Botticelli Magazine Number 13 by Botticelli Magazine

Issue 13 | Arts & Literature

Cover Art

Katherine Baxter | Lust

Botticelli | Staff Faculty Advisor

Ariana-Sophia Kartsonis

Taylor J Preston Sprout Shelby Thomas Cerina Bauer Ngan Thach shiqinxu

Art Staff

Minnie Lucas Ally Schnaidt Koraya Scott Ben Heuser

Design & Layout

Taylor J Preston Cerina Bauer

Submission Inquiries botticellimag@gmail.com

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Literary Staff

Table of Contents | Selected Works

Carolee Adkins When Did We Get Old?

Erik Akerman Eden 19 Katherine Baxter Female Matrix 20 Dejiah Archie-Davis The Devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Angel 21

Jenina Brown fleeting 22 Katherine Baxter Movement 23 Holt Bundy quarry 24 Holt Bundy Poem for the Second Guitarist of The Red Hot Chili Peppers

Ashley Callahan bailey1 29 Ashley Callahan alicia2 30

Holt Bundy 4 Gold Chains 31 Omar Grey I lie 35 Austin Crotteau Water Burned My Periscope

Ashley Callahan blaire4 37 Austin Crotteau Caveat Emptor 39

Ashley Callahan blaire8 40

Austin Crotteau Five Clues to a Mystery

Sky Dai A Dying Gardenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as Good as Any

Sky Dai tights 49 Sky Dai Double Abecedarian 50

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Leah Conway Cold Quiet 42

Sky Dai Sestina for Tracey Emin

Sky Dai TKdrawing 54 Sky Dai Sestina: A Letter for Rosey

Sky Dai Shelf & Sink 58

Sky Dai the hourâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s audio 59 Han Donovan teenage 51 60 Sky Dai wahhhoohhh 61 Han Donovan Full Pull page 1 62 Han Donovan Full Pull page 2 63 Han Donovan Full Pull page 3 64

Han Donovan things i learned and questions I asked from growing up in an emotionally silent household 65 Darby Evans I know that 67 Benjamin Britton Durell Monster 68 Darby Evans The basement under my bed-closet looking

Darby Evans Ouch 82

Kirsten Gardner untitled 86 Jay A Fernandez Fall 87 Kirsten Gardner untitled 88 Jay A Fernandez Counterweight 89

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Benjamin Britton Durell The Goings On, in Suburbia, with the Vastness of Space Overhead 83

Jay A Fernandez The Final Reel 90 Kirsten Gardner untitled 91 Kirsten Gardner untitled 92 Jay A Fernandez Gullibility 93

Charlene Fix CARTOON 94 Ben Gettler SKIN 95 Charlene Fix OBJECT EXERCISE 96 Ben Gettler UNTITLED 97 Charlene Fix SUNSET 98 REMs Xander Haggerty My Name, My Story 99 Shada A Grant Radiant Nature 106

Nancy Kangas How I Got Here 107 Shada A Grant Buffering 108 Nancy Kangas Last Night on Facebook

110

Jasper Saoirse silvertongue 111 Nancy Kangas The Sun Is Up 112

Shada A Grant Split Personality 113

Marissa Britt Holt Yours Truly1 115 Rob Lipton Grace 116 Marissa Britt Holt Yours Truly2 118

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Raiden Kubiak The Crusades Were Not Holy Wars, They Were Just Wars 114

Rob Lipton The Library of the World

119

Ramsey Mathews House Fire after Wiccan Midnight

120

Marissa Britt Holt Yours Truly3 121

Ramsey Mathews It Only Takes a Minute to Make a Man & a Millennia to Make a Horse

122

Ramsey Mathews Late Night Cubist Blues

124

Jasper Saoirse WALKING HOME AT NIGHT WHEN YOU DO NOT OWN THE WORLD

126

Alex Keeney Clown 2.0 129 Jasper Saoirse ouroboros sestina 130 Alex Keeney Purple 132 Jasper Saoirse another bitter trans poem

133

Jasper Saoirse Recycling 134 Allison McGovney Esmeralda 135 Alex Keeney Seagull 136 Katelynne McHugh Love 138 Matthew Mitchell Ode to Bakelite Seafoam Green, Ending in Two Mothers Rising Up Out of The Ocean 140

Alex Keeney Sunday 142 143

Alex Keeney Young Age 145 Grace Oller Eucharist 146 Alyssa Korecky MBV 147

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Matthew Mitchell Ode to Thanksgiving and an Empty Chair

Yamini Pathak Name the Night for Me

148

Alyssa Korecky Roczen 149 Alyssa Korecky Senna 150 Yamini Pathak The Long Goodbye 151

Minnie Lucas Kettle 152 Yamini Pathak At the Nail Salon, My Girl-friend and I hold up Bottles as though a Vote for Strawberry Margarita over Italian Love Affair will end World Hunger

153

Emily Pérez Accoutrements 154 Emily Pérez Anniversary 154 Archer Parsons Koi 155 Emily Pérez Boundary[less] 156

Brooke Ripley Intertwined 157 Brooke Ripley Renewal 158 Emily Pérez Accounting 160 Emily Pérez Deciding to Renew our Vows

161

Dylan Phipps 2546 Peavine Road 161

Hannah Roberts 1 162

Dylan Phipps Undelivered Message 164 Olivia Pierce nightmare about a coffee table

165

Olivia Pierce drawing blanks 168 Tracy Powell Sold 170

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Dylan Phipps Separate Existence 163

Tracy Powell Statistic 172 Tracy Powell Daily Rants 174 Hannah Roberts 2 175

Anonymous A Letter to my Friendship

176

Taylor J Preston 10 Weeks of Exaggerated Separation

178

Hannah Roberts 3 179 Hannah Roberts 4 181 Taylor J Preston Letter to Let You Go

182

Sprout AFTER DRAKE 184 Sprout SCATTERED, SMOTHERED AND COVERED

186

Hannah Roberts 5 187

Sprout SOLIDARITY 188 Kalen Rowe How the Heart Floods

189

Kalen Rowe Dear William, 191 Hannah Roberts 6 193 Lauren Shrimplin Corpse 194

Lauren Shrimplin The Toy Maker 195

Anna Soter Ph.D. Mastering Tongues 202 Tyler Weaver touch 204 Sarah Schlup Alligator Blind Contour 205 Tyler Weaver father 206

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sarah Schlup Mr. Hunterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House 200

Katherine Williams Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s My Coat 208 Lauren Shrimplin Paradises Fall 209

Elaina Workley Because they fell on Ash Wednesday

210

Reg Zehner When the beat goes off

212

Reg Zehner Demolition Daylight 214 Reg Zehner Angry Reactions Only 216 Alexandra Valentino Stress 217 Reg Zehner Old Show 218 Madison Van Buren Entirely of Flaws, The Reprise

219

Biographies Artists & Authors 222 Botticelli Staff 236

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Arts & Literature | Selected Works Carolee Adkins | When Did We Get Old?

When did we get old? It’s hard to tell. Last I knew we were standing at a wishing well. Tossing in pennies, wishing to be grown, Having a job and out on our own. Now here we are with gray on our head. Some of our friends are already dead. We got married and had some kids, At some point, we must have flipped our lids! Our brains are fried, our knees are worn, Ow, my back, don’t step on my corn! We can barely hear, our eyes are dim, No more jumping up and going out on a whim. Now, it’s supper at four and in bed by eight, Gone is the dancing and staying out late. Inside we are young, that’s how we feel, Getting old wasn’t part of the deal. We look in the mirror and see all the lines. We wish we were young, though our heart pines. Our life is speeding, going by fast, We will soon be young again, then it will last.

Erik Akerman | Eden

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Dejiah Archie-Davis | The Devil’s Angel

Katherine Baxter | Female Matrix

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

I let a stranger come inside my home. I gazed out into the ceiling, Asking myself if God was around while I let the high take me away. It wasn’t “me”- I swear Lord. I was just what he wanted me to be. He pulled my hair back And looked at me like gold. And just like gold, his stay was treasurable. Like a cage with no lock I was willing to escape freely, But his eyes told me to stay. His hands told me to let go, And his mouth told me to Pretend.

Katherine Baxter | Movement

Jenina Brown | fleeting

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

You were fleeting; Just passing through. A ghost in the walls, A blink of an eye. I thought you were an anchor. You convinced me of that. But in reality, you were currents that rushed away in fear and left me on shore. What a good way to live. Unbothered, and at arms length. Taking pity on those you hurt until theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re content and extend an olive branch. Sometimes when a breeze whispers by, or a car runs a red light, or rain washes away a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chalk drawings, I think of you.

Holt Bundy | quarry

i’m driving down broad street in reynoldsburg, ohio at roughly 2AM / thinking about how to leave the earth with nobody noticing / and i trick myself into missing the turn that would lead me to my bedroom / i know i won’t be safe there until i file away the parts of my brain that are aching for a catalyst // and so i go to the park where we used to play as kids / the one by my momma’s old place that she first moved out to / the one that i’d walked through every

once in a while to go to friends houses before any of us had anything more than bike tires to put to pavement / and pulling into the parking lot a white light flashes reminiscent of those white and blue ford SUVs that make all my friends buckle up quicker than any of us can think // and i notice a camera perched underneath the light / like a crow / and i realize in that moment that another soil that i grew roots in when i was young has been poisoned // and i remember tunnel vision from playing explorer in the concrete drains

that went around that neighborhood and emptied into the creek / and i remember jumping across the water / a naive sort of arrogance getting my shoes wet and cold / and falling on purpose into the deeper part to make a girlfriend feel better about ruining a good shirt / and spray painting our names under a bridge littered with more memory than a person could ever sum up / and i remember hearing of, but never seeing, the dealers that called the park home / and i remember the girl that got murdered here back when we were still in high school / and i remember how we stopped telling

our parents we were going to quarry park after that // and i wonder if my license plate is on a list now / if i should have been smiling for the picture / and i toss a finished cigarette into a bush / and watch the entire forest burn down / and any place in my hometown that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel eroded beyond recognition

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

wonder if by the time iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m out of my late teens there will be

Holt Bundy | Poem for the Second Guitarist of The Red Hot Chili Peppers

It’s like Limbs frozen In ice Maybe not the cold As you’d immediately imagine it But every part of cold That is constricting That is isolating That is a solace turned on its head

And this is not sad In the way sad usually Occupies a space It is everything about loneliness That hope hasn’t vacated It is acknowledging the light At the end of the tunnel Without question And still admiring the texture Of concrete And in a couple hundred years

Everyone will agree That bloodletting isn’t good for Anyone who wants the option Of upright and breathing But we know only of the environment That built shanty town walls around us And in the right light A vice turns to a compass So for this moment Let me paint the insides of my lungs Sweet and vibrant with violence And play distraction with myself And play distraction with myself And play distraction with myself And wake up the next morning To more questions that I Can’t come up with Reasonable excuses for

And please make no mistake This is not a cry for help So much as it is John Frusciante Seeing the outside of his front door For the first time in years With questions that he Couldn’t excuse either About that interview he did In 94, strung out beyond belief Where he said Kurt Cobain Was a coward

And there John was In April of 98 Arms chewed up And spit out By his own mutiny Skin vacuum-sealed to his face Death in every limb But hope stuck somewhere inside his throat Sobbing into the open arms of The bass player with the tooth gap Saying “Nothing would make me happier in the world Nothing would make me happier in the world

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Where he said River Phoenix Was in a better place now That his birth Was more of a shame Than his death Because he had found more happiness On the other sides of alpha And omega John knew this with every bit of

certainty Because John had been Talking with ghosts For his entire life And he’d met more in the past 6 years Than he knew what to do with

Nothing would make me happier in the worldâ&#x20AC;? And blistering his hands on fretboards And keyboards And tearing harmonies through his spine Shaking every last soul That he had been with Out of his body through whatever medium Was available and ready Purging himself of everything he had Until everyone in the band Stopped shooting up for a while

Ashley Callahan | bailey1

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Holt Bundy | 4 Gold Chains Lil Peep’s career comes to the most abrupt end that it could on his first headlining tour and back when i was young enough to still fear the thought of my body turning into a stale photograph my father told me in between black lungs and coffee teeth to never put a substance in my body that i can’t buy at a gas station said you can’t trust someone who sells things out of their house to not cut it with some other shit said you don’t make good money selling anything pure

and the professionals said that Peep overdosed on xanax that was cut with fentanyl he’d gotten the xans from a friend

Ashley Callahan | alicia2

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

said the only way to tell if that jewelry is real is to wear it and see if your neck turns green

and they both didn’t know it was laced until he was gone and my parents tell me i too am guilty of putting more trust in distractions than they deserve

and Peep did a GQ video two months before he died talking about his tattoos and everything about the video felt like a child showing up to school wearing his new favorite outfit everything was new, and exciting, and smiles without ghosts sitting behind them he mentioned his mom about as many times as he could count on red-painted fingernails

and his momma’s the one that takes care of the business side of things now that he’s gone and she’s got the rights to almost all of his music almost but i came across a headline a couple weeks ago

“ILoveMakonnen announces Lil Peep and XXXTentacion collaboration coming soon”

and as fast as you can say “history is written by those that are still alive” they took a Lil Peep song and cut it with a substance that he never would have asked for

and back when i was young enough to still fear my own last words my father told me to not trust anything gold until I knew it wouldn’t leave

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Peep had deliberately never worked with abusers the only body that he had torn apart was his own but they were both signed to Columbia Records how the suits with their hands squeezing your collapsing lungs can take your last breaths and cut them up like powder

my body marked after i wore it said you don’t make good money selling anything pure

and i don’t know if i want to hear what they do with Come Over When You’re Sober Part II Peep’s lyrics are what turned a lot of people off from him for a long time those bridges sit different in my stomach now

Burn me down, til I’m nothing but memories Burn me down, til I’m nothing but memories

Omar Grey | I lie I…love… lie Lying can kill You don’t believe me? Oh, you haven’t seen it I hope you don’t Lying can kill Lying will make you feel that you are worthless It will make you feel as your life Was just a lie And with every moment you spend, you will feel how pieces of you fall They fall and they never come back to be part of you Still don’t believe me? I love you Bye.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Austin Crotteau | Water Burned My Periscope You will never understand your scope. When I arrive in New York, the law pushes a man to the ground. A hunter brags about a mounted kill. Water causes acrylics to run like oil on asphalt, art has been destroyed before.

There is so much to learn for when burning letters, the microscope puts your life on slides then calls it art. Every one of the in-laws inspect the glass through water, they become invested, the hunt begins, marks you as prey. Oh hunter, have you found the innocent youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re looking for? The fire drowns, the water burns, in New York my periscope is held together by civilian deaths, laws are printed upon torn canvases, your abstract artifacts. By the Museum of Bad Art, they remake the Salem witch hunt;

Ashley Callahan | blaire4

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

where values are weathered by Congressâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; laws, without charges, you must forfeit; you shield your eyes by staring through telescopes. Join me on the Intracoastal Waterway, ride three thousand miles of saltwater, you can mold the clouds, call it art. We can stop where you want, scope it out, and become illegitimate headhunters only because some city guy foretold that change might come to the law

that kept me from being certifiably lawful to you. Turn your head to the water, scream until the horizon comes forward piercing each piece of art like a man harpooned during the hunt. This is the scope of the law you borrowed, disguising art as a two-way waterfall that punishes the hunted; for you cannot see when you zoom in your telescope.

Austin Crotteau | Caveat Emptor While trying to find the cure for AIDS, the Mayo Clinic created glow in the dark cats. The green fluorescent protein is a marker. Markers indicate if organisms also carry the restrictive gene. The AIDS virus is prevented from replicating. California banned the sale of glowing fish; two hundred dollars can buy one glowing mouse. Irradiated-esque mice are swallowed whole by AIDS-preventing fluorescent felines.

When one whispers uh-oh, cats disappear like lovers into the silent dark. Uh-oh, the catâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone. Uh-oh, the sky explodes; his last words hang in fire. Exhaust smeared.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Divers collect the pieces of the martyred Challenger with clawcranedevices. Hide-and-seek is for finding friends, One, two, three, four. Friends they find donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shine green. Phantoms float in the compartment; an unintended hiding place. Is silence beyond bounds?

Ashley Callahan | blaire8

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sui Sin Far lived in the United States England, and Canada. Sui Sin Far might declare everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s out of bounds in the free lands. Boundaries do not glow or meow. They remain silent. The sky bleeds ash, debris, ash, debris.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Leah Conway | Cold Quiet

Austin Crotteau | Five Clues to a Mystery At my funeral, a man hands my grandmother a vase of white tulips. She wears her favorite hat, I bought it for her; he wears darkness like a scarf. He whispers, “Forgive me for crying,” and escapes.

What oracle am I? Damned to see saws; one shreds my skin and muscles like pulled pork. My body, dressed in a deranged, yellow delusion. The guilty man who visits grandmother’s house and leaves tulips never comes here to view my work. He uses brass keys to pass through gates. My grandmother was the last to see me. I remember hugging her as she left in her favorite straw floral hat. Her arms embrace me like a cooked noodle. Grandma hates being tardy. Forgive me Doc, she’ll say when she arrives

five minutes late, the tests? What do they say? I paint, a futile attempt to pull at the restricting collar and to stop tulips from shouting, Forgive me, Forgive me. I frame the paintings as an X. Forgive me, the tulips beg, Forgive me. I am a phantom next to my legacy. Joining me on the floor, a girl sketches the painting beside mine. My wispy arms form streaks between the tulips and saw. Empty I cry, “See me.”

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Like a snail, I squirm across the dirt and leave a trail of red. Forgive me. Soil and worms fill my mouth; my skin sticks in the saw’s teeth. Blood stains the yellow tank top he clothes me in.

Sky Dai | A Dying Garden’s as Good as Any This summer is no wonder, no wander flashbacks on dead grass under the shadows of deflated fences, not everything blooms here. Cat parades her fuzzy parachute everywhere, under the carpet of humidity, she says, sad Cat? don’t know her. Neither of us are good at soccer.

