what even was the truth?

“Perplexed,” Kurt repeated, rolling Gavin’s word around in his mouth. “I guess that’s a good word.”

“All that stuff about Kelley’s job and how she wants kids soon,” Gavin went on, “I mean, I couldn’t tell if you were serious or joking.”

“I was perplexed.”

“And are you now?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Okay. No pressure, bud, but you’re two days out from the wedding,” Gavin quietly chided.

“Are you serious serious? Or is this just some everyday, normal, totally-okay nervousness talking here?”

“It all just seems like a lot,” Kurt sighed. “And everyone will be watching, which is supposed to be the thing that makes it meaningful, right? But then it’s final, huh? You can’t have everyone there watching, inventing their own little fairy tales, then act like it was no big deal and call it off.”

“Do you think you’re going to want to call it off? I mean, really?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s just so defining. Husband. Father. Shit, father sounds absolutely crazy to me.” Gavin snickered on the other end.

“Were you nervous when you and Trish got married?” asked Kurt. Now Gavin was outright laughing.

“Of course, ya moron,” said Gavin, “so was every guy who ever married anyone.”

“What if she’s not really right for me?”

“Sure,” Gavin answered, “that’s one question. And then, are you really right for her?” Kurt nodded without saying anything. Of course, this was a valid question to consider, but he hadn’t even thought about it. He assumed he was right for her. Maybe he was

arrogant enough to think he was right for anyone. The idea of that made him feel even worse, like maybe she could do much better. Did she think that? Behind her bubbly excitement and seemingly endless focus on their lives together, was she facing the same uncertainties? If she was, she was better at hiding it.

“Look,” Gavin continued after Kurt’s silence became awkward, “everyone has these thoughts. It’s normal. You want some good hard truth? Here ya go, man. Shit is tough. Relationships are hard, love is hard, kids are hard, life, in general, is hard. You are both going to have moments when you’re so pissed off about whatever that you’ll think ‘I made a huge mistake’. That’s normal, too. But marrying someone and staying with them for good isn’t about finding someone who is perfect. No one is perfect. You and me included. The trick is to find someone you can trudge through it with. That’s what you have with Kelley. You both found someone you’ll be able to team up with so that life can be as hard as it needs to be and you’ll make it through. That’s the real stuff. That’s what real love is. Not some elusive, magical Disney princess bullshit it’s about finding a teammate for the trials of life. You found that.”

For the first time since he had proposed to Kelley, Kurt reflected on what the wedding actually meant. What Gavin was saying seemed right. What he knew for sure was that, in any scenario, he could see being Kelley’s teammate. He could picture the two of them holding each other up. It wasn’t something he had spent a lot of time imagining since it had been clouded over by thoughts of young,

wedded bliss and an endless honeymoon period. But as he listened to Gavin, he realized that he had simply been evaluating the wrong things. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. It hadn’t been Gavin’s words in particular that put the tear there, or even the beauty and meaning of the wedding. It was simply the thought of not having to worry about loneliness, about solitude. He realized that was probably more of a rarity to find than electric lust or fast-burning whimsy, but also probably more beneficial.

“Yeah, thanks man,” Kurt said in as unaffected a voice as he could muster. The man at the end of the bar raised his hand again and Kurt watched as the bartender went over to pick up the empty glass.

“Of course,” Gavin replied, “nothing to worry about, bro. You got this. I’ll give you a call when I hit town.”

“Okay. Sounds good. See you tomorrow.” Gavin made a final goodbye noise and hung up the line. Kurt set his phone face down on the bar once more and watched the bartender top off the man’s glass with more beer, then set it back down in front of the man, next to the open, untouched can of Pabst. He tried not to make it too obvious that he was curiously inspecting this character at the end of the bar. Those gnarled fingers trembled as they clutched the cold glass dotted with drops of condensation. Did they tremble because the glass was full and slippery? Or maybe they trembled because he so desperately needed the alcohol. The man held the glass a few inches above the top of the bar for a moment as the golden liquid vibrated in his trembling hand,

then he reached his other hand out to grasp the opposite side of the glass in a full-force effort to get the rim to his lips. The moustache that lined the upper lip was stained cigarette yellow on the sides where the scraggled hairs curled over the corners of his mouth. Edges of skull could be seen quite clearly through the thin veil of skin that stretched across the man’s gaunt face.

Kurt could see from the length of the man’s limbs, and his broad but collapsing frame, that there must have been a time he fit into his jacket perfectly. But now it hung as if from the frame of a child playing dress up. He took a good long look as the man closed his eyes and struggled to gulp his beer, then turned his eyes away as the glass was lowered to the bar. Kurt fidgeted with the edge of his phone as if he were doing something important, hiding the fact that he was growing uncomfortable.

“Got cold feet, eh?” the voice ground out like gravel under car tires. Kurt turned to see the man staring straight at him through a wide, mischievous grin.

“Say again,” Kurt half asked, half insisted.

“Sounds like ya got cold feet,” the man repeated. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop. You’re the only other voice in the room. Clayton won’t turn on the jukebox to drown out the room noise, the cheap bastard.” The man raised an eyebrow in the direction of the bartender.

“Hey, I told you old man,” the bartender said, “you want to run that thing, it takes quarters. It’ll take all the quarters you want to throw at it.”

The bartender smiled a playful smile, and it was clear that this was not the first time this interaction had taken place. Kurt smirked, looking back and forth between the two of them, feeling slightly more at ease.

“Yeah, I guess I got some cold feet,” he said, sipping his beer.

“That’ll happen,” the man replied. “When’s the wedding?”

“In two days,” said Kurt.

“That’s about the time it happens, too. Seems simple until the moment comes.”

“Yessir, it does seem like that.”

“But I bet you she is thinking the same thing,” the man went on. “I bet she has the same worry, and I bet she is workin’ double time to make sure you can’t tell.” At this, the man wheezed a maniacal cackle and slugged back more of his beer.

“Well, then she is doing a pretty good job,” Kurt smiled, playing along.

“Clayton over here has heard about more cold feet than you can shake a stick at,” the man teased, nodding at the bartender, who grinned and raised his eyebrows thoughtfully as he dried a series of pint glasses.

“I believe it,” said Kurt, “I’m sure there are a lot of bartenders who have.” Clayton nodded, turning back to the washing sink. The man giggled a little and tipped his glass back once more. That’s wild, thought Kurt, in three gulps

this guy completely drained his pint. The man tapped on the bar with a stray spoon and then raised it like a scepter in the direction of the bartender. As he did, he closed his eyes and raised his nose in a purposefully pompous display, seemingly invigorated by the brief moment of conversation. The bartender snickered at the goofy performance.

“Last one, Albert,” the bartender said. “You know the drill.”

“Oh, I know the drill,” the man spit back, mostly speaking in Kurt’s direction. “Clayton’s gotta keep me spry and on my toes.” Kurt gave a conciliatory laugh and sipped at his Miller, which was only half gone. The bartender filled up a new glass and placed it on the bar in front of the man, next to the open can of Pabst. Gripping the glass with both hands, the man tipped it back and emptied half of it into his mouth and swallowed. Then he let out a loud intentional sigh and smacked his hand lightly on the counter as if to indicate that it was the best swig of beer anyone had ever had. As the room filled with quiet space again, a somber look came over the man’s face. He cleared his throat.

“She got your back, though?” the man asked.

“What’s that?” Kurt, startled, asked in return. “It’s a good woman that’s got your back,” the man clarified. “She got your back?” Kurt wasn’t entirely certain what the man considered to qualify as having his back, but he figured that he could honestly say yes.

“She does,” Kurt said.

“That’s the only thing to worry about,” the man said. “You can have fights about whatever, kids, house, money, all that crap. But if she’s got your back, that’s the only thing that matters.”

“Agreed,” Kurt replied. He did agree, too, although it seemed like the words were maybe more drunken cliché than philosophy gold. Any man with enough beer can tell you all the secrets of life.

“What’s her name?” the man asked.

“It’s Kelley,” said Kurt.

“Kelley,” the man said to himself as if trying to remember this woman he had never met. “I knew a Kelley once. Used to work the counter at the discount pharmacy in Cottonwood.”

Kurt nodded politely. He wasn’t sure what use the information had.

“Plannin’ on kids?”

Kurt took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah, I think so. Someday.”

“Ahh, I see,” the man said. “For you it’s someday, but for her it’s right now.” It wasn’t a question. The man was telling him that was the case. He had said it as if it were a fact he had looked up in an encyclopedia.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Kurt said quietly.

“What are the names so far?” Again, the man spoke as if some sort of legislation had been put in place about their having kids, as if there

was a legitimate, correct answer to the question.

“Names?” Kurt pretended to be puzzled.

“You mean names for kids?”

“Sure.” The old man took a sip of his beer.

“We don’t really know.” The man leaned back in his chair laughing.

“That’s BS. You know she has some picked out.” Kurt grinned and looked at the bartender, who was grinning right back at him.

“She hasn’t decided on anything, but she loves the idea of giving our kids names that start with a ‘K’.”

“Like her name?” the man said. “Kelley?” he added, in case Kurt didn’t remember.

