Aura Literary Arts Review Volume 48 No. 1

Volume 48 || Issue 1

Editor’s Letter Dear Reader, Humor us for a moment.

Take a deep breath, look around, make note of your surroundings. Truly uly experience them for a moment. What are your senses telling you? What do your eyes settle on as they flit about?

Which sounds echo in your ears? What is significant, and why?

Reality is harsh. The world we live in is messy, cynical, and unyielding. Losing yourself in it sometimes is a given. And yet, there is collateral beauty within it. Seeing it is a conscious choice made each morning; oftentimes, it is not an easy one. What you’re reading now is a brief excursion from the everyday chaos. It is a carefully curated space for safely experiencing the range of emotions that come with being human--that comes with surviving in this time.

As you read, allow yourself to wonder: what does melancholy look like, sound like? What memories does nostalgia evoke? What color is the act of healing? You will likely see yourself reflected in some of these pieces, and that’s okay. We have, in many unbeknowst ways, been experiencing similar realities for quite some time. There are pieces dwelling on the ‘what-if’ and on the ‘what-is’. There is analysis of the past and rumination on the future. There is pain.

There is the overarching human experience, and there is the common experience of art connecting us all. This magazine takes our lived realities and elevates them to new heights--your everyday amplified.

Think of this as a guided tour of the mind mediated by art. Before you depart, take a moment to regard what you’re leaving behind. Perhaps, when you return, it will seem a little clearer.

Safe travels.

Sincerely, Ashley Frith & Kafui Sakyi-Addo

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Ashley Frith || Editor-in-Chief Olivia Blanton || Managing Editor Kafui Sakyi-Addo || Submissions Editor Anna E. Ulrey || Website Coordinator Emma Lewis || Social Media Coordinator Gillian Acker || Social Media Assistant Elaina Solano || Social Coordinator Camryn Reese || Event Coordinator Lydia Lacruz || Illustrator Elena Chesnokova || Art Editor Caylin Kyzer || Poetry Editor Liz Guffin || Prose Editor Kaitlin Harris || Copy Editor Robert Rawlins || Copy Editor Addie Knight || Copy Editor Will Cooley || Copy Editor Missy Simms || Copy Editor Jacob Frazier || Copy Editor Cade McCall || Copy Editor 3

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Table of Contents Art

Literature

Elizabeth Stephens Growth 18-19 Layers 31

Angelina Scuffle

Time and Brush Strokes 33

Bryant Bays

Tell Mama I Love Her 28

Faith Potter

Discontent #1 4 Object Made Special 13 Discontent #2 25

Jaylin Pinkney

Denis Bell

Growing Old Together 21

Duane Anderson

Petals on the Floor 6 Missing Person 25

Venus 16 Gemini 17

Emily Magda

Just the Tip 22-23

Erica Briana Talley

Kaci Dean

Kaitlyn Avery

Mother Nature 29

Katie Davis

Sticky Situation 28 Keilicia Parker Editorial Edition #2 30

mother reckoning nature 24

a brief reflection on, “the homophobic mother’s monologue” 8-9 when in Spain 30

Staff Works Addie Knight Magpie 43

Anna E. Ulrey

Mold Sprouts up and Down my Sister’s Door 35

Ashley Frith

Impulse Control 38-39

Elena Chesnokova

Ocean Traffic 37

Emma Lewis

I stare into the sun 38

Kaitlin Harris

Hollow Vessel 41

Kafui Sakyi-Addo Raven’s Call 42

Erren Kelly

Liz Guffin

Julia Springer

Lydia Lacruz

Cropped Figure 6-7 James2v6 14-15 Hands 20-21

Noelani Sanchez

Aura Review

Gemini 26-27

Rich Glinnen

Maddie Manston

Rhiannon Harris

Samantha Bearden Mindfulness 32

Just a Thought 28 21st 26-27

The Summer of Soda Pop & Kissing 18 When Today Feels Like Yesterday 19

Thomas Meyers

Shannon Bradt

Simona Shirley

Carnivore 24

Does it rain in space? 36

Breakthrough 40

Trash Sculptures 44-45 Coming Out on the Green Handprints 46-47 Taste of UABham 48-49

Guilt 15

On Read 6 I Walk 15

Taylor Lyon

Jar of Light 10-12

Front Cover Art: “Caleb’s Portrait”, oil on canvas, by Kaitlyn Avery Coloration/Illustration: Lydia Lacruz Table of Contents Art: “Discontent”, oil on canvas by Faith Potter

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Petals on the Floor

Cropped Figure

Duane Anderson

Maddie Manston

Fresh flowers, just brought home from the florist to celebrate a wedding anniversary, but the three-year-old daughter intercepted the flowers before her mother got home from work, thinking dad had brought them home for her, picking petal after petal from each stem, dropping them to the floor.

