Edition 76, Volume 1 by Brushfire Literature & Arts

FALL 2023 EDITION 76, VOLUME 1

UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA, RENO

Copyright © 2023 Brushfire and its individual contributors. All rights reserved by the respective artists. Original work used with the expressed permission of the artists. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. The opinions expressed in this publication, its associated website, and social media are not necessarily those of the University of Nevada, Reno or of the student body. : Brushfire Staff cover art : Spoiled artist : Andie Pereyra

journal layout

Editor’s Note It has been my great honor to serve as Brushfire’s executive editor for the past three volumes. Working at a student publication alongside other student media organizations and our talented contributors has been one of the highlights of my college experience. It’s heartening to see people create what they love, and sharing art is, I believe, the greatest way we come to understand one another. As I graduate and leave Reno, I can only hope to engage in similar creative spaces, but that might be difficult—what we have at UNR and within the broader Reno community is truly special. So I implore you (after, of course, reading this volume come to cover!) to sit down and make something. Write, draw. Put pen to paper and go wild. It’ll be fun, I promise. Then take a chance and show someone what you made. This might seem closer to ‘daunting’ than ‘fun’, but again, I’ll make you a promise: Art doesn’t need an audience, but choosing to share what you create will be one of the most rewarding things you ever do. —Phoebe Coogle Executive Editor (Fall 2022-Fall 2023)

Rot and Return Eva Elliott

Table

C o n t en t s

visual

Andie Pereyra Cover Eva Elliott Editor’s Note Christine Wilson 6 Jason Mennel 8 Lowbrow Native 10 Alice Wilson 12 Jason Mennel 14-16 Roger Camp 19 Clarissa Cervantes 20-21 Eva Shipley 22-23 Anna Newman 24-25 Eva Shipley 27 Alex Edwards 28-29 Alfredo Virgen Plascencia Anna Newman Richard Hanus Marcus Jeffrey Zoe Malen Nancy Vazquez Loera Alfredo Virgen Plascencia Alfredo Virgen Plascencia Alfredo Virgen Plascencia Eliseo Claro Christine Wilson Eva Elliott Anna Newman Jason Mennel Aaron Asher

Spoiled Rot and Return Entertainmeat Eclipse 1 Ashes to Ashes Ugly Beauty Arching Elegance Shadow Figure on Blue Wall Friends For Life Alone San Benito County Oak Just Kids Northwest Coast Engraved Copper Bracelet Golden

32 35 37 38 40 46

Storyland Inn 7-2 Origami Frogs Arctic El Sueño Map

Dream

Spider

52-53 55 56 58-59 61 63

Inner Child Born Unlucky Pine Box Cradle Salt Pools Love is Alive Aphrodite’s Acolytes

Table Peter MacQuarrie Eliseo Claro Hector Tinajero Roger Camp

C o n t en t s

65 66-67 69 71

Mesh Ghosts From The Past Living in the Dreamscape Nowa Street Wall Krakow Poland

poetry

Mackensi Green Cheyenne McGregor Karlie Daly Mackensi Green Kaitlin Venneman David Romina Bray McDonald Cheyenne McGregor Jo Wallace Nichole Zachary

7 9 11 13 17-18 21 22 26 31 36

Josh Mahler Kelly Gonzalez Daniel Espinosa Stacey Johnson Jo Wallace Stacey Johnson Stephen Massimilla Larry Narron Shyla Shehan

39 41 52 54 57 58 60 62 64

The Threads That Bind Us Woman’s Work September 12, 2021 Car Corpse -cowboy Act After a Week For B A Company of Ugly Statues Loving You Is The Easiest Thing I Do Passage One-Sided Conversations Funeral Rite But not for the Taking Buying the Farm First Lessons in Forever Time Leaving Death Valley Alameda Trapped in a Line

prose

Zach Murphy Zachary Docter Jenna Taylor

24-25 33-34 42-50

The Mallards of St. Cathrine Beethoven Haze of Grief

Entertainmeat Christine Wilson

THE THREADS THAT BIND US Mackensi Green

I am past putting a new name to it. Let’s call it for what it is – a push and pull of will, thread looped around a push pin piercing through your clavicle, a reminder. I am hovering over the back of your knee, teeth pressed to your calf and your hair glows an eggshell yellow under the fat of the moon, but it is not your hair I want. Tonight, I want something non-lasting, no more waiting, two years, hands in soil, watching it break down. I want your rusted, asphyxiated moan, greased after release. I want the essence of your chipped fingernails. To put something temporary in the liminal space of my cheeks, but I can feel it, the strands as they worm their way under my tongue, but what more is devotion than layers, bundles of fiber, twisting, yearning, turning to thread turning to sinew, tightening until it becomes rope?