“Yeah, like her name. And my name.”

“Which is?”

“It’s Kurt.”

“Well, hello Kurt. I’m Albert.” The man said, then he motioned in the direction of the bartender. “That’s Clayton.” Kurt nodded.

“So,” the man kept going, “Kurt and Kelley and their ‘K’ children?”

“That’s about it,” Kurt said, “she loves the fact that we will have the same initials.”

“That’s what she says, too. She wants to get embroidered towels and vanity license plates and stuff like that.”

“Then do it.” Said the man, polishing off the last of his beer.

“Think so?” asked Kurt.

“I know so.” The man pulled a wallet from inside his jacket and slipped a few bills out of the fold, laying them neatly in a stack between the empty beer glass and the can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He teetered off his barstool and stood up straight, mildly shaking his shoulders from the weight of sitting too long on hard wood. As he walked by heading toward the exit, he softly gripped Kurt’s arm and looked seriously into his eyes.

“You get those towels, and you use them every single day,” he said. “You put those plates on your car, and you drive that damn thing everywhere. You show everyone.” He squeezed Kurt’s arm and then patted his shoulder, staggering out the heavy door into the oppressive sunlight. When the door closed again, Kurt turned back to his beer and watched the few remaining bubbles wiggle up to the surface. The bartender wiped down the counter where the man had been sitting, took the cash and cleared away the area.

“Another?” the bartender asked.

“I think I’m good,” Kurt replied. Then for good sport, he added, “Funny old guy, huh?”

“Sure, she does,” the man said. “Doesn’t happen often.”

“Yeah, Albert,” the bartender said like he was remembering a dream. “He’s been coming here

for years. Almost every day. Has some interesting stories.”

“I bet he does,” said Kurt.

“He’s related to the family that founded Prescott, where the old state capitol used to be. He was in the Army, too. Served during Korea. His wife was a librarian at the elementary school for years. Me and all the people I know remember her from when we were kids.”

“You grew up here?” Kurt asked.

“I did. One of the few.”

“Did you ever leave?”

“Sure, for several years. I lived in California for a bit. Then I came back to Arizona and lived in the valley some, but it’s just too damn hot. Came back here and started working at the bar, then the owner wanted out, so I bought it from him.”

“Did Albert come with the bar?” Kurt asked jokingly.

“Pretty much,” the bartender laughed. “He used to sneak away from the house when Mary was working late at the school. His wife’s name was Mary. He’d come down here and drink until she was off work, then he’d walk up the road to the school and they would walk back together. Funniest thing. He would always walk in with her and say “Hey Clayton, good to see you”, like he hadn’t just been here for a couple hours already.”

“So, they were here often, huh?” Kurt pondered. “What about their kids?”

“Didn’t have any.”

“Really? The way he was talking about kids, I just assumed he must have some.”

“Well, he wasn’t really talking about kids,” the bartender noted. “He was really talking about your wife. Or, your soon-to-be wife.” Kurt nodded pensively.

“What’s with the can of Pabst?” Kurt asked after a moment of silence.

“Oh, that’s his thing. He comes in every day and orders a can of Pabst, then drinks a few glasses of beer but never touches the can. That was Mary’s drink, see? They would come in and she would order one can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and sip it slowly while he had glass after glass of Miller.”

“He never drinks the can?”

“No, of course not.” The bartender said as if Kurt hadn’t been listening. “That’s for Mary.”

“Where is Mary?” Kurt asked, already certain he knew the answer.

“She’s been gone almost ten years now. Leukemia. She’s in the cemetery a few blocks south. The old one, not the new one. Most days he walks straight there from here. I bet you could find him there right now.”

Because he had nothing of use to say, Kurt nodded in understanding. He slowly spun the glass in front of him with his fingertips, making a circle of water on the coaster. The bartender

turned back to cleaning some empty glasses and restocking the liquor shelves. Kurt recalled a time early in his relationship with Kelley when they had rented a room in a bed and breakfast on the Oregon coast. The sparsely decorated room smelled of the ocean and aerosol freshener and overlooked the beach. Kelley had marveled at the intense sounds of the waves that smashed in turmoil against the large rock formations that rose from the surface of the water like mythological gods. Each thunderous crash made her squeal with glee. Kurt had teased her about being enamored of destruction. That only made her laugh. When she said she was going to go swimming, Kurt scoffed at her joke, then realized she was serious. His amusement turned to a mixture of frustration and concern as he tried to convince her not to go out into the choppy surf.

While he was laying out the reasons she shouldn’t do it, she stripped down to nakedness and pulled on her bathing suit, then grabbed a towel from the rack in the bathroom to wrap around her waist. He finally realized that if he wasn’t going to change her mind, he may as well follow her out there so that she didn’t kill herself. He switched out his formal wear for a pair of shorts and threw the other towel over his shoulder to walk out to the sand. She met him in their room by the sliding glass door and put her hands on his chest to look up into his face.

“You know what is so sweet?” she had baited him.

“These,” she had said, holding up the end of her towel, where there were embroidered two little initials for the bed and breakfast. “It’s so luxurious,” she remarked, then slipped out of the door onto the patio and out across the sand.

Kurt smiled into the few remaining ounces of beer left in his glass. He picked up his phone from where it lay face down on the bar and swiped it open. He scrolled through the recent calls because it was faster than digging through his contacts, fat-fingering his way to the ‘K’s only to fumble, trying to pinpoint the right name. Also, he never had to dig very far in the recent calls. She was always right there on the first screen that came up. He tapped her name and the phone started dialing.

“Yes, love?” Kelley said from the other end.

“Hey,” Kurt said as convincingly as he could before the lump in his throat kept him from saying anything else.

“Hey,” Kelley replied. It was only one word, but he could tell by the way she formed the word that she was smiling when she said it.

“Um, I think…” his voice trailed off. He couldn’t quite climb over the lump that sat just behind his tongue, piercing down into his chest.

“Yes dear?” Kelley gently laughed. “You think what?”

“No. What’s so sweet?”

Kurt took in a deep breath, the kind of breath that can be felt fully satisfying the lungs, like

cresting the top of some internal hill, everything that follows is downhill, easy.

“I think I really would rather go with the white roses,” Kurt said.

“Oh,” Kelley said surprised. “Okay. I didn’t think you really cared either way.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Kurt said. “I guess I do.”

“Okay. That’s fine.”

“Is it really fine?” Kurt asked.

“Yes, it’s really fine.” Again, he could hear she was smiling.

“Maybe we could have some bright colors in your bouquet,” he suggested.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” she said. And she thought it was, he could tell.

“Then the only bright spot will be you,” he said.

“Yes, exactly,” she said with excitement. “Did you hear from Gavin and Trish yet?”

“Yeah, they’ll be here tomorrow,” Kurt replied.

“Okay good,” Kelley said, “I want Trish to help me with my hair, but we still have to figure out what it’s going to be. I want elegant and classy, but not ridiculous, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know. Just like you. Except when you’re ridiculous.”

She giggled. “Well yeah, babe, I can be ridiculous, but my hair better not be.”

“Can I still see you today and tomorrow, or is that going to be bad luck, too?” he asked.

“It’s bad luck,” she said, “but I don’t believe in luck.”

“Me either. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I know. I love you, too.”

He swiped the phone closed and set it back down on the bar. The bartender had disappeared into the back, leaving Kurt alone by himself in the dark, musty room. The quiet stillness was only broken by the loud neon advertisements on the walls and the glow of the milky-glassed jukebox. Inside the jukebox, small brittle records lay stacked in antique glory, waiting for someone to feed the machine, to bask in the warm resonance of long-gone voices and the sounds of former heydays. From his back pocket, he yanked an old, brown leather wallet. He pulled a couple of bills out, flattened them, then laid them next to his empty glass. As he walked toward the front of the bar, he called out a thank you to the bartender, but there was no reply. He knew he would need his sunglasses. He put them over his eyes as he braced himself for the blinding light that was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

The Art of Ingenuity:

Teniya Salazar’s Passion Towards a Future of Creative Understanding

By Jasmine Cardoza

Teniya Salazar (3Tribez) is a current undergraduate student of Art Studies, Dance and American Indian Studies at Arizona State University. She represents the Onk Akimel O'odham tribe and the Navajo Nation as an Indigenous Woman in the Valley of Arizona, with a wide range of creations from beaded jewelry to traditional outfits. Teniya’s vision is to inspire artists to pursue their passions. You can view her latest pieces in person or online on her Instagram @MissSalazarCreations.

Who or what inspires your artwork most?

There are a great number of people and even non-people who inspire my passion for art. As an artist I look up to Frida Kahlo, embracing her art with no judgement but the truth is what I love about her. She has gone through a great number of challenges in her life that even so, she embraced it and used her own personal experiences to create her art that has connected to thousands. As an Indigenous woman, I am motivated from my tribe's generations from before and the generations after me, especially the young ones or those who are older who wanted to pursue their passion in art makes my creativity drive go straight to the top. Seeing the clash of two worlds as a Native American who lives on the reservation and goes to school in the city, opens my eyes to see how very different but very similar these worlds are. And I want to be the artist that can embrace both those worlds within my art.