Was she aware of the saying ‘He loves me, he loves me not’ as she picked each petal, one by one, and discarded them to the floor?

Petals lying on the floor, tell me the final outcome?

Oil on canvas

On Read

Simona Shirley Whittle me away till I’m little and I say I can’t take it any more staring at the screen heart sore.

His hands on my waist and then how he pulls me into him fingers through my hair the bed ruffled sheets so much unsaid phone lights up I jump 6

on read.

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a brief reflection on, “the homophobic mother’s monologue” Erica Briana Talley Excerpt:: Excerpt “we don’t do that here…” she says. “we do not entertain them or lure them into our beds. it is blasphemy…an abomination, that is what the good book says. see, if you even come to me with that bullshit…i’ma kill you dead. nobody in here better be sleeping with no women, i said what i said. girls don’t keep posters of the same sex, or get too damn close with their friends…”

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Part A:

how does this monologue affect, (I), the listener as:

a) Mariana pronounces every syllable with her accent in her hands. her mouth a blush blanket, comfortable to lay in. i blush softly as she offers to teach me my second language. while i wonder how she continuously rolls her tongue, my aura transitions into an unruly shade. i envy the way the air curtsied to honor the sweetness of her breath, and caressed every crevice b) i remember searching the keywords: “two girls kissing” because i had never seen it done before. young, naïve, yet searching for something more. when pondering if i felt the same intense emotions as before, i found them stored away in the “blocked list” as some silent precaution from my mother’s psyche.

c) i was sharing McNuggets with my neighbor, while she laid her head on my left shoulder. only for her to part her mouth to say that it’s getting late, plus she needs to finish her homework so, she can finally sleep before the night is over. yet, all i’m hearing is her passively saying she doesn’t want me to hold her and she doesn’t know what bigoted voice she is struggling to conquer. d) lying stomach first on the 5th floor ottoman, as she inches closer and closer to me. my heartbeat becoming even more pronounced, and somehow the chill bumps on my arms have made it to my scalp. her warm porcelain skin lingers in our cosmos and the galaxy, forming some sort of an interstellar fantasy. yet, there was someone else orbiting around her own universe.

Part B:

does the listener realize that she is not the monster? that the bigoted monologue can be silenced if she truly wants it, and if she seeks happiness, it could be around every corner? does she recognize that only her reflection is a carbon copy of her mother’s, and the notes that exit her mouth are not on the same key as her mother’s?

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Jar of Light Taylor Lyon

Constellations of yellow light blanket the yard. The fireflies hover over the grass and blink all at once. I hold a jar, holes poked in the lid so they can breathe after I catch them. I didn’t think to keep them in a jar at first, and now my hands smell bitter like grapefruit. It’s not summer yet, but the heat is already thick and greasy and sweat beads on my forehead, the small of my back, behind my knees.

I’m not thinking about school next year, not about having to go back to mom’s after the weekend is over. I’m only thinking about the fireflies. I’m on one end of the yard, close to the mulberry tree, and Dad is on the other end, by the driveway. He wears a ballcap that casts a shadow across his face, stopping just above the prickly hairs on his upper lip. He also has a jar—it’s sealed shut, empty. There are no holes in his jar, no air flow. Nothing comes in or out. He tells me he’ll help me catch some fireflies for my jar. His won’t open, he tells me.

My uncle’s dog is sitting on the porch, chained to the porch. He’s lying down on his belly, his paws sprawled out and his eyes closed. His name is Soldier, and his body takes up the whole length of the porch. He has fox ears and a tail that curls into a spiral. His breed is from Japan, trained to be police dogs.

My uncle says that he’s a gentle dog, not good with other dogs, but great around kids. Soldier loves kids, and he has a good heart, my uncle tells me. Sometimes he growls when I look at him though, so I don’t look at him and I don’t think about him. I focus on the jar of light that I hold.

I twist open my jar and toss a couple of fireflies inside, and their bodies swell with light. A light that they can flick on and off. I imagine having a light too, a light that I can turn on and off whenever I please. I imagine sitting in my room, turning on my light when the yelling starts, when the loud banging comes from the hallway. The noises would drift under the crack in my door, but I wouldn’t notice them nor hear them. I would only notice the light. has stopped moving though, its little light extinguished. It sits alone at the bottom of the jar and twitches. I try not to think about it and look away, staring at the yellow light. Dusk is coming, and the mosquitoes are out. They swarm around me and take my blood, and little welts that itch like hell erupt up and down my legs.