Eclipse 1 Jason Mennel

Woman’s Work

Cheyenne McGregor Life looks so much different on all fours The lights, the thunder, the slamming doors, You see they took my blood, bones, and silly spinal cord And left me with nothing. Nothing. Nothing more. Prophesying things I have yet to understand, With what little I have, with what little I can, Living life as something unnamed, maybe half-man, And stuffing my open jaw with shame and gritty sand, We grow restless. But I can teach you how to rationalize That which could never be justified, Drape you in lace to go out and embody a lie. So yes, I know how it looks, My hands are tied to five dollar books, How silly, how humiliating, the holy fall My hysterical incoherent scribbles on the walls. And yes, I am afraid. Let me admit: THE VISION NEVER LEFT ME. I can see it all now in glowing white, The image of your body in an X-ray, Entirely untouched, Unscathed, Never half loved and never entirely betrayed. I sing lullabies to you every day, Full of things I could in earnest never say, In passing, when I feel you only a few steps ahead, Until my rationality kills my justification dead. But please listen, because I promise and I swear, That though I do love, and I hope, and I care, I have nothing left to give Besides my half-hearted warning, and my half-will to live.

Ashes to Ashes Lowbrow Native

SEPTEMBER 12, 2021 Karlie Daly

I want to wash the memory of that burning night. The one where our sky became a metamorphosis: all the colors had changed, hues had faded below the waterline spectrum – perforated, we tore apart blissfully perhaps, that was not true? I remember telling you “I love you” as my body hinged itself in the passenger seat of my desolate car: detached, disconnected, disunited – forsaken was my unprocessed destination even while recalling the promise you gave me late of that year: my heart, balled up in heat, exploding as a supernova, taking in the broiling because it felt delightful. But here I was, calloused from crying and banging at our chained door: barging through the seams you sewed on your bandaged heart [breaking] – doing all I could to not tarnish the finger you bestowed upon, the one connected to my fragmented soul. I replace the memory with my eldest tears – displaced by the ocean itself, salted from my sugarless wounds; I can’t feed myself spoonfuls of honey if no bees come around to greet the awareness I’d like to write off as amnesia: a nightmare in disguise of our unspoken verities. I plunge my heart in a pool of the sea: please, sunset won’t you take this lamented anguish from me?

Ugly Beauty Alice Wilson

CAR CORPSE

Mackensi Green I want you to see me. Not through me like how you see through the lenses in your glasses. I mean see my gums when I smile too long and wide, I mean see my hand write in the air the next poem. When we move to the back of the car and the seats are pushed up and you’re kneeling in front of me and you make no move to lower your chin further than my chest and when my body goes to vomit up air, you can look in my eyes instead of in between. Are you enjoying yourself? Do you like this? but I think those are the wrong questions. Instead pose, Could we get good at this? Will I get more of you? I’ll expand beyond my hips or jutting chest like hair rising up and out from the shower drain. I know, thank you, I can take it well. Well enough to know I can scream as loud as what will turn me on. The mouth of the soul opens and out comes sirens, some twisting form of syllables locked around air. The mouth, full and black as ice pleading, submitting, I am worth keeping. I am worth keeping.

Arching Elegance Jason Mendel

-COWBOY Kaitlin Venneman i called you lover in some fictional California: citrus stains and purple cathedrals tangled around my neck in a ghost-bodied town fingers rugged trace up my shirt i let them linger every bottleneck kissed back & forth an attempt to deny memory: so hazed i only find fragments moonlight etched in the graveyard past the cross i raise my hands to the light, pray they go unseen it’s a queer drowning: the pull of your lips lost runaway attempts faded by transcendent sky where i loved you someday in a ghost-bodied town i choke on the masculine & pretend it’s whiskey spilling through some alley in the back smokey with my highway Poem Continues on Next Page

18 nightmares, little cracks in the wood stuffed by holy whispers visions of some distant bodies haunt my sheets, leave dirty moth wings i shove down the shower drain & still i cannot wash the stains off my knuckles—all too aching to let the blood run, torn tendons hung loose like oranges on a summer tree my heart is so soft you could push down on the tissue & your hand would come out on the other side of the world in a ghost-bodied town the sunset throws orange past bruised mountains: lands somewhere between you & i my skin paints the obvious i drink myself to the grave trying to find my way back to you so beautiful it’s not even poetic

Shadow Figure on Blue Wall Roger Camp

another pairing? Can be placed anywhere doesn’t have to be ending.

Friends For Life Clarissa Cervantes

ACT

David Romanda And now her husband is considering something. She knows this face. The considering, back and forth face. A mental game of Pong he’s playing against himself. OK, he says. Then he says OK again. Do you want me to be real, he says, or do you want me to act? She knows her answer, but pauses for his sake. She says, I want you to act.

AFTER A WEEK Bray McDonald

I got low and plucky when the dime dropped its value on a table for two in a vacant saloon, south of Omaha, where a cowboy once sat and lost a dream after trusting the Queen of Spades to appear like an angel and rescue him from Hell. You were on the way forward of where we once were having a conversation and each one sucking out the real concern which muted when the tempo became absurd. I let you roam my dreams at leisure and gave you a key to every door of my desire. I gift-wrapped you a “Get Out of Jail Free” card and allowed you to examine every part of me so that you could weigh my worth. What the hell was I thinking, waiting below the now and then which rips the rank away from when and soon grace will replace regret, and your face will almost not be.