Vocabulary removal from lips to chalk board, lessons from a traffic light, try to find a corner that smells like safety, pacing with her legs up the wall. Don’t call me by my name, I have no phone, no home. Sadness supply in surplus overflow, do not ask who is crying, I can not see their face. The mind’s torn letters are never sent. Some nights she calls across the deaf ocean to no one in particular. No answer. Spinal fluid leak, will get ya’ shipped to Sacramento or San Francisco, spring may never come so don’t throw out your sweaters, a dry ocean’s as good as any. A room of sailboats rocking individually, I am sad, don’t talk

to me, a blind friend teaches me how to see, and how to grow a new body. Close the shutters and find a basement on the Fourth of July, we all take cover, never learned how to swim, never learned how to drown. Pressed against the window for the spirit with footsteps in basketball shoes. Where are you? I just wanted to hear your voice, but you’ve lost it clean your room, maybe you’ll find it, I say, you say, you ate your apartment key for breakfast.

Baptised with hand squeezed orange juice, let the feathers free, don’t crouch and cry unless it’s raining. The Jet Plane says I’ll be here a lot longer than 30 days. The Jet Plane has been here before, has met me before, in a past death. The Jet Plane was right.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Don’t get too close to me, I am very worried. Cigarettes for fingers, burn bubbles underneath two layers of scaffolding. A dying garden’s as good as any.

With each gaunt memory, your youth rises with the sun, who is this child? and where did she come from? Slept in the linen closet for seven, until I heard that house with that rising sun, sunk, had to see this rising sun. Cry baby’s ain’t got no rhymes. for when I cry, I soak the feet of sinners in salt. A dying garden’s as good as any.

Wait in line to use the landline, her mother’s mouth full of metal and well you know what? You never... Her mother at the airport saying don’t come back. Her mother on the front porch, we don’t want you back, when neither of us wanted me here. Little sister on the front porch, locked out with you, mother’s fingers can’t pull her away, little sister will cry for you, and let you borrow her suitcase. Please, find my paint brushes, incase I never come back, I can paint the truth, your sister will lend you her golden hair. Do not get too close to me, I am healing, I only crouch and cry when it’s raining, now a days, A dying garden’s as good as any.

Sky Dai | tights

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sky Dai | Double Abecedarian Artemisia Gentileschi, Italian artist turned aztec, spun biblical baroque paintings, more savage than Caravaggio. Daughter, what has happened? edge of the bed, the tutor pushing with a hand on her breast, Forced a knee between her thighs. Gentileschi testified with his handkerchief on her mouth to keep her from screaming. I, too, find revenge with a paintbrush of horse’s hair. Justice, where are you? Where are you when I can no longer keep my stapled lips from cracking open? Lady Justice, bring your snake and your sword, My shattered soul will sooner collapse with contrite.

Never have I seen an angel, only those who have not wished for death, believe in Guardians. Pure, that is what I used to be. Quietly obedient as a well trained Golden. Rape turned me into Gentileschi, as well, secrets carved in Medusa’s stone, crumbling, there is no such thing as gentle weeping. Underweight and under his weight, pressed into the vortex of his grandmother’s guest room’s floral bedspread. Where were you, then, when he kidnapped you? ‘xcept, I was playing frisbee at Silver Lake Park. You got into his truck, how couldn’t you see this coming? Even Zeus was tricked by Prometheus, You shouldn’t be sur-

prised that I am angry, that I’d try anything, Xenos, sic Satan to collect my sins, if you must. What mother would ask this in the very Child Advocacy Center the school sent you to, underwear dotted with white umbrellas, stitched back together this poem isn’t a love song Stop crying, don’t let your rapist see that he’s hurting you. Quit screaming, no one can hear you. Patricia Smith, sorry to tell you, but Poseidon was a rapist,

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

only Medusa couldn’t turn him to stone, not yet, no one was awake to catch Ana Mendita, when she fell 34 stories out her Greenwich Village window, landing on the roof of the deli below. Even the Guerrilla Girls, kept quiet when Carl Andre was acquitted on the murder charges. Just before dawn, only the doorman heard her scream for help. I cried in the classroom, when I learned her tragic death was by the hands of her husband, and that Gentileschi’s only hope was to marry her rapist to restore her dignity, for Tassi had stolen her virginity, but after he refused, his exile from Rome was never enforced. Dusk brings tears, only masked in night can I cry out. Now, do u see why I don’t believe in angels? Angels have never heard me.

Sky Dai | A Sestina for Tracey Emin A Sestina to Tracey Emin In my dreams, I see your art and every part of me is bleeding. thank you for teaching me how to speak and how to see. You loved me like a distant star.

I could have loved my innocence... when I read about your traumas, I inhaled the salt from the sea, but can’t let go. I met you in art history, I searched for every book with your name, an exploration of the soul. Keep me safe. When I was raped by someone’s professor on a red couch, I screamed; I called out for you. Vacancy echos, never have I felt so alone. The only words I that came to mind were your’s: My cunt is wet with fear and every part of me is bleeding. Hate and power can be a terrible thing, my cunt is wet with fear and every part of me is bleeding. when I try to collect my fragments for art, I paint that red couch again and again. yeah, I got him fired, but it wasn’t the only assault that year. Everybody’s been there.

Sometimes I feel lonely but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s OK. acquaintances are lost, from sea to shining do you ever truly wander through the dead grass of your memory? My cunt is wet with fear when I tremble and shake, my lips sprout violets. Love is a strange thing. There is no Place to be when no one wants you. She floated up, bloated up, blue. She lay deep down beneath the sea every part of me is bleeding, but (I am not afraid) to meet my past.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sky Dai | TKdrawing

Sky Dai | Sestina: A Letter for Rosey

Rosey, I can hear your voice on sad and snowy days. Tethered to the space heater, I am a child who longs to call you at the payphone, but I fear that you won’t hear my voice. I don’t know, maybe I’ll just write you a letter and call it art but, really, I’m writing to tell you, I am fine It’s true, I am fine, I am doing fine I don’t have too many terribly painful, bad days anymore, and I’m going back to art school, and I was working with children at a daycare over the winter, and now, I’m out of that house and I don’t have to fear and I’m not homeless, anymore, I feared I’d be sleeping in the cold forever, but now it’s fine but what I really wanted to tell you, did you know? I’m taking an improvisational dance class on Mondays and Wednesdays, I guess I haven’t been in dance class since I was a child. And if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be trying to keep up in the name of art, or thinking of redefining performance art. Sometimes I can’t help but to question and fear everything, like you said, I guess my exiled-child-

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

self is out a lot, but, fine, honestly, some days I see bad things and scream no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-! and I can not stop, and I don’t know why, this is happening, or why my heart is so heavy, so heavy I can not breathe. Somedays, my whole body shakes with fear and I let it, today I turned 21, and I ran into an old teacher, told her I’m not just fine but good now, maybe she’d worried, since last may, but children are comforted by their mothers, if mothers choose to comfort their children. Inside, I know something my parents don’t know, I have their voices recorded from the last time they kicked me in the gut and out into the snow. One day, I’ll turn it into art. I knew it was coming, but what could I do but freeze in fear? and mail a video tape to my therapists, in an envelope that says SOS? But, anyways, I want to thank you for all thoses days you sat with me through storms and silences, now, I can stay present, I stay here, so, maybe, I’ll write you a letter and call it art.

Sky Dai | the hour’s audio teary-eyed tiled cube of echo I reckon the rents recorded don’t know she sleeps in the snow no good November with no home a name arranged from other names before Father’s guilt by german shepherd growl jumped mini-van crawls two state east abuse broadcast on broken radio sleeping supermarket discounted dozen dance on eggshells in the snow

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sky Dai | Shelf & Sink

Han Donovan | teenage 51

i have come so far since refrigerator stares from algae glazed aquarium eyes behind a desk where i mostly wait for you still, be still my bambi legs shake whenever i realize weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be meeting again soon, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be hyper aware of a heartbeat that never belonged to me but you but us ours

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sky Dai | wahhhoohhh

Han Donovan | Full Pull page 1

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Han Donovan | Full Pull page 2

Han Donovan | Full Pull page 3

Han Donovan | things i learned and questions i asked from growing up in an emotionally silent household freshly washed strawberries coated in sugar. for breakfast of course. the water would bunch up the sugar on top so you would get little pockets of it. not a very well balanced meal, looking back. i wish i could eat it still. strawberries give me goosebumps up and down my arms in my old age. they taste sourer now too, even with the sugar coating. strawberries weren’t meant to be eaten alone.

i keep my nails as short as i possibly can. for a few reasons. i played piano from age 6 to age 18. i bite my nails and it helps to keep them short so i don’t bite them. i no longer play piano and i still bite my nails and the skin around them, no matter how short i cut them. sometimes i bite down the skin so deep the strawberry colored flesh peeks to the surface and i get scared. is it harm done to not be hugged? what if i didn’t know it mattered

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

i am afraid of riding a bike in the city. i was a child riding my bike fearlessly barefoot and gashed my foot against some metal debris and strawberry goo gushed out. biking would be so convenient to me now, but the last time i tried i was shaking too hard to change gears. strawberries don’t have feelings. they can’t have feelings. so when you smash them with the underside of your fork to make strawberry

goo, those are your tears falling. did everyone’s grandma once have the same accidental fourth child growing in the backyard? the plant adorned with a single fraise: good morning, sweetheart. why does she get those gay hellos and i don’t? why do other families hug when they’re happy? why don’t you look me in the eye when i’m scared?

to me until 20 years later? do the strawberries gain feelings with age? i learned to be silent, not ask questions. questions spoken are annoying, the way my tongue presses against my teeth and whistles when i say S. i can’t help it, we tried speech therapy for years.

today i am 20, soon to be 21, still feeling like a burden asking questions, speaking. when i go home to visit the house i grew up in, the house where i ate strawberries covered in sugar, the house where my parents and older sister and dog still live, i am regarded as an intruder. i have outgrown my silent home, and become a big loud body that doesn’t belong. i am okay with this. but part of me wonders who i would be if i had been given the love and care that the mistake of the strawberry plant had been given. i was planned, she wasn’t, but did they water me? it depends. i guess i don’t really care, and i’d prefer if you did not try to

guess if i was damaged by a stoic upbringing. it took me a bit, but i have learned to love with my big loud body and i have found spaces where it can fit. i can hold the hand of my friend. saying i love you is still hard.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Darby Evans | I know that

Benjamin Britton Durell | Monster My name is Haseya. In Navajo, it means “She rises.” It was the first gift my dad gave me, and also one of the only. A Navajo name holds special significance. It is given to show what you are, or what you will become. Haseya has never fit me at all. I have never risen. In fact I’ve consistently done the opposite, I have run away.

It seems like for my whole life I was always running away from something. I was restless as a kid. I could never stay in one place for too long. Sometimes I would just walk out of school and wander the streets before an adult would realize I shouldn’t be out on my own and put me back in class. It’s not like I didn’t like school; I was desperate for stimulation and anywhere was better than home. I absorbed as much learning as my shitty underfunded school could manage to produce. When I was expected to interact with the other kids, that’s when things went downhill. That’s when I would try to leave. I didn’t have any friends in school. I was distant and weird and that rubbed people the wrong way. I would get picked on a lot. I never started fights but I ended a lot of them. I would lash out with all the ferocity of a wild coyote, ripping and tearing. It was as if all my inner turmoil just bubbled up to the surface when someone hit me. I think it was around the fifth time I had gotten into a fight, when I punched a boy so hard in the mouth he lost a few teeth. I have forgotten what he had done to provoke me, but I do remember when my teacher called in my parents to talk about my behavior after school. I sat quietly in the corner while my teacher told my parents how I needed to shape up

and how the reservation didn’t have a special needs program so I would need to learn to stop acting out. My mom sat silently while my dad shifted erratically from yelling to mutely clenching his teeth. I was a problem child who needed to be fixed. She never asked me what I thought about all of this so I just sat quietly. It was like I was just another potted cactus in my teacher’s sad office. After the meeting, my dad took it upon himself to beat my behavior out of me. He had beat me before but he really went for it then. It was like learning I was broken inside had given him some sort of righteous justification to hurt me. I guess it worked too. I stopped getting into fights and I learned to smile and say nice things to keep me out of trouble. Being nice wasn’t too hard when I got the hang of it. I would just smile wide and whenever someone would hit me I’d just grit my teeth and think about what my dad would do if I got in another fight.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

My teacher said I’d made great improvements in my behavior but I still felt the same. At my core, I was still the same uncontrollable animal surrounded by a cold detachment. My new charm was like a veneer I had painted over myself. I still felt restless. Sometimes I would run away from home in the middle of the night, when my dad got too drunk and sometimes for no reason at all, just to move my restless legs. I usually wouldn’t get very far. I remember one time when I was about fifteen I had been so upset I had trekked two miles down the highway in the mud at night and ended up at the diner downtown. Sitting at a booth at that diner with my legs caked in mud and blood I felt a mix of fear and freedom unmatched by any other time in my childhood. My parents would always come to find me though and my dad would give me a mix of angry threats and limp pleas for forgiveness while my mom tried not to look at me.

On my sixteenth birthday, I received the second gift from my father. It was his old Ford Pinto It had sat rusting out in our front yard for about a year and didn’t run at all. My dad claimed it was a gift too good for me, but I needed it now that I was an adult. I knew that I could fix it. I pored over books at the library about mechanics and would walk down three miles to the nearest mechanic for advice. His name was Ata’halne but I just called him old man. He was tall and stern and his hands were rough from a lifetime of hard work. He spoke no English and my Navajo was rough and broken but we got through it. He would scold me about my speech and how I was the cause of the degradation of our great people. My dad never seemed to care much about our heritage. He never spoke Navajo at home and seemed just as American as any white man on TV. After two months of fiddling and some tools and parts I bummed off the old man, the car was up and running. My dad seemed surprised to see it working, he told me it wasn’t safe for me to drive it. I took driving lessons on my own and drove it against my dad’s wishes. I loved the freedom the car gave me. Sometimes I would just drive it out to the edge of town and just stop to look. I could have kept driving, I could have left my whole life behind if I wanted to. I would always drive home though. I was young and scared and I felt content with my life for the first time I could remember. This would not last, of course. I was in tenth grade when I had a bit of a breakdown. It came suddenly and without any obvious reason. The mostly peaceful existence I had carved out for myself all came crumbling down in the span of two months. The silence of my soul had come to an end in a very messy way. I started to lash out more, not with my fists this time, but with my words. One moment I would be the same passive smiling girl who had made so many improvements in the eyes of my

teachers and the next moment I would snap and spew vitriol. My classmates seemed like they weren’t real. They seemed like flat cardboard cutouts of people. Their thoughts and motivations seemed too simple and superficial to be real. I started to think everyone around me was a fabrication. It felt like I was the only real person in my life and that put me in danger. I become terrified of strangers. I thought that any moment some adult would take me away and do something to me to change me into what everyone else was, a limp imitation of a person. My paranoia drove me to avoid people any chance I got. I would walk to school early in the morning so no one would be awake to see me. In class I would excuse myself and just sit in the bathroom and stare at my hands. Soon I would stop going to school all together and of course I would still run away.

I didn’t sleep at all. I spent all day cowering and all night wandering. I thought the night was safe but of course

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

I would leave in the middle of the night by climbing out of my window and I would just walk the streets. This was the only time I felt safe. No one but me was out this late and I could walk outside without the overwhelming fear of stranger’s eyes. The void of the night sky would envelop me and the star light would be the only thing illuminating my wandering. I would walk aimlessly and sometimes end up on the edge of town with nothing but the highway and the desert stretched out before me. It made me feel small and insignificant. I felt safe in that insignificance. I didn’t yet fear the empty spaces. I felt truly alone. It was the only peace I could find in my life. I would revel in this feeling but as the sun would rise and the people would come out I would quickly rush back to my home, desperate to get away from unfriendly eyes.

it wasn’t. One night when I was out late under the stars and nothingness, I felt an unfamiliar presence watching me. All my hairs stood up and I felt colder than I ever had in my whole life. My breath was heavy and I wished I wasn’t alone. I spun around wildly my eyes darting around to catch a glimpse of my watcher. The darkness I had felt such comfort in now seemed like a cage. In the darkness, I felt something moving closer and closer but I could not see it. I ran all the way back home but I could still feel it behind me the whole way there. It moved behind me silently and invisible in the darkness but I could feel it inching closer and closer even as I ran at a full sprint. Once I had reached my home I stumbled climbing through my window and imagined my leg being grabbed and being pulled down to my grisly demise. I clenched in anticipation but nothing happened and I made it through the window to huddle in my room and wait for the sun to rise. I stopped leaving my room and I still wasn’t sleeping. My parents finally decided I was sick enough for them to have to do something and they got me some anxiety medication. It helped stave off my paranoia and I stopped lashing out at my classmates. I was too far behind in school at that point to pass not to mention all my classmates had developed a fear and hate for me that did not fade with time. I stopped going to school again and I kept running away from home. I think my parents were just about as fed up with me as they could get. As I got older I would run farther and farther away and my parents would care less and less to come find me. When I reached eighteen they stopped coming altogether. I packed up the little clothes and personal possessions I had and left home without a word. I had imagined some tearful goodbye with my mom, maybe she would admit she was the reason I was so fucked up. She didn’t of course. My mother

was never one to show too much love for anyone in her life. Maybe she just didn’t talk to me because she knew she would have to try to stop me. There is some kindness in that thought, but I don’t think it is true. My mother is a lot like me in the end, a cold person with no room in her life for others.

I left Haseya behind. I didn’t want any extra attention and it had never fit me anyway. I was Anna from now on. I was surprised how easy it was to fall into place when I got there. This wouldn’t last of course. I was always restless but this was something new. I felt unsettled anywhere I went. When I was in public anxiety would seep into me like water

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

And so, I was left on my own, just a skinny Navajo girl without even a high school diploma. I was all alone but I was OK with that. I would bum gas money and meals off of strangers using my smiles and charm. I ate fast food and slept in cheap motels. When I didn’t have any money, I stayed hungry and slept in my car. It was around this time I developed a dark spot about the size of a quarter on the palm of my left hand. It had no sense of touch at all, when I felt it it was like I was touching someone else’s skin. It looked bad too. The color seemed like something only found on a corpse. It felt cold and dead. It really freaked me out. I thought I was dying. The frantic searches I did on some library computer didn’t help either. I couldn’t believe I’d finally gotten some freedom in my life just to keel over. I was too scared to go to a hospital so I just waited for it to go away or for me to die. Neither ended up happening and as the weeks ticked by the mark remained unchanged. I got used to it. Now when I look down at my hands I take no notice of it, it has become a part of me. After deciding I had waited to die long enough, I used just about all my money to get to drive down to Albuquerque and start my new life.

filling a clogged sink. I could feel harsh eyes on me even when I was alone. So, I kept running, I moved on to the next city and started it all over again. I adapted, I closed myself up to people, I bought a gun, a Colt Anaconda. “The most powerful handgun on the market,” I was assured by the dealer. I felt foolish for running but I tried to convince myself all of this was normal. I would move from city to city, always running. I was running not because of my family or anything although that was defiantly part of it. I was just running away from a feeling and I didn’t know quite yet but I was running away from a monster.