A truck rumbles down the road, and Dad tells me not to say that word in front of mom. The air smells like gasoline and rain and my belly is cramping, but I ignore it all and focus on the fireflies. I imagine turning on my light in my other room, at Mom’s. I would turn on the light when everything

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was silent, when the house was empty. The silence would fill the room, but I wouldn’t notice it. I would only notice the music coming from the light.

Yellow lights shimmer from the mulberry tree. The tree is smooth except for a few fissures that run up and down its trunk, and milky white fruits hang from the branches. They look like maggots but smell like grape bubble gum, the kind that comes in rolls at the convenience store. Dad says not to eat the fruit because it’s not ripe and it will make me sick. I will regret it, and mom will not be happy with him, he tells me. So I pull one off the tree and bite into it, but it tastes nothing like grape bubblegum. I spit out the fruit and my tongue starts itching.

I sit on a low branch and gather up fireflies in my hands and funnel them into my jar of light. I smile because it’s almost full, and every side glows yellow. One firefly has stopped moving though, its little light extinguished. It sits alone at the bottom of the jar and twitches. I try not to think about it and look away, staring at the yellow light. Dusk is coming, and the mosquitoes are out. They swarm around me and take my blood, and little welts that itch like hell erupt up and down my legs. A truck rumbles down the road, and Dad tells me not to say that word in front of mom. The air smells like gasoline and rain and my belly is cramping, but I ignore it all and focus on the fireflies. I imagine turning on my light in my other room, at Mom’s. I would turn on the light when everything was silent, when the house was empty. The silence would fill the room, but I wouldn’t notice it. I would only notice the music coming from the light.

I hop up from the branch, and Soldier hops up from the porch. He plants his paws against the concrete and sniffs the air and scans the yard.

The chain scrapes against the ground and clangs against the porch railing.

Across the yard Dad is picking weeds from the flower bed. His jar is still empty, without light. He tells me not to look at Soldier, so I look at Soldier. He doesn’t know I’m looking at him at first. Then his eyes find mine, and he steps down the porch one paw at a time. He’s growling at me, but he’s a gentle dog.

Soldier is lunging at me, but he’s great with kids. And he is staring at me with dark eyes and the chain is rattling and growing and he is on top of me and gnawing at me. But he has a good heart. His weight is forcing me down and I cannot move as his paws dig into my chest and he snarls at me. In his eyes I see Dad’s reflection growing closer, the jar falling from his hand. I’m not thinking about what is happening. I do not feel the blood dripping from my ear, do not know that a piece of me has been taken. My hands search the ground for

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cold glass, and I find the jar by my side, the lid gone. There are no fireflies left.

All of the light has spilled out. My jar is empty.

Dad screams at the dog, and his voice moves the ground. I have never seen this kind of rage from him. He taunts Soldier and the dog bounces off me and barrels toward him. I sit up from the ground and brush off the clumps of dirt from my head. I feel my ear bleeding, but I’m not thinking about the small piece that’s missing. I watch the fireflies float away until the gray sky swallows the light. My ears are ringing and I can still hear Dad yelling, and the chain that stretches from the porch has come loose. Soldier rips at Dad and takes pieces of him, and these are not small pieces. The dog lunges at him, retreats, and lunges at him again. I’m stuck watching as I hold the empty jar to my chest. Something is gone. I cannot tell what is gone, but something is lost.

A fire lights in my belly. A hot bile rises up my chest and to my throat and I vomit across my legs. I wish that I did not eat the fruit, I wish that I did not look at the dog. But I did these things, and now I cannot take them back. I should go inside the house, call for help. An adult would know what to do. But I still cannot move and now there is vomit slathered over my legs and my ear is dripping blood and the jar is empty. My face is hot, wet with tears, vomit, or both. All of the fireflies are gone. The light is gone. Somewhere deep in my chest I feel a terror, a terror that I will never get back what I have lost. That next time my jar will be like Dad’s—sealed, empty.

Object Made Special

Faith Potter

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Oil on canvas

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Guilt

Shannon Bradt After an abstinent age I smoke a Marlboro Gold and my dad looks at me like I torched the Amazon myself, face daubed by charred sterile soil as I count rancher’s profits—limp bills spritzed with human blood. There’s nothing to say, and if there were I’d mute myself anyway: it’s humid enough without me panting into this hothouse.

Charged with feeding my neighbor’s dog, I cross the rift between suburban strongholds. The gray old girl pants frantically, delirious with my appearance. Dogs don’t sweat, they pant— so don’t blame us. We’re just two bitches without a uterus between us trying to stay cool during the hottest summer on record. Maybe it’s for the best I won’t bear any grandchildren.