“Night Lights” Aden Oster

Alone Eva Shipley

THE MALLARDS OF ST. CATHRINE Zach Murphy

Stewart came from a town where the water was abundant but never clean. Lillian came from a town where there wasn’t enough water to keep the wildfires at bay. Every Sunday morning they’d meet at a lone, wooden bench by the secluded pond at St. Catherine Trail. In the middle of the pond sprouted a fountain. On those hot days, the wind-blown mist from the glorious spout would make them feel reborn again. A set of weeping willow trees stretched over the east side of the pond, their leaves always on the verge of taking a dip. Wildflowers painted the perimeter, and sometimes, Stewart and Lillian were lucky enough to see a Monarch butterfly flutter by. A flock of Mallards made the pond their refuge in the warmer months. It was a frenzy of wet feathers, fervent splashes, enthusiastic quacks, and deep dives. Stewart and Lillian became so familiar with the Mallards that they could point out the unique quirks of each one. There was the one with the white spot on its breast that looked like a cloud. There was the one that hopped instead of waddled. And there was the one that quacked in a remarkably deep pitch that always made Stewart and Lillian laugh. When they sat on the bench, time seemed to halt and zip by in a flash all at once. Some days there were no words needed, and other days all the words were needed. They shared what they wanted to share, and left out what they wanted to leave out. Sometimes, they’d squint their eyes and see a pair of turtles poke their heads out from the pond and greet the sunshine. Stewart and Lillian thought about carving their initials into the bench, but they ultimately concluded that it would be too cliché. They never exchanged phone numbers, for fear that it would take away the magic of their time at their sacred place. Before the winter showed its harsh might, the Mallards would disappear. Stewart and Lillian would say their goodbyes, retreat from the cold, and dream of meeting at the pond once again. As soon as the snow cleared and the ground thawed, they’d be back sitting on their beloved bench together. Shortly after, the Mallards would return. Stewart and Lillian always wondered how the Mallards found their way back to the same little pond after being so far away for so many moons.

One sunny March day, Stewart showed up to the bench, his face taken over by a golden smile. But Lillian wasn’t there. He showed up the next Sunday, but she wasn’t there. April, May, June, July, August, September, and October passed, and she wasn’t there. After the winter, Stewart came back to look for Lillian every Sunday. Years slipped by. The Mallards returned every spring. And the weeping willows wept a little more.

“Landscape at Dawn” Aden San OsterBenito County Oak Anna Newman

FOR B

Cheyenne McGregor I hear there are schools in the Midwest that have not had children in them in decades. Let’s stumble up that wet steep hill, And beat down those time-drunk doors. Our fists numb and pale Our hearts swimming in fresh blood. Chase me from classroom to classroom, Kiss me in the cafeteria, Fingerpaint with me on the walls. We lay in the reading corner, We point and smile at the children’s books. We giggle at memories. The worst parts of me died on the swing set. You pushed me to the sky, And showed me how your shoes were tied. In the morning, the birds are chirping, Everything is serene and still. You do what’s best, you carry me down, And deliver me from the hill.

Eva Shipley

Just Kids

Northwest Coast Engraved Copper Bracelet Alex Edwards

Golden Alfredo Virgen Plascencia

A COMPANY OF UGLY STATUES Jo Wallace

A scalp is missing from the resting place for dandelions and eternally falling wings. I would have left you to purchase a souvenir, then you remind me that magnets only work on one planet. It is a shame so I go on flying my kite which is also a jellyfish because you love jellyfish. Transplendent, and they’re people dancing in their attractive little shoes above the streets. We join them. We go to their fetching new houses for dinner and feast around their child’s science experiment. By mistake you find me spitting in everyone’s dessert. We are soon apologizing for ruining wonderful diagrams and insist we stick. We put our small wind toward the heads of the deceased, good blue coming over us. The smile you’ve been waiting for a goldish open door appearing for the pennies between the stones of the wishing well. Hiding close, find an unfinished face.

Storyland Inn Anna Newman

BEETHOVEN

Zachary Docter -I’ve called you to my office because I’ve received some troubling news. I don’t know how to say this, but Beethoven didn’t exist. … -As you can see, we’re in a bit of a pickle here. I’m the mayor and you’re the deputy mayor of a town named after the man for God’s sake. Beethoven, Idaho. … -You and I both know our town has made a lot of money from that name, what with the concerts and the conservatory and the museum. Heck, you and I have also, you know, embezzled some of it for ourselves. … -But now it’s over. Tourists won’t come if the man never existed. As you can see, this is a bit of a problem. … -Here, read this document. That asshole musicologist, Tarkovsky discovered a manuscript in the Moscow archives of all places. Apparently, a nobleman created the ruse to inspire the people. Baron Von Blitz confessed to everything. Those revisionist scholars. The bastards. They come after everything our culture holds near and dear. … -You see, no one really knew Beethoven. He’s like bigfoot. Everyone had a story about seeing him, but it’s all second-hand. The piano concerts were performed by some simpleton with big hair and it says here that the music was written by a team of ill-trained amateur composers. It was their incompetence that made the music sound new and eccentric. Incompetence for God’s sake, not genius. … -The conducting was fake too. They just got some asshole to wave his arms around on stage. … -I just don’t know what to do. We’ve already gone all in with this whole Beethoven thing, what with the concerts and the conservatory and the museum. … -If you think about it, we never had a connection to Beethoven to begin with. Our town’s in Idaho for Pete’s sake. … 33