After about a year of this I arrived in Santa Fe. I had always heard good things about the city and I was eager to settle in. It started well enough. As soon as I arrived, my anxiety washed out of me and I felt rejuvenated. I spent the first week just wandering. I would go to all the museums and libraries, but I would find all the hidden places too. I found the little secluded parks tucked away between lazy streets, hardly a park at all, just some grass and a bench, maybe one old tree. I would walk into all the most isolated bars and restaurants and find the one good thing on the menu. I worked whatever jobs I could. Bouncing around between the service industry work and mechanic jobs when I could get them. Sometimes I would get jobs when I knew they didn’t need to hire someone. They just felt bad for me and knew that I slept in my car in grocery store parking lots, cold and alone. I’d find all my favorite spots and would fold into a routine with them. I found all the best bakeries and even rented out a tiny old apartment. The floors were creaky and the noise of the worn out air conditioner in the window kept me up at night. I found a mattress on the curb and that

became the all-purpose furniture for my life. It felt nice to just have a solid place to sleep where I could stretch out my legs. I could just about afford it with my sporadic pay. I learned to love Santa Fe and I like to think I learned the city, that in my short stay I had gotten a full picture of it. Of course, I didn’t. Sometimes when I felt brave enough, I would take men back to my apartment some nights. Nothing serious, just some physical affection to make me feel alive. I’d flirt with customers at bars and sometimes they’d bite. They never stuck around and I was fine with that. It was terrifying to let anyone into my space like that, but it was also something I craved. I worried that maybe they could see past my veneer and see the true me. They could see the nothing behind my eyes and the almost empty apartment I lived in and understand what kind of person I was. Or maybe they were just like me, empty people looking for someone to touch them for a night. Despite this I felt good, for once. All my dark thoughts and fears seemed like a distant memory and I wondered if I could finally settle down more permanently.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

After about three months it started to fall apart again. It happened suddenly, just like all the other times. I would get stuck in my routine and without new stimuli my exhaustion would catch up to me. My wall of smiles and charm would get thinner and thinner and more people would see through it. I started to look back inside myself and see things I didn’t want to see. I would see the cold and empty person I really was. The dark spot on my hand remained a blight on my hand, a wound that would not heal. I would stay up at night thinking about how it would kill me. It wasn’t just my inside life that would change though, I noticed things in the outside world too. I’d see the cruelty of the city. I’d see the homeless and the sick and the dying and all the

assholes trying to give their lives meaning by making someone else suffer. I have never been an empathetic person but even I could see the desperation of the people.

I’d see a deeper darkness too. It would sneak up on me. I’d see it in the blackest shadows of the alleys and in the eyes of strangers. I’d feel it on the back of my neck, watching me. I’d hear it late at night scratching and pushing at my thin apartment door. The locks and whatever chair I wedged against it creaking under the pressure as I sat in the middle of my entryway holding my gun. The longer I stayed the worse it would get. I could feel something watching me wherever I was. When I would get back to my apartment I would hear movement inside and spend the next hour circling the building trying to see something in the windows. Once I got more scared of the outside than the inside I would carefully unlock my door and check every corner of the empty apartment with my gun clenched in my sweaty hands. I would never find anything of course, just the same empty rooms and empty life. I didn’t sleep. Soon I didn’t leave the apartment at all. I would just pace around my apartment checking all the empty rooms over and over. I left the lights on all day. I stopped going to work. If anyone worried about me I didn’t hear about it. I had never stayed this long in a city before. I thought it might get better, that I could wait it out. I wandered what would happen late one night if whatever was scratching at my door got in, if whatever was in my apartment made its move, if whatever watched me out on the streets closed in on me, If I died, who would even care. My parents could be dead for all I knew and I made an effort to not make friends. How long would it take for someone to find my body? It would almost certainly be the landlord who would find me once I stopped paying rent. He would find me sprawled out in

the entry way with my gun, useless in my hands and my blood spilled out on the dusty wood floors. I had stayed too long, I knew this. Whatever was hunting me was becoming bolder. I would have to leave again, go to a new city and start over. I would stay there a few months and then the monster would come and I’d have to leave again, and again, and again. For how long? And for what? A few months of peace and a lifetime of running and fear. I could not keep this up. I felt tired, deep in my bones. I felt as dead as the spot on my hand and in my clear head I decided this could not go on. I would end it.

I had been driving straight for about five hours when I heard sirens behind me. I looked in my rear-view mirror to see a highway patrol car trailing me. I pulled over and waited. After what felt like an inappropriately long time a man got out of the patrol car and started walking up to my window. He was tall and thick set with pale skin protected under a wide hat. Before giving me a chance to do anything he tapped on my window and signaled for me to roll it down. I complied

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

I packed my things and drove my old car out into the desert. I didn’t know where I was going, just away from people, away from the crowds and their eyes. My Colt Anaconda sat comfortably in my hand. “The most powerful handgun on the market.” I sure as fuck hopped so. The desert stretched wide around me. I was surrounded by long stretches of nothing. In my childhood, I would have found it comforting but I knew too much about the empty spaces now. America has so much empty space. So much of what defines this country comes not from our cities or culture but from the space in between. So much can fit in that space, so much that people can’t see.

and was immediately met with the smell of him. He smelled like iron, like the smell of the old rust on my car. “Howdy, Miss.” His voice was surprisingly soft and calm. He sounded almost bored. I remained silent. “Do you know why I pulled you over, Miss?” “Not a clue,” I answered, honestly. His face was expressionless. “I pulled you over because I wanted to, and because I could, and for a number of other reasons, most importantly being...”

“What?!” I interrupted. My mind worked to understand what he had just said. I looked at him and started to notice everything that was wrong. His uniform was far too tight on him it stretched and strained to hold him in. His skin was the palest I had ever seen. It was almost transparent. The smell that covered him wasn’t iron, it was blood. “Who are you?” I said raising my voice more than I intended. “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to tell you the most important reason I pulled you over is because you are a problem.” His muscles seemed to tense under his skin, but his face remained expressionless. “Tell me who you are!” My voice sounded harsh and unnatural in my mouth. He stopped all moving abruptly. I looked in his eyes and I saw something dark and sharp and not human.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I could kill you in so many waysâ&#x20AC;? The man seemed to grow even taller as the uniform strained to contain him. His eyes grew wide and wild. He opened his mouth and revealed rows of needle thin teeth. It was at this point that I shot him. My bullet ripped a hole through his shoulder and left my hand buzzing from the recoil. He stumbled backwards but remained standing. My mind was clear and my hand was steady. I shot him two more times. The bullets ripped through his body and tore his ill-fitting uniform to shreds. He fell on his back with a thud. I stepped out of my car, gun in hand. My mind was empty and my resolve was clear. He lay still in a pool of red. It was too dark and viscus to be blood. It smelled like rotting flesh and death. I had found my hunter, I had found the monster. I bent down to point my gun at his head, better to be sure, right? As I moved closer his arm suddenly grabbed my right wrist. It happened so suddenly that I dropped my gun uselessly out of reach. His mouth opened into a wide smile and the dark red liquid flowed from his mouth through his needle thin teeth. I tried to struggle but his grip was like iron and he was squeezing tighter. I felt my arm break under the pressure. I yelled out in pain and the calm disposition of my mind was shattered. From me emerged the wild beast I always was. I was filled with the rage and energy of my childhood but this time I had the strength to go along with it. I moved my free left hand to his throat and clamped \down. The monster let out a noise that could have been a laugh. A harsh sound that sent the dark red liquid spraying from his mouth. I pressed harder and his smile turned into a grotesque grimace. I could feel the dead spot on my hand, I could feel it pressing into him. For the first time since the spot appeared I could feel my whole hand. His iron grip on me loosened. It was like his energy; his life was being sucked into my hand. I could feel him dying in my grip. Whatever perverted kind of life the

monster had, I stripped away from it. His grip loosened and his arm fell to the ground. I stood over the body as my rage retreated back inside myself. Not all the way this time. I could still feel it’s presence. I looked down at my hand. It was stained with red and I couldn’t feel the spot anymore. I stroked it and it felt as dead and unresponsive as ever. I looked out into the vastness of the desert and understood the monsters that could live in that nothing. But, I knew that it could be conquered, it could be killed. My broken arm ached and I felt alive.

My name is Haseya. In Navajo, it means “She rises.” It was the first gift my dad gave me, and also one of the only. A Navajo name holds special significance. It is given to show what you are, or what you will become. The name has never felt more descriptive. My hands are shaking as I drive my old car down an empty desert road. I left the patrol car and the body behind. I am not running anymore. I will find more answers out there. I’m sure of it. I have a purpose now. I have risen.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Darby Evans | The basement under my bed-closet looking

Darby Evans | Ouch

Benjamin Britton Durell | The Goings On, in Suburbia, with the Vastness of Space Overhead building. You get out of your car. You don’t know where you are. You do know what you should do. You walk to the building. It is huge and featureless. You have been here before. You have been here every one of the last seventeen nights. You avoid the figures in black. It is not your place, it will never be your place, it can’t be your place. You must not consider the figures in black. The figures in black do consider you. Why they do this is not for you to understand. The building is featureless and empty. You walk inside and your footsteps echo off the metal walls. In the building you find tools. You wrap them up in your coat, carefully. They must not be seen. You leave the building. The figures in black are gone. You do not worry

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

You can not sleep. The night overhead is lit with the goings on of the cosmos and you ignore it to the best of your ability. You are not concerned about the lights in the sky, you can never reach them. They are incomprehensible. They fill you with a deep gaping fear. This is an appropriate response. You have not slept in days. It is 1:32 AM. You get out of your bed, quietly. Your loved ones can not know what you are going to do. Your wife lays soundly in the bed. She will not wake up. You leave your house. You do not consider why you do this. You also don’t consider why you have done this the past seventeen days. It’s time to drive. The streets are deserted and the lights in the houses are off. There is work to be done. You drive to the

about this, you worry about nothing. It’s time to drive. You start up your car. It’s an old car but it gets the job done. You drive out into the desert. You have also done this the past seventeen days. You don’t consider why, It is like many other things. It is not for you to know. You stop in a spot of desert just like any other spot of desert. You know its the right place but you don’t know why. Each night you have gone to a different patch of identical desert. Is anyone watching? Of course not. No one is watching you out here in the desert. Who would be? Uncover the tools. It’s time to dig. You dig. Deeper and deeper, how deep you don’t know. It will become apparent to you when to stop. The past seventeen nights you have found nothing. You dig more. You find something. You hit something hard and metallic.

It is a box. You take it. It’s heavy and cumbersome but you drag it up to your car. You leave the tools in the hole. You bury them. It takes time with no tools. Your hands get hot and red from the motion of it. The tools are buried. It’s time to leave. You put the metal box in your trunk. The box is just light enough for you to lift. This is by design. It is featureless and smooth. You must not open it. It is not your place. You drive out of the desert. No one can see you. You think about the box. You think about opening the box. This is normal and also unacceptable. You stop the car. You are on an empty road, you don’t know where. You walk to your trunk and open it. The box is in your trunk. It is smooth and cold to the touch. You think about opening the box. This is a thing you must not do. You

the figures in black, you can not hope to know them. They move around you to let you pass. You put the box down in the building. It is big and empty. You do not open the box. It is time to leave. You walk out of the building. The figures in black are gone now. You can never see them again. You get back in your car. You drive to your house. You move silently inside and slip into your bed. It is 4:57 AM. You turn to look at your wife. She has not moved since you left. The night overhead is lit with the goings on of the cosmos and you ignore it to the best of your ability. You do not think about the box. Tomorrow at 1:32 AM you will be asleep in your bed. You can not know what you have just done. It is not your place to know.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

look up to the sky, something you have not done in years. You see the great lights in the sky moving with power and intelligence you can not understand. You are struck with fear but you do not look away. The patterns in the sky fill you with awe and a deep understanding of your insignificance. The devastating void of the universe flows down to the empty patch of road you stand on and threatens to engulf you. You look away. You are scared. This is an appropriate response. You look down at the box. It is featureless and smooth. You close your trunk. It is time to drive. You drive to the building. It is featureless and smooth, just like the box. You do not open the box. You are on the street again and you strain to lift the box out of your trunk. You carry it into the building. You must ignore

Kirsten Gardner | untitled

Jay A Fernandez | Fall When you find me in the kitchen shivering in the dark, adrift in stoned revelation, a toaster-oven grilled cheese loose in hand and stars winking from my crown, you immediately want to know what I remember, and what I remember is that October had flooded the marsh with longing and red-shouldered raptors were humbling the treeline. I remember night furred the whisper of empty roads between us as stillness pulled the pickup into a sullen drift. I remember not remembering. The tiny universe shuddered, and I emerged from its cracked shell a drunken hatchling. I remember blinking at the felled telephone pole that

with glittery dandruff. From there, I must have walked the many miles home, a long wading through bundled silk. The bay chill, shrill and heavy, held me upright for hours, keening. I remember the reasons I left, and I remember your smile of sorrow, the one you wear still. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re lucky youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all right, you say finally. And I nod anew at your perfect lies, then bow my head so you can pluck the diamonds from my hair.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

bisected the Nissanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cab where my anchorless body had floated before it toppled into something like sleep. Glass speckled the caved headrest

Kirsten Gardner | untitled

Jay A Fernandez | Counterweight Your death, not yet come, sits upon my chest as a heavy stone, a counterweight to my own unbound life, which awaits, anxiously, that first moment I again rise up into the sun, free now to be battered this way and that by any small wind.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Kirsten Gardner | untitled

Jay A Fernandez | The Final Reel Listen, you and I both know how this ends:

a chase through the airport, a rain-soaked knife fight on the roof of the library, a speech of indefensible influence, an alien horde come finally to commandeer the bastard cityscapes, an unearned embrace before a crowd of strangers, a clash of armies pitched toward the bloody center, a big dumb bag of money, a last tragic flashback. No teasers after the credits. Nothing to stick around for after holding hands so long in the dark. Just black screen and the eternal flash of dead white light. But life ainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cinema. And thank god for that, right? Because even the projectionist in the booth seems to have let it all go, ignoring the reel as it careens through the fantasy machine in its disconnected loop, every image ripped away, audience abandoned, one end ticking frantically with the cadence of a doomsday clock bored by its mission.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Kirsten Gardner | untitled

Jay A Fernandez | Gullibility Shadows bully the lucent. Traffic cores the coherent. Metaphor masquerades as narrative monument. Still, the worm turns, every hour on the hour. Your time will come! So: Here is the verbiage of virtue. These are the handmaidens of discourse. This is the spotlight of conscience.

Evaluate every valid passion. Fortify the emoluments of reason. Puncture the liarsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; scrim.

Believe. Believe. Believe.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Pivot off historical condescension. Burn down the borders. Unmask each earthbound epiphany.

Charlene Fix | CARTOON

My favorite moment in cartoons, the one that makes me say yes! and yes! is when the critter getting chased steps off the cliff but keeps running on air, remaining suspended and fine, fine, even spry, until, of course, looking down. Then descent is swift, breathtaking. Want truth? I, for one, prefer lies, the imaginative possibilities, the expansiveness, hope, but mostly the scaffolding of lies. Not life-sucking lies, not hate-driven lovers-of-death-and-destruction politico-military lies, but lies that make a turf of air, lies that suspend the soulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s solesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; for if not for lies, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d need wings to get the work done, the kind of work that must be done way way out on air.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Ben Gettler | SKIN

Charlene Fix | OBJECT EXERCISE

It is hard for me to live beyond you. Even after all these years, I find you enormously distracting. So I’ve chosen as my object you, who have always resisted being one, won’t let me drag you around, show you off, or handle you frivolously. Although by February we’ll have held each other thousands multiplied of times in our evolving arms before sleeping, when, like dreams, we change

in color, size, it’s easier to imagine you alone, the dark wool back of your coat facing me while I hasten after you in blue rubber barn boots I’d never have thought to buy had you not pointed out their utility. Now we’re walking side by side, snow falling on us both but collecting on the wide brim of your black hat, roof of your solitary dwelling.

Ben Gettler | UNTITLED

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Charlene Fix | SUNSET

Tigers are melting all over windows of western rooms: gold and orange tiger-ooze shining while the day dies, a sunset glare that saves us from being ambushed by the lives inside. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re seared instead by a vision stranger and more true: late lightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s low vehemence that smears the liquefaction of those paws on glass. We hear the tigers growling in the forge of flames, so know the bodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rag-wrapped nakedness, the truth of burning out, the beauty of that truth, its singing rage, before the angle alters and the glass goes grey.

REMs Xander Haggerty | My Name, My Story Rest In Peace Malcolm James McCormick 1/19/1992 - 9/7/2018 2007: I lived in the middle of a daisy field in a rusty trailer. One of my friends came back from Pittsburg with a CD. We listened to it on my CD player all throughout recess. I found him.

“Y’all hungry, I’m starvin’, you talkin shit, oh I beg your pardon. Specifics is never gimmicks, I rip it just how I live it. You want

2009: Mac Miller came back with The Jukebox: Prelude to Class Clown & The High Life. The High Life was the mixtape that inspired me to follow my passion for painting and making any and all art. I was 12 and in 8th grade. The year before was hard enough. I was forced to see a shrink about my parents divorce. That’s not why I started using at 11 and no one knew about it. I was being forced to wear dresses and the cassette I had since I was a baby was thrown into a bonfire by a witch. Bullying really messes with a kid no matter the age. My

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

10-year-old me thought it was the best thing I’ve ever heard and I instantly fell in love. My favourite musician started releasing music in 2007. But My Mackin’ Ain’t Easy. Easy Mac had to change his name due to a copyright issue with Kraft. (That’s a joke, there’s already a Canadian artist named Easy Mac. Malcolm didn’t want to take their shine.)

it, I’ll go and get it, I’m kickin’ it so exquisite. The wickedest motherfucker on the block I live at. Shit talk on Hip-Hop, I’m peelin’ your wig back.” -Easy Mac aka Mac Miller [Cruisin’; But My Mackin’ Ain’t Easy]

school wasn’t very strict about the no bullying policy. I ended up going to the principal’s office on more than one occasion. Little me was taught to fight back and smile through the pain.