Can you tell me about what your creative process for pieces like CoLlGe StReSsSsSs and Missing and Murdered but Never Forgotten is like?

Both of these projects are pieces I made in my art classes in my first semester at Arizona State University; they were my final projects I was able to dedicate myself heavily to for 2 months. For my CoLlGe StReSsSsSs piece I wanted to create a piece that used a lot of creativity and freedom with only blue, yellow and red: the three primary colors, while representing the unrecognized lifestyle of a college student. My parents or loved ones in my life that may have never gone to college for art or taking college classes during this time in our history still had an impact on myself and especially others. As hard as I worked, it seemed like I was always behind and always a constant working machine that had an uneven sleeping schedule and an unhealthy diet. So, I wanted to make a piece that showed the reality of what a college student experiences every semester.

Missing and Murdered but Never Forgotten was a piece I had total freedom from the very beginning. I had a prototype I did in the beginning that was a barbie doll wearing traditional O'odham clothing to help me determine my final project. My final piece had white glitter fabric and a fabric that was all red with rose designs all over. I chose these fabric designs to embrace my culture as glitter brings out the sparkles in light, and roses to dedicate to those who are a part of MMIW/P. The references I used to make the outfit were the traditional clothing I wear during special events. I wanted my project to successfully connect with my classmates as none of them were Native American, so I had gathered tons of information,

facts, flyers, and art all to bring awareness for MMIW. With all of this information I had printed each paper out and stapled it to my outfit to be displayed on. So, as I asked my classmates to view the outfit, I had also asked them to take in this time to either read the information the papers had or rip one off to take with them. It was actually bizarre to hear from them about how thankful they were to have learned about this issue and to have felt guilty as they ripped the papers off the outfit. They felt a part of the people who had hurt the Native American tribes whether it was literally ripping away loved ones from their community or within the history of the colonization of the Native American people. It was an impact that still shocks me to my core as a Native American and as an Artist. It’s also something I am very proud to have done because I was able to show how truthfully painful it is to witness the loss in communities that do not get recognized enough and bring awareness to the eyes of those who can help make a difference and most importantly to be educated.

What do you hope people can learn from or appreciate in your work as an artist?

What I hope for people from any background to learn or to know from my art is that art will make you see the world differently, in ways you should see it, despite the negativity. But also, to see what is both the reality and the dreams here. Especially showing the creativity that not only inspired the artist to make their art in the first place but to hope that their art inspires others to keep continuing their passions is the dream I hope to lead and to bring the beauty of my Native communities into light that deserves to be shown and shine bright.

What creative projects are you currently working on or plan to do in the future are you most excited for?

Currently I am in the midst of gathering up all my ideas and sketches to bring to life this upcoming semester. I am extremely happy to see where my art will take me whether it's the making of it and where I am accepted to display it at. Especially the future opportunities and the events I am able to even sell my artwork. The future may not be set in stone, but I am ready to venture out and meet new people.

If you had to give aspiring artists one piece of advice, what would it be?

My one advice to any artist is to always remember there will be times of discouragement from all sorts of situations where you might need to say no to opportunities or even take a step back and reevaluate. Take this time to understand everything happens for a reason, even the worse ones. Life will throw the craziest paths for you to go down at the wildest time and all it takes from you is to make the right positive decisions during these tough times. Keep your true loved ones close and always remember you come first, your art and passions will always be there at your side when you are ready to come back.

Stories of Rive and Fuse: A Traverse of Self Through

the Words of Isiaha Akatlzin Rodriguez

By Jasmine Cardoza

Isiaha Akatlzin Rodriguez is a Wixárika and Tepehuán Ph.D. student in Applied Mathematics. His poetry draws from the desert, the surreal, and the spiritual sciences of his people.

How did you come up with the title for your poem Sleight of Hand and what does that mean to you?

The poem’s title was partly inspired by Duff Thompson’s song “Sleight of Hand,” which includes the line “Yesterday’s coming.” That phrase mirrored my sense that the present carries the echoes of the past, and the subtlest echoes persist by sleight of hand.

Can you share what your process of writing your poem Annihilation was like?

The “I” is only a story. True, unconditioned selflessness can feel violent to the self. In writing this poem, I drew from my own traditions: hunting, the deer, the ocean; I tried to inhabit what it means to lose everything, to become remainderless.

What are the overarching messages you hope to convey in such hauntingly beautiful imagery in both of your featured poems?

Notice more; the world and the experience between the locus of our eyes, down to the grains of sand at the edge of vision.

How did you feel before and after writing these two powerful pieces? What is your favorite part about writing poetry?

Writing helps me reconcile experience, emotion, and ideas. At times, it feels as if everything inside me is violently churning. Poetry becomes a way to transmute that chaos into something that might belong to others too. Afterward, there is relief.

What advice would you give to aspiring creative writers, especially poets?

I’m still an aspiring poet. I’ve had no formal training, so I refine my craft by being with art, writing endlessly, and revising even more. My only advice: write as if the words couldn’t have come from anywhere else in the universe.

Roots, Memory, and Making:

A Dialogue with Abigail Klimuk of Creation and Inspiration

By Isys Morrow

Abigail Klimuk is an artist and writer residing and working out of rural Pennsylvania. Her works primarily focuson family,mentalhealth, horror, and love prevailing through harsh times, mostly told through digital art and media. She is currently pursuing a career in directing and screenwriting and hopes to improveherskillsoverthenextfewyearsbefore jumping into the movie industry. You can find more of her on X @girlritual, where she posts most of her writing and art pieces.

When did you realize creating art was something you had interest in?

I was thirteen or fourteen, I think. I’ve made art my whole life, but I didn’t do much with it until around and in my teenage years. I was in a lot of small fandom spaces online with other people my age and I created this throwaway character for a D&D session, and ended up giving her a full name, what weapons she used and why, a backstory that took me days to write, outfit styles for different days, and I spent so long creating her that we ended up just making her Dialogue a main character for the rest of the game. I haven’t shared her story anywhere online, and I probably won’t at any point in the future. It’s a special piece of my teenage years, a weird character that made me want to create art for the rest of my life. It’s silly, but I’m glad it happened.

What sparks your creative interest? How long does it take you to create something?

Anything can, really, but a lot of my ideas just appear in my head out of nowhere, usually based on something I’ve seen or read. It can be random sentences to music lyrics to a full scene with characters and names to just a character descrip-

tion, and I go from there. I get a lot of inspiration from the people around me, and the people I see when I go out, and I base a lot of my stories on areas around or in my state. Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, and New York are still the only states I’ve ever been to, and I find peace in that, because I think it helps me keep my writing realistic and grounded. I keep my characters close, and I find it much easier to create quickly when I can go and see the places they would live, the restaurants they would eat in, the fields they would run through. It takes me a while to make a fully fleshed out story with fully fleshed out characters, but I can come up with new stories on a dime.

One of my favorite pastimes is creating new

characters and stories, because even though I know I’ll never use most of them, or take the idea anywhere beyond one or two sentences, at least I had fun making them.

What inspired you for the pieces you have submitted for this issue?

I think I picked these three because I finished them all (roughly) around the same time. It was weird for me to do these big pieces depicting certain important events in my stories, but when I started, I realized how freeing it was, and now I can’t stop. It helps me create new ideas and add onto existing ones. I make a lot that I don’t share anywhere. I’ve gotten, or at least I hope so, much better at making these pieces now, but I’m still so proud of the three I submitted, because they signify a big change in how I create art. “Gloria Benveniste” is a side character in my main story Heart Rot and she’s very dear to me, because she reminds me of all the women I know. I’ve put so many little details from so many different women I’ve met in my life into this story, into my characters. In the story, this is the last photo taken of her, and it’s used as her framed funeral photo. To me, it’s a representation of how unappreciated most girls are in their family. I think when people look at it, there should be a sadness behind it, a sorrow, loneliness. Look at the details and the contrast of her face versus this grisly scar on her shoulder. “Like father like daughter” is a self-explanatory title, I think. The symbol of my life, the reason I’m alive, is going somewhere I can never follow, even if I tried. It’s a sad painting, and every time I look at it I feel the pain, and the grief, and the love in it.

Running and running for something you can never catch up to, something you can never grasp. It’s a companion piece to my Gloria one, from the same story, and it was meant to feel a

bit like a little kid’s drawing, with unimportant details like grass and the tree being almost scribbled in. One of the main themes is nostalgia, and how looking back everything can seem (literally) picture perfect. I hope it feels slightly surreal, with the man disappearing behind the tree with no clear direction of where he’s going, the background is almost blank, just this white sea of nothing behind him. It’s meant to feel empty, like there’s something missing from the image. We aren’t getting the complete picture, we’re just getting the small, shattered piece of a memory from long ago. “Think back on it” is meant to feel the same way, almost. A snapshot of a fun time at the beach, sunburnt and thirsty. Details in the image are fuzzy or blurred out, similar to the other piece; you don’t get the full picture, but you can gather together enough pieces to make a full story. Its title is literal, thinking back on good memories and blurring out what's not considered important. While I don’t consider it as “deep” or “meaningful” as the other pieces, I think it holds its own weight. Despite my own meanings, I love hearing what other people take away from it.