James2v6

Maddie Manston

Oil and thread on canvas

I Walk

Simona Shirley

I walk circles upon circles around my neighborhood the broken pieces of their homes regurgitated out.

In boxes upon boxes and signs that stab the dirt for sale for lease for “take me please” the empty shacks renounce.

Trucks, construction slash their bodies grandpa’s treasures join the junkyard sewage water stains the sidewalk I walk.

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Venus

Jay Pinkney

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Gemini

Jay Pinkney

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The Summer of Soda Pop & Kissing Noelani Sanchez

What is there to do in the summer of 1955 in Wheaton, Illinois?

Smell the uncontrollable rise, an electrifying swirl of teenage hormones.

Everyone else swelters underneath the subtle yellow rays of planet Earth’s only dripping fire star.

The atmosphere sticky and dense like grandma’s homemade plum pectin. Blame the presence of gooey summer teen romance.

Minimum wage no longer seventy-five cents. A summer job is now the new rage.

Make one dollar an hour serving Mel’s burgers & shakes.

Pastel Chevys come to a brake.

Go back home to the unbounded yards from neighbor to neighbor.

The girls sit atop the warm tangerine and honey soaked porch.

Blowing on pink Bazooka bubblegum.

Sipping on the icy-cold CO2 of strawberry pop.

Listen to the fading melody from the vinyl of Bill Haley and His Comets.

The song trickles out into the mirage of the hot summer sun.

Hear a mix of sounds: the belly murmuring of cicadas, rattling of crickets, and girls laughing down the he street.

Wait for the boys to pick you up.

Head to the diner for cherry topped milkshakes and jukebox jams.

Watch the girls twirl in their colorful poodle skirts and bobby socks above the black and white checkered floor.

Get in his 55’ shadow gray Chevy Bel Air. Go to the drive-in movies.

The projection of a bright movie screen Gently illuminating the attending silhouetted faces.

The crickets are out sharing their nighttime lullabies.

Admire the lime glow flicker it’s the flying summer stars of the troposphere.

The night air so warm and so still.

That’s when Tommy kissed Lorriane.

While every other teen made out under the milky way Summer evenings in 1955.

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Growth

Elizabeth Stephens Pen and ink

When Today Feels Like Yesterday

Rich Glinnen

You will be drinking water And other things not formula All by yourself—a master Of the two-handed tilt— When today feels like yesterday.

When today feels like yesterday, But isn’t yesterday by a bunch, You will be incredibly old, Quantifiable only by years, Whole milk crates of months, Which is one of those things You will drink some day When all the current milk’s been curdled Or consumed by relics like myself At a dusky kitchen table, Thinking about this today On the forefront of my mind’s shelf, Glowing with preservatives, Never to expire, With a milk mustache bleached By the white one beneath.

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Growing Old Together Denis Bell

I bought my Mazda convertible 60 years ago (in car years, that is). We’re growing old together. The hood has age spots on it.

The muffler emits sonic booms and noxious fumes if fed an over rich diet of high-octane gasoline. The springs creak when I lower myself into the driver’s seat. The engine whines and splutters at the mere sight of a hill and starts to overheat after about thirty seconds. One ne of the headlights is occluded by a white cloudy film and the other is getting that way. On cold days the thing acts like it doesn’t want to leave the garage and sometimes refuses to do so altogether. There remains a dent on the front from an encounter with a couple of young hoodlums that occurred in the parking lot of a bar a few years back and one of the wheels is a little wobbly. Yesterday, I overheard Jen saying on the phone to her friend Maisie that she’s “sick and tired of that old thing” and she wishes she could just get rid of it. I wondered if it was the car she was talking about.

Hands

Maddie Manston Oil on canvas

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Just the Tip Kaci Dean

Photography 22

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mother reckoning nature Emily Magda

We will have died out as a species by the time the river is free of trash.

We will have had our fun at the Cahaba,

taunting a crawdad, pocketing a smooth stone.

We will have expressed some concern - but not too much --

at the amounting gang of boney crunchy brittle trees.

We will have killed a spider or two out of fear for our own wellbeing.

We will have wished we could spend all June day in the glory water: I can’t believe how clear it is!

We will have spoken about the spot to our families, never having brought them there.

We will have flattened the vines inching over the old bridge.

‘Keep Off’ We will have not thought twice about how hot the Sun seems to grow every year.

We will have been too late.

We will have only seen it coming in retrospect. Except we will have died out as a species by the time the river is free of trash.

We will have done the Earth a great disservice if we did not reform ourselves now ourselves we reform.