100

“They gonna try to bring you down. Hating is what they do. But you gotta keep a smile. Stay up on your move. Live free. Homie live free. They gonna try to tell you no. Shatter all your dreams. But you gotta get up and go. To bigger better things. Live free. Homie live free.” -Mac Miller [Life Free; The High Life] 2010: The mixtape K.I.D.S. was released. I was a bad little Jew back then. Still am. Bad habits always die hard. I was trying to rise above. “Me, I’m highly underestimated. So educated in getting paid quick. If you ever hated, anticipate that I’m famous. Got a bunch of bitches to sip on the champagne with.

Celebrate that we seeing another day, life good. Never wanna end this. Me and Mary Jane got a really nice friendship. Yeah they give me money but I gotta go and spend it. Man, I been a bad little Jew. But I gotta pay the bills now so I gotta chill out.” -Mac Miller [Don’t Mind If I Do; K.I.D.S.]

2011: Best Day Ever, Blue Slide Park, On and On and Beyond, & I Love Life, Thank you. Mac started having many alter egos and changing his name. Easy Mac, Mac Miller, Larry Dollaz, Cam Rellim, Larry Fisherman, Larry Lovestein (to come in 2012), Delusional Thomas (to come in 2013). I desperately started trying to turn my life around for the better. Nothing seemed to help besides music. “No matter where life takes me, find me with a smile. Pursuit to be happy, only laughing like a child. I never thought life would be this

sweet. It got me cheesin’ from cheek to cheek. And I ain’t going to wait for nothing. Cause that just ain’t my style. Life couldn’t get better. This gon be the best day ever... If it ain’t about a dream, then it ain’t about me. Go a couple full weeks without a good night’s sleep...” -Mac Miller [B.D.E.; Best Day Ever] Severe nerve damage, Arthritis, Fibromyalgia, alcohol poisoning (the moonshine - my bad), and other medical issues arose. Everything made it hard to move or even talk. Mum noticed and without my opinion she took me to the city for a check up.

own sick. This is why we can’t have nice things. The tube wasn’t a cool accessory. Really sucked not being able to eat solid food. Later that year I got a foster brother. He had the same love I had; music. “You take away the pain and I thank you for that. If I ever get the chance, bet I’m paying you back. Imma be waiting for that, Imma be waiting for that.” -Mac Miller [Clarity; Macadelic]

2012: Macadelic & You as Larry Lovestein. A relapse was inevitable. Overdosed laying in my

We failed the class. I was always dreaming big but would rather be asleep. At the time I thought the

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Only 14 and the doctors doped me up pretty good. Free drugs. Who could say no? How could they have known my past? They didn’t; no one did.

We both listened to Mac Miller and used to rap the song Senior Skip Day off of the mixtape K.I.D.S. in history class. Mac mentioned dreaming and my big brother gave me the nickname R.E.M. As in Rapid Eye Movement. Also known as R.E.M. sleep; It’s when you dream.

101

102

best reality was my dream reality. Not what I exist as while awake. I still believe that.

of.” -Mac Miller [I Am Who Am; Watching Movies with the Sound Off]

“Haha, enjoy the best things in your life. Cause you ain’t gonna get to live it twice. They say you waste time asleep, But I’m just tryin’ to dream.” -Mac Miller [Senior Skip Day; K.I.D.S.]

Another year another relapse. They say you’re never really alone but who are you without your family? My foster brother left for college but I got a new friend who had the same demons. Patty and I are two of a kind.

2013: Run-On Sentences: Vol. 1 as Larry Fisherman, Stolen Youth, Watching Movies with the Sound Off, Live From Space, & Delusional Thomas as Delusional Thomas. “Look, I’m posing a question. How many been empty and holding aggression? Close to depression. Open your eyes and just focus a second. Fuck a recession, my brother. My mind is my weapon, I’m letting it go. Loading and pointing at negative energy. Telling me stop, they’re telling me, “No, don’t”. Your aura is something you ain’t even sure

2014: Faces. Rap Diablo. “Lost inside my mind it’s a prison homie leave me be. You can see me bleed, I be with the freaks and geeks. Bitch I never miss a beat, I’m Charlie Conway, triple deke. Gordon Bombay in these streets. Ballin’ like I’m Pistol Pete. Been a beast, every word I spit rewriting history. Look at what you did to me, look at what you did to me. Running to the underworld with guns and set the sinners free.” -Mac Miller [Rap Diablo; Faces]

Patty gave me the nickname Remmy El Diablo. It’s now my business/brand name. REDart. It also worked well because my dads side of the family said that gays are the devil. I am Diablo. Found out I have a rare heart murmur and if my heart beats too fast I basically die for 13 seconds... Yay drugs. Patty said it was cause they needed me in hell. Promises are hard to keep. The broken hearted break promises. The promise I made was too hard which is why I’d rather be asleep. R.E.M. My last name was picked. Haggerty. Fit well for a drunk. The apple never falls far from the tree.

In 2012 Mac released a song called I Got Drunk And Played The Piano on SoundCloud. It was and still is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Listening to Mac play one of his many instruments was a gift all on it’s own. He always put so much love and emotion into his art. In 2015 I was 17 and started taking piano classes at my high school. Found an old keyboard in a yard sale for $5. I fixed it up and still play it to this day. Mum said I played it too much so she bought me one of those aux adapters so I could plug my headphones in and play for

103

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

2015: Run-On Sentences: Vol. 2 as Larry Fisherman & GO:OD AM. Got closer with my twin. We’re not actually twins. Blue is my cousin. Brother from another mother. We have similar demons.

“Everything we think we love. It ain’t nothing but a brand name to everyone but us. It ain’t nothing but a brand name, nothing but a brand name. Ask her what she wearing, say it’s nothing but a brand name. Baby, this right here is handmade.” -Mac Miller [Brand Name; GO:OD AM]

104

hours. Piano really helps to clear my head. Mac used to say the same thing. 2016: The Divine Feminine. At this point I was struggling with my identity. Everyone called me Remmy and I didn’t really feel like a girl. I didn’t feel like Keana anymore. After graduation I came out to my boyfriend and he accepted me. My pronouns were changed to he/ him and my name was changed to Remmy. My promise got a little easier to keep. Patty and I fell out of touch for a while though. “Will, you, stay, just a little while, babe? Just a little while, just a little while, just a little while.” -Mac Miller [Stay; Divine Feminine] 2017: A long break for Mac Miller. He took his time putting out more music. I took some time to get to know myself. Really hated the name Remmy. Really hated myself. Couldn’t figure out why. I

changed my name back to REMs and seemed to be happier. Since I don’t really have the emotion “happy” I’d say I was more content with life and didn’t want to OD... again. 2018: My middle name was picked. Xander. As a reminder of my demons and that it can/will get better. Xan- for Xanax. -der for Vicodin. Swimming. His last album before he left. Gone on September 7th at the age of 26. A legend and my hero. My life and heart not shattered but stolen. Gone forever. Snap back to 2012. Back to when everything went wrong but now it’s worse. Mum put me on suicide watch. My relationship is falling apart. Patty came back. He and I are supposed to take a trip to Blue Slide Park soon. I’m almost 21, it shouldn’t be this hard still, but it is.

“I feel like my life is over... I don’t believe in God. I believe in Mac Miller.” -Patty “And I don’t know it all, but I do know this. Before you know me, better know yourself. I’ve been in this shit so long that it don’t smell. I turn the hotel to a castle. Livin’ like a king for a grand. I don’t do nothin’, that’s a hassle. Besides, even that castle’s made of sand. Just might slip into the sea. Fuck it all, if it all ain’t me. Maybe we inside the maze. Somehow, we gotta find a way, okay.” -Mac Miller [Ladders; Swimming]

105

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Life in general has been a giant maze for me and not an easy one at that. Bandwagon Macheads have been pissing me off since September. I’m constantly needing a high to fix my low. Almost four years sober as promised. Lost my boyfriend of four years in the process of finding myself.

Through all this chaos I’ve found that I am simply just human. I make mistakes. Addiction is hard to kick. Call me what you want. My pronouns still unclear but everything else has come into focus. Who I am and who I want to be is me. REMs Xander Haggerty.

106

Shada A Grant | Radiant Nature

Nancy Kangas | How I Got Here In a banana yellow Volkswagen Rabbit, its rusty sides riveted with sheet metal. In my dad’s dulled-red Opel Kadett, the back seat reeking of somebody’s spilled strawberry shampoo. In a dour maroon Dodge Dart, with its permanent apology of sweat. A cinnamon Volare, the humble beast we drove through the Badlands and on to San Francisco when I was 15 and fancied us as pioneers. A scarlet Chevy Impala, the boat that barely ferried me, my boyfriend and a parakeet through Death Valley. In a big fat van I owned with the six other people in my band. In a hand-painted baby blue ‘71 Honda Civic hatchback, the only car I’ve ever loved.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

In a Toyota Corolla I crashed a bit with my little son in the front seat. A Mazda 323 I really crashed. It was taupe but the police officer said, “I’m going to write brown.” I got here in my son’s Chevy Blazer that you couldn’t get out of from the inside. In a slick black brand new Ford Focus station wagon my boyfriend farted in on the way home from the dealership.

107

108

Shada A Grant | Buffering

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

109

Nancy Kangas | Last Night on Facebook He put a gun to his head Shot a photo put that photo Out there said should I do it 4 people liked it 37 people said brother Put the gun down I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say anything I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say put the phone down Put your face down cry You baby mad man run out into the street Into the cold and into the dark

110

Jasper Saoirse | silvertongue a house can be empty but a home is full to brimmingthis is a lie. houses can brim, cups can brim, hearts can brim, but this is a requirement. in order to dance one must have a teacher, in order to lie one must be a storyteller, if you want to do it well. i do not believe anyone is cunning by nature, i know i didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t used to be. iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sorry about it, and mostly sorry to myself about it.

111

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Nancy Kangas | The Sun Is Up In this room there is the clock’s soft ticking There is the cat’s tail curling And the wind chimes’ slow tones Over on Fourth There is a car’s engine wanting speed Pressing itself to the road Who would turn this off Or drown it out with loud complaints When here it is

112

The constant muscles of our hearts

113

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Shada A Grant | Split Personality

Raiden Kubiak | The Crusades Were Not Holy Wars, They Were Just Wars

114

beads of smooth plastic, paint rubbed off onto my ever waiting fingertips, my palms damp with sweat, hands over my ears to quell the noises that haunt places in my life where i cannot hide from them.

the ending of a story is the beginning of a new one the ending of an era only leaves time to make things right. in the next, old ideas replaced with new when available i wonder if this old god is to be replaced when her time comes.

there is an organ playing in my ears, my mind, every morning awoken with the air from my lungs, torn like the hair from my scalp, one at a time or in chunks, never steady. i wonder if god is watching me.

the fires of hell are used as a tactic of fear, yet as i learn more of what gets you placed there, i canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but wonder if it is preferable. i know not of gods nor monsters in the sky or below, only of the fear taught to me by hypocrites.

i wonder if men in church go because they love god or they fear her. i wonder if they have ever thought of god as anything but a man, though it seems fitting that He is a father. Fathers are not known for their kindness.

beads of cheap plastic, purple paint staining my palms, staining my soul and my eyes and my heart, and purple is my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite color, but it is not mine. Never mine. hands on my ears to quell the bells that sound there.

Marissa Britt Holt | Yours Truly1

115

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Rob Lipton | Grace

116

Imagine the conniptions Penelope throws when her lawn, shitted up by her neighbor’s Lab, turns ocher brown, but okay, this is hardly my fault, nor the scabbed half face of my somewhere middle eastern gardener Rami blowing leaves in a three piece suit (not my sartorial vibe, but he handles the blower like an NHL guard). We’re talking god damn forgiveness here! And I’ve heard John Prince with his punch drunk voice trundle through a gorgeous tune of his forgiving just because it’s finally enough - to know he’s been loved no matter his fucking-up or lost his throat to chew and infelicitous choices, he’s battered like a tin piñata, and features his potato head visage equanimously on his last CD. This much is true – the poet has always lost the fight, usually not even gone to war, the kinetic battlefield is written out in prose, and the poet is always in a tactical retreat, watching intently with range binoculars his own stunned rise from trenches filled with boot camp verbs rushing forward, head down, kitted out

with complete sentences up-armored against metaphor. From the infinite distance of memory â&#x20AC;&#x201C; measured in a Picosecond after you read this, measured in seasons of the Jurassic, all the words of the universe will claim their place, every poem that will ever be written, even those where Elvis never eats a fried banana and peanut butter sandwich, where Mary Queen of Scots executioner is sobbing as the axe wavers above her head - are printed out in the foundational braille we use when holding someone wounded by the suicidal charge of those maimed, implacable nouns

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Permeable membranes, we breathe this in like diluted mustard gas, the lungs are scared a little more each time, gentles our resolve like our voices, like John Prine forgiving the syphilitic parasites biblically plaguing him like the inevitably saintly Penelope inviting her neighbor and the lab in for tea the leaf-free lawn greening as it always will.

117

118

Rob Lipton | The Library of the World

Marissa Britt Holt | Yours Truly2

119

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

I’ve taken some liberties, the French Minister interjects In the terrestrial library where he has mounted the heads of vanquished librarians along the wall over the card catalogs now filled with love letters from all the boyfriends who couldn’t resist the siren call of pursed lipped Henriettas and the cartographic wanderings of Mr. Dennis, an unstable nemesis of the French minister partially, no doubt, due to the rendered duck fat portraits drawn “anonymously” in the eating club’s frosted windows. The French Minister’s penchant for playing blue is heightened in this season of budget cuts and the remaining revanchists are scoured from the day room lockers where the French Minister has removed all the photos except for the donkey fucking Henrietta number 2. The French Minister has planned this as the dominant motif It is certain that the proxies for the French Minister have secured the mineral rights to the central library, working with Big Whale, they have run Mr. Dennis to ground near Temecula’s Passion Play. The French Minister’s taxidermist is on the way and the French Minister is wooing the remaining Henriettas with poorly rendered first editions describing Virgil’s careful journey through the Stonestown mall. We all have a soft spot for a given level of Dante’s hell, the French Minister, under the influence of of an enlarged liver, will have library fine scofflaws sporadically blown out the ice volcanoes of Titan.

Ramsey Mathews | House Fire after Wiccan Midnight

120

A fire truck grunts & lurches like a disturbed hunched bull from its firehouse onto Lakewood Boulevard. Within the rolling steel beast, dogged canvassed men wear goat horn helmets & conjure spells to extinguish the fire that extinguishes flesh & furniture children & chaise lounges. Ignoring red lights, the truckâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Clang! Clang! Clang! parts the brew of useless misting rain. This is not boys catching fireflies in jars. No Neroâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fiddle. Only the stupid scythe-shaped moon. Pacific wind punches nocturnal flames as pagan fate chastises the firemenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s intentions & the crying knell fails in the magnitude. No amount of penance with axes & hoses from Long Beach stations will placate this rogue fire until the bodies are consumed, until the offering is given, until all that remains are burnt sienna ash & puce bone.

Marissa Britt Holt | Yours Truly3

121

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Ramsey Mathews | It Only Takes a Minute to Make a Man & a Millennia to Make a Horse

122

I photograph alligators along a long Florida lagoon as a wild horse, like Achilles, rises audacious & deathly from aquatic pickerelweed & yellow American lotus. His coal colored coat charismatic with natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pornography glistening quivering ribs strident taut naked & martial against a wash of suffering weeds & throbbing bluewhite sky. I stand motionless not knowing his intent.

He negates my presence & gazes away. I am not worthy of his judgement. If he could yawn, he would as he meanders along the dike in spite of alligators & wild boar. As a twenty-first century representative of my crude species, I pick up a rock to strike his handsome head intending to regain his attention, this brute who ignores me who has better things to do in the wild

grasses where red-winged blackbirds sing. The horse wanders deeper into the brush & I lose sight of him & for a moment I forget him too. Equus, feral & free. If I lie naked, curled, fetal in the pickerelweed and expose my thorn-bitten thighs to the sun, will he gallop to my musk summons? If I die today in some malignant metaphor prone alone on this lagoon bank, would a

man or woman discover my body first or a reptile or would the horse shield me? I am so arrogant to think he & I have an affinity. When this Achilles horse dies, his corpse hushed among the wild fragrance of butterwort & swamp privet beneath an inviolate cerulean sky, he lies down for a thousand years among the alligators lining this lagoon.

123

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Ramsey Mathews | Late Night Cubist Blues At the bar before the bus ride home, among hollow bar talk & fusty beer nuts, every old man is a poet & every old man rewrites his history with every new beer, especially

when the girls sit down at the next table. It’s Monday. Eight dollars in my wallet, five eggs, a chicken breast & seven beers in the fridge with payday nowhere in sight.

I fly off the final bus above my dusty apartment as a narcotic buzz cuts the night’s tightrope. Pollen pools

124

in dry puddles along the black asphalt parking lot and the oppressive March heat beats its shoulder against dark doors.

The old man sits in his appointed space on concrete steps, smokes the same raggedy rolled cigarette & stares into diluted heavens filtered gray with city lights. He & I spoke

once. I told him what I do. He said, “Dig ditches for a living or short order cook. More honest than poetry writing.” “What about Li Po?” I asked. “A clown. Fool.”

There is no one home to laugh with me, except I have a cat. Leonard leans against my shoe like a fallen tree after a tornado. I crack a beer for both of us. The heat bakes whatever the garbage pail contains

& my studio smells of rotten roots & sour flowers. I open a window & the door & night enters. Leonard, with the loyalty of a salt shaker,

loves his home & never strays. The austerity of the apartment is challenged by a Picasso print I ripped from a library book

& taped to the block kitchen wall. A Cubist candle blazes with a geometric flame.