Who inspires you to create art?

All the people around me do. It's a cliche answer, but it’s the truth. I look to my brothers, and my big sister, and I look to my parents, and I look to my friends, and I look behind to the people I’ve known and lost. They all have contributed little bits of themselves to me, and I wouldn’t be who I am now without all the people I’ve met in my life.

What are some pieces you’re extremely proud of?

I’m proud of most of my pieces, but there are two I really love. I made one piece that I swore I would never post online, no social media, no

sending it to friends, just keep it to myself. It was a big piece, and I was worried it would look bad, but when I got done all I could think was how much fun it was to create it. To make it ugly, and weird, and be fine with it. No expectation of anyone else seeing it, judging it. No worries about likes or if someone's going to take it the wrong way or if they’re going to make a joke about it. It helped me grow in how I create art and share my stories with people in general.

The other one is “like father like daughter”. I made it during a weird, tough time in my life, when I didn’t know how to put how I felt into words, and for a while I really couldn’t draw anything I liked or felt connected to. I made that piece in about a day, not counting interruptions. I don’t think I’ll ever share the meaning it has to me anywhere online. I know what it means to me, and I hope in some way it can have a secret meaning to others, too. The symbol of your humanity was setting off somewhere you couldn’t follow. That’s okay, it can be a good or bad thing; I hope people look at it both ways.

What do you most enjoy about the process of creating art?

The effort, and the satisfaction of finishing a piece. I like when something takes me a week or two to finish. I enjoy making art quickly, but the little things I do in between art sessions, and the breaks I take, and the music I listen to, all have an impact on how a piece turns out. I’ve abandoned far too many unfinished artworks just because I couldn’t get it right. Whether that be atmosphere, or the music, or the people I was around. I like the feeling of putting down the pen and knowing I’m completely done with it, without worrying that I could’ve done something better. I like watching the piece come together, watching it come to life, watching the colors and the story behind it become real. Stepping back from the piece and knowing I did

good, knowing I did the best I can right now. Maybe I’ll be better in the future, but I don’t think it’s good to wait for talent to magically come your way before creating the things you want to create.

When people see your work, what do you hope they take away from it?

I hope people can feel the love I put behind my creations. Each and every single one of them. The love I put into crafting these characters that come right from my heart. I love to create and share. Every character and every story I’ve come up with always has a special meaning to me, because I made it. I made up these weird little characters and nowhere else in the world did they exist before me. I hope people take away how much fun it is to just create. On paper, on digital, on a post it notes and a sharpie, on canvas, in clay, in 3D modeling. There are an infinite number of ideas out there, and you just have to think them up. Create things, create monsters, create people who mess up, create big fantastical stories that won’t ever be finished. If nothing else, you made a whole world! That’s cool. Creating is cool.

If you had to give another artist one piece of advice, what would it be? And what is something you wish someone told you about creating art when you first started?

It’s okay for things to look ugly, I promise. It’s okay for your anatomy to be off or for the colors to not match or to not be proud of something you made, but you can’t stop creating. Humans have made art since the beginning of time, and it’s intrinsic to how we live. I know the most basic advice everyone has is to stop comparing yourself to other artists, and it’s hard. It’s really really hard, I know, I still haven’t gotten over it. But you should allow yourself the space to make weird art, experimental art, ugly art. Make art that makes you uncomfortable, make things that

you don’t like, because everything you make will lead you further down the path of creating something you’re proud of, something you really love. Let yourself be bad at art. Let yourself make mistakes. Make an art piece and don’t show anyone. Leave pieces unfinished for weeks and come back when you feel better about it, when you think you have the skills.

You have to be confident even if you think the end product doesn’t ‘look good’ or won’t ‘sell well’. No artist has ever just magically known how to make ‘good art’, whatever you think that may be. Sometimes the best art is a bad scribble of a dog, or a house you saw while driving and barely remember by the time you get home, or a two-minute video of a big, beautiful cloud going by. I don’t really think there is ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in art, in terms of skill. You’re making art! I think that’s good enough.

A Look into Society:

A Deep Dive Behind the Poet, Dina Uraiby

By Nardeen Narsa

Dina Uraiby is a 15-year-old girl attending Herberger Young Scholars Academy, a school for gifted students located on ASU’s West campus. Now in 10th grade, Dina has always loved writing ever since she was a child, she has found comfort and excitement in putting words on the page. Whether crafting a narrative, composing a poem, or jotting down a diary entry, writing has been my constant companion. It helps her explore ideas, understand emotions, and connect with others. Dina looks forward to developing her craft and sharing stories that matter.

What inspired you to write your poem, “Society” ?

Much of what provokes my writing is a reflection of the environment I'm in. The political landscape of the world has been in constant turmoil and so many changes throughout society whether they affect us positively or negatively have been apparent, especially recently. My main inspiration was brought by how we go on through our everyday lives and pretend we’re normal, or at the very least meet external expectations of what we should be. I took these feelings of inner conflict and put them in a form I can use to express clearly.

Why do you choose to express yourself through writing?

I choose to write because it lets me bring my thoughts and feelings to a physical page and it's liberating to express myself in a way where I can indirectly communicate with my reader. My writing is a reflection of my most inner self brought to life by words.

How long have you been writing?

From a young age my father used to bring me journals to write in. I wrote so much then over the years they began to build up and now I have a collection of notebooks filled with the interworking of my mind. From there I never stopped writing and that led me to where I am today.

Why choose to write it in poetry?

I chose poetry because it leaves a certain level of interpretation open to the audience. I’ve written more creative and narrative works but when writing more about a concept of society rather than a plot with characters, poetry was able to capture my feelings of ambiguity. In other words there are no guidelines to what I can or can’t do.

What advice would you give to any aspiring writers looking to get published?

Keep writing and take the leap of faith. I honestly wasn’t expecting to be accepted and published but taking a risk proved fruitful in the end, and even if it doesn't it's always better to keep going and trying then never to have put in any effort at all.

What do you hope for people to take away from Society?

I want people to know things can always be improved if they choose to change them.

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

Thank you to our contributors for making Issue 32 possible! Thankyoutoour contributorsformaking Issue32possible!

Dee Allen. African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. Active in creative writing & Spoken Word since the early 1990s. Author of 10 books--Boneyard, Unwritten Law, Stormwater, Skeletal Black, Elohi Unitsi, Rusty Gallows: Passages Against Hate, Plans, Crimson Stain, Discovery, and his newest, The Mansion--and 83 anthology appearances under his figurative belt so far.

Naveed Banuelos (motaquita). There is a pretty pink doll, and her name is motaquita. a play on words for muñequita and mota, meaning little doll and cannabis. she runs all around my mind and occasionally jumps onto a little screen or a not so little canvas. she has a long, round nose just like me and happens to be my favorite color, varying in shades. i created her as a way to cope with my self esteem and body dysmorphia. the internet is poisoned with unattainable beauty standards and i have long since fallen victim to the negative side effects. so, i found a creative outlet. i may not always enjoy the way i look, but i always enjoy the way she looks because i made her, and we are synonymous, so if i think she is cute, then i must think i am cute too. she is my embodiment of self-love. instagram is @motaquita

Isabella Bickenbach is currently a sophomore studying Media, Culture, and Communication at New York University. She enjoys writing for the sports column for her school's newspaper (Washington Square News), figure skating, and playing piano and guitar. Her work has been featured in Fellowship of the Unmoored, and Canyon Voices Literary & Art Magazine Spring 2025 issue.

Instagram: isabellabickenbach

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Vassi Brentas is a fourth-year Barrett undergraduate at Arizona State University, majoring in Forensic Psychology with a Certificate in Philosophy, Rhetoric, and Literature. Previously a semi-finalist in Poetry Nation's 2022 Poetry Competition, Vassi has been published in the magazine Quilted Voices with their poem "In The Aftermath." They are currently about to defend their thesis How We Become Stories: The Analysis of Vulnerability in Classics and are looking forward to going to graduate school to achieve a master's in Nonprofit Management.

Ashley Cameron is an English student at Arizona State University. She loves to write short stories in various genres, especially fantasy, sci-fi, and horror, with touches of romance. She aspires to be a Young Adult novelist and video game writer, hoping to bring vivid worlds and relatable characters to life. Her work can be found in the online literary magazines "Outrageous Fortune,” “Normal Noise” with ASU Barrett, and "Quirk," as well as in "Tempe Writes: An Anthology Volume 10."

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Alexander Castillo is a sophomore at Barrett, the Honors College at ASU, majoring in psychology. He currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada, and is passionate about exploring poetry as a therapeutic process. In his free time, he enjoys writing, hiking, and traveling throughout the American Southwest. He can be found on Instagram @oscaralexander.

Sophie Clews is an emerging English artist currently undertaking a Bachelor of Visual Arts at Queensland College of Art and Design in Australia. Her interdisciplinary practice merges painting and photography to examine the construction of memory, the aesthetics of atmosphere, and how visual culture mediates experience. Clews creates highly detailed works that blur the boundary between photographic realism and painterly interpretation. Clews has exhibited works in the group shows "Second Rising" (2024) and "Undergrowth" (2025), curated by QCAD.