34 -Sure, our town founder claimed to meet him in Vienna, but he was, you know, an idiot. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. The man never existed. Now, no one has a connection to him. … -So that brings us back to my original question. What do we do now? We have an audience of three hundred schoolchildren downstairs waiting to hear the 9th Symphony. What do we tell them? They’ve already paid ten dollars to get in. They’ll want their money back if they find out the man’s a fake and we, um, you know, already spent it. … -We also have to think of a new town name. Shakespeare maybe? What about Homer? You know, the Iliad and the Odyssey? … - Homer, Idaho has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? And he was definitely real. … - Tomorrow, let’s clean out that museum. Those ear trumpets are worthless now. … -If you can just give some response, I’d really appreciate it. … -Please say something. The children are starting to knock on the door. I think they’re on to us. … -Don’t you have anything to say? … -No, I haven’t taken the pills lately. … -Thank you. The powdered wig looks lovely, doesn’t it? …

7-2 Richard Hanus

LOVING YOU IS THE EASIEST THING I DO Nichole Zachary

Warm hugs, small hands. I think of you in doctor offices while waiting for my name to escape lips other than yours. Waiting for the outcome, the cure, but its never just a cure, only a band-aid on a picked wound I’ve named “daddy issues.” You’re perfect, not really, but better than I think I deserve so when I say “I’m sorry I’m like this” and “I can do better” just know that I am an exploded star from lifetimes ago in a galaxy of ice-water wakeups, trash bags full of my little ponies, 13 pairs of underwear that do little to soothe the bite of belt buckles and you are only just now seeing my death that can be some days be mistaken for light.

“Serenity in Siskiyou” Jason Mennel

Origami Frogs Marcus Jeffrey

Artic Zoe Malen

PASSAGE

Josh Mahler I never found the connection, where the branch wrapped around another like the return of a long-lost love. I used to hide in the shade of the woods waiting for the call of my mother urging me home for lunch and rest. I still think of that place, how the dirt was damp and filled the space between my toes. Why wear shoes when one must toughen the skin? The trees there, they would sway like pendulums, relied on by the gods before we said the slant of the sun was not enough to believe in. I can’t remember, but I feel certain I chose to pass through a green threshold, sound of the leaves and the good shadows. A dusty light settled over my footprints, and the roots bulged from the earth like deformed bones waiting for the petrified touch of history.

El Sueño Nancy Vazquez “Western Gothic”Loera Julia Blank

ONE-SIDED CONVERSATIONS Kelly Gonzalez

Ya te vas? My car jerks forward I don’t dare look back I know she’s there. Rosary clutched, face towards heaven Mumbling prayers she hopes will follow me ‘home’. I can’t turn around, I’ve said goodbye We were never meant To see our mothers cry Échale ganas, mija I do not dream. Not a dreamer, A dream-catcher. Every word I write is written With pen from another land Where men and women leave their homes So their children won’t know of blisters But ink dripping from their hands Has rezado a tus angelitos?

I’ve named the stray cat Who visits my door After Abuelito. Mamá says he’s a guardian Looking after me But I am not convinced. All I know is he listens when I speak And has far-away eyes

Te sientes solita?

She watches my lips attentively Doesn’t blink Though I always speak slow. Her mouth carefully forms foreign shapes Nervous, though we’ve done this one before Her persistence keeps away the lonely. I smile and nod, My love repeats my language back to me

Piensas en nosotros? Sometimes campus smells of sweet lime trees Sometimes the liquor store Plays Abuela’s favorite song Sometimes I run up to strangers in the street Apologize for mistaking their voice Sometimes my body aches. Still sore from where I tore from my roots. Lo logramos. We did it.

HAZE OF GRIEF Jenna Taylor

The calm haze settled over the room and a clunk of a mug on a table brought me back to the present. Gracefully, my lanky aunt curled her long, thin legs into the chair next to me and grabbed the thick photo album from the coffee table. A small page-turner calendar sits lifelessly behind her, reading February 28th. I pull my chair next to hers, dragging it across the wooden floorboards, their scratches like a bird call on a bright morning. A small smile forms on her cheeks, her curls bouncing down her shoulders as she sits cross-legged to open the book in front of us. “Do you know when I started this?” she asks, her voice practically giddy, opening to the first page. Where a photo of her holding me in the hospital is placed in the top slot. “ The day I was born, if mom's stories are to be believed,” I said, humorously, “but she's notoriously hyperbolic.” I kept my voice down, hoping mom couldn’t hear me from the room over. Giggling, she nods. “Well, it may have been just after your first birthday. But I've been adding to it every year, with every picture I've been able to get.” She runs her long, wispy fingers across the plastic wrap. She flips page to page, slowly, going from baby photos of me on a beach, to me starting kindergarten holding my parents’ hands and hers. My mother standing tall and smiling, my father a shallow grin on his face, but my eyes solely focused on her. “I remember this one,” I say, stopping at a photo of me, her, and my first little bike. She's standing behind me, her hair running in long braids almost to her waist. I had little plastic daisies stuck to my yellow helmet. “You promised you wouldn't let go, and you never did. You held onto my seat till I begged you to let me try it on my own. My father begged you to let go, but you stood steady” I smiled widely, sliding the book closer to me, focusing on the fact that she never let me go. My father did, this the first of many, the disappointments and loss bigger each time. Touching the aged pages, continuing through the memories they hold. From my first bike to playing baseball in my backyard, to walking along the beach in bright yellow bathing suits. In every photo, she never looked like she had aged a day, whereas you could see my age as I sprouted up beside her. Her steadiness kept me calm, the waves and pulling tides of my tumultuous parents’ marriage falling apart pulling me out to sea, but there she was holding my hand through it. I stopped at a photo from middle school, a photo of us in my mother's kitchen, drinking tea and