Leonard & I discuss the siesta of muted earth tones that wrestle a mutiny of exhausted gray squares. Instead of smelling oil & grease, we savor the triangular

pizza slices. Instead of swearing at car horns & train whistles, Leonard & I sing a duet to Picassoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s faded guitar. Outside my one window, a thin crescent Luna

I am your elbow jammed into my back. I am your teeth marks on my shoulder. I am spring with no April. Somewhere in the night, among bolts

of heat lightning, two people touch hands or lips seal some false sense of prosperity & we wonder, Leonard & I, how many more heat waves will hold us hostage this way.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

moth drifts coy like your smile. I toast her hips, your knees, her elbows, your breast. Your laughter persecutes me.

125

Jasper Saoirse | WALKING HOME AT NIGHT WHEN YOU DO NOT OWN THE WORLD IT GOES LIKE THIS: KEYS BETWEEN FINGERS AND BACK AGAINST CLOSEST WALL LIKE CASTLES WITH THEIR BACKS TO THE SEA IN HOPES THAT THE THREAT CAN ONLY COME FROM ONE DIRECTIONAND STILL THE CASTLE CAN SEE IT COMING AND CANNOT MOVE, CANNOT ESCAPE

126

YOU ARE THE CASTLE AND THERE ARE SIEGE ENGINES AT YOUR GATES YOU DO NOT SEE THE BEASTS ABOVE WITH MOLTEN BREATH AND CLAWS FIT TO LEVEL PINE-FORESTS GROWN BEFORE YOUR GREAT-GREATGREATS WERE CHILDREN THE FACT THAT YOU DO NOT SEE THEM DOES NOT MEAN THAT THEY ARE NOT GOING TO DEMOLISH YOU

“THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN AND IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT.” SKIPPING FROM POOL OF LIGHT TO POOL OF LIGHT, A FEVER-YELLOW GAME OF HOPSCOTCH, A DESPERATE MOTH HURTLING ITSELF INTO THE GLASS AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN UNTIL SOMETHING BREAKS, SOMETHING GIVES YOUR WINGS OR THE WINDOW

127

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

128

Alex Keeney | Clown 2.0

129

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Jasper Saoirse | ouroboros sestina this is the nature of hunger; to try to cure the ache, stuff it full of food and sex and whatever else will staunch the flood of weeping and teeth pouring from the loveless mouth. and making a mess of the floor. the floor is pitching like a sinking ship the seas do not forgive, instead they hunger their mouth yawns wide, voracious Scylla, never full, nor is she satisfied. nor Charybdis, no matter how many teeth she breaks on ships that she draws in and bends to her will.

130

and then, when the food runs out, what will we do? when the kitchenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s guts are spilled on the floor, we go outside, the grass and earth stick in our teeth. sisyphean, nothing slakes our hunger, the dirt goes right through us. The opposite of full is a yawning mouth, a wound where the marigolds were. your mouth and mine are locked in a violent dance, flecked with plant matter- whose lips will split first, whose jaw breaks on whose knuckles, whose cheeks full of gauze are first to purple and bruise- the floor is wet with blood, yours and mine, and still we are no closer to something less than hunger, so we try and swallow our teeth.

it’s the teeth we have to mind, going down (and going down,) we’re idiots, putting things in our mouth that we can’t eat, (anything to distract ourselves from the hunger, ever present and aching.) i’m sure you’re familiar- the breaking of will, of pride, the rhythm of our breath, you and I, tangled on the floor, your lips are red and full. in sickness and in filth, with full bellies or self-cannibalizing bodies, we kiss each other, tongue and teeth. We are going to be the end of one another, love. There is rock-bottom, and there is the floor, we are going to keep digging. one of our mouths will drip something too poisonous to stomach, and that’ll be the end of it, we will

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

devour each other. this is the nature of hungerthat you will eat whatever is put in your mouth as long as it’s full, if you’re hungry enough and the poison will set in, leave you to rot on your floor, and if you die, you can stop being hungry. scylla swallows her teeth.

131

132

Alex Keeney | Purple

Jasper Saoirse | another bitter trans poem

133

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

-deadname like an almost car crash like stubbing your toe on something visible and ugly-not ugly-not ugly but not yours, a beautiful dress that hangs on you all wrong every fall cleaning out your closet it looks back, puckered by your too-wide shoulders and baggy on your too-small breasts you try putting it in the grave of the Goodwill bin but it finds its way out of the basement every time- deadname like a sudden stop in traffic two inches from somebodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tail lights, washing you red and yellow and green in the absence of blood -your body is ready for a car crash -it never quite collides until it does and throws you through the windshield what is a field but an undug graveyard, what is a child but an empty womb, what is a body but some half-conquered country when war is fought on your behalf you do not give out purple hearts or black lungs, they get those on their own -it dissipates like salt, like your pills in your belly, the illusion of choice and safety in your childhood home -this is no eulogy, this is a list of charges. how do you plea?

Jasper Saoirse | Recycling

134

and so many dead birds on the sidewalk, soot-grey and sunyellow, a wing lay crushed in the crosswalk and concrete. a finch gone belly-up with an emeraldbright beetle feasting in its singing lungs. who strikes down the birds? comets from the sky into the stone without even the dignity of the fox’s mouth and the earth’s embrace to welcome them home. who mourns the mourning dove? i walked past that dove for a week, unable to turn away from it as i hurried to and from my apartment. it was moved once, from the sidewalk to the gravel round the matchsticks that we call trees here in the city. i still wonder who moved it- who took its little body into their hands, pregnant with maggots, and put it out of their way (i didn’t consider a shovel or a shoe, both too unkind) before they went on with their day.

when it starts raining corpses, will they open their umbrella? when the street fills with corpses, will they call a snowplow? the finch was gone sooner- and where did it go? who took it away? who planned the funeral? it was only there a day or so- there in the night and gone by morning. there wasn’t any blood- the brick-laid deathbed was clean as a street can be, clean as a wake never is. did the beetle devour it by the time i woke up, through the night neatly stripping feather from flesh, flesh from bone, bone from marrow, unwasting and undiscerning? i would prefer that to be the case- it seems better than being nudged into a gravel grave with a businessman’s shiny shoe.

Allison McGovney | Esmeralda so they say. Though, maybe I don’t look so sharp. Ravens and Writing Desks Mean nothing to me— Perhaps they are quite alike. Did you ever stop to ask the Raven? Or is a blanket still over her cage? And if it’s Mercury I see In the Sky, and not a star that died, I still won’t thank you. know better than to trust what I see in the Dark. Esmeralda’s green glow appears white in this Blackness. Not all stars are as cruel as you.

135

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

The Sun and Moon cannot trick me like the bird with a blanket curtaining her cage. Night blackness, I swim out into boiling black coffee, Creature of the Night. The rich Darkness stirs my Lovesick mind Like a Witch stirs her cauldron with mildly good intentions. Beware, my daytime charade has not yet been Perfected, but the Sun and I have an Understanding. Esmeralda, your name is so much sweeter than your Dark Magic. Nevertheless, hear my plea. Love’s grip is too tight once again. I’m mad— Not angry, like the times you rob me of my Peace of Mind; But Mad as a Hatter,

136

Alex Keeney | Seagull

137

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Katelynne McHugh | Love Tyler My first kiss was not love, Just what I hoped it would be. You were a rush of chemicals, a rush of want and hope. Though sometimes I still wonder.

138

Lee You smelled of love and tasted like it too. Under those arms that kept us safe and kept us hidden, you didn’t see it yet. I hoped it’d be more, but god, this, this was good. That moment was a mix of want and need in apparently just the right amount, ‘cause it sung a soft, low tune. It wasn’t as sad as these words look and feel. Not at all. But they are tinged now, Because you are in the past, At least the moments of you that were tinted by us. We are gone. You are here and so am I, but we don’t belong in the same sentence anymore. Maybe I’ll try again, later. It’s hard to look at the good times without feeling sad because; It was so REAL. Oliver I’m sorry. Maybe for me more than you, but we’re both part of this. I’m sorry, me. I’m a coward. I know I’m set in stone, but I

hate cold truth. It was not chiseled by my hand, and certainly not by you. I’m sorry for what I set in my stone fate. I did what I thought was best. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, you. You weren’t meant to be driven away. I had my demons, and you had yours. Now I see it was at your expense that mine could be free. I’m sorry I couldn’t control my demons for you, but how could I control My love for you? Could I have tried harder? Yeah, I could’ve. I’m sorry. Kyler I could love you in a thousand words, but not one is true. Lexi Smiles bow to futility’s direction. You want what you thought you might have. Expected so little And got nothing. What else could I do?

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Em I might fall in love, But I’m scared I won’t.

139

Matthew Mitchell | Ode to Bakelite Seafoam Green, Ending in Two Mothers Rising Up Out of The Ocean

140

I. The water looked like a million football fields when my toes meandered along the wet sand overlooking the crest of an oncoming tide sometime after the new millenium. My grandparents were sunbathing and pina coladas sizzled against their false teeth while the familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s candy-colored cars roasted in the North Carolina sun. Goodwill bikinis eventually turned into funeral dresses and beach snapshots became rusted casket homebodies.

II. The desert floor of an empty shot glass burns my tongue like cyanide and broken bones cut through the skin of my toes like orange coral as the June sky touches the horizon and

141

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

a decade has passed and I’m staring into the eyes of this beautiful creature and I’m prepared to sleep under its boiling skin. But I’m standing alone, patiently waiting for the green seafoam to run across my ankles, hoping something will either capture this gorgeous moment or take me home to a warm familial embrace. I don’t believe anything could possibly grasp the feeling of seeing your grandparents’ ashes floating atop the Atlantic Ocean, getting wrapped in the arms of a machine coated in rust that you can’t replace.

142

Alex Keeney | Sunday

Matthew Mitchell | Ode to Thanksgiving and an Empty Chair I. There sits this woman in a chair covered with thick heaps of piss & dog hair but everyone acts like they don’t notice the blanket covering the shit in an attempt to make the living room less dirty for her guests— the dead husband, Jehovah’s witnesses, relatives in the freemasonry.

III. She’s looking at a crossword puzzle on yellowed paper, trying to conjure up a spirit & retch until she vomits up an answer. You can hear the elastic of those gray Sweatpants stitching itself to her skin & there’s a shimmer dancing on her marble

143

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

II. The myriad of decade-old kitty litter & excrement blend resting near the porch door behind the couch with cushions that could lick your thighs dry, the way the sunlight creeps in through the window & shines on her, the warm day’s glare cutting the blemishes off a tender neck, the watermelon socks she wears to match her Valentine’s Day sweater— it’s beautiful.

eyes that once danced with a marine during the Cold War but his bones are long buried & the arthritis tessellates against the stars. Her mind meanders to a seat atop the remains of old Cleveland Municipal Stadium & it’s a bloody Sunday & she just sat through four apocalyptic hours of Clark Gable & Vivien Leigh sucking face on a plantation & now Roy is curling his fingers around hers & you could scrape the Ohio summer out of the marrow & Larry Doby hammered a ball all the way to Lake Erie.

144

IV. The red numbers stitched to Doby’s back twinkle under the moonlight coated in napalm dust & the seat becomes a beige chair & the baseball gods can’t scrape the Alzheimer’s off her skull & there are no ends with her—only sudden goodbyes & no haven was safer than the one we watched get torn down &—

145

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Alex Keeney | Young Age

Grace Oller | Eucharist

146

An intruder enters my vein the unfortunate blue one that rests where my left arm tends to bend I tell the criminal it is not welcome here Get out of here! It is slick and thin as it slips in taking my blood, its holy wine Wholly Eucharist I can listen to Bon Iver While shadows move across my knuckles and I can pray close my eyes, closer to God now than when I’m sitting under a steeple, sometimes Not thinking about the water glass in front of me

A statue of liquid, a sculpture that hasn’t been touched in hours Like a hum that won’t leave the tv screen but not so important in light of this sinking Into the sunlight that ripples across my left knee on which sits a raven, her wiry legs cross and uncross my keys dangle from her mouth she is gracious and does not fake a toss I watch her burst into Blackness, her world evaporating in the light I can’t stop falling into the cross I can’t stop getting to

147

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Alyssa Korecky | MBV

Yamini Pathak | Name the Night for Me Yamini, Goddess of the Night wept on separation from her twin Yama, Lord of Death. Her tears flowed to become the holy river Yamuna Parents, good fairies who whispered a name for the first time into the shell of my newborn ear

148

Potent spell that blew like nightingale breath through a baby body, I turned in that moment into a night sky shot with stray comets grew dark interiors, awakened forbidden cities of velvet silence My tears wash layers of sin from bodies carried like burdens until they ride on the black satin buffalo of my brother, Death Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m absent from the rose garden Look for me among the ghosts of night-blooming jasmine Listen, they reveal my name to the shifting breeze

Alyssa Korecky | Roczen

149

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

150

Alyssa Korecky | Senna

Yamini Pathak | The Long Goodbye In this moment that is only as between your shoulder-blades

wide

as the rift

let us unpack each other like suitcases filled with gifts hold hands in traffic visit the miraculous shrine of the Infant Jesus in the still gold of afternoon uncurl the leathered cheek of an over-ripe pomegranate, spill rubies onto our laps In my darkest dreams the train puffs out in coal-gritted clouds one of us left choking/keeling on the platform the other already looking out the window on the far side where half-naked children wave and cheer

151

The river I swallow runs underground you/the rock in the tide-pool I/the moss that cleaves Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

152

Minnie Lucas | Kettle

Yamini Pathak | At the Nail Salon, My Girl-friend and I hold up Bottles as though a Vote for Strawberry Margarita over Italian Love Affair will end World Hunger We sink into massage chairs slip on the shared skin of Hindi slang that belongs alone to us, chalta hai yaar like the two women who make asides to each other in Spanish Sometimes a laugh bursts out as they buff & cream, honey our feet into glowing teak arches here in the United Nations of Nailzone on US Highway 1

Out in our open-toed sandals, we depend on Taupe-less Beach on our toes to carry us through the brittle summer

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t kneel before them or kiss those calloused fingers or remember how once a man, also olive-skinned, washed and wiped his undeserving brothersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; feet

153

Emily Pérez | Accoutrements I wear black to mark our wedding date the death of all my dreams. I wear a hood to block periphery, to muffle, mask, and mute, as if to say your wailing won’t uproot me. What’s the compromise and how have we endured. Like birds we bring straw and string and shiny things to bind the nest, we’re best if we arrive at different times, we’re blessed if you look on us from afar. I wear this ring: a ribbon, like a scar.

154 Emily Pérez | Anniversary my husband says you’re married, who cares if you are hot by which he heralds the death of all erotics, signals we will not be secret lovers sneaking off the job to grope each other’s unknown darknesses in supply closets or family use bathrooms

Archer Parsons | Koi

155

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Emily PĂŠrez | Boundary[less] it was a [secret] until it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the girls [between] the walls the room [between] rooms

locked

156 a space space[less] the breath breath[less] a sense sense[less] a heart heart[

]

157

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Brooke Ripley | Intertwined

158

Brooke Ripley | Renewal

159

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Emily Pérez | Deciding to Renew our Vows That year I took no leave. We had no rooted story to use as a foundation for the shore we’d foundered on. We’d woven no new myths, no tapestry made and unmade every night with thread dipped in sheep’s blood and arrowroot.

160

We had no bed to serve as pyre, No new pile of longing, no inlaid chest of letters, just a net unraveling. Each new moon I asked: When is too late to reverse a course, revise a verse. I imagined entering our lamp lit room receiving your sighs as a form of homecoming.

Emily PĂŠrez | Accounting who let you sink in the sink of your flesh the piles and piles of plush the forgiveness in place of critique who let you sleep when you should have been working awake who let you shake loose like leaves in the wind fold into folds like blankets like rest who let you rest when your best was just hours and honing mere pecking away who let you stay as you are become more who did not punish you down to your core

161 Dylan Phipps | 2546 Peavine Road

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

One year after she died The house sat: Empty, full of dust Table full of jars Living room full of space The bedsheets lay as a sculpture Preserved by time As the floor Sinks into the dirt Metallic ceiling peeling, falling A home to shelled memory For 91 years to come Emotions linger And there, in the kitchen Beside the sink Where dishes remain silent Placeholders, final actions In the knife drawer There is a cluster of fibrous debris, A nest for rats

162

Dylan Phipps | Separate Existence Today I saw a spider Crawling through the library Across the floor I stood up to stomp it, to kill it Out of instinct, out of fear But then it reminded me of you I found out you love spiders So I sat back down Decided to let it be, trying to let us both Live at peace The spider continued, Walked on its way Till it was no longer in sight Maybe you and I can Do the same

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Hannah Roberts | 1

163

Dylan Phipps | Undelivered Message

164

One day I wish That you and I could be On speaking terms, Behind my mind everyday There exists such a Space between us Which can be felt at every moment, So expansive, so wide That it cannot be crossed One day I wish That you and I could Exist in the same room

Olivia Pierce | nightmare about a coffee table it’s better than the one where I have to dig you up out of a grave a puzzle on your parents’ coffee table in front of the couch where I -we sat on the carpet was it purple? maybe it was blue we kissed against the wall until the change fell out of your pockets that puzzle on the coffee table depicting that picture I can no longer remember

165

why did that version of you say that thing it said when it said it and meant it?

with that puzzle that wasn’t really ever there

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

does the real you mean it? does the real you remember sleeping on the floor in front of that coffee table, with me on the couch above

but that we put together in my dream that I had

166

the one that I still have the one where you say that thing you said and still say the only time you speak we’re almost done, you’re sitting close by wearing that jacket you never take off in my head my hair is long like it has never been cut and I’m looking for the last piece the last piece of that puzzle when you say, “you know we’re never going to finish this, right?” I know and your fist comes down sends the pieces flying, unfinished, to the floor around us in front of the coffee table and I wake up on that couch, instinctively reaching down for the pieces like I could quickly put them together like I think they might still be there

even if they were my hand doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite reach the ground, barely grazes the blanket covering the body I often wish was still there to hear my secrets each time I wake: lightly breathing, at an armâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s length.