Carnivore

Thomas Meyers 24

Photography

Discontent Faith Potter

Oil on canvas

Missing Person

Duane Anderson

Two dogs wait at the top of the steps even though there is no one on eve the other side of the door.

Their friend has been gone for a day and a half.

I know they are saying that she should be there, but she isn’t.

They do not understand that there has been a death in her family.

They miss her and she should be there.

Nothing that I do can totally satisfy their needs.

I am not the one they miss, but they do not know that I miss her also, their friend, my friend and love.

I tell them she will be home soon.

Yes, we will be together soon.

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21st

Julia Springer I sat fumbling with my memory, trying to state everything to the officer with quiet sobs Women sitting across and next to me from and on the couch explain the process The pills to prevent AIDS, Chlamydia, and pregnancy that they provided in a small paper cup Caressing my damp hair, they ask for a pelvic exam I cringed imagining being forced open again, but I tell myself it’s for the best Slowly undressing wondering if he had left any marks “He left marks on my back; I think. I don’t know he just held my arms there” They ask me to remove all garments so they can take pictures “You have to open your knees’ sweetie” I adjust my footing in the stirrups 26

Gemini

Rhiannon Harris Graphite

She slowly pulls apart my legs - they start to shake The sharp cold instrument shocks like electricity feeling the same unwanted sensation of him Pressing my feet down desperately trying not to buckle my hips, my sobs become more audible “It’s clear something has happened. There is a lot of irritation” I asked them to take the clothes desperately A starchy gown escorted to a tiny shower the door closing and then for a while I just sobbed Trying to delude the shock and denial into its next stage of grief Offered a ride home from the officer I sit in the back of the car hair still damp Looking at all the Happy Birthday wishes the night before 27

Just A Thought....

Tell Mama I Love Her

Erren Kelly

Bryant Bays

its too bad doctors cant put a knee on the corona virus like cops did to george floyd it’s easier for goverments to make magic by printing money then it is for magicians to make cops dissappear to live in america is to be black and blue to be black and american is to sing the blues we rairoaded bernie sanders nders away because we didnt want socialism and yet, the goverment gives away money as a quick fix for pain hoping the economy will stay in the black and not sing the blues isn’t that socialism, too? i take the cries of george floyd and turn them into blue notes to be black in america is to be black and blue

Sticky Situation Katie Davis Graphite

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T’was the word of his dying whisper Upon the last wing of breath To the lonely chaplain stranger Uttered release from all resentment From the Ghost imposing all his life To the Earth He came to be­— The Grand Homeless One you see And He came also to be my brother Who died with last devotion to mother.

Mother Nature Kaitlyn Avery Pen and ink

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when in Spain Erica Talley

get drunk off mojitos and Jack & Coke, curl up in a fetal position next to a cathedral. confess your sins in your mother’s tongue, and pretend that you were once equals. profess that he thinks of you during his confessions within the confidant’s booth, where the lies and the truth intertwine with the roots of his youth.

and when the moon falls heavy, whisper your soliloquy with brief interruptions for your hiccups and consistent vomiting. your daily penance is: acid burning your esophagus with equal parts of Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s.

thirty shots in, you will swear you’d been in a morgue, and headed straight to some coffin surrounded with the whiff of your grandfather’s renowned muscadine wine paired with Newports and a shot of his choice of bourbon.

Editorial Edition #2 Keilicia Parker

Photography

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Laey rs

Elizabeth Stephens

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Time and Brush Strokes Angelina Scuffle

If a moment in between the strokes of this brush, count for a second of my time missed, a time wasted and a fragment of my life that has been used up in the time of a single movement, then I will be the first to rest my head.

The nation cries, babies wane, and I am stuck here in this studio with nothing but the smell of my paint to awaken these senses.

If he looked past those canvases and into this dirty paint water, he would not stare into the depths of these works before him, and the time that has passed between them, and the brushes they’ve met.

No. He would encounter a face much like his, and much like mine.

A city separates but art mingles past the buildings and the concrete, and the hot dog stands.

Here in this studio, I’ve missed out on time.

Every layer on this canvas has taken my life away, and gives it to the colors covering my palette.

I never believed in the art of realism, and the world is too surreal to miss And he’s stuck behind the thick of it all: The paint, the lacquer, the faces of The city lights, and his hands in mine.

Mindfulness

Samantha Bearden Vector art

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Staff Work

From left to right: Will Cooley, Robert Rawlins, Kaitlin Harris, Anna E. Ulrey, Olivia Blanton, Addie Knight, Elaina Solano, Liz Guffin, Kafui-Sakyi -Addo Camryn Reese, Gillian Acker, Ashley Frith, Caylin Kyzer, Grace Warciski

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Not pictured: Lydia Lacruz, Emma Lewis, Missy Simms, Elena Chesnokova, Jacob Frazier, Cade McCall

Mold Sprouts Up and Down My Sister’s Door Anna Ulrey

—after Akbar’s “Orchids Are Sprouting From the Floorboards” Mold sprouts up and down my sister’s door.