reading. The curling edges of the pages crinkled under my fingertips. A toothy grin graced my cheeks, remembering this moment distinctly. I had come home from a particularly hard day, my parents were in the midst of their divorce, my father drinking away his troubles. The bullies were relentless; my hair, my clothes, my shoes, nothing was up to par for 11-year-old girls. As I came home, tears streaming down my cheeks, she grabbed my hand and dragged me into the kitchen. She had recommended a book to me, gave me her copy, and we sat together in the golden afternoon light devouring words like we devoured the tea we drank. Our reading dates, always an escape from my home life, gave me fantasy realms to get lost in, but also grounding me in a way I never fully thanked her for. Her hand reached out and touched my hand lightly like she was hearing my thoughts, “Reading with you was always my favorite.” she said, tracing her fingers over my knuckles. I looked over at her, sitting in her chair, with a huge bookshelf behind her. It felt like a déjà vu moment, one of many, being surrounded by novels and warm drinks. On her neck, she wore a tube-shaped glass pendant, with blue and rainbow glass sparkling in the sun from the window. It glitters in my eyes, like a shine of hope, and a deep feeling of acceptance and adoration settled in my heart. She was an avid glass blower, with quite the setup. Part of her backyard was portioned off for it, to the left of the swimming pool, just down the hill from the large tree swing overlooking the hill of her home. As a kid, she would push my cousin and I on it, pushing us harder till our feet weren’t even close to the ground. I remember feeling that it was the closest a human could ever get to the sky, surrounded by treetops, overlooking her very eccentric home. Filled with knick-knacks, mismatched blankets and movies from all over the world. Like the Studio Ghibli movies, she introduced me to, her home was like a replica. Not only making up my happy places but filled with plants overflowing from pots, a pool built into the stone like a natural hot spring. She surrounded herself with growth, which I imagine was to help her form of growth within herself. After a long line of people trying to tamp her down, I figured her home and her life was a way of overcoming that, allowing herself to be wild, to be free. At her station in her backyard, she would craft things I had never seen before, things I couldn't imagine. Delicate glass blown into shapes and sizes you would never think possible. Once, during a particularly 43

44 fruitful fascination with Pokémon, she crafted the perfect little poke ball necklace ornament. The red and white somehow divided perfectly along the middle. It was during this moment I realized there wasn’t a thing my aunt couldn't do. And she proved that often. As the modern hippie she was, I would often catch her doing the most obscure of activities. Swimming with long braids behind her, dancing to music in the kitchen, swinging blazing poi on long strings around her head in our backyard. Mothering her daughters with grace and humor, never making us feel like her attention was split, being all our fun moms in that way. She was never predictable. And she has always been my hero. Fearless and out of the box, she couldn't be tamed, and no one dared to try anymore. Flipping through these pages brought back so many remarkable feelings. But overwhelmingly the feeling of her constant companionship. She showed me how to paint, and how to draw, and gave me endless pieces of paper for my new ideas. She nourished my creative spirit, showing me just how amazing it was to do something no one had ever done before. She was like no one else in my family, like me, and gave me a sense of belonging that without her I never would’ve realized I was missing. She gave me a place to come back to, an outlet for my feelings, new worlds to explore, all through creativity. Being an amazing artist herself, I think not only did she feel she was training the next generation, but also shared part of her soul with me. An intimate part, one not many people would understand. I recalled being in her home, the causal disarray, the nature, and the serenity created through small means. Plants, big windows, wooden floors; all reflecting a life full of wonder and sometimes mysteries. I could still feel the calamity in the air as I walked through her backyard, the animals, the liveliness. Not being there was like missing part of yourself, her home growing in my soul like the plants in the windows. The comfort, the security, the consistent presence she and her life brought. All of it reflects my aunt's existence perfectly. And even as we sit here reminiscing, these photos and her presence in this room are undeniable. It brought nostalgia I didn't know existed, to want for something that's still here; her presence, her physical footprint on the world, and on me. “Do you remember when you took me to the movies? To see The Host?” I asked, glancing over at her. After thoroughly enjoying this new movie, she gave me my own copy of the novel, which then became my