167

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Olivia Pierce | drawing blanks that androgynous embrace -- neither romantic nor platonic, which was never something you gave each other, but, rather, something you collapsed into, something each of you used as a crutch to support your own self-interested weight in some secluded corner, passing a pipe back and forth in the dark

168

before retreating to the hospital basement where your body became a crumpled bridge of questionable foundation, spread lovely and haphazard across two office chairs - yours and his, your unsupported torso hanging unsteadily between the two like an unanswered question which can only be posed when looking up from a lap at a familiar face twisted upside-down, wishing you werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t overqualified for doting, wishing slumber together didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to be justified and spot lit with so many screens

like an unanswered question that will hang and hang until all the blanks you pretend to draw combine to depict the clearest of illustrations the answer rising off the page and revealing itself, spilling and spreading like prognostic puddles from underneath a basement door one glance imparts evidence enough: all the junk youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve hoarded, everything you thought youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d save for later has been long since drowned, now bobs on bloated back on the surface, soaked through, rinsing, revitalizing,

169

ruining you free. Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Tracy Powell | Sold

170

Many days have come and many days have gone. More to life than just this. The mundane. The systematic oppression that has plagued my people for many years. Oh me, oh my, why why why I have fought. I have bled, I have raged, I have led many over the walls of Jericho. Blown the trumpets, listen to them blare. Anyone, who dares to care. Listen to my cry, listen to my plea. We are more than just a skin tone, or the color that you see. Intellectual, motivational, inspirational, and many more to claim. But all I can smell is the stench of crack cocaine, flooding my neighborhood, pissing on my flowers, defiling my streets. Unclean. Help us governor, help us mayor, help me neighbor,

doesn’t anyone care. “Well, you know you guys have it a lot better than you used too” she said, at least you don’t have white’s only” fountain’s. Oh you should be so grateful. Look how far you’ve come. As she stared at me with endearing eyes, that were full of ignorance and mine were full of disbelief. What should I expect. In a world where a person of color can be persecuted to the full length of the law and my counterparts can get a slap on the wrists. Am I angry? Why am I here? The Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria. Good ole Chris. I was free once. Running in the fields, earth beneath my feet, wind in my hair, sun amongst my skin. I was in sync, one with the earth. Feet moving to the sound of the

underneath it all we are all the same. Underneath it all,we all want freedom, we all want peace we all long for justice. Why is that so hard to see. I have bled, I have raged, I have cried and I have prayed. There has to be more to life than this systematic way of life. Or is there?

171

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

drums. I was one Stolen in the night. Castrated for my fight. Left alone without light. Sold to the highest bidder. SOLD, one Negro girl. Just another casualty in a long list of many. SOLD to the highest bidder. SOLD, SOLD, SOLD. My ancestors sold, Just another hot commodity on the stock market, still being sold. Sold into a prison system that makes its money off of our shortcomings. Everybody gets a cut. Everyone gets a piece of the good ole pie. I want freedom. I want liberty and justice for all. I want the light of the sun on the nape of my neck. Causing me to rise. Making me grow. Healing the earth. Making me whole. Helping my children, placing them in tow. Bringing them to safety and letting them know, that

Tracy Powell | Statistic

172

What is my worth. My purpose upon this earth. Just another number a statistic. Opportunistic challenges, stacked on a calendar of misses. Born of a mother who was a sister of two brother’s. One Whose life was lost breaking free from slavery. Two juvenile boys, with nowhere left to go, so they ran, and they ran until they could run no more. Guard dogs close behind, looking for their scent. Panting, heart racing, praying for freedom. Go brother go! He said,” I am close behind!” I am tired he said. Come on brother! Come on! One kept running as he thought his brother was near. Only to look back in the darkness and find that the brother he vowed to

protect, was nowhere to be found. Only stories were told of how he passed. Stories change as decades pass, like the bark from a tree that is chipped away, little by little by the wind and the rain. The texture is never the same. Some say he was ran over by a train that was going fast. So fast and so loud that he could not hear the sound? He fell asleep on the train tracks, that was what they said. Only a fool could spew such a lie and pray that all around him would fall for it. Or did they care what it sounded like to his mother’s ears? Devastation, to wonder what the ocean would sound like if the waves no longer crashed upon the shore. To think about the loss of the sound

Running. Trying to break free. Still just another number. Still checking boxes, black, white, other. Running from the law, for no reason at all. Other than the color of my skin. GOD, help us all.

173

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

you long to hear. His voice. Long forgotten. Just another case of a young Negro boy who died while trying to escape bondage. Statistic. Just another number. Run, Uncle. Fly Uncle. For no one knows how he really died. It was written, “Another negro boy, dead. Ran over by a train, with bullet holes in his head. Carry the pain daughter. Carry it. Wear it on your sleeve. Try not to go insane. The days are long and your nights are short. The constitution said that he was on 3⁄5 th of a man. Not even whole. Another statistic. Another man’s Soul. Run Uncle for you are free. Pray for us down here. For we are still at war. Running through industrial fields of capitalism.

Tracy Powell | Daily Rants Long talks. Deep thoughts, masses of monolog, tongues too taut. Radiant beams too light to bare. Mondayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feels like Sundayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s with thoughts of despair. Ideology mixed with immature thoughts. Make for a cocktail for disastrous thoughts. Evil and mayhem. Blocks.

174

Hannah Roberts | 2

175

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Anonymous | A Letter to my Friendship

176

Dear Bestfriend, The last three years have been amazing between us. I’ll never forget the first time you told me a story in high school. You know I have a bad memory so while I may not know the story, I know how it made me feel. You sang to my broken soul with your melodically haunting words. Every time you told a story I wanted to hear your voice more and more. I’ll never forget when you saw me apply to ccad and asked to room with me. I’ll never forget the day you cheered me up orientation when everything was going wrong. I’ll never forget how much I appreciate you being in my wedding. Since I thought we would be together all four years and beyond I wanted you to be a part of my day and apart of my life. I’ll never forget our amazing freshman year that was full

of laughter and tears. I’ll never forget how sweet your family was to me or your grandma’s sweet chilli that you shared. I’ll never forget playing the ABC road trip game on our way to columbus and listening to your lit playlist. I can’t listen to music the same way. I’ll never forget how hard you worked on your screenplays and how amazing they were. I wish I had a happy pill now. I wonder what person I would see. I’ll never forget our stupid tired fight and how you gave me a tiny Finn then we hugged and made up. I still have him, and I still have my tear soaked memories because my sadness has crept in so deep into our happiness like a diver lost at the bottom of the ocean and the pressure was just too much for the vessel…

to fix this. Yet I am the body of false hope I suppose. I do it to fool myself into feeling better. I’m not getting any better. I’m sorry for breaking your fragile glass heart. I never meant to cause you pain. People ask me how you are and it hurts to know that I don’t know, but I know it’s better without me I suppose. It hurts that I can explain every habit of yours when people don’t understand you. It hurts when people notice our separation. It hurts to look you in the eyes and know that I don’t know you anymore. I don’t hate you. In fact I still love you as my friend and I think that is what hurts the most. It hurts more than losing Brandon. Sincerely, Lost

177

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Dear Ex-best friend, I’ll never forget how much I hurt you. That fight is engraved in my soul. I’ll never forget watching you move on with someone else because I couldn’t be there mentally or physically anymore. I was breaking, and I broke our friendship along with myself. I was breaking like a person on the edge of the world waiting for someone to notice, and no one cared to notice. I’ll never forget how much I loved you in my life. I’ll never forget my broken heart when I see you. I’ll never forget how I’m married so that makes people not understand me. I get that statement from so many people so often now. I’m still trying to figure out why. I’m sorry I make things awkward for us now. I can’t handle this hurt and I’m trying to get help before I fix this. I hope it’s not too late

Taylor J Preston | 10 Weeks of Exaggerated Separation

178

“I’m not ready for this,” She cried to him. “I know love, but it’s only ten weeks.” He replied. “Ten weeks too long Alan...” “I’ll be home before you know it.” Those were the last words he told me before the government turned him into someone else. I had ten weeks left until I saw him again. I received my first letter from him. He told me how much he loved it there. I could hardly believe training that hard everyday was fun, but I was happy that he was enjoying his time. There were nine weeks left when the depression set in and I had received my next letter. He was excited to shoot at the range with his

military issued rifle. I was still trying to recover from the separation. Week eight had arrived and at this time I received a 15 minute phone call. He laughed a lot but something was off in his tone. His voice was rushed and jittery. After the call I took a long walk to comprehend the call, but instead I just ended up forgetting it. Week seven came and I found 12 photos of my soldier competing for expert. They had shaved his head and his glasses were new but he looked miserable. That week I had gotten a letter telling me about all the happy moments we shared and why he fell in love with me. On week six I started

Hannah Roberts | 3

179

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

spending more time with my in-laws. I hadn’t heard from Alan in a while. That night I lost it when I went to sleep in his bed without him. I left the lights on. I hate sleeping with the lights on.

180

Week five had come and I was counting down the days until family day at post. 35 days until I could hug him again. Another wave of sadness set in. On week four I had received a book over how to cope when your soldier leaves. The book was for women who had kids and were on post but it was all I had. The advice it gave was to stay happy by distracting yourself and your kids from the absence of your soldier. I had received another letter. It was short but sweet and he was sleep deprived to the max.

Three weeks left until family day and I had not gotten a letter. I sent him paper. Two weeks left and again no letter. Something was wrong. On that last week I had received a letter from an official. All I read before dropping the letter was ‘Our deepest condolences’. I choose not to believe it. This week I was supposed to see Alan, but the government had other plans. I knew he wasn’t gone, so where was he?

Hannah Roberts | 4

181

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Taylor J Preston | Letter to Let You Go Dear Brandon, It is a shame you’ll never see the pain of my dying smile. Perhaps if you would have known the depression I have felt you would have come home to me. I should be okay here in a while but remember, this is all your doing. I shouldn’t be able to regret what I have done. So many hearts have been broken because I do not understand how not to feel. You made me feel and I don’t know whether it is a gift or a curse but it is wrong.

182

Love is just a four letter word now. It has so much power than it should, like a corrupted government but the people accept it until their problems arise to the point that it keeps them awake at night. There is one major issue with this government, it keeps making the same cruel mistake; it keeps giving false hope. False hope that the world is always beautiful and that this doesn’t hurt, but it hurts so badly and no one wants to admit it. Yet I am the body of false hope, am I not? I try to help people and allow them close to me but when they get too close I am forced to end my help by pushing them away and go hide. Ich liebe dich far too much and that causes me to give pain to others because I don’t have an unbroken heart to give and that isn’t fair to them. It is not fair to love someone a little then leave like a cruel tease. I never meant for any of it to happen, I never do, but I never learn, do I?

Haruko was a name I took on to remember the embodiment of you, yet you still never come. How dare you leave me to drown in the density of depression and not do a thing to stop it. I do believe that I am done mourning you now but I am still so saddened and angry by your leave. You are never coming home, are you? No, of course not. You will never come knocking on my door to tell me the truth of how life went down. You have left me to be angry and you have not allowed me to forget anything. Such sorrow has passed by my door. You saved me and then you left me so alone in the darkest of shadows. False hope keeps me in the coldest of darkness, but it is okay because he is the light; he is true hope.

183

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sprout | AFTER DRAKE “Do you ever think about the guy got a cool name like Aubrey and he goes by Drake? Is it really that much of a difference? Aubrey is pretty memorable as is.” I don’t think about that, no. But I know that the house is used and warm. And I know this person is a trembling glow, and I know it’s raining. Outside, where I’m not. I know that, because the sky scrubbing pavement, the grey of a poor town full of poor kids, isn’t warm. But we are. Warm and gentle and quiet and trusting, like real heartful people. Hallelujah, nutmeg and hot kitchen, we are calm children.

184

I know my friends are talking in the kitchen. Know now the white noise of tipsy college-talk when I hear it, “Your fafsa-” “Their roommate-” “Haven’t eaten since-” “-now I’m two weeks late.” And I wonder who I have to be worried for, and how much.

This cinnamon throat-ache is mostly apple juice, Like spiked prom punch in reverse, they stop me at a quarter cup of whiskey. and I know that it’s because this person loves me. And so now I lay in a lap like lounging deadweight, The focus and blur of unfunny laughter and slow breathing. And we dance, And we sleep, And we trudge through the dry of our eyes to work in the morning, For we are but poor kids, from poor grey towns. And we pray for each other’s small cousins and we cry for free food, Swaddled in each other’s uncertainties and the promise of craters in empty roads, we sing some of Nothing Was the Same. We swallow the quiet like only we really can.

185

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sprout | SCATTERED, SMOTHERED AND COVERED

186

Every Waffle House waitress I have ever met Has been mother. Not in that she has bled and strained, But in the sense that calling an unknown teenager “baby,” makes you mother. Nonuteros. Which is to say, immaculate conception. Sainthood, In the sense that feeding hungry children Makes you “mother”. Not relationship, but title. Or maybe not title, but relationship. Or maybe both. Or maybe just coming in with $2 for coffee And leaving with a box of pecan pie, maybe goddess, The Mother, Lives in sticky floors. Maybe a lost verse of All-forgiving bible Is stuck in the clumps of tabasco Left holding to the bottom of an empty bottle, Asking for a second chance. Amen, hallelujah.

Hannah Roberts | 5

187

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sprout | SOLIDARITY When I was eight, my father made me watch as he gutted a fish I’d caught. She bled a purple stain onto the porch he’d helped construct outside the trailer last summer Eggs slid onto the cutting board held together with elastic. Over my own screaming, I heard an uncle yelling, “Hey, Tyler! Hey, man! You ain’t s’posed to make girls watch that shit! Get her out of here, man! You ain’t s’posed to make girls watch that shit!”

188

Kalen Rowe | How the Heart Floods It sleeps in an attic insulated by arteries to soak up flood like switchgrass & clutches a sledgehammer to break through the roof when the mirror bubbles through the cracks. It tries to drive away its hanging splash guard scooping water into its engine like a thirsty tongue until it’s too wet to combust & becomes a ropeless anchor or anchorless ropes dangled across the new river loop.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

It’s a forgotten belonging left in a box under a desk unafraid of drowning, it is a glass frog or a boogie board or a book that has been read enough times to remember itself, it is a sweater for the water to wear when it’s cold.

189

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s an emergency evacuation kit, documents & identification wrapped in waterproof packs, the web of rain, light, & wind pulsing a god into the air as rescuers drop ladders from choppers. They will ask where are your hearts? & we will hand them our wet baggage.

190

Kalen Rowe | Dear William, Dear William,

191

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Like everything in the forest, a writer dies. Decomposes. Like you said, they become their works, an intellectual walmart in apocalypse. To survive, other writers loot the dead’s body like a forest, eat what is necessary, de-marrow bones, sharpen the splinters. Whichever writers burrow into the skull get to have the brain. Free food. Conception. You die so we can live. I die so they can live. The better the life was written, seeded, the more trees, the more minerals. You can be a gold tooth in a squirrel’s temple. A library, a buffet, a mineshaft. When I die, I want to leave something that keeps the soil fresh, and a few jewels churned inside me. I want to be split and turned until I’m lost, buried in the earth, fallen in the ocean, boxed away in a forgotten warehouse, a single surreptitious digital plant in an infinite archive, a .zip and a .rar folded under a decomposing music blog, a blackberry bush on the side of the road, always free if you can find it, sometimes kept. I should find ways to free you, William, but I’ve kept you for too long. Someone keeps knocking on the wooden box, an unannounced neighbor or friend. Each time there’s three attempts. Each time you stare at them through the window, but that doesn’t stop them from leaving. You can never tell me what they looked like, what they wanted. I’m already so still a day can flood me halfway. I feel so ripe I should be eaten. But you won’t. You’ll make me stink the air with fruity,

ammoniac bouquet. And this will lure the poets to us like flies, William, always the first and the hungriest. They’ll come dressed as insects in silk chartreuse cravats, the gentlest, most precise thieves. The poets can smell a rotting peach from miles. They’ll sift through my early decay and find pieces of you, too. They’ll take what no one else would want, like a lock of hair they’ve ensconced, to tickle their face with when no one’s looking. And William, would you believe me if I told you that this is my greatest dream?

192

Hannah Roberts | 6

193

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Lauren Shrimplin | Corpse

194

A lingering smell runs through the air. I have a sensation of an icy wind that runs through my veins as open wounds of my past vomit the dark red jewels thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stain the sharp blades of dark green. Little by little warm puffs escape my reach I feel a sharp pain of a glistening blade in my chest man who made sure fate was sealed strongly force this weapon of violence upon me. My orbs that once had light have now faded and become so dull that no gentle look would ever gaze upon my ghastly face. Black, buzzing docs swarm around the gut wrenching smell. Slowly, picking off the pieces of guilt and regret, all because of something I wanted. Now, I lie here.

Lauren Shrimplin | The Toy Maker

195

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

A winding road that leads to A small town. A Bright warm summer day with happy hearts and joyus smiles. I was four years of age still sucking my thumb. Grasping my mother and fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand. Back and forth, back and forth swing me on the smooth cool pavement. Laughter rings out loud as singing from my shoes. Taping along to our destination. An outstretched finger points to a little red building with sparkling windows that look like the clear ocean blue. As it twinkles like snow on the first morn. Objects of beautiful desires stare out the window with a smiling look on their faces. A golden orb on the door rings out of welcome. As I walk on the old polished floors tinted with the smell of old oak. Shelves stacked neatly with colorful toys. Some in boxes some in bows some with pink on their nose. My eyes glimmer in awe by the small world around me. Soft whispering footsteps come my way. Mommy and daddy looked at the tall slender man. He had soft orange orbs that looked like a glowing ember that gave an aura of warmth and comfort. Neatly

196

dressed with a pointed grin that grew on his face. A hello flew from his lips and slowly leans down to my height. Shy I was with my hands grasped behind my back. Rocked back and forth staring at my white sparkling leather shoes beneath my silk skirt that was white as a peril. Dripped from his lips a question was formed “Do you see something you like? Don’t be shy”. An open palm reveals to me a friendly look. “I’m the Toy Maker.” I lightly touch his hand as a greeting of hello. Standing on his feet he glided me across the floors like ice on a cold winter night. He showed me his friends the jack in the boxes and his lovely ladies the dolls. He also showed me the tall tin soldiers at the pink beautiful castle protecting their queen. But something caught my eye. A glass dome was shielding the precious treasure from the grabbing hands of need. Dark brown eyes reflect the lights on the ceiling. It’s smooth soft fur glimmer in the light with a black silk bow around his neck. It was a teddy bear. A bear that caught my perching sight of curiosity. A stiff pointed finger reached out to the beautiful bear. “Ah that toy. It is one of my most beautiful and valuable creations. It is one of a kind”. The barrier is lifted ever so carefully. The soft gentle hand carefully cradled the bear and

197

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

hands it to me. In a trance I carefully held the bear as if it was a fragile glass vase that can easily break. “It is a gift from me”. He smiled with a toothy grin. I looked up at the glowing face a spoke of words that turned into questions, “Surely I must give you something so valuable as you gave me your Precious bear”. Chuckling can be heard above as he said in reply. “But my dear you have given me something”. The weight of my head fell to the side giving a dull confused look like a curious puppy. A voice rings out calling to me to go. Shaking my head quickly I refused to leave. The tall man had words pour from his mouth of reasoning. They swirled around my parents head and agreed to stay. He trotted along the floor to a old green painted door. Daddy told me to wait and play With the pale rose cheek dolls. Their feet moved to the door and slowly it creaked it’s goodbyes. Playing tea party at the scratching carpet with the bright, pink castle. Curiosity stole my eyes away as the door called out once more. It said my name as I was walking to it. A spinning stare chase was there before Me. They were old and worn as I stepped down each and everyone of them.