Robert A. Cozzi is a New Jersey Native, a six-time eLit medalist, William Shakespeare Book Award finalist, and Story Monsters Dragonfly Award winner. Educated at James Madison University, Robert has maintained a daily journal since he was in the ninth grade, when a favored teacher encouraged his writing. He regularly shares his unedited, handwritten journal entries with his readers online. Robert's work has been featured in Bending Genres, JanusWords, and Cosmic Daffodil.

Website: robertcozziauthor.com

Instagram: @robertcozziauthor.com

Brendan Dawson is an American-born poet and writer based in Italy. Brendan writes from his observations while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time serving in the military and his journey as an expat.

Lessie Dingler is a native of the Southeastern United States. She moved to Arizona in 2019 for better opportunities and has claimed Arizona as her new home away from home. An artist at heart, writing is something she has picked up since moving out West as a form of self-expression. Lessie has been published in the Spring 2025 edition of Hydration, SNAPS Literary Magazine, the Tempe Writer's Forum, and exhibited in Caesars of Rome project at the Talon Gallery in Showlow, AZ. She is an avid explorer, photographer, and storyteller. She mixes her love for the visual, written, and performance arts as a way of forming human connections.

Audrey Finkelstein is a student at Albuquerque Academy in New Mexico and is an editor of her school's news publication, The Advocate. While she is not sure what she wants to do with her future, she finds herself gravitating towards the Sciences; since she was young, she has loved beekeeping and learning how things work, and as of late, Chemistry and Biology have sparked her interest. She also spends much of her free time birding and taking nature photography, and she is especially taken up with barn owls. She tries to expand her understanding of others' lives and beliefs as much as she can through reading global literature and has the goal of improving her Spanish by reading more from authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Isabel Allende. Her absolute favorite food is the potato, with its many uses.

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K. Skye Fulton is an English major with a passion for the fine arts. Fulton loves to create things, from poetry and songs to paintings, photography, and sketches. She thrives off the things that make life colorful. She has been creating for many years, with many more years to come, for the love of creating something meaningful to herself. Fulton is often inspired by her experiences and nature, leading to a variety of works that, while created in different mediums, all have a running imagery of nature. Fulton has been very fortunate to be able to share her work with very few, so she is so glad to share it with a wider audience. If you want to see more of Fulton’s work, you can follow her photography account @kara.skye.photography and her main account @skyefinearts on Instagram.

Leilani Gastelum, As an ASU alumni with a Bachelor of Fine Arts, Leilani’s artwork is dedicated to fostering self-love and highlighting a person's extraordinary soul. They employ special patterns, colors, symbols, and body language to reveal the essential fragments of individual identity, aiming to instill pride in one's true self and inspire self-reflection. Art has always served as a powerful means of self-expression, and it is Leilani’s most authentic way to convey emotions, identity, and values. Instagram art account: @leilas artistica

Alyx Germonchik is a lab technician in a cancer treatment center. Fid is an artist on the internet. She's 25 years old, sapphic aroace, self-taught in digital art, the skill being a source of pride, a comfort, and a certainty that cannot be taken away. Alyx isn't ever ashamed to gush excitedly about her current hyperfixation and fandom culture. Since childhood, she's had two lives: the "real" one, and an online one, neither less tangible nor important than the other. When things would get overwhelming, too taxing, too upsetting, Alyx would switch to Fid, and vice versa. It worked, and it works still, so no wonder she thinks so fondly of communities and connections experienced there over the years. The cycle of inspiration within fandoms is more than escapism; it's fulfilling the deep human desire to leave a positive mark on history, however niche that bit of history is. Touching other lives is, in Alyx's opinion, the purpose of it all.

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Naomi Guevara is a current MFA student at Wichita State University. She earned a bachelor's degree in English from Colorado Mesa University, located in her hometown of Grand Junction, Colorado. She has been a contributing editor and the Associate Editor as The Literary Review and Pinyon. Her work can be found in Mikrokosmos and Canyon Voices.

Instagram: @naomiguevara1

Cam Guillen is a fiction writer and Navy veteran whose work spans horror, fantasy, and screenwriting. He explores grief, obsession, and power through character-driven stories, often blending poetic prose with visceral, cinematic tension. Current projects include The Oubliette, a literary horror/fantasy novel, and several short stories bound for magazine submission. A lifelong gamer and tabletop storyteller, Cam draws on video game design and Dungeons & Dragons to craft immersive worlds and narrative systems. During overseas deployments and later travels through Japan, Germany, Bahrain, South Korea, France, and Ireland, he developed a keen interest in place, ritual, and the uncanny threads that run through his work. Cam is pursuing a Bachelor's in English with plans to pursue studying creative writing and continually refine craft through rigorous outlining, revision, and collaboration. When he’s not drafting, he mentors peers, experiments with multimedia pairings of literature, music, and coffee, and daydreams new monsters.

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V.J. Hamilton was born and raised in Saskatchewan, Canada, in a town that no longer exists. After sojourns in Germany, Japan, and New Zealand, she currently calls Toronto home. Her work has been published in The Antigonish Review, Amsterdam Quarterly, and Litro, among others. She won the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest. Most recently, her fiction appears in Ocean State Review. When not writing or thinking about writing, she loves playing duets.

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Samuel Harris, also known as HarrisPortraits, is a 22-year-old psychology graduate and artist from Birmingham, England. While his studies have taken him deep into science and health, art has always been Samuel’s truest passion. What once began as a quiet hobby has grown into the heart of his daily life, whether through commissioned work created with care for each client or the personal paintings that allow Samuel to explore his ideas and emotions. For him, art is more than an image; it’s a way of capturing raw feeling, energy, and memory. Samuel loves that a single piece can invite countless interpretations, whether it’s hanging in a gallery or brightening someone ’ s home. His recent paintings, such as ‘Espresso in Love’, ‘Coca-Cola Curls’, and ‘Olives n ’ Heels’, embrace the sultry and extravagant side of modern femininity, while commissions often move him deeply with their sentiment and nostalgic value. Sharing his work has been a joy, whether through Instagram (@HarrisPortraits) or TikTok (@sammy.samh), where he connects with people who see a part of themselves in what he creates. By showing his art through Canyon Voices, he hopes to continue growing this passion into a lifelong journey, one that reaches people across communities and cultures. Doing so while representing the LGBTQ+ community as a creative would be both an honor and a privilege.

Joseph M. Holloway, a 26-year public school educator, has aided thousands of students in their writing processes. Addressing the current social climate within our country and around the globe has allowed Joseph to couple students’ individual sensibilities with their appreciation of literature. Experiences as a father, son, brother, and loyal partner have also shaped his belief that we, as citizens and human beings, are responsible for making our experiences meaningful in this everchanging world. Joseph’s published writing thus far involves insight into nature and matters of the heart oh, how we, as a species, must reconnect these! These poems relate Joseph’s recent summer experiences traveling through Arizona, from Phoenix to Sedona, the Grand Canyon, and the Navajo Nation up to Page.

amantha Hui is a writer and higher ed professional whose ork has appeared in The Tunnels, Thin Air Magazine, and Maudlin House. She also writes book reviews for Independent ook Review, where she shares her passion for discovering and mplifying new voices in literature. Samantha has spent the past ve years working in education and has dedicated her rofessional life to fostering a love for lifelong learning, reativity, and slow living. She earned her B.A. in English from orthern Arizona University and is currently pursuing her M.A. n English at Arizona State University. Samantha lives in Mesa, Z with her partner, their two kids, and their incorrigible cat and og. When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys discovering new foods and watching horror movies.

Holly Hunt, poet and essayist, is from the Ouachita Mountains, central Arkansas. Her writing has appeared in The Southern Review, Poetry, Ploughshares, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, and other journals. Her poetry mms, The Supernatural Animal Trust, was a top five finalist for the Cornerstone Press Linda Foster Prize. Some of her family moved to Arizona, settling west before WW2. She lives in Hot Springs, AR, with her cat and Mitch, her husband. Her MFA is from the University of Arkansas. She has taught writing at several universities.

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet of high acclaim, with his work ublished in 46 countries or republics. He is also a song lyricist ith several published poetry books. His talent has been cognized with 7 Pushcart Prize nominations and 7 Best of the et nominations. He has over 653 published poems. His 347us YouTube poetry videos are a testament to his skill and edication. He is a proud member of the Illinois State Poetry ociety, http://www.illinoispoets.org/, and the Academy of merican Poets, https://poets.org/. His poems have been anslated into several foreign languages. Awards/Contests: International Award of Excellence "Citta' Del Galateo-Antonio De Ferrariis" XI Edition 2024 Milan, Italy-Poetry. Poem, Michael Lee Johnson, "If I Were Young Again." Remember to consider Michael Lee Johnson for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!