favorite book. This book carries me through some of my darkest times, its wrinkled edges and torn cover holding with it the weight of its importance. Having read it a hundred times over I could quote it word for word, but every reread revealing something new, some detail I previously missed. The movie reflected something in me, aliens living amongst us, blending, and faking their way into humanity, much how my weirdness and quirkiness made me feel in my own family. Often feeling like I was faking being a member. Her imprint was even further on every aspect of my life, through memories and favorite objects. She smiled at me, glancing behind me to the bookshelves, like she was trying to find this copy tucked into the crowded shelves. “Yes. You were so shocked at the aliens and so convinced it was real. And then you couldn't believe it was written by the same woman who wrote Twilight. It was hilarious.” She chuckled lost in the memory. As we continued through the photo book, my graduation, moving out of my mom's house, and meeting my husband, she was always a constant, lifting me through the trials of growing. Her own kids following along with, their memories intertwined with mine like my siblings, our joined family blossoming under her light. Each one we glaze over, reminiscing but not fully conversing as we got lost in our combined history. Toward the ending, photos from my wedding were folded onto the pages. Her long rainbow slip dress trailed onto the floor and matched her glass necklace. Her hair was coronated with flowers, tucked into frivolous curls and fanatic twists. She smiled the entire night. Multiple times I caught her sneaking me a glance, whether giving me a thumbs up as I walked down the aisle standing next to my bridesmaids or dragging me to the dance floor. She made me fruity cocktails and reminisced on her own wedding, the one this event had taken inspiration from. A mountainous setting, large oaks, and redwoods on either side of us, and a babbling river just close enough to hear but not to see. Doing it at a waterfall like hers was slightly unattainable this fall, to my dismay, but her influence was still present throughout the day's events. The whole night she played tricks on my mom, making funny faces behind her back, while she stressed and ached to get every detail right. That’s how they were, entangled by blood, but like halves to a whole. My mom handled the responsibilities, raising me as a single mother battling all of our storms, while my aunt brought the sunshine. “You picked the right man.” She said looking over at me. “Sometimes 45

Map Alfredo Virgen Plascencia

in our lives someone just clicks with your soul in a way no one ever has.” I smile because she was right. I was incredibly lucky to have found him, and we matched like no other. But honestly, when she said this, it was her I thought of. She clicked with my soul in a way no one can replicate, or ever would. We shared so much in common, and she had guided me my whole life, I knew that no one would ever compare in that way. “I was just lucky you found the rings,” I laughed heartily, “although leave it to Chris to lose them an hour before the wedding and not tell anyone.” Her laugh harmonizes with mine. “Well, he is a peculiar boy. But thankfully, I have a knack for that kind of thing. Finding lost ones.” She winked at me, taking another sip of her tea. And she did, like the lighthouse to my family’s storm, she guided us all but never let it burden her. Flipping to the last page, my eyes stopped on the photo. It was from middle school, and why it would be at the end made no sense. I held the book up closer to my eyes, trying to recall where this came from. It was aged, the corners creased, and the paper warped from some kind of water damage. But very clearly there was me, and her, and our family, on a couch in her living room. Though something didn't seem right. Her skin was pale, dark circles had formed around her eyes. Her long delicate fingers were thin and cracked. Her hair was pointing in every direction, loosely tied back, although it looked much thinner than normal. We were smiling in this photo, but something was wrong. All of our eyes rimmed red with tears, and puffy and splotched faces. Her hands were in my lap, holding tightly to my fingers. In the present, tears swelled in my eyes. I could recall the ring she was wearing; it was the same on her finger, on her hand resting on the chair next to me. Her legs were thin, one much smaller than the other, and her chest was shallow. I snapped my head to the side, trying to ask her what this was. Where did this come from and why was it here, at the end of our memories? But suddenly her look changed. She looked just as confused as I did, but slowly, ever so slowly, her skin began to change. Instead of the vibrant pink, white like porcelain, it faded. She slowly shifted into the woman from this photograph. The woman I didn't recognize. I scrambled to drop the book and reach for her, but by the time I reached out for her, her transformation was complete. The tears in my eyes spilled forward, leaving trails down my face. Confusion and anger were evident on my cheeks, my heart tore in two. I reach out for her, 47

48 desperately trying to change her back, to regain the version of her that was here moments ago. “What happened? Why did you change? Where did this photo come from?” I cry out, still reaching desperately for her hands. But when they met mine, they were ice cold, and the cracks like in the photo were real and rubbed against my skin. Her thigh was so small, like it was only cloth wrapped around bone. She was so thin her ribs showed through her shirt. It was like she had glowing spots beneath the sheath of her clothing, one larger around her heart, and dots of glowing freckles over her thigh, alien to her body. Like invasions in her skin. Finally, she spoke, her voice distorted, as if she hadn't slept in a long time. It was quiet, and I had to strain my ears to hear her. “That’s the last real photo you have with me, honey.” She said with a small smile on her dry lips, her voice changed, shallow and quiet. Realization dawned on her like murky water clearing up in a stream. None of it was real. I looked back to the photo album, to find it had changed too. No longer was it an album, but a single photo, lying flat on the coffee table. “Where did it go? You were there. You were at my graduation, and my wedding, we’ve done everything together! Where did it go?” I asked in disbelief, the tears still flowing, as my eyes were disassociating, going in and out of focus, at the photo on the table. Choosing denial over her sense of calamity. She gripped my hands harder, forcing my attention back to the small woman beside me. Who had once been so full of life it spilled out of her, now she was sucked into the back of the chair like she was becoming it. Still, a petite and graceful smile on her lips. “The world’s a strange place, huh?” she asked, my memory filling with the significance of her words, the last lines in our shared favorite novel. Tears dripped down her sunken cheeks, and she reached out and touched my chest, where my heart was beating rapidly. “The strangest.” I responded, holding her frail hand to my chest, feeling it lose its firmness in reality. “I will always be right here,” she said, her voice fading away. And suddenly, she disappeared. Her seat is empty. Her tea, gone. And my arms reached desperately for her, hoping this was just a dream, trying to recall her back to the moment. But when I turned back, the whole room was changing. The fog of my mind lifted, no longer was I sitting in a cozy chair in our makeshift library in my mother's house, but at my desk in my