198

Creaking like a swing set going up and down, up and down. Pitch black as a dark night with a musty smell that rung in the air. This scent I have never smelled before was a lot different than any smell. It was not like roses and fresh cut green grass. No. It was muggy and a grossest smell. Something that crawled out of the darkness where it should have stayed. My nose cringed in fear of something so horrible. Walking in the darkness feeling my way through this scary maze. Then I felt something wet and moist. It was warm, Not cold and there was some plush rubbery objects in it. Hitting my foot was a light of courage carefully picking it up it started to glow. My eyes were shattered with Horror. The wetness was a red liquid and the plush rubbery Was a pink pulsing flesh. Groans came from the sack of flesh as he moaned in pain. Slipping behind me the red liquid grabs my white skirt running in the dark maze I crashed into two figures in the dark. The light shined revealing the terrible truth. This nightmare I was in will it never end? Before me were faces I recognized. Mommyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s soft beautiful hair was torn from her Bloody head and her clothes were torn. Daddy had bloody eyes

that were stolen from his fragile skull. Their mouths were open with eternal screaming. Tears rolled rapidly like a rushing river. Steps grabbed my ear as well as a dark cynical chuckle “I made your bear a friend”. A dark hideous creature with stitched hair On the it’s body and white pale flesh that grew over its plushy roundness. It was like my bear. The red was the dyed color of the red liquid. The eyes that were bright were my Daddy’s eyes, so round and gentle. I screamed in the darkness without stopping. “Why! Why! Are you doing this”!? As the Toy Maker laughed and spoke softly “This is the valuable gift you have given me. Your parents love, hope and dreams and you”.

199

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

200

Sarah Schlup | Mr. Hunterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House

201

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Anna Soter Ph.D. | Mastering Tongues

202

Our heads pounded at the end of each day no matter how beguiling the fading salmon-pink-stained stucco, the time-worn miniature turrets, the languid hours under shaded vine-clung shutters overhanging tight, winding lanes, bearing evidence of having borne the tramp of long-dead and still live leather-shoe-clad feet carrying their owners on some intended or serendipitous commitment. We got so that we couldn’t, wouldn’t, speak to each other, heads throbbing with the ponderous task of constant translation, finding in each other relief, respite ─ perhaps that was the beginning of the drift, the discovery of the illusory value of self-insulation, the don’t ask me for anything, I’m not capable of more. On the grape-heavy lower slopes of the Tuscan hills, you said how good it was to be with someone for even an hour who spoke the language you and I already shared, the content of the words no longer as important as not having to twist one’s brain to make the semantic match between Italian and English, the former the tongue we’d been immersed in all that day, all that past week, knew that to have to dredge up a word for something as simple as a bread roll, so that one could eat something, had stretched our capacity to think, to discourse, to a point

where muteness appealed. In defense, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d become adept at using hands, arms, eyebrows, shaping lips into forms that were attempts at mimicking the object itself, and how blissful we felt in the silence, our eyes the only connectors, our over-wrought minds at rest. And I thought of students I have taught who brave the unfamiliar, bring themselves to our world, our discoursing, who must go to bed each day, craving for resting their minds, knowing that the next morning they would begin all over again, and not just to ask for something as ordinary as food, but twisting their minds over concepts they may never have thought of â&#x201D;&#x20AC;in their own language â&#x201D;&#x20AC; and suddenly understood their courage, the magnitude of their desire to voyage so far, and felt humbled.

203

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Tyler Weaver | touch your touch is poison i must wash myself clean of your memory the vile sting of your voice the relentless pressure entitlement non-deserving non-inquisitive, yet captured a gift i gave for affection a gift returned ineffective.

204

205

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Sarah Schlup | Alligator Blind Contour

Tyler Weaver | father perfection earns affection. monogamy was incoherent. only screams. lies were your death gift. gone. a boy had to be a boy i didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t perfect your preconceived notions perfection through inheritance i didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t receive it perfection earns affection.

206

you abused she still loved you she stills loves you you loved another monogamy was incoherent.

couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear me minimal affection. only screams. a fallen rose lies revealed showers of adultery an unwanted child lies were your death gift. your final words laconic i feel nothing for you my love is empty numb. void.

207

gone.

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Katherine Williams | It’s My Coat

208

I have a coat It’s dark and different But it’s mine I didn’t buy it I didn’t ask for it I didn’t beg for it It was a gift I wear it with pride because it’s mine I get knocked down for wearing it And talked about for not wearing it right I’m expected to wear another coat Same size, different color But it doesn’t fit. The measurements are wrong My coat can’t be fixed It can’t be mended It was meant to fit me. I’m American, But I don’t fit America.

209

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Lauren Shrimplin | Paradises Fall

Elaina Workley | Because they fell on Ash Wednesday

210

They kept saying the pops... the pops... Every channel said 17 have passed with holes in their bodies. & we say No because you keep silent when it matters most. Maybe we point fingers because we cannot carry the weight of actuality solely among one. There is so much I want to remember about you. How the crisp Lincoln looked in my hands Every time I saw you, mother of my mother, how many Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d pay to see you now. How you thought of the future: gazing past me until another laid beside you- a new lover- when the job was still mine. They say you will always remember how they were their last time with you. They say you never know when that last time will be But you

can feel it in your bones (I can feel it in my bones) (It went through my bones) They say it sounds different but I know when a pop sounds it’s inherent annihilation. I know when a pop settles in my ears & through cold beaded sweat Not only does it strike as error it strikes bleached bone and vulnerable flesh “The gun went off. I don’t know why” & I laid in this holy hallway made of violent hesitations. Blankets covering intermittent consequences. & you were there. We shouldn’t have been. There is so much I wish I could remember- but grey is leaking out one hole & I do nothing.

211

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Reg Zehner | When the beat goes off 1.

212

when the beat goes off / we’re riding with the windows low / hands open / the things we do to each other when we know the sun will set / a loveless day on the scalding blacktop / we outpace our words / who is heavier than the money / that’s always chasing our misery / that’s why our tears are worth so much / they become diamond smiles / gold chains swinging / ain’t nobody got you like I got you / dad still plays the same motown cd / momma still sings the gospel / we weep inside of our fists / breaking the glass / that kept us from seeing / the grass on the other side / we could never keep up / no matter how hard / how fast / we believed / it got so dark / the night forgot itself / & the streetlights blew out / we owe what we can’t pay off / we owe what we can’t afford.

213

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

this is as fleeting/ as watching the world pass / thru a car window / this half life / & lion heart / I see / everything that follows the strong current / downstream / the floodgates burst / & we didn’t build our houses high enough / the dirt stained on your white pants / from running through mud / i told you / it was going to be like this / you said to me / you’ve been missing someone that doesn’t exist anymore / the water swallowed all that was left / and spit out all the skeletons in the closet / of dead men / that managed to be / the summer nights that will never cared / for you / like the rnb songs your mother would sing offkey as she slow dances with ghosts / barefoot in the kitchen / with the white light so bright / you learned insomnia brings loveless days / your grandfather’s cracked brown skin / catches / July sparks / when he plays music / so fast / you see colors / the flood took everything we needed / a boy walked his way to back the living to watch / everyone who cursed him / die of thirst.

Reg Zehner | Demolition Daylight a lone ranger squares his shoulders and gazes out past the Rustbelt where the mutated dead claw their way through burning asphalt,

214

he is the bravest man in the world a star shooter with a left lean, hand on one hip, gunslick, a swagger so hard, no zombie stands a chance. he travels at night, through moonlight, alone in a lonely land a romantic with death at his side, his old lover split with ghosts long ago and all he has in a song in his throat as a memory. this lone ranger continues to ride even in his old age.once, a man he saved said, “boy, now, we live to die. back in the old country, in memphis, everyday was a fire. every day we see the sun, is everyday we see death. so much has changed, but it’s all the same. we ain’t never gonna be saved from this.”

later, the ranger found the man half eaten, decaying on the side of a black road, gold grills smiling to the sky. remember, he is the bravest man in the world. but in this twilight, he has lost the language of survival. he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to articulate why his body goes through the grind of being able to make it from dawn to dusk. he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know why he tries so hard in this country that cares so little for him. but he stays awake and watches black beauty swirl in the heavens and in the distance, the sun, a supernova, rises over the mountains in the east and he pulls from the dirt and left hand on his left hip, on his gun and heads south.

215

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Reg Zehner | Angry Reactions Only

216

a boy & his dog a recycling of emotions, his mother’s hands are too cold to bring warmth to her own children, it’s called holding the tongue, a sign of privilege, autotune this like 808s & heartbreak, sending heart emojis for valentine’s day, our bodies separated by light, a lone tree standing in the middle of a field as you drive by, the absence is in her pictures, i keep repeating myself when you’re not here, a frame of reference, gold teeth, i need to romanticize myself more, pink houses, empty windows, her laughter is pure sunshine and it fills the whole room, find out what kind of person you want to be in this Facebook quiz, why is the rain softer than the way you speak my name? did you hear me? where is God hiding? my new flex speaks blessings into existence, what if you took away the bodies? at night, the sea retraces the shore, find my message in the clouds, we’re all dancing to the sound

of someone’s heartbreak, i think we’re distancing reality for instant validation, tonight, i had two boos but loved no one, we went this certain way and found nothing, there’s a meme for every situation, i’m not lying when i say i have been missing you, this is how i keep my head together, a house with all the lights on will echo his shadow, i’m laughing until it stops hurting, i’m laughing until i stop dying, to make us feel again, a new gospel, the lack of having, salvation, resurrection, braids and barrettes in the wind, bloody knees on the black top, here the sun does not shine anymore, she’s still waiting for me, a boy burying his dog, a boy burying his mother, a boy digging to find himself, the homes we grew up in are on fire, the joke is the world has already ended and we are still living, i think i have lost everyone, and please: angry reacts to this poem only.

Alexandra Valentino | Stress

217

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Reg Zehner | Old Show

218

how can you love a place that is eating itself alive? cities will continue to be built in one day and small, isolated towns, will be left to build their own existence when their labor wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be enough to produce a material savior. she watches those old westerns to make fun of the white cowboys who run through black deserts, specks against the landscape & says this town is only worthy for the dying. streetlights spit out rays of regret & shine when they would rather burnout & as people skip rocks on polluted lakes, wishing for swing sets in the park instead a bundle of chains & as lovers carve their devotion into a rotted tree & pretend that something invisible will keep them together even when their bodies & energies will not be enough to save this town or their self destruction, the whole picture

is a bit dramatic & she will tell you to turn up the volume. & this is how you lose everything you thought was real & this is because money is invisible, but its value will turn school yards into empty lots & hospitals into cemeteries & when the town finally becomes a graveyard, our houses will be the ghosts they wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be able to exorcise & as you drive thru whole neighborhoods, trying to understand & know what this place could have been & why nobody left & try to swallow the night that turn our stories into black holes, you will become one of those white cowboys in your car, your stallion, driving in the night, a spec in the landscape, another old show on the television. she tells you to turn it off this time

219

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Madison Van Buren | Entirely of Flaws, The Reprise

220

Madison Van Buren | Entirely of Flaws, The Reprise

221

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Biographies | Artists & Authors Carolee Adkins is a 1984 graduate of MIDWAY High School, Kingston,

Tennessee. After her marriage to her high school sweetheart and having 2 sons, in 1994 was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Carolee went back to further her education in 2004 and graduated from nursing school. She began writing poetry and short stories in her early teens and has done it as a hobby through the years. She has written numerous poems for family and friends. She enjoys spending time with her family and especially her two, young, grandchildren. She currently resides in Ten Mile Tennessee. (When Did We Get Old?) ______

Erik Akerman Fine Arts, Junior 222

Erik is a fine artist that explores a range of mediums, but generally stays in the realm of sculptural, and photography. His body of work consists of a fascination with color that consists of the ideas of happiness, love, being painfully blunt, and the influence of pop culture. Whereas his photography carries on his fascination with color, his portrait photography falls under fashion or social media photography, and lacks depth in the realm of fine arts, however he does it because he enjoys the act of building relationships through photography, and enjoys showing people their best selves in hopes to make them more confident. (Eden) ______

Dejiah Archie-Davis (b. 1997) is a multimedia artist from Cleveland

Ohio, and she is anticipating on receiving her BFA in Fine Arts,from Columbus College of Art and Design. Her art is mostly mixed media based, working with painting, sculpture, video, and sound installation. She has been featured in a group show at MOCA Cleveland, while also having her work exhibited in places such as Corrugate and Acock Galley. She is now focusing on her third group show at 934 Gallery, and her thesis show to be held at Columbus College of Art and Design. (The Devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Angel) ______

Katherine Baxter is best known for her experimental photography

approaches at capturing form in order to study movement, use of negative space, collaboration between nature and human, endless possibilities of post-production/editing, and celebrate the body. Born and raised in Columbus, Ohio, she has been practicing photography over a ten year span, all the while being influenced throughout this time by artists such as Erwin Blumenfeld, Irving Penn, Francis Bacon and Duane Michals. One of the primary driving forces behind Katherine’s work is the exploration of sentiment by creating from multiple emotional states, considering the impact of this on the artwork, and observing the response of the viewers. She’s most recently graduated from Columbus State Community College with her Associates of Applied Science in Digital Photography and is currently pursuing her Bachelors of Fine Art in Photography at Columbus College of Art and Design, graduating in Spring 2020. Katherine’s future plans and hopes are for exhibitions around the world, publication, and, above all, being able to continue to grow and study how photography can contribute to the world of art. (Female Matrix, Movement, Lust) ______

223

Jenina Brown is a video and sculpture artist from Circleville, Ohio

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

creating work that explores human interaction with the environment. Her group shows include the socially engaged project, TALK IT OUT at Beeler Gallery. She has shown in exhibitions such as Young Hearts Seven at the Sean Christopher Gallery and JR. at the Acock gallery. Her work is featured in A Good Alternative to a Lot of Things, published by Lordret Vandret. She has worked as an intern and a teacher at the Ohio Craft Museum and a curatorial intern at the Columbus Museum of Art. She currently resides in Columbus, Ohio where she is completing her BFA at Columbus College of Art and Design and caring for three guinea pigs and two cats. (fleeting) ______

Holt Bundy (he/him) is a 19-year-old queer poet who moonlights as a

musician, making experimental noise and ambient soundscapes under the name hvnnvh. He has been raised in Columbus, Ohio as long as he can remember, and enjoys programming synthesizers, over-analyzing music and film, and spending quality time with his friends. (quarry/ Poem for the Second Guitarist of The Red Hot Chili Peppers/ 4 Gold Chains) _______

Leah Conway is a photography major at CCAD in her third year after

224

transferring from the far, far away Columbus State. While photographing nature is her one true love, she also enjoys writing fiction of all lengths, the outdoors, volleyball, and anything vegan. She’s been an honorable mention in both the 2016 Scholastic Art and Writing Competition, and the 2016 Best of College and High School Photography Contest. One day, she hopes (plans?) to shoot for National Geographic, so keep your eyes peeled. (Cold Quiet) ______

Austin Crotteau is senior at Florida Southern College majoring in

English. His family, travels, TV addiction, and fascination with the arts greatly shape his poetry and creative non-fiction. He currently works as a Writing Center tutor at his college. After graduating, he hopes to teach English abroad and eventually return to attend graduate school. Senior/English major (Water Burned My Periscope/ Caveat Emptor/ Five Clues to a Mystery) _______

Sky Dai

(A Dying Garden’s as Good as Any/ Double Abecedarian/ Sestina for Tracey Emin/ Sestina: A Letter for Rosey/ the hour’s audio) _______

Han Donovan is a junior comics and narrative practice major and

accidental creative writing minor. They are constantly sleepy or sleeping. (teenage 51/Full Pull page 1-3/ things i learned and questions i asked from growing up in an emotionally silent household) _______

Benjamin Britton Durell is a comics and narrative Practice major

from Columbus. He is a founding member and current vice president of the CCAD Comics Collective (COCO). And has had his comics published in their first anthology Hot COCO Issue 1. Ben has also read poetry and prose at the CCAD faculty and student creative writing series, Red Wheelbarrow. Ben has a passion for worms and crafted the perfect quesadilla. Sophomore, Comics and Narrative Practice major. (Monster/ The Goings On, in Suburbia with the Vastness of Space Overhead) _______

225

Jay A Fernandez - Los Angeles-based poet Jay A. Fernandez is a writer,

Ben Gettler is currently a third year junior at CCAD, majoring in

Illustration. Although he enjoys drawing, you might say he enjoys being behind a camera a lot more. He started by photographing his friends at late night hangouts and is continually growing. (SKIN/ UNTITLED) ______

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

editor, and critic whose journalism has appeared in The Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times, The Hollywood Reporter, Time Out New York, USA Today, Los Angeles, Boston Review, and many others. He was a poetry fellow at Squaw Valley Community of Writers in 2018 and a fiction fellow in 2017. He is currently an editor at L.A. Review of Books. (Fall/ Counterweight/ The Final Reel/ Gullibility) _______