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Chris Kads is an Arizonan writer whose pieces can be found featured in Blood+Honey Literary Magazine, SHINE International Poetry Series, Pillow Talk Magazine, Issue 31 of the Canyon Voices Literary Magazine, and the upcoming anthology If You Ever: Poems Inspired by Kim Addonizio. She holds a BA in literature and a certificate in writing from Arizona State University, and her poem "Missing the Tide" was runnerup in the 63rd Glendon and Kathryn Undergraduate Poetry Swarthout Awards. When she is not writing, Chris loves reading realistic and historical fiction and spending time with her friends, family, boyfriend, and two dogs.

Christa King has always lived in the West. The landscapes, experiences, and people of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Idaho inspire and inform her writing. She received a BA in Creative Writing at the age of 51 and a Master’s Degree in Library Sciences in 2012, both from the University of Arizona. She is working on a poetry collection and a novel.

Abigail Klimuk is an artist and writer residing and working out of rural Pennsylvania. Her works primarily focus on family, mental health, horror, and love prevailing through harsh times, mostly told through digital art and media. She is currently pursuing a career in directing and screenwriting, and hopes to grow her skills over the next few years before jumping into the movie industry. You can find more of her on X; @girlritual, where she posts most of her writing and art pieces.

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Paige Kuzma is now fortunate to call herself a published author and scriptwriter. She is from Tucson, Arizona, and currently living up in Phoenix, Arizona. Paige’s favorite thing to write is science fiction, and she loves sharing creative fiction pieces online. A fun fact about Paige is that she is trained in five martial arts forms! Paige is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Social Work at the University of Arizona, and plans to pursue a Master’s in Australia. Writing has been Paige’s passion for her whole life, and she can’t wait to create and publish more works in the future.

Tanja Lau is a Swiss-based poet and writer with GermanItalian roots. A highly sensitive observer and mother of two, she explores life’s complexity with vulnerability and a hint of humor. She studied Comparative Literature before venturing into entrepreneurship. Her first children’s book is scheduled for publication in 2026, and several of her poems are forthcoming in international anthologies. Her writing can also be found on Instagram @tanias.butterflies and on Substack at taniasbutterflies.substack.com.

Audrey Lee’s relationship with poetry began early, almost instinctively, and has followed Lee through their life stages. Most of their writing begins in the stillness of night, when a spark of thought presses forward and becomes a line. Their poems map the terrain of their life from deeply personal real experiences to realizations Lee gathers from living with their eyes open. They never wrote for an audience so much as for the act itself, though Lee is learning that sharing can be a form of connection, or a small invitation into the world that isn’t often on display. Lee is a chemical engineering student who finds joy in volunteering and exploring outside. A truth they have learned is that the world softens when we meet it with a smile. Life can be heavy, but kindness ripples farther than anyone can notice. Lee’s writing, much like their life, leans into that belief, gentle, curious, and quietly hopeful.

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Isaura López is a Mexican American painter and tattoo artist who re-examines the metaphorical web of human connection through the language of anatomically inspired symbolism. Exploring themes of identity and the introspection of the human body, López believes that all people are connected through shared experiences and livelihood-that beneath the flesh, we are all the same. Their work is deeply influenced by a background in forensic science and medical research, weaving together censorship with intimacy to find comfort in the taboo.

Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, with her husband and three children. She graduated with a degree in English from Brandeis University and works full-time as a Technical Training Manager. She is the author of the poetry book Invisible Lines, published by Kelsay Books, and the poetry chapbook Ordinary Wonders, published by Prolific Press. Her poems have been published in various magazines and journals, including Sparks of Calliope, One Art, Glacial Hills Review, and Paterson Literary Review.. Read her published work on her website: https://www.miriammanglani.com

Lucy V. Martin is a poet based in Sydney, Australia. Their work often navigates the intersections of identity, memory, and existential inquiry, drawing from both personal experiences and broader cultural narratives. Lucy’s poetry has been featured in various literary journals, and they are currently working on a collection that examines the nuances of human connection and disconnection.

C. R. Mathew is an undergraduate at ASU majoring in forensic psychology, though their affinity for creative writing tends to surface at every opportunity. Particularly enjoying dialogue and worldbuilding, their writing tends to have some element of unreality along with components of whatever they’re currently fixated on thrown in. When not writing or avoiding studies, they can be found rewatching Hannibal yet again.

Instagram: @cassjellyfish

Raven Montaño is studying Criminology and Criminal Justice at ASU with honors from Barrett, The Honors College. They are a first-generation student from Albuquerque, New Mexico. Raven is also a part of Changemaker as a scholar, with a passion for civic engagement. They discovered a love for poetry in high school, in a club called Writers' Guild. It meant the world to Raven, and many of their best poems came from there. In Raven’s free time, they like to draw, play Dungeons and Dragons, crochet, and play jazz. Raven’s favorite instrument is the tenor saxophone, and jazz is one of their favorite genres.

Instagram: @ .ifbirdordevil.

Alexandra Nelson is a Freshman at Arizona State University. Alexandra is located on the West Valley Campus, currently majoring in Forensic Psychology and minoring in Arabic Studies. They will also be adding International Relations as a second major next semester, Spring 2026. Alexandra has always had a passion for writing and creating in general, as well as for social justice. Most of their pieces center around global issues or mental struggles of some kind, as they connect the most with these subjects. While Alexandra does not post much about their projects, you can find them on Instagram @alinelsonofficial. Alexandra is always open to discussing the creative arts or topics of any kind, so feel free to dm them!

Lulu Nowicki is a surreal figurative artist, working primarily in oil paint on canvas, living out of Boone, NC, and Jacksonville, FL. Her work is a combination of surrealism, expressionism and physiological horror used to depict themes of transformation and intensity of human emotion. She is currently attending Appalachian State University studying Studio Art with a concentration in painting and drawing. Her work has been exhibited at the APP Prints; Looking Glass Gallery, Boone, NC, The Cabinet of Curiosity Exhibition Boone, NC, and in the Northeast Scholastic Art Awards exhibitions, Jacksonville, FL. Nowicki also worked as an upper school visual arts studio assistant at St Johns Country Day School, Orange Park, FL. She can be contacted at: lulunowicki@gmail.com and her TikTok and Insta: Lulu Nowicki Art

Corinn Olson graduated from Arizona State University in 2024. She has written for the Smithsonian Institution, the Wilson Center, Normal Noise, and SPOOKY magazine. She is also the founder of the musical project Kyrene and an active member of social service organizations, including Rotary. Corinn is currently studying arts-based peacebuilding at Queen’s University Belfast.

Angel Ophelia is a multidisciplinary artist born in Queens, NY, and currently based in Central Florida. Completely self-taught, they blend the lines of whimsy and the uncanny all while exploring fauna, the paranormal, and the repressed emotions that plague us all.

Where to find me: Website: https://www.angelophelia.com/ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/angel.ophelias

Kelsey Phillips (AKA "keymintt") is an AZ-based illustrator, public artist, and arts educator who works in both digital and traditional media. As a fifth-generation Arizonan, their work is heavily inspired by the Sonoran desert’s scenery and wildlife, and combines natural imagery with the uncanny to explore the disruption of binaries, specifically those between human and nonhuman, and mundane and supernatural. They received a BFA from Arizona State University in 2022.

Isiaha Akatlzin Rodriguez is a Wixárika and Tepehuán Ph.D. student in Applied Mathematics. His work draws from the desert, the surreal, and the spiritual sciences of his people.

Teniya Salazar (3Tribez) is currently a student at Arizona State University, earning her BA in Art Studies with minors in Dance and American Indian Studies. She represents the Onk Akimel O'odham tribe and the Navajo Nation as an Indigenous Woman in the Valley of Arizona, creating various projects that include beaded jewelry, traditional outfits, and a wide variety of art pieces. With Teniya's side business, MissSalazarCreations, her vision is to be an inspiration for those to pursue their passions and especially those who want to create art, whether they are Native American or not. You can view her latest pieces in person or online on her Instagram @MissSalazarCreations.

Briana Sandoval is a senior at ASU studying English Secondary Education. She hopes to become a high school English teacher after graduation, with the goal of inspiring students to develop a passion for reading and writing. Writing is her favorite creative outlet because it allows her full creative freedom. She often writes poetry and songs based on her personal experiences and hopes to branch out into protest writing; one day, she even aims to transform her songs into music. She is grateful to have one of her pieces featured in Canyon Voices Issue 32 and hopes her work resonates with anyone who has endured difficult food service jobs. On tough days, her favorite motto is, “If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry, ” a phrase that inspired her humorous list-style story about working in food service. You can find her on Instagram at @gro0vy.bri.

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Sarah has loved drawing since she was a little girl, and a few years ago, she started painting with oils. Sarah is self-taught and has learned through videos on the internet! :) Through sharing her art, she has been able to improve her painting. She always sticks to the same theme, which is simple landscapes of nature. You can find Sarah on TikTok: @s.rah.paint

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Izzy Sayer is a UK-based artist. Inspired by her lifelong love of insects and flowers, Izzy aspires for her work to transport viewers to a fantastical realm, instilling a sense of whimsy and a deeper appreciation for the natural world. By scaling up the creatures and flowers in her work, Izzy encourages viewers to engage with them at face level, mimicking a childlike wonder where the world feels endless and magical. She also aims to challenge the traditional use of crochet in fashion by positioning it within a fine art context. social media: @izzysayer.art

Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in Rattle, Trampset, Variant Lit, The Chiron Review, The Stone Circle Review, IceFloe Press, among others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.