Mold rivulets from the Brita water pitcher.

The coffee table leans on legs of mold.

Its legs disappear in a carpet of mold.

Glade PlugIns spit out plumes of mold.

Petals of mold bloom from the magnolia tree.

Their pistils contain pockets of fertile mold.

Bees’ backs stripe with mold.

They shed mold on children’s sweaters in the playground, which is built on mulch of mold.

The ice cream truck at the corner bleats a tune of mold.

Frozen mold is scooped into a cup and melts.

Wrinkled women wrap shawls of mold around their shoulders and hug their bags closer when men with hair of salted mold pass by.

Mold lights up the sky in jagged bolts, leaving green-black patches of mold where it touches the ground.

The flower that grows there is mold.

The hand that plucks it is mold.

Under its nails is mold.

Over its nails is half-chipped mold.

The air is thick with mold. Oh, Abby, you are my fresh air.

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Ocean Traffic

Elena Chesnokova

Acrylic and plaster on canvas

Does it rain in space?

Elizabeth Guffin The grass was soft as I laid my head by his side, looking up at the sky. The darkness was consuming as bright lights lit their way, shining as if full of pride.

We spoke of what lay past the stars, what could be looming.

Little green men that fly around through the galaxies, maybe stuck in traffic thinking of their past regrets?

Or maybe angels from those taken from their families, watching us with sadness while smoking a cigarette.

Are the shooting stars we see them flicking away their contraband before God could catch them in the act? Do the stars tend to dance in a sway while in line or sing along to unspoken hymns?

Does it rain in space? Clouds covering the reds, blues and purples that swirl and interlock with the stars?

I can’t help but wonder the things that ensue above us and if they, like me, feel lingering scars.

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Impulse Control Ashley Frith

Laser-cut paper and spray paint

I stare into the sun Emma Lewis

we lay in bed with your hand on my waist and my palm cupping your cheek. i mention the way the freckles frame your eyes, bringing out the piercing blue that welcomes me so.

You deny it, You always deny it.

And yet, And always, the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen. we lay like this as the sun comes in through my sheer curtains, highlighting the strands of blonde strewn about your soft hair. my love. my one and only. what did i ever do to deserve you?

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Hollow Vessel Kaitlin Harris

The crumbling of wilted foliage penetrated the hushed atmosphere as four girls trekked the woods. With blonde hair sashaying to-and-fro, Vanessa took the lead. Ditching pleated skirts and tights, two others sauntered past Kit, who knelt down in attempts to free her Mary Janes from muck piles.

“This isn’t your brightest one, Vanessa,” Kit distraughtly uttered.

“Spiders crawling up your throat, or is it just a night terror?” Vanessa replied.

They’d approached a clearing in the woods decked with abandoned tombstones. Vanessa prepped a large metal dish with incense. Like a pendulum, she swung the thurible chains, camouflaging herself in a veil of smoke.

“This is sacred Wiccan burial ground. Witches attempting to flee persecution sought shelter within these woods. The priests, however, were successful in their hunt. As a method of cleansing the soul, witches were forced to write scriptures with blood ink.”

Returning, she perched on the icy lawn and stated, “Spirit boards were traditionally used for holding séances.”

They sat in unison as Vanessa unboxed a Ouija board. Collectively placing their fingers on the planchette, they initiated the game.

“Is there anyone with us?” Kit asked.

Retching from frankincense and cobwebs, she felt herself dissipating. Slivers of candlelight uncoupled upled Kit’s matted eyes as she scanned the dank schoolroom. A Bible centered her desk.

“Finish your assignment,” Mother Agnes commanded.

With pools of scarlet collecting on vellum, Kit traced the tube connecting her wrist to the fountain pen.

“I can’t, Mother. I’ve run out of ink.”

Breakthrough Lydia Lacruz

Acrylic on canvas

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Raven’s Call

Kafui Sakyi-Addo “Jo? You’re zoning out on me again.”

She smirked, leaning across the table to look into my eyes with hers: deep brown eyes, soulful and sweet. I noticed for the first time that one of her eyes has a speck of brown outside of the actual iris. I wonder why that is? I noticed for the first time too, how the ends of her lips curled up a little more when she smiled genuinely, exposing the little dimples on her cheeks.

I smiled back at her, maybe looking too intently.

Oh no. I thought. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I can’t mess this up.

I looked away.