Dream Alfredo Virgen Plascencia

50 bedroom. The photo is still in front of me, its edges crisped, and the sheen wet with new tears. To my right was a half glass of amber whiskey. To my left, her necklace, still sparkling but starting to show age, small dents and scratches in the glass. Tears fell freely now as my memory came back to me. She was gone. She had been for a long time. I had grown, gone to college, met the man of my dreams, all without her physical presence, but spiritually she carried me through every aspect. I attempted to honor her memory in every way I could, carrying her through the storms with me, to bring a little light in. As I recalled reality, my mother’s grief echoed mine. The morning she got the news, my aunt had passed peacefully in her sleep, we sat in our reading chairs sobbing together in harmony. A loss this significant, this fierce, showed the love we both held for her. Mine a loss of what will never be and my mother’s a loss of what was. Although she was always the more responsible of the two, the older sister, she lost her best friend. She lost the woman who showed her what freedom could look like if you were brave enough to reach for it. And I knew exactly in that moment, we were forever changed. Now today, the eve of my birthday, I remembered I was turning 33. Just one year older than she would ever be. Dread filled my stomach, a new kind of grief forming with it. Not only to know my life had gone on without her, but that now my life would continue, whereas she would only age on in my memories, forever 33. But today was still February 28th. Just years later, with nothing but her memory to keep me company through it.

Spider Alfredo Virgen Plascencia

FUNERAL RITE Daniel Espinosa

From the row of downturned eyes you might not see The sweat trundling down like bales astride his neck As if the black were white, a magnifier beam bouncing Off every primped lapel and onto his pavement slab of face— A palm print, the Sun’s, its attendance nothing like clouds Who show up rightly dressed in dour gray, is stamped in bold Pink like rejected paperwork. We know the people here Weren’t invited because these things Will always find a way to the bodies of Their intended few, yet the man before us comes a stranger, Maybe God in robes to see which of us persists in faith, Which will sing in heavenly registers once this is over, or Maybe something else, older than religion, chugging still and Powered by that steam that rose to become ozone at some point To saying Look, the breath that made life from silt and soot Today gives it to you, and suddenly, unable to find where That breath returns to, he reveals himself and I know then How a plea for life becomes one for the soul and after that Another grasp to keep Aflame the steel-cold night.

Inner Child Eliseo Claro

BUT NOT FOR THE TAKING Stacey Johnson

Amid some immediate grief, one pose involves the adoption of wrappings and funeral attire for cinematic effect, leaving with a full plate of food and dry eyes. Or you could remove the bandages beginning with your own to lay the wound before another and wait bleeding head bowed raw against unknown elements. Leave the funeral hungry. Then the body. Visit the waiting grave. Notice its size and shape fit for your child, your whole life. Now try giving it back keeping only what you cannot explain and notice everything there. Find it in you. Try again: head bowed eyes closed, ears open as your hands. Knowing that your borrowed clothes may outlast your borrowed skin offer anyway: Take it. Say it again and now wait.

Born Unlucky Christine Wilson

Pine Box Cradle Eva Elliot

“Alien” Nelson Lowhim

BUYING THE FARM Jo Wallace

Any part of this you might want: four black shoes sink in corn and not water. These are the rules we learn of love. When the buckles flare between kernels something has really gone right. Look at this, the coat I’ve worn all day belongs to you, full of birds and telling the truth. The third and fourth marvels are the prism you make with the knife and the apple, the beguiling routine. My hearse has a beach umbrella that pairs itself with glittering drapes. This is all important, the way you trust the stern pieces around the center. We are there tomorrow, revel on benches, fancy ourselves precious as the long moment and memorabilia. The farm sings again these chimes of human trotting. You recognize me behind you, that mirror ball of the shoulder repeats medians of our faces. Then a clarinet turns out one angel under your hands. After here, and so suddenly, we court blemishes lambent above our heads, ration Easter eggs in shades of white and green. Several daffodils refusing to blink, and the tiled hall opens.

FIRST LESSONS IN FOREVER TIME Stacey Johnson

Ignorant of possibilities for landing, we flung fire and broken bones into unwritten star charts. Sister, you offered creation to them fresh again, undressed wonder at the findings you already knew, hearing as they spoke of light A beaming face to sky past the watching stars not-yet-lit until—a child, they raised her body, shaking, Look! and always up. What do you see? you asked her, below the freeway hush, crows scraping air into concrete above, she pointed, blurring probabilities of decay. They said Wait, and they say the sea people on ships were first invisible with no knowns to frame their image, but you learned like making a fist upon waking, to wait until the grip takes in the difference between can and will, spinning between poles of now and had once been––

once

between chaos and our becoming

Later, it was canned stew in the desert and gas station spoons, a process of learning what causes meant to men. You grew your own called Hang On. “Imperfect Machines” Eva Elliottships like any other You learned to recognize

weather, when shadows stretched and purpled dark before stars erupted like fists punching to the whole light on the other side of a paper sky.