Charlene Fix is the author of Taking a Walk in My Animal Hat

(poems, Bottom Dog Press, 2018), Frankenstein’s Flowers, (poems, CW Books 2014), Flowering Bruno (poems, XOXOX Press 2006, Mischief (chapbook, Pudding House Press 2003), Charlene Fix: Greatest Hits (chapbook, Kattywompus Press 2012), and Harpo Marx as Trickster (film studies, McFarland 2013). An Emeritus Professor of English at Columbus College of Art and Design, Charlene cocoordinates Hospital Poets (Ohio State University Medicine and the Arts) and is an occasional activist for Middle East peace. (CARTOON/ OBJECT EXERCISE/ SUNSET) _______

Shada A Grant a Miami,Florida native started to have interest 226

in photography in her freshman year of high school in her first film photography class where she was obsessed with the beautiful process of developing film and learning about the film camera. She enjoy taking portraits, and landscape, she discovered her artistic skills in elementary school, but her first real introduction to photo was in high school. As a child she was alway ready to take a photo of anything or anyone no matter how willing or unwilling they were. An artist who really inspired her is Diane Arbus, she really adore the way Diane wasn’t afraid to take pictures of things and people that were not apart the norm of society. (Buffering/ Radiant Nature/ Split) ______

Omar Grey, the young man who will burn all bridges behind him and shake his entire future on the ability to accomplish his desire. (I lie) _______

REMs Xander Haggerty

REMs is an Illustration junior and she also is minoring in Business. She hates the city and would rather be in the middle of the woods somewhere. REMs is Jewbu (Jewish Buddhist), a Juggalo, and a Machead. She’s one

of the original Macheads that pushed the name for Mac Miller fans back in 2014. Her life is based on and survives on music. REMs collects retro media of all her favourite artists ranging from horrorcore to pop. Even though she’s a Juggalo, she does not like ICP and prefers Twiztid for their morals and LGBTQ+ acceptance. REMs’ brand is REDart but the colour isn’t red... it’s yellow. To REMs, the colour yellow represents anxiety but also optimism, confidence, and awareness. Some things she believes she could use more of due to recent events in her life. As always Much Love. (My Name, My Story) _______

Marissa Britt Holt is a vintage-inspired, sustainable, fashion design

major. With the fashion industry being the second most polluting industry in the world, Marissa Britt Holt uses alternative fabrics in place of animal-based fabrics. With the practice of reducing waste, and using fabrics that aren’t made from harsh dyes and chemicals, Marissa Britt Holt strives to be eco-Friendly. (Yours Truly1/ Yours Truly2/ Yours Truly3) ______

227

Nancy Kangas has poetry in numerous books and journals and her

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her poetry column, “Slides (Interpreted by Nancy),” appears in the online journal, Ohio Edit. In the early 1980s in San Francisco she launched Nancy’s Magazine, a collection of comics, literature, and advice. Today she writes humor for Muse (a magazine for young readers), and is an active teaching artist, leading workshops around Ohio and beyond. She is the co-director and producer of Preschool Poets: An Animated Film Series, which features poems composed by some of her students. (How I Got Here/ Last Night on Facebook/ The Sun Is Up) _______

Alex Keeney is an editorial and abstract photographer, specializing in landscape photography with black and white Images. Graduation year: 2021 (Clown 2.0/ Purple/ Sunday/ Young Age) ______

Alyssa Korecky is an oil painter that aspires to be a skateboard deck

designer and have her own brand, Made Vicious. She has been painting realistic portraits for 4 years and began painting skateboards last year. Her pieces feature mainly music and motorsports icons. (MBV/Roczen/ Senna) ______

Raiden Kubiak is an artist, writer, and lizard parent from Pittsburgh, PA 228

whose main creative writing focuses are on the concept of home, family, and growing up. Raiden uses writing as a means of exploring personal emotions, societal norms and issues that affect the communities they have grown up in and identify with. (The Crusades Were Not Holy Wars, They Were Just Wars) _______

Rob Lipton has recently won the Gregory O’Donoghue Competition at the Munster Literature Centre in Cork, Ireland, 2018. Rob Lipton’s previous book, “A complex bravery” was published by Marick Press, Rob Lipton has a day job as a spatial epidemiologist. He is poet laureate for Richmond, CA. 2017-2019. (Grace/ The Library of the World) _______

Minnie Lucas is a Ohio photographer. She has been taking photos

since she was nine-years-old. She first became interested in photography when she was in 4-H. She loves to take photos of farm life, nature, and abandoned things. She enjoys working with film and digital photography. (Kettle) _______

Ramsey Mathews was born in Fitzgerald, Georgia. In Los Angeles, he

performed stand-in and stunt work for Patrick Swayze and Ron Perlman. He earned a PhD in English and Creative Writing from Florida State University and an MFA in Poetry from Cal State University, Long Beach. His poetry has appeared in Boaat Journal, San Pedro River Review, and Sagebrush Review, and his fiction in The Ear literary journal. Ramsey publishes photography everywhere he can. Check out his photos at ramseymathews.photography or on Twitter @dramapoet. (House Fire after Wiccan Midnight/ It Only Takes a Minute to Make a Man & a Millennia to Make a Horse/ Late Night Cubist Blues) _______

Allison McGovney Allison is a junior Fine Arts major at CCAD, minoring in creative writing. Her main pursuits are painting, glassblowing, and writing poetry, and she hopes to attend an interdisciplinary graduate program to continue study in all of these areas. (Esmeralda) _______

229

Katelynne McHugh is a freshman majoring in Fine Arts and minoring

Matthew Mitchell is an Ohioan son of a teacher, forged in the mineshaft of prose essays, bloomed in the exploding passionfruit of poetry, stitched together with music, music, music, aged cheddar cheese, and Cleveland football. His work appears in, or is forthcoming to, journals like Noble/

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

in Business and will graduate in 2022. She plans on pursuing a career in urban beautification and wishes to tackle political issues through her art. Katelynne views the world in a humorous light and sees the beauty in its darkest corners. She reflects this world view in her work and expresses her feelings with brutal honesty. Aside from creating art, she loves writing poetry, playing the ukulele, visiting coffee shops, and being sarcastic whenever possible. Overall, she wants nothing less than to help other people and enjoy the life she has. (Love) _______

Gas Qtrly, Tammy, Clockhouse, Chaleur Magazine, Palaver and 2Bridges Review, among others. (Ode to Bakelite Seafoam Green, Ending in Two Mothers Rising Up Out of The Ocean/ Ode to Thanksgiving and an Empty Chair) _______

Grace Oller is a multi-disciplinary painter, sculptor, and curator. Her

work explores themes of presence and absence within architecture while her writing is focused on poetry and lyric essay about the everyday. She is the recipient of the 2017 CCAD Creative Excellence Scholarship Award and placed in the 2017 CCAD Creative Writing Awards for prose. Junior, Fine Arts (Eucharist) _______

230

Yamini Pathak is a poet and former software engineer, She grew up

in India and lives in New Jersey. Among other places, her writing has appeared in The Kenyon Review, Rattle, Journal of New Jersey Poets, Literary Mama, and The Hindu. Yamini is an alumnus of VONA/Voices (Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation) and Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. She is at her most creative when designing Halloween costumes for her kids. (Name the Night for Me/ The Long Goodbye/ At the Nail Salon, My Girl-friend and I hold up Bottles as though a Vote for Strawberry Margarita over Italian Love Affair will end World Hunger) _______

Emily PĂŠrez is the author House of Sugar, House of Stone, the

chapbook Backyard Migration Route, and the forthcoming chapbook Made and Unmade. A CantoMundo fellow, her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in journals including Copper Nickel, Fairy Tale Review, RHINO, Poetry, Diode, and Glass. She teaches English and Gender Studies in Denver where she lives with her husband and sons. (Accoutrements/ Boundary(Less)/ Anniversary/ Accounting/ Deciding to Renew our Vows) _______

Dylan Phipps is a photography student from Dayton, OH who writes

poetry at any given moment in time in the notes app on his phone. Dylan uses poetry as a coping mechanism and vehicle to think about the many things in life which donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite make sense. Major/Year: Photography, Sophomore (2546 Peavine Road/ Separate Existence/ Undelivered Message) _______

Olivia Pierce is a 26-year-old woman from Michigan living in New York

City. She loves punk rock, fashion, and taking care of animals. Her work has appeared in Silver Needle Press and Cathexis Northwest Press. She is a professional theatre and film actress as well as a poet. (nightmare about a coffee table/ drawing blanks) _______

231

Tracy Powell is a Senior Fashion Design major at CCAD. She was born

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

to play dress up, which now has evolved into this love of costume design. That paired with her love of literature and poetry has intertwined and has given her designs a whimsical nature that can be viewed as Avant Garde. Her love of textiles, playing with the rough, soft, shiny and the dull adds symmetry to her creations. With her use of unconventional materials, working with natural fibers, proteins, cellulose fibers, using beading and embellishments, these techniques always give my designs just the right amount of flavor that it needs to give it a uniqueness that will set it apart. Her design style can be edgy as a double edged sword or as soft as a gentle wind. That kind of diversity gives her the ability to work in many fields and allows her the flexibility to move in unison to her mood and inspiration. Follow Tracyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work on Instagram @gogirlflyfree (Sold/ Statistic/ Daily Rants) _______

Taylor J Preston is a personalized print designer who studies

Advertising & Graphic Design at Columbus College of Art & Design. She resides in Washington state. Taylor enjoys playing the mellophone and French horn, drawing, writing, and helping others create a message. She writes to express things she never got to say to others in real life. Her first real encounter with writing a story was NaNoWriMo in 2014. She has been expressing her soul through words and design ever since. Major: Advertising & Graphic Design, Year: Junior (10 Weeks of Exaggerated Separation/ Letter to Let You Go) _______

Brooke Ripley’s art reflects the corresponding features between 232

humanity and flora. In doing so, she creates a commentary on societal and individual morality, specifically our desire to be better, and how that combats with our initial reactions to displeasing events. Currently, she volunteers as an illustrator for MVMENT magazine, and in the summers she works as a painter with the Rialto Jean Project. Additionally, she is a sophomore at CCAD, and is working towards a degree in Fine Arts with a minor in Art History. Sophomore in Fine Arts (Intertwined/ Renewal) ______

Kalen Rowe has a degree in creative writing from the University of

Houston. Their poetry is published in No Assholes, The Letters Page, Gravel, and others. In 2013, they helped found and now run Anklebiters Publishing, an underground bookmaking studio that publishes and helps self-publish journals, books, and zines in Houston, TX. (How the Heart Floods/ Dear William,) _______

Jasper Saoirse is an illustration student in their junior year. They write about birds, religion, and being trans. They live with their cat, Maisie, and their roommate. They put together a small book of all their poetry written in the past fall called “Nest”, and they will send it to you if you ask

nicely. (WALKING HOME AT NIGHT WHEN YOU DO NOT OWN THE WORLD/ silvertongue/ ouroboros sestina/ another bitter trans poem/ Recycling) _______

Sarah Schlup is a Florida-born, Ohio-raised artist currently studying

at the Columbus College of Art and Design. She is a visual artist and illustrator who enjoys working with traditional mediums such as ink, watercolor, and oil paints. Sarah’s work is known for her vivid usage of color and playful linework. Her muses include many forms of nature as well as the figure. In her personal life she enjoys practicing yoga, running, cuddling her kitten, and finding new places to eat with friends. (Mr. Hunter’s House/ Alligator Blind Contour) ______

Lauren Shrimplin from Elyria Ohio, is a Junior majoring in 2D

Anna Soter Ph.D. Dr. Anna Soter is Professor Emeritus at The Ohio

State University, and Adjunct Professor at CCAD, and at Self-Design Graduate Institute (Washington State). She is founder and current coconvener with Charlene Fix and Fred Andrle of The Hospital Poets (USA and Australia), and submissions faculty editor of Ether Arts, OSU College of Medicine’s Literary and Visual Annual Arts Magazine. Anna has been a frequent featured reader in a variety of Columbus and state poetry venues. Her recent poetry book, Breathing Spaces, was published in April 2018. (Mastering Tongues) _______

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

animation. She is the author of “Corpse”, “The Toy Maker” and “Paradises Fall”. Poetry is a way to express oneself and let your mind wonder. When ever she gets an idea, she will either draw or write it out. Like Animation, the idea plays in your head, seeing the story or concept visually. “Never be afraid to go back and feel the need to change the piece” says Lauren Shrimplin. (Corpse/ The Toy Maker/ Paradises Fall) ______

233

Sprout is a Columbus-based lesbian filmmaker, poet and punk. She’s a

double sagittarius -scorpio rising- and enjoys rap music, the cinematic stylings of Gus Van Sant, and kissing girls. She asks only that you give her all of your money. (AFTER DRAKE/SCATTERED, SMOTHERED AND COVERED/ SOLIDARITY) _______

Madison Van Buren is a second year Film/Video student minoring

234

in 3D Animation at the Columbus College of Art & Design. Hailing from North Canton, Ohio, Madison has found interest in documenting raw and sometimes sensitive life events. Her work focuses on sentimentality, the shortcomings of one’s burgeoning adulthood, and truths from those among us with a different perspective. She’s incredibly grateful for the opportunity to share this art with anyone who may take something from it. You can find more of her work at https://vimeo.com/madisonvanburen or get in contact with her through her website: https://www.madisonvanburen.com (Entirely of Flaws/ The Reprise) ______

Tyler Weaver is a photographer, artist and writer based in Columbus,

OH. He currently attends The Columbus College of Art and Design, majoring in photography and minoring in creative writing, to achieve his bachelor’s degree in fine arts of photography. His photographs are based upon the fears of his own mind and anxieties as well as a play upon the fears of today’s society, primarily working in digital and film black and white photography. He recently released his #1 best selling first poetry book, ‘for now.’, through self publishing platform CreateSpace, currently available for purchase on Amazon.com.Major/Year- Photography and Sophomore (father/ touch) _______

Katherine Williams is an animation major going into her senior year

at CCAD. Her focus is 2D Animation, visual development, and color theory. Aside from drawing storyboards and working in the labs, she also enjoys listening to music and writing poetry. All of her work is inspired by her own personal experiences. No matter what form it takes, she allows her imagination to run free to express her outlooks on life. (Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my Coat) _______

Elaina Workley is a sophomore majoring in Fine Arts with a creative

writing minor at Columbus College of Art and Design, graduating in 2020. Her work consists of printmaking, painting, collage, and experimental drawing to create haunting pieces about nostalgia. Elaina marries both abstracted familiar imagery and words to investigate connections between where home is and where the mind feels it most. She hopes to grow artistically in the studio to work towards residencies in the upcoming year and eventually a position on the editorial staff for an art magazine. (Because They Fell on Ash Wednesday) _______

and printmaking to investigate ideas of identity, place and family history. They like to read poetry and non-non-fiction when they are not working on art or binge watching television. Major: Art History, Year: Junior (When the beat goes off/ Demolition Daylight/ Angry Reactions Only/ Old Show) ______

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

Reg Zehner is a multidisciplinary artist working in text, video, sculpture

235

Biographies | Botticelli Staff Ben Heuser

Botticelli group: Art Major: Animation Instagram and/or website: @benheuserart I am a 2D animator and character designer who loves everything cartoonie! ______

Minnie Lucas

236

Botticelli group: Art Major: Photography Instagram and/or website: I became interested in photography when I was in 4-H. I enjoy photographing nature, farm life, and abandoned things. I enjoy film and digital photography. ______

Taylor J Preston

Botticelli group: Lit & Layout Major: Advertising & Graphic Design Instagram and/or website: @taylorjpreston & https://www.behance.net/ TaylorJPreston I am a personalized print designer that enjoys telling other peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stories and personalities through print. I enjoy exploring Columbus and doing small art projects in my own time. I currently reside in Washington state as an Army wife. ______

Cerina Bauer

Botticelli group: Literary & Layout, Advertising & Graphic Design major She is a central Ohio based graduating senior who is a maker and lover of just about all handmade crafts. She wants to use her talents to make life easier for others, especially veterans. ______

Shelby Thomas

Botticelli group: Literary Major: Advertising / Graphic Design INSTA(S): Shelbygwyn3110 & st.art345 Hey! I am a Sophomore AdGraph Major. I have been designing since I was 16 and hope to use my voice in design to make a change! When I am not working on design, I enjoy playing basketball, drinking tea, and hanging out with friends. I love the outdoors, adventuring, and connecting with nature. ______

Sprout

Botticelli group: Literary Major: Film & Video Instagram and/or website: vimeo.com/afilmbysprout Columbus-based lesbian filmmaker, poet and punk. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a double sagittarius -scorpio rising- and enjoys rap music, the cinematic stylings of Gus Van Sant, and kissing girls. She asks only that you give her all of your money. ______

Major:illustration - Instagram and/or website:sxu.22018 I did lots oil paintings before I come to CCAD. I post watercolor sketches on instagram : sxu.22018 It is different material and technical between the oil paintings and watercolor. ______

Ngan Thach

Botticelli group: Literature Major: Ad/Graph - I enjoy doing realistic pencil work and line art. ______

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

shiqinxu

237

Bethany Carman is based in Columbus, Ohio she is working towards

her BFA focusing in Photography at Columbus College of Art & Design (CCAD), she is expected to graduate May 2019. Carman is a commercial photographer working with product, food and portraits. She is currently interning for Zulily as a photo editor. Bethany wants to travel after graduation and find a job as a retail photographer. Instagram @bethanyc_photography bethanycphotography.com ______

Ally Schnaidt

238

Botticelli group: Art Major: Photography Instagram and/or website: @Allykatecat_ I love film photography and experimenting with different photo processes. I like using lots of color in my images and photographing people. ______

Destiny Ryan is a junior fine arts student at CCAD, focusing on painting

and drawing. She uses acrylic paint, alcohol markers, colored pencils, pens, and mixed media to create imagined spaces and figures that speak to ideas of the human condition and psychology. Ryanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s paintings often have morbid themes such as mortality, depression, anxiety, and childhood trauma, though she illustrates these concepts in friendly, vibrant hues. Ryan uses flamboyant colors juxtaposed with her often dark and unsettling imagery to create a sense of confusion and intrigue in the viewer. She employs imagery from anatomical diagrams, cartoons, and every day objects (like cigarettes) to formulate an imagined image of the modern day human animal, through an often cynical lens. ______

Koraya Scott

Botticelli group: Art Major: Photography Instagram and/or website: @korayascott I am a photographer. I love portrait photography. I hope to use my photography to reach out to the community. ______

239

Botticelli Literary Magazine | Issue 13

60 Cleveland Ave, Columbus, OH 43215