Social Media: Instagram.com @brandonsahne

Emma Sperry is a 17-year-old artist, musician, and writer. She is highly dedicated to academics, but also cares deeply about pursuing arts such as classical singing, theater, and drawing. Her art consists of varying styles; however, she mostly enjoys working with maximalism and bright colors- piecing together images telling stories of narratives surrounding queer expression, humanity, and emotion.

Kellie Stein lives with her many 3D printers in Madison, Wisconsin, where she works as a programmer. When she’s not writing code, she’s writing science fiction. She aims to use her poetry to shine a light through the cracks of everyday life. She can be found pretty much everywhere as @minnowsparadise.

ART

Dina Uraiby is a 15 year old girl attending Herberger Young Scholars Academy, a school for gifted students located on ASU’s West campus. Now in 10th grade, Dina has always loved writing ever since she was a child, she has found comfort and excitement in putting words on the page. Whether crafting a narrative, composing a poem, or jotting down a diary entry, writing has been my constant companion. It helps her explore ideas, understand emotions, and connect with others. At school, Dina enjoys challenging classes, thoughtful discussions, and opportunities to grow as a writer and learner. Outside the classroom, she reads widely, experimentally with different styles, and seeks feedback to improve her voice. Writing isn’t just something she does it’s Dina’s passion and how she makes sense of the world. Dina looks forward to developing her craft and sharing stories that matter.

K.A. Vallere is a Polish writer and poet currently completing the Undergraduate Diploma in Creative Writing at the University of Oxford. Her work explores themes of identity, memory, mythmaking, and female integrity, often blending lyric intensity with surreal or symbolic imagery. She is mentored by Dr. Kristina Marie Darling, with whom she is developing both new poetry and hybrid prose projects. Outside of writing, she draws inspiration from music, dance, and visual art, particularly the interplay between movement and emotional architecture.

Sofie Wycklendt, a senior at Barrett, The Honors College, majors in Social and Behavioral Sciences. Driven by curiosity about the human condition, she explores how lived experience shapes identity and understanding. She views each moment whether triumph or challenge as part of a larger narrative of growth. Through writing, Sofie turns uncertainty into insight, using storytelling to process experiences and explore meaning. Writing allows her to navigate unanswered questions, clarify complex emotions, and weave her experiences into an evolving philosophy of self and society.

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GwynYvere is a full-time student at ASU, a poet, a part-time game and copywriter, born and raised in the Valley. They often write about gender, sexuality, race, mental health, and the intersectionality of all of these identities. GwynYvere writes from life experience and uses past pain and suffering to create art (like no one has ever done… ever… lol) in the form of words on a page (or a screen). GwynYvere’s dream is to become a renowned author/poet and a girly game developer, so keep an eye out if you're interested in those types of things. The best place for readers to go to learn more about GwynYvere → GwenPal

William Zenko is an aspiring author majoring in computer science but passionate for literature, storytelling, art, and history. He’s lived in Arizona for most of his life, with brief time spent living in the northern Midwest. While he could (and should) be reading a lot more than he is right now, his favorite authors include James S. A. Corey, Lemony Snicket, C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, Jules Verne, and Douglas Adams. When he’s not distracting himself with classic-era Doctor Who or deep diving into random topics he found interesting that day, he enjoys board games, TTRPGs, cooking, and spending time with friends and family. He also has far too many half-written stories on his computer that he should get back to finishing. This is his first published written work.

PEN PROJECT PEN PROJECT About the PEN Project Contribution

The Pen Project is an ASU internship that pairs student interns with different incarcerated writers for the interns to provide feedback and writing instruction. Recently the Pen Project has launched several writing workshops inside of Perryville Women’s Prison in Goodyear Arizona to discover aspiring and emerging voices to bring into the Pen Project as writers. The Pen Project Coordinator, Lance Graham, also a former Canyon Voices editor, strives to tap into emerging voices that are often difficult to discover. When he entered the prison to offer his workshops, he did not expect to be teaching people to write, rather he expected to discover those already writing. That is what the writers in this issue highlight, the untapped potential that lies hidden away in concrete. The potential that when given an outlet thrives. The interns at ASU, while always eager to offer writing suggestions for consideration when revising, are truly inspiring confidence and belief in the writers themselves by giving them an audience and confidence to see themselves as writers, and more than prisoners. That is what the Pen Project is, it is an outlet for voices that need writing and need to be heard. It is a connector of minds and inspirations as both the interns and the writers take something valuable away from their time in the course. The writers themselves are not being named as incarcerated in this issue, rather they appear amongst other writers to highlight the emerging and aspiring voices that exist everywhere and deserve to be heard. The Pen Project writers thank Canyon Voice for this opportunity to seek publication and to be heard.

On the following page are the bios of these writers. Canyon Voices celebrate their voices and highlight their works alongside all contributors of this issue. Thank you to these writers for courageously sharing their work and furthering Canyon Voices mission to spotlight emerging voices.

Jane Carpenter is a published writer, currently putting the finishing touches on her memoir to be published next year. It will be followed by a second memoir. At seventy-five, she has many stories to share!

CREATIVE NONFICTION, POETRY

Alina Click is a poet and an artist. She primarily expresses herself in ink, weaving words and drawing. She has written her whole life and has always dreamed of writing for a living. For her, writing is the only thing she knows is her true passion. Her poetry brings the darkness to the light and light to the darkness. She knows people fear the darkness, believing that nothing good can be found in the dark. Alina is here to break the boundaries of that belief by showing us that the monsters inside of us all are actually beautiful and that beauty can be found in the darkness. She uses her poetry to channel the emotions of her heart and soul. She hopes one day her words will help someone in ways that other writers' words have helped her.

CREATIVE NONFICTION, POETRY

Flower is a 43 Native American from the Navajo Nation tribe. She hails from Ganado, AZ.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

Mariah McKinney has been writing poems & stories since she was a little girl. It was a way to express emotions she could not always articulate. Writing strings of consciousness until they eventually became poems & stories. McKinney is currently a full-time cosmetologist & professional makeup artist. In her spare time, she enjoys volunteering with her local LGBTQ+ groups/committees, creating a safe space for all formats of art.

CREATIVE NONFICTION, POETRY

Nora Yesenia Sandoval has been writing poetry since childhood, always carrying a journal to capture her thoughts and emotions. Today, she is working on several projects, including prison-inspired cookbooks and a collection of poems that explore beauty and pain. When she's not writing, Nora enjoys drawing and creating art. Through her words, she hopes to inspire others and connect deeply with those who have faced hardship and transformation.

POETRY

Tichina Shephard is an open genre writer; whatever speaks to her, she puts into words. Writing poetry and short stories since adolescence, in the way she sees the world. Drawing inspiration from the simple, mundane things in life, revealing the things that people's inner being tends to hide. Shephard is a creative soul just dropping pieces of herself into her work for the love of writing and being authentic and raw in her writing. Shephard hopes to write a novel in the near future to share her inner lens of imagination with the world.

POETRY

STAFF BIOS STAFF BIOS

Get to Know Us!

Publisher

Julie Amparano García is the founder and publisher of CANYON VOICES literary and art magazine. Serving in the School of Humanity Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Amparano García oversees the school's Writing Certificate Program and teaches a variety of writing courses that include scriptwriting, crosscultural writing, fiction, persuasive writing, and the Canyon Voices course. She received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Antioch University in Los Angeles in 2006 and is working on a ction of short stories and a play about children and war.

Editor-in-Chief

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

DESIGN DIRECTOR

COPY EDITOR

LEAD POETRY

EDITOR

Micaela Caceres, better known as Mickey, is a senior ASU student graduating this semester with a BA in Forensic Psychology and English. This is her third time as an editor with the Canyon Voices literary and art magazine. She has treasured committing herself to this magazine. Typically, she spends her days putting extensive effort into her studies or spoiling her guinea pigs, but when she has downtime, she hangs out with her closest friends and boyfriend. Mickey is clever, often wanting to make art with whatever she can get her hands on, or documenting her world through the written word. She prides herself on her care, authenticity, and dedication to herself and others.

The Team of Issue 32 TheTeamofIssue32

DESIGNER POETRY EDITOR

CREATIVE NONFICTION EDITOR

COPY EDITOR

CO-LEAD FICTION EDITOR

CREATIVE NONFICTION EDITOR

mine Cardoza is a full-time third-year student of Sociology American Indian Studies at ASU’s West Valley and Tempe puses. She was born and raised in the lively state of ornia and has resided in and grown to adore the calming ave Desert for the past decade or so. In their free time, you find Jasmine keeping busy by reading scholarly articles on ural and sociological analysis, beading earrings and laces, sketching and coloring, dancing, journaling and osophizing, meditating, catching up with friends, or ding quality time with family. An avid lover of creative iction, poetry, magical realism, and surrealism, Jasmine is t excited to explore and hone their artistic style and entic voice via graphic design and literary analysis this ester.

lins is a third-year English major at ASU West d this will be his second semester editing for Canyon ary and Art Magazine. On top of being an English n is also pursuing their certificate in Secondary n hopes of teaching high school English. Working on ces, however, has given Aidan an interest in getting he literary community through doing editorial work duation. Besides editing for Canyon Voices, Aidan ng and writing fiction, with his favorite novel being ert’s Dune, as well as playing the drums. Aidan hopes have a piece of his own writing published, whether small magazine such as Canyon Voices or available n your local bookstore.