“I don’t know how to be in love. I don’t think I can.”

Milo stared blankly at me from across the table.

“I’m… I’m sorry? What do you mean you don’t know how to fall in love?

I fiddled with the small teacup in my hand. Peering down, the mostly empty liquid and deep reddish-brown tea leaves swirl and seem to arrange into two birds drifting through the tea away from one another. They almost look like ravens… I could swear I saw one earlier this morning too.

“Jo?” I glanced up, startled.

“Yeah, right, sorry. I don’t know, it just seems like, for my entire life, relationships have crumbled around me. Maybe it’s melodramatic, but it feels like they always fall apart and I’m always the cause.”

Milo blinked at me, then leaned forward with her coffee mug in her hands, her eyes closing slightly in confusion.

“Jo, your relationship status or how well romantic relationships have gone for you in the past doesn’t define who you are as a person.”

I didn’t respond.

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Read the rest on our website: http://uabblazermedia.com/2021/11/ravens-call-full-version/

Magpie

Addie Knight

Acrylic and oil pastel 43

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Mixed, Plastic, and Metal Trash Sculptures Aura Review, Green Initiative, and Green Globe staff

Assorted trash and recyclables, wood 45

Coming out on the Green Handprints

Aura Review staff and community Acrylic on canvas

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Taste of UABham Graffiti Mural

Aura Review staff and community Spraypaint and charcoal on canvas

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Contributors Alan Ford has been writing poetry (and short stories) for about a year. He enjoys the work of

others such as Thomas Hardy and Carol Ann Duffy Poet Laureate. Like Bob Dylan (no general comparison intended) he writes poems and lyrics with personal and social relevance. He has had acceptances from Ariel Chart, Dissident Voice, Conclave and other literary magazines.

Angelina Scuffle is a junior/senior at UAB who is majoring in History and minoring in English.

She didn’t know if she should write this biography in the third or first-person point of view so she hoped for the best and wrote it in the third. She aspires to enter into the field of education reform and non-profit work. Additionally, she hopes to emphasize a far greater appreciation of the arts within the public school systems.

Bryant Bays is a poet and writer currently living in Alabama.

Claude Blair is a creative writing student from a small town in Alabama who has always been very interested in portraying the things people like to ignore. He dabbles in art, but his main skill is in psychologically-focused horror, especially ones where the villain is unclear, and where protagonist does not mean ‘hero.’ His main inspirations for his works are southern folklore/ghost stories, various mythologies, Christian demonology, nature, and personal experience.

Denis Bell is a maker of mathematical formulas and small fictions, which he believes, weird-

ly, that he draws from a common font. His writing has been published in Grub Street, The Maine Review, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, Journal of Microliterature, Literary Orphans and many other print and online literary magazines and journals. A collection of his short fiction titled A Box of Dreams was published by Spartan Press in 2020.

Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE, and volunteers with a non-profit organization

as a Donor Ambassador on their blood drives. He has had poems published in The Pangolin Review, Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, Poesis Literary Journal and several other publications. He is the author of ‘Yes, I Must Admit We Are Neighbors’ (Cyberwit.net 2021).

Elizabeth Stephens is a Junior at the University of Alabama at Birmingham and is currently

pursuing a BFA degree concentrated in Painting. She believes that the world is full of beauty and endeavors to capture that in a unique way. Ultimately, Elizabeth strives to create art that stirs up the viewer’s sense of beauty, awe, and wonder.

Emily Magda is an undergraduate student from Montgomery, Alabama entering her final

year at UAB. She is a member of the University Honors Program (UHP) and is pursuing dual degrees in Political Science and International Studies, along with a minor in French. Emily fosters her creativity by figure skating on a Theatre On Ice competition team and teaching poetry to elementary school students through the Desert Island Supply Company (DISCO).

Erica Talley is a poet and graduate student in the MA English program at the University of

North Alabama with a concentration in Creative Writing. She is a Texan and enjoys listening 50

to Jhené Aiko, getting tarot readings, and traveling to new places in her free time. You can find her on Instagram @wordsbytalley.

Erren Kelly is a Two-Time Pushcart nominated poet from Lynn, Massachusetts. Kelly has been writing for 31 years and have over 300 publications in print and online. Kelly’s most recent publication was in Black Heart Literary journal. Kelly is also the author of the book, “Disturbing The Peace,” on Night Ballet Press. Kelly received their B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. The themes in their writings vary, but they have always had a soft spot for subjects and people who are not in the mainstream.

But Kelly never limits themself to anything, they always try to keep an open mind.