Salt Pools Anna Newman

LEAVING DEATH VALLEY Stephen Massimilla

Colors breaking through sheens of oil on glass. Toy marble sun, swirling cerulean, flares on the engine crescent. Leaving Utah, my squat heart buzzing over the mesa surveys a hemisphere of black resurrection moss on weeping canyon rocks carved by wind into gods worshipped by their shadows. As I nodded off, the night was deep as salt caves splintered with fifty generations of skeletal remains of bats. Dreamed of a dusk of thin red birds, two gophers in gopher-light, the grin of a lizard doing push-ups on a cactus stoop. Thought I woke to the mountain dissolving in light the way a chemical mask claims another face in the lab. The acid moon filled a wild hare’s eye for just a second. Looking through my plane window, my eye stabbed by sun, I thought I woke again, this time to the night before leaving the desert in a canyon where I’m thinking of leaving: a lover’s gloves dig and dig but find no body. Love has returned to the dream of her bones. Water is a blue shade mirage. Aqua lights fade into the waving ridges of a horizon gone missing.

Love is Alive Jason Mennel 61

ALAMEDA

Larry Narron the skatepark is anchored by shipping containers washed ashore gunmetal beasts that sleep through this sliver of sunrise even the fog is too lazy to lift now forget your timecard your tools your steel toe boots won’t miss you the mouths that you feed won’t starve frontside 180 over the hip shake off the ache of yesterday’s dollar there’s less than an hour before today’s bottom?

Aphrodite’s Acolytes Aaron Asher

Trapped in a Line Shyla Shehan

She had no voice of her own to lick the wounds of her offspring–sprung off and over the cliff. One by one, like lemmings, they follow in line behind a leader who found their place behind someone else who learned as much as anyone how to play a game from those who came before. And someone else before that, and before long no one remembers the reasons why, or what, and regret is there to greet us. To greet her With a tipped hat and deep maniacal laugh like the end of some fairy story gone horribly wrong. How do you explain goblins gobbling up the dream princess to a child? She wants to tell children not to get in line. The only safety net she has ever known is one that catches you as long as you fall in the right direction–forward and toward the resounding bang of being trapped.

Mesh Peter MacQuarrie

Ghosts From The Past Eliseo Claro

Thank you for reading the first volume of Brushfire’s 76th edition. Our team hopes the poetry, prose, and artwork collected within these pages made you laugh, cry, and—most of all—think. It’s a big hectic world out there, but great art can bring us all a little closer together. To all of our submitters: we greatly appreciate your creativity, dedication, love for the arts, and freedom of expression. You are what makes Brushfire unique. Again, thank you for your enjoyment of UNR’s literature and arts. We’ve brought the Brushfire to you for 73 years and the fire continues blazing thanks to passionate readers like you. With your support, many more editions of Brushfire await. We couldn’t be more excited. —The Fall 2023 Brushfire Staff

Living in the Dreamscape Hector Tinajero

“Flowing Fire” Jason Mennel

Israel Cruz

Audiobook Producer

Staff Editor

Paige Krueger

Danian Arguello

Visual Arts Director

Madison Kitch

Staff Writer

Abigail MacDiarmid

Literary Editor

Phoebe Coogle

Executive Editor

FALL 2023 BRUSHFIRE STAFF

The Publication Currently Employs 6 Part-Time Student Workers. Meet the Small Dream Team Below!

Nowa Street Wall Krakow Poland Roger Camp

Interested in volunteering, upcoming gallery exhibitions, poetry nights, or other literature-and-arts-related events at UNR? Want to check out e-book or audiobook versions of all your favorite Brushfire editions? Visit our website: unrbrushfire.org Never miss out on the latest Brushfire events and posts! Follow UNR’s Literature and Arts Journal on Instagram: @nevadabrushfire

BE PUBLISHED IN OUR NEXT EDITION Yearly, Brushfire publishes a spring and fall volume. We accept poetry, prose, and all printable forms of art from everyone, everywhere. To learn more about submitting, visit us at unrbrushfire.org

The Brushfire is the oldest literature and arts journal at the University of Nevada, Reno. Established in 1950, the nationally recognized, biannual publication provides an opportunity for emerging artists and writers to publish and share their work. Each iteration of the Brushfire strives to represent diversity, originality, and creativity. As an entirely student-run organization, the publication is also a creative outlet for the University’s student body. It seeks to connect various art communities throughout Reno and highlight student pieces. While each edition primarily contains student and Reno-based work, we continually receive and publish art from across the country. Brushfire welcomes submissions from anyone anywhere. Brushfire received the 2016 ACP Best-0f-Show Award for Literary Magazine, received an honorable mention for the 2017 Pinnacle Awards, and was a finalist for the 2018 ACP Magazine Pacemaker.

@nevadabrushfire unrbrushfire.org