SOCIAL MEDIA & EVENT

POETRY EDITOR

CREATIVE NONFICTION EDITOR

COPY EDITOR

FICTION EDITOR

LEADCREATIVENONFICTIONEDITOR

mmond is currently a sophomore at ASU West Valley studying biology with hopes of becoming a veterinarian. had experience working at a veterinary clinic as a y assistant. She enjoys animals, but especially favors and guinea pig, Cosmo. In her free time, Isa enjoys uitar, playing video games such as Minecraft, Star Wars nt, and Overwatch. Isa also enjoys various art activities ketching and coloring. Isa works in Dr. Chad Johnson’s dow lab, spending time feeding and rearing the spiders. t the summer working on an REU (research experience rgraduates) studying alongside a graduate student, on ioeconomic factors impact arthropod diversity and ce.

Kirby is in her final year at ASU, majoring in English e, with a minor focused in Business and a certificate in Writing/Publishing. She runs a community outreach program for teens called TAB (Teen Advisory Board), facilitating discussions about various YA novels. With her experience editing submissions for the publishing company Restless Books, Kayla has an acute passion for making voices heard. When Kayla isn't contemplating turning over to the dark side, she can be found with her face shoved in a book. She is best known for reading epic YA, romance-frenzy books, and weird gothic Victorian novels.

COPY EDITOR

FICTION EDITOR

SCRIPT EDITOR

Emily Krohn is a sophomore at Arizona State University studying Mass Communications and Media Studies. She is now one of the editors of the Canyon Voices magazine, hopping from the busy streets of the Downtown campus to ASU West. Emily has been writing stories since the first grade and is known for her extensive vocabulary and vivid imagination. She’s excited to get involved through Canyon Voices and uplift her peers and their work. Her favorite genres are fantasy and science fiction, but she is also adept at writing and reciting poetry. Favorite stories of hers include The Stormlight Archive, The Lunar Chronicles, and most things Star Wars, a franchise she grew up loving alongside her dad.

DESIGNER

POETRY EDITOR

CREATIVE NONFICTION EDITOR

Isys Morrow is a senior at ASU, majoring in English and Political Science. They were born and raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and have always been interested in writing and uplifting marginalized communities. As an avid lover of various genres, some of them include nonfiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, fiction, and fantasy, to name a few. They believe that knowledge is power and that writing is one of the most powerful tools that reflects the possibilities and imagination of a better world. Isys is excited to explore what it means to create art that not only pushes the envelope but also illuminates the way in which it has the potential to be revolutionary. This will be their first time as an editor for Canyon Voices.

DESIGNER

FICTION EDITOR

CREATIVE NONFICTION EDITOR

SOCIAL MEDIA & EVENT

POETRY EDITOR

SCRIPT EDITOR

Narsa is a junior in high school with a deep passion e writing and a growing interest in the publishing s a first-time editor for Canyon Voices, she is eager to t the editing and publishing process, hoping to gain that will support her long-term goal of working in the d. Most of her time is spent focused on school and work, but outside the classroom, she enjoys reading, painting, sketching, and going out to eat with friends. pecially loves getting lost in fantasy novels and always ghthearted romantic comedy. She looks forward to her skills as both a writer and editor.

man is in her second year at ASU as a political history major. This semester marks her first with es, and she is excited to be part of the scripts and s. In her free time, Clara enjoys trying new things. food, art, music, or travel, she is always eager to periences, especially when shared with her friends. ame interested in editing in elementary school as a ter. Clara later went on to co-found the literary her middle and high school, creating a lasting is now fueled by Canyon Voices.

SOCIAL MEDIA & EVENT

FICTION EDITOR

CREATIVE NONFICTION EDITOR

Kim Ngan Nguyen is a senior at ASU studying sociology with a minor in English. This issue of Canyon Voices will be their first time as an editor for the literary magazine. When Kim isn't contemplating the idea of love and romance, she is reading, watching films, and listening to music about it. She is best known for her hopeless romanticism. When placed in a social environment, Kim is her best self; She is very extroverted and sociable and enjoys a chaotic setting. In any free moment when she isn't crafting with the girls, she can be found with her nose shoved deep in a book.

Jasmine Orlando is a fourth-year ASU student majoring in English. This issue of Canyon Voices will be her second time as an editor for a literary magazine. She is passionate about writing and has always felt a pull to the editing process. You can find nine times out of ten with her head stuck in a book. s her biggest pastime in life, and because of that, she book club on the West Valley Campus called One More is excited to be a part of creating Issue 32 of Canyon

SOCIAL MEDIA & EVENT LEAD

CO-LEAD FICTION EDITOR

SCRIPT EDITOR

Reyes is a third-year history major and second-year editor at Arizona State University. She is especially d in studying African American History from the m era through the Cold War. Mayah has always eading and writing, but has recently taken the initiative nd herself with a wider scope of creative literary outlets. ds most of her time immersed in studying history, but ys reading. Her favorite books are Home Fire by Kamila and If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English by Noor Naga. enjoys listening to music from a broad range of artists he world. Mayah hopes to work in a museum in the curate historical experiences that highlight the ‘untold’ marginalized groups at the grassroots level.

Learn how to: solicit submissions through connections between artists and writers content curation; select artistic and literary work from submissions copyedit and proofread written works to enhance consistency for publication design and layout for a cohesive visual identity for a digital platform utilize social media to expand and maintain online presence host and produce the magazine release party on the ASU west campus

FormoreinformationcontactJulie.Amparano@asu.edu orvisitCanyonvoices.asu.edu

About Us

is dedicated to shedding light on the works of emerging and established writers and artists. Founded in the spring of 2010 at Arizona State University’s West campus by one professor, Julie Amparano Garcia, and six students, this journal strives to bring the creativity of writers and artists to light within the community and beyond. Supported by the students and faculty of the School of Humanities, Arts and Cultural Studies at ASU’s New College of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences, Canyon Voices accepts writing and artwork from writers and artists from all corners of our planet and from all walks of life.

The work of maintaining and producing this magazine is entirely student driven. Since its formation, Canyon Voices has expanded into a full credit, hands-on class. Students build a full literary journal each semester, heading every aspect of production, including soliciting submissions, editing, marketing, design and layout, and publication. We strive to bring you an eclectic range of voices each semester.

Our Mission

At Canyon Voices, our mission is to provide an online environment to highlight emerging and established voices in the artistic community. By publishing works that engender thought, Canyon Voices seeks to enrich the scope of language, style, culture, and gender.

Questions, comments, feedback? We would love to hear from you!

Contact us via email at: CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com

Visit us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/asucanyonvoices

Visit us on Instagram: @canyonvoiceslitmag

Canyon Voices Literary & Art Magazine

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

To submit your work, please send it to CanyonVoicesLitMag@gmail.com. Be sure to attach all the work you wish to submit to the email. We are affiliated with Arizona State University, and we uphold academic standards. If your work is accepted, we reserve the right to make minor superficial changes (ie: grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc.). You will be contacted should your work require more extensive edits. We accept simultaneous submissions.

All documents submitted should be double-spaced with a 12-point font, in either Times New Roman, Arial, or professional equivalent font. Poetry may be single-spaced. All written documents must be submitted in (.docx) format. The artwork may be in JPEG/JPG format or included in a (.docx) with the medium and title written. All work submitted must have a title. If a title is not provided, Canyon Voices reserves the right to put a placeholder title. If a submission exceeds the maximum permitted for the genre, the pieces will not be considered for Canyon Voices Literary & Art Magazine. Your submission should also include an author bio in the third-person POV (90-150 words) and an image of yourself.

POETRY

You may submit a maximum of 4 poems. Each poem must not exceed 3 pages. Magazine submission cap is 125 poems

FICTION

You may submit a maximum of 4 stories per issue. Each story must not exceed 20 pages.

EXPLICIT MATERIALS

CREATIVE NONFICTION

You may submit a maximum of 4 stories per issue. Each story must not exceed 20 pages.

SCRIPTS

You may submit a maximum of 2 scripts per issue. Scripts must not exceed 20 pages.

ART

You may submit a maximum of 7 pieces. Please include details on the medium of each piece.

Since this is a university magazine, submissions containing sexually explicit material and explicit language will be reviewed and determined eligible for publishing depending on the context of the material. Material deemed inappropriate or gratuitous will be rejected.

READING PERIOD

Our editors read and review submissions in August through mid-October for the fall issue. The reading period re-opens in January through mid-March for the spring issue. Your submission must be submitted before the general deadline provided to be accepted for the particular publication issue.