Faith Potter is a third-year student here at the University of Alabama at Birmingham pursuing a BA with a concentration in Graphic Design and a minor in Marketing. This piece is entitled “Luminescence.” She wanted to take a simple everyday object and emphasize its beauty using an interesting juxtaposition and bright colors. This shows that every aspect of life has potential to be beautiful, you must make time to see the beauty.

Jaylin Pinkney is a multimedia artist and painter from Birmingham, Alabama. Pinkney has

carved her way into both the Birmingham and international art scene with her works that are inspired by the world around her, with pieces featured both nationally and internationally in places such as Space One Eleven, the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, the Alys Stephens Center, Birmingham Magic City Art Walk, and The Culture House of Szekesfehervar in Hungary.

Julia Springer is an English major with a concentration in literature at UAB. She has always

liked to write stories since she was young so, when she got to college it seemed only natural to continue. She was born and raised in Birmingham. She hopes to one day pursue a nomadic teaching career and become a full time writer.

Kaitlin Runnels is a senior at UAB studying a Bachelor’s of Fine Arts. She explores self expression through the use of color and form. She has shown in the Progress in Practice show at UAB.

Kaitlyn Avery is a senior at University of Alabama at Birmingham pursuing a Bachelor of Fine

Arts with a concentration in painting. In college she has been accepted three times into the Juried Annual Art Show, interned at the Abroms-Engel Institute for the Visual Arts, and was published in the Vulcan Historical Review. Avery plans to pursue a Masters in Painting and hopes to continue growing in her artistic journey.

Katie Davis is an Art History Major and has a minor in Art Studio. She is from Talladega Ala-

bama and is heavily inspired by horror films and novels. Though she also has an interest in portraiture and symbolism in both painting and drawing.

Keilicia Parker is a third year photography student and loves watching really cheesy horror

movies in their spare time. Often you can find them in the Humanities Building till midnight trying to live up to the suffering artist stereotype. They are easily persuaded to take naps and look at photos of dogs.

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Maddie Manston is a UAB student studying art and Spanish. Her work is heavily influenced by

her spiritual relationship with God and how that has impacted her identity and expression.

She experiments with mixed media in many of her pieces, often incorporating the art of embroidery, but focusing on realism through oil painting.

Nikki Civitello is a student majoring in Neuroscience with a minor in Creative Writing at the University of Colorado at Boulder. Her writing is focused on poetry and fiction.

Noelani Sanchez is a student at the College of San Mateo with hopes to transfer to UH Manoa Nursing Program. In her freetime she loves photography, dance, decorating, and writing poetry. She finds inspiration from the sky, all forms of nature, and the emotional responses that colors can stir up in an individual.

Best of the Net nominee, Rich Glinnen, enjoys bowling, and eating his daughter’s cheeks at his home in Bayside, NY. His work can be read in various print and online journals, as well as on his Tumblr and Instagram pages. His wife calls him Ho-ho.

From a young age, Sam Bearden has made art that helps her process her emotions. By creating drawings, paintings, and digital illustrations, she continues to explore perception, emotion, identity, and relationships (with others and the self). She also creates commissioned character designs for Dungeons and Dragons characters. Sam is currently pursuing her Bachelor of Arts with a minor in art history.

Two truths and a lie: Shannon Bradt was born and raised in Birmingham. She’s been writing poetry since she was a lass. She’s on track to beat what’s-his-face to Mars.

Simona Shirley is a senior at UAB who is majoring in International Studies and is on the pre-

med track. Simona believes that an appreciation for art, and its profound representation of the human experience, is necessary for every field of study. She enjoys writing and artistic expression because it offers time for reflection and fun at the end of a busy day.

Taylor Lyon is a speculative fiction writer located in Berkeley, CA. He works as a content designer–a copywriter for apps and websites–and before that he taught English for several years. Outside of writing and work, he loves to hike, read, watch movies, bake bread, and sculpt animals wearing small hats.

Thomas Myers is a native of Mobile, Alabama and is the founder of a healthcare informatics

and strategy consulting company. His works reflect on the human condition and seek to expose the truths and universal principles that underlie our society as well as relationships UAB Student Media Staff- Jackie Alexander, Director || Rhys Finch, Assistant Director Copyright 1964-2022 Aura Literary Arts Review. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any way, shape, or form without the express written consent of the artist. All rights to the work revert to the original creator after the publication in this magazine. To reach an artist regaurding republication of material, contact the UAB Office of Student Media, HSC 130, 1400 University Blvd, Birmingham, AL 35294 52

Special Thanks to...

Jackie Alexander Rhys Finch Heather Holmes Jacob Phillips Kasia Gonnerman Kim Hazelwood Bambi Ingram Christopher Jones UAB Department of Art & Art History

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